He stopped and looked at me bashfully and questioningly, as if he
felt that he had said something which was not proper for a railroad
conversation. He was somewhat startled when the mathematician exhaled a
thick cloud of smoke from his dark corner and said:
“Pavel Semenovich, I see you really are a crank. Isn’t that so?...
Wonderful!... A man has a hundred thousand and shoots himself! Another
lives as he likes, so to speak, healthy and ruddy.... A quiet soul....
Safe.... Is that strange?... By heavens, it’s impossible.... Good
night.... It’s time to go to sleep. Nothing, nothing!... You won’t
disturb me by talking.... I won’t listen....”
He turned to the wall.
Pavel Semenovich modestly and questioningly looked at me with his naïve
gray eyes, and began in a lower tone:
“There’s a street in Tikhodol called Bolotnaya (Swamp Street). They
built a house on it near me.... New and of fresh wood.... The first year
it shone so, and then it lost its freshness. It got covered with that
especial dirt and weathering and rubbish. Then it got the same color as
the old stables and sheds and you couldn’t tell it from them. Now they
say it’s haunted.... The people suddenly said that Budnikov had robbed a
woman.”
“That’s absolute nonsense,” called the mathematician. “I’ll never believe
that Budnikov was a robber. That’s some stupid rumor.”
Pavel Semenovich smiled sadly and rather distractedly:
“That’s what he was. A robber!... A robber is the word, ... precisely!
But it was just a little personal ... tangle with rather vague
outlines.... You see.... I must tell you that since your time a mother
and daughter moved in.... The women were simple and very poor and M.
Budnikov was their protector and friend. They ran in debt for a long
time, and he—always so strict in affairs of this kind—stood it, and even
gave them money. For the doctor or for better food, when one was sick.
Finally the old woman died and Yelena became an orphan. M. Budnikov
became very sympathetic, gave her a pleasant little home, and got
her work; she sewed,—got along somehow.... Then she became a sort of
housekeeper for M. Budnikov, and then,—people began to say that their
relations became more intimate....”
“Oh, oh!” yawned the mathematician. “They didn’t need me for that.... Was
she pretty?”
“Yes, rather pretty; fat, with flowing graceful movements and mild eyes.
They said she was stupid. But, if she was, a woman’s stupidity is often
very peculiar.... A naïve and sleeping innocence of soul. She felt her
situation very keenly. As is said in Uspensky, she was all shame....
M. Budnikov tried to teach her and lift her up, so to speak, to his
level. She seemed incapable of it. She sat usually with a book, spelled
it out with her fingers, and her face was interested like a child’s. She
seemed to become dull and stupid when Budnikov was around. He got sick of
her actions and then of Yelena, especially as other things took up his
attention. But there was a time when he almost loved her. At least there
were indications of it. In a word, the breach was not easy for him,—his
conscience troubled him and he wanted to silence it. He finally decided
to give her a ticket of the domestic lottery.... He called her, took out
three tickets, put them on the table, placed his hand on them, and said:
“‘Look here, Yelena. One of these tickets may win you two hundred
thousand. Do you understand?’
“Of course she didn’t understand well. She couldn’t imagine so large a
sum, but he went on:
“‘Now, I’ll give you one. This paper is worth 365 rubles, but don’t sell
it.... Take it and may you be lucky....’
“She didn’t take it, but huddled up, as if she were afraid. ‘All right,’
said M. Budnikov. ‘Give me your hand and take this paper.’ He took one
of the tickets and guided her hand in making two pencil strokes sharply
and heavily. His mind was clearly made up.... He gave it outright with
all the results, we may say. ‘You see,’ he said, ‘this is yours, and if
you win two hundred thousand, they’ll be yours too.’ He placed it back on
the table. She reached out her hand and put in her bosom a paper with the
number of the ticket.”
“Really?” asked the mathematician.
“Yes.... It had to happen so.... That machine was working in Petersburg,
throwing out one number after another.... Children’s hands pick them
up.... And one of these tickets won.”
