satisfaction. "She really is a beauty . . . the most beautiful girl in
the town."
"The most beautiful girl in the town! A classic profile, great black
eyes . . . . and hair to her waist! She saw me in 'Hamlet,' she wrote me
a letter ? la Pushkin's 'Tatyana.' . . . I answered, as you may guess.
. . ."
Podzharov looked round, and having satisfied himself that there were no
ladies in the room, rolled his eyes, smiled mournfully, and heaved a
sigh.
"I came home one evening after a performance," he whispered, "and there
she was, sitting on my sofa. There followed tears, protestations of
love, kisses. . . . Oh, that was a marvellous, that was a divine night!
Our romance lasted two months, but that night was never repeated. It was
a night, parole d'honneur!"
"Excuse me, what's that?" muttered Klimov, turning crimson and gazing
open-eyed at the actor. "I know Varvara Nikolayevna well: she's my
niece."
Podzharov was embarrassed, and he, too, opened his eyes wide.
"How's this?" Klimov went on, throwing up his hands. "I know the girl,
and . . . and . . . I am surprised. . . ."
"I am very sorry this has come up," muttered the actor, getting up and
rubbing something out of his left eye with his little finger. "Though,
of course . . . of course, you as her uncle . . ."
The other guests, who had hitherto been listening to the actor with
pleasure and rewarding him with smiles, were embarrassed and dropped
their eyes.
"Please, do be so good . . . take your words back . . ." said Klimov in
extreme embarrassment. "I beg you to do so!"
"If . . . er-er-er . . . it offends you, certainly," answered the actor,
with an undefined movement of his hand.
"And confess you have told a falsehood."
"I, no . . . er-er-er. . . . It was not a lie, but I greatly regret
having spoken too freely. . . . And, in fact . . . I don't understand
your tone!"
Klimov walked up and down the room in silence, as though in uncertainty
and hesitation. His fleshy face grew more and more crimson, and the
veins in his neck swelled up. After walking up and down for about two
minutes he went up to the actor and said in a tearful voice:
"No, do be so good as to confess that you told a lie about Varenka! Have
the goodness to do so!"
"It's queer," said the actor, with a strained smile, shrugging his
shoulders and swinging his leg. "This is positively insulting!"
"So you will not confess it?"
"I do-on't understand!"
"You will not? In that case, excuse me . . . I shall have to resort to
unpleasant measures. Either, sir, I shall insult you at once on the
spot, or . . . if you are an honourable man, you will kindly accept my
challenge to a duel. . . . We will fight!"
"Certainly!" rapped out the jeune premier, with a contemptuous gesture.
"Certainly."
Extremely perturbed, the guests and the host, not knowing what to do,
drew Klimov aside and began begging him not to get up a scandal.
Astonished feminine countenances appeared in the doorway. . . . The
jeune premier turned round, said a few words, and with an air of being
unable to remain in a house where he was insulted, took his cap and made
off without saying good-bye.
On his way home the jeune premier smiled contemptuously and shrugged his
shoulders, but when he reached his hotel room and stretched himself on
his sofa he felt exceedingly uneasy.
"The devil take him!" he thought. "A duel does not matter, he won't kill
me, but the trouble is the other fellows will hear of it, and they know
perfectly well it was a yarn. It's abominable! I shall be disgraced all
over Russia. . . ."
Podzharov thought a little, smoked, and to calm himself went out into
the street.
"I ought to talk to this bully, ram into his stupid noddle that he is a
blockhead and a fool, and that I am not in the least afraid of him. . .
."
The jeune premier stopped before Zybaev's house and looked at the
windows. Lights were still burning behind the muslin curtains and
figures were moving about.
"I'll wait for him!" the actor decided.
It was dark and cold. A hateful autumn rain was drizzling as though
through a sieve. Podzharov leaned his elbow on a lamp-post and abandoned
himself to a feeling of uneasiness.
He was wet through and exhausted.
At two o'clock in the night the guests began coming out of Zybaev's
house. The landowner from Tula was the last to make his appearance. He
heaved a sigh that could be heard by the whole street and scraped the
pavement with his heavy overboots.
"Excuse me!" said the jeune premier, overtaking him. "One minute."
Klimov stopped. The actor gave a smile, hesitated, and began,
stammering: "I . . . I confess . . . I told a lie."
"No, sir, you will please confess that publicly," said Klimov, and he
turned crimson again. "I can't leave it like that. . . ."
