_HUMOUR SERIES_
EDITED BY W. H. DIRCKS
THE HUMOUR OF RUSSIA
ALREADY ISSUED
_FRENCH HUMOUR_
_GERMAN HUMOUR_
_ITALIAN HUMOUR_
_AMERICAN HUMOUR_
_DUTCH HUMOUR_
_IRISH HUMOUR_
_SPANISH HUMOUR_
_RUSSIAN HUMOUR_
[Illustration:
“ONE DAY I WAS OUT FOR A SPREE WITH MY MAN JACK.”
—p. 167.
]
THE
HUMOUR OF RUSSIA
[Illustration]
TRANSLATED BY E. L.
VOYNICH, WITH AN
INTRODUCTION BY
STEPNIAK
ILLUSTRATIONS BY
PAUL FRÉNZENY
LONDON WALTER SCOTT
1895 LTD
CONTENTS
PAGE
MARRIAGE—_Gogol_ 1
AT THE POLICE INSPECTOR’S—_Gorbounòv_ 64
BEFORE THE JUSTICE OF THE PEACE—_Gorbounòv_ 69
INCOMPATIBILITY OF TEMPER—_A. N. Ostròvsky_ 72
A MADMAN’S DIARY—_Gogol_ 107
PORRIDGE—_Nikolai Uspènsky_ 135
A DOMESTIC PICTURE—_A. N. Ostròvsky_ 142
“LA TRAVIATA”—_Gorbounòv_ 167
A SEVENTEENTH CENTURY LETTER FROM EMS—_Gorbounòv_ 170
THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER—_N. Uspènsky_ 174
THE RECOLLECTIONS OF ONÉSIME CHENAPAN—“_Shchedrìn_” 185
THE CROCODILE—_Fèdor Dostoyèvsky_ 205
THE STEAM-CHICKEN—_Glyeb Uspènsky_ 236
THE STORY OF A KOPECK—_S. Stepniak_ 254
THE DOG’S PASSPORT 273
A TRIFLING DEFECT IN THE MECHANISM—_Glyeb Uspènsky_ 276
THE SELF-SACRIFICING RABBIT—“_Shchedrìn_” 309
CHOIR PRACTICE—_V. A. Slyeptzòv_ 317
THE EAGLE AS MECÆNAS—“_Shchedrìn_” 335
INTRODUCTION.
Of all manifestations of literary genius humour is the rarest, and I am
not sure that it is not the highest. Laughter is immortal. The
sentimental novels over which our grandfathers and grandmothers shed
floods of tears—the “Corinnas,” the “Clarissas,” and the “New
Heloises”—have become for us soporifics of an almost irresistible
strength. But the world still laughs, and will laugh for ever, over the
masterpiece of Cervantes and the burlesques of Voltaire. Who nowadays
can read from beginning to end Francesco Petrarca, and who can put down
Giovanni Boccaccio when once begun?
Then again, whilst the demand for refreshing, invigorating laughter has
been in all times the greatest, the number of authors who have come
forward to dispense it is surprisingly small, even in the richest
literatures. The Italians, for example, have had only one master of
immortal laughter—the above-mentioned Boccaccio. The great Manzoni
possessed the deep intrinsic qualities of a humorist but had not the
pungency. In the long list of Italian authors of our century there is
only one humorist of first magnitude—Carlo Porta, who wrote not in
literary Italian but in the Milanese dialect.
Of all races the stern, sad English are by far the richest in the
beautiful gift of genuine humour. The melancholy Slavonians come, I
think, next to the English. Melancholy does not exclude humour. On the
contrary, the richest pearls of humour are gathered at the bottom of the
sea of sadness. The greatest humorists have never been men of cheerful
mood, and this seems to be as true of nations as of men.
From the time when Russia first possessed a literature worthy of the
name, we have always had eminent humorists, some of them, like Gogol and
Shchedrìn, belonging to those makers of divine laughter who so rarely
appear among the nations.
But although justly popular in their own country, the Russian humorists
are hardly known abroad. This is certainly due not to want of
opportunity of knowing them. Gogol’s masterpieces, “Dead Souls” and “The
Inspector,” were translated years ago into English. But he is not half
so well known in this country as any of the three great Russian
novelists. Humour is so eminently national, it is so closely bound to
the soil where it is born, that it can rarely be transplanted to other
climes and skies. It certainly loses more in translation than ordinary
fiction, and it requires a peculiar gift on the part of the translator
that its distinctive characteristics should not be lost altogether.
However, translators have had the courage to try their skill upon Gogol,
who is not only the greatest but the most comprehensible of Russian
humorists. With him the comical effect results neither from the peculiar
manner of description nor from the contrasts presented, but from his
unique gift of bringing to the surface the comical traits of men’s
characters. His is the deepest and the most artistic form of humour,
which on this account becomes sometimes international. Gogol’s
heroes—some of them at least—are as comprehensible to the English as
Charles Dickens’s Mr. Micawber and Mrs. Nickleby are comprehensible to
the Russians.
The present volume contains two beautiful examples of Gogol’s art, which
has not been yet translated into English—“A Madman’s Diary” and
“Marriage.”
The “Diary” is a fanciful sketch, presenting perhaps the most typical
sample of “Humour,” as distinguished from other forms of the comical,
which can be found in any literature. It is an intensely pathetic, and
at the same time irresistibly droll, bit of autobiography of a poor
wretch of an official whose life has been one of insufferable
humiliation, and whose mind, upset by a fatal passion for a fashionable
girl, seeks refuge in the dream of greatness ending in total madness.
“Laughter through tears,” that was Gogol’s own definition of the
character of his muse, and in no other work has he shown so palpably
what he meant by that expression as in “A Madman’s Diary.”
“Marriage,” although bearing the author’s heading, “an utterly
incredible story,” and viewed by him as a mere joke, is recognised by
all Russia as one of Gogol’s truest and finest works. It contains two of
the best conceived and most delicately drawn characters of our great
character-maker, that of the hero, the old bachelor Podkolyòssin, an
amusing type of irresolution and pusillanimity, and of his friend
Kochkaryòv, the meddlesome busybody, who, just after he has abused the
professional matchmaker Fèkla for having married him to a fool, becomes
fired with an irresistible longing to confer upon his bosom friend
Podkolyòssin the blessing of an alliance with another fool of exactly
the same type. As a comedy of customs “Marriage” reproduces a
patriarchal life so remote from the modern English that some
explanations are necessary. Among the uneducated part of the Russian
middle-class, as well as among the peasantry, marriages are arranged by
the parents. The young people being considered too ignorant to be
consulted upon a matter of such importance. In the villages, among the
peasantry, where everybody is known by everybody else, no special
intermediaries are needed to arrange these matches. But it is different
with the middle-class living in large cities. Here a class of
professional matchmakers and go-betweens exists. Naturally enough, it
lends itself very much to ridicule, and two samples of it appear in the
present volume—one in Gogol, the other in Ostròvsky’s comedy.
Gogol, who was born in 1810 and died in 1852, is the oldest of our great
prose writers. To him we can trace the origin of the Russian realistic
novel as well as drama. Ostròvsky, who is his successor in the dramatic
art, is our contemporary. He was born in 1824, and died four years ago.
To him the Russians owe their theatre: he left us thirty-seven dramas
and comedies, varying in merit and popularity, but all keeping their
place upon the stage.
“Incompatibility of Temper”—one of the two of his comedies that are
given in the present volume—is a sample of that pure and deep humour
which we admire in Gogol. Serafìma, the heroine, with her extraordinary
stupidity, sentimentality, apparent whimsicalness, and practical
pigheadedness, is as living and striking a creation of Russian humour as
the best of Gogol’s types. But in the next comedy the sunny, sympathetic
humour changes into the harsh laughter of the satirist.
The “Domestic Picture,” the second of Ostròvsky’s dramas, is anything
but a picture of Russian domestic life. It is a bitter and merciless
satire, exposing the commercial dishonesty, the result of ignorance,
which prevailed in the bulk of our middle-class two generations ago, and
the shocking immorality nestling secretly in those families where
despotism has destroyed all natural ties of affection and uprooted all
sense of honour.
With Shchedrìn (Saltykòv) we are in presence of the greatest satirist
the Slavonic race has produced. He is a man of our time, Russia having
lost him only a few years ago. For about fifty years he was the moral
leader of liberal Russia, having devoted his life to the awakening of
the national conscience by all the ways and methods which his
incomparable genius could suggest. He was the political chronicler of
his time, reproducing in rough caricatures, which made the whole of
reading Russia roar with laughter, the principal events which took place
in the country. At the same time, in his more elaborate works, as the
“Story of the Golovlevs,” and others, he equals Dostoyèvsky in the power
of creating weird, gloomy, strikingly original figures, as well as in
the subtle delineation of the whole man from the inner side.
When the boldness of some idea or the virulence of some attack rendered
it impossible for Shchedrìn (on account of the censorship) to speak
plainly, he resorted to what he himself used to call the “slave’s
language,” employing the Oriental form of the fable, the allegory, the
fairy tale.
The best of Shchedrìn’s works are not translated into English, and
probably will never be. His unrivalled wit and humour are
untranslatable, because they depend chiefly upon the marvellous skill in
using the Russian language. This is not inferiority, but difference in
the quality of the talent. Rudyard Kipling’s military stories, to quote
an English example, are certainly very fine samples of genuine humour.
But what would remain of them if stripped of their racy idiom? And how
many second and third-rate authors are just as good (or as bad) in any
decent translation?
Our great satirist stands at the head of those authors who must be read
in their own tongue. The translator has shown much discernment in
choosing as samples of Shchedrìn’s art three minor works of his, in
which the language is of lesser importance. One is a burlesque, “The
Recollections of Onésime Chenapan,” which is an amusing caricature of
the Russian “administrators.” The other two are fables—“The
Self-Sacrificing Rabbit,” in which the satirist boldly ridicules nothing
less than _the feeling of loyalty under a régime which consists of
brutal violence erected into a system_, and “The Eagle as Mecænas,” a
skit on the Tzar himself.
The gloomy author of _Crime and Punishment_ once relieved his mind with
a queer, semi-fantastic little story, “The Crocodile,” which amuses by
its incongruities and contrasts. It has not been before translated, so
far as I know, into any foreign language, and the English admirers of
Dostoyèvsky will be the first to read it.
But the object of the translator was not merely to make a collection of
the best humoristic works of the best Russian authors. She wanted to
give samples of all kinds of Russian humour, and her list includes the
two Uspènskys, Glyeb and Nikolai, V. Slyeptzòv, and even some sketches
by Gorbounòv. There is hardly a name worth mentioning that could be
added to these. As to translation, it is as good as it possibly could
be. Only a person with the translator’s exceptional knowledge of the
Russian language could have overcome the difficulties inherent in a work
of such a kind. Yet, with all that, I doubt whether the English will
make a fair estimate of the above-mentioned authors, though among them
there is one—Glyeb Uspènsky—who enjoys an enormous and well-merited
popularity among the very exacting and discriminating Russian public.
What has been said about the untranslatableness of Shchedrìn applies _à
fortiori_ to the minor humorists. Their charm depends in a still greater
degree upon the language. The unique flexibility, richness, and freedom
of the Russian idiom allows those few who have got the mastery over it
to obtain with it truly wonderful effects. Some authors do this at the
expense of more substantial qualities. With our younger humorists the
language runs riot. They are like those injudicious painters who, having
a great command over the colouring, neglect to give the necessary
correctness and fulness to the _lines_, which alone know of no decay and
are preserved through time and space. The translation is like the plain
black and white reproduction of a picture. Only the substantial,
unperishable part of the work is preserved, the rest being lost almost
entirely. And in regard to the examples taken here from our minor
humorists,—if English readers enjoy the humour of “A Trifling Defect in
the Mechanism,” or “The Porridge,” it will be as high a compliment to
the translator as to the authors.
A trifle of my own—“The Story of a Kopeck”—has been kindly included by
the translator in the present collection. It is quite a youthful
production, and will not, I am afraid, be of much credit to Russian
humour. But in view of the catholicity of the translator’s choice, which
includes even Gorbounòv, I thought it might stand where it is.
Whatever be the reader’s opinion of the merit of separate stories, the
translator, as well as the publishers, deserve the thanks of the lover
of Russian literature for bringing out this collection.
The smile is the most characteristic trait of a human face. We do not
really know what a face is like before we have seen it smiling. Now with
a nation its humour is what a smile is with an individual.
S. STEPNIAK.
THE HUMOUR OF RUSSIA
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
AGÀFIA TIKHÒNOVNA, _marriageable girl of the merchant class_.
ARÌNA PANTELÈYMOVNA, _her aunt_.
FÈKLA IVÀNOVNA, _professional matchmaker_.
PODKOLYÒSSIN, _aulic counsellor_.
KOCHKARYÒV, _his friend_.
YAÌCHNITZA, _usher_.
ANOÙCHKIN, _retired infantry officer_.
ZHEVÀKIN, _seafaring person_.
DOUNIÀSHKA, _a girl in the house_.
STARIKÒV, _shopkeeper_.
STEPÀN, _Podkolyòssin’s servant_.
[Illustration]
MARRIAGE.
AN UTTERLY INCREDIBLE INCIDENT.
IN TWO ACTS.
ACT I. SCENE I.
(_A bachelor’s apartment._ PODKOLYÒSSIN, _alone, lying on the sofa
smoking a pipe_.)
_Pod._ Really when a man’s alone, and thinks about it at his leisure, it
does seem after all as if one ought to get married. Indeed, if you think
of it, here one goes on, living and living; and one ends by getting
quite disgusted with everything. There, I’ve let the time slip by once
more; and it’s holy season[1] again. It’s too bad! Everything’s ready,
and the matchmaker’s been coming for the last three months. It makes me
feel quite ashamed. Hi! Stepàn! (_Enter_ STEPÀN.) Hasn’t the matchmaker
come?
_Step._ No, your honour.
_Pod._ Have you been to the tailor?
_Step._ Yes.
_Pod._ Is he making the dress-coat?
_Step._ Yes, sir.
_Pod._ How far has he got on with it?
_Step._ He is making the button-holes.
_Pod._ What do you say?
_Step._ I said he’s begun to make the button-holes.
_Pod._ And didn’t he ask you what your master wants with a dress-coat?
_Step._ No, sir; he didn’t.
_Pod._ Perhaps he asked you whether your master wasn’t going to get
married?
_Step._ No; he didn’t say anything about it.
_Pod._ Did you see any other dress-coats in the workshop? I suppose he
makes for other people too?
_Step._ Yes; there were a lot of coats hanging up.
_Pod._ But I’ll be bound the cloth of them isn’t as good as mine!
_Step._ No, sir; the stuff of yours looks nicer.
_Pod._ What do you say?
_Step._ I say the stuff of yours is nicer, sir.
_Pod._ That’s all right. Well, and didn’t the tailor ask why your master
wants a dress-coat of such fine cloth?
_Step._ No.
_Pod._ Didn’t he say anything about whether your master thought of
getting married?
_Step._ No; he didn’t talk about it at all.
_Pod._ But I suppose you told him what my position is, and where I
serve?
_Step._ Yes, sir.
_Pod._ What did he say to that?
_Step._ He said, “I’ll do my best.”
_Pod._ That’s all right. Now you may go. (_Exit_ STEPÀN.) I am inclined
to think that a black dress-coat is the most decorous. Coloured coats
are all very well for secretaries, and clerks, and all that small
fry—they look just fit for milksops. People higher up in the service
ought to observe what is called a—a—a—a——There! I’ve forgotten the word!
It’s a fine word; and I’ve forgotten it! It’s all very well to put on
airs, little father, but an aulic counsellor takes the rank of colonel
too; the only difference is that he has a uniform without epaulettes.
Hi! Stepàn! (_Enter_ STEPÀN.) Did you buy the blacking?
_Step._ Yes, sir.
_Pod._ Where did you buy it? In the shop I told you about, on the
Voznesènsky Prospect?
_Step._ Yes, that was the shop.
_Pod._ And is it good?
_Step._ Very good.
_Pod._ Did you try it on the boots?
_Step._ Yes, sir.
_Pod._ And does it shine?
_Step._ It takes a beautiful shine, sir.
_Pod._ And when you bought it, didn’t the man ask you what your master
wants with such good blacking?
_Step._ No.
_Pod._ Perhaps he asked you whether your master was going to be married?
_Step._ No; he didn’t say anything.
_Pod._ All right; you can go. (_Exit_ STEPÀN.) One would think boots
were a trifling thing; and yet if they are badly made, or not properly
blacked, no one will respect you in good society. It makes a great
difference, somehow.... Another horrid thing is, if one has corns. I’d
be ready to put up with almost anything rather than have corns. Hi!
Stepàn! (_Enter_ STEPÀN.)
_Step._ What’s your honour’s pleasure?
_Pod._ Did you tell the shoemaker that the boots musn’t give me corns?
_Step._ Yes, sir.
_Pod._ And what did he say?
_Step._ He said, “All right.” (_Exit._)
_Pod._ The deuce take it all! It’s a difficult business, this getting
married. What with one thing and another—first this has to be set right,
and then that—the devil take it all! it’s not half so easy as people
say. Hi! Stepàn! (_Enter_ STEPÀN.) There’s another thing I wanted to
say——
_Step._ The old woman’s come.
_Pod._ Ah! she’s come? Send her in. (_Exit_ STEPÀN.) Yes; it’s a sort of
thing—a sort of—a hard matter. (_Enter_ FÈKLA.) Ah! good-morning, Fèkla
Ivànovna! Well? What have you got to say? There’s a chair; sit down and
tell me about it. I want to hear all about her. What’s her name?
