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diff --git a/1883-h/1883-h.htm b/1883-h/1883-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c3fc3bf --- /dev/null +++ b/1883-h/1883-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9911 @@ +<?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> + <title> + The Wife and Other Stories, by Anton Tchekhov + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + 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%;} + 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 {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Wife 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: The Wife and Other Stories + +Author: Anton Chekhov + +Translator: Constance Garnett + +Release Date: February 25, 2006 [EBook #1883] +Last Updated: September 10, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WIFE AND OTHER STORIES *** + + + + +Produced by James Rusk and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE WIFE AND OTHER STORIES + </h1> + <h3> + By + </h3> + <h2> + Anton Tchekhov + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h3> + THE TALES OF CHEKHOV VOLUME 5 <br /> <br /> Translated by CONSTANCE GARNETT + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> THE WIFE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> DIFFICULT PEOPLE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> THE GRASSHOPPER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> A DREARY STORY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> THE PRIVY COUNCILLOR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> THE MAN IN A CASE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> GOOSEBERRIES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> ABOUT LOVE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> THE LOTTERY TICKET </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + THE WIFE + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + I RECEIVED the following letter: + </p> + <p> + “DEAR SIR, PAVEL ANDREITCH! + </p> + <p> + “Not far from you—that is to say, in the village of Pestrovo—very + distressing incidents are taking place, concerning which I feel it my duty + to write to you. All the peasants of that village sold their cottages and + all their belongings, and set off for the province of Tomsk, but did not + succeed in getting there, and have come back. Here, of course, they have + nothing now; everything belongs to other people. They have settled three + or four families in a hut, so that there are no less than fifteen persons + of both sexes in each hut, not counting the young children; and the long + and the short of it is, there is nothing to eat. There is famine and there + is a terrible pestilence of hunger, or spotted, typhus; literally every + one is stricken. The doctor’s assistant says one goes into a cottage and + what does one see? Every one is sick, every one delirious, some laughing, + others frantic; the huts are filthy; there is no one to fetch them water, + no one to give them a drink, and nothing to eat but frozen potatoes. What + can Sobol (our Zemstvo doctor) and his lady assistant do when more than + medicine the peasants need bread which they have not? The District Zemstvo + refuses to assist them, on the ground that their names have been taken off + the register of this district, and that they are now reckoned as + inhabitants of Tomsk; and, besides, the Zemstvo has no money. + </p> + <p> + “Laying these facts before you, and knowing your humanity, I beg you not + to refuse immediate help. + </p> + <p> + “Your well-wisher.” + </p> + <p> + Obviously the letter was written by the doctor with the animal name* or + his lady assistant. Zemstvo doctors and their assistants go on for years + growing more and more convinced every day that they can do <i>nothing</i>, + and yet continue to receive their salaries from people who are living upon + frozen potatoes, and consider they have a right to judge whether I am + humane or not. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + *Sobol in Russian means “sable-marten.”—TRANSLATOR’S NOTE. +</pre> + <p> + Worried by the anonymous letter and by the fact that peasants came every + morning to the servants’ kitchen and went down on their knees there, and + that twenty sacks of rye had been stolen at night out of the barn, the + wall having first been broken in, and by the general depression which was + fostered by conversations, newspapers, and horrible weather—worried + by all this, I worked listlessly and ineffectively. I was writing “A + History of Railways”; I had to read a great number of Russian and foreign + books, pamphlets, and articles in the magazines, to make calculations, to + refer to logarithms, to think and to write; then again to read, calculate, + and think; but as soon as I took up a book or began to think, my thoughts + were in a muddle, my eyes began blinking, I would get up from the table + with a sigh and begin walking about the big rooms of my deserted + country-house. When I was tired of walking about I would stand still at my + study window, and, looking across the wide courtyard, over the pond and + the bare young birch-trees and the great fields covered with recently + fallen, thawing snow, I saw on a low hill on the horizon a group of + mud-coloured huts from which a black muddy road ran down in an irregular + streak through the white field. That was Pestrovo, concerning which my + anonymous correspondent had written to me. If it had not been for the + crows who, foreseeing rain or snowy weather, floated cawing over the pond + and the fields, and the tapping in the carpenter’s shed, this bit of the + world about which such a fuss was being made would have seemed like the + Dead Sea; it was all so still, motionless, lifeless, and dreary! + </p> + <p> + My uneasiness hindered me from working and concentrating myself; I did not + know what it was, and chose to believe it was disappointment. I had + actually given up my post in the Department of Ways and Communications, + and had come here into the country expressly to live in peace and to + devote myself to writing on social questions. It had long been my + cherished dream. And now I had to say good-bye both to peace and to + literature, to give up everything and think only of the peasants. And that + was inevitable, because I was convinced that there was absolutely nobody + in the district except me to help the starving. The people surrounding me + were uneducated, unintellectual, callous, for the most part dishonest, or + if they were honest, they were unreasonable and unpractical like my wife, + for instance. It was impossible to rely on such people, it was impossible + to leave the peasants to their fate, so that the only thing left to do was + to submit to necessity and see to setting the peasants to rights myself. + </p> + <p> + I began by making up my mind to give five thousand roubles to the + assistance of the starving peasants. And that did not decrease, but only + aggravated my uneasiness. As I stood by the window or walked about the + rooms I was tormented by the question which had not occurred to me before: + how this money was to be spent. To have bread bought and to go from hut to + hut distributing it was more than one man could do, to say nothing of the + risk that in your haste you might give twice as much to one who was + well-fed or to one who was making money out of his fellows as to the + hungry. I had no faith in the local officials. All these district captains + and tax inspectors were young men, and I distrusted them as I do all young + people of today, who are materialistic and without ideals. The District + Zemstvo, the Peasant Courts, and all the local institutions, inspired in + me not the slightest desire to appeal to them for assistance. I knew that + all these institutions who were busily engaged in picking out plums from + the Zemstvo and the Government pie had their mouths always wide open for a + bite at any other pie that might turn up. + </p> + <p> + The idea occurred to me to invite the neighbouring landowners and suggest + to them to organize in my house something like a committee or a centre to + which all subscriptions could be forwarded, and from which assistance and + instructions could be distributed throughout the district; such an + organization, which would render possible frequent consultations and free + control on a big scale, would completely meet my views. But I imagined the + lunches, the dinners, the suppers and the noise, the waste of time, the + verbosity and the bad taste which that mixed provincial company would + inevitably bring into my house, and I made haste to reject my idea. + </p> + <p> + As for the members of my own household, the last thing I could look for + was help or support from them. Of my father’s household, of the household + of my childhood, once a big and noisy family, no one remained but the + governess Mademoiselle Marie, or, as she was now called, Marya + Gerasimovna, an absolutely insignificant person. She was a precise little + old lady of seventy, who wore a light grey dress and a cap with white + ribbons, and looked like a china doll. She always sat in the drawing-room + reading. + </p> + <p> + Whenever I passed by her, she would say, knowing the reason for my + brooding: + </p> + <p> + “What can you expect, Pasha? I told you how it would be before. You can + judge from our servants.” + </p> + <p> + My wife, Natalya Gavrilovna, lived on the lower storey, all the rooms of + which she occupied. She slept, had her meals, and received her visitors + downstairs in her own rooms, and took not the slightest interest in how I + dined, or slept, or whom I saw. Our relations with one another were simple + and not strained, but cold, empty, and dreary as relations are between + people who have been so long estranged, that even living under the same + roof gives no semblance of nearness. There was no trace now of the + passionate and tormenting love—at one time sweet, at another bitter + as wormwood—which I had once felt for Natalya Gavrilovna. There was + nothing left, either, of the outbursts of the past—the loud + altercations, upbraidings, complaints, and gusts of hatred which had + usually ended in my wife’s going abroad or to her own people, and in my + sending money in small but frequent instalments that I might sting her + pride oftener. (My proud and sensitive wife and her family live at my + expense, and much as she would have liked to do so, my wife could not + refuse my money: that afforded me satisfaction and was one comfort in my + sorrow.) Now when we chanced to meet in the corridor downstairs or in the + yard, I bowed, she smiled graciously. We spoke of the weather, said that + it seemed time to put in the double windows, and that some one with bells + on their harness had driven over the dam. And at such times I read in her + face: “I am faithful to you and am not disgracing your good name which you + think so much about; you are sensible and do not worry me; we are quits.” + </p> + <p> + I assured myself that my love had died long ago, that I was too much + absorbed in my work to think seriously of my relations with my wife. But, + alas! that was only what I imagined. When my wife talked aloud downstairs + I listened intently to her voice, though I could not distinguish one word. + When she played the piano downstairs I stood up and listened. When her + carriage or her saddlehorse was brought to the door, I went to the window + and waited to see her out of the house; then I watched her get into her + carriage or mount her horse and ride out of the yard. I felt that there + was something wrong with me, and was afraid the expression of my eyes or + my face might betray me. I looked after my wife and then watched for her + to come back that I might see again from the window her face, her + shoulders, her fur coat, her hat. I felt dreary, sad, infinitely + regretful, and felt inclined in her absence to walk through her rooms, and + longed that the problem that my wife and I had not been able to solve + because our characters were incompatible, should solve itself in the + natural way as soon as possible—that is, that this beautiful woman + of twenty-seven might make haste and grow old, and that my head might be + grey and bald. + </p> + <p> + One day at lunch my bailiff informed me that the Pestrovo peasants had + begun to pull the thatch off the roofs to feed their cattle. Marya + Gerasimovna looked at me in alarm and perplexity. + </p> + <p> + “What can I do?” I said to her. “One cannot fight single-handed, and I + have never experienced such loneliness as I do now. I would give a great + deal to find one man in the whole province on whom I could rely.” + </p> + <p> + “Invite Ivan Ivanitch,” said Marya Gerasimovna. + </p> + <p> + “To be sure!” I thought, delighted. “That is an idea! <i>C’est raison</i>,” + I hummed, going to my study to write to Ivan Ivanitch. “<i>C’est raison, + c’est raison</i>.” + </p> + <p> + II + </p> + <p> + Of all the mass of acquaintances who, in this house twenty-five to + thirty-five years ago, had eaten, drunk, masqueraded, fallen in love, + married, bored us with accounts of their splendid packs of hounds and + horses, the only one still living was Ivan Ivanitch Bragin. At one time he + had been very active, talkative, noisy, and given to falling in love, and + had been famous for his extreme views and for the peculiar charm of his + face, which fascinated men as well as women; now he was an old man, had + grown corpulent, and was living out his days with neither views nor charm. + He came the day after getting my letter, in the evening just as the + samovar was brought into the dining-room and little Marya Gerasimovna had + begun slicing the lemon. + </p> + <p> + “I am very glad to see you, my dear fellow,” I said gaily, meeting him. + “Why, you are stouter than ever....” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t getting stout; it’s swelling,” he answered. “The bees must have + stung me.” + </p> + <p> + With the familiarity of a man laughing at his own fatness, he put his arms + round my waist and laid on my breast his big soft head, with the hair + combed down on the forehead like a Little Russian’s, and went off into a + thin, aged laugh. + </p> + <p> + “And you go on getting younger,” he said through his laugh. “I wonder what + dye you use for your hair and beard; you might let me have some of it.” + Sniffing and gasping, he embraced me and kissed me on the cheek. “You + might give me some of it,” he repeated. “Why, you are not forty, are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Alas, I am forty-six!” I said, laughing. + </p> + <p> + Ivan Ivanitch smelt of tallow candles and cooking, and that suited him. + His big, puffy, slow-moving body was swathed in a long frock-coat like a + coachman’s full coat, with a high waist, and with hooks and eyes instead + of buttons, and it would have been strange if he had smelt of + eau-de-Cologne, for instance. In his long, unshaven, bluish double chin, + which looked like a thistle, his goggle eyes, his shortness of breath, and + in the whole of his clumsy, slovenly figure, in his voice, his laugh, and + his words, it was difficult to recognize the graceful, interesting talker + who used in old days to make the husbands of the district jealous on + account of their wives. + </p> + <p> + “I am in great need of your assistance, my friend,” I said, when we were + sitting in the dining-room, drinking tea. “I want to organize relief for + the starving peasants, and I don’t know how to set about it. So perhaps + you will be so kind as to advise me.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, yes,” said Ivan Ivanitch, sighing. “To be sure, to be sure, to + be sure....” + </p> + <p> + “I would not have worried you, my dear fellow, but really there is no one + here but you I can appeal to. You know what people are like about here.” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure, to be sure, to be sure.... Yes.” + </p> + <p> + I thought that as we were going to have a serious, business consultation + in which any one might take part, regardless of their position or personal + relations, why should I not invite Natalya Gavrilovna. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Tres faciunt collegium</i>,” I said gaily. “What if we were to ask + Natalya Gavrilovna? What do you think? Fenya,” I said, turning to the + maid, “ask Natalya Gavrilovna to come upstairs to us, if possible at once. + Tell her it’s a very important matter.” + </p> + <p> + A little later Natalya Gavrilovna came in. I got up to meet her and said: + </p> + <p> + “Excuse us for troubling you, Natalie. We are discussing a very important + matter, and we had the happy thought that we might take advantage of your + good advice, which you will not refuse to give us. Please sit down.” + </p> + <p> + Ivan Ivanitch kissed her hand while she kissed his forehead; then, when we + all sat down to the table, he, looking at her tearfully and blissfully, + craned forward to her and kissed her hand again. She was dressed in black, + her hair was carefully arranged, and she smelt of fresh scent. She had + evidently dressed to go out or was expecting somebody. Coming into the + dining-room, she held out her hand to me with simple friendliness, and + smiled to me as graciously as she did to Ivan Ivanitch—that pleased + me; but as she talked she moved her fingers, often and abruptly leaned + back in her chair and talked rapidly, and this jerkiness in her words and + movements irritated me and reminded me of her native town—Odessa, + where the society, men and women alike, had wearied me by its bad taste. + </p> + <p> + “I want to do something for the famine-stricken peasants,” I began, and + after a brief pause I went on: “Money, of course, is a great thing, but to + confine oneself to subscribing money, and with that to be satisfied, would + be evading the worst of the trouble. Help must take the form of money, but + the most important thing is a proper and sound organization. Let us think + it over, my friends, and do something.” + </p> + <p> + Natalya Gavrilovna looked at me inquiringly and shrugged her shoulders as + though to say, “What do I know about it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, famine...” muttered Ivan Ivanitch. “Certainly... yes.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a serious position,” I said, “and assistance is needed as soon as + possible. I imagine the first point among the principles which we must + work out ought to be promptitude. We must act on the military principles + of judgment, promptitude, and energy.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, promptitude...” repeated Ivan Ivanitch in a drowsy and listless + voice, as though he were dropping asleep. “Only one can’t do anything. The + crops have failed, and so what’s the use of all your judgment and + energy?... It’s the elements.... You can’t go against God and fate.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but that’s what man has a head for, to contend against the + elements.” + </p> + <p> + “Eh? Yes... that’s so, to be sure.... Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Ivan Ivanitch sneezed into his handkerchief, brightened up, and as though + he had just woken up, looked round at my wife and me. + </p> + <p> + “My crops have failed, too.” He laughed a thin little laugh and gave a sly + wink as though this were really funny. “No money, no corn, and a yard full + of labourers like Count Sheremetyev’s. I want to kick them out, but I + haven’t the heart to.” + </p> + <p> + Natalya Gavrilovna laughed, and began questioning him about his private + affairs. Her presence gave me a pleasure such as I had not felt for a long + time, and I was afraid to look at her for fear my eyes would betray my + secret feeling. Our relations were such that that feeling might seem + surprising and ridiculous. + </p> + <p> + She laughed and talked with Ivan Ivanitch without being in the least + disturbed that she was in my room and that I was not laughing. + </p> + <p> + “And so, my friends, what are we to do?” I asked after waiting for a + pause. “I suppose before we do anything else we had better immediately + open a subscription-list. We will write to our friends in the capitals and + in Odessa, Natalie, and ask them to subscribe. When we have got together a + little sum we will begin buying corn and fodder for the cattle; and you, + Ivan Ivanitch, will you be so kind as to undertake distributing the + relief? Entirely relying on your characteristic tact and efficiency, we + will only venture to express a desire that before you give any relief you + make acquaintance with the details of the case on the spot, and also, + which is very important, you should be careful that corn should be + distributed only to those who are in genuine need, and not to the drunken, + the idle, or the dishonest.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, yes...” muttered Ivan Ivanitch. “To be sure, to be sure.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, one won’t get much done with that slobbering wreck,” I thought, and + I felt irritated. + </p> + <p> + “I am sick of these famine-stricken peasants, bother them! It’s nothing + but grievances with them!” Ivan Ivanitch went on, sucking the rind of the + lemon. “The hungry have a grievance against those who have enough, and + those who have enough have a grievance against the hungry. Yes... hunger + stupefies and maddens a man and makes him savage; hunger is not a potato. + When a man is starving he uses bad language, and steals, and may do + worse.... One must realize that.” + </p> + <p> + Ivan Ivanitch choked over his tea, coughed, and shook all over with a + squeaky, smothered laughter. + </p> + <p> + “‘There was a battle at Pol... Poltava,’” he brought out, gesticulating + with both hands in protest against the laughter and coughing which + prevented him from speaking. “‘There was a battle at Poltava!’ When three + years after the Emancipation we had famine in two districts here, Fyodor + Fyodoritch came and invited me to go to him. ‘Come along, come along,’ he + persisted, and nothing else would satisfy him. ‘Very well, let us go,’ I + said. And, so we set off. It was in the evening; there was snow falling. + Towards night we were getting near his place, and suddenly from the wood + came ‘bang!’ and another time ‘bang!’ ‘Oh, damn it all!’... I jumped out + of the sledge, and I saw in the darkness a man running up to me, knee-deep + in the snow. I put my arm round his shoulder, like this, and knocked the + gun out of his hand. Then another one turned up; I fetched him a knock on + the back of his head so that he grunted and flopped with his nose in the + snow. I was a sturdy chap then, my fist was heavy; I disposed of two of + them, and when I turned round Fyodor was sitting astride of a third. We + did not let our three fine fellows go; we tied their hands behind their + backs so that they might not do us or themselves any harm, and took the + fools into the kitchen. We were angry with them and at the same time + ashamed to look at them; they were peasants we knew, and were good + fellows; we were sorry for them. They were quite stupid with terror. One + was crying and begging our pardon, the second looked like a wild beast and + kept swearing, the third knelt down and began to pray. I said to Fedya: + ‘Don’t bear them a grudge; let them go, the rascals!’ He fed them, gave + them a bushel of flour each, and let them go: ‘Get along with you,’ he + said. So that’s what he did.... The Kingdom of Heaven be his and + everlasting peace! He understood and did not bear them a grudge; but there + were some who did, and how many people they ruined! Yes... Why, over the + affair at the Klotchkovs’ tavern eleven men were sent to the disciplinary + battalion. Yes.... And now, look, it’s the same thing. Anisyin, the + investigating magistrate, stayed the night with me last Thursday, and he + told me about some landowner.... Yes.... They took the wall of his barn to + pieces at night and carried off twenty sacks of rye. When the gentleman + heard that such a crime had been committed, he sent a telegram to the + Governor and another to the police captain, another to the investigating + magistrate!... Of course, every one is afraid of a man who is fond of + litigation. The authorities were in a flutter and there was a general + hubbub. Two villages were searched.” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, Ivan Ivanitch,” I said. “Twenty sacks of rye were stolen from + me, and it was I who telegraphed to the Governor. I telegraphed to + Petersburg, too. But it was by no means out of love for litigation, as you + are pleased to express it, and not because I bore them a grudge. I look at + every subject from the point of view of principle. From the point of view + of the law, theft is the same whether a man is hungry or not.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes...” muttered Ivan Ivanitch in confusion. “Of course... To be + sure, yes.” + </p> + <p> + Natalya Gavrilovna blushed. + </p> + <p> + “There are people...” she said and stopped; she made an effort to seem + indifferent, but she could not keep it up, and looked into my eyes with + the hatred that I know so well. “There are people,” she said, “for whom + famine and human suffering exist simply that they may vent their hateful + and despicable temperaments upon them.” + </p> + <p> + I was confused and shrugged my shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “I meant to say generally,” she went on, “that there are people who are + quite indifferent and completely devoid of all feeling of sympathy, yet + who do not pass human suffering by, but insist on meddling for fear people + should be able to do without them. Nothing is sacred for their vanity.” + </p> + <p> + “There are people,” I said softly, “who have an angelic character, but who + express their glorious ideas in such a form that it is difficult to + distinguish the angel from an Odessa market-woman.” + </p> + <p> + I must confess it was not happily expressed. + </p> + <p> + My wife looked at me as though it cost her a great effort to hold her + tongue. Her sudden outburst, and then her inappropriate eloquence on the + subject of my desire to help the famine-stricken peasants, were, to say + the least, out of place; when I had invited her to come upstairs I had + expected quite a different attitude to me and my intentions. I cannot say + definitely what I had expected, but I had been agreeably agitated by the + expectation. Now I saw that to go on speaking about the famine would be + difficult and perhaps stupid. + </p> + <p> + “Yes...” Ivan Ivanitch muttered inappropriately. “Burov, the merchant, + must have four hundred thousand at least. I said to him: ‘Hand over one or + two thousand to the famine. You can’t take it with you when you die, + anyway.’ He was offended. But we all have to die, you know. Death is not a + potato.” + </p> + <p> + A silence followed again. + </p> + <p> + “So there’s nothing left for me but to reconcile myself to loneliness,” I + sighed. “One cannot fight single-handed. Well, I will try single-handed. + Let us hope that my campaign against the famine will be more successful + than my campaign against indifference.” + </p> + <p> + “I am expected downstairs,” said Natalya Gavrilovna. + </p> + <p> + She got up from the table and turned to Ivan Ivanitch. + </p> + <p> + “So you will look in upon me downstairs for a minute? I won’t say good-bye + to you.” + </p> + <p> + And she went away. + </p> + <p> + Ivan Ivanitch was now drinking his seventh glass of tea, choking, smacking + his lips, and sucking sometimes his moustache, sometimes the lemon. He was + muttering something drowsily and listlessly, and I did not listen but + waited for him to go. At last, with an expression that suggested that he + had only come to me to take a cup of tea, he got up and began to take + leave. As I saw him out I said: + </p> + <p> + “And so you have given me no advice.” + </p> + <p> + “Eh? I am a feeble, stupid old man,” he answered. “What use would my + advice be? You shouldn’t worry yourself.... I really don’t know why you + worry yourself. Don’t disturb yourself, my dear fellow! Upon my word, + there’s no need,” he whispered genuinely and affectionately, soothing me + as though I were a child. “Upon my word, there’s no need.” + </p> + <p> + “No need? Why, the peasants are pulling the thatch off their huts, and + they say there is typhus somewhere already.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what of it? If there are good crops next year, they’ll thatch them + again, and if we die of typhus others will live after us. Anyway, we have + to die—if not now, later. Don’t worry yourself, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t help worrying myself,” I said irritably. + </p> + <p> + We were standing in the dimly lighted vestibule. Ivan Ivanitch suddenly + took me by the elbow, and, preparing to say something evidently very + important, looked at me in silence for a couple of minutes. + </p> + <p> + “Pavel Andreitch!” he said softly, and suddenly in his puffy, set face and + dark eyes there was a gleam of the expression for which he had once been + famous and which was truly charming. “Pavel Andreitch, I speak to you as a + friend: try to be different! One is ill at ease with you, my dear fellow, + one really is!” + </p> + <p> + He looked intently into my face; the charming expression faded away, his + eyes grew dim again, and he sniffed and muttered feebly: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes.... Excuse an old man.... It’s all nonsense... yes.” + </p> + <p> + As he slowly descended the staircase, spreading out his hands to balance + himself and showing me his huge, bulky back and red neck, he gave me the + unpleasant impression of a sort of crab. + </p> + <p> + “You ought to go away, your Excellency,” he muttered. “To Petersburg or + abroad.... Why should you live here and waste your golden days? You are + young, wealthy, and healthy.... Yes.... Ah, if I were younger I would + whisk away like a hare, and snap my fingers at everything.” + </p> + <p> + III + </p> + <p> + My wife’s outburst reminded me of our married life together. In old days + after every such outburst we felt irresistibly drawn to each other; we + would meet and let off all the dynamite that had accumulated in our souls. + And now after Ivan Ivanitch had gone away I had a strong impulse to go to + my wife. I wanted to go downstairs and tell her that her behaviour at tea + had been an insult to me, that she was cruel, petty, and that her plebeian + mind had never risen to a comprehension of what <i>I</i> was saying and of + what <i>I</i> was doing. I walked about the rooms a long time thinking of + what I would say to her and trying to guess what she would say to me. + </p> + <p> + That evening, after Ivan Ivanitch went away, I felt in a peculiarly + irritating form the uneasiness which had worried me of late. I could not + sit down or sit still, but kept walking about in the rooms that were + lighted up and keeping near to the one in which Marya Gerasimovna was + sitting. I had a feeling very much like that which I had on the North Sea + during a storm when every one thought that our ship, which had no freight + nor ballast, would overturn. And that evening I understood that my + uneasiness was not disappointment, as I had supposed, but a different + feeling, though what exactly I could not say, and that irritated me more + than ever. + </p> + <p> + “I will go to her,” I decided. “I can think of a pretext. I shall say that + I want to see Ivan Ivanitch; that will be all.” + </p> + <p> + I went downstairs and walked without haste over the carpeted floor through + the vestibule and the hall. Ivan Ivanitch was sitting on the sofa in the + drawing-room; he was drinking tea again and muttering something. My wife + was standing opposite to him and holding on to the back of a chair. There + was a gentle, sweet, and docile expression on her face, such as one sees + on the faces of people listening to crazy saints or holy men when a + peculiar hidden significance is imagined in their vague words and + mutterings. There was something morbid, something of a nun’s exaltation, + in my wife’s expression and attitude; and her low-pitched, half-dark rooms + with their old-fashioned furniture, with her birds asleep in their cages, + and with a smell of geranium, reminded me of the rooms of some abbess or + pious old lady. + </p> + <p> + I went into the drawing-room. My wife showed neither surprise nor + confusion, and looked at me calmly and serenely, as though she had known I + should come. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” I said softly. “I am so glad you have not gone yet, + Ivan Ivanitch. I forgot to ask you, do you know the Christian name of the + president of our Zemstvo?” + </p> + <p> + “Andrey Stanislavovitch. Yes....” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Merci</i>,” I said, took out my notebook, and wrote it down. + </p> + <p> + There followed a silence during which my wife and Ivan Ivanitch were + probably waiting for me to go; my wife did not believe that I wanted to + know the president’s name—I saw that from her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I must be going, my beauty,” muttered Ivan Ivanitch, after I had + walked once or twice across the drawing-room and sat down by the + fireplace. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Natalya Gavrilovna quickly, touching his hand. “Stay another + quarter of an hour.... Please do!” + </p> + <p> + Evidently she did not wish to be left alone with me without a witness. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, I’ll wait a quarter of an hour, too,” I thought. + </p> + <p> + “Why, it’s snowing!” I said, getting up and looking out of window. “A good + fall of snow! Ivan Ivanitch”—I went on walking about the room—“I + do regret not being a sportsman. I can imagine what a pleasure it must be + coursing hares or hunting wolves in snow like this!” + </p> + <p> + My wife, standing still, watched my movements, looking out of the corner + of her eyes without turning her head. She looked as though she thought I + had a sharp knife or a revolver in my pocket. + </p> + <p> + “Ivan Ivanitch, do take me out hunting some day,” I went on softly. “I + shall be very, very grateful to you.” + </p> + <p> + At that moment a visitor came into the room. He was a tall, thick-set + gentleman whom I did not know, with a bald head, a big fair beard, and + little eyes. From his baggy, crumpled clothes and his manners I took him + to be a parish clerk or a teacher, but my wife introduced him to me as Dr. + Sobol. + </p> + <p> + “Very, very glad to make your acquaintance,” said the doctor in a loud + tenor voice, shaking hands with me warmly, with a naive smile. “Very + glad!” + </p> + <p> + He sat down at the table, took a glass of tea, and said in a loud voice: + </p> + <p> + “Do you happen to have a drop of rum or brandy? Have pity on me, Olya, and + look in the cupboard; I am frozen,” he said, addressing the maid. + </p> + <p> + I sat down by the fire again, looked on, listened, and from time to time + put in a word in the general conversation. My wife smiled graciously to + the visitors and kept a sharp lookout on me, as though I were a wild + beast. She was oppressed by my presence, and this aroused in me jealousy, + annoyance, and an obstinate desire to wound her. “Wife, these snug rooms, + the place by the fire,” I thought, “are mine, have been mine for years, + but some crazy Ivan Ivanitch or Sobol has for some reason more right to + them than I. Now I see my wife, not out of window, but close at hand, in + ordinary home surroundings that I feel the want of now I am growing older, + and, in spite of her hatred for me, I miss her as years ago in my + childhood I used to miss my mother and my nurse. And I feel that now, on + the verge of old age, my love for her is purer and loftier than it was in + the past; and that is why I want to go up to her, to stamp hard on her toe + with my heel, to hurt her and smile as I do it.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Marten,” I said, addressing the doctor, “how many hospitals have + we in the district?” + </p> + <p> + “Sobol,” my wife corrected. + </p> + <p> + “Two,” answered Sobol. + </p> + <p> + “And how many deaths are there every year in each hospital?” + </p> + <p> + “Pavel Andreitch, I want to speak to you,” said my wife. + </p> + <p> + She apologized to the visitors and went to the next room. I got up and + followed her. + </p> + <p> + “You will go upstairs to your own rooms this minute,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “You are ill-bred,” I said to her. + </p> + <p> + “You will go upstairs to your own rooms this very minute,” she repeated + sharply, and she looked into my face with hatred. + </p> + <p> + She was standing so near that if I had stooped a little my beard would + have touched her face. + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter?” I asked. “What harm have I done all at once?” + </p> + <p> + Her chin quivered, she hastily wiped her eyes, and, with a cursory glance + at the looking-glass, whispered: + </p> + <p> + “The old story is beginning all over again. Of course you won’t go away. + Well, do as you like. I’ll go away myself, and you stay.” + </p> + <p> + We returned to the drawing-room, she with a resolute face, while I + shrugged my shoulders and tried to smile. There were some more visitors—an + elderly lady and a young man in spectacles. Without greeting the new + arrivals or taking leave of the others, I went off to my own rooms. + </p> + <p> + After what had happened at tea and then again downstairs, it became clear + to me that our “family happiness,” which we had begun to forget about in + the course of the last two years, was through some absurd and trivial + reason beginning all over again, and that neither I nor my wife could now + stop ourselves; and that next day or the day after, the outburst of hatred + would, as I knew by experience of past years, be followed by something + revolting which would upset the whole order of our lives. “So it seems + that during these two years we have grown no wiser, colder, or calmer,” I + thought as I began walking about the rooms. “So there will again be tears, + outcries, curses, packing up, going abroad, then the continual sickly fear + that she will disgrace me with some coxcomb out there, Italian or Russian, + refusing a passport, letters, utter loneliness, missing her, and in five + years old age, grey hairs.” I walked about, imagining what was really + impossible—her, grown handsomer, stouter, embracing a man I did not + know. By now convinced that that would certainly happen, “‘Why,” I asked + myself, “Why, in one of our long past quarrels, had not I given her a + divorce, or why had she not at that time left me altogether? I should not + have had this yearning for her now, this hatred, this anxiety; and I + should have lived out my life quietly, working and not worrying about + anything.” + </p> + <p> + A carriage with two lamps drove into the yard, then a big sledge with + three horses. My wife was evidently having a party. + </p> + <p> + Till midnight everything was quiet downstairs and I heard nothing, but at + midnight there was a sound of moving chairs and a clatter of crockery. So + there was supper. Then the chairs moved again, and through the floor I + heard a noise; they seemed to be shouting hurrah. Marya Gerasimovna was + already asleep and I was quite alone in the whole upper storey; the + portraits of my forefathers, cruel, insignificant people, looked at me + from the walls of the drawing-room, and the reflection of my lamp in the + window winked unpleasantly. And with a feeling of jealousy and envy for + what was going on downstairs, I listened and thought: “I am master here; + if I like, I can in a moment turn out all that fine crew.” But I knew that + all that was nonsense, that I could not turn out any one, and the word + “master” had no meaning. One may think oneself master, married, rich, a + kammer-junker, as much as one likes, and at the same time not know what it + means. + </p> + <p> + After supper some one downstairs began singing in a tenor voice. + </p> + <p> + “Why, nothing special has happened,” I tried to persuade myself. “Why am I + so upset? I won’t go downstairs tomorrow, that’s all; and that will be the + end of our quarrel.” + </p> + <p> + At a quarter past one I went to bed. + </p> + <p> + “Have the visitors downstairs gone?” I asked Alexey as he was undressing + me. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir, they’ve gone.” + </p> + <p> + “And why were they shouting hurrah?” + </p> + <p> + “Alexey Dmitritch Mahonov subscribed for the famine fund a thousand + bushels of flour and a thousand roubles. And the old lady—I don’t + know her name—promised to set up a soup kitchen on her estate to + feed a hundred and fifty people. Thank God... Natalya Gavrilovna has been + pleased to arrange that all the gentry should assemble every Friday.” + </p> + <p> + “To assemble here, downstairs?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir. Before supper they read a list: since August up to today + Natalya Gavrilovna has collected eight thousand roubles, besides corn. + Thank God.... What I think is that if our mistress does take trouble for + the salvation of her soul, she will soon collect a lot. There are plenty + of rich people here.” + </p> + <p> + Dismissing Alexey, I put out the light and drew the bedclothes over my + head. + </p> + <p> + “After all, why am I so troubled?” I thought. “What force draws me to the + starving peasants like a butterfly to a flame? I don’t know them, I don’t + understand them; I have never seen them and I don’t like them. Why this + uneasiness?” + </p> + <p> + I suddenly crossed myself under the quilt. + </p> + <p> + “But what a woman she is!” I said to myself, thinking of my wife. “There’s + a regular committee held in the house without my knowing. Why this + secrecy? Why this conspiracy? What have I done to them? Ivan Ivanitch is + right—I must go away.” + </p> + <p> + Next morning I woke up firmly resolved to go away. The events of the + previous day—the conversation at tea, my wife, Sobol, the supper, my + apprehensions—worried me, and I felt glad to think of getting away + from the surroundings which reminded me of all that. While I was drinking + my coffee the bailiff gave me a long report on various matters. The most + agreeable item he saved for the last. + </p> + <p> + “The thieves who stole our rye have been found,” he announced with a + smile. “The magistrate arrested three peasants at Pestrovo yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + “Go away!” I shouted at him; and a propos of nothing, I picked up the + cake-basket and flung it on the floor. + </p> + <p> + IV + </p> + <p> + After lunch I rubbed my hands, and thought I must go to my wife and tell + her that I was going away. Why? Who cared? Nobody cares, I answered, but + why shouldn’t I tell her, especially as it would give her nothing but + pleasure? Besides, to go away after our yesterday’s quarrel without saying + a word would not be quite tactful: she might think that I was frightened + of her, and perhaps the thought that she has driven me out of my house may + weigh upon her. It would be just as well, too, to tell her that I + subscribe five thousand, and to give her some advice about the + organization, and to warn her that her inexperience in such a complicated + and responsible matter might lead to most lamentable results. In short, I + wanted to see my wife, and while I thought of various pretexts for going + to her, I had a firm conviction in my heart that I should do so. + </p> + <p> + It was still light when I went in to her, and the lamps had not yet been + lighted. She was sitting in her study, which led from the drawing-room to + her bedroom, and, bending low over the table, was writing something + quickly. Seeing me, she started, got up from the table, and remained + standing in an attitude such as to screen her papers from me. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, I have only come for a minute,” I said, and, I don’t + know why, I was overcome with embarrassment. “I have learnt by chance that + you are organizing relief for the famine, Natalie.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am. But that’s my business,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is your business,” I said softly. “I am glad of it, for it just + fits in with my intentions. I beg your permission to take part in it.” + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me, I cannot let you do it,” she said in response, and looked + away. + </p> + <p> + “Why not, Natalie?” I said quietly. “Why not? I, too, am well fed and I, + too, want to help the hungry.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what it has to do with you,” she said with a contemptuous + smile, shrugging her shoulders. “Nobody asks you.” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody asks you, either, and yet you have got up a regular committee in + <i>my</i> house,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “I am asked, but you can have my word for it no one will ever ask you. Go + and help where you are not known.” + </p> + <p> + “For God’s sake, don’t talk to me in that tone.” I tried to be mild, and + besought myself most earnestly not to lose my temper. For the first few + minutes I felt glad to be with my wife. I felt an atmosphere of youth, of + home, of feminine softness, of the most refined elegance—exactly + what was lacking on my floor and in my life altogether. My wife was + wearing a pink flannel dressing-gown; it made her look much younger, and + gave a softness to her rapid and sometimes abrupt movements. Her beautiful + dark hair, the mere sight of which at one time stirred me to passion, had + from sitting so long with her head bent come loose from the comb and was + untidy, but, to my eyes, that only made it look more rich and luxuriant. + All this, though is banal to the point of vulgarity. Before me stood an + ordinary woman, perhaps neither beautiful nor elegant, but this was my + wife with whom I had once lived, and with whom I should have been living + to this day if it had not been for her unfortunate character; she was the + one human being on the terrestrial globe whom I loved. At this moment, + just before going away, when I knew that I should no longer see her even + through the window, she seemed to me fascinating even as she was, cold and + forbidding, answering me with a proud and contemptuous mockery. I was + proud of her, and confessed to myself that to go away from her was + terrible and impossible. + </p> + <p> + “Pavel Andreitch,” she said after a brief silence, “for two years we have + not interfered with each other but have lived quietly. Why do you suddenly + feel it necessary to go back to the past? Yesterday you came to insult and + humiliate me,” she went on, raising her voice, and her face flushed and + her eyes flamed with hatred; “but restrain yourself; do not do it, Pavel + Andreitch! Tomorrow I will send in a petition and they will give me a + passport, and I will go away; I will go! I will go! I’ll go into a + convent, into a widows’ home, into an almshouse....” + </p> + <p> + “Into a lunatic asylum!” I cried, not able to restrain myself. + </p> + <p> + “Well, even into a lunatic asylum! That would be better, that would be + better,” she cried, with flashing eyes. “When I was in Pestrovo today I + envied the sick and starving peasant women because they are not living + with a man like you. They are free and honest, while, thanks to you, I am + a parasite, I am perishing in idleness, I eat your bread, I spend your + money, and I repay you with my liberty and a fidelity which is of no use + to any one. Because you won’t give me a passport, I must respect your good + name, though it doesn’t exist.” + </p> + <p> + I had to keep silent. Clenching my teeth, I walked quickly into the + drawing-room, but turned back at once and said: + </p> + <p> + “I beg you earnestly that there should be no more assemblies, plots, and + meetings of conspirators in my house! I only admit to my house those with + whom I am acquainted, and let all your crew find another place to do it if + they want to take up philanthropy. I can’t allow people at midnight in my + house to be shouting hurrah at successfully exploiting an hysterical woman + like you!” + </p> + <p> + My wife, pale and wringing her hands, took a rapid stride across the room, + uttering a prolonged moan as though she had toothache. With a wave of my + hand, I went into the drawing-room. I was choking with rage, and at the + same time I was trembling with terror that I might not restrain myself, + and that I might say or do something which I might regret all my life. And + I clenched my hands tight, hoping to hold myself in. + </p> + <p> + After drinking some water and recovering my calm a little, I went back to + my wife. She was standing in the same attitude as before, as though + barring my approach to the table with the papers. Tears were slowly + trickling down her pale, cold face. I paused then and said to her bitterly + but without anger: + </p> + <p> + “How you misunderstand me! How unjust you are to me! I swear upon my + honour I came to you with the best of motives, with nothing but the desire + to do good!” + </p> + <p> + “Pavel Andreitch!” she said, clasping her hands on her bosom, and her face + took on the agonized, imploring expression with which frightened, weeping + children beg not to be punished, “I know perfectly well that you will + refuse me, but still I beg you. Force yourself to do one kind action in + your life. I entreat you, go away from here! That’s the only thing you can + do for the starving peasants. Go away, and I will forgive you everything, + everything!” + </p> + <p> + “There is no need for you to insult me, Natalie,” I sighed, feeling a + sudden rush of humility. “I had already made up my mind to go away, but I + won’t go until I have done something for the peasants. It’s my duty!” + </p> + <p> + “Ach!” she said softly with an impatient frown. “You can make an excellent + bridge or railway, but you can do nothing for the starving peasants. Do + understand!” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed? Yesterday you reproached me with indifference and with being + devoid of the feeling of compassion. How well you know me!” I laughed. + “You believe in God—well, God is my witness that I am worried day + and night....” + </p> + <p> + “I see that you are worried, but the famine and compassion have nothing to + do with it. You are worried because the starving peasants can get on + without you, and because the Zemstvo, and in fact every one who is helping + them, does not need your guidance.” + </p> + <p> + I was silent, trying to suppress my irritation. Then I said: + </p> + <p> + “I came to speak to you on business. Sit down. Please sit down.” + </p> + <p> + She did not sit down. + </p> + <p> + “I beg you to sit down,” I repeated, and I motioned her to a chair. + </p> + <p> + She sat down. I sat down, too, thought a little, and said: + </p> + <p> + “I beg you to consider earnestly what I am saying. Listen.... Moved by + love for your fellow-creatures, you have undertaken the organization of + famine relief. I have nothing against that, of course; I am completely in + sympathy with you, and am prepared to co-operate with you in every way, + whatever our relations may be. But, with all my respect for your mind and + your heart... and your heart,” I repeated, “I cannot allow such a + difficult, complex, and responsible matter as the organization of relief + to be left in your hands entirely. You are a woman, you are inexperienced, + you know nothing of life, you are too confiding and expansive. You have + surrounded yourself with assistants whom you know nothing about. I am not + exaggerating if I say that under these conditions your work will + inevitably lead to two deplorable consequences. To begin with, our + district will be left unrelieved; and, secondly, you will have to pay for + your mistakes and those of your assistants, not only with your purse, but + with your reputation. The money deficit and other losses I could, no + doubt, make good, but who could restore you your good name? When through + lack of proper supervision and oversight there is a rumour that you, and + consequently I, have made two hundred thousand over the famine fund, will + your assistants come to your aid?” + </p> + <p> + She said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “Not from vanity, as you say,” I went on, “but simply that the starving + peasants may not be left unrelieved and your reputation may not be + injured, I feel it my moral duty to take part in your work.” + </p> + <p> + “Speak more briefly,” said my wife. + </p> + <p> + “You will be so kind,” I went on, “as to show me what has been subscribed + so far and what you have spent. Then inform me daily of every fresh + subscription in money or kind, and of every fresh outlay. You will also + give me, Natalie, the list of your helpers. Perhaps they are quite decent + people; I don’t doubt it; but, still, it is absolutely necessary to make + inquiries.” + </p> + <p> + She was silent. I got up, and walked up and down the room. + </p> + <p> + “Let us set to work, then,” I said, and I sat down to her table. + </p> + <p> + “Are you in earnest?” she asked, looking at me in alarm and bewilderment. + </p> + <p> + “Natalie, do be reasonable!” I said appealingly, seeing from her face that + she meant to protest. “I beg you, trust my experience and my sense of + honour.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand what you want.” + </p> + <p> + “Show me how much you have collected and how much you have spent.” + </p> + <p> + “I have no secrets. Any one may see. Look.” + </p> + <p> + On the table lay five or six school exercise books, several sheets of + notepaper covered with writing, a map of the district, and a number of + pieces of paper of different sizes. It was getting dusk. I lighted a + candle. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, I don’t see anything yet,” I said, turning over the leaves of + the exercise books. “Where is the account of the receipt of money + subscriptions?” + </p> + <p> + “That can be seen from the subscription lists.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but you must have an account,” I said, smiling at her naivete. + “Where are the letters accompanying the subscriptions in money or in kind? + <i>Pardon</i>, a little practical advice, Natalie: it’s absolutely + necessary to keep those letters. You ought to number each letter and make + a special note of it in a special record. You ought to do the same with + your own letters. But I will do all that myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Do so, do so...” she said. + </p> + <p> + I was very much pleased with myself. Attracted by this living interesting + work, by the little table, the naive exercise books and the charm of doing + this work in my wife’s society, I was afraid that my wife would suddenly + hinder me and upset everything by some sudden whim, and so I was in haste + and made an effort to attach no consequence to the fact that her lips were + quivering, and that she was looking about her with a helpless and + frightened air like a wild creature in a trap. