the most fascinating dreams. . . . She dreamed whole romances, novels,
Arabian Nights. . . . The hero of all these dreams was the gentleman in
the top hat, who had caused her to utter a shriek that evening.
The gentleman in the top hat was carrying her off from Groholsky, was
singing, was beating Groholsky and her, was flogging the boy under the
window, was declaring his love, and driving her off in the chaise. . . .
Oh, dreams! In one night, lying with one's eyes shut, one may sometimes
live through more than ten years of happiness . . . . That night Liza
lived through a great variety of experiences, and very happy ones, even
in spite of the beating.
Waking up between six and seven, she flung on her clothes, hurriedly did
her hair, and without even putting on her Tatar slippers with pointed
toes, ran impulsively on to the verandah. Shading her eyes from the sun
with one hand, and with the other holding up her slipping clothes, she
gazed at the villa opposite. Her face beamed . . . . There could be no
further doubt it was he.
On the verandah in the villa opposite there was a table in front of the
glass door. A tea service was shining and glistening on the table with a
silver samovar at the head. Ivan Petrovitch was sitting at the table. He
had in his hand a glass in a silver holder, and was drinking tea. He was
drinking it with great relish. That fact could be deduced from the
smacking of his lips, the sound of which reached Liza's ears. He was
wearing a brown dressing-gown with black flowers on it. Massive tassels
fell down to the ground. It was the first time in her life Liza had seen
her husband in a dressing-gown, and such an expensive-looking one.
Mishutka was sitting on one of his knees, and hindering him from
drinking his tea. The child jumped up and down and tried to clutch his
papa's shining lip. After every three or four sips the father bent down
to his son and kissed him on the head. A grey cat with its tail in the
air was rubbing itself against one of the table legs, and with a
plaintive mew proclaiming its desire for food. Liza hid behind the
verandah curtain, and fastened her eyes upon the members of her former
family; her face was radiant with joy.
"Misha!" she murmured, "Misha! Are you really here, Misha? The darling!
And how he loves Vanya! Heavens!"
And Liza went off into a giggle when Mishutka stirred his father's tea
with a spoon. "And how Vanya loves Misha! My darlings!"
Liza's heart throbbed, and her head went round with joy and happiness.
She sank into an armchair and went on observing them, sitting down.
"How did they come here?" she wondered as she sent airy kisses to
Mishutka. "Who gave them the idea of coming here? Heavens! Can all that
wealth belong to them? Can those swan-like horses that were led in at
the gate belong to Ivan Petrovitch? Ah!"
When he had finished his tea, Ivan Petrovitch went into the house. Ten
minutes later, he appeared on the steps and Liza was astounded . . . .
He, who in his youth only seven years ago had been called Vanushka and
Vanka and had been ready to punch a man in the face and turn the house
upside down over twenty kopecks, was dressed devilishly well. He had on
a broad-brimmed straw hat, exquisite brilliant boots, a piqué
waistcoat. . . . Thousands of suns, big and little, glistened on his
watch-chain. With much chic he held in his right hand his gloves and
cane.
And what swagger, what style there was in his heavy figure when, with a
graceful motion of his hand, he bade the footman bring the horse round.
He got into the chaise with dignity, and told the footmen standing round
the chaise to give him Mishutka and the fishing tackle they had brought.
Setting Mishutka beside him, and putting his left arm round him, he held
the reins and drove off.
"Ge-ee up!" shouted Mishutka.
Liza, unaware of what she was doing, waved her handkerchief after them.
If she had looked in the glass she would have been surprised at her
flushed, laughing, and, at the same time, tear-stained face. She was
vexed that she was not beside her gleeful boy, and that she could not
for some reason shower kisses on him at once.
For some reason! . . . Away with all your petty delicacies!
"Grisha! Grisha!" Liza ran into Groholsky's bedroom and set to work to
wake him. "Get up, they have come! The darling!"
"Who has come?" asked Groholsky, waking up.
"Our people . . . Vanya and Misha, they have come, they are in the villa
opposite. . . . I looked out, and there they were drinking tea. . . .
And Misha too. . . . What a little angel our Misha has grown! If only
you had seen him! Mother of God!"
"Seen whom? Why, you are. . . . Who has come? Come where?"
"Vanya and Misha. . . . I have been looking at the villa opposite, while
they were sitting drinking tea. Misha can drink his tea by himself now.
. . . Didn't you see them moving in yesterday, it was they who arrived!"
