lazily; "but, my dear girl, to find out that he is intelligent, good,
and interesting, you have to eat a hundredweight of salt with him. . . .
And what's the use of his goodness and intelligence? He can fork out
money as much as you want, but when character is needed to resist
insolence or aggressiveness, he is faint-hearted and overcome with
nervousness. People like your amiable Alyosha are splendid people, but
they are no use at all for fighting. In fact, they are no use for
anything."
At last the train came in sight. Coils of perfectly pink smoke from the
funnels floated over the copse, and two windows in the last compartment
flashed so brilliantly in the sun, that it hurt their eyes to look at
it.
"Tea-time!" said Yulia Sergeyevna, getting up.
She had grown somewhat stouter of late, and her movements were already a
little matronly, a little indolent.
"It's bad to be without love though," said Yartsev, walking behind her.
"We talk and read of nothing else but love, but we do very little loving
ourselves, and that's really bad."
"All that's nonsense, Ivan Gavrilitch," said Yulia. "That's not what
gives happiness."
They had tea in the little garden, where mignonette, stocks, and tobacco
plants were in flower, and spikes of early gladiolus were just opening.
Yartsev and Kotchevoy could see from Yulia's face that she was passing
through a happy period of inward peace and serenity, that she wanted
nothing but what she had, and they, too, had a feeling of peace and
comfort in their hearts. Whatever was said sounded apt and clever; the
pines were lovely--the fragrance of them was exquisite as it had never
been before; and the cream was very nice; and Sasha was a good,
intelligent child.
After tea Yartsev sang songs, accompanying himself on the piano, while
Yulia and Kotchevoy sat listening in silence, though Yulia got up from
time to time, and went softly indoors, to take a look at the baby and at
Lida, who had been in bed for the last two days feverish and eating
nothing.
"My friend, my tender friend," sang Yartsev. "No, my friends, I'll be
hanged if I understand why you are all so against love!" he said,
flinging back his head. "If I weren't busy for fifteen hours of the
twenty-four, I should certainly fall in love."
Supper was served on the verandah; it was warm and still, but Yulia
wrapped herself in a shawl and complained of the damp. When it got dark,
she seemed not quite herself; she kept shivering and begging her
visitors to stay a little longer. She regaled them with wine, and after
supper ordered brandy to keep them from going. She didn't want to be
left alone with the children and the servants.
"We summer visitors are getting up a performance for the children," she
said. "We have got everything--a stage and actors; we are only at a loss
for a play. Two dozen plays of different sorts have been sent us, but
there isn't one that is suitable. Now, you are fond of the theatre, and
are so good at history," she said, addressing Yartsev. "Write an
historical play for us."
"Well, I might."
The men drank up all the brandy, and prepared to go.
It was past ten, and for summer-villa people that was late.
"How dark it is! One can't see a bit," said Yulia, as she went with them
to the gate. "I don't know how you'll find your way. But, isn't it
cold?"
She wrapped herself up more closely and walked back to the porch.
"I suppose my Alexey's playing cards somewhere," she called to them.
"Good-night!"
After the lighted rooms nothing could be seen. Yartsev and Kostya groped
their way like blind men to the railway embankment and crossed it.
"One can't see a thing," said Kostya in his bass voice, standing still
and gazing at the sky. "And the stars, the stars, they are like new
three-penny-bits. Gavrilitch!"
"Ah?" Yartsev responded somewhere in the darkness.
"I say, one can't see a thing. Where are you?"
Yartsev went up to him whistling, and took his arm.
"Hi, there, you summer visitors!" Kostya shouted at the top of his
voice. "We've caught a socialist."
When he was exhilarated he was always very rowdy, shouting, wrangling
with policemen and cabdrivers, singing, and laughing violently.
"Nature be damned," he shouted.
"Come, come," said Yartsev, trying to pacify him. "You mustn't. Please
don't."
Soon the friends grew accustomed to the darkness, and were able to
distinguish the outlines of the tall pines and telegraph posts. From
time to time the sound of whistles reached them from the station and the
telegraph wires hummed plaintively. From the copse itself there came no
sound, and there was a feeling of pride, strength, and mystery in its
silence, and on the right it seemed that the tops of the pines were
almost touching the sky. The friends found their path and walked along
it. There it was quite dark, and it was only from the long strip of sky
dotted with stars, and from the firmly trodden earth under their feet,
that they could tell they were walking along a path. They walked along
side by side in silence, and it seemed to both of them that people were
coming to meet them. Their tipsy exhilaration passed off. The fancy came
into Yartsev's mind that perhaps that copse was haunted by the spirits
of the Muscovite Tsars, boyars, and patriarchs, and he was on the point
of telling Kostya about it, but he checked himself.
