not married, and it now seemed to us strange that we had hitherto failed
to observe, and had in fact completely lost sight of, a detail so
important in his life. What was his attitude to woman? How had he
settled this vital question for himself? This had not interested us in
the least till then; perhaps we had not even admitted the idea that a
man who went out in all weathers in goloshes and slept under curtains
could be in love.
"'He is a good deal over forty and she is thirty,' the headmaster's wife
went on, developing her idea. 'I believe she would marry him.'
"All sorts of things are done in the provinces through boredom, all
sorts of unnecessary and nonsensical things! And that is because what is
necessary is not done at all. What need was there for instance, for us
to make a match for this Byelikov, whom one could not even imagine
married? The headmaster's wife, the inspector's wife, and all our high-
school ladies, grew livelier and even better-looking, as though they had
suddenly found a new object in life. The headmaster's wife would take a
box at the theatre, and we beheld sitting in her box Varinka, with such
a fan, beaming and happy, and beside her Byelikov, a little bent figure,
looking as though he had been extracted from his house by pincers. I
would give an evening party, and the ladies would insist on my inviting
Byelikov and Varinka. In short, the machine was set in motion. It
appeared that Varinka was not averse to matrimony. She had not a very
cheerful life with her brother; they could do nothing but quarrel and
scold one another from morning till night. Here is a scene, for
instance. Kovalenko would be coming along the street, a tall, sturdy
young ruffian, in an embroidered shirt, his love-locks falling on his
forehead under his cap, in one hand a bundle of books, in the other a
thick knotted stick, followed by his sister, also with books in her
hand.
"'But you haven't read it, Mihalik!' she would be arguing loudly. 'I
tell you, I swear you have not read it at all!'
"'And I tell you I have read it,' cries Kovalenko, thumping his stick on
the pavement.
"'Oh, my goodness, Mihalik! why are you so cross? We are arguing about
principles.'
"'I tell you that I have read it!' Kovalenko would shout, more loudly
than ever.
"And at home, if there was an outsider present, there was sure to be a
skirmish. Such a life must have been wearisome, and of course she must
have longed for a home of her own. Besides, there was her age to be
considered; there was no time left to pick and choose; it was a case of
marrying anybody, even a Greek master. And, indeed, most of our young
ladies don't mind whom they marry so long as they do get married.
However that may be, Varinka began to show an unmistakable partiality
for Byelikov.
"And Byelikov? He used to visit Kovalenko just as he did us. He would
arrive, sit down, and remain silent. He would sit quiet, and Varinka
would sing to him 'The Winds do Blow,' or would look pensively at him
with her dark eyes, or would suddenly go off into a peal--'Ha-ha-ha!'
"Suggestion plays a great part in love affairs, and still more in
getting married. Everybody--both his colleagues and the ladies--began
assuring Byelikov that he ought to get married, that there was nothing
left for him in life but to get married; we all congratulated him, with
solemn countenances delivered ourselves of various platitudes, such as
'Marriage is a serious step.' Besides, Varinka was good-looking and
interesting; she was the daughter of a civil councillor, and had a farm;
and what was more, she was the first woman who had been warm and
friendly in her manner to him. His head was turned, and he decided that
he really ought to get married."
"Well, at that point you ought to have taken away his goloshes and
umbrella," said Ivan Ivanovitch.
"Only fancy! that turned out to be impossible. He put Varinka's portrait
on his table, kept coming to see me and talking about Varinka, and home
life, saying marriage was a serious step. He was frequently at
Kovalenko's, but he did not alter his manner of life in the least; on
the contrary, indeed, his determination to get married seemed to have a
depressing effect on him. He grew thinner and paler, and seemed to
retreat further and further into his case.
"'I like Varvara Savvishna,' he used to say to me, with a faint and wry
smile, 'and I know that every one ought to get married, but... you know
all this has happened so suddenly.... One must think a little.'
"'What is there to think over?' I used to say to him. 'Get married--that
is all.'
"'No; marriage is a serious step. One must first weigh the duties before
one, the responsibilities... that nothing may go wrong afterwards. It
worries me so much that I don't sleep at night. And I must confess I am
afraid: her brother and she have a strange way of thinking; they look at
things strangely, you know, and her disposition is very impetuous. One
may get married, and then, there is no knowing, one may find oneself in
an unpleasant position.'
