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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e3c6a47 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #55283 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/55283) diff --git a/old/55283-0.txt b/old/55283-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 4cbba9b..0000000 --- a/old/55283-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6611 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Bet, and other stories, by -Anton Pavlovich Chekhov - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Bet, and other stories - -Author: Anton Pavlovich Chekhov - -Translator: S. S. Koteliansky - John Middleton Murry - -Release Date: August 7, 2017 [eBook #55283] -Last Updated: September 26, 2023 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Marc D’Hooghe at Free Literature - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BET, AND OTHER STORIES *** - - - - -THE BET - -AND OTHER STORIES - -BY - -ANTON TCHEKHOV - -TRANSLATED BY - -S. KOTELIANSKY AND J. M. MURRY - -JOHN W. LUCE & CO. - -BOSTON - -1915 - - - - -TRANSLATORS’ NOTE - -Stiepanovich and Stepanich are two forms of the same name, -meaning--“son of Stephen.” The abbreviated form is the more intimate -and familiar. - -The Russian dishes mentioned in “A Tedious Story” have no exact -equivalents. _Sossoulki_ are a kind of little dumplings eaten in -soup; _schi_ is a soup made of sour cabbage; and _kasha_ is a kind of -porridge. - -The words of the song which the students sing in “The Fit” come from -Poushkin. - - - - - CONTENTS - - THE BET - A TEDIOUS STORY - THE FIT - MISFORTUNE - AFTER THE THEATRE - THAT WRETCHED BOY - ENEMIES - A TRIFLING OCCURRENCE - A GENTLEMAN FRIEND - OVERWHELMING SENSATIONS - EXPENSIVE LESSONS - A LIVING CALENDAR - OLD AGE - - - - -THE BET - - -I - - -It was a dark autumn night. The old banker was pacing from corner to -corner of his study, recalling to his mind the party he gave in the -autumn fifteen years ago. There were many clever people at the party -and much interesting conversation. They talked among other things of -capital punishment. The guests, among them not a few scholars and -journalists, for the most part disapproved of capital punishment. They -found it obsolete as a means of punishment, unfitted to a Christian -State and immoral. Some of them thought that capital punishment should -be replaced universally by life-imprisonment. - -“I don’t agree with you,” said the host. “I myself have experienced -neither capital punishment nor life-imprisonment, but if one may -judge _a priori,_ then in my opinion capital punishment is more -moral and more humane than imprisonment. Execution kills instantly, -life-imprisonment kills by degrees. Who is the more humane executioner, -one who kills you in a few seconds or one who draws the life out of -you incessantly, for years?” - -“They’re both equally immoral,” remarked one of the guests, “because -their purpose is the same, to take away life. The State is not God. It -has no right to take away that which it cannot give back, if it should -so desire.” - -Among the company was a lawyer, a young man of about twenty-five. On -being asked his opinion, he said: - -“Capital punishment and life-imprisonment are equally immoral; but if -I were offered the choice between them, I would certainly choose the -second. It’s better to live somehow than not to live at all.” - -There ensued a lively discussion. The banker who was then younger and -more nervous suddenly lost his temper, banged his fist on the table, and -turning to the young lawyer, cried out: - -“It’s a lie. I bet you two millions you wouldn’t stick in a cell even -for five years.” - -“If that’s serious,” replied the lawyer, “then I bet I’ll stay not five -but fifteen.” - -“Fifteen! Done!” cried the banker. “Gentlemen, I stake two millions.” - -“Agreed. You stake two millions, I my freedom,” said the lawyer. - -So this wild, ridiculous bet came to pass. The banker, who at that time -had too many millions to count, spoiled and capricious, was beside -himself with rapture. During supper he said to the lawyer jokingly: - -“Come to your senses, young man, before it’s too late. Two millions are -nothing to me, but you stand to lose three or four of the best years of -your life. I say three or four, because you’ll never stick it out any -longer. Don’t forget either, you unhappy man, that voluntary is much -heavier than enforced imprisonment. The idea that you have the right to -free yourself at any moment will poison the whole of your life in the -cell. I pity you.” - -And now the banker pacing from corner to corner, recalled all this and -asked himself: - -“Why did I make this bet? What’s the good? The lawyer loses fifteen -years of his life and I throw away two millions. Will it convince -people that capital punishment is worse or better than imprisonment for -life. No, No! all stuff and rubbish. On my part, it was the caprice of -a well-fed man; on the lawyer’s, pure greed of gold.” - -He recollected further what happened after the evening party. It -was decided that the lawyer must undergo his imprisonment under the -strictest observation, in a garden-wing of the banker’s house. It was -agreed that during the period he would be deprived of the right to -cross the threshold, to see living people, to hear human voices, and -to receive letters and newspapers. He was permitted to have a musical -instrument, to read books, to write letters, to drink wine and smoke -tobacco. By the agreement he could communicate, but only in silence, -with the outside world through a little window specially constructed -for this purpose. Everything necessary, books, music, wine, he could -receive in any quantity by sending a note through the window. The -agreement provided for all the minutest details, which made the -confinement strictly solitary, and it obliged the lawyer to remain -exactly fifteen years from twelve o’clock of November 14th 1870 to -twelve o’clock of November 14th 1885. The least attempt on his part to -violate the conditions, to escape if only for two minutes before the -time freed the banker from the obligation to pay him the two millions. - -During the first year of imprisonment, the lawyer, as far as it -was possible to judge from his short notes, suffered terribly from -loneliness and boredom. From his wing day and night came the sound of -the piano. He rejected wine and tobacco. “Wine,” he wrote, “excites -desires, and desires are the chief foes of a prisoner; besides, nothing -is more boring than to drink good wine alone,” and tobacco spoils the -air in his room. During the first year the lawyer was sent books of a -light character; novels with a complicated love interest, stories of -crime and fantasy, comedies, and so on. - -In the second year the piano was heard no longer and the lawyer asked -only for classics. In the fifth year, music was heard again, and the -prisoner asked for wine. Those who watched him said that during the -whole of that year he was only eating, drinking, and lying on his bed. -He yawned often and talked angrily to himself. Books he did not read. -Sometimes at nights he would sit down to write. He would write for a -long time and tear it all up in the morning. More than once he was -heard to weep. - -In the second half of the sixth year, the prisoner began zealously to -study languages, philosophy, and history. He fell on these subjects so -hungrily that the banker hardly had time to get books enough for him. -In the space of four years about six hundred volumes were bought at -his request. It was while that passion lasted that the banker received -the following letter from the prisoner: “My dear gaoler, I am writing -these lines in six languages. Show them to experts. Let them read them. -If they do not find one single mistake, I beg you to give orders to -have a gun fired off in the garden. By the noise I shall know that my -efforts have not been in vain. The geniuses of all ages and countries -speak in different languages; but in them all burns the same flame. Oh, -if you knew my heavenly happiness now that I can understand them!” The -prisoner’s desire was fulfilled. Two shots were fired in the garden by -the banker’s order. - -Later on, after the tenth year, the lawyer sat immovable before his -table and read only the New Testament. The banker found it strange -that a man who in four years had mastered six hundred erudite volumes, -should have spent nearly a year in reading one book, easy to -understand and by no means thick. The New Testament was then replaced -by the history of religions and theology. - -During the last two years of his confinement the prisoner read an -extraordinary amount, quite haphazard. Now he would apply himself to -the natural sciences, then would read Byron or Shakespeare. Notes used -to come from him in which he asked to be sent at the same time a book -on chemistry, a text-book of medicine, a novel, and some treatise on -philosophy or theology. He read as though he were swimming in the sea -among the broken pieces of wreckage, and in his desire to save his life -was eagerly grasping one piece after another. - - -II - - -The banker recalled all this, and thought: - -“To-morrow at twelve o’clock he receives his freedom. Under the -agreement, I shall have to pay him two millions. If I pay, it’s all -over with me. I am ruined for ever....” - -Fifteen years before he had too many millions to count, but now he was -afraid to ask himself which he had more of, money or debts. Gambling on -the Stock-Exchange, risky speculation, and the recklessness of which -he could not rid himself even in old age, had gradually brought his -business to decay; and the fearless, self-confident, proud man of -business had become an ordinary banker, trembling at every rise and -fall in the market. - -“That cursed bet,” murmured the old man clutching his head in -despair.... “Why didn’t the man die? He’s only forty years old. He will -take away my last farthing, marry, enjoy life, gamble on the Exchange, -and I will look on like an envious beggar and hear the same words from -him every day: ‘I’m obliged to you for the happiness of my life. Let -me help you.’ No, it’s too much! The only escape from bankruptcy and -disgrace--is that the man should die.” - -The clock had just struck three. The banker was listening. In the house -everyone was asleep, and one could hear only the frozen trees whining -outside the windows. Trying to make no sound, he took out of his safe -the key of the door which had not been opened for fifteen years, put -on his overcoat, and went out of the house. The garden was dark and -cold. It was raining. A keen damp wind hovered howling over all the -garden and gave the trees no rest. Though he strained his eyes, the -banker could see neither the ground, nor the white statues, nor the -garden-wing, nor the trees. Approaching the place where the garden-wing -stood, he called the watchman twice. There was no answer. Evidently -the watchman had taken shelter from the bad weather and was now asleep -somewhere in the kitchen or the greenhouse. - -“If I have the courage to fulfil my intention,” thought the old man, -“the suspicion will fall on the watchman first of all.” - -In the darkness he groped for the stairs and the door and entered the -hall of the garden-wing, then poked his way into a narrow passage and -struck a match. Not a soul was there. Someone’s bed, with no bedclothes -on it, stood there, and an iron stove was dark in the corner. The seals -on the door that led into the prisoner’s room were unbroken. - -When the match went out, the old man, trembling from agitation, peeped -into the little window. - -In the prisoner’s room a candle was burning dim. The prisoner himself -sat by the table. Only his back, the hair on his head and his hands -were visible. On the table, the two chairs, the carpet by the table -open books were strewn. - -Five minutes passed and the prisoner never once stirred. Fifteen years -confinement had taught him to sit motionless. The banker tapped on the -window with his finger, but the prisoner gave no movement in reply. -Then the banker cautiously tore the seals from the door and put the key -into the lock. The rusty lock gave a hoarse groan and the door creaked. -The banker expected instantly to hear a cry of surprise and the sound -of steps. Three minutes passed and it was as quiet behind the door as -it had been before. He made up his mind to enter. Before the table -sat a man, unlike an ordinary human being. It was a skeleton, with -tight-drawn skin, with a woman’s long curly hair, and a shaggy beard. -The colour of his face was yellow, of an earthy shade; the cheeks were -sunken, the back long and narrow, and the hand upon which he leaned his -hairy head was so lean and skinny that it was painful to look upon. -His hair was already silvering with grey, and no one who glanced at -the senile emaciation of the face would have believed that he was only -forty years old. On the table, before his bended head, lay a sheet of -paper on which something was written in a tiny hand. - -“Poor devil,” thought the banker, “he’s asleep and probably seeing -millions in his dreams. I have only to take and throw this half-dead -thing on the bed, smother him a moment with the pillow, and the most -careful examination will find no trace of unnatural death. But, first, -let us read what he has written here.” - -The banker took the sheet from the table and read: - -“To-morrow at twelve o’clock midnight, I shall obtain my freedom and -the right to mix with people. But before I leave this room and see the -sun I think it necessary to say a few words to you. On my own clear -conscience and before God who sees me I declare to you that I despise -freedom, life, health, and all that your books call the blessings of -the world. - -“For fifteen years I have diligently studied earthly life. True, -I saw neither the earth nor the people, but in your books I drank -fragrant wine, sang songs, hunted deer and wild boar in the forests, -loved women.... And beautiful women, like clouds ethereal, created by -the magic of your poets’ genius, visited me by night and whispered me -wonderful tales, which made my head drunken. In your books I climbed -the summits of Elbruz and Mont Blanc and saw from thence how the -sun rose in the morning, and in the evening overflowed the sky, the -ocean and the mountain ridges with a purple gold. I saw from thence -how above me lightnings glimmered cleaving the clouds; I saw green -forests, fields, rivers, lakes, cities; I heard syrens singing, and the -playing of the pipes of Pan; I touched the wings of beautiful devils -who came flying to me to speak of God.... In your books I cast myself -into bottomless abysses, worked miracles, burned cities to the ground, -preached new religions, conquered whole countries.... - -“Your books gave me wisdom. All that unwearying human thought created -in the centuries is compressed to a little lump in my skull. I know -that I am more clever than you all. - -“And I despise your books, despise all wordly blessings and wisdom. -Everything is void, frail, visionary and delusive like a mirage. Though -you be proud and wise and beautiful, yet will death wipe you from the -face of the earth like the mice underground; and your posterity, your -history, and the immortality of your men of genius will be as frozen -slag, burnt down together with the terrestrial globe. - -“You are mad, and gone the wrong way. You take lie for truth and -ugliness for beauty. You would marvel if by certain conditions there -should suddenly grow on apple and orange trees, instead of fruit, -frogs and lizards, and if roses should begin to breathe the odour of -a sweating horse. So do I marvel at you, who have bartered heaven for -earth. I do not want to understand you. - -“That I may show you in deed my contempt for that by which you live, -I waive the two millions of which I once dreamed as of paradise, and -which I now despise. That I may deprive myself of my right to them, I -shall come out from here five minutes before the stipulated term, and -thus shall violate the agreement.” - -When he had read, the banker put the sheet on the table, kissed the -head of the strange man, and began to weep. He went out of the wing. -Never at any other time, not even after his terrible losses on the -Exchange, had he felt such contempt for himself as now. Coming home, -he lay down on his bed, but agitation and tears kept him long from -sleep.... - -The next morning the poor watchman came running to him and told him -that they had seen the man who lived in the wing climbing through the -window into the garden. He had gone to the gate and disappeared. -Together with his servants the banker went instantly to the wing and -established the escape of his prisoner. To avoid unnecessary rumours he -took the paper with the renunciation from the table and, on his return, -locked it in his safe. - - - - -A TEDIOUS STORY - - -(FROM AN OLD MAN’S JOURNAL) - - -I - - -There lives in Russia an emeritus professor, Nicolai Stiepanovich ... -privy councillor and knight. He has so many Russian and foreign Orders -that when he puts them on the students call him “the holy picture.” -His acquaintance is most distinguished. Not a single famous scholar -lived or died during the last twenty-five or thirty years but he was -intimately acquainted with him. Now he has no one to be friendly with, -but speaking of the past the long list of his eminent friends would -end with such names as Pirogov, Kavelin, and the poet Nekrasov, who -bestowed upon him their warmest and most sincere friendship. He is a -member of all the Russian and of three foreign universities, et cetera, -et cetera. All this, and a great deal besides, forms what is known as -my name. - -This name of mine is very popular. It is known to every literate person -in Russia; abroad it is mentioned from professorial chairs with the -epithets “eminent and esteemed.” It is reckoned among those fortunate -names which to mention in vain or to abuse in public or in the Press -is considered a mark of bad breeding. Indeed, it should be so; because -with my name is inseparably associated the idea of a famous, richly -gifted, and indubitably useful person. I am a steady worker, with -the endurance of a camel, which is important. I am also endowed with -talent, which is still more important. In passing, I would add that -I am a well-educated, modest, and honest fellow. I have never poked -my nose into letters or politics, never sought popularity in disputes -with the ignorant, and made no speeches either at dinners or at my -colleagues’ funerals. Altogether there is not a single spot on my -learned name, and it has nothing to complain of. It is fortunate. - -The bearer of this name, that is myself, is a man of sixty-two, with a -bald head, false teeth and an incurable tic. My name is as brilliant -and prepossessing, as I, myself am dull and ugly. My head and hands -tremble from weakness; my neck, like that of one of Turgeniev’s -heroines, resembles the handle of a counter-bass; my chest is hollow -and my back narrow. When I speak or read my mouth twists, and when I -smile my whole face is covered with senile, deathly wrinkles. There is -nothing imposing in my pitiable face, save that when I suffer from the -tic, I have a singular expression which compels anyone who looks at me -to think: “This man will die soon, for sure.” - -I can still read pretty well; I can still hold the attention of my -audience for two hours. My passionate manner, the literary form of -my exposition and my humour make the defects of my voice almost -unnoticeable, though it is dry, harsh, and hard like a hypocrite’s. -But I write badly. The part of my brain which governs the ability to -write refused office. My memory has weakened, and my thoughts are -too inconsequent; and when I expound them on paper, I always have a -feeling that I have lost the sense of their organic connection. The -construction is monotonous, and the sentence feeble and timid. I -often do not write what I want to, and when I write the end I cannot -remember the beginning. I often forget common words, and in writing a -letter I always have to waste much energy in order to avoid superfluous -sentences and unnecessary incidental statements; both bear clear -witness of the decay of my intellectual activity. And it is remarkable -that, the simpler the letter, the more tormenting is my effort. When -writing a scientific article I fed much freer and much more intelligent -than in writing a letter of welcome or a report. One thing more: it is -easier for me to write German or English than Russian. - -As regards my present life, I must first of all note insomnia, from -which I have begun to suffer lately. If I were asked: “What is now -the chief and fundamental fact of your existence?” I would answer: -“Insomnia.” From habit, I still undress at midnight precisely and get -into bed. I soon fall asleep but wake just after one with the feeling -that I have not slept at all. I must get out of bed and light the -lamp. For an hour or two I walk about the room from corner to corner -and inspect the long familiar pictures. When I am weary of walking I -sit down to the table. I sit motionless thinking of nothing, feeling -no desires; if a book lies before me I draw it mechanically towards me -and read without interest. Thus lately in one night I read mechanically -a whole novel with a strange title, “Of What the Swallow Sang.” Or in -order to occupy my attention I make myself count to a thousand, or I -imagine the face of some one of my friends, and begin to remember in -what year and under what circumstances he joined the faculty. I love -to listen to sounds. Now, two rooms away from me my daughter Liza will -say something quickly, in her sleep; then my wife will walk through the -drawing-room with a candle and infallibly drop the box of matches. Then -the shrinking wood of the cupboard squeaks or the burner of the lamp -tinkles suddenly, and all these sounds somehow agitate me. - -Not to sleep of nights confesses one abnormal; and therefore I wait -impatiently for the morning and the day, when I have the right not -to sleep. Many oppressive hours pass before the cock crows. He is my -harbinger of good. As soon as he has crowed I know that in an hour’s -time the porter downstairs will awake and for some reason or other go -up the stairs, coughing angrily; and later beyond the windows the air -begins to pale gradually and voices echo in the street. - -The day begins with the coming of my wife. She comes in to me in a -petticoat, with her hair undone, but already washed and smelling of eau -de Cologne, and looking as though she came in by accident, saying the -same thing every time: “Pardon, I came in for a moment. You haven’t -slept again?” Then she puts the lamp out, sits by the table and begins -to talk. I am not a prophet but I know beforehand what the subject of -conversation will be, every morning the same. Usually, after breathless -inquiries after my health, she suddenly remembers our son, the officer, -who is serving in Warsaw. On the twentieth of each month we send him -fifty roubles. This is our chief subject of conversation. - -“Of course it is hard on us,” my wife sighs. “But until he is finally -settled we are obliged to help him. The boy is among strangers; the -pay is small. But if you like, next month we’ll send him forty roubles -instead of fifty. What do you think?” - -Daily experience might have convinced my wife that expenses do -not grow less by talking of them. But my wife does not acknowledge -experience and speaks about our officer punctually every day, about -bread, thank Heaven, being cheaper and sugar a half-penny dearer--and -all this in a tone as though it were news to me. - -I listen and agree mechanically. Probably because I have not slept -during the night strange idle thoughts take hold of me. I look at my -wife and wonder like a child. In perplexity I ask myself: This old, -stout, clumsy woman, with sordid cares and anxiety about bread and -butter written in the dull expression of her face, her eyes tired with -eternal thoughts of debts and poverty, who can talk only of expenses -and smile only when things are cheap--was this once the slim Varya -whom I loved passionately for her fine clear mind, her pure soul, her -beauty, and as Othello loved Desdemona, for her “compassion” of my -science? Is she really the same, my wife Varya, who bore me a son? - -I gaze intently into the fat, clumsy old woman’s face. I seek in her -my Varya; but from the past nothing remains but her fear for my health -and her way of calling my salary “our” salary and my hat “our” hat. It -pains me to look at her, and to console her, if only a little, I let -her talk as she pleases, and I am silent even when she judges people -unjustly, or scolds me because I do not practise and do not publish -text-books. - -Our conversation always ends in the same way. My wife suddenly -remembers that I have not yet had tea, and gives a start: - -“Why am I sitting down?” she says, getting up. “The samovar has been on -the table a long while, and I sit chatting. How forgetful I am? Good -gracious!” - -She hurries away, but stops at the door to say: - -“We owe Yegor five months’ wages. Do you realise it? It’s a bad thing -to let the servants’ wages run on. I’ve said so often. It’s much easier -to pay ten roubles every month than fifty for five!” - -Outside the door she stops again: - -“I pity our poor Liza more than anybody. The girl studies at the -Conservatoire. She’s always in good society, and the Lord only knows -how she’s dressed. That fur-coat of hers! It’s a sin to show yourself -in the street in it. If she had a different father, it would do, but -everyone knows he is a famous professor, a privy councillor.” - -So, having reproached me for my name and title, she goes away at last. -Thus begins my day. It does not improve. - -When I have drunk my tea, Liza comes in, in a fur-coat and hat, with -her music, ready to go to the Conservatoire. She is twenty-two. She -looks younger. She is pretty, rather like my wife when she was young. -She kisses me tenderly on my forehead and my hand. - -“Good morning, Papa. Quite well?” - -As a child she adored ice-cream, and I often had to take her to a -confectioner’s. Ice-cream was her standard of beauty. If she wanted -to praise me, she used to say: “Papa, you are ice-creamy.” One finger -she called the pistachio, the other the cream, the third the raspberry -finger and so on. And when she came to say good morning, I used to lift -her on to my knees and kiss her fingers, and say: - -“The cream one, the pistachio one, the lemon one.” - -And now from force of habit I kiss Liza’s fingers and murmur: - -“Pistachio one, cream one, lemon one.” But it does not sound the same. -I am cold like the ice-cream and I feel ashamed. When my daughter comes -in and touches my forehead with her lips I shudder as though a bee had -stung my forehead, I smile constrainedly and turn away my face. Since -my insomnia began a question has been driving like a nail into my -brain. My daughter continually sees how terribly I, an old man, blush -because I owe the servant his wages; she sees how often the worry of -small debts forces me to leave my work and to pace the room from corner -to corner for hours, thinking; but why hasn’t she, even once, come to -me without telling her mother and whispered: “Father, here’s my watch, -bracelets, earrings, dresses.... Pawn them all.... You need money”? -Why, seeing how I and her mother try to hide our poverty, out of false -pride--why does she not deny herself the luxury of music lessons? I -would not accept the watch, the bracelets, or her sacrifices--God -forbid!--I do not want that. - -Which reminds me of my son, the Warsaw officer. He is a clever, honest, -and sober fellow. But that doesn’t mean very much. If I had an old -father, and I knew that there were moments when he was ashamed of his -poverty, I think I would give up my commission to someone else and -hire myself out as a navvy. These thoughts of the children poison me. -What good are they? Only a mean and irritable person can take refuge -in thinking evil of ordinary people because they are not heroes. But -enough of that. - -At a quarter to ten I have to go and lecture to my dear boys. I dress -myself and walk the road I have known these thirty years. For me it has -a history of its own. Here is a big grey building with a chemist’s shop -beneath. A tiny house once stood there, and it was a beer-shop. In this -beer-shop I thought out my thesis, and wrote my first love-letter to -Varya. I wrote it in pencil on a scrap of paper that began “Historia -Morbi.” Here is a grocer’s shop. It used to belong to a little Jew who -sold me cigarettes on credit, and later on to a fat woman who loved -students “because every one of them had a mother.” Now a red-headed -merchant sits there, a very nonchalant man, who drinks tea from a -copper tea-pot. And here are the gloomy gates of the University that -have not been repaired for years; a weary porter in a sheepskin coat, a -broom, heaps of snow ... Such gates cannot produce a good impression on -a boy who comes fresh from the provinces and imagines that the temple -of science is really a temple. Certainly, in the history of Russian -pessimism, the age of university buildings, the dreariness of the -corridors, the smoke-stains on the walls, the meagre light, the dismal -appearance of the stairs, the clothes-pegs and the benches, hold one of -the foremost places in the series of predisposing causes. Here is our -garden. It does not seem to have grown any better or any worse since I -was a student. I do not like it. It would be much more sensible if tall -pine-trees and fine oaks grew there instead of consumptive lime-trees, -yellow acacias and thin clipped lilac. The student’s mood is created -mainly by every one of the surroundings in which he studies; therefore -he must see everywhere before him only what is great and strong and -exquisite. Heaven preserve him from starveling trees, broken windows, -and drab walls and doors covered with torn oilcloth. - -As I approach my main staircase the door is open wide. I am met by -my old friend, of the same age and name as I, Nicolas the porter. He -grunts as he lets me in: - -“It’s frosty, Your Excellency.” - -Or if my coat is wet: - -“It’s raining a bit, Your Excellency.” - -Then he runs in front of me and opens all the doors on my way. In the -study he carefully takes off my coat and at the same time manages -to tell me some university news. Because of the close acquaintance -that exists between all the University porters and keepers, he knows -all that happens in the four faculties, in the registry, in the -chancellor’s cabinet, and the library. He knows everything. When, for -instance, the resignation of the rector or dean is under discussion, -I hear him talking to the junior porters, naming candidates and -explaining offhand that so and so will not be approved by the Minister, -so and so will himself refuse the honour; then he plunges into -fantastic details of some mysterious papers received in the registry, -of a secret conversation which appears to have taken place between the -Minister and the curator, and so on. These details apart, he is almost -always right. The impressions he forms of each candidate are original, -but also true. If you want to know who read his thesis, joined the -staff, resigned or died in a particular year, then you must seek the -assistance of this veteran’s colossal memory. He will not only name you -the year, month, and day, but give you the accompanying details of this -or any other event. Such memory is the privilege of love. - -He is the guardian of the university traditions. From the porters -before him he inherited many legends of the life of the university. He -added to this wealth much of his own and if you like he will tell you -many stories, long or short. He can tell you of extraordinary savants -who knew _everything,_ of remarkable scholars who did not sleep for -weeks on end, of numberless martyrs to science; good triumphs over evil -with him. The weak always conquer the strong, the wise man the fool, -the modest the proud, the young the old. There is no need to take all -these legends and stories for sterling; but filter them, and you will -find what you want in your filter, a noble tradition and the names of -true heroes acknowledged by all. - -In our society all the information about the learned world consists -entirely of anecdotes of the extraordinary absent-mindedness of old -professors, and of a handful of jokes, which are ascribed to Guber -or to myself or to Baboukhin. But this is too little for an educated -society. If it loved science, savants and students as Nicolas loves -them, it would long ago have had a literature of whole epics, stories, -and biographies. But unfortunately this is yet to be. - -The news told, Nicolas looks stern and we begin to talk business. If -an outsider were then to hear how freely Nicolas uses the jargon, he -would be inclined to think that he was a scholar, posing as a soldier. -By the way, the rumours of the university-porter’s erudition are very -exaggerated. It is true that Nicolas knows more than a hundred Latin -tags, can put a skeleton together and on occasion make a preparation, -can make the students laugh with a long learned quotation, but the -simple theory of the circulation of the blood is as dark to him now as -it was twenty years ago. - -At the table in my room, bent low over a book or a preparation, sits -my dissector, Peter Ignatievich. He is a hardworking, modest man of -thirty-five without any gifts, already bald and with a big belly. -He works from morning to night, reads tremendously and remembers -everything he has read. In this respect he is not merely an excellent -man, but a man of gold; but in all others he is a cart-horse, or if you -like a learned blockhead. The characteristic traits of a cart-horse -which distinguish him from a creature of talent are these. His outlook -is narrow, absolutely bounded by his specialism. Apart from his own -subject he is as naive as a child. I remember once entering the room -and saying: - -“Think what bad luck! They say, Skobielev is dead.” - -Nicolas crossed himself; but Peter Ignatievich turned to me: - -“Which Skobielev do you mean?” - -Another time,--some time earlier--I announced that Professor Pierov was -dead. That darling Peter Ignatievich asked: - -“What was his subject?” - -I imagine that if Patti sang into his ear, or Russia were attacked by -hordes of Chinamen, or there was an earthquake, he would not lift -a finger, but would go on in the quietest way with his eye screwed -over his microscope. In a word: “What’s Hecuba to him?” I would give -anything to see how this dry old stick goes to bed with his wife. - -Another trait: a fanatical belief in the infallibility of science, -above all in everything that the Germans write. He is sure of himself -and his preparations, knows the purpose of life, is absolutely ignorant -of the doubts and disillusionments that turn talents grey,--a slavish -worship of the authorities, and not a shadow of need to think for -himself. It is hard to persuade him and quite impossible to discuss -with him. Just try a discussion with a man who is profoundly convinced -that the best science is medicine, the best men doctors, the best -traditions--the medical! From the ugly past of medicine only one -tradition has survived,--the white necktie that doctors wear still. -For a learned, and more generally for an educated person there can -exist only a general university tradition, without any division into -traditions of medicine, of law, and so on. But it’s quite impossible -for Peter Ignatievich to agree with that; and he is ready to argue it -with you till doomsday. - -His future is quite plain to me. During the whole of his life he will -make several hundred preparations of extraordinary purity, will write -any number of dry, quite competent, essays, will make about ten -scrupulously accurate translations; but he won’t invent gunpowder. -For gunpowder, imagination is wanted, inventiveness, and a gift for -divination, and Peter Ignatievich has nothing of the kind. In short, he -is not a master of science but a labourer. - -Peter Ignatievich, Nicolas, and I whisper together. We are rather -strange to ourselves. One feels something quite particular, when the -audience booms like the sea behind the door. In thirty years I have not -grown used to this feeling, and I have it every morning. I button up my -frock-coat nervously, ask Nicolas unnecessary questions, get angry.... -It is as though I were afraid; but it is not fear, but something else -which I cannot name nor describe. - -Unnecessarily, I look at my watch and say: - -“Well, it’s time to go.” - -And we march in, in this order: Nicolas with the preparations or the -atlases in front, myself next, and after me, the cart-horse, modestly -hanging his head; or, if necessary, a corpse on a stretcher in front -and behind the corpse Nicolas and so on. The students rise when I -appear, then sit down and the noise of the sea is suddenly still. Calm -begins. - -I know what I will lecture about, but I know nothing of how I will -lecture, where I will begin and where I will end. There is not a single -sentence ready in my brain. But as soon as I glance at the audience, -sitting around me in an amphitheatre, and utter the stereotyped “In -our last lecture we ended with....” and the sentences fly out of -my soul in a long line--then it is full steam ahead. I speak with -irresistible speed, and with passion, and it seems as though no earthly -power could check the current of my speech. In order to lecture well, -that is without being wearisome and to the listener’s profit, besides -talent you must have the knack of it and experience; you must have -a clear idea both of your own powers, of the people to whom you are -lecturing, and of the subject of your remarks. Moreover, you must be -quick in the uptake, keep a sharp eye open, and never for a moment lose -your field of vision. - -When he presents the composer’s thought, a good conductor does twenty -things at once. He reads the score, waves his baton, watches the -singer, makes a gesture now towards the drum, now to the double-bass, -and so on. It is the same with me when lecturing. I have some hundred -and fifty faces before me, quite unlike each other, and three hundred -eyes staring me straight in the face. My purpose is to conquer this -many-headed hydra. If I have a clear idea how far they are attending -and how much they are comprehending every minute while I am lecturing, -then the hydra is in my power. My other opponent is within me. This -is the endless variety of forms, phenomena and laws, and the vast -number of ideas, whether my own or others’, which depend upon them. -Every moment I must be skilful enough to choose what is most important -and necessary from this enormous material, and just as swiftly as -my speech flows to clothe my thought in a form which will penetrate -the hydra’s understanding and excite its attention. Besides I must -watch carefully to see that my thoughts shall not be presented as -they have been accumulated, but in a certain order, necessary for the -correct composition of the picture which I wish to paint. Further, I -endeavour to make my speech literary, my definitions brief and exact, -my sentences as simple and elegant as possible. Every moment I must -hold myself in and remember that I have only an hour and forty minutes -to spend. In other words, it is a heavy labour. At one and the same -time you have to be a savant, a schoolmaster, and an orator, and it is -a failure if the orator triumphs over the schoolmaster in you or the -schoolmaster over the orator. - -After lecturing for a quarter, for half an hour, I notice suddenly that -the students have begun to stare at the ceiling or Peter Ignatievich. -One will feel for his handkerchief, another settle himself comfortably, -another smile at his own thoughts. This means their attention is tried. -I must take steps. I seize the first opening and make a pun. All the -hundred and fifty faces have a broad smile, their eyes flash merrily, -and for a while you can hear the boom of the sea. I laugh too. Their -attention is refreshed and I can go on. - -No sport, no recreation, no game ever gave me such delight as reading -a lecture. Only in a lecture could I surrender myself wholly to -passion and understand that inspiration is not a poet’s fiction, but -exists indeed. And I do not believe that Hercules, even after the -most delightful of his exploits, felt such a pleasant weariness as I -experienced every time after a lecture. - -This was in the past. Now at lectures I experience only torture. Not -half an hour passes before I begin to feel an invincible weakness in -my legs and shoulders. I sit down in my chair, but I am not used to -lecture sitting. In a moment I am up again, and lecture standing. Then -I sit down again. Inside my mouth is dry, my voice is hoarse, my head -feels dizzy. To hide my state from my audience I drink some water now -and then, cough, wipe my nose continually, as though I was troubled -by a cold, make inopportune puns, and finally announce the interval -earlier than I should. But chiefly I feel ashamed. - -Conscience and reason tell me that the best thing I could do now is to -read my farewell lecture to the boys, give them my last word, bless -them and give up my place to someone younger and stronger than I. But, -heaven be my judge, I have not the courage to act up to my conscience. - -Unfortunately, I am neither philosopher nor theologian. I know quite -well I have no more than six months to live; and it would seem that -now I ought to be mainly occupied with questions of the darkness -beyond the grave, and the visions which will visit my sleep in the -earth. But somehow my soul is not curious of these questions, though -my mind grants every atom of their importance. Now before my death it -is just as it was twenty or thirty years ago. Only science interests -me.--When I take my last breath I shall still believe that Science is -the most important, the most beautiful, the most necessary thing in the -life of man; that she has always been and always will be the highest -manifestation of love, and that by her alone will man triumph over -nature and himself. This faith is, perhaps, at bottom naive and unfair, -but I am not to blame if this and not another is my faith. To conquer -this faith within me is for me impossible. - -But this is beside the point. I only ask that you should incline to my -weakness and understand that to tear a man who is more deeply concerned -with the destiny of a brain tissue than the final goal of creation away -from his rostrum and his students is like taking him and nailing him up -in a coffin without waiting until he is dead. - -Because of my insomnia and the intense struggle with my increasing -weakness a strange thing happens inside me. In the middle of my -lecture tears rise to my throat, my eyes begin to ache, and I have -a passionate and hysterical desire to stretch out my hands and moan -aloud. I want to cry out that fate has doomed me, a famous man, to -death; that in some six months here in the auditorium another will be -master. I want to cry out that I am poisoned; that new ideas that I -did not know before have poisoned the last days of my life, and sting -my brain incessantly like mosquitoes. At that moment my position seems -so terrible to me that I want all my students to be terrified, to jump -from their seats and rush panic-stricken to the door, shrieking in -despair. - -It is not easy to live through such moments. - - -II - - -After the lecture I sit at home and work. I read reviews, -dissertations, or prepare for the next lecture, and sometimes I write -something. I work with interruptions, since I have to receive visitors. - -The bell rings. It is a friend who has come to talk over some business. -He enters with hat and stick. He holds them both in front of him and -says: - -“Just a minute, a minute. Sit down, cher confrère. Only a word or two.” - -First we try to show each other that we are both extraordinarily polite -and very glad to see each other. I make him sit down in the chair, -and he makes me sit down; and then we touch each other’s waists, and -put our hands on each other’s buttons, as though we were feeling each -other and afraid to burn ourselves. We both laugh, though we say nothing -funny. Sitting down, we bend our heads together and begin to whisper to -each other. We must gild our conversation with such Chinese formalities -as: “You remarked most justly” or “I have already had the occasion to -say.” We must giggle if either of us makes a pun, though it’s a bad -one. When we have finished with the business, my friend gets up with a -rush, waves his hat towards my work, and begins to take his leave. We -feel each other once more and laugh. I accompany him down to the hall. -There I help my friend on with his coat, but he emphatically declines -so great an honour. Then, when Yegor opens the door my friend assures -me that I will catch cold, and I pretend to be ready to follow him into -the street. And when I finally return to my study my face keeps smiling -still, it must be from inertia. - -A little later another ring. Someone enters the hall, spends a -long time taking off his coat and coughs. Yegor brings me word -that a student has come. I tell him to show him up. In a minute a -pleasant-faced young man appears. For a year we have been on these -forced terms together. He sends in abominable answers at examinations, -and I mark him gamma. Every year I have about seven of these people -to whom, to use the students’ slang, “I give a plough” or “haul them -through.” Those of them who fail because of stupidity or illness, -usually bear their cross in patience and do not bargain with me; only -sanguine temperaments, “open natures,” bargain with me and come to my -house, people whose appetite is spoiled or who are prevented from going -regularly to the opera by a delay in their examinations. With the first -I am over-indulgent; the second kind I keep on the run for a year. - -“Sit down,” I say to my guest. “What was it you wished to say?” - -“Forgive me for troubling you, Professor....” he begins, stammering -and never looking me in the face. “I would not venture to trouble you -unless.... I was up for my examination before you for the fifth time -... and I failed. I implore you to be kind, and give me a ‘satis,’ -because....” - -The defence which all idlers make of themselves is always the same. -They have passed in every other subject with distinction, and failed -only in mine, which is all the more strange because they had always -studied my subject most diligently and know it thoroughly. They failed -through some inconceivable misunderstanding. - -“Forgive me, my friend,” I say to my guest. “But I can’t give you a -‘satis’--impossible. Go and read your lectures again, and then come. -Then we’ll see.” - -Pause. I get a desire to torment the student a little, because he -prefers beer and the opera to science; and I say with a sigh: - -“In my opinion, the best thing for you now is to give up the Faculty of -Medicine altogether. With your abilities, if you find it impossible to -pass the examination, then it seems you have neither the desire nor the -vocation to be a doctor.” - -My sanguine friend’s face grows grave. - -“Excuse me, Professor,” he smiles, “but it would be strange, to say the -least, on my part. Studying medicine for five years and suddenly--to -throw it over.” - -“Yes, but it’s better to waste five years than to spend your whole life -afterwards in an occupation which you dislike.” - -Immediately I begin to feel sorry for him and hasten to say: - -“Well, do as you please. Read a little and come again.” - -“When?” the idler asks, dully. - -“Whenever you like. To-morrow, even.” - -And I read in his pleasant eyes. “I can come again; but you’ll send me -away again, you beast.” - -“Of course,” I say, “you won’t become more learned because you have to -come up to me fifteen times for examination; but this will form your -character. You must be thankful for that.” - -Silence. I rise and wait for my guest to leave. But he stands there, -looking at the window, pulling at his little beard and thinking. It -becomes tedious. - -My sanguine friend has a pleasant, succulent voice, clever, amusing -eyes, a good-natured face, rather puffed by assiduity to beer and much -resting on the sofa. Evidently he could tell me many interesting things -about the opera, about his love affairs, about the friends he adores; -but, unfortunately, it is not the thing. And I would so eagerly listen! - -“On my word of honour, Professor, if you give me a ‘satis’ I’ll....” - -As soon as it gets to “my word of honour,” I wave my hands and sit down -to the table. The student thinks for a while and says, dejectedly: - -“In that case, good-bye.... Forgive me!” - -“Good-bye, my friend.... Good-bye!” - -He walks irresolutely into the hall, slowly puts on his coat, and, when -he goes into the street, probably thinks again for a long while; having -excogitated nothing better than “old devil” for me, he goes to a cheap -restaurant to drink beer and dine, and then home to sleep. Peace be to -your ashes, honest labourer! - -A third ring. Enters a young doctor in a new black suit, gold-rimmed -spectacles and the inevitable white necktie. He introduces himself. -I ask him to take a seat and inquire his business. The young priest -of science begins to tell me, not without agitation, that he passed -his doctor’s examination this year, and now has only to write his -dissertation. He would like to work with me, under my guidance; and -I would do him a great kindness if I would suggest a subject for his -dissertation. - -“I should be delighted to be of use to you, mon cher confrère,” I -say. “But first of all, let us come to an agreement as to what is a -dissertation. Generally we understand by this, work produced as the -result of an independent creative power. Isn’t that so? But a work -written on another’s subject, under another’s guidance, has a different -name.” - -The aspirant is silent. I fire up and jump out of my seat. “Why do you -all come to me? I can’t understand,” I cry out angrily. “Do I keep a -shop? I don’t sell theses across the counter. For the one thousandth -time I ask you all to leave me alone. Forgive my rudeness, but I’ve got -tired of it at last!” - -The aspirant is silent. Only, a tinge of colour shows on his cheek. -His face expresses his profound respect for my famous name and my -erudition, but I see in his eyes that he despises my voice, my pitiable -figure, my nervous gestures. When I am angry I seem to him a very queer -fellow. - -“I do not keep a shop,” I storm. “It’s an amazing business! Why don’t -you want to be independent? Why do you find freedom so objectionable?” - -I say a great deal, but he is silent. At last by degrees I grow calm, -and, of course, surrender. The aspirant will receive a valueless -subject from me, will write under my observation a needless thesis, -will pass his tedious disputation _cum laude_ and will get a useless -and learned degree. - -The rings follow in endless succession, but here I confine myself -to four. The fourth ring sounds, and I hear the familiar steps, the -rustling dress, the dear voice. - -Eighteen years ago my dear friend, the oculist, died and left behind -him a seven year old daughter, Katy, and sixty thousand roubles. By -his will he made me guardian. Katy lived in my family till she was -ten. Afterwards she was sent to College and lived with me only in -her holidays in the summer months. I had no time to attend to her -education. I watched only by fits and starts; so that I can say very -little about her childhood. - -The chief thing I remember, the one I love to dwell upon in memory, -is the extraordinary confidence which she had when she entered my -house, when she had to have the doctor,--a confidence which was always -shining in her darling face. She would sit in a corner somewhere -with her face tied up, and would be sure to be absorbed in watching -something. Whether she was watching me write and read books, or my wife -bustling about, or the cook peeling the potatoes in the kitchen or -the dog playing about--her eyes invariably expressed the same thing: -“Everything that goes on in this world,--everything is beautiful and -clever.” She was inquisitive and adored to talk to me. She would sit at -the table opposite me, watching my movements and asking questions. She -is interested to know what I read, what I do at the University, if I’m -not afraid of corpses, what I do with my money. - -“Do the students fight at the University?” she would ask. - -“They do, my dear.” - -“You make them go down on their knees?” - -“I do.” - -And it seemed funny to her that the students fought and that I made -them go down on their knees, and she laughed. She was a gentle, good, -patient child. - -Pretty often I happened to see how something was taken away from her, -or she was unjustly punished, or her curiosity was not satisfied. At -such moments sadness would be added to her permanent expression of -confidence--nothing more. I didn’t know how to take her part, but when -I saw her sadness, I always had the desire to draw her close to me and -comfort her in an old nurse’s voice: “My darling little orphan!” - -I remember too she loved to be well dressed and to sprinkle herself -with scents. In this she was like me. I also love good clothes and fine -scents. - -I regret that I had neither the time nor the inclination to watch the -beginnings and the growth of the passion which had completely taken -hold of Katy when she was no more than fourteen or fifteen. I mean her -passionate love for the theatre. When she used to come from the College -for her holidays and live with us, nothing gave her such pleasure and -enthusiasm to talk about as plays and actors. She used to tire us -with her incessant conversation about the theatre. I alone hadn’t the -courage to deny her my attention. My wife and children did not listen -to her. When she felt the desire to share her raptures she would come -to my study and coax: “Nicolai Stiepanich, do let me speak to you about -the theatre.” - -I used to show her the time and say: - -“I’ll give you half an hour. Fire away!” - -Later on she used to bring in pictures of the actors and actresses she -worshipped--whole dozens of them. Then several times she tried to take -part in amateur theatricals, and finally when she left College she -declared to me she was born to be an actress. - -I never shared Katy’s enthusiasms for the theatre. My opinion is that -if a play is good then there’s no need to trouble the actors for it to -make the proper impression; you can be satisfied merely by reading it. -If the play is bad, no acting will make it good. - -When I was young I often went to the theatre, and nowadays my family -takes a box twice a year and carries me off for an airing there. Of -course this is not enough to give me the right to pass verdicts on the -theatre; but I will say a few words about it. In my opinion the theatre -hasn’t improved in the last thirty or forty years. I can’t find any -more than I did then, a glass of clean water, either in the corridors -or the foyer. Just as they did then, the attendants fine me sixpence -for my coat, though there’s nothing illegal in wearing a warm coat in -winter. Just as it did then, the orchestra plays quite unnecessarily -in the intervals, and adds a new, gratuitous impression to the one -received from the play. Just as they did then, men go to the bar in the -intervals and drink spirits. If there is no perceptible improvement in -little things, it will be useless to look for it in the bigger things. -When an actor, hide-bound in theatrical traditions and prejudices, -tries to read simple straightforward monologue: “To be or not to be,” -not at all simply, but with an incomprehensible and inevitable hiss and -convulsions over his whole body, or when he tries to convince me that -Chazky, who is always talking to fools and is in love with a fool, is -a very clever man and that “The Sorrows of Knowledge” is not a boring -play,--then I get from the stage a breath of the same old routine -that exasperated me forty years ago when I was regaled with classical -lamentation and beating on the breast. Every time I come out of the -theatre a more thorough conservative than I went in. - -It’s quite possible to convince the sentimental, self-confident crowd -that the theatre in its present state is an education. But not a man -who knows what true education is would swallow this. I don’t know what -it may be in fifty or a hundred years, but under present conditions the -theatre can only be a recreation. But the recreation is too expensive -for continual use, and robs the country of thousands of young, healthy, -gifted men and women, who if they had not devoted themselves to -the theatre would be excellent doctors, farmers, schoolmistresses, -or officers. It robs the public of its evenings, the best time for -intellectual work and friendly conversation. I pass over the waste of -money and the moral injuries to the spectator when he sees murder, -adultery, or slander wrongly treated on the stage. - -But Katy’s opinion was quite the opposite. She assured me that even in -its present state the theatre is above lecture-rooms and books, above -everything else in the world. The theatre is a power that unites in -itself all the arts, and the actors are men with a mission. No separate -art or science can act on the human soul so strongly and truly as the -stage; and therefore it is reasonable that a medium actor should enjoy -much greater popularity than the finest scholar or painter. No public -activity can give such delight and satisfaction as the theatrical. - -So one fine day Katy joined a theatrical company and went away, I -believe, to Ufa, taking with her a lot of money, a bagful of rainbow -hopes, and some very high-class views on the business. - -Her first letters on the journey were wonderful. When I read them I was -simply amazed that little sheets of paper could contain so much youth, -such transparent purity, such divine innocence, and at the same time -so many subtle, sensible judgments, that would do honour to a sound -masculine intelligence. The Volga, nature, the towns she visited, her -friends, her successes and failures--she did not write about them, she -sang. Every line breathed the confidence which I used to see in her -face; and with all this a mass of grammatical mistakes and hardly a -single stop. - -Scarce six months passed before I received a highly poetical -enthusiastic letter, beginning, “I have fallen in love.” She enclosed a -photograph of a young man with a clean-shaven face, in a broad-brimmed -hat, with a plaid thrown over his shoulders. The next letters were just -as splendid, but stops already began to appear and the grammatical -mistakes to vanish. They had a strong masculine scent. Katy began -to write about what a good thing it would be to build a big theatre -somewhere in the Volga, but on a cooperative basis, and to attract -the rich business-men and shipowners to the undertaking. There would -be plenty of money, huge receipts, and the actors would work in -partnership.... Perhaps all this is really a good thing, but I can’t -help thinking such schemes could only come from a man’s head. - -Anyhow for eighteen months or a couple of years everything seemed -to be all right. Katy was in love, had her heart in her business -and was happy. But later on I began to notice clear symptoms of a -decline in her letters. It began with Katy complaining about her -friends. This is the first and most ominous sign. If a young scholar -or littérateur begins his career by complaining bitterly about other -scholars or littérateurs, it means that he is tired already and not -fit for his business. Katy wrote to me that her friends would not -come to rehearsals and never knew their parts; that they showed an -utter contempt for the public in the absurd plays they staged and -the manner they behaved. To swell the box-office receipts--the only -topic of conversation--serious actresses degrade themselves by singing -sentimentalities, and tragic actors sing music-hall songs, laughing at -husbands who are deceived and unfaithful wives who are pregnant. In -short, it was amazing that the profession, in the provinces, was not -absolutely dead. The marvel was that it could exist at all with such -thin, rotten blood in its veins. - -In reply I sent Katy a long and, I confess, a very tedious letter. -Among other things I wrote: “I used to talk fairly often to actors in -the past, men of the noblest character, who honoured me with their -friendship. From my conversations with them I understood that their -activities were guided rather by the whim and fashion of society than -by the free working of their own minds. The best of them in their -lifetime had to play in tragedy, in musical comedy, in French farce, -and in pantomime; yet all through they considered that they were -treading the right path and being useful. You see that this means -that you must look for the cause of the evil, not in the actors, but -deeper down, in the art itself and the attitude of society towards -it.” This letter of mine only made Katy cross. “You and I are playing -in different operas. I didn’t write to you about men of the noblest -character, but about a lot of sharks who haven’t a spark of nobility in -them. They are a horde of savages who came on the stage only because -they wouldn’t be allowed anywhere else. The only ground they have for -calling themselves artists is their impudence. Not a single talent -among them, but any number of incapables, drunkards, intriguers, and -slanderers. I can’t tell you how bitterly I feel it that the art I love -so much is fallen into the hands of people I despise. It hurts me that -the best men should be content to look at evil from a distance and -not want to come nearer. Instead of taking an active part, they write -ponderous platitudes and useless sermons....” and more in the same -strain. - -A little while after I received the following: “I have been inhumanly -deceived. I can’t go on living any more. Do as you think fit with my -money. I loved you as a father and as my only friend. Forgive me.” - -So it appeared that _he_ too belonged to the horde of savages. Later -on, I gathered from various hints, that there was an attempt at -suicide. Apparently, Katy tried to poison herself. I think she must -have been seriously ill afterwards, for I got the following letter from -Yalta, where most probably the doctors had sent her. Her last letter -to me contained a request that I should send her at Yalta a thousand -roubles, and it ended with the words: “Forgive me for writing such a -sad letter. I buried my baby yesterday.” After she had spent about a -year in the Crimea she returned home. - -She had been travelling for about four years, and during these four -years I confess that I occupied a strange and unenviable position in -regard to her. When she announced to me that she was going on to the -stage and afterwards wrote to me about her love; when the desire to -spend took hold of her, as it did periodically, and I had to send her -every now and then one or two thousand roubles at her request; when -she wrote that she intended to die, and afterwards that her baby was -dead,--I was at a loss every time. All my sympathy with her fate -consisted in thinking hard and writing long tedious letters which might -as well never have been written. But then I was _in loco parentis_ and -I loved her as a daughter. - -Katy lives half a mile away from me now. She took a five-roomed -house and furnished it comfortably, with the taste that was born in -her. If anyone were to undertake to depict her surroundings, then the -dominating mood of the picture would be indolence. Soft cushions, soft -chairs for her indolent body; carpets for her indolent feet; faded, -dim, dull colours for her indolent eyes; for her indolent soul, a -heap of cheap fans and tiny pictures on the walls, pictures in which -novelty of execution was more noticeable than content; plenty of -little tables and stands, set out with perfectly useless and worthless -things, shapeless scraps instead of curtains.... All this, combined -with a horror of bright colours, of symmetry, and space, betokened a -perversion of the natural taste as well as indolence of the soul. For -whole days Katy lies on the sofa and reads books, mostly novels and -stories. She goes outside her house but once in the day, to come and -see me. - -I work. Katy sits on the sofa at my side. She is silent, and wraps -herself up in her shawl as though she were cold. Either because she -is sympathetic to me, or I because I had got used to her continual -visits while she was still a little girl, her presence does not prevent -me from concentrating on my work. At long intervals I ask her some -question or other, mechanically, and she answers very curtly; or, for -a moment’s rest, I turn towards her and watch how she is absorbed -in looking through some medical review or newspaper. And then I see -that the old expression of confidence in her face is there no more. -Her expression now is cold, indifferent, distracted, like that of a -passenger who has to wait a long while for his train. She dresses as -she used--well and simply, but carelessly. Evidently her clothes and -her hair suffer not a little from the sofas and hammocks on which she -lies for days together. And she is not curious any more. She doesn’t -ask me questions any more, as if she had experienced everything in life -and did not expect to hear anything new. - -About four o’clock there is a sound of movement in the hall and the -drawing-room. It’s Liza come back from the Conservatoire, bringing her -friends with her. You can hear them playing the piano, trying their -voices and giggling. Yegor is laying the table in the dining-room and -making a noise with the plates. - -“Good-bye,” says Katy. “I shan’t go in to see your people. They must -excuse me. I haven’t time. Come and see me.” - -When I escort her into the hall, she looks me over sternly from head to -foot, and says in vexation: - -“You get thinner and thinner. Why don’t you take a cure? I’ll go to -Sergius Fiodorovich and ask him to come. You must let him see you.” - -“It’s not necessary, Katy.” - -“I can’t understand why your family does nothing. They’re a nice lot.” - -She puts on her jacket with her rush. Inevitably, two or three -hair-pins fall out of her careless hair on to the floor. It’s too much -bother to tidy her hair now; besides she is in a hurry. She pushes the -straggling strands of hair untidily under her hat and goes away. - -As soon as I come into the dining-room, my wife asks: - -“Was that Katy with you just now? Why didn’t she come to see us. It -really is extraordinary....” - -“Mamma!” says Liza reproachfully, “If she doesn’t want to come, that’s -her affair. There’s no need for us to go on our knees.” - -“Very well; but it’s insulting. To sit in the study for three hours, -without thinking of us. But she can do as she likes.” - -Varya and Liza both hate Katy. This hatred is unintelligible to me; -probably you have to be a woman to understand it. I’ll bet my life on -it that you’ll hardly find a single one among the hundred and fifty -young men I see almost every day in my audience, or the hundred old -ones I happen to meet every week, who would be able to understand why -women hate and abhor Katy’s past, her being pregnant and unmarried and -her illegitimate child. Yet at the same time I cannot bring to mind -a single woman or girl of my acquaintance who would not cherish such -feelings, either consciously or instinctively. And it’s not because -women are purer and more virtuous than men. If virtue and purity are -not free from evil feeling, there’s precious little difference between -them and vice. I explain it simply by the backward state of women’s -development. The sorrowful sense of compassion and the torment of -conscience, which the modern man experiences when he sees distress have -much more to tell me about culture and moral development than have -hatred and repulsion. The modern woman is as lachrymose and as coarse -in heart as she was in the middle ages. And in my opinion those who -advise her to be educated like a man have wisdom on their side. - -But still my wife does not like Katy, because she was an actress, -and for her ingratitude, her pride, her extravagances, and all the -innumerable vices one woman can always discover in another. - -Besides myself and my family we have two or three of my daughter’s -girl friends to dinner and Alexander Adolphovich Gnekker, Liza’s -admirer and suitor. He is a fair young man, not more than thirty years -old, of middle height, very fat, broad shouldered, with reddish hair -round his ears and a little stained moustache, which give his smooth -chubby face the look of a doll’s. He wears a very short jacket, a -fancy waistcoat, large-striped trousers, very full on the hip and very -narrow in the leg, and brown boots without heels. His eyes stick out -like a lobster’s, his tie is like a lobster’s tail, and I can’t help -thinking even that the smell of lobster soup clings about the whole -of this young man. He visits us every day; but no one in the family -knows where he comes from, where he was educated, or how he lives. He -cannot play or sing, but he has a certain connection with music as well -as singing, for he is agent for somebody’s pianos, and is often at the -Academy. He knows all the celebrities, and he manages concerts. He -gives his opinion on music with great authority and I have noticed that -everybody hastens to agree with him. - -Rich men always have parasites about them. So do the sciences and the -arts. It seems that there is no science or art in existence, which -is free from such “foreign bodies” as this Mr. Gnekker. I am not a -musician and perhaps I am mistaken about Gnekker, besides I don’t know -him very well. But I can’t help suspecting the authority and dignity -with which he stands beside the piano and listens when anyone is -singing or playing. - -You may be a gentleman and a privy councillor a hundred times over; but -if you have a daughter you can’t be guaranteed against the pettinesses -that are so often brought into your house and into your own humour, by -courtings, engagements, and weddings. For instance, I cannot reconcile -myself to my wife’s solemn expression every time Gnekker comes to our -house, nor to those bottles of Château Lafitte, port, and sherry which -are put on the table only for him, to convince him beyond doubt of -the generous luxury in which we live. Nor can I stomach the staccato -laughter which Liza learned at the Academy, and her way of screwing up -her eyes, when men are about the house. Above all, I can’t understand -why it is that such a creature should come to me every day and have -dinner with me--a creature perfectly foreign to my habits, my science, -and the whole tenour of my life, a creature absolutely unlike the men I -love. My wife and the servants whisper mysteriously that that is “the -bridegroom,” but still I can’t understand why he’s there. It disturbs -my mind just as much as if a Zulu were put next to me at table. -Besides, it seems strange to me that my daughter whom I used to think -of as a baby should be in love with that necktie, those eyes, those -chubby cheeks. - -Formerly, I either enjoyed my dinner or was indifferent about it. -Now it does nothing but bore and exasperate me. Since I was made an -Excellency and Dean of the Faculty, for some reason or other my family -found it necessary to make a thorough change in our menu and the dinner -arrangements. Instead of the simple food I was used to as a student and -a doctor, I am now fed on potage-puree, with some _sossoulki_ swimming -about in it, and kidneys in Madeira. The title of General and my renown -have robbed me for ever of _schi_ and savoury pies, and roast goose -with apple sauce, and bream with _kasha._ They robbed me as well of my -maid servant Agasha, a funny, talkative old woman, instead of whom I -am now waited on by Yegor, a stupid, conceited fellow who always has -a white glove in his right hand. The intervals between the courses are -short, but they seem terribly long. There is nothing to fill them. We -don’t have any more of the old good-humour, the familiar conversations, -the jokes and the laughter; no more mutual endearments, or the gaiety -that used to animate my children, my wife, and myself when we met at -the dinner table. For a busy man like me dinner was a time to rest and -meet my friends, and a feast for my wife and children, not a very long -feast, to be sure, but a gay and happy one, for they knew that for half -an hour I did not belong to science and my students, but solely to -them and to no one else. No more chance of getting tipsy on a single -glass of wine, no more Agasha, no more bream with _kasha,_ no more the -old uproar to welcome our little _contretemps_ at dinner, when the cat -fought the dog under the table, or Katy’s head-band fell down her cheek -into her soup. - -Our dinner nowadays is as nasty to describe as to eat. On my wife’s -face there is pompousness, an assumed gravity, and the usual anxiety. -She eyes our plates nervously: “I see you don’t like the meat?... -Honestly, don’t you like it?” And I must answer, “Don’t worry, my dear. -The meat is very good.” She: “You’re always taking my part, Nicolai -Stiepanich. You never tell the truth. Why has Alexander Adolphovich -eaten so little?” and the same sort of conversation for the whole of -dinner. Liza laughs staccato and screws up her eyes. I look at both of -them, and at this moment at dinner here I can see quite clearly that -their inner lives have slipped out of my observation long ago. I feel -as though once upon a time I lived at home with a real family, but now -I am dining as a guest with an unreal wife and looking at an unreal -Liza. There has been an utter change in both of them, while I have lost -sight of the long process that led up to the change. No wonder I don’t -understand anything. What was the reason of the change? I don’t know. -Perhaps the only trouble is that God did not give my wife and daughter -the strength He gave me. From my childhood I have been accustomed to -resist outside influences and have been hardened enough. Such earthly -catastrophes as fame, being made General, the change from comfort to -living above my means, acquaintance with high society, have scarcely -touched me. I have survived safe and sound. But it all fell down like -an avalanche on my weak, unhardened wife and Liza, and crushed them. - -Gnekker and the girls talk of fugues and counter-fugues; singers -and pianists, Bach and Brahms, and my wife, frightened of being -suspected of musical ignorance, smiles sympathetically and murmurs: -“Wonderful.... Is it possible?... Why?...” Gnekker eats steadily, -jokes gravely, and listens condescendingly to the ladies’ remarks. Now -and then he has the desire to talk bad French, and then he finds it -necessary for some unknown reason to address me magnificently, “Votre -Excellence.” - -And I am morose. Apparently I embarrass them all and they embarrass me. -I never had any intimate acquaintance with class antagonism before, -but now something of the kind torments me indeed. I try to find only -bad traits in Gnekker. It does not take long and then I am tormented -because one of my friends has not taken his place as bridegroom. In -another way too his presence has a bad effect upon me. Usually, when -I am left alone with myself or when I am in the company of people I -love, I never think of my merits; and if I begin to think about them -they seem as trivial as though I had become a scholar only yesterday. -But in the presence of a man like Gnekker my merits appear to me like -an extremely high mountain, whose summit is lost in the clouds, while -Gnekkers move about the foot, so small as hardly to be seen. - -After dinner I go up to my study and light my little pipe, the only one -during the whole day, the sole survivor of my old habit of smoking from -morning to night. My wife comes into me while I am smoking and sits -down to speak to me. Just as in the morning, I know beforehand what the -conversation will be. - -“We ought to talk seriously, Nicolai Stiepanovich,” she begins. “I mean -about Liza. Why won’t you attend?” - -“Attend to what?” - -“You pretend you don’t notice anything. It’s not right: It’s not right -to be unconcerned. Gnekker has intentions about Liza. What do you say -to that?” - -“I can’t say he’s a bad man, because I don’t know him; but I’ve told -you a thousand times already that I don’t like him.” - -“But that’s impossible ... impossible....” She rises and walks about in -agitation. - -“It’s impossible to have such an attitude to a serious matter,” -she says. “When our daughter’s happiness is concerned, we must put -everything personal aside. I know you don’t like him.... Very well.... -But if we refuse him now and upset everything, how can you guarantee -that Liza won’t have a grievance against us for the rest of her life? -Heaven knows there aren’t many young men nowadays. It’s quite likely -there won’t be another chance. He loves Liza very much and she likes -him, evidently. Of course he hasn’t a settled position. But what is -there to do? Please God, he’ll get a position in time. He comes of a -good family, and he’s rich.” - -“How did you find that out?” - -“He said so himself. His father has a big house in Kharkov and an -estate outside. You must certainly go to Kharkov.” - -“Why?” - -“You’ll find out there. You have acquaintances among the professors -there. I’d go myself. But I’m a woman. I can’t.” - -“I will not go to Kharkov,” I say morosely. - -My wife gets frightened; a tormented expression comes over her face. - -“For God’s sake, Nicolai Stiepanich,” she implores, sobbing, “For God’s -sake help me with this burden! It hurts me.” - -It is painful to look at her. - -“Very well, Varya,” I say kindly, “If you like--very well I’ll go to -Kharkov, and do everything you want.” - -She puts her handkerchief to her eyes and goes to cry in her room. I am -left alone. - -A little later they bring in the lamp. The familiar shadows that -have wearied me for years fall from the chairs and the lamp-shade on -to the walls and the floor. When I look at them it seems that it’s -night already, and the cursed insomnia has begun. I lie down on the -bed; then I get up and walk about the room then lie down again. My -nervous excitement generally reaches its highest after dinner, before -the evening. For no reason I begin to cry and hide my head in the -pillow. All the while I am afraid somebody may come in; I am afraid I -shall die suddenly; I am ashamed of my tears; altogether, something -intolerable is happening in my soul. I feel I cannot look at the lamp -or the books or the shadows on the floor, or listen to the voices in -the drawing-room any more. Some invisible, mysterious force pushes me -rudely out of my house. I jump up, dress hurriedly, and go cautiously -out into the street so that the household shall not notice me. Where -shall I go? - -The answer to this question has long been there in my brain: “To Katy.” - - -III - - -As usual she is lying on the Turkish divan or the couch and reading -something. Seeing me she lifts her head languidly, sits down, and gives -me her hand. - -“You are always lying down like that,” I say after a reposeful silence. -“It’s unhealthy. You’d far better be doing something.” - -“Ah?” - -“You’d far better be doing something, I say.” - -“What?... A woman can be either a simple worker or an actress.” - -“Well, then--if you can’t become a worker, be an actress.” - -She is silent. - -“You had better marry,” I say, half-joking. - -“There’s no one to marry: and no use if I did.” - -“You can’t go on living like this.” - -“Without a husband? As if that mattered. There are as many men as you -like, if you only had the will.” - -“This isn’t right, Katy.” - -“What isn’t right?” - -“What you said just now.” - -Katy sees that I am chagrined, and desires to soften the bad impression. - -“Come. Let’s come here. Here.” - -She leads me into a small room, very cosy, and points to the writing -table. - -“There. I made it for you. You’ll work here. Come every day and bring -your work with you. They only disturb you there at home.... Will you -work here? Would you like to?” - -In order not to hurt her by refusing, I answer that I shall work with -her and that I like the room immensely. Then we both sit down in the -cosy room and begin to talk. - -The warmth, the cosy surroundings, the presence of a sympathetic being, -rouses in me now not a feeling of pleasure as it used but a strong -desire to complain and grumble. Anyhow it seems to me that if I moan -and complain I shall feel better. - -“It’s a bad business, my dear,” I begin with a sigh. “Very bad.” - -“What is the matter?” - -“I’ll tell you what is the matter. The best and most sacred right -of kings is the right to pardon. And I have always felt myself a -king so long as I used this right prodigally. I never judged, I was -compassionate, I pardoned everyone right and left. Where others -protested and revolted I only advised and persuaded. All my life -I’ve tried to make my society tolerable to the family of students, -friends and servants. And this attitude of mine towards people, I know, -educated every one who came into contact with me. But now I am king no -more. There’s something going on in me which belongs only to slaves. -Day and night evil thoughts roam about in my head, and feelings which I -never knew before have made their home in my soul. I hate and despise; -I’m exasperated, disturbed, and afraid. I’ve become strict beyond -measure, exacting, unkind, and suspicious. Even the things which in the -past gave me the chance of making an extra pun, now bring me a feeling -of oppression. My logic has changed too. I used to despise money alone; -now I cherish evil feelings, not to money, but to the rich, as if they -were guilty. I used to hate violence and arbitrariness; now I hate the -people who employ violence, as if they alone are to blame and not all -of us, who cannot educate one another. What does it all mean? If my new -thoughts and feelings come from a change of my convictions, where could -the change have come from? Has the world grown worse and I better, or -was I blind and indifferent before? But if the change is due to the -general decline of my physical and mental powers--I am sick and losing -weight every day--then I’m in a pitiable position. It means that my new -thoughts are abnormal and unhealthy, that I must be ashamed of them and -consider them valueless....” - -“Sickness hasn’t anything to do with it,” Katy interrupts. “Your eyes -are opened--that’s all. You’ve begun to notice things you didn’t want -to notice before for some reason. My opinion is that you must break -with your family finally first of all and then go away.” - -“You’re talking nonsense.” - -“You don’t love them any more. Then, why do you behave unfairly? And is -it a family! Mere nobodies. If they died to-day, no one would notice -their absence to-morrow.” - -Katy despises my wife and daughter as much as they hate her. It’s -scarcely possible nowadays to speak of the right of people to despise -one another. But if you accept Katy’s point of view and own that such a -right exists, you will notice that she has the same right to despise my -wife and Liza as they have to hate her. - -“Mere nobodies!” she repeats. “Did you have any dinner to-day? It’s a -wonder they didn’t forget to tell you dinner was ready. I don’t know -how they still remember that you exist.” - -“Katy!” I say sternly. “Please be quiet.” - -“You don’t think it’s fun for me to talk about them, do you? I wish I -didn’t know them at all. You listen to me, dear. Leave everything and -go away: go abroad--the quicker, the better.” - -“What nonsense! What about the University?” - -“And the University, too. What is it to you? There’s no sense in it -all. You’ve been lecturing for thirty years, and where are your -pupils? Have you many famous scholars? Count them up. But to increase -the number of doctors who exploit the general ignorance and make -hundreds of thousands,--there’s no need to be a good and gifted man. -You aren’t wanted.” - -“My God, how bitter you are!” I get terrified. “How bitter you are. Be -quiet, or I’ll go away. I can’t reply to the bitter things you say.” - -The maid enters and calls us to tea. Thank God, our conversation -changes round the samovar. I have made my moan, and now I want to -indulge another senile weakness--reminiscences. I tell Katy about -my past, to my great surprise with details that I never suspected I -had kept safe in my memory. And she listens to me with emotion, with -pride, holding her breath. I like particularly to tell how I once was a -student at a seminary and how I dreamed of entering the University. - -“I used to walk in the seminary garden,” I tell her, “and the wind -would bring the sound of a song and the thrumming of an accordion from -a distant tavern, or a _troika_ with bells would pass quickly by the -seminary fence. That would be quite enough to fill not only my breast -with a sense of happiness, but my stomach, legs, and hands. As I heard -the sound of the accordion or the bells fading away, I would see myself -a doctor and paint pictures, one more glorious than another. And, you -see, my dreams came true. There were more things I dared to dream of. -I have been a favourite professor thirty years, I have had excellent -friends and an honourable reputation. I loved and married when I was -passionately in love. I had children. Altogether, when I look back -the whole of my life seems like a nice, clever composition. The only -thing I have to do now is not to spoil the _finale._ For this, I must -die like a man. If death is really a danger then I must meet it as -becomes a teacher, a scholar, and a citizen of a Christian State. But I -am spoiling the _finale._ I am drowning, and I run to you and beg for -help, and you say: ‘Drown. It’s your duty.’” - -At this point a ring at the bell sounds in the hall. Katy and I both -recognise it and say: - -“That must be Mikhail Fiodorovich.” - -And indeed in a minute Mikhail Fiodorovich, my colleague, the -philologist, enters. He is a tall, well-built man about fifty years -old, clean shaven, with thick grey hair and black eyebrows. He is a -good man and an admirable friend. He belongs to an old aristocratic -family, a prosperous and gifted house which has played a notable _rôle_ -in the history of our literature and education. He himself is clever, -gifted, and highly educated, but not without his eccentricities. -To a certain extent we are all eccentric, queer fellows, but his -eccentricities have an element of the exceptional, not quite safe for -his friends. Among the latter I know not a few who cannot see his many -merits clearly because of his eccentricities. - -As he walks in he slowly removes his gloves and says in his velvety -bass: - -“How do you do? Drinking tea. Just in time. It’s hellishly cold.” - -Then he sits down at the table, takes a glass of tea and immediately -begins to talk. What chiefly marks his way of talking is his invariably -ironical tone, a mixture of philosophy and jest, like Shakespeare’s -grave-diggers. He always talks of serious matters; but never seriously. -His opinions are always acid and provocative, but thanks to his -tender, easy, jesting tone, it somehow happens that his acidity and -provocativeness don’t tire one’s ears, and one very soon gets used -to it. Every evening he brings along some half-dozen stories of the -university life and generally begins with them when he sits down at the -table. - -“O Lord,” he sighs with an amusing movement of his black eyebrows, -“there are some funny people in the world.” - -“Who?” asks Katy. - -“I was coming down after my lecture to-day and I met that old idiot -N---- on the stairs. He walks along, as usual pushing out that horse -jowl of his, looking for some one to bewail his headaches, his wife, -and his students, who won’t come to his lectures. ‘Well,’ I think to -myself, ‘he’s seen me. It’s all up--no hope for me...’” - -And so on in the same strain. Or he begins like this, - -“Yesterday I was at Z’s public lecture. Tell it not in Gath, but I do -wonder how our _alma mater_ dares to show the public such an ass, such -a double-dyed blockhead as Z. Why he’s a European fool. Good Lord, -you won’t find one like him in all Europe--not even if you looked in -daytime, and with a lantern. Imagine it: he lectures as though he were -sucking a stick of barley-sugar--su--su--su. He gets a fright because -he can’t make out his manuscript. His little thoughts will only just -keep moving, hardly moving, like a bishop riding a bicycle. Above all -you can’t make out a word he says. The flies die of boredom, it’s so -terrific. It can only be compared with the boredom in the great Hall at -the Commemoration, when the traditional speech is made. To hell with -it!” - -Immediately an abrupt change of subject. - -“I had to make the speech; three years ago. Nicolai Stiepanovich will -remember. It was hot, close. My full uniform was tight under my arms, -tight as death. I read for half an hour, an hour, an hour and a half, -two hours. ‘Well,’ I thought, ‘thank God I’ve only ten pages left.’ And -I had four pages of peroration that I needn’t read at all. ‘Only six -pages then,’ I thought. Imagine it. I just gave a glance in front of me -and saw sitting next to each other in the front row a general with a -broad ribbon and a bishop. The poor devils were bored stiff. They were -staring about madly to stop themselves from going to sleep. For all -that they are still trying to look attentive, to make some appearance -of understanding what I’m reading, and look as though they like it. -‘Well,’ I thought, ‘if you like it, then you shall have it. I’ll spite -you.’ So I set to and read the four pages, every word.” - -When he speaks only his eyes and eyebrows smile as it is generally with -the ironical. At such moments there is no hatred or malice in his eyes -but a great deal of acuteness and that peculiar fox-cunning which you -can catch only in very observant people. Further, about his eyes I have -noticed one more peculiarity. When he takes his glass from Katy, or -listens to her remarks, or follows her with a glance as she goes out of -the room for a little while, then I catch in his look something humble, -prayerful, pure.... - -The maid takes the samovar away and puts on the table a big piece of -cheese, some fruit, and a bottle of Crimean champagne, a thoroughly -bad wine which Katy got to like when she lived in the Crimea. Mikhail -Fiodorovich takes two packs of cards from the shelves and sets them out -for patience. If one may believe his assurances, some games of patience -demand a great power of combination and concentration. Nevertheless -while he sets out the cards he amuses himself by talking continually. -Katy follows his cards carefully, helping him more by mimicry than -words. In the whole evening she drinks no more than two small glasses -of wine, I drink only a quarter of a glass, the remainder of the bottle -falls to Mikhail Fiodorovich, who can drink any amount without ever -getting drunk. - -During patience we solve all kinds of questions, mostly of the lofty -order, and our dearest love, science, comes off second best. - -“Science, thank God, has had her day,” says Mikhail Fiodorovich very -slowly. “She has had her swan-song. Ye-es. Mankind has begun to feel -the desire to replace her by something else. She was grown from the -soil of prejudice, fed by prejudices, and is now the same quintessence -of prejudices as were her bygone grandmothers: alchemy, metaphysics -and philosophy. As between European scholars and the Chinese who have -no sciences at all the difference is merely trifling, a matter only of -externals. The Chinese had no scientific knowledge, but what have they -lost by that?” - -“Flies haven’t any scientific knowledge either,” I say; “but what does -that prove?” - -“It’s no use getting angry, Nicolai Stiepanich. I say this only between -ourselves. I’m more cautious than you think. I shan’t proclaim it from -the housetops, God forbid! The masses still keep alive a prejudice that -science and art are superior to agriculture and commerce, superior to -crafts. Our persuasion makes a living from this prejudice. It’s not for -you and me to destroy it. God forbid!” - -During patience the younger generation also comes in for it. - -“Our public is degenerate nowadays,” Mikhail Fiodorovich sighs. “I -don’t speak of ideals and such things, I only ask that they should -be able to work and think decently. ‘Sadly I look at the men of our -time’--it’s quite true in this connection.” - -“Yes, they’re frightfully degenerate,” Katy agrees. “Tell me, had you -one single eminent person under you during the last five or ten years?” - -“I don’t know how it is with the other professors,--but somehow I don’t -recollect that it ever happened to me.” - -“In my lifetime I’ve seen a great many of your students and young -scholars, a great many actors.... What happened? I never once had -the luck to meet, not a hero or a man of talent, but an ordinarily -interesting person. Everything’s dull and incapable, swollen and -pretentious....” - -All these conversations about degeneracy give me always the impression -that I have unwittingly overheard an unpleasant conversation about my -daughter. I feel offended because the indictments are made wholesale -and are based upon such ancient hackneyed commonplaces and such -penny-dreadful notions as degeneracy, lack of ideals, or comparisons -with the glorious past. Any indictment, even if it’s made in a company -of ladies, should be formulated with all possible precision; otherwise -it isn’t an indictment, but an empty calumny, unworthy of decent people. - -I am an old man, and have served for the last thirty years; but I don’t -see any sign either of degeneracy or the lack of ideals. I don’t find -it any worse now than before. My porter, Nicolas, whose experience in -this case has its value, says that students nowadays are neither better -nor worse than their predecessors. - -If I were asked what was the thing I did not like about my present -pupils, I wouldn’t say offhand or answer at length, but with a certain -precision. I know their defects and there’s no need for me to take -refuge in a mist of commonplaces. I don’t like the way they smoke, -and drink spirits, and marry late; or the way they are careless -and indifferent to the point of allowing students to go hungry in -their midst, and not paying their debts into “The Students’ Aid -Society.” They are ignorant of modern languages and express themselves -incorrectly in Russian. Only yesterday my colleague, the hygienist, -complained to me that he had to lecture twice as often because of -their incompetent knowledge of physics and their complete ignorance of -meteorology. They are readily influenced by the most modern writers, -and some of those not the best, but they are absolutely indifferent to -classics like Shakespeare, Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus and Pascal; and -their worldly unpracticality shows itself mostly in their inability -to distinguish between great and small. They solve all difficult -questions which have a more or less social character (emigration, -for instance) by getting up subscriptions, but not by the method of -scientific investigation and experiment, though this is at their full -disposal, and, above all, corresponds to their vocation. They readily -become house-doctors, assistant house-doctors, clinical assistants, or -consulting doctors, and they are prepared to keep these positions until -they are forty, though independence, a sense of freedom, and personal -initiative are quite as necessary in science, as, for instance, in art -or commerce. I have pupils and listeners, but I have no helpers or -successors. Therefore I love them and am concerned for them, but I’m -not proud of them ... and so on. - -However great the number of such defects may be, it’s only in a -cowardly and timid person that they give rise to pessimism and -distraction. All of them are by nature accidental and transitory, and -are completely dependent on the conditions of life. Ten years will -be enough for them to disappear or give place to new and different -defects, which are quite indispensable, but will in their turn give -the timid a fright. Students’ shortcomings often annoy me, but the -annoyance is nothing in comparison with the joy I have had these thirty -years in speaking with my pupils, lecturing to them, studying their -relations and comparing them with people of a different class. - -Mikhail Fiodorovich is a slanderer. Katy listens and neither of them -notices how deep is the pit into which they are drawn by such an -outwardly innocuous recreation as condemning one’s neighbours. They -don’t realise how a simple conversation gradually turns into mockery -and derision, or how they both begin even to employ the manners of -calumny. - -“There are some queer types to be found,” says Mikhail Fiodorovich. -“Yesterday I went to see our friend Yegor Pietrovich. There I found a -student, one of your medicos, a third-year man, I think. His face ... -rather in the style of Dobroliubov--the stamp of profound thought on -his brow. We began to talk. ‘My dear fellow--an extraordinary business. -I’ve just read that some German or other--can’t remember his name--has -extracted a new alkaloid from the human brain--idiotine.’ Do you know -he really believed it, and produced an expression of respect on his -face, as much as to say, ‘See, what a power we are.’” - -“The other day I went to the theatre. I sat down. Just in front of me -in the next row two people were sitting: one, ‘one of the chosen,’ -evidently a law student, the other a whiskery medico. The medico was as -drunk as a cobbler. Not an atom of attention to the stage. Dozing and -nodding. But the moment some actor began to deliver a loud monologue, -or just raised his voice, my medico thrills, digs his neighbour in the -ribs. ‘What’s he say? Something noble?’ ‘Noble,’ answers ‘the chosen.’ - -“‘Brrravo!’ bawls the medico. ‘No--ble. Bravo.’ You see the drunken -blockhead didn’t come to the theatre for art, but for something noble. -He wants nobility.” - -Katy listens and laughs. Her laugh is rather strange. She breathes out -in swift, rhythmic, and regular alternation with her inward breathing. -It’s as though she were playing an accordion. Of her face, only her -nostrils laugh. My heart fails me. I don’t know what to say. I lose my -temper, crimson, jump up from my seat and cry: - -“Be quiet, won’t you? Why do you sit here like two toads, poisoning the -air with your breath? I’ve had enough.” - -In vain I wait for them to stop their slanders. I prepare to go home. -And it’s time, too. Past ten o’clock. - -“I’ll sit here a little longer,” says Mikhail Fiodorovich, “if you give -me leave, Ekaterina Vladimirovna?” - -“You have my leave,” Katy answers. - -“_Bene._ In that case, order another bottle, please.” - -Together they escort me to the hall with candles in their hands. While -I’m putting on my overcoat, Mikhail Fiodorovich says: - -“You’ve grown terribly thin and old lately. Nicolai Stiepanovich. -What’s the matter with you? Ill? - -“Yes, a little.” - -“And he will not look after himself,” Katy puts in sternly. - -“Why don’t you look after yourself? How can you go on like this? God -helps those who help themselves, my dear man. Give my regards to your -family and make my excuses for not coming. One of these days, before I -go abroad, I’ll come to say good-bye. Without fail. I’m off next week.” - -I came away from Katy’s irritated, frightened by the talk about -my illness and discontented with myself. “And why,” I ask myself, -“shouldn’t I be attended by one of my colleagues?” Instantly I see how -my friend, after sounding me, will go to the window silently, think a -little while, turn towards me and say, indifferently, trying to prevent -me from reading the truth in his face: “At the moment I don’t see -anything particular; but still, cher confrère, I would advise you to -break off your work....” And that will take my last hope away. - -Who doesn’t have hopes? Nowadays, when I diagnose and treat myself, I -sometimes hope that my ignorance deceives me, that I am mistaken about -the albumen and sugar which I find, as well as about my heart, and also -about the anasarca which I have noticed twice in the morning. While I -read over the therapeutic text-books again with the eagerness of a -hypochondriac, and change the prescriptions every day, I still believe -that I will come across something hopeful. How trivial it all is! - -Whether the sky is cloudy all over or the moon and stars are shining -in it, every time I come back home I look at it and think that death -will take me soon. Surely at that moment my thoughts should be as deep -as the sky, as bright, as striking ... but no! I think of myself, of -my wife, Liza, Gnekker, the students, people in general. My thoughts -are not good, they are mean; I juggle with myself, and at this moment -my attitude towards life can be expressed in the words the famous -Arakheev wrote in one of his intimate letters: “All good in the world -is inseparably linked to bad, and there is always more bad than good.” -Which means that everything is ugly, there’s nothing to live for, -and the sixty-two years I have lived out must be counted as lost. I -surprise myself in these thoughts and try to convince myself they are -accidental and temporary and not deeply rooted in me, but I think -immediately: - -“If that’s true, why am I drawn every evening to those two toads.” And -I swear to myself never to go to Katy any more, though I know I will go -to her again to-morrow. - -As I pull my door bell and go upstairs, I feel already that I have no -family and no desire to return to it. It is plain my new, Arakheev -thoughts are not accidental or temporary in me, but possess my whole -being. With a bad conscience, dull, indolent, hardly able to move my -limbs, as though I had a ten ton weight upon me, I lie down in my bed -and soon fall asleep. - -And then--insomnia. - - -IV - - -The summer comes and life changes. - -One fine morning Liza comes in to me and says in a joking tone: - -“Come, Your Excellency. It’s all ready.” - -They lead My Excellency into the street, put me into a cab and drive me -away. For want of occupation I read the signboards backwards as I go. -The word “Tavern” becomes “Nrevat.” That would do for a baron’s name: -Baroness Nrevat. Beyond, I drive across the field by the cemetery, -which produces no impression upon me whatever, though I’ll soon -lie there. After a two hours’ drive, My Excellency is led into the -ground-floor of the bungalow, and put into a small, lively room with a -light-blue paper. - -Insomnia at night as before, but I am no more wakeful in the morning -and don’t listen to my wife, but lie in bed. I don’t sleep, but I -am in a sleepy state, half-forgetfulness, when you know you are not -asleep, but have dreams. I get up in the afternoon, and sit down at -the table by force of habit, but now I don’t work any more but amuse -myself with French yellow-backs sent me by Katy. Of course it would -be more patriotic to read Russian authors, but to tell the truth I’m -not particularly disposed to them. Leaving out two or three old ones, -all the modern literature doesn’t seem to me to be literature but a -unique home industry which exists only to be encouraged, but the goods -are bought with reluctance. The best of these homemade goods can’t be -called remarkable and it’s impossible to praise it sincerely without a -saving “but”; and the same must be said of all the literary novelties -I’ve read during the last ten or fifteen years. Not one remarkable, -and you can’t dispense with “but.” They have cleverness, nobility, and -no talent; talent, nobility and no cleverness; or finally, talent, -cleverness, but no nobility. - -I would not say that French books have talent, cleverness, and -nobility. Nor do they satisfy me. But they are not so boring as the -Russian; and it is not rare to find in them the chief constituent -of creative genius--the sense of personal freedom, which is lacking -to Russian authors. I do not recall one single new book in which -from the very first page the author did not try to tie himself up in -all manner of conventions and contracts with his conscience. One is -frightened to speak of the naked body, another is bound hand and foot -by psychological analysis, a third must have “a kindly attitude to -his fellow-men,” the fourth heaps up whole pages with descriptions of -nature on purpose to avoid any suspicion of a tendency.... One desires -to be in his books a bourgeois at all costs, another at all costs an -aristocrat. Deliberation, cautiousness, cunning: but no freedom, no -courage to write as one likes, and therefore no creative genius. - -All this refers to _belles-lettres,_ so-called. - -As for serious articles in Russian, on sociology, for instance, or -art and so forth, I don’t read them, simply out of timidity. For -some reason in my childhood and youth I had a fear of porters and -theatre attendants, and this fear has remained with me up till now. -Even now I am afraid of them. It is said that only that which one -cannot understand seems terrible. And indeed it is very difficult to -understand why hall-porters and theatre attendants are so pompous -and haughty and importantly polite. When I read serious articles, I -have exactly the same indefinable fear. Their portentous gravity, -their playfulness, like an archbishop’s, their over-familiar -attitude to foreign authors, their capacity for talking dignified -nonsense--“filling a vacuum with emptiness”--it is all inconceivable -to me and terrifying, and quite unlike the modesty and the calm and -gentlemanly tone to which I am accustomed when reading our writers on -medicine and the natural sciences. Not only articles; I have difficulty -also in reading translations even when they are edited by serious -Russians. The presumptuous benevolence of the prefaces, the abundance -of notes by the translator (which prevents one from concentrating), the -parenthetical queries and _sics,_ which are so liberally scattered -over the book or the article by the translator--seem to me an assault -on the author’s person, as well as on my independence as a reader. - -Once I was invited as an expert to the High Court. In the interval -one of my fellow-experts called my attention to the rude behaviour -of the public prosecutor to the prisoners, among whom were two women -intellectuals. I don’t think I exaggerated at all when I replied to -my colleague that he was not behaving more rudely than authors of -serious articles behave to one another. Indeed their behaviour is so -rude that one speaks of them with bitterness. They behave to each other -or to the writers whom they criticise either with too much deference, -careless of their own dignity, or, on the other hand, they treat them -much worse than I have treated Gnekker, my future son-in-law, in -these notes and thoughts of mine. Accusations of irresponsibility, of -impure intentions, of any kind of crime even, are the usual adornment -of serious articles. And this, as our young medicos love to say in -their little articles--quite _ultima ratio._ Such an attitude must -necessarily be reflected in the character of the young generation of -writers, and therefore I’m not at all surprised that in the new books -which have been added to our _belles lettres_ in the last ten or -fifteen years, the heroes drink a great deal of vodka and the heroines -are not sufficiently chaste. - -I read French books and look out of the window, which is open--I see -the pointed palings of my little garden, two or three skinny trees, -and there, beyond the garden, the road, fields, then a wide strip of -young pine-forest. I often delight in watching a little boy and girl, -both white-haired and ragged, climb on the garden fence and laugh at -my baldness. In their shining little eyes I read, “Come out, thou -bald-head.” These are almost the only people who don’t care a bit about -my reputation or my title. - -I don’t have visitors everyday now. I’ll mention only the visits of -Nicolas and Piotr Ignatievich. Nicolas comes to me usually on holidays, -pretending to come on business, but really to see me. He is very -hilarious, a thing which never happens to him in the winter. - -“Well, what have you got to say?” I ask him, coming out into the -passage. - -“Your Excellency!” he says, pressing his hand to his heart and looking -at me with a lover’s rapture. “Your Excellency! So help me God! God -strike me where I stand! _Gaudeamus igitur juvenestus._” - -And he kisses me eagerly on the shoulders, on my sleeves, and buttons. - -“Is everything all right over there?” I ask. - -“Your Excellency! I swear to God....” - -He never stops swearing, quite unnecessarily, and I soon get bored, and -send him to the kitchen, where they give him dinner. Piotr Ignatievich -also comes on holidays specially to visit me and communicate his -thoughts to me. He usually sits by the table in my room, modest, -clean, judicious, without daring to cross his legs or lean his elbows -on the table, all the while telling me in a quiet, even voice what -he considers very piquant items of news gathered from journals and -pamphlets. - -These items are all alike and can be reduced to the following type: A -Frenchman made a discovery. Another--a German--exposed him by showing -that this discovery had been made as long ago as 1870 by some American. -Then a third--also a German--outwitted them both by showing that -both of them had been confused, by taking spherules of air under a -microscope for dark pigment. Even when he wants to make me laugh, Piotr -Ignatievich tells his story at great length, very much as though he -were defending a thesis, enumerating his literary sources in detail, -with every effort to avoid mistakes in the dates, the particular number -of the journal and the names. Moreover, he does not say Petit simply -but inevitably, Jean Jacques Petit. If he happens to stay to dinner, he -will tell the same sort of piquant stories and drive all the company -to despondency. If Gnekker and Liza begin to speak of fugues and -counter-fugues in his presence he modestly lowers his eyes, and his -face falls. He is ashamed that such trivialities should be spoken of in -the presence of such serious men as him and me. - -In my present state of mind five minutes are enough for him to bore -me as though I had seen and listened to him for a whole eternity. I -hate the poor man. I wither away beneath his quiet, even voice and -his bookish language. His stories make me stupid.... He cherishes the -kindliest feelings towards me and talks to me only to give me pleasure. -I reward him by staring at his face as if I wanted to hypnotise him, -and thinking “Go away. Go, go....” But he is proof against my mental -suggestion and sits, sits, sits.... - -While he sits with me I cannot rid myself of the idea: “When I die, -it’s quite possible that he will be appointed in my place.” Then my -poor audience appears to me as an oasis where the stream has dried, -up, and I am unkind to Piotr Ignatievich, and silent and morose as if -he were guilty of such thoughts and not I myself. When he begins, as -usual, to glorify the German scholars, I no longer jest good-naturedly, -but murmur sternly: - -“They’re fools, your Germans....” - -It’s like the late Professor Nikita Krylov when he was bathing with -Pirogov at Reval. He got angry with the water, which was very cold, -and swore about “These scoundrelly Germans.” I behave badly to Piotr -Ignatievich; and it’s only when he is going away and I see through the -window his grey hat disappearing behind the garden fence, that I want -to call him back and say: “Forgive me, my dear fellow.” - -The dinner goes yet more wearily than in winter. The same Gnekker, -whom I now hate and despise, dines with me every day. Before, I -used to suffer his presence in silence, but now I say biting things -to him, which make my wife and Liza blush. Carried away by an evil -feeling, I often say things that are merely foolish, and don’t know -why I say them. Thus it happened once that after looking at Gnekker -contemptuously for a long while, I suddenly fired off, for no reason at -all: - - “Eagles than barnyard-fowls may lower bend; - But fowls shall never to the heav’ns ascend.” - -More’s the pity that the fowl Gnekker shows himself more clever than -the eagle professor. Knowing my wife and daughter are on his side he -maintains these tactics. He replies to my shafts with a condescending -silence (“The old man’s off his head.... What’s the good of talking to -him?”), or makes good-humoured fun of me. It is amazing to what depths -of pettiness a man may descend. During the whole dinner I can dream how -Gnekker will be shown to be an adventurer, how Liza and my wife will -realise their mistake, and I will tease them--ridiculous dreams like -these at a time when I have one foot in the grave. - -Now there occur misunderstandings, of a kind which I formerly knew only -by hearsay. Though it is painful I will describe one which occurred -after dinner the other day. I sit in my room smoking a little pipe. -Enters my wife, as usual, sits down and begins to talk. What a good -idea it would be to go to Kharkov now while the weather is warm and -there is the time, and inquire what kind of man our Gnekker is. - -“Very well. I’ll go,” I agree. - -My wife gets up, pleased with me, and walks to the door; but -immediately returns: - -“By-the bye, I’ve one more favour to ask. I know you’ll be angry; -but it’s my duty to warn you.... Forgive me, Nicolai,--but all -our neighbours have begun to talk about the way you go to Katy’s -continually. I don’t deny that she’s clever and educated. It’s pleasant -to spend the time with her. But at your age and in your position it’s -rather strange to find pleasure in her society.... Besides she has a -reputation enough to....” - -All my blood rushes instantly from my brain. My eyes flash fire. I -catch hold of my hair, and stamp and cry, in a voice that is not mine: - -“Leave me alone, leave me, leave me....” - -My face is probably terrible, and my voice strange, for my wife -suddenly gets pale, and calls aloud, with a despairing voice, also not -her own. At our cries rush in Liza and Gnekker, then Yegor. - -My feet grow numb, as though they did not exist. I feel that I am -falling into somebody’s arms. Then I hear crying for a little while -and sink into a faint which lasts for two or three hours. - -Now for Katy. She comes to see me before evening every day, which of -course must be noticed by my neighbours and my friends. After a minute -she takes me with her for a drive. She has her own horse and a new -buggy she bought this summer. Generally she lives like a princess. She -has taken an expensive detached bungalow with a big garden, and put -into it all her town furniture. She has two maids and a coachman. I -often ask her: - -“Katy, what will you live on when you’ve spent all your father’s money?” - -“We’ll see, then,” she answers. - -“But this money deserves to be treated more seriously, my dear. It was -earned by a good man and honest labour.” - -“You’ve told me that before. I know.” - -First we drive by the field, then by a young pine forest, which you -can see from my window. Nature seems to me as beautiful as she used, -although the devil whispers to me that all these pines and firs, the -birds and white clouds in the sky will not notice my absence in three -or four months when I am dead. Katy likes to take the reins, and it is -good that the weather is fine and I am sitting by her side. She is in a -happy mood, and does not say bitter things. - -“You’re a very good man, Nicolai,” she says. “You are a rare bird. -There’s no actor who could play your part. Mine or Mikhail’s, for -instance--even a bad actor could manage, but yours--there’s nobody. I -envy you, envy you terribly! What am I? What?” - -She thinks for a moment, and asks: - -“I’m a negative phenomenon, aren’t I?” - -“Yes,” I answer. - -“H’m ... what’s to be done then?” - -What answer can I give? It’s easy to say “Work,” or “Give your property -to the poor,” or “Know yourself,” and because it’s so easy to say this -I don’t know what to answer. - -My therapeutist colleagues, when teaching methods of cure, advise one -“to individualise each particular case.” This advice must be followed -in order to convince one’s self that the remedies recommended in the -text-books as the best and most thoroughly suitable as a general -rule, are quite unsuitable in particular cases. It applies to moral -affections as well. But I must answer something. So I say: - -“You’ve too much time on your hands, my dear. You must take up -something.... In fact, why shouldn’t you go on the stage again, if you -have a vocation.” - -“I can’t.” - -“You have the manner and tone of a victim. I don’t like it, my dear. -You have yourself to blame. Remember, you began by getting angry with -people and things in general; but you never did anything to improve -either of them. You didn’t put up a struggle against the evil. You got -tired. You’re not a victim of the struggle but of your own weakness. -Certainly you were young then and inexperienced. But now everything can -be different. Come on, be an actress. You will work; you will serve in -the temple of art.”