Groholsky rubbed his forehead and turned pale.
"Arrived? Your husband?" he asked.
"Why, yes."
"What for?"
"Most likely he is going to live here. They don't know we are here. If
they did, they would have looked at our villa, but they drank their tea
and took no notice."
"Where is he now? But for God's sake do talk sense! Oh, where is he?"
"He has gone fishing with Misha in the chaise. Did you see the horses
yesterday? Those are their horses . . . Vanya's . . . Vanya drives with
them. Do you know what, Grisha? We will have Misha to stay with us. . .
. We will, won't we? He is such a pretty boy. Such an exquisite boy!"
Groholsky pondered, while Liza went on talking and talking.
"This is an unexpected meeting," said Groholsky, after prolonged and, as
usual, harrassing reflection. "Well, who could have expected that we
should meet here? Well. . . There it is. . . . So be it. It seems that
it is fated. I can imagine the awkwardness of his position when he meets
us."
"Shall we have Misha to stay with us?"
"Yes, we will. . . . It will be awkward meeting him. . . . Why, what can
I say to him? What can I talk of? It will be awkward for him and awkward
for me. . . . We ought not to meet. We will carry on communications, if
necessary, through the servants. . . . My head does ache so, Lizotchka.
My arms and legs too, I ache all over. Is my head feverish?"
Liza put her hand on his forehead and found that his head was hot.
"I had dreadful dreams all night . . . I shan't get up to-day. I shall
stay in bed . . . I must take some quinine. Send me my breakfast here,
little woman."
Groholsky took quinine and lay in bed the whole day. He drank warm
water, moaned, had the sheets and pillowcase changed, whimpered, and
induced an agonising boredom in all surrounding him.
He was insupportable when he imagined he had caught a chill. Liza had
continually to interrupt her inquisitive observations and run from the
verandah to his room. At dinner-time she had to put on mustard plasters.
How boring all this would have been, O reader, if the villa opposite had
not been at the service of my heroine! Liza watched that villa all day
long and was gasping with happiness.
At ten o'clock Ivan Petrovitch and Mishutka came back from fishing and
had breakfast. At two o'clock they had dinner, and at four o'clock they
drove off somewhere in a carriage. The white horses bore them away with
the swiftness of lightning. At seven o'clock visitors came to see
them--all of them men. They were playing cards on two tables in the
verandah till midnight. One of the men played superbly on the piano. The
visitors played, ate, drank, and laughed. Ivan Petrovitch guffawing
loudly, told them an anecdote of Armenian life at the top of his voice,
so that all the villas round could hear. It was very gay and Mishutka
sat up with them till midnight.
"Misha is merry, he is not crying," thought Liza, "so he does not
remember his mamma. So he has forgotten me!"
And there was a horrible bitter feeling in Liza's soul. She spent the
whole night crying. She was fretted by her little conscience, and by
vexation and misery, and the desire to talk to Mishutka and kiss him. .
. . In the morning she got up with a headache and tear-stained eyes. Her
tears Groholsky put down to his own account.
"Do not weep, darling," he said to her, "I am all right to-day, my chest
is a little painful, but that is nothing."
While they were having tea, lunch was being served at the villa
opposite. Ivan Petrovitch was looking at his plate, and seeing nothing
but a morsel of goose dripping with fat.
"I am very glad," said Groholsky, looking askance at Bugrov, "very glad
that his life is so tolerable! I hope that decent surroundings anyway
may help to stifle his grief. Keep out of sight, Liza! They will see you
. . . I am not disposed to talk to him just now . . . God be with him!
Why trouble his peace?"
But the dinner did not pass off so quietly. During dinner precisely that
"awkward position" which Groholsky so dreaded occurred. Just when the
partridges, Groholsky's favorite dish, had been put on the table, Liza
was suddenly overcome with confusion, and Groholsky began wiping his
face with his dinner napkin. On the verandah of the villa opposite they
saw Bugrov. He was standing with his arms leaning on the parapet, and
staring straight at them, with his eyes starting out of his head.
"Go in, Liza, go in," Groholsky whispered. "I said we must have dinner
indoors! What a girl you are, really. . . ."
Bugrov stared and stared, and suddenly began shouting. Groholsky looked
at him and saw a face full of astonishment. . . .
"Is that you?" bawled Ivan Petrovitch, "you! Are you here too?"
Groholsky passed his fingers from one shoulder to another, as though to
say, "My chest is weak, and so I can't shout across such a distance."