"And he did not make an offer; he kept putting it off, to the great
vexation of the headmaster's wife and all our ladies; he went on
weighing his future duties and responsibilities, and meanwhile he went
for a walk with Varinka almost every day--possibly he thought that this
was necessary in his position--and came to see me to talk about family
life. And in all probability in the end he would have proposed to her,
and would have made one of those unnecessary, stupid marriages such as
are made by thousands among us from being bored and having nothing to
do, if it had not been for a kolossalische scandal. I must mention that
Varinka's brother, Kovalenko, detested Byelikov from the first day of
their acquaintance, and could not endure him.
"'I don't understand,' he used to say to us, shrugging his shoulders--'I
don't understand how you can put up with that sneak, that nasty phiz.
Ugh! how can you live here! The atmosphere is stifling and unclean! Do
you call yourselves schoolmasters, teachers? You are paltry government
clerks. You keep, not a temple of science, but a department for red tape
and loyal behaviour, and it smells as sour as a police-station. No, my
friends; I will stay with you for a while, and then I will go to my farm
and there catch crabs and teach the Little Russians. I shall go, and you
can stay here with your Judas--damn his soul!'
"Or he would laugh till he cried, first in a loud bass, then in a
shrill, thin laugh, and ask me, waving his hands:
"'What does he sit here for? What does he want? He sits and stares.'
"He even gave Byelikov a nickname, 'The Spider.' And it will readily be
understood that we avoided talking to him of his sister's being about to
marry 'The Spider.'
"And on one occasion, when the headmaster's wife hinted to him what a
good thing it would be to secure his sister's future with such a
reliable, universally respected man as Byelikov, he frowned and
muttered:
"'It's not my business; let her marry a reptile if she likes. I don't
like meddling in other people's affairs.'
"Now hear what happened next. Some mischievous person drew a caricature
of Byelikov walking along in his goloshes with his trousers tucked up,
under his umbrella, with Varinka on his arm; below, the inscription
'Anthropos in love.' The expression was caught to a marvel, you know.
The artist must have worked for more than one night, for the teachers of
both the boys' and girls' high-schools, the teachers of the seminary,
the government officials, all received a copy. Byelikov received one,
too. The caricature made a very painful impression on him.
"We went out together; it was the first of May, a Sunday, and all of us,
the boys and the teachers, had agreed to meet at the high-school and
then to go for a walk together to a wood beyond the town. We set off,
and he was green in the face and gloomier than a storm-cloud.
"'What wicked, ill-natured people there are!' he said, and his lips
quivered.
"I felt really sorry for him. We were walking along, and all of a
sudden--would you believe it?--Kovalenko came bowling along on a bicycle,
and after him, also on a bicycle, Varinka, flushed and exhausted, but
good-humoured and gay.
"'We are going on ahead,' she called. 'What lovely weather! Awfully
lovely!'
"And they both disappeared from our sight. Byelikov turned white instead
of green, and seemed petrified. He stopped short and stared at me....
"'What is the meaning of it? Tell me, please!' he asked. 'Can my eyes
have deceived me? Is it the proper thing for high-school masters and
ladies to ride bicycles?'
"'What is there improper about it?' I said. 'Let them ride and enjoy
themselves.'
"'But how can that be?' he cried, amazed at my calm. 'What are you
saying?'
"And he was so shocked that he was unwilling to go on, and returned
home.
"Next day he was continually twitching and nervously rubbing his hands,
and it was evident from his face that he was unwell. And he left before
his work was over, for the first time in his life. And he ate no dinner.
Towards evening he wrapped himself up warmly, though it was quite warm
weather, and sallied out to the Kovalenkos'. Varinka was out; he found
her brother, however.
"'Pray sit down,' Kovalenko said coldly, with a frown. His face looked
sleepy; he had just had a nap after dinner, and was in a very bad
humour.
"Byelikov sat in silence for ten minutes, and then began:
"'I have come to see you to relieve my mind. I am very, very much
troubled. Some scurrilous fellow has drawn an absurd caricature of me
and another person, in whom we are both deeply interested. I regard it
as a duty to assure you that I have had no hand in it.... I have given
no sort of ground for such ridicule--on the contrary, I have always
behaved in every way like a gentleman.'
