LIZOTCHKA KUDRINSKY, a young married lady who had many admirers,
was suddenly taken ill, and so seriously that her husband did not
go to his office, and a telegram was sent to her mamma at Tver.
This is how she told the story of her illness:
"I went to Lyesnoe to auntie's. I stayed there a week and then I
went with all the rest to cousin Varya's. Varya's husband is a surly
brute and a despot (I'd shoot a husband like that), but we had a
very jolly time there. To begin with I took part in some private
theatricals. It was _A Scandal in a Respectable Family_. Hrustalev
acted marvellously! Between the acts I drank some cold, awfully
cold, lemon squash, with the tiniest nip of brandy in it. Lemon
squash with brandy in it is very much like champagne. . . . I drank
it and I felt nothing. Next day after the performance I rode out
on horseback with that Adolf Ivanitch. It was rather damp and there
was a strong wind. It was most likely then that I caught cold. Three
days later I came home to see how my dear, good Vassya was getting
on, and while here to get my silk dress, the one that has little
flowers on it. Vassya, of course, I did not find at home. I went
into the kitchen to tell Praskovya to set the samovar, and there I
saw on the table some pretty little carrots and turnips like
playthings. I ate one little carrot and well, a turnip too. I ate
very little, but only fancy, I began having a sharp pain at
once--spasms . . . spasms . . . spasms . . . ah, I am dying. Vassya
runs from the office. Naturally he clutches at his hair and turns
white. They run for the doctor. . . . Do you understand, I am dying,
dying."
The spasms began at midday, before three o'clock the doctor came,
and at six Lizotchka fell asleep and slept soundly till two o'clock
in the morning.
It strikes two. . . . The light of the little night lamp filters
scantily through the pale blue shade. Lizotchka is lying in bed,
her white lace cap stands out sharply against the dark background
of the red cushion. Shadows from the blue lamp-shade lie in patterns
on her pale face and her round plump shoulders. Vassily Stepanovitch
is sitting at her feet. The poor fellow is happy that his wife is
at home at last, and at the same time he is terribly alarmed by her
illness.
"Well, how do you feel, Lizotchka?" he asks in a whisper, noticing
that she is awake.
"I am better," moans Lizotchka. "I don't feel the spasms now, but
there is no sleeping. . . . I can't get to sleep!"
"Isn't it time to change the compress, my angel?"
Lizotchka sits up slowly with the expression of a martyr and
gracefully turns her head on one side. Vassily Stepanovitch with
reverent awe, scarcely touching her hot body with his fingers,
changes the compress. Lizotchka shrinks, laughs at the cold water
which tickles her, and lies down again.
"You are getting no sleep, poor boy!" she moans.
"As though I could sleep!"
"It's my nerves, Vassya, I am a very nervous woman. The doctor has
prescribed for stomach trouble, but I feel that he doesn't understand
my illness. It's nerves and not the stomach, I swear that it is my
nerves. There is only one thing I am afraid of, that my illness may
take a bad turn."
"No, Lizotchka, no, to-morrow you will be all right!"
"Hardly likely! I am not afraid for myself. . . . I don't care,
indeed, I shall be glad to die, but I am sorry for you! You'll be
a widower and left all alone."
Vassitchka rarely enjoys his wife's society, and has long been used
to solitude, but Lizotchka's words agitate him.
"Goodness knows what you are saying, little woman! Why these gloomy
thoughts?"
"Well, you will cry and grieve, and then you will get used to it.
You'll even get married again."
The husband clutches his head.
"There, there, I won't!" Lizotchka soothes him, "only you ought to
be prepared for anything."
"And all of a sudden I shall die," she thinks, shutting her eyes.
And Lizotchka draws a mental picture of her own death, how her
mother, her husband, her cousin Varya with her husband, her relations,
the admirers of her "talent" press round her death bed, as she
whispers her last farewell. All are weeping. Then when she is dead
they dress her, interestingly pale and dark-haired, in a pink dress
(it suits her) and lay her in a very expensive coffin on gold legs,
full of flowers. There is a smell of incense, the candles splutter.
Her husband never leaves the coffin, while the admirers of her
talent cannot take their eyes off her, and say: "As though living!
She is lovely in her coffin!" The whole town is talking of the life
cut short so prematurely. But now they are carrying her to the
church. The bearers are Ivan Petrovitch, Adolf Ivanitch, Varya's
husband, Nikolay Semyonitch, and the black-eyed student who had
taught her to drink lemon squash with brandy. It's only a pity
there's no music playing. After the burial service comes the
leave-taking. The church is full of sobs, they bring the lid with
tassels, and . . . Lizotchka is shut off from the light of day for
ever, there is the sound of hammering nails. Knock, knock, knock.
Lizotchka shudders and opens her eyes.
"Vassya, are you here?" she asks. "I have such gloomy thoughts.
Goodness, why am I so unlucky as not to sleep. Vassya, have pity,
do tell me something!"
"What shall I tell you?"
"Something about love," Lizotchka says languidly. "Or some anecdote
about Jews. . . ."
Vassily Stepanovitch, ready for anything if only his wife will be
cheerful and not talk about death, combs locks of hair over his
ears, makes an absurd face, and goes up to Lizotchka.
