THE WIFE AND OTHER STORIES

By

Anton Tchekhov

THE TALES OF CHEKHOV VOLUME 5

Translated by CONSTANCE GARNETT

CONTENTS

 The Wife Difficult People The Grasshopper A Dreary Story The Privy Councillor The Man in Case Gooseberries About Love The Lottery Ticket

THE WIFE

I

I RECEIVED the following letter:

"DEAR SIR, PAVEL ANDREITCH!

"Not far from you--that is to say, in the village of Pestrovo--verydistressing incidents are taking place, concerning which I feel itmy duty to write to you. All the peasants of that village sold theircottages and all their belongings, and set off for the province ofTomsk, but did not succeed in getting there, and have come back. Here, of course, they have nothing now; everything belongs to other people. They have settled three or four families in a hut, so that there are noless than fifteen persons of both sexes in each hut, not counting theyoung children; and the long and the short of it is, there is nothingto eat. There is famine and there is a terrible pestilence of hunger, orspotted, typhus; literally every one is stricken. The doctor's assistantsays one goes into a cottage and what does one see? Every one is sick, every one delirious, some laughing, others frantic; the huts are filthy;there is no one to fetch them water, no one to give them a drink, andnothing to eat but frozen potatoes. What can Sobol (our Zemstvo doctor)and his lady assistant do when more than medicine the peasants needbread which they have not? The District Zemstvo refuses to assist them, on the ground that their names have been taken off the register of thisdistrict, and that they are now reckoned as inhabitants of Tomsk; and, besides, the Zemstvo has no money. 

"Laying these facts before you, and knowing your humanity, I beg you notto refuse immediate help. 

"Your well-wisher. "

Obviously the letter was written by the doctor with the animal name* orhis lady assistant. Zemstvo doctors and their assistants go on for yearsgrowing more and more convinced every day that they can do _nothing_, and yet continue to receive their salaries from people who are livingupon frozen potatoes, and consider they have a right to judge whether Iam humane or not. 

 *Sobol in Russian means "sable-marten. "--TRANSLATOR'S NOTE. 

Worried by the anonymous letter and by the fact that peasants came everymorning to the servants' kitchen and went down on their knees there, andthat twenty sacks of rye had been stolen at night out of the barn, thewall having first been broken in, and by the general depression whichwas fostered by conversations, newspapers, and horrible weather--worriedby all this, I worked listlessly and ineffectively. I was writing"A History of Railways"; I had to read a great number of Russianand foreign books, pamphlets, and articles in the magazines, to makecalculations, to refer to logarithms, to think and to write; then againto read, calculate, and think; but as soon as I took up a book or beganto think, my thoughts were in a muddle, my eyes began blinking, I wouldget up from the table with a sigh and begin walking about the big roomsof my deserted country-house. When I was tired of walking about I wouldstand still at my study window, and, looking across the wide courtyard, over the pond and the bare young birch-trees and the great fieldscovered with recently fallen, thawing snow, I saw on a low hill on thehorizon a group of mud-coloured huts from which a black muddy road randown in an irregular streak through the white field. That was Pestrovo, concerning which my anonymous correspondent had written to me. If it hadnot been for the crows who, foreseeing rain or snowy weather, floatedcawing over the pond and the fields, and the tapping in the carpenter'sshed, this bit of the world about which such a fuss was being madewould have seemed like the Dead Sea; it was all so still, motionless, lifeless, and dreary!

My uneasiness hindered me from working and concentrating myself; I didnot know what it was, and chose to believe it was disappointment. I hadactually given up my post in the Department of Ways and Communications, and had come here into the country expressly to live in peace andto devote myself to writing on social questions. It had long been mycherished dream. And now I had to say good-bye both to peace and toliterature, to give up everything and think only of the peasants. Andthat was inevitable, because I was convinced that there was absolutelynobody in the district except me to help the starving. The peoplesurrounding me were uneducated, unintellectual, callous, for the mostpart dishonest, or if they were honest, they were unreasonable andunpractical like my wife, for instance. It was impossible to rely onsuch people, it was impossible to leave the peasants to their fate, sothat the only thing left to do was to submit to necessity and see tosetting the peasants to rights myself. 

I began by making up my mind to give five thousand roubles to theassistance of the starving peasants. And that did not decrease, but onlyaggravated my uneasiness. As I stood by the window or walked aboutthe rooms I was tormented by the question which had not occurred to mebefore: how this money was to be spent. To have bread bought and to gofrom hut to hut distributing it was more than one man could do, to saynothing of the risk that in your haste you might give twice as much toone who was well-fed or to one who was making money out of his fellowsas to the hungry. I had no faith in the local officials. All thesedistrict captains and tax inspectors were young men, and I distrustedthem as I do all young people of today, who are materialistic andwithout ideals. The District Zemstvo, the Peasant Courts, and all thelocal institutions, inspired in me not the slightest desire to appeal tothem for assistance. I knew that all these institutions who were busilyengaged in picking out plums from the Zemstvo and the Government piehad their mouths always wide open for a bite at any other pie that mightturn up. 

The idea occurred to me to invite the neighbouring landowners andsuggest to them to organize in my house something like a committee ora centre to which all subscriptions could be forwarded, and fromwhich assistance and instructions could be distributed throughout thedistrict; such an organization, which would render possible frequentconsultations and free control on a big scale, would completely meetmy views. But I imagined the lunches, the dinners, the suppers and thenoise, the waste of time, the verbosity and the bad taste which thatmixed provincial company would inevitably bring into my house, and Imade haste to reject my idea. 

As for the members of my own household, the last thing I could lookfor was help or support from them. Of my father's household, of thehousehold of my childhood, once a big and noisy family, no one remainedbut the governess Mademoiselle Marie, or, as she was now called, MaryaGerasimovna, an absolutely insignificant person. She was a preciselittle old lady of seventy, who wore a light grey dress and a cap withwhite ribbons, and looked like a china doll. She always sat in thedrawing-room reading. 

Whenever I passed by her, she would say, knowing the reason for mybrooding:

"What can you expect, Pasha? I told you how it would be before. You canjudge from our servants. "

My wife, Natalya Gavrilovna, lived on the lower storey, all the rooms ofwhich she occupied. She slept, had her meals, and received her visitorsdownstairs in her own rooms, and took not the slightest interest in howI dined, or slept, or whom I saw. Our relations with one another weresimple and not strained, but cold, empty, and dreary as relations arebetween people who have been so long estranged, that even living underthe same roof gives no semblance of nearness. There was no trace now ofthe passionate and tormenting love--at one time sweet, at another bitteras wormwood--which I had once felt for Natalya Gavrilovna. Therewas nothing left, either, of the outbursts of the past--the loudaltercations, upbraidings, complaints, and gusts of hatred which hadusually ended in my wife's going abroad or to her own people, and in mysending money in small but frequent instalments that I might sting herpride oftener. (My proud and sensitive wife and her family live at myexpense, and much as she would have liked to do so, my wife could notrefuse my money: that afforded me satisfaction and was one comfort inmy sorrow. ) Now when we chanced to meet in the corridor downstairs or inthe yard, I bowed, she smiled graciously. We spoke of the weather, saidthat it seemed time to put in the double windows, and that some one withbells on their harness had driven over the dam. And at such times I readin her face: "I am faithful to you and am not disgracing your good namewhich you think so much about; you are sensible and do not worry me; weare quits. "

I assured myself that my love had died long ago, that I was too muchabsorbed in my work to think seriously of my relations with my wife. But, alas! that was only what I imagined. When my wife talked alouddownstairs I listened intently to her voice, though I could notdistinguish one word. When she played the piano downstairs I stood upand listened. When her carriage or her saddlehorse was brought to thedoor, I went to the window and waited to see her out of the house; thenI watched her get into her carriage or mount her horse and ride out ofthe yard. I felt that there was something wrong with me, and was afraidthe expression of my eyes or my face might betray me. I looked after mywife and then watched for her to come back that I might see againfrom the window her face, her shoulders, her fur coat, her hat. I feltdreary, sad, infinitely regretful, and felt inclined in her absence towalk through her rooms, and longed that the problem that my wife andI had not been able to solve because our characters were incompatible, should solve itself in the natural way as soon as possible--that is, that this beautiful woman of twenty-seven might make haste and grow old, and that my head might be grey and bald. 

One day at lunch my bailiff informed me that the Pestrovo peasantshad begun to pull the thatch off the roofs to feed their cattle. MaryaGerasimovna looked at me in alarm and perplexity. 

"What can I do?" I said to her. "One cannot fight single-handed, and Ihave never experienced such loneliness as I do now. I would give a greatdeal to find one man in the whole province on whom I could rely. "

"Invite Ivan Ivanitch, " said Marya Gerasimovna. 

"To be sure!" I thought, delighted. "That is an idea! _C'est raison_, "I hummed, going to my study to write to Ivan Ivanitch. "_C'est raison, c'est raison_. "

II

Of all the mass of acquaintances who, in this house twenty-five tothirty-five years ago, had eaten, drunk, masqueraded, fallen in love, married bored us with accounts of their splendid packs of hounds andhorses, the only one still living was Ivan Ivanitch Bragin. At one timehe had been very active, talkative, noisy, and given to falling in love, and had been famous for his extreme views and for the peculiar charm ofhis face, which fascinated men as well as women; now he was an old man, had grown corpulent, and was living out his days with neither views norcharm. He came the day after getting my letter, in the evening justas the samovar was brought into the dining-room and little MaryaGerasimovna had begun slicing the lemon. 

"I am very glad to see you, my dear fellow, " I said gaily, meeting him. "Why, you are stouter than ever. .. . "

"It isn't getting stout; it's swelling, " he answered. "The bees musthave stung me. "

With the familiarity of a man laughing at his own fatness, he put hisarms round my waist and laid on my breast his big soft head, with thehair combed down on the forehead like a Little Russian's, and went offinto a thin, aged laugh. 

"And you go on getting younger, " he said through his laugh. "I wonderwhat dye you use for your hair and beard; you might let me have some ofit. " Sniffing and gasping, he embraced me and kissed me on the cheek. "You might give me some of it, " he repeated. "Why, you are not forty, are you?"

"Alas, I am forty-six!" I said, laughing. 

Ivan Ivanitch smelt of tallow candles and cooking, and that suited him. His big, puffy, slow-moving body was swathed in a long frock-coat like acoachman's full coat, with a high waist, and with hooks and eyesinstead of buttons, and it would have been strange if he had smelt ofeau-de-Cologne, for instance. In his long, unshaven, bluish double chin, which looked like a thistle, his goggle eyes, his shortness of breath, and in the whole of his clumsy, slovenly figure, in his voice, hislaugh, and his words, it was difficult to recognize the graceful, interesting talker who used in old days to make the husbands of thedistrict jealous on account of their wives. 

"I am in great need of your assistance, my friend, " I said, when we weresitting in the dining-room, drinking tea. "I want to organize relief forthe starving peasants, and I don't know how to set about it. So perhapsyou will be so kind as to advise me. "

"Yes, yes, yes, " said Ivan Ivanitch, sighing. "To be sure, to be sure, to be sure. .. . "

"I would not have worried you, my dear fellow, but really there is noone here but you I can appeal to. You know what people are like abouthere. "

"To be sure, to be sure, to be sure. .. . Yes. "

I thought that as we were going to have a serious, business consultationin which any one might take part, regardless of their position orpersonal relations, why should I not invite Natalya Gavrilovna. 

"_Tres faciunt collegium_, " I said gaily. "What if we were to askNatalya Gavrilovna? What do you think? Fenya, " I said, turning to themaid, "ask Natalya Gavrilovna to come upstairs to us, if possible atonce. Tell her it's a very important matter. "

A little later Natalya Gavrilovna came in. I got up to meet her andsaid:

"Excuse us for troubling you, Natalie. We are discussing a veryimportant matter, and we had the happy thought that we might takeadvantage of your good advice, which you will not refuse to give us. Please sit down. "

Ivan Ivanitch kissed her hand while she kissed his forehead; then, when we all sat down to the table, he, looking at her tearfully andblissfully, craned forward to her and kissed her hand again. She wasdressed in black, her hair was carefully arranged, and she smelt offresh scent. She had evidently dressed to go out or was expectingsomebody. Coming into the dining-room, she held out her hand to me withsimple friendliness, and smiled to me as graciously as she did to IvanIvanitch--that pleased me; but as she talked she moved her fingers, often and abruptly leaned back in her chair and talked rapidly, and thisjerkiness in her words and movements irritated me and reminded me of hernative town--Odessa, where the society, men and women alike, had weariedme by its bad taste. 

"I want to do something for the famine-stricken peasants, " I began, andafter a brief pause I went on: "Money, of course, is a great thing, butto confine oneself to subscribing money, and with that to be satisfied, would be evading the worst of the trouble. Help must take the form ofmoney, but the most important thing is a proper and sound organization. Let us think it over, my friends, and do something. "

Natalya Gavrilovna looked at me inquiringly and shrugged her shouldersas though to say, "What do I know about it?"

"Yes, yes, famine. .. " muttered Ivan Ivanitch. "Certainly. .. Yes. "

"It's a serious position, " I said, "and assistance is needed as soon aspossible. I imagine the first point among the principles which we mustwork out ought to be promptitude. We must act on the military principlesof judgment, promptitude, and energy. "

"Yes, promptitude. .. " repeated Ivan Ivanitch in a drowsy and listlessvoice, as though he were dropping asleep. "Only one can't do anything. The crops have failed, and so what's the use of all your judgment andenergy?. .. It's the elements. .. . You can't go against God and fate. "

"Yes, but that's what man has a head for, to contend against theelements. "

"Eh? Yes. .. That's so, to be sure. .. . Yes. "

Ivan Ivanitch sneezed into his handkerchief, brightened up, and asthough he had just woken up, looked round at my wife and me. 

"My crops have failed, too. " He laughed a thin little laugh and gavea sly wink as though this were really funny. "No money, no corn, anda yard full of labourers like Count Sheremetyev's. I want to kick themout, but I haven't the heart to. "

Natalya Gavrilovna laughed, and began questioning him about his privateaffairs. Her presence gave me a pleasure such as I had not felt for along time, and I was afraid to look at her for fear my eyes would betraymy secret feeling. Our relations were such that that feeling might seemsurprising and ridiculous. 

She laughed and talked with Ivan Ivanitch without being in the leastdisturbed that she was in my room and that I was not laughing. 

"And so, my friends, what are we to do?" I asked after waiting for apause. "I suppose before we do anything else we had better immediatelyopen a subscription-list. We will write to our friends in the capitalsand in Odessa, Natalie, and ask them to subscribe. When we have gottogether a little sum we will begin buying corn and fodder for thecattle; and you, Ivan Ivanitch, will you be so kind as to undertakedistributing the relief? Entirely relying on your characteristic tactand efficiency, we will only venture to express a desire that before yougive any relief you make acquaintance with the details of the case onthe spot, and also, which is very important, you should be careful thatcorn should be distributed only to those who are in genuine need, andnot to the drunken, the idle, or the dishonest. "

"Yes, yes, yes. .. " muttered Ivan Ivanitch. "To be sure, to be sure. "

"Well, one won't get much done with that slobbering wreck, " I thought, and I felt irritated. 

"I am sick of these famine-stricken peasants, bother them! It's nothingbut grievances with them!" Ivan Ivanitch went on, sucking the rind ofthe lemon. "The hungry have a grievance against those who have enough, and those who have enough have a grievance against the hungry. Yes. .. Hunger stupefies and maddens a man and makes him savage; hunger is not apotato. When a man is starving he uses bad language, and steals, and maydo worse. .. . One must realize that. "

Ivan Ivanitch choked over his tea, coughed, and shook all over with asqueaky, smothered laughter. 

"'There was a battle at Pol. .. Poltava, '" he brought out, gesticulating with both hands in protest against the laughter andcoughing which prevented him from speaking. "'There was a battle atPoltava!' When three years after the Emancipation we had famine in twodistricts here, Fyodor Fyodoritch came and invited me to go to him. 'Come along, come along, ' he persisted, and nothing else would satisfyhim. 'Very well, let us go, ' I said. And, so we set off. It was in theevening; there was snow falling. Towards night we were getting near hisplace, and suddenly from the wood came 'bang!' and another time 'bang!''Oh, damn it all!'. .. I jumped out of the sledge, and I saw in thedarkness a man running up to me, knee-deep in the snow. I put my armround his shoulder, like this, and knocked the gun out of his hand. Thenanother one turned up; I fetched him a knock on the back of his head sothat he grunted and flopped with his nose in the snow. I was a sturdychap then, my fist was heavy; I disposed of two of them, and when Iturned round Fyodor was sitting astride of a third. We did not let ourthree fine fellows go; we tied their hands behind their backs so thatthey might not do us or themselves any harm, and took the fools into thekitchen. We were angry with them and at the same time ashamed to look atthem; they were peasants we knew, and were good fellows; we were sorryfor them. They were quite stupid with terror. One was crying and beggingour pardon, the second looked like a wild beast and kept swearing, thethird knelt down and began to pray. I said to Fedya: 'Don't bear thema grudge; let them go, the rascals!' He fed them, gave them a bushel offlour each, and let them go: 'Get along with you, ' he said. So that'swhat he did. .. . The Kingdom of Heaven be his and everlasting peace! Heunderstood and did not bear them a grudge; but there were some who did, and how many people they ruined! Yes. .. Why, over the affair at theKlotchkovs' tavern eleven men were sent to the disciplinary battalion. Yes. .. . And now, look, it's the same thing. Anisyin, the investigatingmagistrate, stayed the night with me last Thursday, and he told me aboutsome landowner. .. . Yes. .. . They took the wall of his barn to pieces atnight and carried off twenty sacks of rye. When the gentleman heard thatsuch a crime had been committed, he sent a telegram to the Governorand another to the police captain, another to the investigatingmagistrate!. .. Of course, every one is afraid of a man who is fond oflitigation. The authorities were in a flutter and there was a generalhubbub. Two villages were searched. "

"Excuse me, Ivan Ivanitch, " I said. "Twenty sacks of rye were stolenfrom me, and it was I who telegraphed to the Governor. I telegraphed toPetersburg, too. But it was by no means out of love for litigation, asyou are pleased to express it, and not because I bore them a grudge. I look at every subject from the point of view of principle. From thepoint of view of the law, theft is the same whether a man is hungry ornot. "

"Yes, yes. .. " muttered Ivan Ivanitch in confusion. "Of course. .. To besure, yes. "

Natalya Gavrilovna blushed. 

"There are people. .. " she said and stopped; she made an effort to seemindifferent, but she could not keep it up, and looked into my eyes withthe hatred that I know so well. "There are people, " she said, "for whomfamine and human suffering exist simply that they may vent their hatefuland despicable temperaments upon them. "

I was confused and shrugged my shoulders. 

"I meant to say generally, " she went on, "that there are people who arequite indifferent and completely devoid of all feeling of sympathy, yet who do not pass human suffering by, but insist on meddling for fearpeople should be able to do without them. Nothing is sacred for theirvanity. "

"There are people, " I said softly, "who have an angelic character, butwho express their glorious ideas in such a form that it is difficult todistinguish the angel from an Odessa market-woman. "

I must confess it was not happily expressed. 

My wife looked at me as though it cost her a great effort to hold hertongue. Her sudden outburst, and then her inappropriate eloquence on thesubject of my desire to help the famine-stricken peasants, were, to saythe least, out of place; when I had invited her to come upstairs I hadexpected quite a different attitude to me and my intentions. I cannotsay definitely what I had expected, but I had been agreeably agitated bythe expectation. Now I saw that to go on speaking about the famine wouldbe difficult and perhaps stupid. 

"Yes. .. " Ivan Ivanitch muttered inappropriately. "Burov, the merchant, must have four hundred thousand at least. I said to him: 'Hand over oneor two thousand to the famine. You can't take it with you when you die, anyway. ' He was offended. But we all have to die, you know. Death is nota potato. "

A silence followed again. 

"So there's nothing left for me but to reconcile myself to loneliness, "I sighed. "One cannot fight single-handed. Well, I will trysingle-handed. Let us hope that my campaign against the famine will bemore successful than my campaign against indifference. "

"I am expected downstairs, " said Natalya Gavrilovna. 

She got up from the table and turned to Ivan Ivanitch. 

"So you will look in upon me downstairs for a minute? I won't saygood-bye to you. "

And she went away. 

Ivan Ivanitch was now drinking his seventh glass of tea, choking, smacking his lips, and sucking sometimes his moustache, sometimes thelemon. He was muttering something drowsily and listlessly, and I didnot listen but waited for him to go. At last, with an expression thatsuggested that he had only come to me to take a cup of tea, he got upand began to take leave. As I saw him out I said:

"And so you have given me no advice. "

"Eh? I am a feeble, stupid old man, " he answered. "What use would myadvice be? You shouldn't worry yourself. .. . I really don't know why youworry yourself. Don't disturb yourself, my dear fellow! Upon my word, there's no need, " he whispered genuinely and affectionately, soothing meas though I were a child. "Upon my word, there's no need. "

"No need? Why, the peasants are pulling the thatch off their huts, andthey say there is typhus somewhere already. "

"Well, what of it? If there are good crops next year, they'll thatchthem again, and if we die of typhus others will live after us. Anyway, we have to die--if not now, later. Don't worry yourself, my dear. "

"I can't help worrying myself, " I said irritably. 

We were standing in the dimly lighted vestibule. Ivan Ivanitch suddenlytook me by the elbow, and, preparing to say something evidently veryimportant, looked at me in silence for a couple of minutes. 

"Pavel Andreitch!" he said softly, and suddenly in his puffy, set faceand dark eyes there was a gleam of the expression for which he had oncebeen famous and which was truly charming. "Pavel Andreitch, I speak toyou as a friend: try to be different! One is ill at ease with you, mydear fellow, one really is!"

He looked intently into my face; the charming expression faded away, hiseyes grew dim again, and he sniffed and muttered feebly:

"Yes, yes. .. . Excuse an old man. .. . It's all nonsense. .. Yes. "

As he slowly descended the staircase, spreading out his hands to balancehimself and showing me his huge, bulky back and red neck, he gave me theunpleasant impression of a sort of crab. 

"You ought to go away, your Excellency, " he muttered. "To Petersburg orabroad. .. . Why should you live here and waste your golden days? You areyoung, wealthy, and healthy. .. . Yes. .. . Ah, if I were younger I wouldwhisk away like a hare, and snap my fingers at everything. "

III

My wife's outburst reminded me of our married life together. In old daysafter every such outburst we felt irresistibly drawn to each other;we would meet and let off all the dynamite that had accumulated in oursouls. And now after Ivan Ivanitch had gone away I had a strong impulseto go to my wife. I wanted to go downstairs and tell her that herbehaviour at tea had been an insult to me, that she was cruel, petty, and that her plebeian mind had never risen to a comprehension of what_I_ was saying and of what _I_ was doing. I walked about the rooms along time thinking of what I would say to her and trying to guess whatshe would say to me. 

That evening, after Ivan Ivanitch went away, I felt in a peculiarlyirritating form the uneasiness which had worried me of late. I couldnot sit down or sit still, but kept walking about in the rooms that werelighted up and keeping near to the one in which Marya Gerasimovna wassitting. I had a feeling very much like that which I had on the NorthSea during a storm when every one thought that our ship, which had nofreight nor ballast, would overturn. And that evening I understood thatmy uneasiness was not disappointment, as I had supposed, but a differentfeeling, though what exactly I could not say, and that irritated me morethan ever. 

"I will go to her, " I decided. "I can think of a pretext. I shall saythat I want to see Ivan Ivanitch; that will be all. "

I went downstairs and walked without haste over the carpeted floorthrough the vestibule and the hall. Ivan Ivanitch was sitting on thesofa in the drawing-room; he was drinking tea again and mutteringsomething. My wife was standing opposite to him and holding on to theback of a chair. There was a gentle, sweet, and docile expression on herface, such as one sees on the faces of people listening to crazy saintsor holy men when a peculiar hidden significance is imagined in theirvague words and mutterings. There was something morbid, something ofa nun's exaltation, in my wife's expression and attitude; and herlow-pitched, half-dark rooms with their old-fashioned furniture, withher birds asleep in their cages, and with a smell of geranium, remindedme of the rooms of some abbess or pious old lady. 

I went into the drawing-room. My wife showed neither surprise norconfusion, and looked at me calmly and serenely, as though she had knownI should come. 

"I beg your pardon, " I said softly. "I am so glad you have not gone yet, Ivan Ivanitch. I forgot to ask you, do you know the Christian name ofthe president of our Zemstvo?"

"Andrey Stanislavovitch. Yes. .. . "

"_Merci_, " I said, took out my notebook, and wrote it down. 

There followed a silence during which my wife and Ivan Ivanitch wereprobably waiting for me to go; my wife did not believe that I wanted toknow the president's name--I saw that from her eyes. 

"Well, I must be going, my beauty, " muttered Ivan Ivanitch, after Ihad walked once or twice across the drawing-room and sat down by thefireplace. 

"No, " said Natalya Gavrilovna quickly, touching his hand. "Stay anotherquarter of an hour. .. . Please do!"

Evidently she did not wish to be left alone with me without a witness. 

"Oh, well, I'll wait a quarter of an hour, too, " I thought. 

"Why, it's snowing!" I said, getting up and looking out of window. "Agood fall of snow! Ivan Ivanitch"--I went on walking about the room--"Ido regret not being a sportsman. I can imagine what a pleasure it mustbe coursing hares or hunting wolves in snow like this!"

My wife, standing still, watched my movements, looking out of the cornerof her eyes without turning her head. She looked as though she thought Ihad a sharp knife or a revolver in my pocket. 

"Ivan Ivanitch, do take me out hunting some day, " I went on softly. "Ishall be very, very grateful to you. "

At that moment a visitor came into the room. He was a tall, thick-setgentleman whom I did not know, with a bald head, a big fair beard, andlittle eyes. From his baggy, crumpled clothes and his manners I took himto be a parish clerk or a teacher, but my wife introduced him to me asDr. Sobol. 

"Very, very glad to make your acquaintance, " said the doctor in a loudtenor voice, shaking hands with me warmly, with a naive smile. "Veryglad!"

He sat down at the table, took a glass of tea, and said in a loud voice:

"Do you happen to have a drop of rum or brandy? Have pity on me, Olya, and look in the cupboard; I am frozen, " he said, addressing the maid. 

I sat down by the fire again, looked on, listened, and from time to timeput in a word in the general conversation. My wife smiled graciouslyto the visitors and kept a sharp lookout on me, as though I were awild beast. She was oppressed by my presence, and this aroused in mejealousy, annoyance, and an obstinate desire to wound her. "Wife, thesesnug rooms, the place by the fire, " I thought, "are mine, have been minefor years, but some crazy Ivan Ivanitch or Sobol has for some reasonmore right to them than I. Now I see my wife, not out of window, butclose at hand, in ordinary home surroundings that I feel the want of nowI am growing older, and, in spite of her hatred for me, I miss her asyears ago in my childhood I used to miss my mother and my nurse. AndI feel that now, on the verge of old age, my love for her is purer andloftier than it was in the past; and that is why I want to go up to her, to stamp hard on her toe with my heel, to hurt her and smile as I doit. "

"Monsieur Marten, " I said, addressing the doctor, "how many hospitalshave we in the district?"

"Sobol, " my wife corrected. 

"Two, " answered Sobol. 

"And how many deaths are there every year in each hospital?"

"Pavel Andreitch, I want to speak to you, " said my wife. 

She apologized to the visitors and went to the next room. I got up andfollowed her. 

"You will go upstairs to your own rooms this minute, " she said. 

"You are ill-bred, " I said to her. 

"You will go upstairs to your own rooms this very minute, " she repeatedsharply, and she looked into my face with hatred. 

She was standing so near that if I had stooped a little my beard wouldhave touched her face. 

"What is the matter?" I asked. "What harm have I done all at once?"

Her chin quivered, she hastily wiped her eyes, and, with a cursoryglance at the looking-glass, whispered:

"The old story is beginning all over again. Of course you won't go away. Well, do as you like. I'll go away myself, and you stay. "

We returned to the drawing-room, she with a resolute face, whileI shrugged my shoulders and tried to smile. There were some morevisitors--an elderly lady and a young man in spectacles. Withoutgreeting the new arrivals or taking leave of the others, I went off tomy own rooms. 

After what had happened at tea and then again downstairs, it becameclear to me that our "family happiness, " which we had begun to forgetabout in the course of the last two years, was through some absurd andtrivial reason beginning all over again, and that neither I nor mywife could now stop ourselves; and that next day or the day after, theoutburst of hatred would, as I knew by experience of past years, befollowed by something revolting which would upset the whole order of ourlives. "So it seems that during these two years we have grown no wiser, colder, or calmer, " I thought as I began walking about the rooms. "Sothere will again be tears, outcries, curses, packing up, going abroad, then the continual sickly fear that she will disgrace me with somecoxcomb out there, Italian or Russian, refusing a passport, letters, utter loneliness, missing her, and in five years old age, grey hairs. "I walked about, imagining what was really impossible--her, grownhandsomer, stouter, embracing a man I did not know. By now convincedthat that would certainly happen, "'Why, " I asked myself, "Why, in oneof our long past quarrels, had not I given her a divorce, or why had shenot at that time left me altogether? I should not have had this yearningfor her now, this hatred, this anxiety; and I should have lived out mylife quietly, working and not worrying about anything. "

A carriage with two lamps drove into the yard, then a big sledge withthree horses. My wife was evidently having a party. 

Till midnight everything was quiet downstairs and I heard nothing, but at midnight there was a sound of moving chairs and a clatter ofcrockery. So there was supper. Then the chairs moved again, and throughthe floor I heard a noise; they seemed to be shouting hurrah. MaryaGerasimovna was already asleep and I was quite alone in the whole upperstorey; the portraits of my forefathers, cruel, insignificant people, looked at me from the walls of the drawing-room, and the reflectionof my lamp in the window winked unpleasantly. And with a feeling ofjealousy and envy for what was going on downstairs, I listened andthought: "I am master here; if I like, I can in a moment turn out allthat fine crew. " But I knew that all that was nonsense, that I could notturn out any one, and the word "master" had no meaning. One may thinkoneself master, married, rich, a kammer-junker, as much as one likes, and at the same time not know what it means. 

After supper some one downstairs began singing in a tenor voice. 

"Why, nothing special has happened, " I tried to persuade myself. "Why amI so upset? I won't go downstairs tomorrow, that's all; and that will bethe end of our quarrel. "

At a quarter past one I went to bed. 

"Have the visitors downstairs gone?" I asked Alexey as he was undressingme. 

"Yes, sir, they've gone. "

"And why were they shouting hurrah?"

"Alexey Dmitritch Mahonov subscribed for the famine fund a thousandbushels of flour and a thousand roubles. And the old lady--I don't knowher name--promised to set up a soup kitchen on her estate to feed ahundred and fifty people. Thank God. .. Natalya Gavrilovna has beenpleased to arrange that all the gentry should assemble every Friday. "

"To assemble here, downstairs?"

"Yes, sir. Before supper they read a list: since August up to todayNatalya Gavrilovna has collected eight thousand roubles, besides corn. Thank God. .. . What I think is that if our mistress does take trouble forthe salvation of her soul, she will soon collect a lot. There are plentyof rich people here. "

Dismissing Alexey, I put out the light and drew the bedclothes over myhead. 

"After all, why am I so troubled?" I thought. "What force draws me tothe starving peasants like a butterfly to a flame? I don't know them, Idon't understand them; I have never seen them and I don't like them. Whythis uneasiness?"

I suddenly crossed myself under the quilt. 

"But what a woman she is!" I said to myself, thinking of my wife. "There's a regular committee held in the house without my knowing. Why this secrecy? Why this conspiracy? What have I done to them? IvanIvanitch is right--I must go away. "

Next morning I woke up firmly resolved to go away. The events of theprevious day--the conversation at tea, my wife, Sobol, the supper, myapprehensions--worried me, and I felt glad to think of getting away fromthe surroundings which reminded me of all that. While I was drinking mycoffee the bailiff gave me a long report on various matters. The mostagreeable item he saved for the last. 

"The thieves who stole our rye have been found, " he announced with asmile. "The magistrate arrested three peasants at Pestrovo yesterday. "

"Go away!" I shouted at him; and a propos of nothing, I picked up thecake-basket and flung it on the floor. 

IV

After lunch I rubbed my hands, and thought I must go to my wife and tellher that I was going away. Why? Who cared? Nobody cares, I answered, butwhy shouldn't I tell her, especially as it would give her nothing butpleasure? Besides, to go away after our yesterday's quarrel withoutsaying a word would not be quite tactful: she might think that I wasfrightened of her, and perhaps the thought that she has driven me out ofmy house may weigh upon her. It would be just as well, too, to tell herthat I subscribe five thousand, and to give her some advice aboutthe organization, and to warn her that her inexperience in such acomplicated and responsible matter might lead to most lamentableresults. In short, I wanted to see my wife, and while I thought ofvarious pretexts for going to her, I had a firm conviction in my heartthat I should do so. 

It was still light when I went in to her, and the lamps had not yet beenlighted. She was sitting in her study, which led from the drawing-roomto her bedroom, and, bending low over the table, was writing somethingquickly. Seeing me, she started, got up from the table, and remainedstanding in an attitude such as to screen her papers from me. 

"I beg your pardon, I have only come for a minute, " I said, and, I don'tknow why, I was overcome with embarrassment. "I have learnt by chancethat you are organizing relief for the famine, Natalie. "

"Yes, I am. But that's my business, " she answered. 

"Yes, it is your business, " I said softly. "I am glad of it, for it justfits in with my intentions. I beg your permission to take part in it. "

"Forgive me, I cannot let you do it, " she said in response, and lookedaway. 

"Why not, Natalie?" I said quietly. "Why not? I, too, am well fed and I, too, want to help the hungry. "

"I don't know what it has to do with you, " she said with a contemptuoussmile, shrugging her shoulders. "Nobody asks you. "

"Nobody asks you, either, and yet you have got up a regular committee in_my_ house, " I said. 

"I am asked, but you can have my word for it no one will ever ask you. Go and help where you are not known. "

"For God's sake, don't talk to me in that tone. " I tried to be mild, andbesought myself most earnestly not to lose my temper. For the first fewminutes I felt glad to be with my wife. I felt an atmosphere of youth, of home, of feminine softness, of the most refined elegance--exactlywhat was lacking on my floor and in my life altogether. My wife waswearing a pink flannel dressing-gown; it made her look much younger, and gave a softness to her rapid and sometimes abrupt movements. Herbeautiful dark hair, the mere sight of which at one time stirred me topassion, had from sitting so long with her head bent c ome loose fromthe comb and was untidy, but, to my eyes, that only made it look morerich and luxuriant. All this, though is banal to the point of vulgarity. Before me stood an ordinary woman, perhaps neither beautiful norelegant, but this was my wife with whom I had once lived, and withwhom I should have been living to this day if it had not been for herunfortunate character; she was the one human being on the terrestrialglobe whom I loved. At this moment, just before going away, when I knewthat I should no longer see her even through the window, she seemed tome fascinating even as she was, cold and forbidding, answering me witha proud and contemptuous mockery. I was proud of her, and confessed tomyself that to go away from her was terrible and impossible. 

"Pavel Andreitch, " she said after a brief silence, "for two years wehave not interfered with each other but have lived quietly. Why do yousuddenly feel it necessary to go back to the past? Yesterday you came toinsult and humiliate me, " she went on, raising her voice, and her faceflushed and her eyes flamed with hatred; "but restrain yourself; do notdo it, Pavel Andreitch! Tomorrow I will send in a petition and they willgive me a passport, and I will go away; I will go! I will go! I'll gointo a convent, into a widows' home, into an almshouse. .. . "

"Into a lunatic asylum!" I cried, not able to restrain myself. 

"Well, even into a lunatic asylum! That would be better, that would bebetter, " she cried, with flashing eyes. "When I was in Pestrovo today Ienvied the sick and starving peasant women because they are not livingwith a man like you. They are free and honest, while, thanks to you, I am a parasite, I am perishing in idleness, I eat your bread, I spendyour money, and I repay you with my liberty and a fidelity which is ofno use to any one. Because you won't give me a passport, I must respectyour good name, though it doesn't exist. "

I had to keep silent. Clenching my teeth, I walked quickly into thedrawing-room, but turned back at once and said:

"I beg you earnestly that there should be no more assemblies, plots, and meetings of conspirators in my house! I only admit to my house thosewith whom I am acquainted, and let all your crew find another placeto do it if they want to take up philanthropy. I can't allow people atmidnight in my house to be shouting hurrah at successfully exploiting anhysterical woman like you!"

My wife, pale and wringing her hands, took a rapid stride across theroom, uttering a prolonged moan as though she had toothache. With a waveof my hand, I went into the drawing-room. I was choking with rage, andat the same time I was trembling with terror that I might not restrainmyself, and that I might say or do something which I might regret all mylife. And I clenched my hands tight, hoping to hold myself in. 

After drinking some water and recovering my calm a little, I went backto my wife. She was standing in the same attitude as before, as thoughbarring my approach to the table with the papers. Tears were slowlytrickling down her pale, cold face. I paused then and said to herbitterly but without anger:

"How you misunderstand me! How unjust you are to me! I swear upon myhonour I came to you with the best of motives, with nothing but thedesire to do good!"

"Pavel Andreitch!" she said, clasping her hands on her bosom, and herface took on the agonized, imploring expression with which frightened, weeping children beg not to be punished, "I know perfectly well thatyou will refuse me, but still I beg you. Force yourself to do one kindaction in your life. I entreat you, go away from here! That's the onlything you can do for the starving peasants. Go away, and I will forgiveyou everything, everything!"

"There is no need for you to insult me, Natalie, " I sighed, feeling asudden rush of humility. "I had already made up my mind to go away, butI won't go until I have done something for the peasants. It's my duty!"

"Ach!" she said softly with an impatient frown. "You can make anexcellent bridge or railway, but you can do nothing for the starvingpeasants. Do understand!"

"Indeed? Yesterday you reproached me with indifference and with beingdevoid of the feeling of compassion. How well you know me!" I laughed. "You believe in God--well, God is my witness that I am worried day andnight. .. . "

"I see that you are worried, but the famine and compassion have nothingto do with it. You are worried because the starving peasants can geton without you, and because the Zemstvo, and in fact every one who ishelping them, does not need your guidance. "

I was silent, trying to suppress my irritation. Then I said:

"I came to speak to you on business. Sit down. Please sit down. "

She did not sit down. 

"I beg you to sit down, " I repeated, and I motioned her to a chair. 