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you what, Natalie,” I said without looking at her; “let me take + all these papers and exercise books upstairs to my study. There I will + look through them and tell you what I think about it tomorrow. Have you + any more papers?” I asked, arranging the exercise books and sheets of + papers in piles. + </p> + <p> + “Take them, take them all!” said my wife, helping me to arrange them, and + big tears ran down her cheeks. “Take it all! That’s all that was left me + in life.... Take the last.” + </p> + <p> + “Ach! Natalie, Natalie!” I sighed reproachfully. + </p> + <p> + She opened the drawer in the table and began flinging the papers out of it + on the table at random, poking me in the chest with her elbow and brushing + my face with her hair; as she did so, copper coins kept dropping upon my + knees and on the floor. + </p> + <p> + “Take everything!” she said in a husky voice. + </p> + <p> + When she had thrown out the papers she walked away from me, and putting + both hands to her head, she flung herself on the couch. I picked up the + money, put it back in the drawer, and locked it up that the servants might + not be led into dishonesty; then I gathered up all the papers and went off + with them. As I passed my wife I stopped and, looking at her back and + shaking shoulders, I said: + </p> + <p> + “What a baby you are, Natalie! Fie, fie! Listen, Natalie: when you realize + how serious and responsible a business it is you will be the first to + thank me. I assure you you will.” + </p> + <p> + In my own room I set to work without haste. The exercise books were not + bound, the pages were not numbered. The entries were put in all sorts of + handwritings; evidently any one who liked had a hand in managing the + books. In the record of the subscriptions in kind there was no note of + their money value. But, excuse me, I thought, the rye which is now worth + one rouble fifteen kopecks may be worth two roubles fifteen kopecks in two + months’ time! Was that the way to do things? Then, “Given to A. M. Sobol + 32 roubles.” When was it given? For what purpose was it given? Where was + the receipt? There was nothing to show, and no making anything of it. In + case of legal proceedings, these papers would only obscure the case. + </p> + <p> + “How naive she is!” I thought with surprise. “What a child!” + </p> + <p> + I felt both vexed and amused. + </p> + <p> + V + </p> + <p> + My wife had already collected eight thousand; with my five it would be + thirteen thousand. For a start that was very good. The business which had + so worried and interested me was at last in my hands; I was doing what the + others would not and could not do; I was doing my duty, organizing the + relief fund in a practical and business-like way. + </p> + <p> + Everything seemed to be going in accordance with my desires and + intentions; but why did my feeling of uneasiness persist? I spent four + hours over my wife’s papers, making out their meaning and correcting her + mistakes, but instead of feeling soothed, I felt as though some one were + standing behind me and rubbing my back with a rough hand. What was it I + wanted? The organization of the relief fund had come into trustworthy + hands, the hungry would be fed—what more was wanted? + </p> + <p> + The four hours of this light work for some reason exhausted me, so that I + could not sit bending over the table nor write. From below I heard from + time to time a smothered moan; it was my wife sobbing. Alexey, invariably + meek, sleepy, and sanctimonious, kept coming up to the table to see to the + candles, and looked at me somewhat strangely. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I must go away,” I decided at last, feeling utterly exhausted. “As + far as possible from these agreeable impressions! I will set off + tomorrow.” + </p> + <p> + I gathered together the papers and exercise books, and went down to my + wife. As, feeling quite worn out and shattered, I held the papers and the + exercise books to my breast with both hands, and passing through my + bedroom saw my trunks, the sound of weeping reached me through the floor. + </p> + <p> + “Are you a kammer-junker?” a voice whispered in my ear. “That’s a very + pleasant thing. But yet you are a reptile.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s all nonsense, nonsense, nonsense,” I muttered as I went downstairs. + “Nonsense... and it’s nonsense, too, that I am actuated by vanity or a + love of display.... What rubbish! Am I going to get a decoration for + working for the peasants or be made the director of a department? + Nonsense, nonsense! And who is there to show off to here in the country?” + </p> + <p> + I was tired, frightfully tired, and something kept whispering in my ear: + “Very pleasant. But, still, you are a reptile.” For some reason I + remembered a line out of an old poem I knew as a child: “How pleasant it + is to be good!” + </p> + <p> + My wife was lying on the couch in the same attitude, on her face and with + her hands clutching her head. She was crying. A maid was standing beside + her with a perplexed and frightened face. I sent the maid away, laid the + papers on the table, thought a moment and said: + </p> + <p> + “Here are all your papers, Natalie. It’s all in order, it’s all capital, + and I am very much pleased. I am going away tomorrow.” + </p> + <p> + She went on crying. I went into the drawing-room and sat there in the + dark. My wife’s sobs, her sighs, accused me of something, and to justify + myself I remembered the whole of our quarrel, starting from my unhappy + idea of inviting my wife to our consultation and ending with the exercise + books and these tears. It was an ordinary attack of our conjugal hatred, + senseless and unseemly, such as had been frequent during our married life, + but what had the starving peasants to do with it? How could it have + happened that they had become a bone of contention between us? It was just + as though pursuing one another we had accidentally run up to the altar and + had carried on a quarrel there. + </p> + <p> + “Natalie,” I said softly from the drawing-room, “hush, hush!” + </p> + <p> + To cut short her weeping and make an end of this agonizing state of + affairs, I ought to have gone up to my wife and comforted her, caressed + her, or apologized; but how could I do it so that she would believe me? + How could I persuade the wild duck, living in captivity and hating me, + that it was dear to me, and that I felt for its sufferings? I had never + known my wife, so I had never known how to talk to her or what to talk + about. Her appearance I knew very well and appreciated it as it deserved, + but her spiritual, moral world, her mind, her outlook on life, her + frequent changes of mood, her eyes full of hatred, her disdain, the scope + and variety of her reading which sometimes struck me, or, for instance, + the nun-like expression I had seen on her face the day before—all + that was unknown and incomprehensible to me. When in my collisions with + her I tried to define what sort of a person she was, my psychology went no + farther than deciding that she was giddy, impractical, ill-tempered, + guided by feminine logic; and it seemed to me that that was quite + sufficient. But now that she was crying I had a passionate desire to know + more. + </p> + <p> + The weeping ceased. I went up to my wife. She sat up on the couch, and, + with her head propped in both hands, looked fixedly and dreamily at the + fire. + </p> + <p> + “I am going away tomorrow morning,” I said. + </p> + <p> + She said nothing. I walked across the room, sighed, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Natalie, when you begged me to go away, you said: ‘I will forgive you + everything, everything’.... So you think I have wronged you. I beg you + calmly and in brief terms to formulate the wrong I’ve done you.” + </p> + <p> + “I am worn out. Afterwards, some time...” said my wife. + </p> + <p> + “How am I to blame?” I went on. “What have I done? Tell me: you are young + and beautiful, you want to live, and I am nearly twice your age and hated + by you, but is that my fault? I didn’t marry you by force. But if you want + to live in freedom, go; I’ll give you your liberty. You can go and love + whom you please.... I will give you a divorce.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s not what I want,” she said. “You know I used to love you and + always thought of myself as older than you. That’s all nonsense.... You + are not to blame for being older or for my being younger, or that I might + be able to love some one else if I were free; but because you are a + difficult person, an egoist, and hate every one.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps so. I don’t know,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Please go away. You want to go on at me till the morning, but I warn you + I am quite worn out and cannot answer you. You promised me to go to town. + I am very grateful; I ask nothing more.” + </p> + <p> + My wife wanted me to go away, but it was not easy for me to do that. I was + dispirited and I dreaded the big, cheerless, chill rooms that I was so + weary of. Sometimes when I had an ache or a pain as a child, I used to + huddle up to my mother or my nurse, and when I hid my face in the warm + folds of their dress, it seemed to me as though I were hiding from the + pain. And in the same way it seemed to me now that I could only hide from + my uneasiness in this little room beside my wife. I sat down and screened + away the light from my eyes with my hand.... There was a stillness. + </p> + <p> + “How are you to blame?” my wife said after a long silence, looking at me + with red eyes that gleamed with tears. “You are very well educated and + very well bred, very honest, just, and high-principled, but in you the + effect of all that is that wherever you go you bring suffocation, + oppression, something insulting and humiliating to the utmost degree. You + have a straightforward way of looking at things, and so you hate the whole + world. You hate those who have faith, because faith is an expression of + ignorance and lack of culture, and at the same time you hate those who + have no faith for having no faith and no ideals; you hate old people for + being conservative and behind the times, and young people for + free-thinking. The interests of the peasantry and of Russia are dear to + you, and so you hate the peasants because you suspect every one of them of + being a thief and a robber. You hate every one. You are just, and always + take your stand on your legal rights, and so you are always at law with + the peasants and your neighbours. You have had twenty bushels of rye + stolen, and your love of order has made you complain of the peasants to + the Governor and all the local authorities, and to send a complaint of the + local authorities to Petersburg. Legal justice!” said my wife, and she + laughed. “On the ground of your legal rights and in the interests of + morality, you refuse to give me a passport. Law and morality is such that + a self-respecting healthy young woman has to spend her life in idleness, + in depression, and in continual apprehension, and to receive in return + board and lodging from a man she does not love. You have a thorough + knowledge of the law, you are very honest and just, you respect marriage + and family life, and the effect of all that is that all your life you have + not done one kind action, that every one hates you, that you are on bad + terms with every one, and the seven years that you have been married + you’ve only lived seven months with your wife. You’ve had no wife and I’ve + had no husband. To live with a man like you is impossible; there is no way + of doing it. In the early years I was frightened with you, and now I am + ashamed.... That’s how my best years have been wasted. When I fought with + you I ruined my temper, grew shrewish, coarse, timid, mistrustful.... Oh, + but what’s the use of talking! As though you wanted to understand! Go + upstairs, and God be with you!” + </p> + <p> + My wife lay down on the couch and sank into thought. + </p> + <p> + “And how splendid, how enviable life might have been!” she said softly, + looking reflectively into the fire. “What a life it might have been! + There’s no bringing it back now.” + </p> + <p> + Any one who has lived in the country in winter and knows those long + dreary, still evenings when even the dogs are too bored to bark and even + the clocks seem weary of ticking, and any one who on such evenings has + been troubled by awakening conscience and has moved restlessly about, + trying now to smother his conscience, now to interpret it, will understand + the distraction and the pleasure my wife’s voice gave me as it sounded in + the snug little room, telling me I was a bad man. I did not understand + what was wanted of me by my conscience, and my wife, translating it in her + feminine way, made clear to me in the meaning of my agitation. As often + before in the moments of intense uneasiness, I guessed that the whole + secret lay, not in the starving peasants, but in my not being the sort of + a man I ought to be. + </p> + <p> + My wife got up with an effort and came up to me. + </p> + <p> + “Pavel Andreitch,” she said, smiling mournfully, “forgive me, I don’t + believe you: you are not going away, but I will ask you one more favour. + Call this”—she pointed to her papers—“self-deception, feminine + logic, a mistake, as you like; but do not hinder me. It’s all that is left + me in life.” She turned away and paused. “Before this I had nothing. I + have wasted my youth in fighting with you. Now I have caught at this and + am living; I am happy.... It seems to me that I have found in this a means + of justifying my existence.” + </p> + <p> + “Natalie, you are a good woman, a woman of ideas,” I said, looking at my + wife enthusiastically, “and everything you say and do is intelligent and + fine.” + </p> + <p> + I walked about the room to conceal my emotion. + </p> + <p> + “Natalie,” I went on a minute later, “before I go away, I beg of you as a + special favour, help me to do something for the starving peasants!” + </p> + <p> + “What can I do?” said my wife, shrugging her shoulders. “Here’s the + subscription list.” + </p> + <p> + She rummaged among the papers and found the subscription list. + </p> + <p> + “Subscribe some money,” she said, and from her tone I could see that she + did not attach great importance to her subscription list; “that is the + only way in which you can take part in the work.” + </p> + <p> + I took the list and wrote: “Anonymous, 5,000.” + </p> + <p> + In this “anonymous” there was something wrong, false, conceited, but I + only realized that when I noticed that my wife flushed very red and + hurriedly thrust the list into the heap of papers. We both felt ashamed; I + felt that I must at all costs efface this clumsiness at once, or else I + should feel ashamed afterwards, in the train and at Petersburg. But how + efface it? What was I to say? + </p> + <p> + “I fully approve of what you are doing, Natalie,” I said genuinely, “and I + wish you every success. But allow me at parting to give you one piece of + advice, Natalie; be on your guard with Sobol, and with your assistants + generally, and don’t trust them blindly. I don’t say they are not honest, + but they are not gentlefolks; they are people with no ideas, no ideals, no + faith, with no aim in life, no definite principles, and the whole object + of their life is comprised in the rouble. Rouble, rouble, rouble!” I + sighed. “They are fond of getting money easily, for nothing, and in that + respect the better educated they are the more they are to be dreaded.” + </p> + <p> + My wife went to the couch and lay down. + </p> + <p> + “Ideas,” she brought out, listlessly and reluctantly, “ideas, ideals, + objects of life, principles....you always used to use those words when you + wanted to insult or humiliate some one, or say something unpleasant. Yes, + that’s your way: if with your views and such an attitude to people you are + allowed to take part in anything, you would destroy it from the first day. + It’s time you understand that.” + </p> + <p> + She sighed and paused. + </p> + <p> + “It’s coarseness of character, Pavel Andreitch,” she said. “You are + well-bred and educated, but what a... Scythian you are in reality! That’s + because you lead a cramped life full of hatred, see no one, and read + nothing but your engineering books. And, you know, there are good people, + good books! Yes... but I am exhausted and it wearies me to talk. I ought + to be in bed.” + </p> + <p> + “So I am going away, Natalie,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes... yes.... <i>Merci</i>....” + </p> + <p> + I stood still for a little while, then went upstairs. An hour later—it + was half-past one—I went downstairs again with a candle in my hand + to speak to my wife. I didn’t know what I was going to say to her, but I + felt that I must say some thing very important and necessary. She was not + in her study, the door leading to her bedroom was closed. + </p> + <p> + “Natalie, are you asleep?” I asked softly. + </p> + <p> + There was no answer. + </p> + <p> + I stood near the door, sighed, and went into the drawing-room. There I sat + down on the sofa, put out the candle, and remained sitting in the dark + till the dawn. + </p> + <p> + VI + </p> + <p> + I went to the station at ten o’clock in the morning. There was no frost, + but snow was falling in big wet flakes and an unpleasant damp wind was + blowing. + </p> + <p> + We passed a pond and then a birch copse, and then began going uphill along + the road which I could see from my window. I turned round to take a last + look at my house, but I could see nothing for the snow. Soon afterwards + dark huts came into sight ahead of us as in a fog. It was Pestrovo. + </p> + <p> + “If I ever go out of my mind, Pestrovo will be the cause of it,” I + thought. “It persecutes me.” + </p> + <p> + We came out into the village street. All the roofs were intact, not one of + them had been pulled to pieces; so my bailiff had told a lie. A boy was + pulling along a little girl and a baby in a sledge. Another boy of three, + with his head wrapped up like a peasant woman’s and with huge mufflers on + his hands, was trying to catch the flying snowflakes on his tongue, and + laughing. Then a wagon loaded with fagots came toward us and a peasant + walking beside it, and there was no telling whether his beard was white or + whether it was covered with snow. He recognized my coachman, smiled at him + and said something, and mechanically took off his hat to me. The dogs ran + out of the yards and looked inquisitively at my horses. Everything was + quiet, ordinary, as usual. The emigrants had returned, there was no bread; + in the huts “some were laughing, some were delirious”; but it all looked + so ordinary that one could not believe it really was so. There were no + distracted faces, no voices whining for help, no weeping, nor abuse, but + all around was stillness, order, life, children, sledges, dogs with + dishevelled tails. Neither the children nor the peasant we met were + troubled; why was I so troubled? + </p> + <p> + Looking at the smiling peasant, at the boy with the huge mufflers, at the + huts, remembering my wife, I realized there was no calamity that could + daunt this people; I felt as though there were already a breath of victory + in the air. I felt proud and felt ready to cry out that I was with them + too; but the horses were carrying us away from the village into the open + country, the snow was whirling, the wind was howling, and I was left alone + with my thoughts. Of the million people working for the peasantry, life + itself had cast me out as a useless, incompetent, bad man. I was a + hindrance, a part of the people’s calamity; I was vanquished, cast out, + and I was hurrying to the station to go away and hide myself in Petersburg + in a hotel in Bolshaya Morskaya. + </p> + <p> + An hour later we reached the station. The coachman and a porter with a + disc on his breast carried my trunks into the ladies’ room. My coachman + Nikanor, wearing high felt boots and the skirt of his coat tucked up + through his belt, all wet with the snow and glad I was going away, gave me + a friendly smile and said: + </p> + <p> + “A fortunate journey, your Excellency. God give you luck.” + </p> + <p> + Every one, by the way, calls me “your Excellency,” though I am only a + collegiate councillor and a kammer-junker. The porter told me the train + had not yet left the next station; I had to wait. I went outside, and with + my head heavy from my sleepless night, and so exhausted I could hardly + move my legs, I walked aimlessly towards the pump. There was not a soul + anywhere near. + </p> + <p> + “Why am I going?” I kept asking myself. “What is there awaiting me there? + The acquaintances from whom I have come away, loneliness, restaurant + dinners, noise, the electric light, which makes my eyes ache. Where am I + going, and what am I going for? What am I going for?” + </p> + <p> + And it seemed somehow strange to go away without speaking to my wife. I + felt that I was leaving her in uncertainty. Going away, I ought to have + told that she was right, that I really was a bad man. + </p> + <p> + When I turned away from the pump, I saw in the doorway the station-master, + of whom I had twice made complaints to his superiors, turning up the + collar of his coat, shrinking from the wind and the snow. He came up to + me, and putting two fingers to the peak of his cap, told me with an + expression of helpless confusion, strained respectfulness, and hatred on + his face, that the train was twenty minutes late, and asked me would I not + like to wait in the warm? + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” I answered, “but I am probably not going. Send word to my + coachman to wait; I have not made up my mind.” + </p> + <p> + I walked to and fro on the platform and thought, should I go away or not? + When the train came in I decided not to go. At home I had to expect my + wife’s amazement and perhaps her mockery, the dismal upper storey and my + uneasiness; but, still, at my age that was easier and as it were more + homelike than travelling for two days and nights with strangers to + Petersburg, where I should be conscious every minute that my life was of + no use to any one or to anything, and that it was approaching its end. No, + better at home whatever awaited me there.... I went out of the station. It + was awkward by daylight to return home, where every one was so glad at my + going. I might spend the rest of the day till evening at some neighbour’s, + but with whom? With some of them I was on strained relations, others I did + not know at all. I considered and thought of Ivan Ivanitch. + </p> + <p> + “We are going to Bragino!” I said to the coachman, getting into the + sledge. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a long way,” sighed Nikanor; “it will be twenty miles, or maybe + twenty-five.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, please, my dear fellow,” I said in a tone as though Nikanor had the + right to refuse. “Please let us go!” + </p> + <p> + Nikanor shook his head doubtfully and said slowly that we really ought to + have put in the shafts, not Circassian, but Peasant or Siskin; and + uncertainly, as though expecting I should change my mind, took the reins + in his gloves, stood up, thought a moment, and then raised his whip. + </p> + <p> + “A whole series of inconsistent actions...” I thought, screening my face + from the snow. “I must have gone out of my mind. Well, I don’t care....” + </p> + <p> + In one place, on a very high and steep slope, Nikanor carefully held the + horses in to the middle of the descent, but in the middle the horses + suddenly bolted and dashed downhill at a fearful rate; he raised his + elbows and shouted in a wild, frantic voice such as I had never heard from + him before: + </p> + <p> + “Hey! Let’s give the general a drive! If you come to grief he’ll buy new + ones, my darlings! Hey! look out! We’ll run you down!” + </p> + <p> + Only now, when the extraordinary pace we were going at took my breath + away, I noticed that he was very drunk. He must have been drinking at the + station. At the bottom of the descent there was the crash of ice; a piece + of dirty frozen snow thrown up from the road hit me a painful blow in the + face. + </p> + <p> + The runaway horses ran up the hill as rapidly as they had downhill, and + before I had time to shout to Nikanor my sledge was flying along on the + level in an old pine forest, and the tall pines were stretching out their + shaggy white paws to me from all directions. + </p> + <p> + “I have gone out of my mind, and the coachman’s drunk,” I thought. “Good!” + </p> + <p> + I found Ivan Ivanitch at home. He laughed till he coughed, laid his head + on my breast, and said what he always did say on meeting me: + </p> + <p> + “You grow younger and younger. I don’t know what dye you use for your hair + and your beard; you might give me some of it.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve come to return your call, Ivan Ivanitch,” I said untruthfully. + “Don’t be hard on me; I’m a townsman, conventional; I do keep count of + calls.” + </p> + <p> + “I am delighted, my dear fellow. I am an old man; I like respect.... Yes.” + </p> + <p> + From his voice and his blissfully smiling face, I could see that he was + greatly flattered by my visit. Two peasant women helped me off with my + coat in the entry, and a peasant in a red shirt hung it on a hook, and + when Ivan Ivanitch and I went into his little study, two barefooted little + girls were sitting on the floor looking at a picture-book; when they saw + us they jumped up and ran away, and a tall, thin old woman in spectacles + came in at once, bowed gravely to me, and picking up a pillow from the + sofa and a picture-book from the floor, went away. From the adjoining + rooms we heard incessant whispering and the patter of bare feet. + </p> + <p> + “I am expecting the doctor to dinner,” said Ivan Ivanitch. “He promised to + come from the relief centre. Yes. He dines with me every Wednesday, God + bless him.” He craned towards me and kissed me on the neck. “You have + come, my dear fellow, so you are not vexed,” he whispered, sniffing. + “Don’t be vexed, my dear creature. Yes. Perhaps it is annoying, but don’t + be cross. My only prayer to God before I die is to live in peace and + harmony with all in the true way. Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me, Ivan Ivanitch, I will put my feet on a chair,” I said, + feeling that I was so exhausted I could not be myself; I sat further back + on the sofa and put up my feet on an arm-chair. My face was burning from + the snow and the wind, and I felt as though my whole body were basking in + the warmth and growing weaker from it. + </p> + <p> + “It’s very nice here,” I went on—“warm, soft, snug... and + goose-feather pens,” I laughed, looking at the writing-table; “sand + instead of blotting-paper.” + </p> + <p> + “Eh? Yes... yes.... The writing-table and the mahogany cupboard here were + made for my father by a self-taught cabinet-maker—Glyeb Butyga, a + serf of General Zhukov’s. Yes... a great artist in his own way.” + </p> + <p> + Listlessly and in the tone of a man dropping asleep, he began telling me + about cabinet-maker Butyga. I listened. Then Ivan Ivanitch went into the + next room to show me a polisander wood chest of drawers remarkable for its + beauty and cheapness. He tapped the chest with his fingers, then called my + attention to a stove of patterned tiles, such as one never sees now. He + tapped the stove, too, with his fingers. There was an atmosphere of + good-natured simplicity and well-fed abundance about the chest of drawers, + the tiled stove, the low chairs, the pictures embroidered in wool and silk + on canvas in solid, ugly frames. When one remembers that all those objects + were standing in the same places and precisely in the same order when I + was a little child, and used to come here to name-day parties with my + mother, it is simply unbelievable that they could ever cease to exist. + </p> + <p> + I thought what a fearful difference between Butyga and me! Butyga who made + things, above all, solidly and substantially, and seeing in that his chief + object, gave to length of life peculiar significance, had no thought of + death, and probably hardly believed in its possibility; I, when I built my + bridges of iron and stone which would last a thousand years, could not + keep from me the thought, “It’s not for long....it’s no use.” If in time + Butyga’s cupboard and my bridge should come under the notice of some + sensible historian of art, he would say: “These were two men remarkable in + their own way: Butyga loved his fellow-creatures and would not admit the + thought that they might die and be annihilated, and so when he made his + furniture he had the immortal man in his mind. The engineer Asorin did not + love life or his fellow-creatures; even in the happy moments of creation, + thoughts of death, of finiteness and dissolution, were not alien to him, + and we see how insignificant and finite, how timid and poor, are these + lines of his....” + </p> + <p> + “I only heat these rooms,” muttered Ivan Ivanitch, showing me his rooms. + “Ever since my wife died and my son was killed in the war, I have kept the + best rooms shut up. Yes... see...” + </p> + <p> + He opened a door, and I saw a big room with four columns, an old piano, + and a heap of peas on the floor; it smelt cold and damp. + </p> + <p> + “The garden seats are in the next room...” muttered Ivan Ivanitch. + “There’s no one to dance the mazurka now.... I’ve shut them up.” + </p> + <p> + We heard a noise. It was Dr. Sobol arriving. While he was rubbing his cold + hands and stroking his wet beard, I had time to notice in the first place + that he had a very dull life, and so was pleased to see Ivan Ivanitch and + me; and, secondly, that he was a naive and simple-hearted man. He looked + at me as though I were very glad to see him and very much interested in + him. + </p> + <p> + “I have not slept for two nights,” he said, looking at me naively and + stroking his beard. “One night with a confinement, and the next I stayed + at a peasant’s with the bugs biting me all night. I am as sleepy as Satan, + do you know.” + </p> + <p> + With an expression on his face as though it could not afford me anything + but pleasure, he took me by the arm and led me to the dining-room. His + naive eyes, his crumpled coat, his cheap tie and the smell of iodoform + made an unpleasant impression upon me; I felt as though I were in vulgar + company. When we sat down to table he filled my glass with vodka, and, + smiling helplessly, I drank it; he put a piece of ham on my plate and I + ate it submissively. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Repetitia est mater studiorum</i>,” said Sobol, hastening to drink off + another wineglassful. “Would you believe it, the joy of seeing good people + has driven away my sleepiness? I have turned into a peasant, a savage in + the wilds; I’ve grown coarse, but I am still an educated man, and I tell + you in good earnest, it’s tedious without company.” + </p> + <p> + They served first for a cold course white sucking-pig with horse-radish + cream, then a rich and very hot cabbage soup with pork on it, with boiled + buckwheat, from which rose a column of steam. The doctor went on talking, + and I was soon convinced that he was a weak, unfortunate man, disorderly + in external life. Three glasses of vodka made him drunk; he grew + unnaturally lively, ate a great deal, kept clearing his throat and + smacking his lips, and already addressed me in Italian, “Eccellenza.” + Looking naively at me as though he were convinced that I was very glad to + see and hear him, he informed me that he had long been separated from his + wife and gave her three-quarters of his salary; that she lived in the town + with his children, a boy and a girl, whom he adored; that he loved another + woman, a widow, well educated, with an estate in the country, but was + rarely able to see her, as he was busy with his work from morning till + night and had not a free moment. + </p> + <p> + “The whole day long, first at the hospital, then on my rounds,” he told + us; “and I assure you, Eccellenza, I have not time to read a book, let + alone going to see the woman I love. I’ve read nothing for ten years! For + ten years, Eccellenza. As for the financial side of the question, ask Ivan + Ivanitch: I have often no money to buy tobacco.” + </p> + <p> + “On the other hand, you have the moral satisfaction of your work,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “What?” he asked, and he winked. “No,” he said, “better let us drink.” + </p> + <p> + I listened to the doctor, and, after my invariable habit, tried to take + his measure by my usual classification—materialist, idealist, filthy + lucre, gregarious instincts, and so on; but no classification fitted him + even approximately; and strange to say, while I simply listened and looked + at him, he seemed perfectly clear to me as a person, but as soon as I + began trying to classify him he became an exceptionally complex, + intricate, and incomprehensible character in spite of all his candour and + simplicity. “Is that man,” I asked myself, “capable of wasting other + people’s money, abusing their confidence, being disposed to sponge on + them?” And now this question, which had once seemed to me grave and + important, struck me as crude, petty, and coarse. + </p> + <p> + Pie was served; then, I remember, with long intervals between, during + which we drank home-made liquors, they gave us a stew of pigeons, some + dish of giblets, roast sucking-pig, partridges, cauliflower, curd + dumplings, curd cheese and milk, jelly, and finally pancakes and jam. At + first I ate with great relish, especially the cabbage soup and the + buckwheat, but afterwards I munched and swallowed mechanically, smiling + helplessly and unconscious of the taste of anything. My face was burning + from the hot cabbage soup and the heat of the room. Ivan Ivanitch and + Sobol, too, were crimson. + </p> + <p> + “To the health of your wife,” said Sobol. “She likes me. Tell her her + doctor sends her his respects.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s fortunate, upon my word,” sighed Ivan Ivanitch. “Though she takes + no trouble, does not fuss or worry herself, she has become the most + important person in the whole district. Almost the whole business is in + her hands, and they all gather round her, the doctor, the District + Captains, and the ladies. With people of the right sort that happens of + itself. Yes.... The apple-tree need take no thought for the apple to grow + on it; it will grow of itself.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s only people who don’t care who take no thought,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Eh? Yes...” muttered Ivan Ivanitch, not catching what I said, “that’s + true.... One must not worry oneself. Just so, just so.... Only do your + duty towards God and your neighbour, and then never mind what happens.” + </p> + <p> + “Eccellenza,” said Sobol solemnly, “just look at nature about us: if you + poke your nose or your ear out of your fur collar it will be frost-bitten; + stay in the fields for one hour, you’ll be buried in the snow; while the + village is just the same as in the days of Rurik, the same Petchenyegs and + Polovtsi. It’s nothing but being burnt down, starving, and struggling + against nature in every way. What was I saying? Yes! If one thinks about + it, you know, looks into it and analyses all this hotchpotch, if you will + allow me to call it so, it’s not life but more like a fire in a theatre! + Any one who falls down or screams with terror, or rushes about, is the + worst enemy of good order; one must stand up and look sharp, and not stir + a hair! There’s no time for whimpering and busying oneself with trifles. + When you have to deal with elemental forces you must put out force against + them, be firm and as unyielding as a stone. Isn’t that right, + grandfather?” He turned to Ivan Ivanitch and laughed. “I am no better than + a woman myself; I am a limp rag, a flabby creature, so I hate flabbiness. + I can’t endure petty feelings! One mopes, another is frightened, a third + will come straight in here and say: ‘Fie on you! Here you’ve guzzled a + dozen courses and you talk about the starving!’ That’s petty and stupid! A + fourth will reproach you, Eccellenza, for being rich. Excuse me, + Eccellenza,” he went on in a loud voice, laying his hand on his heart, + “but your having set our magistrate the task of hunting day and night for + your thieves—excuse me, that’s also petty on your part. I am a + little drunk, so that’s why I say this now, but you know, it is petty!” + </p> + <p> + “Who’s asking him to worry himself? I don’t understand!” I said, getting + up. + </p> + <p> + I suddenly felt unbearably ashamed and mortified, and I walked round the + table. + </p> + <p> + “Who asks him to worry himself? I didn’t ask him to.... Damn him!” + </p> + <p> + “They have arrested three men and let them go again. They turned out not + to be the right ones, and now they are looking for a fresh lot,” said + Sobol, laughing. “It’s too bad!” + </p> + <p> + “I did not ask him to worry himself,” said I, almost crying with + excitement. “What’s it all for? What’s it all for? Well, supposing I was + wrong, supposing I have done wrong, why do they try to put me more in the + wrong?” + </p> + <p> + “Come, come, come, come!” said Sobol, trying to soothe me. “Come! I have + had a drop, that is why I said it. My tongue is my enemy. Come,” he + sighed, “we have eaten and drunk wine, and now for a nap.” + </p> + <p> + He got up from the table, kissed Ivan Ivanitch on the head, and staggering + from repletion, went out of the dining-room. Ivan Ivanitch and I smoked in + silence. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t sleep after dinner, my dear,” said Ivan Ivanitch, “but you have a + rest in the lounge-room.” + </p> + <p> + I agreed. In the half-dark and warmly heated room they called the + lounge-room, there stood against the walls long, wide sofas, solid and + heavy, the work of Butyga the cabinet maker; on them lay high, soft, white + beds, probably made by the old woman in spectacles. On one of them Sobol, + without his coat and boots, already lay asleep with his face to the back + of the sofa; another bed was awaiting me. I took off my coat and boots, + and, overcome by fatigue, by the spirit of Butyga which hovered over the + quiet lounge-room, and by the light, caressing snore of Sobol, I lay down + submissively. + </p> + <p> + And at once I began dreaming of my wife, of her room, of the + station-master with his face full of hatred, the heaps of snow, a fire in + the theatre. I dreamed of the peasants who had stolen twenty sacks of rye + out of my barn. + </p> + <p> + “Anyway, it’s a good thing the magistrate let them go,” I said. + </p> + <p> + I woke up at the sound of my own voice, looked for a moment in perplexity + at Sobol’s broad back, at the buckles of his waistcoat, at his thick + heels, then lay down again and fell asleep. + </p> + <p> + When I woke up the second time it was quite dark. Sobol was asleep. There + was peace in my heart, and I longed to make haste home. I dressed and went + out of the lounge-room. Ivan Ivanitch was sitting in a big arm-chair in + his study, absolutely motionless, staring at a fixed point, and it was + evident that he had been in the same state of petrifaction all the while I + had been asleep. + </p> + <p> + “Good!” I said, yawning. “I feel as though I had woken up after breaking + the fast at Easter. I shall often come and see you now. Tell me, did my + wife ever dine here?” + </p> + <p> + “So-ome-ti-mes... sometimes,”’ muttered Ivan Ivanitch, making an effort to + stir. “She dined here last Saturday. Yes.... She likes me.” + </p> + <p> + After a silence I said: + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember, Ivan Ivanitch, you told me I had a disagreeable + character and that it was difficult to get on with me? But what am I to do + to make my character different?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know, my dear boy.... I’m a feeble old man, I can’t advise + you.... Yes.... But I said that to you at the time because I am fond of + you and fond of your wife, and I was fond of your father.... Yes. I shall + soon die, and what need have I to conceal things from you or to tell you + lies? So I tell you: I am very fond of you, but I don’t respect you. No, I + don’t respect you.” + </p> + <p> + He turned towards me and said in a breathless whisper: + </p> + <p> + “It’s impossible to respect you, my dear fellow. You look like a real man. + You have the figure and deportment of the French President Carnot—I + saw a portrait of him the other day in an illustrated paper... yes.... You + use lofty language, and you are clever, and you are high up in the service + beyond all reach, but haven’t real soul, my dear boy... there’s no + strength in it.” + </p> + <p> + “A Scythian, in fact,” I laughed. “But what about my wife? Tell me + something about my wife; you know her better.” + </p> + <p> + I wanted to talk about my wife, but Sobol came in and prevented me. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve had a sleep and a wash,” he said, looking at me naively. “I’ll have + a cup of tea with some rum in it and go home.” + </p> + <p> + VII + </p> + <p> + It was by now past seven. Besides Ivan Ivanitch, women servants, the old + dame in spectacles, the little girls and the peasant, all accompanied us + from the hall out on to the steps, wishing us good-bye and all sorts of + blessings, while near the horses in the darkness there were standing and + moving about men with lanterns, telling our coachmen how and which way to + drive, and wishing us a lucky journey. The horses, the men, and the + sledges were white. + </p> + <p> + “Where do all these people come from?” I asked as my three horses and the + doctor’s two moved at a walking pace out of the yard. + </p> + <p> + “They are all his serfs,” said Sobol. “The new order has not reached him + yet. Some of the old servants are living out their lives with him, and + then there are orphans of all sorts who have nowhere to go; there are + some, too, who insist on living there, there’s no turning them out. A + queer old man!” + </p> + <p> + Again the flying horses, the strange voice of drunken Nikanor, the wind + and the persistent snow, which got into one’s eyes, one’s mouth, and every + fold of one’s fur coat.... + </p> + <p> + “Well, I am running a rig,” I thought, while my bells chimed in with the + doctor’s, the wind whistled, the coachmen shouted; and while this frantic + uproar was going on, I recalled all the details of that strange wild day, + unique in my life, and it seemed to me that I really had gone out of my + mind or become a different man. It was as though the man I had been till + that day were already a stranger to me. + </p> + <p> + The doctor drove behind and kept talking loudly with his coachman. From + time to time he overtook me, drove side by side, and always, with the same + naive confidence that it was very pleasant to me, offered me a cigarette + or asked for the matches. Or, overtaking me, he would lean right out of + his sledge, and waving about the sleeves of his fur coat, which were at + least twice as long as his arms, shout: + </p> + <p> + “Go it, Vaska! Beat the thousand roublers! Hey, my kittens!” + </p> + <p> + And to the accompaniment of loud, malicious laughter from Sobol and his + Vaska the doctor’s kittens raced ahead. My Nikanor took it as an affront, + and held in his three horses, but when the doctor’s bells had passed out + of hearing, he raised his elbows, shouted, and our horses flew like mad in + pursuit. We drove into a village, there were glimpses of lights, the + silhouettes of huts. Some one shouted: + </p> + <p> + “Ah, the devils!” We seemed to have galloped a mile and a half, and still + it was the village street and there seemed no end to it. When we caught up + the doctor and drove more quietly, he asked for matches and said: + </p> + <p> + “Now try and feed that street! And, you know, there are five streets like + that, sir. Stay, stay,” he shouted. “Turn in at the tavern! We must get + warm and let the horses rest.” + </p> + <p> + They stopped at the tavern. + </p> + <p> + “I have more than one village like that in my district,” said the doctor, + opening a heavy door with a squeaky block, and ushering me in front of + him. “If you look in broad daylight you can’t see to the end of the + street, and there are side-streets, too, and one can do nothing but + scratch one’s head. It’s hard to do anything.” + </p> + <p> + We went into the best room where there was a strong smell of table-cloths, + and at our entrance a sleepy peasant in a waistcoat and a shirt worn + outside his trousers jumped up from a bench. Sobol asked for some beer and + I asked for tea. + </p> + <p> + “It’s hard to do anything,” said Sobol. “Your wife has faith; I respect + her and have the greatest reverence for her, but I have no great faith + myself. As long as our relations to the people continue to have the + character of ordinary philanthropy, as shown in orphan asylums and + almshouses, so long we shall only be shuffling, shamming, and deceiving + ourselves, and nothing more. Our relations ought to be businesslike, + founded on calculation, knowledge, and justice. My Vaska has been working + for me all his life; his crops have failed, he is sick and starving. If I + give him fifteen kopecks a day, by so doing I try to restore him to his + former condition as a workman; that is, I am first and foremost looking + after my own interests, and yet for some reason I call that fifteen + kopecks relief, charity, good works. Now let us put it like this. On the + most modest computation, reckoning seven kopecks a soul and five souls a + family, one needs three hundred and fifty roubles a day to feed a thousand + families. That sum is fixed by our practical duty to a thousand families. + Meanwhile we give not three hundred and fifty a day, but only ten, and say + that that is relief, charity, that that makes your wife and all of us + exceptionally good people and hurrah for our humaneness. That is it, my + dear soul! Ah! if we would talk less of being humane and calculated more, + reasoned, and took a conscientious attitude to our duties! How many such + humane, sensitive people there are among us who tear about in all good + faith with subscription lists, but don’t pay their tailors or their cooks. + There is no logic in our life; that’s what it is! No logic!” + </p> + <p> + We were silent for a while. I was making a mental calculation and said: + </p> + <p> + “I will feed a thousand families for two hundred days. Come and see me + tomorrow to talk it over.” + </p> + <p> + I was pleased that this was said quite simply, and was glad that Sobol + answered me still more simply: + </p> + <p> + “Right.” + </p> + <p> + We paid for what we had and went out of the tavern. + </p> + <p> + “I like going on like this,” said Sobol, getting into the sledge. + “Eccellenza, oblige me with a match. I’ve forgotten mine in the tavern.” + </p> + <p> + A quarter of an hour later his horses fell behind, and the sound of his + bells was lost in the roar of the snow-storm. Reaching home, I walked + about my rooms, trying to think things over and to define my position + clearly to myself; I had not one word, one phrase, ready for my wife. My + brain was not working. + </p> + <p> + But without thinking of anything, I went downstairs to my wife. She was in + her room, in the same pink dressing-gown, and standing in the same + attitude as though screening her papers from me. On her face was an + expression of perplexity and irony, and it was evident that having heard + of my arrival, she had prepared herself not to cry, not to entreat me, not + to defend herself, as she had done the day before, but to laugh at me, to + answer me contemptuously, and to act with decision. Her face was saying: + “If that’s how it is, good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + “Natalie, I’ve not gone away,” I said, “but it’s not deception. I have + gone out of my mind; I’ve grown old, I’m ill, I’ve become a different man—think + as you like.... I’ve shaken off my old self with horror, with horror; I + despise him and am ashamed of him, and the new man who has been in me + since yesterday will not let me go away. Do not drive me away, Natalie!” + </p> + <p> + She looked intently into my face and believed me, and there was a gleam of + uneasiness in her eyes. Enchanted by her presence, warmed by the warmth of + her room, I muttered as in delirium, holding out my hands to her: + </p> + <p> + “I tell you, I have no one near to me but you. I have never for one minute + ceased to miss you, and only obstinate vanity prevented me from owning it. + The past, when we lived as husband and wife, cannot be brought back, and + there’s no need; but make me your servant, take all my property, and give + it away to any one you like. I am at peace, Natalie, I am content.... I am + at peace.” + </p> + <p> + My wife, looking intently and with curiosity into my face, suddenly + uttered a faint cry, burst into tears, and ran into the next room. I went + upstairs to my own storey. + </p> + <p> + An hour later I was sitting at my table, writing my “History of Railways,” + and the starving peasants did not now hinder me from doing so. Now I feel + no uneasiness. Neither the scenes of disorder which I saw when I went the + round of the huts at Pestrovo with my wife and Sobol the other day, nor + malignant rumours, nor the mistakes of the people around me, nor old age + close upon me—nothing disturbs me. Just as the flying bullets do not + hinder soldiers from talking of their own affairs, eating and cleaning + their boots, so the starving peasants do not hinder me from sleeping + quietly and looking after my personal affairs. In my house and far around + it there is in full swing the work which Dr. Sobol calls “an orgy of + philanthropy.” My wife often comes up to me and looks about my rooms + uneasily, as though looking for what more she can give to the starving + peasants “to justify her existence,” and I see that, thanks to her, there + will soon be nothing of our property left and we shall be poor; but that + does not trouble me, and I smile at her gaily. What will happen in the + future I don’t know. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DIFFICULT PEOPLE + </h2> + <p> + YEVGRAF IVANOVITCH SHIRYAEV, a small farmer, whose father, a parish + priest, now deceased, had received a gift of three hundred acres of land + from Madame Kuvshinnikov, a general’s widow, was standing in a corner + before a copper washing-stand, washing his hands. As usual, his face + looked anxious and ill-humoured, and his beard was uncombed. + </p> + <p> + “What weather!” he said. “It’s not weather, but a curse laid upon us. It’s + raining again!” + </p> + <p> + He grumbled on, while his family sat waiting at table for him to have + finished washing his hands before beginning dinner. Fedosya Semyonovna, + his wife, his son Pyotr, a student, his eldest daughter Varvara, and three + small boys, had been sitting waiting a long time. The boys—Kolka, + Vanka, and Arhipka—grubby, snub-nosed little fellows with chubby + faces and tousled hair that wanted cutting, moved their chairs + impatiently, while their elders sat without stirring, and apparently did + not care whether they ate their dinner or waited.... + </p> + <p> + As though trying their patience, Shiryaev deliberately dried his hands, + deliberately said his prayer, and sat down to the table without hurrying + himself. Cabbage-soup was served immediately. The sound of carpenters’ + axes (Shiryaev was having a new barn built) and the laughter of Fomka, + their labourer, teasing the turkey, floated in from the courtyard. + </p> + <p> + Big, sparse drops of rain pattered on the window. + </p> + <p> + Pyotr, a round-shouldered student in spectacles, kept exchanging glances + with his mother as he ate his dinner. Several times he laid down his spoon + and cleared his throat, meaning to begin to speak, but after an intent + look at his father he fell to eating again. At last, when the porridge had + been served, he cleared his throat resolutely and said: + </p> + <p> + “I ought to go tonight by the evening train. I ought to have gone before; I + have missed a fortnight as it is. The lectures begin on the first of + September.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, go,” Shiryaev assented; “why are you lingering on here? Pack up and + go, and good luck to you.” + </p> + <p> + A minute passed in silence. + </p> + <p> + “He must have money for the journey, Yevgraf Ivanovitch,” the mother + observed in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “Money? To be sure, you can’t go without money. Take it at once, since you + need it. You could have had it long ago!” + </p> + <p> + The student heaved a faint sigh and looked with relief at his mother. + Deliberately Shiryaev took a pocket-book out of his coat-pocket and put on + his spectacles. + </p> + <p> + “How much do you want?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “The fare to Moscow is eleven roubles forty-two kopecks....” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, money, money!” sighed the father. (He always sighed when he saw + money, even when he was receiving it.) “Here are twelve roubles for you. + You will have change out of that which will be of use to you on the + journey.