II

It was a lovely August evening. The sun, set in a golden background

lightly flecked with purple, stood above the western horizon on the

point of sinking behind the far-away tumuli. In the garden, shadows

and half-shadows had vanished, and the air had grown damp, but the

golden light was still playing on the tree-tops. . . . It was warm.

. . . Rain had just fallen, and made the fresh, transparent fragrant

air still fresher.

I am not describing the August of Petersburg or Moscow, foggy,

tearful, and dark, with its cold, incredibly damp sunsets. God

forbid! I am not describing our cruel northern August. I ask the

reader to move with me to the Crimea, to one of its shores, not far

from Feodosia, the spot where stands the villa of one of our heroes.

It is a pretty, neat villa surrounded by flower-beds and clipped

bushes. A hundred paces behind it is an orchard in which its inmates

walk. . . . Groholsky pays a high rent for that villa, a thousand

roubles a year, I believe. . . . The villa is not worth that rent,

but it is pretty. . . . Tall, with delicate walls and very delicate

parapets, fragile, slender, painted a pale blue colour, hung with

curtains, _portières_, draperies, it suggests a charming, fragile

Chinese lady. . . .

On the evening described above, Groholsky and Liza were sitting on

the verandah of this villa. Groholsky was reading _Novoye Vremya_

and drinking milk out of a green mug. A syphon of Seltzer water was

standing on the table before him. Groholsky imagined that he was

suffering from catarrh of the lungs, and by the advice of Dr.

Dmitriev consumed an immense quantity of grapes, milk, and Seltzer

water. Liza was sitting in a soft easy chair some distance from the

table. With her elbows on the parapet, and her little face propped

on her little fists, she was gazing at the villa opposite. . . .

The sun was playing upon the windows of the villa opposite, the

glittering panes reflected the dazzling light. . . . Beyond the

little garden and the few trees that surrounded the villa there was

a glimpse of the sea with its waves, its dark blue colour, its

immensity, its white masts. . . . It was so delightful! Groholsky

was reading an article by Anonymous, and after every dozen lines

he raised his blue eyes to Liza's back. . . . The same passionate,

fervent love was shining in those eyes still. . . . He was infinitely

happy in spite of his imaginary catarrh of the lungs. . . . Liza

was conscious of his eyes upon her back, and was thinking of

Mishutka's brilliant future, and she felt so comfortable, so serene

. . . .

She was not so much interested by the sea, and the glittering

reflection on the windows of the villa opposite as by the waggons

which were trailing up to that villa one after another.

The waggons were full of furniture and all sorts of domestic articles.

Liza watched the trellis gates and big glass doors of the villa

being opened and the men bustling about the furniture and wrangling

incessantly. Big armchairs and a sofa covered with dark raspberry

coloured velvet, tables for the hall, the drawing-room and the

dining-room, a big double bed and a child's cot were carried in by

the glass doors; something big, wrapped up in sacking, was carried

in too. A grand piano, thought Liza, and her heart throbbed.

It was long since she had heard the piano, and she was so fond of

it. They had not a single musical instrument in their villa. Groholsky

and she were musicians only in soul, no more. There were a great

many boxes and packages with the words: "with care" upon them carried

in after the piano.

They were boxes of looking-glasses and crockery. A gorgeous and

luxurious carriage was dragged in, at the gate, and two white horses

were led in looking like swans.

"My goodness, what riches!" thought Liza, remembering her old pony

which Groholsky, who did not care for riding, had bought her for a

hundred roubles. Compared with those swan-like steeds, her pony

seemed to her no better than a bug. Groholsky, who was afraid of

riding fast, had purposely bought Liza a poor horse.

"What wealth!" Liza thought and murmured as she gazed at the noisy

carriers.

The sun hid behind the tumuli, the air began to lose its dryness

and limpidity, and still the furniture was being driven up and

hauled into the house. At last it was so dark that Groholsky left

off reading the newspaper while Liza still gazed and gazed.

"Shouldn't we light the lamp?" said Groholsky, afraid that a fly

might drop into his milk and be swallowed in the darkness.

"Liza! shouldn't we light the lamp? Shall we sit in darkness, my

angel?"

