thinking of Ilyin. Then she got up lazily and went slowly into the bed-
room. Andrey Ilyitch was in bed already. She sat by the window and gave
herself to her desire. She felt no more "confusion." All her feelings
and thoughts pressed lovingly round some clear purpose. She still had a
mind to struggle, but instantly she waved her hand impotently, realising
the strength and the determination of the foe. To fight him power and
strength were necessary, but her birth, up-bringing and life had given
her nothing on which to lean.
"You're immoral, you're horrible," she tormented herself for her
weakness. "You're a nice sort, you are!"
So indignant was her insulted modesty at this weakness that she called
herself all the bad names that she knew and she related to herself many
insulting, degrading truths. Thus she told herself that she never was
moral, and she had not fallen before only because there was no pretext,
that her day-long struggle had been nothing but a game and a comedy....
"Let us admit that I struggled," she thought, "but what kind of a fight
was it? Even prostitutes struggle before they sell themselves, and still
they do sell themselves. It's a pretty sort of fight. Like milk, turns
in a day." She realised that it was not love that drew her from her home
nor Ilyin's personality, but the sensations which await her.... A little
week-end type like the rest of them.
"When the young bird's mother was killed," a hoarse tenor finished
singing.
If I am going, it's time, thought Sophia Pietrovna. Her heart began to
beat with a frightful force.
"Andrey," she almost cried. "Listen. Shall we go away? Shall we? Yes?"
"Yes.... I've told you already. You go alone."
"But listen," she said, "if you don't come too, you may lose me. I seem
to be in love already."
"Who with?" Andrey Ilyitch asked.
"It must be all the same for you, who with," Sophia Pietrovna cried out.
Andrey Ilyitch got up, dangled his feet over the side of the bed, with a
look of surprise at the dark form of his wife.
"Imagination," he yawned.
He could not believe her, but all the same he was frightened. After
having thought for a while, and asked his wife some unimportant
questions, he gave his views of the family, of infidelity.... He spoke
sleepily for about ten minutes and then lay down again. His remarks had
no success. There are a great many opinions in this world, and more than
half of them belong to people who have never known misery.
In spite of the late hour, the bungalow people were still moving behind
their windows. Sophia Pietrovna put on a long coat and stood for a
while, thinking. She still had force of mind to say to her sleepy
husband:
"Are you asleep? I'm going for a little walk. Would you like to come
with me?"
That was her last hope. Receiving no answer, she walked out. It was
breezy and cool. She did not feel the breeze or the darkness but walked
on and on.... An irresistible power drove her, and it seemed to her that
if she stopped that power would push her in the back. "You're an immoral
woman," she murmured mechanically. "You're horrible."
She was choking for breath, burning with shame, did not feel her feet
under her, for that which drove her along was stronger than her shame,
her reason, her fear.... AFTER THE THEATRE
Nadya Zelenina had just returned with her mother from the theatre, where
they had been to see a performance of "Eugene Oniegin." Entering her
room, she quickly threw off her dress, loosened her hair, and sat down
hurriedly in her petticoat and a white blouse to write a letter in the
style of Tatiana.
"I love you,"--she wrote--"but you don't love me; no, you don't!"
The moment she had written this, she smiled.
She was only sixteen years old, and so far she had not been in love. She
knew that Gorny, the officer, and Gronsdiev, the student, loved her; but
now, after the theatre, she wanted to doubt their love. To be unloved
and unhappy--how interesting. There is something beautiful, affecting,
romantic in the fact that one loves deeply while the other is
indifferent. Oniegin is interesting because he does not love at all, and
Tatiana is delightful because she is very much in love; but if they
loved each other equally and were happy, they would seem boring,
instead.
"Don't go on protesting that you love me," Nadya wrote on, thinking of
Gorny, the officer, "I can't believe you. You're very clever, educated,
serious; you have a great talent, and perhaps, a splendid future
waiting, but I am an uninteresting poor-spirited girl, and you yourself
know quite well that I shall only be a drag upon your life. It's true I
carried you off your feet, and you thought you had met your ideal in me,
but that was a mistake. Already you are asking yourself in despair, 'Why
did I meet this girl?' Only your kindness prevents you from confessing
it."
Nadya pitied herself. She wept and went on.
