fellows, is consistent and can be explained," sighed Samoylenko; "only I
tell you what I don't understand. You're a man of very great intellect,
so explain it to me, please. There are, you know, little beasts no
bigger than rats, rather handsome to look at, but nasty and immoral in
the extreme, let me tell you. Suppose such a little beast is running in
the woods. He sees a bird; he catches it and devours it. He goes on and
sees in the grass a nest of eggs; he does not want to eat them--he is not
hungry, but yet he tastes one egg and scatters the others out of the
nest with his paw. Then he meets a frog and begins to play with it; when
he has tormented the frog he goes on licking himself and meets a beetle;
he crushes the beetle with his paw . . . and so he spoils and destroys
everything on his way. . . . He creeps into other beasts' holes, tears
up the anthills, cracks the snail's shell. If he meets a rat, he fights
with it; if he meets a snake or a mouse, he must strangle it; and so the
whole day long. Come, tell me: what is the use of a beast like that? Why
was he created?"
"I don't know what animal you are talking of," said Von Koren; "most
likely one of the insectivora. Well, he got hold of the bird because it
was incautious; he broke the nest of eggs because the bird was not
skilful, had made the nest badly and did not know how to conceal it. The
frog probably had some defect in its colouring or he would not have seen
it, and so on. Your little beast only destroys the weak, the unskilful,
the careless--in fact, those who have defects which nature does not think
fit to hand on to posterity. Only the cleverer, the stronger, the more
careful and developed survive; and so your little beast, without
suspecting it, is serving the great ends of perfecting creation."
"Yes, yes, yes. . . . By the way, brother," said Samoylenko carelessly,
"lend me a hundred roubles."
"Very good. There are some very interesting types among the
insectivorous mammals. For instance, the mole is said to be useful
because he devours noxious insects. There is a story that some German
sent William I. a fur coat made of moleskins, and the Emperor ordered
him to be reproved for having destroyed so great a number of useful
animals. And yet the mole is not a bit less cruel than your little
beast, and is very mischievous besides, as he spoils meadows terribly."
Von Koren opened a box and took out a hundred-rouble note.
"The mole has a powerful thorax, just like the bat," he went on,
shutting the box; "the bones and muscles are tremendously developed, the
mouth is extraordinarily powerfully furnished. If it had the proportions
of an elephant, it would be an all-destructive, invincible animal. It is
interesting when two moles meet underground; they begin at once as
though by agreement digging a little platform; they need the platform in
order to have a battle more conveniently. When they have made it they
enter upon a ferocious struggle and fight till the weaker one falls.
Take the hundred roubles," said Von Koren, dropping his voice, "but only
on condition that you're not borrowing it for Laevsky."
"And if it were for Laevsky," cried Samoylenko, flaring up, "what is
that to you?"
"I can't give it to you for Laevsky. I know you like lending people
money. You would give it to Kerim, the brigand, if he were to ask you;
but, excuse me, I can't assist you in that direction."
"Yes, it is for Laevsky I am asking it," said Samoylenko, standing up
and waving his right arm. "Yes! For Laevsky! And no one, fiend or devil,
has a right to dictate to me how to dispose of my own money. It doesn't
suit you to lend it me? No?"
The deacon began laughing.
"Don't get excited, but be reasonable," said the zoologist. "To shower
benefits on Mr. Laevsky is, to my thinking, as senseless as to water
weeds or to feed locusts."
"To my thinking, it is our duty to help our neighbours!" cried
Samoylenko.
"In that case, help that hungry Turk who is lying under the fence! He is
a workman and more useful and indispensable than your Laevsky. Give him
that hundred-rouble note! Or subscribe a hundred roubles to my
expedition!"
"Will you give me the money or not? I ask you!"
"Tell me openly: what does he want money for?"
"It's not a secret; he wants to go to Petersburg on Saturday."
"So that is it!" Von Koren drawled out. "Aha! . . . We understand. And
is she going with him, or how is it to be?"
"She's staying here for the time. He'll arrange his affairs in
Petersburg and send her the money, and then she'll go."
"That's smart!" said the zoologist, and he gave a short tenor laugh.
"Smart, well planned."
He went rapidly up to Samoylenko, and standing face to face with him,
and looking him in the eyes, asked: "Tell me now honestly: is he tired
of her? Yes? tell me: is he tired of her? Yes?"
"Yes," Samoylenko articulated, beginning to perspire.