Liza did not answer. She was interested in a chaise which had driven

up to the villa opposite. . . . What a charming little mare was in

that chaise. Of medium size, not large, but graceful. . . . A

gentleman in a top hat was sitting in the chaise, a child about

three, apparently a boy, was sitting on his knees waving his little

hands. . . . He was waving his little hands and shouting with

delight.

Liza suddenly uttered a shriek, rose from her seat and lurched

forward.

"What is the matter?" asked Groholsky.

"Nothing. . . I only . . . I fancied. . . ."

The tall, broad-shouldered gentleman in the top hat jumped out of

the chaise, lifted the boy down, and with a skip and a hop ran gaily

in at the glass door. The door opened noisily and he vanished into

the darkness of the villa apartments.

Two smart footmen ran up to the horse in the chaise, and most

respectfully led it to the gate. Soon the villa opposite was lighted

up, and the clatter of plates, knives, and forks was audible. The

gentleman in the top hat was having his supper, and judging by the

duration of the clatter of crockery, his supper lasted long. Liza

fancied she could smell chicken soup and roast duck. After supper

discordant sounds of the piano floated across from the villa. In

all probability the gentleman in the top hat was trying to amuse

the child in some way, and allowing it to strum on it.

Groholsky went up to Liza and put his arm round her waist.

"What wonderful weather!" he said. "What air! Do you feel it? I am

very happy, Liza, very happy indeed. My happiness is so great that

I am really afraid of its destruction. The greatest things are

usually destroyed, and do you know, Liza, in spite of all my

happiness, I am not absolutely . . . at peace. . . . One haunting

thought torments me . . . it torments me horribly. It gives me no

peace by day or by night. . . ."

"What thought?"

"An awful thought, my love. I am tortured by the thought of your

husband. I have been silent hitherto. I have feared to trouble your

inner peace, but I cannot go on being silent. Where is he? What has

happened to him? What has become of him with his money? It is awful!

Every night I see his face, exhausted, suffering, imploring. . . .

Why, only think, my angel--can the money he so generously accepted

make up to him for you? He loved you very much, didn't he?"

"Very much!"

"There you see! He has either taken to drink now, or . . . I am

anxious about him! Ah, how anxious I am! Should we write to him,

do you think? We ought to comfort him . . . a kind word, you know."

Groholsky heaved a deep sigh, shook his head, and sank into an easy

chair exhausted by painful reflection. Leaning his head on his fists

he fell to musing. Judging from his face, his musings were painful.

"I am going to bed," said Liza; "it's time."

Liza went to her own room, undressed, and dived under the bedclothes.

She used to go to bed at ten o'clock and get up at ten. She was

fond of her comfort.

She was soon in the arms of Morpheus. Throughout the whole night

she had the most fascinating dreams. . . . She dreamed whole romances,

novels, Arabian Nights. . . . The hero of all these dreams was the

gentleman in the top hat, who had caused her to utter a shriek that

evening.

The gentleman in the top hat was carrying her off from Groholsky,

was singing, was beating Groholsky and her, was flogging the boy

under the window, was declaring his love, and driving her off in

the chaise. . . . Oh, dreams! In one night, lying with one's eyes

shut, one may sometimes live through more than ten years of happiness

. . . . That night Liza lived through a great variety of experiences,

and very happy ones, even in spite of the beating.

Waking up between six and seven, she flung on her clothes, hurriedly

did her hair, and without even putting on her Tatar slippers with

pointed toes, ran impulsively on to the verandah. Shading her eyes

from the sun with one hand, and with the other holding up her

slipping clothes, she gazed at the villa opposite. Her face beamed

. . . . There could be no further doubt it was he.

On the verandah in the villa opposite there was a table in front

of the glass door. A tea service was shining and glistening on the

table with a silver samovar at the head. Ivan Petrovitch was sitting

at the table. He had in his hand a glass in a silver holder, and

was drinking tea. He was drinking it with great relish. That fact

could be deduced from the smacking of his lips, the sound of which

reached Liza's ears. He was wearing a brown dressing-gown with black

flowers on it. Massive tassels fell down to the ground. It was the

first time in her life Liza had seen her husband in a dressing-gown,

and such an expensive-looking one.