She sat down. I sat down, too, thought a little, and said:

"I beg you to consider earnestly what I am saying. Listen. .. . Moved bylove for your fellow-creatures, you have undertaken the organization offamine relief. I have nothing against that, of course; I am completelyin sympathy with you, and am prepared to co-operate with you in everyway, whatever our relations may be. But, with all my respect for yourmind and your heart. .. And your heart, " I repeated, "I cannot allowsuch a difficult, complex, and responsible matter as the organizationof relief to be left in your hands entirely. You are a woman, you areinexperienced, you know nothing of life, you are too confiding andexpansive. You have surrounded yourself with assistants whom youknow nothing about. I am not exaggerating if I say that underthese conditions your work will inevitably lead to two deplorableconsequences. To begin with, our district will be left unrelieved;and, secondly, you will have to pay for your mistakes and those of yourassistants, not only with your purse, but with your reputation. Themoney deficit and other losses I could, no doubt, make good, butwho could restore you your good name? When through lack of propersupervision and oversight there is a rumour that you, and consequentlyI, have made two hundred thousand over the famine fund, will yourassistants come to your aid?"

She said nothing. 

"Not from vanity, as you say, " I went on, "but simply that the starvingpeasants may not be left unrelieved and your reputation may not beinjured, I feel it my moral duty to take part in your work. "

"Speak more briefly, " said my wife. 

"You will be so kind, " I went on, "as to show me what has beensubscribed so far and what you have spent. Then inform me daily of everyfresh subscription in money or kind, and of every fresh outlay. You willalso give me, Natalie, the list of your helpers. Perhaps they are quitedecent people; I don't doubt it; but, still, it is absolutely necessaryto make inquiries. "

She was silent. I got up, and walked up and down the room. 

"Let us set to work, then, " I said, and I sat down to her table. 

"Are you in earnest?" she asked, looking at me in alarm andbewilderment. 

"Natalie, do be reasonable!" I said appealingly, seeing from her facethat she meant to protest. "I beg you, trust my experience and my senseof honour. "

"I don't understand what you want. "

"Show me how much you have collected and how much you have spent. "

"I have no secrets. Any one may see. Look. "

On the table lay five or six school exercise books, several sheets ofnotepaper covered with writing, a map of the district, and a number ofpieces of paper of different sizes. It was getting dusk. I lighted acandle. 

"Excuse me, I don't see anything yet, " I said, turning over the leavesof the exercise books. "Where is the account of the receipt of moneysubscriptions?"

"That can be seen from the subscription lists. "

"Yes, but you must have an account, " I said, smiling at her naivete. "Where are the letters accompanying the subscriptions in money or inkind? _Pardon_, a little practical advice, Natalie: it's absolutelynecessary to keep those letters. You ought to number each letter andmake a special note of it in a special record. You ought to do the samewith your own letters. But I will do all that myself. "

"Do so, do so. .. " she said. 

I was very much pleased with myself. Attracted by this livinginteresting work, by the little table, the naive exercise books and thecharm of doing this work in my wife's society, I was afraid that my wifewould suddenly hinder me and upset everything by some sudden whim, andso I was in haste and made an effort to attach no consequence to thefact that her lips were quivering, and that she was looking about herwith a helpless and frightened air like a wild creature in a trap. 

"I tell you what, Natalie, " I said without looking at her; "let me takeall these papers and exercise books upstairs to my study. There I willlook through them and tell you what I think about it tomorrow. Have youany more papers?" I asked, arranging the exercise books and sheets ofpapers in piles. 

"Take them, take them all!" said my wife, helping me to arrange them, and big tears ran down her cheeks. "Take it all! That's all that wasleft me in life. .. . Take the last. "

"Ach! Natalie, Natalie!" I sighed reproachfully. 

She opened the drawer in the table and began flinging the papers outof it on the table at random, poking me in the chest with her elbowand brushing my face with her hair; as she did so, copper coins keptdropping upon my knees and on the floor. 

"Take everything!" she said in a husky voice. 

When she had thrown out the papers she walked away from me, and puttingboth hands to her head, she flung herself on the couch. I picked up themoney, put it back in the drawer, and locked it up that the servantsmight not be led into dishonesty; then I gathered up all the papers andwent off with them. As I passed my wife I stopped and, looking at herback and shaking shoulders, I said:

"What a baby you are, Natalie! Fie, fie! Listen, Natalie: when yourealize how serious and responsible a business it is you will be thefirst to thank me. I assure you you will. "

In my own room I set to work without haste. The exercise books were notbound, the pages were not numbered. The entries were put in all sortsof handwritings; evidently any one who liked had a hand in managing thebooks. In the record of the subscriptions in kind there was no note oftheir money value. But, excuse me, I thought, the rye which is now worthone rouble fifteen kopecks may be worth two roubles fifteen kopecks intwo months' time! Was that the way to do things? Then, "Given to A. M. Sobol 32 roubles. " When was it given? For what purpose was it given?Where was the receipt? There was nothing to show, and no making anythingof it. In case of legal proceedings, these papers would only obscure thecase. 

"How naive she is!" I thought with surprise. "What a child!"

I felt both vexed and amused. 

V

My wife had already collected eight thousand; with my five it would bethirteen thousand. For a start that was very good. The business whichhad so worried and interested me was at last in my hands; I was doingwhat the others would not and could not do; I was doing my duty, organizing the relief fund in a practical and business-like way. 

Everything seemed to be going in accordance with my desires andintentions; but why did my feeling of uneasiness persist? I spent fourhours over my wife's papers, making out their meaning and correcting hermistakes, but instead of feeling soothed, I felt as though some one werestanding behind me and rubbing my back with a rough hand. What was itI wanted? The organization of the relief fund had come into trustworthyhands, the hungry would be fed--what more was wanted?

The four hours of this light work for some reason exhausted me, so thatI could not sit bending over the table nor write. From below I heardfrom time to time a smothered moan; it was my wife sobbing. Alexey, invariably meek, sleepy, and sanctimonious, kept coming up to the tableto see to the candles, and looked at me somewhat strangely. 

"Yes, I must go away, " I decided at last, feeling utterly exhausted. "As far as possible from these agreeable impressions! I will set offtomorrow. "

I gathered together the papers and exercise books, and went down to mywife. As, feeling quite worn out and shattered, I held the papers andthe exercise books to my breast with both hands, and passing throughmy bedroom saw my trunks, the sound of weeping reached me through thefloor. 

"Are you a kammer-junker?" a voice whispered in my ear. "That's a verypleasant thing. But yet you are a reptile. "

"It's all nonsense, nonsense, nonsense, " I muttered as I wentdownstairs. "Nonsense. .. And it's nonsense, too, that I am actuatedby vanity or a love of display. .. . What rubbish! Am I going to get adecoration for working for the peasants or be made the director of adepartment? Nonsense, nonsense! And who is there to show off to here inthe country?"

I was tired, frightfully tired, and something kept whispering in myear: "Very pleasant. But, still, you are a reptile. " For some reason Iremembered a line out of an old poem I knew as a child: "How pleasant itis to be good!"

My wife was lying on the couch in the same attitude, on her face andwith her hands clutching her head. She was crying. A maid was standingbeside her with a perplexed and frightened face. I sent the maid away, laid the papers on the table, thought a moment and said:

"Here are all your papers, Natalie. It's all in order, it's all capital, and I am very much pleased. I am going away tomorrow. "

She went on crying. I went into the drawing-room and sat there in thedark. My wife's sobs, her sighs, accused me of something, and to justifymyself I remembered the whole of our quarrel, starting from my unhappyidea of inviting my wife to our consultation and ending with theexercise books and these tears. It was an ordinary attack of ourconjugal hatred, senseless and unseemly, such as had been frequentduring our married life, but what had the starving peasants to do withit? How could it have happened that they had become a bone ofcontention between us? It was just as though pursuing one another we hadaccidentally run up to the altar and had carried on a quarrel there. 

"Natalie, " I said softly from the drawing-room, "hush, hush!"

To cut short her weeping and make an end of this agonizing state ofaffairs, I ought to have gone up to my wife and comforted her, caressedher, or apologized; but how could I do it so that she would believe me?How could I persuade the wild duck, living in captivity and hating me, that it was dear to me, and that I felt for its sufferings? I had neverknown my wife, so I had never known how to talk to her or what totalk about. Her appearance I knew very well and appreciated it as itdeserved, but her spiritual, moral world, her mind, her outlook on life, her frequent changes of mood, her eyes full of hatred, her disdain, the scope and variety of her reading which sometimes struck me, or, for instance, the nun-like expression I had seen on her face the daybefore--all that was unknown and incomprehensible to me. When in mycollisions with her I tried to define what sort of a person she was, my psychology went no farther than deciding that she was giddy, impractical, ill-tempered, guided by feminine logic; and it seemed tome that that was quite sufficient. But now that she was crying I had apassionate desire to know more. 

The weeping ceased. I went up to my wife. She sat up on the couch, and, with her head propped in both hands, looked fixedly and dreamily at thefire. 

"I am going away tomorrow morning, " I said. 

She said nothing. I walked across the room, sighed, and said:

"Natalie, when you begged me to go away, you said: 'I will forgive youeverything, everything'. .. . So you think I have wronged you. I beg youcalmly and in brief terms to formulate the wrong I've done you. "

"I am worn out. Afterwards, some time. .. " said my wife. 

"How am I to blame?" I went on. "What have I done? Tell me: you areyoung and beautiful, you want to live, and I am nearly twice your ageand hated by you, but is that my fault? I didn't marry you by force. Butif you want to live in freedom, go; I'll give you your liberty. You cango and love whom you please. .. . I will give you a divorce. "

"That's not what I want, " she said. "You know I used to love you andalways thought of myself as older than you. That's all nonsense. .. . You are not to blame for being older or for my being younger, or that Imight be able to love some one else if I were free; but because you area difficult person, an egoist, and hate every one. "

"Perhaps so. I don't know, " I said. 

"Please go away. You want to go on at me till the morning, but I warnyou I am quite worn out and cannot answer you. You promised me to go totown. I am very grateful; I ask nothing more. "

My wife wanted me to go away, but it was not easy for me to do that. Iwas dispirited and I dreaded the big, cheerless, chill rooms that I wasso weary of. Sometimes when I had an ache or a pain as a child, I usedto huddle up to my mother or my nurse, and when I hid my face in thewarm folds of their dress, it seemed to me as though I were hiding fromthe pain. And in the same way it seemed to me now that I could only hidefrom my uneasiness in this little room beside my wife. I sat downand screened away the light from my eyes with my hand. .. . There was astillness. 

"How are you to blame?" my wife said after a long silence, looking at mewith red eyes that gleamed with tears. "You are very well educated andvery well bred, very honest, just, and high-principled, but in youthe effect of all that is that wherever you go you bring suffocation, oppression, something insulting and humiliating to the utmost degree. You have a straightforward way of looking at things, and so you hatethe whole world. You hate those who have faith, because faith is anexpression of ignorance and lack of culture, and at the same time youhate those who have no faith for having no faith and no ideals; you hateold people for being conservative and behind the times, and young peoplefor free-thinking. The interests of the peasantry and of Russia are dearto you, and so you hate the peasants because you suspect every one ofthem of being a thief and a robber. You hate every one. You are just, and always take your stand on your legal rights, and so you are alwaysat law with the peasants and your neighbours. You have had twentybushels of rye stolen, and your love of order has made you complain ofthe peasants to the Governor and all the local authorities, and to senda complaint of the local authorities to Petersburg. Legal justice!" saidmy wife, and she laughed. "On the ground of your legal rights and inthe interests of morality, you refuse to give me a passport. Law andmorality is such that a self-respecting healthy young woman has to spendher life in idleness, in depression, and in continual apprehension, andto receive in return board and lodging from a man she does not love. Youhave a thorough knowledge of the law, you are very honest and just, yourespect marriage and family life, and the effect of all that is that allyour life you have not done one kind action, that every one hates you, that you are on bad terms with every one, and the seven years that youhave been married you've only lived seven months with your wife. You'vehad no wife and I've had no husband. To live with a man like you isimpossible; there is no way of doing it. In the early years I wasfrightened with you, and now I am ashamed. .. . That's how my best yearshave been wasted. When I fought with you I ruined my temper, grewshrewish, coarse, timid, mistrustful. .. . Oh, but what's the use oftalking! As though you wanted to understand! Go upstairs, and God bewith you!"

My wife lay down on the couch and sank into thought. 

"And how splendid, how enviable life might have been!" she said softly, looking reflectively into the fire. "What a life it might have been!There's no bringing it back now. "

Any one who has lived in the country in winter and knows those longdreary, still evenings when even the dogs are too bored to bark and eventhe clocks seem weary of ticking, and any one who on such evenings hasbeen troubled by awakening conscience and has moved restlessly about, trying now to smother his conscience, now to interpret it, willunderstand the distraction and the pleasure my wife's voice gave me asit sounded in the snug little room, telling me I was a bad man. I didnot understand what was wanted of me by my conscience, and my wife, translating it in her feminine way, made clear to me in the meaning ofmy agitation. As often before in the moments of intense uneasiness, Iguessed that the whole secret lay, not in the starving peasants, but inmy not being the sort of a man I ought to be. 

My wife got up with an effort and came up to me. 

"Pavel Andreitch, " she said, smiling mournfully, "forgive me, I don'tbelieve you: you are not going away, but I will ask you one more favour. Call this"--she pointed to her papers--"self-deception, feminine logic, a mistake, as you like; but do not hinder me. It's all that is left mein life. " She turned away and paused. "Before this I had nothing. I havewasted my youth in fighting with you. Now I have caught at this and amliving; I am happy. .. . It seems to me that I have found in this a meansof justifying my existence. "

"Natalie, you are a good woman, a woman of ideas, " I said, looking at mywife enthusiastically, "and everything you say and do is intelligent andfine. "

I walked about the room to conceal my emotion. 

"Natalie, " I went on a minute later, "before I go away, I beg of you asa special favour, help me to do something for the starving peasants!"

"What can I do?" said my wife, shrugging her shoulders. "Here's thesubscription list. "

She rummaged among the papers and found the subscription list. 

"Subscribe some money, " she said, and from her tone I could see that shedid not attach great importance to her subscription list; "that is theonly way in which you can take part in the work. "

I took the list and wrote: "Anonymous, 5, 000. "

In this "anonymous" there was something wrong, false, conceited, butI only realized that when I noticed that my wife flushed very red andhurriedly thrust the list into the heap of papers. We both felt ashamed;I felt that I must at all costs efface this clumsiness at once, or elseI should feel ashamed afterwards, in the train and at Petersburg. Buthow efface it? What was I to say?

"I fully approve of what you are doing, Natalie, " I said genuinely, "andI wish you every success. But allow me at parting to give you onepiece of advice, Natalie; be on your guard with Sobol, and with yourassistants generally, and don't trust them blindly. I don't say they arenot honest, but they are not gentlefolks; they are people with no ideas, no ideals, no faith, with no aim in life, no definite principles, andthe whole object of their life is comprised in the rouble. Rouble, rouble, rouble!" I sighed. "They are fond of getting money easily, fornothing, and in that respect the better educated they are the more theyare to be dreaded. "

My wife went to the couch and lay down. 

"Ideas, " she brought out, listlessly and reluctantly, "ideas, ideals, objects of life, principles. .. . You always used to use those words whenyou wanted to insult or humiliate some one, or say something unpleasant. Yes, that's your way: if with your views and such an attitude to peopleyou are allowed to take part in anything, you would destroy it from thefirst day. It's time you understand that. "

She sighed and paused. 

"It's coarseness of character, Pavel Andreitch, " she said. "You arewell-bred and educated, but what a. .. Scythian you are in reality!That's because you lead a cramped life full of hatred, see no one, andread nothing but your engineering books. And, you know, there are goodpeople, good books! Yes. .. But I am exhausted and it wearies me to talk. I ought to be in bed. "

"So I am going away, Natalie, " I said. 

"Yes. .. Yes. .. . _Merci_. .. . "

I stood still for a little while, then went upstairs. An hour later--itwas half-past one--I went downstairs again with a candle in my hand tospeak to my wife. I didn't know what I was going to say to her, but Ifelt that I must say some thing very important and necessary. She wasnot in her study, the door leading to her bedroom was closed. 

"Natalie, are you asleep?" I asked softly. 

There was no answer. 

I stood near the door, sighed, and went into the drawing-room. There Isat down on the sofa, put out the candle, and remained sitting in thedark till the dawn. 

VI

I went to the station at ten o'clock in the morning. There was no frost, but snow was falling in big wet flakes and an unpleasant damp wind wasblowing. 

We passed a pond and then a birch copse, and then began going uphillalong the road which I could see from my window. I turned round to takea last look at my house, but I could see nothing for the snow. Soonafterwards dark huts came into sight ahead of us as in a fog. It wasPestrovo. 

"If I ever go out of my mind, Pestrovo will be the cause of it, " Ithought. "It persecutes me. "

We came out into the village street. All the roofs were intact, not oneof them had been pulled to pieces; so my bailiff had told a lie. A boywas pulling along a little girl and a baby in a sledge. Another boy ofthree, with his head wrapped up like a peasant woman's and with hugemufflers on his hands, was trying to catch the flying snowflakes on histongue, and laughing. Then a wagon loaded with fagots came toward us anda peasant walking beside it, and there was no telling whether hisbeard was white or whether it was covered with snow. He recognized mycoachman, smiled at him and said something, and mechanically took offhis hat to me. The dogs ran out of the yards and looked inquisitively atmy horses. Everything was quiet, ordinary, as usual. The emigrants hadreturned, there was no bread; in the huts "some were laughing, some weredelirious"; but it all looked so ordinary that one could not believeit really was so. There were no distracted faces, no voices whining forhelp, no weeping, nor abuse, but all around was stillness, order, life, children, sledges, dogs with dishevelled tails. Neither the children northe peasant we met were troubled; why was I so troubled?

Looking at the smiling peasant, at the boy with the huge mufflers, atthe huts, remembering my wife, I realized there was no calamity thatcould daunt this people; I felt as though there were already a breathof victory in the air. I felt proud and felt ready to cry out that Iwas with them too; but the horses were carrying us away from the villageinto the open country, the snow was whirling, the wind was howling, andI was left alone with my thoughts. Of the million people working for thepeasantry, life itself had cast me out as a useless, incompetent, bad man. I was a hindrance, a part of the people's calamity; I wasvanquished, cast out, and I was hurrying to the station to go away andhide myself in Petersburg in a hotel in Bolshaya Morskaya. 

An hour later we reached the station. The coachman and a porter with adisc on his breast carried my trunks into the ladies' room. My coachmanNikanor, wearing high felt boots and the skirt of his coat tucked upthrough his belt, all wet with the snow and glad I was going away, gaveme a friendly smile and said:

"A fortunate journey, your Excellency. God give you luck. "

Every one, by the way, calls me "your Excellency, " though I am only acollegiate councillor and a kammer-junker. The porter told me the trainhad not yet left the next station; I had to wait. I went outside, andwith my head heavy from my sleepless night, and so exhausted I couldhardly move my legs, I walked aimlessly towards the pump. There was nota soul anywhere near. 

"Why am I going?" I kept asking myself. "What is there awaiting methere? The acquaintances from whom I have come away, loneliness, restaurant dinners, noise, the electric light, which makes my eyes ache. Where am I going, and what am I going for? What am I going for?"

And it seemed somehow strange to go away without speaking to my wife. Ifelt that I was leaving her in uncertainty. Going away, I ought to havetold that she was right, that I really was a bad man. 

When I turned away from the pump, I saw in the doorway thestation-master, of whom I had twice made complaints to his superiors, turning up the collar of his coat, shrinking from the wind and the snow. He came up to me, and putting two fingers to the peak of his cap, toldme with an expression of helpless confusion, strained respectfulness, and hatred on his face, that the train was twenty minutes late, andasked me would I not like to wait in the warm?

"Thank you, " I answered, "but I am probably not going. Send word to mycoachman to wait; I have not made up my mind. "

I walked to and fro on the platform and thought, should I go away ornot? When the train came in I decided not to go. At home I had to expectmy wife's amazement and perhaps her mockery, the dismal upper storey andmy uneasiness; but, still, at my age that was easier and as it weremore homelike than travelling for two days and nights with strangers toPetersburg, where I should be conscious every minute that my life was ofno use to any one or to anything, and that it was approaching its end. No, better at home whatever awaited me there. .. . I went out of thestation. It was awkward by daylight to return home, where every one wasso glad at my going. I might spend the rest of the day till evening atsome neighbour's, but with whom? With some of them I was on strainedrelations, others I did not know at all. I considered and thought ofIvan Ivanitch. 

"We are going to Bragino!" I said to the coachman, getting into thesledge. 

"It's a long way, " sighed Nikanor; "it will be twenty miles, or maybetwenty-five. "

"Oh, please, my dear fellow, " I said in a tone as though Nikanor had theright to refuse. "Please let us go!"

Nikanor shook his head doubtfully and said slowly that we really oughtto have put in the shafts, not Circassian, but Peasant or Siskin; anduncertainly, as though expecting I should change my mind, took the reinsin his gloves, stood up, thought a moment, and then raised his whip. 

"A whole series of inconsistent actions. .. " I thought, screening my facefrom the snow. "I must have gone out of my mind. Well, I don't care. .. . "

In one place, on a very high and steep slope, Nikanor carefully heldthe horses in to the middle of the descent, but in the middle the horsessuddenly bolted and dashed downhill at a fearful rate; he raised hiselbows and shouted in a wild, frantic voice such as I had never heardfrom him before:

"Hey! Let's give the general a drive! If you come to grief he'll buy newones, my darlings! Hey! look out! We'll run you down!"

Only now, when the extraordinary pace we were going at took my breathaway, I noticed that he was very drunk. He must have been drinking atthe station. At the bottom of the descent there was the crash of ice; apiece of dirty frozen snow thrown up from the road hit me a painful blowin the face. 

The runaway horses ran up the hill as rapidly as they had downhill, andbefore I had time to shout to Nikanor my sledge was flying along onthe level in an old pine forest, and the tall pines were stretching outtheir shaggy white paws to me from all directions. 

"I have gone out of my mind, and the coachman's drunk, " I thought. "Good!"

I found Ivan Ivanitch at home. He laughed till he coughed, laid his headon my breast, and said what he always did say on meeting me:

"You grow younger and younger. I don't know what dye you use for yourhair and your beard; you might give me some of it. "

"I've come to return your call, Ivan Ivanitch, " I said untruthfully. "Don't be hard on me; I'm a townsman, conventional; I do keep count ofcalls. "

"I am delighted, my dear fellow. I am an old man; I like respect. .. . Yes. "

From his voice and his blissfully smiling face, I could see that he wasgreatly flattered by my visit. Two peasant women helped me off with mycoat in the entry, and a peasant in a red shirt hung it on a hook, andwhen Ivan Ivanitch and I went into his little study, two barefootedlittle girls were sitting on the floor looking at a picture-book; whenthey saw us they jumped up and ran away, and a tall, thin old womanin spectacles came in at once, bowed gravely to me, and picking up apillow from the sofa and a picture-book from the floor, went away. Fromthe adjoining rooms we heard incessant whispering and the patter of barefeet. 

"I am expecting the doctor to dinner, " said Ivan Ivanitch. "He promisedto come from the relief centre. Yes. He dines with me every Wednesday, God bless him. " He craned towards me and kissed me on the neck. "You have come, my dear fellow, so you are not vexed, " he whispered, sniffing. "Don't be vexed, my dear creature. Yes. Perhaps it isannoying, but don't be cross. My only prayer to God before I die is tolive in peace and harmony with all in the true way. Yes. "

"Forgive me, Ivan Ivanitch, I will put my feet on a chair, " I said, feeling that I was so exhausted I could not be myself; I sat furtherback on the sofa and put up my feet on an arm-chair. My face was burningfrom the snow and the wind, and I felt as though my whole body werebasking in the warmth and growing weaker from it. 

"It's very nice here, " I went on--"warm, soft, snug. .. And goose-featherpens, " I laughed, looking at the writing-table; "sand instead ofblotting-paper. "

"Eh? Yes. .. Yes. .. . The writing-table and the mahogany cupboard herewere made for my father by a self-taught cabinet-maker--Glyeb Butyga, aserf of General Zhukov's. Yes. .. A great artist in his own way. "

Listlessly and in the tone of a man dropping asleep, he began telling meabout cabinet-maker Butyga. I listened. Then Ivan Ivanitch went into thenext room to show me a polisander wood chest of drawers remarkable forits beauty and cheapness. He tapped the chest with his fingers, thencalled my attention to a stove of patterned tiles, such as one neversees now. He tapped the stove, too, with his fingers. There was anatmosphere of good-natured simplicity and well-fed abundance aboutthe chest of drawers, the tiled stove, the low chairs, the picturesembroidered in wool and silk on canvas in solid, ugly frames. When oneremembers that all those objects were standing in the same places andprecisely in the same order when I was a little child, and used to comehere to name-day parties with my mother, it is simply unbelievable thatthey could ever cease to exist. 

I thought what a fearful difference between Butyga and me! Butyga whomade things, above all, solidly and substantially, and seeing in thathis chief object, gave to length of life peculiar significance, had nothought of death, and probably hardly believed in its possibility; I, when I built my bridges of iron and stone which would last a thousandyears, could not keep from me the thought, "It's not for long. .. . It's nouse. " If in time Butyga's cupboard and my bridge should come under thenotice of some sensible historian of art, he would say: "These were twomen remarkable in their own way: Butyga loved his fellow-creatures andwould not admit the thought that they might die and be annihilated, andso when he made his furniture he had the immortal man in his mind. Theengineer Asorin did not love life or his fellow-creatures; even inthe happy moments of creation, thoughts of death, of finiteness anddissolution, were not alien to him, and we see how insignificant andfinite, how timid and poor, are these lines of his. .. . "

"I only heat these rooms, " muttered Ivan Ivanitch, showing me his rooms. "Ever since my wife died and my son was killed in the war, I have keptthe best rooms shut up. Yes. .. See. .. "

He opened a door, and I saw a big room with four columns, an old piano, and a heap of peas on the floor; it smelt cold and damp. 

"The garden seats are in the next room. .. " muttered Ivan Ivanitch. "There's no one to dance the mazurka now. .. . I've shut them up. "

We heard a noise. It was Dr. Sobol arriving. While he was rubbing hiscold hands and stroking his wet beard, I had time to notice in thefirst place that he had a very dull life, and so was pleased to see IvanIvanitch and me; and, secondly, that he was a naive and simple-heartedman. He looked at me as though I were very glad to see him and very muchinterested in him. 

"I have not slept for two nights, " he said, looking at me naively andstroking his beard. "One night with a confinement, and the next I stayedat a peasant's with the bugs biting me all night. I am as sleepy asSatan, do you know. "

With an expression on his face as though it could not afford me anythingbut pleasure, he took me by the arm and led me to the dining-room. Hisnaive eyes, his crumpled coat, his cheap tie and the smell of iodoformmade an unpleasant impression upon me; I felt as though I were in vulgarcompany. When we sat down to table he filled my glass with vodka, and, smiling helplessly, I drank it; he put a piece of ham on my plate and Iate it submissively. 

"_Repetitia est mater studiorum_, " said Sobol, hastening to drink offanother wineglassful. "Would you believe it, the joy of seeing goodpeople has driven away my sleepiness? I have turned into a peasant, asavage in the wilds; I've grown coarse, but I am still an educated man, and I tell you in good earnest, it's tedious without company. "

They served first for a cold course white sucking-pig with horse-radishcream, then a rich and very hot cabbage soup with pork on it, withboiled buckwheat, from which rose a column of steam. The doctor went ontalking, and I was soon convinced that he was a weak, unfortunate man, disorderly in external life. Three glasses of vodka made him drunk; hegrew unnaturally lively, ate a great deal, kept clearing his throat andsmacking his lips, and already addressed me in Italian, "Eccellenza. "Looking naively at me as though he were convinced that I was very gladto see and hear him, he informed me that he had long been separated fromhis wife and gave her three-quarters of his salary; that she lived inthe town with his children, a boy and a girl, whom he adored; thathe loved another woman, a widow, well educated, with an estate in thecountry, but was rarely able to see her, as he was busy with his workfrom morning till night and had not a free moment. 

"The whole day long, first at the hospital, then on my rounds, " he toldus; "and I assure you, Eccellenza, I have not time to read a book, letalone going to see the woman I love. I've read nothing for ten years!For ten years, Eccellenza. As for the financial side of the question, ask Ivan Ivanitch: I have often no money to buy tobacco. "

"On the other hand, you have the moral satisfaction of your work, " Isaid. 

"What?" he asked, and he winked. "No, " he said, "better let us drink. "

I listened to the doctor, and, after my invariable habit, tried to takehis measure by my usual classification--materialist, idealist, filthylucre, gregarious instincts, and so on; but no classification fittedhim even approximately; and strange to say, while I simply listened andlooked at him, he seemed perfectly clear to me as a person, but as soonas I began trying to classify him he became an exceptionally complex, intricate, and incomprehensible character in spite of all his candourand simplicity. "Is that man, " I asked myself, "capable of wasting otherpeople's money, abusing their confidence, being disposed to sponge onthem?" And now this question, which had once seemed to me grave andimportant, struck me as crude, petty, and coarse. 

Pie was served; then, I remember, with long intervals between, duringwhich we drank home-made liquors, they gave us a stew of pigeons, some dish of giblets, roast sucking-pig, partridges, cauliflower, curddumplings, curd cheese and milk, jelly, and finally pancakes and jam. At first I ate with great relish, especially the cabbage soup and thebuckwheat, but afterwards I munched and swallowed mechanically, smilinghelplessly and unconscious of the taste of anything. My face was burningfrom the hot cabbage soup and the heat of the room. Ivan Ivanitch andSobol, too, were crimson. 

"To the health of your wife, " said Sobol. "She likes me. Tell her herdoctor sends her his respects. "

"She's fortunate, upon my word, " sighed Ivan Ivanitch. "Though she takesno trouble, does not fuss or worry herself, she has become the mostimportant person in the whole district. Almost the whole business isin her hands, and they all gather round her, the doctor, the DistrictCaptains, and the ladies. With people of the right sort that happensof itself. Yes. .. . The apple-tree need take no thought for the apple togrow on it; it will grow of itself. "

"It's only people who don't care who take no thought, " said I. 

"Eh? Yes. .. " muttered Ivan Ivanitch, not catching what I said, "that'strue. .. . One must not worry oneself. Just so, just so. .. . Only do yourduty towards God and your neighbour, and then never mind what happens. "

"Eccellenza, " said Sobol solemnly, "just look at nature about us: ifyou poke your nose or your ear out of your fur collar it will befrost-bitten; stay in the fields for one hour, you'll be buried in thesnow; while the village is just the same as in the days of Rurik, the same Petchenyegs and Polovtsi. It's nothing but being burnt down, starving, and struggling against nature in every way. What was I saying?Yes! If one thinks about it, you know, looks into it and analyses allthis hotchpotch, if you will allow me to call it so, it's not life butmore like a fire in a theatre! Any one who falls down or screams withterror, or rushes about, is the worst enemy of good order; one muststand up and look sharp, and not stir a hair! There's no time forwhimpering and busying oneself with trifles. When you have to deal withelemental forces you must put out force against them, be firm and asunyielding as a stone. Isn't that right, grandfather?" He turned to IvanIvanitch and laughed. "I am no better than a woman myself; I am a limprag, a flabby creature, so I hate flabbiness. I can't endure pettyfeelings! One mopes, another is frightened, a third will come straightin here and say: 'Fie on you! Here you've guzzled a dozen courses andyou talk about the starving!' That's petty and stupid! A fourth willreproach you, Eccellenza, for being rich. Excuse me, Eccellenza, " hewent on in a loud voice, laying his hand on his heart, "but yourhaving set our magistrate the task of hunting day and night for yourthieves--excuse me, that's also petty on your part. I am a little drunk, so that's why I say this now, but you know, it is petty!"

"Who's asking him to worry himself? I don't understand!" I said, gettingup. 

I suddenly felt unbearably ashamed and mortified, and I walked round thetable. 

"Who asks him to worry himself? I didn't ask him to. .. . Damn him!"

"They have arrested three men and let them go again. They turned out notto be the right ones, and now they are looking for a fresh lot, " saidSobol, laughing. "It's too bad!"

"I did not ask him to worry himself, " said I, almost crying withexcitement. "What's it all for? What's it all for? Well, supposing I waswrong, supposing I have done wrong, why do they try to put me more inthe wrong?"

"Come, come, come, come!" said Sobol, trying to soothe me. "Come! Ihave had a drop, that is why I said it. My tongue is my enemy. Come, " hesighed, "we have eaten and drunk wine, and now for a nap. "

He got up from the table, kissed Ivan Ivanitch on the head, andstaggering from repletion, went out of the dining-room. Ivan Ivanitchand I smoked in silence. 

"I don't sleep after dinner, my dear, " said Ivan Ivanitch, "but you havea rest in the lounge-room. "

I agreed. In the half-dark and warmly heated room they called thelounge-room, there stood against the walls long, wide sofas, solid andheavy, the work of Butyga the cabinet maker; on them lay high, soft, white beds, probably made by the old woman in spectacles. On one of themSobol, without his coat and boots, already lay asleep with his face tothe back of the sofa; another bed was awaiting me. I took off my coatand boots, and, overcome by fatigue, by the spirit of Butyga whichhovered over the quiet lounge-room, and by the light, caressing snore ofSobol, I lay down submissively. 

And at once I began dreaming of my wife, of her room, of thestation-master with his face full of hatred, the heaps of snow, a firein the theatre. I dreamed of the peasants who had stolen twenty sacks ofrye out of my barn. 

"Anyway, it's a good thing the magistrate let them go, " I said. 

I woke up at the sound of my own voice, looked for a moment inperplexity at Sobol's broad back, at the buckles of his waistcoat, athis thick heels, then lay down again and fell asleep. 

When I woke up the second time it was quite dark. Sobol was asleep. There was peace in my heart, and I longed to make haste home. I dressedand went out of the lounge-room. Ivan Ivanitch was sitting in a bigarm-chair in his study, absolutely motionless, staring at a fixed point, and it was evident that he had been in the same state of petrifactionall the while I had been asleep. 

"Good!" I said, yawning. "I feel as though I had woken up after breakingthe fast at Easter. I shall often come and see you now. Tell me, did mywife ever dine here?"

"So-ome-ti-mes. .. Sometimes, "' muttered Ivan Ivanitch, making an effortto stir. "She dined here last Saturday. Yes. .. . She likes me. "

After a silence I said:

"Do you remember, Ivan Ivanitch, you told me I had a disagreeablecharacter and that it was difficult to get on with me? But what am I todo to make my character different?"

"I don't know, my dear boy. .. . I'm a feeble old man, I can't adviseyou. .. . Yes. .. . But I said that to you at the time because I am fondof you and fond of your wife, and I was fond of your father. .. . Yes. Ishall soon die, and what need have I to conceal things from you or totell you lies? So I tell you: I am very fond of you, but I don't respectyou. No, I don't respect you. "

He turned towards me and said in a breathless whisper:

"It's impossible to respect you, my dear fellow. You look like areal man. You have the figure and deportment of the French PresidentCarnot--I saw a portrait of him the other day in an illustrated paper. .. Yes. .. . You use lofty language, and you are clever, and you are high upin the service beyond all reach, but haven't real soul, my dear boy. .. There's no strength in it. "

"A Scythian, in fact, " I laughed. "But what about my wife? Tell mesomething about my wife; you know her better. "

I wanted to talk about my wife, but Sobol came in and prevented me. 

"I've had a sleep and a wash, " he said, looking at me naively. "I'llhave a cup of tea with some rum in it and go home. "

VII

It was by now past seven. Besides Ivan Ivanitch, women servants, the olddame in spectacles, the little girls and the peasant, all accompanied usfrom the hall out on to the steps, wishing us good-bye and all sorts ofblessings, while near the horses in the darkness there were standing andmoving about men with lanterns, telling our coachmen how and which wayto drive, and wishing us a lucky journey. The horses, the men, and thesledges were white. 

"Where do all these people come from?" I asked as my three horses andthe doctor's two moved at a walking pace out of the yard. 

"They are all his serfs, " said Sobol. "The new order has not reached himyet. Some of the old servants are living out their lives with him, andthen there are orphans of all sorts who have nowhere to go; there aresome, too, who insist on living there, there's no turning them out. Aqueer old man!"

Again the flying horses, the strange voice of drunken Nikanor, the windand the persistent snow, which got into one's eyes, one's mouth, andevery fold of one's fur coat. .. . 

"Well, I am running a rig, " I thought, while my bells chimed in withthe doctor's, the wind whistled, the coachmen shouted; and while thisfrantic uproar was going on, I recalled all the details of that strangewild day, unique in my life, and it seemed to me that I really had goneout of my mind or become a different man. It was as though the man I hadbeen till that day were already a stranger to me. 

The doctor drove behind and kept talking loudly with his coachman. Fromtime to time he overtook me, drove side by side, and always, with thesame naive confidence that it was very pleasant to me, offered me a cigarette or asked for the matches. Or, overtaking me, he would lean rightout of his sledge, and waving about the sleeves of his fur coat, whichwere at least twice as long as his arms, shout:

"Go it, Vaska! Beat the thousand roublers! Hey, my kittens!"

And to the accompaniment of loud, malicious laughter from Sobol andhis Vaska the doctor's kittens raced ahead. My Nikanor took it as anaffront, and held in his three horses, but when the doctor's bells hadpassed out of hearing, he raised his elbows, shouted, and our horsesflew like mad in pursuit. We drove into a village, there were glimpsesof lights, the silhouettes of huts. Some one shouted:

"Ah, the devils!" We seemed to have galloped a mile and a half, andstill it was the village street and there seemed no end to it. When wecaught up the doctor and drove more quietly, he asked for matches andsaid:

"Now try and feed that street! And, you know, there are five streetslike that, sir. Stay, stay, " he shouted. "Turn in at the tavern! We mustget warm and let the horses rest. "

They stopped at the tavern. 

"I have more than one village like that in my district, " said thedoctor, opening a heavy door with a squeaky block, and ushering me infront of him. "If you look in broad daylight you can't see to the end ofthe street, and there are side-streets, too, and one can do nothing butscratch one's head. It's hard to do anything. "

We went into the best room where there was a strong smell oftable-cloths, and at our entrance a sleepy peasant in a waistcoat and ashirt worn outside his trousers jumped up from a bench. Sobol asked forsome beer and I asked for tea. 

