"I ADMIT I have had a drop. . . . You must excuse me. I went into
a beer shop on the way here, and as it was so hot had a couple of
bottles. It's hot, my boy."
Old Musatov took a nondescript rag out of his pocket and wiped his
shaven, battered face with it.
"I have come only for a minute, Borenka, my angel," he went on, not
looking at his son, "about something very important. Excuse me,
perhaps I am hindering you. Haven't you ten roubles, my dear, you
could let me have till Tuesday? You see, I ought to have paid for
my lodging yesterday, and money, you see! . . . None! Not to save
my life!"
Young Musatov went out without a word, and began whispering the
other side of the door with the landlady of the summer villa and
his colleagues who had taken the villa with him. Three minutes later
he came back, and without a word gave his father a ten-rouble note.
The latter thrust it carelessly into his pocket without looking at
it, and said:
"_Merci._ Well, how are you getting on? It's a long time since we
met."
"Yes, a long time, not since Easter."
"Half a dozen times I have been meaning to come to you, but I've
never had time. First one thing, then another. . . . It's simply
awful! I am talking nonsense though. . . . All that's nonsense.
Don't you believe me, Borenka. I said I would pay you back the ten
roubles on Tuesday, don't believe that either. Don't believe a word
I say. I have nothing to do at all, it's simply laziness, drunkenness,
and I am ashamed to be seen in such clothes in the street. You must
excuse me, Borenka. Here I have sent the girl to you three times
for money and written you piteous letters. Thanks for the money,
but don't believe the letters; I was telling fibs. I am ashamed to
rob you, my angel; I know that you can scarcely make both ends meet
yourself, and feed on locusts, but my impudence is too much for me.
I am such a specimen of impudence--fit for a show! . . . You must
excuse me, Borenka. I tell you the truth, because I can't see your
angel face without emotion."
A minute passed in silence. The old man heaved a deep sigh and said:
"You might treat me to a glass of beer perhaps."
His son went out without a word, and again there was a sound of
whispering the other side of the door. When a little later the beer
was brought in, the old man seemed to revive at the sight of the
bottles and abruptly changed his tone.
"I was at the races the other day, my boy," he began telling him,
assuming a scared expression. "We were a party of three, and we
pooled three roubles on Frisky. And, thanks to that Frisky, we got
thirty-two roubles each for our rouble. I can't get on without the
races, my boy. It's a gentlemanly diversion. My virago always gives
me a dressing over the races, but I go. I love it, and that's all
about it."
Boris, a fair-haired young man with a melancholy immobile face, was
walking slowly up and down, listening in silence. When the old man
stopped to clear his throat, he went up to him and said:
"I bought myself a pair of boots the other day, father, which turn
out to be too tight for me. Won't you take them? I'll let you have
them cheap."
"If you like," said the old man with a grimace, "only for the price
you gave for them, without any cheapening."
"Very well, I'll let you have them on credit."
The son groped under the bed and produced the new boots. The father
took off his clumsy, rusty, evidently second-hand boots and began
trying on the new ones.
"A perfect fit," he said. "Right, let me keep them. And on Tuesday,
when I get my pension, I'll send you the money for them. That's not
true, though," he went on, suddenly falling into the same tearful
tone again. "And it was a lie about the races, too, and a lie about
the pension. And you are deceiving me, Borenka. . . . I feel your
generous tactfulness. I see through you! Your boots were too small,
because your heart is too big. Ah, Borenka, Borenka! I understand
it all and feel it!"
"Have you moved into new lodgings?" his son interrupted, to change
the conversation.
"Yes, my boy. I move every month. My virago can't stay long in the
same place with her temper."
"I went to your lodgings, I meant to ask you to stay here with me.
In your state of health it would do you good to be in the fresh
air."
"No," said the old man, with a wave of his hand, "the woman wouldn't
let me, and I shouldn't care to myself. A hundred times you have
tried to drag me out of the pit, and I have tried myself, but nothing
came of it. Give it up. I must stick in my filthy hole. This minute,
here I am sitting, looking at your angel face, yet something is
drawing me home to my hole. Such is my fate. You can't draw a
dung-beetle to a rose. But it's time I was going, my boy. It's
getting dark."
"Wait a minute then, I'll come with you. I have to go to town to-day
myself."
Both put on their overcoats and went out. When a little while
afterwards they were driving in a cab, it was already dark, and
lights began to gleam in the windows.
"I've robbed you, Borenka!" the father muttered. "Poor children,
poor children! It must be a dreadful trouble to have such a father!
