IX

“How is Nadezhda Nikolaevna?” I asked the doctor as we entered a tent

where playthings were sold.

“Pretty well. . . . I think she's all right . . .” the doctor

replied, frowning at a little soldier with a lilac face and a crimson

uniform. “She asked about you. . . .”

“What did she ask about me?”

“Things in general. . . . She is angry that you have not been to see

them for so long . . . she wants to see you and to inquire the cause

of your sudden coldness towards their house. . . . You used to go

there nearly every day and then—dropped them! As if cut off. . . . You

don't even bow.”

“That's not true, Screw. . . . Want of leisure is really the cause of

my ceasing to go to the Kalinins. What's true is true! My connexion

with that family is as excellent as formerly. . . . I always bow if I

happen to meet any one of them.”

“However, last Thursday, when you met her father, for some reason you

did not return his bow.”

“I don't like that old blockhead of a Justice,” I said, “and I can't

look with equanimity at his phiz; but I still have the strength to bow

to him and to press the hand he stretches out to me. Perhaps I did not

notice him on Thursday, or I did not recognize him. You're not in a

good humour to-day, Screwy, and are trying to pick a quarrel.”

“I love you, my dear boy,” Pavel Ivanovich sighed; “but I don't

believe you. . . . ‘Did not notice, did not recognize’! . . . I don't

require your justifications nor your evasions. . . . What's the use of

them when there's so little truth in them? You're an excellent, a good

man, but there's a little bit of a screw sticking in your sick brain

that—forgive me for saying it—is capable of any offence.”

“I'm humbly obliged.”

“Don't be offended, golubchek. . . . God grant that I may be mistaken,

but you appear to me to be somewhat of a psychopath. Sometimes, quite

in spite of your will and the dictates of your excellent nature, you

have attacks of such desires and commit such acts that all who know

you as a respectable man are quite nonplussed. You make one marvel how

your highly moral principles, which I have the honour of knowing, can

exist together with your sudden impulses, which, in the end, produce

the most screaming abominations! . . . What animal is this?” Pavel

Ivanovich asked the salesman abruptly in quite another tone, lifting

close to his eyes a wooden animal with a man's nose, a mane, and a

grey stripe down its back.

“A lion,” the salesman answered, yawning. “Or perhaps some other sort

of creature. The deuce only knows!”

From the toy booths we went to the shops where textiles were sold and

trade was already very brisk.

“These toys only mislead children,” the doctor said. “They give the

falsest ideas of flora and fauna. For example, this lion . . .

striped, purple, and squeaking. . . . Whoever heard of a lion that

squeaks?”

“I say, Screwy,” I began, “you evidently want to say something to me

and you seem not to be able. . . . Go ahead! . . . I like to hear you,

even when you tell me unpleasant things. . . .”

“Whether pleasant or unpleasant, friend, you must listen to me. There

is much I want to talk to you about.”

“Begin. . . . I am transformed into one very large ear.”

“I have already mentioned to you my supposition that you are a

psychopath. Now have the goodness to listen to the proofs. . . . I

will speak quite frankly, perhaps sometimes sharply. . . . My words

may jar on you, but don't be angry, friend. . . . You know my feelings

for you: I like you better than anybody else in the district. . . . I

speak not to reprove, nor to blame, nor to slay you. Let us both be

objective, friend. . . . Let us examine your psyche with an

unprejudiced eye, as if it were a liver or a stomach. . . .”

“All right, let's be objective,” I agreed.

“Excellent! . . . Then let us begin with your connexion with

Kalinin. . . . If you consult your memory it will tell you that you

began to visit the Kalinins immediately after your arrival in our

God-protected district. Your acquaintance was not sought by them. At

first you did not please the Justice of the Peace, owing to your

arrogant manner, your sarcastic tone, and your friendship with the

dissolute Count, and you would never have been in the Justice's house

if you yourself had not paid him a visit. You remember? You became

acquainted with Nadezhda Nikolaevna, and you began to frequent the

Justice's house almost every day. . . . Whenever one came to the house

you were sure to be there. . . . You were welcomed in the most cordial

manner. You were shown all possible marks of friendship—by the father,

the mother, and the little sister. . . . They became as much attached

to you as if you were a relative. . . . They were enraptured by you

. . . you were made much of, they were in fits of laughter over your

slightest witticism. . . . You were for them the acme of wisdom,

nobility, gentle manners. You appeared to understand all this, and you

reciprocated their attachment with attachment—you went there every

day, even on the eve of holidays—the days of cleaning and bustle.