Liza's heart began throbbing, and everything turned round before her
eyes. Bugrov ran from his verandah, ran across the road, and a few
seconds later was standing under the verandah on which Groholsky and
Liza were dining. Alas for the partridges!
"How are you?" he began, flushing crimson, and stuffing his big hands in
his pockets. "Are you here? Are you here too?"
"Yes, we are here too. . . ."
"How did you get here?"
"Why, how did you?"
"I? It's a long story, a regular romance, my good friend! But don't put
yourselves out--eat your dinner! I've been living, you know, ever since
then . . . in the Oryol province. I rented an estate. A splendid estate!
But do eat your dinner! I stayed there from the end of May, but now I
have given it up. . . . It was cold there, and--well, the doctor advised
me to go to the Crimea. . . ."
"Are you ill, then?" inquired Groholsky.
"Oh, well. . . . There always seems, as it were . . . something gurgling
here. . . ."
And at the word "here" Ivan Petrovitch passed his open hand from his
neck down to the middle of his stomach.
"So you are here too. . . . Yes . . . that's very pleasant. Have you
been here long?"
"Since July."
"Oh, and you, Liza, how are you? Quite well?"
"Quite well," answered Liza, and was embarrassed.
"You miss Mishutka, I'll be bound. Eh? Well, he's here with me. . . .
I'll send him over to you directly with Nikifor. This is very nice.
Well, good-bye! I have to go off directly. . . . I made the acquaintance
of Prince Ter-Haimazov yesterday; delightful man, though he is an
Armenian. So he has a croquet party to-day; we are going to play
croquet. . . . Good-bye! The carriage is waiting . . . ."
Ivan Petrovitch whirled round, tossed his head, and, waving adieu to
them, ran home.
"Unhappy man," said Groholsky, heaving a deep sigh as he watched him go
off.
"In what way is he unhappy?" asked Liza.
"To see you and not have the right to call you his!"
"Fool!" Liza was so bold to think. "Idiot!"
Before evening Liza was hugging and kissing Mishutka. At first the boy
howled, but when he was offered jam, he was all friendly smiles.
For three days Groholsky and Liza did not see Bugrov. He had disappeared
somewhere, and was only at home at night. On the fourth day he visited
them again at dinner-time. He came in, shook hands with both of them,
and sat down to the table. His face was serious.
"I have come to you on business," he said. "Read this." And he handed
Groholsky a letter. "Read it! Read it aloud!"
Groholsky read as follows:
"My beloved and consoling, never-forgotten son Ioann! I have received
the respectful and loving letter in which you invite your aged father to
the mild and salubrious Crimea, to breathe the fragrant air, and behold
strange lands. To that letter I reply that on taking my holiday, I will
come to you, but not for long. My colleague, Father Gerasim, is a frail
and delicate man, and cannot be left alone for long. I am very sensible
of your not forgetting your parents, your father and your mother. . . .
You rejoice your father with your affection, and you remember your
mother in your prayers, and so it is fitting to do. Meet me at Feodosia.
What sort of town is Feodosia--what is it like? It will be very agreeable
to see it. Your godmother, who took you from the font, is called
Feodosia. You write that God has been graciously pleased that you should
win two hundred thousand roubles. That is gratifying to me. But I cannot
approve of your having left the service while still of a grade of little
importance; even a rich man ought to be in the service. I bless you
always, now and hereafter. Ilya and Seryozhka Andronov send you their
greetings. You might send them ten roubles each--they are badly off!
"Your loving Father,
"Pyotr Bugrov, Priest."
Groholsky read this letter aloud, and he and Liza both looked
inquiringly at Bugrov.
"You see what it is," Ivan Petrovitch began hesitatingly. "I should like
to ask you, Liza, not to let him see you, to keep out of his sight while
he is here. I have written to him that you are ill and gone to the
Caucasus for a cure. If you meet him. . . You see yourself. . . . It's
awkward. . . H'm. . . ."
"Very well," said Liza.
"We can do that," thought Groholsky, "since he makes sacrifices, why
shouldn't we?"
"Please do. . . . If he sees you there will be trouble. . . . My father
is a man of strict principles. He would curse me in seven churches.
Don't go out of doors, Liza, that is all. He won't be here long. Don't
be afraid."
Father Pyotr did not long keep them waiting. One fine morning Ivan
Petrovitch ran in and hissed in a mysterious tone:
"He has come! He is asleep now, so please be careful."
