WHEN Foma arrived in the city he was seized with sad, revengeful anger.
He was burning with a passionate desire to insult Medinskaya, to abuse
her. His teeth firmly set together, his hands thrust deep into his
pockets, he walked for a few hours in succession about the deserted
rooms of his house, he sternly knitted his brow, and constantly threw
his chest forward. His breast was too narrow to hold his heart, which
was filled with wrath. He stamped the floor with heavy and measured
steps, as though he were forging his anger.
“The vile wretch--disguised herself as an angel!” Pelageya vividly arose
in his memory, and he whispered malignantly and bitterly:
“Though a fallen woman, she is better. She did not play the hypocrite.
She at once unfolded her soul and her body, and her heart is surely just
as her breast--white and sound.”
Sometimes Hope would whisper timidly in his ear:
“Perhaps all that was said of her was a lie.”
But he recalled the eager certainty of his godfather, and the power
of his words, and this thought perished. He set his teeth more firmly
together and threw his chest still more forward. Evil thoughts like
splinters of wood stuck into his heart, and his heart was shattered by
the acute pain they caused.
By disparaging Medinskaya, Mayakin made her more accessible to his
godson, and Foma soon understood this. A few days passed, and Foma’s
agitated feelings became calm, absorbed by the spring business cares.
The sorrow for the loss of the individual deadened the spite he owed
the woman, and the thought of the woman’s accessibility increased his
passion for her. And somehow, without perceiving it himself, he suddenly
understood and resolved that he ought to go up to Sophya Pavlovna and
tell her plainly, openly, just what he wanted of her--that’s all! He
even felt a certain joy at this resolution, and he boldly started off to
Medinskaya, thinking on the way only how to tell her best all that was
necessary.
The servants of Medinskaya were accustomed to his visits, and to his
question whether the lady was at home the maid replied:
“Please go into the drawing-room. She is there alone.”
He became somewhat frightened, but noticing in the mirror his stately
figure neatly clad with a frock-coat, and his swarthy, serious face in
a frame of a downy black beard, set with large dark eyes--he raised his
shoulders and confidently stepped forward through the parlour. Strange
sounds of a string instrument were calmly floating to meet him;
they seemed to burst into quiet, cheerless laughter, complaining of
something, tenderly stirring the heart, as though imploring it for
attention and having no hopes of getting it. Foma did not like to hear
music--it always filled him with sadness. Even when the “machine” in the
tavern played some sad tune, his heart filled with melancholy anguish,
and he would either ask them to stop the “machine” or would go away some
little distance feeling that he could not listen calmly to these
tunes without words, but full of lamentation and tears. And now he
involuntarily stopped short at the door of the drawing-room.
A curtain of long strings of parti-coloured glass beads hung over the
door. The beads had been strung so as to form a fantastic figure of some
kind of plants; the strings were quietly shaking and it seemed that pale
shadows of flowers were soaring in the air. This transparent curtain did
not hide the inside of the drawing-room from Foma’s eyes. Seated on a
couch in her favourite corner, Medinskaya played the mandolin. A large
Japanese umbrella, fastened up to the wall, shaded the little woman
in black by its mixture of colours; the high bronze lamp under a red
lamp-shade cast on her the light of sunset. The mild sounds of the
slender strings were trembling sadly in the narrow room, which was
filled with soft and fragrant twilight. Now the woman lowered the
mandolin on her knees and began running her fingers over the strings,
also to examine fixedly something before her. Foma heaved a sigh.
A soft sound of music soared about Medinskaya, and her face was forever
changing as though shadows were falling on it, falling and melting away
under the flash of her eyes.
Foma looked at her and saw that when alone she was not quite so
good-looking as in the presence of people--now her face looked
older, more serious--her eyes had not the expression of kindness and
gentleness, they had a rather tired and weary look. And her pose,
too, was weary, as if the woman were about to stir but could not. Foma
noticed that the feeling which prompted him to come to her was now
changing in his heart into some other feeling. He scraped with his foot
along the floor and coughed.
“Who is that?” asked the woman, starting with alarm. And the strings
trembled, issuing an alarmed sound.
