Auntie, in a loose print blouse, Varvarushka and two old women,
were sitting in the dining-room having supper. A big piece of salt
meat, a ham, and various savouries, were lying on the table before
them, and clouds of steam were rising from the meat, which looked
particularly fat and appetizing. Wine was not served on the lower
story, but they made up for it with a great number of spirits and
home-made liqueurs. Agafyushka, the fat, white-skinned, well-fed
cook, was standing with her arms crossed in the doorway and talking
to the old women, and the dishes were being handed by the downstairs
Masha, a dark girl with a crimson ribbon in her hair. The old women
had had enough to eat before the morning was over, and an hour
before supper had had tea and buns, and so they were now eating
with effort--as it were, from a sense of duty.
"Oh, my girl!" sighed Auntie, as Anna Akimovna ran into the dining-room
and sat down beside her. "You've frightened me to death!"
Every one in the house was pleased when Anna Akimovna was in good
spirits and played pranks; this always reminded them that the old
men were dead and that the old women had no authority in the house,
and any one could do as he liked without any fear of being sharply
called to account for it. Only the two old women glanced askance
at Anna Akimovna with amazement: she was humming, and it was a sin
to sing at table.
"Our mistress, our beauty, our picture," Agafyushka began chanting
with sugary sweetness. "Our precious jewel! The people, the people
that have come to-day to look at our queen. Lord have mercy upon
us! Generals, and officers and gentlemen. . . . I kept looking out
of window and counting and counting till I gave it up."
"I'd as soon they did not come at all," said Auntie; she looked
sadly at her niece and added: "They only waste the time for my poor
orphan girl."
Anna Akimovna felt hungry, as she had eaten nothing since the
morning. They poured her out some very bitter liqueur; she drank
it off, and tasted the salt meat with mustard, and thought it
extraordinarily nice. Then the downstairs Masha brought in the
turkey, the pickled apples and the gooseberries. And that pleased
her, too. There was only one thing that was disagreeable: there was
a draught of hot air from the tiled stove; it was stiflingly close
and every one's cheeks were burning. After supper the cloth was
taken off and plates of peppermint biscuits, walnuts, and raisins
were brought in.
"You sit down, too . . . no need to stand there!" said Auntie to
the cook.
Agafyushka sighed and sat down to the table; Masha set a wineglass
of liqueur before her, too, and Anna Akimovna began to feel as
though Agafyushka's white neck were giving out heat like the stove.
They were all talking of how difficult it was nowadays to get
married, and saying that in old days, if men did not court beauty,
they paid attention to money, but now there was no making out what
they wanted; and while hunchbacks and cripples used to be left old
maids, nowadays men would not have even the beautiful and wealthy.
Auntie began to set this down to immorality, and said that people
had no fear of God, but she suddenly remembered that Ivan Ivanitch,
her brother, and Varvarushka--both people of holy life--had
feared God, but all the same had had children on the sly, and had
sent them to the Foundling Asylum. She pulled herself up and changed
the conversation, telling them about a suitor she had once had, a
factory hand, and how she had loved him, but her brothers had forced
her to marry a widower, an ikon-painter, who, thank God, had died
two years after. The downstairs Masha sat down to the table, too,
and told them with a mysterious air that for the last week some
unknown man with a black moustache, in a great-coat with an astrachan
collar, had made his appearance every morning in the yard, had
stared at the windows of the big house, and had gone on further--
to the buildings; the man was all right, nice-looking.
All this conversation made Anna Akimovna suddenly long to be married
--long intensely, painfully; she felt as though she would give
half her life and all her fortune only to know that upstairs there
was a man who was closer to her than any one in the world, that he
loved her warmly and was missing her; and the thought of such
closeness, ecstatic and inexpressible in words, troubled her soul.
And the instinct of youth and health flattered her with lying
assurances that the real poetry of life was not over but still to
come, and she believed it, and leaning back in her chair (her hair
fell down as she did so), she began laughing, and, looking at her,
the others laughed, too. And it was a long time before this causeless
laughter died down in the dining-room.
She was informed that the Stinging Beetle had come. This was a
pilgrim woman called Pasha or Spiridonovna--a thin little woman
of fifty, in a black dress with a white kerchief, with keen eyes,
sharp nose, and a sharp chin; she had sly, viperish eyes and she
looked as though she could see right through every one. Her lips
were shaped like a heart. Her viperishness and hostility to every
one had earned her the nickname of the Stinging Beetle.
