It had become distasteful to Laptev to be long at home. His wife
was constantly away in the lodge declaring that she had to look
after the little girls, but he knew that she did not go to the lodge
to give them lessons but to cry in Kostya's room. The ninth day
came, then the twentieth, and then the fortieth, and still he had
to go to the cemetery to listen to the requiem, and then to wear
himself out for a whole day and night thinking of nothing but that
unhappy baby, and trying to comfort his wife with all sorts of
commonplace expressions. He went rarely to the warehouse now, and
spent most of his time in charitable work, seizing upon every pretext
requiring his attention, and he was glad when he had for some trivial
reason to be out for the whole day. He had been intending of late
to go abroad, to study night-refuges, and that idea attracted him
now.
It was an autumn day. Yulia had just gone to the lodge to cry, while
Laptev lay on a sofa in the study thinking where he could go. Just
at that moment Pyotr announced Polina Razsudin. Laptev was delighted;
he leapt up and went to meet the unexpected visitor, who had been
his closest friend, though he had almost begun to forget her. She
had not changed in the least since that evening when he had seen
her for the last time, and was just the same as ever.
"Polina," he said, holding out both hands to her. "What ages! If
you only knew how glad I am to see you! Do come in!"
Polina greeted him, jerked him by the hand, and without taking off
her coat and hat, went into the study and sat down.
"I've come to you for one minute," she said. "I haven't time to
talk of any nonsense. Sit down and listen. Whether you are glad to
see me or not is absolutely nothing to me, for I don't care a straw
for the gracious attentions of you lords of creation. I've only
come to you because I've been to five other places already to-day,
and everywhere I was met with a refusal, and it's a matter that
can't be put off. Listen," she went on, looking into his face. "Five
students of my acquaintance, stupid, unintelligent people, but
certainly poor, have neglected to pay their fees, and are being
excluded from the university. Your wealth makes it your duty to go
straight to the university and pay for them."
"With pleasure, Polina."
"Here are their names," she said, giving him a list. "Go this minute;
you'll have plenty of time to enjoy your domestic happiness
afterwards."
At that moment a rustle was heard through the door that led into
the drawing-room; probably the dog was scratching itself. Polina
turned crimson and jumped up.
"Your Dulcinea's eavesdropping," she said. "That's horrid!"
Laptev was offended at this insult to Yulia.
"She's not here; she's in the lodge," he said. "And don't speak of
her like that. Our child is dead, and she is in great distress."
"You can console her," Polina scoffed, sitting down again; "she'll
have another dozen. You don't need much sense to bring children
into the world."
Laptev remembered that he had heard this, or something very like
it, many times in old days, and it brought back a whiff of the
romance of the past, of solitary freedom, of his bachelor life,
when he was young and thought he could do anything he chose, when
he had neither love for his wife nor memory of his baby.
"Let us go together," he said, stretching.
When they reached the university Polina waited at the gate, while
Laptev went into the office; he came back soon afterwards and handed
Polina five receipts.
"Where are you going now?" he asked.
"To Yartsev's."
"I'll come with you."
"But you'll prevent him from writing."
"No, I assure you I won't," he said, and looked at her imploringly.
She had on a black hat trimmed with crape, as though she were in
mourning, and a short, shabby coat, the pockets of which stuck out.
Her nose looked longer than it used to be, and her face looked
bloodless in spite of the cold. Laptev liked walking with her, doing
what she told him, and listening to her grumbling. He walked along
thinking about her, what inward strength there must be in this
woman, since, though she was so ugly, so angular, so restless,
though she did not know how to dress, and always had untidy hair,
and was always somehow out of harmony, she was yet so fascinating.
They went into Yartsev's flat by the back way through the kitchen,
where they were met by the cook, a clean little old woman with grey
curls; she was overcome with embarrassment, and with a honeyed smile
which made her little face look like a pie, said:
"Please walk in."
Yartsev was not at home. Polina sat down to the piano, and beginning
upon a tedious, difficult exercise, told Laptev not to hinder her.
And without distracting her attention by conversation, he sat on
one side and began turning over the pages of a "The Messenger of
Europe." After practising for two hours--it was the task she set
herself every day--she ate something in the kitchen and went out
to her lessons. Laptev read the continuation of a story, then sat
for a long time without reading and without being bored, glad to
think that he was too late for dinner at home.
"Ha, ha, ha!" came Yartsev's laugh, and he walked in with ruddy
cheeks, looking strong and healthy, wearing a new coat with bright
buttons. "Ha, ha, ha!"
The friends dined together. Then Laptev lay on the sofa while Yartsev
sat near and lighted a cigar. It got dark.
"I must be getting old," said Laptev. "Ever since my sister Nina
died, I've taken to constantly thinking of death."
They began talking of death, of the immortality of the soul, of how
nice it would be to rise again and fly off somewhere to Mars, to
be always idle and happy, and, above all, to think in a new special
way, not as on earth.
