[Illustration]
_Chirikov was born in 1864. He comes of a noble family from the
Province of Smibirsk. Though he began to write while still a law
student and worked a long time for the provincial press, his real
literary career dates from 1893._
_In later years Chirikov abandoned his didactic themes and devoted
himself entirely to purely psychological studies of provincial life
which he knows so well and of which “Faust” is a good example._
_One of his plays, “The Chosen People,” was produced in America by
the Orleniev Company of Russian actors, of which Mme. Nazimova was a
member._
[Illustration]
FAUST
BY EUGENE CHIRIKOV
Translated by Lizzie B. Gorin. Copyright, 1907,
by P. F. Collier & Son.
When Iván Mikhailovich awoke one morning, the whole household was
already long up, and from the distance came the ringing voices of the
children, the rattling of the breakfast dishes, the commanding voice
of Maria Petrovna, his mother-in-law, and from the drawing-room the
chirping of the canary, which sounded to his ears like a policeman’s
whistle. He did not feel like getting up--he felt like lying a bit
longer, too lazy to dress, therefore he smoked a few cigarettes before
getting up strength for the ordeal.
He usually rose dissatisfied and out of sorts, because he did not much
fancy the rules of life by which one had to hurry with ablutions,
toilet, breakfast, and then go to the bank.
“Go and see if papa has awakened yet!” he heard his wife’s voice, and a
moment afterward a round, little head was thrust through the doorway,
and a child’s treble chimed in:
“Papa! Are you up?”
“I am, I am!” Iván Mikhailovich replied, ill-pleased, and angrily
rinsed his mouth, gurgling, sputtering, and groaning.
At the breakfast table he sat sulky and preoccupied, as if wholly
taken up with some very important thoughts, and did not deign to pay
the least attention to any one. His wife, casually glancing up at him,
thought: “He must have lost at cards at the club last night, and does
not know now where to get the money to pay up.”
At ten, Iván Mikhailovich went to the bank, from which he returned at
four, tired, hungry, and out of sorts. Sitting down to the table, he
tucked his napkin under his chin, and ate with a loud smacking of the
lips; after he had filled himself, he invariably grew good-natured, and
said: “Well, now we shall take a little nap,” and went into his study,
in which were displayed a bearskin, a pair of reindeer antlers,
and a rifle from which he had never fired a shot. There he coughed
and spat for a long time, and afterward snored so loudly that the
children feared to approach too near the door of the study, and when
the nurse wished to stop a fight or a quarrel between them, she would
say: “There--the bear is asleep in papa’s room--I will let the bear out
after you!”
Iván Mikhailovich was usually awakened about eight in the evening,
when he would once more grow angry and shout: “Yes, yes, I hear,”
immediately falling asleep again. Afterward he came out of the study
puffy and heavy-eyed, looking indeed very much like a bear, and began
to shout in a husky voice:
“I would like to know why I was not awakened in time?”
“You were, and you replied, ‘I hear!’”
“I did! Well, what of it? A person is not supposed to be responsible
for what he says when half asleep. Is the samovár ready?”
Then he went into the dining-room, and sat down to the tea-table with
his paper--and again with the appearance of a man whose thoughts are
wholly occupied with very serious and important matters. His wife,
Xenia Pavlovna, poured out the tea, and he could hardly see her face
from behind the samovár. Maria Petrovna sat at the other end of the
table, with a child’s stocking in her hand, which she was forever
darning.
They were generally silent, only rarely exchanging laconic questions
and answers: “More tea?”--“Please”--“Again there is no lemon?”--“Why,
it is lying before your very nose!”
After tea Iván Mikhailovich went to his club, where he played cards,
after which he had his supper there, and coming home about two past
midnight, he found his wife already sleeping. Only Maria Petrovna was
still up, and she usually met him in déshabillé, with an old wrap
thrown over her shoulders, her hair in disorder, and with sighs. Iván
Mikhailovich understood but too well the hidden meaning of these sighs:
they expressed silent reproaches and indirect disapproval of his
conduct. Therefore, while taking off his rubbers, Iván Mikhailovich
said: “Please spare me your sighs!”
Xenia Pavlovna never reproached her husband. She had long ago become
accustomed to either Iván Mikhailovich’s snoring or being away. Only
Maria Petrovna could not become resigned to it.
“What kind of a husband is he! All you see of him is his dressing-gown
on the peg,” she said.
“Oh, don’t say that, mother. All husbands are like that,” remarked
Xenia Pavlovna, but her face became sad and clouded, and at last a sort
of concentrated musing settled upon it. Walking up and down the salon
in the twilight, she would keep thinking about something or other, and
sing in a low, sweet voice: “Beyond the distant horizon there is a
happy land.”
Then she shook her head with a jerk and went into the nursery. Here she
played dolls with the children, romped about with them, and told them
fairy-tales about Sister Alenushka and Brother Ivanushka.
