I
It happened in Petersburg, in the winter, on the first day of the
carnival. I had been invited to dinner by one of my schoolfellows, who
enjoyed in his youth the reputation of being as modest as a maiden, and
turned out in the sequel a person by no means over rigid in his
conduct. He is dead now, like most of my schoolfellows. There were to
be present at the dinner, besides me, Konstantin Alexandrovitch Asanov,
and a literary celebrity of those days. The literary celebrity kept us
waiting for him, and finally sent a note that he was not coming, and in
place of him there turned up a little light-haired gentleman, one of
the everlasting uninvited guests with whom Petersburg abounds.
The dinner lasted a long while; our host did not spare the wine, and by
degrees our heads were affected. Everything that each of us kept hidden
in his heart--and who is there that has not something hidden in his
heart?--came to the surface. Our host's face suddenly lost its modest
and reserved expression; his eyes shone with a brazen-faced impudence,
and a vulgar grin curved his lips; the light-haired gentleman laughed
in a feeble way, with a senseless crow; but Asanov surprised me more
than any one. The man had always been conspicuous for his sense of
propriety, but now he began by suddenly rubbing his hand over his
forehead, giving himself airs, boasting of his connections, and
continually alluding to a certain uncle of his, a very important
personage.... I positively should not have known him; he was
unmistakably jeering at us ... he all but avowed his contempt for our
society. Asanov's insolence began to exasperate me.
'Listen,' I said to him; 'if we are such poor creatures to your
thinking, you'd better go and see your illustrious uncle. But possibly
he's not at home to you.'
Asanov made me no reply, and went on passing his hand across his
forehead.
'What a set of people!' he said again; 'they've never been in any
decent society, never been acquainted with a single decent woman, while
I have here,' he cried, hurriedly pulling a pocket-book out of his
side-pocket and tapping it with his hand, 'a whole pack of letters from
a girl whom you wouldn't find the equal of in the whole world.'
Our host and the light-haired gentleman paid no attention to Asanov's
last words; they were holding each other by their buttons, and both
relating something; but I pricked up my ears.
'Oh, you 're bragging, Mr. nephew of an illustrious personage,' I said,
going up to Asanov; 'you haven't any letters at all.'
'Do you think so?' he retorted, and he looked down loftily at me;
'what's this, then?' He opened the pocket-book, and showed me about a
dozen letters addressed to him.... A familiar handwriting, I
fancied.... I feel the flush of shame mounting to my cheeks ... my
self-love is suffering horribly.... No one likes to own to a mean
action.... But there is nothing for it: when I began my story, I knew I
should have to blush to my ears in the course of it. And so, I am bound
to harden my heart and confess that....
Well, this was what passed: I took advantage of the intoxicated
condition of Asanov, who had carelessly dropped the letters on the
champagne-stained tablecloth (my own head was dizzy enough too), and
hurriedly ran my eyes over one of the letters....
My heart stood still.... Alas! I was myself in love with the girl who
had written to Asanov, and I could have no doubt now that she loved
him. The whole letter, which was in French, expressed tenderness and
devotion....
'Mon cher ami Constantin!' so it began ... and it ended with the words:
'be careful as before, and I will be yours or no one's.'
Stunned as by a thunderbolt, I sat for a few instants motionless; at
last I regained my self-possession, jumped up, and rushed out of the
room.
A quarter of an hour later I was back at home in my own lodgings.
* * * * *
The family of the Zlotnitskys was one of the first whose acquaintance I
made on coming to Petersburg from Moscow. It consisted of a father and
mother, two daughters, and a son. The father, a man already grey, but
still vigorous, who had been in the army, held a fairly important
position, spent the morning in a government office, went to sleep after
dinner, and in the evening played cards at his club.... He was seldom
at home, spoke little and unwillingly, looked at one from under his
eyebrows with an expression half surly, half indifferent, and read
nothing except books of travels and geography. Sometimes he was unwell,
and then he would shut himself up in his own room, and paint little
pictures, or tease the old grey parrot, Popka. His wife, a sickly,
consumptive woman, with hollow black eyes and a sharp nose, did not
leave her sofa for days together, and was always embroidering
cushion-covers in canvas. As far as I could observe, she was rather
afraid of her husband, as though she had somehow wronged him at some
time or other. The elder daughter, Varvara, a plump, rosy, fair-haired
girl of eighteen, was always sitting at the window, watching the people
that passed by. The son, who was being educated in a government school,
was only seen at home on Sundays, and he, too, did not care to waste
his words. Even the younger daughter, Sophia, the girl with whom I was
in love, was of a silent disposition. In the Zlotnitskys' house there
reigned a perpetual stillness; it was only broken by the piercing
screams of Popka, but visitors soon got used to these, and were
conscious again of the burden and oppression of the eternal stillness.
Visitors, however, seldom looked in upon the Zlotnitskys; their house
was a dull one. The very furniture, the red paper with yellow patterns
in the drawing-room, the numerous rush-bottomed chairs in the
dining-room, the faded wool-work cushions, embroidered with figures of
girls and dogs, on the sofa, the branching lamps, and the
gloomy-looking portraits on the walls--everything inspired an
involuntary melancholy, about everything there clung a sense of chill
and flatness. On my arrival in Petersburg, I had thought it my duty to
call on the Zlotnitskys. They were relations of my mother's. I managed
with difficulty to sit out an hour with them, and it was a long while
before I went there again. But by degrees I took to going oftener and
oftener. I was drawn there by Sophia, whom I had not cared for at
first, and with whom I finally fell in love.