Mishutka was sitting on one of his knees, and hindering him from

drinking his tea. The child jumped up and down and tried to clutch

his papa's shining lip. After every three or four sips the father

bent down to his son and kissed him on the head. A grey cat with

its tail in the air was rubbing itself against one of the table

legs, and with a plaintive mew proclaiming its desire for food.

Liza hid behind the verandah curtain, and fastened her eyes upon

the members of her former family; her face was radiant with joy.

"Misha!" she murmured, "Misha! Are you really here, Misha? The

darling! And how he loves Vanya! Heavens!"

And Liza went off into a giggle when Mishutka stirred his father's

tea with a spoon. "And how Vanya loves Misha! My darlings!"

Liza's heart throbbed, and her head went round with joy and happiness.

She sank into an armchair and went on observing them, sitting down.

"How did they come here?" she wondered as she sent airy kisses to

Mishutka. "Who gave them the idea of coming here? Heavens! Can all

that wealth belong to them? Can those swan-like horses that were

led in at the gate belong to Ivan Petrovitch? Ah!"

When he had finished his tea, Ivan Petrovitch went into the house.

Ten minutes later, he appeared on the steps and Liza was astounded

. . . . He, who in his youth only seven years ago had been called

Vanushka and Vanka and had been ready to punch a man in the face

and turn the house upside down over twenty kopecks, was dressed

devilishly well. He had on a broad-brimmed straw hat, exquisite

brilliant boots, a piqué waistcoat. . . . Thousands of suns, big

and little, glistened on his watch-chain. With much _chic_ he held

in his right hand his gloves and cane.

And what swagger, what style there was in his heavy figure when,

with a graceful motion of his hand, he bade the footman bring the

horse round.

He got into the chaise with dignity, and told the footmen standing

round the chaise to give him Mishutka and the fishing tackle they

had brought. Setting Mishutka beside him, and putting his left arm

round him, he held the reins and drove off.

"Ge-ee up!" shouted Mishutka.

Liza, unaware of what she was doing, waved her handkerchief after

them. If she had looked in the glass she would have been surprised

at her flushed, laughing, and, at the same time, tear-stained face.

She was vexed that she was not beside her gleeful boy, and that she

could not for some reason shower kisses on him at once.

For some reason! . . . Away with all your petty delicacies!

"Grisha! Grisha!" Liza ran into Groholsky's bedroom and set to work

to wake him. "Get up, they have come! The darling!"

"Who has come?" asked Groholsky, waking up.

"Our people . . . Vanya and Misha, they have come, they are in the

villa opposite. . . . I looked out, and there they were drinking

tea. . . . And Misha too. . . . What a little angel our Misha has

grown! If only you had seen him! Mother of God!"

"Seen whom? Why, you are. . . . Who has come? Come where?"

"Vanya and Misha. . . . I have been looking at the villa opposite,

while they were sitting drinking tea. Misha can drink his tea by

himself now. . . . Didn't you see them moving in yesterday, it was

they who arrived!"

Groholsky rubbed his forehead and turned pale.

"Arrived? Your husband?" he asked.

"Why, yes."

"What for?"

"Most likely he is going to live here. They don't know we are here.

If they did, they would have looked at our villa, but they drank

their tea and took no notice."

"Where is he now? But for God's sake do talk sense! Oh, where is

he?"

"He has gone fishing with Misha in the chaise. Did you see the

horses yesterday? Those are their horses . . . Vanya's . . . Vanya

drives with them. Do you know what, Grisha? We will have Misha to

stay with us. . . . We will, won't we? He is such a pretty boy.

Such an exquisite boy!"

Groholsky pondered, while Liza went on talking and talking.

"This is an unexpected meeting," said Groholsky, after prolonged

and, as usual, harrassing reflection. "Well, who could have expected

that we should meet here? Well. . . There it is. . . . So be it.

It seems that it is fated. I can imagine the awkwardness of his

position when he meets us."

"Shall we have Misha to stay with us?"

"Yes, we will. . . . It will be awkward meeting him. . . . Why,

what can I say to him? What can I talk of? It will be awkward for

him and awkward for me. . . . We ought not to meet. We will carry

on communications, if necessary, through the servants. . . . My

head does ache so, Lizotchka. My arms and legs too, I ache all over.