"How repulsive it is!" said Von Koren, and from his face it could be
seen that he felt repulsion. "One of two things, Alexandr Daviditch:
either you are in the plot with him, or, excuse my saying so, you are a
simpleton. Surely you must see that he is taking you in like a child in
the most shameless way? Why, it's as clear as day that he wants to get
rid of her and abandon her here. She'll be left a burden on you. It is
as clear as day that you will have to send her to Petersburg at your
expense. Surely your fine friend can't have so blinded you by his
dazzling qualities that you can't see the simplest thing?"
"That's all supposition," said Samoylenko, sitting down.
"Supposition? But why is he going alone instead of taking her with him?
And ask him why he doesn't send her off first. The sly beast!"
Overcome with sudden doubts and suspicions about his friend, Samoylenko
weakened and took a humbler tone.
"But it's impossible," he said, recalling the night Laevsky had spent at
his house. "He is so unhappy!"
"What of that? Thieves and incendiaries are unhappy too!"
"Even supposing you are right . . ." said Samoylenko, hesitating. "Let
us admit it. . . . Still, he's a young man in a strange place . . . a
student. We have been students, too, and there is no one but us to come
to his assistance."
"To help him to do abominable things, because he and you at different
times have been at universities, and neither of you did anything there!
What nonsense!"
"Stop; let us talk it over coolly. I imagine it will be possible to make
some arrangement. . . ." Samoylenko reflected, twiddling his fingers.
"I'll give him the money, you see, but make him promise on his honour
that within a week he'll send Nadyezhda Fyodorovna the money for the
journey."
"And he'll give you his word of honour--in fact, he'll shed tears and
believe in it himself; but what's his word of honour worth? He won't
keep it, and when in a year or two you meet him on the Nevsky Prospect
with a new mistress on his arm, he'll excuse himself on the ground that
he has been crippled by civilisation, and that he is made after the
pattern of Rudin. Drop him, for God's sake! Keep away from the filth;
don't stir it up with both hands!"
Samoylenko thought for a minute and said resolutely:
"But I shall give him the money all the same. As you please. I can't
bring myself to refuse a man simply on an assumption."
"Very fine, too. You can kiss him if you like."
"Give me the hundred roubles, then," Samoylenko asked timidly.
"I won't."
A silence followed. Samoylenko was quite crushed; his face wore a
guilty, abashed, and ingratiating expression, and it was strange to see
this pitiful, childish, shamefaced countenance on a huge man wearing
epaulettes and orders of merit.
"The bishop here goes the round of his diocese on horseback instead of
in a carriage," said the deacon, laying down his pen. "It's extremely
touching to see him sit on his horse. His simplicity and humility are
full of Biblical grandeur."
"Is he a good man?" asked Von Koren, who was glad to change the
conversation.
"Of course! If he hadn't been a good man, do you suppose he would have
been consecrated a bishop?"
"Among the bishops are to be found good and gifted men," said Von Koren.
"The only drawback is that some of them have the weakness to imagine
themselves statesmen. One busies himself with Russification, another
criticises the sciences. That's not their business. They had much better
look into their consistory a little."
"A layman cannot judge of bishops."
"Why so, deacon? A bishop is a man just the same as you or I."
"The same, but not the same." The deacon was offended and took up his
pen. "If you had been the same, the Divine Grace would have rested upon
you, and you would have been bishop yourself; and since you are not
bishop, it follows you are not the same."
"Don't talk nonsense, deacon," said Samoylenko dejectedly. "Listen to
what I suggest," he said, turning to Von Koren. "Don't give me that
hundred roubles. You'll be having your dinners with me for three months
before the winter, so let me have the money beforehand for three
months."
"I won't."
Samoylenko blinked and turned crimson; he mechanically drew towards him
the book with the spider on it and looked at it, then he got up and took
his hat.
Von Koren felt sorry for him.
"What it is to have to live and do with people like this," said the
zoologist, and he kicked a paper into the corner with indignation. "You
must understand that this is not kindness, it is not love, but
cowardice, slackness, poison! What's gained by reason is lost by your
flabby good-for-nothing hearts! When I was ill with typhoid as a
schoolboy, my aunt in her sympathy gave me pickled mushrooms to eat, and
I very nearly died. You, and my aunt too, must understand that love for
man is not to be found in the heart or the stomach or the bowels, but
here!"
Von Koren slapped himself on the forehead.
"Take it," he said, and thrust a hundred-rouble note into his hand.
"You've no need to be angry, Kolya," said Samoylenko mildly, folding up
the note. "I quite understand you, but . . . you must put yourself in my
place."