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + After waiting a little, the student said: + </p> + <p> + “I did not get lessons quite at first last year. I don’t know how it will + be this year; most likely it will take me a little time to find work. I + ought to ask you for fifteen roubles for my lodging and dinner.” + </p> + <p> + Shiryaev thought a little and heaved a sigh. + </p> + <p> + “You will have to make ten do,” he said. “Here, take it.” + </p> + <p> + The student thanked him. He ought to have asked him for something more, + for clothes, for lecture fees, for books, but after an intent look at his + father he decided not to pester him further. + </p> + <p> + The mother, lacking in diplomacy and prudence, like all mothers, could not + restrain herself, and said: + </p> + <p> + “You ought to give him another six roubles, Yevgraf Ivanovitch, for a pair + of boots. Why, just see, how can he go to Moscow in such wrecks?” + </p> + <p> + “Let him take my old ones; they are still quite good.” + </p> + <p> + “He must have trousers, anyway; he is a disgrace to look at.” + </p> + <p> + And immediately after that a storm-signal showed itself, at the sight of + which all the family trembled. + </p> + <p> + Shiryaev’s short, fat neck turned suddenly red as a beetroot. The colour + mounted slowly to his ears, from his ears to his temples, and by degrees + suffused his whole face. Yevgraf Ivanovitch shifted in his chair and + unbuttoned his shirt-collar to save himself from choking. He was evidently + struggling with the feeling that was mastering him. A deathlike silence + followed. The children held their breath. Fedosya Semyonovna, as though + she did not grasp what was happening to her husband, went on: + </p> + <p> + “He is not a little boy now, you know; he is ashamed to go about without + clothes.” + </p> + <p> + Shiryaev suddenly jumped up, and with all his might flung down his fat + pocket-book in the middle of the table, so that a hunk of bread flew off a + plate. A revolting expression of anger, resentment, avarice—all + mixed together—flamed on his face. + </p> + <p> + “Take everything!” he shouted in an unnatural voice; “plunder me! Take it + all! Strangle me!” + </p> + <p> + He jumped up from the table, clutched at his head, and ran staggering + about the room. + </p> + <p> + “Strip me to the last thread!” he shouted in a shrill voice. “Squeeze out + the last drop! Rob me! Wring my neck!” + </p> + <p> + The student flushed and dropped his eyes. He could not go on eating. + Fedosya Semyonovna, who had not after twenty-five years grown used to her + husband’s difficult character, shrank into herself and muttered something + in self-defence. An expression of amazement and dull terror came into her + wasted and birdlike face, which at all times looked dull and scared. The + little boys and the elder daughter Varvara, a girl in her teens, with a + pale ugly face, laid down their spoons and sat mute. + </p> + <p> + Shiryaev, growing more and more ferocious, uttering words each more + terrible than the one before, dashed up to the table and began shaking the + notes out of his pocket-book. + </p> + <p> + “Take them!” he muttered, shaking all over. “You’ve eaten and drunk your + fill, so here’s money for you too! I need nothing! Order yourself new + boots and uniforms!” + </p> + <p> + The student turned pale and got up. + </p> + <p> + “Listen, papa,” he began, gasping for breath. “I... I beg you to end this, + for...” + </p> + <p> + “Hold your tongue!” the father shouted at him, and so loudly that the + spectacles fell off his nose; “hold your tongue!” + </p> + <p> + “I used... I used to be able to put up with such scenes, but... but now I + have got out of the way of it. Do you understand? I have got out of the + way of it!” + </p> + <p> + “Hold your tongue!” cried the father, and he stamped with his feet. “You + must listen to what I say! I shall say what I like, and you hold your + tongue. At your age I was earning my living, while you... Do you know what + you cost me, you scoundrel? I’ll turn you out! Wastrel!” + </p> + <p> + “Yevgraf Ivanovitch,” muttered Fedosya Semyonovna, moving her fingers + nervously; “you know he... you know Petya...!” + </p> + <p> + “Hold your tongue!” Shiryaev shouted out to her, and tears actually came + into his eyes from anger. “It is you who have spoilt them—you! It’s + all your fault! He has no respect for us, does not say his prayers, and + earns nothing! I am only one against the ten of you! I’ll turn you out of + the house!” + </p> + <p> + The daughter Varvara gazed fixedly at her mother with her mouth open, + moved her vacant-looking eyes to the window, turned pale, and, uttering a + loud shriek, fell back in her chair. The father, with a curse and a wave + of the hand, ran out into the yard. + </p> + <p> + This was how domestic scenes usually ended at the Shiryaevs’. But on this + occasion, unfortunately, Pyotr the student was carried away by + overmastering anger. He was just as hasty and ill-tempered as his father + and his grandfather the priest, who used to beat his parishioners about + the head with a stick. Pale and clenching his fists, he went up to his + mother and shouted in the very highest tenor note his voice could reach: + </p> + <p> + “These reproaches are loathsome! sickening to me! I want nothing from you! + Nothing! I would rather die of hunger than eat another mouthful at your + expense! Take your nasty money back! take it!” + </p> + <p> + The mother huddled against the wall and waved her hands, as though it were + not her son, but some phantom before her. “What have I done?” she wailed. + “What?” + </p> + <p> + Like his father, the boy waved his hands and ran into the yard. Shiryaev’s + house stood alone on a ravine which ran like a furrow for four miles along + the steppe. Its sides were overgrown with oak saplings and alders, and a + stream ran at the bottom. On one side the house looked towards the ravine, + on the other towards the open country, there were no fences nor hurdles. + Instead there were farm-buildings of all sorts close to one another, + shutting in a small space in front of the house which was regarded as the + yard, and in which hens, ducks, and pigs ran about. + </p> + <p> + Going out of the house, the student walked along the muddy road towards + the open country. The air was full of a penetrating autumn dampness. The + road was muddy, puddles gleamed here and there, and in the yellow fields + autumn itself seemed looking out from the grass, dismal, decaying, dark. + On the right-hand side of the road was a vegetable-garden cleared of its + crops and gloomy-looking, with here and there sunflowers standing up in it + with hanging heads already black. + </p> + <p> + Pyotr thought it would not be a bad thing to walk to Moscow on foot; to + walk just as he was, with holes in his boots, without a cap, and without a + farthing of money. When he had gone eighty miles his father, frightened + and aghast, would overtake him, would begin begging him to turn back or + take the money, but he would not even look at him, but would go on and + on.... Bare forests would be followed by desolate fields, fields by + forests again; soon the earth would be white with the first snow, and the + streams would be coated with ice.... Somewhere near Kursk or near + Serpuhovo, exhausted and dying of hunger, he would sink down and die. His + corpse would be found, and there would be a paragraph in all the papers + saying that a student called Shiryaev had died of hunger.... + </p> + <p> + A white dog with a muddy tail who was wandering about the vegetable-garden + looking for something gazed at him and sauntered after him. + </p> + <p> + He walked along the road and thought of death, of the grief of his family, + of the moral sufferings of his father, and then pictured all sorts of + adventures on the road, each more marvellous than the one before—picturesque + places, terrible nights, chance encounters. He imagined a string of + pilgrims, a hut in the forest with one little window shining in the + darkness; he stands before the window, begs for a night’s lodging.... They + let him in, and suddenly he sees that they are robbers. Or, better still, + he is taken into a big manor-house, where, learning who he is, they give + him food and drink, play to him on the piano, listen to his complaints, + and the daughter of the house, a beauty, falls in love with him. + </p> + <p> + Absorbed in his bitterness and such thoughts, young Shiryaev walked on and + on. Far, far ahead he saw the inn, a dark patch against the grey + background of cloud. Beyond the inn, on the very horizon, he could see a + little hillock; this was the railway-station. That hillock reminded him of + the connection existing between the place where he was now standing and + Moscow, where street-lamps were burning and carriages were rattling in the + streets, where lectures were being given. And he almost wept with + depression and impatience. The solemn landscape, with its order and + beauty, the deathlike stillness all around, revolted him and moved him to + despair and hatred! + </p> + <p> + “Look out!” He heard behind him a loud voice. + </p> + <p> + An old lady of his acquaintance, a landowner of the neighbourhood, drove + past him in a light, elegant landau. He bowed to her, and smiled all over + his face. And at once he caught himself in that smile, which was so out of + keeping with his gloomy mood. Where did it come from if his whole heart + was full of vexation and misery? And he thought nature itself had given + man this capacity for lying, that even in difficult moments of spiritual + strain he might be able to hide the secrets of his nest as the fox and the + wild duck do. Every family has its joys and its horrors, but however great + they may be, it’s hard for an outsider’s eye to see them; they are a + secret. The father of the old lady who had just driven by, for instance, + had for some offence lain for half his lifetime under the ban of the wrath + of Tsar Nicolas I.; her husband had been a gambler; of her four sons, not + one had turned out well. One could imagine how many terrible scenes there + must have been in her life, how many tears must have been shed. And yet + the old lady seemed happy and satisfied, and she had answered his smile by + smiling too. The student thought of his comrades, who did not like talking + about their families; he thought of his mother, who almost always lied + when she had to speak of her husband and children.... + </p> + <p> + Pyotr walked about the roads far from home till dusk, abandoning himself + to dreary thoughts. When it began to drizzle with rain he turned + homewards. As he walked back he made up his mind at all costs to talk to + his father, to explain to him, once and for all, that it was dreadful and + oppressive to live with him. + </p> + <p> + He found perfect stillness in the house. His sister Varvara was lying + behind a screen with a headache, moaning faintly. His mother, with a look + of amazement and guilt upon her face, was sitting beside her on a box, + mending Arhipka’s trousers. Yevgraf Ivanovitch was pacing from one window + to another, scowling at the weather. From his walk, from the way he + cleared his throat, and even from the back of his head, it was evident he + felt himself to blame. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you have changed your mind about going today?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + The student felt sorry for him, but immediately suppressing that feeling, + he said: + </p> + <p> + “Listen... I must speak to you seriously... yes, seriously. I have always + respected you, and... and have never brought myself to speak to you in + such a tone, but your behaviour... your last action...” + </p> + <p> + The father looked out of the window and did not speak. The student, as + though considering his words, rubbed his forehead and went on in great + excitement: + </p> + <p> + “Not a dinner or tea passes without your making an uproar. Your bread + sticks in our throat... nothing is more bitter, more humiliating, than + bread that sticks in one’s throat.... Though you are my father, no one, + neither God nor nature, has given you the right to insult and humiliate us + so horribly, to vent your ill-humour on the weak. You have worn my mother + out and made a slave of her, my sister is hopelessly crushed, while I...” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not your business to teach me,” said his father. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is my business! You can quarrel with me as much as you like, but + leave my mother in peace! I will not allow you to torment my mother!” the + student went on, with flashing eyes. “You are spoilt because no one has + yet dared to oppose you. They tremble and are mute towards you, but now + that is over! Coarse, ill-bred man! You are coarse... do you understand? + You are coarse, ill-humoured, unfeeling. And the peasants can’t endure + you!” + </p> + <p> + The student had by now lost his thread, and was not so much speaking as + firing off detached words. Yevgraf Ivanovitch listened in silence, as + though stunned; but suddenly his neck turned crimson, the colour crept up + his face, and he made a movement. + </p> + <p> + “Hold your tongue!” he shouted. + </p> + <p> + “That’s right!” the son persisted; “you don’t like to hear the truth! + Excellent! Very good! begin shouting! Excellent!” + </p> + <p> + “Hold your tongue, I tell you!” roared Yevgraf Ivanovitch. + </p> + <p> + Fedosya Semyonovna appeared in the doorway, very pale, with an astonished + face; she tried to say something, but she could not, and could only move + her fingers. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all your fault!” Shiryaev shouted at her. “You have brought him up + like this!” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want to go on living in this house!” shouted the student, crying, + and looking angrily at his mother. “I don’t want to live with you!” + </p> + <p> + Varvara uttered a shriek behind the screen and broke into loud sobs. With + a wave of his hand, Shiryaev ran out of the house. + </p> + <p> + The student went to his own room and quietly lay down. He lay till + midnight without moving or opening his eyes. He felt neither anger nor + shame, but a vague ache in his soul. He neither blamed his father nor + pitied his mother, nor was he tormented by stings of conscience; he + realized that every one in the house was feeling the same ache, and God + only knew which was most to blame, which was suffering most.... + </p> + <p> + At midnight he woke the labourer, and told him to have the horse ready at + five o’clock in the morning for him to drive to the station; he undressed + and got into bed, but could not get to sleep. He heard how his father, + still awake, paced slowly from window to window, sighing, till early + morning. No one was asleep; they spoke rarely, and only in whispers. Twice + his mother came to him behind the screen. Always with the same look of + vacant wonder, she slowly made the cross over him, shaking nervously. + </p> + <p> + At five o’clock in the morning he said good-bye to them all + affectionately, and even shed tears. As he passed his father’s room, he + glanced in at the door. Yevgraf Ivanovitch, who had not taken off his + clothes or gone to bed, was standing by the window, drumming on the panes. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye; I am going,” said his son. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye... the money is on the round table...” his father answered, + without turning round. + </p> + <p> + A cold, hateful rain was falling as the labourer drove him to the station. + The sunflowers were drooping their heads still lower, and the grass seemed + darker than ever. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE GRASSHOPPER + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + ALL Olga Ivanovna’s friends and acquaintances were at her wedding. + </p> + <p> + “Look at him; isn’t it true that there is something in him?” she said to + her friends, with a nod towards her husband, as though she wanted to + explain why she was marrying a simple, very ordinary, and in no way + remarkable man. + </p> + <p> + Her husband, Osip Stepanitch Dymov, was a doctor, and only of the rank of + a titular councillor. He was on the staff of two hospitals: in one a + ward-surgeon and in the other a dissecting demonstrator. Every day from + nine to twelve he saw patients and was busy in his ward, and after twelve + o’clock he went by tram to the other hospital, where he dissected. His + private practice was a small one, not worth more than five hundred roubles + a year. That was all. What more could one say about him? Meanwhile, Olga + Ivanovna and her friends and acquaintances were not quite ordinary people. + Every one of them was remarkable in some way, and more or less famous; + already had made a reputation and was looked upon as a celebrity; or if + not yet a celebrity, gave brilliant promise of becoming one. There was an + actor from the Dramatic Theatre, who was a great talent of established + reputation, as well as an elegant, intelligent, and modest man, and a + capital elocutionist, and who taught Olga Ivanovna to recite; there was a + singer from the opera, a good-natured, fat man who assured Olga Ivanovna, + with a sigh, that she was ruining herself, that if she would take herself + in hand and not be lazy she might make a remarkable singer; then there + were several artists, and chief among them Ryabovsky, a very handsome, + fair young man of five-and-twenty who painted genre pieces, animal + studies, and landscapes, was successful at exhibitions, and had sold his + last picture for five hundred roubles. He touched up Olga Ivanovna’s + sketches, and used to say she might do something. Then a violoncellist, + whose instrument used to sob, and who openly declared that of all the + ladies of his acquaintance the only one who could accompany him was Olga + Ivanovna; then there was a literary man, young but already well known, who + had written stories, novels, and plays. Who else? Why, Vassily + Vassilyitch, a landowner and amateur illustrator and vignettist, with a + great feeling for the old Russian style, the old ballad and epic. On + paper, on china, and on smoked plates, he produced literally marvels. In + the midst of this free artistic company, spoiled by fortune, though + refined and modest, who recalled the existence of doctors only in times of + illness, and to whom the name of Dymov sounded in no way different from + Sidorov or Tarasov—in the midst of this company Dymov seemed + strange, not wanted, and small, though he was tall and broad-shouldered. + He looked as though he had on somebody else’s coat, and his beard was like + a shopman’s. Though if he had been a writer or an artist, they would have + said that his beard reminded them of Zola. + </p> + <p> + An artist said to Olga Ivanovna that with her flaxen hair and in her + wedding-dress she was very much like a graceful cherry-tree when it is + covered all over with delicate white blossoms in spring. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, let me tell you,” said Olga Ivanovna, taking his arm, “how it was it + all came to pass so suddenly. Listen, listen!... I must tell you that my + father was on the same staff at the hospital as Dymov. When my poor father + was taken ill, Dymov watched for days and nights together at his bedside. + Such self-sacrifice! Listen, Ryabovsky! You, my writer, listen; it is very + interesting! Come nearer. Such self-sacrifice, such genuine sympathy! I + sat up with my father, and did not sleep for nights, either. And all at + once—the princess had won the hero’s heart—my Dymov fell head + over ears in love. Really, fate is so strange at times! Well, after my + father’s death he came to see me sometimes, met me in the street, and one + fine evening, all at once he made me an offer... like snow upon my + head.... I lay awake all night, crying, and fell hellishly in love myself. + And here, as you see, I am his wife. There really is something strong, + powerful, bearlike about him, isn’t there? Now his face is turned + three-quarters towards us in a bad light, but when he turns round look at + his forehead. Ryabovsky, what do you say to that forehead? Dymov, we are + talking about you!” she called to her husband. “Come here; hold out your + honest hand to Ryabovsky.... That’s right, be friends.” + </p> + <p> + Dymov, with a naive and good-natured smile, held out his hand to + Ryabovsky, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Very glad to meet you. There was a Ryabovsky in my year at the medical + school. Was he a relation of yours?” + </p> + <p> + II + </p> + <p> + Olga Ivanovna was twenty-two, Dymov was thirty-one. They got on splendidly + together when they were married. Olga Ivanovna hung all her drawing-room + walls with her own and other people’s sketches, in frames and without + frames, and near the piano and furniture arranged picturesque corners with + Japanese parasols, easels, daggers, busts, photographs, and rags of many + colours.... In the dining-room she papered the walls with peasant + woodcuts, hung up bark shoes and sickles, stood in a corner a scythe and a + rake, and so achieved a dining-room in the Russian style. In her bedroom + she draped the ceiling and the walls with dark cloths to make it like a + cavern, hung a Venetian lantern over the beds, and at the door set a + figure with a halberd. And every one thought that the young people had a + very charming little home. + </p> + <p> + When she got up at eleven o’clock every morning, Olga Ivanovna played the + piano or, if it were sunny, painted something in oils. Then between twelve + and one she drove to her dressmaker’s. As Dymov and she had very little + money, only just enough, she and her dressmaker were often put to clever + shifts to enable her to appear constantly in new dresses and make a + sensation with them. Very often out of an old dyed dress, out of bits of + tulle, lace, plush, and silk, costing nothing, perfect marvels were + created, something bewitching—not a dress, but a dream. From the + dressmaker’s Olga Ivanovna usually drove to some actress of her + acquaintance to hear the latest theatrical gossip, and incidentally to try + and get hold of tickets for the first night of some new play or for a + benefit performance. From the actress’s she had to go to some artist’s + studio or to some exhibition or to see some celebrity—either to pay + a visit or to give an invitation or simply to have a chat. And everywhere + she met with a gay and friendly welcome, and was assured that she was + good, that she was sweet, that she was rare.... Those whom she called + great and famous received her as one of themselves, as an equal, and + predicted with one voice that, with her talents, her taste, and her + intelligence, she would do great things if she concentrated herself. She + sang, she played the piano, she painted in oils, she carved, she took part + in amateur performances; and all this not just anyhow, but all with + talent, whether she made lanterns for an illumination or dressed up or + tied somebody’s cravat—everything she did was exceptionally + graceful, artistic, and charming. But her talents showed themselves in + nothing so clearly as in her faculty for quickly becoming acquainted and + on intimate terms with celebrated people. No sooner did any one become + ever so little celebrated, and set people talking about him, than she made + his acquaintance, got on friendly terms the same day, and invited him to + her house. Every new acquaintance she made was a veritable fete for her. + She adored celebrated people, was proud of them, dreamed of them every + night. She craved for them, and never could satisfy her craving. The old + ones departed and were forgotten, new ones came to replace them, but to + these, too, she soon grew accustomed or was disappointed in them, and + began eagerly seeking for fresh great men, finding them and seeking for + them again. What for? + </p> + <p> + Between four and five she dined at home with her husband. His simplicity, + good sense, and kind-heartedness touched her and moved her up to + enthusiasm. She was constantly jumping up, impulsively hugging his head + and showering kisses on it. + </p> + <p> + “You are a clever, generous man, Dymov,” she used to say, “but you have + one very serious defect. You take absolutely no interest in art. You don’t + believe in music or painting.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand them,” he would say mildly. “I have spent all my life + in working at natural science and medicine, and I have never had time to + take an interest in the arts.” + </p> + <p> + “But, you know, that’s awful, Dymov!” + </p> + <p> + “Why so? Your friends don’t know anything of science or medicine, but you + don’t reproach them with it. Every one has his own line. I don’t + understand landscapes and operas, but the way I look at it is that if one + set of sensible people devote their whole lives to them, and other + sensible people pay immense sums for them, they must be of use. I don’t + understand them, but not understanding does not imply disbelieving in + them.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me shake your honest hand!” + </p> + <p> + After dinner Olga Ivanovna would drive off to see her friends, then to a + theatre or to a concert, and she returned home after midnight. So it was + every day. + </p> + <p> + On Wednesdays she had “At Homes.” At these “At Homes” the hostess and her + guests did not play cards and did not dance, but entertained themselves + with various arts. An actor from the Dramatic Theatre recited, a singer + sang, artists sketched in the albums of which Olga Ivanovna had a great + number, the violoncellist played, and the hostess herself sketched, + carved, sang, and played accompaniments. In the intervals between the + recitations, music, and singing, they talked and argued about literature, + the theatre, and painting. There were no ladies, for Olga Ivanovna + considered all ladies wearisome and vulgar except actresses and her + dressmaker. Not one of these entertainments passed without the hostess + starting at every ring at the bell, and saying, with a triumphant + expression, “It is he,” meaning by “he,” of course, some new celebrity. + Dymov was not in the drawing-room, and no one remembered his existence. + But exactly at half-past eleven the door leading into the dining-room + opened, and Dymov would appear with his good-natured, gentle smile and + say, rubbing his hands: + </p> + <p> + “Come to supper, gentlemen.” + </p> + <p> + They all went into the dining-room, and every time found on the table + exactly the same things: a dish of oysters, a piece of ham or veal, + sardines, cheese, caviare, mushrooms, vodka, and two decanters of wine. + </p> + <p> + “My dear <i>maitre d’ hotel!</i>” Olga Ivanovna would say, clasping her + hands with enthusiasm, “you are simply fascinating! My friends, look at + his forehead! Dymov, turn your profile. Look! he has the face of a Bengal + tiger and an expression as kind and sweet as a gazelle. Ah, the darling!” + </p> + <p> + The visitors ate, and, looking at Dymov, thought, “He really is a nice + fellow”; but they soon forgot about him, and went on talking about the + theatre, music, and painting. + </p> + <p> + The young people were happy, and their life flowed on without a hitch. + </p> + <p> + The third week of their honeymoon was spent, however, not quite happily—sadly, + indeed. Dymov caught erysipelas in the hospital, was in bed for six days, + and had to have his beautiful black hair cropped. Olga Ivanovna sat beside + him and wept bitterly, but when he was better she put a white handkerchief + on his shaven head and began to paint him as a Bedouin. And they were both + in good spirits. Three days after he had begun to go back to the hospital + he had another mischance. + </p> + <p> + “I have no luck, little mother,” he said one day at dinner. “I had four + dissections to do today, and I cut two of my fingers at one. And I did not + notice it till I got home.” + </p> + <p> + Olga Ivanovna was alarmed. He smiled, and told her that it did not matter, + and that he often cut his hands when he was dissecting. + </p> + <p> + “I get absorbed, little mother, and grow careless.” + </p> + <p> + Olga Ivanovna dreaded symptoms of blood-poisoning, and prayed about it + every night, but all went well. And again life flowed on peaceful and + happy, free from grief and anxiety. The present was happy, and to follow + it spring was at hand, already smiling in the distance, and promising a + thousand delights. There would be no end to their happiness. In April, May + and June a summer villa a good distance out of town; walks, sketching, + fishing, nightingales; and then from July right on to autumn an artist’s + tour on the Volga, and in this tour Olga Ivanovna would take part as an + indispensable member of the society. She had already had made for her two + travelling dresses of linen, had bought paints, brushes, canvases, and a + new palette for the journey. Almost every day Ryabovsky visited her to see + what progress she was making in her painting; when she showed him her + painting, he used to thrust his hands deep into his pockets, compress his + lips, sniff, and say: + </p> + <p> + “Ye—es...! That cloud of yours is screaming: it’s not in the evening + light. The foreground is somehow chewed up, and there is something, you + know, not the thing.... And your cottage is weighed down and whines + pitifully. That corner ought to have been taken more in shadow, but on the + whole it is not bad; I like it.” + </p> + <p> + And the more incomprehensible he talked, the more readily Olga Ivanovna + understood him. + </p> + <p> + III + </p> + <p> + After dinner on the second day of Trinity week, Dymov bought some sweets + and some savouries and went down to the villa to see his wife. He had not + seen her for a fortnight, and missed her terribly. As he sat in the train + and afterwards as he looked for his villa in a big wood, he felt all the + while hungry and weary, and dreamed of how he would have supper in freedom + with his wife, then tumble into bed and to sleep. And he was delighted as + he looked at his parcel, in which there was caviare, cheese, and white + salmon. + </p> + <p> + The sun was setting by the time he found his villa and recognized it. The + old servant told him that her mistress was not at home, but that most + likely she would soon be in. The villa, very uninviting in appearance, + with low ceilings papered with writing-paper and with uneven floors full + of crevices, consisted only of three rooms. In one there was a bed, in the + second there were canvases, brushes, greasy papers, and men’s overcoats + and hats lying about on the chairs and in the windows, while in the third + Dymov found three unknown men; two were dark-haired and had beards, the + other was clean-shaven and fat, apparently an actor. There was a samovar + boiling on the table. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want?” asked the actor in a bass voice, looking at Dymov + ungraciously. “Do you want Olga Ivanovna? Wait a minute; she will be here + directly.” + </p> + <p> + Dymov sat down and waited. One of the dark-haired men, looking sleepily + and listlessly at him, poured himself out a glass of tea, and asked: + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you would like some tea?” + </p> + <p> + Dymov was both hungry and thirsty, but he refused tea for fear of spoiling + his supper. Soon he heard footsteps and a familiar laugh; a door slammed, + and Olga Ivanovna ran into the room, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and + carrying a box in her hand; she was followed by Ryabovsky, rosy and + good-humoured, carrying a big umbrella and a camp-stool. + </p> + <p> + “Dymov!” cried Olga Ivanovna, and she flushed crimson with pleasure. + “Dymov!” she repeated, laying her head and both arms on his bosom. “Is + that you? Why haven’t you come for so long? Why? Why?” + </p> + <p> + “When could I, little mother? I am always busy, and whenever I am free it + always happens somehow that the train does not fit.” + </p> + <p> + “But how glad I am to see you! I have been dreaming about you the whole + night, the whole night, and I was afraid you must be ill. Ah! if you only + knew how sweet you are! You have come in the nick of time! You will be my + salvation! You are the only person who can save me! There is to be a most + original wedding here tomorrow,” she went on, laughing, and tying her + husband’s cravat. “A young telegraph clerk at the station, called + Tchikeldyeev, is going to be married. He is a handsome young man and—well, + not stupid, and you know there is something strong, bearlike in his + face... you might paint him as a young Norman. We summer visitors take a + great interest in him, and have promised to be at his wedding.... He is a + lonely, timid man, not well off, and of course it would be a shame not to + be sympathetic to him. Fancy! the wedding will be after the service; then + we shall all walk from the church to the bride’s lodgings... you see the + wood, the birds singing, patches of sunlight on the grass, and all of us + spots of different colours against the bright green background—very + original, in the style of the French impressionists. But, Dymov, what am I + to go to the church in?” said Olga Ivanovna, and she looked as though she + were going to cry. “I have nothing here, literally nothing! no dress, no + flowers, no gloves... you must save me. Since you have come, fate itself + bids you save me. Take the keys, my precious, go home and get my pink + dress from the wardrobe. You remember it; it hangs in front.... Then, in + the storeroom, on the floor, on the right side, you will see two cardboard + boxes. When you open the top one you will see tulle, heaps of tulle and + rags of all sorts, and under them flowers. Take out all the flowers + carefully, try not to crush them, darling; I will choose among them + later.... And buy me some gloves.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” said Dymov; “I will go tomorrow and send them to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Tomorrow?” asked Olga Ivanovna, and she looked at him surprised. “You + won’t have time tomorrow. The first train goes tomorrow at nine, and the + wedding’s at eleven. No, darling, it must be today; it absolutely must be + today. If you won’t be able to come tomorrow, send them by a messenger. + Come, you must run along.... The passenger train will be in directly; + don’t miss it, darling.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how sorry I am to let you go!” said Olga Ivanovna, and tears came + into her eyes. “And why did I promise that telegraph clerk, like a silly?” + </p> + <p> + Dymov hurriedly drank a glass of tea, took a cracknel, and, smiling + gently, went to the station. And the caviare, the cheese, and the white + salmon were eaten by the two dark gentlemen and the fat actor. + </p> + <p> + IV + </p> + <p> + On a still moonlight night in July Olga Ivanovna was standing on the deck + of a Volga steamer and looking alternately at the water and at the + picturesque banks. Beside her was standing Ryabovsky, telling her the + black shadows on the water were not shadows, but a dream, that it would be + sweet to sink into forgetfulness, to die, to become a memory in the sight + of that enchanted water with the fantastic glimmer, in sight of the + fathomless sky and the mournful, dreamy shores that told of the vanity of + our life and of the existence of something higher, blessed, and eternal. + The past was vulgar and uninteresting, the future was trivial, and that + marvellous night, unique in a lifetime, would soon be over, would blend + with eternity; then, why live? + </p> + <p> + And Olga Ivanovna listened alternately to Ryabovsky’s voice and the + silence of the night, and thought of her being immortal and never dying. + The turquoise colour of the water, such as she had never seen before, the + sky, the river-banks, the black shadows, and the unaccountable joy that + flooded her soul, all told her that she would make a great artist, and + that somewhere in the distance, in the infinite space beyond the + moonlight, success, glory, the love of the people, lay awaiting her.... + When she gazed steadily without blinking into the distance, she seemed to + see crowds of people, lights, triumphant strains of music, cries of + enthusiasm, she herself in a white dress, and flowers showered upon her + from all sides. She thought, too, that beside her, leaning with his elbows + on the rail of the steamer, there was standing a real great man, a genius, + one of God’s elect.... All that he had created up to the present was fine, + new, and extraordinary, but what he would create in time, when with + maturity his rare talent reached its full development, would be + astounding, immeasurably sublime; and that could be seen by his face, by + his manner of expressing himself and his attitude to nature. He talked of + shadows, of the tones of evening, of the moonlight, in a special way, in a + language of his own, so that one could not help feeling the fascination of + his power over nature. He was very handsome, original, and his life, free, + independent, aloof from all common cares, was like the life of a bird. + </p> + <p> + “It’s growing cooler,” said Olga Ivanovna, and she gave a shudder. + </p> + <p> + Ryabovsky wrapped her in his cloak, and said mournfully: + </p> + <p> + “I feel that I am in your power; I am a slave. Why are you so enchanting + today?” + </p> + <p> + He kept staring intently at her, and his eyes were terrible. And she was + afraid to look at him. + </p> + <p> + “I love you madly,” he whispered, breathing on her cheek. “Say one word to + me and I will not go on living; I will give up art...” he muttered in + violent emotion. “Love me, love....” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t talk like that,” said Olga Ivanovna, covering her eyes. “It’s + dreadful! How about Dymov?” + </p> + <p> + “What of Dymov? Why Dymov? What have I to do with Dymov? The Volga, the + moon, beauty, my love, ecstasy, and there is no such thing as Dymov.... + Ah! I don’t know... I don’t care about the past; give me one moment, one + instant!” + </p> + <p> + Olga Ivanovna’s heart began to throb. She tried to think about her + husband, but all her past, with her wedding, with Dymov, and with her “At + Homes,” seemed to her petty, trivial, dingy, unnecessary, and far, far + away.... Yes, really, what of Dymov? Why Dymov? What had she to do with + Dymov? Had he any existence in nature, or was he only a dream? + </p> + <p> + “For him, a simple and ordinary man the happiness he has had already is + enough,” she thought, covering her face with her hands. “Let them condemn + me, let them curse me, but in spite of them all I will go to my ruin; I + will go to my ruin!... One must experience everything in life. My God! how + terrible and how glorious!” + </p> + <p> + “Well? Well?” muttered the artist, embracing her, and greedily kissing the + hands with which she feebly tried to thrust him from her. “You love me? + Yes? Yes? Oh, what a night! marvellous night!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, what a night!” she whispered, looking into his eyes, which were + bright with tears. + </p> + <p> + Then she looked round quickly, put her arms round him, and kissed him on + the lips. + </p> + <p> + “We are nearing Kineshmo!” said some one on the other side of the deck. + </p> + <p> + They heard heavy footsteps; it was a waiter from the refreshment-bar. + </p> + <p> + “Waiter,” said Olga Ivanovna, laughing and crying with happiness, “bring + us some wine.” + </p> + <p> + The artist, pale with emotion, sat on the seat, looking at Olga Ivanovna + with adoring, grateful eyes; then he closed his eyes, and said, smiling + languidly: + </p> + <p> + “I am tired.” + </p> + <p> + And he leaned his head against the rail. + </p> + <p> + V + </p> + <p> + On the second of September the day was warm and still, but overcast. In + the early morning a light mist had hung over the Volga, and after nine + o’clock it had begun to spout with rain. And there seemed no hope of the + sky clearing. Over their morning tea Ryabovsky told Olga Ivanovna that + painting was the most ungrateful and boring art, that he was not an + artist, that none but fools thought that he had any talent, and all at + once, for no rhyme or reason, he snatched up a knife and with it scraped + over his very best sketch. After his tea he sat plunged in gloom at the + window and gazed at the Volga. And now the Volga was dingy, all of one + even colour without a gleam of light, cold-looking. Everything, everything + recalled the approach of dreary, gloomy autumn. And it seemed as though + nature had removed now from the Volga the sumptuous green covers from the + banks, the brilliant reflections of the sunbeams, the transparent blue + distance, and all its smart gala array, and had packed it away in boxes + till the coming spring, and the crows were flying above the Volga and + crying tauntingly, “Bare, bare!” + </p> + <p> + Ryabovsky heard their cawing, and thought he had already gone off and lost + his talent, that everything in this world was relative, conditional, and + stupid, and that he ought not to have taken up with this woman.... In + short, he was out of humour and depressed. + </p> + <p> + Olga Ivanovna sat behind the screen on the bed, and, passing her fingers + through her lovely flaxen hair, pictured herself first in the + drawing-room, then in the bedroom, then in her husband’s study; her + imagination carried her to the theatre, to the dress-maker, to her + distinguished friends. Were they getting something up now? Did they think + of her? The season had begun by now, and it would be time to think about + her “At Homes.” And Dymov? Dear Dymov! with what gentleness and childlike + pathos he kept begging her in his letters to make haste and come home! + Every month he sent her seventy-five roubles, and when she wrote him that + she had lent the artists a hundred roubles, he sent that hundred too. What + a kind, generous-hearted man! The travelling wearied Olga Ivanovna; she + was bored; and she longed to get away from the peasants, from the damp + smell of the river, and to cast off the feeling of physical uncleanliness + of which she was conscious all the time, living in the peasants’ huts and + wandering from village to village. If Ryabovsky had not given his word to + the artists that he would stay with them till the twentieth of September, + they might have gone away that very day. And how nice that would have + been! + </p> + <p> + “My God!” moaned Ryabovsky. “Will the sun ever come out? I can’t go on + with a sunny landscape without the sun....” + </p> + <p> + “But you have a sketch with a cloudy sky,” said Olga Ivanovna, coming from + behind the screen. “Do you remember, in the right foreground forest trees, + on the left a herd of cows and geese? You might finish it now.” + </p> + <p> + “Aie!” the artist scowled. “Finish it! Can you imagine I am such a fool + that I don’t know what I want to do?” + </p> + <p> + “How you have changed to me!” sighed Olga Ivanovna. + </p> + <p> + “Well, a good thing too!” + </p> + <p> + Olga Ivanovna’s face quivered; she moved away to the stove and began to + cry. + </p> + <p> + “Well, that’s the last straw—crying! Give over! I have a thousand + reasons for tears, but I am not crying.” + </p> + <p> + “A thousand reasons!” cried Olga Ivanovna. “The chief one is that you are + weary of me. Yes!” she said, and broke into sobs. “If one is to tell the + truth, you are ashamed of our love. You keep trying to prevent the artists + from noticing it, though it is impossible to conceal it, and they have + known all about it for ever so long.” + </p> + <p> + “Olga, one thing I beg you,” said the artist in an imploring voice, laying + his hand on his heart—“one thing; don’t worry me! I want nothing + else from you!” + </p> + <p> + “But swear that you love me still!” + </p> + <p> + “This is agony!” the artist hissed through his teeth, and he jumped up. + “It will end by my throwing myself in the Volga or going out of my mind! + Let me alone!” + </p> + <p> + “Come, kill me, kill me!” cried Olga Ivanovna. “Kill me!” + </p> + <p> + She sobbed again, and went behind the screen. There was a swish of rain on + the straw thatch of the hut. Ryabovsky clutched his head and strode up and + down the hut; then with a resolute face, as though bent on proving + something to somebody, put on his cap, slung his gun over his shoulder, + and went out of the hut. + </p> + <p> + After he had gone, Olga Ivanovna lay a long time on the bed, crying. At + first she thought it would be a good thing to poison herself, so that when + Ryabovsky came back he would find her dead; then her imagination carried + her to her drawing-room, to her husband’s study, and she imagined herself + sitting motionless beside Dymov and enjoying the physical peace and + cleanliness, and in the evening sitting in the theatre, listening to + Mazini. And a yearning for civilization, for the noise and bustle of the + town, for celebrated people sent a pang to her heart. A peasant woman came + into the hut and began in a leisurely way lighting the stove to get the + dinner. There was a smell of charcoal fumes, and the air was filled with + bluish smoke. The artists came in, in muddy high boots and with faces wet + with rain, examined their sketches, and comforted themselves by saying + that the Volga had its charms even in bad weather. On the wall the cheap + clock went “tic-tic-tic.”... The flies, feeling chilled, crowded round the + ikon in the corner, buzzing, and one could hear the cockroaches scurrying + about among the thick portfolios under the seats.... + </p> + <p> + Ryabovsky came home as the sun was setting. He flung his cap on the table, + and, without removing his muddy boots, sank pale and exhausted on the + bench and closed his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I am tired...” he said, and twitched his eyebrows, trying to raise his + eyelids. + </p> + <p> + To be nice to him and to show she was not cross, Olga Ivanovna went up to + him, gave him a silent kiss, and passed the comb through his fair hair. + She meant to comb it for him. + </p> + <p> + “What’s that?” he said, starting as though something cold had touched him, + and he opened his eyes. “What is it? Please let me alone.” + </p> + <p> + He thrust her off, and moved away. And it seemed to her that there was a + look of aversion and annoyance on his face. + </p> + <p> + At that time the peasant woman cautiously carried him, in both hands, a + plate of cabbage-soup. And Olga Ivanovna saw how she wetted her fat + fingers in it. And the dirty peasant woman, standing with her body thrust + forward, and the cabbage-soup which Ryabovsky began eating greedily, and + the hut, and their whole way of life, which she at first had so loved for + its simplicity and artistic disorder, seemed horrible to her now. She + suddenly felt insulted, and said coldly: + </p> + <p> + “We must part for a time, or else from boredom we shall quarrel in + earnest. I am sick of this; I am going today.” + </p> + <p> + “Going how? Astride on a broomstick?” + </p> + <p> + “Today is Thursday, so the steamer will be here at half-past nine.” + </p> + <p> + “Eh? Yes, yes.... Well, go, then...” Ryabovsky said softly, wiping his + mouth with a towel instead of a dinner napkin. “You are dull and have + nothing to do here, and one would have to be a great egoist to try and + keep you. Go home, and we shall meet again after the twentieth.” + </p> + <p> + Olga Ivanovna packed in good spirits. Her cheeks positively glowed with + pleasure. Could it really be true, she asked herself, that she would soon + be writing in her drawing-room and sleeping in her bedroom, and dining + with a cloth on the table? A weight was lifted from her heart, and she no + longer felt angry with the artist. + </p> + <p> + “My paints and brushes I will leave with you, Ryabovsky,” she said. “You + can bring what’s left.... Mind, now, don’t be lazy here when I am gone; + don’t mope, but work. You are such a splendid fellow, Ryabovsky!” + </p> + <p> + At ten o’clock Ryabovsky gave her a farewell kiss, in order, as she + thought, to avoid kissing her on the steamer before the artists, and went + with her to the landing-stage. The steamer soon came up and carried her + away. + </p> + <p> + She arrived home two and a half days later. Breathless with excitement, + she went, without taking off her hat or waterproof, into the drawing-room + and thence into the dining-room. Dymov, with his waistcoat unbuttoned and + no coat, was sitting at the table sharpening a knife on a fork; before him + lay a grouse on a plate. As Olga Ivanovna went into the flat she was + convinced that it was essential to hide everything from her husband, and + that she would have the strength and skill to do so; but now, when she saw + his broad, mild, happy smile, and shining, joyful eyes, she felt that to + deceive this man was as vile, as revolting, and as impossible and out of + her power as to bear false witness, to steal, or to kill, and in a flash + she resolved to tell him all that had happened. Letting him kiss and + embrace her, she sank down on her knees before him and hid her face. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, what is it, little mother?” he asked tenderly. “Were you + homesick?” + </p> + <p> + She raised her face, red with shame, and gazed at him with a guilty and + imploring look, but fear and shame prevented her from telling him the + truth. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing,” she said; “it’s just nothing....” + </p> + <p> + “Let us sit down,” he said, raising her and seating her at the table. + “That’s right, eat the grouse. You are starving, poor darling.” + </p> + <p> + She eagerly breathed in the atmosphere of home and ate the grouse, while + he watched her with tenderness and laughed with delight. + </p> + <p> + VI + </p> + <p> + Apparently, by the middle of the winter Dymov began to suspect that he was + being deceived. As though his conscience was not clear, he could not look + his wife straight in the face, did not smile with delight when he met her, + and to avoid being left alone with her, he often brought in to dinner his + colleague, Korostelev, a little close-cropped man with a wrinkled face, + who kept buttoning and unbuttoning his reefer jacket with embarrassment + when he talked with Olga Ivanovna, and then with his right hand nipped his + left moustache. At dinner the two doctors talked about the fact that a + displacement of the diaphragm was sometimes accompanied by irregularities + of the heart, or that a great number of neurotic complaints were met with + of late, or that Dymov had the day before found a cancer of the lower + abdomen while dissecting a corpse with the diagnosis of pernicious + anaemia. And it seemed as though they were talking of medicine to give + Olga Ivanovna a chance of being silent—that is, of not lying. After + dinner Korostelev sat down to the piano, while Dymov sighed and said to + him: + </p> + <p> + “Ech, brother—well, well! Play something melancholy.” + </p> + <p> + Hunching up his shoulders and stretching his fingers wide apart, + Korostelev played some chords and began singing in a tenor voice, “Show me + the abode where the Russian peasant would not groan,” while Dymov sighed + once more, propped his head on his fist, and sank into thought. + </p> + <p> + Olga Ivanovna had been extremely imprudent in her conduct of late. Every + morning she woke up in a very bad humour and with the thought that she no + longer cared for Ryabovsky, and that, thank God, it was all over now. But + as she drank her coffee she reflected that Ryabovsky had robbed her of her + husband, and that now she was left with neither her husband nor Ryabovsky; + then she remembered talks she had heard among her acquaintances of a + picture Ryabovsky was preparing for the exhibition, something striking, a + mixture of genre and landscape, in the style of Polyenov, about which + every one who had been into his studio went into raptures; and this, of + course, she mused, he had created under her influence, and altogether, + thanks to her influence, he had greatly changed for the better. Her + influence was so beneficent and essential that if she were to leave him he + might perhaps go to ruin. And she remembered, too, that the last time he + had come to see her in a great-coat with flecks on it and a new tie, he + had asked her languidly: + </p> + <p> + “Am I beautiful?” + </p> + <p> + And with his elegance, his long curls, and his blue eyes, he really was + very beautiful (or perhaps it only seemed so), and he had been + affectionate to her. + </p> + <p> + Considering and remembering many things Olga Ivanovna dressed and in great + agitation drove to Ryabovsky’s studio. She found him in high spirits, and + enchanted with his really magnificent picture. He was dancing about and + playing the fool and answering serious questions with jokes. Olga Ivanovna + was jealous of the picture and hated it, but from politeness she stood + before the picture for five minutes in silence, and, heaving a sigh, as + though before a holy shrine, said softly: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you have never painted anything like it before. Do you know, it is + positively awe-inspiring?” + </p> + <p> + And then she began beseeching him to love her and not to cast her off, to + have pity on her in her misery and her wretchedness. She shed tears, + kissed his hands, insisted on his swearing that he loved her, told him + that without her good influence he would go astray and be ruined. And, + when she had spoilt his good-humour, feeling herself humiliated, she would + drive off to her dressmaker or to an actress of her acquaintance to try + and get theatre tickets. + </p> + <p> + If she did not find him at his studio she left a letter in which she swore + that if he did not come to see her that day she would poison herself. He + was scared, came to see her, and stayed to dinner. Regardless of her + husband’s presence, he would say rude things to her, and she would answer + him in the same way. Both felt they were a burden to each other, that they + were tyrants and enemies, and were wrathful, and in their wrath did not + notice that their behaviour was unseemly, and that even Korostelev, with + his close-cropped head, saw it all. After dinner Ryabovsky made haste to + say good-bye and get away. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you off to?” Olga Ivanovna would ask him in the hall, looking + at him with hatred. + </p> + <p> + Scowling and screwing up his eyes, he mentioned some lady of their + acquaintance, and it was evident that he was laughing at her jealousy and + wanted to annoy her. She went to her bedroom and lay down on her bed; from + jealousy, anger, a sense of humiliation and shame, she bit the pillow and + began sobbing aloud. Dymov left Korostelev in the drawing-room, went into + the bedroom, and with a desperate and embarrassed face said softly: + </p> + <p> + “Don’t cry so loud, little mother; there’s no need. You must be quiet + about it. You must not let people see.... You know what is done is done, + and can’t be mended.” + </p> + <p> + Not knowing how to ease the burden of her jealousy, which actually set her + temples throbbing with pain, and thinking still that things might be set + right, she would wash, powder her tear-stained face, and fly off to the + lady mentioned. + </p> + <p> + Not finding Ryabovsky with her, she would drive off to a second, then to a + third. At first she was ashamed to go about like this, but afterwards she + got used to it, and it would happen that in one evening she would make the + round of all her female acquaintances in search of Ryabovsky, and they all + understood it. + </p> + <p> + One day she said to Ryabovsky of her husband: + </p> + <p> + “That man crushes me with his magnanimity.” + </p> + <p> + This phrase pleased her so much that when she met the artists who knew of + her affair with Ryabovsky she said every time of her husband, with a + vigorous movement of her arm: + </p> + <p> + “That man crushes me with his magnanimity.” + </p> + <p> + Their manner of life was the same as it had been the year before. On + Wednesdays they were “At Home”; an actor recited, the artists sketched. + The violoncellist played, a singer sang, and invariably at half-past + eleven the door leading to the dining-room opened and Dymov, smiling, + said: + </p> + <p> + “Come to supper, gentlemen.” + </p> + <p> + As before, Olga Ivanovna hunted celebrities, found them, was not + satisfied, and went in pursuit of fresh ones. As before, she came back + late every night; but now Dymov was not, as last year, asleep, but sitting + in his study at work of some sort. He went to bed at three o’clock and got + up at eight. + </p> + <p> + One evening when she was getting ready to go to the theatre and standing + before the pier glass, Dymov came into her bedroom, wearing his dress-coat + and a white tie. He was smiling gently and looked into his wife’s face + joyfully, as in old days; his face was radiant. + </p> + <p> + “I have just been defending my thesis,” he said, sitting down and + smoothing his knees. + </p> + <p> + “Defending?” asked Olga Ivanovna. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, oh!” he laughed, and he craned his neck to see his wife’s face in the + mirror, for she was still standing with her back to him, doing up her + hair. “Oh, oh,” he repeated, “do you know it’s very possible they may + offer me the Readership in General Pathology? It seems like it.” + </p> + <p> + It was evident from his beaming, blissful face that if Olga Ivanovna had + shared with him his joy and triumph he would have forgiven her everything, + both the present and the future, and would have forgotten everything, but + she did not understand what was meant by a “readership” or by “general + pathology”; besides, she was afraid of being late for the theatre, and she + said nothing. + </p> + <p> + He sat there another two minutes, and with a guilty smile went away. + </p> + <p> + VII + </p> + <p> + It had been a very troubled day. + </p> + <p> + Dymov had a very bad headache; he had no breakfast, and did not go to the + hospital, but spent the whole time lying on his sofa in the study. Olga + Ivanovna went as usual at midday to see Ryabovsky, to show him her + still-life sketch, and to ask him why he had not been to see her the + evening before. The sketch seemed to her worthless, and she had painted it + only in order to have an additional reason for going to the artist. + </p> + <p> + She went in to him without ringing, and as she was taking off her goloshes + in the entry she heard a sound as of something running softly in the + studio, with a feminine rustle of skirts; and as she hastened to peep in + she caught a momentary glimpse of a bit of brown petticoat, which vanished + behind a big picture draped, together with the easel, with black calico, + to the floor. There could be no doubt that a woman was hiding there. How + often Olga Ivanovna herself had taken refuge behind that picture! + </p> + <p> + Ryabovsky, evidently much embarrassed, held out both hands to her, as + though surprised at her arrival, and said with a forced smile: + </p> + <p> + “Aha! Very glad to see you! Anything nice to tell me?” + </p> + <p> + Olga Ivanovna’s eyes filled with tears. She felt ashamed and bitter, and + would not for a million roubles have consented to speak in the presence of + the outsider, the rival, the deceitful woman who was standing now behind + the picture, and probably giggling malignantly. + </p> + <p> + “I have brought you a sketch,” she said timidly in a thin voice, and her + lips quivered. “<i>Nature morte.</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Ah—ah!... A sketch?” + </p> + <p> + The artist took the sketch in his hands, and as he examined it walked, as + it were mechanically, into the other room. + </p> + <p> + Olga Ivanovna followed him humbly. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Nature morte</i>... first-rate sort,” he muttered, falling into rhyme. + “Kurort... sport... port...” + </p> + <p> + From the studio came the sound of hurried footsteps and the rustle of a + skirt. + </p> + <p> + So she had gone. Olga Ivanovna wanted to scream aloud, to hit the artist + on the head with something heavy, but she could see nothing through her + tears, was crushed by her shame, and felt herself, not Olga Ivanovna, not + an artist, but a little insect. + </p> + <p> + “I am tired...” said the artist languidly, looking at the sketch and + tossing his head as though struggling with drowsiness. “It’s very nice, of + course, but here a sketch today, a sketch last year, another sketch in a + month... I wonder you are not bored with them. If I were you I should give + up painting and work seriously at music or something. You’re not an + artist, you know, but a musician. But you can’t think how tired I am! I’ll + tell them to bring us some tea, shall I?” + </p> + <p> + He went out of the room, and Olga Ivanovna heard him give some order to + his footman. To avoid farewells and explanations, and above all to avoid + bursting into sobs, she ran as fast as she could, before Ryabovsky came + back, to the entry, put on her goloshes, and went out into the street; + then she breathed easily, and felt she was free for ever from Ryabovsky + and from painting and from the burden of shame which had so crushed her in + the studio. It was all over! + </p> + <p> + She drove to her dressmaker’s; then to see Barnay, who had only arrived + the day before; from Barnay to a music-shop, and all the time she was + thinking how she would write Ryabovsky a cold, cruel letter full of + personal dignity, and how in the spring or the summer she would go with + Dymov to the Crimea, free herself finally from the past there, and begin a + new life. + </p> + <p> + On getting home late in the evening she sat down in the drawing-room, + without taking off her things, to begin the letter. Ryabovsky had told her + she was not an artist, and to pay him out she wrote to him now that he + painted the same thing every year, and said exactly the same thing every + day; that he was at a standstill, and that nothing more would come of him + than had come already. She wanted to write, too, that he owed a great deal + to her good influence, and that if he was going wrong it was only because + her influence was paralysed by various dubious persons like the one who + had been hiding behind the picture that day. + </p> + <p> + “Little mother!” Dymov called from the study, without opening the door. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t come in to me, but only come to the door—that’s right.... The + day before yesterday I must have caught diphtheria at the hospital, and + now... I am ill. Make haste and send for Korostelev.” + </p> + <p> + Olga Ivanovna always called her husband by his surname, as she did all the + men of her acquaintance; she disliked his Christian name, Osip, because it + reminded her of the Osip in Gogol and the silly pun on his name. But now + she cried: + </p> + <p> + “Osip, it cannot be!” + </p> + <p> + “Send for him; I feel ill,” Dymov said behind the door, and she could hear + him go back to the sofa and lie down. “Send!” she heard his voice faintly. + </p> + <p> + “Good Heavens!” thought Olga Ivanovna, turning chill with horror. “Why, + it’s dangerous!” + </p> + <p> + For no reason she took the candle and went into the bedroom, and there, + reflecting what she must do, glanced casually at herself in the pier + glass. With her pale, frightened face, in a jacket with sleeves high on + the shoulders, with yellow ruches on her bosom, and with stripes running + in unusual directions on her skirt, she seemed to herself horrible and + disgusting. She suddenly felt poignantly sorry for Dymov, for his + boundless love for her, for his young life, and even for the desolate + little bed in which he had not slept for so long; and she remembered his + habitual, gentle, submissive smile. She wept bitterly, and wrote an + imploring letter to Korostelev. It was two o’clock in the night. + </p> + <p> + VIII + </p> + <p> + When towards eight o’clock in the morning Olga Ivanovna, her head heavy + from want of sleep and her hair unbrushed, came out of her bedroom, + looking unattractive and with a guilty expression on her face, a gentleman + with a black beard, apparently the doctor, passed by her into the entry. + There was a smell of drugs. Korostelev was standing near the study door, + twisting his left moustache with his right hand. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, I can’t let you go in,” he said surlily to Olga Ivanovna; + “it’s catching. Besides, it’s no use, really; he is delirious, anyway.” + </p> + <p> + “Has he really got diphtheria?” Olga Ivanovna asked in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “People who wantonly risk infection ought to be hauled up and punished for + it,” muttered Korostelev, not answering Olga Ivanovna’s question. “Do you + know why he caught it? On Tuesday he was sucking up the mucus through a + pipette from a boy with diphtheria. And what for? It was stupid.... Just + from folly....” + </p> + <p> + “Is it dangerous, very?” asked Olga Ivanovna. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; they say it is the malignant form. We ought to send for Shrek + really.” + </p> + <p> + A little red-haired man with a long nose and a Jewish accent arrived; then + a tall, stooping, shaggy individual, who looked like a head deacon; then a + stout young man with a red face and spectacles. These were doctors who + came to watch by turns beside their colleague. Korostelev did not go home + when his turn was over, but remained and wandered about the rooms like an + uneasy spirit. The maid kept getting tea for the various doctors, and was + constantly running to the chemist, and there was no one to do the rooms. + There was a dismal stillness in the flat. + </p> + <p> + Olga Ivanovna sat in her bedroom and thought that God was punishing her + for having deceived her husband. That silent, unrepining, uncomprehended + creature, robbed by his mildness of all personality and will, weak from + excessive kindness, had been suffering in obscurity somewhere on his sofa, + and had not complained. And if he were to complain even in delirium, the + doctors watching by his bedside would learn that diphtheria was not the + only cause of his sufferings. They would ask Korostelev. He knew all about + it, and it was not for nothing that he looked at his friend’s wife with + eyes that seemed to say that she was the real chief criminal and + diphtheria was only her accomplice. She did not think now of the moonlight + evening on the Volga, nor the words of love, nor their poetical life in + the peasant’s hut. She thought only that from an idle whim, from + self-indulgence, she had sullied herself all over from head to foot in + something filthy, sticky, which one could never wash off.... + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how fearfully false I’ve been!” she thought, recalling the troubled + passion she had known with Ryabovsky. “Curse it all!...” + </p> + <p> + At four o’clock she dined with Korostelev. He did nothing but scowl and + drink red wine, and did not eat a morsel. She ate nothing, either. At one + minute she was praying inwardly and vowing to God that if Dymov recovered + she would love him again and be a faithful wife to him. Then, forgetting + herself for a minute, she would look at Korostelev, and think: “Surely it + must be dull to be a humble, obscure person, not remarkable in any way, + especially with such a wrinkled face and bad manners!” + </p> + <p> + Then it seemed to her that God would strike her dead that minute for not + having once been in her husband’s study, for fear of infection. And + altogether she had a dull, despondent feeling and a conviction that her + life was spoilt, and that there was no setting it right anyhow.... + </p> + <p> + After dinner darkness came on. When Olga Ivanovna went into the + drawing-room Korostelev was asleep on the sofa, with a gold-embroidered + silk cushion under his head. + </p> + <p> + “Khee-poo-ah,” he snored—“khee-poo-ah.” + </p> + <p> + And the doctors as they came to sit up and went away again did not notice + this disorder. The fact that a strange man was asleep and snoring in the + drawing-room, and the sketches on the walls and the exquisite decoration + of the room, and the fact that the lady of the house was dishevelled and + untidy—all that aroused not the slightest interest now. One of the + doctors chanced to laugh at something, and the laugh had a strange and + timid sound that made one’s heart ache. + </p> + <p> + When Olga Ivanovna went into the drawing-room next time, Korostelev was + not asleep, but sitting up and smoking. + </p> + <p> + “He has diphtheria of the nasal cavity,” he said in a low voice, “and the + heart is not working properly now. Things are in a bad way, really.” + </p> + <p> + “But you will send for Shrek?” said Olga Ivanovna. + </p> + <p> + “He has been already. It was he noticed that the diphtheria had passed + into the nose. What’s the use of Shrek! Shrek’s no use at all, really. He + is Shrek, I am Korostelev, and nothing more.” + </p> + <p> + The time dragged on fearfully slowly. Olga Ivanovna lay down in her + clothes on her bed, that had not been made all day, and sank into a doze. + She dreamed that the whole flat was filled up from floor to ceiling with a + huge piece of iron, and that if they could only get the iron out they + would all be light-hearted and happy. Waking, she realized that it was not + the iron but Dymov’s illness that was weighing on her. + </p> + <p> + “Nature morte, port...” she thought, sinking into forgetfulness again. + “Sport... Kurort... and what of Shrek? Shrek... trek... wreck.... And + where are my friends now? Do they know that we are in trouble? Lord, + save... spare! Shrek... trek...” + </p> + <p> + And again the iron was there.... The time dragged on slowly, though the + clock on the lower storey struck frequently. And bells were continually + ringing as the doctors arrived.... The house-maid came in with an empty + glass on a tray, and asked, “Shall I make the bed, madam?” and getting no + answer, went away. + </p> + <p> + The clock below struck the hour. She dreamed of the rain on the Volga; and + again some one came into her bedroom, she thought a stranger. Olga + Ivanovna jumped up, and recognized Korostelev. + </p> + <p> + “What time is it?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “About three.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what is it?” + </p> + <p> + “What, indeed!... I’ve come to tell you he is passing....” + </p> + <p> + He gave a sob, sat down on the bed beside her, and wiped away the tears + with his sleeve. She could not grasp it at once, but turned cold all over + and began slowly crossing herself. + </p> + <p> + “He is passing,” he repeated in a shrill voice, and again he gave a sob. + “He is dying because he sacrificed himself. What a loss for science!” he + said bitterly. “Compare him with all of us. He was a great man, an + extraordinary man! What gifts! What hopes we all had of him!” Korostelev + went on, wringing his hands: “Merciful God, he was a man of science; we + shall never look on his like again. Osip Dymov, what have you done—aie, + aie, my God!” + </p> + <p> + Korostelev covered his face with both hands in despair, and shook his + head. + </p> + <p> + “And his moral force,” he went on, seeming to grow more and more + exasperated against some one. “Not a man, but a pure, good, loving soul, + and clean as crystal. He served science and died for science. And he + worked like an ox night and day—no one spared him—and with his + youth and his learning he had to take a private practice and work at + translations at night to pay for these... vile rags!” + </p> + <p> + Korostelev looked with hatred at Olga Ivanovna, snatched at the sheet with + both hands and angrily tore it, as though it were to blame. + </p> + <p> + “He did not spare himself, and others did not spare him. Oh, what’s the + use of talking!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he was a rare man,” said a bass voice in the drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + Olga Ivanovna remembered her whole life with him from the beginning to the + end, with all its details, and suddenly she understood that he really was + an extraordinary, rare, and, compared with every one else she knew, a + great man. And remembering how her father, now dead, and all the other + doctors had behaved to him, she realized that they really had seen in him + a future celebrity. The walls, the ceiling, the lamp, and the carpet on + the floor, seemed to be winking at her sarcastically, as though they would + say, “You were blind! you were blind!” With a wail she flung herself out + of the bedroom, dashed by some unknown man in the drawing-room, and ran + into her husband’s study. He was lying motionless on the sofa, covered to + the waist with a quilt. His face was fearfully thin and sunken, and was of + a greyish-yellow colour such as is never seen in the living; only from the + forehead, from the black eyebrows and from the familiar smile, could he be + recognized as Dymov. Olga Ivanovna hurriedly felt his chest, his forehead, + and his hands. The chest was still warm, but the forehead and hands were + unpleasantly cold, and the half-open eyes looked, not at Olga Ivanovna, + but at the quilt. + </p> + <p> + “Dymov!” she called aloud, “Dymov!” She wanted to explain to him that it + had been a mistake, that all was not lost, that life might still be + beautiful and happy, that he was an extraordinary, rare, great man, and + that she would all her life worship him and bow down in homage and holy + awe before him.... + </p> + <p> + “Dymov!” she called him, patting him on the shoulder, unable to believe + that he would never wake again. “Dymov! Dymov!” + </p> + <p> + In the drawing-room Korostelev was saying to the housemaid: + </p> + <p> + “Why keep asking? Go to the church beadle and enquire where they live. + They’ll wash the body and lay it out, and do everything that is + necessary.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A DREARY STORY + </h2> + <h3> + FROM THE NOTEBOOK OF AN OLD MAN + </h3> + <p> + I + </p> + <p> + THERE is in Russia an emeritus Professor Nikolay Stepanovitch, a chevalier + and privy councillor; he has so many Russian and foreign decorations that + when he has occasion to put them on the students nickname him “The + Ikonstand.” His acquaintances are of the most aristocratic; for the last + twenty-five or thirty years, at any rate, there has not been one single + distinguished man of learning in Russia with whom he has not been + intimately acquainted. There is no one for him to make friends with + nowadays; but if we turn to the past, the long list of his famous friends + winds up with such names as Pirogov, Kavelin, and the poet Nekrasov, all + of whom bestowed upon him a warm and sincere affection. He is a member of + all the Russian and of three foreign universities. And so on, and so on. + All that and a great deal more that might be said makes up what is called + my “name.” + </p> + <p> + That is my name as known to the public. In Russia it is known to every + educated man, and abroad it is mentioned in the lecture-room with the + addition “honoured and distinguished.” It is one of those fortunate names + to abuse which or to take which in vain, in public or in print, is + considered a sign of bad taste. And that is as it should be. You see, my + name is closely associated with the conception of a highly distinguished + man of great gifts and unquestionable usefulness. I have the industry and + power of endurance of a camel, and that is important, and I have talent, + which is even more important. Moreover, while I am on this subject, I am a + well-educated, modest, and honest fellow. I have never poked my nose into + literature or politics; I have never sought popularity in polemics with + the ignorant; I have never made speeches either at public dinners or at + the funerals of my friends.... In fact, there is no slur on my learned + name, and there is no complaint one can make against it. It is fortunate. + </p> + <p> + The bearer of that name, that is I, see myself as a man of sixty-two, with + a bald head, with false teeth, and with an incurable tic douloureux. I am + myself as dingy and unsightly as my name is brilliant and splendid. My + head and my hands tremble with weakness; my neck, as Turgenev says of one + of his heroines, is like the handle of a double bass; my chest is hollow; + my shoulders narrow; when I talk or lecture, my mouth turns down at one + corner; when I smile, my whole face is covered with aged-looking, deathly + wrinkles. There is nothing impressive about my pitiful figure; only, + perhaps, when I have an attack of tic douloureux my face wears a peculiar + expression, the sight of which must have roused in every one the grim and + impressive thought, “Evidently that man will soon die.” + </p> + <p> + I still, as in the past, lecture fairly well; I can still, as in the past, + hold the attention of my listeners for a couple of hours. My fervour, the + literary skill of my exposition, and my humour, almost efface the defects + of my voice, though it is harsh, dry, and monotonous as a praying + beggar’s. I write poorly. That bit of my brain which presides over the + faculty of authorship refuses to work. My memory has grown weak; there is + a lack of sequence in my ideas, and when I put them on paper it always + seems to me that I have lost the instinct for their organic connection; my + construction is monotonous; my language is poor and timid. Often I write + what I do not mean; I have forgotten the beginning when I am writing the + end. Often I forget ordinary words, and I always have to waste a great + deal of energy in avoiding superfluous phrases and unnecessary parentheses + in my letters, both unmistakable proofs of a decline in mental activity. + And it is noteworthy that the simpler the letter the more painful the + effort to write it. At a scientific article I feel far more intelligent + and at ease than at a letter of congratulation or a minute of proceedings. + Another point: I find it easier to write German or English than to write + Russian. + </p> + <p> + As regards my present manner of life, I must give a foremost place to the + insomnia from which I have suffered of late. If I were asked what + constituted the chief and fundamental feature of my existence now, I + should answer, Insomnia. As in the past, from habit I undress and go to + bed exactly at midnight. I fall asleep quickly, but before two o’clock I + wake up and feel as though I had not slept at all. Sometimes I get out of + bed and light a lamp. For an hour or two I walk up and down the room + looking at the familiar photographs and pictures. When I am weary of + walking about, I sit down to my table. I sit motionless, thinking of + nothing, conscious of no inclination; if a book is lying before me, I + mechanically move it closer and read it without any interest—in that + way not long ago I mechanically read through in one night a whole novel, + with the strange title “The Song the Lark was Singing”; or to occupy my + attention I force myself to count to a thousand; or I imagine the face of + one of my colleagues and begin trying to remember in what year and under + what circumstances he entered the service. I like listening to sounds. Two + rooms away from me my daughter Liza says something rapidly in her sleep, + or my wife crosses the drawing-room with a candle and invariably drops the + matchbox; or a warped cupboard creaks; or the burner of the lamp suddenly + begins to hum—and all these sounds, for some reason, excite me. + </p> + <p> + To lie awake at night means to be at every moment conscious of being + abnormal, and so I look forward with impatience to the morning and the day + when I have a right to be awake. Many wearisome hours pass before the cock + crows in the yard. He is my first bringer of good tidings. As soon as he + crows I know that within an hour the porter will wake up below, and, + coughing angrily, will go upstairs to fetch something. And then a pale + light will begin gradually glimmering at the windows, voices will sound in + the street.... + </p> + <p> + The day begins for me with the entrance of my wife. She comes in to me in + her petticoat, before she has done her hair, but after she has washed, + smelling of flower-scented eau-de-Cologne, looking as though she had come + in by chance. Every time she says exactly the same thing: “Excuse me, I + have just come in for a minute.... Have you had a bad night again?” + </p> + <p> + Then she puts out the lamp, sits down near the table, and begins talking. + I am no prophet, but I know what she will talk about. Every morning it is + exactly the same thing. Usually, after anxious inquiries concerning my + health, she suddenly mentions our son who is an officer serving at Warsaw. + After the twentieth of each month we send him fifty roubles, and that + serves as the chief topic of our conversation. + </p> + <p> + “Of course it is difficult for us,” my wife would sigh, “but until he is + completely on his own feet it is our duty to help him. The boy is among + strangers, his pay is small.... However, if you like, next month we won’t + send him fifty, but forty. What do you think?” + </p> + <p> + Daily experience might have taught my wife that constantly talking of our + expenses does not reduce them, but my wife refuses to learn by experience, + and regularly every morning discusses our officer son, and tells me that + bread, thank God, is cheaper, while sugar is a halfpenny dearer—with + a tone and an air as though she were communicating interesting news. + </p> + <p> + I listen, mechanically assent, and probably because I have had a bad + night, strange and inappropriate thoughts intrude themselves upon me. I + gaze at my wife and wonder like a child. I ask myself in perplexity, is it + possible that this old, very stout, ungainly woman, with her dull + expression of petty anxiety and alarm about daily bread, with eyes dimmed + by continual brooding over debts and money difficulties, who can talk of + nothing but expenses and who smiles at nothing but things getting cheaper—is + it possible that this woman is no other than the slender Varya whom I fell + in love with so passionately for her fine, clear intelligence, for her + pure soul, her beauty, and, as Othello his Desdemona, for her “sympathy” + for my studies? Could that woman be no other than the Varya who had once + borne me a son? + </p> + <p> + I look with strained attention into the face of this flabby, spiritless, + clumsy old woman, seeking in her my Varya, but of her past self nothing is + left but her anxiety over my health and her manner of calling my salary + “our salary,” and my cap “our cap.” It is painful for me to look at her, + and, to give her what little comfort I can, I let her say what she likes, + and say nothing even when she passes unjust criticisms on other people or + pitches into me for not having a private practice or not publishing + text-books. + </p> + <p> + Our conversation always ends in the same way. My wife suddenly remembers + with dismay that I have not had my tea. + </p> + <p> + “What am I thinking about, sitting here?” she says, getting up. “The + samovar has been on the table ever so long, and here I stay gossiping. My + goodness! how forgetful I am growing!” + </p> + <p> + She goes out quickly, and stops in the doorway to say: + </p> + <p> + “We owe Yegor five months’ wages. Did you know it? You mustn’t let the + servants’ wages run on; how many times I have said it! It’s much easier to + pay ten roubles a month than fifty roubles every five months!” + </p> + <p> + As she goes out, she stops to say: + </p> + <p> + “The person I am sorriest for is our Liza. The girl studies at the + Conservatoire, always mixes with people of good position, and goodness + knows how she is dressed. Her fur coat is in such a state she is ashamed + to show herself in the street. If she were somebody else’s daughter it + wouldn’t matter, but of course every one knows that her father is a + distinguished professor, a privy councillor.” + </p> + <p> + And having reproached me with my rank and reputation, she goes away at + last. That is how my day begins. It does not improve as it goes on. + </p> + <p> + As I am drinking my tea, my Liza comes in wearing her fur coat and her + cap, with her music in her hand, already quite ready to go to the + Conservatoire. She is two-and-twenty. She looks younger, is pretty, and + rather like my wife in her young days. She kisses me tenderly on my + forehead and on my hand, and says: + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning, papa; are you quite well?” + </p> + <p> + As a child she was very fond of ice-cream, and I used often to take her to + a confectioner’s. Ice-cream was for her the type of everything delightful. + If she wanted to praise me she would say: “You are as nice as cream, + papa.” We used to call one of her little fingers “pistachio ice,” the + next, “cream ice,” the third “raspberry,” and so on. Usually when she came + in to say good-morning to me I used to sit her on my knee, kiss her little + fingers, and say: + </p> + <p> + “Creamy ice... pistachio... lemon....” + </p> + <p> + And now, from old habit, I kiss Liza’s fingers and mutter: “Pistachio... + cream... lemon...” but the effect is utterly different. I am cold as ice + and I am ashamed. When my daughter comes in to me and touches my forehead + with her lips I start as though a bee had stung me on the head, give a + forced smile, and turn my face away. Ever since I have been suffering from + sleeplessness, a question sticks in my brain like a nail. My daughter + often sees me, an old man and a distinguished man, blush painfully at + being in debt to my footman; she sees how often anxiety over petty debts + forces me to lay aside my work and to walk up and down the room for hours + together, thinking; but why is it she never comes to me in secret to + whisper in my ear: “Father, here is my watch, here are my bracelets, my + earrings, my dresses.... Pawn them all; you want money...”? How is it + that, seeing how her mother and I are placed in a false position and do + our utmost to hide our poverty from people, she does not give up her + expensive pleasure of music lessons? I would not accept her watch nor her + bracelets, nor the sacrifice of her lessons—God forbid! That isn’t + what I want. + </p> + <p> + I think at the same time of my son, the officer at Warsaw. He is a clever, + honest, and sober fellow. But that is not enough for me. I think if I had + an old father, and if I knew there were moments when he was put to shame + by his poverty, I should give up my officer’s commission to somebody else, + and should go out to earn my living as a workman. Such thoughts about my + children poison me. What is the use of them? It is only a narrow-minded or + embittered man who can harbour evil thoughts about ordinary people because + they are not heroes. But enough of that! + </p> + <p> + At a quarter to ten I have to go and give a lecture to my dear boys. I + dress and walk along the road which I have known for thirty years, and + which has its history for me. Here is the big grey house with the + chemist’s shop; at this point there used to stand a little house, and in + it was a beershop; in that beershop I thought out my thesis and wrote my + first love-letter to Varya. I wrote it in pencil, on a page headed + “Historia morbi.” Here there is a grocer’s shop; at one time it was kept + by a little Jew, who sold me cigarettes on credit; then by a fat peasant + woman, who liked the students because “every one of them has a mother”; + now there is a red-haired shopkeeper sitting in it, a very stolid man who + drinks tea from a copper teapot. And here are the gloomy gates of the + University, which have long needed doing up; I see the bored porter in his + sheep-skin, the broom, the drifts of snow.... On a boy coming fresh from + the provinces and imagining that the temple of science must really be a + temple, such gates cannot make a healthy impression. Altogether the + dilapidated condition of the University buildings, the gloominess of the + corridors, the griminess of the walls, the lack of light, the dejected + aspect of the steps, the hat-stands and the benches, take a prominent + position among predisposing causes in the history of Russian pessimism.... + Here is our garden... I fancy it has grown neither better nor worse since + I was a student. I don’t like it. It would be far more sensible if there + were tall pines and fine oaks growing here instead of sickly-looking + lime-trees, yellow acacias, and skimpy pollard lilacs. The student whose + state of mind is in the majority of cases created by his surroundings, + ought in the place where he is studying to see facing him at every turn + nothing but what is lofty, strong and elegant.... God preserve him from + gaunt trees, broken windows, grey walls, and doors covered with torn + American leather! + </p> + <p> + When I go to my own entrance the door is flung wide open, and I am met by + my colleague, contemporary, and namesake, the porter Nikolay. As he lets + me in he clears his throat and says: + </p> + <p> + “A frost, your Excellency!” + </p> + <p> + Or, if my great-coat is wet: + </p> + <p> + “Rain, your Excellency!” + </p> + <p> + Then he runs on ahead of me and opens all the doors on my way. In my study + he carefully takes off my fur coat, and while doing so manages to tell me + some bit of University news. Thanks to the close intimacy existing between + all the University porters and beadles, he knows everything that goes on + in the four faculties, in the office, in the rector’s private room, in the + library. What does he not know? When in an evil day a rector or dean, for + instance, retires, I hear him in conversation with the young porters + mention the candidates for the post, explain that such a one would not be + confirmed by the minister, that another would himself refuse to accept it, + then drop into fantastic details concerning mysterious papers received in + the office, secret conversations alleged to have taken place between the + minister and the trustee, and so on. With the exception of these details, + he almost always turns out to be right. His estimates of the candidates, + though original, are very correct, too. If one wants to know in what year + some one read his thesis, entered the service, retired, or died, then + summon to your assistance the vast memory of that soldier, and he will not + only tell you the year, the month and the day, but will furnish you also + with the details that accompanied this or that event. Only one who loves + can remember like that. + </p> + <p> + He is the guardian of the University traditions. From the porters who were + his predecessors he has inherited many legends of University life, has + added to that wealth much of his own gained during his time of service, + and if you care to hear he will tell you many long and intimate stories. + He can tell one about extraordinary sages who knew <i>everything</i>, + about remarkable students who did not sleep for weeks, about numerous + martyrs and victims of science; with him good triumphs over evil, the weak + always vanquishes the strong, the wise man the fool, the humble the proud, + the young the old. There is no need to take all these fables and legends + for sterling coin; but filter them, and you will have left what is wanted: + our fine traditions and the names of real heroes, recognized as such by + all. + </p> + <p> + In our society the knowledge of the learned world consists of anecdotes of + the extraordinary absentmindedness of certain old professors, and two or + three witticisms variously ascribed to Gruber, to me, and to Babukin. For + the educated public that is not much. If it loved science, learned men, + and students, as Nikolay does, its literature would long ago have + contained whole epics, records of sayings and doings such as, + unfortunately, it cannot boast of now. + </p> + <p> + After telling me a piece of news, Nikolay assumes a severe expression, and + conversation about business begins. If any outsider could at such times + overhear Nikolay’s free use of our terminology, he might perhaps imagine + that he was a learned man disguised as a soldier. And, by the way, the + rumours of the erudition of the University porters are greatly + exaggerated. It is true that Nikolay knows more than a hundred Latin + words, knows how to put the skeleton together, sometimes prepares the + apparatus and amuses the students by some long, learned quotation, but the + by no means complicated theory of the circulation of the blood, for + instance, is as much a mystery to him now as it was twenty years ago. + </p> + <p> + At the table in my study, bending low over some book or preparation, sits + Pyotr Ignatyevitch, my demonstrator, a modest and industrious but by no + means clever man of five-and-thirty, already bald and corpulent; he works + from morning to night, reads a lot, remembers well everything he has read—and + in that way he is not a man, but pure gold; in all else he is a carthorse + or, in other words, a learned dullard. The carthorse characteristics that + show his lack of talent are these: his outlook is narrow and sharply + limited by his specialty; outside his special branch he is simple as a + child. + </p> + <p> + “Fancy! what a misfortune! They say Skobelev is dead.” + </p> + <p> + Nikolay crosses himself, but Pyotr Ignatyevitch turns to me and asks: + </p> + <p> + “What Skobelev is that?” + </p> + <p> + Another time—somewhat earlier—I told him that Professor Perov + was dead. Good Pyotr Ignatyevitch asked: + </p> + <p> + “What did he lecture on?” + </p> + <p> + I believe if Patti had sung in his very ear, if a horde of Chinese had + invaded Russia, if there had been an earthquake, he would not have stirred + a limb, but screwing up his eye, would have gone on calmly looking through + his microscope. What is he to Hecuba or Hecuba to him, in fact? I would + give a good deal to see how this dry stick sleeps with his wife at night. + </p> + <p> + Another characteristic is his fanatical faith in the infallibility of + science, and, above all, of everything written by the Germans. He believes + in himself, in his preparations; knows the object of life, and knows + nothing of the doubts and disappointments that turn the hair of talent + grey. He has a slavish reverence for authorities and a complete lack of + any desire for independent thought. To change his convictions is + difficult, to argue with him impossible. How is one to argue with a man + who is firmly persuaded that medicine is the finest of sciences, that + doctors are the best of men, and that the traditions of the medical + profession are superior to those of any other? Of the evil past of + medicine only one tradition has been preserved—the white tie still + worn by doctors; for a learned—in fact, for any educated man the + only traditions that can exist are those of the University as a whole, + with no distinction between medicine, law, etc. But it would be hard for + Pyotr Ignatyevitch to accept these facts, and he is ready to argue with + you till the day of judgment. + </p> + <p> + I have a clear picture in my mind of his future. In the course of his life + he will prepare many hundreds of chemicals of exceptional purity; he will + write a number of dry and very accurate memoranda, will make some dozen + conscientious translations, but he won’t do anything striking. To do that + one must have imagination, inventiveness, the gift of insight, and Pyotr + Ignatyevitch has nothing of the kind. In short, he is not a master in + science, but a journeyman. + </p> + <p> + Pyotr Ignatyevitch, Nikolay, and I, talk in subdued tones. We are not + quite ourselves. There is always a peculiar feeling when one hears through + the doors a murmur as of the sea from the lecture-theatre. In the course + of thirty years I have not grown accustomed to this feeling, and I + experience it every morning. I nervously button up my coat, ask Nikolay + unnecessary questions, lose my temper.... It is just as though I were + frightened; it is not timidity, though, but something different which I + can neither describe nor find a name for. + </p> + <p> + Quite unnecessarily, I look at my watch and say: “Well, it’s time to go + in.” + </p> + <p> + And we march into the room in the following order: foremost goes Nikolay, + with the chemicals and apparatus or with a chart; after him I come; and + then the carthorse follows humbly, with hanging head; or, when necessary, + a dead body is carried in first on a stretcher, followed by Nikolay, and + so on. On my entrance the students all stand up, then they sit down, and + the sound as of the sea is suddenly hushed. Stillness reigns. + </p> + <p> + I know what I am going to lecture about, but I don’t know how I am going + to lecture, where I am going to begin or with what I am going to end. I + haven’t a single sentence ready in my head. But I have only to look round + the lecture-hall (it is built in the form of an amphitheatre) and utter + the stereotyped phrase, “Last lecture we stopped at...” when sentences + spring up from my soul in a long string, and I am carried away by my own + eloquence. I speak with irresistible rapidity and passion, and it seems as + though there were no force which could check the flow of my words. To + lecture well—that is, with profit to the listeners and without + boring them—one must have, besides talent, experience and a special + knack; one must possess a clear conception of one’s own powers, of the + audience to which one is lecturing, and of the subject of one’s lecture. + Moreover, one must be a man who knows what he is doing; one must keep a + sharp lookout, and not for one second lose sight of what lies before one. + </p> + <p> + A good conductor, interpreting the thought of the composer, does twenty + things at once: reads the score, waves his baton, watches the singer, + makes a motion sideways, first to the drum then to the wind-instruments, + and so on. I do just the same when I lecture. Before me a hundred and + fifty faces, all unlike one another; three hundred eyes all looking + straight into my face. My object is to dominate this many-headed monster. + If every moment as I lecture I have a clear vision of the degree of its + attention and its power of comprehension, it is in my power. The other foe + I have to overcome is in myself. It is the infinite variety of forms, + phenomena, laws, and the multitude of ideas of my own and other people’s + conditioned by them. Every moment I must have the skill to snatch out of + that vast mass of material what is most important and necessary, and, as + rapidly as my words flow, clothe my thought in a form in which it can be + grasped by the monster’s intelligence, and may arouse its attention, and + at the same time one must keep a sharp lookout that one’s thoughts are + conveyed, not just as they come, but in a certain order, essential for the + correct composition of the picture I wish to sketch. Further, I endeavour + to make my diction literary, my definitions brief and precise, my wording, + as far as possible, simple and eloquent. Every minute I have to pull + myself up and remember that I have only an hour and forty minutes at my + disposal. In short, one has one’s work cut out. At one and the same minute + one has to play the part of savant and teacher and orator, and it’s a bad + thing if the orator gets the upper hand of the savant or of the teacher in + one, or <i>vice versa</i>. + </p> + <p> + You lecture for a quarter of an hour, for half an hour, when you notice + that the students are beginning to look at the ceiling, at Pyotr + Ignatyevitch; one is feeling for his handkerchief, another shifts in his + seat, another smiles at his thoughts.... That means that their attention + is flagging. Something must be done. Taking advantage of the first + opportunity, I make some pun. A broad grin comes on to a hundred and fifty + faces, the eyes shine brightly, the sound of the sea is audible for a + brief moment.... I laugh too. Their attention is refreshed, and I can go + on. + </p> + <p> + No kind of sport, no kind of game or diversion, has ever given me such + enjoyment as lecturing. Only at lectures have I been able to abandon + myself entirely to passion, and have understood that inspiration is not an + invention of the poets, but exists in real life, and I imagine Hercules + after the most piquant of his exploits felt just such voluptuous + exhaustion as I experience after every lecture. + </p> + <p> + That was in old times. Now at lectures I feel nothing but torture. Before + half an hour is over I am conscious of an overwhelming weakness in my legs + and my shoulders. I sit down in my chair, but I am not accustomed to + lecture sitting down; a minute later I get up and go on standing, then sit + down again. There is a dryness in my mouth, my voice grows husky, my head + begins to go round.... To conceal my condition from my audience I + continually drink water, cough, often blow my nose as though I were + hindered by a cold, make puns inappropriately, and in the end break off + earlier than I ought to. But above all I am ashamed. + </p> + <p> + My conscience and my intelligence tell me that the very best thing I could + do now would be to deliver a farewell lecture to the boys, to say my last + word to them, to bless them, and give up my post to a man younger and + stronger than me. But, God, be my judge, I have not manly courage enough + to act according to my conscience. + </p> + <p> + Unfortunately, I am not a philosopher and not a theologian. I know + perfectly well that I cannot live more than another six months; it might + be supposed that I ought now to be chiefly concerned with the question of + the shadowy life beyond the grave, and the visions that will visit my + slumbers in the tomb. But for some reason my soul refuses to recognize + these questions, though my mind is fully alive to their importance. Just + as twenty, thirty years ago, so now, on the threshold of death, I am + interested in nothing but science. As I yield up my last breath I shall + still believe that science is the most important, the most splendid, the + most essential thing in the life of man; that it always has been and will + be the highest manifestation of love, and that only by means of it will + man conquer himself and nature. This faith is perhaps naive and may rest + on false assumptions, but it is not my fault that I believe that and + nothing else; I cannot overcome in myself this belief. + </p> + <p> + But that is not the point. I only ask people to be indulgent to my + weakness, and to realize that to tear from the lecture-theatre and his + pupils a man who is more interested in the history of the development of + the bone medulla than in the final object of creation would be equivalent + to taking him and nailing him up in his coffin without waiting for him to + be dead. + </p> + <p> + Sleeplessness and the consequent strain of combating increasing weakness + leads to something strange in me. In the middle of my lecture tears + suddenly rise in my throat, my eyes begin to smart, and I feel a + passionate, hysterical desire to stretch out my hands before me and break + into loud lamentation. I want to cry out in a loud voice that I, a famous + man, have been sentenced by fate to the death penalty, that within some + six months another man will be in control here in the lecture-theatre. I + want to shriek that I am poisoned; new ideas such as I have not known + before have poisoned the last days of my life, and are still stinging my + brain like mosquitoes. And at that moment my position seems to me so awful + that I want all my listeners to be horrified, to leap up from their seats + and to rush in panic terror, with desperate screams, to the exit. + </p> + <p> + It is not easy to get through such moments. + </p> + <p> + II + </p> + <p> + After my lecture I sit at home and work. I read journals and monographs, + or prepare my next lecture; sometimes I write something. I work with + interruptions, as I have from time to time to see visitors. + </p> + <p> + There is a ring at the bell. It is a colleague come to discuss some + business matter with me. He comes in to me with his hat and his stick, + and, holding out both these objects to me, says: + </p> + <p> + “Only for a minute! Only for a minute! Sit down, <i>collega</i>! Only a + couple of words.” + </p> + <p> + To begin with, we both try to show each other that we are extraordinarily + polite and highly delighted to see each other. I make him sit down in an + easy-chair, and he makes me sit down; as we do so, we cautiously pat each + other on the back, touch each other’s buttons, and it looks as though we + were feeling each other and afraid of scorching our fingers. Both of us + laugh, though we say nothing amusing. When we are seated we bow our heads + towards each other and begin talking in subdued voices. However + affectionately disposed we may be to one another, we cannot help adorning + our conversation with all sorts of Chinese mannerisms, such as “As you so + justly observed,” or “I have already had the honour to inform you”; we + cannot help laughing if one of us makes a joke, however unsuccessfully. + When we have finished with business my colleague gets up impulsively and, + waving his hat in the direction of my work, begins to say good-bye. Again + we paw one another and laugh. I see him into the hall; when I assist my + colleague to put on his coat, while he does all he can to decline this + high honour. Then when Yegor opens the door my colleague declares that I + shall catch cold, while I make a show of being ready to go even into the + street with him. And when at last I go back into my study my face still + goes on smiling, I suppose from inertia. + </p> + <p> + A little later another ring at the bell. Somebody comes into the hall, and + is a long time coughing and taking off his things. Yegor announces a + student. I tell him to ask him in. A minute later a young man of agreeable + appearance comes in. For the last year he and I have been on strained + relations; he answers me disgracefully at the examinations, and I mark him + one. Every year I have some seven such hopefuls whom, to express it in the + students’ slang, I “chivy” or “floor.” Those of them who fail in their + examination through incapacity or illness usually bear their cross + patiently and do not haggle with me; those who come to the house and + haggle with me are always youths of sanguine temperament, broad natures, + whose failure at examinations spoils their appetites and hinders them from + visiting the opera with their usual regularity. I let the first class off + easily, but the second I chivy through a whole year. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down,” I say to my visitor; “what have you to tell me?” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, professor, for troubling you,” he begins, hesitating, and not + looking me in the face. “I would not have ventured to trouble you if it + had not been... I have been up for your examination five times, and have + been ploughed.... I beg you, be so good as to mark me for a pass, + because...” + </p> + <p> + The argument which all the sluggards bring forward on their own behalf is + always the same; they have passed well in all their subjects and have only + come to grief in mine, and that is the more surprising because they have + always been particularly interested in my subject and knew it so well; + their failure has always been entirely owing to some incomprehensible + misunderstanding. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, my friend,” I say to the visitor; “I cannot mark you for a + pass. Go and read up the lectures and come to me again. Then we shall + see.” + </p> + <p> + A pause. I feel an impulse to torment the student a little for liking beer + and the opera better than science, and I say, with a sigh: + </p> + <p> + “To my mind, the best thing you can do now is to give up medicine + altogether. If, with your abilities, you cannot succeed in passing the + examination, it’s evident that you have neither the desire nor the + vocation for a doctor’s calling.” + </p> + <p> + The sanguine youth’s face lengthens. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, professor,” he laughs, “but that would be odd of me, to say + the least of it. After studying for five years, all at once to give it + up.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well! Better to have lost your five years than have to spend the rest + of your life in doing work you do not care for.” + </p> + <p> + But at once I feel sorry for him, and I hasten to add: + </p> + <p> + “However, as you think best. And so read a little more and come again.” + </p> + <p> + “When?” the idle youth asks in a hollow voice. + </p> + <p> + “When you like. Tomorrow if you like.” + </p> + <p> + And in his good-natured eyes I read: + </p> + <p> + “I can come all right, but of course you will plough me again, you beast!” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” I say, “you won’t know more science for going in for my + examination another fifteen times, but it is training your character, and + you must be thankful for that.” + </p> + <p> + Silence follows. I get up and wait for my visitor to go, but he stands and + looks towards the window, fingers his beard, and thinks. It grows boring. + </p> + <p> + The sanguine youth’s voice is pleasant and mellow, his eyes are clever and + ironical, his face is genial, though a little bloated from frequent + indulgence in beer and overlong lying on the sofa; he looks as though he + could tell me a lot of interesting things about the opera, about his + affairs of the heart, and about comrades whom he likes. Unluckily, it is + not the thing to discuss these subjects, or else I should have been glad + to listen to him. + </p> + <p> + “Professor, I give you my word of honour that if you mark me for a pass + I... I’ll...” + </p> + <p> + As soon as we reach the “word of honour” I wave my hands and sit down to + the table. The student ponders a minute longer, and says dejectedly: + </p> + <p> + “In that case, good-bye... I beg your pardon.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, my friend. Good luck to you.” + </p> + <p> + He goes irresolutely into the hall, slowly puts on his outdoor things, + and, going out into the street, probably ponders for some time longer; + unable to think of anything, except “old devil,” inwardly addressed to me, + he goes into a wretched restaurant to dine and drink beer, and then home + to bed. “Peace be to thy ashes, honest toiler.” + </p> + <p> + A third ring at the bell. A young doctor, in a pair of new black trousers, + gold spectacles, and of course a white tie, walks in. He introduces + himself. I beg him to be seated, and ask what I can do for him. Not + without emotion, the young devotee of science begins telling me that he + has passed his examination as a doctor of medicine, and that he has now + only to write his dissertation. He would like to work with me under my + guidance, and he would be greatly obliged to me if I would give him a + subject for his dissertation. + </p> + <p> + “Very glad to be of use to you, colleague,” I say, “but just let us come + to an understanding as to the meaning of a dissertation. That word is + taken to mean a composition which is a product of independent creative + effort. Is that not so? A work written on another man’s subject and under + another man’s guidance is called something different....” + </p> + <p> + The doctor says nothing. I fly into a rage and jump up from my seat. + </p> + <p> + “Why is it you all come to me?” I cry angrily. “Do I keep a shop? I don’t + deal in subjects. For the thousand and oneth time I ask you all to leave + me in peace! Excuse my brutality, but I am quite sick of it!” + </p> + <p> + The doctor remains silent, but a faint flush is apparent on his + cheek-bones. His face expresses a profound reverence for my fame and my + learning, but from his eyes I can see he feels a contempt for my voice, my + pitiful figure, and my nervous gesticulation. I impress him in my anger as + a queer fish. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t keep a shop,” I go on angrily. “And it is a strange thing! Why + don’t you want to be independent? Why have you such a distaste for + independence?” + </p> + <p> + I say a great deal, but he still remains silent. By degrees I calm down, + and of course give in. The doctor gets a subject from me for his theme not + worth a halfpenny, writes under my supervision a dissertation of no use to + any one, with dignity defends it in a dreary discussion, and receives a + degree of no use to him. + </p> + <p> + The rings at the bell may follow one another endlessly, but I will confine + my description here to four of them. The bell rings for the fourth time, + and I hear familiar footsteps, the rustle of a dress, a dear voice.... + </p> + <p> + Eighteen years ago a colleague of mine, an oculist, died leaving a little + daughter Katya, a child of seven, and sixty thousand roubles. In his will + he made me the child’s guardian. Till she was ten years old Katya lived + with us as one of the family, then she was sent to a boarding-school, and + only spent the summer holidays with us. I never had time to look after her + education. I only superintended it at leisure moments, and so I can say + very little about her childhood. + </p> + <p> + The first thing I remember, and like so much in remembrance, is the + extraordinary trustfulness with which she came into our house and let + herself be treated by the doctors, a trustfulness which was always shining + in her little face. She would sit somewhere out of the way, with her face + tied up, invariably watching something with attention; whether she watched + me writing or turning over the pages of a book, or watched my wife + bustling about, or the cook scrubbing a potato in the kitchen, or the dog + playing, her eyes invariably expressed the same thought—that is, + “Everything that is done in this world is nice and sensible.” She was + curious, and very fond of talking to me. Sometimes she would sit at the + table opposite me, watching my movements and asking questions. It + interested her to know what I was reading, what I did at the University, + whether I was not afraid of the dead bodies, what I did with my salary. + </p> + <p> + “Do the students fight at the University?” she would ask. + </p> + <p> + “They do, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “And do you make them go down on their knees?