to Groholsky and, screwing his face into a senseless grimace like a
smile, gave him his hand. Groholsky shook the soft perspiring hand and
shuddered all over as though he had crushed a cold frog in his fist.
"Good evening," he muttered.
"How are you?" the husband brought out in a faint husky, almost
inaudible voice, and he sat down opposite Groholsky, straightening his
collar at the back of his neck.
Again, an agonising silence followed . . . but that silence was no
longer so stupid. . . . The first step, most difficult and colourless,
was over.
All that was left now was for one of the two to depart in search of
matches or on some such trifling errand. Both longed intensely to get
away. They sat still, not looking at one another, and pulled at their
beards while they ransacked their troubled brains for some means of
escape from their horribly awkward position. Both were perspiring. Both
were unbearably miserable and both were devoured by hatred. They longed
to begin the tussle but how were they to begin and which was to begin
first? If only she would have gone out!
"I saw you yesterday at the Assembly Hall," muttered Bugrov (that was
the husband's name).
"Yes, I was there . . . the ball . . . did you dance?"
"M'm . . . yes . . . with that . . . with the younger Lyukovtsky . . . .
She dances heavily. . . . She dances impossibly. She is a great
chatterbox." (Pause.) "She is never tired of talking."
"Yes. . . . It was slow. I saw you too. . ."
Groholsky accidentally glanced at Bugrov. . . . He caught the shifting
eyes of the deceived husband and could not bear it. He got up quickly,
quickly seized Bugrov's hand, shook it, picked up his hat, and walked
towards the door, conscious of his own back. He felt as though thousands
of eyes were looking at his back. It is a feeling known to the actor who
has been hissed and is making his exit from the stage, and to the young
dandy who has received a blow on the back of the head and is being led
away in charge of a policeman.
As soon as the sound of Groholsky's steps had died away and the door in
the hall creaked, Bugrov leapt up, and after making two or three rounds
of the drawing-room, strolled up to his wife. The kittenish face
puckered up and began blinking its eyes as though expecting a slap. Her
husband went up to her, and with a pale, distorted face, with arms,
head, and shoulders shaking, stepped on her dress and knocked her knees
with his.
"If, you wretched creature," he began in a hollow, wailing voice, "you
let him come here once again, I'll. . . . Don't let him dare to set his
foot. . . . I'll kill you. Do you understand? A-a-ah . . . worthless
creature, you shudder! Fil-thy woman!"
Bugrov seized her by the elbow, shook her, and flung her like an
indiarubber ball towards the window. . . .
"Wretched, vulgar woman! you have no shame!"
She flew towards the window, hardly touching the floor with her feet,
and caught at the curtains with her hands.
"Hold your tongue," shouted her husband, going up to her with flashing
eyes and stamping his foot.
She did hold her tongue, she looked at the ceiling, and whimpered while
her face wore the expression of a little girl in disgrace expecting to
be punished.
"So that's what you are like! Eh? Carrying on with a fop! Good! And your
promise before the altar? What are you? A nice wife and mother. Hold
your tongue!"
And he struck her on her pretty supple shoulder. "Hold your tongue, you
wretched creature. I'll give you worse than that! If that scoundrel
dares to show himself here ever again, if I see you--listen!--with that
blackguard ever again, don't ask for mercy! I'll kill you, if I go to
Siberia for it! And him too. I shouldn't think twice about it! You can
go, I don't want to see you!"
Bugrov wiped his eyes and his brow with his sleeve and strode about the
drawing-room, Liza sobbing more and more loudly, twitching her shoulders
and her little turned up nose, became absorbed in examining the lace on
the curtain.
"You are crazy," her husband shouted. "Your silly head is full of
nonsense! Nothing but whims! I won't allow it, Elizaveta, my girl! You
had better be careful with me! I don't like it! If you want to behave
like a pig, then . . . then out you go, there is no place in my house
for you! Out you pack if. . . . You are a wife, so you must forget these
dandies, put them out of your silly head! It's all foolishness! Don't
let it happen again! You try defending yourself! Love your husband! You
have been given to your husband, so you must love him. Yes, indeed! Is
one not enough? Go away till . . . . Torturers!"
Bugrov paused; then shouted:
"Go away I tell you, go to the nursery! Why are you blubbering, it is
your own fault, and you blubber! What a woman! Last year you were after
Petka Totchkov, now you are after this devil. Lord forgive us! . . .
Tfoo, it's time you understood what you are! A wife! A mother! Last year
there were unpleasantnesses, and now there will be unpleasantnesses. . .
