diff options
Diffstat (limited to 'old/13414-h')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/13414-h/13414-h.htm | 9617 |
1 files changed, 9617 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/old/13414-h/13414-h.htm b/old/13414-h/13414-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..484d253 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/13414-h/13414-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9617 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <title>The Tales Of Chekhov</title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .75em; margin-bottom: .75em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} + .x-small {font-size: 75%;} + .small {font-size: 85%;} + .large {font-size: 115%;} + .x-large {font-size: 130%;} + .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} + .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} + .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} + .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} + .indent25 { margin-left: 25%;} + .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} + .indent35 { margin-left: 35%;} + .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; + font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; + text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; + border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} + .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} + span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} +</style> + </head> + <body> + +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Love and Other Stories, +by Anton Chekhov + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Love and Other Stories + +Author: Anton Chekhov + +Release Date: September 9, 2004 [EBook #13414] +Last Updated: May 25, 2018 + + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVE *** + + + + +Produced by James Rusk + +HTML file produced by David Widger +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE TALES OF CHEKHOV + </h1> + <h3> + Volume 13 + </h3> + <h3> + LOVE AND OTHER STORIES + </h3> + <h2> + By Anton Tchekhov + </h2> + <h3> + Translated by Constance Garnett + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> LOVE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> LIGHTS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> A STORY WITHOUT AN END </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> MARI D’ELLE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> A LIVING CHATTEL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> THE DOCTOR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> TOO EARLY! </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> THE COSSACK </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> ABORIGINES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> AN INQUIRY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> MARTYRS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> THE LION AND THE SUN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> A DAUGHTER OF ALBION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> CHORISTERS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> NERVES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> A WORK OF ART </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> A JOKE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> A COUNTRY COTTAGE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> A BLUNDER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> FAT AND THIN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> THE DEATH OF A GOVERNMENT CLERK </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> A PINK STOCKING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> AT A SUMMER VILLA </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LOVE + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">“T</span>HREE o’clock + in the morning. The soft April night is looking in at my windows and + caressingly winking at me with its stars. I can’t sleep, I am so + happy! + </p> + <p> + “My whole being from head to heels is bursting with a strange, + incomprehensible feeling. I can’t analyse it just now—I haven’t + the time, I’m too lazy, and there—hang analysis! Why, is a man + likely to interpret his sensations when he is flying head foremost from a + belfry, or has just learned that he has won two hundred thousand? Is he in + a state to do it?” + </p> + <p> + This was more or less how I began my love-letter to Sasha, a girl of + nineteen with whom I had fallen in love. I began it five times, and as + often tore up the sheets, scratched out whole pages, and copied it all + over again. I spent as long over the letter as if it had been a novel I + had to write to order. And it was not because I tried to make it longer, + more elaborate, and more fervent, but because I wanted endlessly to + prolong the process of this writing, when one sits in the stillness of one’s + study and communes with one’s own day-dreams while the spring night + looks in at one’s window. Between the lines I saw a beloved image, + and it seemed to me that there were, sitting at the same table writing + with me, spirits as naïvely happy, as foolish, and as blissfully smiling + as I. I wrote continually, looking at my hand, which still ached + deliciously where hers had lately pressed it, and if I turned my eyes away + I had a vision of the green trellis of the little gate. Through that + trellis Sasha gazed at me after I had said goodbye to her. When I was + saying good-bye to Sasha I was thinking of nothing and was simply admiring + her figure as every decent man admires a pretty woman; when I saw through + the trellis two big eyes, I suddenly, as though by inspiration, knew that + I was in love, that it was all settled between us, and fully decided + already, that I had nothing left to do but to carry out certain + formalities. + </p> + <p> + It is a great delight also to seal up a love-letter, and, slowly putting + on one’s hat and coat, to go softly out of the house and to carry + the treasure to the post. There are no stars in the sky now: in their + place there is a long whitish streak in the east, broken here and there by + clouds above the roofs of the dingy houses; from that streak the whole sky + is flooded with pale light. The town is asleep, but already the + water-carts have come out, and somewhere in a far-away factory a whistle + sounds to wake up the workpeople. Beside the postbox, slightly moist with + dew, you are sure to see the clumsy figure of a house porter, wearing a + bell-shaped sheepskin and carrying a stick. He is in a condition akin to + catalepsy: he is not asleep or awake, but something between. + </p> + <p> + If the boxes knew how often people resort to them for the decision of + their fate, they would not have such a humble air. I, anyway, almost + kissed my postbox, and as I gazed at it I reflected that the post is the + greatest of blessings. + </p> + <p> + I beg anyone who has ever been in love to remember how one usually hurries + home after dropping the letter in the box, rapidly gets into bed and pulls + up the quilt in the full conviction that as soon as one wakes up in the + morning one will be overwhelmed with memories of the previous day and look + with rapture at the window, where the daylight will be eagerly making its + way through the folds of the curtain. + </p> + <p> + Well, to facts. . . . Next morning at midday, Sasha’s maid brought + me the following answer: “I am delited be sure to come to us to day + please I shall expect you. Your S.” + </p> + <p> + Not a single comma. This lack of punctuation, and the misspelling of the + word “delighted,” the whole letter, and even the long, narrow + envelope in which it was put filled my heart with tenderness. In the + sprawling but diffident handwriting I recognised Sasha’s walk, her + way of raising her eyebrows when she laughed, the movement of her lips. . + . . But the contents of the letter did not satisfy me. In the first place, + poetical letters are not answered in that way, and in the second, why + should I go to Sasha’s house to wait till it should occur to her + stout mamma, her brothers, and poor relations to leave us alone together? + It would never enter their heads, and nothing is more hateful than to have + to restrain one’s raptures simply because of the intrusion of some + animate trumpery in the shape of a half-deaf old woman or little girl + pestering one with questions. I sent an answer by the maid asking Sasha to + select some park or boulevard for a rendezvous. My suggestion was readily + accepted. I had struck the right chord, as the saying is. + </p> + <p> + Between four and five o’clock in the afternoon I made my way to the + furthest and most overgrown part of the park. There was not a soul in the + park, and the tryst might have taken place somewhere nearer in one of the + avenues or arbours, but women don’t like doing it by halves in + romantic affairs; in for a penny, in for a pound—if you are in for a + tryst, let it be in the furthest and most impenetrable thicket, where one + runs the risk of stumbling upon some rough or drunken man. When I went up + to Sasha she was standing with her back to me, and in that back I could + read a devilish lot of mystery. It seemed as though that back and the nape + of her neck, and the black spots on her dress were saying: Hush! . . . The + girl was wearing a simple cotton dress over which she had thrown a light + cape. To add to the air of mysterious secrecy, her face was covered with a + white veil. Not to spoil the effect, I had to approach on tiptoe and speak + in a half whisper. + </p> + <p> + From what I remember now, I was not so much the essential point of the + rendezvous as a detail of it. Sasha was not so much absorbed in the + interview itself as in its romantic mysteriousness, my kisses, the silence + of the gloomy trees, my vows. . . . There was not a minute in which she + forgot herself, was overcome, or let the mysterious expression drop from + her face, and really if there had been any Ivan Sidoritch or Sidor + Ivanitch in my place she would have felt just as happy. How is one to make + out in such circumstances whether one is loved or not? Whether the love is + “the real thing” or not? + </p> + <p> + From the park I took Sasha home with me. The presence of the beloved woman + in one’s bachelor quarters affects one like wine and music. Usually + one begins to speak of the future, and the confidence and self-reliance + with which one does so is beyond bounds. You make plans and projects, talk + fervently of the rank of general though you have not yet reached the rank + of a lieutenant, and altogether you fire off such high-flown nonsense that + your listener must have a great deal of love and ignorance of life to + assent to it. Fortunately for men, women in love are always blinded by + their feelings and never know anything of life. Far from not assenting, + they actually turn pale with holy awe, are full of reverence and hang + greedily on the maniac’s words. Sasha listened to me with attention, + but I soon detected an absent-minded expression on her face, she did not + understand me. The future of which I talked interested her only in its + external aspect and I was wasting time in displaying my plans and projects + before her. She was keenly interested in knowing which would be her room, + what paper she would have in the room, why I had an upright piano instead + of a grand piano, and so on. She examined carefully all the little things + on my table, looked at the photographs, sniffed at the bottles, peeled the + old stamps off the envelopes, saying she wanted them for something. + </p> + <p> + “Please collect old stamps for me!” she said, making a grave + face. “Please do.” + </p> + <p> + Then she found a nut in the window, noisily cracked it and ate it. + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you stick little labels on the backs of your books?” + she asked, taking a look at the bookcase. + </p> + <p> + “What for?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, so that each book should have its number. And where am I to put + my books? I’ve got books too, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “What books have you got?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + Sasha raised her eyebrows, thought a moment and said: + </p> + <p> + “All sorts.” + </p> + <p> + And if it had entered my head to ask her what thoughts, what convictions, + what aims she had, she would no doubt have raised her eyebrows, thought a + minute, and have said in the same way: “All sorts.” + </p> + <p> + Later I saw Sasha home and left her house regularly, officially engaged, + and was so reckoned till our wedding. If the reader will allow me to judge + merely from my personal experience, I maintain that to be engaged is very + dreary, far more so than to be a husband or nothing at all. An engaged man + is neither one thing nor the other, he has left one side of the river and + not reached the other, he is not married and yet he can’t be said to + be a bachelor, but is in something not unlike the condition of the porter + whom I have mentioned above. + </p> + <p> + Every day as soon as I had a free moment I hastened to my fiancée. As I + went I usually bore within me a multitude of hopes, desires, intentions, + suggestions, phrases. I always fancied that as soon as the maid opened the + door I should, from feeling oppressed and stifled, plunge at once up to my + neck into a sea of refreshing happiness. But it always turned out + otherwise in fact. Every time I went to see my fiancée I found all her + family and other members of the household busy over the silly trousseau. + (And by the way, they were hard at work sewing for two months and then + they had less than a hundred roubles’ worth of things). There was a + smell of irons, candle grease and fumes. Bugles scrunched under one’s + feet. The two most important rooms were piled up with billows of linen, + calico, and muslin and from among the billows peeped out Sasha’s + little head with a thread between her teeth. All the sewing party welcomed + me with cries of delight but at once led me off into the dining-room where + I could not hinder them nor see what only husbands are permitted to + behold. In spite of my feelings, I had to sit in the dining-room and + converse with Pimenovna, one of the poor relations. Sasha, looking worried + and excited, kept running by me with a thimble, a skein of wool or some + other boring object. + </p> + <p> + “Wait, wait, I shan’t be a minute,” she would say when I + raised imploring eyes to her. “Only fancy that wretch Stepanida has + spoilt the bodice of the barège dress!” + </p> + <p> + And after waiting in vain for this grace, I lost my temper, went out of + the house and walked about the streets in the company of the new cane I + had bought. Or I would want to go for a walk or a drive with my fiancée, + would go round and find her already standing in the hall with her mother, + dressed to go out and playing with her parasol. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, we are going to the Arcade,” she would say. “We + have got to buy some more cashmere and change the hat.” + </p> + <p> + My outing is knocked on the head. I join the ladies and go with them to + the Arcade. It is revoltingly dull to listen to women shopping, haggling + and trying to outdo the sharp shopman. I felt ashamed when Sasha, after + turning over masses of material and knocking down the prices to a minimum, + walked out of the shop without buying anything, or else told the shopman + to cut her some half rouble’s worth. + </p> + <p> + When they came out of the shop, Sasha and her mamma with scared and + worried faces would discuss at length having made a mistake, having bought + the wrong thing, the flowers in the chintz being too dark, and so on. + </p> + <p> + Yes, it is a bore to be engaged! I’m glad it’s over. + </p> + <p> + Now I am married. It is evening. I am sitting in my study reading. Behind + me on the sofa Sasha is sitting munching something noisily. I want a glass + of beer. + </p> + <p> + “Sasha, look for the corkscrew. . . .” I say. “It’s + lying about somewhere.” + </p> + <p> + Sasha leaps up, rummages in a disorderly way among two or three heaps of + papers, drops the matches, and without finding the corkscrew, sits down in + silence. . . . Five minutes pass—ten. . . I begin to be fretted both + by thirst and vexation. + </p> + <p> + “Sasha, do look for the corkscrew,” I say. + </p> + <p> + Sasha leaps up again and rummages among the papers near me. Her munching + and rustling of the papers affects me like the sound of sharpening knives + against each other. . . . I get up and begin looking for the corkscrew + myself. At last it is found and the beer is uncorked. Sasha remains by the + table and begins telling me something at great length. + </p> + <p> + “You’d better read something, Sasha,” I say. + </p> + <p> + She takes up a book, sits down facing me and begins moving her lips . . . + . I look at her little forehead, moving lips, and sink into thought. + </p> + <p> + “She is getting on for twenty. . . .” I reflect. “If one + takes a boy of the educated class and of that age and compares them, what + a difference! The boy would have knowledge and convictions and some + intelligence.” + </p> + <p> + But I forgive that difference just as the low forehead and moving lips are + forgiven. I remember in my old Lovelace days I have cast off women for a + stain on their stockings, or for one foolish word, or for not cleaning + their teeth, and now I forgive everything: the munching, the muddling + about after the corkscrew, the slovenliness, the long talking about + nothing that matters; I forgive it all almost unconsciously, with no + effort of will, as though Sasha’s mistakes were my mistakes, and + many things which would have made me wince in old days move me to + tenderness and even rapture. The explanation of this forgiveness of + everything lies in my love for Sasha, but what is the explanation of the + love itself, I really don’t know. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LIGHTS + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE dog was barking + excitedly outside. And Ananyev the engineer, his assistant called Von + Schtenberg, and I went out of the hut to see at whom it was barking. I was + the visitor, and might have remained indoors, but I must confess my head + was a little dizzy from the wine I had drunk, and I was glad to get a + breath of fresh air. + </p> + <p> + “There is nobody here,” said Ananyev when we went out. “Why + are you telling stories, Azorka? You fool!” + </p> + <p> + There was not a soul in sight. + </p> + <p> + “The fool,” Azorka, a black house-dog, probably conscious of + his guilt in barking for nothing and anxious to propitiate us, approached + us, diffidently wagging his tail. The engineer bent down and touched him + between his ears. + </p> + <p> + “Why are you barking for nothing, creature?” he said in the + tone in which good-natured people talk to children and dogs. “Have + you had a bad dream or what? Here, doctor, let me commend to your + attention,” he said, turning to me, “a wonderfully nervous + subject! Would you believe it, he can’t endure solitude—he is + always having terrible dreams and suffering from nightmares; and when you + shout at him he has something like an attack of hysterics.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a dog of refined feelings,” the student chimed in. + </p> + <p> + Azorka must have understood that the conversation was concerning him. He + turned his head upwards and grinned plaintively, as though to say, “Yes, + at times I suffer unbearably, but please excuse it!” + </p> + <p> + It was an August night, there were stars, but it was dark. Owing to the + fact that I had never in my life been in such exceptional surroundings, as + I had chanced to come into now, the starry night seemed to me gloomy, + inhospitable, and darker than it was in reality. I was on a railway line + which was still in process of construction. The high, half-finished + embankment, the mounds of sand, clay, and rubble, the holes, the + wheel-barrows standing here and there, the flat tops of the mud huts in + which the workmen lived—all this muddle, coloured to one tint by the + darkness, gave the earth a strange, wild aspect that suggested the times + of chaos. There was so little order in all that lay before me that it was + somehow strange in the midst of the hideously excavated, grotesque-looking + earth to see the silhouettes of human beings and the slender telegraph + posts. Both spoiled the ensemble of the picture, and seemed to belong to a + different world. It was still, and the only sound came from the telegraph + wire droning its wearisome refrain somewhere very high above our heads. + </p> + <p> + We climbed up on the embankment and from its height looked down upon the + earth. A hundred yards away where the pits, holes, and mounds melted into + the darkness of the night, a dim light was twinkling. Beyond it gleamed + another light, beyond that a third, then a hundred paces away two red eyes + glowed side by side—probably the windows of some hut—and a + long series of such lights, growing continually closer and dimmer, + stretched along the line to the very horizon, then turned in a semicircle + to the left and disappeared in the darkness of the distance. The lights + were motionless. There seemed to be something in common between them and + the stillness of the night and the disconsolate song of the telegraph + wire. It seemed as though some weighty secret were buried under the + embankment and only the lights, the night, and the wires knew of it. + </p> + <p> + “How glorious, O Lord!” sighed Ananyev; “such space and + beauty that one can’t tear oneself away! And what an embankment! It’s + not an embankment, my dear fellow, but a regular Mont Blanc. It’s + costing millions. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Going into ecstasies over the lights and the embankment that was costing + millions, intoxicated by the wine and his sentimental mood, the engineer + slapped Von Schtenberg on the shoulder and went on in a jocose tone: + </p> + <p> + “Well, Mihail Mihailitch, lost in reveries? No doubt it is pleasant + to look at the work of one’s own hands, eh? Last year this very spot + was bare steppe, not a sight of human life, and now look: life . . . + civilisation. . . And how splendid it all is, upon my soul! You and I are + building a railway, and after we are gone, in another century or two, good + men will build a factory, a school, a hospital, and things will begin to + move! Eh!” + </p> + <p> + The student stood motionless with his hands thrust in his pockets, and did + not take his eyes off the lights. He was not listening to the engineer, + but was thinking, and was apparently in the mood in which one does not + want to speak or to listen. After a prolonged silence he turned to me and + said quietly: + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what those endless lights are like? They make me think + of something long dead, that lived thousands of years ago, something like + the camps of the Amalekites or the Philistines. It is as though some + people of the Old Testament had pitched their camp and were waiting for + morning to fight with Saul or David. All that is wanting to complete the + illusion is the blare of trumpets and sentries calling to one another in + some Ethiopian language.” + </p> + <p> + And, as though of design, the wind fluttered over the line and brought a + sound like the clank of weapons. A silence followed. I don’t know + what the engineer and the student were thinking of, but it seemed to me + already that I actually saw before me something long dead and even heard + the sentry talking in an unknown tongue. My imagination hastened to + picture the tents, the strange people, their clothes, their armour. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” muttered the student pensively, “once Philistines + and Amalekites were living in this world, making wars, playing their part, + and now no trace of them remains. So it will be with us. Now we are making + a railway, are standing here philosophising, but two thousand years will + pass—and of this embankment and of all those men, asleep after their + hard work, not one grain of dust will remain. In reality, it’s + awful!” + </p> + <p> + “You must drop those thoughts . . .” said the engineer gravely + and admonishingly. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because. . . . Thoughts like that are for the end of life, not for + the beginning of it. You are too young for them.” + </p> + <p> + “Why so?” repeated the student. + </p> + <p> + “All these thoughts of the transitoriness, the insignificance and + the aimlessness of life, of the inevitability of death, of the shadows of + the grave, and so on, all such lofty thoughts, I tell you, my dear fellow, + are good and natural in old age when they come as the product of years of + inner travail, and are won by suffering and really are intellectual + riches; for a youthful brain on the threshold of real life they are simply + a calamity! A calamity!” Ananyev repeated with a wave of his hand. + “To my mind it is better at your age to have no head on your + shoulders at all than to think on these lines. I am speaking seriously, + Baron. And I have been meaning to speak to you about it for a long time, + for I noticed from the very first day of our acquaintance your partiality + for these damnable ideas!” + </p> + <p> + “Good gracious, why are they damnable?” the student asked with + a smile, and from his voice and his face I could see that he asked the + question from simple politeness, and that the discussion raised by the + engineer did not interest him in the least. + </p> + <p> + I could hardly keep my eyes open. I was dreaming that immediately after + our walk we should wish each other good-night and go to bed, but my dream + was not quickly realised. When we had returned to the hut the engineer put + away the empty bottles and took out of a large wicker hamper two full + ones, and uncorking them, sat down to his work-table with the evident + intention of going on drinking, talking, and working. Sipping a little + from his glass, he made pencil notes on some plans and went on pointing + out to the student that the latter’s way of thinking was not what it + should be. The student sat beside him checking accounts and saying + nothing. He, like me, had no inclination to speak or to listen. That I + might not interfere with their work, I sat away from the table on the + engineer’s crooked-legged travelling bedstead, feeling bored and + expecting every moment that they would suggest I should go to bed. It was + going on for one o’clock. + </p> + <p> + Having nothing to do, I watched my new acquaintances. I had never seen + Ananyev or the student before. I had only made their acquaintance on the + night I have described. Late in the evening I was returning on horseback + from a fair to the house of a landowner with whom I was staying, had got + on the wrong road in the dark and lost my way. Going round and round by + the railway line and seeing how dark the night was becoming, I thought of + the “barefoot railway roughs,” who lie in wait for travellers + on foot and on horseback, was frightened, and knocked at the first hut I + came to. There I was cordially received by Ananyev and the student. As is + usually the case with strangers casually brought together, we quickly + became acquainted, grew friendly and at first over the tea and afterward + over the wine, began to feel as though we had known each other for years. + At the end of an hour or so, I knew who they were and how fate had brought + them from town to the far-away steppe; and they knew who I was, what my + occupation and my way of thinking. + </p> + <p> + Nikolay Anastasyevitch Ananyev, the engineer, was a broad-shouldered, + thick-set man, and, judging from his appearance, he had, like Othello, + begun the “descent into the vale of years,” and was growing + rather too stout. He was just at that stage which old match-making women + mean when they speak of “a man in the prime of his age,” that + is, he was neither young nor old, was fond of good fare, good liquor, and + praising the past, panted a little as he walked, snored loudly when he was + asleep, and in his manner with those surrounding him displayed that calm + imperturbable good humour which is always acquired by decent people by the + time they have reached the grade of a staff officer and begun to grow + stout. His hair and beard were far from being grey, but already, with a + condescension of which he was unconscious, he addressed young men as + “my dear boy” and felt himself entitled to lecture them + good-humouredly about their way of thinking. His movements and his voice + were calm, smooth, and self-confident, as they are in a man who is + thoroughly well aware that he has got his feet firmly planted on the right + road, that he has definite work, a secure living, a settled outlook. . . . + His sunburnt, thick-nosed face and muscular neck seemed to say: “I am + well fed, healthy, satisfied with myself, and the time will come when you + young people too, will be well-fed, healthy, and satisfied with + yourselves. . . .” He was dressed in a cotton shirt with the collar + awry and in full linen trousers thrust into his high boots. From certain + trifles, as for instance, from his coloured worsted girdle, his + embroidered collar, and the patch on his elbow, I was able to guess that + he was married and in all probability tenderly loved by his wife. + </p> + <p> + Baron Von Schtenberg, a student of the Institute of Transport, was a young + man of about three or four and twenty. Only his fair hair and scanty + beard, and, perhaps, a certain coarseness and frigidity in his features + showed traces of his descent from Barons of the Baltic provinces; + everything else—his name, Mihail Mihailovitch, his religion, his + ideas, his manners, and the expression of his face were purely Russian. + Wearing, like Ananyev, a cotton shirt and high boots, with his round + shoulders, his hair left uncut, and his sunburnt face, he did not look + like a student or a Baron, but like an ordinary Russian workman. His words + and gestures were few, he drank reluctantly without relish, checked the + accounts mechanically, and seemed all the while to be thinking of + something else. His movements and voice were calm, and smooth too, but his + calmness was of a different kind from the engineer’s. His sunburnt, + slightly ironical, dreamy face, his eyes which looked up from under his + brows, and his whole figure were expressive of spiritual stagnatio—mental + sloth. He looked as though it did not matter to him in the least whether + the light were burning before him or not, whether the wine were nice or + nasty, and whether the accounts he was checking were correct or not. . . . + And on his intelligent, calm face I read: “I don’t see so far + any good in definite work, a secure living, and a settled outlook. It’s + all nonsense. I was in Petersburg, now I am sitting here in this hut, in + the autumn I shall go back to Petersburg, then in the spring here again. . + . . What sense there is in all that I don’t know, and no one knows. + . . . And so it’s no use talking about it. . . .” + </p> + <p> + He listened to the engineer without interest, with the condescending + indifference with which cadets in the senior classes listen to an effusive + and good-natured old attendant. It seemed as though there were nothing new + to him in what the engineer said, and that if he had not himself been too + lazy to talk, he would have said something newer and cleverer. Meanwhile + Ananyev would not desist. He had by now laid aside his good-humoured, + jocose tone and spoke seriously, even with a fervour which was quite out + of keeping with his expression of calmness. Apparently he had no distaste + for abstract subjects, was fond of them, indeed, but had neither skill nor + practice in the handling of them. And this lack of practice was so + pronounced in his talk that I did not always grasp his meaning at once. + </p> + <p> + “I hate those ideas with all my heart!” he said, “I was + infected by them myself in my youth, I have not quite got rid of them even + now, and I tell you—perhaps because I am stupid and such thoughts + were not the right food for my mind—they did me nothing but harm. + That’s easy to understand! Thoughts of the aimlessness of life, of + the insignificance and transitoriness of the visible world, Solomon’s + 'vanity of vanities’ have been, and are to this day, the highest and + final stage in the realm of thought. The thinker reaches that stage and—comes + to a halt! There is nowhere further to go. The activity of the normal + brain is completed with this, and that is natural and in the order of + things. Our misfortune is that we begin thinking at that end. What normal + people end with we begin with. From the first start, as soon as the brain + begins working independently, we mount to the very topmost, final step and + refuse to know anything about the steps below.” + </p> + <p> + “What harm is there in that?” said the student. + </p> + <p> + “But you must understand that it’s abnormal,” shouted + Ananyev, looking at him almost wrathfully. “If we find means of + mounting to the topmost step without the help of the lower ones, then the + whole long ladder, that is the whole of life, with its colours, sounds, + and thoughts, loses all meaning for us. That at your age such reflections + are harmful and absurd, you can see from every step of your rational + independent life. Let us suppose you sit down this minute to read Darwin + or Shakespeare, you have scarcely read a page before the poison shows + itself; and your long life, and Shakespeare, and Darwin, seem to you + nonsense, absurdity, because you know you will die, that Shakespeare and + Darwin have died too, that their thoughts have not saved them, nor the + earth, nor you, and that if life is deprived of meaning in that way, all + science, poetry, and exalted thoughts seem only useless diversions, the + idle playthings of grown up people; and you leave off reading at the + second page. Now, let us suppose that people come to you as an intelligent + man and ask your opinion about war, for instance: whether it is desirable, + whether it is morally justifiable or not. In answer to that terrible + question you merely shrug your shoulders and confine yourself to some + commonplace, because for you, with your way of thinking, it makes + absolutely no difference whether hundreds of thousands of people die a + violent death, or a natural one: the results are the same—ashes and + oblivion. You and I are building a railway line. What’s the use, one + may ask, of our worrying our heads, inventing, rising above the hackneyed + thing, feeling for the workmen, stealing or not stealing, when we know + that this railway line will turn to dust within two thousand years, and so + on, and so on. . . . You must admit that with such a disastrous way of + looking at things there can be no progress, no science, no art, nor even + thought itself. We fancy that we are cleverer than the crowd, and than + Shakespeare. In reality our thinking leads to nothing because we have no + inclination to go down to the lower steps and there is nowhere higher to + go, so our brain stands at the freezing point—neither up nor down; I + was in bondage to these ideas for six years, and by all that is holy, I + never read a sensible book all that time, did not gain a ha’porth of + wisdom, and did not raise my moral standard an inch. Was not that + disastrous? Moreover, besides being corrupted ourselves, we bring poison + into the lives of those surrounding us. It would be all right if, with our + pessimism, we renounced life, went to live in a cave, or made haste to + die, but, as it is, in obedience to the universal law, we live, feel, love + women, bring up children, construct railways!” + </p> + <p> + “Our thoughts make no one hot or cold,” the student said + reluctantly. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! there you are again!—do stop it! You have not yet had a + good sniff at life. But when you have lived as long as I have you will + know a thing or two! Our theory of life is not so innocent as you suppose. + In practical life, in contact with human beings, it leads to nothing but + horrors and follies. It has been my lot to pass through experiences which + I would not wish a wicked Tatar to endure.” + </p> + <p> + “For instance?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “For instance?” repeated the engineer. + </p> + <p> + He thought a minute, smiled and said: + </p> + <p> + “For instance, take this example. More correctly, it is not an + example, but a regular drama, with a plot and a dénouement. An excellent + lesson! Ah, what a lesson!” + </p> + <p> + He poured out wine for himself and us, emptied his glass, stroked his + broad chest with his open hands, and went on, addressing himself more to + me than to the student. + </p> + <p> + “It was in the year 187—, soon after the war, and when I had + just left the University. I was going to the Caucasus, and on the way + stopped for five days in the seaside town of N. I must tell you that I was + born and grew up in that town, and so there is nothing odd in my thinking + N. extraordinarily snug, cosy, and beautiful, though for a man from + Petersburg or Moscow, life in it would be as dreary and comfortless as in + any Tchuhloma or Kashira. With melancholy I passed by the high school + where I had been a pupil; with melancholy I walked about the very familiar + park, I made a melancholy attempt to get a nearer look at people I had not + seen for a long time—all with the same melancholy. + </p> + <p> + “Among other things, I drove out one evening to the so-called + Quarantine. It was a small mangy copse in which, at some forgotten time of + plague, there really had been a quarantine station, and which was now the + resort of summer visitors. It was a drive of three miles from the town + along a good soft road. As one drove along one saw on the left the blue + sea, on the right the unending gloomy steppe; there was plenty of air to + breathe, and wide views for the eyes to rest on. The copse itself lay on + the seashore. Dismissing my cabman, I went in at the familiar gates and + first turned along an avenue leading to a little stone summer-house which + I had been fond of in my childhood. In my opinion that round, heavy + summer-house on its clumsy columns, which combined the romantic charm of + an old tomb with the ungainliness of a Sobakevitch,* was the most poetical + nook in the whole town. It stood at the edge above the cliff, and from it + there was a splendid view of the sea. + </p> + <p> + *A character in Gogol’s <i>Dead Souls.—Translator’s + Note.</i> + </p> + <p> + “I sat down on the seat, and, bending over the parapet, looked down. + A path ran from the summer-house along the steep, almost overhanging + cliff, between the lumps of clay and tussocks of burdock. Where it ended, + far below on the sandy shore, low waves were languidly foaming and softly + purring. The sea was as majestic, as infinite, and as forbidding as seven + years before when I left the high school and went from my native town to + the capital; in the distance there was a dark streak of smoke—a + steamer was passing—and except for this hardly visible and + motionless streak and the sea-swallows that flitted over the water, there + was nothing to give life to the monotonous view of sea and sky. To right + and left of the summer-house stretched uneven clay cliffs. + </p> + <p> + “You know that when a man in a melancholy mood is left <i>tête-à-tête</i> + with the sea, or any landscape which seems to him grandiose, there is + always, for some reason, mixed with melancholy, a conviction that he will + live and die in obscurity, and he reflectively snatches up a pencil and + hastens to write his name on the first thing that comes handy. And that, I + suppose, is why all convenient solitary nooks like my summer-house are + always scrawled over in pencil or carved with penknives. I remember as + though it were to-day; looking at the parapet I read: ‘Ivan + Korolkov, May 16, 1876.’ Beside Korolkov some local dreamer had + scribbled freely, adding: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘He stood on the desolate ocean’s strand, + While his soul was filled with imaginings grand.’ +</pre> + <p> + And his handwriting was dreamy, limp like wet silk. An individual called + Kross, probably an insignificant, little man, felt his unimportance so + deeply that he gave full licence to his penknife and carved his name in + deep letters an inch high. I took a pencil out of my pocket mechanically, + and I too scribbled on one of the columns. All that is irrelevant, + however. . . You must forgive me—I don’t know how to tell a + story briefly. + </p> + <p> + “I was sad and a little bored. Boredom, the stillness, and the + purring of the sea gradually brought me to the line of thought we have + been discussing. At that period, towards the end of the 'seventies, it had + begun to be fashionable with the public, and later, at the beginning of + the ‘eighties, it gradually passed from the general public into + literature, science, and politics. I was no more than twenty-six at the + time, but I knew perfectly well that life was aimless and had no meaning, + that everything was a deception and an illusion, that in its essential + nature and results a life of penal servitude in Sahalin was not in any way + different from a life spent in Nice, that the difference between the brain + of a Kant and the brain of a fly was of no real significance, that no one + in this world is righteous or guilty, that everything was stuff and + nonsense and damn it all! I lived as though I were doing a favour to some + unseen power which compelled me to live, and to which I seemed to say: + ‘Look, I don’t care a straw for life, but I am living!’ + I thought on one definite line, but in all sorts of keys, and in that + respect I was like the subtle gourmand who could prepare a hundred + appetising dishes from nothing but potatoes. There is no doubt that I was + one-sided and even to some extent narrow, but I fancied at the time that + my intellectual horizon had neither beginning nor end, and that my thought + was as boundless as the sea. Well, as far as I can judge by myself, the + philosophy of which we are speaking has something alluring, narcotic in + its nature, like tobacco or morphia. It becomes a habit, a craving. You + take advantage of every minute of solitude to gloat over thoughts of the + aimlessness of life and the darkness of the grave. While I was sitting in + the summer-house, Greek children with long noses were decorously walking + about the avenues. I took advantage of the occasion and, looking at them, + began reflecting in this style: + </p> + <p> + “‘Why are these children born, and what are they living for? + Is there any sort of meaning in their existence? They grow up, without + themselves knowing what for; they will live in this God-forsaken, + comfortless hole for no sort of reason, and then they will die. . . .’ + </p> + <p> + “And I actually felt vexed with those children because they were + walking about decorously and talking with dignity, as though they did not + hold their little colourless lives so cheap and knew what they were living + for. . . . I remember that far away at the end of an avenue three feminine + figures came into sight. Three young ladies, one in a pink dress, two in + white, were walking arm-in-arm, talking and laughing. Looking after them, + I thought: + </p> + <p> + “‘It wouldn’t be bad to have an affair with some woman + for a couple of days in this dull place.’ + </p> + <p> + “I recalled by the way that it was three weeks since I had visited + my Petersburg lady, and thought that a passing love affair would come in + very appropriately for me just now. The young lady in white in the middle + was rather younger and better looking than her companions, and judging by + her manners and her laugh, she was a high-school girl in an upper form. I + looked, not without impure thoughts, at her bust, and at the same time + reflected about her: 'She will be trained in music and manners, she will + be married to some Greek—God help us!—will lead a grey, + stupid, comfortless life, will bring into the world a crowd of children + without knowing why, and then will die. An absurd life!’ + </p> + <p> + “I must say that as a rule I was a great hand at combining my lofty + ideas with the lowest prose. + </p> + <p> + “Thoughts of the darkness of the grave did not prevent me from + giving busts and legs their full due. Our dear Baron’s exalted ideas + do not prevent him from going on Saturdays to Vukolovka on amatory + expeditions. To tell the honest truth, as far as I remember, my attitude + to women was most insulting. Now, when I think of that high-school girl, I + blush for my thoughts then, but at the time my conscience was perfectly + untroubled. I, the son of honourable parents, a Christian, who had + received a superior education, not naturally wicked or stupid, felt not + the slightest uneasiness when I paid women <i>Blutgeld</i>, as the Germans + call it, or when I followed high-school girls with insulting looks. . . . + The trouble is that youth makes its demands, and our philosophy has + nothing in principle against those demands, whether they are good or + whether they are loathsome. One who knows that life is aimless and death + inevitable is not interested in the struggle against nature or the + conception of sin: whether you struggle or whether you don’t, you + will die and rot just the same. . . . Secondly, my friends, our philosophy + instils even into very young people what is called reasonableness. The + predominance of reason over the heart is simply overwhelming amongst us. + Direct feeling, inspiration—everything is choked by petty analysis. + Where there is reasonableness there is coldness, and cold people—it’s + no use to disguise it—know nothing of chastity. That virtue is only + known to those who are warm, affectionate, and capable of love. Thirdly, + our philosophy denies the significance of each individual personality. It’s + easy to see that if I deny the personality of some Natalya Stepanovna, it’s + absolutely nothing to me whether she is insulted or not. To-day one + insults her dignity as a human being and pays her <i>Blutgeld</i>, and + next day thinks no more of her. + </p> + <p> + “So I sat in the summer-house and watched the young ladies. Another + woman’s figure appeared in the avenue, with fair hair, her head + uncovered and a white knitted shawl on her shoulders. She walked along the + avenue, then came into the summer-house, and taking hold of the parapet, + looked indifferently below and into the distance over the sea. As she came + in she paid no attention to me, as though she did not notice me. I + scrutinised her from foot to head (not from head to foot, as one + scrutinises men) and found that she was young, not more than + five-and-twenty, nice-looking, with a good figure, in all probability + married and belonging to the class of respectable women. She was dressed + as though she were at home, but fashionably and with taste, as ladies are, + as a rule, in N. + </p> + <p> + “‘This one would do nicely,’ I thought, looking at her + handsome figure and her arms; ‘she is all right. . . . She is + probably the wife of some doctor or schoolmaster. . . .’ + </p> + <p> + “But to make up to her—that is, to make her the heroine of one + of those impromptu affairs to which tourists are so prone—was not + easy and, indeed, hardly possible. I felt that as I gazed at her face. The + way she looked, and the expression of her face, suggested that the sea, + the smoke in the distance, and the sky had bored her long, long ago, and + wearied her sight. She seemed to be tired, bored, and thinking about + something dreary, and her face had not even that fussy, affectedly + indifferent expression which one sees in the face of almost every woman + when she is conscious of the presence of an unknown man in her vicinity. + </p> + <p> + “The fair-haired lady took a bored and passing glance at me, sat + down on a seat and sank into reverie, and from her face I saw that she had + no thoughts for me, and that I, with my Petersburg appearance, did not + arouse in her even simple curiosity. But yet I made up my mind to speak to + her, and asked: ‘Madam, allow me to ask you at what time do the + waggonettes go from here to the town?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘At ten or eleven, I believe. . . .’” + </p> + <p> + “I thanked her. She glanced at me once or twice, and suddenly there + was a gleam of curiosity, then of something like wonder on her passionless + face. . . . I made haste to assume an indifferent expression and to fall + into a suitable attitude; she was catching on! She suddenly jumped up from + the seat, as though something had bitten her, and examining me hurriedly, + with a gentle smile, asked timidly: + </p> + <p> + “‘Oh, aren’t you Ananyev?