Arkady Ivanovitch was silent. He was afraid to question Vasya. The

latter dropped his eyes and remained silent too, as he began sorting the

papers. At last their eyes met. The look in Vasya's was so beseeching,

imploring, and broken, that Arkady shuddered when he saw it. His heart

quivered and was full.

"Vasya, my dear boy, what is it? What's wrong?" he cried, rushing to him

and squeezing him in his arms. "Explain to me, I don't understand you,

and your depression. What is the matter with you, my poor, tormented

boy? What is it? Tell me all about it, without hiding anything. It can't

be only this----"

Vasya held him tight and could say nothing. He could scarcely breathe.

"Don't, Vasya, don't! Well, if you don't finish it, what then? I don't

understand you; tell me your trouble. You see it is for your sake I....

Oh dear! oh dear!" he said, walking up and down the room and clutching

at everything he came across, as though seeking at once some remedy for

Vasya. "I will go to Yulian Mastakovitch instead of you to-morrow. I

will ask him--entreat him--to let you have another day. I will explain

it all to him, anything, if it worries you so...."

"God forbid!" cried Vasya, and turned as white as the wall. He could

scarcely stand on his feet.

"Vasya! Vasya!"

Vasya pulled himself together. His lips were quivering; he tried to say

something, but could only convulsively squeeze Arkady's hand in silence.

His hand was cold. Arkady stood facing him, full of anxious and

miserable suspense. Vasya raised his eyes again.

"Vasya, God bless you, Vasya! You wring my heart, my dear boy, my

friend."

Tears gushed from Vasya's eyes; he flung himself on Arkady's bosom.

"I have deceived you, Arkady," he said. "I have deceived you. Forgive

me, forgive me! I have been faithless to your friendship...."

"What is it, Vasya? What is the matter?" asked Arkady, in real alarm.

"Look!"

And with a gesture of despair Vasya tossed out of the drawer on to the

table six thick manuscripts, similar to the one he had copied.

"What's this?"

"What I have to get through by the day after to-morrow. I haven't done a

quarter! Don't ask me, don't ask me how it has happened," Vasya went on,

speaking at once of what was distressing him so terribly. "Arkady, dear

friend, I don't know myself what came over me. I feel as though I were

coming out of a dream. I have wasted three weeks doing nothing. I kept

... I ... kept going to see her.... My heart was aching, I was tormented

by ... the uncertainty ... I could not write. I did not even think about

it. Only now, when happiness is at hand for me, I have come to my

senses."

"Vasya," began Arkady Ivanovitch resolutely, "Vasya, I will save you. I

understand it all. It's a serious matter; I will save you. Listen!

listen to me: I will go to Yulian Mastakovitch to-morrow.... Don't shake

your head; no, listen! I will tell him exactly how it has all been; let

me do that ... I will explain to him.... I will go into everything. I

will tell him how crushed you are, how you are worrying yourself."

"Do you know that you are killing me now?" Vasya brought out, turning

cold with horror.

Arkady Ivanovitch turned pale, but at once controlling himself, laughed.

"Is that all? Is that all?" he said. "Upon my word, Vasya, upon my word!

Aren't you ashamed? Come, listen! I see that I am grieving you. You see

I understand you; I know what is passing in your heart. Why, we have

been living together for five years, thank God! You are such a kind,

soft-hearted fellow, but weak, unpardonably weak. Why, even Lizaveta

Mikalovna has noticed it. And you are a dreamer, and that's a bad thing,

too; you may go from bad to worse, brother. I tell you, I know what you

want! You would like Yulian Mastakovitch, for instance, to be beside

himself and, maybe, to give a ball, too, from joy, because you are going

to get married.... Stop, stop! you are frowning. You see that at one

word from me you are offended on Yulian Mastakovitch's account. I'll let

him alone. You know I respect him just as much as you do. But argue as

you may, you can't prevent my thinking that you would like there to be

no one unhappy in the whole world when you are getting married.... Yes,

brother, you must admit that you would like me, for instance, your best

friend, to come in for a fortune of a hundred thousand all of a sudden,

you would like all the enemies in the world to be suddenly, for no rhyme

or reason, reconciled, so that in their joy they might all embrace one

another in the middle of the street, and then, perhaps, come here to

call on you. Vasya, my dear boy, I am not laughing; it is true; you've

said as much to me long ago, in different ways. Because you are happy,

you want every one, absolutely every one, to become happy at once. It

hurts you and troubles you to be happy alone. And so you want at once to

do your utmost to be worthy of that happiness, and maybe to do some

great deed to satisfy your conscience. Oh! I understand how ready you

are to distress yourself for having suddenly been remiss just where you

ought to have shown your zeal, your capacity ... well, maybe your

gratitude, as you say. It is very bitter for you to think that Yulian

Mastakovitch may frown and even be angry when he sees that you have not

justified the expectations he had of you. It hurts you to think that you

may hear reproaches from the man you look upon as your benefactor--and

at such a moment! when your heart is full of joy and you don't know on

whom to lavish your gratitude.... Isn't that true? It is, isn't it?"

Arkady Ivanovitch, whose voice was trembling, paused, and drew a deep

breath.

Vasya looked affectionately at his friend. A smile passed over his lips.

His face even lighted up, as though with a gleam of hope.

"Well, listen, then," Arkady Ivanovitch began again, growing more

hopeful, "there's no necessity that you should forfeit Yulian

Mastakovitch's favour.... Is there, dear boy? Is there any question of

it? And since it is so," said Arkady, jumping up, "I shall sacrifice

myself for you. I am going to-morrow to Yulian Mastakovitch, and don't

oppose me. You magnify your failure to a crime, Vasya. Yulian

Mastakovitch is magnanimous and merciful, and, what is more, he is not

like you. He will listen to you and me, and get us out of our trouble,

brother Vasya. Well, are you calmer?"

Vasya pressed his friend's hands with tears in his eyes.

"Hush, hush, Arkady," he said, "the thing is settled. I haven't

finished, so very well; if I haven't finished, I haven't finished, and

there's no need for you to go. I will tell him all about it, I will go

myself. I am calmer now, I am perfectly calm; only you mustn't go....

But listen...."

"Vasya, my dear boy," Arkady Ivanovitch cried joyfully, "I judged from

what you said. I am glad that you have thought better of things and have

recovered yourself. But whatever may befall you, whatever happens, I am

with you, remember that. I see that it worries you to think of my

speaking to Yulian Mastakovitch--and I won't say a word, not a word, you

shall tell him yourself. You see, you shall go to-morrow.... Oh no, you

had better not go, you'll go on writing here, you see, and I'll find out

about this work, whether it is very urgent or not, whether it must be

done by the time or not, and if you don't finish it in time what will

come of it. Then I will run back to you. Do you see, do you see! There

is still hope; suppose the work is not urgent--it may be all right.

Yulian Mastakovitch may not remember, then all is saved."

Vasya shook his head doubtfully. But his grateful eyes never left his

friend's face.

"Come, that's enough, I am so weak, so tired," he said, sighing. "I

don't want to think about it. Let us talk of something else. I won't

write either now; do you know I'll only finish two short pages just to

get to the end of a passage. Listen ... I have long wanted to ask you,

how is it you know me so well?"

Tears dropped from Vasya's eyes on Arkady's hand.

"If you knew, Vasya, how fond I am of you, you would not ask that--yes!"

"Yes, yes, Arkady, I don't know that, because I don't know why you are

so fond of me. Yes, Arkady, do you know, even your love has been killing

me? Do you know, ever so many times, particularly when I am thinking of

you in bed (for I always think of you when I am falling asleep), I shed

tears, and my heart throbs at the thought ... at the thought.... Well,

at the thought that you are so fond of me, while I can do nothing to

relieve my heart, can do nothing to repay you."

"You see, Vasya, you see what a fellow you are! Why, how upset you are

now," said Arkady, whose heart ached at that moment and who remembered

the scene in the street the day before.

"Nonsense, you want me to be calm, but I never have been so calm and

happy! Do you know.... Listen, I want to tell you all about it, but I am

afraid of wounding you.... You keep scolding me and being vexed; and I

am afraid.... See how I am trembling now, I don't know why. You see,

this is what I want to say. I feel as though I had never known myself

before--yes! Yes, I only began to understand other people too,

yesterday. I did not feel or appreciate things fully, brother. My heart

... was hard.... Listen how has it happened, that I have never done good

to any one, any one in the world, because I couldn't--I am not even

pleasant to look at.... But everybody does me good! You, to begin with:

do you suppose I don't see that? Only I said nothing; only I said

nothing."

"Hush, Vasya!"

"Oh, Arkasha! ... it's all right," Vasya interrupted, hardly able to

articulate for tears. "I talked to you yesterday about Yulian

Mastakovitch. And you know yourself how stern and severe he is, even you

have come in for a reprimand from him; yet he deigned to jest with me

yesterday, to show his affection, and kind-heartedness, which he

prudently conceals from every one...."

"Come, Vasya, that only shows you deserve your good fortune."

"Oh, Arkasha! How I longed to finish all this.... No, I shall ruin my

good luck! I feel that! Oh no, not through that," Vasya added, seeing

that Arkady glanced at the heap of urgent work lying on the table,

"that's nothing, that's only paper covered with writing ... it's

nonsense! That matter's settled.... I went to see them to-day, Arkasha;

I did not go in. I felt depressed and sad. I simply stood at the door.

She was playing the piano, I listened. You see, Arkady," he went on,

dropping his voice, "I did not dare to go in."

"I say, Vasya--what is the matter with you? You look at one so

strangely."

"Oh, it's nothing, I feel a little sick; my legs are trembling; it's

because I sat up last night. Yes! Everything looks green before my eyes.

It's here, here----"

He pointed to his heart. He fainted. When he came to himself Arkady

tried to take forcible measures. He tried to compel him to go to bed.

Nothing would induce Vasya to consent. He shed tears, wrung his hands,

wanted to write, was absolutely set on finishing his two pages. To avoid

exciting him Arkady let him sit down to the work.

"Do you know," said Vasya, as he settled himself in his place, "an idea

has occurred to me? There is hope."

He smiled to Arkady, and his pale face lighted up with a gleam of hope.

"I will take him what is done the day after to-morrow. About the rest I

will tell a lie. I will say it has been burnt, that it has been sopped

in water, that I have lost it.... That, in fact, I have not finished it;

I cannot lie. I will explain, do you know, what? I'll explain to him all

about it. I will tell him how it was that I could not. I'll tell him

about my love; he has got married himself just lately, he'll understand

me. I will do it all, of course, respectfully, quietly; he will see my

tears and be touched by them...."

"Yes, of course, you must go, you must go and explain to him.... But

there's no need of tears! Tears for what? Really, Vasya, you quite scare

me."

"Yes, I'll go, I'll go. But now let me write, let me write, Arkasha. I

am not interfering with any one, let me write!"

Arkady flung himself on the bed. He had no confidence in Vasya, no

confidence at all. "Vasya was capable of anything, but to ask

forgiveness for what? how? That was not the point. The point was, that

Vasya had not carried out his obligations, that Vasya felt guilty _in

his own eyes_, felt that he was ungrateful to destiny, that Vasya was

crushed, overwhelmed by happiness and thought himself unworthy of it;

that, in fact, he was simply trying to find an excuse to go off his head

on that point, and that he had not recovered from the unexpectedness of

what had happened the day before; that's what it is," thought Arkady

Ivanovitch. "I must save him. I must reconcile him to himself. He will

be his own ruin." He thought and thought, and resolved to go at once

next day to Yulian Mastakovitch, and to tell him all about it.

Vasya was sitting writing. Arkady Ivanovitch, worn out, lay down to

think things over again, and only woke at daybreak.

"Damnation! Again!" he cried, looking at Vasya; the latter was still

sitting writing.

Arkady rushed up to him, seized him and forcibly put him to bed. Vasya

was smiling: his eyes were closing with sleep. He could hardly speak.

"I wanted to go to bed," he said. "Do you know, Arkady, I have an idea;

I shall finish. I made my pen go faster! I could not have sat at it any

longer; wake me at eight o'clock."

Without finishing his sentence, he dropped asleep and slept like the

dead.

"Mavra," said Arkady Ivanovitch to Mavra, who came in with the tea, "he

asked to be waked in an hour. Don't wake him on any account! Let him

sleep ten hours, if he can. Do you understand?"