“It is I,” said Foma, pushing aside the strings of the beads.
“Ah! But how quietly you’ve entered. I am glad to see you. Be seated!
Why didn’t you come for such a long time?”
Holding out her hand to him, she pointed with the other at a small
armchair beside her, and her eyes were gaily smiling.
“I was out on the bay inspecting my steamers,” said Foma, with
exaggerated ease, moving his armchair nearer to the couch.
“Is there much snow yet on the fields?”
“As much as one may want. But it is already melting considerably. There
is water on the roads everywhere.”
He looked at her and smiled. Evidently Medinskaya noticed the ease of
his behaviour and something new in his smile, for she adjusted her dress
and drew farther away from him. Their eyes met--and Medinskaya lowered
her head.
“Melting!” said she, thoughtfully, examining the ring on her little
finger.
“Ye-es, streams everywhere.” Foma informed her, admiring his boots.
“That’s good. Spring is coming.”
“Now it won’t be delayed long.”
“Spring is coming,” repeated Medinskaya, softly, as if listening to the
sounds of her words.
“People will start to fall in love,” said Foma, with a smile, and for
some reason or other firmly rubbed his hands.
“Are you preparing yourself?” asked Medinskaya, drily.
“I have no need for it. I have been ready long ago. I am already in love
for all my life.”
She cast a glance at him, and started to play again, looking at the
strings and saying pensively:
“Spring. How good it is that you are but beginning to live. The heart is
full of power, and there is nothing dark in it.”
“Sophya Pavlovna!” exclaimed Foma, softly. She interrupted him with a
caressing gesture.
“Wait, dearest! Today I can tell you something good. Do you know, a
person who has lived long has such moments that when he looks into his
heart he unexpectedly finds there something long forgotten. For years it
lay somewhere in the depth of his heart, but lost none of the fragrance
of youth, and when memory touches it, then spring comes over that
person, breathing upon him the vivifying freshness of the morning of his
life. This is good, though it is very sad.”
The strings trembled and wept under the touch of her fingers, and it
seemed to Foma that their sounds and the soft voice of the woman were
touching his heart gently and caressingly. But, still firm in his
decision, he listened to her words and, not knowing their meaning,
thought:
“You may speak! And I won’t believe anything you may say.”
This thought irritated him. And he felt sorry that he could not listen
to her words as attentively and trustfully as before.
“Are you thinking of how it is necessary to live?” asked the woman.
“Sometimes I think of it, and then I forget again. I have no time for
it!” said Foma and smiled. “And then, what is there to think of? It is
simple. You see how others live. Well, consequently, you must imitate
them.”
“Ah, don’t do this! Spare yourself. You are so good! There is something
peculiar in you; what--I do not know. But it can be felt. And it seems
to me, it will be very hard for you to get along in life. I am sure, you
will not go along the usual way of the people of your circle. No! You
cannot be pleased with a life which is wholly devoted to gain, to hunts
after the rouble, to this business of yours. Oh, no! I know, you will
have a desire for something else, will you not?”
She spoke quickly, with a look of alarm in her eyes. Looking at her,
Foma thought:
“What is she driving at?”
And he answered her slowly:
“Perhaps I will have a desire for something else. Perhaps I have it
already.”
Drawing up closer to him, she looked into his face and spoke
convincingly:
“Listen! Do not live like all other people! Arrange your life somehow
differently. You are strong, young. You are good!”
“And if I am good then there must be good for me!” exclaimed Foma,
feeling that he was seized with agitation, and that his heart was
beginning to beat with anxiety.
“Ah, but that is not the case! Here on earth it is worse for the good
people than for the bad ones!” said Medinskaya, sadly.
And again the trembling notes of music began to dance at the touch of
her fingers. Foma felt that if he did not start to say at once what was
necessary, he would tell her nothing later.
“God bless me!” he said to himself, and in a lowered voice,
strengthening his heart, began:
“Sophya Pavlovna! Enough! I have something to say. I have come to tell
you: ‘Enough!’ We must deal fairly, openly. At first you have attracted
me to yourself, and now you are fencing away from me. I cannot
understand what you say. My mind is dull, but I can feel that you wish
to hide yourself. I can see it--do you understand now what brought me
here?”