... - -“Don’t be so clever, Nicolai,” she interrupts. “Let’s agree once for -all: let’s speak about actors, actresses, writers, but let us leave art -out of it. You’re a rare and excellent man. But you don’t understand -enough about art to consider it truly sacred. You have no _flair,_ no -ear for art. You’ve been busy all your life, and you never had time to -acquire the _flair._ Really ... I don’t love these conversations about -art!” she continues nervously. “I don’t love them. They’ve vulgarised -it enough already, thank you.” - -“Who’s vulgarised it?” - -“_They_ vulgarised it by their drunkenness, newspapers by their -over-familiarity, clever people by philosophy.” - -“What’s philosophy got to do with it?” - -“A great deal. If a man philosophises, it means he doesn’t understand.” - -So that it should not come to bitter words, I hasten to change the -subject, and then keep silence for a long while. It’s not till we come -out of the forest and drive towards Katy’s bungalow, I return to the -subject and ask: - -“Still, you haven’t answered me why you don’t want to go on the stage?” - -“Really, it’s cruel,” she cries out, and suddenly blushes all over. -“You want me to tell you the truth outright. Very well if ... if you -will have it! I’ve no talent! No talent and ... much ambition! There -you are!” - -After this confession, she turns her face away from me, and to hide the -trembling of her hands, tugs at the reins. - -As we approach her bungalow, from a distance we see Mikhail already, -walking about by the gate, impatiently awaiting us. - -“This Fiodorovich again,” Katy says with annoyance. “Please take him -away from me. I’m sick of him. He’s flat.... Let him go to the deuce.” - -Mikhail Fiodorovich ought to have gone abroad long ago, but he has -postponed his departure every week. There have been some changes in him -lately. He’s suddenly got thin, begun to be affected by drink--a thing -that never happened to him before, and his black eyebrows have begun -to get grey. When our buggy stops at the gate he cannot hide his joy -and impatience. Anxiously he helps Katy and me from the buggy, hastily -asks us questions, laughs, slowly rubs his hands, and that gentle, -prayerful, pure something that I used to notice only in his eyes is now -poured over all his face. He is happy and at the same time ashamed of -his happiness, ashamed of his habit of coming to Katy’s every evening, -and he finds it necessary to give a reason for his coming, some -obvious absurdity, like: “I was passing on business, and I thought I’d -just drop in for a second.” - -All three of us go indoors. First we drink tea, then our old friends, -the two packs of cards, appear on the table, with a big piece of -cheese, some fruit, and a bottle of Crimean champagne. The subjects of -conversation are not new, but all exactly the same as they were in the -winter. The university, the students, literature, the theatre--all of -them come in for it. The air thickens with slanders, and grows more -close. It is poisoned by the breath, not of two toads as in winter, -but now by all three. Besides the velvety, baritone laughter and the -accordion-like giggle, the maid who waits upon us hears also the -unpleasant jarring laugh of a musical comedy general: “He, he, he!” - - -V - - -There sometimes come fearful nights with thunder, lightning, rain, and -wind, which the peasants call “sparrow-nights.” There was one such -sparrow-night in my own personal life.... - -I wake after midnight and suddenly leap out of bed. Somehow it seems -to me that I am going to die immediately. I do not know why, for there -is no single sensation in my body which points to a quick end; but -a terror presses on my soul as though I had suddenly seen a huge, -ill-boding fire in the sky. - -I light the lamp quickly and drink some water straight out of the -decanter. Then I hurry to the window. The weather is magnificent. The -air smells of hay and some delicious thing besides. I see the spikes of -my garden fence, the sleepy starveling trees by the window, the road, -the dark strip of forest. There is a calm and brilliant moon in the sky -and not a single cloud. Serenity. Not a leaf stirs. To me it seems that -everything is looking at me and listening for me to die. - -Dread seizes me. I shut the window and run to the bed, I feel for my -pulse. I cannot find it in my wrist; I seek it in my temples, my chin, -my hand again. They are all cold and slippery with sweat. My breathing -comes quicker and quicker; my body trembles, all my bowels are stirred, -and my face and forehead feel as though a cobweb had settled on them. - -What shall I do? Shall I call my family? No use. I do not know what my -wife and Liza will do when they come in to me. - -I hide my head under the pillow, shut my eyes and wait, wait.... My -spine is cold. It almost contracts within me. And I feel that death -will approach me only from behind, very quietly. - -“Kivi, kivi.” A squeak sounds in the stillness of the night. I do not -know whether it is in my heart or in the street. - -God, how awful! I would drink some more water; but now I dread opening -my eyes, and fear to raise my head. The terror is unaccountable, -animal. I cannot understand why I am afraid. Is it because I want to -live, or because a new and unknown pain awaits me? - -Upstairs, above the ceiling, a moan, then a laugh ... I listen. A -little after steps sound on the staircase. Someone hurries down, then -up again. In a minute steps sound downstairs again. Someone stops by my -door and listens. - -“Who’s there?” I call. - -The door opens. I open my eyes boldly and see my wife. Her face is pale -and her eyes red with weeping. - -“You’re not asleep, Nicolai Stiepanovich?” she asks. - -“What is it?” - -“For God’s sake go down to Liza. Something is wrong with her.” - -“Very well ... with pleasure,” I murmur, very glad that I am not alone. -“Very well ... immediately.” - -As I follow my wife I hear what she tells me, and from agitation -understand not a word. Bright spots from her candle dance over the -steps of the stairs; our long shadows tremble; my feet catch in the -skirts of my dressing-gown. My breath goes, and it seems to me that -someone is chasing me, trying to seize my back. “I shall die here on -the staircase, this second,” I think, “this second.” But we have passed -the staircase, the dark hall with the Italian window and we go into -Liza’s room. She sits in bed in her chemise; her bare legs hang down -and she moans. - -“Oh, my God ... oh, my God!” she murmurs, half shutting her eyes from -our candles. “I can’t, I can’t.” - -“Liza, my child,” I say, “what’s the matter?” - -Seeing me, she calls out and falls on my neck. - -“Papa darling,” she sobs. “Papa dearest ... my sweet. I don’t know what -it is.... It hurts.” - -She embraces me, kisses me and lisps endearments which I heard her lisp -when she was still a baby. - -“Be calm, my child. God’s with you,” I say. “You mustn’t cry. Something -hurts me too.” - -I try to cover her with the bedclothes; my wife gives her to drink; and -both of us jostle in confusion round the bed. My shoulders push into -hers, and at that moment I remember how we used to bathe our children. - -“But help her, help her!” my wife implores. “Do something!” And what -can I do? Nothing. There is some weight on the girl’s soul; but I -understand nothing, know nothing and can only murmur: - -“It’s nothing, nothing.... It will pass.... Sleep, sleep.” - -As if on purpose a dog suddenly howls in the yard, at first low and -irresolute, then aloud, in two voices. I never put any value on such -signs as dogs’ whining or screeching owls; but now my heart contracts -painfully, and I hasten to explain the howling. - -“Nonsense,” I think. “It’s the influence of one organism on another. -My great nervous strain was transmitted to my wife, to Liza, and to -the dog. That’s all. Such transmissions explain presentiments and -previsions.” - -A little later when I return to my room to write a prescription for -Liza I no longer think that I shall die soon. My soul simply feels -heavy and dull, so that I am even sad that I did not die suddenly. For -a long while I stand motionless in the middle of the room, pondering -what I shall prescribe for Liza; but the moans above the ceiling are -silent and I decide not to write a prescription, but stand there still. - -There is a dead silence, a silence, as one man wrote, that rings -in one’s ears. The time goes slowly. The bars of moonshine on the -windowsill do not move from their place, as though congealed.... The -dawn is still far away. - -But the garden-gate creaks; someone steals in, and strips a twig from -the starveling trees, and cautiously knocks with it on my window. - -“Nicolai Stiepanovich!” I hear a whisper. “Nicolai Stiepanovich!” - -I open the window, and I think that I am dreaming. Under the window, -close against the wall stands a woman in a black dress. She is brightly -lighted by the moon and looks at me with wide eyes. Her face is pale, -stern and fantastic in the moon, like marble. Her chin trembles. - -“It is I....” she says, “I ... Katy!” - -In the moon all women’s eyes are big and black, people are taller and -paler. Probably that is the reason why I did not recognise her in the -first moment. - -“What’s the matter?” - -“Forgive me,” she says. “I suddenly felt so dreary ... I could not bear -it. So I came here. There’s a light in your window ... and I decided to -knock.... Forgive me.... Ah, if you knew how dreary I felt! What are -you doing now?” - -“Nothing. Insomnia.” - -Her eyebrows lift, her eyes shine with tears and all her face is -illumined as with light, with the familiar, but long unseen, look of -confidence. - -“Nicolai Stiepanovich!” she says imploringly, stretching out both her -hands to me. “Dear, I beg you ... I implore.... If you do not despise -my friendship and my respect for you, then do what I implore you.” - -“What is it?” - -“Take my money.” - -“What next? What’s the good of your money to me?” - -“You will go somewhere to be cured. You must cure yourself. You will -take it? Yes? Dear ... Yes?” - -She looks into my face eagerly and repeats: - -“Yes? You will take it?” - -“No, my dear, I won’t take it....”, I say. “Thank you.” - -She turns her back to me and lowers her head. Probably the tone of my -refusal would not allow any further talk of money. - -“Go home to sleep,” I say. “I’ll see you to-morrow.” - -“It means, you don’t consider me your friend?” she asks sadly. - -“I don’t say that. But your money is no good to me.” - -“Forgive me,” she says lowering her voice by a full octave. “I -understand you. To be obliged to a person like me ... a retired -actress... But good-bye.” - -And she walks away so quickly that I have no time even to say -“Good-bye.” - - -VI - - -I am in Kharkov. - -Since it would be useless to fight against my present mood, and I have -no power to do it, I made up my mind that the last days of my life -shall be irreproachable, on the formal side. If I am not right with -my family, which I certainly admit, I will try at least to do as it -wishes. Besides I am lately become so indifferent that it’s positively -all the same, to me whether I go to Kharkov, or Paris, or Berditshev. - -I arrived here at noon and put up at a hotel not far from the -cathedral. The train made me giddy, the draughts blew through me, and -now I am sitting on the bed with my head in my hands waiting for the -tic. I ought to go to my professor friends to-day, but I have neither -the will nor the strength. - -The old hall-porter comes in to ask whether I have brought my own -bed-clothes. I keep him about five minutes asking him questions about -Gnekker, on whose account I came here. The porter happens to be -Kharkov-born, and knows the town inside out; but he doesn’t remember -any family with the name of Gnekker. I inquire about the estate. The -answer is the same. - -The clock in the passage strikes one,... two,... three.... The last -months of my life, while I wait for death, seem to me far longer than -my whole life. Never before could I reconcile myself to the slowness -of time as I can now. Before, when I had to wait for a train at the -station, or to sit at an examination, a quarter of an hour would seem -an eternity. Now I can sit motionless in bed the whole night long, -quite calmly thinking that there will be the same long, colourless -night to-morrow, and the next day.... - -In the passage the clock strikes five, six, seven.... It grows dark. -There is dull pain in my cheek--the beginning of the tic. To occupy -myself with thoughts, I return to my old point of view, when I was not -indifferent, and ask: Why do I, a famous man, a privy councillor, sit -in this little room, on this bed with a strange grey blanket? Why do -I look at this cheap tin washstand and listen to the wretched clock -jarring in the passage? Is all this worthy of my fame and my high -position among people? And I answer these questions with a smile. My -_naïveté_ seems funny to me--the _naïveté_ with which as a young man -I exaggerated the value of fame and of the exclusive position which -famous men enjoy. I am famous, my name is spoken with reverence. My -portrait has appeared in “Niva” and in “The Universal Illustration.” -I’ve even read my biography in a German paper, but what of that? I sit -lonely, by myself, in a strange city, on a strange bed, rubbing my -aching cheek with my palm.... - -Family scandals, the hardness of creditors, the rudeness of railway -men, the discomforts of the passport system, the expensive and -unwholesome food at the buffets, the general coarseness and roughness -of people,--all this and a great deal more that would take too long -to put down, concerns me as much as it concerns any bourgeois who is -known only in his own little street. Where is the exclusiveness of my -position then? We will admit that I am infinitely famous, that I am a -hero of whom my country is proud. All the newspapers give bulletins -of my illness, the post is already bringing in sympathetic addresses -from my friends, my pupils, and the public. But all this will not save -me from dying in anguish on a stranger’s bed in utter loneliness. Of -course there is no one to blame for this. But I must confess I do not -like my popularity. I feel that it has deceived me. - -At about ten I fall asleep, and, in spite of the tic sleep soundly, and -would sleep for a long while were I not awakened. Just after one there -is a sudden knock on my door. - -“Who’s there?” - -“A telegram.” - -“You could have brought it to-morrow,” I storm, as I take the telegram -from the porter. “Now I shan’t sleep again.” - -“I’m sorry. There was a light in your room. I thought you were not -asleep.” - -I open the telegram and look first at the signature--my wife’s. What -does she want? - -“Gnekker married Liza secretly yesterday. Return.” - -I read the telegram. For a long while I am not startled. Not Gnekker’s -or Liza’s action frightens me, but the indifference with which I -receive the news of their marriage. Men say that philosophers and true -_savants_ are indifferent. It is untrue. Indifference is the paralysis -of the soul, premature death. - -I go to bed again and begin to ponder with what thoughts I can occupy -myself. What on earth shall I think of? I seem to have thought over -everything, and now there is nothing powerful enough to rouse my -thought. - -When the day begins to dawn, I sit in bed clasping my knees and, for -want of occupation I try to know myself. “Know yourself” is good, -useful advice; but it is a pity that the ancients did not think of -showing us the way to avail ourselves of it. - -Before, when I had the desire to understand somebody else, or myself, -I used not to take into consideration actions, wherein everything is -conditional, but desires. Tell me what you want, and I will tell you -what you are. - -And now I examine myself. What do I want? - -I want our wives, children, friends, and pupils to love in us, not the -name or the firm or the label, but the ordinary human beings. What -besides? I should like to have assistants and successors. What more? I -should like to wake in a hundred years’ time, and take a look, if only -with one eye, at what has happened to science. I should like to live -ten years more.... What further? - -Nothing further. I think, think a long while and cannot make out -anything else. However much I were to think, wherever my thoughts -should stray, it is clear to me that the chief, all-important something -is lacking in my desires. In my infatuation for science, my desire to -live, my sitting here on a strange bed, my yearning to know myself, in -all the thoughts, feelings, and ideas I form about anything, there is -wanting the something universal which could bind all these together in -one whole. Each feeling and thought lives detached in me, and in all -my opinions about science, the theatre, literature, and my pupils, and -in all the little pictures which my imagination paints, not even the -most cunning analyst will discover what is called the general idea, or -the god of the living man. - -And if this is not there, then nothing is there. - -In poverty such as this a serious infirmity, fear of death, influence -of circumstances and people would have been enough to overthrow and -shatter all that I formerly considered as my conception of the world, -and all wherein I saw the meaning and joy of my life. Therefore, it -is nothing strange that I have darkened the last months of my life by -thoughts and feelings worthy of a slave or a savage, and that I am now -indifferent and do not notice the dawn. If there is lacking in a man -that which is higher and stronger than all outside influences, then -verily a good cold in the head is enough to upset his balance and to -make him see each bird an owl and hear a dog’s whine in every sound; -and all his pessimism or his optimism with their attendant thoughts, -great and small, seem then to be merely symptoms and no more. - -I am beaten. Then it’s no good going on thinking, no good talking. I -shall sit and wait in silence for what will come. - -In the morning the porter brings me tea and the local paper. -Mechanically I read the advertisements on the first page, the leader, -the extracts from newspapers and magazines, the local news ... Among -other things I find in the local news an item like this: “Our famous -scholar, emeritus professor Nicolai Stiepanovich arrived in Kharkov -yesterday by the express, and stayed at----hotel.” - -Evidently big names are created to live detached from those who bear -them. Now my name walks in Kharkov undisturbed. In some three months it -will shine as bright as the sun itself, inscribed in letters of gold on -my tombstone--at a time when I myself will be under the sod.... - -A faint knock at the door. Somebody wants me. - -“Who’s there? Come in!” - -The door opens. I step back in astonishment, and hasten to pull my -dressing gown together. Before me stands Katy. - -“How do you do?” she says, panting from running up the stairs. “You -didn’t expect me? I ... I’ve come too.” - -She sits down and continues, stammering and looking away from me. “Why -don’t you say ‘Good morning’? I arrived too ... to-day. I found out you -were at this hotel, and came to see you.” - -“I’m delighted to see you,” I say shrugging my shoulders. “But I’m -surprised. You might have dropped straight from heaven. What are you -doing here?” - -“I?... I just came.” - -Silence. Suddenly she gets up impetuously and comes over to me. - -“Nicolai Stiepanich!” she says, growing pale and pressing her hands to -her breast. “Nicolai Stiepanich! I can’t go on like this any longer. I -can’t. For God’s sake tell me now, immediately. What shall I do? Tell -me, what shall I do?” - -“What can I say? I am beaten. I can say nothing.” - -“But tell me, I implore you,” she continues, out of breath and -trembling all over her body. “I swear to you, I can’t go on like this -any longer. I haven’t the strength.” - -She drops into a chair and begins to sob. She throws her head back, -wrings her hands, stamps with her feet; her hat falls from her head and -dangles by its string, her hair is loosened. - -“Help me, help,” she implores. “I can’t bear it any more.” - -She takes a handkerchief out of her little travelling bag and with -it pulls out some letters which fall from her knees to the floor. -I pick them up from the floor and recognise on one of them Mikhail -Fiodorovich’s hand-writing, and accidentally read part of a word: -“passionat....” - -“There’s nothing that I can say to you, Katy,” I say. - -“Help me,” she sobs, seizing my hand and kissing it. “You’re my father, -my only friend. You’re wise and learned, and you’ve lived long! You -were a teacher. Tell me what to do.” - -I am bewildered and surprised, stirred by her sobbing, and I can hardly -stand upright. - -“Let’s have some breakfast, Katy,” I say with a constrained smile. - -Instantly I add in a sinking voice: - -“I shall be dead soon, Katy....” - -“Only one word, only one word,” she weeps and stretches out her hands -to me. “What shall I do?” - -“You’re a queer thing, really ...”, I murmur. “I can’t understand it. -Such a clever woman and suddenly--weeping....” - -Comes silence. Katy arranges her hair, puts on her hat, then crumples -her letters and stuffs them in her little bag, all in silence and -unhurried. Her face, her bosom and her gloves are wet with tears, but -her expression is dry already, stern.... I look at her and am ashamed -that I am happier than she. It was but a little while before my death, -in the ebb of my life, that I noticed in myself the absence of what our -friends the philosophers call the general idea; but this poor thing’s -soul has never known and never will know shelter all her life, all her -life. - -“Katy, let’s have breakfast,” I say. - -“No, thank you,” she answers coldly. - -One minute more passes in silence. - -“I don’t like Kharkov,” I say. “It’s too grey. A grey city.” - -“Yes ... ugly.... I’m not here for long.... On my way. I leave to-day.” - -“For where?” - -“For the Crimea ... I mean, the Caucasus.” - -“So. For long?” - -“I don’t know.” - -Katy gets up and gives me her hand with a cold smile, looking away from -me. - -I would like to ask her: “That means you won’t be at my funeral?” But -she does not look at me; her hand is cold and like a stranger’s. I -escort her to the door in silence.... She goes out of my room and walks -down the long passage, without looking back. She knows that my eyes are -following her, and probably on the landing she will look back. - -No, she did not look back. The black dress showed for the last time, -her steps were stilled.... Goodbye, my treasure! - - - - -THE FIT - - -I - - -The medical student Mayer, and Ribnikov, a student at the Moscow school -of painting, sculpture, and architecture, came one evening to their -friend Vassiliev, law student, and proposed that he should go with -them to S----v Street. For a long while Vassiliev did not agree, but -eventually dressed himself and went with them. - -Unfortunate women he knew only by hearsay and from books, and never -once in his life had he been in the houses where they live. He knew -there were immoral women who were forced by the pressure of disastrous -circumstances--environment, bad up-bringing, poverty, and the like--to -sell their honour for money. They do not know pure love, have no -children and no legal rights; mothers and sisters mourn them for -dead, science treats them as an evil, men are familiar with them. But -notwithstanding all this they do not lose the image and likeness of -God. They all acknowledge their sin and hope for salvation. They are -free to avail themselves of every means of salvation. True, Society -does not forgive people their past, but with God Mary of Egypt is -not lower than the other saints. Whenever Vassiliev recognised an -unfortunate woman in the street by her costume or her manner, or saw a -picture of one in a comic paper, there came into his mind every time -a story he once read somewhere: a pure and heroic young man falls in -love with an unfortunate woman and asks her to be his wife, but she, -considering herself unworthy of such happiness, poisons herself. - -Vassiliev lived in one of the streets off the Tverskoi boulevard. -When he and his friends came out of the house it was about eleven -o’clock--the first snow had just fallen and all nature was under -the spell of this new snow. The air smelt of snow, the snow cracked -softly under foot, the earth, the roofs, the trees, the benches on the -boulevards--all were soft, white, and young. Owing to this the houses -had a different look from yesterday, the lamps burned brighter, the -air was more transparent, the clatter of the cabs was dulled and there -entered into the soul with the fresh, easy, frosty air a feeling like -the white, young, feathery snow. “To these sad shores unknowing” the -medico began to sing in a pleasant tenor, “An unknown power entices”. - -“Behold the mill” ... the painter’s voice took him up, “it is now -fall’n to ruin.” - -“Behold the mill, it is now fall’n to ruin,” the medico repeated, -raising his eyebrows and sadly shaking his head. - -He was silent for a while, passed his hand over his forehead trying to -recall the words, and began to sing in a loud voice and so well that -the passers-by looked back. - -“Here, long ago, came free, free love to me”... - -All three went into a restaurant and without taking off their coats -they each had two thimblefuls of vodka at the bar. Before drinking the -second, Vassiliev noticed a piece of cork in his Vodka, lifted the -glass to his eye, looked at it for a long while with a short-sighted -frown. The medico misunderstood his expression and said-- - -“Well, what are you staring at? No philosophy, please. Vodka’s made to -be drunk, caviare to be eaten, women to sleep with, snow to walk on. -Live like a man for one evening.” - -“Well, I’ve nothing to say,” said Vassiliev laughingly, “I’m not -refusing?” - -The vodka warmed his breast. He looked at his friends, admired and -envied them. How balanced everything is in these healthy, strong, -cheerful people. Everything in their minds and souls is smooth and -rounded off. They sing, have a passion for the theatre, paint, talk -continually, and drink, and they never have a headache the next day. -They are romantic and dissolute, sentimental and insolent; they can -work and go on the loose and laugh at nothing and talk rubbish; they -are hot-headed, honest, heroic and as human beings not a bit worse -than Vassiliev, who watches his every step and word, who is careful, -cautious, and able to give the smallest trifle the dignity of a -problem. And he made up his mind if only for one evening to live like -his friends, to let himself go, and be free from his own control. -Must he drink vodka? He’ll drink, even if his head falls to pieces -to-morrow. Must he be taken to women? He’ll go. He’ll laugh, play the -fool, and give a joking answer to disapproving passers-by. - -He came out of the restaurant laughing. He liked his friends--one in a -battered hat with a wide brim who aped aesthetic disorder; the other in -a sealskin cap, not very poor, with a pretence of learned Bohemia. He -liked the snow, the paleness, the lamp-lights, the clear black prints -which the passers’ feet left on the snow. He liked the air, and above -all the transparent, tender, naive, virgin tone which can be seen in -nature only twice in the year: when everything is covered in snow, on -the bright days in spring, and on moonlight nights when the ice breaks -on the river. - -“To these sad shores unknowing,” he began to sing _sotto-voce,_ “An -unknown power entices.” - -And all the way for some reason or other he and his friends had this -melody on their lips. All three hummed it mechanically out of time with -each other. - -Vassiliev imagined how in about ten minutes he and his friends would -knock at a door, how they would stealthily walk through the narrow -little passages and dark rooms to the women, how he would take -advantage of the dark, suddenly strike a match, and see lit up a -suffering face and a guilty smile. There he will surely find a fair -or a dark woman in a white nightgown with her hair loose. She will be -frightened of the light, dreadfully confused and say: “Good God! What -are you doing? Blow it out!” All this was frightening, but curious and -novel. - - -II - - -The friends turned out of Trubnoi Square into the Grachovka and soon -arrived at the street which Vassiliev knew only from hearsay. Seeing -two rows of houses with brightly lighted windows and wide open doors, -and hearing the gay sound of pianos and fiddles--sounds which flew out -of all the doors and mingled in a strange confusion, as if somewhere -in the darkness over the roof-tops an unseen orchestra were tuning, -Vassiliev was bewildered and said: - -“What a lot of houses!” - -“What’s that?” said the medico. “There are ten times as many in London. -There are a hundred thousand of these women there.” - -The cabmen sat on their boxes quiet and indifferent as in other -streets; on the pavement walked the same passers-by. No one was in -a hurry; no one hid his face in his collar; no one shook his head -reproachfully. And in this indifference, in the confused sound of -the pianos and fiddles, in the bright windows and wide-open doors, -something very free, impudent, bold and daring could be felt. It must -have been the same as this in the old times on the slave-markets, as -gay and as noisy; people looked and walked with the same indifference. - -“Let’s begin right at the beginning,” said the painter. - -The friends walked into a narrow little passage lighted by a single -lamp with a reflector. When they opened the door a man in a black -jacket rose lazily from the yellow sofa in the hall. He had an unshaven -lackey’s face and sleepy eyes. The place smelt like a laundry, and of -vinegar. From the hall a door led into a brightly lighted room. The -medico and the painter stopped in the doorway, stretched out their -necks and peeped into the room together: - -“Buona sera, signore, Rigoletto--huguenote--traviata!--” the painter -began, making a theatrical bow. - -“Havanna--blackbeetlano--pistoletto!” said the medico, pressing his hat -to his heart and bowing low. - -Vassiliev kept behind them. He wanted to bow theatrically too and say -something silly. But he only smiled, felt awkward and ashamed, and -awaited impatiently what was to follow. In the door appeared a little -fair girl of seventeen or eighteen, with short hair, wearing a short -blue dress with a white bow on her breast. - -“What are you standing in the door for?” she said. “Take off your -overcoats and come into the salon.” - -The medico and the painter went into the salon, still speaking Italian. -Vassiliev followed them irresolutely. - -“Gentlemen, take off your overcoats,” said the lackey stiffly. “You’re -not allowed in as you are.” - -Besides the fair girl there was another woman in the salon, very stout -and tall, with a foreign face and bare arms. She sat by the piano, -with a game of patience spread on her knees. She took no notice of the -guests. - -“Where are the other girls?” asked the medico. - -“They’re drinking tea,” said the fair one. “Stiepan,” she called out. -“Go and tell the girls some students have come!” - -A little later a third girl entered, in a bright red dress with blue -stripes. Her face was thickly and unskilfully painted. Her forehead was -hidden under her hair. She stared with dull, frightened eyes. As she -came she immediately began to sing in a strong hoarse contralto. After -her a fourth girl. After her a fifth. - -In all this Vassiliev saw nothing new or curious. It seemed to him -that he had seen before, and more than once, this salon, piano, cheap -gilt mirror, the white bow, the dress with blue stripes and the -stupid, indifferent faces. But of darkness, quiet, mystery, and guilty -smile--of all he had expected to meet here and which frightened him--he -did not see even a shadow. - -Everything was commonplace, prosaic, and dull. Only one thing provoked -his curiosity a little, that was the terrible, as it were intentional -lack of taste, which was seen in the overmantels, the absurd pictures, -the dresses and the white bow. In this lack of taste there was -something characteristic and singular. - -“How poor and foolish it all is!” thought Vassiliev. “What is there in -all this rubbish to tempt a normal man, to provoke him into committing -a frightful sin, to buy a living soul for a rouble? I can understand -anyone sinning for the sake of splendour, beauty, grace, passion; but -what is there here? What tempts people here? But ... it’s no good -thinking!” - -“Whiskers, stand me champagne.” The fair one turned to him. - -Vassiliev suddenly blushed. - -“With pleasure,” he said, bowing politely. “But excuse me if I ... I -don’t drink with you, I don’t drink.” - -Five minutes after the friends were off to another house. - -“Why did you order drinks?” stormed the medico. “What a millionaire, -flinging six roubles into the gutter like that for nothing at all.” - -“Why shouldn’t I give her pleasure if she wants it?” said Vassiliev, -justifying himself. - -“You didn’t give her any pleasure. Madame got that. It’s Madame who -tells them to ask the guests for drinks. She makes by it.” - -“Behold the mill,” the painter began to sing, “Now fall’n to ruin....” - -When they came to another house the friends stood outside in the -vestibule, but did not enter the salon. As in the first house, a figure -rose up from the sofa in the hall, in a black jacket, with a sleepy -lackey’s face. As he looked at this lackey, at his face and shabby -jacket, Vassiliev thought: “What must an ordinary simple Russian go -through before Fate casts him up here? Where was he before, and what -was he doing? What awaits him? Is he married, where’s his mother, -and does she know he’s a lackey here?” Thenceforward in every house -Vassiliev involuntarily turned his attention to the lackey first of all. - -In one of the houses, it seemed to be the fourth, the lackey was a dry -little, puny fellow, with a chain across his waistcoat. He was reading -a newspaper and took no notice of the guests at all. Glancing at his -face, Vassiliev had the idea that a fellow with a face like that could -steal and murder and perjure. And indeed the face was interesting: a -big forehead, grey eyes, a flat little nose, small close-set teeth, and -the expression on his face dull and impudent at once, like a puppy hard -on a hare. Vassiliev had the thought that he would like to touch this -lackey’s hair: is it rough or soft? It must be rough like a dog’s. - - -III - - -Because he had had two glasses the painter suddenly got rather drunk, -and unnaturally lively. - -“Let’s go to another place,” he added, waving his hands. “I’ll -introduce you to the best!” - -When he had taken his friends into the house which was according to him -the best, he proclaimed a persistent desire to dance a quadrille. The -medico began to grumble that they would have to pay the musicians a -rouble but agreed to be his _vis-à-vis._ The dance began. - -It was just as bad in the best house as in the worst. Just the same -mirrors and pictures were here, the same coiffures and dresses. Looking -round at the furniture and the costumes Vassiliev now understood that -it was not lack of taste, but something that might be called the -particular taste and style of S----v Street, quite impossible to find -anywhere else, something complete, not accidental, evolved in time. -After he had been to eight houses he no longer wondered at the colour -of the dresses or the long trains, or at the bright bows, or the sailor -dresses, or the thick violent painting of the cheeks; he understood -that all this was in harmony, that if only one woman dressed herself -humanly, or one decent print hung on the wall, then the general tone of -the whole street would suffer. - -How badly they manage the business? Can’t they really understand that -vice is only fascinating when it is beautiful and secret, hidden under -the cloak of virtue? Modest black dresses, pale faces, sad smiles, and -darkness act more strongly than this clumsy tinsel. Idiots! If they -don’t understand it themselves, their guests ought to teach them.... - -A girl in a Polish costume trimmed with white fur came up close to him -and sat down by his side. - -“Why don’t you dance, my brown-haired darling?” she asked. “What do you -feel so bored about?” - -“Because it is boring.” - -“Stand me a Château Lafitte, then you won’t be bored.” - -Vassiliev made no answer. For a little while he was silent, then he -asked: - -“What time do you go to bed as a rule?” - -“Six.” - -“When do you get up?” - -“Sometimes two, sometimes three.” - -“And after you get up what do you do?” - -“We drink coffee. We have dinner at seven.” - -“And what do you have for dinner?” - -“Soup or _schi_ as a rule, beef-steak, dessert. Our madame keeps the -girls well. But what are you asking all this for?” - -“Just to have a talk....” - -Vassiliev wanted to ask about all sorts of things. He had a strong -desire to find out where she came from, were her parents alive, and did -they know she was here; how she got into the house; was she happy and -contented, or gloomy and depressed with dark thoughts. Does she ever -hope to escape.... But he could not possibly think how to begin, or how -to put his questions without seeming indiscreet. He thought for a long -while and asked: - -“How old are you?” - -“Eighty,” joked the girl, looking and laughing at the tricks the -painter was doing with his hands and feet. - -She suddenly giggled and uttered a long filthy expression aloud so that -every one could hear. - -Vassiliev, terrified, not knowing how to look, began to laugh uneasily. -He alone smiled: all the others, his friends, the musicians and the -women--paid no attention to his neighbour. They might never have heard. - -“Stand me a Lafitte,” said the girl again. - -Vassiliev was suddenly repelled by her white trimming and her voice -and left her. It seemed to him close and hot. His heart began to beat -slowly and violently, like a hammer, one, two, three. - -“Let’s get out of here,” he said, pulling the painter’s sleeve. - -“Wait. Let’s finish it.” - -While the medico and the painter were finishing their quadrille, -Vassiliev, in order to avoid the women, eyed the musicians. The -pianist was a nice old man with spectacles, with a face like Marshal -Basin; the fiddler a young man with a short, fair beard dressed in -the latest fashion. The young man was not stupid or starved, on the -contrary he looked clever, young and fresh. He was dressed with a touch -of originality, and played with emotion. Problem: how did he and the -decent old man get here? Why aren’t they ashamed to sit here? What do -they think about when they look at the women? - -If the piano and the fiddle were played by ragged, hungry, gloomy, -drunken creatures, with thin stupid faces, then their presence would -perhaps be intelligible. As it was, Vassiliev could understand. -nothing. Into his memory came the story that he had read about the -unfortunate woman, and now he found that the human figure with the -guilty smile had nothing to do with this. It seemed to him that they -were not unfortunate women that he saw, but they belonged to another, -utterly different world, foreign and inconceivable to him; if he had -seen this world on the stage or read about it in a book he would never -have believed it.... The girl with the white trimming giggled again and -said something disgusting aloud. He felt sick, blushed, and went out: - -“Wait. We’re coming too,” cried the painter. - - -IV - - -“I had a talk with my _mam’selle_ while we were dancing,” said the -medico when all three came into the street. “The subject was her first -love. _He_ was a bookkeeper in Smolensk with a wife and five children. -She was seventeen and lived with her pa and ma who kept a soap and -candle shop.” - -“How did he conquer her heart?” asked Vassiliev. - -“He bought her fifty roubles’-worth of underclothes--Lord knows what!” - -“However could he get her love-story out of his girl?” thought -Vassiliev. “I can’t. My dear chaps, I’m off home,” he said. - -“Why?” - -“Because I don’t know how to get on here. I’m bored and disgusted. What -is there amusing about it? If they were only human beings; but they’re -savages and beasts. I’m going, please.” - -“Grisha darling, please,” the painter said with a sob in his voice, -pressing close to Vassiliev, “let’s go to one more--then to Hell with -them. Do come, Grigor.” - -They prevailed on Vassiliev and led him up a staircase. The carpet and -the gilded balustrade, the porter who opened the door, the panels which -decorated the hall, were still in the same S----v Street style, but -here it was perfected and imposing. - -“Really I’m going home,” said Vassiliev, taking off his overcoat. - -“Darling, please, please,” said the painter and kissed him on the neck. -“Don’t be so faddy, Grigri--be a pal. Together we came, together we go. -What a beast you are though!” - -“I can wait for you in the street. My God, it’s disgusting here.” - -“Please, please.... You just look on, see, just look on.” - -“One should look at things objectively,” said the medico seriously. - -Vassiliev entered the salon and sat down. There were many more guests -besides him and his friends: two infantry officers, a grey, bald-headed -gentleman with gold spectacles, two young clean-shaven men from the -Surveyors’ Institute, and a very drunk man with an actor’s face. -All the girls were looking after these guests and took no notice of -Vassiliev. Only one of them dressed like Aïda glanced at him sideways, -smiled at something and said with a yawn: - -“So the dark one’s come.” - -Vassiliev’s heart was beating and his face was burning. He felt -ashamed for being there, disgusted and tormented. He was tortured by -the thought that he, a decent and affectionate man (so he considered -himself up till now), despised these women and felt nothing towards -them but repulsion. He could not feel pity for them or for the -musicians or the lackeys. - -“It’s because I don’t try to understand them,” he thought. “They’re all -more like beasts than human beings; but all the same they are human -beings. They’ve got souls. One should understand them first, then judge -them.” - -“Grisha, don’t go away. Wait for us,” called the painter; and he -disappeared somewhere. - -Soon the medico disappeared also. - -“Yes, one should try to understand. It’s no good, otherwise,” thought -Vassiliev, and he began to examine intently the face of each girl, -looking for the guilty smile. But whether he could not read faces or -because none of these women felt guilty he saw in each face only a dull -look of common, vulgar boredom and satiety. Stupid eyes, stupid smiles, -harsh, stupid voices, impudent gestures--and nothing else. Evidently -every woman had in her past a love romance with a bookkeeper and fifty -roubles’-worth of underclothes. And in the present the only good things -in life were coffee, a three-course dinner, wine, quadrilles, and -sleeping till two in the afternoon.... - -Finding not one guilty smile, Vassiliev began to examine them to see -if even one looked clever and his attention was arrested by one pale, -rather tired face. It was that of a dark woman no longer young, wearing -a dress scattered with spangles. She sat in a chair staring at the -floor and thinking of something. Vassiliev paced up and down and then -sat down beside her as if by accident. - -“One must begin with something trivial,” he thought, “and gradually -pass on to serious conversation....” - -“What a beautiful little dress you have on,” he said, and touched the -gold fringe of her scarf with his finger. - -“It’s all right,” said the dark woman. - -“Where do you come from?” - -“I? A long way. From Tchernigov.” - -“It’s a nice part.” - -“It always is, where you don’t happen to be.” - -“What a pity I can’t describe nature,” thought Vassiliev. “I’d move her -by descriptions of Tchernigov. She must love it if she was born there.” - -“Do you feel lonely here?” he asked. - -“Of course I’m lonely.” - -“Why don’t you go away from here, if you’re lonely?” - -“Where shall I go to? Start begging, eh?” - -“It’s easier to beg than to live here.” - -“Where did you get that idea? Have you been a beggar?” - -“I begged, when I hadn’t enough to pay my university fees; and even if -I hadn’t begged it’s easy enough to understand. A beggar is a free man, -at any rate, and you’re a slave.” - -The dark woman stretched herself, and followed with sleepy eyes the -lackey who carried a tray of glasses and soda-water. - -“Stand us a champagne,” she said, and yawned again. - -“Champagne,” said Vassiliev. “What would happen if your mother or your -brother suddenly came in? What would you say? And what would they say? -You would say ‘champagne’ then.” - -Suddenly the noise of crying was heard. From the next room where the -lackey had carried the soda-water, a fair man rushed out with a red -face and angry eyes. He was followed by the tall, stout madame, who -screamed in a squeaky voice: - -“No one gave you permission to slap the girls in the face. Better class -than you come here, and never slap a girl. You bounder!” - -Followed an uproar. Vassiliev was scared and went white. In the next -room some one wept, sobbing, sincerely, as only the insulted weep. -And he understood that indeed human beings lived here, actually -human beings, who get offended, suffer, weep, and ask for help. The -smouldering hatred, the feeling of repulsion, gave way to an acute -sense of pity and anger against the wrong-doer. He rushed into the -room from which the weeping came. Through the rows of bottles which -stood on the marble table-top he saw a suffering tear-stained face, -stretched out his hands towards this face, stepped to the table and -instantly gave a leap back in terror. The sobbing woman was dead-drunk. - -As he made his way through the noisy crowd, gathered round the fair -man, his heart failed him, he lost his courage like a boy, and it -seemed to him that in this foreign, inconceivable world, they wanted to -run after him, to beat him, to abuse him with foul words. He tore down -his coat from the peg and rushed headlong down the stairs. - - -V - - -Pressing close to the fence, he stood near to the house and waited -for his friends to come out. The sounds of the pianos and fiddles, -gay, bold, impudent and sad, mingled into chaos in the air, and this -confusion was, as before, as if an unseen orchestra were tuning in the -dark over the roof-tops. If he looked up towards the darkness, then -all the background was scattered with white, moving points: it was -snowing. The flakes, coming into the light, spun lazily in the air like -feathers, and still more lazily fell. Flakes of snow crowded whirling -about Vassiliev, and hung on his beard, his eyelashes, his eyebrows. -The cabmen, the horses, and the passers-by, all were white. - -“How dare the snow fall in this street?” thought Vassiliev. “A curse on -these houses.” - -Because of his headlong rush down the staircase his feet failed him -from weariness; he was out of breath as if he had climbed a mountain. -His heart beat so loud that he could hear it. A longing came over him -to get out of this street as soon as possible and go home; but still -stronger was his desire to wait for his friends and to vent upon them -his feeling of heaviness. - -He had not understood many things in the houses. The souls of the -perishing women were to him a mystery as before; but it was dear to -him that the business was much worse than one would have thought. If -the guilty woman who poisoned herself was called a prostitute, then it -was hard to find a suitable name for all these creatures, who danced -to the muddling music and said long, disgusting phrases. They were not -perishing; they were already done for. - -“Vice is here,” he thought; “but there is neither confession of sin -nor hope of salvation. They are bought and sold, drowned in wine -and torpor, and they are dull and indifferent as sheep and do not -understand. My God, my God!” - -It was so clear to him that all that which is called human dignity, -individuality, the image and likeness of God, was here dragged down to -the gutter, as they say of drunkards, and that not only the street and -the stupid women were to blame for it. - -A crowd of students white with snow, talking and laughing gaily, -passed by. One of them, a tall, thin man, peered into Vassiliev’s face -and said drunkenly, “He’s one of ours. Logged, old man? Aha! my lad. -Never mind. Walk up, never say die, uncle.” - -He took Vassiliev by the shoulders and pressed his cold wet moustaches -to his cheek, then slipped, staggered, brandished his arms, and cried -out: - -“Steady there--don’t fall.” - -Laughing, he ran to join his comrades. - -Through the noise the painter’s voice became audible. - -“You dare beat women! I won’t have it. Go to Hell. You’re regular -swine.” - -The medico appeared at the door of the house. He glanced round and on -seeing Vassiliev, said in alarm: - -“Is that you? My God, it’s simply impossible to go anywhere with Yegor. -I can’t understand a chap like that. He kicked up a row--can’t you -hear? Yegor,” he called from the door. “Yegor!” - -“I won’t have you hitting women.” The painter’s shrill voice was -audible again from upstairs. - -Something heavy and bulky tumbled down the staircase. It was the -painter coming head over heels. He had evidently been thrown out. - -He lifted himself up from the ground, dusted his hat, and with an angry -indignant face, shook his fist at the upstairs. - -“Scoundrels! Butchers! Bloodsuckers! I won’t have you hitting a weak, -drunken woman. Ah, you....” - -“Yegor ... Yegor!” the medico began to implore, “I give my word I’ll -never go out with you again. Upon my honour, I won’t.” - -The painter gradually calmed, and the friends went home. - -“To these sad shores unknowing”--the medico began--“An unknown power -entices....” - -“‘Behold the mill,’” the painter sang with him after a pause, “‘Now fallen -into ruin.’ How the snow is falling, most Holy Mother. Why did you go -away, Grisha? You’re a coward; you’re only an old woman.” - -Vassiliev was walking behind his friends. He stared at their backs and -thought: “One of two things: either prostitution only seems to us an -evil and we exaggerate it, or if prostitution is really such an evil as -is commonly thought, these charming friends of mine are just as much -slavers, violators, and murderers as the inhabitants of Syria and Cairo -whose photographs appear in ‘The Field.’ They’re singing, laughing, -arguing soundly now, but haven’t they just been exploiting starvation, -ignorance, and stupidity? They have, I saw them at it. Where does their -humanity, their science, and their painting come in, then? The science, -art, and lofty sentiments of these murderers remind me of the lump of -fat in the story. Two robbers killed a beggar in a forest; they began -to divide his clothes between themselves and found in his bag a lump -of pork fat. ‘In the nick of time,’ said one of them. ‘Let’s have a -bite!’ ‘How can you?’ the other cried in terror. ‘Have you forgotten -to-day’s Friday?’ So they refrained from eating. After having cut the -man’s throat they walked out of the forest confident that they were -pious fellows. These two are just the same. When they’ve paid for women -they go and imagine they’re painters and scholars.... - -“Listen, you two,” he said angrily and sharply. “Why do you go to those -places? Can’t you understand how horrible they are? Your medicine -tells you every one of these women dies prematurely from consumption -or something else; your arts tell you that she died morally still -earlier. Each of them dies because during her lifetime she accepts on -an average, let us say, five hundred men. Each of them is killed by -five hundred men, and you’re amongst the five hundred. Now if each of -you comes here and to places like this two hundred and fifty times in -his lifetime, then it means that between you you have killed one woman. -Can’t you understand that? Isn’t it horrible?” - -“Ah, isn’t this awful, my God?” - -“There, I knew it would end like this,” said the painter frowning. “We -oughtn’t to have had anything to do with this fool of a blockhead. I -suppose you think your head’s full of great thoughts and great ideas -now. Devil knows what they are, but they’re not ideas. You’re staring -at me now with hatred and disgust; but if you want my opinion you’d -better build twenty more of the houses than look like that. There’s -more vice in your look than in the whole street. Let’s clear out, -Volodya, damn him! He’s a fool. He’s a blockhead, and that’s all he is.” - -“Human beings are always killing each other,” said the medico. “That is -immoral, of course. But philosophy won’t help you. Good-bye!” - -The friends parted at Trubnoi Square and went their way. Left alone, -Vassiliev began to stride along the boulevard. He was frightened of the -dark, frightened of the snow, which fell to the earth in little flakes, -but seemed to long to cover the whole world; he was frightened of the -street-lamps, which glimmered faintly through the clouds of snow. An -inexplicable faint-hearted fear possessed his soul. Now and then people -passed him; but he gave a start and stepped aside. It seemed to him -that from everywhere there came and stared at him women, only women.... - -“It’s coming on,” he thought, “I’m going to have a fit.” - - -VI - - -At home he lay on his bed and began to talk, shivering all over his -body. - -“Live women, live.... My God, they’re alive.” - -He sharpened the edge of his imagination in every possible way. Now he -was the brother of an unfortunate, now her father. Now he was himself a -fallen woman, with painted cheeks; and all this terrified him. - -It seemed to him somehow that he must solve this question immediately, -at all costs, and that the problem was not strange to him, but was his -own. He made a great effort, conquered his despair, and, sitting on the -side of the bed, his head clutched in his hands, he began to think: - -How could all the women he had seen that night be saved? The process -of solving a problem was familiar to him as to a learned person; and -notwithstanding all his excitement he kept strictly to this process. -He recalled to mind the history of the question, its literature, and -just after three o’clock he was pacing up and down, trying to remember -all the experiments which are practised nowadays for the salvation of -women. He had a great many good friends who lived in furnished rooms, -Falzfein, Galyashkin, Nechaiev, Yechkin ... not a few among them were -honest and self-sacrificing, and some of them had attempted to save -these women.... - -All these few attempts, thought Vassiliev, rare attempts, may be -divided into three groups. Some having rescued a woman from a brothel -hired a room for her, bought her a sewing-machine and she became a -dressmaker, and the man who saved her kept her for his mistress, -openly or otherwise, but later when he had finished his studies and was -going away, he would hand her over to another decent fellow. So the -fallen woman remained fallen. Others after having bought her out also -hired a room for her, bought the inevitable sewing-machine and started -her off reading and writing and preached at her. The woman sits and -sews as long as it is novel and amusing, but later, when she is bored, -she begins to receive men secretly, or runs back to where she can sleep -till three in the afternoon, drink coffee, and eat till she is full. -Finally, the most ardent and self-sacrificing take a bold, determined -step. They marry, and when the impudent, self-indulgent, stupefied -creature becomes a wife, a lady of the house, and then a mother, her -life and outlook are utterly changed, and in the wife and mother it is -hard to recognise the unfortunate woman. Yes, marriage is the best, it -may be the only, resource. - -“But it’s impossible,” Vassiliev said aloud and threw himself down on -his bed. “First of all, I could not marry one. One would have to be a -saint to be able to do it, unable to hate, not knowing disgust. But -let us suppose that the painter, the medico, and I got the better of -our feelings and married, that all these women got married, what is -the result? What kind of effect follows? The result is that while the -women get married here in Moscow, the Smolensk bookkeeper seduces a -fresh lot, and these will pour into the empty places, together with -women from Saratov, Nijni-Novgorod, Warsaw.... And what happens to the -hundred thousand in London? What can be done with those in Hamburg?” - -The oil in the lamp was used up and the lamp began to smell. Vassiliev -did not notice it. Again he began to pace up and down, thinking. Now he -put the question differently. What can be done to remove the demand for -fallen women? For this it is necessary that the men who buy and kill -them should at once begin to feel all the immorality of their _rôle_ of -slave-owners, and this should terrify them. It is necessary to save the -men. - -Science and art apparently won’t do, thought Vassiliev. There is only -one way out--to be an apostle. - -And he began to dream how he would stand to-morrow evening at the -corner of the street and say to each passer-by: “Where are you going -and what for? Fear God!” - -He would turn to the indifferent cabmen and say to them: - -“Why are you standing here? Why don’t you revolt? You do believe in -God, don’t you? And you do know that this is a crime, and that people -will go to Hell for this? Why do you keep quiet, then? True, the women -are strangers to you, but they have fathers and brothers exactly the -same as you....” - -Some friend of Vassiliev’s once said of him that he was a man of -talent. There is a talent for writing, for the theatre, for painting; -but Vassiliev’s was peculiar, a talent for humanity. He had a fine and -noble _flair_ for every kind of suffering. As a good actor reflects in -himself the movement and voice of another, so Vassiliev could reflect -in himself another’s pain. Seeing tears, he wept. With a sick person, -he himself became sick and moaned. If he saw violence done, it seemed -to him that he was the victim. He was frightened like a child, and, -frightened, ran for help. Another’s pain roused him, excited him, threw -him into a state of ecstasy.... - -Whether the friend was right I do not know, but what happened to -Vassiliev when it seemed to him that the question was solved was very -much like an ecstasy. He sobbed, laughed, said aloud the things he -would say to-morrow, felt a burning love for the men who would listen -to him and stand by his side at the corner of the street, preaching. He -sat down to write to them; he made vows. - -All this was the more like an ecstasy in that it did not last. -Vassiliev was soon tired. The London women, the Hamburg women, those -from Warsaw, crushed him with their mass, as the mountains crush the -earth. He quailed before this mass; he lost himself; he remembered he -had no gift for speaking, that he was timid and faint-hearted, that -strange people would hardly want to listen to and understand him, a -law-student in his third year, a frightened and insignificant figure. -The true apostleship consisted, not only in preaching, but also in -deeds.... - -When daylight came and the carts rattled on the streets, Vassiliev lay -motionless on the sofa, staring at one point. He did not think any -more of women, or men, or apostles. All his attention was fixed on the -pain of his soul which tormented him. It was a dull pain, indefinite, -vague; it was like anguish and the most acute fear and despair. He -could say where the pain was. It was in his breast, under the heart. -It could not be compared to anything. Once on a time he used to have -violent toothache. Once, he had pleurisy and neuralgia. But all these -pains were as nothing beside the pain of his soul. Beneath this pain -life seemed repulsive. The thesis, his brilliant work already written, -the people he loved, the salvation of fallen women, all that which only -yesterday he loved or was indifferent to, remembered now, irritated -him in the same way as the noise of the carts, the running about of -the porters and the daylight.... If someone now were to perform before -his eyes a deed of mercy or an act of revolting violence, both would -produce upon him an equally repulsive impression. Of all the thoughts -which roved lazily in his head, two only did not irritate him: one--at -any moment he had the power to kill himself, the other--that the pain -would not last more than three days. The second he knew from experience. - -After having lain down for a while he got up and walked wringing his -hands, not from corner to corner as usually, but in a square along -the walls. He caught a glimpse of himself in the glass. His face -was pale and haggard, his temples hollow, his eyes bigger, darker, -more immobile, as if they were not his own, and they expressed the -intolerable suffering of his soul. - -In the afternoon the painter knocked at the door. - -“Gregory, are you at home?” he asked. - -Receiving no answer, he stood musing for a while, and said to himself -good-naturedly: - -“Out. He’s gone to the University. Damn him.” - -And went away. - -Vassiliev lay down on his bed and burying his head in the pillow he -began to cry with the pain. But the faster his tears flowed, the more -terrible was the pain. When it was dark, he got into his mind the idea -of the horrible night which was awaiting him and awful despair seized -him. He dressed quickly, ran out of his room, leaving the door wide -open, and into the street without reason or purpose. Without asking -himself where he was going, he walked quickly to Sadovaia Street. - -Snow was falling as yesterday. It was thawing. Putting his hands into -his sleeves, shivering, and frightened of the noises and the bells -of the trams and of passers-by, Vassiliev walked from Sadovaia to -Sukhariev Tower then to the Red Gates, and from here he turned and -went to Basmannaia. He went into a public-house and gulped down a big -glass of vodka, but felt no better. Arriving at Razgoulyai, he turned -to the right and began to stride down streets that he had never in -his life been down before. He came to that old bridge under which the -river Yaouza roars and from whence long rows of lights are seen in the -windows of the Red Barracks. In order to distract the pain of his soul -by a new sensation or another pain, not knowing what to do, weeping -and trembling, Vassiliev unbuttoned his coat and jacket, baring his -naked breast to the damp snow and the wind. Neither lessened the pain. -Then he bent over the rail of the bridge and stared down at the black, -turbulent Yaouza, and he suddenly wanted to throw himself head-first, -not from hatred of life, not for the sake of suicide, but only to hurt -himself and so to kill one pain by another. But the black water, the -dark, deserted banks covered with snow were frightening. He shuddered -and went on. He walked as far as the Red Barracks, then back and into a -wood, from the wood to the bridge again. - -“No! Home, home,” he thought. “At home I believe it’s easier.” - -And he went back. On returning home he tore off his wet clothes and -hat, began to pace along the walls, and paced incessantly until the -very morning. - - -VII - - -The next morning when the painter and the medico came to see him, -they found him in a shirt torn to ribbons, his hands bitten all over, -tossing about in the room and moaning with pain. - -“For God’s sake!” he began to sob, seeing his comrades, “Take me -anywhere you like, do what you like, but save me, for God’s sake now, -now! I’ll kill myself.” - -The painter went pale and was bewildered. The medico, too, nearly began -to cry; but, believing that medical men must be cool and serious on -every occasion of life, he said coldly: - -“It’s a fit you’ve got. But never mind. Come to the doctor, at once.” - -“Anywhere you like, but quickly, for God’s sake!” - -“Don’t be agitated. You must struggle with yourself.” - -The painter and the medico dressed Vassiliev with trembling hands and -led him into the street. - -“Mikhail Sergueyich has been wanting to make your acquaintance for a -long while,” the medico said on the way. “He’s a very nice man, and -knows his job splendidly. He took his degree in ’82, and has got a huge -practice already. He keeps friends with the students.” - -“Quicker, quicker....” urged Vassiliev. Mikhail Sergueyich, a stout -doctor with fair hair, received the friends politely, firmly, coldly, -and smiled with one cheek only. - -“The painter and Mayer have told me of your disease already,” he said. -“Very glad to be of service to you. Well? Sit down, please.” - -He made Vassiliev sit down in a big chair by the table, and put a box -of cigarettes in front of him. - -“Well?” he began, stroking his knees. “Let’s make a start. How old are -you?” - -He put questions and the medico answered. He asked whether Vassiliev’s -father suffered from any peculiar diseases, if he had fits of drinking, -was he distinguished by his severity or any other eccentricities. He -asked the same questions about his grandfather, mother, sisters, and -brothers. Having ascertained that his mother had a fine voice and -occasionally appeared on the stage, he suddenly brightened up and asked: - -“Excuse me, but could you recall whether the theatre was not a passion -with your mother?” - -About twenty minutes passed. Vassiliev was bored by the doctor stroking -his knees and talking of the same thing all the while. - -“As far as I can understand your questions, Doctor,” he said. “You want -to know whether my disease is hereditary or not. It is not hereditary.” - -The doctor went on to ask if Vassiliev had not any secret vices -in his early youth, any blows on the head, any love passions, -eccentricities, or exceptional infatuations. To half the questions -habitually asked by careful doctors you may return no answer without -any injury to your health; but Mikhail Sergueyich, the medico and the -painter looked as though, if Vassiliev failed to answer even one single -question, everything would be ruined. For some reason the doctor wrote -down the answers he received on a scrap of paper. Discovering that -Vassiliev had already passed through the faculty of natural science and -was now in the Law faculty, the doctor began to be pensive.... - -“He wrote a brilliant thesis last year....” said the medico. - -“Excuse me. You mustn’t interrupt me; you prevent me from -concentrating,” the doctor said, smiling with one cheek. “Yes, -certainly that is important for the anamnesis.... Yes, yes.... And do -you drink vodka?” he turned to Vassiliev. - -“Very rarely.” - -Another twenty minutes passed. The medico began _sotto voce_ to give -his opinion of the immediate causes of the fit and told how he, the -painter and Vassiliev went to S----v Street the day before yesterday. - -The indifferent, reserved, cold tone in which his friends and the -doctor were speaking of the women and the miserable street seemed to -him in the highest degree strange.... - -“Doctor, tell me this one thing,” he said, restraining himself from -being rude. “Is prostitution an evil or not?” - -“My dear fellow, who disputes it?” the doctor said with an expression -as though he had long ago solved all these questions for himself. “Who -disputes it?” - -“Are you a psychiatrist?” - -“Yes-s, a psychiatrist.” - -“Perhaps all of you are right,” said Vassiliev, rising and beginning -to walk from corner to corner. “It may be. But to me all this seems -amazing. They see a great achievement in my having passed through two -faculties at the university; they praise me to the skies because I have -written a work that will be thrown away and forgotten in three years’ -time, but because I can’t speak of prostitutes as indifferently as I can -about these chairs, they send me to doctors, call me a lunatic, and -pity me.” - -For some reason Vassiliev suddenly began to feel an intolerable pity -for himself, his friends, and everybody whom he had seen the day before -yesterday, and for the doctor. He began to sob and fell into the chair. - -The friends looked interrogatively at the doctor. He, looking as though -he magnificently understood the tears and the despair, and knew himself -a specialist in this line, approached Vassiliev and gave him some drops -to drink, and then when Vassiliev grew calm undressed him and began to -examine the sensitiveness of his skin, of the knee reflexes.... - -And Vassiliev felt better. When he was coming out of the doctor’s he -was already ashamed; the noise of the traffic did not seem irritating, -and the heaviness beneath his heart became easier and easier as though -it were thawing. In his hand were two prescriptions. One was for -kali-bromatum, the other--morphia. He used to take both before. - -He stood still in the street for a while, pensive, and then, taking -leave of his friends, lazily dragged on towards the university. - - - - -MISFORTUNE - - -Sophia Pietrovna, the wife of the solicitor Loubianzev, a handsome -young woman of about twenty-five, was walking quickly along a forest -path with her bungalow neighbour, the barrister Ilyin. It was just -after four. In the distance, above the path, white feathery clouds -gathered; from behind them some bright blue pieces of cloud showed -through. The clouds were motionless, as if caught on the tops of the -tall, aged fir trees. It was calm and warm. - -In the distance the path was cut across by a low railway embankment, -along which at this hour, for some reason or other, a sentry strode. -Just behind the embankment a big, six-towered church with a rusty roof -shone white. - -“I did not expect to meet you here,” Sophia Pietrovna was saying, -looking down and touching the last year’s leaves with the end of her -parasol. “But now I am glad to have met you. I want to speak to you -seriously and finally. Ivan Mikhailovich, if you really love and -respect me I implore you to stop pursuing me! You follow me like -a shadow--there’s such a wicked look in your eye--you make love to -me--write extraordinary letters and ... I don’t know how all this is -going to end--Good Heavens! What can all this lead to?” - -Ilyin was silent. Sophia Pietrovna took a few steps and continued: - -“And this sudden complete change has happened in two or three weeks -after five years of friendship. I do not know you any more, Ivan -Mikhailovich.” - -Sophia Pietrovna glanced sideways at her companion. He was staring -intently, screwing up his eyes at the feathery clouds. The expression -of his face was angry, capricious and distracted, like that of a man -who suffers and at the same time must listen to nonsense. - -“It is annoying that you yourself can’t realise it!” Madame Loubianzev -continued, shrugging her shoulders. “Please understand that you’re not -playing a very nice game. I am married, I love and respect my husband. -I have a daughter. Don’t you really care in the slightest for all this? -Besides, as an old friend, you know my views on family life ... on the -sanctity of the home, generally.” - -Ilyin gave an angry grunt and sighed: - -“The sanctity of the home,” he murmured, “Good Lord!” - -“Yes, yes. I love and respect my husband and at any rate the peace of -my family life is precious to me. I’d sooner let myself be killed than -be the cause of Andrey’s or his daughter’s unhappiness. So, please, -Ivan Mikhailovich, for goodness’ sake, leave me alone. Let us be good -and dear friends, and give up these sighings and gaspings which don’t -suit you. It’s settled and done with! Not another word about it. Let us -talk of something else!” - -Sophia Pietrovna again glanced sideways at Ilyin. He was looking up. -He was pale, and angrily he bit his trembling lips. Madame Loubianzev -could not understand why he was disturbed and angry, but his pallor -moved her. - -“Don’t be cross. Let’s be friends,” she said, sweetly. - -“Agreed! Here is my hand.” - -Ilyin took her tiny plump hand in both his, pressed it and slowly -raised it to his lips. - -“I’m not a schoolboy,” he murmured. “I’m not in the least attracted by -the idea of friendship with the woman I love.” - -“That’s enough. Stop! It is all settled and done with. We have come as -far as the bench. Let us sit down....” - -A sweet sense of repose filled Sophia Pietrovna’s soul. The most -difficult and delicate thing was already said. The tormenting question -was settled and done with. Now she could breathe easily and look -straight at Ilyin. She looked at him, and the egotistical sense of -superiority that a woman feels over her lover caressed her pleasantly. -She liked the way this big strong man with a virile angry face and a -huge black beard sat obediently at her side and hung his head. They -were silent for a little while. “Nothing is yet settled and done with,” -Ilyin began. “You are reading me a sermon. ‘I love and respect my -husband ... the sanctity of the home....’ I know all that for myself -and I can tell you more. Honestly and sincerely I confess that I -consider my conduct as criminal and immoral. What else? But why say -what is known already? Instead of sermonizing you had far better tell -me what I am to do.” - -“I have already told you. Go away.” - -“I have gone. You know quite well. I have started five times and -half-way there I have come back again. I can show you the through -tickets. I have kept them all safe. But I haven’t the power to run away -from you. I struggle frightfully, but what in Heaven’s name is the use? -If I cannot harden myself, if I’m weak and faint-hearted. I can’t fight -nature. Do you understand? I cannot! I run away from her and she holds -me back by my coattails. Vile, vulgar weakness.” - -Ilyin blushed, got up, and began walking by the bench: - -“How I hate and despise myself. Good Lord, I’m like a vicious -boy--running after another man’s wife, writing idiotic letters, -degrading myself. Ach!” He clutched his head, grunted and sit down. - -“And now comes your lack of sincerity into the bargain,” he continued -with bitterness. “If you don’t think I am playing a nice game--why -are you here? What drew you? In my letters I only ask you for a -straightforward answer: Yes, or No; and instead of giving it me, every -day you contrive that we shall meet ‘by chance’ and you treat me to -quotations from a moral copy-book.” - -Madame Loubianzev reddened and got frightened. She suddenly felt the -kind of awkwardness that a modest woman would feel at being suddenly -discovered naked. - -“You seem to suspect some deceit on my side,” she murmured. “I have -always given you a straight answer; and I asked you for one to-day.” - -“Ah, does one ask such things? If you had said to me at once ‘Go away,’ -I would have gone long ago, but you never told me to. Never once have -you been frank. Strange irresolution. My God, either you’re playing -with me, or....” - -Ilyin did not finish, and rested his head in his hands. Sophia -Pietrovna recalled her behaviour all through. She remembered that she -had felt all these days not only in deed but even in her most intimate -thoughts opposed to Ilyin’s love. But at the same moment she knew that -there was a grain of truth in the barrister’s words. And not knowing -what kind of truth it was she could not think, no matter how much she -thought about it, what to say to him in answer to his complaint. It was -awkward being silent, so she said shrugging her shoulders: - -“So I’m to blame for that too?” - -“I don’t blame you for your insincerity,” sighed Ilyin. “It slipped out -unconsciously. Your insincerity is natural to you, in the natural order -of things as well. If all mankind were to agree suddenly to become -serious, everything would go to the Devil, to ruin.” - -Sophia Pietrovna was not in the mood for philosophy; but she was glad -of the opportunity to change the conversation and asked: - -“Why indeed?” - -“Because only savages and animals are sincere. Since civilisation -introduced into society the demand, for instance, for such a luxury as -woman’s virtue, sincerity has been out of place.” - -Angrily Ilyin began to thrust his stick into the sand. Madame -Loubianzev listened without understanding much of it; she liked the -conversation. First of all, she was pleased that a gifted man should -speak to her, an average woman, about intellectual things; also it gave -her great pleasure to watch how the pale, lively, still angry, young -face was working. Much she did not understand; but the fine courage -of modern man was revealed to her, the courage by which he without -reflection or surmise solves the great questions and constructs his -simple conclusions. - -Suddenly she discovered that she was admiring him, and it frightened -her. - -“Pardon, but I don’t really understand,” she hastened to say. “Why -did you mention insincerity? I entreat you once more, be a dear, good -friend and leave me alone. Sincerely, I ask it.” - -“Good--I’ll do my best. But hardly anything will come of it. Either -I’ll put a bullet through my brains or ... I’ll start drinking in -the stupidest possible way. Things will end badly for me. Everything -has its limit, even a struggle with nature. Tell me now, how can one -struggle with madness? If you’ve drunk wine, how can you get over the -excitement? What can I do if your image has grown into my soul, and -stands incessantly before my eyes, night and day, as plain as that -fir tree there? Tell me then what thing I must do to get out of this -wretched, unhappy state, when all my thoughts, desires, and dreams -belong, not to me, but to some devil that has got hold of me? I love -you, I love you so much that I’ve turned away from my path, given up my -career and my closest friends, forgot my God. Never in my life have I -loved so much.” - -Sophia Pietrovna, who was not expecting this turn, drew her body away -from Ilyin, and glanced at him frightened. Tears shone in his eyes. His -lips trembled, and a hungry, suppliant expression showed over all his -face. - -“I love you,” he murmured, bringing his own eyes near to her big, -frightened ones. “You are so beautiful. I’m suffering now; but I swear -I could remain so all my life, suffering and looking into your eyes, -but.... Keep silent, I implore you.” - -Sophia Pietrovna as if taken unawares began, quickly, quickly, to think -out words with which to stop him. “I shall go away,” she decided, but -no sooner had she moved to get up, than Ilyin was on his knees at her -feet already. He embraced her knees, looked into her eyes and spoke -passionately, ardently, beautifully. She did not hear his words, for -her fear and agitation. Somehow now at this dangerous moment when -her knees pleasantly contracted, as in a warm bath, she sought with -evil intention to read some meaning into her sensation. She was angry -because the whole of her instead of protesting virtue was filled with -weakness, laziness, and emptiness, like a drunken man to whom the ocean -is but knee-deep; only in the depths of her soul, a little remote -malignant voice teased: “Why don’t you go away? Then this is right, is -it?” - -Seeking in herself an explanation she could not understand why she had -not withdrawn the hand to which Ilyin’s lips clung like a leech, nor -why, at the same time as Ilyin, she looked hurriedly right and left to -see that they were not observed. - -The fir-trees and the clouds stood motionless, and gazed at them -severely like broken-down masters who see something going on, but have -been bribed not to report to the head. The sentry on the embankment -stood like a stick and seemed to be staring at the bench. “Let him -look!” thought Sophia Pietrovna. - -“But ... But listen,” she said at last with despair in her voice. “What -will this lead to? What will happen afterwards?” - -“I don’t know. I don’t know,” he began to whisper, waving these -unpleasant questions aside. - -The hoarse, jarring whistle of a railway engine became audible. This -cold, prosaic sound of the everyday world made Madame Loubianzev start. - -“It’s time, I must go,” she said, getting up quickly. “The train is -coming. Audrey is arriving. He will want his dinner.” - -Sophia Pietrovna turned her blazing cheeks to the embankment. First -the engine came slowly into sight, after it the carriages. It was not -a bungalow train, but a goods train. In a long row, one after another -like the days of man’s life, the cars drew past the white background of -the church, and there seemed to be no end to them. - -But at last the train disappeared, and the end car with the guard and -the lighted lamps disappeared into the green. Sophia Pietrovna turned -sharply and not looking at Ilyin began to walk quickly back along the -path. She had herself in control again. Red with shame, offended, not -by Ilyin, no! but by the cowardice and shamelessness with which she, -a good, respectable woman allowed a stranger to embrace her knees. -She had only one thought now, to reach her bungalow and her family -as quickly as possible. The barrister could hardly keep up with her. -Turning from the path on to a little track, she glanced at him so -quickly that she noticed only the sand on his knees, and she motioned -with her hand at him to let her be. - -Running into the house Sophia Pietrovna stood for about five minutes -motionless in her room, looking now at the window then at the writing -table.... “You disgraceful woman,” she scolded herself; “disgraceful!” -In spite of herself she recollected every detail, hiding nothing, how -all these days she had been against Ilyin’s love-making, yet she was -somehow drawn to meet him and explain; but besides this when he was -lying at her feet she felt an extraordinary pleasure. She recalled -everything, not sparing herself, and now, stifled with shame, she could -have slapped her own face. - -“Poor Andrey,” she thought, trying, as she remembered her husband, -to give her face the tenderest possible expression--“Varya, my poor -darling child, does not know what a mother she has. Forgive me, my -dears. I love you very much ... very much!...” - -And wishing to convince herself that she was still a good wife and -mother, that corruption had not yet touched those “sanctities” of hers, -of which she had spoken to Ilyin, Sophia Pietrovna ran into the kitchen -and scolded the cook for not having laid the table for Andrey Ilyitch. -She tried to imagine her husband’s tired, hungry look, and pitying him -aloud, she laid the table herself, a thing which she had never done -before. Then she found her daughter Varya, lifted her up in her hands -and kissed her passionately; the child seemed to her heavy and cold, -but she would not own it to herself, and she began to tell her what a -good, dear, splendid father she had. - -But when, soon after, Andrey Ilyitch arrived, she barely greeted him. -The flow of imaginary feelings had ebbed away without convincing her of -anything; she was only exasperated and enraged by the lie. She sat at -the window, suffered, and raged. Only in distress can people understand -how difficult it is to master their thoughts and feelings. Sophia -Pietrovna said afterwards a confusion was going on inside her as hard -to define as to count a cloud of swiftly flying sparrows. Thus from -the fact that she was delighted at her husband’s arrival and pleased -with the way he behaved at dinner, she suddenly concluded that she had -begun to hate him. Andrey Ilyitch, languid with hunger and fatigue, -while waiting for the soup, fell upon the sausage and ate it greedily, -chewing loudly and moving his temples. - -“My God,” thought Sophia Pietrovna. “I do love and respect him, but ... -why does he chew so disgustingly.” - -Her thoughts were no less disturbed than her feelings. Madame -Loubianzev, like all who have no experience of the struggle with -unpleasant thought, did her best not to think of her unhappiness, -and the more zealously she tried, the more vivid Ilyin became to her -imagination, the sand on his knees, the feathery clouds, the train.... - -“Why did I--idiot--go to-day?” she teased herself. “And am I really a -person who can’t answer for herself?” - -Fear has big eyes. When Andrey Ilyitch had finished the last course, -she had already resolved to tell him everything and so escape from -danger. - -“Andrey, I want to speak to you seriously,” she began after dinner, -when her husband was taking off his coat and boots in order to have a -lie down. - -“Well?” - -“Let’s go away from here!” - -“How--where to? It’s still too early to go to town.” - -“No. Travel or something like that.” - -“Travel,” murmured the solicitor, stretching himself. “I dream of it -myself, but where shall I get the money, and who’ll look after my -business.” - -After a little reflection he added: - -“Yes, really you are bored. Go by yourself if you want to.” - -Sophia Pietrovna agreed; but at the same time she saw that Ilyin would -be glad of the opportunity to travel in the same train with her, in the -same carriage.... - -She pondered and looked at her husband, who was full fed but still -languid. For some reason her eyes stopped on his feet, tiny, almost -womanish, in stupid socks. On the toe of both socks little threads -were standing out. Under the drawn blind a bumble bee was knocking -against the window pane and buzzing. Sophia Pietrovna stared at the -threads, listened to the bumble bee and pictured her journey.... Day -and night Ilyin sits opposite, without taking his eyes from her, angry -with his weakness and pale with the pain of his soul. He brands himself -as a libertine, accuses her, tears his hair; but when the dark comes -he seizes the chance when the passengers go to sleep or alight at a -station and falls on his knees before her and clasps her feet, as he -did by the bench.... - -She realised that she was dreaming.... - -“Listen. I am not going by myself,” she said. “You must come, too!” - -“Sophochka, that’s all imagination!” sighed Loubianzev. “You must be -serious and only ask for the possible....” - -“You’ll come when you find out!” thought Sophia Pietrovna. - -Having decided to go away at all costs, she began to feel free from -danger; her thoughts fell gradually into order, she became cheerful and -even allowed herself to think about everything. Whatever she may think -or dream about, she is going all the same. While her husband still -slept, little by little, evening came.... - -She sat in the drawing-room playing the piano. Outside the window the -evening animation, the sound of music, but chiefly the thought of her -own cleverness in mastering her misery gave the final touch to her -joy. Other women, her easy conscience told her, in a position like her -own would surely not resist, they would spin round like a whirlwind; -but she was nearly burnt up with shame, she suffered and now she had -escaped from a danger which perhaps was nonexistent! Her virtue and -resolution moved her so much that she even glanced at herself in the -glass three times. - -When it was dark visitors came. The men sat down to cards in the -dining-room, the ladies were in the drawing room and on the terrace. -Ilyin came last, he was stern and gloomy and looked ill. He sat down -on a corner of the sofa and did not get up for the whole evening. -Usually cheerful and full of conversation, he was now silent, frowning, -and rubbing his eyes. When he had to answer a question he smiled -with difficulty and only with his upper lip, answering abruptly and -spitefully. He made about five jokes in all, but his jokes seemed crude -and insolent. It seemed to Sophia Pietrovna that he was on the brink -of hysteria. But only now as she sat at the piano did she acknowledge -that the unhappy man was not in the mood to joke, that he was sick in -his soul, he could find no place for himself. It was for her sake he -was ruining the best days of his career and his youth, wasting his last -farthing on a bungalow, had left his mother and sisters uncared for, -and, above all, was breaking down under the martyrdom of his struggle. -From simple, common humanity she ought to take him seriously.... - -All this was clear to her, even to paining her. If she were to go up -to Ilyin now and say to him “No,” there would be such strength in her -voice that it would be hard to disobey. But she did not go up to him -and she did not say it, did not even think it.... The petty selfishness -of a young nature seemed never to have been revealed in her as strongly -as that evening. She admitted that Byin was unhappy and that he sat -on the sofa as if on hot coals. She was sorry for him, but at the -same time the presence of the man who loved her so desperately filled -her with a triumphant sense of her own power. She felt her youth, -her beauty, her inaccessibility, and--since she had decided to go -away--she gave herself full rein this evening. She coquetted, laughed -continually, she sang with singular emotion, and as one inspired. -Everything made her gay and everything seemed funny. It amused her to -recall the incident of the bench, the sentry looking on. The visitors -seemed funny to her, Ilyin’s insolent jokes, his tie pin which she had -never seen before. The pin was a little red snake with tiny diamond -eyes; the snake seemed so funny that she was ready to kiss and kiss it. - -Sophia Pietrovna, nervously sang romantic songs, with a kind of -half-intoxication, and as if jeering at another’s sorrow she chose sad, -melancholy songs that spoke of lost hopes, of the past, of old age.... -“And old age is approaching nearer and nearer,” she sang. What had she -to do with old age? - -“There’s something wrong going on in me,” she thought now and then -through laughter and singing. - -At twelve o’clock the visitors departed. Ilyin was the last to go. She -still felt warm enough about him to go with him to the lower step of -the terrace. She had the idea of telling him that she was going away -with her husband, just to see what effect this news would have upon him. - -The moon was hiding behind the clouds, but it was so bright that Sophia -Pietrovna could see the wind playing with the tails of his overcoat and -with the creepers on the terrace. It was also plain how pale Ilyin was, -and how he twisted his upper-lip, trying to smile. “Sonia, Sonichka, -my dear little woman,” he murmured, not letting her speak. “My darling, -my pretty one.” - -In a paroxysm of tenderness with tears in his voice, he showered her -with endearing words each tenderer than the other, and was already -speaking to her as if she were his wife or his mistress. Suddenly and -unexpectedly to her, he put one arm round her and with the other hand -he seized her elbow. - -“My dear one, my beauty,” he began to whisper, kissing the nape of her -neck; “be sincere, come to me now.” - -She slipped out of his embrace and lifted her head to break out in -indignation and revolt. But indignation did not come, and of all her -praiseworthy virtue and purity, there was left only enough for her to -say that which all average women say in similar circumstances: - -“You must be mad.” - -“But really let us go,” continued Ilyin. “Just now and over there by -the bench I felt convinced that you, Sonia, were as helpless as myself. -You too will be all the worse for it. You love me, and you are making a -useless bargain with your conscience.” - -Seeing that she was leaving him he seized her by her lace sleeve and -ended quickly: - -“If not to-day, then to-morrow; but you will have to give in. What’s -the good of putting if off? My dear, my darling Sonia, the verdict has -been pronounced. Why postpone the execution? Why deceive yourself?” - -Sophia Pietrovna broke away from him and suddenly disappeared -inside the door. She returned to the drawing-room, shut the piano -mechanically, stared for a long time at the cover of a music book, and -sat down. She could neither stand nor think.... From her agitation -and passion remained only an awful weakness mingled with laziness -and tiredness. Her conscience whispered to her that she had behaved -wickedly and foolishly to-night, like a madwoman; that just now she -had been kissed on the terrace, and even now she had some strange -sensation in her waist and in her elbow. Not a soul was in the -drawing-room. Only a single candle was burning. Madame Loubianzev sat -on a little round stool before the piano without stirring as if waiting -for something, and as if taking advantage of her extreme exhaustion -and the dark a heavy unconquerable desire began to possess her. Like a -boa-constrictor, it enchained her limbs and soul. It grew every second -and was no longer threatening, but stood clear before her in all its -nakedness. - -She sat thus for half an hour, not moving, and not stopping herself -from thinking of Ilyin. Then she got up lazily and went slowly into -the bed-room. Andrey Ilyitch was in bed already. She sat by the window -and gave herself to her desire. She felt no more “confusion.” All her -feelings and thoughts pressed lovingly round some clear purpose. -She still had a mind to struggle, but instantly she waved her hand -impotently, realising the strength and the determination of the foe. To -fight him power and strength were necessary, but her birth, up-bringing -and life had given her nothing on which to lean. - -“You’re immoral, you’re horrible,” she tormented herself for her -weakness. “You’re a nice sort, you are!” - -So indignant was her insulted modesty at this weakness that she called -herself all the bad names that she knew and she related to herself many -insulting, degrading truths. Thus she told herself that she never was -moral, and she had not fallen before only because there was no pretext, -that her day-long struggle had been nothing but a game and a comedy.... - -“Let us admit that I struggled,” she thought, “but what kind of a -fight was it? Even prostitutes struggle before they sell themselves, -and still they do sell themselves. It’s a pretty sort of fight. Like -milk, turns in a day.” She realised that it was not love that drew her -from her home nor Ilyin’s personality, but the sensations which await -her.... A little week-end _type_ like the rest of them. - -“When the young bird’s mother was killed,” a hoarse tenor finished -singing. - -If I am going, it’s time, thought Sophia Pietrovna. Her heart began to -beat with a frightful force. - -“Andrey,” she almost cried. “Listen. Shall we go away? Shall we? Yes?” - -“Yes.... I’ve told you already. You go alone.” - -“But listen,” she said, “if you don’t come too, you may lose me. I seem -to be in love already.” - -“Who with?” Andrey Ilyitch asked. - -“It must be all the same for you, who with,” Sophia Pietrovna cried out. - -Andrey Ilyitch got up, dangled his feet over the side of the bed, with -a look of surprise at the dark form of his wife. - -“Imagination,” he yawned. - -He could not believe her, but all the same he was frightened. After -having thought for a while, and asked his wife some unimportant -questions, he gave his views of the family, of infidelity.... He spoke -sleepily for about ten minutes and then lay down again. His remarks had -no success. There are a great many opinions in this world, and more -than half of them belong to people who have never known misery. - -In spite of the late hour, the bungalow people were still moving behind -their windows. Sophia Pietrovna put on a long coat and stood for a -while, thinking. She still had force of mind to say to her sleepy -husband: - -“Are you asleep? I’m going for a little walk. Would you like to come -with me?” - -That was her last hope. Receiving no answer, she walked out. It was -breezy and cool. She did not feel the breeze or the darkness but -walked on and on.... An irresistible power drove her, and it seemed to -her that if she stopped that power would push her in the back. “You’re -an immoral woman,” she murmured mechanically. “You’re horrible.” - -She was choking for breath, burning with shame, did not feel her feet -under her, for that which drove her along was stronger than her shame, -her reason, her fear.... - - - - -AFTER THE THEATRE - - -Nadya Zelenina had just returned with her mother from the theatre, -where they had been to see a performance of “Eugene Oniegin.” Entering -her room, she quickly threw off her dress, loosened her hair, and sat -down hurriedly in her petticoat and a white blouse to write a letter in -the style of Tatiana. - -“I love you,”--she wrote--“but you don’t love me; no, you don’t!” - -The moment she had written this, she smiled. - -She was only sixteen years old, and so far she had not been in love. -She knew that Gorny, the officer, and Gronsdiev, the student, loved -her; but now, after the theatre, she wanted to doubt their love. To be -unloved and unhappy--how interesting. There is something beautiful, -affecting, romantic in the fact that one loves deeply while the other -is indifferent. Oniegin is interesting because he does not love at all, -and Tatiana is delightful because she is very much in love; but if -they loved each other equally and were happy, they would seem boring, -instead. - -“Don’t go on protesting that you love me,” Nadya wrote on, thinking -of Gorny, the officer, “I can’t believe you. You’re very clever, -educated, serious; you have a great talent, and perhaps, a splendid -future waiting, but I am an uninteresting poor-spirited girl, and you -yourself know quite well that I shall only be a drag upon your life. -It’s true I carried you off your feet, and you thought you had met your -ideal in me, but that was a mistake. Already you are asking yourself in -despair, ‘Why did I meet this girl?’ Only your kindness prevents you -from confessing it.” - -Nadya pitied herself. She wept and went on. - -“If it were not so difficult for me to leave mother and brother I would -put on a nun’s gown and go where my eyes direct me. You would then be -free to love another. If I were to die!” - -Through her tears she could not make out what she had written. Brief -rainbows trembled on the table, on the floor and the ceiling, as though -Nadya were looking through a prism. Impossible to write. She sank back -in her chair and began to think of Gorny. - -Oh, how fascinating, how interesting men are! Nadya remembered the -beautiful expression of Gorny’s face, appealing, guilty, and tender, -when someone discussed music with him,--the efforts he made to prevent -the passion from sounding in his voice. Passion must be concealed in -a society where cold reserve and indifference are the signs of good -breeding. And he does try to conceal it, but he does not succeed, -and everybody knows quite well that he has a passion for music. -Never-ending discussions about music, blundering pronouncements by men -who do not understand--keep him in incessant tension. He is scared, -timid, silent. He plays superbly, as an ardent pianist. If he were not -an officer, he would be a famous musician. - -The tears dried in her eyes. Nadya remembered how Gorny told her of his -love at a symphony concert, and again downstairs by the cloak-room. - -“I am so glad you have at last made the acquaintance of the student -Gronsdiev,” she continued to write. “He is a very clever man, and you -are sure to love him. Yesterday he was sitting with us till two o’clock -in the morning. We were all so happy. I was sorry that you hadn’t come -to us. He said a lot of remarkable things.” - -Nadya laid her hands on the table and lowered her head. Her hair -covered the letter. She remembered that Gronsdiev also loved her, -and that he had the same right to her letter as Gorny. Perhaps she -had better write to Gronsdiev? For no cause, a happiness began to -quicken in her breast. At first it was a little one, rolling about in -her breast like a rubber ball. Then it grew broader and bigger, and -broke forth like a wave. Nadya had already forgotten about Gorny and -Gronsdiev. Her thoughts became confused. The happiness grew more and -more. From her breast it ran into her arms and legs, and it seemed -that a light fresh breeze blew over her head, stirring her hair. Her -shoulders trembled with quiet laughter. The table and the lampglass -trembled. Tears from her eyes splashed the letter. She was powerless to -stop her laughter; and to convince herself that she had a reason for -it, she hastened to remember something funny. - -“What a funny poodle!” she cried, feeling that she was choking with -laughter. “What a funny poodle!” - -She remembered how Gronsdiev was playing with Maxim the poodle after -tea yesterday; how he told a story afterwards of a very clever poodle -who was chasing a crow in the yard. The crow gave him a look and said: - -“Oh, you swindler!” - -The poodle did not know he had to do with a learned crow. He was -terribly confused, and ran away dumfounded. Afterwards he began to bark. - -“No, I’d better love Gronsdiev,” Nadya decided and tore up the letter. - -She began to think of the student, of his love, of her own love, with -the result that the thoughts in her head swam apart and she thought -about everything, about her mother, the street, the pencil, the -piano. She was happy thinking, and found that everything was good, -magnificent. Her happiness told her that this was not all, that a -little later it would be still better. Soon it will be spring, summer. -They will go with mother to Gorbiki in the country. Gorny will come for -his holidays. He will walk in the orchard with her, and make love to -her. Gronsdiev will come too. He will play croquet with her and bowls. -He will tell funny, wonderful stories. She passionately longed for the -orchard, the darkness, the pure sky, the stars. Again her shoulders -trembled with laughter and she seemed to awake to a smell of wormwood -in the room; and a branch was tapping at the window. - -She went to her bed and sat down. She did not know what to do with her -great happiness. It overwhelmed her. She stared at the crucifix which -hung at the head of her bed and saying: - -“Dear God, dear God, dear God.” - - - - -THAT WRETCHED BOY - - -Ivan Ivanich Lapkin, a pleasant looking young man, and Anna Zamblizky, -a young girl with a little snub nose, walked down the sloping bank -and sat down on the bench. The bench was close to the water’s edge, -among thick bushes of young willow. A heavenly spot! You sat down, and -you were hidden from the world. Only the fish could see you and the -catspaws which flashed over the water like lightning. The two young -persons were equipped with rods, fish hooks, bags, tins of worms and -everything else necessary. Once seated, they immediately began to fish. - -“I am glad that we’re left alone at last,” said Lapkin, looking round. -I’ve got a lot to tell you, Anna--tremendous ... when I saw you for -the first time ... you’ve got a nibble ... I understood then--why I -am alive, I knew where my idol was, to whom I can devote my honest, -hardworking life.... It must be a big one ... it is biting.... When I -saw you--for the first time in my life I fell in love--fell in love -passionately! Don’t pull. Let it go on biting.... Tell me, darling, -tell me--will you let me hope? No! I’m not worth it. I dare not even -think of it--may I hope for.... Pull! - -Anna lifted her hand that held the rod--pulled, cried out. A silvery -green fish shone in the air. - -“Goodness! it’s a perch! Help--quick! It’s slipping off.” The perch -tore itself from the hook--danced in the grass towards its native -element and ... leaped into the water. - -But instead of the little fish that he was chasing, Lapkin quite by -accident caught hold of Anna’s hand--quite by accident pressed it to -his lips. She drew back, but it was too late; quite by accident their -lips met and kissed; yes, it was an absolute accident! They kissed and -kissed. Then came vows and assurances.... Blissful moments! But there -is no such thing as absolute happiness in this life. If happiness -itself does not contain a poison, poison will enter in from without. -Which happened this time. Suddenly, while the two were kissing, a laugh -was heard. They looked at the river and were paralysed. The schoolboy -Kolia, Anna’s brother, was standing in the water, watching the young -people and maliciously laughing. - -“Ah--ha! Kissing!” said he. “Right O, I’ll tell Mother.” - -“I hope that you--as a man of honour,” Lapkin muttered, blushing. “It’s -disgusting to spy on us, it’s loathsome to tell tales, it’s rotten. As -a man of honour....” - -“Give me a shilling, then I’ll shut up!” the man of honour retorted. -“If you don’t, I’ll tell.” - -Lapkin took a shilling out of his pocket and gave it to Kolia, who -squeezed it in his wet fist, whistled, and swam away. And the young -people did not kiss any more just then. - -Next day Lapkin brought Kolia some paints and a ball from town, and his -sister gave him all her empty pill boxes. Then they had to present him -with a set of studs like dogs’ heads. The wretched boy enjoyed this -game immensely, and to keep it going he began to spy on them. Wherever -Lapkin and Anna went, he was there too. He did not leave them alone for -a single moment. - -“Beast!” Lapkin gnashed his teeth. “So young and yet such a full -fledged scoundrel. What on earth will become of him later!” - -During the whole of July the poor lovers had no life apart from him. He -threatened to tell on them; he dogged them and demanded more presents. -Nothing satisfied him--finally he hinted at a gold watch. All right, -they had to promise the watch. - -Once, at table, when biscuits were being handed round, he burst out -laughing and said to Lapkin: “Shall I let on? Ah--ha!” - -Lapkin blushed fearfully and instead of a biscuit he began to chew his -table napkin. Anna jumped up from the table and rushed out of the room. - -And this state of things went on until the end of August, up to the -day when Lapkin at last proposed to Anna. Ah! What a happy day that -was! When he had spoken to her parents and obtained their consent -Lapkin rushed into the garden after Kolia. When he found him he nearly -cried for joy and caught hold of the wretched boy by the ear. Anna, who -was also looking for Kolia came running up and grabbed him by the other -ear. You should have seen the happiness depicted on their faces while -Kolia roared and begged them: - -“Darling, precious pets, I won’t do it again. O-oh--O-oh! Forgive me!” -And both of them confessed afterwards that during all the time they -were in love with each other they never experienced such happiness, -such overwhelming joy as during those moments when they pulled the -wretched boy’s ears. - - - - -ENEMIES - - -About ten o’clock of a dark September evening the Zemstvo doctor -Kirilov’s only son, six-year-old Andrey, died of diphtheria. As the -doctor’s wife dropped on to her knees before the dead child’s cot and -the first paroxysm of despair took hold of her, the bell rang sharply -in the hall. - -When the diphtheria came all the servants were sent away from the -house, that very morning. Kirilov himself went to the door, just as he -was, in his shirt-sleeves with his waistcoat unbuttoned, without wiping -his wet face or hands, which had been burnt with carbolic acid. It was -dark in the hall, and of the person who entered could be distinguished -only his middle height, a white scarf and a big, extraordinarily pale -face, so pale that it seemed as though its appearance made the hall -brighter.... - -“Is the doctor in?” the visitor asked abruptly. - -“I’m at home,” answered Kirilov. “What do you want?” - -“Oh, you’re the doctor? I’m so glad!” The visitor was overjoyed and -began to seek for the doctor’s hand in the darkness. He found it -and squeezed it hard in his own. “I’m very ... very glad! We were -introduced ... I am Aboguin ... had the pleasure of meeting you this -summer at Mr. Gnouchev’s. I am very glad to have found you at home.... -For God’s sake, don’t say you won’t come with me immediately.... My -wife has been taken dangerously ill.... I have the carriage with me....” - -From the visitor’s voice and movements it was evident that he had -been in a state of violent agitation. Exactly as though he had been -frightened by a fire or a mad dog, he could hardly restrain his hurried -breathing, and he spoke quickly in a trembling voice. In his speech -there sounded a note of real sincerity, of childish fright. Like all -men who are frightened and dazed, he spoke in short, abrupt phrases and -uttered many superfluous, quite unnecessary, words. - -“I was afraid I shouldn’t find you at home,” he continued. “While I was -coming to you I suffered terribly.... Dress yourself and let us go, for -God’s sake.... It happened like this. Papchinsky came to me--Alexander -Siemionovich, you know him.... We were chatting.... Then we sat down to -tea. Suddenly my wife cries out, presses her hands to her heart, and -falls back in her chair. We carried her off to her bed and ... and I -rubbed her forehead with sal-volatile, and splashed her with water.... -She lies like a corpse.... I’m afraid that her heart’s failed.... Let -us go.... Her father too died of heart-failure.” - -Kirilov listened in silence as though he did not understand the Russian -language. - -When Aboguin once more mentioned Papchinsky and his wife’s father, and -once more began to seek for the doctor’s hand in the darkness, the -doctor shook his head and said, drawling each word listlessly: - -“Excuse me, but I can’t go.... Five minutes ago my ... my son died.” - -“Is that true?” Aboguin whispered, stepping back. “My God, what an -awful moment to come! It’s a terribly fated day ... terribly! What a -coincidence ... and it might have been on purpose!” - -Aboguin took hold of the door handle and drooped his head in -meditation. Evidently he was hesitating, not knowing whether to go -away, or to ask the doctor once more. - -“Listen,” he said eagerly, seizing Kirilov by the sleeve. “I fully -understand your state! God knows I’m ashamed to try to hold your -attention at such a moment, but what can I do? Think yourself--who can -I go to? There isn’t another doctor here besides you. For heaven’s sake -come. I’m not asking for myself. It’s not I that’s ill!” - -Silence began. Kirilov turned his back to Aboguin, stood still for a -while and slowly went out of the hall into the drawing-room. To judge -by his uncertain, machine-like movement, and by the attentiveness -with which he arranged the hanging shade on the unlighted lamp in the -drawing-room and consulted a thick book which lay on the table--at -such a moment he had neither purpose nor desire, nor did he think of -anything, and probably had already forgotten that there was a stranger -standing in his hall. The gloom and the quiet of the drawing-room -apparently increased his insanity. As he went from the drawing-room to -his study he raised his right foot higher than he need, felt with his -hands for the door-posts, and then one felt a certain perplexity in -his whole figure, as though he had entered a strange house by chance, -or for the first time in his life had got drunk, and now was giving -himself up in bewilderment to the new sensation. A wide line of light -stretched across the bookshelves on one wall of the study; this light, -together with the heavy stifling smell of carbolic acid and ether -came from the door ajar that led from the study into the bed-room.... -The doctor sank into a chair before the table; for a while he looked -drowsily at the shining books, then rose and went into the bed-room. - -Here, in the bed-room, dead quiet reigned. Everything, down to the -last trifle, spoke eloquently of the tempest undergone, of weariness, -and everything rested. The candle which stood among a close crowd of -phials, boxes and jars on the stool and the big lamp on the chest of -drawers brightly lit the room. On the bed, by the window, the boy lay -open-eyed, with a look of wonder on his face. He did not move, but it -seemed that his open eyes became darker and darker every second and -sank into his skull. Having laid her hands on his body and hid her face -in the folds of the bed-clothes, the mother now was on her knees before -the bed. Like the boy she did not move, but how much living movement -was felt in the coil of her body and in her hands! She was pressing -close to the bed with her whole being, with eager vehemence, as though -she were afraid to violate the quiet and comfortable pose which she had -found at last for her weary body. Blankets, cloths, basins, splashes on -the floor, brushes and spoons scattered everywhere, a white bottle of -lime-water, the stifling heavy air itself--everything died away, and as -it were plunged into quietude. - -The doctor stopped by his wife, thrust his hands into his trouser -pockets and bending his head on one side looked fixedly at his son. His -face showed indifference; only the drops which glistened on his beard -revealed that he had been lately weeping. - -The repulsive terror of which we think when we speak of death was -absent from the bed-room. In the pervading dumbness, in the mother’s -pose, in the indifference of the doctor’s face was something attractive -that touched the heart, the subtle and elusive beauty of human grief, -which it will take men long to understand and describe, and only -music, it seems, is able to express. Beauty too was felt in the stern -stillness. Kirilov and his wife were silent and did not weep, as -though they confessed all the poetry of their condition. As once the -season of their youth passed away, so now in this boy their right to -bear children had passed away, alas! for ever to eternity. The doctor -is forty-four years old, already grey and looks like an old man; his -faded sick wife is thirty-five. Audrey was not merely the only son but -the last. - -In contrast to his wife the doctor’s nature belonged to those which -feel the necessity of movement when their soul is in pain. After -standing by his wife for about five minutes, he passed from the -bed-room, lifting his right foot too high, into a little room half -filled with a big broad divan. From there he went to the kitchen. After -wandering about the fireplace and the cook’s bed, he stooped through a -little door and came into the hall. - -Here he saw the white scarf and the pale face again. - -“At last,” sighed Aboguin, seizing the doorhandle. “Let us go, please.” - -The doctor shuddered, glanced at him and remembered. - -“Listen. I’ve told you already that I can’t go,” he said, livening. -“What a strange idea!” - -“Doctor, I’m made of flesh and blood, too. I fully understand your -condition. I sympathise with you,” Aboguin said in an imploring voice, -putting his hand to his scarf. “But I am not asking for myself. My wife -is dying. If you had heard her cry, if you’d seen her face, you would -understand my insistence! My God--and I thought that you’d gone to -dress yourself. The time is precious, Doctor! Let us go, I beg of you.” - -“I can’t come,” Kirilov said after a pause, and stepped into his -drawing-room. - -Aboguin followed him and seized him by the sleeve. - -“You’re in sorrow. I understand. But I’m not asking you to cure a -toothache, or to give expert evidence,--but to save a human life.” He -went on imploring like a beggar. “This life is more than any personal -grief. I ask you for courage, for a brave deed--in the name of -humanity.” - -“Humanity cuts both ways,” Kirilov said irritably. “In the name of the -same humanity I ask you not to take me away. My God, what a strange -idea! I can hardly stand on my feet and you frighten me with humanity. -I’m not fit for anything now. I won’t go for anything. With whom shall -I leave my wife? No, no....” - -Kirilov flung out his open hands and drew back. - -“And ... and don’t ask me,” he continued, disturbed. “I’m sorry.... -Under the Laws, Volume XIII., I’m obliged to go and you have the right -to drag me by the neck.... Well, drag me, but ... I’m not fit.... I’m -not even able to speak. Excuse me.” - -“It’s quite unfair to speak to me in that tone, Doctor,” said Aboguin, -again taking the doctor by the sleeve. “The thirteenth volume be -damned! I have no right to do violence to your will. If you want to, -come; if you don’t, then God be with you; but it’s not to your will -that I apply, but to your feelings. A young woman is dying! You say -your son died just now. Who could understand my terror better than you?” - -Aboguin’s voice trembled with agitation. His tremor and his tone were -much more convincing than his words. Aboguin was sincere, but it is -remarkable that every phrase he used came out stilted, soulless, -inopportunely florid, and as it were insulted the atmosphere of the -doctor’s house and the woman who was dying. He felt it himself, and -in his fear of being misunderstood he exerted himself to the utmost -to make his voice soft and tender so as to convince by the sincerity -of his tone at least, if not by his words. As a rule, however deep -and beautiful the words they affect only the unconcerned. They -cannot always satisfy those who are happy or distressed because the -highest expression of happiness or distress is most often silence. -Lovers understand each other best when they are silent, and a fervent -passionate speech at the graveside affects only outsiders. To the widow -and children it seems cold and trivial. - -Kirilov stood still and was silent. When Aboguin uttered some more -words on the higher vocation of a doctor, and self-sacrifice, the -doctor sternly asked: - -“Is it