The older boy was very like his father before the latter got into the
habit of snoring and spitting and appearing before Xenia Pavlovna in
his shirt-sleeves. Gazing at this boy of hers, Xenia Pavlovna was
carried away into the past, and the dreams of her far-away youth,
dimmed and partly obscured by time, drove out of her heart the feeling
of emptiness, oppressive ennui, and dissatisfaction.
“Mama! Mamochka! Now tell us about Baba Yaga! Good?”
“Well, very good. Once there was a Baba Yaga, with a bony leg--”
“Did she snore?” asked the little girl, and her blue eyes opened wide,
resting with fear and expectation on her mother’s face. Xenia Pavlovna
broke out in a hearty laugh, caught her girlie in her arms, and,
kissing her, forgot everything else in the world.
About twice a month they received. All their guests were sedate,
respectable, and dull; people whose whole life ran smoothly,
monotonously, without a hitch, through the same deep rut; they were all
very tiresome, and loved to tell the same things over and over, and
behave and act as if by long-established rule. First they sat in the
drawing-room and spoke of their dwellings, of the weather, and while
Xenia Pavlovna entertained them with conversation, her mother set the
tea things, and while she filled the dishes with preserves she looked
apprehensively into the jars and muttered: “It’s lasting so well that
fresh fruit is not even to be thought of. The Lord grant it lasts
till Easter.” And putting the sugar from the large paper bag into the
cut-glass sugar-bowl, she thought aloud: “Twenty pounds, indeed! Why,
even forty would not suffice!”
“Please come and have some tea!” she said invitingly, with an amiable,
pleasant smile on her face. In the dining-room, where tea was served,
they all took their places in a staid and dignified manner, making
fun of those who were unlucky enough to get places at the table
corners, telling them that they would not marry for seven years; and
playing with their teaspoons, they said: “Merci,” and “Ach, if you
will be so kind!” And then they once more returned to the talk about
their apartments, the high price of provisions, and the ailments of
the little ones. Tea finished, they repaired to the drawing-room, in
which the little card-tables had already been placed, and provided
with candles, cards, and chalk; everybody became livelier, and the
oppressive frame of mind, under which people always labor when they
are called upon to do something they had not come to do, was dispelled.
The gentlemen and ladies sat down at the tables, quarreled, disputed,
reproached one another, and broke out simultaneously into peals of
merriment; in the main, they all seemed now the most happy people
in the world. They were so much engrossed with the play that they
resembled maniacs, who could with difficulty understand if an outsider,
there by some chance, not playing cards, and therefore suffering with
ennui, spoke to them about some outside matter.
Xenia Pavlovna did not play: she and her mother were wholly taken up
with the preparations for supper, while the guests were occupied with
the whist-tables. She and Maria Petrovna quarreled a little on such
occasions, but always managed to hide their differences from their
guests.
When supper was announced all the guests sprang from their seats,
pushed back their chairs, and laughingly went to the table. Only two
of the most enthusiastic would remain in their places, and continue to
wrangle and to gesticulate over the Knave of Spades, seeming not to
care whether they had their supper or not, if only they could prove to
each other the truth of their own assertions. The master of the house
would put his arm about the waist of each and carry them off.
“Well, let us have a tiny one!” Iván Mikhailovich generally began. A
few “tiny” ones were drunk without any well-wishing, then they drank
the health of Xenia Pavlovna and the other ladies present. Their
faces reddened, their eyes became languishing, and from across the
table was continually heard: “Please pass the caviar this way, Peter
Vasilievich!” or “Please send those delicious herrings our way, Nicolai
Gregorievich!”
Bon mots, jests, and anecdotes were incessantly exchanged, some of them
very stale and told for the fiftieth time at that very table. On these
occasions Iván Mikhailovich never failed to recount with evident pride
that he and Xenia had married for love. “Ours was a love match. I can
almost say that I abducted Xenia Pavlovna.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, just so! I remember it as if it happened to-day. I nearly
committed suicide! Yes! We had an appointment in the garden (a
luxurious garden it was! They very foolishly sold both the house and
garden!) Well, so I stand there in the old arbor, stand and wait. And
my heart is beating so loudly that it seems to me that a train must be
passing somewhere--tock-tock-tock!” Here Iván Mikhailovich began to
tell in detail how it all happened, and Xenia Pavlovna listened to his
narrative from where she sat, slightly blushing, with half-closed eyes,
and a little shiver. “At last she arrived in a carriage!”
“Came on foot, not in a carriage!” Xenia Pavlovna unexpectedly
corrected him, because every stroke, every detail of these far-away
recollections was inexpressibly dear to her.
“Well, in a carriage or on foot. What material difference does it
make!” angrily remarked Iván Mikhailovich, greatly displeased at being
interrupted, and continued his story, totally ignoring the correction
as well as Xenia Pavlovna herself, as if this Xenia Pavlovna and--that
other one--about whom he was telling his guests had nothing whatsoever
in common.
