IT was a free night. Natalya Andreyevna Bronin (her married name
was Nikitin), the opera singer, is lying in her bedroom, her whole
being abandoned to repose. She lies, deliciously drowsy, thinking
of her little daughter who lives somewhere far away with her
grandmother or aunt. . . . The child is more precious to her than
the public, bouquets, notices in the papers, adorers . . . and she
would be glad to think about her till morning. She is happy, at
peace, and all she longs for is not to be prevented from lying
undisturbed, dozing and dreaming of her little girl.
All at once the singer starts, and opens her eyes wide: there is a
harsh abrupt ring in the entry. Before ten seconds have passed the
bell tinkles a second time and a third time. The door is opened
noisily and some one walks into the entry stamping his feet like a
horse, snorting and puffing with the cold.
"Damn it all, nowhere to hang one's coat!" the singer hears a husky
bass voice. "Celebrated singer, look at that! Makes five thousand
a year, and can't get a decent hat-stand!"
"My husband!" thinks the singer, frowning. "And I believe he has
brought one of his friends to stay the night too. . . . Hateful!"
No more peace. When the loud noise of some one blowing his nose and
putting off his goloshes dies away, the singer hears cautious
footsteps in her bedroom. . . . It is her husband, _mari d'elle_,
Denis Petrovitch Nikitin. He brings a whiff of cold air and a smell
of brandy. For a long while he walks about the bedroom, breathing
heavily, and, stumbling against the chairs in the dark, seems to
be looking for something. . . .
"What do you want?" his wife moans, when she is sick of his fussing
about. "You have woken me."
"I am looking for the matches, my love. You . . . you are not asleep
then? I have brought you a message. . . . Greetings from that . . .
what's-his-name? . . . red-headed fellow who is always sending
you bouquets. . . . Zagvozdkin. . . . I have just been to see him."
"What did you go to him for?"
"Oh, nothing particular. . . . We sat and talked and had a drink.
Say what you like, Nathalie, I dislike that individual--I dislike
him awfully! He is a rare blockhead. He is a wealthy man, a capitalist;
he has six hundred thousand, and you would never guess it. Money
is no more use to him than a radish to a dog. He does not eat it
himself nor give it to others. Money ought to circulate, but he
keeps tight hold of it, is afraid to part with it. . . . What's the
good of capital lying idle? Capital lying idle is no better than
grass."
_Mari d'elle_ gropes his way to the edge of the bed and, puffing,
sits down at his wife's feet.
"Capital lying idle is pernicious," he goes on. "Why has business
gone downhill in Russia? Because there is so much capital lying
idle among us; they are afraid to invest it. It's very different
in England. . . . There are no such queer fish as Zagvozdkin in
England, my girl. . . . There every farthing is in circulation
. . . . Yes. . . . They don't keep it locked up in chests there
. . . ."
"Well, that's all right. I am sleepy."
"Directly. . . . Whatever was it I was talking about? Yes. . . .
In these hard times hanging is too good for Zagvozdkin. . . . He
is a fool and a scoundrel. . . . No better than a fool. If I asked
him for a loan without security--why, a child could see that he
runs no risk whatever. He doesn't understand, the ass! For ten
thousand he would have got a hundred. In a year he would have another
hundred thousand. I asked, I talked . . . but he wouldn't give it
me, the blockhead."
"I hope you did not ask him for a loan in my name."
"H'm. . . . A queer question. . . ." _Mari d'elle_ is offended.
"Anyway he would sooner give me ten thousand than you. You are a
woman, and I am a man anyway, a business-like person. And what a
scheme I propose to him! Not a bubble, not some chimera, but a sound
thing, substantial! If one could hit on a man who would understand,
one might get twenty thousand for the idea alone! Even you would
understand if I were to tell you about it. Only you . . . don't
chatter about it . . . not a word . . . but I fancy I have talked
to you about it already. Have I talked to you about sausage-skins?"
"M'm . . . by and by."
"I believe I have. . . . Do you see the point of it? Now the provision
shops and the sausage-makers get their sausage-skins locally, and
pay a high price for them. Well, but if one were to bring sausage-skins
from the Caucasus where they are worth nothing, and where they are
thrown away, then . . . where do you suppose the sausage-makers
would buy their skins, here in the slaughterhouses or from me? From
me, of course! Why, I shall sell them ten times as cheap! Now let
us look at it like this: every year in Petersburg and Moscow and
in other centres these same skins would be bought to the . . . to
the sum of five hundred thousand, let us suppose. That's the minimum.
Well, and if. . . ."
"You can tell me to-morrow . . . later on. . . ."
"Yes, that's true. You are sleepy, _pardon_, I am just going . . .
say what you like, but with capital you can do good business
everywhere, wherever you go. . . . With capital even out of cigarette
ends one may make a million. . . . Take your theatrical business
now. Why, for example, did Lentovsky come to grief? It's very simple.
He did not go the right way to work from the very first. He had no
capital and he went headlong to the dogs. . . . He ought first to
have secured his capital, and then to have gone slowly and cautiously
. . . . Nowadays, one can easily make money by a theatre, whether it
is a private one or a people's one. . . . If one produces the right
plays, charges a low price for admission, and hits the public fancy,
one may put a hundred thousand in one's pocket the first year. . . .