Lastly, the unhappy love that you aroused in Nadezhda's heart is no

secret to you. . . . Is that not so? Well, then, you, knowing she was

over head and ears in love with you, continued to go there day after

day. . . . And what happened then, friend? A year ago, for no apparent

reason, you suddenly ceased visiting the house. You were awaited for a

week . . . a month. . . . They are still waiting for you, and you

still don't appear . . . they write to you . . . you do not

reply. . . . You end by not even bowing. . . . To you, who set so much

store by decorum, such conduct must appear as the height of rudeness!

Why did you break off your connexion with the Kalinins in such a sharp

and off-hand manner? Did they offend you? No. . . . Did they bore you?

In that case you might have broken off gradually, and not in such a

sharp and insulting manner, for which there was no cause. . . .”

“I stopped visiting a house and therefore have become a psychopath!” I

laughed. “How naive you are, Screwy! What difference is there if you

suddenly cease an acquaintance or do so gradually? It's even more

honest to do so suddenly—there's less hypocrisy in it. But what

trifles all these are!”

“Let us admit that all this is trifling, or that the cause of your

sharp action is a secret that does not concern other people. But how

can you explain your further conduct?”

“For instance?”

“For instance, you appeared one day at a meeting of our Zemstvo

Board—I don't know what your business was there—and in reply to the

president, who asked you how it came that you were no longer to be met

at Kalinin's, you said. . . . Try to remember what you said! ‘I'm

afraid they want to marry me!’ That's what fell from your lips! And

this you said during the meeting in a loud and distinct voice, so that

all the hundred men who were present could hear you! Pretty? In reply

to your words laughter and various offensive witticisms about fishing

for husbands could be heard on all sides. Your words were caught up by

a certain scamp, who went to Kalinin's and repeated them to Nadenka

during dinner. . . . Why such an insult, Sergei Petrovich?”

Pavel Ivanovich barred the way. He stood before me and continued

looking at me with imploring, almost tearful eyes.

“Why such an insult? Why? Because this charming girl loves you? Let us

admit that her father, like all fathers, had intentions on your

person. . . . He is like all fathers, they all have an eye on you, on

me, on Markuzin. . . . All parents are alike! . . . There's not the

slightest doubt that she is over head and ears in love; perhaps she

had hoped she would become your wife. . . . Is that a reason to give

her such a sounding box on the ear? Dyadinka, dyadinka!* Was it not

you yourself who encouraged these intentions on your person? You went

there every day; ordinary guests never go so often. In the daytime you

went out fishing with her, in the evening you walked about the garden

with her, jealously guarding your _tête-à-tête_. . . . You learned

that she loved you, and you made not the slightest change in your

conduct. . . . Was it possible after that not to suspect you of having

good intentions? I was convinced you would marry her! And you—you

complained—you laughed! Why? What had she done to you?”

* Little uncle, a familiar form of affectionate address.

“Don't shout, Screwy, the people are staring at us,” I said, getting

round Pavel Ivanovich. “Let us change this conversation. It's old

women's chatter. I'll explain in a few words, and that must be enough

for you. I went to the Kalinin's house because I was dull and also

because Nadenka interested me. She's a very interesting girl. . . .

Perhaps I might even have married her. But, finding out that you had

preceded me as a candidate for her heart, that you were not

indifferent to her, I decided to disappear. . . . It would have been

cruel on my part to stand in the way of such a good fellow as

yourself. . . .”

“Thanks for the favour! I never asked you for this gracious gift, and,

as far as I can judge by the expression of your face, you are now not

speaking the truth; you are talking nonsense not reflecting on what

you say. . . . And besides, the fact of my being a good fellow did not

hinder you on one of your last meetings with Nadenka to make her some

proposals in the summer-house, which would have brought no good to the

excellent young fellow if he had married her.”

“O-ho! Screwy, where did you find out about this proposal? It seems

that your affairs are not going on badly, if such secrets are confided

to you! . . . However, you've grown white with rage and almost look as

if you were going to strike me. . . . And just now we agreed to be

objective! Screwy, what a funny fellow you are! Well, we've had about

enough of all this nonsense. . . . Let's go to the post office. . . .”