After supper they once more drank tea, yawned, covering the mouth with
the hand, or with the napkin, and breathed hard, looking at their
watches, and exchanging glances with their wives. “Yes, it is about
time!” replied the wives, and the guests began to take their leave, the
women kissed good-by, the men looked for their rubbers and hats, and
again joked.
After the guests had gone, leaving behind them tobacco smoke, glasses
half-full of undrunk tea, and the scraps of the supper, the house
suddenly subsided into quiet and peace, and Xenia Pavlovna sank
into a chair, and remained motionless in a silent antipathy to her
surroundings. She rested from the idle talk, noise, amiable smiles, and
entertaining, and felt as if she were just recovering from a serious
illness or had had to go through some severe penance. The mother,
passing through the drawing-room, quickly threw open the ventilators,
and remarked: “Just like a barrack,” pulling out of the jardinieres
the cigarette-stubs which had been stuck into the earth by the
smokers, and, waxing angry: “I purposely placed two ash-trays on each
card-table, but no! they must go and stick their cigarette-stubs into
the flower-pots!” Then she began to set the house to rights and clear
the tables; and all this she did with irritation. Iván Mikhailovich
threw off his coat, opened his vest, and, walking through the rooms,
yawned, opening his mouth wide and displaying his teeth. Then he went
into the bedroom, undressed, and stretched himself comfortably on the
soft mattress of the splendid, wide bed.
“Can’t you leave off putting the things in order till morning! Eh, how
cleanliness has suddenly taken hold of them!” he shouted through the
whole house, and listened: “Well, now the babes have revolted!”
From the nursery came the crying of the children and the soothing voice
of his wife. Well, now he knew that the racket would go on for a long
time--she would not get away from them so soon. And, turning to the
wall, he pulled the coverlet higher.
Once or twice during the month they went visiting. And there the same
story was repeated: conversations about the health of the little ones,
the dwelling-houses, servants, the green tables, cigarette smoke,
disputes about the Knave of Spades, and a supper with vodka, cheap
wine, caviar, pickled herrings, and the indispensable cutlets and green
pease. And after they left here, too, no doubt, was an opening of
ventilators, and a perfect enjoyment of the ensuing quiet and peace.
And so their life went on from day to day, monotonous and tiresome,
like a rainy evening, when everything is wet, gray, and cloudy--an
oppressive, colorless life. “We live just as if we were turning over
the pages of a cook-book. One day only differs from another in so far
as that yesterday we had rice soup and cutlets for dinner, and to-day
cabbage soup and cutlets,” sometimes thought Xenia Pavlovna, and a kind
of despair suddenly took possession of all her being, and it seemed to
her that she must decide on something, do something. But what should
she do? And in reply to this a sad smile appeared on her lips--gentle
and helpless--and her eyes filled with unbidden tears.
Then she would get a fit of the blues. Everything suddenly began to
bore her, she did not care to see any one, nor talk to any one; it
seemed to her that people spoke not of what they thought, nor of what
interested them, but were, on the contrary, doing their best to hide
their real thoughts; that they laughed at things not because they
thought them laughable, but simply from politeness and wishing to
appear amiable. And that all of them were only pretending to be good
and clever, while in reality they were trivial, stupid, and unbearably
tiresome.
She sat down at the window, resting her head on her hand, and looked
out upon the street, where the tiresome, hateful day was dying away
in a gray twilight. She remembered her youth, when life had seemed so
big, with immeasurable horizons enveloped in an alluring, dove-colored
mist, so interesting in its endless variations, so enigmatic and
incomprehensible; when it seemed that the most important and wished-for
thing was still before her, when her maiden heart stood still with fear
and curiosity before the unknown future, when her heart was filled
with a vague alarm in the expectation of a great happiness, perhaps
the happiness of a triumphant love. And here it is--real life. The
horizon ends with the grocery store across the street and is enveloped
in the poesy of the cook-book. All of them live from day to day,
are bored, gossip, speak of their dwellings, servants, occupations,
play cards, bear children, and complain--the husbands about their
wives and the wives about their husbands. And there is no triumphant
love anywhere--but only triumphant triviality, rascality, and ennui.
All that was interesting in life was already a thing of the past, it
had all happened long before; then she had been supremely happy, and
that happiness--which is given to one only once in life--passed away
imperceptibly, and would nevermore return.
It grew darker; on the streets appeared timidly blinking yellow lights.
The bells rang for vespers, and this ringing of the church-bells
awakened in her soul something vague and alarming: a sad longing for
something which had gone forever; or was it that it reproached the soul
soiled by life? “Evening bells, evening bells!” Xenia whispered with a
deep sigh.
Suddenly in the dim drawing-room appeared a whitish figure: it was Iván
Mikhailovich, who came out of his study without a vest. He stretched,
yawned, let out an “O-go-go-go!” and remarked: “I dined well and
enjoyed a splendid snooze. What are you dreaming about?”