"But you see I am apologizing! I beg you . . . don't you understand? I
beg you because you will admit a duel will make talk, and I am in a
position. . . . My fellow-actors . . . goodness knows what they may
think. . . ."
The jeune premier tried to appear unconcerned, to smile, to stand erect,
but his body would not obey him, his voice trembled, his eyes blinked
guiltily, and his head drooped. For a good while he went on muttering
something. Klimov listened to him, thought a little, and heaved a sigh.
"Well, so be it," he said. "May God forgive you. Only don't lie in
future, young man. Nothing degrades a man like lying . . . yes, indeed!
You are a young man, you have had a good education. . . ."
The landowner from Tula, in a benignant, fatherly way, gave him a
lecture, while the jeune premier listened and smiled meekly. . . . When
it was over he smirked, bowed, and with a guilty step and a crestfallen
air set off for his hotel.
As he went to bed half an hour later he felt that he was out of danger
and was already in excellent spirits. Serene and satisfied that the
misunderstanding had ended so satisfactorily, he wrapped himself in the
bedclothes, soon fell asleep, and slept soundly till ten o'clock next
morning.
A DEFENCELESS CREATURE
IN spite of a violent attack of gout in the night and the nervous
exhaustion left by it, Kistunov went in the morning to his office and
began punctually seeing the clients of the bank and persons who had come
with petitions. He looked languid and exhausted, and spoke in a faint
voice hardly above a whisper, as though he were dying.
"What can I do for you?" he asked a lady in an antediluvian mantle,
whose back view was extremely suggestive of a huge dung-beetle.
"You see, your Excellency," the petitioner in question began, speaking
rapidly, "my husband Shtchukin, a collegiate assessor, was ill for five
months, and while he, if you will excuse my saying so, was laid up at
home, he was for no sort of reason dismissed, your Excellency; and when
I went for his salary they deducted, if you please, your Excellency,
twenty-four roubles thirty-six kopecks from his salary. 'What for?' I
asked. 'He borrowed from the club fund,' they told me, 'and the other
clerks had stood security for him.' How was that? How could he have
borrowed it without my consent? It's impossible, your Excellency. What's
the reason of it? I am a poor woman, I earn my bread by taking in
lodgers. I am a weak, defenceless woman . . . I have to put up with ill-
usage from everyone and never hear a kind word. . ."
The petitioner was blinking, and dived into her mantle for her
handkerchief. Kistunov took her petition from her and began reading it.
"Excuse me, what's this?" he asked, shrugging his shoulders. "I can make
nothing of it. Evidently you have come to the wrong place, madam. Your
petition has nothing to do with us at all. You will have to apply to the
department in which your husband was employed."
"Why, my dear sir, I have been to five places already, and they would
not even take the petition anywhere," said Madame Shtchukin. "I'd quite
lost my head, but, thank goodness--God bless him for it--my son-in-law,
Boris Matveyitch, advised me to come to you. 'You go to Mr. Kistunov,
mamma: he is an influential man, he can do anything for you. . . .' Help
me, your Excellency!"
"We can do nothing for you, Madame Shtchukin. You must understand: your
husband served in the Army Medical Department, and our establishment is
a purely private commercial undertaking, a bank. Surely you must
understand that!"
Kistunov shrugged his shoulders again and turned to a gentleman in a
military uniform, with a swollen face.
"Your Excellency," piped Madame Shtchukin in a pitiful voice, "I have
the doctor's certificate that my husband was ill! Here it is, if you
will kindly look at it."
"Very good, I believe you," Kistunov said irritably, "but I repeat it
has nothing to do with us. It's queer and positively absurd! Surely your
husband must know where you are to apply?"
"He knows nothing, your Excellency. He keeps on: 'It's not your
business! Get away!'--that's all I can get out of him. . . . Whose
business is it, then? It's I have to keep them all!"
Kistunov again turned to Madame Shtchukin and began explaining to her
the difference between the Army Medical Department and a private bank.
She listened attentively, nodded in token of assent, and said:
"Yes . . . yes . . . yes . . . I understand, sir. In that case, your
Excellency, tell them to pay me fifteen roubles at least! I agree to
take part on account!"
"Ough!" sighed Kistunov, letting his head drop back. "There's no making
you see reason. Do understand that to apply to us with such a petition
is as strange as to send in a petition concerning divorce, for instance,
to a chemist's or to the Assaying Board. You have not been paid your
due, but what have we to do with it?"
