_Oulìta._ Serafimoushka! I’d almost forgotten! There’s one more thing
you must certainly do; now mind you don’t forget. When you’ve found out
all about your lover, and are sure he’s not a spendthrift, or a
drunkard, or a gambler, go to the wise woman, Paràsha. You must go in
quietly, and ask: “Will God’s servant, Serafima, be happy with God’s
servant”——what’s his name?
_Serafima._ Paul.
_Oulìta._ “With God’s servant, Paul?” And whatever she tells you, do
accordingly.
_Karp._ Don’t you do anything of the kind.
_Oulìta._ Look here, Karp Kàrpych, I always obey you in everything; but
this is not your business; it’s woman’s business! Don’t listen to him,
Serafimoushka; do as I tell you. I’m your mother; I shan’t advise you
wrong.
_Serafima._ Very well. (_Rises._) Good-bye, mamma; good-bye, papa.
(_Kisses them._)
_Karp._ And listen here! You tell your lover that, if he behaves to me
respectfully and properly, I’ll give him a good fur cloak; and if he
doesn’t, I’ll take it away again. (_Exeunt._)
PICTURE III.[14]
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
PAUL.
SERAFÌMA, _his wife_.
MADAME PRÈZHNEV.
A PERSON UNKNOWN, _a friend of Paul, middle-aged, with Greek profile and
gloomy expression of face_.
A MAID-SERVANT.
A FOOTMAN.
(_A richly-furnished study._ PAUL _sits at the table writing. Enter_
FOOTMAN.)
_Foot._ Pàvel Petròvich, the tailor and carriage-builder are waiting.
_Paul_ (_turning round_). Send them off!
_Foot._ They won’t go, sir.
_Paul._ Then tell them to come next week.
_Foot._ I told them; but they won’t go.
_Paul._ You surely don’t expect me to come out and speak to them myself?
Tell them anything you like. You see I’m busy. You’re always disturbing
me; be off with you!
_Foot._ There’s a gentleman that asks to see you too, sir.
_Paul._ Turn him out too.
(_The person unknown comes in at the door. The_ FOOTMAN _sees him, and
exit_.)
_Unknown._ Turn Nature out at the door, she’ll come in at the window.
_Paul_ (_rises_). Oh! my dear fellow! I didn’t know it was you; I really
beg your pardon.
_Unknown._ No; you didn’t know. (_Inspects Paul from head to foot; then
begins examining the room._)
_Paul._ Indeed I didn’t know. You don’t suppose I should have refused to
see you?
_Unknown_ (_sits down_). There, that’ll do, that’ll do.
_Paul._ Won’t you have a cigar?
_Unknown_ (_smiling ironically_). A cigar? And when am I to have the
money?
_Paul._ Very soon now.
_Unknown._ Which do you mean by that—now? or very soon?
_Paul._ Soon; quite soon.
_Unknown._ You’ll pay it soon? (_Looks intently at_ _Paul_.) And
supposing I don’t believe you?
_Paul._ How can you help believing, when the document is in your hands?
_Unknown._ That’s just it! The date in the document is up; and all this
is not yours, but your wife’s.
_Paul._ That’s all the same.
_Unknown._ No; not all the same.
_Paul._ Well, then, what do you want?
_Unknown._ I’ll tell you. Either you give me all the money to-morrow, or
else we’ll re-write the document.
_Paul._ Certainly. We’ll re-write it now if you like.
_Unknown_. No; we’ll re-write it to-morrow; only then your wife must
sign her name as security.
_Paul._ What for?
_Unknown._ Oh! well, the broker will know what for; otherwise I shall
simply go to law. (_Rises._)
_Paul._ All right; all right.
_Unknown._ Mind, then, to-morrow. (_Goes to door._) You’re not thinking
of getting out of it anyway, are you? You can’t do that with me.
(_Exit._)
_Paul._ This sort of thing is really quite annoying! Here I am, as rich
as you please, and yet I can’t get any money. I shall have to ask my
wife for it; it’s all the same now whether the money is hers or mine; we
have everything in common. It’s even better that it should be in my
hands. And what is the use of my putting it off so long? I only get more
and more entangled.
(_Enter_ SERAFÌMA. PAUL _writes_.)
_Serafima._ Leave off, Paul! Don’t write! (_Embraces him. He leaves off
writing._) I am so happy! so happy! What have I done to deserve such
happiness! (_Meditates._) I have abundance of everything; I have such a
dear husband! (_Kisses him._) So handsome! so clever! only one thing
distresses me: you are out so much. Now that we are married, you ought
to be always with me; I believe I should love you still more then.
_Paul._ It’s impossible, my love; I have the office.
_Serafima._ Are you going to-day?
_Paul._ Yes; it’s time for me to start now.
_Serafima._ Take me with you.
_Paul._ Where? To the Senate House?
_Serafima._ Yes; why not?
_Paul._ What things you say! How could I?
_Serafima._ It’s always, “I can’t” with you! You simply don’t love me;
that’s why you don’t want to take me. If you loved me, you’d take me!
You’d say to every one, “This is my wife.” You’ll never have cause to be
ashamed of me; I was educated at a boarding-school.
_Paul._ If you don’t believe me, ask any one you like whether men take
their wives to Government offices.
_Serafima._ They don’t take us because they don’t love us; they would
take us if they did. If you men loved us as we love you, you’d fulfil
every whim we have. We’re ready to do everything in the world for you;
and you don’t care to do the merest trifle for us.
_Paul._ I, too, am willing to do anything you ask; only this is
impossible.
_Serafima._ Well then, at least do me one kindness: don’t go to-day;
stop with me.
_Paul_ (_shrugs his shoulders_). All right, if you like!
_Serafima._ No! Do you really mean you won’t go?
_Paul._ I won’t go, if you wish me not to.
_Serafima._ Dear Paul! How good you are! How you spoil me! What is there
in the world I wouldn’t do for you! Now tell me—tell me what you would
like! you must tell me! (_Caresses him._) Ask me for anything you
like—anything—anything in the world! Come now, tell me what you would
like; I’ll drive straight into town and buy it for you.
(_Enter_ MAID-SERVANT.)
_Maid._ If you please, ma’am, the dressmaker has come.
_Serafima._ Paul, dear Paul! I will come back in a minute. (_Exit._)
_Paul._ What extraordinary fancies she has sometimes! I really can’t
make out whether it’s from stupidity or from love for me. For that
matter, it’s a very good thing that she’s so much in love with me. The
idea of her asking me what I want! What I want? Why, money, of course.
It seems it’s quite a true saying that women’s hearts are much tenderer
than ours. I confess I used not to believe that; but now I see that,
once love has taken a firm hold upon them, you can get anything you like
out of them.... And then, she’s so pretty! Even if you look at it from
quite another point of view—it’s delightful, there certainly is nothing
else to be said about it.... I’d better ask her for a big sum at once; I
must take advantage of her momentary exaltation. (_Re-enter_ SERAFÌMA.)
Ah! Serafima! I wanted to speak to you.
_Serafima._ And I wanted to speak to you, _Paul_.
_Paul._ Very well; what is it?
_Serafima._ No, you speak first.
_Paul._ No, you, Serafima.
_Serafima._ No, you.
_Paul._ I give the precedence to you, as a lady, Serafima.
_Serafima._ This is what I wanted to say, my Paul: you change your shirt
every day; that is rather extravagant.
_Paul._ Are you gone off your head! You can’t call that an extravagance,
in our position! No; I wanted to talk to you about something altogether
different.
_Serafima._ All the same, my dear (_kisses him_), we must think about
economy; there’s nothing unreasonable in that.
_Paul._ Forgive me, Serafima! I understand you, my love; indeed it is a
good thing that you are economical in trifles. Trifles are an important
matter in life. I am glad that I have found in you such a housewife. But
I want to speak to you about more serious business.
_Serafima._ About what, Paul? No, no, stop! Why should we talk about
business? We haven’t done talking about love, yet. We have nothing to
do, now, as you didn’t go to the office. Why should we talk about
business? Let us talk about love! (_Sighs, and raises eyes to heaven._)
_Paul._ We can talk about love afterwards, whenever you like; but I must
speak about business now.
_Serafima._ Ah! Paul! you have stayed at home with me. Indeed I don’t
want to think of anything else now!
_Paul._ No, Serafima; I really must have a serious talk with you.
_Serafima_ (_a little offended_). Well, what is it you want?
_Paul._ How do you wish to employ your capital?
_Serafima._ What a question! I don’t want to employ it anyhow. It can
stop in the Council,[15] and we’ll live on the interest.
_Paul._ But the interest is very little, my love; we had better put the
capital into circulation.
_Serafima._ Into what circulation?
_Paul._ We might buy an estate, for instance.
_Serafima._ No, no, no! Not for the world! What estate?
_Paul._ Why, a village in some good fertile province—Orèl, or somewhere
there.
_Serafima._ Not for anything on earth! The peasants won’t pay; the
village may burn down; or the crops will fail five years running; what
should we do then?
_Paul._ Crops don’t fail five years running.
_Serafima._ But they may do; you’re not a prophet, you know.
_Paul._ Well then, let’s buy a house and put in tenants.
_Serafima._ But the tenants won’t pay.
_Paul._ How do you mean, they won’t pay? One can prosecute if they
don’t.
_Serafima._ And if the house burns down?
_Paul._ We must insure it.
_Serafima._ Then invaders will come and destroy everything! No, no, not
for the world!
_Paul._ Well, well, we won’t talk any more about it.
_Serafima._ Think of it yourself; you’re a young man still; we may have
children.
_Paul._ Of course we shall have children; but what of that? The more
money we get, the more there will be for the children.
_Serafima._ No, no; I don’t want even to hear about it, or I shall only
get miserable; you musn’t put me out. What’s the use of circulation? We
can live as we are; we have enough of everything. (_Meditates._) You are
free to-day; you haven’t gone to the office.... (_Embraces him._)
_Paul_ (_detaching himself from her arms_). No, Serafima; as you like,
but I must have a talk with you.
_Serafima_ (_seriously_). What now?
_Paul._ This, my dear: if you really love me, give me five thousand
silver roubles. I need the money pressingly for a certain business. It
is a very profitable business, Serafima; I won’t tell you what it is
now; but we may get the amount doubled, or perhaps even more. Indeed, I
am almost sure that it will be more.
[Illustration:
SERAFIMA: “FIVE—THOUSAND—SILVER—ROUBLES! HOW MUCH WILL THAT BE IN
PAPER MONEY?”
PAUL: “HOW SHOULD I KNOW?”
]
_Serafima._ Five—thousand—silver—roubles! How much will that be in paper
money?
_Paul._ How should I know?
_Serafima._ Stop; I’ll calculate it. (_Takes paper and pencil out of
pocket and calculates._) Ah! ah! (_Rushes away._)
_Paul._ What can be the matter now? What’s frightened her? I can’t make
it out! Does she suppose I’m going to spend all my life in making love?
That’s a good idea! Is she miserly? or what is it? I must find out which
she loves best—me or money. If she loves me best, the matter can be set
right. But if she loves the money best, I’ve run my neck into a halter.
(_Enter_ MADAME PRÈZHNEV.)
_Madame P._ _Bonjour_, Paul!
_Paul._ _Bonjour, Maman!_
_Madame P._ (_sits down_). I’ve just been into your wife’s room. What is
the matter with her? She’s crying, and getting ready to go out.
_Paul._ We’ve had a little scene.
_Madame P._ Oh, Paul! already? So soon after the wedding! Did you do
anything to hurt her feelings? Woman is such a frail and tender
creature.
_Paul._ Why the devil should I hurt her feelings? I only asked her for
money.
_Madame P._ Were you gentle enough with her?
_Paul._ Why, dear me, I’ve been spooning with her a whole month, like a
turtle-dove. (_Bursts out laughing._) I never once asked her for money
till just now. First of all, she got as sentimental as you please: “Ask
anything you like; I’ll do anything in the world for you; I’ll go
straight to town and buy whatever you want.” What should she buy me?—a
china poodle? or a hussar in sugar? Well, directly I asked her for five
thousand, she just screamed and ran away ... and now she’s in tears! The
deuce knows what to make of it!