When they reached the town gate there was a faint light of dawn in the
sky. Still in silence, Yartsev and Kotchevoy walked along the wooden
pavement, by the cheap summer cottages, eating-houses, timber-stacks.
Under the arch of interlacing branches, the damp air was fragrant of
lime-trees, and then a broad, long street opened before them, and on it
not a soul, not a light. . . . When they reached the Red Pond, it was
daylight.
"Moscow--it's a town that will have to suffer a great deal more," said
Yartsev, looking at the Alexyevsky Monastery.
"What put that into your head?"
"I don't know. I love Moscow."
Both Yartsev and Kostya had been born in Moscow, and adored the town,
and felt for some reason antagonistic to every other town. Both were
convinced that Moscow was a remarkable town, and Russia a remarkable
country. In the Crimea, in the Caucasus, and abroad, they felt dull,
uncomfortable, and ill at ease, and they thought their grey Moscow
weather very pleasant and healthy. And when the rain lashed at the
window-panes and it got dark early, and when the walls of the churches
and houses looked a drab, dismal colour, days when one doesn't know what
to put on when one is going out--such days excited them agreeably.
At last near the station they took a cab.
"It really would be nice to write an historical play," said Yartsev,
"but not about the Lyapunovs or the Godunovs, but of the times of
Yaroslav or of Monomach. . . . I hate all historical plays except the
monologue of Pimen. When you have to do with some historical authority
or even read a textbook of Russian history, you feel that every one in
Russia is exceptionally talented, gifted, and interesting; but when I
see an historical play at the theatre, Russian life begins to seem
stupid, morbid, and not original."
Near Dmitrovka the friends separated, and Yartsev went on to his lodging
in Nikitsky Street. He sat half dozing, swaying from side to side, and
pondering on the play. He suddenly imagined a terrible din, a clanging
noise, and shouts in some unknown language, that might have been
Kalmuck, and a village wrapped in flames, and forests near covered with
hoarfrost and soft pink in the glow of the fire, visible for miles
around, and so clearly that every little fir-tree could be
distinguished, and savage men darting about the village on horseback and
on foot, and as red as the glow in the sky.
"The Polovtsy," thought Yartsev.
One of them, a terrible old man with a bloodstained face all scorched
from the fire, binds to his saddle a young girl with a white Russian
face, and the girl looks sorrowful, understanding. Yartsev flung back
his head and woke up.
"My friend, my tender friend . . ." he hummed.
As he paid the cabman and went up his stairs, he could not shake off his
dreaminess; he saw the flames catching the village, and the forest
beginning to crackle and smoke. A huge, wild bear frantic with terror
rushed through the village. . . . And the girl tied to the saddle was
still looking.
When at last he went into his room it was broad daylight. Two candles
were burning by some open music on the piano. On the sofa lay Polina
Razsudin wearing a black dress and a sash, with a newspaper in her hand,
fast asleep. She must have been playing late, waiting for Yartsev to
come home, and, tired of waiting, fell asleep.
"Hullo, she's worn out," he thought.
Carefully taking the newspaper out of her hands, he covered her with a
rug. He put out the candles and went into his bedroom. As he got into
bed, he still thought of his historical play, and the tune of "My
friend, my tender friend" was still ringing in his head. . . .
Two days later Laptev looked in upon him for a moment to tell him that
Lida was ill with diphtheria, and that Yulia Sergeyevna and her baby had
caught it from her, and five days later came the news that Lida and
Yulia were recovering, but the baby was dead, and that the Laptevs had
left their villa at Sokolniki and had hastened back to Moscow.
