OLENKA, the daughter of the retired collegiate assessor, Plemyanniakov,
was sitting in her back porch, lost in thought. It was hot, the flies
were persistent and teasing, and it was pleasant to reflect that it
would soon be evening. Dark rainclouds were gathering from the east, and
bringing from time to time a breath of moisture in the air.
Kukin, who was the manager of an open-air theatre called the Tivoli, and
who lived in the lodge, was standing in the middle of the garden looking
at the sky.
"Again!" he observed despairingly. "It's going to rain again! Rain every
day, as though to spite me. I might as well hang myself! It's ruin!
Fearful losses every day."
He flung up his hands, and went on, addressing Olenka:
"There! that's the life we lead, Olga Semyonovna. It's enough to make
one cry. One works and does one's utmost, one wears oneself out, getting
no sleep at night, and racks one's brain what to do for the best. And
then what happens? To begin with, one's public is ignorant, boorish. I
give them the very best operetta, a dainty masque, first rate music-hall
artists. But do you suppose that's what they want! They don't understand
anything of that sort. They want a clown; what they ask for is
vulgarity. And then look at the weather! Almost every evening it rains.
It started on the tenth of May, and it's kept it up all May and June.
It's simply awful! The public doesn't come, but I've to pay the rent
just the same, and pay the artists."
The next evening the clouds would gather again, and Kukin would say with
an hysterical laugh:
"Well, rain away, then! Flood the garden, drown me! Damn my luck in this
world and the next! Let the artists have me up! Send me to prison!--to
Siberia!--the scaffold! Ha, ha, ha!"
And next day the same thing.
Olenka listened to Kukin with silent gravity, and sometimes tears came
into her eyes. In the end his misfortunes touched her; she grew to love
him. He was a small thin man, with a yellow face, and curls combed
forward on his forehead. He spoke in a thin tenor; as he talked his
mouth worked on one side, and there was always an expression of despair
on his face; yet he aroused a deep and genuine affection in her. She was
always fond of some one, and could not exist without loving. In earlier
days she had loved her papa, who now sat in a darkened room, breathing
with difficulty; she had loved her aunt who used to come every other
year from Bryansk; and before that, when she was at school, she had
loved her French master. She was a gentle, soft-hearted, compassionate
girl, with mild, tender eyes and very good health. At the sight of her
full rosy cheeks, her soft white neck with a little dark mole on it, and
the kind, naïve smile, which came into her face when she listened to
anything pleasant, men thought, "Yes, not half bad," and smiled too,
while lady visitors could not refrain from seizing her hand in the
middle of a conversation, exclaiming in a gush of delight, "You
darling!"
The house in which she had lived from her birth upwards, and which was
left her in her father's will, was at the extreme end of the town, not
far from the Tivoli. In the evenings and at night she could head the
band playing, and the crackling and banging of fireworks, and it seemed
to her that it was Kukin struggling with his destiny, storming the
entrenchments of his chief foe, the indifferent public; there was a
sweet thrill at her heart, she had no desire to sleep, and when he
returned home at day-break, she tapped softly at her bedroom window, and
showing him only her face and one shoulder through the curtain, she gave
him a friendly smile. . . .
He proposed to her, and they were married. And when he had a closer view
of her neck and her plump, fine shoulders, he threw up his hands, and
said:
"You darling!"
He was happy, but as it rained on the day and night of his wedding, his
face still retained an expression of despair.
They got on very well together. She used to sit in his office, to look
after things in the Tivoli, to put down the accounts and pay the wages.
And her rosy cheeks, her sweet, naïve, radiant smile, were to be seen
now at the office window, now in the refreshment bar or behind the
scenes of the theatre. And already she used to say to her acquaintances
that the theatre was the chief and most important thing in life and that
it was only through the drama that one could derive true enjoyment and
become cultivated and humane.
"But do you suppose the public understands that?" she used to say. "What
they want is a clown. Yesterday we gave 'Faust Inside Out,' and almost
all the boxes were empty; but if Vanitchka and I had been producing some
vulgar thing, I assure you the theatre would have been packed. Tomorrow
Vanitchka and I are doing 'Orpheus in Hell.' Do come."