"If it were not so difficult for me to leave mother and brother I would
put on a nun's gown and go where my eyes direct me. You would then be
free to love another. If I were to die!"
Through her tears she could not make out what she had written. Brief
rainbows trembled on the table, on the floor and the ceiling, as though
Nadya were looking through a prism. Impossible to write. She sank back
in her chair and began to think of Gorny.
Oh, how fascinating, how interesting men are! Nadya remembered the
beautiful expression of Gorny's face, appealing, guilty, and tender,
when someone discussed music with him,--the efforts he made to prevent
the passion from sounding in his voice. Passion must be concealed in a
society where cold reserve and indifference are the signs of good
breeding. And he does try to conceal it, but he does not succeed, and
everybody knows quite well that he has a passion for music. Never-ending
discussions about music, blundering pronouncements by men who do not
understand--keep him in incessant tension. He is scared, timid, silent.
He plays superbly, as an ardent pianist. If he were not an officer, he
would be a famous musician.
The tears dried in her eyes. Nadya remembered how Gorny told her of his
love at a symphony concert, and again downstairs by the cloak-room.
"I am so glad you have at last made the acquaintance of the student
Gronsdiev," she continued to write. "He is a very clever man, and you
are sure to love him. Yesterday he was sitting with us till two o'clock
in the morning. We were all so happy. I was sorry that you hadn't come
to us. He said a lot of remarkable things."
Nadya laid her hands on the table and lowered her head. Her hair covered
the letter. She remembered that Gronsdiev also loved her, and that he
had the same right to her letter as Gorny. Perhaps she had better write
to Gronsdiev? For no cause, a happiness began to quicken in her breast.
At first it was a little one, rolling about in her breast like a rubber
ball. Then it grew broader and bigger, and broke forth like a wave.
Nadya had already forgotten about Gorny and Gronsdiev. Her thoughts
became confused. The happiness grew more and more. From her breast it
ran into her arms and legs, and it seemed that a light fresh breeze blew
over her head, stirring her hair. Her shoulders trembled with quiet
laughter. The table and the lampglass trembled. Tears from her eyes
splashed the letter. She was powerless to stop her laughter; and to
convince herself that she had a reason for it, she hastened to remember
something funny.
"What a funny poodle!" she cried, feeling that she was choking with
laughter. "What a funny poodle!"
She remembered how Gronsdiev was playing with Maxim the poodle after tea
yesterday; how he told a story afterwards of a very clever poodle who
was chasing a crow in the yard. The crow gave him a look and said:
"Oh, you swindler!"
The poodle did not know he had to do with a learned crow. He was
terribly confused, and ran away dumfounded. Afterwards he began to bark.
"No, I'd better love Gronsdiev," Nadya decided and tore up the letter.
She began to think of the student, of his love, of her own love, with
the result that the thoughts in her head swam apart and she thought
about everything, about her mother, the street, the pencil, the piano.
She was happy thinking, and found that everything was good, magnificent.
Her happiness told her that this was not all, that a little later it
would be still better. Soon it will be spring, summer. They will go with
mother to Gorbiki in the country. Gorny will come for his holidays. He
will walk in the orchard with her, and make love to her. Gronsdiev will
come too. He will play croquet with her and bowls. He will tell funny,
wonderful stories. She passionately longed for the orchard, the
darkness, the pure sky, the stars. Again her shoulders trembled with
laughter and she seemed to awake to a smell of wormwood in the room; and
a branch was tapping at the window.
She went to her bed and sat down. She did not know what to do with her
great happiness. It overwhelmed her. She stared at the crucifix which
hung at the head of her bed and saying:
"Dear God, dear God, dear God." THAT WRETCHED BOY
Ivan Ivanich Lapkin, a pleasant looking young man, and Anna Zamblizky, a
young girl with a little snub nose, walked down the sloping bank and sat
down on the bench. The bench was close to the water's edge, among thick
bushes of young willow. A heavenly spot! You sat down, and you were
hidden from the world. Only the fish could see you and the catspaws
which flashed over the water like lightning. The two young persons were
equipped with rods, fish hooks, bags, tins of worms and everything else
necessary. Once seated, they immediately began to fish.
"I am glad that we're left alone at last," said Lapkin, looking round.