"I understand, sir."

"Don't get the dinner, don't bring in the wood, don't make a noise or it

will be the worse for you. If he asks for me, tell him I have gone to

the office--do you understand?"

"I understand, bless you, sir; let him sleep and welcome! I am glad my

gentlemen should sleep well, and I take good care of their things. And

about that cup that was broken, and you blamed me, your honour, it

wasn't me, it was poor pussy broke it, I ought to have kept an eye on

her. 'S-sh, you confounded thing,' I said."

"Hush, be quiet, be quiet!"

Arkady Ivanovitch followed Mavra out into the kitchen, asked for the key

and locked her up there. Then he went to the office. On the way he

considered how he could present himself before Yulian Mastakovitch, and

whether it would be appropriate and not impertinent. He went into the

office timidly, and timidly inquired whether His Excellency were there;

receiving the answer that he was not and would not be, Arkady Ivanovitch

instantly thought of going to his flat, but reflected very prudently

that if Yulian Mastakovitch had not come to the office he would

certainly be busy at home. He remained. The hours seemed to him endless.

Indirectly he inquired about the work entrusted to Shumkov, but no one

knew anything about this. All that was known was that Yulian

Mastakovitch did employ him on special jobs, but what they were--no one

could say. At last it struck three o'clock, and Arkady Ivanovitch rushed

out, eager to get home. In the vestibule he was met by a clerk, who told

him that Vassily Petrovitch Shumkov had come about one o'clock and

asked, the clerk added, "whether you were here, and whether Yulian

Mastakovitch had been here." Hearing this Arkady Ivanovitch took a

sledge and hastened home beside himself with alarm.

Shumkov was at home. He was walking about the room in violent

excitement. Glancing at Arkady Ivanovitch, he immediately controlled

himself, reflected, and hastened to conceal his emotion. He sat down to

his papers without a word. He seemed to avoid his friend's questions,

seemed to be bothered by them, to be pondering to himself on some plan,

and deciding to conceal his decision, because he could not reckon

further on his friend's affection. This struck Arkady, and his heart

ached with a poignant and oppressive pain. He sat on the bed and began

turning over the leaves of some book, the only one he had in his

possession, keeping his eye on poor Vasya. But Vasya remained

obstinately silent, writing, and not raising his head. So passed several

hours, and Arkady's misery reached an extreme point. At last, at eleven

o'clock, Vasya lifted his head and looked with a fixed, vacant stare at

Arkady. Arkady waited. Two or three minutes passed; Vasya did not speak.

"Vasya!" cried Arkady.

Vasya made no answer.

"Vasya!" he repeated, jumping up from the bed, "Vasya, what is the

matter with you? What is it?" he cried, running up to him.

Vasya raised his eyes and again looked at him with the same vacant,

fixed stare.

"He's in a trance!" thought Arkady, trembling all over with fear. He

seized a bottle of water, raised Vasya, poured some water on his head,

moistened his temples, rubbed his hands in his own--and Vasya came to

himself. "Vasya, Vasya!" cried Arkady, unable to restrain his tears.

"Vasya, save yourself, rouse yourself, rouse yourself!..." He could say

no more, but held him tight in his arms. A look as of some oppressive

sensation passed over Vasya's face; he rubbed his forehead and clutched

at his head, as though he were afraid it would burst.

"I don't know what is the matter with me," he added, at last. "I feel

torn to pieces. Come, it's all right, it's all right! Give over, Arkady;

don't grieve," he repeated, looking at him with sad, exhausted eyes.

"Why be so anxious? Come!"

"You, you comforting me!" cried Arkady, whose heart was torn. "Vasya,"

he said at last, "lie down and have a little nap, won't you? Don't wear

yourself out for nothing! You'll set to work better afterwards."

"Yes, yes," said Vasya, "by all means, I'll lie down, very good. Yes!

you see I meant to finish, but now I've changed my mind, yes...."

And Arkady led him to the bed.

"Listen, Vasya," he said firmly, "we must settle this matter finally.

Tell me what were you thinking about?"

"Oh!" said Vasya, with a flourish of his weak hand turning over on the

other side.

"Come, Vasya, come, make up your mind. I don't want to hurt you. I can't

be silent any longer. You won't sleep till you've made up your mind, I

know."

"As you like, as you like," Vasya repeated enigmatically.

"He will give in," thought Arkady Ivanovitch.

"Attend to me, Vasya," he said, "remember what I say, and I will save

you to-morrow; to-morrow I will decide your fate! What am I saying, your

fate? You have so frightened me, Vasya, that I am using your own words.

Fate, indeed! It's simply nonsense, rubbish! You don't want to lose

Yulian Mastakovitch's favour--affection, if you like. No! And you won't

lose it, you will see. I----"

Arkady Ivanovitch would have said more, but Vasya interrupted him. He

sat up in bed, put both arms round Arkady Ivanovitch's neck and kissed

him.

"Enough," he said in a weak voice, "enough! Say no more about that!"

And again he turned his face to the wall.

"My goodness!" thought Arkady, "my goodness! What is the matter with

him? He is utterly lost. What has he in his mind! He will be his own

undoing."

Arkady looked at him in despair.

"If he were to fall ill," thought Arkady, "perhaps it would be better.

His trouble would pass off with illness, and that might be the best way

of settling the whole business. But what nonsense I am talking. Oh, my

God!"

Meanwhile Vasya seemed to be asleep. Arkady Ivanovitch was relieved. "A

good sign," he thought. He made up his mind to sit beside him all night.

But Vasya was restless; he kept twitching and tossing about on the bed,

and opening his eyes for an instant. At last exhaustion got the upper

hand, he slept like the dead. It was about two o'clock in the morning,

Arkady Ivanovitch began to doze in the chair with his elbow on the

table!

He had a strange and agitated dream. He kept fancying that he was not

asleep, and that Vasya was still lying on the bed. But strange to say,

he fancied that Vasya was pretending, that he was deceiving him, that he

was getting up, stealthily watching him out of the corner of his eye,

and was stealing up to the writing table. Arkady felt a scalding pain at

his heart; he felt vexed and sad and oppressed to see Vasya not trusting

him, hiding and concealing himself from him. He tried to catch hold of

him, to call out, to carry him to the bed. Then Vasya kept shrieking in

his arms, and he laid on the bed a lifeless corpse. He opened his eyes

and woke up; Vasya was sitting before him at the table, writing.

Hardly able to believe his senses, Arkady glanced at the bed; Vasya was

not there. Arkady jumped up in a panic, still under the influence of his

dream. Vasya did not stir; he went on writing. All at once Arkady

noticed with horror that Vasya was moving a dry pen over the paper, was

turning over perfectly blank pages, and hurrying, hurrying to fill up

the paper as though he were doing his work in a most thorough and

efficient way. "No, this is not a trance," thought Arkady Ivanovitch,

and he trembled all over.

"Vasya, Vasya, speak to me," he cried, clutching him by the shoulder.

But Vasya did not speak; he went on as before, scribbling with a dry pen

over the paper.

"At last I have made the pen go faster," he said, without looking up at

Arkady.

Arkady seized his hand and snatched away the pen.

A moan broke from Vasya. He dropped his hand and raised his eyes to

Arkady; then with an air of misery and exhaustion he passed his hand

over his forehead as though he wanted to shake off some leaden weight

that was pressing upon his whole being, and slowly, as though lost in

thought, he let his head sink on his breast.

"Vasya, Vasya!" cried Arkady in despair. "Vasya!"

A minute later Vasya looked at him, tears stood in his large blue eyes,

and his pale, mild face wore a look of infinite suffering. He whispered

something.

"What, what is it?" cried Arkady, bending down to him.

"What for, why are they doing it to me?" whispered Vasya. "What for?

What have I done?"

"Vasya, what is it? What are you afraid of? What is it?" cried Arkady,

wringing his hands in despair.

"Why are they sending me for a soldier?" said Vasya, looking his friend

straight in the face. "Why is it? What have I done?"

Arkady's hair stood on end with horror; he refused to believe his ears.

He stood over him, half dead.

A minute later he pulled himself together. "It's nothing, it's only for

the minute," he said to himself, with pale face and blue, quivering

lips, and he hastened to put on his outdoor things. He meant to run

straight for a doctor. All at once Vasya called to him. Arkady rushed to

him and clasped him in his arms like a mother whose child is being torn

from her.

"Arkady, Arkady, don't tell any one! Don't tell any one, do you hear? It

is my trouble, I must bear it alone."

"What is it--what is it? Rouse yourself, Vasya, rouse yourself!"

Vasya sighed, and slow tears trickled down his cheeks.

"Why kill her? How is she to blame?" he muttered in an agonized,

heartrending voice. "The sin is mine, the sin is mine!"

He was silent for a moment.

"Farewell, my love! Farewell, my love!" he whispered, shaking his

luckless head. Arkady started, pulled himself together and would have

rushed for the doctor. "Let us go, it is time," cried Vasya, carried

away by Arkady's last movement. "Let us go, brother, let us go; I am

ready. You lead the way." He paused and looked at Arkady with a downcast

and mistrustful face.

"Vasya, for goodness' sake, don't follow me! Wait for me here. I will

come back to you directly, directly," said Arkady Ivanovitch, losing his

head and snatching up his cap to run for a doctor. Vasya sat down at

once, he was quiet and docile; but there was a gleam of some desperate

resolution in his eye. Arkady turned back, snatched up from the table an

open penknife, looked at the poor fellow for the last time, and ran out

of the flat.

It was eight o'clock. It had been broad daylight for some time in the

room.

He found no one. He was running about for a full hour. All the doctors

whose addresses he had got from the house porter when he inquired of the

latter whether there were no doctor living in the building, had gone

out, either to their work or on their private affairs. There was one who

saw patients. This one questioned at length and in detail the servant

who announced that Nefedevitch had called, asking him who it was, from

whom he came, what was the matter, and concluded by saying that he could

not go, that he had a great deal to do, and that patients of that kind

ought to be taken to a hospital.

Then Arkady, exhausted, agitated, and utterly taken aback by this turn

of affairs, cursed all the doctors on earth, and rushed home in the

utmost alarm about Vasya. He ran into the flat. Mavra, as though there

were nothing the matter, went on scrubbing the floor, breaking up wood

and preparing to light the stove. He went into the room; there was no

trace of Vasya, he had gone out.

"Which way? Where? Where will the poor fellow be off to?" thought

Arkady, frozen with terror. He began questioning Mavra. She knew

nothing, had neither seen nor heard him go out, God bless him!

Nefedevitch rushed off to the Artemyevs'.

It occurred to him for some reason that he must be there.

It was ten o'clock by the time he arrived. They did not expect him, knew

nothing and had heard nothing. He stood before them frightened,

distressed, and asked where was Vasya? The mother's legs gave way under

her; she sank back on the sofa. Lizanka, trembling with alarm, began

asking what had happened. What could he say? Arkady Ivanovitch got out

of it as best he could, invented some tale which of course was not

believed, and fled, leaving them distressed and anxious. He flew to his

department that he might not be too late there, and he let them know

that steps might be taken at once. On the way it occurred to him that

Vasya would be at Yulian Mastakovitch's. That was more likely than

anything: Arkady had thought of that first of all, even before the

Artemyevs'. As he drove by His Excellency's door, he thought of

stopping, but at once told the driver to go straight on. He made up his

mind to try and find out whether anything had happened at the office,

and if he were not there to go to His Excellency, ostensibly to report

on Vasya. Some one must be informed of it.

As soon as he got into the waiting-room he was surrounded by

fellow-clerks, for the most part young men of his own standing in the

service. With one voice they began asking him what had happened to

Vasya? At the same time they all told him that Vasya had gone out of his

mind, and thought that he was to be sent for a soldier as a punishment

for having neglected his work. Arkady Ivanovitch, answering them in all

directions, or rather avoiding giving a direct answer to any one, rushed

into the inner room. On the way he learned that Vasya was in Yulian

Mastakovitch's private room, that every one had been there and that

Esper Ivanovitch had gone in there too. He was stopped on the way. One

of the senior clerks asked him who he was and what he wanted? Without

distinguishing the person he said something about Vasya and went

straight into the room. He heard Yulian Mastakovitch's voice from

within. "Where are you going?" some one asked him at the very door.