"Your Excellency, make me remember you in my prayers for the rest of my
days, have pity on a lone, lorn woman," wailed Madame Shtchukin; "I am a
weak, defenceless woman. . . . I am worried to death, I've to settle
with the lodgers and see to my husband's affairs and fly round looking
after the house, and I am going to church every day this week, and my
son-in-law is out of a job. . . . I might as well not eat or drink. . .
. I can scarcely keep on my feet. . . . I haven't slept all night. . .
."
Kistunov was conscious of the palpitation of his heart. With a face of
anguish, pressing his hand on his heart, he began explaining to Madame
Shtchukin again, but his voice failed him.
"No, excuse me, I cannot talk to you," he said with a wave of his hand.
"My head's going round. You are hindering us and wasting your time.
Ough! Alexey Nikolaitch," he said, addressing one of his clerks, "please
will you explain to Madame Shtchukin?"
Kistunov, passing by all the petitioners, went to his private room and
signed about a dozen papers while Alexey Nikolaitch was still engaged
with Madame Shtchukin. As he sat in his room Kistunov heard two voices:
the monotonous, restrained bass of Alexey Nikolaitch and the shrill,
wailing voice of Madame Shtchukin.
"I am a weak, defenceless woman, I am a woman in delicate health," said
Madame Shtchukin. "I look strong, but if you were to overhaul me there
is not one healthy fibre in me. I can scarcely keep on my feet, and my
appetite is gone. . . . I drank my cup of coffee this morning without
the slightest relish. . . ."
Alexey Nikolaitch explained to her the difference between the
departments and the complicated system of sending in papers. He was soon
exhausted, and his place was taken by the accountant.
"A wonderfully disagreeable woman!" said Kistunov, revolted, nervously
cracking his fingers and continually going to the decanter of water.
"She's a perfect idiot! She's worn me out and she'll exhaust them, the
nasty creature! Ough! . . . my heart is throbbing."
Half an hour later he rang his bell. Alexey Nikolaitch made his
appearance.
"How are things going?" Kistunov asked languidly.
"We can't make her see anything, Pyotr Alexandritch! We are simply done.
We talk of one thing and she talks of something else."
"I . . . I can't stand the sound of her voice. . . . I am ill . . . . I
can't bear it."
"Send for the porter, Pyotr Alexandritch, let him put her out."
"No, no," cried Kistunov in alarm. "She will set up a squeal, and there
are lots of flats in this building, and goodness knows what they would
think of us. . . . Do try and explain to her, my dear fellow. . . ."
A minute later the deep drone of Alexey Nikolaitch's voice was audible
again. A quarter of an hour passed, and instead of his bass there was
the murmur of the accountant's powerful tenor.
"Re-mark-ably nasty woman," Kistunov thought indignantly, nervously
shrugging his shoulders. "No more brains than a sheep. I believe that's
a twinge of the gout again. . . . My migraine is coming back. . . ."
In the next room Alexey Nikolaitch, at the end of his resources, at last
tapped his finger on the table and then on his own forehead.
"The fact of the matter is you haven't a head on your shoulders," he
said, "but this."
"Come, come," said the old lady, offended. "Talk to your own wife like
that. . . . You screw! . . . Don't be too free with your hands."
And looking at her with fury, with exasperation, as though he would
devour her, Alexey Nikolaitch said in a quiet, stifled voice:
"Clear out."
"Wha-at?" squealed Madame Shtchukin. "How dare you? I am a weak,
defenceless woman; I won't endure it. My husband is a collegiate
assessor. You screw! . . . I will go to Dmitri Karlitch, the lawyer, and
there will be nothing left of you! I've had the law of three lodgers,
and I will make you flop down at my feet for your saucy words! I'll go
to your general. Your Excellency, your Excellency!"
"Be off, you pest," hissed Alexey Nikolaitch.
Kistunov opened his door and looked into the office.
"What is it?" he asked in a tearful voice.
Madame Shtchukin, as red as a crab, was standing in the middle of the
room, rolling her eyes and prodding the air with her fingers. The bank
clerks were standing round red in the face too, and, evidently harassed,
were looking at each other distractedly.
"Your Excellency," cried Madame Shtchukin, pouncing upon Kistunov.
"Here, this man, he here . . . this man . . ." (she pointed to Alexey
Nikolaitch) "tapped himself on the forehead and then tapped the table. .
. . You told him to go into my case, and he's jeering at me! I am a
weak, defenceless woman. . . . My husband is a collegiate assessor, and
I am a major's daughter myself!"
"Very good, madam," moaned Kistunov. "I will go into it . . . I will
take steps. . . . Go away . . . later!"