XIV
It had become distasteful to Laptev to be long at home. His wife was
constantly away in the lodge declaring that she had to look after the
little girls, but he knew that she did not go to the lodge to give them
lessons but to cry in Kostya's room. The ninth day came, then the
twentieth, and then the fortieth, and still he had to go to the cemetery
to listen to the requiem, and then to wear himself out for a whole day
and night thinking of nothing but that unhappy baby, and trying to
comfort his wife with all sorts of commonplace expressions. He went
rarely to the warehouse now, and spent most of his time in charitable
work, seizing upon every pretext requiring his attention, and he was
glad when he had for some trivial reason to be out for the whole day. He
had been intending of late to go abroad, to study night-refuges, and
that idea attracted him now.
It was an autumn day. Yulia had just gone to the lodge to cry, while
Laptev lay on a sofa in the study thinking where he could go. Just at
that moment Pyotr announced Polina Razsudin. Laptev was delighted; he
leapt up and went to meet the unexpected visitor, who had been his
closest friend, though he had almost begun to forget her. She had not
changed in the least since that evening when he had seen her for the
last time, and was just the same as ever.
"Polina," he said, holding out both hands to her. "What ages! If you
only knew how glad I am to see you! Do come in!"
Polina greeted him, jerked him by the hand, and without taking off her
coat and hat, went into the study and sat down.
"I've come to you for one minute," she said. "I haven't time to talk of
any nonsense. Sit down and listen. Whether you are glad to see me or not
is absolutely nothing to me, for I don't care a straw for the gracious
attentions of you lords of creation. I've only come to you because I've
been to five other places already to-day, and everywhere I was met with
a refusal, and it's a matter that can't be put off. Listen," she went
on, looking into his face. "Five students of my acquaintance, stupid,
unintelligent people, but certainly poor, have neglected to pay their
fees, and are being excluded from the university. Your wealth makes it
your duty to go straight to the university and pay for them."
"With pleasure, Polina."
"Here are their names," she said, giving him a list. "Go this minute;
you'll have plenty of time to enjoy your domestic happiness afterwards."
At that moment a rustle was heard through the door that led into the
drawing-room; probably the dog was scratching itself. Polina turned
crimson and jumped up.
"Your Dulcinea's eavesdropping," she said. "That's horrid!"
Laptev was offended at this insult to Yulia.
"She's not here; she's in the lodge," he said. "And don't speak of her
like that. Our child is dead, and she is in great distress."
"You can console her," Polina scoffed, sitting down again; "she'll have
another dozen. You don't need much sense to bring children into the
world."
Laptev remembered that he had heard this, or something very like it,
many times in old days, and it brought back a whiff of the romance of
the past, of solitary freedom, of his bachelor life, when he was young
and thought he could do anything he chose, when he had neither love for
his wife nor memory of his baby.
"Let us go together," he said, stretching.
When they reached the university Polina waited at the gate, while Laptev
went into the office; he came back soon afterwards and handed Polina
five receipts.
"Where are you going now?" he asked.
"To Yartsev's."
"I'll come with you."
"But you'll prevent him from writing."
"No, I assure you I won't," he said, and looked at her imploringly.
She had on a black hat trimmed with crape, as though she were in
mourning, and a short, shabby coat, the pockets of which stuck out. Her
nose looked longer than it used to be, and her face looked bloodless in
spite of the cold. Laptev liked walking with her, doing what she told
him, and listening to her grumbling. He walked along thinking about her,
what inward strength there must be in this woman, since, though she was
so ugly, so angular, so restless, though she did not know how to dress,
and always had untidy hair, and was always somehow out of harmony, she
was yet so fascinating.
They went into Yartsev's flat by the back way through the kitchen, where
they were met by the cook, a clean little old woman with grey curls; she
was overcome with embarrassment, and with a honeyed smile which made her
little face look like a pie, said:
"Please walk in."
Yartsev was not at home. Polina sat down to the piano, and beginning
upon a tedious, difficult exercise, told Laptev not to hinder her. And
without distracting her attention by conversation, he sat on one side
and began turning over the pages of a "The Messenger of Europe." After
practising for two hours--it was the task she set herself every day--she
ate something in the kitchen and went out to her lessons. Laptev read
the continuation of a story, then sat for a long time without reading
and without being bored, glad to think that he was too late for dinner
at home.
"Ha, ha, ha!" came Yartsev's laugh, and he walked in with ruddy cheeks,
looking strong and healthy, wearing a new coat with bright buttons. "Ha,
ha, ha!"
The friends dined together. Then Laptev lay on the sofa while Yartsev
sat near and lighted a cigar. It got dark.
