I
Easter was near. Esper Constantinovich Saksaoolov was in a painful and
undecided state of mind. It seemed to have begun when he was asked at
the Gorodischevs: “Where are you greeting the holiday?”
Saksaoolov, for some reason, did not reply at once. The housewife, who
was stout, short-sighted and fussy, went on: “Come to us.”
Saksaoolov felt vexed—most likely at the young girl, who at the words
of her mother gave him a quick glance, then averted it, and continued
her conversation with a professor’s young assistant.
Mothers of grown daughters saw a possible husband in Saksaoolov, which
annoyed him. He considered himself an old bachelor at thirty-seven.
He answered sharply: “Thank you. But I always pass that night at home.”
The girl glanced at him with a smile and asked: “With whom?”
“Alone,” answered Saksaoolov with a shade of astonishment in his voice.
“You’re a misanthrope,” said Madame Gorodischeva, with a sour smile.
Saksaoolov valued his freedom. It seemed strange to him, whenever he
thought of it, that he had been so near marriage once. He had lived
long in his small but tastefully furnished apartment, had got used to
his man attendant, the elderly and steady Fedota, and to Fedota’s not
less reliable spouse, who cooked his dinner; and he persuaded himself
that he ought to remain single out of memory to his first love. In
truth, his heart was growing cold from indifference born of a lonely,
incomplete life.
He had his own fortune, his father and mother had died long ago, and he
had no near relatives. He lived methodically and quietly; had something
to do with a government department; was intimately acquainted with
contemporary literature and art; and was something of an epicurean—but
life itself seemed to him to be empty and aimless. Were it not that one
pure, radiant fancy visited him at times he would have become entirely
cold, like many others.