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I do.” + </p> + <p> + And she thought it funny that the students fought and I made them go down + on their knees, and she laughed. She was a gentle, patient, good child. It + happened not infrequently that I saw something taken away from her, saw + her punished without reason, or her curiosity repressed; at such times a + look of sadness was mixed with the invariable expression of trustfulness + on her face—that was all. I did not know how to take her part; only + when I saw her sad I had an inclination to draw her to me and to + commiserate her like some old nurse: “My poor little orphan one!” + </p> + <p> + I remember, too, that she was fond of fine clothes and of sprinkling + herself with scent. In that respect she was like me. I, too, am fond of + pretty clothes and nice scent. + </p> + <p> + I regret that I had not time nor inclination to watch over the rise and + development of the passion which took complete possession of Katya when + she was fourteen or fifteen. I mean her passionate love for the theatre. + When she used to come from boarding-school and stay with us for the summer + holidays, she talked of nothing with such pleasure and such warmth as of + plays and actors. She bored us with her continual talk of the theatre. My + wife and children would not listen to her. I was the only one who had not + the courage to refuse to attend to her. When she had a longing to share + her transports, she used to come into my study and say in an imploring + tone: + </p> + <p> + “Nikolay Stepanovitch, do let me talk to you about the theatre!” + </p> + <p> + I pointed to the clock, and said: + </p> + <p> + “I’ll give you half an hour—begin.” + </p> + <p> + Later on she used to bring with her dozens of portraits of actors and + actresses which she worshipped; then she attempted several times to take + part in private theatricals, and the upshot of it all was that when she + left school she came to me and announced that she was born to be an + actress. + </p> + <p> + I had never shared Katya’s inclinations for the theatre. To my mind, if a + play is good there is no need to trouble the actors in order that it may + make the right impression; it is enough to read it. If the play is poor, + no acting will make it good. + </p> + <p> + In my youth I often visited the theatre, and now my family takes a box + twice a year and carries me off for a little distraction. Of course, that + is not enough to give me the right to judge of the theatre. In my opinion + the theatre has become no better than it was thirty or forty years ago. + Just as in the past, I can never find a glass of clean water in the + corridors or foyers of the theatre. Just as in the past, the attendants + fine me twenty kopecks for my fur coat, though there is nothing + reprehensible in wearing a warm coat in winter. As in the past, for no + sort of reason, music is played in the intervals, which adds something new + and uncalled-for to the impression made by the play. As in the past, men + go in the intervals and drink spirits in the buffet. If no progress can be + seen in trifles, I should look for it in vain in what is more important. + When an actor wrapped from head to foot in stage traditions and + conventions tries to recite a simple ordinary speech, “To be or not to + be,” not simply, but invariably with the accompaniment of hissing and + convulsive movements all over his body, or when he tries to convince me at + all costs that Tchatsky, who talks so much with fools and is so fond of + folly, is a very clever man, and that “Woe from Wit” is not a dull play, + the stage gives me the same feeling of conventionality which bored me so + much forty years ago when I was regaled with the classical howling and + beating on the breast. And every time I come out of the theatre more + conservative than I go in. + </p> + <p> + The sentimental and confiding public may be persuaded that the stage, even + in its present form, is a school; but any one who is familiar with a + school in its true sense will not be caught with that bait. I cannot say + what will happen in fifty or a hundred years, but in its actual condition + the theatre can serve only as an entertainment. But this entertainment is + too costly to be frequently enjoyed. It robs the state of thousands of + healthy and talented young men and women, who, if they had not devoted + themselves to the theatre, might have been good doctors, farmers, + schoolmistresses, officers; it robs the public of the evening hours—the + best time for intellectual work and social intercourse. I say nothing of + the waste of money and the moral damage to the spectator when he sees + murder, fornication, or false witness unsuitably treated on the stage. + </p> + <p> + Katya was of an entirely different opinion. She assured me that the + theatre, even in its present condition, was superior to the lecture-hall, + to books, or to anything in the world. The stage was a power that united + in itself all the arts, and actors were missionaries. No art nor science + was capable of producing so strong and so certain an effect on the soul of + man as the stage, and it was with good reason that an actor of medium + quality enjoys greater popularity than the greatest savant or artist. And + no sort of public service could provide such enjoyment and gratification + as the theatre. + </p> + <p> + And one fine day Katya joined a troupe of actors, and went off, I believe + to Ufa, taking away with her a good supply of money, a store of rainbow + hopes, and the most aristocratic views of her work. + </p> + <p> + Her first letters on the journey were marvellous. I read them, and was + simply amazed that those small sheets of paper could contain so much + youth, purity of spirit, holy innocence, and at the same time subtle and + apt judgments which would have done credit to a fine masculine intellect. + It was more like a rapturous paean of praise she sent me than a mere + description of the Volga, the country, the towns she visited, her + companions, her failures and successes; every sentence was fragrant with + that confiding trustfulness I was accustomed to read in her face—and + at the same time there were a great many grammatical mistakes, and there + was scarcely any punctuation at all. + </p> + <p> + Before six months had passed I received a highly poetical and enthusiastic + letter beginning with the words, “I have come to love...” This letter was + accompanied by a photograph representing a young man with a shaven face, a + wide-brimmed hat, and a plaid flung over his shoulder. The letters that + followed were as splendid as before, but now commas and stops made their + appearance in them, the grammatical mistakes disappeared, and there was a + distinctly masculine flavour about them. Katya began writing to me how + splendid it would be to build a great theatre somewhere on the Volga, on a + cooperative system, and to attract to the enterprise the rich merchants + and the steamer owners; there would be a great deal of money in it; there + would be vast audiences; the actors would play on co-operative terms.... + Possibly all this was really excellent, but it seemed to me that such + schemes could only originate from a man’s mind. + </p> + <p> + However that may have been, for a year and a half everything seemed to go + well: Katya was in love, believed in her work, and was happy; but then I + began to notice in her letters unmistakable signs of falling off. It began + with Katya’s complaining of her companions—this was the first and + most ominous symptom; if a young scientific or literary man begins his + career with bitter complaints of scientific and literary men, it is a sure + sign that he is worn out and not fit for his work. Katya wrote to me that + her companions did not attend the rehearsals and never knew their parts; + that one could see in every one of them an utter disrespect for the public + in the production of absurd plays, and in their behaviour on the stage; + that for the benefit of the Actors’ Fund, which they only talked about, + actresses of the serious drama demeaned themselves by singing + chansonettes, while tragic actors sang comic songs making fun of deceived + husbands and the pregnant condition of unfaithful wives, and so on. In + fact, it was amazing that all this had not yet ruined the provincial + stage, and that it could still maintain itself on such a rotten and + unsubstantial footing. + </p> + <p> + In answer I wrote Katya a long and, I must confess, a very boring letter. + Among other things, I wrote to her: + </p> + <p> + “I have more than once happened to converse with old actors, very worthy + men, who showed a friendly disposition towards me; from my conversations + with them I could understand that their work was controlled not so much by + their own intelligence and free choice as by fashion and the mood of the + public. The best of them had had to play in their day in tragedy, in + operetta, in Parisian farces, and in extravaganzas, and they always seemed + equally sure that they were on the right path and that they were of use. + So, as you see, the cause of the evil must be sought, not in the actors, + but, more deeply, in the art itself and in the attitude of the whole of + society to it.” + </p> + <p> + This letter of mine only irritated Katya. She answered me: + </p> + <p> + “You and I are singing parts out of different operas. I wrote to you, not + of the worthy men who showed a friendly disposition to you, but of a band + of knaves who have nothing worthy about them. They are a horde of savages + who have got on the stage simply because no one would have taken them + elsewhere, and who call themselves artists simply because they are + impudent. There are numbers of dull-witted creatures, drunkards, + intriguing schemers and slanderers, but there is not one person of talent + among them. I cannot tell you how bitter it is to me that the art I love + has fallen into the hands of people I detest; how bitter it is that the + best men look on at evil from afar, not caring to come closer, and, + instead of intervening, write ponderous commonplaces and utterly useless + sermons....” And so on, all in the same style. + </p> + <p> + A little time passed, and I got this letter: “I have been brutally + deceived. I cannot go on living. Dispose of my money as you think best. I + loved you as my father and my only friend. Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + It turned out that <i>he</i>, too, belonged to the “horde of savages.” + Later on, from certain hints, I gathered that there had been an attempt at + suicide. I believe Katya tried to poison herself. I imagine that she must + have been seriously ill afterwards, as the next letter I got was from + Yalta, where she had most probably been sent by the doctors. Her last + letter contained a request to send her a thousand roubles to Yalta as + quickly as possible, and ended with these words: + </p> + <p> + “Excuse the gloominess of this letter; yesterday I buried my child.” After + spending about a year in the Crimea, she returned home. + </p> + <p> + She had been about four years on her travels, and during those four years, + I must confess, I had played a rather strange and unenviable part in + regard to her. When in earlier days she had told me she was going on the + stage, and then wrote to me of her love; when she was periodically + overcome by extravagance, and I continually had to send her first one and + then two thousand roubles; when she wrote to me of her intention of + suicide, and then of the death of her baby, every time I lost my head, and + all my sympathy for her sufferings found no expression except that, after + prolonged reflection, I wrote long, boring letters which I might just as + well not have written. And yet I took a father’s place with her and loved + her like a daughter! + </p> + <p> + Now Katya is living less than half a mile off. She has taken a flat of + five rooms, and has installed herself fairly comfortably and in the taste + of the day. If any one were to undertake to describe her surroundings, the + most characteristic note in the picture would be indolence. For the + indolent body there are soft lounges, soft stools; for indolent feet soft + rugs; for indolent eyes faded, dingy, or flat colours; for the indolent + soul the walls are hung with a number of cheap fans and trivial pictures, + in which the originality of the execution is more conspicuous than the + subject; and the room contains a multitude of little tables and shelves + filled with utterly useless articles of no value, and shapeless rags in + place of curtains.... All this, together with the dread of bright colours, + of symmetry, and of empty space, bears witness not only to spiritual + indolence, but also to a corruption of natural taste. For days together + Katya lies on the lounge reading, principally novels and stories. She only + goes out of the house once a day, in the afternoon, to see me. + </p> + <p> + I go on working while Katya sits silent not far from me on the sofa, + wrapping herself in her shawl, as though she were cold. Either because I + find her sympathetic or because I was used to her frequent visits when she + was a little girl, her presence does not prevent me from concentrating my + attention. From time to time I mechanically ask her some question; she + gives very brief replies; or, to rest for a minute, I turn round and watch + her as she looks dreamily at some medical journal or review. And at such + moments I notice that her face has lost the old look of confiding + trustfulness. Her expression now is cold, apathetic, and absent-minded, + like that of passengers who had to wait too long for a train. She is + dressed, as in old days, simply and beautifully, but carelessly; her dress + and her hair show visible traces of the sofas and rocking-chairs in which + she spends whole days at a stretch. And she has lost the curiosity she had + in old days. She has ceased to ask me questions now, as though she had + experienced everything in life and looked for nothing new from it. + </p> + <p> + Towards four o’clock there begins to be sounds of movement in the hall and + in the drawing-room. Liza has come back from the Conservatoire, and has + brought some girl-friends in with her. We hear them playing on the piano, + trying their voices and laughing; in the dining-room Yegor is laying the + table, with the clatter of crockery. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye,” said Katya. “I won’t go in and see your people today. They + must excuse me. I haven’t time. Come and see me.” + </p> + <p> + While I am seeing her to the door, she looks me up and down grimly, and + says with vexation: + </p> + <p> + “You are getting thinner and thinner! Why don’t you consult a doctor? I’ll + call at Sergey Fyodorovitch’s and ask him to have a look at you.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s no need, Katya.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t think where your people’s eyes are! They are a nice lot, I must + say!” + </p> + <p> + She puts on her fur coat abruptly, and as she does so two or three + hairpins drop unnoticed on the floor from her carelessly arranged hair. + She is too lazy and in too great a hurry to do her hair up; she carelessly + stuffs the falling curls under her hat, and goes away. + </p> + <p> + When I go into the dining-room my wife asks me: + </p> + <p> + “Was Katya with you just now? Why didn’t she come in to see us? It’s + really strange....” + </p> + <p> + “Mamma,” Liza says to her reproachfully, “let her alone, if she doesn’t + want to. We are not going down on our knees to her.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s very neglectful, anyway. To sit for three hours in the study without + remembering our existence! But of course she must do as she likes.” + </p> + <p> + Varya and Liza both hate Katya. This hatred is beyond my comprehension, + and probably one would have to be a woman in order to understand it. I am + ready to stake my life that of the hundred and fifty young men I see every + day in the lecture-theatre, and of the hundred elderly ones I meet every + week, hardly one could be found capable of understanding their hatred and + aversion for Katya’s past—that is, for her having been a mother + without being a wife, and for her having had an illegitimate child; and at + the same time I cannot recall one woman or girl of my acquaintance who + would not consciously or unconsciously harbour such feelings. And this is + not because woman is purer or more virtuous than man: why, virtue and + purity are not very different from vice if they are not free from evil + feeling. I attribute this simply to the backwardness of woman. The + mournful feeling of compassion and the pang of conscience experienced by a + modern man at the sight of suffering is, to my mind, far greater proof of + culture and moral elevation than hatred and aversion. Woman is as tearful + and as coarse in her feelings now as she was in the Middle Ages, and to my + thinking those who advise that she should be educated like a man are quite + right. + </p> + <p> + My wife also dislikes Katya for having been an actress, for ingratitude, + for pride, for eccentricity, and for the numerous vices which one woman + can always find in another. + </p> + <p> + Besides my wife and daughter and me, there are dining with us two or three + of my daughter’s friends and Alexandr Adolfovitch Gnekker, her admirer and + suitor. He is a fair-haired young man under thirty, of medium height, very + stout and broad-shouldered, with red whiskers near his ears, and little + waxed moustaches which make his plump smooth face look like a toy. He is + dressed in a very short reefer jacket, a flowered waistcoat, breeches very + full at the top and very narrow at the ankle, with a large check pattern + on them, and yellow boots without heels. He has prominent eyes like a + crab’s, his cravat is like a crab’s neck, and I even fancy there is a + smell of crab-soup about the young man’s whole person. He visits us every + day, but no one in my family knows anything of his origin nor of the place + of his education, nor of his means of livelihood. He neither plays nor + sings, but has some connection with music and singing, sells somebody’s + pianos somewhere, is frequently at the Conservatoire, is acquainted with + all the celebrities, and is a steward at the concerts; he criticizes music + with great authority, and I have noticed that people are eager to agree + with him. + </p> + <p> + Rich people always have dependents hanging about them; the arts and + sciences have the same. I believe there is not an art nor a science in the + world free from “foreign bodies” after the style of this Mr. Gnekker. I am + not a musician, and possibly I am mistaken in regard to Mr. Gnekker, of + whom, indeed, I know very little. But his air of authority and the dignity + with which he takes his stand beside the piano when any one is playing or + singing strike me as very suspicious. + </p> + <p> + You may be ever so much of a gentleman and a privy councillor, but if you + have a daughter you cannot be secure of immunity from that petty bourgeois + atmosphere which is so often brought into your house and into your mood by + the attentions of suitors, by matchmaking and marriage. I can never + reconcile myself, for instance, to the expression of triumph on my wife’s + face every time Gnekker is in our company, nor can I reconcile myself to + the bottles of Lafitte, port and sherry which are only brought out on his + account, that he may see with his own eyes the liberal and luxurious way + in which we live. I cannot tolerate the habit of spasmodic laughter Liza + has picked up at the Conservatoire, and her way of screwing up her eyes + whenever there are men in the room. Above all, I cannot understand why a + creature utterly alien to my habits, my studies, my whole manner of life, + completely different from the people I like, should come and see me every + day, and every day should dine with me. My wife and my servants + mysteriously whisper that he is a suitor, but still I don’t understand his + presence; it rouses in me the same wonder and perplexity as if they were + to set a Zulu beside me at the table. And it seems strange to me, too, + that my daughter, whom I am used to thinking of as a child, should love + that cravat, those eyes, those soft cheeks.... + </p> + <p> + In the old days I used to like my dinner, or at least was indifferent + about it; now it excites in me no feeling but weariness and irritation. + Ever since I became an “Excellency” and one of the Deans of the Faculty my + family has for some reason found it necessary to make a complete change in + our menu and dining habits. Instead of the simple dishes to which I was + accustomed when I was a student and when I was in practice, now they feed + me with a puree with little white things like circles floating about in + it, and kidneys stewed in madeira. My rank as a general and my fame have + robbed me for ever of cabbage-soup and savoury pies, and goose with + apple-sauce, and bream with boiled grain. They have robbed me of our + maid-servant Agasha, a chatty and laughter-loving old woman, instead of + whom Yegor, a dull-witted and conceited fellow with a white glove on his + right hand, waits at dinner. The intervals between the courses are short, + but they seem immensely long because there is nothing to occupy them. + There is none of the gaiety of the old days, the spontaneous talk, the + jokes, the laughter; there is nothing of mutual affection and the joy + which used to animate the children, my wife, and me when in old days we + met together at meals. For me, the celebrated man of science, dinner was a + time of rest and reunion, and for my wife and children a fete—brief + indeed, but bright and joyous—in which they knew that for half an + hour I belonged, not to science, not to students, but to them alone. Our + real exhilaration from one glass of wine is gone for ever, gone is Agasha, + gone the bream with boiled grain, gone the uproar that greeted every + little startling incident at dinner, such as the cat and dog fighting + under the table, or Katya’s bandage falling off her face into her + soup-plate. + </p> + <p> + To describe our dinner nowadays is as uninteresting as to eat it. My + wife’s face wears a look of triumph and affected dignity, and her habitual + expression of anxiety. She looks at our plates and says, “I see you don’t + care for the joint. Tell me; you don’t like it, do you?” and I am obliged + to answer: “There is no need for you to trouble, my dear; the meat is very + nice.” And she will say: “You always stand up for me, Nikolay + Stepanovitch, and you never tell the truth. Why is Alexandr Adolfovitch + eating so little?” And so on in the same style all through dinner. Liza + laughs spasmodically and screws up her eyes. I watch them both, and it is + only now at dinner that it becomes absolutely evident to me that the inner + life of these two has slipped away out of my ken. I have a feeling as + though I had once lived at home with a real wife and children and that now + I am dining with visitors, in the house of a sham wife who is not the real + one, and am looking at a Liza who is not the real Liza. A startling change + has taken place in both of them; I have missed the long process by which + that change was effected, and it is no wonder that I can make nothing of + it. Why did that change take place? I don’t know. Perhaps the whole + trouble is that God has not given my wife and daughter the same strength + of character as me. From childhood I have been accustomed to resisting + external influences, and have steeled myself pretty thoroughly. Such + catastrophes in life as fame, the rank of a general, the transition from + comfort to living beyond our means, acquaintance with celebrities, etc., + have scarcely affected me, and I have remained intact and unashamed; but + on my wife and Liza, who have not been through the same hardening process + and are weak, all this has fallen like an avalanche of snow, overwhelming + them. Gnekker and the young ladies talk of fugues, of counterpoint, of + singers and pianists, of Bach and Brahms, while my wife, afraid of their + suspecting her of ignorance of music, smiles to them sympathetically and + mutters: “That’s exquisite... really! You don’t say so!...” Gnekker eats + with solid dignity, jests with solid dignity, and condescendingly listens + to the remarks of the young ladies. From time to time he is moved to speak + in bad French, and then, for some reason or other, he thinks it necessary + to address me as <i>“Votre Excellence.”</i> + </p> + <p> + And I am glum. Evidently I am a constraint to them and they are a + constraint to me. I have never in my earlier days had a close knowledge of + class antagonism, but now I am tormented by something of that sort. I am + on the lookout for nothing but bad qualities in Gnekker; I quickly find + them, and am fretted at the thought that a man not of my circle is sitting + here as my daughter’s suitor. His presence has a bad influence on me in + other ways, too. As a rule, when I am alone or in the society of people I + like, never think of my own achievements, or, if I do recall them, they + seem to me as trivial as though I had only completed my studies yesterday; + but in the presence of people like Gnekker my achievements in science seem + to be a lofty mountain the top of which vanishes into the clouds, while at + its foot Gnekkers are running about scarcely visible to the naked eye. + </p> + <p> + After dinner I go into my study and there smoke my pipe, the only one in + the whole day, the sole relic of my old bad habit of smoking from morning + till night. While I am smoking my wife comes in and sits down to talk to + me. Just as in the morning, I know beforehand what our conversation is + going to be about. + </p> + <p> + “I must talk to you seriously, Nikolay Stepanovitch,” she begins. “I mean + about Liza.... Why don’t you pay attention to it?” + </p> + <p> + “To what?” + </p> + <p> + “You pretend to notice nothing. But that is not right. We can’t shirk + responsibility.... Gnekker has intentions in regard to Liza.... What do + you say?” + </p> + <p> + “That he is a bad man I can’t say, because I don’t know him, but that I + don’t like him I have told you a thousand times already.” + </p> + <p> + “But you can’t... you can’t!” + </p> + <p> + She gets up and walks about in excitement. + </p> + <p> + “You can’t take up that attitude to a serious step,” she says. “When it is + a question of our daughter’s happiness we must lay aside all personal + feeling. I know you do not like him.... Very good... if we refuse him now, + if we break it all off, how can you be sure that Liza will not have a + grievance against us all her life? Suitors are not plentiful nowadays, + goodness knows, and it may happen that no other match will turn up.... He + is very much in love with Liza, and she seems to like him.... Of course, + he has no settled position, but that can’t be helped. Please God, in time + he will get one. He is of good family and well off.” + </p> + <p> + “Where did you learn that?” + </p> + <p> + “He told us so. His father has a large house in Harkov and an estate in + the neighbourhood. In short, Nikolay Stepanovitch, you absolutely must go + to Harkov.” + </p> + <p> + “What for?” + </p> + <p> + “You will find out all about him there.... You know the professors there; + they will help you. I would go myself, but I am a woman. I cannot....” + </p> + <p> + “I am not going to Harkov,” I say morosely. + </p> + <p> + My wife is frightened, and a look of intense suffering comes into her + face. + </p> + <p> + “For God’s sake, Nikolay Stepanovitch,” she implores me, with tears in her + voice—“for God’s sake, take this burden off me! I am so worried!” + </p> + <p> + It is painful for me to look at her. + </p> + <p> + “Very well, Varya,” I say affectionately, “if you wish it, then certainly + I will go to Harkov and do all you want.” + </p> + <p> + She presses her handkerchief to her eyes and goes off to her room to cry, + and I am left alone. + </p> + <p> + A little later lights are brought in. The armchair and the lamp-shade cast + familiar shadows that have long grown wearisome on the walls and on the + floor, and when I look at them I feel as though the night had come and + with it my accursed sleeplessness. I lie on my bed, then get up and walk + about the room, then lie down again. As a rule it is after dinner, at the + approach of evening, that my nervous excitement reaches its highest pitch. + For no reason I begin crying and burying my head in the pillow. At such + times I am afraid that some one may come in; I am afraid of suddenly + dying; I am ashamed of my tears, and altogether there is something + insufferable in my soul. I feel that I can no longer bear the sight of my + lamp, of my books, of the shadows on the floor. I cannot bear the sound of + the voices coming from the drawing-room. Some force unseen, + uncomprehended, is roughly thrusting me out of my flat. I leap up + hurriedly, dress, and cautiously, that my family may not notice, slip out + into the street. Where am I to go? + </p> + <p> + The answer to that question has long been ready in my brain. To Katya. + </p> + <p> + III + </p> + <p> + As a rule she is lying on the sofa or in a lounge-chair reading. Seeing + me, she raises her head languidly, sits up, and shakes hands. + </p> + <p> + “You are always lying down,” I say, after pausing and taking breath. + “That’s not good for you. You ought to occupy yourself with something.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “I say you ought to occupy yourself in some way.” + </p> + <p> + “With what? A woman can be nothing but a simple workwoman or an actress.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, if you can’t be a workwoman, be an actress.” + </p> + <p> + She says nothing. + </p> + <p> + “You ought to get married,” I say, half in jest. + </p> + <p> + “There is no one to marry. There’s no reason to, either.” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t live like this.” + </p> + <p> + “Without a husband? Much that matters; I could have as many men as I like + if I wanted to.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s ugly, Katya.” + </p> + <p> + “What is ugly?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, what you have just said.” + </p> + <p> + Noticing that I am hurt and wishing to efface the disagreeable impression, + Katya says: + </p> + <p> + “Let us go; come this way.” + </p> + <p> + She takes me into a very snug little room, and says, pointing to the + writing-table: + </p> + <p> + “Look... I have got that ready for you. You shall work here. Come here + every day and bring your work with you. They only hinder you there at + home. Will you work here? Will you like to?” + </p> + <p> + Not to wound her by refusing, I answer that I will work here, and that I + like the room very much. Then we both sit down in the snug little room and + begin talking. + </p> + <p> + The warm, snug surroundings and the presence of a sympathetic person does + not, as in old days, arouse in me a feeling of pleasure, but an intense + impulse to complain and grumble. I feel for some reason that if I lament + and complain I shall feel better. + </p> + <p> + “Things are in a bad way with me, my dear—very bad....” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “You see how it is, my dear; the best and holiest right of kings is the + right of mercy. And I have always felt myself a king, since I have made + unlimited use of that right. I have never judged, I have been indulgent, I + have readily forgiven every one, right and left. Where others have + protested and expressed indignation, I have only advised and persuaded. + All my life it has been my endeavour that my society should not be a + burden to my family, to my students, to my colleagues, to my servants. And + I know that this attitude to people has had a good influence on all who + have chanced to come into contact with me. But now I am not a king. + Something is happening to me that is only excusable in a slave; day and + night my brain is haunted by evil thoughts, and feelings such as I never + knew before are brooding in my soul. I am full of hatred, and contempt, + and indignation, and loathing, and dread. I have become excessively + severe, exacting, irritable, ungracious, suspicious. Even things that in + old days would have provoked me only to an unnecessary jest and a + good-natured laugh now arouse an oppressive feeling in me. My reasoning, + too, has undergone a change: in old days I despised money; now I harbour + an evil feeling, not towards money, but towards the rich as though they + were to blame: in old days I hated violence and tyranny, but now I hate + the men who make use of violence, as though they were alone to blame, and + not all of us who do not know how to educate each other. What is the + meaning of it? If these new ideas and new feelings have come from a change + of convictions, what is that change due to? Can the world have grown worse + and I better, or was I blind before and indifferent? If this change is the + result of a general decline of physical and intellectual powers—I am + ill, you know, and every day I am losing weight—my position is + pitiable; it means that my new ideas are morbid and abnormal; I ought to + be ashamed of them and think them of no consequence....” + </p> + <p> + “Illness has nothing to do with it,” Katya interrupts me; “it’s simply + that your eyes are opened, that’s all. You have seen what in old days, for + some reason, you refused to see. To my thinking, what you ought to do + first of all, is to break with your family for good, and go away.” + </p> + <p> + “You are talking nonsense.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t love them; why should you force your feelings? Can you call + them a family? Nonentities! If they died today, no one would notice their + absence tomorrow.” + </p> + <p> + Katya despises my wife and Liza as much as they hate her. One can hardly + talk at this date of people’s having a right to despise one another. But + if one looks at it from Katya’s standpoint and recognizes such a right, + one can see she has as much right to despise my wife and Liza as they have + to hate her. + </p> + <p> + “Nonentities,” she goes on. “Have you had dinner today? How was it they + did not forget to tell you it was ready? How is it they still remember + your existence?” + </p> + <p> + “Katya,” I say sternly, “I beg you to be silent.” + </p> + <p> + “You think I enjoy talking about them? I should be glad not to know them + at all. Listen, my dear: give it all up and go away. Go abroad. The sooner + the better.” + </p> + <p> + “What nonsense! What about the University?” + </p> + <p> + “The University, too. What is it to you? There’s no sense in it, anyway. + You have been lecturing for thirty years, and where are your pupils? Are + many of them celebrated scientific men? Count them up! And to multiply the + doctors who exploit ignorance and pile up hundreds of thousands for + themselves, there is no need to be a good and talented man. You are not + wanted.” + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens! how harsh you are!” I cry in horror. “How harsh you are! Be + quiet or I will go away! I don’t know how to answer the harsh things you + say!” + </p> + <p> + The maid comes in and summons us to tea. At the samovar our conversation, + thank God, changes. After having had my grumble out, I have a longing to + give way to another weakness of old age, reminiscences. I tell Katya about + my past, and to my great astonishment tell her incidents which, till then, + I did not suspect of being still preserved in my memory, and she listens + to me with tenderness, with pride, holding her breath. I am particularly + fond of telling her how I was educated in a seminary and dreamed of going + to the University. + </p> + <p> + “At times I used to walk about our seminary garden...” I would tell her. + “If from some faraway tavern the wind floated sounds of a song and the + squeaking of an accordion, or a sledge with bells dashed by the + garden-fence, it was quite enough to send a rush of happiness, filling not + only my heart, but even my stomach, my legs, my arms.... I would listen to + the accordion or the bells dying away in the distance and imagine myself a + doctor, and paint pictures, one better than another. And here, as you see, + my dreams have come true. I have had more than I dared to dream of. For + thirty years I have been the favourite professor, I have had splendid + comrades, I have enjoyed fame and honour. I have loved, married from + passionate love, have had children. In fact, looking back upon it, I see + my whole life as a fine composition arranged with talent. Now all that is + left to me is not to spoil the end. For that I must die like a man. If + death is really a thing to dread, I must meet it as a teacher, a man of + science, and a citizen of a Christian country ought to meet it, with + courage and untroubled soul. But I am spoiling the end; I am sinking, I + fly to you, I beg for help, and you tell me ‘Sink; that is what you ought + to do.’” + </p> + <p> + But here there comes a ring at the front-door. Katya and I recognize it, + and say: + </p> + <p> + “It must be Mihail Fyodorovitch.” + </p> + <p> + And a minute later my colleague, the philologist Mihail Fyodorovitch, a + tall, well-built man of fifty, clean-shaven, with thick grey hair and + black eyebrows, walks in. He is a good-natured man and an excellent + comrade. He comes of a fortunate and talented old noble family which has + played a prominent part in the history of literature and enlightenment. He + is himself intelligent, talented, and very highly educated, but has his + oddities. To a certain extent we are all odd and all queer fish, but in + his oddities there is something exceptional, apt to cause anxiety among + his acquaintances. I know a good many people for whom his oddities + completely obscure his good qualities. + </p> + <p> + Coming in to us, he slowly takes off his gloves and says in his velvety + bass: + </p> + <p> + “Good-evening. Are you having tea? That’s just right. It’s diabolically + cold.” + </p> + <p> + Then he sits down to the table, takes a glass, and at once begins talking. + What is most characteristic in his manner of talking is the continually + jesting tone, a sort of mixture of philosophy and drollery as in + Shakespeare’s gravediggers. He is always talking about serious things, but + he never speaks seriously. His judgments are always harsh and railing, + but, thanks to his soft, even, jesting tone, the harshness and abuse do + not jar upon the ear, and one soon grows used to them. Every evening he + brings with him five or six anecdotes from the University, and he usually + begins with them when he sits down to table. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Lord!” he sighs, twitching his black eyebrows ironically. “What comic + people there are in the world!” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” asks Katya. + </p> + <p> + “As I was coming from my lecture this morning I met that old idiot N. N—— + on the stairs.... He was going along as usual, sticking out his chin like + a horse, looking for some one to listen to his grumblings at his migraine, + at his wife, and his students who won’t attend his lectures. ‘Oh,’ I + thought, ‘he has seen me—I am done for now; it is all up....’” + </p> + <p> + And so on in the same style. Or he will begin like this: + </p> + <p> + “I was yesterday at our friend Z. Z——‘s public lecture. I + wonder how it is our alma mater—don’t speak of it after dark—dare + display in public such noodles and patent dullards as that Z. Z—— + Why, he is a European fool! Upon my word, you could not find another like + him all over Europe! He lectures—can you imagine?—as though he + were sucking a sugar-stick—sue, sue, sue;... he is in a nervous + funk; he can hardly decipher his own manuscript; his poor little thoughts + crawl along like a bishop on a bicycle, and, what’s worse, you can never + make out what he is trying to say. The deadly dulness is awful, the very + flies expire. It can only be compared with the boredom in the + assembly-hall at the yearly meeting when the traditional address is read—damn + it!” + </p> + <p> + And at once an abrupt transition: + </p> + <p> + “Three years ago—Nikolay Stepanovitch here will remember it—I + had to deliver that address. It was hot, stifling, my uniform cut me under + the arms—it was deadly! I read for half an hour, for an hour, for an + hour and a half, for two hours.... ‘Come,’ I thought; ‘thank God, there + are only ten pages left!’ And at the end there were four pages that there + was no need to read, and I reckoned to leave them out. ‘So there are only + six really,’ I thought; ‘that is, only six pages left to read.’ But, only + fancy, I chanced to glance before me, and, sitting in the front row, side + by side, were a general with a ribbon on his breast and a bishop. The poor + beggars were numb with boredom; they were staring with their eyes wide + open to keep awake, and yet they were trying to put on an expression of + attention and to pretend that they understood what I was saying and liked + it. ‘Well,’ I thought, ‘since you like it you shall have it! I’ll pay you + out;’ so I just gave them those four pages too.” + </p> + <p> + As is usual with ironical people, when he talks nothing in his face smiles + but his eyes and eyebrows. At such times there is no trace of hatred or + spite in his eyes, but a great deal of humour, and that peculiar fox-like + slyness which is only to be noticed in very observant people. Since I am + speaking about his eyes, I notice another peculiarity in them. When he + takes a glass from Katya, or listens to her speaking, or looks after her + as she goes out of the room for a moment, I notice in his eyes something + gentle, beseeching, pure.... + </p> + <p> + The maid-servant takes away the samovar and puts on the table a large + piece of cheese, some fruit, and a bottle of Crimean champagne—a + rather poor wine of which Katya had grown fond in the Crimea. Mihail + Fyodorovitch takes two packs of cards off the whatnot and begins to play + patience. According to him, some varieties of patience require great + concentration and attention, yet while he lays out the cards he does not + leave off distracting his attention with talk. Katya watches his cards + attentively, and more by gesture than by words helps him in his play. She + drinks no more than a couple of wine-glasses of wine the whole evening; I + drink four glasses, and the rest of the bottle falls to the share of + Mihail Fyodorovitch, who can drink a great deal and never get drunk. + </p> + <p> + Over our patience we settle various questions, principally of the higher + order, and what we care for most of all—that is, science and + learning—is more roughly handled than anything. + </p> + <p> + “Science, thank God, has outlived its day,” says Mihail Fyodorovitch + emphatically. “Its song is sung. Yes, indeed. Mankind begins to feel + impelled to replace it by something different. It has grown on the soil of + superstition, been nourished by superstition, and is now just as much the + quintessence of superstition as its defunct granddames, alchemy, + metaphysics, and philosophy. And, after all, what has it given to mankind? + Why, the difference between the learned Europeans and the Chinese who have + no science is trifling, purely external. The Chinese know nothing of + science, but what have they lost thereby?” + </p> + <p> + “Flies know nothing of science, either,” I observe, “but what of that?” + </p> + <p> + “There is no need to be angry, Nikolay Stepanovitch. I only say this here + between ourselves... I am more careful than you think, and I am not going + to say this in public—God forbid! The superstition exists in the + multitude that the arts and sciences are superior to agriculture, + commerce, superior to handicrafts. Our sect is maintained by that + superstition, and it is not for you and me to destroy it. God forbid!” + </p> + <p> + After patience the younger generation comes in for a dressing too. + </p> + <p> + “Our audiences have degenerated,” sighs Mihail Fyodorovitch. “Not to speak + of ideals and all the rest of it, if only they were capable of work and + rational thought! In fact, it’s a case of ‘I look with mournful eyes on + the young men of today.’” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; they have degenerated horribly,” Katya agrees. “Tell me, have you + had one man of distinction among them for the last five or ten years?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know how it is with the other professors, but I can’t remember + any among mine.” + </p> + <p> + “I have seen in my day many of your students and young scientific men and + many actors—well, I have never once been so fortunate as to meet—I + won’t say a hero or a man of talent, but even an interesting man. It’s all + the same grey mediocrity, puffed up with self-conceit.” + </p> + <p> + All this talk of degeneration always affects me as though I had + accidentally overheard offensive talk about my own daughter. It offends me + that these charges are wholesale, and rest on such worn-out commonplaces, + on such wordy vapourings as degeneration and absence of ideals, or on + references to the splendours of the past. Every accusation, even if it is + uttered in ladies’ society, ought to be formulated with all possible + definiteness, or it is not an accusation, but idle disparagement, unworthy + of decent people. + </p> + <p> + I am an old man, I have been lecturing for thirty years, but I notice + neither degeneration nor lack of ideals, and I don’t find that the present + is worse than the past. My porter Nikolay, whose experience of this + subject has its value, says that the students of today are neither better + nor worse than those of the past. + </p> + <p> + If I were asked what I don’t like in my pupils of today, I should answer + the question, not straight off and not at length, but with sufficient + definiteness. I know their failings, and so have no need to resort to + vague generalities. I don’t like their smoking, using spirituous + beverages, marrying late, and often being so irresponsible and careless + that they will let one of their number be starving in their midst while + they neglect to pay their subscriptions to the Students’ Aid Society. They + don’t know modern languages, and they don’t express themselves correctly + in Russian; no longer ago than yesterday my colleague, the professor of + hygiene, complained to me that he had to give twice as many lectures, + because the students had a very poor knowledge of physics and were utterly + ignorant of meteorology. They are readily carried away by the influence of + the last new writers, even when they are not first-rate, but they take + absolutely no interest in classics such as Shakespeare, Marcus Aurelius, + Epictetus, or Pascal, and this inability to distinguish the great from the + small betrays their ignorance of practical life more than anything. All + difficult questions that have more or less a social character (for + instance the migration question) they settle by studying monographs on the + subject, but not by way of scientific investigation or experiment, though + that method is at their disposal and is more in keeping with their + calling. They gladly become ward-surgeons, assistants, demonstrators, + external teachers, and are ready to fill such posts until they are forty, + though independence, a sense of freedom and personal initiative, are no + less necessary in science than, for instance, in art or commerce. I have + pupils and listeners, but no successors and helpers, and so I love them + and am touched by them, but am not proud of them. And so on, and so on.... + </p> + <p> + Such shortcomings, however numerous they may be, can only give rise to a + pessimistic or fault-finding temper in a faint-hearted and timid man. All + these failings have a casual, transitory character, and are completely + dependent on conditions of life; in some ten years they will have + disappeared or given place to other fresh defects, which are all + inevitable and will in their turn alarm the faint-hearted. The students’ + sins often vex me, but that vexation is nothing in comparison with the joy + I have been experiencing now for the last thirty years when I talk to my + pupils, lecture to them, watch their relations, and compare them with + people not of their circle. + </p> + <p> + Mihail Fyodorovitch speaks evil of everything. Katya listens, and neither + of them notices into what depths the apparently innocent diversion of + finding fault with their neighbours is gradually drawing them. They are + not conscious how by degrees simple talk passes into malicious mockery and + jeering, and how they are both beginning to drop into the habits and + methods of slander. + </p> + <p> + “Killing types one meets with,” says Mihail Fyodorovitch. “I went + yesterday to our friend Yegor Petrovitch’s, and there I found a studious + gentleman, one of your medicals in his third year, I believe. Such a + face!... in the Dobrolubov style, the imprint of profound thought on his + brow; we got into talk. ‘Such doings, young man,’ said I. ‘I’ve read,’ + said I, ‘that some German—I’ve forgotten his name—has created + from the human brain a new kind of alkaloid, idiotine.’ What do you think? + He believed it, and there was positively an expression of respect on his + face, as though to say, ‘See what we fellows can do!’ And the other day I + went to the theatre. I took my seat. In the next row directly in front of + me were sitting two men: one of ‘us fellows’ and apparently a law student, + the other a shaggy-looking figure, a medical student. The latter was as + drunk as a cobbler. He did not look at the stage at all. He was dozing + with his nose on his shirt-front. But as soon as an actor begins loudly + reciting a monologue, or simply raises his voice, our friend starts, pokes + his neighbour in the ribs, and asks, ‘What is he saying? Is it elevating?’ + ‘Yes,’ answers one of our fellows. ‘B-r-r-ravo!’ roars the medical + student. ‘Elevating! Bravo!’ He had gone to the theatre, you see, the + drunken blockhead, not for the sake of art, the play, but for elevation! + He wanted noble sentiments.” + </p> + <p> + Katya listens and laughs. She has a strange laugh; she catches her breath + in rhythmically regular gasps, very much as though she were playing the + accordion, and nothing in her face is laughing but her nostrils. I grow + depressed and don’t know what to say. Beside myself, I fire up, leap up + from my seat, and cry: + </p> + <p> + “Do leave off! Why are you sitting here like two toads, poisoning the air + with your breath? Give over!” + </p> + <p> + And without waiting for them to finish their gossip I prepare to go home. + And, indeed, it is high time: it is past ten. + </p> + <p> + “I will stay a little longer,” says Mihail Fyodorovitch. “Will you allow + me, Ekaterina Vladimirovna?” + </p> + <p> + “I will,” answers Katya. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Bene!</i> In that case have up another little bottle.” + </p> + <p> + They both accompany me with candles to the hall, and while I put on my fur + coat, Mihail Fyodorovitch says: + </p> + <p> + “You have grown dreadfully thin and older looking, Nikolay Stepanovitch. + What’s the matter with you? Are you ill?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I am not very well.” + </p> + <p> + “And you are not doing anything for it...” Katya puts in grimly. + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you? You can’t go on like that! God helps those who help + themselves, my dear fellow. Remember me to your wife and daughter, and + make my apologies for not having been to see them. In a day or two, before + I go abroad, I shall come to say good-bye. I shall be sure to. I am going + away next week.” + </p> + <p> + I come away from Katya, irritated and alarmed by what has been said about + my being ill, and dissatisfied with myself. I ask myself whether I really + ought not to consult one of my colleagues. And at once I imagine how my + colleague, after listening to me, would walk away to the window without + speaking, would think a moment, then would turn round to me and, trying to + prevent my reading the truth in his face, would say in a careless tone: + “So far I see nothing serious, but at the same time, <i>collega</i>, I + advise you to lay aside your work....” And that would deprive me of my + last hope. + </p> + <p> + Who is without hope? Now that I am diagnosing my illness and prescribing + for myself, from time to time I hope that I am deceived by my own illness, + that I am mistaken in regard to the albumen and the sugar I find, and in + regard to my heart, and in regard to the swellings I have twice noticed in + the mornings; when with the fervour of the hypochondriac I look through + the textbooks of therapeutics and take a different medicine every day, I + keep fancying that I shall hit upon something comforting. All that is + petty. + </p> + <p> + Whether the sky is covered with clouds or the moon and the stars are + shining, I turn my eyes towards it every evening and think that death is + taking me soon. One would think that my thoughts at such times ought to be + deep as the sky, brilliant, striking.... But no! I think about myself, + about my wife, about Liza, Gnekker, the students, people in general; my + thoughts are evil, petty, I am insincere with myself, and at such times my + theory of life may be expressed in the words the celebrated Araktcheev + said in one of his intimate letters: “Nothing good can exist in the world + without evil, and there is more evil than good.” That is, everything is + disgusting; there is nothing to live for, and the sixty-two years I have + already lived must be reckoned as wasted. I catch myself in these + thoughts, and try to persuade myself that they are accidental, temporary, + and not deeply rooted in me, but at once I think: + </p> + <p> + “If so, what drives me every evening to those two toads?” + </p> + <p> + And I vow to myself that I will never go to Katya’s again, though I know I + shall go next evening. + </p> + <p> + Ringing the bell at the door and going upstairs, I feel that I have no + family now and no desire to bring it back again. It is clear that the new + Araktcheev thoughts are not casual, temporary visitors, but have + possession of my whole being. With my conscience ill at ease, dejected, + languid, hardly able to move my limbs, feeling as though tons were added + to my weight, I get into bed and quickly drop asleep. + </p> + <p> + And then—insomnia! + </p> + <p> + IV + </p> + <p> + Summer comes on and life is changed. + </p> + <p> + One fine morning Liza comes in to me and says in a jesting tone: + </p> + <p> + “Come, your Excellency! We are ready.” + </p> + <p> + My Excellency is conducted into the street, and seated in a cab. As I go + along, having nothing to do, I read the signboards from right to left. The + word “Traktir” reads “Ritkart”; that would just suit some baron’s family: + Baroness Ritkart. Farther on I drive through fields, by the graveyard, + which makes absolutely no impression on me, though I shall soon lie in it; + then I drive by forests and again by fields. There is nothing of interest. + After two hours of driving, my Excellency is conducted into the lower + storey of a summer villa and installed in a small, very cheerful little + room with light blue hangings. + </p> + <p> + At night there is sleeplessness as before, but in the morning I do not put + a good face upon it and listen to my wife, but lie in bed. I do not sleep, + but lie in the drowsy, half-conscious condition in which you know you are + not asleep, but dreaming. At midday I get up and from habit sit down at my + table, but I do not work now; I amuse myself with French books in yellow + covers, sent me by Katya. Of course, it would be more patriotic to read + Russian authors, but I must confess I cherish no particular liking for + them. With the exception of two or three of the older writers, all our + literature of today strikes me as not being literature, but a special sort + of home industry, which exists simply in order to be encouraged, though + people do not readily make use of its products. The very best of these + home products cannot be called remarkable and cannot be sincerely praised + without qualification. I must say the same of all the literary novelties I + have read during the last ten or fifteen years; not one of them is + remarkable, and not one of them can be praised without a “but.” + Cleverness, a good tone, but no talent; talent, a good tone, but no + cleverness; or talent, cleverness, but not a good tone. + </p> + <p> + I don’t say the French books have talent, cleverness, and a good tone. + They don’t satisfy me, either. But they are not so tedious as the Russian, + and it is not unusual to find in them the chief element of artistic + creation—the feeling of personal freedom which is lacking in the + Russian authors. I don’t remember one new book in which the author does + not try from the first page to entangle himself in all sorts of conditions + and contracts with his conscience. One is afraid to speak of the naked + body; another ties himself up hand and foot in psychological analysis; a + third must have a “warm attitude to man”; a fourth purposely scrawls whole + descriptions of nature that he may not be suspected of writing with a + purpose.... One is bent upon being middle-class in his work, another must + be a nobleman, and so on. There is intentionalness, circumspection, and + self-will, but they have neither the independence nor the manliness to + write as they like, and therefore there is no creativeness. + </p> + <p> + All this applies to what is called belles-lettres. + </p> + <p> + As for serious treatises in Russian on sociology, for instance, on art, + and so on, I do not read them simply from timidity. In my childhood and + early youth I had for some reason a terror of doorkeepers and attendants + at the theatre, and that terror has remained with me to this day. I am + afraid of them even now. It is said that we are only afraid of what we do + not understand. And, indeed, it is very difficult to understand why + doorkeepers and theatre attendants are so dignified, haughty, and + majestically rude. I feel exactly the same terror when I read serious + articles. Their extraordinary dignity, their bantering lordly tone, their + familiar manner to foreign authors, their ability to split straws with + dignity—all that is beyond my understanding; it is intimidating and + utterly unlike the quiet, gentlemanly tone to which I am accustomed when I + read the works of our medical and scientific writers. It oppresses me to + read not only the articles written by serious Russians, but even works + translated or edited by them. The pretentious, edifying tone of the + preface; the redundancy of remarks made by the translator, which prevent + me from concentrating my attention; the question marks and “sic” in + parenthesis scattered all over the book or article by the liberal + translator, are to my mind an outrage on the author and on my independence + as a reader. + </p> + <p> + Once I was summoned as an expert to a circuit court; in an interval one of + my fellow-experts drew my attention to the rudeness of the public + prosecutor to the defendants, among whom there were two ladies of good + education. I believe I did not exaggerate at all when I told him that the + prosecutor’s manner was no ruder than that of the authors of serious + articles to one another. Their manners are, indeed, so rude that I cannot + speak of them without distaste. They treat one another and the writers + they criticize either with superfluous respect, at the sacrifice of their + own dignity, or, on the contrary, with far more ruthlessness than I have + shown in my notes and my thoughts in regard to my future son-in-law + Gnekker. Accusations of irrationality, of evil intentions, and, indeed, of + every sort of crime, form an habitual ornament of serious articles. And + that, as young medical men are fond of saying in their monographs, is the + <i>ultima ratio!