. Tfoo!"
Bugrov heaved a loud sigh, and the air was filled with the smell of
sherry. He had come back from dining and was slightly drunk . . . .
"Don't you know your duty? No! . . . you must be taught, you've not been
taught so far! Your mamma was a gad-about, and you . . . you can
blubber. Yes! blubber away. . . ."
Bugrov went up to his wife and drew the curtain out of her hands.
"Don't stand by the window, people will see you blubbering. . . . Don't
let it happen again. You'll go from embracing to worse trouble. You'll
come to grief. Do you suppose I like to be made a fool of? And you will
make a fool of me if you carry on with them, the low brutes. . . . Come,
that's enough. . . . Don't you. . . . Another time. . . . Of course I .
. Liza . . . stay. . . ."
Bugrov heaved a sigh and enveloped Liza in the fumes of sherry.
"You are young and silly, you don't understand anything. . . . I am
never at home. . . . And they take advantage of it. You must be
sensible, prudent. They will deceive you. And then I won't endure it. .
. . Then I may do anything. . . . Of course! Then you can just lie down,
and die. I . . . I am capable of doing anything if you deceive me, my
good girl. I might beat you to death. . . . And . . . I shall turn you
out of the house, and then you can go to your rascals."
And Bugrov (horribile dictu) wiped the wet, tearful face of the
traitress Liza with his big soft hand. He treated his twenty-year-old
wife as though she were a child.
"Come, that's enough. . . . I forgive you. Only God forbid it should
happen again! I forgive you for the fifth time, but I shall not forgive
you for the sixth, as God is holy. God does not forgive such as you for
such things."
Bugrov bent down and put out his shining lips towards Liza's little
head. But the kiss did not follow. The doors of the hall, of the dining-
room, of the parlour, and of the drawing-room all slammed, and Groholsky
flew into the drawing-room like a whirlwind. He was pale and trembling.
He was flourishing his arms and crushing his expensive hat in his hands.
His coat fluttered upon him as though it were on a peg. He was the
incarnation of acute fever. When Bugrov saw him he moved away from his
wife and began looking out of the other window. Groholsky flew up to
him, and waving his arms and breathing heavily and looking at no one, he
began in a shaking voice:
"Ivan Petrovitch! Let us leave off keeping up this farce with one
another! We have deceived each other long enough! It's too much! I
cannot stand it. You must do as you like, but I cannot! It's hateful and
mean, it's revolting! Do you understand that it is revolting?"
Groholsky spluttered and gasped for breath.
"It's against my principles. And you are an honest man. I love her! I
love her more than anything on earth! You have noticed it and . . . it's
my duty to say this!"
"What am I to say to him?" Ivan Petrovitch wondered.
"We must make an end of it. This farce cannot drag on much longer! It
must be settled somehow."
Groholsky drew a breath and went on:
"I cannot live without her; she feels the same. You are an educated man,
you will understand that in such circumstances your family life is
impossible. This woman is not yours, so . . . in short, I beg you to
look at the matter from an indulgent humane point of view. . . . Ivan
Petrovitch, you must understand at last that I love her--love her more
than myself, more than anything in the world, and to struggle against
that love is beyond my power!"
"And she?" Bugrov asked in a sullen, somewhat ironical tone.
"Ask her; come now, ask her! For her to live with a man she does not
love, to live with you is . . . is a misery!"
"And she?" Bugrov repeated, this time not in an ironical tone.
"She . . . she loves me! We love each other, Ivan Petrovitch! Kill us,
despise us, pursue us, do as you will, but we can no longer conceal it
from you. We are standing face to face--you may judge us with all the
severity of a man whom we . . . whom fate has robbed of happiness!"
Bugrov turned as red as a boiled crab, and looked out of one eye at
Liza. He began blinking. His fingers, his lips, and his eyelids
twitched. Poor fellow! The eyes of his weeping wife told him that
Groholsky was right, that it was a serious matter.
"Well!" he muttered. "If you. . . . In these days. . . . You are always.
. . ."
"As God is above," Groholsky shrilled in his high tenor, "we understand
you. Do you suppose we have no sense, no feeling? I know what agonies I
am causing you, as God's above! But be indulgent, I beseech you! We are
not to blame. Love is not a crime. No will can struggle against it. . .
. Give her up to me, Ivan Petrovitch! Let her go with me! Take from me
what you will for your sufferings. Take my life, but give me Liza. I am
ready to do anything. . . . Come, tell me how I can do something to make
up in part at least! To make up for that lost happiness, I can give you
other happiness. I can, Ivan Petrovitch; I am ready to do anything! It
would be base on my part to leave you without satisfaction. . . . I
understand you at this moment."
