While on his way to Masha to take part in her birthday celebration, the
thought occurred to Yevsey:
"I am going to get acquainted with the joiner to-day. He's a
revolutionist."
Yevsey was the first guest to arrive. He gave Masha a string of blue
beads, and Anfisa a shell comb. In return for the gifts, with which both
were greatly pleased, they treated him to tea and nalivka (a sort of
wine made of berries with whiskey or water). Masha prettily arching her
full white neck looked into his face with a kind smile. Her glance
softly caressed his heart, enlivened and emboldened him. Anfisa poured
the tea and said winking her eyes:
"Well, merchant, you are our generous donor. When will we celebrate your
wedding?"
Yevsey trying not to show his embarrassment, said quietly and
confidingly:
"I cannot decide to get married. It's very hard."
"Hard? Oh, you modest man! Marya, do you hear? He says it's hard to get
married."
Masha smiled in answer to the cook's loud laugh, looking at Klimkov from
the corner of her eyes.
"Maybe he has his own meaning of hard."
"Yes, I have my own meaning," said Yevsey, raising his head. "You see I
am thinking of the fact that it is hard to find a person with whom you
can live soul to soul, so that the one would not fear the other. It is
hard to find a person whom you could believe."
Masha sat beside him. He glanced sidewise at her neck and breast, and
sighed.
"Suppose I were to tell them where I work."
He started, frightened by the desire, and with a quick effort he
suppressed it.
"If a man does not understand life," he continued, raising his voice,
"it's better for him to remain alone."
"For one person to live all alone is hard, too," said Masha, pouring out
another glass of nalivka for him. "Drink."
Yevsey longed to speak much and openly. He observed that the women
listened to him willingly; and this in conjunction with the two glasses
of wine aroused him. But the journalist's servant girl Liza, who came in
at that moment also excited, at once usurped the attention of Anfisa and
Masha. She was bony and had a cast in one eye. Her hair was handsomely
dressed, and she was cleverly gowned. With her sprightly manner she
seemed a good forward little girl.
"My good people invited guests for to-day, and did not want to let me
go," she said sitting down. "'Well,' said I, 'you can do as you please.'
And I went off. Let them bother themselves."
"Many guests?" Klimkov asked wearily, remembering his duty.
"A good many. But what sort of guests! Not one of them ever sticks a
dime into your hand. On New Year's all I got was two rubles and thirty
kopeks."
"So they're not rich?" asked Yevsey.
"Oh, rich! No! Not one of them has a whole overshoe."
"Who are they? What's their business?"
"Different things. Some write for the newspapers, another is simply a
student. Oh, what a good fellow one of them is! He has black eyebrows,
and curly hair, and a cute little mustache, white, even teeth--a lively,
jolly fellow. He came from Siberia not long ago. He keeps talking about
hunting."
Yevsey looked at Liza, and bent his head. He wanted to say "Stop!" to
her. Instead he apathetically asked, "I suppose he must have been
exiled."
"Who can tell? Maybe. My master and mistress were exiles, too. The
sergeant told me so."
"Yes, who nowadays hasn't been an exile?" exclaimed the cook. "I lived
at Popov's, an engineer, a rich man. He had his own house and horses and
was getting ready to marry. Suddenly the gendarmes came at night, seized
him, and broke up everything, and then he was sent off to Siberia."
"I don't condemn my people," Liza interrupted, "not a bit of it. They
are good folks. They don't scold. They're not grasping. Altogether
they're not like other people. And they're very interesting. They know
everything and speak about everything."
Yevsey looked at Masha's ruddy face, and thought:
"I'd better go; I'll ask her about her master next time. But I can't
make up my mind to go. If only she kept quiet, the silly!"
"Our people understand everything, too," Masha announced with pride.
"When that affair happened, that revolt in St. Petersburg," Liza began
with animation, "they stayed up nights at a time talking."
"Why our people were in your house then," observed the nurse.
"Yes, indeed, there were lots of people at the house. They talked, and
wrote complaints. One of them even began to cry. Upon my word!"
"There's enough to cry about," sighed the cook.
"He clutched his head, and sobbed. 'Unhappy Russia!' he said, 'Unhappy
people that we are!' They gave him water, and even I got sorry for
everybody, and began to cry."
Masha looked around frightened.
"God, when I think of my sister!" She rose and went into the cook's
room. The women looked after her sympathetically. Klimkov sighed with
relief. Against his will he asked Liza wearily and with an effort:
"To whom did they write complaints?"
"I don't know," answered Liza.
"Marya went off to cry," remarked the cook.
The door opened, and the cook's brother entered coughing.
"It's chilly," he said, untwisting the scarf from his neck.
"Here, take a drink, quick!"
"Yes, indeed. And here's health to you."
He was a thin person, who moved about freely and deliberately. The
gravity of his voice did not accord very well with his small light beard
and his sharp, somewhat bald skull. His face was small, thin,
insignificant, his eyes, large and hazel.
"A revolutionist," was Yevsey's mental observation, as he silently
pressed the joiner's hand.
"Time for me to be going," he announced unexpectedly to everybody.
"Where to?" cried Anfisa, unceremoniously seizing his hand. "Say, you
merchant, don't break up our company. Look, Matvey, what a present he
gave me."
Zimin looked at Yevsey, and said thoughtfully:
"Yesterday they got another order in our factory for fifteen thousand
rubles. A drawing-room, a cabinet, a bed-room, and a salon--four rooms.
All the orders come from the military. They stole a whole lot of money,
and now they want to live after the latest fashion."
"There you are!" Yevsey exclaimed mentally, vexed and heated. "Begins
the minute he comes in! Oh, Lord!"