"And when shall I get the money, your Excellency? I need it to-day!"
Kistunov passed his trembling hand over his forehead, heaved a sigh, and
began explaining again.
"Madam, I have told you already this is a bank, a private commercial
establishment. . . . What do you want of us? And do understand that you
are hindering us."
Madame Shtchukin listened to him and sighed.
"To be sure, to be sure," she assented. "Only, your Excellency, do me
the kindness, make me pray for you for the rest of my life, be a father,
protect me! If a medical certificate is not enough I can produce an
affidavit from the police. . . . Tell them to give me the money."
Everything began swimming before Kistunov's eyes. He breathed out all
the air in his lungs in a prolonged sigh and sank helpless on a chair.
"How much do you want?" he asked in a weak voice.
"Twenty-four roubles and thirty-six kopecks."
Kistunov took his pocket-book out of his pocket, extracted a twenty-five
rouble note and gave it to Madame Shtchukin.
"Take it and . . . and go away!"
Madame Shtchukin wrapped the money up in her handkerchief, put it away,
and pursing up her face into a sweet, mincing, even coquettish smile,
asked:
"Your Excellency, and would it be possible for my husband to get a post
again?"
"I am going . . . I am ill . . ." said Kistunov in a weary voice. "I
have dreadful palpitations."
When he had driven home Alexey Nikolaitch sent Nikita for some laurel
drops, and, after taking twenty drops each, all the clerks set to work,
while Madame Shtchukin stayed another two hours in the vestibule,
talking to the porter and waiting for Kistunov to return. . . .
She came again next day.
AN ENIGMATIC NATURE
ON the red velvet seat of a first-class railway carriage a pretty lady
sits half reclining. An expensive fluffy fan trembles in her tightly
closed fingers, a pince-nez keeps dropping off her pretty little nose,
the brooch heaves and falls on her bosom, like a boat on the ocean. She
is greatly agitated.
On the seat opposite sits the Provincial Secretary of Special
Commissions, a budding young author, who from time to time publishes
long stories of high life, or "Novelli" as he calls them, in the leading
paper of the province. He is gazing into her face, gazing intently, with
the eyes of a connoisseur. He is watching, studying, catching every
shade of this exceptional, enigmatic nature. He understands it, he
fathoms it. Her soul, her whole psychology lies open before him.
"Oh, I understand, I understand you to your inmost depths!" says the
Secretary of Special Commissions, kissing her hand near the bracelet.
"Your sensitive, responsive soul is seeking to escape from the maze of
---- Yes, the struggle is terrific, titanic. But do not lose heart, you
will be triumphant! Yes!"
"Write about me, Voldemar!" says the pretty lady, with a mournful smile.
"My life has been so full, so varied, so chequered. Above all, I am
unhappy. I am a suffering soul in some page of Dostoevsky. Reveal my
soul to the world, Voldemar. Reveal that hapless soul. You are a
psychologist. We have not been in the train an hour together, and you
have already fathomed my heart."
"Tell me! I beseech you, tell me!"
"Listen. My father was a poor clerk in the Service. He had a good heart
and was not without intelligence; but the spirit of the age--of his
environment--vous comprenez?--I do not blame my poor father. He drank,
gambled, took bribes. My mother--but why say more? Poverty, the struggle
for daily bread, the consciousness of insignificance--ah, do not force me
to recall it! I had to make my own way. You know the monstrous education
at a boarding-school, foolish novel-reading, the errors of early youth,
the first timid flutter of love. It was awful! The vacillation! And the
agonies of losing faith in life, in oneself! Ah, you are an author. You
know us women. You will understand. Unhappily I have an intense nature.
I looked for happiness--and what happiness! I longed to set my soul free.
Yes. In that I saw my happiness!"
"Exquisite creature!" murmured the author, kissing her hand close to the
bracelet. "It's not you I am kissing, but the suffering of humanity. Do
you remember Raskolnikov and his kiss?"
"Oh, Voldemar, I longed for glory, renown, success, like every--why
affect modesty?--every nature above the commonplace. I yearned for
something extraordinary, above the common lot of woman! And then--and
then--there crossed my path--an old general--very well off. Understand me,
Voldemar! It was self-sacrifice, renunciation! You must see that! I
could do nothing else. I restored the family fortunes, was able to
travel, to do good. Yet how I suffered, how revolting, how loathsome to
me were his embraces--though I will be fair to him--he had fought nobly in
his day. There were moments--terrible moments--but I was kept up by the
thought that from day to day the old man might die, that then I would
begin to live as I liked, to give myself to the man I adore--be happy.