"I must be getting old," said Laptev. "Ever since my sister Nina died,
I've taken to constantly thinking of death."
They began talking of death, of the immortality of the soul, of how nice
it would be to rise again and fly off somewhere to Mars, to be always
idle and happy, and, above all, to think in a new special way, not as on
earth.
"One doesn't want to die," said Yartsev softly. "No sort of philosophy
can reconcile me to death, and I look on it simply as annihilation. One
wants to live."
"You love life, Gavrilitch?"
"Yes, I love it."
"Do you know, I can never understand myself about that. I'm always in a
gloomy mood or else indifferent. I'm timid, without self-confidence; I
have a cowardly conscience; I never can adapt myself to life, or become
its master. Some people talk nonsense or cheat, and even so enjoy life,
while I consciously do good, and feel nothing but uneasiness or complete
indifference. I explain all that, Gavrilitch, by my being a slave, the
grandson of a serf. Before we plebeians fight our way into the true
path, many of our sort will perish on the way."
"That's all quite right, my dear fellow," said Yartsev, and he sighed.
"That only proves once again how rich and varied Russian life is. Ah,
how rich it is! Do you know, I feel more convinced every day that we are
on the eve of the greatest triumph, and I should like to live to take
part in it. Whether you like to believe it or not, to my thinking a
remarkable generation is growing up. It gives me great enjoyment to
teach the children, especially the girls. They are wonderful children!"
Yartsev went to the piano and struck a chord.
"I'm a chemist, I think in chemical terms, and I shall die a chemist,"
he went on. "But I am greedy, and I am afraid of dying unsatisfied; and
chemistry is not enough for me, and I seize upon Russian history,
history of art, the science of teaching music. . . . Your wife asked me
in the summer to write an historical play, and now I'm longing to write
and write. I feel as though I could sit for three days and three nights
without moving, writing all the time. I am worn out with ideas--my
brain's crowded with them, and I feel as though there were a pulse
throbbing in my head. I don't in the least want to become anything
special, to create something great. I simply want to live, to dream, to
hope, to be in the midst of everything . . . . Life is short, my dear
fellow, and one must make the most of everything."
After this friendly talk, which was not over till midnight, Laptev took
to coming to see Yartsev almost every day. He felt drawn to him. As a
rule he came towards evening, lay down on the sofa, and waited patiently
for Yartsev to come in, without feeling in the least bored. When Yartsev
came back from his work, he had dinner, and sat down to work; but Laptev
would ask him a question, a conversation would spring up, and there was
no more thought of work and at midnight the friends parted very well
pleased with one another.
But this did not last long. Arriving one day at Yartsev's, Laptev found
no one there but Polina, who was sitting at the piano practising her
exercises. She looked at him with a cold, almost hostile expression, and
asked without shaking hands:
"Tell me, please: how much longer is this going on?"
"This? What?" asked Laptev, not understanding.
"You come here every day and hinder Yartsev from working. Yartsev is not
a tradesman; he is a scientific man, and every moment of his life is
precious. You ought to understand and to have some little delicacy!"
"If you think that I hinder him," said Laptev, mildly, disconcerted, "I
will give up my visits."
"Quite right, too. You had better go, or he may be home in a minute and
find you here."
The tone in which this was said, and the indifference in Polina's eyes,
completely disconcerted him. She had absolutely no sort of feeling for
him now, except the desire that he should go as soon as possible--and
what a contrast it was to her old love for him! He went out without
shaking hands with her, and he fancied she would call out to him, bring
him back, but he heard the scales again, and as he slowly went down the
stairs he realised that he had become a stranger to her now.
Three days later Yartsev came to spend the evening with him.
"I have news," he said, laughing. "Polina Nikolaevna has moved into my
rooms altogether." He was a little confused, and went on in a low voice:
"Well, we are not in love with each other, of course, but I suppose that
. . . that doesn't matter. I am glad I can give her a refuge and peace
and quiet, and make it possible for her not to work if she's ill. She
fancies that her coming to live with me will make things more orderly,
and that under her influence I shall become a great scientist. That's
what she fancies. And let her fancy it. In the South they have a saying:
'Fancy makes the fool a rich man.' Ha, ha, ha!"