</i> Such ways must infallibly have an effect on the + morals of the younger generation of writers, and so I am not at all + surprised that in the new works with which our literature has been + enriched during the last ten or fifteen years the heroes drink too much + vodka and the heroines are not over-chaste. + </p> + <p> + I read French books, and I look out of the window which is open; I can see + the spikes of my garden-fence, two or three scraggy trees, and beyond the + fence the road, the fields, and beyond them a broad stretch of pine-wood. + Often I admire a boy and girl, both flaxen-headed and ragged, who clamber + on the fence and laugh at my baldness. In their shining little eyes I + read, “Go up, go up, thou baldhead!” They are almost the only people who + care nothing for my celebrity or my rank. + </p> + <p> + Visitors do not come to me every day now. I will only mention the visits + of Nikolay and Pyotr Ignatyevitch. Nikolay usually comes to me on + holidays, with some pretext of business, though really to see me. He + arrives very much exhilarated, a thing which never occurs to him in the + winter. + </p> + <p> + “What have you to tell me?” I ask, going out to him in the hall. + </p> + <p> + “Your Excellency!” he says, pressing his hand to his heart and looking at + me with the ecstasy of a lover—“your Excellency! God be my witness! + Strike me dead on the spot! <i>Gaudeamus egitur juventus!</i>” + </p> + <p> + And he greedily kisses me on the shoulder, on the sleeve, and on the + buttons. + </p> + <p> + “Is everything going well?” I ask him. + </p> + <p> + “Your Excellency! So help me God!...” + </p> + <p> + He persists in grovelling before me for no sort of reason, and soon bores + me, so I send him away to the kitchen, where they give him dinner. + </p> + <p> + Pyotr Ignatyevitch comes to see me on holidays, too, with the special + object of seeing me and sharing his thoughts with me. He usually sits down + near my table, modest, neat, and reasonable, and does not venture to cross + his legs or put his elbows on the table. All the time, in a soft, even, + little voice, in rounded bookish phrases, he tells me various, to his + mind, very interesting and piquant items of news which he has read in the + magazines and journals. They are all alike and may be reduced to this + type: “A Frenchman has made a discovery; some one else, a German, has + denounced him, proving that the discovery was made in 1870 by some + American; while a third person, also a German, trumps them both by proving + they both had made fools of themselves, mistaking bubbles of air for dark + pigment under the microscope.” Even when he wants to amuse me, Pyotr + Ignatyevitch tells me things in the same lengthy, circumstantial manner as + though he were defending a thesis, enumerating in detail the literary + sources from which he is deriving his narrative, doing his utmost to be + accurate as to the date and number of the journals and the name of every + one concerned, invariably mentioning it in full—Jean Jacques Petit, + never simply Petit. Sometimes he stays to dinner with us, and then during + the whole of dinner-time he goes on telling me the same sort of piquant + anecdotes, reducing every one at table to a state of dejected boredom. If + Gnekker and Liza begin talking before him of fugues and counterpoint, + Brahms and Bach, he drops his eyes modestly, and is overcome with + embarrassment; he is ashamed that such trivial subjects should be + discussed before such serious people as him and me. + </p> + <p> + In my present state of mind five minutes of him is enough to sicken me as + though I had been seeing and hearing him for an eternity. I hate the poor + fellow. His soft, smooth voice and bookish language exhaust me, and his + stories stupefy me.... He cherishes the best of feelings for me, and talks + to me simply in order to give me pleasure, and I repay him by looking at + him as though I wanted to hypnotize him, and think, “Go, go, go!...” But + he is not amenable to thought-suggestion, and sits on and on and on.... + </p> + <p> + While he is with me I can never shake off the thought, “It’s possible when + I die he will be appointed to succeed me,” and my poor lecture-hall + presents itself to me as an oasis in which the spring is died up; and I am + ungracious, silent, and surly with Pyotr Ignatyevitch, as though he were + to blame for such thoughts, and not I myself. When he begins, as usual, + praising up the German savants, instead of making fun of him + good-humouredly, as I used to do, I mutter sullenly: + </p> + <p> + “Asses, your Germans!...” + </p> + <p> + That is like the late Professor Nikita Krylov, who once, when he was + bathing with Pirogov at Revel and vexed at the water’s being very cold, + burst out with, “Scoundrels, these Germans!” I behave badly with Pyotr + Ignatyevitch, and only when he is going away, and from the window I catch + a glimpse of his grey hat behind the garden-fence, I want to call out and + say, “Forgive me, my dear fellow!” + </p> + <p> + Dinner is even drearier than in the winter. Gnekker, whom now I hate and + despise, dines with us almost every day. I used to endure his presence in + silence, now I aim biting remarks at him which make my wife and daughter + blush. Carried away by evil feeling, I often say things that are simply + stupid, and I don’t know why I say them. So on one occasion it happened + that I stared a long time at Gnekker, and, <i>a propos</i> of nothing, I + fired off: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “An eagle may perchance swoop down below a cock, + But never will the fowl soar upwards to the clouds...” + </pre> + <p> + And the most vexatious thing is that the fowl Gnekker shows himself much + cleverer than the eagle professor. Knowing that my wife and daughter are + on his side, he takes up the line of meeting my gibes with condescending + silence, as though to say: + </p> + <p> + “The old chap is in his dotage; what’s the use of talking to him?” + </p> + <p> + Or he makes fun of me good-naturedly. It is wonderful how petty a man may + become! I am capable of dreaming all dinner-time of how Gnekker will turn + out to be an adventurer, how my wife and Liza will come to see their + mistake, and how I will taunt them—and such absurd thoughts at the + time when I am standing with one foot in the grave! + </p> + <p> + There are now, too, misunderstandings of which in the old days I had no + idea except from hearsay. Though I am ashamed of it, I will describe one + that occurred the other day after dinner. + </p> + <p> + I was sitting in my room smoking a pipe; my wife came in as usual, sat + down, and began saying what a good thing it would be for me to go to + Harkov now while it is warm and I have free time, and there find out what + sort of person our Gnekker is. + </p> + <p> + “Very good; I will go,” I assented. + </p> + <p> + My wife, pleased with me, got up and was going to the door, but turned + back and said: + </p> + <p> + “By the way, I have another favour to ask of you. I know you will be + angry, but it is my duty to warn you.... Forgive my saying it, Nikolay + Stepanovitch, but all our neighbours and acquaintances have begun talking + about your being so often at Katya’s. She is clever and well-educated; I + don’t deny that her company may be agreeable; but at your age and with + your social position it seems strange that you should find pleasure in her + society.... Besides, she has such a reputation that...” + </p> + <p> + All the blood suddenly rushed to my brain, my eyes flashed fire, I leaped + up and, clutching at my head and stamping my feet, shouted in a voice + unlike my own: + </p> + <p> + “Let me alone! let me alone! let me alone!” + </p> + <p> + Probably my face was terrible, my voice was strange, for my wife suddenly + turned pale and began shrieking aloud in a despairing voice that was + utterly unlike her own. Liza, Gnekker, then Yegor, came running in at our + shouts.... + </p> + <p> + “Let me alone!” I cried; “let me alone! Go away!” + </p> + <p> + My legs turned numb as though they had ceased to exist; I felt myself + falling into someone’s arms; for a little while I still heard weeping, + then sank into a swoon which lasted two or three hours. + </p> + <p> + Now about Katya; she comes to see me every day towards evening, and of + course neither the neighbours nor our acquaintances can avoid noticing it. + She comes in for a minute and carries me off for a drive with her. She has + her own horse and a new chaise bought this summer. Altogether she lives in + an expensive style; she has taken a big detached villa with a large + garden, and has taken all her town retinue with her—two maids, a + coachman... I often ask her: + </p> + <p> + “Katya, what will you live on when you have spent your father’s money?” + </p> + <p> + “Then we shall see,” she answers. + </p> + <p> + “That money, my dear, deserves to be treated more seriously. It was earned + by a good man, by honest labour.” + </p> + <p> + “You have told me that already. I know it.” + </p> + <p> + At first we drive through the open country, then through the pine-wood + which is visible from my window. Nature seems to me as beautiful as it + always has been, though some evil spirit whispers to me that these pines + and fir trees, birds, and white clouds on the sky, will not notice my + absence when in three or four months I am dead. Katya loves driving, and + she is pleased that it is fine weather and that I am sitting beside her. + She is in good spirits and does not say harsh things. + </p> + <p> + “You are a very good man, Nikolay Stepanovitch,” she says. “You are a rare + specimen, and there isn’t an actor who would understand how to play you. + Me or Mihail Fyodorovitch, for instance, any poor actor could do, but not + you. And I envy you, I envy you horribly! Do you know what I stand for? + What?” + </p> + <p> + She ponders for a minute, and then asks me: + </p> + <p> + “Nikolay Stepanovitch, I am a negative phenomenon! Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” I answer. + </p> + <p> + “H’m! what am I to do?” + </p> + <p> + What answer was I to make her? It is easy to say “work,” or “give your + possessions to the poor,” or “know yourself,” and because it is so easy to + say that, I don’t know what to answer. + </p> + <p> + My colleagues when they teach therapeutics advise “the individual study of + each separate case.” One has but to obey this advice to gain the + conviction that the methods recommended in the textbooks as the best and + as providing a safe basis for treatment turn out to be quite unsuitable in + individual cases. It is just the same in moral ailments. + </p> + <p> + But I must make some answer, and I say: + </p> + <p> + “You have too much free time, my dear; you absolutely must take up some + occupation. After all, why shouldn’t you be an actress again if it is your + vocation?” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot!” + </p> + <p> + “Your tone and manner suggest that you are a victim. I don’t like that, my + dear; it is your own fault. Remember, you began with falling out with + people and methods, but you have done nothing to make either better. You + did not struggle with evil, but were cast down by it, and you are not the + victim of the struggle, but of your own impotence. Well, of course you + were young and inexperienced then; now it may all be different. Yes, + really, go on the stage. You will work, you will serve a sacred art.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t pretend, Nikolay Stepanovitch,” Katya interrupts me. “Let us make a + compact once for all; we will talk about actors, actresses, and authors, + but we will let art alone. You are a splendid and rare person, but you + don’t know enough about art sincerely to think it sacred. You have no + instinct or feeling for art. You have been hard at work all your life, and + have not had time to acquire that feeling. Altogether... I don’t like talk + about art,” she goes on nervously. “I don’t like it! And, my goodness, how + they have vulgarized it!” + </p> + <p> + “Who has vulgarized it?” + </p> + <p> + “They have vulgarized it by drunkenness, the newspapers by their familiar + attitude, clever people by philosophy.” + </p> + <p> + “Philosophy has nothing to do with it.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it has. If any one philosophizes about it, it shows he does not + understand it.” + </p> + <p> + To avoid bitterness I hasten to change the subject, and then sit a long + time silent. Only when we are driving out of the wood and turning towards + Katya’s villa I go back to my former question, and say: + </p> + <p> + “You have still not answered me, why you don’t want to go on the stage.” + </p> + <p> + “Nikolay Stepanovitch, this is cruel!” she cries, and suddenly flushes all + over. “You want me to tell you the truth aloud? Very well, if... if you + like it! I have no talent! No talent and... and a great deal of vanity! So + there!” + </p> + <p> + After making this confession she turns her face away from me, and to hide + the trembling of her hands tugs violently at the reins. + </p> + <p> + As we are driving towards her villa we see Mihail Fyodorovitch walking + near the gate, impatiently awaiting us. + </p> + <p> + “That Mihail Fyodorovitch again!” says Katya with vexation. “Do rid me of + him, please! I am sick and tired of him... bother him!” + </p> + <p> + Mihail Fyodorovitch ought to have gone abroad long ago, but he puts off + going from week to week. Of late there have been certain changes in him. + He looks, as it were, sunken, has taken to drinking until he is tipsy, a + thing which never used to happen to him, and his black eyebrows are + beginning to turn grey. When our chaise stops at the gate he does not + conceal his joy and his impatience. He fussily helps me and Katya out, + hurriedly asks questions, laughs, rubs his hands, and that gentle, + imploring, pure expression, which I used to notice only in his eyes, is + now suffused all over his face. He is glad and at the same time he is + ashamed of his gladness, ashamed of his habit of spending every evening + with Katya. And he thinks it necessary to explain his visit by some + obvious absurdity such as: “I was driving by, and I thought I would just + look in for a minute.” + </p> + <p> + We all three go indoors; first we drink tea, then the familiar packs of + cards, the big piece of cheese, the fruit, and the bottle of Crimean + champagne are put upon the table. The subjects of our conversation are not + new; they are just the same as in the winter. We fall foul of the + University, the students, and literature and the theatre; the air grows + thick and stifling with evil speaking, and poisoned by the breath, not of + two toads as in the winter, but of three. Besides the velvety baritone + laugh and the giggle like the gasp of a concertina, the maid who waits + upon us hears an unpleasant cracked “He, he!” like the chuckle of a + general in a vaudeville. + </p> + <p> + V + </p> + <p> + There are terrible nights with thunder, lightning, rain, and wind, such as + are called among the people “sparrow nights.” There has been one such + night in my personal life. + </p> + <p> + I woke up after midnight and leaped suddenly out of bed. It seemed to me + for some reason that I was just immediately going to die. Why did it seem + so? I had no sensation in my body that suggested my immediate death, but + my soul was oppressed with terror, as though I had suddenly seen a vast + menacing glow of fire. + </p> + <p> + I rapidly struck a light, drank some water straight out of the decanter, + then hurried to the open window. The weather outside was magnificent. + There was a smell of hay and some other very sweet scent. I could see the + spikes of the fence, the gaunt, drowsy trees by the window, the road, the + dark streak of woodland, there was a serene, very bright moon in the sky + and not a single cloud, perfect stillness, not one leaf stirring. I felt + that everything was looking at me and waiting for me to die.... + </p> + <p> + It was uncanny. I closed the window and ran to my bed. I felt for my + pulse, and not finding it in my wrist, tried to find it in my temple, then + in my chin, and again in my wrist, and everything I touched was cold and + clammy with sweat. My breathing came more and more rapidly, my body was + shivering, all my inside was in commotion; I had a sensation on my face + and on my bald head as though they were covered with spiders’ webs. + </p> + <p> + What should I do? Call my family? No; it would be no use. I could not + imagine what my wife and Liza would do when they came in to me. + </p> + <p> + I hid my head under the pillow, closed my eyes, and waited and waited.... + My spine was cold; it seemed to be drawn inwards, and I felt as though + death were coming upon me stealthily from behind. + </p> + <p> + “Kee-vee! kee-vee!” I heard a sudden shriek in the night’s stillness, and + did not know where it was—in my breast or in the street—“Kee-vee! + kee-vee!” + </p> + <p> + “My God, how terrible!” I would have drunk some more water, but by then it + was fearful to open my eyes and I was afraid to raise my head. I was + possessed by unaccountable animal terror, and I cannot understand why I + was so frightened: was it that I wanted to live, or that some new unknown + pain was in store for me? + </p> + <p> + Upstairs, overhead, some one moaned or laughed. I listened. Soon + afterwards there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs. Some one came + hurriedly down, then went up again. A minute later there was a sound of + steps downstairs again; some one stopped near my door and listened. + </p> + <p> + “Who is there?” I cried. + </p> + <p> + The door opened. I boldly opened my eyes, and saw my wife. Her face was + pale and her eyes were tear-stained. + </p> + <p> + “You are not asleep, Nikolay Stepanovitch?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “For God’s sake, go up and have a look at Liza; there is something the + matter with her....” + </p> + <p> + “Very good, with pleasure,” I muttered, greatly relieved at not being + alone. “Very good, this minute....” + </p> + <p> + I followed my wife, heard what she said to me, and was too agitated to + understand a word. Patches of light from her candle danced about the + stairs, our long shadows trembled. My feet caught in the skirts of my + dressing-gown; I gasped for breath, and felt as though something were + pursuing me and trying to catch me from behind. + </p> + <p> + “I shall die on the spot, here on the staircase,” I thought. “On the + spot....” But we passed the staircase, the dark corridor with the Italian + windows, and went into Liza’s room. She was sitting on the bed in her + nightdress, with her bare feet hanging down, and she was moaning. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” she was muttering, screwing up her eyes at our + candle. “I can’t bear it.” + </p> + <p> + “Liza, my child,” I said, “what is it?” + </p> + <p> + Seeing me, she began crying out, and flung herself on my neck. + </p> + <p> + “My kind papa!...” she sobbed—“my dear, good papa... my darling, my + pet, I don’t know what is the matter with me.... I am miserable!” + </p> + <p> + She hugged me, kissed me, and babbled fond words I used to hear from her + when she was a child. + </p> + <p> + “Calm yourself, my child. God be with you,” I said. “There is no need to + cry. I am miserable, too.” + </p> + <p> + I tried to tuck her in; my wife gave her water, and we awkwardly stumbled + by her bedside; my shoulder jostled against her shoulder, and meanwhile I + was thinking how we used to give our children their bath together. + </p> + <p> + “Help her! help her!” my wife implored me. “Do something!” + </p> + <p> + What could I do? I could do nothing. There was some load on the girl’s + heart; but I did not understand, I knew nothing about it, and could only + mutter: + </p> + <p> + “It’s nothing, it’s nothing; it will pass. Sleep, sleep!” + </p> + <p> + To make things worse, there was a sudden sound of dogs howling, at first + subdued and uncertain, then loud, two dogs howling together. I had never + attached significance to such omens as the howling of dogs or the + shrieking of owls, but on that occasion it sent a pang to my heart, and I + hastened to explain the howl to myself. + </p> + <p> + “It’s nonsense,” I thought, “the influence of one organism on another. The + intensely strained condition of my nerves has infected my wife, Liza, the + dog—that is all.... Such infection explains presentiments, + forebodings....” + </p> + <p> + When a little later I went back to my room to write a prescription for + Liza, I no longer thought I should die at once, but only had such a + weight, such a feeling of oppression in my soul that I felt actually sorry + that I had not died on the spot. For a long time I stood motionless in the + middle of the room, pondering what to prescribe for Liza. But the moans + overhead ceased, and I decided to prescribe nothing, and yet I went on + standing there.... + </p> + <p> + There was a deathlike stillness, such a stillness, as some author has + expressed it, “it rang in one’s ears.” Time passed slowly; the streaks of + moonlight on the window-sill did not shift their position, but seemed as + though frozen.... It was still some time before dawn. + </p> + <p> + But the gate in the fence creaked, some one stole in and, breaking a twig + from one of those scraggy trees, cautiously tapped on the window with it. + </p> + <p> + “Nikolay Stepanovitch,” I heard a whisper. “Nikolay Stepanovitch.” + </p> + <p> + I opened the window, and fancied I was dreaming: under the window, huddled + against the wall, stood a woman in a black dress, with the moonlight + bright upon her, looking at me with great eyes. Her face was pale, stern, + and weird-looking in the moonlight, like marble, her chin was quivering. + </p> + <p> + “It is I,” she said—“I... Katya.” + </p> + <p> + In the moonlight all women’s eyes look big and black, all people look + taller and paler, and that was probably why I had not recognized her for + the first minute. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me!” she said. “I suddenly felt unbearably miserable... I + couldn’t stand it, so came here. There was a light in your window and... + and I ventured to knock.... I beg your pardon. Ah! if you knew how + miserable I am! What are you doing just now?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing.... I can’t sleep.” + </p> + <p> + “I had a feeling that there was something wrong, but that is nonsense.” + </p> + <p> + Her brows were lifted, her eyes shone with tears, and her whole face was + lighted up with the familiar look of trustfulness which I had not seen for + so long. + </p> + <p> + “Nikolay Stepanovitch,” she said imploringly, stretching out both hands to + me, “my precious friend, I beg you, I implore you.... If you don’t despise + my affection and respect for you, consent to what I ask of you.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Take my money from me!” + </p> + <p> + “Come! what an idea! What do I want with your money?” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll go away somewhere for your health.... You ought to go for your + health. Will you take it? Yes? Nikolay Stepanovitch darling, yes?” + </p> + <p> + She looked greedily into my face and repeated: “Yes, you will take it?” + </p> + <p> + “No, my dear, I won’t take it,” I said. “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + She turned her back upon me and bowed her head. Probably I refused her in + a tone which made further conversation about money impossible. + </p> + <p> + “Go home to bed,” I said. “We will see each other tomorrow.” + </p> + <p> + “So you don’t consider me your friend?” she asked dejectedly. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t say that. But your money would be no use to me now.” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon...” she said, dropping her voice a whole octave. “I + understand you... to be indebted to a person like me... a retired + actress.... But, good-bye....” + </p> + <p> + And she went away so quickly that I had not time even to say good-bye. + </p> + <p> + VI + </p> + <p> + I am in Harkov. + </p> + <p> + As it would be useless to contend against my present mood and, indeed, + beyond my power, I have made up my mind that the last days of my life + shall at least be irreproachable externally. If I am unjust in regard to + my wife and daughter, which I fully recognize, I will try and do as she + wishes; since she wants me to go to Harkov, I go to Harkov. Besides, I + have become of late so indifferent to everything that it is really all the + same to me where I go, to Harkov, or to Paris, or to Berditchev. + </p> + <p> + I arrived here at midday, and have put up at the hotel not far from the + cathedral. The train was jolting, there were draughts, and now I am + sitting on my bed, holding my head and expecting tic douloureux. I ought + to have gone today to see some professors of my acquaintance, but I have + neither strength nor inclination. + </p> + <p> + The old corridor attendant comes in and asks whether I have brought my + bed-linen. I detain him for five minutes, and put several questions to him + about Gnekker, on whose account I have come here. The attendant turns out + to be a native of Harkov; he knows the town like the fingers of his hand, + but does not remember any household of the surname of Gnekker. I question + him about the estate—the same answer. + </p> + <p> + The clock in the corridor strikes one, then two, then three.... These last + months in which I am waiting for death seem much longer than the whole of + my life. And I have never before been so ready to resign myself to the + slowness of time as now. In the old days, when one sat in the station and + waited for a train, or presided in an examination-room, a quarter of an + hour would seem an eternity. Now I can sit all night on my bed without + moving, and quite unconcernedly reflect that tomorrow will be followed by + another night as long and colourless, and the day after tomorrow. + </p> + <p> + In the corridor it strikes five, six, seven.... It grows dark. + </p> + <p> + There is a dull pain in my cheek, the tic beginning. To occupy myself with + thoughts, I go back to my old point of view, when I was not so + indifferent, and ask myself why I, a distinguished man, a privy + councillor, am sitting in this little hotel room, on this bed with the + unfamiliar grey quilt. Why am I looking at that cheap tin washing-stand + and listening to the whirr of the wretched clock in the corridor? Is all + this in keeping with my fame and my lofty position? And I answer these + questions with a jeer. I am amused by the naivete with which I used in my + youth to exaggerate the value of renown and of the exceptional position + which celebrities are supposed to enjoy. I am famous, my name is + pronounced with reverence, my portrait has been both in the <i>Niva</i> + and in the <i>Illustrated News of the World</i>; I have read my biography + even in a German magazine. And what of all that? Here I am sitting utterly + alone in a strange town, on a strange bed, rubbing my aching cheek with my + hand.... Domestic worries, the hard-heartedness of creditors, the rudeness + of the railway servants, the inconveniences of the passport system, the + expensive and unwholesome food in the refreshment-rooms, the general + rudeness and coarseness in social intercourse—all this, and a great + deal more which would take too long to reckon up, affects me as much as + any working man who is famous only in his alley. In what way, does my + exceptional position find expression? Admitting that I am celebrated a + thousand times over, that I am a hero of whom my country is proud. They + publish bulletins of my illness in every paper, letters of sympathy come + to me by post from my colleagues, my pupils, the general public; but all + that does not prevent me from dying in a strange bed, in misery, in utter + loneliness. Of course, no one is to blame for that; but I in my + foolishness dislike my popularity. I feel as though it had cheated me. + </p> + <p> + At ten o’clock I fall asleep, and in spite of the tic I sleep soundly, and + should have gone on sleeping if I had not been awakened. Soon after one + came a sudden knock at the door. + </p> + <p> + “Who is there?” + </p> + <p> + “A telegram.” + </p> + <p> + “You might have waited till tomorrow,” I say angrily, taking the telegram + from the attendant. “Now I shall not get to sleep again.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry. Your light was burning, so I thought you were not asleep.” + </p> + <p> + I tear open the telegram and look first at the signature. From my wife. + </p> + <p> + “What does she want?” + </p> + <p> + “Gnekker was secretly married to Liza yesterday. Return.” + </p> + <p> + I read the telegram, and my dismay does not last long. I am dismayed, not + by what Liza and Gnekker have done, but by the indifference with which I + hear of their marriage. They say philosophers and the truly wise are + indifferent. It is false: indifference is the paralysis of the soul; it is + premature death. + </p> + <p> + I go to bed again, and begin trying to think of something to occupy my + mind. What am I to think about? I feel as though everything had been + thought over already and there is nothing which could hold my attention + now. + </p> + <p> + When daylight comes I sit up in bed with my arms round my knees, and to + pass the time I try to know myself. “Know thyself” is excellent and useful + advice; it is only a pity that the ancients never thought to indicate the + means of following this precept. + </p> + <p> + When I have wanted to understand somebody or myself I have considered, not + the actions, in which everything is relative, but the desires. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me what you want, and I will tell you what manner of man you are.” + </p> + <p> + And now I examine myself: what do I want? + </p> + <p> + I want our wives, our children, our friends, our pupils, to love in us, + not our fame, not the brand and not the label, but to love us as ordinary + men. Anything else? I should like to have had helpers and successors. + Anything else? I should like to wake up in a hundred years’ time and to + have just a peep out of one eye at what is happening in science. I should + have liked to have lived another ten years... What further? Why, nothing + further. I think and think, and can think of nothing more. And however + much I might think, and however far my thoughts might travel, it is clear + to me that there is nothing vital, nothing of great importance in my + desires. In my passion for science, in my desire to live, in this sitting + on a strange bed, and in this striving to know myself—in all the + thoughts, feelings, and ideas I form about everything, there is no common + bond to connect it all into one whole. Every feeling and every thought + exists apart in me; and in all my criticisms of science, the theatre, + literature, my pupils, and in all the pictures my imagination draws, even + the most skilful analyst could not find what is called a general idea, or + the god of a living man. + </p> + <p> + And if there is not that, then there is nothing. + </p> + <p> + In a state so poverty-stricken, a serious ailment, the fear of death, the + influences of circumstance and men were enough to turn upside down and + scatter in fragments all which I had once looked upon as my theory of + life, and in which I had seen the meaning and joy of my existence. So + there is nothing surprising in the fact that I have over-shadowed the last + months of my life with thoughts and feelings only worthy of a slave and + barbarian, and that now I am indifferent and take no heed of the dawn. + When a man has not in him what is loftier and mightier than all external + impressions a bad cold is really enough to upset his equilibrium and make + him begin to see an owl in every bird, to hear a dog howling in every + sound. And all his pessimism or optimism with his thoughts great and small + have at such times significance as symptoms and nothing more. + </p> + <p> + I am vanquished. If it is so, it is useless to think, it is useless to + talk. I will sit and wait in silence for what is to come. + </p> + <p> + In the morning the corridor attendant brings me tea and a copy of the + local newspaper. Mechanically I read the advertisements on the first page, + the leading article, the extracts from the newspapers and journals, the + chronicle of events.... In the latter I find, among other things, the + following paragraph: “Our distinguished savant, Professor Nikolay + Stepanovitch So-and-so, arrived yesterday in Harkov, and is staying in the + So-and-so Hotel.” + </p> + <p> + Apparently, illustrious names are created to live on their own account, + apart from those that bear them. Now my name is promenading tranquilly + about Harkov; in another three months, printed in gold letters on my + monument, it will shine bright as the sun itself, while I shall be + already under the moss. + </p> + <p> + A light tap at the door. Somebody wants me. + </p> + <p> + “Who is there? Come in.” + </p> + <p> + The door opens, and I step back surprised and hurriedly wrap my + dressing-gown round me. Before me stands Katya. + </p> + <p> + “How do you do?” she says, breathless with running upstairs. “You didn’t + expect me? I have come here, too.... I have come, too!” + </p> + <p> + She sits down and goes on, hesitating and not looking at me. + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you speak to me? I have come, too... today.... I found out that + you were in this hotel, and have come to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Very glad to see you,” I say, shrugging my shoulders, “but I am + surprised. You seem to have dropped from the skies. What have you come + for?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh... I’ve simply come.” + </p> + <p> + Silence. Suddenly she jumps up impulsively and comes to me. + </p> + <p> + “Nikolay Stepanovitch,” she says, turning pale and pressing her hands on + her bosom—“Nikolay Stepanovitch, I cannot go on living like this! I + cannot! For God’s sake tell me quickly, this minute, what I am to do! Tell + me, what am I to do?” + </p> + <p> + “What can I tell you?” I ask in perplexity. “I can do nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me, I beseech you,” she goes on, breathing hard and trembling all + over. “I swear that I cannot go on living like this. It’s too much for + me!” + </p> + <p> + She sinks on a chair and begins sobbing. She flings her head back, wrings + her hands, taps with her feet; her hat falls off and hangs bobbing on its + elastic; her hair is ruffled. + </p> + <p> + “Help me! help me!” she implores me. “I cannot go on!” + </p> + <p> + She takes her handkerchief out of her travelling-bag, and with it pulls + out several letters, which fall from her lap to the floor. I pick them up, + and on one of them I recognize the handwriting of Mihail Fyodorovitch and + accidentally read a bit of a word “passionat...” + </p> + <p> + “There is nothing I can tell you, Katya,” I say. + </p> + <p> + “Help me!” she sobs, clutching at my hand and kissing it. “You are my + father, you know, my only friend! You are clever, educated; you have lived + so long; you have been a teacher! Tell me, what am I to do?” + </p> + <p> + “Upon my word, Katya, I don’t know....” + </p> + <p> + I am utterly at a loss and confused, touched by her sobs, and hardly able + to stand. + </p> + <p> + “Let us have lunch, Katya,” I say, with a forced smile. “Give over + crying.” + </p> + <p> + And at once I add in a sinking voice: + </p> + <p> + “I shall soon be gone, Katya....” + </p> + <p> + “Only one word, only one word!” she weeps, stretching out her hands to me. + </p> + <p> + “What am I to do?” + </p> + <p> + “You are a queer girl, really...” I mutter. “I don’t understand it! So + sensible, and all at once crying your eyes out....” + </p> + <p> + A silence follows. Katya straightens her hair, puts on her hat, then + crumples up the letters and stuffs them in her bag—and all this + deliberately, in silence. Her face, her bosom, and her gloves are wet with + tears, but her expression now is cold and forbidding.... I look at her, + and feel ashamed that I am happier than she. The absence of what my + philosophic colleagues call a general idea I have detected in myself only + just before death, in the decline of my days, while the soul of this poor + girl has known and will know no refuge all her life, all her life! + </p> + <p> + “Let us have lunch, Katya,” I say. + </p> + <p> + “No, thank you,” she answers coldly. Another minute passes in silence. “I + don’t like Harkov,” I say; “it’s so grey here—such a grey town.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, perhaps.... It’s ugly. I am here not for long, passing through. I am + going on today.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “To the Crimea... that is, to the Caucasus.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! For long?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + Katya gets up, and, with a cold smile, holds out her hand without looking + at me. + </p> + <p> + I want to ask her, “Then, you won’t be at my funeral?” but she does not + look at me; her hand is cold and, as it were, strange. I escort her to the + door in silence. She goes out, walks down the long corridor without + looking back; she knows that I am looking after her, and most likely she + will look back at the turn. + </p> + <p> + No, she did not look back. I’ve seen her black dress for the last time: + her steps have died away. Farewell, my treasure! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PRIVY COUNCILLOR + </h2> + <p> + AT the beginning of April in 1870 my mother, Klavdia Arhipovna, the widow + of a lieutenant, received from her brother Ivan, a privy councillor in + Petersburg, a letter in which, among other things, this passage occurred: + “My liver trouble forces me to spend every summer abroad, and as I have + not at the moment the money in hand for a trip to Marienbad, it is very + possible, dear sister, that I may spend this summer with you at + Kotchuevko....” + </p> + <p> + On reading the letter my mother turned pale and began trembling all over; + then an expression of mingled tears and laughter came into her face. She + began crying and laughing. This conflict of tears and laughter always + reminds me of the flickering and spluttering of a brightly burning candle + when one sprinkles it with water. Reading the letter once more, mother + called together all the household, and in a voice broken with emotion + began explaining to us that there had been four Gundasov brothers: one + Gundasov had died as a baby; another had gone to the war, and he, too, was + dead; the third, without offence to him be it said, was an actor; the + fourth... + </p> + <p> + “The fourth has risen far above us,” my mother brought out tearfully. “My + own brother, we grew up together; and I am all of a tremble, all of a + tremble!... A privy councillor with the rank of a general! How shall I + meet him, my angel brother? What can I, a foolish, uneducated woman, talk + to him about? It’s fifteen years since I’ve seen him! Andryushenka,” my + mother turned to me, “you must rejoice, little stupid! It’s a piece of + luck for you that God is sending him to us!” + </p> + <p> + After we had heard a detailed history of the Gundasovs, there followed a + fuss and bustle in the place such as I had been accustomed to see only + before Christmas and Easter. The sky above and the water in the river were + all that escaped; everything else was subjected to a merciless cleansing, + scrubbing, painting. If the sky had been lower and smaller and the river + had not flowed so swiftly, they would have scoured them, too, with + bath-brick and rubbed them, too, with tow. Our walls were as white as + snow, but they were whitewashed; the floors were bright and shining, but + they were washed every day. The cat Bobtail (as a small child I had cut + off a good quarter of his tail with the knife used for chopping the sugar, + and that was why he was called Bobtail) was carried off to the kitchen and + put in charge of Anisya; Fedka was told that if any of the dogs came near + the front-door “God would punish him.” But no one was so badly treated as + the poor sofas, easy-chairs, and rugs! They had never, before been so + violently beaten as on this occasion in preparation for our visitor. My + pigeons took fright at the loud thud of the sticks, and were continually + flying up into the sky. + </p> + <p> + The tailor Spiridon, the only tailor in the whole district who ventured to + make for the gentry, came over from Novostroevka. He was a hard-working + capable man who did not drink and was not without a certain fancy and + feeling for form, but yet he was an atrocious tailor. His work was ruined + by hesitation.... The idea that his cut was not fashionable enough made + him alter everything half a dozen times, walk all the way to the town + simply to study the dandies, and in the end dress us in suits that even a + caricaturist would have called <i>outre</i> and grotesque. We cut a dash + in impossibly narrow trousers and in such short jackets that we always + felt quite abashed in the presence of young ladies. + </p> + <p> + This Spiridon spent a long time taking my measure. He measured me all over + lengthways and crossways, as though he meant to put hoops round me like a + barrel; then he spent a long time noting down my measurements with a thick + pencil on a bit of paper, and ticked off all the measurements with + triangular signs. When he had finished with me he set to work on my tutor, + Yegor Alexyevitch Pobyedimsky. My beloved tutor was then at the stage when + young men watch the growth of their moustache and are critical of their + clothes, and so you can imagine the devout awe with which Spiridon + approached him. Yegor Alexyevitch had to throw back his head, to straddle + his legs like an inverted V, first lift up his arms, then let them fall. + Spiridon measured him several times, walking round him during the process + like a love-sick pigeon round its mate, going down on one knee, bending + double.... My mother, weary, exhausted by her exertions and heated by + ironing, watched these lengthy proceedings, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Mind now, Spiridon, you will have to answer for it to God if you spoil + the cloth! And it will be the worse for you if you don’t make them fit!” + </p> + <p> + Mother’s words threw Spiridon first into a fever, then into a + perspiration, for he was convinced that he would not make them fit. He + received one rouble twenty kopecks for making my suit, and for + Pobyedimsky’s two roubles, but we provided the cloth, the lining, and the + buttons. The price cannot be considered excessive, as Novostroevka was + about seven miles from us, and the tailor came to fit us four times. When + he came to try the things on and we squeezed ourselves into the tight + trousers and jackets adorned with basting threads, mother always frowned + contemptuously and expressed her surprise: + </p> + <p> + “Goodness knows what the fashions are coming to nowadays! I am positively + ashamed to look at them. If brother were not used to Petersburg I would + not get you fashionable clothes!” + </p> + <p> + Spiridon, relieved that the blame was thrown on the fashion and not on + him, shrugged his shoulders and sighed, as though to say: + </p> + <p> + “There’s no help for it; it’s the spirit of the age!” + </p> + <p> + The excitement with which we awaited the arrival of our guest can only be + compared with the strained suspense with which spiritualists wait from + minute to minute the appearance of a ghost. Mother went about with a sick + headache, and was continually melting into tears. I lost my appetite, + slept badly, and did not learn my lessons. Even in my dreams I was haunted + by an impatient longing to see a general—that is, a man with + epaulettes and an embroidered collar sticking up to his ears, and with a + naked sword in his hands, exactly like the one who hung over the sofa in + the drawing-room and glared with terrible black eyes at everybody who + dared to look at him. Pobyedimsky was the only one who felt himself in his + element. He was neither terrified nor delighted, and merely from time to + time, when he heard the history of the Gundasov family, said: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it will be pleasant to have some one fresh to talk to.” + </p> + <p> + My tutor was looked upon among us as an exceptional nature. He was a young + man of twenty, with a pimply face, shaggy locks, a low forehead, and an + unusually long nose. His nose was so big that when he wanted to look close + at anything he had to put his head on one side like a bird. To our + thinking, there was not a man in the province cleverer, more cultivated, + or more stylish. He had left the high-school in the class next to the top, + and had then entered a veterinary college, from which he was expelled + before the end of the first half-year. The reason of his expulsion he + carefully concealed, which enabled any one who wished to do so to look + upon my instructor as an injured and to some extent a mysterious person. + He spoke little, and only of intellectual subjects; he ate meat during the + fasts, and looked with contempt and condescension on the life going on + around him, which did not prevent him, however, from taking presents, such + as suits of clothes, from my mother, and drawing funny faces with red + teeth on my kites. Mother disliked him for his “pride,” but stood in awe + of his cleverness. + </p> + <p> + Our visitor did not keep us long waiting. At the beginning of May two + wagon-loads of big boxes arrived from the station. These boxes looked so + majestic that the drivers instinctively took off their hats as they lifted + them down. + </p> + <p> + “There must be uniforms and gunpowder in those boxes,” I thought. + </p> + <p> + Why “gunpowder”? Probably the conception of a general was closely + connected in my mind with cannons and gunpowder. + </p> + <p> + When I woke up on the morning of the tenth of May, nurse told me in a + whisper that “my uncle had come.” I dressed rapidly, and, washing after a + fashion, flew out of my bedroom without saying my prayers. In the + vestibule I came upon a tall, solid gentleman with fashionable whiskers + and a foppish-looking overcoat. Half dead with devout awe, I went up to + him and, remembering the ceremonial mother had impressed upon me, I + scraped my foot before him, made a very low bow, and craned forward to + kiss his hand; but the gentleman did not allow me to kiss his hand: he + informed me that he was not my uncle, but my uncle’s footman, Pyotr. The + appearance of this Pyotr, far better dressed than Pobyedimsky or me, + excited in me the utmost astonishment, which, to tell the truth, has + lasted to this day. Can such dignified, respectable people with stern and + intellectual faces really be footmen? And what for? + </p> + <p> + Pyotr told me that my uncle was in the garden with my mother. I rushed + into the garden. + </p> + <p> + Nature, knowing nothing of the history of the Gundasov family and the rank + of my uncle, felt far more at ease and unconstrained than I. There was a + clamour going on in the garden such as one only hears at fairs. Masses of + starlings flitting through the air and hopping about the walks were + noisily chattering as they hunted for cockchafers. There were swarms of + sparrows in the lilac-bushes, which threw their tender, fragrant blossoms + straight in one’s face. Wherever one turned, from every direction came the + note of the golden oriole and the shrill cry of the hoopoe and the + red-legged falcon. At any other time I should have begun chasing + dragon-flies or throwing stones at a crow which was sitting on a low mound + under an aspen-tree, with his blunt beak turned away; but at that moment I + was in no mood for mischief. My heart was throbbing, and I felt a cold + sinking at my stomach; I was preparing myself to confront a gentleman with + epaulettes, with a naked sword, and with terrible eyes! + </p> + <p> + But imagine my disappointment! A dapper little foppish gentleman in white + silk trousers, with a white cap on his head, was walking beside my mother + in the garden. With his hands behind him and his head thrown back, every + now and then running on ahead of mother, he looked quite young. There was + so much life and movement in his whole figure that I could only detect the + treachery of age when I came close up behind and saw beneath his cap a + fringe of close-cropped silver hair. Instead of the staid dignity and + stolidity of a general, I saw an almost schoolboyish nimbleness; instead + of a collar sticking up to his ears, an ordinary light blue necktie. + Mother and my uncle were walking in the avenue talking together. I went + softly up to them from behind, and waited for one of them to look round. + </p> + <p> + “What a delightful place you have here, Klavdia!” said my uncle. “How + charming and lovely it is! Had I known before that you had such a charming + place, nothing would have induced me to go abroad all these years.” + </p> + <p> + My uncle stooped down rapidly and sniffed at a tulip. Everything he saw + moved him to rapture and excitement, as though he had never been in a + garden on a sunny day before. The queer man moved about as though he were + on springs, and chattered incessantly, without allowing mother to utter a + single word. All of a sudden Pobyedimsky came into sight from behind an + elder-tree at the turn of the avenue. His appearance was so unexpected + that my uncle positively started and stepped back a pace. On this occasion + my tutor was attired in his best Inverness cape with sleeves, in which, + especially back-view, he looked remarkably like a windmill. He had a + solemn and majestic air. Pressing his hat to his bosom in Spanish style, + he took a step towards my uncle and made a bow such as a marquis makes in + a melodrama, bending forward, a little to one side. + </p> + <p> + “I have the honour to present myself to your high excellency,” he said + aloud: “the teacher and instructor of your nephew, formerly a pupil of the + veterinary institute, and a nobleman by birth, Pobyedimsky!” + </p> + <p> + This politeness on the part of my tutor pleased my mother very much. She + gave a smile, and waited in thrilled suspense to hear what clever thing he + would say next; but my tutor, expecting his dignified address to be + answered with equal dignity—that is, that my uncle would say “H’m!” + like a general and hold out two fingers—was greatly confused and + abashed when the latter laughed genially and shook hands with him. He + muttered something incoherent, cleared his throat, and walked away. + </p> + <p> + “Come! isn’t that charming?” laughed my uncle. “Just look! he has made his + little flourish and thinks he’s a very clever fellow! I do like that—upon + my soul I do! What youthful aplomb, what life in that foolish flourish! + And what boy is this?” he asked, suddenly turning and looking at me. + </p> + <p> + “That is my Andryushenka,” my mother introduced me, flushing crimson. “My + consolation...” + </p> + <p> + I made a scrape with my foot on the sand and dropped a low bow. + </p> + <p> + “A fine fellow... a fine fellow...” muttered my uncle, taking his hand + from my lips and stroking me on the head. “So your name is Andrusha? Yes, + yes.... H’m!... upon my soul!... Do you learn lessons?” + </p> + <p> + My mother, exaggerating and embellishing as all mothers do, began to + describe my achievements in the sciences and the excellence of my + behaviour, and I walked round my uncle and, following the ceremonial laid + down for me, I continued making low bows. Then my mother began throwing + out hints that with my remarkable abilities it would not be amiss for me + to get a government nomination to the cadet school; but at the point when + I was to have burst into tears and begged for my uncle’s protection, my + uncle suddenly stopped and flung up his hands in amazement. + </p> + <p> + “My goo-oodness! What’s that?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Tatyana Ivanovna, the wife of our bailiff, Fyodor Petrovna, was coming + towards us. She was carrying a starched white petticoat and a long + ironing-board. As she passed us she looked shyly at the visitor through + her eyelashes and flushed crimson. + </p> + <p> + “Wonders will never cease...” my uncle filtered through his teeth, looking + after her with friendly interest. “You have a fresh surprise at every + step, sister... upon my soul!” + </p> + <p> + “She’s a beauty...” said mother. “They chose her as a bride for Fyodor, + though she lived over seventy miles from here....” + </p> + <p> + Not every one would have called Tatyana a beauty. She was a plump little + woman of twenty, with black eyebrows and a graceful figure, always rosy + and attractive-looking, but in her face and in her whole person there was + not one striking feature, not one bold line to catch the eye, as though + nature had lacked inspiration and confidence when creating her. Tatyana + Ivanovna was shy, bashful, and modest in her behaviour; she moved softly + and smoothly, said little, seldom laughed, and her whole life was as + regular as her face and as flat as her smooth, tidy hair. My uncle screwed + up his eyes looking after her, and smiled. Mother looked intently at his + smiling face and grew serious. + </p> + <p> + “And so, brother, you’ve never married!” she sighed. + </p> + <p> + “No; I’ve not married.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” asked mother softly. + </p> + <p> + “How can I tell you? It has happened so. In my youth I was too hard at + work, I had no time to live, and when I longed to live—I looked + round—and there I had fifty years on my back already. I was too + late! However, talking about it... is depressing.” + </p> + <p> + My mother and my uncle both sighed at once and walked on, and I left them + and flew off to find my tutor, that I might share my impressions with him. + Pobyedimsky was standing in the middle of the yard, looking majestically + at the heavens. + </p> + <p> + “One can see he is a man of culture!” he said, twisting his head round. “I + hope we shall get on together.” + </p> + <p> + An hour later mother came to us. + </p> + <p> + “I am in trouble, my dears!” she began, sighing. “You see brother has + brought a valet with him, and the valet, God bless him, is not one you can + put in the kitchen or in the hall; we must give him a room apart. I can’t + think what I am to do! I tell you what, children, couldn’t you move out + somewhere—to Fyodor’s lodge, for instance—and give your room + to the valet? What do you say?” + </p> + <p> + We gave our ready consent, for living in the lodge was a great deal more + free than in the house, under mother’s eye. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a nuisance, and that’s a fact!” said mother. “Brother says he won’t + have dinner in the middle of the day, but between six and seven, as they + do in Petersburg. I am simply distracted with worry! By seven o’clock the + dinner will be done to rags in the oven. Really, men don’t understand + anything about housekeeping, though they have so much intellect. Oh, dear! + we shall have to cook two dinners every day! You will have dinner at + midday as before, children, while your poor old mother has to wait till + seven, for the sake of her brother.” + </p> + <p> + Then my mother heaved a deep sigh, bade me try and please my uncle, whose + coming was a piece of luck for me for which we must thank God, and hurried + off to the kitchen. Pobyedimsky and I moved into the lodge the same day. + We were installed in a room which formed the passage from the entry to the + bailiff’s bedroom. + </p> + <p> + Contrary to my expectations, life went on just as before, drearily and + monotonously, in spite of my uncle’s arrival and our move into new + quarters. We were excused lessons “on account of the visitor.” + Pobyedimsky, who never read anything or occupied himself in any way, spent + most of his time sitting on his bed, with his long nose thrust into the + air, thinking. Sometimes he would get up, try on his new suit, and sit + down again to relapse into contemplation and silence. Only one thing + worried him, the flies, which he used mercilessly to squash between his + hands. After dinner he usually “rested,” and his snores were a cause of + annoyance to the whole household. I ran about the garden from morning to + night, or sat in the lodge sticking my kites together. For the first two + or three weeks we did not see my uncle often. For days together he sat in + his own room working, in spite of the flies and the heat. His + extraordinary capacity for sitting as though glued to his table produced + upon us the effect of an inexplicable conjuring trick. To us idlers, + knowing nothing of systematic work, his industry seemed simply miraculous. + Getting up at nine, he sat down to his table, and did not leave it till + dinner-time; after dinner he set to work again, and went on till late at + night. Whenever I peeped through the keyhole I invariably saw the same + thing: my uncle sitting at the table working. The work consisted in his + writing with one hand while he turned over the leaves of a book with the + other, and, strange to say, he kept moving all over—swinging his leg + as though it were a pendulum, whistling, and nodding his head in time. He + had an extremely careless and frivolous expression all the while, as + though he were not working, but playing at noughts and crosses. I always + saw him wearing a smart short jacket and a jauntily tied cravat, and he + always smelt, even through the keyhole, of delicate feminine perfumery. He + only left his room for dinner, but he ate little. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t make brother out!” mother complained of him. “Every day we kill a + turkey and pigeons on purpose for him, I make a <i>compote</i> with my own + hands, and he eats a plateful of broth and a bit of meat the size of a + finger and gets up from the table. I begin begging him to eat; he comes + back and drinks a glass of milk. And what is there in that, in a glass of + milk? It’s no better than washing up water! You may die of a diet like + that.... If I try to persuade him, he laughs and makes a joke of it.... + No; he does not care for our fare, poor dear!” + </p> + <p> + We spent the evenings far more gaily than the days. As a rule, by the time + the sun was setting and long shadows were lying across the yard, we—that + is, Tatyana Ivanovna, Pobyedimsky, and I—were sitting on the steps + of the lodge. We did not talk till it grew quite dusk. And, indeed, what + is one to talk of when every subject has been talked over already? There + was only one thing new, my uncle’s arrival, and even that subject was soon + exhausted. My tutor never took his eyes off Tatyana Ivanovna ‘s face, and + frequently heaved deep sighs.... At the time I did not understand those + sighs, and did not try to fathom their significance; now they explain a + great deal to me. + </p> + <p> + When the shadows merged into one thick mass of shade, the bailiff Fyodor + would come in from shooting or from the field. This Fyodor gave me the + impression of being a fierce and even a terrible man. The son of a + Russianized gipsy from Izyumskoe, swarthy-faced and curly-headed, with big + black eyes and a matted beard, he was never called among our Kotchuevko + peasants by any name but “The Devil.” And, indeed, there was a great deal + of the gipsy about him apart from his appearance. He could not, for + instance, stay at home, and went off for days together into the country or + into the woods to shoot. He was gloomy, ill-humoured, taciturn, was afraid + of nobody, and refused to recognize any authority. He was rude to mother, + addressed me familiarly, and was contemptuous of Pobyedimsky’s learning. + All this we forgave him, looking upon him as a hot-tempered and nervous + man; mother liked him because, in spite of his gipsy nature, he was + ideally honest and industrious. He loved his Tatyana Ivanovna + passionately, like a gipsy, but this love took in him a gloomy form, as + though it cost him suffering. He was never affectionate to his wife in our + presence, but simply rolled his eyes angrily at her and twisted his mouth. + </p> + <p> + When he came in from the fields he would noisily and angrily put down his + gun, would come out to us on the steps, and sit down beside his wife. + After resting a little, he would ask his wife a few questions about + household matters, and then sink into silence. + </p> + <p> + “Let us sing,” I would suggest. + </p> + <p> + My tutor would tune his guitar, and in a deep deacon’s bass strike up “In + the midst of the valley.” We would begin singing. My tutor took the bass, + Fyodor sang in a hardly audible tenor, while I sang soprano in unison with + Tatyana Ivanovna. + </p> + <p> + When the whole sky was covered with stars and the frogs had left off + croaking, they would bring in our supper from the kitchen. We went into + the lodge and sat down to the meal. My tutor and the gipsy ate greedily, + with such a sound that it was hard to tell whether it was the bones + crunching or their jaws, and Tatyana Ivanovna and I scarcely succeeded in + getting our share. After supper the lodge was plunged in deep sleep. + </p> + <p> + One evening, it was at the end of May, we were sitting on the steps, + waiting for supper. A shadow suddenly fell across us, and Gundasov stood + before us as though he had sprung out of the earth. He looked at us for a + long time, then clasped his hands and laughed gaily. + </p> + <p> + “An idyll!” he said. “They sing and dream in the moonlight! It’s charming, + upon my soul! May I sit down and dream with you?” + </p> + <p> + We looked at one another and said nothing. My uncle sat down on the bottom + step, yawned, and looked at the sky. A silence followed. Pobyedimsky, who + had for a long time been wanting to talk to somebody fresh, was delighted + at the opportunity, and was the first to break the silence. He had only + one subject for intellectual conversation, the epizootic diseases. It + sometimes happens that after one has been in an immense crowd, only some + one countenance of the thousands remains long imprinted on the memory; in + the same way, of all that Pobyedimsky had heard, during his six months at + the veterinary institute, he remembered only one passage: + </p> + <p> + “The epizootics do immense damage to the stock of the country. It is the + duty of society to work hand in hand with the government in waging war + upon them.” + </p> + <p> + Before saying this to Gundasov, my tutor cleared his throat three times, + and several times, in his excitement, wrapped himself up in his Inverness. + On hearing about the epizootics, my uncle looked intently at my tutor and + made a sound between a snort and a laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Upon my soul, that’s charming!” he said, scrutinizing us as though we + were mannequins. “This is actually life.... This is really what reality is + bound to be. Why are you silent, Pelagea Ivanovna?” he said, addressing + Tatyana Ivanovna. + </p> + <p> + She coughed, overcome with confusion. + </p> + <p> + “Talk, my friends, sing... play!... Don’t lose time. You know, time, the + rascal, runs away and waits for no man! Upon my soul, before you have time + to look round, old age is upon you.... Then it is too late to live! That’s + how it is, Pelagea Ivanovna.... We mustn’t sit still and be silent....” + </p> + <p> + At that point supper was brought out from the kitchen. Uncle went into the + lodge with us, and to keep us company ate five curd fritters and the wing + of a duck. He ate and looked at us. He was touched and delighted by us + all. Whatever silly nonsense my precious tutor talked, and whatever + Tatyana Ivanovna did, he thought charming and delightful. When after + supper Tatyana Ivanovna sat quietly down and took up her knitting, he kept + his eyes fixed on her fingers and chatted away without ceasing. + </p> + <p> + “Make all the haste you can to live, my friends...” he said. “God forbid + you should sacrifice the present for the future! There is youth, health, + fire in the present; the future is smoke and deception! As soon as you are + twenty begin to live.” + </p> + <p> + Tatyana Ivanovna dropped a knitting-needle. My uncle jumped up, picked up + the needle, and handed it to Tatyana Ivanovna with a bow, and for the + first time in my life I learnt that there were people in the world more + refined than Pobyedimsky. + </p> + <p> + “Yes...” my uncle went on, “love, marry, do silly things. Foolishness is a + great deal more living and healthy than our straining and striving after + rational life.” + </p> + <p> + My uncle talked a great deal, so much that he bored us; I sat on a box + listening to him and dropping to sleep. It distressed me that he did not + once all the evening pay attention to me. He left the lodge at two + o’clock, when, overcome with drowsiness, I was sound asleep. + </p> + <p> + From that time forth my uncle took to coming to the lodge every evening. + He sang with us, had supper with us, and always stayed on till two o’clock + in the morning, chatting incessantly, always about the same subject. His + evening and night work was given up, and by the end of June, when the + privy councillor had learned to eat mother’s turkey and <i>compote</i>, + his work by day was abandoned too. My uncle tore himself away from his + table and plunged into “life.” In the daytime he walked up and down the + garden, he whistled to the workmen and hindered them from working, making + them tell him their various histories. When his eye fell on Tatyana + Ivanovna he ran up to her, and, if she were carrying anything, offered his + assistance, which embarrassed her dreadfully. + </p> + <p> + As the summer advanced my uncle grew more and more frivolous, volatile, + and careless. Pobyedimsky was completely disillusioned in regard to him. + </p> + <p> + “He is too one-sided,” he said. “There is nothing to show that he is in + the very foremost ranks of the service. And he doesn’t even know how to + talk. At every word it’s ‘upon my soul.’ No, I don’t like him!” + </p> + <p> + From the time that my uncle began visiting the lodge there was a + noticeable change both in Fyodor and my tutor. Fyodor gave up going out + shooting, came home early, sat more taciturn than ever, and stared with + particular ill-humour at his wife. In my uncle’s presence my tutor gave up + talking about epizootics, frowned, and even laughed sarcastically. + </p> + <p> + “Here comes our little bantam cock!” he growled on one occasion when my + uncle was coming into the lodge. + </p> + <p> + I put down this change in them both to their being offended with my uncle. + My absent-minded uncle mixed up their names, and to the very day of his + departure failed to distinguish which was my tutor and which was Tatyana + Ivanovna’s husband. Tatyana Ivanovna herself he sometimes called Nastasya, + sometimes Pelagea, and sometimes Yevdokia. Touched and delighted by us, he + laughed and behaved exactly as though in the company of small children.... + All this, of course, might well offend young men. It was not a case of + offended pride, however, but, as I realize now, subtler feelings. + </p> + <p> + I remember one evening I was sitting on the box struggling with sleep. My + eyelids felt glued together and my body, tired out by running about all + day, drooped sideways. But I struggled against sleep and tried to look on. + It was about midnight. Tatyana Ivanovna, rosy and unassuming as always, + was sitting at a little table sewing at her husband’s shirt. Fyodor, + sullen and gloomy, was staring at her from one corner, and in the other + sat Pobyedimsky, snorting angrily and retreating into the high collar of + his shirt. My uncle was walking up and down the room thinking. Silence + reigned; nothing was to be heard but the rustling of the linen in Tatyana + Ivanovna’s hands. Suddenly my uncle stood still before Tatyana Ivanovna, + and said: + </p> + <p> + “You are all so young, so fresh, so nice, you live so peacefully in this + quiet place, that I envy you. I have become attached to your way of life + here; my heart aches when I remember I have to go away.... You may believe + in my sincerity!” + </p> + <p> + Sleep closed my eyes and I lost myself. When some sound waked me, my uncle + was standing before Tatyana Ivanovna, looking at her with a softened + expression. His cheeks were flushed. + </p> + <p> + “My life has been wasted,” he said. “I have not lived! Your young face + makes me think of my own lost youth, and I should be ready to sit here + watching you to the day of my death. It would be a pleasure to me to take + you with me to Petersburg.” + </p> + <p> + “What for?” Fyodor asked in a husky voice. + </p> + <p> + “I should put her under a glass case on my work-table. I should admire her + and show her to other people. You know, Pelagea Ivanovna, we have no women + like you there. Among us there is wealth, distinction, sometimes beauty, + but we have not this true sort of life, this healthy serenity....” + </p> + <p> + My uncle sat down facing Tatyana Ivanovna and took her by the hand. + </p> + <p> + “So you won’t come with me to Petersburg?” he laughed. “In that case give + me your little hand.... A charming little hand!... You won’t give it? + Come, you miser! let me kiss it, anyway....” + </p> + <p> + At that moment there was the scrape of a chair. Fyodor jumped up, and with + heavy, measured steps went up to his wife. His face was pale, grey, and + quivering. He brought his fist down on the table with a bang, and said in + a hollow voice: + </p> + <p> + “I won’t allow it!” + </p> + <p> + At the same moment Pobyedimsky jumped up from his chair. He, too, pale and + angry, went up to Tatyana Ivanovna, and he, too, struck the table with his + fist. + </p> + <p> + “I... I won’t allow it!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “What, what’s the matter?” asked my uncle in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “I won’t allow it!” repeated Fyodor, banging on the table. + </p> + <p> + My uncle jumped up and blinked nervously. He tried to speak, but in his + amazement and alarm could not utter a word; with an embarrassed smile, he + shuffled out of the lodge with the hurried step of an old man, leaving his + hat behind. When, a little later, my mother ran into the lodge, Fyodor and + Pobyedimsky were still hammering on the table like blacksmiths and + repeating, “I won’t allow it!” + </p> + <p> + “What has happened here?” asked mother. “Why has my brother been taken + ill? What’s the matter?” + </p> + <p> + Looking at Tatyana’s pale, frightened face and at her infuriated husband, + mother probably guessed what was the matter. She sighed and shook her + head. + </p> + <p> + “Come! give over banging on the table!” she said. “Leave off, Fyodor! And + why are you thumping, Yegor Alexyevitch? What have you got to do with it?” + </p> + <p> + Pobyedimsky was startled and confused. Fyodor looked intently at him, then + at his wife, and began walking about the room. When mother had gone out of + the lodge, I saw what for long afterwards I looked upon as a dream. I saw + Fyodor seize my tutor, lift him up in the air, and thrust him out of the + door. + </p> + <p> + When I woke up in the morning my tutor’s bed was empty. To my question + where he was nurse told me in a whisper that he had been taken off early + in the morning to the hospital, as his arm was broken. Distressed at this + intelligence and remembering the scene of the previous evening, I went out + of doors. It was a grey day. The sky was covered with storm-clouds and + there was a wind blowing dust, bits of paper, and feathers along the + ground.... It felt as though rain were coming. There was a look of boredom + in the servants and in the animals. When I went into the house I was told + not to make such a noise with my feet, as mother was ill and in bed with a + migraine. What was I to do? I went outside the gate, sat down on the + little bench there, and fell to trying to discover the meaning of what I + had seen and heard the day before. From our gate there was a road which, + passing the forge and the pool which never dried up, ran into the main + road. I looked at the telegraph-posts, about which clouds of dust were + whirling, and at the sleepy birds sitting on the wires, and I suddenly + felt so dreary that I began to cry. + </p> + <p> + A dusty wagonette crammed full of townspeople, probably going to visit the + shrine, drove by along the main road. The wagonette was hardly out of + sight when a light chaise with a pair of horses came into view. In it was + Akim Nikititch, the police inspector, standing up and holding on to the + coachman’s belt. To my great surprise, the chaise turned into our road and + flew by me in at the gate. While I was puzzling why the police inspector + had come to see us, I heard a noise, and a carriage with three horses came + into sight on the road. In the carriage stood the police captain, + directing his coachman towards our gate. + </p> + <p> + “And why is he coming?” I thought, looking at the dusty police captain. + “Most probably Pobyedimsky has complained of Fyodor to him, and they have + come to take him to prison.” + </p> + <p> + But the mystery was not so easily solved. The police inspector and the + police captain were only the first instalment, for five minutes had + scarcely passed when a coach drove in at our gate. It dashed by me so + swiftly that I could only get a glimpse of a red beard. + </p> + <p> + Lost in conjecture and full of misgivings, I ran to the house. In the + passage first of all I saw mother; she was pale and looking with horror + towards the door, from which came the sounds of men’s voices. The visitors + had taken her by surprise in the very throes of migraine. + </p> + <p> + “Who has come, mother?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Sister,” I heard my uncle’s voice, “will you send in something to eat for + the governor and me?” + </p> + <p> + “It is easy to say ‘something to eat,’” whispered my mother, numb with + horror. “What have I time to get ready now? I am put to shame in my old + age!” + </p> + <p> + Mother clutched at her head and ran into the kitchen. The governor’s + sudden visit stirred and overwhelmed the whole household. A ferocious + slaughter followed. A dozen fowls, five turkeys, eight ducks, were killed, + and in the fluster the old gander, the progenitor of our whole flock of + geese and a great favourite of mother’s, was beheaded. The coachmen and + the cook seemed frenzied, and slaughtered birds at random, without + distinction of age or breed. For the sake of some wretched sauce a pair of + valuable pigeons, as dear to me as the gander was to mother, were + sacrificed. It was a long while before I could forgive the governor their + death. + </p> + <p> + In the evening, when the governor and his suite, after a sumptuous dinner, + had got into their carriages and driven away, I went into the house to + look at the remains of the feast. Glancing into the drawing-room from the + passage, I saw my uncle and my mother. My uncle, with his hands behind his + back, was walking nervously up and down close to the wall, shrugging his + shoulders. Mother, exhausted and looking much thinner, was sitting on the + sofa and watching his movements with heavy eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, sister, but this won’t do at all,” my uncle grumbled, + wrinkling up his face. “I introduced the governor to you, and you didn’t + offer to shake hands. You covered him with confusion, poor fellow! No, + that won’t do.... Simplicity is a very good thing, but there must be + limits to it.... Upon my soul! And then that dinner! How can one give + people such things? What was that mess, for instance, that they served for + the fourth course?” + </p> + <p> + “That was duck with sweet sauce...” mother answered softly. + </p> + <p> + “Duck! Forgive me, sister, but... but here I’ve got heartburn! I am ill!” + </p> + <p> + My uncle made a sour, tearful face, and went on: + </p> + <p> + “It was the devil sent that governor! As though I wanted his visit! + Pff!... heartburn! I can’t work or sleep... I am completely out of + sorts.... And I can’t understand how you can live here without anything to + do... in this boredom! Here I’ve got a pain coming under my + shoulder-blade!...” + </p> + <p> + My uncle frowned, and walked about more rapidly than ever. + </p> + <p> + “Brother,” my mother inquired softly, “what would it cost to go abroad?” + </p> + <p> + “At least three thousand...” my uncle answered in a tearful voice. “I + would go, but where am I to get it? I haven’t a farthing. Pff!... + heartburn!” + </p> + <p> + My uncle stopped to look dejectedly at the grey, overcast prospect from + the window, and began pacing to and fro again. + </p> + <p> + A silence followed.... Mother looked a long while at the ikon, pondering + something, then she began crying, and said: + </p> + <p> + “I’ll give you the three thousand, brother....” + </p> + <p> + Three days later the majestic boxes went off to the station, and the privy + councillor drove off after them. As he said good-bye to mother he shed + tears, and it was a long time before he took his lips from her hands, but + when he got into his carriage his face beamed with childlike pleasure.... + Radiant and happy, he settled himself comfortably, kissed his hand to my + mother, who was crying, and all at once his eye was caught by me. A look + of the utmost astonishment came into his face. + </p> + <p> + “What boy is this?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + My mother, who had declared my uncle’s coming was a piece of luck for + which I must thank God, was bitterly mortified at this question. I was in + no mood for questions. I looked at my uncle’s happy face, and for some + reason I felt fearfully sorry for him. I could not resist jumping up to + the carriage and hugging that frivolous man, weak as all men are. Looking + into his face and wanting to say something pleasant, I asked: + </p> + <p> + “Uncle, have you ever been in a battle?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, the dear boy...” laughed my uncle, kissing me. “A charming boy, upon + my soul! How natural, how living it all is, upon my soul!...” + </p> + <p> + The carriage set off.... I looked after him, and long afterwards that + farewell “upon my soul” was ringing in my ears. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MAN IN A CASE + </h2> + <p> + AT the furthest end of the village of Mironositskoe some belated sportsmen + lodged for the night in the elder Prokofy’s barn. There were two of them, + the veterinary surgeon Ivan Ivanovitch and the schoolmaster Burkin. Ivan + Ivanovitch had a rather strange double-barrelled surname—Tchimsha-Himalaisky—which + did not suit him at all, and he was called simply Ivan Ivanovitch all over + the province. He lived at a stud-farm near the town, and had come out + shooting now to get a breath of fresh air. Burkin, the high-school + teacher, stayed every summer at Count P—-’s, and had been + thoroughly at home in this district for years. + </p> + <p> + They did not sleep. Ivan Ivanovitch, a tall, lean old fellow with long + moustaches, was sitting outside the door, smoking a pipe in the moonlight. + Burkin was lying within on the hay, and could not be seen in the darkness. + </p> + <p> + They were telling each other all sorts of stories. Among other things, + they spoke of the fact that the elder’s wife, Mavra, a healthy and by no + means stupid woman, had never been beyond her native village, had never + seen a town nor a railway in her life, and had spent the last ten years + sitting behind the stove, and only at night going out into the street. + </p> + <p> + “What is there wonderful in that!” said Burkin. “There are plenty of + people in the world, solitary by temperament, who try to retreat into + their shell like a hermit crab or a snail. Perhaps it is an instance of + atavism, a return to the period when the ancestor of man was not yet a + social animal and lived alone in his den, or perhaps it is only one of the + diversities of human character—who knows? I am not a natural science + man, and it is not my business to settle such questions; I only mean to + say that people like Mavra are not uncommon. There is no need to look far; + two months ago a man called Byelikov, a colleague of mine, the Greek + master, died in our town. You have heard of him, no doubt. He was + remarkable for always wearing goloshes and a warm wadded coat, and + carrying an umbrella even in the very finest weather. And his umbrella was + in a case, and his watch was in a case made of grey chamois leather, and + when he took out his penknife to sharpen his pencil, his penknife, too, + was in a little case; and his face seemed to be in a case too, because he + always hid it in his turned-up collar. He wore dark spectacles and flannel + vests, stuffed up his ears with cotton-wool, and when he got into a cab + always told the driver to put up the hood. In short, the man displayed a + constant and insurmountable impulse to wrap himself in a covering, to make + himself, so to speak, a case which would isolate him and protect him from + external influences. Reality irritated him, frightened him, kept him in + continual agitation, and, perhaps to justify his timidity, his aversion + for the actual, he always praised the past and what had never existed; and + even the classical languages which he taught were in reality for him + goloshes and umbrellas in which he sheltered himself from real life. + </p> + <p> + “‘Oh, how sonorous, how beautiful is the Greek language!’ he would say, + with a sugary expression; and as though to prove his words he would screw + up his eyes and, raising his finger, would pronounce ‘Anthropos!’ + </p> + <p> + “And Byelikov tried to hide his thoughts also in a case. The only things + that were clear to his mind were government circulars and newspaper + articles in which something was forbidden. When some proclamation + prohibited the boys from going out in the streets after nine o’clock in + the evening, or some article declared carnal love unlawful, it was to his + mind clear and definite; it was forbidden, and that was enough. For him + there was always a doubtful element, something vague and not fully + expressed, in any sanction or permission. When a dramatic club or a + reading-room or a tea-shop was licensed in the town, he would shake his + head and say softly: + </p> + <p> + “It is all right, of course; it is all very nice, but I hope it won’t lead + to anything!” + </p> + <p> + “Every sort of breach of order, deviation or departure from rule, + depressed him, though one would have thought it was no business of his. If + one of his colleagues was late for church or if rumours reached him of + some prank of the high-school boys, or one of the mistresses was seen late + in the evening in the company of an officer, he was much disturbed, and + said he hoped that nothing would come of it. At the teachers’ meetings he + simply oppressed us with his caution, his circumspection, and his + characteristic reflection on the ill-behaviour of the young people in both + male and female high-schools, the uproar in the classes. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he hoped it would not reach the ears of the authorities; oh, he hoped + nothing would come of it; and he thought it would be a very good thing if + Petrov were expelled from the second class and Yegorov from the fourth. + And, do you know, by his sighs, his despondency, his black spectacles on + his pale little face, a little face like a pole-cat’s, you know, he + crushed us all, and we gave way, reduced Petrov’s and Yegorov’s marks for + conduct, kept them in, and in the end expelled them both. He had a strange + habit of visiting our lodgings. He would come to a teacher’s, would sit + down, and remain silent, as though he were carefully inspecting something. + He would sit like this in silence for an hour or two and then go away. + This he called ‘maintaining good relations with his colleagues’; and it + was obvious that coming to see us and sitting there was tiresome to him, + and that he came to see us simply because he considered it his duty as our + colleague. We teachers were afraid of him. And even the headmaster was + afraid of him. Would you believe it, our teachers were all intellectual, + right-minded people, brought up on Turgenev and Shtchedrin, yet this + little chap, who always went about with goloshes and an umbrella, had the + whole high-school under his thumb for fifteen long years! High-school, + indeed—he had the whole town under his thumb! Our ladies did not get + up private theatricals on Saturdays for fear he should hear of it, and the + clergy dared not eat meat or play cards in his presence. Under the + influence of people like Byelikov we have got into the way of being afraid + of everything in our town for the last ten or fifteen years. They are + afraid to speak aloud, afraid to send letters, afraid to make + acquaintances, afraid to read books, afraid to help the poor, to teach + people to read and write....” + </p> + <p> + Ivan Ivanovitch cleared his throat, meaning to say something, but first + lighted his pipe, gazed at the moon, and then said, with pauses: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, intellectual, right minded people read Shtchedrin and Turgenev, + Buckle, and all the rest of them, yet they knocked under and put up with + it... that’s just how it is.” + </p> + <p> + “Byelikov lived in the same house as I did,” Burkin went on, “on the same + storey, his door facing mine; we often saw each other, and I knew how he + lived when he was at home. And at home it was the same story: + dressing-gown, nightcap, blinds, bolts, a perfect succession of + prohibitions and restrictions of all sorts, and—‘Oh, I hope nothing + will come of it!’ Lenten fare was bad for him, yet he could not eat meat, + as people might perhaps say Byelikov did not keep the fasts, and he ate + freshwater fish with butter—not a Lenten dish, yet one could not say + that it was meat. He did not keep a female servant for fear people might + think evil of him, but had as cook an old man of sixty, called Afanasy, + half-witted and given to tippling, who had once been an officer’s servant + and could cook after a fashion. This Afanasy was usually standing at the + door with his arms folded; with a deep sigh, he would mutter always the + same thing: + </p> + <p> + “‘There are plenty of <i>them</i> about nowadays!’ + </p> + <p> + “Byelikov had a little bedroom like a box; his bed had curtains. When he + went to bed he covered his head over; it was hot and stuffy; the wind + battered on the closed doors; there was a droning noise in the stove and a + sound of sighs from the kitchen—ominous sighs.... And he felt + frightened under the bed-clothes. He was afraid that something might + happen, that Afanasy might murder him, that thieves might break in, and so + he had troubled dreams all night, and in the morning, when we went + together to the high-school, he was depressed and pale, and it was evident + that the high-school full of people excited dread and aversion in his + whole being, and that to walk beside me was irksome to a man of his + solitary temperament. + </p> + <p> + “‘They make a great noise in our classes,’ he used to say, as though + trying to find an explanation for his depression. ‘It’s beyond anything.’ + </p> + <p> + “And the Greek master, this man in a case—would you believe it?—almost + got married.” + </p> + <p> + Ivan Ivanovitch glanced quickly into the barn, and said: + </p> + <p> + “You are joking!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, strange as it seems, he almost got married. A new teacher of history + and geography, Milhail Savvitch Kovalenko, a Little Russian, was + appointed. He came, not alone, but with his sister Varinka. He was a tall, + dark young man with huge hands, and one could see from his face that he + had a bass voice, and, in fact, he had a voice that seemed to come out of + a barrel—‘boom, boom, boom!’ And she was not so young, about thirty, + but she, too, was tall, well-made, with black eyebrows and red cheeks—in + fact, she was a regular sugar-plum, and so sprightly, so noisy; she was + always singing Little Russian songs and laughing. For the least thing she + would go off into a ringing laugh—‘Ha-ha-ha!’ We made our first + thorough acquaintance with the Kovalenkos at the headmaster’s name-day + party. Among the glum and intensely bored teachers who came even to the + name-day party as a duty we suddenly saw a new Aphrodite risen from the + waves; she walked with her arms akimbo, laughed, sang, danced.... She sang + with feeling ‘The Winds do Blow,’ then another song, and another, and she + fascinated us all—all, even Byelikov. He sat down by her and said + with a honeyed smile: + </p> + <p> + “‘The Little Russian reminds one of the ancient Greek in its softness and + agreeable resonance.’ + </p> + <p> + “That flattered her, and she began telling him with feeling and + earnestness that they had a farm in the Gadyatchsky district, and that her + mamma lived at the farm, and that they had such pears, such melons, such + <i>kabaks</i>! The Little Russians call pumpkins <i>kabaks</i> (i.e., + pothouses), while their pothouses they call <i>shinki</i>, and they make a + beetroot soup with tomatoes and aubergines in it, ‘which was so nice—awfully + nice!’ + </p> + <p> + “We listened and listened, and suddenly the same idea dawned upon us all: + </p> + <p> + “‘It would be a good thing to make a match of it,’ the headmaster’s wife + said to me softly. + </p> + <p> + “We all for some reason recalled the fact that our friend Byelikov was not + married, and it now seemed to us strange that we had hitherto failed to + observe, and had in fact completely lost sight of, a detail so important + in his life. What was his attitude to woman? How had he settled this vital + question for himself? This had not interested us in the least till then; + perhaps we had not even admitted the idea that a man who went out in all + weathers in goloshes and slept under curtains could be in love. + </p> + <p> + “‘He is a good deal over forty and she is thirty,’ the headmaster’s wife + went on, developing her idea. ‘I believe she would marry him.’ + </p> + <p> + “All sorts of things are done in the provinces through boredom, all sorts + of unnecessary and nonsensical things! And that is because what is + necessary is not done at all. What need was there for instance, for us to + make a match for this Byelikov, whom one could not even imagine married? + The headmaster’s wife, the inspector’s wife, and all our high-school + ladies, grew livelier and even better-looking, as though they had suddenly + found a new object in life. The headmaster’s wife would take a box at the + theatre, and we beheld sitting in her box Varinka, with such a fan, + beaming and happy, and beside her Byelikov, a little bent figure, looking + as though he had been extracted from his house by pincers. I would give an + evening party, and the ladies would insist on my inviting Byelikov and + Varinka. In short, the machine was set in motion. It appeared that Varinka + was not averse to matrimony. She had not a very cheerful life with her + brother; they could do nothing but quarrel and scold one another from + morning till night. Here is a scene, for instance. Kovalenko would be + coming along the street, a tall, sturdy young ruffian, in an embroidered + shirt, his love-locks falling on his forehead under his cap, in one hand a + bundle of books, in the other a thick knotted stick, followed by his + sister, also with books in her hand. + </p> + <p> + “‘But you haven’t read it, Mihalik!’ she would be arguing loudly. ‘I tell + you, I swear you have not read it at all!’ + </p> + <p> + “‘And I tell you I have read it,’ cries Kovalenko, thumping his stick on + the pavement. + </p> + <p> + “‘Oh, my goodness, Mihalik! why are you so cross? We are arguing about + principles.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘I tell you that I have read it!’ Kovalenko would shout, more loudly than + ever. + </p> + <p> + “And at home, if there was an outsider present, there was sure to be a + skirmish. Such a life must have been wearisome, and of course she must + have longed for a home of her own. Besides, there was her age to be + considered; there was no time left to pick and choose; it was a case of + marrying anybody, even a Greek master. And, indeed, most of our young + ladies don’t mind whom they marry so long as they do get married. However + that may be, Varinka began to show an unmistakable partiality for + Byelikov. + </p> + <p> + “And Byelikov? He used to visit Kovalenko just as he did us. He would + arrive, sit down, and remain silent. He would sit quiet, and Varinka would + sing to him ‘The Winds do Blow,’ or would look pensively at him with her + dark eyes, or would suddenly go off into a peal—‘Ha-ha-ha!’ + </p> + <p> + “Suggestion plays a great part in love affairs, and still more in getting + married. Everybody—both his colleagues and the ladies—began + assuring Byelikov that he ought to get married, that there was nothing + left for him in life but to get married; we all congratulated him, with + solemn countenances delivered ourselves of various platitudes, such as + ‘Marriage is a serious step.’ Besides, Varinka was good-looking and + interesting; she was the daughter of a civil councillor, and had a farm; + and what was more, she was the first woman who had been warm and friendly + in her manner to him. His head was turned, and he decided that he really + ought to get married.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, at that point you ought to have taken away his goloshes and + umbrella,” said Ivan Ivanovitch. + </p> + <p> + “Only fancy! that turned out to be impossible. He put Varinka’s portrait + on his table, kept coming to see me and talking about Varinka, and home + life, saying marriage was a serious step. He was frequently at + Kovalenko’s, but he did not alter his manner of life in the least; on the + contrary, indeed, his determination to get married seemed to have a + depressing effect on him. He grew thinner and paler, and seemed to retreat + further and further into his case. + </p> + <p> + “‘I like Varvara Savvishna,’ he used to say to me, with a faint and wry + smile, ‘and I know that every one ought to get married, but... you know + all this has happened so suddenly.... One must think a little.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘What is there to think over?’ I used to say to him. ‘Get married—that + is all.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘No; marriage is a serious step. One must first weigh the duties before + one, the responsibilities... that nothing may go wrong afterwards. It + worries me so much that I don’t sleep at night. And I must confess I am + afraid: her brother and she have a strange way of thinking; they look at + things strangely, you know, and her disposition is very impetuous. One may + get married, and then, there is no knowing, one may find oneself in an + unpleasant position.’ + </p> + <p> + “And he did not make an offer; he kept putting it off, to the great + vexation of the headmaster’s wife and all our ladies; he went on weighing + his future duties and responsibilities, and meanwhile he went for a walk + with Varinka almost every day—possibly he thought that this was + necessary in his position—and came to see me to talk about family + life. And in all probability in the end he would have proposed to her, and + would have made one of those unnecessary, stupid marriages such as are + made by thousands among us from being bored and having nothing to do, if + it had not been for a <i>kolossalische scandal</i>. I must mention that + Varinka’s brother, Kovalenko, detested Byelikov from the first day of + their acquaintance, and could not endure him. + </p> + <p> + “‘I don’t understand,’ he used to say to us, shrugging his shoulders—‘I + don’t understand how you can put up with that sneak, that nasty phiz. Ugh! + how can you live here! The atmosphere is stifling and unclean! Do you call + yourselves schoolmasters, teachers? You are paltry government clerks. You + keep, not a temple of science, but a department for red tape and loyal + behaviour, and it smells as sour as a police-station. No, my friends; I + will stay with you for a while, and then I will go to my farm and there + catch crabs and teach the Little Russians. I shall go, and you can stay + here with your Judas—damn his soul!’ + </p> + <p> + “Or he would laugh till he cried, first in a loud bass, then in a shrill, + thin laugh, and ask me, waving his hands: + </p> + <p> + “‘What does he sit here for? What does he want? He sits and stares.’ + </p> + <p> + “He even gave Byelikov a nickname, ‘The Spider.’ And it will readily be + understood that we avoided talking to him of his sister’s being about to + marry ‘The Spider.’ + </p> + <p> + “And on one occasion, when the headmaster’s wife hinted to him what a good + thing it would be to secure his sister’s future with such a reliable, + universally respected man as Byelikov, he frowned and muttered: + </p> + <p> + “‘It’s not my business; let her marry a reptile if she likes. I don’t like + meddling in other people’s affairs.’ + </p> + <p> + “Now hear what happened next. Some mischievous person drew a caricature of + Byelikov walking along in his goloshes with his trousers tucked up, under + his umbrella, with Varinka on his arm; below, the inscription ‘Anthropos + in love.’ The expression was caught to a marvel, you know. The artist must + have worked for more than one night, for the teachers of both the boys’ + and girls’ high-schools, the teachers of the seminary, the government + officials, all received a copy. Byelikov received one, too. The caricature + made a very painful impression on him. + </p> + <p> + “We went out together; it was the first of May, a Sunday, and all of us, + the boys and the teachers, had agreed to meet at the high-school and then + to go for a walk together to a wood beyond the town. We set off, and he + was green in the face and gloomier than a storm-cloud. + </p> + <p> + “‘What wicked, ill-natured people there are!’ he said, and his lips + quivered. + </p> + <p> + “I felt really sorry for him. We were walking along, and all of a sudden—would + you believe it?—Kovalenko came bowling along on a bicycle, and after + him, also on a bicycle, Varinka, flushed and exhausted, but good-humoured + and gay. + </p> + <p> + “‘We are going on ahead,’ she called. ‘What lovely weather! Awfully + lovely!’ + </p> + <p> + “And they both disappeared from our sight. Byelikov turned white instead + of green, and seemed petrified. He stopped short and stared at me.... + </p> + <p> + “‘What is the meaning of it? Tell me, please!’ he asked. ‘Can my eyes have + deceived me? Is it the proper thing for high-school masters and ladies to + ride bicycles?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘What is there improper about it?’ I said. ‘Let them ride and enjoy + themselves.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘But how can that be?’ he cried, amazed at my calm. ‘What are you + saying?’ + </p> + <p> + “And he was so shocked that he was unwilling to go on, and returned home. + </p> + <p> + “Next day he was continually twitching and nervously rubbing his hands, + and it was evident from his face that he was unwell. And he left before + his work was over, for the first time in his life. And he ate no dinner. + Towards evening he wrapped himself up warmly, though it was quite warm + weather, and sallied out to the Kovalenkos’. Varinka was out; he found her + brother, however. + </p> + <p> + “‘Pray sit down,’ Kovalenko said coldly, with a frown. His face looked + sleepy; he had just had a nap after dinner, and was in a very bad humour. + </p> + <p> + “Byelikov sat in silence for ten minutes, and then began: + </p> + <p> + “‘I have come to see you to relieve my mind. I am very, very much + troubled. Some scurrilous fellow has drawn an absurd caricature of me and + another person, in whom we are both deeply interested. I regard it as a + duty to assure you that I have had no hand in it.... I have given no sort + of ground for such ridicule—on the contrary, I have always behaved + in every way like a gentleman.’ + </p> + <p> + “Kovalenko sat sulky and silent. Byelikov waited a little, and went on + slowly in a mournful voice: + </p> + <p> + “‘And I have something else to say to you. I have been in the service for + years, while you have only lately entered it, and I consider it my duty as + an older colleague to give you a warning. You ride on a bicycle, and that + pastime is utterly unsuitable for an educator of youth.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Why so?’ asked Kovalenko in his bass. + </p> + <p> + “‘Surely that needs no explanation, Mihail Savvitch—surely you can + understand that? If the teacher rides a bicycle, what can you expect the + pupils to do? You will have them walking on their heads next! And so long + as there is no formal permission to do so, it is out of the question. I + was horrified yesterday! When I saw your sister everything seemed dancing + before my eyes. A lady or a young girl on a bicycle—it’s awful!’ + </p> + <p> + “‘What is it you want exactly?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘All I want is to warn you, Mihail Savvitch. You are a young man, you + have a future before you, you must be very, very careful in your + behaviour, and you are so careless—oh, so careless! You go about in + an embroidered shirt, are constantly seen in the street carrying books, + and now the bicycle, too. The headmaster will learn that you and your + sister ride the bicycle, and then it will reach the higher authorities.... + Will that be a good thing?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘It’s no business of anybody else if my sister and I do bicycle!’ said + Kovalenko, and he turned crimson. ‘And damnation take any one who meddles + in my private affairs!’ + </p> + <p> + “Byelikov turned pale and got up. + </p> + <p> + “‘If you speak to me in that tone I cannot continue,’ he said. ‘And I beg + you never to express yourself like that about our superiors in my + presence; you ought to be respectful to the authorities.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Why, have I said any harm of the authorities?’ asked Kovalenko, looking + at him wrathfully. ‘Please leave me alone. I am an honest man, and do not + care to talk to a gentleman like you. I don’t like sneaks!’ + </p> + <p> + “Byelikov flew into a nervous flutter, and began hurriedly putting on his + coat, with an expression of horror on his face. It was the first time in + his life he had been spoken to so rudely. + </p> + <p> + “‘You can say what you please,’ he said, as he went out from the entry to + the landing on the staircase. ‘I ought only to warn you: possibly some one + may have overheard us, and that our conversation may not be + misunderstood and harm come of it, I shall be compelled to inform our + headmaster of our conversation... in its main features. I am bound to do + so.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Inform him? You can go and make your report!’ + </p> + <p> + “Kovalenko seized him from behind by the collar and gave him a push, and + Byelikov rolled downstairs, thudding with his goloshes. The staircase was + high and steep, but he rolled to the bottom unhurt, got up, and touched + his nose to see whether his spectacles were all right. But just as he was + falling down the stairs Varinka came in, and with her two ladies; they + stood below staring, and to Byelikov this was more terrible than anything. + I believe he would rather have broken his neck or both legs than have been + an object of ridicule. ‘Why, now the whole town would hear of it; it would + come to the headmaster’s ears, would reach the higher authorities—oh, + it might lead to something! There would be another caricature, and it + would all end in his being asked to resign his post.... + </p> + <p> + “When he got up, Varinka recognized him, and, looking at his ridiculous + face, his crumpled overcoat, and his goloshes, not understanding what had + happened and supposing that he had slipped down by accident, could not + restrain herself, and laughed loud enough to be heard by all the flats: + </p> + <p> + “‘Ha-ha-ha!’ + </p> + <p> + “And this pealing, ringing ‘Ha-ha-ha!’ was the last straw that put an end + to everything: to the proposed match and to Byelikov’s earthly existence. + He did not hear what Varinka said to him; he saw nothing. On reaching + home, the first thing he did was to remove her portrait from the table; + then he went to bed, and he never got up again. + </p> + <p> + “Three days later Afanasy came to me and asked whether we should not send + for the doctor, as there was something wrong with his master. I went in to + Byelikov. He lay silent behind the curtain, covered with a quilt; if one + asked him a question, he said ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ and not another sound. He lay + there while Afanasy, gloomy and scowling, hovered about him, sighing + heavily, and smelling like a pothouse. + </p> + <p> + “A month later Byelikov died. We all went to his funeral—that is, + both the high-schools and the seminary. Now when he was lying in his + coffin his expression was mild, agreeable, even cheerful, as though he + were glad that he had at last been put into a case which he would never + leave again. Yes, he had attained his ideal! And, as though in his honour, + it was dull, rainy weather on the day of his funeral, and we all wore + goloshes and took our umbrellas. Varinka, too, was at the funeral, and + when the coffin was lowered into the grave she burst into tears. I have + noticed that Little Russian women are always laughing or crying—no + intermediate mood. + </p> + <p> + “One must confess that to bury people like Byelikov is a great pleasure. + As we were returning from the cemetery we wore discreet Lenten faces; no + one wanted to display this feeling of pleasure—a feeling like that + we had experienced long, long ago as children when our elders had gone out + and we ran about the garden for an hour or two, enjoying complete freedom. + Ah, freedom, freedom! The merest hint, the faintest hope of its + possibility gives wings to the soul, does it not? + </p> + <p> + “We returned from the cemetery in a good humour. But not more than a week + had passed before life went on as in the past, as gloomy, oppressive, and + senseless—a life not forbidden by government prohibition, but not + fully permitted, either: it was no better. And, indeed, though we had + buried Byelikov, how many such men in cases were left, how many more of + them there will be!” + </p> + <p> + “That’s just how it is,” said Ivan Ivanovitch and he lighted his pipe. + </p> + <p> + “How many more of them there will be!” repeated Burkin. + </p> + <p> + The schoolmaster came out of the barn. He was a short, stout man, + completely bald, with a black beard down to his waist. The two dogs came + out with him. + </p> + <p> + “What a moon!” he said, looking upwards. + </p> + <p> + It was midnight. On the right could be seen the whole village, a long + street stretching far away for four miles. All was buried in deep silent + slumber; not a movement, not a sound; one could hardly believe that nature + could be so still. When on a moonlight night you see a broad village + street, with its cottages, haystacks, and slumbering willows, a feeling of + calm comes over the soul; in this peace, wrapped away from care, toil, and + sorrow in the darkness of night, it is mild, melancholy, beautiful, and it + seems as though the stars look down upon it kindly and with tenderness, + and as though there were no evil on earth and all were well. On the left + the open country began from the end of the village; it could be seen + stretching far away to the horizon, and there was no movement, no sound in + that whole expanse bathed in moonlight. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that is just how it is,” repeated Ivan Ivanovitch; “and isn’t our + living in town, airless and crowded, our writing useless papers, our + playing <i>vint</i>—isn’t that all a sort of case for us? And our + spending our whole lives among trivial, fussy men and silly, idle women, + our talking and our listening to all sorts of nonsense—isn’t that a + case for us, too? If you like, I will tell you a very edifying story.” + </p> + <p> + “No; it’s time we were asleep,” said Burkin. “Tell it tomorrow.” + </p> + <p> + They went into the barn and lay down on the hay. And they were both + covered up and beginning to doze when they suddenly heard light footsteps—patter, + patter.... Some one was walking not far from the barn, walking a little + and stopping, and a minute later, patter, patter again.... The dogs began + growling. + </p> + <p> + “That’s Mavra,” said Burkin. + </p> + <p> + The footsteps died away. + </p> + <p> + “You see and hear that they lie,” said Ivan Ivanovitch, turning over on + the other side, “and they call you a fool for putting up with their lying. + You endure insult and humiliation, and dare not openly say that you are on + the side of the honest and the free, and you lie and smile yourself; and + all that for the sake of a crust of bread, for the sake of a warm corner, + for the sake of a wretched little worthless rank in the service. No, one + can’t go on living like this.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you are off on another tack now, Ivan Ivanovitch,” said the + schoolmaster. “Let us go to sleep!” + </p> + <p> + And ten minutes later Burkin was asleep. But Ivan Ivanovitch kept sighing + and turning over from side to side; then he got up, went outside again, + and, sitting in the doorway, lighted his pipe. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + GOOSEBERRIES + </h2> + <p> + THE whole sky had been overcast with rain-clouds from early morning; it + was a still day, not hot, but heavy, as it is in grey dull weather when + the clouds have been hanging over the country for a long while, when one + expects rain and it does not come. Ivan Ivanovitch, the veterinary + surgeon, and Burkin, the high-school teacher, were already tired from + walking, and the fields seemed to them endless. Far ahead of them they + could just see the windmills of the village of Mironositskoe; on the right + stretched a row of hillocks which disappeared in the distance behind the + village, and they both knew that this was the bank of the river, that + there were meadows, green willows, homesteads there, and that if one stood + on one of the hillocks one could see from it the same vast plain, + telegraph-wires, and a train which in the distance looked like a crawling + caterpillar, and that in clear weather one could even see the town. Now, + in still weather, when all nature seemed mild and dreamy, Ivan Ivanovitch + and Burkin were filled with love of that countryside, and both thought how + great, how beautiful a land it was. + </p> + <p> + “Last time we were in Prokofy’s barn,” said Burkin, “you were about to + tell me a story.