She was a slender, almost thin, girl of medium height, with a pale
face, thick black hair, and big brown eyes, always half closed. Her
severe and well-defined features, especially her tightly shut lips,
showed determination and strength of will. At home they knew her to be
a girl with a will of her own....
'She's like her eldest sister, like Katerina,' Madame Zlotnitsky said
one day, as she sat alone with me (in her husband's presence she did
not dare to mention the said Katerina). 'You don't know her; she's in
the Caucasus, married. At thirteen, only fancy, she fell in love with
her husband, and announced to us at the time that she would never marry
any one else. We did everything we could--nothing was of any use. She
waited till she was three-and-twenty, and braved her father's anger,
and so married her idol. There is no saying what Sonitchka might not
do! The Lord preserve her from such stubbornness! But I am afraid for
her; she's only sixteen now, and there's no turning her....'
Mr. Zlotnitsky came in, and his wife was instantly silent.
What had captivated me in Sophia was not her strength of will--no; but
with all her dryness, her lack of vivacity and imagination, she had a
special charm of her own, the charm of straightforwardness, genuine
sincerity, and purity of heart. I respected her as much as I loved
her.... It seemed to me that she too looked with friendly eyes on me;
to have my illusions as to her feeling for me shattered, and her love
for another man proved conclusively, was a blow to me.
The unlooked-for discovery I had made astonished me the more as Asanov
was not often at the Zlotnitskys' house, much less so than I, and had
shown no marked preference for Sonitchka. He was a handsome, dark
fellow, with expressive but rather heavy features, with brilliant,
prominent eyes, with a large white forehead, and full red lips under
fine moustaches. He was very discreet, but severe in his behaviour,
confident in his criticisms and utterances, and dignified in his
silence. It was obvious that he thought a great deal of himself. Asanov
rarely laughed, and then with closed teeth, and he never danced. He was
rather loosely and clumsily built. He had at one time served in the
--th regiment, and was spoken of as a capable officer.
'A strange thing!' I ruminated, lying on the sofa; 'how was it I
noticed nothing?' ... 'Be careful as before': those words in Sophia's
letter suddenly recurred to my memory. 'Ah!' I thought: 'that's it!
What a sly little hussy! And I thought her open and sincere.... Wait a
bit, that's all; I'll let you know....'
But at this point, if I can trust my memory, I began weeping bitterly,
and could not get to sleep all night.
* * * * *
Next day at two o'clock I set off to the Zlotnitskys'. The father was
not at home, and his wife was not sitting in her usual place; after the
pancake festival of the preceding day, she had a headache, and had gone
to lie down in her bedroom. Varvara was standing with her shoulder
against the window, looking into the street; Sophia was walking up and
down the room with her arms folded across her bosom; Popka was
shrieking.
'Ah! how do you do?' said Varvara lazily, directly I came into the
room, and she added at once in an undertone, 'There goes a peasant with
a tray on his head.' ... (She had the habit of keeping up a running
commentary on the passers-by to herself.)
'How do you do?' I responded; 'how do you do, Sophia Nikolaevna? Where
is Tatiana Vassilievna?'
'She has gone to lie down,' answered Sophia, still pacing the room.
'We had pancakes,' observed Varvara, without turning round. 'Why didn't
you come? ... Where can that clerk be going?' 'Oh, I hadn't time.'
('Present arms!' the parrot screeched shrilly.) 'How Popka is shrieking
to-day!'
'He always does shriek like that,' observed Sophia.
We were all silent for a time.
'He has gone in at the gate,' said Varvara, and she suddenly got up on
the window-sill and opened the window.
'What are you about?' asked Sophia.
'There's a beggar,' responded Varvara. She bent down, picked up a
five-copeck piece from the window; the remains of a fumigating pastille
still stood in a grey heap of ashes on the copper coin, as she flung it
into the street; then she slammed the window to and jumped heavily down
to the floor....
'I had a very pleasant time yesterday,' I began, seating myself in an
arm-chair. 'I dined with a friend of mine; Konstantin Alexandritch was
there.... (I looked at Sophia; not an eyebrow quivered on her face.)
'And I must own,' I continued, 'we'd a good deal of wine; we emptied
eight bottles between the four of us.'
'Really!' Sophia articulated serenely, and she shook her head.
'Yes,' I went on, slightly irritated at her composure: 'and do you know
what, Sophia Nikolaevna, it's a true saying, it seems, that in wine is
truth.'
'How so?'
'Konstantin Alexandritch made us laugh. Only fancy, he began all at
once passing his hand over his forehead like this, and saying: "I'm a
fine fellow! I've an uncle a celebrated man!"....'
'Ha, ha!' came Varvara's short, abrupt laugh.
....'Popka! Popka! Popka!' the parrot dinned back at her.
Sophia stood still in front of me, and looked me straight in the face.
'And you, what did you say?' she asked; 'don't you remember?'