I've got a lot to tell you, Anna--tremendous ... when I saw you for the
first time ... you've got a nibble ... I understood then--why I am alive,
I knew where my idol was, to whom I can devote my honest, hardworking
life.... It must be a big one ... it is biting.... When I saw you--for
the first time in my life I fell in love--fell in love passionately I
Don't pull. Let it go on biting.... Tell me, darling, tell me--will you
let me hope? No! I'm not worth it. I dare not even think of it--may I
hope for.... Pull!
Anna lifted her hand that held the rod--pulled, cried out. A silvery
green fish shone in the air.
"Goodness! it's a perch! Help--quick! It's slipping off." The perch tore
itself from the hook--danced in the grass towards its native element and
... leaped into the water.
But instead of the little fish that he was chasing, Lapkin quite by
accident caught hold of Anna's hand--quite by accident pressed it to his
lips. She drew back, but it was too late; quite by accident their lips
met and kissed; yes, it was an absolute accident! They kissed and
kissed. Then came vows and assurances.... Blissful moments! But there is
no such thing as absolute happiness in this life. If happiness itself
does not contain a poison, poison will enter in from without. Which
happened this time. Suddenly, while the two were kissing, a laugh was
heard. They looked at the river and were paralysed. The schoolboy Kolia,
Anna's brother, was standing in the water, watching the young people and
maliciously laughing.
"Ah--ha! Kissing!" said he. "Right O, I'll tell Mother."
"I hope that you--as a man of honour," Lapkin muttered, blushing. "It's
disgusting to spy on us, it's loathsome to tell tales, it's rotten. As a
man of honour...."
"Give me a shilling, then I'll shut up!" the man of honour retorted. "If
you don't, I'll tell."
Lapkin took a shilling out of his pocket and gave it to Kolia, who
squeezed it in his wet fist, whistled, and swam away. And the young
people did not kiss any more just then.
Next day Lapkin brought Kolia some paints and a ball from town, and his
sister gave him all her empty pill boxes. Then they had to present him
with a set of studs like dogs' heads. The wretched boy enjoyed this game
immensely, and to keep it going he began to spy on them. Wherever Lapkin
and Anna went, he was there too. He did not leave them alone for a
single moment.
"Beast!" Lapkin gnashed his teeth. "So young and yet such a full fledged
scoundrel. What on earth will become of him later!"
During the whole of July the poor lovers had no life apart from him. He
threatened to tell on them; he dogged them and demanded more presents.
Nothing satisfied him--finally he hinted at a gold watch. All right, they
had to promise the watch.
Once, at table, when biscuits were being handed round, he burst out
laughing and said to Lapkin: "Shall I let on? Ah--ha!"
Lapkin blushed fearfully and instead of a biscuit he began to chew his
table napkin. Anna jumped up from the table and rushed out of the room.
And this state of things went on until the end of August, up to the day
when Lapkin at last proposed to Anna. Ah! What a happy day that was!
When he had spoken to her parents and obtained their consent Lapkin
rushed into the garden after Kolia. When he found him he nearly cried
for joy and caught hold of the wretched boy by the ear. Anna, who was
also looking for Kolia came running up and grabbed him by the other ear.
You should have seen the happiness depicted on their faces while Kolia
roared and begged them:
"Darling, precious pets, I won't do it again. O-oh--O-oh! Forgive me!"
And both of them confessed afterwards that during all the time they were
in love with each other they never experienced such happiness, such
overwhelming joy as during those moments when they pulled the wretched
boy's ears. ENEMIES
About ten o'clock of a dark September evening the Zemstvo doctor
Kirilov's only son, six-year-old Andrey, died of diphtheria. As the
doctor's wife dropped on to her knees before the dead child's cot and
the first paroxysm of despair took hold of her, the bell rang sharply in
the hall.
When the diphtheria came all the servants were sent away from the house,
that very morning. Kirilov himself went to the door, just as he was, in
his shirt-sleeves with his waistcoat unbuttoned, without wiping his wet
face or hands, which had been burnt with carbolic acid. It was dark in
the hall, and of the person who entered could be distinguished only his
middle height, a white scarf and a big, extraordinarily pale face, so
pale that it seemed as though its appearance made the hall brighter....
"Is the doctor in?" the visitor asked abruptly.
"I'm at home," answered Kirilov. "What do you want?"