"You are an old woman, that's what you are."
The deacon burst out laughing.
"Hear my last request, Alexandr Daviditch," said Von Koren hotly. "When
you give that scoundrel the money, make it a condition that he takes his
lady with him, or sends her on ahead, and don't give it him without.
There's no need to stand on ceremony with him. Tell him so, or, if you
don't, I give you my word I'll go to his office and kick him downstairs,
and I'll break off all acquaintance with you. So you'd better know it."
"Well! To go with her or send her on beforehand will be more convenient
for him," said Samoylenko. "He'll be delighted indeed. Well, goodbye."
He said good-bye affectionately and went out, but before shutting the
door after him, he looked round at Von Koren and, with a ferocious face,
said:
"It's the Germans who have ruined you, brother! Yes! The Germans!" XII
Next day, Thursday, Marya Konstantinovna was celebrating the birthday of
her Kostya. All were invited to come at midday and eat pies, and in the
evening to drink chocolate. When Laevsky and Nadyezhda Fyodorovna
arrived in the evening, the zoologist, who was already sitting in the
drawing-room, drinking chocolate, asked Samoylenko:
"Have you talked to him?"
"Not yet."
"Mind now, don't stand on ceremony. I can't understand the insolence of
these people! Why, they know perfectly well the view taken by this
family of their cohabitation, and yet they force themselves in here."
"If one is to pay attention to every prejudice," said Samoylenko, "one
could go nowhere."
"Do you mean to say that the repugnance felt by the masses for illicit
love and moral laxity is a prejudice?"
"Of course it is. It's prejudice and hate. When the soldiers see a girl
of light behaviour, they laugh and whistle; but just ask them what they
are themselves."
"It's not for nothing they whistle. The fact that girls strangle their
illegitimate children and go to prison for it, and that Anna Karenin
flung herself under the train, and that in the villages they smear the
gates with tar, and that you and I, without knowing why, are pleased by
Katya's purity, and that every one of us feels a vague craving for pure
love, though he knows there is no such love--is all that prejudice? That
is the one thing, brother, which has survived intact from natural
selection, and, if it were not for that obscure force regulating the
relations of the sexes, the Laevskys would have it all their own way,
and mankind would degenerate in two years."
Laevsky came into the drawing-room, greeted every one, and shaking hands
with Von Koren, smiled ingratiatingly. He waited for a favourable moment
and said to Samoylenko:
"Excuse me, Alexandr Daviditch, I must say two words to you."
Samoylenko got up, put his arm round Laevsky's waist, and both of them
went into Nikodim Alexandritch's study.
"To-morrow's Friday," said Laevsky, biting his nails. "Have you got what
you promised?"
"I've only got two hundred. I'll get the rest to-day or to-morrow. Don't
worry yourself."
"Thank God . . ." sighed Laevsky, and his hands began trembling with
joy. "You are saving me, Alexandr Daviditch, and I swear to you by God,
by my happiness and anything you like, I'll send you the money as soon
as I arrive. And I'll send you my old debt too."
"Look here, Vanya . . ." said Samoylenko, turning crimson and taking him
by the button. "You must forgive my meddling in your private affairs,
but . . . why shouldn't you take Nadyezhda Fyodorovna with you?"
"You queer fellow. How is that possible? One of us must stay, or our
creditors will raise an outcry. You see, I owe seven hundred or more to
the shops. Only wait, and I will send them the money. I'll stop their
mouths, and then she can come away."
"I see. . . . But why shouldn't you send her on first?"
"My goodness, as though that were possible!" Laevsky was horrified.
"Why, she's a woman; what would she do there alone? What does she know
about it? That would only be a loss of time and a useless waste of
money."
"That's reasonable . . ." thought Samoylenko, but remembering his
conversation with Von Koren, he looked down and said sullenly: "I can't
agree with you. Either go with her or send her first; otherwise . . .
otherwise I won't give you the money. Those are my last words. . ."
He staggered back, lurched backwards against the door, and went into the
drawing-room, crimson, and overcome with confusion.
"Friday . . . Friday," thought Laevsky, going back into the drawing-
room. "Friday. . . ."
He was handed a cup of chocolate; he burnt his lips and tongue with the
scalding chocolate and thought: "Friday . . . Friday. . . ."