His eyes began to flash and with each word his voice became warmer and
louder. She moved her body forward and said with alarm:
“Oh, cease.”
“No, I won’t, I will speak!”
“I know what you want to say.”
“You don’t know it all!” said Foma, threateningly, rising to his feet.
“But I know everything about you--everything.”
“Yes? Then the better it is for me,” said Medinskaya, calmly.
She also arose from the couch, as though about to go away somewhere, but
after a few seconds she again seated herself on the couch. Her face was
serious, her lips were tightly compressed, but her eyes were lowered,
and Foma could not see their expression. He thought that when he told
her, “I know everything about you!” she would be frightened, she would
feel ashamed and confused, would ask his forgiveness for having made
sport of him. Then he would embrace her and forgive her. But that was
not the case; it was he who was confused by her calmness. He looked at
her, searching for words to resume his speech, but found them not.
“It is better,” she repeated firmly and drily. “So you have learned
everything, have you? And, of course, you’ve censured me, as I deserve.
I understand. I am guilty before you. But no, I cannot justify myself.”
She became silent and suddenly, lifting her hands with a nervous
gesture, clasped her head, and began to adjust her hair.
Foma heaved a deep sigh. Her words had killed in him a certain hope--a
hope, whose presence in his heart he only felt now that it was dead. And
shaking his head, he said, with bitter reproach:
“There was a time when I looked at you and thought, ‘How beautiful she
is, how good, the dove!’ And now you say yourself, ‘I am guilty.’ Ah!”
The voice of the youth broke down. And the woman began to laugh softly.
“How fine and how ridiculous you are, and what a pity that you cannot
understand all this!”
The youth looked at her, feeling himself disarmed by her caressing words
and melancholy smile. That cold, harsh something, which he had in his
heart against her, was now melting before the warm light of her eyes.
The woman now seemed to him small, defenseless, like a child. She was
saying something in a gentle voice as though imploring, and forever
smiling, but he paid no attention to her words.
“I’ve come to you,” said he, interrupting her words, “without pity. I
meant to tell you everything. And yet I said nothing. I don’t feel like
doing it. My heart sank. You are breathing upon me so strangely. Eh, I
should not have seen you! What are you to me? It would be better for me
to go away, it seems.”
“Wait, dearest, don’t go away!” said the woman, hastily, holding out her
hand to him. “Why so severe? Do not be angry at me! What am I to
you? You need a different friend, a woman just as simple-minded and
sound-souled as you are. She must be gay, healthy. I--I am already an
old woman. I am forever worrying. My life is so empty and so weary, so
empty! Do you know, when a person has grown accustomed to live merrily,
and then cannot be merry, he feels bad! He desires to live cheerfully,
he desires to laugh, yet he does not laugh--it is life that is laughing
at him. And as to men. Listen! Like a mother, I advise you, I beg and
implore you--obey no one except your own heart! Live in accordance with
its promptings. Men know nothing, they cannot tell you anything that is
true. Do not heed them.”
Trying to speak as plainly and intelligibly as possible, she was
agitated, and her words came incoherently hurriedly one after another.
A pitiful smile played on her lips all the time, and her face was not
beautiful.
“Life is very strict. It wants all people to submit to its requests,
and only the very strong ones can resist it with impunity. It is yet
questionable whether they can do it! Oh, if you knew how hard it is to
live. Man goes so far that he begins to fear his own self. He is split
into judge and criminal--he judges his own self and seeks justification
before himself. And he is willing to pass days and nights with those
that despise him, and that are repulsive to him--just to avoid being
alone with himself.”
Foma lifted his head and said distrustfully, with surprise:
“I cannot understand what it is! Lubov also says the same.”
“Which Lubov? What does she say?”
“My foster-sister. She says the same,--she is forever complaining of
life. It is impossible to live, she says.”
“Oh, she is yet young! And it is a great happiness that she already
speaks of this.”
“Happiness!” Foma drawled out mockingly. “It must be a fine happiness
that makes people sigh and complain.”
