It was a sunny, cold January day; a multitude of people were strolling
on the Névsky Prospékt. The clock on the tower of the city hall marked
three o’clock. Along the broad stone slabs, strewn with yellow sand, was
walking, among others, our acquaintance Vladímir Sergyéitch Astákhoff.
He has grown very virile since we parted from him; his face is framed in
whiskers, and he has grown plump all over, but he has not aged. He was
moving after the crowd at a leisurely pace, and now and then casting a
glance about him; he was expecting his wife; she had preferred to drive
up in the carriage with her mother. Vladímir Sergyéitch married five
years ago, precisely in the manner which he had always desired: his wife
was wealthy, and with the best of connections. Courteously lifting his
splendidly brushed hat when he met his numerous acquaintances, Vladímir
Sergyéitch was still stepping out with the free stride of a man who is
satisfied with his lot, when suddenly, just at the Passage,[30] he came
near colliding with a gentleman in a Spanish cloak and foraging-cap,
with a decidedly worn face, a dyed moustache, and large, swollen eyes.
Vladímir Sergyéitch drew aside with dignity, but the gentleman in the
foraging-cap glanced at him, and suddenly exclaimed:
“Ah! Mr. Astákhoff, how do you do?”
Vladímir Sergyéitch made no reply, and stopped short in surprise. He
could not comprehend how a gentleman who could bring himself to walk on
the Névsky in a foraging-cap could be acquainted with his name.
“You do not recognise me,”--pursued the gentleman in the cap:--“I saw
you eight years ago, in the country, in the T*** Government, at the
Ipátoffs’. My name is Véretyeff.”
“Akh! Good heavens! excuse me!”--exclaimed Vladímir Sergyéitch.--“But
how you have changed since then!...”
“Yes, I have grown old,”--returned Piótr Alexyéitch, passing his hand,
which was devoid of a glove, over his face.--“But you have not changed.”
Véretyeff had not so much aged as fallen away and sunk down. Small,
delicate wrinkles covered his face; and when he spoke, his lips and
cheeks twitched slightly. From all this it was perceptible that the man
had been living hard.
“Where have you disappeared to all this time, that you have not been
visible?”--Vladímir Sergyéitch asked him.
“I have been wandering about here and there. And you have been in
Petersburg all the while?”
“Yes, most of the time.”
“Are you married?”
“Yes.”
And Vladímir Sergyéitch assumed a rather severe mien, as though with the
object of saying to Véretyeff: “My good fellow, don’t take it into thy
head to ask me to present thee to my wife.”
Véretyeff understood him, apparently. An indifferent sneer barely
flitted across his lips.
“And how is your sister?”--inquired Vladímir Sergyéitch.--“Where is
she?”
“I cannot tell you for certain. She must be in Moscow. I have not
received any letters from her this long time!”
“Is her husband alive?”
“Yes.”
“And Mr. Ipátoff?”
“I don’t know; probably he is alive also; but he may be dead.”
“And that gentleman--what the deuce was his name?--Bodryakóff,--what of
him?”
“The one you invited to be your second--you remember, when you were so
scared? Why, the devil knows!”
Vladímir Sergyéitch maintained silence for a while, with dignity written
on his face.
“I always recall with pleasure those evenings,”--he went on,--“when I
had the opportunity” (he had nearly said, “the honour”) “of making the
acquaintance of your sister and yourself. She was a very amiable person.
And do you sing as agreeably as ever?”
“No; I have lost my voice.... But that was a good time!”
“I visited Ipátovka once afterward,”--added Vladímir Sergyéitch,
elevating his eyebrows mournfully. “I think that was the name of that
village--on the very day of a terrible event....”
“Yes, yes, that was frightful, frightful,”--Véretyeff hastily
interrupted him.--“Yes, yes. And do you remember how you came near
fighting with my present brother-in-law?”
“H’m! I remember!”--replied Vladímir Sergyéitch, slowly.--“However, I
must confess to you that so much time has elapsed since then, that all
that sometimes seems to me like a dream....”