_Madame P._ She has no heart, my dear. Women are ready to give up
everything on earth for the man they love. No, my Paul, she is no woman.
_Paul._ Oh, she’s a woman all right enough; only she won’t give the
money.
_Madame P._ Oh, Paul! I am convinced that she will appreciate you in
time, and will come to love you so much, so much (_with enthusiasm_)
that she will entirely give into your keeping both herself and—and all
her possessions.
_Paul._ Yes; but she hasn’t done it yet; and I can’t wait.
_Madame P._ Wait a little, Paul! Think what bliss awaits you in the
future. (_Enter_ MAID-SERVANT _and gives_ PAUL _letter and
pocket-book_.)
_Paul._ What is that?
_Maid._ Madame has gone away in the carriage, and told me to give you
these. (_Exit._)
_Paul._ A pocket-book! That’s good! (_Puts it in pocket._)
_Madame P._ I told you so!
_Paul._ Now let’s read the letter. (_Reads._) “DEAR PAUL—Much as I love
you, we must separate. My heart will bleed all my life; and I shall weep
for you day and night. I wish to go and live with my papa, like a
prisoner, and bewail my fate; and I shall sell this house. You will
never see me any more. I love you with all my soul; but you showed me
to-day that you love me for my money’s sake. In our merchant class, it
is not the custom to give away one’s money. Of what significance shall I
be, if I have no money? I shall be of no importance at all! If I have no
money, and I love a man, he will not love me. But if I have money, and I
love any one, he will love me, and we shall be happy. I made a
pocket-book for your birthday, and embroidered it myself, and as I hoped
that a present from me would be a great pleasure to you, I send it to
you now. Don’t ever come to my papa’s house; he is very passionate, and
will be very angry with you when he knows all about it; and I cannot
conceal anything. Farewell, Paul! When you are in need of money I shall
always be glad to give you help without letting my relatives know; but
only small sums—a hundred roubles, not more. Be happy. I shall pass all
my life in tears. Yours for ever, SERAFÌMA.” What in the world is this?
It’s so extraordinary that I can’t even believe it. I expect she’s
joking, or wants to frighten me. Let’s see, though, what there is in
this pocket-book. I daresay there’s something in it. (_Takes out
pocket-book._)
_Madame P._ I am almost sure of it, Paul. No doubt she wanted to give
you a surprise.
_Paul._ It’s a charming little pocket-book. (_Opens and examines it._)
Empty!
_Madame P._ Look; perhaps there’s a secret compartment.
_Paul._ Here’s the secret compartment, but there’s nothing in it either.
(_Enter_ FOOTMAN.) What do you want?
_Foot._ Sir, sir, I never heard of such a thing! They’ve taken away the
fur cloak!
_Paul._ What fur cloak?
_Foot._ Yours, sir! Madame told us to put it in the carriage with her,
and took it away. Anyoùtka and I held out as long as we could; but what
could we do? I really don’t know what to think of it!
_Paul._ Mamma, that’s more than a joke.
_Foot._ It’s a disgrace, sir! I’ve been in service for many years
(_clasps his hands_), but I never saw such a thing, never! Paul
Petròvich! Think of it!
_Paul._ There, get along with you!
_Foot._ And to have to say such a thing to people! It’s enough to make
one die for shame. I never heard of such a thing, _never_! (_Exit._)
_Paul._ (_Sits down and looks fixedly at his mother_). _Maman!_
_Madame P._ Women have no hearts nowadays, no hearts at all.
_Paul._ Permit me, _Maman_, to thank you, now, for two things: firstly,
for squandering my fortune; and, secondly, for bringing me up in such a
way that I am fit for nothing. I only know how to spend money. And where
is the money to spend? Where? (_Passionately._) Where is the money? Give
it to me! You liked to see me, at eight years old, in a velvet tunic,
dancing better than all the other children in Moscow, and knowing how to
make love to the little girls. You liked to see me at sixteen, looking
so well on horseback! You looked on proudly when I used to gallop about
our ancestral fields with my tutor, your favourite! You enjoyed all
that. After such an education, one must have money, if one would play a
leading part in our society. Why did you squander everything? Where are
our estates gone? Where are our peasants gone? What is to become of us
now? Now, perhaps, you will have the pleasure of seeing me dismissed
from the service, a vagrant, a card-sharper, and maybe even worse! What
am I to do? I can’t marry again, with a wife living! (_Covers his face
with his hands._)
CURTAIN FALLS.
_A MADMAN’S DIARY._
_October 3rd._
An extraordinary circumstance happened to-day. I got up rather late, and
when Mavra brought me my boots I asked her what time it was. Hearing
that it was long past ten I dressed hurriedly. I confess I did not want
to go to the Department at all, knowing beforehand what black looks I
should get from the chief of our division. For some time he’s taken to
saying to me, “What ever sort of rot have you always got in your head
now, man? Sometimes you tear about like a possessed creature; sometimes
you muddle the papers so that the very devil couldn’t make them out; you
write the titles without capital letters, and leave out all the dates
and numbers!” Hang the fellow! He’s envious, of course, because I sit in
the director’s study and mend his excellency’s pens. In short, I
shouldn’t have gone to the Department at all if I hadn’t hoped to meet
the treasurer, and, perhaps, get the confounded Jew to give me, anyway,
a little of my salary in advance. I never came across such a creature!
For him to ever advance one the money a single month—why, doomsday will
come before that happens! You can beg him, entreat him—however hard up
you are the old grey devil won’t give it you. And yet at home his own
cook boxes his ears. She does—everybody knows that. I can’t understand
what advantage it is to serve in the Department. There are no resources
whatsoever. Now, in the Provincial Administration, or in the Common
Courts, or Court of Exchequer—that’s quite another thing; there
sometimes you’ll see a fellow squeezed up in the corner writing away, in
a shabby old coat, and such a fright to look at, and yet see what a nice
little villa he rents! You can’t offer him a gilded china cup, for
instance; he’ll say, “That’s a doctor’s present.” No, you must give him
a pair of carriage horses, or a fine sledge, or beaver fur worth three
hundred roubles. He’ll look as meek as meek can be, and talk so
sweetly—“May I trouble you to lend me your penknife?” and then he’ll
fleece you—till he leaves nothing but the shirt on your back. It’s true,
though, our service is more genteel—everything’s so clean, the tables
are of red wood, and all the directors say “you.” Indeed, but that it’s
a genteel service, I’d have left the Department long ago.
[Illustration:
“I LOOKED ROUND AND SAW TWO LADIES UNDER AN UMBRELLA, AN OLD LADY AND
A YOUNG ONE.”
]
I put on my old cloak and took my umbrella because it was pouring with
rain. There was no one in the streets; I saw nothing but a few women
with shawls over their heads and some Russian shopkeepers with
umbrellas. There was no one of the upper classes about except an
official like myself. I saw him at a crossing, and said to myself, “Aha!
No, my friend, you’re not going to the Department; you’re running after
the woman in front of you and looking at her ankles.” What a set of
brutes our officials are! They’re just as bad as any officer; can’t see
a woman’s hat at all without going for it. Just as I was thinking that,
I saw a carriage driving up to a shop I was passing. I knew it at once;
it was our director’s carriage. “But he wouldn’t be going shopping,” I
thought; “it must be his daughter.” I stopped, and leaned against the
wall; a footman opened the carriage door, and she sprang out like a
bird. How she glanced round with those eyes and brows of hers! Heaven
defend me! I am done for! And why ever should she drive out in this
pouring rain? And then people say that women are not devoted to
chiffons! She did not recognise me, and indeed I purposely muffled
myself up, because my cloak was very muddy and old-fashioned too. Now
they are worn with deep capes, and mine had little capes one above the
other; and the cloth wasn’t good either. Her lap-dog didn’t get in
before the shop-door was shut, and was left out in the street. I know
that dog; it is called Medji. The next minute I suddenly heard a little
voice, “Good-morning, Medji.” Why! what the deuce! Who said that? I
looked round and saw two ladies under an umbrella, an old lady and a
young one; but they went past; and suddenly I heard again, “Oh, for
shame, Medji!” What the devil! There were Medji and the ladies’ lap-dog
smelling each other. “I say,” thought I to myself, “I must be drunk!”
And yet it is a rare thing with me to be drunk. “No, Fidèle, you are
quite mistaken” (I actually saw Medji saying that). “I have
been—bow-wow-wow—I have been—bow-wow-wow—very ill.” Well, there now! I
really was very much surprised to hear the lap-dog talking in human
speech. But afterwards, when I thought it over, it didn’t astonish me.
Indeed, there have been many such cases in the world. It is said that
there appeared in England a fish that said two words in such a strange
language that the learned men have been three years trying to make out
what it said, and can’t understand it yet. And I remember reading in the
newspapers about two cows that went into a shop and asked for a pound of
tea. But I was very much more astonished when Medji said, “I wrote to
you, Fidèle; Polkàn can’t have brought the letter.” Well! may I lose my
salary if ever I heard in my life that dogs could write! It quite amazed
me. Lately, indeed, I have begun to see and hear sometimes things that
nobody ever saw or heard before. “I’ll follow that lap-dog,” thought I,
“and find out what it is and what it thinks.” So I shut up my umbrella
and followed the two ladies. They went along Goròkhovaya Street, turned
into Myeshchànskaya, then into a carpenter’s shop, and at last up to the
Kokoushkin Bridge, and there they stopped before a big house. “I know
that house,” said I to myself; “that’s Tvyerkov’s house.” What a
monster! Just to think of the numbers of people that live there—such a
lot of strangers, servant maids, and as for my fellow officials, they
are packed together like dogs! I have a friend living there who plays
the trumpet very well. The ladies went up to the fifth story. “All
right,” thought I, “I won’t go in now, but I will mark the place, and
take advantage of the first opportunity.”
_October 4th._
To-day is Wednesday, so I have been on duty in the director’s study. I
purposely went early, sat down and mended all the pens. Our director
must be a very clever man—all his study is fitted up with bookshelves. I
read the titles of several books, but they were all so learned, so
fearfully learned, that they are no use for a poor fellow like me; they
are all either in French or in German. And just to look at his face! See
the importance beaming in his eyes! I have never even heard of his
saying an unnecessary word. Only, you know, when you hand him a paper he
will ask, “What’s the weather like?” “Damp, your excellency.” Yes; we
are not up to his level; he’s a statesman. Nevertheless, I have remarked
that he is peculiarly fond of me. Now if only his daughter.... Confound
it all! Never mind; never mind; hush! I began to read _The Little Bee_.
What a stupid nation the French are! On my honour, I’d take them and
flog them all round. Well, I was reading a charming account of a ball,
written by a country squire from Koursk. The Koursk squires write very
well. After that I observed that it was half-past twelve, and that the
director hadn’t come out of his bedroom. But about half-past one there
happened an occurrence that no pen can describe. The door opened, and,
thinking it was the director, I jumped up with my papers; but it
was—She; She herself! Holy saints! how she was dressed! All in white,
like a swan, and so gorgeously! And how she looked! like the sunlight, I
swear. She bowed to me and said, “Has papa been here?” Aï, aï, aï, what
a voice! A perfect canary bird! “Your excellency,” I would have said,
“have mercy on me. But, if I must die, let me die by your august hand.”
But, the devil take it, all that would come on to my tongue was, “No,
madam.” She looked at me; she looked at the books; she dropped her
handkerchief. I rushed for it, slipped on the confounded polished floor,
and nearly broke my nose. Still I managed to get the handkerchief.
Heavens and earth! What a handkerchief! So fine; pure cambric;
amber-scented; exhaling the aroma of high rank. She thanked me, laughed
just a little, so that her sweet lips hardly moved, and went away. I
waited another hour, and then a lackey came in and said, “You can go
home, Aksèntyi Ivànovich. My master has gone out.” I cannot endure the
footman class; they always lounge about in the ante-room, and don’t so
much as take the trouble to nod to you. Indeed, that’s not all; once,
one of these brutes had the insolence to offer me some tobacco without
getting up. Why, can’t you understand, you stupid flunkey, that I am an
official, that I am of noble birth! Nevertheless I took my hat, put on
my cloak myself (these gentry never think of helping one), and went out.