“Oh, just so, I was thinking what a tiresome affair it is to live in
this world!”
“How is that! After you have given birth to three children you all at
once begin to find life tiresome?”
“Oh, how commonplace and trivial this is!”
“Well, you are again in the dumps!” Iván Mikhailovich spoke angrily and
turned away. Xenia Pavlovna broke into a laugh, then this laugh became
intermixed with crying, and ended in hysterics.
“W-ell! The devil is loose!” muttered Iván Mikhailovich, and rang for
the maid, whom he ordered to fetch some water. “Cold, from the faucet.”
His mother-in-law, rushing into the room, cried: “What is the matter?
What have you done to her?” The whites of her eyes glittered in the
dark, and her whole demeanor expressed a thirst for revenge and
complete redress. “What have you done to her?”
“I have done absolutely nothing to her! And I do not know, absolutely
do not know, why she started all this comedy! She is simply an
unbalanced woman, your daughter is, absolutely unbalanced!”
“You have offended her?”
“Neither by word nor intention! I came into the drawing-room and found
her moaning at the window; all at once, without provocation, she began
to laugh, then to cry,” said Iván Mikhailovich, shrugging his shoulders
and gesticulating, and Maria Petrovna, whom Iván Mikhailovich, in
moments of exasperation, sometimes called “the old witch,” did not
believe him, and insistently demanded an explanation: “Don’t you tell
me that. Where did you get it that she is unbalanced? We never had any
one of an unbalanced mind in our family--every one was healthy and
sane. What have you been doing to her?”
“All right, then! All right, if they were all sane and normal! I am
glad to hear it!” said Iván Mikhailovich angrily, and speedily left the
house. He went to the club, where he played cards, playing high from
pure spite, and losing also from pure spitefulness. In the mean time
Maria Petrovna walked around with a pained expression on her face, not
being able to understand what had passed between the two. Several times
she approached Xenia Pavlovna, and began:
“Why is all this quarreling going on in the house lately? What is the
reason for it? Have you found out anything wrong about him, or what?”
“I have found out nothing!”
“Has he offended you in any way?”
“No, no, what makes you think so?”
“You do wrong to hide it from me. It will leak out somehow, do not
fear. I shall find out everything, my lady!” Then she suddenly changed
her tone and approached the matter from a different side:
“He is jealous. You should not provoke him.”
“Oh, please don’t! He is simply stupid, that is all!” Xenia Pavlovna
interrupted her, laughing through her tears, and Maria Petrovna grew
angry.
“If a wife speaks like that about her husband, no good will ever come
of it!” And she began to defend her son-in-law with all her might, and
in the end it appeared, according to her own words, that a better man
than Iván Mikhailovich could not be found the world over. “Just look at
others, little mother! Take, for instance, the husband of Kapitolina
Ivanovna! And it is nothing to her, my lady. She does not complain--she
suffers in silence, and would not even think of dubbing her husband
‘stupid’--as you are doing. Of course, what we have we are careless
of--and once we lose it--we cry!”
Nevertheless she could get no explanation of what had occurred, and
could only take refuge in guesswork and supposition.
She did not go to sleep till the return of her son-in-law, and, sitting
in the drawing-room on the sofa, she continually pondered over what now
most interested her, letting escape from time to time an “M’m.”
And Iván Mikhailovich, after he had supped and taken an extra glass or
two, came home and announced himself by a ring so angry and imperious
that it sounded noisily through the quiet rooms, and frightened Maria
Petrovna. “He must be drunk,” she thought, and, opening the door, she
did not even sigh as usual, but spoke lovingly. “There is some supper
left for you in the dining-room.”
Iván Mikhailovich did not reply. He passed through the rooms with
protesting step, banged the doors, coughed loudly, and, in general,
gave one to understand that he was his own master. And to still more
emphasize his independence, he did not go to sleep in the superb double
bed with its silver ornaments, but lay down on the sofa in his study
under the reindeer antlers and the rifle from which he had never fired
a shot.
“Here, take at least a pillow!” came Maria Petrovna’s meek voice from
the other side of the door, and the white corner of a pillow was thrust
through the slightly open door of the study. Her son-in-law did not
reply. “It is uncomfortable to lie that way, your neck will pain you.”
“Don’t you trouble yourself about my neck!” came from the cabinet.
But Maria Petrovna threw the pillow on an easy chair, and the door
closed. Iván Mikhailovich was a man who prided himself on the strength
of his character, and, therefore, he did not take the pillow, but
supported his head with his fist and puffed while he thought of the
oppressive disagreeableness of married life.
The dog Norma evidently took the part of the husband, and whenever the
couple quarreled and occupied different sleeping rooms, the dog would
not stay with the woman.