Bugrov waved his hand as though to say, 'For God's sake, go away.' His
eyes began to be dimmed by a treacherous moisture--in a moment they would
see him crying like a child.
"I understand you, Ivan Petrovitch. I will give you another happiness,
such as hitherto you have not known. What would you like? I have money,
my father is an influential man. . . . Will you? Come, how much do you
want?"
Bugrov's heart suddenly began throbbing. . . . He clutched at the window
curtains with both hands. . . .
"Will you have fifty thousand? Ivan Petrovitch, I entreat you. . . .
It's not a bribe, not a bargain. . . . I only want by a sacrifice on my
part to atone a little for your inevitable loss. Would you like a
hundred thousand? I am willing. A hundred thousand?"
My God! Two immense hammers began beating on the perspiring temples of
the unhappy Ivan Petrovitch. Russian sledges with tinkling bells began
racing in his ears. . . .
"Accept this sacrifice from me," Groholsky went on, "I entreat you! You
will take a load off my conscience. . . . I implore you!"
My God! A smart carriage rolled along the road wet from a May shower,
passed the window through which Bugrov's wet eyes were looking. The
horses were fine, spirited, well-trained beasts. People in straw hats,
with contented faces, were sitting in the carriage with long fishing-
rods and bags. . . . A schoolboy in a white cap was holding a gun. They
were driving out into the country to catch fish, to shoot, to walk about
and have tea in the open air. They were driving to that region of bliss
in which Bugrov as a boy--the barefoot, sunburnt, but infinitely happy
son of a village deacon--had once raced about the meadows, the woods, and
the river banks. Oh, how fiendishly seductive was that May! How happy
those who can take off their heavy uniforms, get into a carriage and fly
off to the country where the quails are calling and there is the scent
of fresh hay. Bugrov's heart ached with a sweet thrill that made him
shiver. A hundred thousand! With the carriage there floated before him
all the secret dreams over which he had gloated, through the long years
of his life as a government clerk as he sat in the office of his
department or in his wretched little study. . . . A river, deep, with
fish, a wide garden with narrow avenues, little fountains, shade,
flowers, arbours, a luxurious villa with terraces and turrets with an
Aeolian harp and little silver bells (he had heard of the existence of
an Aeolian harp from German romances); a cloudless blue sky; pure limpid
air fragrant with the scents that recall his hungry, barefoot, crushed
childhood. . . . To get up at five, to go to bed at nine; to spend the
day catching fish, talking with the peasants. . . . What happiness!
"Ivan Petrovitch, do not torture me! Will you take a hundred thousand?"
"H'm . . . a hundred and fifty thousand!" muttered Bugrov in a hollow
voice, the voice of a husky bull. He muttered it, and bowed his head,
ashamed of his words, and awaiting the answer.
"Good," said Groholsky, "I agree. I thank you, Ivan Petrovitch . . . .
In a minute. . . . I will not keep you waiting. . . ."
Groholsky jumped up, put on his hat, and staggering backwards, ran out
of the drawing-room.
Bugrov clutched the window curtains more tightly than ever. . . . He was
ashamed . . . . There was a nasty, stupid feeling in his soul, but, on
the other hand, what fair shining hopes swarmed between his throbbing
temples! He was rich!
Liza, who had grasped nothing of what was happening, darted through the
half-opened door trembling all over and afraid that he would come to her
window and fling her away from it. She went into the nursery, laid
herself down on the nurse's bed, and curled herself up. She was
shivering with fever.
Bugrov was left alone. He felt stifled, and he opened the window. What
glorious air breathed fragrance on his face and neck! It would be good
to breathe such air lolling on the cushions of a carriage . . . . Out
there, far beyond the town, among the villages and the summer villas,
the air was sweeter still. . . . Bugrov actually smiled as he dreamed of
the air that would be about him when he would go out on the verandah of
his villa and admire the view. A long while he dreamed. . . . The sun
had set, and still he stood and dreamed, trying his utmost to cast out
of his mind the image of Liza which obstinately pursued him in all his
dreams.
"I have brought it, Ivan Petrovitch!" Groholsky, re-entering, whispered
above his ear. "I have brought it--take it. . . . Here in this roll there
are forty thousand. . . . With this cheque will you kindly get twenty
the day after to-morrow from Valentinov? . . . Here is a bill of
exchange . . . a cheque. . . . The remaining thirty thousand in a day or
two. . . . My steward will bring it to you."