At home I spent most of the day lying on my bed. Then I copied out some
charming verses:—
“An hour I had not seen my dearest,
That hour was as a year to me;
Oh life, how hateful thou appearest!
Oh let me die and cease to be!”
[Illustration:
‘SHE DROPPED HER HANDKERCHIEF. I RUSHED FOR IT, AND SLIPPED ON THE
CONFOUNDED FLOOR.’
]
They must have been written by Poushkin. In the evening I muffled myself
in my cloak, went to her excellency’s doorstep, and waited long on the
chance of seeing her for a moment coming out and getting into her
carriage; but she did not come.
_November 6th._
I have infuriated the chief of the section. When I came to the
Department he called me into his room, and began talking after this
fashion, “Now just tell me, my man, what you’re after.” “How? What? I’m
not after anything,” said I. “Now, think it over and be reasonable! Why,
you’re past forty; you ought to have come to years of discretion. What
have you got into your head? Do you imagine I don’t know all you’re up
to? Why, you are dangling about after the director’s daughter! Now just
look at yourself, and think a minute what you are like. You know you’re
a complete nonentity. You know you haven’t got a farthing in the world.
Look at your face in the looking-glass—how can you think of such a
thing?” The devil take it! Just because he has a face something like an
apothecary’s drug-bottle and one little wisp of hair on his head twisted
up into a barber’s cock’s-comb, and holds up his head and smears it with
a bandoline stick, he thinks he must be over everybody. But I
understand, I understand perfectly well why he’s so angry—he’s envious;
very likely he has noticed the signs of special favour shown to me. But
what do I care for him? How very important—a D.C.L.! He’s got a gold
watch-chain and pays thirty roubles for his boots—and the devil take
him! Does he imagine that I am one of the common people; that I’m the
son of a tailor or a corporal? I am a noble! I, too, may rise in the
service; I am only forty-two—just the proper age to begin one’s career.
Wait a bit, my friend! Perhaps we shall be a colonel some day, or higher
up than that even, by God’s grace; and we’ll have a better reputation
than yours is. I should like to know what put it into your head that no
one can be a decent fellow except yourself. Give me a fashionably cut
dress-coat and a fine necktie like yours, and you won’t be fit to hold a
candle to me. I have no fortune, that’s the trouble.
_November 8th._
I went to the theatre. They played the Russian fool, _Filàtka_, and I
laughed heartily. Then there was some sort of vaudeville with very funny
verses about lawyers, especially about a certain collegiate registrar.
They were written in so free a style that I wondered at the censorship
passing them; and about shopkeepers it was said, right out, that they
cheat the public, and that their sons are dissipated and always trying
to get into the nobility. There was a very comic verse about
journalists—that they are always finding fault, and so the author begs
the public to take his part. Very amusing things are written nowadays. I
love the theatre; whenever I have a few pence in my pocket I can’t
resist going. Now, a good many of our officials are regular pigs; they
care no more about the theatre than if they were peasants. Of course, if
you give them a ticket free, they’ll go. One actress sang very well. I
thought of Her.... Oh! hang it all!... Never mind.... Hush!
_November 9th._
At eight o’clock I went to the Department. The chief of the section
pretended not to notice my entrance at all. For my part, I behaved as if
nothing had happened between us. I looked over a lot of papers, examined
them; and went away at four o’clock. I passed the director’s house, but
there was no one to be seen. After dinner, I lay on my bed most of the
time.
_November 11th._
To-day I sat in our director’s study and mended twenty-three pens for
him, and four pens for Her—aï, aï—for Her Excellency. He likes there to
be plenty of pens. What a head he must have! He never speaks; but I
suppose he is always thinking over things. I should like to know what he
thinks about most, what is going on in that head. I should like to see
more closely the life of these grand people; all their little
conventionalisms and court tricks: how they live and what they do in
their sphere,—that is what I should like to know. I have often thought
of getting into conversation with his Excellency; but my confounded
tongue won’t do as I want; all I can say is that the weather’s cold or
warm—not another thing. I should like to have a look at that
drawing-room that one sometimes sees the door of open; and at the room
beyond the drawing-room. How richly it is all furnished. What mirrors,
what porcelain! I should like to see the part of the house where Her
Excellency lives! Oh! I know where I should like to go! Into her
boudoir, where stand all the little toilet-trays and boxes, and flowers
that one dare not even breathe upon; and where her dress lies flung
down, more like air than a dress. I should like to peep into her
bedroom.... There must be wonders! There indeed must be Paradise! Only
to see the footstool that she steps on when she gets out of bed, when
she draws the little stocking on to that snowy foot ... aï! aï! aï!
Never mind; never mind.... Hush!
To-day, however, a kind of light broke in upon me; I remembered the
conversation between the two lap-dogs that I heard on the Nevsky
Prospect. “All right,” thought I to myself, “now I’ll know everything. I
must intercept the letters of those horrid little dogs. Then, of course,
I shall find out something.” Indeed, I once called Medji to me, and
said: “Now look here, Medji, we’re quite alone; and, if you like, I’ll
lock the door, so that no one shall see. Tell me everything you know
about your mistress—what she is like, and all about her. I swear to you
that I will not repeat it to any one.” But the cunning little dog put
its tail between its legs, screwed itself all up, and went quietly out
of the room as if it hadn’t heard anything. I have suspected for a long
time that dogs are far cleverer than people; indeed, I felt sure that
they can speak, but for some sort of obstinacy. They are wonderfully
politic; they notice everything a man does. No; whatever happens, I will
go to-morrow to Tvyerkov’s house, interrogate Fidèle, and, if possible,
seize upon all Medji’s letters to her.
_November 12th._
At two o’clock in the afternoon I started to find Fidèle and interrogate
her. I can’t endure cabbage; and all the little provision shops in
Myeshchànskaya Street simply reek of it; and then there’s such a stench
from the yard of every house, that I simply held my nose and ran along
as fast as ever I could. And then those confounded artizans send out
such a lot of soot and smoke from their workshops, that really there’s
no walking in the street. When I got up to the sixth floor and rang the
bell, there came out a girl, not bad-looking, with little freckles. I
recognised her; it was the same girl who had walked with the old lady.
She grew a bit red, and it flashed upon me at once, “You want a lover,
my dear.” “What can I do for you?” “I must have an interview with your
lap-dog.” The girl was stupid; I saw at once she was stupid. At that
moment the dog ran out, barking. I wanted to catch her, but the nasty
little thing nearly snapped my nose off. However, I saw her basket in
the corner. Ah! that was what I wanted. I went up to it, turned over the
straw, and, to my immense delight, pulled out a little packet of tiny
papers. Seeing that, the horrid little dog first bit me in the calf of
the leg; and then, realising that I had got the papers, began to whine
and fawn on me; but I said, “No, my dear! Good-bye!” and rushed away. I
think the girl took me for a maniac, for she was terribly frightened.
When I got home I wanted to set to work at once and read the letters,
because my sight is not very good by candle-light. But of course Mavra
had taken it into her head to wash the floor; these idiotic Finns are
always cleaning at the wrong time. So I went for a walk to think over
the occurrence. Now at last I shall find out all their affairs, all
their thoughts, all the wires they are pulled by; these letters will
disclose everything to me. Dogs are a clever race, they understand all
the political relations; and so, no doubt, everything will be here—this
man’s portrait and all his affairs. And no doubt there will be something
about Her, who.... Never mind; silence! In the evening, I came home. I
spent the time lying on my bed.
_November 13th._
Now let us see! The letter is fairly legible; but, somehow or other,
there is something a little bit doggish about the handwriting. Let’s
see:—
MY DEAR FIDÈLE,—I still have not been able to accustom myself to your
vulgar name. Why couldn’t they find a better name for you? Fidèle,
Rosa, what bad taste! However, this is off the point. I am very glad
that we have agreed to correspond.
The letter is quite correctly written; there are no mistakes in the
stopping, or even in the use of the letter _yat’_. Why, the chief of the
section can’t write as well as that, although he talks about having been
educated in the University. Let’s see further on:—
It appears to me that to share our thoughts, feelings, and impressions
with another is one of the greatest blessings in the world.
H’m.... That idea is cribbed from some work translated from the German;
I can’t remember the title.
I say this from experience, although I have seen little of the world
beyond the gates of our house. My life passes peacefully and joyously.
My mistress, whom papa calls Sophie, loves me passionately.
Aï! Aï! Never mind, never mind; silence!
Papa, too, often caresses me. I drink my tea and coffee with cream.
Ah! _ma chère_, I must tell you that I cannot understand what pleasure
there can be in the big gnawed bones that our Polkàn devours in the
kitchen. Bones are only good if they are from game, and if no one has
sucked the marrow out of them. It is a very good idea to mix several
kinds of sauce together, only there must be no capers or herbs; but I
know nothing worse than the custom of rolling bread into little balls
and giving it to dogs. Some gentleman, sitting at the table, who has
been holding all sorts of nasty things in his hands, will begin
rolling a bit of bread with his fingers, and then call you and put it
in your mouth. It’s impolite to refuse, so you eat it, with disgust,
of course, but you eat it.
What the deuce is all this rubbish? As if they couldn’t find anything
better to write about. Let’s look at the next page, perhaps it will be
more sensible.
I shall have the greatest pleasure in informing you of all that
happens in our house. I have already spoken to you about the principal
gentleman whom Sophie calls papa. He is a very strange man.
Ah, now, at last! Yes, I knew it. They look at all things from a politic
point of view. Let us see what there is about papa:—
... Strange man. He hardly ever speaks. But a week ago he kept on
constantly saying to himself, “Shall I get it or not?” Once he asked
me, “What do you think, Medji? Shall I get it or not?” I didn’t
understand anything about it, so I smelled at his boot and went away.
Then, _ma chère_, a week afterwards papa was in the greatest state of
delight. The whole morning long gentlemen in uniform came to him and
congratulated him on something or other. At table he was merrier than
I have ever seen him before.
Ah! so he’s ambitious; I must take note of that.
Good-bye, _ma chère_! I run ... &c. To-morrow I will finish the
letter.
Well, good-morning, I am with you again. To-day my mistress, Sophie.——
Ah! now we shall see—something about Sophie. Oh! confound it!... Never
mind! never mind! Let’s go on:
My mistress, Sophie, was in a great muddle. She was getting ready for
a ball, and I was very glad she would be out, so that I could write to
you. My Sophie is perfectly devoted to balls, although she nearly
always gets cross when she’s dressing for them. I cannot conceive, _ma
chère_, what can be the pleasure of going to balls. Sophie comes home
from them at six o’clock in the morning, and nearly always looks so
pale and thin that I can see at once they haven’t given the poor girl
anything to eat there. I confess that I couldn’t live like that. If I
didn’t get my woodcock with sauce, or the wing of a roast chicken,
I—really I don’t know what I should do. I like pudding with sauce,
too, but carrots or turnips or artichokes are no good at all.
What an extraordinarily uneven style! One can see at once it wasn’t
written by a human being; it begins all right and properly, and ends in
this doggish fashion. Let’s see another letter. This seems rather a long
one. H’m, and it isn’t dated.
Oh, my dearest, how I feel the approach of spring! My heart beats as
if yearning for something. There is a constant singing in my ears, so
that I often raise one foot and stand for several moments listening at
the doors. I will confide to you that I have many suitors. Oh! if you
knew how hideous some of them are! Sometimes there’s a great, coarse,
mongrel watch-dog, fearfully stupid—you can see it written on his
face—who struts along the street and imagines that he’s a very
important personage and that everybody is looking at him. Not a bit of
it! I take no more notice than if I didn’t see him at all. Then
there’s such a frightful mastiff that stops before my window. If he
were to stand on his hind paws (which the vulgar creature probably
doesn’t know how to do) he’d be a whole head taller than my Sophie’s
papa, who is rather a tall man, and stout too. This blockhead appears
to be frightfully impertinent. I growled at him, but he took no notice
at all; he didn’t even frown. He lolled out his tongue, hung down his
monstrous ears, and stared in at the window—like a common peasant! But
do you imagine, _ma chère_, that my heart is cold to all entreaties?