Is my head feverish?"

Liza put her hand on his forehead and found that his head was hot.

"I had dreadful dreams all night . . . I shan't get up to-day. I

shall stay in bed . . . I must take some quinine. Send me my breakfast

here, little woman."

Groholsky took quinine and lay in bed the whole day. He drank warm

water, moaned, had the sheets and pillowcase changed, whimpered,

and induced an agonising boredom in all surrounding him.

He was insupportable when he imagined he had caught a chill. Liza

had continually to interrupt her inquisitive observations and run

from the verandah to his room. At dinner-time she had to put on

mustard plasters. How boring all this would have been, O reader,

if the villa opposite had not been at the service of my heroine!

Liza watched that villa all day long and was gasping with happiness.

At ten o'clock Ivan Petrovitch and Mishutka came back from fishing

and had breakfast. At two o'clock they had dinner, and at four

o'clock they drove off somewhere in a carriage. The white horses

bore them away with the swiftness of lightning. At seven o'clock

visitors came to see them--all of them men. They were playing

cards on two tables in the verandah till midnight. One of the men

played superbly on the piano. The visitors played, ate, drank, and

laughed. Ivan Petrovitch guffawing loudly, told them an anecdote

of Armenian life at the top of his voice, so that all the villas

round could hear. It was very gay and Mishutka sat up with them

till midnight.

"Misha is merry, he is not crying," thought Liza, "so he does not

remember his mamma. So he has forgotten me!"

And there was a horrible bitter feeling in Liza's soul. She spent

the whole night crying. She was fretted by her little conscience,

and by vexation and misery, and the desire to talk to Mishutka and

kiss him. . . . In the morning she got up with a headache and

tear-stained eyes. Her tears Groholsky put down to his own account.

"Do not weep, darling," he said to her, "I am all right to-day, my

chest is a little painful, but that is nothing."

While they were having tea, lunch was being served at the villa

opposite. Ivan Petrovitch was looking at his plate, and seeing

nothing but a morsel of goose dripping with fat.

"I am very glad," said Groholsky, looking askance at Bugrov, "very

glad that his life is so tolerable! I hope that decent surroundings

anyway may help to stifle his grief. Keep out of sight, Liza! They

will see you . . . I am not disposed to talk to him just now . . .

God be with him! Why trouble his peace?"

But the dinner did not pass off so quietly. During dinner precisely

that "awkward position" which Groholsky so dreaded occurred. Just

when the partridges, Groholsky's favorite dish, had been put on the

table, Liza was suddenly overcome with confusion, and Groholsky

began wiping his face with his dinner napkin. On the verandah of

the villa opposite they saw Bugrov. He was standing with his arms

leaning on the parapet, and staring straight at them, with his eyes

starting out of his head.

"Go in, Liza, go in," Groholsky whispered. "I said we must have

dinner indoors! What a girl you are, really. . . ."

Bugrov stared and stared, and suddenly began shouting. Groholsky

looked at him and saw a face full of astonishment. . . .

"Is that you?" bawled Ivan Petrovitch, "you! Are you here too?"

Groholsky passed his fingers from one shoulder to another, as though

to say, "My chest is weak, and so I can't shout across such a

distance." Liza's heart began throbbing, and everything turned round

before her eyes. Bugrov ran from his verandah, ran across the road,

and a few seconds later was standing under the verandah on which

Groholsky and Liza were dining. Alas for the partridges!

"How are you?" he began, flushing crimson, and stuffing his big

hands in his pockets. "Are you here? Are you here too?"

"Yes, we are here too. . . ."

"How did you get here?"

"Why, how did you?"

"I? It's a long story, a regular romance, my good friend! But don't

put yourselves out--eat your dinner! I've been living, you know,

ever since then . . . in the Oryol province. I rented an estate. A

splendid estate! But do eat your dinner! I stayed there from the

end of May, but now I have given it up. . . . It was cold there,

and--well, the doctor advised me to go to the Crimea. . . ."

"Are you ill, then?" inquired Groholsky.

"Oh, well. . . . There always seems, as it were . . . something

gurgling here. . . ."