Melània——
_Fèkla._ Agàfia Tikhònovna.
_Pod._ Yes, yes, Agàfia Tikhònovna. I suppose she’s some old maid of
forty?
_Fèkla._ Well, then, you’re just wrong. I can tell you, if you marry
her, you’ll come to thank me and praise her up every day of your life.
_Pod._ I suppose that’s a lie, Fèkla Ivànovna?
_Fèkla._ I’m old to tell lies, little father; lying’s a dog’s work.
_Pod._ But the dowry? What about the dowry?
_Fèkla._ The dowry? Well, there’s a stone house in the Moscow
borough,[2] two-storied; it brings in such a profit that it’s a pleasure
to think of: one corndealer pays seven hundred for his shop; then there
are wine-vaults that attract plenty of customers; two wooden wings, one
entirely wooden and the other with a stone basement: they bring in an
income of four hundred roubles each. Well then, there’s a market-garden
on the Vỳborgskaya[3] side. The year before last a merchant took it for
cabbage-farming; and such a good sober fellow—never touches a drop of
drink—and he’s got three sons; he has married two of them, “but the
third,” says he, “is too young; he can stay in the shop and see after
the business. I’m getting old,” says he, “so it’s time for my son to
stay in the shop and see that the business goes on all right.”
_Pod._ Well, but tell me what she’s like to look at.
_Fèkla._ Like sugar-candy! Pink and white, like roses and cream....
Sweeter than honey; sweeter than I can say! I tell you, you’ll be over
head and ears in love with her; you’ll go about to all your friends and
enemies and say, “I’ve got something to thank Fèkla Ivànovna for.”
_Pod._ Well, I don’t know; she’s not a staff-officer’s daughter.
_Fèkla._ No; but she belongs to the third guild. And then she’s one that
even a general needn’t be ashamed of. Why, she won’t even hear of a
merchant. “I don’t care,” says she, “what my husband’s like; I don’t
even care if he’s ugly, but he must be a noble.” There’s a real lady for
you! And you should just see her on Sundays, when she puts on a silk
dress. Dear Lord! How it rustles! Like any princess.
_Pod._ Well, you see, that’s why I asked you, because I’m an aulic
counsellor; and so—you understand....
_Fèkla._ Of course I understand. There was an aulic counsellor that
tried for her already, but she refused him; she didn’t like him. But
then he had such a strange way with him; he was all right to look at,
but he couldn’t speak a word without telling lies. It wasn’t his fault,
poor fellow; the Lord made him so. He was sorry enough himself about it,
but he just couldn’t help lying; it was God’s will, that’s clear.
_Pod._ And is she the only girl you’ve got on hand?
_Fèkla._ Why, what do you want with another? She’s the best you could
possibly have.
_Pod._ You don’t really mean that?
_Fèkla._ If you look all over the world, you won’t find another like
her.
_Pod._ Well, little mother, we’ll think it over, we’ll think it over.
You’d better come again to-morrow. I’ll tell you what: you come again,
and we’ll have a comfortable time; I’ll lie on the sofa, and you shall
tell me about her.
_Fèkla._ Come, little father, that’s too much of a good thing! I’ve been
at your beck and call for more than two months, and nothing’s come of it
yet; all you ever do is to sit in your dressing-gown and smoke a pipe.
_Pod._ I suppose you think to get married is no more than to say “Hi!
Stepàn, bring my boots!” and just put them on, and go out. No, no! one
must think it over, and look about one.
_Fèkla._ Oh! there’s no harm in that. If you want to look, who minds
your looking? The goods are in the market to be looked at. Call for your
coat, and go off now, without wasting the morning!
_Pod._ Now? Why just look how dull the weather is. If I go out, I may
get caught in the rain.
_Fèkla._ Dear me! What a misfortune! Why, little father, the grey hairs
are coming on your head already. If you wait much longer, you won’t be a
marriageable man at all. A fine prize! An aulic counsellor! I can tell
you, we can get hold of such grand suitors, that we shan’t care to look
at you!
_Pod._ What rubbish are you talking? What’s put it into your head all of
a sudden that I’ve got a grey hair? Where’s a grey hair? (_Feels his
hair._)
_Fèkla._ Why shouldn’t you have grey hairs? Most people do, when they
live long enough. Take care, though; you won’t have this girl, and you
don’t like that girl—but I can tell you, I’ve got a captain in my eye
that’s a head and shoulders taller than you, and he talks just like a
brass trumpet. He serves in the ammaralty....
_Pod._ It’s not true! I’ll look in the glass: you’re only pretending
there are grey hairs! Hi! Stepàn! Bring the looking-glass!... No!
wait—I’ll go myself. What next? Heaven defend us! that’s worse than
small-pox! (_Exit into adjoining room. Enter_ KOCHKARYÒV, _running_.)
_Koch._ Where’s Podkolyòssin? (_Seeing_ FÈKLA.) _You_ here! Ah! you!...
Look here! What the devil did you marry me for?
_Fèkla._ What’s the harm? It’s right and lawful.
_Koch._ Right and lawful! What do you suppose a man wants with a wife?
Did you suppose I couldn’t get on without one?
_Fèkla._ Why, it was you yourself that wouldn’t let me alone. It was
always “Granny, find me a wife!”
_Koch._ Yah!... You old rat!... And what are you here for, I should like
to know! You don’t mean to say Podkolyòssin wants to get married?
_Fèkla._ And why not? God has blessed him.
_Koch._ No! really? What a rascal! he never told me a word about it! Now
what do you think of that, if you please? Isn’t he a sly rogue? (_Enter_
PODKOLYÒSSIN, _holding a mirror, and gazing into it intently_.
KOCHKARYÒV _slips up behind, and startles him_.)
_Koch._ Booh!
_Pod._ (_cries out, and drops the mirror_). Ah! you crazy fellow! Now
what is the use of doing that? Now what a silly thing to do! You just
brought my heart into my mouth!
_Koch._ There, I was only joking!
_Pod._ Fine sort of joke! I can’t get my breath yet; and there, you’ve
smashed the looking-glass! And it was an expensive one—I got it in the
English shop.
_Koch._ There, never mind! I’ll buy you another looking-glass.
_Pod._ Yes, I dare say! I know what those other looking-glasses are
like! One’s face comes out crooked, and they make one look ten years
older.
_Koch._ Look here! it’s I that ought to be angry with you, not you with
me. You hide everything from me, your friend. You think of marrying?
_Pod._ What nonsense! I never thought of such a thing.
_Koch._ My friend, you’re caught in the act! (_Points to_ FÈKLA.) There
she stands; everybody knows what sort of bird _she_ is. Ah, well! never
mind; there’s nothing to be ashamed of; it’s a good Christian
action—indeed, it’s necessary for the good of the State. I don’t mind;
I’ll take the whole responsibility of it. (_To_ FÈKLA.) Well, tell me
who she is, and all about her. What class does she belong to?—noble,
official, merchant? And what’s her name?
_Fèkla._ Agàfia Tikhònovna.
_Koch._ Agàfia Tikhònovna Brandakhlỳstova?
_Fèkla._ No, no! Kouperdyàgina.
_Koch._ Ah! she lives in the Shestilàvochna, doesn’t she?
_Fèkla._ No, she doesn’t, then! She lives near Peskì, in the Mỳlny Row.
_Koch._ Oh, yes; in the Mỳlny Row; a wooden house, next door to a shop,
isn’t it?
_Fèkla._ No, it isn’t. It’s beyond the wine-vaults.
_Koch._ Beyond the wine-vaults! Then I don’t remember.
_Fèkla._ Well, when you turn into the Row, you see a stall; and you pass
the stall and turn to the left; and there, straight in front of you,
just right before your eyes, there’s a wooden house, where a dressmaker
lives; you don’t go into the dressmaker’s, you go on to the next house
but one; it’s a stone house, and that’s where she lives—Agàfia
Tikhònovna.
_Koch._ All right, all right! now I can manage it all. You can go now;
we don’t want you any more.
_Fèkla._ What’s that? Do you mean to say that you mean to settle a
wedding yourself?
_Koch._ Yes, yes, myself—only don’t you interfere.
_Fèkla._ Oh, for shame! for shame! That’s not a man’s business! Little
father, keep out of it.
_Koch._ Be off! be off! you don’t understand anything about it; don’t
interfere; mind your own business, and get along with you!
_Fèkla._ All you care for is to take the bread out of people’s
mouths;—you’re no better than an infidel! A man! and to mix up in things
like that! If I’d known, I wouldn’t have told you a word. (_Exit
sulkily._)
_Koch._ Now, my lad, this business musn’t be put off—put on your hat and
come along.
_Pod._ Well, but I—I—I haven’t decided—I was only thinking——
_Koch._ Fiddle-de-dee! Only don’t be bashful: I’ll get you married as
finely as you like. We’ll go straight off to the lady now, and you’ll
see how fast we’ll get it all settled.
_Pod._ What, go off now! What next will you want?
_Koch._ Bless my soul, man, what would you have? Now, just think
yourself what comes of not being married. Look at the condition of your
room—there’s a muddy boot—there’s a washing basin—there’s a heap of
tobacco on the table; and here you lie on your side, the whole day long,
like a regular stick-in-the-mud.
_Pod._ It’s quite true; I know myself everything’s in a muddle in this
house.
_Koch._ Well now, when you have a wife everything’ll be so different
that you’ll hardly know yourself. Here there’ll be a sofa, there a
lap-dog, then a birdcage, and fancy-work lying about.... And just
imagine—you sit on the sofa, and suddenly a little woman comes and sits
down beside you, a pretty little girl ... and puts up a little hand——
_Pod._ Ah! the devil take it! when one thinks of it, what beautiful
hands there are—just as white as milk!
_Koch._ How you talk! Anybody would think women had got nothing but
hands!... My lad, they’ve got——in fact the deuce knows what they haven’t
got!
_Pod._ Do you know—I confess it to you—I _do_ like to have a pretty
woman sit beside me.
_Koch._ There now! there you see! Then all that’s wanted is to make the
arrangements. You needn’t take any trouble about that, though; I’ll
manage the wedding and the dinner, and all that.... You can’t possibly
do with less than a dozen of champagne—that there’s no question about.
We must have half a dozen of Madeira too; I expect the lady’s got a
whole tribe of aunts and cousins and all the rest of it, and they won’t
want to be done out of their share. Then there’s the Rhine-wine—what the
devil do you call it, eh? And as for the dinner, I’ll tell you what, old
chap: there’s a butler I know of that’ll settle it all for us; the dog
will give you such a feed as you never saw in your life.
[Illustration:
PODKOLYÒSSIN: “DO YOU KNOW—I CONFESS IT TO YOU—I _DO_ LIKE TO HAVE A
PRETTY WOMAN BESIDE ME.”
KOCHKARYÒV: “THERE NOW! THERE YOU SEE! THEN ALL THAT’S WANTED IS TO
MAKE THE ARRANGEMENTS.”
]
_Pod._ But my dear fellow! you set about the business as if I were going
to be married at once!
_Koch._ And why not? What’s the use of putting it off? You’ve decided?
_Pod._ Me? Oh, dear no! I haven’t decided at all!
_Koch._ Well I never did! But you just said you wanted to marry.
_Pod._ I only said it wouldn’t be a bad idea.
_Koch._ Well now, really! And we were just settling up everything....
What’s come to you? Don’t you like the idea of a married life?
_Pod._ Oh, yes, I like it.
_Koch._ Well then, what’s it all about? Where’s the difficulty?
_Pod._ There isn’t any difficulty; only it seems so strange....
_Koch._ What’s there strange about it?
_Pod._ Of course it’s strange. One’s always been a bachelor, and now to
be a married man——
_Koch._ Tut, tut, tut! I wonder you’re not ashamed of yourself. No, my
friend, I see I must talk to you seriously. I’ll be quite frank with
you, like a father with a son. Now just look at yourself—look at
yourself attentively and seriously, just as you’re looking at me
now—what do you think of yourself? What are you like? You’re no better
than a log; you’re a mere cypher. Tell me what you live for? Now just
look in the glass and tell me what you see—nothing but a very stupid
face. Well now, suppose that you’ve got children round you, not just two
or three—you know, but a whole half-dozen—and every one as like you as
two peas. Here you are alone, an aulic counsellor, or a head of a
department, or director of some kind—what do you call yourself? But now
just suppose yourself surrounded with little directorkins, and tiny
rascals and small fry generally; and there they hold out their chubby
little fists and tug at your whiskers; and you’ll play doggie with them:
Bow—wow—wow! Now, can you imagine anything more delightful?
_Pod._ Ye-e-s, only you know they are such mischievous little monkeys;
they’ll spoil everything, and pull all my papers about.
_Koch._ Oh! that doesn’t matter! But just think; they’ll all be like
you—that’s the beauty of it.
_Pod._ After all, it really is a deucedly funny notion—a little white
puff-ball of a thing—no bigger than a puppy-dog—and yet it’s like you!
_Koch._ Of course it’s funny, tremendously funny; there, make haste and
come along!
_Pod._ All right; I don’t mind.
_Koch._ Hi! Stepàn! Come and help your master dress.
(_Enter_ STEPÀN.)
_Pod._ (_dressing before the glass_). I almost think, though, that I
ought to put on a white waistcoat.
_Koch._ Oh, nonsense! What does it matter?
_Pod._ (_putting on his collar_). Confound that washerwoman! How badly
she’s starched my collar! It won’t stand up a bit, Stepàn! You tell the
stupid woman that if she’s going to do her work that way, I shall find
another washerwoman. I expect she spends her time philandering with
sweethearts instead of ironing clothes.
_Koch._ There! there! man, make haste! What a dawdle you are!
_Pod._ All right—all right! (_Puts on coat, and sits down._) Look here,
Ilia Fòmich, do you know what? I think you’d better go alone.
_Koch._ What next! The man’s gone daft! _I_ go? Why, which of us is
going to get married—you or I?
_Pod._ The fact is, I don’t feel inclined for it to-day; let’s go
to-morrow.
_Koch._ Now, have you got one single grain of sense? Now, are you
anything in the world but a moon-calf? You get ready, and then,
suddenly, don’t want to go! Now be so kind as to tell me, don’t you call
yourself a pig and a camel after that?
_Pod._ Look here—what’s the use of bad language? I haven’t done you any
harm.
_Koch._ You’re a booby, a perfect booby, any fellow will tell you that.
I don’t care if you _are_ an aulic counsellor—you’re nothing in the
world but a fool. What do you suppose I’m taking all this trouble for?
Only for your good. Don’t I see that you’ll let the prize slip through
your fingers? And there you lie, you confounded old bachelor! Now just
have the kindness to tell me, what do you call yourself? You’re a dummy,
a milksop, a nincompoop, a—I’d tell you what you are if I could only
find a civil word for it. You’re worse than any old woman!
_Pod._ Look here, that’s too much of a good thing. (_Softly._) Are you
gone off your head? There’s a serf in the room, and you let him hear you
say bad words! Can’t you find another place to quarrel in?
_Koch._ I should like to know who could help quarrelling with you! Bad
language! What else could anybody turn their tongue to? You begin by
behaving reasonably, and arrange to get married, as any sensible man
would; and then, all of a sudden, without why or wherefore, you must get
a bee in your bonnet, and there’s no more sense in you than in a wooden
post....
_Pod._ There, that’ll do! I’ll come; why, you needn’t fly at me like
that!
_Koch._ Come? Of course you will—what else should you do? (_To_ STEPÀN.)
Give him his hat and cloak.
_Pod._ (_at the door_). What a queer fellow it is! There’s no making him
out at all. All of a sudden he sets to work and abuses you without rhyme
or reason. Doesn’t understand how to speak to a fellow.
_Koch._ There! I’m not going to scold you now. (_Exeunt._)
SCENE II.
(_A room in_ AGÀFIA TIKHÒNOVNA’S _house_. AGÀFIA TIKHÒNOVNA _spreading
cards for fortune-telling_, ARÌNA PANTELÈYMOVNA _looking over her
shoulder_.)
_Agàfia._ Why, auntie! there’s a journey again! Some king of diamonds
takes an interest in me; then there are tears, and a love-letter; on the
left-hand side the king of clubs expresses great sympathy—but there’s a
wicked woman that stands between.
_Arìna._ Whom do you think the king of clubs stands for?
_Agàfia._ I don’t know.
_Arìna._ I know who it is.
_Agàfia._ Who?
_Arìna._ A good, honest cloth merchant, my girl—Alexièy Dmìtrievich
Starikòv.
_Agàfia._ That I know it isn’t; I’m positive it isn’t he.
_Arìna._ You can’t get out of it, Agàfia Tikhònovna; I can tell by the
fair hair. There’s only one king of clubs, you see.
_Agàfia._ Then you’re just wrong; the king of clubs here means a
nobleman—there’s a good deal of difference between a tradesman and a
king of clubs.
_Arìna._ Ah! Agàfia Tikhònovna! you wouldn’t talk like that, my girl, if
your poor papa, Tìkhon Pantlèymònovich, were alive. I remember how he
used to bang his fist on the table and shout out—“I don’t care a rap for
any man that’s ashamed to be a merchant; and I won’t give my daughter to
an officer. Other people can do that if they’re fools enough! And my son
shan’t be an officer, neither,” says he; “isn’t a merchant as good a
servant of the State as any one else?” And he’d bang his fist on the
table again, and, my girl, he _had_ got a fist of his own! Indeed, if
the truth must be told, your poor mother would have lived longer if he
hadn’t had such a heavy fist.