Arkady Ivanovitch was almost in despair; he was on the point of turning

back, but through the open door he saw his poor Vasya. He pushed the

door and squeezed his way into the room. Every one seemed to be in

confusion and perplexity, because Yulian Mastakovitch was apparently

much chagrined. All the more important personages were standing about

him talking, and coming to no decision. At a little distance stood

Vasya. Arkady's heart sank when he looked at him. Vasya was standing,

pale, with his head up, stiffly erect, like a recruit before a new

officer, with his feet together and his hands held rigidly at his sides.

He was looking Yulian Mastakovitch straight in the face. Arkady was

noticed at once, and some one who knew that they lodged together

mentioned the fact to His Excellency. Arkady was led up to him. He tried

to make some answer to the questions put to him, glanced at Yulian

Mastakovitch and seeing on his face a look of genuine compassion, began

trembling and sobbing like a child. He even did more, he snatched His

Excellency's hand and held it to his eyes, wetting it with his tears, so

that Yulian Mastakovitch was obliged to draw it hastily away, and waving

it in the air, said, "Come, my dear fellow, come! I see you have a good

heart." Arkady sobbed and turned an imploring look on every one. It

seemed to him that they were all brothers of his dear Vasya, that they

were all worried and weeping about him. "How, how has it happened? how

has it happened?" asked Yulian Mastakovitch. "What has sent him out of

his mind?"

"Gra--gra--gratitude!" was all Arkady Ivanovitch could articulate.

Every one heard his answer with amazement, and it seemed strange and

incredible to every one that a man could go out of his mind from

gratitude. Arkady explained as best he could.

"Good Heavens! what a pity!" said Yulian Mastakovitch at last. "And the

work entrusted to him was not important, and not urgent in the least. It

was not worth while for a man to kill himself over it! Well, take him

away!"... At this point Yulian Mastakovitch turned to Arkady Ivanovitch

again, and began questioning him once more. "He begs," he said, pointing

to Vasya, "that some girl should not be told of this. Who is she--his

betrothed, I suppose?"

Arkady began to explain. Meanwhile Vasya seemed to be thinking of

something, as though he were straining his memory to the utmost to

recall some important, necessary matter, which was particularly wanted

at this moment. From time to time he looked round with a distressed

face, as though hoping some one would remind him of what he had

forgotten. He fastened his eyes on Arkady. All of a sudden there was a

gleam of hope in his eyes; he moved with the left leg forward, took

three steps as smartly as he could, clicking with his right boot as

soldiers do when they move forward at the call from their officer. Every

one was waiting to see what would happen.

"I have a physical defect and am small and weak, and I am not fit for

military service, Your Excellency," he said abruptly.

At that every one in the room felt a pang at his heart, and firm as was

Yulian Mastakovitch's character, tears trickled from his eyes.

"Take him away," he said, with a wave of his hands.

"Present!" said Vasya in an undertone; he wheeled round to the left and

marched out of the room. All who were interested in his fate followed

him out. Arkady pushed his way out behind the others. They made Vasya

sit down in the waiting-room till the carriage came which had been

ordered to take him to the hospital. He sat down in silence and seemed

in great anxiety. He nodded to any one he recognized as though saying

good-bye. He looked round towards the door every minute, and prepared

himself to set off when he should be told it was time. People crowded in

a close circle round him; they were all shaking their heads and

lamenting. Many of them were much impressed by his story, which had

suddenly become known. Some discussed his illness, while others

expressed their pity and high opinion of Vasya, saying that he was such

a quiet, modest young man, that he had been so promising; people

described what efforts he had made to learn, how eager he was for

knowledge, how he had worked to educate himself. "He had risen by his

own efforts from a humble position," some one observed. They spoke with

emotion of His Excellency's affection for him. Some of them fell to

explaining why Vasya was possessed by the idea that he was being sent

for a soldier, because he had not finished his work. They said that the

poor fellow had so lately belonged to the class liable for military

service and had only received his first grade through the good offices

of Yulian Mastakovitch, who had had the cleverness to discover his

talent, his docility, and the rare mildness of his disposition. In fact,

there was a great number of views and theories.

A very short fellow-clerk of Vasya's was conspicuous as being

particularly distressed. He was not very young, probably about thirty.

He was pale as a sheet, trembling all over and smiling queerly, perhaps

because any scandalous affair or terrible scene both frightens, and at

the same time somewhat rejoices the outside spectator. He kept running

round the circle that surrounded Vasya, and as he was so short, stood on

tiptoe and caught at the button of every one--that is, of those with

whom he felt entitled to take such a liberty--and kept saying that he

knew how it had all happened, that it was not so simple, but a very

important matter, that it couldn't be left without further inquiry; then

stood on tiptoe again, whispered in some one's ear, nodded his head

again two or three times, and ran round again. At last everything was

over. The porter made his appearance, and an attendant from the hospital

went up to Vasya and told him it was time to start. Vasya jumped up in a

flutter and went with them, looking about him. He was looking about for

some one.

"Vasya, Vasya!" cried Arkady Ivanovitch, sobbing. Vasya stopped, and

Arkady squeezed his way up to him. They flung themselves into each

other's arms in a last bitter embrace. It was sad to see them. What

monstrous calamity was wringing the tears from their eyes! What were

they weeping for? What was their trouble? Why did they not understand

one another?

"Here, here, take it! Take care of it," said Shumkov, thrusting a paper

of some kind into Arkady's hand. "They will take it away from me. Bring

it me later on; bring it ... take care of it...." Vasya could not

finish, they called to him. He ran hurriedly downstairs, nodding to

every one, saying good-bye to every one. There was despair in his face.

At last he was put in the carriage and taken away. Arkady made haste to

open the paper: it was Liza's curl of black hair, from which Vasya had

never parted. Hot tears gushed from Arkady's eyes: oh, poor Liza!

When office hours were over, he went to the Artemyevs'. There is no need

to describe what happened there! Even Petya, little Petya, though he

could not quite understand what had happened to dear Vasya, went into a

corner, hid his face in his little hands, and sobbed in the fullness of

his childish heart. It was quite dusk when Arkady returned home. When he

reached the Neva he stood still for a minute and turned a keen glance up

the river into the smoky frozen thickness of the distance, which was

suddenly flushed crimson with the last purple and blood-red glow of

sunset, still smouldering on the misty horizon.... Night lay over the

city, and the wide plain of the Neva, swollen with frozen snow, was

shining in the last gleams of the sun with myriads of sparks of gleaming

hoar frost. There was a frost of twenty degrees. A cloud of frozen steam

hung about the overdriven horses and the hurrying people. The condensed

atmosphere quivered at the slightest sound, and from all the roofs on

both sides of the river, columns of smoke rose up like giants and

floated across the cold sky, intertwining and untwining as they went, so

that it seemed new buildings were rising up above the old, a new town

was taking shape in the air.... It seemed as if all that world, with all

its inhabitants, strong and weak, with all their habitations, the

refuges of the poor, or the gilded palaces for the comfort of the

powerful of this world was at that twilight hour like a fantastic vision

of fairy-land, like a dream which in its turn would vanish and pass away

like vapour into the dark blue sky. A strange thought came to poor

Vasya's forlorn friend. He started, and his heart seemed at that instant

flooded with a hot rush of blood kindled by a powerful, overwhelming

sensation he had never known before. He seemed only now to understand

all the trouble, and to know why his poor Vasya had gone out of his

mind, unable to bear his happiness. His lips twitched, his eyes lighted

up, he turned pale, and as it were had a clear vision into something

new.

He became gloomy and depressed, and lost all his gaiety. His old lodging

grew hateful to him--he took a new room. He did not care to visit the

Artemyevs, and indeed he could not. Two years later he met Lizanka in

church. She was by then married; beside her walked a wet nurse with a

tiny baby. They greeted each other, and for a long time avoided all

mention of the past. Liza said that, thank God, she was happy, that she

was not badly off, that her husband was a kind man and that she was fond

of him.... But suddenly in the middle of a sentence her eyes filled with

tears, her voice failed, she turned away, and bowed down to the church

pavement to hide her grief.

A CHRISTMAS TREE AND A WEDDING

A STORY

The other day I saw a wedding ... but no, I had better tell you about

the Christmas tree. The wedding was nice, I liked it very much; but the

other incident was better. I don't know how it was that, looking at that

wedding, I thought of that Christmas tree. This was what happened. Just

five years ago, on New Year's Eve, I was invited to a children's party.

The giver of the party was a well-known and business-like personage,

with connections, with a large circle of acquaintances, and a good many

schemes on hand, so that it may be supposed that this party was an

excuse for getting the parents together and discussing various

interesting matters in an innocent, casual way. I was an outsider; I had

no interesting matter to contribute, and so I spent the evening rather

independently. There was another gentleman present who was, I fancied,

of no special rank or family, and who, like me, had simply turned up at

this family festivity. He was the first to catch my eye. He was a tall,

lanky man, very grave and very correctly dressed. But one could see that

he was in no mood for merrymaking and family festivity; whenever he

withdrew into a corner he left off smiling and knitted his bushy black

brows. He had not a single acquaintance in the party except his host.

One could see that he was fearfully bored, but that he was valiantly

keeping up the part of a man perfectly happy and enjoying himself. I

learned afterwards that this was a gentleman from the provinces, who had

a critical and perplexing piece of business in Petersburg, who had

brought a letter of introduction to our host, for whom our host was, by

no means _con amore_, using his interest, and whom he had invited, out

of civility, to his children's party. He did not play cards, cigars were

not offered him, every one avoided entering into conversation with him,

most likely recognizing the bird from its feathers; and so my gentleman

was forced to sit the whole evening stroking his whiskers simply to have

something to do with his hands. His whiskers were certainly very fine.

But he stroked them so zealously that, looking at him, one might have

supposed that the whiskers were created first and the gentleman only

attached to them in order to stroke them.

In addition to this individual who assisted in this way at our host's

family festivity (he had five fat, well-fed boys), I was attracted, too,

by another gentleman. But he was quite of a different sort. He was a

personage. He was called Yulian Mastakovitch. From the first glance one

could see that he was an honoured guest, and stood in the same relation

to our host as our host stood in relation to the gentleman who was

stroking his whiskers. Our host and hostess said no end of polite things

to him, waited on him hand and foot, pressed him to drink, flattered

him, brought their visitors up to be introduced to him, but did not take

him to be introduced to any one else. I noticed that tears glistened in

our host's eyes when he remarked about the party that he had rarely

spent an evening so agreeably. I felt as it were frightened in the

presence of such a personage, and so, after admiring the children, I

went away into a little parlour, which was quite empty, and sat down in

an arbour of flowers which filled up almost half the room.

The children were all incredibly sweet, and resolutely refused to model

themselves on the "grown-ups," regardless of all the admonitions of

their governesses and mammas. They stripped the Christmas tree to the

last sweetmeat in the twinkling of an eye, and had succeeded in breaking

half the playthings before they knew what was destined for which.

Particularly charming was a black-eyed, curly-headed boy, who kept

trying to shoot me with his wooden gun. But my attention was still more

attracted by his sister, a girl of eleven, quiet, dreamy, pale, with

big, prominent, dreamy eyes, exquisite as a little Cupid. The children

hurt her feelings in some way, and so she came away from them to the

same empty parlour in which I was sitting, and played with her doll in

the corner. The visitors respectfully pointed out her father, a wealthy

contractor, and some one whispered that three hundred thousand roubles

were already set aside for her dowry. I turned round to glance at the

group who were interested in such a circumstance, and my eye fell on

Yulian Mastakovitch, who, with his hands behind his back and his head on

one side, was listening with the greatest attention to these gentlemen's

idle gossip. Afterwards I could not help admiring the discrimination of

the host and hostess in the distribution of the children's presents. The

little girl, who had already a portion of three hundred thousand

roubles, received the costliest doll. Then followed presents diminishing

in value in accordance with the rank of the parents of these happy

children; finally, the child of lowest degree, a thin, freckled,

red-haired little boy of ten, got nothing but a book of stories about

the marvels of nature and tears of devotion, etc., without pictures or

even woodcuts. He was the son of a poor widow, the governess of the

children of the house, an oppressed and scared little boy. He was

dressed in a short jacket of inferior nankin. After receiving his book

he walked round the other toys for a long time; he longed to play with

the other children, but did not dare; it was evident that he already

felt and understood his position. I love watching children. Their first

independent approaches to life are extremely interesting. I noticed that

the red-haired boy was so fascinated by the costly toys of the other

children, especially by a theatre in which he certainly longed to take

some part, that he made up his mind to sacrifice his dignity. He smiled

and began playing with the other children, he gave away his apple to a

fat-faced little boy who had a mass of goodies tied up in a

pocket-handkerchief already, and even brought himself to carry another

boy on his back, simply not to be turned away from the theatre, but an

insolent youth gave him a heavy thump a minute later. The child did not

dare to cry. Then the governess, his mother, made her appearance, and

told him not to interfere with the other children's playing. The boy

went away to the same room in which was the little girl. She let him

join her, and the two set to work very eagerly dressing the expensive

doll.

