French, German and Latin gospel in front of him and then minutely
analysed one word after another. The result--he achieved his purpose in
less than a year. Let us take some author and start reading."
The Frenchwoman gave him a puzzled look. It was evident that Vorotov's
proposal appeared to her naive and absurd. If he had not been grown up
she would certainly have got angry and stormed at him, but as he was a
very stout, adult man at whom she could not storm, she only shrugged her
shoulders half-perceptibly and said:
"Just as you please."
Vorotov ransacked his bookshelves and produced a ragged French book.
"Will this do?" he asked.
"It's all the same."
"In that case let us begin. Let us start from the title, Mémoires."
"Reminiscences...." translated Mademoiselle Enquette.
"Reminiscences...." repeated Vorotov.
Smiling good naturedly and breathing heavily, he passed a quarter of an
hour over the word mémoires and the same with the word de. This tired
Alice Ossipovna out. She answered his questions carelessly, got confused
and evidently neither understood her pupil nor tried to. Vorotov asked
her questions, and at the same time glanced furtively at her fair hair,
thinking:
"The hair is not naturally curly. She waves it. Marvellous! She works
from morning till night and yet she finds time to wave her hair."
At eight o'clock sharp she got up, gave him a dry, cold "Au revoir,
Monsieur," and left the study. After her lingered the same sweet,
subtle, agitating perfume. The pupil again did nothing for a long time,
but sat by the table and thought.
During the following days he became convinced that his teacher was a
charming girl serious and punctual, but very uneducated and incapable of
teaching grown up people; so he decided he would not waste his time, but
part with her and engage someone else. When she came for the seventh
lesson he took an envelope containing seven roubles out of his pocket.
Holding it in his hands and blushing furiously, he began:
"I am sorry, Alice Ossipovna, but I must tell you.... I am placed in an
awkward position...."
The Frenchwoman glanced at the envelope and guessed what was the matter.
For the first time during the lessons a shiver passed over her face and
the cold, business-like expression disappeared. She reddened faintly,
and casting her eyes down, began to play absently with her thin gold
chain. And Vorotov, noticing her confusion, understood how precious this
rouble was to her, how hard it would be for her to lose this money.
"I must tell you," he murmured, getting still more confused. His heart
gave a thump. Quickly he put the envelope back into his pocket and
continued:
"Excuse me. I ... I will leave you for ten minutes...."
And as though he did not want to dismiss her at all, but had only asked
permission to retire for a moment he went into another room and sat
there for ten minutes. Then he returned, more confused than ever; he
thought that his leaving her like that would be explained by her in a
certain way and this made him awkward.
The lessons began again.
Vorotov wanted them no more. Knowing that they would lead to nothing he
gave the Frenchwoman a free hand; he did not question or interrupt her
any more. She translated at her own sweet will, ten pages a lesson, but
he did not listen. He breathed heavily and for want of occupation gazed
now and then at her curly little head, her neck, her soft white hands,
and inhaled the perfume of her dress.
He caught himself thinking about her as he ought not and it shamed him,
or admiring her, and then he felt aggrieved and angry because she
behaved so coldly towards him, in such a businesslike way, never smiling
and as if afraid that he might suddenly touch her. All the while he
thought: How could he inspire her with confidence in him, how could he
get to know her better, to help her, to make her realise how badly she
taught, poor little soul?
Once Alice Ossipovna came to the lesson in a dainty pink dress, a little
décolleté, and such a sweet scent came from her that you might have
thought she was wrapped in a cloud, that you had only to blow on her for
her to fly away or dissolve like smoke. She apologised, saying she could
only stay for half an hour, because she had to go straight from the
lesson to a ball.
He gazed at her neck, at her bare shoulders and he thought he understood
why Frenchwomen were known to be light-minded and easily won; he was
drowned in this cloud of scent, beauty, and nudity, and she, quite
unaware of his thoughts and probably not in the least interested in
them, read over the pages quickly and translated full steam ahead:
"He walked over the street and met the gentleman of his friend and said:
where do you rush? seeing your face so pale it makes me pain."
The Mémoires had been finished long ago; Alice was now translating
another book. Once she came to the lesson an hour earlier, apologising
because she had to go to the Little Theatre at seven o'clock. When the
lesson was over Vorotov dressed and he too went to the theatre. It
seemed to him only for the sake of rest and distraction, and he did not
even think of Alice. He would not admit that a serious man, preparing
for a scientific career, a stay-at-home, should brush aside his book and
rush to the theatre for the sake of meeting an unintellectual, stupid
girl whom he hardly knew.