_Agàfia._ There you see! And you think I’d put up with such a brute of a
husband? I won’t marry a merchant for anything in the world!
[Illustration:
ARÌNA: “BUT WHERE ARE YOU GOING TO GET HOLD OF ANY NOBLE THAT’S WORTH
HAVING?”
]
_Arìna._ But Alexièy Dmìtrievich isn’t one of that kind.
_Agàfia._ No, no! not for the world! He’s got a beard! And when he eats
soup, it’ll all run down his beard. No, no, no! I won’t, I won’t!
_Arìna._ But where are you going to get hold of any noble that’s worth
having? You can’t go and pick him up in the street!
_Agàfia._ Fèkla Ivànovna will find me one; she promised to find me a
splendid one.
_Arìna._ But, my precious one, she’s a liar.
(_Enter_ FÈKLA.)
_Fèkla._ Oh no, Arìna Pantelèymovna; it’s a sin to give people a bad
name for nothing.
_Agàfia._ Ah! Fèkla Ivànovna! Now then, tell me quick, have you found
any one?
_Fèkla._ Yes, yes; only don’t hurry me. I’ve been tearing about so—let
me get my breath! I’ve been all over everywhere on your business—at the
Departments, at the Ministries, running all over the place.... Why, do
you know, little mother, I nearly got beaten on your account—it’s true!
That old woman that arranged the Afèrov’s marriage—you know—she just
flew at me. “What are you after here?” says she, “taking the bread out
of other people’s mouths. Keep to your own quarter!” says she. And I
told her right out, “I’ll do anything for my young lady,” says I, “so
you needn’t put yourself out about it.” However, I don’t mind the
trouble; I’ve got you a fine set of suitors. I can tell you there never
were such fine ones since the world began, and never will be. Some of
them will come to-day—that’s why I ran in to tell you.
_Agàfia._ To-day! Oh, Fèkla Ivànovna, I’m afraid!
_Fèkla._ There’s nothing to be afraid of, little mother. It’s a thing
that’s got to be. They’ll only come and take a look at you—nothing more.
Then you can take a look at them, and if you don’t like them they can go
away.
_Arìna._ I hope you are bringing good, respectable gentlemen?
_Agàfia._ And how many are there?
_Fèkla._ Let me see—there are six of them.
_Agàfia_ (_screams_). Oh!
_Fèkla._ Dear heart, you needn’t jump like that! It’s best to have a
choice; if you don’t like one you can take another.
_Agàfia._ Are they of noble birth?
_Fèkla._ Every one! The very noblest birth that ever was.
_Agàfia._ Well, what are they like?
_Fèkla._ Oh, regular good ones—nice and neat, all of them. First there’s
Baltazàr Baltazàrovich Zhevàkin—a splendid gentleman—he used to serve in
the fleet—he would just do nicely for you. He wants a wife with a nice
plump figure—he hates bony women. Then there’s Ivàn Pàvlovich—he’s a
Court usher, and such a grand gentleman, that one’s afraid to go near
him. Big and stout, you know; just grand to look at. And you should have
heard him shout at me—“I don’t want to hear any nonsense about what the
girl’s like; just tell me plainly how much moveable and real estate
she’s got.”—“So much and so much, little father.”—“That’s a lie, you old
hag!” and, a—a—he said another word, little mother, that I don’t quite
like to repeat. I saw in a minute that he must be a _real grand_
gentleman!
_Agàfia._ Well, and who else is there?
_Fèkla._ Then there’s Nikanòr Ivànovich Anoùchkin—he’s a nice, fair,
pretty gentleman; and oh! little mother, such sweet lips, like cherries!
“All I want,” says he, “is that my bride should be pretty and refined;
and that she should be able to talk French.” He’s a gentleman with a lot
of breeding, and all sorts of fine Frenchified ways. Oh! he’s mighty
particular! And he’s got such slim little legs.
_Agàfia._ N—n—no; somehow or other these overparticular people ... I
don’t know ... I can’t see anything much in them
_Fèkla._ Well, if you want a more solid husband, you’d better take Ivàn
Pàvlovich; you couldn’t make a better choice; he’s a gentleman ... what
you may call a _real_ gentleman; he could hardly get in at that door,
he’s so big and grand.
_Agàfia._ And how old is he?
_Fèkla._ Oh! he’s a young man still—about fifty, or not quite fifty
even.
_Agàfia._ And what’s his name?
_Fèkla._ Ivàn Pàvlovich Yaìchnitza.[4]
_Agàfia._ Do you mean to say that’s a name?
_Fèkla._ Of course it’s a name.
_Agàfia._ Goodness gracious! What a funny name! Why, Fèkloushka,
supposing I were to marry him, I should have to be called Agàfia
Tikhònovna Yaìchnitza—it sounds like I don’t know what!
_Fèkla._ Eh-h-h! little mother; there are such names in Russia, that all
you can do when you hear them is to spit and cross yourself. But if you
don’t like the name you may as well take Baltazàr Baltazàrovich
Zhevàkin—he’d be a fine bridegroom.
_Agàfia._ What sort of hair has he got?
_Fèkla._ Very nice hair.
_Agàfia._ And his nose?
_Fèkla._ H-m-m ... his nose is all right; everything’s in its right
place, and he’s a very nice gentleman. Only you musn’t mind one thing:
there’s no furniture in his rooms, only a pipe and nothing else at all.
_Agàfia._ And who else is there?
_Fèkla._ Àkinf Stepánovich Pantelèyev—he’s an official, a titular
counsellor.[5] He stutters a little; but then he’s such a very modest
gentleman.
_Arìna._ You always keep on “official” and “official” you’d better tell
us whether he doesn’t drink.
_Fèkla._ Yes, he does drink; I wouldn’t tell you a lie—he drinks. But
then, you see, he’s a titular counsellor. And then he’s so quiet and
gentle.
_Agàfia._ No, no; I don’t want to have a drunkard for a husband.
_Fèkla._ As you like, little mother. If you don’t care for one you can
take another. But after all, what does it matter if a man takes a drop
too much sometimes? He’s not drunk the whole week round, you know; some
days he’ll come home sober.
_Agàfia._ And who else is there?
_Fèkla._ There is one more, only he’s not quite the sort.... Never mind
him, the others will do better.
_Agàfia._ Well, but who is he?
_Fèkla._ Really, it’s not worth while talking about him. He’s in a good
position—aulic counsellor and all that—but such a slow stick-in-the-mud,
there’s no getting him out of the house.
_Agàfia._ Well, and who else? You have only told us about five, and you
said there were six.
_Fèkla._ Surely you don’t want any more? Why, a minute ago you were
frightened at so many, and now they’re not enough!
_Arìna._ What’s the use of all your noblemen? Even if you have got half
a dozen of them, one shopkeeper’s worth the whole lot.
_Fèkla._ Oh, no, Arìna Pantelèymovna, a noble is more distinguished,
somehow.
_Arìna._ What’s the use of being distinguished? Just look at Alexièy
Dmìtrievich—what a beautiful sledge he can drive in, and his cap is real
sable!...
_Fèkla._ Yes, but a nobleman with epaulettes on can drive past and call
out, “Out of the road, counterjumper!” or, “Show me your best velvet,
shopman!” and then the merchant will have to say, “Certainly, little
father!” and the nobleman will say, “Take off your hat, you clown!”
That’s what he’ll say.
_Arìna._ And if the merchant likes, he won’t give him the stuff; and
there’s your nobleman in rags without a thing to put on.
_Fèkla._ Then the nobleman will give the shopkeeper a black eye.
_Arìna._ Well then, the shopkeeper will go and complain to the police.
_Fèkla._ Then the nobleman will complain to the senator.
_Arìna._ And the merchant to the governor.
_Fèkla._ And the nobleman——
_Arìna._ Fiddlesticks! Fiddlesticks! You and your noblemen! The
governor’s grander than any senator! You’re just off your head about
noblemen! Don’t tell me—a nobleman can take off his hat as well as any
shopkeeper, when there’s a reason why.... (_Door-bell rings._) There’s
some one at the door.
_Fèkla._ Bless me! It must be they!
_Arìna._ Who?
_Fèkla._ They.... Some of the suitors.
_Agàfia_ (_screams_). Oh!
_Arìna._ Holy Saints! Have mercy on us sinners! The room’s in such a
muddle! (_Catches up all the things on the table, and runs about the
room._) And the table-cloth! Just look at the table-cloth! It’s
perfectly black. Douniàshka! Douniàshka! (_Enter_ DOUNIÀSHKA.) Bring a
clean table-cloth—quick! (_Pulls off table-cloth and rushes about the
room._)
_Agàfia._ Oh, aunt! What shall I do? I’m half undressed!
_Arìna._ Little mother! Run and dress, quick! (_Rushes frantically about
room._ DOUNIÀSHKA _brings table-cloth. Door-bell rings._) Run! Make
haste! Say “Directly.” (DOUNIÀSHKA _exit, and calls without
“Directly.”_)
_Agàfia._ Auntie, my dress isn’t ironed!
_Arìna._ Oh! Merciful Heaven! Spare us! Put on another.
_Fèkla_ (_running in_). What are you standing about for? Agàfia
Tikhònovna! Little mother! Make haste! (_Door-bell rings_). There!
there! he’s waiting all this time.
_Arìna._ Douniàshka! Let him in, and ask him to wait. (DOUNIÀSHKA _runs
into hall and opens door. Voices without_: “At home?” “At home; come in,
please.” _All stoop down and try to look through keyhole._)
_Agàfia_ (_screams_). Oh! what a fat man!
_Fèkla._ He’s coming! he’s coming. (_Exeunt in a headlong rush. Enter_
DOUNIÀSHKA _and_ IVÀN PÀVLOVICH YAÌCHNITZA.)
_Doun._ Wait here, please. (_Exit._)
_Yaìch._ It’s all very well to say “Wait,” but I can’t spend much time
waiting about for her; I only got a few minutes’ leave from the
Department. Supposing the General were to ask, “Where’s the usher gone?”
“Gone to look for a wife!” Tut, tut, tut! The general would give her
what for, I know.... I may as well look through the list again.
(_Reads._) “Two-storied stone house.” (_Looks up and examines room._)
Yes! (_Reads._) “Two wings—one wooden, one with stone basement.”...
H’m.... The wooden one is not up to much. (_Reads._) “Carriage; carved
two-horse sledge, with large and small rugs.”... I daresay they’ll be
only fit to break up. However, the old woman declares they’re
first-rate; well, let’s suppose they are. (_Reads._) “Two dozen silver
spoons.”... Of course one must have silver spoons for the house.... “Two
fox-fur cloaks.”... H’m.... “Four large feather-beds; two small ones.”
(_Compresses lips expressively._) “Twelve silk dresses; twelve cotton
ditto; two dressing-jackets; two....” H’m.... those are trifles.
“Under-linen; table-cloths....” All that’s her business. However, I
shall have to verify it all. It’s very likely they’ll promise a house
and carriage and all sorts of things now, and when once you’re married,
you find there’s not a thing but feather-beds and pillows. (_Door-bell
rings_; DOUNIÀSHKA _runs hastily through room into hall, and opens door.
Voices without_, “At home?” “At home.” _Enter_ ANOÙCHKIN _and_
DOUNIÀSHKA.)
_Doun._ Wait here, please; they’ll come presently. (_Exit._ ANOÙCHKIN
_and_ YAÌCHNITZA _bow to each other_.)
_Yaìch._ Your servant, sir!
_Anoùch._ Have I the honour to address the papa of the charming lady of
the house?
_Yaìch._ Certainly not, sir, I have not the pleasure of having any
children.
_Anoùch._ Oh! I beg your pardon! I really beg your pardon!
_Yaìch_ (_aside_). That man’s face looks to me very suspicious; I
shouldn’t wonder if he’s come about the same business that I have.
(_Aloud._) You doubtless have some ... some ... business with the lady
of the house?
_Anòuch._ N-n-no.... Oh, no! I have no business.... I just came in as I
was taking a walk.
_Yaìch_ (_aside_). He’s a liar! taking a walk, indeed! The scoundrel
wants to get married! (_Door-bell rings_, DOUNIÀSHKA _runs through into
hall and opens door_. _Voices without_: “At home?” “At home.” _Enter_
ZHEVÀKIN _and_ DOUNIÀSHKA.)
_Zhev._ (_to_ DOUNIÀSHKA). Just give me a brush, will you, my dear? One
gets so dusty in the street. And take off that cobweb, please. (_Turns
round._) That’s right; thank you, my dear. Just look on the other side;
I fancy there’s a spider running up me. Are you sure there’s nothing on
the back of my collar? Thank you, child. There! I’m sure there’s
something! (_Smooths coat-sleeve with his hand, and looks at_ ANOÙCHKIN
_and_ YAÌCHNITZA.) It’s real English cloth. In ’95, when I was only a
midshipman, and our squadron was in Sicily, I bought it and had a
uniform made; in 1801, under his late Majesty, Paul Petròvich, when I
was made lieutenant, the cloth was as good as new; in 1814, I went on an
expedition round the world, and it only began to get a little worn at
the seams; in 1815, when I retired from the service, I just had it
turned; and now I’ve worn it ten years, and it looks almost new still.
Thank you, my dear! My little beauty! (_Kisses his hand to her, goes up
to mirror, and arranges his hair._)
_Anoùch._ If I may take the liberty to ask, Sicily.... You were just
mentioning Sicily—it is a fine country, is it not?
_Zhev._ Oh, beautiful! We spent thirty-four days there. I can assure you
it’s a most charming place—such mountains; and the most beautiful
trees ... what they call _granite_ trees. And the loveliest Italian
girls—perfect little rosebuds, ... one can hardly refrain from kissing
them.
_Anoùch._ And are they well educated?
_Zhev._ Magnificently; as highly educated as any countess here. I
remember, when I used to go along the street,—well, of course you know,
a Russian lieutenant, epaulettes here (_points to his shoulder_), gold
embroidery, and all that,—well, and these little black-eyed beauties,—I
must tell you, they have verandahs to every house, and roofs as flat as
this floor—well, you look up as you pass, and there sits a little
rosebud; and of course one must keep up one’s reputation (_makes a
salute and waves his hand_), and she just answers like that (_makes
gesture with his hand_). Of course she’s always beautifully
dressed—little silk cords, and taffeta stuff, and earrings, and all
sorts of feminine trifles, ... in a word, the daintiest little
sugar-plum——
_Anoùch._ Allow me to ask you one more question. In what language do
people converse in Sicily?
_Zhev._ Oh, always in French, of course.
_Anoùch._ And do all the young ladies speak French?
_Zhev._ All, without exception. You perhaps will hardly believe me; but
we lived there thirty-four days, and in all that time I never heard one
of them speak a single word of Russian.
_Anoùch._ Not a word?
_Zhev._ Not one. And mind, I am not speaking of the nobles, and what
they call the Signors—those are their officers, you know—but just pick
out any common peasant that brings loads on his head, and try him; just
say: “Dai, bràtetz, khlyeba,”[6] he won’t understand—I assure you he
won’t understand. But if you say in French: “Dateci del pane,” or
“Portate vino,” he’ll understand you, and he’ll run and bring it at
once.
_Yaìch._ This same Sicily must be a very interesting country, I think.
You were talking about the peasants. What are they like? Do they have
broad shoulders, and plough the land like our Russian peasants?
_Zhev._ That I can’t tell you; I didn’t notice whether they ploughed or
not. But about the question of taking snuff, I can inform you that they
not only smell snuff, but even put it in their mouths. The carriage of
goods is very cheap there, too; you see there’s water everywhere, and
gondolas ... and in the gondola there’ll sit a sweet little rosebud of
an Italian girl, beautifully dressed, with the daintiest little kerchief
and camisole.... There were some English officers with us—sailors like
ourselves.... It seemed so strange at first; we couldn’t understand each
other. But after a bit, when we got to know each other well, we began to
understand all right. You just point to a bottle or a glass, you know,
and the Englishman knows at once that that means “Drink;” then you put
your fist up to your mouth, and just do so with your lips—“Puff, puff,”
and he knows you mean “Smoke a pipe.” Indeed, I assure you, it’s rather
an easy language; the crews got to understand each other in about three
days.
_Yaìch._ Life must be very interesting in foreign parts. It is a great
pleasure to me to become acquainted with a travelled gentleman. Allow me
to ask whom I have the honour of addressing?
_Zhev._ Zhevàkin, retired lieutenant. Permit me, on my side, to ask with
whom I have the pleasure to converse.
_Yaìch._ Ivàn Pàvlovich Yaìchnitza, government usher.
_Zhev._ (_not hearing well_). Thank you, I have already lunched. It’s
cold weather, and I knew I had a long walk before me, so I had a
marinated herring.
_Yaìch._ You have not quite understood me, I think; I said my name is
Yaìchnitza.
_Zhev._ (_bows_). Oh! I beg your pardon; I am a little hard of hearing.
I ... really ... understood you to say ... that you had lunched on an
omelette.