For some reason he could not get the word "Friday" out of his head; he
could think of nothing but Friday, and the only thing that was clear to
him, not in his brain but somewhere in his heart, was that he would not
get off on Saturday. Before him stood Nikodim Alexandritch, very neat,
with his hair combed over his temples, saying:
"Please take something to eat. . . ."
Marya Konstantinovna showed the visitors Katya's school report and said,
drawling:
"It's very, very difficult to do well at school nowadays! So much is
expected . . ."
"Mamma!" groaned Katya, not knowing where to hide her confusion at the
praises of the company.
Laevsky, too, looked at the report and praised it. Scripture, Russian
language, conduct, fives and fours, danced before his eyes, and all
this, mixed with the haunting refrain of "Friday," with the carefully
combed locks of Nikodim Alexandritch and the red cheeks of Katya,
produced on him a sensation of such immense overwhelming boredom that he
almost shrieked with despair and asked himself: "Is it possible, is it
possible I shall not get away?"
They put two card tables side by side and sat down to play post. Laevsky
sat down too.
"Friday . . . Friday . . ." he kept thinking, as he smiled and took a
pencil out of his pocket. "Friday. . . ."
He wanted to think over his position, and was afraid to think. It was
terrible to him to realise that the doctor had detected him in the
deception which he had so long and carefully concealed from himself.
Every time he thought of his future he would not let his thoughts have
full rein. He would get into the train and set off, and thereby the
problem of his life would be solved, and he did not let his thoughts go
farther. Like a far-away dim light in the fields, the thought sometimes
flickered in his mind that in one of the side-streets of Petersburg, in
the remote future, he would have to have recourse to a tiny lie in order
to get rid of Nadyezhda Fyodorovna and pay his debts; he would tell a
lie only once, and then a completely new life would begin. And that was
right: at the price of a small lie he would win so much truth.
Now when by his blunt refusal the doctor had crudely hinted at his
deception, he began to understand that he would need deception not only
in the remote future, but to-day, and to-morrow, and in a month's time,
and perhaps up to the very end of his life. In fact, in order to get
away he would have to lie to Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, to his creditors, and
to his superiors in the Service; then, in order to get money in
Petersburg, he would have to lie to his mother, to tell her that he had
already broken with Nadyezhda Fyodorovna; and his mother would not give
him more than five hundred roubles, so he had already deceived the
doctor, as he would not be in a position to pay him back the money
within a short time. Afterwards, when Nadyezhda Fyodorovna came to
Petersburg, he would have to resort to a regular series of deceptions,
little and big, in order to get free of her; and again there would be
tears, boredom, a disgusting existence, remorse, and so there would be
no new life. Deception and nothing more. A whole mountain of lies rose
before Laevsky's imagination. To leap over it at one bound and not to do
his lying piecemeal, he would have to bring himself to stern,
uncompromising action; for instance, to getting up without saying a
word, putting on his hat, and at once setting off without money and
without explanation. But Laevsky felt that was impossible for him.
"Friday, Friday . . ." he thought. "Friday. . . ."
They wrote little notes, folded them in two, and put them in Nikodim
Alexandritch's old top-hat. When there were a sufficient heap of notes,
Kostya, who acted the part of postman, walked round the table and
delivered them. The deacon, Katya, and Kostya, who received amusing
notes and tried to write as funnily as they could, were highly
delighted.
"We must have a little talk," Nadyezhda Fyodorovna read in a little
note; she glanced at Marya Konstantinovna, who gave her an almond-oily
smile and nodded.
"Talk of what?" thought Nadyezhda Fyodorovna. "If one can't tell the
whole, it's no use talking."
Before going out for the evening she had tied Laevsky's cravat for him,
and that simple action filled her soul with tenderness and sorrow. The
anxiety in his face, his absent-minded looks, his pallor, and the
incomprehensible change that had taken place in him of late, and the
fact that she had a terrible revolting secret from him, and the fact
that her hands trembled when she tied his cravat--all this seemed to tell
her that they had not long left to be together. She looked at him as
though he were an ikon, with terror and penitence, and thought:
"Forgive, forgive."
Opposite her was sitting Atchmianov, and he never took his black, love-
sick eyes off her. She was stirred by passion; she was ashamed of
herself, and afraid that even her misery and sorrow would not prevent
her from yielding to impure desire to-morrow, if not to-day --and that,
like a drunkard, she would not have the strength to stop herself.
She made up her mind to go away that she might not continue this life,
shameful for herself, and humiliating for Laevsky. She would beseech him
with tears to let her go; and if he opposed her, she would go away
secretly. She would not tell him what had happened; let him keep a pure
memory of her.