"It's hard to do anything, " said Sobol. "Your wife has faith; I respecther and have the greatest reverence for her, but I have no great faithmyself. As long as our relations to the people continue to have thecharacter of ordinary philanthropy, as shown in orphan asylums andalmshouses, so long we shall only be shuffling, shamming, and deceivingourselves, and nothing more. Our relations ought to be businesslike, founded on calculation, knowledge, and justice. My Vaska has beenworking for me all his life; his crops have failed, he is sick andstarving. If I give him fifteen kopecks a day, by so doing I try torestore him to his former condition as a workman; that is, I am firstand foremost looking after my own interests, and yet for some reason Icall that fifteen kopecks relief, charity, good works. Now let us putit like this. On the most modest computation, reckoning seven kopecks asoul and five souls a family, one needs three hundred and fifty roublesa day to feed a thousand families. That sum is fixed by our practicalduty to a thousand families. Meanwhile we give not three hundred andfifty a day, but only ten, and say that that is relief, charity, thatthat makes your wife and all of us exceptionally good people and hurrahfor our humaneness. That is it, my dear soul! Ah! if we would talk lessof being humane and calculated more, reasoned, and took a conscientiousattitude to our duties! How many such humane, sensitive people there areamong us who tear about in all good faith with subscription lists, butdon't pay their tailors or their cooks. There is no logic in our life;that's what it is! No logic!"

We were silent for a while. I was making a mental calculation and said:

"I will feed a thousand families for two hundred days. Come and see metomorrow to talk it over. "

I was pleased that this was said quite simply, and was glad that Sobolanswered me still more simply:

"Right. "

We paid for what we had and went out of the tavern. 

"I like going on like this, " said Sobol, getting into the sledge. "Eccellenza, oblige me with a match. I've forgotten mine in the tavern. "

A quarter of an hour later his horses fell behind, and the sound of hisbells was lost in the roar of the snow-storm. Reaching home, I walkedabout my rooms, trying to think things over and to define my positionclearly to myself; I had not one word, one phrase, ready for my wife. Mybrain was not working. 

But without thinking of anything, I went downstairs to my wife. She wasin her room, in the same pink dressing-gown, and standing in the sameattitude as though screening her papers from me. On her face was anexpression of perplexity and irony, and it was evident that having heardof my arrival, she had prepared herself not to cry, not to entreat me, not to defend herself, as she had done the day before, but to laugh atme, to answer me contemptuously, and to act with decision. Her face wassaying: "If that's how it is, good-bye. "

"Natalie, I've not gone away, " I said, "but it's not deception. I havegone out of my mind; I've grown old, I'm ill, I've become a differentman--think as you like. .. . I've shaken off my old self with horror, withhorror; I despise him and am ashamed of him, and the new man who hasbeen in me since yesterday will not let me go away. Do not drive meaway, Natalie!"

She looked intently into my face and believed me, and there was a gleamof uneasiness in her eyes. Enchanted by her presence, warmed by thewarmth of her room, I muttered as in delirium, holding out my hands toher:

"I tell you, I have no one near to me but you. I have never for oneminute ceased to miss you, and only obstinate vanity prevented mefrom owning it. The past, when we lived as husband and wife, cannot bebrought back, and there's no need; but make me your servant, take all myproperty, and give it away to any one you like. I am at peace, Natalie, I am content. .. . I am at peace. "

My wife, looking intently and with curiosity into my face, suddenlyuttered a faint cry, burst into tears, and ran into the next room. Iwent upstairs to my own storey. 

An hour later I was sitting at my table, writing my "History ofRailways, " and the starving peasants did not now hinder me from doingso. Now I feel no uneasiness. Neither the scenes of disorder which I sawwhen I went the round of the huts at Pestrovo with my wife and Sobol theother day, nor malignant rumours, nor the mistakes of the people aroundme, nor old age close upon me--nothing disturbs me. Just as the flyingbullets do not hinder soldiers from talking of their own affairs, eatingand cleaning their boots, so the starving peasants do not hinder me fromsleeping quietly and looking after my personal affairs. In my house andfar around it there is in full swing the work which Dr. Sobol calls "anorgy of philanthropy. " My wife often comes up to me and looks aboutmy rooms uneasily, as though looking for what more she can give to thestarving peasants "to justify her existence, " and I see that, thanksto her, there will soon be nothing of our property left and we shall bepoor; but that does not trouble me, and I smile at her gaily. What willhappen in the future I don't know. 

DIFFICULT PEOPLE

YEVGRAF IVANOVITCH SHIRYAEV, a small farmer, whose father, a parishpriest, now deceased, had received a gift of three hundred acres of landfrom Madame Kuvshinnikov, a general's widow, was standing in a cornerbefore a copper washing-stand, washing his hands. As usual, his facelooked anxious and ill-humoured, and his beard was uncombed. 

"What weather!" he said. "It's not weather, but a curse laid upon us. It's raining again!"

He grumbled on, while his family sat waiting at table for him to havefinished washing his hands before beginning dinner. Fedosya Semyonovna, his wife, his son Pyotr, a student, his eldest daughter Varvara, andthree small boys, had been sitting waiting a long time. The boys--Kolka, Vanka, and Arhipka--grubby, snub-nosed little fellows with chubby facesand tousled hair that wanted cutting, moved their chairs impatiently, while their elders sat without stirring, and apparently did not carewhether they ate their dinner or waited. .. . 

As though trying their patience, Shiryaev deliberately dried his hands, deliberately said his prayer, and sat down to the table without hurryinghimself. Cabbage-soup was served immediately. The sound of carpenters'axes (Shiryaev was having a new barn built) and the laughter of Fomka, their labourer, teasing the turkey, floated in from the courtyard. 

Big, sparse drops of rain pattered on the window. 

Pyotr, a round-shouldered student in spectacles, kept exchanging glanceswith his mother as he ate his dinner. Several times he laid down hisspoon and cleared his throat, meaning to begin to speak, but after anintent look at his father he fell to eating again. At last, when theporridge had been served, he cleared his throat resolutely and said:

"I ought to go tonight by the evening train. I out to have gone before;I have missed a fortnight as it is. The lectures begin on the first ofSeptember. "

"Well, go, " Shiryaev assented; "why are you lingering on here? Pack upand go, and good luck to you. "

A minute passed in silence. 

"He must have money for the journey, Yevgraf Ivanovitch, " the motherobserved in a low voice. 

"Money? To be sure, you can't go without money. Take it at once, sinceyou need it. You could have had it long ago!"

The student heaved a faint sigh and looked with relief at his mother. Deliberately Shiryaev took a pocket-book out of his coat-pocket and puton his spectacles. 

"How much do you want?" he asked. 

"The fare to Moscow is eleven roubles forty-two kopecks. .. . "

"Ah, money, money!" sighed the father. (He always sighed when he sawmoney, even when he was receiving it. ) "Here are twelve roubles foryou. You will have change out of that which will be of use to you on thejourney. "

"Thank you. "

After waiting a little, the student said:

"I did not get lessons quite at first last year. I don't know how itwill be this year; most likely it will take me a little time to findwork. I ought to ask you for fifteen roubles for my lodging and dinner. "

Shiryaev thought a little and heaved a sigh. 

"You will have to make ten do, " he said. "Here, take it. "

The student thanked him. He ought to have asked him for something more, for clothes, for lecture fees, for books, but after an intent look athis father he decided not to pester him further. 

The mother, lacking in diplomacy and prudence, like all mothers, couldnot restrain herself, and said:

"You ought to give him another six roubles, Yevgraf Ivanovitch, for apair of boots. Why, just see, how can he go to Moscow in such wrecks?"

"Let him take my old ones; they are still quite good. "

"He must have trousers, anyway; he is a disgrace to look at. "

And immediately after that a storm-signal showed itself, at the sight ofwhich all the family trembled. 

Shiryaev's short, fat neck turned suddenly red as a beetroot. The colourmounted slowly to his ears, from his ears to his temples, and by degreessuffused his whole face. Yevgraf Ivanovitch shifted in his chairand unbuttoned his shirt-collar to save himself from choking. Hewas evidently struggling with the feeling that was mastering him. Adeathlike silence followed. The children held their breath. FedosyaSemyonovna, as though she did not grasp what was happening to herhusband, went on:

"He is not a little boy now, you know; he is ashamed to go about withoutclothes. "

Shiryaev suddenly jumped up, and with all his might flung down his fatpocket-book in the middle of the table, so that a hunk of bread flew offa plate. A revolting expression of anger, resentment, avarice--all mixedtogether--flamed on his face. 

"Take everything!" he shouted in an unnatural voice; "plunder me! Takeit all! Strangle me!"

He jumped up from the table, clutched at his head, and ran staggeringabout the room. 

"Strip me to the last thread!" he shouted in a shrill voice. "Squeezeout the last drop! Rob me! Wring my neck!"

The student flushed and dropped his eyes. He could not go on eating. Fedosya Semyonovna, who had not after twenty-five years grown used toher husband's difficult character, shrank into herself and mutteredsomething in self-defence. An expression of amazement and dull terrorcame into her wasted and birdlike face, which at all times looked dulland scared. The little boys and the elder daughter Varvara, a girl inher teens, with a pale ugly face, laid down their spoons and sat mute. 

Shiryaev, growing more and more ferocious, uttering words each moreterrible than the one before, dashed up to the table and began shakingthe notes out of his pocket-book. 

"Take them!" he muttered, shaking all over. "You've eaten and drunk yourfill, so here's money for you too! I need nothing! Order yourself newboots and uniforms!"

The student turned pale and got up. 

"Listen, papa, " he began, gasping for breath. "I. .. I beg you to endthis, for. .. "

"Hold your tongue!" the father shouted at him, and so loudly that thespectacles fell off his nose; "hold your tongue!"

"I used. .. I used to be able to put up with such scenes, but. .. But nowI have got out of the way of it. Do you understand? I have got out ofthe way of it!"

"Hold your tongue!" cried the father, and he stamped with his feet. "Youmust listen to what I say! I shall say what I like, and you hold yourtongue. At your age I was earning my living, while you. .. Do you knowwhat you cost me, you scoundrel? I'll turn you out! Wastrel!"

"Yevgraf Ivanovitch, " muttered Fedosya Semyonovna, moving her fingersnervously; "you know he. .. You know Petya. .. !"

"Hold your tongue!" Shiryaev shouted out to her, and tears actually cameinto his eyes from anger. "It is you who have spoilt them--you! It'sall your fault! He has no respect for us, does not say his prayers, andearns nothing! I am only one against the ten of you! I'll turn you outof the house!"

The daughter Varvara gazed fixedly at her mother with her mouth open, moved her vacant-looking eyes to the window, turned pale, and, utteringa loud shriek, fell back in her chair. The father, with a curse and awave of the hand, ran out into the yard. 

This was how domestic scenes usually ended at the Shiryaevs'. But onthis occasion, unfortunately, Pyotr the student was carried away byovermastering anger. He was just as hasty and ill-tempered as his fatherand his grandfather the priest, who used to beat his parishioners aboutthe head with a stick. Pale and clenching his fists, he went up to hismother and shouted in the very highest tenor note his voice could reach:

"These reproaches are loathsome! sickening to me! I want nothing fromyou! Nothing! I would rather die of hunger than eat another mouthful atyour expense! Take your nasty money back! take it!"

The mother huddled against the wall and waved her hands, as though itwere not her son, but some phantom before her. "What have I done?" shewailed. "What?"

Like his father, the boy waved his hands and ran into the yard. Shiryaev's house stood alone on a ravine which ran like a furrow forfour miles along the steppe. Its sides were overgrown with oak saplingsand alders, and a stream ran at the bottom. On one side the house lookedtowards the ravine, on the other towards the open country, there were nofences nor hurdles. Instead there were farm-buildings of all sorts closeto one another, shutting in a small space in front of the house whichwas regarded as the yard, and in which hens, ducks, and pigs ran about. 

Going out of the house, the student walked along the muddy road towardsthe open country. The air was full of a penetrating autumn dampness. Theroad was muddy, puddles gleamed here and there, and in the yellow fieldsautumn itself seemed looking out from the grass, dismal, decaying, dark. On the right-hand side of the road was a vegetable-garden cleared of itscrops and gloomy-looking, with here and there sunflowers standing up init with hanging heads already black. 

Pyotr thought it would not be a bad thing to walk to Moscow on foot; towalk just as he was, with holes in his boots, without a cap, andwithout a farthing of money. When he had gone eighty miles his father, frightened and aghast, would overtake him, would begin begging him toturn back or take the money, but he would not even look at him, butwould go on and on. .. . Bare forests would be followed by desolatefields, fields by forests again; soon the earth would be white with thefirst snow, and the streams would be coated with ice. .. . Somewhere nearKursk or near Serpuhovo, exhausted and dying of hunger, he would sinkdown and die. His corpse would be found, and there would be a paragraphin all the papers saying that a student called Shiryaev had died ofhunger. .. . 

A white dog with a muddy tail who was wandering about thevegetable-garden looking for something gazed at him and sauntered afterhim. 

He walked along the road and thought of death, of the grief of hisfamily, of the moral sufferings of his father, and then pictured allsorts of adventures on the road, each more marvellous than the onebefore--picturesque places, terrible nights, chance encounters. Heimagined a string of pilgrims, a hut in the forest with one littlewindow shining in the darkness; he stands before the window, begs for anight's lodging. .. . They let him in, and suddenly he sees that they arerobbers. Or, better still, he is taken into a big manor-house, where, learning who he is, they give him food and drink, play to him on thepiano, listen to his complaints, and the daughter of the house, abeauty, falls in love with him. 

Absorbed in his bitterness and such thoughts, young Shiryaev walked onand on. Far, far ahead he saw the inn, a dark patch against the greybackground of cloud. Beyond the inn, on the very horizon, he could see alittle hillock; this was the railway-station. That hillock reminded himof the connection existing between the place where he was now standingand Moscow, where street-lamps were burning and carriages were rattlingin the streets, where lectures were being given. And he almost weptwith depression and impatience. The solemn landscape, with its order andbeauty, the deathlike stillness all around, revolted him and moved himto despair and hatred!

"Look out!" He heard behind him a loud voice. 

An old lady of his acquaintance, a landowner of the neighbourhood, drovepast him in a light, elegant landau. He bowed to her, and smiled allover his face. And at once he caught himself in that smile, which was soout of keeping with his gloomy mood. Where did it come from if his wholeheart was full of vexation and misery? And he thought nature itself hadgiven man this capacity for lying, that even in difficult moments ofspiritual strain he might be able to hide the secrets of his nest as thefox and the wild duck do. Every family has its joys and its horrors, buthowever great they may be, it's hard for an outsider's eye to see them;they are a secret. The father of the old lady who had just driven by, for instance, had for some offence lain for half his lifetime under theban of the wrath of Tsar Nicolas I. ; her husband had been a gambler; ofher four sons, not one had turned out well. One could imagine how manyterrible scenes there must have been in her life, how many tears musthave been shed. And yet the old lady seemed happy and satisfied, andshe had answered his smile by smiling too. The student thought of hiscomrades, who did not like talking about their families; he thought ofhis mother, who almost always lied when she had to speak of her husbandand children. .. . 

Pyotr walked about the roads far from home till dusk, abandoninghimself to dreary thoughts. When it began to drizzle with rain he turnedhomewards. As he walked back he made up his mind at all costs to talkto his father, to explain to him, once and for all, that it was dreadfuland oppressive to live with him. 

He found perfect stillness in the house. His sister Varvara was lyingbehind a screen with a headache, moaning faintly. His mother, with alook of amazement and guilt upon her face, was sitting beside her on abox, mending Arhipka's trousers. Yevgraf Ivanovitch was pacing from onewindow to another, scowling at the weather. From his walk, from theway he cleared his throat, and even from the back of his head, it wasevident he felt himself to blame. 

"I suppose you have changed your mind about going today?" he asked. 

The student felt sorry for him, but immediately suppressing thatfeeling, he said:

"Listen. .. I must speak to you seriously. .. Yes, seriously. I havealways respected you, and. .. And have never brought myself to speak toyou in such a tone, but your behaviour. .. Your last action. .. "

The father looked out of the window and did not speak. The student, asthough considering his words, rubbed his forehead and went on in greatexcitement:

"Not a dinner or tea passes without your making an uproar. Your breadsticks in our throat. .. Nothing is more bitter, more humiliating, thanbread that sticks in one's throat. .. . Though you are my father, no one, neither God nor nature, has given you the right to insult and humiliateus so horribly, to vent your ill-humour on the weak. You have worn mymother out and made a slave of her, my sister is hopelessly crushed, while I. .. "

"It's not your business to teach me, " said his father. 

"Yes, it is my business! You can quarrel with me as much as you like, but leave my mother in peace! I will not allow you to torment mymother!" the student went on, with flashing eyes. "You are spoiltbecause no one has yet dared to oppose you. They tremble and aremute towards you, but now that is over! Coarse, ill-bred man! You arecoarse. .. Do you understand? You are coarse, ill-humoured, unfeeling. And the peasants can't endure you!"

The student had by now lost his thread, and was not so much speaking asfiring off detached words. Yevgraf Ivanovitch listened in silence, asthough stunned; but suddenly his neck turned crimson, the colour creptup his face, and he made a movement. 

"Hold your tongue!" he shouted. 

"That's right!" the son persisted; "you don't like to hear the truth!Excellent! Very good! begin shouting! Excellent!"

"Hold your tongue, I tell you!" roared Yevgraf Ivanovitch. 

Fedosya Semyonovna appeared in the doorway, very pale, with anastonished face; she tried to say something, but she could not, andcould only move her fingers. 

"It's all your fault!" Shiryaev shouted at her. "You have brought him uplike this!"

"I don't want to go on living in this house!" shouted the student, crying, and looking angrily at his mother. "I don't want to live withyou!"

Varvara uttered a shriek behind the screen and broke into loud sobs. With a wave of his hand, Shiryaev ran out of the house. 

The student went to his own room and quietly lay down. He lay tillmidnight without moving or opening his eyes. He felt neither anger norshame, but a vague ache in his soul. He neither blamed his father norpitied his mother, nor was he tormented by stings of conscience; herealized that every one in the house was feeling the same ache, and Godonly knew which was most to blame, which was suffering most. .. . 

At midnight he woke the labourer, and told him to have the horse readyat five o'clock in the morning for him to drive to the station; heundressed and got into bed, but could not get to sleep. He heard how hisfather, still awake, paced slowly from window to window, sighing, till early morning. No one was asleep; they spoke rarely, and only inwhispers. Twice his mother came to him behind the screen. Always withthe same look of vacant wonder, she slowly made the cross over him, shaking nervously. 

At five o'clock in the morning he said good-bye to them allaffectionately, and even shed tears. As he passed his father's room, heglanced in at the door. Yevgraf Ivanovitch, who had not taken off hisclothes or gone to bed, was standing by the window, drumming on thepanes. 

"Good-bye; I am going, " said his son. 

"Good-bye. .. The money is on the round table. .. " his father answered, without turning round. 

A cold, hateful rain was falling as the labourer drove him to thestation. The sunflowers were drooping their heads still lower, and thegrass seemed darker than ever. 

THE GRASSHOPPER

I

ALL Olga Ivanovna's friends and acquaintances were at her wedding. 

"Look at him; isn't it true that there is something in him?" she saidto her friends, with a nod towards her husband, as though she wantedto explain why she was marrying a simple, very ordinary, and in no wayremarkable man. 

Her husband, Osip Stepanitch Dymov, was a doctor, and only of the rankof a titular councillor. He was on the staff of two hospitals: in one award-surgeon and in the other a dissecting demonstrator. Every dayfrom nine to twelve he saw patients and was busy in his ward, andafter twelve o'clock he went by tram to the other hospital, where hedissected. His private practice was a small one, not worth more thanfive hundred roubles a year. That was all. What more could one say abouthim? Meanwhile, Olga Ivanovna and her friends and acquaintances were notquite ordinary people. Every one of them was remarkable in some way, andmore or less famous; already had made a reputation and was looked uponas a celebrity; or if not yet a celebrity, gave brilliant promise ofbecoming one. There was an actor from the Dramatic Theatre, who wasa great talent of established reputation, as well as an elegant, intelligent, and modest man, and a capital elocutionist, and whotaught Olga Ivanovna to recite; there was a singer from the opera, agood-natured, fat man who assured Olga Ivanovna, with a sigh, that shewas ruining herself, that if she would take herself in hand and notbe lazy she might make a remarkable singer; then there were severalartists, and chief among them Ryabovsky, a very handsome, fair youngman of five-and-twenty who painted genre pieces, animal studies, andlandscapes, was successful at exhibitions, and had sold his last picturefor five hundred roubles. He touched up Olga Ivanovna's sketches, and used to say she might do something. Then a violoncellist, whoseinstrument used to sob, and who openly declared that of all the ladiesof his acquaintance the only one who could accompany him was OlgaIvanovna; then there was a literary man, young but already well known, who had written stories, novels, and plays. Who else? Why, VassilyVassilyitch, a landowner and amateur illustrator and vignettist, witha great feeling for the old Russian style, the old ballad and epic. Onpaper, on china, and on smoked plates, he produced literally marvels. In the midst of this free artistic company, spoiled by fortune, thoughrefined and modest, who recalled the existence of doctors only in timesof illness, and to whom the name of Dymov sounded in no way differentfrom Sidorov or Tarasov--in the midst of this company Dymov seemedstrange, not wanted, and small, though he was tall and broad-shouldered. He looked as though he had on somebody else's coat, and his beard waslike a shopman's. Though if he had been a writer or an artist, theywould have said that his beard reminded them of Zola. 

An artist said to Olga Ivanovna that with her flaxen hair and in herwedding-dress she was very much like a graceful cherry-tree when it iscovered all over with delicate white blossoms in spring. 

"Oh, let me tell you, " said Olga Ivanovna, taking his arm, "how it wasit all came to pass so suddenly. Listen, listen!. .. I must tell you thatmy father was on the same staff at the hospital as Dymov. When my poorfather was taken ill, Dymov watched for days and nights together at hisbedside. Such self-sacrifice! Listen, Ryabovsky! You, my writer, listen;it is very interesting! Come nearer. Such self-sacrifice, such genuinesympathy! I sat up with my father, and did not sleep for nights, either. And all at once--the princess had won the hero's heart--my Dymov fellhead over ears in love. Really, fate is so strange at times! Well, aftermy father's death he came to see me sometimes, met me in the street, andone fine evening, all at once he made me an offer. .. Like snow uponmy head. .. . I lay awake all night, crying, and fell hellishly in lovemyself. And here, as you see, I am his wife. There really is somethingstrong, powerful, bearlike about him, isn't there? Now his face isturned three-quarters towards us in a bad light, but when he turnsround look at his forehead. Ryabovsky, what do you say to that forehead?Dymov, we are talking about you!" she called to her husband. "Come here;hold out your honest hand to Ryabovsky. .. . That's right, be friends. "

Dymov, with a naive and good-natured smile, held out his hand toRyabovsky, and said:

"Very glad to meet you. There was a Ryabovsky in my year at the medicalschool. Was he a relation of yours?"

II

Olga Ivanovna was twenty-two, Dymov was thirty-one. They got onsplendidly together when they were married. Olga Ivanovna hung all herdrawing-room walls with her own and other people's sketches, inframes and without frames, and near the piano and furniture arrangedpicturesque corners with Japanese parasols, easels, daggers, busts, photographs, and rags of many colours. .. . In the dining-room shepapered the walls with peasant woodcuts, hung up bark shoes and sickles, stood in a corner a scythe and a rake, and so achieved a dining-room inthe Russian style. In her bedroom she draped the ceiling and the wallswith dark cloths to make it like a cavern, hung a Venetian lantern overthe beds, and at the door set a figure with a halberd. And every onethought that the young people had a very charming little home. 

When she got up at eleven o'clock every morning, Olga Ivanovna playedthe piano or, if it were sunny, painted something in oils. Then betweentwelve and one she drove to her dressmaker's. As Dymov and she had verylittle money, only just enough, she and her dressmaker were often put toclever shifts to enable her to appear constantly in new dresses and makea sensation with them. Very often out of an old dyed dress, out of bitsof tulle, lace, plush, and silk, costing nothing, perfect marvelswere created, something bewitching--not a dress, but a dream. Fromthe dressmaker's Olga Ivanovna usually drove to some actress of heracquaintance to hear the latest theatrical gossip, and incidentally totry and get hold of tickets for the first night of some new play or fora benefit performance. From the actress's she had to go to some artist'sstudio or to some exhibition or to see some celebrity--either to pay avisit or to give an invitation or simply to have a chat. And everywhereshe met with a gay and friendly welcome, and was assured that she wasgood, that she was sweet, that she was rare. .. . Those whom she calledgreat and famous received her as one of themselves, as an equal, andpredicted with one voice that, with her talents, her taste, and herintelligence, she would do great things if she concentrated herself. Shesang, she played the piano, she painted in oils, she carved, she tookpart in amateur performances; and all this not just anyhow, but all withtalent, whether she made lanterns for an illumination or dressed up ortied somebody's cravat--everything she did was exceptionally graceful, artistic, and charming. But her talents showed themselves in nothingso clearly as in her faculty for quickly becoming acquainted and onintimate terms with celebrated people. No sooner did any one become everso little celebrated, and set people talking about him, than she madehis acquaintance, got on friendly terms the same day, and invited him toher house. Every new acquaintance she made was a veritable fete for her. She adored celebrated people, was proud of them, dreamed of them everynight. She craved for them, and never could satisfy her craving. The oldones departed and were forgotten, new ones came to replace them, but tothese, too, she soon grew accustomed or was disappointed in them, andbegan eagerly seeking for fresh great men, finding them and seeking forthem again. What for?

Between four and five she dined at home with her husband. Hissimplicity, good sense, and kind-heartedness touched her and moved herup to enthusiasm. She was constantly jumping up, impulsively hugging hishead and showering kisses on it. 

"You are a clever, generous man, Dymov, " she used to say, "but you haveone very serious defect. You take absolutely no interest in art. Youdon't believe in music or painting. "

"I don't understand them, " he would say mildly. "I have spent all mylife in working at natural science and medicine, and I have never hadtime to take an interest in the arts. "

"But, you know, that's awful, Dymov!"

"Why so? Your friends don't know anything of science or medicine, butyou don't reproach them with it. Every one has his own line. I don'tunderstand landscapes and operas, but the way I look at it is that ifone set of sensible people devote their whole lives to them, and othersensible people pay immense sums for them, they must be of use. I don'tunderstand them, but not understanding does not imply disbelieving inthem. "

"Let me shake your honest hand!"

After dinner Olga Ivanovna would drive off to see her friends, then to atheatre or to a concert, and she returned home after midnight. So it wasevery day. 

On Wednesdays she had "At Homes. " At these "At Homes" the hostessand her guests did not play cards and did not dance, but entertainedthemselves with various arts. An actor from the Dramatic Theatrerecited, a singer sang, artists sketched in the albums of which OlgaIvanovna had a great number, the violoncellist played, and the hostessherself sketched, carved, sang, and played accompaniments. In theintervals between the recitations, music, and singing, they talkedand argued about literature, the theatre, and painting. There were noladies, for Olga Ivanovna considered all ladies wearisome and vulgarexcept actresses and her dressmaker. Not one of these entertainmentspassed without the hostess starting at every ring at the bell, andsaying, with a triumphant expression, "It is he, " meaning by "he, " ofcourse, some new celebrity. Dymov was not in the drawing-room, and noone remembered his existence. But exactly at half-past eleven the doorleading into the dining-room opened, and Dymov would appear with hisgood-natured, gentle smile and say, rubbing his hands:

"Come to supper, gentlemen. "

They all went into the dining-room, and every time found on the tableexactly the same things: a dish of oysters, a piece of ham or veal, sardines, cheese, caviare, mushrooms, vodka, and two decanters of wine. 

"My dear _maitre d' hotel!_" Olga Ivanovna would say, clasping her handswith enthusiasm, "you are simply fascinating! My friends, look at hisforehead! Dymov, turn your profile. Look! he has the face of a Bengaltiger and an expression as kind and sweet as a gazelle. Ah, thedarling!"

The visitors ate, and, looking at Dymov, thought, "He really is a nicefellow"; but they soon forgot about him, and went on talking about thetheatre, music, and painting. 

The young people were happy, and their life flowed on without a hitch. 

The third week of their honeymoon was spent, however, not quitehappily--sadly, indeed. Dymov caught erysipelas in the hospital, was inbed for six days, and had to have his beautiful black hair cropped. OlgaIvanovna sat beside him and wept bitterly, but when he was better sheput a white handkerchief on his shaven head and began to paint him asa Bedouin. And they were both in good spirits. Three days after he hadbegun to go back to the hospital he had another mischance. 

"I have no luck, little mother, " he said one day at dinner. "I had fourdissections to do today, and I cut two of my fingers at one. And I didnot notice it till I got home. "

Olga Ivanovna was alarmed. He smiled, and told her that it did notmatter, and that he often cut his hands when he was dissecting. 

"I get absorbed, little mother, and grow careless. "

Olga Ivanovna dreaded symptoms of blood-poisoning, and prayed about itevery night, but all went well. And again life flowed on peaceful andhappy, free from grief and anxiety. The present was happy, and to followit spring was at hand, already smiling in the distance, and promising athousand delights. There would be no end to their happiness. InApril, May and June a summer villa a good distance out of town; walks, sketching, fishing, nightingales; and then from July right on to autumnan artist's tour on the Volga, and in this tour Olga Ivanovna would takepart as an indispensable member of the society. She had already had madefor her two travelling dresses of linen, had bought paints, brushes, canvases, and a new palette for the journey. Almost every day Ryabovskyvisited her to see what progress she was making in her painting; whenshe showed him her painting, he used to thrust his hands deep into hispockets, compress his lips, sniff, and say:

"Ye--es. .. ! That cloud of yours is screaming: it's not in the eveninglight. The foreground is somehow chewed up, and there is something, you know, not the thing. .. . And your cottage is weighed down and whinespitifully. That corner ought to have been taken more in shadow, but onthe whole it is not bad; I like it. "

And the more incomprehensible he talked, the more readily Olga Ivanovnaunderstood him. 

III

After dinner on the second day of Trinity week, Dymov bought some sweetsand some savouries and went down to the villa to see his wife. He hadnot seen her for a fortnight, and missed her terribly. As he sat in thetrain and afterwards as he looked for his villa in a big wood, he feltall the while hungry and weary, and dreamed of how he would have supperin freedom with his wife, then tumble into bed and to sleep. And hewas delighted as he looked at his parcel, in which there was caviare, cheese, and white salmon. 

The sun was setting by the time he found his villa and recognized it. The old servant told him that her mistress was not at home, butthat most likely she would soon be in. The villa, very uninviting inappearance, with low ceilings papered with writing-paper and with unevenfloors full of crevices, consisted only of three rooms. In one there wasa bed, in the second there were canvases, brushes, greasy papers, andmen's overcoats and hats lying about on the chairs and in the windows, while in the third Dymov found three unknown men; two were dark-hairedand had beards, the other was clean-shaven and fat, apparently an actor. There was a samovar boiling on the table. 

"What do you want?" asked the actor in a bass voice, looking at Dymovungraciously. "Do you want Olga Ivanovna? Wait a minute; she will behere directly. "

Dymov sat down and waited. One of the dark-haired men, looking sleepilyand listlessly at him, poured himself out a glass of tea, and asked:

"Perhaps you would like some tea?"

Dymov was both hungry and thirsty, but he refused tea for fear ofspoiling his supper. Soon he heard footsteps and a familiar laugh;a door slammed, and Olga Ivanovna ran into the room, wearing awide-brimmed hat and carrying a box in her hand; she was followedby Ryabovsky, rosy and good-humoured, carrying a big umbrella and acamp-stool. 

"Dymov!" cried Olga Ivanovna, and she flushed crimson with pleasure. "Dymov!" she repeated, laying her head and both arms on his bosom. "Isthat you? Why haven't you come for so long? Why? Why?"

"When could I, little mother? I am always busy, and whenever I am freeit always happens somehow that the train does not fit. "

"But how glad I am to see you! I have been dreaming about you the wholenight, the whole night, and I was afraid you must be ill. Ah! if youonly knew how sweet you are! You have come in the nick of time! You willbe my salvation! You are the only person who can save me! There is to bea most original wedding here tomorrow, " she went on, laughing, and tyingher husband's cravat. "A young telegraph clerk at the station, calledTchikeldyeev, is going to be married. He is a handsome young manand--well, not stupid, and you know there is something strong, bearlikein his face. .. You might paint him as a young Norman. We summer visitorstake a great interest in him, and have promised to be at his wedding. .. . He is a lonely, timid man, not well off, and of course it would be ashame not to be sympathetic to him. Fancy! the wedding will be afterthe service; then we shall all walk from the church to the bride'slodgings. .. You see the wood, the birds singing, patches of sunlight onthe grass, and all of us spots of different colours against thebright green background--very original, in the style of the Frenchimpressionists. But, Dymov, what am I to go to the church in?" saidOlga Ivanovna, and she looked as though she were going to cry. "I havenothing here, literally nothing! no dress, no flowers, no gloves. .. Youmust save me. Since you have come, fate itself bids you save me. Takethe keys, my precious, go home and get my pink dress from the wardrobe. You remember it; it hangs in front. .. . Then, in the storeroom, on thefloor, on the right side, you will see two cardboard boxes. When youopen the top one you will see tulle, heaps of tulle and rags of allsorts, and under them flowers. Take out all the flowers carefully, trynot to crush them, darling; I will choose among them later. .. . And buyme some gloves. "

"Very well, " said Dymov; "I will go tomorrow and send them to you. "

"Tomorrow?" asked Olga Ivanovna, and she looked at him surprised. "Youwon't have time tomorrow. The first train goes tomorrow at nine, and thewedding's at eleven. No, darling, it must be today; it absolutelymust be today. If you won't be able to come tomorrow, send them by amessenger. Come, you must run along. .. . The passenger train will be indirectly; don't miss it, darling. "

"Very well. "

"Oh, how sorry I am to let you go!" said Olga Ivanovna, and tears cameinto her eyes. "And why did I promise that telegraph clerk, like asilly?"

Dymov hurriedly drank a glass of tea, took a cracknel, and, smilinggently, went to the station. And the caviare, the cheese, and the whitesalmon were eaten by the two dark gentlemen and the fat actor. 

IV

On a still moonlight night in July Olga Ivanovna was standing on thedeck of a Volga steamer and looking alternately at the water and at thepicturesque banks. Beside her was standing Ryabovsky, telling her theblack shadows on the water were not shadows, but a dream, that it wouldbe sweet to sink into forgetfulness, to die, to become a memory in thesight of that enchanted water with the fantastic glimmer, in sight ofthe fathomless sky and the mournful, dreamy shores that told of thevanity of our life and of the existence of something higher, blessed, and eternal. The past was vulgar and uninteresting, the future wastrivial, and that marvellous night, unique in a lifetime, would soon beover, would blend with eternity; then, why live?

And Olga Ivanovna listened alternately to Ryabovsky's voice and thesilence of the night, and thought of her being immortal and never dying. The turquoise colour of the water, such as she had never seen before, the sky, the river-banks, the black shadows, and the unaccountable joythat flooded her soul, all told her that she would make a great artist, and that somewhere in the distance, in the infinite space beyond themoonlight, success, glory, the love of the people, lay awaiting her. .. . When she gazed steadily without blinking into the distance, she seemedto see crowds of people, lights, triumphant strains of music, cries ofenthusiasm, she herself in a white dress, and flowers showered uponher from all sides. She thought, too, that beside her, leaning with hiselbows on the rail of the steamer, there was standing a real greatman, a genius, one of God's elect. .. . All that he had created up to thepresent was fine, new, and extraordinary, but what he would create intime, when with maturity his rare talent reached its full development, would be astounding, immeasurably sublime; and that could be seen by hisface, by his manner of expressing himself and his attitude to nature. He talked of shadows, of the tones of evening, of the moonlight, ina special way, in a language of his own, so that one could not helpfeeling the fascination of his power over nature. He was very handsome, original, and his life, free, independent, aloof from all common cares, was like the life of a bird. 

"It's growing cooler, " said Olga Ivanovna, and she gave a shudder. 

Ryabovsky wrapped her in his cloak, and said mournfully:

"I feel that I am in your power; I am a slave. Why are you so enchantingtoday?"

He kept staring intently at her, and his eyes were terrible. And she wasafraid to look at him. 

"I love you madly, " he whispered, breathing on her cheek. "Say one wordto me and I will not go on living; I will give up art. .. " he mutteredin violent emotion. "Love me, love. .. . "

"Don't talk like that, " said Olga Ivanovna, covering her eyes. "It'sdreadful! How about Dymov?"

"What of Dymov? Why Dymov? What have I to do with Dymov? The Volga, themoon, beauty, my love, ecstasy, and there is no such thing as Dymov. .. . Ah! I don't know. .. I don't care about the past; give me one moment, oneinstant!"

Olga Ivanovna's heart began to throb. She tried to think about herhusband, but all her past, with her wedding, with Dymov, and with her"At Homes, " seemed to her petty, trivial, dingy, unnecessary, and far, far away. .. . Yes, really, what of Dymov? Why Dymov? What had she to dowith Dymov? Had he any existence in nature, or was he only a dream?

"For him, a simple and ordinary man the happiness he has had alreadyis enough, " she thought, covering her face with her hands. "Let themcondemn me, let them curse me, but in spite of them all I will go to myruin; I will go to my ruin!. .. One must experience everything in life. My God! how terrible and how glorious!"

"Well? Well?" muttered the artist, embracing her, and greedily kissingthe hands with which she feebly tried to thrust him from her. "You loveme? Yes? Yes? Oh, what a night! marvellous night!"

"Yes, what a night!" she whispered, looking into his eyes, which werebright with tears. 

Then she looked round quickly, put her arms round him, and kissed him onthe lips. 

"We are nearing Kineshmo!" said some one on the other side of the deck. 

They heard heavy footsteps; it was a waiter from the refreshment-bar. 

"Waiter, " said Olga Ivanovna, laughing and crying with happiness, "bringus some wine. "

The artist, pale with emotion, sat on the seat, looking at Olga Ivanovnawith adoring, grateful eyes; then he closed his eyes, and said, smilinglanguidly:

"I am tired. "

And he leaned his head against the rail. 

V

On the second of September the day was warm and still, but overcast. Inthe early morning a light mist had hung over the Volga, and after nineo'clock it had begun to spout with rain. And there seemed no hope of thesky clearing. Over their morning tea Ryabovsky told Olga Ivanovna thatpainting was the most ungrateful and boring art, that he was not anartist, that none but fools thought that he had any talent, and all atonce, for no rhyme or reason, he snatched up a knife and with it scrapedover his very best sketch. After his tea he sat plunged in gloom at thewindow and gazed at the Volga. And now the Volga was dingy, all ofone even colour without a gleam of light, cold-looking. Everything, everything recalled the approach of dreary, gloomy autumn. And it seemedas though nature had removed now from the Volga the sumptuous greencovers from the banks, the brilliant reflections of the sunbeams, thetransparent blue distance, and all its smart gala array, and had packedit away in boxes till the coming spring, and the crows were flying abovethe Volga and crying tauntingly, "Bare, bare!"

Ryabovsky heard their cawing, and thought he had already gone offand lost his talent, that everything in this world was relative, conditional, and stupid, and that he ought not to have taken up withthis woman. .. . In short, he was out of humour and depressed. 

