At last a letter came from Masha.
"Dear, good M. A." (she wrote), "our kind, gentle 'angel' as the
old painter calls you, farewell; I am going with my father to America
for the exhibition. In a few days I shall see the ocean--so far
from Dubetchnya, it's dreadful to think! It's far and unfathomable
as the sky, and I long to be there in freedom. I am triumphant, I
am mad, and you see how incoherent my letter is. Dear, good one,
give me my freedom, make haste to break the thread, which still
holds, binding you and me together. My meeting and knowing you was
a ray from heaven that lighted up my existence; but my becoming
your wife was a mistake, you understand that, and I am oppressed
now by the consciousness of the mistake, and I beseech you, on my
knees, my generous friend, quickly, quickly, before I start for the
ocean, telegraph that you consent to correct our common mistake,
to remove the solitary stone from my wings, and my father, who will
undertake all the arrangements, promised me not to burden you too
much with formalities. And so I am free to fly whither I will? Yes?
"Be happy, and God bless you; forgive me, a sinner.
"I am well, I am wasting money, doing all sorts of silly things,
and I thank God every minute that such a bad woman as I has no
children. I sing and have success, but it's not an infatuation; no,
it's my haven, my cell to which I go for peace. King David had a
ring with an inscription on it: 'All things pass.' When one is sad
those words make one cheerful, and when one is cheerful it makes
one sad. I have got myself a ring like that with Hebrew letters on
it, and this talisman keeps me from infatuations. All things pass,
life will pass, one wants nothing. Or at least one wants nothing
but the sense of freedom, for when anyone is free, he wants nothing,
nothing, nothing. Break the thread. A warm hug to you and your
sister. Forgive and forget your M."
My sister used to lie down in one room, and Radish, who had been
ill again and was now better, in another. Just at the moment when
I received this letter my sister went softly into the painter's
room, sat down beside him and began reading aloud. She read to him
every day, Ostrovsky or Gogol, and he listened, staring at one
point, not laughing, but shaking his head and muttering to himself
from time to time:
"Anything may happen! Anything may happen!"
If anything ugly or unseemly were depicted in the play he would say
as though vindictively, thrusting his finger into the book:
"There it is, lying! That's what it does, lying does."
The plays fascinated him, both from their subjects and their moral,
and from their skilful, complex construction, and he marvelled at
"him," never calling the author by his name. How neatly _he_ has
put it all together.
This time my sister read softly only one page, and could read no
more: her voice would not last out. Radish took her hand and, moving
his parched lips, said, hardly audibly, in a husky voice:
"The soul of a righteous man is white and smooth as chalk, but the
soul of a sinful man is like pumice stone. The soul of a righteous
man is like clear oil, but the soul of a sinful man is gas tar. We
must labour, we must sorrow, we must suffer sickness," he went on,
"and he who does not labour and sorrow will not gain the Kingdom
of Heaven. Woe, woe to them that are well fed, woe to the mighty,
woe to the rich, woe to the moneylenders! Not for them is the Kingdom
of Heaven. Lice eat grass, rust eats iron. . ."
"And lying the soul," my sister added laughing. I read the letter
through once more. At that moment there walked into the kitchen a
soldier who had been bringing us twice a week parcels of tea, French
bread and game, which smelt of scent, from some unknown giver. I
had no work. I had had to sit at home idle for whole days together,
and probably whoever sent us the French bread knew that we were in
want.
I heard my sister talking to the soldier and laughing gaily. Then,
lying down, she ate some French bread and said to me:
"When you wouldn't go into the service, but became a house painter,
Anyuta Blagovo and I knew from the beginning that you were right,
but we were frightened to say so aloud. Tell me what force is it
that hinders us from saying what one thinks? Take Anyuta Blagovo
now, for instance. She loves you, she adores you, she knows you are
right, she loves me too, like a sister, and knows that I am right,
and I daresay in her soul envies me, but some force prevents her
from coming to see us, she shuns us, she is afraid."
My sister crossed her arms over her breast, and said passionately:
"How she loves you, if only you knew! She has confessed her love
to no one but me, and then very secretly in the dark. She led me
into a dark avenue in the garden, and began whispering how precious
you were to her. You will see, she'll never marry, because she loves
you. Are you sorry for her?"
"Yes."
"It's she who has sent the bread. She is absurd really, what is the
use of being so secret? I used to be absurd and foolish, but now I
have got away from that and am afraid of nobody. I think and say
aloud what I like, and am happy. When I lived at home I hadn't a
conception of happiness, and now I wouldn't change with a queen."
Dr. Blagovo arrived. He had taken his doctor's degree, and was now
staying in our town with his father; he was taking a rest, and said
that he would soon go back to Petersburg again. He wanted to study
anti-toxins against typhus, and, I believe, cholera; he wanted to
go abroad to perfect his training, and then to be appointed a
professor. He had already left the army service, and wore a roomy
serge reefer jacket, very full trousers, and magnificent neckties.