far?” - -“Thirteen or fourteen versts. I’ve got good horses, doctor. I give you -my word of honour that I’ll take you there and back in an hour. Only an -hour.” - -The last words impressed the doctor more strongly than the references -to humanity or the doctor’s vocation. He thought for a while and said -with a sigh. - -“Well, let us go!” - -He went off quickly, with a step that was now sure, to his study -and soon after returned in a long coat. Aboguin, delighted, danced -impatiently round him, helped him on with his overcoat, and accompanied -him out of the house. - -Outside it was dark, but brighter than in the hall. Now in the darkness -the tall stooping figure of the doctor was clearly visible with the -long, narrow beard and the aquiline nose. Besides his pale face -Aboguin’s big face could now be seen and a little student’s cap which -hardly covered the crown of his head. The scarf showed white only in -front, but behind it was hid under his long hair. - -“Believe me, I’m able to appreciate your magnanimity,” murmured -Aboguin, as he helped the doctor to a seat in the carriage. “We’ll -whirl away. Luke, dear man, drive as fast as you can, do!” - -The coachman drove quickly. First appeared a row of bare buildings, -which stood along the hospital yard. It was dark everywhere, save -that at the end of the yard a bright light from someone’s window broke -through the garden fence, and three windows in the upper story of the -separate house seemed to be paler than the air. Then the carriage drove -into dense obscurity where you could smell mushroom damp, and hear the -whisper of the trees. The noise of the wheels awoke the rooks who began -to stir in the leaves and raised a doleful, bewildered cry as if they -knew that the doctor’s son was dead and Aboguin’s wife ill. Then began -to appear separate trees, a shrub. Sternly gleamed the pond, where big -black shadows slept. The carriage rolled along over an even plain. Now -the cry of the rooks was but faintly heard far away behind. Soon it -became completely still. - -Almost all the way Kirilov and Aboguin were silent; save that once -Aboguin sighed profoundly and murmured. - -“It’s terrible pain. One never loves his nearest so much as when there -is the risk of losing them.” - -And when the carriage was quietly passing through the river, Kirilov -gave a sudden start, as though the dashing of the water frightened him, -and he began to move impatiently. - -“Let me go,” he said in anguish. “I’ll come to you later. I only want -to send the attendant to my wife. She is all alone.” - -Aboguin was silent. The carriage, swaying and rattling against the -stones, drove over the sandy bank and went on. Kirilov began to toss -about in anguish, and glanced around. Behind the road was visible in -the scant light of the stars and the willows that fringed the bank -disappearing into the darkness. To the right the plain stretched smooth -and boundless as heaven. On it in the distance here and there dim -lights were burning, probably on the turf-pits. To the left, parallel -with the road stretched a little hill, tufted with tiny shrubs, and on -the hill a big half-moon stood motionless, red, slightly veiled with a -mist, and surrounded with fine clouds which seemed to be gazing upon it -from every side, and guarding it, lest it should disappear. - -In all nature one felt something hopeless and sick. Like a fallen -woman who sits alone in a dark room trying not to think of her past, -the earth languished with reminiscence of spring and summer and waited -in apathy for ineluctable winter. Wherever one’s glance turned nature -showed everywhere like a dark, cold, bottomless pit, whence neither -Kirilov nor Aboguin nor the red half-moon could escape.... - -The nearer the carriage approached the destination the more impatient -did Aboguin become. He moved about, jumped up and stared over the -driver’s shoulder in front of him. And when at last the carriage drew -up at the foot of the grand staircase, nicely covered with a striped -linen awning and he looked up at the lighted windows of the first floor -one could hear his breath trembling. - -“If anything happens ... I shan’t survive it,” he said entering the -hall with the doctor and slowly rubbing his hands in his agitation. -“But I can’t hear any noise. That means it’s all right so far,” he -added, listening to the stillness. - -No voices or steps were heard in the hall. For all the bright -illumination the whole house seemed asleep. Now the doctor and Aboguin -who had been in darkness up till now could examine each other. The -doctor was tall, with a stoop, slovenly dressed, and his face was -plain. There was something unpleasantly sharp, ungracious, and severe -in his thick negro lips, his aquiline nose and his faded, indifferent -look. His tangled hair, his sunken temples, the early grey in his long -thin beard, that showed his shining chin, his pale grey complexion -and the slipshod awkwardness of his manners--the hardness of it all -suggested to the mind bad times undergone, an unjust lot and weariness -of life and men. To look at the hard figure of the man, you could not -believe that he had a wife and could weep over his child. Aboguin -revealed something different. He was robust, solid and fair-haired, -with a big head and large, yet soft, features, exquisitely dressed in -the latest fashion. In his carriage, his tight-buttoned coat and his -mane of hair you felt something noble and leonine. He walked with his -head straight and his chest prominent, he spoke in a pleasant baritone, -and in his manner of removing his scarf or arranging his hair there -appeared a subtle, almost feminine, elegance. Even his pallor and -childish fear as he glanced upwards to the staircase while taking off -his coat, did not disturb his carriage or take from the satisfaction, -the health and aplomb which his figure breathed. - -“There’s no one about, nothing I can hear,” he said walking upstairs. -“No commotion. May God be good!” - -He accompanied the doctor through the hall to a large salon, where a -big piano showed dark and a lustre hung in a white cover. Thence they -both passed into a small and beautiful drawing-room, very cosy, filled -with a pleasant, rosy half-darkness. - -“Please sit here a moment, Doctor,” said Aboguin, “I ... I won’t be a -second. I’ll just have a look and tell them.” - -Kirilov was left alone. The luxury of the drawing-room, the pleasant -half-darkness, even his presence in a stranger’s unfamiliar house -evidently did not move him. He sat in a chair looking at his hands -burnt with carbolic acid. He had no more than a glimpse of the bright -red lampshade, the cello case, and when he looked sideways across the -room to where the clock was ticking, he noticed a stuffed wolf, as solid -and satisfied as Aboguin himself. - -It was still.... Somewhere far away in the other rooms someone uttered -a loud “Ah!” A glass door, probably a cupboard door, rang, and again -everything was still. After five minutes had passed, Kirilov did not -look at his hands any more. He raised his eyes to the door through -which Aboguin had disappeared. - -Aboguin was standing on the threshold, but not the same man as went -out. The expression of satisfaction and subtle elegance had disappeared -from him. His face and hands, the attitude of his body were distorted -with a disgusting expression either of horror or of tormenting physical -pain. His nose, lips, moustache, all his features were moving and as it -were trying to tear themselves away from his face, but the eyes were as -though laughing from pain. - -Aboguin took a long heavy step into the middle of the room, stooped, -moaned, and shook his fists. - -“Deceived!” he cried, emphasising the syllable _cei._ “She deceived me! -She’s gone! She fell ill and sent me for the doctor only to run away -with this fool Papchinsky. My God!” Aboguin stepped heavily towards -the doctor, thrust his white soft fists before his face, and went on -wailing, shaking his fists the while. - -“She’s gone off! She’s deceived me! But why this lie? My God, my God! -Why this dirty, foul trick, this devilish, serpent’s game? What have I -done to her? She’s gone off.” Tears gushed from his eyes. He turned on -his heel and began to pace the drawing-room. Now in his short jacket -and his fashionable narrow trousers in which his legs seemed too thin -for his body, he was extraordinarily like a lion. Curiosity kindled in -the doctor’s impassive face. He rose and eyed Aboguin. - -“Well, where’s the patient?” - -“The patient, the patient,” cried Aboguin, laughing, weeping, and still -shaking his fists. “She’s not ill, but accursed. Vile--dastardly. The -Devil himself couldn’t have planned a fouler trick. She sent me so that -she could run away with a fool, an utter clown, an Alphonse! My God, -far better she should have died. I’ll not bear it. I shall not bear it.” - -The doctor stood up straight. His eyes began to blink, filled with -tears; his thin beard began to move with his jaw right and left. - -“What’s this?” he asked, looking curiously about. “My child’s dead. -My wife in anguish, alone in all the house.... I can hardly stand on -my feet, I haven’t slept for three nights ... and I’m made to play in -a vulgar comedy, to play the part of a stage property! I don’t ... I -don’t understand it!” - -Aboguin opened one fist, flung a crumpled note on the floor and trod on -it, as upon an insect he wished to crush. - -“And I didn’t see ... didn’t understand,” he said through his set -teeth, brandishing one fist round his head, with an expression as -though someone had trod on a corn. “I didn’t notice how he came to see -us every day. I didn’t notice that he came in a carriage to-day! What -was the carriage for? And I didn’t see! Innocent!” - -“I don’t ... I don’t understand,” the doctor murmured. “What’s it all -mean? It’s jeering at a man, laughing at a man’s suffering! That’s -impossible.... I’ve never seen it in my life before!” - -With the dull bewilderment of a man who has just begun to understand -that someone has bitterly offended him, the doctor shrugged his -shoulders, waved his hands and not knowing what to say or do, dropped -exhausted into a chair. - -“Well, she didn’t love me any more. She loved another man. Very well. -But why the deceit, why this foul treachery?” Aboguin spoke with tears -in his voice. “Why, why? What have I done to you? Listen, doctor,” he -said passionately approaching Kirilov. “You were the unwilling witness -of my misfortune, and I am not going to hide the truth from you. I -swear I loved this woman. I loved her with devotion, like a slave. I -sacrificed everything for her. I broke with my family, I gave up the -service and my music. I forgave her things I could not have forgiven -my mother and sister.... I never once gave her an angry look ... I -never gave her any cause. Why this lie then? I do not demand love, but -why this abominable deceit? If you don’t love any more then speak out -honestly, above all when you know what I feel about this matter....” - -With tears in his eyes and trembling in all his bones, Aboguin was -pouring out his soul to the doctor. He spoke passionately, pressing -both hands to his heart. He revealed all the family secrets without -hesitation, as though he were glad that these secrets were being torn -from his heart. Had he spoken thus for an hour or two and poured out -all his soul, he would surely have been easier. - -Who can say whether, had the doctor listened and given him friendly -sympathy, he would not, as so often happens, have been reconciled to -his grief unprotesting, without turning to unprofitable follies? But -it happened otherwise. While Aboguin was speaking the offended doctor -changed countenance visibly. The indifference and amazement in his face -gradually gave way to an expression of bitter outrage, indignation, and -anger. His features became still sharper, harder, and more forbidding. -When Aboguin put before his eyes the photograph of his young wife, -with a pretty, but dry, inexpressive face like a nun’s, and asked if -it were possible to look at that face and grant that it could express -a lie, the doctor suddenly started away, with flashing eyes, and said, -coarsely forging out each several word: - -“Why do you tell me all this? I do not want to hear! I don’t want -to,” he cried and banged his fist upon the table. “I don’t want your -trivial vulgar secrets--to Hell with them. You dare not tell me such -trivialities. Or do you think I have not yet been insulted enough! That -I’m a lackey to whom you can give the last insult? Yes?” - -Aboguin drew back from Kirilov and stared at him in surprise. - -“Why did you bring me here?” the doctor went on, shaking his beard. -“You marry out of high spirits, get angry out of high spirits, and -make a melodrama--but where do I come in? What have I got to do with -your romances? Leave me alone! Get on with your noble grabbing, -parade your humane ideas, play--” the doctor gave a side-glance at the -cello-case--“the double-bass and the trombone, stuff yourselves like -capons, but don’t dare to jeer at a real man! If you can’t respect him, -then you can at least spare him your attentions.” - -“What does all this mean?” Aboguin asked, blushing. - -“It means that it’s vile and foul to play with a man! I’m a doctor. -You consider doctors and all men who work and don’t reek of scent and -harlotry, your footmen, your _mauvais tons._ Very well, but no one gave -you the right to turn a man who suffers into a property.” - -“How dare you say that?” Aboguin asked quietly. Again his face began to -twist about, this time in visible anger. - -“How dare _you_ bring me here to listen to trivial rubbish, when you -know that I’m in sorrow?” the doctor cried and banged his fists on the -table once more. “Who gave you the right to jeer at another’s grief?” - -“You’re mad,” cried Aboguin. “You’re ungenerous. I too am deeply -unhappy and ... and ...” - -“Unhappy”--the doctor gave a sneering laugh--“Don’t touch the word, -it’s got nothing to do with you. Wasters who can’t get money on a bill -call themselves unhappy too. A capon’s unhappy, oppressed with all its -superfluous fat. You worthless lot!” - -“Sir, you’re forgetting yourself,” Aboguin gave a piercing scream. “For -words like those, people are beaten. Do you understand?” - -Aboguin thrust his hand into his side pocket, took out a pocket-book, -found two notes and flung them on the table. - -“There’s your fee,” he said, and his nostrils trembled. “You’re paid.” - -“You dare not offer me money,” said the doctor, and brushed the notes -from the table to the floor. “You don’t settle an insult with money.” - -Aboguin and the doctor stood face to face, heaping each other with -undeserved insults. Never in their lives, even in a frenzy, had -they said so much that was unjust and cruel and absurd. In both the -selfishness of the unhappy is violently manifest. Unhappy men are -selfish, wicked, unjust, and less able to understand each other than -fools. Unhappiness does not unite people, but separates them; and just -where one would imagine that people should be united by the community -of grief, there is more injustice and cruelty done than among the -comparatively contented. - -“Send me home, please,” the doctor cried, out of breath. - -Aboguin rang the bell violently. Nobody came. He rang once more; then -flung the bell angrily to the floor. It struck dully on the carpet and -gave out a mournful sound like a death-moan. The footman appeared. - -“Where have you been hiding, damn you?” The master sprang upon him with -clenched fists. “Where have you been just now? Go away and tell them to -send the carriage round for this gentleman, and get the brougham ready -for me. Wait,” he called out as the footman turned to go. “Not a single -traitor remains to-morrow. Pack off all of you! I will engage new ones -... Rabble!” - -While they waited Aboguin and the doctor were silent. Already the -expression of satisfaction and the subtle elegance had returned to -the former. He paced the drawing-room, shook his head elegantly and -evidently was planning something. His anger was not yet cool, but he -tried to make as if he did not notice his enemy.... The doctor stood -with one hand on the edge of the table, looking at Aboguin with that -deep, rather cynical, ugly contempt with which only grief and an unjust -lot can look, when they see satiety and elegance before them. - -A little later, when the doctor took his seat in the carriage and drove -away, his eyes still glanced contemptuously. It was dark, much darker -than an hour ago. The red half-moon had now disappeared behind the -little hill, and the clouds which watched it lay in dark spots round -the stars. The brougham with the red lamps began to rattle on the road -and passed the doctor. It was Aboguin on his way to protest, to commit -all manner of folly. - -All the way the doctor thought not of his wife or Andrey, but only of -Aboguin and those who lived in the house he just left. His thoughts -were unjust, inhuman, and cruel. He passed sentence on Aboguin, his -wife, Papchinsky, and all those who live in rosy semi-darkness and -smell of scent. All the way he hated them, and his heart ached with his -contempt for them. The conviction he formed about them would last his -life long. - -Time will pass and Kirilov’s sorrow, but this conviction, unjust and -unworthy of the human heart, will not pass, but will remain in the -doctor’s mind until the grave. - - - - -A TRIFLING OCCURRENCE - - -Nicolai Ilyich Byelyaev, a Petersburg landlord, very fond of the -racecourse, a well fed, pink young man of about thirty-two, once called -towards evening on Madame Irnin--Olga Ivanovna--with whom he had a -_liaison,_ or, to use his own phrase, spun out a long and tedious -romance. And indeed the first pages of this romance, pages of interest -and inspiration, had been read long ago; now they dragged on and on, -and presented neither novelty nor interest. - -Finding that Olga Ivanovna was not at home, my hero lay down a moment -on the drawing-room sofa and began to wait. - -“Good evening, Nicolai Ilyich,” he suddenly heard a child’s voice say. -“Mother will be in in a moment. She’s gone to the dressmaker’s with -Sonya.” - -In the same drawing-room on the sofa lay Olga Vassilievna’s son, -Alyosha, a boy about eight years old, well built, well looked after, -dressed up like a picture in a velvet jacket and long black stockings. -He lay on a satin pillow, and apparently imitating an acrobat whom -he had lately seen in the circus, lifted up first one leg then the -other. When his elegant legs began to be tired, he moved his hands, or -he jumped up impetuously and then went on all fours, trying to stand -with his legs in the air. All this he did with a most serious face, -breathing heavily, as if he himself found no happiness in God’s gift of -such a restless body. - -“Ah, how do you do, my friend?” said Byelyaev. “Is it you? I didn’t -notice you. Is your mother well?” - -At the moment Alyosha had just taken hold of the toe of his left foot -in his right hand and got into a most awkward pose. He turned head over -heels, jumped up, and glanced from under the big, fluffy lampshade at -Byelyaev. - -“How can I put it?” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “As a matter of -plain fact mother is never well. You see she’s a woman, and women, -Nicolai Ilyich, have always some pain or another.” - -For something to do, Byelyaev began to examine Alyosha’s face. All the -time he had been acquainted with Olga Ivanovna he had never once turned -his attention to the boy and had completely ignored his existence. A -boy is stuck in front of your eyes, but what is he doing here, what is -his _rôle_?--you don’t want to give a single thought to the question. - -In the evening dusk Alyosha’s face with a pale forehead and steady -black eyes unexpectedly reminded Byelyaev of Olga Vassilievna as -she was in the first pages of the romance. He had the desire to be -affectionate to the boy. - -“Come here, whipper-snapper,” he said. “Come and let me have a good -look at you, quite close.” - -The boy jumped off the sofa and ran to Byelyaev. - -“Well?” Nicolai Ilyich began, putting his hand on the thin shoulders. -“And how are things with you?” - -“How shall I put it?... They used to be much better before.” - -“How?” - -“Quite simple. Before, Sonya and I only had to do music and reading, -and now we’re given French verses to learn. You’ve had your hair cut -lately?” - -“Yes, just lately.” - -“That’s why I noticed it. Your beard’s shorter. May I touch it ... -doesn’t it hurt?” - -“No, not a bit.” - -“Why is it that it hurts if you pull one hair, and when you pull a -whole lot, it doesn’t hurt a bit? Ah, ah! You know it’s a pity you -don’t have side-whiskers. You should shave here, and at the sides ... -and leave the hair just here.” - -The boy pressed close to Byelyaev and began to play with his -watch-chain. - -“When I go to the gymnasium,” he said, “Mother is going to buy me a -watch. I’ll ask her to buy me a chain just like this. What a fine -locket! Father has one just the same, but yours has stripes, here, -and his has got letters.... Inside it’s mother’s picture. Father has -another chain now, not in links, but like a ribbon....” - -“How do you know? Do you see your father?” - -“I? Mm ... no ... I ...” - -Alyosha blushed and in the violent confusion of being detected in a -lie began to scratch the locket busily with his finger-nail. Byelyaev -looked steadily at his face and asked: - -“Do you see your father?” - -“No ... no!” - -“But, be honest--on your honour. By your face I can see you’re not -telling me the truth. If you made a slip of the tongue by mistake, -what’s the use of shuffling. Tell me, do you see him? As one friend to -another.” - -Alyosha mused. - -“And you won’t tell Mother?” he asked. - -“What next.” - -“On your word of honour.” - -“My word of honour.” - -“Swear an oath.” - -“What a nuisance you are! What do you take me for?” - -Alyosha looked round, made big eyes and began to whisper. - -“Only for God’s sake don’t tell Mother! Never tell it to anyone at all, -because it’s a secret. God forbid that Mother should ever get to know; -then I and Sonya and Pelagueia will pay for it.... Listen. Sonya and -I meet Father every Tuesday and Friday. When Pelagueia takes us for a -walk before dinner, we go into Apfel’s sweet-shop and Father’s waiting -for us. He always sits in a separate room, you know, where there’s a -splendid marble table and an ash-tray shaped like a goose without a -back....” - -“And what do you do there?” - -“Nothing!--First, we welcome one another, then we sit down at a little -table and Father begins to treat us to coffee and cakes. You know, -Sonya eats meat-pies, and I can’t bear pies with meat in them! I like -them made of cabbage and eggs. We eat so much that afterwards at dinner -we try to eat as much as we possibly can so that Mother shan’t notice.” - -“What do you talk about there?” - -“To Father? About anything. He kisses us and cuddles us, tells us -all kinds of funny stories. You know, he says that he will take us -to live with him when we are grown up. Sonya doesn’t want to go, but -I say ‘Yes.’ Of course, it’ll be lonely without Mother; but I’ll -write letters to her. How funny: we could go to her for our holidays -then--couldn’t we? Besides, Father says that he’ll buy me a horse. He’s -a splendid man. I can’t understand why Mother doesn’t invite him to -live with her or why she says we mustn’t meet him. He loves Mother very -much indeed. He’s always asking us how she is and what she’s doing. -When she was ill, he took hold of his head like this ... and ran, ran, -all the time. He is always telling us to obey and respect her. Tell me, -is it true that we’re unlucky?” - -“H’m ... how?” - -“Father says so. He says: ‘You are unlucky children.’ It’s quite -strange to listen to him. He says: ‘You are unhappy, I’m unhappy, and -Mother’s unhappy.’ He says: ‘Pray to God for yourselves and for her.’” -Alyosha’s eyes rested upon the stuffed bird and he mused. - -“Exactly ...” snorted Byelyaev. “This is what you do. You arrange -conferences in sweet-shops. And your mother doesn’t know?” - -“N--no.... How could she know? Pelagueia won’t tell for anything. The -day before yesterday Father stood us pears. Sweet, like jam. I had -two.” - -“H’m ... well, now ... tell me, doesn’t your father speak about me?” - -“About you? How shall I put it?” Alyosha gave a searching glance to -Byelyaev’s face and shrugged his shoulders. - -“He doesn’t say anything in particular.” - -“What does he say, for instance?” - -“You won’t be offended?” - -“What next? Why, does he abuse me?” - -“He doesn’t abuse you, but you know ... he is cross with you. He says -that it’s through you that Mother’s unhappy and that you ... ruined -Mother. But he is so queer! I explain to him that you are good and -never shout at Mother, but he only shakes his head.” - -“Does he say those very words: that I ruined her?” - -“Yes. Don’t be offended, Nicolai Ilyich!” - -Byelyaev got up, stood still a moment, and then began to walk about the -drawing-room. - -“This is strange, and ... funny,” he murmured, shrugging his shoulders -and smiling ironically. “He is to blame all round, and now I’ve ruined -her, eh? What an innocent lamb! Did he say those very words to you: -that I ruined your mother?” - -“Yes, but ... you said that you wouldn’t get offended.” - -“I’m not offended, and ... and it’s none of your business! No, it ... -it’s quite funny though. I fell, into the trap, yet I’m to be blamed as -well.” - -The bell rang. The boy dashed from his place and ran out. In a minute -a lady entered the room with a little girl. It was Olga Ivanovna, -Alyosha’s mother. After her, hopping, humming noisily, and waving his -hands, followed Alyosha. - -“Of course, who is there to accuse except me?” he murmured, sniffing. -“He’s right, he’s the injured husband.” - -“What’s the matter?” asked Olga Ivanovna. - -“What’s the matter! Listen to the kind of sermon your dear husband -preaches. It appears I’m a scoundrel and a murderer, I’ve ruined you -and the children. All of you are unhappy, and only I am awfully happy! -Awfully, awfully happy!” - -“I don’t understand, Nicolai! What is it?” - -“Just listen to this young gentleman,” Byelyaev said, pointing to -Alyosha. - -Alyosha blushed, then became pale suddenly and his whole face was -twisted in fright. - -“Nicolai Ilyich,” he whispered loudly. “Shh!” - -Olga Ivanovna glanced in surprise at Alyosha, at Byelyaev, and then -again at Alyosha. - -“Ask him, if you please,” went on Byelyaev. “That stupid fool Pelagueia -of yours, takes them to sweet-shops and arranges meetings with their -dear father there. But that’s not the point. The point is that the dear -father is a martyr, and I’m a murderer, I’m a scoundrel, who broke the -lives of both of you....” - -“Nicolai Ilyich!” moaned Alyosha. “You gave your word of honour!” - -“Ah, let me alone!” Byelyaev waved his hand. “This is something more -important than any words of honour. The hypocrisy revolts me, the lie!” - -“I don’t understand,” muttered Olga Ivanovna, and tears began to -glimmer in her eyes. “Tell me, Lyolka,”--she turned to her son, “Do you -see your father?” - -Alyosha did not hear and looked with horror at Byelyaev. - -“It’s impossible,” said the mother. “I’ll go and ask Pelagueia.” - -Olga Ivanovna went out. - -“But, but you gave me your word of honour,” Alyosha said trembling all -over. - -Byelyaev waved his hand at him and went on walking up and down. He -was absorbed in his insult, and now, as before, he did not notice the -presence of the boy. He, a big serious man, had nothing to do with -boys. And Alyosha sat down in a corner and in terror told Sonya how he -had been deceived. He trembled, stammered, wept. This was the first -time in his life that he had been set, roughly, face to face with a -lie. He had never known before that in this world besides sweet pears -and cakes and expensive watches, there exist many other things which -have no name in children’s language. - - - - -A GENTLEMAN FRIEND - - -When she came out of the hospital the charming Vanda, or, according to -her passport, “the honourable lady-citizen Nastasya Kanavkina,” found -herself in a position in which she had never been before: without a -roof and without a son. What was to be done? - -First of all, she went to a pawnshop to pledge her turquoise ring, -her only jewellery. They gave her a rouble for the ring ... but what -can you buy for a rouble? For that you can’t get a short jacket _à -la mode_, or an elaborate hat, or a pair of brown shoes; yet without -these things she felt naked. She felt as though, not only the people, -but even the horses and dogs were staring at her and laughing at the -plainness of her clothes. And her only thought was for her clothes; she -did not care at all what she ate or where she slept. - -“If only I were to meet a gentleman friend....” she thought. “I could -get some money ... Nobody would say ‘No,’ because....” - -But she came across no gentleman friends. It’s easy to find them of -nights in the _Renaissance,_ but they wouldn’t let her go into the -_Renaissance_ in that plain dress and without a hat. What’s to be done? -After a long time of anguish, vexed and weary with walking, sitting, -and thinking, Vanda made up her mind to play her last card: to go -straight to the rooms of some gentleman friend and ask him for money. - -“But who shall I go to?” she pondered. “I can’t possibly go to -Misha ... he’s got a family.... The ginger-headed old man is at his -office....” - -Vanda recollected Finkel, the dentist, the converted Jew, who gave her -a bracelet three months ago. Once she poured a glass of beer on his -head at the German club. She was awfully glad that she had thought of -Finkel. - -“He’ll be certain to give me some, if only I find him in...” she -thought, on her way to him. “And if he won’t, then I’ll break every -single thing there.” - -She had her plan already prepared. She approached the dentist’s door. -She would run up the stairs, with a laugh, fly into his private room -and ask for twenty-five roubles.... But when she took hold of the -bell-pull, the plan went clean out of her head. Vanda suddenly began to -be afraid and agitated, a thing which had never happened to her before. -She was never anything but bold and independent in drunken company; -but now, dressed in common clothes, and just like any ordinary person -begging a favour, she felt timid and humble. - -“Perhaps he has forgotten me...” she thought, not daring to pull the -bell. “And how can I go up to him in a dress like this? As if I were a -pauper, or a dowdy respectable...” - -She rang the bell irresolutely. - -There were steps behind the door. It was the porter. - -“Is the doctor at home?” she asked. - -She would have been very pleased now if the porter had said “No,” -but instead of answering he showed her into the hall, and took her -jacket. The stairs seemed to her luxurious and magnificent, but what -she noticed first of all in all the luxury was a large mirror in -which she saw a ragged creature without an elaborate hat, without a -modish jacket, and without a pair of brown shoes. And Vanda found it -strange that, now that she was poorly dressed and looking more like a -seamstress or a washerwoman, for the first time she felt ashamed, and -had no more assurance or boldness left. In her thoughts she began to -call herself Nastya Kanavkina, instead of Vanda as she used. - -“This way, please!” said the maid-servant, leading her to the private -room. “The doctor will be here immediately.... Please, take a seat.” - -Vanda dropped into an easy chair. - -“I’ll say: ‘Lend me ...’” she thought. “That’s the right thing, because -we are acquainted. But the maid must go out of the room.... It’s -awkward in front of the maid.... What is she standing there for?” - -In five minutes the door opened and Finkel entered--a tall, swarthy, -convert Jew, with fat cheeks and goggle-eyes. His cheeks, eyes, -belly, fleshy hips--were all so full, repulsive, and coarse! At the -_Renaissance_ and the German club he used always to be a little drunk, -to spend a lot of money on women, patiently put up with all their -tricks--for instance, when Vanda poured the beer on his head, he only -smiled and shook his finger at her--but now he looked dull and sleepy; -he had the pompous, chilly expression of a superior, and he was chewing -something. - -“What is the matter?” he asked, without looking at Vanda. Vanda glanced -at the maid’s serious face, at the blown-out figure of Finkel, who -obviously did not recognise her, and she blushed. - -“What’s the matter?” the dentist repeated, irritated. - -“To ... oth ache....” whispered Vanda. - -“Ah ... which tooth ... where?” - -Vanda remembered she had a tooth with a hole. - -“At the bottom ... to the right,” she said. - -“H’m ... open your mouth.” - -Finkel frowned, held his breath, and began to work the aching tooth -loose. - -“Do you feel any pain?” he asked, picking at her tooth with some -instrument. - -“Yes, I do....” Vanda lied. “Shall I remind him?” she thought, “he’ll -be sure to remember.... But ... the maid ... what is she standing -there for?” - -Finkel suddenly snorted like a steam-engine straight into her mouth, -and said: - -“I don’t advise you to have a stopping.... Anyhow the tooth is quite -useless.” - -Again he picked at the tooth for a little, and soiled Vanda’s lips and -gums with his tobacco-stained fingers. Again he held his breath and -dived into her mouth with something cold.... - -Vanda suddenly felt a terrible pain, shrieked and seized Finkel’s -hand.... - -“Never mind....” he murmured. “Don’t be frightened.... This tooth isn’t -any use.” - -And his tobacco-stained fingers, covered with blood, held up the -extracted tooth before her eyes. The maid came forward and put a bowl -to her lips. - -“Rinse your mouth with cold water at home,” said Finkel. “That will -make the blood stop.” - -He stood before her in the attitude of a man impatient to be left alone -at last. - -“Good-bye ...” she said, turning to the door. - -“H’m! And who’s to pay me for the work?” Finkel asked laughingly. - -“Ah ... yes!” Vanda recollected, blushed and gave the dentist the -rouble she had got for the turquoise ring. - -When she came into the street she felt still more ashamed than before, -but she was not ashamed of her poverty any more. Nor did she notice any -more that she hadn’t an elaborate hat or a modish jacket. She walked -along the street spitting blood and each red spittle told her about -her life, a bad, hard life; about the insults she had suffered and had -still to suffer--to-morrow, a week, a year hence--her whole life, till -death.... - -“Oh, how terrible it is!” she whispered. “My God, how terrible!” - -But the next day she was at the _Renaissance_ and she danced there. She -wore a new, immense red hat, a new jacket _à la mode_ and a pair of -brown shoes. She was treated to supper by a young merchant from Kazan. - - - - -OVERWHELMING SENSATIONS - - -This happened not so very long ago in the Moscow Circuit Court. The -jurymen, left in court for the night, before going to bed, began a -conversation about overwhelming sensations. It was occasioned by -someone’s recollection of a witness who became a stammerer and turned -grey, owing, as he said, to one dreadful moment. The jurymen decided -before going to bed that each one of them should dig into his memories -and tell a story. Life is short; but still there is not a single man -who can boast that he had not had some dreadful moments in his past. - -One juryman related how he was nearly drowned. A second told how one -night he poisoned his own child, in a place where there was neither -doctor nor chemist, by giving the child white copperas in mistake for -soda. The child did not die, but the father nearly went mad. A third, -not an old man, but sickly, described his two attempts to commit -suicide. Once he shot himself; the second time he threw himself in -front of a train. - -The fourth, a short, stout man, smartly dressed, told the following -story: - -“I was no more than twenty-two or twenty-three years old, when I fell -head over heels in love with my present wife and proposed to her. Now, -I would gladly give myself a thrashing for that early marriage; but -then--well, I don’t know what would have happened to me if Natasha -had refused. My love was most ardent, the kind described in novels as -mad, passionate, and so on. My happiness choked me, and I did not know -how to escape from it. I bored my father, my friends, the servants -by continually telling them how desperately I was in love. Happy -people are quite the most tiresome and boring. I used to be awfully -exasperating. Even now I’m ashamed. - -“At the time I had a newly-called barrister among my friends. The -barrister is now known all over Russia, but then he was only at the -beginning of his popularity, and he was not rich or famous enough to -have the right not to recognise a friend when he met him or not to -raise his hat. I used to go and see him once or twice a week. - -“When I came, we used both to stretch ourselves upon the sofas and -begin to philosophise. - -“Once I lay on the sofa, harping on the theme that there is no more -ungrateful profession than a barrister’s. I tried to show that after -the witnesses have been heard the Court can easily dispense with -the Crown Prosecutor and the barrister, because they are equally -unnecessary and only hindrances. If an adult juryman, sound in spirit -and mind, is convinced that this ceiling is white, or that Ivanov -is guilty, no Demosthenes has the power to fight and overcome his -conviction. Who can convince me that my moustache is carroty when -I know it is black? When I listen to an orator I may perhaps get -sentimental and even shed a tear, but my rooted convictions, for the -most part based on the obvious and on facts, will not be changed an -atom. My friend the barrister contended that I was still young and -silly and was talking childish nonsense. In his opinion an obvious fact -when illumined by conscientious experts became still more obvious. -That was his first point. His second was that a talent is a force, an -elemental power, a hurricane, that is able to turn even stones to dust, -not to speak of such trifles as the convictions of householders and -small shopkeepers. It is as hard for human frailty to struggle against -a talent as it is to look at the sun without being blinded or to stop -the wind. By the power of the word one single mortal converts thousands -of convinced savages to Christianity. Ulysses was the most convinced -person in the world, but he was all submission before the Syrens, and -so on. All history is made up of such instances. In life we meet them -at every turn. And so it ought to be; otherwise a clever person of -talent would not be preferred before the stupid and untalented. - -“I persisted and continued to argue that a conviction is stronger than -any talent, though, speaking frankly, I myself could not define what -exactly is a conviction and what is a talent. Probably I talked only -for the sake of talking. - -“‘Take even your own case’ ... said the barrister. ‘You are convinced -that your _fiancée_ is an angel and that there’s not a man in all the -town happier than you. I tell you, ten or twenty minutes would be quite -enough for me to make you sit down at this very table and write to -break off the engagement.’ - -“I began to laugh. - -“‘Don’t laugh. I’m talking seriously,’ said my friend. ‘If I only had -the desire, in twenty minutes you would be happy in the thought that -you have been saved from marriage. My talent is not great, but neither -are you strong?’ - -“‘Well, try, please,’ I said. - -“‘No, why should I? I only said it in passing. You’re a good boy. It -would be a pity to expose you to such an experiment. Besides, I’m not -in the mood, to-day.’ - -“We sat down to supper. The wine and thoughts of Natasha and my love -utterly filled me with a sense of youth and happiness. My happiness was -so infinitely great that the green-eyed barrister opposite me seemed so -unhappy, so little, so grey!” - -“‘But do try,’ I pressed him. ‘I beg you.’ - -“The barrister shook his head and knit his brows. Evidently I had begun -to bore him. - -“‘I know,’ he said, ‘that when the experiment is over you will thank -me and call me saviour, but one must think of your sweetheart too. She -loves you, and your refusal would make her suffer. But what a beauty -she is! I envy you.’ - -“The barrister sighed, swallowed some wine, and began to speak of -what a wonderful creature my Natasha was. He had an uncommon gift for -description. He could pour out a whole heap of words about a woman’s -eyelashes or her little finger. I listened to him with delight. - -“‘I’ve seen many women in my life-time;’ he said, ‘but I give you my -word of honour, I tell you as a friend, your Natasha Andreevna is a -gem, a rare girl! Of course, there are defects, even a good many, I -grant you, but still she is charming.’ - -“And the barrister began to speak of the defects of my sweetheart. -Now I quite understand it was a general conversation about women, -one about their weak points in general; but it appeared to me then -as though he was speaking only of Natasha. He went into raptures -about her snub-nose, her excited voice, her shrill laugh, her -affectation--indeed, about everything I particularly disliked in -her. All this was in his opinion infinitely amiable, gracious and -feminine. Imperceptibly he changed from enthusiasm first to paternal -edification, then to a light, sneering tone.... There was no Chairman -of the Bench with us to stop the barrister riding the high horse. I -hadn’t a chance of opening my mouth--and what could I have said? My -friend said nothing new, his truths were long familiar. The poison was -not at all in what he said, but altogether in the devilish form in -which he said it. A form of Satan’s own invention! As I listened to him -I was convinced that one and the same word had a thousand meanings and -nuances according to the way it is pronounced and the turn given to the -sentence. I certainly cannot reproduce the tone or the form. I can only -say that as I listened to my friend and paced from corner to corner -of my room, I was revolted, exasperated, contemptuous according as he -felt. I even believed him when, with tears in his eyes, he declared to -me that I was a great man, deserving a better fate, and destined in the -future to accomplish some remarkable exploit, from which I might be -prevented by my marriage. - -“‘My dear friend,’ he exclaimed, firmly grasping my hand, ‘I implore -you, I command you: stop before it is too late. Stop! God save you from -this strange and terrible mistake! My friend, don’t ruin your youth.’ - -“Believe me or not as you will, but finally I sat down at the table -and wrote to my sweetheart breaking off the engagement. I wrote and -rejoiced that there was still time to repair my mistake. When the -envelope was sealed I hurried into the street to put it in a pillar -box. The barrister came with me. - -“‘Splendid! Superb!’ he praised me when my letter to Natasha -disappeared into the darkness of the pillar-box. ‘I congratulate you -with all my heart. I’m delighted for your sake.’ - -“After we had gone about ten steps together, the barrister continued: - -“‘Of course, marriage has its bright side too. I, for instance, belong -to the kind of men for whom marriage and family life are everything.’ - -“He was already describing his life: all the ugliness of a lonely -bachelor existence appeared before me. - -“He spoke with enthusiasm of his future wife, of the pleasures of an -ordinary family life, and his transports were so beautiful and sincere -that I was in absolute despair by the time we reached his door. - -“‘What are you doing with me, you damnable man?’ I said panting. -‘You’ve ruined me! Why did you make me write that cursed letter? I love -her! I love her!’ - -“And I swore that I was in love. I was terrified of my action. It -already seemed wild and absurd to me. Gentlemen, it is quite impossible -to imagine a more overwhelming sensation than mine at that moment! If a -kind man had happened to slip a revolver into my hand I would have put -a bullet through my head gladly. - -“‘Well, that’s enough, enough!’ the advocate said, patting my shoulder -and beginning to laugh. ‘Stop crying! The letter won’t reach your -sweetheart. It was I, not you, wrote the address on the envelope, and I -muddled it up so that they won’t be able to make anything of it at the -post-office. But let this be a lesson to you. Don’t discuss things you -don’t understand.’” - -“Now, gentlemen, next, please.” - -The fifth juryman had settled himself comfortably and already opened -his mouth to begin his story, when we heard the clock striking from -Spaisky Church-tower. - -“Twelve....” one of the jurymen counted. “To which class, gentlemen, -would you assign the sensations which our prisoner at the bar is now -feeling? The murderer passes the night here in a prisoner’s cell, -either lying or sitting, certainly without sleeping and all through -the sleepless night listens to the striking of the hours. What does he -think of? What dreams visit him?” - -And all the jurymen suddenly forgot about overwhelming sensations. The -experience of their friend, who once wrote the letter to his Natasha, -seemed unimportant, and not even amusing. Nobody told any more stories; -but they began to go to bed quietly, in silence. - - - - -EXPENSIVE LESSONS - - -It is a great bore for an educated person not to know foreign -languages. Vorotov felt it strongly, when on leaving the university -after he had got his degree he occupied himself with a little -scientific research. - -“It’s awful!” he used to say, losing his breath (for although only -twenty-six he was stout, heavy, and short of breath). “It’s awful. -Without knowing languages I’m like a bird without wings. I’ll simply -have to chuck the work.” - -So he decided, come what might, to conquer his natural laziness and to -study French and German, and he began to look out for a teacher. - -One winter afternoon, as Vorotov sat working in his study, the servant -announced a lady to see him. - -“Show her in,” said Vorotov. - -And a young lady, exquisitely dressed in the latest fashion, entered -the study. She introduced herself as Alice Ossipovna Enquette, a -teacher of French, and said that a friend of Vorotov’s had sent her to -him. - -“Very glad! Sit down!” said Vorotov, losing his breath, and clutching -at the collar of his night shirt. (He always worked in a night shirt -in order to breathe more easily.) “You were sent to me by Peter -Sergueyevich? Yes.... Yes ... I asked him.... Very glad!” - -While he discussed the matter with Mademoiselle Enquette he glanced at -her shyly, with curiosity. She was a genuine Frenchwoman, very elegant, -and still quite young. From her pale and languid face, from her short, -curly hair and unnaturally small waist, you would not think her more -than eighteen, but looking at her broad, well-developed shoulders, her -charming back and severe eyes, Vorotov decided that she was certainly -not less than twenty-three, perhaps even twenty-five; but then again -it seemed to him that she was only eighteen. Her face had the cold, -business-like expression of one who had come to discuss a business -matter. Never once did she smile or frown, and only once a look of -perplexity flashed into her eyes, when she discovered that she was not -asked to teach children but a grown up, stout young man. - -“So, Alice Ossipovna,” Vorotov said to her, “you will give me a lesson -daily from seven to eight o’clock in the evening. With regard to your -wish to receive a rouble a lesson, I have no objection at all. A -rouble--well, let it be a rouble....” - -And he went on asking her if she wanted tea or coffee, if the weather -was fine, and, smiling good naturedly, stroking the tablecloth with -the palm of his hand, he asked her kindly who she was, where she had -completed her education, and how she earned her living. - -In a cold, business-like tone Alice Ossipovna answered that she had -completed her education at a private school, and had then qualified -as a domestic teacher, that her father had died recently of scarlet -fever, her mother was alive and made artificial flowers, that she, -Mademoiselle Enquette, gave private lessons at a pension in the -morning, and from one o’clock right until the evening she taught in -respectable private houses. - -She went, leaving a slight and almost imperceptible perfume of a -woman’s dress behind her. Vorotov did not work for a long time -afterwards but sat at the table stroking the green cloth and thinking. - -“It’s very pleasant to see girls earning their own living,” he thought. -“On the other hand it is very unpleasant to realise that poverty does -not spare even such elegant and pretty girls as Alice Ossipovna; she, -too, must struggle for her existence. Rotten luck!...” - -Having never seen virtuous Frenchwomen he also thought that this -exquisitely dressed Alice Ossipovna, with her well-developed shoulders -and unnaturally small waist was in all probability, engaged in -something else besides teaching. - -Next evening when the clock pointed to five minutes to seven, Alice -Ossipovna arrived, rosy from the cold; she opened Margot (an elementary -text-book) and began without any preamble: - -“The French grammar has twenty-six letters. The first is called A, the -second B....” - -“Pardon,” interrupted Vorotov, smiling, “I must warn you, Mademoiselle, -that you will have to change your methods somewhat in my case. The -fact is that I know Russian, Latin and Greek very well. I have studied -comparative philology, and it seems to me that we may leave out Margot -and begin straight off to read some author.” And he explained to the -Frenchwoman how grown-up people study languages. - -“A friend of mine,” said he, “who wished to know modern languages put -a French, German and Latin gospel in front of him and then minutely -analysed one word after another. The result--he achieved his purpose in -less than a year. Let us take some author and start reading.” - -The Frenchwoman gave him a puzzled look. It was evident that Vorotov’s -proposal appeared to her naive and absurd. If he had not been grown up -she would certainly have got angry and stormed at him, but as he was a -very stout, adult man at whom she could not storm, she only shrugged -her shoulders half-perceptibly and said: - -“Just as you please.” - -Vorotov ransacked his bookshelves and produced a ragged French book. - -“Will this do?” he asked. - -“It’s all the same.” - -“In that case let us begin. Let us start from the title, _Mémoires_.” - -“Reminiscences....” translated Mademoiselle Enquette. - -“Reminiscences....” repeated Vorotov. - -Smiling good naturedly and breathing heavily, he passed a quarter of -an hour over the word _mémoires_ and the same with the word _de._ This -tired Alice Ossipovna out. She answered his questions carelessly, got -confused and evidently neither understood her pupil nor tried to. -Vorotov asked her questions, and at the same time glanced furtively at -her fair hair, thinking: - -“The hair is not naturally curly. She waves it. Marvellous! She works -from morning till night and yet she finds time to wave her hair.” - -At eight o’clock sharp she got up, gave him a dry, cold “Au revoir, -Monsieur,” and left the study. After her lingered the same sweet, -subtle, agitating perfume. The pupil again did nothing for a long time, -but sat by the table and thought. - -During the following days he became convinced that his teacher was a -charming girl serious and punctual, but very uneducated and incapable -of teaching grown up people; so he decided he would not waste his -time, but part with her and engage someone else. When she came for the -seventh lesson he took an envelope containing seven roubles out of his -pocket. Holding it in his hands and blushing furiously, he began: - -“I am sorry, Alice Ossipovna, but I must tell you.... I am placed in an -awkward position....” - -The Frenchwoman glanced at the envelope and guessed what was the -matter. For the first time during the lessons a shiver passed over her -face and the cold, business-like expression disappeared. She reddened -faintly, and casting her eyes down, began to play absently with her -thin gold chain. And Vorotov, noticing her confusion, understood how -precious this rouble was to her, how hard it would be for her to lose -this money. - -“I must tell you,” he murmured, getting still more confused. His heart -gave a thump. Quickly he put the envelope back into his pocket and -continued: - -“Excuse me. I ... I will leave you for ten minutes....” - -And as though he did not want to dismiss her at all, but had only asked -permission to retire for a moment he went into another room and sat -there for ten minutes. Then he returned, more confused than ever; he -thought that his leaving her like that would be explained by her in a -certain way and this made him awkward. - -The lessons began again. - -Vorotov wanted them no more. Knowing that they would lead to nothing -he gave the Frenchwoman a free hand; he did not question or interrupt -her any more. She translated at her own sweet will, ten pages a lesson, -but he did not listen. He breathed heavily and for want of occupation -gazed now and then at her curly little head, her neck, her soft white -hands, and inhaled the perfume of her dress. - -He caught himself thinking about her as he ought not and it shamed -him, or admiring her, and then he felt aggrieved and angry because -she behaved so coldly towards him, in such a businesslike way, never -smiling and as if afraid that he might suddenly touch her. All the -while he thought: How could he inspire her with confidence in him, how -could he get to know her better, to help her, to make her realise how -badly she taught, poor little soul? - -Once Alice Ossipovna came to the lesson in a dainty pink dress, a -little _décolleté_, and such a sweet scent came from her that you might -have thought she was wrapped in a cloud, that you had only to blow on -her for her to fly away or dissolve like smoke. She apologised, saying -she could only stay for half an hour, because she had to go straight -from the lesson to a ball. - -He gazed at her neck, at her bare shoulders and he thought he -understood why Frenchwomen were known to be light-minded and easily -won; he was drowned in this cloud of scent, beauty, and nudity, and -she, quite unaware of his thoughts and probably not in the least -interested in them, read over the pages quickly and translated full -steam ahead: - -“He walked over the street and met the gentleman of his friend and -said: where do you rush? seeing your face so pale it makes me pain.” - -The _Mémoires_ had been finished long ago; Alice was now translating -another book. Once she came to the lesson an hour earlier, apologising -because she had to go to the Little Theatre at seven o’clock. When the -lesson was over Vorotov dressed and he too went to the theatre. It -seemed to him only for the sake of rest and distraction, and he did not -even think of Alice. He would not admit that a serious man, preparing -for a scientific career, a stay-at-home, should brush aside his book -and rush to the theatre for the sake of meeting an unintellectual, -stupid girl whom he hardly knew. - -But somehow, during the intervals his heart beat, and, without noticing -it, he ran about the foyer and the corridors like a boy, looking -impatiently for someone. Every time the interval was over he was -tired, but when he discovered the familiar pink dress and the lovely -shoulders veiled with tulle his heart jumped as if from a presentiment -of happiness, he smiled joyfully, and for the first time in his life he -felt jealous. - -Alice was with two ugly students and an officer. She was laughing, -talking loudly and evidently flirting. Vorotov had never seen her like -that. Apparently she was happy, contented, natural, warm. Why? What was -the reason? Perhaps because these people were dear to her and belonged -to the same class as she. Vorotov felt the huge abyss between him and -that class. He bowed to his teacher, but she nodded coldly and quietly -passed by. It was plain she did not want her cavaliers to know that she -had pupils and gave lessons because she was poor. - -After the meeting at the theatre Vorotov knew that he was in love. -During lessons that followed he devoured his elegant teacher with his -eyes, and no longer struggling, he gave full rein to his pure and -impure thoughts. Alice’s face was always cold. Exactly at eight o’clock -every evening she said calmly, “Au revoir, Monsieur,” and he felt that -she was indifferent to him and would remain indifferent, that--his -position was hopeless. - -Sometimes in the middle of a lesson he would begin dreaming, hoping, -building plans; he composed an amorous declaration, remembering that -Frenchwomen were frivolous and complaisant, but he had only to give his -teacher one glance for his thoughts to be blown out like a candle, when -you carry it on to the verandah of a bungalow and the wind is blowing. -Once, overcome, forgetting everything, in a frenzy, he could stand it -no longer. He barred her way when she came from the study into the -hall after the lesson and, losing his breath and stammering, began to -declare his love: - -“You are dear to me!... I love you. Please let me speak!” - -Alice grew pale: probably she was afraid that after this declaration -she would not be able to come to him any more and receive a rouble -a lesson. She looked at him with terrified eyes and began in a loud -whisper: - -“Ah, it’s impossible! Do not speak, I beg you! Impossible!” - -Afterwards Vorotov did not sleep all night; he tortured himself with -shame, abused himself, thinking feverishly. He thought that his -declaration had offended the girl and that she would not come any -more. He made up his mind to find out where she lived from the Address -Bureau and to write her an apology. But Alice came without the letter. -For a moment she felt awkward, and then opened the book and began to -translate quickly, in an animated voice, as always: - -“‘Oh, young gentleman, do not rend these flowers in my garden which I -want to give to my sick daughter.’” - -She still goes. Four books have been translated by now but Vorotov -knows nothing beyond the word _mémoires,_ and when he is asked about -his scientific research work he waves his hand, leaves the question -unanswered, and begins to talk about the weather. - - - - -A LIVING CALENDAR - - -State-Councillor Sharamykin’s drawing-room is wrapped in a pleasant -half-darkness. The big bronze lamp with the green shade, makes -the walls, the furniture, the faces, all green, _couleur_ “_Nuit -d’Ukraine_” Occasionally a smouldering log flares up in the dying fire -and for a moment casts a red glow over the faces; but this does not -spoil the general harmony of light. The general tone, as the painters -say, is well sustained. - -Sharamykin sits in a chair in front of the fireplace, in the attitude -of a man who has just dined. He is an elderly man with a high -official’s grey side whiskers and meek blue eyes. Tenderness is shed -over his face, and his lips are set in a melancholy smile. At his -feet, stretched out lazily, with his legs towards the fire-place, -Vice-Governor Lopniev sits on a little stool. He is a brave-looking man -of about forty. Sharamykin’s children are moving about round the piano; -Nina, Kolya, Nadya, and Vanya. The door leading to Madame Sharamykin’s -room is slightly open and the light breaks through timidly. There -behind the door sits Sharamykin’s wife, Anna Pavlovna, in front of -her writing-table. She is president of the local ladies’ committee, a -lively, piquant lady of thirty years and a little bit over. Through -her pince-nez her vivacious black eyes are running over the pages of a -French novel. Beneath the novel lies a tattered copy of the report of -the committee for last year. - -“Formerly our town was much better off in these things,” says -Sharamykin, screwing up his meek eyes at the glowing coals. “Never a -winter passed but some star would pay us a visit. Famous actors and -singers used to come ... but now, besides acrobats and organ-grinders, -the devil only knows what comes. There’s no aesthetic pleasure -at all.... We might be living in a forest. Yes.... And does your -Excellency remember that Italian tragedian?... What’s his name?... He -was so dark, and tall.... Let me think.... Oh, yes! Luigi Ernesto di -Ruggiero.... Remarkable talent.... And strength. He had only to say -one word and the whole theatre was on the _qui vive._ My darling Anna -used to take a great interest in his talent. She hired the theatre for -him and sold tickets for the performances in advance.... In return he -taught her elocution and gesture. A first-rate fellow! He came here -... to be quite exact ... twelve years ago.... No, that’s not true.... -Less, ten years.... Anna dear, how old is our Nina?” - -“She’ll be ten next birthday,” calls Anna Pavlovna from her room. “Why?” - -“Nothing in particular, my dear. I was just curious.... And good -singers used to come. Do you remember Prilipchin, the _tenore di -grazia_? What a charming fellow he was! How good looking! Fair ... -a very expressive face, Parisian manners.... And what a voice, your -Excellency! Only one weakness: he would sing some notes with his -stomach and would take _re_ falsetto--otherwise everything was good. -Tamberlik, he said, had taught him.... My dear Anna and I hired a hall -for him at the Social Club, and in gratitude for that he used to sing -to us for whole days and nights.... He taught dear Anna to sing. He -came--I remember it as though it were last night--in Lent, some twelve -years ago. No, it’s more.... How bad my memory is getting, Heaven help -me! Anna dear, how old is our darling Nadya? - -“Twelve.” - -“Twelve ... then we’ve got to add ten months.... That makes it exact -... thirteen. Somehow there used to be more life in our town then.... -Take, for instance, the charity soirées. What enjoyable soirées we -used to have before! How elegant! There were singing, playing, and -recitation.... After the war, I remember, when the Turkish prisoners -were here, dear Anna arranged a soiree on behalf of the wounded. We -collected eleven hundred roubles. I remember the Turkish officers -were passionately fond of dear Anna’s voice, and kissed her hand -incessantly. He-he! Asiatics, but a grateful nation. Would you believe -me, the soiree was such a success that I wrote an account of it in my -diary? It was,--I remember it as though it had only just happened,--in -’76,... no, in ’77.... No! Pray, when were the Turks here? Anna dear, -how old is our little Kolya?” - -“I’m seven, Papa!” says Kolya, a brat with a swarthy face and coal -black hair. - -“Yes, we’re old, and we’ve lost the energy we used to have,” Lopniev -agreed with a sigh. “That’s the real cause. Old age, my friend. No new -moving spirits arrive, and the old ones grow old.... The old fire is -dull now. When I was younger I did not like company to be bored.... -I was your Anna Pavlovna’s first assistant. Whether it was a charity -soirée or a tombola to support a star who was going to arrive, whatever -Anna Pavlovna was arranging, I used to throw over everything and begin -to bustle about. One winter, I remember, I bustled and ran so much that -I even got ill.... I shan’t forget that winter.... Do you remember what -a performance we arranged with Anna Pavlovna in aid of the victims of -the fire?” - -“What year was it?” - -“Not so very long ago.... In ’79. No, in ’80, I believe! Tell me how -old is your Vanya?” - -“Five,” Anna Pavlovna calls from the study. - -“Well, that means it was six years ago. Yes, my dear friend, that was a -time. It’s all over now. The old fire’s quite gone.” - -Lopniev and Sharamykin grew thoughtful. The smouldering log flares up -for the last time, and then is covered in ash. - - - - -OLD AGE - - -State-Councillor Usielkov, architect, arrived in his native town, -where he had been summoned to restore the cemetery church. He was born -in the town, he had grown up and been married there, and yet when he -got out of the train he hardly recognised it. Everything was changed. -For instance, eighteen years ago, when he left the town to settle in -Petersburg, where the railway station is now boys used to hunt for -marmots: now as you come into the High Street there is a four storied -“Hotel Vienna,” with apartments, where there was of old an ugly grey -fence. But not the fence or the houses, or anything had changed so much -as the people. Questioning the hall-porter, Usielkov discovered that -more than half of the people he remembered were dead or paupers or -forgotten. - -“Do you remember Usielkov?” he asked the porter. “Usielkov, the -architect, who divorced his wife.... He had a house in Sviribev -Street.... Surely you remember.” - -“No, I don’t remember anyone of the name.” - -“Why, it’s impossible not to remember. It was an exciting case. All -the cabmen knew, even. Try to remember. His divorce was managed by the -attorney, Shapkin, the swindler ... the notorious sharper, the man who -was thrashed at the club....” - -“You mean Ivan Nicolaich?” - -“Yes.... Is he alive? dead?” - -“Thank heaven, his honour’s alive. His honour’s a notary now, with an -office. Well-to-do. Two houses in Kirpichny Street. Just lately married -his daughter off.” - -Usielkov strode from one corner of the room to another. An idea -flashed into his mind. From boredom, he decided to see Shapkin. It -was afternoon when he left the hotel and quietly walked to Kirpichny -Street. He found Shapkin in his office and hardly recognised him. From -the well-built, alert attorney with a quick, impudent, perpetually -tipsy expression, Shapkin had become a modest, grey-haired, shrunken -old man. - -“You don’t recognise me.... You have forgotten ....” Usielkov began. -“I’m your old client, Usielkov.” - -“Usielkov? Which Usielkov? Ah!” Remembrance came to Shapkin: he -recognised him and was confused. Began exclamations, questions, -recollections. - -“Never expected ... never thought....” chuckled Shapkin. “What will you -have? Would you like champagne? Perhaps you’d like oysters. My dear -man, what a lot of money I got out of you in the old days--so much that -I can’t think what I ought to stand you.” - -“Please don’t trouble,” said Usielkov. “I haven’t time. I must go to -the cemetery and examine the church. I have a commission.” - -“Splendid. We’ll have something to eat and a drink and go together. -I’ve got some splendid horses! I’ll take you there and introduce you to -the churchwarden.... I’ll fix up everything.... But what’s the matter, -my dearest man? You’re not avoiding me, not afraid? Please sit nearer. -There’s nothing to be afraid of now.... Long ago, I really was pretty -sharp, a bit of a rogue ... but now I’m quieter than water, humbler -than grass. I’ve grown old; got a family. There are children.... Time -to die!” - -The friends had something to eat and drink, and went in a coach and -pair to the cemetery. - -“Yes, it was a good time,” Shapkin was reminiscent, sitting in the -sledge. “I remember, but I simply can’t believe it. Do you remember -how you divorced your wife? It’s almost twenty years ago, and you’ve -probably forgotten everything, but I remember it as though I conducted -the petition yesterday. My God, how rotten I was! Then I was a smart, -casuistical devil, full of sharp practice and devilry.... and I used -to run into some shady affairs, particularly when there was a good -fee, as in your case, for instance. What was it you paid me then? -Five--six hundred. Enough to upset anybody! By the time you left for -Petersburg you’d left the whole affair completely in my hands. ‘Do what -you like!’ And your former wife, Sophia Mikhailovna, though she did -come from a merchant family, was proud and selfish. To bribe her to -take the guilt on herself was difficult--extremely difficult. I used to -come to her for a business talk, and when she saw me, she would say to -her maid: ‘Masha, surely I told you I wasn’t at home to scoundrels.’ -I tried one way, then another ... wrote letters to her, tried to meet -her accidentally--no good. I had to work through a third person. For a -long time I had trouble with her, and she only yielded when you agreed -to give her ten thousand. She could not stand out against ten thousand. -She succumbed.... She began to weep, spat in my face, but she yielded -and took the guilt on herself.” - -“If I remember it was fifteen, not ten thousand she took from me,” said -Usielkov. - -“Yes, of course ... fifteen, my mistake.” Shapkin was disconcerted. -“Anyway it’s all past and done with now. Why shouldn’t I confess, -frankly? Ten I gave to her, and the remaining five I bargained out of -you for my own share. I deceived both of you.... It’s all past, why be -ashamed of it? And who else was there to take from, Boris Pietrovich, -if not from you? I ask you.... You were rich and well-to-do. You -married in caprice: you were divorced in caprice. You were making a -fortune. I remember you got twenty thousand out of a single contract. -Whom was I to tap, if not you? And I must confess, I was tortured by -envy. If you got hold of a nice lot of money, people would take off -their hats to you: but the same people would beat me for shillings and -smack my face in the club. But why recall it? It’s time to forget.” - -“Tell me, please, how did Sophia Mikhailovna live afterwards?” - -“With her ten thousand? _On ne peut plus_ badly.... God knows whether -it was frenzy or pride and conscience that tortured her, because she -had sold herself for money--or perhaps she loved you; but, she took to -drink, you know. She received the money and began to gad about with -officers in troikas.... Drunkenness, philandering, debauchery.... She -would come into a tavern with an officer, and instead of port or a -light wine, she would drink the strongest cognac to drive her into a -frenzy.” - -“Yes, she was eccentric. I suffered enough with her. She would take -offence at some trifle and then get nervous.... And what happened -afterwards?” - -“A week passed, a fortnight.... I was sitting at home writing. -Suddenly, the door opened and she comes in. ‘Take your cursed money,’ -she said, and threw the parcel in my face.... She could not resist -it.... Five hundred were missing. She had only got rid of five -hundred.” - -“And what did you do with the money?” - -“It’s all past and done with. What’s the good of concealing it?... -I certainly took it. What are you staring at me like that for? Wait -for the sequel. It’s a complete novel, the sickness of a soul! Two -months passed by. One night I came home drunk, in a wicked mood.... -I turned on the light and saw Sophia Mikhailovna sitting on my sofa, -drunk too, wandering a bit, with something savage in her face as if -she had just escaped from the mad-house. ‘Give me my money back,’ she -said. ‘I’ve changed my mind. If I’m going to the dogs, I want to go -madly, passionately. Make haste, you scoundrel, give me the money.’ How -indecent it was!” - -“And you ... did you give it her?” - -“I remember I gave her ten roubles.” - -“Oh ... is it possible?” Usielkov frowned. “If you couldn’t do it -yourself, or you didn’t want to, you could have written to me.... And I -didn’t know ... I didn’t know.” - -“My dear man, why should I write, when she wrote herself afterwards -when she was in hospital?” - -“I was so taken up with the new marriage that I paid no attention to -letters.... But you were an outsider; you had no antagonism to Sophia -Mikhailovna.... Why didn’t you help her?” - -“We can’t judge by our present standards, Boris Pietrovich. Now we -think in this way; but then we thought quite differently.... Now I -might perhaps give her a thousand roubles; but then even ten roubles -... she didn’t get them for nothing. It’s a terrible story. It’s time -to forget.... But here you are!” - -The sledge stopped at the churchyard gate. Usielkov and Shapkin got -out of the sledge, went through the gate and walked along a long, -broad avenue. The bare cherry trees, the acacias, the grey crosses and -monuments sparkled with hoar-frost. In each flake of snow the bright -sunny day was reflected. There was the smell you find in all cemeteries -of incense and fresh-dug earth. - -“You have a beautiful cemetery,” said Usielkov. “It’s almost an -orchard.” - -“Yes, but it’s a pity the thieves steal the monuments. Look, there, -behind that cast-iron memorial, on the right, Sophia Mikhailovna is -buried. Would you like to see?” - -The friends turned to the right, stepping in deep snow towards the -cast-iron memorial. - -“Down here,” said Shapkin, pointing to a little stone of white marble. -“Some subaltern or other put up the monument on her grave.” Usielkov -slowly took off his hat and showed his bald pate to the snow. Eying -him, Shapkin also took off his hat, and another baldness shone beneath -the sun. The silence round about was like the tomb, as though the air -were dead, too. The friends looked at the stone, silent, thinking. - -“She is asleep!” Shapkin broke the silence. “And she cares very little -that she took the guilt upon herself and drank cognac. Confess, Boris -Pietrovich!” - -“What?” asked Usielkov, sternly. - -“That, however loathsome the past may be, it’s better than this.” And -Shapkin pointed to his grey hairs. - -“In the old days I did not even think of death.... If I’d met her, I -would have circumvented her, but now ... well, now!” - -Sadness took hold of Usielkov. Suddenly he wanted to cry, passionately, -as he once desired to love.... And he felt that these tears would be -exquisite, refreshing. Moisture came out of his eyes and a lump rose in -his throat, but.... Shapkin was standing by his side, and Usielkov felt -ashamed of his weakness before a witness. He turned back quickly and -walked towards the church. - -Two hours later, having arranged with the churchwarden and examined the -church, he seized the opportunity while Shapkin was talking away to the -priest, and ran to shed a tear. He walked to the stone surreptitiously, -with stealthy steps, looking round all the time. The little white -monument stared at him absently, so sadly and innocently, as though a -girl and not a wanton _divorcée_ were beneath. - -“If I could weep, could weep!” thought Usielkov. - -But the moment for weeping had been lost. Though the old man managed -to make his eyes shine, and tried to bring himself to the right pitch, -the tears did not flow and the lump did not rise in his throat.... -After waiting for about ten minutes, Usielkov waved his arm and went to -look for Shapkin. - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BET, AND OTHER STORIES *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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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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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Bet and other stories</div> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Anton Tchekhov</div> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Translator: Samuel Solomonovitch Koteliansky -<br>John Middleton Murry</div> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: August 7, 2017 [EBook #55283]<br> -[Most recently updated: September 26, 2023]</div> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Marc D'Hooghe at Free Literature. Images generously made available by the Internet Archive.</div> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BET AND OTHER STORIES ***</div> - - - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="500" alt=""> -</div> - -<h1>THE BET</h1> - -<h3>AND OTHER STORIES</h3> - -<h3>BY</h3> - -<h2>ANTON TCHEKHOV</h2> - -<h4>TRANSLATED BY</h4> - -<h4>S. KOTELIANSKY AND J. M. MURRY</h4> - -<h5>JOHN W. LUCE & CO.</h5> - -<h5>BOSTON</h5> - -<h5>1915</h5> - - - -<hr class="full"> -<h5>TRANSLATORS' NOTE</h5> - -<p>Stiepanovich and Stepanich are two forms of the same name, -meaning—"son of Stephen." The abbreviated form is the more intimate -and familiar.</p> - -<p>The Russian dishes mentioned in "A Tedious Story" have no exact -equivalents. <i>Sossoulki</i> are a kind of little dumplings eaten in -soup; <i>schi</i> is a soup made of sour cabbage; and <i>kasha</i> is a kind of -porridge.</p> - -<p>The words of the song which the students sing in "The Fit" come from -Poushkin.</p> - -<hr class="chap"> - -<p style="font-size: 0.8em; margin-left: 25%;"> -<span style="font-weight: bold;">CONTENTS</span><br> -<br> -<a href="#THE_BET">THE BET</a><br> -<a href="#A_TEDIOUS_STORY">A TEDIOUS STORY</a><br> -<a href="#THE_FIT">THE FIT</a><br> -<a href="#MISFORTUNE">MISFORTUNE</a><br> -<a href="#AFTER_THE_THEATRE">AFTER THE THEATRE</a><br> -<a href="#THAT_WRETCHED_BOY">THAT WRETCHED BOY</a><br> -<a href="#ENEMIES">ENEMIES</a><br> -<a href="#A_TRIFLING_OCCURRENCE">A TRIFLING OCCURRENCE</a><br> -<a href="#A_GENTLEMAN_FRIEND">A GENTLEMAN FRIEND</a><br> -<a href="#OVERWHELMING_SENSATIONS">OVERWHELMING SENSATIONS</a><br> -<a href="#EXPENSIVE_LESSONS">EXPENSIVE LESSONS</a><br> -<a href="#A_LIVING_CALENDAR">A LIVING CALENDAR</a><br> -<a href="#OLD_AGE">OLD AGE</a><br> -</p> - - - -<hr class="chap"> -<h4><a name="THE_BET" id="THE_BET">THE BET</a></h4> - - - -<h4>I</h4> - - -<p>It was a dark autumn night. The old banker was pacing from corner to -corner of his study, recalling to his mind the party he gave in the -autumn fifteen years ago. There were many clever people at the party -and much interesting conversation. They talked among other things of -capital punishment. The guests, among them not a few scholars and -journalists, for the most part disapproved of capital punishment. They -found it obsolete as a means of punishment, unfitted to a Christian -State and immoral. Some of them thought that capital punishment should -be replaced universally by life-imprisonment.</p> - -<p>"I don't agree with you," said the host. "I myself have experienced -neither capital punishment nor life-imprisonment, but if one may -judge <i>a priori,</i> then in my opinion capital punishment is more -moral and more humane than imprisonment. Execution kills instantly, -life-imprisonment kills by degrees. Who is the more humane executioner, -one who kills you in a few seconds or one who draws the life out of -you incessantly, for years?"</p> - -<p>"They're both equally immoral," remarked one of the guests, "because -their purpose is the same, to take away life. The State is not God. It -has no right to take away that which it cannot give back, if it should -so desire."</p> - -<p>Among the company was a lawyer, a young man of about twenty-five. On -being asked his opinion, he said:</p> - -<p>"Capital punishment and life-imprisonment are equally immoral; but if -I were offered the choice between them, I would certainly choose the -second. It's better to live somehow than not to live at all."</p> - -<p>There ensued a lively discussion. The banker who was then younger and -more nervous suddenly lost his temper, banged his fist on the table, and -turning to the young lawyer, cried out:</p> - -<p>"It's a lie. I bet you two millions you wouldn't stick in a cell even -for five years."</p> - -<p>"If that's serious," replied the lawyer, "then I bet I'll stay not five -but fifteen."</p> - -<p>"Fifteen! Done!" cried the banker. "Gentlemen, I stake two millions."</p> - -<p>"Agreed. You stake two millions, I my freedom," said the lawyer.</p> - -<p>So this wild, ridiculous bet came to pass. The banker, who at that time -had too many millions to count, spoiled and capricious, was beside -himself with rapture. During supper he said to the lawyer jokingly:</p> - -<p>"Come to your senses, young man, before it's too late. Two millions are -nothing to me, but you stand to lose three or four of the best years of -your life. I say three or four, because you'll never stick it out any -longer. Don't forget either, you unhappy man, that voluntary is much -heavier than enforced imprisonment. The idea that you have the right to -free yourself at any moment will poison the whole of your life in the -cell. I pity you."</p> - -<p>And now the banker pacing from corner to corner, recalled all this and -asked himself:</p> - -<p>"Why did I make this bet? What's the good? The lawyer loses fifteen -years of his life and I throw away two millions. Will it convince -people that capital punishment is worse or better than imprisonment for -life. No, No! all stuff and rubbish. On my part, it was the caprice of -a well-fed man; on the lawyer's, pure greed of gold."</p> - -<p>He recollected further what happened after the evening party. It -was decided that the lawyer must undergo his imprisonment under the -strictest observation, in a garden-wing of the banker's house. It was -agreed that during the period he would be deprived of the right to -cross the threshold, to see living people, to hear human voices, and -to receive letters and newspapers. He was permitted to have a musical -instrument, to read books, to write letters, to drink wine and smoke -tobacco. By the agreement he could communicate, but only in silence, -with the outside world through a little window specially constructed -for this purpose. Everything necessary, books, music, wine, he could -receive in any quantity by sending a note through the window. The -agreement provided for all the minutest details, which made the -confinement strictly solitary, and it obliged the lawyer to remain -exactly fifteen years from twelve o'clock of November 14th 1870 to -twelve o'clock of November 14th 1885. The least attempt on his part to -violate the conditions, to escape if only for two minutes before the -time freed the banker from the obligation to pay him the two millions.</p> - -<p>During the first year of imprisonment, the lawyer, as far as it -was possible to judge from his short notes, suffered terribly from -loneliness and boredom. From his wing day and night came the sound of -the piano. He rejected wine and tobacco. "Wine," he wrote, "excites -desires, and desires are the chief foes of a prisoner; besides, nothing -is more boring than to drink good wine alone," and tobacco spoils the -air in his room. During the first year the lawyer was sent books of a -light character; novels with a complicated love interest, stories of -crime and fantasy, comedies, and so on.</p> - -<p>In the second year the piano was heard no longer and the lawyer asked -only for classics. In the fifth year, music was heard again, and the -prisoner asked for wine. Those who watched him said that during the -whole of that year he was only eating, drinking, and lying on his bed. -He yawned often and talked angrily to himself. Books he did not read. -Sometimes at nights he would sit down to write. He would write for a -long time and tear it all up in the morning. More than once he was -heard to weep.</p> - -<p>In the second half of the sixth year, the prisoner began zealously to -study languages, philosophy, and history. He fell on these subjects so -hungrily that the banker hardly had time to get books enough for him. -In the space of four years about six hundred volumes were bought at -his request. It was while that passion lasted that the banker received -the following letter from the prisoner: "My dear gaoler, I am writing -these lines in six languages. Show them to experts. Let them read them. -If they do not find one single mistake, I beg you to give orders to -have a gun fired off in the garden. By the noise I shall know that my -efforts have not been in vain. The geniuses of all ages and countries -speak in different languages; but in them all burns the same flame. Oh, -if you knew my heavenly happiness now that I can understand them!" The -prisoner's desire was fulfilled. Two shots were fired in the garden by -the banker's order.</p> - -<p>Later on, after the tenth year, the lawyer sat immovable before his -table and read only the New Testament. The banker found it strange -that a man who in four years had mastered six hundred erudite volumes, -should have spent nearly a year in reading one book, easy to -understand and by no means thick. The New Testament was then replaced -by the history of religions and theology.</p> - -<p>During the last two years of his confinement the prisoner read an -extraordinary amount, quite haphazard. Now he would apply himself to -the natural sciences, then would read Byron or Shakespeare. Notes used -to come from him in which he asked to be sent at the same time a book -on chemistry, a text-book of medicine, a novel, and some treatise on -philosophy or theology. He read as though he were swimming in the sea -among the broken pieces of wreckage, and in his desire to save his life -was eagerly grasping one piece after another.</p> - - - -<h4>II</h4> - - -<p>The banker recalled all this, and thought:</p> - -<p>"To-morrow at twelve o'clock he receives his freedom. Under the -agreement, I shall have to pay him two millions. If I pay, it's all -over with me. I am ruined for ever...."</p> - -<p>Fifteen years before he had too many millions to count, but now he was -afraid to ask himself which he had more of, money or debts. Gambling on -the Stock-Exchange, risky speculation, and the recklessness of which -he could not rid himself even in old age, had gradually brought his -business to decay; and the fearless, self-confident, proud man of -business had become an ordinary banker, trembling at every rise and -fall in the market.</p> - -<p>"That cursed bet," murmured the old man clutching his head in -despair.... "Why didn't the man die? He's only forty years old. He will -take away my last farthing, marry, enjoy life, gamble on the Exchange, -and I will look on like an envious beggar and hear the same words from -him every day: 'I'm obliged to you for the happiness of my life. Let -me help you.' No, it's too much! The only escape from bankruptcy and -disgrace—is that the man should die."</p> - -<p>The clock had just struck three. The banker was listening. In the house -everyone was asleep, and one could hear only the frozen trees whining -outside the windows. Trying to make no sound, he took out of his safe -the key of the door which had not been opened for fifteen years, put -on his overcoat, and went out of the house. The garden was dark and -cold. It was raining. A keen damp wind hovered howling over all the -garden and gave the trees no rest. Though he strained his eyes, the -banker could see neither the ground, nor the white statues, nor the -garden-wing, nor the trees. Approaching the place where the garden-wing -stood, he called the watchman twice. There was no answer. Evidently -the watchman had taken shelter from the bad weather and was now asleep -somewhere in the kitchen or the greenhouse.</p> - -<p>"If I have the courage to fulfil my intention," thought the old man, -"the suspicion will fall on the watchman first of all."</p> - -<p>In the darkness he groped for the stairs and the door and entered the -hall of the garden-wing, then poked his way into a narrow passage and -struck a match. Not a soul was there. Someone's bed, with no bedclothes -on it, stood there, and an iron stove was dark in the corner. The seals -on the door that led into the prisoner's room were unbroken.</p> - -<p>When the match went out, the old man, trembling from agitation, peeped -into the little window.</p> - -<p>In the prisoner's room a candle was burning dim. The prisoner himself -sat by the table. Only his back, the hair on his head and his hands -were visible. On the table, the two chairs, the carpet by the table -open books were strewn.</p> - -<p>Five minutes passed and the prisoner never once stirred. Fifteen years -confinement had taught him to sit motionless. The banker tapped on the -window with his finger, but the prisoner gave no movement in reply. -Then the banker cautiously tore the seals from the door and put the key -into the lock. The rusty lock gave a hoarse groan and the door creaked. -The banker expected instantly to hear a cry of surprise and the sound -of steps. Three minutes passed and it was as quiet behind the door as -it had been before. He made up his mind to enter. Before the table -sat a man, unlike an ordinary human being. It was a skeleton, with -tight-drawn skin, with a woman's long curly hair, and a shaggy beard. -The colour of his face was yellow, of an earthy shade; the cheeks were -sunken, the back long and narrow, and the hand upon which he leaned his -hairy head was so lean and skinny that it was painful to look upon. -His hair was already silvering with grey, and no one who glanced at -the senile emaciation of the face would have believed that he was only -forty years old. On the table, before his bended head, lay a sheet of -paper on which something was written in a tiny hand.</p> - -<p>"Poor devil," thought the banker, "he's asleep and probably seeing -millions in his dreams. I have only to take and throw this half-dead -thing on the bed, smother him a moment with the pillow, and the most -careful examination will find no trace of unnatural death. But, first, -let us read what he has written here."</p> - -<p>The banker took the sheet from the table and read:</p> - -<p>"To-morrow at twelve o'clock midnight, I shall obtain my freedom and -the right to mix with people. But before I leave this room and see the -sun I think it necessary to say a few words to you. On my own clear -conscience and before God who sees me I declare to you that I despise -freedom, life, health, and all that your books call the blessings of -the world.</p> - -<p>"For fifteen years I have diligently studied earthly life. True, -I saw neither the earth nor the people, but in your books I drank -fragrant wine, sang songs, hunted deer and wild boar in the forests, -loved women.... And beautiful women, like clouds ethereal, created by -the magic of your poets' genius, visited me by night and whispered me -wonderful tales, which made my head drunken. In your books I climbed -the summits of Elbruz and Mont Blanc and saw from thence how the -sun rose in the morning, and in the evening overflowed the sky, the -ocean and the mountain ridges with a purple gold. I saw from thence -how above me lightnings glimmered cleaving the clouds; I saw green -forests, fields, rivers, lakes, cities; I heard syrens singing, and the -playing of the pipes of Pan; I touched the wings of beautiful devils -who came flying to me to speak of God.... In your books I cast myself -into bottomless abysses, worked miracles, burned cities to the ground, -preached new religions, conquered whole countries....</p> - -<p>"Your books gave me wisdom. All that unwearying human thought created -in the centuries is compressed to a little lump in my skull. I know -that I am more clever than you all.</p> - -<p>"And I despise your books, despise all wordly blessings and wisdom. -Everything is void, frail, visionary and delusive like a mirage. Though -you be proud and wise and beautiful, yet will death wipe you from the -face of the earth like the mice underground; and your posterity, your -history, and the immortality of your men of genius will be as frozen -slag, burnt down together with the terrestrial globe.</p> - -<p>"You are mad, and gone the wrong way. You take lie for truth and -ugliness for beauty. You would marvel if by certain conditions there -should suddenly grow on apple and orange trees, instead of fruit, -frogs and lizards, and if roses should begin to breathe the odour of -a sweating horse. So do I marvel at you, who have bartered heaven for -earth. I do not want to understand you.</p> - -<p>"That I may show you in deed my contempt for that by which you live, -I waive the two millions of which I once dreamed as of paradise, and -which I now despise. That I may deprive myself of my right to them, I -shall come out from here five minutes before the stipulated term, and -thus shall violate the agreement."</p> - -<p>When he had read, the banker put the sheet on the table, kissed the -head of the strange man, and began to weep. He went out of the wing. -Never at any other time, not even after his terrible losses on the -Exchange, had he felt such contempt for himself as now. Coming home, -he lay down on his bed, but agitation and tears kept him long from -sleep....</p> - -<p>The next morning the poor watchman came running to him and told him -that they had seen the man who lived in the wing climbing through the -window into the garden. He had gone to the gate and disappeared. -Together with his servants the banker went instantly to the wing and -established the escape of his prisoner. To avoid unnecessary rumours he -took the paper with the renunciation from the table and, on his return, -locked it in his safe.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap"> -<h4><a name="A_TEDIOUS_STORY" id="A_TEDIOUS_STORY">A TEDIOUS STORY</a></h4> - - -<h5>(FROM AN OLD MAN'S JOURNAL)</h5> - -<h4 class="p2">I</h4> -<p>There lives in Russia an emeritus professor, Nicolai Stiepanovich ... -privy councillor and knight. He has so many Russian and foreign Orders -that when he puts them on the students call him "the holy picture." -His acquaintance is most distinguished. Not a single famous scholar -lived or died during the last twenty-five or thirty years but he was -intimately acquainted with him. Now he has no one to be friendly with, -but speaking of the past the long list of his eminent friends would -end with such names as Pirogov, Kavelin, and the poet Nekrasov, who -bestowed upon him their warmest and most sincere friendship. He is a -member of all the Russian and of three foreign universities, et cetera, -et cetera. All this, and a great deal besides, forms what is known as -my name.</p> - -<p>This name of mine is very popular. It is known to every literate person -in Russia; abroad it is mentioned from professorial chairs with the -epithets "eminent and esteemed." It is reckoned among those fortunate -names which to mention in vain or to abuse in public or in the Press -is considered a mark of bad breeding. Indeed, it should be so; because -with my name is inseparably associated the idea of a famous, richly -gifted, and indubitably useful person. I am a steady worker, with -the endurance of a camel, which is important. I am also endowed with -talent, which is still more important. In passing, I would add that -I am a well-educated, modest, and honest fellow. I have never poked -my nose into letters or politics, never sought popularity in disputes -with the ignorant, and made no speeches either at dinners or at my -colleagues' funerals. Altogether there is not a single spot on my -learned name, and it has nothing to complain of. It is fortunate.</p> - -<p>The bearer of this name, that is myself, is a man of sixty-two, with a -bald head, false teeth and an incurable tic. My name is as brilliant -and prepossessing, as I, myself am dull and ugly. My head and hands -tremble from weakness; my neck, like that of one of Turgeniev's -heroines, resembles the handle of a counter-bass; my chest is hollow -and my back narrow. When I speak or read my mouth twists, and when I -smile my whole face is covered with senile, deathly wrinkles. There is -nothing imposing in my pitiable face, save that when I suffer from the -tic, I have a singular expression which compels anyone who looks at me -to think: "This man will die soon, for sure."</p> - -<p>I can still read pretty well; I can still hold the attention of my -audience for two hours. My passionate manner, the literary form of -my exposition and my humour make the defects of my voice almost -unnoticeable, though it is dry, harsh, and hard like a hypocrite's. -But I write badly. The part of my brain which governs the ability to -write refused office. My memory has weakened, and my thoughts are -too inconsequent; and when I expound them on paper, I always have a -feeling that I have lost the sense of their organic connection. The -construction is monotonous, and the sentence feeble and timid. I -often do not write what I want to, and when I write the end I cannot -remember the beginning. I often forget common words, and in writing a -letter I always have to waste much energy in order to avoid superfluous -sentences and unnecessary incidental statements; both bear clear -witness of the decay of my intellectual activity. And it is remarkable -that, the simpler the letter, the more tormenting is my effort. When -writing a scientific article I fed much freer and much more intelligent -than in writing a letter of welcome or a report. One thing more: it is -easier for me to write German or English than Russian.</p> - -<p>As regards my present life, I must first of all note insomnia, from -which I have begun to suffer lately. If I were asked: "What is now -the chief and fundamental fact of your existence?" I would answer: -"Insomnia." From habit, I still undress at midnight precisely and get -into bed. I soon fall asleep but wake just after one with the feeling -that I have not slept at all. I must get out of bed and light the -lamp. For an hour or two I walk about the room from corner to corner -and inspect the long familiar pictures. When I am weary of walking I -sit down to the table. I sit motionless thinking of nothing, feeling -no desires; if a book lies before me I draw it mechanically towards me -and read without interest. Thus lately in one night I read mechanically -a whole novel with a strange title, "Of What the Swallow Sang." Or in -order to occupy my attention I make myself count to a thousand, or I -imagine the face of some one of my friends, and begin to remember in -what year and under what circumstances he joined the faculty. I love -to listen to sounds. Now, two rooms away from me my daughter Liza will -say something quickly, in her sleep; then my wife will walk through the -drawing-room with a candle and infallibly drop the box of matches. Then -the shrinking wood of the cupboard squeaks or the burner of the lamp -tinkles suddenly, and all these sounds somehow agitate me.</p> - -<p>Not to sleep of nights confesses one abnormal; and therefore I wait -impatiently for the morning and the day, when I have the right not -to sleep. Many oppressive hours pass before the cock crows. He is my -harbinger of good. As soon as he has crowed I know that in an hour's -time the porter downstairs will awake and for some reason or other go -up the stairs, coughing angrily; and later beyond the windows the air -begins to pale gradually and voices echo in the street.</p> - -<p>The day begins with the coming of my wife. She comes in to me in a -petticoat, with her hair undone, but already washed and smelling of eau -de Cologne, and looking as though she came in by accident, saying the -same thing every time: "Pardon, I came in for a moment. You haven't -slept again?" Then she puts the lamp out, sits by the table and begins -to talk. I am not a prophet but I know beforehand what the subject of -conversation will be, every morning the same. Usually, after breathless -inquiries after my health, she suddenly remembers our son, the officer, -who is serving in Warsaw. On the twentieth of each month we send him -fifty roubles. This is our chief subject of conversation.</p> - -<p>"Of course it is hard on us," my wife sighs. "But until he is finally -settled we are obliged to help him. The boy is among strangers; the -pay is small. But if you like, next month we'll send him forty roubles -instead of fifty. What do you think?"</p> - -<p>Daily experience might have convinced my wife that expenses do -not grow less by talking of them. But my wife does not acknowledge -experience and speaks about our officer punctually every day, about -bread, thank Heaven, being cheaper and sugar a half-penny dearer—and -all this in a tone as though it were news to me.</p> - -<p>I listen and agree mechanically. Probably because I have not slept -during the night strange idle thoughts take hold of me. I look at my -wife and wonder like a child. In perplexity I ask myself: This old, -stout, clumsy woman, with sordid cares and anxiety about bread and -butter written in the dull expression of her face, her eyes tired with -eternal thoughts of debts and poverty, who can talk only of expenses -and smile only when things are cheap—was this once the slim Varya -whom I loved passionately for her fine clear mind, her pure soul, her -beauty, and as Othello loved Desdemona, for her "compassion" of my -science? Is she really the same, my wife Varya, who bore me a son?</p> - -<p>I gaze intently into the fat, clumsy old woman's face. I seek in her -my Varya; but from the past nothing remains but her fear for my health -and her way of calling my salary "our" salary and my hat "our" hat. It -pains me to look at her, and to console her, if only a little, I let -her talk as she pleases, and I am silent even when she judges people -unjustly, or scolds me because I do not practise and do not publish -text-books.</p> - -<p>Our conversation always ends in the same way. My wife suddenly -remembers that I have not yet had tea, and gives a start:</p> - -<p>"Why am I sitting down?" she says, getting up. "The samovar has been on -the table a long while, and I sit chatting. How forgetful I am? Good -gracious!"</p> - -<p>She hurries away, but stops at the door to say:</p> - -<p>"We owe Yegor five months' wages. Do you realise it? It's a bad thing -to let the servants' wages run on. I've said so often. It's much easier -to pay ten roubles every month than fifty for five!"</p> - -<p>Outside the door she stops again:</p> - -<p>"I pity our poor Liza more than anybody. The girl studies at the -Conservatoire. She's always in good society, and the Lord only knows -how she's dressed. That fur-coat of hers! It's a sin to show yourself -in the street in it. If she had a different father, it would do, but -everyone knows he is a famous professor, a privy councillor."</p> - -<p>So, having reproached me for my name and title, she goes away at last. -Thus begins my day. It does not improve.</p> - -<p>When I have drunk my tea, Liza comes in, in a fur-coat and hat, with -her music, ready to go to the Conservatoire. She is twenty-two. She -looks younger. She is pretty, rather like my wife when she was young. -She kisses me tenderly on my forehead and my hand.</p> - -<p>"Good morning, Papa. Quite well?"</p> - -<p>As a child she adored ice-cream, and I often had to take her to a -confectioner's. Ice-cream was her standard of beauty. If she wanted -to praise me, she used to say: "Papa, you are ice-creamy." One finger -she called the pistachio, the other the cream, the third the raspberry -finger and so on. And when she came to say good morning, I used to lift -her on to my knees and kiss her fingers, and say:</p> - -<p>"The cream one, the pistachio one, the lemon one."</p> - -<p>And now from force of habit I kiss Liza's fingers and murmur:</p> - -<p>"Pistachio one, cream one, lemon one." But it does not sound the same. -I am cold like the ice-cream and I feel ashamed. When my daughter comes -in and touches my forehead with her lips I shudder as though a bee had -stung my forehead, I smile constrainedly and turn away my face. Since -my insomnia began a question has been driving like a nail into my -brain. My daughter continually sees how terribly I, an old man, blush -because I owe the servant his wages; she sees how often the worry of -small debts forces me to leave my work and to pace the room from corner -to corner for hours, thinking; but why hasn't she, even once, come to -me without telling her mother and whispered: "Father, here's my watch, -bracelets, earrings, dresses.... Pawn them all.... You need money"? -Why, seeing how I and her mother try to hide our poverty, out of false -pride—why does she not deny herself the luxury of music lessons? I -would not accept the watch, the bracelets, or her sacrifices—God -forbid!—I do not want that.</p> - -<p>Which reminds me of my son, the Warsaw officer. He is a clever, honest, -and sober fellow. But that doesn't mean very much. If I had an old -father, and I knew that there were moments when he was ashamed of his -poverty, I think I would give up my commission to someone else and -hire myself out as a navvy. These thoughts of the children poison me. -What good are they? Only a mean and irritable person can take refuge -in thinking evil of ordinary people because they are not heroes. But -enough of that.</p> - -<p>At a quarter to ten I have to go and lecture to my dear boys. I dress -myself and walk the road I have known these thirty years. For me it has -a history of its own. Here is a big grey building with a chemist's shop -beneath. A tiny house once stood there, and it was a beer-shop. In this -beer-shop I thought out my thesis, and wrote my first love-letter to -Varya. I wrote it in pencil on a scrap of paper that began "Historia -Morbi." Here is a grocer's shop. It used to belong to a little Jew who -sold me cigarettes on credit, and later on to a fat woman who loved -students "because every one of them had a mother." Now a red-headed -merchant sits there, a very nonchalant man, who drinks tea from a -copper tea-pot. And here are the gloomy gates of the University that -have not been repaired for years; a weary porter in a sheepskin coat, a -broom, heaps of snow ... Such gates cannot produce a good impression on -a boy who comes fresh from the provinces and imagines that the temple -of science is really a temple. Certainly, in the history of Russian -pessimism, the age of university buildings, the dreariness of the -corridors, the smoke-stains on the walls, the meagre light, the dismal -appearance of the stairs, the clothes-pegs and the benches, hold one of -the foremost places in the series of predisposing causes. Here is our -garden. It does not seem to have grown any better or any worse since I -was a student. I do not like it. It would be much more sensible if tall -pine-trees and fine oaks grew there instead of consumptive lime-trees, -yellow acacias and thin clipped lilac. The student's mood is created -mainly by every one of the surroundings in which he studies; therefore -he must see everywhere before him only what is great and strong and -exquisite. Heaven preserve him from starveling trees, broken windows, -and drab walls and doors covered with torn oilcloth.</p> - -<p>As I approach my main staircase the door is open wide. I am met by -my old friend, of the same age and name as I, Nicolas the porter. He -grunts as he lets me in:</p> - -<p>"It's frosty, Your Excellency."</p> - -<p>Or if my coat is wet:</p> - -<p>"It's raining a bit, Your Excellency."</p> - -<p>Then he runs in front of me and opens all the doors on my way. In the -study he carefully takes off my coat and at the same time manages -to tell me some university news. Because of the close acquaintance -that exists between all the University porters and keepers, he knows -all that happens in the four faculties, in the registry, in the -chancellor's cabinet, and the library. He knows everything. When, for -instance, the resignation of the rector or dean is under discussion, -I hear him talking to the junior porters, naming candidates and -explaining offhand that so and so will not be approved by the Minister, -so and so will himself refuse the honour; then he plunges into -fantastic details of some mysterious papers received in the registry, -of a secret conversation which appears to have taken place between the -Minister and the curator, and so on. These details apart, he is almost -always right. The impressions he forms of each candidate are original, -but also true. If you want to know who read his thesis, joined the -staff, resigned or died in a particular year, then you must seek the -assistance of this veteran's colossal memory. He will not only name you -the year, month, and day, but give you the accompanying details of this -or any other event. Such memory is the privilege of love.</p> - -<p>He is the guardian of the university traditions. From the porters -before him he inherited many legends of the life of the university. He -added to this wealth much of his own and if you like he will tell you -many stories, long or short. He can tell you of extraordinary savants -who knew <i>everything,</i> of remarkable scholars who did not sleep for -weeks on end, of numberless martyrs to science; good triumphs over evil -with him. The weak always conquer the strong, the wise man the fool, -the modest the proud, the young the old. There is no need to take all -these legends and stories for sterling; but filter them, and you will -find what you want in your filter, a noble tradition and the names of -true heroes acknowledged by all.</p> - -<p>In our society all the information about the learned world consists -entirely of anecdotes of the extraordinary absent-mindedness of old -professors, and of a handful of jokes, which are ascribed to Guber -or to myself or to Baboukhin. But this is too little for an educated -society. If it loved science, savants and students as Nicolas loves -them, it would long ago have had a literature of whole epics, stories, -and biographies. But unfortunately this is yet to be.</p> - -<p>The news told, Nicolas looks stern and we begin to talk business. If -an outsider were then to hear how freely Nicolas uses the jargon, he -would be inclined to think that he was a scholar, posing as a soldier. -By the way, the rumours of the university-porter's erudition are very -exaggerated. It is true that Nicolas knows more than a hundred Latin -tags, can put a skeleton together and on occasion make a preparation, -can make the students laugh with a long learned quotation, but the -simple theory of the circulation of the blood is as dark to him now as -it was twenty years ago.</p> - -<p>At the table in my room, bent low over a book or a preparation, sits -my dissector, Peter Ignatievich. He is a hardworking, modest man of -thirty-five without any gifts, already bald and with a big belly. -He works from morning to night, reads tremendously and remembers -everything he has read. In this respect he is not merely an excellent -man, but a man of gold; but in all others he is a cart-horse, or if you -like a learned blockhead. The characteristic traits of a cart-horse -which distinguish him from a creature of talent are these. His outlook -is narrow, absolutely bounded by his specialism. Apart from his own -subject he is as naive as a child. I remember once entering the room -and saying:</p> - -<p>"Think what bad luck! They say, Skobielev is dead."</p> - -<p>Nicolas crossed himself; but Peter Ignatievich turned to me:</p> - -<p>"Which Skobielev do you mean?"</p> - -<p>Another time,—some time earlier—I announced that Professor Pierov was -dead. That darling Peter Ignatievich asked:</p> - -<p>"What was his subject?"</p> - -<p>I imagine that if Patti sang into his ear, or Russia were attacked by -hordes of Chinamen, or there was an earthquake, he would not lift -a finger, but would go on in the quietest way with his eye screwed -over his microscope. In a word: "What's Hecuba to him?" I would give -anything to see how this dry old stick goes to bed with his wife.</p> - -<p>Another trait: a fanatical belief in the infallibility of science, -above all in everything that the Germans write. He is sure of himself -and his preparations, knows the purpose of life, is absolutely ignorant -of the doubts and disillusionments that turn talents grey,—a slavish -worship of the authorities, and not a shadow of need to think for -himself. It is hard to persuade him and quite impossible to discuss -with him. Just try a discussion with a man who is profoundly convinced -that the best science is medicine, the best men doctors, the best -traditions—the medical! From the ugly past of medicine only one -tradition has survived,—the white necktie that doctors wear still. -For a learned, and more generally for an educated person there can -exist only a general university tradition, without any division into -traditions of medicine, of law, and so on. But it's quite impossible -for Peter Ignatievich to agree with that; and he is ready to argue it -with you till doomsday.</p> - -<p>His future is quite plain to me. During the whole of his life he will -make several hundred preparations of extraordinary purity, will write -any number of dry, quite competent, essays, will make about ten -scrupulously accurate translations; but he won't invent gunpowder. -For gunpowder, imagination is wanted, inventiveness, and a gift for -divination, and Peter Ignatievich has nothing of the kind. In short, he -is not a master of science but a labourer.</p> - -<p>Peter Ignatievich, Nicolas, and I whisper together. We are rather -strange to ourselves. One feels something quite particular, when the -audience booms like the sea behind the door. In thirty years I have not -grown used to this feeling, and I have it every morning. I button up my -frock-coat nervously, ask Nicolas unnecessary questions, get angry.... -It is as though I were afraid; but it is not fear, but something else -which I cannot name nor describe.</p> - -<p>Unnecessarily, I look at my watch and say:</p> - -<p>"Well, it's time to go."</p> - -<p>And we march in, in this order: Nicolas with the preparations or the -atlases in front, myself next, and after me, the cart-horse, modestly -hanging his head; or, if necessary, a corpse on a stretcher in front -and behind the corpse Nicolas and so on. The students rise when I -appear, then sit down and the noise of the sea is suddenly still. Calm -begins.</p> - -<p>I know what I will lecture about, but I know nothing of how I will -lecture, where I will begin and where I will end. There is not a single -sentence ready in my brain. But as soon as I glance at the audience, -sitting around me in an amphitheatre, and utter the stereotyped "In -our last lecture we ended with...." and the sentences fly out of -my soul in a long line—then it is full steam ahead. I speak with -irresistible speed, and with passion, and it seems as though no earthly -power could check the current of my speech. In order to lecture well, -that is without being wearisome and to the listener's profit, besides -talent you must have the knack of it and experience; you must have -a clear idea both of your own powers, of the people to whom you are -lecturing, and of the subject of your remarks. Moreover, you must be -quick in the uptake, keep a sharp eye open, and never for a moment lose -your field of vision.</p> - -<p>When he presents the composer's thought, a good conductor does twenty -things at once. He reads the score, waves his baton, watches the -singer, makes a gesture now towards the drum, now to the double-bass, -and so on. It is the same with me when lecturing. I have some hundred -and fifty faces before me, quite unlike each other, and three hundred -eyes staring me straight in the face. My purpose is to conquer this -many-headed hydra. If I have a clear idea how far they are attending -and how much they are comprehending every minute while I am lecturing, -then the hydra is in my power. My other opponent is within me. This -is the endless variety of forms, phenomena and laws, and the vast -number of ideas, whether my own or others', which depend upon them. -Every moment I must be skilful enough to choose what is most important -and necessary from this enormous material, and just as swiftly as -my speech flows to clothe my thought in a form which will penetrate -the hydra's understanding and excite its attention. Besides I must -watch carefully to see that my thoughts shall not be presented as -they have been accumulated, but in a certain order, necessary for the -correct composition of the picture which I wish to paint. Further, I -endeavour to make my speech literary, my definitions brief and exact, -my sentences as simple and elegant as possible. Every moment I must -hold myself in and remember that I have only an hour and forty minutes -to spend. In other words, it is a heavy labour. At one and the same -time you have to be a savant, a schoolmaster, and an orator, and it is -a failure if the orator triumphs over the schoolmaster in you or the -schoolmaster over the orator.</p> - -<p>After lecturing for a quarter, for half an hour, I notice suddenly that -the students have begun to stare at the ceiling or Peter Ignatievich. -One will feel for his handkerchief, another settle himself comfortably, -another smile at his own thoughts. This means their attention is tried. -I must take steps. I seize the first opening and make a pun. All the -hundred and fifty faces have a broad smile, their eyes flash merrily, -and for a while you can hear the boom of the sea. I laugh too. Their -attention is refreshed and I can go on.</p> - -<p>No sport, no recreation, no game ever gave me such delight as reading -a lecture. Only in a lecture could I surrender myself wholly to -passion and understand that inspiration is not a poet's fiction, but -exists indeed. And I do not believe that Hercules, even after the -most delightful of his exploits, felt such a pleasant weariness as I -experienced every time after a lecture.</p> - -<p>This was in the past. Now at lectures I experience only torture. Not -half an hour passes before I begin to feel an invincible weakness in -my legs and shoulders. I sit down in my chair, but I am not used to -lecture sitting. In a moment I am up again, and lecture standing. Then -I sit down again. Inside my mouth is dry, my voice is hoarse, my head -feels dizzy. To hide my state from my audience I drink some water now -and then, cough, wipe my nose continually, as though I was troubled -by a cold, make inopportune puns, and finally announce the interval -earlier than I should. But chiefly I feel ashamed.