And what Kukin said about the theatre and the actors she repeated. Like
him she despised the public for their ignorance and their indifference
to art; she took part in the rehearsals, she corrected the actors, she
kept an eye on the behaviour of the musicians, and when there was an
unfavourable notice in the local paper, she shed tears, and then went to
the editor's office to set things right.
The actors were fond of her and used to call her "Vanitchka and I," and
"the darling"; she was sorry for them and used to lend them small sums
of money, and if they deceived her, she used to shed a few tears in
private, but did not complain to her husband.
They got on well in the winter too. They took the theatre in the town
for the whole winter, and let it for short terms to a Little Russian
company, or to a conjurer, or to a local dramatic society. Olenka grew
stouter, and was always beaming with satisfaction, while Kukin grew
thinner and yellower, and continually complained of their terrible
losses, although he had not done badly all the winter. He used to cough
at night, and she used to give him hot raspberry tea or lime-flower
water, to rub him with eau-de-Cologne and to wrap him in her warm
shawls.
"You're such a sweet pet!" she used to say with perfect sincerity,
stroking his hair. "You're such a pretty dear!"
Towards Lent he went to Moscow to collect a new troupe, and without him
she could not sleep, but sat all night at her window, looking at the
stars, and she compared herself with the hens, who are awake all night
and uneasy when the cock is not in the hen-house. Kukin was detained in
Moscow, and wrote that he would be back at Easter, adding some
instructions about the Tivoli. But on the Sunday before Easter, late in
the evening, came a sudden ominous knock at the gate; some one was
hammering on the gate as though on a barrel-- boom, boom, boom! The
drowsy cook went flopping with her bare feet through the puddles, as she
ran to open the gate.
"Please open," said some one outside in a thick bass. "There is a
telegram for you."
Olenka had received telegrams from her husband before, but this time for
some reason she felt numb with terror. With shaking hands she opened the
telegram and read as follows:
"IVAN PETROVITCH DIED SUDDENLY TO-DAY. AWAITING IMMATE INSTRUCTIONS
FUFUNERAL TUESDAY."
That was how it was written in the telegram--"fufuneral," and the
utterly incomprehensible word "immate." It was signed by the stage
manager of the operatic company.
"My darling!" sobbed Olenka. "Vanka, my precious, my darling! Why did I
ever meet you! Why did I know you and love you! Your poor heart-broken
Olenka is alone without you!"
Kukin's funeral took place on Tuesday in Moscow, Olenka returned home on
Wednesday, and as soon as she got indoors, she threw herself on her bed
and sobbed so loudly that it could be heard next door, and in the
street.
"Poor darling!" the neighbours said, as they crossed themselves. "Olga
Semyonovna, poor darling! How she does take on!"
Three months later Olenka was coming home from mass, melancholy and in
deep mourning. It happened that one of her neighbours, Vassily Andreitch
Pustovalov, returning home from church, walked back beside her. He was
the manager at Babakayev's, the timber merchant's. He wore a straw hat,
a white waistcoat, and a gold watch-chain, and looked more a country
gentleman than a man in trade.
"Everything happens as it is ordained, Olga Semyonovna," he said
gravely, with a sympathetic note in his voice; "and if any of our dear
ones die, it must be because it is the will of God, so we ought have
fortitude and bear it submissively."
After seeing Olenka to her gate, he said good-bye and went on. All day
afterwards she heard his sedately dignified voice, and whenever she shut
her eyes she saw his dark beard. She liked him very much. And apparently
she had made an impression on him too, for not long afterwards an
elderly lady, with whom she was only slightly acquainted, came to drink
coffee with her, and as soon as she was seated at table began to talk
about Pustovalov, saying that he was an excellent man whom one could
thoroughly depend upon, and that any girl would be glad to marry him.
Three days later Pustovalov came himself. He did not stay long, only
about ten minutes, and he did not say much, but when he left, Olenka
loved him--loved him so much that she lay awake all night in a perfect
fever, and in the morning she sent for the elderly lady. The match was
quickly arranged, and then came the wedding.
Pustovalov and Olenka got on very well together when they were married.
Usually he sat in the office till dinner-time, then he went out on
business, while Olenka took his place, and sat in the office till
evening, making up accounts and booking orders.