You don't understand, but I am talking sense. . . . You see you
are fond of hoarding capital; you are no better than that fool
Zagvozdkin, you heap it up and don't know what for. . . . You won't
listen, you don't want to. . . . If you were to put it into
circulation, you wouldn't have to be rushing all over the place
. . . . You see for a private theatre, five thousand would be enough
for a beginning. . . . Not like Lentovsky, of course, but on a
modest scale in a small way. I have got a manager already, I have
looked at a suitable building. . . . It's only the money I haven't
got. . . . If only you understood things you would have parted with
your Five per cents . . . your Preference shares. . . ."
"No, _merci_. . . . You have fleeced me enough already. . . . Let
me alone, I have been punished already. . . ."
"If you are going to argue like a woman, then of course . . ." sighs
Nikitin, getting up. "Of course. . . ."
"Let me alone. . . . Come, go away and don't keep me awake. . . .
I am sick of listening to your nonsense."
"H'm. . . . To be sure . . . of course! Fleeced. . . plundered. . . .
What we give we remember, but we don't remember what we take."
"I have never taken anything from you."
"Is that so? But when we weren't a celebrated singer, at whose
expense did we live then? And who, allow me to ask, lifted you out
of beggary and secured your happiness? Don't you remember that?"
"Come, go to bed. Go along and sleep it off."
"Do you mean to say you think I am drunk? . . . if I am so low in
the eyes of such a grand lady. . . I can go away altogether."
"Do. A good thing too."
"I will, too. I have humbled myself enough. And I will go."
"Oh, my God! Oh, do go, then! I shall be delighted!"
"Very well, we shall see."
Nikitin mutters something to himself, and, stumbling over the chairs,
goes out of the bedroom. Then sounds reach her from the entry of
whispering, the shuffling of goloshes and a door being shut. _Mari
d'elle_ has taken offence in earnest and gone out.
"Thank God, he has gone!" thinks the singer. "Now I can sleep."
And as she falls asleep she thinks of her _mari d'elle_, what sort
of a man he is, and how this affliction has come upon her. At one
time he used to live at Tchernigov, and had a situation there as a
book-keeper. As an ordinary obscure individual and not the _mari
d'elle_, he had been quite endurable: he used to go to his work and
take his salary, and all his whims and projects went no further
than a new guitar, fashionable trousers, and an amber cigarette-holder.
Since he had become "the husband of a celebrity" he was completely
transformed. The singer remembered that when first she told him she
was going on the stage he had made a fuss, been indignant, complained
to her parents, turned her out of the house. She had been obliged
to go on the stage without his permission. Afterwards, when he
learned from the papers and from various people that she was earning
big sums, he had 'forgiven her,' abandoned book-keeping, and become
her hanger-on. The singer was overcome with amazement when she
looked at her hanger-on: when and where had he managed to pick up
new tastes, polish, and airs and graces? Where had he learned the
taste of oysters and of different Burgundies? Who had taught him
to dress and do his hair in the fashion and call her 'Nathalie'
instead of Natasha?"
"It's strange," thinks the singer. "In old days he used to get his
salary and put it away, but now a hundred roubles a day is not
enough for him. In old days he was afraid to talk before schoolboys
for fear of saying something silly, and now he is overfamiliar even
with princes . . . wretched, contemptible little creature!"
But then the singer starts again; again there is the clang of the
bell in the entry. The housemaid, scolding and angrily flopping
with her slippers, goes to open the door. Again some one comes in
and stamps like a horse.
"He has come back!" thinks the singer. "When shall I be left in
peace? It's revolting!" She is overcome by fury.
"Wait a bit. . . . I'll teach you to get up these farces! You shall
go away. I'll make you go away!"
The singer leaps up and runs barefoot into the little drawing-room
where her _mari_ usually sleeps. She comes at the moment when he
is undressing, and carefully folding his clothes on a chair.
"You went away!" she says, looking at him with bright eyes full of
hatred. "What did you come back for?"
Nikitin remains silent, and merely sniffs.
"You went away! Kindly take yourself off this very minute! This
very minute! Do you hear?"
_Mari d'elle_ coughs and, without looking at his wife, takes off
his braces.
"If you don't go away, you insolent creature, I shall go," the
singer goes on, stamping her bare foot, and looking at him with
flashing eyes. "I shall go! Do you hear, insolent . . . worthless
wretch, flunkey, out you go!"
"You might have some shame before outsiders," mutters her husband
. . . .
The singer looks round and only then sees an unfamiliar countenance
that looks like an actor's. . . . The countenance, seeing the
singer's uncovered shoulders and bare feet, shows signs of
embarrassment, and looks ready to sink through the floor.
"Let me introduce . . ." mutters Nikitin, "Bezbozhnikov, a provincial
manager."
The singer utters a shriek, and runs off into her bedroom.
"There, you see . . ." says _mari d'elle_, as he stretches himself
on the sofa, "it was all honey just now . . . my love, my dear, my
darling, kisses and embraces . . . but as soon as money is touched
upon, then. . . . As you see . . . money is the great thing. . . .
Good night!"
A minute later there is a snore.