But somehow, dining the intervals his heart beat, and, without noticing
it, he ran about the foyer and the corridors like a boy, looking
impatiently for someone. Every time the interval was over he was tired,
but when he discovered the familiar pink dress and the lovely shoulders
veiled with tulle his heart jumped as if from a presentiment of
happiness, he smiled joyfully, and for the first time in his life he
felt jealous.
Alice was with two ugly students and an officer. She was laughing,
talking loudly and evidently flirting. Vorotov had never seen her like
that. Apparently she was happy, contented, natural, warm. Why? What was
the reason? Perhaps because these people were dear to her and belonged
to the same class as she. Vorotov felt the huge abyss between him and
that class. He bowed to his teacher, but she nodded coldly and quietly
passed by. It was plain she did not want her cavaliers to know that she
had pupils and gave lessons because she was poor.
After the meeting at the theatre Vorotov knew that he was in love.
During lessons that followed he devoured his elegant teacher with his
eyes, and no longer struggling, he gave full rein to his pure and impure
thoughts. Alice's face was always cold. Exactly at eight o'clock every
evening she said calmly, "Au revoir, Monsieur," and he felt that she was
indifferent to him and would remain indifferent, that--his position was
hopeless.
Sometimes in the middle of a lesson he would begin dreaming, hoping,
building plans; he composed an amorous declaration, remembering that
Frenchwomen were frivolous and complaisant, but he had only to give his
teacher one glance for his thoughts to be blown out like a candle, when
you carry it on to the verandah of a bungalow and the wind is blowing.
Once, overcome, forgetting everything, in a frenzy, he could stand it no
longer. He barred her way when she came from the study into the hall
after the lesson and, losing his breath and stammering, began to declare
his love:
"You are dear to me!... I love you. Please let me speak!"
Alice grew pale: probably she was afraid that after this declaration she
would not be able to come to him any more and receive a rouble a lesson.
She looked at him with terrified eyes and began in a loud whisper:
"Ah, it's impossible! Do not speak, I beg you! Impossible!"
Afterwards Vorotov did not sleep all night; he tortured himself with
shame, abused himself, thinking feverishly. He thought that his
declaration had offended the girl and that she would not come any more.
He made up his mind to find out where she lived from the Address Bureau
and to write her an apology. But Alice came without the letter. For a
moment she felt awkward, and then opened the book and began to translate
quickly, in an animated voice, as always:
"'Oh, young gentleman, do not rend these flowers in my garden which I
want to give to my sick daughter.'"
She still goes. Four books have been translated by now but Vorotov knows
nothing beyond the word mémoires, and when he is asked about his
scientific research work he waves his hand, leaves the question
unanswered, and begins to talk about the weather. A LIVING CALENDAR
State-Councillor Sharamykin's drawing-room is wrapped in a pleasant
half-darkness. The big bronze lamp with the green shade, makes the
walls, the furniture, the faces, all green, couleur "Nuit d'Ukraine"
Occasionally a smouldering log flares up in the dying fire and for a
moment casts a red glow over the faces; but this does not spoil the
general harmony of light. The general tone, as the painters say, is well
sustained.
Sharamykin sits in a chair in front of the fireplace, in the attitude of
a man who has just dined. He is an elderly man with a high official's
grey side whiskers and meek blue eyes. Tenderness is shed over his face,
and his lips are set in a melancholy smile. At his feet, stretched out
lazily, with his legs towards the fire-place, Vice-Governor Lopniev sits
on a little stool. He is a brave-looking man of about forty.
Sharamykin's children are moving about round the piano; Nina, Kolya,
Nadya, and Vanya. The door leading to Madame Sharamykin's room is
slightly open and the light breaks through timidly. There behind the
door sits Sharamykin's wife, Anna Pavlovna, in front of her writing-
table. She is president of the local ladies' committee, a lively,
piquant lady of thirty years and a little bit over. Through her pince-
nez her vivacious black eyes are running over the pages of a French
novel. Beneath the novel lies a tattered copy of the report of the
committee for last year.