I had been sitting more than half an hour in the ivy arbour, listening

to the little prattle of the red-haired boy and the beauty with the

dowry of three hundred thousand, who was nursing her doll, when Yulian

Mastakovitch suddenly walked into the room. He had taken advantage of

the general commotion following a quarrel among the children to step out

of the drawing-room. I had noticed him a moment before talking very

cordially to the future heiress's papa, whose acquaintance he had just

made, of the superiority of one branch of the service over another. Now

he stood in hesitation and seemed to be reckoning something on his

fingers.

"Three hundred ... three hundred," he was whispering. "Eleven ... twelve

... thirteen," and so on. "Sixteen--five years! Supposing it is at four

per cent.--five times twelve is sixty; yes, to that sixty ... well, in

five years we may assume it will be four hundred. Yes!... But he won't

stick to four per cent., the rascal. He can get eight or ten. Well, five

hundred, let us say, five hundred at least ... that's certain; well, say

a little more for frills. H'm!..."

His hesitation was at an end, he blew his nose and was on the point of

going out of the room when he suddenly glanced at the little girl and

stopped short. He did not see me behind the pots of greenery. It seemed

to me that he was greatly excited. Either his calculations had affected

his imagination or something else, for he rubbed his hands and could

hardly stand still. This excitement reached its utmost limit when he

stopped and bent another resolute glance at the future heiress. He was

about to move forward, but first looked round, then moving on tiptoe, as

though he felt guilty, he advanced towards the children. He approached

with a little smile, bent down and kissed her on the head. The child,

not expecting this attack, uttered a cry of alarm.

"What are you doing here, sweet child?" he asked in a whisper, looking

round and patting the girl's cheek.

"We are playing."

"Ah! With him?" Yulian Mastakovitch looked askance at the boy. "You had

better go into the drawing-room, my dear," he said to him.

The boy looked at him open-eyed and did not utter a word. Yulian

Mastakovitch looked round him again, and again bent down to the little

girl.

"And what is this you've got--a dolly, dear child?" he asked.

"Yes, a dolly," answered the child, frowning, and a little shy.

"A dolly ... and do you know, dear child, what your dolly is made of?"

"I don't know ..." the child answered in a whisper, hanging her head.

"It's made of rags, darling. You had better go into the drawing-room to

your playmates, boy," said Yulian Mastakovitch, looking sternly at the

boy. The boy and girl frowned and clutched at each other. They did not

want to be separated.

"And do you know why they gave you that doll?" asked Yulian

Mastakovitch, dropping his voice to a softer and softer tone.

"I don't know."

"Because you have been a sweet and well-behaved child all the week."

At this point Yulian Mastakovitch, more excited than ever, speaking in

most dulcet tones, asked at last, in a hardly audible voice choked with

emotion and impatience--

"And will you love me, dear little girl, when I come and see your papa

and mamma?"

Saying this, Yulian Mastakovitch tried once more to kiss "the dear

little girl," but the red-haired boy, seeing that the little girl was on

the point of tears, clutched her hand and began whimpering from sympathy

for her. Yulian Mastakovitch was angry in earnest.

"Go away, go away from here, go away!" he said to the boy. "Go into the

drawing-room! Go in there to your playmates!"

"No, he needn't, he needn't! You go away," said the little girl. "Leave

him alone, leave him alone," she said, almost crying.

Some one made a sound at the door. Yulian Mastakovitch instantly raised

his majestic person and took alarm. But the red-haired boy was even more

alarmed than Yulian Mastakovitch; he abandoned the little girl and,

slinking along by the wall, stole out of the parlour into the

dining-room. To avoid arousing suspicion, Yulian Mastakovitch, too, went

into the dining-room. He was as red as a lobster, and, glancing into the

looking-glass, seemed to be ashamed at himself. He was perhaps vexed

with himself for his impetuosity and hastiness. Possibly, he was at

first so much impressed by his calculations, so inspired and fascinated

by them, that in spite of his seriousness and dignity he made up his

mind to behave like a boy, and directly approach the object of his

attentions, even though she could not be really the object of his

attentions for another five years at least. I followed the estimable

gentleman into the dining-room and there beheld a strange spectacle.

Yulian Mastakovitch, flushed with vexation and anger, was frightening

the red-haired boy, who, retreating from him, did not know where to run

in his terror.

"Go away; what are you doing here? Go away, you scamp; are you after the

fruit here, eh? Get along, you naughty boy! Get along, you sniveller, to

your playmates!"

The panic-stricken boy in his desperation tried creeping under the

table. Then his persecutor, in a fury, took out his large batiste

handkerchief and began flicking it under the table at the child, who

kept perfectly quiet. It must be observed that Yulian Mastakovitch was a

little inclined to be fat. He was a sleek, red-faced, solidly built man,

paunchy, with thick legs; what is called a fine figure of a man, round

as a nut. He was perspiring, breathless, and fearfully flushed. At last

he was almost rigid, so great was his indignation and perhaps--who

knows?--his jealousy. I burst into loud laughter. Yulian Mastakovitch

turned round and, in spite of all his consequence, was overcome with

confusion. At that moment from the opposite door our host came in. The

boy crept out from under the table and wiped his elbows and his knees.

Yulian Mastakovitch hastened to put to his nose the handkerchief which

he was holding in his hand by one end.

Our host looked at the three of us in some perplexity; but as a man who

knew something of life, and looked at it from a serious point of view,

he at once availed himself of the chance of catching his visitor by

himself.

"Here, this is the boy," he said, pointing to the red-haired boy, "for

whom I had the honour to solicit your influence."

"Ah!" said Yulian Mastakovitch, who had hardly quite recovered himself.

"The son of my children's governess," said our host, in a tone of a

petitioner, "a poor woman, the widow of an honest civil servant; and

therefore ... and therefore, Yulian Mastakovitch, if it were possible

..."

"Oh, no, no!" Yulian Mastakovitch made haste to answer; "no, excuse me,

Filip Alexyevitch, it's quite impossible. I've made inquiries; there's

no vacancy, and if there were, there are twenty applicants who have far

more claim than he.... I am very sorry, very sorry...."

"What a pity," said our host. "He is a quiet, well-behaved boy."

"A great rascal, as I notice," answered Yulian Mastakovitch, with a

nervous twist of his lip. "Get along, boy; why are you standing there?

Go to your playmates," he said, addressing the child.

At that point he could not contain himself, and glanced at me out of one

eye. I, too, could not contain myself, and laughed straight in his face.

Yulian Mastakovitch turned away at once, and in a voice calculated to

reach my ear, asked who was that strange young man? They whispered

together and walked out of the room. I saw Yulian Mastakovitch

afterwards shaking his head incredulously as our host talked to him.

After laughing to my heart's content I returned to the drawing-room.

There the great man, surrounded by fathers and mothers of families,

including the host and hostess, was saying something very warmly to a

lady to whom he had just been introduced. The lady was holding by the

hand the little girl with whom Yulian Mastakovitch had had the scene in

the parlour a little while before. Now he was launching into praises and

raptures over the beauty, the talents, the grace and the charming

manners of the charming child. He was unmistakably making up to the

mamma. The mother listened to him almost with tears of delight. The

father's lips were smiling. Our host was delighted at the general

satisfaction. All the guests, in fact, were sympathetically gratified;

even the children's games were checked that they might not hinder the

conversation: the whole atmosphere was saturated with reverence. I heard

afterwards the mamma of the interesting child, deeply touched, beg

Yulian Mastakovitch, in carefully chosen phrases, to do her the special

honour of bestowing upon them the precious gift of his acquaintance, and

heard with what unaffected delight Yulian Mastakovitch accepted the

invitation, and how afterwards the guests, dispersing in different

directions, moving away with the greatest propriety, poured out to one

another the most touchingly flattering comments upon the contractor, his

wife, his little girl, and, above all, upon Yulian Mastakovitch.

"Is that gentleman married?" I asked, almost aloud, of one of my

acquaintances, who was standing nearest to Yulian Mastakovitch. Yulian

Mastakovitch flung a searching and vindictive glance at me.

"No!" answered my acquaintance, chagrined to the bottom of his heart by

the awkwardness of which I had intentionally been guilty....

* * * * *

I passed lately by a certain church; I was struck by the crowd of people

in carriages. I heard people talking of the wedding. It was a cloudy

day, it was beginning to sleet. I made my way through the crowd at the

door and saw the bridegroom. He was a sleek, well-fed, round, paunchy

man, very gorgeously dressed up. He was running fussily about, giving

orders. At last the news passed through the crowd that the bride was

coming. I squeezed my way through the crowd and saw a marvellous beauty,

who could scarcely have reached her first season. But the beauty was

pale and melancholy. She looked preoccupied; I even fancied that her

eyes were red with recent weeping. The classic severity of every feature

of her face gave a certain dignity and seriousness to her beauty. But

through that sternness and dignity, through that melancholy, could be

seen the look of childish innocence; something indescribably naïve,

fluid, youthful, which seemed mutely begging for mercy.

People were saying that she was only just sixteen. Glancing attentively

at the bridegroom, I suddenly recognized him as Yulian Mastakovitch,

whom I had not seen for five years. I looked at her. My God! I began to

squeeze my way as quickly as I could out of the church. I heard people

saying in the crowd that the bride was an heiress, that she had a dowry

of five hundred thousand ... and a trousseau worth ever so much.

"It was a good stroke of business, though!" I thought as I made my way

into the street.

POLZUNKOV

A STORY

I began to scrutinize the man closely. Even in his exterior there was

something so peculiar that it compelled one, however far away one's

thoughts might be, to fix one's eyes upon him and go off into the most

irrepressible roar of laughter. That is what happened to me. I must

observe that the little man's eyes were so mobile, or perhaps he was so

sensitive to the magnetism of every eye fixed upon him, that he almost

by instinct guessed that he was being observed, turned at once to the

observer and anxiously analysed his expression. His continual mobility,

his turning and twisting, made him look strikingly like a dancing doll.

It was strange! He seemed afraid of jeers, in spite of the fact that he

was almost getting his living by being a buffoon for all the world, and

exposed himself to every buffet in a moral sense and even in a physical

one, judging from the company he was in. Voluntary buffoons are not even

to be pitied. But I noticed at once that this strange creature, this

ridiculous man, was by no means a buffoon by profession. There was still

something gentlemanly in him. His very uneasiness, his continual

apprehensiveness about himself, were actually a testimony in his favour.

It seemed to me that his desire to be obliging was due more to kindness

of heart than to mercenary considerations. He readily allowed them to

laugh their loudest at him and in the most unseemly way, to his face,

but at the same time--and I am ready to take my oath on it--his heart

ached and was sore at the thought that his listeners were so caddishly

brutal as to be capable of laughing, not at anything said or done, but

at him, at his whole being, at his heart, at his head, at his

appearance, at his whole body, flesh and blood. I am convinced that he

felt at that moment all the foolishness of his position; but the protest

died away in his heart at once, though it invariably sprang up again in

the most heroic way. I am convinced that all this was due to nothing

else but a kind heart, and not to fear of the inconvenience of being

kicked out and being unable to borrow money from some one. This

gentleman was for ever borrowing money, that is, he asked for alms in

that form, when after playing the fool and entertaining them at his

expense he felt in a certain sense entitled to borrow money from them.

But, good heavens! what a business the borrowing was! And with what a

countenance he asked for the loan! I could not have imagined that on

such a small space as the wrinkled, angular face of that little man room

could be found, at one and the same time, for so many different

grimaces, for such strange, variously characteristic shades of feeling,

such absolutely killing expressions. Everything was there--shame and an

assumption of insolence, and vexation at the sudden flushing of his

face, and anger and fear of failure, and entreaty to be forgiven for

having dared to pester, and a sense of his own dignity, and a still

greater sense of his own abjectness--all this passed over his face like

lightning. For six whole years he had struggled along in God's world in

this way, and so far had been unable to take up a fitting attitude at

the interesting moment of borrowing money! I need not say that he never

could grow callous and completely abject. His heart was too sensitive,

too passionate! I will say more, indeed: in my opinion, he was one of

the most honest and honourable men in the world, but with a little

weakness: of being ready to do anything abject at any one's bidding,

good-naturedly and disinterestedly, simply to oblige a fellow-creature.