X

We went to the post office, which looked out gaily with its three

little windows on to the market place. Through the grey paling gleamed

the many coloured flower garden of our postmaster, Maxim Fedorovich,

who was known in the whole district as a great connoisseur of all that

concerned gardening and the art of laying out beds, borders, lawns,

etc.

We found Maxim Fedorovich very pleasantly occupied. Smiling, and red

with pleasure, he was seated at his green table, turning over

hundred-rouble notes as if they were a book. Evidently even the sight

of another man's money had a pleasing effect on his frame of mind.

“How do you do, Maxim Fedorovich?” I said to him. “Where have you got

such a pile of money?”

“It's to be sent to St. Petersburg,” the postmaster replied, smiling

sweetly, and he pointed his chin at the corner of the room where a

dark figure was sitting on the only chair in the post office.

This dark figure rose when he saw me and came towards us. I recognized

my new acquaintance, my new enemy, whom I had so grievously insulted

when I had got drunk at the Count's.

“My best greetings!” he said.

“How are you, Kaetan Kazimirovich?” I answered, pretending not to

notice his outstretched hand. “How's the Count?”

“Thank God, he's quite well. . . . He's only a little dull. . . . He's

expecting you to come every minute.”

I read on Pshekhotsky's face the desire to converse with me. How could

that desire have arisen after the “swine” with which I had treated him

on that evening, and what caused this change of tone?

“What a lot of money you have!” I said, gazing at the packet of

hundred-rouble notes he was sending away.

It seemed as if somebody had given a fillip to my brain! I noticed

that one of the hundred-rouble notes had charred edges, and one corner

had been quite burnt off. . . . It was the hundred-rouble note which I

had wanted to burn in the flame of a Chandor candle, when the Count

refused to accept it from me as my share of the payment for the

gipsies, and which Pshekhotsky had picked up when I flung it on the

ground.

“It's better that I should give it to the poor, than let it be

consumed by the flames,” he had said then.

To what “poor” was he sending it now?

“Seven thousand five hundred roubles,” Maxim Fedorovich counted in a

drawling voice. “Quite right!”

It is ill to pry into the secrets of other people, but I wanted

terribly to find out whose this money was and to whom this

black-browed Pole was sending it to Petersburg, This money was

certainly not his, and the Count had nobody to whom he would send it.

“He has plundered the drunken Count,” I thought. “If deaf and silly

Scops-Owl knows how to plunder the Count, what difficulty will this

goose have in thrusting his paw into his pockets?”

“Oh, by-the-by, I'll also take this opportunity of sending some

money,” Pavel Ivanovich said hastily. “Do you know, gentlemen, it's

quite incredible! For fifteen rouble you can get five things carriage

free! A telescope, a chronometer, a calendar, and something

more. . . . Maxim Fedorovich, kindly let me have a sheet of paper and

an envelope!”

Screw sent off his fifteen roubles, I received my newspaper and a

letter, and we left the post office.

We went towards the church. Screwy paced after me, as pale and dismal

as an autumn day. The conversation in which he had tried to show

himself to be “objective” had excited him quite beyond all

expectation.

All the church bells were being rung. An apparently endless crowd was

slowly descending the steps that led from the church porch.

Ancient banners and a dark cross were held high above the crowd, at

the head of the procession. The sun played gaily on the vestments of

the priests, and the icon of the Holy Virgin emitted blinding

rays. . . .

“Ah, there are our people!” the doctor said, pointing to the

_beau-monde_ of our district which had separated itself from the crowd

and was standing aside.

“Your people, but not mine,” I said.

“That's all the same. . . . Let us join them. . . .”

I approached my acquaintances and bowed. The Justice of the Peace,

Kalinin, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a grey beard and

crawfish-like eyes, was standing in front of all the others,

whispering something in his daughter's ear. Trying to appear as if he

had not noticed me, he made not the slightest movement in answer to my

general salute that had been made in his direction.

“Good-bye, my angel,” he said in a lachrymose voice as he kissed his

daughter on the forehead. “Drive home alone. I shall be back by

evening. My visits will take but little time.”