Ah! no.... If you could see one young beau who jumps across the fence
from next door! His name is Trèzor.... Oh, my dearest! what a sweet
muzzle he has!
The devil take it all! What rubbish! And fancy filling up one’s letter
with nonsense of that kind. Give me a man! I want to see a human being,
I demand that spiritual food that would satisfy my thirsting soul, and
instead of that, all this stuff.... Let’s see another page, perhaps
it’ll be better.
Sophie was sitting at the table sewing something. I was looking out of
the window, because I like watching the passers-by. Suddenly a footman
came in and announced, “Teplòv.” “Ask him in,” cried Sophie, and flew
to embrace me. “Oh, Medji, Medji! if only you knew who it is: a
Kammerjunker,[16] dark, and with such eyes! Quite black, and as bright
as fire.” And she ran away to her room. A minute afterwards there came
in a young Kammerjunker, with black whiskers. He went up to the
mirror, set his hair straight, and looked about the room. I growled
and sat down in my place. Presently Sophie came in, looking very
happy. He clinked his spurs and she bowed. I pretended not to notice
anything, and went on looking out of the window, but I turned my head
a little on one side and tried to overhear their conversation. Oh, _ma
chère_, what rubbish they talked! They talked about how, at a dance,
one lady had made a mistake and done the wrong figure; then about how
a certain Bobòv, with a _jabot_ on, looked very like a stork and
nearly tumbled down; then about how a certain Lìdina imagines that her
eyes are blue, whereas they are green—and so on. I cannot think, _ma
chère_, what she finds in her Teplòv. Why is she so enchanted with
him?...
It seems to me, too, that there’s something wrong here. It’s quite
impossible that Teplòv could bewitch her so. What comes next?
Really, if she can like this Kammerjunker, it seems to me she might as
well like the official who sits in papa’s study. Oh, _ma chère_, if
you knew what a fright he is! Exactly like a tortoise in a bag....
What official can that be?
He has a most peculiar name. He always sits and mends pens. The hair
on his head is very much like hay. Papa always sends him on errands
instead of the servant....
I believe that beastly little dog is alluding to me. Now, _is_ my hair
like hay?
Sophie simply cannot keep from laughing when she looks at him.
You lie, you confounded dog! What an abominable style! As if I didn’t
know that this is simply a case of envy; as if I didn’t know it’s an
intrigue. It’s an intrigue of the chief of the section. The man has
sworn implacable hate against me, and now he does everything he can to
injure me, to injure me at every step. Well, I’ll look at just one more
letter, perhaps the affair will explain itself.
MA CHÈRE FIDÈLE,—Forgive me for having been so long without writing; I
have been in a state of absolute intoxication. It is perfectly true
what some writer has said, that love is second life. And then there
are great changes going on in our house. The Kammerjunker comes every
day now. Sophie is madly in love with him. Papa is very happy. I even
heard from our Grigòrii, who sweeps the floors and almost always talks
to himself, that there will soon be a wedding, because papa is very
anxious to see Sophie married, either to a general, or to a
Kammerjunker, or an army colonel.
Deuce take it all! I can read no more. A Kammerjunker or a general! I
should like to become a general myself, not in order to obtain her hand
or anything like that—no, I should like to be a general, only to see
them put on all their airs and graces and show off all their Court ways;
and then tell them that I don’t care a brass farthing for either of
them. It really is annoying, confound it all! I tore the silly little
dog’s letters into bits.
_December 3rd._
It cannot be; it’s impossible; there sha’n’t be a wedding. What if he is
a Kammerjunker! That’s nothing more than a title; it’s not a tangible
thing that you can pick up in your hand. Why, his being a Kammerjunker
doesn’t give him a third eye in the middle of his forehead. After all,
his nose is not made of gold; it’s just like mine or anybody else’s;
after all, he has it to smell with, not to eat with; to sneeze with, not
to cough with. I have often wished to understand what is the cause of
all these differences. Why am I a Government clerk? And for what purpose
am I a Government clerk? Perhaps I am really a count or a general, and
only appear to be a Government clerk. Perhaps I myself don’t know what I
am. There have been so many cases in history: some ordinary man, not a
noble at all, but some common artizan or even peasant, will all of a
sudden turn out to be a great lord or baron, or what do you call it?
Well, if a peasant can turn out like that, what should a noble turn out?
Now, suppose I suddenly come in with a general’s uniform on, an
epaulette on the right shoulder and an epaulette on the left shoulder,
and a blue ribbon across—what will my beauty say, then, ah? What will
papa himself say, our director? Oh! he’s a very ambitious man! He’s a
Freemason; I’m convinced he’s a Freemason; he makes all sorts of
pretences, but I noticed at once that he’s a Freemason; if he shakes
hands with you, he only puts out two fingers. And does anybody suppose
that I can’t be appointed governor-general this very moment, or a
commissary, or something else of the kind? I should like to know why I
am a clerk? Why particularly a clerk?
_December 5th._
I spent the whole of this morning reading the newspapers. Most
extraordinary things are going on in Spain. I can’t even quite make them
out. It is said that the throne is vacant; that the statesmen in office
are in a great dilemma, having to choose an heir apparent; and that this
has resulted in disturbances. All this seems to me exceedingly strange.
How can the throne be vacant? They say that some donna will succeed to
the throne; but a donna cannot be sovereign, it is quite impossible.
There must be a king on the throne. They say there is no king; but it
cannot happen that there is no king; a State cannot exist without a
king. Undoubtedly there is a king, only he is living incognito somewhere
or other. It is very likely that he is living there, only he is obliged
to hide himself for some family reasons, or on account of some dangers
threatened by neighbouring states—France and the other countries.
Anyway, there must be some reason.
_December 8th._
I had quite made up my mind to go to the Department, but was prevented
by various causes and meditations. I could not get the affairs of Spain
out of my head. How is it possible that a woman should become sovereign?
It will not be permitted. To begin with, England will not allow it. And
then the diplomatic affairs of all Europe; the Emperor of Austria.... I
acknowledge that these matters have so upset and unnerved me that I have
been utterly unable to settle to anything the whole day. Mavra remarked
to me that I was extremely absent-minded at table. And indeed I believe
that, while absorbed in meditation, I threw two plates on to the floor
and smashed them. After dinner I went for a walk by the hill. I couldn’t
find out anything worth knowing. Most of the time I lay on my bed and
meditated on the affairs of Spain.
_Year 2000, April 48th._
This day is a day of great solemnity! There is a king in Spain. He has
been found. I am the king. It was only to-day that I found it out. It
suddenly flashed across me like lightning. I cannot conceive how I could
imagine that I was a clerk! How could such a crazy notion get into my
head? It’s a good thing that nobody thought of putting me into a
madhouse. Now all is open before me. I see all as from a mountain
summit. But formerly—I can’t understand it—formerly everything was in a
sort of fog before me. It seems to me that all this results from people
imagining that the human brain is situated in the head; that is not the
case: it travels on the wind from the direction of the Caspian Sea.
First of all, I announced my identity to Mavra. When she heard that
before her stood the King of Spain she clasped her hands and half died
of terror. The foolish woman had never seen a Spanish king before.
However, I did my best to quiet her; and told her that I am not at all
angry with her for sometimes cleaning my boots badly. Of course she is
one of the common people, and you cannot talk to them of high matters.
The reason she was so terrified was because she is quite convinced that
all Spanish kings must be like Philip II. But I explained to her that
there is no resemblance between me and Philip II. I did not go to the
Department. The devil take the Department! No, my friends, you won’t
catch me now; I am not going to copy your nasty papers.
_Marchober 86th,
Between Day and Night._
To-day our usher came to me to insist that I should go to the
Department; he said it was more than three weeks since I had been there.
I went, just for a joke. The chief of the section thought that I should
bow to him and make excuses; but I glanced at him with indifference,
neither too sternly nor too graciously, and sat down at my place as if I
observed nothing. I looked round at all the rag-tag-and-bob-tail, and
thought, “Oh! if you knew who is sitting with you.... Good heavens! what
a fuss there would be! And the chief of the section himself would begin
bowing and scraping to me just as he does now to the director.” They
laid some papers before me, telling me to make an extract; but I did not
so much as touch them with a finger. A few minutes afterwards they all
began bustling about, saying that the director was coming. Several of
the officials hurried out, one after another, to present themselves to
him; but I never moved. When he passed through our section they all
buttoned up their coats; but I took no notice whatsoever. The director!
What’s he? Do they think I’m going to stand up before him? Never! What
sort of director is he? He’s a dummy, not a director; an ordinary,
common dummy, like a dummy in a barber’s shop, and nothing else at all.
The most amusing thing of all was when they handed me a paper to sign.
They thought I was going to write at the very bottom of the sheet,
“Clerk So-and-so.” I daresay! I signed, in the most conspicuous place,
just where the Director of the Department signs, “Ferdinand VIII.” It
was worth while to see what a reverential silence there was! However, I
just waved my hand to them and said, “You needn’t trouble about tokens
of allegiance,” and went away. I went straight to the director’s house.
He was not at home, and the footman did not want to let me in, but I
said something to him that made him just collapse. I went straight into
her dressing-room. She was sitting before the looking-glass, but started
up and shrank away from me. I did not tell her, however, that I am the
king of Spain; I only told her that there lies before her such happiness
as she cannot even imagine; and that, in spite of the snares of our
foes, we shall be together. I did not want to say any more than that,
and therefore went away. Oh! what a wily being is woman! It is only now
I have fully understood what woman really is. Up till now no one has
ever known with whom she is in love. I am the first to discover it.
Woman is in love with the devil. Yes, it is a fact. Physiologists write
all sorts of nonsense; but really she loves no one and nothing but the
devil. There, you see, she sits in the dress-circle with her
opera-glass; do you think she’s looking at that fat man with the star on
his breast? Not a bit of it! She’s looking at the devil behind his back.
The devil is hidden in the fat man’s coat. There! he is beckoning to her
with his finger! And she’ll marry him—she’ll certainly marry him! All
that comes from ambition; and the cause of ambition is a little blister
under the tongue with a tiny worm inside it no bigger than a pin’s head;
and all that is the doing of a certain hairdresser who lives in the
Goròkhovaya. I can’t remember his name; but I know positively that he
and a certain midwife are trying to spread Mahometanism throughout the
whole world; and it is said that in France the greater part of the
population has already accepted the Mahometan faith.
[Illustration:
“I SAID, ‘YOU NEEDN’T TROUBLE ABOUT TOKENS OF ALLEGIANCE,’ AND WENT
AWAY.”
]
_No date at all; the day was
without any date._
I walked incognito along the Nevsky Prospect, giving no sign at all that
I am the king of Spain. I thought it would be a breach of etiquette to
disclose my identity to every one now, because, first of all, I must
present myself at Court. The only thing that hinders me is the want of a
Spanish national costume. I must get hold of some sort of mantle. I
thought of ordering one, but the tailors are such absolute donkeys; and
then, besides, they have quite neglected their work and taken to
speculating. And now they have gone in for paving the streets. I finally
decided to make a mantle out of my new uniform, which I have only put on
twice; but, for fear these scoundrels should spoil my work, I decided to
sit with the door locked, so that no one should see me make it. I
snipped the uniform all to pieces with the scissors, because it must
have quite a different cut.
_I don’t remember the day, and
there wasn’t any month. The
deuce knows what there was._
The mantle is made and quite ready. Mavra shrieked out when I put it on.
I cannot make up my mind, though, to present myself at Court yet. There
is still no deputation from Spain; and to present myself without a
deputation would be a breach of etiquette. I think it would prejudice my
dignity. I expect the deputies every minute.
_Date 1._
I am amazed at the tardiness of the deputies! What can be the cause of
their delay? Can it be France? Yes; that is a most objectionable
country. I went to the postoffice to inquire whether the Spanish
deputies had arrived; but the postmaster was exceedingly stupid, and
knew nothing about it. “No,” he said, “there are no Spanish deputies
here; but if you like to write a letter, we can forward it at the
ordinary postage rate.” The devil take it! What’s the use of a letter?