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Yes, I am Ananyev,’ I answered. + </p> + <p> + “‘And don’t you recognise me? No?’ + </p> + <p> + “I was a little confused. I looked intently at her, and—would + you believe it?—I recognised her not from her face nor her figure, + but from her gentle, weary smile. It was Natalya Stepanovna, or, as she + was called, Kisotchka, the very girl I had been head over ears in love + with seven or eight years before, when I was wearing the uniform of a + high-school boy. The doings of far, vanished days, the days of long ago. . + . . I remember this Kisotchka, a thin little high-school girl of fifteen + or sixteen, when she was something just for a schoolboy’s taste, + created by nature especially for Platonic love. What a charming little + girl she was! Pale, fragile, light—she looked as though a breath + would send her flying like a feather to the skies—a gentle, + perplexed face, little hands, soft long hair to her belt, a waist as thin + as a wasp’s—altogether something ethereal, transparent like + moonlight—in fact, from the point of view of a high-school boy a + peerless beauty. . . . Wasn’t I in love with her! I did not sleep at + night. I wrote verses. . . . Sometimes in the evenings she would sit on a + seat in the park while we schoolboys crowded round her, gazing reverently; + in response to our compliments, our sighing, and attitudinising, she would + shrink nervously from the evening damp, screw up her eyes, and smile + gently, and at such times she was awfully like a pretty little kitten. As + we gazed at her every one of us had a desire to caress her and stroke her + like a cat, hence her nickname of Kisotchka. + </p> + <p> + “In the course of the seven or eight years since we had met, + Kisotchka had greatly changed. She had grown more robust and stouter, and + had quite lost the resemblance to a soft, fluffy kitten. It was not that + her features looked old or faded, but they had somehow lost their + brilliance and looked sterner, her hair seemed shorter, she looked taller, + and her shoulders were quite twice as broad, and what was most striking, + there was already in her face the expression of motherliness and + resignation commonly seen in respectable women of her age, and this, of + course, I had never seen in her before. . . . In short, of the + school-girlish and the Platonic her face had kept the gentle smile and + nothing more. . . . + </p> + <p> + “We got into conversation. Learning that I was already an engineer, + Kisotchka was immensely delighted. + </p> + <p> + “‘How good that is!’ she said, looking joyfully into my + face. ‘Ah, how good! And how splendid you all are! Of all who left + with you, not one has been a failure—they have all turned out well. + One an engineer, another a doctor, a third a teacher, another, they say, + is a celebrated singer in Petersburg. . . . You are all splendid, all of + you. . . . Ah, how good that is!’ + </p> + <p> + “Kisotchka’s eyes shone with genuine goodwill and gladness. + She was admiring me like an elder sister or a former governess. ‘While + I looked at her sweet face and thought, It wouldn’t be bad to get + hold of her to-day!’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Do you remember, Natalya Stepanovna,’ I asked her, + ‘how I once brought you in the park a bouquet with a note in it? You + read my note, and such a look of bewilderment came into your face. . . .’ + </p> + <p> + “‘No, I don’t remember that,’ she said, laughing. + ‘But I remember how you wanted to challenge Florens to a duel over + me. . . .’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Well, would you believe it, I don’t remember that. . . + .’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Well, that’s all over and done with . . .’ + sighed Kisotchka. ‘At one time I was your idol, and now it is my + turn to look up to all of you. . . .’ + </p> + <p> + “From further conversation I learned that two years after leaving + the high school, Kisotchka had been married to a resident in the town who + was half Greek, half Russian, had a post either in the bank or in the + insurance society, and also carried on a trade in corn. He had a strange + surname, something in the style of Populaki or Skarandopulo. . . . + Goodness only knows—I have forgotten. . . . As a matter of fact, + Kisotchka spoke little and with reluctance about herself. The conversation + was only about me. She asked me about the College of Engineering, about my + comrades, about Petersburg, about my plans, and everything I said moved + her to eager delight and exclamations of, ‘Oh, how good that is!’ + </p> + <p> + “We went down to the sea and walked over the sands; then when the + night air began to blow chill and damp from the sea we climbed up again. + All the while our talk was of me and of the past. We walked about until + the reflection of the sunset had died away from the windows of the summer + villas. + </p> + <p> + “‘Come in and have some tea,’ Kisotchka suggested. + ‘The samovar must have been on the table long ago. . . . I am alone + at home,’ she said, as her villa came into sight through the green + of the acacias. ‘My husband is always in the town and only comes + home at night, and not always then, and I must own that I am so dull that + it’s simply deadly.’ + </p> + <p> + “I followed her in, admiring her back and shoulders. I was glad that + she was married. Married women are better material for temporary love + affairs than girls. I was also pleased that her husband was not at home. + At the same time I felt that the affair would not come off. . . . + </p> + <p> + “We went into the house. The rooms were smallish and had low + ceilings, and the furniture was typical of the summer villa (Russians like + having at their summer villas uncomfortable heavy, dingy furniture which + they are sorry to throw away and have nowhere to put), but from certain + details I could observe that Kisotchka and her husband were not badly off, + and must be spending five or six thousand roubles a year. I remember that + in the middle of the room which Kisotchka called the dining-room there was + a round table, supported for some reason on six legs, and on it a samovar + and cups. At the edge of the table lay an open book, a pencil, and an + exercise book. I glanced at the book and recognised it as ‘Malinin + and Burenin’s Arithmetical Examples.’ It was open, as I now + remember, at the ‘Rules of Compound Interest.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘To whom are you giving lessons?’ I asked Kisotchka. + </p> + <p> + “‘Nobody,’ she answered. ‘I am just doing some. . + . . I have nothing to do, and am so bored that I think of the old days and + do sums.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Have you any children?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘I had a baby boy, but he only lived a week.’ + </p> + <p> + “We began drinking tea. Admiring me, Kisotchka said again how good + it was that I was an engineer, and how glad she was of my success. And the + more she talked and the more genuinely she smiled, the stronger was my + conviction that I should go away without having gained my object. I was a + connoisseur in love affairs in those days, and could accurately gauge my + chances of success. You can boldly reckon on success if you are tracking + down a fool or a woman as much on the look out for new experiences and + sensations as yourself, or an adventuress to whom you are a stranger. If + you come across a sensible and serious woman, whose face has an expression + of weary submission and goodwill, who is genuinely delighted at your + presence, and, above all, respects you, you may as well turn back. To + succeed in that case needs longer than one day. + </p> + <p> + “And by evening light Kisotchka seemed even more charming than by + day. She attracted me more and more, and apparently she liked me too, and + the surroundings were most appropriate: the husband not at home, no + servants visible, stillness around. . . . Though I had little confidence + in success, I made up my mind to begin the attack anyway. First of all it + was necessary to get into a familiar tone and to change Kisotchka’s + lyrically earnest mood into a more frivolous one. + </p> + <p> + “‘Let us change the conversation, Natalya Stepanovna,’ I + began. 'Let us talk of something amusing. First of all, allow me, for the + sake of old times, to call you Kisotchka.’ + </p> + <p> + “She allowed me. + </p> + <p> + “‘Tell me, please, Kisotchka,’ I went on, ‘what is + the matter with all the fair sex here. What has happened to them? In old + days they were all so moral and virtuous, and now, upon my word, if one + asks about anyone, one is told such things that one is quite shocked at + human nature. . . . One young lady has eloped with an officer; another has + run away and carried off a high-school boy with her; another—a + married woman—has run away from her husband with an actor; a fourth + has left her husband and gone off with an officer, and so on and so on. It’s + a regular epidemic! If it goes on like this there won’t be a girl or + a young woman left in your town!’ + </p> + <p> + “I spoke in a vulgar, playful tone. If Kisotchka had laughed in + response I should have gone on in this style: ‘You had better look + out, Kisotchka, or some officer or actor will be carrying you off!’ + She would have dropped her eyes and said: ‘As though anyone would + care to carry me off; there are plenty younger and better looking . . . .’ + And I should have said: ‘Nonsense, Kisotchka—I for one should + be delighted!’ And so on in that style, and it would all have gone + swimmingly. But Kisotchka did not laugh in response; on the contrary, she + looked grave and sighed. + </p> + <p> + “‘All you have been told is true,’ she said. ‘My + cousin Sonya ran away from her husband with an actor. Of course, it is + wrong. . . . Everyone ought to bear the lot that fate has laid on him, but + I do not condemn them or blame them. . . . Circumstances are sometimes too + strong for anyone!’ + </p> + <p> + “‘That is so, Kisotchka, but what circumstances can produce a + regular epidemic?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘It’s very simple and easy to understand,’ + replied Kisotchka, raising her eyebrows. ‘There is absolutely + nothing for us educated girls and women to do with ourselves. Not everyone + is able to go to the University, to become a teacher, to live for ideas, + in fact, as men do. They have to be married. . . . And whom would you have + them marry? You boys leave the high-school and go away to the University, + never to return to your native town again, and you marry in Petersburg or + Moscow, while the girls remain. . . . To whom are they to be married? Why, + in the absence of decent cultured men, goodness knows what sort of men + they marry—stockbrokers and such people of all kinds, who can do + nothing but drink and get into rows at the club. . . . A girl married like + that, at random. . . . And what is her life like afterwards? You can + understand: a well-educated, cultured woman is living with a stupid, + boorish man; if she meets a cultivated man, an officer, an actor, or a + doctor—well, she gets to love him, her life becomes unbearable to + her, and she runs away from her husband. And one can’t condemn her!’ + </p> + <p> + “‘If that is so, Kisotchka, why get married?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + “‘Yes, of course,’ said Kisotchka with a sigh, ‘but + you know every girl fancies that any husband is better than nothing. . . . + Altogether life is horrid here, Nikolay Anastasyevitch, very horrid! Life + is stifling for a girl and stifling when one is married. . . . Here they + laugh at Sonya for having run away from her husband, but if they could see + into her soul they would not laugh. . . .’” + </p> + <p> + Azorka began barking outside again. He growled angrily at some one, then + howled miserably and dashed with all his force against the wall of the + hut. . . . Ananyev’s face was puckered with pity; he broke off his + story and went out. For two minutes he could be heard outside comforting + his dog. “Good dog! poor dog!” + </p> + <p> + “Our Nikolay Anastasyevitch is fond of talking,” said Von + Schtenberg, laughing. “He is a good fellow,” he added after a + brief silence. + </p> + <p> + Returning to the hut, the engineer filled up our glasses and, smiling and + stroking his chest, went on: + </p> + <p> + “And so my attack was unsuccessful. There was nothing for it, I put + off my unclean thoughts to a more favourable occasion, resigned myself to + my failure and, as the saying is, waved my hand. What is more, under the + influence of Kisotchka’s voice, the evening air, and the stillness, + I gradually myself fell into a quiet sentimental mood. I remember I sat in + an easy chair by the wide-open window and glanced at the trees and + darkened sky. The outlines of the acacias and the lime trees were just the + same as they had been eight years before; just as then, in the days of my + childhood, somewhere far away there was the tinkling of a wretched piano, + and the public had just the same habit of sauntering to and fro along the + avenues, but the people were not the same. Along the avenues there walked + now not my comrades and I and the object of my adoration, but schoolboys + and young ladies who were strangers. And I felt melancholy. When to my + inquiries about acquaintances I five times received from Kisotchka the + answer, ‘He is dead,’ my melancholy changed into the feeling + one has at the funeral service of a good man. And sitting there at the + window, looking at the promenading public and listening to the tinkling + piano, I saw with my own eyes for the first time in my life with what + eagerness one generation hastens to replace another, and what a momentous + significance even some seven or eight years may have in a man’s + life! + </p> + <p> + “Kisotchka put a bottle of red wine on the table. I drank it off, + grew sentimental, and began telling a long story about something or other. + Kisotchka listened as before, admiring me and my cleverness. And time + passed. The sky was by now so dark that the outlines of the acacias and + lime trees melted into one, the public was no longer walking up and down + the avenues, the piano was silent and the only sound was the even murmur + of the sea. + </p> + <p> + “Young people are all alike. Be friendly to a young man, make much + of him, regale him with wine, let him understand that he is attractive and + he will sit on and on, forget that it is time to go, and talk and talk and + talk. . . . His hosts cannot keep their eyes open, it’s past their + bedtime, and he still stays and talks. That was what I did. Once I chanced + to look at the clock; it was half-past ten. I began saying good-bye. + </p> + <p> + “‘Have another glass before your walk,’ said Kisotchka. + </p> + <p> + “I took another glass, again I began talking at length, forgot it + was time to go, and sat down. Then there came the sound of men’s + voices, footsteps and the clank of spurs. + </p> + <p> + “‘I think my husband has come in . . . .’ said Kisotchka + listening. + </p> + <p> + “The door creaked, two voices came now from the passage and I saw + two men pass the door that led into the dining-room: one a stout, solid, + dark man with a hooked nose, wearing a straw hat, and the other a young + officer in a white tunic. As they passed the door they both glanced + casually and indifferently at Kisotchka and me, and I fancied both of them + were drunk. + </p> + <p> + “‘She told you a lie then, and you believed her!’ we + heard a loud voice with a marked nasal twang say a minute later. ‘To + begin with, it wasn’t at the big club but at the little one.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘You are angry, Jupiter, so you are wrong . . . .’ said + another voice, obviously the officer’s, laughing and coughing. + ‘I say, can I stay the night? Tell me honestly, shall I be in your + way?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘What a question! Not only you can, but you must. What will + you have, beer or wine?’ + </p> + <p> + “They were sitting two rooms away from us, talking loudly, and + apparently feeling no interest in Kisotchka or her visitor. A perceptible + change came over Kisotchka on her husband’s arrival. At first she + flushed red, then her face wore a timid, guilty expression; she seemed to + be troubled by some anxiety, and I began to fancy that she was ashamed to + show me her husband and wanted me to go. + </p> + <p> + “I began taking leave. Kisotchka saw me to the front door. I + remember well her gentle mournful smile and kind patient eyes as she + pressed my hand and said: + </p> + <p> + “‘Most likely we shall never see each other again. Well, God + give you every blessing. Thank you!’ + </p> + <p> + “Not one sigh, not one fine phrase. As she said good-bye she was + holding the candle in her hand; patches of light danced over her face and + neck, as though chasing her mournful smile. I pictured to myself the old + Kisotchka whom one used to want to stroke like a cat, I looked intently at + the present Kisotchka, and for some reason recalled her words: ‘Everyone + ought to bear the lot that fate has laid on him.’ And I had a pang + at my heart. I instinctively guessed how it was, and my conscience + whispered to me that I, in my happiness and indifference, was face to face + with a good, warm-hearted, loving creature, who was broken by suffering. + </p> + <p> + “I said good-bye and went to the gate. By now it was quite dark. In + the south the evenings draw in early in July and it gets dark rapidly. + Towards ten o’clock it is so dark that you can’t see an inch + before your nose. I lighted a couple of dozen matches before, almost + groping, I found my way to the gate. + </p> + <p> + “‘Cab!’ I shouted, going out of the gate; not a sound, + not a sigh in answer. . . . ‘Cab,’ I repeated, ‘hey, + Cab!’ + </p> + <p> + “But there was no cab of any description. The silence of the grave. + I could hear nothing but the murmur of the drowsy sea and the beating of + my heart from the wine. Lifting my eyes to the sky I found not a single + star. It was dark and sullen. Evidently the sky was covered with clouds. + For some reason I shrugged my shoulders, smiling foolishly, and once more, + not quite so resolutely, shouted for a cab. + </p> + <p> + “The echo answered me. A walk of three miles across open country and + in the pitch dark was not an agreeable prospect. Before making up my mind + to walk, I spent a long time deliberating and shouting for a cab; then, + shrugging my shoulders, I walked lazily back to the copse, with no + definite object in my mind. It was dreadfully dark in the copse. Here and + there between the trees the windows of the summer villas glowed a dull + red. A raven, disturbed by my steps and the matches with which I lighted + my way to the summer-house, flew from tree to tree and rustled among the + leaves. I felt vexed and ashamed, and the raven seemed to understand this, + and croaked 'krrra!’ I was vexed that I had to walk, and ashamed + that I had stayed on at Kisotchka’s, chatting like a boy. + </p> + <p> + “I made my way to the summer-house, felt for the seat and sat down. + Far below me, behind a veil of thick darkness, the sea kept up a low angry + growl. I remember that, as though I were blind, I could see neither sky + nor sea, nor even the summer-house in which I was sitting. And it seemed + to me as though the whole world consisted only of the thoughts that were + straying through my head, dizzy from the wine, and of an unseen power + murmuring monotonously somewhere below. And afterwards, as I sank into a + doze, it began to seem that it was not the sea murmuring, but my thoughts, + and that the whole world consisted of nothing but me. And concentrating + the whole world in myself in this way, I thought no more of cabs, of the + town, and of Kisotchka, and abandoned myself to the sensation I was so + fond of: that is, the sensation of fearful isolation when you feel that in + the whole universe, dark and formless, you alone exist. It is a proud, + demoniac sensation, only possible to Russians whose thoughts and + sensations are as large, boundless, and gloomy as their plains, their + forests, and their snow. If I had been an artist I should certainly have + depicted the expression of a Russian’s face when he sits motionless + and, with his legs under him and his head clasped in his hands, abandons + himself to this sensation. . . . And together with this sensation come + thoughts of the aimlessness of life, of death, and of the darkness of the + grave. . . . The thoughts are not worth a brass farthing, but the + expression of face must be fine. . . . + </p> + <p> + “While I was sitting and dozing, unable to bring myself to get up—I + was warm and comfortable—all at once, against the even monotonous + murmur of the sea, as though upon a canvas, sounds began to grow distinct + which drew my attention from myself. . . . Someone was coming hurriedly + along the avenue. Reaching the summer-house this someone stopped, gave a + sob like a little girl, and said in the voice of a weeping child: ‘My + God, when will it all end! Merciful Heavens!’ + </p> + <p> + “Judging from the voice and the weeping I took it to be a little + girl of ten or twelve. She walked irresolutely into the summer-house, sat + down, and began half-praying, half-complaining aloud. . . . + </p> + <p> + “‘Merciful God!’ she said, crying, ‘it’s + unbearable. It’s beyond all endurance! I suffer in silence, but I + want to live too. . . . Oh, my God! My God!’ + </p> + <p> + “And so on in the same style. + </p> + <p> + “I wanted to look at the child and speak to her. So as not to + frighten her I first gave a loud sigh and coughed, then cautiously struck + a match. . . . There was a flash of bright light in the darkness, which + lighted up the weeping figure. It was Kisotchka!” + </p> + <p> + “Marvels upon marvels!” said Von Schtenberg with a sigh. + “Black night, the murmur of the sea; she in grief, he with a + sensation of world—solitude. . . . It’s too much of a good + thing. . . . You only want Circassians with daggers to complete it.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not telling you a tale, but fact.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, even if it is a fact . . . it all proves nothing, and there + is nothing new in it. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a little before you find fault! Let me finish,” said + Ananyev, waving his hand with vexation; “don’t interfere, + please! I am not telling you, but the doctor. . . . Well,” he went + on, addressing me and glancing askance at the student who bent over his + books and seemed very well satisfied at having gibed at the engineer—“well, + Kisotchka was not surprised or frightened at seeing me. It seemed as + though she had known beforehand that she would find me in the + summer-house. She was breathing in gasps and trembling all over as though + in a fever, while her tear-stained face, so far as I could distinguish it + as I struck match after match, was not the intelligent, submissive weary + face I had seen before, but something different, which I cannot understand + to this day. It did not express pain, nor anxiety, nor misery—nothing + of what was expressed by her words and her tears. . . . I must own that, + probably because I did not understand it, it looked to me senseless and as + though she were drunk. + </p> + <p> + “‘I can’t bear it,’ muttered Kisotchka in the + voice of a crying child. ‘It’s too much for me, Nikolay + Anastasyitch. Forgive me, Nikolav Anastasyitch. I can’t go on living + like this. . . . I am going to the town to my mother’s. . . . Take + me there. . . . Take me there, for God’s sake!’ + </p> + <p> + “In the presence of tears I can neither speak nor be silent. I was + flustered and muttered some nonsense trying to comfort her. + </p> + <p> + “‘No, no; I will go to my mother’s,’ said + Kisotchka resolutely, getting up and clutching my arm convulsively (her + hands and her sleeves were wet with tears). ‘Forgive me, Nikolay + Anastasyitch, I am going. . . . I can bear no more. . . .’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Kisotchka, but there isn’t a single cab,’ I + said. ‘How can you go?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘No matter, I’ll walk. . . . It’s not far. I can’t + bear it. . . .’ + </p> + <p> + “I was embarrassed, but not touched. Kisotchka’s tears, her + trembling, and the blank expression of her face suggested to me a trivial, + French or Little Russian melodrama, in which every ounce of cheap shallow + feeling is washed down with pints of tears. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t understand her, and knew I did not understand her; I ought + to have been silent, but for some reason, most likely for fear my silence + might be taken for stupidity, I thought fit to try to persuade her not to + go to her mother’s, but to stay at home. When people cry, they don’t + like their tears to be seen. And I lighted match after match and went on + striking till the box was empty. What I wanted with this ungenerous + illumination, I can’t conceive to this day. Cold-hearted people are + apt to be awkward, and even stupid. + </p> + <p> + “In the end Kisotchka took my arm and we set off. Going out of the + gate, we turned to the right and sauntered slowly along the soft dusty + road. It was dark. As my eyes grew gradually accustomed to the darkness, I + began to distinguish the silhouettes of the old gaunt oaks and lime trees + which bordered the road. The jagged, precipitous cliffs, intersected here + and there by deep, narrow ravines and creeks, soon showed indistinctly, a + black streak on the right. Low bushes nestled by the hollows, looking like + sitting figures. It was uncanny. I looked sideways suspiciously at the + cliffs, and the murmur of the sea and the stillness of the country alarmed + my imagination. Kisotchka did not speak. She was still trembling, and + before she had gone half a mile she was exhausted with walking and was out + of breath. I too was silent. + </p> + <p> + “Three-quarters of a mile from the Quarantine Station there was a + deserted building of four storeys, with a very high chimney in which there + had once been a steam flour mill. It stood solitary on the cliff, and by + day it could be seen for a long distance, both by sea and by land. Because + it was deserted and no one lived in it, and because there was an echo in + it which distinctly repeated the steps and voices of passers-by, it seemed + mysterious. Picture me in the dark night arm-in-arm with a woman who was + running away from her husband near this tall long monster which repeated + the sound of every step I took and stared at me fixedly with its hundred + black windows. A normal young man would have been moved to romantic + feelings in such surroundings, but I looked at the dark windows and + thought: ‘All this is very impressive, but time will come when of + that building and of Kisotchka and her troubles and of me with my + thoughts, not one grain of dust will remain. . . . All is nonsense and + vanity. . . .’ + </p> + <p> + “When we reached the flour mill Kisotchka suddenly stopped, took her + arm out of mine, and said, no longer in a childish voice, but in her own: + </p> + <p> + “‘Nikolay Anastasvitch, I know all this seems strange to you. + But I am terribly unhappy! And you cannot even imagine how unhappy! It’s + impossible to imagine it! I don’t tell you about it because one can’t + talk about it. . . . Such a life, such a life! . . .’ + </p> + <p> + “Kisotchka did not finish. She clenched her teeth and moaned as + though she were doing her utmost not to scream with pain. + </p> + <p> + “‘Such a life!’ she repeated with horror, with the + cadence and the southern, rather Ukrainian accent which particularly in + women gives to emotional speech the effect of singing. ‘It is a + life! Ah, my God, my God! what does it mean? Oh, my God, my God!’ + </p> + <p> + “As though trying to solve the riddle of her fate, she shrugged her + shoulders in perplexity, shook her head, and clasped her hands. She spoke + as though she were singing, moved gracefully, and reminded me of a + celebrated Little Russian actress. + </p> + <p> + “‘Great God, it is as though I were in a pit,’ she went + on. ‘If one could live for one minute in happiness as other people + live! Oh, my God, my God! I have come to such disgrace that before a + stranger I am running away from my husband by night, like some + disreputable creature! Can I expect anything good after that?’ + </p> + <p> + “As I admired her movements and her voice, I began to feel annoyed + that she was not on good terms with her husband. ‘It would be nice + to have got on into relations with her!’ flitted through my mind; + and this pitiless thought stayed in my brain, haunted me all the way and + grew more and more alluring. + </p> + <p> + “About a mile from the flour mill we had to turn to the left by the + cemetery. At the turning by the corner of the cemetery there stood a stone + windmill, and by it a little hut in which the miller lived. We passed the + mill and the hut, turned to the left and reached the gates of the + cemetery. There Kisotchka stopped and said: + </p> + <p> + “‘I am going back, Nikolay Anastasyitch! You go home, and God + bless you, but I am going back. I am not frightened.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Well, what next!’ I said, disconcerted. ‘If you + are going, you had better go!’ + </p> + <p> + “‘I have been too hasty. . . . It was all about nothing that + mattered. You and your talk took me back to the past and put all sort of + ideas into my head. . . . I was sad and wanted to cry, and my husband said + rude things to me before that officer, and I could not bear it. . . . And + what’s the good of my going to the town to my mother’s? Will + that make me any happier? I must go back. . . . But never mind . . . let + us go on,’ said Kisotchka, and she laughed. 'It makes no difference!’ + </p> + <p> + “I remembered that over the gate of the cemetery there was an + inscription: ‘The hour will come wherein all they that lie in the + grave will hear the voice of the Son of God.’ I knew very well that + sooner or later I and Kisotchka and her husband and the officer in the + white tunic would lie under the dark trees in the churchyard; I knew that + an unhappy and insulted fellow-creature was walking beside me. All this I + recognised distinctly, but at the same time I was troubled by an + oppressive and unpleasant dread that Kisotchka would turn back, and that I + should not manage to say to her what had to be said. Never at any other + time in my life have thoughts of a higher order been so closely interwoven + with the basest animal prose as on that night. . . . It was horrible! + </p> + <p> + “Not far from the cemetery we found a cab. When we reached the High + Street, where Kisotchka’s mother lived, we dismissed the cab and + walked along the pavement. Kisotchka was silent all the while, while I + looked at her, and I raged at myself, ‘Why don’t you begin? + Now’s the time!’ About twenty paces from the hotel where I was + staying, Kisotchka stopped by the lamp-post and burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + “‘Nikolay Anastasyitch!’ she said, crying and laughing + and looking at me with wet shining eyes, ‘I shall never forget your + sympathy . . . . How good you are! All of you are so splendid—all of + you! Honest, great-hearted, kind, clever. . . . Ah, how good that is!’ + </p> + <p> + “She saw in me a highly educated man, advanced in every sense of the + word, and on her tear-stained laughing face, together with the emotion and + enthusiasm aroused by my personality, there was clearly written regret + that she so rarely saw such people, and that God had not vouchsafed her + the bliss of being the wife of one of them. She muttered, ‘Ah, how + splendid it is!’ The childish gladness on her face, the tears, the + gentle smile, the soft hair, which had escaped from under the kerchief, + and the kerchief itself thrown carelessly over her head, in the light of + the street lamp reminded me of the old Kisotchka whom one had wanted to + stroke like a kitten. + </p> + <p> + “I could not restrain myself, and began stroking her hair, her + shoulders, and her hands. + </p> + <p> + “‘Kisotchka, what do you want?’ I muttered. ‘I’ll + go to the ends of the earth with you if you like! I will take you out of + this hole and give you happiness. I love you. . . . Let us go, my sweet? + Yes? Will you?’ + </p> + <p> + “Kisotchka’s face was flooded with bewilderment. She stepped + back from the street lamp and, completely overwhelmed, gazed at me with + wide-open eyes. I gripped her by the arm, began showering kisses on her + face, her neck, her shoulders, and went on making vows and promises. In + love affairs vows and promises are almost a physiological necessity. There’s + no getting on without them. Sometimes you know you are lying and that + promises are not necessary, but still you vow and protest. Kisotchka, + utterly overwhelmed, kept staggering back and gazing at me with round + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “‘Please don’t! Please don’t!’ she muttered, + holding me off with her hands. + </p> + <p> + “I clasped her tightly in my arms. All at once she broke into + hysterical tears. And her face had the same senseless blank expression + that I had seen in the summer-house when I lighted the matches. Without + asking her consent, preventing her from speaking, I dragged her forcibly + towards my hotel. She seemed almost swooning and did not walk, but I took + her under the arms and almost carried her. . . . I remember, as we were + going up the stairs, some man with a red band in his cap looked + wonderingly at me and bowed to Kisotchka. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Ananyev flushed crimson and paused. He walked up and down near the table + in silence, scratched the back of his head with an air of vexation, and + several times shrugged his shoulders and twitched his shoulder-blades, + while a shiver ran down his huge back. The memory was painful and made him + ashamed, and he was struggling with himself. + </p> + <p> + “It’s horrible!” he said, draining a glass of wine and + shaking his head. “I am told that in every introductory lecture on + women’s diseases the medical students are admonished to remember + that each one of them has a mother, a sister, a fiancée, before undressing + and examining a female patient. . . . That advice would be very good not + only for medical students but for everyone who in one way or another has + to deal with a woman’s life. Now that I have a wife and a little + daughter, oh, how well I understand that advice! How I understand it, my + God! You may as well hear the rest, though. . . . As soon as she had + become my mistress, Kisotchka’s view of the position was very + different from mine. First of all she felt for me a deep and passionate + love. What was for me an ordinary amatory episode was for her an absolute + revolution in her life. I remember, it seemed to me that she had gone out + of her mind. Happy for the first time in her life, looking five years + younger, with an inspired enthusiastic face, not knowing what to do with + herself for happiness, she laughed and cried and never ceased dreaming + aloud how next day we would set off for the Caucasus, then in the autumn + to Petersburg; how we would live afterwards. + </p> + <p> + “‘Don’t worry yourself about my husband,’ she said + to reassure me. 'He is bound to give me a divorce. Everyone in the town + knows that he is living with the elder Kostovitch. We will get a divorce + and be married.’ + </p> + <p> + “When women love they become acclimatised and at home with people + very quickly, like cats. Kisotchka had only spent an hour and a half in my + room when she already felt as though she were at home and was ready to + treat my property as though it were her own. She packed my things in my + portmanteau, scolded me for not hanging my new expensive overcoat on a peg + instead of flinging it on a chair, and so on. + </p> + <p> + “I looked at her, listened, and felt weariness and vexation. I was + conscious of a slight twinge of horror at the thought that a respectable, + honest, and unhappy woman had so easily, after some three or four hours, + succumbed to the first man she met. As a respectable man, you see, I didn’t + like it. Then, too, I was unpleasantly impressed by the fact that women of + Kisotchka’s sort, not deep or serious, are too much in love with + life, and exalt what is in reality such a trifle as love for a man to the + level of bliss, misery, a complete revolution in life. . . . Moreover, now + that I was satisfied, I was vexed with myself for having been so stupid as + to get entangled with a woman whom I should have to deceive. And in spite + of my disorderly life I must observe that I could not bear telling lies. + </p> + <p> + “I remember that Kisotchka sat down at my feet, laid her head on my + knees, and, looking at me with shining, loving eyes, asked: + </p> + <p> + “‘Kolya, do you love me? Very, very much?’ + </p> + <p> + “And she laughed with happiness. . . . This struck me as + sentimental, affected, and not clever; and meanwhile I was already + inclined to look for ‘depth of thought’ before everything. + </p> + <p> + “‘Kisotchka, you had better go home,’ I said, or else + your people will be sure to miss you and will be looking for you all over + the town; and it would be awkward for you to go to your mother in the + morning.’ + </p> + <p> + “Kisotchka agreed. At parting we arranged to meet at midday next + morning in the park, and the day after to set off together to Pyatigorsk. + I went into the street to see her home, and I remember that I caressed her + with genuine tenderness on the way. There was a minute when I felt + unbearably sorry for her, for trusting me so implicitly, and I made up my + mind that I would really take her to Pyatigorsk, but remembering that I + had only six hundred roubles in my portmanteau, and that it would be far + more difficult to break it off with her in the autumn than now, I made + haste to suppress my compassion. + </p> + <p> + “We reached the house where Kisotchka’s mother lived. I pulled + at the bell. When footsteps were heard at the other side of the door + Kisotchka suddenly looked grave, glanced upwards to the sky, made the sign + of the Cross over me several times and, clutching my hand, pressed it to + her lips. + </p> + <p> + “‘Till to-morrow,’ she said, and disappeared into the + house. + </p> + <p> + “I crossed to the opposite pavement and from there looked at the + house. At first the windows were in darkness, then in one of the windows + there was the glimmer of the faint bluish flame of a newly lighted candle; + the flame grew, gave more light, and I saw shadows moving about the rooms + together with it. + </p> + <p> + “‘They did not expect her,’ I thought. + </p> + <p> + “Returning to my hotel room I undressed, drank off a glass of red + wine, ate some fresh caviare which I had bought that day in the bazaar, + went to bed in a leisurely way, and slept the sound, untroubled sleep of a + tourist. + </p> + <p> + “In the morning I woke up with a headache and in a bad humour. + Something worried me. + </p> + <p> + “‘What’s the matter?’ I asked myself, trying to + explain my uneasiness. 'What’s upsetting me?’ + </p> + <p> + “And I put down my uneasiness to the dread that Kisotchka might turn + up any minute and prevent my going away, and that I should have to tell + lies and act a part before her. I hurriedly dressed, packed my things, and + left the hotel, giving instructions to the porter to take my luggage to + the station for the seven o’clock train in the evening. I spent the + whole day with a doctor friend and left the town that evening. As you see, + my philosophy did not prevent me from taking to my heels in a mean and + treacherous flight. . . . + </p> + <p> + “All the while that I was at my friend’s, and afterwards + driving to the station, I was tormented by anxiety. I fancied that I was + afraid of meeting with Kisotchka and a scene. In the station I purposely + remained in the toilet room till the second bell rang, and while I was + making my way to my compartment, I was oppressed by a feeling as though I + were covered all over with stolen things. With what impatience and terror + I waited for the third bell! + </p> + <p> + “At last the third bell that brought my deliverance rang at last, + the train moved; we passed the prison, the barracks, came out into the + open country, and yet, to my surprise, the feeling of uneasiness still + persisted, and still I felt like a thief passionately longing to escape. + It was queer. To distract my mind and calm myself I looked out of the + window. The train ran along the coast. The sea was smooth, and the + turquoise sky, almost half covered with the tender, golden crimson light + of sunset, was gaily and serenely mirrored in it. Here and there fishing + boats and rafts made black patches on its surface. The town, as clean and + beautiful as a toy, stood on the high cliff, and was already shrouded in + the mist of evening. The golden domes of its churches, the windows and the + greenery reflected the setting sun, glowing and melting like shimmering + gold. . . . The scent of the fields mingled with the soft damp air from + the sea. + </p> + <p> + “The train flew rapidly along. I heard the laughter of passengers + and guards. Everyone was good-humoured and light-hearted, yet my + unaccountable uneasiness grew greater and greater. . . . I looked at the + white mist that covered the town and I imagined how a woman with a + senseless blank face was hurrying up and down in that mist by the churches + and the houses, looking for me and moaning, ‘Oh, my God! Oh, my God!’ + in the voice of a little girl or the cadences of a Little Russian actress. + I recalled her grave face and big anxious eyes as she made the sign of the + Cross over me, as though I belonged to her, and mechanically I looked at + the hand which she had kissed the day before. + </p> + <p> + “‘Surely I am not in love?’ I asked myself, scratching + my hand. + </p> + <p> + “Only as night came on when the passengers were asleep and I was + left <i>tête-à-tête</i> with my conscience, I began to understand what I + had not been able to grasp before. In the twilight of the railway carriage + the image of Kisotchka rose before me, haunted me and I recognised clearly + that I had committed a crime as bad as murder. My conscience tormented me. + To stifle this unbearable feeling, I assured myself that everything was + nonsense and vanity, that Kisotchka and I would die and decay, that her + grief was nothing in comparison with death, and so on and so on . . . and + that if you come to that, there is no such thing as freewill, and that + therefore I was not to blame. But all these arguments only irritated me + and were extraordinarily quickly crowded out by other thoughts. There was + a miserable feeling in the hand that Kisotchka had kissed. . . . I kept + lying down and getting up again, drank vodka at the stations, forced + myself to eat bread and butter, fell to assuring myself again that life + had no meaning, but nothing was of any use. A strange and if you like + absurd ferment was going on in my brain. The most incongruous ideas + crowded one after another in disorder, getting more and more tangled, + thwarting each other, and I, the thinker, 'with my brow bent on the earth,’ + could make out nothing and could not find my bearings in this mass of + essential and non-essential ideas. It appeared that I, the thinker, had + not mastered the technique of thinking, and that I was no more capable of + managing my own brain than mending a watch. For the first time in my life + I was really thinking eagerly and intensely, and that seemed to me so + monstrous that I said to myself: ‘I am going off my head.’ A + man whose brain does not work at all times, but only at painful moments, + is often haunted by the thought of madness. + </p> + <p> + “I spent a day and a night in this misery, then a second night, and + learning from experience how little my philosophy was to me, I came to my + senses and realised at last what sort of a creature I was. I saw that my + ideas were not worth a brass farthing, and that before meeting Kisotchka I + had not begun to think and had not even a conception of what thinking in + earnest meant; now through suffering I realised that I had neither + convictions nor a definite moral standard, nor heart, nor reason; my whole + intellectual and moral wealth consisted of specialist knowledge, + fragments, useless memories, other people’s ideas—and nothing + else; and my mental processes were as lacking in complexity, as useless + and as rudimentary as a Yakut’s. . . . If I had disliked lying, had + not stolen, had not murdered, and, in fact, made obviously gross mistakes, + that was not owing to my convictions—I had none, but because I was + in bondage, hand and foot, to my nurse’s fairy tales and to + copy-book morals, which had entered into my flesh and blood and without my + noticing it guided me in life, though I looked on them as absurd. . . . + </p> + <p> + “I realised that I was not a thinker, not a philosopher, but simply + a dilettante. God had given me a strong healthy Russian brain with promise + of talent. And, only fancy, here was that brain at twenty-six, + undisciplined, completely free from principles, not weighed down by any + stores of knowledge, but only lightly sprinkled with information of a sort + in the engineering line; it was young and had a physiological craving for + exercise, it was on the look-out for it, when all at once quite casually + the fine juicy idea of the aimlessness of life and the darkness beyond the + tomb descends upon it. It greedily sucks it in, puts its whole outlook at + its disposal and begins playing with it, like a cat with a mouse. There is + neither learning nor system in the brain, but that does not matter. It + deals with the great ideas with its own innate powers, like a + self-educated man, and before a month has passed the owner of the brain + can turn a potato into a hundred dainty dishes, and fancies himself a + philosopher . . . . + </p> + <p> + “Our generation has carried this dilettantism, this playing with + serious ideas into science, into literature, into politics, and into + everything which it is not too lazy to go into, and with its dilettantism + has introduced, too, its coldness, its boredom, and its one-sidedness and, + as it seems to me, it has already succeeded in developing in the masses a + new hitherto non-existent attitude to serious ideas. + </p> + <p> + “I realised and appreciated my abnormality and utter ignorance, + thanks to a misfortune. My normal thinking, so it seems to me now, dates + from the day when I began again from the A, B, C, when my conscience sent + me flying back to N., when with no philosophical subleties I repented, + besought Kisotchka’s forgiveness like a naughty boy and wept with + her. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Ananyev briefly described his last interview with Kisotchka. + </p> + <p> + “H’m. . . .” the student filtered through his teeth when + the engineer had finished. “That’s the sort of thing that + happens.” + </p> + <p> + His face still expressed mental inertia, and apparently Ananyev’s + story had not touched him in the least. Only when the engineer after a + moment’s pause, began expounding his view again and repeating what + he had said at first, the student frowned irritably, got up from the table + and walked away to his bed. He made his bed and began undressing. + </p> + <p> + “You look as though you have really convinced some one this time,” + he said irritably. + </p> + <p> + “Me convince anybody!” said the engineer. “My dear soul, + do you suppose I claim to do that? God bless you! To convince you is + impossible. You can reach conviction only by way of personal experience + and suffering!” + </p> + <p> + “And then—it’s queer logic!” grumbled the student + as he put on his nightshirt. “The ideas which you so dislike, which + are so ruinous for the young are, according to you, the normal thing for + the old; it’s as though it were a question of grey hairs. . . . + Where do the old get this privilege? What is it based upon? If these ideas + are poison, they are equally poisonous for all?