My sister was in ecstasies over his scarfpin, his studs, and the
red silk handkerchief which he wore, I suppose from foppishness,
sticking out of the breast pocket of his jacket. One day, having
nothing to do, she and I counted up all the suits we remembered him
wearing, and came to the conclusion that he had at least ten. It
was clear that he still loved my sister as before, but he never
once even in jest spoke of taking her with him to Petersburg or
abroad, and I could not picture to myself clearly what would become
of her if she remained alive and what would become of her child.
She did nothing but dream endlessly, and never thought seriously
of the future; she said he might go where he liked, and might abandon
her even, so long as he was happy himself; that what had been was
enough for her.
As a rule he used to sound her very carefully on his arrival, and
used to insist on her taking milk and drops in his presence. It was
the same on this occasion. He sounded her and made her drink a glass
of milk, and there was a smell of creosote in our room afterwards.
"That's a good girl," he said, taking the glass from her. "You
mustn't talk too much now; you've taken to chattering like a magpie
of late. Please hold your tongue."
She laughed. Then he came into Radish's room where I was sitting
and affectionately slapped me on the shoulder.
"Well, how goes it, old man?" he said, bending down to the invalid.
"Your honour," said Radish, moving his lips slowly, "your honour,
I venture to submit. . . . We all walk in the fear of God, we all
have to die. . . . Permit me to tell you the truth. . . . Your
honour, the Kingdom of Heaven will not be for you!"
"There's no help for it," the doctor said jestingly; "there must
be somebody in hell, you know."
And all at once something happened with my consciousness; as though
I were in a dream, as though I were standing on a winter night in
the slaughterhouse yard, and Prokofy beside me, smelling of pepper
cordial; I made an effort to control myself, and rubbed my eyes,
and at once it seemed to me that I was going along the road to the
interview with the Governor. Nothing of the sort had happened to
me before, or has happened to me since, and these strange memories
that were like dreams, I ascribed to overexhaustion of my nerves.
I lived through the scene at the slaughterhouse, and the interview
with the Governor, and at the same time was dimly aware that it was
not real.
When I came to myself I saw that I was no longer in the house, but
in the street, and was standing with the doctor near a lamp-post.
"It's sad, it's sad," he was saying, and tears were trickling down
his cheeks. "She is in good spirits, she's always laughing and
hopeful, but her position's hopeless, dear boy. Your Radish hates
me, and is always trying to make me feel that I have treated her
badly. He is right from his standpoint, but I have my point of view
too; and I shall never regret all that has happened. One must love;
we ought all to love--oughtn't we? There would be no life without
love; anyone who fears and avoids love is not free."
Little by little he passed to other subjects, began talking of
science, of his dissertation which had been liked in Petersburg.
He was carried away by his subject, and no longer thought of my
sister, nor of his grief, nor of me. Life was of absorbing interest
to him. She has America and her ring with the inscription on it, I
thought, while this fellow has his doctor's degree and a professor's
chair to look forward to, and only my sister and I are left with
the old things.
When I said good-bye to him, I went up to the lamp-post and read
the letter once more. And I remembered, I remembered vividly how
that spring morning she had come to me at the mill, lain down and
covered herself with her jacket--she wanted to be like a simple
peasant woman. And how, another time--it was in the morning also
--we drew the net out of the water, and heavy drops of rain fell
upon us from the riverside willows, and we laughed.
It was dark in our house in Great Dvoryansky Street. I got over the
fence and, as I used to do in the old days, went by the back way
to the kitchen to borrow a lantern. There was no one in the kitchen.
The samovar hissed near the stove, waiting for my father. "Who pours
out my father's tea now?" I thought. Taking the lantern I went out
to the shed, built myself up a bed of old newspapers and lay down.
The hooks on the walls looked forbidding, as they used to of old,
and their shadows flickered. It was cold. I felt that my sister
would come in in a minute, and bring me supper, but at once I
remembered that she was ill and was lying at Radish's, and it seemed
to me strange that I should have climbed over the fence and be lying
here in this unheated shed. My mind was in a maze, and I saw all
sorts of absurd things.
There was a ring. A ring familiar from childhood: first the wire
rustled against the wall, then a short plaintive ring in the kitchen.
It was my father come back from the club. I got up and went into
the kitchen. Axinya the cook clasped her hands on seeing me, and
for some reason burst into tears.
"My own!" she said softly. "My precious! O Lord!"
And she began crumpling up her apron in her agitation. In the window
there were standing jars of berries in vodka. I poured myself out
a teacupful and greedily drank it off, for I was intensely thirsty.
Axinya had quite recently scrubbed the table and benches, and there
was that smell in the kitchen which is found in bright, snug kitchens
kept by tidy cooks. And that smell and the chirp of the cricket
used to lure us as children into the kitchen, and put us in the
mood for hearing fairy tales and playing at "Kings" . . .
"Where's Kleopatra?" Axinya asked softly, in a fluster, holding her
breath; "and where is your cap, my dear? Your wife, you say, has
gone to Petersburg?"