Letters are all nonsense! Apothecaries write letters....
MADRID, _February 30_.
So I am really in Spain; and it all happened so quickly that I can
hardly realise it. This morning the Spanish deputies presented
themselves to me, and I got into the carriage with them. I was surprised
at the great speed with which we travelled. We went so fast that in half
an hour we reached the Spanish frontier. For that matter, of course
there are railways all over Europe now; and the steamers go tremendously
fast. Spain is an extraordinary country! When we went into the first
room, I saw a lot of people with shaven heads. I guessed at once that
they must be either grandees or soldiers, because they always shave
their heads. I was very much struck with the behaviour of the Lord
Chancellor, who led me by the hand; he pushed me into a little room, and
said, “You sit here; and if you begin calling yourself King Ferdinand,
I’ll knock that rubbish out of you.” But I, knowing that this was
nothing more than a trial of my constancy, answered firmly. Whereupon
the Chancellor struck me on the back twice with a stick so hard that I
nearly cried out, but restrained myself, remembering that in chivalry
this was a custom on a man’s entering any high office, and that the
customs of chivalry are still in force in Spain. Remaining alone, I
decided to occupy myself with affairs of State. I discovered that China
and Spain are all the same country; it is only from ignorance that
people suppose them to be different. I advise every one, as an
experiment, to write “Spain” on a piece of paper, and it will come out
“China.” I was profoundly grieved, though, at an event which is to
happen to-morrow. At seven o’clock to-morrow morning there will occur a
strange phenomenon: the earth will sit down on the moon. The famous
English chemist, Wellington, has written about that. I confess that my
heart throbbed with anxiety when I pictured to myself the extreme
delicacy and fragility of the moon. The thing is that the moon is
generally made in Hamburg, and is very badly made. I cannot understand
why England takes no notice of the fact. It is made by a lame cooper,
who is quite evidently a fool, and understands nothing about the moon at
all. He puts in tarred rope and cheap oil; and it makes such an awful
stink all over the earth that everybody has to hold their nose. And this
makes the moon itself so fragile that people can’t live on it at all;
and nothing lives on it but noses. That is the reason why we cannot see
our own noses, because they are all in the moon. And when I thought what
a heavy substance the earth is, and how, by sitting down, it may crush
all our noses to powder, I was so overpowered by anxiety that I put on
my shoes and socks, and ran into the State Council Chamber, to give
orders to the police not to let the earth sit down on the moon. The
shaven grandees, whom I found in the Council Hall in great numbers,
proved to be a very sensible people; and when I said, “Gentlemen, we
must save the moon, for the earth is going to sit down on it!” they all
instantly rushed to fulfil my royal wish; and many tried to climb up the
walls to get at the moon. But at that moment the Lord Chancellor came
in; and when they saw him they all ran away. I, as king, alone remained.
But the Chancellor, to my great amazement, struck me with his stick, and
sent me into my room. What an extraordinary power national customs have
in Spain!
[Illustration:
“WHEN I SAID, ‘GENTLEMEN, WE MUST SAVE THE MOON, FOR THE EARTH IS
GOING TO SIT DOWN ON IT!’ THEY ALL RUSHED TO FULFIL MY ROYAL WISH.”
]
_January in the same year; following
after February._
So far, I cannot make out what sort of country Spain is. The popular
customs and Court etiquette are altogether extraordinary. I can’t
understand them; I can’t understand; I simply _cannot_ understand.
To-day they shaved my head, although I shouted at the top of my voice
that I would not consent to be a monk. But what it was like, when they
began to drop cold water on to my head, I cannot bear even to remember.
I never suffered such a hell in my life. I got into such a state of
frenzy that they could scarcely hold me. I can’t understand the meaning
of this strange custom. It’s an utterly stupid and senseless custom! Nor
can I make out the foolishness of the kings who have not abolished it
before now. Considering all the probabilities of the case, it occurs to
me that I must have fallen into the hands of the Inquisition; and the
person whom I took for the Chancellor is, no doubt, the Grand Inquisitor
himself. Only it is quite incomprehensible how a king can be subject to
the Inquisition. It is true, that might happen through the influence of
France, and especially of Polignac. Oh, that brute, Polignac! He has
sworn to persecute me to the death; and now he hunts and hunts me down.
But I know, my friend, whose puppet you are. It’s the English that pull
the wires. The English are great diplomatists; they worm their way in
everywhere. For that matter, all the world knows that when England takes
snuff France sneezes.
_Date 25._
To-day the Grand Inquisitor came into my room, but, hearing his steps
approaching, I hid myself under a chair; and not seeing me, he began to
call out. First of all he called, “Poprìshchin!” I held my tongue. Then,
“Aksèntyi Ivànovich! Government official! Nobleman!” I remained silent.
“Ferdinand VIII., King of Spain!” I was just going to put out my head,
but I thought, “No, my friend, you won’t catch me that way. I know what
you are after: you’ll be pouring cold water on to my head again.”
However, he saw me, and drove me out from under the chair with a stick.
It’s most extraordinary how that confounded stick hurts! Ah, well! my
last discovery repays me for all. I have found out that every cock has a
Spain of its own hidden away under its feathers. The Grand Inquisitor
went away very angry, and threatening me with some kind of punishment;
but I remained completely indifferent to his impotent rage, knowing that
he acts as a mere machine, as the tool of England.
_Da 34 te. Month yrae
February 349._
No; I can endure no more. Good God! what things they do to me! They pour
cold water on to my head! They neither see, nor hear, nor understand me.
What have I done to them? Why do they torment me so? Alas! what would
they have of me? What can I give them, I that have nothing? It is too
much; I cannot bear all this misery. My head burns, and everything
whirls before me. Save me! take me! Give me steeds swifter than the
hurricane. Come, come, my yamshchìk![17] Ring, my sledge-bells! Bound,
my noble steeds, and bear me from this world! On, on, that I may see no
more, no more! See! the heavens whirl before me; a star gleams in the
distance; the forest rushes past, with the moon and the dark trees; the
blue mist is unrolled beneath my feet; and through the mist I hear the
vibration of a string. On one side of me is the sea, on the other side
is Italy.... Ah, and there are Russian cottages! Is that my house in the
blue distance? Is that my mother that sits beside the window? Oh,
mother, save thy wretched son! Weep one tear over his fallen head! See
how he is wronged and tormented! Clasp thy sad orphan to thy breast! He
is driven and hunted down! There is no place for him on earth! Mother,
have pity on thy weary child!... But _do_ you know that the Dey of
Algiers has a wart just under his nose?
_PORRIDGE._
BY NIKOLAI USPÈNSKY.
A cart drove in at the gate of a provincial town with a village
deacon[18] sitting in it, and in front, driving, his legs dangling over
the shafts, a peasant in a _kaftan_.[19]
“Well now, sir, who’s above the bishop?” the driver was asking.
“Above the bishop is the archbishop,”[20] answered the deacon. “It is
all arranged on the model of the celestial hierarchy, that I was telling
you about in the posting station.”
“And is there any sort of man above the governor?”
“Of course there is.... Look here, Yeremèi; when we get to the inn, I’ll
go into the Consistorium, and you order dinner for yourself here; there
is bread in the bag, so you needn’t get any here.”
“As your honour likes; of course I’ll eat our own bread, as if I didn’t
know! ’Tis all the same to me. How much oats shall I take? I doubt ’tis
terrible dear in these parts?”
“Take half a measure, not more; everything’s dear hereabouts. That’s why
it’s so dear to live in the town.”...
“Lord bless you, yes, sir, ’tis all so dear, so dear, that it is!”
When they reached the posting inn the deacon put on his ecclesiastical
dress, and went to the Consistorium; the peasant, meanwhile, went
straight into the kitchen, where the dinner was cooking.
On the fire was a huge cauldron filled with pieces of beef, boiling, and
emitting clouds of steam; a workman in a cotton shirt was ranging on a
shelf steaming wheaten loaves, and a woman was turning a whole leg of
veal on the spit, and sucking her fingers between whiles.
The peasant held his breath as he looked.
Meanwhile there came into the kitchen several travelling merchants and
well-to-do sledge-drivers in fur coats; they were smoking their pipes
and talking about the forthcoming dinner.
At last the dinner was ready; Yeremèi sat down to table with the
travellers.
During the dinner (which lasted for three hours) Yeremèi experienced a
misty sensation in the head, and occasionally a pain in the stomach; but
he continued eating just the same, though he still remembered the
deacon.
On rising from table he sighed profoundly, said grace with peculiar
fervour, and lay down on a bench, but he could not sleep. He kept
thinking of how the deacon would appear before him, and say, “Well, have
you had your dinner? How much is it?”...
Yeremèi began to regret that he had not left table directly after the
_shchi_ (cabbage soup).
Two hours later the deacon arrived. He called the peasant into the other
room and began—
“Well, Yeremèi, it’s time to go home. God be thanked, I have settled my
business up all right, and had a bite of something at a friend’s house.
You’ve had dinner, I suppose?”
The peasant stood in the middle of the room, looking at the floor.
“Have you had dinner or not?” said the deacon, standing with the
abacus[21] in his hand.
“Oh, ay, I had my dinner, ... only ’tis something ... if I hadn’t eaten
it....”
“What do you mean?”
The peasant held his tongue.
“I don’t understand; what did you have? Can’t you tell me? I’ve got to
pay the bill, you know. Well, what was there? I suppose you had
something to drink?”
“Oh, ay, something to drink, I had.”
“What was it—cider?” And the deacon lifted his hand to mark it off.
“Ay, sir, there was cider, of course there was....”
“Plain cider? No, something in it, I dare say?”
“Ay, sir, ... there was cider....”
“Well, what else did they give you? Speak up, man! Why, we shall stand
here all day!... What else was there?”
“Ah ... well, sir, there was a kind of quaking jelly stuff, ... sort of
sloppy mess it was, ... I don’t rightly know....”
“Doesn’t matter to me whether it was sloppy or not; I shall have to pay
for it just the same. Well, and after the jelly what? Shchi, no doubt.
Did you eat shchi?”
“Oh, ay, I ate it up, sartain sure....”
“Well, then?”
“Only, you see, sir, ’tis almost as if I hadn’t eaten it, like ...”
The deacon put on a stern expression and continued gravely—
“Well, and what did you have with the shchi? I suppose there was some
kind of soup-meat with it, wasn’t there?”
“Ay, ay, there were a wee bit, for sure ... but ’twas terrible
fat—terrible fat, it was....”
“What’s that to me? You ate it, I doubt, even if it was fat? Well,
that’s all, I suppose. Or perhaps you had porridge too?”
“No, there was something else ... the porridge come arter that....”
“What then? Some kind of soup? Yes?”
“Ay, ay, sir! That’s just it ... and all sorts of trotter things ...
mucky stuff it was....”
The peasant scratched his head.
“Trotters! Well, you ate them, I suppose?”
“Ah ... sir! ’Twas the weest bit I ate ... tru-_ly_!”
“_What—the—deuce_ do you think any one cares _how much_ you ate? Well,
get on; porridge now, is it?”
Silence.
“There can’t have been anything _more_? Something with the porridge, was
it?”
“Ay, sir, seems like as if there was something else besides the
porridge.”
“Pudding, was it?”
“Something of that kind.”
“And with what was the pudding served?”
“Eh, sir, they always do put that fancy bread ... cake stuff ... you
know, with pudding, but it was right old and hard, it were like a
stone....”
“H’m! and what did you have with the porridge?”
“Eh, no, the porridge come arter that....”
“After what?”
“Ah ... fecks, sir, I don’t rightly know ... kind of mess ... the Lord
knows what....”
“Well, what kind of thing?
[Illustration:
“THE PEASANT SCRATCHED HIS HEAD.”
]
The peasant began to help himself out by gesticulating with his hands.
“You know, sir, kind of ... veal, isn’t? Veal ... something of that
like.... All white and flabby....”
“Con ... found the blockhead! And you gobbled that up too, did you?”
“Of course, ... but ’twas all burnt to a chip....”
