POLINKA

IT is one o'clock in the afternoon. Shopping is at its height at

the "Nouveauté's de Paris," a drapery establishment in one of the

Arcades. There is a monotonous hum of shopmen's voices, the hum one

hears at school when the teacher sets the boys to learn something

by heart. This regular sound is not interrupted by the laughter of

lady customers nor the slam of the glass door, nor the scurrying

of the boys.

Polinka, a thin fair little person whose mother is the head of a

dressmaking establishment, is standing in the middle of the shop

looking about for some one. A dark-browed boy runs up to her and

asks, looking at her very gravely:

"What is your pleasure, madam?"

"Nikolay Timofeitch always takes my order," answers Polinka.

Nikolay Timofeitch, a graceful dark young man, fashionably dressed,

with frizzled hair and a big pin in his cravat, has already cleared

a place on the counter and is craning forward, looking at Polinka

with a smile.

"Morning, Pelagea Sergeevna!" he cries in a pleasant, hearty baritone

voice. "What can I do for you?"

"Good-morning!" says Polinka, going up to him. "You see, I'm back

again. . . . Show me some gimp, please."

"Gimp--for what purpose?"

"For a bodice trimming--to trim a whole dress, in fact."

"Certainly."

Nickolay Timofeitch lays several kinds of gimp before Polinka; she

looks at the trimmings languidly and begins bargaining over them.

"Oh, come, a rouble's not dear," says the shopman persuasively,

with a condescending smile. "It's a French trimming, pure silk. . . .

We have a commoner sort, if you like, heavier. That's forty-five

kopecks a yard; of course, it's nothing like the same quality."

"I want a bead corselet, too, with gimp buttons," says Polinka,

bending over the gimp and sighing for some reason. "And have you

any bead motifs to match?"

"Yes."

Polinka bends still lower over the counter and asks softly:

"And why did you leave us so early on Thursday, Nikolay Timofeitch?"

"Hm! It's queer you noticed it," says the shopman, with a smirk.

"You were so taken up with that fine student that . . . it's queer

you noticed it!"

Polinka flushes crimson and remains mute. With a nervous quiver in

his fingers the shopman closes the boxes, and for no sort of object

piles them one on the top of another. A moment of silence follows.

"I want some bead lace, too," says Polinka, lifting her eyes guiltily

to the shopman.

"What sort? Black or coloured? Bead lace on tulle is the most

fashionable trimming."

"And how much is it?"

"The black's from eighty kopecks and the coloured from two and a

half roubles. I shall never come and see you again," Nikolay

Timofeitch adds in an undertone.

"Why?"

"Why? It's very simple. You must understand that yourself. Why

should I distress myself? It's a queer business! Do you suppose

it's a pleasure to me to see that student carrying on with you? I

see it all and I understand. Ever since autumn he's been hanging

about you and you go for a walk with him almost every day; and when

he is with you, you gaze at him as though he were an angel. You are

in love with him; there's no one to beat him in your eyes. Well,

all right, then, it's no good talking."

Polinka remains dumb and moves her finger on the counter in

embarrassment.

"I see it all," the shopman goes on. "What inducement have I to

come and see you? I've got some pride. It's not every one likes to

play gooseberry. What was it you asked for?"

"Mamma told me to get a lot of things, but I've forgotten. I want

some feather trimming too."

"What kind would you like?"

"The best, something fashionable."

"The most fashionable now are real bird feathers. If you want the

most fashionable colour, it's heliotrope or _kanak_--that is,

claret with a yellow shade in it. We have an immense choice. And

what all this affair is going to lead to, I really don't understand.

Here you are in love, and how is it to end?"

Patches of red come into Nikolay Timofeitch's face round his eyes.

He crushes the soft feather trimming in his hand and goes on

muttering:

"Do you imagine he'll marry you--is that it? You'd better drop

any such fancies. Students are forbidden to marry. And do you suppose

he comes to see you with honourable intentions? A likely idea! Why,

these fine students don't look on us as human beings . . . they

only go to see shopkeepers and dressmakers to laugh at their ignorance

and to drink. They're ashamed to drink at home and in good houses,

but with simple uneducated people like us they don't care what any

one thinks; they'd be ready to stand on their heads. Yes! Well,

which feather trimming will you take? And if he hangs about and

carries on with you, we know what he is after. . . . When he's a

doctor or a lawyer he'll remember you: 'Ah,' he'll say, 'I used to

have a pretty fair little thing! I wonder where she is now?' Even

now I bet you he boasts among his friends that he's got his eye on

a little dressmaker."

Polinka sits down and gazes pensively at the pile of white boxes.