_Yaìch._ Yes; it’s very unfortunate. I thought of asking the General to
allow me to change my name to Yaìchnitzyn; but my friends dissuaded me;
they said it would sound like Sobachi Syn.[7]
_Zhev._ Yes, there are such cases. All our squadron, both officers and
crew, had the most extraordinary names: Pomòykin,[8] Yarỳzhkin,[9]
Lieutenant Pereprèyev;[10] and there was one midshipman—a very good
midshipman too—whose name was just Dỳrka;[11] it was so odd; the captain
would call, “Come here, Dỳrka;” and we all of us used to tease him, and
call him stop-gap, and bung-hole, and all sorts of things. (_Door-bell
rings_, FÈKLA _runs across stage_.)
_Yaìch._ Ah! Good-morning, little mother!
_Zhev._ Good-morning! How are you, my dear?
_Anoùch._ Glad to see you, little mother, Fèkla Ivànovna.
_Fèkla_ (_hurriedly_). Thank you, thank you; same to you. (_Exit into
hall; opens door. Voices without_: “At home?” “At home.” _Then several
half-inaudible words_; FÈKLA’S _voice answers angrily_: “Just you take
care!” _Enter_ KOCHKARYÒV, PODKOLYÒSSIN, _and_ FÈKLA.)
_Koch._ (_to_ PODKOLYÒSSIN). Now just keep up your courage—that’s all
that’s wanted. (_Glances round, and salutes the company with a surprised
expression._) (_Aside._) Oho! What a lot of people! What’s the meaning
of this? They can’t all be suitors. (_Nudges_ FÈKLA, _and speaks to her
softly_.) Where did all these crows come from, eh?
_Fèkla_ (_softly_). There are no crows here; they are all honest people.
_Koch._ (_to her_). There are plenty of them, but they’re precious
draggletailed.
_Fèkla_ (_softly_). I doubt they’ll fly better than yours, for all he’s
so grand. ’Tisn’t fine feathers make fine birds.
_Koch._ (_softly_). Yes, every crow thinks her own children the fairest.
(_Aloud._) What’s she doing now? I suppose that door leads to her
bedroom? (_Approaches door._)
_Fèkla._ For shame! I tell you she’s dressing.
_Koch._ Well, dear me! there’s no harm in that! I’ll only just look
in—nothing more. (_Peeps through keyhole._)
_Zhev._ Permit me to satisfy my curiosity too!
_Yaìch._ Let me have one little peep.
_Koch._ (_continuing to look_). There’s nothing to be seen, gentlemen;
there’s something white, but I can’t make out whether it’s a woman or a
pillow. (_They all crowd round door and try to peep through keyhole._)
_Koch._ There’s ... some one coming! (_All start back. Enter_ ARÌNA
PANTELÈYMOVNA _and_ AGÀFIA TIKHÒNOVNA. _All bow._)
_Arìna._ To what are we indebted for the honour of this visit?
_Yaìch._ I read in the newspapers that you wished to enter into a
contract to supply timber; and therefore, as I hold the post of usher in
a Government Department, I called to inquire what kind of timber you can
supply, what quantity, and at what date.
_Arìna._ We don’t take contracts; but we are very glad to see you. Allow
me to ask your name.
[Illustration:
“ALL BOW.”
]
_Yaìch._ Ivàn Pàvlovich Yaìchnitza, collegiate assessor.
_Arìna._ Be so kind as to take a seat. (_Turns to_ ZHEVÀKIN _and looks
at him_.) And may I ask——
_Zhev._ I ... you know ... I saw an advertisement about something.... I
thought I might as well look in.... It’s such fine weather to-day, and
the grass is growing so nicely along the road....
_Arìna._ And your name, if you please?
_Zhev._ Retired naval lieutenant Baltazàr Baltazàrovich Zhevàkin, Number
2. There was another Zhevàkin in the service, but he retired before I
did; he got a wound in the knee, and the ball went through it such an
odd way—it didn’t touch the knee itself, but it injured a vein, and drew
it all up, so that, if you were standing near him, it always seemed as
if he were going to kick you.
_Arìna._ Be so kind as to sit down. (_To_ ANOÙCHKIN.) May I ask the
reason——
_Anoùch._ As a neighbour ... as I live so very near ... you see——
_Arìna._ Perhaps you live in widow Touloùbova’s house opposite?
_Anoùch._ No—n—no; I live at Peskì just now, but I have the intention of
moving to this quarter of the town sooner or later.
_Arìna._ Be so kind as to sit down. (_To_ KOCHKARYÒV.) Allow me to ask——
_Koch._ Why, surely you recognise me? (_Turns to_ AGÀFIA.) And you,
madam?
_Agàfia._ I—I—don’t remember ever seeing you.
_Koch._ Why, think a minute; I’m sure we’ve met somewhere.
_Agàfia._ I don’t know, really. Was it at the Biriòushkins’?
_Koch._ Of course it was!
_Agàfia._ Oh! do you know what’s happened to her?
_Koch._ Of course I do—she’s married.
_Agàfia._ Oh no! that would be nothing; but she’s broken her leg.
_Arìna._ And very badly too. She was coming home late at night in a
_drozhki_, and the coachman was tipsy and overturned it.
_Koch._ Ah! yes; I remember, of course; I knew she’d got married, or
broken her leg, or something of that kind!
_Arìna._ And your name?
[Illustration:
ARÌNA: “WHAT IS THE GENTLEMAN’S NAME?”
KOCHKARYÒV: “PODKOLYÒSSIN—IVÀN KOUZMÌCH PODKOLYÒSSIN.”
]
_Koch._ My name? Why Ilia Fòmich Kochkaryòv. We’re almost relations, you
know. My wife is always talking about—but allow me, allow me. (_Takes
PODKOLYÒSSIN by the arm and leads him forward._) My friend Ivàn Kouzmìch
Podkolyòssin, aulic counsellor, sub-director in a Department. It’s he
that does all the business and manages everything in the most admirable
way.
_Arìna._ What is the gentleman’s name?
_Koch._ Podkolyòssin—Ivàn Kouzmìch Podkolyòssin. The director is simply
put there as a figure head: all the business is done by Ivàn Kouzmìch.
_Arìna._ Indeed? Be so kind as to sit down.
(_Enter_ STARIKÒV.)
_Star._ (_bows to the company in a rapid, off-hand, business manner,
with one arm akimbo_). Arìna Pantelèymovna, how do you do, little
mother? The lads on the Arcade told me that you had some wool to sell.
_Agàfia_ (_turning her back contemptuously and speaking under her
breath, but so that he hears_). This isn’t a stall in a bazaar!
_Star._ Oh, oh! Seems I’ve come at the wrong time! I doubt you’ve
settled your business without me.
_Arìna._ Sit down, sit down, Alexièy Dmìtrievich; we’ve no wool to sell,
but we’re glad to see you; please sit down. (_All sit down; silence._)
_Yaìch._ It’s very strange weather to-day. Early in the morning it
looked quite like rain, but now it seems to have gone over.
_Agàfia._ Yes, indeed, this weather is quite extraordinary; sometimes
it’s bright, and then again it gets wet and rainy—it’s very
disagreeable.
_Zhev._ Ah, little mother! When our squadron was in Sicily it was
spring-time—with us it would be February—they have the new calendar, you
know—when we went out into the street it would be quite sunny, and then
it would begin to rain, and it would be just like real ordinary rain.
_Yaìch._ The most disagreeable thing is to sit alone in such weather.
It’s all very well for a married man—that’s quite another thing—but when
one lives alone it’s really——
_Zhev._ Oh! it’s more than any one can stand!
_Anoùch._ Yes, indeed, one may say——
_Koch._ Oh yes, it’s altogether unbearable—life’s not worth having.
Heaven defend anybody from such a position!
_Yaìch._ Now supposing, madam, that you were asked to choose who should
be the object of your affections. Allow me to ask, what would be your
taste? You will excuse my directness. What ... occupation ... do you
consider ... most ... worthy of respect in a husband?
_Zhev._ Would you choose, madam, a husband acquainted with the storms of
the ocean?
_Koch._ No! no! In my opinion the best sort of husband is a man who has
almost the whole management of a Department in his hands.
_Anoùch._ Why anticipate? Why treat with contumely a man capable of
appreciating the social intercourse of high-class society?
_Yaìch._ Madam, it is for you to decide! (_Silence._)
_Fèkla._ Speak up, little mother! Tell them something.
_Yaìch._ What have you to say?
_Koch._ What is your opinion, Agàfia Tikhònovna?
_Fèkla_ (_aside to her_). Make haste! say “Thank you,” or “With the
greatest pleasure,” or something.... It’s not proper to sit like that!
_Agàfia._ I’m ashamed, I’m ashamed, really. I shall go away. Auntie!
stop here instead of me!
_Fèkla._ No, no, you musn’t go away; it’s improper, it’s disgraceful.
They’ll think ... I don’t know what!
_Agàfia_ (_aside_). No, no, I can’t stand it, I can’t—I can’t! (_Runs
away. Arìna and Fèkla follow her._)
_Yaìch._ Well, that’s a good one—everybody’s gone away. What’s the
meaning of that?
_Koch._ I expect something’s happened.
_Zhev._ Oh, no doubt it’s some little matter of feminine toilet.... They
want to pin something, or to put the camisole straight, or—— (_Enter_
FÈKLA.)
_All_ (_crowding round her_). What is it? What’s the matter?
_Koch._ Has anything happened?
_Fèkla._ Of course not! What should happen?
_Koch._ Then why did she go away?
_Fèkla._ Why, you made the poor girl bashful, all of you—frightened and
upset her till she couldn’t stand it. She sends you her excuses, and
asks you to come in for a cup of tea in the evening. (_Exit._)
_Yaìch._ (_aside_). Oh! now they’re going to begin with cups of tea!
That’s what I hate about all this match-making business—it’s such a
worry. To-day won’t do; and come again to-morrow; and the day after
to-morrow a cup of tea; and then they have to think it over, and can’t
make up their minds! But dear me! the matter’s simple enough; there’s
nothing to rack one’s brains over! Confound it all! I’m a busy man, I’ve
no time for this sort of thing!
_Koch._ (_to_ PODKOLYÒSSIN). She’s a nice-looking girl, isn’t she?
_Pod._ Yes, she’s nice-looking.
_Zhev._ I think the young lady is pretty.
_Koch._ (_aside_). The deuce take it, if that idiot hasn’t fallen in
love! He’ll be getting in the way! (_Aloud._) I don’t think she’s pretty
at all, not at all.
_Yaìch._ Her nose is too big.
_Zhev._ Now, there I don’t agree with you: she’s a regular rosebud.
_Anoùch._ I quite agree with you. The only thing is, she’s not quite—I
am inclined to doubt whether she is acquainted with the manners of
high-class society. Do you think she knows French?
_Zhev._ If I may take the liberty of asking, why didn’t you speak French
to her yourself, and try?—very likely she knows it.
_Anoùch._ You think I speak French? No, I did not enjoy such educational
advantages. My father was an eccentric personage, he never even thought
of having me taught French. I was a child in those days; it would have
been easy to teach me—a few good whippings were all that was needed, and
I should have known it perfectly well.
_Zhev._ Well, but as you don’t know French, why do you particularly
want——
_Anoùch._ Ah! no, no; it’s quite another matter with a woman. It’s quite
necessary that she should know it; otherwise, one thing and
another—(_helps himself out with gestures_)—nothing is as it should be.
_Yaìch._ (_aside_). Well, those that like can care about that. For my
part, I shall go round the house and look at the wings from the
courtyard; if everything’s all right, I’ll settle the matter this very
evening. I’m not afraid of all these suitors; they’re nothing but
milksops, all the lot of them. Girls don’t like that sort of men.
_Zhev._ I think I’ll go and have a smoke. Perhaps our way lies in the
same direction. May I ask where you live?
_Anoùch._ At Peskì; in the Petròvski Row.
_Zhev._ Yes; it’s a bit out of my way; I live on the Island,[12] in the
Eighteenth Line. But all the same I’ll walk with you.
_Star._ No no; they’re getting too proud for me here. Ah! you’ll
remember your own folk some day, Agàfia Tikhònovna! Your servant,
gentlemen. (_Bows and exit. Exeunt all but_ PODKOLYÒSSIN _and_
KOCHKARYÒV.)
_Pod._ What are we waiting for?
_Koch._ Well, what do you think? She’s a charming girl, isn’t she?
_Pod._ Do you think so? I’m bound to confess that she doesn’t take my
fancy.
_Koch._ Come now, that’s too much! You agreed with me yourself a minute
ago that she was pretty.
_Pod._ Yes; but, you see ... her nose is too long; and she doesn’t know
French.
_Koch._ What next? What do you want with French?
_Pod._ After all, a girl ought to know French.
_Koch._ What for?
_Pod._ Why, because ... really I don’t know why. But it isn’t the same
if she doesn’t know French.
_Koch._ Well, you’re a simpleton! Somebody makes a remark, and you get
it into your head, and there it sticks! She’s a beauty; she’s a
downright beauty; you won’t find another such a girl anywhere.
_Pod._ Well, I thought she was very pretty. But afterwards, when they
began to talk so much about her nose being long, I thought it over, and
I see she really has a long nose.
_Koch._ Oh, you blind bat! Can’t you see through that trick? They talked
like that on purpose to get rid of you; and I abused her too; one always
does that. My lad, she’s a splendid girl! Just you look at her eyes!
There’s the very devil in eyes like that; they can talk, and breathe,
and anything. And as for her nose, it’s an exquisite nose; it’s as white
as alabaster; there’s plenty of alabaster that wouldn’t come up to it.
You should look with your own eyes, my man.
_Pod._ Yes; when I think of it, she really is pretty.
_Koch._ Of course she’s pretty. Look here—they’ve all gone away now;
let’s go to her and propose, and settle it all up.
_Pod._ That I certainly sha’n’t do.
_Koch._ Why not?
_Pod._ It would be downright effrontery. There are a lot of us; it’s for
her to choose.
_Koch._ What’s the use of taking any notice of them? You’re not afraid
of rivals, surely; if you like, I’ll get rid of them all in one minute.
_Pod._ How can you get rid of them?
_Koch._ That’s my business. Only give me your word that you won’t
wriggle out of it afterwards.
_Pod._ I’ve no objection to that; I’m willing.
_Koch._ Your hand on it!
_Pod._ (_gives hand_). My hand on it!
_Koch._ That’s all I ask of you. (_Exeunt._)
ACT II. SCENE I.
(_Agàfia Tikhònovna alone._)
_Agàfia._ Really, it is a very difficult thing to have to choose. If
there were only one or two of them—but to choose out of four!... Nikanòr
Ivànovich is very nice-looking, though he’s rather thin. Ivàn Kouzmìch
is not bad-looking either. Indeed, to say the truth, Ivàn Pàvlovich is a
very fine-looking man, too, although he’s fat. I should just like to
know what I am to do! Then Baltazàr Baltazàrovich has great merits, too.
Indeed, it’s so difficult to decide that I simply don’t know what to do.
If one could put Nikanòr Ivànovich’s lips on to Ivàn Kouzmìch’s nose,
and then take a little of Baltazàr Baltazàrovich’s easy way, and just a
bit of Ivàn Pàvlovich’s stoutness—I’d make up my mind at once; but now
one keeps on thinking and thinking ... really my head has begun to ache!
I think the best thing would be to cast lots. It must be as God
wills—whoever comes out shall be my husband. I’ll write all their names
on bits of paper, and roll them up tight, and then, what must be, will
be. (_Goes up to table, takes out of a drawer paper and scissors, cuts
little slips, writes, and rolls them up while speaking._) A girl’s
position is a very trying one, especially if she’s in love. No man can
ever enter into that; indeed, they don’t care to understand it. There!
now they’re all ready! I’ve only got to put them in my reticule, shut my
eyes tight, and what must be will be. (_Places slips in reticule, and
shuffles them with her hand._) I’m afraid.... Oh! if God willed that
Nikanòr Ivànovich should come out! No; why? Better Ivan Kouzmìch!
They’re all so nice.... No, no; I won’t decide.... I’ll take whichever
one comes out. (_Thrusts hand into reticule, and takes out all
together._) Oh! oh! they’ve all come out! And my heart beats so! No; it
won’t do; I must have one! (_Replaces slips in reticule, and shuffles
again._ KOCHKARYÒV _enters softly and stands behind her_.) Oh! if it
were Baltazàr.... No; I mean Nikanòr Ivànovich.... No, no; I won’t
think; it’s as fate decides!
_Koch._ Take Ivàn Kouzmìch; he’s the best.
_Agàfia._ Ah! (_Screams, and hides face with both hands, not daring to
look round._)
_Koch._ Why do you start so? Don’t be afraid, it’s I; you’d much better
take Ivàn Kouzmìch.
_Agàfia._ Oh! I’m ashamed! You’ve been listening.
_Koch._ Never mind; never mind; I’m like one of your own family, you
know; you needn’t be bashful with me. Come now, let me see your pretty
face.
_Agàfia_ (_half uncovering her face_). Indeed I’m ashamed!
_Koch._ There now! Take Ivàn Kouzmìch.
_Agàfia._ Oh! (_Screams, and hides face again._)
_Koch._ Really, he’s a splendid fellow; he manages that Department
wonderfully.... In fact he’s a marvellous fellow!
_Agàfia_ (_gradually uncovering her face_). Well, but what about the
other one, Nikanòr Ivànovich? He’s very nice, too.
_Koch._ Oh! he’s not fit to be mentioned in the same breath with Ivàn
Kouzmìch.
_Agàfia._ Why not?
_Koch._ The reason’s plain. Ivàn Kouzmìch is a man.... Well, what you
may call a man ... such as you won’t find again.
_Agàfia._ And Ivàn Pàvlovich?