</p> - -<p>Conscience and reason tell me that the best thing I could do now is to -read my farewell lecture to the boys, give them my last word, bless -them and give up my place to someone younger and stronger than I. But, -heaven be my judge, I have not the courage to act up to my conscience.</p> - -<p>Unfortunately, I am neither philosopher nor theologian. I know quite -well I have no more than six months to live; and it would seem that -now I ought to be mainly occupied with questions of the darkness -beyond the grave, and the visions which will visit my sleep in the -earth. But somehow my soul is not curious of these questions, though -my mind grants every atom of their importance. Now before my death it -is just as it was twenty or thirty years ago. Only science interests -me.—When I take my last breath I shall still believe that Science is -the most important, the most beautiful, the most necessary thing in the -life of man; that she has always been and always will be the highest -manifestation of love, and that by her alone will man triumph over -nature and himself. This faith is, perhaps, at bottom naive and unfair, -but I am not to blame if this and not another is my faith. To conquer -this faith within me is for me impossible.</p> - -<p>But this is beside the point. I only ask that you should incline to my -weakness and understand that to tear a man who is more deeply concerned -with the destiny of a brain tissue than the final goal of creation away -from his rostrum and his students is like taking him and nailing him up -in a coffin without waiting until he is dead.</p> - -<p>Because of my insomnia and the intense struggle with my increasing -weakness a strange thing happens inside me. In the middle of my -lecture tears rise to my throat, my eyes begin to ache, and I have -a passionate and hysterical desire to stretch out my hands and moan -aloud. I want to cry out that fate has doomed me, a famous man, to -death; that in some six months here in the auditorium another will be -master. I want to cry out that I am poisoned; that new ideas that I -did not know before have poisoned the last days of my life, and sting -my brain incessantly like mosquitoes. At that moment my position seems -so terrible to me that I want all my students to be terrified, to jump -from their seats and rush panic-stricken to the door, shrieking in -despair.</p> - -<p>It is not easy to live through such moments.</p> - - -<hr> -<h4>II</h4> - - -<p>After the lecture I sit at home and work. I read reviews, -dissertations, or prepare for the next lecture, and sometimes I write -something. I work with interruptions, since I have to receive visitors.</p> - -<p>The bell rings. It is a friend who has come to talk over some business. -He enters with hat and stick. He holds them both in front of him and -says:</p> - -<p>"Just a minute, a minute. Sit down, cher confrère. Only a word or two."</p> - -<p>First we try to show each other that we are both extraordinarily polite -and very glad to see each other. I make him sit down in the chair, -and he makes me sit down; and then we touch each other's waists, and -put our hands on each other's buttons, as though we were feeling each -other and afraid to burn ourselves. We both laugh, though we say nothing -funny. Sitting down, we bend our heads together and begin to whisper to -each other. We must gild our conversation with such Chinese formalities -as: "You remarked most justly" or "I have already had the occasion to -say." We must giggle if either of us makes a pun, though it's a bad -one. When we have finished with the business, my friend gets up with a -rush, waves his hat towards my work, and begins to take his leave. We -feel each other once more and laugh. I accompany him down to the hall. -There I help my friend on with his coat, but he emphatically declines -so great an honour. Then, when Yegor opens the door my friend assures -me that I will catch cold, and I pretend to be ready to follow him into -the street. And when I finally return to my study my face keeps smiling -still, it must be from inertia.</p> - -<p>A little later another ring. Someone enters the hall, spends a -long time taking off his coat and coughs. Yegor brings me word -that a student has come. I tell him to show him up. In a minute a -pleasant-faced young man appears. For a year we have been on these -forced terms together. He sends in abominable answers at examinations, -and I mark him gamma. Every year I have about seven of these people -to whom, to use the students' slang, "I give a plough" or "haul them -through." Those of them who fail because of stupidity or illness, -usually bear their cross in patience and do not bargain with me; only -sanguine temperaments, "open natures," bargain with me and come to my -house, people whose appetite is spoiled or who are prevented from going -regularly to the opera by a delay in their examinations. With the first -I am over-indulgent; the second kind I keep on the run for a year.</p> - -<p>"Sit down," I say to my guest. "What was it you wished to say?"</p> - -<p>"Forgive me for troubling you, Professor...." he begins, stammering -and never looking me in the face. "I would not venture to trouble you -unless.... I was up for my examination before you for the fifth time -... and I failed. I implore you to be kind, and give me a 'satis,' -because...."</p> - -<p>The defence which all idlers make of themselves is always the same. -They have passed in every other subject with distinction, and failed -only in mine, which is all the more strange because they had always -studied my subject most diligently and know it thoroughly. They failed -through some inconceivable misunderstanding.</p> - -<p>"Forgive me, my friend," I say to my guest. "But I can't give you a -'satis'—impossible. Go and read your lectures again, and then come. -Then we'll see."</p> - -<p>Pause. I get a desire to torment the student a little, because he -prefers beer and the opera to science; and I say with a sigh:</p> - -<p>"In my opinion, the best thing for you now is to give up the Faculty of -Medicine altogether. With your abilities, if you find it impossible to -pass the examination, then it seems you have neither the desire nor the -vocation to be a doctor."</p> - -<p>My sanguine friend's face grows grave.</p> - -<p>"Excuse me, Professor," he smiles, "but it would be strange, to say the -least, on my part. Studying medicine for five years and suddenly—to -throw it over."</p> - -<p>"Yes, but it's better to waste five years than to spend your whole life -afterwards in an occupation which you dislike."</p> - -<p>Immediately I begin to feel sorry for him and hasten to say:</p> - -<p>"Well, do as you please. Read a little and come again."</p> - -<p>"When?" the idler asks, dully.</p> - -<p>"Whenever you like. To-morrow, even."</p> - -<p>And I read in his pleasant eyes. "I can come again; but you'll send me -away again, you beast."</p> - -<p>"Of course," I say, "you won't become more learned because you have to -come up to me fifteen times for examination; but this will form your -character. You must be thankful for that."</p> - -<p>Silence. I rise and wait for my guest to leave. But he stands there, -looking at the window, pulling at his little beard and thinking. It -becomes tedious.</p> - -<p>My sanguine friend has a pleasant, succulent voice, clever, amusing -eyes, a good-natured face, rather puffed by assiduity to beer and much -resting on the sofa. Evidently he could tell me many interesting things -about the opera, about his love affairs, about the friends he adores; -but, unfortunately, it is not the thing. And I would so eagerly listen!</p> - -<p>"On my word of honour, Professor, if you give me a 'satis' I'll...."</p> - -<p>As soon as it gets to "my word of honour," I wave my hands and sit down -to the table. The student thinks for a while and says, dejectedly:</p> - -<p>"In that case, good-bye.... Forgive me!"</p> - -<p>"Good-bye, my friend.... Good-bye!"</p> - -<p>He walks irresolutely into the hall, slowly puts on his coat, and, when -he goes into the street, probably thinks again for a long while; having -excogitated nothing better than "old devil" for me, he goes to a cheap -restaurant to drink beer and dine, and then home to sleep. Peace be to -your ashes, honest labourer!</p> - -<p>A third ring. Enters a young doctor in a new black suit, gold-rimmed -spectacles and the inevitable white necktie. He introduces himself. -I ask him to take a seat and inquire his business. The young priest -of science begins to tell me, not without agitation, that he passed -his doctor's examination this year, and now has only to write his -dissertation. He would like to work with me, under my guidance; and -I would do him a great kindness if I would suggest a subject for his -dissertation.</p> - -<p>"I should be delighted to be of use to you, mon cher confrère," I -say. "But first of all, let us come to an agreement as to what is a -dissertation. Generally we understand by this, work produced as the -result of an independent creative power. Isn't that so? But a work -written on another's subject, under another's guidance, has a different -name."</p> - -<p>The aspirant is silent. I fire up and jump out of my seat. "Why do you -all come to me? I can't understand," I cry out angrily. "Do I keep a -shop? I don't sell theses across the counter. For the one thousandth -time I ask you all to leave me alone. Forgive my rudeness, but I've got -tired of it at last!"</p> - -<p>The aspirant is silent. Only, a tinge of colour shows on his cheek. -His face expresses his profound respect for my famous name and my -erudition, but I see in his eyes that he despises my voice, my pitiable -figure, my nervous gestures. When I am angry I seem to him a very queer -fellow.</p> - -<p>"I do not keep a shop," I storm. "It's an amazing business! Why don't -you want to be independent? Why do you find freedom so objectionable?"</p> - -<p>I say a great deal, but he is silent. At last by degrees I grow calm, -and, of course, surrender. The aspirant will receive a valueless -subject from me, will write under my observation a needless thesis, -will pass his tedious disputation <i>cum laude</i> and will get a useless -and learned degree.</p> - -<p>The rings follow in endless succession, but here I confine myself -to four. The fourth ring sounds, and I hear the familiar steps, the -rustling dress, the dear voice.</p> - -<p>Eighteen years ago my dear friend, the oculist, died and left behind -him a seven year old daughter, Katy, and sixty thousand roubles. By -his will he made me guardian. Katy lived in my family till she was -ten. Afterwards she was sent to College and lived with me only in -her holidays in the summer months. I had no time to attend to her -education. I watched only by fits and starts; so that I can say very -little about her childhood.</p> - -<p>The chief thing I remember, the one I love to dwell upon in memory, -is the extraordinary confidence which she had when she entered my -house, when she had to have the doctor,—a confidence which was always -shining in her darling face. She would sit in a corner somewhere -with her face tied up, and would be sure to be absorbed in watching -something. Whether she was watching me write and read books, or my wife -bustling about, or the cook peeling the potatoes in the kitchen or -the dog playing about—her eyes invariably expressed the same thing: -"Everything that goes on in this world,—everything is beautiful and -clever." She was inquisitive and adored to talk to me. She would sit at -the table opposite me, watching my movements and asking questions. She -is interested to know what I read, what I do at the University, if I'm -not afraid of corpses, what I do with my money.</p> - -<p>"Do the students fight at the University?" she would ask.</p> - -<p>"They do, my dear."</p> - -<p>"You make them go down on their knees?"</p> - -<p>"I do."</p> - -<p>And it seemed funny to her that the students fought and that I made -them go down on their knees, and she laughed. She was a gentle, good, -patient child.</p> - -<p>Pretty often I happened to see how something was taken away from her, -or she was unjustly punished, or her curiosity was not satisfied. At -such moments sadness would be added to her permanent expression of -confidence—nothing more. I didn't know how to take her part, but when -I saw her sadness, I always had the desire to draw her close to me and -comfort her in an old nurse's voice: "My darling little orphan!"</p> - -<p>I remember too she loved to be well dressed and to sprinkle herself -with scents. In this she was like me. I also love good clothes and fine -scents.</p> - -<p>I regret that I had neither the time nor the inclination to watch the -beginnings and the growth of the passion which had completely taken -hold of Katy when she was no more than fourteen or fifteen. I mean her -passionate love for the theatre. When she used to come from the College -for her holidays and live with us, nothing gave her such pleasure and -enthusiasm to talk about as plays and actors. She used to tire us -with her incessant conversation about the theatre. I alone hadn't the -courage to deny her my attention. My wife and children did not listen -to her. When she felt the desire to share her raptures she would come -to my study and coax: "Nicolai Stiepanich, do let me speak to you about -the theatre."</p> - -<p>I used to show her the time and say:</p> - -<p>"I'll give you half an hour. Fire away!"</p> - -<p>Later on she used to bring in pictures of the actors and actresses she -worshipped—whole dozens of them. Then several times she tried to take -part in amateur theatricals, and finally when she left College she -declared to me she was born to be an actress.</p> - -<p>I never shared Katy's enthusiasms for the theatre. My opinion is that -if a play is good then there's no need to trouble the actors for it to -make the proper impression; you can be satisfied merely by reading it. -If the play is bad, no acting will make it good.</p> - -<p>When I was young I often went to the theatre, and nowadays my family -takes a box twice a year and carries me off for an airing there. Of -course this is not enough to give me the right to pass verdicts on the -theatre; but I will say a few words about it. In my opinion the theatre -hasn't improved in the last thirty or forty years. I can't find any -more than I did then, a glass of clean water, either in the corridors -or the foyer. Just as they did then, the attendants fine me sixpence -for my coat, though there's nothing illegal in wearing a warm coat in -winter. Just as it did then, the orchestra plays quite unnecessarily -in the intervals, and adds a new, gratuitous impression to the one -received from the play. Just as they did then, men go to the bar in the -intervals and drink spirits. If there is no perceptible improvement in -little things, it will be useless to look for it in the bigger things. -When an actor, hide-bound in theatrical traditions and prejudices, -tries to read simple straightforward monologue: "To be or not to be," -not at all simply, but with an incomprehensible and inevitable hiss and -convulsions over his whole body, or when he tries to convince me that -Chazky, who is always talking to fools and is in love with a fool, is -a very clever man and that "The Sorrows of Knowledge" is not a boring -play,—then I get from the stage a breath of the same old routine -that exasperated me forty years ago when I was regaled with classical -lamentation and beating on the breast. Every time I come out of the -theatre a more thorough conservative than I went in.</p> - -<p>It's quite possible to convince the sentimental, self-confident crowd -that the theatre in its present state is an education. But not a man -who knows what true education is would swallow this. I don't know what -it may be in fifty or a hundred years, but under present conditions the -theatre can only be a recreation. But the recreation is too expensive -for continual use, and robs the country of thousands of young, healthy, -gifted men and women, who if they had not devoted themselves to -the theatre would be excellent doctors, farmers, schoolmistresses, -or officers. It robs the public of its evenings, the best time for -intellectual work and friendly conversation. I pass over the waste of -money and the moral injuries to the spectator when he sees murder, -adultery, or slander wrongly treated on the stage.</p> - -<p>But Katy's opinion was quite the opposite. She assured me that even in -its present state the theatre is above lecture-rooms and books, above -everything else in the world. The theatre is a power that unites in -itself all the arts, and the actors are men with a mission. No separate -art or science can act on the human soul so strongly and truly as the -stage; and therefore it is reasonable that a medium actor should enjoy -much greater popularity than the finest scholar or painter. No public -activity can give such delight and satisfaction as the theatrical.</p> - -<p>So one fine day Katy joined a theatrical company and went away, I -believe, to Ufa, taking with her a lot of money, a bagful of rainbow -hopes, and some very high-class views on the business.</p> - -<p>Her first letters on the journey were wonderful. When I read them I was -simply amazed that little sheets of paper could contain so much youth, -such transparent purity, such divine innocence, and at the same time -so many subtle, sensible judgments, that would do honour to a sound -masculine intelligence. The Volga, nature, the towns she visited, her -friends, her successes and failures—she did not write about them, she -sang. Every line breathed the confidence which I used to see in her -face; and with all this a mass of grammatical mistakes and hardly a -single stop.</p> - -<p>Scarce six months passed before I received a highly poetical -enthusiastic letter, beginning, "I have fallen in love." She enclosed a -photograph of a young man with a clean-shaven face, in a broad-brimmed -hat, with a plaid thrown over his shoulders. The next letters were just -as splendid, but stops already began to appear and the grammatical -mistakes to vanish. They had a strong masculine scent. Katy began -to write about what a good thing it would be to build a big theatre -somewhere in the Volga, but on a cooperative basis, and to attract -the rich business-men and shipowners to the undertaking. There would -be plenty of money, huge receipts, and the actors would work in -partnership.... Perhaps all this is really a good thing, but I can't -help thinking such schemes could only come from a man's head.</p> - -<p>Anyhow for eighteen months or a couple of years everything seemed -to be all right. Katy was in love, had her heart in her business -and was happy. But later on I began to notice clear symptoms of a -decline in her letters. It began with Katy complaining about her -friends. This is the first and most ominous sign. If a young scholar -or littérateur begins his career by complaining bitterly about other -scholars or littérateurs, it means that he is tired already and not -fit for his business. Katy wrote to me that her friends would not -come to rehearsals and never knew their parts; that they showed an -utter contempt for the public in the absurd plays they staged and -the manner they behaved. To swell the box-office receipts—the only -topic of conversation—serious actresses degrade themselves by singing -sentimentalities, and tragic actors sing music-hall songs, laughing at -husbands who are deceived and unfaithful wives who are pregnant. In -short, it was amazing that the profession, in the provinces, was not -absolutely dead. The marvel was that it could exist at all with such -thin, rotten blood in its veins.</p> - -<p>In reply I sent Katy a long and, I confess, a very tedious letter. -Among other things I wrote: "I used to talk fairly often to actors in -the past, men of the noblest character, who honoured me with their -friendship. From my conversations with them I understood that their -activities were guided rather by the whim and fashion of society than -by the free working of their own minds. The best of them in their -lifetime had to play in tragedy, in musical comedy, in French farce, -and in pantomime; yet all through they considered that they were -treading the right path and being useful. You see that this means -that you must look for the cause of the evil, not in the actors, but -deeper down, in the art itself and the attitude of society towards -it." This letter of mine only made Katy cross. "You and I are playing -in different operas. I didn't write to you about men of the noblest -character, but about a lot of sharks who haven't a spark of nobility in -them. They are a horde of savages who came on the stage only because -they wouldn't be allowed anywhere else. The only ground they have for -calling themselves artists is their impudence. Not a single talent -among them, but any number of incapables, drunkards, intriguers, and -slanderers. I can't tell you how bitterly I feel it that the art I love -so much is fallen into the hands of people I despise. It hurts me that -the best men should be content to look at evil from a distance and -not want to come nearer. Instead of taking an active part, they write -ponderous platitudes and useless sermons...." and more in the same -strain.</p> - -<p>A little while after I received the following: "I have been inhumanly -deceived. I can't go on living any more. Do as you think fit with my -money. I loved you as a father and as my only friend. Forgive me."</p> - -<p>So it appeared that <i>he</i> too belonged to the horde of savages. Later -on, I gathered from various hints, that there was an attempt at -suicide. Apparently, Katy tried to poison herself. I think she must -have been seriously ill afterwards, for I got the following letter from -Yalta, where most probably the doctors had sent her. Her last letter -to me contained a request that I should send her at Yalta a thousand -roubles, and it ended with the words: "Forgive me for writing such a -sad letter. I buried my baby yesterday." After she had spent about a -year in the Crimea she returned home.</p> - -<p>She had been travelling for about four years, and during these four -years I confess that I occupied a strange and unenviable position in -regard to her. When she announced to me that she was going on to the -stage and afterwards wrote to me about her love; when the desire to -spend took hold of her, as it did periodically, and I had to send her -every now and then one or two thousand roubles at her request; when -she wrote that she intended to die, and afterwards that her baby was -dead,—I was at a loss every time. All my sympathy with her fate -consisted in thinking hard and writing long tedious letters which might -as well never have been written. But then I was <i>in loco parentis</i> and -I loved her as a daughter.</p> - -<p>Katy lives half a mile away from me now. She took a five-roomed -house and furnished it comfortably, with the taste that was born in -her. If anyone were to undertake to depict her surroundings, then the -dominating mood of the picture would be indolence. Soft cushions, soft -chairs for her indolent body; carpets for her indolent feet; faded, -dim, dull colours for her indolent eyes; for her indolent soul, a -heap of cheap fans and tiny pictures on the walls, pictures in which -novelty of execution was more noticeable than content; plenty of -little tables and stands, set out with perfectly useless and worthless -things, shapeless scraps instead of curtains.... All this, combined -with a horror of bright colours, of symmetry, and space, betokened a -perversion of the natural taste as well as indolence of the soul. For -whole days Katy lies on the sofa and reads books, mostly novels and -stories. She goes outside her house but once in the day, to come and -see me.</p> - -<p>I work. Katy sits on the sofa at my side. She is silent, and wraps -herself up in her shawl as though she were cold. Either because she -is sympathetic to me, or I because I had got used to her continual -visits while she was still a little girl, her presence does not prevent -me from concentrating on my work. At long intervals I ask her some -question or other, mechanically, and she answers very curtly; or, for -a moment's rest, I turn towards her and watch how she is absorbed -in looking through some medical review or newspaper. And then I see -that the old expression of confidence in her face is there no more. -Her expression now is cold, indifferent, distracted, like that of a -passenger who has to wait a long while for his train. She dresses as -she used—well and simply, but carelessly. Evidently her clothes and -her hair suffer not a little from the sofas and hammocks on which she -lies for days together. And she is not curious any more. She doesn't -ask me questions any more, as if she had experienced everything in life -and did not expect to hear anything new.</p> - -<p>About four o'clock there is a sound of movement in the hall and the -drawing-room. It's Liza come back from the Conservatoire, bringing her -friends with her. You can hear them playing the piano, trying their -voices and giggling. Yegor is laying the table in the dining-room and -making a noise with the plates.</p> - -<p>"Good-bye," says Katy. "I shan't go in to see your people. They must -excuse me. I haven't time. Come and see me."</p> - -<p>When I escort her into the hall, she looks me over sternly from head to -foot, and says in vexation:</p> - -<p>"You get thinner and thinner. Why don't you take a cure? I'll go to -Sergius Fiodorovich and ask him to come. You must let him see you."</p> - -<p>"It's not necessary, Katy."</p> - -<p>"I can't understand why your family does nothing. They're a nice lot."</p> - -<p>She puts on her jacket with her rush. Inevitably, two or three -hair-pins fall out of her careless hair on to the floor. It's too much -bother to tidy her hair now; besides she is in a hurry. She pushes the -straggling strands of hair untidily under her hat and goes away.</p> - -<p>As soon as I come into the dining-room, my wife asks:</p> - -<p>"Was that Katy with you just now? Why didn't she come to see us. It -really is extraordinary...."</p> - -<p>"Mamma!" says Liza reproachfully, "If she doesn't want to come, that's -her affair. There's no need for us to go on our knees."</p> - -<p>"Very well; but it's insulting. To sit in the study for three hours, -without thinking of us. But she can do as she likes."</p> - -<p>Varya and Liza both hate Katy. This hatred is unintelligible to me; -probably you have to be a woman to understand it. I'll bet my life on -it that you'll hardly find a single one among the hundred and fifty -young men I see almost every day in my audience, or the hundred old -ones I happen to meet every week, who would be able to understand why -women hate and abhor Katy's past, her being pregnant and unmarried and -her illegitimate child. Yet at the same time I cannot bring to mind -a single woman or girl of my acquaintance who would not cherish such -feelings, either consciously or instinctively. And it's not because -women are purer and more virtuous than men. If virtue and purity are -not free from evil feeling, there's precious little difference between -them and vice. I explain it simply by the backward state of women's -development. The sorrowful sense of compassion and the torment of -conscience, which the modern man experiences when he sees distress have -much more to tell me about culture and moral development than have -hatred and repulsion. The modern woman is as lachrymose and as coarse -in heart as she was in the middle ages. And in my opinion those who -advise her to be educated like a man have wisdom on their side.</p> - -<p>But still my wife does not like Katy, because she was an actress, -and for her ingratitude, her pride, her extravagances, and all the -innumerable vices one woman can always discover in another.</p> - -<p>Besides myself and my family we have two or three of my daughter's -girl friends to dinner and Alexander Adolphovich Gnekker, Liza's -admirer and suitor. He is a fair young man, not more than thirty years -old, of middle height, very fat, broad shouldered, with reddish hair -round his ears and a little stained moustache, which give his smooth -chubby face the look of a doll's. He wears a very short jacket, a -fancy waistcoat, large-striped trousers, very full on the hip and very -narrow in the leg, and brown boots without heels. His eyes stick out -like a lobster's, his tie is like a lobster's tail, and I can't help -thinking even that the smell of lobster soup clings about the whole -of this young man. He visits us every day; but no one in the family -knows where he comes from, where he was educated, or how he lives. He -cannot play or sing, but he has a certain connection with music as well -as singing, for he is agent for somebody's pianos, and is often at the -Academy. He knows all the celebrities, and he manages concerts. He -gives his opinion on music with great authority and I have noticed that -everybody hastens to agree with him.</p> - -<p>Rich men always have parasites about them. So do the sciences and the -arts. It seems that there is no science or art in existence, which -is free from such "foreign bodies" as this Mr. Gnekker. I am not a -musician and perhaps I am mistaken about Gnekker, besides I don't know -him very well. But I can't help suspecting the authority and dignity -with which he stands beside the piano and listens when anyone is -singing or playing.</p> - -<p>You may be a gentleman and a privy councillor a hundred times over; but -if you have a daughter you can't be guaranteed against the pettinesses -that are so often brought into your house and into your own humour, by -courtings, engagements, and weddings. For instance, I cannot reconcile -myself to my wife's solemn expression every time Gnekker comes to our -house, nor to those bottles of Château Lafitte, port, and sherry which -are put on the table only for him, to convince him beyond doubt of -the generous luxury in which we live. Nor can I stomach the staccato -laughter which Liza learned at the Academy, and her way of screwing up -her eyes, when men are about the house. Above all, I can't understand -why it is that such a creature should come to me every day and have -dinner with me—a creature perfectly foreign to my habits, my science, -and the whole tenour of my life, a creature absolutely unlike the men I -love. My wife and the servants whisper mysteriously that that is "the -bridegroom," but still I can't understand why he's there. It disturbs -my mind just as much as if a Zulu were put next to me at table. -Besides, it seems strange to me that my daughter whom I used to think -of as a baby should be in love with that necktie, those eyes, those -chubby cheeks.</p> - -<p>Formerly, I either enjoyed my dinner or was indifferent about it. -Now it does nothing but bore and exasperate me. Since I was made an -Excellency and Dean of the Faculty, for some reason or other my family -found it necessary to make a thorough change in our menu and the dinner -arrangements. Instead of the simple food I was used to as a student and -a doctor, I am now fed on potage-puree, with some <i>sossoulki</i> swimming -about in it, and kidneys in Madeira. The title of General and my renown -have robbed me for ever of <i>schi</i> and savoury pies, and roast goose -with apple sauce, and bream with <i>kasha.</i> They robbed me as well of my -maid servant Agasha, a funny, talkative old woman, instead of whom I -am now waited on by Yegor, a stupid, conceited fellow who always has -a white glove in his right hand. The intervals between the courses are -short, but they seem terribly long. There is nothing to fill them. We -don't have any more of the old good-humour, the familiar conversations, -the jokes and the laughter; no more mutual endearments, or the gaiety -that used to animate my children, my wife, and myself when we met at -the dinner table. For a busy man like me dinner was a time to rest and -meet my friends, and a feast for my wife and children, not a very long -feast, to be sure, but a gay and happy one, for they knew that for half -an hour I did not belong to science and my students, but solely to -them and to no one else. No more chance of getting tipsy on a single -glass of wine, no more Agasha, no more bream with <i>kasha,</i> no more the -old uproar to welcome our little <i>contretemps</i> at dinner, when the cat -fought the dog under the table, or Katy's head-band fell down her cheek -into her soup.</p> - -<p>Our dinner nowadays is as nasty to describe as to eat. On my wife's -face there is pompousness, an assumed gravity, and the usual anxiety. -She eyes our plates nervously: "I see you don't like the meat?... -Honestly, don't you like it?" And I must answer, "Don't worry, my dear. -The meat is very good." She: "You're always taking my part, Nicolai -Stiepanich. You never tell the truth. Why has Alexander Adolphovich -eaten so little?" and the same sort of conversation for the whole of -dinner. Liza laughs staccato and screws up her eyes. I look at both of -them, and at this moment at dinner here I can see quite clearly that -their inner lives have slipped out of my observation long ago. I feel -as though once upon a time I lived at home with a real family, but now -I am dining as a guest with an unreal wife and looking at an unreal -Liza. There has been an utter change in both of them, while I have lost -sight of the long process that led up to the change. No wonder I don't -understand anything. What was the reason of the change? I don't know. -Perhaps the only trouble is that God did not give my wife and daughter -the strength He gave me. From my childhood I have been accustomed to -resist outside influences and have been hardened enough. Such earthly -catastrophes as fame, being made General, the change from comfort to -living above my means, acquaintance with high society, have scarcely -touched me. I have survived safe and sound. But it all fell down like -an avalanche on my weak, unhardened wife and Liza, and crushed them.</p> - -<p>Gnekker and the girls talk of fugues and counter-fugues; singers -and pianists, Bach and Brahms, and my wife, frightened of being -suspected of musical ignorance, smiles sympathetically and murmurs: -"Wonderful.... Is it possible?... Why?..." Gnekker eats steadily, -jokes gravely, and listens condescendingly to the ladies' remarks. Now -and then he has the desire to talk bad French, and then he finds it -necessary for some unknown reason to address me magnificently, "Votre -Excellence."</p> - -<p>And I am morose. Apparently I embarrass them all and they embarrass me. -I never had any intimate acquaintance with class antagonism before, -but now something of the kind torments me indeed. I try to find only -bad traits in Gnekker. It does not take long and then I am tormented -because one of my friends has not taken his place as bridegroom. In -another way too his presence has a bad effect upon me. Usually, when -I am left alone with myself or when I am in the company of people I -love, I never think of my merits; and if I begin to think about them -they seem as trivial as though I had become a scholar only yesterday. -But in the presence of a man like Gnekker my merits appear to me like -an extremely high mountain, whose summit is lost in the clouds, while -Gnekkers move about the foot, so small as hardly to be seen.</p> - -<p>After dinner I go up to my study and light my little pipe, the only one -during the whole day, the sole survivor of my old habit of smoking from -morning to night. My wife comes into me while I am smoking and sits -down to speak to me. Just as in the morning, I know beforehand what the -conversation will be.</p> - -<p>"We ought to talk seriously, Nicolai Stiepanovich," she begins. "I mean -about Liza. Why won't you attend?"</p> - -<p>"Attend to what?"</p> - -<p>"You pretend you don't notice anything. It's not right: It's not right -to be unconcerned. Gnekker has intentions about Liza. What do you say -to that?"</p> - -<p>"I can't say he's a bad man, because I don't know him; but I've told -you a thousand times already that I don't like him."</p> - -<p>"But that's impossible ... impossible...." She rises and walks about in -agitation.</p> - -<p>"It's impossible to have such an attitude to a serious matter," -she says. "When our daughter's happiness is concerned, we must put -everything personal aside. I know you don't like him.... Very well.... -But if we refuse him now and upset everything, how can you guarantee -that Liza won't have a grievance against us for the rest of her life? -Heaven knows there aren't many young men nowadays. It's quite likely -there won't be another chance. He loves Liza very much and she likes -him, evidently. Of course he hasn't a settled position. But what is -there to do? Please God, he'll get a position in time. He comes of a -good family, and he's rich."</p> - -<p>"How did you find that out?"</p> - -<p>"He said so himself. His father has a big house in Kharkov and an -estate outside. You must certainly go to Kharkov."</p> - -<p>"Why?"</p> - -<p>"You'll find out there. You have acquaintances among the professors -there. I'd go myself. But I'm a woman. I can't."</p> - -<p>"I will not go to Kharkov," I say morosely.</p> - -<p>My wife gets frightened; a tormented expression comes over her face.</p> - -<p>"For God's sake, Nicolai Stiepanich," she implores, sobbing, "For God's -sake help me with this burden! It hurts me."</p> - -<p>It is painful to look at her.</p> - -<p>"Very well, Varya," I say kindly, "If you like—very well I'll go to -Kharkov, and do everything you want."</p> - -<p>She puts her handkerchief to her eyes and goes to cry in her room. I am -left alone.</p> - -<p>A little later they bring in the lamp. The familiar shadows that -have wearied me for years fall from the chairs and the lamp-shade on -to the walls and the floor. When I look at them it seems that it's -night already, and the cursed insomnia has begun. I lie down on the -bed; then I get up and walk about the room then lie down again. My -nervous excitement generally reaches its highest after dinner, before -the evening. For no reason I begin to cry and hide my head in the -pillow. All the while I am afraid somebody may come in; I am afraid I -shall die suddenly; I am ashamed of my tears; altogether, something -intolerable is happening in my soul. I feel I cannot look at the lamp -or the books or the shadows on the floor, or listen to the voices in -the drawing-room any more. Some invisible, mysterious force pushes me -rudely out of my house. I jump up, dress hurriedly, and go cautiously -out into the street so that the household shall not notice me. Where -shall I go?</p> - -<p>The answer to this question has long been there in my brain: "To Katy."</p> - - -<hr> -<h4>III</h4> - - -<p>As usual she is lying on the Turkish divan or the couch and reading -something. Seeing me she lifts her head languidly, sits down, and gives -me her hand.</p> - -<p>"You are always lying down like that," I say after a reposeful silence. -"It's unhealthy. You'd far better be doing something."</p> - -<p>"Ah?"</p> - -<p>"You'd far better be doing something, I say."</p> - -<p>"What?... A woman can be either a simple worker or an actress."</p> - -<p>"Well, then—if you can't become a worker, be an actress."</p> - -<p>She is silent.</p> - -<p>"You had better marry," I say, half-joking.</p> - -<p>"There's no one to marry: and no use if I did."</p> - -<p>"You can't go on living like this."</p> - -<p>"Without a husband? As if that mattered. There are as many men as you -like, if you only had the will."</p> - -<p>"This isn't right, Katy."</p> - -<p>"What isn't right?"</p> - -<p>"What you said just now."</p> - -<p>Katy sees that I am chagrined, and desires to soften the bad impression.</p> - -<p>"Come. Let's come here. Here."</p> - -<p>She leads me into a small room, very cosy, and points to the writing -table.</p> - -<p>"There. I made it for you. You'll work here. Come every day and bring -your work with you. They only disturb you there at home.... Will you -work here? Would you like to?"</p> - -<p>In order not to hurt her by refusing, I answer that I shall work with -her and that I like the room immensely. Then we both sit down in the -cosy room and begin to talk.</p> - -<p>The warmth, the cosy surroundings, the presence of a sympathetic being, -rouses in me now not a feeling of pleasure as it used but a strong -desire to complain and grumble. Anyhow it seems to me that if I moan -and complain I shall feel better.</p> - -<p>"It's a bad business, my dear," I begin with a sigh. "Very bad."</p> - -<p>"What is the matter?"</p> - -<p>"I'll tell you what is the matter. The best and most sacred right -of kings is the right to pardon. And I have always felt myself a -king so long as I used this right prodigally. I never judged, I was -compassionate, I pardoned everyone right and left. Where others -protested and revolted I only advised and persuaded. All my life -I've tried to make my society tolerable to the family of students, -friends and servants. And this attitude of mine towards people, I know, -educated every one who came into contact with me. But now I am king no -more. There's something going on in me which belongs only to slaves. -Day and night evil thoughts roam about in my head, and feelings which I -never knew before have made their home in my soul. I hate and despise; -I'm exasperated, disturbed, and afraid. I've become strict beyond -measure, exacting, unkind, and suspicious. Even the things which in the -past gave me the chance of making an extra pun, now bring me a feeling -of oppression. My logic has changed too. I used to despise money alone; -now I cherish evil feelings, not to money, but to the rich, as if they -were guilty. I used to hate violence and arbitrariness; now I hate the -people who employ violence, as if they alone are to blame and not all -of us, who cannot educate one another. What does it all mean? If my new -thoughts and feelings come from a change of my convictions, where could -the change have come from? Has the world grown worse and I better, or -was I blind and indifferent before? But if the change is due to the -general decline of my physical and mental powers—I am sick and losing -weight every day—then I'm in a pitiable position. It means that my new -thoughts are abnormal and unhealthy, that I must be ashamed of them and -consider them valueless...."</p> - -<p>"Sickness hasn't anything to do with it," Katy interrupts. "Your eyes -are opened—that's all. You've begun to notice things you didn't want -to notice before for some reason. My opinion is that you must break -with your family finally first of all and then go away."</p> - -<p>"You're talking nonsense."</p> - -<p>"You don't love them any more. Then, why do you behave unfairly? And is -it a family! Mere nobodies. If they died to-day, no one would notice -their absence to-morrow."</p> - -<p>Katy despises my wife and daughter as much as they hate her. It's -scarcely possible nowadays to speak of the right of people to despise -one another. But if you accept Katy's point of view and own that such a -right exists, you will notice that she has the same right to despise my -wife and Liza as they have to hate her.</p> - -<p>"Mere nobodies!" she repeats. "Did you have any dinner to-day? It's a -wonder they didn't forget to tell you dinner was ready. I don't know -how they still remember that you exist."</p> - -<p>"Katy!" I say sternly. "Please be quiet."</p> - -<p>"You don't think it's fun for me to talk about them, do you? I wish I -didn't know them at all. You listen to me, dear. Leave everything and -go away: go abroad—the quicker, the better."</p> - -<p>"What nonsense! What about the University?"</p> - -<p>"And the University, too. What is it to you? There's no sense in it -all. You've been lecturing for thirty years, and where are your -pupils? Have you many famous scholars? Count them up. But to increase -the number of doctors who exploit the general ignorance and make -hundreds of thousands,—there's no need to be a good and gifted man. -You aren't wanted."</p> - -<p>"My God, how bitter you are!" I get terrified. "How bitter you are. Be -quiet, or I'll go away. I can't reply to the bitter things you say."</p> - -<p>The maid enters and calls us to tea. Thank God, our conversation -changes round the samovar. I have made my moan, and now I want to -indulge another senile weakness—reminiscences. I tell Katy about -my past, to my great surprise with details that I never suspected I -had kept safe in my memory. And she listens to me with emotion, with -pride, holding her breath. I like particularly to tell how I once was a -student at a seminary and how I dreamed of entering the University.</p> - -<p>"I used to walk in the seminary garden," I tell her, "and the wind -would bring the sound of a song and the thrumming of an accordion from -a distant tavern, or a <i>troika</i> with bells would pass quickly by the -seminary fence. That would be quite enough to fill not only my breast -with a sense of happiness, but my stomach, legs, and hands. As I heard -the sound of the accordion or the bells fading away, I would see myself -a doctor and paint pictures, one more glorious than another. And, you -see, my dreams came true. There were more things I dared to dream of. -I have been a favourite professor thirty years, I have had excellent -friends and an honourable reputation. I loved and married when I was -passionately in love. I had children. Altogether, when I look back -the whole of my life seems like a nice, clever composition. The only -thing I have to do now is not to spoil the <i>finale.</i> For this, I must -die like a man. If death is really a danger then I must meet it as -becomes a teacher, a scholar, and a citizen of a Christian State. But I -am spoiling the <i>finale.</i> I am drowning, and I run to you and beg for -help, and you say: 'Drown. It's your duty.'"</p> - -<p>At this point a ring at the bell sounds in the hall. Katy and I both -recognise it and say:</p> - -<p>"That must be Mikhail Fiodorovich."</p> - -<p>And indeed in a minute Mikhail Fiodorovich, my colleague, the -philologist, enters. He is a tall, well-built man about fifty years -old, clean shaven, with thick grey hair and black eyebrows. He is a -good man and an admirable friend. He belongs to an old aristocratic -family, a prosperous and gifted house which has played a notable <i>rôle</i> -in the history of our literature and education. He himself is clever, -gifted, and highly educated, but not without his eccentricities. -To a certain extent we are all eccentric, queer fellows, but his -eccentricities have an element of the exceptional, not quite safe for -his friends. Among the latter I know not a few who cannot see his many -merits clearly because of his eccentricities.</p> - -<p>As he walks in he slowly removes his gloves and says in his velvety -bass:</p> - -<p>"How do you do? Drinking tea. Just in time. It's hellishly cold."</p> - -<p>Then he sits down at the table, takes a glass of tea and immediately -begins to talk. What chiefly marks his way of talking is his invariably -ironical tone, a mixture of philosophy and jest, like Shakespeare's -grave-diggers. He always talks of serious matters; but never seriously. -His opinions are always acid and provocative, but thanks to his -tender, easy, jesting tone, it somehow happens that his acidity and -provocativeness don't tire one's ears, and one very soon gets used -to it. Every evening he brings along some half-dozen stories of the -university life and generally begins with them when he sits down at the -table.</p> - -<p>"O Lord," he sighs with an amusing movement of his black eyebrows, -"there are some funny people in the world."</p> - -<p>"Who?" asks Katy.</p> - -<p>"I was coming down after my lecture to-day and I met that old idiot -N—— on the stairs. He walks along, as usual pushing out that horse -jowl of his, looking for some one to bewail his headaches, his wife, -and his students, who won't come to his lectures. 'Well,' I think to -myself, 'he's seen me. It's all up—no hope for me...'" And so on in the same -strain. Or he begins like this,</p> - -<p>"Yesterday I was at Z's public lecture. Tell it not in Gath, but I do -wonder how our <i>alma mater</i> dares to show the public such an ass, such -a double-dyed blockhead as Z. Why he's a European fool. Good Lord, -you won't find one like him in all Europe—not even if you looked in -daytime, and with a lantern. Imagine it: he lectures as though he were -sucking a stick of barley-sugar—su—su—su. He gets a fright because -he can't make out his manuscript. His little thoughts will only just -keep moving, hardly moving, like a bishop riding a bicycle. Above all -you can't make out a word he says. The flies die of boredom, it's so -terrific. It can only be compared with the boredom in the great Hall at -the Commemoration, when the traditional speech is made. To hell with -it!"</p> - -<p>Immediately an abrupt change of subject.</p> - -<p>"I had to make the speech; three years ago. Nicolai Stiepanovich will -remember. It was hot, close. My full uniform was tight under my arms, -tight as death. I read for half an hour, an hour, an hour and a half, -two hours. 'Well,' I thought, 'thank God I've only ten pages left.' And -I had four pages of peroration that I needn't read at all. 'Only six -pages then,' I thought. Imagine it. I just gave a glance in front of me -and saw sitting next to each other in the front row a general with a -broad ribbon and a bishop. The poor devils were bored stiff. They were -staring about madly to stop themselves from going to sleep. For all -that they are still trying to look attentive, to make some appearance -of understanding what I'm reading, and look as though they like it. -'Well,' I thought, 'if you like it, then you shall have it. I'll spite -you.' So I set to and read the four pages, every word."</p> - -<p>When he speaks only his eyes and eyebrows smile as it is generally with -the ironical. At such moments there is no hatred or malice in his eyes -but a great deal of acuteness and that peculiar fox-cunning which you -can catch only in very observant people. Further, about his eyes I have -noticed one more peculiarity. When he takes his glass from Katy, or -listens to her remarks, or follows her with a glance as she goes out of -the room for a little while, then I catch in his look something humble, -prayerful, pure....</p> - -<p>The maid takes the samovar away and puts on the table a big piece of -cheese, some fruit, and a bottle of Crimean champagne, a thoroughly -bad wine which Katy got to like when she lived in the Crimea. Mikhail -Fiodorovich takes two packs of cards from the shelves and sets them out -for patience. If one may believe his assurances, some games of patience -demand a great power of combination and concentration. Nevertheless -while he sets out the cards he amuses himself by talking continually. -Katy follows his cards carefully, helping him more by mimicry than -words. In the whole evening she drinks no more than two small glasses -of wine, I drink only a quarter of a glass, the remainder of the bottle -falls to Mikhail Fiodorovich, who can drink any amount without ever -getting drunk.</p> - -<p>During patience we solve all kinds of questions, mostly of the lofty -order, and our dearest love, science, comes off second best.</p> - -<p>"Science, thank God, has had her day," says Mikhail Fiodorovich very -slowly. "She has had her swan-song. Ye-es. Mankind has begun to feel -the desire to replace her by something else. She was grown from the -soil of prejudice, fed by prejudices, and is now the same quintessence -of prejudices as were her bygone grandmothers: alchemy, metaphysics -and philosophy. As between European scholars and the Chinese who have -no sciences at all the difference is merely trifling, a matter only of -externals. The Chinese had no scientific knowledge, but what have they -lost by that?"</p> - -<p>"Flies haven't any scientific knowledge either," I say; "but what does -that prove?"</p> - -<p>"It's no use getting angry, Nicolai Stiepanich. I say this only between -ourselves. I'm more cautious than you think. I shan't proclaim it from -the housetops, God forbid! The masses still keep alive a prejudice that -science and art are superior to agriculture and commerce, superior to -crafts. Our persuasion makes a living from this prejudice. It's not for -you and me to destroy it. God forbid!"</p> - -<p>During patience the younger generation also comes in for it.</p> - -<p>"Our public is degenerate nowadays," Mikhail Fiodorovich sighs. "I -don't speak of ideals and such things, I only ask that they should -be able to work and think decently. 'Sadly I look at the men of our -time'—it's quite true in this connection."</p> - -<p>"Yes, they're frightfully degenerate," Katy agrees. "Tell me, had you -one single eminent person under you during the last five or ten years?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know how it is with the other professors,—but somehow I don't -recollect that it ever happened to me."</p> - -<p>"In my lifetime I've seen a great many of your students and young -scholars, a great many actors.... What happened? I never once had -the luck to meet, not a hero or a man of talent, but an ordinarily -interesting person. Everything's dull and incapable, swollen and -pretentious...."</p> - -<p>All these conversations about degeneracy give me always the impression -that I have unwittingly overheard an unpleasant conversation about my -daughter. I feel offended because the indictments are made wholesale -and are based upon such ancient hackneyed commonplaces and such -penny-dreadful notions as degeneracy, lack of ideals, or comparisons -with the glorious past. Any indictment, even if it's made in a company -of ladies, should be formulated with all possible precision; otherwise -it isn't an indictment, but an empty calumny, unworthy of decent people.</p> - -<p>I am an old man, and have served for the last thirty years; but I don't -see any sign either of degeneracy or the lack of ideals. I don't find -it any worse now than before. My porter, Nicolas, whose experience in -this case has its value, says that students nowadays are neither better -nor worse than their predecessors.</p> - -<p>If I were asked what was the thing I did not like about my present -pupils, I wouldn't say offhand or answer at length, but with a certain -precision. I know their defects and there's no need for me to take -refuge in a mist of commonplaces. I don't like the way they smoke, -and drink spirits, and marry late; or the way they are careless -and indifferent to the point of allowing students to go hungry in -their midst, and not paying their debts into "The Students' Aid -Society." They are ignorant of modern languages and express themselves -incorrectly in Russian. Only yesterday my colleague, the hygienist, -complained to me that he had to lecture twice as often because of -their incompetent knowledge of physics and their complete ignorance of -meteorology. They are readily influenced by the most modern writers, -and some of those not the best, but they are absolutely indifferent to -classics like Shakespeare, Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus and Pascal; and -their worldly unpracticality shows itself mostly in their inability -to distinguish between great and small. They solve all difficult -questions which have a more or less social character (emigration, -for instance) by getting up subscriptions, but not by the method of -scientific investigation and experiment, though this is at their full -disposal, and, above all, corresponds to their vocation. They readily -become house-doctors, assistant house-doctors, clinical assistants, or -consulting doctors, and they are prepared to keep these positions until -they are forty, though independence, a sense of freedom, and personal -initiative are quite as necessary in science, as, for instance, in art -or commerce. I have pupils and listeners, but I have no helpers or -successors. Therefore I love them and am concerned for them, but I'm -not proud of them ... and so on.</p> - -<p>However great the number of such defects may be, it's only in a -cowardly and timid person that they give rise to pessimism and -distraction. All of them are by nature accidental and transitory, and -are completely dependent on the conditions of life. Ten years will -be enough for them to disappear or give place to new and different -defects, which are quite indispensable, but will in their turn give -the timid a fright. Students' shortcomings often annoy me, but the -annoyance is nothing in comparison with the joy I have had these thirty -years in speaking with my pupils, lecturing to them, studying their -relations and comparing them with people of a different class.</p> - -<p>Mikhail Fiodorovich is a slanderer. Katy listens and neither of them -notices how deep is the pit into which they are drawn by such an -outwardly innocuous recreation as condemning one's neighbours. They -don't realise how a simple conversation gradually turns into mockery -and derision, or how they both begin even to employ the manners of -calumny.</p> - -<p>"There are some queer types to be found," says Mikhail Fiodorovich. -"Yesterday I went to see our friend Yegor Pietrovich. There I found a -student, one of your medicos, a third-year man, I think. His face ... -rather in the style of Dobroliubov—the stamp of profound thought on -his brow. We began to talk. 'My dear fellow—an extraordinary business. -I've just read that some German or other—can't remember his name—has -extracted a new alkaloid from the human brain—idiotine.' Do you know -he really believed it, and produced an expression of respect on his -face, as much as to say, 'See, what a power we are.'"</p> - -<p>"The other day I went to the theatre. I sat down. Just in front of me -in the next row two people were sitting: one, 'one of the chosen,' -evidently a law student, the other a whiskery medico. The medico was as -drunk as a cobbler. Not an atom of attention to the stage. Dozing and -nodding. But the moment some actor began to deliver a loud monologue, -or just raised his voice, my medico thrills, digs his neighbour in the -ribs. 'What's he say? Something noble?' 'Noble,' answers 'the chosen.'</p> - -<p>"'Brrravo!' bawls the medico. 'No—ble. Bravo.' You see the drunken -blockhead didn't come to the theatre for art, but for something noble. -He wants nobility."</p> - -<p>Katy listens and laughs. Her laugh is rather strange. She breathes out -in swift, rhythmic, and regular alternation with her inward breathing. -It's as though she were playing an accordion. Of her face, only her -nostrils laugh. My heart fails me. I don't know what to say. I lose my -temper, crimson, jump up from my seat and cry:</p> - -<p>"Be quiet, won't you? Why do you sit here like two toads, poisoning the -air with your breath? I've had enough."</p> - -<p>In vain I wait for them to stop their slanders. I prepare to go home. -And it's time, too. Past ten o'clock.</p> - -<p>"I'll sit here a little longer," says Mikhail Fiodorovich, "if you give -me leave, Ekaterina Vladimirovna?"</p> - -<p>"You have my leave," Katy answers.</p> - -<p>"<i>Bene.</i> In that case, order another bottle, please."</p> - -<p>Together they escort me to the hall with candles in their hands. While -I'm putting on my overcoat, Mikhail Fiodorovich says:</p> - -<p>"You've grown terribly thin and old lately. Nicolai Stiepanovich. -What's the matter with you? Ill?</p> - -<p>"Yes, a little."</p> - -<p>"And he will not look after himself," Katy puts in sternly.</p> - -<p>"Why don't you look after yourself? How can you go on like this? God -helps those who help themselves, my dear man. Give my regards to your -family and make my excuses for not coming. One of these days, before I -go abroad, I'll come to say good-bye. Without fail. I'm off next week."</p> - -<p>I came away from Katy's irritated, frightened by the talk about -my illness and discontented with myself. "And why," I ask myself, -"shouldn't I be attended by one of my colleagues?" Instantly I see how -my friend, after sounding me, will go to the window silently, think a -little while, turn towards me and say, indifferently, trying to prevent -me from reading the truth in his face: "At the moment I don't see -anything particular; but still, cher confrère, I would advise you to -break off your work...." And that will take my last hope away.</p> - -<p>Who doesn't have hopes? Nowadays, when I diagnose and treat myself, I -sometimes hope that my ignorance deceives me, that I am mistaken about -the albumen and sugar which I find, as well as about my heart, and also -about the anasarca which I have noticed twice in the morning. While I -read over the therapeutic text-books again with the eagerness of a -hypochondriac, and change the prescriptions every day, I still believe -that I will come across something hopeful. How trivial it all is!</p> - -<p>Whether the sky is cloudy all over or the moon and stars are shining -in it, every time I come back home I look at it and think that death -will take me soon. Surely at that moment my thoughts should be as deep -as the sky, as bright, as striking ... but no! I think of myself, of -my wife, Liza, Gnekker, the students, people in general. My thoughts -are not good, they are mean; I juggle with myself, and at this moment -my attitude towards life can be expressed in the words the famous -Arakheev wrote in one of his intimate letters: "All good in the world -is inseparably linked to bad, and there is always more bad than good." -Which means that everything is ugly, there's nothing to live for, -and the sixty-two years I have lived out must be counted as lost. I -surprise myself in these thoughts and try to convince myself they are -accidental and temporary and not deeply rooted in me, but I think -immediately:</p> - -<p>"If that's true, why am I drawn every evening to those two toads." And -I swear to myself never to go to Katy any more, though I know I will go -to her again to-morrow.</p> - -<p>As I pull my door bell and go upstairs, I feel already that I have no -family and no desire to return to it. It is plain my new, Arakheev -thoughts are not accidental or temporary in me, but possess my whole -being. With a bad conscience, dull, indolent, hardly able to move my -limbs, as though I had a ten ton weight upon me, I lie down in my bed -and soon fall asleep.</p> - -<p>And then—insomnia.</p> - - -<hr> -<h4>IV</h4> - - -<p>The summer comes and life changes.</p> - -<p>One fine morning Liza comes in to me and says in a joking tone:</p> - -<p>"Come, Your Excellency. It's all ready."</p> - -<p>They lead My Excellency into the street, put me into a cab and drive me -away. For want of occupation I read the signboards backwards as I go. -The word "Tavern" becomes "Nrevat." That would do for a baron's name: -Baroness Nrevat. Beyond, I drive across the field by the cemetery, -which produces no impression upon me whatever, though I'll soon -lie there. After a two hours' drive, My Excellency is led into the -ground-floor of the bungalow, and put into a small, lively room with a -light-blue paper.</p> - -<p>Insomnia at night as before, but I am no more wakeful in the morning -and don't listen to my wife, but lie in bed. I don't sleep, but I -am in a sleepy state, half-forgetfulness, when you know you are not -asleep, but have dreams. I get up in the afternoon, and sit down at -the table by force of habit, but now I don't work any more but amuse -myself with French yellow-backs sent me by Katy. Of course it would -be more patriotic to read Russian authors, but to tell the truth I'm -not particularly disposed to them. Leaving out two or three old ones, -all the modern literature doesn't seem to me to be literature but a -unique home industry which exists only to be encouraged, but the goods -are bought with reluctance. The best of these homemade goods can't be -called remarkable and it's impossible to praise it sincerely without a -saving "but"; and the same must be said of all the literary novelties -I've read during the last ten or fifteen years. Not one remarkable, -and you can't dispense with "but." They have cleverness, nobility, and -no talent; talent, nobility and no cleverness; or finally, talent, -cleverness, but no nobility.</p> - -<p>I would not say that French books have talent, cleverness, and -nobility. Nor do they satisfy me. But they are not so boring as the -Russian; and it is not rare to find in them the chief constituent -of creative genius—the sense of personal freedom, which is lacking -to Russian authors. I do not recall one single new book in which -from the very first page the author did not try to tie himself up in -all manner of conventions and contracts with his conscience. One is -frightened to speak of the naked body, another is bound hand and foot -by psychological analysis, a third must have "a kindly attitude to -his fellow-men," the fourth heaps up whole pages with descriptions of -nature on purpose to avoid any suspicion of a tendency.... One desires -to be in his books a bourgeois at all costs, another at all costs an -aristocrat. Deliberation, cautiousness, cunning: but no freedom, no -courage to write as one likes, and therefore no creative genius.</p> - -<p>All this refers to <i>belles-lettres,</i> so-called.</p> - -<p>As for serious articles in Russian, on sociology, for instance, or -art and so forth, I don't read them, simply out of timidity. For -some reason in my childhood and youth I had a fear of porters and -theatre attendants, and this fear has remained with me up till now. -Even now I am afraid of them. It is said that only that which one -cannot understand seems terrible. And indeed it is very difficult to -understand why hall-porters and theatre attendants are so pompous -and haughty and importantly polite. When I read serious articles, I -have exactly the same indefinable fear. Their portentous gravity, -their playfulness, like an archbishop's, their over-familiar -attitude to foreign authors, their capacity for talking dignified -nonsense—"filling a vacuum with emptiness"—it is all inconceivable -to me and terrifying, and quite unlike the modesty and the calm and -gentlemanly tone to which I am accustomed when reading our writers on -medicine and the natural sciences. Not only articles; I have difficulty -also in reading translations even when they are edited by serious -Russians. The presumptuous benevolence of the prefaces, the abundance -of notes by the translator (which prevents one from concentrating), the -parenthetical queries and <i>sics,</i> which are so liberally scattered -over the book or the article by the translator—seem to me an assault -on the author's person, as well as on my independence as a reader.</p> - -<p>Once I was invited as an expert to the High Court. In the interval -one of my fellow-experts called my attention to the rude behaviour -of the public prosecutor to the prisoners, among whom were two women -intellectuals. I don't think I exaggerated at all when I replied to -my colleague that he was not behaving more rudely than authors of -serious articles behave to one another. Indeed their behaviour is so -rude that one speaks of them with bitterness. They behave to each other -or to the writers whom they criticise either with too much deference, -careless of their own dignity, or, on the other hand, they treat them -much worse than I have treated Gnekker, my future son-in-law, in -these notes and thoughts of mine. Accusations of irresponsibility, of -impure intentions, of any kind of crime even, are the usual adornment -of serious articles. And this, as our young medicos love to say in -their little articles—quite <i>ultima ratio.</i> Such an attitude must -necessarily be reflected in the character of the young generation of -writers, and therefore I'm not at all surprised that in the new books -which have been added to our <i>belles lettres</i> in the last ten or -fifteen years, the heroes drink a great deal of vodka and the heroines -are not sufficiently chaste.</p> - -<p>I read French books and look out of the window, which is open—I see -the pointed palings of my little garden, two or three skinny trees, -and there, beyond the garden, the road, fields, then a wide strip of -young pine-forest. I often delight in watching a little boy and girl, -both white-haired and ragged, climb on the garden fence and laugh at -my baldness. In their shining little eyes I read, "Come out, thou -bald-head." These are almost the only people who don't care a bit about -my reputation or my title.</p> - -<p>I don't have visitors everyday now. I'll mention only the visits of -Nicolas and Piotr Ignatievich. Nicolas comes to me usually on holidays, -pretending to come on business, but really to see me. He is very -hilarious, a thing which never happens to him in the winter.</p> - -<p>"Well, what have you got to say?" I ask him, coming out into the -passage.</p> - -<p>"Your Excellency!" he says, pressing his hand to his heart and looking -at me with a lover's rapture. "Your Excellency! So help me God! God -strike me where I stand! <i>Gaudeamus igitur juvenestus.</i>"</p> - -<p>And he kisses me eagerly on the shoulders, on my sleeves, and buttons.</p> - -<p>"Is everything all right over there?" I ask.</p> - -<p>"Your Excellency! I swear to God...."</p> - -<p>He never stops swearing, quite unnecessarily, and I soon get bored, and -send him to the kitchen, where they give him dinner. Piotr Ignatievich -also comes on holidays specially to visit me and communicate his -thoughts to me. He usually sits by the table in my room, modest, -clean, judicious, without daring to cross his legs or lean his elbows -on the table, all the while telling me in a quiet, even voice what -he considers very piquant items of news gathered from journals and -pamphlets.</p> - -<p>These items are all alike and can be reduced to the following type: A -Frenchman made a discovery. Another—a German—exposed him by showing -that this discovery had been made as long ago as 1870 by some American. -Then a third—also a German—outwitted them both by showing that -both of them had been confused, by taking spherules of air under a -microscope for dark pigment. Even when he wants to make me laugh, Piotr -Ignatievich tells his story at great length, very much as though he -were defending a thesis, enumerating his literary sources in detail, -with every effort to avoid mistakes in the dates, the particular number -of the journal and the names. Moreover, he does not say Petit simply -but inevitably, Jean Jacques Petit. If he happens to stay to dinner, he -will tell the same sort of piquant stories and drive all the company -to despondency. If Gnekker and Liza begin to speak of fugues and -counter-fugues in his presence he modestly lowers his eyes, and his -face falls. He is ashamed that such trivialities should be spoken of in -the presence of such serious men as him and me.</p> - -<p>In my present state of mind five minutes are enough for him to bore -me as though I had seen and listened to him for a whole eternity. I -hate the poor man. I wither away beneath his quiet, even voice and -his bookish language. His stories make me stupid.... He cherishes the -kindliest feelings towards me and talks to me only to give me pleasure. -I reward him by staring at his face as if I wanted to hypnotise him, -and thinking "Go away. Go, go...." But he is proof against my mental -suggestion and sits, sits, sits....</p> - -<p>While he sits with me I cannot rid myself of the idea: "When I die, -it's quite possible that he will be appointed in my place." Then my -poor audience appears to me as an oasis where the stream has dried, -up, and I am unkind to Piotr Ignatievich, and silent and morose as if -he were guilty of such thoughts and not I myself. When he begins, as -usual, to glorify the German scholars, I no longer jest good-naturedly, -but murmur sternly:</p> - -<p>"They're fools, your Germans...."</p> - -<p>It's like the late Professor Nikita Krylov when he was bathing with -Pirogov at Reval. He got angry with the water, which was very cold, -and swore about "These scoundrelly Germans." I behave badly to Piotr -Ignatievich; and it's only when he is going away and I see through the -window his grey hat disappearing behind the garden fence, that I want -to call him back and say: "Forgive me, my dear fellow."</p> - -<p>The dinner goes yet more wearily than in winter. The same Gnekker, -whom I now hate and despise, dines with me every day. Before, I -used to suffer his presence in silence, but now I say biting things -to him, which make my wife and Liza blush. Carried away by an evil -feeling, I often say things that are merely foolish, and don't know -why I say them. Thus it happened once that after looking at Gnekker -contemptuously for a long while, I suddenly fired off, for no reason at -all:</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%;"> -"Eagles than barnyard-fowls may lower bend;<br> -But fowls shall never to the heav'ns ascend."<br> -</p> - -<p>More's the pity that the fowl Gnekker shows himself more clever than -the eagle professor. Knowing my wife and daughter are on his side he -maintains these tactics. He replies to my shafts with a condescending -silence ("The old man's off his head.... What's the good of talking to -him?"), or makes good-humoured fun of me. It is amazing to what depths -of pettiness a man may descend. During the whole dinner I can dream how -Gnekker will be shown to be an adventurer, how Liza and my wife will -realise their mistake, and I will tease them—ridiculous dreams like -these at a time when I have one foot in the grave.</p> - -<p>Now there occur misunderstandings, of a kind which I formerly knew only -by hearsay. Though it is painful I will describe one which occurred -after dinner the other day. I sit in my room smoking a little pipe. -Enters my wife, as usual, sits down and begins to talk. What a good -idea it would be to go to Kharkov now while the weather is warm and -there is the time, and inquire what kind of man our Gnekker is.</p> - -<p>"Very well. I'll go," I agree.</p> - -<p>My wife gets up, pleased with me, and walks to the door; but -immediately returns:</p> - -<p>"By-the bye, I've one more favour to ask. I know you'll be angry; -but it's my duty to warn you.... Forgive me, Nicolai,—but all -our neighbours have begun to talk about the way you go to Katy's -continually. I don't deny that she's clever and educated. It's pleasant -to spend the time with her. But at your age and in your position it's -rather strange to find pleasure in her society.... Besides she has a -reputation enough to...."</p> - -<p>All my blood rushes instantly from my brain. My eyes flash fire. I -catch hold of my hair, and stamp and cry, in a voice that is not mine:</p> - -<p>"Leave me alone, leave me, leave me...."</p> - -<p>My face is probably terrible, and my voice strange, for my wife -suddenly gets pale, and calls aloud, with a despairing voice, also not -her own. At our cries rush in Liza and Gnekker, then Yegor.</p> - -<p>My feet grow numb, as though they did not exist. I feel that I am -falling into somebody's arms. Then I hear crying for a little while -and sink into a faint which lasts for two or three hours.</p> - -<p>Now for Katy. She comes to see me before evening every day, which of -course must be noticed by my neighbours and my friends. After a minute -she takes me with her for a drive. She has her own horse and a new -buggy she bought this summer. Generally she lives like a princess. She -has taken an expensive detached bungalow with a big garden, and put -into it all her town furniture. She has two maids and a coachman. I -often ask her:</p> - -<p>"Katy, what will you live on when you've spent all your father's money?"</p> - -<p>"We'll see, then," she answers.</p> - -<p>"But this money deserves to be treated more seriously, my dear. It was -earned by a good man and honest labour."</p> - -<p>"You've told me that before. I know."</p> - -<p>First we drive by the field, then by a young pine forest, which you -can see from my window. Nature seems to me as beautiful as she used, -although the devil whispers to me that all these pines and firs, the -birds and white clouds in the sky will not notice my absence in three -or four months when I am dead. Katy likes to take the reins, and it is -good that the weather is fine and I am sitting by her side. She is in a -happy mood, and does not say bitter things.</p> - -<p>"You're a very good man, Nicolai," she says. "You are a rare bird. -There's no actor who could play your part. Mine or Mikhail's, for -instance—even a bad actor could manage, but yours—there's nobody. I -envy you, envy you terribly! What am I? What?"</p> - -<p>She thinks for a moment, and asks:</p> - -<p>"I'm a negative phenomenon, aren't I?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," I answer.</p> - -<p>"H'm ... what's to be done then?"</p> - -<p>What answer can I give? It's easy to say "Work," or "Give your property -to the poor," or "Know yourself," and because it's so easy to say this -I don't know what to answer.</p> - -<p>My therapeutist colleagues, when teaching methods of cure, advise one -"to individualise each particular case." This advice must be followed -in order to convince one's self that the remedies recommended in the -text-books as the best and most thoroughly suitable as a general -rule, are quite unsuitable in particular cases. It applies to moral -affections as well. But I must answer something. So I say:</p> - -<p>"You've too much time on your hands, my dear. You must take up -something.... In fact, why shouldn't you go on the stage again, if you -have a vocation."</p> - -<p>"I can't."</p> - -<p>"You have the manner and tone of a victim. I don't like it, my dear. -You have yourself to blame. Remember, you began by getting angry with -people and things in general; but you never did anything to improve -either of them. You didn't put up a struggle against the evil. You got -tired. You're not a victim of the struggle but of your own weakness. -Certainly you were young then and inexperienced. But now everything can -be different. Come on, be an actress. You will work; you will serve in -the temple of art."...</p> - -<p>"Don't be so clever, Nicolai," she interrupts. "Let's agree once for -all: let's speak about actors, actresses, writers, but let us leave art -out of it. You're a rare and excellent man. But you don't understand -enough about art to consider it truly sacred. You have no <i>flair,</i> no -ear for art. You've been busy all your life, and you never had time to -acquire the <i>flair.</i> Really ... I don't love these conversations about -art!" she continues nervously. "I don't love them. They've vulgarised -it enough already, thank you."</p> - -<p>"Who's vulgarised it?"</p> - -<p>"<i>They</i> vulgarised it by their drunkenness, newspapers by their -over-familiarity, clever people by philosophy."</p> - -<p>"What's philosophy got to do with it?"</p> - -<p>"A great deal. If a man philosophises, it means he doesn't understand."</p> - -<p>So that it should not come to bitter words, I hasten to change the -subject, and then keep silence for a long while. It's not till we come -out of the forest and drive towards Katy's bungalow, I return to the -subject and ask:</p> - -<p>"Still, you haven't answered me why you don't want to go on the stage?"</p> - -<p>"Really, it's cruel," she cries out, and suddenly blushes all over. -"You want me to tell you the truth outright. Very well if ... if you -will have it! I've no talent! No talent and ... much ambition! There -you are!"</p> - -<p>After this confession, she turns her face away from me, and to hide the -trembling of her hands, tugs at the reins.</p> - -<p>As we approach her bungalow, from a distance we see Mikhail already, -walking about by the gate, impatiently awaiting us.</p> - -<p>"This Fiodorovich again," Katy says with annoyance. "Please take him -away from me. I'm sick of him. He's flat.... Let him go to the deuce."</p> - -<p>Mikhail Fiodorovich ought to have gone abroad long ago, but he has -postponed his departure every week. There have been some changes in him -lately. He's suddenly got thin, begun to be affected by drink—a thing -that never happened to him before, and his black eyebrows have begun -to get grey. When our buggy stops at the gate he cannot hide his joy -and impatience. Anxiously he helps Katy and me from the buggy, hastily -asks us questions, laughs, slowly rubs his hands, and that gentle, -prayerful, pure something that I used to notice only in his eyes is now -poured over all his face. He is happy and at the same time ashamed of -his happiness, ashamed of his habit of coming to Katy's every evening, -and he finds it necessary to give a reason for his coming, some -obvious absurdity, like: "I was passing on business, and I thought I'd -just drop in for a second."</p> - -<p>All three of us go indoors. First we drink tea, then our old friends, -the two packs of cards, appear on the table, with a big piece of -cheese, some fruit, and a bottle of Crimean champagne. The subjects of -conversation are not new, but all exactly the same as they were in the -winter. The university, the students, literature, the theatre—all of -them come in for it. The air thickens with slanders, and grows more -close. It is poisoned by the breath, not of two toads as in winter, -but now by all three. Besides the velvety, baritone laughter and the -accordion-like giggle, the maid who waits upon us hears also the -unpleasant jarring laugh of a musical comedy general: "He, he, he!"</p> - - -<hr> -<h4>V</h4> - - -<p>There sometimes come fearful nights with thunder, lightning, rain, and -wind, which the peasants call "sparrow-nights." There was one such -sparrow-night in my own personal life....</p> - -<p>I wake after midnight and suddenly leap out of bed. Somehow it seems -to me that I am going to die immediately. I do not know why, for there -is no single sensation in my body which points to a quick end; but -a terror presses on my soul as though I had suddenly seen a huge, -ill-boding fire in the sky.</p> - -<p>I light the lamp quickly and drink some water straight out of the -decanter. Then I hurry to the window. The weather is magnificent. The -air smells of hay and some delicious thing besides. I see the spikes of -my garden fence, the sleepy starveling trees by the window, the road, -the dark strip of forest. There is a calm and brilliant moon in the sky -and not a single cloud. Serenity. Not a leaf stirs. To me it seems that -everything is looking at me and listening for me to die.</p> - -<p>Dread seizes me. I shut the window and run to the bed, I feel for my -pulse. I cannot find it in my wrist; I seek it in my temples, my chin, -my hand again. They are all cold and slippery with sweat. My breathing -comes quicker and quicker; my body trembles, all my bowels are stirred, -and my face and forehead feel as though a cobweb had settled on them.</p> - -<p>What shall I do? Shall I call my family? No use. I do not know what my -wife and Liza will do when they come in to me.</p> - -<p>I hide my head under the pillow, shut my eyes and wait, wait.... My -spine is cold. It almost contracts within me. And I feel that death -will approach me only from behind, very quietly.</p> - -<p>"Kivi, kivi." A squeak sounds in the stillness of the night. I do not -know whether it is in my heart or in the street.</p> - -<p>God, how awful! I would drink some more water; but now I dread opening -my eyes, and fear to raise my head. The terror is unaccountable, -animal. I cannot understand why I am afraid. Is it because I want to -live, or because a new and unknown pain awaits me?</p> - -<p>Upstairs, above the ceiling, a moan, then a laugh ... I listen. A -little after steps sound on the staircase. Someone hurries down, then -up again. In a minute steps sound downstairs again. Someone stops by my -door and listens.</p> - -<p>"Who's there?" I call.</p> - -<p>The door opens. I open my eyes boldly and see my wife. Her face is pale -and her eyes red with weeping.</p> - -<p>"You're not asleep, Nicolai Stiepanovich?" she asks.</p> - -<p>"What is it?"</p> - -<p>"For God's sake go down to Liza. Something is wrong with her."</p> - -<p>"Very well ... with pleasure," I murmur, very glad that I am not alone. -"Very well ... immediately."</p> - -<p>As I follow my wife I hear what she tells me, and from agitation -understand not a word. Bright spots from her candle dance over the -steps of the stairs; our long shadows tremble; my feet catch in the -skirts of my dressing-gown. My breath goes, and it seems to me that -someone is chasing me, trying to seize my back. "I shall die here on -the staircase, this second," I think, "this second." But we have passed -the staircase, the dark hall with the Italian window and we go into -Liza's room. She sits in bed in her chemise; her bare legs hang down -and she moans.</p> - -<p>"Oh, my God ... oh, my God!" she murmurs, half shutting her eyes from -our candles. "I can't, I can't."</p> - -<p>"Liza, my child," I say, "what's the matter?"</p> - -<p>Seeing me, she calls out and falls on my neck.</p> - -<p>"Papa darling," she sobs. "Papa dearest ... my sweet. I don't know what -it is.... It hurts."</p> - -<p>She embraces me, kisses me and lisps endearments which I heard her lisp -when she was still a baby.</p> - -<p>"Be calm, my child. God's with you," I say. "You mustn't cry. Something -hurts me too."</p> - -<p>I try to cover her with the bedclothes; my wife gives her to drink; and -both of us jostle in confusion round the bed. My shoulders push into -hers, and at that moment I remember how we used to bathe our children.</p> - -<p>"But help her, help her!" my wife implores. "Do something!" And what -can I do? Nothing. There is some weight on the girl's soul; but I -understand nothing, know nothing and can only murmur:</p> - -<p>"It's nothing, nothing.... It will pass.... Sleep, sleep."</p> - -<p>As if on purpose a dog suddenly howls in the yard, at first low and -irresolute, then aloud, in two voices. I never put any value on such -signs as dogs' whining or screeching owls; but now my heart contracts -painfully, and I hasten to explain the howling.</p> - -<p>"Nonsense," I think. "It's the influence of one organism on another. -My great nervous strain was transmitted to my wife, to Liza, and to -the dog. That's all. Such transmissions explain presentiments and -previsions."</p> - -<p>A little later when I return to my room to write a prescription for -Liza I no longer think that I shall die soon. My soul simply feels -heavy and dull, so that I am even sad that I did not die suddenly. For -a long while I stand motionless in the middle of the room, pondering -what I shall prescribe for Liza; but the moans above the ceiling are -silent and I decide not to write a prescription, but stand there still.</p> - -<p>There is a dead silence, a silence, as one man wrote, that rings -in one's ears. The time goes slowly. The bars of moonshine on the -windowsill do not move from their place, as though congealed.... The -dawn is still far away.</p> - -<p>But the garden-gate creaks; someone steals in, and strips a twig from -the starveling trees, and cautiously knocks with it on my window.</p> - -<p>"Nicolai Stiepanovich!" I hear a whisper. "Nicolai Stiepanovich!"</p> - -<p>I open the window, and I think that I am dreaming. Under the window, -close against the wall stands a woman in a black dress. She is brightly -lighted by the moon and looks at me with wide eyes. Her face is pale, -stern and fantastic in the moon, like marble. Her chin trembles.</p> - -<p>"It is I...." she says, "I ... Katy!"</p> - -<p>In the moon all women's eyes are big and black, people are taller and -paler. Probably that is the reason why I did not recognise her in the -first moment.</p> - -<p>"What's the matter?"</p> - -<p>"Forgive me," she says. "I suddenly felt so dreary ... I could not bear -it. So I came here. There's a light in your window ... and I decided to -knock.... Forgive me.... Ah, if you knew how dreary I felt! What are -you doing now?"</p> - -<p>"Nothing. Insomnia."</p> - -<p>Her eyebrows lift, her eyes shine with tears and all her face is -illumined as with light, with the familiar, but long unseen, look of -confidence.</p> - -<p>"Nicolai Stiepanovich!" she says imploringly, stretching out both her -hands to me. "Dear, I beg you ... I implore.... If you do not despise -my friendship and my respect for you, then do what I implore you."</p> - -<p>"What is it?"</p> - -<p>"Take my money."</p> - -<p>"What next? What's the good of your money to me?"</p> - -<p>"You will go somewhere to be cured. You must cure yourself. You will -take it? Yes? Dear ... Yes?"</p> - -<p>She looks into my face eagerly and repeats:</p> - -<p>"Yes? You will take it?"</p> - -<p>"No, my dear, I won't take it....", I say. "Thank you."</p> - -<p>She turns her back to me and lowers her head. Probably the tone of my -refusal would not allow any further talk of money.</p> - -<p>"Go home to sleep," I say. "I'll see you to-morrow."</p> - -<p>"It means, you don't consider me your friend?" she asks sadly.</p> - -<p>"I don't say that. But your money is no good to me."</p> - -<p>"Forgive me," she says lowering her voice by a full octave. "I -understand you. To be obliged to a person like me ... a retired -actress... But good-bye."</p> - -<p>And she walks away so quickly that I have no time even to say -"Good-bye."</p> - - -<hr> -<h4>VI</h4> - - -<p>I am in Kharkov.</p> - -<p>Since it would be useless to fight against my present mood, and I have -no power to do it, I made up my mind that the last days of my life -shall be irreproachable, on the formal side. If I am not right with -my family, which I certainly admit, I will try at least to do as it -wishes. Besides I am lately become so indifferent that it's positively -all the same, to me whether I go to Kharkov, or Paris, or Berditshev.</p> - -<p>I arrived here at noon and put up at a hotel not far from the -cathedral. The train made me giddy, the draughts blew through me, and -now I am sitting on the bed with my head in my hands waiting for the -tic. I ought to go to my professor friends to-day, but I have neither -the will nor the strength.</p> - -<p>The old hall-porter comes in to ask whether I have brought my own -bed-clothes. I keep him about five minutes asking him questions about -Gnekker, on whose account I came here. The porter happens to be -Kharkov-born, and knows the town inside out; but he doesn't remember -any family with the name of Gnekker. I inquire about the estate. The -answer is the same.</p> - -<p>The clock in the passage strikes one,... two,... three.... The last -months of my life, while I wait for death, seem to me far longer than -my whole life. Never before could I reconcile myself to the slowness -of time as I can now. Before, when I had to wait for a train at the -station, or to sit at an examination, a quarter of an hour would seem -an eternity. Now I can sit motionless in bed the whole night long, -quite calmly thinking that there will be the same long, colourless -night to-morrow, and the next day....</p> - -<p>In the passage the clock strikes five, six, seven.... It grows dark. -There is dull pain in my cheek—the beginning of the tic. To occupy -myself with thoughts, I return to my old point of view, when I was not -indifferent, and ask: Why do I, a famous man, a privy councillor, sit -in this little room, on this bed with a strange grey blanket? Why do -I look at this cheap tin washstand and listen to the wretched clock -jarring in the passage? Is all this worthy of my fame and my high -position among people? And I answer these questions with a smile. My -naïveté seems funny to me—the <i>naïveté</i> with which as a young man -I exaggerated the value of fame and of the exclusive position which -famous men enjoy. I am famous, my name is spoken with reverence. My -portrait has appeared in "Niva" and in "The Universal Illustration." -I've even read my biography in a German paper, but what of that? I sit -lonely, by myself, in a strange city, on a strange bed, rubbing my -aching cheek with my palm....</p> - -<p>Family scandals, the hardness of creditors, the rudeness of railway -men, the discomforts of the passport system, the expensive and -unwholesome food at the buffets, the general coarseness and roughness -of people,—all this and a great deal more that would take too long -to put down, concerns me as much as it concerns any bourgeois who is -known only in his own little street. Where is the exclusiveness of my -position then? We will admit that I am infinitely famous, that I am a -hero of whom my country is proud. All the newspapers give bulletins -of my illness, the post is already bringing in sympathetic addresses -from my friends, my pupils, and the public. But all this will not save -me from dying in anguish on a stranger's bed in utter loneliness. Of -course there is no one to blame for this. But I must confess I do not -like my popularity. I feel that it has deceived me.</p> - -<p>At about ten I fall asleep, and, in spite of the tic sleep soundly, and -would sleep for a long while were I not awakened. Just after one there -is a sudden knock on my door.</p> - -<p>"Who's there?"</p> - -<p>"A telegram."</p> - -<p>"You could have brought it to-morrow," I storm, as I take the telegram -from the porter. "Now I shan't sleep again."</p> - -<p>"I'm sorry. There was a light in your room. I thought you were not -asleep."</p> - -<p>I open the telegram and look first at the signature—my wife's. What -does she want?</p> - -<p>"Gnekker married Liza secretly yesterday. Return."</p> - -<p>I read the telegram. For a long while I am not startled. Not Gnekker's -or Liza's action frightens me, but the indifference with which I -receive the news of their marriage. Men say that philosophers and true -<i>savants</i> are indifferent. It is untrue. Indifference is the paralysis -of the soul, premature death.</p> - -<p>I go to bed again and begin to ponder with what thoughts I can occupy -myself. What on earth shall I think of? I seem to have thought over -everything, and now there is nothing powerful enough to rouse my -thought.</p> - -<p>When the day begins to dawn, I sit in bed clasping my knees and, for -want of occupation I try to know myself. "Know yourself" is good, -useful advice; but it is a pity that the ancients did not think of -showing us the way to avail ourselves of it.</p> - -<p>Before, when I had the desire to understand somebody else, or myself, -I used not to take into consideration actions, wherein everything is -conditional, but desires. Tell me what you want, and I will tell you -what you are.</p> - -<p>And now I examine myself. What do I want?</p> - -<p>I want our wives, children, friends, and pupils to love in us, not the -name or the firm or the label, but the ordinary human beings. What -besides? I should like to have assistants and successors. What more? I -should like to wake in a hundred years' time, and take a look, if only -with one eye, at what has happened to science. I should like to live -ten years more.... What further?</p> - -<p>Nothing further. I think, think a long while and cannot make out -anything else. However much I were to think, wherever my thoughts -should stray, it is clear to me that the chief, all-important something -is lacking in my desires. In my infatuation for science, my desire to -live, my sitting here on a strange bed, my yearning to know myself, in -all the thoughts, feelings, and ideas I form about anything, there is -wanting the something universal which could bind all these together in -one whole. Each feeling and thought lives detached in me, and in all -my opinions about science, the theatre, literature, and my pupils, and -in all the little pictures which my imagination paints, not even the -most cunning analyst will discover what is called the general idea, or -the god of the living man.</p> - -<p>And if this is not there, then nothing is there.</p> - -<p>In poverty such as this a serious infirmity, fear of death, influence -of circumstances and people would have been enough to overthrow and -shatter all that I formerly considered as my conception of the world, -and all wherein I saw the meaning and joy of my life. Therefore, it -is nothing strange that I have darkened the last months of my life by -thoughts and feelings worthy of a slave or a savage, and that I am now -indifferent and do not notice the dawn. If there is lacking in a man -that which is higher and stronger than all outside influences, then -verily a good cold in the head is enough to upset his balance and to -make him see each bird an owl and hear a dog's whine in every sound; -and all his pessimism or his optimism with their attendant thoughts, -great and small, seem then to be merely symptoms and no more.</p> - -<p>I am beaten. Then it's no good going on thinking, no good talking. I -shall sit and wait in silence for what will come.</p> - -<p>In the morning the porter brings me tea and the local paper. -Mechanically I read the advertisements on the first page, the leader, -the extracts from newspapers and magazines, the local news ... Among -other things I find in the local news an item like this: "Our famous -scholar, emeritus professor Nicolai Stiepanovich arrived in Kharkov -yesterday by the express, and stayed at——hotel."</p> - -<p>Evidently big names are created to live detached from those who bear -them. Now my name walks in Kharkov undisturbed. In some three months it -will shine as bright as the sun itself, inscribed in letters of gold on -my tombstone—at a time when I myself will be under the sod....</p> - -<p>A faint knock at the door. Somebody wants me.</p> - -<p>"Who's there? Come in!"</p> - -<p>The door opens. I step back in astonishment, and hasten to pull my -dressing gown together. Before me stands Katy.</p> - -<p>"How do you do?" she says, panting from running up the stairs. "You -didn't expect me? I ... I've come too."</p> - -<p>She sits down and continues, stammering and looking away from me. "Why -don't you say 'Good morning'? I arrived too ... to-day. I found out you -were at this hotel, and came to see you."</p> - -<p>"I'm delighted to see you," I say shrugging my shoulders. "But I'm -surprised. You might have dropped straight from heaven. What are you -doing here?"</p> - -<p>"I?... I just came."</p> - -<p>Silence. Suddenly she gets up impetuously and comes over to me.</p> - -<p>"Nicolai Stiepanich!" she says, growing pale and pressing her hands to -her breast. "Nicolai Stiepanich! I can't go on like this any longer. I -can't. For God's sake tell me now, immediately. What shall I do? Tell -me, what shall I do?"</p> - -<p>"What can I say? I am beaten. I can say nothing."</p> - -<p>"But tell me, I implore you," she continues, out of breath and -trembling all over her body. "I swear to you, I can't go on like this -any longer. I haven't the strength."</p> - -<p>She drops into a chair and begins to sob. She throws her head back, -wrings her hands, stamps with her feet; her hat falls from her head and -dangles by its string, her hair is loosened.</p> - -<p>"Help me, help," she implores. "I can't bear it any more."</p> - -<p>She takes a handkerchief out of her little travelling bag and with -it pulls out some letters which fall from her knees to the floor. -I pick them up from the floor and recognise on one of them Mikhail -Fiodorovich's hand-writing, and accidentally read part of a word: -"passionat...."</p> - -<p>"There's nothing that I can say to you, Katy," I say.</p> - -<p>"Help me," she sobs, seizing my hand and kissing it. "You're my father, -my only friend. You're wise and learned, and you've lived long! You -were a teacher. Tell me what to do."</p> - -<p>I am bewildered and surprised, stirred by her sobbing, and I can hardly -stand upright.</p> - -<p>"Let's have some breakfast, Katy," I say with a constrained smile.</p> - -<p>Instantly I add in a sinking voice:</p> - -<p>"I shall be dead soon, Katy...."</p> - -<p>"Only one word, only one word," she weeps and stretches out her hands -to me. "What shall I do?"</p> - -<p>"You're a queer thing, really...", I murmur. "I can't understand it. -Such a clever woman and suddenly—weeping...."</p> - -<p>Comes silence. Katy arranges her hair, puts on her hat, then crumples -her letters and stuffs them in her little bag, all in silence and -unhurried. Her face, her bosom and her gloves are wet with tears, but -her expression is dry already, stern.... I look at her and am ashamed -that I am happier than she. It was but a little while before my death, -in the ebb of my life, that I noticed in myself the absence of what our -friends the philosophers call the general idea; but this poor thing's -soul has never known and never will know shelter all her life, all her -life.</p> - -<p>"Katy, let's have breakfast," I say.</p> - -<p>"No, thank you," she answers coldly.</p> - -<p>One minute more passes in silence.</p> - -<p>"I don't like Kharkov," I say. "It's too grey. A grey city."</p> - -<p>"Yes ... ugly.... I'm not here for long.... On my way. I leave to-day."</p> - -<p>"For where?"</p> - -<p>"For the Crimea ... I mean, the Caucasus."</p> - -<p>"So. For long?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know."</p> - -<p>Katy gets up and gives me her hand with a cold smile, looking away from -me.</p> - -<p>I would like to ask her: "That means you won't be at my funeral?" But -she does not look at me; her hand is cold and like a stranger's. I -escort her to the door in silence.... She goes out of my room and walks -down the long passage, without looking back. She knows that my eyes are -following her, and probably on the landing she will look back.</p> - -<p>No, she did not look back. The black dress showed for the last time, -her steps were stilled.... Goodbye, my treasure!</p> - - - -<hr class="chap"> -<h4><a name="THE_FIT" id="THE_FIT">THE FIT</a></h4> - - - -<h4>I</h4> - - -<p>The medical student Mayer, and Ribnikov, a student at the Moscow school -of painting, sculpture, and architecture, came one evening to their -friend Vassiliev, law student, and proposed that he should go with -them to S——v Street. For a long while Vassiliev did not agree, but -eventually dressed himself and went with them.</p> - -<p>Unfortunate women he knew only by hearsay and from books, and never -once in his life had he been in the houses where they live. He knew -there were immoral women who were forced by the pressure of disastrous -circumstances—environment, bad up-bringing, poverty, and the like—to -sell their honour for money. They do not know pure love, have no -children and no legal rights; mothers and sisters mourn them for -dead, science treats them as an evil, men are familiar with them. But -notwithstanding all this they do not lose the image and likeness of -God. They all acknowledge their sin and hope for salvation. They are -free to avail themselves of every means of salvation. True, Society -does not forgive people their past, but with God Mary of Egypt is -not lower than the other saints. Whenever Vassiliev recognised an -unfortunate woman in the street by her costume or her manner, or saw a -picture of one in a comic paper, there came into his mind every time -a story he once read somewhere: a pure and heroic young man falls in -love with an unfortunate woman and asks her to be his wife, but she, -considering herself unworthy of such happiness, poisons herself.</p> - -<p>Vassiliev lived in one of the streets off the Tverskoi boulevard. -When he and his friends came out of the house it was about eleven -o'clock—the first snow had just fallen and all nature was under -the spell of this new snow. The air smelt of snow, the snow cracked -softly under foot, the earth, the roofs, the trees, the benches on the -boulevards—all were soft, white, and young. Owing to this the houses -had a different look from yesterday, the lamps burned brighter, the -air was more transparent, the clatter of the cabs was dulled and there -entered into the soul with the fresh, easy, frosty air a feeling like -the white, young, feathery snow. "To these sad shores unknowing" the -medico began to sing in a pleasant tenor, "An unknown power entices".</p> - -<p>"Behold the mill" ... the painter's voice took him up, "it is now -fall'n to ruin."</p> - -<p>"Behold the mill, it is now fall'n to ruin," the medico repeated, -raising his eyebrows and sadly shaking his head.</p> - -<p>He was silent for a while, passed his hand over his forehead trying to -recall the words, and began to sing in a loud voice and so well that -the passers-by looked back.</p> - -<p>"Here, long ago, came free, free love to me"...</p> - -<p>All three went into a restaurant and without taking off their coats -they each had two thimblefuls of vodka at the bar. Before drinking the -second, Vassiliev noticed a piece of cork in his Vodka, lifted the -glass to his eye, looked at it for a long while with a short-sighted -frown. The medico misunderstood his expression and said—</p> - -<p>"Well, what are you staring at? No philosophy, please. Vodka's made to -be drunk, caviare to be eaten, women to sleep with, snow to walk on. -Live like a man for one evening."</p> - -<p>"Well, I've nothing to say," said Vassiliev laughingly, "I'm not -refusing?"</p> - -<p>The vodka warmed his breast. He looked at his friends, admired and -envied them. How balanced everything is in these healthy, strong, -cheerful people. Everything in their minds and souls is smooth and -rounded off. They sing, have a passion for the theatre, paint, talk -continually, and drink, and they never have a headache the next day. -They are romantic and dissolute, sentimental and insolent; they can -work and go on the loose and laugh at nothing and talk rubbish; they -are hot-headed, honest, heroic and as human beings not a bit worse -than Vassiliev, who watches his every step and word, who is careful, -cautious, and able to give the smallest trifle the dignity of a -problem. And he made up his mind if only for one evening to live like -his friends, to let himself go, and be free from his own control. -Must he drink vodka? He'll drink, even if his head falls to pieces -to-morrow. Must he be taken to women? He'll go. He'll laugh, play the -fool, and give a joking answer to disapproving passers-by.</p> - -<p>He came out of the restaurant laughing. He liked his friends—one in a -battered hat with a wide brim who aped aesthetic disorder; the other in -a sealskin cap, not very poor, with a pretence of learned Bohemia. He -liked the snow, the paleness, the lamp-lights, the clear black prints -which the passers' feet left on the snow. He liked the air, and above -all the transparent, tender, naive, virgin tone which can be seen in -nature only twice in the year: when everything is covered in snow, on -the bright days in spring, and on moonlight nights when the ice breaks -on the river.</p> - -<p>"To these sad shores unknowing," he began to sing <i>sotto-voce,</i> "An -unknown power entices."</p> - -<p>And all the way for some reason or other he and his friends had this -melody on their lips. All three hummed it mechanically out of time with -each other.</p> - -<p>Vassiliev imagined how in about ten minutes he and his friends would -knock at a door, how they would stealthily walk through the narrow -little passages and dark rooms to the women, how he would take -advantage of the dark, suddenly strike a match, and see lit up a -suffering face and a guilty smile. There he will surely find a fair -or a dark woman in a white nightgown with her hair loose. She will be -frightened of the light, dreadfully confused and say: "Good God! What -are you doing? Blow it out!" All this was frightening, but curious and -novel.</p> - - -<hr> -<h4>II</h4> - - -<p>The friends turned out of Trubnoi Square into the Grachovka and soon -arrived at the street which Vassiliev knew only from hearsay. Seeing -two rows of houses with brightly lighted windows and wide open doors, -and hearing the gay sound of pianos and fiddles—sounds which flew out -of all the doors and mingled in a strange confusion, as if somewhere -in the darkness over the roof-tops an unseen orchestra were tuning, -Vassiliev was bewildered and said:</p> - -<p>"What a lot of houses!"</p> - -<p>"What's that?" said the medico. "There are ten times as many in London. -There are a hundred thousand of these women there."</p> - -<p>The cabmen sat on their boxes quiet and indifferent as in other -streets; on the pavement walked the same passers-by. No one was in -a hurry; no one hid his face in his collar; no one shook his head -reproachfully. And in this indifference, in the confused sound of -the pianos and fiddles, in the bright windows and wide-open doors, -something very free, impudent, bold and daring could be felt. It must -have been the same as this in the old times on the slave-markets, as -gay and as noisy; people looked and walked with the same indifference.</p> - -<p>"Let's begin right at the beginning," said the painter.</p> - -<p>The friends walked into a narrow little passage lighted by a single -lamp with a reflector. When they opened the door a man in a black -jacket rose lazily from the yellow sofa in the hall. He had an unshaven -lackey's face and sleepy eyes. The place smelt like a laundry, and of -vinegar. From the hall a door led into a brightly lighted room. The -medico and the painter stopped in the doorway, stretched out their -necks and peeped into the room together:</p> - -<p>"Buona sera, signore, Rigoletto—huguenote—traviata!—" the painter -began, making a theatrical bow.</p> - -<p>"Havanna—blackbeetlano—pistoletto!" said the medico, pressing his hat -to his heart and bowing low.</p> - -<p>Vassiliev kept behind them. He wanted to bow theatrically too and say -something silly. But he only smiled, felt awkward and ashamed, and -awaited impatiently what was to follow. In the door appeared a little -fair girl of seventeen or eighteen, with short hair, wearing a short -blue dress with a white bow on her breast.</p> - -<p>"What are you standing in the door for?" she said. "Take off your -overcoats and come into the salon."</p> - -<p>The medico and the painter went into the salon, still speaking Italian. -Vassiliev followed them irresolutely.</p> - -<p>"Gentlemen, take off your overcoats," said the lackey stiffly. "You're -not allowed in as you are."</p> - -<p>Besides the fair girl there was another woman in the salon, very stout -and tall, with a foreign face and bare arms. She sat by the piano, -with a game of patience spread on her knees. She took no notice of the -guests.</p> - -<p>"Where are the other girls?" asked the medico.</p> - -<p>"They're drinking tea," said the fair one. "Stiepan," she called out. -"Go and tell the girls some students have come!"</p> - -<p>A little later a third girl entered, in a bright red dress with blue -stripes. Her face was thickly and unskilfully painted. Her forehead was -hidden under her hair. She stared with dull, frightened eyes. As she -came she immediately began to sing in a strong hoarse contralto. After -her a fourth girl. After her a fifth.</p> - -<p>In all this Vassiliev saw nothing new or curious. It seemed to him -that he had seen before, and more than once, this salon, piano, cheap -gilt mirror, the white bow, the dress with blue stripes and the -stupid, indifferent faces. But of darkness, quiet, mystery, and guilty -smile—of all he had expected to meet here and which frightened him—he -did not see even a shadow.</p> - -<p>Everything was commonplace, prosaic, and dull. Only one thing provoked -his curiosity a little, that was the terrible, as it were intentional -lack of taste, which was seen in the overmantels, the absurd pictures, -the dresses and the white bow. In this lack of taste there was -something characteristic and singular.</p> - -<p>"How poor and foolish it all is!" thought Vassiliev. "What is there in -all this rubbish to tempt a normal man, to provoke him into committing -a frightful sin, to buy a living soul for a rouble? I can understand -anyone sinning for the sake of splendour, beauty, grace, passion; but -what is there here? What tempts people here? But ... it's no good -thinking!"</p> - -<p>"Whiskers, stand me champagne." The fair one turned to him.</p> - -<p>Vassiliev suddenly blushed.</p> - -<p>"With pleasure," he said, bowing politely. "But excuse me if I ... I -don't drink with you, I don't drink."</p> - -<p>Five minutes after the friends were off to another house.</p> - -<p>"Why did you order drinks?" stormed the medico. "What a millionaire, -flinging six roubles into the gutter like that for nothing at all."</p> - -<p>"Why shouldn't I give her pleasure if she wants it?" said Vassiliev, -justifying himself.</p> - -<p>"You didn't give her any pleasure. Madame got that. It's Madame who -tells them to ask the guests for drinks. She makes by it."</p> - -<p>"Behold the mill," the painter began to sing, "Now fall'n to ruin...."</p> - -<p>When they came to another house the friends stood outside in the -vestibule, but did not enter the salon. As in the first house, a figure -rose up from the sofa in the hall, in a black jacket, with a sleepy -lackey's face. As he looked at this lackey, at his face and shabby -jacket, Vassiliev thought: "What must an ordinary simple Russian go -through before Fate casts him up here? Where was he before, and what -was he doing? What awaits him? Is he married, where's his mother, -and does she know he's a lackey here?" Thenceforward in every house -Vassiliev involuntarily turned his attention to the lackey first of all.</p> - -<p>In one of the houses, it seemed to be the fourth, the lackey was a dry -little, puny fellow, with a chain across his waistcoat. He was reading -a newspaper and took no notice of the guests at all. Glancing at his -face, Vassiliev had the idea that a fellow with a face like that could -steal and murder and perjure. And indeed the face was interesting: a -big forehead, grey eyes, a flat little nose, small close-set teeth, and -the expression on his face dull and impudent at once, like a puppy hard -on a hare. Vassiliev had the thought that he would like to touch this -lackey's hair: is it rough or soft? It must be rough like a dog's.</p> - - -<hr> -<h4>III</h4> - - -<p>Because he had had two glasses the painter suddenly got rather drunk, -and unnaturally lively.</p> - -<p>"Let's go to another place," he added, waving his hands. "I'll -introduce you to the best!"</p> - -<p>When he had taken his friends into the house which was according to him -the best, he proclaimed a persistent desire to dance a quadrille. The -medico began to grumble that they would have to pay the musicians a -rouble but agreed to be his <i>vis-à-vis.</i> The dance began.</p> - -<p>It was just as bad in the best house as in the worst. Just the same -mirrors and pictures were here, the same coiffures and dresses. Looking -round at the furniture and the costumes Vassiliev now understood that -it was not lack of taste, but something that might be called the -particular taste and style of S——v Street, quite impossible to find -anywhere else, something complete, not accidental, evolved in time. -After he had been to eight houses he no longer wondered at the colour -of the dresses or the long trains, or at the bright bows, or the sailor -dresses, or the thick violent painting of the cheeks; he understood -that all this was in harmony, that if only one woman dressed herself -humanly, or one decent print hung on the wall, then the general tone of -the whole street would suffer.</p> - -<p>How badly they manage the business? Can't they really understand that -vice is only fascinating when it is beautiful and secret, hidden under -the cloak of virtue? Modest black dresses, pale faces, sad smiles, and -darkness act more strongly than this clumsy tinsel. Idiots! If they -don't understand it themselves, their guests ought to teach them....</p> - -<p>A girl in a Polish costume trimmed with white fur came up close to him -and sat down by his side.</p> - -<p>"Why don't you dance, my brown-haired darling?" she asked. "What do you -feel so bored about?"</p> - -<p>"Because it is boring."</p> - -<p>"Stand me a Château Lafitte, then you won't be bored."</p> - -<p>Vassiliev made no answer. For a little while he was silent, then he -asked:</p> - -<p>"What time do you go to bed as a rule?"</p> - -<p>"Six."</p> - -<p>"When do you get up?"</p> - -<p>"Sometimes two, sometimes three."</p> - -<p>"And after you get up what do you do?"</p> - -<p>"We drink coffee. We have dinner at seven."</p> - -<p>"And what do you have for dinner?"</p> - -<p>"Soup or <i>schi</i> as a rule, beef-steak, dessert. Our madame keeps the -girls well. But what are you asking all this for?"</p> - -<p>"Just to have a talk...."</p> - -<p>Vassiliev wanted to ask about all sorts of things. He had a strong -desire to find out where she came from, were her parents alive, and did -they know she was here; how she got into the house; was she happy and -contented, or gloomy and depressed with dark thoughts. Does she ever -hope to escape.... But he could not possibly think how to begin, or how -to put his questions without seeming indiscreet. He thought for a long -while and asked:</p> - -<p>"How old are you?"</p> - -<p>"Eighty," joked the girl, looking and laughing at the tricks the -painter was doing with his hands and feet.