Opening the door of the study with her paw, she approached the sofa,
placed her black muzzle on Iván Mikhailovich’s breast, and gazed at him
with eyes that wished to say: “What hags they are, all of them! They
even do not know how to appreciate a man like you!” Iván Mikhailovich
felt a silent gratitude toward Norma, and patted her with his hand,
pulling lovingly at her long ears. But the door of the study again
opened slightly, and from the other side came the whisper of Maria
Petrovna: “Norma! Norma!” But Norma did not go. Iván Mikhailovich held
her by the collar and patted her with redoubled energy. “She will let
in fleas,” again came the low voice. “Norma! Norma!”
Iván Mikhailovich sprang from the sofa, closing the door tightly, and
the melodious sound of the lock-spring ended the diplomatic overtures
of his mother-in-law.
“Sleeps with the dog. A fine thing this!” spoke the grumbling voice
behind the door, and all became quiet.
These were scenes with dramatic elements and effects in them. But
there were other scenes of the ordinary sort, so to speak, without the
dramatic effects, scenes which were repeated regularly in the same form
and in the very same expressions.
These scenes always took place on the twentieth of the month, when
Iván Mikhailovich received his salary, and the large number of small
creditors had to be paid. Somehow there was never sufficient money to
settle all the bills, and each time Iván Mikhailovich thought that
the money ought to be enough to cover all expenses, and railed at
the womenfolk who dreamed so much about the emancipation of women,
while they did not even know how to regulate their own household.
“Emancipation,” he grumbled, taking the money from his pocket-book and
throwing it on the table.
“But what has emancipation to do with this matter?”
“They go and teach you the devil-knows-what--all kinds of geography,
algebra, trigonometry, but you do not know how to make both ends
meet--emancipation!”
“And you should go a little less to the club, Iván Mikhailovich; then
probably the income would cover the expenditures!” replied Maria
Petrovna, bitingly.
“And where, pray, can I get it for you? I am not coining money. I
suppose you know I am not a counterfeiter?”
And all three started to upbraid and reproach each other, and for a
moment they became submerged in such trivialities and unpleasantness
that they were afterward thoroughly ashamed of themselves. After
every twentieth of the month there remained in the soul of Xenia
Pavlovna a kind of soot, and this greasy soot dimmed her eyes, made
her apathetic and slow, and it seemed as if she had all at once become
old, ill-looking, and disheartened. This young and very charming woman
looked at such times like a beautiful bouquet of flowers that had
withered and been thrown out of the window. So they lived day after
day, months and years, and when an acquaintance asked, “How are you
getting along?” they invariably replied: “Very well, thank you!”
It sometimes became necessary to refresh themselves after this kind of
life--to depart, at least for a day, from the beaten track--and so Iván
Mikhailovich went on a short spree two or three times a year. “One must
overhaul himself thoroughly from time to time; it is not only useful,
but also necessary,” he usually said on the next day after such an
exploit.
The only thing that ever brightened Xenia Pavlovna’s life a little was
going to the theatre. This happened so seldom, however, that she looked
upon such rarely occurring occasions in the light of important events.
Iván Mikhailovich did not like to go to the theatre, and when Xenia
Pavlovna said, “We ought to go to the theatre and refresh ourselves a
little,” Iván Mikhailovich was sure to remember how, ten years before,
when they visited St. Petersburg on their honeymoon, they had been to
the opera and the drama, and would reply: “After seeing Figner and
Mme. Savina, it is not worth while, my dear, to go to see such small
fry, and it only spoils an impression for us!”
But whenever “Faust” was presented on the stage of the local theatre,
no pleadings were necessary: Iván Mikhailovich never failed to take
seats in the third row of the orchestra for himself and Xenia Pavlovna.
“To-day we go to see ‘Faust,’” he said in an angry tone on returning
from the bank, carelessly throwing two colored tickets upon the table.
“‘Faust’?” joyfully exclaimed Xenia Pavlovna, and her face became
radiant with joy.
Gay and exalted with the pleasure that awaited her, Xenia Pavlovna
usually began to get ready very early. And while she was dressing and
combing her hair, Iván Mikhailovich stood close by to see that it was
all done properly, because when he appeared with his wife in society
he liked everything to be “just so,” and was pleased to have every one
think, as they saw her pass on his arm, “A charming woman that! Really
charming!” Therefore he was a very stern critic, and while she dressed
he continually vexed her by his remarks: “Your coiffure is too small!
You have the face of a Marguerite, and you dress your hair to make you
look like a Jewess!”
“It is not true!”
“A curious thing, really: women understand less than any one else what
is becoming to them, and they care less than all to win the admiration
of their husbands!”
Xenia Pavlovna also wished to look well, but she did not trust
overmuch to the good taste of Iván Mikhailovich, and at the same time
she distrusted herself, too, and the upshot of it all was that they
invariably quarreled, and left the house sulking and displeased with
each other. Deeply aggravated and disheartened, they went to the
theatre without any pleasurable anticipation, as if some one were
driving them thither. First they walked arm in arm, feeling angry with
each other, and longing to pull their arms away and walk apart; then
Iván Mikhailovich called a cabman in an angry voice that seemed to hate
all the cabbies in the world. Having helped his wife into the sleigh,
he sat down by her side and placed his arm around her waist. The whole
way they never exchanged a word, but Iván Mikhailovich gave vent to his
irritation in a shower of abuse directed at the poor cabby: “Careful
there! Don’t you see the hollows, you stupid!”--“To the right, you
dolt!”