_Koch._ Ivàn Pàvlovich! He’s a regular good-for-nothing; they’re all
good-for-nothings.
_Agàfia._ Not all, surely?
_Koch._ Just look yourself; just compare them; there are all sorts of
people; but really, such a set—Ivàn Pàvlovich, Nikanòr Ivànovich—they’re
like, Heaven knows what!
_Agàfia._ Well, but really, they’re very ... modest.
_Koch._ Modest, indeed! They’re regular bullies and roughs. I suppose
you don’t want to be beaten the next day after the wedding?
_Agàfia._ Oh, dear! Oh, dear! That’s such a dreadful misfortune that
there couldn’t be anything worse!
_Koch._ I should think not! One can’t imagine anything worse.
_Agàfia._ Then your advice is that I should take Ivàn Kouzmìch?
_Koch._ Of course you should take Ivàn Kouzmìch. (_Aside._) The business
seems to go pretty smoothly. I’d better run to the confectioner’s and
fetch Podkolyòssin.
_Agàfia._ Then you think ... Ivàn Kouzmìch?
_Koch._ Certainly, Ivàn Kouzmìch.
_Agàfia._ And must I refuse all the others?
_Koch._ Of course you must.
_Agàfia._ But how am I to do it? I’m ashamed to.
_Koch._ What’s there to be ashamed of? Just tell them that you’re too
young to marry yet.
_Agàfia._ Well, but they won’t believe me; they’ll begin asking why, and
how, and all that.
_Koch._ Well, if you want to put an end to it at once, you can simply
say, “Get along with you, blockheads!”
_Agàfia._ But how am I to say that?
_Koch._ Well, just try. I assure you that, after that, they’ll all run
away.
_Agàfia._ But ... but it sounds ... so rude.
_Koch._ Well, but you’ll never see them again, so what does it matter?
_Agàfia._ Even so it doesn’t seem nice; ... they’ll be offended.
_Koch._ What in the world does it matter if they are? If they could do
you any harm that would be another thing; but the worst that can happen
is for one of them to spit in your face—that’s all!
_Agàfia._ There! you see!
_Koch._ Well, what harm? Why, some people are spat at over and over
again! There’s a man I know—such a handsome, fresh-coloured fellow—he
was always coaxing and teasing his director to raise his salary, till at
last the director lost all patience, and turned round and spat in his
face. “There’s your salary!” he said; “let me alone, you demon!” But for
all that he raised the salary, and the man was none the worse for having
been spat at. What’s there to mind in that? It would be another matter
if you hadn’t got a handkerchief near, but you have one in your
pocket—you’ve nothing to do but to take it out and dry your face.
(_Door-bell rings._) There’s some one at the door—one of them, I expect.
I shouldn’t care to meet them just now. Isn’t there another way out?
_Agàfia._ Oh, yes, down the back stairs. But, indeed, I am trembling all
over!
_Koch._ Only keep your presence of mind; everything will be all right.
Good-bye! (_Aside._) I’ll run and fetch Podkolyòssin. (_Exit. Enter_
YAÌCHNITZA.)
_Yaìch._ I purposely came rather early, madam, in order to find you
alone and talk with you at leisure. As regards my position, madam, you
are, I presume, acquainted with it: I serve as collegiate assessor, I
enjoy the good-will of the authorities, and my subordinates are
obedient ... only one thing is wanting—a partner to share my life.
_Agàfia._ Y-yes....
_Yaìch._ I have at last found that desired partner. It is—yourself.
Answer me plainly—yes or no? (_Looking at her shoulders; aside._) She’s
not like those scraggy foreign women; there’s something of her.
_Agàfia._ I am still very young.... I do not wish to marry yet....
_Yaìch._ Don’t wish!... Why, what do you employ a matchmaker for?
Perhaps, though, you mean something else—explain to me.... (_Door-bell
rings._) Confound the people! They won’t let one settle one’s business
in peace!
(_Enter_ ZHEVÀKIN.)
_Zhev._ Pardon me, madam, if I have come too early. (_Turns round and
sees_ YAÌCHNITZA.) Ah! there’s one already.... Ivàn Pàvlovich, my
compliments.
_Yaìch._ (_aside_). You be hanged with your compliments! (_Aloud._)
Well, madam, your answer? Say only one word—yes or no?... (_Door bell
rings_; YAÌCHNITZA _spits on the floor_.) Damn that bell!
(_Enter_ ANOÙCHKIN.)
_Anoùchkin._ Perhaps, madam, I have arrived earlier than is becoming and
consistent with good breeding. (_Sees the others, utters an exclamation,
and starts back._) My respects, gentlemen!
_Yaìch._ (_aside_). Keep your respects and be damned to you! The very
deuce brought your spindle-shanks here—if you’d only tumble and break
them!... (_Aloud._) Well, madam, how is it to be? Decide. I am a man in
office; my time is valuable—yes or no?
_Agàfia._ (_confused._) Oh, no, please, ... I don’t want.... (_Aside._)
I don’t know a bit what I’m saying!
_Yaìch._ You don’t want?... In what sense do you mean that?
_Agàfia._ Oh, I didn’t mean.... I.... Oh, indeed!... (_Gathering up her
courage._) Get along with you.... (_Aside, clasping her hands._) Oh,
dear! Oh, dear! what have I said!
_Yaìch._ “_Get_ ... _along_ with you”?!... What does “get along with
you” mean?... Permit me to ask, what do you mean by this? (_Places arms
akimbo, and advances towards her threateningly._)
_Agàfia_ (_stares at him; then screams_). Oh! oh! he’s going to beat me!
(_Exit running._ YAÌCHNITZA _stands open-mouthed_; ARÌNA PANTELÈYMOVNA,
_hearing the noise, runs in, looks at him, and screams_.)
_Arìna._ Oh! he’s going to beat us! (_Exit running._)
_Yaìch._ What’s it all about? What can have happened? (_Door-bell rings;
voice heard without._)
_Koch._ (_without_). Go in; go in! What are you stopping for?
_Pod._ (_without_). You go first; I’ll come in a minute; I’ll just
fasten my strap; it’s come undone.
_Koch._ (_without_). I know you’ll sneak away again.
_Pod._ (_without_). No, I won’t; I won’t, indeed!
(_Enter_ KOCHKARYÒV.)
_Koch._ What next! wants to set a strap right!
_Yaìch._ (_to him_). Be so kind as to tell me,—Is the young lady an
idiot?
_Koch._ What do you mean? Has anything happened?
_Yaìch._ Her behaviour is most extraordinary. All of a sudden she ran
away, screaming out, “He’ll beat me! he’ll beat me!” It’s enough to
mystify the devil!
_Koch._ Yes; she gets like that sometimes; she’s weak in her head.
_Yaìch._ May I ask if you’re a relative of hers?
_Koch._ Oh! yes; I’m a relative.
_Yaìch._ What is your relationship to her, if I may inquire?
_Koch._ A—a—a, really, I don’t know. Let me see—my mother’s aunt was
some relation to her father; or else her father was related to my aunt;
my wife knows all about it; that’s a woman’s business, you know.
_Yaìch._ Has her mind been affected long?
_Koch._ Ever since she was a little child.
_Yaìch._ A—a—a, yes—of course it would be better if she had more sense.
But, after all, it’s not bad to have a foolish wife—once the other
considerations are all right, you know.
_Koch._ But, my good sir, she hasn’t a sixpence!
_Yaìch._ What! But the stone house?
_Koch._ Oh! it’s only called stone; but if you knew the way it’s built!
It’s just coated over with stucco outside; but the walls are made of all
kinds of rubbish—chips, and splinters, and rubble, and what-not.
_Yaìch._ You don’t say so!
_Koch._ Of course. Why, don’t you know the way houses are built
nowadays? They only build houses so as to be able to mortgage them.
_Yaìch._ But this house isn’t mortgaged, surely?
_Koch._ How do you know that? It’s a good deal worse; it’s not only
mortgaged, but the interest hasn’t been paid for the last two years.
Then they’ve got a brother in the Senate, who has his eye on the house.
He’s the most pettifogging hair-splitter that ever was born; the rascal
would fleece his own mother of her last petticoat!
_Yaìch._ But the old matchmaker told me.... Oh! the old hag! A monster
in human.... (_Aside._) By the bye, though, he may be making it all up.
I’ll submit the old woman to a strict interrogation. And, if it’s
true, ... oh! I’ll give her something she won’t forget in a hurry!
_Anoùch._ (_to KOCHKARYÒV_). Permit me, too, to trespass on your time
with a question. Not being myself acquainted with the French language, I
have great difficulty in discovering whether a woman knows French or
not. Does the lady of the house——
_Koch._ She doesn’t know A from B.
_Anoùch._ Is it possible?
_Koch._ Oh! I know that very well! She was at boarding-school with my
wife; and she was the idle one of the school—always in the dunce’s cap.
And as for the French master, he used simply to beat her with a stick.
_Anoùch._ Just imagine! The first minute that I saw her I had a sort of
presentiment that she doesn’t know French.
_Yaìch._ French be hanged! But that confounded matchmaker.... Oh! the
old hag! the old brute! If only you knew the way she described it all!
Like a painter; for all the world like a painter! “A house, wings,
basements, silver spoons, sledges, nothing to do but to get in and
drive!” One hardly ever comes across such a page in a novel! Oh! you old
harridan! once I get hold of you!...
(_Enter_ FÈKLA. _All crowd round her and begin to speak at once._)
_Yaìch._ Ah—h—h! There she is! Just come here a minute, you old——! Just
come here a minute!
_Anoùch._ How could you deceive me so, Fèkla Ivànovna?
_Koch._ Now then, my beauty, stand up to the scratch!
_Fèkla._ I can’t make out a word you say when you deafen me like that.
_Yaìch._ The house is just built of stucco, you old hag, you! And you
told me lies! It’s nothing but garrets, and the very devil knows what.
_Fèkla._ I don’t know; I didn’t build it. I suppose if they built it
with stucco it’s because they liked stucco.
_Yaìch._ And it’s all mortgaged too, is it? May the devils eat you up,
you damned old hag! (_Stamps his foot._)
_Fèkla._ Oh! for shame! using such words! Anybody else would say “Thank
you” for all the trouble I’ve taken.
_Anoùch._ Ah! Fèkla Ivànovna! and you deceived me too; you told me she
knew French!
_Fèkla._ So she does, dear heart, so she does! And German; and all that
outlandish gibberish. She can talk all the ways you like.
_Anoùch._ No, no; I’m afraid she talks nothing but Russian.
_Fèkla._ And what’s the harm of that? Of course she talks Russian;
because Russian’s easier to understand. And if she could do all that
heathen jabber, it would be the worse for you, because you wouldn’t be
able to understand a word. What have you got against anybody talking
good, plain Russian? It’s the proper way to talk; all the saints talked
Russian.
_Yaìch._ Just come here a minute, confound you! Just come here to me!
_Fèkla_ (_backing towards the door_). Not I! I know you too well! You’ve
got a heavy hand; one never knows when you may strike!
_Yaìch._ Ah, my dove! I’ll pay you out for this! When I take you to the
police-station you’ll get a lesson how to deceive honest people. I’ll
let you know! And tell the girl from me that she’s a beast! Do you hear?
Be sure you tell her. (_Exit._)
_Fèkla._ Well, I never did! He’s in a fine fury! Just because he’s fat,
he thinks there’s no one like him in the world. And supposing I say that
you’re a beast yourself, what then?
_Anoùch._ I am bound to say, my good woman, that I did not expect you to
have deceived me so. If I had known that the young lady is so
uneducated, I ... I simply would never have set foot inside the place.
That’s the truth! (_Exit._)
_Fèkla._ Is the man drunk or daft? These fine folk are over hard to
please! All that foolish learning has just turned his head! (KOCHKARYÒV
_points to Fèkla with his finger, and bursts into a roar of laughter_.)
_Fèkla._ (_angrily_). What’s all that guffaw about? (KOCHKARYÒV _goes on
laughing_.) Well, you needn’t go into a fit!
_Koch._ Matchmaker! matchmaker! She knows her business! she knows how to
arrange marriages! (_Continues to laugh._)
_Fèkla._ You’re a wonderful one to laugh; I should think your mother
went daft the hour that you were born. (_Exit angrily._)
_Koch._ (_continues to laugh_). Oh! I can’t!... I can’t really!... It’s
too much!... I shall die of laughing!... (_Continues to laugh._ ZHEVÀKIN
_looks at him and begins to laugh too_.)
_Koch._ (_throws himself into a chair exhausted_). Oh!... Oh! dear!...
I’m half killed!... If I laugh any more I shall simply die!...
_Zhev._ I admire your merry character. When I was in the navy, there was
a midshipman in Captain Voldyrèv’s squadron—Pyetoukhòv his name was,
Antòn Ivànovich—he was very merry too; sometimes, if you’d just lift up
one finger—so—he’d set off laughing, and he’d laugh the whole day long.
Really, just to look at him was enough to put one into a laughing mood;
and at last you’d begin to laugh yourself.
_Koch._ (_recovering his breath_). Oh! Lord! have mercy upon us sinners!
What has the idiot got into her head? As if _she_ knew how to arrange a
marriage! She, indeed! Now, if I arrange a marriage, it’s another
matter!
_Zhev._ Do you seriously mean that you can get people married?
_Koch._ Of course I do. I can marry anybody to anybody.
_Zhev._ In that case, marry me to the lady of this house.
_Koch._ You? What do you want to be married for?
_Zhev._ How “what for?” Allow me to remark that is rather a strange
question. What do people want to get married for?
_Koch._ But you heard that she has no dowry.
_Zhev._ That can’t be helped. Of course it’s unfortunate; but with such
a very charming girl, so well brought up, one can live even without a
dowry. A modest room (_gesticulating_), here a little entrance-hall,
there a small screen or some kind of partition, you know——
_Koch._ What’s there in her you like so much?
_Zhev._ To tell you the truth, she took my fancy because she is plump.
I’m a great connoisseur in feminine plumpness.
_Koch._ (_looking askance at him; aside_). The old mummy may give
himself airs; but he’s for all the world like a pouch with the tobacco
shaken out. (_Aloud._) No; you have no business to be married at all.
_Zhev._ Why so?
_Koch._ It’s plain enough why. Look what your figure’s like! Between
ourselves, you’ve got a leg like a chicken’s.
_Zhev._ A chicken’s?
_Koch._ Certainly. Just see what you look like.
_Zhev._ What do you mean, though, about a chicken’s leg?
_Koch._ Just simply a chicken’s.
_Zhev._ It appears to me, sir, that this approaches to a personality....
_Koch._ I say this to you because I know you’re a sensible man. I
shouldn’t say it to everybody. However, I’ll get you married, if you
like, only to another woman.
_Zhev._ Thank you, no; I must ask you not to marry me to another woman.
If you will be so kind, I should prefer this one.
_Koch._ As you like. I’ll arrange it for you, only with one
condition—you musn’t interfere at all; you musn’t even let the young
lady see you; I’ll manage it all without you.
_Zhev._ I don’t quite understand. How “without me?” Of course the young
lady must see me.
_Koch._ Not at all; not at all! Just go home and wait; it’ll all be done
by this evening.
_Zhev._ (_rubbing his hands_). That’ll be splendid! That’ll be capital!
Don’t you think I ought to have my certificate, though—my list of
service? Perhaps the young lady would like to see it; I’ll fetch it this
minute.
_Koch._ You needn’t fetch anything; only go home; I’ll let you know this
very day. (_Exit_ ZHEVÀKIN.) Yes; and don’t you wish you may get it!...
I wonder why on earth Podkolyòssin doesn’t come! It’s very strange! He
surely can’t be setting his strap to rights all this time. I’d almost
better run and find him.
(_Enter_ AGÀFIA TIKHÒNOVNA.)
_Agàfia_ (_looking around_). Have they all gone? Is there no one here?
_Koch._ There’s no one here; they’ve all gone.
_Agàfia._ Oh! if you knew how I shook and trembled! I never felt like
that in my life before. But what a dreadful man that Yaìchnitza is! What
a tyrant he would be to his wife! I keep fancying every minute that he’s
coming back!
_Koch._ Oh, no! he won’t come back. I’ll lay my head on it that neither
of the two will show his nose here again.
_Agàfia._ And the third?
_Koch._ What third?
_Zhev._ (_Poking his head in at the door; aside_). I’m simply wild to
know what she’ll say about me with that little rosebud of a mouth!
_Agàfia._ I mean Baltazàr Baltazàrovich.
_Zhev._ (_aside_). Ah! that’s it! that’s it! (_Rubs his hands._)
_Koch._ Oh! that creature! I was wondering who you could be talking
about. My dear lady, the man’s a complete idiot—Heaven knows what!
_Zhev._ (_aside_). What’s that? That I confess I don’t understand.
_Agàfia._ Do you know, he seems to me a very nice person?
_Koch._ A drunkard.
_Zhev._ (_aside_). I really don’t understand this!
_Agàfia._ You don’t mean to say he’s a drunkard too?
_Koch._ Oh! dear me! yes; a thoroughpaced scoundrel.
_Zhev._ (_aloud_). Allow me; _that_ I did not ask you to say. If you had
said something to my advantage, or in my praise—that would be another
matter; but to speak of me in such a manner, to use such words—you may
find some one else who will consent, but not your humble servant.