Olga Ivanovna sat behind the screen on the bed, and, passing herfingers through her lovely flaxen hair, pictured herself first in thedrawing-room, then in the bedroom, then in her husband's study; herimagination carried her to the theatre, to the dress-maker, to herdistinguished friends. Were they getting something up now? Did theythink of her? The season had begun by now, and it would be time to thinkabout her "At Homes. " And Dymov? Dear Dymov! with what gentleness andchildlike pathos he kept begging her in his letters to make haste andcome home! Every month he sent her seventy-five roubles, and when shewrote him that she had lent the artists a hundred roubles, he sent thathundred too. What a kind, generous-hearted man! The travelling weariedOlga Ivanovna; she was bored; and she longed to get away from thepeasants, from the damp smell of the river, and to cast off the feelingof physical uncleanliness of which she was conscious all the time, living in the peasants' huts and wandering from village to village. IfRyabovsky had not given his word to the artists that he would stay withthem till the twentieth of September, they might have gone away thatvery day. And how nice that would have been!

"My God!" moaned Ryabovsky. "Will the sun ever come out? I can't go onwith a sunny landscape without the sun. .. . "

"But you have a sketch with a cloudy sky, " said Olga Ivanovna, comingfrom behind the screen. "Do you remember, in the right foreground foresttrees, on the left a herd of cows and geese? You might finish it now. "

"Aie!" the artist scowled. "Finish it! Can you imagine I am such a foolthat I don't know what I want to do?"

"How you have changed to me!" sighed Olga Ivanovna. 

"Well, a good thing too!"

Olga Ivanovna's face quivered; she moved away to the stove and began tocry. 

"Well, that's the last straw--crying! Give over! I have a thousandreasons for tears, but I am not crying. "

"A thousand reasons!" cried Olga Ivanovna. "The chief one is that youare weary of me. Yes!" she said, and broke into sobs. "If one is to tellthe truth, you are ashamed of our love. You keep trying to prevent theartists from noticing it, though it is impossible to conceal it, andthey have known all about it for ever so long. "

"Olga, one thing I beg you, " said the artist in an imploring voice, laying his hand on his heart--"one thing; don't worry me! I want nothingelse from you!"

"But swear that you love me still!"

"This is agony!" the artist hissed through his teeth, and he jumped up. "It will end by my throwing myself in the Volga or going out of my mind!Let me alone!"

"Come, kill me, kill me!" cried Olga Ivanovna. "Kill me!"

She sobbed again, and went behind the screen. There was a swish of rainon the straw thatch of the hut. Ryabovsky clutched his head and strodeup and down the hut; then with a resolute face, as though bent onproving something to somebody, put on his cap, slung his gun over hisshoulder, and went out of the hut. 

After he had gone, Olga Ivanovna lay a long time on the bed, crying. Atfirst she thought it would be a good thing to poison herself, so thatwhen Ryabovsky came back he would find her dead; then her imaginationcarried her to her drawing-room, to her husband's study, and sheimagined herself sitting motionless beside Dymov and enjoying thephysical peace and cleanliness, and in the evening sitting in thetheatre, listening to Mazini. And a yearning for civilization, for thenoise and bustle of the town, for celebrated people sent a pang to herheart. A peasant woman came into the hut and began in a leisurely waylighting the stove to get the dinner. There was a smell of charcoalfumes, and the air was filled with bluish smoke. The artists came in, inmuddy high boots and with faces wet with rain, examined their sketches, and comforted themselves by saying that the Volga had its charms evenin bad weather. On the wall the cheap clock went "tic-tic-tic. ". .. Theflies, feeling chilled, crowded round the ikon in the corner, buzzing, and one could hear the cockroaches scurrying about among the thickportfolios under the seats. .. . 

Ryabovsky came home as the sun was setting. He flung his cap on thetable, and, without removing his muddy boots, sank pale and exhausted onthe bench and closed his eyes. 

"I am tired. .. " he said, and twitched his eyebrows, trying to raise hiseyelids. 

To be nice to him and to show she was not cross, Olga Ivanovna went upto him, gave him a silent kiss, and passed the comb through his fairhair. She meant to comb it for him. 

"What's that?" he said, starting as though something cold had touchedhim, and he opened his eyes. "What is it? Please let me alone. "

He thrust her off, and moved away. And it seemed to her that there was alook of aversion and annoyance on his face. 

At that time the peasant woman cautiously carried him, in both hands, a plate of cabbage-soup. And Olga Ivanovna saw how she wetted her fatfingers in it. And the dirty peasant woman, standing with her bodythrust forward, and the cabbage-soup which Ryabovsky began eatinggreedily, and the hut, and their whole way of life, which she at firsthad so loved for its simplicity and artistic disorder, seemed horribleto her now. She suddenly felt insulted, and said coldly:

"We must part for a time, or else from boredom we shall quarrel inearnest. I am sick of this; I am going today. "

"Going how? Astride on a broomstick?"

"Today is Thursday, so the steamer will be here at half-past nine. "

"Eh? Yes, yes. .. . Well, go, then. .. " Ryabovsky said softly, wiping hismouth with a towel instead of a dinner napkin. "You are dull and havenothing to do here, and one would have to be a great egoist to try andkeep you. Go home, and we shall meet again after the twentieth. "

Olga Ivanovna packed in good spirits. Her cheeks positively glowed withpleasure. Could it really be true, she asked herself, that she wouldsoon be writing in her drawing-room and sleeping in her bedroom, anddining with a cloth on the table? A weight was lifted from her heart, and she no longer felt angry with the artist. 

"My paints and brushes I will leave with you, Ryabovsky, " she said. "Youcan bring what's left. .. . Mind, now, don't be lazy here when I am gone;don't mope, but work. You are such a splendid fellow, Ryabovsky!"

At ten o'clock Ryabovsky gave her a farewell kiss, in order, as shethought, to avoid kissing her on the steamer before the artists, andwent with her to the landing-stage. The steamer soon came up and carriedher away. 

She arrived home two and a half days later. Breathless with excitement, she went, without taking off her hat or waterproof, into thedrawing-room and thence into the dining-room. Dymov, with his waistcoatunbuttoned and no coat, was sitting at the table sharpening a knife on afork; before him lay a grouse on a plate. As Olga Ivanovna went into theflat she was convinced that it was essential to hide everything from herhusband, and that she would have the strength and skill to do so; butnow, when she saw his broad, mild, happy smile, and shining, joyfuleyes, she felt that to deceive this man was as vile, as revolting, andas impossible and out of her power as to bear false witness, to steal, or to kill, and in a flash she resolved to tell him all that hadhappened. Letting him kiss and embrace her, she sank down on her kneesbefore him and hid her face. 

"What is it, what is it, little mother?" he asked tenderly. "Were youhomesick?"

She raised her face, red with shame, and gazed at him with a guilty andimploring look, but fear and shame prevented her from telling him thetruth. 

"Nothing, " she said; "it's just nothing. .. . "

"Let us sit down, " he said, raising her and seating her at the table. "That's right, eat the grouse. You are starving, poor darling. "

She eagerly breathed in the atmosphere of home and ate the grouse, whilehe watched her with tenderness and laughed with delight. 

VI

Apparently, by the middle of the winter Dymov began to suspect that hewas being deceived. As though his conscience was not clear, he could notlook his wife straight in the face, did not smile with delight when hemet her, and to avoid being left alone with her, he often brought into dinner his colleague, Korostelev, a little close-cropped man with awrinkled face, who kept buttoning and unbuttoning his reefer jacket withembarrassment when he talked with Olga Ivanovna, and then with his righthand nipped his left moustache. At dinner the two doctors talked aboutthe fact that a displacement of the diaphragm was sometimes accompaniedby irregularities of the heart, or that a great number of neuroticcomplaints were met with of late, or that Dymov had the day beforefound a cancer of the lower abdomen while dissecting a corpse withthe diagnosis of pernicious anaemia. And it seemed as though they weretalking of medicine to give Olga Ivanovna a chance of being silent--thatis, of not lying. After dinner Korostelev sat down to the piano, whileDymov sighed and said to him:

"Ech, brother--well, well! Play something melancholy. "

Hunching up his shoulders and stretching his fingers wide apart, Korostelev played some chords and began singing in a tenor voice, "Showme the abode where the Russian peasant would not groan, " while Dymovsighed once more, propped his head on his fist, and sank into thought. 

Olga Ivanovna had been extremely imprudent in her conduct of late. Everymorning she woke up in a very bad humour and with the thought that sheno longer cared for Ryabovsky, and that, thank God, it was all over now. But as she drank her coffee she reflected that Ryabovsky had robbed herof her husband, and that now she was left with neither her husbandnor Ryabovsky; then she remembered talks she had heard among heracquaintances of a picture Ryabovsky was preparing for the exhibition, something striking, a mixture of genre and landscape, in the style ofPolyenov, about which every one who had been into his studio went intoraptures; and this, of course, she mused, he had created under herinfluence, and altogether, thanks to her influence, he had greatlychanged for the better. Her influence was so beneficent and essentialthat if she were to leave him he might perhaps go to ruin. And sheremembered, too, that the last time he had come to see her in agreat-coat with flecks on it and a new tie, he had asked her languidly:

"Am I beautiful?"

And with his elegance, his long curls, and his blue eyes, he reallywas very beautiful (or perhaps it only seemed so), and he had beenaffectionate to her. 

Considering and remembering many things Olga Ivanovna dressed and ingreat agitation drove to Ryabovsky's studio. She found him in highspirits, and enchanted with his really magnificent picture. He wasdancing about and playing the fool and answering serious questions withjokes. Olga Ivanovna was jealous of the picture and hated it, but frompoliteness she stood before the picture for five minutes in silence, and, heaving a sigh, as though before a holy shrine, said softly:

"Yes, you have never painted anything like it before. Do you know, it ispositively awe-inspiring?"

And then she began beseeching him to love her and not to cast her off, to have pity on her in her misery and her wretchedness. She shed tears, kissed his hands, insisted on his swearing that he loved her, told himthat without her good influence he would go astray and be ruined. And, when she had spoilt his good-humour, feeling herself humiliated, shewould drive off to her dressmaker or to an actress of her acquaintanceto try and get theatre tickets. 

If she did not find him at his studio she left a letter in which sheswore that if he did not come to see her that day she would poisonherself. He was scared, came to see her, and stayed to dinner. Regardless of her husband's presence, he would say rude things to her, and she would answer him in the same way. Both felt they were a burdento each other, that they were tyrants and enemies, and were wrathful, and in their wrath did not notice that their behaviour was unseemly, and that even Korostelev, with his close-cropped head, saw it all. Afterdinner Ryabovsky made haste to say good-bye and get away. 

"Where are you off to?" Olga Ivanovna would ask him in the hall, lookingat him with hatred. 

Scowling and screwing up his eyes, he mentioned some lady of theiracquaintance, and it was evident that he was laughing at her jealousyand wanted to annoy her. She went to her bedroom and lay down on herbed; from jealousy, anger, a sense of humiliation and shame, she bitthe pillow and began sobbing aloud. Dymov left Korostelev in thedrawing-room, went into the bedroom, and with a desperate andembarrassed face said softly:

"Don't cry so loud, little mother; there's no need. You must be quietabout it. You must not let people see. .. . You know what is done is done, and can't be mended. "

Not knowing how to ease the burden of her jealousy, which actually sether temples throbbing with pain, and thinking still that things might beset right, she would wash, powder her tear-stained face, and fly off tothe lady mentioned. 

Not finding Ryabovsky with her, she would drive off to a second, then toa third. At first she was ashamed to go about like this, but afterwardsshe got used to it, and it would happen that in one evening she wouldmake the round of all her female acquaintances in search of Ryabovsky, and they all understood it. 

One day she said to Ryabovsky of her husband:

"That man crushes me with his magnanimity. "

This phrase pleased her so much that when she met the artists who knewof her affair with Ryabovsky she said every time of her husband, with avigorous movement of her arm:

"That man crushes me with his magnanimity. "

Their manner of life was the same as it had been the year before. OnWednesdays they were "At Home"; an actor recited, the artists sketched. The violoncellist played, a singer sang, and invariably at half-pasteleven the door leading to the dining-room opened and Dymov, smiling, said:

"Come to supper, gentlemen. "

As before, Olga Ivanovna hunted celebrities, found them, was notsatisfied, and went in pursuit of fresh ones. As before, she came backlate every night; but now Dymov was not, as last year, asleep, butsitting in his study at work of some sort. He went to bed at threeo'clock and got up at eight. 

One evening when she was getting ready to go to the theatre andstanding before the pier glass, Dymov came into her bedroom, wearing hisdress-coat and a white tie. He was smiling gently and looked into hiswife's face joyfully, as in old days; his face was radiant. 

"I have just been defending my thesis, " he said, sitting down andsmoothing his knees. 

"Defending?" asked Olga Ivanovna. 

"Oh, oh!" he laughed, and he craned his neck to see his wife's face inthe mirror, for she was still standing with her back to him, doing upher hair. "Oh, oh, " he repeated, "do you know it's very possible theymay offer me the Readership in General Pathology? It seems like it. "

It was evident from his beaming, blissful face that if Olga Ivanovnahad shared with him his joy and triumph he would have forgiven hereverything, both the present and the future, and would have forgotteneverything, but she did not understand what was meant by a "readership"or by "general pathology"; besides, she was afraid of being late for thetheatre, and she said nothing. 

He sat there another two minutes, and with a guilty smile went away. 

VII

It had been a very troubled day. 

Dymov had a very bad headache; he had no breakfast, and did not go tothe hospital, but spent the whole time lying on his sofa in the study. Olga Ivanovna went as usual at midday to see Ryabovsky, to show him herstill-life sketch, and to ask him why he had not been to see her theevening before. The sketch seemed to her worthless, and she had paintedit only in order to have an additional reason for going to the artist. 

She went in to him without ringing, and as she was taking off hergoloshes in the entry she heard a sound as of something running softlyin the studio, with a feminine rustle of skirts; and as she hastenedto peep in she caught a momentary glimpse of a bit of brown petticoat, which vanished behind a big picture draped, together with the easel, with black calico, to the floor. There could be no doubt that a womanwas hiding there. How often Olga Ivanovna herself had taken refugebehind that picture!

Ryabovsky, evidently much embarrassed, held out both hands to her, asthough surprised at her arrival, and said with a forced smile:

"Aha! Very glad to see you! Anything nice to tell me?"

Olga Ivanovna's eyes filled with tears. She felt ashamed and bitter, andwould not for a million roubles have consented to speak in the presenceof the outsider, the rival, the deceitful woman who was standing nowbehind the picture, and probably giggling malignantly. 

"I have brought you a sketch, " she said timidly in a thin voice, and herlips quivered. "_Nature morte. _"

"Ah--ah!. .. A sketch?"

The artist took the sketch in his hands, and as he examined it w alked, as it were mechanically, into the other room. 

Olga Ivanovna followed him humbly. 

"_Nature morte_. .. First-rate sort, " he muttered, falling into rhyme. "Kurort. .. Sport. .. Port. .. "

From the studio came the sound of hurried footsteps and the rustle of askirt. 

So she had gone. Olga Ivanovna wanted to scream aloud, to hit the artiston the head with something heavy, but she could see nothing through hertears, was crushed by her shame, and felt herself, not Olga Ivanovna, not an artist, but a little insect. 

"I am tired. .. " said the artist languidly, looking at the sketch andtossing his head as though struggling with drowsiness. "It's very nice, of course, but here a sketch today, a sketch last year, another sketchin a month. .. I wonder you are not bored with them. If I were you Ishould give up painting and work seriously at music or something. You'renot an artist, you know, but a musician. But you can't think how tired Iam! I'll tell them to bring us some tea, shall I?"

He went out of the room, and Olga Ivanovna heard him give some order tohis footman. To avoid farewells and explanations, and above all to avoidbursting into sobs, she ran as fast as she could, before Ryabovsky cameback, to the entry, put on her goloshes, and went out into the street;then she breathed easily, and felt she was free for ever from Ryabovskyand from painting and from the burden of shame which had so crushed herin the studio. It was all over!

She drove to her dressmaker's; then to see Barnay, who had only arrivedthe day before; from Barnay to a music-shop, and all the time she wasthinking how she would write Ryabovsky a cold, cruel letter full ofpersonal dignity, and how in the spring or the summer she would go withDymov to the Crimea, free herself finally from the past there, and begina new life. 

On getting home late in the evening she sat down in the drawing-room, without taking off her things, to begin the letter. Ryabovsky had toldher she was not an artist, and to pay him out she wrote to him now thathe painted the same thing every year, and said exactly the same thingevery day; that he was at a standstill, and that nothing more would comeof him than had come already. She wanted to write, too, that he owed agreat deal to her good influence, and that if he was going wrong it wasonly because her influence was paralysed by various dubious persons likethe one who had been hiding behind the picture that day. 

"Little mother!" Dymov called from the study, without opening the door. 

"What is it?"

"Don't come in to me, but only come to the door--that's right. .. . Theday before yesterday I must have caught diphtheria at the hospital, andnow. .. I am ill. Make haste and send for Korostelev. "

Olga Ivanovna always called her husband by his surname, as she did allthe men of her acquaintance; she disliked his Christian name, Osip, because it reminded her of the Osip in Gogol and the silly pun on hisname. But now she cried:

"Osip, it cannot be!"

"Send for him; I feel ill, " Dymov said behind the door, and she couldhear him go back to the sofa and lie down. "Send!" she heard his voicefaintly. 

"Good Heavens!" thought Olga Ivanovna, turning chill with horror. "Why, it's dangerous!"

For no reason she took the candle and went into the bedroom, and there, reflecting what she must do, glanced casually at herself in the pierglass. With her pale, frightened face, in a jacket with sleeves high onthe shoulders, with yellow ruches on her bosom, and with stripes runningin unusual directions on her skirt, she seemed to herself horribleand disgusting. She suddenly felt poignantly sorry for Dymov, for hisboundless love for her, for his young life, and even for the desolatelittle bed in which he had not slept for so long; and she rememberedhis habitual, gentle, submissive smile. She wept bitterly, and wrote animploring letter to Korostelev. It was two o'clock in the night. 

VIII

When towards eight o'clock in the morning Olga Ivanovna, her head heavyfrom want of sleep and her hair unbrushed, came out of her bedroom, looking unattractive and with a guilty expression on her face, agentleman with a black beard, apparently the doctor, passed by her intothe entry. There was a smell of drugs. Korostelev was standing near thestudy door, twisting his left moustache with his right hand. 

"Excuse me, I can't let you go in, " he said surlily to Olga Ivanovna;"it's catching. Besides, it's no use, really; he is delirious, anyway. "

"Has he really got diphtheria?" Olga Ivanovna asked in a whisper. 

"People who wantonly risk infection ought to be hauled up and punishedfor it, " muttered Korostelev, not answering Olga Ivanovna's question. "Do you know why he caught it? On Tuesday he was sucking up the mucusthrough a pipette from a boy with diphtheria. And what for? It wasstupid. .. . Just from folly. .. . "

"Is it dangerous, very?" asked Olga Ivanovna. 

"Yes; they say it is the malignant form. We ought to send for Shrekreally. "

A little red-haired man with a long nose and a Jewish accent arrived;then a tall, stooping, shaggy individual, who looked like a head deacon;then a stout young man with a red face and spectacles. These weredoctors who came to watch by turns beside their colleague. Korostelevdid not go home when his turn was over, but remained and wandered aboutthe rooms like an uneasy spirit. The maid kept getting tea for thevarious doctors, and was constantly running to the chemist, and therewas no one to do the rooms. There was a dismal stillness in the flat. 

Olga Ivanovna sat in her bedroom and thought that God was punishing herfor having deceived her husband. That silent, unrepining, uncomprehendedcreature, robbed by his mildness of all personality and will, weak fromexcessive kindness, had been suffering in obscurity somewhere onhis sofa, and had not complained. And if he were to complain evenin delirium, the doctors watching by his bedside would learn thatdiphtheria was not the only cause of his sufferings. They would askKorostelev. He knew all about it, and it was not for nothing that helooked at his friend's wife with eyes that seemed to say that she wasthe real chief criminal and diphtheria was only her accomplice. She didnot think now of the moonlight evening on the Volga, nor the words oflove, nor their poetical life in the peasant's hut. She thought onlythat from an idle whim, from self-indulgence, she had sullied herselfall over from head to foot in something filthy, sticky, which one couldnever wash off. .. . 

"Oh, how fearfully false I've been!" she thought, recalling the troubledpassion she had known with Ryabovsky. "Curse it all!. .. "

At four o'clock she dined with Korostelev. He did nothing but scowl anddrink red wine, and did not eat a morsel. She ate nothing, either. Atone minute she was praying inwardly and vowing to God that if Dymovrecovered she would love him again and be a faithful wife to him. Then, forgetting herself for a minute, she would look at Korostelev, andthink: "Surely it must be dull to be a humble, obscure person, notremarkable in any way, especially with such a wrinkled face and badmanners!"

Then it seemed to her that God would strike her dead that minute fornot having once been in her husband's study, for fear of infection. Andaltogether she had a dull, despondent feeling and a conviction that herlife was spoilt, and that there was no setting it right anyhow. .. . 

After dinner darkness came on. When Olga Ivanovna went into thedrawing-room Korostelev was asleep on the sofa, with a gold-embroideredsilk cushion under his head. 

"Khee-poo-ah, " he snored--"khee-poo-ah. "

And the doctors as they came to sit up and went away again did notnotice this disorder. The fact that a strange man was asleep and snoringin the drawing-room, and the sketches on the walls and the exquisitedecoration of the room, and the fact that the lady of the house wasdishevelled and untidy--all that aroused not the slightest interest now. One of the doctors chanced to laugh at something, and the laugh had astrange and timid sound that made one's heart ac he. 

When Olga Ivanovna went into the drawing-room next time, Korostelev wasnot asleep, but sitting up and smoking. 

"He has diphtheria of the nasal cavity, " he said in a low voice, "andthe heart is not working properly now. Things are in a bad way, really. "

"But you will send for Shrek?" said Olga Ivanovna. 

"He has been already. It was he noticed that the diphtheria had passedinto the nose. What's the use of Shrek! Shrek's no use at all, really. He is Shrek, I am Korostelev, and nothing more. "

The time dragged on fearfully slowly. Olga Ivanovna lay down in herclothes on her bed, that had not been made all day, and sank intoa doze. She dreamed that the whole flat was filled up from floor toceiling with a huge piece of iron, and that if they could only get theiron out they would all be light-hearted and happy. Waking, she realizedthat it was not the iron but Dymov's illness that was weighing on her. 

"Nature morte, port. .. " she thought, sinking into forgetfulness again. "Sport. .. Kurort. .. And what of Shrek? Shrek. .. Trek. .. Wreck. .. . Andwhere are my friends now? Do they know that we are in trouble? Lord, save. .. Spare! Shrek. .. Trek. .. "

And again the iron was there. .. . The time dragged on slowly, though theclock on the lower storey struck frequently. And bells were continuallyringing as the doctors arrived. .. . The house-maid came in with an emptyglass on a tray, and asked, "Shall I make the bed, madam?" and gettingno answer, went away. 

The clock below struck the hour. She dreamed of the rain on the Volga;and again some one came into her bedroom, she thought a stranger. OlgaIvanovna jumped up, and recognized Korostelev. 

"What time is it?" she asked. 

"About three. "

"Well, what is it?"

"What, indeed!. .. I've come to tell you he is passing. .. . "

He gave a sob, sat down on the bed beside her, and wiped away the tearswith his sleeve. She could not grasp it at once, but turned cold allover and began slowly crossing herself. 

"He is passing, " he repeated in a shrill voice, and again he gave a sob. "He is dying because he sacrificed himself. What a loss for science!"he said bitterly. "Compare him with all of us. He was a great man, anextraordinary man! What gifts! What hopes we all had of him!" Korostelevwent on, wringing his hands: "Merciful God, he was a man of science; weshall never look on his like again. Osip Dymov, what have you done--aie, aie, my God!"

Korostelev covered his face with both hands in despair, and shook hishead. 

"And his moral force, " he went on, seeming to grow more and moreexasperated against some one. "Not a man, but a pure, good, loving soul, and clean as crystal. He served science and died for science. And heworked like an ox night and day--no one spared him--and with hisyouth and his learning he had to take a private practice and work attranslations at night to pay for these. .. Vile rags!"

Korostelev looked with hatred at Olga Ivanovna, snatched at the sheetwith both hands and angrily tore it, as though it were to blame. 

"He did not spare himself, and others did not spare him. Oh, what's theuse of talking!"

"Yes, he was a rare man, " said a bass voice in the drawing-room. 

Olga Ivanovna remembered her whole life with him from the beginningto the end, with all its details, and suddenly she understood that hereally was an extraordinary, rare, and, compared with every one else sheknew, a great man. And remembering how her father, now dead, and all theother doctors had behaved to him, she realized that they really had seenin him a future celebrity. The walls, the ceiling, the lamp, and thecarpet on the floor, seemed to be winking at her sarcastically, asthough they would say, "You were blind! you were blind!" With a wailshe flung herself out of the bedroom, dashed by some unknown man in thedrawing-room, and ran into her husband's study. He was lying motionlesson the sofa, covered to the waist with a quilt. His face was fearfullythin and sunken, and was of a greyish-yellow colour such as is neverseen in the living; only from the forehead, from the black eyebrows andfrom the familiar smile, could he be recognized as Dymov. Olga Ivanovnahurriedly felt his chest, his forehead, and his hands. The chest wasstill warm, but the forehead and hands were unpleasantly cold, and thehalf-open eyes looked, not at Olga Ivanovna, but at the quilt. 

"Dymov!" she called aloud, "Dymov!" She wanted to explain to him thatit had been a mistake, that all was not lost, that life might still bebeautiful and happy, that he was an extraordinary, rare, great man, andthat she would all her life worship him and bow down in homage and holyawe before him. .. . 

"Dymov!" she called him, patting him on the shoulder, unable to believethat he would never wake again. "Dymov! Dymov!"

In the drawing-room Korostelev was saying to the housemaid:

"Why keep asking? Go to the church beadle and enquire where theylive. They'll wash the body and lay it out, and do everything that isnecessary. "

A DREARY STORY

FROM THE NOTEBOOK OF AN OLD MAN

I

THERE is in Russia an emeritus Professor Nikolay Stepanovitch, achevalier and privy councillor; he has so many Russian and foreigndecorations that when he has occasion to put them on the studentsnickname him "The Ikonstand. " His acquaintances are of the mostaristocratic; for the last twenty-five or thirty years, at any rate, there has not been one single distinguished man of learning in Russiawith whom he has not been intimately acquainted. There is no one for himto make friends with nowadays; but if we turn to the past, the long listof his famous friends winds up with such names as Pirogov, Kavelin, and the poet Nekrasov, all of whom bestowed upon him a warm and sincereaffection. He is a member of all the Russian and of three foreignuniversities. And so on, and so on. All that and a great deal more thatmight be said makes up what is called my "name. "

That is my name as known to the public. In Russia it is known to everyeducated man, and abroad it is mentioned in the lecture-room with theaddition "honoured and distinguished. " It is one of those fortunatenames to abuse which or to take which in vain, in public or in print, isconsidered a sign of bad taste. And that is as it should be. You see, myname is closely associated with the conception of a highly distinguishedman of great gifts and unquestionable usefulness. I have the industryand power of endurance of a camel, and that is important, and I havetalent, which is even more important. Moreover, while I am on thissubject, I am a well-educated, modest, and honest fellow. I havenever poked my nose into literature or politics; I have never soughtpopularity in polemics with the ignorant; I have never made speecheseither at public dinners or at the funerals of my friends. .. . In fact, there is no slur on my learned name, and there is no complaint one canmake against it. It is fortunate. 

The bearer of that name, that is I, see myself as a man of sixty-two, with a bald head, with false teeth, and with an incurable ticdouloureux. I am myself as dingy and unsightly as my name is brilliantand splendid. My head and my hands tremble with weakness; my neck, asTurgenev says of one of his heroines, is like the handle of a doublebass; my chest is hollow; my shoulders narrow; when I talk or lecture, my mouth turns down at one corner; when I smile, my whole face iscovered with aged-looking, deathly wrinkles. There is nothing impressiveabout my pitiful figure; only, perhaps, when I have an attack of ticdouloureux my face wears a peculiar expression, the sight of which musthave roused in every one the grim and impressive thought, "Evidentlythat man will soon die. "

I still, as in the past, lecture fairly well; I can still, as in thepast, hold the attention of my listeners for a couple of hours. Myfervour, the literary skill of my exposition, and my humour, almostefface the defects of my voice, though it is harsh, dry, and monotonousas a praying beggar's. I write poorly. That bit of my brain whichpresides over the faculty of authorship refuses to work. My memory hasgrown weak; there is a lack of sequence in my ideas, and when I put themon paper it always seems to me that I have lost the instinct for theirorganic connection; my construction is monotonous; my language ispoor and timid. Often I write what I do not mean; I have forgotten thebeginning when I am writing the end. Often I forget ordinary words, andI always have to waste a great deal of energy in avoiding superfluousphrases and unnecessary parentheses in my letters, both unmistakableproofs of a decline in mental activity. And it is noteworthy thatthe simpler the letter the more painful the effort to write it. At ascientific article I feel far more intelligent and at ease than at aletter of congratulation or a minute of proceedings. Another point: Ifind it easier to write German or English than to write Russian. 

As regards my present manner of life, I must give a foremost place tothe insomnia from which I have suffered of late. If I were asked whatconstituted the chief and fundamental feature of my existence now, Ishould answer, Insomnia. As in the past, from habit I undress and go tobed exactly at midnight. I fall asleep quickly, but before two o'clockI wake up and feel as though I had not slept at all. Sometimes I get outof bed and light a lamp. For an hour or two I walk up and down the roomlooking at the familiar photographs and pictures. When I am weary ofwalking about, I sit down to my table. I sit motionless, thinking ofnothing, conscious of no inclination; if a book is lying before me, Imechanically move it closer and read it without any interest--in thatway not long ago I mechanically read through in one night a whole novel, with the strange title "The Song the Lark was Singing"; or to occupy myattention I force myself to count to a thousand; or I imagine the faceof one of my colleagues and begin trying to remember in what year andunder what circumstances he entered the service. I like listening tosounds. Two rooms away from me my daughter Liza says something rapidlyin her sleep, or my wife crosses the drawing-room with a candle andinvariably drops the matchbox; or a warped cupboard creaks; or theburner of the lamp suddenly begins to hum--and all these sounds, forsome reason, excite me. 

To lie awake at night means to be at every moment conscious of beingabnormal, and so I look forward with impatience to the morning and theday when I have a right to be awake. Many wearisome hours pass beforethe cock crows in the yard. He is my first bringer of good tidings. As soon as he crows I know that within an hour the porter will wake upbelow, and, coughing angrily, will go upstairs to fetch something. Andthen a pale light will begin gradually glimmering at the windows, voiceswill sound in the street. .. . 

The day begins for me with the entrance of my wife. She comes in tome in her petticoat, before she has done her hair, but after she haswashed, smelling of flower-scented eau-de-Cologne, looking as thoughshe had come in by chance. Every time she says exactly the same thing:"Excuse me, I have just come in for a minute. .. . Have you had a badnight again?"

Then she puts out the lamp, sits down near the table, and beginstalking. I am no prophet, but I know what she will talk about. Everymorning it is exactly the same thing. Usually, after anxious inquiriesconcerning my health, she suddenly mentions our son who is an officerserving at Warsaw. After the twentieth of each month we send him fiftyroubles, and that serves as the chief topic of our conversation. 

"Of course it is difficult for us, " my wife would sigh, "but until he iscompletely on his own feet it is our duty to help him. The boy is amongstrangers, his pay is small. .. . However, if you like, next month wewon't send him fifty, but forty. What do you think?"

Daily experience might have taught my wife that constantly talkingof our expenses does not reduce them, but my wife refuses to learn byexperience, and regularly every morning discusses our officer son, andtells me that bread, thank God, is cheaper, while sugar is a halfpennydearer--with a tone and an air as though she were communicatinginteresting news. 

I listen, mechanically assent, and probably because I have had a badnight, strange and inappropriate thoughts intrude themselves upon me. Igaze at my wife and wonder like a child. I ask myself in perplexity, is it possible that this old, very stout, ungainly woman, with herdull expression of petty anxiety and alarm about daily bread, with eyesdimmed by continual brooding over debts and money difficulties, whocan talk of nothing but expenses and who smiles at nothing but thingsgetting cheaper--is it possible that this woman is no other than theslender Varya whom I fell in love with so passionately for her fine, clear intelligence, for her pure soul, her beauty, and, as Othello hisDesdemona, for her "sympathy" for my studies? Could that woman be noother than the Varya who had once borne me a son?

I look with strained attention into the face of this flabby, spiritless, clumsy old woman, seeking in her my Varya, but of her past self nothingis left but her anxiety over my health and her manner of calling mysalary "our salary, " and my cap "our cap. " It is painful for me to lookat her, and, to give her what little comfort I can, I let her say whatshe likes, and say nothing even when she passes unjust criticisms onother people or pitches into me for not having a private practice or notpublishing text-books. 

Our conversation always ends in the same way. My wife suddenly rememberswith dismay that I have not had my tea. 

"What am I thinking about, sitting here?" she says, getting up. "Thesamovar has been on the table ever so long, and here I stay gossiping. My goodness! how forgetful I am growing!"

She goes out quickly, and stops in the doorway to say:

"We owe Yegor five months' wages. Did you know it? You mustn't let theservants' wages run on; how many times I have said it! It's much easierto pay ten roubles a month than fifty roubles every five months!"

As she goes out, she stops to say:

"The person I am sorriest for is our Liza. The girl studies at theConservatoire, always mixes with people of good position, and goodnessknows how she is dressed. Her fur coat is in such a state she is ashamedto show herself in the street. If she were somebody else's daughterit wouldn't matter, but of course every one knows that her father is adistinguished professor, a privy councillor. "

And having reproached me with my rank and reputation, she goes away atlast. That is how my day begins. It does not improve as it goes on. 

As I am drinking my tea, my Liza comes in wearing her fur coat andher cap, with her music in her hand, already quite ready to go to theConservatoire. She is two-and-twenty. She looks younger, is pretty, and rather like my wife in her young days. She kisses me tenderly on myforehead and on my hand, and says:

"Good-morning, papa; are you quite well?"

As a child she was very fond of ice-cream, and I used often to takeher to a confectioner's. Ice-cream was for her the type of everythingdelightful. If she wanted to praise me she would say: "You are as niceas cream, papa. " We used to call one of her little fingers "pistachioice, " the next, "cream ice, " the third "raspberry, " and so on. Usuallywhen she came in to say good-morning to me I used to sit her on my knee, kiss her little fingers, and say:

"Creamy ice. .. Pistachio. .. Lemon. .. . "

And now, from old habit, I kiss Liza's fingers and mutter: "Pistachio. .. Cream. .. Lemon. .. " but the effect is utterly different. I am cold asice and I am ashamed. When my daughter comes in to me and touches myforehead with her lips I start as though a bee had stung me on thehead, give a forced smile, and turn my face away. Ever since I have beensuffering from sleeplessness, a question sticks in my brain like a nail. My daughter often sees me, an old man and a distinguished man, blushpainfully at being in debt to my footman; she sees how often anxietyover petty debts forces me to lay aside my work and to walk u p and downthe room for hours together, thinking; but why is it she never comes tome in secret to whisper in my ear: "Father, here is my watch, hereare my bracelets, my earrings, my dresses. .. . Pawn them all; you wantmoney. .. "? How is it that, seeing how her mother and I are placed in afalse position and do our utmost to hide our poverty from people, shedoes not give up her expensive pleasure of music lessons? I wouldnot accept her watch nor her bracelets, nor the sacrifice of herlessons--God forbid! That isn't what I want. 

I think at the same time of my son, the officer at Warsaw. He is aclever, honest, and sober fellow. But that is not enough for me. I thinkif I had an old father, and if I knew there were moments when he wasput to shame by his poverty, I should give up my officer's commissionto somebody else, and should go out to earn my living as a workman. Suchthoughts about my children poison me. What is the use of them? It isonly a narrow-minded or embittered man who can harbour evil thoughtsabout ordinary people because they are not heroes. But enough of that!

At a quarter to ten I have to go and give a lecture to my dear boys. Idress and walk along the road which I have known for thirty years, and which has its history for me. Here is the big grey house with thechemist's shop; at this point there used to stand a little house, and init was a beershop; in that beershop I thought out my thesis and wrotemy first love-letter to Varya. I wrote it in pencil, on a page headed"Historia morbi. " Here there is a grocer's shop; at one time it was keptby a little Jew, who sold me cigarettes on credit; then by a fat peasantwoman, who liked the students because "every one of them has a mother";now there is a red-haired shopkeeper sitting in it, a very stolid manwho drinks tea from a copper teapot. And here are the gloomy gates ofthe University, which have long needed doing up; I see the bored porterin his sheep-skin, the broom, the drifts of snow. .. . On a boy comingfresh from the provinces and imagining that the temple of sciencemust really be a temple, such gates cannot make a healthy impression. Altogether the dilapidated condition of the University buildings, thegloominess of the corridors, the griminess of the walls, the lack oflight, the dejected aspect of the steps, the hat-stands and the benches, take a prominent position among predisposing causes in the history ofRussian pessimism. .. . Here is our garden. .. I fancy it has grown neitherbetter nor worse since I was a student. I don't like it. It would befar more sensible if there were tall pines and fine oaks growing hereinstead of sickly-looking lime-trees, yellow acacias, and skimpy pollardlilacs. The student whose state of mind is in the majority of casescreated by his surroundings, ought in the place where he is studyingto see facing him at every turn nothing but what is lofty, strong andelegant. .. . God preserve him from gaunt trees, broken windows, greywalls, and doors covered with torn American leather!

When I go to my own entrance the door is flung wide open, and I am metby my colleague, contemporary, and namesake, the porter Nikolay. As helets me in he clears his throat and says:

"A frost, your Excellency!"

Or, if my great-coat is wet:

"Rain, your Excellency!"

Then he runs on ahead of me and opens all the doors on my way. In mystudy he carefully takes off my fur coat, and while doing so managesto tell me some bit of University news. Thanks to the close intimacyexisting between all the University porters and beadles, he knowseverything that goes on in the four faculties, in the office, in therector's private room, in the library. What does he not know? When inan evil day a rector or dean, for instance, retires, I hear him inconversation with the young porters mention the candidates for the post, explain that such a one would not be confirmed by the minister, thatanother would himself refuse to accept it, then drop into fantasticdetails concerning mysterious papers received in the office, secretconversations alleged to have taken place between the minister andthe trustee, and so on. With the exception of these details, he almostalways turns out to be right. His estimates of the candidates, thoughoriginal, are very correct, too. If one wants to know in what year someone read his thesis, entered the service, retired, or died, then summonto your assistance the vast memory of that soldier, and he will not onlytell you the year, the month and the day, but will furnish you also withthe details that accompanied this or that event. Only one who loves canremember like that. 