“Like a dream,”--repeated Véretyeff, and his pale cheeks flushed;--“like
a dream ... no, it was not a dream, for me at all events. It was the
time of youth, of mirth and happiness, the time of unlimited hopes, and
invincible powers; and if it was a dream, then it was a very beautiful
dream. And now, you and I have grown old and stupid, we dye our
moustaches, and saunter on the Névsky, and have become good for nothing;
like broken-winded nags, we have become utterly vapid and worn out; it
cannot be said that we are pompous and put on airs, nor that we spend
our time in idleness; but I fear we drown our grief in drink,--that is
more like a dream, and a hideous dream. Life has been lived, and lived
in vain, clumsily, vulgarly--that’s what is bitter! That’s what one
would like to shake off like a dream, that’s what one would like to
recover one’s self from!... And then ... everywhere, there is one
frightful memory, one ghost.... But farewell!”
Véretyeff walked hastily away; but on coming opposite the door of one of
the principal confectioners on the Névsky, he halted, entered, and after
drinking a glass of orange vodka at the buffet, he wended his way
through the billiard-room, all dark and dim with tobacco-smoke, to the
rear room. There he found several acquaintances, his former
comrades--Pétya Lazúrin, Kóstya Kovróvsky, and Prince Serdiukóff, and
two other gentlemen who were called simply Vasiúk, and Filát. All of
them were men no longer young, though unmarried; some of them had lost
their hair, others were growing grey; their faces were covered with
wrinkles, their chins had grown double; in a word, these gentlemen had
all long since passed their prime, as the saying is. Yet all of them
continued to regard Véretyeff as a remarkable man, destined to astonish
the universe; and he was wiser than they only because he was very well
aware of his utter and radical uselessness. And even outside of his
circle, there were people who thought concerning him, that if he had not
ruined himself, the deuce only knows what he would have made of
himself.... These people were mistaken. Nothing ever comes of
Véretyeffs.
Piótr Alexyéitch’s friends welcomed him with the customary greetings. At
first he dumbfounded them with his gloomy aspect and his splenetic
speeches; but he speedily calmed down, cheered up, and affairs went on
in their wonted rut.
But Vladímir Sergyéitch, as soon as Véretyeff left him, contracted his
brows in a frown and straightened himself up. Piótr Alexyéitch’s
unexpected sally had astounded, even offended him extremely.
“‘We have grown stupid, we drink liquor, we dye our moustaches’ ...
_parlez pour vous, mon cher_,”--he said at last, almost aloud, and
emitting a couple of snorts caused by an access of involuntary
indignation, he was preparing to continue his stroll.
“Who was that talking with you?”--rang out a loud and self-confident
voice behind him.
Vladímir Sergyéitch turned round and beheld one of his best friends, a
certain Mr. Pompónsky. This Mr. Pompónsky, a man of lofty stature, and
stout, occupied a decidedly important post, and never once, from his
very earliest youth, had he doubted himself.
“Why, a sort of eccentric,”--said Vladímir Sergyéitch, linking his arm
in Mr. Pompónsky’s.
“Good gracious, Vladímir Sergyéitch, is it permissible for a respectable
man to chat on the street with an individual who wears a foraging-cap on
his head? ’Tis indecent! I’m amazed! Where could you have made
acquaintance with such a person?”
“In the country.”
“In the country.... One does not bow to one’s country neighbours in
town.... _ce n’est pas comme il faut_. A gentleman should always bear
himself like a gentleman if he wishes that....”
“Here is my wife,”--Vladímir Sergyéitch hastily interrupted him.--“Let
us go to her.”
And the two gentlemen directed their steps to a low-hung, elegant
carriage, from whose window there peered forth the pale, weary, and
irritatingly-arrogant little face of a woman who was still young, but
already faded.
Behind her another lady, also apparently in a bad humour,--her
mother,--was visible. Vladímir Sergyéitch opened the door of the
carriage, and offered his arm to his wife. Pompónsky gave his to the
mother-in-law, and the two couples made their way along the Névsky
Prospékt, accompanied by a short, black-haired footman in yellowish-grey
gaiters, and with a big cockade on his hat.