“You’d better listen to complaints. There is always much wisdom in these
complaints of men. Oh! There is more wisdom in these complaints than
anywhere else. You listen to these,--they will teach you to find your
way.”
Foma heard the woman’s voice, which sounded convincing; and perplexed,
looked about him. Everything had long been familiar to him, but today it
looked somewhat new to him. A mass of trifles filled the room, all
the walls were covered with pictures and shelves, bright and beautiful
objects were staring from every corner. The reddish light of the lamp
filled one with melancholy. Twilight wrapped everything in the room, and
only here and there the gold of the frames, or the white spots of marble
flashed dimly. Heavy fabrics were motionlessly hanging before the doors.
All this embarrassed and almost choked Foma; he felt as though he had
lost his way. He was sorry for the woman. But she also irritated him.
“Do you hear how I speak to you? I wish I were your mother, or your
sister. Never before did anybody awaken in me so warm and kindred a
feeling as you have done. And you, you look at me in such an unfriendly
way. Do you believe me? Yes? No?”
He looked at her and said with a sigh:
“I don’t know. I used to believe you.”
“And now?” she asked hastily.
“And now--it is best for me to go! I don’t understand anything, and yet
I long to understand. I do not even understand myself. On my way to you
I knew what to say, and here all is confused. You have put me up on the
rack, you have set me on edge. And then you tell me--‘I am as a mother
to you’--which means--begone!”
“Understand me, I feel sorry for you!” the woman exclaimed softly.
Foma’s irritation against her was growing stronger and stronger, and as
he went on speaking to her, his words became absurd. While he spoke, he
kept on moving his shoulders as though tearing something that entangled
him.
“Sorry? What for? I do not need it. Eh, I cannot speak well! It is
bad to be dumb. But--I would have told you! You did not treat me
properly--indeed, why have you so enticed a man? Am I a plaything for
you?”
“I only wanted to see you by my side,” said the woman simply, in a
guilty voice.
He did not hear these words.
“And when it came to the point, you were frightened and you shut
yourself off from me. You began to repent. Ha, ha! Life is bad! And why
are you always complaining of some life? What life? Man is life, and
except man there is no life. You have invented some other monster. You
have done this to deceive the eye, to justify yourself. You do some
mischief, you lose yourself in different inventions and foolishnesses
and then you sigh! Ah, life! Oh, life! And have you not done it
yourself? And covering yourself with complaints, you confuse others. You
have lost your way, very well, but why do you want to lead me astray? Is
it wickedness that speaks in you: ‘I feel bad,’ you say, ‘let him also
feel bad--there, I’ll besprinkle his heart with my poisonous tears!’
Isn’t that so? Eh! God has given you the beauty of an angel, but your
heart--where is it?”
Standing before her, he trembled in every limb, and examined her from
head to foot with reproachful looks. Now his words came freely from his
heart, he spoke not loud, but with power and pleasure. Her head raised,
the woman stared into his face, with wide-open eyes. Her lips were
trembling and deep wrinkles appeared at the corners of her mouth.
“A beautiful person should lead a good life. While of you they say
things.” Foma’s voice broke down; he raised his hand and concluded in a
dull voice:
“Goodbye!”
“Goodbye!” said Medinskaya, softly.
He did not give her his hand, but, turning abruptly, he walked away from
her. But already at the door he felt that he was sorry for her, and
he glanced at her across his shoulder. There, in the corner, she stood
alone, her head bent, her hands hanging motionless.
Understanding that he could not leave her thus, he became confused, and
said softly, but without repenting:
“Perhaps I said something offensive--forgive me! For after all I love
you,” and he heaved a deep sigh.
The woman burst into soft, nervous laughter.
“No, you have not offended me. God speed you.”
“Well, then goodbye!” repeated Foma in a still lower voice.
“Yes,” replied the woman, also in a low voice.
Foma pushed aside the strings of beads with his hand; they swung back
noisily and touched his cheeks. He shuddered at this cold touch and went
out, carrying away a heavy, perplexed feeling in his breast, with his
heart beating as though a soft but strong net were cast over it.