"One doesn't want to die," said Yartsev softly. "No sort of philosophy
can reconcile me to death, and I look on it simply as annihilation.
One wants to live."
"You love life, Gavrilitch?"
"Yes, I love it."
"Do you know, I can never understand myself about that. I'm always
in a gloomy mood or else indifferent. I'm timid, without self-confidence;
I have a cowardly conscience; I never can adapt myself to life, or
become its master. Some people talk nonsense or cheat, and even so
enjoy life, while I consciously do good, and feel nothing but
uneasiness or complete indifference. I explain all that, Gavrilitch,
by my being a slave, the grandson of a serf. Before we plebeians
fight our way into the true path, many of our sort will perish on
the way."
"That's all quite right, my dear fellow," said Yartsev, and he
sighed. "That only proves once again how rich and varied Russian
life is. Ah, how rich it is! Do you know, I feel more convinced
every day that we are on the eve of the greatest triumph, and I
should like to live to take part in it. Whether you like to believe
it or not, to my thinking a remarkable generation is growing up.
It gives me great enjoyment to teach the children, especially the
girls. They are wonderful children!"
Yartsev went to the piano and struck a chord.
"I'm a chemist, I think in chemical terms, and I shall die a chemist,"
he went on. "But I am greedy, and I am afraid of dying unsatisfied;
and chemistry is not enough for me, and I seize upon Russian history,
history of art, the science of teaching music. . . . Your wife asked
me in the summer to write an historical play, and now I'm longing
to write and write. I feel as though I could sit for three days and
three nights without moving, writing all the time. I am worn out
with ideas--my brain's crowded with them, and I feel as though
there were a pulse throbbing in my head. I don't in the least want
to become anything special, to create something great. I simply
want to live, to dream, to hope, to be in the midst of everything
. . . . Life is short, my dear fellow, and one must make the most of
everything."
After this friendly talk, which was not over till midnight, Laptev
took to coming to see Yartsev almost every day. He felt drawn to
him. As a rule he came towards evening, lay down on the sofa, and
waited patiently for Yartsev to come in, without feeling in the
least bored. When Yartsev came back from his work, he had dinner,
and sat down to work; but Laptev would ask him a question, a
conversation would spring up, and there was no more thought of work
and at midnight the friends parted very well pleased with one
another.
But this did not last long. Arriving one day at Yartsev's, Laptev
found no one there but Polina, who was sitting at the piano practising
her exercises. She looked at him with a cold, almost hostile
expression, and asked without shaking hands:
"Tell me, please: how much longer is this going on?"
"This? What?" asked Laptev, not understanding.
"You come here every day and hinder Yartsev from working. Yartsev
is not a tradesman; he is a scientific man, and every moment of his
life is precious. You ought to understand and to have some little
delicacy!"
"If you think that I hinder him," said Laptev, mildly, disconcerted,
"I will give up my visits."
"Quite right, too. You had better go, or he may be home in a minute
and find you here."
The tone in which this was said, and the indifference in Polina's
eyes, completely disconcerted him. She had absolutely no sort of
feeling for him now, except the desire that he should go as soon
as possible--and what a contrast it was to her old love for him!
He went out without shaking hands with her, and he fancied she would
call out to him, bring him back, but he heard the scales again, and
as he slowly went down the stairs he realised that he had become a
stranger to her now.
Three days later Yartsev came to spend the evening with him.
"I have news," he said, laughing. "Polina Nikolaevna has moved into
my rooms altogether." He was a little confused, and went on in a
low voice: "Well, we are not in love with each other, of course,
but I suppose that . . . that doesn't matter. I am glad I can give
her a refuge and peace and quiet, and make it possible for her not
to work if she's ill. She fancies that her coming to live with me
will make things more orderly, and that under her influence I shall
become a great scientist. That's what she fancies. And let her fancy
it. In the South they have a saying: 'Fancy makes the fool a rich
man.' Ha, ha, ha!"
Laptev said nothing. Yartsev walked up and down the study, looking
at the pictures he had seen so many times before, and said with a
sigh:
"Yes, my dear fellow, I am three years older than you are, and it's
too late for me to think of real love, and in reality a woman like
Polina Nikolaevna is a godsend to me, and, of course, I shall get
on capitally with her till we're both old people; but, goodness
knows why, one still regrets something, one still longs for something,
and I still feel as though I am lying in the Vale of Daghestan and
dreaming of a ball. In short, man's never satisfied with what he
has."
He went into the drawing-room and began singing as though nothing
had happened, and Laptev sat in his study with his eyes shut, and
tried to understand why Polina had gone to live with Yartsev. And
then he felt sad that there were no lasting, permanent attachments.
And he felt vexed that Polina Nikolaevna had gone to live with
Yartsev, and vexed with himself that his feeling for his wife was
not what it had been.