Laptev said nothing. Yartsev walked up and down the study, looking at
the pictures he had seen so many times before, and said with a sigh:
"Yes, my dear fellow, I am three years older than you are, and it's too
late for me to think of real love, and in reality a woman like Polina
Nikolaevna is a godsend to me, and, of course, I shall get on capitally
with her till we're both old people; but, goodness knows why, one still
regrets something, one still longs for something, and I still feel as
though I am lying in the Vale of Daghestan and dreaming of a ball. In
short, man's never satisfied with what he has."
He went into the drawing-room and began singing as though nothing had
happened, and Laptev sat in his study with his eyes shut, and tried to
understand why Polina had gone to live with Yartsev. And then he felt
sad that there were no lasting, permanent attachments. And he felt vexed
that Polina Nikolaevna had gone to live with Yartsev, and vexed with
himself that his feeling for his wife was not what it had been.
XV
Laptev sat reading and swaying to and fro in a rocking-chair; Yulia was
in the study, and she, too, was reading. It seemed there was nothing to
talk about; they had both been silent all day. From time to time he
looked at her from over his book and thought: "Whether one marries from
passionate love, or without love at all, doesn't it come to the same
thing?" And the time when he used to be jealous, troubled, distressed,
seemed to him far away. He had succeeded in going abroad, and now he was
resting after the journey and looking forward to another visit in the
spring to England, which he had very much liked.
And Yulia Sergeyevna had grown used to her sorrow, and had left off
going to the lodge to cry. That winter she had given up driving out
shopping, had given up the theatres and concerts, and had stayed at
home. She never cared for big rooms, and always sat in her husband's
study or in her own room, where she had shrines of ikons that had come
to her on her marriage, and where there hung on the wall the landscape
that had pleased her so much at the exhibition. She spent hardly any
money on herself, and was almost as frugal now as she had been in her
father's house.
The winter passed cheerlessly. Card-playing was the rule everywhere in
Moscow, and if any other recreation was attempted, such as singing,
reading, drawing, the result was even more tedious. And since there were
few talented people in Moscow, and the same singers and reciters
performed at every entertainment, even the enjoyment of art gradually
palled and became for many people a tiresome and monotonous social duty.
Moreover, the Laptevs never had a day without something vexatious
happening. Old Laptev's eyesight was failing; he no longer went to the
warehouse, and the oculist told them that he would soon be blind. Fyodor
had for some reason given up going to the warehouse and spent his time
sitting at home writing something. Panaurov had got a post in another
town, and had been promoted an actual civil councillor, and was now
staying at the Dresden. He came to the Laptevs' almost every day to ask
for money. Kish had finished his studies at last, and while waiting for
Laptev to find him a job, used to spend whole days at a time with them,
telling them long, tedious stories. All this was irritating and
exhausting, and made daily life unpleasant.
Pyotr came into the study, and announced an unknown lady. On the card he
brought in was the name "Josephina Iosefovna Milan."
Yulia Sergeyevna got up languidly and went out limping slightly, as her
foot had gone to sleep. In the doorway appeared a pale, thin lady with
dark eyebrows, dressed altogether in black. She clasped her hands on her
bosom and said supplicatingly:
"M. Laptev, save my children!"
The jingle of her bracelets sounded familiar to him, and he knew the
face with patches of powder on it; he recognised her as the lady with
whom he had once so inappropriately dined before his marriage. It was
Panaurov's second wife.
"Save my children," she repeated, and her face suddenly quivered and
looked old and pitiful. "You alone can save us, and I have spent my last
penny coming to Moscow to see you! My children are starving!"
She made a motion as though she were going to fall on her knees. Laptev
was alarmed, and clutched her by the arm.
"Sit down, sit down . . ." he muttered, making her sit down. "I beg you
to be seated."
"We have no money to buy bread," she said. "Grigory Nikolaevitch is
going away to a new post, but he will not take the children and me with
him, and the money which you so generously send us he spends only on
himself. What are we to do? What? My poor, unhappy children!"
"Calm yourself, I beg. I will give orders that that money shall be made
payable to you."
She began sobbing, and then grew calmer, and he noticed that the tears
had made little pathways through the powder on her cheeks, and that she
was growing a moustache.
"You are infinitely generous, M. Laptev. But be our guardian angel, our
good fairy, persuade Grigory Nikolaevitch not to abandon me, but to take
me with him. You know I love him--I love him insanely; he's the comfort
of my life."