Going into the dining-room without looking at any one, she made for
the ikons and chanted in a high voice "Thy Holy Birth," then she
sang "The Virgin today gives birth to the Son," then "Christ is
born," then she turned round and bent a piercing gaze upon all of
them.
"A happy Christmas," she said, and she kissed Anna Akimovna on the
shoulder. "It's all I could do, all I could do to get to you, my
kind friends." She kissed Auntie on the shoulder. "I should have
come to you this morning, but I went in to some good people to rest
on the way. 'Stay, Spiridonovna, stay,' they said, and I did not
notice that evening was coming on."
As she did not eat meat, they gave her salmon and caviare. She ate
looking from under her eyelids at the company, and drank three
glasses of vodka. When she had finished she said a prayer and bowed
down to Anna Akimovna's feet.
They began to play a game of "kings," as they had done the year
before, and the year before that, and all the servants in both
stories crowded in at the doors to watch the game. Anna Akimovna
fancied she caught a glimpse once or twice of Mishenka, with a
patronizing smile on his face, among the crowd of peasant men and
women. The first to be king was Stinging Beetle, and Anna Akimovna
as the soldier paid her tribute; and then Auntie was king and Anna
Akimovna was peasant, which excited general delight, and Agafyushka
was prince, and was quite abashed with pleasure. Another game was
got up at the other end of the table--played by the two Mashas,
Varvarushka, and the sewing-maid Marfa Ptrovna, who was waked on
purpose to play "kings," and whose face looked cross and sleepy.
While they were playing they talked of men, and of how difficult
it was to get a good husband nowadays, and which state was to be
preferred--that of an old maid or a widow.
"You are a handsome, healthy, sturdy lass," said Stinging Beetle
to Anna Akimovna. "But I can't make out for whose sake you are
holding back."
"What's to be done if nobody will have me?"
"Or maybe you have taken a vow to remain a maid?" Stinging Beetle
went on, as though she did not hear. "Well, that's a good deed. . . .
Remain one," she repeated, looking intently and maliciously at
her cards. "All right, my dear, remain one. . . . Yes . . . only
maids, these saintly maids, are not all alike." She heaved a sigh
and played the king. "Oh, no, my girl, they are not all alike! Some
really watch over themselves like nuns, and butter would not melt
in their mouths; and if such a one does sin in an hour of weakness,
she is worried to death, poor thing! so it would be a sin to condemn
her. While others will go dressed in black and sew their shroud,
and yet love rich old men on the sly. Yes, y-es, my canary birds,
some hussies will bewitch an old man and rule over him, my doves,
rule over him and turn his head; and when they've saved up money
and lottery tickets enough, they will bewitch him to his death."
Varvarushka's only response to these hints was to heave a sigh and
look towards the ikons. There was an expression of Christian meekness
on her countenance.
"I know a maid like that, my bitterest enemy," Stinging Beetle went
on, looking round at every one in triumph; "she is always sighing,
too, and looking at the ikons, the she-devil. When she used to rule
in a certain old man's house, if one went to her she would give one
a crust, and bid one bow down to the ikons while she would sing:
'In conception Thou dost abide a Virgin . . . !' On holidays she
will give one a bite, and on working days she will reproach one for
it. But nowadays I will make merry over her! I will make as merry
as I please, my jewel."
Varvarushka glanced at the ikons again and crossed herself.
"But no one will have me, Spiridonovna," said Anna Akimovna to
change the conversation. "What's to be done?"
"It's your own fault. You keep waiting for highly educated gentlemen,
but you ought to marry one of your own sort, a merchant."
"We don't want a merchant," said Auntie, all in a flutter. "Queen
of Heaven, preserve us! A gentleman will spend your money, but then
he will be kind to you, you poor little fool. But a merchant will
be so strict that you won't feel at home in your own house. You'll
be wanting to fondle him and he will be counting his money, and
when you sit down to meals with him, he'll grudge you every mouthful,
though it's your own, the lout! . . . Marry a gentleman."
They all talked at once, loudly interrupting one another, and Auntie
tapped on the table with the nutcrackers and said, flushed and
angry:
"We won't have a merchant; we won't have one! If you choose a
merchant I shall go to an almshouse."