In short, he was what is called "a rag" in the fullest sense of the

word. The most absurd thing was, that he was dressed like any one else,

neither worse nor better, tidily, even with a certain elaborateness, and

actually had pretentions to respectability and personal dignity. This

external equality and internal inequality, his uneasiness about himself

and at the same time his continual self-depreciation--all this was

strikingly incongruous and provocative of laughter and pity. If he had

been convinced in his heart (and in spite of his experience it did

happen to him at moments to believe this) that his audience were the

most good-natured people in the world, who were simply laughing at

something amusing, and not at the sacrifice of his personal dignity, he

would most readily have taken off his coat, put it on wrong side

outwards, and have walked about the streets in that attire for the

diversion of others and his own gratification. But equality he could

never anyhow attain. Another trait: the queer fellow was proud, and

even, by fits and starts, when it was not too risky, generous. It was

worth seeing and hearing how he could sometimes, not sparing himself,

consequently with pluck, almost with heroism, dispose of one of his

patrons who had infuriated him to madness. But that was at moments....

In short, he was a martyr in the fullest sense of the word, but the most

useless and consequently the most comic martyr.

There was a general discussion going on among the guests. All at once I

saw our queer friend jump upon his chair, and call out at the top of his

voice, anxious for the exclusive attention of the company.

"Listen," the master of the house whispered to me. "He sometimes tells

the most curious stories.... Does he interest you?"

I nodded and squeezed myself into the group. The sight of a well-dressed

gentleman jumping upon his chair and shouting at the top of his voice

did, in fact, draw the attention of all. Many who did not know the queer

fellow looked at one another in perplexity, the others roared with

laughter.

"I knew Fedosey Nikolaitch. I ought to know Fedosey Nikolaitch better

than any one!" cried the queer fellow from his elevation. "Gentlemen,

allow me to tell you something. I can tell you a good story about

Fedosey Nikolaitch! I know a story--exquisite!"

"Tell it, Osip Mihalitch, tell it."

"Tell it."

"Listen."

"Listen, listen."

"I begin; but, gentlemen, this is a peculiar story...."

"Very good, very good."

"It's a comic story."

"Very good, excellent, splendid. Get on!"

"It is an episode in the private life of your humble...."

"But why do you trouble yourself to announce that it's comic?"

"And even somewhat tragic!"

"Eh???!"

"In short, the story which it will afford you all pleasure to hear me

now relate, gentlemen--the story, in consequence of which I have come

into company so interesting and profitable...."

"No puns!"

"This story."

"In short the story--make haste and finish the introduction. The story,

which has its value," a fair-haired young man with moustaches pronounced

in a husky voice, dropping his hand into his coat pocket and, as though

by chance, pulling out a purse instead of his handkerchief.

"The story, my dear sirs, after which I should like to see many of you

in my place. And, finally, the story, in consequence of which I have not

married."

"Married! A wife! Polzunkov tried to get married!!"

"I confess I should like to see Madame Polzunkov."

"Allow me to inquire the name of the would-be Madame Polzunkov," piped a

youth, making his way up to the storyteller.

"And so for the first chapter, gentlemen. It was just six years ago, in

spring, the thirty-first of March--note the date, gentlemen--on the

eve...."

"Of the first of April!" cried a young man with ringlets.

"You are extraordinarily quick at guessing. It was evening. Twilight was

gathering over the district town of N., the moon was about to float out

... everything in proper style, in fact. And so in the very late

twilight I, too, floated out of my poor lodging on the sly--after taking

leave of my restricted granny, now dead. Excuse me, gentlemen, for

making use of such a fashionable expression, which I heard for the last

time from Nikolay Nikolaitch. But my granny was indeed restricted: she

was blind, dumb, deaf, stupid--everything you please.... I confess I was

in a tremor, I was prepared for great deeds; my heart was beating like a

kitten's when some bony hand clutches it by the scruff of the neck."

"Excuse me, Monsieur Polzunkov."

"What do you want?"

"Tell it more simply; don't over-exert yourself, please!"

"All right," said Osip Mihalitch, a little taken aback. "I went into the

house of Fedosey Nikolaitch (the house that he had bought). Fedosey

Nikolaitch, as you know, is not a mere colleague, but the full-blown

head of a department. I was announced, and was at once shown into the

study. I can see it now; the room was dark, almost dark, but candles

were not brought. Behold, Fedosey Nikolaitch walks in. There he and I

were left in the darkness...."

"Whatever happened to you?" asked an officer.

"What do you suppose?" asked Polzunkov, turning promptly, with a

convulsively working face, to the young man with ringlets. "Well,

gentlemen, a strange circumstance occurred, though indeed there was

nothing strange in it: it was what is called an everyday affair--I

simply took out of my pocket a roll of paper ... and he a roll of

paper."

"Paper notes?"

"Paper notes; and we exchanged."

"I don't mind betting that there's a flavour of bribery about it,"

observed a respectably dressed, closely cropped young gentleman.

"Bribery!" Polzunkov caught him up.

"'Oh, may I be a Liberal,

Such as many I have seen!'

If you, too, when it is your lot to serve in the provinces, do not warm

your hands at your country's hearth.... For as an author said: 'Even the

smoke of our native land is sweet to us.' She is our Mother, gentlemen,

our Mother Russia; we are her babes, and so we suck her!"

There was a roar of laughter.

"Only would you believe it, gentlemen, I have never taken bribes?" said

Polzunkov, looking round at the whole company distrustfully.

A prolonged burst of Homeric laughter drowned Polzunkov's words in

guffaws.

"It really is so, gentlemen...."

But here he stopped, still looking round at every one with a strange

expression of face; perhaps--who knows?--at that moment the thought came

into his mind that he was more honest than many of all that honourable

company.... Anyway, the serious expression of his face did not pass away

till the general merriment was quite over.

"And so," Polzunkov began again when all was still, "though I never did

take bribes, yet that time I transgressed; I put in my pocket a bribe

... from a bribe-taker ... that is, there were certain papers in my

hands which, if I had cared to send to a certain person, it would have

gone ill with Fedosey Nikolaitch."

"So then he bought them from you?"

"He did."

"Did he give much?"

"He gave as much as many a man nowadays would sell his conscience for

complete, with all its variations ... if only he could get anything for

it. But I felt as though I were scalded when I put the money in my

pocket. I really don't understand what always comes over me,

gentlemen--but I was more dead than alive, my lips twitched and my legs

trembled; well, I was to blame, to blame, entirely to blame. I was

utterly conscience-stricken; I was ready to beg Fedosey Nikolaitch's

forgiveness."

"Well, what did he do--did he forgive you?"

"But I didn't ask his forgiveness.... I only mean that that is how I

felt. Then I have a sensitive heart, you know. I saw he was looking me

straight in the face. 'Have you no fear of God, Osip Mihailitch?' said

he. Well, what could I do? From a feeling of propriety I put my head on

one side and I flung up my hands. 'In what way,' said I, 'have I no fear

of God, Fedosey Nikolaitch?' But I just said that from a feeling of

propriety.... I was ready to sink into the earth. 'After being so long a

friend of our family, after being, I may say, like a son--and who knows

what Heaven had in store for us, Osip Mihailitch?--and all of a sudden

to inform against me--to think of that now!... What am I to think of

mankind after that, Osip Mihailitch?' Yes, gentlemen, he did read me a

lecture! 'Come,' he said, 'you tell me what I am to think of mankind

after that, Osip Mihailitch.' 'What is he to think?' I thought; and do

you know, there was a lump in my throat, and my voice was quivering, and

knowing my hateful weakness, I snatched up my hat. 'Where are you off

to, Osip Mihailitch? Surely on the eve of such a day you cannot bear

malice against me? What wrong have I done you?...' 'Fedosey Nikolaitch,'

I said, 'Fedosey Nikolaitch....' In fact, I melted, gentlemen, I melted

like a sugar-stick. And the roll of notes that was lying in my pocket,

that, too, seemed screaming out: 'You ungrateful brigand, you accursed

thief!' It seemed to weigh a hundredweight ... (if only it had weighed a

hundredweight!).... 'I see,' says Fedosey Nikolaitch, 'I see your

penitence ... you know to-morrow....' 'St. Mary of Egypt's day....'

'Well, don't weep,' said Fedosey Nikolaitch, 'that's enough: you've

erred, and you are penitent! Come along! Maybe I may succeed in bringing

you back again into the true path,' says he ... 'maybe, my modest

Penates' (yes,'Penates,' I remember he used that expression, the rascal)

'will warm,' says he, 'your harden ... I will not say hardened, but

erring heart....' He took me by the arm, gentlemen, and led me to his

family circle. A cold shiver ran down my back; I shuddered! I thought

with what eyes shall I present myself--you must know, gentlemen ... eh,

what shall I say?--a delicate position had arisen here."

"Not Madame Polzunkov?"

"Marya Fedosyevna, only she was not destined, you know, to bear the name

you have given her; she did not attain that honour. Fedosey Nikolaitch

was right, you see, when he said that I was almost looked upon as a son

in the house; it had been so, indeed, six months before, when a certain

retired junker called Mihailo Maximitch Dvigailov, was still living. But

by God's will he died, and he put off settling his affairs till death

settled his business for him."

"Ough!"

"Well, never mind, gentlemen, forgive me, it was a slip of the tongue.

It's a bad pun, but it doesn't matter it's being bad--what happened was

far worse, when I was left, so to say, with nothing in prospect but a

bullet through the brain, for that junker, though he would not admit me

into his house (he lived in grand style, for he had always known how to

feather his nest), yet perhaps correctly he believed me to be his son."

"Aha!"

"Yes, that was how it was! So they began to cold-shoulder me at Fedosey

Nikolaitch's. I noticed things, I kept quiet; but all at once, unluckily

for me (or perhaps luckily!), a cavalry officer galloped into our little

town like snow on our head. His business--buying horses for the

army--was light and active, in cavalry style, but he settled himself

solidly at Fedosey Nikolaitch's, as though he were laying siege to it! I

approached the subject in a roundabout way, as my nasty habit is; I said

one thing and another, asking him what I had done to be treated so,

saying that I was almost like a son to him, and when might I expect him

to behave more like a father.... Well, he began answering me. And when

he begins to speak you are in for a regular epic in twelve cantos, and

all you can do is to listen, lick your lips and throw up your hands in

delight. And not a ha'p'orth of sense, at least there's no making out

the sense. You stand puzzled like a fool--he puts you in a fog, he

twists about like an eel and wriggles away from you. It's a special

gift, a real gift--it's enough to frighten people even if it is no

concern of theirs. I tried one thing and another, and went hither and

thither. I took the lady songs and presented her with sweets and thought

of witty things to say to her. I tried sighing and groaning. 'My heart

aches,' I said, 'it aches from love.' And I went in for tears and secret

explanations. Man is foolish, you know.... I never reminded myself that

I was thirty ... not a bit of it! I tried all my arts. It was no go. It

was a failure, and I gained nothing but jeers and gibes. I was

indignant, I was choking with anger. I slunk off and would not set foot

in the house. I thought and thought and made up my mind to denounce him.

Well, of course, it was a shabby thing--I meant to give away a friend, I

confess. I had heaps of material and splendid material--a grand case. It

brought me fifteen hundred roubles when I changed it and my report on it

for bank notes!"

"Ah, so that was the bribe!"

"Yes, sir, that was the bribe--and it was a bribe-taker who had to pay

it--and I didn't do wrong, I can assure you! Well, now I will go on: he

drew me, if you will kindly remember, more dead than alive into the room

where they were having tea. They all met me, seeming as it were

offended, that is, not exactly offended, but hurt--so hurt that it was

simply.... They seemed shattered, absolutely shattered, and at the same

time there was a look of becoming dignity on their faces, a gravity in

their expression, something fatherly, parental ... the prodigal son had

come back to them--that's what it had come to! They made me sit down to

tea, but there was no need to do that: I felt as though a samovar was

toiling in my bosom and my feet were like ice. I was humbled, I was

cowed. Marya Fominishna, his wife, addressed me familiarly from the

first word.

