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