The friends turned out of Trubnoi Square into the Grachovka and soon
arrived at the street which Vassiliev knew only from hearsay. Seeing
two rows of houses with brightly lighted windows and wide open doors,
and hearing the gay sound of pianos and fiddles--sounds which flew out
of all the doors and mingled in a strange confusion, as if somewhere
in the darkness over the roof-tops an unseen orchestra were tuning,
Vassiliev was bewildered and said:
“What a lot of houses!”
“What’s that?” said the medico. “There are ten times as many in London.
There are a hundred thousand of these women there.”
The cabmen sat on their boxes quiet and indifferent as in other
streets; on the pavement walked the same passers-by. No one was in
a hurry; no one hid his face in his collar; no one shook his head
reproachfully. And in this indifference, in the confused sound of
the pianos and fiddles, in the bright windows and wide-open doors,
something very free, impudent, bold and daring could be felt. It must
have been the same as this in the old times on the slave-markets, as
gay and as noisy; people looked and walked with the same indifference.
“Let’s begin right at the beginning,” said the painter.
The friends walked into a narrow little passage lighted by a single
lamp with a reflector. When they opened the door a man in a black
jacket rose lazily from the yellow sofa in the hall. He had an unshaven
lackey’s face and sleepy eyes. The place smelt like a laundry, and of
vinegar. From the hall a door led into a brightly lighted room. The
medico and the painter stopped in the doorway, stretched out their
necks and peeped into the room together:
“Buona sera, signore, Rigoletto--huguenote--traviata!--” the painter
began, making a theatrical bow.
“Havanna--blackbeetlano--pistoletto!” said the medico, pressing his hat
to his heart and bowing low.
Vassiliev kept behind them. He wanted to bow theatrically too and say
something silly. But he only smiled, felt awkward and ashamed, and
awaited impatiently what was to follow. In the door appeared a little
fair girl of seventeen or eighteen, with short hair, wearing a short
blue dress with a white bow on her breast.
“What are you standing in the door for?” she said. “Take off your
overcoats and come into the salon.”
The medico and the painter went into the salon, still speaking Italian.
Vassiliev followed them irresolutely.
“Gentlemen, take off your overcoats,” said the lackey stiffly. “You’re
not allowed in as you are.”
Besides the fair girl there was another woman in the salon, very stout
and tall, with a foreign face and bare arms. She sat by the piano,
with a game of patience spread on her knees. She took no notice of the
guests.
“Where are the other girls?” asked the medico.
“They’re drinking tea,” said the fair one. “Stiepan,” she called out.
“Go and tell the girls some students have come!”
A little later a third girl entered, in a bright red dress with blue
stripes. Her face was thickly and unskilfully painted. Her forehead was
hidden under her hair. She stared with dull, frightened eyes. As she
came she immediately began to sing in a strong hoarse contralto. After
her a fourth girl. After her a fifth.
In all this Vassiliev saw nothing new or curious. It seemed to him
that he had seen before, and more than once, this salon, piano, cheap
gilt mirror, the white bow, the dress with blue stripes and the
stupid, indifferent faces. But of darkness, quiet, mystery, and guilty
smile--of all he had expected to meet here and which frightened him--he
did not see even a shadow.
Everything was commonplace, prosaic, and dull. Only one thing provoked
his curiosity a little, that was the terrible, as it were intentional
lack of taste, which was seen in the overmantels, the absurd pictures,
the dresses and the white bow. In this lack of taste there was
something characteristic and singular.
“How poor and foolish it all is!” thought Vassiliev. “What is there in
all this rubbish to tempt a normal man, to provoke him into committing
a frightful sin, to buy a living soul for a rouble? I can understand
anyone sinning for the sake of splendour, beauty, grace, passion; but
what is there here? What tempts people here? But ... it’s no good
thinking!”
“Whiskers, stand me champagne.” The fair one turned to him.
Vassiliev suddenly blushed.
“With pleasure,” he said, bowing politely. “But excuse me if I ... I
don’t drink with you, I don’t drink.”
Five minutes after the friends were off to another house.
“Why did you order drinks?” stormed the medico. “What a millionaire,
flinging six roubles into the gutter like that for nothing at all.”
“Why shouldn’t I give her pleasure if she wants it?” said Vassiliev,
justifying himself.
“You didn’t give her any pleasure. Madame got that. It’s Madame who
tells them to ask the guests for drinks. She makes by it.”
“Behold the mill,” the painter began to sing, “Now fall’n to ruin....”
When they came to another house the friends stood outside in the
vestibule, but did not enter the salon. As in the first house, a figure
rose up from the sofa in the hall, in a black jacket, with a sleepy
lackey’s face. As he looked at this lackey, at his face and shabby
jacket, Vassiliev thought: “What must an ordinary simple Russian go
through before Fate casts him up here? Where was he before, and what
was he doing? What awaits him? Is he married, where’s his mother,
and does she know he’s a lackey here?” Thenceforward in every house
Vassiliev involuntarily turned his attention to the lackey first of all.
In one of the houses, it seemed to be the fourth, the lackey was a dry
little, puny fellow, with a chain across his waistcoat. He was reading
a newspaper and took no notice of the guests at all. Glancing at his
face, Vassiliev had the idea that a fellow with a face like that could
steal and murder and perjure. And indeed the face was interesting: a
big forehead, grey eyes, a flat little nose, small close-set teeth, and
the expression on his face dull and impudent at once, like a puppy hard
on a hare. Vassiliev had the thought that he would like to touch this
lackey’s hair: is it rough or soft? It must be rough like a dog’s.