"Oh, you're the doctor? I'm so glad!" The visitor was overjoyed and
began to seek for the doctor's hand in the darkness. He found it and
squeezed it hard in his own. "I'm very ... very glad! We were introduced
... I am Aboguin ... had the pleasure of meeting you this summer at Mr.
Gnouchev's. I am very glad to have found you at home.... For God's sake,
don't say you won't come with me immediately.... My wife has been taken
dangerously ill.... I have the carriage with me...."
From the visitor's voice and movements it was evident that he had been
in a state of violent agitation. Exactly as though he had been
frightened by a fire or a mad dog, he could hardly restrain his hurried
breathing, and he spoke quickly in a trembling voice. In his speech
there sounded a note of real sincerity, of childish fright. Like all men
who are frightened and dazed, he spoke in short, abrupt phrases and
uttered many superfluous, quite unnecessary, words.
"I was afraid I shouldn't find you at home," he continued. "While I was
coming to you I suffered terribly.... Dress yourself and let us go, for
God's sake.... It happened like this. Papchinsky came to me--Alexander
Siemionovich, you know him.... We were chatting.... Then we sat down to
tea. Suddenly my wife cries out, presses her hands to her heart, and
falls back in her chair. We carried her off to her bed and ... and I
rubbed her forehead with sal-volatile, and splashed her with water....
She lies like a corpse.... I'm afraid that her heart's failed.... Let us
go.... Her father too died of heart-failure."
Kirilov listened in silence as though he did not understand the Russian
language.
When Aboguin once more mentioned Papchinsky and his wife's father, and
once more began to seek for the doctor's hand in the darkness, the
doctor shook his head and said, drawling each word listlessly:
"Excuse me, but I can't go.... Five minutes ago my ... my son died."
"Is that true?" Aboguin whispered, stepping back. "My God, what an awful
moment to come! It's a terribly fated day ... terribly! What a
coincidence ... and it might have been on purpose!"
Aboguin took hold of the door handle and drooped his head in meditation.
Evidently he was hesitating, not knowing whether to go away, or to ask
the doctor once more.
"Listen," he said eagerly, seizing Kirilov by the sleeve. "I fully
understand your state! God knows I'm ashamed to try to hold your
attention at such a moment, but what can I do? Think yourself--who can I
go to? There isn't another doctor here besides you. For heaven's sake
come. I'm not asking for myself. It's not I that's ill!"
Silence began. Kirilov turned his back to Aboguin, stood still for a
while and slowly went out of the hall into the drawing-room. To judge by
his uncertain, machine-like movement, and by the attentiveness with
which he arranged the hanging shade on the unlighted lamp in the
drawing-room and consulted a thick book which lay on the table--at such a
moment he had neither purpose nor desire, nor did he think of anything,
and probably had already forgotten that there was a stranger standing in
his hall. The gloom and the quiet of the drawing-room apparently
increased his insanity. As he went from the drawing-room to his study he
raised his right foot higher than he need, felt with his hands for the
door-posts, and then one felt a certain perplexity in his whole figure,
as though he had entered a strange house by chance, or for the first
time in his life had got drunk, and now was giving himself up in
bewilderment to the new sensation. A wide line of light stretched across
the bookshelves on one wall of the study; this light, together with the
heavy stifling smell of carbolic acid and ether came from the door ajar
that led from the study into the bed-room.... The doctor sank into a
chair before the table; for a while he looked drowsily at the shining
books, then rose and went into the bed-room.
Here, in the bed-room, dead quiet reigned. Everything, down to the last
trifle, spoke eloquently of the tempest undergone, of weariness, and
everything rested. The candle which stood among a close crowd of phials,
boxes and jars on the stool and the big lamp on the chest of drawers
brightly lit the room. On the bed, by the window, the boy lay open-eyed,
with a look of wonder on his face. He did not move, but it seemed that
his open eyes became darker and darker every second and sank into his
skull. Having laid her hands on his body and hid her face in the folds
of the bed-clothes, the mother now was on her knees before the bed. Like
the boy she did not move, but how much living movement was felt in the
coil of her body and in her hands! She was pressing close to the bed
with her whole being, with eager vehemence, as though she were afraid to
violate the quiet and comfortable pose which she had found at last for
her weary body. Blankets, cloths, basins, splashes on the floor, brushes
and spoons scattered everywhere, a white bottle of lime-water, the
stifling heavy air itself--everything died away, and as it were plunged
into quietude.