Groholsky, pink and excited, with all his limbs in motion, laid before
Bugrov a heap of rolls of notes and bundles of papers. The heap was big,
and of all sorts of hues and tints. Never in the course of his life had
Bugrov seen such a heap. He spread out his fat fingers and, not looking
at Groholsky, fell to going through the bundles of notes and bonds. . .
.
Groholsky spread out all the money, and moved restlessly about the room,
looking for the Dulcinea who had been bought and sold.
Filling his pockets and his pocket-book, Bugrov thrust the securities
into the table drawer, and, drinking off half a decanter full of water,
dashed out into the street.
"Cab!" he shouted in a frantic voice.
At half-past eleven that night he drove up to the entrance of the Paris
Hotel. He went noisily upstairs and knocked at the door of Groholsky's
apartments. He was admitted. Groholsky was packing his things in a
portmanteau, Liza was sitting at the table trying on bracelets. They
were both frightened when Bugrov went in to them. They fancied that he
had come for Liza and had brought back the money which he had taken in
haste without reflection. But Bugrov had not come for Liza. Ashamed of
his new get-up and feeling frightfully awkward in it, he bowed and stood
at the door in the attitude of a flunkey. The get-up was superb. Bugrov
was unrecognisable. His huge person, which had never hitherto worn
anything but a uniform, was clothed in a fresh, brand-new suit of fine
French cloth and of the most fashionable cut. On his feet spats shone
with sparkling buckles. He stood ashamed of his new get-up, and with his
right hand covered the watch-chain for which he had, an hour before,
paid three hundred roubles.
"I have come about something," he began. "A business agreement is beyond
price. I am not going to give up Mishutka. . . ."
"What Mishutka?" asked Groholsky.
"My son."
Groholsky and Liza looked at each other. Liza's eyes bulged, her cheeks
flushed, and her lips twitched. . . .
"Very well," she said.
She thought of Mishutka's warm little cot. It would be cruel to exchange
that warm little cot for a chilly sofa in the hotel, and she consented.
"I shall see him," she said.
Bugrov bowed, walked out, and flew down the stairs in his splendour,
cleaving the air with his expensive cane. . . .
"Home," he said to the cabman. "I am starting at five o'clock to-morrow
morning. . . . You will come; if I am asleep, you will wake me. We are
driving out of town." II
It was a lovely August evening. The sun, set in a golden background
lightly flecked with purple, stood above the western horizon on the
point of sinking behind the far-away tumuli. In the garden, shadows and
half-shadows had vanished, and the air had grown damp, but the golden
light was still playing on the tree-tops. . . . It was warm. . . . Rain
had just fallen, and made the fresh, transparent fragrant air still
fresher.
I am not describing the August of Petersburg or Moscow, foggy, tearful,
and dark, with its cold, incredibly damp sunsets. God forbid! I am not
describing our cruel northern August. I ask the reader to move with me
to the Crimea, to one of its shores, not far from Feodosia, the spot
where stands the villa of one of our heroes. It is a pretty, neat villa
surrounded by flower-beds and clipped bushes. A hundred paces behind it
is an orchard in which its inmates walk. . . . Groholsky pays a high
rent for that villa, a thousand roubles a year, I believe. . . . The
villa is not worth that rent, but it is pretty. . . . Tall, with
delicate walls and very delicate parapets, fragile, slender, painted a
pale blue colour, hung with curtains, portières, draperies, it suggests
a charming, fragile Chinese lady. . . .
On the evening described above, Groholsky and Liza were sitting on the
verandah of this villa. Groholsky was reading Novoye Vremya and drinking
milk out of a green mug. A syphon of Seltzer water was standing on the
table before him. Groholsky imagined that he was suffering from catarrh
of the lungs, and by the advice of Dr. Dmitriev consumed an immense
quantity of grapes, milk, and Seltzer water. Liza was sitting in a soft
easy chair some distance from the table. With her elbows on the parapet,
and her little face propped on her little fists, she was gazing at the
villa opposite. . . . The sun was playing upon the windows of the villa
opposite, the glittering panes reflected the dazzling light. . . .
Beyond the little garden and the few trees that surrounded the villa
there was a glimpse of the sea with its waves, its dark blue colour, its
immensity, its white masts. . . . It was so delightful! Groholsky was
reading an article by Anonymous, and after every dozen lines he raised
his blue eyes to Liza's back. . . . The same passionate, fervent love
was shining in those eyes still. . . . He was infinitely happy in spite
of his imaginary catarrh of the lungs. . . . Liza was conscious of his
eyes upon her back, and was thinking of Mishutka's brilliant future, and
she felt so comfortable, so serene . . . .