And at the word "here" Ivan Petrovitch passed his open hand from

his neck down to the middle of his stomach.

"So you are here too. . . . Yes . . . that's very pleasant. Have

you been here long?"

"Since July."

"Oh, and you, Liza, how are you? Quite well?"

"Quite well," answered Liza, and was embarrassed.

"You miss Mishutka, I'll be bound. Eh? Well, he's here with me. . . .

I'll send him over to you directly with Nikifor. This is very

nice. Well, good-bye! I have to go off directly. . . . I made the

acquaintance of Prince Ter-Haimazov yesterday; delightful man,

though he is an Armenian. So he has a croquet party to-day; we are

going to play croquet. . . . Good-bye! The carriage is waiting

. . . ."

Ivan Petrovitch whirled round, tossed his head, and, waving adieu

to them, ran home.

"Unhappy man," said Groholsky, heaving a deep sigh as he watched

him go off.

"In what way is he unhappy?" asked Liza.

"To see you and not have the right to call you his!"

"Fool!" Liza was so bold to think. "Idiot!"

Before evening Liza was hugging and kissing Mishutka. At first the

boy howled, but when he was offered jam, he was all friendly smiles.

For three days Groholsky and Liza did not see Bugrov. He had

disappeared somewhere, and was only at home at night. On the fourth

day he visited them again at dinner-time. He came in, shook hands

with both of them, and sat down to the table. His face was serious.

"I have come to you on business," he said. "Read this." And he

handed Groholsky a letter. "Read it! Read it aloud!"

Groholsky read as follows:

"My beloved and consoling, never-forgotten son Ioann! I have received

the respectful and loving letter in which you invite your aged

father to the mild and salubrious Crimea, to breathe the fragrant

air, and behold strange lands. To that letter I reply that on taking

my holiday, I will come to you, but not for long. My colleague,

Father Gerasim, is a frail and delicate man, and cannot be left

alone for long. I am very sensible of your not forgetting your

parents, your father and your mother. . . . You rejoice your father

with your affection, and you remember your mother in your prayers,

and so it is fitting to do. Meet me at Feodosia. What sort of town

is Feodosia--what is it like? It will be very agreeable to see

it. Your godmother, who took you from the font, is called Feodosia.

You write that God has been graciously pleased that you should win

two hundred thousand roubles. That is gratifying to me. But I cannot

approve of your having left the service while still of a grade of

little importance; even a rich man ought to be in the service. I

bless you always, now and hereafter. Ilya and Seryozhka Andronov

send you their greetings. You might send them ten roubles

each--they are badly off!

"Your loving Father,

"Pyotr Bugrov, _Priest._"

Groholsky read this letter aloud, and he and Liza both looked

inquiringly at Bugrov.

"You see what it is," Ivan Petrovitch began hesitatingly. "I should

like to ask you, Liza, not to let him see you, to keep out of his

sight while he is here. I have written to him that you are ill and

gone to the Caucasus for a cure. If you meet him. . . You see

yourself. . . . It's awkward. . . H'm. . . ."

"Very well," said Liza.

"We can do that," thought Groholsky, "since he makes sacrifices,

why shouldn't we?"

"Please do. . . . If he sees you there will be trouble. . . . My

father is a man of strict principles. He would curse me in seven

churches. Don't go out of doors, Liza, that is all. He won't be

here long. Don't be afraid."

Father Pyotr did not long keep them waiting. One fine morning Ivan

Petrovitch ran in and hissed in a mysterious tone:

"He has come! He is asleep now, so please be careful."

And Liza was shut up within four walls. She did not venture to go

out into the yard or on to the verandah. She could only see the sky

from behind the window curtain. Unluckily for her, Ivan Petrovitch's

papa spent his whole time in the open air, and even slept on the

verandah. Usually Father Pyotr, a little parish priest, in a brown

cassock and a top hat with a curly brim, walked slowly round the

villas and gazed with curiosity at the "strange lands" through his

grandfatherly spectacles. Ivan Petrovitch with the Stanislav on a

little ribbon accompanied him. He did not wear a decoration as a

rule, but before his own people he liked to show off. In their

society he always wore the Stanislav.