“Never mind that!... Well, _is_ that all, at last?”
Silence.
“When are we coming to that porridge, I’d like to know?”
“The porridge come arter that.”
“After what?”
Silence once more.
“Can’t you speak?”
“Eh-h! There was a turkey, or something of that like ... I don’t rightly
mind what it was ... or maybe the mutton came first....”
“Anything else?”
“There was honey; only ’twas in the comb....”
“My stars! The landlord’ll bring me in a fine bill for that! Is that
all? Ah, no, the porridge!”
“No, no, the porridge come arter that.”
The deacon flung down the abacus, and, plunging his hands into his
pockets, began to pace the room. The peasant moved away to the corner,
so as not to disturb him.
Presently the innkeeper came in.
“Landlord,” said the deacon, “what do I owe you for my man’s dinner?”
“He had everything on the bill of fare, didn’t he?”
“Well ... I suppose he did.”
“Then it comes to a silver rouble.”
“Can’t you make it a bit less.”
“No, no, little father, we never bargain; we make all our little profit
off the oats; the dinners cost us what we get for them.”
The deacon discontentedly took a silver rouble out of his pocket.
Yeremèi, meanwhile, stood in the corner, equally discontented.
They had passed the town boundaries and got out into the open country
two versts back, but the deacon remained perfectly silent. Yeremèi,
anxious to know whether his master was still angry with him, ventured a
question—
“And is there any kind of body grander than the archbishop?”
The deacon turned his head away in silence.
_A DOMESTIC PICTURE._
A SCENE FROM MOSCOW LIFE.
BY N. OSTRÒVSKY.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
ANTÌP ANTÌPYCH POUZÀTOV, _merchant, 35 years old._
MATRYÒNA SÀVISHNA, _his wife, aged 25._
MÀRYA ANTÌPOVNA, _Pouzàtov’s sister, a girl of 19._
STEPANÌDA TROFIMOVNA, _Pouzàtov’s mother, aged 60._
PARAMÒN FERAPÒNTYCH SHIRYÀLOV, _merchant, aged 60._
DÀRYA, _servant maid._
_A room in Pouzàtov’s house, furnished in glaringly bad taste.
Portraits hanging above the sofa; Birds of Paradise painted on the
ceiling; bright-coloured window-curtains; bottles on the
window-sills._ MÀRYA ANTÌPOVNA _sits by the window with an
embroidery-frame._
_Màrya (singing softly as she works)._
“Black colour, sad colour,
Yet for ever dear to me.”
(_Breaks off, stops working, and meditates._)
[Illustration:
MÀRYA: “THERE! LOOK! OH! HE BOWED TO US! OH! THE WICKED MAN!”
]
There! The summer’s nearly over; here we have September already, and you
just sit cooped up within four walls, for all the world like a nun, and
don’t dare to look out of window. That’s an inte_rest_ing life for a
young lady! (_A pause._) I daresay! It’s all very well to shut us up and
turn the key on us; but I know what we’ll do! We’ll ask leave to go to
midnight mass at the convent, and then we’ll put on our best things and
go off to the park or somewhere. There’s nothing for it, one _has_ to do
things on the sly. (_Goes on embroidering; a pause._) I wonder how it is
that Vasìli Gavrìlych hasn’t passed by once to-day? (_Looks out of
window._) Sister! sister! There’s an officer riding past! Sister! Quick!
With a white plume!
_Matryòna (runs into the room)._ Where, sister, where?
_Màrya._ There! Look! (_They look out._) Oh! he bowed to us! Oh! the
wicked man! (_They hide behind the window-curtains._)
_Matryòna._ How handsome he is!
_Màrya._ Sister, let’s sit here; perhaps he will pass again.
_Matryòna._ Oh! Màsha! how can you? You’ll just encourage him, and he’ll
take to passing half-a-dozen times a day; and then we shall never be
able to get rid of him. I know what these military men are. Why, there
was that hussar that Anna Màrkovna encouraged so; he used to ride past,
and she’d look out of window and smile at him; and do you know what he
did, my dear? He rode his horse right into the hall.
_Màrya._ Oh! how disgraceful!
_Matryòna._ I should think so! Nothing happened, you know; but she was
just the talk of Moscow. (_Looks out of window._) Màsha! there comes
Dàrya. Oh! what message will she bring?
_Màrya._ Oh! if mamma were to see her!
(_Enter_ DÀRYA, _hurriedly._)
_Dàrya._ Matryòna Sàvishna, little mother! I as near as anything got
caught! I was just running upstairs, and who must come running slap
against me but Stepanìda Trofimovna! Of course I said I’d been to shop
for a skein of silk. You know, she’s up to anything. Why, only
yesterday, our Petrùsha——
_Màrya._ Yes, yes! But what about _them_?
_Dàrya._ Yes, miss; they sent their respects. I went in, ma’am, and
there was Ivàn Petròvich lying on the sofa, and Vasìli Gavrìlych on the
bed.... Leastways, it was Vasìli Gavrìlych as was on the sofa, and
they’d been a-smoking, ma’am, till you fair couldn’t breathe.
_Matryòna._ Yes; but what did they say?
_Dàrya._ Well, they said, ma’am, if you please, that you was both of you
to come this evening to Ostànkino at vesper-time. And he said, “Dàrya,”
says he, “tell them to be sure and come, even if it rains.”
_Màrya._ Of course we’ll go, sister!
_Matryòna._ All right. Run back again, Dàrya, and say we’ll come.
_Dàrya._ Yes’m. Anything else, please’m?
_Màrya._ Yes, Dasha. Tell them to bring some books to read. Say the
young ladies desired it.
_Dàrya._ Yes, miss; is that all?... Oh! ma’am! I clean forgot! I was to
tell you to bring some Madeira with you; that was Ivàn Petròvich’s
orders. “It’s so nice,” says he, “in the open air.”
_Matryòna._ All right.
_Dàrya (comes up to_ MATRYÒNA _and speaks softly)._ Matryòna Sàvishna,
Vasìli Gavrìlych was saying to Ivàn Petròvich, “Of course,” says he,
“it’s quite a different thing for you,” says he. “Matryòna Sàvishna’s a
married woman ... and, of course ... But Màrya Antìpovna,” says he,
“she’s a young girl ... and it isn’t ... like as if, you know ... and
somehow or other,” says he, “’tis a bad business. Why,” says he, “for
all I know, they may go and marry her to some shopkeeper with a beard;
and then what’s the use of my putting myself out?” says he. “Of course
that don’t mean as I’m not”—there, you understand me, ma’am.... “But I’m
a poor man,” says he.... “I’d be glad enough to marry her,” says he,
“but,” says he, “what’s the use of my going poking my nose in?” It was
Vasìli Gavrìlych as said this to Ivàn Petròvich, you know, ma’am. “It’s
quite a different thing for you,” says he; “Matryòna Sàvishna’s a
married woman ... any sort of thing can happen with an official, you
know.... Wintertime,” says he, ... “Well, and a fine cloak of racoon
fur.... Anyways”——
_Matryòna._ Oh! you silly girl! Why, you should have said——
_Dàrya (listening)._ Little mother! it’s the master hisself come in!
(_Goes to the window._) Yes, it is; he’s going in at the door.
_Matryòna._ Well, then, you take the message while we’re at tea.
_Dàrya._ Yes’m.
_Voice in the ante-room._ Wife! I say! wife! Matryòna Sàvishna!
_Matryòna._ What’s the matter?
_Antìp (enters)._ Good evening, wife. Why, how you jump! Who did you
think it was? (_Kisses her._) Give us another kiss. (_Caressing her
playfully._)
_Matryòna (shrinking away)._ That’ll do, Antìp Antìpych! Let me alone!
Oh! what a nuisance you are!
_Antìp._ But I want a kiss.
_Matryòna._ Oh! leave off, for goodness’ sake!
_Antìp._ I daresay! (_Kisses her._) What a jolly little wife it is!
That’s the sort of wife to have! (_Sits on the sofa._) Do you know what,
Matryòna Sàvishna?
_Matryòna._ What now?
_Antìp._ It would be jolly to have some tea now. (_Stares at the
ceiling, and puffs._)
_Matryòna._ Dàrya!
(_Enter_ DÀRYA.)
_Matryòna._ Bring the samovar; and ask Stepanìda Trofimovna for the
keys. (_Exit_ DÀRYA. _Silence._ MÀRYA _sits at her embroidery_; MATRYÒNA
_beside her_; ANTÌP _looks about the room, sighing._)
_Antìp (sternly)._ Wife! come here!
_Matryòna._ What now?
_Antìp (striking the table with his fist)._ Come here, I tell you!
_Matryòna._ Why, are you gone crazy?
_Antìp (drumming on the table)._ What do you expect me to do with you?
_Matryòna._ Whatever can it be? (_Timidly._) Antìp Antìpych?
_Antìp._ Eh? Frightened you? (_Bursts out laughing._) No, my lass! It
was only my little joke. (_Sighs._) Can’t we have tea?
_Matryòna._ In a minute. Why, bless my heart, you won’t die!
_Antìp._ Well, it’s so dull to sit and do nothing.
(_Enter_ STEPANÌDA TROFIMOVNA; _then_ DÀRYA _carrying the samovar._)
_Stepanìda._ Lord, save us! You’re in a mighty hurry, my girl! What are
you rushing about like a wild thing for? Nothing is going to fall on our
heads. And as for you, little father, you must be gone clean daft! How
many more times in the day do you want to drink tea? This is the third
time at home; and I doubt you had some down in the town too? (_Pours out
tea._)
_Antìp._ Well, dear heart! what does it matter? A fellow can’t get tipsy
on tea. Yes; I had some tea with Brioùkhov, and again with Sàvva
Sàvvich. What harm is there in drinking tea with a jolly good fellow? I
say, mamma, I did Brioùkhov out of a thousand roubles to-day. (_Takes
teacup._)
_Stepanìda._ What next, child! Why, you get fleeced yourself on all
sides. You never keep an eye upon your shopmen; you never look after the
business. Why, Antìpoushka, what sort of business man are you? All you
do is to sit from morning till night in a tavern and drink tea. Ah!
dear, dear! it’s just a grief to look at you; there’s not a bit of
method in you; even _I_ can’t manage to keep order in this house. The
samovar stands on the table till eleven o’clock in the morning; first
the men have their breakfast and go off to the shop; then you get up and
dawdle over your breakfast till goodness knows when; and then your fine
lady here comes down. And as for going to mass before breakfast, why,
you don’t so much as cross yourselves, the Lord forgive you! Ah!
Antìpoushka! if you’d give up your new-fangled ways and live as all
respectable people should! You ought to get up at four in the morning
and see that everything’s in order, and go out into the yard and look
after everything there, and go to mass. Yes, my dear, and rout your good
lady here out of bed too, and tell her it’s time to get up and look
after the house; that’s what you ought to do. Yes, you needn’t look at
me like that, Matryòna Sàvishna; I’ve said nothing but what’s right and
true.
_Matryòna._ I suppose you are going to begin and preach now!
_Stepanìda._ Ah! little mother! And what would become of the house if it
wasn’t for me? _You’re_ not much of a housekeeper; you’re too young yet,
little mother; you’ve a good deal to learn yet! Why, just look at
you—you don’t get up till after ten o’clock—it’s a shame to say it, my
girl, but it’s the Lord’s own truth—and here I have to sit by the
samovar and wait till you please to come down; and I’m older than you
are, madam. You’re too much of a fine lady, Matryòna Sàvishna, too much
by a long way! It’s no use for you to give yourself airs, my lass;
you’re naught but a shopkeeper’s wife, and you can’t be a real lady,
however hard you try. Why, my good man, what’s the use of her dressing
herself up, and hanging herself all over with gew-gaws and furbelows
like a heathen savage, and making a sight of herself, the Lord forgive
us our sins! and rustling about with a long tail like a peacock ... why,
it’s a sin and a shame, so it is! You can flaunt about in your furbelows
as much as you like, Matryòna Sàvishna; but you’re none the more of a
lady for that.... You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.
_Matryòna._ Yes; you’d like me to go about with an old shawl over my
head!