There is such a man, Voldemar, indeed there is!"
The pretty lady flutters her fan more violently. Her face takes a
lachrymose expression. She goes on:
"But at last the old man died. He left me something. I was free as a
bird of the air. Now is the moment for me to be happy, isn't it,
Voldemar? Happiness comes tapping at my window, I had only to let it
in--but--Voldemar, listen, I implore you! Now is the time for me to give
myself to the man I love, to become the partner of his life, to help, to
uphold his ideals, to be happy--to find rest--but--how ignoble, repulsive,
and senseless all our life is! How mean it all is, Voldemar. I am
wretched, wretched, wretched! Again there is an obstacle in my path!
Again I feel that my happiness is far, far away! Ah, what anguish!--if
only you knew what anguish!"
"But what--what stands in your way? I implore you tell me! What is it?"
"Another old general, very well off----"
The broken fan conceals the pretty little face. The author props on his
fist his thought-heavy brow and ponders with the air of a master in
psychology. The engine is whistling and hissing while the window
curtains flush red with the glow of the setting sun.
A HAPPY MAN
THE passenger train is just starting from Bologoe, the junction on the
Petersburg-Moscow line. In a second-class smoking compartment five
passengers sit dozing, shrouded in the twilight of the carriage. They
had just had a meal, and now, snugly ensconced in their seats, they are
trying to go to sleep. Stillness.
The door opens and in there walks a tall, lanky figure straight as a
poker, with a ginger-coloured hat and a smart overcoat, wonderfully
suggestive of a journalist in Jules Verne or on the comic stage.
The figure stands still in the middle of the compartment for a long
while, breathing heavily, screwing up his eyes and peering at the seats.
"No, wrong again!" he mutters. "What the deuce! It's positively
revolting! No, the wrong one again!"
One of the passengers stares at the figure and utters a shout of joy:
"Ivan Alexyevitch! what brings you here? Is it you?"
The poker-like gentleman starts, stares blankly at the passenger, and
recognizing him claps his hands with delight.
"Ha! Pyotr Petrovitch," he says. "How many summers, how many winters! I
didn't know you were in this train."
"How are you getting on?"
"I am all right; the only thing is, my dear fellow, I've lost my
compartment and I simply can't find it. What an idiot I am! I ought to
be thrashed!"
The poker-like gentleman sways a little unsteadily and sniggers.
"Queer things do happen!" he continues. "I stepped out just after the
second bell to get a glass of brandy. I got it, of course. Well, I
thought, since it's a long way to the next station, it would be as well
to have a second glass. While I was thinking about it and drinking it
the third bell rang. . . . I ran like mad and jumped into the first
carriage. I am an idiot! I am the son of a hen!"
"But you seem in very good spirits," observes Pyotr Petrovitch. "Come
and sit down! There's room and a welcome."
"No, no. . . . I'm off to look for my carriage. Good-bye!"
"You'll fall between the carriages in the dark if you don't look out!
Sit down, and when we get to a station you'll find your own compartment.
Sit down!"
Ivan Alexyevitch heaves a sigh and irresolutely sits down facing Pyotr
Petrovitch. He is visibly excited, and fidgets as though he were sitting
on thorns.
"Where are you travelling to?" Pyotr Petrovitch enquires.
"I? Into space. There is such a turmoil in my head that I couldn't tell
where I am going myself. I go where fate takes me. Ha-ha! My dear
fellow, have you ever seen a happy fool? No? Well, then, take a look at
one. You behold the happiest of mortals! Yes! Don't you see something
from my face?"
"Well, one can see you're a bit . . . a tiny bit so-so."
"I dare say I look awfully stupid just now. Ach! it's a pity I haven't a
looking-glass, I should like to look at my counting-house. My dear
fellow, I feel I am turning into an idiot, honour bright. Ha-ha! Would
you believe it, I'm on my honeymoon. Am I not the son of a hen?"
"You? Do you mean to say you are married?"
"To-day, my dear boy. We came away straight after the wedding."
Congratulations and the usual questions follow. "Well, you are a
fellow!" laughs Pyotr Petrovitch. "That's why you are rigged out such a
dandy."
"Yes, indeed. . . . To complete the illusion, I've even sprinkled myself
with scent. I am over my ears in vanity! No care, no thought, nothing
but a sensation of something or other . . . deuce knows what to call it
. . . beatitude or something? I've never felt so grand in my life!"
Ivan Alexyevitch shuts his eyes and waggles his head.