"Kovalenko sat sulky and silent. Byelikov waited a little, and went on
slowly in a mournful voice:
"'And I have something else to say to you. I have been in the service
for years, while you have only lately entered it, and I consider it my
duty as an older colleague to give you a warning. You ride on a bicycle,
and that pastime is utterly unsuitable for an educator of youth.'
"'Why so?' asked Kovalenko in his bass.
"'Surely that needs no explanation, Mihail Savvitch--surely you can
understand that? If the teacher rides a bicycle, what can you expect the
pupils to do? You will have them walking on their heads next! And so
long as there is no formal permission to do so, it is out of the
question. I was horrified yesterday! When I saw your sister everything
seemed dancing before my eyes. A lady or a young girl on a bicycle--it's
awful!'
"'What is it you want exactly?'
"'All I want is to warn you, Mihail Savvitch. You are a young man, you
have a future before you, you must be very, very careful in your
behaviour, and you are so careless--oh, so careless! You go about in an
embroidered shirt, are constantly seen in the street carrying books, and
now the bicycle, too. The headmaster will learn that you and your sister
ride the bicycle, and then it will reach the higher authorities.... Will
that be a good thing?'
"'It's no business of anybody else if my sister and I do bicycle!' said
Kovalenko, and he turned crimson. 'And damnation take any one who
meddles in my private affairs!'
"Byelikov turned pale and got up.
"'If you speak to me in that tone I cannot continue,' he said. 'And I
beg you never to express yourself like that about our superiors in my
presence; you ought to be respectful to the authorities.'
"'Why, have I said any harm of the authorities?' asked Kovalenko,
looking at him wrathfully. 'Please leave me alone. I am an honest man,
and do not care to talk to a gentleman like you. I don't like sneaks!'
"Byelikov flew into a nervous flutter, and began hurriedly putting on
his coat, with an expression of horror on his face. It was the first
time in his life he had been spoken to so rudely.
"'You can say what you please,' he said, as he went out from the entry
to the landing on the staircase. 'I ought only to warn you: possibly
some one may have overheard us, and that our conversation may not be
misunderstood and harm come of it, I shall be compelled to inform our
headmaster of our conversation... in its main features. I am bound to do
so.'
"'Inform him? You can go and make your report!'
"Kovalenko seized him from behind by the collar and gave him a push, and
Byelikov rolled downstairs, thudding with his goloshes. The staircase
was high and steep, but he rolled to the bottom unhurt, got up, and
touched his nose to see whether his spectacles were all right. But just
as he was falling down the stairs Varinka came in, and with her two
ladies; they stood below staring, and to Byelikov this was more terrible
than anything. I believe he would rather have broken his neck or both
legs than have been an object of ridicule. 'Why, now the whole town
would hear of it; it would come to the headmaster's ears, would reach
the higher authorities--oh, it might lead to something! There would be
another caricature, and it would all end in his being asked to resign
his post....
"When he got up, Varinka recognized him, and, looking at his ridiculous
face, his crumpled overcoat, and his goloshes, not understanding what
had happened and supposing that he had slipped down by accident, could
not restrain herself, and laughed loud enough to be heard by all the
flats:
"'Ha-ha-ha!'
"And this pealing, ringing 'Ha-ha-ha!' was the last straw that put an
end to everything: to the proposed match and to Byelikov's earthly
existence. He did not hear what Varinka said to him; he saw nothing. On
reaching home, the first thing he did was to remove her portrait from
the table; then he went to bed, and he never got up again.
"Three days later Afanasy came to me and asked whether we should not
send for the doctor, as there was something wrong with his master. I
went in to Byelikov. He lay silent behind the curtain, covered with a
quilt; if one asked him a question, he said 'Yes' or 'No' and not
another sound. He lay there while Afanasy, gloomy and scowling, hovered
about him, sighing heavily, and smelling like a pothouse.