"'How is it you have grown so thin, my boy?'

"'I've not been very well, Marya Fominishna,' I said. My wretched voice

shook.

"And then quite suddenly--she must have been waiting for a chance to get

a dig at me, the old snake--she said--

"'I suppose your conscience felt ill at ease, Osip Mihalitch, my dear!

Our fatherly hospitality was a reproach to you! You have been punished

for the tears I have shed.'

"Yes, upon my word, she really said that--she had the conscience to say

it. Why, that was nothing to her, she was a terror! She did nothing but

sit there and pour out tea. But if you were in the market, my darling, I

thought you'd shout louder than any fishwife there.... That's the kind

of woman she was. And then, to my undoing, the daughter, Marya

Fedosyevna, came in, in all her innocence, a little pale and her eyes

red as though she had been weeping. I was bowled over on the spot like a

fool. But it turned out afterwards that the tears were a tribute to the

cavalry officer. He had made tracks for home and taken his hook for good

and all; for you know it was high time for him to be off--I may as well

mention the fact here; not that his leave was up precisely, but you

see.... It was only later that the loving parents grasped the position

and had found out all that had happened.... What could they do? They

hushed their trouble up--an addition to the family!

"Well, I could not help it--as soon as I looked at her I was done for; I

stole a glance at my hat, I wanted to get up and make off. But there was

no chance of that, they took away my hat.... I must confess, I did think

of getting off without it. 'Well!' I thought--but no, they latched the

doors. There followed friendly jokes, winking, little airs and graces. I

was overcome with embarrassment, said something stupid, talked nonsense,

about love. My charmer sat down to the piano and with an air of wounded

feeling sang the song about the hussar who leaned upon the sword--that

finished me off!

"'Well,' said Fedosey Nikolaitch, 'all is forgotten, come to my arms!'

"I fell just as I was, with my face on his waistcoat.

"'My benefactor! You are a father to me!' said I. And I shed floods of

hot tears. Lord, have mercy on us, what a to-do there was! He cried, his

good lady cried, Mashenka cried ... there was a flaxen-headed creature

there, she cried too.... That wasn't enough: the younger children crept

out of all the corners (the Lord had filled their quiver full) and they

howled too.... Such tears, such emotion, such joy! They found their

prodigal, it was like a soldier's return to his home. Then followed

refreshments, we played forfeits, and 'I have a pain'--'Where is

it?'--'In my heart'--'Who gave it you?' My charmer blushed. The old man

and I had some punch--they won me over and did for me completely.

"I returned to my grandmother with my head in a whirl. I was laughing

all the way home; for full two hours I paced up and down our little

room. I waked up my old granny and told her of my happiness.

"'But did he give you any money, the brigand?'

"'He did, granny, he did, my dear--luck has come to us all of a heap:

we've only to open our hand and take it.'

"I waked up Sofron.

"'Sofron,' I said, 'take off my boots.'

"Sofron pulled off my boots.

"'Come, Sofron, congratulate me now, give me a kiss! I am going to get

married, my lad, I am going to get married. You can get jolly drunk

to-morrow, you can have a spree, my dear soul--your master is getting

married.'

"My heart was full of jokes and laughter. I was beginning to drop off to

sleep, but something made me get up again. I sat in thought: to-morrow

is the first of April, a bright and playful day--what should I do? And I

thought of something. Why, gentlemen, I got out of bed, lighted a

candle, and sat down to the writing-table just as I was. I was in a

fever of excitement, quite carried away--you know, gentlemen, what it is

when a man is quite carried away? I wallowed joyfully in the mud, my

dear friends. You see what I am like; they take something from you, and

you give them something else as well and say, 'Take that, too.' They

strike you on the cheek and in your joy you offer them your whole back.

Then they try to lure you like a dog with a bun, and you embrace them

with your foolish paws and fall to kissing them with all your heart and

soul. Why, see what I am doing now, gentlemen! You are laughing and

whispering--I see it! After I have told you all my story you will begin

to turn me into ridicule, you will begin to attack me, but yet I go on

talking and talking and talking! And who tells me to? Who drives me to

do it? Who is standing behind my back whispering to me, 'Speak, speak

and tell them'? And yet I do talk, I go on telling you, I try to please

you as though you were my brothers, all my dearest friends.... Ech!"

The laughter which had sprung up by degrees on all sides completely

drowned at last the voice of the speaker, who really seemed worked up

into a sort of ecstasy. He paused, for several minutes his eyes strayed

about the company, then suddenly, as though carried away by a whirlwind,

he waved his hand, burst out laughing himself, as though he really found

his position amusing, and fell to telling his story again.

"I scarcely slept all night, gentlemen. I was scribbling all night: you

see, I thought of a trick. Ech, gentlemen, the very thought of it makes

me ashamed. It wouldn't have been so bad if it all had been done at

night--I might have been drunk, blundered, been silly and talked

nonsense--but not a bit of it! I woke up in the morning as soon as it

was light, I hadn't slept more than an hour or two, and was in the same

mind. I dressed, I washed, I curled and pomaded my hair, put on my new

dress coat and went straight off to spend the holiday with Fedosey

Nikolaitch, and I kept the joke I had written in my hat. He met me again

with open arms, and invited me again to his fatherly waistcoat. But I

assumed an air of dignity. I had the joke I thought of the night before

in my mind. I drew a step back.

"'No, Fedosey Nikolaitch, but will you please read this letter,' and I

gave it him together with my daily report. And do you know what was in

it? Why, 'for such and such reasons the aforesaid Osip Mihalitch asks to

be discharged,' and under my petition I signed my full rank! Just think

what a notion! Good Lord, it was the cleverest thing I could think of!

As to-day was the first of April, I was pretending, for the sake of a

joke, that my resentment was not over, that I had changed my mind in the

night and was grumpy, and more offended than ever, as though to say, 'My

dear benefactor, I don't want to know you nor your daughter either. I

put the money in my pocket yesterday, so I am secure--so here's my

petition for a transfer to be discharged. I don't care to serve under

such a chief as Fedosey Nikolaitch. I want to go into a different office

and then, maybe, I'll inform.' I pretended to be a regular scoundrel, I

wanted to frighten them. And a nice way of frightening them, wasn't it?

A pretty thing, gentlemen, wasn't it? You see, my heart had grown tender

towards them since the day before, so I thought I would have a little

joke at the family--I would tease the fatherly heart of Fedosey

Nikolaitch.

"As soon as he took my letter and opened it, I saw his whole countenance

change.

"'What's the meaning of this, Osip Mihalitch?'

"And like a little fool I said--

"'The first of April! Many happy returns of the day, Fedosey

Nikolaitch!' just like a silly school-boy who hides behind his

grandmother's arm-chair and then shouts 'oof' into her ear suddenly at

the top of his voice, meaning to frighten her. Yes ... yes, I feel quite

ashamed to talk about it, gentlemen! No, I won't tell you."

"Nonsense! What happened then?"

"Nonsense, nonsense! Tell us! Yes, do," rose on all sides.

"There was an outcry and a hullabaloo, my dear friends! Such

exclamations of surprise! And 'you mischievous fellow, you naughty man,'

and what a fright I had given them--and all so sweet that I felt ashamed

and wondered how such a holy place could be profaned by a sinner like

me.

"'Well, my dear boy,' piped the mamma, 'you gave me such a fright that

my legs are all of a tremble still, I can hardly stand on my feet! I ran

to Masha as though I were crazy: "Mashenka," I said, "what will become

of us! See how _your_ friend has turned out!" and I was unjust to you,

my dear boy. You must forgive an old woman like me, I was taken in!

Well, I thought, when he got home last night, he got home late, he began

thinking and perhaps he fancied that we sent for him on purpose,

yesterday, that we wanted to get hold of him. I turned cold at the

thought! Give over, Mashenka, don't go on winking at me--Osip Mihalitch

isn't a stranger! I am your mother, I am not likely to say any harm!

Thank God, I am not twenty, but turned forty-five.'

"Well, gentlemen, I almost flopped at her feet on the spot. Again there

were tears, again there were kisses. Jokes began. Fedosey Nikolaitch,

too, thought he would make April fools of us. He told us the fiery bird

had flown up with a letter in her diamond beak! He tried to take us in,

too--didn't we laugh? weren't we touched? Foo! I feel ashamed to talk

about it.

"Well, my good friends, the end is not far off now. One day

passed, two, three, a week; I was regularly engaged to her. I should

think so! The wedding rings were ordered, the day was fixed, only they

did not want to make it public for a time--they wanted to wait for the

Inspector's visit to be over. I was all impatience for the Inspector's

arrival--my happiness depended upon him. I was in a hurry to get his

visit over. And in the excitement and rejoicing Fedosey Nikolaitch threw

all the work upon me: writing up the accounts, making up the reports,

checking the books, balancing the totals. I found things in terrible

disorder--everything had been neglected, there were muddles and

irregularities everywhere. Well, I thought, I must do my best for my

father-in-law! And he was ailing all the time, he was taken ill, it

appears; he seemed to get worse day by day. And, indeed, I grew as thin

as a rake myself, I was afraid I would break down. However, I finished

the work grandly. I got things straight for him in time.

"Suddenly they sent a messenger for me. I ran headlong--what could it

be? I saw my Fedosey Nikolaitch, his head bandaged up in a vinegar

compress, frowning, sighing, and moaning.

"'My dear boy, my son,' he said, 'if I die, to whom shall I leave you,

my darlings?'

"His wife trailed in with all his children; Mashenka was in tears and I

blubbered, too.

"'Oh no,' he said. 'God will be merciful, He will not visit my

transgressions on you.'

"Then he dismissed them all, told me to shut the door after them, and we

were left alone, _tête-à-tête_.

"'I have a favour to ask of you.'

"'What favour?'

"'Well, my dear boy, there is no rest for me even on my deathbed. I am

in want.'

"'How so?' I positively flushed crimson, I could hardly speak.

"'Why, I had to pay some of my own money into the Treasury. I grudge

nothing for the public weal, my boy! I don't grudge my life. Don't you

imagine any ill. I am sad to think that slanderers have blackened my

name to you.... You were mistaken, my hair has gone white from grief.

The Inspector is coming down upon us and Matveyev is seven thousand

roubles short, and I shall have to answer for it.... Who else? It will

be visited upon me, my boy: where were my eyes? And how can we get it

from Matveyev? He has had trouble enough already: why should I bring the

poor fellow to ruin?'

"'Holy saints!' I thought, 'what a just man! What a heart!'

"'And I don't want to take my daughter's money, which has been set aside

for her dowry: that sum is sacred. I have money of my own, it's true,

but I have lent it all to friends--how is one to collect it all in a

minute?'

"I simply fell on my knees before him. 'My benefactor!' I cried, 'I've

wronged you, I have injured you; it was slanderers who wrote against

you; don't break my heart, take back your money!'

"He looked at me and there were tears in his eyes. 'That was just what I

expected from you, my son. Get up! I forgave you at the time for the

sake of my daughter's tears--now my heart forgives you freely! You have

healed my wounds. I bless you for all time!'

"Well, when he blessed me, gentlemen, I scurried home as soon as I

could. I got the money:

"'Here, father, here's the money. I've only spent fifty roubles.'

"'Well, that's all right,' he said. 'But now every trifle may count; the

time is short, write a report dated some days ago that you were short of

money and had taken fifty roubles on account. I'll tell the authorities

you had it in advance.'

"Well, gentlemen, what do you think? I did write that report, too!"

"Well, what then? What happened? How did it end?"

"As soon as I had written the report, gentlemen, this is how it ended.

The next day, in the early morning, an envelope with a government seal

arrived. I looked at it and what had I got? The sack! That is,

instructions to hand over my work, to deliver the accounts--and to go

about my business!"

"How so?"

"That's just what I cried at the top of my voice, 'How so?' Gentlemen,

there was a ringing in my ears. I thought there was no special reason

for it--but no, the Inspector had arrived in the town. My heart sank.

'It's not for nothing,' I thought. And just as I was I rushed off to

Fedosey Nikolaitch.

"'How is this?' I said.

"'What do you mean?' he said.

"'Why, I am dismissed.'

"'Dismissed? how?'

"'Why, look at this!'