“Two hundred thousand?” asked the mathematician, with great interest;
apparently he had forgotten about sleeping.
“Not two hundred, but seventy-five.... During March, M. Budnikov looked
at the list of drawings and saw that his number had won a large prize.
Zero, again zero ... 318 and 32. Suddenly he remembered that he had given
one ticket to Yelena.... He also remembered that there were two lines on
the first. He had three in a row: 317, 318 and 319. That means 317.... He
got out the tickets and looked: there were two lines on 317. Yelena had
won....”
“The devil,” exclaimed the mathematician, raising himself a little.
“That’s luck!”
“Yes, it was. And she was so stupid. The lines were on that number, when
he thought that he would give her another.... A mistake, a mechanical
wave of the hand, mere chance.... And, because of this chance, Yelena,
a stupid woman who understood nothing and did not know what to do with
money, would take from him ... him, M. Budnikov, take away, so to speak,
a large sum of money. That was foolish, wasn’t it? He was educated, had
an aim in his life, or had had.... He might again. He would perhaps have
used the money for some good cause. He would write again to his friend
and ask his advice.... But she ... she? A beast with a round form and
beautiful eyes, which didn’t even show clearly what was in them: the
stupidity of a calf or the innocence of a youth who had not yet grown to
conscious life.... Do you understand?... It was so natural.... Any one in
Budnikov’s place, you ... I ... even Petr Petrovich, would have felt the
same way....”
Petr Petrovich made some sort of an indistinct sound, which was
susceptible of different interpretations.
“No?” said Pavel Semenovich. “Excuse me.... I’m speaking about
myself.... My thoughts or rather my inclinations would have been the
same, perhaps in the subconscious realm.... Because ... knowledge and
all restraining influences are a sort of bark, a thin cover under which
purely egoistic, primal and animal desires live and move.... If they find
a weak spot....”
“Fine, fine,” laughed Petr Petrovich condescendingly, and I thought that
he winked at me from his dark corner. “Let’s get back to Budnikov....
What did he do? Pay it ... and that’s all.”
“Apparently, yes; because he wanted to settle the question and was a
little afraid, he called Yelena and congratulated her on winning. Then,
apparently wishing to make use of a favorable opportunity, he hinted:
‘When we separate, you’ll be all right.’ Then he got angry....”
“What for?”
“I think, because she was such a fool. If she’d chosen then, she probably
wouldn’t have taken that number. But now it happened because of her
folly. An orderly and wise man lost that money. That’s what I imagine
from Yelena’s story.... ‘He ran from one corner to another and found
fault with me.’ ...”
“What of her? Glad, of course?”
“N-no.... She was frightened and began to weep. He got angry and she
cried and he became still more angry.”
“Really? What a fool!”
“Y-yes.... I’ve already explained: I don’t call her wise, but weeping....
No, it wasn’t foolishness.... When she told it to me afterwards ... she
got to this point, looked at me with her clear, bird-like eyes, and burst
into tears. Even now I can’t forget those eyes.... Foolishness, perhaps,
but there’s foolishness and foolishness. It wasn’t clear knowledge
and calculation about the situation. But in those blue eyes there was
something very deep,—just as if a true instinct shone in them.... Those
foolish tears, perhaps, were the only correct thing at that time.... I
dare to say,—the wisest thing in the whole confused story.... Somewhere,
not far off, was hidden the solution, like a secret door....”
“Fine, fine.... Go on!”
“Next, ... M. Budnikov looked a long time intently at the foolish woman.
Then he sat down beside her, put his arms around her, and, for the first
time after the perceptible cooling of their relations, he asked her not
to go to her rooms, but to spend the night with him....