He is the guardian of the University traditions. From the porters whowere his predecessors he has inherited many legends of University life, has added to that wealth much of his own gained during his time ofservice, and if you care to hear he will tell you many long andintimate stories. He can tell one about extraordinary sages who knew_everything_, about remarkable students who did not sleep for weeks, about numerous martyrs and victims of science; with him good triumphsover evil, the weak always vanquishes the strong, the wise man the fool, the humble the proud, the young the old. There is no need to take allthese fables and legends for sterling coin; but filter them, and youwill have left what is wanted: our fine traditions and the names of realheroes, recognized as such by all. 

In our society the knowledge of the learned world consists of anecdotesof the extraordinary absentmindedness of certain old professors, and twoor three witticisms variously ascribed to Gruber, to me, and to Babukin. For the educated public that is not much. If it loved science, learnedmen, and students, as Nikolay does, its literature would long agohave contained whole epics, records of sayings and doings such as, unfortunately, it cannot boast of now. 

After telling me a piece of news, Nikolay assumes a severe expression, and conversation about business begins. If any outsider could at suchtimes overhear Nikolay's free use of our terminology, he might perhapsimagine that he was a learned man disguised as a soldier. And, by theway, the rumours of the erudition of the University porters are greatlyexaggerated. It is true that Nikolay knows more than a hundred Latinwords, knows how to put the skeleton together, sometimes prepares theapparatus and amuses the students by some long, learned quotation, butthe by no means complicated theory of the circulation of the blood, forinstance, is as much a mystery to him now as it was twenty years ago. 

At the table in my study, bending low over some book or preparation, sits Pyotr Ignatyevitch, my demonstrator, a modest and industrious butby no means clever man of five-and-thirty, already bald and corpulent;he works from morning to night, reads a lot, remembers well everythinghe has read--and in that way he is not a man, but pure gold; in all elsehe is a carthorse or, in other words, a learned dullard. The carthorsecharacteristics that show his lack of talent are these: his outlook isnarrow and sharply limited by his specialty; outside his special branchhe is simple as a child. 

"Fancy! what a misfortune! They say Skobelev is dead. "

Nikolay crosses himself, but Pyotr Ignatyevitch turns to me and asks:

"What Skobelev is that?"

Another time--somewhat earlier--I told him that Professor Perov wasdead. Good Pyotr Ignatyevitch asked:

"What did he lecture on?"

I believe if Patti had sung in his very ear, if a horde of Chinesehad invaded Russia, if there had been an earthquake, he would not havestirred a limb, but screwing up his eye, would have gone on calmlylooking through his microscope. What is he to Hecuba or Hecuba to him, in fact? I would give a good deal to see how this dry stick sleeps withhis wife at night. 

Another characteristic is his fanatical faith in the infallibilityof science, and, above all, of everything written by the Germans. Hebelieves in himself, in his preparations; knows the object of life, andknows nothing of the doubts and disappointments that turn the hair o ftalent grey. He has a slavish reverence for authorities and a completelack of any desire for independent thought. To change his convictions isdifficult, to argue with him impossible. How is one to argue with a manwho is firmly persuaded that medicine is the finest of sciences, thatdoctors are the best of men, and that the traditions of the medicalprofession are superior to those of any other? Of the evil past ofmedicine only one tradition has been preserved--the white tie stillworn by doctors; for a learned--in fact, for any educated man the onlytraditions that can exist are those of the University as a whole, withno distinction between medicine, law, etc. But it would be hard forPyotr Ignatyevitch to accept these facts, and he is ready to argue withyou till the day of judgment. 

I have a clear picture in my mind of his future. In the course of hislife he will prepare many hundreds of chemicals of exceptional purity;he will write a number of dry and very accurate memoranda, willmake some dozen conscientious translations, but he won't do anythingstriking. To do that one must have imagination, inventiveness, the giftof insight, and Pyotr Ignatyevitch has nothing of the kind. In short, heis not a master in science, but a journeyman. 

Pyotr Ignatyevitch, Nikolay, and I, talk in subdued tones. We are notquite ourselves. There is always a peculiar feeling when one hearsthrough the doors a murmur as of the sea from the lecture-theatre. Inthe course of thirty years I have not grown accustomed to this feeling, and I experience it every morning. I nervously button up my coat, askNikolay unnecessary questions, lose my temper. .. . It is just as thoughI were frightened; it is not timidity, though, but something differentwhich I can neither describe nor find a name for. 

Quite unnecessarily, I look at my watch and say: "Well, it's time to goin. "

And we march into the room in the following order: foremost goesNikolay, with the chemicals and apparatus or with a chart; after him Icome; and then the carthorse follows humbly, with hanging head; or, whennecessary, a dead body is carried in first on a stretcher, followed byNikolay, and so on. On my entrance the students all stand up, then theysit down, and the sound as of the sea is suddenly hushed. Stillnessreigns. 

I know what I am going to lecture about, but I don't know how I am goingto lecture, where I am going to begin or with what I am going to end. I haven't a single sentence ready in my head. But I have only to lookround the lecture-hall (it is built in the form of an amphitheatre)and utter the stereotyped phrase, "Last lecture we stopped at. .. " whensentences spring up from my soul in a long string, and I am carried awayby my own eloquence. I speak with irresistible rapidity and passion, andit seems as though there were no force which could check the flow ofmy words. To lecture well--that is, with profit to the listeners andwithout boring them--one must have, besides talent, experience and aspecial knack; one must possess a clear conception of one's own powers, of the audience to which one is lecturing, and of the subject of one'slecture. Moreover, one must be a man who knows what he is doing; onemust keep a sharp lookout, and not for one second lose sight of whatlies before one. 

A good conductor, interpreting the thought of the composer, does twentythings at once: reads the score, waves his baton, watches the singer, makes a motion sideways, first to the drum then to the wind-instruments, and so on. I do just the same when I lecture. Before me a hundred andfifty faces, all unlike one another; three hundred eyes all lookingstraight into my face. My object is to dominate this many-headedmonster. If every moment as I lecture I have a clear vision of thedegree of its attention and its power of comprehension, it is in mypower. The other foe I have to overcome is in myself. It is the infinitevariety of forms, phenomena, laws, and the multitude of ideas of my ownand other people's conditioned by them. Every moment I must have theskill to snatch out of that vast mass of material what is most importantand necessary, and, as rapidly as my words flow, clothe my thought in aform in which it can be grasped by the monster's intelligence, and mayarouse its attention, and at the same time one must keep a sharp lookoutthat one's thoughts are conveyed, not just as they come, but in acertain order, essential for the correct composition of the picture Iwish to sketch. Further, I endeavour to make my diction literary, mydefinitions brief and precise, my wording, as far as possible, simpleand eloquent. Every minute I have to pull myself up and remember thatI have only an hour and forty minutes at my disposal. In short, one hasone's work cut out. At one and the same minute one has to play the partof savant and teacher and orator, and it's a bad thing if the oratorgets the upper hand of the savant or of the teacher in one, or _viceversa_. 

You lecture for a quarter of an hour, for half an hour, when younotice that the students are beginning to look at the ceiling, at PyotrIgnatyevitch; one is feeling for his handkerchief, another shifts in hisseat, another smiles at his thoughts. .. . That means that their attentionis flagging. Something must be done. Taking advantage of the firstopportunity, I make some pun. A broad grin comes on to a hundred andfifty faces, the eyes shine brightly, the sound of the sea is audiblefor a brief moment. .. . I laugh too. Their attention is refreshed, and Ican go on. 

No kind of sport, no kind of game or diversion, has ever given me suchenjoyment as lecturing. Only at lectures have I been able to abandonmyself entirely to passion, and have understood that inspiration isnot an invention of the poets, but exists in real life, and I imagineHercules after the most piquant of his exploits felt just suchvoluptuous exhaustion as I experience after every lecture. 

That was in old times. Now at lectures I feel nothing but torture. Before half an hour is over I am conscious of an overwhelming weaknessin my legs and my shoulders. I sit down in my chair, but I am notaccustomed to lecture sitting down; a minute later I get up and go onstanding, then sit down again. There is a dryness in my mouth, my voicegrows husky, my head begins to go round. .. . To conceal my conditionfrom my audience I continually drink water, cough, often blow my nose asthough I were hindered by a cold, make puns inappropriately, and in theend break off earlier than I ought to. But above all I am ashamed. 

My conscience and my intelligence tell me that the very best thing Icould do now would be to deliver a farewell lecture to the boys, tosay my last word to them, to bless them, and give up my post to a manyounger and stronger than me. But, God, be my judge, I have not manlycourage enough to act according to my conscience. 

Unfortunately, I am not a philosopher and not a theologian. I knowperfectly well that I cannot live more than another six months; it mightbe supposed that I ought now to be chiefly concerned with the questionof the shadowy life beyond the grave, and the visions that will visit myslumbers in the tomb. But for some reason my soul refuses to recognizethese questions, though my mind is fully alive to their importance. Justas twenty, thirty years ago, so now, on the threshold of death, I aminterested in nothing but science. As I yield up my last breath I shallstill believe that science is the most important, the most splendid, the most essential thing in the life of man; that it always has been andwill be the highest manifestation of love, and that only by means of itwill man conquer himself and nature. This faith is perhaps naive and mayrest on false assumptions, but it is not my fault that I believe thatand nothing else; I cannot overcome in myself this belief. 

But that is not the point. I only ask people to be indulgent to myweakness, and to realize that to tear from the lecture-theatre and hispupils a man who is more interested in the history of the developmentof the bone medulla than in the final object of creation would beequivalent to taking him and nailing him up in his coffin withoutwaiting for him to be dead. 

Sleeplessness and the consequent strain of combating increasing weaknessleads to something strange in me. In the middle of my lecture tearssuddenly rise in my throat, my eyes begin to smart, and I feel apassionate, hysterical desire to stretch out my hands before me andbreak into loud lamentation. I want to cry out in a loud voice that I, a famous man, have been sentenced by fate to the death penalty, thatwithin some six months another man will be in control here in thelecture-theatre. I want to shriek that I am poisoned; new ideas such asI have not known before have poisoned the last days of my life, and arestill stinging my brain like mosquitoes. And at that moment my positionseems to me so awful that I want all my listeners to be horrified, toleap up from their seats and to rush in panic terror, with desperatescreams, to the exit. 

It is not easy to get through such moments. 

II

After my lecture I sit at home and work. I read journals and monographs, or prepare my next lecture; sometimes I write something. I work withinterruptions, as I have from time to time to see visitors. 

There is a ring at the bell. It is a colleague come to discuss somebusiness matter with me. He comes in to me with his hat and his stick, and, holding out both these objects to me, says:

"Only for a minute! Only for a minute! Sit down, _collega_! Only acouple of words. "

To begin with, we both try to show each other that we areextraordinarily polite and highly delighted to see each other. I makehim sit down in an easy-chair, and he makes me sit down; as we do so, wecautiously pat each other on the back, touch each other's buttons, andit looks as though we were feeling each other and afraid of scorchingour fingers. Both of us laugh, though we say nothing amusing. When weare seated we bow our heads towards each other and begin talkingin subdued voices. However affectionately disposed we may be to oneanother, we cannot help adorning our conversation with all sorts ofChinese mannerisms, such as "As you so justly observed, " or "I havealready had the honour to inform you"; we cannot help laughing if oneof us makes a joke, however unsuccessfully. When we have finished withbusiness my colleague gets up impulsively and, waving his hat in thedirection of my work, begins to say good-bye. Again we paw one anotherand laugh. I see him into the hall; when I assist my colleague to puton his coat, while he does all he can to decline this high honour. Thenwhen Yegor opens the door my colleague declares that I shall catch cold, while I make a show of being ready to go even into the street with him. And when at last I go back into my study my face still goes on smiling, I suppose from inertia. 

A little later another ring at the bell. Somebody comes into the hall, and is a long time coughing and taking off his things. Yegor announcesa student. I tell him to ask him in. A minute later a young man ofagreeable appearance comes in. For the last year he and I have been onstrained relations; he answers me disgracefully at the examinations, and I mark him one. Every year I have some seven such hopefuls whom, toexpress it in the students' slang, I "chivy" or "floor. " Those of themwho fail in their examination through incapacity or illness usually beartheir cross patiently and do not haggle with me; those who come to thehouse and haggle with me are always youths of sanguine temperament, broad natures, whose failure at examinations spoils their appetites andhinders them from visiting the opera with their usual regularity. I letthe first class off easily, but the second I chivy through a whole year. 

"Sit down, " I say to my visitor; "what have you to tell me?"

"Excuse me, professor, for troubling you, " he begins, hesitating, andnot looking me in the face. "I would not have ventured to trouble you ifit had not been. .. I have been up for your examination five times, andhave been ploughed. .. . I beg you, be so good as to mark me for a pass, because. .. "

The argument which all the sluggards bring forward on their own behalfis always the same; they have passed well in all their subjects and haveonly come to grief in mine, and that is the more surprising because theyhave always been particularly interested in my subject and knew itso well; their failure has always been entirely owing to someincomprehensible misunderstanding. 

"Excuse me, my friend, " I say to the visitor; "I cannot mark you for apass. Go and read up the lectures and come to me again. Then we shallsee. "

A pause. I feel an impulse to torment the student a little for likingbeer and the opera better than science, and I say, with a sigh:

"To my mind, the best thing you can do now is to give up medicinealtogether. If, with your abilities, you cannot succeed in passingthe examination, it's evident that you have neither the desire nor thevocation for a doctor's calling. "

The sanguine youth's face lengthens. 

"Excuse me, professor, " he laughs, "but that would be odd of me, to saythe least of it. After studying for five years, all at once to give itup. "

"Oh, well! Better to have lost your five years than have to spend therest of your life in doing work you do not care for. "

But at once I feel sorry for him, and I hasten to add:

"However, as you think best. And so read a little more and come again. "

"When?" the idle youth asks in a hollow voice. 

"When you like. Tomorrow if you like. "

And in his good-natured eyes I read:

"I can come all right, but of course you will plough me again, youbeast!"

"Of course, " I say, "you won't know more science for going in for myexamination another fifteen times, but it is training your character, and you must be thankful for that. "

Silence follows. I get up and wait for my visitor to go, but he standsand looks towards the window, fingers his beard, and thinks. It growsboring. 

The sanguine youth's voice is pleasant and mellow, his eyes are cleverand ironical, his face is genial, though a little bloated from frequentindulgence in beer and overlong lying on the sofa; he looks as thoughhe could tell me a lot of interesting things about the opera, about hisaffairs of the heart, and about comrades whom he likes. Unluckily, it isnot the thing to discuss these subjects, or else I should have been gladto listen to him. 

"Professor, I give you my word of honour that if you mark me for a passI. .. I'll. .. "

As soon as we reach the "word of honour" I wave my hands and sit down tothe table. The student ponders a minute longer, and says dejectedly:

"In that case, good-bye. .. I beg your pardon. "

"Good-bye, my friend. Good luck to you. "

He goes irresolutely into the hall, slowly puts on his outdoor things, and, going out into the street, probably ponders for some time longer;unable to think of anything, except "old devil, " inwardly addressed tome, he goes into a wretched restaurant to dine and drink beer, and thenhome to bed. "Peace be to thy ashes, honest toiler. "

A third ring at the bell. A young doctor, in a pair of new blacktrousers, gold spectacles, and of course a white tie, walks in. Heintroduces himself. I beg him to be seated, and ask what I can do forhim. Not without emotion, the young devotee of science begins telling methat he has passed his examination as a doctor of medicine, and that hehas now only to write his dissertation. He would like to work with meunder my guidance, and he would be greatly obliged to me if I would givehim a subject for his dissertation. 

"Very glad to be of use to you, colleague, " I say, "but just let us cometo an understanding as to the meaning of a dissertation. That word istaken to mean a composition which is a product of independent creativeeffort. Is that not so? A work written on another man's subject andunder another man's guidance is called something different. .. . "

The doctor says nothing. I fly into a rage and jump up from my seat. 

"Why is it you all come to me?" I cry angrily. "Do I keep a shop? Idon't deal in subjects. For the thousand and oneth time I ask you allto leave me in peace! Excuse my brutality, but I am quite sick of it!"

The doctor remains silent, but a faint flush is apparent on hischeek-bones. His face expresses a profound reverence for my fame and mylearning, but from his eyes I can see he feels a contempt for my voice, my pitiful figure, and my nervous gesticulation. I impress him in myanger as a queer fish. 

"I don't keep a shop, " I go on angrily. "And it is a strange thing!Why don't you want to be independent? Why have you such a distaste forindependence?"

I say a great deal, but he still remains silent. By degrees I calm down, and of course give in. The doctor gets a subject from me for his themenot worth a halfpenny, writes under my supervision a dissertation ofno use to any one, with dignity defends it in a dreary discussion, andreceives a degree of no use to him. 

The rings at the bell may follow one another endlessly, but I willconfine my description here to four of them. The bell rings for thefourth time, and I hear familiar footsteps, the rustle of a dress, adear voice. .. . 

Eighteen years ago a colleague of mine, an oculist, died leaving alittle daughter Katya, a child of seven, and sixty thousand roubles. In his will he made me the child's guardian. Till she was ten yearsold Katya lived with us as one of the family, then she was sent to aboarding-school, and only spent the summer holidays with us. I neverhad time to look after her education. I only superintended it at leisuremoments, and so I can say very little about her childhood. 

The first thing I remember, and like so much in remembrance, is theextraordinary trustfulness with which she came into our house and letherself be treated by the doctors, a trustfulness which was alwaysshining in her little face. She would sit somewhere out of the way, withher face tied up, invariably watching something with attention; whethershe watched me writing or turning over the pages of a book, or watchedmy wife bustling about, or the cook scrubbing a potato in the kitchen, or the dog playing, her eyes invariably expressed the same thought--thatis, "Everything that is done in this world is nice and sensible. " Shewas curious, and very fond of talking to me. Sometimes she would sit atthe table opposite me, watching my movements and asking questions. Itinterested her to know what I was reading, what I did at the University, whether I was not afraid of the dead bodies, what I did with my salary. 

"Do the students fight at the University?" she would ask. 

"They do, dear. "

"And do you make them go down on their knees?"

"Yes, I do. "

And she thought it funny that the students fought and I made them godown on their knees, and she laughed. She was a gentle, patient, goodchild. It happened not infrequently that I saw something taken away fromher, saw her punished without reason, or her curiosity repressed; atsuch times a look of sadness was mixed with the invariable expression oftrustfulness on her face--that was all. I did not know how to take herpart; only when I saw her sad I had an inclination to draw her to me andto commiserate her like some old nurse: "My poor little orphan one!"

I remember, too, that she was fond of fine clothes and of sprinklingherself with scent. In that respect she was like me. I, too, am fond ofpretty clothes and nice scent. 

I regret that I had not time nor inclination to watch over the rise anddevelopment of the passion which took complete possession of Katya whenshe was fourteen or fifteen. I mean her passionate love for the theatre. When she used to come from boarding-school and stay with us for thesummer holidays, she talked of nothing with such pleasure and suchwarmth as of plays and actors. She bored us with her continual talk ofthe theatre. My wife and children would not listen to her. I was theonly one who had not the courage to refuse to attend to her. When shehad a longing to share her transports, she used to come into my studyand say in an imploring tone:

"Nikolay Stepanovitch, do let me talk to you about the theatre!"

I pointed to the clock, and said:

"I'll give you half an hour--begin. "

Later on she used to bring with her dozens of portraits of actors andactresses which she worshipped; then she attempted several times to takepart in private theatricals, and the upshot of it all was that whenshe left school she came to me and announced that she was born to be anactress. 

I had never shared Katya's inclinations for the theatre. To my mind, ifa play is good there is no need to trouble the actors in order that itmay make the right impression; it is enough to read it. If the play ispoor, no acting will make it good. 

In my youth I often visited the theatre, and now my family takes a boxtwice a year and carries me off for a little distraction. Of course, that is not enough to give me the right to judge of the theatre. In myopinion the theatre has become no better than it was thirty or fortyyears ago. Just as in the past, I can never find a glass of clean waterin the corridors or foyers of the theatre. Just as in the past, theattendants fine me twenty kopecks for my fur coat, though there isnothing reprehensible in wearing a warm coat in winter. As in the past, for no sort of reason, music is played in the intervals, which addssomething new and uncalled-for to the impression made by the play. As inthe past, men go in the intervals and drink spirits in the buffet. If noprogress can be seen in trifles, I should look for it in vain in whatis more important. When an actor wrapped from head to foot in stagetraditions and conventions tries to recite a simple ordinary speech, "Tobe or not to be, " not simply, but invariably with the accompaniment ofhissing and convulsive movements all over his body, or when he tries toconvince me at all costs that Tchatsky, who talks so much with fools andis so fond of folly, is a very clever man, and that "Woe from Wit" isnot a dull play, the stage gives me the same feeling of conventionalitywhich bored me so much forty years ago when I was regaled with theclassical howling and beating on the breast. And every time I come outof the theatre more conservative than I go in. 

The sentimental and confiding public may be persuaded that the stage, even in its present form, is a school; but any one who is familiar witha school in its true sense will not be caught with that bait. I cannotsay what will happen in fifty or a hundred years, but in its actualcondition the theatre can serve only as an entertainment. But thisentertainment is too costly to be frequently enjoyed. It robs the stateof thousands of healthy and talented young men and women, who, if theyhad not devoted themselves to the theatre, might have been good doctors, farmers, schoolmistresses, officers; it robs the public of the eveninghours--the best time for intellectual work and social intercourse. I saynothing of the waste of money and the moral damage to the spectator whenhe sees murder, fornication, or false witness unsuitably treated on thestage. 

Katya was of an entirely different opinion. She assured me thatthe theatre, even in its present condition, was superior to thelecture-hall, to books, or to anything in the world. The stage was apower that united in itself all the arts, and actors were missionaries. No art nor science was capable of producing so strong and so certain aneffect on the soul of man as the stage, and it was with good reason thatan actor of medium quality enjoys greater popularity than the greatestsavant or artist. And no sort of public service could provide suchenjoyment and gratification as the theatre. 

And one fine day Katya joined a troupe of actors, and went off, Ibelieve to Ufa, taking away with her a good supply of money, a store ofrainbow hopes, and the most aristocratic views of her work. 

Her first letters on the journey were marvellous. I read them, and wassimply amazed that those small sheets of paper could contain so muchyouth, purity of spirit, holy innocence, and at the same time subtleand apt judgments which would have done credit to a fine mas culineintellect. It was more like a rapturous paean of praise she sent me thana mere description of the Volga, the country, the towns she visited, hercompanions, her failures and successes; every sentence was fragrant withthat confiding trustfulness I was accustomed to read in her face--andat the same time there were a great many grammatical mistakes, and therewas scarcely any punctuation at all. 

Before six months had passed I received a highly poetical andenthusiastic letter beginning with the words, "I have come to love. .. "This letter was accompanied by a photograph representing a young manwith a shaven face, a wide-brimmed hat, and a plaid flung over hisshoulder. The letters that followed were as splendid as before, but nowcommas and stops made their appearance in them, the grammatical mistakesdisappeared, and there was a distinctly masculine flavour about them. Katya began writing to me how splendid it would be to build a greattheatre somewhere on the Volga, on a cooperative system, and to attractto the enterprise the rich merchants and the steamer owners; therewould be a great deal of money in it; there would be vast audiences; theactors would play on co-operative terms. .. . Possibly all this was reallyexcellent, but it seemed to me that such schemes could only originatefrom a man's mind. 

However that may have been, for a year and a half everything seemed togo well: Katya was in love, believed in her work, and was happy; butthen I began to notice in her letters unmistakable signs of falling off. It began with Katya's complaining of her companions--this was the firstand most ominous symptom; if a young scientific or literary man beginshis career with bitter complaints of scientific and literary men, it isa sure sign that he is worn out and not fit for his work. Katya wroteto me that her companions did not attend the rehearsals and never knewtheir parts; that one could see in every one of them an utter disrespectfor the public in the production of absurd plays, and in their behaviouron the stage; that for the benefit of the Actors' Fund, which they onlytalked about, actresses of the serious drama demeaned themselves bysinging chansonettes, while tragic actors sang comic songs making fun ofdeceived husbands and the pregnant condition of unfaithful wives, andso on. In fact, it was amazing that all this had not yet ruined theprovincial stage, and that it could still maintain itself on such arotten and unsubstantial footing. 

In answer I wrote Katya a long and, I must confess, a very boringletter. Among other things, I wrote to her:

"I have more than once happened to converse with old actors, very worthymen, who showed a friendly disposition towards me; from my conversationswith them I could understand that their work was controlled not so muchby their own intelligence and free choice as by fashion and the mood ofthe public. The best of them had had to play in their day in tragedy, in operetta, in Parisian farces, and in extravaganzas, and they alwaysseemed equally sure that they were on the right path and that they wereof use. So, as you see, the cause of the evil must be sought, not in theactors, but, more deeply, in the art itself and in the attitude of thewhole of society to it. "

This letter of mine only irritated Katya. She answered me:

"You and I are singing parts out of different operas. I wrote to you, not of the worthy men who showed a friendly disposition to you, but ofa band of knaves who have nothing worthy about them. They are a horde ofsavages who have got on the stage simply because no one would have takenthem elsewhere, and who call themselves artists simply because theyare impudent. There are numbers of dull-witted creatures, drunkards, intriguing schemers and slanderers, but there is not one person oftalent among them. I cannot tell you how bitter it is to me that the artI love has fallen into the hands of people I detest; how bitter it isthat the best men look on at evil from afar, not caring to come closer, and, instead of intervening, write ponderous commonplaces and utterlyuseless sermons. .. . " And so on, all in the same style. 

A little time passed, and I got this letter: "I have been brutallydeceived. I cannot go on living. Dispose of my money as you think best. I loved you as my father and my only friend. Good-bye. "

It turned out that _he_, too, belonged to the "horde of savages. " Lateron, from certain hints, I gathered that there had been an attempt atsuicide. I believe Katya tried to poison herself. I imagine that shemust have been seriously ill afterwards, as the next letter I got wasfrom Yalta, where she had most probably been sent by the doctors. Herlast letter contained a request to send her a thousand roubles to Yaltaas quickly as possible, and ended with these words:

"Excuse the gloominess of this letter; yesterday I buried my child. "After spending about a year in the Crimea, she returned home. 

She had been about four years on her travels, and during those fouryears, I must confess, I had played a rather strange and unenviable partin regard to her. When in earlier days she had told me she was going onthe stage, and then wrote to me of her love; when she was periodicallyovercome by extravagance, and I continually had to send her first oneand then two thousand roubles; when she wrote to me of her intention ofsuicide, and then of the death of her baby, every time I lost my head, and all my sympathy for her sufferings found no expression except that, after prolonged reflection, I wrote long, boring letters which I mightjust as well not have written. And yet I took a father's place with herand loved her like a daughter!

Now Katya is living less than half a mile off. She has taken a flatof five rooms, and has installed herself fairly comfortably and inthe taste of the day. If any one were to undertake to describe hersurroundings, the most characteristic note in the picture would beindolence. For the indolent body there are soft lounges, soft stools;for indolent feet soft rugs; for indolent eyes faded, dingy, or flatcolours; for the indolent soul the walls are hung with a number of cheapfans and trivial pictures, in which the originality of the execution ismore conspicuous than the subject; and the room contains a multitudeof little tables and shelves filled with utterly useless articles of novalue, and shapeless rags in place of curtains. .. . All this, togetherwith the dread of bright colours, of symmetry, and of empty space, bearswitness not only to spiritual indolence, but also to a corruption ofnatural taste. For days together Katya lies on the lounge reading, principally novels and stories. She only goes out of the house once aday, in the afternoon, to see me. 

I go on working while Katya sits silent not far from me on the sofa, wrapping herself in her shawl, as though she were cold. Either becauseI find her sympathetic or because I was used to her frequent visitswhen she was a little girl, her presence does not prevent me fromconcentrating my attention. From time to time I mechanically ask hersome question; she gives very brief replies; or, to rest for a minute, I turn round and watch her as she looks dreamily at some medical journalor review. And at such moments I notice that her face has lost the oldlook of confiding trustfulness. Her expression now is cold, apathetic, and absent-minded, like that of passengers who had to wait too long fora train. She is dressed, as in old days, simply and beautifully, butcarelessly; her dress and her hair show visible traces of the sofas androcking-chairs in which she spends whole days at a stretch. And shehas lost the curiosity she had in old days. She has ceased to ask mequestions now, as though she had experienced everything in life andlooked for nothing new from it. 

Towards four o'clock there begins to be sounds of movement in the halland in the drawing-room. Liza has come back from the Conservatoire, andhas brought some girl-friends in with her. We hear them playing on thepiano, trying their voices and laughing; in the dining-room Yegor islaying the table, with the clatter of crockery. 

"Good-bye, " said Katya. "I won't go in and see your people today. Theymust excuse me. I haven't time. Come and see me. "

While I am seeing her to the door, she looks me up and down grimly, andsays with vexation:

"You are getting thinner and thinner! Why don't you consult a doctor?I'll call at Sergey Fyodorovitch's and ask him to have a look at you. "

"There's no need, Katya. "

"I can't think where your people's eyes are! They are a nice lot, I mustsay!"

She puts on her fur coat abruptly, and as she does so two or threehairpins drop unnoticed on the floor from her carelessly arrangedhair. She is too lazy and in too great a hurry to do her hair up; shecarelessly stuffs the falling curls under her hat, and goes away. 

When I go into the dining-room my wife asks me:

"Was Katya with you just now? Why didn't she come in to see us? It'sreally strange. .. . "

"Mamma, " Liza says to her reproachfully, "let her alone, if she doesn'twant to. We are not going down on our knees to her. "

"It's very neglectful, anyway. To sit for three hours in the studywithout remembering our existence! But of course she must do as shelikes. "

Varya and Liza both hate Katya. This hatred is beyond my comprehension, and probably one would have to be a woman in order to understand it. Iam ready to stake my life that of the hundred and fifty young men I seeevery day in the lecture-theatre, and of the hundred elderly ones I meetevery week, hardly one could be found capable of understanding theirhatred and aversion for Katya's past--that is, for her having been amother without being a wife, and for her having had an illegitimatechild; and at the same time I cannot recall one woman or girl of myacquaintance who would not consciously or unconsciously harbour suchfeelings. And this is not because woman is purer or more virtuous thanman: why, virtue and purity are not very different from vice if they arenot free from evil feeling. I attribute this simply to the backwardnessof woman. The mournful feeling of compassion and the pang of conscienceexperienced by a modern man at the sight of suffering is, to my mind, far greater proof of culture and moral elevation than hatred andaversion. Woman is as tearful and as coarse in her feelings now as shewas in the Middle Ages, and to my thinking those who advise that sheshould be educated like a man are quite right. 

My wife also dislikes Katya for having been an actress, for ingratitude, for pride, for eccentricity, and for the numerous vices which one womancan always find in another. 

Besides my wife and daughter and me, there are dining with us two orthree of my daughter's friends and Alexandr Adolfovitch Gnekker, heradmirer and suitor. He is a fair-haired young man under thirty, ofmedium height, very stout and broad-shouldered, with red whiskers nearhis ears, and little waxed moustaches which make his plump smooth facelook like a toy. He is dressed in a very short reefer jacket, a floweredwaistcoat, breeches very full at the top and very narrow at the ankle, with a large check pattern on them, and yellow boots without heels. Hehas prominent eyes like a crab's, his cravat is like a crab's neck, andI even fancy there is a smell of crab-soup about the young man's wholeperson. He visits us every day, but no one in my family knows anythingof his origin nor of the place of his education, nor of his means oflivelihood. He neither plays nor sings, but has some connection withmusic and singing, sells somebody's pianos somewhere, is frequentlyat the Conservatoire, is acquainted with all the celebrities, and is asteward at the concerts; he criticizes music with great authority, and Ihave noticed that people are eager to agree with him. 

Rich people always have dependents hanging about them; the arts andsciences have the same. I believe there is not an art nor a sciencein the world free from "foreign bodies" after the style of this Mr. Gnekker. I am not a musician, and possibly I am mistaken in regardto Mr. Gnekker, of whom, indeed, I know very little. But his air ofauthority and the dignity with which he takes his stand beside the pianowhen any one is playing or singing strike me as very suspicious. 

You may be ever so much of a gentleman and a privy councillor, but ifyou have a daughter you cannot be secure of immunity from that pettybourgeois atmosphere which is so often brought into your house and intoyour mood by the attentions of suitors, by matchmaking and marriage. Ican never reconcile myself, for instance, to the expression of triumphon my wife's face every time Gnekker is in our company, nor can Ireconcile myself to the bottles of Lafitte, port and sherry which areonly brought out on his account, that he may see with his own eyes theliberal and luxurious way in which we live. I cannot tolerate the habitof spasmodic laughter Liza has picked up at the Conservatoire, and herway of screwing up her eyes whenever there are men in the room. Aboveall, I cannot understand why a creature utterly alien to my habits, mystudies, my whole manner of life, completely different from the peopleI like, should come and see me every day, and every day should dine withme. My wife and my servants mysteriously whisper that he is a suitor, but still I don't understand his presence; it rouses in me the samewonder and perplexity as if they were to set a Zulu beside me at thetable. And it seems strange to me, too, that my daughter, whom I am usedto thinking of as a child, should love that cravat, those eyes, thosesoft cheeks. .. . 

In the old days I used to like my dinner, or at least was indifferentabout it; now it excites in me no feeling but weariness and irritation. Ever since I became an "Excellency" and one of the Deans of the Facultymy family has for some reason found it necessary to make a completechange in our menu and dining habits. Instead of the simple dishes towhich I was accustomed when I was a student and when I was in practice, now they feed me with a puree with little white things like circlesfloating about in it, and kidneys stewed in madeira. My rank as ageneral and my fame have robbed me for ever of cabbage-soup and savourypies, and goose with apple-sauce, and bream with boiled grain. They haverobbed me of our maid-servant Agasha, a chatty and laughter-loving oldwoman, instead of whom Yegor, a dull-witted and conceited fellow witha white glove on his right hand, waits at dinner. The intervals betweenthe courses are short, but they seem immensely long because there isnothing to occupy them. There is none of the gaiety of the old days, thespontaneous talk, the jokes, the laughter; there is nothing of mutualaffection and the joy which used to animate the children, my wife, andme when in old days we met together at meals. For me, the celebrated manof science, dinner was a time of rest and reunion, and for my wife andchildren a fete--brief indeed, but bright and joyous--in which they knewthat for half an hour I belonged, not to science, not to students, butto them alone. Our real exhilaration from one glass of wine is gone forever, gone is Agasha, gone the bream with boiled grain, gone the uproarthat greeted every little startling incident at dinner, such as the catand dog fighting under the table, or Katya's bandage falling off herface into her soup-plate. 

To describe our dinner nowadays is as uninteresting as to eat it. My wife's face wears a look of triumph and affected dignity, and herhabitual expression of anxiety. She looks at our plates and says, "I seeyou don't care for the joint. Tell me; you don't like it, do you?" and Iam obliged to answer: "There is no need for you to trouble, my dear;the meat is very nice. " And she will say: "You always stand up for me, Nikolay Stepanovitch, and you never tell the truth. Why is AlexandrAdolfovitch eating so little?" And so on in the same style all throughdinner. Liza laughs spasmodically and screws up her eyes. I watch themboth, and it is only now at dinner that it becomes absolutely evidentto me that the inner life of these two has slipped away out of my ken. I have a feeling as though I had once lived at home with a real wife andchildren and that now I am dining with visitors, in the house of a shamwife who is not the real one, and am looking at a Liza who is not thereal Liza. A startling change has taken place in both of them; I havemissed the long process by which that change was effected, and it is nowonder that I can make nothing of it. Why did that change take place? Idon't know. Perhaps the whole trouble is that God has not given my wifeand daughter the same strength of character as me. From childhood Ihave been accustomed to resisting external influences, and have steeledmyself pretty thoroughly. Such catastrophes in life as fame, the rankof a general, the transition from comfort to living beyond our means, acquaintance with celebrities, etc. , have scarcely affected me, and Ihave remained intact and unashamed; but on my wife and Liza, who havenot been through the same hardening process and are weak, all this hasfallen like an avalanche of snow, overwhelming them. Gnekker and theyoung ladies talk of fugues, of counterpoint, of singers and pianists, of Bach and Brahms, while my wife, afraid of their suspecting her ofignorance of music, smiles to them sympathetically and mutters: "That'sexquisite. .. Really! You don't say so!. .. " Gnekker eats with soliddignity, jests with solid dignity, and condescendingly listens to theremarks of the young ladies. From time to time he is moved to speak inbad French, and then, for some reason or other, he thinks it necessaryto address me as _"Votre Excellence. "_

And I am glum. Evidently I am a constraint to them and they are aconstraint to me. I have never in my earlier days had a close knowledgeof class antagonism, but now I am tormented by something of that sort. I am on the lookout for nothing but bad qualities in Gnekker; I quicklyfind them, and am fretted at the thought that a man not of my circle issitting here as my daughter's suitor. His presence has a bad influenceon me in other ways, too. As a rule, when I am alone or in the societyof people I like, never think of my own achievements, or, if I do recallthem, they seem to me as trivial as though I had only completed mystudies yesterday; but in the presence of people like Gnekker myachievements in science seem to be a lofty mountain the top of whichvanishes into the clouds, while at its foot Gnekkers are running aboutscarcely visible to the naked eye. 

After dinner I go into my study and there smoke my pipe, the only onein the whole day, the sole relic of my old bad habit of smoking frommorning till night. While I am smoking my wife comes in and sits downto talk to me. Just as in the morning, I know beforehand what ourconversation is going to be about. 

"I must talk to you seriously, Nikolay Stepanovitch, " she begins. "Imean about Liza. .. . Why don't you pay attention to it?"

"To what?"

"You pretend to notice nothing. But that is not right. We can't shirkresponsibility. .. . Gnekker has intentions in regard to Liza. .. . What doyou say?"

"That he is a bad man I can't say, because I don't know him, but that Idon't like him I have told you a thousand times already. "

"But you can't. .. You can't!"

She gets up and walks about in excitement. 

"You can't take up that attitude to a serious step, " she says. "When itis a question of our daughter's happiness we must lay aside all personalfeeling. I know you do not like him. .. . Very good. .. If we refuse himnow, if we break it all off, how can you be sure that Liza will not havea grievance against us all her life? Suitors are not plentiful nowadays, goodness knows, and it may happen that no other match will turn up. .. . He is very much in love with Liza, and she seems to like him. .. . Ofcourse, he has no settled position, but that can't be helped. PleaseGod, in time he will get one. He is of good family and well off. "

"Where did you learn that?"