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I meant to tell you about my brother.” + </p> + <p> + Ivan Ivanovitch heaved a deep sigh and lighted a pipe to begin to tell his + story, but just at that moment the rain began. And five minutes later + heavy rain came down, covering the sky, and it was hard to tell when it + would be over. Ivan Ivanovitch and Burkin stopped in hesitation; the dogs, + already drenched, stood with their tails between their legs gazing at them + feelingly. + </p> + <p> + “We must take shelter somewhere,” said Burkin. “Let us go to Alehin’s; + it’s close by.” + </p> + <p> + “Come along.” + </p> + <p> + They turned aside and walked through mown fields, sometimes going straight + forward, sometimes turning to the right, till they came out on the road. + Soon they saw poplars, a garden, then the red roofs of barns; there was a + gleam of the river, and the view opened on to a broad expanse of water + with a windmill and a white bath-house: this was Sofino, where Alehin + lived. + </p> + <p> + The watermill was at work, drowning the sound of the rain; the dam was + shaking. Here wet horses with drooping heads were standing near their + carts, and men were walking about covered with sacks. It was damp, muddy, + and desolate; the water looked cold and malignant. Ivan Ivanovitch and + Burkin were already conscious of a feeling of wetness, messiness, and + discomfort all over; their feet were heavy with mud, and when, crossing + the dam, they went up to the barns, they were silent, as though they were + angry with one another. + </p> + <p> + In one of the barns there was the sound of a winnowing machine, the door + was open, and clouds of dust were coming from it. In the doorway was + standing Alehin himself, a man of forty, tall and stout, with long hair, + more like a professor or an artist than a landowner. He had on a white + shirt that badly needed washing, a rope for a belt, drawers instead of + trousers, and his boots, too, were plastered up with mud and straw. His + eyes and nose were black with dust. He recognized Ivan Ivanovitch and + Burkin, and was apparently much delighted to see them. + </p> + <p> + “Go into the house, gentlemen,” he said, smiling; “I’ll come directly, + this minute.” + </p> + <p> + It was a big two-storeyed house. Alehin lived in the lower storey, with + arched ceilings and little windows, where the bailiffs had once lived; + here everything was plain, and there was a smell of rye bread, cheap + vodka, and harness. He went upstairs into the best rooms only on rare + occasions, when visitors came. Ivan Ivanovitch and Burkin were met in the + house by a maid-servant, a young woman so beautiful that they both stood + still and looked at one another. + </p> + <p> + “You can’t imagine how delighted I am to see you, my friends,” said + Alehin, going into the hall with them. “It is a surprise! Pelagea,” he + said, addressing the girl, “give our visitors something to change into. + And, by the way, I will change too. Only I must first go and wash, for I + almost think I have not washed since spring. Wouldn’t you like to come + into the bath-house? and meanwhile they will get things ready here.” + </p> + <p> + Beautiful Pelagea, looking so refined and soft, brought them towels and + soap, and Alehin went to the bath-house with his guests. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a long time since I had a wash,” he said, undressing. “I have got a + nice bath-house, as you see—my father built it—but I somehow + never have time to wash.” + </p> + <p> + He sat down on the steps and soaped his long hair and his neck, and the + water round him turned brown. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I must say,” said Ivan Ivanovitch meaningly, looking at his head. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a long time since I washed...” said Alehin with embarrassment, + giving himself a second soaping, and the water near him turned dark blue, + like ink. + </p> + <p> + Ivan Ivanovitch went outside, plunged into the water with a loud splash, + and swam in the rain, flinging his arms out wide. He stirred the water + into waves which set the white lilies bobbing up and down; he swam to the + very middle of the millpond and dived, and came up a minute later in + another place, and swam on, and kept on diving, trying to touch the + bottom. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my goodness!” he repeated continually, enjoying himself thoroughly. + “Oh, my goodness!” He swam to the mill, talked to the peasants there, then + returned and lay on his back in the middle of the pond, turning his face + to the rain. Burkin and Alehin were dressed and ready to go, but he still + went on swimming and diving. “Oh, my goodness!...” he said. “Oh, Lord, + have mercy on me!...” + </p> + <p> + “That’s enough!” Burkin shouted to him. + </p> + <p> + They went back to the house. And only when the lamp was lighted in the big + drawing-room upstairs, and Burkin and Ivan Ivanovitch, attired in silk + dressing-gowns and warm slippers, were sitting in arm-chairs; and Alehin, + washed and combed, in a new coat, was walking about the drawing-room, + evidently enjoying the feeling of warmth, cleanliness, dry clothes, and + light shoes; and when lovely Pelagea, stepping noiselessly on the carpet + and smiling softly, handed tea and jam on a tray—only then Ivan + Ivanovitch began on his story, and it seemed as though not only Burkin and + Alehin were listening, but also the ladies, young and old, and the + officers who looked down upon them sternly and calmly from their gold + frames. + </p> + <p> + “There are two of us brothers,” he began—“I, Ivan Ivanovitch, and my + brother, Nikolay Ivanovitch, two years younger. I went in for a learned + profession and became a veterinary surgeon, while Nikolay sat in a + government office from the time he was nineteen. Our father, + Tchimsha-Himalaisky, was a kantonist, but he rose to be an officer and + left us a little estate and the rank of nobility. After his death the + little estate went in debts and legal expenses; but, anyway, we had spent + our childhood running wild in the country. Like peasant children, we + passed our days and nights in the fields and the woods, looked after + horses, stripped the bark off the trees, fished, and so on.... And, you + know, whoever has once in his life caught perch or has seen the migrating + of the thrushes in autumn, watched how they float in flocks over the + village on bright, cool days, he will never be a real townsman, and will + have a yearning for freedom to the day of his death. My brother was + miserable in the government office. Years passed by, and he went on + sitting in the same place, went on writing the same papers and thinking of + one and the same thing—how to get into the country. And this + yearning by degrees passed into a definite desire, into a dream of buying + himself a little farm somewhere on the banks of a river or a lake. + </p> + <p> + “He was a gentle, good-natured fellow, and I was fond of him, but I never + sympathized with this desire to shut himself up for the rest of his life + in a little farm of his own. It’s the correct thing to say that a man + needs no more than six feet of earth. But six feet is what a corpse needs, + not a man. And they say, too, now, that if our intellectual classes are + attracted to the land and yearn for a farm, it’s a good thing. But these + farms are just the same as six feet of earth. To retreat from town, from + the struggle, from the bustle of life, to retreat and bury oneself in + one’s farm—it’s not life, it’s egoism, laziness, it’s monasticism of + a sort, but monasticism without good works. A man does not need six feet + of earth or a farm, but the whole globe, all nature, where he can have + room to display all the qualities and peculiarities of his free spirit. + </p> + <p> + “My brother Nikolay, sitting in his government office, dreamed of how he + would eat his own cabbages, which would fill the whole yard with such a + savoury smell, take his meals on the green grass, sleep in the sun, sit + for whole hours on the seat by the gate gazing at the fields and the + forest. Gardening books and the agricultural hints in calendars were his + delight, his favourite spiritual sustenance; he enjoyed reading + newspapers, too, but the only things he read in them were the + advertisements of so many acres of arable land and a grass meadow with + farm-houses and buildings, a river, a garden, a mill and millponds, for + sale. And his imagination pictured the garden-paths, flowers and fruit, + starling cotes, the carp in the pond, and all that sort of thing, you + know. These imaginary pictures were of different kinds according to the + advertisements which he came across, but for some reason in every one of + them he had always to have gooseberries. He could not imagine a homestead, + he could not picture an idyllic nook, without gooseberries. + </p> + <p> + “‘Country life has its conveniences,’ he would sometimes say. ‘You sit on + the verandah and you drink tea, while your ducks swim on the pond, there + is a delicious smell everywhere, and... and the gooseberries are growing.’ + </p> + <p> + “He used to draw a map of his property, and in every map there were the + same things—(a) house for the family, (b) servants’ quarters, (c) + kitchen-garden, (d) gooseberry-bushes. He lived parsimoniously, was frugal + in food and drink, his clothes were beyond description; he looked like a + beggar, but kept on saving and putting money in the bank. He grew + fearfully avaricious. I did not like to look at him, and I used to give + him something and send him presents for Christmas and Easter, but he used + to save that too. Once a man is absorbed by an idea there is no doing + anything with him. + </p> + <p> + “Years passed: he was transferred to another province. He was over forty, + and he was still reading the advertisements in the papers and saving up. + Then I heard he was married. Still with the same object of buying a farm + and having gooseberries, he married an elderly and ugly widow without a + trace of feeling for her, simply because she had filthy lucre. He went on + living frugally after marrying her, and kept her short of food, while he + put her money in the bank in his name. + </p> + <p> + “Her first husband had been a postmaster, and with him she was accustomed + to pies and home-made wines, while with her second husband she did not get + enough black bread; she began to pine away with this sort of life, and + three years later she gave up her soul to God. And I need hardly say that + my brother never for one moment imagined that he was responsible for her + death. Money, like vodka, makes a man queer. In our town there was a + merchant who, before he died, ordered a plateful of honey and ate up all + his money and lottery tickets with the honey, so that no one might get the + benefit of it. While I was inspecting cattle at a railway-station, a + cattle-dealer fell under an engine and had his leg cut off. We carried him + into the waiting-room, the blood was flowing—it was a horrible thing—and + he kept asking them to look for his leg and was very much worried about + it; there were twenty roubles in the boot on the leg that had been cut + off, and he was afraid they would be lost.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a story from a different opera,” said Burkin. + </p> + <p> + “After his wife’s death,” Ivan Ivanovitch went on, after thinking for half + a minute, “my brother began looking out for an estate for himself. Of + course, you may look about for five years and yet end by making a mistake, + and buying something quite different from what you have dreamed of. My + brother Nikolay bought through an agent a mortgaged estate of three + hundred and thirty acres, with a house for the family, with servants’ + quarters, with a park, but with no orchard, no gooseberry-bushes, and no + duck-pond; there was a river, but the water in it was the colour of + coffee, because on one side of the estate there was a brickyard and on the + other a factory for burning bones. But Nikolay Ivanovitch did not grieve + much; he ordered twenty gooseberry-bushes, planted them, and began living + as a country gentleman. + </p> + <p> + “Last year I went to pay him a visit. I thought I would go and see what it + was like. In his letters my brother called his estate ‘Tchumbaroklov + Waste, alias Himalaiskoe.’ I reached ‘alias Himalaiskoe’ in the afternoon. + It was hot. Everywhere there were ditches, fences, hedges, fir-trees + planted in rows, and there was no knowing how to get to the yard, where to + put one’s horse. I went up to the house, and was met by a fat red dog that + looked like a pig. It wanted to bark, but it was too lazy. The cook, a + fat, barefooted woman, came out of the kitchen, and she, too, looked like + a pig, and said that her master was resting after dinner. I went in to see + my brother. He was sitting up in bed with a quilt over his legs; he had + grown older, fatter, wrinkled; his cheeks, his nose, and his mouth all + stuck out—he looked as though he might begin grunting into the quilt + at any moment. + </p> + <p> + “We embraced each other, and shed tears of joy and of sadness at the + thought that we had once been young and now were both grey-headed and near + the grave. He dressed, and led me out to show me the estate. + </p> + <p> + “‘Well, how are you getting on here?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + “‘Oh, all right, thank God; I am getting on very well.’ + </p> + <p> + “He was no more a poor timid clerk, but a real landowner, a gentleman. He + was already accustomed to it, had grown used to it, and liked it. He ate a + great deal, went to the bath-house, was growing stout, was already at law + with the village commune and both factories, and was very much offended + when the peasants did not call him ‘Your Honour.’ And he concerned himself + with the salvation of his soul in a substantial, gentlemanly manner, and + performed deeds of charity, not simply, but with an air of consequence. + And what deeds of charity! He treated the peasants for every sort of + disease with soda and castor oil, and on his name-day had a thanksgiving + service in the middle of the village, and then treated the peasants to a + gallon of vodka—he thought that was the thing to do. Oh, those + horrible gallons of vodka! One day the fat landowner hauls the peasants up + before the district captain for trespass, and next day, in honour of a + holiday, treats them to a gallon of vodka, and they drink and shout + ‘Hurrah!’ and when they are drunk bow down to his feet. A change of life + for the better, and being well-fed and idle develop in a Russian the most + insolent self-conceit. Nikolay Ivanovitch, who at one time in the + government office was afraid to have any views of his own, now could say + nothing that was not gospel truth, and uttered such truths in the tone of + a prime minister. ‘Education is essential, but for the peasants it is + premature.’ ‘Corporal punishment is harmful as a rule, but in some cases + it is necessary and there is nothing to take its place.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘I know the peasants and understand how to treat them,’ he would say. + ‘The peasants like me. I need only to hold up my little finger and the + peasants will do anything I like.’ + </p> + <p> + “And all this, observe, was uttered with a wise, benevolent smile. He + repeated twenty times over ‘We noblemen,’ ‘I as a noble’; obviously he did + not remember that our grandfather was a peasant, and our father a soldier. + Even our surname Tchimsha-Himalaisky, in reality so incongruous, seemed to + him now melodious, distinguished, and very agreeable. + </p> + <p> + “But the point just now is not he, but myself. I want to tell you about + the change that took place in me during the brief hours I spent at his + country place. In the evening, when we were drinking tea, the cook put on + the table a plateful of gooseberries. They were not bought, but his own + gooseberries, gathered for the first time since the bushes were planted. + Nikolay Ivanovitch laughed and looked for a minute in silence at the + gooseberries, with tears in his eyes; he could not speak for excitement. + Then he put one gooseberry in his mouth, looked at me with the triumph of + a child who has at last received his favourite toy, and said: + </p> + <p> + “‘How delicious!’ + </p> + <p> + “And he ate them greedily, continually repeating, ‘Ah, how delicious! Do + taste them!’ + </p> + <p> + “They were sour and unripe, but, as Pushkin says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘Dearer to us the falsehood that exalts + Than hosts of baser truths.’ +</pre> + <p> + “I saw a happy man whose cherished dream was so obviously fulfilled, who + had attained his object in life, who had gained what he wanted, who was + satisfied with his fate and himself. There is always, for some reason, an + element of sadness mingled with my thoughts of human happiness, and, on + this occasion, at the sight of a happy man I was overcome by an oppressive + feeling that was close upon despair. It was particularly oppressive at + night. A bed was made up for me in the room next to my brother’s bedroom, + and I could hear that he was awake, and that he kept getting up and going + to the plate of gooseberries and taking one. I reflected how many + satisfied, happy people there really are! What a suffocating force it is! + You look at life: the insolence and idleness of the strong, the ignorance + and brutishness of the weak, incredible poverty all about us, + overcrowding, degeneration, drunkenness, hypocrisy, lying.... Yet all is + calm and stillness in the houses and in the streets; of the fifty thousand + living in a town, there is not one who would cry out, who would give vent + to his indignation aloud. We see the people going to market for + provisions, eating by day, sleeping by night, talking their silly + nonsense, getting married, growing old, serenely escorting their dead to + the cemetery; but we do not see and we do not hear those who suffer, and + what is terrible in life goes on somewhere behind the scenes.... + Everything is quiet and peaceful, and nothing protests but mute + statistics: so many people gone out of their minds, so many gallons of + vodka drunk, so many children dead from malnutrition.... And this order of + things is evidently necessary; evidently the happy man only feels at ease + because the unhappy bear their burdens in silence, and without that + silence happiness would be impossible. It’s a case of general hypnotism. + There ought to be behind the door of every happy, contented man some one + standing with a hammer continually reminding him with a tap that there are + unhappy people; that however happy he may be, life will show him her laws + sooner or later, trouble will come for him—disease, poverty, losses, + and no one will see or hear, just as now he neither sees nor hears others. + But there is no man with a hammer; the happy man lives at his ease, and + trivial daily cares faintly agitate him like the wind in the aspen-tree—and + all goes well. + </p> + <p> + “That night I realized that I, too, was happy and contented,” Ivan + Ivanovitch went on, getting up. “I, too, at dinner and at the hunt liked + to lay down the law on life and religion, and the way to manage the + peasantry. I, too, used to say that science was light, that culture was + essential, but for the simple people reading and writing was enough for + the time. Freedom is a blessing, I used to say; we can no more do without + it than without air, but we must wait a little. Yes, I used to talk like + that, and now I ask, ‘For what reason are we to wait?’” asked Ivan + Ivanovitch, looking angrily at Burkin. “Why wait, I ask you? What grounds + have we for waiting? I shall be told, it can’t be done all at once; every + idea takes shape in life gradually, in its due time. But who is it says + that? Where is the proof that it’s right? You will fall back upon the + natural order of things, the uniformity of phenomena; but is there order + and uniformity in the fact that I, a living, thinking man, stand over a + chasm and wait for it to close of itself, or to fill up with mud at the + very time when perhaps I might leap over it or build a bridge across it? + And again, wait for the sake of what? Wait till there’s no strength to + live? And meanwhile one must live, and one wants to live! + </p> + <p> + “I went away from my brother’s early in the morning, and ever since then + it has been unbearable for me to be in town. I am oppressed by its peace + and quiet; I am afraid to look at the windows, for there is no spectacle + more painful to me now than the sight of a happy family sitting round the + table drinking tea. I am old and am not fit for the struggle; I am not + even capable of hatred; I can only grieve inwardly, feel irritated and + vexed; but at night my head is hot from the rush of ideas, and I cannot + sleep.... Ah, if I were young!” + </p> + <p> + Ivan Ivanovitch walked backwards and forwards in excitement, and repeated: + “If I were young!” + </p> + <p> + He suddenly went up to Alehin and began pressing first one of his hands + and then the other. + </p> + <p> + “Pavel Konstantinovitch,” he said in an imploring voice, “don’t be calm + and contented, don’t let yourself be put to sleep! While you are young, + strong, confident, be not weary in well-doing! There is no happiness, and + there ought not to be; but if there is a meaning and an object in life, + that meaning and object is not our happiness, but something greater and + more rational. Do good!” + </p> + <p> + And all this Ivan Ivanovitch said with a pitiful, imploring smile, as + though he were asking him a personal favour. + </p> + <p> + Then all three sat in arm-chairs at different ends of the drawing-room and + were silent. Ivan Ivanovitch’s story had not satisfied either Burkin or + Alehin. When the generals and ladies gazed down from their gilt frames, + looking in the dusk as though they were alive, it was dreary to listen to + the story of the poor clerk who ate gooseberries. They felt inclined, for + some reason, to talk about elegant people, about women. And their sitting + in the drawing-room where everything—the chandeliers in their + covers, the arm-chairs, and the carpet under their feet—reminded + them that those very people who were now looking down from their frames + had once moved about, sat, drunk tea in this room, and the fact that + lovely Pelagea was moving noiselessly about was better than any story. + </p> + <p> + Alehin was fearfully sleepy; he had got up early, before three o’clock in + the morning, to look after his work, and now his eyes were closing; but he + was afraid his visitors might tell some interesting story after he had + gone, and he lingered on. He did not go into the question whether what + Ivan Ivanovitch had just said was right and true. His visitors did not + talk of groats, nor of hay, nor of tar, but of something that had no + direct bearing on his life, and he was glad and wanted them to go on. + </p> + <p> + “It’s bed-time, though,” said Burkin, getting up. “Allow me to wish you + good-night.” + </p> + <p> + Alehin said good-night and went downstairs to his own domain, while the + visitors remained upstairs. They were both taken for the night to a big + room where there stood two old wooden beds decorated with carvings, and in + the corner was an ivory crucifix. The big cool beds, which had been made + by the lovely Pelagea, smelt agreeably of clean linen. + </p> + <p> + Ivan Ivanovitch undressed in silence and got into bed. + </p> + <p> + “Lord forgive us sinners!” he said, and put his head under the quilt. + </p> + <p> + His pipe lying on the table smelt strongly of stale tobacco, and Burkin + could not sleep for a long while, and kept wondering where the oppressive + smell came from. + </p> + <p> + The rain was pattering on the window-panes all night. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ABOUT LOVE + </h2> + <p> + AT lunch next day there were very nice pies, crayfish, and mutton cutlets; + and while we were eating, Nikanor, the cook, came up to ask what the + visitors would like for dinner. He was a man of medium height, with a + puffy face and little eyes; he was close-shaven, and it looked as though + his moustaches had not been shaved, but had been pulled out by the roots. + Alehin told us that the beautiful Pelagea was in love with this cook. As + he drank and was of a violent character, she did not want to marry him, + but was willing to live with him without. He was very devout, and his + religious convictions would not allow him to “live in sin”; he insisted on + her marrying him, and would consent to nothing else, and when he was drunk + he used to abuse her and even beat her. Whenever he got drunk she used to + hide upstairs and sob, and on such occasions Alehin and the servants + stayed in the house to be ready to defend her in case of necessity. + </p> + <p> + We began talking about love. + </p> + <p> + “How love is born,” said Alehin, “why Pelagea does not love somebody more + like herself in her spiritual and external qualities, and why she fell in + love with Nikanor, that ugly snout—we all call him ‘The Snout’—how + far questions of personal happiness are of consequence in love—all + that is known; one can take what view one likes of it. So far only one + incontestable truth has been uttered about love: ‘This is a great + mystery.’ Everything else that has been written or said about love is not + a conclusion, but only a statement of questions which have remained + unanswered. The explanation which would seem to fit one case does not + apply in a dozen others, and the very best thing, to my mind, would be to + explain every case individually without attempting to generalize. We + ought, as the doctors say, to individualize each case.” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly true,” Burkin assented. + </p> + <p> + “We Russians of the educated class have a partiality for these questions + that remain unanswered. Love is usually poeticized, decorated with roses, + nightingales; we Russians decorate our loves with these momentous + questions, and select the most uninteresting of them, too. In Moscow, when + I was a student, I had a friend who shared my life, a charming lady, and + every time I took her in my arms she was thinking what I would allow her a + month for housekeeping and what was the price of beef a pound. In the same + way, when we are in love we are never tired of asking ourselves questions: + whether it is honourable or dishonourable, sensible or stupid, what this + love is leading up to, and so on. Whether it is a good thing or not I + don’t know, but that it is in the way, unsatisfactory, and irritating, I + do know.” + </p> + <p> + It looked as though he wanted to tell some story. People who lead a + solitary existence always have something in their hearts which they are + eager to talk about. In town bachelors visit the baths and the restaurants + on purpose to talk, and sometimes tell the most interesting things to bath + attendants and waiters; in the country, as a rule, they unbosom themselves + to their guests. Now from the window we could see a grey sky, trees + drenched in the rain; in such weather we could go nowhere, and there was + nothing for us to do but to tell stories and to listen. + </p> + <p> + “I have lived at Sofino and been farming for a long time,” Alehin began, + “ever since I left the University. I am an idle gentleman by education, a + studious person by disposition; but there was a big debt owing on the + estate when I came here, and as my father was in debt partly because he + had spent so much on my education, I resolved not to go away, but to work + till I paid off the debt. I made up my mind to this and set to work, not, + I must confess, without some repugnance. The land here does not yield + much, and if one is not to farm at a loss one must employ serf labour or + hired labourers, which is almost the same thing, or put it on a peasant + footing—that is, work the fields oneself and with one’s family. + There is no middle path. But in those days I did not go into such + subtleties. I did not leave a clod of earth unturned; I gathered together + all the peasants, men and women, from the neighbouring villages; the work + went on at a tremendous pace. I myself ploughed and sowed and reaped, and + was bored doing it, and frowned with disgust, like a village cat driven by + hunger to eat cucumbers in the kitchen-garden. My body ached, and I slept + as I walked. At first it seemed to me that I could easily reconcile this + life of toil with my cultured habits; to do so, I thought, all that is + necessary is to maintain a certain external order in life. I established + myself upstairs here in the best rooms, and ordered them to bring me there + coffee and liquor after lunch and dinner, and when I went to bed I read + every night the <i>Yyesnik Evropi</i>. But one day our priest, Father + Ivan, came and drank up all my liquor at one sitting; and the <i>Yyesnik + Evropi</i> went to the priest’s daughters; as in the summer, especially at + the haymaking, I did not succeed in getting to my bed at all, and slept in + the sledge in the barn, or somewhere in the forester’s lodge, what chance + was there of reading? Little by little I moved downstairs, began dining in + the servants’ kitchen, and of my former luxury nothing is left but the + servants who were in my father’s service, and whom it would be painful to + turn away. + </p> + <p> + “In the first years I was elected here an honourary justice of the peace. + I used to have to go to the town and take part in the sessions of the + congress and of the circuit court, and this was a pleasant change for me. + When you live here for two or three months without a break, especially in + the winter, you begin at last to pine for a black coat. And in the circuit + court there were frock-coats, and uniforms, and dress-coats, too, all + lawyers, men who have received a general education; I had some one to talk + to. After sleeping in the sledge and dining in the kitchen, to sit in an + arm-chair in clean linen, in thin boots, with a chain on one’s waistcoat, + is such luxury! + </p> + <p> + “I received a warm welcome in the town. I made friends eagerly. And of all + my acquaintanceships the most intimate and, to tell the truth, the most + agreeable to me was my acquaintance with Luganovitch, the vice-president + of the circuit court. You both know him: a most charming personality. It + all happened just after a celebrated case of incendiarism; the preliminary + investigation lasted two days; we were exhausted. Luganovitch looked at me + and said: + </p> + <p> + “‘Look here, come round to dinner with me.’ + </p> + <p> + “This was unexpected, as I knew Luganovitch very little, only officially, + and I had never been to his house. I only just went to my hotel room to + change and went off to dinner. And here it was my lot to meet Anna + Alexyevna, Luganovitch’s wife. At that time she was still very young, not + more than twenty-two, and her first baby had been born just six months + before. It is all a thing of the past; and now I should find it difficult + to define what there was so exceptional in her, what it was in her + attracted me so much; at the time, at dinner, it was all perfectly clear + to me. I saw a lovely young, good, intelligent, fascinating woman, such as + I had never met before; and I felt her at once some one close and already + familiar, as though that face, those cordial, intelligent eyes, I had seen + somewhere in my childhood, in the album which lay on my mother’s chest of + drawers. + </p> + <p> + “Four Jews were charged with being incendiaries, were regarded as a gang + of robbers, and, to my mind, quite groundlessly. At dinner I was very much + excited, I was uncomfortable, and I don’t know what I said, but Anna + Alexyevna kept shaking her head and saying to her husband: + </p> + <p> + “‘Dmitry, how is this?’ + </p> + <p> + “Luganovitch is a good-natured man, one of those simple-hearted people who + firmly maintain the opinion that once a man is charged before a court he + is guilty, and to express doubt of the correctness of a sentence cannot be + done except in legal form on paper, and not at dinner and in private + conversation. + </p> + <p> + “‘You and I did not set fire to the place,’ he said softly, ‘and you see + we are not condemned, and not in prison.’ + </p> + <p> + “And both husband and wife tried to make me eat and drink as much as + possible. From some trifling details, from the way they made the coffee + together, for instance, and from the way they understood each other at + half a word, I could gather that they lived in harmony and comfort, and + that they were glad of a visitor. After dinner they played a duet on the + piano; then it got dark, and I went home. That was at the beginning of + spring. + </p> + <p> + “After that I spent the whole summer at Sofino without a break, and I had + no time to think of the town, either, but the memory of the graceful + fair-haired woman remained in my mind all those days; I did not think of + her, but it was as though her light shadow were lying on my heart. + </p> + <p> + “In the late autumn there was a theatrical performance for some charitable + object in the town. I went into the governor’s box (I was invited to go + there in the interval); I looked, and there was Anna Alexyevna sitting + beside the governor’s wife; and again the same irresistible, thrilling + impression of beauty and sweet, caressing eyes, and again the same feeling + of nearness. We sat side by side, then went to the foyer. + </p> + <p> + “‘You’ve grown thinner,’ she said; ‘have you been ill?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Yes, I’ve had rheumatism in my shoulder, and in rainy weather I can’t + sleep.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘You look dispirited. In the spring, when you came to dinner, you were + younger, more confident. You were full of eagerness, and talked a great + deal then; you were very interesting, and I really must confess I was a + little carried away by you. For some reason you often came back to my + memory during the summer, and when I was getting ready for the theatre + today I thought I should see you.’ + </p> + <p> + “And she laughed. + </p> + <p> + “‘But you look dispirited today,’ she repeated; ‘it makes you seem older.’ + </p> + <p> + “The next day I lunched at the Luganovitchs’. After lunch they drove out + to their summer villa, in order to make arrangements there for the winter, + and I went with them. I returned with them to the town, and at midnight + drank tea with them in quiet domestic surroundings, while the fire glowed, + and the young mother kept going to see if her baby girl was asleep. And + after that, every time I went to town I never failed to visit the + Luganovitchs. They grew used to me, and I grew used to them. As a rule I + went in unannounced, as though I were one of the family. + </p> + <p> + “‘Who is there?’ I would hear from a faraway room, in the drawling voice + that seemed to me so lovely. + </p> + <p> + “‘It is Pavel Konstantinovitch,’ answered the maid or the nurse. + </p> + <p> + “Anna Alexyevna would come out to me with an anxious face, and would ask + every time: + </p> + <p> + “‘Why is it so long since you have been? Has anything happened?’ + </p> + <p> + “Her eyes, the elegant refined hand she gave me, her indoor dress, the way + she did her hair, her voice, her step, always produced the same impression + on me of something new and extraordinary in my life, and very important. + We talked together for hours, were silent, thinking each our own thoughts, + or she played for hours to me on the piano. If there were no one at home I + stayed and waited, talked to the nurse, played with the child, or lay on + the sofa in the study and read; and when Anna Alexyevna came back I met + her in the hall, took all her parcels from her, and for some reason I + carried those parcels every time with as much love, with as much + solemnity, as a boy. + </p> + <p> + “There is a proverb that if a peasant woman has no troubles she will buy a + pig. The Luganovitchs had no troubles, so they made friends with me. If I + did not come to the town I must be ill or something must have happened to + me, and both of them were extremely anxious. They were worried that I, an + educated man with a knowledge of languages, should, instead of devoting + myself to science or literary work, live in the country, rush round like a + squirrel in a rage, work hard with never a penny to show for it. They + fancied that I was unhappy, and that I only talked, laughed, and ate to + conceal my sufferings, and even at cheerful moments when I felt happy I + was aware of their searching eyes fixed upon me. They were particularly + touching when I really was depressed, when I was being worried by some + creditor or had not money enough to pay interest on the proper day. The + two of them, husband and wife, would whisper together at the window; then + he would come to me and say with a grave face: + </p> + <p> + “‘If you really are in need of money at the moment, Pavel + Konstantinovitch, my wife and I beg you not to hesitate to borrow from + us.’ + </p> + <p> + “And he would blush to his ears with emotion. And it would happen that, + after whispering in the same way at the window, he would come up to me, + with red ears, and say: + </p> + <p> + “‘My wife and I earnestly beg you to accept this present.’ + </p> + <p> + “And he would give me studs, a cigar-case, or a lamp, and I would send + them game, butter, and flowers from the country. They both, by the way, + had considerable means of their own. In early days I often borrowed money, + and was not very particular about it—borrowed wherever I could—but + nothing in the world would have induced me to borrow from the + Luganovitchs. But why talk of it? + </p> + <p> + “I was unhappy. At home, in the fields, in the barn, I thought of her; I + tried to understand the mystery of a beautiful, intelligent young woman’s + marrying some one so uninteresting, almost an old man (her husband was + over forty), and having children by him; to understand the mystery of this + uninteresting, good, simple-hearted man, who argued with such wearisome + good sense, at balls and evening parties kept near the more solid people, + looking listless and superfluous, with a submissive, uninterested + expression, as though he had been brought there for sale, who yet believed + in his right to be happy, to have children by her; and I kept trying to + understand why she had met him first and not me, and why such a terrible + mistake in our lives need have happened. + </p> + <p> + “And when I went to the town I saw every time from her eyes that she was + expecting me, and she would confess to me herself that she had had a + peculiar feeling all that day and had guessed that I should come. We + talked a long time, and were silent, yet we did not confess our love to + each other, but timidly and jealously concealed it. We were afraid of + everything that might reveal our secret to ourselves. I loved her + tenderly, deeply, but I reflected and kept asking myself what our love + could lead to if we had not the strength to fight against it. It seemed to + be incredible that my gentle, sad love could all at once coarsely break up + the even tenor of the life of her husband, her children, and all the + household in which I was so loved and trusted. Would it be honourable? She + would go away with me, but where? Where could I take her? It would have + been a different matter if I had had a beautiful, interesting life—if, + for instance, I had been struggling for the emancipation of my country, or + had been a celebrated man of science, an artist or a painter; but as it + was it would mean taking her from one everyday humdrum life to another as + humdrum or perhaps more so. And how long would our happiness last? What + would happen to her in case I was ill, in case I died, or if we simply + grew cold to one another? + </p> + <p> + “And she apparently reasoned in the same way. She thought of her husband, + her children, and of her mother, who loved the husband like a son. If she + abandoned herself to her feelings she would have to lie, or else to tell + the truth, and in her position either would have been equally terrible and + inconvenient. And she was tormented by the question whether her love would + bring me happiness—would she not complicate my life, which, as it + was, was hard enough and full of all sorts of trouble? She fancied she was + not young enough for me, that she was not industrious nor energetic enough + to begin a new life, and she often talked to her husband of the importance + of my marrying a girl of intelligence and merit who would be a capable + housewife and a help to me—and she would immediately add that it + would be difficult to find such a girl in the whole town. + </p> + <p> + “Meanwhile the years were passing. Anna Alexyevna already had two + children. When I arrived at the Luganovitchs’ the servants smiled + cordially, the children shouted that Uncle Pavel Konstantinovitch had + come, and hung on my neck; every one was overjoyed. They did not + understand what was passing in my soul, and thought that I, too, was + happy. Every one looked on me as a noble being. And grown-ups and children + alike felt that a noble being was walking about their rooms, and that gave + a peculiar charm to their manner towards me, as though in my presence + their life, too, was purer and more beautiful. Anna Alexyevna and I used + to go to the theatre together, always walking there; we used to sit side + by side in the stalls, our shoulders touching. I would take the + opera-glass from her hands without a word, and feel at that minute that + she was near me, that she was mine, that we could not live without each + other; but by some strange misunderstanding, when we came out of the + theatre we always said good-bye and parted as though we were strangers. + Goodness knows what people were saying about us in the town already, but + there was not a word of truth in it all! + </p> + <p> + “In the latter years Anna Alexyevna took to going away for frequent visits + to her mother or to her sister; she began to suffer from low spirits, she + began to recognize that her life was spoilt and unsatisfied, and at times + she did not care to see her husband nor her children. She was already + being treated for neurasthenia. + </p> + <p> + “We were silent and still silent, and in the presence of outsiders she + displayed a strange irritation in regard to me; whatever I talked about, + she disagreed with me, and if I had an argument she sided with my + opponent. If I dropped anything, she would say coldly: + </p> + <p> + “‘I congratulate you.’ + </p> + <p> + “If I forgot to take the opera-glass when we were going to the theatre, + she would say afterwards: + </p> + <p> + “‘I knew you would forget it.’ + </p> + <p> + “Luckily or unluckily, there is nothing in our lives that does not end + sooner or later. The time of parting came, as Luganovitch was appointed + president in one of the western provinces. They had to sell their + furniture, their horses, their summer villa. When they drove out to the + villa, and afterwards looked back as they were going away, to look for the + last time at the garden, at the green roof, every one was sad, and I + realized that I had to say goodbye not only to the villa. It was arranged + that at the end of August we should see Anna Alexyevna off to the Crimea, + where the doctors were sending her, and that a little later Luganovitch + and the children would set off for the western province. + </p> + <p> + “We were a great crowd to see Anna Alexyevna off. When she had said + good-bye to her husband and her children and there was only a minute left + before the third bell, I ran into her compartment to put a basket, which + she had almost forgotten, on the rack, and I had to say good-bye. When our + eyes met in the compartment our spiritual fortitude deserted us both; I + took her in my arms, she pressed her face to my breast, and tears flowed + from her eyes. Kissing her face, her shoulders, her hands wet with tears—oh, + how unhappy we were!—I confessed my love for her, and with a burning + pain in my heart I realized how unnecessary, how petty, and how deceptive + all that had hindered us from loving was. I understood that when you love + you must either, in your reasonings about that love, start from what is + highest, from what is more important than happiness or unhappiness, sin or + virtue in their accepted meaning, or you must not reason at all. + </p> + <p> + “I kissed her for the last time, pressed her hand, and parted for ever. + The train had already started. I went into the next compartment—it + was empty—and until I reached the next station I sat there crying. + Then I walked home to Sofino....” + </p> + <p> + While Alehin was telling his story, the rain left off and the sun came + out. Burkin and Ivan Ivanovitch went out on the balcony, from which there + was a beautiful view over the garden and the mill-pond, which was shining + now in the sunshine like a mirror. They admired it, and at the same time + they were sorry that this man with the kind, clever eyes, who had told + them this story with such genuine feeling, should be rushing round and + round this huge estate like a squirrel on a wheel instead of devoting + himself to science or something else which would have made his life more + pleasant; and they thought what a sorrowful face Anna Alexyevna must have + had when he said good-bye to her in the railway-carriage and kissed her + face and shoulders. Both of them had met her in the town, and Burkin knew + her and thought her beautiful. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LOTTERY TICKET + </h2> + <p> + IVAN DMITRITCH, a middle-class man who lived with his family on an income + of twelve hundred a year and was very well satisfied with his lot, sat + down on the sofa after supper and began reading the newspaper. + </p> + <p> + “I forgot to look at the newspaper today,” his wife said to him as she + cleared the table. “Look and see whether the list of drawings is there.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is,” said Ivan Dmitritch; “but hasn’t your ticket lapsed?” + </p> + <p> + “No; I took the interest on Tuesday.” + </p> + <p> + “What is the number?” + </p> + <p> + “Series 9,499, number 26.” + </p> + <p> + “All right... we will look... 9,499 and 26.” + </p> + <p> + Ivan Dmitritch had no faith in lottery luck, and would not, as a rule, + have consented to look at the lists of winning numbers, but now, as he had + nothing else to do and as the newspaper was before his eyes, he passed his + finger downwards along the column of numbers. And immediately, as though + in mockery of his scepticism, no further than the second line from the + top, his eye was caught by the figure 9,499! Unable to believe his eyes, + he hurriedly dropped the paper on his knees without looking to see the + number of the ticket, and, just as though some one had given him a douche + of cold water, he felt an agreeable chill in the pit of the stomach; + tingling and terrible and sweet! + </p> + <p> + “Masha, 9,499 is there!” he said in a hollow voice. + </p> + <p> + His wife looked at his astonished and panic-stricken face, and realized + that he was not joking. + </p> + <p> + “9,499?” she asked, turning pale and dropping the folded tablecloth on the + table. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes... it really is there!” + </p> + <p> + “And the number of the ticket?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes! There’s the number of the ticket too. But stay... wait! No, I + say! Anyway, the number of our series is there! Anyway, you + understand....” + </p> + <p> + Looking at his wife, Ivan Dmitritch gave a broad, senseless smile, like a + baby when a bright object is shown it. His wife smiled too; it was as + pleasant to her as to him that he only mentioned the series, and did not + try to find out the number of the winning ticket. To torment and tantalize + oneself with hopes of possible fortune is so sweet, so thrilling! + </p> + <p> + “It is our series,” said Ivan Dmitritch, after a long silence. “So there + is a probability that we have won. It’s only a probability, but there it + is!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, now look!” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a little. We have plenty of time to be disappointed. It’s on the + second line from the top, so the prize is seventy-five thousand. That’s + not money, but power, capital! And in a minute I shall look at the list, + and there—26! Eh? I say, what if we really have won?” + </p> + <p> + The husband and wife began laughing and staring at one another in silence. + The possibility of winning bewildered them; they could not have said, + could not have dreamed, what they both needed that seventy-five thousand + for, what they would buy, where they would go. They thought only of the + figures 9,499 and 75,000 and pictured them in their imagination, while + somehow they could not think of the happiness itself which was so + possible. + </p> + <p> + Ivan Dmitritch, holding the paper in his hand, walked several times from + corner to corner, and only when he had recovered from the first impression + began dreaming a little. + </p> + <p> + “And if we have won,” he said—“why, it will be a new life, it will + be a transformation! The ticket is yours, but if it were mine I should, + first of all, of course, spend twenty-five thousand on real property in + the shape of an estate; ten thousand on immediate expenses, new + furnishing... travelling... paying debts, and so on.... The other forty + thousand I would put in the bank and get interest on it.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, an estate, that would be nice,” said his wife, sitting down and + dropping her hands in her lap. + </p> + <p> + “Somewhere in the Tula or Oryol provinces.... In the first place we + shouldn’t need a summer villa, and besides, it would always bring in an + income.” + </p> + <p> + And pictures came crowding on his imagination, each more gracious and + poetical than the last. And in all these pictures he saw himself well-fed, + serene, healthy, felt warm, even hot! Here, after eating a summer soup, + cold as ice, he lay on his back on the burning sand close to a stream or + in the garden under a lime-tree.... It is hot.... His little boy and girl + are crawling about near him, digging in the sand or catching ladybirds in + the grass. He dozes sweetly, thinking of nothing, and feeling all over + that he need not go to the office today, tomorrow, or the day after. Or, + tired of lying still, he goes to the hayfield, or to the forest for + mushrooms, or watches the peasants catching fish with a net. When the sun + sets he takes a towel and soap and saunters to the bathing-shed, where he + undresses at his leisure, slowly rubs his bare chest with his hands, and + goes into the water. And in the water, near the opaque soapy circles, + little fish flit to and fro and green water-weeds nod their heads. After + bathing there is tea with cream and milk rolls.... In the evening a walk + or <i>vint</i> with the neighbours. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it would be nice to buy an estate,” said his wife, also dreaming, + and from her face it was evident that she was enchanted by her thoughts. + </p> + <p> + Ivan Dmitritch pictured to himself autumn with its rains, its cold + evenings, and its St. Martin’s summer. At that season he would have to + take longer walks about the garden and beside the river, so as to get + thoroughly chilled, and then drink a big glass of vodka and eat a salted + mushroom or a soused cucumber, and then—drink another.... The + children would come running from the kitchen-garden, bringing a carrot and + a radish smelling of fresh earth.... And then, he would lie stretched full + length on the sofa, and in leisurely fashion turn over the pages of some + illustrated magazine, or, covering his face with it and unbuttoning his + waistcoat, give himself up to slumber. + </p> + <p> + The St. Martin’s summer is followed by cloudy, gloomy weather. It rains + day and night, the bare trees weep, the wind is damp and cold. The dogs, + the horses, the fowls—all are wet, depressed, downcast. There is + nowhere to walk; one can’t go out for days together; one has to pace up + and down the room, looking despondently at the grey window. It is dreary! + </p> + <p> + Ivan Dmitritch stopped and looked at his wife. + </p> + <p> + “I should go abroad, you know, Masha,” he said. + </p> + <p> + And he began thinking how nice it would be in late autumn to go abroad + somewhere to the South of France... to Italy.... to India! + </p> + <p> + “I should certainly go abroad too,” his wife said. “But look at the number + of the ticket!” + </p> + <p> + “Wait, wait!...” + </p> + <p> + He walked about the room and went on thinking. It occurred to him: what if + his wife really did go abroad? It is pleasant to travel alone, or in the + society of light, careless women who live in the present, and not such as + think and talk all the journey about nothing but their children, sigh, and + tremble with dismay over every farthing. Ivan Dmitritch imagined his wife + in the train with a multitude of parcels, baskets, and bags; she would be + sighing over something, complaining that the train made her head ache, + that she had spent so much money.... At the stations he would continually + be having to run for boiling water, bread and butter.... She wouldn’t have + dinner because of its being too dear.... + </p> + <p> + “She would begrudge me every farthing,” he thought, with a glance at his + wife. “The lottery ticket is hers, not mine! Besides, what is the use of + her going abroad? What does she want there? She would shut herself up in + the hotel, and not let me out of her sight.... I know!” + </p> + <p> + And for the first time in his life his mind dwelt on the fact that his + wife had grown elderly and plain, and that she was saturated through and + through with the smell of cooking, while he was still young, fresh, and + healthy, and might well have got married again. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, all that is silly nonsense,” he thought; “but... why should + she go abroad? What would she make of it? And yet she would go, of + course.... I can fancy... In reality it is all one to her, whether it is + Naples or Klin. She would only be in my way. I should be dependent upon + her. I can fancy how, like a regular woman, she will lock the money up as + soon as she gets it.... She will hide it from me.... She will look after + her relations and grudge me every farthing.” + </p> + <p> + Ivan Dmitritch thought of her relations. All those wretched brothers and + sisters and aunts and uncles would come crawling about as soon as they + heard of the winning ticket, would begin whining like beggars, and fawning + upon them with oily, hypocritical smiles. Wretched, detestable people! If + they were given anything, they would ask for more; while if they were + refused, they would swear at them, slander them, and wish them every kind + of misfortune. + </p> + <p> + Ivan Dmitritch remembered his own relations, and their faces, at which he + had looked impartially in the past, struck him now as repulsive and + hateful. + </p> + <p> + “They are such reptiles!” he thought. + </p> + <p> + And his wife’s face, too, struck him as repulsive and hateful. Anger + surged up in his heart against her, and he thought malignantly: + </p> + <p> + “She knows nothing about money, and so she is stingy. If she won it she + would give me a hundred roubles, and put the rest away under lock and + key.” + </p> + <p> + And he looked at his wife, not with a smile now, but with hatred. She + glanced at him too, and also with hatred and anger. She had her own + daydreams, her own plans, her own reflections; she understood perfectly + well what her husband’s dreams were. She knew who would be the first to + try and grab her winnings. + </p> + <p> + “It’s very nice making daydreams at other people’s expense!” is what her + eyes expressed. “No, don’t you dare!” + </p> + <p> + Her husband understood her look; hatred began stirring again in his + breast, and in order to annoy his wife he glanced quickly, to spite her at + the fourth page on the newspaper and read out triumphantly: + </p> + <p> + “Series 9,499, number 46! Not 26!” + </p> + <p> + Hatred and hope both disappeared at once, and it began immediately to seem + to Ivan Dmitritch and his wife that their rooms were dark and small and + low-pitched, that the supper they had been eating was not doing them good, + but lying heavy on their stomachs, that the evenings were long and + wearisome.... + </p> + <p> + “What the devil’s the meaning of it?” said Ivan Dmitritch, beginning to be + ill-humoured. “Wherever one steps there are bits of paper under one’s + feet, crumbs, husks. The rooms are never swept! One is simply forced to go + out. Damnation take my soul entirely! I shall go and hang myself on the + first aspen-tree!” + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s The Wife and Other Stories, by Anton Chekhov + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WIFE AND OTHER STORIES *** + +***** This file should be named 1883-h.htm or 1883-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/8/8/1883/ + +Produced by James Rusk and 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. 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