“So things went on for some time. Yelena bloomed.... Her love was
‘foolish’; it was very direct. At first,—she told me herself,—M. Budnikov
was repugnant to her. Later, after he had taken her, he dried her up,
as she said. Such direct feminine natures do not separate feelings and
facts, so to speak. Wherever you touch it, the whole complex reacts
together.... He came back to her; therefore, he loved her.... For two
weeks she was so joyful and beautiful that every one looked at her,—glad
of her limitless joy.... But in two weeks M. Budnikov again cooled
off.... A cold storm was raging in our yard.... Yelena’s eyes showed that
she had been weeping.... The neighbors grumbled and pitied. M. Budnikov
was sullen.... Those two lines had sunk deep into the hearts of both and
a third felt them.... The porter Gavrilo....”
“H-m! The whole story!” said Petr Petrovich, again getting up and sitting
down beside Pavel Semenovich. “Was he there? Did he learn she’d won?”
“He knew nothing about it. I’ve spoken of him. A less clever person you
could hardly imagine,—absolutely heavenly directness.... Sometimes he
didn’t seem to be a man, but ... what shall I say?... a simple collection
of muscles, partially conscious of their existence. He was constructed
properly, harmoniously, rightly, and always in motion. And, in addition,
two good human eyes looked at the whole world from the point of view
of physical and moral indifference, so to speak.... Sometimes these
eyes really gleamed with curiosity and such unconscious excellence that
you actually felt jealous. Sometimes it seemed to me that if it wasn’t
Gavrilo himself, there was something in him which understood M. Budinov,
Yelena, and me.... He understood and smiled at us, just because he
did understand.... Suddenly the man became confused.... It began when
Budnikov made up with Yelena and dropped her again.... To him she was an
abandoned ‘master’s lady,’ a creature which inspired in him no special
respect, and very probably his first advances seemed rather simple and
rustic. She met these advances with deep hostility and anger. Then
Gavrilo ‘began to think,’ that is, began to eat little, become slack in
his work, grow thin, and generally to dry up.
“This lasted during the fall and winter. Budnikov finally grew cold to
Yelena; she felt insulted and believed that he was ‘laughing’ at her....
Gavrilo’s character was rather spoiled and the old harmony between him
and Budnikov disappeared.... And the ticket with the two lines on it lay
in the table drawer and seemed forgotten by every one....
“Spring came with everything in this condition.... For a while I lost
sight of the little drama which was being enacted before my eyes.... My
examinations were coming on; I was very tired and could not sleep. If you
do fall asleep, you awake with a start and can’t get to sleep again. You
light a candle,—your books are on the table,—you begin to study.... And
it’s sunrise.... You go out on the steps, look at the sleeping street,
the trees in the garden.... A sleepy coachman is going along the street;
the trees are rustling faintly, as if they were shivering in the morning
chill.... You envy the coachman, and even the trees.... You want rest and
this concentrated unconscious life.... Then you go out in the garden....
Sit down on a bench and just get to sleep, when the sun shines in your
eyes. There was just such a bench in a quiet corner by the stable wall.
When the sunlight fell on it at seven o’clock you’d wake up, drink your
tea, and go to your classes.
“I went out one day at dawn and fell asleep on this bench. Suddenly
I woke up as if some one had called me. The sun had scarcely risen
very high and the bench was still in the shadow. What’s the matter,
I wondered.... What woke me up? Suddenly I heard Yelena’s voice in
Gavrilo’s stable. I wanted to get up and leave.... I don’t like to be an
eavesdropper and it was rather unpleasant to hear the simple solution of
Yelena’s drama. But, while I was getting ready to leave, the conversation
continued and finally I didn’t go.... I just listened.
“‘You see I’ve come,’ said Yelena.... ‘What do you want?’
“Suddenly, with such a deep and simple grief, she added:
“‘You’ve been torturing me....’
“She said this ... with such a sincere and heartfelt groan. Before, yes,
and after, she always spoke formally to him, but that time ... a woman’s
heart, sick with shame and love, used the form of affection,—frankly,
unconditionally, freely....
“‘You’ve tortured me, too, Yelena Petrovna,’ answered Gavrilo. ‘I’ve lost
my strength. I’ve dried up. I can’t work and I can’t eat....’