She had been our servant in our mother's time, and used once to
give Kleopatra and me our baths, and to her we were still children
who had to be talked to for their good. For a quarter of an hour
or so she laid before me all the reflections which she had with the
sagacity of an old servant been accumulating in the stillness of
that kitchen, all the time since we had seen each other. She said
that the doctor could be forced to marry Kleopatra; he only needed
to be thoroughly frightened; and that if an appeal were promptly
written the bishop would annul the first marriage; that it would
be a good thing for me to sell Dubetchnya without my wife's knowledge,
and put the money in the bank in my own name; that if my sister and
I were to bow down at my father's feet and ask him properly, he
might perhaps forgive us; that we ought to have a service sung to
the Queen of Heaven. . . .
"Come, go along, my dear, and speak to him," she said, when she
heard my father's cough. "Go along, speak to him; bow down, your
head won't drop off."
I went in. My father was sitting at the table sketching a plan of
a summer villa, with Gothic windows, and with a fat turret like a
fireman's watch tower--something peculiarly stiff and tasteless.
Going into the study I stood still where I could see this drawing.
I did not know why I had gone in to my father, but I remember that
when I saw his lean face, his red neck, and his shadow on the wall,
I wanted to throw myself on his neck, and as Axinya had told me,
bow down at his feet; but the sight of the summer villa with the
Gothic windows, and the fat turret, restrained me.
"Good evening," I said.
He glanced at me, and at once dropped his eyes on his drawing.
"What do you want?" he asked, after waiting a little.
"I have come to tell you my sister's very ill. She can't live very
long," I added in a hollow voice.
"Well," sighed my father, taking off his spectacles, and laying
them on the table. "What thou sowest that shalt thou reap. What
thou sowest," he repeated, getting up from the table, "that shalt
thou reap. I ask you to remember how you came to me two years ago,
and on this very spot I begged you, I besought you to give up your
errors; I reminded you of your duty, of your honour, of what you
owed to your forefathers whose traditions we ought to preserve as
sacred. Did you obey me? You scorned my counsels, and obstinately
persisted in clinging to your false ideals; worse still you drew
your sister into the path of error with you, and led her to lose
her moral principles and sense of shame. Now you are both in a bad
way. Well, as thou sowest, so shalt thou reap!"
As he said this he walked up and down the room. He probably imagined
that I had come to him to confess my wrong doings, and he probably
expected that I should begin begging him to forgive my sister and
me. I was cold, I was shivering as though I were in a fever, and
spoke with difficulty in a husky voice.
"And I beg you, too, to remember," I said, "on this very spot I
besought you to understand me, to reflect, to decide with me how
and for what we should live, and in answer you began talking about
our forefathers, about my grandfather who wrote poems. One tells
you now that your only daughter is hopelessly ill, and you go on
again about your forefathers, your traditions. . . . And such
frivolity in your old age, when death is close at hand, and you
haven't more than five or ten years left!"
"What have you come here for?" my father asked sternly, evidently
offended at my reproaching him for his frivolity.
"I don't know. I love you, I am unutterably sorry that we are so
far apart--so you see I have come. I love you still, but my sister
has broken with you completely. She does not forgive you, and will
never forgive you now. Your very name arouses her aversion for the
past, for life."
"And who is to blame for it?" cried my father. "It's your fault,
you scoundrel!"
"Well, suppose it is my fault?" I said. "I admit I have been to
blame in many things, but why is it that this life of yours, which
you think binding upon us, too--why is it so dreary, so barren?
How is it that in not one of these houses you have been building
for the last thirty years has there been anyone from whom I might
have learnt how to live, so as not to be to blame? There is not one
honest man in the whole town! These houses of yours are nests of
damnation, where mothers and daughters are made away with, where
children are tortured. . . . My poor mother!" I went on in despair.
"My poor sister! One has to stupefy oneself with vodka, with cards,
with scandal; one must become a scoundrel, a hypocrite, or go on
drawing plans for years and years, so as not to notice all the
horrors that lie hidden in these houses. Our town has existed for
hundreds of years, and all that time it has not produced one man
of service to our country--not one. You have stifled in the germ
everything in the least living and bright. It's a town of shopkeepers,
publicans, counting-house clerks, canting hypocrites; it's a useless,
unnecessary town, which not one soul would regret if it suddenly
sank through the earth."
"I don't want to listen to you, you scoundrel!" said my father, and
he took up his ruler from the table. "You are drunk. Don't dare
come and see your father in such a state! I tell you for the last
time, and you can repeat it to your depraved sister, that you'll
get nothing from me, either of you. I have torn my disobedient
children out of my heart, and if they suffer for their disobedience
and obstinacy I do not pity them. You can go whence you came. It
has pleased God to chastise me with you, but I will bear the trial
with resignation, and, like Job, I will find consolation in my
sufferings and in unremitting labour. You must not cross my threshold
till you have mended your ways. I am a just man, all I tell you is
for your benefit, and if you desire your own good you ought to
remember all your life what I say and have said to you. . . ."
I waved my hand in despair and went away. I don't remember what
happened afterwards, that night and next day.
I am told that I walked about the streets bareheaded, staggering,
and singing aloud, while a crowd of boys ran after me, shouting:
"Better-than-nothing!"