"Formerly our town was much better off in these things," says
Sharamykin, screwing up his meek eyes at the glowing coals. "Never a
winter passed but some star would pay us a visit. Famous actors and
singers used to come ... but now, besides acrobats and organ-grinders,
the devil only knows what comes. There's no aesthetic pleasure at
all.... We might be living in a forest. Yes.... And does your Excellency
remember that Italian tragedian?... What's his name?... He was so dark,
and tall.... Let me think.... Oh, yes! Luigi Ernesto di Ruggiero....
Remarkable talent.... And strength. He had only to say one word and the
whole theatre was on the qui vive. My darling Anna used to take a great
interest in his talent. She hired the theatre for him and sold tickets
for the performances in advance.... In return he taught her elocution
and gesture. A first-rate fellow! He came here ... to be quite exact ...
twelve years ago.... No, that's not true.... Less, ten years.... Anna
dear, how old is our Nina?"
"She'll be ten next birthday," calls Anna Pavlovna from her room. "Why?"
"Nothing in particular, my dear. I was just curious.... And good singers
used to come. Do you remember Prilipchin, the tenore di grazia? What a
charming fellow he was! How good looking! Fair ... a very expressive
face, Parisian manners.... And what a voice, your Excellency! Only one
weakness: he would sing some notes with his stomach and would take re
falsetto--otherwise everything was good. Tamberlik, he said, had taught
him.... My dear Anna and I hired a hall for him at the Social Club, and
in gratitude for that he used to sing to us for whole days and
nights.... He taught dear Anna to sing. He came--I remember it as though
it were last night--in Lent, some twelve years ago. No, it's more.... How
bad my memory is getting, Heaven help me! Anna dear, how old is our
darling Nadya?
"Twelve."
"Twelve ... then we've got to add ten months.... That makes it exact ...
thirteen. Somehow there used to be more life in our town then.... Take,
for instance, the charity soirées. What enjoyable soirées we used to
have before! How elegant! There were singing, playing, and
recitation.... After the war, I remember, when the Turkish prisoners
were here, dear Anna arranged a soiree on behalf of the wounded. We
collected eleven hundred roubles. I remember the Turkish officers were
passionately fond of dear Anna's voice, and kissed her hand incessantly.
He-he! Asiatics, but a grateful nation. Would you believe me, the soiree
was such a success that I wrote an account of it in my diary? It was,--I
remember it as though it had only just happened,--in '76,... no, in
'77.... No! Pray, when were the Turks here? Anna dear, how old is our
little Kolya?"
"I'm seven, Papa!" says Kolya, a brat with a swarthy face and coal black
hair.
"Yes, we're old, and we've lost the energy we used to have," Lopniev
agreed with a sigh. "That's the real cause. Old age, my friend. No new
moving spirits arrive, and the old ones grow old.... The old fire is
dull now. When I was younger I did not like company to be bored.... I
was your Anna Pavlovna's first assistant. Whether it was a charity
soirée or a tombola to support a star who was going to arrive, whatever
Anna Pavlovna was arranging, I used to throw over everything and begin
to bustle about. One winter, I remember, I bustled and ran so much that
I even got ill.... I shan't forget that winter.... Do you remember what
a performance we arranged with Anna Pavlovna in aid of the victims of
the fire?"
"What year was it?"
"Not so very long ago.... In '79. No, in '80, I believe! Tell me how old
is your Vanya?"
"Five," Anna Pavlovna calls from the study.
"Well, that means it was six years ago. Yes, my dear friend, that was a
time. It's all over now. The old fire's quite gone."
Lopniev and Sharamykin grew thoughtful. The smouldering log flares up
for the last time, and then is covered in ash. OLD AGE
State-Councillor Usielkov, architect, arrived in his native town, where
he had been summoned to restore the cemetery church. He was born in the
town, he had grown up and been married there, and yet when he got out of
the train he hardly recognised it. Everything was changed. For instance,
eighteen years ago, when he left the town to settle in Petersburg, where
the railway station is now boys used to hunt for marmots: now as you
come into the High Street there is a four storied "Hotel Vienna," with
apartments, where there was of old an ugly grey fence. But not the fence
or the houses, or anything had changed so much as the people.
Questioning the hall-porter, Usielkov discovered that more than half of
the people he remembered were dead or paupers or forgotten.
"Do you remember Usielkov?" he asked the porter. "Usielkov, the
architect, who divorced his wife.... He had a house in Sviribev
Street.... Surely you remember."
"No, I don't remember anyone of the name."