The orchestra played the overture from “Faust.” Iván Mikhailovich and
his wife walked arm in arm through the long, carpeted aisle between two
long rows of orchestra chairs toward their seats. Iván Mikhailovich
felt as if all eyes were directed toward him, and he tried to walk with
greater dignity, with his head proudly thrown back and his rounded
paunch thrown forward. Xenia Pavlovna walked with downcast eyes and
a face which looked rigidly cold and offended, as if she had been
sentenced to die and were walking toward the gallows. The electric
lights went out; the curtain rose upon a sea looking very much like
a sky and a sky very much like a sea, with some sort of fantastic
ruins and tropical vegetation. The traditional Faust, in his brown
dressing-gown, nightcap, and long, gray beard, sang in his metallic
tenor voice, smoothing his beard with his hand:
“Accursed be human science, human prayer, human faith!”
At first Xenia Pavlovna was not much affected by either the music
or the singing. She looked more than she listened. When the red
Mephistopheles appeared and sang that everything was well with him, and
that he had plenty of money, Xenia Pavlovna remembered that it would
soon be the twentieth and that they owed the butcher for two months.
“Emancipation!” she seemed to hear Iván Mikhailovich exclaiming, and
when she stopped thinking of the butcher and emancipation, Faust had
already thrown off his dressing-gown and beard, and had changed from a
decrepit old man into a handsome, strong youth, and this unexpectedness
called forth the first smile upon her lips.
“To me returned lovely youth!” victoriously sang Faust, approaching
the footlights and raising his hand, and Xenia Pavlovna began to think
how old she was and how old Iván Mikhailovich was; that their youth
had already passed, and would nevermore return. Xenia Pavlovna sighed
and stealthily glanced at Iván Mikhailovich’s face. He sat deep in his
chair, with head bent to one side and his hands locked over his paunch,
and in his well-groomed face, with its waxed and twisted mustaches,
there was so much of that self-sufficiency and well-bred sleekness of
the native that Xenia Pavlovna hurriedly turned away.
During the first entr’acte they went into the lobby of the theatre, she
leaning on his arm, and he feeling uneasy the whole time at the thought
that his wife’s hair was badly dressed and that her face was not alight
with the joy and rapture of the other women, who, with their sparkling
eyes and rustling skirts, laughed and talked incessantly in their
ringing, happy voices.
After walking a little up and down the spacious lobby, engrossed
in their own thoughts, the pair returned to their seats. Under the
cascades of light falling from the electric lustre, the orchestra
dazzled the eyes with the beautiful dresses of the ladies, and buzzed
like a beehive from the multitude of noises, motions, and rustling, but
this talk, glitter, and dazzle seemed to Xenia Pavlovna distant and
strange, and the walls of people, the boxes resembling rich bouquets
of flowers, awakened in her a feeling of loneliness and remoteness.
She sat with her hands lying listlessly on her lap and with downcast
eyes; she did not wish to be disturbed in her present brooding mood,
and feared that some acquaintance might approach them and ask how they
were, or that Iván Mikhailovich might suddenly begin to compare the
singers with those they had once heard.
When the lights went out and the curtain rose again, she felt a great
relief, and it suddenly seemed to her that she was once more in her
maiden bower and had locked the door on the outside world. Gazing at
the scene before her, she was gradually carried away into the realm
of sound and melody, and wholly surrendered herself to the vague,
disturbing emotions that had arisen in her soul under the influence
of music and song. The rancor and vexation she had felt toward her
husband gradually subsided, and the memory of the harsh wrangles, petty
disputes, all the tiresome prosiness of her daily life, vanished,
and an exquisite calm and tranquillity took possession of her soul,
brightening and clearing up everything within her. In the third act
the soul of Xenia Pavlovna flew away from her native town, and she
forgot herself and everybody else, and wholly surrendered herself
to the power of music and song, to the moonlit night, the silvery
shimmer of the stars, and the contemplation of a happy love, which
waxed stronger and stronger, seemingly measureless and all-powerful,
but at the same time full of a sadness and pensiveness as quiet and
gentle as this moonlit night itself, and as this exquisite young girl
before her, with her thick, long braid of golden hair, who, with the
sincerity and straightforwardness of a child, was kneeling before her
handsome, youthful lover, pleading with him for mercy. Here she stands
flooded by the radiant moonlight, trembling with fear and happiness,
her head resting on the shoulder of the handsome youth. Here she sings
at the wide-open window, telling the stars, the quiet night, and the
slumbering old garden, that seems to have been enchanted by dreams of
love, of her happiness; and her song, pure and sacred like a prayer,
soars upward to the starry, blue heavens.