"Timber gets dearer every year; the price rises twenty per cent," she
would say to her customers and friends. "Only fancy we used to sell
local timber, and now Vassitchka always has to go for wood to the
Mogilev district. And the freight!" she would add, covering her cheeks
with her hands in horror. "The freight!"
It seemed to her that she had been in the timber trade for ages and
ages, and that the most important and necessary thing in life was
timber; and there was something intimate and touching to her in the very
sound of words such as "baulk," "post," "beam," "pole," "scantling,"
"batten," "lath," "plank," etc.
At night when she was asleep she dreamed of perfect mountains of planks
and boards, and long strings of wagons, carting timber somewhere far
away. She dreamed that a whole regiment of six-inch beams forty feet
high, standing on end, was marching upon the timber-yard; that logs,
beams, and boards knocked together with the resounding crash of dry
wood, kept falling and getting up again, piling themselves on each
other. Olenka cried out in her sleep, and Pustovalov said to her
tenderly: "Olenka, what's the matter, darling? Cross yourself!"
Her husband's ideas were hers. If he thought the room was too hot, or
that business was slack, she thought the same. Her husband did not care
for entertainments, and on holidays he stayed at home. She did likewise.
"You are always at home or in the office," her friends said to her. "You
should go to the theatre, darling, or to the circus."
"Vassitchka and I have no time to go to theatres," she would answer
sedately. "We have no time for nonsense. What's the use of these
theatres?"
On Saturdays Pustovalov and she used to go to the evening service; on
holidays to early mass, and they walked side by side with softened faces
as they came home from church. There was a pleasant fragrance about them
both, and her silk dress rustled agreeably. At home they drank tea, with
fancy bread and jams of various kinds, and afterwards they ate pie.
Every day at twelve o'clock there was a savoury smell of beet-root soup
and of mutton or duck in their yard, and on fast-days of fish, and no
one could pass the gate without feeling hungry. In the office the
samovar was always boiling, and customers were regaled with tea and
cracknels. Once a week the couple went to the baths and returned side by
side, both red in the face.
"Yes, we have nothing to complain of, thank God," Olenka used to say to
her acquaintances. "I wish every one were as well off as Vassitchka and
I."
When Pustovalov went away to buy wood in the Mogilev district, she
missed him dreadfully, lay awake and cried. A young veterinary surgeon
in the army, called Smirnin, to whom they had let their lodge, used
sometimes to come in in the evening. He used to talk to her and play
cards with her, and this entertained her in her husband's absence. She
was particularly interested in what he told her of his home life. He was
married and had a little boy, but was separated from his wife because
she had been unfaithful to him, and now he hated her and used to send
her forty roubles a month for the maintenance of their son. And hearing
of all this, Olenka sighed and shook her head. She was sorry for him.
"Well, God keep you," she used to say to him at parting, as she lighted
him down the stairs with a candle. "Thank you for coming to cheer me up,
and may the Mother of God give you health."
And she always expressed herself with the same sedateness and dignity,
the same reasonableness, in imitation of her husband. As the veterinary
surgeon was disappearing behind the door below, she would say:
"You know, Vladimir Platonitch, you'd better make it up with your wife.
You should forgive her for the sake of your son. You may be sure the
little fellow understands."
And when Pustovalov came back, she told him in a low voice about the
veterinary surgeon and his unhappy home life, and both sighed and shook
their heads and talked about the boy, who, no doubt, missed his father,
and by some strange connection of ideas, they went up to the holy ikons,
bowed to the ground before them and prayed that God would give them
children.
And so the Pustovalovs lived for six years quietly and peaceably in love
and complete harmony.
But behold! one winter day after drinking hot tea in the office, Vassily
Andreitch went out into the yard without his cap on to see about sending
off some timber, caught cold and was taken ill. He had the best doctors,
but he grew worse and died after four months' illness. And Olenka was a
widow once more.
"I've nobody, now you've left me, my darling," she sobbed, after her
husband's funeral. "How can I live without you, in wretchedness and
misery! Pity me, good people, all alone in the world!"