_Stepanìda._ You’ve no call to be ashamed of your own class, my girl.
_Antìp._ Why, heart alive! Why shouldn’t she dress herself up fine if
the money’s there? There’s no harm in it. And as for being a lady, hang
me if she isn’t handsomer than any lady when she’s dressed in her best
things! By your leave, mother, I don’t think all these fine ladies are
worth the trouble of looking at. But just see what my little wife is
like.... That’s to say, I mean, what a figure she’s got!... and all
that, you know.
_Matryòna._ Really, Antìp Antìpych, what things you do say!
_Màrya._ I wonder you’re not ashamed of yourself, brother! You always
make one blush.
_Antìp._ What’s the matter now? I haven’t said anything so dreadful.
Another day a man may say worse things than that, and nobody cares. Why,
the other day, before his Excellency the General, such a word slipped
off my tongue, I was quite frightened myself; but what can a fellow do?
A word isn’t a sparrow, that you can put salt on its tail. And as for
what you were saying, mother, I stick to my point. My wife shall dress
as fine as she likes; I don’t care if she isn’t a lady, all the same....
_Stepanìda._ Yes; I know, my boy, I know. When she goes out with you
dressed up like that, with a train two yards long, what do you suppose
she’s thinking about? Well, I’ll tell you my son, she thinks—“Here have
I got to put up with a great clumsy husband with a beard, instead of
having a proper sort of beau that pomades his hair and puts scent on his
handkerchief!”
_Antìp._ Do you think she’d change me for any one else? A handsome
fellow like me! (_Strokes his moustache._) I say, wife, give us a kiss!
(MATRYÒNA _kisses him with feigned tenderness._)
_Stepanìda._ Ah! my child! the enemy of man is cunning. Look at the way
my poor dear husband and I lived. We were a happier couple than you are;
and all the same he kept me in fear and submission, as a man should, the
Lord rest his soul! However much he loved and cherished me, he always
kept a little whip hanging on a nail in the bedroom, just in case of
anything.
_Matryòna._ You’re always making mischief between me and my husband! Why
can’t you let me alone?
_Stepanìda._ You’d best hold your tongue, my good girl!
_Matryòna._ I’m to hold my tongue! What next! Anybody would think I was
the dirt under your feet. I’m a merchant’s wife of the first guild!
_Stepanìda._ You and your guild! You needn’t talk like that to me, my
girl! I’ve had to do with your betters in my time....
_Matryòna._ Even so, you’ve no right to shut me up. I’m not going to
hold my tongue for anybody.
_Stepanìda._ And what do you suppose I care? There! go your own way;
it’s all one to me; but when you drive me to it I must speak out; it’s
my way. I’m not going to make myself over again for your pleasure.
(_Silence. They all sit and sulk._) You’ve just spoiled my Màsha between
you.
_Antìp._ I say, Màsha, shall I find you a husband?
_Stepanìda._ ’Twas time to think of that long ago. Seems to me you’ve
clean forgotten that you have a sister; and she getting on, too.
_Màrya._ Really, mamma! Always “getting on,” and “getting on”! I’m not
so old as all that comes to.
_Stepanìda._ Don’t try your fine airs on me, miss! I was married at
thirteen; and you—I’m downright ashamed to tell people of it—you’re
twenty.
_Antìp._ Well, Màsha, shall I ask Kossolàpov?
_Màrya._ Well, really, brother! You know he smells of onions all the
year round; and in Lent it’s just dreadful!
_Antìp._ Well, then, Perepyàtkin; he’d be a fine lover. (_Laughs._)
_Màrya._ You just pick out all the frights on purpose.
_Antìp._ Well, they’re all right. I think they’re very fine lovers,
Màsha; first-rate lovers! (_Bursts out laughing._)
_Màrya (almost in tears)._ You’re just laughing at me!
_Stepanìda._ Come, leave off your foolishness! I’m talking seriously,
Antìp Antìpych! What do you mean by all this rubbish? As for you, my
girl, don’t be afraid; you shall have suitors enough to choose from.
Bless my heart! You’re not a gipsy beggar-wench; you’re a marriageable
girl with a position. Only you needn’t think I’ll let you marry a
nobleman ... I won’t; so don’t imagine it.
_Antìp._ Why, mamma, any one would think there are no decent folks among
noblemen. Dear me! there are plenty. (_Laughs._)
_Stepanìda._ Of course there are, little father! there are decent people
in every class; only everybody should keep to their own. Our
grandfathers were no worse than we are, and they weren’t always trying
to get in among the nobles.
_Antìp._ I don’t see why you shouldn’t marry her to a noble. There’s no
harm in it; why should you mind?
_Stepanìda._ Eh! my lad! A real proper noble, that’s worth having,
wouldn’t take her; he’d want at the very least a hundred thousand, or
may be two or three; and as for the others, they might as well not be
there at all for me. All they know how to do is to turn up their noses
and give themselves airs, as much as to say, “I’m a noble, and you’re
common people!” And after all, they’re nothing but a lot of dressed up
beggars! Goodness gracious! As if I didn’t know! Look at Lopàtikha,[22]
she married her girl to a noble, without asking any respectable person’s
advice. I told her of it at the time. “Eh! Maxìmovna,”[23] said I,
“‘Don’t try to drive in strange sledges.’[24] You’ll remember my words
when it’s too late.” Well, of course she began and answered me that she
wasn’t going to stand in her own child’s way, and all that. “I only want
the best,” says she; “after all,” says she, “he’s a gentleman, not a
shopkeeper; and maybe he’ll get on in the service and get a handle to
his name.” And now, you see what’s come of it! Ah! it’s a poor tale when
a frog will be a bull! There’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip!
Half her dowry he’s drunk away; and the rest he’s gambled away, good
man! (_Sighs._) Yes; I was at the wedding; such a set out as they had at
the dinner, Lord save us! “Where’s the bridegroom?” said I. And what do
you think, my lad? When I looked round, as it might be now, a nasty
little slimy toad buttoned up into a tight jacket with the tails cut
off, for all the world like a blind kitten that’s been licked down. And
there he was, wriggling and twisting about, like any heathen
flibberty-gibbet—Lord forgive us our sins!—as if he couldn’t find a
place to sit down. Nobody’d ever have known him for a bridegroom, that
they wouldn’t. He might just as well have been all hung on wires. I
thought to myself when I looked at him, “You’ve made a fine choice, my
friends!” (_They all laugh._) But, dear heart! What am I talking about?
Everybody knows that. And even if you do get one that isn’t a
drunkard—of course there are decent ones here and there—he’ll only smoke
you out of your own house with his tobacco; or else he’ll bring deadly
sin into your house eating meat on fast days. (_Spits._) Good Lord! it’s
just sickening to think of.... No doubt there are good sensible people
among them, that do their business properly; only all I say is, we and
they don’t belong together, and we’re best apart. Now, a good,
well-to-do shopkeeper, Màsha——
_Antìp._ Plump and fresh-coloured, you know, Màsha, like me. That’s the
sort of fellow to love; not a dried-up scarecrow, eh, Màsha?
_Màrya._ Really, brother, how should I know?... (_Casts down her eyes._)
_Antìp._ How should you know? Well, anyway, Matryòna knows; I say,
Matryòna, don’t you think I’m right? Best have a shopkeeper, eh?
_Matryòna._ It’s always the same talk with you.
_Stepanìda._ He’s quite right, Màsha, my girl. At least there’s some one
worth kissing.
_Màrya._ Mamma! How can you! I declare I shall go away! Come, sister!
(_Runs out of the room_, MATRYÒNA _follows her._)
_Antìp._ Oho! my lass; it’s not much use to run away.
_Stepanìda._ You made her bashful, Antìpoushka; she’s only a girl, you
see.
_Antìp._ Well, I don’t mind if it’s a merchant. Give her to a merchant,
you may as well.
_Stepanìda (Moves nearer to him and speaks softly)._ By the bye,
Antìpoushka, I heard from neighbour Terèntyevna that Paramòn Ferapòntych
thinks of marrying again, and is looking for a wife. That’s a chance we
oughtn’t to miss, you know. Of course I know he’s getting old, and a
widower, and all that; but he has plenty of money, Antìpoushka—heaps of
money. And then, you know, he’s respectable and religious, and a capital
business man.
_Antìp._ Ye—es, mamma; only he’s an awful cheat.
_Stepanìda._ Dear heart alive! What do you mean by a cheat, I’d like to
know? He goes to church on all the holidays; and he always comes before
any one else; he keeps all the fasts; and in Lent he doesn’t even drink
sugar in his tea, only honey or raisins. Yes, my dear, you might take
example by him! And if he does play a trick sometimes, like any business
man, who’s the worse for it? He’s neither the first nor the last. Why,
there’d be no trade without that, Antìpoushka. It’s a true saying—“No
lies, no sale.”
_Antìp._ That’s true enough! Why shouldn’t one trick a chap if it comes
easy? There’s no harm in that. Only you see, mamma, ... a man must have
a bit of conscience sometimes. (_Scratches his head._) After all, you
know, ... one must think of one’s latter end. (_Silence._) I know I can
be as cunning as he is, when it comes in my way; but I always tell a
chap honestly afterwards. I always say:—“Look here, friend, I fleeced
you a little bit over such and such a business.” Last year, for
instance, I did Sàvva Sàvvich out of five hundred roubles when we were
settling up accounts; but I told him about it afterwards:—“Sàvva
Sàvvich,” said I, “you’ve let a nice little five hundred slip through
your fingers; but it’s too late now, friend,” said I; “only another time
keep your eyes open.” He was a bit riled up about it; but we’re the best
of friends again. There’s no harm in that!... Why, just lately I did
that German, Karl Ivànych, out of three hundred roubles. That was a good
joke! Matryòna had been buying a lot of furbelows and things in his
shop, and he sent me in a little bill for two thousand.
_Stepanìda._ What! I never heard of such a thing!
_Antìp._ There, that’s no harm! Let her dress up if she likes! Well, so
I thought to myself—“Surely I’m not going to give the German all that
money. No, no,” thought I, “he may wait till he gets it.” So I gave him
a little over three hundred roubles short. “The rest, mounseer,
afterwards,” says I. “All right, all right,” says he, as polite as you
please. So after that, of course he began nagging at me; every time I
met him it was the same thing—“What about the money?” I got just sick of
it; and one day, when I’d got my back up, that German must needs come
along. “What about the money?” says he. “What money?” says I; “I paid
you long ago, man; let me alone, for the Lord’s sake!” Eh! there was my
German in a rage! “That’s dishonest,” says he; “that’s underhand
dealing,” says he; “it’s written down in my books,” says he. And I said
to him:—“The deuce knows what you’ve got written down in your books;
you’d have one always paying you.” “Ah!” says he, “that’s the Russian
way of doing business; no German would do that. I’ll go to law,” says
he. Well, what can you do with a man like that? It’s for all the world
like a sick man and his nurse! (_Both laugh._) “All right,” says I;
“much you’ll get from lawyering!” Well, he went to law; and of course I
simply denied it. I stuck to my point, that I’d paid and knew nothing
more about it. Oh! what a laugh we had over that German! He was just
wild. “It’s dishonest,” says he. So after it was all over, I said to
him—“Karl Ivànych, I’d have given you that money, only I couldn’t spare
it.” You should have seen how our shopkeepers shook their fat paunches
with laughing! (_Both laugh._) For that matter, why should I pay up all
his bill? That’s too much of a good thing. They stick on any price they
like; and people are silly enough to believe them. I’d do the same thing
again if a man won’t give credit. That’s my way, mamma, and I see no
harm in it. But Shiryàlov—he’s no better than a Jew; he’d cheat his own
father! It’s true, mamma; and he’ll look you right in the face and tell
you lies—and then pretends to be a saint! (_Enter_ SHIRYÀLOV.) Ah!
Paramòn Ferapòntych, glad to see you; how do you do?
_Shiryàlov._ How do you do, neighbours? (_Bows._) Antìp Antìpych! Good
evening, friend. (_They kiss._) Little mother, Stepanìda Trofimovna,
good evening. (_They kiss._)
_Antìp._ Sit down, Paramòn Ferapòntych.