How very dear and near this is to people who have lived through the
fantom of happiness. She, Xenia Pavlovna, had once been just such a
sweet girl, with a thick, golden braid hanging down her back; she had
been just as happy and carefree, and sang just as sweetly to the stars
and the silent garden flooded with the mysterious, sad moonlight, and
she also, just as this maiden, had trembled with fear and pleaded with
the man she loved for mercy.
“Ha! ha! ha! ha!” rolled the thundering laugh of Mephistopheles--such
pitiless, powerful, and provoking laughter--and the chord, which echoed
in Xenia Pavlovna’s heart with inexpressible tenderness and sadness,
broke and grew silent, leaving room only for this laughter, oppressive
and revolting in its triumphant triviality and truth. And reality
suddenly broke into the realm of dreams and fancies. Xenia Pavlovna
lowered her eyes, compressed her lips, and a smile passed over her
face, the strange smile of a person who has been caught unawares.
“He laughs first rate!” remarked Iván Mikhailovich in an earnest voice,
slightly moving in his chair.
Xenia Pavlovna looked at her husband and sighed sorrowfully. She
had already resigned herself to Iván Mikhailovich, to his pompous
solemnity, and his hands crossed over his paunch. Those hands no longer
awakened her ire. Once this very same man who now sat by her side was
_her_ Faust, and with him was closely bound up her love-drama. Even if
it had been a mirage, a mistake, it was the mistake of her whole life,
a mistake which would never be repeated--like youth itself.
The curtain came down. The noise of applause, resembling a rainstorm,
and the wild roar of the over-enthusiastic gallery filled the theatre
from top to bottom. The curtain rose once more on the sea and the
ruins, and Faust, Marguerite, and Mephistopheles appeared holding each
other’s hands, bowing and smiling to the public, and Xenia Pavlovna
felt as if she had been suddenly awakened from a sleep full of tender,
delicious dreams, vague and enchanting, but already forgotten, and
she felt vexed because she was awakened, and was now possessed by a
tormenting longing to recall and bring back the frightened-off dreams.
She did not want to look at Marguerite, who had suddenly turned into
an actress, thirsting for hand-clapping and making eyes at that huge
monster--the public; at Mephistopheles, who stood with his right hand
pressed to his breast as a token of gratitude and sincere pleasure, nor
at Faust, who suddenly looked very much like a hair-dresser, and who
was sending in all directions sweetish, airy kisses.
“Come, Vania!”
Iván Mikhailovich rose and offered her his arm, and they once more
repaired to the lobby. Here he treated her to tea and fruits. “It is
splendid for allaying thirst!” he said, handing her an orange. And from
this moment all animosity was forgotten, and peace reigned once more
between them.
“Not sour, I hope?”
“No, it is very good.”
Xenia Pavlovna ate her orange, and gazed at the men who passed them.
“They are all different here from what they are at home,” she thought;
“they are all rude, all go to their clubs, and my Vania is in reality
much better than many of these men.”
“How did you like Marguerite, Vania?”
“Pretty well--though, after Alma Fostrem, she is, of course--”
“Have you heard Alma in that rôle?”
“Well, I like that, really! Did we not hear her together at St.
Petersburg! Have you forgotten already?”
“Ach, that was so long ago.”
“Though this opera is immortal by itself, I have seen it over a hundred
times, and will be glad to see it as many times more. Here one sees
life as in a mirror--Yes--Do you remember--in the garden?” he concluded
in a low voice, leaning toward his wife.
Xenia Pavlovna’s face was covered with a slight blush, and her eyes
had a thoughtful, far-away look in them, which gradually grew sad and
dreamy.
“All this was, but it has passed as if in a dream,” her lips whispered,
and her head swayed on her beautiful bare neck.
Here some acquaintances passed and, pressing their hands warmly,
inquired:
“How are you?”
“Very well, thank you. And you?”
“Pretty well, as usual. But you, Xenia Pavlovna, still continue to grow
more beautiful!”
Xenia Pavlovna blushed, and a hardly perceptible shade of pleasure
flitted over her face, and made it sweet and strong and proud.
“What are you saying!” she replied, slightly screwing up her eyes and
coquettishly fanning herself. “On the contrary, I think I am growing
worse looking with each passing day!”