"Sh . . . Sh! . . . Hush!" cried Stinging Beetle; when all were
silent she screwed up one eye and said: "Do you know what, Annushka,
my birdie . . . ? There is no need for you to get married really
like every one else. You're rich and free, you are your own mistress;
but yet, my child, it doesn't seem the right thing for you to be
an old maid. I'll find you, you know, some trumpery and simple-witted
man. You'll marry him for appearances and then have your fling,
bonny lass! You can hand him five thousand or ten maybe, and pack
him off where he came from, and you will be mistress in your own
house--you can love whom you like and no one can say anything to
you. And then you can love your highly educated gentleman. You'll
have a jolly time!" Stinging Beetle snapped her fingers and gave a
whistle.
"It's sinful," said Auntie.
"Oh, sinful," laughed Stinging Beetle. "She is educated, she
understands. To cut some one's throat or bewitch an old man--
that's a sin, that's true; but to love some charming young friend
is not a sin at all. And what is there in it, really? There's no
sin in it at all! The old pilgrim women have invented all that to
make fools of simple folk. I, too, say everywhere it's a sin; I
don't know myself why it's a sin." Stinging Beetle emptied her glass
and cleared her throat. "Have your fling, bonny lass," this time
evidently addressing herself. "For thirty years, wenches, I have
thought of nothing but sins and been afraid, but now I see I have
wasted my time, I've let it slip by like a ninny! Ah, I have been
a fool, a fool!" She sighed. "A woman's time is short and every day
is precious. You are handsome, Annushka, and very rich; but as soon
as thirty-five or forty strikes for you your time is up. Don't
listen to any one, my girl; live, have your fling till you are
forty, and then you will have time to pray forgiveness--there
will be plenty of time to bow down and to sew your shroud. A candle
to God and a poker to the devil! You can do both at once! Well, how
is it to be? Will you make some little man happy?"
"I will," laughed Anna Akimovna. "I don't care now; I would marry
a working man."
"Well, that would do all right! Oh, what a fine fellow you would
choose then!" Stinging Beetle screwed up her eyes and shook her
head. "O--o--oh!"
"I tell her myself," said Auntie, "it's no good waiting for a
gentleman, so she had better marry, not a gentleman, but some one
humbler; anyway we should have a man in the house to look after
things. And there are lots of good men. She might have some one out
of the factory. They are all sober, steady men. . . ."
"I should think so," Stinging Beetle agreed. "They are capital
fellows. If you like, Aunt, I will make a match for her with Vassily
Lebedinsky?"
"Oh, Vasya's legs are so long," said Auntie seriously. "He is so
lanky. He has no looks."
There was laughter in the crowd by the door.
"Well, Pimenov? Would you like to marry Pimenov?" Stinging Beetle
asked Anna Akimovna.
"Very good. Make a match for me with Pimenov."
"Really?"
"Yes, do!" Anna Akimovna said resolutely, and she struck her fist
on the table. "On my honour, I will marry him."
"Really?"
Anna Akimovna suddenly felt ashamed that her cheeks were burning
and that every one was looking at her; she flung the cards together
on the table and ran out of the room. As she ran up the stairs and,
reaching the upper story, sat down to the piano in the drawing-room,
a murmur of sound reached her from below like the roar of the sea;
most likely they were talking of her and of Pimenov, and perhaps
Stinging Beetle was taking advantage of her absence to insult
Varvarushka and was putting no check on her language.
The lamp in the big room was the only light burning in the upper
story, and it sent a glimmer through the door into the dark
drawing-room. It was between nine and ten, not later. Anna Akimovna
played a waltz, then another, then a third; she went on playing
without stopping. She looked into the dark corner beyond the piano,
smiled, and inwardly called to it, and the idea occurred to her
that she might drive off to the town to see some one, Lysevitch for
instance, and tell him what was passing in her heart. She wanted
to talk without ceasing, to laugh, to play the fool, but the dark
corner was sullenly silent, and all round in all the rooms of the
upper story it was still and desolate.
She was fond of sentimental songs, but she had a harsh, untrained
voice, and so she only played the accompaniment and sang hardly
audibly, just above her breath. She sang in a whisper one song after
another, for the most part about love, separation, and frustrated
hopes, and she imagined how she would hold out her hands to him and
say with entreaty, with tears, "Pimenov, take this burden from me!"
And then, just as though her sins had been forgiven, there would
be joy and comfort in her soul, and perhaps a free, happy life would
begin. In an anguish of anticipation she leant over the keys, with
a passionate longing for the change in her life to come at once
without delay, and was terrified at the thought that her old life
would go on for some time longer. Then she played again and sang
hardly above her breath, and all was stillness about her. There was
no noise coming from downstairs now, they must have gone to bed.