_Koch._ (_aside_). Whatever has brought him back again? (_Softly to_
AGÀFIA.) Look! look! he can hardly stand on his feet. He’s as drunk as a
lord; and it’s the same thing every day. Send him about his business and
make an end of the whole affair. (_Aside._) Podkolyòssin doesn’t come,
and doesn’t come, the scoundrel! Oh! I’ll be even with him! (_Exit._)
_Zhev._ (_aside_). He said he was going to praise me, and instead of
that he began abusing me! Very queer man! (_Aloud._) Don’t believe him,
madam.
_Agàfia._ Excuse me, I am not well; my head aches. (_Going._)
_Zhev._ It cannot be; there must be something about me that displeases
you. (_Points to his head._) I hope you don’t mind my having a little
bald place here; it’s nothing, really; it’s from fever; the hair will
soon grow again.
_Agàfia._ It is all the same to me whether it grows or not.
_Zhev._ Madam! indeed.... If I were to put on a black coat, my
complexion would be much lighter.
_Agàfia._ So much the better for you. Good-afternoon. (_Exit._)
_Zhev._ (_Alone; calls after her._) Madam! tell me the reason! Say why!
What is your objection? Is there any defect in me?... She’s gone! It is
a most extraordinary thing! This is the seventeenth time it has happened
to me; and always just in the same way. At first everything goes all
right; and then, when the critical moment comes, they always refuse me.
(_Walks up and down the room, meditating._) Yes, I believe this is
really the seventeenth girl. And what in the world is it that she wants?
I should like to know why ... on what grounds.... (_Meditates._) It’s
mysterious, very mysterious! Now, if there were anything to object to in
me! (_Inspecting himself._) I think nobody can say that of me, thank
Heaven! It’s very strange! I wonder if I hadn’t better go home, and hunt
about in my trunk. I used to have some verses there that no woman could
stand against.... There really is no understanding it! Everything seemed
to be going all right.... I see I shall have to alter my tack. It’s a
pity; it really is a pity. (_Exit._)
(_Enter_ PODKOLYÒSSIN _and_ KOCHKARYÒV, _looking behind them_.)
_Koch._ He didn’t see us. Did you notice what a long face he went out
with?
_Pod._ She surely hasn’t refused him as well as the others!
_Koch._ Point blank.
_Pod._ It must be dreadfully embarrassing to be refused!
_Koch._ I should think so!
_Pod._ I still can’t believe she really said straight out that she
prefers me to all the others.
_Koch._ Prefers indeed! She’s simply off her head about you. If you’d
heard all the sweet names she gave you—why, she’s over head and ears in
love!
_Pod._ (_sniggering contentedly_). And you know, really, when a woman
likes, she can say such words to you as no man would ever think
of—“piggykin-snout,” “my own little cockroach,” “blackie.”...
_Koch._ Oh, that’s nothing! Once you’re married you’ll find out before
two months are over what words a woman knows how to use—enough to melt
you all away, my lad!
_Pod._ (_laughing_). Really?
_Koch._ Word of honour! Look here, though, we must get to business. Lay
your heart bare before her this very minute, and ask for her hand.
_Pod._ This very minute! My dear fellow, how can you!
_Koch._ This minute, certainly; and here she comes. (_Enter AGÀFIA._)
Madam, I have brought to your feet the mortal whom you see. There never
was a man so desperately in love—poor fellow, I wouldn’t wish an enemy
to be in such a state....
_Pod._ (_nudging his arm; softly_). I say, old fellow, don’t lay it on
too thick....
_Koch._ (_aside to him_). All right. (_Aside to her._) Help him out,
he’s very shy; try to be as easy as possible. Make the most of your
eyebrows, or keep your eyes down and then flash them at him suddenly—you
know how!—or bend your shoulder somehow and let the dog look at it! I’m
sorry, though, you didn’t put on a dress with short sleeves; however,
it’s no matter. (_Aloud._) Well, I leave you in agreeable company. I’ll
just look into your dining-room and kitchen a minute; I must make
arrangements—the man I ordered the supper from will be here in a minute;
perhaps the wine has come already.... Good-bye! (_Aside to
PODKOLYÒSSIN._) Out with it; don’t be afraid! (_Exit._)
_Agàfia._ Will you sit down, please? (_They sit down; silence._)
_Pod._ Do you like the water, madam?
_Agàfia._ How do you mean—the water?
_Pod._ I mean—to go boating in summer, in the suburbs.
_Agàfia._ Yes, we sometimes make an excursion with friends.
_Pod._ I wonder what sort of summer we shall have?
_Agàfia._ It is to be hoped it will be fine. (_Silence._)
_Pod._ What is your favourite flower, madam?
_Agàfia._ The carnation; it smells so sweet.
_Pod._ Flowers are very becoming for ladies.
_Agàfia._ Yes, they make an agreeable occupation. (_Silence._) What
church did you go to last Sunday?
_Pod._ To the Voznessénsky, and the week before to the Kazansky
Cathedral. But it is all the same—one can pray in any church. (_Silence.
PODKOLYÒSSIN drums on the table with his fingers._) The Ekaterinhof
excursions will soon begin now.
_Agàfia._ In a month, I think.
_Pod._ Even less than a month.
_Agàfia._ I expect there will be some pleasant excursions.
_Pod._ To-day is the eighth—(_counts on his fingers_)—ninth, tenth,
eleventh—in twenty-two days.
_Agàfia._ Dear me, how soon!
_Pod._ I don’t count to-day in. (_Silence._) What a daring race the
Russians are!
_Agàfia._ How so?
_Pod._ The working men. They will stand right on the top of anything....
I passed a house to-day that was being plastered; and there stood the
plasterer ... afraid of nothing.
_Agàfia._ Indeed? And where was this?
_Pod._ On my way, where I always have to pass, going to the Department.
I attend regularly every day now. (_Silence. PODKOLYÒSSIN again drums on
the table; at last takes his hat, rises, and bows._)
_Agàfia._ Going already?
_Pod._ Yes.... Pardon me, I have perhaps bored you.
_Agàfia._ How could that be! On the contrary, I ought to thank you for
causing me to pass the time so pleasantly.
_Pod._ (_smiling_). Really, I am afraid I have bored you.
_Agàfia._ Oh no, indeed!
_Pod._ In that case, allow me to come in some other time—some evening.
_Agàfia._ With the greatest pleasure. (_They bow. Exit PODKOLYÒSSIN._)
_Agàfia_ (_alone_). What a superior person! I have only now learned to
know him well; it would be difficult not to love him; he is at once
modest and judicious. Yes, his friend spoke truly of him; I am only
sorry that he went away so soon—I should have liked to hear him talk
some more. How delightful it is to talk with him! The best of all is
that he doesn’t talk small talk. I wanted to say two or three words to
him, but I suddenly felt so timid, and my heart began to beat so....
What an excellent gentleman! ... I’ll go and tell auntie. (_Exit._)
(_Enter_ PODKOLYÒSSIN _and_ KOCHKARYÒV.)
_Koch._ Why go home? Whatever nonsense do you want to go home for?
_Pod._ What should I stop here for? I’ve said all that’s proper already.
_Koch._ Then you have made her an offer?
_Pod._ N—no, that’s the only thing—I haven’t done that yet.
_Koch._ Well you really are—why didn’t you?
_Pod._ I should like to know how you expect me, without talking about
anything else first, to plump the question that way—“Will you marry me,
madam?”
_Koch._ And _I_ should like to know whatever nonsense were you talking
about for a whole half-hour?
_Pod._ Oh, we talked about all sorts of things; and I acknowledge that
I’m delighted. I passed the time most agreeably.
_Koch._ Look here, man, think yourself; when are you going to get it all
done at that rate? It will be time to go to church and be married in an
hour.
_Pod._ Are you gone mad? Be married to-day!...
_Koch._ Why not?
_Pod._ To-day!
_Koch._ But you gave me your word; you said that as soon as the other
suitors were got rid of, you were ready to be married at once.
_Pod._ I’m quite willing to keep my word—only not at once. I must have
at least a month breathing-time.
_Koch._ A month!
_Pod._ Of course.
_Koch._ Are you gone right off your head?
_Pod._ I can’t do with less than a month.
_Koch._ But, you wooden block, you, I’ve ordered the supper!... Look
here, Ivàn Kouzmìch, don’t be obstinate, there’s a good fellow; get
married at once!
_Pod._ My good man, what are you thinking of? How could I do it at once?
_Koch._ Ivàn Kouzmìch, I ask it of you. If you don’t care to do it for
your own sake, do it for mine.
_Pod._ I tell you I can’t.
_Koch._ You can, my dear fellow, you can, perfectly well; there now,
don’t be so whimsical, don’t, please!
_Pod._ But indeed I can’t do it; just think how odd it would seem!
_Koch._ What is there odd about it? Who’s been putting that into your
head? Now just be sensible and think it over; you’re a clever fellow—I
don’t say that to flatter you, or creep into your good graces; I don’t
say it because you’re an aulic counsellor—I say it out of sincere
affection for you.... There now, dear old chap—make up your mind—look at
the thing as a reasonable man should.
_Pod._ If the thing were possible I would——
_Koch._ Ivàn Kouzmìch! My dear friend, my good fellow! If you like I’ll
go down on my knees to you!
_Pod._ But why?
_Koch._ (_kneeling_). There! I’m on my knees before you! There now, you
see, I entreat you! I’ll never forget it if you’ll do me this one
favour—give in, please; please give in!
_Pod._ I tell you, man, I can’t.
_Koch._ (_rising angrily_). PIG!!
_Pod._ Oh, you can rant if you like!
_Koch._ Idiot! Blockhead! There never was such an ass!
_Pod._ Rant away; I don’t care!
_Koch._ Who have I taken all this trouble for? Who have I been working
for? All for your good, you nincompoop! I declare I’ll just throw it all
up and leave you in the lurch; what’s it to me?
_Pod._ Certainly, throw it up if you like. Who asked you to give
yourself so much trouble?
_Koch._ But you’ll come to grief altogether—you can’t manage anything
without me. If I don’t get you safely married, you’ll be fooled for the
rest of your days.
_Pod._ What’s that to you?
_Koch._ Oh, you dunderhead! It’s you I’m trying to help!
_Pod._ I don’t want your help.
_Koch._ Then go to the devil!
_Pod._ Very well, I will.
_Koch._ That’s the right end for you!
_Pod._ All right.
_Koch._ Be off with you! Be off! And I wish you may break your leg! With
all my heart I wish a tipsy cabman would drive his shafts down your
throat! You’re an old rag, not an official! I give you my word that
everything’s over between us. Don’t you dare to show your face in my
house again!
_Pod._ I shan’t. (_Exit._)
_Koch._ (_alone_). Go to the devil—your old friend! (_Opens door and
bawls after him._) Fool! (_Walks up and down in great agitation._) Now,
did anybody in the world ever see such a man? The blockhead! Indeed, to
speak the truth, I’m a precious fellow, too! Now just tell me, please—I
appeal to you all—am I not an ass and a dolt? Why should I toil and moil
for him and argue till my throat aches? What’s he to me, please? He’s no
kin of mine! And what am I to him—nurse, maiden aunt, mother-in-law,
sponsor? Why, why, _why_ the devil should I take all this trouble and
give myself no rest? And all for him—may the foul fiend carry him away!
The deuce take it all! Sometimes there’s no making out what a man does a
thing for! What a scoundrel! What a sneaking, miserable cad! Oh! you
pig-headed brute, you! Wouldn’t I just like to punch your nose and box
your ears, and knock out your teeth and——Ah! (_Strikes at the air with
his fist._) This is the provoking thing about it—he just goes off, and
doesn’t care a rap; it all runs off him like water off a duck’s back;
that’s what I can’t stand! He’ll just go home to his lodgings and lie on
his back and smoke a pipe. Confounded sneak! There are plenty of ugly
brutes to be seen, but such a hideous mug passes any man’s power to
imagine; you couldn’t invent anything worse if you tried—you couldn’t,
really! And he’s just mistaken. I’ll go and fetch him back on purpose,
the scoundrel! I won’t let him give the slip like that; I’ll go and
bring the sneak back! (_Rushes away. Enter_ AGÀFIA.)
_Agàfia._ Really, my heart beats so, I can’t make it out! Whichever way
I turn, Ivàn Kouzmìch seems to stand before me. It seems as if one
couldn’t escape one’s fate. Just now I wanted to think of something
altogether different, but it’s all the same whatever I take up. I’ve
tried to wind off some silk and make a reticule, but Ivàn Kouzmìch keeps
getting under my hand. (_Silence._) And so now, at last, a change of
condition awaits me! They will take me, lead me to the church. Then they
will leave me alone with a man—oh! I shudder from head to foot when I
think of it. Farewell, my maiden life! (_Weeps._) All these years I have
lived in peace. I have just gone on living, and now I must be married!
And to think of all the cares of marriage: children, boys—they always
quarrel and fight—and then there’ll be girls, and they’ll grow up, and
one must get them married. And one is fortunate if they find good
husbands. But supposing they marry drunkards, or people that may any day
gamble away anything they have! (_Gradually begins to sob again._) I
haven’t had time to enjoy my girlhood; I haven’t lived even twenty-seven
years unmarried. (_Changing her tone._) I wonder why Ivàn Kouzmìch is so
long coming! (_Enter_ PODKOLYÒSSIN, KOCHKARYÒV’S _hands are seen at the
door, shoving him forcibly on to the stage_.)
_Pod._ I have come, madam, to explain a certain matter—only I should
wish to know beforehand whether you will not think it strange——
_Agàfia_ (_dropping her eyes_). What is it?
_Pod._ No, madam; tell me first, will you think it strange?
_Agàfia._ I can’t. What is it?
_Pod._ But confess; I am sure what I am going to say will seem strange
to you.
_Agàfia._ How is that possible? It is a pleasure to hear anything from
you.
_Pod._ But you have never heard this thing from me. (AGÀFIA _drops her
eyes lower_. KOCHKARYÒV _enters softly, and stands behind_
PODKOLYÒSSIN.) It is about——But perhaps I had better tell you some other
time.
_Agàfia._ What is it?
_Pod._ It is——It’s true, I wanted to explain to you now; but I still
feel a little doubtful.
_Koch._ (_folding his arms, aside_). Oh! Gracious heavens! What a man!
He’s an old woman’s flannel shoe, not a man. He’s a parody of a man, a
burlesque of a man!
_Agàfia._ Why should you feel doubtful?
_Pod._ A sort of doubt keeps coming over me.
_Koch._ (_aloud_). Oh! how stupid! Oh! how stupid! This is what it’s
about, madam: he asks your hand, and wants to tell you that he can’t
live, can’t exist without you; he wants to know—do you consent to make
him happy?
_Pod._ (_half frightened, excitedly nudging him_). I say! don’t!
_Koch._ Can you decide, madam, to render this mortal happy?
_Agàfia._ I do not presume to think that I can give happiness——However,
I consent.
_Koch._ Of course, of course; ought to have been settled long ago! Give
me your hands!
_Pod._ In a minute. (_Tries to whisper in his ear._ KOCHKARYÒV _shakes
his fist and frowns at him_. PODKOLYÒSSIN _gives his hand_.)
_Koch._ (_joining their hands_). Well, may God bless you! I consent, and
I approve your union. Marriage is a kind of thing——It’s not like just
taking a sledge and going for a drive; it’s of quite a different
character; it’s an obligation——I haven’t time now, but I’ll tell you
afterwards what sort of obligation it is. Well, Ivàn Kouzmìch, kiss your
bride; it is your right to do that now; it is your duty to do it.
(AGÀFIA _drops her eyes_.) Never mind, madam, it is quite right and
proper; let him kiss you!
_Pod._ No, madam, you must permit me now. (_Kisses her, and takes her
hand._) What a lovely little hand! Why have you such a lovely little
hand? Allow me, madam. I wish that the wedding should be at once—at
once, without any delay.
_Agàfia._ At once? Perhaps that will be too soon.
_Pod._ I won’t hear of anything! I should like to have it this very
minute.
_Koch._ Bravo! That’s good! That’s a noble fellow! I always had great
hopes of you in the future! Indeed, madam, he’s quite right; you’d
better go and dress at once. To tell the truth, I’ve sent for the
carriage already, and invited the guests; they’re all gone straight to
the church. I know your wedding-dress is ready.
_Agàfia._ Oh! yes; ready long ago. I’ll dress in a minute. (_Exit._)
_Pod._ Well, I thank you, friend! Now I appreciate all your kindness. My
own father wouldn’t have done for me what you have done. I see now that
you acted from pure friendship. Thank you, old chap! I’ll remember it
all my life. (_With emotion._) Next spring I’ll certainly go and visit
your father’s grave.
_Koch._ It’s nothing, old man; I’m glad myself. There now; let’s
embrace. (_Kisses him, first on one cheek, then on the other._) May God
give you happiness and prosperity (_they kiss_), peace and plenty; may
you have many children.
_Pod._ Thank you, friend! Now, at last, only now, I know what life is; a
new world has opened before me. Now I see, as it were; that everything
moves and lives. I feel, I seem to go off into a mist—I don’t know
myself what has come to me. Up till now I never saw or understood all
this; I was just like a man that knew nothing; I never thought, never
pondered over things; I lived just as any ordinary man does.
_Koch._ I’m glad, very glad! I’ll just go and see how they’ve set the
table; I’ll be back in a minute. (_Aside._) All the same, I’d better
take away his hat, in case of anything. (_Exit, taking hat._)
[Illustration:
PODKOLYÒSSIN: “WELL, I DON’T KNOW; IT ISN’T SO HIGH; ONLY ONE STORY.”