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, my dear soul, don’t say so!” said the engineer + with a sly wink. “Don’t say so. In the first place, old men + are not dilettanti. Their pessimism comes to them not casually from + outside, but from the depths of their own brains, and only after they have + exhaustively studied the Hegels and Kants of all sorts, have suffered, + have made no end of mistakes, in fact—when they have climbed the + whole ladder from bottom to top. Their pessimism has both personal + experience and sound philosophic training behind it. Secondly, the + pessimism of old thinkers does not take the form of idle talk, as it does + with you and me, but of <i>Weltschmertz</i>, of suffering; it rests in + them on a Christian foundation because it is derived from love for + humanity and from thoughts about humanity, and is entirely free from the + egoism which is noticeable in dilettanti. You despise life because its + meaning and its object are hidden just from you, and you are only afraid + of your own death, while the real thinker is unhappy because the truth is + hidden from all and he is afraid for all men. For instance, there is + living not far from here the Crown forester, Ivan Alexandritch. He is a + nice old man. At one time he was a teacher somewhere, and used to write + something; the devil only knows what he was, but anyway he is a remarkably + clever fellow and in philosophy he is A1. He has read a great deal and he + is continually reading now. Well, we came across him lately in the + Gruzovsky district. . . . They were laying the sleepers and rails just at + the time. It’s not a difficult job, but Ivan Alexandritch, not being + a specialist, looked at it as though it were a conjuring trick. It takes + an experienced workman less than a minute to lay a sleeper and fix a rail + on it. The workmen were in good form and really were working smartly and + rapidly; one rascal in particular brought his hammer down with exceptional + smartness on the head of the nail and drove it in at one blow, though the + handle of the hammer was two yards or more in length and each nail was a + foot long. Ivan Alexandritch watched the workmen a long time, was moved, + and said to me with tears in his eyes: + </p> + <p> + “‘What a pity that these splendid men will die!’ Such + pessimism I understand.” + </p> + <p> + “All that proves nothing and explains nothing,” said the + student, covering himself up with a sheet; “all that is simply + pounding liquid in a mortar. No one knows anything and nothing can be + proved by words.” + </p> + <p> + He peeped out from under the sheet, lifted up his head and, frowning + irritably, said quickly: + </p> + <p> + “One must be very naïve to believe in human words and logic and to + ascribe any determining value to them. You can prove and disprove anything + you like with words, and people will soon perfect the technique of + language to such a point that they will prove with mathematical certainty + that twice two is seven. I am fond of reading and listening, but as to + believing, no thank you; I can’t, and I don’t want to. I + believe only in God, but as for you, if you talk to me till the Second + Coming and seduce another five hundred Kisothchkas, I shall believe in you + only when I go out of my mind . . . . Goodnight.” + </p> + <p> + The student hid his head under the sheet and turned his face towards the + wall, meaning by this action to let us know that he did not want to speak + or listen. The argument ended at that. + </p> + <p> + Before going to bed the engineer and I went out of the hut, and I saw the + lights once more. + </p> + <p> + “We have tired you out with our chatter,” said Ananyev, + yawning and looking at the sky. “Well, my good sir! The only + pleasure we have in this dull hole is drinking and philosophising. . . . + What an embankment, Lord have mercy on us!” he said admiringly, as + we approached the embankment; “it is more like Mount Ararat than an + embankment.” + </p> + <p> + He paused for a little, then said: “Those lights remind the Baron of + the Amalekites, but it seems to me that they are like the thoughts of man. + . . . You know the thoughts of each individual man are scattered like that + in disorder, stretch in a straight line towards some goal in the midst of + the darkness and, without shedding light on anything, without lighting up + the night, they vanish somewhere far beyond old age. But enough + philosophising! It’s time to go bye-bye.” + </p> + <p> + When we were back in the hut the engineer began begging me to take his + bed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh please!” he said imploringly, pressing both hands on his + heart. “I entreat you, and don’t worry about me! I can sleep + anywhere, and, besides, I am not going to bed just yet. Please do—it’s + a favour!” + </p> + <p> + I agreed, undressed, and went to bed, while he sat down to the table and + set to work on the plans. + </p> + <p> + “We fellows have no time for sleep,” he said in a low voice + when I had got into bed and shut my eyes. “When a man has a wife and + two children he can’t think of sleep. One must think now of food and + clothes and saving for the future. And I have two of them, a little son + and a daughter. . . . The boy, little rascal, has a jolly little face. He’s + not six yet, and already he shows remarkable abilities, I assure you. . . + . I have their photographs here, somewhere. . . . Ah, my children, my + children!” + </p> + <p> + He rummaged among his papers, found their photographs, and began looking + at them. I fell asleep. + </p> + <p> + I was awakened by the barking of Azorka and loud voices. Von Schtenberg + with bare feet and ruffled hair was standing in the doorway dressed in his + underclothes, talking loudly with some one . . . . It was getting light. A + gloomy dark blue dawn was peeping in at the door, at the windows, and + through the crevices in the hut walls, and casting a faint light on my + bed, on the table with the papers, and on Ananyev. Stretched on the floor + on a cloak, with a leather pillow under his head, the engineer lay asleep + with his fleshy, hairy chest uppermost; he was snoring so loudly that I + pitied the student from the bottom of my heart for having to sleep in the + same room with him every night. + </p> + <p> + “Why on earth are we to take them?” shouted Von Schtenberg. + “It has nothing to do with us! Go to Tchalisov! From whom do the + cauldrons come?” + </p> + <p> + “From Nikitin . . .” a bass voice answered gruffly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, take them to Tchalisov. . . . That’s not in our + department. What the devil are you standing there for? Drive on!” + </p> + <p> + “Your honour, we have been to Tchalisov already,” said the + bass voice still more gruffly. “Yesterday we were the whole day + looking for him down the line, and were told at his hut that he had gone + to the Dymkovsky section. Please take them, your honour! How much longer + are we to go carting them about? We go carting them on and on along the + line, and see no end to it.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” Ananyev asked huskily, waking up and lifting his + head quickly. + </p> + <p> + “They have brought some cauldrons from Nikitin’s,” said + the student, “and he is begging us to take them. And what business + is it of ours to take them?” + </p> + <p> + “Do be so kind, your honour, and set things right! The horses have + been two days without food and the master, for sure, will be angry. Are we + to take them back, or what? The railway ordered the cauldrons, so it ought + to take them. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t you understand, you blockhead, that it has nothing to + do with us? Go on to Tchalisov!” + </p> + <p> + “What is it? Who’s there?” Ananyev asked huskily again. + “Damnation take them all,” he said, getting up and going to + the door. “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + I dressed, and two minutes later went out of the hut. Ananyev and the + student, both in their underclothes and barefooted, were angrily and + impatiently explaining to a peasant who was standing before them + bare-headed, with his whip in his hand, apparently not understanding them. + Both faces looked preoccupied with workaday cares. + </p> + <p> + “What use are your cauldrons to me,” shouted Ananyev. “Am + I to put them on my head, or what? If you can’t find Tchalisov, find + his assistant, and leave us in peace!” + </p> + <p> + Seeing me, the student probably recalled the conversation of the previous + night. The workaday expression vanished from his sleepy face and a look of + mental inertia came into it. He waved the peasant off and walked away + absorbed in thought. + </p> + <p> + It was a cloudy morning. On the line where the lights had been gleaming + the night before, the workmen, just roused from sleep, were swarming. + There was a sound of voices and the squeaking of wheelbarrows. The working + day was beginning. One poor little nag harnessed with cord was already + plodding towards the embankment, tugging with its neck, and dragging along + a cartful of sand. + </p> + <p> + I began saying good-bye. . . . A great deal had been said in the night, + but I carried away with me no answer to any question, and in the morning, + of the whole conversation there remained in my memory, as in a filter, + only the lights and the image of Kisotchka. As I got on the horse, I + looked at the student and Ananyev for the last time, at the hysterical dog + with the lustreless, tipsy-looking eyes, at the workmen flitting to and + fro in the morning fog, at the embankment, at the little nag straining + with its neck, and thought: + </p> + <p> + “There is no making out anything in this world.” + </p> + <p> + And when I lashed my horse and galloped along the line, and when a little + later I saw nothing before me but the endless gloomy plain and the cold + overcast sky, I recalled the questions which were discussed in the night. + I pondered while the sun-scorched plain, the immense sky, the oak forest, + dark on the horizon and the hazy distance, seemed saying to me: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, there’s no understanding anything in this world!” + </p> + <p> + The sun began to rise. . . . + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A STORY WITHOUT AN END + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>OON after two o’clock + one night, long ago, the cook, pale and agitated, rushed unexpectedly into + my study and informed me that Madame Mimotih, the old woman who owned the + house next door, was sitting in her kitchen. + </p> + <p> + “She begs you to go in to her, sir . . .” said the cook, + panting. “Something bad has happened about her lodger. . . . He has + shot himself or hanged himself. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “What can I do?” said I. “Let her go for the doctor or + for the police!” + </p> + <p> + “How is she to look for a doctor! She can hardly breathe, and she + has huddled under the stove, she is so frightened. . . . You had better go + round, sir.” + </p> + <p> + I put on my coat and hat and went to Madame Mimotih’s house. The + gate towards which I directed my steps was open. After pausing beside it, + uncertain what to do, I went into the yard without feeling for the porter’s + bell. In the dark and dilapidated porch the door was not locked. I opened + it and walked into the entry. Here there was not a glimmer of light, it + was pitch dark, and, moreover, there was a marked smell of incense. + Groping my way out of the entry I knocked my elbow against something made + of iron, and in the darkness stumbled against a board of some sort which + almost fell to the floor. At last the door covered with torn baize was + found, and I went into a little hall. + </p> + <p> + I am not at the moment writing a fairy tale, and am far from intending to + alarm the reader, but the picture I saw from the passage was fantastic and + could only have been drawn by death. Straight before me was a door leading + to a little drawing-room. Three five-kopeck wax candles, standing in a + row, threw a scanty light on the faded slate-coloured wallpaper. A coffin + was standing on two tables in the middle of the little room. The two + candles served only to light up a swarthy yellow face with a half-open + mouth and sharp nose. Billows of muslin were mingled in disorder from the + face to the tips of the two shoes, and from among the billows peeped out + two pale motionless hands, holding a wax cross. The dark gloomy corners of + the little drawing-room, the ikons behind the coffin, the coffin itself, + everything except the softly glimmering lights, were still as death, as + the tomb itself. + </p> + <p> + “How strange!” I thought, dumbfoundered by the unexpected + panorama of death. “Why this haste? The lodger has hardly had time + to hang himself, or shoot himself, and here is the coffin already!” + </p> + <p> + I looked round. On the left there was a door with a glass panel; on the + right a lame hat-stand with a shabby fur coat on it. . . . + </p> + <p> + “Water. . . .” I heard a moan. + </p> + <p> + The moan came from the left, beyond the door with the glass panel. I + opened the door and walked into a little dark room with a solitary window, + through which there came a faint light from a street lamp outside. + </p> + <p> + “Is anyone here?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + And without waiting for an answer I struck a match. This is what I saw + while it was burning. A man was sitting on the blood-stained floor at my + very feet. If my step had been a longer one I should have trodden on him. + With his legs thrust forward and his hands pressed on the floor, he was + making an effort to raise his handsome face, which was deathly pale + against his pitch-black beard. In the big eyes which he lifted upon me, I + read unutterable terror, pain, and entreaty. A cold sweat trickled in big + drops down his face. That sweat, the expression of his face, the trembling + of the hands he leaned upon, his hard breathing and his clenched teeth, + showed that he was suffering beyond endurance. Near his right hand in a + pool of blood lay a revolver. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t go away,” I heard a faint voice when the match + had gone out. “There’s a candle on the table.” + </p> + <p> + I lighted the candle and stood still in the middle of the room not knowing + what to do next. I stood and looked at the man on the floor, and it seemed + to me that I had seen him before. + </p> + <p> + “The pain is insufferable,” he whispered, “and I haven’t + the strength to shoot myself again. Incomprehensible lack of will.” + </p> + <p> + I flung off my overcoat and attended to the sick man. Lifting him from the + floor like a baby, I laid him on the American-leather covered sofa and + carefully undressed him. He was shivering and cold when I took off his + clothes; the wound which I saw was not in keeping either with his + shivering nor the expression on his face. It was a trifling one. The + bullet had passed between the fifth and sixth ribs on the left side, only + piercing the skin and the flesh. I found the bullet itself in the folds of + the coat-lining near the back pocket. Stopping the bleeding as best I + could and making a temporary bandage of a pillow-case, a towel, and two + handkerchiefs, I gave the wounded man some water and covered him with a + fur coat that was hanging in the passage. We neither of us said a word + while the bandaging was being done. I did my work while he lay motionless + looking at me with his eyes screwed up as though he were ashamed of his + unsuccessful shot and the trouble he was giving me. + </p> + <p> + “Now I must trouble you to lie still,” I said, when I had + finished the bandaging, “while I run to the chemist and get + something.” + </p> + <p> + “No need!” he muttered, clutching me by the sleeve and opening + his eyes wide. + </p> + <p> + I read terror in his eyes. He was afraid of my going away. + </p> + <p> + “No need! Stay another five minutes . . . ten. If it doesn’t + disgust you, do stay, I entreat you.” + </p> + <p> + As he begged me he was trembling and his teeth were chattering. I obeyed, + and sat down on the edge of the sofa. Ten minutes passed in silence. I sat + silent, looking about the room into which fate had brought me so + unexpectedly. What poverty! This man who was the possessor of a handsome, + effeminate face and a luxuriant well-tended beard, had surroundings which + a humble working man would not have envied. A sofa with its + American-leather torn and peeling, a humble greasy-looking chair, a table + covered with a little of paper, and a wretched oleograph on the wall, that + was all I saw. Damp, gloomy, and grey. + </p> + <p> + “What a wind!” said the sick man, without opening his eyes, + “How it whistles!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” I said. “I say, I fancy I know you. Didn’t + you take part in some private theatricals in General Luhatchev’s + villa last year?” + </p> + <p> + “What of it?” he asked, quickly opening his eyes. + </p> + <p> + A cloud seemed to pass over his face. + </p> + <p> + “I certainly saw you there. Isn’t your name Vassilyev?” + </p> + <p> + “If it is, what of it? It makes it no better that you should know + me.” + </p> + <p> + “No, but I just asked you.” + </p> + <p> + Vassilyev closed his eyes and, as though offended, turned his face to the + back of the sofa. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand your curiosity,” he muttered. + “You’ll be asking me next what it was drove me to commit + suicide!” + </p> + <p> + Before a minute had passed, he turned round towards me again, opened his + eyes and said in a tearful voice: + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me for taking such a tone, but you’ll admit I’m + right! To ask a convict how he got into prison, or a suicide why he shot + himself is not generous . . . and indelicate. To think of gratifying idle + curiosity at the expense of another man’s nerves!” + </p> + <p> + “There is no need to excite yourself. . . . It never occurred to me + to question you about your motives.” + </p> + <p> + “You would have asked. . . . It’s what people always do. + Though it would be no use to ask. If I told you, you would not believe or + understand. . . . I must own I don’t understand it myself. . . . + There are phrases used in the police reports and newspapers such as: + ‘unrequited love,’ and ‘hopeless poverty,’ but the + reasons are not known. . . . They are not known to me, nor to you, nor to + your newspaper offices, where they have the impudence to write ‘The + diary of a suicide.’ God alone understands the state of a man’s + soul when he takes his own life; but men know nothing about it.” + </p> + <p> + “That is all very nice,” I said, “but you oughtn’t + to talk. . . .” + </p> + <p> + But my suicide could not be stopped, he leaned his head on his fist, and + went on in the tone of some great professor: + </p> + <p> + “Man will never understand the psychological subtleties of suicide! + How can one speak of reasons? To-day the reason makes one snatch up a + revolver, while to-morrow the same reason seems not worth a rotten egg. It + all depends most likely on the particular condition of the individual at + the given moment. . . . Take me for instance. Half an hour ago, I had a + passionate desire for death, now when the candle is lighted, and you are + sitting by me, I don’t even think of the hour of death. Explain that + change if you can! Am I better off, or has my wife risen from the dead? Is + it the influence of the light on me, or the presence of an outsider?” + </p> + <p> + “The light certainly has an influence . . .” I muttered for + the sake of saying something. “The influence of light on the + organism . . . .” + </p> + <p> + “The influence of light. . . . We admit it! But you know men do + shoot themselves by candle-light! And it would be ignominious indeed for + the heroes of your novels if such a trifling thing as a candle were to + change the course of the drama so abruptly. All this nonsense can be + explained perhaps, but not by us. It’s useless to ask questions or + give explanations of what one does not understand. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me,” I said, “but . . . judging by the + expression of your face, it seems to me that at this moment you . . . are + posing.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Vassilyev said, startled. “It’s very + possible! I am naturally vain and fatuous. Well, explain it, if you + believe in your power of reading faces! Half an hour ago I shot myself, + and just now I am posing. . . . Explain that if you can.” + </p> + <p> + These last words Vassilyev pronounced in a faint, failing voice. He was + exhausted, and sank into silence. A pause followed. I began scrutinising + his face. It was as pale as a dead man’s. It seemed as though life + were almost extinct in him, and only the signs of the suffering that the + “vain and fatuous” man was feeling betrayed that it was still + alive. It was painful to look at that face, but what must it have been for + Vassilyev himself who yet had the strength to argue and, if I were not + mistaken, to pose? + </p> + <p> + “You here—are you here?” he asked suddenly, raising + himself on his elbow. “My God, just listen!” + </p> + <p> + I began listening. The rain was pattering angrily on the dark window, + never ceasing for a minute. The wind howled plaintively and lugubriously. + </p> + <p> + “‘And I shall be whiter than snow, and my ears will hear + gladness and rejoicing.’” Madame Mimotih, who had returned, + was reading in the drawing-room in a languid, weary voice, neither raising + nor dropping the monotonous dreary key. + </p> + <p> + “It is cheerful, isn’t it?” whispered Vassilyev, turning + his frightened eyes towards me. “My God, the things a man has to see + and hear! If only one could set this chaos to music! As Hamlet says, 'it + would— + </p> + <p> + “Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed, The very faculties of eyes + and ears.” + </p> + <p> + “How well I should have understood that music then! How I should have felt + it! What time is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Five minutes to three.” + </p> + <p> + “Morning is still far off. And in the morning there’s the + funeral. A lovely prospect! One follows the coffin through the mud and + rain. One walks along, seeing nothing but the cloudy sky and the wretched + scenery. The muddy mutes, taverns, woodstacks. . . . One’s trousers + drenched to the knees. The never-ending streets. The time dragging out + like eternity, the coarse people. And on the heart a stone, a stone!” + </p> + <p> + After a brief pause he suddenly asked: “Is it long since you saw + General Luhatchev?” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t seen him since last summer.” + </p> + <p> + “He likes to be cock of the walk, but he is a nice little old chap. + And are you still writing?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a little.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah. . . . Do you remember how I pranced about like a needle, like + an enthusiastic ass at those private theatricals when I was courting Zina? + It was stupid, but it was good, it was fun. . . . The very memory of it + brings back a whiff of spring. . . . And now! What a cruel change of + scene! There is a subject for you! Only don’t you go in for writing + ‘the diary of a suicide.’ That’s vulgar and + conventional. You make something humorous of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Again you are . . . posing,” I said. “There’s + nothing humorous in your position.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing laughable? You say nothing laughable?” Vassilyev sat + up, and tears glistened in his eyes. An expression of bitter distress came + into his pale face. His chin quivered. + </p> + <p> + “You laugh at the deceit of cheating clerks and faithless wives,” + he said, “but no clerk, no faithless wife has cheated as my fate has + cheated me! I have been deceived as no bank depositor, no duped husband + has ever been deceived! Only realise what an absurd fool I have been made! + Last year before your eyes I did not know what to do with myself for + happiness. And now before your eyes. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Vassilyev’s head sank on the pillow and he laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing more absurd and stupid than such a change could possibly be + imagined. Chapter one: spring, love, honeymoon . . . honey, in fact; + chapter two: looking for a job, the pawnshop, pallor, the chemist’s + shop, and . . . to-morrow’s splashing through the mud to the + graveyard.” + </p> + <p> + He laughed again. I felt acutely uncomfortable and made up my mind to go. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you what,” I said, “you lie down, and I will go + to the chemist’s.” + </p> + <p> + He made no answer. I put on my great-coat and went out of his room. As I + crossed the passage I glanced at the coffin and Madame Mimotih reading + over it. I strained my eyes in vain, I could not recognise in the swarthy, + yellow face Zina, the lively, pretty <i>ingénue</i> of Luhatchev’s + company. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Sic transit</i>,” I thought. + </p> + <p> + With that I went out, not forgetting to take the revolver, and made my way + to the chemist’s. But I ought not to have gone away. When I came + back from the chemist’s, Vassilyev lay on the sofa fainting. The + bandages had been roughly torn off, and blood was flowing from the + reopened wound. It was daylight before I succeeded in restoring him to + consciousness. He was raving in delirium, shivering, and looking with + unseeing eyes about the room till morning had come, and we heard the + booming voice of the priest as he read the service over the dead. + </p> + <p> + When Vassilyev’s rooms were crowded with old women and mutes, when + the coffin had been moved and carried out of the yard, I advised him to + remain at home. But he would not obey me, in spite of the pain and the + grey, rainy morning. He walked bareheaded and in silence behind the coffin + all the way to the cemetery, hardly able to move one leg after the other, + and from time to time clutching convulsively at his wounded side. His face + expressed complete apathy. Only once when I roused him from his lethargy + by some insignificant question he shifted his eyes over the pavement and + the grey fence, and for a moment there was a gleam of gloomy anger in + them. + </p> + <p> + “‘Weelright,’” he read on a signboard. “Ignorant, + illiterate people, devil take them!” + </p> + <p> + I led him home from the cemetery. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + —— +</pre> + <p> + Only one year has passed since that night, and Vassilyev has hardly had + time to wear out the boots in which he tramped through the mud behind his + wife’s coffin. + </p> + <p> + At the present time as I finish this story, he is sitting in my + drawing-room and, playing on the piano, is showing the ladies how + provincial misses sing sentimental songs. The ladies are laughing, and he + is laughing too. He is enjoying himself. + </p> + <p> + I call him into my study. Evidently not pleased at my taking him from + agreeable company, he comes to me and stands before me in the attitude of + a man who has no time to spare. I give him this story, and ask him to read + it. Always condescending about my authorship, he stifles a sigh, the sigh + of a lazy reader, sits down in an armchair and begins upon it. + </p> + <p> + “Hang it all, what horrors,” he mutters with a smile. + </p> + <p> + But the further he gets into the reading, the graver his face becomes. At + last, under the stress of painful memories, he turns terribly pale, he + gets up and goes on reading as he stands. When he has finished he begins + pacing from corner to corner. + </p> + <p> + “How does it end?” I ask him. + </p> + <p> + “How does it end? H’m. . . .” + </p> + <p> + He looks at the room, at me, at himself. . . . He sees his new fashionable + suit, hears the ladies laughing and . . . sinking on a chair, begins + laughing as he laughed on that night. + </p> + <p> + “Wasn’t I right when I told you it was all absurd? My God! I + have had burdens to bear that would have broken an elephant’s back; + the devil knows what I have suffered—no one could have suffered + more, I think, and where are the traces? It’s astonishing. One would + have thought the imprint made on a man by his agonies would have been + everlasting, never to be effaced or eradicated. And yet that imprint wears + out as easily as a pair of cheap boots. There is nothing left, not a + scrap. It’s as though I hadn’t been suffering then, but had + been dancing a mazurka. Everything in the world is transitory, and that + transitoriness is absurd! A wide field for humorists! Tack on a humorous + end, my friend!” + </p> + <p> + “Pyotr Nikolaevitch, are you coming soon?” The impatient + ladies call my hero. + </p> + <p> + “This minute,” answers the “vain and fatuous” man, + setting his tie straight. “It’s absurd and pitiful, my friend, + pitiful and absurd, but what’s to be done? <i>Homo sum</i>. . . . + And I praise Mother Nature all the same for her transmutation of + substances. If we retained an agonising memory of toothache and of all the + terrors which every one of us has had to experience, if all that were + everlasting, we poor mortals would have a bad time of it in this life.” + </p> + <p> + I look at his smiling face and I remember the despair and the horror with + which his eyes were filled a year ago when he looked at the dark window. I + see him, entering into his habitual rôle of intellectual chatterer, + prepare to show off his idle theories, such as the transmutation of + substances before me, and at the same time I recall him sitting on the + floor in a pool of blood with his sick imploring eyes. + </p> + <p> + “How will it end?” I ask myself aloud. + </p> + <p> + Vassilyev, whistling and straightening his tie, walks off into the + drawing-room, and I look after him, and feel vexed. For some reason I + regret his past sufferings, I regret all that I felt myself on that man’s + account on that terrible night. It is as though I had lost something. . . + . + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MARI D’ELLE + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>T was a free + night. Natalya Andreyevna Bronin (her married name was Nikitin), the opera + singer, is lying in her bedroom, her whole being abandoned to repose. She + lies, deliciously drowsy, thinking of her little daughter who lives + somewhere far away with her grandmother or aunt. . . . The child is more + precious to her than the public, bouquets, notices in the papers, adorers + . . . and she would be glad to think about her till morning. She is happy, + at peace, and all she longs for is not to be prevented from lying + undisturbed, dozing and dreaming of her little girl. + </p> + <p> + All at once the singer starts, and opens her eyes wide: there is a harsh + abrupt ring in the entry. Before ten seconds have passed the bell tinkles + a second time and a third time. The door is opened noisily and some one + walks into the entry stamping his feet like a horse, snorting and puffing + with the cold. + </p> + <p> + “Damn it all, nowhere to hang one’s coat!” the singer + hears a husky bass voice. “Celebrated singer, look at that! Makes + five thousand a year, and can’t get a decent hat-stand!” + </p> + <p> + “My husband!” thinks the singer, frowning. “And I + believe he has brought one of his friends to stay the night too. . . . + Hateful!” + </p> + <p> + No more peace. When the loud noise of some one blowing his nose and + putting off his goloshes dies away, the singer hears cautious footsteps in + her bedroom. . . . It is her husband, <i>mari d’elle</i>, Denis + Petrovitch Nikitin. He brings a whiff of cold air and a smell of brandy. + For a long while he walks about the bedroom, breathing heavily, and, + stumbling against the chairs in the dark, seems to be looking for + something. . . . + </p> + <p> + “What do you want?” his wife moans, when she is sick of his + fussing about. “You have woken me.” + </p> + <p> + “I am looking for the matches, my love. You . . . you are not asleep + then? I have brought you a message. . . . Greetings from that . . . what’s-his-name? + . . . red-headed fellow who is always sending you bouquets. . . . + Zagvozdkin. . . . I have just been to see him.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you go to him for?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, nothing particular. . . . We sat and talked and had a drink. + Say what you like, Nathalie, I dislike that individual—I dislike him + awfully! He is a rare blockhead. He is a wealthy man, a capitalist; he has + six hundred thousand, and you would never guess it. Money is no more use + to him than a radish to a dog. He does not eat it himself nor give it to + others. Money ought to circulate, but he keeps tight hold of it, is afraid + to part with it. . . . What’s the good of capital lying idle? + Capital lying idle is no better than grass.” + </p> + <p> + <i>Mari d’elle</i> gropes his way to the edge of the bed and, + puffing, sits down at his wife’s feet. + </p> + <p> + “Capital lying idle is pernicious,” he goes on. “Why has + business gone downhill in Russia? Because there is so much capital lying + idle among us; they are afraid to invest it. It’s very different in + England. . . . There are no such queer fish as Zagvozdkin in England, my + girl. . . . There every farthing is in circulation . . . . Yes. . . . They + don’t keep it locked up in chests there . . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that’s all right. I am sleepy.” + </p> + <p> + “Directly. . . . Whatever was it I was talking about? Yes. . . . In + these hard times hanging is too good for Zagvozdkin. . . . He is a fool + and a scoundrel. . . . No better than a fool. If I asked him for a loan + without security—why, a child could see that he runs no risk + whatever. He doesn’t understand, the ass! For ten thousand he would + have got a hundred. In a year he would have another hundred thousand. I + asked, I talked . . . but he wouldn’t give it me, the blockhead.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope you did not ask him for a loan in my name.” + </p> + <p> + “H’m. . . . A queer question. . . .” <i>Mari d’elle</i> + is offended. “Anyway he would sooner give me ten thousand than you. + You are a woman, and I am a man anyway, a business-like person. And what a + scheme I propose to him! Not a bubble, not some chimera, but a sound + thing, substantial! If one could hit on a man who would understand, one + might get twenty thousand for the idea alone! Even you would understand if + I were to tell you about it. Only you . . . don’t chatter about it . + . . not a word . . . but I fancy I have talked to you about it already. + Have I talked to you about sausage-skins?” + </p> + <p> + “M’m . . . by and by.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe I have. . . . Do you see the point of it? Now the + provision shops and the sausage-makers get their sausage-skins locally, + and pay a high price for them. Well, but if one were to bring + sausage-skins from the Caucasus where they are worth nothing, and where + they are thrown away, then . . . where do you suppose the sausage-makers + would buy their skins, here in the slaughterhouses or from me? From me, of + course! Why, I shall sell them ten times as cheap! Now let us look at it + like this: every year in Petersburg and Moscow and in other centres these + same skins would be bought to the . . . to the sum of five hundred + thousand, let us suppose. That’s the minimum. Well, and if. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “You can tell me to-morrow . . . later on. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that’s true. You are sleepy, <i>pardon</i>, I am just + going . . . say what you like, but with capital you can do good business + everywhere, wherever you go. . . . With capital even out of cigarette ends + one may make a million. . . . Take your theatrical business now. Why, for + example, did Lentovsky come to grief? It’s very simple. He did not + go the right way to work from the very first. He had no capital and he + went headlong to the dogs. . . . He ought first to have secured his + capital, and then to have gone slowly and cautiously . . . . Nowadays, one + can easily make money by a theatre, whether it is a private one or a + people’s one. . . . If one produces the right plays, charges a low + price for admission, and hits the public fancy, one may put a hundred + thousand in one’s pocket the first year. . . . You don’t + understand, but I am talking sense. . . . You see you are fond of hoarding + capital; you are no better than that fool Zagvozdkin, you heap it up and + don’t know what for. . . . You won’t listen, you don’t + want to. . . . If you were to put it into circulation, you wouldn’t + have to be rushing all over the place . . . . You see for a private + theatre, five thousand would be enough for a beginning. . . . Not like + Lentovsky, of course, but on a modest scale in a small way. I have got a + manager already, I have looked at a suitable building. . . . It’s + only the money I haven’t got. . . . If only you understood things + you would have parted with your Five per cents . . . your Preference + shares. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “No, <i>merci</i>. . . . You have fleeced me enough already. . . . + Let me alone, I have been punished already. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “If you are going to argue like a woman, then of course . . .” + sighs Nikitin, getting up. “Of course. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Let me alone. . . . Come, go away and don’t keep me awake. . + . . I am sick of listening to your nonsense.” + </p> + <p> + “H’m. . . . To be sure . . . of course! Fleeced. . . + plundered. . . . What we give we remember, but we don’t remember + what we take.” + </p> + <p> + “I have never taken anything from you.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that so? But when we weren’t a celebrated singer, at whose + expense did we live then? And who, allow me to ask, lifted you out of + beggary and secured your happiness? Don’t you remember that?” + </p> + <p> + “Come, go to bed. Go along and sleep it off.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to say you think I am drunk? . . . if I am so low in + the eyes of such a grand lady. . . I can go away altogether.” + </p> + <p> + “Do. A good thing too.” + </p> + <p> + “I will, too. I have humbled myself enough. And I will go.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my God! Oh, do go, then! I shall be delighted!” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, we shall see.” + </p> + <p> + Nikitin mutters something to himself, and, stumbling over the chairs, goes + out of the bedroom. Then sounds reach her from the entry of whispering, + the shuffling of goloshes and a door being shut. <i>Mari d’elle</i> + has taken offence in earnest and gone out. + </p> + <p> + “Thank God, he has gone!” thinks the singer. “Now I can + sleep.” + </p> + <p> + And as she falls asleep she thinks of her <i>mari d’elle</i>, “what + sort of a man he is, and how this affliction has come upon her. At one + time he used to live at Tchernigov, and had a situation there as a + book-keeper. As an ordinary obscure individual and not the <i>mari d’elle</i>, + he had been quite endurable: he used to go to his work and take his + salary, and all his whims and projects went no further than a new guitar, + fashionable trousers, and an amber cigarette-holder. Since he had become + “the husband of a celebrity” he was completely transformed. + The singer remembered that when first she told him she was going on the + stage he had made a fuss, been indignant, complained to her parents, + turned her out of the house. She had been obliged to go on the stage + without his permission. Afterwards, when he learned from the papers and + from various people that she was earning big sums, he had ‘forgiven + her,’ abandoned book-keeping, and become her hanger-on. The singer + was overcome with amazement when she looked at her hanger-on: when and + where had he managed to pick up new tastes, polish, and airs and graces? + Where had he learned the taste of oysters and of different Burgundies? Who + had taught him to dress and do his hair in the fashion and call her + ‘Nathalie’ instead of Natasha?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s strange,” thinks the singer. “In old days he + used to get his salary and put it away, but now a hundred roubles a day is + not enough for him. In old days he was afraid to talk before schoolboys + for fear of saying something silly, and now he is overfamiliar even with + princes . . . wretched, contemptible little creature!” + </p> + <p> + But then the singer starts again; again there is the clang of the bell in + the entry. The housemaid, scolding and angrily flopping with her slippers, + goes to open the door. Again some one comes in and stamps like a horse. + </p> + <p> + “He has come back!” thinks the singer. “When shall I be + left in peace? It’s revolting!” She is overcome by fury. + </p> + <p> + “Wait a bit. . . . I’ll teach you to get up these farces! You + shall go away. I’ll make you go away!” + </p> + <p> + The singer leaps up and runs barefoot into the little drawing-room where + her <i>mari</i> usually sleeps. She comes at the moment when he is + undressing, and carefully folding his clothes on a chair. + </p> + <p> + “You went away!” she says, looking at him with bright eyes + full of hatred. “What did you come back for?” + </p> + <p> + Nikitin remains silent, and merely sniffs. + </p> + <p> + “You went away! Kindly take yourself off this very minute! This very + minute! Do you hear?” + </p> + <p> + <i>Mari d’elle</i> coughs and, without looking at his wife, takes + off his braces. + </p> + <p> + “If you don’t go away, you insolent creature, I shall go,” + the singer goes on, stamping her bare foot, and looking at him with + flashing eyes. “I shall go! Do you hear, insolent . . . worthless + wretch, flunkey, out you go!” + </p> + <p> + “You might have some shame before outsiders,” mutters her + husband . . . . + </p> + <p> + The singer looks round and only then sees an unfamiliar countenance that + looks like an actor’s. . . . The countenance, seeing the singer’s + uncovered shoulders and bare feet, shows signs of embarrassment, and looks + ready to sink through the floor. + </p> + <p> + “Let me introduce . . .” mutters Nikitin, “Bezbozhnikov, + a provincial manager.” + </p> + <p> + The singer utters a shriek, and runs off into her bedroom. + </p> + <p> + “There, you see . . .” says <i>mari d’elle</i>, as he + stretches himself on the sofa, “it was all honey just now . . . my + love, my dear, my darling, kisses and embraces . . . but as soon as money + is touched upon, then. . . . As you see . . . money is the great thing. . + . . Good night!” + </p> + <p> + A minute later there is a snore. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A LIVING CHATTEL + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">G</span>ROHOLSKY embraced + Liza, kept kissing one after another all her little fingers with their + bitten pink nails, and laid her on the couch covered with cheap velvet. + Liza crossed one foot over the other, clasped her hands behind her head, + and lay down. + </p> + <p> + Groholsky sat down in a chair beside her and bent over. He was entirely + absorbed in contemplation of her. + </p> + <p> + How pretty she seemed to him, lighted up by the rays of the setting sun! + </p> + <p> + There was a complete view from the window of the setting sun, golden, + lightly flecked with purple. + </p> + <p> + The whole drawing-room, including Liza, was bathed by it with brilliant + light that did not hurt the eyes, and for a little while covered with + gold. + </p> + <p> + Groholsky was lost in admiration. Liza was so incredibly beautiful. It is + true her little kittenish face with its brown eyes, and turn up nose was + fresh, and even piquant, his scanty hair was black as soot and curly, her + little figure was graceful, well proportioned and mobile as the body of an + electric eel, but on the whole. . . . However my taste has nothing to do + with it. Groholsky who was spoilt by women, and who had been in love and + out of love hundreds of times in his life, saw her as a beauty. He loved + her, and blind love finds ideal beauty everywhere. + </p> + <p> + “I say,” he said, looking straight into her eyes, “I + have come to talk to you, my precious. Love cannot bear anything vague or + indefinite. . . . Indefinite relations, you know, I told you yesterday, + Liza . . . we will try to-day to settle the question we raised yesterday. + Come, let us decide together. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “What are we to do?” + </p> + <p> + Liza gave a yawn and scowling, drew her right arm from under her head. + </p> + <p> + “What are we to do?” she repeated hardly audibly after + Groholsky. + </p> + <p> + “Well, yes, what are we to do? Come, decide, wise little head . . . + I love you, and a man in love is not fond of sharing. He is more than an + egoist. It is too much for me to go shares with your husband. I mentally + tear him to pieces, when I remember that he loves you too. In the second + place you love me. . . . Perfect freedom is an essential condition for + love. . . . And are you free? Are you not tortured by the thought that + that man towers for ever over your soul? A man whom you do not love, whom + very likely and quite naturally, you hate. . . . That’s the second + thing. . . . And thirdly. . . . What is the third thing? Oh yes. . . . We + are deceiving him and that . . . is dishonourable. Truth before + everything, Liza. Let us have done with lying!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, what are we to do?” + </p> + <p> + “You can guess. . . . I think it necessary, obligatory, to inform + him of our relations and to leave him, to begin to live in freedom. Both + must be done as quickly as possible. . . . This very evening, for + instance. . . . It’s time to make an end of it. Surely you must be + sick of loving like a thief?” + </p> + <p> + “Tell! tell Vanya?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes!” + </p> + <p> + “That’s impossible! I told you yesterday, Michel, that it is + impossible.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “He will be upset. He’ll make a row, do all sorts of + unpleasant things. . . . Don’t you know what he is like? God forbid! + There’s no need to tell him. What an idea!” + </p> + <p> + Groholsky passed his hand over his brow, and heaved a sigh. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, “he will be more than upset. I am + robbing him of his happiness. Does he love you?” + </p> + <p> + “He does love me. Very much.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s another complication! One does not know where to + begin. To conceal it from him is base, telling him would kill him. . . . + Goodness knows what’s one to do. Well, how is it to be?” + </p> + <p> + Groholsky pondered. His pale face wore a frown. + </p> + <p> + “Let us go on always as we are now,” said Liza. “Let him + find out for himself, if he wants to.” + </p> + <p> + “But you know that . . . is sinful, and besides the fact is you are + mine, and no one has the right to think that you do not belong to me but + to someone else! You are mine! I will not give way to anyone! . . . I am + sorry for him—God knows how sorry I am for him, Liza! It hurts me to + see him! But . . . it can’t be helped after all. You don’t + love him, do you? What’s the good of your going on being miserable + with him? We must have it out! We will have it out with him, and you will + come to me. You are my wife, and not his. Let him do what he likes. He’ll + get over his troubles somehow. . . . He is not the first, and he won’t + be the last. . . . Will you run away? Eh? Make haste and tell me! Will you + run away?” + </p> + <p> + Liza got up and looked inquiringly at Groholsky. + </p> + <p> + “Run away?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. . . . To my estate. . . . Then to the Crimea. . . . We will + tell him by letter. . . . We can go at night. There is a train at half + past one. Well? Is that all right?” + </p> + <p> + Liza scratched the bridge of her nose, and hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” she said, and burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + Patches of red came out of her cheeks, her eyes swelled, and tears flowed + down her kittenish face. . . . + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” cried Groholsky in a flutter. “Liza! what’s + the matter? Come! what are you crying for? What a girl! Come, what is it? + Darling! Little woman!” + </p> + <p> + Liza held out her hands to Groholsky, and hung on his neck. There was a + sound of sobbing. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry for him . . .” muttered Liza. “Oh, I am so + sorry for him!” + </p> + <p> + “Sorry for whom?” + </p> + <p> + “Va—Vanya. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “And do you suppose I’m not? But what’s to be done? We + are causing him suffering. . . . He will be unhappy, will curse us . . . + but is it our fault that we love one another?” + </p> + <p> + As he uttered the last word, Groholsky darted away from Liza as though he + had been stung and sat down in an easy chair. Liza sprang away from his + neck and rapidly—in one instant—dropped on the lounge. + </p> + <p> + They both turned fearfully red, dropped their eyes, and coughed. + </p> + <p> + A tall, broad-shouldered man of thirty, in the uniform of a government + clerk, had walked into the drawing-room. He had walked in unnoticed. Only + the bang of a chair which he knocked in the doorway had warned the lovers + of his presence, and made them look round. It was the husband. + </p> + <p> + They had looked round too late. + </p> + <p> + He had seen Groholsky’s arm round Liza’s waist, and had seen + Liza hanging on Groholsky’s white and aristocratic neck. + </p> + <p> + “He saw us!” Liza and Groholsky thought at the same moment, + while they did not know what to do with their heavy hands and embarrassed + eyes. . . . + </p> + <p> + The petrified husband, rosy-faced, turned white. + </p> + <p> + An agonising, strange, soul-revolting silence lasted for three minutes. + Oh, those three minutes! Groholsky remembers them to this day. + </p> + <p> + The first to move and break the silence was the husband. He stepped up to + Groholsky and, screwing his face into a senseless grimace like a smile, + gave him his hand. Groholsky shook the soft perspiring hand and shuddered + all over as though he had crushed a cold frog in his fist. + </p> + <p> + “Good evening,” he muttered. + </p> + <p> + “How are you?” the husband brought out in a faint husky, + almost inaudible voice, and he sat down opposite Groholsky, straightening + his collar at the back of his neck. + </p> + <p> + Again, an agonising silence followed . . . but that silence was no longer + so stupid. . . . The first step, most difficult and colourless, was over. + </p> + <p> + All that was left now was for one of the two to depart in search of + matches or on some such trifling errand. Both longed intensely to get + away. They sat still, not looking at one another, and pulled at their + beards while they ransacked their troubled brains for some means of escape + from their horribly awkward position. Both were perspiring. Both were + unbearably miserable and both were devoured by hatred. They longed to + begin the tussle but how were they to begin and which was to begin first? + If only she would have gone out! + </p> + <p> + “I saw you yesterday at the Assembly Hall,” muttered Bugrov + (that was the husband’s name). + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I was there . . . the ball . . . did you dance?” + </p> + <p> + “M’m . . . yes . . . with that . . . with the younger + Lyukovtsky . . . . She dances heavily. . . . She dances impossibly. She is + a great chatterbox.” (Pause.) “She is never tired of talking.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. . . . It was slow. I saw you too. . .” + </p> + <p> + Groholsky accidentally glanced at Bugrov. . . . He caught the shifting + eyes of the deceived husband and could not bear it. He got up quickly, + quickly seized Bugrov’s hand, shook it, picked up his hat, and + walked towards the door, conscious of his own back. He felt as though + thousands of eyes were looking at his back. It is a feeling known to the + actor who has been hissed and is making his exit from the stage, and to + the young dandy who has received a blow on the back of the head and is + being led away in charge of a policeman. + </p> + <p> + As soon as the sound of Groholsky’s steps had died away and the door + in the hall creaked, Bugrov leapt up, and after making two or three rounds + of the drawing-room, strolled up to his wife. The kittenish face puckered + up and began blinking its eyes as though expecting a slap. Her husband + went up to her, and with a pale, distorted face, with arms, head, and + shoulders shaking, stepped on her dress and knocked her knees with his. + </p> + <p> + “If, you wretched creature,” he began in a hollow, wailing + voice, “you let him come here once again, I’ll. . . . Don’t + let him dare to set his foot. . . . I’ll kill you. Do you + understand? A-a-ah . . . worthless creature, you shudder! Fil-thy woman!” + </p> + <p> + Bugrov seized her by the elbow, shook her, and flung her like an + indiarubber ball towards the window. . . . + </p> + <p> + “Wretched, vulgar woman! you have no shame!” + </p> + <p> + She flew towards the window, hardly touching the floor with her feet, and + caught at the curtains with her hands. + </p> + <p> + “Hold your tongue,” shouted her husband, going up to her with + flashing eyes and stamping his foot. + </p> + <p> + She did hold her tongue, she looked at the ceiling, and whimpered while + her face wore the expression of a little girl in disgrace expecting to be + punished. + </p> + <p> + “So that’s what you are like! Eh? Carrying on with a fop! + Good! And your promise before the altar? What are you? A nice wife and + mother. Hold your tongue!” + </p> + <p> + And he struck her on her pretty supple shoulder. “Hold your tongue, + you wretched creature. I’ll give you worse than that! If that + scoundrel dares to show himself here ever again, if I see you—listen!—with + that blackguard ever again, don’t ask for mercy! I’ll kill + you, if I go to Siberia for it! And him too. I shouldn’t think twice + about it! You can go, I don’t want to see you!” + </p> + <p> + Bugrov wiped his eyes and his brow with his sleeve and strode about the + drawing-room, Liza sobbing more and more loudly, twitching her shoulders + and her little turned up nose, became absorbed in examining the lace on + the curtain. + </p> + <p> + “You are crazy,” her husband shouted. “Your silly head + is full of nonsense! Nothing but whims! I won’t allow it, Elizaveta, + my girl! You had better be careful with me! I don’t like it! If you + want to behave like a pig, then . . . then out you go, there is no place + in my house for you! Out you pack if. . . . You are a wife, so you must + forget these dandies, put them out of your silly head! It’s all + foolishness! Don’t let it happen again! You try defending yourself! + Love your husband! You have been given to your husband, so you must love + him. Yes, indeed! Is one not enough? Go away till . . . . Torturers!” + </p> + <p> + Bugrov paused; then shouted: + </p> + <p> + “Go away I tell you, go to the nursery! Why are you blubbering, it + is your own fault, and you blubber! What a woman! Last year you were after + Petka Totchkov, now you are after this devil. Lord forgive us! . . . Tfoo, + it’s time you understood what you are! A wife! A mother! Last year + there were unpleasantnesses, and now there will be unpleasantnesses. . . . + Tfoo!” + </p> + <p> + Bugrov heaved a loud sigh, and the air was filled with the smell of + sherry. He had come back from dining and was slightly drunk . . . . + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you know your duty? No! . . . you must be taught, you’ve + not been taught so far! Your mamma was a gad-about, and you . . . you can + blubber. Yes! blubber away. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Bugrov went up to his wife and drew the curtain out of her hands. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t stand by the window, people will see you blubbering. . + . . Don’t let it happen again. You’ll go from embracing to + worse trouble. You’ll come to grief. Do you suppose I like to be + made a fool of? And you will make a fool of me if you carry on with them, + the low brutes. . . . Come, that’s enough. . . . Don’t you. . + . . Another time. . . . Of course I . . Liza . . . stay. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Bugrov heaved a sigh and enveloped Liza in the fumes of sherry. + </p> + <p> + “You are young and silly, you don’t understand anything. . . . + I am never at home. . . . And they take advantage of it. You must be + sensible, prudent. They will deceive you. And then I won’t endure + it. . . . Then I may do anything. . . . Of course! Then you can just lie + down, and die. I . . . I am capable of doing anything if you deceive me, + my good girl. I might beat you to death. . . . And . . . I shall turn you + out of the house, and then you can go to your rascals.” + </p> + <p> + And Bugrov (<i>horribile dictu</i>) wiped the wet, tearful face of the + traitress Liza with his big soft hand. He treated his twenty-year-old wife + as though she were a child. + </p> + <p> + “Come, that’s enough. . . . I forgive you. Only God forbid it + should happen again! I forgive you for the fifth time, but I shall not + forgive you for the sixth, as God is holy. God does not forgive such as + you for such things.” + </p> + <p> + Bugrov bent down and put out his shining lips towards Liza’s little + head. But the kiss did not follow. The doors of the hall, of the + dining-room, of the parlour, and of the drawing-room all slammed, and + Groholsky flew into the drawing-room like a whirlwind. He was pale and + trembling. He was flourishing his arms and crushing his expensive hat in + his hands. His coat fluttered upon him as though it were on a peg. He was + the incarnation of acute fever. When Bugrov saw him he moved away from his + wife and began looking out of the other window. Groholsky flew up to him, + and waving his arms and breathing heavily and looking at no one, he began + in a shaking voice: + </p> + <p> + “Ivan Petrovitch! Let us leave off keeping up this farce with one + another! We have deceived each other long enough! It’s too much! I + cannot stand it. You must do as you like, but I cannot! It’s hateful + and mean, it’s revolting! Do you understand that it is revolting?” + </p> + <p> + Groholsky spluttered and gasped for breath. + </p> + <p> + “It’s against my principles. And you are an honest man. I love + her! I love her more than anything on earth! You have noticed it and . . . + it’s my duty to say this!” + </p> + <p> + “What am I to say to him?” Ivan Petrovitch wondered. + </p> + <p> + “We must make an end of it. This farce cannot drag on much longer! + It must be settled somehow.” + </p> + <p> + Groholsky drew a breath and went on: + </p> + <p> + “I cannot live without her; she feels the same. You are an educated + man, you will understand that in such circumstances your family life is + impossible. This woman is not yours, so . . . in short, I beg you to look + at the matter from an indulgent humane point of view. . . . Ivan + Petrovitch, you must understand at last that I love her—love her + more than myself, more than anything in the world, and to struggle against + that love is beyond my power!” + </p> + <p> + “And she?” Bugrov asked in a sullen, somewhat ironical tone. + </p> + <p> + “Ask her; come now, ask her! For her to live with a man she does not + love, to live with you is . . . is a misery!” + </p> + <p> + “And she?” Bugrov repeated, this time not in an ironical tone. + </p> + <p> + “She . . . she loves me! We love each other, Ivan Petrovitch! Kill + us, despise us, pursue us, do as you will, but we can no longer conceal it + from you. We are standing face to face—you may judge us with all the + severity of a man whom we . . . whom fate has robbed of happiness!” + </p> + <p> + Bugrov turned as red as a boiled crab, and looked out of one eye at Liza. + He began blinking. His fingers, his lips, and his eyelids twitched. Poor + fellow! The eyes of his weeping wife told him that Groholsky was right, + that it was a serious matter. + </p> + <p> + “Well!” he muttered. “If you. . . . In these days. . . . + You are always. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “As God is above,” Groholsky shrilled in his high tenor, + “we understand you. Do you suppose we have no sense, no feeling? I + know what agonies I am causing you, as God’s above! But be + indulgent, I beseech you! We are not to blame. Love is not a crime. No + will can struggle against it. . . . Give her up to me, Ivan Petrovitch! + Let her go with me! Take from me what you will for your sufferings. Take + my life, but give me Liza. I am ready to do anything. . . . Come, tell me + how I can do something to make up in part at least! To make up for that + lost happiness, I can give you other happiness. I can, Ivan Petrovitch; I + am ready to do anything! It would be base on my part to leave you without + satisfaction. . . . I understand you at this moment.” + </p> + <p> + Bugrov waved his hand as though to say, ‘For God’s sake, go + away.’ His eyes began to be dimmed by a treacherous moisture—in + a moment they would see him crying like a child. + </p> + <p> + “I understand you, Ivan Petrovitch. I will give you another + happiness, such as hitherto you have not known. What would you like? I + have money, my father is an influential man. . . . Will you? Come, how + much do you want?” + </p> + <p> + Bugrov’s heart suddenly began throbbing. . . . He clutched at the + window curtains with both hands. . . . + </p> + <p> + “Will you have fifty thousand? Ivan Petrovitch, I entreat you. . . . + It’s not a bribe, not a bargain. . . . I only want by a sacrifice on + my part to atone a little for your inevitable loss. Would you like a + hundred thousand? I am willing. A hundred thousand?” + </p> + <p> + My God! Two immense hammers began beating on the perspiring temples of the + unhappy Ivan Petrovitch. Russian sledges with tinkling bells began racing + in his ears. . . . + </p> + <p> + “Accept this sacrifice from me,” Groholsky went on, “I + entreat you! You will take a load off my conscience. . . . I implore you!” + </p> + <p> + My God! A smart carriage rolled along the road wet from a May shower, + passed the window through which Bugrov’s wet eyes were looking. The + horses were fine, spirited, well-trained beasts. People in straw hats, + with contented faces, were sitting in the carriage with long fishing-rods + and bags. . . . A schoolboy in a white cap was holding a gun. They were + driving out into the country to catch fish, to shoot, to walk about and + have tea in the open air. They were driving to that region of bliss in + which Bugrov as a boy—the barefoot, sunburnt, but infinitely happy + son of a village deacon—had once raced about the meadows, the woods, + and the river banks. Oh, how fiendishly seductive was that May! How happy + those who can take off their heavy uniforms, get into a carriage and fly + off to the country where the quails are calling and there is the scent of + fresh hay. Bugrov’s heart ached with a sweet thrill that made him + shiver. A hundred thousand! With the carriage there floated before him all + the secret dreams over which he had gloated, through the long years of his + life as a government clerk as he sat in the office of his department or in + his wretched little study. . . . A river, deep, with fish, a wide garden + with narrow avenues, little fountains, shade, flowers, arbours, a + luxurious villa with terraces and turrets with an Aeolian harp and little + silver bells (he had heard of the existence of an Aeolian harp from German + romances); a cloudless blue sky; pure limpid air fragrant with the scents + that recall his hungry, barefoot, crushed childhood. . . . To get up at + five, to go to bed at nine; to spend the day catching fish, talking with + the peasants. . . . What happiness! + </p> + <p> + “Ivan Petrovitch, do not torture me! Will you take a hundred + thousand?” + </p> + <p> + “H’m . . . a hundred and fifty thousand!” muttered + Bugrov in a hollow voice, the voice of a husky bull. He muttered it, and + bowed his head, ashamed of his words, and awaiting the answer. + </p> + <p> + “Good,” said Groholsky, “I agree. I thank you, Ivan + Petrovitch . . . . In a minute. . . . I will not keep you waiting. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Groholsky jumped up, put on his hat, and staggering backwards, ran out of + the drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + Bugrov clutched the window curtains more tightly than ever. . . . He was + ashamed . . . . There was a nasty, stupid feeling in his soul, but, on the + other hand, what fair shining hopes swarmed between his throbbing temples! + He was rich! + </p> + <p> + Liza, who had grasped nothing of what was happening, darted through the + half-opened door trembling all over and afraid that he would come to her + window and fling her away from it. She went into the nursery, laid herself + down on the nurse’s bed, and curled herself up. She was shivering + with fever. + </p> + <p> + Bugrov was left alone. He felt stifled, and he opened the window. What + glorious air breathed fragrance on his face and neck! It would be good to + breathe such air lolling on the cushions of a carriage . . . . Out there, + far beyond the town, among the villages and the summer villas, the air was + sweeter still. . . . Bugrov actually smiled as he dreamed of the air that + would be about him when he would go out on the verandah of his villa and + admire the view. A long while he dreamed. . . . The sun had set, and still + he stood and dreamed, trying his utmost to cast out of his mind the image + of Liza which obstinately pursued him in all his dreams. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“I have brought it, Ivan Petrovitch!” Groholsky, re-entering, +whispered above his ear. “I have brought it—take it. . . . Here +in this roll there are forty thousand. . . . With this cheque will +you kindly get twenty the day after to-morrow from Valentinov? . . . + Here is a bill of exchange . . . a cheque. . . . The remaining +thirty thousand in a day or two. . . . My steward will bring it to +you.” + </pre> + <p> + Groholsky, pink and excited, with all his limbs in motion, laid before + Bugrov a heap of rolls of notes and bundles of papers. The heap was big, + and of all sorts of hues and tints. Never in the course of his life had + Bugrov seen such a heap. He spread out his fat fingers and, not looking at + Groholsky, fell to going through the bundles of notes and bonds. . . . + </p> + <p> + Groholsky spread out all the money, and moved restlessly about the room, + looking for the Dulcinea who had been bought and sold. + </p> + <p> + Filling his pockets and his pocket-book, Bugrov thrust the securities into + the table drawer, and, drinking off half a decanter full of water, dashed + out into the street. + </p> + <p> + “Cab!” he shouted in a frantic voice. + </p> + <p> + At half-past eleven that night he drove up to the entrance of the Paris + Hotel. He went noisily upstairs and knocked at the door of Groholsky’s + apartments. He was admitted. Groholsky was packing his things in a + portmanteau, Liza was sitting at the table trying on bracelets. They were + both frightened when Bugrov went in to them. They fancied that he had come + for Liza and had brought back the money which he had taken in haste + without reflection. But Bugrov had not come for Liza. Ashamed of his new + get-up and feeling frightfully awkward in it, he bowed and stood at the + door in the attitude of a flunkey. The get-up was superb. Bugrov was + unrecognisable. His huge person, which had never hitherto worn anything + but a uniform, was clothed in a fresh, brand-new suit of fine French cloth + and of the most fashionable cut. On his feet spats shone with sparkling + buckles. He stood ashamed of his new get-up, and with his right hand + covered the watch-chain for which he had, an hour before, paid three + hundred roubles. + </p> + <p> + “I have come about something,” he began. “A business + agreement is beyond price. I am not going to give up Mishutka. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “What Mishutka?” asked Groholsky. + </p> + <p> + “My son.” + </p> + <p> + Groholsky and Liza looked at each other. Liza’s eyes bulged, her + cheeks flushed, and her lips twitched. . . . + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” she said. + </p> + <p> + She thought of Mishutka’s warm little cot. It would be cruel to + exchange that warm little cot for a chilly sofa in the hotel, and she + consented. + </p> + <p> + “I shall see him,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Bugrov bowed, walked out, and flew down the stairs in his splendour, + cleaving the air with his expensive cane. . . . + </p> + <p> + “Home,” he said to the cabman. “I am starting at five o’clock + to-morrow morning. . . . You will come; if I am asleep, you will wake me. + We are driving out of town.” + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + It was a lovely August evening. The sun, set in a golden background + lightly flecked with purple, stood above the western horizon on the point + of sinking behind the far-away tumuli. In the garden, shadows and + half-shadows had vanished, and the air had grown damp, but the golden + light was still playing on the tree-tops. . . . It was warm. . . . Rain + had just fallen, and made the fresh, transparent fragrant air still + fresher. + </p> + <p> + I am not describing the August of Petersburg or Moscow, foggy, tearful, + and dark, with its cold, incredibly damp sunsets. God forbid! I am not + describing our cruel northern August. I ask the reader to move with me to + the Crimea, to one of its shores, not far from Feodosia, the spot where + stands the villa of one of our heroes. It is a pretty, neat villa + surrounded by flower-beds and clipped bushes. A hundred paces behind it is + an orchard in which its inmates walk. . . . Groholsky pays a high rent for + that villa, a thousand roubles a year, I believe. . . . The villa is not + worth that rent, but it is pretty. . . . Tall, with delicate walls and + very delicate parapets, fragile, slender, painted a pale blue colour, hung + with curtains, <i>portières</i>, draperies, it suggests a charming, + fragile Chinese lady. . . . + </p> + <p> + On the evening described above, Groholsky and Liza were sitting on the + verandah of this villa. Groholsky was reading <i>Novoye Vremya</i> and + drinking milk out of a green mug. A syphon of Seltzer water was standing + on the table before him. Groholsky imagined that he was suffering from + catarrh of the lungs, and by the advice of Dr. Dmitriev consumed an + immense quantity of grapes, milk, and Seltzer water. Liza was sitting in a + soft easy chair some distance from the table. With her elbows on the + parapet, and her little face propped on her little fists, she was gazing + at the villa opposite. . . . The sun was playing upon the windows of the + villa opposite, the glittering panes reflected the dazzling light. . . . + Beyond the little garden and the few trees that surrounded the villa there + was a glimpse of the sea with its waves, its dark blue colour, its + immensity, its white masts. . . . It was so delightful! Groholsky was + reading an article by Anonymous, and after every dozen lines he raised his + blue eyes to Liza’s back. . . . The same passionate, fervent love + was shining in those eyes still. . . . He was infinitely happy in spite of + his imaginary catarrh of the lungs. . . . Liza was conscious of his eyes + upon her back, and was thinking of Mishutka’s brilliant future, and + she felt so comfortable, so serene . . . . + </p> + <p> + She was not so much interested by the sea, and the glittering reflection + on the windows of the villa opposite as by the waggons which were trailing + up to that villa one after another. + </p> + <p> + The waggons were full of furniture and all sorts of domestic articles. + Liza watched the trellis gates and big glass doors of the villa being + opened and the men bustling about the furniture and wrangling incessantly. + Big armchairs and a sofa covered with dark raspberry coloured velvet, + tables for the hall, the drawing-room and the dining-room, a big double + bed and a child’s cot were carried in by the glass doors; something + big, wrapped up in sacking, was carried in too. A grand piano, thought + Liza, and her heart throbbed. + </p> + <p> + It was long since she had heard the piano, and she was so fond of it. They + had not a single musical instrument in their villa. Groholsky and she were + musicians only in soul, no more. There were a great many boxes and + packages with the words: “with care” upon them carried in + after the piano. + </p> + <p> + They were boxes of looking-glasses and crockery. A gorgeous and luxurious + carriage was dragged in, at the gate, and two white horses were led in + looking like swans. + </p> + <p> + “My goodness, what riches!” thought Liza, remembering her old + pony which Groholsky, who did not care for riding, had bought her for a + hundred roubles. Compared with those swan-like steeds, her pony seemed to + her no better than a bug. Groholsky, who was afraid of riding fast, had + purposely bought Liza a poor horse. + </p> + <p> + “What wealth!” Liza thought and murmured as she gazed at the + noisy carriers. + </p> + <p> + The sun hid behind the tumuli, the air began to lose its dryness and + limpidity, and still the furniture was being driven up and hauled into the + house. At last it was so dark that Groholsky left off reading the + newspaper while Liza still gazed and gazed. + </p> + <p> + “Shouldn’t we light the lamp?” said Groholsky, afraid + that a fly might drop into his milk and be swallowed in the darkness. + </p> + <p> + “Liza! shouldn’t we light the lamp? Shall we sit in darkness, + my angel?” + </p> + <p> + Liza did not answer. She was interested in a chaise which had driven up to + the villa opposite. . . . What a charming little mare was in that chaise. + Of medium size, not large, but graceful. . . . A gentleman in a top hat + was sitting in the chaise, a child about three, apparently a boy, was + sitting on his knees waving his little hands. . . . He was waving his + little hands and shouting with delight. + </p> + <p> + Liza suddenly uttered a shriek, rose from her seat and lurched forward. + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter?” asked Groholsky. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. . . I only . . . I fancied. . . .” + </p> + <p> + The tall, broad-shouldered gentleman in the top hat jumped out of the + chaise, lifted the boy down, and with a skip and a hop ran gaily in at the + glass door. The door opened noisily and he vanished into the darkness of + the villa apartments. + </p> + <p> + Two smart footmen ran up to the horse in the chaise, and most respectfully + led it to the gate. Soon the villa opposite was lighted up, and the + clatter of plates, knives, and forks was audible. The gentleman in the top + hat was having his supper, and judging by the duration of the clatter of + crockery, his supper lasted long. Liza fancied she could smell chicken + soup and roast duck. After supper discordant sounds of the piano floated + across from the villa. In all probability the gentleman in the top hat was + trying to amuse the child in some way, and allowing it to strum on it. + </p> + <p> + Groholsky went up to Liza and put his arm round her waist. + </p> + <p> + “What wonderful weather!” he said. “What air! Do you + feel it? I am very happy, Liza, very happy indeed. My happiness is so + great that I am really afraid of its destruction. The greatest things are + usually destroyed, and do you know, Liza, in spite of all my happiness, I + am not absolutely . . . at peace. . . . One haunting thought torments me . + . . it torments me horribly. It gives me no peace by day or by night. . . + .” + </p> + <p> + “What thought?” + </p> + <p> + “An awful thought, my love. I am tortured by the thought of your + husband. I have been silent hitherto. I have feared to trouble your inner + peace, but I cannot go on being silent. Where is he? What has happened to + him? What has become of him with his money? It is awful! Every night I see + his face, exhausted, suffering, imploring. . . . Why, only think, my angel—can + the money he so generously accepted make up to him for you? He loved you + very much, didn’t he?” + </p> + <p> + “Very much!” + </p> + <p> + “There you see! He has either taken to drink now, or . . . I am + anxious about him! Ah, how anxious I am! Should we write to him, do you + think? We ought to comfort him . . . a kind word, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Groholsky heaved a deep sigh, shook his head, and sank into an easy chair + exhausted by painful reflection. Leaning his head on his fists he fell to + musing. Judging from his face, his musings were painful. + </p> + <p> + “I am going to bed,” said Liza; “it’s time.” + </p> + <p> + Liza went to her own room, undressed, and dived under the bedclothes. She + used to go to bed at ten o’clock and get up at ten. She was fond of + her comfort. + </p> + <p> + She was soon in the arms of Morpheus. Throughout the whole night she had + the most fascinating dreams. . . . She dreamed whole romances, novels, + Arabian Nights. . . . The hero of all these dreams was the gentleman in + the top hat, who had caused her to utter a shriek that evening. + </p> + <p> + The gentleman in the top hat was carrying her off from Groholsky, was + singing, was beating Groholsky and her, was flogging the boy under the + window, was declaring his love, and driving her off in the chaise. . . . + Oh, dreams! In one night, lying with one’s eyes shut, one may + sometimes live through more than ten years of happiness . . . . That night + Liza lived through a great variety of experiences, and very happy ones, + even in spite of the beating. + </p> + <p> + Waking up between six and seven, she flung on her clothes, hurriedly did + her hair, and without even putting on her Tatar slippers with pointed + toes, ran impulsively on to the verandah. Shading her eyes from the sun + with one hand, and with the other holding up her slipping clothes, she + gazed at the villa opposite. Her face beamed . . . . There could be no + further doubt it was he. + </p> + <p> + On the verandah in the villa opposite there was a table in front of the + glass door. A tea service was shining and glistening on the table with a + silver samovar at the head. Ivan Petrovitch was sitting at the table. He + had in his hand a glass in a silver holder, and was drinking tea. He was + drinking it with great relish. That fact could be deduced from the + smacking of his lips, the sound of which reached Liza’s ears. He was + wearing a brown dressing-gown with black flowers on it. Massive tassels + fell down to the ground. It was the first time in her life Liza had seen + her husband in a dressing-gown, and such an expensive-looking one. + </p> + <p> + Mishutka was sitting on one of his knees, and hindering him from drinking + his tea. The child jumped up and down and tried to clutch his papa’s + shining lip. After every three or four sips the father bent down to his + son and kissed him on the head. A grey cat with its tail in the air was + rubbing itself against one of the table legs, and with a plaintive mew + proclaiming its desire for food. Liza hid behind the verandah curtain, and + fastened her eyes upon the members of her former family; her face was + radiant with joy. + </p> + <p> + “Misha!” she murmured, “Misha! Are you really here, + Misha? The darling! And how he loves Vanya! Heavens!” + </p> + <p> + And Liza went off into a giggle when Mishutka stirred his father’s + tea with a spoon. “And how Vanya loves Misha! My darlings!” + </p> + <p> + Liza’s heart throbbed, and her head went round with joy and + happiness. She sank into an armchair and went on observing them, sitting + down. + </p> + <p> + “How did they come here?” she wondered as she sent airy kisses + to Mishutka. “Who gave them the idea of coming here? Heavens! Can + all that wealth belong to them? Can those swan-like horses that were led + in at the gate belong to Ivan Petrovitch? Ah!” + </p> + <p> + When he had finished his tea, Ivan Petrovitch went into the house. Ten + minutes later, he appeared on the steps and Liza was astounded . . . . He, + who in his youth only seven years ago had been called Vanushka and Vanka + and had been ready to punch a man in the face and turn the house upside + down over twenty kopecks, was dressed devilishly well. He had on a + broad-brimmed straw hat, exquisite brilliant boots, a piqué waistcoat. . . + . Thousands of suns, big and little, glistened on his watch-chain. With + much <i>chic</i> he held in his right hand his gloves and cane. + </p> + <p> + And what swagger, what style there was in his heavy figure when, with a + graceful motion of his hand, he bade the footman bring the horse round. + </p> + <p> + He got into the chaise with dignity, and told the footmen standing round + the chaise to give him Mishutka and the fishing tackle they had brought. + Setting Mishutka beside him, and putting his left arm round him, he held + the reins and drove off. + </p> + <p> + “Ge-ee up!” shouted Mishutka. + </p> + <p> + Liza, unaware of what she was doing, waved her handkerchief after them. If + she had looked in the glass she would have been surprised at her flushed, + laughing, and, at the same time, tear-stained face. She was vexed that she + was not beside her gleeful boy, and that she could not for some reason + shower kisses on him at once. + </p> + <p> + For some reason! . . . Away with all your petty delicacies! + </p> + <p> + “Grisha! Grisha!” Liza ran into Groholsky’s bedroom and + set to work to wake him. “Get up, they have come! The darling!” + </p> + <p> + “Who has come?” asked Groholsky, waking up. + </p> + <p> + “Our people . . . Vanya and Misha, they have come, they are in the + villa opposite. . . . I looked out, and there they were drinking tea. . . + . And Misha too. . . . What a little angel our Misha has grown! If only + you had seen him! Mother of God!” + </p> + <p> + “Seen whom? Why, you are. . . . Who has come? Come where?” + </p> + <p> + “Vanya and Misha. . . . I have been looking at the villa opposite, + while they were sitting drinking tea. Misha can drink his tea by himself + now. . . . Didn’t you see them moving in yesterday, it was they who + arrived!” + </p> + <p> + Groholsky rubbed his forehead and turned pale. + </p> + <p> + “Arrived? Your husband?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What for?” + </p> + <p> + “Most likely he is going to live here. They don’t know we are + here. If they did, they would have looked at our villa, but they drank + their tea and took no notice.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is he now? But for God’s sake do talk sense! Oh, where + is he?” + </p> + <p> + “He has gone fishing with Misha in the chaise. Did you see the + horses yesterday? Those are their horses . . . Vanya’s . . . Vanya + drives with them. Do you know what, Grisha? We will have Misha to stay + with us. . . . We will, won’t we? He is such a pretty boy. Such an + exquisite boy!” + </p> + <p> + Groholsky pondered, while Liza went on talking and talking. + </p> + <p> + “This is an unexpected meeting,” said Groholsky, after + prolonged and, as usual, harrassing reflection. “Well, who could + have expected that we should meet here? Well. . . There it is. . . . So be + it. It seems that it is fated. I can imagine the awkwardness of his + position when he meets us.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall we have Misha to stay with us?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, we will. . . . It will be awkward meeting him. . . . Why, what + can I say to him? What can I talk of? It will be awkward for him and + awkward for me. . . . We ought not to meet. We will carry on + communications, if necessary, through the servants. . . . My head does + ache so, Lizotchka. My arms and legs too, I ache all over. Is my head + feverish?” + </p> + <p> + Liza put her hand on his forehead and found that his head was hot. + </p> + <p> + “I had dreadful dreams all night . . . I shan’t get up to-day. + I shall stay in bed . . . I must take some quinine. Send me my breakfast + here, little woman.” + </p> + <p> + Groholsky took quinine and lay in bed the whole day. He drank warm water, + moaned, had the sheets and pillowcase changed, whimpered, and induced an + agonising boredom in all surrounding him. + </p> + <p> + He was insupportable when he imagined he had caught a chill. Liza had + continually to interrupt her inquisitive observations and run from the + verandah to his room. At dinner-time she had to put on mustard plasters. + How boring all this would have been, O reader, if the villa opposite had + not been at the service of my heroine! Liza watched that villa all day + long and was gasping with happiness. + </p> + <p> + At ten o’clock Ivan Petrovitch and Mishutka came back from fishing + and had breakfast. At two o’clock they had dinner, and at four o’clock + they drove off somewhere in a carriage. The white horses bore them away + with the swiftness of lightning. At seven o’clock visitors came to + see them—all of them men. They were playing cards on two tables in + the verandah till midnight. One of the men played superbly on the piano. + The visitors played, ate, drank, and laughed. Ivan Petrovitch guffawing + loudly, told them an anecdote of Armenian life at the top of his voice, so + that all the villas round could hear. It was very gay and Mishutka sat up + with them till midnight. + </p> + <p> + “Misha is merry, he is not crying,” thought Liza, “so he + does not remember his mamma. So he has forgotten me!” + </p> + <p> + And there was a horrible bitter feeling in Liza’s soul. She spent + the whole night crying. She was fretted by her little conscience, and by + vexation and misery, and the desire to talk to Mishutka and kiss him. . . + . In the morning she got up with a headache and tear-stained eyes. Her + tears Groholsky put down to his own account. + </p> + <p> + “Do not weep, darling,” he said to her, “I am all right + to-day, my chest is a little painful, but that is nothing.” + </p> + <p> + While they were having tea, lunch was being served at the villa opposite. + Ivan Petrovitch was looking at his plate, and seeing nothing but a morsel + of goose dripping with fat. + </p> + <p> + “I am very glad,” said Groholsky, looking askance at Bugrov, + “very glad that his life is so tolerable! I hope that decent + surroundings anyway may help to stifle his grief. Keep out of sight, Liza! + They will see you . . . I am not disposed to talk to him just now . . . + God be with him! Why trouble his peace?” + </p> + <p> + But the dinner did not pass off so quietly. During dinner precisely that + “awkward position” which Groholsky so dreaded occurred. Just + when the partridges, Groholsky’s favorite dish, had been put on the + table, Liza was suddenly overcome with confusion, and Groholsky began + wiping his face with his dinner napkin. On the verandah of the villa + opposite they saw Bugrov. He was standing with his arms leaning on the + parapet, and staring straight at them, with his eyes starting out of his + head. + </p> + <p> + “Go in, Liza, go in,” Groholsky whispered. “I said we + must have dinner indoors! What a girl you are, really. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Bugrov stared and stared, and suddenly began shouting. Groholsky looked at + him and saw a face full of astonishment. . . . + </p> + <p> + “Is that you?” bawled Ivan Petrovitch, “you! Are you + here too?” + </p> + <p> + Groholsky passed his fingers from one shoulder to another, as though to + say, “My chest is weak, and so I can’t shout across such a + distance.” Liza’s heart began throbbing, and everything turned + round before her eyes. Bugrov ran from his verandah, ran across the road, + and a few seconds later was standing under the verandah on which Groholsky + and Liza were dining. Alas for the partridges! + </p> + <p> + “How are you?” he began, flushing crimson, and stuffing his + big hands in his pockets. “Are you here? Are you here too?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, we are here too. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “How did you get here?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, how did you?” + </p> + <p> + “I? It’s a long story, a regular romance, my good friend! But + don’t put yourselves out—eat your dinner! I’ve been + living, you know, ever since then . . . in the Oryol province. I rented an + estate. A splendid estate! But do eat your dinner! I stayed there from the + end of May, but now I have given it up. . . . It was cold there, and—well, + the doctor advised me to go to the Crimea. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Are you ill, then?” inquired Groholsky. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well. . . . There always seems, as it were . . . something + gurgling here. . . .” + </p> + <p> + And at the word “here” Ivan Petrovitch passed his open hand + from his neck down to the middle of his stomach. + </p> + <p> + “So you are here too. . . . Yes . . . that’s very pleasant. + Have you been here long?” + </p> + <p> + “Since July.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, and you, Liza, how are you? Quite well?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite well,” answered Liza, and was embarrassed. + </p> + <p> + “You miss Mishutka, I’ll be bound. Eh? Well, he’s here + with me. . . . I’ll send him over to you directly with Nikifor. This + is very nice. Well, good-bye! I have to go off directly. . . . I made the + acquaintance of Prince Ter-Haimazov yesterday; delightful man, though he + is an Armenian. So he has a croquet party to-day; we are going to play + croquet. . . . Good-bye! The carriage is waiting . . . .” + </p> + <p> + Ivan Petrovitch whirled round, tossed his head, and, waving adieu to them, + ran home. + </p> + <p> + “Unhappy man,” said Groholsky, heaving a deep sigh as he + watched him go off. + </p> + <p> + “In what way is he unhappy?” asked Liza. + </p> + <p> + “To see you and not have the right to call you his!” + </p> + <p> + “Fool!” Liza was so bold to think. “Idiot!” + </p> + <p> + Before evening Liza was hugging and kissing Mishutka. At first the boy + howled, but when he was offered jam, he was all friendly smiles. + </p> + <p> + For three days Groholsky and Liza did not see Bugrov. He had disappeared + somewhere, and was only at home at night. On the fourth day he visited + them again at dinner-time. He came in, shook hands with both of them, and + sat down to the table. His face was serious. + </p> + <p> + “I have come to you on business,” he said. “Read this.” + And he handed Groholsky a letter. “Read it! Read it aloud!” + </p> + <p> + Groholsky read as follows: + </p> + <p> + “My beloved and consoling, never-forgotten son Ioann! I have + received the respectful and loving letter in which you invite your aged + father to the mild and salubrious Crimea, to breathe the fragrant air, and + behold strange lands. To that letter I reply that on taking my holiday, I + will come to you, but not for long. My colleague, Father Gerasim, is a + frail and delicate man, and cannot be left alone for long. I am very + sensible of your not forgetting your parents, your father and your mother. + . . . You rejoice your father with your affection, and you remember your + mother in your prayers, and so it is fitting to do. Meet me at Feodosia. + What sort of town is Feodosia—what is it like? It will be very + agreeable to see it. Your godmother, who took you from the font, is called + Feodosia. You write that God has been graciously pleased that you should + win two hundred thousand roubles. That is gratifying to me. But I cannot + approve of your having left the service while still of a grade of little + importance; even a rich man ought to be in the service. I bless you + always, now and hereafter. Ilya and Seryozhka Andronov send you their + greetings. You might send them ten roubles each—they are badly off! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Your loving Father, + + “Pyotr Bugrov, <i>Priest.</i>” + </pre> + <p> + Groholsky read this letter aloud, and he and Liza both looked inquiringly + at Bugrov. + </p> + <p> + “You see what it is,” Ivan Petrovitch began hesitatingly. + “I should like to ask you, Liza, not to let him see you, to keep out + of his sight while he is here. I have written to him that you are ill and + gone to the Caucasus for a cure. If you meet him. . . You see yourself. . + . . It’s awkward. . . H’m. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” said Liza. + </p> + <p> + “We can do that,” thought Groholsky, “since he makes + sacrifices, why shouldn’t we?” + </p> + <p> + “Please do. . . . If he sees you there will be trouble. . . . My + father is a man of strict principles. He would curse me in seven churches. + Don’t go out of doors, Liza, that is all. He won’t be here + long. Don’t be afraid.” + </p> + <p> + Father Pyotr did not long keep them waiting. One fine morning Ivan + Petrovitch ran in and hissed in a mysterious tone: + </p> + <p> + “He has come! He is asleep now, so please be careful.” + </p> + <p> + And Liza was shut up within four walls. She did not venture to go out into + the yard or on to the verandah. She could only see the sky from behind the + window curtain. Unluckily for her, Ivan Petrovitch’s papa spent his + whole time in the open air, and even slept on the verandah. Usually Father + Pyotr, a little parish priest, in a brown cassock and a top hat with a + curly brim, walked slowly round the villas and gazed with curiosity at the + “strange lands” through his grandfatherly spectacles. Ivan + Petrovitch with the Stanislav on a little ribbon accompanied him. He did + not wear a decoration as a rule, but before his own people he liked to + show off. In their society he always wore the Stanislav. + </p> + <p> + Liza was bored to death. Groholsky suffered too. He had to go for his + walks alone without a companion. He almost shed tears, but . . . had to + submit to his fate. And to make things worse, Bugrov would run across + every morning and in a hissing whisper would give some quite unnecessary + bulletin concerning the health of Father Pyotr. He bored them with those + bulletins. + </p> + <p> + “He slept well,” he informed them. “Yesterday he was put + out because I had no salted cucumbers. . . He has taken to Mishutka; he + keeps patting him on the head.” + </p> + <p> + At last, a fortnight later, little Father Pyotr walked for the last time + round the villas and, to Groholsky’s immense relief, departed. He + had enjoyed himself, and went off very well satisfied. Liza and Groholsky + fell back into their old manner of life. Groholsky once more blessed his + fate. But his happiness did not last for long. A new trouble worse than + Father Pyotr followed. Ivan Petrovitch took to coming to see them every + day. Ivan Petrovitch, to be frank, though a capital fellow, was a very + tedious person. He came at dinner-time, dined with them and stayed a very + long time. That would not have mattered. But they had to buy vodka, which + Groholsky could not endure, for his dinner. He would drink five glasses + and talk the whole dinner-time. That, too, would not have mattered. . . . + But he would sit on till two o’clock in the morning, and not let + them get to bed, and, worse still, he permitted himself to talk of things + about which he should have been silent. When towards two o’clock in + the morning he had drunk too much vodka and champagne, he would take + Mishutka in his arms, and weeping, say to him, before Groholsky and Liza: + </p> + <p> + “Mihail, my son, what am I? I . . . am a scoundrel. I have sold your + mother! Sold her for thirty pieces of silver, may the Lord punish me! + Mihail Ivanitch, little sucking pig, where is your mother? Lost! Gone! + Sold into slavery! Well, I am a scoundrel.” + </p> + <p> + These tears and these words turned Groholsky’s soul inside out. He + would look timidly at Liza’s pale face and wring his hands. + </p> + <p> + “Go to bed, Ivan Petrovitch,” he would say timidly. + </p> + <p> + “I am going. . . . Come along, Mishutka. . . . The Lord be our + judge! I cannot think of sleep while I know that my wife is a slave . . . + . But it is not Groholsky’s fault. . . . The goods were mine, the + money his. . . . Freedom for the free and Heaven for the saved.” + </p> + <p> + By day Ivan Petrovitch was no less insufferable to Groholsky. To Groholsky’s + intense horror, he was always at Liza’s side. He went fishing with + her, told her stories, walked with her, and even on one occasion, taking + advantage of Groholsky’s having a cold, carried her off in his + carriage, goodness knows where, and did not bring her back till night! + </p> + <p> + “It’s outrageous, inhuman,” thought Groholsky, biting + his lips. + </p> + <p> + Groholsky liked to be continually kissing Liza. He could not exist without + those honeyed kisses, and it was awkward to kiss her before Ivan + Petrovitch. It was agony. The poor fellow felt forlorn, but fate soon had + compassion on him. Ivan Petrovitch suddenly went off somewhere for a whole + week. Visitors had come and carried him off with them . . . And Mishutka + was taken too. + </p> + <p> + One fine morning Groholsky came home from a walk good-humoured and + beaming. + </p> + <p> + “He has come,” he said to Liza, rubbing his hands. “I am + very glad he has come. Ha-ha-ha!” + </p> + <p> + “What are you laughing at?” + </p> + <p> + “There are women with him.” + </p> + <p> + “What women?