"Why, it's impossible not to remember. It was an exciting case. All the
cabmen knew, even. Try to remember. His divorce was managed by the
attorney, Shapkin, the swindler ... the notorious sharper, the man who
was thrashed at the dub...."
"You mean Ivan Nicolaich?"
"Yes.... Is he alive? dead?"
"Thank heaven, his honour's alive. His honour's a notary now, with an
office. Well-to-do. Two houses in Kirpichny Street. Just lately married
his daughter off."
Usielkov strode from one corner of the room to another. An idea flashed
into his mind. From boredom, he decided to see Shapkin. It was afternoon
when he left the hotel and quietly walked to Kirpichny Street. He found
Shapkin in his office and hardly recognised him. From the well-built,
alert attorney with a quick, impudent, perpetually tipsy expression,
Shapkin had become a modest, grey-haired, shrunken old man.
"You don't recognise me.... You have forgotten ...." Usielkov began.
"I'm your old client, Usielkov."
"Usielkov? Which Usielkov? Ah!" Remembrance came to Shapkin: he
recognised him and was confused. Began exclamations, questions,
recollections.
"Never expected ... never thought...." chuckled Shapkin. "What will you
have? Would you like champagne? Perhaps you'd like oysters. My dear man,
what a lot of money I got out of you in the old days--so much that I
can't think what I ought to stand you."
"Please don't trouble," said Usielkov. "I haven't time. I must go to the
cemetery and examine the church. I have a commission."
"Splendid. We'll have something to eat and a drink and go together. I've
got some splendid horses! I'll take you there and introduce you to the
churchwarden.... I'll fix up everything.... But what's the matter, my
dearest man? You're not avoiding me, not afraid? Please sit nearer.
There's nothing to be afraid of now.... Long ago, I really was pretty
sharp, a bit of a rogue ... but now I'm quieter than water, humbler than
grass. I've grown old; got a family. There are children.... Time to
die!"
The friends had something to eat and drink, and went in a coach and pair
to the cemetery.
"Yes, it was a good time," Shapkin was reminiscent, sitting in the
sledge. "I remember, but I simply can't believe it. Do you remember how
you divorced your wife? It's almost twenty years ago, and you've
probably forgotten everything, but I remember it as though I conducted
the petition yesterday. My God, how rotten I was! Then I was a smart,
casuistical devil, full of sharp practice and devilry.... and I used to
run into some shady affairs, particularly when there was a good fee, as
in your case, for instance. What was it you paid me then? Five--six
hundred. Enough to upset anybody! By the time you left for Petersburg
you'd left the whole affair completely in my hands. 'Do what you like!'
And your former wife, Sophia Mikhailovna, though she did come from a
merchant family, was proud and selfish. To bribe her to take the guilt
on herself was difficult--extremely difficult. I used to come to her for
a business talk, and when she saw me, she would say to her maid: 'Masha,
surely I told you I wasn't at home to scoundrels.' I tried one way, then
another ... wrote letters to her, tried to meet her accidentally--no
good. I had to work through a third person. For a long time I had
trouble with her, and she only yielded when you agreed to give her ten
thousand. She could not stand out against ten thousand. She
succumbed.... She began to weep, spat in my face, but she yielded and
took the guilt on herself."
"If I remember it was fifteen, not ten thousand she took from me," said
Usielkov.
"Yes, of course ... fifteen, my mistake." Shapkin was disconcerted.
"Anyway it's all past and done with now. Why shouldn't I confess,
frankly? Ten I gave to her, and the remaining five I bargained out of
you for my own share. I deceived both of you.... It's all past, why be
ashamed of it? And who else was there to take from, Boris Pietrovich, if
not from you? I ask you.... You were rich and well-to-do. You married in
caprice: you were divorced in caprice. You were making a fortune. I
remember you got twenty thousand out of a single contract. Whom was I to
tap, if not you? And I must confess, I was tortured by envy. If you got
hold of a nice lot of money, people would take off their hats to you:
but the same people would beat me for shillings and smack my face in the
club. But why recall it? It's time to forget."
"Tell me, please, how did Sophia Mikhailovna live afterwards?"
"With her ten thousand? On ne peut plus badly.... God knows whether it
was frenzy or pride and conscience that tortured her, because she had
sold herself for money--or perhaps she loved you; but, she took to drink,
you know. She received the money and began to gad about with officers in
troikas.... Drunkenness, philandering, debauchery.... She would come
into a tavern with an officer, and instead of port or a light wine, she
would drink the strongest cognac to drive her into a frenzy."