]
_Pod_ (_alone_). Indeed, what have I been, until now? Have I understood
the meaning of life? No, I have understood nothing. What has my bachelor
life been worth? What have I done? Of what consequence have I been? I
have lived and lived, served, gone to the Department, dined, slept—in a
word, I have been a quite ordinary and frivolous man. It is only now I
see how foolish are all the people who do not marry. And yet, if you
think of it, what a number of people are in that state of blindness! If
I were a king anywhere, I would command that everybody should marry,
every single person, that there shouldn’t be one bachelor in all my
kingdom. Really, to think of it, in a few minutes I shall be married!
Suddenly I shall taste such bliss as one only hears about in
fairy-tales—bliss that there is no describing, there are no words to
describe it. (_After a short silence._) All the same, put it how you
like—but there’s really something almost dreadful in it when you think
it over. For all one’s life, for ever—you can’t get over the fact that
you’re tying yourself. And once it’s done, no excuse will help you, no
remorse, nothing, nothing—everything’s finished; all is over. Why, even
now there’s no way out of it; we shall be before the altar in a few
minutes. I couldn’t go away if I wanted to—the carriage is at the door;
everything’s ready. I wonder, though, couldn’t I go away? Why no, of
course not; there are heaps of people at the door, and everywhere, and
they’d ask me why. No, no, it won’t do! By the by, there’s the window
open; what if I jumped out. No, no; oh, no; it wouldn’t do; it wouldn’t
be proper—and then, it’s so high. (_Goes to window._) Well, I don’t
know; it isn’t so high; only one story, and that a low one. Why, no, no,
of course I can’t; I haven’t even got my hat; I can’t go without a hat,
it would seem so queer! Couldn’t I manage without a hat, though, after
all? What if I were to try? H—’m. I might as well try. (_Clambers on to
window-sill and crosses himself._) Lord, give Thy blessing![13] (_Jumps
down into the street. Heard grunting and groaning without._) Oh! oh!
It’s a good height though! Hi, _drozhki_!
_Cabman’s voice_ (_without_). _Drozhki_, sir?
_Pod._ (_without_). To the canal, by the Semyònovsky bridge.
_Cabman_ (_without_). I don’t mind going for ten kopecks.
_Pod._ (_without_). All right! Make haste!
(_Drozhki is heard to drive away. Enter_ AGÀFIA _in her wedding-dress,
walking timidly and hanging her head_.)
_Agàfia._ I really don’t know what is come to me. I feel ashamed again,
and I am trembling all over. Oh! I wish he weren’t in the room just this
minute; I wish he’d gone out! (_Looking round shyly._) Why, where is he?
There’s no one here! Where can he be gone? (_Opens door into hall and
calls._) Fèkla, where is Ivàn Kouzmìch gone?
_Fèkla_ (_without_). He’s there.
_Agàfia._ Where?
_Fèkla_ (_entering_). But he was sitting in this room!
_Agàfia._ Well, he isn’t here, you see.
_Fèkla._ He certainly hasn’t gone out of the room! I was sitting in the
hall.
_Agàfia._ Then where is he?
_Fèkla._ I’m sure I don’t know. He can’t have gone out by the back door.
I wonder if he’s sitting in Arìna Pantelèymovna’s room?
_Agàfia._ Auntie! Auntie! (_Enter_ ARÌNA, _dressed for wedding_.)
_Arìna._ What’s the matter?
_Agàfia._ Is Ivàn Kouzmìch in your room?
_Arìna._ No, he must be here; he hasn’t come into my room.
_Fèkla._ Well, I know he didn’t go through the hall, for I was sitting
there.
_Agàfia._ But you see yourself he isn’t here. (_Enter_ KOCHKARYÒV.)
_Koch._ What’s the matter?
_Agàfia._ We can’t find Ivàn Kouzmìch.
_Koch._ Can’t find him? Has he gone out?
_Agàfia._ No, he hasn’t gone out either.
_Koch._ What do you mean? Not here and not gone out?
_Fèkla._ I can’t think where he can have got to. I was in the hall the
whole time; never left it for a minute.
_Arìna._ Well, he certainly didn’t go out by the back stairs.
_Koch._ Well, but, the devil take it, he couldn’t vanish without going
out of the room! I expect he’s hidden himself.... Ivàn Kouzmìch! Where
are you? Leave off fooling! Come out, quick! There’s no time for jokes;
we ought to be at church by now! (_Looks into cupboard, and peeps
askance under chairs._) No making it out! But he can’t have gone away;
he can’t possibly have gone away! He’s here; there’s his hat in the next
room, I put it there on purpose.
_Arìna._ We’d better ask the girl, she was standing at the street door;
perhaps she knows something about it.... Douniàshka! Douniàshka!...
(_Enter_ DOUNIÀSHKA.) Where’s Ivàn Kouzmìch? Have you seen him?
_Doun._ Please’m, the gentleman jumped out of window. (AGÀFIA _screams
and clasps her hands_.)
_All three together._ The window?...
_Doun._ Yes’m. And if you please’m, when he was out he took a _drozhki_
and drove away.
_Arìna._ Are you speaking the truth?
_Koch._ It’s a lie! It can’t be!
_Doun._ No, it’s not then; he did jump out. And the man as keeps the
general shop saw him too. He took a _drozhki_ for ten kopecks, and he
drove away.
_Arìna_ (_advancing to_ KOCHKARYÒV). I suppose, then, little father,
that you meant to play off a joke on us, to make a laughing-stock of us?
You’ve come here to disgrace us, is that it? Sir, I’ve lived for more
than fifty years, and I’ve never been put to such shame as this. And,
little father, I’ll spit in your face if you call yourself an honest
man! You’re a villain and a scoundrel if you call yourself an honest
man! To shame a girl publicly—before every one! I—a peasant wouldn’t do
such a thing! And you a noble! All the nobility you’ve got is good for
nothing but lies and cheating and rascally tricks!
(_Exit, furious, taking the bride with her._ KOCHKARYÒV _stands as
petrified_.)
_Fèkla._ Well. So this is the gentleman that knows how to manage things!
This is the way you get on without a matchmaker! It’s all very well to
laugh at my suitors. They may be draggletailed, and anything else you
like, but, whatever they are, they don’t jump out of the window. I don’t
have that sort, anyhow!
_Koch._ That’s all nonsense; it can’t be! I’ll run after him and bring
him back. (_Exit._)
_Fèkla._ Yes, bring him back, I daresay. Much _you_ know about
marriages! If he’d run out by the door it would have been another thing,
but when the bridegroom pops out of window all I can say is—I wish you
joy!
CURTAIN.
_AT THE POLICE INSPECTOR’S._
[Illustration]
BY GORBOUNÒV.
PERSONS.
THE POLICE INSPECTOR.
GRIGÒRIEV, _his servant_.
A SHOPKEEPER.
IVÀN ANÀNIEV, _a factory hand_.
TIME: _morning. The Inspector sits in his office reading documents._
_Inspector_ (_reads_). “Therefore, the Moscow Administration of Public
Order——” Grigòriev!
_Grigòriev._ What is it, yer honour?
_Inspector._ Tell the cook to do me a herring with apple sauce.
_Grigòriev._ Yes, yer honour.
_Inspector_ (_reads_). “To make all proper investigations——” (_Enter
the_ SHOPKEEPER.) Who’s that?
_Shopkeeper._ It’s only me, little father.
_Inspector._ And who are you?
_Shopkeeper._ An inhabitant of the town.
_Inspector._ What do you want?
_Shopkeeper._ I came, little father, to humbly beg a favour of you.
_Inspector._ Well, what now?
_Shopkeeper._ It’s an odd business, little father.
_Inspector._ Odd? What sort of business?
_Shopkeeper._ Well, you see, it’s this way—don’t be angry, your honour,
just take three silver roubles for your household expenses.
_Inspector._ Sit down, please.
_Shopkeeper._ Oh, I can stand, your honour; ... I don’t mind standing.
_Inspector._ What’s your business?
_Shopkeeper._ Your honour is aware that I have a ’ouse in your district,
with a wooden fence....
_Inspector._ Yes.
_Shopkeeper._ Well, in that ’ouse I’ve got a factory—a weaving factory.
_Inspector._ Well?
_Shopkeeper._ Well, you see, sir——
_Inspector._ Sit down, sit down....
_Shopkeeper._ Don’t trouble.... Well, on Saturday I was in the town, and
I was kept a bit late. Well, I tore off home as hard as my legs would
carry me—There! I thought, my wife’ll be waiting—family matters, you
know—and the tea’ll all be kept about——
_Inspector._ Yes, yes, family matters....
_Shopkeeper._ Well, there’s a hand in my factory—Ivàn Anàniev——
_Inspector._ Well? I suppose he got drunk, or made a row, or something?
_Shopkeeper._ It’s worse than that, sir—I’d ’ave put up with that—he’s
stolen my cutter.
_Inspector._ What’s a cutter?
_Shopkeeper._ Why, you see, sir, it’s a sort of thing, ... for the stuff
like that we weave, you know, in our line of business....
_Inspector._ Ah! I understand.
_Shopkeeper._ So I said to him: “Ivàn Anàniev, you come with me to the
Police Inspector.” And what d’you think he said? “I don’t care for your
Inspector,” says he!
_Inspector._ What’s that!—Grigòriev!...
_Shopkeeper._ So I said to him: “What d’you mean?” I says; “why, any
gentleman can hit you over the head if he likes, and you can’t do
anything—let alone, his honour the Inspector,” says I.
_Inspector._ Grigòriev!
_Shopkeeper._ You see, your honour, people like us can’t pass over
things of that sort, ’cause why?—we should just lose all our capital....
_Inspector._ Gri—gòriev!
_Shopkeeper._ And I do say, sir, that for us the Inspector ... it’s like
this, you see, ... as if——
(_Enter_ GRIGÒRIEV.)
_Grigòriev._ What is it, yer honour?
_Inspector._ Blockhead!
_Grigòriev._ At your honour’s service.
_Inspector._ Fetch Ivàn Anàniev here.
_Grigòriev_ (_opening the door_). Kondràtiev! Where’s Ivàn Anàniev? Dost
thou know who it is? Fetch him to the master.... Ivàn Ana—à—aniev!
(_Enter_ IVÀN ANÀNIEV.)
_Inspector._ What is your name?
_Ivàn Anàniev._ Ha’nt got none; time to die soon.
_Inspector._ What do you say?
_Ivàn Anàniev._ Don’t know nothin’.
_Inspector._ Take him to the lock-up.
_Ivàn Anàniev._ Koùzma Petròvich ’as jes’ made it all up agin me, ’cause
I wouldn’t mix up in any o’ his fine tricks.
_Inspector._ Take him away.
_Grigòriev._ Kondràtiev!...
_Shopkeeper._ Thank you very much, sir. Nothing more to be done, I
suppose?
_Inspector._ Just step into the other office and write out a formal
statement.
_Shopkeeper._ Certainly, sir. (_Exit._)
_Inspector._ Grigòriev!
_Grigòriev._ What is it, your honour?
_Inspector._ Give me my uniform.
_Grigòriev._ Why, your honour, ’tis all mucky and spotty.
_Inspector._ What!
_Grigòriev._ _I_ don’t know nothing about it!
_Inspector._ Can the spots be taken out?
_Grigòriev._ Oh ay, your honour.
_Inspector._ How?
_Grigòriev._ I don’t know.
_Inspector._ I think with turpentine?
_Grigòriev._ And _I_ think with turpentine.
_Inspector._ Only I’m afraid it’ll smell.
_Grigòriev._ ’Twill stink, your honour.
_Inspector._ I don’t know, though—perhaps it won’t.
_Grigòriev._ Of course it won’t, your honour! (_Brings back the
uniform._) ’Tis ready, your honour.
_Inspector._ What?
_Grigòriev._ Nothin’.
_Inspector._ Does it smell?
_Grigòriev._ ’T stinks, your honour.
_Inspector._ Badly?
_Grigòriev._ Terrible bad, your honour.
_Inspector._ I don’t know—it’s nothing to hurt, I think; one can’t smell
it.
_Grigòriev._ Of course one can’t. Let me hold it, sir; there you be!
_BEFORE THE JUSTICE OF THE PEACE._
[Illustration]
BY GORBOUNÒV.
(_The Justice’s Court. Before the table stand two shopmen from the
Apràksin market._)
_The Justice of the Peace._ You are accused of smearing mustard on the
face of a waiter in the hotel Yàgodka.
_First Defendant._ We had a lark—that’s true enough.
_Justice._ You broke the mirror.
_First Defendant._ There—all that’s paid for, and we have given the boy
his due.
_Justice._ Then you acknowledge yourselves guilty?
_First Defendant._ Guilty? What have I done wrong? If I pay my money
down——
_Justice._ You were together?
_Second Defendant._ Yes, your honour.
_Justice._ Do you acknowledge yourself guilty?
_Second Defendant._ Certainly not!
_Justice._ It is stated in the accusation that you——
_Second Defendant._ I dare say! I’d write you all the accusations you
like for 2¾d.
_Justice._ I cannot permit you to express yourself in this manner.
_Second Defendant._ I wasn’t expressing anything at all!
_Justice_ (_to witness_). State what happened.
_Witness._ I dun’no wot ever money they’re a-talkin’ about—_I_ never got
no money! They jes’ come in, an’ they was pretty well screwed, both on
’em, an’ they ordered a stew, an’ a big decanter, an’ then a bottle o’
sherry. So when they got very tight, they began blusterin’ away——
_First Defendant._ If I smeared your ugly face——
_Justice._ Silence!
_First Defendant._ Cert’nly sir, only he’s tellin’ a pack of lies!
_Advocate._ I beg permission to put a question to the witness.
_Justice._ Who are you?
_Advocate._ Retained for the defence.
_Justice._ Afterwards.
_Witness._ Well, they was blusterin’ away, an’ then they set to an’
began a-cruelly ill-usin’ o’ me.
_Justice._ How “ill-using”?
_Witness._ By the air o’ the ‘ed, y’r worship.
_Justice._ Which of them?
_Witness._ Why, them there, both on ’em.
_First Defendant._ That’s all rot.
_Advocate._ I beg permission to put a question to the witness.
_Justice._ I told you—afterwards.
_Witness._ Well, then they begins smearin’ o’ mustard all over me. One
gent as was in the coffee-room, he up an’ says, “This is dis—graceful,”
says ‘e; and they told ’im, “We’ve paid our money down.”
_Justice._ Is this a true account?
_First Defendant._ Maybe; I was screwed pretty tight; I don’t quite
recollect. But, even if we did smear him a bit, what’s there to make
such a fuss about? It wasn’t turpentine we smeared him with—and then,
besides, we paid our money down for it. Well, it’s all one to me; I’ll
say “guilty,” if you like.
_Justice_ (_to Second Defendant_). And you?
_Second Defendant._ We keep to our former statement.
_Advocate._ May I speak now?
_Justice._ You may.
_Advocate._ May it please y’r worship! The heartfelt repentance brought
into court, in accordance with the new statute, dimin’shes.... The law
permits of moral conviction, and I therefore beg you to judge my client
by moral conviction. I deny—a—any guilt in this case. I have long served
in the Administrash’n of Benevo——
_Justice._ Excuse me. In what condition are you?
_Advocate._ I beg y’r p—pard’n?
_Justice._ In what condition have you come here?
_Advocate._ In w w-what con-d-dish’n?
_Justice._ I must fine you three roubles. Please to leave the Court.
_Advocate._ Prompt, just, and merciful.
_INCOMPATIBILITY OF TEMPER._
[Illustration]
PICTURES FROM MOSCOW LIFE.
BY A. N. OSTRÒVSKY.
PICTURE I.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
PRÈZHNEV, _an old man, completely in his dotage, official of high
rank; has lost the use of his limbs; is wheeled about in a chair_.
SÒFIA IVÀNOVNA PRÈZHNEVA, _his wife, aged forty-five_.
PAUL, _a young man, her son_.
OUSTÌNYA FILIMÒNOVNA PERESHÌVKINA, _an elderly woman, formerly_ PAUL’S
_nurse; now a kind of toady and hanger-on in several families_.
_A large drawing-room; very rich paper-hangings, grown old and shabby,
peeling off the walls. Polished parquet, sunk and uneven. Windows,
left, looking into garden. Door opening on wooden balcony, with
pillars. At back of stage, a door leading to hall. Door, right, to
inner rooms. In narrow niches, little marble tables with bronze
legs; over them hang long narrow pier-glasses with gilded frames.
Furniture old, heavy, with gilding rubbed off. Old bronze-work on
tables. Glass chandelier with lozenge-shaped drops. Two or three
ivy-screens. A general appearance of former luxury now become
shabby._
SCENE I.
(PRÈZHNEV _asleep in wheel-chair beside window. Fur dressing-gown;
white woollen rug over feet_. MADAME PRÈZHNEVA, _in elegant morning
négligé, lies on sofa with a book_.)