"A month later Byelikov died. We all went to his funeral--that is, both
the high-schools and the seminary. Now when he was lying in his coffin
his expression was mild, agreeable, even cheerful, as though he were
glad that he had at last been put into a case which he would never leave
again. Yes, he had attained his ideal! And, as though in his honour, it
was dull, rainy weather on the day of his funeral, and we all wore
goloshes and took our umbrellas. Varinka, too, was at the funeral, and
when the coffin was lowered into the grave she burst into tears. I have
noticed that Little Russian women are always laughing or crying--no
intermediate mood.
"One must confess that to bury people like Byelikov is a great pleasure.
As we were returning from the cemetery we wore discreet Lenten faces; no
one wanted to display this feeling of pleasure--a feeling like that we
had experienced long, long ago as children when our elders had gone out
and we ran about the garden for an hour or two, enjoying complete
freedom. Ah, freedom, freedom! The merest hint, the faintest hope of its
possibility gives wings to the soul, does it not?
"We returned from the cemetery in a good humour. But not more than a
week had passed before life went on as in the past, as gloomy,
oppressive, and senseless--a life not forbidden by government
prohibition, but not fully permitted, either: it was no better. And,
indeed, though we had buried Byelikov, how many such men in cases were
left, how many more of them there will be!"
"That's just how it is," said Ivan Ivanovitch and he lighted his pipe.
"How many more of them there will be!" repeated Burkin.
The schoolmaster came out of the barn. He was a short, stout man,
completely bald, with a black beard down to his waist. The two dogs came
out with him.
"What a moon!" he said, looking upwards.
It was midnight. On the right could be seen the whole village, a long
street stretching far away for four miles. All was buried in deep silent
slumber; not a movement, not a sound; one could hardly believe that
nature could be so still. When on a moonlight night you see a broad
village street, with its cottages, haystacks, and slumbering willows, a
feeling of calm comes over the soul; in this peace, wrapped away from
care, toil, and sorrow in the darkness of night, it is mild, melancholy,
beautiful, and it seems as though the stars look down upon it kindly and
with tenderness, and as though there were no evil on earth and all were
well. On the left the open country began from the end of the village; it
could be seen stretching far away to the horizon, and there was no
movement, no sound in that whole expanse bathed in moonlight.
"Yes, that is just how it is," repeated Ivan Ivanovitch; "and isn't our
living in town, airless and crowded, our writing useless papers, our
playing vint--isn't that all a sort of case for us? And our spending our
whole lives among trivial, fussy men and silly, idle women, our talking
and our listening to all sorts of nonsense--isn't that a case for us,
too? If you like, I will tell you a very edifying story."
"No; it's time we were asleep," said Burkin. "Tell it tomorrow."
They went into the barn and lay down on the hay. And they were both
covered up and beginning to doze when they suddenly heard light
footsteps--patter, patter.... Some one was walking not far from the barn,
walking a little and stopping, and a minute later, patter, patter
again.... The dogs began growling.
"That's Mavra," said Burkin.
The footsteps died away.
"You see and hear that they lie," said Ivan Ivanovitch, turning over on
the other side, "and they call you a fool for putting up with their
lying. You endure insult and humiliation, and dare not openly say that
you are on the side of the honest and the free, and you lie and smile
yourself; and all that for the sake of a crust of bread, for the sake of
a warm corner, for the sake of a wretched little worthless rank in the
service. No, one can't go on living like this."
"Well, you are off on another tack now, Ivan Ivanovitch," said the
schoolmaster. "Let us go to sleep!"
And ten minutes later Burkin was asleep. But Ivan Ivanovitch kept
sighing and turning over from side to side; then he got up, went outside
again, and, sitting in the doorway, lighted his pipe.
GOOSEBERRIES
THE whole sky had been overcast with rain-clouds from early morning; it
was a still day, not hot, but heavy, as it is in grey dull weather when
the clouds have been hanging over the country for a long while, when one
expects rain and it does not come. Ivan Ivanovitch, the veterinary
surgeon, and Burkin, the high-school teacher, were already tired from
walking, and the fields seemed to them endless. Far ahead of them they
could just see the windmills of the village of Mironositskoe; on the
right stretched a row of hillocks which disappeared in the distance
behind the village, and they both knew that this was the bank of the
river, that there were meadows, green willows, homesteads there, and
that if one stood on one of the hillocks one could see from it the same
vast plain, telegraph-wires, and a train which in the distance looked
like a crawling caterpillar, and that in clear weather one could even
see the town. Now, in still weather, when all nature seemed mild and
dreamy, Ivan Ivanovitch and Burkin were filled with love of that
countryside, and both thought how great, how beautiful a land it was.