"'Well, what of it?'

"'Why, but I didn't ask for it!'

"'Yes, you did--you sent in your papers on the first of--April.' (I had

never taken that letter back!)

"'Fedosey Nikolaitch! I can't believe my ears, I can't believe my eyes!

Is this you?'

"'It is me, why?'

"'My God!'

"'I am sorry, sir. I am very sorry that you made up your mind to retire

from the service so early. A young man ought to be in the service, and

you've begun to be a little light-headed of late. And as for your

character, set your mind at rest: I'll see to that! Your behaviour has

always been so exemplary!'

"'But that was a little joke, Fedosey Nikolaitch! I didn't mean it, I

just gave you the letter for your fatherly ... that's all.'

"'That's all? A queer joke, sir! Does one jest with documents like that?

Why, you are sometimes sent to Siberia for such jokes. Now, good-bye. I

am busy. We have the Inspector here--the duties of the service before

everything; you can kick up your heels, but we have to sit here at work.

But I'll get you a character---- Oh, another thing: I've just bought a

house from Matveyev. We are moving in in a day or two. So I expect I

shall not have the pleasure of seeing you at our new residence. _Bon

voyage!_'

"I ran home.

"'We are lost, granny!'

"She wailed, poor dear, and then I saw the page from Fedosey

Nikolaitch's running up with a note and a bird-cage, and in the cage

there was a starling. In the fullness of my heart I had given her the

starling. And in the note there were the words: 'April 1st,' and nothing

more. What do you think of that, gentlemen?"

"What happened then? What happened then?"

"What then! I met Fedosey Nikolaitch once, I meant to tell him to his

face he was a scoundrel."

"Well?"

"But somehow I couldn't bring myself to it, gentlemen."

A LITTLE HERO

A STORY

At that time I was nearly eleven, I had been sent in July to spend the

holiday in a village near Moscow with a relation of mine called T.,

whose house was full of guests, fifty, or perhaps more.... I don't

remember, I didn't count. The house was full of noise and gaiety. It

seemed as though it were a continual holiday, which would never end. It

seemed as though our host had taken a vow to squander all his vast

fortune as rapidly as possible, and he did indeed succeed, not long ago,

in justifying this surmise, that is, in making a clean sweep of it all

to the last stick.

Fresh visitors used to drive up every minute. Moscow was close by, in

sight, so that those who drove away only made room for others, and the

everlasting holiday went on its course. Festivities succeeded one

another, and there was no end in sight to the entertainments. There were

riding parties about the environs; excursions to the forest or the

river; picnics, dinners in the open air; suppers on the great terrace of

the house, bordered with three rows of gorgeous flowers that flooded

with their fragrance the fresh night air, and illuminated the brilliant

lights which made our ladies, who were almost every one of them pretty

at all times, seem still more charming, with their faces excited by the

impressions of the day, with their sparkling eyes, with their

interchange of spritely conversation, their peals of ringing laughter;

dancing, music, singing; if the sky were overcast tableaux vivants,

charades, proverbs were arranged, private theatricals were got up. There

were good talkers, story-tellers, wits.

Certain persons were prominent in the foreground. Of course backbiting

and slander ran their course, as without them the world could not get

on, and millions of persons would perish of boredom, like flies. But as

I was at that time eleven I was absorbed by very different interests,

and either failed to observe these people, or if I noticed anything, did

not see it all. It was only afterwards that some things came back to my

mind. My childish eyes could only see the brilliant side of the picture,

and the general animation, splendour, and bustle--all that, seen and

heard for the first time, made such an impression upon me that for the

first few days, I was completely bewildered and my little head was in a

whirl.

I keep speaking of my age, and of course I was a child, nothing more

than a child. Many of these lovely ladies petted me without dreaming of

considering my age. But strange to say, a sensation which I did not

myself understand already had possession of me; something was already

whispering in my heart, of which till then it had had no knowledge, no

conception, and for some reason it began all at once to burn and throb,

and often my face glowed with a sudden flush. At times I felt as it were

abashed, and even resentful of the various privileges of my childish

years. At other times a sort of wonder overwhelmed me, and I would go

off into some corner where I could sit unseen, as though to take breath

and remember something--something which it seemed to me I had remembered

perfectly till then, and now had suddenly forgotten, something without

which I could not show myself anywhere, and could not exist at all.

At last it seemed to me as though I were hiding something from every

one. But nothing would have induced me to speak of it to any one,

because, small boy that I was, I was ready to weep with shame. Soon in

the midst of the vortex around me I was conscious of a certain

loneliness. There were other children, but all were either much older or

younger than I; besides, I was in no mood for them. Of course nothing

would have happened to me if I had not been in an exceptional position.

In the eyes of those charming ladies I was still the little unformed

creature whom they at once liked to pet, and with whom they could play

as though he were a little doll. One of them particularly, a

fascinating, fair woman, with very thick luxuriant hair, such as I had

never seen before and probably shall never see again, seemed to have

taken a vow never to leave me in peace. I was confused, while she was

amused by the laughter which she continually provoked from all around us

by her wild, giddy pranks with me, and this apparently gave her immense

enjoyment. At school among her schoolfellows she was probably nicknamed

the Tease. She was wonderfully good-looking, and there was something in

her beauty which drew one's eyes from the first moment. And certainly

she had nothing in common with the ordinary modest little fair girls,

white as down and soft as white mice, or pastors' daughters. She was not

very tall, and was rather plump, but had soft, delicate, exquisitely cut

features. There was something quick as lightning in her face, and indeed

she was like fire all over, light, swift, alive. Her big open eyes

seemed to flash sparks; they glittered like diamonds, and I would never

exchange such blue sparkling eyes for any black ones, were they blacker

than any Andalusian orb. And, indeed, my blonde was fully a match for

the famous brunette whose praises were sung by a great and well-known

poet, who, in a superb poem, vowed by all Castille that he was ready to

break his bones to be permitted only to touch the mantle of his divinity

with the tip of his finger. Add to that, that _my_ charmer was the

merriest in the world, the wildest giggler, playful as a child, although

she had been married for the last five years. There was a continual

laugh upon her lips, fresh as the morning rose that, with the first ray

of sunshine, opens its fragrant crimson bud with the cool dewdrops still

hanging heavy upon it.

I remember that the day after my arrival private theatricals were being

got up. The drawing-room was, as they say, packed to overflowing; there

was not a seat empty, and as I was somehow late I had to enjoy the

performance standing. But the amusing play attracted me to move

forwarder and forwarder, and unconsciously I made my way to the first

row, where I stood at last leaning my elbows on the back of an armchair,

in which a lady was sitting. It was my blonde divinity, but we had not

yet made acquaintance. And I gazed, as it happened, at her marvellous,

fascinating shoulders, plump and white as milk, though it did not matter

to me in the least whether I stared at a woman's exquisite shoulders or

at the cap with flaming ribbons that covered the grey locks of a

venerable lady in the front row. Near my blonde divinity sat a spinster

lady not in her first youth, one of those who, as I chanced to observe

later, always take refuge in the immediate neighbourhood of young and

pretty women, selecting such as are not fond of cold-shouldering young

men. But that is not the point, only this lady, noting my fixed gaze,

bent down to her neighbour and with a simper whispered something in her

ear. The blonde lady turned at once, and I remember that her glowing

eyes so flashed upon me in the half dark, that, not prepared to meet

them, I started as though I were scalded. The beauty smiled.

"Do you like what they are acting?" she asked, looking into my face with

a shy and mocking expression.

"Yes," I answered, still gazing at her with a sort of wonder that

evidently pleased her.

"But why are you standing? You'll get tired. Can't you find a seat?"

"That's just it, I can't," I answered, more occupied with my grievance

than with the beauty's sparkling eyes, and rejoicing in earnest at

having found a kind heart to whom I could confide my troubles. "I have

looked everywhere, but all the chairs are taken," I added, as though

complaining to her that all the chairs were taken.

"Come here," she said briskly, quick to act on every decision, and,

indeed, on every mad idea that flashed on her giddy brain, "come here,

and sit on my knee."

"On your knee," I repeated, taken aback. I have mentioned already that I

had begun to resent the privileges of childhood and to be ashamed of

them in earnest. This lady, as though in derision, had gone ever so much

further than the others. Moreover, I had always been a shy and bashful

boy, and of late had begun to be particularly shy with women.

"Why yes, on my knee. Why don't you want to sit on my knee?" she

persisted, beginning to laugh more and more, so that at last she was

simply giggling, goodness knows at what, perhaps at her freak, or

perhaps at my confusion. But that was just what she wanted.

I flushed, and in my confusion looked round trying to find where to

escape; but seeing my intention she managed to catch hold of my hand to

prevent me from going away, and pulling it towards her, suddenly, quite

unexpectedly, to my intense astonishment, squeezed it in her mischievous

warm fingers, and began to pinch my fingers till they hurt so much that

I had to do my very utmost not to cry out, and in my effort to control

myself made the most absurd grimaces. I was, besides, moved to the

greatest amazement, perplexity, and even horror, at the discovery that

there were ladies so absurd and spiteful as to talk nonsense to boys,

and even pinch their fingers, for no earthly reason and before

everybody. Probably my unhappy face reflected my bewilderment, for the

mischievous creature laughed in my face, as though she were crazy, and

meantime she was pinching my fingers more and more vigorously. She was

highly delighted in playing such a mischievous prank and completely

mystifying and embarrassing a poor boy. My position was desperate. In

the first place I was hot with shame, because almost every one near had

turned round to look at us, some in wonder, others with laughter,

grasping at once that the beauty was up to some mischief. I dreadfully

wanted to scream, too, for she was wringing my fingers with positive

fury just because I didn't scream; while I, like a Spartan, made up my

mind to endure the agony, afraid by crying out of causing a general

fuss, which was more than I could face. In utter despair I began at last

struggling with her, trying with all my might to pull away my hand, but

my persecutor was much stronger than I was. At last I could bear it no

longer, and uttered a shriek--that was all she was waiting for!

Instantly she let me go, and turned away as though nothing had happened,

as though it was not she who had played the trick but some one else,

exactly like some schoolboy who, as soon as the master's back is turned,

plays some trick on some one near him, pinches some small weak boy,

gives him a flip, a kick, or a nudge with his elbows, and instantly

turns again, buries himself in his book and begins repeating his lesson,

and so makes a fool of the infuriated teacher who flies down like a hawk

at the noise.

But luckily for me the general attention was distracted at the moment by

the masterly acting of our host, who was playing the chief part in the

performance, some comedy of Scribe's. Every one began to applaud; under

cover of the noise I stole away and hurried to the furthest end of the

room, from which, concealed behind a column, I looked with horror

towards the place where the treacherous beauty was sitting. She was

still laughing, holding her handkerchief to her lips. And for a long

time she was continually turning round, looking for me in every

direction, probably regretting that our silly tussle was so soon over,

and hatching some other trick to play on me.

That was the beginning of our acquaintance, and from that evening she

would never let me alone. She persecuted me without consideration or

conscience, she became my tyrant and tormentor. The whole absurdity of

her jokes with me lay in the fact that she pretended to be head over

ears in love with me, and teased me before every one. Of course for a

wild creature as I was all this was so tiresome and vexatious that it

almost reduced me to tears, and I was sometimes put in such a difficult

position that I was on the point of fighting with my treacherous

admirer. My naïve confusion, my desperate distress, seemed to egg her on

to persecute me more; she knew no mercy, while I did not know how to get

away from her. The laughter which always accompanied us, and which she

knew so well how to excite, roused her to fresh pranks. But at last

people began to think that she went a little too far in her jests. And,

indeed, as I remember now, she did take outrageous liberties with a

child such as I was.

But that was her character; she was a spoilt child in every respect. I

heard afterwards that her husband, a very short, very fat, and very

red-faced man, very rich and apparently very much occupied with

business, spoilt her more than any one. Always busy and flying round, he

could not stay two hours in one place. Every day he drove into Moscow,

sometimes twice in the day, and always, as he declared himself, on

business. It would be hard to find a livelier and more good-natured face

than his facetious but always well-bred countenance. He not only loved

his wife to the point of weakness, softness: he simply worshipped her

like an idol.