"Does your vatch vant mending?" he asks.
"It does, it does," giggles Lizotchka, and hands him her gold watch
from the little table. "Mend it."
Vassya takes the watch, examines the mechanism for a long time, and
wriggling and shrugging, says: "She can not be mended . . . in vun
veel two cogs are vanting. . . ."
This is the whole performance. Lizotchka laughs and claps her hands.
"Capital," she exclaims. "Wonderful. Do you know, Vassya, it's
awfully stupid of you not to take part in amateur theatricals! You
have a remarkable talent! You are much better than Sysunov. There
was an amateur called Sysunov who played with us in _It's My
Birthday_. A first-class comic talent, only fancy: a nose as thick
as a parsnip, green eyes, and he walks like a crane. . . . We all
roared; stay, I will show you how he walks."
Lizotchka springs out of bed and begins pacing about the floor,
barefooted and without her cap.
"A very good day to you!" she says in a bass, imitating a man's
voice. "Anything pretty? Anything new under the moon? Ha, ha, ha!"
she laughs.
"Ha, ha, ha!" Vassya seconds her. And the young pair, roaring with
laughter, forgetting the illness, chase one another about the room.
The race ends in Vassya's catching his wife by her nightgown and
eagerly showering kisses upon her. After one particularly passionate
embrace Lizotchka suddenly remembers that she is seriously ill. . . .
"What silliness!" she says, making a serious face and covering
herself with the quilt. "I suppose you have forgotten that I am
ill! Clever, I must say!"
"Sorry . . ." falters her husband in confusion.
"If my illness takes a bad turn it will be your fault. Not kind!
not good!"
Lizotchka closes her eyes and is silent. Her former languor and
expression of martyrdom return again, there is a sound of gentle
moans. Vassya changes the compress, and glad that his wife is at
home and not gadding off to her aunt's, sits meekly at her feet.
He does not sleep all night. At ten o'clock the doctor comes.
"Well, how are we feeling?" he asks as he takes her pulse. "Have
you slept?"
"Badly," Lizotchka's husband answers for her, "very badly."
The doctor walks away to the window and stares at a passing
chimney-sweep.
"Doctor, may I have coffee to-day?" asks Lizotchka.
"You may."
"And may I get up?"
"You might, perhaps, but . . . you had better lie in bed another
day."
"She is awfully depressed," Vassya whispers in his ear, "such gloomy
thoughts, such pessimism. I am dreadfully uneasy about her."
The doctor sits down to the little table, and rubbing his forehead,
prescribes bromide of potassium for Lizotchka, then makes his bow,
and promising to look in again in the evening, departs. Vassya does
not go to the office, but sits all day at his wife's feet.
At midday the admirers of her talent arrive in a crowd. They are
agitated and alarmed, they bring masses of flowers and French novels.
Lizotchka, in a snow-white cap and a light dressing jacket, lies
in bed with an enigmatic look, as though she did not believe in her
own recovery. The admirers of her talent see her husband, but readily
forgive his presence: they and he are united by one calamity at
that bedside!
At six o'clock in the evening Lizotchka falls asleep, and again
sleeps till two o'clock in the morning. Vassya as before sits at
her feet, struggles with drowsiness, changes her compress, plays
at being a Jew, and in the morning after a second night of suffering,
Liza is prinking before the looking-glass and putting on her hat.
"Wherever are you going, my dear?" asks Vassya, with an imploring
look at her.
"What?" says Lizotchka in wonder, assuming a scared expression,
"don't you know that there is a rehearsal to-day at Marya Lvovna's?"
After escorting her there, Vassya having nothing to do to while
away his boredom, takes his portfolio and goes to the office. His
head aches so violently from his sleepless nights that his left eye
shuts of itself and refuses to open. . . .
"What's the matter with you, my good sir?" his chief asks him. "What
is it?"
Vassya waves his hand and sits down.
"Don't ask me, your Excellency," he says with a sigh. "What I have
suffered in these two days, what I have suffered! Liza has been
ill!"
"Good heavens," cried his chief in alarm. "Lizaveta Pavlovna, what
is wrong with her?"
Vassily Stepanovitch merely throws up his hands and raises his eyes
to the ceiling, as though he would say: "It's the will of Providence."
"Ah, my boy, I can sympathise with you with all my heart!" sighs
his chief, rolling his eyes. "I've lost my wife, my dear, I understand.
That is a loss, it is a loss! It's awful, awful! I hope Lizaveta
Pavlovna is better now! What doctor is attending her?"
"Von Schterk."
"Von Schterk! But you would have been better to have called in
Magnus or Semandritsky. But how very pale your face is. You are ill
yourself! This is awful!"
"Yes, your Excellency, I haven't slept. What I have suffered, what
I have been through!"
"And yet you came! Why you came I can't understand? One can't force
oneself like that! One mustn't do oneself harm like that. Go home
and stay there till you are well again! Go home, I command you!
Zeal is a very fine thing in a young official, but you mustn't
forget as the Romans used to say: 'mens sana in corpore sano,' that
is, a healthy brain in a healthy body."
Vassya agrees, puts his papers back in his portfolio, and, taking
leave of his chief, goes home to bed.