"Last time we were in Prokofy's barn," said Burkin, "you were about to
tell me a story."
"Yes; I meant to tell you about my brother."
Ivan Ivanovitch heaved a deep sigh and lighted a pipe to begin to tell
his story, but just at that moment the rain began. And five minutes
later heavy rain came down, covering the sky, and it was hard to tell
when it would be over. Ivan Ivanovitch and Burkin stopped in hesitation;
the dogs, already drenched, stood with their tails between their legs
gazing at them feelingly.
"We must take shelter somewhere," said Burkin. "Let us go to Alehin's;
it's close by."
"Come along."
They turned aside and walked through mown fields, sometimes going
straight forward, sometimes turning to the right, till they came out on
the road. Soon they saw poplars, a garden, then the red roofs of barns;
there was a gleam of the river, and the view opened on to a broad
expanse of water with a windmill and a white bath-house: this was
Sofino, where Alehin lived.
The watermill was at work, drowning the sound of the rain; the dam was
shaking. Here wet horses with drooping heads were standing near their
carts, and men were walking about covered with sacks. It was damp,
muddy, and desolate; the water looked cold and malignant. Ivan
Ivanovitch and Burkin were already conscious of a feeling of wetness,
messiness, and discomfort all over; their feet were heavy with mud, and
when, crossing the dam, they went up to the barns, they were silent, as
though they were angry with one another.
In one of the barns there was the sound of a winnowing machine, the door
was open, and clouds of dust were coming from it. In the doorway was
standing Alehin himself, a man of forty, tall and stout, with long hair,
more like a professor or an artist than a landowner. He had on a white
shirt that badly needed washing, a rope for a belt, drawers instead of
trousers, and his boots, too, were plastered up with mud and straw. His
eyes and nose were black with dust. He recognized Ivan Ivanovitch and
Burkin, and was apparently much delighted to see them.
"Go into the house, gentlemen," he said, smiling; "I'll come directly,
this minute."
It was a big two-storeyed house. Alehin lived in the lower storey, with
arched ceilings and little windows, where the bailiffs had once lived;
here everything was plain, and there was a smell of rye bread, cheap
vodka, and harness. He went upstairs into the best rooms only on rare
occasions, when visitors came. Ivan Ivanovitch and Burkin were met in
the house by a maid-servant, a young woman so beautiful that they both
stood still and looked at one another.
"You can't imagine how delighted I am to see you, my friends," said
Alehin, going into the hall with them. "It is a surprise! Pelagea," he
said, addressing the girl, "give our visitors something to change into.
And, by the way, I will change too. Only I must first go and wash, for I
almost think I have not washed since spring. Wouldn't you like to come
into the bath-house? and meanwhile they will get things ready here."
Beautiful Pelagea, looking so refined and soft, brought them towels and
soap, and Alehin went to the bath-house with his guests.
"It's a long time since I had a wash," he said, undressing. "I have got
a nice bath-house, as you see--my father built it--but I somehow never
have time to wash."
He sat down on the steps and soaped his long hair and his neck, and the
water round him turned brown.
"Yes, I must say," said Ivan Ivanovitch meaningly, looking at his head.
"It's a long time since I washed..." said Alehin with embarrassment,
giving himself a second soaping, and the water near him turned dark
blue, like ink.
Ivan Ivanovitch went outside, plunged into the water with a loud splash,
and swam in the rain, flinging his arms out wide. He stirred the water
into waves which set the white lilies bobbing up and down; he swam to
the very middle of the millpond and dived, and came up a minute later in
another place, and swam on, and kept on diving, trying to touch the
bottom.
"Oh, my goodness!" he repeated continually, enjoying himself thoroughly.
"Oh, my goodness!" He swam to the mill, talked to the peasants there,
then returned and lay on his back in the middle of the pond, turning his
face to the rain. Burkin and Alehin were dressed and ready to go, but he
still went on swimming and diving. "Oh, my goodness!..." he said. "Oh,
Lord, have mercy on me!..."
"That's enough!" Burkin shouted to him.