Having kissed his daughter again and smiled sweetly on the

_beau-monde_, he frowned fiercely, and turning sharply round on one

heel, towards a muzhik wearing the disc of a foreman, he said hoarsely

to him:

“When will they allow my carriage to drive up?”

The muzhik became excited and waved his arms.

“Look out!”

The crowd that was following the procession made way and the carriage

of the Justice of the Peace drove up with chic and the sound of bells

to where Kalinin was standing. He sat down, bowed majestically, and

alarming the crowd by his “Look out!” he disappeared from sight

without casting a single glance at me.

“What a majestic swine!” I whispered in the doctor's ear. “Come

along!”

“Don't you want to say a word to Nadezhda Nicolaevna?” Pavel Ivanovich

asked:

“It's time for me to go home. I'm in a hurry.”

The doctor looked at me angrily, sighed, and turned away. I made a

general bow and went towards the booths. As I was making my way

through the dense crowd, I turned to look back at the Justice's

daughter. She was looking after me and appeared to be trying whether I

could bear her pure, searching gaze, so full of bitter injury and

reproach.

Her eyes said: “Why?”

Something stirred in my breast, and I felt remorse and shame for my

silly conduct. I suddenly felt a wish to return and caress and fondle

with all the strength of my soft, and not yet quite corrupt, soul this

girl who loved me passionately, and who had been so grievously wronged

by me; and to tell her that it was not I who was in fault, but my

accursed pride that prevented me from living, breathing or advancing a

step. Silly, conceited, foppish pride, full of vanity. Could I, a

frivolous man, stretch out the hand of reconciliation, when I knew and

saw that every one of my movements was watched by the eyes of the

district gossips and the “ill-omened old women”? Sooner let them laugh

her to scorn and cover her with derisive glances and smiles, than

undeceive them of the “inflexibility” of my character and the pride,

which silly women admired so much in me.

Just before, when I had spoken with Pavel Ivanovich about the reasons

that had caused me suddenly to cease my visits to the Kalinins, I had

not been candid and quite inaccurate. . . . I had held back the real

reason; I had concealed it because I was ashamed of its

triviality. . . . The cause was as tiny as a grain of dust. . . . It

was this. On the occasion of my last visit, after I had given up Zorka

to the coachman and was entering the Kalinin's house, the following

phrase reached my ears:

“Nadenka, where are you? . . . Your betrothed has come!”

These words were spoken by her father, the Justice of the Peace, who

probably did not think that I might hear him. But I heard him, and my

self-love was aroused.

“I her betrothed?” I thought. “Who allowed you to call me her

betrothed? On what basis?”

And something snapped in my breast. Pride rebelled within me, and I

forgot all I had remembered when riding to Kalinin's. . . . I forgot

that I had allured the young girl, and I myself was being attracted by

her to such a degree that I was unable to pass a single evening

without her company. . . . I forgot her lovely eyes that never left my

memory either by night or day, her kind smile, her melodious

voice. . . . I forgot the quiet summer evenings that will never return

either for her or me. . . . Everything had crumbled away before the

pressure of the devilish pride that had been aroused by the silly

phrase of her simple-minded father. . . . I left the house in a rage,

mounted Zorka, and galloped off, vowing to snub Kalinin, who without

my permission had dared to consider me as his daughter's betrothed.

“Besides, Voznesensky is in love with her,” I thought, trying to

justify my sudden departure, as I rode home. “He began to twirl around

her before I did, and they were considered to be engaged when I made

her acquaintance. I won't interfere with him!”

From that day I never put a foot in Kalinin's house, though there were

moments when I suffered from longing to see Nadia, and my soul yearned

for the renewal of the past. . . . But the whole district knew of the

rupture, knew that I had “bolted” from marriage. . . . How could my

pride make concessions?

Who can tell? If Kalinin had not said those words, and if I had not

been so stupidly proud and touchy, perhaps I would not have had to

look back, nor she to gaze at me with such eyes. . . . But even those

eyes were better, even the feeling of being wronged and of reproach

was better, than what I saw in those eyes a few months after our

meeting in the Tenevo church! The grief that shone in the depths of

those black eyes now was only the beginning of the terrible misfortune

that, like the sudden onrush of a train, swept that girl from the

earth. They were like little flowers compared to those berries that

were then already ripening in order to pour terrible poison into her

frail body and anguished heart.