The doctor stopped by his wife, thrust his hands into his trouser
pockets and bending his head on one side looked fixedly at his son. His
face showed indifference; only the drops which glistened on his beard
revealed that he had been lately weeping.
The repulsive terror of which we think when we speak of death was absent
from the bed-room. In the pervading dumbness, in the mother's pose, in
the indifference of the doctor's face was something attractive that
touched the heart, the subtle and elusive beauty of human grief, which
it will take men long to understand and describe, and only music, it
seems, is able to express. Beauty too was felt in the stern stillness.
Kirilov and his wife were silent and did not weep, as though they
confessed all the poetry of their condition. As once the season of their
youth passed away, so now in this boy their right to bear children had
passed away, alas! for ever to eternity. The doctor is forty-four years
old, already grey and looks like an old man; his faded sick wife is
thirty-five. Audrey was not merely the only son but the last.
In contrast to his wife the doctor's nature belonged to those which feel
the necessity of movement when their soul is in pain. After standing by
his wife for about five minutes, he passed from the bed-room, lifting
his right foot too high, into a little room half filled with a big broad
divan. From there he went to the kitchen. After wandering about the
fireplace and the cook's bed, he stooped through a little door and came
into the hall.
Here he saw the white scarf and the pale face again.
"At last," sighed Aboguin, seizing the doorhandle. "Let us go, please."
The doctor shuddered, glanced at him and remembered.
"Listen. I've told you already that I can't go," he said, livening.
"What a strange idea!"
"Doctor, I'm made of flesh and blood, too. I fully understand your
condition. I sympathise with you," Aboguin said in an imploring voice,
putting his hand to his scarf. "But I am not asking for myself. My wife
is dying. If you had heard her cry, if you'd seen her face, you would
understand my insistence! My God--and I thought that you'd gone to dress
yourself. The time is precious, Doctor! Let us go, I beg of you."
"I can't come," Kirilov said after a pause, and stepped into his
drawing-room.
Aboguin followed him and seized him by the sleeve.
"You're in sorrow. I understand. But I'm not asking you to cure a
toothache, or to give expert evidence,--but to save a human life." He
went on imploring like a beggar. "This life is more than any personal
grief. I ask you for courage, for a brave deed--in the name of humanity."
"Humanity cuts both ways," Kirilov said irritably. "In the name of the
same humanity I ask you not to take me away. My God, what a strange
idea! I can hardly stand on my feet and you frighten me with humanity.
I'm not fit for anything now. I won't go for anything. With whom shall I
leave my wife? No, no...."
Kirilov flung out his open hands and drew back.
"And ... and don't ask me," he continued, disturbed. "I'm sorry....
Under the Laws, Volume XIII., I'm obliged to go and you have the right
to drag me by the neck.... Well, drag me, but ... I'm not fit.... I'm
not even able to speak. Excuse me."
"It's quite unfair to speak to me in that tone, Doctor," said Aboguin,
again taking the doctor by the sleeve. "The thirteenth volume be damned!
I have no right to do violence to your will. If you want to, come; if
you don't, then God be with you; but it's not to your will that I apply,
but to your feelings. A young woman is dying! You say your son died just
now. Who could understand my terror better than you?"
Aboguin's voice trembled with agitation. His tremor and his tone were
much more convincing than his words. Aboguin was sincere, but it is
remarkable that every phrase he used came out stilted, soulless,
inopportunely florid, and as it were insulted the atmosphere of the
doctor's house and the woman who was dying. He felt it himself, and in
his fear of being misunderstood he exerted himself to the utmost to make
his voice soft and tender so as to convince by the sincerity of his tone
at least, if not by his words. As a rule, however deep and beautiful the
words they affect only the unconcerned. They cannot always satisfy those
who are happy or distressed because the highest expression of happiness
or distress is most often silence. Lovers understand each other best
when they are silent, and a fervent passionate speech at the graveside
affects only outsiders. To the widow and children it seems cold and
trivial.
Kirilov stood still and was silent. When Aboguin uttered some more words
on the higher vocation of a doctor, and self-sacrifice, the doctor
sternly asked:
"Is it far?"
"Thirteen or fourteen versts. I've got good horses, doctor. I give you
my word of honour that I'll take you there and back in an hour. Only an
hour."