Liza was bored to death. Groholsky suffered too. He had to go for

his walks alone without a companion. He almost shed tears, but . . .

had to submit to his fate. And to make things worse, Bugrov would

run across every morning and in a hissing whisper would give some

quite unnecessary bulletin concerning the health of Father Pyotr.

He bored them with those bulletins.

"He slept well," he informed them. "Yesterday he was put out because

I had no salted cucumbers. . . He has taken to Mishutka; he keeps

patting him on the head."

At last, a fortnight later, little Father Pyotr walked for the last

time round the villas and, to Groholsky's immense relief, departed.

He had enjoyed himself, and went off very well satisfied. Liza and

Groholsky fell back into their old manner of life. Groholsky once

more blessed his fate. But his happiness did not last for long. A

new trouble worse than Father Pyotr followed. Ivan Petrovitch took

to coming to see them every day. Ivan Petrovitch, to be frank,

though a capital fellow, was a very tedious person. He came at

dinner-time, dined with them and stayed a very long time. That would

not have mattered. But they had to buy vodka, which Groholsky could

not endure, for his dinner. He would drink five glasses and talk

the whole dinner-time. That, too, would not have mattered. . . .

But he would sit on till two o'clock in the morning, and not let

them get to bed, and, worse still, he permitted himself to talk of

things about which he should have been silent. When towards two

o'clock in the morning he had drunk too much vodka and champagne,

he would take Mishutka in his arms, and weeping, say to him, before

Groholsky and Liza:

"Mihail, my son, what am I? I . . . am a scoundrel. I have sold

your mother! Sold her for thirty pieces of silver, may the Lord

punish me! Mihail Ivanitch, little sucking pig, where is your mother?

Lost! Gone! Sold into slavery! Well, I am a scoundrel."

These tears and these words turned Groholsky's soul inside out. He

would look timidly at Liza's pale face and wring his hands.

"Go to bed, Ivan Petrovitch," he would say timidly.

"I am going. . . . Come along, Mishutka. . . . The Lord be our

judge! I cannot think of sleep while I know that my wife is a slave

. . . . But it is not Groholsky's fault. . . . The goods were mine,

the money his. . . . Freedom for the free and Heaven for the saved."

By day Ivan Petrovitch was no less insufferable to Groholsky. To

Groholsky's intense horror, he was always at Liza's side. He went

fishing with her, told her stories, walked with her, and even on

one occasion, taking advantage of Groholsky's having a cold, carried

her off in his carriage, goodness knows where, and did not bring

her back till night!

"It's outrageous, inhuman," thought Groholsky, biting his lips.

Groholsky liked to be continually kissing Liza. He could not exist

without those honeyed kisses, and it was awkward to kiss her before

Ivan Petrovitch. It was agony. The poor fellow felt forlorn, but

fate soon had compassion on him. Ivan Petrovitch suddenly went off

somewhere for a whole week. Visitors had come and carried him off

with them . . . And Mishutka was taken too.

One fine morning Groholsky came home from a walk good-humoured and

beaming.

"He has come," he said to Liza, rubbing his hands. "I am very glad

he has come. Ha-ha-ha!"

"What are you laughing at?"

"There are women with him."

"What women?"

"I don't know. . . . It's a good thing he has got women. . . . A

capital thing, in fact. . . . He is still young and fresh. Come

here! Look!"

Groholsky led Liza on to the verandah, and pointed to the villa

opposite. They both held their sides, and roared with laughter. It

was funny. Ivan Petrovitch was standing on the verandah of the villa

opposite, smiling. Two dark-haired ladies and Mishutka were standing

below, under the verandah. The ladies were laughing, and loudly

talking French.

"French women," observed Groholsky. "The one nearest us isn't at

all bad-looking. Lively damsels, but that's no matter. There are

good women to be found even among such. . . . But they really do

go too far."

What was funny was that Ivan Petrovitch bent across the verandah,

and stretching with his long arms, put them round the shoulders of

one of the French girls, lifted her in the air, and set her giggling

on the verandah. After lifting up both ladies on to the verandah,

he lifted up Mishutka too. The ladies ran down and the proceedings

were repeated.