“‘What are you going to do now?’ asked Yelena.
“‘What?’ he said. ‘Marry you, of course.’
“For a few minutes neither spoke. Yelena seemed to be weeping softly.
And yet that silence was wonderfully clear, simple, frank. ‘You see the
situation: you’re no match for me; I would have worked for Budnikov as
well as I could, gone to the village, gotten a place, married and taken
some good girl.... But that’s past; willy nilly I want you as you are....’
“‘I’m lost,’ said Yelena softly.
“‘Why, Yelena Petrovna,’ answered Gavrilo, with a grim tenderness.... ‘I
don’t see that you’re lost.... It’s just the same.... I can’t live....
Like a corpse.... I can’t eat.... I’ve got no strength....’
“Yelena wept more loudly.... She was having a good cry. It seemed painful
but healing. Gavrilo said sternly:
“‘Come, what are you going to do?... Are you coming?’
“Yelena apparently exerted herself, stopped weeping, and answered the
repeated question:
“‘Do you fear God, Gavrilo Stepanich?’
“‘Why?’ asked Gavrilo.
“‘You won’t find fault with me?’
“‘No,’ he said, ‘I won’t find fault with you. And I won’t let any
one else. If you’re serious in throwing this overboard forever....
Forever.... I’ll trust you....’
“Silence. I didn’t hear Yelena’s answer. I only imagined that she must
have turned to the east, and perhaps there was an ikon in the room....
She crossed herself.... Then she suddenly took his head in her arms and
I heard them kiss. That same instant Yelena ran out, rushed almost to
the house, but she suddenly stopped, opened the gate, and came into the
garden.
“Then she caught sight of me.... But it didn’t embarrass her. She walked
up, stopped, and looked at me out of her happy eyes, and said:
“‘Do you always take a walk mornings?... Friend....’
“Suddenly, overcome by her emotions, she came nearer, took hold of my
shoulders, shook me unceremoniously, looked into my eyes, and laughed....
It was so naïve. She felt that I had been listening and saw nothing bad
in it.... When Gavrilo came out with his broom and also entered the
garden, she blushed and ran past him. Gavrilo looked after her with quiet
joy, and then his gaze fell on me. He bowed with his habitual quiet
politeness and commenced to sweep the path. He again showed that same
beautiful and effortless play of healthy, free muscles.... And I remember
how the monastery bell sounded for early matins,—it was Sunday. Gavrilo
stopped in a broad bay of the alley, took off his cap, held the broom in
his left hand, and crossed himself with his right. The whole seemed to
me so extraordinarily bright and beautiful. The man stood in the centre
of a world of light, where everything was very good, that is, all his
relations to earth and heaven.... In a word, it was so soothing a sight
that I went to my room and fell fast asleep after so many sleepless
nights. There’s something healing and calming in honest human happiness.
You know it sometimes occurs to me that we are all bound to be well
and happy, because ... you see ... happiness is the highest possible
condition of spiritual health. And health is contagious like disease....
We are so to speak open on all sides: to the sun, wind, and other things.
Others enter us, and we them, without noticing it.... And that’s why——”
Pavel Semenovich suddenly stopped as he felt the fixed and cynical gaze
of Petr Petrovich.
“Yes, yes!... Excuse me,” he said, “this is really a little unclear....”
“It is a little. You’d better go on. Without philosophy....”
“ ... M. Budnikov woke me up. It happened to be the twentieth. He came
as usual, and as usual he drank two cups of tea with rum, but I saw that
M. Budnikov was out of humor, and even nervous.... And I involuntarily
connected it with the incident of the morning.
“For some time he kept out of sorts and every one around noticed that
something secret and hidden had gone wrong between master and servant.
Gavrilo wanted to leave.... Budnikov would not let him go, although he
often told me that he was disappointed in Gavrilo. As I was walking
one day through the garden, I saw them both standing by the gate and
talking. Budnikov was excited; Gavrilo, calm. He was standing in an easy
position and kept looking at his spade, which was stuck in the ground.