</p> - -<p>She suddenly giggled and uttered a long filthy expression aloud so that -every one could hear.</p> - -<p>Vassiliev, terrified, not knowing how to look, began to laugh uneasily. -He alone smiled: all the others, his friends, the musicians and the -women—paid no attention to his neighbour. They might never have heard.</p> - -<p>"Stand me a Lafitte," said the girl again.</p> - -<p>Vassiliev was suddenly repelled by her white trimming and her voice -and left her. It seemed to him close and hot. His heart began to beat -slowly and violently, like a hammer, one, two, three.</p> - -<p>"Let's get out of here," he said, pulling the painter's sleeve.</p> - -<p>"Wait. Let's finish it."</p> - -<p>While the medico and the painter were finishing their quadrille, -Vassiliev, in order to avoid the women, eyed the musicians. The -pianist was a nice old man with spectacles, with a face like Marshal -Basin; the fiddler a young man with a short, fair beard dressed in -the latest fashion. The young man was not stupid or starved, on the -contrary he looked clever, young and fresh. He was dressed with a touch -of originality, and played with emotion. Problem: how did he and the -decent old man get here? Why aren't they ashamed to sit here? What do -they think about when they look at the women?</p> - -<p>If the piano and the fiddle were played by ragged, hungry, gloomy, -drunken creatures, with thin stupid faces, then their presence would -perhaps be intelligible. As it was, Vassiliev could understand. -nothing. Into his memory came the story that he had read about the -unfortunate woman, and now he found that the human figure with the -guilty smile had nothing to do with this. It seemed to him that they -were not unfortunate women that he saw, but they belonged to another, -utterly different world, foreign and inconceivable to him; if he had -seen this world on the stage or read about it in a book he would never -have believed it.... The girl with the white trimming giggled again and -said something disgusting aloud. He felt sick, blushed, and went out:</p> - -<p>"Wait. We're coming too," cried the painter.</p> - - -<hr> -<h4>IV</h4> - - -<p>"I had a talk with my <i>mam'selle</i> while we were dancing," said the -medico when all three came into the street. "The subject was her first -love. <i>He</i> was a bookkeeper in Smolensk with a wife and five children. -She was seventeen and lived with her pa and ma who kept a soap and -candle shop."</p> - -<p>"How did he conquer her heart?" asked Vassiliev.</p> - -<p>"He bought her fifty roubles'-worth of underclothes—Lord knows what!"</p> - -<p>"However could he get her love-story out of his girl?" thought -Vassiliev. "I can't. My dear chaps, I'm off home," he said.</p> - -<p>"Why?"</p> - -<p>"Because I don't know how to get on here. I'm bored and disgusted. What -is there amusing about it? If they were only human beings; but they're -savages and beasts. I'm going, please."</p> - -<p>"Grisha darling, please," the painter said with a sob in his voice, -pressing close to Vassiliev, "let's go to one more—then to Hell with -them. Do come, Grigor."</p> - -<p>They prevailed on Vassiliev and led him up a staircase. The carpet and -the gilded balustrade, the porter who opened the door, the panels which -decorated the hall, were still in the same S——v Street style, but -here it was perfected and imposing.</p> - -<p>"Really I'm going home," said Vassiliev, taking off his overcoat.</p> - -<p>"Darling, please, please," said the painter and kissed him on the neck. -"Don't be so faddy, Grigri—be a pal. Together we came, together we go. -What a beast you are though!"</p> - -<p>"I can wait for you in the street. My God, it's disgusting here."</p> - -<p>"Please, please.... You just look on, see, just look on."</p> - -<p>"One should look at things objectively," said the medico seriously.</p> - -<p>Vassiliev entered the salon and sat down. There were many more guests -besides him and his friends: two infantry officers, a grey, bald-headed -gentleman with gold spectacles, two young clean-shaven men from the -Surveyors' Institute, and a very drunk man with an actor's face. -All the girls were looking after these guests and took no notice of -Vassiliev. Only one of them dressed like Aïda glanced at him sideways, -smiled at something and said with a yawn:</p> - -<p>"So the dark one's come."</p> - -<p>Vassiliev's heart was beating and his face was burning. He felt -ashamed for being there, disgusted and tormented. He was tortured by -the thought that he, a decent and affectionate man (so he considered -himself up till now), despised these women and felt nothing towards -them but repulsion. He could not feel pity for them or for the -musicians or the lackeys.</p> - -<p>"It's because I don't try to understand them," he thought. "They're all -more like beasts than human beings; but all the same they are human -beings. They've got souls. One should understand them first, then judge -them."</p> - -<p>"Grisha, don't go away. Wait for us," called the painter; and he -disappeared somewhere.</p> - -<p>Soon the medico disappeared also.</p> - -<p>"Yes, one should try to understand. It's no good, otherwise," thought -Vassiliev, and he began to examine intently the face of each girl, -looking for the guilty smile. But whether he could not read faces or -because none of these women felt guilty he saw in each face only a dull -look of common, vulgar boredom and satiety. Stupid eyes, stupid smiles, -harsh, stupid voices, impudent gestures—and nothing else. Evidently -every woman had in her past a love romance with a bookkeeper and fifty -roubles'-worth of underclothes. And in the present the only good things -in life were coffee, a three-course dinner, wine, quadrilles, and -sleeping till two in the afternoon....</p> - -<p>Finding not one guilty smile, Vassiliev began to examine them to see -if even one looked clever and his attention was arrested by one pale, -rather tired face. It was that of a dark woman no longer young, wearing -a dress scattered with spangles. She sat in a chair staring at the -floor and thinking of something. Vassiliev paced up and down and then -sat down beside her as if by accident.</p> - -<p>"One must begin with something trivial," he thought, "and gradually -pass on to serious conversation...."</p> - -<p>"What a beautiful little dress you have on," he said, and touched the -gold fringe of her scarf with his finger.</p> - -<p>"It's all right," said the dark woman.</p> - -<p>"Where do you come from?"</p> - -<p>"I? A long way. From Tchernigov."</p> - -<p>"It's a nice part."</p> - -<p>"It always is, where you don't happen to be."</p> - -<p>"What a pity I can't describe nature," thought Vassiliev. "I'd move her -by descriptions of Tchernigov. She must love it if she was born there."</p> - -<p>"Do you feel lonely here?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"Of course I'm lonely."</p> - -<p>"Why don't you go away from here, if you're lonely?"</p> - -<p>"Where shall I go to? Start begging, eh?"</p> - -<p>"It's easier to beg than to live here."</p> - -<p>"Where did you get that idea? Have you been a beggar?"</p> - -<p>"I begged, when I hadn't enough to pay my university fees; and even if -I hadn't begged it's easy enough to understand. A beggar is a free man, -at any rate, and you're a slave."</p> - -<p>The dark woman stretched herself, and followed with sleepy eyes the -lackey who carried a tray of glasses and soda-water.</p> - -<p>"Stand us a champagne," she said, and yawned again.</p> - -<p>"Champagne," said Vassiliev. "What would happen if your mother or your -brother suddenly came in? What would you say? And what would they say? -You would say 'champagne' then."</p> - -<p>Suddenly the noise of crying was heard. From the next room where the -lackey had carried the soda-water, a fair man rushed out with a red -face and angry eyes. He was followed by the tall, stout madame, who -screamed in a squeaky voice:</p> - -<p>"No one gave you permission to slap the girls in the face. Better class -than you come here, and never slap a girl. You bounder!"</p> - -<p>Followed an uproar. Vassiliev was scared and went white. In the next -room some one wept, sobbing, sincerely, as only the insulted weep. -And he understood that indeed human beings lived here, actually -human beings, who get offended, suffer, weep, and ask for help. The -smouldering hatred, the feeling of repulsion, gave way to an acute -sense of pity and anger against the wrong-doer. He rushed into the -room from which the weeping came. Through the rows of bottles which -stood on the marble table-top he saw a suffering tear-stained face, -stretched out his hands towards this face, stepped to the table and -instantly gave a leap back in terror. The sobbing woman was dead-drunk.</p> - -<p>As he made his way through the noisy crowd, gathered round the fair -man, his heart failed him, he lost his courage like a boy, and it -seemed to him that in this foreign, inconceivable world, they wanted to -run after him, to beat him, to abuse him with foul words. He tore down -his coat from the peg and rushed headlong down the stairs.</p> - - -<hr> -<h4>V</h4> - - -<p>Pressing close to the fence, he stood near to the house and waited -for his friends to come out. The sounds of the pianos and fiddles, -gay, bold, impudent and sad, mingled into chaos in the air, and this -confusion was, as before, as if an unseen orchestra were tuning in the -dark over the roof-tops. If he looked up towards the darkness, then -all the background was scattered with white, moving points: it was -snowing. The flakes, coming into the light, spun lazily in the air like -feathers, and still more lazily fell. Flakes of snow crowded whirling -about Vassiliev, and hung on his beard, his eyelashes, his eyebrows. -The cabmen, the horses, and the passers-by, all were white.</p> - -<p>"How dare the snow fall in this street?" thought Vassiliev. "A curse on -these houses."</p> - -<p>Because of his headlong rush down the staircase his feet failed him -from weariness; he was out of breath as if he had climbed a mountain. -His heart beat so loud that he could hear it. A longing came over him -to get out of this street as soon as possible and go home; but still -stronger was his desire to wait for his friends and to vent upon them -his feeling of heaviness.</p> - -<p>He had not understood many things in the houses. The souls of the -perishing women were to him a mystery as before; but it was dear to -him that the business was much worse than one would have thought. If -the guilty woman who poisoned herself was called a prostitute, then it -was hard to find a suitable name for all these creatures, who danced -to the muddling music and said long, disgusting phrases. They were not -perishing; they were already done for.</p> - -<p>"Vice is here," he thought; "but there is neither confession of sin -nor hope of salvation. They are bought and sold, drowned in wine -and torpor, and they are dull and indifferent as sheep and do not -understand. My God, my God!"</p> - -<p>It was so clear to him that all that which is called human dignity, -individuality, the image and likeness of God, was here dragged down to -the gutter, as they say of drunkards, and that not only the street and -the stupid women were to blame for it.</p> - -<p>A crowd of students white with snow, talking and laughing gaily, -passed by. One of them, a tall, thin man, peered into Vassiliev's face -and said drunkenly, "He's one of ours. Logged, old man? Aha! my lad. -Never mind. Walk up, never say die, uncle."</p> - -<p>He took Vassiliev by the shoulders and pressed his cold wet moustaches -to his cheek, then slipped, staggered, brandished his arms, and cried -out:</p> - -<p>"Steady there—don't fall."</p> - -<p>Laughing, he ran to join his comrades.</p> - -<p>Through the noise the painter's voice became audible.</p> - -<p>"You dare beat women! I won't have it. Go to Hell. You're regular -swine."</p> - -<p>The medico appeared at the door of the house. He glanced round and on -seeing Vassiliev, said in alarm:</p> - -<p>"Is that you? My God, it's simply impossible to go anywhere with Yegor. -I can't understand a chap like that. He kicked up a row—can't you -hear? Yegor," he called from the door. "Yegor!"</p> - -<p>"I won't have you hitting women." The painter's shrill voice was -audible again from upstairs.</p> - -<p>Something heavy and bulky tumbled down the staircase. It was the -painter coming head over heels. He had evidently been thrown out.</p> - -<p>He lifted himself up from the ground, dusted his hat, and with an angry -indignant face, shook his fist at the upstairs.</p> - -<p>"Scoundrels! Butchers! Bloodsuckers! I won't have you hitting a weak, -drunken woman. Ah, you...."</p> - -<p>"Yegor ... Yegor!" the medico began to implore, "I give my word I'll -never go out with you again. Upon my honour, I won't."</p> - -<p>The painter gradually calmed, and the friends went home.</p> - -<p>"To these sad shores unknowing"—the medico began—"An unknown power -entices...."</p> - -<p>"'Behold the mill,'" the painter sang with him after a pause, "'Now fallen -into ruin.' How the snow is falling, most Holy Mother. Why did you go -away, Grisha? You're a coward; you're only an old woman."</p> - -<p>Vassiliev was walking behind his friends. He stared at their backs and -thought: "One of two things: either prostitution only seems to us an -evil and we exaggerate it, or if prostitution is really such an evil as -is commonly thought, these charming friends of mine are just as much -slavers, violators, and murderers as the inhabitants of Syria and Cairo -whose photographs appear in 'The Field.' They're singing, laughing, -arguing soundly now, but haven't they just been exploiting starvation, -ignorance, and stupidity? They have, I saw them at it. Where does their -humanity, their science, and their painting come in, then? The science, -art, and lofty sentiments of these murderers remind me of the lump of -fat in the story. Two robbers killed a beggar in a forest; they began -to divide his clothes between themselves and found in his bag a lump -of pork fat. 'In the nick of time,' said one of them. 'Let's have a -bite!' 'How can you?' the other cried in terror. 'Have you forgotten -to-day's Friday?' So they refrained from eating. After having cut the -man's throat they walked out of the forest confident that they were -pious fellows. These two are just the same. When they've paid for women -they go and imagine they're painters and scholars....</p> - -<p>"Listen, you two," he said angrily and sharply. "Why do you go to those -places? Can't you understand how horrible they are? Your medicine -tells you every one of these women dies prematurely from consumption -or something else; your arts tell you that she died morally still -earlier. Each of them dies because during her lifetime she accepts on -an average, let us say, five hundred men. Each of them is killed by -five hundred men, and you're amongst the five hundred. Now if each of -you comes here and to places like this two hundred and fifty times in -his lifetime, then it means that between you you have killed one woman. -Can't you understand that? Isn't it horrible?"</p> - -<p>"Ah, isn't this awful, my God?"</p> - -<p>"There, I knew it would end like this," said the painter frowning. "We -oughtn't to have had anything to do with this fool of a blockhead. I -suppose you think your head's full of great thoughts and great ideas -now. Devil knows what they are, but they're not ideas. You're staring -at me now with hatred and disgust; but if you want my opinion you'd -better build twenty more of the houses than look like that. There's -more vice in your look than in the whole street. Let's clear out, -Volodya, damn him! He's a fool. He's a blockhead, and that's all he is."</p> - -<p>"Human beings are always killing each other," said the medico. "That is -immoral, of course. But philosophy won't help you. Good-bye!"</p> - -<p>The friends parted at Trubnoi Square and went their way. Left alone, -Vassiliev began to stride along the boulevard. He was frightened of the -dark, frightened of the snow, which fell to the earth in little flakes, -but seemed to long to cover the whole world; he was frightened of the -street-lamps, which glimmered faintly through the clouds of snow. An -inexplicable faint-hearted fear possessed his soul. Now and then people -passed him; but he gave a start and stepped aside. It seemed to him -that from everywhere there came and stared at him women, only women....</p> - -<p>"It's coming on," he thought, "I'm going to have a fit."</p> - - -<hr> -<h4>VI</h4> - - -<p>At home he lay on his bed and began to talk, shivering all over his -body.</p> - -<p>"Live women, live.... My God, they're alive."</p> - -<p>He sharpened the edge of his imagination in every possible way. Now he -was the brother of an unfortunate, now her father. Now he was himself a -fallen woman, with painted cheeks; and all this terrified him.</p> - -<p>It seemed to him somehow that he must solve this question immediately, -at all costs, and that the problem was not strange to him, but was his -own. He made a great effort, conquered his despair, and, sitting on the -side of the bed, his head clutched in his hands, he began to think:</p> - -<p>How could all the women he had seen that night be saved? The process -of solving a problem was familiar to him as to a learned person; and -notwithstanding all his excitement he kept strictly to this process. -He recalled to mind the history of the question, its literature, and -just after three o'clock he was pacing up and down, trying to remember -all the experiments which are practised nowadays for the salvation of -women. He had a great many good friends who lived in furnished rooms, -Falzfein, Galyashkin, Nechaiev, Yechkin ... not a few among them were -honest and self-sacrificing, and some of them had attempted to save -these women....</p> - -<p>All these few attempts, thought Vassiliev, rare attempts, may be -divided into three groups. Some having rescued a woman from a brothel -hired a room for her, bought her a sewing-machine and she became a -dressmaker, and the man who saved her kept her for his mistress, -openly or otherwise, but later when he had finished his studies and was -going away, he would hand her over to another decent fellow. So the -fallen woman remained fallen. Others after having bought her out also -hired a room for her, bought the inevitable sewing-machine and started -her off reading and writing and preached at her. The woman sits and -sews as long as it is novel and amusing, but later, when she is bored, -she begins to receive men secretly, or runs back to where she can sleep -till three in the afternoon, drink coffee, and eat till she is full. -Finally, the most ardent and self-sacrificing take a bold, determined -step. They marry, and when the impudent, self-indulgent, stupefied -creature becomes a wife, a lady of the house, and then a mother, her -life and outlook are utterly changed, and in the wife and mother it is -hard to recognise the unfortunate woman. Yes, marriage is the best, it -may be the only, resource.</p> - -<p>"But it's impossible," Vassiliev said aloud and threw himself down on -his bed. "First of all, I could not marry one. One would have to be a -saint to be able to do it, unable to hate, not knowing disgust. But -let us suppose that the painter, the medico, and I got the better of -our feelings and married, that all these women got married, what is -the result? What kind of effect follows? The result is that while the -women get married here in Moscow, the Smolensk bookkeeper seduces a -fresh lot, and these will pour into the empty places, together with -women from Saratov, Nijni-Novgorod, Warsaw.... And what happens to the -hundred thousand in London? What can be done with those in Hamburg?"</p> - -<p>The oil in the lamp was used up and the lamp began to smell. Vassiliev -did not notice it. Again he began to pace up and down, thinking. Now he -put the question differently. What can be done to remove the demand for -fallen women? For this it is necessary that the men who buy and kill -them should at once begin to feel all the immorality of their <i>rôle</i> of -slave-owners, and this should terrify them. It is necessary to save the -men.</p> - -<p>Science and art apparently won't do, thought Vassiliev. There is only -one way out—to be an apostle.</p> - -<p>And he began to dream how he would stand to-morrow evening at the -corner of the street and say to each passer-by: "Where are you going -and what for? Fear God!"</p> - -<p>He would turn to the indifferent cabmen and say to them:</p> - -<p>"Why are you standing here? Why don't you revolt? You do believe in -God, don't you? And you do know that this is a crime, and that people -will go to Hell for this? Why do you keep quiet, then? True, the women -are strangers to you, but they have fathers and brothers exactly the -same as you...."</p> - -<p>Some friend of Vassiliev's once said of him that he was a man of -talent. There is a talent for writing, for the theatre, for painting; -but Vassiliev's was peculiar, a talent for humanity. He had a fine and -noble <i>flair</i> for every kind of suffering. As a good actor reflects in -himself the movement and voice of another, so Vassiliev could reflect -in himself another's pain. Seeing tears, he wept. With a sick person, -he himself became sick and moaned. If he saw violence done, it seemed -to him that he was the victim. He was frightened like a child, and, -frightened, ran for help. Another's pain roused him, excited him, threw -him into a state of ecstasy....</p> - -<p>Whether the friend was right I do not know, but what happened to -Vassiliev when it seemed to him that the question was solved was very -much like an ecstasy. He sobbed, laughed, said aloud the things he -would say to-morrow, felt a burning love for the men who would listen -to him and stand by his side at the corner of the street, preaching. He -sat down to write to them; he made vows.</p> - -<p>All this was the more like an ecstasy in that it did not last. -Vassiliev was soon tired. The London women, the Hamburg women, those -from Warsaw, crushed him with their mass, as the mountains crush the -earth. He quailed before this mass; he lost himself; he remembered he -had no gift for speaking, that he was timid and faint-hearted, that -strange people would hardly want to listen to and understand him, a -law-student in his third year, a frightened and insignificant figure. -The true apostleship consisted, not only in preaching, but also in -deeds....</p> - -<p>When daylight came and the carts rattled on the streets, Vassiliev lay -motionless on the sofa, staring at one point. He did not think any -more of women, or men, or apostles. All his attention was fixed on the -pain of his soul which tormented him. It was a dull pain, indefinite, -vague; it was like anguish and the most acute fear and despair. He -could say where the pain was. It was in his breast, under the heart. -It could not be compared to anything. Once on a time he used to have -violent toothache. Once, he had pleurisy and neuralgia. But all these -pains were as nothing beside the pain of his soul. Beneath this pain -life seemed repulsive. The thesis, his brilliant work already written, -the people he loved, the salvation of fallen women, all that which only -yesterday he loved or was indifferent to, remembered now, irritated -him in the same way as the noise of the carts, the running about of -the porters and the daylight.... If someone now were to perform before -his eyes a deed of mercy or an act of revolting violence, both would -produce upon him an equally repulsive impression. Of all the thoughts -which roved lazily in his head, two only did not irritate him: one—at -any moment he had the power to kill himself, the other—that the pain -would not last more than three days. The second he knew from experience.</p> - -<p>After having lain down for a while he got up and walked wringing his -hands, not from corner to corner as usually, but in a square along -the walls. He caught a glimpse of himself in the glass. His face -was pale and haggard, his temples hollow, his eyes bigger, darker, -more immobile, as if they were not his own, and they expressed the -intolerable suffering of his soul.</p> - -<p>In the afternoon the painter knocked at the door.</p> - -<p>"Gregory, are you at home?" he asked.</p> - -<p>Receiving no answer, he stood musing for a while, and said to himself -good-naturedly:</p> - -<p>"Out. He's gone to the University. Damn him."</p> - -<p>And went away.</p> - -<p>Vassiliev lay down on his bed and burying his head in the pillow he -began to cry with the pain. But the faster his tears flowed, the more -terrible was the pain. When it was dark, he got into his mind the idea -of the horrible night which was awaiting him and awful despair seized -him. He dressed quickly, ran out of his room, leaving the door wide -open, and into the street without reason or purpose. Without asking -himself where he was going, he walked quickly to Sadovaia Street.</p> - -<p>Snow was falling as yesterday. It was thawing. Putting his hands into -his sleeves, shivering, and frightened of the noises and the bells -of the trams and of passers-by, Vassiliev walked from Sadovaia to -Sukhariev Tower then to the Red Gates, and from here he turned and -went to Basmannaia. He went into a public-house and gulped down a big -glass of vodka, but felt no better. Arriving at Razgoulyai, he turned -to the right and began to stride down streets that he had never in -his life been down before. He came to that old bridge under which the -river Yaouza roars and from whence long rows of lights are seen in the -windows of the Red Barracks. In order to distract the pain of his soul -by a new sensation or another pain, not knowing what to do, weeping -and trembling, Vassiliev unbuttoned his coat and jacket, baring his -naked breast to the damp snow and the wind. Neither lessened the pain. -Then he bent over the rail of the bridge and stared down at the black, -turbulent Yaouza, and he suddenly wanted to throw himself head-first, -not from hatred of life, not for the sake of suicide, but only to hurt -himself and so to kill one pain by another. But the black water, the -dark, deserted banks covered with snow were frightening. He shuddered -and went on. He walked as far as the Red Barracks, then back and into a -wood, from the wood to the bridge again.</p> - -<p>"No! Home, home," he thought. "At home I believe it's easier."</p> - -<p>And he went back. On returning home he tore off his wet clothes and -hat, began to pace along the walls, and paced incessantly until the -very morning.</p> - - -<hr> -<h4>VII</h4> - - -<p>The next morning when the painter and the medico came to see him, -they found him in a shirt torn to ribbons, his hands bitten all over, -tossing about in the room and moaning with pain.</p> - -<p>"For God's sake!" he began to sob, seeing his comrades, "Take me -anywhere you like, do what you like, but save me, for God's sake now, -now! I'll kill myself."</p> - -<p>The painter went pale and was bewildered. The medico, too, nearly began -to cry; but, believing that medical men must be cool and serious on -every occasion of life, he said coldly:</p> - -<p>"It's a fit you've got. But never mind. Come to the doctor, at once."</p> - -<p>"Anywhere you like, but quickly, for God's sake!"</p> - -<p>"Don't be agitated. You must struggle with yourself."</p> - -<p>The painter and the medico dressed Vassiliev with trembling hands and -led him into the street.</p> - -<p>"Mikhail Sergueyich has been wanting to make your acquaintance for a -long while," the medico said on the way. "He's a very nice man, and -knows his job splendidly. He took his degree in '82, and has got a huge -practice already. He keeps friends with the students."</p> - -<p>"Quicker, quicker...." urged Vassiliev. Mikhail Sergueyich, a stout -doctor with fair hair, received the friends politely, firmly, coldly, -and smiled with one cheek only.</p> - -<p>"The painter and Mayer have told me of your disease already," he said. -"Very glad to be of service to you. Well? Sit down, please."</p> - -<p>He made Vassiliev sit down in a big chair by the table, and put a box -of cigarettes in front of him.</p> - -<p>"Well?" he began, stroking his knees. "Let's make a start. How old are -you?"</p> - -<p>He put questions and the medico answered. He asked whether Vassiliev's -father suffered from any peculiar diseases, if he had fits of drinking, -was he distinguished by his severity or any other eccentricities. He -asked the same questions about his grandfather, mother, sisters, and -brothers. Having ascertained that his mother had a fine voice and -occasionally appeared on the stage, he suddenly brightened up and asked:</p> - -<p>"Excuse me, but could you recall whether the theatre was not a passion -with your mother?"</p> - -<p>About twenty minutes passed. Vassiliev was bored by the doctor stroking -his knees and talking of the same thing all the while.</p> - -<p>"As far as I can understand your questions, Doctor," he said. "You want -to know whether my disease is hereditary or not. It is not hereditary."</p> - -<p>The doctor went on to ask if Vassiliev had not any secret vices -in his early youth, any blows on the head, any love passions, -eccentricities, or exceptional infatuations. To half the questions -habitually asked by careful doctors you may return no answer without -any injury to your health; but Mikhail Sergueyich, the medico and the -painter looked as though, if Vassiliev failed to answer even one single -question, everything would be ruined. For some reason the doctor wrote -down the answers he received on a scrap of paper. Discovering that -Vassiliev had already passed through the faculty of natural science and -was now in the Law faculty, the doctor began to be pensive....</p> - -<p>"He wrote a brilliant thesis last year...." said the medico.</p> - -<p>"Excuse me. You mustn't interrupt me; you prevent me from -concentrating," the doctor said, smiling with one cheek. "Yes, -certainly that is important for the anamnesis.... Yes, yes.... And do -you drink vodka?" he turned to Vassiliev.</p> - -<p>"Very rarely."</p> - -<p>Another twenty minutes passed. The medico began <i>sotto voce</i> to give -his opinion of the immediate causes of the fit and told how he, the -painter and Vassiliev went to S——v Street the day before yesterday.</p> - -<p>The indifferent, reserved, cold tone in which his friends and the -doctor were speaking of the women and the miserable street seemed to -him in the highest degree strange....</p> - -<p>"Doctor, tell me this one thing," he said, restraining himself from -being rude. "Is prostitution an evil or not?"</p> - -<p>"My dear fellow, who disputes it?" the doctor said with an expression -as though he had long ago solved all these questions for himself. "Who -disputes it?"</p> - -<p>"Are you a psychiatrist?"</p> - -<p>"Yes-s, a psychiatrist."</p> - -<p>"Perhaps all of you are right," said Vassiliev, rising and beginning -to walk from corner to corner. "It may be. But to me all this seems -amazing. They see a great achievement in my having passed through two -faculties at the university; they praise me to the skies because I have -written a work that will be thrown away and forgotten in three years' -time, but because I can't speak of prostitutes as indifferently as I can -about these chairs, they send me to doctors, call me a lunatic, and -pity me."</p> - -<p>For some reason Vassiliev suddenly began to feel an intolerable pity -for himself, his friends, and everybody whom he had seen the day before -yesterday, and for the doctor. He began to sob and fell into the chair.</p> - -<p>The friends looked interrogatively at the doctor. He, looking as though -he magnificently understood the tears and the despair, and knew himself -a specialist in this line, approached Vassiliev and gave him some drops -to drink, and then when Vassiliev grew calm undressed him and began to -examine the sensitiveness of his skin, of the knee reflexes....</p> - -<p>And Vassiliev felt better. When he was coming out of the doctor's he -was already ashamed; the noise of the traffic did not seem irritating, -and the heaviness beneath his heart became easier and easier as though -it were thawing. In his hand were two prescriptions. One was for -kali-bromatum, the other—morphia. He used to take both before.</p> - -<p>He stood still in the street for a while, pensive, and then, taking -leave of his friends, lazily dragged on towards the university.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap"> -<h4><a name="MISFORTUNE" id="MISFORTUNE">MISFORTUNE</a></h4> - - -<p>Sophia Pietrovna, the wife of the solicitor Loubianzev, a handsome -young woman of about twenty-five, was walking quickly along a forest -path with her bungalow neighbour, the barrister Ilyin. It was just -after four. In the distance, above the path, white feathery clouds -gathered; from behind them some bright blue pieces of cloud showed -through. The clouds were motionless, as if caught on the tops of the -tall, aged fir trees. It was calm and warm.</p> - -<p>In the distance the path was cut across by a low railway embankment, -along which at this hour, for some reason or other, a sentry strode. -Just behind the embankment a big, six-towered church with a rusty roof -shone white.</p> - -<p>"I did not expect to meet you here," Sophia Pietrovna was saying, -looking down and touching the last year's leaves with the end of her -parasol. "But now I am glad to have met you. I want to speak to you -seriously and finally. Ivan Mikhailovich, if you really love and -respect me I implore you to stop pursuing me! You follow me like -a shadow—there's such a wicked look in your eye—you make love to -me—write extraordinary letters and ... I don't know how all this is -going to end—Good Heavens! What can all this lead to?"</p> - -<p>Ilyin was silent. Sophia Pietrovna took a few steps and continued:</p> - -<p>"And this sudden complete change has happened in two or three weeks -after five years of friendship. I do not know you any more, Ivan -Mikhailovich."</p> - -<p>Sophia Pietrovna glanced sideways at her companion. He was staring -intently, screwing up his eyes at the feathery clouds. The expression -of his face was angry, capricious and distracted, like that of a man -who suffers and at the same time must listen to nonsense.</p> - -<p>"It is annoying that you yourself can't realise it!" Madame Loubianzev -continued, shrugging her shoulders. "Please understand that you're not -playing a very nice game. I am married, I love and respect my husband. -I have a daughter. Don't you really care in the slightest for all this? -Besides, as an old friend, you know my views on family life ... on the -sanctity of the home, generally."</p> - -<p>Ilyin gave an angry grunt and sighed:</p> - -<p>"The sanctity of the home," he murmured, "Good Lord!"</p> - -<p>"Yes, yes. I love and respect my husband and at any rate the peace of -my family life is precious to me. I'd sooner let myself be killed than -be the cause of Andrey's or his daughter's unhappiness. So, please, -Ivan Mikhailovich, for goodness' sake, leave me alone. Let us be good -and dear friends, and give up these sighings and gaspings which don't -suit you. It's settled and done with! Not another word about it. Let us -talk of something else!"</p> - -<p>Sophia Pietrovna again glanced sideways at Ilyin. He was looking up. -He was pale, and angrily he bit his trembling lips. Madame Loubianzev -could not understand why he was disturbed and angry, but his pallor -moved her.</p> - -<p>"Don't be cross. Let's be friends," she said, sweetly.</p> - -<p>"Agreed! Here is my hand."</p> - -<p>Ilyin took her tiny plump hand in both his, pressed it and slowly -raised it to his lips.</p> - -<p>"I'm not a schoolboy," he murmured. "I'm not in the least attracted by -the idea of friendship with the woman I love."</p> - -<p>"That's enough. Stop! It is all settled and done with. We have come as -far as the bench. Let us sit down...."</p> - -<p>A sweet sense of repose filled Sophia Pietrovna's soul. The most -difficult and delicate thing was already said. The tormenting question -was settled and done with. Now she could breathe easily and look -straight at Ilyin. She looked at him, and the egotistical sense of -superiority that a woman feels over her lover caressed her pleasantly. -She liked the way this big strong man with a virile angry face and a -huge black beard sat obediently at her side and hung his head. They -were silent for a little while. "Nothing is yet settled and done with," -Ilyin began. "You are reading me a sermon. 'I love and respect my -husband ... the sanctity of the home....' I know all that for myself -and I can tell you more. Honestly and sincerely I confess that I -consider my conduct as criminal and immoral. What else? But why say -what is known already? Instead of sermonizing you had far better tell -me what I am to do."</p> - -<p>"I have already told you. Go away."</p> - -<p>"I have gone. You know quite well. I have started five times and -half-way there I have come back again. I can show you the through -tickets. I have kept them all safe. But I haven't the power to run away -from you. I struggle frightfully, but what in Heaven's name is the use? -If I cannot harden myself, if I'm weak and faint-hearted. I can't fight -nature. Do you understand? I cannot! I run away from her and she holds -me back by my coattails. Vile, vulgar weakness."</p> - -<p>Ilyin blushed, got up, and began walking by the bench:</p> - -<p>"How I hate and despise myself. Good Lord, I'm like a vicious -boy—running after another man's wife, writing idiotic letters, -degrading myself. Ach!" He clutched his head, grunted and sit down.</p> - -<p>"And now comes your lack of sincerity into the bargain," he continued -with bitterness. "If you don't think I am playing a nice game—why -are you here? What drew you? In my letters I only ask you for a -straightforward answer: Yes, or No; and instead of giving it me, every -day you contrive that we shall meet 'by chance' and you treat me to -quotations from a moral copy-book."</p> - -<p>Madame Loubianzev reddened and got frightened. She suddenly felt the -kind of awkwardness that a modest woman would feel at being suddenly -discovered naked.</p> - -<p>"You seem to suspect some deceit on my side," she murmured. "I have -always given you a straight answer; and I asked you for one to-day."</p> - -<p>"Ah, does one ask such things? If you had said to me at once 'Go away,' -I would have gone long ago, but you never told me to. Never once have -you been frank. Strange irresolution. My God, either you're playing -with me, or...."</p> - -<p>Ilyin did not finish, and rested his head in his hands. Sophia -Pietrovna recalled her behaviour all through. She remembered that she -had felt all these days not only in deed but even in her most intimate -thoughts opposed to Ilyin's love. But at the same moment she knew that -there was a grain of truth in the barrister's words. And not knowing -what kind of truth it was she could not think, no matter how much she -thought about it, what to say to him in answer to his complaint. It was -awkward being silent, so she said shrugging her shoulders:</p> - -<p>"So I'm to blame for that too?"</p> - -<p>"I don't blame you for your insincerity," sighed Ilyin. "It slipped out -unconsciously. Your insincerity is natural to you, in the natural order -of things as well. If all mankind were to agree suddenly to become -serious, everything would go to the Devil, to ruin."</p> - -<p>Sophia Pietrovna was not in the mood for philosophy; but she was glad -of the opportunity to change the conversation and asked:</p> - -<p>"Why indeed?"</p> - -<p>"Because only savages and animals are sincere. Since civilisation -introduced into society the demand, for instance, for such a luxury as -woman's virtue, sincerity has been out of place."</p> - -<p>Angrily Ilyin began to thrust his stick into the sand. Madame -Loubianzev listened without understanding much of it; she liked the -conversation. First of all, she was pleased that a gifted man should -speak to her, an average woman, about intellectual things; also it gave -her great pleasure to watch how the pale, lively, still angry, young -face was working. Much she did not understand; but the fine courage -of modern man was revealed to her, the courage by which he without -reflection or surmise solves the great questions and constructs his -simple conclusions.</p> - -<p>Suddenly she discovered that she was admiring him, and it frightened -her.</p> - -<p>"Pardon, but I don't really understand," she hastened to say. "Why -did you mention insincerity? I entreat you once more, be a dear, good -friend and leave me alone. Sincerely, I ask it."</p> - -<p>"Good—I'll do my best. But hardly anything will come of it. Either -I'll put a bullet through my brains or ... I'll start drinking in -the stupidest possible way. Things will end badly for me. Everything -has its limit, even a struggle with nature. Tell me now, how can one -struggle with madness? If you've drunk wine, how can you get over the -excitement? What can I do if your image has grown into my soul, and -stands incessantly before my eyes, night and day, as plain as that -fir tree there? Tell me then what thing I must do to get out of this -wretched, unhappy state, when all my thoughts, desires, and dreams -belong, not to me, but to some devil that has got hold of me? I love -you, I love you so much that I've turned away from my path, given up my -career and my closest friends, forgot my God. Never in my life have I -loved so much."</p> - -<p>Sophia Pietrovna, who was not expecting this turn, drew her body away -from Ilyin, and glanced at him frightened. Tears shone in his eyes. His -lips trembled, and a hungry, suppliant expression showed over all his -face.</p> - -<p>"I love you," he murmured, bringing his own eyes near to her big, -frightened ones. "You are so beautiful. I'm suffering now; but I swear -I could remain so all my life, suffering and looking into your eyes, -but.... Keep silent, I implore you."</p> - -<p>Sophia Pietrovna as if taken unawares began, quickly, quickly, to think -out words with which to stop him. "I shall go away," she decided, but -no sooner had she moved to get up, than Ilyin was on his knees at her -feet already. He embraced her knees, looked into her eyes and spoke -passionately, ardently, beautifully. She did not hear his words, for -her fear and agitation. Somehow now at this dangerous moment when -her knees pleasantly contracted, as in a warm bath, she sought with -evil intention to read some meaning into her sensation. She was angry -because the whole of her instead of protesting virtue was filled with -weakness, laziness, and emptiness, like a drunken man to whom the ocean -is but knee-deep; only in the depths of her soul, a little remote -malignant voice teased: "Why don't you go away? Then this is right, is -it?"</p> - -<p>Seeking in herself an explanation she could not understand why she had -not withdrawn the hand to which Ilyin's lips clung like a leech, nor -why, at the same time as Ilyin, she looked hurriedly right and left to -see that they were not observed.</p> - -<p>The fir-trees and the clouds stood motionless, and gazed at them -severely like broken-down masters who see something going on, but have -been bribed not to report to the head. The sentry on the embankment -stood like a stick and seemed to be staring at the bench. "Let him -look!" thought Sophia Pietrovna.</p> - -<p>"But ... But listen," she said at last with despair in her voice. "What -will this lead to? What will happen afterwards?"</p> - -<p>"I don't know. I don't know," he began to whisper, waving these -unpleasant questions aside.</p> - -<p>The hoarse, jarring whistle of a railway engine became audible. This -cold, prosaic sound of the everyday world made Madame Loubianzev start.</p> - -<p>"It's time, I must go," she said, getting up quickly. "The train is -coming. Audrey is arriving. He will want his dinner."</p> - -<p>Sophia Pietrovna turned her blazing cheeks to the embankment. First -the engine came slowly into sight, after it the carriages. It was not -a bungalow train, but a goods train. In a long row, one after another -like the days of man's life, the cars drew past the white background of -the church, and there seemed to be no end to them.</p> - -<p>But at last the train disappeared, and the end car with the guard and -the lighted lamps disappeared into the green. Sophia Pietrovna turned -sharply and not looking at Ilyin began to walk quickly back along the -path. She had herself in control again. Red with shame, offended, not -by Ilyin, no! but by the cowardice and shamelessness with which she, -a good, respectable woman allowed a stranger to embrace her knees. -She had only one thought now, to reach her bungalow and her family -as quickly as possible. The barrister could hardly keep up with her. -Turning from the path on to a little track, she glanced at him so -quickly that she noticed only the sand on his knees, and she motioned -with her hand at him to let her be.</p> - -<p>Running into the house Sophia Pietrovna stood for about five minutes -motionless in her room, looking now at the window then at the writing -table.... "You disgraceful woman," she scolded herself; "disgraceful!" -In spite of herself she recollected every detail, hiding nothing, how -all these days she had been against Ilyin's love-making, yet she was -somehow drawn to meet him and explain; but besides this when he was -lying at her feet she felt an extraordinary pleasure. She recalled -everything, not sparing herself, and now, stifled with shame, she could -have slapped her own face.</p> - -<p>"Poor Andrey," she thought, trying, as she remembered her husband, -to give her face the tenderest possible expression—"Varya, my poor -darling child, does not know what a mother she has. Forgive me, my -dears. I love you very much ... very much!..."</p> - -<p>And wishing to convince herself that she was still a good wife and -mother, that corruption had not yet touched those "sanctities" of hers, -of which she had spoken to Ilyin, Sophia Pietrovna ran into the kitchen -and scolded the cook for not having laid the table for Andrey Ilyitch. -She tried to imagine her husband's tired, hungry look, and pitying him -aloud, she laid the table herself, a thing which she had never done -before. Then she found her daughter Varya, lifted her up in her hands -and kissed her passionately; the child seemed to her heavy and cold, -but she would not own it to herself, and she began to tell her what a -good, dear, splendid father she had.</p> - -<p>But when, soon after, Andrey Ilyitch arrived, she barely greeted him. -The flow of imaginary feelings had ebbed away without convincing her of -anything; she was only exasperated and enraged by the lie. She sat at -the window, suffered, and raged. Only in distress can people understand -how difficult it is to master their thoughts and feelings. Sophia -Pietrovna said afterwards a confusion was going on inside her as hard -to define as to count a cloud of swiftly flying sparrows. Thus from -the fact that she was delighted at her husband's arrival and pleased -with the way he behaved at dinner, she suddenly concluded that she had -begun to hate him. Andrey Ilyitch, languid with hunger and fatigue, -while waiting for the soup, fell upon the sausage and ate it greedily, -chewing loudly and moving his temples.</p> - -<p>"My God," thought Sophia Pietrovna. "I do love and respect him, but ... -why does he chew so disgustingly."</p> - -<p>Her thoughts were no less disturbed than her feelings. Madame -Loubianzev, like all who have no experience of the struggle with -unpleasant thought, did her best not to think of her unhappiness, -and the more zealously she tried, the more vivid Ilyin became to her -imagination, the sand on his knees, the feathery clouds, the train....</p> - -<p>"Why did I—idiot—go to-day?" she teased herself. "And am I really a -person who can't answer for herself?"</p> - -<p>Fear has big eyes. When Andrey Ilyitch had finished the last course, -she had already resolved to tell him everything and so escape from -danger.</p> - -<p>"Andrey, I want to speak to you seriously," she began after dinner, -when her husband was taking off his coat and boots in order to have a -lie down.</p> - -<p>"Well?"</p> - -<p>"Let's go away from here!"</p> - -<p>"How—where to? It's still too early to go to town."</p> - -<p>"No. Travel or something like that."</p> - -<p>"Travel," murmured the solicitor, stretching himself. "I dream of it -myself, but where shall I get the money, and who'll look after my -business."</p> - -<p>After a little reflection he added:</p> - -<p>"Yes, really you are bored. Go by yourself if you want to."</p> - -<p>Sophia Pietrovna agreed; but at the same time she saw that Ilyin would -be glad of the opportunity to travel in the same train with her, in the -same carriage....</p> - -<p>She pondered and looked at her husband, who was full fed but still -languid. For some reason her eyes stopped on his feet, tiny, almost -womanish, in stupid socks. On the toe of both socks little threads -were standing out. Under the drawn blind a bumble bee was knocking -against the window pane and buzzing. Sophia Pietrovna stared at the -threads, listened to the bumble bee and pictured her journey.... Day -and night Ilyin sits opposite, without taking his eyes from her, angry -with his weakness and pale with the pain of his soul. He brands himself -as a libertine, accuses her, tears his hair; but when the dark comes -he seizes the chance when the passengers go to sleep or alight at a -station and falls on his knees before her and clasps her feet, as he -did by the bench....</p> - -<p>She realised that she was dreaming....</p> - -<p>"Listen. I am not going by myself," she said. "You must come, too!"</p> - -<p>"Sophochka, that's all imagination!" sighed Loubianzev. "You must be -serious and only ask for the possible...."</p> - -<p>"You'll come when you find out!" thought Sophia Pietrovna.</p> - -<p>Having decided to go away at all costs, she began to feel free from -danger; her thoughts fell gradually into order, she became cheerful and -even allowed herself to think about everything. Whatever she may think -or dream about, she is going all the same. While her husband still -slept, little by little, evening came....</p> - -<p>She sat in the drawing-room playing the piano. Outside the window the -evening animation, the sound of music, but chiefly the thought of her -own cleverness in mastering her misery gave the final touch to her -joy. Other women, her easy conscience told her, in a position like her -own would surely not resist, they would spin round like a whirlwind; -but she was nearly burnt up with shame, she suffered and now she had -escaped from a danger which perhaps was nonexistent! Her virtue and -resolution moved her so much that she even glanced at herself in the -glass three times.</p> - -<p>When it was dark visitors came. The men sat down to cards in the -dining-room, the ladies were in the drawing room and on the terrace. -Ilyin came last, he was stern and gloomy and looked ill. He sat down -on a corner of the sofa and did not get up for the whole evening. -Usually cheerful and full of conversation, he was now silent, frowning, -and rubbing his eyes. When he had to answer a question he smiled -with difficulty and only with his upper lip, answering abruptly and -spitefully. He made about five jokes in all, but his jokes seemed crude -and insolent. It seemed to Sophia Pietrovna that he was on the brink -of hysteria. But only now as she sat at the piano did she acknowledge -that the unhappy man was not in the mood to joke, that he was sick in -his soul, he could find no place for himself. It was for her sake he -was ruining the best days of his career and his youth, wasting his last -farthing on a bungalow, had left his mother and sisters uncared for, -and, above all, was breaking down under the martyrdom of his struggle. -From simple, common humanity she ought to take him seriously....</p> - -<p>All this was clear to her, even to paining her. If she were to go up -to Ilyin now and say to him "No," there would be such strength in her -voice that it would be hard to disobey. But she did not go up to him -and she did not say it, did not even think it.... The petty selfishness -of a young nature seemed never to have been revealed in her as strongly -as that evening. She admitted that Byin was unhappy and that he sat -on the sofa as if on hot coals. She was sorry for him, but at the -same time the presence of the man who loved her so desperately filled -her with a triumphant sense of her own power. She felt her youth, -her beauty, her inaccessibility, and—since she had decided to go -away—she gave herself full rein this evening. She coquetted, laughed -continually, she sang with singular emotion, and as one inspired. -Everything made her gay and everything seemed funny. It amused her to -recall the incident of the bench, the sentry looking on. The visitors -seemed funny to her, Ilyin's insolent jokes, his tie pin which she had -never seen before. The pin was a little red snake with tiny diamond -eyes; the snake seemed so funny that she was ready to kiss and kiss it.</p> - -<p>Sophia Pietrovna, nervously sang romantic songs, with a kind of -half-intoxication, and as if jeering at another's sorrow she chose sad, -melancholy songs that spoke of lost hopes, of the past, of old age.... -"And old age is approaching nearer and nearer," she sang. What had she -to do with old age?</p> - -<p>"There's something wrong going on in me," she thought now and then -through laughter and singing.</p> - -<p>At twelve o'clock the visitors departed. Ilyin was the last to go. She -still felt warm enough about him to go with him to the lower step of -the terrace. She had the idea of telling him that she was going away -with her husband, just to see what effect this news would have upon him.</p> - -<p>The moon was hiding behind the clouds, but it was so bright that Sophia -Pietrovna could see the wind playing with the tails of his overcoat and -with the creepers on the terrace. It was also plain how pale Ilyin was, -and how he twisted his upper-lip, trying to smile. "Sonia, Sonichka, -my dear little woman," he murmured, not letting her speak. "My darling, -my pretty one."</p> - -<p>In a paroxysm of tenderness with tears in his voice, he showered her -with endearing words each tenderer than the other, and was already -speaking to her as if she were his wife or his mistress. Suddenly and -unexpectedly to her, he put one arm round her and with the other hand -he seized her elbow.</p> - -<p>"My dear one, my beauty," he began to whisper, kissing the nape of her -neck; "be sincere, come to me now."</p> - -<p>She slipped out of his embrace and lifted her head to break out in -indignation and revolt. But indignation did not come, and of all her -praiseworthy virtue and purity, there was left only enough for her to -say that which all average women say in similar circumstances:</p> - -<p>"You must be mad."</p> - -<p>"But really let us go," continued Ilyin. "Just now and over there by -the bench I felt convinced that you, Sonia, were as helpless as myself. -You too will be all the worse for it. You love me, and you are making a -useless bargain with your conscience."</p> - -<p>Seeing that she was leaving him he seized her by her lace sleeve and -ended quickly:</p> - -<p>"If not to-day, then to-morrow; but you will have to give in. What's -the good of putting if off? My dear, my darling Sonia, the verdict has -been pronounced. Why postpone the execution? Why deceive yourself?"</p> - -<p>Sophia Pietrovna broke away from him and suddenly disappeared -inside the door. She returned to the drawing-room, shut the piano -mechanically, stared for a long time at the cover of a music book, and -sat down. She could neither stand nor think.... From her agitation -and passion remained only an awful weakness mingled with laziness -and tiredness. Her conscience whispered to her that she had behaved -wickedly and foolishly to-night, like a madwoman; that just now she -had been kissed on the terrace, and even now she had some strange -sensation in her waist and in her elbow. Not a soul was in the -drawing-room. Only a single candle was burning. Madame Loubianzev sat -on a little round stool before the piano without stirring as if waiting -for something, and as if taking advantage of her extreme exhaustion -and the dark a heavy unconquerable desire began to possess her. Like a -boa-constrictor, it enchained her limbs and soul. It grew every second -and was no longer threatening, but stood clear before her in all its -nakedness.</p> - -<p>She sat thus for half an hour, not moving, and not stopping herself -from thinking of Ilyin. Then she got up lazily and went slowly into -the bed-room. Andrey Ilyitch was in bed already. She sat by the window -and gave herself to her desire. She felt no more "confusion." All her -feelings and thoughts pressed lovingly round some clear purpose. -She still had a mind to struggle, but instantly she waved her hand -impotently, realising the strength and the determination of the foe. To -fight him power and strength were necessary, but her birth, up-bringing -and life had given her nothing on which to lean.</p> - -<p>"You're immoral, you're horrible," she tormented herself for her -weakness. "You're a nice sort, you are!"</p> - -<p>So indignant was her insulted modesty at this weakness that she called -herself all the bad names that she knew and she related to herself many -insulting, degrading truths. Thus she told herself that she never was -moral, and she had not fallen before only because there was no pretext, -that her day-long struggle had been nothing but a game and a comedy....</p> - -<p>"Let us admit that I struggled," she thought, "but what kind of a -fight was it? Even prostitutes struggle before they sell themselves, -and still they do sell themselves. It's a pretty sort of fight. Like -milk, turns in a day." She realised that it was not love that drew her -from her home nor Ilyin's personality, but the sensations which await -her.... A little week-end <i>type</i> like the rest of them.</p> - -<p>"When the young bird's mother was killed," a hoarse tenor finished -singing.</p> - -<p>If I am going, it's time, thought Sophia Pietrovna. Her heart began to -beat with a frightful force.</p> - -<p>"Andrey," she almost cried. "Listen. Shall we go away? Shall we? Yes?"</p> - -<p>"Yes.... I've told you already. You go alone."</p> - -<p>"But listen," she said, "if you don't come too, you may lose me. I seem -to be in love already."</p> - -<p>"Who with?" Andrey Ilyitch asked.</p> - -<p>"It must be all the same for you, who with," Sophia Pietrovna cried out.</p> - -<p>Andrey Ilyitch got up, dangled his feet over the side of the bed, with -a look of surprise at the dark form of his wife.</p> - -<p>"Imagination," he yawned.</p> - -<p>He could not believe her, but all the same he was frightened. After -having thought for a while, and asked his wife some unimportant -questions, he gave his views of the family, of infidelity.... He spoke -sleepily for about ten minutes and then lay down again. His remarks had -no success. There are a great many opinions in this world, and more -than half of them belong to people who have never known misery.</p> - -<p>In spite of the late hour, the bungalow people were still moving behind -their windows. Sophia Pietrovna put on a long coat and stood for a -while, thinking. She still had force of mind to say to her sleepy -husband:</p> - -<p>"Are you asleep? I'm going for a little walk. Would you like to come -with me?"</p> - -<p>That was her last hope. Receiving no answer, she walked out. It was -breezy and cool. She did not feel the breeze or the darkness but -walked on and on.... An irresistible power drove her, and it seemed to -her that if she stopped that power would push her in the back. "You're -an immoral woman," she murmured mechanically. "You're horrible."</p> - -<p>She was choking for breath, burning with shame, did not feel her feet -under her, for that which drove her along was stronger than her shame, -her reason, her fear....</p> - - - -<hr class="chap"> -<h4><a name="AFTER_THE_THEATRE" id="AFTER_THE_THEATRE">AFTER THE THEATRE</a></h4> - - -<p>Nadya Zelenina had just returned with her mother from the theatre, -where they had been to see a performance of "Eugene Oniegin." Entering -her room, she quickly threw off her dress, loosened her hair, and sat -down hurriedly in her petticoat and a white blouse to write a letter in -the style of Tatiana.</p> - -<p>"I love you,"—she wrote—"but you don't love me; no, you don't!"</p> - -<p>The moment she had written this, she smiled.</p> - -<p>She was only sixteen years old, and so far she had not been in love. -She knew that Gorny, the officer, and Gronsdiev, the student, loved -her; but now, after the theatre, she wanted to doubt their love. To be -unloved and unhappy—how interesting. There is something beautiful, -affecting, romantic in the fact that one loves deeply while the other -is indifferent. Oniegin is interesting because he does not love at all, -and Tatiana is delightful because she is very much in love; but if -they loved each other equally and were happy, they would seem boring, -instead.</p> - -<p>"Don't go on protesting that you love me," Nadya wrote on, thinking -of Gorny, the officer, "I can't believe you. You're very clever, -educated, serious; you have a great talent, and perhaps, a splendid -future waiting, but I am an uninteresting poor-spirited girl, and you -yourself know quite well that I shall only be a drag upon your life. -It's true I carried you off your feet, and you thought you had met your -ideal in me, but that was a mistake. Already you are asking yourself in -despair, 'Why did I meet this girl?' Only your kindness prevents you -from confessing it."</p> - -<p>Nadya pitied herself. She wept and went on.</p> - -<p>"If it were not so difficult for me to leave mother and brother I would -put on a nun's gown and go where my eyes direct me. You would then be -free to love another. If I were to die!"</p> - -<p>Through her tears she could not make out what she had written. Brief -rainbows trembled on the table, on the floor and the ceiling, as though -Nadya were looking through a prism. Impossible to write. She sank back -in her chair and began to think of Gorny.</p> - -<p>Oh, how fascinating, how interesting men are! Nadya remembered the -beautiful expression of Gorny's face, appealing, guilty, and tender, -when someone discussed music with him,—the efforts he made to prevent -the passion from sounding in his voice. Passion must be concealed in -a society where cold reserve and indifference are the signs of good -breeding. And he does try to conceal it, but he does not succeed, -and everybody knows quite well that he has a passion for music. -Never-ending discussions about music, blundering pronouncements by men -who do not understand—keep him in incessant tension. He is scared, -timid, silent. He plays superbly, as an ardent pianist. If he were not -an officer, he would be a famous musician.</p> - -<p>The tears dried in her eyes. Nadya remembered how Gorny told her of his -love at a symphony concert, and again downstairs by the cloak-room.</p> - -<p>"I am so glad you have at last made the acquaintance of the student -Gronsdiev," she continued to write. "He is a very clever man, and you -are sure to love him. Yesterday he was sitting with us till two o'clock -in the morning. We were all so happy. I was sorry that you hadn't come -to us. He said a lot of remarkable things."</p> - -<p>Nadya laid her hands on the table and lowered her head. Her hair -covered the letter. She remembered that Gronsdiev also loved her, -and that he had the same right to her letter as Gorny. Perhaps she -had better write to Gronsdiev? For no cause, a happiness began to -quicken in her breast. At first it was a little one, rolling about in -her breast like a rubber ball. Then it grew broader and bigger, and -broke forth like a wave. Nadya had already forgotten about Gorny and -Gronsdiev. Her thoughts became confused. The happiness grew more and -more. From her breast it ran into her arms and legs, and it seemed -that a light fresh breeze blew over her head, stirring her hair. Her -shoulders trembled with quiet laughter. The table and the lampglass -trembled. Tears from her eyes splashed the letter. She was powerless to -stop her laughter; and to convince herself that she had a reason for -it, she hastened to remember something funny.</p> - -<p>"What a funny poodle!" she cried, feeling that she was choking with -laughter. "What a funny poodle!"</p> - -<p>She remembered how Gronsdiev was playing with Maxim the poodle after -tea yesterday; how he told a story afterwards of a very clever poodle -who was chasing a crow in the yard. The crow gave him a look and said:</p> - -<p>"Oh, you swindler!"</p> - -<p>The poodle did not know he had to do with a learned crow. He was -terribly confused, and ran away dumfounded. Afterwards he began to bark.</p> - -<p>"No, I'd better love Gronsdiev," Nadya decided and tore up the letter.</p> - -<p>She began to think of the student, of his love, of her own love, with -the result that the thoughts in her head swam apart and she thought -about everything, about her mother, the street, the pencil, the -piano. She was happy thinking, and found that everything was good, -magnificent. Her happiness told her that this was not all, that a -little later it would be still better. Soon it will be spring, summer. -They will go with mother to Gorbiki in the country. Gorny will come for -his holidays. He will walk in the orchard with her, and make love to -her. Gronsdiev will come too. He will play croquet with her and bowls. -He will tell funny, wonderful stories. She passionately longed for the -orchard, the darkness, the pure sky, the stars. Again her shoulders -trembled with laughter and she seemed to awake to a smell of wormwood -in the room; and a branch was tapping at the window.</p> - -<p>She went to her bed and sat down. She did not know what to do with her -great happiness. It overwhelmed her. She stared at the crucifix which -hung at the head of her bed and saying:</p> - -<p>"Dear God, dear God, dear God."</p> - - - -<hr class="chap"> -<h4><a name="THAT_WRETCHED_BOY" id="THAT_WRETCHED_BOY">THAT WRETCHED BOY</a></h4> - - -<p>Ivan Ivanich Lapkin, a pleasant looking young man, and Anna Zamblizky, -a young girl with a little snub nose, walked down the sloping bank -and sat down on the bench. The bench was close to the water's edge, -among thick bushes of young willow. A heavenly spot! You sat down, and -you were hidden from the world. Only the fish could see you and the -catspaws which flashed over the water like lightning. The two young -persons were equipped with rods, fish hooks, bags, tins of worms and -everything else necessary. Once seated, they immediately began to fish.</p> - -<p>"I am glad that we're left alone at last," said Lapkin, looking round. -I've got a lot to tell you, Anna—tremendous ... when I saw you for -the first time ... you've got a nibble ... I understood then—why I -am alive, I knew where my idol was, to whom I can devote my honest, -hardworking life.... It must be a big one ... it is biting.... When I -saw you—for the first time in my life I fell in love—fell in love -passionately! Don't pull. Let it go on biting.... Tell me, darling, -tell me—will you let me hope? No! I'm not worth it. I dare not even -think of it—may I hope for.... Pull!</p> - -<p>Anna lifted her hand that held the rod—pulled, cried out. A silvery -green fish shone in the air.</p> - -<p>"Goodness! it's a perch! Help—quick! It's slipping off." The perch -tore itself from the hook—danced in the grass towards its native -element and ... leaped into the water.</p> - -<p>But instead of the little fish that he was chasing, Lapkin quite by -accident caught hold of Anna's hand—quite by accident pressed it to -his lips. She drew back, but it was too late; quite by accident their -lips met and kissed; yes, it was an absolute accident! They kissed and -kissed. Then came vows and assurances.... Blissful moments! But there -is no such thing as absolute happiness in this life. If happiness -itself does not contain a poison, poison will enter in from without. -Which happened this time. Suddenly, while the two were kissing, a laugh -was heard. They looked at the river and were paralysed. The schoolboy -Kolia, Anna's brother, was standing in the water, watching the young -people and maliciously laughing.</p> - -<p>"Ah—ha! Kissing!" said he. "Right O, I'll tell Mother."</p> - -<p>"I hope that you—as a man of honour," Lapkin muttered, blushing. "It's -disgusting to spy on us, it's loathsome to tell tales, it's rotten. As -a man of honour...."</p> - -<p>"Give me a shilling, then I'll shut up!" the man of honour retorted. -"If you don't, I'll tell."</p> - -<p>Lapkin took a shilling out of his pocket and gave it to Kolia, who -squeezed it in his wet fist, whistled, and swam away. And the young -people did not kiss any more just then.</p> - -<p>Next day Lapkin brought Kolia some paints and a ball from town, and his -sister gave him all her empty pill boxes. Then they had to present him -with a set of studs like dogs' heads. The wretched boy enjoyed this -game immensely, and to keep it going he began to spy on them. Wherever -Lapkin and Anna went, he was there too. He did not leave them alone for -a single moment.</p> - -<p>"Beast!" Lapkin gnashed his teeth. "So young and yet such a full -fledged scoundrel. What on earth will become of him later!"</p> - -<p>During the whole of July the poor lovers had no life apart from him. He -threatened to tell on them; he dogged them and demanded more presents. -Nothing satisfied him—finally he hinted at a gold watch. All right, -they had to promise the watch.</p> - -<p>Once, at table, when biscuits were being handed round, he burst out -laughing and said to Lapkin: "Shall I let on? Ah—ha!"</p> - -<p>Lapkin blushed fearfully and instead of a biscuit he began to chew his -table napkin. Anna jumped up from the table and rushed out of the room.</p> - -<p>And this state of things went on until the end of August, up to the -day when Lapkin at last proposed to Anna. Ah! What a happy day that -was! When he had spoken to her parents and obtained their consent -Lapkin rushed into the garden after Kolia. When he found him he nearly -cried for joy and caught hold of the wretched boy by the ear. Anna, who -was also looking for Kolia came running up and grabbed him by the other -ear. You should have seen the happiness depicted on their faces while -Kolia roared and begged them:</p> - -<p>"Darling, precious pets, I won't do it again. O-oh—O-oh! Forgive me!" -And both of them confessed afterwards that during all the time they -were in love with each other they never experienced such happiness, -such overwhelming joy as during those moments when they pulled the -wretched boy's ears.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap"> -<h4><a name="ENEMIES" id="ENEMIES">ENEMIES</a></h4> - - -<p>About ten o'clock of a dark September evening the Zemstvo doctor -Kirilov's only son, six-year-old Andrey, died of diphtheria. As the -doctor's wife dropped on to her knees before the dead child's cot and -the first paroxysm of despair took hold of her, the bell rang sharply -in the hall.</p> - -<p>When the diphtheria came all the servants were sent away from the -house, that very morning. Kirilov himself went to the door, just as he -was, in his shirt-sleeves with his waistcoat unbuttoned, without wiping -his wet face or hands, which had been burnt with carbolic acid. It was -dark in the hall, and of the person who entered could be distinguished -only his middle height, a white scarf and a big, extraordinarily pale -face, so pale that it seemed as though its appearance made the hall -brighter....</p> - -<p>"Is the doctor in?" the visitor asked abruptly.</p> - -<p>"I'm at home," answered Kirilov. "What do you want?"</p> - -<p>"Oh, you're the doctor? I'm so glad!" The visitor was overjoyed and -began to seek for the doctor's hand in the darkness. He found it -and squeezed it hard in his own. "I'm very ... very glad! We were -introduced ... I am Aboguin ... had the pleasure of meeting you this -summer at Mr. Gnouchev's. I am very glad to have found you at home.... -For God's sake, don't say you won't come with me immediately.... My -wife has been taken dangerously ill.... I have the carriage with me...."</p> - -<p>From the visitor's voice and movements it was evident that he had -been in a state of violent agitation. Exactly as though he had been -frightened by a fire or a mad dog, he could hardly restrain his hurried -breathing, and he spoke quickly in a trembling voice. In his speech -there sounded a note of real sincerity, of childish fright. Like all -men who are frightened and dazed, he spoke in short, abrupt phrases and -uttered many superfluous, quite unnecessary, words.</p> - -<p>"I was afraid I shouldn't find you at home," he continued. "While I was -coming to you I suffered terribly.... Dress yourself and let us go, for -God's sake.... It happened like this. Papchinsky came to me—Alexander -Siemionovich, you know him.... We were chatting.... Then we sat down to -tea. Suddenly my wife cries out, presses her hands to her heart, and -falls back in her chair. We carried her off to her bed and ... and I -rubbed her forehead with sal-volatile, and splashed her with water.... -She lies like a corpse.... I'm afraid that her heart's failed.... Let -us go.... Her father too died of heart-failure."</p> - -<p>Kirilov listened in silence as though he did not understand the Russian -language.</p> - -<p>When Aboguin once more mentioned Papchinsky and his wife's father, and -once more began to seek for the doctor's hand in the darkness, the -doctor shook his head and said, drawling each word listlessly:</p> - -<p>"Excuse me, but I can't go.... Five minutes ago my ... my son died."</p> - -<p>"Is that true?" Aboguin whispered, stepping back. "My God, what an -awful moment to come! It's a terribly fated day ... terribly! What a -coincidence ... and it might have been on purpose!"</p> - -<p>Aboguin took hold of the door handle and drooped his head in -meditation. Evidently he was hesitating, not knowing whether to go -away, or to ask the doctor once more.</p> - -<p>"Listen," he said eagerly, seizing Kirilov by the sleeve. "I fully -understand your state! God knows I'm ashamed to try to hold your -attention at such a moment, but what can I do? Think yourself—who can -I go to? There isn't another doctor here besides you. For heaven's sake -come. I'm not asking for myself. It's not I that's ill!"</p> - -<p>Silence began. Kirilov turned his back to Aboguin, stood still for a -while and slowly went out of the hall into the drawing-room. To judge -by his uncertain, machine-like movement, and by the attentiveness -with which he arranged the hanging shade on the unlighted lamp in the -drawing-room and consulted a thick book which lay on the table—at -such a moment he had neither purpose nor desire, nor did he think of -anything, and probably had already forgotten that there was a stranger -standing in his hall. The gloom and the quiet of the drawing-room -apparently increased his insanity. As he went from the drawing-room to -his study he raised his right foot higher than he need, felt with his -hands for the door-posts, and then one felt a certain perplexity in -his whole figure, as though he had entered a strange house by chance, -or for the first time in his life had got drunk, and now was giving -himself up in bewilderment to the new sensation. A wide line of light -stretched across the bookshelves on one wall of the study; this light, -together with the heavy stifling smell of carbolic acid and ether -came from the door ajar that led from the study into the bed-room.... -The doctor sank into a chair before the table; for a while he looked -drowsily at the shining books, then rose and went into the bed-room.</p> - -<p>Here, in the bed-room, dead quiet reigned. Everything, down to the -last trifle, spoke eloquently of the tempest undergone, of weariness, -and everything rested. The candle which stood among a close crowd of -phials, boxes and jars on the stool and the big lamp on the chest of -drawers brightly lit the room. On the bed, by the window, the boy lay -open-eyed, with a look of wonder on his face. He did not move, but it -seemed that his open eyes became darker and darker every second and -sank into his skull. Having laid her hands on his body and hid her face -in the folds of the bed-clothes, the mother now was on her knees before -the bed. Like the boy she did not move, but how much living movement -was felt in the coil of her body and in her hands! She was pressing -close to the bed with her whole being, with eager vehemence, as though -she were afraid to violate the quiet and comfortable pose which she had -found at last for her weary body. Blankets, cloths, basins, splashes on -the floor, brushes and spoons scattered everywhere, a white bottle of -lime-water, the stifling heavy air itself—everything died away, and as -it were plunged into quietude.</p> - -<p>The doctor stopped by his wife, thrust his hands into his trouser -pockets and bending his head on one side looked fixedly at his son. His -face showed indifference; only the drops which glistened on his beard -revealed that he had been lately weeping.</p> - -<p>The repulsive terror of which we think when we speak of death was -absent from the bed-room. In the pervading dumbness, in the mother's -pose, in the indifference of the doctor's face was something attractive -that touched the heart, the subtle and elusive beauty of human grief, -which it will take men long to understand and describe, and only -music, it seems, is able to express. Beauty too was felt in the stern -stillness. Kirilov and his wife were silent and did not weep, as -though they confessed all the poetry of their condition. As once the -season of their youth passed away, so now in this boy their right to -bear children had passed away, alas! for ever to eternity. The doctor -is forty-four years old, already grey and looks like an old man; his -faded sick wife is thirty-five. Audrey was not merely the only son but -the last.</p> - -<p>In contrast to his wife the doctor's nature belonged to those which -feel the necessity of movement when their soul is in pain. After -standing by his wife for about five minutes, he passed from the -bed-room, lifting his right foot too high, into a little room half -filled with a big broad divan. From there he went to the kitchen. After -wandering about the fireplace and the cook's bed, he stooped through a -little door and came into the hall.</p> - -<p>Here he saw the white scarf and the pale face again.</p> - -<p>"At last," sighed Aboguin, seizing the doorhandle. "Let us go, please."</p> - -<p>The doctor shuddered, glanced at him and remembered.</p> - -<p>"Listen. I've told you already that I can't go," he said, livening. -"What a strange idea!"</p> - -<p>"Doctor, I'm made of flesh and blood, too. I fully understand your -condition. I sympathise with you," Aboguin said in an imploring voice, -putting his hand to his scarf. "But I am not asking for myself. My wife -is dying. If you had heard her cry, if you'd seen her face, you would -understand my insistence! My God—and I thought that you'd gone to -dress yourself. The time is precious, Doctor! Let us go, I beg of you."</p> - -<p>"I can't come," Kirilov said after a pause, and stepped into his -drawing-room.</p> - -<p>Aboguin followed him and seized him by the sleeve.</p> - -<p>"You're in sorrow. I understand. But I'm not asking you to cure a -toothache, or to give expert evidence,—but to save a human life." He -went on imploring like a beggar. "This life is more than any personal -grief. I ask you for courage, for a brave deed—in the name of -humanity."</p> - -<p>"Humanity cuts both ways," Kirilov said irritably. "In the name of the -same humanity I ask you not to take me away. My God, what a strange -idea! I can hardly stand on my feet and you frighten me with humanity. -I'm not fit for anything now. I won't go for anything. With whom shall -I leave my wife? No, no...."</p> - -<p>Kirilov flung out his open hands and drew back.</p> - -<p>"And ... and don't ask me," he continued, disturbed. "I'm sorry.... -Under the Laws, Volume XIII., I'm obliged to go and you have the right -to drag me by the neck.... Well, drag me, but ... I'm not fit.... I'm -not even able to speak. Excuse me."</p> - -<p>"It's quite unfair to speak to me in that tone, Doctor," said Aboguin, -again taking the doctor by the sleeve. "The thirteenth volume be -damned! I have no right to do violence to your will. If you want to, -come; if you don't, then God be with you; but it's not to your will -that I apply, but to your feelings. A young woman is dying! You say -your son died just now. Who could understand my terror better than you?"</p> - -<p>Aboguin's voice trembled with agitation. His tremor and his tone were -much more convincing than his words. Aboguin was sincere, but it is -remarkable that every phrase he used came out stilted, soulless, -inopportunely florid, and as it were insulted the atmosphere of the -doctor's house and the woman who was dying. He felt it himself, and -in his fear of being misunderstood he exerted himself to the utmost -to make his voice soft and tender so as to convince by the sincerity -of his tone at least, if not by his words. As a rule, however deep -and beautiful the words they affect only the unconcerned. They -cannot always satisfy those who are happy or distressed because the -highest expression of happiness or distress is most often silence. -Lovers understand each other best when they are silent, and a fervent -passionate speech at the graveside affects only outsiders. To the widow -and children it seems cold and trivial.</p> - -<p>Kirilov stood still and was silent. When Aboguin uttered some more -words on the higher vocation of a doctor, and self-sacrifice, the -doctor sternly asked:</p> - -<p>"Is it far?"</p> - -<p>"Thirteen or fourteen versts. I've got good horses, doctor. I give you -my word of honour that I'll take you there and back in an hour. Only an -hour."</p> - -<p>The last words impressed the doctor more strongly than the references -to humanity or the doctor's vocation. He thought for a while and said -with a sigh.</p> - -<p>"Well, let us go!"</p> - -<p>He went off quickly, with a step that was now sure, to his study -and soon after returned in a long coat. Aboguin, delighted, danced -impatiently round him, helped him on with his overcoat, and accompanied -him out of the house.</p> - -<p>Outside it was dark, but brighter than in the hall. Now in the darkness -the tall stooping figure of the doctor was clearly visible with the -long, narrow beard and the aquiline nose. Besides his pale face -Aboguin's big face could now be seen and a little student's cap which -hardly covered the crown of his head. The scarf showed white only in -front, but behind it was hid under his long hair.</p> - -<p>"Believe me, I'm able to appreciate your magnanimity," murmured -Aboguin, as he helped the doctor to a seat in the carriage. "We'll -whirl away. Luke, dear man, drive as fast as you can, do!"</p> - -<p>The coachman drove quickly. First appeared a row of bare buildings, -which stood along the hospital yard. It was dark everywhere, save -that at the end of the yard a bright light from someone's window broke -through the garden fence, and three windows in the upper story of the -separate house seemed to be paler than the air. Then the carriage drove -into dense obscurity where you could smell mushroom damp, and hear the -whisper of the trees. The noise of the wheels awoke the rooks who began -to stir in the leaves and raised a doleful, bewildered cry as if they -knew that the doctor's son was dead and Aboguin's wife ill. Then began -to appear separate trees, a shrub. Sternly gleamed the pond, where big -black shadows slept. The carriage rolled along over an even plain. Now -the cry of the rooks was but faintly heard far away behind. Soon it -became completely still.</p> - -<p>Almost all the way Kirilov and Aboguin were silent; save that once -Aboguin sighed profoundly and murmured.</p> - -<p>"It's terrible pain. One never loves his nearest so much as when there -is the risk of losing them."</p> - -<p>And when the carriage was quietly passing through the river, Kirilov -gave a sudden start, as though the dashing of the water frightened him, -and he began to move impatiently.</p> - -<p>"Let me go," he said in anguish. "I'll come to you later. I only want -to send the attendant to my wife. She is all alone."</p> - -<p>Aboguin was silent. The carriage, swaying and rattling against the -stones, drove over the sandy bank and went on. Kirilov began to toss -about in anguish, and glanced around. Behind the road was visible in -the scant light of the stars and the willows that fringed the bank -disappearing into the darkness. To the right the plain stretched smooth -and boundless as heaven. On it in the distance here and there dim -lights were burning, probably on the turf-pits. To the left, parallel -with the road stretched a little hill, tufted with tiny shrubs, and on -the hill a big half-moon stood motionless, red, slightly veiled with a -mist, and surrounded with fine clouds which seemed to be gazing upon it -from every side, and guarding it, lest it should disappear.</p> - -<p>In all nature one felt something hopeless and sick. Like a fallen -woman who sits alone in a dark room trying not to think of her past, -the earth languished with reminiscence of spring and summer and waited -in apathy for ineluctable winter. Wherever one's glance turned nature -showed everywhere like a dark, cold, bottomless pit, whence neither -Kirilov nor Aboguin nor the red half-moon could escape....</p> - -<p>The nearer the carriage approached the destination the more impatient -did Aboguin become. He moved about, jumped up and stared over the -driver's shoulder in front of him. And when at last the carriage drew -up at the foot of the grand staircase, nicely covered with a striped -linen awning and he looked up at the lighted windows of the first floor -one could hear his breath trembling.</p> - -<p>"If anything happens ... I shan't survive it," he said entering the -hall with the doctor and slowly rubbing his hands in his agitation. -"But I can't hear any noise. That means it's all right so far," he -added, listening to the stillness.</p> - -<p>No voices or steps were heard in the hall. For all the bright -illumination the whole house seemed asleep. Now the doctor and Aboguin -who had been in darkness up till now could examine each other. The -doctor was tall, with a stoop, slovenly dressed, and his face was -plain. There was something unpleasantly sharp, ungracious, and severe -in his thick negro lips, his aquiline nose and his faded, indifferent -look. His tangled hair, his sunken temples, the early grey in his long -thin beard, that showed his shining chin, his pale grey complexion -and the slipshod awkwardness of his manners—the hardness of it all -suggested to the mind bad times undergone, an unjust lot and weariness -of life and men. To look at the hard figure of the man, you could not -believe that he had a wife and could weep over his child. Aboguin -revealed something different. He was robust, solid and fair-haired, -with a big head and large, yet soft, features, exquisitely dressed in -the latest fashion. In his carriage, his tight-buttoned coat and his -mane of hair you felt something noble and leonine. He walked with his -head straight and his chest prominent, he spoke in a pleasant baritone, -and in his manner of removing his scarf or arranging his hair there -appeared a subtle, almost feminine, elegance. Even his pallor and -childish fear as he glanced upwards to the staircase while taking off -his coat, did not disturb his carriage or take from the satisfaction, -the health and aplomb which his figure breathed.</p> - -<p>"There's no one about, nothing I can hear," he said walking upstairs. -"No commotion. May God be good!"</p> - -<p>He accompanied the doctor through the hall to a large salon, where a -big piano showed dark and a lustre hung in a white cover. Thence they -both passed into a small and beautiful drawing-room, very cosy, filled -with a pleasant, rosy half-darkness.</p> - -<p>"Please sit here a moment, Doctor," said Aboguin, "I ... I won't be a -second. I'll just have a look and tell them."</p> - -<p>Kirilov was left alone. The luxury of the drawing-room, the pleasant -half-darkness, even his presence in a stranger's unfamiliar house -evidently did not move him. He sat in a chair looking at his hands -burnt with carbolic acid. He had no more than a glimpse of the bright -red lampshade, the cello case, and when he looked sideways across the -room to where the clock was ticking, he noticed a stuffed wolf, as solid -and satisfied as Aboguin himself.</p> - -<p>It was still.... Somewhere far away in the other rooms someone uttered -a loud "Ah!" A glass door, probably a cupboard door, rang, and again -everything was still. After five minutes had passed, Kirilov did not -look at his hands any more. He raised his eyes to the door through -which Aboguin had disappeared.</p> - -<p>Aboguin was standing on the threshold, but not the same man as went -out. The expression of satisfaction and subtle elegance had disappeared -from him. His face and hands, the attitude of his body were distorted -with a disgusting expression either of horror or of tormenting physical -pain. His nose, lips, moustache, all his features were moving and as it -were trying to tear themselves away from his face, but the eyes were as -though laughing from pain.</p> - -<p>Aboguin took a long heavy step into the middle of the room, stooped, -moaned, and shook his fists.</p> - -<p>"Deceived!" he cried, emphasising the syllable <i>cei.</i> "She deceived me! -She's gone! She fell ill and sent me for the doctor only to run away -with this fool Papchinsky. My God!" Aboguin stepped heavily towards -the doctor, thrust his white soft fists before his face, and went on -wailing, shaking his fists the while.</p> - -<p>"She's gone off! She's deceived me! But why this lie? My God, my God! -Why this dirty, foul trick, this devilish, serpent's game? What have I -done to her? She's gone off." Tears gushed from his eyes. He turned on -his heel and began to pace the drawing-room. Now in his short jacket -and his fashionable narrow trousers in which his legs seemed too thin -for his body, he was extraordinarily like a lion. Curiosity kindled in -the doctor's impassive face. He rose and eyed Aboguin.</p> - -<p>"Well, where's the patient?"</p> - -<p>"The patient, the patient," cried Aboguin, laughing, weeping, and still -shaking his fists. "She's not ill, but accursed. Vile—dastardly. The -Devil himself couldn't have planned a fouler trick. She sent me so that -she could run away with a fool, an utter clown, an Alphonse! My God, -far better she should have died. I'll not bear it. I shall not bear it."</p> - -<p>The doctor stood up straight. His eyes began to blink, filled with -tears; his thin beard began to move with his jaw right and left.</p> - -<p>"What's this?" he asked, looking curiously about. "My child's dead. -My wife in anguish, alone in all the house.... I can hardly stand on -my feet, I haven't slept for three nights ... and I'm made to play in -a vulgar comedy, to play the part of a stage property! I don't ... I -don't understand it!"</p> - -<p>Aboguin opened one fist, flung a crumpled note on the floor and trod on -it, as upon an insect he wished to crush.</p> - -<p>"And I didn't see ... didn't understand," he said through his set -teeth, brandishing one fist round his head, with an expression as -though someone had trod on a corn. "I didn't notice how he came to see -us every day. I didn't notice that he came in a carriage to-day! What -was the carriage for? And I didn't see! Innocent!"</p> - -<p>"I don't ... I don't understand," the doctor murmured. "What's it all -mean? It's jeering at a man, laughing at a man's suffering! That's -impossible.... I've never seen it in my life before!"</p> - -<p>With the dull bewilderment of a man who has just begun to understand -that someone has bitterly offended him, the doctor shrugged his -shoulders, waved his hands and not knowing what to say or do, dropped -exhausted into a chair.</p> - -<p>"Well, she didn't love me any more. She loved another man. Very well. -But why the deceit, why this foul treachery?" Aboguin spoke with tears -in his voice. "Why, why? What have I done to you? Listen, doctor," he -said passionately approaching Kirilov. "You were the unwilling witness -of my misfortune, and I am not going to hide the truth from you. I -swear I loved this woman. I loved her with devotion, like a slave. I -sacrificed everything for her. I broke with my family, I gave up the -service and my music. I forgave her things I could not have forgiven -my mother and sister.... I never once gave her an angry look ... I -never gave her any cause. Why this lie then? I do not demand love, but -why this abominable deceit? If you don't love any more then speak out -honestly, above all when you know what I feel about this matter...."</p> - -<p>With tears in his eyes and trembling in all his bones, Aboguin was -pouring out his soul to the doctor. He spoke passionately, pressing -both hands to his heart. He revealed all the family secrets without -hesitation, as though he were glad that these secrets were being torn -from his heart. Had he spoken thus for an hour or two and poured out -all his soul, he would surely have been easier.</p> - -<p>Who can say whether, had the doctor listened and given him friendly -sympathy, he would not, as so often happens, have been reconciled to -his grief unprotesting, without turning to unprofitable follies? But -it happened otherwise. While Aboguin was speaking the offended doctor -changed countenance visibly. The indifference and amazement in his face -gradually gave way to an expression of bitter outrage, indignation, and -anger. His features became still sharper, harder, and more forbidding. -When Aboguin put before his eyes the photograph of his young wife, -with a pretty, but dry, inexpressive face like a nun's, and asked if -it were possible to look at that face and grant that it could express -a lie, the doctor suddenly started away, with flashing eyes, and said, -coarsely forging out each several word:</p> - -<p>"Why do you tell me all this? I do not want to hear! I don't want -to," he cried and banged his fist upon the table. "I don't want your -trivial vulgar secrets—to Hell with them. You dare not tell me such -trivialities. Or do you think I have not yet been insulted enough! That -I'm a lackey to whom you can give the last insult? Yes?"</p> - -<p>Aboguin drew back from Kirilov and stared at him in surprise.</p> - -<p>"Why did you bring me here?" the doctor went on, shaking his beard. -"You marry out of high spirits, get angry out of high spirits, and -make a melodrama—but where do I come in? What have I got to do with -your romances? Leave me alone! Get on with your noble grabbing, -parade your humane ideas, play—" the doctor gave a side-glance at the -cello-case—"the double-bass and the trombone, stuff yourselves like -capons, but don't dare to jeer at a real man! If you can't respect him, -then you can at least spare him your attentions."</p> - -<p>"What does all this mean?" Aboguin asked, blushing.</p> - -<p>"It means that it's vile and foul to play with a man! I'm a doctor. -You consider doctors and all men who work and don't reek of scent and -harlotry, your footmen, your <i>mauvais tons.</i> Very well, but no one gave -you the right to turn a man who suffers into a property."</p> - -<p>"How dare you say that?" Aboguin asked quietly. Again his face began to -twist about, this time in visible anger.</p> - -<p>"How dare <i>you</i> bring me here to listen to trivial rubbish, when you -know that I'm in sorrow?" the doctor cried and banged his fists on the -table once more. "Who gave you the right to jeer at another's grief?"</p> - -<p>"You're mad," cried Aboguin. "You're ungenerous. I too am deeply -unhappy and ... and ..."</p> - -<p>"Unhappy"—the doctor gave a sneering laugh—"Don't touch the word, -it's got nothing to do with you. Wasters who can't get money on a bill -call themselves unhappy too. A capon's unhappy, oppressed with all its -superfluous fat. You worthless lot!"</p> - -<p>"Sir, you're forgetting yourself," Aboguin gave a piercing scream. "For -words like those, people are beaten. Do you understand?"</p> - -<p>Aboguin thrust his hand into his side pocket, took out a pocket-book, -found two notes and flung them on the table.</p> - -<p>"There's your fee," he said, and his nostrils trembled. "You're paid."</p> - -<p>"You dare not offer me money," said the doctor, and brushed the notes -from the table to the floor. "You don't settle an insult with money."</p> - -<p>Aboguin and the doctor stood face to face, heaping each other with -undeserved insults. Never in their lives, even in a frenzy, had -they said so much that was unjust and cruel and absurd. In both the -selfishness of the unhappy is violently manifest. Unhappy men are -selfish, wicked, unjust, and less able to understand each other than -fools. Unhappiness does not unite people, but separates them; and just -where one would imagine that people should be united by the community -of grief, there is more injustice and cruelty done than among the -comparatively contented.</p> - -<p>"Send me home, please," the doctor cried, out of breath.</p> - -<p>Aboguin rang the bell violently. Nobody came. He rang once more; then -flung the bell angrily to the floor. It struck dully on the carpet and -gave out a mournful sound like a death-moan. The footman appeared.</p> - -<p>"Where have you been hiding, damn you?" The master sprang upon him with -clenched fists. "Where have you been just now? Go away and tell them to -send the carriage round for this gentleman, and get the brougham ready -for me. Wait," he called out as the footman turned to go. "Not a single -traitor remains to-morrow. Pack off all of you! I will engage new ones -... Rabble!"</p> - -<p>While they waited Aboguin and the doctor were silent. Already the -expression of satisfaction and the subtle elegance had returned to -the former. He paced the drawing-room, shook his head elegantly and -evidently was planning something. His anger was not yet cool, but he -tried to make as if he did not notice his enemy.... The doctor stood -with one hand on the edge of the table, looking at Aboguin with that -deep, rather cynical, ugly contempt with which only grief and an unjust -lot can look, when they see satiety and elegance before them.</p> - -<p>A little later, when the doctor took his seat in the carriage and drove -away, his eyes still glanced contemptuously. It was dark, much darker -than an hour ago. The red half-moon had now disappeared behind the -little hill, and the clouds which watched it lay in dark spots round -the stars. The brougham with the red lamps began to rattle on the road -and passed the doctor. It was Aboguin on his way to protest, to commit -all manner of folly.</p> - -<p>All the way the doctor thought not of his wife or Andrey, but only of -Aboguin and those who lived in the house he just left. His thoughts -were unjust, inhuman, and cruel. He passed sentence on Aboguin, his -wife, Papchinsky, and all those who live in rosy semi-darkness and -smell of scent. All the way he hated them, and his heart ached with his -contempt for them. The conviction he formed about them would last his -life long.</p> - -<p>Time will pass and Kirilov's sorrow, but this conviction, unjust and -unworthy of the human heart, will not pass, but will remain in the -doctor's mind until the grave.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap"> -<h4><a name="A_TRIFLING_OCCURRENCE" id="A_TRIFLING_OCCURRENCE">A TRIFLING OCCURRENCE</a></h4> - - -<p>Nicolai Ilyich Byelyaev, a Petersburg landlord, very fond of the -racecourse, a well fed, pink young man of about thirty-two, once called -towards evening on Madame Irnin—Olga Ivanovna—with whom he had a -<i>liaison,</i> or, to use his own phrase, spun out a long and tedious -romance. And indeed the first pages of this romance, pages of interest -and inspiration, had been read long ago; now they dragged on and on, -and presented neither novelty nor interest.</p> - -<p>Finding that Olga Ivanovna was not at home, my hero lay down a moment -on the drawing-room sofa and began to wait.</p> - -<p>"Good evening, Nicolai Ilyich," he suddenly heard a child's voice say. -"Mother will be in in a moment. She's gone to the dressmaker's with -Sonya."</p> - -<p>In the same drawing-room on the sofa lay Olga Vassilievna's son, -Alyosha, a boy about eight years old, well built, well looked after, -dressed up like a picture in a velvet jacket and long black stockings. -He lay on a satin pillow, and apparently imitating an acrobat whom -he had lately seen in the circus, lifted up first one leg then the -other. When his elegant legs began to be tired, he moved his hands, or -he jumped up impetuously and then went on all fours, trying to stand -with his legs in the air. All this he did with a most serious face, -breathing heavily, as if he himself found no happiness in God's gift of -such a restless body.</p> - -<p>"Ah, how do you do, my friend?" said Byelyaev. "Is it you? I didn't -notice you. Is your mother well?"</p> - -<p>At the moment Alyosha had just taken hold of the toe of his left foot -in his right hand and got into a most awkward pose. He turned head over -heels, jumped up, and glanced from under the big, fluffy lampshade at -Byelyaev.</p> - -<p>"How can I put it?" he said, shrugging his shoulders. "As a matter of -plain fact mother is never well. You see she's a woman, and women, -Nicolai Ilyich, have always some pain or another."</p> - -<p>For something to do, Byelyaev began to examine Alyosha's face. All the -time he had been acquainted with Olga Ivanovna he had never once turned -his attention to the boy and had completely ignored his existence. A -boy is stuck in front of your eyes, but what is he doing here, what is -his <i>rôle</i>?—you don't want to give a single thought to the question.</p> - -<p>In the evening dusk Alyosha's face with a pale forehead and steady -black eyes unexpectedly reminded Byelyaev of Olga Vassilievna as -she was in the first pages of the romance. He had the desire to be -affectionate to the boy.</p> - -<p>"Come here, whipper-snapper," he said. "Come and let me have a good -look at you, quite close."</p> - -<p>The boy jumped off the sofa and ran to Byelyaev.</p> - -<p>"Well?" Nicolai Ilyich began, putting his hand on the thin shoulders. -"And how are things with you?"</p> - -<p>"How shall I put it?... They used to be much better before."</p> - -<p>"How?"</p> - -<p>"Quite simple. Before, Sonya and I only had to do music and reading, -and now we're given French verses to learn. You've had your hair cut -lately?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, just lately."</p> - -<p>"That's why I noticed it. Your beard's shorter. May I touch it ... -doesn't it hurt?"</p> - -<p>"No, not a bit."</p> - -<p>"Why is it that it hurts if you pull one hair, and when you pull a -whole lot, it doesn't hurt a bit? Ah, ah! You know it's a pity you -don't have side-whiskers. You should shave here, and at the sides ... -and leave the hair just here."</p> - -<p>The boy pressed close to Byelyaev and began to play with his -watch-chain.</p> - -<p>"When I go to the gymnasium," he said, "Mother is going to buy me a -watch. I'll ask her to buy me a chain just like this. What a fine -locket! Father has one just the same, but yours has stripes, here, -and his has got letters.... Inside it's mother's picture. Father has -another chain now, not in links, but like a ribbon...."</p> - -<p>"How do you know? Do you see your father?"</p> - -<p>"I? Mm ... no ... I ..."</p> - -<p>Alyosha blushed and in the violent confusion of being detected in a -lie began to scratch the locket busily with his finger-nail. Byelyaev -looked steadily at his face and asked:</p> - -<p>"Do you see your father?"</p> - -<p>"No ... no!"</p> - -<p>"But, be honest—on your honour. By your face I can see you're not -telling me the truth. If you made a slip of the tongue by mistake, -what's the use of shuffling. Tell me, do you see him? As one friend to -another."</p> - -<p>Alyosha mused.</p> - -<p>"And you won't tell Mother?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"What next."</p> - -<p>"On your word of honour."</p> - -<p>"My word of honour."</p> - -<p>"Swear an oath."</p> - -<p>"What a nuisance you are! What do you take me for?"</p> - -<p>Alyosha looked round, made big eyes and began to whisper.</p> - -<p>"Only for God's sake don't tell Mother! Never tell it to anyone at all, -because it's a secret. God forbid that Mother should ever get to know; -then I and Sonya and Pelagueia will pay for it.... Listen. Sonya and -I meet Father every Tuesday and Friday. When Pelagueia takes us for a -walk before dinner, we go into Apfel's sweet-shop and Father's waiting -for us. He always sits in a separate room, you know, where there's a -splendid marble table and an ash-tray shaped like a goose without a -back...."</p> - -<p>"And what do you do there?"</p> - -<p>"Nothing!—First, we welcome one another, then we sit down at a little -table and Father begins to treat us to coffee and cakes. You know, -Sonya eats meat-pies, and I can't bear pies with meat in them! I like -them made of cabbage and eggs. We eat so much that afterwards at dinner -we try to eat as much as we possibly can so that Mother shan't notice."</p> - -<p>"What do you talk about there?"</p> - -<p>"To Father? About anything. He kisses us and cuddles us, tells us -all kinds of funny stories. You know, he says that he will take us -to live with him when we are grown up. Sonya doesn't want to go, but -I say 'Yes.' Of course, it'll be lonely without Mother; but I'll -write letters to her. How funny: we could go to her for our holidays -then—couldn't we? Besides, Father says that he'll buy me a horse. He's -a splendid man. I can't understand why Mother doesn't invite him to -live with her or why she says we mustn't meet him. He loves Mother very -much indeed. He's always asking us how she is and what she's doing. -When she was ill, he took hold of his head like this ... and ran, ran, -all the time. He is always telling us to obey and respect her. Tell me, -is it true that we're unlucky?"</p> - -<p>"H'm ... how?"</p> - -<p>"Father says so. He says: 'You are unlucky children.' It's quite -strange to listen to him. He says: 'You are unhappy, I'm unhappy, and -Mother's unhappy.' He says: 'Pray to God for yourselves and for her.'" -Alyosha's eyes rested upon the stuffed bird and he mused.</p> - -<p>"Exactly ..." snorted Byelyaev. "This is what you do. You arrange -conferences in sweet-shops. And your mother doesn't know?" "N—no.... -How could she know? Pelagueia won't tell for anything. The day before -yesterday Father stood us pears. Sweet, like jam. I had two."</p> - -<p>"H'm ... well, now ... tell me, doesn't your father speak about me?"</p> - -<p>"About you? How shall I put it?" Alyosha gave a searching glance to -Byelyaev's face and shrugged his shoulders.</p> - -<p>"He doesn't say anything in particular."</p> - -<p>"What does he say, for instance?"</p> - -<p>"You won't be offended?"</p> - -<p>"What next? Why, does he abuse me?"</p> - -<p>"He doesn't abuse you, but you know ... he is cross with you. He says -that it's through you that Mother's unhappy and that you ... ruined -Mother. But he is so queer! I explain to him that you are good and -never shout at Mother, but he only shakes his head."</p> - -<p>"Does he say those very words: that I ruined her?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. Don't be offended, Nicolai Ilyich!"</p> - -<p>Byelyaev got up, stood still a moment, and then began to walk about the -drawing-room.</p> - -<p>"This is strange, and ... funny," he murmured, shrugging his shoulders -and smiling ironically. "He is to blame all round, and now I've ruined -her, eh? What an innocent lamb! Did he say those very words to you: -that I ruined your mother?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, but ... you said that you wouldn't get offended."</p> - -<p>"I'm not offended, and ... and it's none of your business! No, it ... -it's quite funny though. I fell, into the trap, yet I'm to be blamed as -well."</p> - -<p>The bell rang. The boy dashed from his place and ran out. In a minute -a lady entered the room with a little girl. It was Olga Ivanovna, -Alyosha's mother. After her, hopping, humming noisily, and waving his -hands, followed Alyosha.</p> - -<p>"Of course, who is there to accuse except me?" he murmured, sniffing. -"He's right, he's the injured husband."</p> - -<p>"What's the matter?" asked Olga Ivanovna.</p> - -<p>"What's the matter! Listen to the kind of sermon your dear husband -preaches. It appears I'm a scoundrel and a murderer, I've ruined you -and the children. All of you are unhappy, and only I am awfully happy! -Awfully, awfully happy!"</p> - -<p>"I don't understand, Nicolai! What is it?"</p> - -<p>"Just listen to this young gentleman," Byelyaev said, pointing to -Alyosha.</p> - -<p>Alyosha blushed, then became pale suddenly and his whole face was -twisted in fright.</p> - -<p>"Nicolai Ilyich," he whispered loudly. "Shh!"</p> - -<p>Olga Ivanovna glanced in surprise at Alyosha, at Byelyaev, and then -again at Alyosha.</p> - -<p>"Ask him, if you please," went on Byelyaev. "That stupid fool Pelagueia -of yours, takes them to sweet-shops and arranges meetings with their -dear father there. But that's not the point. The point is that the dear -father is a martyr, and I'm a murderer, I'm a scoundrel, who broke the -lives of both of you...."</p> - -<p>"Nicolai Ilyich!" moaned Alyosha. "You gave your word of honour!"</p> - -<p>"Ah, let me alone!" Byelyaev waved his hand. "This is something more -important than any words of honour. The hypocrisy revolts me, the lie!"</p> - -<p>"I don't understand," muttered Olga Ivanovna, and tears began to -glimmer in her eyes. "Tell me, Lyolka,"—she turned to her son, "Do you -see your father?"</p> - -<p>Alyosha did not hear and looked with horror at Byelyaev.</p> - -<p>"It's impossible," said the mother. "I'll go and ask Pelagueia."</p> - -<p>Olga Ivanovna went out.</p> - -<p>"But, but you gave me your word of honour," Alyosha said trembling all -over.</p> - -<p>Byelyaev waved his hand at him and went on walking up and down. He -was absorbed in his insult, and now, as before, he did not notice the -presence of the boy. He, a big serious man, had nothing to do with -boys. And Alyosha sat down in a corner and in terror told Sonya how he -had been deceived. He trembled, stammered, wept. This was the first -time in his life that he had been set, roughly, face to face with a -lie. He had never known before that in this world besides sweet pears -and cakes and expensive watches, there exist many other things which -have no name in children's language.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap"> -<h4><a name="A_GENTLEMAN_FRIEND" id="A_GENTLEMAN_FRIEND">A GENTLEMAN FRIEND</a></h4> - - -<p>When she came out of the hospital the charming Vanda, or, according to -her passport, "the honourable lady-citizen Nastasya Kanavkina," found -herself in a position in which she had never been before: without a -roof and without a son. What was to be done?</p> - -<p>First of all, she went to a pawnshop to pledge her turquoise ring, -her only jewellery. They gave her a rouble for the ring ... but what -can you buy for a rouble? For that you can't get a short jacket <i>à -la mode</i>, or an elaborate hat, or a pair of brown shoes; yet without -these things she felt naked. She felt as though, not only the people, -but even the horses and dogs were staring at her and laughing at the -plainness of her clothes. And her only thought was for her clothes; she -did not care at all what she ate or where she slept.</p> - -<p>"If only I were to meet a gentleman friend...." she thought. "I could -get some money ... Nobody would say 'No,' because...."</p> - -<p>But she came across no gentleman friends. It's easy to find them of -nights in the <i>Renaissance,</i> but they wouldn't let her go into the -<i>Renaissance</i> in that plain dress and without a hat. What's to be done? -After a long time of anguish, vexed and weary with walking, sitting, -and thinking, Vanda made up her mind to play her last card: to go -straight to the rooms of some gentleman friend and ask him for money.</p> - -<p>"But who shall I go to?" she pondered. "I can't possibly go to -Misha ... he's got a family.... The ginger-headed old man is at his -office...."</p> - -<p>Vanda recollected Finkel, the dentist, the converted Jew, who gave her -a bracelet three months ago. Once she poured a glass of beer on his -head at the German club. She was awfully glad that she had thought of -Finkel.</p> - -<p>"He'll be certain to give me some, if only I find him in..." she -thought, on her way to him. "And if he won't, then I'll break every -single thing there."</p> - -<p>She had her plan already prepared. She approached the dentist's door. -She would run up the stairs, with a laugh, fly into his private room -and ask for twenty-five roubles.... But when she took hold of the -bell-pull, the plan went clean out of her head. Vanda suddenly began to -be afraid and agitated, a thing which had never happened to her before. -She was never anything but bold and independent in drunken company; -but now, dressed in common clothes, and just like any ordinary person -begging a favour, she felt timid and humble.</p> - -<p>"Perhaps he has forgotten me..." she thought, not daring to pull the -bell. "And how can I go up to him in a dress like this? As if I were a -pauper, or a dowdy respectable..."</p> - -<p>She rang the bell irresolutely.</p> - -<p>There were steps behind the door. It was the porter.</p> - -<p>"Is the doctor at home?" she asked.</p> - -<p>She would have been very pleased now if the porter had said "No," -but instead of answering he showed her into the hall, and took her -jacket. The stairs seemed to her luxurious and magnificent, but what -she noticed first of all in all the luxury was a large mirror in -which she saw a ragged creature without an elaborate hat, without a -modish jacket, and without a pair of brown shoes. And Vanda found it -strange that, now that she was poorly dressed and looking more like a -seamstress or a washerwoman, for the first time she felt ashamed, and -had no more assurance or boldness left. In her thoughts she began to -call herself Nastya Kanavkina, instead of Vanda as she used.</p> - -<p>"This way, please!" said the maid-servant, leading her to the private -room. "The doctor will be here immediately.... Please, take a seat."</p> - -<p>Vanda dropped into an easy chair.</p> - -<p>"I'll say: 'Lend me ...'" she thought. "That's the right thing, because -we are acquainted. But the maid must go out of the room.... It's -awkward in front of the maid.... What is she standing there for?"</p> - -<p>In five minutes the door opened and Finkel entered—a tall, swarthy, -convert Jew, with fat cheeks and goggle-eyes. His cheeks, eyes, -belly, fleshy hips—were all so full, repulsive, and coarse! At the -<i>Renaissance</i> and the German club he used always to be a little drunk, -to spend a lot of money on women, patiently put up with all their -tricks—for instance, when Vanda poured the beer on his head, he only -smiled and shook his finger at her—but now he looked dull and sleepy; -he had the pompous, chilly expression of a superior, and he was chewing -something.</p> - -<p>"What is the matter?" he asked, without looking at Vanda. Vanda glanced -at the maid's serious face, at the blown-out figure of Finkel, who -obviously did not recognise her, and she blushed.</p> - -<p>"What's the matter?" the dentist repeated, irritated.</p> - -<p>"To ... oth ache...." whispered Vanda.</p> - -<p>"Ah ... which tooth ... where?"</p> - -<p>Vanda remembered she had a tooth with a hole.</p> - -<p>"At the bottom ... to the right," she said.</p> - -<p>"H'm ... open your mouth."</p> - -<p>Finkel frowned, held his breath, and began to work the aching tooth -loose.</p> - -<p>"Do you feel any pain?" he asked, picking at her tooth with some -instrument.</p> - -<p>"Yes, I do...." Vanda lied. "Shall I remind him?" she thought, "he'll -be sure to remember.... But ... the maid ... what is she standing -there for?"</p> - -<p>Finkel suddenly snorted like a steam-engine straight into her mouth, -and said:</p> - -<p>"I don't advise you to have a stopping.... Anyhow the tooth is quite -useless."</p> - -<p>Again he picked at the tooth for a little, and soiled Vanda's lips and -gums with his tobacco-stained fingers. Again he held his breath and -dived into her mouth with something cold....</p> - -<p>Vanda suddenly felt a terrible pain, shrieked and seized Finkel's -hand....</p> - -<p>"Never mind...." he murmured. "Don't be frightened.... This tooth isn't -any use."</p> - -<p>And his tobacco-stained fingers, covered with blood, held up the -extracted tooth before her eyes. The maid came forward and put a bowl -to her lips.