"He told us so. His father has a large house in Harkov and an estate inthe neighbourhood. In short, Nikolay Stepanovitch, you absolutely mustgo to Harkov. "

"What for?"

"You will find out all about him there. .. . You know the professorsthere; they will help you. I would go myself, but I am a woman. Icannot. .. . "

"I am not going to Harkov, " I say morosely. 

My wife is frightened, and a look of intense suffering comes into herface. 

"For God's sake, Nikolay Stepanovitch, " she implores me, with tears inher voice--"for God's sake, take this burden off me! I am so worried!"

It is painful for me to look at her. 

"Very well, Varya, " I say affectionately, "if you wish it, thencertainly I will go to Harkov and do all you want. "

She presses her handkerchief to her eyes and goes off to her room tocry, and I am left alone. 

A little later lights are brought in. The armchair and the lamp-shadecast familiar shadows that have long grown wearisome on the walls and onthe floor, and when I look at them I feel as though the night had comeand with it my accursed sleeplessness. I lie on my bed, then get up andwalk about the room, then lie down again. As a rule it is after dinner, at the approach of evening, that my nervous excitement reaches itshighest pitch. For no reason I begin crying and burying my head in thepillow. At such times I am afraid that some one may come in; I am afraidof suddenly dying; I am ashamed of my tears, and altogether there issomething insufferable in my soul. I feel that I can no longer bear thesight of my lamp, of my books, of the shadows on the floor. I cannotbear the sound of the voices coming from the drawing-room. Some forceunseen, uncomprehended, is roughly thrusting me out of my flat. I leapup hurriedly, dress, and cautiously, that my family may not notice, slipout into the street. Where am I to go?

The answer to that question has long been ready in my brain. To Katya. 

III

As a rule she is lying on the sofa or in a lounge-chair reading. Seeingme, she raises her head languidly, sits up, and shakes hands. 

"You are always lying down, " I say, after pausing and taking breath. "That's not good for you. You ought to occupy yourself with something. "

"What?"

"I say you ought to occupy yourself in some way. "

"With what? A woman can be nothing but a simple workwoman or anactress. "

"Well, if you can't be a workwoman, be an actress. "

She says nothing. 

"You ought to get married, " I say, half in jest. 

"There is no one to marry. There's no reason to, either. "

"You can't live like this. "

"Without a husband? Much that matters; I could have as many men as Ilike if I wanted to. "

"That's ugly, Katya. "

"What is ugly?"

"Why, what you have just said. "

Noticing that I am hurt and wishing to efface the disagreeableimpression, Katya says:

"Let us go; come this way. "

She takes me into a very snug little room, and says, pointing to thewriting-table:

"Look. .. I have got that ready for you. You shall work here. Come hereevery day and bring your work with you. They only hinder you there athome. Will you work here? Will you like to?"

Not to wound her by refusing, I answer that I will work here, and thatI like the room very much. Then we both sit down in the snug little roomand begin talking. 

The warm, snug surroundings and the presence of a sympathetic persondoes not, as in old days, arouse in me a feeling of pleasure, but anintense impulse to complain and grumble. I feel for some reason that ifI lament and complain I shall feel better. 

"Things are in a bad way with me, my dear--very bad. .. . "

"What is it?"

"You see how it is, my dear; the best and holiest right of kings is theright of mercy. And I have always felt myself a king, since I have madeunlimited use of that right. I have never judged, I have been indulgent, I have readily forgiven every one, right and left. Where others haveprotested and expressed indignation, I have only advised and persuaded. All my life it has been my endeavour that my society should not be aburden to my family, to my students, to my colleagues, to my servants. And I know that this attitude to people has had a good influence on allwho have chanced to c ome into contact with me. But now I am not a king. Something is happening to me that is only excusable in a slave; day andnight my brain is haunted by evil thoughts, and feelings such as I neverknew before are brooding in my soul. I am full of hatred, and contempt, and indignation, and loathing, and dread. I have become excessivelysevere, exacting, irritable, ungracious, suspicious. Even things thatin old days would have provoked me only to an unnecessary jest and agood-natured laugh now arouse an oppressive feeling in me. My reasoning, too, has undergone a change: in old days I despised money; now I harbouran evil feeling, not towards money, but towards the rich as though theywere to blame: in old days I hated violence and tyranny, but now I hatethe men who make use of violence, as though they were alone to blame, and not all of us who do not know how to educate each other. What isthe meaning of it? If these new ideas and new feelings have come froma change of convictions, what is that change due to? Can the world havegrown worse and I better, or was I blind before and indifferent? If thischange is the result of a general decline of physical and intellectualpowers--I am ill, you know, and every day I am losing weight--myposition is pitiable; it means that my new ideas are morbid andabnormal; I ought to be ashamed of them and think them of noconsequence. .. . "

"Illness has nothing to do with it, " Katya interrupts me; "it's simplythat your eyes are opened, that's all. You have seen what in old days, for some reason, you refused to see. To my thinking, what you ought todo first of all, is to break with your family for good, and go away. "

"You are talking nonsense. "

"You don't love them; why should you force your feelings? Can you callthem a family? Nonentities! If they died today, no one would noticetheir absence tomorrow. "

Katya despises my wife and Liza as much as they hate her. One can hardlytalk at this date of people's having a right to despise one another. Butif one looks at it from Katya's standpoint and recognizes such a right, one can see she has as much right to despise my wife and Liza as theyhave to hate her. 

"Nonentities, " she goes on. "Have you had dinner today? How was it theydid not forget to tell you it was ready? How is it they still rememberyour existence?"

"Katya, " I say sternly, "I beg you to be silent. "

"You think I enjoy talking about them? I should be glad not to knowthem at all. Listen, my dear: give it all up and go away. Go abroad. Thesooner the better. "

"What nonsense! What about the University?"

"The University, too. What is it to you? There's no sense in it, anyway. You have been lecturing for thirty years, and where are your pupils? Aremany of them celebrated scientific men? Count them up! And to multiplythe doctors who exploit ignorance and pile up hundreds of thousands forthemselves, there is no need to be a good and talented man. You are notwanted. "

"Good heavens! how harsh you are!" I cry in horror. "How harsh you are!Be quiet or I will go away! I don't know how to answer the harsh thingsyou say!"

The maid comes in and summons us to tea. At the samovar ourconversation, thank God, changes. After having had my grumble out, I have a longing to give way to another weakness of old age, reminiscences. I tell Katya about my past, and to my great astonishmenttell her incidents which, till then, I did not suspect of being stillpreserved in my memory, and she listens to me with tenderness, withpride, holding her breath. I am particularly fond of telling her how Iwas educated in a seminary and dreamed of going to the University. 

"At times I used to walk about our seminary garden. .. " I would tell her. "If from some faraway tavern the wind floated sounds of a song andthe squeaking of an accordion, or a sledge with bells dashed by thegarden-fence, it was quite enough to send a rush of happiness, fillingnot only my heart, but even my stomach, my legs, my arms. .. . I wouldlisten to the accordion or the bells dying away in the distance andimagine myself a doctor, and paint pictures, one better than another. And here, as you see, my dreams have come true. I have had more than Idared to dream of. For thirty years I have been the favourite professor, I have had splendid comrades, I have enjoyed fame and honour. I haveloved, married from passionate love, have had children. In fact, lookingback upon it, I see my whole life as a fine composition arranged withtalent. Now all that is left to me is not to spoil the end. For that Imust die like a man. If death is really a thing to dread, I must meetit as a teacher, a man of science, and a citizen of a Christian countryought to meet it, with courage and untroubled soul. But I am spoilingthe end; I am sinking, I fly to you, I beg for help, and you tell me'Sink; that is what you ought to do. '"

But here there comes a ring at the front-door. Katya and I recognize it, and say:

"It must be Mihail Fyodorovitch. "

And a minute later my colleague, the philologist Mihail Fyodorovitch, a tall, well-built man of fifty, clean-shaven, with thick grey hairand black eyebrows, walks in. He is a good-natured man and an excellentcomrade. He comes of a fortunate and talented old noble family which hasplayed a prominent part in the history of literature and enlightenment. He is himself intelligent, talented, and very highly educated, but hashis oddities. To a certain extent we are all odd and all queer fish, but in his oddities there is something exceptional, apt to cause anxietyamong his acquaintances. I know a good many people for whom his odditiescompletely obscure his good qualities. 

Coming in to us, he slowly takes off his gloves and says in his velvetybass:

"Good-evening. Are you having tea? That's just right. It's diabolicallycold. "

Then he sits down to the table, takes a glass, and at once beginstalking. What is most characteristic in his manner of talking is thecontinually jesting tone, a sort of mixture of philosophy and drolleryas in Shakespeare's gravediggers. He is always talking about seriousthings, but he never speaks seriously. His judgments are always harshand railing, but, thanks to his soft, even, jesting tone, the harshnessand abuse do not jar upon the ear, and one soon grows used to them. Every evening he brings with him five or six anecdotes from theUniversity, and he usually begins with them when he sits down to table. 

"Oh, Lord!" he sighs, twitching his black eyebrows ironically. "Whatcomic people there are in the world!"

"Well?" asks Katya. 

"As I was coming from my lecture this morning I met that old idiot N. N---- on the stairs. .. . He was going along as usual, sticking out hischin like a horse, looking for some one to listen to his grumblingsat his migraine, at his wife, and his students who won't attend hislectures. 'Oh, ' I thought, 'he has seen me--I am done for now; it is allup. .. . '"

And so on in the same style. Or he will begin like this:

"I was yesterday at our friend Z. Z----'s public lecture. I wonder howit is our alma mater--don't speak of it after dark--dare display inpublic such noodles and patent dullards as that Z. Z---- Why, he is aEuropean fool! Upon my word, you could not find another like him allover Europe! He lectures--can you imagine?--as though he were suckinga sugar-stick--sue, sue, sue;. .. He is in a nervous funk; he can hardlydecipher his own manuscript; his poor little thoughts crawl along likea bishop on a bicycle, and, what's worse, you can never make out what heis trying to say. The deadly dulness is awful, the very flies expire. Itcan only be compared with the boredom in the assembly-hall at the yearlymeeting when the traditional address is read--damn it!"

And at once an abrupt transition:

"Three years ago--Nikolay Stepanovitch here will remember it--I had todeliver that address. It was hot, stifling, my uniform cut me under thearms--it was deadly! I read for half an hour, for an hour, for an hourand a half, for two hours. .. . 'Come, ' I thought; 'thank God, there areonly ten pages left!' And at the end there were four pages that therewas no need to read, and I reckoned to leave them out. 'So there areonly six really, ' I thought; 'that is, only six pages left to read. 'But, only fancy, I chanced to glance before me, and, sitting in thefront row, side by side, were a general with a ribbon on his breast anda bishop. The poor beggars were numb with boredom; they were staringwith their eyes wide open to keep awake, and yet they were trying to puton an expression of attention and to pretend that they understood what Iwas saying and liked it. 'Well, ' I thought, 'since you like it you shallhave it! I'll pay you out;' so I just gave them those four pages too. "

As is usual with ironical people, when he talks nothing in his facesmiles but his eyes and eyebrows. At such times there is no traceof hatred or spite in his eyes, but a great deal of humour, and thatpeculiar fox-like slyness which is only to be noticed in very observantpeople. Since I am speaking about his eyes, I notice another peculiarityin them. When he takes a glass from Katya, or listens to her speaking, or looks after her as she goes out of the room for a moment, I notice inhis eyes something gentle, beseeching, pure. .. . 

The maid-servant takes away the samovar and puts on the table a largepiece of cheese, some fruit, and a bottle of Crimean champagne--arather poor wine of which Katya had grown fond in the Crimea. MihailFyodorovitch takes two packs of cards off the whatnot and begins to playpatience. According to him, some varieties of patience require greatconcentration and attention, yet while he lays out the cards he does notleave off distracting his attention with talk. Katya watches his cardsattentively, and more by gesture than by words helps him in his play. She drinks no more than a couple of wine-glasses of wine the wholeevening; I drink four glasses, and the rest of the bottle falls to theshare of Mihail Fyodorovitch, who can drink a great deal and never getdrunk. 

Over our patience we settle various questions, principally of thehigher order, and what we care for most of all--that is, science andlearning--is more roughly handled than anything. 

"Science, thank God, has outlived its day, " says Mihail Fyodorovitchemphatically. "Its song is sung. Yes, indeed. Mankind begins to feelimpelled to replace it by something different. It has grown on the soilof superstition, been nourished by superstition, and is now just as muchthe quintessence of superstition as its defunct granddames, alchemy, metaphysics, and philosophy. And, after all, what has it given tomankind? Why, the difference between the learned Europeans and theChinese who have no science is trifling, purely external. The Chineseknow nothing of science, but what have they lost thereby?"

"Flies know nothing of science, either, " I observe, "but what of that?"

"There is no need to be angry, Nikolay Stepanovitch. I only say thishere between ourselves. .. I am more careful than you think, and I am notgoing to say this in public--God forbid! The superstition exists inthe multitude that the arts and sciences are superior to agriculture, commerce, superior to handicrafts. Our sect is maintained by thatsuperstition, and it is not for you and me to destroy it. God forbid!"

After patience the younger generation comes in for a dressing too. 

"Our audiences have degenerated, " sighs Mihail Fyodorovitch. "Not tospeak of ideals and all the rest of it, if only they were capable ofwork and rational thought! In fact, it's a case of 'I look with mournfuleyes on the young men of today. '"

"Yes; they have degenerated horribly, " Katya agrees. "Tell me, have youhad one man of distinction among them for the last five or ten years?"

"I don't know how it is with the other professors, but I can't rememberany among mine. "

"I have seen in my day many of your students and young scientific menand many actors--well, I have never once been so fortunate as to meet--Iwon't say a hero or a man of talent, but even an interesting man. It'sall the same grey mediocrity, puffed up with self-conceit. "

All this talk of degeneration always affects me as though I hadaccidentally overheard offensive talk about my own daughter. Itoffends me that these charges are wholesale, and rest on such worn-outcommonplaces, on such wordy vapourings as degeneration and absenceof ideals, or on references to the splendours of the past. Everyaccusation, even if it is uttered in ladies' society, ought to beformulated with all possible definiteness, or it is not an accusation, but idle disparagement, unworthy of decent people. 

I am an old man, I have been lecturing for thirty years, but I noticeneither degeneration nor lack of ideals, and I don't find that thepresent is worse than the past. My porter Nikolay, whose experience ofthis subject has its value, says that the students of today are neitherbetter nor worse than those of the past. 

If I were asked what I don't like in my pupils of today, I should answerthe question, not straight off and not at length, but with sufficientdefiniteness. I know their failings, and so have no need to resortto vague generalities. I don't like their smoking, using spirituousbeverages, marrying late, and often being so irresponsible and carelessthat they will let one of their number be starving in their midst whilethey neglect to pay their subscriptions to the Students' Aid Society. They don't know modern languages, and they don't express themselvescorrectly in Russian; no longer ago than yesterday my colleague, theprofessor of hygiene, complained to me that he had to give twice as manylectures, because the students had a very poor knowledge of physics andwere utterly ignorant of meteorology. They are readily carried awayby the influence of the last new writers, even when they are notfirst-rate, but they take absolutely no interest in classics such asShakespeare, Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus, or Pascal, and this inabilityto distinguish the great from the small betrays their ignorance ofpractical life more than anything. All difficult questions that havemore or less a social character (for instance the migration question)they settle by studying monographs on the subject, but not by way ofscientific investigation or experiment, though that method is at theirdisposal and is more in keeping with their calling. They gladly becomeward-surgeons, assistants, demonstrators, external teachers, and areready to fill such posts until they are forty, though independence, a sense of freedom and personal initiative, are no less necessaryin science than, for instance, in art or commerce. I have pupils andlisteners, but no successors and helpers, and so I love them and amtouched by them, but am not proud of them. And so on, and so on. .. . 

Such shortcomings, however numerous they may be, can only give rise toa pessimistic or fault-finding temper in a faint-hearted and timidman. All these failings have a casual, transitory character, and arecompletely dependent on conditions of life; in some ten years they willhave disappeared or given place to other fresh defects, which are allinevitable and will in their turn alarm the faint-hearted. The students'sins often vex me, but that vexation is nothing in comparison with thejoy I have been experiencing now for the last thirty years when I talkto my pupils, lecture to them, watch their relations, and compare themwith people not of their circle. 

Mihail Fyodorovitch speaks evil of everything. Katya listens, andneither of them notices into what depths the apparently innocentdiversion of finding fault with their neighbours is gradually drawingthem. They are not conscious how by degrees simple talk passes intomalicious mockery and jeering, and how they are both beginning to dropinto the habits and methods of slander. 

"Killing types one meets with, " says Mihail Fyodorovitch. "I wentyesterday to our friend Yegor Petrovitch's, and there I found a studiousgentleman, one of your medicals in his third year, I believe. Such aface!. .. In the Dobrolubov style, the imprint of profound thought on hisbrow; we got into talk. 'Such doings, young man, ' said I. 'I've read, 'said I, 'that some German--I've forgotten his name--has created fromthe human brain a new kind of alkaloid, idiotine. ' What do you think?He believed it, and there was positively an expression of respect on hisface, as though to say, 'See what we fellows can do!' And the other dayI went to the theatre. I took my seat. In the next row directly in frontof me were sitting two men: one of 'us fellows' and apparently a lawstudent, the other a shaggy-looking figure, a medical student. Thelatter was as drunk as a cobbler. He did not look at the stage at all. He was dozing with his nose on his shirt-front. But as soon as an actorbegins loudly reciting a monologue, or simply raises his voice, ourfriend starts, pokes his neighbour in the ribs, and asks, 'What ishe saying? Is it elevating?' 'Yes, ' answers one of our fellows. 'B-r-r-ravo!' roars the medical student. 'Elevating! Bravo!' He had goneto the theatre, you see, the drunken blockhead, not for the sake of art, the play, but for elevation! He wanted noble sentiments. "

Katya listens and laughs. She has a strange laugh; she catches herbreath in rhythmically regular gasps, very much as though she wereplaying the accordion, and nothing in her face is laughing but hernostrils. I grow depressed and don't know what to say. Beside myself, Ifire up, leap up from my seat, and cry:

"Do leave off! Why are you sitting here like two toads, poisoning theair with your breath? Give over!"

And without waiting for them to finish their gossip I prepare to gohome. And, indeed, it is high time: it is past ten. 

"I will stay a little longer, " says Mihail Fyodorovitch. "Will you allowme, Ekaterina Vladimirovna?"

"I will, " answers Katya. 

"_Bene!_ In that case have up another little bottle. "

They both accompany me with candles to the hall, and while I put on myfur coat, Mihail Fyodorovitch says:

"You have grown dreadfully thin and older looking, Nikolay Stepanovitch. What's the matter with you? Are you ill?"

"Yes; I am not very well. "

"And you are not doing anything for it. .. " Katya puts in grimly. 

"Why don't you? You can't go on like that! God helps those who helpthemselves, my dear fellow. Remember me to your wife and daughter, andmake my apologies for not having been to see them. In a day or two, before I go abroad, I shall come to say good-bye. I shall be sure to. Iam going away next week. "

I come away from Katya, irritated and alarmed by what has been saidabout my being ill, and dissatisfied with myself. I ask myself whether Ireally ought not to consult one of my colleagues. And at once I imaginehow my colleague, after listening to me, would walk away to the windowwithout speaking, would think a moment, then would turn round to meand, trying to prevent my reading the truth in his face, would say ina careless tone: "So far I see nothing serious, but at the same time, _collega_, I advise you to lay aside your work. .. . " And that woulddeprive me of my last hope. 

Who is without hope? Now that I am diagnosing my illness and prescribingfor myself, from time to time I hope that I am deceived by my ownillness, that I am mistaken in regard to the albumen and the sugar Ifind, and in regard to my heart, and in regard to the swellings Ihave twice noticed in the mornings; when with the fervour of thehypochondriac I look through the textbooks of therapeutics and takea different medicine every day, I keep fancying that I shall hit uponsomething comforting. All that is petty. 

Whether the sky is covered with clouds or the moon and the stars areshining, I turn my eyes towards it every evening and think that death istaking me soon. One would think that my thoughts at such times oughtto be deep as the sky, brilliant, striking. .. . But no! I think aboutmyself, about my wife, about Liza, Gnekker, the students, people ingeneral; my thoughts are evil, petty, I am insincere with myself, andat such times my theory of life may be expressed in the words thecelebrated Araktcheev said in one of his intimate letters: "Nothing goodcan exist in the world without evil, and there is more evil than good. "That is, everything is disgusting; there is nothing to live for, and thesixty-two years I have already lived must be reckoned as wasted. Icatch myself in these thoughts, and try to persuade myself that they areaccidental, temporary, and not deeply rooted in me, but at once I think:

"If so, what drives me every evening to those two toads?"

And I vow to myself that I will never go to Katya's again, though I knowI shall go next evening. 

Ringing the bell at the door and going upstairs, I feel that I have nofamily now and no desire to bring it back again. It is clear that thenew Araktcheev thoughts are not casual, temporary visitors, but havepossession of my whole being. With my conscience ill at ease, dejected, languid, hardly able to move my limbs, feeling as though tons were addedto my weight, I get into bed and quickly drop asleep. 

And then--insomnia!

IV

Summer comes on and life is changed. 

One fine morning Liza comes in to me and says in a jesting tone:

"Come, your Excellency! We are ready. "

My Excellency is conducted into the street, and seated in a cab. As I goalong, having nothing to do, I read the signboards from right to left. The word "Traktir" reads "Ritkart"; that would just suit some baron'sfamily: Baroness Ritkart. Farther on I drive through fields, by thegraveyard, which makes absolutely no impression on me, though I shallsoon lie in it; then I drive by forests and again by fields. Thereis nothing of interest. After two hours of driving, my Excellency isconducted into the lower storey of a summer villa and installed in asmall, very cheerful little room with light blue hangings. 

At night there is sleeplessness as before, but in the morning I do notput a good face upon it and listen to my wife, but lie in bed. I do notsleep, but lie in the drowsy, half-conscious condition in which you knowyou are not asleep, but dreaming. At midday I get up and from habitsit down at my table, but I do not work now; I amuse myself with Frenchbooks in yellow covers, sent me by Katya. Of course, it would be morepatriotic to read Russian authors, but I must confess I cherish noparticular liking for them. With the exception of two or three of theolder writers, all our literature of today strikes me as not beingliterature, but a special sort of home industry, which exists simplyin order to be encouraged, though people do not readily make use ofits products. The very best of these home products cannot be calledremarkable and cannot be sincerely praised without qualification. I mustsay the same of all the literary novelties I have read during the lastten or fifteen years; not one of them is remarkable, and not one of themcan be praised without a "but. " Cleverness, a good tone, but no talent;talent, a good tone, but no cleverness; or talent, cleverness, but not agood tone. 

I don't say the French books have talent, cleverness, and a good tone. They don't satisfy me, either. But they are not so tedious as theRussian, and it is not unusual to find in them the chief element ofartistic creation--the feeling of personal freedom which is lacking inthe Russian authors. I don't remember one new book in which the authordoes not try from the first page to entangle himself in all sorts ofconditions and contracts with his conscience. One is afraid to speak ofthe naked body; another ties himself up hand and foot in psychologicalanalysis; a third must have a "warm attitude to man"; a fourth purposelyscrawls whole descriptions of nature that he may not be suspected ofwriting with a purpose. .. . One is bent upon being middle-class in hiswork, another must be a nobleman, and so on. There is intentionalness, circumspection, and self-will, but they have neither the independencenor the manliness to write as they like, and therefore there is nocreativeness. 

All this applies to what is called belles-lettres. 

As for serious treatises in Russian on sociology, for instance, on art, and so on, I do not rea d them simply from timidity. In my childhood andearly youth I had for some reason a terror of doorkeepers and attendantsat the theatre, and that terror has remained with me to this day. I amafraid of them even now. It is said that we are only afraid of what wedo not understand. And, indeed, it is very difficult to understandwhy doorkeepers and theatre attendants are so dignified, haughty, andmajestically rude. I feel exactly the same terror when I read seriousarticles. Their extraordinary dignity, their bantering lordly tone, their familiar manner to foreign authors, their ability to split strawswith dignity--all that is beyond my understanding; it is intimidatingand utterly unlike the quiet, gentlemanly tone to which I am accustomedwhen I read the works of our medical and scientific writers. Itoppresses me to read not only the articles written by serious Russians, but even works translated or edited by them. The pretentious, edifyingtone of the preface; the redundancy of remarks made by the translator, which prevent me from concentrating my attention; the question marksand "sic" in parenthesis scattered all over the book or article by theliberal translator, are to my mind an outrage on the author and on myindependence as a reader. 

Once I was summoned as an expert to a circuit court; in an interval oneof my fellow-experts drew my attention to the rudeness of the publicprosecutor to the defendants, among whom there were two ladies of goodeducation. I believe I did not exaggerate at all when I told him thatthe prosecutor s manner was no ruder than that of the authors of seriousarticles to one another. Their manners are, indeed, so rude that Icannot speak of them without distaste. They treat one another and thewriters they criticize either with superfluous respect, at the sacrificeof their own dignity, or, on the contrary, with far more ruthlessnessthan I have shown in my notes and my thoughts in regard to my futureson-in-law Gnekker. Accusations of irrationality, of evil intentions, and, indeed, of every sort of crime, form an habitual ornament ofserious articles. And that, as young medical men are fond of saying intheir monographs, is the _ultima ratio!_ Such ways must infallibly havean effect on the morals of the younger generation of writers, and so Iam not at all surprised that in the new works with which our literaturehas been enriched during the last ten or fifteen years the heroes drinktoo much vodka and the heroines are not over-chaste. 

I read French books, and I look out of the window which is open; Ican see the spikes of my garden-fence, two or three scraggy trees, andbeyond the fence the road, the fields, and beyond them a broad stretchof pine-wood. Often I admire a boy and girl, both flaxen-headed andragged, who clamber on the fence and laugh at my baldness. In theirshining little eyes I read, "Go up, go up, thou baldhead!" They arealmost the only people who care nothing for my celebrity or my rank. 

Visitors do not come to me every day now. I will only mention thevisits of Nikolay and Pyotr Ignatyevitch. Nikolay usually comes to meon holidays, with some pretext of business, though really to see me. Hearrives very much exhilarated, a thing which never occurs to him in thewinter. 

"What have you to tell me?" I ask, going out to him in the hall. 

"Your Excellency!" he says, pressing his hand to his heart and lookingat me with the ecstasy of a lover--"your Excellency! God be my witness!Strike me dead on the spot! _Gaudeamus egitur juventus!_"

And he greedily kisses me on the shoulder, on the sleeve, and on thebuttons. 

"Is everything going well?" I ask him. 

"Your Excellency! So help me God!. .. "

He persists in grovelling before me for no sort of reason, and soonbores me, so I send him away to the kitchen, where they give him dinner. 

Pyotr Ignatyevitch comes to see me on holidays, too, with the specialobject of seeing me and sharing his thoughts with me. He usually sitsdown near my table, modest, neat, and reasonable, and does not ventureto cross his legs or put his elbows on the table. All the time, ina soft, even, little voice, in rounded bookish phrases, he tells mevarious, to his mind, very interesting and piquant items of news whichhe has read in the magazines and journals. They are all alike and may bereduced to this type: "A Frenchman has made a discovery; some one else, a German, has denounced him, proving that the discovery was made in 1870by some American; while a third person, also a German, trumps them bothby proving they both had made fools of themselves, mistaking bubbles ofair for dark pigment under the microscope. " Even when he wants toamuse me, Pyotr Ignatyevitch tells me things in the same lengthy, circumstantial manner as though he were defending a thesis, enumeratingin detail the literary sources from which he is deriving his narrative, doing his utmost to be accurate as to the date and number of thejournals and the name of every one concerned, invariably mentioning itin full--Jean Jacques Petit, never simply Petit. Sometimes he staysto dinner with us, and then during the whole of dinner-time he goes ontelling me the same sort of piquant anecdotes, reducing every one attable to a state of dejected boredom. If Gnekker and Liza begin talkingbefore him of fugues and counterpoint, Brahms and Bach, he drops hiseyes modestly, and is overcome with embarrassment; he is ashamed thatsuch trivial subjects should be discussed before such serious people ashim and me. 

In my present state of mind five minutes of him is enough to sicken meas though I had been seeing and hearing him for an eternity. I hate thepoor fellow. His soft, smooth voice and bookish language exhaust me, andhis stories stupefy me. .. . He cherishes the best of feelings for me, and talks to me simply in order to give me pleasure, and I repay him bylooking at him as though I wanted to hypnotize him, and think, "Go, go, go!. .. " But he is not amenable to thought-suggestion, and sits on and onand on. .. . 

While he is with me I can never shake off the thought, "It's possiblewhen I die he will be appointed to succeed me, " and my poor lecture-hallpresents itself to me as an oasis in which the spring is died up; and Iam ungracious, silent, and surly with Pyotr Ignatyevitch, as though hewere to blame for such thoughts, and not I myself. When he begins, asusual, praising up the German savants, instead of making fun of himgood-humouredly, as I used to do, I mutter sullenly:

"Asses, your Germans!. .. "

That is like the late Professor Nikita Krylov, who once, when he wasbathing with Pirogov at Revel and vexed at the water's being very cold, burst out with, "Scoundrels, these Germans!" I behave badly with PyotrIgnatyevitch, and only when he is going away, and from the window Icatch a glimpse of his grey hat behind the garden-fence, I want to callout and say, "Forgive me, my dear fellow!"

Dinner is even drearier than in the winter. Gnekker, whom now I hate anddespise, dines with us almost every day. I used to endure his presencein silence, now I aim biting remarks at him which make my wife anddaughter blush. Carried away by evil feeling, I often say things thatare simply stupid, and I don't know why I say them. So on one occasionit happened that I stared a long time at Gnekker, and, _a propos_ ofnothing, I fired off:

 "An eagle may perchance swoop down below a cock, But never will the fowl soar upwards to the clouds. .. "

And the most vexatious thing is that the fowl Gnekker shows himself muchcleverer than the eagle professor. Knowing that my wife and daughter areon his side, he takes up the line of meeting my gibes with condescendingsilence, as though to say:

"The old chap is in his dotage; what's the use of talking to him?"

Or he makes fun of me good-naturedly. It is wonderful how petty a manmay become! I am capable of dreaming all dinner-time of how Gnekkerwill turn out to be an adventurer, how my wife and Liza will come to seetheir mistake, and how I will taunt them--and such absurd thoughts atthe time when I am standing with one foot in the grave!

There are now, too, misunderstandings of which in the old days I had noidea except from hearsay. Though I am ashamed of it, I will describe onethat occurred the other day after dinner. 

I was sitting in my room smoking a pipe; my wife came in as usual, satdown, and began saying what a good thing it would be for me to go toHarkov now while it is warm and I have free time, and there find outwhat sort of person our Gnekker is. 

"Very good; I will go, " I assented. 

My wife, pleased with me, got up and was going to the door, but turnedback and said:

"By the way, I have another favour to ask of you. I know you will beangry, but it is my duty to warn you. .. . Forgive my saying it, NikolayStepanovitch, but all our neighbours and acquaintances have beguntalking about your being so often at Katya's. She is clever andwell-educated; I don't deny that her company may be agreeable; but atyour age and with your social position it seems strange that you shouldfind pleasure in her society. .. . Besides, she has such a reputationthat. .. "

All the blood suddenly rushed to my brain, my eyes flashed fire, Ileaped up and, clutching at my head and stamping my feet, shouted in avoice unlike my own:

"Let me alone! let me alone! let me alone!"

Probably my face was terrible, my voice was strange, for my wifesuddenly turned pale and began shrieking aloud in a despairing voicethat was utterly unlike her own. Liza, Gnekker, then Yegor, came runningin at our shouts. .. . 

"Let me alone!" I cried; "let me alone! Go away!"

My legs turned numb as though they had ceased to exist; I felt myselffalling into someone's arms; for a little while I still heard weeping, then sank into a swoon which lasted two or three hours. 

Now about Katya; she comes to see me every day towards evening, and ofcourse neither the neighbours nor our acquaintances can avoid noticingit. She comes in for a minute and carries me off for a drive with her. She has her own horse and a new chaise bought this summer. Altogethershe lives in an expensive style; she has taken a big detached villa witha large garden, and has taken all her town retinue with her--two maids, a coachman. .. I often ask her:

"Katya, what will you live on when you have spent your father's money?"

"Then we shall see, " she answers. 

"That money, my dear, deserves to be treated more seriously. It wasearned by a good man, by honest labour. "

"You have told me that already. I know it. "

At first we drive through the open country, then through the pine-woodwhich is visible from my window. Nature seems to me as beautiful as italways has been, though some evil spirit whispers to me that these pinesand fir trees, birds, and white clouds on the sky, will not notice myabsence when in three or four months I am dead. Katya loves driving, andshe is pleased that it is fine weather and that I am sitting beside her. She is in good spirits and does not say harsh things. 

"You are a very good man, Nikolay Stepanovitch, " she says. "You are arare specimen, and there isn't an actor who would understand how to playyou. Me or Mihail Fyodorovitch, for instance, any poor actor could do, but not you. And I envy you, I envy you horribly! Do you know what Istand for? What?"

She ponders for a minute, and then asks me:

"Nikolay Stepanovitch, I am a negative phenomenon! Yes?"

"Yes, " I answer. 

"H'm! what am I to do?"

What answer was I to make her? It is easy to say "work, " or "give yourpossessions to the poor, " or "know yourself, " and because it is so easyto say that, I don't know what to answer. 

My colleagues when they teach therapeutics advise "the individual studyof each separate case. " One has but to obey this advice to gain theconviction that the methods recommended in the textbooks as the best andas providing a safe basis for treatment turn out to be quite unsuitablein individual cases. It is just the same in moral ailments. 

But I must make some answer, and I say:

"You have too much free time, my dear; you absolutely must take up someoccupation. After all, why shouldn't you be an actress again if it isyour vocation?"

"I cannot!"

"Your tone and manner suggest that you are a victim. I don't like that, my dear; it is your own fault. Remember, you began with falling out withpeople and methods, but you have done nothing to make either better. Youdid not struggle with evil, but were cast down by it, and you are notthe victim of the struggle, but of your own impotence. Well, of courseyou were young and inexperienced then; now it may all be different. Yes, really, go on the stage. You will work, you will serve a sacred art. "

"Don't pretend, Nikolay Stepanovitch, " Katya interrupts me. "Let usmake a compact once for all; we will talk about actors, actresses, andauthors, but we will let art alone. You are a splendid and rare person, but you don't know enough about art sincerely to think it sacred. Youhave no instinct or feeling for art. You have been hard at work all yourlife, and have not had time to acquire that feeling. Altogether. .. Idon't like talk about art, " she goes on nervously. "I don't like it!And, my goodness, how they have vulgarized it!"

"Who has vulgarized it?"

"They have vulgarized it by drunkenness, the newspapers by theirfamiliar attitude, clever people by philosophy. "

"Philosophy has nothing to do with it. "

"Yes, it has. If any one philosophizes about it, it shows he does notunderstand it. "

To avoid bitterness I hasten to change the subject, and then sit along time silent. Only when we are driving out of the wood and turningtowards Katya's villa I go back to my former question, and say:

"You have still not answered me, why you don't want to go on the stage. "

"Nikolay Stepanovitch, this is cruel!" she cries, and suddenly flushesall over. "You want me to tell you the truth aloud? Very well, if. .. If you like it! I have no talent! No talent and. .. And a great deal ofvanity! So there!"

After making this confession she turns her face away from me, and tohide the trembling of her hands tugs violently at the reins. 

As we are driving towards her villa we see Mihail Fyodorovitch walkingnear the gate, impatiently awaiting us. 

"That Mihail Fyodorovitch again!" says Katya with vexation. "Do rid meof him, please! I am sick and tired of him. .. Bother him!"

Mihail Fyodorovitch ought to have gone abroad long ago, but he puts offgoing from week to week. Of late there have been certain changes inhim. He looks, as it were, sunken, has taken to drinking until he istipsy, a thing which never used to happen to him, and his black eyebrowsare beginning to turn grey. When our chaise stops at the gate he doesnot conceal his joy and his impatience. He fussily helps me and Katyaout, hurriedly asks questions, laughs, rubs his hands, and that gentle, imploring, pure expression, which I used to notice only in his eyes, isnow suffused all over his face. He is glad and at the same time he isashamed of his gladness, ashamed of his habit of spending every eveningwith Katya. And he thinks it necessary to explain his visit by someobvious absurdity such as: "I was driving by, and I thought I would justlook in for a minute. "

We all three go indoors; first we drink tea, then the familiar packsof cards, the big piece of cheese, the fruit, and the bottle of Crimeanchampagne are put upon the table. The subjects of our conversation arenot new; they are just the same as in the winter. We fall foul of theUniversity, the students, and literature and the theatre; the air growsthick and stifling with evil speaking, and poisoned by the breath, not of two toads as in the winter, but of three. Besides the velvetybaritone laugh and the giggle like the gasp of a concertina, the maidwho waits upon us hears an unpleasant cracked "He, he!" like the chuckleof a general in a vaudeville. 

V

There are terrible nights with thunder, lightning, rain, and wind, suchas are called among the people "sparrow nights. " There has been one suchnight in my personal life. 

I woke up after midnight and leaped suddenly out of bed. It seemed tome for some reason that I was just immediately going to die. Why didit seem so? I had no sensation in my body that suggested my immediatedeath, but my soul was oppressed with terror, as though I had suddenlyseen a vast menacing glow of fire. 

I rapidly struck a light, drank some water straight out of the decanter, then hurried to the open window. The weather outside was magnificent. There was a smell of hay and some other very sweet scent. I could seethe spikes of the fence, the gaunt, drowsy trees by the window, theroad, the dark streak of woodland, there was a serene, very brightmoon in the sky and not a single cloud, perfect stillness, not one leafstirring. I felt that everything was looking at me and waiting for me todie. .. . 

It was uncanny. I closed the window and ran to my bed. I felt for mypulse, and not finding it in my wrist, tried to find it in my temple, then in my chin, and again in my wrist, and everything I touched wascold and clammy with sweat. My breathing came more and more rapidly, mybody was shivering, all my inside was in commotion; I had a sensationon my face and on my bald head as though they were covered with spiders'webs. 

What should I do? Call my family? No; it would be no use. I could notimagine what my wife and Liza would do when they came in to me. 

I hid my head under the pillow, closed my eyes, and waited andwaited. .. . My spine was cold; it seemed to be drawn inwards, and I feltas though death were coming upon me stealthily from behind. 

"Kee-vee! kee-vee!" I heard a sudden shriek in the night's stillness, and did not know where it was--in my breast or in the street--"Kee-vee!kee-vee!"