"Powerful muscles, I must say," muttered Groholsky looking at this

scene. The operation was repeated some six times, the ladies were

so amiable as to show no embarrassment whatever when the boisterous

wind disposed of their inflated skirts as it willed while they were

being lifted. Groholsky dropped his eyes in a shamefaced way when

the ladies flung their legs over the parapet as they reached the

verandah. But Liza watched and laughed! What did she care? It was

not a case of men misbehaving themselves, which would have put her,

as a woman, to shame, but of ladies.

In the evening, Ivan Petrovitch flew over, and with some embarrassment

announced that he was now a man with a household to look after . . . .

"You mustn't imagine they are just anybody," he said. "It is true

they are French. They shout at the top of their voices, and drink

. . . but we all know! The French are brought up to be like that!

It can't be helped. . . . The prince," Ivan Petrovitch added, "let

me have them almost for nothing. . . . He said: 'take them, take

them. . . .' I must introduce you to the prince sometime. A man of

culture! He's for ever writing, writing. . . . And do you know what

their names are? One is Fanny, the other Isabella. . . . There's

Europe, ha-ha-ha! . . . The west! Good-bye!"

Ivan Petrovitch left Liza and Groholsky in peace, and devoted himself

to his ladies. All day long sound of talk, laughter, and the clatter

of crockery came from his villa. . . . The lights were not put out

till far into the night. . . . Groholsky was in bliss. . . . At

last, after a prolonged interval of agony, he felt happy and at

peace again. Ivan Petrovitch with his two ladies had no such happiness

as he had with one. But alas, destiny has no heart. She plays with

the Groholskys, the Lizas, the Ivans, and the Mishutkas as with

pawns. . . . Groholsky lost his peace again. . . .

One morning, about ten days afterwards, on waking up late, he went

out on to the verandah and saw a spectacle which shocked him,

revolted him, and moved him to intense indignation. Under the

verandah of the villa opposite stood the French women, and between

them Liza. She was talking and looking askance at her own villa as

though to see whether that tyrant, that despot were awake (so

Groholsky interpreted those looks). Ivan Petrovitch standing on the

verandah with his sleeves tucked up, lifted Isabella into the air,

then Fanny, and then Liza. When he was lifting Liza it seemed to

Groholsky that he pressed her to himself. . . . Liza too flung one

leg over the parapet. . . . Oh these women! All sphinxes, every one

of them!

When Liza returned home from her husband's villa and went into the

bedroom on tip-toe, as though nothing had happened, Groholsky, pale,

with hectic flushes on his cheeks, was lying in the attitude of a

man at his last gasp and moaning.

On seeing Liza, he sprang out of bed, and began pacing about the

bedroom.

"So that's what you are like, is it?" he shrieked in a high tenor.

"So that's it! Very much obliged to you! It's revolting, madam!

Immoral, in fact! Let me tell you that!"

Liza turned pale, and of course burst into tears. When women feel

that they are in the right, they scold and shed tears; when they

are conscious of being in fault, they shed tears only.

"On a level with those depraved creatures! It's . . . it's . . .

it's . . . lower than any impropriety! Why, do you know what they

are? They are kept women! Cocottes! And you a respectable woman go

rushing off where they are. . . And he . . . He! What does he want?

What more does he want of me? I don't understand it! I have given

him half of my property--I have given him more! You know it

yourself! I have given him what I have not myself. . . . I have

given him almost all. . . . And he! I've put up with your calling

him Vanya, though he has no right whatever to such intimacy. I have

put up with your walks, kisses after dinner. . . . I have put up

with everything, but this I will not put up with. . . . Either he

or I! Let him go away, or I go away! I'm not equal to living like

this any longer, no! You can see that for yourself! . . . Either

he or I. . . . Enough! The cup is brimming over. . . . I have

suffered a great deal as it is. . . . I am going to talk to him at

once--this minute! What is he, after all? What has he to be proud

of? No, indeed. . . . He has no reason to think so much of himself

. . . ."

Groholsky said a great many more valiant and stinging things, but

did not "go at once"; he felt timid and abashed. . . . He went to

Ivan Petrovitch three days later.