He was evidently insisting on something which enraged Budnikov.... But I
thought that the subject of conversation created between them a strange
equality....
“‘Yes, friend, of course, it’s your business,’ said M. Budnikov. He
caught sight of me but did not think it necessary to change the subject.
He spoke spitefully and angrily.... ‘Yes.... You’re a free man.... But
just remember, Gavrilo Stepanich, if you have any utilitarian object, ...
I, of course, can give only a very small sum....’
“M. Budnikov was unable to speak simply, and used foreign words, even
when talking to Gavrilo.... Gavrilo looked at him calmly and answered:
“‘We don’t want anything.... We have enough....’
“M. Budnikov glanced cautiously at him and answered:
“‘Fine! Remember! Afterwards.... I’ll go to Petersburg on business.... Do
what you want to.’
“Gavrilo bowed and said:
“‘I thank you....’
“‘Excuse me,’ replied M. Budnikov, with a shadow of ironical melancholy,
‘I don’t expect gratitude.’
“He slammed the gate and left the garden.
“He stopped and waited for me in the yard, took my arm, and came up to my
rooms. On the way, and in my apartments, he kept talking confusedly and
incoherently. He did not conceal the fact that he had had some affection
for a certain woman. This might be still ‘alive under the ashes.’ ... On
the other hand he was dreaming of union and the possibility of friendship
with his humblest brother. Although both of these feelings had led to his
disillusionment, he could show something, so that every one would feel
it.... But in general, magnanimity and the finer feelings belong only to
highly cultured people....
“He was nervous and under his rather artificial pathos, I could see his
real exasperation and anger.
“I later had a chance to see his diary. These were separate pages,
written like letters to his distant friend.... Apparently he hadn’t sent
any letters for a long time, but these pages were like lights in the
darkness. Under the approximate day of the conversation with Gavrilo was
a passionate note. He told the whole story of Yelena, and wrote that
he had made a mistake, and that he now loved her.... And that he would
try once more.... This ended with a sudden burst of poetry: ‘My distant
friend, you, of course, do not doubt that I will do what I consider the
duty of magnanimity....’
“Then, sending Gavrilo one day with the horse somewhere outside the city,
M. Budnikov went to the wing where Yelena still lived.
“‘Yelena! You should come to me. You must fix up something....’
“A few days before this he had been thoughtful and solemn, but now he
dressed in style, went to the wing, and entered Yelena’s room, without
heeding the inquisitive looks of his tenants.
“No one knew what happened in that room, but a half-hour later M.
Budnikov came out, stubborn, affected, but apparently dazed. Every one
began to say that he had formally proposed to Yelena and—she had rejected
him.
“After this he left for Petersburg, where he had a lawsuit before the
Senate. He lost it, and when he returned, Gavrilo and Yelena were already
married.
V
“This made a great impression upon him, like some great spiritual
conversion. One apparently insignificant circumstance especially
surprised him. Every spring flowers grew by the wall under M. Budnikov’s
windows. This Yelena did regularly, and it was put down as an annual
source of expense: seed, a watering pot, to a blacksmith for mending the
spade.... In the early spring Yelena used to set to work at it, gladly
and merrily, and M. Budnikov took a delighted interest in it. Now that
wing was neglected, the flower bed languished, M. Budnikov’s windows
seemed blind.... But the other wing, where Gavrilo and his wife lived,
bloomed and flourished. A symbol. When M. Budnikov came back from the
station and took one look at this unexpected contrast his face changed,
and for a short time he lost his usual aristocratic air. I suddenly
felt sorry for him. I went out and invited him into my room. He sat with
me a long time and gave me his impressions of the capital,—verbose,
rambling, insincere. I kept feeling that M. Budnikov’s soul was thinking
of something very far removed from his impressions of the capital.