Borenka, my angel, I cannot lie when I see your face. You must
excuse me. . . . What my depravity has come to, my God. Here I have
just been robbing you, and put you to shame with my drunken state;
I am robbing your brothers, too, and put them to shame, and you
should have seen me yesterday! I won't conceal it, Borenka. Some
neighbours, a wretched crew, came to see my virago; I got drunk,
too, with them, and I blackguarded you poor children for all I was
worth. I abused you, and complained that you had abandoned me. I
wanted, you see, to touch the drunken hussies' hearts, and pose as
an unhappy father. It's my way, you know, when I want to screen my
vices I throw all the blame on my innocent children. I can't tell
lies and hide things from you, Borenka. I came to see you as proud
as a peacock, but when I saw your gentleness and kind heart, my
tongue clave to the roof of my mouth, and it upset my conscience
completely."
"Hush, father, let's talk of something else."
"Mother of God, what children I have," the old man went on, not
heeding his son. "What wealth God has bestowed on me. Such children
ought not to have had a black sheep like me for a father, but a
real man with soul and feeling! I am not worthy of you!"
The old man took off his cap with a button at the top and crossed
himself several times.
"Thanks be to Thee, O Lord!" he said with a sigh, looking from side
to side as though seeking for an ikon. "Remarkable, exceptional
children! I have three sons, and they are all like one. Sober,
steady, hard-working, and what brains! Cabman, what brains! Grigory
alone has brains enough for ten. He speaks French, he speaks German,
and talks better than any of your lawyers--one is never tired of
listening. My children, my children, I can't believe that you are
mine! I can't believe it! You are a martyr, my Borenka, I am ruining
you, and I shall go on ruining you. . . . You give to me endlessly,
though you know your money is thrown away. The other day I sent you
a pitiful letter, I described how ill I was, but you know I was
lying, I wanted the money for rum. And you give to me because you
are afraid to wound me by refusing. I know all that, and feel it.
Grisha's a martyr, too. On Thursday I went to his office, drunk,
filthy, ragged, reeking of vodka like a cellar . . . I went straight
up, such a figure, I pestered him with nasty talk, while his
colleagues and superiors and petitioners were standing round. I
have disgraced him for life. And he wasn't the least confused, only
turned a bit pale, but smiled and came up to me as though there
were nothing the matter, even introduced me to his colleagues. Then
he took me all the way home, and not a word of reproach. I rob him
worse than you. Take your brother Sasha now, he's a martyr too! He
married, as you know, a colonel's daughter of an aristocratic circle,
and got a dowry with her. . . . You would think he would have nothing
to do with me. No, brother, after his wedding he came with his young
wife and paid me the first visit . . . in my hole. . . . Upon my
soul!"
The old man gave a sob and then began laughing.
"And at that moment, as luck would have it, we were eating grated
radish with kvass and frying fish, and there was a stink enough in
the flat to make the devil sick. I was lying down--I'd had a drop
--my virago bounced out at the young people with her face crimson,
. . . It was a disgrace in fact. But Sasha rose superior to it all."
"Yes, our Sasha is a good fellow," said Boris.
"The most splendid fellow! You are all pure gold, you and Grisha
and Sasha and Sonya. I worry you, torment you, disgrace you, rob
you, and all my life I have not heard one word of reproach from
you, you have never given me one cross look. It would be all very
well if I had been a decent father to you--but as it is! You have
had nothing from me but harm. I am a bad, dissipated man. . . .
Now, thank God, I am quieter and I have no strength of will, but
in old days when you were little I had determination, will. Whatever
I said or did I always thought it was right. Sometimes I'd come
home from the club at night, drunk and ill-humoured, and scold at
your poor mother for spending money. The whole night I would be
railing at her, and think it the right thing too; you would get up
in the morning and go to school, while I'd still be venting my
temper upon her. Heavens! I did torture her, poor martyr! When you
came back from school and I was asleep you didn't dare to have
dinner till I got up. At dinner again there would be a flare up. I
daresay you remember. I wish no one such a father; God sent me to
you for a trial. Yes, for a trial! Hold out, children, to the end!
Honour thy father and thy days shall be long. Perhaps for your noble
conduct God will grant you long life. Cabman, stop!"
The old man jumped out of the cab and ran into a tavern. Half an
hour later he came back, cleared his throat in a drunken way, and
sat down beside his son.
"Where's Sonya now?" he asked. "Still at boarding-school?"
"No, she left in May, and is living now with Sasha's mother-in-law."
"There!" said the old man in surprise. "She is a jolly good girl!
So she is following her brother's example. . . . Ah, Borenka, she
has no mother, no one to rejoice over her! I say, Borenka, does she
. . . does she know how I am living? Eh?"
Boris made no answer. Five minutes passed in profound silence. The
old man gave a sob, wiped his face with a rag and said:
"I love her, Borenka! She is my only daughter, you know, and in
one's old age there is no comfort like a daughter. Could I see her,
Borenka?"