He felt a painful ache in his chest, as if something inside him had been
torn. Without thinking of what his question would lead to, he quickly
asked the joiner:
"Are there any revolutionists in the factory?"
As if touched to the quick, Zimin quickly turned to him, and looked into
his eyes. The cook frowned, and said in a voice dissatisfied but not
loud:
"They say revolutionists are everywhere nowadays."
"From smartness or stupidity?" asked Liza.
Unable to withstand the hard searching look of the joiner, Klimkov
slowly bowed his head, though he followed the workingman with a sidelong
glance.
"Why does that interest you?" Zimin inquired politely but sternly.
"I have no interest in it," Yevsey answered lazily.
"Ah! Then why do you ask?"
"Just so," said Yevsey; and in a few seconds added, "Out of politeness."
The joiner smiled.
It seemed to Yevsey that three pairs of eyes were looking at him
suspiciously and severely. He felt awkward, and something bitter nipped
his throat. Masha came out of the cook's room, smiling guiltily. When
she looked at the others' faces, the smile disappeared.
"What's the matter?"
"It's the wine," flashed through Yevsey's mind. He rose to his feet,
shook himself, and said. "Don't think I asked for no reason at all. I
asked because I wanted to tell her long ago--your sister--about you."
Zimin also rose. His face gathered in wrinkles, and turned yellow.
"What can you tell her about me?" he asked with calm dignity.
Masha's quiet whisper reached Yevsey's ear. "What's up between them?"
"Wait," said Anfisa.
"I know," said Yevsey. He had the sensation that he was being swung from
the floor into the air light as a feather. He seemed to see everything,
observe everything with marvellous plainness. "I know you're being
followed--followed by the agents of the Department of Safety, I know
you're a revolutionist."
The cook shook in her chair, crying out in astonishment and fright:
"Matvey, what does this mean?"
"Excuse me," said Zimin, passing his hand reassuringly before her face.
"This is a serious matter." Then he said to Yevsey in a decided stern
tone, "Young man, put your overcoat on. You must go home. And I, too,
must go. Put your overcoat on."
Yevsey smiled. He still felt empty and light. It was a pleasant
sensation, but his eyes were dim, and the caustic tickling taste in his
mouth came back again. He scarcely realized how he walked away, but he
did not forget that all were silent, and no one said good-by to him.
In the street Zimin nudged his shoulder, and said not aloud but
emphatically:
"I beg you not to come to my sister any more."
"Why? Did I offend you?" asked Yevsey.
"No, not in the least."
"Why, then?"
"Who are you?"
"A peddler."
"Then how do you know what I am, and that I am being followed?"
"An acquaintance told me."
"A spy?"
"Yes."
"So? And you are a spy, too?"
"No," said Yevsey. But looking into Zimin's lean, pale face, he
remembered the calm and dull sound of his voice, and without an effort
corrected himself. "Yes, I, too."
They walked a few steps in silence.
"Well, go," said Zimin, suddenly halting. His voice sounded subdued and
sorrowful. He shook his head strangely. "Go away."
Yevsey leaned his back against the enclosure, and gazed at the man,
blinking his eyes. Zimin, too, looked at Yevsey, shaking his right hand.
"Why?" said Yevsey, in perplexity. "Didn't I tell you the truth? That
you are being tracked?"
"Well?"
"And you are angry?"
Zimin bent toward him, and poured a wave of hissing words upon Klimkov.
"Yes, go to the devil! I know without you that they are tracking me.
What's the matter? Is business going badly among you? Did you think
you'd buy me? And betray people behind my back? Or did you want to throw
a sop to your conscience? Go to hell! I say, go, or else I'll give you a
black eye."
Yevsey started from his leaning posture, and walked off.
"Vermin!" he heard breathed behind him contemptuously.
Klimkov stopped, turned around, and for the first time swore at anybody
with the whole power of his voice:
"Vermin yourself! You ---- ---- cur!"
Zimin did not rejoin. His steps were inaudible. Somewhere Yevsey heard
the snow crunching under the runners of a cab and the grinding of iron
on stone.
"He went back there," thought Klimkov, walking slowly along the
pavement. "He will tell. Masha will curse me." He spat out, then hummed:
"Oh, garden, garden mine!" He stopped at a lamp-post, feeling he had to
calm himself.
"Here I am, and I can sing if I want to. If a policeman hears it and
asks, 'What are you bawling there?' I'll show him my ticket from the
Department of Safety. 'Oh, excuse me!' he'll say. But if the joiner
should sing, he'll be hustled off to the station-house, and they'll give
him a cudgelling. 'Don't disturb the peace!'" Klimkov smiled, and peered
into the darkness. "Well, brother, won't you strike up a song?"
However this failed to calm him as he had expected. His heart was sad,
and a bitter soapy saliva seemed to be glued in his mouth, making tears
well up in his eyes.
"O Ga-a-a-arden, ga-a-a-arden mine!
Green is this garden of mine."
He sang with the full power of his lungs, shutting his eyes tight. This
did not help either. The dry, prickly tears trickled through his lids,
and chilled his cheeks.
"Ky-a-b!" Klimkov called in a low voice, still trying to put on a bold
front. But when he had seated himself in the sleigh, his body grew
faint, as if a great many tightly drawn fibres had suddenly burst within
him. His head drooped, and swaying from side to side in his seat he
mumbled:
"A fine insult--very strong--thank you! Oh, you good people, wise
people--"
This complaining was pleasant. It filled his heart with drunken
sweetness. Yevsey had often felt this sweetness in his childhood. It set
him in a martyr-like attitude toward people, and made him more
significant to himself.