_Stepanìda._ Sit down, little father.
_Shiryàlov (sits down)._ Well, little mother, and how are you getting
on?
_Stepanìda._ Badly enough, little father; I’m getting old. And how goes
the world with you?
_Shiryàlov._ Ah! little mother! last week I was taken bad all on a
sudden. Good Lord I how sharply it did catch me; I was downright
frightened, I can tell you. First of all, ma’am, I got a pain in my
bones; I assure you, every little bone and joint ached of itself; just
ached as if it would all go to pieces, ma’am. The Lord sends us these
trials, little mother, as a chastisement for our sins. And then, ma’am,
it went into the middle of my back.
_Stepanìda._ You and I are getting old, little father.
_Shiryàlov._ I turned this way and that, on one side and the other; no
use, ma’am; it would just leave off a minute, and then catch me again.
It seemed to go right to my heart.
_Stepanìda._ Dear! dear!
_Antìp._ I say, Paramòn Ferapòntych, haven’t you been going it rather
too much with your chums?
_Shiryàlov._ No indeed, sir; I haven’t had a drop of liquor in my mouth;
not for over a month, Stepanìda Trofimovna! That is, I don’t say that
I’ve given it up for altogether; only for a little while. I won’t say
I’ll never touch it again; the flesh is weak, as the Holy Scripture
says.
_Stepanìda._ Very true, little father!
_Shiryàlov._ I’ll tell you what I think, neighbours; I must have caught
cold, somehow; maybe going out in the street without buttoning my coat,
or standing out in the garden in my shirt after dark.
_Stepanìda._ Yes, yes; it’s so easy to go wrong, little father! Let me
give you some tea, Paramòn Ferapòntych.
_Shiryàlov (bows)._ Thank you, ma’am, thank you; I’ve just had tea.
_Stepanìda._ Never mind, little father, have some more.
_Antìp._ With us, for company’s sake.
_Shiryàlov._ Just one cup, then. (STEPANÌDA _pours out tea. He takes his
cup and drinks._) So this is what I did, ma’am. I thought to myself—“All
this doctor’s stuff is just rubbish! it’s nothing but stealing people’s
money.” And I never have taken doctor’s stuff, little mother; it’s a sin
that I’ve never taken on my soul. So I thought to myself—“I’ll go to the
bath; that’s what I’ll do.” Well, I went to the bath, neighbour; and
then I sent out for a bottle of wine, and two or three red peppers,
ma’am; and I had them mixed in properly; then I drank one half and made
the bath-man rub me down with the other half; and when I got home I had
some punch; and at night, ma’am, I came out all in a sweat; and that
threw it off.
_Stepanìda._ Yes, yes, little father! My Antìpoushka always takes punch
if he’s not well.
_Antìp._ That’s good stuff for every sort of illness, friend; you
remember my words. (SHIRYÀLOV _puts down cup._)
_Stepanìda._ Take another cup.
_Shiryàlov (bows)._ Thank you, no more. Very grateful, Stepanìda
Trofimovna.
_Stepanìda._ Without ceremony, little father. (_Pours out tea._) How’s
your business getting on?
_Shiryàlov_ (_takes cup_). Thanks be to God, Stepanìda Trofimovna,
fairly well. I’ve only one trouble: my Sènka’s gone to the bad
altogether. I can’t think what I’m to do about it: it’s a real trial and
affliction.
_Antìp._ Wild oats, I suppose?
_Shiryàlov._ Worse than that, Antìp Antìpych, worse than that! I
wouldn’t mind if he’d take to drinking; he couldn’t throw away so much
on that; but he runs over head and ears into debt. Ah! little mother!
what are young people coming to nowadays?
_Stepanìda._ You’ve no one to blame but yourself, Paramòn Ferapòntych;
you’ve regularly spoiled the boy; you should have broken him in when he
was a child, it’s too late now. He should have gone into town with your
shopmen, and learned to keep his eyes open and bring in money.
_Shiryàlov._ Ah! little mother! you see, he’s my only one. In these days
a young man has to get into society. It was very different when we were
young: we whipped our tops until we were eighteen; and then our elders
took and married us and started us in business. Nowadays, a young man
that’s had no schooling gets called a fool; the world’s grown so wise!
And then you see, neighbour, God has blessed us; we’ve a tidy little
fortune. What would people say if I couldn’t manage to give an only son
learning, with all my capital? I don’t want to be worse than my
neighbours. One’s always hearing that So-and-So’s sent his boy to a
simminry and another’s sent his to the Commercial ’Cademy. So I sent my
Sènka to a simminry, and paid my money down for a year in advance. And
if you’ll believe it, ma’am, before three months was up, he cut an’ run;
so I thought I’d eddicate him at home; and I got a tutor, cheap. But I’d
nothing but ill luck, ma’am; the tutor turned out wild, and Sènka took
to wheedling money out of his mother and going off on the spree with his
tutor, now to the drink-shops, now to the gipsy wenches.... Well, of
course I turned the tutor out o’ doors; and now I’m left to get on with
my Sènka how I can. Dear Lord! dear Lord! how wicked the people are
grown nowadays!
[Illustration:
SHIRYÀLOV: “LAST WINTER HE SPENT THREE HUNDRED ROUBLES ON GLOVES
ALONE—_THREE HUN—DRED_ ROUBLES!”
]
_Antìp._ He seems to have taken after his father!
_Shiryàlov._ And indeed you wouldn’t believe what he costs me: a hundred
here, two hundred there; just lately I paid his tailor a thousand
roubles; it’s dreadful to think of; I don’t wear out a thousand roubles’
worth in ten years. I don’t know how it is; he can’t be content with a
waistcoat that’s just a waistcoat and a coat that’s just a coat. Ah! it
must be a judgment on me for my sins! (_Almost in a whisper._) Last
winter he spent three hundred roubles on gloves alone—_three hun—dred_
roubles!
_Stepanìda._ Dear! dear! dear!
_Antìp._ Wh-whew!
_Shiryàlov._ The worst of it is that they give him credit everywhere;
they know that I can pay. He owes four thousand now in some restaurant
or other. No fortune in the world would stand that sort of thing.
(_Drinks tea; silence._) By the bye, Antìp Antìpych, did I tell you the
joke?
_Antìp._ What joke?
_Shiryàlov._ About the Armenian.
_Antìp._ No; what is it?
_Shiryàlov._ Eh! It’s as good as a play. (_Laughs, moves his chair
nearer, and speaks in a whisper._) Last year, my good sir, this Armenian
came to the town with silk to sell; and he got playing ducks and drakes
with his money, just like my Sènka. People began to talk about him in
the town—you know how ... and I’d got I O U’s of his for fifteen
thousand. It’s a bad business, thinks I. There was no getting rid of
them in the town; everybody smelled a rat. Just about that time our
manufacturer turned up; his factory’s in a town some way off, you know.
I went straight to him, before he’d heard about it; and what do you
think, sir? Got rid of them all in a lump!
_Antìp._ Well, and what was the end of it?
_Shiryàlov._ Just twenty-five kopecks. (_Laughs._)
_Antìp._ No? Really? That’s capital! (_Laughs._)
_Shiryàlov._ But Sènka’s not like that; no, no, sir, not that sort at
all. Verily the Almighty chastises me in my son! He keeps company with
the Lord knows what sort of rag-tag-and-bobtail (_puts down cup_), with
people not fit to speak to....
_Stepanìda._ Another cup?
_Shiryàlov._ No more, little mother, no more.
_Stepanìda._ Without ceremony——
_Shiryàlov._ Can’t, little mother, can’t, indeed. (_Bows._)
_Stepanìda._ As you like; but there’s plenty more.
_Shiryàlov._ Can’t, really. (_Rises and bows._)
_Stepanìda._ Dàrya, clear away the tea. (DÀRYA _enters, clears away tea,
and goes out_). Good-bye, little father.
_Shiryàlov._ Good-bye, little mother. (_They kiss._)
_Stepanìda._ Don’t forget to look in on us.
_Shiryàlov._ Always a pleasure, ma’am; always a pleasure.
_Antìp._ I say, mamma, let’s have some brandy in; and a bite of
something, and a bottle of Madeira, or something of that kind. Let’s
have a drink, neighbour, eh?
_Shiryàlov._ Eh! Antìp Antìpych, that would be too much trouble.
_Antìp._ Not a bit of it; there’s no trouble. (STEPANÌDA _goes out_.)
_Shiryàlov._ Yes, neighbour; he keeps away from home; he never goes near
the shop. What does he care how his father has to get the money? It’s
time I should have a little rest in my old age. But I’ve no one to
depend on. The other day I went and served in the shop myself; I hadn’t
done it for fifteen years. “I’ll just go and show my lazy louts how to
do business,” said I to myself. And would you believe it, sir——(_Draws
his chair nearer. Wine is brought in._)
_Antìp._ Have a drink, neighbour! (_They drink._)
_Shiryàlov._ There was a piece of stuff that was left on hand. Two years
ago the price of it was two roubles forty the _arshin_; but this year
they’d marked it eighty kopecks. Well, sir, as I sat in the shop there
came in two ladies, and asked for some stuff for blouses to wear in the
house. “Certainly, ma’am,” says I. “Mìtya, bring that last new material.
Here’s a fine stuff,” said I. “And what’s the price?” said the lady.
“Two and a half roubles it cost me,” says I; “and profit—what you
please, ma’am.” “I’ll give one rouble eighty,” says she. What do you
think of that, Antìp Antìpych? One rouble eighty. “Oh! no, ma’am,” says
I; “I couldn’t possibly let it go for that.” Well, they haggled a bit,
and said they’d give two roubles. Hear that? Two roubles! (_Laughs._)
“How much do you want?” says I. “Twenty-five arshin” “Can’t do it,
ma’am,” says I; “if you’ll take the whole piece, I don’t mind letting it
go at two roubles.” You see, the thing was that I didn’t dare touch the
stuff. (_Laughs._) I was afraid to lay a finger on it. For anything I
knew, it might be all rotten inside. Well, my ladies talked it over, and
took the whole piece. You should just have seen how the shopmen stared.
(_Laughs._)
_Antìp._ Why, that’s capital! That’s first-rate! Have a drink,
neighbour. (_They drink._)
_Shiryàlov._ But Sènka’s not that sort; oh, no! Sènka’s not that sort at
all. (_Sighs._) My good sir, he goes to the theatre every blessed day.
He knows everybody there; he’s made friends with them all; every sort of
rabble comes dangling after him. What do you think! The other day I
called in at Ostolòpov’s. “Just give me that money,” says he. “What
money?” says I. “For the shawl.” “What shawl?” “Why, that your son
bought.” I thought to myself: “What in the world can he want with a
shawl?” Of course, I knew I shouldn’t get the truth out of _him_, so I
began making inquiries; and would you believe it, sir, he’s got one of
these actress girls!
_Antìp._ Well, I never did!...
_Shiryàlov._ What would you have me do with him? That’s more than I can
stand; I’m ashamed to acknowledge him.
_Antìp._ The fact is, that it’s time to marry him. You must find the boy
a wife.
_Shiryàlov._ Wait a bit, Antìp Antìpych; that’s not the worst of it; the
worst is that there’s no end; it’s just like pouring water into a sieve.
It’s a shawl to-day, it’ll be a sable cloak to-morrow; and for all I
know a furnished house next day; and then a carriage and pair; and then
heaven knows what; its worse than the horseleech!
_Antìp._ Very true.
_Shiryàlov._ And you know, when a man gets entangled with them, he’s
like one blind. That sort of company is just ruin, Antìp Antìpych.
_Antìp._ You’re right there; a man loses his head altogether. There’s
only one thing to do, neighbor—to get him married quick.
_Shiryàlov._ It’s easy to say, “Get him married”; but how am I to do it?
_Antìp._ How are you to do it? Well, of course, I don’t mean that you
should tie him hand and foot. Just hunt up a girl with a nice little
dowry, you know; and I doubt he won’t kick at it. Why should any one
mind marrying? It’s nothing but a pleasure!