He did not restrain her in anything. She had masses of friends, male and

female. In the first place, almost everybody liked her; and secondly,

the feather-headed creature was not herself over particular in the

choice of her friends, though there was a much more serious foundation

to her character than might be supposed from what I have just said about

her. But of all her friends she liked best of all one young lady, a

distant relation, who was also of our party now. There existed between

them a tender and subtle affection, one of those attachments which

sometimes spring up at the meeting of two dispositions often the very

opposite of each other, of which one is deeper, purer and more austere,

while the other, with lofty humility, and generous self-criticism,

lovingly gives way to the other, conscious of the friend's superiority

and cherishing the friendship as a happiness. Then begins that tender

and noble subtlety in the relations of such characters, love and

infinite indulgence on the one side, on the other love and respect--a

respect approaching awe, approaching anxiety as to the impression made

on the friend so highly prized, and an eager, jealous desire to get

closer and closer to that friend's heart in every step in life.

These two friends were of the same age, but there was an immense

difference between them in everything--in looks, to begin with. Madame

M. was also very handsome, but there was something special in her beauty

that strikingly distinguished her from the crowd of pretty women; there

was something in her face that at once drew the affection of all to her,

or rather, which aroused a generous and lofty feeling of kindliness in

every one who met her. There are such happy faces. At her side everyone

grew as it were better, freer, more cordial; and yet her big mournful

eyes, full of fire and vigour, had a timid and anxious look, as though

every minute dreading something antagonistic and menacing, and this

strange timidity at times cast so mournful a shade over her mild, gentle

features which recalled the serene faces of Italian Madonnas, that

looking at her one soon became oneself sad, as though for some trouble

of one's own. The pale, thin face, in which, through the irreproachable

beauty of the pure, regular lines and the mournful severity of some mute

hidden grief, there often flitted the clear looks of early childhood,

telling of trustful years and perhaps simple-hearted happiness in the

recent past, the gentle but diffident, hesitating smile, all aroused

such unaccountable sympathy for her that every heart was unconsciously

stirred with a sweet and warm anxiety that powerfully interceded on her

behalf even at a distance, and made even strangers feel akin to her. But

the lovely creature seemed silent and reserved, though no one could have

been more attentive and loving if any one needed sympathy. There are

women who are like sisters of mercy in life. Nothing can be hidden from

them, nothing, at least, that is a sore or wound of the heart. Any one

who is suffering may go boldly and hopefully to them without fear of

being a burden, for few men know the infinite patience of love,

compassion and forgiveness that may be found in some women's hearts.

Perfect treasures of sympathy, consolation and hope are laid up in these

pure hearts, so often full of suffering of their own--for a heart which

loves much grieves much--though their wounds are carefully hidden from

the curious eye, for deep sadness is most often mute and concealed. They

are not dismayed by the depth of the wound, nor by its foulness and its

stench; any one who comes to them is deserving of help; they are, as it

were, born for heroism.... Mme. M. was tall, supple and graceful, but

rather thin. All her movements seemed somehow irregular, at times slow,

smooth, and even dignified, at times childishly hasty; and yet, at the

same time, there was a sort of timid humility in her gestures, something

tremulous and defenceless, though it neither desired nor asked for

protection.

I have mentioned already that the outrageous teasing of the treacherous

fair lady abashed me, flabbergasted me, and wounded me to the quick. But

there was for that another secret, strange and foolish reason, which I

concealed, at which I shuddered as at a skeleton. At the very thought of

it, brooding, utterly alone and overwhelmed, in some dark mysterious

corner to which the inquisitorial mocking eye of the blue-eyed rogue

could not penetrate, I almost gasped with confusion, shame and fear--in

short, I was in love; that perhaps is nonsense, that could hardly have

been. But why was it, of all the faces surrounding me, only her face

caught my attention? Why was it that it was only she whom I cared to

follow with my eyes, though I certainly had no inclination in those days

to watch ladies and seek their acquaintance? This happened most

frequently on the evenings when we were all kept indoors by bad weather,

and when, lonely, hiding in some corner of the big drawing-room, I

stared about me aimlessly, unable to find anything to do, for except my

teasing ladies, few people ever addressed me, and I was insufferably

bored on such evenings. Then I stared at the people round me, listened

to the conversation, of which I often did not understand one word, and

at that time the mild eyes, the gentle smile and lovely face of Mme. M.

(for she was the object of my passion) for some reason caught my

fascinated attention; and the strange vague, but unutterably sweet

impression remained with me. Often for hours together I could not tear

myself away from her; I studied every gesture, every movement she made,

listened to every vibration of her rich, silvery, but rather muffled

voice; but strange to say, as the result of all my observations, I felt,

mixed with a sweet and timid impression, a feeling of intense curiosity.

It seemed as though I were on the verge of some mystery.

Nothing distressed me so much as being mocked at in the presence of Mme.

M. This mockery and humorous persecution, as I thought, humiliated me.

And when there was a general burst of laughter at my expense, in which

Mme. M. sometimes could not help joining, in despair, beside myself with

misery, I used to tear myself from my tormentor and run away upstairs,

where I remained in solitude the rest of the day, not daring to show my

face in the drawing-room. I did not yet, however, understand my shame

nor my agitation; the whole process went on in me unconsciously. I had

hardly said two words to Mme. M., and indeed I should not have dared to.

But one evening after an unbearable day I turned back from an expedition

with the rest of the company. I was horribly tired and made my way home

across the garden. On a seat in a secluded avenue I saw Mme. M. She was

sitting quite alone, as though she had purposely chosen this solitary

spot, her head was drooping and she was mechanically twisting her

handkerchief. She was so lost in thought that she did not hear me till I

reached her.

Noticing me, she got up quickly from her seat, turned round, and I saw

her hurriedly wipe her eyes with her handkerchief. She was crying.

Drying her eyes, she smiled to me and walked back with me to the house.

I don't remember what we talked about; but she frequently sent me off on

one pretext or another, to pick a flower, or to see who was riding in

the next avenue. And when I walked away from her, she at once put her

handkerchief to her eyes again and wiped away rebellious tears, which

would persist in rising again and again from her heart and dropping from

her poor eyes. I realized that I was very much in her way when she sent

me off so often, and, indeed, she saw herself that I noticed it all, but

yet could not control herself, and that made my heart ache more and more

for her. I raged at myself at that moment and was almost in despair;

cursed myself for my awkwardness and lack of resource, and at the same

time did not know how to leave her tactfully, without betraying that I

had noticed her distress, but walked beside her in mournful

bewilderment, almost in alarm, utterly at a loss and unable to find a

single word to keep up our scanty conversation.

This meeting made such an impression on me that I stealthily watched

Mme. M. the whole evening with eager curiosity, and never took my eyes

off her. But it happened that she twice caught me unawares watching her,

and on the second occasion, noticing me, she gave me a smile. It was the

only time she smiled that evening. The look of sadness had not left her

face, which was now very pale. She spent the whole evening talking to an

ill-natured and quarrelsome old lady, whom nobody liked owing to her

spying and backbiting habits, but of whom every one was afraid, and

consequently every one felt obliged to be polite to her....

At ten o'clock Mme. M.'s husband arrived. Till that moment I watched her

very attentively, never taking my eyes off her mournful face; now at the

unexpected entrance of her husband I saw her start, and her pale face

turned suddenly as white as a handkerchief. It was so noticeable that

other people observed it. I overheard a fragmentary conversation from

which I guessed that Mme. M. was not quite happy; they said her husband

was as jealous as an Arab, not from love, but from vanity. He was before

all things a European, a modern man, who sampled the newest ideas and

prided himself upon them. In appearance he was a tall, dark-haired,

particularly thick-set man, with European whiskers, with a

self-satisfied, red face, with teeth white as sugar, and with an

irreproachably gentlemanly deportment. He was called a _clever man_.

Such is the name given in certain circles to a peculiar species of

mankind which grows fat at other people's expense, which does absolutely

nothing and has no desire to do anything, and whose heart has turned

into a lump of fat from everlasting slothfulness and idleness. You

continually hear from such men that there is nothing they can do owing

to certain very complicated and hostile circumstances, which "thwart

their genius," and that it was "sad to see the waste of their talents."

This is a fine phrase of theirs, their _mot d'ordre_, their watchword, a

phrase which these well-fed, fat friends of ours bring out at every

minute, so that it has long ago bored us as an arrant Tartuffism, an

empty form of words. Some, however, of these amusing creatures, who

cannot succeed in finding anything to do--though, indeed, they never

seek it--try to make every one believe that they have not a lump of fat

for a heart, but on the contrary, something _very deep_, though what

precisely the greatest surgeon would hardly venture to decide--from

civility, of course. These gentlemen make their way in the world through

the fact that all their instincts are bent in the direction of coarse

sneering, short-sighted censure and immense conceit. Since they have

nothing else to do but note and emphasize the mistakes and weaknesses of

others, and as they have precisely as much good feeling as an oyster, it

is not difficult for them with such powers of self-preservation to get

on with people fairly successfully. They pride themselves extremely upon

that. They are, for instance, as good as persuaded that almost the whole

world owes them something; that it is theirs, like an oyster which they

keep in reserve; that all are fools except themselves; that every one is

like an orange or a sponge, which they will squeeze as soon as they want

the juice; that they are the masters everywhere, and that all this

acceptable state of affairs is solely due to the fact that they are

people of so much intellect and character. In their measureless conceit

they do not admit any defects in themselves, they are like that species

of practical rogues, innate Tartuffes and Falstaffs, who are such

thorough rogues that at last they have come to believe that that is as

it should be, that is, that they should spend their lives in

knavishness; they have so often assured every one that they are honest

men, that they have come to believe that they are honest men, and that

their roguery is honesty. They are never capable of inner judgment

before their conscience, of generous self-criticism; for some things

they are too fat. Their own priceless personality, their Baal and

Moloch, their magnificent _ego_ is always in their foreground

everywhere. All nature, the whole world for them is no more than a

splendid mirror created for the little god to admire himself continually

in it, and to see no one and nothing behind himself; so it is not

strange that he sees everything in the world in such a hideous light. He

has a phrase in readiness for everything and--the acme of ingenuity on

his part--the most fashionable phrase. It is just these people, indeed,

who help to make the fashion, proclaiming at every cross-road an idea in

which they scent success. A fine nose is just what they have for

sniffing a fashionable phrase and making it their own before other

people get hold of it, so that it seems to have originated with them.

They have a particular store of phrases for proclaiming their profound

sympathy for humanity, for defining what is the most correct and

rational form of philanthropy, and continually attacking romanticism, in

other words, everything fine and true, each atom of which is more

precious than all their mollusc tribe. But they are too coarse to

recognize the truth in an indirect, roundabout and unfinished form, and

they reject everything that is immature, still fermenting and unstable.

The well-nourished man has spent all his life in merry-making, with

everything provided, has done nothing himself and does not know how hard

every sort of work is, and so woe betide you if you jar upon his fat

feelings by any sort of roughness; he'll never forgive you for that, he

will always remember it and will gladly avenge it. The long and short of

it is, that my hero is neither more nor less than a gigantic, incredibly

swollen bag, full of sentences, fashionable phrases, and labels of all

sorts and kinds.

M. M., however, had a speciality and was a very remarkable man; he was a

wit, good talker and story-teller, and there was always a circle round

him in every drawing-room. That evening he was particularly successful

in making an impression. He took possession of the conversation; he was

in his best form, gay, pleased at something, and he compelled the

attention of all; but Mme. M. looked all the time as though she were

ill; her face was so sad that I fancied every minute that tears would

begin quivering on her long eyelashes. All this, as I have said,

impressed me extremely and made me wonder. I went away with a feeling of

strange curiosity, and dreamed all night of M. M., though till then I

had rarely had dreams.

Next day, early in the morning, I was summoned to a rehearsal of some

tableaux vivants in which I had to take part. The tableaux vivants,

theatricals, and afterwards a dance were all fixed for the same evening,

five days later--the birthday of our host's younger daughter. To this

entertainment, which was almost improvised, another hundred guests were

invited from Moscow and from surrounding villas, so that there was a

great deal of fuss, bustle and commotion. The rehearsal, or rather

review of the costumes, was fixed so early in the morning because our

manager, a well-known artist, a friend of our host's, who had consented

through affection for him to undertake the arrangement of the tableaux

and the training of us for them, was in haste now to get to Moscow to

purchase properties and to make final preparations for the fête, as

there was no time to lose. I took part in one tableau with Mme. M. It

was a scene from mediæval life and was called "The Lady of the Castle

and Her Page."