She was not so much interested by the sea, and the glittering reflection
on the windows of the villa opposite as by the waggons which were
trailing up to that villa one after another.
The waggons were full of furniture and all sorts of domestic articles.
Liza watched the trellis gates and big glass doors of the villa being
opened and the men bustling about the furniture and wrangling
incessantly. Big armchairs and a sofa covered with dark raspberry
coloured velvet, tables for the hall, the drawing-room and the dining-
room, a big double bed and a child's cot were carried in by the glass
doors; something big, wrapped up in sacking, was carried in too. A grand
piano, thought Liza, and her heart throbbed.
It was long since she had heard the piano, and she was so fond of it.
They had not a single musical instrument in their villa. Groholsky and
she were musicians only in soul, no more. There were a great many boxes
and packages with the words: "with care" upon them carried in after the
piano.
They were boxes of looking-glasses and crockery. A gorgeous and
luxurious carriage was dragged in, at the gate, and two white horses
were led in looking like swans.
"My goodness, what riches!" thought Liza, remembering her old pony which
Groholsky, who did not care for riding, had bought her for a hundred
roubles. Compared with those swan-like steeds, her pony seemed to her no
better than a bug. Groholsky, who was afraid of riding fast, had
purposely bought Liza a poor horse.
"What wealth!" Liza thought and murmured as she gazed at the noisy
carriers.
The sun hid behind the tumuli, the air began to lose its dryness and
limpidity, and still the furniture was being driven up and hauled into
the house. At last it was so dark that Groholsky left off reading the
newspaper while Liza still gazed and gazed.
"Shouldn't we light the lamp?" said Groholsky, afraid that a fly might
drop into his milk and be swallowed in the darkness.
"Liza! shouldn't we light the lamp? Shall we sit in darkness, my angel?"
Liza did not answer. She was interested in a chaise which had driven up
to the villa opposite. . . . What a charming little mare was in that
chaise. Of medium size, not large, but graceful. . . . A gentleman in a
top hat was sitting in the chaise, a child about three, apparently a
boy, was sitting on his knees waving his little hands. . . . He was
waving his little hands and shouting with delight.
Liza suddenly uttered a shriek, rose from her seat and lurched forward.
"What is the matter?" asked Groholsky.
"Nothing. . . I only . . . I fancied. . . ."
The tall, broad-shouldered gentleman in the top hat jumped out of the
chaise, lifted the boy down, and with a skip and a hop ran gaily in at
the glass door. The door opened noisily and he vanished into the
darkness of the villa apartments.
Two smart footmen ran up to the horse in the chaise, and most
respectfully led it to the gate. Soon the villa opposite was lighted up,
and the clatter of plates, knives, and forks was audible. The gentleman
in the top hat was having his supper, and judging by the duration of the
clatter of crockery, his supper lasted long. Liza fancied she could
smell chicken soup and roast duck. After supper discordant sounds of the
piano floated across from the villa. In all probability the gentleman in
the top hat was trying to amuse the child in some way, and allowing it
to strum on it.
Groholsky went up to Liza and put his arm round her waist.
"What wonderful weather!" he said. "What air! Do you feel it? I am very
happy, Liza, very happy indeed. My happiness is so great that I am
really afraid of its destruction. The greatest things are usually
destroyed, and do you know, Liza, in spite of all my happiness, I am not
absolutely . . . at peace. . . . One haunting thought torments me . . .
it torments me horribly. It gives me no peace by day or by night. . . ."
"What thought?"
"An awful thought, my love. I am tortured by the thought of your
husband. I have been silent hitherto. I have feared to trouble your
inner peace, but I cannot go on being silent. Where is he? What has
happened to him? What has become of him with his money? It is awful!
Every night I see his face, exhausted, suffering, imploring. . . . Why,
only think, my angel--can the money he so generously accepted make up to
him for you? He loved you very much, didn't he?"
"Very much!"
"There you see! He has either taken to drink now, or . . . I am anxious
about him! Ah, how anxious I am! Should we write to him, do you think?
We ought to comfort him . . . a kind word, you know."
Groholsky heaved a deep sigh, shook his head, and sank into an easy
chair exhausted by painful reflection. Leaning his head on his fists he
fell to musing. Judging from his face, his musings were painful.
"I am going to bed," said Liza; "it's time."
Liza went to her own room, undressed, and dived under the bedclothes.
She used to go to bed at ten o'clock and get up at ten. She was fond of
her comfort.