She went about dressed in black with long "weepers," and gave up wearing
hat and gloves for good. She hardly ever went out, except to church, or
to her husband's grave, and led the life of a nun. It was not till six
months later that she took off the weepers and opened the shutters of
the windows. She was sometimes seen in the mornings, going with her cook
to market for provisions, but what went on in her house and how she
lived now could only be surmised. People guessed, from seeing her
drinking tea in her garden with the veterinary surgeon, who read the
newspaper aloud to her, and from the fact that, meeting a lady she knew
at the post-office, she said to her:
"There is no proper veterinary inspection in our town, and that's the
cause of all sorts of epidemics. One is always hearing of people's
getting infection from the milk supply, or catching diseases from horses
and cows. The health of domestic animals ought to be as well cared for
as the health of human beings."
She repeated the veterinary surgeon's words, and was of the same opinion
as he about everything. It was evident that she could not live a year
without some attachment, and had found new happiness in the lodge. In
any one else this would have been censured, but no one could think ill
of Olenka; everything she did was so natural. Neither she nor the
veterinary surgeon said anything to other people of the change in their
relations, and tried, indeed, to conceal it, but without success, for
Olenka could not keep a secret. When he had visitors, men serving in his
regiment, and she poured out tea or served the supper, she would begin
talking of the cattle plague, of the foot and mouth disease, and of the
municipal slaughterhouses. He was dreadfully embarrassed, and when the
guests had gone, he would seize her by the hand and hiss angrily:
"I've asked you before not to talk about what you don't understand. When
we veterinary surgeons are talking among ourselves, please don't put
your word in. It's really annoying."
And she would look at him with astonishment and dismay, and ask him in
alarm: "But, Voloditchka, what _am_ I to talk about?"
And with tears in her eyes she would embrace him, begging him not to be
angry, and they were both happy.
But this happiness did not last long. The veterinary surgeon departed,
departed for ever with his regiment, when it was transferred to a
distant place--to Siberia, it may be. And Olenka was left alone.
Now she was absolutely alone. Her father had long been dead, and his
armchair lay in the attic, covered with dust and lame of one leg. She
got thinner and plainer, and when people met her in the street they did
not look at her as they used to, and did not smile to her; evidently her
best years were over and left behind, and now a new sort of life had
begun for her, which did not bear thinking about. In the evening Olenka
sat in the porch, and heard the band playing and the fireworks popping
in the Tivoli, but now the sound stirred no response. She looked into
her yard without interest, thought of nothing, wished for nothing, and
afterwards, when night came on she went to bed and dreamed of her empty
yard. She ate and drank as it were unwillingly.
And what was worst of all, she had no opinions of any sort. She saw the
objects about her and understood what she saw, but could not form any
opinion about them, and did not know what to talk about. And how awful
it is not to have any opinions! One sees a bottle, for instance, or the
rain, or a peasant driving in his cart, but what the bottle is for, or
the rain, or the peasant, and what is the meaning of it, one can't say,
and could not even for a thousand roubles. When she had Kukin, or
Pustovalov, or the veterinary surgeon, Olenka could explain everything,
and give her opinion about anything you like, but now there was the same
emptiness in her brain and in her heart as there was in her yard
outside. And it was as harsh and as bitter as wormwood in the mouth.
Little by little the town grew in all directions. The road became a
street, and where the Tivoli and the timber-yard had been, there were
new turnings and houses. How rapidly time passes! Olenka's house grew
dingy, the roof got rusty, the shed sank on one side, and the whole yard
was overgrown with docks and stinging-nettles. Olenka herself had grown
plain and elderly; in summer she sat in the porch, and her soul, as
before, was empty and dreary and full of bitterness. In winter she sat
at her window and looked at the snow. When she caught the scent of
spring, or heard the chime of the church bells, a sudden rush of
memories from the past came over her, there was a tender ache in her
heart, and her eyes brimmed over with tears; but this was only for a
minute, and then came emptiness again and the sense of the futility of
life. The black kitten, Briska, rubbed against her and purred softly,
but Olenka was not touched by these feline caresses. That was not what
she needed. She wanted a love that would absorb her whole being, her
whole soul and reason--that would give her ideas and an object in life,
and would warm her old blood. And she would shake the kitten off her
skirt and say with vexation:
"Get along; I don't want you!"