And Liza was shut up within four walls. She did not venture to go out
into the yard or on to the verandah. She could only see the sky from
behind the window curtain. Unluckily for her, Ivan Petrovitch's papa
spent his whole time in the open air, and even slept on the verandah.
Usually Father Pyotr, a little parish priest, in a brown cassock and a
top hat with a curly brim, walked slowly round the villas and gazed with
curiosity at the "strange lands" through his grandfatherly spectacles.
Ivan Petrovitch with the Stanislav on a little ribbon accompanied him.
He did not wear a decoration as a rule, but before his own people he
liked to show off. In their society he always wore the Stanislav.
Liza was bored to death. Groholsky suffered too. He had to go for his
walks alone without a companion. He almost shed tears, but . . . had to
submit to his fate. And to make things worse, Bugrov would run across
every morning and in a hissing whisper would give some quite unnecessary
bulletin concerning the health of Father Pyotr. He bored them with those
bulletins.
"He slept well," he informed them. "Yesterday he was put out because I
had no salted cucumbers. . . He has taken to Mishutka; he keeps patting
him on the head."
At last, a fortnight later, little Father Pyotr walked for the last time
round the villas and, to Groholsky's immense relief, departed. He had
enjoyed himself, and went off very well satisfied. Liza and Groholsky
fell back into their old manner of life. Groholsky once more blessed his
fate. But his happiness did not last for long. A new trouble worse than
Father Pyotr followed. Ivan Petrovitch took to coming to see them every
day. Ivan Petrovitch, to be frank, though a capital fellow, was a very
tedious person. He came at dinner-time, dined with them and stayed a
very long time. That would not have mattered. But they had to buy vodka,
which Groholsky could not endure, for his dinner. He would drink five
glasses and talk the whole dinner-time. That, too, would not have
mattered. . . . But he would sit on till two o'clock in the morning, and
not let them get to bed, and, worse still, he permitted himself to talk
of things about which he should have been silent. When towards two
o'clock in the morning he had drunk too much vodka and champagne, he
would take Mishutka in his arms, and weeping, say to him, before
Groholsky and Liza:
"Mihail, my son, what am I? I . . . am a scoundrel. I have sold your
mother! Sold her for thirty pieces of silver, may the Lord punish me!
Mihail Ivanitch, little sucking pig, where is your mother? Lost! Gone!
Sold into slavery! Well, I am a scoundrel."
These tears and these words turned Groholsky's soul inside out. He would
look timidly at Liza's pale face and wring his hands.
"Go to bed, Ivan Petrovitch," he would say timidly.
"I am going. . . . Come along, Mishutka. . . . The Lord be our judge! I
cannot think of sleep while I know that my wife is a slave . . . . But
it is not Groholsky's fault. . . . The goods were mine, the money his. .
. . Freedom for the free and Heaven for the saved."
By day Ivan Petrovitch was no less insufferable to Groholsky. To
Groholsky's intense horror, he was always at Liza's side. He went
fishing with her, told her stories, walked with her, and even on one
occasion, taking advantage of Groholsky's having a cold, carried her off
in his carriage, goodness knows where, and did not bring her back till
night!
"It's outrageous, inhuman," thought Groholsky, biting his lips.
Groholsky liked to be continually kissing Liza. He could not exist
without those honeyed kisses, and it was awkward to kiss her before Ivan
Petrovitch. It was agony. The poor fellow felt forlorn, but fate soon
had compassion on him. Ivan Petrovitch suddenly went off somewhere for a
whole week. Visitors had come and carried him off with them . . . And
Mishutka was taken too.
One fine morning Groholsky came home from a walk good-humoured and
beaming.
"He has come," he said to Liza, rubbing his hands. "I am very glad he
has come. Ha-ha-ha!"
"What are you laughing at?"
"There are women with him."
"What women?"
"I don't know. . . . It's a good thing he has got women. . . . A capital
thing, in fact. . . . He is still young and fresh. Come here! Look!"
Groholsky led Liza on to the verandah, and pointed to the villa
opposite. They both held their sides, and roared with laughter. It was
funny. Ivan Petrovitch was standing on the verandah of the villa
opposite, smiling. Two dark-haired ladies and Mishutka were standing
below, under the verandah. The ladies were laughing, and loudly talking
French.
"French women," observed Groholsky. "The one nearest us isn't at all
bad-looking. Lively damsels, but that's no matter. There are good women
to be found even among such. . . . But they really do go too far."