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. . . . It’s a good thing he has got women. + . . . A capital thing, in fact. . . . He is still young and fresh. Come + here! Look!” + </p> + <p> + Groholsky led Liza on to the verandah, and pointed to the villa opposite. + They both held their sides, and roared with laughter. It was funny. Ivan + Petrovitch was standing on the verandah of the villa opposite, smiling. + Two dark-haired ladies and Mishutka were standing below, under the + verandah. The ladies were laughing, and loudly talking French. + </p> + <p> + “French women,” observed Groholsky. “The one nearest us + isn’t at all bad-looking. Lively damsels, but that’s no + matter. There are good women to be found even among such. . . . But they + really do go too far.” + </p> + <p> + What was funny was that Ivan Petrovitch bent across the verandah, and + stretching with his long arms, put them round the shoulders of one of the + French girls, lifted her in the air, and set her giggling on the verandah. + After lifting up both ladies on to the verandah, he lifted up Mishutka + too. The ladies ran down and the proceedings were repeated. + </p> + <p> + “Powerful muscles, I must say,” muttered Groholsky looking at + this scene. The operation was repeated some six times, the ladies were so + amiable as to show no embarrassment whatever when the boisterous wind + disposed of their inflated skirts as it willed while they were being + lifted. Groholsky dropped his eyes in a shamefaced way when the ladies + flung their legs over the parapet as they reached the verandah. But Liza + watched and laughed! What did she care? It was not a case of men + misbehaving themselves, which would have put her, as a woman, to shame, + but of ladies. + </p> + <p> + In the evening, Ivan Petrovitch flew over, and with some embarrassment + announced that he was now a man with a household to look after . . . . + </p> + <p> + “You mustn’t imagine they are just anybody,” he said. + “It is true they are French. They shout at the top of their voices, + and drink . . . but we all know! The French are brought up to be like + that! It can’t be helped. . . . The prince,” Ivan Petrovitch + added, “let me have them almost for nothing. . . . He said: ‘take + them, take them. . . .’ I must introduce you to the prince sometime. + A man of culture! He’s for ever writing, writing. . . . And do you + know what their names are? One is Fanny, the other Isabella. . . . There’s + Europe, ha-ha-ha! . . . The west! Good-bye!” + </p> + <p> + Ivan Petrovitch left Liza and Groholsky in peace, and devoted himself to + his ladies. All day long sound of talk, laughter, and the clatter of + crockery came from his villa. . . . The lights were not put out till far + into the night. . . . Groholsky was in bliss. . . . At last, after a + prolonged interval of agony, he felt happy and at peace again. Ivan + Petrovitch with his two ladies had no such happiness as he had with one. + But alas, destiny has no heart. She plays with the Groholskys, the Lizas, + the Ivans, and the Mishutkas as with pawns. . . . Groholsky lost his peace + again. . . . + </p> + <p> + One morning, about ten days afterwards, on waking up late, he went out on + to the verandah and saw a spectacle which shocked him, revolted him, and + moved him to intense indignation. Under the verandah of the villa opposite + stood the French women, and between them Liza. She was talking and looking + askance at her own villa as though to see whether that tyrant, that despot + were awake (so Groholsky interpreted those looks). Ivan Petrovitch + standing on the verandah with his sleeves tucked up, lifted Isabella into + the air, then Fanny, and then Liza. When he was lifting Liza it seemed to + Groholsky that he pressed her to himself. . . . Liza too flung one leg + over the parapet. . . . Oh these women! All sphinxes, every one of them! + </p> + <p> + When Liza returned home from her husband’s villa and went into the + bedroom on tip-toe, as though nothing had happened, Groholsky, pale, with + hectic flushes on his cheeks, was lying in the attitude of a man at his + last gasp and moaning. + </p> + <p> + On seeing Liza, he sprang out of bed, and began pacing about the bedroom. + </p> + <p> + “So that’s what you are like, is it?” he shrieked in a + high tenor. “So that’s it! Very much obliged to you! It’s + revolting, madam! Immoral, in fact! Let me tell you that!” + </p> + <p> + Liza turned pale, and of course burst into tears. When women feel that + they are in the right, they scold and shed tears; when they are conscious + of being in fault, they shed tears only. + </p> + <p> + “On a level with those depraved creatures! It’s . . . it’s + . . . it’s . . . lower than any impropriety! Why, do you know what + they are? They are kept women! Cocottes! And you a respectable woman go + rushing off where they are. . . And he . . . He! What does he want? What + more does he want of me? I don’t understand it! I have given him + half of my property—I have given him more! You know it yourself! I + have given him what I have not myself. . . . I have given him almost all. + . . . And he! I’ve put up with your calling him Vanya, though he has + no right whatever to such intimacy. I have put up with your walks, kisses + after dinner. . . . I have put up with everything, but this I will not put + up with. . . . Either he or I! Let him go away, or I go away! I’m + not equal to living like this any longer, no! You can see that for + yourself! . . . Either he or I. . . . Enough! The cup is brimming over. . + . . I have suffered a great deal as it is. . . . I am going to talk to him + at once—this minute! What is he, after all? What has he to be proud + of? No, indeed. . . . He has no reason to think so much of himself . . . .” + </p> + <p> + Groholsky said a great many more valiant and stinging things, but did not + “go at once”; he felt timid and abashed. . . . He went to Ivan + Petrovitch three days later. + </p> + <p> + When he went into his apartment, he gaped with astonishment. He was amazed + at the wealth and luxury with which Bugrov had surrounded himself. Velvet + hangings, fearfully expensive chairs. . . . One was positively ashamed to + step on the carpet. Groholsky had seen many rich men in his day, but he + had never seen such frenzied luxury. . . . And the higgledy-piggledy + muddle he saw when, with an inexplicable tremor, he walked into the + drawing-room—plates with bits of bread on them were lying about on + the grand piano, a glass was standing on a chair, under the table there + was a basket with a filthy rag in it. . . . Nut shells were strewn about + in the windows. Bugrov himself was not quite in his usual trim when + Groholsky walked in . . . . With a red face and uncombed locks he was + pacing about the room in deshabille, talking to himself, apparently much + agitated. Mishutka was sitting on the sofa there in the drawing-room, and + was making the air vibrate with a piercing scream. + </p> + <p> + “It’s awful, Grigory Vassilyevitch!” Bugrov began on + seeing Groholsky, “such disorder . . . such disorder . . . Please + sit down. You must excuse my being in the costume of Adam and Eve. . . . + It’s of no consequence. . . . Horrible disorderliness! I don’t + understand how people can exist here, I don’t understand it! The + servants won’t do what they are told, the climate is horrible, + everything is expensive. . . . Stop your noise,” Bugrov shouted, + suddenly coming to a halt before Mishutka; “stop it, I tell you! + Little beast, won’t you stop it?” + </p> + <p> + And Bugrov pulled Mishutka’s ear. + </p> + <p> + “That’s revolting, Ivan Petrovitch,” said Groholsky in a + tearful voice. “How can you treat a tiny child like that? You really + are. . .” + </p> + <p> + “Let him stop yelling then. . . . Be quiet—I’ll whip + you!” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t cry, Misha darling. . . . Papa won’t touch you + again. Don’t beat him, Ivan Petrovitch; why, he is hardly more than + a baby. . . . There, there. . . . Would you like a little horse? I’ll + send you a little horse. . . . You really are hard-hearted. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Groholsky paused, and then asked: + </p> + <p> + “And how are your ladies getting on, Ivan Petrovitch?” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all. I’ve turned them out without ceremony. I might + have gone on keeping them, but it’s awkward. . . . The boy will grow + up . . . . A father’s example. . . . If I were alone, then it would + be a different thing. . . . Besides, what’s the use of my keeping + them? Poof . . . it’s a regular farce! I talk to them in Russian, + and they answer me in French. They don’t understand a thing—you + can’t knock anything into their heads.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve come to you about something, Ivan Petrovitch, to talk + things over. . . . H’m. . . . It’s nothing very particular. + But just . . . two or three words. . . . In reality, I have a favour to + ask of you.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s that?” + </p> + <p> + “Would you think it possible, Ivan Petrovitch, to go away? We are + delighted that you are here; it’s very agreeable for us, but it’s + inconvenient, don’t you know. . . . You will understand me. It’s + awkward in a way. . . . Such indefinite relations, such continual + awkwardness in regard to one another. . . . We must part. . . . It’s + essential in fact. Excuse my saying so, but . . . you must see for + yourself, of course, that in such circumstances to be living side by side + leads to . . . reflections . . . that is . . . not to reflections, but + there is a certain awkward feeling. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. . . . That is so, I have thought of it myself. Very good, I + will go away.” + </p> + <p> + “We shall be very grateful to you. . . . Believe me, Ivan + Petrovitch, we shall preserve the most flattering memory of you. The + sacrifice which you. . .” + </p> + <p> + “Very good. . . . Only what am I to do with all this? I say, you buy + this furniture of mine! What do you say? It’s not expensive, eight + thousand . . . ten. . . . The furniture, the carriage, the grand piano. . + . .” + </p> + <p> + “Very good. . . . I will give you ten thousand. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that is capital! I will set off to-morrow. I shall go to + Moscow. It’s impossible to live here. Everything is so dear! Awfully + dear! The money fairly flies. . . . You can’t take a step without + spending a thousand! I can’t go on like that. I have a child to + bring up. . . . Well, thank God that you will buy my furniture. . . . That + will be a little more in hand, or I should have been regularly bankrupt. . + . .” + </p> + <p> + Groholsky got up, took leave of Bugrov, and went home rejoicing. In the + evening he sent him ten thousand roubles. + </p> + <p> + Early next morning Bugrov and Mishutka were already at Feodosia. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + Several months had passed; spring had come. With spring, fine bright days + had come too. Life was not so dull and hateful, and the earth was more + fair to look upon. . . . There was a warm breeze from the sea and the open + country. . . . The earth was covered with fresh grass, fresh leaves were + green upon the trees. Nature had sprung into new life, and had put on new + array. + </p> + <p> + It might be thought that new hopes and new desires would surge up in man + when everything in nature is renewed, and young and fresh . . . but it is + hard for man to renew life. . . . + </p> + <p> + Groholsky was still living in the same villa. His hopes and desires, small + and unexacting, were still concentrated on the same Liza, on her alone, + and on nothing else! As before, he could not take his eyes off her, and + gloated over the thought: how happy I am! The poor fellow really did feel + awfully happy. Liza sat as before on the verandah, and unaccountably + stared with bored eyes at the villa opposite and the trees near it through + which there was a peep at the dark blue sea. . . . As before, she spent + her days for the most part in silence, often in tears and from time to + time in putting mustard plasters on Groholsky. She might be congratulated + on one new sensation, however. There was a worm gnawing at her vitals. . . + . That worm was misery. . . . She was fearfully miserable, pining for her + son, for her old, her cheerful manner of life. Her life in the past had + not been particularly cheerful, but still it was livelier than her present + existence. When she lived with her husband she used from time to time to + go to a theatre, to an entertainment, to visit acquaintances. But here + with Groholsky it was all quietness and emptiness. . . . Besides, here + there was one man, and he with his ailments and his continual mawkish + kisses, was like an old grandfather for ever shedding tears of joy. + </p> + <p> + It was boring! Here she had not Mihey Sergeyitch who used to be fond of + dancing the mazurka with her. She had not Spiridon Nikolaitch, the son of + the editor of the <i>Provincial News</i>. Spiridon Nikolaitch sang well + and recited poetry. Here she had not a table set with lunch for visitors. + She had not Gerasimovna, the old nurse who used to be continually + grumbling at her for eating too much jam. . . . She had no one! There was + simply nothing for her but to lie down and die of depression. Groholsky + rejoiced in his solitude, but . . . he was wrong to rejoice in it. All too + soon he paid for his egoism. At the beginning of May when the very air + seemed to be in love and faint with happiness, Groholsky lost everything; + the woman he loved and. . . + </p> + <p> + That year Bugrov, too, visited the Crimea. He did not take the villa + opposite, but pottered about, going from one town to another with + Mishutka. He spent his time eating, drinking, sleeping, and playing cards. + He had lost all relish for fishing, shooting and the French women, who, + between ourselves, had robbed him a bit. He had grown thin, lost his broad + and beaming smiles, and had taken to dressing in canvas. Ivan Petrovitch + from time to time visited Groholsky’s villa. He brought Liza jam, + sweets, and fruit, and seemed trying to dispel her ennui. Groholsky was + not troubled by these visits, especially as they were brief and + infrequent, and were apparently paid on account of Mishutka, who could not + under any circumstances have been altogether deprived of the privilege of + seeing his mother. Bugrov came, unpacked his presents, and after saying a + few words, departed. And those few words he said not to Liza but to + Groholsky . . . . With Liza he was silent and Groholsky’s mind was + at rest; but there is a Russian proverb which he would have done well to + remember: “Don’t fear the dog that barks, but fear the dog + that’s quiet. . . .” A fiendish proverb, but in practical life + sometimes indispensable. + </p> + <p> + As he was walking in the garden one day, Groholsky heard two voices in + conversation. One voice was a man’s, the other was a woman’s. + One belonged to Bugrov, the other to Liza. Groholsky listened, and turning + white as death, turned softly towards the speakers. He halted behind a + lilac bush, and proceeded to watch and listen. His arms and legs turned + cold. A cold sweat came out upon his brow. He clutched several branches of + the lilac that he might not stagger and fall down. All was over! + </p> + <p> + Bugrov had his arm round Liza’s waist, and was saying to her: + </p> + <p> + “My darling! what are we to do? It seems it was God’s will. . + . . I am a scoundrel. . . . I sold you. I was seduced by that Herod’s + money, plague take him, and what good have I had from the money? Nothing + but anxiety and display! No peace, no happiness, no position . . . . One + sits like a fat invalid at the same spot, and never a step forwarder. . . + . Have you heard that Andrushka Markuzin has been made a head clerk? + Andrushka, that fool! While I stagnate. . . . Good heavens! I have lost + you, I have lost my happiness. I am a scoundrel, a blackguard, how do you + think I shall feel at the dread day of judgment?” + </p> + <p> + “Let us go away, Vanya,” wailed Liza. “I am dull. . . . + I am dying of depression.” + </p> + <p> + “We cannot, the money has been taken. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Well, give it back again.” + </p> + <p> + “I should be glad to, but . . . wait a minute. I have spent it all. + We must submit, my girl. God is chastising us. Me for my covetousness and + you for your frivolity. Well, let us be tortured. . . . It will be the + better for us in the next world.” + </p> + <p> + And in an access of religious feeling, Bugrov turned up his eyes to + heaven. + </p> + <p> + “But I cannot go on living here; I am miserable.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, there is no help for it. I’m miserable too. Do you + suppose I am happy without you? I am pining and wasting away! And my chest + has begun to be bad! . . . You are my lawful wife, flesh of my flesh . . . + one flesh. . . . You must live and bear it! While I . . . will drive over + . . . visit you.” + </p> + <p> + And bending down to Liza, Bugrov whispered, loudly enough, however, to be + heard several yards away: + </p> + <p> + “I will come to you at night, Lizanka. . . . Don’t worry. . . + . I am staying at Feodosia close by. . . . I will live here near you till + I have run through everything . . . and I soon shall be at my last + farthing! A-a-ah, what a life it is! Dreariness, ill . . . my chest is + bad, and my stomach is bad.” + </p> + <p> + Bugrov ceased speaking, and then it was Liza’s turn. . . . My God, + the cruelty of that woman! She began weeping, complaining, enumerating all + the defects of her lover and her own sufferings. Groholsky as he listened + to her, felt that he was a villain, a miscreant, a murderer. + </p> + <p> + “He makes me miserable. . . .” Liza said in conclusion. + </p> + <p> + After kissing Liza at parting, and going out at the garden gate, Bugrov + came upon Groholsky, who was standing at the gate waiting for him. + </p> + <p> + “Ivan Petrovitch,” said Groholsky in the tone of a dying man, + “I have seen and heard it all. . . It’s not honourable on your + part, but I do not blame you. . . . You love her too, but you must + understand that she is mine. Mine! I cannot live without her! How is it + you don’t understand that? Granted that you love her, that you are + miserable. . . . Have I not paid you, in part at least, for your + sufferings? For God’s sake, go away! For God’s sake, go away! + Go away from here for ever, I implore you, or you will kill me. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “I have nowhere to go,” Bugrov said thickly. + </p> + <p> + “H’m, you have squandered everything. . . . You are an + impulsive man. Very well. . . . Go to my estate in the province of + Tchernigov. If you like I will make you a present of the property. It’s + a small estate, but a good one. . . . On my honour, it’s a good one!” + </p> + <p> + Bugrov gave a broad grin. He suddenly felt himself in the seventh heaven. + </p> + <p> + “I will give it you. . . . This very day I will write to my steward + and send him an authorisation for completing the purchase. You must tell + everyone you have bought it. . . . Go away, I entreat you.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good, I will go. I understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Let us go to a notary . . . at once,” said Groholsky, greatly + cheered, and he went to order the carriage. + </p> + <p> + On the following evening, when Liza was sitting on the garden seat where + her rendezvous with Ivan Petrovitch usually took place, Groholsky went + quietly to her. He sat down beside her, and took her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Are you dull, Lizotchka?” he said, after a brief silence. + “Are you depressed? Why shouldn’t we go away somewhere? Why is + it we always stay at home? We want to go about, to enjoy ourselves, to + make acquaintances. . . . Don’t we?” + </p> + <p> + “I want nothing,” said Liza, and turned her pale, thin face + towards the path by which Bugrov used to come to her. + </p> + <p> + Groholsky pondered. He knew who it was she expected, who it was she + wanted. + </p> + <p> + “Let us go home, Liza,” he said, “it is damp here. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “You go; I’ll come directly.” + </p> + <p> + Groholsky pondered again. + </p> + <p> + “You are expecting him?” he asked, and made a wry face as + though his heart had been gripped with red-hot pincers. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. . . . I want to give him the socks for Misha. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “He will not come.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “He has gone away. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Liza opened her eyes wide. . . . + </p> + <p> + “He has gone away, gone to the Tchernigov province. I have given him + my estate. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Liza turned fearfully pale, and caught at Groholsky’s shoulder to + save herself from falling. + </p> + <p> + “I saw him off at the steamer at three o’clock.” + </p> + <p> + Liza suddenly clutched at her head, made a movement, and falling on the + seat, began shaking all over. + </p> + <p> + “Vanya,” she wailed, “Vanya! I will go to Vanya. . . . + Darling!” + </p> + <p> + She had a fit of hysterics. . . . + </p> + <p> + And from that evening, right up to July, two shadows could be seen in the + park in which the summer visitors took their walks. The shadows wandered + about from morning till evening, and made the summer visitors feel dismal. + . . . After Liza’s shadow invariably walked the shadow of Groholsky. + . . . I call them shadows because they had both lost their natural + appearance. They had grown thin and pale and shrunken, and looked more + like shadows than living people. . . . Both were pining away like fleas in + the classic anecdote of the Jew who sold insect powder. + </p> + <p> + At the beginning of July, Liza ran away from Groholsky, leaving a note in + which she wrote that she was going for a time to “her son” . . + . For a time! She ran away by night when Groholsky was asleep . . . . + After reading her letter Groholsky spent a whole week wandering round + about the villa as though he were mad, and neither ate nor slept. In + August, he had an attack of recurrent fever, and in September he went + abroad. There he took to drink. . . . He hoped in drink and dissipation to + find comfort. . . . He squandered all his fortune, but did not succeed, + poor fellow, in driving out of his brain the image of the beloved woman + with the kittenish face . . . . Men do not die of happiness, nor do they + die of misery. Groholsky’s hair went grey, but he did not die: he is + alive to this day. . . . He came back from abroad to have “just a + peep” at Liza . . . . Bugrov met him with open arms, and made him + stay for an indefinite period. He is staying with Bugrov to this day. + </p> + <p> + This year I happened to be passing through Groholyovka, Bugrov’s + estate. I found the master and the mistress of the house having supper. . + . . Ivan Petrovitch was highly delighted to see me, and fell to pressing + good things upon me. . . . He had grown rather stout, and his face was a + trifle puffy, though it was still rosy and looked sleek and + well-nourished. . . . He was not bald. Liza, too, had grown fatter. + Plumpness did not suit her. Her face was beginning to lose the kittenish + look, and was, alas! more suggestive of the seal. Her cheeks were + spreading upwards, outwards, and to both sides. The Bugrovs were living in + first-rate style. They had plenty of everything. The house was overflowing + with servants and edibles. . . . + </p> + <p> + When we had finished supper we got into conversation. Forgetting that Liza + did not play, I asked her to play us something on the piano. + </p> + <p> + “She does not play,” said Bugrov; “she is no musician. . + . . Hey, you there! Ivan! call Grigory Vassilyevitch here! What’s he + doing there?” And turning to me, Bugrov added, “Our musician + will come directly; he plays the guitar. We keep the piano for Mishutka—we + are having him taught. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Five minutes later, Groholsky walked into the room—sleepy, unkempt, + and unshaven. . . . He walked in, bowed to me, and sat down on one side. + </p> + <p> + “Why, whoever goes to bed so early?” said Bugrov, addressing + him. “What a fellow you are really! He’s always asleep, always + asleep . . . The sleepy head! Come, play us something lively. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Groholsky turned the guitar, touched the strings, and began singing: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Yesterday I waited for my dear one. . . .” + </pre> + <p> + I listened to the singing, looked at Bugrov’s well-fed countenance, + and thought: “Nasty brute!” I felt like crying. . . . When he + had finished singing, Groholsky bowed to us, and went out. + </p> + <p> + “And what am I to do with him?” Bugrov said when he had gone + away. “I do have trouble with him! In the day he is always brooding + and brooding. . . . And at night he moans. . . . He sleeps, but he sighs + and moans in his sleep. . . . It is a sort of illness. . . . What am I to + do with him, I can’t think! He won’t let us sleep. . . . I am + afraid that he will go out of his mind. People think he is badly treated + here. . . . In what way is he badly treated? He eats with us, and he + drinks with us. . . . Only we won’t give him money. If we were to + give him any he would spend it on drink or waste it . . . . That’s + another trouble for me! Lord forgive me, a sinner!” + </p> + <p> + They made me stay the night. When I woke next morning, Bugrov was giving + some one a lecture in the adjoining room. . . . + </p> + <p> + “Set a fool to say his prayers, and he will crack his skull on the + floor! Why, who paints oars green! Do think, blockhead! Use your sense! + Why don’t you speak?” + </p> + <p> + “I . . . I . . . made a mistake,” said a husky tenor + apologetically. + </p> + <p> + The tenor belonged to Groholsky. + </p> + <p> + Groholsky saw me to the station. + </p> + <p> + “He is a despot, a tyrant,” he kept whispering to me all the + way. “He is a generous man, but a tyrant! Neither heart nor brain + are developed in him. . . . He tortures me! If it were not for that noble + woman, I should have gone away long ago. I am sorry to leave her. It’s + somehow easier to endure together.” + </p> + <p> + Groholsky heaved a sigh, and went on: + </p> + <p> + “She is with child. . . . You notice it? It is really my child. . . + . Mine. . . . She soon saw her mistake, and gave herself to me again. She + cannot endure him. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “You are a rag,” I could not refrain from saying to Groholsky. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am a man of weak character. . . . That is quite true. I was + born so. Do you know how I came into the world? My late papa cruelly + oppressed a certain little clerk—it was awful how he treated him! He + poisoned his life. Well . . . and my late mama was tender-hearted. She + came from the people, she was of the working class. . . . She took that + little clerk to her heart from pity. . . . Well . . . and so I came into + the world. . . . The son of the ill-treated clerk. How could I have a + strong will? Where was I to get it from? But that’s the second bell. + . . . Good-bye. Come and see us again, but don’t tell Ivan + Petrovitch what I have said about him.” + </p> + <p> + I pressed Groholsky’s hand, and got into the train. He bowed towards + the carriage, and went to the water-barrel—I suppose he was thirsty! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DOCTOR + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>T was still in the + drawing-room, so still that a house-fly that had flown in from outside + could be distinctly heard brushing against the ceiling. Olga Ivanovna, the + lady of the villa, was standing by the window, looking out at the + flower-beds and thinking. Dr. Tsvyetkov, who was her doctor as well as an + old friend, and had been sent for to treat her son Misha, was sitting in + an easy chair and swinging his hat, which he held in both hands, and he + too was thinking. Except them, there was not a soul in the drawing-room or + in the adjoining rooms. The sun had set, and the shades of evening began + settling in the corners under the furniture and on the cornices. + </p> + <p> + The silence was broken by Olga Ivanovna. + </p> + <p> + “No misfortune more terrible can be imagined,” she said, + without turning from the window. “You know that life has no value + for me whatever apart from the boy.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know that,” said the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “No value whatever,” said Olga Ivanovna, and her voice + quivered. “He is everything to me. He is my joy, my happiness, my + wealth. And if, as you say, I cease to be a mother, if he . . . dies, + there will be nothing left of me but a shadow. I cannot survive it.” + </p> + <p> + Wringing her hands, Olga Ivanovna walked from one window to the other and + went on: + </p> + <p> + “When he was born, I wanted to send him away to the Foundling + Hospital, you remember that, but, my God, how can that time be compared + with now? Then I was vulgar, stupid, feather-headed, but now I am a + mother, do you understand? I am a mother, and that’s all I care to + know. Between the present and the past there is an impassable gulf.” + </p> + <p> + Silence followed again. The doctor shifted his seat from the chair to the + sofa and impatiently playing with his hat, kept his eyes fixed upon Olga + Ivanovna. From his face it could be seen that he wanted to speak, and was + waiting for a fitting moment. + </p> + <p> + “You are silent, but still I do not give up hope,” said the + lady, turning round. “Why are you silent?” + </p> + <p> + “I should be as glad of any hope as you, Olga, but there is none,” + Tsvyetkov answered, “we must look the hideous truth in the face. The + boy has a tumour on the brain, and we must try to prepare ourselves for + his death, for such cases never recover.” + </p> + <p> + “Nikolay, are you certain you are not mistaken?” + </p> + <p> + “Such questions lead to nothing. I am ready to answer as many as you + like, but it will make it no better for us.” + </p> + <p> + Olga Ivanovna pressed her face into the window curtains, and began weeping + bitterly. The doctor got up and walked several times up and down the + drawing-room, then went to the weeping woman, and lightly touched her arm. + Judging from his uncertain movements, from the expression of his gloomy + face, which looked dark in the dusk of the evening, he wanted to say + something. + </p> + <p> + “Listen, Olga,” he began. “Spare me a minute’s + attention; there is something I must ask you. You can’t attend to me + now, though. I’ll come later, afterwards. . . .” He sat down + again, and sank into thought. The bitter, imploring weeping, like the + weeping of a little girl, continued. Without waiting for it to end, + Tsvyetkov heaved a sigh and walked out of the drawing-room. He went into + the nursery to Misha. The boy was lying on his back as before, staring at + one point as though he were listening. The doctor sat down on his bed and + felt his pulse. + </p> + <p> + “Misha, does your head ache?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Misha answered, not at once: “Yes. I keep dreaming.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you dream?” + </p> + <p> + “All sorts of things. . . .” + </p> + <p> + The doctor, who did not know how to talk with weeping women or with + children, stroked his burning head, and muttered: + </p> + <p> + “Never mind, poor boy, never mind. . . . One can’t go through + life without illness. . . . Misha, who am I—do you know me?” + </p> + <p> + Misha did not answer. + </p> + <p> + “Does your head ache very badly?” + </p> + <p> + “Ve-ery. I keep dreaming.” + </p> + <p> + After examining him and putting a few questions to the maid who was + looking after the sick child, the doctor went slowly back to the + drawing-room. There it was by now dark, and Olga Ivanovna, standing by the + window, looked like a silhouette. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I light up?” asked Tsvyetkov. + </p> + <p> + No answer followed. The house-fly was still brushing against the ceiling. + Not a sound floated in from outside as though the whole world, like the + doctor, were thinking, and could not bring itself to speak. Olga Ivanovna + was not weeping now, but as before, staring at the flower-bed in profound + silence. When Tsvyetkov went up to her, and through the twilight glanced + at her pale face, exhausted with grief, her expression was such as he had + seen before during her attacks of acute, stupefying, sick headache. + </p> + <p> + “Nikolay Trofimitch!” she addressed him, “and what do + you think about a consultation?” + </p> + <p> + “Very good; I’ll arrange it to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + From the doctor’s tone it could be easily seen that he put little + faith in the benefit of a consultation. Olga Ivanovna would have asked him + something else, but her sobs prevented her. Again she pressed her face + into the window curtain. At that moment, the strains of a band playing at + the club floated in distinctly. They could hear not only the wind + instruments, but even the violins and the flutes. + </p> + <p> + “If he is in pain, why is he silent?” asked Olga Ivanovna. + “All day long, not a sound, he never complains, and never cries. I + know God will take the poor boy from us because we have not known how to + prize him. Such a treasure!” + </p> + <p> + The band finished the march, and a minute later began playing a lively + waltz for the opening of the ball. + </p> + <p> + “Good God, can nothing really be done?” moaned Olga Ivanovna. + “Nikolay, you are a doctor and ought to know what to do! You must + understand that I can’t bear the loss of him! I can’t survive + it.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor, who did not know how to talk to weeping women, heaved a sigh, + and paced slowly about the drawing-room. There followed a succession of + oppressive pauses interspersed with weeping and the questions which lead + to nothing. The band had already played a quadrille, a polka, and another + quadrille. It got quite dark. In the adjoining room, the maid lighted the + lamp; and all the while the doctor kept his hat in his hands, and seemed + trying to say something. Several times Olga Ivanovna went off to her son, + sat by him for half an hour, and came back again into the drawing-room; + she was continually breaking into tears and lamentations. The time dragged + agonisingly, and it seemed as though the evening had no end. + </p> + <p> + At midnight, when the band had played the cotillion and ceased altogether, + the doctor got ready to go. + </p> + <p> + “I will come again to-morrow,” he said, pressing the mother’s + cold hand. “You go to bed.” + </p> + <p> + After putting on his greatcoat in the passage and picking up his + walking-stick, he stopped, thought a minute, and went back into the + drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll come to-morrow, Olga,” he repeated in a quivering + voice. “Do you hear?” + </p> + <p> + She did not answer, and it seemed as though grief had robbed her of all + power of speech. In his greatcoat and with his stick still in his hand, + the doctor sat down beside her, and began in a soft, tender half-whisper, + which was utterly out of keeping with his heavy, dignified figure: + </p> + <p> + “Olga! For the sake of your sorrow which I share. . . . Now, when + falsehood is criminal, I beseech you to tell me the truth. You have always + declared that the boy is my son. Is that the truth?” + </p> + <p> + Olga Ivanovna was silent. + </p> + <p> + “You have been the one attachment in my life,” the doctor went + on, “and you cannot imagine how deeply my feeling is wounded by + falsehood . . . . Come, I entreat you, Olga, for once in your life, tell + me the truth. . . . At these moments one cannot lie. Tell me that Misha is + not my son. I am waiting.” + </p> + <p> + “He is.” + </p> + <p> + Olga Ivanovna’s face could not be seen, but in her voice the doctor + could hear hesitation. He sighed. + </p> + <p> + “Even at such moments you can bring yourself to tell a lie,” + he said in his ordinary voice. “There is nothing sacred to you! Do + listen, do understand me. . . . You have been the one only attachment in + my life. Yes, you were depraved, vulgar, but I have loved no one else but + you in my life. That trivial love, now that I am growing old, is the one + solitary bright spot in my memories. Why do you darken it with deception? + What is it for?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh my God!” cried Tsvyetkov. “You are lying, you + understand very well!” he cried more loudly, and he began pacing + about the drawing-room, angrily waving his stick. “Or have you + forgotten? Then I will remind you! A father’s rights to the boy are + equally shared with me by Petrov and Kurovsky the lawyer, who still make + you an allowance for their son’s education, just as I do! Yes, + indeed! I know all that quite well! I forgive your lying in the past, what + does it matter? But now when you have grown older, at this moment when the + boy is dying, your lying stifles me! How sorry I am that I cannot speak, + how sorry I am!” + </p> + <p> + The doctor unbuttoned his overcoat, and still pacing about, said: + </p> + <p> + “Wretched woman! Even such moments have no effect on her! Even now + she lies as freely as nine years ago in the Hermitage Restaurant! She is + afraid if she tells me the truth I shall leave off giving her money, she + thinks that if she did not lie I should not love the boy! You are lying! + It’s contemptible!” + </p> + <p> + The doctor rapped the floor with his stick, and cried: + </p> + <p> + “It’s loathsome. Warped, corrupted creature! I must despise + you, and I ought to be ashamed of my feeling. Yes! Your lying has stuck in + my throat these nine years, I have endured it, but now it’s too much—too + much.” + </p> + <p> + From the dark corner where Olga Ivanovna was sitting there came the sound + of weeping. The doctor ceased speaking and cleared his throat. A silence + followed. The doctor slowly buttoned up his over-coat, and began looking + for his hat which he had dropped as he walked about. + </p> + <p> + “I lost my temper,” he muttered, bending down to the floor. + “I quite lost sight of the fact that you cannot attend to me now. . + . . God knows what I have said. . . . Don’t take any notice of it, + Olga.” + </p> + <p> + He found his hat and went towards the dark corner. + </p> + <p> + “I have wounded you,” he said in a soft, tender half-whisper, + “but once more I entreat you, tell me the truth; there should not be + lying between us. . . . I blurted it out, and now you know that Petrov and + Kurovsky are no secret to me. So now it is easy for you to tell me the + truth.” + </p> + <p> + Olga Ivanovna thought a moment, and with perceptible hesitation, said: + </p> + <p> + “Nikolay, I am not lying—Misha is your child.” + </p> + <p> + “My God,” moaned the doctor, “then I will tell you + something more: I have kept your letter to Petrov in which you call him + Misha’s father! Olga, I know the truth, but I want to hear it from + you! Do you hear?” + </p> + <p> + Olga Ivanovna made no reply, but went on weeping. After waiting for an + answer the doctor shrugged his shoulders and went out. + </p> + <p> + “I will come to-morrow,” he called from the passage. + </p> + <p> + All the way home, as he sat in his carriage, he was shrugging his + shoulders and muttering: + </p> + <p> + “What a pity that I don’t know how to speak! I haven’t + the gift of persuading and convincing. It’s evident she does not + understand me since she lies! It’s evident! How can I make her see? + How?” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TOO EARLY! + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE bells are + ringing for service in the village of Shalmovo. The sun is already kissing + the earth on the horizon; it has turned crimson and will soon disappear. + In Semyon’s pothouse, which has lately changed its name and become a + restaurant—a title quite out of keeping with the wretched little hut + with its thatch torn off its roof, and its couple of dingy windows—two + peasant sportsmen are sitting. One of them is called Filimon Slyunka; he + is an old man of sixty, formerly a house-serf, belonging to the Counts + Zavalin, by trade a carpenter. He has at one time been employed in a nail + factory, has been turned off for drunkenness and idleness, and now lives + upon his old wife, who begs for alms. He is thin and weak, with a + mangy-looking little beard, speaks with a hissing sound, and after every + word twitches the right side of his face and jerkily shrugs his right + shoulder. The other, Ignat Ryabov, a sturdy, broad-shouldered peasant who + never does anything and is everlastingly silent, is sitting in the corner + under a big string of bread rings. The door, opening inwards, throws a + thick shadow upon him, so that Slyunka and Semyon the publican can see + nothing but his patched knees, his long fleshy nose, and a big tuft of + hair which has escaped from the thick uncombed tangle covering his head. + Semyon, a sickly little man, with a pale face and a long sinewy neck, + stands behind his counter, looks mournfully at the string of bread rings, + and coughs meekly. + </p> + <p> + “You think it over now, if you have any sense,” Slyunka says + to him, twitching his cheek. “You have the thing lying by unused and + get no sort of benefit from it. While we need it. A sportsman without a + gun is like a sacristan without a voice. You ought to understand that, but + I see you don’t understand it, so you can have no real sense. . . . + Hand it over!” + </p> + <p> + “You left the gun in pledge, you know!” says Semyon in a thin + womanish little voice, sighing deeply, and not taking his eyes off the + string of bread rings. “Hand over the rouble you borrowed, and then + take your gun.” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t got a rouble. I swear to you, Semyon Mitritch, as + God sees me: you give me the gun and I will go to-day with Ignashka and + bring it you back again. I’ll bring it back, strike me dead. May I + have happiness neither in this world nor the next, if I don’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Semyon Mitritch, do give it,” Ignat Ryabov says in his bass, + and his voice betrays a passionate desire to get what he asks for. + </p> + <p> + “But what do you want the gun for?” sighs Semyon, sadly + shaking his head. “What sort of shooting is there now? It’s + still winter outside, and no game at all but crows and jackdaws.” + </p> + <p> + “Winter, indeed,” says Slyunka, hooing the ash out of his pipe + with his finger, “it is early yet of course, but you never can tell + with the snipe. The snipe’s a bird that wants watching. If you are + unlucky, you may sit waiting at home, and miss his flying over, and then + you must wait till autumn. . . . It is a business! The snipe is not a + rook. . . . Last year he was flying the week before Easter, while the year + before we had to wait till the week after Easter! Come, do us a favour, + Semyon Mitritch, give us the gun. Make us pray for you for ever. As + ill-luck would have it, Ignashka has pledged his gun for drink too. Ah, + when you drink you feel nothing, but now . . . ah, I wish I had never + looked at it, the cursed vodka! Truly it is the blood of Satan! Give it + us, Semyon Mitritch!” + </p> + <p> + “I won’t give it you,” says Semyon, clasping his yellow + hands on his breast as though he were going to pray. “You must act + fairly, Filimonushka. . . . A thing is not taken out of pawn just anyhow; + you must pay the money. . . . Besides, what do you want to kill birds for? + What’s the use? It’s Lent now—you are not going to eat + them.” + </p> + <p> + Slyunka exchanges glances with Ryabov in embarrassment, sighs, and says: + “We would only go stand-shooting.” + </p> + <p> + “And what for? It’s all foolishness. You are not the sort of + man to spend your time in foolishness. . . . Ignashka, to be sure, is a + man of no understanding, God has afflicted him, but you, thank the Lord, + are an old man. It’s time to prepare for your end. Here, you ought + to go to the midnight service.” + </p> + <p> + The allusion to his age visibly stings Slyunka. He clears his throat, + wrinkles up his forehead, and remains silent for a full minute. + </p> + <p> + “I say, Semyon Mitritch,” he says hotly, getting up and + twitching not only in his right cheek but all over his face. “It’s + God’s truth. . . . May the Almighty strike me dead, after Easter I + shall get something from Stepan Kuzmitch for an axle, and I will pay you + not one rouble but two! May the Lord chastise me! Before the holy image, I + tell you, only give me the gun!” + </p> + <p> + “Gi-ive it,” Ryabov says in his growling bass; they can hear + him breathing hard, and it seems that he would like to say a great deal, + but cannot find the words. “Gi-ive it.” + </p> + <p> + “No, brothers, and don’t ask,” sighs Semyon, shaking his + head mournfully. “Don’t lead me into sin. I won’t give + you the gun. It’s not the fashion for a thing to be taken out of + pawn and no money paid. Besides—why this indulgence? Go your way and + God bless you!” + </p> + <p> + Slyunka rubs his perspiring face with his sleeve and begins hotly swearing + and entreating. He crosses himself, holds out his hands to the ikon, calls + his deceased father and mother to bear witness, but Semyon sighs and + meekly looks as before at the string of bread rings. In the end Ignashka + Ryabov, hitherto motionless, gets up impulsively and bows down to the + ground before the innkeeper, but even that has no effect on him. + </p> + <p> + “May you choke with my gun, you devil,” says Slyunka, with his + face twitching, and his shoulders, shrugging. “May you choke, you + plague, you scoundrelly soul.” + </p> + <p> + Swearing and shaking his fists, he goes out of the tavern with Ryabov and + stands still in the middle of the road. + </p> + <p> + “He won’t give it, the damned brute,” he says, in a + weeping voice, looking into Ryabov’s face with an injured air. + </p> + <p> + “He won’t give it,” booms Ryabov. + </p> + <p> + The windows of the furthest huts, the starling cote on the tavern, the + tops of the poplars, and the cross on the church are all gleaming with a + bright golden flame. Now they can see only half of the sun, which, as it + goes to its night’s rest, is winking, shedding a crimson light, and + seems laughing gleefully. Slyunka and Ryabov can see the forest lying, a + dark blur, to the right of the sun, a mile and a half from the village, + and tiny clouds flitting over the clear sky, and they feel that the + evening will be fine and still. + </p> + <p> + “Now is just the time,” says Slyunka, with his face twitching. + “It would be nice to stand for an hour or two. He won’t give + it us, the damned brute. May he . . .” + </p> + <p> + “For stand-shooting, now is the very time . . .” Ryabov + articulated, as though with an effort, stammering. + </p> + <p> + After standing still for a little they walk out of the village, without + saying a word to each other, and look towards the dark streak of the + forest. The whole sky above the forest is studded with moving black spots, + the rooks flying home to roost. The snow, lying white here and there on + the dark brown plough-land, is lightly flecked with gold by the sun. + </p> + <p> + “This time last year I went stand-shooting in Zhivki,” says + Slyunka, after a long silence. “I brought back three snipe.” + </p> + <p> + Again there follows a silence. Both stand a long time and look towards the + forest, and then lazily move and walk along the muddy road from the + village. + </p> + <p> + “It’s most likely the snipe haven’t come yet,” + says Slyunka, “but may be they are here.” + </p> + <p> + “Kostka says they are not here yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe they are not, who can tell; one year is not like another. But + what mud!” + </p> + <p> + “But we ought to stand.” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure we ought—why not?” + </p> + <p> + “We can stand and watch; it wouldn’t be amiss to go to the + forest and have a look. If they are there we will tell Kostka, or maybe + get a gun ourselves and come to-morrow. What a misfortune, God forgive me. + It was the devil put it in my mind to take my gun to the pothouse! I am + more sorry than I can tell you, Ignashka.” + </p> + <p> + Conversing thus, the sportsmen approach the forest. The sun has set and + left behind it a red streak like the glow of a fire, scattered here and + there with clouds; there is no catching the colours of those clouds: their + edges are red, but they themselves are one minute grey, at the next lilac, + at the next ashen. + </p> + <p> + In the forest, among the thick branches of fir-trees and under the birch + bushes, it is dark, and only the outermost twigs on the side of the sun, + with their fat buds and shining bark, stand out clearly in the air. There + is a smell of thawing snow and rotting leaves. It is still; nothing stirs. + From the distance comes the subsiding caw of the rooks. + </p> + <p> + “We ought to be standing in Zhivki now,” whispers Slyunka, + looking with awe at Ryabov; “there’s good stand-shooting + there.” + </p> + <p> + Ryabov too looks with awe at Slyunka, with unblinking eyes and open mouth. + </p> + <p> + “A lovely time,” Slyunka says in a trembling whisper. “The + Lord is sending a fine spring . . . and I should think the snipe are here + by now. . . . Why not? The days are warm now. . . . The cranes were flying + in the morning, lots and lots of them.” + </p> + <p> + Slyunka and Ryabov, splashing cautiously through the melting snow and + sticking in the mud, walk two hundred paces along the edge of the forest + and there halt. Their faces wear a look of alarm and expectation of + something terrible and extraordinary. They stand like posts, do not speak + nor stir, and their hands gradually fall into an attitude as though they + were holding a gun at the cock. . . . + </p> + <p> + A big shadow creeps from the left and envelops the earth. The dusk of + evening comes on. If one looks to the right, through the bushes and tree + trunks, there can be seen crimson patches of the after-glow. It is still + and damp. . . . + </p> + <p> + “There’s no sound of them,” whispers Slyunka, shrugging + with the cold and sniffing with his chilly nose. + </p> + <p> + But frightened by his own whisper, he holds his finger up at some one, + opens his eyes wide, and purses up his lips. There is a sound of a light + snapping. The sportsmen look at each other significantly, and tell each + other with their eyes that it is nothing. It is the snapping of a dry twig + or a bit of bark. The shadows of evening keep growing and growing, the + patches of crimson gradually grow dim, and the dampness becomes + unpleasant. + </p> + <p> + The sportsmen remain standing a long time, but they see and hear nothing. + Every instant they expect to see a delicate leaf float through the air, to + hear a hurried call like the husky cough of a child, and the flutter of + wings. + </p> + <p> + “No, not a sound,” Slyunka says aloud, dropping his hands and + beginning to blink. “So they have not come yet.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s early!” + </p> + <p> + “You are right there.” + </p> + <p> + The sportsmen cannot see each other’s faces, it is getting rapidly + dark. + </p> + <p> + “We must wait another five days,” says Slyunka, as he comes + out from behind a bush with Ryabov. “It’s too early!” + </p> + <p> + They go homewards, and are silent all the way. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE COSSACK + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>AXIM TORTCHAKOV, a + farmer in southern Russia, was driving home from church with his young + wife and bringing back an Easter cake which had just been blessed. The sun + had not yet risen, but the east was all tinged with red and gold and had + dissipated the haze which usually, in the early morning, screens the blue + of the sky from the eyes. It was quiet. . . . The birds were hardly yet + awake . . . . The corncrake uttered its clear note, and far away above a + little tumulus, a sleepy kite floated, heavily flapping its wings, and no + other living creature could be seen all over the steppe. + </p> + <p> + Tortchakov drove on and thought that there was no better nor happier + holiday than the Feast of Christ’s Resurrection. He had only lately + been married, and was now keeping his first Easter with his wife. Whatever + he looked at, whatever he thought about, it all seemed to him bright, + joyous, and happy. He thought about his farming, and thought that it was + all going well, that the furnishing of his house was all the heart could + desire—there was enough of everything and all of it good; he looked + at his wife, and she seemed to him lovely, kind, and gentle. He was + delighted by the glow in the east, and the young grass, and his squeaking + chaise, and the kite. . . . And when on the way, he ran into a tavern to + light his cigarette and drank a glass, he felt happier still. + </p> + <p> + “It is said, ‘Great is the day,’” he chattered. + “Yes, it is great! Wait a bit, Lizaveta, the sun will begin to + dance. It dances every Easter. So it rejoices too!” + </p> + <p> + “It is not alive,” said his wife. + </p> + <p> + “But there are people on it!” exclaimed Tortchakov, “there + are really! Ivan Stepanitch told me that there are people on all the + planets—on the sun, and on the moon! Truly . . . but maybe the + learned men tell lies—the devil only knows! Stay, surely that’s + not a horse? Yes, it is!” + </p> + <p> + At the Crooked Ravine, which was just half-way on the journey home, + Tortchakov and his wife saw a saddled horse standing motionless, and + sniffing last year’s dry grass. On a hillock beside the roadside a + red-haired Cossack was sitting doubled up, looking at his feet. + </p> + <p> + “Christ is risen!” Maxim shouted to him. “Wo-o-o!” + </p> + <p> + “Truly He is risen,” answered the Cossack, without raising his + head. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” + </p> + <p> + “Home on leave.” + </p> + <p> + “Why are you sitting here, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Why . . . I have fallen ill . . . I haven’t the strength to + go on.” + </p> + <p> + “What is wrong?” + </p> + <p> + “I ache all over.” + </p> + <p> + “H’m. What a misfortune! People are keeping holiday, and you + fall sick! But you should ride on to a village or an inn, what’s the + use of sitting here!” + </p> + <p> + The Cossack raised his head, and with big, exhausted eyes, scanned Maxim, + his wife, and the horse. + </p> + <p> + “Have you come from church?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “The holiday found me on the high road. It was not God’s will + for me to reach home. I’d get on my horse at once and ride off, but + I haven’t the strength. . . . You might, good Christians, give a + wayfarer some Easter cake to break his fast!” + </p> + <p> + “Easter cake?” Tortchakov repeated, “That we can, to be + sure. . . . Stay, I’ll. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Maxim fumbled quickly in his pockets, glanced at his wife, and said: + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t a knife, nothing to cut it with. And I don’t + like to break it, it would spoil the whole cake. There’s a problem! + You look and see if you haven’t a knife?” + </p> + <p> + The Cossack got up groaning, and went to his saddle to get a knife. + </p> + <p> + “What an idea,” said Tortchakov’s wife angrily. “I + won’t let you slice up the Easter cake! What should I look like, + taking it home already cut! Ride on to the peasants in the village, and + break your fast there!” + </p> + <p> + The wife took the napkin with the Easter cake in it out of her husband’s + hands and said: + </p> + <p> + “I won’t allow it! One must do things properly; it’s not + a loaf, but a holy Easter cake. And it’s a sin to cut it just + anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Cossack, don’t be angry,” laughed Tortchakov. + “The wife forbids it! Good-bye. Good luck on your journey!” + </p> + <p> + Maxim shook the reins, clicked to his horse, and the chaise rolled on + squeaking. For some time his wife went on grumbling, and declaring that to + cut the Easter cake before reaching home was a sin and not the proper + thing. In the east the first rays of the rising sun shone out, cutting + their way through the feathery clouds, and the song of the lark was heard + in the sky. Now not one but three kites were hovering over the steppe at a + respectful distance from one another. Grasshoppers began churring in the + young grass. + </p> + <p> + When they had driven three-quarters of a mile from the Crooked Ravine, + Tortchakov looked round and stared intently into the distance. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t see the Cossack,” he said. “Poor, dear + fellow, to take it into his head to fall ill on the road. There couldn’t + be a worse misfortune, to have to travel and not have the strength. . . . + I shouldn’t wonder if he dies by the roadside. We didn’t give + him any Easter cake, Lizaveta, and we ought to have given it. I’ll + be bound he wants to break his fast too.” + </p> + <p> + The sun had risen, but whether it was dancing or not Tortchakov did not + see. He remained silent all the way home, thinking and keeping his eyes + fixed on the horse’s black tail. For some unknown reason he felt + overcome by depression, and not a trace of the holiday gladness was left + in his heart. When he had arrived home and said, “Christ is risen” + to his workmen, he grew cheerful again and began talking, but when he had + sat down to break the fast and had taken a bite from his piece of Easter + cake, he looked regretfully at his wife, and said: + </p> + <p> + “It wasn’t right of us, Lizaveta, not to give that Cossack + something to eat.” + </p> + <p> + “You are a queer one, upon my word,” said Lizaveta, shrugging + her shoulders in surprise. “Where did you pick up such a fashion as + giving away the holy Easter cake on the high road? Is it an ordinary loaf? + Now that it is cut and lying on the table, let anyone eat it that likes—your + Cossack too! Do you suppose I grudge it?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s all right, but we ought to have given the Cossack + some. . . . Why, he was worse off than a beggar or an orphan. On the road, + and far from home, and sick too.” + </p> + <p> + Tortchakov drank half a glass of tea, and neither ate nor drank anything + more. He had no appetite, the tea seemed to choke him, and he felt + depressed again. After breaking their fast, his wife and he lay down to + sleep. When Lizaveta woke two hours later, he was standing by the window, + looking into the yard. + </p> + <p> + “Are you up already?” asked his wife. + </p> + <p> + “I somehow can’t sleep. . . . Ah, Lizaveta,” he sighed. + “We were unkind, you and I, to that Cossack!” + </p> + <p> + “Talking about that Cossack again!” yawned his wife. “You + have got him on the brain.” + </p> + <p> + “He has served his Tsar, shed his blood maybe, and we treated him as + though he were a pig. We ought to have brought the sick man home and fed + him, and we did not even give him a morsel of bread.” + </p> + <p> + “Catch me letting you spoil the Easter cake for nothing! And one + that has been blessed too! You would have cut it on the road, and shouldn’t + I have looked a fool when I got home?” + </p> + <p> + Without saying anything to his wife, Maxim went into the kitchen, wrapped + a piece of cake up in a napkin, together with half a dozen eggs, and went + to the labourers in the barn. + </p> + <p> + “Kuzma, put down your concertina,” he said to one of them. + “Saddle the bay, or Ivantchik, and ride briskly to the Crooked + Ravine. There you will see a sick Cossack with a horse, so give him this. + Maybe he hasn’t ridden away yet.” + </p> + <p> + Maxim felt cheerful again, but after waiting for Kuzma for some hours, he + could bear it no longer, so he saddled a horse and went off to meet him. + He met him just at the Ravine. + </p> + <p> + “Well, have you seen the Cossack?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t find him anywhere, he must have ridden on.” + </p> + <p> + “H’m . . . a queer business.” + </p> + <p> + Tortchakov took the bundle from Kuzma, and galloped on farther. When he + reached Shustrovo he asked the peasants: + </p> + <p> + “Friends, have you seen a sick Cossack with a horse? Didn’t he + ride by here? A red-headed fellow on a bay horse.” + </p> + <p> + The peasants looked at one another, and said they had not seen the + Cossack. + </p> + <p> + “The returning postman drove by, it’s true, but as for a + Cossack or anyone else, there has been no such.” + </p> + <p> + Maxim got home at dinner time. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t get that Cossack out of my head, do what you will!” + he said to his wife. “He gives me no peace. I keep thinking: what if + God meant to try us, and sent some saint or angel in the form of a + Cossack? It does happen, you know. It’s bad, Lizaveta; we were + unkind to the man!” + </p> + <p> + “What do you keep pestering me with that Cossack for?” cried + Lizaveta, losing patience at last. “You stick to it like tar!” + </p> + <p> + “You are not kind, you know . . .” said Maxim, looking into + his wife’s face. + </p> + <p> + And for the first time since his marriage he perceived that he wife was + not kind. + </p> + <p> + “I may be unkind,” cried Lizaveta, tapping angrily with her + spoon, “but I am not going to give away the holy Easter cake to + every drunken man in the road.” + </p> + <p> + “The Cossack wasn’t drunk!” + </p> + <p> + “He was drunk!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you are a fool then!” + </p> + <p> + Maxim got up from the table and began reproaching his young wife for + hard-heartedness and stupidity. She, getting angry too, answered his + reproaches with reproaches, burst into tears, and went away into their + bedroom, declaring she would go home to her father’s. This was the + first matrimonial squabble that had happened in the Tortchakov’s + married life. He walked about the yard till the evening, picturing his + wife’s face, and it seemed to him now spiteful and ugly. And as + though to torment him the Cossack haunted his brain, and Maxim seemed to + see now his sick eyes, now his unsteady walk. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, we were unkind to the man,” he muttered. + </p> + <p> + When it got dark, he was overcome by an insufferable depression such as he + had never felt before. Feeling so dreary, and being angry with his wife, + he got drunk, as he had sometimes done before he was married. In his + drunkenness he used bad language and shouted to his wife that she had a + spiteful, ugly face, and that next day he would send her packing to her + father’s. On the morning of Easter Monday, he drank some more to + sober himself, and got drunk again. + </p> + <p> + And with that his downfall began. + </p> + <p> + His horses, cows, sheep, and hives disappeared one by one from the yard; + Maxim was more and more often drunk, debts mounted up, he felt an aversion + for his wife. Maxim put down all his misfortunes to the fact that he had + an unkind wife, and above all, that God was angry with him on account of + the sick Cossack. + </p> + <p> + Lizaveta saw their ruin, but who was to blame for it she did not + understand. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ABORIGINES + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">B</span>ETWEEN nine and + ten in the morning. Ivan Lyashkevsky, a lieutenant of Polish origin, who + has at some time or other been wounded in the head, and now lives on his + pension in a town in one of the southern provinces, is sitting in his + lodgings at the open window talking to Franz Stepanitch Finks, the town + architect, who has come in to see him for a minute. Both have thrust their + heads out of the window, and are looking in the direction of the gate near + which Lyashkevsky’s landlord, a plump little native with pendulous + perspiring cheeks, in full, blue trousers, is sitting on a bench with his + waistcoat unbuttoned. The native is plunged in deep thought, and is + absent-mindedly prodding the toe of his boot with a stick. + </p> + <p> + “Extraordinary people, I tell you,” grumbled Lyashkevsky, + looking angrily at the native, “here he has sat down on the bench, + and so he will sit, damn the fellow, with his hands folded till evening. + They do absolutely nothing. The wastrels and loafers! It would be all + right, you scoundrel, if you had money lying in the bank, or had a farm of + your own where others would be working for you, but here you have not a + penny to your name, you eat the bread of others, you are in debt all + round, and you starve your family—devil take you! You wouldn’t + believe me, Franz Stepanitch, sometimes it makes me so cross that I could + jump out of the window and give the low fellow a good horse-whipping. + Come, why don’t you work? What are you sitting there for?” + </p> + <p> + The native looks indifferently at Lyashkevsky, tries to say something but + cannot; sloth and the sultry heat have paralysed his conversational + faculties. . . . Yawning lazily, he makes the sign of the cross over his + mouth, and turns his eyes up towards the sky where pigeons fly, bathing in + the hot air. + </p> + <p> + “You must not be too severe in your judgments, honoured friend,” + sighs Finks, mopping his big bald head with his handkerchief. “Put + yourself in their place: business is slack now, there’s unemployment + all round, a bad harvest, stagnation in trade.” + </p> + <p> + “Good gracious, how you talk!” cries Lyashkevsky in + indignation, angrily wrapping his dressing gown round him. “Supposing + he has no job and no trade, why doesn’t he work in his own home, the + devil flay him! I say! Is there no work for you at home? Just look, you + brute! Your steps have come to pieces, the plankway is falling into the + ditch, the fence is rotten; you had better set to and mend it all, or if + you don’t know how, go into the kitchen and help your wife. Your + wife is running out every minute to fetch water or carry out the slops. + Why shouldn’t you run instead, you rascal? And then you must + remember, Franz Stepanitch, that he has six acres of garden, that he has + pigsties and poultry houses, but it is all wasted and no use. The flower + garden is overgrown with weeds and almost baked dry, while the boys play + ball in the kitchen garden. Isn’t he a lazy brute? I assure you, + though I have only the use of an acre and a half with my lodgings, you + will always find radishes, and salad, and fennel, and onions, while that + blackguard buys everything at the market.” + </p> + <p> + “He is a Russian, there is no doing anything with him,” said + Finks with a condescending smile; “it’s in the Russian blood. + . . . They are a very lazy people! If all property were given to Germans + or Poles, in a year’s time you would not recognise the town.” + </p> + <p> + The native in the blue trousers beckons a girl with a sieve, buys a kopeck’s + worth of sunflower seeds from her and begins cracking them. + </p> + <p> + “A race of curs!” says Lyashkevsky angrily. “That’s + their only occupation, they crack sunflower seeds and they talk politics! + The devil take them!” + </p> + <p> + Staring wrathfully at the blue trousers, Lyashkevsky is gradually roused + to fury, and gets so excited that he actually foams at the mouth. He + speaks with a Polish accent, rapping out each syllable venomously, till at + last the little bags under his eyes swell, and he abandons the Russian + “scoundrels, blackguards, and rascals,” and rolling his eyes, + begins pouring out a shower of Polish oaths, coughing from his efforts. + “Lazy dogs, race of curs. May the devil take them!” + </p> + <p> + The native hears this abuse distinctly, but, judging from the appearance + of his crumpled little figure, it does not affect him. Apparently he has + long ago grown as used to it as to the buzzing of the flies, and feels it + superfluous to protest. At every visit Finks has to listen to a tirade on + the subject of the lazy good-for-nothing aborigines, and every time + exactly the same one. + </p> + <p> + “But . . . I must be going,” he says, remembering that he has + no time to spare. “Good-bye!” + </p> + <p> + “Where are you off to?” + </p> + <p> + “I only looked in on you for a minute. The wall of the cellar has + cracked in the girls’ high school, so they asked me to go round at + once to look at it. I must go.” + </p> + <p> + “H’m. . . . I have told Varvara to get the samovar,” + says Lyashkevsky, surprised. “Stay a little, we will have some tea; + then you shall go.” + </p> + <p> + Finks obediently puts down his hat on the table and remains to drink tea. + Over their tea Lyashkevsky maintains that the natives are hopelessly + ruined, that there is only one thing to do, to take them all + indiscriminately and send them under strict escort to hard labour. + </p> + <p> + “Why, upon my word,” he says, getting hot, “you may ask + what does that goose sitting there live upon! He lets me lodgings in his + house for seven roubles a month, and he goes to name-day parties, that’s + all that he has to live on, the knave, may the devil take him! He has + neither earnings nor an income. They are not merely sluggards and + wastrels, they are swindlers too, they are continually borrowing money + from the town bank, and what do they do with it? They plunge into some + scheme such as sending bulls to Moscow, or building oil presses on a new + system; but to send bulls to Moscow or to press oil you want to have a + head on your shoulders, and these rascals have pumpkins on theirs! Of + course all their schemes end in smoke . . . . They waste their money, get + into a mess, and then snap their fingers at the bank. What can you get out + of them? Their houses are mortgaged over and over again, they have no + other property—it’s all been drunk and eaten up long ago. + Nine-tenths of them are swindlers, the scoundrels! To borrow money and not + return it is their rule. Thanks to them the town bank is going smash!” + </p> + <p> + “I was at Yegorov’s yesterday,” Finks interrupts the + Pole, anxious to change the conversation, “and only fancy, I won six + roubles and a half from him at picquet.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe I still owe you something at picquet,” Lyashkevsky + recollects, “I ought to win it back. Wouldn’t you like one + game?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps just one,” Finks assents. “I must make haste to + the high school, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Lyashkevsky and Finks sit down at the open window and begin a game of + picquet. The native in the blue trousers stretches with relish, and husks + of sunflower seeds fall in showers from all over him on to the ground. At + that moment from the gate opposite appears another native with a long + beard, wearing a crumpled yellowish-grey cotton coat. He screws up his + eyes affectionately at the blue trousers and shouts: + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning, Semyon Nikolaitch, I have the honour to congratulate + you on the Thursday.” + </p> + <p> + “And the same to you, Kapiton Petrovitch!” + </p> + <p> + “Come to my seat! It’s cool here!” + </p> + <p> + The blue trousers, with much sighing and groaning and waddling from side + to side like a duck, cross the street. + </p> + <p> + “Tierce major . . .” mutters Lyashkevsky, “from the + queen. . . . Five and fifteen. . . . The rascals are talking of politics. + . . . Do you hear? They have begun about England. I have six hearts.” + </p> + <p> + “I have the seven spades. My point.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it’s yours. Do you hear? They are abusing Beaconsfield. + They don’t know, the swine, that Beaconsfield has been dead for ever + so long. So I have twenty-nine. . . . Your lead.” + </p> + <p> + “Eight . . . nine . . . ten . . . . Yes, amazing people, these + Russians! Eleven . . . twelve. . . . The Russian inertia is unique on the + terrestrial globe.” + </p> + <p> + “Thirty . . . Thirty-one. . . . One ought to take a good whip, you + know. Go out and give them Beaconsfield. I say, how their tongues are + wagging! It’s easier to babble than to work. I suppose you threw + away the queen of clubs and I didn’t realise it.” + </p> + <p> + “Thirteen . . . Fourteen. . . . It’s unbearably hot! One must + be made of iron to sit in such heat on a seat in the full sun! Fifteen.” + </p> + <p> + The first game is followed by a second, the second by a third. . . . Finks + loses, and by degrees works himself up into a gambling fever and forgets + all about the cracking walls of the high school cellar. As Lyashkevsky + plays he keeps looking at the aborigines. He sees them, entertaining each + other with conversation, go to the open gate, cross the filthy yard and + sit down on a scanty patch of shade under an aspen tree. Between twelve + and one o’clock the fat cook with brown legs spreads before them + something like a baby’s sheet with brown stains upon it, and gives + them their dinner. They eat with wooden spoons, keep brushing away the + flies, and go on talking. + </p> + <p> + “The devil, it is beyond everything,” cries Lyashkevsky, + revolted. “I am very glad I have not a gun or a revolver or I should + have a shot at those cattle. I have four knaves—fourteen. . . . Your + point. . . . It really gives me a twitching in my legs. I can’t see + those ruffians without being upset.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t excite yourself, it is bad for you.” + </p> + <p> + “But upon my word, it is enough to try the patience of a stone!” + </p> + <p> + When he has finished dinner the native in blue trousers, worn out and + exhausted, staggering with laziness and repletion, crosses the street to + his own house and sinks feebly on to his bench. He is struggling with + drowsiness and the gnats, and is looking about him as dejectedly as though + he were every minute expecting his end. His helpless air drives + Lyashkevsky out of all patience. The Pole pokes his head out of the window + and shouts at him, spluttering: + </p> + <p> + “Been gorging? Ah, the old woman! The sweet darling. He has been + stuffing himself, and now he doesn’t know what to do with his tummy! + Get out of my sight, you confounded fellow! Plague take you!” + </p> + <p> + The native looks sourly at him, and merely twiddles his fingers instead of + answering. A school-boy of his acquaintance passes by him with his satchel + on his back. Stopping him the native ponders a long time what to say to + him, and asks: + </p> + <p> + “Well, what now?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “How, nothing?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, just nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “H’m. . . . And which subject is the hardest?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s according.” The school-boy shrugs his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “I see—er . . . What is the Latin for tree?” + </p> + <p> + “Arbor.” + </p> + <p> + “Aha. . . . And so one has to know all that,” sighs the blue + trousers. “You have to go into it all. . . . It’s hard work, + hard work. . . . Is your dear Mamma well?” + </p> + <p> + “She is all right, thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah. . . . Well, run along.” + </p> + <p> + After losing two roubles Finks remembers the high school and is horrified. + </p> + <p> + “Holy Saints, why it’s three o’clock already. How I have + been staying on. Good-bye, I must run. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Have dinner with me, and then go,” says Lyashkevsky. “You + have plenty of time.” + </p> + <p> + Finks stays, but only on condition that dinner shall last no more than ten + minutes. After dining he sits for some five minutes on the sofa and thinks + of the cracked wall, then resolutely lays his head on the cushion and + fills the room with a shrill whistling through his nose. While he is + asleep, Lyashkevsky, who does not approve of an afternoon nap, sits at the + window, stares at the dozing native, and grumbles: + </p> + <p> + “Race of curs! I wonder you don’t choke with laziness. No + work, no intellectual or moral interests, nothing but vegetating . . . . + disgusting. Tfoo!” + </p> + <p> + At six o’clock Finks wakes up. + </p> + <p> + “It’s too late to go to the high school now,” he says, + stretching. “I shall have to go to-morrow, and now. . . . How about + my revenge? Let’s have one more game. . . .” + </p> + <p> + After seeing his visitor off, between nine and ten, Lyashkevsky looks + after him for some time, and says: + </p> + <p> + “Damn the fellow, staying here the whole day and doing absolutely + nothing. . . . Simply get their salary and do no work; the devil take + them! . . . The German pig. . . .” + </p> + <p> + He looks out of the window, but the native is no longer there. He has gone + to bed. There is no one to grumble at, and for the first time in the day + he keeps his mouth shut, but ten minutes passes and he cannot restrain the + depression that overpowers him, and begins to grumble, shoving the old + shabby armchair: + </p> + <p> + “You only take up room, rubbishly old thing! You ought to have been + burnt long ago, but I keep forgetting to tell them to chop you up. It’s + a disgrace!” + </p> + <p> + And as he gets into bed he presses his hand on a spring of the mattress, + frowns and says peevishly: + </p> + <p> + “The con—found—ed spring! It will cut my side all night. + I will tell them to rip up the mattress to-morrow and get you out, you + useless thing.” + </p> + <p> + He falls asleep at midnight, and dreams that he is pouring boiling water + over the natives, Finks, and the old armchair. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN INQUIRY + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>T was midday. + Voldyrev, a tall, thick-set country gentleman with a cropped head and + prominent eyes, took off his overcoat, mopped his brow with his silk + handkerchief, and somewhat diffidently went into the government office. + There they were scratching away. . . . + </p> + <p> + “Where can I make an inquiry here?” he said, addressing a + porter who was bringing a trayful of glasses from the furthest recesses of + the office. “I have to make an inquiry here and to take a copy of a + resolution of the Council.” + </p> + <p> + “That way please! To that one sitting near the window!” said + the porter, indicating with the tray the furthest window. Voldyrev coughed + and went towards the window; there, at a green table spotted like typhus, + was sitting a young man with his hair standing up in four tufts on his + head, with a long pimply nose, and a long faded uniform. He was writing, + thrusting his long nose into the papers. A fly was walking about near his + right nostril, and he was continually stretching out his lower lip and + blowing under his nose, which gave his face an extremely care-worn + expression. + </p> + <p> + “May I make an inquiry about my case here . . . of you? My name is + Voldyrev. And, by the way, I have to take a copy of the resolution of the + Council of the second of March.” + </p> + <p> + The clerk dipped his pen in the ink and looked to see if he had got too + much on it. Having satisfied himself that the pen would not make a blot, + he began scribbling away. His lip was thrust out, but it was no longer + necessary to blow: the fly had settled on his ear. + </p> + <p> + “Can I make an inquiry here?” Voldyrev repeated a minute + later, “my name is Voldyrev, I am a landowner. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Ivan Alexeitch!” the clerk shouted into the air as though he + had not observed Voldyrev, “will you tell the merchant Yalikov when + he comes to sign the copy of the complaint lodged with the police! I’ve + told him a thousand times!” + </p> + <p> + “I have come in reference to my lawsuit with the heirs of Princess + Gugulin,” muttered Voldyrev. “The case is well known. I + earnestly beg you to attend to me.” + </p> + <p> + Still failing to observe Voldyrev, the clerk caught the fly on his lip, + looked at it attentively and flung it away. The country gentleman coughed + and blew his nose loudly on his checked pocket handkerchief. But this was + no use either. He was still unheard. The silence lasted for two minutes. + Voldyrev took a rouble note from his pocket and laid it on an open book + before the clerk. The clerk wrinkled up his forehead, drew the book + towards him with an anxious air and closed it. + </p> + <p> + “A little inquiry. . . . I want only to find out on what grounds the + heirs of Princess Gugulin. . . . May I trouble you?” + </p> + <p> + The clerk, absorbed in his own thoughts, got up and, scratching his elbow, + went to a cupboard for something. Returning a minute later to his table he + became absorbed in the book again: another rouble note was lying upon it. + </p> + <p> + “I will trouble you for one minute only. . . . I have only to make + an inquiry.” + </p> + <p> + The clerk did not hear, he had begun copying something. + </p> + <p> + Voldyrev frowned and looked hopelessly at the whole scribbling + brotherhood. + </p> + <p> + “They write!” he thought, sighing. “They write, the + devil take them entirely!” + </p> + <p> + He walked away from the table and stopped in the middle of the room, his + hands hanging hopelessly at his sides. The porter, passing again with + glasses, probably noticed the helpless expression of his face, for he went + close up to him and asked him in a low voice: + </p> + <p> + “Well? Have you inquired?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve inquired, but he wouldn’t speak to me.” + </p> + <p> + “You give him three roubles,” whispered the porter. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve given him two already.” + </p> + <p> + “Give him another.” + </p> + <p> + Voldyrev went back to the table and laid a green note on the open book. + </p> + <p> + The clerk drew the book towards him again and began turning over the + leaves, and all at once, as though by chance, lifted his eyes to Voldyrev. + His nose began to shine, turned red, and wrinkled up in a grin. + </p> + <p> + “Ah . . . what do you want?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I want to make an inquiry in reference to my case. . . . My name is + Voldyrev.” + </p> + <p> + “With pleasure! The Gugulin case, isn’t it? Very good. What is + it then exactly?” + </p> + <p> + Voldyrev explained his business. + </p> + <p> + The clerk became as lively as though he were whirled round by a hurricane. + He gave the necessary information, arranged for a copy to be made, gave + the petitioner a chair, and all in one instant. He even spoke about the + weather and asked after the harvest. And when Voldyrev went away he + accompanied him down the stairs, smiling affably and respectfully, and + looking as though he were ready any minute to fall on his face before the + gentleman. Voldyrev for some reason felt uncomfortable, and in obedience + to some inward impulse he took a rouble out of his pocket and gave it to + the clerk. And the latter kept bowing and smiling, and took the rouble + like a conjuror, so that it seemed to flash through the air. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what people!” thought the country gentleman as he went + out into the street, and he stopped and mopped his brow with his + handkerchief. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MARTYRS + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">L</span>IZOTCHKA + KUDRINSKY, a young married lady who had many admirers, was suddenly taken + ill, and so seriously that her husband did not go to his office, and a + telegram was sent to her mamma at Tver. This is how she told the story of + her illness: + </p> + <p> + “I went to Lyesnoe to auntie’s. I stayed there a week and then + I went with all the rest to cousin Varya’s. Varya’s husband is + a surly brute and a despot (I’d shoot a husband like that), but we + had a very jolly time there. To begin with I took part in some private + theatricals. It was <i>A Scandal in a Respectable Family</i>. Hrustalev + acted marvellously! Between the acts I drank some cold, awfully cold, + lemon squash, with the tiniest nip of brandy in it. Lemon squash with + brandy in it is very much like champagne. . . . I drank it and I felt + nothing. Next day after the performance I rode out on horseback with that + Adolf Ivanitch. It was rather damp and there was a strong wind. It was + most likely then that I caught cold. Three days later I came home to see + how my dear, good Vassya was getting on, and while here to get my silk + dress, the one that has little flowers on it. Vassya, of course, I did not + find at home. I went into the kitchen to tell Praskovya to set the + samovar, and there I saw on the table some pretty little carrots and + turnips like playthings. I ate one little carrot and well, a turnip too. I + ate very little, but only fancy, I began having a sharp pain at once—spasms + . . . spasms . . . spasms . . . ah, I am dying. Vassya runs from the + office. Naturally he clutches at his hair and turns white. They run for + the doctor. . . . Do you understand, I am dying, dying.” + </p> + <p> + The spasms began at midday, before three o’clock the doctor came, + and at six Lizotchka fell asleep and slept soundly till two o’clock + in the morning. + </p> + <p> + It strikes two. . . . The light of the little night lamp filters scantily + through the pale blue shade. Lizotchka is lying in bed, her white lace cap + stands out sharply against the dark background of the red cushion. Shadows + from the blue lamp-shade lie in patterns on her pale face and her round + plump shoulders. Vassily Stepanovitch is sitting at her feet. The poor + fellow is happy that his wife is at home at last, and at the same time he + is terribly alarmed by her illness. + </p> + <p> + “Well, how do you feel, Lizotchka?” he asks in a whisper, + noticing that she is awake. + </p> + <p> + “I am better,” moans Lizotchka. “I don’t feel the + spasms now, but there is no sleeping. . . . I can’t get to sleep!” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it time to change the compress, my angel?” + </p> + <p> + Lizotchka sits up slowly with the expression of a martyr and gracefully + turns her head on one side. Vassily Stepanovitch with reverent awe, + scarcely touching her hot body with his fingers, changes the compress. + Lizotchka shrinks, laughs at the cold water which tickles her, and lies + down again. + </p> + <p> + “You are getting no sleep, poor boy!” she moans. + </p> + <p> + “As though I could sleep!” + </p> + <p> + “It’s my nerves, Vassya, I am a very nervous woman. The doctor + has prescribed for stomach trouble, but I feel that he doesn’t + understand my illness. It’s nerves and not the stomach, I swear that + it is my nerves. There is only one thing I am afraid of, that my illness + may take a bad turn.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Lizotchka, no, to-morrow you will be all right!” + </p> + <p> + “Hardly likely! I am not afraid for myself. . . . I don’t + care, indeed, I shall be glad to die, but I am sorry for you! You’ll + be a widower and left all alone.” + </p> + <p> + Vassitchka rarely enjoys his wife’s society, and has long been used + to solitude, but Lizotchka’s words agitate him. + </p> + <p> + “Goodness knows what you are saying, little woman! Why these gloomy + thoughts?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you will cry and grieve, and then you will get used to it. + You’ll even get married again.” + </p> + <p> + The husband clutches his head. + </p> + <p> + “There, there, I won’t!” Lizotchka soothes him, “only + you ought to be prepared for anything.” + </p> + <p> + “And all of a sudden I shall die,” she thinks, shutting her + eyes. + </p> + <p> + And Lizotchka draws a mental picture of her own death, how her mother, her + husband, her cousin Varya with her husband, her relations, the admirers of + her “talent” press round her death bed, as she whispers her + last farewell. All are weeping. Then when she is dead they dress her, + interestingly pale and dark-haired, in a pink dress (it suits her) and lay + her in a very expensive coffin on gold legs, full of flowers. There is a + smell of incense, the candles splutter. Her husband never leaves the + coffin, while the admirers of her talent cannot take their eyes off her, + and say: “As though living! She is lovely in her coffin!” The + whole town is talking of the life cut short so prematurely. But now they + are carrying her to the church. The bearers are Ivan Petrovitch, Adolf + Ivanitch, Varya’s husband, Nikolay Semyonitch, and the black-eyed + student who had taught her to drink lemon squash with brandy. It’s + only a pity there’s no music playing. After the burial service comes + the leave-taking. The church is full of sobs, they bring the lid with + tassels, and . . . Lizotchka is shut off from the light of day for ever, + there is the sound of hammering nails. Knock, knock, knock. + </p> + <p> + Lizotchka shudders and opens her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Vassya, are you here?” she asks. “I have such gloomy + thoughts. Goodness, why am I so unlucky as not to sleep. Vassya, have + pity, do tell me something!” + </p> + <p> + “What shall I tell you?” + </p> + <p> + “Something about love,” Lizotchka says languidly. “Or + some anecdote about Jews. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Vassily Stepanovitch, ready for anything if only his wife will be cheerful + and not talk about death, combs locks of hair over his ears, makes an + absurd face, and goes up to Lizotchka. + </p> + <p> + “Does your vatch vant mending?” he asks. + </p> + <p> + “It does, it does,” giggles Lizotchka, and hands him her gold + watch from the little table. “Mend it.” + </p> + <p> + Vassya takes the watch, examines the mechanism for a long time, and + wriggling and shrugging, says: “She can not be mended . . . in vun + veel two cogs are vanting. . . .” + </p> + <p> + This is the whole performance. Lizotchka laughs and claps her hands. + </p> + <p> + “Capital,” she exclaims. “Wonderful. Do you know, + Vassya, it’s awfully stupid of you not to take part in amateur + theatricals! You have a remarkable talent! You are much better than + Sysunov. There was an amateur called Sysunov who played with us in <i>It’s + My Birthday</i>. A first-class comic talent, only fancy: a nose as thick + as a parsnip, green eyes, and he walks like a crane. . . . We all roared; + stay, I will show you how he walks.” + </p> + <p> + Lizotchka springs out of bed and begins pacing about the floor, barefooted + and without her cap. + </p> + <p> + “A very good day to you!” she says in a bass, imitating a man’s + voice. “Anything pretty? Anything new under the moon? Ha, ha, ha!” + she laughs. + </p> + <p> + “Ha, ha, ha!” Vassya seconds her. And the young pair, roaring + with laughter, forgetting the illness, chase one another about the room. + The race ends in Vassya’s catching his wife by her nightgown and + eagerly showering kisses upon her. After one particularly passionate + embrace Lizotchka suddenly remembers that she is seriously ill. . . . + </p> + <p> + “What silliness!” she says, making a serious face and covering + herself with the quilt. “I suppose you have forgotten that I am ill! + Clever, I must say!” + </p> + <p> + “Sorry . . .” falters her husband in confusion. + </p> + <p> + “If my illness takes a bad turn it will be your fault. Not kind! not + good!” + </p> + <p> + Lizotchka closes her eyes and is silent. Her former languor and expression + of martyrdom return again, there is a sound of gentle moans. Vassya + changes the compress, and glad that his wife is at home and not gadding + off to her aunt’s, sits meekly at her feet. He does not sleep all + night. At ten o’clock the doctor comes. + </p> + <p> + “Well, how are we feeling?” he asks as he takes her pulse. + “Have you slept?” + </p> + <p> + “Badly,” Lizotchka’s husband answers for her, “very + badly.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor walks away to the window and stares at a passing chimney-sweep. + </p> + <p> + “Doctor, may I have coffee to-day?” asks Lizotchka. + </p> + <p> + “You may.” + </p> + <p> + “And may I get up?” + </p> + <p> + “You might, perhaps, but . . . you had better lie in bed another + day.” + </p> + <p> + “She is awfully depressed,” Vassya whispers in his ear, + “such gloomy thoughts, such pessimism. I am dreadfully uneasy about + her.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor sits down to the little table, and rubbing his forehead, + prescribes bromide of potassium for Lizotchka, then makes his bow, and + promising to look in again in the evening, departs. Vassya does not go to + the office, but sits all day at his wife’s feet. + </p> + <p> + At midday the admirers of her talent arrive in a crowd. They are agitated + and alarmed, they bring masses of flowers and French novels. Lizotchka, in + a snow-white cap and a light dressing jacket, lies in bed with an + enigmatic look, as though she did not believe in her own recovery. The + admirers of her talent see her husband, but readily forgive his presence: + they and he are united by one calamity at that bedside! + </p> + <p> + At six o’clock in the evening Lizotchka falls asleep, and again + sleeps till two o’clock in the morning. Vassya as before sits at her + feet, struggles with drowsiness, changes her compress, plays at being a + Jew, and in the morning after a second night of suffering, Liza is + prinking before the looking-glass and putting on her hat. + </p> + <p> + “Wherever are you going, my dear?” asks Vassya, with an + imploring look at her. + </p> + <p> + “What?” says Lizotchka in wonder, assuming a scared + expression, “don’t you know that there is a rehearsal to-day + at Marya Lvovna’s?” + </p> + <p> + After escorting her there, Vassya having nothing to do to while away his + boredom, takes his portfolio and goes to the office. His head aches so + violently from his sleepless nights that his left eye shuts of itself and + refuses to open. . . . + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter with you, my good sir?” his chief + asks him. “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + Vassya waves his hand and sits down. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t ask me, your Excellency,” he says with a sigh. + “What I have suffered in these two days, what I have suffered! Liza + has been ill!” + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens,” cried his chief in alarm. “Lizaveta + Pavlovna, what is wrong with her?” + </p> + <p> + Vassily Stepanovitch merely throws up his hands and raises his eyes to the + ceiling, as though he would say: “It’s the will of Providence.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, my boy, I can sympathise with you with all my heart!” + sighs his chief, rolling his eyes. “I’ve lost my wife, my + dear, I understand. That is a loss, it is a loss! It’s awful, awful! + I hope Lizaveta Pavlovna is better now! What doctor is attending her?” + </p> + <p> + “Von Schterk.” + </p> + <p> + “Von Schterk! But you would have been better to have called in + Magnus or Semandritsky. But how very pale your face is. You are ill + yourself! This is awful!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, your Excellency, I haven’t slept. What I have suffered, + what I have been through!” + </p> + <p> + “And yet you came! Why you came I can’t understand? One can’t + force oneself like that! One mustn’t do oneself harm like that. Go + home and stay there till you are well again! Go home, I command you! Zeal + is a very fine thing in a young official, but you mustn’t forget as + the Romans used to say: ‘mens sana in corpore sano,’ that is, + a healthy brain in a healthy body.” + </p> + <p> + Vassya agrees, puts his papers back in his portfolio, and, taking leave of + his chief, goes home to bed. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LION AND THE SUN + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>N one of the towns + lying on this side of the Urals a rumour was afloat that a Persian + magnate, called Rahat-Helam, was staying for a few days in the town and + putting up at the “Japan Hotel.” This rumour made no + impression whatever upon the inhabitants; a Persian had arrived, well, so + be it. Only Stepan Ivanovitch Kutsyn, the mayor of the town, hearing of + the arrival of the oriental gentleman from the secretary of the Town Hall, + grew thoughtful and inquired: + </p> + <p> + “Where is he going?” + </p> + <p> + “To Paris or to London, I believe.” + </p> + <p> + “H’m. . . . Then he is a big-wig, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “The devil only knows.” + </p> + <p> + As he went home from the Town Hall and had his dinner, the mayor sank into + thought again, and this time he went on thinking till the evening. The + arrival of the distinguished Persian greatly intrigued him. It seemed to + him that fate itself had sent him this Rahat-Helam, and that a favourable + opportunity had come at last for realising his passionate, secretly + cherished dream. Kutsyn had already two medals, and the Stanislav of the + third degree, the badge of the Red Cross, and the badge of the Society of + Saving from Drowning, and in addition to these he had made himself a + little gold gun crossed by a guitar, and this ornament, hung from a + buttonhole in his uniform, looked in the distance like something special, + and delightfully resembled a badge of distinction. It is well known that + the more orders and medals you have the more you want—and the mayor + had long been desirous of receiving the Persian order of The Lion and the + Sun; he desired it passionately, madly. He knew very well that there was + no need to fight, or to subscribe to an asylum, or to serve on committees + to obtain this order; all that was needed was a favourable opportunity. + And now it seemed to him that this opportunity had come. + </p> + <p> + At noon on the following day he put on his chain and all his badges of + distinction and went to the ‘Japan.’ Destiny favoured him. + When he entered the distinguished Persian’s apartment the latter was + alone and doing nothing. Rahat-Helam, an enormous Asiatic, with a long + nose like the beak of a snipe, with prominent eyes, and with a fez on his + head, was sitting on the floor rummaging in his portmanteau. + </p> + <p> + “I beg you to excuse my disturbing you,” began Kutsyn, + smiling. “I have the honour to introduce myself, the hereditary, + honourable citizen and cavalier, Stepan Ivanovitch Kutsyn, mayor of this + town. I regard it as my duty to honour, in the person of your Highness, so + to say, the representative of a friendly and neighbourly state.” + </p> + <p> + The Persian turned and muttered something in very bad French, that sounded + like tapping a board with a piece of wood. + </p> + <p> + “The frontiers of Persia”—Kutsyn continued the greeting + he had previously learned by heart—“are in close contact with + the borders of our spacious fatherland, and therefore mutual sympathies + impel me, so to speak, to express my solidarity with you.” + </p> + <p> + The illustrious Persian got up and again muttered something in a wooden + tongue. Kutsyn, who knew no foreign language, shook his head to show that + he did not understand. + </p> + <p> + “Well, how am I to talk to him?” he thought. “It would + be a good thing to send for an interpreter at once, but it is a delicate + matter, I can’t talk before witnesses. The interpreter would be + chattering all over the town afterwards.” + </p> + <p> + And Kutsyn tried to recall the foreign words he had picked up from the + newspapers. + </p> + <p> + “I am the mayor of the town,” he muttered. “That is the + <i>lord mayor</i> . . . <i>municipalais</i> . . . Vwee? Kompreney?” + </p> + <p> + He wanted to express his social position in words or in gesture, and did + not know how. A picture hanging on the wall with an inscription in large + letters, “The Town of Venice,” helped him out of his + difficulties. He pointed with his finger at the town, then at his own + head, and in that way obtained, as he imagined, the phrase: “I am + the head of the town.” The Persian did not understand, but he gave a + smile, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Goot, monsieur . . . goot . . . . .” Half-an-hour later the + mayor was slapping the Persian, first on the knee and then on the + shoulder, and saying: + </p> + <p> + “Kompreney? Vwee? As <i>lord mayor</i> and <i>municipalais</i> I + suggest that you should take a little <i>promenage . . . kompreney? + Promenage.</i>” + </p> + <p> + Kutsyn pointed at Venice, and with two fingers represented walking legs. + Rahat-Helam who kept his eyes fixed on his medals, and was apparently + guessing that this was the most important person in the town, understood + the word <i>promenage</i> and grinned politely. Then they both put on + their coats and went out of the room. Downstairs near the door leading to + the restaurant of the ‘Japan,’ Kutsyn reflected that it would + not be amiss to entertain the Persian. He stopped and indicating the + tables, said: + </p> + <p> + “By Russian custom it wouldn’t be amiss . . . <i>puree, + entrekot</i>, champagne and so on, kompreney.” + </p> + <p> + The illustrious visitor understood, and a little later they were both + sitting in the very best room of the restaurant, eating, and drinking + champagne. + </p> + <p> + “Let us drink to the prosperity of Persia!” said Kutsyn. + “We Russians love the Persians. Though we are of another faith, yet + there are common interests, mutual, so to say, sympathies . . . progress . + . . Asiatic markets. . . . The campaigns of peace so to say. . . .” + </p> + <p> + The illustrious Persian ate and drank with an excellent appetite, he stuck + his fork into a slice of smoked sturgeon, and wagging his head, + enthusiastically said: “<i>Goot, bien.</i>” + </p> + <p> + “You like it?” said the mayor delighted. “<i>Bien</i>, + that’s capital.” And turning to the waiter he said: “Luka, + my lad, see that two pieces of smoked sturgeon, the best you have, are + sent up to his Highness’s room!” + </p> + <p> + Then the mayor and the Persian magnate went to look at the menagerie. The + townspeople saw their Stepan Ivanovitch, flushed with champagne, gay and + very well pleased, leading the Persian about the principal streets and the + bazaar, showing him the points of interest of the town, and even taking + him to the fire tower. + </p> + <p> + Among other things the townspeople saw him stop near some stone gates with + lions on it, and point out to the Persian first the lion, then the sun + overhead, and then his own breast; then again he pointed to the lion and + to the sun while the Persian nodded his head as though in sign of assent, + and smiling showed his white teeth. In the evening they were sitting in + the London Hotel listening to the harp-players, and where they spent the + night is not known. + </p> + <p> + Next day the mayor was at the Town Hall in the morning; the officials + there apparently already knew something and were making their conjectures, + for the secretary went up to him and said with an ironical smile: + </p> + <p> + “It is the custom of the Persians when an illustrious visitor comes + to visit you, you must slaughter a sheep with your own hands.” + </p> + <p> + And a little later an envelope that had come by post was handed to him. + The mayor tore it open and saw a caricature in it. It was a drawing of + Rahat-Helam with the mayor on his knees before him, stretching out his + hands and saying: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “To prove our Russian friendship + For Persia’s mighty realm, + And show respect for you, her envoy, + Myself I’d slaughter like a lamb, + But, pardon me, for I’m a—donkey!” + </pre> + <p> + The mayor was conscious of an unpleasant feeling like a gnawing in the pit + of the stomach, but not for long. By midday he was again with the + illustrious Persian, again he was regaling him and showing him the points + of interest in the town. Again he led him to the stone gates, and again + pointed to the lion, to the sun and to his own breast. They dined at the + ‘Japan’; after dinner, with cigars in their teeth, both, + flushed and blissful, again mounted the fire tower, and the mayor, + evidently wishing to entertain the visitor with an unusual spectacle, + shouted from the top to a sentry walking below: + </p> + <p> + “Sound the alarm!” + </p> + <p> + But the alarm was not sounded as the firemen were at the baths at the + moment. + </p> + <p> + They supped at the ‘London’ and, after supper, the Persian + departed. When he saw him off, Stepan Ivanovitch kissed him three times + after the Russian fashion, and even grew tearful. And when the train + started, he shouted: + </p> + <p> + “Give our greeting to Persia! Tell her that we love her!” + </p> + <p> + A year and four months had passed. There was a bitter frost, thirty-five + degrees, and a piercing wind was blowing. Stepan Ivanovitch was walking + along the street with his fur coat thrown open over his chest, and he was + annoyed that he met no one to see the Lion and the Sun upon his breast. He + walked about like this till evening with his fur coat open, was chilled to + the bone, and at night tossed from side to side and could not get to + sleep. + </p> + <p> + He felt heavy at heart. + </p> + <p> + There was a burning sensation inside him, and his heart throbbed uneasily; + he had a longing now to get a Serbian order. It was a painful, passionate + longing. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A DAUGHTER OF ALBION + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> FINE carriage + with rubber tyres, a fat coachman, and velvet on the seats, rolled up to + the house of a landowner called Gryabov. Fyodor Andreitch Otsov, the + district Marshal of Nobility, jumped out of the carriage. A drowsy footman + met him in the hall. + </p> + <p> + “Are the family at home?” asked the Marshal. + </p> + <p> + “No, sir. The mistress and the children are gone out paying visits, + while the master and mademoiselle are catching fish. Fishing all the + morning, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Otsov stood a little, thought a little, and then went to the river to look + for Gryabov. Going down to the river he found him a mile and a half from + the house. Looking down from the steep bank and catching sight of Gryabov, + Otsov gushed with laughter. . . . Gryabov, a large stout man, with a very + big head, was sitting on the sand, angling, with his legs tucked under him + like a Turk. His hat was on the back of his head and his cravat had + slipped on one side. Beside him stood a tall thin Englishwoman, with + prominent eyes like a crab’s, and a big bird-like nose more like a + hook than a nose. She was dressed in a white muslin gown through which her + scraggy yellow shoulders were very distinctly apparent. On her gold belt + hung a little gold watch. She too was angling. The stillness of the grave + reigned about them both. Both were motionless, as the river upon which + their floats were swimming. + </p> + <p> + “A desperate passion, but deadly dull!” laughed Otsov. “Good-day, + Ivan Kuzmitch.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah . . . is that you?” asked Gryabov, not taking his eyes off + the water. “Have you come?” + </p> + <p> + “As you see . . . . And you are still taken up with your crazy + nonsense! Not given it up yet?” + </p> + <p> + “The devil’s in it. . . . I begin in the morning and fish all + day . . . . The fishing is not up to much to-day. I’ve caught + nothing and this dummy hasn’t either. We sit on and on and not a + devil of a fish! I could scream!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, chuck it up then. Let’s go and have some vodka!” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a little, maybe we shall catch something. Towards evening the + fish bite better . . . . I’ve been sitting here, my boy, ever since + the morning! I can’t tell you how fearfully boring it is. It was the + devil drove me to take to this fishing! I know that it is rotten idiocy + for me to sit here. I sit here like some scoundrel, like a convict, and I + stare at the water like a fool. I ought to go to the haymaking, but here I + sit catching fish. Yesterday His Holiness held a service at Haponyevo, but + I didn’t go. I spent the day here with this . . . with this + she-devil.” + </p> + <p> + “But . . . have you taken leave of your senses?” asked Otsov, + glancing in embarrassment at the Englishwoman. “Using such language + before a lady and she . . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, confound her, it doesn’t matter, she doesn’t + understand a syllable of Russian, whether you praise her or blame her, it + is all the same to her! Just look at her nose! Her nose alone is enough to + make one faint. We sit here for whole days together and not a single word! + She stands like a stuffed image and rolls the whites of her eyes at the + water.” + </p> + <p> + The Englishwoman gave a yawn, put a new worm on, and dropped the hook into + the water. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder at her not a little,” Gryabov went on, “the + great stupid has been living in Russia for ten years and not a word of + Russian! . . . Any little aristocrat among us goes to them and learns to + babble away in their lingo, while they . . . there’s no making them + out. Just look at her nose, do look at her nose!” + </p> + <p> + “Come, drop it . . . it’s uncomfortable. Why attack a woman?” + </p> + <p> + “She’s not a woman, but a maiden lady. . . . I bet she’s + dreaming of suitors. The ugly doll. And she smells of something decaying . + . . . I’ve got a loathing for her, my boy! I can’t look at her + with indifference. When she turns her ugly eyes on me it sends a twinge + all through me as though I had knocked my elbow on the parapet. She likes + fishing too. Watch her: she fishes as though it were a holy rite! She + looks upon everything with disdain . . . . She stands there, the wretch, + and is conscious that she is a human being, and that therefore she is the + monarch of nature. And do you know what her name is? Wilka Charlesovna + Fyce! Tfoo! There is no getting it out!” + </p> + <p> + The Englishwoman, hearing her name, deliberately turned her nose in + Gryabov’s direction and scanned him with a disdainful glance; she + raised her eyes from Gryabov to Otsov and steeped him in disdain. And all + this in silence, with dignity and deliberation. + </p> + <p> + “Did you see?” said Gryabov chuckling. “As though to say + ‘take that.’ Ah, you monster! It’s only for the children’s + sake that I keep that triton. If it weren’t for the children, I + wouldn’t let her come within ten miles of my estate. . . . She has + got a nose like a hawk’s . . . and her figure! That doll makes me + think of a long nail, so I could take her, and knock her into the ground, + you know. Stay, I believe I have got a bite. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Gryabov jumped up and raised his rod. The line drew taut. . . . Gryabov + tugged again, but could not pull out the hook. + </p> + <p> + “It has caught,” he said, frowning, “on a stone I expect + . . . damnation take it . . . .” + </p> + <p> + There was a look of distress on Gryabov’s face. Sighing, moving + uneasily, and muttering oaths, he began tugging at the line. + </p> + <p> + “What a pity; I shall have to go into the water.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, chuck it!” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t. . . . There’s always good fishing in the + evening. . . . What a nuisance. Lord, forgive us, I shall have to wade + into the water, I must! And if only you knew, I have no inclination to + undress. I shall have to get rid of the Englishwoman. . . . It’s + awkward to undress before her. After all, she is a lady, you know!” + </p> + <p> + Gryabov flung off his hat, and his cravat. + </p> + <p> + “Meess . . . er, er . . .” he said, addressing the + Englishwoman, “Meess Fyce, je voo pree . . . ? Well, what am I to + say to her? How am I to tell you so that you can understand? I say . . . + over there! Go away over there! Do you hear?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Fyce enveloped Gryabov in disdain, and uttered a nasal sound. + </p> + <p> + “What? Don’t you understand? Go away from here, I tell you! I + must undress, you devil’s doll! Go over there! Over there!” + </p> + <p> + Gryabov pulled the lady by her sleeve, pointed her towards the bushes, and + made as though he would sit down, as much as to say: Go behind the bushes + and hide yourself there. . . . The Englishwoman, moving her eyebrows + vigorously, uttered rapidly a long sentence in English. The gentlemen + gushed with laughter. + </p> + <p> + “It’s the first time in my life I’ve heard her voice. + There’s no denying, it is a voice! She does not understand! Well, + what am I to do with her?” + </p> + <p> + “Chuck it, let’s go and have a drink of vodka!” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t. Now’s the time to fish, the evening. . . . It’s + evening . . . . Come, what would you have me do? It is a nuisance! I shall + have to undress before her. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Gryabov flung off his coat and his waistcoat and sat on the sand to take + off his boots. + </p> + <p> + “I say, Ivan Kuzmitch,” said the marshal, chuckling behind his + hand. “It’s really outrageous, an insult.” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody asks her not to understand! It’s a lesson for these + foreigners!” + </p> + <p> + Gryabov took off his boots and his trousers, flung off his undergarments + and remained in the costume of Adam. Otsov held his sides, he turned + crimson both from laughter and embarrassment. The Englishwoman twitched + her brows and blinked . . . . A haughty, disdainful smile passed over her + yellow face. + </p> + <p> + “I must cool off,” said Gryabov, slapping himself on the ribs. + “Tell me if you please, Fyodor Andreitch, why I have a rash on my + chest every summer.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do get into the water quickly or cover yourself with something, + you beast.” + </p> + <p> + “And if only she were confused, the nasty thing,” said + Gryabov, crossing himself as he waded into the water. “Brrrr . . . + the water’s cold. . . . Look how she moves her eyebrows! She doesn’t + go away . . . she is far above the crowd! He, he, he . . . . and she doesn’t + reckon us as human beings.” + </p> + <p> + Wading knee deep in the water and drawing his huge figure up to its full + height, he gave a wink and said: + </p> + <p> + “This isn’t England, you see!” + </p> + <p> + Miss Fyce coolly put on another worm, gave a yawn, and dropped the hook + in. Otsov turned away, Gryabov released his hook, ducked into the water + and, spluttering, waded out. Two minutes later he was sitting on the sand + and angling as before. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHORISTERS + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE Justice of the + Peace, who had received a letter from Petersburg, had set the news going + that the owner of Yefremovo, Count Vladimir Ivanovitch, would soon be + arriving. When he would arrive—there was no saying. + </p> + <p> + “Like a thief in the night,” said Father Kuzma, a grey-headed + little priest in a lilac cassock. “And when he does come the place + will be crowded with the nobility and other high gentry. All the + neighbours will flock here. Mind now, do your best, Alexey Alexeitch. . . + . I beg you most earnestly.” + </p> + <p> + “You need not trouble about me,” said Alexey Alexeitch, + frowning. “I know my business. If only my enemy intones the litany + in the right key. He may . . . out of sheer spite. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “There, there. . . . I’ll persuade the deacon. . . I’ll + persuade him.” + </p> + <p> + Alexey Alexeitch was the sacristan of the Yefremovo church. He also taught + the schoolboys church and secular singing, for which he received sixty + roubles a year from the revenues of the Count’s estate. The + schoolboys were bound to sing in church in return for their teaching. + Alexey Alexeitch was a tall, thick-set man of dignified deportment, with a + fat, clean-shaven face that reminded one of a cow’s udder. His + imposing figure and double chin made him look like a man occupying an + important position in the secular hierarchy rather than a sacristan. It + was strange to see him, so dignified and imposing, flop to the ground + before the bishop and, on one occasion, after too loud a squabble with the + deacon Yevlampy Avdiessov, remain on his knees for two hours by order of + the head priest of the district. Grandeur was more in keeping with his + figure than humiliation. + </p> + <p> + On account of the rumours of the Count’s approaching visit he had a + choir practice every day, morning and evening. The choir practice was held + at the school. It did not interfere much with the school work. During the + practice the schoolmaster, Sergey Makaritch, set the children writing + copies while he joined the tenors as an amateur. + </p> + <p> + This is how the choir practice was conducted. Alexey Alexeitch would come + into the school-room, slamming the door and blowing his nose. The trebles + and altos extricated themselves noisily from the school-tables. The tenors + and basses, who had been waiting for some time in the yard, came in, + tramping like horses. They all took their places. Alexey Alexeitch drew + himself up, made a sign to enforce silence, and struck a note with the + tuning fork. + </p> + <p> + “To-to-li-to-tom . . . Do-mi-sol-do!” + </p> + <p> + “Adagio, adagio. . . . Once more.” + </p> + <p> + After the “Amen” there followed “Lord have mercy upon us” + from the Great Litany. All this had been learned long ago, sung a thousand + times and thoroughly digested, and it was gone through simply as a + formality. It was sung indolently, unconsciously. Alexey Alexeitch waved + his arms calmly and chimed in now in a tenor, now in a bass voice. It was + all slow, there was nothing interesting. . . . But before the “Cherubim” + hymn the whole choir suddenly began blowing their noses, coughing and + zealously turning the pages of their music. The sacristan turned his back + on the choir and with a mysterious expression on his face began tuning his + violin. The preparations lasted a couple of minutes. + </p> + <p> + “Take your places. Look at your music carefully. . . . Basses, don’t + overdo it . . . rather softly.” + </p> + <p> + Bortnyansky’s “Cherubim” hymn, No. 7, was selected. At a + given signal silence prevailed. All eyes were fastened on the music, the + trebles opened their mouths. Alexey Alexeitch softly lowered his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Piano . . . piano. . . . You see ‘piano’ is written + there. . . . More lightly, more lightly.” + </p> + <p> + When they had to sing “piano” an expression of benevolence and + amiability overspread Alexey Alexeitch’s face, as though he was + dreaming of a dainty morsel. + </p> + <p> + “Forte . . . forte! Hold it!” + </p> + <p> + And when they had to sing “forte” the sacristan’s fat + face expressed alarm and even horror. + </p> + <p> + The “Cherubim” hymn was sung well, so well that the + school-children abandoned their copies and fell to watching the movements + of Alexey Alexeitch. People stood under the windows. The school-watchman, + Vassily, came in wearing an apron and carrying a dinner-knife in his hand + and stood listening. Father Kuzma, with an anxious face appeared suddenly + as though he had sprung from out of the earth. . . . After ‘Let us + lay aside all earthly cares’ Alexey Alexeitch wiped the sweat off + his brow and went up to Father Kuzma in excitement. + </p> + <p> + “It puzzles me, Father Kuzma,” he said, shrugging his + shoulders, “why is it that the Russian people have no understanding? + It puzzles me, may the Lord chastise me! Such an uncultured people that + you really cannot tell whether they have a windpipe in their throats or + some other sort of internal arrangement. Were you choking, or what?” + he asked, addressing the bass Gennady Semitchov, the innkeeper’s + brother. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “What is your voice like? It rattles like a saucepan. I bet you were + boozing yesterday! That’s what it is! Your breath smells like a + tavern. . . . E-ech! You are a clodhopper, brother! You are a lout! How + can you be a chorister if you keep company with peasants in the tavern? + Ech, you are an ass, brother!” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a sin, it’s a sin, brother,” muttered Father + Kuzma. “God sees everything . . . through and through . . . .” + </p> + <p> + “That’s why you have no idea of singing—because you care + more for vodka than for godliness, you fool.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t work yourself up,” said Father Kuzma. “Don’t + be cross. . . . I will persuade him.” + </p> + <p> + Father Kuzma went up to Gennady Semitchov and began “persuading” + him: “What do you do it for? Try and put your mind to it. A man who + sings ought to restrain himself, because his throat is . . . er . . + tender.” + </p> + <p> + Gennady scratched his neck and looked sideways towards the window as + though the words did not apply to him. + </p> + <p> + After the “Cherubim” hymn they sang the Creed, then “It + is meet and right”; they sang smoothly and with feeling, and so + right on to “Our Father.” + </p> + <p> + “To my mind, Father Kuzma,” said the sacristan, “the old + ‘Our Father’ is better than the modern. That’s what we + ought to sing before the Count.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no. . . . Sing the modern one. For the Count hears nothing but + modern music when he goes to Mass in Petersburg or Moscow. . . . In the + churches there, I imagine . . . there’s very different sort of music + there, brother!” + </p> + <p> + After “Our Father” there was again a great blowing of noses, + coughing and turning over of pages. The most difficult part of the + performance came next: the “concert.” Alexey Alexeitch was + practising two pieces, “Who is the God of glory” and “Universal + Praise.” Whichever the choir learned best would be sung before the + Count. During the “concert” the sacristan rose to a pitch of + enthusiasm. The expression of benevolence was continually alternating with + one of alarm. + </p> + <p> + “Forte!” he muttered. “Andante! let yourselves go! Sing, + you image! Tenors, you don’t bring it off! To-to-ti-to-tom. . . . + Sol . . . si . . . sol, I tell you, you blockhead! Glory! Basses, glo . . + . o . . . ry.” + </p> + <p> + His bow travelled over the heads and shoulders of the erring trebles and + altos. His left hand was continually pulling the ears of the young + singers. On one occasion, carried away by his feelings he flipped the bass + Gennady under the chin with his bent thumb. But the choristers were not + moved to tears or to anger at his blows: they realised the full gravity of + their task. + </p> + <p> + After the “concert” came a minute of silence. Alexey + Alexeitch, red, perspiring and exhausted, sat down on the window-sill, and + turned upon the company lustreless, wearied, but triumphant eyes. In the + listening crowd he observed to his immense annoyance the deacon Avdiessov. + The deacon, a tall thick-set man with a red pock-marked face, and straw in + his hair, stood leaning against the stove and grinning contemptuously. + </p> + <p> + “That’s right, sing away! Perform your music!” he + muttered in a deep bass. “Much the Count will care for your singing! + He doesn’t care whether you sing with music or without. . . . For he + is an atheist.” + </p> + <p> + Father Kuzma looked round in a scared way and twiddled his fingers. + </p> + <p> + “Come, come,” he muttered. “Hush, deacon, I beg.” + </p> + <p> + After the “concert” they sang “May our lips be filled + with praise,” and the choir practice was over. The choir broke up to + reassemble in the evening for another practice. And so it went on every + day. + </p> + <p> + One month passed and then a second. . . . The steward, too, had by then + received a notice that the Count would soon be coming. At last the dusty + sun-blinds were taken off the windows of the big house, and Yefremovo + heard the strains of the broken-down, out-of-tune piano. Father Kuzma was + pining, though he could not himself have said why, or whether it was from + delight or alarm. . . . The deacon went about grinning. + </p> + <p> + The following Saturday evening Father Kuzma went to the sacristan’s + lodgings. His face was pale, his shoulders drooped, the lilac of his + cassock looked faded. + </p> + <p> + “I have just been at his Excellency’s,” he said to the + sacristan, stammering. “He is a cultivated gentleman with refined + ideas. But . . . er . . . it’s mortifying, brother. . . . ‘At + what o’clock, your Excellency, do you desire us to ring for Mass + to-morrow?’ And he said: ‘As you think best. Only, couldn’t + it be as short and quick as possible without a choir.’ Without a + choir! Er . . . do you understand, without, without a choir. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Alexey Alexeitch turned crimson. He would rather have spent two hours on + his knees again than have heard those words! He did not sleep all night. + He was not so much mortified at the waste of his labours as at the fact + that the deacon would give him no peace now with his jeers. The deacon was + delighted at his discomfiture. Next day all through the service he was + casting disdainful glances towards the choir where Alexey Alexeitch was + booming responses in solitude. When he passed by the choir with the censer + he muttered: + </p> + <p> + “Perform your music! Do your utmost! The Count will give a + ten-rouble note to the choir!” + </p> + <p> + After the service the sacristan went home, crushed and ill with + mortification. At the gate he was overtaken by the red-faced deacon. + </p> + <p> + “Stop a minute, Alyosha!” said the deacon. “Stop a + minute, silly, don’t be cross! You are not the only one, I am in for + it too! Immediately after the Mass Father Kuzma went up to the Count and + asked: ‘And what did you think of the deacon’s voice, your + Excellency. He has a deep bass, hasn’t he?’ And the Count—do + you know what he answered by way of compliment? ‘Anyone can bawl,’ + he said. ‘A man’s voice is not as important as his brains.’ + A learned gentleman from Petersburg! An atheist is an atheist, and that’s + all about it! Come, brother in misfortune, let us go and have a drop to + drown our troubles!” + </p> + <p> + And the enemies went out of the gate arm-in-arm. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + NERVES + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>MITRI OSIPOVITCH + VAXIN, the architect, returned from town to his holiday cottage greatly + impressed by the spiritualistic séance at which he had been present. As he + undressed and got into his solitary bed (Madame Vaxin had gone to an + all-night service) he could not help remembering all he had seen and + heard. It had not, properly speaking, been a séance at all, but the whole + evening had been spent in terrifying conversation. A young lady had begun + it by talking, apropos of nothing, about thought-reading. From + thought-reading they had passed imperceptibly to spirits, and from spirits + to ghosts, from ghosts to people buried alive. . . . A gentleman had read + a horrible story of a corpse turning round in the coffin. Vaxin himself + had asked for a saucer and shown the young ladies how to converse with + spirits. He had called up among others the spirit of his deceased uncle, + Klavdy Mironitch, and had mentally asked him: + </p> + <p> + “Has not the time come for me to transfer the ownership of our house + to my wife?” + </p> + <p> + To which his uncle’s spirit had replied: + </p> + <p> + “All things are good in their season.” + </p> + <p> + “There is a great deal in nature that is mysterious and . . . + terrible . . .” thought Vaxin, as he got into bed. “It’s + not the dead but the unknown that’s so horrible.” + </p> + <p> + It struck one o’clock. Vaxin turned over on the other side and + peeped out from beneath the bedclothes at the blue light of the lamp + burning before the holy ikon. The flame flickered and cast a faint light + on the ikon-stand and the big portrait of Uncle Klavdy that hung facing + his bed. + </p> + <p> + “And what if the ghost of Uncle Klavdy should appear this minute?” + flashed through Vaxin’s mind. “But, of course, that’s + impossible.” + </p> + <p> + Ghosts are, we all know, a superstition, the offspring of undeveloped + intelligence, but Vaxin, nevertheless, pulled the bed-clothes over his + head, and shut his eyes very tight. The corpse that turned round in its + coffin came back to his mind, and the figures of his deceased + mother-in-law, of a colleague who had hanged himself, and of a girl who + had drowned herself, rose before his imagination. . . . Vaxin began trying + to dispel these gloomy ideas, but the more he tried to drive them away the + more haunting the figures and fearful fancies became. He began to feel + frightened. + </p> + <p> + “Hang it all!” he thought. “Here I am afraid in the dark + like a child! Idiotic!” + </p> + <p> + Tick . . . tick . . . tick . . . he heard the clock in the next room. The + church-bell chimed the hour in the churchyard close by. The bell tolled + slowly, depressingly, mournfully. . . . A cold chill ran down Vaxin’s + neck and spine. He fancied he heard someone breathing heavily over his + head, as though Uncle Klavdy had stepped out of his frame and was bending + over his nephew. . . . Vaxin felt unbearably frightened. He clenched his + teeth and held his breath in terror. + </p> + <p> + At last, when a cockchafer flew in at the open window and began buzzing + over his bed, he could bear it no longer and gave a violent tug at the + bellrope. + </p> + <p> + “Dmitri Osipitch, <i>was wollen Sie?</i>” he heard the voice + of the German governess at his door a moment later. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, it’s you, Rosalia Karlovna!” Vaxin cried, + delighted. “Why do you trouble? Gavrila might just . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Yourself Gavrila to the town sent. And Glafira is somewhere all the + evening gone. . . . There’s nobody in the house. . . . <i>Was wollen + Sie doch?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what I wanted . . . it’s . . . but, please, come in . . + . you needn’t mind! . . . it’s dark.” + </p> + <p> + Rosalia Karlovna, a stout red-cheeked person, came in to the bedroom and + stood in an expectant attitude at the door. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down, please . . . you see, it’s like this. . . . What on + earth am I to ask her for?” he wondered, stealing a glance at Uncle + Klavdy’s portrait and feeling his soul gradually returning to + tranquility. + </p> + <p> + “What I really wanted to ask you was . . . Oh, when the man goes to + town, don’t forget to tell him to . . . er . . . er . . . to get + some cigarette-papers. . . . But do, please sit down.” + </p> + <p> + “Cigarette-papers? good. . . . <i>Was wollen Sie noch?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Ich will</i> . . . there’s nothing I will, but. . . But do + sit down! I shall think of something else in a minute.” + </p> + <p> + “It is shocking for a maiden in a man’s room to remain. . . . + Mr. Vaxin, you are, I see, a naughty man. . . . I understand. . . . To + order cigarette-papers one does not a person wake. . . . I understand you. + . . .” + </p> + <p> + Rosalia Karlovna turned and went out of the room. + </p> + <p> + Somewhat reassured by his conversation with her and ashamed of his + cowardice, Vaxin pulled the bedclothes over his head and shut his eyes. + For about ten minutes he felt fairly comfortable, then the same nonsense + came creeping back into his mind. . . . He swore to himself, felt for the + matches, and without opening his eyes lighted a candle. + </p> + <p> + But even the light was no use. To Vaxin’ s excited imagination it + seemed as though someone were peeping round the corner and that his uncle’s + eyes were moving. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll ring her up again . . . damn the woman!” he + decided. “I’ll tell her I’m unwell and ask for some + drops.” + </p> + <p> + Vaxin rang. There was no response. He rang again, and as though answering + his ring, he heard the church-bell toll the hour. + </p> + <p> + Overcome with terror, cold all over, he jumped out of bed, ran headlong + out of his bedroom, and making the sign of the cross and cursing himself + for his cowardice, he fled barefoot in his night-shirt to the governess’s + room. + </p> + <p> + “Rosalia Karlovna!” he began in a shaking voice as he knocked + at her door, “Rosalia Karlovna! . . . Are you asleep? . . . I feel . + . . so . . . er . . . er . . . unwell. . . . Drops! . . .” + </p> + <p> + There was no answer. Silence reigned. + </p> + <p> + “I beg you . . . do you understand? I beg you! Why this + squeamishness, I can’t understand . . . especially when a man . . . + is ill . . . How absurdly <i>zierlich manierlich</i> you are really . . . + at your age. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “I to your wife shall tell. . . . Will not leave an honest maiden in + peace. . . . When I was at Baron Anzig’s, and the baron try to come + to me for matches, I understand at once what his matches mean and tell to + the baroness. . . . I am an honest maiden.” + </p> + <p> + “Hang your honesty! I am ill I tell you . . . and asking you for + drops. Do you understand? I’m ill!” + </p> + <p> + “Your wife is an honest, good woman, and you ought her to love! <i>Ja!</i> + She is noble! . . . I will not be her foe!” + </p> + <p> + “You are a fool! simply a fool! Do you understand, a fool?” + </p> + <p> + Vaxin leaned against the door-post, folded his arms and waited for his + panic to pass off. To return to his room where the lamp flickered and his + uncle stared at him from his frame was more than he could face, and to + stand at the governess’s door in nothing but his night-shirt was + inconvenient from every point of view. What could he do? + </p> + <p> + It struck two o’clock and his terror had not left him. There was no + light in the passage and something dark seemed to be peeping out from + every corner. Vaxin turned so as to face the door-post, but at that + instant it seemed as though somebody tweaked his night-shirt from behind + and touched him on the shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Damnation! . . . Rosalia Karlovna!” + </p> + <p> + No answer. Vaxin hesitatingly opened the door and peeped into the room. + The virtuous German was sweetly slumbering. The tiny flame of a + night-light threw her solid buxom person into relief. Vaxin stepped into + the room and sat down on a wickerwork trunk near the door. He felt better + in the presence of a living creature, even though that creature was + asleep. + </p> + <p> + “Let the German idiot sleep,” he thought, “I’ll + sit here, and when it gets light I’ll go back. . . . It’s + daylight early now.” + </p> + <p> + Vaxin curled up on the trunk and put his arm under his head to await the + coming of dawn. + </p> + <p> + “What a thing it is to have nerves!” he reflected. “An + educated, intelligent man! . . . Hang it all! . . . It’s a perfect + disgrace!” + </p> + <p> + As he listened to the gentle, even breathing of Rosalia Karlovna, he soon + recovered himself completely. + </p> + <p> + At six o’clock, Vaxin’s wife returned from the all-night + service, and not finding her husband in their bedroom, went to the + governess to ask her for some change for the cabman. + </p> + <p> + On entering the German’s room, a strange sight met her eyes. + </p> + <p> + On the bed lay stretched Rosalia Karlovna fast asleep, and a couple of + yards from her was her husband curled up on the trunk sleeping the sleep + of the just and snoring loudly. + </p> + <p> + What she said to her husband, and how he looked when he woke, I leave to + others to describe. It is beyond my powers. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A WORK OF ART + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>ASHA SMIRNOV, the + only son of his mother, holding under his arm, something wrapped up in No. + 223 of the <i>Financial News</i>, assumed a sentimental expression, and + went into Dr. Koshelkov’s consulting-room. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, dear lad!” was how the doctor greeted him. “Well! + how are we feeling? What good news have you for me?” + </p> + <p> + Sasha blinked, laid his hand on his heart and said in an agitated voice: + “Mamma sends her greetings to you, Ivan Nikolaevitch, and told me to + thank you. . . . I am the only son of my mother and you have saved my life + . . . you have brought me through a dangerous illness and . . . we do not + know how to thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, lad!” said the doctor, highly delighted. “I + only did what anyone else would have done in my place.” + </p> + <p> + “I am the only son of my mother . . . we are poor people and cannot + of course repay you, and we are quite ashamed, doctor, although, however, + mamma and I . . . the only son of my mother, earnestly beg you to accept + in token of our gratitude . . . this object, which . . . An object of + great value, an antique bronze. . . . A rare work of art.” + </p> + <p> + “You shouldn’t!” said the doctor, frowning. “What’s + this for!” + </p> + <p> + “No, please do not refuse,” Sasha went on muttering as he + unpacked the parcel. “You will wound mamma and me by refusing. . . . + It’s a fine thing . . . an antique bronze. . . . It was left us by + my deceased father and we have kept it as a precious souvenir. My father + used to buy antique bronzes and sell them to connoisseurs . . . Mamma and + I keep on the business now.” + </p> + <p> + Sasha undid the object and put it solemnly on the table. It was a not very + tall candelabra of old bronze and artistic workmanship. It consisted of a + group: on the pedestal stood two female figures in the costume of Eve and + in attitudes for the description of which I have neither the courage nor + the fitting temperament. The figures were smiling coquettishly and + altogether looked as though, had it not been for the necessity of + supporting the candlestick, they would have skipped off the pedestal and + have indulged in an orgy such as is improper for the reader even to + imagine. + </p> + <p> + Looking at the present, the doctor slowly scratched behind his ear, + cleared his throat and blew his nose irresolutely. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it certainly is a fine thing,” he muttered, “but . + . . how shall I express it? . . . it’s . . . h’m . . . it’s + not quite for family reading. It’s not simply decolleté but beyond + anything, dash it all. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “How do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “The serpent-tempter himself could not have invented anything worse + . . . . Why, to put such a phantasmagoria on the table would be defiling + the whole flat.” + </p> + <p> + “What a strange way of looking at art, doctor!” said Sasha, + offended. “Why, it is an artistic thing, look at it! There is so + much beauty and elegance that it fills one’s soul with a feeling of + reverence and brings a lump into one’s throat! When one sees + anything so beautiful one forgets everything earthly. . . . Only look, how + much movement, what an atmosphere, what expression!” + </p> + <p> + “I understand all that very well, my dear boy,” the doctor + interposed, “but you know I am a family man, my children run in + here, ladies come in.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course if you look at it from the point of view of the crowd,” + said Sasha, “then this exquisitely artistic work may appear in a + certain light. . . . But, doctor, rise superior to the crowd, especially + as you will wound mamma and me by refusing it. I am the only son of my + mother, you have saved my life. . . . We are giving you the thing most + precious to us and . . . and I only regret that I have not the pair to + present to you. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, my dear fellow, I am very grateful . . . Give my + respects to your mother but really consider, my children run in here, + ladies come. . . . However, let it remain! I see there’s no arguing + with you.” + </p> + <p> + “And there is nothing to argue about,” said Sasha, relieved. + “Put the candlestick here, by this vase. What a pity we have not the + pair to it! It is a pity! Well, good-bye, doctor.” + </p> + <p> + After Sasha’s departure the doctor looked for a long time at the + candelabra, scratched behind his ear and meditated. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a superb thing, there’s no denying it,” he + thought, “and it would be a pity to throw it away. . . . But it’s + impossible for me to keep it. . . . H’m! . . . Here’s a + problem! To whom can I make a present of it, or to what charity can I give + it?” + </p> + <p> + After long meditation he thought of his good friend, the lawyer Uhov, to + whom he was indebted for the management of legal business. + </p> + <p> + “Excellent,” the doctor decided, “it would be awkward + for him as a friend to take money from me, and it will be very suitable + for me to present him with this. I will take him the devilish thing! + Luckily he is a bachelor and easy-going.” + </p> + <p> + Without further procrastination the doctor put on his hat and coat, took + the candelabra and went off to Uhov’s. + </p> + <p> + “How are you, friend!” he said, finding the lawyer at home. + “I’ve come to see you . . . to thank you for your efforts. . . + . You won’t take money so you must at least accept this thing here. + . . . See, my dear fellow. . . . The thing is magnificent!” + </p> + <p> + On seeing the bronze the lawyer was moved to indescribable delight. + </p> + <p> + “What a specimen!” he chuckled. “Ah, deuce take it, to + think of them imagining such a thing, the devils! Exquisite! Ravishing! + Where did you get hold of such a delightful thing?” + </p> + <p> + After pouring out his ecstasies the lawyer looked timidly towards the door + and said: “Only you must carry off your present, my boy . . . . I + can’t take it. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” cried the doctor, disconcerted. + </p> + <p> + “Why . . . because my mother is here at times, my clients . . . + besides I should be ashamed for my servants to see it.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense! Nonsense! Don’t you dare to refuse!” said the + doctor, gesticulating. “It’s piggish of you! It’s a work + of art! . . . What movement . . . what expression! I won’t even talk + of it! You will offend me!” + </p> + <p> + “If one could plaster it over or stick on fig-leaves . . .” + </p> + <p> + But the doctor gesticulated more violently than before, and dashing out of + the flat went home, glad that he had succeeded in getting the present off + his hands. + </p> + <p> + When he had gone away the lawyer examined the candelabra, fingered it all + over, and then, like the doctor, racked his brains over the question what + to do with the present. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a fine thing,” he mused, “and it would be a + pity to throw it away and improper to keep it. The very best thing would + be to make a present of it to someone. . . . I know what! I’ll take + it this evening to Shashkin, the comedian. The rascal is fond of such + things, and by the way it is his benefit tonight.” + </p> + <p> + No sooner said than done. In the evening the candelabra, carefully wrapped + up, was duly carried to Shashkin’s. The whole evening the comic + actor’s dressing-room was besieged by men coming to admire the + present; the dressing-room was filled with the hum of enthusiasm and + laughter like the neighing of horses. If one of the actresses approached + the door and asked: “May I come in?” the comedian’s + husky voice was heard at once: “No, no, my dear, I am not dressed!” + </p> + <p> + After the performance the comedian shrugged his shoulders, flung up his + hands and said: “Well what am I to do with the horrid thing? Why, I + live in a private flat! Actresses come and see me! It’s not a + photograph that you can put in a drawer!” + </p> + <p> + “You had better sell it, sir,” the hairdresser who was + disrobing the actor advised him. “There’s an old woman living + about here who buys antique bronzes. Go and enquire for Madame Smirnov . . + . everyone knows her.” + </p> + <p> + The actor followed his advice. . . . Two days later the doctor was sitting + in his consulting-room, and with his finger to his brow was meditating on + the acids of the bile. All at once the door opened and Sasha Smirnov flew + into the room. He was smiling, beaming, and his whole figure was radiant + with happiness. In his hands he held something wrapped up in newspaper. + </p> + <p> + “Doctor!” he began breathlessly, “imagine my delight! + Happily for you we have succeeded in picking up the pair to your + candelabra! Mamma is so happy. . . . I am the only son of my mother, you + saved my life. . . .” + </p> + <p> + And Sasha, all of a tremor with gratitude, set the candelabra before the + doctor. The doctor opened his mouth, tried to say something, but said + nothing: he could not speak. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A JOKE + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>T was a bright + winter midday. . . . There was a sharp snapping frost and the curls on + Nadenka’s temples and the down on her upper lip were covered with + silvery frost. She was holding my arm and we were standing on a high hill. + From where we stood to the ground below there stretched a smooth sloping + descent in which the sun was reflected as in a looking-glass. Beside us + was a little sledge lined with bright red cloth. + </p> + <p> + “Let us go down, Nadyezhda Petrovna!” I besought her. “Only + once! I assure you we shall be all right and not hurt.” + </p> + <p> + But Nadenka was afraid. The slope from her little goloshes to the bottom + of the ice hill seemed to her a terrible, immensely deep abyss. Her spirit + failed her, and she held her breath as she looked down, when I merely + suggested her getting into the sledge, but what would it be if she were to + risk flying into the abyss! She would die, she would go out of her mind. + </p> + <p> + “I entreat you!” I said. “You mustn’t be afraid! + You know it’s poor-spirited, it’s cowardly!” + </p> + <p> + Nadenka gave way at last, and from her face I saw that she gave way in + mortal dread. I sat her in the sledge, pale and trembling, put my arm + round her and with her cast myself down the precipice. + </p> + <p> + The sledge flew like a bullet. The air cleft by our flight beat in our + faces, roared, whistled in our ears, tore at us, nipped us cruelly in its + anger, tried to tear our heads off our shoulders. We had hardly strength + to breathe from the pressure of the wind. It seemed as though the devil + himself had caught us in his claws and was dragging us with a roar to + hell. Surrounding objects melted into one long furiously racing streak . . + . another moment and it seemed we should perish. + </p> + <p> + “I love you, Nadya!” I said in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + The sledge began moving more and more slowly, the roar of the wind and the + whirr of the runners was no longer so terrible, it was easier to breathe, + and at last we were at the bottom. Nadenka was more dead than alive. She + was pale and scarcely breathing. . . . I helped her to get up. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing would induce me to go again,” she said, looking at me + with wide eyes full of horror. “Nothing in the world! I almost died!” + </p> + <p> + A little later she recovered herself and looked enquiringly into my eyes, + wondering had I really uttered those four words or had she fancied them in + the roar of the hurricane. And I stood beside her smoking and looking + attentively at my glove. + </p> + <p> + She took my arm and we spent a long while walking near the ice-hill. The + riddle evidently would not let her rest. . . . Had those words been + uttered or not? . . . Yes or no? Yes or no? It was the question of pride, + or honour, of life—a very important question, the most important + question in the world. Nadenka kept impatiently, sorrowfully looking into + my face with a penetrating glance; she answered at random, waiting to see + whether I would not speak. Oh, the play of feeling on that sweet face! I + saw that she was struggling with herself, that she wanted to say + something, to ask some question, but she could not find the words; she + felt awkward and frightened and troubled by her joy. . . . + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what,” she said without looking at me. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Let us . . . slide down again.” + </p> + <p> + We clambered up the ice-hill by the steps again. I sat Nadenka, pale and + trembling, in the sledge; again we flew into the terrible abyss, again the + wind roared and the runners whirred, and again when the flight of our + sledge was at its swiftest and noisiest, I said in a low voice: + </p> + <p> + “I love you, Nadenka!” + </p> + <p> + When the sledge stopped, Nadenka flung a glance at the hill down which we + had both slid, then bent a long look upon my face, listened to my voice + which was unconcerned and passionless, and the whole of her little figure, + every bit of it, even her muff and her hood expressed the utmost + bewilderment, and on her face was written: “What does it mean? Who + uttered <i>those</i> words? Did he, or did I only fancy it?” + </p> + <p> + The uncertainty worried her and drove her out of all patience. The poor + girl did not answer my questions, frowned, and was on the point of tears. + </p> + <p> + “Hadn’t we better go home?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I . . . I like this tobogganning,” she said, flushing. + “Shall we go down once more?” + </p> + <p> + She “liked” the tobogganning, and yet as she got into the + sledge she was, as both times before, pale, trembling, hardly able to + breathe for terror. + </p> + <p> + We went down for the third time, and I saw she was looking at my face and + watching my lips. But I put my handkerchief to my lips, coughed, and when + we reached the middle of the hill I succeeded in bringing out: + </p> + <p> + “I love you, Nadya!” + </p> + <p> + And the mystery remained a mystery! Nadenka was silent, pondering on + something. . . . I saw her home, she tried to walk slowly, slackened her + pace and kept waiting to see whether I would not say those words to her, + and I saw how her soul was suffering, what effort she was making not to + say to herself: + </p> + <p> + “It cannot be that the wind said them! And I don’t want it to + be the wind that said them!” + </p> + <p> + Next morning I got a little note: + </p> + <p> + “If you are tobogganning to-day, come for me.—N.” + </p> + <p> + And from that time I began going every day tobogganning with Nadenka, and + as we flew down in the sledge, every time I pronounced in a low voice the + same words: “I love you, Nadya!” + </p> + <p> + Soon Nadenka grew used to that phrase as to alcohol or morphia. She could + not live without it. It is true that flying down the ice-hill terrified + her as before, but now the terror and danger gave a peculiar fascination + to words of love—words which as before were a mystery and tantalized + the soul. The same two—the wind and I were still suspected. . . . + Which of the two was making love to her she did not know, but apparently + by now she did not care; from which goblet one drinks matters little if + only the beverage is intoxicating. + </p> + <p> + It happened I went to the skating-ground alone at midday; mingling with + the crowd I saw Nadenka go up to the ice-hill and look about for me . . . + then she timidly mounted the steps. . . . She was frightened of going + alone—oh, how frightened! She was white as the snow, she was + trembling, she went as though to the scaffold, but she went, she went + without looking back, resolutely. She had evidently determined to put it + to the test at last: would those sweet amazing words be heard when I was + not there? I saw her, pale, her lips parted with horror, get into the + sledge, shut her eyes and saying good-bye for ever to the earth, set off. + . . . “Whrrr!” whirred the runners. Whether Nadenka heard + those words I do not know. I only saw her getting up from the sledge + looking faint and exhausted. And one could tell from her face that she + could not tell herself whether she had heard anything or not. Her terror + while she had been flying down had deprived of her all power of hearing, + of discriminating sounds, of understanding. + </p> + <p> + But then the month of March arrived . . . the spring sunshine was more + kindly. . . . Our ice-hill turned dark, lost its brilliance and finally + melted. We gave up tobogganning. There was nowhere now where poor Nadenka + could hear those words, and indeed no one to utter them, since there was + no wind and I was going to Petersburg—for long, perhaps for ever. + </p> + <p> + It happened two days before my departure I was sitting in the dusk in the + little garden which was separated from the yard of Nadenka’s house + by a high fence with nails in it. . . . It was still pretty cold, there + was still snow by the manure heap, the trees looked dead but there was + already the scent of spring and the rooks were cawing loudly as they + settled for their night’s rest. I went up to the fence and stood for + a long while peeping through a chink. I saw Nadenka come out into the + porch and fix a mournful yearning gaze on the sky. . . . The spring wind + was blowing straight into her pale dejected face. . . . It reminded her of + the wind which roared at us on the ice-hill when she heard those four + words, and her face became very, very sorrowful, a tear trickled down her + cheek, and the poor child held out both arms as though begging the wind to + bring her those words once more. And waiting for the wind I said in a low + voice: + </p> + <p> + “I love you, Nadya!” + </p> + <p> + Mercy! The change that came over Nadenka! She uttered a cry, smiled all + over her face and looking joyful, happy and beautiful, held out her arms + to meet the wind. + </p> + <p> + And I went off to pack up. . . . + </p> + <p> + That was long ago. Now Nadenka is married; she married—whether of + her own choice or not does not matter—a secretary of the Nobility + Wardenship and now she has three children. That we once went tobogganning + together, and that the wind brought her the words “I love you, + Nadenka,” is not forgotten; it is for her now the happiest, most + touching, and beautiful memory in her life. . . . + </p> + <p> + But now that I am older I cannot understand why I uttered those words, + what was my motive in that joke. . . . + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A COUNTRY COTTAGE + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>wo young people + who had not long been married were walking up and down the platform of a + little country station. His arm was round her waist, her head was almost + on his shoulder, and both were happy. + </p> + <p> + The moon peeped up from the drifting cloudlets and frowned, as it seemed, + envying their happiness and regretting her tedious and utterly superfluous + virginity. The still air was heavy with the fragrance of lilac and wild + cherry. Somewhere in the distance beyond the line a corncrake was calling. + </p> + <p> + “How beautiful it is, Sasha, how beautiful!” murmured the + young wife. “It all seems like a dream. See, how sweet and inviting + that little copse looks! How nice those solid, silent telegraph posts are! + They add a special note to the landscape, suggesting humanity, + civilization in the distance. . . . Don’t you think it’s + lovely when the wind brings the rushing sound of a train?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. . . . But what hot little hands you’ve got. . . That’s + because you’re excited, Varya. . . . What have you got for our + supper to-night?” + </p> + <p> + “Chicken and salad. . . . It’s a chicken just big enough for + two . . . . Then there is the salmon and sardines that were sent from + town.” + </p> + <p> + The moon as though she had taken a pinch of snuff hid her face behind a + cloud. Human happiness reminded her of her own loneliness, of her solitary + couch beyond the hills and dales. + </p> + <p> + “The train is coming!” said Varya, “how jolly!” + </p> + <p> + Three eyes of fire could be seen in the distance. The stationmaster came + out on the platform. Signal lights flashed here and there on the line. + </p> + <p> + “Let’s see the train in and go home,” said Sasha, + yawning. “What a splendid time we are having together, Varya, it’s + so splendid, one can hardly believe it’s true!” + </p> + <p> + The dark monster crept noiselessly alongside the platform and came to a + standstill. They caught glimpses of sleepy faces, of hats and shoulders at + the dimly lighted windows. + </p> + <p> + “Look! look!” they heard from one of the carriages. “Varya + and Sasha have come to meet us! There they are! . . . Varya! . . . Varya. + . . . Look!” + </p> + <p> + Two little girls skipped out of the train and hung on Varya’s neck. + They were followed by a stout, middle-aged lady, and a tall, lanky + gentleman with grey whiskers; behind them came two schoolboys, laden with + bags, and after the schoolboys, the governess, after the governess the + grandmother. + </p> + <p> + “Here we are, here we are, dear boy!” began the whiskered + gentleman, squeezing Sasha’s hand. “Sick of waiting for us, I + expect! You have been pitching into your old uncle for not coming down all + this time, I daresay! Kolya, Kostya, Nina, Fifa . . . children! Kiss your + cousin Sasha! We’re all here, the whole troop of us, just for three + or four days. . . . I hope we shan’t be too many for you? You mustn’t + let us put you out!” + </p> + <p> + At the sight of their uncle and his family, the young couple were + horror-stricken. While his uncle talked and kissed them, Sasha had a + vision of their little cottage: he and Varya giving up their three little + rooms, all the pillows and bedding to their guests; the salmon, the + sardines, the chicken all devoured in a single instant; the cousins + plucking the flowers in their little garden, spilling the ink, filled the + cottage with noise and confusion; his aunt talking continually about her + ailments and her papa’s having been Baron von Fintich. . . . + </p> + <p> + And Sasha looked almost with hatred at his young wife, and whispered: + </p> + <p> + “It’s you they’ve come to see! . . . Damn them!” + </p> + <p> + “No, it’s you,” answered Varya, pale with anger. “They’re + your relations! they’re not mine!” + </p> + <p> + And turning to her visitors, she said with a smile of welcome: “Welcome + to the cottage!” + </p> + <p> + The moon came out again. She seemed to smile, as though she were glad she + had no relations. Sasha, turning his head away to hide his angry + despairing face, struggled to give a note of cordial welcome to his voice + as he said: + </p> + <p> + “It is jolly of you! Welcome to the cottage!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A BLUNDER + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>LYA SERGEITCH + PEPLOV and his wife Kleopatra Petrovna were standing at the door, + listening greedily. On the other side in the little drawing-room a love + scene was apparently taking place between two persons: their daughter + Natashenka and a teacher of the district school, called Shchupkin. + </p> + <p> + “He’s rising!” whispered Peplov, quivering with + impatience and rubbing his hands. “Now, Kleopatra, mind; as soon as + they begin talking of their feelings, take down the ikon from the wall and + we’ll go in and bless them. . . . We’ll catch him. . . . A + blessing with an ikon is sacred and binding. . . He couldn’t get out + of it, if he brought it into court.” + </p> + <p> + On the other side of the door this was the conversation: + </p> + <p> + “Don’t go on like that!” said Shchupkin, striking a + match against his checked trousers. “I never wrote you any letters!” + </p> + <p> + “I like that! As though I didn’t know your writing!” + giggled the girl with an affected shriek, continually peeping at herself + in the glass. “I knew it at once! And what a queer man you are! You + are a writing master, and you write like a spider! How can you teach + writing if you write so badly yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “H’m! . . . That means nothing. The great thing in writing + lessons is not the hand one writes, but keeping the boys in order. You hit + one on the head with a ruler, make another kneel down. . . . Besides, + there’s nothing in handwriting! Nekrassov was an author, but his + handwriting’s a disgrace, there’s a specimen of it in his + collected works.” + </p> + <p> + “You are not Nekrassov. . . .” (A sigh). “I should love + to marry an author. He’d always be writing poems to me.” + </p> + <p> + “I can write you a poem, too, if you like.” + </p> + <p> + “What can you write about?” + </p> + <p> + “Love—passion—your eyes. You’ll be crazy when you + read it. It would draw a tear from a stone! And if I write you a real + poem, will you let me kiss your hand?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s nothing much! You can kiss it now if you like.” + </p> + <p> + Shchupkin jumped up, and making sheepish eyes, bent over the fat little + hand that smelt of egg soap. + </p> + <p> + “Take down the ikon,” Peplov whispered in a fluster, pale with + excitement, and buttoning his coat as he prodded his wife with his elbow. + “Come along, now!” + </p> + <p> + And without a second’s delay Peplov flung open the door. + </p> + <p> + “Children,” he muttered, lifting up his arms and blinking + tearfully, “the Lord bless you, my children. May you live—be + fruitful—and multiply.” + </p> + <p> + “And—and I bless you, too,” the mamma brought out, + crying with happiness. “May you be happy, my dear ones! Oh, you are + taking from me my only treasure!” she said to Shchupkin. “Love + my girl, be good to her. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Shchupkin’s mouth fell open with amazement and alarm. The parents’ + attack was so bold and unexpected that he could not utter a single word. + </p> + <p> + “I’m in for it! I’m spliced!” he thought, going + limp with horror. “It’s all over with you now, my boy! There’s + no escape!” + </p> + <p> + And he bowed his head submissively, as though to say, “Take me, I’m + vanquished.” + </p> + <p> + “Ble-blessings on you,” the papa went on, and he, too, shed + tears. “Natashenka, my daughter, stand by his side. Kleopatra, give + me the ikon.” + </p> + <p> + But at this point the father suddenly left off weeping, and his face was + contorted with anger. + </p> + <p> + “You ninny!” he said angrily to his wife. “You are an + idiot! Is that the ikon?” + </p> + <p> + “Ach, saints alive!” + </p> + <p> + What had happened? The writing master raised himself and saw that he was + saved; in her flutter the mamma had snatched from the wall the portrait of + Lazhetchnikov, the author, in mistake for the ikon. Old Peplov and his + wife stood disconcerted in the middle of the room, holding the portrait + aloft, not knowing what to do or what to say. The writing master took + advantage of the general confusion and slipped away. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FAT AND THIN + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>wo friends—one + a fat man and the other a thin man—met at the Nikolaevsky station. + The fat man had just dined in the station and his greasy lips shone like + ripe cherries. He smelt of sherry and <i>fleur d’orange</i>. The + thin man had just slipped out of the train and was laden with + portmanteaus, bundles, and bandboxes. He smelt of ham and coffee grounds. + A thin woman with a long chin, his wife, and a tall schoolboy with one eye + screwed up came into view behind his back. + </p> + <p> + “Porfiry,” cried the fat man on seeing the thin man. “Is + it you? My dear fellow! How many summers, how many winters!” + </p> + <p> + “Holy saints!” cried the thin man in amazement. “Misha! + The friend of my childhood! Where have you dropped from?” + </p> + <p> + The friends kissed each other three times, and gazed at each other with + eyes full of tears. Both were agreeably astounded. + </p> + <p> + “My dear boy!” began the thin man after the kissing. “This + is unexpected! This is a surprise! Come have a good look at me! Just as + handsome as I used to be! Just as great a darling and a dandy! Good + gracious me! Well, and how are you? Made your fortune? Married? I am + married as you see. . . . This is my wife Luise, her maiden name was + Vantsenbach . . . of the Lutheran persuasion. . . . And this is my son + Nafanail, a schoolboy in the third class. This is the friend of my + childhood, Nafanya. We were boys at school together!” + </p> + <p> + Nafanail thought a little and took off his cap. + </p> + <p> + “We were boys at school together,” the thin man went on. + “Do you remember how they used to tease you? You were nicknamed + Herostratus because you burned a hole in a schoolbook with a cigarette, + and I was nicknamed Ephialtes because I was fond of telling tales. Ho—ho! + . . . we were children! . . . Don’t be shy, Nafanya. Go nearer to + him. And this is my wife, her maiden name was Vantsenbach, of the Lutheran + persuasion. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Nafanail thought a little and took refuge behind his father’s back. + </p> + <p> + “Well, how are you doing my friend?” the fat man asked, + looking enthusiastically at his friend. “Are you in the service? + What grade have you reached?” + </p> + <p> + “I am, dear boy! I have been a collegiate assessor for the last two + years and I have the Stanislav. The salary is poor, but that’s no + great matter! The wife gives music lessons, and I go in for carving wooden + cigarette cases in a private way. Capital cigarette cases! I sell them for + a rouble each. If any one takes ten or more I make a reduction of course. + We get along somehow. I served as a clerk, you know, and now I have been + transferred here as a head clerk in the same department. I am going to + serve here. And what about you? I bet you are a civil councillor by now? + Eh?” + </p> + <p> + “No dear boy, go higher than that,” said the fat man. “I + have risen to privy councillor already . . . I have two stars.” + </p> + <p> + The thin man turned pale and rigid all at once, but soon his face twisted + in all directions in the broadest smile; it seemed as though sparks were + flashing from his face and eyes. He squirmed, he doubled together, + crumpled up. . . . His portmanteaus, bundles and cardboard boxes seemed to + shrink and crumple up too. . . . His wife’s long chin grew longer + still; Nafanail drew himself up to attention and fastened all the buttons + of his uniform. + </p> + <p> + “Your Excellency, I . . . delighted! The friend, one may say, of + childhood and to have turned into such a great man! He—he!” + </p> + <p> + “Come, come!” the fat man frowned. “What’s this + tone for? You and I were friends as boys, and there is no need of this + official obsequiousness!” + </p> + <p> + “Merciful heavens, your Excellency! What are you saying. . . ?” + sniggered the thin man, wriggling more than ever. “Your Excellency’s + gracious attention is like refreshing manna. . . . This, your Excellency, + is my son Nafanail, . . . my wife Luise, a Lutheran in a certain sense.” + </p> + <p> + The fat man was about to make some protest, but the face of the thin man + wore an expression of such reverence, sugariness, and mawkish + respectfulness that the privy councillor was sickened. He turned away from + the thin man, giving him his hand at parting. + </p> + <p> + The thin man pressed three fingers, bowed his whole body and sniggered + like a Chinaman: “He—he—he!” His wife smiled. + Nafanail scraped with his foot and dropped his cap. All three were + agreeably overwhelmed. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DEATH OF A GOVERNMENT CLERK + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>NE fine evening, a + no less fine government clerk called Ivan Dmitritch Tchervyakov was + sitting in the second row of the stalls, gazing through an opera glass at + the <i>Cloches de Corneville</i>. He gazed and felt at the acme of bliss. + But suddenly. . . . In stories one so often meets with this “But + suddenly.” The authors are right: life is so full of surprises! But + suddenly his face puckered up, his eyes disappeared, his breathing was + arrested . . . he took the opera glass from his eyes, bent over and . . . + “Aptchee!!” he sneezed as you perceive. It is not + reprehensible for anyone to sneeze anywhere. Peasants sneeze and so do + police superintendents, and sometimes even privy councillors. All men + sneeze. Tchervyakov was not in the least confused, he wiped his face with + his handkerchief, and like a polite man, looked round to see whether he + had disturbed any one by his sneezing. But then he was overcome with + confusion. He saw that an old gentleman sitting in front of him in the + first row of the stalls was carefully wiping his bald head and his neck + with his glove and muttering something to himself. In the old gentleman, + Tchervyakov recognised Brizzhalov, a civilian general serving in the + Department of Transport. + </p> + <p> + “I have spattered him,” thought Tchervyakov, “he is not + the head of my department, but still it is awkward. I must apologise.” + </p> + <p> + Tchervyakov gave a cough, bent his whole person forward, and whispered in + the general’s ear. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon, your Excellency, I spattered you accidentally. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind, never mind.” + </p> + <p> + “For goodness sake excuse me, I . . . I did not mean to.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, please, sit down! let me listen!” + </p> + <p> + Tchervyakov was embarrassed, he smiled stupidly and fell to gazing at the + stage. He gazed at it but was no longer feeling bliss. He began to be + troubled by uneasiness. In the interval, he went up to Brizzhalov, walked + beside him, and overcoming his shyness, muttered: + </p> + <p> + “I spattered you, your Excellency, forgive me . . . you see . . . I + didn’t do it to . . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that’s enough . . . I’d forgotten it, and you keep + on about it!” said the general, moving his lower lip impatiently. + </p> + <p> + “He has forgotten, but there is a fiendish light in his eye,” + thought Tchervyakov, looking suspiciously at the general. “And he + doesn’t want to talk. I ought to explain to him . . . that I really + didn’t intend . . . that it is the law of nature or else he will + think I meant to spit on him. He doesn’t think so now, but he will + think so later!” + </p> + <p> + On getting home, Tchervyakov told his wife of his breach of good manners. + It struck him that his wife took too frivolous a view of the incident; she + was a little frightened, but when she learned that Brizzhalov was in a + different department, she was reassured. + </p> + <p> + “Still, you had better go and apologise,” she said, “or + he will think you don’t know how to behave in public.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s just it! I did apologise, but he took it somehow + queerly . . . he didn’t say a word of sense. There wasn’t time + to talk properly.” + </p> + <p> + Next day Tchervyakov put on a new uniform, had his hair cut and went to + Brizzhalov’s to explain; going into the general’s reception + room he saw there a number of petitioners and among them the general + himself, who was beginning to interview them. After questioning several + petitioners the general raised his eyes and looked at Tchervyakov. + </p> + <p> + “Yesterday at the <i>Arcadia</i>, if you recollect, your Excellency,” + the latter began, “I sneezed and . . . accidentally spattered . . . + Exc. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “What nonsense. . . . It’s beyond anything! What can I do for + you,” said the general addressing the next petitioner. + </p> + <p> + “He won’t speak,” thought Tchervyakov, turning pale; + “that means that he is angry. . . . No, it can’t be left like + this. . . . I will explain to him.” + </p> + <p> + When the general had finished his conversation with the last of the + petitioners and was turning towards his inner apartments, Tchervyakov took + a step towards him and muttered: + </p> + <p> + “Your Excellency! If I venture to trouble your Excellency, it is + simply from a feeling I may say of regret! . . . It was not intentional if + you will graciously believe me.” + </p> + <p> + The general made a lachrymose face, and waved his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Why, you are simply making fun of me, sir,” he said as he + closed the door behind him. + </p> + <p> + “Where’s the making fun in it?” thought Tchervyakov, + “there is nothing of the sort! He is a general, but he can’t + understand. If that is how it is I am not going to apologise to that <i>fanfaron</i> + any more! The devil take him. I’ll write a letter to him, but I won’t + go. By Jove, I won’t.” + </p> + <p> + So thought Tchervyakov as he walked home; he did not write a letter to the + general, he pondered and pondered and could not make up that letter. He + had to go next day to explain in person. + </p> + <p> + “I ventured to disturb your Excellency yesterday,” he + muttered, when the general lifted enquiring eyes upon him, “not to + make fun as you were pleased to say. I was apologising for having + spattered you in sneezing. . . . And I did not dream of making fun of you. + Should I dare to make fun of you, if we should take to making fun, then + there would be no respect for persons, there would be. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Be off!” yelled the general, turning suddenly purple, and + shaking all over. + </p> + <p> + “What?” asked Tchervyakov, in a whisper turning numb with + horror. + </p> + <p> + “Be off!” repeated the general, stamping. + </p> + <p> + Something seemed to give way in Tchervyakov’s stomach. Seeing + nothing and hearing nothing he reeled to the door, went out into the + street, and went staggering along. . . . Reaching home mechanically, + without taking off his uniform, he lay down on the sofa and died. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A PINK STOCKING + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> DULL, rainy day. + The sky is completely covered with heavy clouds, and there is no prospect + of the rain ceasing. Outside sleet, puddles, and drenched jackdaws. + Indoors it is half dark, and so cold that one wants the stove heated. + </p> + <p> + Pavel Petrovitch Somov is pacing up and down his study, grumbling at the + weather. The tears of rain on the windows and the darkness of the room + make him depressed. He is insufferably bored and has nothing to do. . . . + The newspapers have not been brought yet; shooting is out of the question, + and it is not nearly dinner-time . . . . + </p> + <p> + Somov is not alone in his study. Madame Somov, a pretty little lady in a + light blouse and pink stockings, is sitting at his writing table. She is + eagerly scribbling a letter. Every time he passes her as he strides up and + down, Ivan Petrovitch looks over her shoulder at what she is writing. He + sees big sprawling letters, thin and narrow, with all sorts of tails and + flourishes. There are numbers of blots, smears, and finger-marks. Madame + Somov does not like ruled paper, and every line runs downhill with horrid + wriggles as it reaches the margin. . . . + </p> + <p> + “Lidotchka, who is it you are writing such a lot to?” Somov + inquires, seeing that his wife is just beginning to scribble the sixth + page. + </p> + <p> + “To sister Varya.” + </p> + <p> + “Hm . . . it’s a long letter! I’m so bored—let me + read it!” + </p> + <p> + “Here, you may read it, but there’s nothing interesting in it.” + </p> + <p> + Somov takes the written pages and, still pacing up and down, begins + reading. Lidotchka leans her elbows on the back of her chair and watches + the expression of his face. . . . After the first page his face lengthens + and an expression of something almost like panic comes into it. . . . At + the third page Somov frowns and scratches the back of his head. At the + fourth he pauses, looks with a scared face at his wife, and seems to + ponder. After thinking a little, he takes up the letter again with a sigh. + . . . His face betrays perplexity and even alarm. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Well, this is beyond anything!” he mutters, as he finishes + reading the letter and flings the sheets on the table, “It’s + positively incredible!” + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter?” asks Lidotchka, flustered. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter! You’ve covered six pages, wasted a + good two hours scribbling, and there’s nothing in it at all! If + there were one tiny idea! One reads on and on, and one’s brain is as + muddled as though one were deciphering the Chinese wriggles on tea chests! + Ough!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that’s true, Vanya, . . .” says Lidotchka, + reddening. “I wrote it carelessly. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Queer sort of carelessness! In a careless letter there is some + meaning and style—there is sense in it—while yours . . . + excuse me, but I don’t know what to call it! It’s absolute + twaddle! There are words and sentences, but not the slightest sense in + them. Your whole letter is exactly like the conversation of two boys: + ‘We had pancakes to-day! And we had a soldier come to see us!’ + You say the same thing over and over again! You drag it out, repeat + yourself . . . . The wretched ideas dance about like devils: there’s + no making out where anything begins, where anything ends. . . . How can + you write like that?” + </p> + <p> + “If I had been writing carefully,” Lidotchka says in self + defence, “then there would not have been mistakes. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’m not talking about mistakes! The awful grammatical + howlers! There’s not a line that’s not a personal insult to + grammar! No stops nor commas—and the spelling . . . brrr! ‘Earth’ + has an <i>a</i> in it!! And the writing! It’s desperate! I’m + not joking, Lida. . . . I’m surprised and appalled at your letter. . + . . You mustn’t be angry, darling, but, really, I had no idea you + were such a duffer at grammar. . . . And yet you belong to a cultivated, + well-educated circle: you are the wife of a University man, and the + daughter of a general! Tell me, did you ever go to school?” + </p> + <p> + “What next! I finished at the Von Mebke’s boarding school. . . + .” + </p> + <p> + Somov shrugs his shoulders and continues to pace up and down, sighing. + Lidotchka, conscious of her ignorance and ashamed of it, sighs too and + casts down her eyes. . . . Ten minutes pass in silence. + </p> + <p> + “You know, Lidotchka, it really is awful!” says Somov, + suddenly halting in front of her and looking into her face with horror. + “You are a mother . . . do you understand? A mother! How can you + teach your children if you know nothing yourself? You have a good brain, + but what’s the use of it if you have never mastered the very + rudiments of knowledge? There—never mind about knowledge . . . the + children will get that at school, but, you know, you are very shaky on the + moral side too! You sometimes use such language that it makes my ears + tingle!” + </p> + <p> + Somov shrugs his shoulders again, wraps himself in the folds of his + dressing-gown and continues his pacing. . . . He feels vexed and injured, + and at the same time sorry for Lidotchka, who does not protest, but merely + blinks. . . . Both feel oppressed and miserable . . . . Absorbed in their + woes, they do not notice how time is passing and the dinner hour is + approaching. + </p> + <p> + Sitting down to dinner, Somov, who is fond of good eating and of eating in + peace, drinks a large glass of vodka and begins talking about something + else. Lidotchka listens and assents, but suddenly over the soup her eyes + fill with tears and she begins whimpering. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all mother’s fault!” she says, wiping away + her tears with her dinner napkin. “Everyone advised her to send me + to the high school, and from the high school I should have been sure to go + on to the University!” + </p> + <p> + “University . . . high school,” mutters Somov. “That’s + running to extremes, my girl! What’s the good of being a blue + stocking! A blue stocking is the very deuce! Neither man nor woman, but + just something midway: neither one thing nor another. . . I hate blue + stockings! I would never have married a learned woman. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “There’s no making you out . . .”, says Lidotchka. + “You are angry because I am not learned, and at the same time you + hate learned women; you are annoyed because I have no ideas in my letter, + and yet you yourself are opposed to my studying. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “You do catch me up at a word, my dear,” yawns Somov, pouring + out a second glass of vodka in his boredom. + </p> + <p> + Under the influence of vodka and a good dinner, Somov grows more + good-humoured, lively, and soft. . . . He watches his pretty wife making + the salad with an anxious face and a rush of affection for her, of + indulgence and forgiveness comes over him. + </p> + <p> + “It was stupid of me to depress her, poor girl . . . ,” he + thought. “Why did I say such a lot of dreadful things? She is silly, + that’s true, uncivilised and narrow; but . . . there are two sides + to the question, and <i>audiatur et altera pars</i>. . . . Perhaps people + are perfectly right when they say that woman’s shallowness rests on + her very vocation. Granted that it is her vocation to love her husband, to + bear children, and to mix salad, what the devil does she want with + learning? No, indeed!” + </p> + <p> + At that point he remembers that learned women are usually tedious, that + they are exacting, strict, and unyielding; and, on the other hand, how + easy it is to get on with silly Lidotchka, who never pokes her nose into + anything, does not understand so much, and never obtrudes her criticism. + There is peace and comfort with Lidotchka, and no risk of being interfered + with. + </p> + <p> + “Confound them, those clever and learned women! It’s better + and easier to live with simple ones,” he thinks, as he takes a plate + of chicken from Lidotchka. + </p> + <p> + He recollects that a civilised man sometimes feels a desire to talk and + share his thoughts with a clever and well-educated woman. “What of + it?” thinks Somov. “If I want to talk of intellectual + subjects, I’ll go to Natalya Andreyevna . . . or to Marya + Frantsovna. . . . It’s very simple! But no, I shan’t go. One + can discuss intellectual subjects with men,” he finally decides. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AT A SUMMER VILLA + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">“I</span> LOVE YOU. + You are my life, my happiness—everything to me! Forgive the avowal, + but I have not the strength to suffer and be silent. I ask not for love in + return, but for sympathy. Be at the old arbour at eight o’clock this + evening. . . . To sign my name is unnecessary I think, but do not be + uneasy at my being anonymous. I am young, nice-looking . . . what more do + you want?” + </p> + <p> + When Pavel Ivanitch Vyhodtsev, a practical married man who was spending + his holidays at a summer villa, read this letter, he shrugged his + shoulders and scratched his forehead in perplexity. + </p> + <p> + “What devilry is this?” he thought. “I’m a married + man, and to send me such a queer . . . silly letter! Who wrote it?” + </p> + <p> + Pavel Ivanitch turned the letter over and over before his eyes, read it + through again, and spat with disgust. + </p> + <p> + “‘I love you’” . . . he said jeeringly. “A + nice boy she has pitched on! So I’m to run off to meet you in the + arbour! . . . I got over all such romances and <i>fleurs d’amour</i> + years ago, my girl. . . . Hm! She must be some reckless, immoral creature. + . . . Well, these women are a set! What a whirligig—God forgive us!—she + must be to write a letter like that to a stranger, and a married man, too! + It’s real demoralisation!” + </p> + <p> + In the course of his eight years of married life Pavel Ivanitch had + completely got over all sentimental feeling, and he had received no + letters from ladies except letters of congratulation, and so, although he + tried to carry it off with disdain, the letter quoted above greatly + intrigued and agitated him. + </p> + <p> + An hour after receiving it, he was lying on his sofa, thinking: + </p> + <p> + “Of course I am not a silly boy, and I am not going to rush off to + this idiotic rendezvous; but yet it would be interesting to know who wrote + it! Hm. . . . It is certainly a woman’s writing. . . . The letter is + written with genuine feeling, and so it can hardly be a joke. . . . Most + likely it’s some neurotic girl, or perhaps a widow . . . widows are + frivolous and eccentric as a rule. Hm. . . . Who could it be?” + </p> + <p> + What made it the more difficult to decide the question was that Pavel + Ivanitch had not one feminine acquaintance among all the summer visitors, + except his wife. + </p> + <p> + “It is queer . . .” he mused. “‘I love you!’. + . . When did she manage to fall in love? Amazing woman! To fall in love + like this, apropos of nothing, without making any acquaintance and finding + out what sort of man I am. . . . She must be extremely young and romantic + if she is capable of falling in love after two or three looks at me. . . . + But . . . who is she?” + </p> + <p> + Pavel Ivanitch suddenly recalled that when he had been walking among the + summer villas the day before, and the day before that, he had several + times been met by a fair young lady with a light blue hat and a turn-up + nose. The fair charmer had kept looking at him, and when he sat down on a + seat she had sat down beside him. . . . + </p> + <p> + “Can it be she?” Vyhodtsev wondered. “It can’t be! + Could a delicate ephemeral creature like that fall in love with a worn-out + old eel like me? No, it’s impossible!” + </p> + <p> + At dinner Pavel Ivanitch looked blankly at his wife while he meditated: + </p> + <p> + “She writes that she is young and nice-looking. . . . So she’s + not old. . . . Hm. . . . To tell the truth, honestly I am not so old and + plain that no one could fall in love with me. My wife loves me! Besides, + love is blind, we all know. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “What are you thinking about?” his wife asked him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh. . . my head aches a little. . .” Pavel Ivanitch said, + quite untruly. + </p> + <p> + He made up his mind that it was stupid to pay attention to such a + nonsensical thing as a love-letter, and laughed at it and at its + authoress, but—alas!—powerful is the “dacha” enemy + of mankind! After dinner, Pavel Ivanitch lay down on his bed, and instead + of going to sleep, reflected: + </p> + <p> + “But there, I daresay she is expecting me to come! What a silly! I + can just imagine what a nervous fidget she’ll be in and how her <i>tournure</i> + will quiver when she does not find me in the arbour! I shan’t go, + though. . . . Bother her!” + </p> + <p> + But, I repeat, powerful is the enemy of mankind. + </p> + <p> + “Though I might, perhaps, just out of curiosity . . .” he was + musing, half an hour later. “I might go and look from a distance + what sort of a creature she is. . . . It would be interesting to have a + look at her! It would be fun, and that’s all! After all, why shouldn’t + I have a little fun since such a chance has turned up?” + </p> + <p> + Pavel Ivanitch got up from his bed and began dressing. “What are you + getting yourself up so smartly for?” his wife asked, noticing that + he was putting on a clean shirt and a fashionable tie. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, nothing. . . . I must have a walk. . . . My head aches. . . . + Hm.” + </p> + <p> + Pavel Ivanitch dressed in his best, and waiting till eight o’clock, + went out of the house. When the figures of gaily dressed summer visitors + of both sexes began passing before his eyes against the bright green + background, his heart throbbed. + </p> + <p> + “Which of them is it? . . .” he wondered, advancing + irresolutely. “Come, what am I afraid of? Why, I am not going to the + rendezvous! What . . . a fool! Go forward boldly! And what if I go into + the arbour? Well, well . . . there is no reason I should.” + </p> + <p> + Pavel Ivanitch’s heart beat still more violently. . . . + Involuntarily, with no desire to do so, he suddenly pictured to himself + the half-darkness of the arbour. . . . A graceful fair girl with a little + blue hat and a turn-up nose rose before his imagination. He saw her, + abashed by her love and trembling all over, timidly approach him, + breathing excitedly, and . . . suddenly clasping him in her arms. + </p> + <p> + “If I weren’t married it would be all right . . .” he + mused, driving sinful ideas out of his head. “Though . . . for once + in my life, it would do no harm to have the experience, or else one will + die without knowing what. . . . And my wife, what will it matter to her? + Thank God, for eight years I’ve never moved one step away from her. + . . . Eight years of irreproachable duty! Enough of her. . . . It’s + positively vexatious. . . . I’m ready to go to spite her!” + </p> + <p> + Trembling all over and holding his breath, Pavel Ivanitch went up to the + arbour, wreathed with ivy and wild vine, and peeped into it . . . . A + smell of dampness and mildew reached him. . . . + </p> + <p> + “I believe there’s nobody . . .” he thought, going into + the arbour, and at once saw a human silhouette in the corner. + </p> + <p> + The silhouette was that of a man. . . . Looking more closely, Pavel + Ivanitch recognised his wife’s brother, Mitya, a student, who was + staying with them at the villa. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it’s you . . .” he growled discontentedly, as he + took off his hat and sat down. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it’s I” . . . answered Mitya. + </p> + <p> + Two minutes passed in silence. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, Pavel Ivanitch,” began Mitya: “but might I + ask you to leave me alone?? . . . I am thinking over the dissertation for + my degree and . . . and the presence of anybody else prevents my thinking.” + </p> + <p> + “You had better go somewhere in a dark avenue. . .” Pavel + Ivanitch observed mildly. “It’s easier to think in the open + air, and, besides, . . . er . . . I should like to have a little sleep + here on this seat. . . It’s not so hot here. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “You want to sleep, but it’s a question of my dissertation . . + .” Mitya grumbled. “The dissertation is more important.” + </p> + <p> + Again there was a silence. Pavel Ivanitch, who had given the rein to his + imagination and was continually hearing footsteps, suddenly leaped up and + said in a plaintive voice: + </p> + <p> + “Come, I beg you, Mitya! You are younger and ought to consider me . + . . . I am unwell and . . . I need sleep. . . . Go away!” + </p> + <p> + “That’s egoism. . . . Why must you be here and not I? I won’t + go as a matter of principle.” + </p> + <p> + “Come, I ask you to! Suppose I am an egoist, a despot and a fool . . + . but I ask you to go! For once in my life I ask you a favour! Show some + consideration!” + </p> + <p> + Mitya shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “What a beast! . . .” thought Pavel Ivanitch. “That can’t + be a rendezvous with him here! It’s impossible with him here!” + </p> + <p> + “I say, Mitya,” he said, “I ask you for the last time. . + . . Show that you are a sensible, humane, and cultivated man!” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know why you keep on so!” . . . said Mitya, + shrugging his shoulders. “I’ve said I won’t go, and I + won’t. I shall stay here as a matter of principle. . . .” + </p> + <p> + At that moment a woman’s face with a turn-up nose peeped into the + arbour. . . . + </p> + <p> + Seeing Mitya and Pavel Ivanitch, it frowned and vanished. + </p> + <p> + “She is gone!” thought Pavel Ivanitch, looking angrily at + Mitya. “She saw that blackguard and fled! It’s all spoilt!” + </p> + <p> + After waiting a little longer, he got up, put on his hat and said: + </p> + <p> + “You’re a beast, a low brute and a blackguard! Yes! A beast! + It’s mean . . . and silly! Everything is at an end between us!” + </p> + <p> + “Delighted to hear it!” muttered Mitya, also getting up and + putting on his hat. “Let me tell you that by being here just now you’ve + played me such a dirty trick that I’ll never forgive you as long as + I live.” + </p> + <p> + Pavel Ivanitch went out of the arbour, and beside himself with rage, + strode rapidly to his villa. Even the sight of the table laid for supper + did not soothe him. + </p> + <p> + “Once in a lifetime such a chance has turned up,” he thought + in agitation; “and then it’s been prevented! Now she is + offended . . . crushed!” + </p> + <p> + At supper Pavel Ivanitch and Mitya kept their eyes on their plates and + maintained a sullen silence. . . . They were hating each other from the + bottom of their hearts. + </p> + <p> + “What are you smiling at?” asked Pavel Ivanitch, pouncing on + his wife. “It’s only silly fools who laugh for nothing!” + </p> + <p> + His wife looked at her husband’s angry face, and went off into a + peal of laughter. + </p> + <p> + “What was that letter you got this morning?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I? . . . I didn’t get one. . . .” Pavel Ivanitch was + overcome with confusion. “You are inventing . . . imagination.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, come, tell us! Own up, you did! Why, it was I sent you that + letter! Honour bright, I did! Ha ha!” + </p> + <p> + Pavel Ivanitch turned crimson and bent over his plate. “Silly jokes,” + he growled. + </p> + <p> + “But what could I do? Tell me that. . . . We had to scrub the rooms + out this evening, and how could we get you out of the house? There was no + other way of getting you out. . . . But don’t be angry, stupid. . . + . I didn’t want you to be dull in the arbour, so I sent the same + letter to Mitya too! Mitya, have you been to the arbour?” + </p> + <p> + Mitya grinned and left off glaring with hatred at his rival. + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <pre> + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Love and Other Stories, +by Anton Chekhov + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVE *** + +***** This file should be named 13414-h.htm or 13414-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/3/4/1/13414/ + +Produced by James Rusk + +HTML file produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +https://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +https://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at https://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit https://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + + </pre> + + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + </body> +</html> |