</p> - -<p>"Rinse your mouth with cold water at home," said Finkel. "That will -make the blood stop."</p> - -<p>He stood before her in the attitude of a man impatient to be left alone -at last.</p> - -<p>"Good-bye ..." she said, turning to the door.</p> - -<p>"H'm! And who's to pay me for the work?" Finkel asked laughingly.</p> - -<p>"Ah ... yes!" Vanda recollected, blushed and gave the dentist the -rouble she had got for the turquoise ring.</p> - -<p>When she came into the street she felt still more ashamed than before, -but she was not ashamed of her poverty any more. Nor did she notice any -more that she hadn't an elaborate hat or a modish jacket. She walked -along the street spitting blood and each red spittle told her about -her life, a bad, hard life; about the insults she had suffered and had -still to suffer—to-morrow, a week, a year hence—her whole life, till -death....</p> - -<p>"Oh, how terrible it is!" she whispered. "My God, how terrible!"</p> - -<p>But the next day she was at the <i>Renaissance</i> and she danced there. She -wore a new, immense red hat, a new jacket <i>à la mode</i> and a pair of -brown shoes. She was treated to supper by a young merchant from Kazan.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap"> -<h4><a name="OVERWHELMING_SENSATIONS" id="OVERWHELMING_SENSATIONS">OVERWHELMING SENSATIONS</a></h4> - - -<p>This happened not so very long ago in the Moscow Circuit Court. The -jurymen, left in court for the night, before going to bed, began a -conversation about overwhelming sensations. It was occasioned by -someone's recollection of a witness who became a stammerer and turned -grey, owing, as he said, to one dreadful moment. The jurymen decided -before going to bed that each one of them should dig into his memories -and tell a story. Life is short; but still there is not a single man -who can boast that he had not had some dreadful moments in his past.</p> - -<p>One juryman related how he was nearly drowned. A second told how one -night he poisoned his own child, in a place where there was neither -doctor nor chemist, by giving the child white copperas in mistake for -soda. The child did not die, but the father nearly went mad. A third, -not an old man, but sickly, described his two attempts to commit -suicide. Once he shot himself; the second time he threw himself in -front of a train.</p> - -<p>The fourth, a short, stout man, smartly dressed, told the following -story:</p> - -<p>"I was no more than twenty-two or twenty-three years old, when I fell -head over heels in love with my present wife and proposed to her. Now, -I would gladly give myself a thrashing for that early marriage; but -then—well, I don't know what would have happened to me if Natasha -had refused. My love was most ardent, the kind described in novels as -mad, passionate, and so on. My happiness choked me, and I did not know -how to escape from it. I bored my father, my friends, the servants -by continually telling them how desperately I was in love. Happy -people are quite the most tiresome and boring. I used to be awfully -exasperating. Even now I'm ashamed.</p> - -<p>"At the time I had a newly-called barrister among my friends. The -barrister is now known all over Russia, but then he was only at the -beginning of his popularity, and he was not rich or famous enough to -have the right not to recognise a friend when he met him or not to -raise his hat. I used to go and see him once or twice a week.</p> - -<p>"When I came, we used both to stretch ourselves upon the sofas and -begin to philosophise.</p> - -<p>"Once I lay on the sofa, harping on the theme that there is no more -ungrateful profession than a barrister's. I tried to show that after -the witnesses have been heard the Court can easily dispense with -the Crown Prosecutor and the barrister, because they are equally -unnecessary and only hindrances. If an adult juryman, sound in spirit -and mind, is convinced that this ceiling is white, or that Ivanov -is guilty, no Demosthenes has the power to fight and overcome his -conviction. Who can convince me that my moustache is carroty when -I know it is black? When I listen to an orator I may perhaps get -sentimental and even shed a tear, but my rooted convictions, for the -most part based on the obvious and on facts, will not be changed an -atom. My friend the barrister contended that I was still young and -silly and was talking childish nonsense. In his opinion an obvious fact -when illumined by conscientious experts became still more obvious. -That was his first point. His second was that a talent is a force, an -elemental power, a hurricane, that is able to turn even stones to dust, -not to speak of such trifles as the convictions of householders and -small shopkeepers. It is as hard for human frailty to struggle against -a talent as it is to look at the sun without being blinded or to stop -the wind. By the power of the word one single mortal converts thousands -of convinced savages to Christianity. Ulysses was the most convinced -person in the world, but he was all submission before the Syrens, and -so on. All history is made up of such instances. In life we meet them -at every turn. And so it ought to be; otherwise a clever person of -talent would not be preferred before the stupid and untalented.</p> - -<p>"I persisted and continued to argue that a conviction is stronger than -any talent, though, speaking frankly, I myself could not define what -exactly is a conviction and what is a talent. Probably I talked only -for the sake of talking.</p> - -<p>"'Take even your own case' ... said the barrister. 'You are convinced -that your <i>fiancée</i> is an angel and that there's not a man in all the -town happier than you. I tell you, ten or twenty minutes would be quite -enough for me to make you sit down at this very table and write to -break off the engagement.'</p> - -<p>"I began to laugh.</p> - -<p>"'Don't laugh. I'm talking seriously,' said my friend. 'If I only had -the desire, in twenty minutes you would be happy in the thought that -you have been saved from marriage. My talent is not great, but neither -are you strong?'</p> - -<p>"'Well, try, please,' I said.</p> - -<p>"'No, why should I? I only said it in passing. You're a good boy. It -would be a pity to expose you to such an experiment. Besides, I'm not -in the mood, to-day.'</p> - -<p>"We sat down to supper. The wine and thoughts of Natasha and my love -utterly filled me with a sense of youth and happiness. My happiness was -so infinitely great that the green-eyed barrister opposite me seemed so -unhappy, so little, so grey!"</p> - -<p>"'But do try,' I pressed him. 'I beg you.'</p> - -<p>"The barrister shook his head and knit his brows. Evidently I had begun -to bore him.</p> - -<p>"'I know,' he said, 'that when the experiment is over you will thank -me and call me saviour, but one must think of your sweetheart too. She -loves you, and your refusal would make her suffer. But what a beauty -she is! I envy you.'</p> - -<p>"The barrister sighed, swallowed some wine, and began to speak of -what a wonderful creature my Natasha was. He had an uncommon gift for -description. He could pour out a whole heap of words about a woman's -eyelashes or her little finger. I listened to him with delight.</p> - -<p>"'I've seen many women in my life-time;' he said, 'but I give you my -word of honour, I tell you as a friend, your Natasha Andreevna is a -gem, a rare girl! Of course, there are defects, even a good many, I -grant you, but still she is charming.'</p> - -<p>"And the barrister began to speak of the defects of my sweetheart. -Now I quite understand it was a general conversation about women, -one about their weak points in general; but it appeared to me then -as though he was speaking only of Natasha. He went into raptures -about her snub-nose, her excited voice, her shrill laugh, her -affectation—indeed, about everything I particularly disliked in -her. All this was in his opinion infinitely amiable, gracious and -feminine. Imperceptibly he changed from enthusiasm first to paternal -edification, then to a light, sneering tone.... There was no Chairman -of the Bench with us to stop the barrister riding the high horse. I -hadn't a chance of opening my mouth—and what could I have said? My -friend said nothing new, his truths were long familiar. The poison was -not at all in what he said, but altogether in the devilish form in -which he said it. A form of Satan's own invention! As I listened to him -I was convinced that one and the same word had a thousand meanings and -nuances according to the way it is pronounced and the turn given to the -sentence. I certainly cannot reproduce the tone or the form. I can only -say that as I listened to my friend and paced from corner to corner -of my room, I was revolted, exasperated, contemptuous according as he -felt. I even believed him when, with tears in his eyes, he declared to -me that I was a great man, deserving a better fate, and destined in the -future to accomplish some remarkable exploit, from which I might be -prevented by my marriage.</p> - -<p>"'My dear friend,' he exclaimed, firmly grasping my hand, 'I implore -you, I command you: stop before it is too late. Stop! God save you from -this strange and terrible mistake! My friend, don't ruin your youth.'</p> - -<p>"Believe me or not as you will, but finally I sat down at the table -and wrote to my sweetheart breaking off the engagement. I wrote and -rejoiced that there was still time to repair my mistake. When the -envelope was sealed I hurried into the street to put it in a pillar -box. The barrister came with me.</p> - -<p>"'Splendid! Superb!' he praised me when my letter to Natasha -disappeared into the darkness of the pillar-box. 'I congratulate you -with all my heart. I'm delighted for your sake.'</p> - -<p>"After we had gone about ten steps together, the barrister continued:</p> - -<p>"'Of course, marriage has its bright side too. I, for instance, belong -to the kind of men for whom marriage and family life are everything.'</p> - -<p>"He was already describing his life: all the ugliness of a lonely -bachelor existence appeared before me.</p> - -<p>"He spoke with enthusiasm of his future wife, of the pleasures of an -ordinary family life, and his transports were so beautiful and sincere -that I was in absolute despair by the time we reached his door.</p> - -<p>"'What are you doing with me, you damnable man?' I said panting. -'You've ruined me! Why did you make me write that cursed letter? I love -her! I love her!'</p> - -<p>"And I swore that I was in love. I was terrified of my action. It -already seemed wild and absurd to me. Gentlemen, it is quite impossible -to imagine a more overwhelming sensation than mine at that moment! If a -kind man had happened to slip a revolver into my hand I would have put -a bullet through my head gladly.</p> - -<p>"'Well, that's enough, enough!' the advocate said, patting my shoulder -and beginning to laugh. 'Stop crying! The letter won't reach your -sweetheart. It was I, not you, wrote the address on the envelope, and I -muddled it up so that they won't be able to make anything of it at the -post-office. But let this be a lesson to you. Don't discuss things you -don't understand.'"</p> - -<p>"Now, gentlemen, next, please."</p> - -<p>The fifth juryman had settled himself comfortably and already opened -his mouth to begin his story, when we heard the clock striking from -Spaisky Church-tower.</p> - -<p>"Twelve...." one of the jurymen counted. "To which class, gentlemen, -would you assign the sensations which our prisoner at the bar is now -feeling? The murderer passes the night here in a prisoner's cell, -either lying or sitting, certainly without sleeping and all through -the sleepless night listens to the striking of the hours. What does he -think of? What dreams visit him?"</p> - -<p>And all the jurymen suddenly forgot about overwhelming sensations. The -experience of their friend, who once wrote the letter to his Natasha, -seemed unimportant, and not even amusing. Nobody told any more stories; -but they began to go to bed quietly, in silence.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap"> -<h4><a name="EXPENSIVE_LESSONS" id="EXPENSIVE_LESSONS">EXPENSIVE LESSONS</a></h4> - - -<p>It is a great bore for an educated person not to know foreign -languages. Vorotov felt it strongly, when on leaving the university -after he had got his degree he occupied himself with a little -scientific research.</p> - -<p>"It's awful!" he used to say, losing his breath (for although only -twenty-six he was stout, heavy, and short of breath). "It's awful. -Without knowing languages I'm like a bird without wings. I'll simply -have to chuck the work."</p> - -<p>So he decided, come what might, to conquer his natural laziness and to -study French and German, and he began to look out for a teacher.</p> - -<p>One winter afternoon, as Vorotov sat working in his study, the servant -announced a lady to see him.</p> - -<p>"Show her in," said Vorotov.</p> - -<p>And a young lady, exquisitely dressed in the latest fashion, entered -the study. She introduced herself as Alice Ossipovna Enquette, a -teacher of French, and said that a friend of Vorotov's had sent her to -him.</p> - -<p>"Very glad! Sit down!" said Vorotov, losing his breath, and clutching -at the collar of his night shirt. (He always worked in a night shirt -in order to breathe more easily.) "You were sent to me by Peter -Sergueyevich? Yes.... Yes ... I asked him.... Very glad!"</p> - -<p>While he discussed the matter with Mademoiselle Enquette he glanced at -her shyly, with curiosity. She was a genuine Frenchwoman, very elegant, -and still quite young. From her pale and languid face, from her short, -curly hair and unnaturally small waist, you would not think her more -than eighteen, but looking at her broad, well-developed shoulders, her -charming back and severe eyes, Vorotov decided that she was certainly -not less than twenty-three, perhaps even twenty-five; but then again -it seemed to him that she was only eighteen. Her face had the cold, -business-like expression of one who had come to discuss a business -matter. Never once did she smile or frown, and only once a look of -perplexity flashed into her eyes, when she discovered that she was not -asked to teach children but a grown up, stout young man.</p> - -<p>"So, Alice Ossipovna," Vorotov said to her, "you will give me a lesson -daily from seven to eight o'clock in the evening. With regard to your -wish to receive a rouble a lesson, I have no objection at all. A -rouble—well, let it be a rouble...."</p> - -<p>And he went on asking her if she wanted tea or coffee, if the weather -was fine, and, smiling good naturedly, stroking the tablecloth with -the palm of his hand, he asked her kindly who she was, where she had -completed her education, and how she earned her living.</p> - -<p>In a cold, business-like tone Alice Ossipovna answered that she had -completed her education at a private school, and had then qualified -as a domestic teacher, that her father had died recently of scarlet -fever, her mother was alive and made artificial flowers, that she, -Mademoiselle Enquette, gave private lessons at a pension in the -morning, and from one o'clock right until the evening she taught in -respectable private houses.</p> - -<p>She went, leaving a slight and almost imperceptible perfume of a -woman's dress behind her. Vorotov did not work for a long time -afterwards but sat at the table stroking the green cloth and thinking.</p> - -<p>"It's very pleasant to see girls earning their own living," he thought. -"On the other hand it is very unpleasant to realise that poverty does -not spare even such elegant and pretty girls as Alice Ossipovna; she, -too, must struggle for her existence. Rotten luck!..."</p> - -<p>Having never seen virtuous Frenchwomen he also thought that this -exquisitely dressed Alice Ossipovna, with her well-developed shoulders -and unnaturally small waist was in all probability, engaged in -something else besides teaching.</p> - -<p>Next evening when the clock pointed to five minutes to seven, Alice -Ossipovna arrived, rosy from the cold; she opened Margot (an elementary -text-book) and began without any preamble:</p> - -<p>"The French grammar has twenty-six letters. The first is called A, the -second B...."</p> - -<p>"Pardon," interrupted Vorotov, smiling, "I must warn you, Mademoiselle, -that you will have to change your methods somewhat in my case. The -fact is that I know Russian, Latin and Greek very well. I have studied -comparative philology, and it seems to me that we may leave out Margot -and begin straight off to read some author." And he explained to the -Frenchwoman how grown-up people study languages.</p> - -<p>"A friend of mine," said he, "who wished to know modern languages put -a French, German and Latin gospel in front of him and then minutely -analysed one word after another. The result—he achieved his purpose in -less than a year. Let us take some author and start reading."</p> - -<p>The Frenchwoman gave him a puzzled look. It was evident that Vorotov's -proposal appeared to her naive and absurd. If he had not been grown up -she would certainly have got angry and stormed at him, but as he was a -very stout, adult man at whom she could not storm, she only shrugged -her shoulders half-perceptibly and said:</p> - -<p>"Just as you please."</p> - -<p>Vorotov ransacked his bookshelves and produced a ragged French book.</p> - -<p>"Will this do?" he asked.</p> - -<p>"It's all the same."</p> - -<p>"In that case let us begin. Let us start from the title, <i>Mémoires</i>."</p> - -<p>"Reminiscences...." translated Mademoiselle Enquette.</p> - -<p>"Reminiscences...." repeated Vorotov.</p> - -<p>Smiling good naturedly and breathing heavily, he passed a quarter of -an hour over the word <i>mémoires</i> and the same with the word <i>de.</i> This -tired Alice Ossipovna out. She answered his questions carelessly, got -confused and evidently neither understood her pupil nor tried to. -Vorotov asked her questions, and at the same time glanced furtively at -her fair hair, thinking:</p> - -<p>"The hair is not naturally curly. She waves it. Marvellous! She works -from morning till night and yet she finds time to wave her hair."</p> - -<p>At eight o'clock sharp she got up, gave him a dry, cold "Au revoir, -Monsieur," and left the study. After her lingered the same sweet, -subtle, agitating perfume. The pupil again did nothing for a long time, -but sat by the table and thought.</p> - -<p>During the following days he became convinced that his teacher was a -charming girl serious and punctual, but very uneducated and incapable -of teaching grown up people; so he decided he would not waste his -time, but part with her and engage someone else. When she came for the -seventh lesson he took an envelope containing seven roubles out of his -pocket. Holding it in his hands and blushing furiously, he began:</p> - -<p>"I am sorry, Alice Ossipovna, but I must tell you.... I am placed in an -awkward position...."</p> - -<p>The Frenchwoman glanced at the envelope and guessed what was the -matter. For the first time during the lessons a shiver passed over her -face and the cold, business-like expression disappeared. She reddened -faintly, and casting her eyes down, began to play absently with her -thin gold chain. And Vorotov, noticing her confusion, understood how -precious this rouble was to her, how hard it would be for her to lose -this money.</p> - -<p>"I must tell you," he murmured, getting still more confused. His heart -gave a thump. Quickly he put the envelope back into his pocket and -continued:</p> - -<p>"Excuse me. I ... I will leave you for ten minutes...."</p> - -<p>And as though he did not want to dismiss her at all, but had only asked -permission to retire for a moment he went into another room and sat -there for ten minutes. Then he returned, more confused than ever; he -thought that his leaving her like that would be explained by her in a -certain way and this made him awkward.</p> - -<p>The lessons began again.</p> - -<p>Vorotov wanted them no more. Knowing that they would lead to nothing -he gave the Frenchwoman a free hand; he did not question or interrupt -her any more. She translated at her own sweet will, ten pages a lesson, -but he did not listen. He breathed heavily and for want of occupation -gazed now and then at her curly little head, her neck, her soft white -hands, and inhaled the perfume of her dress.</p> - -<p>He caught himself thinking about her as he ought not and it shamed -him, or admiring her, and then he felt aggrieved and angry because -she behaved so coldly towards him, in such a businesslike way, never -smiling and as if afraid that he might suddenly touch her. All the -while he thought: How could he inspire her with confidence in him, how -could he get to know her better, to help her, to make her realise how -badly she taught, poor little soul?</p> - -<p>Once Alice Ossipovna came to the lesson in a dainty pink dress, a -little <i>décolleté</i>, and such a sweet scent came from her that you might -have thought she was wrapped in a cloud, that you had only to blow on -her for her to fly away or dissolve like smoke. She apologised, saying -she could only stay for half an hour, because she had to go straight -from the lesson to a ball.</p> - -<p>He gazed at her neck, at her bare shoulders and he thought he -understood why Frenchwomen were known to be light-minded and easily -won; he was drowned in this cloud of scent, beauty, and nudity, and -she, quite unaware of his thoughts and probably not in the least -interested in them, read over the pages quickly and translated full -steam ahead:</p> - -<p>"He walked over the street and met the gentleman of his friend and -said: where do you rush? seeing your face so pale it makes me pain."</p> - -<p>The <i>Mémoires</i> had been finished long ago; Alice was now translating -another book. Once she came to the lesson an hour earlier, apologising -because she had to go to the Little Theatre at seven o'clock. When the -lesson was over Vorotov dressed and he too went to the theatre. It -seemed to him only for the sake of rest and distraction, and he did not -even think of Alice. He would not admit that a serious man, preparing -for a scientific career, a stay-at-home, should brush aside his book -and rush to the theatre for the sake of meeting an unintellectual, -stupid girl whom he hardly knew.</p> - -<p>But somehow, during the intervals his heart beat, and, without noticing -it, he ran about the foyer and the corridors like a boy, looking -impatiently for someone. Every time the interval was over he was -tired, but when he discovered the familiar pink dress and the lovely -shoulders veiled with tulle his heart jumped as if from a presentiment -of happiness, he smiled joyfully, and for the first time in his life he -felt jealous.</p> - -<p>Alice was with two ugly students and an officer. She was laughing, -talking loudly and evidently flirting. Vorotov had never seen her like -that. Apparently she was happy, contented, natural, warm. Why? What was -the reason? Perhaps because these people were dear to her and belonged -to the same class as she. Vorotov felt the huge abyss between him and -that class. He bowed to his teacher, but she nodded coldly and quietly -passed by. It was plain she did not want her cavaliers to know that she -had pupils and gave lessons because she was poor.</p> - -<p>After the meeting at the theatre Vorotov knew that he was in love. -During lessons that followed he devoured his elegant teacher with his -eyes, and no longer struggling, he gave full rein to his pure and -impure thoughts. Alice's face was always cold. Exactly at eight o'clock -every evening she said calmly, "Au revoir, Monsieur," and he felt that -she was indifferent to him and would remain indifferent, that—his -position was hopeless.</p> - -<p>Sometimes in the middle of a lesson he would begin dreaming, hoping, -building plans; he composed an amorous declaration, remembering that -Frenchwomen were frivolous and complaisant, but he had only to give his -teacher one glance for his thoughts to be blown out like a candle, when -you carry it on to the verandah of a bungalow and the wind is blowing. -Once, overcome, forgetting everything, in a frenzy, he could stand it -no longer. He barred her way when she came from the study into the -hall after the lesson and, losing his breath and stammering, began to -declare his love:</p> - -<p>"You are dear to me!... I love you. Please let me speak!"</p> - -<p>Alice grew pale: probably she was afraid that after this declaration -she would not be able to come to him any more and receive a rouble -a lesson. She looked at him with terrified eyes and began in a loud -whisper:</p> - -<p>"Ah, it's impossible! Do not speak, I beg you! Impossible!"</p> - -<p>Afterwards Vorotov did not sleep all night; he tortured himself with -shame, abused himself, thinking feverishly. He thought that his -declaration had offended the girl and that she would not come any -more. He made up his mind to find out where she lived from the Address -Bureau and to write her an apology. But Alice came without the letter. -For a moment she felt awkward, and then opened the book and began to -translate quickly, in an animated voice, as always:</p> - -<p>"'Oh, young gentleman, do not rend these flowers in my garden which I -want to give to my sick daughter.'"</p> - -<p>She still goes. Four books have been translated by now but Vorotov -knows nothing beyond the word <i>mémoires,</i> and when he is asked about -his scientific research work he waves his hand, leaves the question -unanswered, and begins to talk about the weather.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap"> -<h4><a name="A_LIVING_CALENDAR" id="A_LIVING_CALENDAR">A LIVING CALENDAR</a></h4> - - -<p>State-Councillor Sharamykin's drawing-room is wrapped in a pleasant -half-darkness. The big bronze lamp with the green shade, makes -the walls, the furniture, the faces, all green, <i>couleur</i> "<i>Nuit -d'Ukraine</i>" Occasionally a smouldering log flares up in the dying fire -and for a moment casts a red glow over the faces; but this does not -spoil the general harmony of light. The general tone, as the painters -say, is well sustained.</p> - -<p>Sharamykin sits in a chair in front of the fireplace, in the attitude -of a man who has just dined. He is an elderly man with a high -official's grey side whiskers and meek blue eyes. Tenderness is shed -over his face, and his lips are set in a melancholy smile. At his -feet, stretched out lazily, with his legs towards the fire-place, -Vice-Governor Lopniev sits on a little stool. He is a brave-looking man -of about forty. Sharamykin's children are moving about round the piano; -Nina, Kolya, Nadya, and Vanya. The door leading to Madame Sharamykin's -room is slightly open and the light breaks through timidly. There -behind the door sits Sharamykin's wife, Anna Pavlovna, in front of -her writing-table. She is president of the local ladies' committee, a -lively, piquant lady of thirty years and a little bit over. Through -her pince-nez her vivacious black eyes are running over the pages of a -French novel. Beneath the novel lies a tattered copy of the report of -the committee for last year.</p> - -<p>"Formerly our town was much better off in these things," says -Sharamykin, screwing up his meek eyes at the glowing coals. "Never a -winter passed but some star would pay us a visit. Famous actors and -singers used to come ... but now, besides acrobats and organ-grinders, -the devil only knows what comes. There's no aesthetic pleasure -at all.... We might be living in a forest. Yes.... And does your -Excellency remember that Italian tragedian?... What's his name?... He -was so dark, and tall.... Let me think.... Oh, yes! Luigi Ernesto di -Ruggiero.... Remarkable talent.... And strength. He had only to say -one word and the whole theatre was on the <i>qui vive.</i> My darling Anna -used to take a great interest in his talent. She hired the theatre for -him and sold tickets for the performances in advance.... In return he -taught her elocution and gesture. A first-rate fellow! He came here -... to be quite exact ... twelve years ago.... No, that's not true.... -Less, ten years.... Anna dear, how old is our Nina?"</p> - -<p>"She'll be ten next birthday," calls Anna Pavlovna from her room. "Why?"</p> - -<p>"Nothing in particular, my dear. I was just curious.... And good -singers used to come. Do you remember Prilipchin, the <i>tenore di -grazia</i>? What a charming fellow he was! How good looking! Fair ... -a very expressive face, Parisian manners.... And what a voice, your -Excellency! Only one weakness: he would sing some notes with his -stomach and would take <i>re</i> falsetto—otherwise everything was good. -Tamberlik, he said, had taught him.... My dear Anna and I hired a hall -for him at the Social Club, and in gratitude for that he used to sing -to us for whole days and nights.... He taught dear Anna to sing. He -came—I remember it as though it were last night—in Lent, some twelve -years ago. No, it's more.... How bad my memory is getting, Heaven help -me! Anna dear, how old is our darling Nadya?</p> - -<p>"Twelve."</p> - -<p>"Twelve ... then we've got to add ten months.... That makes it exact -... thirteen. Somehow there used to be more life in our town then.... -Take, for instance, the charity soirées. What enjoyable soirées we -used to have before! How elegant! There were singing, playing, and -recitation.... After the war, I remember, when the Turkish prisoners -were here, dear Anna arranged a soiree on behalf of the wounded. We -collected eleven hundred roubles. I remember the Turkish officers -were passionately fond of dear Anna's voice, and kissed her hand -incessantly. He-he! Asiatics, but a grateful nation. Would you believe -me, the soiree was such a success that I wrote an account of it in my -diary? It was,—I remember it as though it had only just happened,—in -'76,... no, in '77.... No! Pray, when were the Turks here? Anna dear, -how old is our little Kolya?"</p> - -<p>"I'm seven, Papa!" says Kolya, a brat with a swarthy face and coal -black hair.</p> - -<p>"Yes, we're old, and we've lost the energy we used to have," Lopniev -agreed with a sigh. "That's the real cause. Old age, my friend. No new -moving spirits arrive, and the old ones grow old.... The old fire is -dull now. When I was younger I did not like company to be bored.... -I was your Anna Pavlovna's first assistant. Whether it was a charity -soirée or a tombola to support a star who was going to arrive, whatever -Anna Pavlovna was arranging, I used to throw over everything and begin -to bustle about. One winter, I remember, I bustled and ran so much that -I even got ill.... I shan't forget that winter.... Do you remember what -a performance we arranged with Anna Pavlovna in aid of the victims of -the fire?"</p> - -<p>"What year was it?"</p> - -<p>"Not so very long ago.... In '79. No, in '80, I believe! Tell me how -old is your Vanya?"</p> - -<p>"Five," Anna Pavlovna calls from the study.</p> - -<p>"Well, that means it was six years ago. Yes, my dear friend, that was a -time. It's all over now. The old fire's quite gone."</p> - -<p>Lopniev and Sharamykin grew thoughtful. The smouldering log flares up -for the last time, and then is covered in ash.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap"> -<h4><a name="OLD_AGE" id="OLD_AGE">OLD AGE</a></h4> - - -<p>State-Councillor Usielkov, architect, arrived in his native town, -where he had been summoned to restore the cemetery church. He was born -in the town, he had grown up and been married there, and yet when he -got out of the train he hardly recognised it. Everything was changed. -For instance, eighteen years ago, when he left the town to settle in -Petersburg, where the railway station is now boys used to hunt for -marmots: now as you come into the High Street there is a four storied -"Hotel Vienna," with apartments, where there was of old an ugly grey -fence. But not the fence or the houses, or anything had changed so much -as the people. Questioning the hall-porter, Usielkov discovered that -more than half of the people he remembered were dead or paupers or -forgotten.</p> - -<p>"Do you remember Usielkov?" he asked the porter. "Usielkov, the -architect, who divorced his wife.... He had a house in Sviribev -Street.... Surely you remember."</p> - -<p>"No, I don't remember anyone of the name."</p> - -<p>"Why, it's impossible not to remember. It was an exciting case. All -the cabmen knew, even. Try to remember. His divorce was managed by the -attorney, Shapkin, the swindler ... the notorious sharper, the man who -was thrashed at the club...."</p> - -<p>"You mean Ivan Nicolaich?"</p> - -<p>"Yes.... Is he alive? dead?"</p> - -<p>"Thank heaven, his honour's alive. His honour's a notary now, with an -office. Well-to-do. Two houses in Kirpichny Street. Just lately married -his daughter off."</p> - -<p>Usielkov strode from one corner of the room to another. An idea -flashed into his mind. From boredom, he decided to see Shapkin. It -was afternoon when he left the hotel and quietly walked to Kirpichny -Street. He found Shapkin in his office and hardly recognised him. From -the well-built, alert attorney with a quick, impudent, perpetually -tipsy expression, Shapkin had become a modest, grey-haired, shrunken -old man.</p> - -<p>"You don't recognise me.... You have forgotten ...." Usielkov began. -"I'm your old client, Usielkov."</p> - -<p>"Usielkov? Which Usielkov? Ah!" Remembrance came to Shapkin: he -recognised him and was confused. Began exclamations, questions, -recollections.</p> - -<p>"Never expected ... never thought...." chuckled Shapkin. "What will you -have? Would you like champagne? Perhaps you'd like oysters. My dear -man, what a lot of money I got out of you in the old days—so much that -I can't think what I ought to stand you."</p> - -<p>"Please don't trouble," said Usielkov. "I haven't time. I must go to -the cemetery and examine the church. I have a commission."</p> - -<p>"Splendid. We'll have something to eat and a drink and go together. -I've got some splendid horses! I'll take you there and introduce you to -the churchwarden.... I'll fix up everything.... But what's the matter, -my dearest man? You're not avoiding me, not afraid? Please sit nearer. -There's nothing to be afraid of now.... Long ago, I really was pretty -sharp, a bit of a rogue ... but now I'm quieter than water, humbler -than grass. I've grown old; got a family. There are children.... Time -to die!"</p> - -<p>The friends had something to eat and drink, and went in a coach and -pair to the cemetery.</p> - -<p>"Yes, it was a good time," Shapkin was reminiscent, sitting in the -sledge. "I remember, but I simply can't believe it. Do you remember -how you divorced your wife? It's almost twenty years ago, and you've -probably forgotten everything, but I remember it as though I conducted -the petition yesterday. My God, how rotten I was! Then I was a smart, -casuistical devil, full of sharp practice and devilry.... and I used -to run into some shady affairs, particularly when there was a good -fee, as in your case, for instance. What was it you paid me then? -Five—six hundred. Enough to upset anybody! By the time you left for -Petersburg you'd left the whole affair completely in my hands. 'Do what -you like!' And your former wife, Sophia Mikhailovna, though she did -come from a merchant family, was proud and selfish. To bribe her to -take the guilt on herself was difficult—extremely difficult. I used to -come to her for a business talk, and when she saw me, she would say to -her maid: 'Masha, surely I told you I wasn't at home to scoundrels.' -I tried one way, then another ... wrote letters to her, tried to meet -her accidentally—no good. I had to work through a third person. For a -long time I had trouble with her, and she only yielded when you agreed -to give her ten thousand. She could not stand out against ten thousand. -She succumbed.... She began to weep, spat in my face, but she yielded -and took the guilt on herself."</p> - -<p>"If I remember it was fifteen, not ten thousand she took from me," said -Usielkov.</p> - -<p>"Yes, of course ... fifteen, my mistake." Shapkin was disconcerted. -"Anyway it's all past and done with now. Why shouldn't I confess, -frankly? Ten I gave to her, and the remaining five I bargained out of -you for my own share. I deceived both of you.... It's all past, why be -ashamed of it? And who else was there to take from, Boris Pietrovich, -if not from you? I ask you.... You were rich and well-to-do. You -married in caprice: you were divorced in caprice. You were making a -fortune. I remember you got twenty thousand out of a single contract. -Whom was I to tap, if not you? And I must confess, I was tortured by -envy. If you got hold of a nice lot of money, people would take off -their hats to you: but the same people would beat me for shillings and -smack my face in the club. But why recall it? It's time to forget."</p> - -<p>"Tell me, please, how did Sophia Mikhailovna live afterwards?"</p> - -<p>"With her ten thousand? <i>On ne peut plus</i> badly.... God knows whether -it was frenzy or pride and conscience that tortured her, because she -had sold herself for money—or perhaps she loved you; but, she took to -drink, you know. She received the money and began to gad about with -officers in troikas.... Drunkenness, philandering, debauchery.... She -would come into a tavern with an officer, and instead of port or a -light wine, she would drink the strongest cognac to drive her into a -frenzy."</p> - -<p>"Yes, she was eccentric. I suffered enough with her. She would take -offence at some trifle and then get nervous.... And what happened -afterwards?"</p> - -<p>"A week passed, a fortnight.... I was sitting at home writing. -Suddenly, the door opened and she comes in. 'Take your cursed money,' -she said, and threw the parcel in my face.... She could not resist -it.... Five hundred were missing. She had only got rid of five -hundred."</p> - -<p>"And what did you do with the money?"</p> - -<p>"It's all past and done with. What's the good of concealing it?... -I certainly took it. What are you staring at me like that for? Wait -for the sequel. It's a complete novel, the sickness of a soul! Two -months passed by. One night I came home drunk, in a wicked mood.... -I turned on the light and saw Sophia Mikhailovna sitting on my sofa, -drunk too, wandering a bit, with something savage in her face as if -she had just escaped from the mad-house. 'Give me my money back,' she -said. 'I've changed my mind. If I'm going to the dogs, I want to go -madly, passionately. Make haste, you scoundrel, give me the money.' How -indecent it was!"</p> - -<p>"And you ... did you give it her?"</p> - -<p>"I remember I gave her ten roubles."</p> - -<p>"Oh ... is it possible?" Usielkov frowned. "If you couldn't do it -yourself, or you didn't want to, you could have written to me.... And I -didn't know ... I didn't know."</p> - -<p>"My dear man, why should I write, when she wrote herself afterwards -when she was in hospital?"</p> - -<p>"I was so taken up with the new marriage that I paid no attention to -letters.... But you were an outsider; you had no antagonism to Sophia -Mikhailovna.... Why didn't you help her?"</p> - -<p>"We can't judge by our present standards, Boris Pietrovich. Now we -think in this way; but then we thought quite differently.... Now I -might perhaps give her a thousand roubles; but then even ten roubles -... she didn't get them for nothing. It's a terrible story. It's time -to forget.... But here you are!"</p> - -<p>The sledge stopped at the churchyard gate. Usielkov and Shapkin got -out of the sledge, went through the gate and walked along a long, -broad avenue. The bare cherry trees, the acacias, the grey crosses and -monuments sparkled with hoar-frost. In each flake of snow the bright -sunny day was reflected. There was the smell you find in all cemeteries -of incense and fresh-dug earth.</p> - -<p>"You have a beautiful cemetery," said Usielkov. "It's almost an -orchard."</p> - -<p>"Yes, but it's a pity the thieves steal the monuments. Look, there, -behind that cast-iron memorial, on the right, Sophia Mikhailovna is -buried. Would you like to see?"</p> - -<p>The friends turned to the right, stepping in deep snow towards the -cast-iron memorial.</p> - -<p>"Down here," said Shapkin, pointing to a little stone of white marble. -"Some subaltern or other put up the monument on her grave." Usielkov -slowly took off his hat and showed his bald pate to the snow. Eying -him, Shapkin also took off his hat, and another baldness shone beneath -the sun. The silence round about was like the tomb, as though the air -were dead, too. The friends looked at the stone, silent, thinking.</p> - -<p>"She is asleep!" Shapkin broke the silence. "And she cares very little -that she took the guilt upon herself and drank cognac. Confess, Boris -Pietrovich!"</p> - -<p>"What?" asked Usielkov, sternly.</p> - -<p>"That, however loathsome the past may be, it's better than this." And -Shapkin pointed to his grey hairs.</p> - -<p>"In the old days I did not even think of death.... If I'd met her, I -would have circumvented her, but now ... well, now!"</p> - -<p>Sadness took hold of Usielkov. Suddenly he wanted to cry, passionately, -as he once desired to love.... And he felt that these tears would be -exquisite, refreshing. Moisture came out of his eyes and a lump rose in -his throat, but.... Shapkin was standing by his side, and Usielkov felt -ashamed of his weakness before a witness. He turned back quickly and -walked towards the church.</p> - -<p>Two hours later, having arranged with the churchwarden and examined the -church, he seized the opportunity while Shapkin was talking away to the -priest, and ran to shed a tear. He walked to the stone surreptitiously, -with stealthy steps, looking round all the time. The little white -monument stared at him absently, so sadly and innocently, as though a -girl and not a wanton <i>divorcée</i> were beneath.</p> - -<p>"If I could weep, could weep!" thought Usielkov.</p> - -<p>But the moment for weeping had been lost. Though the old man managed -to make his eyes shine, and tried to bring himself to the right pitch, -the tears did not flow and the lump did not rise in his throat.... -After waiting for about ten minutes, Usielkov waved his arm and went to -look for Shapkin.</p> - - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BET AND OTHER STORIES ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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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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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The Bet and other stories - -Author: Anton Tchekhov - -Translator: Samuel Solomonovitch Koteliansky - John Middleton Murry - -Release Date: August 7, 2017 [EBook #55283] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BET AND OTHER STORIES *** - - - - -Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at Free Literature (online soon -in an extended version,also linking to free sources for -education worldwide ... MOOC's, educational materials,...) -Images generously made available by the Internet Archive.) - - - - - -THE BET - -AND OTHER STORIES - -BY - -ANTON TCHEKHOV - -TRANSLATED BY - -S. KOTELIANSKY AND J. M. MURRY - -JOHN W. LUCE & CO. - -BOSTON - -1915 - - - - -TRANSLATORS' NOTE - -Stiepanovich and Stepanich are two forms of the same name, -meaning--"son of Stephen." The abbreviated form is the more intimate -and familiar. - -The Russian dishes mentioned in "A Tedious Story" have no exact -equivalents. _Sossoulki_ are a kind of little dumplings eaten in -soup; _schi_ is a soup made of sour cabbage; and _kasha_ is a kind of -porridge. - -The words of the song which the students sing in "The Fit" come from -Poushkin. - - - - CONTENTS - - THE BET - A TEDIOUS STORY - THE FIT - MISFORTUNE - AFTER THE THEATRE - THAT WRETCHED BOY - ENEMIES - A TRIFLING OCCURRENCE - A GENTLEMAN FRIEND - OVERWHELMING SENSATIONS - EXPENSIVE LESSONS - A LIVING CALENDAR - OLD AGE - - - - -THE BET - - -It was a dark autumn night. The old banker was pacing from corner to -corner of his study, recalling to his mind the party he gave in the -autumn fifteen years ago. There were many clever people at the party -and much interesting conversation. They talked among other things of -capital punishment. The guests, among them not a few scholars and -journalists, for the most part disapproved of capital punishment. They -found it obsolete as a means of punishment, unfitted to a Christian -State and immoral. Some of them thought that capital punishment should -be replaced universally by life-imprisonment. - -"I don't agree with you," said the host. "I myself have experienced -neither capital punishment nor life-imprisonment, but if one may -judge _a priori,_ then in my opinion capital punishment is more -moral and more humane than imprisonment. Execution kills instantly, -life-imprisonment kills by degrees. Who is the more humane executioner, -one who kills you in a few seconds or one who draws the life out of -you incessantly, for years?" - -"They're both equally immoral," remarked one of the guests, "because -their purpose is the same, to take away life. The State is not God. It -has no right to take away that which it cannot give back, if it should -so desire." - -Among the company was a lawyer, a young man of about twenty-five. On -being asked his opinion, he said: - -"Capital punishment and life-imprisonment are equally immoral; but if -I were offered the choice between them, I would certainly choose the -second. It's better to live somehow than not to live at all." - -There ensued a lively discussion. The banker who was then younger and -more nervous suddenly lost his temper, banged his fist on the table, and -turning to the young lawyer, cried out: - -"It's a lie. I bet you two millions you wouldn't stick in a cell even -for five years." - -"If that's serious," replied the lawyer, "then I bet I'll stay not five -but fifteen." - -"Fifteen! Done!" cried the banker. "Gentlemen, I stake two millions." - -"Agreed. You stake two millions, I my freedom," said the lawyer. - -So this wild, ridiculous bet came to pass. The banker, who at that time -had too many millions to count, spoiled and capricious, was beside -himself with rapture. During supper he said to the lawyer jokingly: - -"Come to your senses, young man, before it's too late. Two millions are -nothing to me, but you stand to lose three or four of the best years of -your life. I say three or four, because you'll never stick it out any -longer. Don't forget either, you unhappy man, that voluntary is much -heavier than enforced imprisonment. The idea that you have the right to -free yourself at any moment will poison the whole of your life in the -cell. I pity you." - -And now the banker pacing from corner to corner, recalled all this and -asked himself: - -"Why did I make this bet? What's the good? The lawyer loses fifteen -years of his life and I throw away two millions. Will it convince -people that capital punishment is worse or better than imprisonment for -life. No, No! all stuff and rubbish. On my part, it was the caprice of -a well-fed man; on the lawyer's, pure greed of gold." - -He recollected further what happened after the evening party. It -was decided that the lawyer must undergo his imprisonment under the -strictest observation, in a garden-wing of the banker's house. It was -agreed that during the period he would be deprived of the right to -cross the threshold, to see living people, to hear human voices, and -to receive letters and newspapers. He was permitted to have a musical -instrument, to read books, to write letters, to drink wine and smoke -tobacco. By the agreement he could communicate, but only in silence, -with the outside world through a little window specially constructed -for this purpose. Everything necessary, books, music, wine, he could -receive in any quantity by sending a note through the window. The -agreement provided for all the minutest details, which made the -confinement strictly solitary, and it obliged the lawyer to remain -exactly fifteen years from twelve o'clock of November 14th 1870 to -twelve o'clock of November 14th 1885. The least attempt on his part to -violate the conditions, to escape if only for two minutes before the -time freed the banker from the obligation to pay him the two millions. - -During the first year of imprisonment, the lawyer, as far as it -was possible to judge from his short notes, suffered terribly from -loneliness and boredom. From his wing day and night came the sound of -the piano. He rejected wine and tobacco. "Wine," he wrote, "excites -desires, and desires are the chief foes of a prisoner; besides, nothing -is more boring than to drink good wine alone," and tobacco spoils the -air in his room. During the first year the lawyer was sent books of a -light character; novels with a complicated love interest, stories of -crime and fantasy, comedies, and so on. - -In the second year the piano was heard no longer and the lawyer asked -only for classics. In the fifth year, music was heard again, and the -prisoner asked for wine. Those who watched him said that during the -whole of that year he was only eating, drinking, and lying on his bed. -He yawned often and talked angrily to himself. Books he did not read. -Sometimes at nights he would sit down to write. He would write for a -long time and tear it all up in the morning. More than once he was -heard to weep. - -In the second half of the sixth year, the prisoner began zealously to -study languages, philosophy, and history. He fell on these subjects so -hungrily that the banker hardly had time to get books enough for him. -In the space of four years about six hundred volumes were bought at -his request. It was while that passion lasted that the banker received -the following letter from the prisoner: "My dear gaoler, I am writing -these lines in six languages. Show them to experts. Let them read them. -If they do not find one single mistake, I beg you to give orders to -have a gun fired off in the garden. By the noise I shall know that my -efforts have not been in vain. The geniuses of all ages and countries -speak in different languages; but in them all burns the same flame. Oh, -if you knew my heavenly happiness now that I can understand them!" The -prisoner's desire was fulfilled. Two shots were fired in the garden by -the banker's order. - -Later on, after the tenth year, the lawyer sat immovable before his -table and read only the New Testament. The banker found it strange -that a man who in four years had mastered six hundred erudite volumes, -should have spent nearly a year in reading one book, easy to -understand and by no means thick. The New Testament was then replaced -by the history of religions and theology. - -During the last two years of his confinement the prisoner read an -extraordinary amount, quite haphazard. Now he would apply himself to -the natural sciences, then would read Byron or Shakespeare. Notes used -to come from him in which he asked to be sent at the same time a book -on chemistry, a text-book of medicine, a novel, and some treatise on -philosophy or theology. He read as though he were swimming in the sea -among the broken pieces of wreckage, and in his desire to save his life -was eagerly grasping one piece after another. - - - -II - - -The banker recalled all this, and thought: - -"To-morrow at twelve o'clock he receives his freedom. Under the -agreement, I shall have to pay him two millions. If I pay, it's all -over with me. I am ruined for ever...." - -Fifteen years before he had too many millions to count, but now he was -afraid to ask himself which he had more of, money or debts. Gambling on -the Stock-Exchange, risky speculation, and the recklessness of which -he could not rid himself even in old age, had gradually brought his -business to decay; and the fearless, self-confident, proud man of -business had become an ordinary banker, trembling at every rise and -fall in the market. - -"That cursed bet," murmured the old man clutching his head in -despair.... "Why didn't the man die? He's only forty years old. He will -take away my last farthing, marry, enjoy life, gamble on the Exchange, -and I will look on like an envious beggar and hear the same words from -him every day: 'I'm obliged to you for the happiness of my life. Let -me help you.' No, it's too much! The only escape from bankruptcy and -disgrace--is that the man should die." - -The clock had just struck three. The banker was listening. In Ike house -everyone was asleep, and one could hear only the frozen trees whining -outside the windows. Trying to make no sound, he took out of his safe -the key of the door which had not been opened for fifteen years, put -on his overcoat, and went out of the house. The garden was dark and -cold. It was raining. A keen damp wind hovered howling over all the -garden and gave the trees no rest. Though he strained his eyes, the -banker could see neither the ground, nor the white statues, nor the -garden-wing, nor the trees. Approaching the place where the garden wing -stood, he called the watchman twice. There was no answer. Evidently -the watchman had taken shelter from the bad weather and was now asleep -somewhere in the kitchen or the greenhouse. - -"If I have the courage to fulfil my intention," thought the old man, -"the suspicion will fall on the watchman first of all." - -In the darkness he groped for the stairs and the door and entered the -hall of the gardenwing, then poked his way into a narrow passage and -struck a match. Not a soul was there. Someone's bed, with no bedclothes -on it, stood there, and an iron stove was dark in the corner. The seals -on the door that led into the prisoner's room were unbroken. - -When the match went out, the old man, trembling from agitation, peeped -into the little window. - -In the prisoner's room a candle was burning dim. The prisoner himself -sat by the table. Only his back, the hair on his head and his hands -were visible. On the table, the two chairs, the carpet by the table -open books were strewn. - -Five minutes passed and the prisoner never once stirred. Fifteen years -confinement had taught him to sit motionless. The banker tapped on the -window with his finger, but the prisoner gave no movement in reply. -Then the banker cautiously tore the seals from the door and put the key -into the lock. The rusty lock gave a hoarse groan and the door creaked. -The banker expected instantly to hear a cry of surprise and the sound -of steps. Three minutes passed and it was as quiet behind the door as -it had been before. He made up his mind to enter. Before the table -sat a man, unlike an ordinary human being. It was a skeleton, with -tight-drawn skin, with a woman's long curly hair, and a shaggy beard. -The colour of his face was yellow, of an earthy shade; the cheeks were -sunken, the back long and narrow, and the hand upon which he leaned his -hairy head was so lean and skinny that it was painful to look upon. -His hair was already silvering with grey, and no one who glanced at -the senile emaciation of the face would have believed that he was only -forty years old. On the table, before his bended head, lay a sheet of -paper on which something was written in a tiny hand. - -"Poor devil," thought the banker, "he's asleep and probably seeing -millions in his dreams. I have only to take and throw this half-dead -thing on the bed, smother him a moment with the pillow, and the most -careful examination will find no trace of unnatural death. But, first, -let us read what he has written here." - -The banker took the sheet from the table and read: - -"To-morrow at twelve o'clock midnight, I shall obtain my freedom and -the right to mix with people. But before I leave this room and see the -sun I think it necessary to say a few words to you. On my own clear -conscience and before God who sees me I declare to you that I despise -freedom, life, health, and all that your books call the blessings of -the world. - -"For fifteen years I have diligently studied earthly life. True, -I saw neither the earth nor the people, but in your books I drank -fragrant wine, sang songs, hunted deer and wild boar in the forests, -loved women.... And beautiful women, like clouds ethereal, created by -the magic of your poets' genius, visited me by night and whispered me -wonderful tales, which made my head drunken. In your books I climbed -the summits of Elbruz and Mont Blanc and saw from thence how the -sun rose in the morning, and in the evening overflowed the sky, the -ocean and the mountain ridges with a purple gold. I saw from thence -how above me lightnings glimmered cleaving the clouds; I saw green -forests, fields, rivers, lakes, cities; I heard syrens singing, and the -playing of the pipes of Pan; I touched the wings of beautiful devils -who came flying to me to speak of God.... In your books I cast myself -into bottomless abysses, worked miracles, burned cities to the ground, -preached new religions, conquered whole countries.... - -"Your books gave me wisdom. All that unwearying human thought created -in the centuries is compressed to a little lump in my skull. I know -that I am more clever than you all. - -"And I despise your books, despise all wordly blessings and wisdom. -Everything is void, frail, visionary and delusive like a mirage. Though -you be proud and wise and beautiful, yet will death wipe you from the -face of the earth like the mice underground; and your posterity, your -history, and the immortality of your men of genius will be as frozen -slag, burnt down together with the terrestrial globe. - -"You are mad, and gone the wrong way. You take lie for truth and -ugliness for beauty. You would marvel if by certain conditions there -should suddenly grow on apple and orange trees, instead of fruit, -frogs and lizards, and if roses should begin to breathe the odour of -a sweating horse. So do I marvel at you, who have bartered heaven for -earth. I do not want to understand you. - -"That I may show you in deed my contempt for that by which you live, -I waive the two millions of which I once dreamed as of paradise, and -which I now despise. That I may deprive myself of my right to them, I -shall come out from here five minutes before the stipulated term, and -thus shall violate the agreement." - -When he had read, the banker put the sheet on the table, kissed the -head of the strange man, and began to weep. He went out of the wing. -Never at any other time, not even after his terrible losses on the -Exchange, had he felt such contempt for himself as now. Coming home, -he lay down on his bed, but agitation and tears kept him long from -sleep.... - -The next morning the poor watchman came running to him and told him -that they had seen the man who lived in the wing climbing through the -window into the garden. He had gone to the gate and disappeared. -Together with his servants the banker went instantly to the wing and -established the escape of his prisoner. To avoid unnecessary rumours he -took the paper with the renunciation from the table and, on his return, -locked it in his safe. - - - - -A TEDIOUS STORY - - -(FROM AN OLD MAN'S JOURNAL) - - -There lives in Russia an emeritus professor, Nicolai Stiepanovich ... -privy councillor and knight. He has so many Russian and foreign Orders -that when he puts them on the students call him "the holy picture." -His acquaintance is most distinguished. Not a single famous scholar -lived or died during the last twenty-five or thirty years but he was -intimately acquainted with him. Now he has no one to be friendly with, -but speaking of the past the long list of his eminent friends would -end with such names as Pirogov, Kavelin, and the poet Nekrasov, who -bestowed upon him their warmest and most sincere friendship. He is a -member of all the Russian and of three foreign universities, et cetera, -et cetera. All this, and a great deal besides, forms what is known as -my name. - -This name of mine is very popular. It is known to every literate person -in Russia; abroad it is mentioned from professorial chairs with the -epithets "eminent and esteemed." It is reckoned among those fortunate -names which to mention in vain or to abuse in public or in the Press -is considered a mark of bad breeding. Indeed, it should be so; because -with my name is inseparably associated the idea of a famous, richly -gifted, and indubitably useful person. I am a steady worker, with -the endurance of a camel, which is important. I am also endowed with -talent, which is still more important. In passing, I would add that -I am a well-educated, modest, and honest fellow. I have never poked -my nose into letters or politics, never sought popularity in disputes -with the ignorant, and made no speeches either at dinners or at my -colleagues' funerals. Altogether there is not a single spot on my -learned name, and it has nothing to complain of. It is fortunate. - -The bearer of this name, that is myself, is a man of sixty-two, with a -bald head, false teeth and an incurable tic. My name is as brilliant -and prepossessing, as I, myself am dull and ugly. My head and hands -tremble from weakness; my neck, like that of one of Turgeniev's -heroines, resembles the handle of a counter-bass; my chest is hollow -and my back narrow. When I speak or read my mouth twists, and when I -smile my whole face is covered with senile, deathly wrinkles. There is -nothing imposing in my pitiable face, save that when I suffer from the -tic, I have a singular expression which compels anyone who looks at me -to think: "This man will die soon, for sure." - -I can still read pretty well; I can still hold the attention of my -audience for two hours. My passionate manner, the literary form of -my exposition and my humour make the defects of my voice almost -unnoticeable, though it is dry, harsh, and hard like a hypocrite's. -But I write badly. The part of my brain which governs the ability to -write refused office. My memory has weakened, and my thoughts are -too inconsequent; and when I expound them on paper, I always have a -feeling that I have lost the sense of their organic connection. The -construction is monotonous, and the sentence feeble and timid. I -often do not write what I want to, and when I write the end I cannot -remember the beginning. I often forget common words, and in writing a -letter I always have to waste much energy in order to avoid superfluous -sentences and unnecessary incidental statements; both bear clear -witness of the decay of my intellectual activity. And it is remarkable -that, the simpler the letter, the more tormenting is my effort. When -writing a scientific article I fed much freer and much more intelligent -than in writing a letter of welcome or a report. One thing more: it is -easier for me to write German or English than Russian. - -As regards my present life, I must first of all note insomnia, from -which I have begun to suffer lately. If I were asked: "What is now -the chief and fundamental fact of your existence?" I would answer: -"Insomnia." From habit, I still undress at midnight precisely and get -into bed. I soon fall asleep but wake just after one with the feeling -that I have not slept at all. I must get out of bed and light the -lamp. For an hour or two I walk about the room from corner to corner -and inspect the long familiar pictures. When I am weary of walking I -sit down to the table. I sit motionless thinking of nothing, feeling -no desires; if a book lies before me I draw it mechanically towards me -and read without interest. Thus lately in one night I read mechanically -a whole novel with a strange title, "Of What the Swallow Sang." Or in -order to occupy my attention I make myself count to a thousand, or I -imagine the face of some one of my friends, and begin to remember in -what year and under what circumstances he joined the faculty. I love -to listen to sounds. Now, two rooms away from me my daughter Liza will -say something quickly, in her sleep; then my wife will walk through the -drawing-room with a candle and infallibly drop the box of matches. Then -the shrinking wood of the cupboard squeaks or the burner of the lamp -tinkles suddenly, and all these sounds somehow agitate me. - -Not to sleep of nights confesses one abnormal; and therefore I wait -impatiently for the morning and the day, when I have the right not -to sleep. Many oppressive hours pass before the cock crows. He is my -harbinger of good. As soon as he has crowed I know that in an hour's -time the porter downstairs will awake and for some reason or other go -up the stairs, coughing angrily; and later beyond the windows the air -begins to pale gradually and voices echo in the street. - -The day begins with the coming of my wife. She comes in to me in a -petticoat, with her hair undone, but already washed and smelling of eau -de Cologne, and looking as though she came in by accident, saying the -same thing every time: "Pardon, I came in for a moment. You haven't -slept again?" Then she puts the lamp out, sits by the table and begins -to talk. I am not a prophet but I know beforehand what the subject of -conversation will be, every morning the same. Usually, after breathless -inquiries after my health, she suddenly remembers our son, the officer, -who is serving in Warsaw. On the twentieth of each month we send him -fifty roubles. This is our chief subject of conversation. - -"Of course it is hard on us," my wife sighs. "But until he is finally -settled we are obliged to help him. The boy is among strangers; the -pay is small. But if you like, next month we'll send him forty roubles -instead of fifty. What do you think?" - -Daily experience might have convinced my wife that expenses do -not grow less by talking of them. But my wife does not acknowledge -experience and speaks about our officer punctually every day, about -bread, thank Heaven, being cheaper and sugar a half-penny dearer--and -all this in a tone as though it were news to me. - -I listen and agree mechanically. Probably because I have not slept -during the night strange idle thoughts take hold of me. I look at my -wife and wonder like a child. In perplexity I ask myself: This old, -stout, clumsy woman, with sordid cares and anxiety about bread and -butter written in the dull expression of her face, her eyes tired with -eternal thoughts of debts and poverty, who can talk only of expenses -and smile only when things are cheap--was this once the slim Varya -whom I loved passionately for her fine clear mind, her pure soul, her -beauty, and as Othello loved Desdemona, for her "compassion" of my -science? Is she really the same, my wife Varya, who bore me a son? - -I gaze intently into the fat, clumsy old woman's face. I seek in her -my Varya; but from the past nothing remains but her fear for my health -and her way of calling my salary "our" salary and my hat "our" hat. It -pains me to look at her, and to console her, if only a little, I let -her talk as she pleases, and I am silent even when she judges people -unjustly, or scolds me because I do not practise and do not publish -text-books. - -Our conversation always ends in the same way. My wife suddenly -remembers that I have not yet had tea, and gives a start: - -"Why am I sitting down?" she says, getting up. "The samovar has been on -the table a long while, and I sit chatting. How forgetful I am? Good -gracious!" - -She hurries away, but stops at the door to say: - -"We owe Yegor five months' wages. Do you realise it? It's a bad thing -to let the servants' wages run on. I've said so often. It's much easier -to pay ten roubles every month than fifty for five!" - -Outside the door she stops again: - -"I pity our poor Liza more than anybody. The girl studies at the -Conservatoire. She's always in good society, and the Lord only knows -how she's dressed. That fur-coat of hers! It's a sin to show yourself -in the street in it. If she had a different father, it would do, but -everyone knows he is a famous professor, a privy councillor." - -So, having reproached me for my name and title, she goes away at last. -Thus begins my day. It does not improve. - -When I have drunk my tea, Liza comes in, in a fur-coat and hat, with -her music, ready to go to the Conservatoire. She is twenty-two. She -looks younger. She is pretty, rather like my wife when she was young. -She kisses me tenderly on my forehead and my hand. - -"Good morning, Papa. Quite well?" - -As a child she adored ice-cream, and I often had to take her to a -confectioner's. Ice-cream was her standard of beauty. If she wanted -to praise me, she used to say: "Papa, you are ice-creamy." One finger -she called the pistachio, the other the cream, the third the raspberry -finger and so on. And when she came to say good morning, I used to lift -her on to my knees and kiss her fingers, and say: - -"The cream one, the pistachio one, the lemon one." - -And now from force of habit I kiss Liza's fingers and murmur: - -"Pistachio one, cream one, lemon one." But it does not sound the same. -I am cold like the ice-cream and I feel ashamed. When my daughter comes -in and touches my forehead with her lips I shudder as though a bee had -stung my forehead, I smile constrainedly and turn away my face. Since -my insomnia began a question has been driving like a nail into my -brain. My daughter continually sees how terribly I, an old man, blush -because I owe the servant his wages; she sees how often the worry of -small debts forces me to leave my work and to pace the room from corner -to corner for hours, thinking; but why hasn't she, even once, come to -me without telling her mother and whispered: "Father, here's my watch, -bracelets, earrings, dresses.... Pawn them all.... You need money"? -Why, seeing how I and her mother try to hide our poverty, out of false -pride--why does she not deny herself the luxury of music lessons? I -would not accept the watch, the bracelets, or her sacrifices--God -forbid!--I do not want that. - -Which reminds me of my son, the Warsaw officer. He is a clever, honest, -and sober fellow. But that doesn't mean very much. If I had an old -father, and I knew that there were moments when he was ashamed of his -poverty, I think I would give up my commission to someone else and -hire myself out as a navvy. These thoughts of the children poison me. -What good are they? Only a mean and irritable person Can take refuge -in thinking evil of ordinary people because they are not heroes. But -enough of that. - -At a quarter to ten I have to go and lecture to my dear boys. I dress -myself and walk the road I have known these thirty years. For me it has -a history of its own. Here is a big grey building with a chemist's shop -beneath. A tiny house once stood there, and it was a beer-shop. In this -beer-shop I thought out my thesis, and wrote my first love-letter to -Varya. I wrote it in pencil on a scrap of paper that began "Historia -Morbi." Here is a grocer's shop. It used to belong to a little Jew who -sold me cigarettes on credit, and later on to a fat woman who loved -students "because every one of them had a mother." Now a red-headed -merchant sits there, a very nonchalant man, who drinks tea from a -copper tea-pot. And here are the gloomy gates of the University that -have not been repaired for years; a weary porter in a sheepskin coat, a -broom, heaps of snow ... Such gates cannot produce a good impression on -a boy who comes fresh from the provinces and imagines that the temple -of science is really a temple. Certainly, in the history of Russian -pessimism, the age of university buildings, the dreariness of the -corridors, the smoke-stains on the walls, the meagre light, the dismal -appearance of the stairs, the clothes-pegs and the benches, hold one of -the foremost places in the series of predisposing causes. Here is our -garden. It does not seem to have grown any better or any worse since I -was a student. I do not like it. It would be much more sensible if tall -pine-trees and fine oaks grew there instead of consumptive lime-trees, -yellow acacias and thin clipped lilac. The student's mood is created -mainly by every one of the surroundings in which he studies; therefore -he must see everywhere before him only what is great and strong and -exquisite. Heaven preserve him from starveling trees, broken windows, -and drab walls and doors covered with tom oilcloth. - -As I approach my main staircase the door is open wide. I am met by -my old friend, of the same age and name as I, Nicolas the porter. He -grunts as he lets me in: - -"It's frosty, Your Excellency." - -Or if my coat is wet: - -"It's raining a bit, Your Excellency." - -Then he runs in front of me and opens all the doors on my way. In the -study he carefully takes off my coat and at the same time manages -to tell me some university news. Because of the close acquaintance -that exists between all the University porters and keepers, he knows -all that happens in the four faculties, in the registry, in the -chancellor's cabinet, and the library. He knows everything. When, for -instance, the resignation of the rector or dean is under discussion, -I hear him talking to the junior porters, naming candidates and -explaining offhand that so and so will not be approved by the Minister, -so and so will himself refuse the honour; then he plunges into -fantastic details of some mysterious papers received in the registry, -of a secret conversation which appears to have taken place between the -Minister and the curator, and so on. These details apart, he is almost -always right. The impressions he forms of each candidate are original, -but also true. If you want to know who read his thesis, joined the -staff, resigned or died in a particular year, then you must seek the -assistance of this veteran's colossal memory. He will not only name you -the year, month, and day, but give you the accompanying details of this -or any other event. Such memory is the privilege of love. - -He is the guardian of the university traditions. From the porters -before him he inherited many legends of the life of the university. He -added to this wealth much of his own and if you like he will tell you -many stories, long or short. He can tell you of extraordinary savants -who knew _everything,_ of remarkable scholars who did not sleep for -weeks on end, of numberless martyrs to science; good triumphs over evil -with him. The weak always conquer the strong, the wise man the fool, -the modest the proud, the young the old. There is no need to take all -these legends and stories for sterling; but filter them, and you will -find what you want in your filter, a noble tradition and the names of -true heroes acknowledged by all. - -In our society all the information about the learned world consists -entirely of anecdotes of the extraordinary absent-mindedness of old -professors, and of a handful of jokes, which are ascribed to Guber -or to myself or to Baboukhin. But this is too little for an educated -society. If it loved science, savants and students as Nicolas loves -them, it would long ago have had a literature of whole epics, stories, -and biographies. But unfortunately this is yet to be. - -The news told, Nicolas looks stem and we begin to talk business. If -an outsider were then to hear how freely Nicolas uses the jargon, he -would be inclined to think that he was a scholar, posing as a soldier. -By the way, the rumours of the university-porter's erudition are very -exaggerated. It is true that Nicolas knows more than a hundred Latin -tags, can put a skeleton together and on occasion make a preparation, -can make the students laugh with a long learned quotation, but the -simple theory of the circulation of the blood is as dark to him now as -it was twenty years ago. - -At the table in my room, bent low over a book or a preparation, sits -my dissector, Peter Ignatievich. He is a hardworking, modest man of -thirty-five without any gifts, already bald and with a big belly. -He works from morning to night, reads tremendously and remembers -everything he has read. In this respect he is not merely an excellent -man, but a man of gold; but in all others he is a cart-horse, or if you -like a learned blockhead. The characteristic traits of a cart-horse -which distinguish him from a creature of talent are these. His outlook -is narrow, absolutely bounded by his specialism. Apart from his own -subject he is as naive as a child. I remember once entering the room -and saying: - -"Think what bad luck! They say, Skobielev is dead." - -Nicolas crossed himself; but Peter Ignatievich turned to me: - -"Which Skobielev do you mean?" - -Another time,--some time earlier--I announced that Professor Pierov was -dead. That darling Peter Ignatievich asked: - -"What was his subject?" - -I imagine that if Patti sang into his ear, or Russia were attacked by -hordes of Chinamen, or there was an earthquake, he would not lift -a finger, but would go on in the quietest way with his eye screwed -over his microscope. In a word: "What's Hecuba to him?" I would give -anything to see how this dry old stick goes to bed with his wife. - -Another trait: a fanatical belief in the infallibility of science, -above all in everything that the Germans write. He is sure of himself -and his preparations, knows the purpose of life, is absolutely ignorant -of the doubts and disillusionments that turn talents grey,--a slavish -worship of the authorities, and not a shadow of need to think for -himself. It is hard to persuade him and quite impossible to discuss -with him. Just try a discussion with a man who is profoundly convinced -that the best science is medicine, the best men doctors, the best -traditions--the medical! From the ugly past of medicine only one -tradition has survived,--the white necktie that doctors wear still. -For a learned, and more generally for an educated person there can -exist only a general university tradition, without any division into -traditions of medicine, of law, and so on. But it's quite impossible -for Peter Ignatievich to agree with that; and he is ready to argue it -with you till doomsday. - -His future is quite plain to me. During the whole of his life he will -make several hundred preparations of extraordinary purity, will write -any number of dry, quite competent, essays, will make about ten -scrupulously accurate translations; but he won't invent gunpowder. -For gunpowder, imagination is wanted, inventiveness, and a gift for -divination, and Peter Ignatievich has nothing of the kind. In short, he -is not a master of science but a labourer. - -Peter Ignatievich, Nicolas, and I whisper together. We are rather -strange to ourselves. One feels something quite particular, when the -audience booms like the sea behind the door. In thirty years I have not -grown used to this feeling, and I have it every morning. I button up my -frock-coat nervously, ask Nicolas unnecessary questions, get angry.... -It is as though I were afraid; but it is not fear, but something else -which I cannot name nor describe. - -Unnecessarily, I look at my watch and say: - -"Well, it's time to go." - -And we march in, in this order: Nicolas with the preparations or the -atlases in front, myself next, and after me, the cart-horse, modestly -hanging his head; or, if necessary, a corpse on a stretcher in front -and behind the corpse Nicolas and so on. The students rise when I -appear, then sit down and the noise of the sea is suddenly still. Calm -begins. - -I know what I will lecture about, but I know nothing of how I will -lecture, where I will begin and where I will end. There is not a single -sentence ready in my brain. But as soon as I glance at the audience, -sitting around me in an amphitheatre, and utter the stereotyped "In -our last lecture we ended with...." and the sentences fly out of -my soul in a long line--then it is full steam ahead. I speak with -irresistible speed, and with passion, and it seems as though no earthly -power could check the current of my speech. In order to lecture well, -that is without being wearisome and to the listener's profit, besides -talent you must have the knack of it and experience; you must have -a clear idea both of your own powers, of the people to whom you are -lecturing, and of the subject of your remarks. Moreover, you must be -quick in the uptake, keep a sharp eye open, and never for a moment lose -your field of vision. - -When he presents the composer's thought, a good conductor does twenty -things at once. He reads the score, waves his baton, watches the -singer makes a gesture now towards the drum, now to the double-bass, -and so on. It is the same with me when lecturing. I have some hundred -and fifty faces before me, quite unlike each other, and three hundred -eyes staring me straight in the face. My purpose is to conquer this -many-headed hydra. If I have a clear idea how far they are attending -and how much they are comprehending every minute while I am lecturing, -then the hydra is in my power. My other opponent is within me. This -is the endless variety of forms, phenomena and laws, and the vast -number of ideas, whether my own or others', which depend upon them. -Every moment I must be skilful enough to choose what is most important -and necessary from this enormous material, and just as swiftly as -my speech flows to clothe my thought in a form which will penetrate -the hydra's understanding and excite its attention. Besides I must -watch carefully to see that my thoughts shall not be presented as -they have been accumulated, but in a certain order, necessary for the -correct composition of the picture which I wish to paint. Further, I -endeavour to make my speech literary, my definitions brief and exact, -my sentences as simple and elegant as possible. Every moment I must -hold myself in and remember that I have only an hour and forty minutes -to spend. In other words, it is a heavy labour. At one and the same -time you have to be a savant, a schoolmaster, and an orator, and it is -a failure if the orator triumphs over the schoolmaster in you or the -schoolmaster over the orator. - -After lecturing for a quarter, for half an hour, I notice suddenly that -the students have begun to stare at the ceiling or Peter Ignatievich. -One will feel for his handkerchief, another settle himself comfortably, -another smile at his own thoughts. This means their attention is tried. -I must take steps. I seize the first opening and make a pun. All the -hundred and fifty faces have a broad smile, their eyes flash merrily, -and for a while you can hear the boom of the sea. I laugh too. Their -attention is refreshed and I can go on. - -No sport, no recreation, no game ever gave me such delight as reading -a lecture. Only in a lecture could I surrender myself wholly to -passion and understand that inspiration is not a poet's fiction, but -exists indeed. And I do not believe that Hercules, even after the -most delightful of his exploits, felt such a pleasant weariness as I -experienced every time after a lecture. - -This was in the past. Now at lectures I experience only torture. Not -half an hour passes before I begin to feel an invincible weakness in -my legs and shoulders. I sit down in my chair, but I am not used to -lecture sitting. In a moment I am up again, and lecture standing. Then -I sit down again. Inside my mouth is dry, my voice is hoarse, my head -feels dizzy. To hide my state from my audience I drink some water now -and then, cough, wipe my nose continually, as though I was troubled -by a cold, make inopportune puns, and finally announce the interval -earlier than I should. But chiefly I feel ashamed. - -Conscience and reason tell me that the best thing I could do now is to -read my farewell lecture to the boys, give them my last word, bless -them and give up my place to someone younger and stronger than I. But, -heaven be my judge, I have not the courage to act up to my conscience. - -Unfortunately, I am neither philosopher nor theologian. I know quite -well I have no more than six months to live; and it would seem that -now I ought to be mainly occupied with questions of the darkness -beyond the grave, and the visions which will visit my sleep in the -earth. But somehow my soul is not curious of these questions, though -my mind grants every atom of their importance. Now before my death it -is just as it was twenty or thirty years ago. Only science interests -me.--When I take my last breath I shall still believe that Science is -the most important, the most beautiful, the most necessary thing in the -life of man; that she has always been and always will be the highest -manifestation of love, and that by her alone will man triumph over -nature and himself. This faith is, perhaps, at bottom naive and unfair, -but I am not to blame if this and not another is my faith. To conquer -this faith within me is for me impossible. - -But this is beside the point. I only ask that you should incline to my -weakness and understand that to tear a man who is more deeply concerned -with the destiny of a brain tissue than the final goal of creation away -from his rostrum and his students is like taking him and nailing him up -in a coffin without waiting until he is dead. - -Because of my insomnia and the intense struggle with my increasing -weakness a strange thing happens inside me. In the middle of my -lecture tears rise to my throat, my eyes begin to ache, and I have -a passionate and hysterical desire to stretch out my hands and moan -aloud. I want to cry out that fate has doomed me, a famous man, to -death; that in some six months here in the auditorium another will be -master. I want to cry out that I am poisoned; that new ideas that I -did not know before have poisoned the last days of my life, and sting -my brain incessantly like mosquitoes. At that moment my position seems -so terrible to me that I want all my students to be terrified, to jump -from their seats and rush panic-stricken to the door, shrieking in -despair. - -It is not easy to live through such moments. - - - -II - - -After the lecture I sit at home and work. I read reviews, -dissertations, or prepare for the next lecture, and sometimes I write -something. I work with interruptions, since I have to receive visitors. - -The bell rings. It is a friend who has come to talk over some business. -He enters with hat and stick. He holds them both in front of him and -says: - -"Just a minute, a minute. Sit down, cher confrre. Only a word or two." - -First we try to show each other that we are both extraordinarily polite -and very glad to see each other. I make him sit down in the chair, -and he makes me sit down; and then we touch each other's waists, and -put our hands on each other's buttons, as though we were feeling each -other and afraid to bum ourselves. We both laugh, though we say nothing -funny. Sitting down, we bend our heads together and begin to whisper to -each other. We must gild our conversation with such Chinese formalities -as: "You remarked most justly" or "I have already had the occasion to -say." We must giggle if either of us makes a pun, though it's a bad -one. When we have finished with the business, my friend gets up with a -rush, waves his hat towards my work, and begins to take his leave. We -feel each other once more and laugh. I accompany him down to the hall. -There I help my friend on with his coat, but he emphatically declines -so great an honour. Then, when Yegor opens the door my friend assures -me that I will catch cold, and I pretend to be ready to follow him into -the street. And when I finally return to my study my face keeps smiling -still, it must be from inertia. - -A little later another ring. Someone enters the hall, spends a -long time taking off his coat and coughs. Yegor brings me word -that a student has come. I tell him to show him up. In a minute a -pleasant-faced young man appears. For a year we have been on these -forced terms together. He sends in abominable answers at examinations, -and I mark him gamma. Every year I have about seven of these people -to whom, to use the students' slang, "I give a plough" or "haul them -through." Those of them who fail because of stupidity or illness, -usually bear their cross in patience and do not bargain with me; only -sanguine temperaments, "open natures," bargain with me and come to my -house, people whose appetite is spoiled or who are prevented from going -regularly to the opera by a delay in their examinations. With the first -I am over-indulgent; the second kind I keep on the run for a year. - -"Sit down," I say to my guest. "What was it you wished to say?" - -"Forgive me for troubling you, Professor...." he begins, stammering -and never looking me in the face. "I would not venture to trouble you -unless.... I was up for my examination before you for the fifth time -... and I failed. I implore you to be kind, and give me a 'satis,' -because...." - -The defence which all idlers make of themselves is always the same. -They have passed in every other subject with distinction, and failed -only in mine, which is all the more strange because they had always -studied my subject most diligently and know it thoroughly. They failed -through some inconceivable misunderstanding. - -"Forgive me, my friend," I say to my guest. "But I can't give you a -'satis'--impossible. Go and read your lectures again, and then come. -Then we'll see." - -Pause. I get a desire to torment the student a little, because he -prefers beer and the opera to science; and I say with a sigh: - -"In my opinion, the best thing for you now is to give up the Faculty of -Medicine altogether. With your abilities, if you find it impossible to -pass the examination, then it seems you have neither the desire nor the -vocation to be a doctor." - -My sanguine friend's face grows grave. - -"Excuse me, Professor," he smiles, "but it would be strange, to say the -least, on my part. Studying medicine for five years and suddenly--to -throw it over." - -"Yes, but it's better to waste five years than to spend your whole life -afterwards in an occupation which you dislike." - -Immediately I begin to feel sorry for him and hasten to say: - -"Well, do as you please. Read a little and come again." - -"When?" the idler asks, dully. - -"Whenever you like. To-morrow, even." - -And I read in his pleasant eyes. "I can come again; but you'll send me -away again, you beast." - -"Of course," I say, "you won't become more learned because you have to -come up to me fifteen times for examination; but this will form your -character. You must be thankful for that." - -Silence. I rise and wait for my guest to leave. But he stands there, -looking at the window, pulling at his little beard and thinking. It -becomes tedious. - -My sanguine friend has a pleasant, succulent voice, clever, amusing -eyes, a good-natured face, rather puffed by assiduity to beer and much -resting on the sofa. Evidently he could tell me many interesting things -about the opera, about his love affairs, about the friends he adores; -but, unfortunately, it is not the thing. And I would so eagerly listen! - -"On my word of honour, Professor, if you give me a 'satis' I'll...." - -As soon as it gets to "my word of honour," I wave my hands and sit down -to the table. The student thinks for a while and says, dejectedly: - -"In that case, good-bye.... Forgive me!" - -"Good-bye, my friend.... Good-bye!" - -He walks irresolutely into the hall, slowly puts on his coat, and, when -he goes into the street, probably thinks again for a long while; having -excogitated nothing better than "old devil" for me, he goes to a cheap -restaurant to drink beer and dine, and then home to sleep. Peace be to -your ashes, honest labourer! - -A third ring. Enters a young doctor in a new black suit, gold-rimmed -spectacles and the inevitable white necktie. He introduces himself. -I ask him to take a seat and inquire his business. The young priest -of science begins to tell me, not without agitation, that he passed -his doctor's examination this year, and now has only to write his -dissertation. He would like to work with me, under my guidance; and -I would do him a great kindness if I would suggest a subject for his -dissertation. - -"I should be delighted to be of use to you, mon cher confrre," I -say. "But first of all, let us come to an agreement as to what is a -dissertation. Generally we understand by this, work produced as the -result of an independent creative power. Isn't that so? But a work -written on another's subject, under another's guidance, has a different -name." - -The aspirant is silent. I fire up and jump out of my seat. "Why do you -all come to me? I can't understand," I cry out angrily. "Do I keep a -shop? I don't sell theses across the counter. For the one thousandth -time I ask you all to leave me alone. Forgive my rudeness, but I've got -tired of it at last!" - -The aspirant is silent. Only, a tinge of colour shows on his cheek. -His face expresses his profound respect for my famous name and my -erudition, but I see in his eyes that he despises my voice, my pitiable -figure, my nervous gestures. When I am angry I seem to him a very queer -fellow. - -"I do not keep a shop," I storm. "It's an amazing business! Why don't -you want to be independent? Why do you find freedom so objectionable?" - -I say a great deal, but he is silent. At last by degrees I grow calm, -and, of course, surrender. The aspirant will receive a valueless -subject from me, will write under my observation a needless thesis, -will pass his tedious disputation _cum laude_ and will get a useless -and learned degree. - -The rings follow in endless succession, but here I confine myself -to four. The fourth ring sounds, and I hear the familiar steps, the -rustling dress, the dear voice. - -Eighteen years ago my dear friend, the oculist, died and left behind -him a seven year old daughter, Katy, and sixty thousand roubles. By -his will he made me guardian. Katy lived in my family till she was -ten. Afterwards she was sent to College and lived with me only in -her holidays in the summer months. I had no time to attend to her -education. I watched only by fits and starts; so that I can say very -little about her childhood. - -The chief thing I remember, the one I love to dwell upon in memory, -is the extraordinary confidence which she had when she entered my -house, when she had to have the doctor,--a confidence which was always -shining in her darling face. She would sit in a corner somewhere -with her face tied up, and would be sure to be absorbed in watching -something. Whether she was watching me write and read books, or my wife -bustling about, or the cook peeling the potatoes in the kitchen or -the dog playing about--her eyes invariably expressed the same thing: -"Everything that goes on in this world,--everything is beautiful and -clever." She was inquisitive and adored to talk to me. She would sit at -the table opposite me, watching my movements and asking questions. She -is interested to know what I read, what I do at the University, if I'm -not afraid of corpses, what I do with my money. - -"Do the students fight at the University?" she would ask. - -"They do, my dear." - -"You make them go down on their knees?" - -"I do." - -And it seemed funny to her that the students fought and that I made -them go down on their knees, and she laughed. She was a gentle, good, -patient child. - -Pretty often I happened to see how something was taken away from her, -or she was unjustly punished, or her curiosity was not satisfied. At -such moments sadness would be added to her permanent expression of -confidence--nothing more. I didn't know how to take her part, but when -I saw her sadness, I always had the desire to draw her close to me and -comfort her in an old nurse's voice: "My darling little orphan!" - -I remember too she loved to be well dressed and to sprinkle herself -with scents. In this she was like me. I also love good clothes and fine -scents. - -I regret that I had neither the time nor the inclination to watch the -beginnings and the growth of the passion which had completely taken -hold of Katy when she was no more than fourteen or fifteen. I mean her -passionate love for the theatre. When she used to come from the College -for her holidays and live with us, nothing gave her such pleasure and -enthusiasm to talk about as plays and actors. She used to tire us -with her incessant conversation about the theatre. I alone hadn't the -courage to deny her my attention. My wife and children did not listen -to her. When she felt the desire to share her raptures she would come -to my study and coax: "Nicolai Stiepanich, do let me speak to you about -the theatre." - -I used to show her the time and say: - -"I'll give you half an hour. Fire away!" - -Later on she used to bring in pictures of the actors and actresses she -worshipped--whole dozens of them. Then several times she tried to take -part in amateur theatricals, and finally when she left College she -declared to me she was born to be an actress. - -I never shared Katy's enthusiasms for the theatre. My opinion is that -if a play is good then there's no need to trouble the actors for it to -make the proper impression; you can be satisfied merely by reading it. -If the play is bad, no acting will make it good. - -When I was young I often went to the theatre, and nowadays my family -takes a box twice a year and carries me off for an airing there. Of -course this is not enough to give me the right to pass verdicts on the -theatre; but I will say a few words about it. In my opinion the theatre -hasn't improved in the last thirty or forty years. I can't find any -more than I did then, a glass of dean water, either in the corridors -or the foyer. Just as they did then, the attendants fine me sixpence -for my coat, though there's nothing illegal in wearing a warm coat in -winter. Just as it did then, the orchestra plays quite unnecessarily -in the intervals, and adds a new, gratuitous impression to the one -received from the play. Just as they did then, men go to the bar in the -intervals and drink spirits. If there is no perceptible improvement in -little things, it will be useless to look for it in the bigger things. -When an actor, hide-bound in theatrical traditions and prejudices, -tries to read simple straightforward monologue: "To be or not to be," -not at all simply, but with an incomprehensible and inevitable hiss and -convulsions over his whole body, or when he tries to convince me that -Chazky, who is always talking to fools and is in love with a fool, is -a very clever man and that "The Sorrows of Knowledge" is not a boring -play,--then I get from the stage a breath of the same old routine -that exasperated me forty years ago when I was regaled with classical -lamentation and beating on the breast. Every time I come out of the -theatre a more thorough conservative than I went in. - -It's quite possible to convince the sentimental, self-confident crowd -that the theatre in its present state is an education. But not a man -who knows what true education is would swallow this. I don't know what -it may be in fifty or a hundred years, but under present conditions the -theatre can only be a recreation. But the recreation is too expensive -for continual use, and robs the country of thousands of young, healthy, -gifted men and women, who if they had not devoted themselves to -the theatre would be excellent doctors, farmers, schoolmistresses, -or officers. It robs the public of its evenings, the best time for -intellectual work and friendly conversation. I pass over the waste of -money and the moral injuries to the spectator when he sees murder, -adultery, or slander wrongly treated on the stage. - -But Katy's opinion was quite the opposite. She assured me that even in -its present state the theatre is above lecture-rooms and books, above -everything else in the world. The theatre is a power that unites in -itself all the arts, and the actors are men with a mission. No separate -art or science can act on the human soul so strongly and truly as the -stage; and therefore it is reasonable that a medium actor should enjoy -much greater popularity than the finest scholar or painter. No public -activity can give such delight and satisfaction as the theatrical. - -So one fine day Katy joined a theatrical company and went away, I -believe, to Ufa, taking with her a lot of money, a bagful of rainbow -hopes, and some very high-class views on the business. - -Her first letters on the journey were wonderful. When I read them I was -simply amazed that little sheets of paper could contain so much youth, -such transparent purity, such divine innocence, and at the same time -so many subtle, sensible judgments, that would do honour to a sound -masculine intelligence. The Volga, nature, the towns she visited, her -friends, her successes and failures--she did not write about them, she -sang. Every line breathed the confidence which I used to see in her -face; and with all this a mass of grammatical mistakes and hardly a -single stop. - -Scarce six months passed before I received a highly poetical -enthusiastic letter, beginning, "I have fallen in love." She enclosed a -photograph of a young man with a clean-shaven face, in a broad-brimmed -hat, with a plaid thrown over his shoulders. The next letters were just -as splendid, but stops already began to appear and the grammatical -mistakes to vanish. They had a strong masculine scent. Katy began -to write about what a good thing it would be to build a big theatre -somewhere in the Volga, but on a cooperative basis, and to attract -the rich business-men and shipowners to the undertaking. There would -be plenty of money, huge receipts, and the actors would work in -partnership.... Perhaps all this is really a good thing, but I can't -help thinking such schemes could only come from a man's head. - -Anyhow for eighteen months or a couple of years everything seemed -to be all right. Katy was in love, had her heart in her business -and was happy. But later on I began to notice dear symptoms of a -decline in her letters. It began with Katy complaining about her -friends. This is the first and most ominous sign. If a young scholar -or litterateur begins his career by complaining bitterly about other -scholars or littrateurs, it means that he is tired already and not -fit for his business. Katy wrote to me that her friends would not -come to rehearsals and never knew their parts; that they showed an -utter contempt for the public in the absurd plays they staged and -the manner they behaved. To swell the box-office receipts--the only -topic of conversation--serious actresses degrade themselves by singing -sentimentalities, and tragic actors sing music-hall songs, laughing at -husbands who are deceived and unfaithful wives who are pregnant. In -short, it was amazing that the profession, in the provinces, was not -absolutely dead. The marvel was that it could exist at all with such -thin, rotten blood in its veins. - -In reply I sent Katy a long and, I confess, a very tedious letter. -Among other things I wrote: "I used to talk fairly often to actors in -the past, men of the noblest character, who honoured me with their -friendship. From my conversations with them I understood that their -activities were guided rather by the whim and fashion of society than -by the free working of their own minds. The best of them in their -lifetime had to play in tragedy, in musical comedy, in French farce, -and in pantomime; yet all through they considered that they were -treading the right path and being useful. You see that this means -that you must look for the cause of the evil, not in the actors, but -deeper down, in the art itself and the attitude of society towards -it." This letter of mine only made Katy cross. "You and I are playing -in different operas. I didn't write to you about men of the noblest -character, but about a lot of sharks who haven't a spark of nobility in -them. They are a horde of savages who came on the stage only because -they wouldn't be allowed anywhere else. The only ground they have for -calling themselves artists is their impudence. Not a single talent -among them, but any number of incapables, drunkards, intriguers, and -slanderers. I can't tell you how bitterly I feel it that the art I love -so much is fallen into the hands of people I despise. It hurts me that -the best men should be content to look at evil from a distance and -not want to come nearer. Instead of taking an active part, they write -ponderous platitudes and useless sermons...." and more in the same -strain. - -A little while after I received the following: "I have been inhumanly -deceived. I can't go on living any more. Do as you think fit with my -money. I loved you as a father and as my only friend. Forgive me." - -So it appeared that _he_ too belonged to the horde of savages. Later -on, I gathered from various hints, that there was an attempt at -suicide. Apparently, Katy tried to poison herself. I think she must -have been seriously ill afterwards, for I got the following letter from -Yalta, where most probably the doctors had sent her. Her last letter -to me contained a request that I should send her at Yalta a thousand -roubles, and it ended with the words: "Forgive me for writing such a -sad letter. I buried my baby yesterday." After she had spent about a -year in the Crimea she returned home. - -She had been travelling for about four years, and during these four -years I confess that I occupied a strange and unenviable position in -regard to her. When she announced to me that she was going on to the -stage and afterwards wrote to me about her love; when the desire to -spend took hold of her, as it did periodically, and I had to send her -every now and then one or two thousand roubles at her request; when -she wrote that she intended to die, and afterwards that her baby was -dead,---I was at a loss every time. All my sympathy with her fate -consisted in thinking hard and writing long tedious letters which might -as well never have been written. But then I was _in loco parentis_ and -I loved her as a daughter. - -Katy lives half a mile away from me now. She took a five-roomed -house and furnished it comfortably, with the taste that was born in -her. If anyone were to undertake to depict her surroundings, then the -dominating mood of the picture would be indolence. Soft cushions, soft -chairs for her indolent body; carpets for her indolent feet; faded, -dim, dull colours for her indolent eyes; for her indolent soul, a -heap of cheap fans and tiny pictures on the walls, pictures in which -novelty of execution was more noticeable than content; plenty of -little tables and stands, set out with perfectly useless and worthless -things, shapeless scraps instead of curtains.... All this, combined -with a horror of bright colours, of symmetry, and space, betokened a -perversion of the natural taste as well as indolence of the soul. For -whole days Katy lies on the sofa and reads books, mostly novels and -stories. She goes outside her house but once in the day, to come and -see me. - -I work. Katy sits on the sofa at my side. She is silent, and wraps -herself up in her shawl as though she were cold. Either because she -is sympathetic to me, or I because I had got used to her continual -visits while she was still a little girl, her presence does not prevent -me from concentrating on my work. At long intervals I ask her some -question or other, mechanically, and she answers very curtly; or, for -a moment's rest, I turn towards her and watch how she is absorbed -in looking through some medical review or newspaper. And then I see -that the old expression of confidence in her face is there no more. -Her expression now is cold, indifferent, distracted, like that of a -passenger who has to wait a long while for his train. She dresses as -she used--well and simply, but carelessly. Evidently her clothes and -her hair suffer not a little from the sofas and hammocks on which she -lies for days together. And she is not curious any more. She doesn't -ask me questions any more, as if she had experienced everything in life -and did not expect to hear anything new. - -About four o'clock there is a sound of movement in the hall and the -drawing-room. It's Liza come back from the Conservatoire, bringing her -friends with her. You can hear them playing the piano, trying their -voices and giggling. Yegor is laying the table in the dining-room and -making a noise with the plates. - -"Good-bye," says Katy. "I shan't go in to see your people. They must -excuse me. I haven't time. Come and see me." - -When I escort her into the hall, she looks me over sternly from head to -foot, and says in vexation: - -"You get thinner and thinner. Why don't you take a cure? I'll go to -Sergius Fiodorovich and ask him to come. You must let him see you." - -"It's not necessary, Katy." - -"I can't understand why your family does nothing. They're a nice lot." - -She puts on her jacket with her rush. Inevitably, two or three -hair-pins fall out of her careless hair on to the floor. It's too much -bother to tidy her hair now; besides she is in a hurry. She pushes the -straggling strands of hair untidily under her hat and goes away. - -As soon as I come into the dining-room, my wife asks: - -"Was that Katy with you just now? Why didn't she come to see us. It -really is extraordinary...." - -"Mamma!" says Liza reproachfully, "If she doesn't want to come, that's -her affair. There's no need for us to go on our knees." - -"Very well; but it's insulting. To sit in the study for three hours, -without thinking of us. But she can do as she likes." - -Varya and Liza both hate Katy. This hatred is unintelligible to me; -probably you have to be a woman to understand it. I'll bet my life on -it that you'll hardly find a single one among the hundred and fifty -young men I see almost every day in my audience, or the hundred old -ones I happen to meet every week, who would be able to understand why -women hate and abhor Katy's past, her being pregnant and unmarried and -her illegitimate child. Yet at the same time I cannot bring to mind -a single woman or girl of my acquaintance who would not cherish such -feelings, either consciously or instinctively. And it's not because -women are purer and more virtuous than men. If virtue and purity are -not free from evil feeling, there's precious little difference between -them and vice. I explain it simply by the backward state of women's -development. The sorrowful sense of compassion and the torment of -conscience, which the modern man experiences when he sees distress have -much more to tell me about culture and moral development than have -hatred and repulsion. The modern woman is as lachrymose and as coarse -in heart as she was in the middle ages. And in my opinion those who -advise her to be educated like a man have wisdom on their side. - -But still my wife does not like Katy, because she was an actress, -and for her ingratitude, her pride, her extravagances, and all the -innumerable vices one woman can always discover in another. - -Besides myself and my family we have two or three of my daughter's -girl friends to dinner and Alexander Adolphovich Gnekker, Liza's -admirer and suitor. He is a fair young man, not more than thirty years -old, of middle height, very fat, broad shouldered, with reddish hair -round his ears and a little stained moustache, which give his smooth -chubby face the look of a doll's. He wears a very short jacket, a -fancy waistcoat, large-striped trousers, very full on the hip and very -narrow in the leg, and brown boots without heels. His eyes stick out -like a lobster's, his tie is like a lobster's tail, and I can't help -thinking even that the smell of lobster soup clings about the whole -of this young man. He visits us every day; but no one in the family -knows where he comes from, where he was educated, or how he lives. He -cannot play or sing, but he has a certain connection with music as well -as singing, for he is agent for somebody's pianos, and is often at the -Academy. He knows all the celebrities, and he manages concerts. He -gives his opinion on music with great authority and I have noticed that -everybody hastens to agree with him. - -Rich men always have parasites about them. So do the sciences and the -arts. It seems that there is no science or art in existence, which -is free from such "foreign bodies" as this Mr. Gnekker. I am not a -musician and perhaps I am mistaken about Gnekker, besides I don't know -him very well. But I can't help suspecting the authority and dignity -with which he stands beside the piano and listens when anyone is -singing or playing. - -You may be a gentleman and a privy councillor a hundred times over; but -if you have a daughter you can't be guaranteed against the pettinesses -that are so often brought into your house and into your own humour, by -courtings, engagements, and weddings. For instance, I cannot reconcile -myself to my wife's solemn expression every time Gnekker comes to our -house, nor to those bottles of Chteau Lafitte, port, and sherry which -are put on the table only for him, to convince him beyond doubt of -the generous luxury in which we live. Nor can I stomach the staccato -laughter which Liza learned at the Academy, and her way of screwing up -her eyes, when men are about the house. Above all, I can't understand -why it is that such a creature should come to me every day and have -dinner with me--a creature perfectly foreign to my habits, my science, -and the whole tenour of my life, a creature absolutely unlike the men I -love. My wife and the servants whisper mysteriously that that is "the -bridegroom," but still I can't understand why he's there. It disturbs -my mind just as much as if a Zulu were put next to me at table. -Besides, it seems strange to me that my daughter whom I used to think -of as a baby should be in love with that necktie, those eyes, those -chubby cheeks. - -Formerly, I either enjoyed my dinner or was indifferent about it. -Now it does nothing but bore and exasperate me. Since I was made an -Excellency and Dean of the Faculty, for some reason or other my family -found it necessary to make a thorough change in our menu and the dinner -arrangements. Instead of the simple food I was used to as a student and -a doctor, I am now fed on potage-puree, with some _sossoulki_ swimming -about in it, and kidneys in Madeira. The title of General and my renown -have robbed me for ever of _schi_ and savoury pies, and roast goose -with apple sauce, and bream with _kasha._ They robbed me as well of my -maid servant Agasha, a funny, talkative old woman, instead of whom I -am now waited on by Yegor, a stupid, conceited fellow who always has -a white glove in his right hand. The intervals between the courses are -short, but they seem terribly long. There is nothing to fill them. We -don't have any more of the old good-humour, the familiar conversations, -the jokes and the laughter; no more mutual endearments, or the gaiety -that used to animate my children, my wife, and myself when we met at -the dinner table. For a busy man like me dinner was a time to rest and -meet my friends, and a feast for my wife and children, not a very long -feast, to be sure, but a gay and happy one, for they knew that for half -an hour I did not belong to science and my students, but solely to -them and to no one else. No more chance of getting tipsy on a single -glass of wine, no more Agasha, no more bream with _kasha,_ no more the -old uproar to welcome our little _contretemps_ at dinner, when the cat -fought the dog under the table, or Katy's head-band fell down her cheek -into her soup. - -Our dinner nowadays is as nasty to describe as to eat. On my wife's -face there is pompousness, an assumed gravity, and the usual anxiety. -She eyes our plates nervously: "I see you don't like the meat?... -Honestly, don't you like it?" And I must answer, "Don't worry, my dear. -The meat is very good." She: "You're always taking my part, Nicolai -Stiepanich. You never tell the truth. Why has Alexander Adolphovich -eaten so little?" and the same sort of conversation for the whole of -dinner. Liza laughs staccato and screws up her eyes. I look at both of -them, and at this moment at dinner here I can see quite clearly that -their inner lives have slipped out of my observation long ago. I feel -as though once upon a time I lived at home with a real family, but now -I am dining as a guest with an unreal wife and looking at an unreal -Liza. There has been an utter change in both of them, while I have lost -sight of the long process that led up to the change. No wonder I don't -understand anything. What was the reason of the change? I don't know. -Perhaps the only trouble is that God did not give my wife and daughter -the strength He gave me. From my childhood I have been accustomed to -resist outside influences and have been hardened enough. Such earthly -catastrophes as fame, being made General, the change from comfort to -living above my means, acquaintance with high society, have scarcely -touched me. I have survived safe and sound. But it all fell down like -an avalanche on my weak, unhardened wife and Liza, and crushed them. - -Gnekker and the girls talk of fugues and counter-fugues; singers -and pianists, Bach and Brahms, and my wife, frightened of being -suspected of musical ignorance, smiles sympathetically and murmurs: -"Wonderful.... Is it possible?... Why?..." Gnekker eats steadily, -jokes gravely, and listens condescendingly to the ladies' remarks. Now -and then he has the desire to talk bad French, and then he finds it -necessary for some unknown reason to address me magnificently, "Votre -Excellence." - -And I am morose. Apparently I embarrass them all and they embarrass me. -I never had any intimate acquaintance with class antagonism before, -but now something of the kind torments me indeed. I try to find only -bad traits in Gnekker. It does not take long and then I am tormented -because one of my friends has not taken his place as bridegroom. In -another way too his presence has a bad effect upon me. Usually, when -I am left alone with myself or when I am in the company of people I -love, I never think of my merits; and if I begin to think about them -they seem as trivial as though I had become a scholar only yesterday. -But in the presence of a man like Gnekker my merits appear to me like -an extremely high mountain, whose summit is lost in the clouds, while -Gnekkers move about the foot, so small as hardly to be seen. - -After dinner I go up to my study and light my little pipe, the only one -during the whole day, the sole survivor of my old habit of smoking from -morning to night. My wife comes into me while I am smoking and sits -down to speak to me. Just as in the morning, I know beforehand what the -conversation will be. - -"We ought to talk seriously, Nicolai Stiepanovich," she begins. "I mean -about Liza. Why won't you attend?" - -"Attend to what?" - -"You pretend you don't notice anything. It's not right: It's not right -to be unconcerned. Gnekker has intentions about Liza. What do you say -to that?" - -"I can't say he's a bad man, because I don't know him; but I've told -you a thousand times already that I don't like him." - -"But that's impossible ... impossible...." She rises and walks about in -agitation. - -"It's impossible to have such an attitude to a serious matter," -she says. "When our daughter's happiness is concerned, we must put -everything personal aside. I know you don't like him.... Very well.... -But if we refuse him now and upset everything, how can you guarantee -that Liza won't have a grievance against us for the rest of her life? -Heaven knows there aren't many young men nowadays. It's quite likely -there won't be another chance. He loves Liza very much and she likes -him, evidently. Of course he hasn't a settled position. But what is -there to do? Please God, he'll get a position in time. He comes of a -good family, and he's rich." - -"How did you find that out?" - -"He said so himself. His father has a big house in Kharkov and an -estate outside. You must certainly go to Kharkov." - -"Why?" - -"You'll find out there. You have acquaintances among the professors -there. I'd go myself. But I'm a woman. I can't." - -"I will not go to Kharkov," I say morosely. - -My wife gets frightened; a tormented expression comes over her face. - -"For God's sake, Nicolai Stiepanich," she implores, sobbing, "For God's -sake help me with this burden! It hurts me." - -It is painful to look at her. - -"Very well, Varya," I say kindly, "If you like--very well I'll go to -Kharkov, and do everything you want." - -She puts her handkerchief to her eyes and goes to cry in her room. I am -left alone. - -A little later they bring in the lamp. The familiar shadows that -have wearied me for years fall from the chairs and the lamp-shade on -to the walls and the floor. When I look at them it seems that it's -night already, and the cursed insomnia has begun. I lie down on the -bed; then I get up and walk about the room then lie down again. My -nervous excitement generally reaches its highest after dinner, before -the evening. For no reason I begin to cry and hide my head in the -pillow. All the while I am afraid somebody may come in; I am afraid I -shall die suddenly; I am ashamed of my tears; altogether, something -intolerable is happening in my soul. I feel I cannot look at the lamp -or the books or the shadows on the floor, or listen to the voices in -the drawing-room any more. Some invisible, mysterious force pushes me -rudely out of my house. I jump up, dress hurriedly, and go cautiously -out into the street so that the household shall not notice me. Where -shall I go? - -The answer to this question has long been there in my brain: "To Katy." - - - -III - - -As usual she is lying on the Turkish divan or the couch and reading -something. Seeing me she lifts her head languidly, sits down, and gives -me her hand. - -"You are always lying down like that," I say after a reposeful silence. -"It's unhealthy. You'd far better be doing something." - -"Ah?" - -"You'd far better be doing something, I say." - -"What?... A woman can be either a simple worker or an actress." - -"Well, then--if you can't become a worker, be an actress." - -She is silent. - -"You had better marry," I say, half-joking. - -"There's no one to marry: and no use if I did." - -"You can't go on living like this." - -"Without a husband? As if that mattered. There are as many men as you -like, if you only had the will." - -"This isn't right, Katy." - -"What isn't right?" - -"What you said just now." - -Katy sees that I am chagrined, and desires to soften the bad impression. - -"Come. Let's come here. Here." - -She leads me into a small room, very cosy, and points to the writing -table. - -"There. I made it for you. You'll work here. Come every day and bring -your work with you. They only disturb you there at home.... Will you -work here? Would you like to?" - -In order not to hurt her by refusing, I answer that I shall work with -her and that I like the room immensely. Then we both sit down in the -cosy room and begin to talk. - -The warmth, the cosy surroundings, the presence of a sympathetic being, -rouses in me now not a feeling of pleasure as it used but a strong -desire to complain and grumble. Anyhow it seems to me that if I moan -and complain I shall feel better. - -"It's a bad business, my dear," I begin with a sigh. "Very bad." - -"What is the matter?" - -"I'll tell you what is the matter. The best and most sacred right -of kings is the right to pardon. And I have always felt myself a -king so long as I used this right prodigally. I never judged, I was -compassionate, I pardoned everyone right and left. Where others -protested and revolted I only advised and persuaded. All my life -I've tried to make my society tolerable to the family of students, -friends and servants. And this attitude of mine towards people, I know, -educated every one who came into contact with me. But now I am king no -more. There's something going on in me which belongs only to slaves. -Day and night evil thoughts roam about in my head, and feelings which I -never knew before have made their home in my soul. I hate and despise; -I'm exasperated, disturbed, and afraid. I've become strict beyond -measure, exacting, unkind, and suspicious. Even the things which in the -past gave me the chance of making an extra pun, now bring me a feeling -of oppression. My logic has changed too. I used to despise money alone; -now I cherish evil feelings, not to money, but to the rich, as if they -were guilty. I used to hate violence and arbitrariness; now I hate the -people who employ violence, as if they alone are to blame and not all -of us, who cannot educate one another. What does it all mean? If my new -thoughts and feelings come from a change of my convictions, where could -the change have come from? Has the world grown worse and I better, or -was I blind and indifferent before? But if the change is due to the -general decline of my physical and mental powers--I am sick and losing -weight every day--then I'm in a pitiable position. It means that my new -thoughts are abnormal and unhealthy, that I must be ashamed of them and -consider them valueless...." - -"Sickness hasn't anything to do with it," Katy interrupts. "Your eyes -are opened--that's all. You've begun to notice things you didn't want -to notice before for some reason. My opinion is that you must break -with your family finally first of all and then go away." - -"You're talking nonsense." - -"You don't love them any more. Then, why do you behave unfairly? And is -it a family! Mere nobodies. If they died to-day, no one would notice -their absence to-morrow." - -Katy despises my wife and daughter as much as they hate her. It's -scarcely possible nowadays to speak of the right of people to despise -one another. But if you accept Katy's point of view and own that such a -right exists, you will notice that she has the same right to despise my -wife and Liza as they have to hate her. - -"Mere nobodies!" she repeats. "Did you have any dinner to-day? It's a -wonder they didn't forget to tell you dinner was ready. I don't know -how they still remember that you exist." - -"Katy!" I say sternly. "Please be quiet." - -"You don't think it's fun for me to talk about them, do you? I wish I -didn't know them at all. You listen to me, dear. Leave everything and -go away: go abroad--the quicker, the better." - -"What nonsense! What about the University?" - -"And the University, too. What is it to you? There's no sense in it -all. You've been lecturing for thirty years, and where are your -pupils? Have you many famous scholars? Count them up. But to increase -the number of doctors who exploit the general ignorance and make -hundreds of thousands,--there's no need to be a good and gifted man. -You aren't wanted." - -"My God, how bitter you are!" I get terrified. "How bitter you are. Be -quiet, or I'll go away. I can't reply to the bitter things you say." - -The maid enters and calls us to tea. Thank God, our conversation -changes round the samovar. I have made my moan, and now I want to -indulge another senile weakness--reminiscences. I tell Katy about -my past, to my great surprise with details that I never suspected I -had kept safe in my memory. And she listens to me with emotion, with -pride, holding her breath. I like particularly to tell how I once was a -student at a seminary and how I dreamed of entering the University. - -"I used to walk in the seminary garden," I tell her, "and the wind -would bring the sound of a song and the thrumming of an accordion from -a distant tavern, or a _troika_ with bells would pass quickly by the -seminary fence. That would be quite enough to fill not only my breast -with a sense of happiness, but my stomach, legs, and hands. As I heard -the sound of the accordion or the bells fading away, I would see myself -a doctor and paint pictures, one more glorious than another. And, you -see, my dreams came true. There were more things I dared to dream of. -I have been a favourite professor thirty years, I have had excellent -friends and an honourable reputation. I loved and married when I was -passionately in love. I had children. Altogether, when I look back -the whole of my life seems like a nice, clever composition. The only -thing I have to do now is not to spoil the _finale._ For this, I must -die like a man. If death is really a danger then I must meet it as -becomes a teacher, a scholar, and a citizen of a Christian State. But I -am spoiling the _finale._ I am drowning, and I run to you and beg for -help, and you say: 'Drown. It's your duty.'" - -At this point a ring at the bell sounds in the hall. Katy and I both -recognise it and say: - -"That must be Mikhail Fiodorovich." - -And indeed in a minute Mikhail Fiodorovich, my colleague, the -philologist, enters. He is a tall, well-built man about fifty years -old, clean shaven, with thick grey hair and black eyebrows. He is a -good man and an admirable friend. He belongs to an old aristocratic -family, a prosperous and gifted house which has played a notable _rle_ -in the history of our literature and education. He himself is clever, -gifted, and highly educated, but not without his eccentricities. -To a certain extent we are all eccentric, queer fellows, but his -eccentricities have an element of the exceptional, not quite safe for -his friends. Among the latter I know not a few who cannot see his many -merits clearly because of his eccentricities. - -As he walks in he slowly removes his gloves and says in his velvety -bass: - -"How do you do? Drinking tea. Just in time. It's hellishly cold." - -Then he sits down at the table, takes a glass of tea and immediately -begins to talk. What chiefly marks his way of talking is his invariably -ironical tone, a mixture of philosophy and jest, like Shakespeare's -grave-diggers. He always talks of serious matters; but never seriously. -His opinions are always acid and provocative, but thanks to his -tender, easy, jesting tone, it somehow happens that his acidity and -provocativeness don't tire one's ears, and one very soon gets used -to it. Every evening he brings along some half-dozen stories of the -university life and generally begins with them when he sits down at the -table. - -"O Lord," he sighs with an amusing movement of his black eyebrows, -"there are some funny people in the world." - -"Who?" asks Katy. - -"I was coming down after my lecture to-day and I met that old idiot -N---- on the stairs. He walks along, as usual pushing out that horse -jowl of his, looking for some one to bewail his headaches, his wife, -and his students, who won't come to his lectures. 