When he went into his apartment, he gaped with astonishment. He was

amazed at the wealth and luxury with which Bugrov had surrounded

himself. Velvet hangings, fearfully expensive chairs. . . . One was

positively ashamed to step on the carpet. Groholsky had seen many

rich men in his day, but he had never seen such frenzied luxury. . . .

And the higgledy-piggledy muddle he saw when, with an inexplicable

tremor, he walked into the drawing-room--plates with bits of bread

on them were lying about on the grand piano, a glass was standing

on a chair, under the table there was a basket with a filthy rag

in it. . . . Nut shells were strewn about in the windows. Bugrov

himself was not quite in his usual trim when Groholsky walked in

. . . . With a red face and uncombed locks he was pacing about the

room in deshabille, talking to himself, apparently much agitated.

Mishutka was sitting on the sofa there in the drawing-room, and was

making the air vibrate with a piercing scream.

"It's awful, Grigory Vassilyevitch!" Bugrov began on seeing Groholsky,

"such disorder . . . such disorder . . . Please sit down. You must

excuse my being in the costume of Adam and Eve. . . . It's of no

consequence. . . . Horrible disorderliness! I don't understand how

people can exist here, I don't understand it! The servants won't

do what they are told, the climate is horrible, everything is

expensive. . . . Stop your noise," Bugrov shouted, suddenly coming

to a halt before Mishutka; "stop it, I tell you! Little beast, won't

you stop it?"

And Bugrov pulled Mishutka's ear.

"That's revolting, Ivan Petrovitch," said Groholsky in a tearful

voice. "How can you treat a tiny child like that? You really are. . ."

"Let him stop yelling then. . . . Be quiet--I'll whip you!"

"Don't cry, Misha darling. . . . Papa won't touch you again. Don't

beat him, Ivan Petrovitch; why, he is hardly more than a baby. . . .

There, there. . . . Would you like a little horse? I'll send you

a little horse. . . . You really are hard-hearted. . . ."

Groholsky paused, and then asked:

"And how are your ladies getting on, Ivan Petrovitch?"

"Not at all. I've turned them out without ceremony. I might have

gone on keeping them, but it's awkward. . . . The boy will grow up

. . . . A father's example. . . . If I were alone, then it would be

a different thing. . . . Besides, what's the use of my keeping them?

Poof . . . it's a regular farce! I talk to them in Russian, and

they answer me in French. They don't understand a thing--you can't

knock anything into their heads."

"I've come to you about something, Ivan Petrovitch, to talk things

over. . . . H'm. . . . It's nothing very particular. But just . . .

two or three words. . . . In reality, I have a favour to ask of

you."

"What's that?"

"Would you think it possible, Ivan Petrovitch, to go away? We are

delighted that you are here; it's very agreeable for us, but it's

inconvenient, don't you know. . . . You will understand me. It's

awkward in a way. . . . Such indefinite relations, such continual

awkwardness in regard to one another. . . . We must part. . . .

It's essential in fact. Excuse my saying so, but . . . you must see

for yourself, of course, that in such circumstances to be living

side by side leads to . . . reflections . . . that is . . . not to

reflections, but there is a certain awkward feeling. . . ."

"Yes. . . . That is so, I have thought of it myself. Very good, I

will go away."

"We shall be very grateful to you. . . . Believe me, Ivan Petrovitch,

we shall preserve the most flattering memory of you. The sacrifice

which you. . ."

"Very good. . . . Only what am I to do with all this? I say, you

buy this furniture of mine! What do you say? It's not expensive,

eight thousand . . . ten. . . . The furniture, the carriage, the

grand piano. . . ."

"Very good. . . . I will give you ten thousand. . . ."

"Well, that is capital! I will set off to-morrow. I shall go to

Moscow. It's impossible to live here. Everything is so dear! Awfully

dear! The money fairly flies. . . . You can't take a step without

spending a thousand! I can't go on like that. I have a child to

bring up. . . . Well, thank God that you will buy my furniture. . . .

That will be a little more in hand, or I should have been

regularly bankrupt. . . ."

Groholsky got up, took leave of Bugrov, and went home rejoicing.

In the evening he sent him ten thousand roubles.

Early next morning Bugrov and Mishutka were already at Feodosia.