"No, I won't take the feather trimming," she sighs. "Mamma had

better choose it for herself; I may get the wrong one. I want six

yards of fringe for an overcoat, at forty kopecks the yard. For the

same coat I want cocoa-nut buttons, perforated, so they can be sown

on firmly. . . ."

Nikolay Timofeitch wraps up the fringe and the buttons. She looks

at him guiltily and evidently expects him to go on talking, but he

remains sullenly silent while he tidies up the feather trimming.

"I mustn't forget some buttons for a dressing-gown . . ." she says

after an interval of silence, wiping her pale lips with a handkerchief.

"What kind?"

"It's for a shopkeeper's wife, so give me something rather striking."

"Yes, if it's for a shopkeeper's wife, you'd better have something

bright. Here are some buttons. A combination of colours--red,

blue, and the fashionable gold shade. Very glaring. The more refined

prefer dull black with a bright border. But I don't understand.

Can't you see for yourself? What can these . . . walks lead to?"

"I don't know," whispers Polinka, and she bends over the buttons;

"I don't know myself what's come to me, Nikolay Timofeitch."

A solid shopman with whiskers forces his way behind Nikolay

Timofeitch's back, squeezing him to the counter, and beaming with

the choicest gallantry, shouts:

"Be so kind, madam, as to step into this department. We have three

kinds of jerseys: plain, braided, and trimmed with beads! Which may

I have the pleasure of showing you?"

At the same time a stout lady passes by Polinka, pronouncing in a

rich, deep voice, almost a bass:

"They must be seamless, with the trade mark stamped in them, please."

"Pretend to be looking at the things," Nikolay Timofeitch whispers,

bending down to Polinka with a forced smile. "Dear me, you do look

pale and ill; you are quite changed. He'll throw you over, Pelagea

Sergeevna! Or if he does marry you, it won't be for love but from

hunger; he'll be tempted by your money. He'll furnish himself a

nice home with your dowry, and then be ashamed of you. He'll keep

you out of sight of his friends and visitors, because you're

uneducated. He'll call you 'my dummy of a wife.' You wouldn't know

how to behave in a doctor's or lawyer's circle. To them you're a

dressmaker, an ignorant creature."

"Nikolay Timofeitch!" somebody shouts from the other end of the

shop. "The young lady here wants three yards of ribbon with a metal

stripe. Have we any?"

Nikolay Timofeitch turns in that direction, smirks and shouts:

"Yes, we have! Ribbon with a metal stripe, ottoman with a satin

stripe, and satin with a moiré stripe!"

"Oh, by the way, I mustn't forget, Olga asked me to get her a pair

of stays!" says Polinka.

"There are tears in your eyes," says Nikolay Timofeitch in dismay.

"What's that for? Come to the corset department, I'll screen you

--it looks awkward."

With a forced smile and exaggeratedly free and easy manner, the

shopman rapidly conducts Polinka to the corset department and

conceals her from the public eye behind a high pyramid of boxes.

"What sort of corset may I show you?" he asks aloud, whispering

immediately: "Wipe your eyes!"

"I want . . . I want . . . size forty-eight centimetres. Only she

wanted one, lined . . . with real whalebone . . . I must talk to

you, Nikolay Timofeitch. Come to-day!"

"Talk? What about? There's nothing to talk about."

"You are the only person who . . . cares about me, and I've no one

to talk to but you."

"These are not reed or steel, but real whalebone. . . . What is

there for us to talk about? It's no use talking. . . . You are going

for a walk with him to-day, I suppose?"

"Yes; I . . . I am."

"Then what's the use of talking? Talk won't help. . . . You are in

love, aren't you?"

"Yes . . ." Polinka whispers hesitatingly, and big tears gush from

her eyes.

"What is there to say?" mutters Nikolay Timofeitch, shrugging his

shoulders nervously and turning pale. "There's no need of talk. . . .

Wipe your eyes, that's all. I . . . I ask for nothing."

At that moment a tall, lanky shopman comes up to the pyramid of

boxes, and says to his customer:

"Let me show you some good elastic garters that do not impede the

circulation, certified by medical authority . . ."

Nikolay Timofeitch screens Polinka, and, trying to conceal her

emotion and his own, wrinkles his face into a smile and says aloud:

"There are two kinds of lace, madam: cotton and silk! Oriental,

English, Valenciennes, crochet, torchon, are cotton. And rococo,

soutache, Cambray, are silk. . . . For God's sake, wipe your eyes!

They're coming this way!"

And seeing that her tears are still gushing he goes on louder than

ever:

"Spanish, Rococo, soutache, Cambray . . . stockings, thread, cotton,

silk . . ."