'Well,' I think to -myself, 'he's seen me. It's all up--no hope for And so on in the same -strain. Or he begins like this, - -"Yesterday I was at Z's public lecture. Tell it not in Gath, but I do -wonder how our _alma mater_ dares to show the public such an ass, such -a double-dyed blockhead as Z. Why he's a European fool. Good Lord, -you won't find one like him in all Europe--not even if you looked in -daytime, and with a lantern. Imagine it: he lectures as though he were -sucking a stick of barley-sugar--su--su--su. He gets a fright because -he can't make out his manuscript. His little thoughts will only just -keep moving, hardly moving, like a bishop riding a bicycle. Above all -you can't make out a word he says. The flies die of boredom, it's so -terrific. It can only be compared with the boredom in the great Hall at -the Commemoration, when the traditional speech is made. To hell with -it!" - -Immediately an abrupt change of subject. - -"I had to make the speech; three years ago. Nicolai Stiepanovich will -remember. It was hot, close. My full uniform was tight under my arms, -tight as death. I read for half an hour, an hour, an hour and a half, -two hours. 'Well,' I thought, 'thank God I've only ten pages left.' And -I had four pages of peroration that I needn't read at all. 'Only six -pages then,' I thought. Imagine it. I just gave a glance in front of me -and saw sitting next to each other in the front row a general with a -broad ribbon and a bishop. The poor devils were bored stiff. They were -staring about madly to stop themselves from going to sleep. For all -that they are still trying to look attentive, to make some appearance -of understanding what I'm reading, and look as though they like it. -'Well,' I thought, 'if you like it, then you shall have it. I'll spite -you.' So I set to and read the four pages, every word." - -When he speaks only his eyes and eyebrows smile as it is generally with -the ironical. At such moments there is no hatred or malice in his eyes -but a great deal of acuteness and that peculiar fox-cunning which you -can catch only in very observant people. Further, about his eyes I have -noticed one more peculiarity. When he takes his glass from Katy, or -listens to her remarks, or follows her with a glance as she goes out of -the room for a little while, then I catch in his look something humble, -prayerful, pure.... - -The maid takes the samovar away and puts on the table a big piece of -cheese, some fruit, and a bottle of Crimean champagne, a thoroughly -bad wine which Katy got to like when she lived in the Crimea. Mikhail -Fiodorovich takes two packs of cards from the shelves and sets them out -for patience. If one may believe his assurances, some games of patience -demand a great power of combination and concentration. Nevertheless -while he sets out the cards he amuses himself by talking continually. -Katy follows his cards carefully, helping him more by mimicry than -words. In the whole evening she drinks no more than two small glasses -of wine, I drink only a quarter of a glass, the remainder of the bottle -falls to Mikhail Fiodorovich, who can drink any amount without ever -getting drunk. - -During patience we solve all kinds of questions, mostly of the lofty -order, and our dearest love, science, comes off second best. - -"Science, thank God, has had her day," says Mikhail Fiodorovich very -slowly. "She has had her swan-song. Ye-es. Mankind has begun to feel -the desire to replace her by something else. She was grown from the -soil of prejudice, fed by prejudices, and is now the same quintessence -of prejudices as were her bygone grandmothers: alchemy, metaphysics -and philosophy. As between European scholars and the Chinese who have -no sciences at all the difference is merely trifling, a matter only of -externals. The Chinese had no scientific knowledge, but what have they -lost by that?" - -"Flies haven't any scientific knowledge either," I say; "but what does -that prove?" - -"It's no use getting angry, Nicolai Stiepanich. I say this only between -ourselves. I'm more cautious than you think. I shan't proclaim it from -the housetops, God forbid! The masses still keep alive a prejudice that -science and art are superior to agriculture and commerce, superior to -crafts. Our persuasion makes a living from this prejudice. It's not for -you and me to destroy it. God forbid!" - -During patience the younger generation also comes in for it. - -"Our public is degenerate nowadays," Mikhail Fiodorovich sighs. "I -don't speak of ideals and such things, I only ask that they should -be able to work and think decently. 'Sadly I look at the men of our -time'--it's quite true in this connection." - -"Yes, they're frightfully degenerate," Katy agrees. "Tell me, had you -one single eminent person under you during the last five or ten years?" - -"I don't know how it is with the other professors,--but somehow I don't -recollect that it ever happened to me." - -"In my lifetime I've seen a great many of your students and young -scholars, a great many actors.... What happened? I never once had -the luck to meet, not a hero or a man of talent, but an ordinarily -interesting person. Everything's dull and incapable, swollen and -pretentious...." - -All these conversations about degeneracy give me always the impression -that I have unwittingly overheard an unpleasant conversation about my -daughter. I feel offended because the indictments are made wholesale -and are based upon such ancient hackneyed commonplaces and such -penny-dreadful notions as degeneracy, lack of ideals, or comparisons -with the glorious past. Any indictment, even if it's made in a company -of ladies, should be formulated with all possible precision; otherwise -it isn't an indictment, but an empty calumny, unworthy of decent people. - -I am an old man, and have served for the last thirty years; but I don't -see any sign either of degeneracy or the lack of ideals. I don't find -it any worse now than before. My porter, Nicolas, whose experience in -this case has its value, says that students nowadays are neither better -nor worse than their predecessors. - -If I were asked what was the thing I did not like about my present -pupils, I wouldn't say offhand or answer at length, but with a certain -precision. I know their defects and there's no need for me to take -refuge in a mist of commonplaces. I don't like the way they smoke, -and drink spirits, and marry late; or the way they are careless -and indifferent to the point of allowing students to go hungry in -their midst, and not paying their debts into "The Students' Aid -Society." They are ignorant of modern languages and express themselves -incorrectly in Russian. Only yesterday my colleague, the hygienist, -complained to me that he had to lecture twice as often because of -their incompetent knowledge of physics and their complete ignorance of -meteorology. They are readily influenced by the most modern writers, -and some of those not the best, but they are absolutely indifferent to -classics like Shakespeare, Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus and Pascal; and -their worldly unpracticality shows itself mostly in their inability -to distinguish between great and small. They solve all difficult -questions which have a more or less social character (emigration, -for instance) by getting up subscriptions, but not by the method of -scientific investigation and experiment, though this is at their full -disposal, and, above all, corresponds to their vocation. They readily -become house-doctors, assistant house-doctors, clinical assistants, or -consulting doctors, and they are prepared to keep these positions until -they are forty, though independence, a sense of freedom, and personal -initiative are quite as necessary in science, as, for instance, in art -or commerce. I have pupils and listeners, but I have no helpers or -successors. Therefore I love them and am concerned for them, but I'm -not proud of them ... and so on. - -However great the number of such defects may be, it's only in a -cowardly and timid person that they give rise to pessimism and -distraction. All of them are by nature accidental and transitory, and -are completely dependent on the conditions of life. Ten years will -be enough for them to disappear or give place to new and different -defects, which are quite indispensable, but will in their turn give -the timid a fright. Students' shortcomings often annoy me, but the -annoyance is nothing in comparison with the joy I have had these thirty -years in speaking with my pupils, lecturing to them, studying their -relations and comparing them with people of a different class. - -Mikhail Fiodorovich is a slanderer. Katy listens and neither of them -notices how deep is the pit into which they are drawn by such an -outwardly innocuous recreation as condemning one's neighbours. They -don't realise how a simple conversation gradually turns into mockery -and derision, or how they both begin even to employ the manners of -calumny. - -"There are some queer types to be found," says Mikhail Fiodorovich. -"Yesterday I went to see our friend Yegor Pietrovich. There I found a -student, one of your medicos, a third-year man, I think. His face ... -rather in the style of Dobroliubov--the stamp of profound thought on -his brow. We began to talk. 'My dear fellow--an extraordinary business. -I've just read that some German or other--can't remember his name--has -extracted a new alkaloid from the human brain--idiotine.' Do you know -he really believed it, and produced an expression of respect on his -face, as much as to say, 'See, what a power we are.'" - -"The other day I went to the theatre. I sat down. Just in front of me -in the next row two people were sitting: one, 'one of the chosen,' -evidently a law student, the other a whiskery medico. The medico was as -drunk as a cobbler. Not an atom of attention to the stage. Dozing and -nodding. But the moment some actor began to deliver a loud monologue, -or just raised his voice, my medico thrills, digs his neighbour in the -ribs. 'What's he say? Something noble?' 'Noble,' answers 'the chosen.' - -"'Brrravo!' bawls the medico. 'No--ble. Bravo.' You see the drunken -blockhead didn't come to the theatre for art, but for something noble. -He wants nobility." - -Katy listens and laughs. Her laugh is rather strange. She breathes out -in swift, rhythmic, and regular alternation with her inward breathing. -It's as though she were playing an accordion. Of her face, only her -nostrils laugh. My heart fails me. I don't know what to say. I lose my -temper, crimson, jump up from my seat and cry: - -"Be quiet, won't you? Why do you sit here like two toads, poisoning the -air with your breath? I've had enough." - -In vain I wait for them to stop their slanders. I prepare to go home. -And it's time, too. Past ten o'clock. - -"I'll sit here a little longer," says Mikhail Fiodorovich, "if you give -me leave, Ekaterina Vladimirovna?" - -"You have my leave," Katy answers. - -"_Bene._ In that case, order another bottle, please." - -Together they escort me to the hall with candles in their hands. While -I'm putting on my overcoat, Mikhail Fiodorovich says: - -"You've grown terribly thin and old lately. Nicolai Stiepanovich. -What's the matter with you? Ill? - -"Yes, a little." - -"And he will not look after himself," Katy puts in sternly. - -"Why don't you look after yourself? How can you go on like this? God -helps those who help themselves, my dear man. Give my regards to your -family and make my excuses for not coming. One of these days, before I -go abroad, I'll come to say good-bye. Without fail. I'm off next week." - -I came away from Katy's irritated, frightened by the talk about -my illness and discontented with myself. "And why," I ask myself, -"shouldn't I be attended by one of my colleagues?" Instantly I see how -my friend, after sounding me, will go to the window silently, think a -little while, turn towards me and say, indifferently, trying to prevent -me from reading the truth in his face: "At the moment I don't see -anything particular; but still, cher confrre, I would advise you to -break off your work...." And that will take my last hope away. - -Who doesn't have hopes? Nowadays, when I diagnose and treat myself, I -sometimes hope that my ignorance deceives me, that I am mistaken about -the albumen and sugar which I find, as well as about my heart, and also -about the anasarca which I have noticed twice in the morning. While I -read over the therapeutic text-books again with the eagerness of a -hypochondriac, and change the prescriptions every day, I still believe -that I will come across something hopeful. How trivial it all is! - -Whether the sky is cloudy all over or the moon and stars are shining -in it, every time I come back home I look at it and think that death -will take me soon. Surely at that moment my thoughts should be as deep -as the sky, as bright, as striking ... but no! I think of myself, of -my wife, Liza, Gnekker, the students, people in general. My thoughts -are not good, they are mean; I juggle with myself, and at this moment -my attitude towards life can be expressed in the words the famous -Arakheev wrote in one of his intimate letters: "All good in the world -is inseparably linked to bad, and there is always more bad than good." -Which means that everything is ugly, there's nothing to live for, -and the sixty-two years I have lived out must be counted as lost. I -surprise myself in these thoughts and try to convince myself they are -accidental and temporary and not deeply rooted in me, but I think -immediately: - -"If that's true, why am I drawn every evening to those two toads." And -I swear to myself never to go to Katy any more, though I know I will go -to her again to-morrow. - -As I pull my door bell and go upstairs, I feel already that I have no -family and no desire to return to it. It is plain my new, Arakheev -thoughts are not accidental or temporary in me, but possess my whole -being. With a bad conscience, dull, indolent, hardly able to move my -limbs, as though I had a ten ton weight upon me, I lie down in my bed -and soon fall asleep. - -And then--insomnia. - - - -IV - - -The summer comes and life changes. - -One fine morning Liza comes in to me and says in a joking tone: - -"Come, Your Excellency. It's all ready." - -They lead My Excellency into the street, put me into a cab and drive me -away. For want of occupation I read the signboards backwards as I go. -The word "Tavern" becomes "Nrevat." That would do for a baron's name: -Baroness Nrevat. Beyond, I drive across the field by the cemetery, -which produces no impression upon me whatever, though I'll soon -lie there. After a two hours' drive, My Excellency is led into the -ground-floor of the bungalow, and put into a small, lively room with a -light-blue paper. - -Insomnia at night as before, but I am no more wakeful in the morning -and don't listen to my wife, but lie in bed. I don't sleep, but I -am in a sleepy state, half-forgetfulness, when you know you are not -asleep, but have dreams. I get up in the afternoon, and sit down at -the table by force of habit, but now I don't work any more but amuse -myself with French yellow-backs sent me by Katy. Of course it would -be more patriotic to read Russian authors, but to tell the truth I'm -not particularly disposed to them. Leaving out two or three old ones, -all the modern literature doesn't seem to me to be literature but a -unique home industry which exists only to be encouraged, but the goods -are bought with reluctance. The best of these homemade goods can't be -called remarkable and it's impossible to praise it sincerely without a -saving "but"; and the same must be said of all the literary novelties -I've read during the last ten or fifteen years. Not one remarkable, -and you can't dispense with "but." They have cleverness, nobility, and -no talent; talent, nobility and no cleverness; or finally, talent, -cleverness, but no nobility. - -I would not say that French books have talent, cleverness, and -nobility. Nor do they satisfy me. But they are not so boring as the -Russian; and it is not rare to find in them the chief constituent -of creative genius--the sense of personal freedom, which is lacking -to Russian authors. I do not recall one single new book in which -from the very first page the author did not try to tie himself up in -all manner of conventions and contracts with his conscience. One is -frightened to speak of the naked body, another is bound hand and foot -by psychological analysis, a third must have "a kindly attitude to -his fellow-men," the fourth heaps up whole pages with descriptions of -nature on purpose to avoid any suspicion of a tendency.... One desires -to be in his books a bourgeois at all costs, another at all costs an -aristocrat. Deliberation, cautiousness, cunning: but no freedom, no -courage to write as one likes, and therefore no creative genius. - -All this refers to _belles-lettres,_ so-called. - -As for serious articles in Russian, on sociology, for instance, or -art and so forth, I don't read them, simply out of timidity. For -some reason in my childhood and youth I had a fear of porters and -theatre attendants, and this fear has remained with me up till now. -Even now I am afraid of them. It is said that only that which one -cannot understand seems terrible. And indeed it is very difficult to -understand why hall-porters and theatre attendants are so pompous -and haughty and importantly polite. When I read serious articles, I -have exactly the same indefinable fear. Their portentous gravity, -their playfulness, like an archbishop's, their over-familiar -attitude to foreign authors, their capacity for talking dignified -nonsense--"filling a vacuum with emptiness"--it is all inconceivable -to me and terrifying, and quite unlike the modesty and the calm and -gentlemanly tone to which I am accustomed when reading our writers on -medicine and the natural sciences. Not only articles; I have difficulty -also in reading translations even when they are edited by serious -Russians. The presumptuous benevolence of the prefaces, the abundance -of notes by the translator (which prevents one from concentrating), the -parenthetical queries and _sics,_ which are so liberally scattered -over the book or the article by the translator--seem to me an assault -on the author's person, as well as on my independence as a reader. - -Once I was invited as an expert to the High Court. In the interval -one of my fellow-experts called my attention to the rude behaviour -of the public prosecutor to the prisoners, among whom were two women -intellectuals. I don't think I exaggerated at all when I replied to -my colleague that he was not behaving more rudely than authors of -serious articles behave to one another. Indeed their behaviour is so -rude that one speaks of them with bitterness. They behave to each other -or to the writers whom they criticise either with too much deference, -careless of their own dignity, or, on the other hand, they treat them -much worse than I have treated Gnekker, my future son-in-law, in -these notes and thoughts of mine. Accusations of irresponsibility, of -impure intentions, of any kind of crime even, are the usual adornment -of serious articles. And this, as our young medicos love to say in -their little articles--quite _ultima ratio._ Such an attitude must -necessarily be reflected in the character of the young generation of -writers, and therefore I'm not at all surprised that in the new books -which, have been added to our _belles lettres_ in the last ten or -fifteen years, the heroes drink a great deal of vodka and the heroines -are not sufficiently chaste. - -I read French books and look out of the window, which is open--I see -the pointed palings of my little garden, two or three skinny trees, -and there, beyond the garden, the road, fields, then a wide strip of -young pine-forest. I often delight in watching a little boy and girl, -both white-haired and ragged, climb on the garden fence and laugh at -my baldness. In their shining little eyes I read, "Come out, thou -bald-head." These are almost the only people who don't care a bit about -my reputation or my title. - -I don't have visitors everyday now. I'll mention only the visits of -Nicolas and Piotr Ignatievich. Nicolas comes to me usually on holidays, -pretending to come on business, but really to see me. He is very -hilarious, a thing which never happens to him in the winter. - -"Well, what have you got to say?" I ask him, coming out into the -passage. - -"Your Excellency!" he says, pressing his hand to his heart and looking -at me with a lover's rapture. "Your Excellency! So help me God! God -strike me where I stand! _Gaudeamus igitur juvenestus._" - -And he kisses me eagerly on the shoulders, on my sleeves, and buttons. - -"Is everything all right over there?" I ask. - -"Your Excellency! I swear to God...." - -He never stops swearing, quite unnecessarily, and I soon get bored, and -send him to the kitchen, where they give him dinner. Piotr Ignatievich -also comes on holidays specially to visit me and communicate his -thoughts to me. He usually sits by the table in my room, modest, -clean, judicious, without daring to cross his legs or lean his elbows -on the table, all the while telling me in a quiet, even voice what -he considers very piquant items of news gathered from journals and -pamphlets. - -These items are all alike and can be reduced to the following type: A -Frenchman made a discovery. Another--a German--exposed him by showing -that this discovery had been made as long ago as 1870 by some American. -Then a third--also a German--outwitted them both by showing that -both of them had been confused, by taking spherules of air under a -microscope for dark pigment. Even when he wants to make me laugh, Piotr -Ignatievich tells his story at great length, very much as though he -were defending a thesis, enumerating his literary sources in detail, -with every effort to avoid mistakes in the dates, the particular number -of the journal and the names. Moreover, he does not say Petit simply -but inevitably, Jean Jacques Petit. If he happens to stay to dinner, he -will tell the same sort of piquant stories and drive all the company -to despondency. If Gnekker and Liza begin to speak of fugues and -counter-fugues in his presence he modestly lowers his eyes, and his -face falls. He is ashamed that such trivialities should be spoken of in -the presence of such serious men as him and me. - -In my present state of mind five minutes are enough for him to bore -me as though I had seen and listened to him for a whole eternity. I -hate the poor man. I wither away beneath his quiet, even voice and -his bookish language. His stories make me stupid.... He cherishes the -kindliest feelings towards me and talks to me only to give me pleasure. -I reward him by staring at his face as if I wanted to hypnotise him, -and thinking "Go away. Go, go...." But he is proof against my mental -suggestion and sits, sits, sits.... - -While he sits with me I cannot rid myself of the idea: "When I die, -it's quite possible that he will be appointed in my place." Then my -poor audience appears to me as an oasis where the stream has dried, -up, and I am unkind to Piotr Ignatievich, and silent and morose as if -he were guilty of such thoughts and not I myself. When he begins, as -usual, to glorify the German scholars, I no longer jest good-naturedly, -but murmur sternly: - -"They're fools, your Germans...." - -It's like the late Professor Nikita Krylov when he was bathing with -Pirogov at Reval. He got angry with the water, which was very cold, -and swore about "These scoundrelly Germans." I behave badly to Piotr -Ignatievich; and it's only when he is going away and I see through the -window his grey hat disappearing behind the garden fence, that I want -to call him back and say: "Forgive me, my dear fellow." - -The dinner goes yet more wearily than in winter. The same Gnekker, -whom I now hate and despise, dines with me every day. Before, I -used to suffer his presence in silence, but now I say biting things -to him, which make my wife and Liza blush. Carried away by an evil -feeling, I often say things that are merely foolish, end don't know -why I say them. Thus it happened once that after looking at Gnekker -contemptuously for a long while, I suddenly fired off, for no reason at -all: - - "Eagles than barnyard-fowls may lower bend; - But fowls shall never to the heav'ns ascend." - -More's the pity that the fowl Gnekker shows himself more clever than -the eagle professor. Knowing my wife and daughter are on his side he -maintains these tactics. He replies to my shafts with a condescending -silence ("The old man's off his head.... What's the good of talking to -him?"), or makes good-humoured fun of me. It is amazing to what depths -of pettiness a man may descend. During the whole dinner I can dream how -Gnekker will be shown to be an adventurer, how Liza and my wife will -realise their mistake, and I will tease them--ridiculous dreams like -these at a time when I have one foot in the grave. - -Now there occur misunderstandings, of a kind which I formerly knew only -by hearsay. Though it is painful I will describe one which occurred -after dinner the other day. I sit in my room smoking a little pipe. -Enters my wife, as usual, sits down and begins to talk. What a good -idea it would be to go to Kharkov now while the weather is warm and -there is the time, and inquire what kind of man our Gnekker is. - -"Very well. I'll go," I agree. - -My wife gets up, pleased with me, and walks to the door; but -immediately returns: - -"By-the bye, I've one more favour to ask. I know you'll be angry; -but it's my duty to warn you.... Forgive me, Nicolai,--but all -our neighbours have begun to talk about the way you go to Katy's -continually. I don't deny that she's clever and educated. It's pleasant -to spend the time with her. But at your age and in your position it's -rather strange to find pleasure in her society.... Besides she has a -reputation enough to...." - -All my blood rushes instantly from my brain. My eyes flash fire. I -catch hold of my hair, and stamp and cry, in a voice that is not mine: - -"Leave me alone, leave me, leave me...." - -My face is probably terrible, and my voice strange, for my wife -suddenly gets pale, and calls aloud, with a despairing voice, also not -her own. At our cries rush in Liza and Gnekker, then Yegor. - -My feet grow numb, as though they did not exist. I feel that I am -falling into somebody's arms. Then I hear crying for a little while -and sink into a faint which lasts for two or three hours. - -Now for Katy. She comes to see me before evening every day, which of -course must be noticed by my neighbours and my friends. After a minute -she takes me with her for a drive. She has her own horse and a new -buggy she bought this summer. Generally she lives like a princess. She -has taken an expensive detached bungalow with a big garden, and put -into it all her town furniture. She has two maids and a coachman. I -often ask her: - -"Katy, what will you live on when you've spent all your father's money?" - -"We'll see, then," she answers. - -"But this money deserves to be treated more seriously, my dear. It was -earned by a good man and honest labour." - -"You've told me that before. I know." - -First we drive by the field, then by a young pine forest, which you -can see from my window. Nature seems to me as beautiful as she used, -although the devil whispers to me that all these pines and firs, the -birds and white clouds in the sky will not notice my absence in three -or four months when I am dead. Katy likes to take the reins, and it is -good that the weather is fine and I am sitting by her side. She is in a -happy mood, and does not say bitter things. - -"You're a very good man, Nicolai," she says. "You are a rare bird. -There's no actor who could play your part. Mine or Mikhail's, for -instance--even a bad actor could manage, but yours--there's nobody. I -envy you, envy you terribly I What am I? What?" - -She thinks for a moment, and asks: - -"I'm a negative phenomenon, aren't I?" - -"Yes," I answer. - -"H'm ... what's to be done then?" - -What answer can I give? It's easy to say "Work," or "Give your property -to the poor," or "Know yourself," and because it's so easy to say this -I don't know what to answer. - -My therapeutist colleagues, when teaching methods of cure, advise one -"to individualise each particular case." This advice must be followed -in order to convince one's self that the remedies recommended in the -text-books as the best and most thoroughly suitable as a general -rule, are quite unsuitable in particular cases. It applies to moral -affections as well. But I must answer something. So I say: - -"You've too much time on your hands, my dear. You must take up -something.... In fact, why shouldn't you go on the stage again, if you -have a vocation." - -"I can't." - -"You have the manner and tone of a victim. I don't like it, my dear. -You have yourself to blame. Remember, you began by getting angry with -people and things in general; but you never did anything to improve -either of them. You didn't put up a struggle against the evil. You got -tired. You're not a victim of the struggle but of your own weakness. -Certainly you were young then and inexperienced. But now everything can -be different. Come on, be an actress. You will work; you will serve in -the temple of art."... - -"Don't be so clever, Nicolai," she interrupts. "Let's agree once for -all: let's speak about actors, actresses, writers, but let us leave art -out of it. You're a rare and excellent man. But you don't understand -enough about art to consider it truly sacred. You have no _flair,_ no -ear for art. You've been busy all your life, and you never had time to -acquire the _flair._ Really ... I don't love these conversations about -art!" she continues nervously. "I don't love them. They've vulgarised -it enough already, thank you." - -"Who's vulgarised it?" - -"_They_ vulgarised it by their drunkenness, newspapers by their -over-familiarity, clever people by philosophy." - -"What's philosophy got to do with it?" - -"A great deal. If a man philosophises, it means he doesn't understand." - -So that it should not come to bitter words, I hasten to change the -subject, and then keep silence for a long while. It's not till we come -out of the forest and drive towards Katy's bungalow, I return to the -subject and ask: - -"Still, you haven't answered me why you don't want to go on the stage?" - -"Really, it's cruel," she cries out, and suddenly blushes all over. -"You want me to tell you the truth outright. Very well if ... if you -will have it I I've no talent! No talent and ... much ambition! There -you are!" - -After this confession, she turns her face away from me, and to hide the -trembling of her hands, tugs at the reins. - -As we approach her bungalow, from a distance we see Mikhail already, -walking about by the gate, impatiently awaiting us. - -"This Fiodorovich again," Katy says with annoyance. "Please take him -away from me. I'm sick of him. He's flat.... Let him go to the deuce." - -Mikhail Fiodorovich ought to have gone abroad long ago, but he has -postponed his departure every week. There have been some changes in him -lately. He's suddenly got thin, begun to be affected by drink--a thing -that never happened to him before, and his black eyebrows have begun -to get grey. When our buggy stops at the gate he cannot hide his joy -and impatience. Anxiously he helps Katy and me from the buggy, hastily -asks us questions, laughs, slowly rubs his hands, and that gentle, -prayerful, pure something that I used to notice only in his eyes is now -poured over all his face. He is happy and at the same time ashamed of -his happiness, ashamed of his habit of coming to Katy's every evening, -and he finds it necessary to give a reason for his coming, some -obvious absurdity, like: "I was passing on business, and I thought I'd -just drop in for a second." - -All three of us go indoors. First we drink tea, then our old friends, -the two packs of cards, appear on the table, with a big piece of -cheese, some fruit, and a bottle of Crimean champagne. The subjects of -conversation are not new, but all exactly the same as they were in the -winter. The university, the students, literature, the theatre--all of -them come in for it. The air thickens with slanders, and grows more -dose. It is poisoned by the breath, not of two toads as in winter, -but now by all three. Besides the velvety, baritone laughter and the -accordion-like giggle, the maid who waits upon us hears also the -unpleasant jarring laugh of a musical comedy general: "He, he, he!" - - - -V - - -There sometimes come fearful nights with thunder, lightning, rain, and -wind, which the peasants call "sparrow-nights." There was one such -sparrow-night in my own personal life.... - -I wake after midnight and suddenly leap out of bed. Somehow it seems -to me that I am going to die immediately. I do not know why, for there -is no single sensation in my body which points to a quick end; but -a terror presses on my soul as though I had suddenly seen a huge, -ill-boding fire in the sky. - -I light the lamp quickly and drink some water straight out of the -decanter. Then I hurry to the window. The weather is magnificent. The -air smells of hay and some delicious thing besides. I see the spikes of -my garden fence, the sleepy starveling trees by the window, the road, -the dark strip of forest. There is a calm and brilliant moon in the sky -and not a single cloud. Serenity. Not a leaf stirs. To me it seems that -everything is looking at me and listening for me to die. - -Dread seizes me. I shut the window and run to the bed, I feel for my -pulse. I cannot find it in my wrist; I seek it in my temples, my chin, -my hand again. They are all cold and slippery with sweat. My breathing -comes quicker and quicker; my body trembles, all my bowels are stirred, -and my face and forehead feel as though a cobweb had settled on them. - -What shall I do? Shall I call my family? No use. I do not know what my -wife and Liza will do when they come in to me. - -I hide my head under the pillow, shut my eyes and wait, wait.... My -spine is cold. It almost contracts within me. And I feel that death -will approach me only from behind, very quietly. - -"Kivi, kivi." A squeak sounds in the stillness of the night. I do not -know whether it is in my heart or in the street. - -God, how awful! I would drink some more water; but now I dread opening -my eyes, and fear to raise my head. The terror is unaccountable, -animal. I cannot understand why I am afraid. Is it because I want to -live, or because a new and unknown pain awaits me? - -Upstairs, above the ceiling, a moan, then a laugh ... I listen. A -little after steps sound on the staircase. Someone hurries down, then -up again. In a minute steps sound downstairs again. Someone stops by my -door and listens. - -"Who's there?" I call. - -The door opens. I open my eyes boldly and see my wife. Her face is pale -and her eyes red with weeping. - -"You're not asleep, Nicolai Stiepanovich?" she asks. - -"What is it?" - -"For God's sake go down to Liza. Something is wrong with her." - -"Very well ... with pleasure," I murmur, very glad that I am not alone. -"Very well ... immediately." - -As I follow my wife I hear what she tells me, and from agitation -understand not a word. Bright spots from her candle dance over the -steps of the stairs; our long shadows tremble; my feet catch in the -skirts of my dressing-gown. My breath goes, and it seems to me that -someone is chasing me, trying to seize my back. "I shall die here on -the staircase, this second," I think, "this second." But we have passed -the staircase, the dark hall with the Italian window and we go into -Liza's room. She sits in bed in her chemise; her bare legs hang down -and she moans. - -"Oh, my God ... oh, my God!" she murmurs, half shutting her eyes from -our candles. "I can't, I can't." - -"Liza, my child," I say, "what's the matter?" - -Seeing me, she calls out and falls on my neck. - -"Papa darling," she sobs. "Papa dearest ... my sweet. I don't know what -it is.... It hurts." - -She embraces me, kisses me and lisps endearments which I heard her lisp -when she was still a baby. - -"Be calm, my child. God's with you," I say. "You mustn't cry. Something -hurts me too." - -I try to cover her with the bedclothes; my wife gives her to drink; and -both of us jostle in confusion round the bed. My shoulders push into -hers, and at that moment I remember how we used to bathe our children. - -"But help her, help her!" my wife implores. "Do something!" And what -can I do? Nothing. There is some weight on the girl's soul; but I -understand nothing, know nothing and can only murmur: - -"It's nothing, nothing.... It will pass.... Sleep, sleep." - -As if on purpose a dog suddenly howls in the yard, at first low and -irresolute, then aloud, in two voices. I never put any value on such -signs as dogs' whining or screeching owls; but now my heart contracts -painfully, and I hasten to explain the howling. - -"Nonsense," I think. "It's the influence of one organism on another. -My great nervous strain was transmitted to my wife, to Liza, and to -the dog. That's all. Such transmissions explain presentiments and -previsions." - -A little later when I return to my room to write a prescription for -Liza I no longer think that I shall die soon. My soul simply feels -heavy and dull, so that I am even sad that I did not die suddenly. For -a long while I stand motionless in the middle of the room, pondering -what I shall prescribe for Liza; but the moans above the ceiling are -silent and I decide not to write a prescription, but stand there still. - -There is a dead silence, a silence, as one man wrote, that rings -in one's ears. The time goes slowly. The bars of moonshine on the -windowsill do not move from their place, as though congealed.... The -dawn is still far away. - -But the garden-gate creaks; someone steals in, and strips a twig from -the starveling trees, and cautiously knocks with it on my window. - -"Nicolai Stiepanovich!" I hear a whisper. "Nicolai Stiepanovich!" - -I open the window, and I think that I am dreaming. Under the window, -close against the wall stands a woman in a blade dress. She is brightly -lighted by the moon and looks at me with wide eyes. Her face is pale, -stem and fantastic in the moon, like marble. Her chin trembles. - -"It is I...." she says, "I ... Katy!" - -In the moon all women's eyes are big and black, people are taller and -paler. Probably that is the reason why I did not recognise her in the -first moment. - -"What's the matter?" - -"Forgive me," she says. "I suddenly felt so dreary ... I could not bear -it. So I came here. There's a light in your window ... and I decided to -knock.... Forgive me.... Ah, if you knew how dreary I felt! What are -you doing now?" - -"Nothing. Insomnia." - -Her eyebrows lift, her eyes shine with tears and all her face is -illumined as with light, with the familiar, but long unseen, look of -confidence. - -"Nicolai Stiepanovich!" she says imploringly, stretching out both her -hands to me. "Dear, I beg you ... I implore.... If you do not despise -my friendship and my respect for you, then do what I implore you." - -"What is it?" - -"Take my money." - -"What next? What's the good of your money to me?" - -"You will go somewhere to be cured. You must cure yourself. You will -take it? Yes? Dear ... Yes?" - -She looks into my face eagerly and repeats: - -"Yes? You will take it?" - -"No, my dear, I won't take it....", I say. "Thank you." - -She turns her back to me and lowers her head. Probably the tone of my -refusal would not allow any further talk of money. - -"Go home to sleep," I say. "I'll see you to-morrow." - -"It means, you don't consider me your friend?" she asks sadly. - -"I don't say that. But your money is no good to me." - -"Forgive me," she says lowering her voice by a full octave. "I -understand you. To be obliged to a person like me ... a retired -actress... But good-bye." - -And she walks away so quickly that I have no time even to say -"Good-bye." - - - -VI - - -I am in Kharkov. - -Since it would be useless to fight against my present mood, and I have -no power to do it, I made up my mind that the last days of my life -shall be irreproachable, on the formal side. If I am not right with -my family, which I certainly admit, I will try at least to do as it -wishes. Besides I am lately become so indifferent that it's positively -all the same, to me whether I go to Kharkov, or Paris, or Berditshev. - -I arrived here at noon and put up at a hotel not far from the -cathedral. The train made me giddy, the draughts blew through me, and -now I am sitting on the bed with my head in my hands waiting for the -tic. I ought to go to my professor friends to-day, but I have neither -the will nor the strength. - -The old hall-porter comes in to ask whether I have brought my own -bed-clothes. I keep him about five minutes asking him questions about -Gnekker, on whose account I came here. The porter happens to be -Kharkov-born, and knows the town inside out; but he doesn't remember -any family with the name of Gnekker. I inquire about the estate. The -answer is the same. - -The clock in the passage strikes one,... two,... three.... The last -months of my life, while I wait for death, seem to me far longer than -my whole life. Never before could I reconcile myself to the slowness -of time as I can now. Before, when I had to wait for a train at the -station, or to sit at an examination, a quarter of an hour would seem -an eternity. Now I can sit motionless in bed the whole night long, -quite calmly thinking that there will be the same long, colourless -night to-morrow, and the next day.... - -In the passage the clock strikes five, six, seven.... It grows dark. -There is dull pain in my cheek--the beginning of the tic. To occupy -myself with thoughts, I return to my old point of view, when I was not -indifferent, and ask: Why do I, a famous man, a privy councillor, sit -in this little room, on this bed with a strange grey blanket? Why do -I look at this cheap tin washstand and listen to the wretched clock -jarring in the passage? Is all this worthy of my fame and my high -position among people? And I answer these questions with a smile. My -navet seems funny to me--the _navet_ with which as a young man -I exaggerated the value of fame and of the exclusive position which -famous men enjoy. I am famous, my name is spoken with reverence. My -portrait has appeared in "Niva" and in "The Universal Illustration." -I've even read my biography in a German paper, but what of that? I sit -lonely, by myself, in a strange city, on a strange bed, rubbing my -aching cheek with my palm.... - -Family scandals, the hardness of creditors, the rudeness of railway -men, the discomforts of the passport system, the expensive and -unwholesome food at the buffets, the general coarseness and roughness -of people,--all this and a great deal more that would take too long -to put down, concerns me as much as it concerns any bourgeois who is -known only in his own little street. Where is the exclusiveness of my -position then? We will admit that I am infinitely famous, that I am a -hero of whom my country is proud. All the newspapers give bulletins -of my illness, the post is already bringing in sympathetic addresses -from my friends, my pupils, and the public. But all this will not save -me from dying in anguish on a stranger's bed in utter loneliness. Of -course there is no one to blame for this. But I must confess I do not -like my popularity. I feel that it has deceived me. - -At about ten I fall asleep, and, in spite of the tic sleep soundly, and -would sleep for a long while were I not awakened. Just after one there -is a sudden knock on my door. - -"Who's there?" - -"A telegram." - -"You could have brought it to-morrow," I storm, as I take the telegram -from the porter. "Now I shan't sleep again." - -"I'm sorry. There was a light in your room. I thought you were not -asleep." - -I open the telegram and look first at the signature--my wife's. What -does she want? - -"Gnekker married Liza secretly yesterday. Return." - -I read the telegram. For a long while I am not startled. Not Gnekker's -or Liza's action frightens me, but the indifference with which I -receive the news of their marriage. Men say that philosophers and true -_savants_ are indifferent. It is untrue. Indifference is the paralysis -of the soul, premature death. - -I go to bed again and begin to ponder with what thoughts I can occupy -myself. What on earth shall I think of? I seem to have thought over -everything, and now there is nothing powerful enough to rouse my -thought. - -When the day begins to dawn, I sit in bed clasping my knees and, for -want of occupation I try to know myself. "Know yourself" is good, -useful advice; but it is a pity that the ancients did not think of -showing us the way to avail ourselves of it. - -Before, when I had the desire to understand somebody else, or myself, -I used not to take into consideration actions, wherein everything is -conditional, but desires. Tell me what you want, and I will tell you -what you are. - -And now I examine myself. What do I want? - -I want our wives, children, friends, and pupils to love in us, not the -name or the firm or the label, but the ordinary human beings. What -besides? I should like to have assistants and successors. What more? I -should like to wake in a hundred years' time, and take a look, if only -with one eye, at what has happened to science. I should like to live -ten years more.... What further? - -Nothing further. I think, think a long while and cannot make out -anything else. However much I were to think, wherever my thoughts -should stray, it is clear to me that the chief, all-important something -is lacking in my desires. In my infatuation for science, my desire to -live, my sitting here on a strange bed, my yearning to know myself, in -all the thoughts, feelings, and ideas I form about anything, there is -wanting the something universal which could bind all these together in -one whole. Each feeling and thought lives detached in me, and in all -my opinions about science, the theatre, literature, and my pupils, and -in all the little pictures which my imagination paints, not even the -most cunning analyst will discover what is called the general idea, or -the god of the living man. - -And if this is not there, then nothing is there. - -In poverty such as this a serious infirmity, fear of death, influence -of circumstances and people would have been enough to overthrow and -shatter all that I formerly considered as my conception of the world, -and all wherein I saw the meaning and joy of my life. Therefore, it -is nothing strange that I have darkened the last months of my life by -thoughts and feelings worthy of a slave or a savage, and that I am now -indifferent and do not notice the dawn. If there is lacking in a man -that which is higher and stronger than all outside influences, then -verily a good cold in the head is enough to upset his balance and to -make him see each bird an owl and hear a dog's whine in every sound; -and all his pessimism or his optimism with their attendant thoughts, -great and small, seem then to be merely symptoms and no more. - -I am beaten. Then it's no good going on thinking, no good talking. I -shall sit and wait in silence for what will come. - -In the morning the porter brings me tea and the local paper. -Mechanically I read the advertisements on the first page, the leader, -the extracts from newspapers and magazines, the local news ... Among -other things I find in the local news an item like this: "Our famous -scholar, emeritus professor Nicolai Stiepanovich arrived in Kharkov -yesterday by the express, and stayed at----hotel." - -Evidently big names are created to live detached from those who bear -them. Now my name walks in Kharkov undisturbed. In some three months it -will shine as bright as the sun itself, inscribed in letters of gold on -my tombstone--at a time when I myself will be under the sod.... - -A faint knock at the door. Somebody wants me. - -"Who's there? Come in!" - -The door opens. I step back in astonishment, and hasten to pull my -dressing gown together. Before me stands Katy. - -"How do you do?" she says, panting from running up the stairs. "You -didn't expect me? I ... I've come too." - -She sits down and continues, stammering and looking away from me. "Why -don't you say 'Good morning'? I arrived too ... to-day. I found out you -were at this hotel, and came to see you." - -"I'm delighted to see you," I say shrugging my shoulders. "But I'm -surprised. You might have dropped straight from heaven. What are you -doing here?" - -"I?... I just came." - -Silence. Suddenly she gets up impetuously and comes over to me. - -"Nicolai Stiepanich!" she says, growing pale and pressing her hands to -her breast. "Nicolai Stiepanich! I can't go on like this any longer. I -can't. For God's sake tell me now, immediately. What shall I do? Tell -me, what shall I do?" - -"What can I say? I am beaten. I can say nothing." - -"But tell me, I implore you," she continues, out of breath and -trembling all over her body. "I swear to you, I can't go on like this -any longer. I haven't the strength." - -She drops into a chair and begins to sob. She throws her head back, -wrings her hands, stamps with her feet; her hat falls from her head and -dangles by its string, her hair is loosened. - -"Help me, help," she implores. "I can't bear it any more." - -She takes a handkerchief out of her little travelling bag and with -it pulls out some letters which fall from her knees to the floor. -I pick them up from the floor and recognise on one of them Mikhail -Fiodorovich's hand-writing, and accidentally read part of a word: -"passionat...." - -"There's nothing that I can say to you, Katy," I say. - -"Help me," she sobs, seizing my hand and kissing it. "You're my father, -my only friend. You're wise and learned, and you've lived long! You -were a teacher. Tell me what to do." - -I am bewildered and surprised, stirred by her sobbing, and I can hardly -stand upright. - -"Let's have some breakfast, Katy," I say with a constrained smile. - -Instantly I add in a sinking voice: - -"I shall be dead soon, Katy...." - -"Only one word, only one word," she weeps and stretches out her hands -to me. "What shall I do?" - -"You're a queer thing, really....", I murmur. "I can't understand it. -Such a clever woman and suddenly--weeping...." - -Comes silence. Katy arranges her hair, puts on her hat, then crumples -her letters and stuffs them in her little bag, all in silence and -unhurried. Her face, her bosom and her gloves are wet with tears, but -her expression is dry already, stern.... I look at her and am ashamed -that I am happier than she. It was but a little while before my death, -in the ebb of my life, that I noticed in myself the absence of what our -friends the philosophers call the general idea; but this poor thing's -soul has never known and never will know shelter all her life, all her -life. - -"Katy, let's have breakfast," I say. - -"No, thank you," she answers coldly. - -One minute more passes in silence. - -"I don't like Kharkov," I say. "It's too grey. A grey city." - -"Yes ... ugly.... I'm not here for long.... On my way. I leave to-day." - -"For where?" - -"For the Crimea ... I mean, the Caucasus." - -"So. For long?" - -"I don't know." - -Katy gets up and gives me her hand with a cold smile, looking away from -me. - -I would like to ask her: "That means you won't be at my funeral?" But -she does not look at me; her hand is cold and like a stranger's. I -escort her to the door in silenqe.... She goes out of my room and walks -down the long passage, without looking back. She knows that my eyes are -following her, and probably on the landing she will look back. - -No, she did not look back. The black dress showed for the last time, -her steps were stilled.... Goodbye, my treasure! - - - - -THE FIT - - -The medical student Mayer, and Ribnikov, a student at the Moscow school -of painting, sculpture, and architecture, came one evening to their -friend Vassiliev, law student, and proposed that he should go with -them to S----v Street. For a long while Vassiliev did not agree, but -eventually dressed himself and went with them. - -Unfortunate women he knew only by hearsay and from books, and never -once in his life had he been in the houses where they live. He knew -there were immoral women who were forced by the pressure of disastrous -circumstances--environment, bad up-bringing, poverty, and the like--to -sell their honour for money. They do not know pure love, have no -children and no legal rights; mothers and sisters mourn them for -dead, science treats them as an evil, men are familiar with them. But -notwithstanding all this they do not lose the image and likeness of -God. They all acknowledge their sin and hope for salvation. They are -free to avail themselves of every means of salvation. True, Society -does not forgive people their past, but with God Mary of Egypt is -not lower than the other saints. Whenever Vassiliev recognised an -unfortunate woman in the street by her costume or her manner, or saw a -picture of one in a comic paper, there came into his mind every time -a story he once read somewhere: a pure and heroic young man falls in -love with an unfortunate woman and asks her to be his wife, but she, -considering herself unworthy of such happiness, poisons herself. - -Vassiliev lived in one of the streets off the Tverskoi boulevard. -When he and his friends came out of the house it was about eleven -o'clock--the first snow had just fallen and all nature was under -the spell of this new snow; The air smelt of snow, the snow cracked -softly under foot, the earth, the roofs, the trees, the benches on the -boulevards--all were soft, white, and young. Owing to this the houses -had a different look from yesterday, the lamps burned brighter, the -air was more transparent, the clatter of the cabs was dulled and there -entered into the soul with the fresh, easy, frosty air a feeling like -the white, young, feathery snow. "To these sad shores unknowing" the -medico began to sing in a pleasant tenor, "An unknown power entices" -... "Behold the mill" ... the painter's voice took him up, "it is now -fall'n to ruin." - -"Behold the mill, it is now fall'n to ruin," the medico repeated, -raising his eyebrows and sadly shaking his head. - -He was silent for a while, passed his hand over his forehead trying to -recall the words, and began to sing in a loud voice and so well that -the passers-by looked back. - -"Here, long ago, came free, free love to me"... - -All three went into a restaurant and without taking off their coats -they each had two thimblefuls of vodka at the bar. Before drinking the -second, Vassiliev noticed a piece of cork in his Vodka, lifted the -glass to his eye, looked at it for a long while with a short-sighted -frown. The medico misunderstood his expression and said-- - -"Well, what are you staring at? No philosophy, please. Vodka's made to -be drunk, caviare to be eaten, women to sleep with, snow to walk on. -Live like a man for one evening." - -"Well, I've nothing to say," said Vassiliev laughingly, "I'm not -refusing?" - -The vodka warmed his breast. He looked at his friends, admired and -envied them. How balanced everything is in these healthy, strong, -cheerful people. Everything in their minds and souls is smooth and -rounded off. They sing, have a passion for the theatre, paint, talk -continually, and drink, and they never have a headache the next day. -They are romantic and dissolute, sentimental and insolent; they can -work and go on the loose and laugh at nothing and talk rubbish; they -are hot-headed, honest, heroic and as human beings not a bit worse -than Vassiliev, who watches his every step and word, who is careful, -cautious, and able to give the smallest trifle the dignity of a -problem. And he made tip his mind if only for one evening to live like -his friends, to let himself go, and be free from his own control. -Must he drink vodka? He'll drink, even if his head falls to pieces -to-morrow. Must he be taken to women? He'll go. He'll laugh, play the -fool, and give a joking answer to disapproving passers-by. - -He came out of the restaurant laughing. He liked his friends--one in a -battered hat with a wide brim who aped aesthetic disorder; the other in -a sealskin cap, not very poor, with a pretence of learned Bohemia. He -liked the snow, the paleness, the lamp-lights, the dear black prints -which the passers' feet left on the snow. He liked the air, and above -all the transparent, tender, naive, virgin tone which can be seen in -nature only twice in the year: when everything is covered in snow, on -the bright days in spring, and on moonlight nights when the ice breaks -on the river. - -"To these sad shores unknowing," he began to sing _sotto-voce,_ "An -unknown power entices." - -And all the way for some reason or other he and his friends had this -melody on their lips. All three hummed it mechanically out of time with -each other. - -Vassiliev Imagined how in about ten minutes he and his friends would -knock at a door, how they would stealthily walk through-the narrow -little passages and dark rooms to the women, how he would take -advantage of the dark, suddenly strike a match, and see lit up a -suffering face and a guilty smile. There he will surely find a fair -or a dark woman in a white nightgown with her hair loose. She will be -frightened of the light, dreadfully confused and say: "Good God! What -are you doing? Blow it out!" All this was frightening, but curious and -novel. - - - -II - - -The friends turned out of Trubnoi Square into the Grachovka and soon -arrived at the street which Vassiliev knew only from hearsay. Seeing -two rows of houses with brightly lighted windows and wide open doors, -and hearing the gay sound of pianos and fiddles--sounds which flew out -of all the doors and mingled in a strange confusion, as if somewhere -in the darkness over the roof-tops an unseen orchestra were tuning, -Vassiliev was bewildered and said: - -"What a lot of houses!" - -"What's that?" said the medico. "There are ten times as many in London. -There are a hundred thousand of these women there." - -The cabmen sat on their boxes quiet and indifferent as in other -streets; on the pavement walked the same passers-by. No one was in -a hurry; no one hid his face in his collar; no one shook his head -reproachfully. And in this indifference, in the confused sound of -the pianos and fiddles, in the bright windows and wide-open doors, -something very free, impudent, bold and daring could be felt. It must -have been the same as this in the old times on the slave-markets, as -gay and as noisy; people looked and walked with the same indifference. - -"Let's begin right at the beginning," said the painter. - -The friends walked into a narrow little passage lighted by a single -lamp with a reflector. When they opened the door a man in a black -jacket rose lazily from the yellow sofa in the hall. He had an unshaven -lackey's face and sleepy eyes. The place smelt like a laundry, and of -vinegar. From the hall a door led into a brightly lighted room. The -medico and the painter stopped in the doorway, stretched out their -necks and peeped into the room together: - -"Buona sera, signore, Rigoletto--huguenote--traviata!--" the painter -began, making a theatrical bow. - -"Havanna--blackbeetlano--pistoletto!" said the medico, pressing his hat -to his heart and bowing low. - -Vassiliev kept behind them. He wanted to bow theatrically too and say -something silly. But he only smiled, felt awkward and ashamed, and -awaited impatiently what was to follow. In the door appeared a little -fair girl of seventeen or eighteen, with short hair, wearing a short -blue dress with a white bow on her breast. - -"What are you standing in the door for?" she said. "Take off your -overcoats and come into the salon." - -The medico and the painter went into the salon, still speaking Italian. -Vassiliev followed them irresolutely. - -"Gentlemen, take off your overcoats," said the lackey stiffly. "You're -not allowed in as you are." - -Besides the fair girl there was another woman in the salon, very stout -and tall, with a foreign face and bare arms. She sat by the piano, -with a game of patience spread on her knees. She took no notice of the -guests. - -"Where are the other girls?" asked the medico. - -"They're drinking tea," said the fair one. "Stiepan," she called out. -"Go and tell the girls some students have come!" - -A little later a third girl entered, in a bright red dress with blue -stripes. Her face was thickly and unskilfully painted. Her forehead was -hidden under her hair. She stared with dull, frightened eyes. As she -came she immediately began to sing in a strong hoarse contralto. After -her a fourth girl. After her a fifth. - -In all this Vassiliev saw nothing new or curious. It seemed to him -that he had seen before, and more than once, this salon, piano, cheap -gilt mirror, the white bow, the dress with blue stripes and the -stupid, indifferent faces. But of darkness, quiet, mystery, and guilty -smile--of all he had expected to meet here and which frightened him--he -did not see even a shadow. - -Everything was commonplace, prosaic, and dull. Only one thing provoked -his curiosity a little, that was the terrible, as it were intentional -lack of taste, which was seen in the overmantels, the absurd pictures, -the dresses and the White bow. In this lack of taste there was -something characteristic and singular. - -"How poor and foolish it all is!" thought Vassiliev. "What is there in -all this rubbish to tempt a normal man, to provoke him into committing -a frightful sin, to buy a living soul for a rouble? I can understand -anyone sinning for the sake of splendour, beauty, grace, passion; but -what is there here? What tempts people here? But ... it's no good -thinking!" - -"Whiskers, stand me champagne." The fair one turned to him. - -Vassiliev suddenly blushed. - -"With pleasure," he said, bowing politely. "But excuse me if I ... I -don't drink with you, I don't drink." - -Five minutes after the friends were off to another house. - -"Why did you order drinks?" stormed the medico. "What a millionaire, -flinging six roubles into the gutter like that for nothing at all." - -"Why shouldn't I give her pleasure if she wants it?" said Vassiliev, -justifying himself. - -"You didn't give her any pleasure. Madame got that. It's Madame who -tells them to ask the guests for drinks. She makes by it." - -"Behold the mill," the painter began to sing, "Now fall'n to ruin...." - -When they came to another house the friends stood outside in the -vestibule, but did not enter the salon. As in the first house, a figure -rose up from the sofa in the hall, in a black jacket, with a sleepy -lackey's face. As he looked at this lackey, at his face and shabby -jacket, Vassiliev thought: "What must an ordinary simple Russian go -through before Fate casts him up here? Where was he before, and what -was he doing? What awaits him? Is he married, where's his mother, -and does she know he's a lackey here?" Thenceforward in every house -Vassiliev involuntarily turned his attention to the lackey first of all. - -In one of the houses, it seemed to be the fourth, the lackey was a dry -little, puny fellow, with a chain across his waistcoat. He was reading -a newspaper and took no notice of the guests at all. Glancing at his -face, Vassiliev had the idea that a fellow with a face like that could -steal and murder and perjure. And indeed the face was interesting: a -big forehead, grey eyes, a flat little nose, small close-set teeth, and -the expression on his face dull and impudent at once, like a puppy hard -on a hare. Vassiliev had the thought that he would like to touch this -lackey's hair: is it rough or soft f It must be rough like a dog's. - - - -III - - -Because he had had two glasses the painter suddenly got rather drunk, -and unnaturally lively. - -"Let's go to another place," he added, waving his hands. "I'll -introduce you to the best!" - -When he had taken his friends into the house which was according to him -the best, he proclaimed a persistent desire to dance a quadrille. The -medico began to grumble that they would have to pay the musicians a -rouble but agreed to be his _vis--vis._ The dance began. - -It was just as bad in the best house as in the worst. Just the same -mirrors and pictures were here, the same coiffures and dresses. Looking -round at the furniture and the costumes Vassiliev now understood that -it was not lack of taste, but something that might be called the -particular taste and style of S----v Street, quite impossible to find -anywhere else, something complete, not accidental, evolved in time. -After he had been to eight houses he no longer wondered at the colour -of the dresses or the long trains, or at the bright bows, or the sailor -dresses, or the thick violent painting of the cheeks; he understood -that all this was in harmony, that if only one woman dressed herself -humanly, or one decent print hung on the wall, then the general tone of -the whole street would suffer. - -How badly they manage the business? Can't they really understand that -vice is only fascinating when it is beautiful and secret, hidden under -the cloak of virtue? Modest black dresses, pale faces, sad smiles, and -darkness act more strongly than this clumsy tinsel. Idiots! If they -don't understand it themselves, their guests ought to teach them.... - -A girl in a Polish costume trimmed with white fur came up close to him -and sat down by his side. - -"Why don't you dance, my brown-haired darling?" she asked. "What do you -fed so bored about?" - -"Because it is boring." - -"Stand me a Chteau Lafitte, then you won't be bored." - -Vassiliev made no answer. For a little while he was silent, then he -asked: - -"What time do you go to bed as a rule?" - -"Six." - -"When do you get up?" - -"Sometimes two, sometimes three." - -"And after you get up what do you do?" - -"We drink coffee. We have dinner at seven." - -"And what do you have for dinner?" - -"Soup or _schi_ as a rule, beef-steak, dessert. Our madame keeps the -girls well. But what are you asking all this for?" - -"Just to have a talk...." - -Vassiliev wanted to ask about all sorts of things. He had a strong -desire to find out where she came from, were her parents alive, and did -they know she was here; how she got into the house; was she happy and -contented, or gloomy and depressed with dark thoughts. Does she ever -hope to escape.... But he could not possibly think how to begin, or how -to put his questions without seeming indiscreet. He thought for a long -while and asked: - -"How old are you?" - -"Eighty," joked the girl, looking and laughing at the tricks the -painter was doing with his hands and feet. - -She suddenly giggled and uttered a long filthy expression aloud so that -every one could hear. - -Vassiliev, terrified, not knowing how to look, began to laugh uneasily. -He alone smiled: all the others, his friends, the musicians and the -women--paid no attention to his neighbour. They might never have heard. - -"Stand me a Lafitte," said the girl again. - -Vassiliev was suddenly repelled by her white trimming and her voice -and left her. It seemed to him close and hot. His heart began to beat -slowly and violently, like a hammer, one, two, three. - -"Let's get out of here," he said, pulling the painter's sleeve. - -"Wait. Let's finish it." - -While the medico and the painter were finishing their quadrille, -Vassiliev, in order to avoid the women, eyed the musicians. The -pianist was a nice old man with spectacles, with a face like Marshal -Basin; the fiddler a young man with a short, fair beard dressed in -the latest fashion. The young man was not stupid or starved, on the -contrary he looked clever, young and fresh. He was dressed with a touch -of originality, and played with emotion. Problem: how did he and the -decent old man get here? Why aren't they ashamed to sit here? What do -they think about when they look at the women? - -If the piano and the fiddle were played by ragged, hungry, gloomy, -drunken creatures, with thin stupid faces, then their presence would -perhaps be intelligible. As it was, Vassiliev could understand. -nothing. Into his memory came the story that he had read about the -unfortunate woman, and now he found that the human figure with the -guilty smile had nothing to do with this. It seemed to him that they -were not unfortunate women that he saw, but they belonged to another, -utterly different world, foreign and inconceivable to him; if he had -seen this world on the stage or read about it in a book he would never -have believed it.... The girl with the white trimming giggled again and -said something disgusting aloud. He felt sick, blushed, and went out: - -"Wait. We're coming too," cried the painter. - - - -IV - - -"I had a talk with my _mam'selle_ while we were dancing," said the -medico when all three came into the street. "The subject was her first -love. _He_ was a bookkeeper in Smolensk with a wife and five children. -She was seventeen and lived with her pa and ma who kept a soap and -candle shop." - -"How did he conquer her heart?" asked Vassiliev. - -"He bought her fifty roubles'-worth of underclothes--Lord knows what!" - -"However could he get her love-story out of his girl?" thought -Vassiliev. "I can't. My dear chaps, I'm off home," he said. - -"Why?" - -"Because I don't know how to get on here. I'm bored and disgusted. What -is there amusing about it? If they were only human beings; but they're -savages and beasts. I'm going, please." - -"Grisha darling, please," the painter said with a sob in his voice, -pressing close to Vassiliev, "let's go to one more--then to Hell with -them. Do come, Grigor." - -They prevailed on Vassiliev and led him up a staircase. The carpet and -the gilded balustrade, the porter who opened the door, the panels which -decorated the hall, were still in the same S----v Street style, but -here it was perfected and imposing. - -"Really I'm going home," said Vassiliev, taking off his overcoat. - -"Darling, please, please," said the painter and kissed him on the neck. -"Don't be so faddy, Grigri--be a pal. Together we came, together we go. -What a beast you are though!" - -"I can wait for you in the street. My God, it's disgusting here." - -"Please, please.... You just look on, see, just look on." - -"One should look at things objectively," said the medico seriously. - -Vassiliev entered the salon and sat down. There were many more guests -besides him and his friends: two infantry officers, a grey, bald-headed -gentleman with gold spectacles, two young clean-shaven men from the -Surveyors' Institute, and a very drunk man with an actor's face. -All the girls were looking after these guests and took no notice of -Vassiliev. Only one of them dressed like Ada glanced at him sideways, -smiled at something and said with a yawn: - -"So the dark one's come." - -Vassiliev's heart was beating and his face was burning. He felt -ashamed for being there, disgusted and tormented. He was tortured by -the thought that he, a decent and affectionate man (so he considered -himself up till now), despised these women and felt nothing towards -them but repulsion. He could not feel pity for them or for the -musicians or the lackeys. - -"It's because I don't try to understand them," he thought. "They're all -more like beasts than human beings; but all the same they are human -beings. They've got souls. One should understand them first, then judge -them." - -"Grisha, don't go away. Wait for us," called the painter; and he -disappeared somewhere. - -Soon the medico disappeared also. - -"Yes, one should try to understand. It's no good, otherwise," thought -Vassiliev, and he began to examine intently the face of each girl, -looking for the guilty smile. But whether he could not read faces or -because none of these women felt guilty he saw in each face only a dull -look of common, vulgar boredom and satiety. Stupid eyes, stupid smiles, -harsh, stupid voices, impudent gestures--and nothing else. Evidently -every woman had in her past a love romance with a bookkeeper and fifty -roubles'-worth of underclothes. And in the present the only good things -in life were coffee, a three-course dinner, wine, quadrilles, and -sleeping till two in the afternoon.... - -Finding not one guilty smile, Vassiliev began to examine them to see -if even one looked clever and his attention was arrested by one pale, -rather tired face. It was that of a dark woman no longer young, wearing -a dress scattered with spangles. She sat in a chair staring at the -floor and thinking of something. Vassiliev paced up and down and then -sat down beside her as if by accident. - -"One must begin with something trivial," he thought, "and gradually -pass on to serious conversation...." - -"What a beautiful little dress you have on," he said, and touched the -gold fringe of her scarf with his finger. - -"It's all right," said the dark woman. - -"Where do you come from?" - -"I? A long way. From Tchernigov." - -"It's a nice part." - -"It always is, where you don't happen to be." - -"What a pity I can't describe nature," thought Vassiliev. "I'd move her -by descriptions of Tchernigov. She must love it if she was born there." - -"Do you feel lonely here?" he asked. - -"Of course I'm lonely." - -"Why don't you go away from here, if you're lonely?" - -"Where shall I go to? Start begging, eh?" - -"It's easier to beg than to live here." - -"Where did you get that idea? Have you been a beggar?" - -"I begged, when I hadn't enough to pay my university fees; and even if -I hadn't begged it's easy enough to understand. A beggar is a free man, -at any rate, and you're a slave." - -The dark woman stretched herself, and followed with sleepy eyes the -lackey who carried a tray of glasses and soda-water. - -"Stand us a champagne," she said, and yawned again. - -"Champagne," said Vassiliev. "What would happen if your mother or your -brother suddenly came in? What would you say? And what would they say? -You would say 'champagne' then." - -Suddenly the noise of crying was heard. From the next room where the -lackey had carried the soda-water, a fair man rushed out with a red -face and angry eyes. He was followed by the tall, stout madame, who -screamed in a squeaky voice: - -"No one gave you permission to slap the girls in the face. Better class -than you come here, and never slap a girl. You bounder!" - -Followed an uproar. Vassiliev was scared and went white. In the next -room some one wept, sobbing, sincerely, as only the insulted weep. -And he understood that indeed human beings lived here, actually -human beings, who get offended, suffer, weep, and ask for help. The -smouldering hatred, the feeling of repulsion, gave way to an acute -sense of pity and anger against the wrong-doer. He rushed into the -room from which the weeping came. Through the rows of bottles which -stood on the marble table-top he saw a suffering tear-stained face, -stretched out his hands towards this face, stepped to the table and -instantly gave a leap back in terror. The sobbing woman was dead-drunk. - -As he made his way through the noisy crowd, gathered round the fair -man, his heart failed him, he lost his courage like a boy, and it -seemed to him that in this foreign, inconceivable world, they wanted to -run after him, to beat him, to abuse him with foul words. He tore down -his coat from the peg and rushed headlong down the stairs. - - - -V - - -Pressing dose to the fence, he stood near to the house and waited -for his friends to come out. The sounds of the pianos and fiddles, -gay, bold, impudent and sad, mingled into chaos in the air, and this -confusion was, as before, as if an unseen orchestra were tuning in the -dark over the roof-tops. If he looked up towards the darkness, then -all the background was scattered with white, moving points: it was -snowing. The flakes, coming into the light, spun lazily in the air like -feathers, and still more lazily fell. Flakes of snow crowded whirling -about Vassiliev, and hung on his beard, his eyelashes, his eyebrows. -The cabmen, the horses, and the passers-by, all were white. - -"How dare the snow fall in this street?" thought Vassiliev. "A curse on -these houses." - -Because of his headlong rush down the staircase his feet failed him -from weariness; he was out of breath as if he had climbed a mountain. -His heart beat so loud that he could hear it. A longing came over him -to get out of this street as soon as possible and go home; but still -stronger was his desire to wait for his friends and to vent upon them -his feeling of heaviness. - -He had not understood many things in the houses. The souls of the -perishing women were to him a mystery as before; but it was dear to -him that the business was much worse than one would have thought. If -the guilty woman who poisoned herself was called a prostitute, then it -was hard to find a suitable name for all these creatures, who danced -to the muddling music and said long, disgusting phrases. They were not -perishing; they were already done for. - -"Vice is here," he thought; "but there is neither confession of sin -nor hope of salvation. They are bought and sold, drowned in wine -and torpor, and they are dull and indifferent as sheep and do not -understand. My God, my God!" - -It was so dear to him that all that which is called human dignity, -individuality, the image and likeness of God, was here dragged down to -the gutter, as they say of drunkards, and that not only the street and -the stupid women were to blame for it. - -A crowd of students white with snow, talking and laughing gaily, -passed by. One of them, a tall, thin man, peered into Vassiliev's face -and said drunkenly, "He's one of ours. Logged, old man? Aha! my lad. -Never mind. Walk up, never say die, uncle." - -He took Vassiliev by the shoulders and pressed his cold wet moustaches -to his cheek, then slipped, staggered, brandished his arms, and cried -out: - -"Steady there--don't fall." - -Laughing, he ran to join his comrades. - -Through the noise the painter's voice became audible. - -"You dare beat women! I won't have it. Go to Hell. You're regular -swine." - -The medico appeared at the door of the house. He glanced round and on -seeing Vassiliev, said in alarm: - -"Is that you? My God, it's simply impossible to go anywhere with Yegor. -I can't understand a chap like that. He kicked up a row--can't you -hear? Yegor," he called from the door. "Yegor!" - -"I won't have you hitting women." The painter's shrill voice was -audible again from upstairs. - -Something heavy and bulky tumbled down the staircase. It was the -painter coming head over heels. He had evidently been thrown out. - -He lifted himself up from the ground, dusted his hat, and with an angry -indignant face, shook his fist at the upstairs. - -"Scoundrels! Butchers! Bloodsuckers! I won't have you hitting a weak, -drunken woman. Ah, you...." - -"Yegor ... Yegor!" the medico began to implore, "I give my word I'll -never go out with you again. Upon my honour, I won't." - -The painter gradually calmed, and the friends went home. - -"To these sad shores unknowing"--the medico began--"An unknown power -entices...." - -"'Behold the mill,' the painter sang with him after a pause, 'Now fallen -into ruin.' How the snow is falling, most Holy Mother. Why did you go -away, Grisha? You're a coward; you're only an old woman." - -Vassiliev was walking behind his friends. He stared at their backs and -thought: "One of two things: either prostitution only seems to us an -evil and we exaggerate it, or if prostitution is really such an evil as -is commonly thought, these charming friends of mine are just as much -slavers, violators, and murderers as the inhabitants of Syria and Cairo -whose photographs appear in 'The Field.' They're singing, laughing, -arguing soundly now, but haven't they just been exploiting starvation, -ignorance, and stupidity? They have, I saw them at it. Where does their -humanity, their science, and their painting come in, then? The science, -art, and lofty sentiments of these murderers remind me of the lump of -fat in the story. Two robbers killed a beggar in a forest; they began -to divide his clothes between themselves and found in his bag a lump -of pork fat. 'In the nick of time,' said one of them. 'Let's have a -bite!' 'How can you?' the other cried in terror. 'Have you forgotten -to-day's Friday?' So they refrained from eating. After having cut the -man's throat they walked out of the forest confident that they were -pious fellows. These two are just the same. When they've paid for women -they go and imagine they're painters and scholars.... - -"Listen, you two," he said angrily and sharply. "Why do you go to those -places? Can't you understand how horrible they are? Your medicine -tells you every one of these women dies prematurely from consumption -or something else; your arts tell you that she died morally still -earlier. Each of them dies because during her lifetime she accepts on -an average, let us say, five hundred men. Each of them is killed by -five hundred men, and you're amongst the five hundred. Now if each of -you comes here and to places like this two hundred and fifty times in -his lifetime, then it means that between you you have killed one woman. -Can't you understand that? Isn't it horrible?" - -"Ah, isn't this awful, my God?" - -"There, I knew it would end like this," said the painter frowning. "We -oughtn't to have had anything to do with this fool of a blockhead. I -suppose you think your head's full of great thoughts and great ideas -now. Devil knows what they are, but they're not ideas. You're staring -at me now with hatred and disgust; but if you want my opinion you'd -better build twenty more of the houses than look like that. There's -more vice in your look than in the whole street. Let's dear out, -Volodya, damn him! He's a fool. He's a blockhead, and that's all he is." - -"Human beings are always killing each other," said the medico. "That is -immoral, of course. But philosophy won't help you. Good-bye!" - -The friends parted at Trubnoi Square and went their way. Left alone, -Vassiliev began to stride along the boulevard. He was frightened of the -dark, frightened of the snow, which fell to the earth in little flakes, -but seemed to long to cover the whole world; he was frightened of the -street-lamps, which glimmered faintly through the clouds of snow. An -inexplicable faint-hearted fear possessed his soul. Now and then people -passed him; but he gave a start and stepped aside. It seemed to him -that from everywhere there came and stared at him women, only women.... - -"It's coming on," he thought, "I'm going to have a fit." - - - -VI - - -At home he lay on his bed and began to talk, shivering all over his -body. - -"Live women, live.... My God, they're alive." - -He sharpened the edge of his imagination in every possible way. Now he -was the brother of an unfortunate, now her father. Now he was himself a -fallen woman, with painted cheeks; and all this terrified him. - -It seemed to him somehow that he must solve this question immediately, -at all costs, and that the problem was not strange to him, but was his -own. He made a great effort, conquered his despair, and, sitting on the -side of the bed, his head clutched in his hands, he began to think: - -How could all the women he had seen that night be saved? The process -of solving a problem was familiar to him as to a learned person; and -notwithstanding all his excitement he kept strictly to this process. -He recalled to mind the history of the question, its literature, and -just after three o'clock he was pacing up and down, trying to remember -all the experiments which are practised nowadays for the salvation of -women. He had a great many good friends who lived in furnished rooms, -Falzfein, Galyashkin, Nechaiev, Yechkin ... not a few among them were -honest and self-sacrificing, and some of them had attempted to save -these women.... - -All these few attempts, thought Vassiliev, rare attempts, may be -divided into three groups. Some having rescued a woman from a brothel -hired a room for her, bought her a sewing-machine and she became a -dressmaker, and the man who saved her kept her for his mistress, -openly or otherwise, but later when he had finished his studies and was -going away, he would hand her over to another decent fellow. So the -fallen woman remained fallen. Others after having bought her out also -hired a room for her, bought the inevitable sewing-machine and started -her off reading and writing and preached at her. The woman sits and -sews as long as it is novel and amusing, but later, when she is bored, -she begins to receive men secretly, or runs back to where she can sleep -till three in the afternoon, drink coffee, and eat till she is full. -Finally, the most ardent and self-sacrificing take a bold, determined -step. They marry, and when the impudent, self-indulgent, stupefied -creature becomes a wife, a lady of the house, and then a mother, her -life and outlook are utterly changed, and in the wife and mother it is -hard to recognise the unfortunate woman. Yes, marriage is the best, it -may be the only, resource. - -"But it's impossible," Vassiliev said aloud and threw himself down on -his bed. "First of all, I could not marry one. One would have to be a -saint to be able to do it, unable to hate, not knowing disgust. But -let us suppose that the painter, the medico, and I got the better of -our feelings and married, that all these women got married, what is -the result? What kind of effect follows? The result is that while the -women get married here in Moscow, the Smolensk bookkeeper seduces a -fresh lot, and these will pour into the empty places, together with -women from Saratov, Nijni-Novgorod, Warsaw.... And what happens to the -hundred thousand in London? What can be done with those in Hamburg? - -The oil in the lamp was used up and the lamp began to smell. Vassiliev -did not notice it. Again he began to pace up and down, thinking. Now he -put the question differently. What can be done to remove the demand for -fallen women? For this it is necessary that the men who buy and kill -them should at once begin to feel all the immorality of their _rle_ of -slave-owners, and this should terrify them. It is necessary to save the -men. - -Science and art apparently won't do, thought Vassiliev. There is only -one way out--to be an apostle. - -And he began to dream how he would stand to-morrow evening at the -corner of the street and say to each passer-by: "Where are you going -and what for? Fear God!" - -He would turn to the indifferent cabmen and say to them: - -"Why are you standing here? Why don't you revolt? You do believe in -God, don't you? And you do know that this is a crime, and that people -will go to Hell for this? Why do you keep quiet, then? True, the women -are strangers to you, but they have fathers and brothers exactly the -same as you...." - -Some friend of Vassiliev's once said of him that he was a man of -talent. There is a talent for writing, for the theatre, for painting; -but Vassiliev's was peculiar, a talent for humanity. He had a fine and -noble _flair_ for every kind of suffering. As a good actor reflects in -himself the movement and voice of another, so Vassiliev could reflect -in himself another's pain. Seeing tears, he wept. With a sick person, -he himself became sick and moaned. If he saw violence done, it seemed -to him that he was the victim. He was frightened like a child, and, -frightened, ran for help. Another's pain roused him, excited him, threw -him into a state of ecstasy.... - -Whether the friend was right I do not know, but what happened to -Vassiliev when it seemed to him that the question was solved was very -much like an ecstasy. He sobbed, laughed, said aloud the things he -would say to-morrow, felt a burning love for the men who would listen -to him and stand by his side at the corner of the street, preaching. He -sat down to write to them; he made vows. - -All this was the more like an ecstasy in that it did not last. -Vassiliev was soon tired. The London women, the Hamburg women, those -from Warsaw, crushed him with their mass, as the mountains crush the -earth. He quailed before this mass; he lost himself; he remembered he -had no gift for speaking, that he was timid and faint-hearted, that -strange people would hardly want to listen to and understand him, a -law-student in his third year, a frightened and insignificant figure. -The true apostleship consisted, not only in preaching, but also in -deeds.... - -When daylight came and the carts rattled on the streets, Vassiliev lay -motionless on the sofa, staring at one point. He did not think any -more of women, or men, or apostles. All his attention was fixed on the -pain of his soul which tormented him. It was a dull pain, indefinite, -vague; it was like anguish and the most acute fear and despair. He -could say where the pain was. It was in his breast, under the heart. -It could not be compared to anything. Once on a time he used to have -violent toothache. Once, he had pleurisy and neuralgia. But all these -pains were as nothing beside the pain of his soul. Beneath this pain -life seemed repulsive. The thesis, his brilliant work already written, -the people he loved, the salvation of fallen women, all that which only -yesterday he loved or was indifferent to, remembered now, irritated -him in the same way as the noise of the carts, the running about of -the porters and the daylight.... If someone now were to perform before -his eyes a deed of mercy or an act of revolting violence, both would -produce upon him an equally repulsive impression. Of all the thoughts -which roved lazily in his head, two only did not irritate him: one--at -any moment he had the power to kill himself, the other--that the pain -would not last more than three days. The second he knew from experience. - -After having lain down for a while he got up and walked wringing his -hands, not from corner to corner as usually, but in a square along -the walls. He caught a glimpse of himself in the glass. His face -was pale and haggard, his temples hollow, his eyes bigger, darker, -more immobile, as if they were not his own, and they expressed the -intolerable suffering of his soul. - -In the afternoon the painter knocked at the door. - -"Gregory, are you at home?" he asked. - -Receiving no answer, he stood musing for a while, and said to himself -good-naturedly: - -"Out. He's gone to the University. Damn him." - -And went away. - -Vassiliev lay down on his bed and burying his head in the pillow he -began to cry with the pain. But the faster his tears flowed, the more -terrible was the pain. When it was dark, he got into his mind the idea -of the horrible night which was awaiting him and awful despair seized -him. He dressed quickly, ran out of his room, leaving the door wide -open, and into the street without reason or purpose. Without asking -himself where he was going, he walked quickly to Sadovaia Street. - -Snow was falling as yesterday. It was thawing. Putting his hands into -his sleeves, shivering, and frightened of the noises and the bells -of the trams and of passers-by, Vassiliev walked from Sadovaia to -Sukhariev Tower then to the Red Gates, and from here he turned and -went to Basmannaia. He went into a public-house and gulped down a big -glass of vodka, but felt no better. Arriving at Razgoulyai, he turned -to the right and began to stride down streets that he had never in -his life been down before. He came to that old bridge under which the -river Yaouza roars and from whence long rows of lights are seen in the -windows of the Red Barracks. In order to distract the pain of his soul -by a new sensation or another pain, not knowing what to do, weeping -and trembling, Vassiliev unbuttoned his coat and jacket, baring his -naked breast to the damp snow and the wind. Neither lessened the pain. -Then he bent over the rail of the bridge and stared down at the black, -turbulent Yaouza, and he suddenly wanted to throw himself head-first, -not from hatred of life, not for the sake of suicide, but only to hurt -himself and so to kill one pain by another. But the black water, the -dark, deserted banks covered with snow were frightening. He shuddered -and went on. He walked as far as the Red Barracks, then back and into a -wood, from the wood to the bridge again. - -"No! Home, home," he thought. "At home I believe it's easier." - -And he went back. On returning home he tore off his wet clothes and -hat, began to pace along the walls, and paced incessantly until the -very morning. - - - -VII - - -The next morning when the painter and the medico came to see him, -they found him in a shirt torn to ribbons, his hands bitten all over, -tossing about in the room and moaning with pain. - -"For God's sake!" he began to sob, seeing his comrades, "Take me -anywhere you like, do what you like, but save me, for God's sake now, -now! I'll kill myself." - -The painter went pale and was bewildered. The medico, too, nearly began -to cry; but, believing that medical men must be cool and serious on -every occasion of life, he said coldly: - -"It's a fit you've got. But never mind. Come to the doctor, at once." - -"Anywhere you like, but quickly, for God's sake!" - -"Don't be agitated. You must struggle with yourself." - -The painter and the medico dressed Vassiliev with trembling hands and -led him into the street. - -"Mikhail Sergueyich has been wanting to make your acquaintance for a -long while," the medico said on the way. "He's a very nice man, and -knows his job splendidly. He took his degree in '82, and has got a huge -practice already. He keeps friends with the students." - -"Quicker, quicker...." urged Vassiliev. Mikhail Sergueyich, a stout -doctor with fair hair, received the friends politely, firmly, coldly, -and smiled with one cheek only. - -"The painter and Mayer have told me of your disease already," he said. -"Very glad to be of service to you. Well? Sit down, please." - -He made Vassiliev sit down in a big chair by the table, and put a box -of cigarettes in front of him. - -"Well?" he began, stroking his knees. "Let's make a start. How old are -you?" - -He put questions and the medico answered. He asked whether Vassiliev's -father suffered from any peculiar diseases, if he had fits of drinking, -was he distinguished by his severity or any other eccentricities. He -asked the same questions about his grandfather, mother, sisters, and -brothers. Having ascertained that his mother had a fine voice and -occasionally appeared on the stage, he suddenly brightened up and asked: - -"Excuse me, but could you recall whether the theatre was not a passion -with your mother?" - -About twenty minutes passed. Vassiliev was bored by the doctor stroking -his knees and talking of the same thing all the while. - -"As far as I can understand your questions, Doctor," he said. "You want -to know whether my disease is hereditary or not. It is not hereditary." - -The doctor went on to ask if Vassiliev had not any secret vices -in his early youth, any blows on the head, any love passions, -eccentricities, or exceptional infatuations. To half the questions -habitually asked by careful doctors you may return no answer without -any injury to your health; but Mikhail Sergueyich, the medico and the -painter looked as though, if Vassiliev failed to answer even one single -question, everything would be ruined. For some reason the doctor wrote -down the answers he received on a scrap of paper. Discovering that -Vassiliev had already passed through the faculty of natural science and -was now in the Law faculty, the doctor began to be pensive.... - -"He wrote a brilliant thesis last year...." said the medico. - -"Excuse me. You mustn't interrupt me; you prevent me from -concentrating," the doctor said, smiling with one cheek. "Yes, -certainly that is important for the anamnesis.... Yes, yes.... And do -you drink vodka?" he turned to Vassiliev. - -"Very rarely." - -Another twenty minutes passed. The medico began _sotto voce_ to give -his opinion of the immediate causes of the fit and told how he, the -painter and Vassiliev went to S----v Street the day before yesterday. - -The indifferent, reserved, cold tone in which his friends and the -doctor were speaking of the women and the miserable street seemed to -him in the highest degree strange.... - -"Doctor, tell me this one thing," he said, restraining himself from -being rude. "Is prostitution an evil or not?" - -"My dear fellow, who disputes it?" the doctor said with an expression -as though he had long ago solved all these questions for himself. "Who -disputes it?" - -"Are you a psychiatrist?" - -"Yes-s, a psychiatrist." - -"Perhaps all of you are right," said Vassiliev, rising and beginning -to walk from corner to corner. "It may be. But to me all this seems -amazing. They see a great achievement in my having passed through two -faculties at the university; they praise me to the skies because I have -written a work that will be thrown away and forgotten in three years' -time, but became I can't speak of prostitutes as indifferently as I can -about these chairs, they send me to doctors, call me a lunatic, and -pity me." - -For some reason Vassiliev suddenly began to feel an intolerable pity -for himself, his friends, and everybody whom he had seen the day before -yesterday, and for the doctor. He began to sob and fell into the chair. - -The friends looked interrogatively at the doctor. He, looking as though -he magnificently understood the tears and the despair, and knew himself -a specialist in this line, approached Vassiliev and gave him some drops -to drink, and then when Vassiliev grew calm undressed him and began to -examine the sensitiveness of his skin, of the knee reflexes.... - -And Vassiliev felt better. When he was coming out of the doctor's he -was already ashamed; the noise of the traffic did not seem irritating, -and the heaviness beneath his heart became easier and easier as though -it were thawing. In his hand were two prescriptions. One was for -kali-bromatum, the other--morphia. He used to take both before. - -He stood still in the street for a while, pensive, and then, taking -leave of his friends, lazily dragged on towards the university. - - - - -MISFORTUNE - - -Sophia Pietrovna, the wife of the solicitor Loubianzev, a handsome -young woman of about twenty-five, was walking quickly along a forest -path with her bungalow neighbour, the barrister Ilyin. It was just -after four. In the distance, above the path, white feathery clouds -gathered; from behind them some bright blue pieces of cloud showed -through. The clouds were motionless, as if caught on the tops of the -tall, aged fir trees. It was calm and warm. - -In the distance the path was cut across by a low railway embankment, -along which at this hour, for some reason or other, a sentry strode. -Just behind the embankment a big, six-towered church with a rusty roof -shone white. - -"I did not expect to meet you here," Sophia Pietrovna was saying, -looking down and touching the last year's leaves with the end of her -parasol. "But now I am glad to have met you. I want to speak to you -seriously and finally. Ivan Mikhailovich, if you really love and -respect me I implore you to stop pursuing me i You follow me like -a shadow--there's such a wicked look in your eye--you make love to -me--write extraordinary letters and ... I don't know how all this is -going to end--Good Heavens! What can all this lead to?" - -Ilyin was silent. Sophia Pietrovna took a few steps and continued: - -"And this sudden complete change has happened in two or three weeks -after five years of friendship. I do not know you any more, Ivan -Mikhailovich." - -Sophia Pietrovna glanced sideways at her companion. He was staring -intently, screwing up his eyes at the feathery clouds. The expression -of his face was angry, capricious and distracted, like that of a man -who suffers and at the same time must listen to nonsense. - -"It is annoying that you yourself can't realise it!" Madame Loubianzev -continued, shrugging her shoulders. "Please understand that you're not -playing a very nice game. I am married, I love and respect my husband. -I have a daughter. Don't you really care in the slightest for all this? -Besides, as an old friend, you know my views on family life ... on the -sanctity of the home, generally." - -Ilyin gave an angry grunt and sighed: - -"The sanctity of the home," he murmured, "Good Lord!" - -"Yes, yes. I love and respect my husband and at any rate the peace of -my family life is precious to me. I'd sooner let myself be killed than -be the cause of Andrey's or his daughter's unhappiness. So, please, -Ivan Mikhailovich, for goodness' sake, leave me alone. Let us be good -and dear friends, and give up these sighings and gaspings which don't -suit you. It's settled and done with! Not another word about it. Let us -talk of something else!" - -Sophia Pietrovna again glanced sideways at Ilyin. He was looking up. -He was pale, and angrily he bit his trembling lips. Madame Loubianzev -could not understand why he was disturbed and angry, but his pallor -moved her. - -"Don't be cross. Let's be friends," she said, sweetly. - -"Agreed! Here is my hand." - -Ilyin took her tiny plump hand in both his, pressed it and slowly -raised it to his lips. - -"I'm not a schoolboy," he murmured. "I'm not in the least attracted by -the idea of friendship with the woman I love." - -"That's enough. Stop! It is all settled and done with. We have come as -far as the bench. Let us sit down...." - -A sweet sense of repose filled Sophia Pietrovna's soul. The most -difficult and delicate thing was already said. The tormenting question -was settled and done with. Now she could breathe easily and look -straight at Ilyin. She looked at him, and the egotistical sense of -superiority that a woman feels over her lover caressed her pleasantly. -She liked the way this big strong man with a virile angry face and a -huge black beard sat obediently at her side and hung his head. They -were silent for a little while. "Nothing is yet settled and done with," -Ilyin began. "You are reading me a sermon. 