"My God, how terrible!" I would have drunk some more water, but by thenit was fearful to open my eyes and I was afraid to raise my head. I waspossessed by unaccountable animal terror, and I cannot understand whyI was so frightened: was it that I wanted to live, or that some newunknown pain was in store for me?

Upstairs, overhead, some one moaned or laughed. I listened. Soonafterwards there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs. Some one camehurriedly down, then went up again. A minute later there was a sound ofsteps downstairs again; some one stopped near my door and listened. 

"Who is there?" I cried. 

The door opened. I boldly opened my eyes, and saw my wife. Her face waspale and her eyes were tear-stained. 

"You are not asleep, Nikolay Stepanovitch?" she asked. 

"What is it?"

"For God's sake, go up and have a look at Liza; there is something thematter with her. .. . "

"Very good, with pleasure, " I muttered, greatly relieved at not beingalone. "Very good, this minute. .. . "

I followed my wife, heard what she said to me, and was too agitated tounderstand a word. Patches of light from her candle danced about thestairs, our long shadows trembled. My feet caught in the skirts of mydressing-gown; I gasped for breath, and felt as though something werepursuing me and trying to catch me from behind. 

"I shall die on the spot, here on the staircase, " I thought. "On thespot. .. . " But we passed the staircase, the dark corridor with theItalian windows, and went into Liza's room. She was sitting on the bedin her nightdress, with her bare feet hanging down, and she was moaning. 

"Oh, my God! Oh, my God!" she was muttering, screwing up her eyes at ourcandle. "I can't bear it. "

"Liza, my child, " I said, "what is it?"

Seeing me, she began crying out, and flung herself on my neck. 

"My kind papa!. .. " she sobbed--"my dear, good papa. .. My darling, mypet, I don't know what is the matter with me. .. . I am miserable!"

She hugged me, kissed me, and babbled fond words I used to hear from herwhen she was a child. 

"Calm yourself, my child. God be with you, " I said. "There is no need tocry. I am miserable, too. "

I tried to tuck her in; my wife gave her water, and we awkwardlystumbled by her bedside; my shoulder jostled against her shoulder, andmeanwhile I was thinking how we used to give our children their bathtogether. 

"Help her! help her!" my wife implored me. "Do something!"

What could I do? I could do nothing. There was some load on the girl'sheart; but I did not understand, I knew nothing about it, and could onlymutter:

"It's nothing, it's nothing; it will pass. Sleep, sleep!"

To make things worse, there was a sudden sound of dogs howling, at firstsubdued and uncertain, then loud, two dogs howling together. I hadnever attached significance to such omens as the howling of dogs or theshrieking of owls, but on that occasion it sent a pang to my heart, andI hastened to explain the howl to myself. 

"It's nonsense, " I thought, "the influence of one organism on another. The intensely strained condition of my nerves has infected my wife, Liza, the dog--that is all. .. . Such infection explains presentiments, forebodings. .. . "

When a little later I went back to my room to write a prescription forLiza, I no longer thought I should die at once, but only had such aweight, such a feeling of oppression in my soul that I felt actuallysorry that I had not died on the spot. For a long time I stoodmotionless in the middle of the room, pondering what to prescribe forLiza. But the moans overhead ceased, and I decided to prescribe nothing, and yet I went on standing there. .. . 

There was a deathlike stillness, such a stillness, as some author hasexpressed it, "it rang in one's ears. " Time passed slowly; the streaksof moonlight on the window-sill did not shift their position, but seemedas though frozen. .. . It was still some time before dawn. 

But the gate in the fence creaked, some one stole in and, breaking atwig from one of those scraggy trees, cautiously tapped on the windowwith it. 

"Nikolay Stepanovitch, " I heard a whisper. "Nikolay Stepanovitch. "

I opened the window, and fancied I was dreaming: under the window, huddled against the wall, stood a woman in a black dress, with themoonlight bright upon her, looking at me with great eyes. Her face waspale, stern, and weird-looking in the moonlight, like marble, her chinwas quivering. 

"It is I, " she said--"I. .. Katya. "

In the moonlight all women's eyes look big and black, all people looktaller and paler, and that was probably why I had not recognized her forthe first minute. 

"What is it?"

"Forgive me!" she said. "I suddenly felt unbearably miserable. .. Icouldn't stand it, so came here. There was a light in your window and. .. And I ventured to knock. .. . I beg your pardon. Ah! if you knew howmiserable I am! What are you doing just now?"

"Nothing. .. . I can't sleep. "

"I had a feeling that there was something wrong, but that is nonsense. "

Her brows were lifted, her eyes shone with tears, and her whole face waslighted up with the familiar look of trustfulness which I had not seenfor so long. 

"Nikolay Stepanovitch, " she said imploringly, stretching out both handsto me, "my precious friend, I beg you, I implore you. .. . If you don'tdespise my affection and respect for you, consent to what I ask of you. "

"What is it?"

"Take my money from me!"

"Come! what an idea! What do I want with your money?"

"You'll go away somewhere for your health. .. . You ought to go for yourhealth. Will you take it? Yes? Nikolay Stepanovitch darling, yes?"

She looked greedily into my face and repeated: "Yes, you will take it?"

"No, my dear, I won't take it, " I said. "Thank you. "

She turned her back upon me and bowed her head. Probably I refused herin a tone which made further conversation about money impossible. 

"Go home to bed, " I said. "We will see each other tomorrow. "

"So you don't consider me your friend?" she asked dejectedly. 

"I don't say that. But your money would be no use to me now. "

"I beg your pardon. .. " she said, dropping her voice a whole octave. "I understand you. .. To be indebted to a person like me. .. A retiredactress. .. . But, good-bye. .. . "

And she went away so quickly that I had not time even to say good-bye. 

VI

I am in Harkov. 

As it would be useless to contend against my present mood and, indeed, beyond my power, I have made up my mind that the last days of my lifeshall at least be irreproachable externally. If I am unjust in regard tomy wife and daughter, which I fully recognize, I will try and do as shewishes; since she wants me to go to Harkov, I go to Harkov. Besides, Ihave become of late so indifferent to everything that it is really allthe same to me where I go, to Harkov, or to Paris, or to Berditchev. 

I arrived here at midday, and have put up at the hotel not far fromthe cathedral. The train was jolting, there were draughts, and now I amsitting on my bed, holding my head and expecting tic douloureux. I oughtto have gone today to see some professors of my acquaintance, but I haveneither strength nor inclination. 

The old corridor attendant comes in and asks whether I have brought mybed-linen. I detain him for five minutes, and put several questionsto him about Gnekker, on whose account I have come here. The attendantturns out to be a native of Harkov; he knows the town like the fingersof his hand, but does not remember any household of the surname ofGnekker. I question him about the estate--the same answer. 

The clock in the corridor strikes one, then two, then three. .. . Theselast months in which I am waiting for death seem much longer than thewhole of my life. And I have never before been so ready to resign myselfto the slowness of time as now. In the old days, when one sat in thestation and waited for a train, or presided in an examination-room, aquarter of an hour would seem an eternity. Now I can sit all night on mybed without moving, and quite unconcernedly reflect that tomorrow willbe followed by another night as long and colourless, and the day aftertomorrow. 

In the corridor it strikes five, six, seven. .. . It grows dark. 

There is a dull pain in my cheek, the tic beginning. To occupy myselfwith thoughts, I go back to my old point of view, when I was notso indifferent, and ask myself why I, a distinguished man, a privycouncillor, am sitting in this little hotel room, on this bed with theunfamiliar grey quilt. Why am I looking at that cheap tin washing-standand listening to the whirr of the wretched clock in the corridor? Is allthis in keeping with my fame and my lofty position? And I answer thesequestions with a jeer. I am amused by the naivete with which I usedin my youth to exaggerate the value of renown and of the exceptionalposition which celebrities are supposed to enjoy. I am famous, my nameis pronounced with reverence, my portrait has been both in the _Niva_and in the _Illustrated News of the World_; I have read my biographyeven in a German magazine. And what of all that? Here I am sittingutterly alone in a strange town, on a strange bed, rubbing my achingcheek with my hand. .. . Domestic worries, the hard-heartedness ofcreditors, the rudeness of the railway servants, the inconveniencesof the passport system, the expensive and unwholesome food in therefreshment-rooms, the general rudeness and coarseness in socialintercourse--all this, and a great deal more which would take too longto reckon up, affects me as much as any working man who is famous onlyin his alley. In what way, does my exceptional position find expression?Admitting that I am celebrated a thousand times over, that I am a heroof whom my country is proud. They publish bulletins of my illness inevery paper, letters of sympathy come to me by post from my colleagues, my pupils, the general public; but all that does not prevent me fromdying in a strange bed, in misery, in utter loneliness. Of course, noone is to blame for that; but I in my foolishness dislike my popularity. I feel as though it had cheated me. 

At ten o'clock I fall asleep, and in spite of the tic I sleep soundly, and should have gone on sleeping if I had not been awakened. Soon afterone came a sudden knock at the door. 

"Who is there?"

"A telegram. "

"You might have waited till tomorrow, " I say angrily, taking thetelegram from the attendant. "Now I shall not get to sleep again. "

"I am sorry. Your light was burning, so I thought you were not asleep. "

I tear open the telegram and look first at the signature. From my wife. 

"What does she want?"

"Gnekker was secretly married to Liza yesterday. Return. "

I read the telegram, and my dismay does not last long. I am dismayed, not by what Liza and Gnekker have done, but by the indifference withwhich I hear of their marriage. They say philosophers and the truly wiseare indifferent. It is false: indifference is the paralysis of the soul;it is premature death. 

I go to bed again, and begin trying to think of something to occupy mymind. What am I to think about? I feel as though everything had beenthought over already and there is nothing which could hold my attentionnow. 

When daylight comes I sit up in bed with my arms round my knees, andto pass the time I try to know myself. "Know thyself" is excellent anduseful advice; it is only a pity that the ancients never thought toindicate the means of following this precept. 

When I have wanted to understand somebody or myself I have considered, not the actions, in which everything is relative, but the desires. 

"Tell me what you want, and I will tell you what manner of man you are. "

And now I examine myself: what do I want?

I want our wives, our children, our friends, our pupils, to love inus, not our fame, not the brand and not the label, but to love us asordinary men. Anything else? I should like to have had helpers andsuccessors. Anything else? I should like to wake up in a hundred years'time and to have just a peep out of one eye at what is happening inscience. I should have liked to have lived another ten years. .. Whatfurther? Why, nothing further. I think and think, and can think ofnothing more. And however much I might think, and however far mythoughts might travel, it is clear to me that there is nothing vital, nothing of great importance in my desires. In my passion for science, in my desire to live, in this sitting on a strange bed, and in thisstriving to know myself--in all the thoughts, feelings, and ideas I formabout everything, there is no common bond to connect it all into onewhole. Every feeling and every thought exists apart in me; and in allmy criticisms of science, the theatre, literature, my pupils, and in allthe pictures my imagination draws, even the most skilful analyst couldnot find what is called a general idea, or the god of a living man. 

And if there is not that, then there is nothing. 

In a state so poverty-stricken, a serious ailment, the fear of death, the influences of circumstance and men were enough to turn upside downand scatter in fragments all which I had once looked upon as my theoryof life, and in which I had seen the meaning and joy of my existence. So there is nothing surprising in the fact that I have over-shadowed thelast months of my life with thoughts and feelings only worthy of a slaveand barbarian, and that now I am indifferent and take no heed of thedawn. When a man has not in him what is loftier and mightier thanall external impressions a bad cold is really enough to upset hisequilibrium and make him begin to see an owl in every bird, to hear adog howling in every sound. And all his pessimism or optimism with histhoughts great and small have at such times significance as symptoms andnothing more. 

I am vanquished. If it is so, it is useless to think, it is useless totalk. I will sit and wait in silence for what is to come. 

In the morning the corridor attendant brings me tea and a copy of thelocal newspaper. Mechanically I read the advertisements on the firstpage, the leading article, the extracts from the newspapers andjournals, the chronicle of events. .. . In the latter I find, among otherthings, the following paragraph: "Our distinguished savant, ProfessorNikolay Stepanovitch So-and-so, arrived yesterday in Harkov, and isstaying in the So-and-so Hotel. "

Apparently, illustrious names are created to live on their own account, apart from those that bear them. Now my name is promenading tranquillyabout Harkov; in another three months, printed in gold letters on mymonument, it will shine bright as the sun itself, while I s hall bealready under the moss. 

A light tap at the door. Somebody wants me. 

"Who is there? Come in. "

The door opens, and I step back surprised and hurriedly wrap mydressing-gown round me. Before me stands Katya. 

"How do you do?" she says, breathless with running upstairs. "You didn'texpect me? I have come here, too. .. . I have come, too!"

She sits down and goes on, hesitating and not looking at me. 

"Why don't you speak to me? I have come, too. .. Today. .. . I found outthat you were in this hotel, and have come to you. "

"Very glad to see you, " I say, shrugging my shoulders, "but I amsurprised. You seem to have dropped from the skies. What have you comefor?"

"Oh. .. I've simply come. "

Silence. Suddenly she jumps up impulsively and comes to me. 

"Nikolay Stepanovitch, " she says, turning pale and pressing her handson her bosom--"Nikolay Stepanovitch, I cannot go on living like this!I cannot! For God's sake tell me quickly, this minute, what I am to do!Tell me, what am I to do?"

"What can I tell you?" I ask in perplexity. "I can do nothing. "

"Tell me, I beseech you, " she goes on, breathing hard and trembling allover. "I swear that I cannot go on living like this. It's too much forme!"

She sinks on a chair and begins sobbing. She flings her head back, wrings her hands, taps with her feet; her hat falls off and hangsbobbing on its elastic; her hair is ruffled. 

"Help me! help me!" she implores me. "I cannot go on!"

She takes her handkerchief out of her travelling-bag, and with it pullsout several letters, which fall from her lap to the floor. I pickthem up, and on one of them I recognize the handwriting of MihailFyodorovitch and accidentally read a bit of a word "passionat. .. "

"There is nothing I can tell you, Katya, " I say. 

"Help me!" she sobs, clutching at my hand and kissing it. "You are myfather, you know, my only friend! You are clever, educated; you havelived so long; you have been a teacher! Tell me, what am I to do?"

"Upon my word, Katya, I don't know. .. . "

I am utterly at a loss and confused, touched by her sobs, and hardlyable to stand. 

"Let us have lunch, Katya, " I say, with a forced smile. "Give overcrying. "

And at once I add in a sinking voice:

"I shall soon be gone, Katya. .. . "

"Only one word, only one word!" she weeps, stretching out her hands tome. 

"What am I to do?"

"You are a queer girl, really. .. " I mutter. "I don't understand it! Sosensible, and all at once crying your eyes out. .. . "

A silence follows. Katya straightens her hair, puts on her hat, thencrumples up the letters and stuffs them in her bag--and all thisdeliberately, in silence. Her face, her bosom, and her gloves are wetwith tears, but her expression now is cold and forbidding. .. . I look ather, and feel ashamed that I am happier than she. The absence of whatmy philosophic colleagues call a general idea I have detected in myselfonly just before death, in the decline of my days, while the soul ofthis poor girl has known and will know no refuge all her life, all herlife!

"Let us have lunch, Katya, " I say. 

"No, thank you, " she answers coldly. Another minute passes in silence. "I don't like Harkov, " I say; "it's so grey here--such a grey town. "

"Yes, perhaps. .. . It's ugly. I am here not for long, passing through. Iam going on today. "

"Where?"

"To the Crimea. .. That is, to the Caucasus. "

"Oh! For long?"

"I don't know. "

Katya gets up, and, with a cold smile, holds out her hand withoutlooking at me. 

I want to ask her, "Then, you won't be at my funeral?" but she does notlook at me; her hand is cold and, as it were, strange. I escort her tothe door in silence. She goes out, walks down the long corridor withoutlooking back; she knows that I am looking after her, and most likely shewill look back at the turn. 

No, she did not look back. I've seen her black dress for the last time:her steps have died away. Farewell, my treasure!

THE PRIVY COUNCILLOR

AT the beginning of April in 1870 my mother, Klavdia Arhipovna, the widow of a lieutenant, received from her brother Ivan, a privycouncillor in Petersburg, a letter in which, among other things, thispassage occurred: "My liver trouble forces me to spend every summerabroad, and as I have not at the moment the money in hand for a tripto Marienbad, it is very possible, dear sister, that I may spend thissummer with you at Kotchuevko. .. . "

On reading the letter my mother turned pale and began trembling allover; then an expression of mingled tears and laughter came into herface. She began crying and laughing. This conflict of tears and laughteralways reminds me of the flickering and spluttering of a brightlyburning candle when one sprinkles it with water. Reading the letter oncemore, mother called together all the household, and in a voice brokenwith emotion began explaining to us that there had been four Gundasovbrothers: one Gundasov had died as a baby; another had gone to the war, and he, too, was dead; the third, without offence to him be it said, wasan actor; the fourth. .. 

"The fourth has risen far above us, " my mother brought out tearfully. "My own brother, we grew up together; and I am all of a tremble, all ofa tremble!. .. A privy councillor with the rank of a general! How shallI meet him, my angel brother? What can I, a foolish, uneducatedwoman, talk to him about? It's fifteen years since I've seen him!Andryushenka, " my mother turned to me, "you must rejoice, little stupid!It's a piece of luck for you that God is sending him to us!"

After we had heard a detailed history of the Gundasovs, there followeda fuss and bustle in the place such as I had been accustomed to see onlybefore Christmas and Easter. The sky above and the water in the riverwere all that escaped; everything else was subjected to a mercilesscleansing, scrubbing, painting. If the sky had been lower and smallerand the river had not flowed so swiftly, they would have scoured them, too, with bath-brick and rubbed them, too, with tow. Our walls were aswhite as snow, but they were whitewashed; the floors were bright andshining, but they were washed every day. The cat Bobtail (as a smallchild I had cut off a good quarter of his tail with the knife used forchopping the sugar, and that was why he was called Bobtail) was carriedoff to the kitchen and put in charge of Anisya; Fedka was told that ifany of the dogs came near the front-door "God would punish him. " But noone was so badly treated as the poor sofas, easy-chairs, and rugs!They had never, before been so violently beaten as on this occasion inpreparation for our visitor. My pigeons took fright at the loud thud ofthe sticks, and were continually flying up into the sky. 

The tailor Spiridon, the only tailor in the whole district whoventured to make for the gentry, came over from Novostroevka. He was ahard-working capable man who did not drink and was not without a certainfancy and feeling for form, but yet he was an atrocious tailor. His workwas ruined by hesitation. .. . The idea that his cut was not fashionableenough made him alter everything half a dozen times, walk all the way tothe town simply to study the dandies, and in the end dress us in suitsthat even a caricaturist would have called _outre_ and grotesque. We cuta dash in impossibly narrow trousers and in such short jackets that wealways felt quite abashed in the presence of young ladies. 

This Spiridon spent a long time taking my measure. He measured me allover lengthways and crossways, as though he meant to put hoops roundme like a barrel; then he spent a long time noting down my measurementswith a thick pencil on a bit of paper, and ticked off all themeasurements with triangular signs. When he had finished with me he setto work on my tutor, Yegor Alexyevitch Pobyedimsky. My beloved tutor wasthen at the stage when young men watch the growth of their moustacheand are critical of their clothes, and so you can imagine the devout awewith which Spiridon approached him. Yegor Alexyevitch had to throw backhis head, to straddle his legs like an inverted V, first lift up hisarms, then let them fall. Spiridon measured him several times, walkinground him during the process like a love-sick pigeon round its mate, going down on one knee, bending double. .. . My mother, weary, exhaustedby her exertions and heated by ironing, watched these lengthyproceedings, and said:

"Mind now, Spiridon, you will have to answer for it to God if you spoilthe cloth! And it will be the worse for you if you don't make them fit!"

Mother's words threw Spiridon first into a fever, then into aperspiration, for he was convinced that he would not make them fit. He received one rouble twenty kopecks for making my suit, and forPobyedimsky's two roubles, but we provided the cloth, the lining, andthe buttons. The price cannot be considered excessive, as Novostroevkawas about seven miles from us, and the tailor came to fit us four times. When he came to try the things on and we squeezed ourselves into thetight trousers and jackets adorned with basting threads, mother alwaysfrowned contemptuously and expressed her surprise:

"Goodness knows what the fashions are coming to nowadays! I ampositively ashamed to look at them. If brother were not used toPetersburg I would not get you fashionable clothes!"

Spiridon, relieved that the blame was thrown on the fashion and not onhim, shrugged his shoulders and sighed, as though to say:

"There's no help for it; it's the spirit of the age!"

The excitement with which we awaited the arrival of our guest can onlybe compared with the strained suspense with which spiritualists waitfrom minute to minute the appearance of a ghost. Mother went aboutwith a sick headache, and was continually melting into tears. I lost myappetite, slept badly, and did not learn my lessons. Even in my dreamsI was haunted by an impatient longing to see a general--that is, a manwith epaulettes and an embroidered collar sticking up to his ears, andwith a naked sword in his hands, exactly like the one who hung overthe sofa in the drawing-room and glared with terrible black eyes ateverybody who dared to look at him. Pobyedimsky was the only one whofelt himself in his element. He was neither terrified nor delighted, and merely from time to time, when he heard the history of the Gundasovfamily, said:

"Yes, it will be pleasant to have some one fresh to talk to. "

My tutor was looked upon among us as an exceptional nature. He was ayoung man of twenty, with a pimply face, shaggy locks, a low forehead, and an unusually long nose. His nose was so big that when he wanted tolook close at anything he had to put his head on one side like a bird. To our thinking, there was not a man in the province cleverer, morecultivated, or more stylish. He had left the high-school in the classnext to the top, and had then entered a veterinary college, from whichhe was expelled before the end of the first half-year. The reason of hisexpulsion he carefully concealed, which enabled any one who wished todo so to look upon my instructor as an injured and to some extent amysterious person. He spoke little, and only of intellectual subjects;he ate meat during the fasts, and looked with contempt and condescensionon the life going on around him, which did not prevent him, however, from taking presents, such as suits of clothes, from my mother, anddrawing funny faces with red teeth on my kites. Mother disliked him forhis "pride, " but stood in awe of his cleverness. 

Our visitor did not keep us long waiting. At the beginning of May twowagon-loads of big boxes arrived from the station. These boxes lookedso majestic that the drivers instinctively took off their hats as theylifted them down. 

"There must be uniforms and gunpowder in those boxes, " I thought. 

Why "gunpowder"? Probably the conception of a general was closelyconnected in my mind with cannons and gunpowder. 

When I woke up on the morning of the tenth of May, nurse told me in awhisper that "my uncle had come. " I dressed rapidly, and, washing aftera fashion, flew out of my bedroom without saying my prayers. In thevestibule I came upon a tall, solid gentleman with fashionable whiskersand a foppish-looking overcoat. Half dead with devout awe, I went upto him and, remembering the ceremonial mother had impressed upon me, Iscraped my foot before him, made a very low bow, and craned forward tokiss his hand; but the gentleman did not allow me to kiss his hand: heinformed me that he was not my uncle, but my uncle's footman, Pyotr. The appearance of this Pyotr, far better dressed than Pobyedimsky orme, excited in me the utmost astonishment, which, to tell the truth, haslasted to this day. Can such dignified, respectable people with sternand intellectual faces really be footmen? And what for?

Pyotr told me that my uncle was in the garden with my mother. I rushedinto the garden. 

Nature, knowing nothing of the history of the Gundasov family and therank of my uncle, felt far more at ease and unconstrained than I. Therewas a clamour going on in the garden such as one only bears at fairs. Masses of starlings flitting through the air and hopping about thewalks were noisily chattering as they hunted for cockchafers. Therewere swarms of sparrows in the lilac-bushes, which threw their tender, fragrant blossoms straight in one's face. Wherever one turned, fromevery direction came the note of the golden oriole and the shrill cryof the hoopoe and the red-legged falcon. At any other time I shouldhave begun chasing dragon-flies or throwing stones at a crow which wassitting on a low mound under an aspen-tree, with his blunt beak turnedaway; but at that moment I was in no mood for mischief. My heart wasthrobbing, and I felt a cold sinking at my stomach; I was preparingmyself to confront a gentleman with epaulettes, with a naked sword, andwith terrible eyes!

But imagine my disappointment! A dapper little foppish gentleman inwhite silk trousers, with a white cap on his head, was walking besidemy mother in the garden. With his hands behind him and his head thrownback, every now and then running on ahead of mother, he looked quiteyoung. There was so much life and movement in his whole figure that Icould only detect the treachery of age when I came close up behind andsaw beneath his cap a fringe of close-cropped silver hair. Insteadof the staid dignity and stolidity of a general, I saw an almostschoolboyish nimbleness; instead of a collar sticking up to his ears, an ordinary light blue necktie. Mother and my uncle were walking inthe avenue talking together. I went softly up to them from behind, andwaited for one of them to look round. 

"What a delightful place you have here, Klavdia!" said my uncle. "Howcharming and lovely it is! Had I known before that you had such acharming place, nothing would have induced me to go abroad all theseyears. "

My uncle stooped down rapidly and sniffed at a tulip. Everything he sawmoved him to rapture and excitement, as though he had never been in agarden on a sunny day before. The queer man moved about as though hewere on springs, and chattered incessantly, without allowing mother toutter a single word. All of a sudden Pobyedimsky came into sight frombehind an elder-tree at the turn of the avenue. His appearance was sounexpected that my uncle positively started and stepped back a pace. On this occasion my tutor was attired in his best Inverness cape withsleeves, in which, especially back-view, he looked remarkably like awindmill. He had a solemn and majestic air. Pressing his hat to hisbosom in Spanish style, he took a step towards my uncle and made a bowsuch as a marquis makes in a melodrama, bending forward, a little to oneside. 

"I have the honour to present myself to your high excellency, " he saidaloud: "the teacher and instructor of your nephew, formerly a pupil ofthe veterinary institute, and a nobleman by birth, Pobyedimsky!"

This politeness on the part of my tutor pleased my mother very much. Shegave a smile, and waited in thrilled suspense to hear what clever thinghe would say next; but my tutor, expecting his dignified address to beanswered with equal dignity--that is, that my uncle would say "H'm!"like a general and hold out two fingers--was greatly confused andabashed when the latter laughed genially and shook hands with him. Hemuttered something incoherent, cleared his throat, and walked away. 

"Come! isn't that charming?" laughed my uncle. "Just look! he has madehis little flourish and thinks he's a very clever fellow! I do likethat--upon my soul I do! What youthful aplomb, what life in that foolishflourish! And what boy is this?" he asked, suddenly turning and lookingat me. 

"That is my Andryushenka, " my mother introduced me, flushing crimson. "My consolation. .. "

I made a scrape with my foot on the sand and dropped a low bow. 

"A fine fellow. .. A fine fellow. .. " muttered my uncle, taking his handfrom my lips and stroking me on the head. "So your name is Andrusha?Yes, yes. .. . H'm!. .. Upon my soul!. .. Do you learn lessons?"

My mother, exaggerating and embellishing as all mothers do, beganto describe my achievements in the sciences and the excellence of mybehaviour, and I walked round my uncle and, following the ceremoniallaid down for me, I continued making low bows. Then my mother beganthrowing out hints that with my remarkable abilities it would not beamiss for me to get a government nomination to the cadet school; but atthe point when I was to have burst into tears and begged for myuncle's protection, my uncle suddenly stopped and flung up his hands inamazement. 

"My goo-oodness! What's that?" he asked. 

Tatyana Ivanovna, the wife of our bailiff, Fyodor Petrovna, was comingtowards us. She was carrying a starched white petticoat and a longironing-board. As she passed us she looked shyly at the visitor throughher eyelashes and flushed crimson. 

"Wonders will never cease. .. " my uncle filtered through his teeth, looking after her with friendly interest. "You have a fresh surprise atevery step, sister. .. Upon my soul!"

"She's a beauty. .. " said mother. "They chose her as a bride for Fyodor, though she lived over seventy miles from here. .. . "

Not every one would have called Tatyana a beauty. She was a plump littlewoman of twenty, with black eyebrows and a graceful figure, always rosyand attractive-looking, but in her face and in her whole person therewas not one striking feature, not one bold line to catch the eye, asthough nature had lacked inspiration and confidence when creating her. Tatyana Ivanovna was shy, bashful, and modest in her behaviour; shemoved softly and smoothly, said little, seldom laughed, and her wholelife was as regular as her face and as flat as her smooth, tidy hair. Myuncle screwed up his eyes looking after her, and smiled. Mother lookedintently at his smiling face and grew serious. 

"And so, brother, you've never married!" she sighed. 

"No; I've not married. "

"Why not?" asked mother softly. 

"How can I tell you? It has happened so. In my youth I was too hardat work, I had no time to live, and when I longed to live--I lookedround--and there I had fifty years on my back already. I was too late!However, talking about it. .. Is depressing. "

My mother and my uncle both sighed at once and walked on, and I leftthem and flew off to find my tutor, that I might share my impressionswith him. Pobyedimsky was standing in the middle of the yard, lookingmajestically at the heavens. 

"One can see he is a man of culture!" he said, twisting his head round. "I hope we shall get on together. "

An hour later mother came to us. 

"I am in trouble, my dears!" she began, sighing. "You see brother hasbrought a valet with him, and the valet, God bless him, is not one youcan put in the kitchen or in the hall; we must give him a room apart. I can't think what I am to do! I tell you what, children, couldn't youmove out somewhere--to Fyodor's lodge, for instance--and give your roomto the valet? What do you say?"

We gave our ready consent, for living in the lodge was a great deal morefree than in the house, under mother's eye. 

"It's a nuisance, and that's a fact!" said mother. "Brother says hewon't have dinner in the middle of the day, but between six and seven, as they do in Petersburg. I am simply distracted with worry! By seveno'clock the dinner will be done to rags in the oven. Really, mendon't understand anything about housekeeping, though they have so muchintellect. Oh, dear! we shall have to cook two dinners every day! Youwill have dinner at midday as before, children, while your poor oldmother has to wait till seven, for the sake of her brother. "

Then my mother heaved a deep sigh, bade me try and please my uncle, whose coming was a piece of luck for me for which we must thank God, andhurried off to the kitchen. Pobyedimsky and I moved into the lodge thesame day. We were installed in a room which formed the passage from theentry to the bailiff's bedroom. 

Contrary to my expectations, life went on just as before, drearilyand monotonously, in spite of my uncle's arrival and our move intonew quarters. We were excused lessons "on account of the visitor. "Pobyedimsky, who never read anything or occupied himself in any way, spent most of his time sitting on his bed, with his long nose thrustinto the air, thinking. Sometimes he would get up, try on his new suit, and sit down again to relapse into contemplation and silence. Onlyone thing worried him, the flies, which he used mercilessly to squashbetween his hands. After dinner he usually "rested, " and his snores werea cause of annoyance to the whole household. I ran about the garden frommorning to night, or sat in the lodge sticking my kites together. Forthe first two or three weeks we did not see my uncle often. For daystogether he sat in his own room working, in spite of the flies and theheat. His extraordinary capacity for sitting as though glued to histable produced upon us the effect of an inexplicable conjuring trick. To us idlers, knowing nothing of systematic work, his industry seemedsimply miraculous. Getting up at nine, he sat down to his table, and didnot leave it till dinner-time; after dinner he set to work again, andwent on till late at night. Whenever I peeped through the keyhole Iinvariably saw the same thing: my uncle sitting at the table working. The work consisted in his writing with one hand while he turned over theleaves of a book with the other, and, strange to say, he kept movingall over--swinging his leg as though it were a pendulum, whistling, andnodding his head in time. He had an extremely careless and frivolousexpression all the while, as though he were not working, but playing atnoughts and crosses. I always saw him wearing a smart short jacket and ajauntily tied cravat, and he always smelt, even through the keyhole, ofdelicate feminine perfumery. He only left his room for dinner, but heate little. 

"I can't make brother out!" mother complained of him. "Every day we killa turkey and pigeons on purpose for him, I make a _compote_ with my ownhands, and he eats a plateful of broth and a bit of meat the size of afinger and gets up from the table. I begin begging him to eat; he comesback and drinks a glass of milk. And what is there in that, in a glassof milk? It's no better than washing up water! You may die of a dietlike that. .. . If I try to persuade him, he laughs and makes a joke ofit. .. . No; he does not care for our fare, poor dear!"

We spent the evenings far more gaily than the days. As a rule, by thetime the sun was setting and long shadows were lying across the yard, we--that is, Tatyana Ivanovna, Pobyedimsky, and I--were sitting onthe steps of the lodge. We did not talk till it grew quite dusk. And, indeed, what is one to talk of when every subject has been talked overalready? There was only one thing new, my uncle's arrival, and even thatsubject was soon exhausted. My tutor never took his eyes off TatyanaIvanovna 's face, and frequently heaved deep sighs. .. . At the time Idid not understand those sighs, and did not try to fathom theirsignificance; now they explain a great deal to me. 

When the shadows merged into one thick mass of shade, the bailiff Fyodorwould come in from shooting or from the field. This Fyodor gave me theimpression of being a fierce and even a terrible man. The son of aRussianized gipsy from Izyumskoe, swarthy-faced and curly-headed, with big black eyes and a matted beard, he was never called among ourKotchuevko peasants by any name but "The Devil. " And, indeed, there wasa great deal of the gipsy about him apart from his appearance. He couldnot, for instance, stay at home, and went off for days together intothe country or into the woods to shoot. He was gloomy, ill-humoured, taciturn, was afraid of nobody, and refused to recognize any authority. He was rude to mother, addressed me familiarly, and was contemptuous ofPobyedimsky's learning. All this we forgave him, looking upon him as ahot-tempered and nervous man; mother liked him because, in spite ofhis gipsy nature, he was ideally honest and industrious. He loved hisTatyana Ivanovna passionately, like a gipsy, but this love took in him agloomy form, as though it cost him suffering. He was never affectionateto his wife in our presence, but simply rolled his eyes angrily at herand twisted his mouth. 

When he came in from the fields he would noisily and angrily put downhis gun, would come out to us on the steps, and sit down beside hiswife. After resting a little, he would ask his wife a few questionsabout household matters, and then sink into silence. 

"Let us sing, " I would suggest. 

My tutor would tune his guitar, and in a deep deacon's bass strike up"In the midst of the valley. " We would begin singing. My tutor took thebass, Fyodor sang in a hardly audible tenor, while I sang soprano inunison with Tatyana Ivanovna. 

When the whole sky was covered with stars and the frogs had left offcroaking, they would bring in our supper from the kitchen. We went intothe lodge and sat down to the meal. My tutor and the gipsy ate greedily, with such a sound that it was hard to tell whether it was the bonescrunching or their jaws, and Tatyana Ivanovna and I scarcely succeededin getting our share. After supper the lodge was plunged in deep sleep. 

One evening, it was at the end of May, we were sitting on the steps, waiting for supper. A shadow suddenly fell across us, and Gundasov stoodbefore us as though he had sprung out of the earth. He looked at us fora long time, then clasped his hands and laughed gaily. 

"An idyll!" he said. "They sing and dream in the moonlight! It'scharming, upon my soul! May I sit down and dream with you?"

We looked at one another and said nothing. My uncle sat down onthe bottom step, yawned, and looked at the sky. A silence followed. Pobyedimsky, who had for a long time been wanting to talk to somebodyfresh, was delighted at the opportunity, and was the first to breakthe silence. He had only one subject for intellectual conversation, theepizootic diseases. It sometimes happens that after one has been in animmense crowd, only some one countenance of the thousands remains longimprinted on the memory; in the same way, of all that Pobyedimsky hadheard, during his six months at the veterinary institute, he rememberedonly one passage:

"The epizootics do immense damage to the stock of the country. It is theduty of society to work hand in hand with the government in waging warupon them. "

Before saying this to Gundasov, my tutor cleared his throat threetimes, and several times, in his excitement, wrapped himself up in hisInverness. On hearing about the epizootics, my uncle looked intently atmy tutor and made a sound between a snort and a laugh. 

"Upon my soul, that's charming!" he said, scrutinizing us as though wewere mannequins. "This is actually life. .. . This is really whatreality is bound to be. Why are you silent, Pelagea Ivanovna?" he said, addressing Tatyana Ivanovna. 

She coughed, overcome with confusion. 

"Talk, my friends, sing. .. Play!. .. Don't lose time. You know, time, therascal, runs away and waits for no man! Upon my soul, before you havetime to look round, old age is upon you. .. . Then it is too late tolive! That's how it is, Pelagea Ivanovna. .. . We mustn't sit still and besilent. .. . "

At that point supper was brought out from the kitchen. Uncle went intothe lodge with us, and to keep us company ate five curd fritters and thewing of a duck. He ate and looked at us. He was touched and delighted byus all. Whatever silly nonsense my precious tutor talked, and whateverTatyana Ivanovna did, he thought charming and delightful. When aftersupper Tatyana Ivanovna sat quietly down and took up her knitting, hekept his eyes fixed on her fingers and chatted away without ceasing. 

"Make all the haste you can to live, my friends. .. " he said. "God forbidyou should sacrifice the present for the future! There is youth, health, fire in the present; the future is smoke and deception! As soon as youare twenty begin to live. "

Tatyana Ivanovna dropped a knitting-needle. My uncle jumped up, pickedup the needle, and handed it to Tatyana Ivanovna with a bow, and for thefirst time in my life I learnt that there were people in the world morerefined than Pobyedimsky. 

"Yes. .. " my uncle went on, "love, marry, do silly things. Foolishnessis a great deal more living and healthy than our straining and strivingafter rational life. "

My uncle talked a great deal, so much that he bored us; I sat on a boxlistening to him and dropping to sleep. It distressed me that he didnot once all the evening pay attention to me. He left the lodge at twoo'clock, when, overcome with drowsiness, I was sound asleep. 

From that time forth my uncle took to coming to the lodge every evening. He sang with us, had supper with us, and always stayed on till twoo'clock in the morning, chatting incessantly, always about the samesubject. His evening and night work was given up, and by the end ofJune, when the privy councillor had learned to eat mother's turkey and_compote_, his work by day was abandoned too. My uncle tore himself awayfrom his table and plunged into "life. " In the daytime he walked upand down the garden, he whistled to the workmen and hindered them fromworking, making them tell him their various histories. When his eyefell on Tatyana Ivanovna he ran up to her, and, if she were carryinganything, offered his assistance, which embarrassed her dreadfully. 

As the summer advanced my uncle grew more and more frivolous, volatile, and careless. Pobyedimsky was completely disillusioned in regard to him. 

"He is too one-sided, " he said. "There is nothing to show that he is inthe very foremost ranks of the service. And he doesn't even know how totalk. At every word it's 'upon my soul. ' No, I don't like him!"

From the time that my uncle began visiting the lodge there was anoticeable change both in Fyodor and my tutor. Fyodor gave up going outshooting, came home early, sat more taciturn than ever, and stared withparticular ill-humour at his wife. In my uncle's presence my tutor gaveup talking about epizootics, frowned, and even laughed sarcastically. 