And so it was, day after day and year after year, and no joy, and no
opinions. Whatever Mavra, the cook, said she accepted.
One hot July day, towards evening, just as the cattle were being driven
away, and the whole yard was full of dust, some one suddenly knocked at
the gate. Olenka went to open it herself and was dumbfounded when she
looked out: she saw Smirnin, the veterinary surgeon, grey-headed, and
dressed as a civilian. She suddenly remembered everything. She could not
help crying and letting her head fall on his breast without uttering a
word, and in the violence of her feeling she did not notice how they
both walked into the house and sat down to tea.
"My dear Vladimir Platonitch! What fate has brought you?" she muttered,
trembling with joy.
"I want to settle here for good, Olga Semyonovna," he told her. "I have
resigned my post, and have come to settle down and try my luck on my own
account. Besides, it's time for my boy to go to school. He's a big boy.
I am reconciled with my wife, you know."
"Where is she?' asked Olenka.
"She's at the hotel with the boy, and I'm looking for lodgings."
"Good gracious, my dear soul! Lodgings? Why not have my house? Why
shouldn't that suit you? Why, my goodness, I wouldn't take any rent!"
cried Olenka in a flutter, beginning to cry again. "You live here, and
the lodge will do nicely for me. Oh dear! how glad I am!"
Next day the roof was painted and the walls were whitewashed, and
Olenka, with her arms akimbo walked about the yard giving directions.
Her face was beaming with her old smile, and she was brisk and alert as
though she had waked from a long sleep. The veterinary's wife arrived--a
thin, plain lady, with short hair and a peevish expression. With her was
her little Sasha, a boy of ten, small for his age, blue-eyed, chubby,
with dimples in his cheeks. And scarcely had the boy walked into the
yard when he ran after the cat, and at once there was the sound of his
gay, joyous laugh.
"Is that your puss, auntie?" he asked Olenka. "When she has little ones,
do give us a kitten. Mamma is awfully afraid of mice."
Olenka talked to him, and gave him tea. Her heart warmed and there was a
sweet ache in her bosom, as though the boy had been her own child. And
when he sat at the table in the evening, going over his lessons, she
looked at him with deep tenderness and pity as she murmured to herself:
"You pretty pet! . . . my precious! . . . Such a fair little thing, and
so clever."
"'An island is a piece of land which is entirely surrounded by water,'"
he read aloud.
"An island is a piece of land," she repeated, and this was the first
opinion to which she gave utterance with positive conviction after so
many years of silence and dearth of ideas.
Now she had opinions of her own, and at supper she talked to Sasha's
parents, saying how difficult the lessons were at the high schools, but
that yet the high school was better than a commercial one, since with a
high-school education all careers were open to one, such as being a
doctor or an engineer.
Sasha began going to the high school. His mother departed to Harkov to
her sister's and did not return; his father used to go off every day to
inspect cattle, and would often be away from home for three days
together, and it seemed to Olenka as though Sasha was entirely
abandoned, that he was not wanted at home, that he was being starved,
and she carried him off to her lodge and gave him a little room there.
And for six months Sasha had lived in the lodge with her. Every morning
Olenka came into his bedroom and found him fast asleep, sleeping
noiselessly with his hand under his cheek. She was sorry to wake him.
"Sashenka," she would say mournfully, "get up, darling. It's time for
school."
He would get up, dress and say his prayers, and then sit down to
breakfast, drink three glasses of tea, and eat two large cracknels and a
half a buttered roll. All this time he was hardly awake and a little
ill-humoured in consequence.
"You don't quite know your fable, Sashenka," Olenka would say, looking
at him as though he were about to set off on a long journey. "What a lot
of trouble I have with you! You must work and do your best, darling, and
obey your teachers."
"Oh, do leave me alone!" Sasha would say.
Then he would go down the street to school, a little figure, wearing a
big cap and carrying a satchel on his shoulder. Olenka would follow him
noiselessly.
"Sashenka!" she would call after him, and she would pop into his hand a
date or a caramel. When he reached the street where the school was, he
would feel ashamed of being followed by a tall, stout woman, he would
turn round and say:
"You'd better go home, auntie. I can go the rest of the way alone."
She would stand still and look after him fixedly till he had disappeared
at the school-gate.