Then all the men began to protest in chorus, and the women silently
fixed their coiffures with their fingers, while Iván Mikhailovich
looked at his wife and thought that she was really a very lovely woman,
probably one of the loveliest in the whole theatre, and he also began
to feel very pleased, and twirling his mustaches, he spoke proudly:
“You ought to see her portrait when she was my fiancée! It hangs over
my desk. She had a braid twice as thick as this Marguerite’s--”
In the last scene a whole revolution took place in the soul of Iván
Mikhailovich. He began to imagine Xenia Pavlovna overtaken by the sad
fate of Marguerite, and himself in the rôle of Faust, and grew very
sorry for Xenia Pavlovna. The gloomy arches of the prison, on the gray
stone floor some straw, and on it this woman, outraged, criminal,
insane, and nevertheless so pure and saintly; the low melodies so
full of sadness and tenderness in which arose hazy memories of past
happiness, made Iván Mikhailovich’s breath come faster. He looked at
Xenia Pavlovna, and noticing tears in her eyes, felt that this woman
was very dear to him and that he was somehow very guilty toward her.
Iván Mikhailovich sadly gazed upon the stage, listened to the low
strains of music, and it seemed to him at times that it was his Xenia
thrown into prison, and he recalled how they first met at a ball and
how he at the conclusion of it sang: “Amidst the noisy ball,” and how
they afterward sat in the dark garden listening to the singing of the
nightingale and gazing at the silvery stars.
All this was, but it had passed as if in a dream.
They returned from the theatre with souls refreshed, overfilled with
sadness mingled with joy, and it seemed to both as if all their former
disputes and frictions over trivialities had vanished forevermore, and
a part of their former happiness had returned to them. They rode home
dashingly in a light, new sleigh over the well-beaten road, and Iván
Mikhailovich had his arm round Xenia Pavlovna’s waist as tightly as if
he feared to lose her on the way. Xenia Pavlovna hid her face in the
soft white fur of her collar, and only her sparkling eyes were visible
from under a very becoming little hat of the same white fur, like two
coals, dark and moist.
Iván Mikhailovich wished to kiss her, forgetting that they were in the
open road, but Xenia Pavlovna screwed up her eyes, in which lurked
silent laughter, and slightly shook her white fur hat.
At home the samovár and Maria Petrovna awaited them.
The samovár gurgled joyfully, rising importantly in all its beauty and
sparkle from the snow-white of the table-cloth; the nice white loaves
of bread smelt good and very tempting; and fresh, soft-boiled eggs
seemed just waiting to be cracked over the nose with a spoon. And
Maria Petrovna, sailing out of the nursery with her old wrap over her
shoulders, spoke kindly: “Well, children, you must be quite hungry?”
Iván Mikhailovich did not reply. He entered the dimly lighted salon and
paced it with a slow tread, smoothed his hair with the palm of his hand
and purred: “Angel, Angel Marguerite!”
Then he returned to the dining-room, approached Xenia Pavlovna,
silently kissed her on the head, and again went into the salon, where
he continued purring.
“You had better eat and leave ‘Angel Marguerite’ for after,” said Maria
Petrovna, thrusting her head into the doorway of the salon.
“In a moment! In a moment!” Iván Mikhailovich replied with vexation,
and continued walking, wholly surrendering himself to vague emotions
and recollections and the feeling of tender sadness for the past.
Afterward they all three had tea and spoke very amiably, and a good
and peaceful feeling filled their hearts. Xenia Pavlovna changed her
evening dress for a white capote with sleeves resembling wings, and
let down her hair. She visited the nursery several times, and, sinking
on her knees before the three little beds, she gazed with a mother’s
passion and tenderness at the sleeping babies with their full, chubby
little arms and sweet, carefree faces, and it seemed to her that here
were sleeping the little angels, pure, gentle, helpless, and great in
their purity, that had carried Marguerite into heaven.
“You look like Marguerite in prison,” remarked her husband, leaning on
his arm and gazing at his wife long and attentively, and it seemed to
him as if a whole chapter of his life had disappeared and before him
was a sweet, young maiden with golden hair, whom one longed to love, to
adore forever.
And under this glance Xenia Pavlovna lowered her eyes, smiled, and felt
that somewhere far down at the very bottom of her soul the broken,
unfinished song of her youthful heart sounded like a mountain echo.
Iván Mikhailovich who, generally supping at home in his shirt-sleeves,
now felt constrained to take off his coat, endeavored to lend to his
gestures and motions as much elegance and grace as possible, and was
amiable and courteous at table, even to his mother-in-law.
“Shall I hand you the butter?” he asked, anticipating her wish.
“You are acting just as if you had come on a visit,” Maria Petrovna
remarked, and, taking the butter with a pleasant smile, said: “Merci!”
“Well, good night, my Marguerite!” said Iván Mikhailovich, approaching
his wife and once more gazing attentively into her eyes; then he kissed
her hand and cheek.
“Good night, my Faust!” jokingly replied Xenia Pavlovna, kissing her
husband on the lips.
Then Iván Mikhailovich pressed Maria Petrovna’s hand and went into the
bedroom.
The blue hanging-lamp flooded the chamber with a soft, tender,
soothing, bluish light, and it was so peaceful and cozy. Iván
Mikhailovich undressed, and, taking off his boots, still continued to
sing from “Faust” in a tender falsetto:
“’Tis life alone to be near thee,
Thine only, all thine own!”