What was funny was that Ivan Petrovitch bent across the verandah, and
stretching with his long arms, put them round the shoulders of one of
the French girls, lifted her in the air, and set her giggling on the
verandah. After lifting up both ladies on to the verandah, he lifted up
Mishutka too. The ladies ran down and the proceedings were repeated.
"Powerful muscles, I must say," muttered Groholsky looking at this
scene. The operation was repeated some six times, the ladies were so
amiable as to show no embarrassment whatever when the boisterous wind
disposed of their inflated skirts as it willed while they were being
lifted. Groholsky dropped his eyes in a shamefaced way when the ladies
flung their legs over the parapet as they reached the verandah. But Liza
watched and laughed! What did she care? It was not a case of men
misbehaving themselves, which would have put her, as a woman, to shame,
but of ladies.
In the evening, Ivan Petrovitch flew over, and with some embarrassment
announced that he was now a man with a household to look after . . . .
"You mustn't imagine they are just anybody," he said. "It is true they
are French. They shout at the top of their voices, and drink . . . but
we all know! The French are brought up to be like that! It can't be
helped. . . . The prince," Ivan Petrovitch added, "let me have them
almost for nothing. . . . He said: 'take them, take them. . . .' I must
introduce you to the prince sometime. A man of culture! He's for ever
writing, writing. . . . And do you know what their names are? One is
Fanny, the other Isabella. . . . There's Europe, ha-ha-ha! . . . The
west! Good-bye!"
Ivan Petrovitch left Liza and Groholsky in peace, and devoted himself to
his ladies. All day long sound of talk, laughter, and the clatter of
crockery came from his villa. . . . The lights were not put out till far
into the night. . . . Groholsky was in bliss. . . . At last, after a
prolonged interval of agony, he felt happy and at peace again. Ivan
Petrovitch with his two ladies had no such happiness as he had with one.
But alas, destiny has no heart. She plays with the Groholskys, the
Lizas, the Ivans, and the Mishutkas as with pawns. . . . Groholsky lost
his peace again. . . .
One morning, about ten days afterwards, on waking up late, he went out
on to the verandah and saw a spectacle which shocked him, revolted him,
and moved him to intense indignation. Under the verandah of the villa
opposite stood the French women, and between them Liza. She was talking
and looking askance at her own villa as though to see whether that
tyrant, that despot were awake (so Groholsky interpreted those looks).
Ivan Petrovitch standing on the verandah with his sleeves tucked up,
lifted Isabella into the air, then Fanny, and then Liza. When he was
lifting Liza it seemed to Groholsky that he pressed her to himself. . .
. Liza too flung one leg over the parapet. . . . Oh these women! All
sphinxes, every one of them!
When Liza returned home from her husband's villa and went into the
bedroom on tip-toe, as though nothing had happened, Groholsky, pale,
with hectic flushes on his cheeks, was lying in the attitude of a man at
his last gasp and moaning.
On seeing Liza, he sprang out of bed, and began pacing about the
bedroom.
"So that's what you are like, is it?" he shrieked in a high tenor. "So
that's it! Very much obliged to you! It's revolting, madam! Immoral, in
fact! Let me tell you that!"
Liza turned pale, and of course burst into tears. When women feel that
they are in the right, they scold and shed tears; when they are
conscious of being in fault, they shed tears only.
"On a level with those depraved creatures! It's . . . it's . . . it's .
. . lower than any impropriety! Why, do you know what they are? They are
kept women! Cocottes! And you a respectable woman go rushing off where
they are. . . And he . . . He! What does he want? What more does he want
of me? I don't understand it! I have given him half of my property--I
have given him more! You know it yourself! I have given him what I have
not myself. . . . I have given him almost all. . . . And he! I've put up
with your calling him Vanya, though he has no right whatever to such
intimacy. I have put up with your walks, kisses after dinner. . . . I
have put up with everything, but this I will not put up with. . . .
Either he or I! Let him go away, or I go away! I'm not equal to living
like this any longer, no! You can see that for yourself! . . . Either he
or I. . . . Enough! The cup is brimming over. . . . I have suffered a
great deal as it is. . . . I am going to talk to him at once--this
minute! What is he, after all? What has he to be proud of? No, indeed. .
. . He has no reason to think so much of himself . . . ."
Groholsky said a great many more valiant and stinging things, but did
not "go at once"; he felt timid and abashed. . . . He went to Ivan
Petrovitch three days later.