“Gradually everything drifted back into the old channels. M. Budnikov
still went twice a week to his farm, still visited his tenants on certain
days, still prepared his dinner on an oil stove. But there were more
trifles in his diary; for example, he began to note down how many steps
he took each day, and apparently counted thereby the use and value of
various things.
“In a short time another change took place: M. Budnikov felt attracted to
religion.
“I remember one fall evening.... It was one of those evenings when nature
touches your soul especially. The stars seem to be waving and whispering
in the heavens, and the earth is covered with light and shade.... Our
little city, as you know, is quiet and filled with foliage. You go out
in the evening and sit down on your steps. And so with the other houses
along the street; here’s one person on a bench by the gate, another on
the dirt bank, another on the grass.... People are whispering about
themselves, the trees about themselves,—and there’s a hardly perceptible
hum. Yes, and something’s whispering in your soul. You unconsciously
review your whole life. What was and what is left, where you came from,
what’s going to happen? Then, everything ... the meaning of your life in
the general economy of nature, so to speak, ... nature, where all the
stars sink, unnumbered, unlimited, ... they gleam and shine.... And speak
to your soul. Sometimes it’s sad and deep and quiet.... You feel you’re
going to the wrong place. You begin to think what’s there above.... You
want to run away from this reproving beauty, this exalted calm, with your
load of confusion, and you want to melt away in it.... You’ve no place to
go.... You enter your office, look at all your things in the lamp-light
... text-books, copy-books with answers written by your pupils.... And
you ask: where’s there anything alive?...”
Petr Petrovich muttered something and the narrator stopped again.
“Well ... that was the way I felt and I was sitting on my steps and
thinking: here’s the people coming from vespers.... What of it? That’s
the way they find their relations to the infinite.... Or else it’s
nothing but habit, mere automatic motion. I prefer it to be real.
Suddenly I saw one man leave the crowd and come towards me. It turned out
to be M. Budnikov. He had been to vespers. He sat down beside me.
“I felt that M. Budnikov was waiting, you know, for me to ask him
why he went to church. He never had gone and was always sarcastic
about religion, but now he had suddenly commenced to go. I was really
interested and the evening led me to be frank.... Why not say, I thought,
that there’s a cloud on my soul....
“Yes, Semen Nikolayevich, ...” I said ... “I look at the sky and think....
“He nodded and commenced:
“‘That tortured me, too ... and I suffered.... And like you, I saw no
solution. But the solution is so plain....’
“He pointed toward the church, a white spot showing through the trees.
“‘We, intelligent people,’” he said, “‘are frightened, so to speak, by
the beaten path, banality. But,—we must drop our pride and fuse ... or
as Tolstoy once said,—partake of the common cup, search with the humble
faith of humanity ... cease examining the foundations of life.... Like
Antaeus, so to speak, we must touch our common mother....’
“He spoke rather nicely. His voice was so sleepy and murmured like the
bass in the episcopal choir. I’ll tell you the truth: I felt envious....
Really you could feel the quiet and blessing.... As M. Budnikov said, it
was worth while to fuse, and all these searchings of the heart are healed
as by the holy oil. Suddenly I found the lost meaning. I asked myself:
what’s the use of these books? Why all these notes, all this quiet
life?... Why is this bootmaker solemn and satisfied? Mikhailo looks for
no special meaning, but he floats along with the general current of life,
that is, he agrees with its general significance and meaning. People
go maybe once a week into this little white building which looks out
so attractive through the trees; they spend a little time in communion
with some mystery—and see, for a week they are supplied with the idea of
meaning.... And many live a harder life than I do....
“There’s M. Budnikov.... Had he really found _this_ for himself and
solved his troubles? I almost asked, but our priest went by just then. M.
Budnikov bowed and he returned it pleasantly. And he looked at me with
questioning kindness.... Budnikov has been converted and may bring back
another wanderer. I answered the bow rather warmly and gratefully, and
again felt like asking M. Budnikov, but another person of an entirely
different character put in an appearance....”