_Madame P._ (_lays down book_). That is cruel! That is dreadful! I would
never have acted so! _Nous autres femmes_ ... we ... oh! we believe, we
trust blindly, we never analyse. No, I cannot finish this novel. A young
man of good birth, handsome, clever, an officer in the army, declares
his love to her in such exquisite language; and she—she has the heart to
refuse him! No; she is no woman! Woman is a weak creature of impulse! We
live only through the heart. And how easy it is to deceive us! We are
willing to make all sacrifices for the man we love. If men deceive
us—which, alas! happens very often—the blame lies not upon us, but upon
them. They, for the most part, are cunning and deceitful.... We women
are so loving, so trustful, so ready to believe everything, that only
after bitter (_meditates_)—yes, bitter—experience we realise the
immorality of the beings we adore. (_Silence._) But, no! Even after a
betrayal, even after several betrayals, we are ready again to yield to
impulse, to believe once more in the possibility of pure and honourable
love! Yes! it is our fate! All the more so, when the whole thing takes
place amid such poetical surroundings as in this novel: spring-time,
flowers, a beautiful park, gurgling streams; he came to her attired for
the hunt, the gun upon his shoulder, the hound at his feet, ah! But
men ... how often do they abuse the exquisite tenderness of our loving
hearts; they care not to know how much we suffer through them, we poor
women! (_Silence._) Of course there _are_ women whose whole interest in
life consists in vulgar, material considerations and household affairs.
But that is prose, prose! Nothing shall make me regard it as anything
but prose. There are even women who discuss various learned topics as if
they were men; but I cannot recognise their womanhood. They may be
clever; they may be learned; but instead of a heart they have a lump of
ice. (_Silence._) When such ideas come into my mind, I always think of
my Paul. Oh! how successful he will be with women! It is a joy to me in
anticipation! How sweet is that thought for a mother! Oh! children!
children! (_smells vinaigrette and rings bell. Enter footman._)
_Footman._ Did madame ring?
_Madame P._ Has your master come in yet?
_Footman._ No, madame.
_Madame P._ When he comes, say I wish to see him.
_Footman._ Yes, madame. (_Exit._)
_Madame P._ He is such a sensitive, nervous boy! He has inherited my
temperament. He should be watched over and tenderly cared for. But what
can I do? I have no fortune! After receiving such a high-class
education, he is reduced to the necessity of serving in a Government
office! All those head-clerks.... They do wear such extraordinary
coats!... and he is so nervous, so nervous!... I believe that they all
persecute him out of envy.
(_Enter_ PAUL.)
_Paul_ (_irreproachably dressed in summer costume, with an exhausted and
somewhat affected air_). _Bonjour, Maman!_
_Madame P._ (_kisses his forehead_). _Bonjour_, Paul! Where have you
been?
_Paul_ (_sits on sofa_). Where! In that charming place to which it
pleased you to send me.
_Madame P._ What can we do, Paul?
_Paul._ I have come home on foot in this dreadful heat!
_Madame P._ It is charmingly cool in this room.
_Paul._ Yes; but what is it like in the winter? All the walls are
damp-rotted; the floor is sunk in.
_Madame P._ Yes, my dear one; our affairs are in a very bad condition.
_Paul._ Your affairs! What affairs have you? There’s papa only half
alive; and you, too, have had your day, and finished it. Look at _my_
position!
_Madame P._ I know, my dear one. I can understand how hard it is for
you!
_Paul._ Hard! I should think so! Listen to me, _Maman_. By birth, by
education, by the circle in which I move—in fact, by everything—I
belong, every inch of me, to the best rank of society.
_Madame P._ Oh, yes!
_Paul._ And what is wanting? It is shameful, infamous! A fortune! And,
indeed, what does it matter that I have no fortune? All the same, I
ought to live and do like other people. Am I to go and register myself
as an artizan? A cobbler, perhaps! All because I have no fortune! That
amounts to an absurdity.
_Madame P._ We had a fortune once, Paul.
_Paul._ I know you had. And where is it now? I know more than that.... I
know that you squandered it.
_Madame P._ Ah, Paul! do not blame me! You know that we women are so
weak, so confiding. Before your father’s illness we were considered very
wealthy people; we had a fine estate in the Simbìrsk country. He knew
how to manage all those things. Afterwards, when he was struck down with
paralysis, I lived not at all luxuriously, only respectably.
_Paul._ How much did Mons. Péché cost you? Confess, _Maman_!
_Madame P._ Oh! my dear one, he was indispensable for your education.
Then I went abroad twice. But I never ran into any heavy expense. And
suddenly I was informed that I had spent all the fortune, that we had
nothing left. It is dreadful! In all probability it was our stewards and
bailiffs that were to blame for the whole thing.
_Paul._ _Canaille!_
_Madame P._ What can we do, my dear one? People are so wicked, so
cunning; and you and I are so confiding!
_Paul._ It’s you that are confiding, _Maman_. If they got into my hands,
I would tell them quite another story! One, two, ... (_Makes gesture
with his hand._) There’s nothing else to be done with those creatures.
It’s good for them to get a thrashing sometimes. It really makes me
quite angry; just because of these scoundrels I have to go every
morning, on foot, to a miserable office of which I need never have
heard; and then either walk home, or jolt along with a wretched cabman.
I cannot live in the same fashion as all these copying-clerks that I
have to sit side by side with. They buy onion-pies at the
costermonger’s, and stand eating them at the street door. _They_ can do
that sort of thing—they are made that way—but _I_ can’t. Now, you see, I
am in debt to every one—to the cabman, to the tailor, to Chevalier: all
our set go to Chevalier, and all the young barristers.... You can hardly
expect _me_ to eat onion-pies! And now, I’ve got to go through an
examination in some District Institution. It’s dreadful! You see, if I
had a fortune, I should never even hear of all these things—Law Courts,
and District Institutions, and copying-clerks, with their onion-pies!
What do I want with them all?
_Madame P._ Yes, yes, I understand.... With your sensitive nature....
You are so nervous!
_Paul._ I really don’t know what to do! If there were a chance, I should
have no scruples about cheating some one at cards.
_Madame P._ Well indeed, in your position——
_Prèzhnev_ (_waking up_). Paul, have you been to the theatre lately?
_Paul._ Quite lately.
_Prèzhnev._ Who plays the marquises now?
_Paul._ No one has done for some time.
_Prèzhnev._ I used to play marquises very well once.
(MADAME PRÈZHNEVA _rings_. _Enter_ FOOTMAN.)
_Madame P._ Wheel your master out on to the balcony, and take some old
newspapers and read aloud to him. (_Footman takes newspapers and wheels
Prèzhnev on to balcony._)
_Paul._ Then there’s my amiable uncle. Just because he’s been a judge
somewhere, he puts on superior airs: “You want too much,” he says. What
do I want? Have I ever asked for luxury and extravagance? I only want
what is necessary, what a man in my set cannot do without. Surely that
is plain enough. But no; my kind uncle tells me, “You have no right to
want all these things, because you have no fortune.” Why! is it my fault
that I have no fortune? What sort of logic is that?
_Madame P._ No logic at all; it’s absurd.
_Paul._ He says, “You ought to work!” Many thanks! Your humble servant!
I’m not a horse, I suppose.
_Madame P._ Your uncle has no refinement.
_Paul._ No, _Maman_; it is a tragedy.
_Madame P._ A tragedy, indeed, _mon cher_!
_Paul._ And a terrible one! There’s no need of murder and poison to make
a tragedy.
_Madame P._ Do you know, Paul, I think the best thing would be for you
to marry.
_Paul._ I’ve no objection. But whom should I marry?
_Madame P._ Ah, that is the question. I know you well, Paul. Why are you
so highly educated? Why have you such a sensitive nature? It will make
you unhappy all your life long. There is no mate for you! To win your
love and make you happy, a girl would need too many virtues.
_Paul._ You perhaps imagine, _Maman_, that domestic felicity has
attractions for me? I’m not a child; I am twenty-one. That is too
Arcadian! (_Bursts out laughing._) I simply want money.
_Madame P._ None the less, my dear one, I know your character; I know
that you would not care to marry any sort of person.
_Paul._ Any one you like; I want money in order to be _comme il faut_;
in order to play my proper part in society—in a word, to do that for
which I am fitted. I do not know how to save up money; I only know how
to spend it with elegance and dignity. For that I have all the necessary
gifts. I have tact, I have taste, I am fitted to take a leading position
in society.
_Madame P._ Still, my dear——(_Enter_ FOOTMAN.)
_Footman._ Pereshìvkina asks to see madame.
_Madame P._ She always comes at the wrong time!
_Paul._ We shall have time to talk afterwards.
_Madame P._ Let her come in. (_Exit_ FOOTMAN. _Enter_ PERESHÌVKINA.)
_Madame P._ What is it, Oustìnya Filimònovna?
_Pereshìvkina_ (_kisses_ PRÈZHNEVA _on the shoulder, and then stands a
little back_.) I came to ask after your health, little mother; I never
forget my benefactors.
_Paul._ Well, old vinegar face, where have you come from?
_Pereshìvkina._ Ah, Mr. Paul, you’re always full of your jokes!
_Paul._ She actually expects one to talk seriously with her!
_Pereshìvkina._ I have a friend, little mother, who makes dimmy-tule.
(_Paul laughs._) Laugh away, little father; it’s a fine thing to laugh
at an old woman.... So I thought perhaps you’d like to buy some; I get
it cheap. It’s capital quality, and very wide. Shall I bring you some?
You won’t get it for the same price down town.
_Madame P._ Very well; I’ll look at it.
_Paul._ How much money have you hoarded up, old hag?
_Pereshìvkina._ “Old hag,” now, is it!
_Paul._ Why, dear me! You’re not thinking of getting married, are you?
_Pereshìvkina._ It’s not right of you, sir, to speak to me like that!
I’m an old woman; and I have carried you in my arms.
_Paul._ She’s going to get offended now; that’ll be the next thing.
_Madame P._ Let her alone, my dear.
_Pereshìvkina._ Never mind, little mother, never mind. Let him do as he
likes, he was always such a one to joke. When he was quite a little
fellow he set my cap on fire behind.
_Paul._ Ah! so you haven’t forgotten.
_Pereshìvkina._ Not I. Why, you burnt off all my hair, and even my face
got scorched. But you needn’t laugh at me, sir. Maybe I shall come in
useful to you yet.
_Paul._ Why, what use can I make of you? Stick you up in the kitchen
garden for a scarecrow?
_Pereshìvkina._ Maybe I can do you a better service than that, Pàvel
Petròvich—who knows? Little mother, you won’t get angry with my
nonsense, will you? Maybe, after all, I shall say something worth
hearing before I’ve done.
_Madame P._ Well, what is it?
_Pereshìvkina._ There’s a lady I know—Serafima Kàrpovna, her name is.
She always allows me into her house. You see how it is, little mother.
Her people are in trade, but she’s been married to a very grand
gentleman—Mr. Aslàmevich. He was an official, you know. Why, little
mother, he was a general once.
_Paul_ (_laughing_). How did that happen?
_Pereshìvkina._ Why, this way, sir. The general where he served was away
for a holiday, so he was general for a whole month.
_Paul._ I daresay! Well, let’s hear some more lies.
_Pereshìvkina._ It’s the truth I’m telling you, sir. They were only
married one year, and now she’s been a widow for more than a year....
But you won’t be angry with me, little mother?
_Madame P._ Well, go on!
_Pereshìvkina._ She’s just a beauty to look at; and very good and
kind—and then so modest! It’s quite wonderful. And she’s saving, too,
and doesn’t throw away her money on dresses and foolery.
_Paul._ That’s to say, she’s miserly.
_Pereshìvkina._ No, no, not miserly, only saving—just a careful
housewife. Now, you see, the dowry that she had when she was married all
belongs to her. She’s got a hundred and fifty thousand in money alone.
_Paul._ A hundred and fifty thousand!
_Pereshìvkina._ I saw it myself, sir. She’s got all the notes in her
dressing-case; I saw her count it. Dear me, what a silly old woman I am!
You’d much better tell me to hold my tongue, or it’ll get me into
trouble. She’s a good woman, and she’s been kind to me, but all the same
she’s not the first thing in the world to me. I don’t want you to be
angry with me because of her.
_Madame P._ and _Paul_. Never mind; go on, go on!
_Pereshìvkina._ Well, I’ll tell you, if you wish it. You see, little
mother, it’s like—well, you know how it is with women.... She’s young,
and she’s been a widow for over a year, and so you see ... and don’t
think I’m telling you lies—I’d count it a sin. I always wished you well,
madame; I haven’t forgotten! Of course, I’m only a poor woman, but all
the same, I don’t forget kindnesses. And if ever I can do you a
service——
_Paul._ There, there! (_With an impatient gesture._)
_Madame P._ Well, but go on.
_Pereshìvkina._ Yes, little mother. Well, you see, she’s a near
neighbour of yours—it’s the white stone house on the left-hand side.
Pàvel Petròvich often passes.
_Madame P._ Well, what of that?
_Pereshìvkina_ (_whispers_). She’s fallen in love.
_Madame P._ What?
_Pereshìvkina_ (_louder_). She’s fallen in love. Yes; it’s quite true.
_Madame P._ Well, what is there wonderful in that? You’re very simple,
my good woman. How could she help falling in love with him? She’s not
the only one!
_Pereshìvkina._ Oh! of course, of course, ma’am. Only, you see, she’s
rich.
_Paul_ (_sings_). “La Donna e mobile.”
_Pereshìvkina._ “Oustìnya Filimònovna,” says she, “I’m in love.” So I
asked her, “With who, little mother?” “You look,” says she, “he’ll pass
in a minute.” So I looked out of the window, and there was Pàvel
Petròvich going past, and she says to me, “That’s he,” says she. You
could have knocked me down with a feather.
_Paul_ (_sings_). “La Donna e mobile.”
_Pereshìvkina._ Of course Pàvel Petròvich must look at her himself, and
see whether he likes her. And if you feel any doubt you might go to the
Warden Council and see that the money’s all right; there’s no harm in
making sure. Love’s all very well, but money’s money. You see, it’s for
all your life.
_Paul_ (_goes up to his mother_). _Maman_, I’m going for a walk.
_Madame P._ Good-bye, my dear. (_Kisses his forehead._)
_Paul_ (_whispers_). Try your hardest. (_Exit._)
_Madame P._ You see, my dear Oustìnya Filimonòvna, it’s not a very great
stroke of fortune for my Paul that some Madame Aslàmevich has fallen in
love with him. However, if he sees her she may possibly take his
fancy.... Of course, for my part, I shall make no difficulties, although
she’s only from the merchant class.... All I care for is his happiness.
(_Rises._) Come with me; I’ll tell the servants to give you some tea....
Only I beg you to behave with discretion.
_Pereshìvkina._ Little mother, I’d as soon——(_Exeunt._)
PICTURE II.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
KARP KÀRPYCH TOLSTOGORÀZDOV, _merchant; short, fat, grey haired_.
OULÌTA NIKÌTISHNA, _his wife; an elderly woman, without any noteworthy
characteristics_.
SERAFÌMA KÀRPOVNA, _Tolstogoràzdov’s daughter; widow; tall, slender,
remarkably handsome; walk and gestures of boarding-school girl;
often meditates; sighs and lifts her eyes to heaven when she speaks
of love; also when she counts her money; and sometimes without any
reason_.
MATRYÒNA, _maid-servant; distant connection of the Tolstogoràzdov’s, a
young girl; plump, exquisitely white skin, red cheeks, black eyes
and brows. Costume: Pelisse, ornamental chemise, with muslin
sleeves, and coins woven into plait of hair._
FIRST COACHMAN, _Tolstogoràzdov’s_.
SECOND COACHMAN, _Serafima’s_.
_Courtyard, gallery of house, right. Garden in background. Stables, &c.,
left. Two doors: one into cellar, one into hay-loft._
SCENE I. IN COURTYARD.
(FIRST COACHMAN _sits on cellar steps_. _Enter_ MATRYÒNA.)
_First Coachman_ (_sings, falsetto_).
“In my youth I knew of naught but pleasure,
Gold had I to spare and give;—
Now my joys are vanished with my treasure,
As a wretched slave I live.”
_Matryòna._ The master and mistress have waked up; you might carry in
the samovar, Ivànych.
_First C._ Oh! you’re a fine lady, I suppose. Why, you’ve got so fat
that one can’t pinch you anywhere; just as if you’d been hammered on an
anvil. (_Sings._)
“Who has known a captive’s sorrow?
Who shall tell its bitterness?”
_Matryòna._ Talk about me being fat! Why, your own cheeks are blown out
like wind-bags! Can’t you take in the samovar when I ask you?
_First C._ Come again to-morrow. (_Sings._)
“In my youth I knew of naught but pleasure,
Gold had I to spare and give——”
_Matryòna._ Wait a bit! I’ll tell Oulìta Nikìtishna that you’re an idle
fellow, and one never can get you to do anything.
_First C._ I’m the coachman; do you understand that? I have my own work
to do. And what are you? A beggarly fine lady! If you go so fine, you’ll
freeze your stockings. So you can just carry the samovar yourself.
_Matryòna._ Why, the thing weighs twelve stone, man; how can a girl
carry it?
_First C._ All I have to say is—it’s not my business.
_Matryòna._ Then you’re a brazen, shameless fellow! A girl may break her
back, for all you care!
(_Lifts samovar with great difficulty, and carries it to gallery,
turning her head away from the steam._)
_First C._ (_calls after her_). Don’t romp in your earrings, the gilding
will come off!
[Illustration:
MATRYÒNA: “THEN YOU’RE A BRAZEN, SHAMELESS FELLOW! A GIRL MAY BREAK
HER BACK, FOR ALL YOU CARE.”
]
_Matryòna_ (_going up steps: looks back_). Impertinence! (_Puts samovar
on table._)
_First C. (sings)._
“Who has known a captive’s sorrow?
Who shall tell its bitterness?”
(_Enter on gallery_ KARP KÀRPYCH _and_ OULÌTA NIKÌTISHNA. COACHMAN
_stops singing, and exit_.)