'I love and respect my -husband ... the sanctity of the home....' I know all that for myself -and I can tell you more. Honestly and sincerely I confess that I -consider my conduct as criminal and immoral. What else? But why say -what is known already? Instead of sermonizing you had far better tell -me what I am to do." - -"I have already told you. Go away." - -"I have gone. You know quite well. I have started five times and -half-way there I have come back again. I can show you the through -tickets. I have kept them all safe. But I haven't the power to run away -from you. I struggle frightfully, but what in Heaven's name is the use? -If I cannot harden myself, if I'm weak and faint-hearted. I can't fight -nature. Do you understand? I cannot! I run away from her and she holds -me back by my coattails. Vile, vulgar weakness." - -Ilyin blushed, got up, and began walking by the bench: - -"How I hate and despise myself. Good Lord, I'm like a vicious -boy--running after another man's wife, writing idiotic letters, -degrading myself. Ach!" He clutched his head, grunted and sit down. - -"And now comes your lack of sincerity into the bargain," he continued -with bitterness. "If you don't think I am playing a nice game--why -are you here? What drew you? In my letters I only ask you for a -straightforward answer: Yes, or No; and instead of giving it me, every -day you contrive that we shall meet 'by chance' and you treat me to -quotations from a moral copy-book." - -Madame Loubianzev reddened and got frightened. She suddenly felt the -kind of awkwardness that a modest woman would feel at being suddenly -discovered naked. - -"You seem to suspect some deceit on my side," she murmured. "I have -always given you a straight answer; and I asked you for one to-day." - -"Ah, does one ask such things? If you had said to me at once 'Go away,' -I would have gone long ago, but you never told me to. Never once have -you been frank. Strange irresolution. My God, either you're playing -with me, or...." - -Ilyin did not finish, and rested his head in his hands. Sophia -Pietrovna recalled her behaviour all through. She remembered that she -had felt all these days not only in deed but even in her most intimate -thoughts opposed to Ilyin's love. But at the same moment she knew that -there was a grain of truth in the barrister's words. And not knowing -what kind of truth it was she could not think, no matter how much she -thought about it, what to say to him in answer to his complaint. It was -awkward being silent, so she said shrugging her shoulders: - -"So I'm to blame for that too?" - -"I don't blame you for your insincerity," sighed Ilyin. "It slipped out -unconsciously. Your insincerity is natural to you, in the natural order -of things as well. If all mankind were to agree suddenly to become -serious, everything would go to the Devil, to ruin." - -Sophia Pietrovna was not in the mood for philosophy; but she was glad -of the opportunity to change the conversation and asked: - -"Why indeed?" - -"Because only savages and animals are sincere. Since civilisation -introduced into society the demand, for instance, for such a luxury as -woman's virtue, sincerity has been out of place." - -Angrily Ilyin began to thrust his stick into the sand. Madame -Loubianzev listened without understanding much of it; she liked the -conversation. First of all, she was pleased that a gifted man should -speak to her, an average woman, about intellectual things; also it gave -her great pleasure to watch how the pale, lively, still angry, young -face was working. Much she did not understand; but the fine courage -of modern man was revealed to her, the courage by which he without -reflection or surmise solves the great questions and constructs his -simple conclusions. - -Suddenly she discovered that she was admiring him, and it frightened -her. - -"Pardon, but I don't really understand," she hastened to say. "Why -did you mention insincerity? I entreat you once more, be a dear, good -friend and leave me alone. Sincerely, I ask it." - -"Good--I'll do my best. But hardly anything will come of it. Either -I'll put a bullet through my brains or ... I'll start drinking in -the stupidest possible way. Things will end badly for me. Everything -has its limit, even a struggle with nature. Tell me now, how can one -struggle with madness? If you've drunk wine, how can you get over the -excitement? What can I do if your image has grown into my soul, and -stands incessantly before my eyes, night and day, as plain as that -fir tree there? Tell me then what thing I must do to get out of this -wretched, unhappy state, when all my thoughts, desires, and dreams -belong, not to me, but to some devil that has got hold of me? I love -you, I love you so much that I've turned away from my path, given up my -career and my closest friends, forgot my God. Never in my life have I -loved so much." - -Sophia Pietrovna, who was not expecting this turn, drew her body away -from Ilyin, and glanced at him frightened. Tears shone in his eyes. His -lips trembled, and a hungry, suppliant expression showed over all his -face. - -"I love you," he murmured, bringing his own eyes near to her big, -frightened ones. "You are so beautiful. I'm suffering now; but I swear -I could remain so all my life, suffering and looking into your eyes, -but.... Keep silent, I implore you." - -Sophia Pietrovna as if taken unawares began, quickly, quickly, to think -out words with which to stop him. "I shall go away," she decided, but -no sooner had she moved to get up, than Ilyin was on his knees at her -feet already. He embraced her knees, looked into her eyes and spoke -passionately, ardently, beautifully. She did not hear his words, for -her fear and agitation. Somehow now at this dangerous moment when -her knees pleasantly contracted, as in a warm bath, she sought with -evil intention to read some meaning into her sensation. She was angry -because the whole of her instead of protesting virtue was filled with -weakness, laziness, and emptiness, like a drunken man to whom the ocean -is but knee-deep; only in the depths of her soul, a little remote -malignant voice teased: "Why don't you go away? Then this is right, is -it?" - -Seeking in herself an explanation she could not understand why she had -not withdrawn the hand to which Ilyin's lips clung like a leech, nor -why, at the same time as Ilyin, she looked hurriedly right and left to -see that they were not observed. - -The fir-trees and the clouds stood motionless, and gazed at them -severely like broken-down masters who see something going on, but have -been bribed not to report to the head. The sentry on the embankment -stood like a stick and seemed to be staring at the bench. "Let him -look!" thought Sophia Pietrovna. - -"But ... But listen," she said at last with despair in her voice. "What -will this lead to? What will happen afterwards?" - -"I don't know. I don't know," he began to whisper, waving these -unpleasant questions aside. - -The hoarse, jarring whistle of a railway engine became audible. This -cold, prosaic sound of the everyday world made Madame Loubianzev start. - -"It's time, I must go," she said, getting up quickly. "The train is -coming. Audrey is arriving. He will want his dinner." - -Sophia Pietrovna turned her blazing cheeks to the embankment. First -the engine came slowly into sight, after it the carriages. It was not -a bungalow train, but a goods train. In a long row, one after another -like the days of man's life, the cars drew past the white background of -the church, and there seemed to be no end to them. - -But at last the train disappeared, and the end car with the guard and -the lighted lamps disappeared into the green. Sophia Pietrovna turned -sharply and not looking at Ilyin began to walk quickly back along the -path. She had herself in control again. Red with shame, offended, not -by Ilyin, no I but by the cowardice and shamelessness with which she, -a good, respectable woman allowed a stranger to embrace her knees. -She had only one thought now, to reach her bungalow and her family -as quickly as possible. The barrister could hardly keep up with her. -Turning from the path on to a little track, she glanced at him so -quickly that she noticed only the sand on his knees, and she motioned -with her hand at him to let her be. - -Running into the house Sophia Pietrovna stood for about five minutes -motionless in her room, looking now at the window then at the writing -table.... "You disgraceful woman," she scolded herself; "disgraceful!" -In spite of herself she recollected every detail, hiding nothing, how -all these days she had been against Ilyin's love-making, yet she was -somehow drawn to meet him and explain; but besides this when he was -lying at her feet she felt an extraordinary pleasure. She recalled -everything, not sparing herself, and now, stifled with shame, she could -have slapped her own face. - -"Poor Andrey," she thought, trying, as she remembered her husband, -to give her face the tenderest possible expression--"Varya, my poor -darling child, does not know what a mother she has. Forgive me, my -dears. I love you very much ... very much!..." - -And wishing to convince herself that she was still a good wife and -mother, that corruption had not yet touched those "sanctities" of hers, -of which she had spoken to Ilyin, Sophia Pietrovna ran into the kitchen -and scolded the cook for not having laid the table for Andrey Ilyitch. -She tried to imagine her husband's tired, hungry look, and pitying him -aloud, she laid the table herself, a thing which she had never done -before. Then she found her daughter Varya, lifted her up in her hands -and kissed her passionately; the child seemed to her heavy and cold, -but she would not own it to herself, and she began to tell her what a -good, dear, splendid father she had. - -But when, soon after, Andrey. Ilyitch arrived, she barely greeted him. -The flow of imaginary feelings had ebbed away without convincing her of -anything; she was only exasperated and enraged by the lie. She sat at -the window, suffered, and raged. Only in distress can people understand -how difficult it is to master their thoughts and feelings. Sophia -Pietrovna said afterwards a confusion was going on inside her as hard -to define as to count a cloud of swiftly flying sparrows. Thus from -the fact that she was delighted at her husband's arrival and pleased -with the way he behaved at dinner, she suddenly concluded that she had -begun to hate him. Andrey Ilyitch, languid with hunger and fatigue, -while waiting for the soup, fell upon the sausage and ate it greedily, -chewing loudly and moving his temples. - -"My God," thought Sophia Pietrovna. "I do love and respect him, but ... -why does he chew so disgustingly." - -Her thoughts were no less disturbed than her feelings. Madame -Loubianzev, like all who have no experience of the struggle with -unpleasant thought, did her best not to think of her unhappiness, -and the more zealously she tried, the more vivid Ilyin became to her -imagination, the sand on his knees, the feathery clouds, the train.... - -"Why did I--idiot--go to-day?" she teased herself. "And am I really a -person who can't answer for herself?" - -Fear has big eyes. When Andrey Ilyitch had finished the last course, -she had already resolved to tell him everything and so escape from -danger. - -"Andrey, I want to speak to you seriously," she began after dinner, -when her husband was taking off his coat and boots in order to have a -lie down. - -"Well?" - -"Let's go away from here!" - -"How--where to? It's still too early to go to town." - -"No. Travel or something like that." - -"Travel," murmured the solicitor, stretching himself. "I dream of it -myself, but where shall I get the money, and who'll look after my -business." - -After a little reflection he added: - -"Yes, really you are bored. Go by yourself if you want to." - -Sophia Pietrovna agreed; but at the same time she saw that Ilyin would -be glad of the opportunity to travel in the same train with her, in the -same carriage.... - -She pondered and looked at her husband, who was full fed but still -languid. For some reason her eyes stopped on his feet, tiny, almost -womanish, in stupid socks. On the toe of both socks little threads -were standing out. Under the drawn blind a bumble bee was knocking -against the window pane and buzzing. Sophia Pietrovna stared at the -threads, listened to the bumble bee and pictured her journey.... Day -and night Ilyin sits opposite, without taking his eyes from her, angry -with his weakness and pale with the pain of his soul. He brands himself -as a libertine, accuses her, tears his hair; but when the dark comes -he seizes the chance when the passengers go to sleep or alight at a -station and falls on his knees before her and clasps her feet, as he -did by the bench.... - -She realised that she was dreaming.... - -"Listen. I am not going by myself," she said. "You must come, too!" - -"Sophochka, that's all imagination!" sighed Loubianzev. "You must be -serious and only ask for the possible...." - -"You'll come when you And out!" thought Sophia Pietrovna. - -Having decided to go away at all costs, she began to feel free from -danger; her thoughts fell gradually into order, she became cheerful and -even allowed herself to think about everything. Whatever she may think -or dream about, she is going all the same. While her husband still -slept, little by little, evening came.... - -She sat in the drawing-room playing the piano. Outside the window the -evening animation, the sound of music, but chiefly the thought of her -own cleverness in mastering her misery gave the final touch to her -joy. Other women, her easy conscience told her, in a position like her -own would surely not resist, they would spin round like a whirlwind; -but she was nearly burnt up with shame, she suffered and now she had -escaped from a danger which perhaps was nonexistent! Her virtue and -resolution moved her so much that she even glanced at herself in the -glass three times. - -When it was dark visitors came. The men sat down to cards in the -dining-room, the ladies were in the drawing room and on the terrace. -Ilyin came last, he was stem and gloomy and looked ill. He sat down -on a corner of the sofa and did not get up for the whole evening. -Usually cheerful and full of conversation, he was now silent, frowning, -and rubbing his eyes. When he had to answer a question he smiled -with difficulty and only with his upper lip, answering abruptly and -spitefully. He made about five jokes in all, but his jokes seemed crude -and insolent. It seemed to Sophia Pietrovna that he was on the brink -of hysteria. But only now as she sat at the piano did she acknowledge -that the unhappy man was not in the mood to joke, that he was sick in -his soul, he could find no place for himself. It was for her sake he -was ruining the best days of his career and his youth, wasting his last -farthing on a bungalow, had left his mother and sisters uncared for, -and, above all, was breaking down under the martyrdom of his struggle. -From simple, common humanity she ought to take him seriously.... - -All this was dear to her, even to paining her. If she were to go up -to Ilyin now and say to him "No," there would be such strength in her -voice that it would be hard to disobey. But she did not go up to him -and she did not say it, did not even think it.... The petty selfishness -of a young nature seemed never to have been revealed in her as strongly -as that evening. She admitted that Byin was unhappy and that he sat -on the sofa as if on hot coals. She was sorry for him, but at the -same time the presence of the man who loved her so desperately filled -her with a triumphant sense of her own power. She felt her youth, -her beauty, her inaccessibility, and--since she had decided to go -away--she gave herself full rein this evening. She coquetted, laughed -continually, she sang with singular emotion, and as one inspired. -Everything made her gay and everything seemed funny. It amused her to -recall the incident of the bench, the sentry looking on. The visitors -seemed funny to her, Ilyin's insolent jokes, his tie pin which she had -never seen before. The pin was a little red snake with tiny diamond -eyes; the snake seemed so funny that she was ready to kiss and kiss it. - -Sophia Pietrovna, nervously sang romantic songs, with a kind of -half-intoxication, and as if jeering at another's sorrow she chose sad, -melancholy songs that spoke of lost hopes, of the past, of old age.... -"And old age is approaching nearer and nearer," she sang. What had she -to do with old age? - -"There's something wrong going on in me," she thought now and then -through laughter and singing. - -At twelve o'clock the visitors departed. Ilyin was the last to go. She -still felt warm enough about him to go with him to the lower step of -the terrace. She had the idea of telling him that she was going away -with her husband, just to see what effect this news would have upon him. - -The moon was hiding behind the clouds, but it was so bright that Sophia -Pietrovna could see the wind playing with the tails of his overcoat and -with the creepers on the terrace. It was also plain how pale Ilyin was, -and how he twisted his upper-lip, trying to smile. "Sonia, Sonichka, -my dear little woman," he murmured, not letting her speak. "My darling, -my pretty one." - -In a paroxysm of tenderness with tears in his voice, he showered her -with endearing words each tenderer than the other, and was already -speaking to her as if she were his wife or his mistress. Suddenly and -unexpectedly to her, he put one arm round her and with the other hand -he seized her elbow. - -"My dear one, my beauty," he began to whisper, kissing the nape of her -neck; "be sincere, come to me now." - -She slipped out of his embrace and lifted her head to break out in -indignation and revolt. But indignation did not come, and of all her -praiseworthy virtue and purity, there was left only enough for her to -say that which all average women say in similar circumstances: - -"You must be mad." - -"But really let us go," continued Ilyin. "Just now and over there by -the bench I felt convinced that you, Sonia, were as helpless as myself. -You too will be all the worse for it. You love me, and you are making a -useless bargain with your conscience." - -Seeing that she was leaving him he seized her by her lace sleeve and -ended quickly: - -"If not to-day, then to-morrow; but you will have to give in. What's -the good of putting if off? My dear, my darling Sonia, the verdict has -been pronounced. Why postpone the execution? Why deceive yourself?" - -Sophia Pietrovna broke away from him and suddenly disappeared -inside the door. She returned to the drawing-room, shut the piano -mechanically, stared for a long time at the cover of a music book, and -sat down. She could neither stand nor think.... From her agitation -and passion remained only an awful weakness mingled with laziness -and tiredness. Her conscience whispered to her that she had behaved -wickedly and foolishly to-night, like a madwoman; that just now she -had been kissed on the terrace, and even now she had some strange -sensation in her waist and in her elbow. Not a soul was in the -drawing-room. Only a single candle was burning. Madame Loubianzev sat -on a little round stool before the piano without stirring as if waiting -for something, and as if taking advantage of her extreme exhaustion -and the dark a heavy unconquerable desire began to possess her. Like a -boa-constrictor, it enchained her limbs and soul. It grew every second -and was no longer threatening, but stood clear before her in all its -nakedness. - -She sat thus for half an hour, not moving, and not stopping herself -from thinking of Ilyin. Then she got up lazily and went slowly into -the bed-room. Andrey Ilyitch was in bed already. She sat by the window -and gave herself to her desire. She felt no more "confusion." All her -feelings and thoughts pressed lovingly round some clear purpose. -She still had a mind to struggle, but instantly she waved her hand -impotently, realising the strength and the determination of the foe. To -fight him power and strength were necessary, but her birth, up-bringing -and life had given her nothing on which to lean. - -"You're immoral, you're horrible," she tormented herself for her -weakness. "You're a nice sort, you are!" - -So indignant was her insulted modesty at this weakness that she called -herself all the bad names that she knew and she related to herself many -insulting, degrading truths. Thus she told herself that she never was -moral, and she had not fallen before only because there was no pretext, -that her day-long struggle had been nothing but a game and a comedy.... - -"Let us admit that I struggled," she thought, "but what kind of a -fight was it? Even prostitutes struggle before they sell themselves, -and still they do sell themselves. It's a pretty sort of fight. Like -milk, turns in a day." She realised that it was not love that drew her -from her home nor Ilyin's personality, but the sensations which await -her.... A little week-end _type_ like the rest of them. - -"When the young bird's mother was killed," a hoarse tenor finished -singing. - -If I am going, it's time, thought Sophia Pietrovna. Her heart began to -beat with a frightful force. - -"Andrey," she almost cried. "Listen. Shall we go away? Shall we? Yes?" - -"Yes.... I've told you already. You go alone." - -"But listen," she said, "if you don't come too, you may lose me. I seem -to be in love already." - -"Who with?" Andrey Ilyitch asked. - -"It must be all the same for you, who with," Sophia Pietrovna cried out. - -Andrey Ilyitch got up, dangled his feet over the side of the bed, with -a look of surprise at the dark form of his wife. - -"Imagination," he yawned. - -He could not believe her, but all the same he was frightened. After -having thought for a while, and asked his wife some unimportant -questions, he gave his views of the family, of infidelity.... He spoke -sleepily for about ten minutes and then lay down again. His remarks had -no success. There are a great many opinions in this world, and more -than half of them belong to people who have never known misery. - -In spite of the late hour, the bungalow people were still moving behind -their windows. Sophia Pietrovna put on a long coat and stood for a -while, thinking. She still had force of mind to say to her sleepy -husband: - -"Are you asleep? I'm going for a little walk. Would you like to come -with me?" - -That was her last hope. Receiving no answer, she walked out. It was -breezy and cool. She did not feel the breeze or the darkness but -walked on and on.... An irresistible power drove her, and it seemed to -her that if she stopped that power would push her in the back. "You're -an immoral woman," she murmured mechanically. "You're horrible." - -She was choking for breath, burning with shame, did not feel her feet -under her, for that which drove her along was stronger than her shame, -her reason, her fear.... - - - - -AFTER THE THEATRE - - -Nadya Zelenina had just returned with her mother from the theatre, -where they had been to see a performance of "Eugene Oniegin." Entering -her room, she quickly threw off her dress, loosened her hair, and sat -down hurriedly in her petticoat and a white blouse to write a letter in -the style of Tatiana. - -"I love you,"--she wrote--"but you don't love me; no, you don't!" - -The moment she had written this, she smiled. - -She was only sixteen years old, and so far she had not been in love. -She knew that Gorny, the officer, and Gronsdiev, the student, loved -her; but now, after the theatre, she wanted to doubt their love. To be -unloved and unhappy--how interesting. There is something beautiful, -affecting, romantic in the fact that one loves deeply while the other -is indifferent. Oniegin is interesting because he does not love at all, -and Tatiana is delightful because she is very much in love; but if -they loved each other equally and were happy, they would seem boring, -instead. - -"Don't go on protesting that you love me," Nadya wrote on, thinking -of Gorny, the officer, "I can't believe you. You're very clever, -educated, serious; you have a great talent, and perhaps, a splendid -future waiting, but I am an uninteresting poor-spirited girl, and you -yourself know quite well that I shall only be a drag upon your life. -It's true I carried you off your feet, and you thought you had met your -ideal in me, but that was a mistake. Already you are asking yourself in -despair, 'Why did I meet this girl?' Only your kindness prevents you -from confessing it." - -Nadya pitied herself. She wept and went on. - -"If it were not so difficult for me to leave mother and brother I would -put on a nun's gown and go where my eyes direct me. You would then be -free to love another. If I were to die!" - -Through her tears she could not make out what she had written. Brief -rainbows trembled on the table, on the floor and the ceiling, as though -Nadya were looking through a prism. Impossible to write. She sank back -in her chair and began to think of Gorny. - -Oh, how fascinating, how interesting men are! Nadya remembered the -beautiful expression of Gorny's face, appealing, guilty, and tender, -when someone discussed music with him,--the efforts he made to prevent -the passion from sounding in his voice. Passion must be concealed in -a society where cold reserve and indifference are the signs of good -breeding. And he does try to conceal it, but he does not succeed, -and everybody knows quite well that he has a passion for music. -Never-ending discussions about music, blundering pronouncements by men -who do not understand--keep him in incessant tension. He is scared, -timid, silent. He plays superbly, as an ardent pianist. If he were not -an officer, he would be a famous musician. - -The tears dried in her eyes. Nadya remembered how Gorny told her of his -love at a symphony concert, and again downstairs by the cloak-room. - -"I am so glad you have at last made the acquaintance of the student -Gronsdiev," she continued to write. "He is a very clever man, and you -are sure to love him. Yesterday he was sitting with us till two o'clock -in the morning. We were all so happy. I was sorry that you hadn't come -to us. He said a lot of remarkable things." - -Nadya laid her hands on the table and lowered her head. Her hair -covered the letter. She remembered that Gronsdiev also loved her, -and that he had the same right to her letter as Gorny. Perhaps she -had better write to Gronsdiev? For no cause, a happiness began to -quicken in her breast. At first it was a little one, rolling about in -her breast like a rubber ball. Then it grew broader and bigger, and -broke forth like a wave. Nadya had already forgotten about Gorny and -Gronsdiev. Her thoughts became confused. The happiness grew more and -more. From her breast it ran into her arms and legs, and it seemed -that a light fresh breeze blew over her head, stirring her hair. Her -shoulders trembled with quiet laughter. The table and the lampglass -trembled. Tears from her eyes splashed the letter. She was powerless to -stop her laughter; and to convince herself that she had a reason for -it, she hastened to remember something funny. - -"What a funny poodle!" she cried, feeling that she was choking with -laughter. "What a funny poodle!" - -She remembered how Gronsdiev was playing with Maxim the poodle after -tea yesterday; how he told a story afterwards of a very clever poodle -who was chasing a crow in the yard. The crow gave him a look and said: - -"Oh, you swindler!" - -The poodle did not know he had to do with a learned crow. He was -terribly confused, and ran away dumfounded. Afterwards he began to bark. - -"No, I'd better love Gronsdiev," Nadya decided and tore up the letter. - -She began to think of the student, of his love, of her own love, with -the result that the thoughts in her head swam apart and she thought -about everything, about her mother, the street, the pencil, the -piano. She was happy thinking, and found that everything was good, -magnificent. Her happiness told her that this was not all, that a -little later it would be still better. Soon it will be spring, summer. -They will go with mother to Gorbiki in the country. Gorny will come for -his holidays. He will walk in the orchard with her, and make love to -her. Gronsdiev will come too. He will play croquet with her and bowls. -He will tell funny, wonderful stories. She passionately longed for the -orchard, the darkness, the pure sky, the stars. Again her shoulders -trembled with laughter and she seemed to awake to a smell of wormwood -in the room; and a branch was tapping at the window. - -She went to her bed and sat down. She did not know what to do with her -great happiness. It overwhelmed her. She stared at the crucifix which -hung at the head of her bed and saying: - -"Dear God, dear God, dear God." - - - - -THAT WRETCHED BOY - - -Ivan Ivanich Lapkin, a pleasant looking young man, and Anna Zamblizky, -a young girl with a little snub nose, walked down the sloping bank -and sat down on the bench. The bench was close to the water's edge, -among thick bushes of young willow. A heavenly spot! You sat down, and -you were hidden from the world. Only the fish could see you and the -catspaws which flashed over the water like lightning. The two young -persons were equipped with rods, fish hooks, bags, tins of worms and -everything else necessary. Once seated, they immediately began to fish. - -"I am glad that we're left alone at last," said Lapkin, looking round. -I've got a lot to tell you, Anna--tremendous ... when I saw you for -the first time ... you've got a nibble ... I understood then--why I -am alive, I knew where my idol was, to whom I can devote my honest, -hardworking life.... It must be a big one ... it is biting.... When I -saw you--for the first time in my life I fell in love--fell in love -passionately I Don't pull. Let it go on biting.... Tell me, darling, -tell me--will you let me hope? No! I'm not worth it. I dare not even -think of it--may I hope for.... Pull! - -Anna lifted her hand that held the rod--pulled, cried out. A silvery -green fish shone in the air. - -"Goodness! it's a perch! Help--quick! It's slipping off." The perch -tore itself from the hook--danced in the grass towards its native -element and ... leaped into the water. - -But instead of the little fish that he was chasing, Lapkin quite by -accident caught hold of Anna's hand--quite by accident pressed it to -his lips. She drew back, but it was too late; quite by accident their -lips met and kissed; yes, it was an absolute accident! They kissed and -kissed. Then came vows and assurances.... Blissful moments! But there -is no such thing as absolute happiness in this life. If happiness -itself does not contain a poison, poison will enter in from without. -Which happened this time. Suddenly, while the two were kissing, a laugh -was heard. They looked at the river and were paralysed. The schoolboy -Kolia, Anna's brother, was standing in the water, watching the young -people and maliciously laughing. - -"Ah--ha! Kissing!" said he. "Right O, I'll tell Mother." - -"I hope that you--as a man of honour," Lapkin muttered, blushing. "It's -disgusting to spy on us, it's loathsome to tell tales, it's rotten. As -a man of honour...." - -"Give me a shilling, then I'll shut up!" the man of honour retorted. -"If you don't, I'll tell." - -Lapkin took a shilling out of his pocket and gave it to Kolia, who -squeezed it in his wet fist, whistled, and swam away. And the young -people did not kiss any more just then. - -Next day Lapkin brought Kolia some paints and a ball from town, and his -sister gave him all her empty pill boxes. Then they had to present him -with a set of studs like dogs' heads. The wretched boy enjoyed this -game immensely, and to keep it going he began to spy on them. Wherever -Lapkin and Anna went, he was there too. He did not leave them alone for -a single moment. - -"Beast!" Lapkin gnashed his teeth. "So young and yet such a full -fledged scoundrel. What on earth will become of him later!" - -During the whole of July the poor lovers had no life apart from him. He -threatened to tell on them; he dogged them and demanded more presents. -Nothing satisfied him--finally he hinted at a gold watch. All right, -they had to promise the watch. - -Once, at table, when biscuits were being handed round, he burst out -laughing and said to Lapkin: "Shall I let on? Ah--ha!" - -Lapkin blushed fearfully and instead of a biscuit he began to chew his -table napkin. Anna jumped up from the table and rushed out of the room. - -And this state of things went on until the end of August, up to the -day when Lapkin at last proposed to Anna. Ah! What a happy day that -was! When he had spoken to her parents and obtained their consent -Lapkin rushed into the garden after Kolia. When he found him he nearly -cried for joy and caught hold of the wretched boy by the ear. Anna, who -was also looking for Kolia came running up and grabbed him by the other -ear. You should have seen the happiness depicted on their faces while -Kolia roared and begged them: - -"Darling, precious pets, I won't do it again. O-oh--O-oh! Forgive me!" -And both of them confessed afterwards that during all the time they -were in love with each other they never experienced such happiness, -such overwhelming joy as during those moments when they pulled the -wretched boy's ears. - - - - -ENEMIES - - -About ten o'clock of a dark September evening the Zemstvo doctor -Kirilov's only son, six-year-old Andrey, died of diphtheria. As the -doctor's wife dropped on to her knees before the dead child's cot and -the first paroxysm of despair took hold of her, the bell rang sharply -in the hall. - -When the diphtheria came all the servants were sent away from the -house, that very morning. Kirilov himself went to the door, just as he -was, in his shirt-sleeves with his waistcoat unbuttoned, without wiping -his wet face or hands, which had been burnt with carbolic acid. It was -dark in the hall, and of the person who entered could be distinguished -only his middle height, a white scarf and a big, extraordinarily pale -face, so pale that it seemed as though its appearance made the hall -brighter.... - -"Is the doctor in?" the visitor asked abruptly. - -"I'm at home," answered Kirilov. "What do you want?" - -"Oh, you're the doctor? I'm so glad!" The visitor was overjoyed and -began to seek for the doctor's hand in the darkness. He found it -and squeezed it hard in his own. "I'm very ... very glad! We were -introduced ... I am Aboguin ... had the pleasure of meeting you this -summer at Mr. Gnouchev's. I am very glad to have found you at home.... -For God's sake, don't say you won't come with me immediately.... My -wife has been taken dangerously ill.... I have the carriage with me...." - -From the visitor's voice and movements it was evident that he had -been in a state of violent agitation. Exactly as though he had been -frightened by a fire or a mad dog, he could hardly restrain his hurried -breathing, and he spoke quickly in a trembling voice. In his speech -there sounded a note of real sincerity, of childish fright. Like all -men who are frightened and dazed, he spoke in short, abrupt phrases and -uttered many superfluous, quite unnecessary, words. - -"I was afraid I shouldn't find you at home," he continued. "While I was -coming to you I suffered terribly.... Dress yourself and let us go, for -God's sake.... It happened like this. Papchinsky came to me--Alexander -Siemionovich, you know him.... We were chatting.... Then we sat down to -tea. Suddenly my wife cries out, presses her hands to her heart, and -falls back in her chair. We carried her off to her bed and ... and I -rubbed her forehead with sal-volatile, and splashed her with water.... -She lies like a corpse.... I'm afraid that her heart's failed.... Let -us go.... Her father too died of heart-failure." - -Kirilov listened in silence as though he did not understand the Russian -language. - -When Aboguin once more mentioned Papchinsky and his wife's father, and -once more began to seek for the doctor's hand in the darkness, the -doctor shook his head and said, drawling each word listlessly: - -"Excuse me, but I can't go.... Five minutes ago my ... my son died." - -"Is that true?" Aboguin whispered, stepping back. "My God, what an -awful moment to come! It's a terribly fated day ... terribly! What a -coincidence ... and it might have been on purpose!" - -Aboguin took hold of the door handle and drooped his head in -meditation. Evidently he was hesitating, not knowing whether to go -away, or to ask the doctor once more. - -"Listen," he said eagerly, seizing Kirilov by the sleeve. "I fully -understand your state! God knows I'm ashamed to try to hold your -attention at such a moment, but what can I do? Think yourself--who can -I go to? There isn't another doctor here besides you. For heaven's sake -come. I'm not asking for myself. It's not I that's ill!" - -Silence began. Kirilov turned his back to Aboguin, stood still for a -while and slowly went out of the hall into the drawing-room. To judge -by his uncertain, machine-like movement, and by the attentiveness -with which he arranged the hanging shade on the unlighted lamp in the -drawing-room and consulted a thick book which lay on the table--at -such a moment he had neither purpose nor desire, nor did he think of -anything, and probably had already forgotten that there was a stranger -standing in his hall. The gloom and the quiet of the drawing-room -apparently increased his insanity. As he went from the drawing-room to -his study he raised his right foot higher than he need, felt with his -hands for the door-posts, and then one felt a certain perplexity in -his whole figure, as though he had entered a strange house by chance, -or for the first time in his life had got drunk, and now was giving -himself up in bewilderment to the new sensation. A wide line of light -stretched across the bookshelves on one wall of the study; this light, -together with the heavy stifling smell of carbolic acid and ether -came from the door ajar that led from the study into the bed-room.... -The doctor sank into a chair before the table; for a while he looked -drowsily at the shining books, then rose and went into the bed-room. - -Here, in the bed-room, dead quiet reigned. Everything, down to the -last trifle, spoke eloquently of the tempest undergone, of weariness, -and everything rested. The candle which stood among a close crowd of -phials, boxes and jars on the stool and the big lamp on the chest of -drawers brightly lit the room. On the bed, by the window, the boy lay -open-eyed, with a look of wonder on his face. He did not move, but it -seemed that his open eyes became darker and darker every second and -sank into his skull. Having laid her hands on his body and hid her face -in the folds of the bed-clothes, the mother now was on her knees before -the bed. Like the boy she did not move, but how much living movement -was felt in the coil of her body and in her hands! She was pressing -close to the bed with her whole being, with eager vehemence, as though -she were afraid to violate the quiet and comfortable pose which she had -found at last for her weary body. Blankets, cloths, basins, splashes on -the floor, brushes and spoons scattered everywhere, a white bottle of -lime-water, the stifling heavy air itself--everything died away, and as -it were plunged into quietude. - -The doctor stopped by his wife, thrust his hands into his trouser -pockets and bending his head on one side looked fixedly at his son. His -face showed indifference; only the drops which glistened on his beard -revealed that he had been lately weeping. - -The repulsive terror of which we think when we speak of death was -absent from the bed-room. In the pervading dumbness, in the mother's -pose, in the indifference of the doctor's face was something attractive -that touched the heart, the subtle and elusive beauty of human grief, -which it will take men long to understand and describe, and only -music, it seems, is able to express. Beauty too was felt in the stern -stillness. Kirilov and his wife were silent and did not weep, as -though they confessed all the poetry of their condition. As once the -season of their youth passed away, so now in this boy their right to -bear children had passed away, alas! for ever to eternity. The doctor -is forty-four years old, already grey and looks like an old man; his -faded sick wife is thirty-five. Audrey was not merely the only son but -the last. - -In contrast to his wife the doctor's nature belonged to those which -feel the necessity of movement when their soul is in pain. After -standing by his wife for about five minutes, he passed from the -bed-room, lifting his right foot too high, into a little room half -filled with a big broad divan. From there he went to the kitchen. After -wandering about the fireplace and the cook's bed, he stooped through a -little door and came into the hall. - -Here he saw the white scarf and the pale face again. - -"At last," sighed Aboguin, seizing the doorhandle. "Let us go, please." - -The doctor shuddered, glanced at him and remembered. - -"Listen. I've told you already that I can't go," he said, livening. -"What a strange idea!" - -"Doctor, I'm made of flesh and blood, too. I fully understand your -condition. I sympathise with you," Aboguin said in an imploring voice, -putting his hand to his scarf. "But I am not asking for myself. My wife -is dying. If you had heard her cry, if you'd seen her face, you would -understand my insistence! My God--and I thought that you'd gone to -dress yourself. The time is precious, Doctor! Let us go, I beg of you." - -"I can't come," Kirilov said after a pause, and stepped into his -drawing-room. - -Aboguin followed him and seized him by the sleeve. - -"You're in sorrow. I understand. But I'm not asking you to cure a -toothache, or to give expert evidence,--but to save a human life." He -went on imploring like a beggar. "This life is more than any personal -grief. I ask you for courage, for a brave deed--in the name of -humanity." - -"Humanity cuts both ways," Kirilov said irritably. "In the name of the -same humanity I ask you not to take me away. My God, what a strange -idea! I can hardly stand on my feet and you frighten me with humanity. -I'm not fit for anything now. I won't go for anything. With whom shall -I leave my wife? No, no...." - -Kirilov flung out his open hands and drew back. - -"And ... and don't ask me," he continued, disturbed. "I'm sorry.... -Under the Laws, Volume XIII., I'm obliged to go and you have the right -to drag me by the neck.... Well, drag me, but ... I'm not fit.... I'm -not even able to speak. Excuse me." - -"It's quite unfair to speak to me in that tone, Doctor," said Aboguin, -again taking the doctor by the sleeve. "The thirteenth volume be -damned! I have no right to do violence to your will. If you want to, -come; if you don't, then God be with you; but it's not to your will -that I apply, but to your feelings. A young woman is dying! You say -your son died just now. Who could understand my terror better than you?" - -Aboguin's voice trembled with agitation. His tremor and his tone were -much more convincing than his words. Aboguin was sincere, but it is -remarkable that every phrase he used came out stilted, soulless, -inopportunely florid, and as it were insulted the atmosphere of the -doctor's house and the woman who was dying. He felt it himself, and -in his fear of being misunderstood he exerted himself to the utmost -to make his voice soft and tender so as to convince by the sincerity -of his tone at least, if not by his words. As a rule, however deep -and beautiful the words they affect only the unconcerned. They -cannot always satisfy those who are happy or distressed because the -highest expression of happiness or distress is most often silence. -Lovers understand each other best when they are silent, and a fervent -passionate speech at the graveside affects only outsiders. To the widow -and children it seems cold and trivial. - -Kirilov stood still and was silent. When Aboguin uttered some more -words on the higher vocation of a doctor, and self-sacrifice, the -doctor sternly asked: - -"Is it far?" - -"Thirteen or fourteen versts. I've got good horses, doctor. I give you -my word of honour that I'll take you there and back in an hour. Only an -hour." - -The last words impressed the doctor more strongly than the references -to humanity or the doctor's vocation. He thought for a while and said -with a sigh. - -"Well, let us go!" - -He went off quickly, with a step that was now sure, to his study -and soon after returned in a long coat. Aboguin, delighted, danced -impatiently round him, helped him on with his overcoat, and accompanied -him out of the house. - -Outside it was dark, but brighter than in the hall. Now in the darkness -the tall stooping figure of the doctor was clearly visible with the -long, narrow beard and the aquiline nose. Besides his pale face -Aboguin's big face could now be seen and a little student's cap which -hardly covered the crown of his head. The scarf showed white only in -front, but behind it was hid under his long hair. - -"Believe me, I'm able to appreciate your magnanimity," murmured -Aboguin, as he helped the doctor to a seat in the carriage. "We'll -whirl away. Luke, dear man, drive as fast as you can, do!" - -The coachman drove quickly. First appeared a row of bare buildings, -which stood along the hospital yard. It was dark everywhere, save -that at the end of the yard a bright light from someone's window broke -through the garden fence, and three windows in the upper story of the -separate house seemed to be paler than the air. Then the carriage drove -into dense obscurity where you could smell mushroom damp, and hear the -whisper of the trees. The noise of the wheels awoke the rooks who began -to stir in the leaves and raised a doleful, bewildered cry as if they -knew that the doctor's son was dead and Aboguin's wife ill. Then began -to appear separate trees, a shrub. Sternly gleamed the pond, where big -black shadows slept. The carriage rolled along over an even plain. Now -the cry of the rooks was but faintly heard far away behind. Soon it -became completely still. - -Almost all the way Kirilov and Aboguin were silent; save that once -Aboguin sighed profoundly and murmured. - -"It's terrible pain. One never loves his nearest so much as when there -is the risk of losing them." - -And when the carriage was quietly passing through the river, Kirilov -gave a sudden start, as though the dashing of the water frightened him, -and he began to move impatiently. - -"Let me go," he said in anguish. "I'll come to you later. I only want -to send the attendant to my wife. She is all alone." - -Aboguin was silent. The carriage, swaying and rattling against the -stones, drove over the sandy bank and went on. Kirilov began to toss -about in anguish, and glanced around. Behind the road was visible in -the scant light of the stars and the willows that fringed the bank -disappearing into the darkness. To the right the plain stretched smooth -and boundless as heaven. On it in the distance here and there dim -lights were burning, probably on the turf-pits. To the left, parallel -with the road stretched a little hill, tufted with tiny shrubs, and on -the hill a big half-moon stood motionless, red, slightly veiled with a -mist, and surrounded with fine clouds which seemed to be gazing upon it -from every side, and guarding it, lest it should disappear. - -In all nature one felt something hopeless and sick. Like a fallen -woman who sits alone in a dark room trying not to think of her past, -the earth languished with reminiscence of spring and summer and waited -in apathy for ineluctable winter. Wherever one's glance turned nature -showed everywhere like a dark, cold, bottomless pit, whence neither -Kirilov nor Aboguin nor the red half-moon could escape.... - -The nearer the carriage approached the destination the more impatient -did Aboguin become. He moved about, jumped up and stared over the -driver's shoulder in front of him. And when at last the carriage drew -up at the foot of the grand staircase, nicely covered with a striped -linen awning and he looked up at the lighted windows of the first floor -one could hear his breath trembling. - -"If anything happens ... I shan't survive it," he said entering the -hall with the doctor and slowly rubbing his hands in his agitation. -"But I can't hear any noise. That means it's all right so far," he -added, listening to the stillness. - -No voices or steps were heard in the hall. For all the bright -illumination the whole house seemed asleep. Now the doctor and Aboguin -who had been in darkness up till now could examine each other. The -doctor was tall, with a stoop, slovenly dressed, and his face was -plain. There was something unpleasantly sharp, ungracious, and severe -in his thick negro lips, his aquiline nose and his faded, indifferent -look. His tangled hair, his sunken temples, the early grey in his long -thin beard, that showed his shining chin, his pale grey complexion -and the slipshod awkwardness of his manners--the hardness of it all -suggested to the mind bad times undergone, an unjust lot and weariness -of life and men. To look at the hard figure of the man, you could not -believe that he had a wife and could weep over his child. Aboguin -revealed something different. He was robust, solid and fair-haired, -with a big head and large, yet soft, features, exquisitely dressed in -the latest fashion. In his carriage, his tight-buttoned coat and his -mane of hair you felt something noble and leonine. He walked with his -head straight and his chest prominent, he spoke in a pleasant baritone, -and in his manner of removing his scarf or arranging his hair there -appeared a subtle, almost feminine, elegance. Even his pallor and -childish fear as he glanced upwards to the staircase while taking off -his coat, did not disturb his carriage or take from the satisfaction, -the health and aplomb which his figure breathed. - -"There's no one about, nothing I can hear," he said walking upstairs. -"No commotion. May God be good!" - -He accompanied the doctor through the hall to a large salon, where a -big piano showed dark and a lustre hung in a white cover. Thence they -both passed into a small and beautiful drawing-room, very cosy, filled -with a pleasant, rosy half-darkness. - -"Please sit here a moment, Doctor," said Aboguin, "I ... I won't be a -second. I'll just have a look and tell them." - -Kirilov was left alone. The luxury of the drawing-room, the pleasant -half-darkness, even his presence in a stranger's unfamiliar house -evidently did not move him. He sat in a chair looking at his hands -burnt with carbolic acid. He had no more than a glimpse of the bright -red lampshade, the cello case, and when he looked sideways across the -room to where the dock was ticking, he noticed a stuffed wolf, as solid -and satisfied as Aboguin himself. - -It was still.... Somewhere far away in the other rooms someone uttered -a loud "Ah!" A glass door, probably a cupboard door, rang, and again -everything was still. After five minutes had passed, Kirilov did not -look at his hands any more. He raised his eyes to the door through -which Aboguin had disappeared. - -Aboguin was standing on the threshold, but not the same man as went -out. The expression of satisfaction and subtle elegance had disappeared -from him. His face and hands, the attitude of his body were distorted -with a disgusting expression either of horror or of tormenting physical -pain. His nose, lips, moustache, all his features were moving and as it -were trying to tear themselves away from his face, but the eyes were as -though laughing from pain. - -Aboguin took a long heavy step into the middle of the room, stooped, -moaned, and shook his fists. - -"Deceived!" he cried, emphasising the syllable _cei._ "She deceived me! -She's gone! She fell ill and sent me for the doctor only to run away -with this fool Papchinsky. My God!" Aboguin stepped heavily towards -the doctor, thrust his white soft fists before his face, and went on -wailing, shaking his fists the while. - -"She's gone off! She's deceived me! But why this lie? My God, my God! -Why this dirty, foul trick, this devilish, serpent's game? What have I -done to her? She's gone off." Tears gushed from his eyes. He turned on -his heel and began to pace the drawing-room. Now in his short jacket -and his fashionable narrow trousers in which his legs seemed too thin -for his body, he was extraordinarily like a lion. Curiosity kindled in -the doctor's impassive face. He rose and eyed Aboguin. - -"Well, where's the patient?" - -"The patient, the patient," cried Aboguin, laughing, weeping, and still -shaking his fists. "She's not ill, but accursed. Vile--dastardly. The -Devil himself couldn't have planned a fouler trick. She sent me so that -she could run away with a fool, an utter clown, an Alphonse! My God, -far better she should have died. I'll not bear it. I shall not bear it." - -The doctor stood up straight. His eyes began to blink, filled with -tears; his thin beard began to move with his jaw right and left. - -"What's this?" he asked, looking curiously about. "My child's dead. -My wife in anguish, alone in all the house.... I can hardly stand on -my feet, I haven't slept for three nights ... and I'm made to play in -a vulgar comedy, to play the part of a stage property! I don't ... I -don't understand it!" - -Aboguin opened one fist, flung a crumpled note on the floor and trod on -it, as upon an insect he wished to crush. - -"And I didn't see ... didn't understand," he said through his set -teeth, brandishing one fist round his head, with an expression as -though someone had trod on a corn. "I didn't notice how he came to see -us every day. I didn't notice that he came in a carriage to-day! What -was the carriage for? And I didn't see! Innocent!" - -"I don't ... I don't understand," the doctor murmured. "What's it all -mean? It's jeering at a man, laughing at a man's suffering! That's -impossible.... I've never seen it in my life before!" - -With the dull bewilderment of a man who has just begun to understand -that someone has bitterly offended him, the doctor shrugged his -shoulders, waved his hands and not knowing what to say or do, dropped -exhausted into a chair. - -"Well, she didn't love me any more. She loved another man. Very well. -But why the deceit, why this foul treachery?" Aboguin spoke with tears -in his voice. "Why, why? What have I done to you? Listen, doctor," he -said passionately approaching Kirilov. "You were the unwilling witness -of my misfortune, and I am not going to hide the truth from you. I -swear I loved this woman. I loved her with devotion, like a slave. I -sacrificed everything for her. I broke with my family, I gave up the -service and my music. I forgave her things I could not have forgiven -my mother and sister.... I never once gave her an angry look ... I -never gave her any cause. Why this lie then? I do not demand love, but -why this abominable deceit? If you don't love any more then speak out -honestly, above all when you know what I feel about this matter...." - -With tears in his eyes and trembling in all his bones, Aboguin was -pouring out his soul to the doctor. He spoke passionately, pressing -both hands to his heart. He revealed all the family secrets without -hesitation, as though he were glad that these secrets were being tom -from his heart. Had he spoken thus for an hour or two and poured out -all his soul, he would surely have been easier. - -Who can say whether, had the doctor listened and given him friendly -sympathy, he would not, as so often happens, have been reconciled to -his grief unprotesting, without turning to unprofitable follies? But -it happened otherwise. While Aboguin was speaking the offended doctor -changed countenance visibly. The indifference and amazement in his face -gradually gave way to an expression of bitter outrage, indignation, and -anger. His features became still sharper, harder, and more forbidding. -When Aboguin put before his eyes the photograph of his young wife, -with a pretty, but dry, inexpressive face like a nun's, and asked if -it were possible to look at that face and grant that it could express -a lie, the doctor suddenly started away, with flashing eyes, and said, -coarsely forging out each several word: - -"Why do you tell me all this? I do not want to hear! I don't want -to," he cried and banged his fist upon the table. "I don't want your -trivial vulgar secrets--to Hell with them. You dare not tell me such -trivialities. Or do you think I have not yet been insulted enough! That -I'm a lackey to whom you can give the last insult? Yes?" - -Aboguin drew back from Kirilov and stared at him in surprise. - -"Why did you bring me here?" the doctor went on, shaking his beard. -"You marry out of high spirits, get angry out of high spirits, and -make a melodrama--but where do I come in? What have I got to do with -your romances? Leave me alone I Get on with your noble grabbing, -parade your humane ideas, play--" the doctor gave a side-glance at the -cello-case--"the double-bass and the trombone, stuff yourselves like -capons, but don't dare to jeer at a real man! If you can't respect him, -then you can at least spare him your attentions." - -"What does all this mean?" Aboguin asked, blushing. - -"It means that it's vile and foul to play with a man I I'm a doctor. -You consider doctors and all men who work and don't reek of scent and -harlotry, your footmen, your _mauvais tons._ Very well, but no one gave -you the right to turn a man who suffers into a property." - -"How dare you say that?" Aboguin asked quietly. Again his face began to -twist about, this time in visible anger. - -"How dare _you_ bring me here to listen to trivial rubbish, when you -know that I'm in sorrow?" the doctor cried and banged his fists on the -table once more. "Who gave you the right to jeer at another's grief?" - -"You're mad," cried Aboguin. "You're ungenerous. I too am deeply -unhappy and ... and ..." - -"Unhappy"--the doctor gave a sneering laugh--"Don't touch the word, -it's got nothing to do with you. Wasters who can't get money on a bill -call themselves unhappy too. A capon's unhappy, oppressed with all its -superfluous fat. You worthless lot!" - -"Sir, you're forgetting yourself," Aboguin gave a piercing scream. "For -words like those, people are beaten. Do you understand?" - -Aboguin thrust his hand into his side pocket, took out a pocket-book, -found two notes and flung them on the table. - -"There's your fee," he said, and his nostrils trembled. "You're paid." - -"You dare not offer me money," said the doctor, and brushed the notes -from the table to the floor. "You don't settle an insult with money." - -Aboguin and the doctor stood face to face, heaping each other with -undeserved insults. Never in their lives, even in a frenzy, had -they said so much that was unjust and cruel and absurd. In both the -selfishness of the unhappy is violently manifest. Unhappy men are -selfish, wicked, unjust, and less able to understand each other than -fools. Unhappiness does not unite people, but separates them; and just -where one would imagine that people should be united by the community -of grief, there is more injustice and cruelty done than among the -comparatively contented. - -"Send me home, please," the doctor cried, out of breath. - -Aboguin rang the bell violently. Nobody came. He rang once more; then -flung the bell angrily to the floor. It struck dully on the carpet and -gave out a mournful sound like a death-moan. The footman appeared. - -"Where have you been hiding, damn you?" The master sprang upon him with -clenched fists. "Where have you been just now? Go away and tell them to -said the carriage round for this gentleman, and get the brougham ready -for me. Wait," he called out as the footman turned to go. "Not a single -traitor remains to-morrow. Pack off all of you! I will engage new ones -... Rabble!" - -While they waited Aboguin and the doctor were silent. Already the -expression of satisfaction and the subtle elegance had returned to -the former. He paced the drawing-room, shook his head elegantly and -evidently was planning something. His anger was not yet cool, but he -tried to make as if he did not notice his enemy.... The doctor stood -with one hand on the edge of the table, looking at Aboguin with that -deep, rather cynical, ugly contempt with which only grief and an unjust -lot can look, when they see satiety and elegance before them. - -A little later, when the doctor took his seat in the carriage and drove -away, his eyes still glanced contemptuously. It was dark, much darker -than an hour ago. The red half-moon had now disappeared behind the -little hill, and the clouds which watched it lay in dark spots round -the stars. The brougham with the red lamps began to rattle on the road -and passed the doctor. It was Aboguin on his way to protest, to commit -all manner of folly. - -All the way the doctor thought not of his wife or Andrey, but only of -Aboguin and those who lived in the house he just left. His thoughts -were unjust, inhuman, and cruel. He passed sentence on Aboguin, his -wife, Papchinsky, and all those who live in rosy semi-darkness and -smell of scent. All the way he hated them, and his heart ached with his -contempt for them. The conviction he formed about them would last his -life long. - -Time will pass and Kirilov's sorrow, but this conviction, unjust and -unworthy of the human heart, will not pass, but will remain in the -doctor's mind until the grave. - - - - -A TRIFLING OCCURRENCE - - -Nicolai Ilyich Byelyaev, a Petersburg landlord, very fond of the -racecourse, a well fed, pink young man of about thirty-two, once called -towards evening on Madame Irnin--Olga Ivanovna--with whom he had a -_liaison,_ or, to use his own phrase, spun out a long and tedious -romance. And indeed the first pages of this romance, pages of interest -and inspiration, had been read long ago; now they dragged on and on, -and presented neither novelty nor interest. - -Finding that Olga Ivanovna was not at home, my hero lay down a moment -on the drawing-room sofa and began to wait. - -"Good evening, Nicolai Ilyich," he suddenly heard a child's voice say. -"Mother will be in in a moment. She's gone to the dressmaker's with -Sonya." - -In the same drawing-room on the sofa lay Olga Vassilievna's son, -Alyosha, a boy about eight years old, well built, well looked after, -dressed up like a picture in a velvet jacket and long black stockings. -He lay on a satin pillow, and apparently imitating an acrobat whom -he had lately seen in the circus, lifted up first one leg then the -other. When his elegant legs began to be tired, he moved his hands, or -he jumped up impetuously and then went on all fours, trying to stand -with his legs in the air. All this he did with a most serious face, -breathing heavily, as if he himself found no happiness in God's gift of -such a restless body. - -"Ah, how do you do, my friend?" said Byelyaev. "Is it you? I didn't -notice you. Is your mother well?" - -At the moment Alyosha had just taken hold of the toe of his left foot -in his right hand and got into a most awkward pose. He turned head over -heels, jumped up, and glanced from under the big, fluffy lampshade at -Byelyaev. - -"How can I put it?" he said, shrugging his shoulders. "As a matter of -plain fact mother is never well. You see she's a woman, and women, -Nicolai Ilyich, have always some pain or another." - -For something to do, Byelyaev began to examine Alyosha's face. All the -time he had been acquainted with Olga Ivanovna he had never once turned -his attention to the boy and had completely ignored his existence. A -boy is stuck in front of your eyes, but what is he doing here, what is -his _rle_?--you don't want to give a single thought to the question. - -In the evening dusk Alyosha's face with a pale forehead and steady -black eyes unexpectedly reminded Byelyaev of Olga Vassilievna as -she was in the first pages of the romance. He had the desire to be -affectionate to the boy. - -"Come here, whipper-snapper," he said. "Come and let me have a good -look at you, quite close." - -The boy jumped off the sofa and ran to Byelyaev. - -"Well?" Nicolai Ilyich began, putting his hand on the thin shoulders. -"And how are things with you?" - -"How shall I put it?... They used to be much better before." - -"How?" - -"Quite simple. Before, Sonya and I only had to do music and reading, -and now we're given French verses to learn. You've had your hair cut -lately?" - -"Yes, just lately." - -"That's why I noticed it. Your beard's shorter. May I touch it ... -doesn't it hurt?" - -"No, not a bit." - -"Why is it that it hurts if you pull one hair, and when you pull a -whole lot, it doesn't hurt a bit? Ah, ah I You know it's a pity you -don't have side-whiskers. You should shave here, and at the sides ... -and leave the hair just here." - -The boy pressed close to Byelyaev and began to play with his -watch-chain. - -"When I go to the gymnasium," he said, "Mother is going to buy me a -watch. I'll ask her to buy me a chain just like this. What a fine -locket I Father has one just the same, but yours has stripes, here, -and his has got letters.... Inside it's mother's picture. Father has -another chain now, not in links, but like a ribbon...." - -"How do you know? Do you see your father?" - -"I? Mm ... no ... I ..." - -Alyosha blushed and in the violent confusion of being detected in a -lie began to scratch the locket busily with his finger-nail. Byelyaev -looked steadily at his face and asked: - -"Do you see your father?" - -"No ... no!" - -"But, be honest--on your honour. By your face I can see you're not -telling me the truth. If you made a slip of the tongue by mistake, -what's the use of shuffling. Tell me, do you see him? As one friend to -another." - -Alyosha mused. - -"And you won't tell Mother?" he asked. - -"What next." - -"On your word of honour." - -"My word of honour." - -"Swear an oath." - -"What a nuisance you are! What do you take me for?" - -Alyosha looked round, made big eyes and began to whisper. - -"Only for God's sake don't tell Mother! Never tell it to anyone at all, -because it's a secret. God forbid that Mother should ever get to know; -then I and Sonya and Pelagueia will pay for it.... Listen. Sonya and -I meet Father every Tuesday and Friday. When Pelagueia takes us for a -walk before dinner, we go into Apfel's sweet-shop and Father's waiting -for us. He always sits in a separate room, you know, where there's a -splendid marble table and an ash-tray shaped like a goose without a -back...." - -"And what do you do there?" - -"Nothing!--First, we welcome one another, then we sit down at a little -table and Father begins to treat us to coffee and cakes. You know, -Sonya eats meat-pies, and I can't bear pies with meat in them! I like -them made of cabbage and eggs. We eat so much that afterwards at dinner -we try to eat as much as we possibly can so that Mother shan't notice." - -"What do you talk about there?" - -"To Father? About anything. He kisses us and cuddles us, tells us -all kinds of funny stories. You know, he says that he will take us -to live with him when we are grown up. Sonya doesn't want to go, but -I say 'Yes.' Of course, it'll be lonely without Mother; but I'll -write letters to her. How funny: we could go to her for our holidays -then--couldn't we? Besides, Father says that he'll buy me a horse. He's -a splendid man. I can't understand why Mother doesn't invite him to -live with her or why she says we mustn't meet him. He loves Mother very -much indeed. He's always asking us how she is and what she's doing. -When she was ill, he took hold of his head like this ... and ran, ran, -all the time. He is always telling us to obey and respect her. Tell me, -is it true that we're unlucky?" - -"H'm ... how?" - -"Father says so. He says: 'You are unlucky children.' It's quite -strange to listen to him. He says: 'You are unhappy, I'm unhappy, and -Mother's unhappy.' He says: 'Pray to God for yourselves and for her.'" -Alyosha's eyes rested upon the stuffed bird and he mused. - -"Exactly...." snorted Byelyaev. "This is what you do. You arrange -conferences in sweet-shops. And your mother doesn't know?" "N--no.... -How could she know? Pelagueia won't tell for anything. The day before -yesterday Father stood us pears. Sweet, like jam. I had two." - -"H'm ... well, now ... tell me, doesn't your father speak about me?" - -"About you? How shall I put it?" Alyosha gave a searching glance to -Byelyaev's face and shrugged his shoulders. - -"He doesn't say anything in particular." - -"What does he say, for instance?" - -"You won't be offended?" - -"What next? Why, does he abuse me?" - -"He doesn't abuse you, but you know ... he is cross with you. He says -that it's through you that Mother's unhappy and that you ... ruined -Mother. But he is so queer! I explain to him that you are good and -never shout at Mother, but he only shakes his head." - -"Does he say those very words: that I ruined her?" - -"Yes. Don't be offended, Nicolai Ilyich!" - -Byelyaev got up, stood still a moment, and then began to walk about the -drawing-room. - -"This is strange, and ... funny," he murmured, shrugging his shoulders -and smiling ironically. "He is to blame all round, and now I've ruined -her, eh? What an innocent lamb! Did he say those very words to you: -that I ruined your mother?" - -"Yes, but ... you said that you wouldn't get offended." - -"I'm not offended, and ... and it's none of your business! No, it ... -it's quite funny though. I fell, into the trap, yet I'm to be blamed as -well." - -The bell rang. The boy dashed from his place and ran out. In a minute -a lady entered the room with a little girl. It was Olga Ivanovna, -Alyosha's mother. After her, hopping, humming noisily, and waving his -hands, followed Alyosha. - -"Of course, who is there to accuse except me?" he murmured, sniffing. -"He's right, he's the injured husband." - -"What's the matter?" asked Olga Ivanovna. - -"What's the matter! Listen to the kind of sermon your dear husband -preaches. It appears I'm a scoundrel and a murderer, I've ruined you -and the children. All of you are unhappy, and only I am awfully happy! -Awfully, awfully happy!" - -"I don't understand, Nicolai! What is it?" - -"Just listen to this young gentleman," Byelyaev said, pointing to -Alyosha. - -Alyosha blushed, then became pale suddenly and his whole face was -twisted in fright. - -"Nicolai Ilyich," he whispered loudly. "Shh!" - -Olga Ivanovna glanced in surprise at Alyosha, at Byelyaev, and then -again at Alyosha. - -"Ask him, if you please," went on Byelyaev. "That stupid fool Pelagueia -of yours, takes them to sweet-shops and arranges meetings with their -dear father there. But that's not the point. The point is that the dear -father is a martyr, and I'm a murderer, I'm a scoundrel, who broke the -lives of both of you...." - -"Nicolai Ilyich!" moaned Alyosha. "You gave your word of honour!" - -"Ah, let me alone!" Byelyaev waved his hand. "This is something more -important than any words of honour. The hypocrisy revolts me, the lie!" - -"I don't understand," muttered Olga Ivanovna, and tears began to -glimmer in her eyes. "Tell me, Lyolka,"--she turned to her son, "Do you -see your father?" - -Alyosha did not hear and looked with horror at Byelyaev. - -"It's impossible," said the mother. "I'll go and ask Pelagueia." - -Olga Ivanovna went out. - -"But, but you gave me your word of honour," Alyosha said trembling all -over. - -Byelyaev waved his hand at him and went on walking up and down. He -was absorbed in his insult, and now, as before, he did not notice the -presence of the boy. He, a big serious man, had nothing to do with -boys. And Alyosha sat down in a corner and in terror told Sonya how he -had been deceived. He trembled, stammered, wept. This was the first -time in his life that he had been set, roughly, face to face with a -lie. He had never known before that in this world besides sweet pears -and cakes and expensive watches, there exist many other things which -have no name in children's language. - - - - -A GENTLEMAN FRIEND - - -When she came out of the hospital the charming Vanda, or, according to -her passport, "the honourable lady-citizen Nastasya Kanavkina," found -herself in a position in which she had never been before: without a -roof and without a son. What was to be done? - -First of all, she went to a pawnshop to pledge her turquoise ring, -her only jewellery. They gave her a rouble for the ring ... but what -can you buy for a rouble? For that you can't get a short jacket _ -la mode_, or an elaborate hat, or a pair of brown shoes; yet without -these things she felt naked. She felt as though, not only the people, -but even the horses and dogs were staring at her and laughing at the -plainness of her clothes. And her only thought was for her clothes; she -did not care at all what she ate or where she slept. - -"If only I were to meet a gentleman friend...." she thought. "I could -get some money ... Nobody would say 'No,' because...." - -But she came across no gentleman Mends. It's easy to find them of -nights in the _Renaissance,_ but they wouldn't let her go into the -_Renaissance_ in that plain dress and without a hat. What's to be done? -After a long time of anguish, vexed and weary with walking, sitting, -and thinking, Vanda made up her mind to play her last card: to go -straight to the rooms of some gentleman friend and ask him for money. - -"But who shall I go to?" she pondered. "I can't possibly go to -Misha ... he's got a family.... The ginger-headed old man is at his -office...." - -Vanda recollected Finkel, the dentist, the converted Jew, who gave her -a bracelet three months ago. Once she poured a glass of beer on his -head at the German dub. She was awfully glad that she had thought of -Finkel. - -"He'll be certain to give me some, if only I find him in..." she -thought, on her way to him. "And if he won't, then I'll break every -single thing there." - -She had her plan already prepared. She approached the dentist's door. -She would run up the stairs, with a laugh, fly into his private room -and ask for twenty-five roubles.... But when she took hold of the -bell-pull, the plan went clean out of her head. Vanda suddenly began to -be afraid and agitated, a thing which had never happened to her before. -She was never anything but bold and independent in drunken company; -but now, dressed in common clothes, and just like any ordinary person -begging a favour, she felt timid and humble. - -"Perhaps he has forgotten me..." she thought, not daring to pull the -bell. "And how can I go up to him in a dress like this? As if I were a -pauper, or a dowdy respectable..." - -She rang the bell irresolutely. - -There were steps behind the door. It was the porter. - -"Is the doctor at home?" she asked. - -She would have been very pleased now if the porter had said "No," -but instead of answering he showed her into the hall, and took her -jacket. The stairs seemed to her luxurious and magnificent, but what -she noticed first of all in all the luxury was a large mirror in -which she saw a ragged creature without an elaborate hat, without a -modish jacket, and without a pair of brown shoes. And Vanda found it -strange that, now that she was poorly dressed and looking more like a -seamstress or a washerwoman, for the first time she felt ashamed, and -had no more assurance or boldness left. In her thoughts she began to -call herself Nastya Kanavkina, instead of Vanda as she used. - -"This way, please!" said the maid-servant, leading her to the private -room. "The doctor will be here immediately.... Please, take a seat." - -Vanda dropped into an easy chair. - -"I'll say: 'Lend me ...'" she thought. "That's the right thing, because -we are acquainted. But the maid must go out of the room.... It's -awkward in front of the maid.... What is she standing there for?" - -In five minutes the door opened and Finkel entered--a tall, swarthy, -convert Jew, with fat cheeks and goggle-eyes. His cheeks, eyes, -belly, fleshy hips--were all so full, repulsive, and coarse! At the -_Renaissance_ and the German club he used always to be a little drunk, -to spend a lot of money on women, patiently put up with all their -tricks--for instance, when Vanda poured the beer on his head, he only -smiled and shook his finger at her--but now he looked dull and sleepy; -he had the pompous, chilly expression of a superior, and he was chewing -something. - -"What is the matter?" he asked, without looking at Vanda. Vanda glanced -at the maid's serious face, at the blown-out figure of Finkel, who -obviously did not recognise her, and she blushed. - -"What's the matter?" the dentist repeated, irritated. - -"To ... oth ache...." whispered Vanda. - -"Ah ... which tooth ... where?" - -Vanda remembered she had a tooth with a hole. - -"At the bottom ... to the right," she said. - -"H'm ... open your mouth." - -Finkel frowned, held his breath, and began to work the aching tooth -loose. - -"Do you feel any pain?" he asked, picking at her tooth with some -instrument. - -"Yes, I do...." Vanda lied. "Shall I remind him?" she thought, "he'll -be sure to remember.... But ... the maid ... what is she standing -there for?" - -Finkel suddenly snorted like a steam-engine straight into her mouth, -and said: - -"I don't advise you to have a stopping.... Anyhow the tooth is quite -useless." - -Again he picked at the tooth for a little, and soiled Vanda's lips and -gums with his tobacco-stained fingers. Again he held his breath and -dived into her mouth with something cold.... - -Vanda suddenly felt a terrible pain, shrieked and seized Finkel's -hand.... - -"Never mind...." he murmured. "Don't be frightened.... This tooth isn't -any use." - -And his tobacco-stained fingers, covered with blood, held up the -extracted tooth before her eyes. The maid came forward and put a bowl -to her lips. - -"Rinse your mouth with cold water at home," said Finkel. "That will -make the blood stop." - -He stood before her in the attitude of a man impatient to be left alone -at last. - -"Good-bye ..." she said, turning to the door. - -"H'm! And who's to pay me for the work?" Finkel asked laughingly. - -"Ah ... yes!" Vanda recollected, blushed and gave the dentist the -rouble she had got for the turquoise ring. - -When she came into the street she felt still more ashamed than before, -but she was not ashamed of her poverty any more. Nor did she notice any -more that she hadn't an elaborate hat or a modish jacket. She walked -along the street spitting blood and each red spittle told her about -her life, a bad, hard life; about the insults she had suffered and had -still to suffer-to-morrow, a week, a year hence--her whole life, till -death.... - -"Oh, how terrible it is!" she whispered. "My God, how terrible!" - -But the next day she was at the _Renaissance_ and she danced there. She -wore a new, immense red hat, a new jacket _ la mode_ and a pair of -brown shoes. She was treated to supper by a young merchant from Kazan. - - - - -OVERWHELMING SENSATIONS - - -This happened not so very long ago in the Moscow Circuit Court. The -jurymen, left in court for the night, before going to bed, began a -conversation about overwhelming sensations. It was occasioned by -someone's recollection of a witness who became a stammerer and turned -grey, owing, as he said, to one dreadful moment. The jurymen decided -before going to bed that each one of them should dig into his memories -and tell a story. Life is short; but still there is not a single man -who can boast that he had not had some dreadful moments in his past. - -One juryman related how he was nearly drowned. A second told how one -night he poisoned his own child, in a place where there was neither -doctor nor chemist, by giving the child white copperas in mistake for -soda. The child did not die, but the father nearly went mad. A third, -not an old man, but sickly, described his two attempts to commit -suicide. Once he shot himself; the second time he threw himself in -front of a train. - -The fourth, a short, stout man, smartly dressed, told the following -story: - -"I was no more than twenty-two or twenty-three years old, when I fell -head over heels in love with my present wife and proposed to her. Now, -I would gladly give myself a thrashing for that early marriage; but -then--well, I don't know what would have happened to me if Natasha -had refused. My love was most ardent, the kind described in novels as -mad, passionate, and so on. My happiness choked me, and I did not know -how to escape from it. I bored my father, my friends, the servants -by continually telling them how desperately I was in love. Happy -people are quite the most tiresome and boring. I used to be awfully -exasperating. Even now I'm ashamed. - -"At the time I had a newly-called barrister among my friends. The -barrister is now known all over Russia, but then he was only at the -beginning of his popularity, and he was not rich or famous enough to -have the right not to recognise a friend when he met him or not to -raise his hat. I used to go and see him once or twice a week. - -"When I came, we used both to stretch ourselves upon the sofas and -begin to philosophise. - -"Once I lay on the sofa, harping on the theme that there is no more -ungrateful profession than a barrister's. I tried to show that after -the witnesses have been heard the Court can easily dispense with -the Crown Prosecutor and the barrister, because they are equally -unnecessary and only hindrances. If an adult juryman, sound in spirit -and mind, is convinced that this ceiling is white, or that Ivanov -is guilty, no Demosthenes has the power to fight and overcome his -conviction. Who can convince me that my moustache is carroty when -I know it is black? When I listen to an orator I may perhaps get -sentimental and even shed a tear, but my rooted convictions, for the -most part based on the obvious and on facts, will not be changed an -atom. My friend the barrister contended that I was still young and -silly and was talking childish nonsense. In his opinion an obvious fact -when illumined by conscientious experts became still more obvious. -That was his first point. His second was that a talent is a force, an -elemental power, a hurricane, that is able to turn even stones to dust, -not to speak of such trifles as the convictions of householders and -small shopkeepers. It is as hard for human frailty to struggle against -a talent as it is to look at the sun without being blinded or to stop -the wind. By the power of the word one single mortal converts thousands -of convinced savages to Christianity. Ulysses was the most convinced -person in the world, but he was all submission before the Syrens, and -so on. All history is made up of such instances. In life we meet them -at every turn. And so it ought to be; otherwise a clever person of -talent would not be preferred before the stupid and untalented. - -"I persisted and continued to argue that a conviction is stronger than -any talent, though, speaking frankly, I myself could not define what -exactly is a conviction and what is a talent. Probably I talked only -for the sake of talking. - -"'Take even your own case' ... said the barrister. 'You are convinced -that your _fiance_ is an angel and that there's not a man in all the -town happier than you. I tell you, ten or twenty minutes would be quite -enough for me to make you sit down at this very table and write to -break off the engagement.' - -"I began to laugh. - -"'Don't laugh. I'm talking seriously,' said my friend. 'If I only had -the desire, in twenty minutes you would be happy in the thought that -you have been saved from marriage. My talent is not great, but neither -are you strong?' - -"'Well, try, please,' I said. - -"'No, why should I? I only said it in passing. You're a good boy. It -would be a pity to expose you to such an experiment. Besides, I'm not -in the mood, to-day.' - -"We sat down to supper. The wine and thoughts of Natasha and my love -utterly filled me with a sense of youth and happiness. My happiness was -so infinitely great that the green-eyed barrister opposite me seemed so -unhappy, so little, so grey!" - -"'But do try,' I pressed him. 'I beg you.' - -"The barrister shook his head and knit his brows. Evidently I had begun -to bore him. - -"'I know,' he said, 'that when the experiment is over you will thank -me and call me saviour, but one must think of your sweetheart too. She -loves you, and your refusal would make her suffer. But what a beauty -she is 'I envy you.' - -"The barrister sighed, swallowed some wine, and began to speak of -what a wonderful creature my Natasha was. He had an uncommon gift for -description. He could pour out a whole heap of words about a woman's -eyelashes or her little finger. I listened to him with delight. - -"'I've seen many women in my life-time;' he said, 'but I give you my -word of honour, I tell you as a friend, your Natasha Andreevna is a -gem, a rare girl! Of course, there are defects, even a good many, I -grant you, but still she is charming.' - -"And the barrister began to speak of the defects of my sweetheart. -Now I quite understand it was a general conversation about women, -one about their weak points in general; but it appeared to me then -as though he was speaking only of Natasha. He went into raptures -about her snub-nose, her excited voice, her shrill laugh, her -affectation--indeed, about everything I particularly disliked in -her. All this was in his opinion infinitely amiable, gracious and -feminine. Imperceptibly he changed from enthusiasm first to paternal -edification, then to a light, sneering tone.... There was no Chairman -of the Bench with us to stop the barrister riding the high horse. I -hadn't a chance of opening my mouth--and what could I have said? My -friend said nothing new, his truths were long familiar. The poison was -not at all in what he said, but altogether in the devilish form in -which he said it. A form of Satan's own invention! As I listened to him -I was convinced that one and the same word had a thousand meanings and -nuances according to the way it is pronounced and the turn given to the -sentence. I certainly cannot reproduce the tone or the form. I can only -say that as I listened to my friend and paced from corner to corner -of my room, I was revolted, exasperated, contemptuous according as he -felt. I even believed him when, with tears in his eyes, he declared to -me that I was a great man, deserving a better fate, and destined in the -future to accomplish some remarkable exploit, from which I might be -prevented by my marriage. - -"'My dear friend,' he exclaimed, firmly grasping my hand, 'I implore -you, I command you: stop before it is too late. Stop! God save you from -this strange and terrible mistake! My friend, don't ruin your youth.' - -"Believe me or not as you will, but finally I sat down at the table -and wrote to my sweetheart breaking off the engagement. I wrote and -rejoiced that there was still time to repair my mistake. When the -envelope was sealed I hurried into the street to put it in a pillar -box. The barrister came with me. - -"'Splendid! Superb!' he praised me when my letter to Natasha -disappeared into the darkness of the pillar-box. 'I congratulate you -with all my heart. I'm delighted for your sake.' - -"After we had gone about ten steps together, the barrister continued: - -"'Of course, marriage has its bright side too. I, for instance, belong -to the kind of men for whom marriage and family life are everything.' - -"He was already describing his life: all the ugliness of a lonely -bachelor existence appeared before me. - -"He spoke with enthusiasm of his future wife, of the pleasures of an -ordinary family life, and his transports were so beautiful and sincere -that I was in absolute despair by the time we reached his door. - -"'What are you doing with me, you damnable man?' I said panting. -'You've ruined me! Why did you make me write that cursed letter? I love -her! I love her!' - -"And I swore that I was in love. I was terrified of my action. It -already seemed wild and absurd to me. Gentlemen, it is quite impossible -to imagine a more overwhelming sensation than mine at that moment! If a -kind man had happened to slip a revolver into my hand I would have put -a bullet through my head gladly. - -"'Well, that's enough, enough!' the advocate said, patting my shoulder -and beginning to laugh. 'Stop crying! The letter won't reach your -sweetheart. It was I, not you, wrote the address on the envelope, and I -muddled it up so that they won't be able to make anything of it at the -post-office. But let this be a lesson to you. Don't discuss things you -don't understand.'" - -"Now, gentlemen, next, please." - -The fifth juryman had settled himself comfortably and already opened -his mouth to begin his story, when we heard the dock striking from -Spaisky Church-tower. - -"Twelve...." one of the jurymen counted. "To which class, gentlemen, -would you assign the sensations which our prisoner at the bar is now -feeling? The murderer passes the night here in a prisoner's cell, -either lying or sitting, certainly without sleeping and all through -the sleepless night listens to the striking of the hours. What does he -think of? What dreams visit him?" - -And all the jurymen suddenly forgot about overwhelming sensations. The -experience of their friend, who once wrote the letter to his Natasha, -seemed unimportant, and not even amusing. Nobody told any more stories; -but they began to go to bed quietly, in silence. - - - - -EXPENSIVE LESSONS - - -It is a great bore for an educated person not to know foreign -languages. Vorotov felt it strongly, when on leaving the university -after he had got his degree he occupied himself with a little -scientific research. - -"It's awful!" he used to say, losing his breath (for although only -twenty-six he was stout, heavy, and short of breath). "It's awful. -Without knowing languages I'm like a bird without wings. I'll simply -have to chuck the work." - -So he decided, come what might, to conquer his natural laziness and to -study French and German, and he began to look out for a teacher. - -One winter afternoon, as Vorotov sat working in his study, the servant -announced a lady to see him. - -"Show her in," said Vorotov. - -And a young lady, exquisitely dressed in the latest fashion, entered -the study. She introduced herself as Alice Ossipovna Enquette, a -teacher of French, and said that a friend of Vorotov's had sent her to -him. - -"Very glad! Sit down!" said Vorotov, losing his breath, and clutching -at the collar of his night shirt. (He always worked in a night shirt -in order to breathe more easily.) "You were sent to me by Peter -Sergueyevich? Yes.... Yes ... I asked him.... Very glad!" - -While he discussed the matter with Mademoiselle Enquette he glanced at -her shyly, with curiosity. She was a genuine Frenchwoman, very elegant, -and still quite young. From her pale and languid face, from her short, -curly hair and unnaturally small waist, you would not think her more -than eighteen, but looking at her broad, well-developed shoulders, her -charming back and severe eyes, Vorotov decided that she was certainly -not less than twenty-three, perhaps even twenty-five; but then again -it seemed to him that she was only eighteen. Her face had the cold, -business-like expression of one who had come to discuss a business -matter. Never once did she smile or frown, and only once a look of -perplexity flashed into her eyes, when she discovered that she was not -asked to teach children but a grown up, stout young man. - -"So, Alice Ossipovna," Vorotov said to her, "you will give me a lesson -daily from seven to eight o'clock in the evening. With regard to your -wish to receive a rouble a lesson, I have no objection at all. A -rouble--well, let it be a rouble...." - -And he went on asking her if she wanted tea or coffee, if the weather -was fine, and, smiling good naturedly, stroking the tablecloth with -the palm of his hand, he asked her kindly who she was, where she had -completed her education, and how she earned her living. - -In a cold, business-like tone Alice Ossipovna answered that she had -completed her education at a private school, and had then qualified -as a domestic teacher, that her father had died recently of scarlet -fever, her mother was alive and made artificial flowers, that she, -Mademoiselle Enquette, gave private lessons at a pension in the -morning, and from one o'clock right until the evening she taught in -respectable private houses. - -She went, leaving a slight and almost imperceptible perfume of a -woman's dress behind her. Vorotov did not work for a long time -afterwards but sat at the table stroking the green cloth and thinking. - -"It's very pleasant to see girls earning their own living," he thought. -"On the other hand it is very unpleasant to realise that poverty does -not spare even such elegant and pretty girls as Alice Ossipovna; she, -too, must struggle for her existence. Rotten luck!..." - -Having never seen virtuous Frenchwomen he also thought that this -exquisitely dressed Alice Ossipovna, with her well-developed shoulders -and unnaturally small waist was in all probability, engaged in -something else besides teaching. - -Next evening when the clock pointed to five minutes to seven, Alice -Ossipovna arrived, rosy from the cold; she opened Margot (an elementary -text-book) and began without any preamble: - -"The French grammar has twenty-six letters. The first is called A, the -second B...." - -"Pardon," interrupted Vorotov, smiling, "I must warn you, Mademoiselle, -that you will have to change your methods somewhat in my case. The -fact is that I know Russian, Latin and Greek very well. I have studied -comparative philology, and it seems to me that we may leave out Margot -and begin straight off to read some author." And he explained to the -Frenchwoman how grown-up people study languages. - -"A friend of mine," said he, "who wished to know modern languages put -a French, German and Latin gospel in front of him and then minutely -analysed one word after another. The result--he achieved his purpose in -less than a year. Let us take some author and start reading." - -The Frenchwoman gave him a puzzled look. It was evident that Vorotov's -proposal appeared to her naive and absurd. If he had not been grown up -she would certainly have got angry and stormed at him, but as he was a -very stout, adult man at whom she could not storm, she only shrugged -her shoulders half-perceptibly and said: - -"Just as you please." - -Vorotov ransacked his bookshelves and produced a ragged French book. - -"Will this do?" he asked. - -"It's all the same." - -"In that case let us begin. Let us start from the title, _Mmoires_." - -"Reminiscences...." translated Mademoiselle Enquette. - -"Reminiscences...." repeated Vorotov. - -Smiling good naturedly and breathing heavily, he passed a quarter of -an hour over the word _mmoires_ and the same with the word _de._ This -tired Alice Ossipovna out. She answered his questions carelessly, got -confused and evidently neither understood her pupil nor tried to. -Vorotov asked her questions, and at the same time glanced furtively at -her fair hair, thinking: - -"The hair is not naturally curly. She waves it. Marvellous! She works -from morning till night and yet she finds time to wave her hair." - -At eight o'clock sharp she got up, gave him a dry, cold "Au revoir, -Monsieur," and left the study. After her lingered the same sweet, -subtle, agitating perfume. The pupil again did nothing for a long time, -but sat by the table and thought. - -During the following days he became convinced that his teacher was a -charming girl serious and punctual, but very uneducated and incapable -of teaching grown up people; so he decided he would not waste his -time, but part with her and engage someone else. When she came for the -seventh lesson he took an envelope containing seven roubles out of his -pocket. Holding it in his hands and blushing furiously, he began: - -"I am sorry, Alice Ossipovna, but I must tell you.... I am placed in an -awkward position...." - -The Frenchwoman glanced at the envelope and guessed what was the -matter. For the first time during the lessons a shiver passed over her -face and the cold, business-like expression disappeared. She reddened -faintly, and casting her eyes down, began to play absently with her -thin gold chain. And Vorotov, noticing her confusion, understood how -precious this rouble was to her, how hard it would be for her to lose -this money. - -"I must tell you," he murmured, getting still more confused. His heart -gave a thump. Quickly he put the envelope back into his pocket and -continued: - -"Excuse me. I ... I will leave you for ten minutes...." - -And as though he did not want to dismiss her at all, but had only asked -permission to retire for a moment he went into another room and sat -there for ten minutes. Then he returned, more confused than ever; he -thought that his leaving her like that would be explained by her in a -certain way and this made him awkward. - -The lessons began again. - -Vorotov wanted them no more. Knowing that they would lead to nothing -he gave the Frenchwoman a free hand; he did not question or interrupt -her any more. She translated at her own sweet will, ten pages a lesson, -but he did not listen. He breathed heavily and for want of occupation -gazed now and then at her curly little head, her neck, her soft white -hands, and inhaled the perfume of her dress. - -He caught himself thinking about her as he ought not and it shamed -him, or admiring her, and then he felt aggrieved and angry because -she behaved so coldly towards him, in such a businesslike way, never -smiling and as if afraid that he might suddenly touch her. All the -while he thought: How could he inspire her with confidence in him, how -could he get to know her better, to help her, to make her realise how -badly she taught, poor little soul? - -Once Alice Ossipovna came to the lesson in a dainty pink dress, a -little _dcollet_, and such a sweet scent came from her that you might -have thought she was wrapped in a cloud, that you had only to blow on -her for her to fly away or dissolve like smoke. She apologised, saying -she could only stay for half an hour, because she had to go straight -from the lesson to a ball. - -He gazed at her neck, at her bare shoulders and he thought he -understood why Frenchwomen were known to be light-minded and easily -won; he was drowned in this cloud of scent, beauty, and nudity, and -she, quite unaware of his thoughts and probably not in the least -interested in them, read over the pages quickly and translated full -steam ahead: - -"He walked over the street and met the gentleman of his friend and -said: where do you rush? seeing your face so pale it makes me pain." - -The _Mmoires_ had been finished long ago; Alice was now translating -another book. Once she came to the lesson an hour earlier, apologising -because she had to go to the Little Theatre at seven o'clock. When the -lesson was over Vorotov dressed and he too went to the theatre. It -seemed to him only for the sake of rest and distraction, and he did not -even think of Alice. He would not admit that a serious man, preparing -for a scientific career, a stay-at-home, should brush aside his book -and rush to the theatre for the sake of meeting an unintellectual, -stupid girl whom he hardly knew. - -But somehow, dining the intervals his heart beat, and, without noticing -it, he ran about the foyer and the corridors like a boy, looking -impatiently for someone. Every time the interval was over he was -tired, but when he discovered the familiar pink dress and the lovely -shoulders veiled with tulle his heart jumped as if from a presentiment -of happiness, he smiled joyfully, and for the first time in his life he -felt jealous. - -Alice was with two ugly students and an officer. She was laughing, -talking loudly and evidently flirting. Vorotov had never seen her like -that. Apparently she was happy, contented, natural, warm. Why? What was -the reason? Perhaps because these people were dear to her and belonged -to the same class as she. Vorotov felt the huge abyss between him and -that class. He bowed to his teacher, but she nodded coldly and quietly -passed by. It was plain she did not want her cavaliers to know that she -had pupils and gave lessons because she was poor. - -After the meeting at the theatre Vorotov knew that he was in love. -During lessons that followed he devoured his elegant teacher with his -eyes, and no longer struggling, he gave full rein to his pure and -impure thoughts. Alice's face was always cold. Exactly at eight o'clock -every evening she said calmly, "Au revoir, Monsieur," and he felt that -she was indifferent to him and would remain indifferent, that--his -position was hopeless. - -Sometimes in the middle of a lesson he would begin dreaming, hoping, -building plans; he composed an amorous declaration, remembering that -Frenchwomen were frivolous and complaisant, but he had only to give his -teacher one glance for his thoughts to be blown out like a candle, when -you carry it on to the verandah of a bungalow and the wind is blowing. -Once, overcome, forgetting everything, in a frenzy, he could stand it -no longer. He barred her way when she came from the study into the -hall after the lesson and, losing his breath and stammering, began to -declare his love: - -"You are dear to me!... I love you. Please let me speak!" - -Alice grew pale: probably she was afraid that after this declaration -she would not be able to come to him any more and receive a rouble -a lesson. She looked at him with terrified eyes and began in a loud -whisper: - -"Ah, it's impossible! Do not speak, I beg you! Impossible!" - -Afterwards Vorotov did not sleep all night; he tortured himself with -shame, abused himself, thinking feverishly. He thought that his -declaration had offended the girl and that she would not come any -more. He made up his mind to find out where she lived from the Address -Bureau and to write her an apology. But Alice came without the letter. -For a moment she felt awkward, and then opened the book and began to -translate quickly, in an animated voice, as always: - -"'Oh, young gentleman, do not rend these flowers in my garden which I -want to give to my sick daughter.'" - -She still goes. Four books have been translated by now but Vorotov -knows nothing beyond the word _mmoires,_ and when he is asked about -his scientific research work he waves his hand, leaves the question -unanswered, and begins to talk about the weather. - - - - -A LIVING CALENDAR - - -State-Councillor Sharamykin's drawing-room is wrapped in a pleasant -half-darkness. The big bronze lamp with the green shade, makes -the walls, the furniture, the faces, all green, _couleur_ "_Nuit -d'Ukraine_" Occasionally a smouldering log flares up in the dying fire -and for a moment casts a red glow over the faces; but this does not -spoil the general harmony of light. The general tone, as the painters -say, is well sustained. - -Sharamykin sits in a chair in front of the fireplace, in the attitude -of a man who has just dined. He is an elderly man with a high -official's grey side whiskers and meek blue eyes. Tenderness is shed -over his face, and his lips are set in a melancholy smile. At his -feet, stretched out lazily, with his legs towards the fire-place, -Vice-Governor Lopniev sits on a little stool. He is a brave-looking man -of about forty. Sharamykin's children are moving about round the piano; -Nina, Kolya, Nadya, and Vanya. The door leading to Madame Sharamykin's -room is slightly open and the light breaks through timidly. There -behind the door sits Sharamykin's wife, Anna Pavlovna, in front of -her writing-table. She is president of the local ladies' committee, a -lively, piquant lady of thirty years and a little bit over. Through -her pince-nez her vivacious black eyes are running over the pages of a -French novel. Beneath the novel lies a tattered copy of the report of -the committee for last year. - -"Formerly our town was much better off in these things," says -Sharamykin, screwing up his meek eyes at the glowing coals. "Never a -winter passed but some star would pay us a visit. Famous actors and -singers used to come ... but now, besides acrobats and organ-grinders, -the devil only knows what comes. There's no aesthetic pleasure -at all.... We might be living in a forest. Yes.... And does your -Excellency remember that Italian tragedian?... What's his name?... He -was so dark, and tall.... Let me think.... Oh, yes! Luigi Ernesto di -Ruggiero.... Remarkable talent.... And strength. He had only to say -one word and the whole theatre was on the _qui vive._ My darling Anna -used to take a great interest in his talent. She hired the theatre for -him and sold tickets for the performances in advance.... In return he -taught her elocution and gesture. A first-rate fellow! He came here -... to be quite exact ... twelve years ago.... No, that's not true.... -Less, ten years.... Anna dear, how old is our Nina?" - -"She'll be ten next birthday," calls Anna Pavlovna from her room. "Why?" - -"Nothing in particular, my dear. I was just curious.... And good -singers used to come. Do you remember Prilipchin, the _tenore di -grazia_? What a charming fellow he was! How good looking! Fair ... -a very expressive face, Parisian manners.... And what a voice, your -Excellency! Only one weakness: he would sing some notes with his -stomach and would take _re_ falsetto--otherwise everything was good. -Tamberlik, he said, had taught him.... My dear Anna and I hired a hall -for him at the Social Club, and in gratitude for that he used to sing -to us for whole days and nights.... He taught dear Anna to sing. He -came--I remember it as though it were last night--in Lent, some twelve -years ago. No, it's more.... How bad my memory is getting, Heaven help -me! Anna dear, how old is our darling Nadya? - -"Twelve." - -"Twelve ... then we've got to add ten months.... That makes it exact -... thirteen. Somehow there used to be more life in our town then.... -Take, for instance, the charity soires. What enjoyable soires we -used to have before! How elegant! There were singing, playing, and -recitation.... After the war, I remember, when the Turkish prisoners -were here, dear Anna arranged a soiree on behalf of the wounded. We -collected eleven hundred roubles. I remember the Turkish officers -were passionately fond of dear Anna's voice, and kissed her hand -incessantly. He-he! Asiatics, but a grateful nation. Would you believe -me, the soiree was such a success that I wrote an account of it in my -diary? It was,--I remember it as though it had only just happened,--in -'76,... no, in '77.... No! Pray, when were the Turks here? Anna dear, -how old is our little Kolya?" - -"I'm seven, Papa!" says Kolya, a brat with a swarthy face and coal -black hair. - -"Yes, we're old, and we've lost the energy we used to have," Lopniev -agreed with a sigh. "That's the real cause. Old age, my friend. No new -moving spirits arrive, and the old ones grow old.... The old fire is -dull now. When I was younger I did not like company to be bored.... -I was your Anna Pavlovna's first assistant. Whether it was a charity -soire or a tombola to support a star who was going to arrive, whatever -Anna Pavlovna was arranging, I used to throw over everything and begin -to bustle about. One winter, I remember, I bustled and ran so much that -I even got ill.... I shan't forget that winter.... Do you remember what -a performance we arranged with Anna Pavlovna in aid of the victims of -the fire?" - -"What year was it?" - -"Not so very long ago.... In '79. No, in '80, I believe! Tell me how -old is your Vanya?" - -"Five," Anna Pavlovna calls from the study. - -"Well, that means it was six years ago. Yes, my dear friend, that was a -time. It's all over now. The old fire's quite gone." - -Lopniev and Sharamykin grew thoughtful. The smouldering log flares up -for the last time, and then is covered in ash. - - - - -OLD AGE - - -State-Councillor Usielkov, architect, arrived in his native town, -where he had been summoned to restore the cemetery church. He was born -in the town, he had grown up and been married there, and yet when he -got out of the train he hardly recognised it. Everything was changed. -For instance, eighteen years ago, when he left the town to settle in -Petersburg, where the railway station is now boys used to hunt for -marmots: now as you come into the High Street there is a four storied -"Hotel Vienna," with apartments, where there was of old an ugly grey -fence. But not the fence or the houses, or anything had changed so much -as the people. Questioning the hall-porter, Usielkov discovered that -more than half of the people he remembered were dead or paupers or -forgotten. - -"Do you remember Usielkov?" he asked the porter. "Usielkov, the -architect, who divorced his wife.... He had a house in Sviribev -Street.... Surely you remember." - -"No, I don't remember anyone of the name." - -"Why, it's impossible not to remember. It was an exciting case. All -the cabmen knew, even. Try to remember. His divorce was managed by the -attorney, Shapkin, the swindler ... the notorious sharper, the man who -was thrashed at the dub...." - -"You mean Ivan Nicolaich?" - -"Yes.... Is he alive? dead?" - -"Thank heaven, his honour's alive. His honour's a notary now, with an -office. Well-to-do. Two houses in Kirpichny Street. Just lately married -his daughter off." - -Usielkov strode from one corner of the room to another. An idea -flashed into his mind. From boredom, he decided to see Shapkin. It -was afternoon when he left the hotel and quietly walked to Kirpichny -Street. He found Shapkin in his office and hardly recognised him. From -the well-built, alert attorney with a quick, impudent, perpetually -tipsy expression, Shapkin had become a modest, grey-haired, shrunken -old man. - -"You don't recognise me.... You have forgotten ...." Usielkov began. -"I'm your old client, Usielkov." - -"Usielkov? Which Usielkov? Ah!" Remembrance came to Shapkin: he -recognised him and was confused. Began exclamations, questions, -recollections. - -"Never expected ... never thought...." chuckled Shapkin. "What will you -have? Would you like champagne? Perhaps you'd like oysters. My dear -man, what a lot of money I got out of you in the old days--so much that -I can't think what I ought to stand you." - -"Please don't trouble," said Usielkov. "I haven't time. I must go to -the cemetery and examine the church. I have a commission." - -"Splendid. We'll have something to eat and a drink and go together. -I've got some splendid horses! I'll take you there and introduce you to -the churchwarden.... I'll fix up everything.... But what's the matter, -my dearest man? You're not avoiding me, not afraid? Please sit nearer. -There's nothing to be afraid of now.... Long ago, I really was pretty -sharp, a bit of a rogue ... but now I'm quieter than water, humbler -than grass. I've grown old; got a family. There are children.... Time -to die!" - -The friends had something to eat and drink, and went in a coach and -pair to the cemetery. - -"Yes, it was a good time," Shapkin was reminiscent, sitting in the -sledge. "I remember, but I simply can't believe it. Do you remember -how you divorced your wife? It's almost twenty years ago, and you've -probably forgotten everything, but I remember it as though I conducted -the petition yesterday. My God, how rotten I was! Then I was a smart, -casuistical devil, full of sharp practice and devilry.... and I used -to run into some shady affairs, particularly when there was a good -fee, as in your case, for instance. What was it you paid me then? -Five--six hundred. Enough to upset anybody! By the time you left for -Petersburg you'd left the whole affair completely in my hands. 'Do what -you like!' And your former wife, Sophia Mikhailovna, though she did -come from a merchant family, was proud and selfish. To bribe her to -take the guilt on herself was difficult--extremely difficult. I used to -come to her for a business talk, and when she saw me, she would say to -her maid: 'Masha, surely I told you I wasn't at home to scoundrels.' -I tried one way, then another ... wrote letters to her, tried to meet -her accidentally--no good. I had to work through a third person. For a -long time I had trouble with her, and she only yielded when you agreed -to give her ten thousand. She could not stand out against ten thousand. -She succumbed.... She began to weep, spat in my face, but she yielded -and took the guilt on herself." - -"If I remember it was fifteen, not ten thousand she took from me," said -Usielkov. - -"Yes, of course ... fifteen, my mistake." Shapkin was disconcerted. -"Anyway it's all past and done with now. Why shouldn't I confess, -frankly? Ten I gave to her, and the remaining five I bargained out of -you for my own share. I deceived both of you.... It's all past, why be -ashamed of it? And who else was there to take from, Boris Pietrovich, -if not from you? I ask you.... You were rich and well-to-do. You -married in caprice: you were divorced in caprice. You were making a -fortune. I remember you got twenty thousand out of a single contract. -Whom was I to tap, if not you? And I must confess, I was tortured by -envy. If you got hold of a nice lot of money, people would take off -their hats to you: but the same people would beat me for shillings and -smack my face in the club. But why recall it? It's time to forget." - -"Tell me, please, how did Sophia Mikhailovna live afterwards?" - -"With her ten thousand? _On ne peut plus_ badly.... God knows whether -it was frenzy or pride and conscience that tortured her, because she -had sold herself for money--or perhaps she loved you; but, she took to -drink, you know. She received the money and began to gad about with -officers in troikas.... Drunkenness, philandering, debauchery.... She -would come into a tavern with an officer, and instead of port or a -light wine, she would drink the strongest cognac to drive her into a -frenzy." - -"Yes, she was eccentric. I suffered enough with her. She would take -offence at some trifle and then get nervous.... And what happened -afterwards?" - -"A week passed, a fortnight.... I was sitting at home writing. -Suddenly, the door opened and she comes in. 'Take your cursed money,' -she said, and threw the parcel in my face.... She could not resist -it.... Five hundred were missing. She had only got rid of five -hundred." - -"And what did you do with the money?" - -"It's all past and done with. What's the good of concealing it?... -I certainly took it. What are you staring at me like that for? Wait -for the sequel. It's a complete novel, the sickness of a soul! Two -months passed by. One night I came home drunk, in a wicked mood.... -I turned on the light and saw Sophia Mikhailovna sitting on my sofa, -drunk too, wandering a bit, with something savage in her face as if -she had just escaped from the mad-house. 'Give me my money back,' she -said. 'I've changed my mind. If I'm going to the dogs, I want to go -madly, passionately. Make haste, you scoundrel, give me the money.' How -indecent it was!" - -"And you ... did you give it her?" - -"I remember I gave her ten roubles." - -"Oh ... is it possible?" Usielkov frowned. "If you couldn't do it -yourself, or you didn't want to, you could have written to me.... And I -didn't know ... I didn't know." - -"My dear man, why should I write, when she wrote herself afterwards -when she was in hospital?" - -"I was so taken up with the new marriage that I paid no attention to -letters.... But you were an outsider; you had no antagonism to Sophia -Mikhailovna.... Why didn't you help her?" - -"We can't judge by our present standards, Boris Pietrovich. Now we -think in this way; but then we thought quite differently.... Now I -might perhaps give her a thousand roubles; but then even ten roubles -... she didn't get them for nothing. It's a terrible story. It's time -to forget.... But here you are!" - -The sledge stopped at the churchyard gate. Usielkov and Shapkin got -out of the sledge, went through the gate and walked along a long, -broad avenue. The bare cherry trees, the acacias, the grey crosses and -monuments sparkled with hoar-frost. In each flake of snow the bright -sunny day was reflected. There was the smell you find in all cemeteries -of incense and fresh-dug earth. - -"You have a beautiful cemetery," said Usielkov. "It's almost an -orchard." - -"Yes, but it's a pity the thieves steal the monuments. Look, there, -behind that cast-iron memorial, on the right, Sophia Mikhailovna is -buried. Would you like to see?" - -The friends turned to the right, stepping in deep snow towards the -cast-iron memorial. - -"Down here," said Shapkin, pointing to a little stone of white marble. -"Some subaltern or other put up the monument on her grave." Usielkov -slowly took off his hat and showed his bald pate to the snow. Eying -him, Shapkin also took off his hat, and another baldness shone beneath -the sun. The silence round about was like the tomb, as though the air -were dead, too. The friends looked at the stone, silent, thinking. - -"She is asleep!" Shapkin broke the silence. "And she cares very little -that she took the guilt upon herself and drank cognac. Confess, Boris -Pietrovich!" - -"What?" asked Usielkov, sternly. - -"That, however loathsome the past may be, it's better than this." And -Shapkin pointed to his grey hairs. - -"In the old days I did not even think of death.... If I'd met her, I -would have circumvented her, but now ... well, now!" - -Sadness took hold of Usielkov. Suddenly he wanted to cry, passionately, -as he once desired to love.... And he felt that these tears would be -exquisite, refreshing. Moisture came out of his eyes and a lump rose in -his throat, but.... Shapkin was standing by his side, and Usielkov felt -ashamed of his weakness before a witness. He turned back quickly and -walked towards the church. - -Two hours later, having arranged with the churchwarden and examined the -church, he seized the opportunity while Shapkin was talking away to the -priest, and ran to shed a tear. He walked to the stone surreptitiously, -with stealthy steps, looking round all the time. The little white -monument stared at him absently, so sadly and innocently, as though a -girl and not a wanton _divorce_ were beneath. - -"If I could weep, could weep!" thought Usielkov. - -But the moment for weeping had been lost. Though the old man managed -to make his eyes shine, and tried to bring himself to the right pitch, -the tears did not flow and the lump did not rise in his throat.... -After waiting for about ten minutes, Usielkov waved his arm and went to -look for Shapkin. - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Bet and other stories, by Anton Tchekhov - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BET AND OTHER STORIES *** - -***** This file should be named 55283-8.txt or 55283-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/5/2/8/55283/ - -Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at Free Literature (online soon -in an extended version,also linking to free sources for -education worldwide ... 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