"Of course, when you like."
"Really? And she won't mind?"
"Of course not, she has been trying to find you so as to see you."
"Upon my soul! What children! Cabman, eh? Arrange it, Borenka
darling! She is a young lady now, _delicatesse, consommé_, and all
the rest of it in a refined way, and I don't want to show myself
to her in such an abject state. I'll tell you how we'll contrive
to work it. For three days I will keep away from spirits, to get
my filthy, drunken phiz into better order. Then I'll come to you,
and you shall lend me for the time some suit of yours; I'll shave
and have my hair cut, then you go and bring her to your flat. Will
you?"
"Very well."
"Cabman, stop!"
The old man sprang out of the cab again and ran into a tavern. While
Boris was driving with him to his lodging he jumped out twice again,
while his son sat silent and waited patiently for him. When, after
dismissing the cab, they made their way across a long, filthy yard
to the "virago's" lodging, the old man put on an utterly shamefaced
and guilty air, and began timidly clearing his throat and clicking
with his lips.
"Borenka," he said in an ingratiating voice, "if my virago begins
saying anything, don't take any notice . . . and behave to her, you
know, affably. She is ignorant and impudent, but she's a good
baggage. There is a good, warm heart beating in her bosom!"
The long yard ended, and Boris found himself in a dark entry. The
swing door creaked, there was a smell of cooking and a smoking
samovar. There was a sound of harsh voices. Passing through the
passage into the kitchen Boris could see nothing but thick smoke,
a line with washing on it, and the chimney of the samovar through
a crack of which golden sparks were dropping.
"And here is my cell," said the old man, stooping down and going
into a little room with a low-pitched ceiling, and an atmosphere
unbearably stifling from the proximity of the kitchen.
Here three women were sitting at the table regaling themselves.
Seeing the visitors, they exchanged glances and left off eating.
"Well, did you get it?" one of them, apparently the "virago" herself,
asked abruptly.
"Yes, yes," muttered the old man. "Well, Boris, pray sit down.
Everything is plain here, young man . . . we live in a simple way."
He bustled about in an aimless way. He felt ashamed before his son,
and at the same time apparently he wanted to keep up before the
women his dignity as cock of the walk, and as a forsaken, unhappy
father.
"Yes, young man, we live simply with no nonsense," he went on
muttering. "We are simple people, young man. . . . We are not like
you, we don't want to keep up a show before people. No! . . . Shall
we have a drink of vodka?"
One of the women (she was ashamed to drink before a stranger) heaved
a sigh and said:
"Well, I'll have another drink on account of the mushrooms. . . .
They are such mushrooms, they make you drink even if you don't want
to. Ivan Gerasimitch, offer the young gentleman, perhaps he will
have a drink!"
The last word she pronounced in a mincing drawl.
"Have a drink, young man!" said the father, not looking at his son.
"We have no wine or liqueurs, my boy, we live in a plain way."
"He doesn't like our ways," sighed the "virago." "Never mind, never
mind, he'll have a drink."
Not to offend his father by refusing, Boris took a wineglass and
drank in silence. When they brought in the samovar, to satisfy the
old man, he drank two cups of disgusting tea in silence, with a
melancholy face. Without a word he listened to the virago dropping
hints about there being in this world cruel, heartless children who
abandon their parents.
"I know what you are thinking now!" said the old man, after drinking
more and passing into his habitual state of drunken excitement.
"You think I have let myself sink into the mire, that I am to be
pitied, but to my thinking, this simple life is much more normal
than your life, . . . I don't need anybody, and . . . and I don't
intend to eat humble pie. . . . I can't endure a wretched boy's
looking at me with compassion."
After tea he cleaned a herring and sprinkled it with onion, with
such feeling, that tears of emotion stood in his eyes. He began
talking again about the races and his winnings, about some Panama
hat for which he had paid sixteen roubles the day before. He told
lies with the same relish with which he ate herring and drank. His
son sat on in silence for an hour, and began to say good-bye.
"I don't venture to keep you," the old man said, haughtily. "You
must excuse me, young man, for not living as you would like!"
He ruffled up his feathers, snorted with dignity, and winked at the
women.
"Good-bye, young man," he said, seeing his son into the entry.
"Attendez."
In the entry, where it was dark, he suddenly pressed his face against
the young man's sleeve and gave a sob.
"I should like to have a look at Sonitchka," he whispered. "Arrange
it, Borenka, my angel. I'll shave, I'll put on your suit . . . I'll
put on a straight face . . . I'll hold my tongue while she is there.
Yes, yes, I will hold my tongue!"
He looked round timidly towards the door, through which the women's
voices were heard, checked his sobs, and said aloud:
"Good-bye, young man! Attendez."