"Yes, she was eccentric. I suffered enough with her. She would take
offence at some trifle and then get nervous.... And what happened
afterwards?"
"A week passed, a fortnight.... I was sitting at home writing. Suddenly,
the door opened and she comes in. 'Take your cursed money,' she said,
and threw the parcel in my face.... She could not resist it.... Five
hundred were missing. She had only got rid of five hundred."
"And what did you do with the money?"
"It's all past and done with. What's the good of concealing it?... I
certainly took it. What are you staring at me like that for? Wait for
the sequel. It's a complete novel, the sickness of a soul! Two months
passed by. One night I came home drunk, in a wicked mood.... I turned on
the light and saw Sophia Mikhailovna sitting on my sofa, drunk too,
wandering a bit, with something savage in her face as if she had just
escaped from the mad-house. 'Give me my money back,' she said. 'I've
changed my mind. If I'm going to the dogs, I want to go madly,
passionately. Make haste, you scoundrel, give me the money.' How
indecent it was!"
"And you ... did you give it her?"
"I remember I gave her ten roubles."
"Oh ... is it possible?" Usielkov frowned. "If you couldn't do it
yourself, or you didn't want to, you could have written to me.... And I
didn't know ... I didn't know."
"My dear man, why should I write, when she wrote herself afterwards when
she was in hospital?"
"I was so taken up with the new marriage that I paid no attention to
letters.... But you were an outsider; you had no antagonism to Sophia
Mikhailovna.... Why didn't you help her?"
"We can't judge by our present standards, Boris Pietrovich. Now we think
in this way; but then we thought quite differently.... Now I might
perhaps give her a thousand roubles; but then even ten roubles ... she
didn't get them for nothing. It's a terrible story. It's time to
forget.... But here you are!"
The sledge stopped at the churchyard gate. Usielkov and Shapkin got out
of the sledge, went through the gate and walked along a long, broad
avenue. The bare cherry trees, the acacias, the grey crosses and
monuments sparkled with hoar-frost. In each flake of snow the bright
sunny day was reflected. There was the smell you find in all cemeteries
of incense and fresh-dug earth.
"You have a beautiful cemetery," said Usielkov. "It's almost an
orchard."
"Yes, but it's a pity the thieves steal the monuments. Look, there,
behind that cast-iron memorial, on the right, Sophia Mikhailovna is
buried. Would you like to see?"
The friends turned to the right, stepping in deep snow towards the cast-
iron memorial.
"Down here," said Shapkin, pointing to a little stone of white marble.
"Some subaltern or other put up the monument on her grave." Usielkov
slowly took off his hat and showed his bald pate to the snow. Eying him,
Shapkin also took off his hat, and another baldness shone beneath the
sun. The silence round about was like the tomb, as though the air were
dead, too. The friends looked at the stone, silent, thinking.
"She is asleep!" Shapkin broke the silence. "And she cares very little
that she took the guilt upon herself and drank cognac. Confess, Boris
Pietrovich!"
"What?" asked Usielkov, sternly.
"That, however loathsome the past may be, it's better than this." And
Shapkin pointed to his grey hairs.
"In the old days I did not even think of death.... If I'd met her, I
would have circumvented her, but now ... well, now!"
Sadness took hold of Usielkov. Suddenly he wanted to cry, passionately,
as he once desired to love.... And he felt that these tears would be
exquisite, refreshing. Moisture came out of his eyes and a lump rose in
his throat, but.... Shapkin was standing by his side, and Usielkov felt
ashamed of his weakness before a witness. He turned back quickly and
walked towards the church.
Two hours later, having arranged with the churchwarden and examined the
church, he seized the opportunity while Shapkin was talking away to the
priest, and ran to shed a tear. He walked to the stone surreptitiously,
with stealthy steps, looking round all the time. The little white
monument stared at him absently, so sadly and innocently, as though a
girl and not a wanton divorcée were beneath.
"If I could weep, could weep!" thought Usielkov.
But the moment for weeping had been lost. Though the old man managed to
make his eyes shine, and tried to bring himself to the right pitch, the
tears did not flow and the lump did not rise in his throat.... After
waiting for about ten minutes, Usielkov waved his arm and went to look
for + Shapkin.
The Darling and Other Stories