It had struck ten some time before. A long, solitary, wearisome
night was approaching.
Anna Akimovna walked through all the rooms, lay down for a while
on the sofa, and read in her study the letters that had come that
evening; there were twelve letters of Christmas greetings and three
anonymous letters. In one of them some workman complained in a
horrible, almost illegible handwriting that Lenten oil sold in the
factory shop was rancid and smelt of paraffin; in another, some one
respectfully informed her that over a purchase of iron Nazaritch
had lately taken a bribe of a thousand roubles from some one; in a
third she was abused for her inhumanity.
The excitement of Christmas was passing off, and to keep it up Anna
Akimovna sat down at the piano again and softly played one of the
new waltzes, then she remembered how cleverly and creditably she
had spoken at dinner today. She looked round at the dark windows,
at the walls with the pictures, at the faint light that came from
the big room, and all at once she began suddenly crying, and she
felt vexed that she was so lonely, and that she had no one to talk
to and consult. To cheer herself she tried to picture Pimenov in
her imagination, but it was unsuccessful.
It struck twelve. Mishenka, no longer wearing his swallow-tail but
in his reefer jacket, came in, and without speaking lighted two
candles; then he went out and returned a minute later with a cup
of tea on a tray.
"What are you laughing at?" she asked, noticing a smile on his face.
"I was downstairs and heard the jokes you were making about Pimenov
. . ." he said, and put his hand before his laughing mouth. "If he
were sat down to dinner today with Viktor Nikolaevitch and the
general, he'd have died of fright." Mishenka's shoulders were shaking
with laughter. "He doesn't know even how to hold his fork, I bet."
The footman's laughter and words, his reefer jacket and moustache,
gave Anna Akimovna a feeling of uncleanness. She shut her eyes to
avoid seeing him, and, against her own will, imagined Pimenov dining
with Lysevitch and Krylin, and his timid, unintellectual figure
seemed to her pitiful and helpless, and she felt repelled by it.
And only now, for the first time in the whole day, she realized
clearly that all she had said and thought about Pimenov and marrying
a workman was nonsense, folly, and wilfulness. To convince herself
of the opposite, to overcome her repulsion, she tried to recall
what she had said at dinner, but now she could not see anything in
it: shame at her own thoughts and actions, and the fear that she
had said something improper during the day, and disgust at her own
lack of spirit, overwhelmed her completely. She took up a candle
and, as rapidly as if some one were pursuing her, ran downstairs,
woke Spiridonovna, and began assuring her she had been joking. Then
she went to her bedroom. Red-haired Masha, who was dozing in an
arm-chair near the bed, jumped up and began shaking up the pillows.
Her face was exhausted and sleepy, and her magnificent hair had
fallen on one side.
"Tchalikov came again this evening," she said, yawning, "but I did
not dare to announce him; he was very drunk. He says he will come
again tomorrow."
"What does he want with me?" said Anna Akimovna, and she flung her
comb on the floor. "I won't see him, I won't."
She made up her mind she had no one left in life but this Tchalikov,
that he would never leave off persecuting her, and would remind her
every day how uninteresting and absurd her life was. So all she was
fit for was to help the poor. Oh, how stupid it was!
She lay down without undressing, and sobbed with shame and depression:
what seemed to her most vexatious and stupid of all was that her
dreams that day about Pimenov had been right, lofty, honourable,
but at the same time she felt that Lysevitch and even Krylin were
nearer to her than Pimenov and all the workpeople taken together.
She thought that if the long day she had just spent could have been
represented in a picture, all that had been bad and vulgar--as,
for instance, the dinner, the lawyer's talk, the game of "kings"
--would have been true, while her dreams and talk about Pimenov
would have stood out from the whole as something false, as out of
drawing; and she thought, too, that it was too late to dream of
happiness, that everything was over for her, and it was impossible
to go back to the life when she had slept under the same quilt with
her mother, or to devise some new special sort of life.
Red-haired Masha was kneeling before the bed, gazing at her in
mournful perplexity; then she, too, began crying, and laid her face
against her mistress's arm, and without words it was clear why she
was so wretched.
"We are fools!" said Anna Akimovna, laughing and crying. "We are
fools! Oh, what fools we are!"