"I love you, I love you, I love you," she read. It was from Atchmianov.
She would live in some far remote place, would work and send Laevsky,
"anonymously," money, embroidered shirts, and tobacco, and would return
to him only in old age or if he were dangerously ill and needed a nurse.
When in his old age he learned what were her reasons for leaving him and
refusing to be his wife, he would appreciate her sacrifice and forgive.
"You've got a long nose." That must be from the deacon or Kostya.
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna imagined how, parting from Laevsky, she would
embrace him warmly, would kiss his hand, and would swear to love him all
her life, all her life, and then, living in obscurity among strangers,
she would every day think that somewhere she had a friend, some one she
loved--a pure, noble, lofty man who kept a pure memory of her.
"If you don't give me an interview to-day, I shall take measures, I
assure you on my word of honour. You can't treat decent people like
this; you must understand that." That was from Kirilin. XIII
Laevsky received two notes; he opened one and read: "Don't go away, my
darling."
"Who could have written that?" he thought. "Not Samoylenko, of course.
And not the deacon, for he doesn't know I want to go away. Von Koren,
perhaps?"
The zoologist bent over the table and drew a pyramid. Laevsky fancied
that his eyes were smiling.
"Most likely Samoylenko . . . has been gossiping," thought Laevsky.
In the other note, in the same disguised angular handwriting with long
tails to the letters, was written: "Somebody won't go away on Saturday."
"A stupid gibe," thought Laevsky. "Friday, Friday. . . ."
Something rose in his throat. He touched his collar and coughed, but
instead of a cough a laugh broke from his throat.
"Ha-ha-ha!" he laughed. "Ha-ha-ha! What am I laughing at? Ha-ha-ha!"
He tried to restrain himself, covered his mouth with his hand, but the
laugh choked his chest and throat, and his hand could not cover his
mouth.
"How stupid it is!" he thought, rolling with laughter. "Have I gone out
of my mind?"
The laugh grew shriller and shriller, and became something like the bark
of a lap-dog. Laevsky tried to get up from the table, but his legs would
not obey him and his right hand was strangely, without his volition,
dancing on the table, convulsively clutching and crumpling up the bits
of paper. He saw looks of wonder, Samoylenko's grave, frightened face,
and the eyes of the zoologist full of cold irony and disgust, and
realised that he was in hysterics.
"How hideous, how shameful!" he thought, feeling the warmth of tears on
his face. ". . . Oh, oh, what a disgrace! It has never happened to me. .
. ."
They took him under his arms, and supporting his head from behind, led
him away; a glass gleamed before his eyes and knocked against his teeth,
and the water was spilt on his breast; he was in a little room, with two
beds in the middle, side by side, covered by two snow-white quilts. He
dropped on one of the beds and sobbed.
"It's nothing, it's nothing," Samoylenko kept saying; "it does happen .
. . it does happen. . . ."
Chill with horror, trembling all over and dreading something awful,
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna stood by the bedside and kept asking:
"What is it? What is it? For God's sake, tell me."
"Can Kirilin have written him something?" she thought.
"It's nothing," said Laevsky, laughing and crying; "go away, darling."
His face expressed neither hatred nor repulsion: so he knew nothing;
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna was somewhat reassured, and she went into the
drawing-room.
"Don't agitate yourself, my dear!" said Marya Konstantinovna, sitting
down beside her and taking her hand. "It will pass. Men are just as weak
as we poor sinners. You are both going through a crisis. . . . One can
so well understand it! Well, my dear, I am waiting for an answer. Let us
have a little talk."
"No, we are not going to talk," said Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, listening to
Laevsky's sobs. "I feel depressed. . . . You must allow me to go home."
"What do you mean, what do you mean, my dear?" cried Marya
Konstantinovna in alarm. "Do you think I could let you go without
supper? We will have something to eat, and then you may go with my
blessing."
"I feel miserable . . ." whispered Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, and she caught
at the arm of the chair with both hands to avoid falling.
"He's got a touch of hysterics," said Von Koren gaily, coming into the
drawing-room, but seeing Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, he was taken aback and
retreated.
When the attack was over, Laevsky sat on the strange bed and thought.
"Disgraceful! I've been howling like some wretched girl! I must have
been absurd and disgusting. I will go away by the back stairs . . . .
But that would seem as though I took my hysterics too seriously. I ought
to take it as a joke. . . ."
He looked in the looking-glass, sat there for some time, and went back
into the drawing-room.