It was night by this time; the moon was shining and the frost covered
the puddles with coatings of dull silver. Foma walked along the
sidewalk, he broke these with his cane, and they cracked mournfully. The
shadows of the houses fell on the road in black squares, and the shadows
of the trees--in wonderful patterns. And some of them looked like thin
hands, helplessly clutching the ground.
“What is she doing now?” thought Foma, picturing to himself the woman,
alone, in the corner of a narrow room, in the reddish half-light.
“It is best for me to forget her,” he decided. But he could not forget
her; she stood before him, provoking in him now intense pity, now
irritation and even anger. And her image was so clear, and the thoughts
of her were so painful, as though he was carrying this woman in his
breast. A cab was coming from the opposite side, filling the silence of
the night with the jarring of the wheels on the cobble-stones and with
their creaking on the ice. When the cab was passing across a moonlit
strip, the noise was louder and more brisk, and in the shadows it was
heavier and duller. The driver and the passenger in it were shaking
and hopping about; for some reason or other they both bent forward
and together with the horse formed one big, black mass. The street was
speckled with spots of light and shade, but in the distance the darkness
seemed thick as though the street were fenced off by a wall, rising from
earth to the skies. Somehow it occurred to Foma that these people did
not know whither they were going. And he, too, did not know whither he
was going. His house rose before his imagination--six big rooms, where
he lived alone. Aunt Anfisa had gone to the cloister, perhaps never to
return--she might die there. At home were Ivan, the old deaf dvornik,
the old maid, Sekleteya, his cook and servant, and a black, shaggy dog,
with a snout as blunt as that of a sheat-fish. And the dog, too, was
old.
“Perhaps I really ought to get married,” thought Foma, with a sigh.
But the very thought of how easy it was for him to get married made him
ill at ease, and even ridiculous in his own eyes. It were but necessary
to ask his godfather tomorrow for a bride,--and before a month would
pass, a woman would live with him in his house. And she would be near
him day and night. He would say to her: “Let’s go for a walk!” and she
would go. He would tell her: “Let’s go to sleep!” and again she would
go. Should she desire to kiss him, she would kiss him, even though he
did not like it. And if he should tell her: “Go away, I don’t want it,”
she would feel offended. What would he speak to her about? What would
she tell him? He thought and pictured to himself young ladies of his
acquaintance, daughters of merchants. Some of them were very pretty, and
he knew that any one of them would marry him willingly. But he did not
care to have any of them as his wife. How awkward and shameful it must
be when a girl becomes a wife. And what does the newly-married couple
say to each other after the wedding, in the bedroom? Foma tried to
think what he would say in such a case, and confused, he began to laugh,
finding no appropriate words. Then he recalled Luba Mayakin. She would
surely be first to say something, uttering some unintelligible words,
which were foreign to herself. Somehow it seemed to him that all her
words were foreign, and she did not speak as was proper for a girl of
her age, appearance and descent.
And here his thoughts rested on Lubov’s complaints. His gait became
slower; he was now astounded by the fact that all the people that were
near to him and with whom he talked a great deal, always spoke to him of
life. His father, his aunt, his godfather, Lubov, Sophya Pavlovna, all
these either taught him to understand life, or complained of it. He
recalled the words said by the old man on the steamer about Fate, and
many other remarks on life, reproaches and bitter complaints against it,
which he happened to hear from all sorts of people.
“What does it mean?” he thought, “what is life, if it is not man? And
man always speaks as if life were something else, something outside
of man, and that something hinders him from living. Perhaps it is the
devil?”
A painful feeling of fear fell on the youth; he shuddered and hastily
looked around. The street was deserted and quiet; the dark windows of
the houses stared dimly into the dark of night, and along the walls and
fences Foma’s shadow followed him.
“Driver!” he cried out aloud, quickening his steps. The shadow started
and crawled after him, frightened, black, silent. It seemed to Foma that
there was a cold breath behind him, and that something huge, invisible,
and terrible was overtaking him. Frightened, he almost ran to meet
the cab, which appeared noisily from the darkness, and when he seated
himself in the cab, he dared not look back, though he wished to do so.