"Here comes our little bantam cock!" he growled on one occasion when myuncle was coming into the lodge. 

I put down this change in them both to their being offended with myuncle. My absent-minded uncle mixed up their names, and to the very dayof his departure failed to distinguish which was my tutor and which wasTatyana Ivanovna's husband. Tatyana Ivanovna herself he sometimescalled Nastasya, sometimes Pelagea, and sometimes Yevdokia. Touched anddelighted by us, he laughed and behaved exactly as though in the companyof small children. .. . All this, of course, might well offend young men. It was not a case of offended pride, however, but, as I realize now, subtler feelings. 

I remember one evening I was sitting on the box struggling with sleep. My eyelids felt glued together and my body, tired out by running aboutall day, drooped sideways. But I struggled against sleep and tried tolook on. It was about midnight. Tatyana Ivanovna, rosy and unassumingas always, was sitting at a little table sewing at her husband's shirt. Fyodor, sullen and gloomy, was staring at her from one corner, and inthe other sat Pobyedimsky, snorting angrily and retreating into thehigh collar of his shirt. My uncle was walking up and down the roomthinking. Silence reigned; nothing was to be heard but the rustling ofthe linen in Tatyana Ivanovna's hands. Suddenly my uncle stood stillbefore Tatyana Ivanovna, and said:

"You are all so young, so fresh, so nice, you live so peacefully in thisquiet place, that I envy you. I have become attached to your way oflife here; my heart aches when I remember I have to go away. .. . You maybelieve in my sincerity!"

Sleep closed my eyes and I lost myself. When some sound waked me, my uncle was standing before Tatyana Ivanovna, looking at her with asoftened expression. His cheeks were flushed. 

"My life has been wasted, " he said. "I have not lived! Your young facemakes me think of my own lost youth, and I should be ready to sit herewatching you to the day of my death. It would be a pleasure to me totake you with me to Petersburg. "

"What for?" Fyodor asked in a husky voice. 

"I should put her under a glass case on my work-table. I should admireher and show her to other people. You know, Pelagea Ivanovna, we have nowomen like you there. Among us there is wealth, distinction, sometimes beauty, but we have not this true sort of life, this healthyserenity. .. . "

My uncle sat down facing Tatyana Ivanovna and took her by the hand. 

"So you won't come with me to Petersburg?" he laughed. "In that casegive me your little hand. .. . A charming little hand!. .. You won't giveit? Come, you miser! let me kiss it, anyway. .. . "

At that moment there was the scrape of a chair. Fyodor jumped up, andwith heavy, measured steps went up to his wife. His face was pale, grey, and quivering. He brought his fist down on the table with a bang, andsaid in a hollow voice:

"I won't allow it!"

At the same moment Pobyedimsky jumped up from his chair. He, too, paleand angry, went up to Tatyana Ivanovna, and he, too, struck the tablewith his fist. 

"I. .. I won't allow it!" he said. 

"What, what's the matter?" asked my uncle in surprise. 

"I won't allow it!" repeated Fyodor, banging on the table. 

My uncle jumped up and blinked nervously. He tried to speak, but in hisamazement and alarm could not utter a word; with an embarrassed smile, he shuffled out of the lodge with the hurried step of an old man, leaving his hat behind. When, a little later, my mother ran into thelodge, Fyodor and Pobyedimsky were still hammering on the table likeblacksmiths and repeating, "I won't allow it!"

"What has happened here?" asked mother. "Why has my brother been takenill? What's the matter?"

Looking at Tatyana's pale, frightened face and at her infuriatedhusband, mother probably guessed what was the matter. She sighed andshook her head. 

"Come! give over banging on the table!" she said. "Leave off, Fyodor!And why are you thumping, Yegor Alexyevitch? What have you got to dowith it?"

Pobyedimsky was startled and confused. Fyodor looked intently at him, then at his wife, and began walking about the room. When mother hadgone out of the lodge, I saw what for long afterwards I looked upon asa dream. I saw Fyodor seize my tutor, lift him up in the air, and thrusthim out of the door. 

When I woke up in the morning my tutor's bed was empty. To my questionwhere he was nurse told me in a whisper that he had been taken off earlyin the morning to the hospital, as his arm was broken. Distressed atthis intelligence and remembering the scene of the previous evening, I went out of doors. It was a grey day. The sky was covered withstorm-clouds and there was a wind blowing dust, bits of paper, andfeathers along the ground. .. . It felt as though rain were coming. Therewas a look of boredom in the servants and in the animals. When I wentinto the house I was told not to make such a noise with my feet, asmother was ill and in bed with a migraine. What was I to do? I wentoutside the gate, sat down on the little bench there, and fell to tryingto discover the meaning of what I had seen and heard the day before. From our gate there was a road which, passing the forge and thepool which never dried up, ran into the main road. I looked at thetelegraph-posts, about which clouds of dust were whirling, and at thesleepy birds sitting on the wires, and I suddenly felt so dreary that Ibegan to cry. 

A dusty wagonette crammed full of townspeople, probably going to visitthe shrine, drove by along the main road. The wagonette was hardly outof sight when a light chaise with a pair of horses came into view. In itwas Akim Nikititch, the police inspector, standing up and holding on tothe coachman's belt. To my great surprise, the chaise turned into ourroad and flew by me in at the gate. While I was puzzling why the policeinspector had come to see us, I heard a noise, and a carriage with threehorses came into sight on the road. In the carriage stood the policecaptain, directing his coachman towards our gate. 

"And why is he coming?" I thought, looking at the dusty police captain. "Most probably Pobyedimsky has complained of Fyodor to him, and theyhave come to take him to prison. "

But the mystery was not so easily solved. The police inspector and thepolice captain were only the first instalment, for five minutes hadscarcely passed when a coach drove in at our gate. It dashed by me soswiftly that I could only get a glimpse of a red beard. 

Lost in conjecture and full of misgivings, I ran to the house. In thepassage first of all I saw mother; she was pale and looking with horrortowards the door, from which came the sounds of men's voices. Thevisitors had taken her by surprise in the very throes of migraine. 

"Who has come, mother?" I asked. 

"Sister, " I heard my uncle's voice, "will you send in something to eatfor the governor and me?"

"It is easy to say 'something to eat, '" whispered my mother, numb withhorror. "What have I time to get ready now? I am put to shame in my oldage!"

Mother clutched at her head and ran into the kitchen. The governor'ssudden visit stirred and overwhelmed the whole household. A ferociousslaughter followed. A dozen fowls, five turkeys, eight ducks, werekilled, and in the fluster the old gander, the progenitor of our wholeflock of geese and a great favourite of mother's, was beheaded. Thecoachmen and the cook seemed frenzied, and slaughtered birds at random, without distinction of age or breed. For the sake of some wretched saucea pair of valuable pigeons, as dear to me as the gander was to mother, were sacrificed. It was a long while before I could forgive the governortheir death. 

In the evening, when the governor and his suite, after a sumptuousdinner, had got into their carriages and driven away, I went intothe house to look at the remains of the feast. Glancing into thedrawing-room from the passage, I saw my uncle and my mother. My uncle, with his hands behind his back, was walking nervously up and down closeto the wall, shrugging his shoulders. Mother, exhausted and looking muchthinner, was sitting on the sofa and watching his movements with heavyeyes. 

"Excuse me, sister, but this won't do at all, " my uncle grumbled, wrinkling up his face. "I introduced the governor to you, and you didn'toffer to shake hands. You covered him with confusion, poor fellow! No, that won't do. .. . Simplicity is a very good thing, but there must belimits to it. .. . Upon my soul! And then that dinner! How can one givepeople such things? What was that mess, for instance, that they servedfor the fourth course?"

"That was duck with sweet sauce. .. " mother answered softly. 

"Duck! Forgive me, sister, but. .. But here I've got heartburn! I amill!"

My uncle made a sour, tearful face, and went on:

"It was the devil sent that governor! As though I wanted his visit!Pff!. .. Heartburn! I can't work or sleep. .. I am completely out ofsorts. .. . And I can't understand how you can live here withoutanything to do. .. In this boredom! Here I've got a pain coming under myshoulder-blade!. .. "

My uncle frowned, and walked about more rapidly than ever. 

"Brother, " my mother inquired softly, "what would it cost to go abroad?"

"At least three thousand. .. " my uncle answered in a tearful voice. "I would go, but where am I to get it? I haven't a farthing. Pff!. .. Heartburn!"

My uncle stopped to look dejectedly at the grey, overcast prospect fromthe window, and began pacing to and fro again. 

A silence followed. .. . Mother looked a long while at the ikon, ponderingsomething, then she began crying, and said:

"I'll give you the three thousand, brother. .. . "

Three days later the majestic boxes went off to the station, and theprivy councillor drove off after them. As he said good-bye to motherhe shed tears, and it was a long time before he took his lips from herhands, but when he got into his carriage his face beamed with childlikepleasure. .. . Radiant and happy, he settled himself comfortably, kissedhis hand to my mother, who was crying, and all at once his eye wascaught by me. A look of the utmost astonishment came into his face. 

"What boy is this?" he asked. 

My mother, who had declared my uncle's coming was a piece of luck forwhich I must thank God, was bitterly mortified at this question. I wasin no mood for questions. I looked at my uncle's happy face, and forsome reason I felt fearfully sorry for him. I could not resist jumpingup to the carriage and hugging that frivolous man, weak as all men are. Looking into his face and wanting to say something pleasant, I asked:

"Uncle, have you ever been in a battle?"

"Ah, the dear boy. .. " laughed my uncle, kissing me. "A charming boy, upon my soul! How natural, how living it all is, upon my soul!. .. "

The carriage set off. .. . I looked after him, and long afterwards thatfarewell "upon my soul" was ringing in my ears. 

THE MAN IN A CASE

AT the furthest end of the village of Mironositskoe some belatedsportsmen lodged for the night in the elder Prokofy's barn. There weretwo of them, the veterinary surgeon Ivan Ivanovitch and the schoolmasterBurkin. Ivan Ivanovitch had a rather strange double-barrelledsurname--Tchimsha-Himalaisky--which did not suit him at all, and hewas called simply Ivan Ivanovitch all over the province. He lived at astud-farm near the town, and had come out shooting now to get a breathof fresh air. Burkin, the high-school teacher, stayed every summer atCount P-----'s, and had been thoroughly at home in this district foryears. 

They did not sleep. Ivan Ivanovitch, a tall, lean old fellow withlong moustaches, was sitting outside the door, smoking a pipe in themoonlight. Burkin was lying within on the hay, and could not be seen inthe darkness. 

They were telling each other all sorts of stories. Among other things, they spoke of the fact that the elder's wife, Mavra, a healthy and by nomeans stupid woman, had never been beyond her native village, had neverseen a town nor a railway in her life, and had spent the last ten yearssitting behind the stove, and only at night going out into the street. 

"What is there wonderful in that!" said Burkin. "There are plenty ofpeople in the world, solitary by temperament, who try to retreat intotheir shell like a hermit crab or a snail. Perhaps it is an instance ofatavism, a return to the period when the ancestor of man was not yet asocial animal and lived alone in his den, or perhaps it is only oneof the diversities of human character--who knows? I am not a naturalscience man, and it is not my business to settle such questions; I onlymean to say that people like Mavra are not uncommon. There is no need tolook far; two months ago a man called Byelikov, a colleague of mine, theGreek master, died in our town. You have heard of him, no doubt. Hewas remarkable for always wearing goloshes and a warm wadded coat, andcarrying an umbrella even in the very finest weather. And his umbrellawas in a case, and his watch was in a case made of grey chamois leather, and when he took out his penknife to sharpen his pencil, his penknife, too, was in a little case; and his face seemed to be in a casetoo, because he always hid it in his turned-up collar. He wore darkspectacles and flannel vests, stuffed up his ears with cotton-wool, andwhen he got into a cab always told the driver to put up the hood. Inshort, the man displayed a constant and insurmountable impulse to wraphimself in a covering, to make himself, so to speak, a case which wouldisolate him and protect him from external influences. Reality irritatedhim, frightened him, kept him in continual agitation, and, perhaps tojustify his timidity, his aversion for the actual, he always praised thepast and what had never existed; and even the classical languages whichhe taught were in reality for him goloshes and umbrellas in which hesheltered himself from real life. 

"'Oh, how sonorous, how beautiful is the Greek language!' he wouldsay, with a sugary expression; and as though to prove his words he wouldscrew up his eyes and, raising his finger, would pronounce 'Anthropos!'

"And Byelikov tried to hide his thoughts also in a case. The only thingsthat were clear to his mind were government circulars and newspaperarticles in which something was forbidden. When some proclamationprohibited the boys from going out in the streets after nine o'clock inthe evening, or some article declared carnal love unlawful, it was tohis mind clear and definite; it was forbidden, and that was enough. Forhim there was always a doubtful element, something vague and not fullyexpressed, in any sanction or permission. When a dramatic club or areading-room or a tea-shop was licensed in the town, he would shake hishead and say softly:

"It is all right, of course; it is all very nice, but I hope it won'tlead to anything!"

"Every sort of breach of order, deviation or departure from rule, depressed him, though one would have thought it was no business of his. If one of his colleagues was late for church or if rumours reached himof some prank of the high-school boys, or one of the mistresses was seenlate in the evening in the company of an officer, he was much disturbed, and said he hoped that nothing would come of it. At the teachers'meetings he simply oppressed us with his caution, his circumspection, and his characteristic reflection on the ill-behaviour of the youngpeople in both male and female high-schools, the uproar in the classes. 

"Oh, he hoped it would not reach the ears of the authorities; oh, hehoped nothing would come of it; and he thought it would be a very goodthing if Petrov were expelled from the second class and Yegorov fromthe fourth. And, do you know, by his sighs, his despondency, his blackspectacles on his pale little face, a little face like a pole-cat's, youknow, he crushed us all, and we gave way, reduced Petrov's and Yegorov'smarks for conduct, kept them in, and in the end expelled them both. He had a strange habit of visiting our lodgings. He would come toa teacher's, would sit down, and remain silent, as though he werecarefully inspecting something. He would sit like this in silence for anhour or two and then go away. This he called 'maintaining good relationswith his colleagues'; and it was obvious that coming to see us andsitting there was tiresome to him, and that he came to see us simplybecause he considered it his duty as our colleague. We teachers wereafraid of him. And even the headmaster was afraid of him. Would youbelieve it, our teachers were all intellectual, right-minded people, brought up on Turgenev and Shtchedrin, yet this little chap, who alwayswent about with goloshes and an umbrella, had the whole high-schoolunder his thumb for fifteen long years! High-school, indeed--he hadthe whole town under his thumb! Our ladies did not get up privatetheatricals on Saturdays for fear he should hear of it, and the clergydared not eat meat or play cards in his presence. Under the influenceof people like Byelikov we have got into the way of being afraid ofeverything in our town for the last ten or fifteen years. Theyare afraid to speak aloud, afraid to send letters, afraid to makeacquaintances, afraid to read books, afraid to help the poor, to teachpeople to read and write. .. . "

Ivan Ivanovitch cleared his throat, meaning to say something, but firstlighted his pipe, g azed at the moon, and then said, with pauses:

"Yes, intellectual, right minded people read Shtchedrin and Turgenev, Buckle, and all the rest of them, yet they knocked under and put up withit. .. That's just how it is. "

"Byelikov lived in the same house as I did, " Burkin went on, "on thesame storey, his door facing mine; we often saw each other, and I knewhow he lived when he was at home. And at home it was the same story:dressing-gown, nightcap, blinds, bolts, a perfect succession ofprohibitions and restrictions of all sorts, and--'Oh, I hope nothingwill come of it!' Lenten fare was bad for him, yet he could not eatmeat, as people might perhaps say Byelikov did not keep the fasts, andhe ate freshwater fish with butter--not a Lenten dish, yet one could notsay that it was meat. He did not keep a female servant for fear peoplemight think evil of him, but had as cook an old man of sixty, calledAfanasy, half-witted and given to tippling, who had once been anofficer's servant and could cook after a fashion. This Afanasy wasusually standing at the door with his arms folded; with a deep sigh, hewould mutter always the same thing:

"'There are plenty of _them_ about nowadays!'

"Byelikov had a little bedroom like a box; his bed had curtains. Whenhe went to bed he covered his head over; it was hot and stuffy; the windbattered on the closed doors; there was a droning noise in the stoveand a sound of sighs from the kitchen--ominous sighs. .. . And he feltfrightened under the bed-clothes. He was afraid that something mighthappen, that Afanasy might murder him, that thieves might break in, andso he had troubled dreams all night, and in the morning, when we wenttogether to the high-school, he was depressed and pale, and it wasevident that the high-school full of people excited dread and aversionin his whole being, and that to walk beside me was irksome to a man ofhis solitary temperament. 

"'They make a great noise in our classes, ' he used to say, asthough trying to find an explanation for his depression. 'It's beyondanything. '

"And the Greek master, this man in a case--would you believe it?--almostgot married. "

Ivan Ivanovitch glanced quickly into the barn, and said:

"You are joking!"

"Yes, strange as it seems, he almost got married. A new teacher ofhistory and geography, Milhail Savvitch Kovalenko, a Little Russian, was appointed. He came, not alone, but with his sister Varinka. He wasa tall, dark young man with huge hands, and one could see from his facethat he had a bass voice, and, in fact, he had a voice that seemed tocome out of a barrel--'boom, boom, boom!' And she was not so young, about thirty, but she, too, was tall, well-made, with black eyebrows andred cheeks--in fact, she was a regular sugar-plum, and so sprightly, sonoisy; she was always singing Little Russian songs and laughing. For theleast thing she would go off into a ringing laugh--'Ha-ha-ha!' We madeour first thorough acquaintance with the Kovalenkos at the headmaster'sname-day party. Among the glum and intensely bored teachers who cameeven to the name-day party as a duty we suddenly saw a new Aphroditerisen from the waves; she walked with her arms akimbo, laughed, sang, danced. .. . She sang with feeling 'The Winds do Blow, ' then another song, and another, and she fascinated us all--all, even Byelikov. He sat downby her and said with a honeyed smile:

"'The Little Russian reminds one of the ancient Greek in its softnessand agreeable resonance. '

"That flattered her, and she began telling him with feeling andearnestness that they had a farm in the Gadyatchsky district, and thather mamma lived at the farm, and that they had such pears, such melons, such _kabaks_! The Little Russians call pumpkins _kabaks_ (i. E. , pothouses), while their pothouses they call _shinki_, and they makea beetroot soup with tomatoes and aubergines in it, 'which was sonice--awfully nice!'

"We listened and listened, and suddenly the same idea dawned upon usall:

"'It would be a good thing to make a match of it, ' the headmaster'swife said to me softly. 

"We all for some reason recalled the fact that our friend Byelikov wasnot married, and it now seemed to us strange that we had hithertofailed to observe, and had in fact completely lost sight of, a detailso important in his life. What was his attitude to woman? How had hesettled this vital question for himself? This had not interested us inthe least till then; perhaps we had not even admitted the idea that aman who went out in all weathers in goloshes and slept under curtainscould be in love. 

"'He is a good deal over forty and she is thirty, ' the headmaster'swife went on, developing her idea. 'I believe she would marry him. '

"All sorts of things are done in the provinces through boredom, allsorts of unnecessary and nonsensical things! And that is because what isnecessary is not done at all. What need was there for instance, forus to make a match for this Byelikov, whom one could not even imaginemarried? The headmaster's wife, the inspector's wife, and all ourhigh-school ladies, grew livelier and even better-looking, as thoughthey had suddenly found a new object in life. The headmaster's wifewould take a box at the theatre, and we beheld sitting in her boxVarinka, with such a fan, beaming and happy, and beside her Byelikov, a little bent figure, looking as though he had been extracted from hishouse by pincers. I would give an evening party, and the ladies wouldinsist on my inviting Byelikov and Varinka. In short, the machine wasset in motion. It appeared that Varinka was not averse to matrimony. Shehad not a very cheerful life with her brother; they could do nothing butquarrel and scold one another from morning till night. Here is a scene, for instance. Kovalenko would be coming along the street, a tall, sturdyyoung ruffian, in an embroidered shirt, his love-locks falling on hisforehead under his cap, in one hand a bundle of books, in the othera thick knotted stick, followed by his sister, also with books in herhand. 

"'But you haven't read it, Mihalik!' she would be arguing loudly. 'Itell you, I swear you have not read it at all!'

"'And I tell you I have read it, ' cries Kovalenko, thumping his stickon the pavement. 

"'Oh, my goodness, Mihalik! why are you so cross? We are arguing aboutprinciples. '

"'I tell you that I have read it!' Kovalenko would shout, more loudlythan ever. 

"And at home, if there was an outsider present, there was sure to be askirmish. Such a life must have been wearisome, and of course she musthave longed for a home of her own. Besides, there was her age to beconsidered; there was no time left to pick and choose; it was a case ofmarrying anybody, even a Greek master. And, indeed, most of our youngladies don't mind whom they marry so long as they do get married. However that may be, Varinka began to show an unmistakable partialityfor Byelikov. 

"And Byelikov? He used to visit Kovalenko just as he did us. He wouldarrive, sit down, and remain silent. He would sit quiet, and Varinkawould sing to him 'The Winds do Blow, ' or would look pensively at himwith her dark eyes, or would suddenly go off into a peal--'Ha-ha-ha!'

"Suggestion plays a great part in love affairs, and still more ingetting married. Everybody--both his colleagues and the ladies--beganassuring Byelikov that he ought to get married, that there was nothingleft for him in life but to get married; we all congratulated him, withsolemn countenances delivered ourselves of various platitudes, suchas 'Marriage is a serious step. ' Besides, Varinka was good-looking andinteresting; she was the daughter of a civil councillor, and had afarm; and what was more, she was the first woman who had been warm andfriendly in her manner to him. His head was turned, and he decided thathe really ought to get married. "

"Well, at that point you ought to have taken away his goloshes andumbrella, " said Ivan Ivanovitch. 

"Only fancy! that turned out to be impossible. He put Varinka's portraiton his table, kept coming to see me and talking about Varinka, andhome life, saying marriage was a serious step. He was frequently atKovalenko's, but he did not alter his manner of life in the least; onthe contrary, indeed, his determination to get married seemed to havea depressing effect on him. He grew thinner and paler, and seemed toretreat further and further into his case. 

"'I like Varvara Savvishna, ' he used to say to me, with a faint and wrysmile, 'and I know that every one ought to get married, but. .. You knowall this has happened so suddenly. .. . One must think a little. '

"'What is there to think over?' I used to say to him. 'Getmarried--that is all. '

"'No; marriage is a serious step. One must first weigh the dutiesbefore one, the responsibilities. .. That nothing may go wrongafterwards. It worries me so much that I don't sleep at night. And Imust confess I am afraid: her brother and she have a strange way ofthinking; they look at things strangely, you know, and her dispositionis very impetuous. One may get married, and then, there is no knowing, one may find oneself in an unpleasant position. '

"And he did not make an offer; he kept putting it off, to the greatvexation of the headmaster's wife and all our ladies; he went onweighing his future duties and responsibilities, and meanwhile he wentfor a walk with Varinka almost every day--possibly he thought that thiswas necessary in his position--and came to see me to talk about familylife. And in all probability in the end he would have proposed to her, and would have made one of those unnecessary, stupid marriages such asare made by thousands among us from being bored and having nothing todo, if it had not been for a _kolossalische scandal_. I must mentionthat Varinka's brother, Kovalenko, detested Byelikov from the first dayof their acquaintance, and could not endure him. 

"'I don't understand, ' he used to say to us, shrugging hisshoulders--'I don't understand how you can put up with that sneak, thatnasty phiz. Ugh! how can you live here! The atmosphere is stifling andunclean! Do you call yourselves schoolmasters, teachers? You are paltrygovernment clerks. You keep, not a temple of science, but a departmentfor red tape and loyal behaviour, and it smells as sour as apolice-station. No, my friends; I will stay with you for a while, andthen I will go to my farm and there catch crabs and teach the LittleRussians. I shall go, and you can stay here with your Judas--damn hissoul!'

"Or he would laugh till he cried, first in a loud bass, then in ashrill, thin laugh, and ask me, waving his hands:

"'What does he sit here for? What does he want? He sits and stares. '

"He even gave Byelikov a nickname, 'The Spider. ' And it will readily beunderstood that we avoided talking to him of his sister's being about tomarry 'The Spider. '

"And on one occasion, when the headmaster's wife hinted to him whata good thing it would be to secure his sister's future with sucha reliable, universally respected man as Byelikov, he frowned andmuttered:

"'It's not my business; let her marry a reptile if she likes. I don'tlike meddling in other people's affairs. '

"Now hear what happened next. Some mischievous person drew a caricatureof Byelikov walking along in his goloshes with his trousers tucked up, under his umbrella, with Varinka on his arm; below, the inscription'Anthropos in love. ' The expression was caught to a marvel, you know. The artist must have worked for more than one night, for the teachersof both the boys' and girls' high-schools, the teachers of the seminary, the government officials, all received a copy. Byelikov received one, too. The caricature made a very painful impression on him. 

"We went out together; it was the first of May, a Sunday, and all ofus, the boys and the teachers, had agreed to meet at the high-school andthen to go for a walk together to a wood beyond the town. We set off, and he was green in the face and gloomier than a storm-cloud. 

"'What wicked, ill-natured people there are!' he said, and his lipsquivered. 

"I felt really sorry for him. We were walking along, and all of asudden--would you believe it?--Kovalenko came bowling along on abicycle, and after him, also on a bicycle, Varinka, flushed andexhausted, but good-humoured and gay. 

"'We are going on ahead, ' she called. 'What lovely weather! Awfullylovely!'

"And they both disappeared from our sight. Byelikov turned white insteadof green, and seemed petrified. He stopped short and stared at me. .. . 

"'What is the meaning of it? Tell me, please!' he asked. 'Can my eyeshave deceived me? Is it the proper thing for high-school masters andladies to ride bicycles?'

"'What is there improper about it?' I said. 'Let them ride and enjoythemselves. '

"'But how can that be?' he cried, amazed at my calm. 'What are yousaying?'

"And he was so shocked that he was unwilling to go on, and returnedhome. 

"Next day he was continually twitching and nervously rubbing his hands, and it was evident from his face that he was unwell. And he left beforehis work was over, for the first time in his life. And he ate no dinner. Towards evening he wrapped himself up warmly, though it was quite warmweather, and sallied out to the Kovalenkos'. Varinka was out; he foundher brother, however. 

"'Pray sit down, ' Kovalenko said coldly, with a frown. His face lookedsleepy; he had just had a nap after dinner, and was in a very badhumour. 

"Byelikov sat in silence for ten minutes, and then began:

"'I have come to see you to relieve my mind. I am very, very muchtroubled. Some scurrilous fellow has drawn an absurd caricature of meand another person, in whom we are both deeply interested. I regard itas a duty to assure you that I have had no hand in it. .. . I have givenno sort of ground for such ridicule--on the contrary, I have alwaysbehaved in every way like a gentleman. '

"Kovalenko sat sulky and silent. Byelikov waited a little, and went onslowly in a mournful voice:

"'And I have something else to say to you. I have been in the servicefor years, while you have only lately entered it, and I consider it myduty as an older colleague to give you a warning. You ride on a bicycle, and that pastime is utterly unsuitable for an educator of youth. '

"'Why so?' asked Kovalenko in his bass. 

"'Surely that needs no explanation, Mihail Savvitch--surely you canunderstand that? If the teacher rides a bicycle, what can you expectthe pupils to do? You will have them walking on their heads next! Andso long as there is no formal permission to do so, it is out of thequestion. I was horrified yesterday! When I saw your sister everythingseemed dancing before my eyes. A lady or a young girl on a bicycle--it'sawful!'

"'What is it you want exactly?'

"'All I want is to warn you, Mihail Savvitch. You are a young man, you have a future before you, you must be very, very careful in yourbehaviour, and you are so careless--oh, so careless! You go about in anembroidered shirt, are constantly seen in the street carrying books, andnow the bicycle, too. The headmaster will learn that you and your sisterride the bicycle, and then it will reach the higher authorities. .. . Willthat be a good thing?'

"'It's no business of anybody else if my sister and I do bicycle!'said Kovalenko, and he turned crimson. 'And damnation take any one whomeddles in my private affairs!'

"Byelikov turned pale and got up. 

"'If you speak to me in that tone I cannot continue, ' he said. 'And Ibeg you never to express yourself like that about our superiors in mypresence; you ought to be respectful to the authorities. '

"'Why, have I said any harm of the authorities?' asked Kovalenko, looking at him wrathfully. 'Please leave me alone. I am an honest man, and do not care to talk to a gentleman like you. I don't like sneaks!'

"Byelikov flew into a nervous flutter, and began hurriedly putting onhis coat, with an expression of horror on his face. It was the firsttime in his life he had been spoken to so rudely. 

"'You can say what you please, ' he said, as he went out from the entryto the landing on the staircase. 'I ought only to warn you: possiblysome on e may have overheard us, and that our conversation may not bemisunderstood and harm come of it, I shall be compelled to inform ourheadmaster of our conversation. .. In its main features. I am bound todo so. '

"'Inform him? You can go and make your report!'

"Kovalenko seized him from behind by the collar and gave him a push, andByelikov rolled downstairs, thudding with his goloshes. The staircasewas high and steep, but he rolled to the bottom unhurt, got up, andtouched his nose to see whether his spectacles were all right. But justas he was falling down the stairs Varinka came in, and with her twoladies; they stood below staring, and to Byelikov this was more terriblethan anything. I believe he would rather have broken his neck or bothlegs than have been an object of ridicule. 'Why, now the whole townwould hear of it; it would come to the headmaster's ears, would reachthe higher authorities--oh, it might lead to something! There would beanother caricature, and it would all end in his being asked to resignhis post. .. . 

"When he got up, Varinka recognized him, and, looking at his ridiculousface, his crumpled overcoat, and his goloshes, not understanding whathad happened and supposing that he had slipped down by accident, couldnot restrain herself, and laughed loud enough to be heard by all theflats:

"'Ha-ha-ha!'

"And this pealing, ringing 'Ha-ha-ha!' was the last straw that putan end to everything: to the proposed match and to Byelikov's earthlyexistence. He did not hear what Varinka said to him; he saw nothing. Onreaching home, the first thing he did was to remove her portrait fromthe table; then he went to bed, and he never got up again. 

"Three days later Afanasy came to me and asked whether we should notsend for the doctor, as there was something wrong with his master. Iwent in to Byelikov. He lay silent behind the curtain, covered witha quilt; if one asked him a question, he said 'Yes' or 'No' and notanother sound. He lay there while Afanasy, gloomy and scowling, hoveredabout him, sighing heavily, and smelling like a pothouse. 

"A month later Byelikov died. We all went to his funeral--that is, boththe high-schools and the seminary. Now when he was lying in his coffinhis expression was mild, agreeable, even cheerful, as though he wereglad that he had at last been put into a case which he would never leaveagain. Yes, he had attained his ideal! And, as though in his honour, it was dull, rainy weather on the day of his funeral, and we all woregoloshes and took our umbrellas. Varinka, too, was at the funeral, andwhen the coffin was lowered into the grave she burst into tears. I havenoticed that Little Russian women are always laughing or crying--nointermediate mood. 

"One must confess that to bury people like Byelikov is a great pleasure. As we were returning from the cemetery we wore discreet Lenten faces; noone wanted to display this feeling of pleasure--a feeling like that wehad experienced long, long ago as children when our elders had goneout and we ran about the garden for an hour or two, enjoying completefreedom. Ah, freedom, freedom! The merest hint, the faintest hope of itspossibility gives wings to the soul, does it not?

"We returned from the cemetery in a good humour. But not more thana week had passed before life went on as in the past, as gloomy, oppressive, and senseless--a life not forbidden by governmentprohibition, but not fully permitted, either: it was no better. And, indeed, though we had buried Byelikov, how many such men in cases wereleft, how many more of them there will be!"

"That's just how it is, " said Ivan Ivanovitch and he lighted his pipe. 

"How many more of them there will be!" repeated Burkin. 

The schoolmaster came out of the barn. He was a short, stout man, completely bald, with a black beard down to his waist. The two dogs cameout with him. 

"What a moon!" he said, looking upwards. 

It was midnight. On the right could be seen the whole village, a longstreet stretching far away for four miles. All was buried in deep silentslumber; not a movement, not a sound; one could hardly believe thatnature could be so still. When on a moonlight night you see a broadvillage street, with its cottages, haystacks, and slumbering willows, a feeling of calm comes over the soul; in this peace, wrapped away fromcare, toil, and sorrow in the darkness of night, it is mild, melancholy, beautiful, and it seems as though the stars look down upon it kindly andwith tenderness, and as though there were no evil on earth and all werewell. On the left the open country began from the end of the village;it could be seen stretching far away to the horizon, and there was nomovement, no sound in that whole expanse bathed in moonlight. 

"Yes, that is just how it is, " repeated Ivan Ivanovitch; "and isn't ourliving in town, airless and crowded, our writing useless papers, ourplaying _vint_--isn't that all a sort of case for us? And our spendingour whole lives among trivial, fussy men and silly, idle women, ourtalking and our listening to all sorts of nonsense--isn't that a casefor us, too? If you like, I will tell you a very edifying story. "

"No; it's time we were asleep, " said Burkin. "Tell it tomorrow. "

They went into the barn and lay down on the hay. And they were bothcovered up and beginning to doze when they suddenly heard lightfootsteps--patter, patter. .. . Some one was walking not far from thebarn, walking a little and stopping, and a minute later, patter, patteragain. .. . The dogs began growling. 

"That's Mavra, " said Burkin. 

The footsteps died away. 

"You see and hear that they lie, " said Ivan Ivanovitch, turning overon the other side, "and they call you a fool for putting up with theirlying. You endure insult and humiliation, and dare not openly say thatyou are on the side of the honest and the free, and you lie and smileyourself; and all that for the sake of a crust of bread, for the sake ofa warm corner, for the sake of a wretched little worthless rank in theservice. No, one can't go on living like this. "

"Well, you are off on another tack now, Ivan Ivanovitch, " said theschoolmaster. "Let us go to sleep!"

And ten minutes later Burkin was asleep. But Ivan Ivanovitch keptsighing and turning over from side to side; then he got up, went outsideagain, and, sitting in the doorway, lighted his pipe. 

GOOSEBERRIES

THE whole sky had been overcast with rain-clouds from early morning; itwas a still day, not hot, but heavy, as it is in grey dull weather whenthe clouds have been hanging over the country for a long while, whenone expects rain and it does not come. Ivan Ivanovitch, the veterinarysurgeon, and Burkin, the high-school teacher, were already tired fromwalking, and the fields seemed to them endless. Far ahead of them theycould just see the windmills of the village of Mironositskoe; on theright stretched a row of hillocks which disappeared in the distancebehind the village, and they both knew that this was the bank of theriver, that there were meadows, green willows, homesteads there, andthat if one stood on one of the hillocks one could see from it the samevast plain, telegraph-wires, and a train which in the distance lookedlike a crawling caterpillar, and that in clear weather one could evensee the town. Now, in still weather, when all nature seemed mildand dreamy, Ivan Ivanovitch and Burkin were filled with love of thatcountryside, and both thought how great, how beautiful a land it was. 

"Last time we were in Prokofy's barn, " said Burkin, "you were about totell me a story. "

"Yes; I meant to tell you about my brother. "

Ivan Ivanovitch heaved a deep sigh and lighted a pipe to begin to tellhis story, but just at that moment the rain began. And five minuteslater heavy rain came down, covering the sky, and it was hard to tellwhen it would be over. Ivan Ivanovitch and Burkin stopped in hesitation;the dogs, already drenched, stood with their tails between their legsgazing at them feelingly. 

"We must take shelter somewhere, " said Burkin. "Let us go to Alehin's;it's close by. "

"Come along. "

They turned aside and walked through mown fields, sometimes goingstraight forward, sometimes turning to the right, till they came out onthe road. Soon they saw poplars, a garden, then the red roofs of barns;there was a gleam of the river, and the view opened on to a broadexpanse of water with a windmill and a white bath-house: this wasSofino, where Alehin lived. 

The watermill was at work, drowning the sound of the rain; the dam wasshaking. Here wet horses with drooping heads were standing near theircarts, and men were walking about covered with sacks. It was damp, muddy, and desolate; the water looked cold and malignant. IvanIvanovitch and Burkin were already conscious of a feeling of wetness, messiness, and discomfort all over; their feet were heavy with mud, andwhen, crossing the dam, they went up to the barns, they were silent, asthough they were angry with one another. 

In one of the barns there was the sound of a winnowing machine, the doorwas open, and clouds of dust were coming from it. In the doorway wasstanding Alehin himself, a man of forty, tall and stout, with long hair, more like a professor or an artist than a landowner. He had on a whiteshirt that badly needed washing, a rope for a belt, drawers instead oftrousers, and his boots, too, were plastered up with mud and straw. Hiseyes and nose were black with dust. He recognized Ivan Ivanovitch andBurkin, and was apparently much delighted to see them. 

"Go into the house, gentlemen, " he said, smiling; "I'll come directly, this minute. "

It was a big two-storeyed house. Alehin lived in the lower storey, witharched ceilings and little windows, where the bailiffs had once lived;here everything was plain, and there was a smell of rye bread, cheapvodka, and harness. He went upstairs into the best rooms only on rareoccasions, when visitors came. Ivan Ivanovitch and Burkin were met inthe house by a maid-servant, a young woman so beautiful that they bothstood still and looked at one another. 

"You can't imagine how delighted I am to see you, my friends, " saidAlehin, going into the hall with them. "It is a surprise! Pelagea, " hesaid, addressing the girl, "give our visitors something to change into. And, by the way, I will change too. Only I must first go and wash, forI almost think I have not washed since spring. Wouldn't you like to comeinto the bath-house? and meanwhile they will get things ready here. "

Beautiful Pelagea, looking so refined and soft, brought them towels andsoap, and Alehin went to the bath-house with his guests. 

"It's a long time since I had a wash, " he said, undressing. "I have gota nice bath-house, as you see--my father built it--but I somehow neverhave time to wash. "

He sat down on the steps and soaped his long hair and his neck, and thewater round him turned brown. 

"Yes, I must say, " said Ivan Ivanovitch meaningly, looking at his head. 

"It's a long time since I washed. .. " said Alehin with embarrassment, giving himself a second soaping, and the water near him turned darkblue, like ink. 

Ivan Ivanovitch went outside, plunged into the water with a loud splash, and swam in the rain, flinging his arms out wide. He stirred the waterinto waves which set the white lilies bobbing up and down; he swam tothe very middle of the millpond and dived, and came up a minute laterin another place, and swam on, and kept on diving, trying to touch thebottom. 

"Oh, my goodness!" he repeated continually, enjoying himself thoroughly. "Oh, my goodness!" He swam to the mill, talked to the peasants there, then returned and lay on his back in the middle of the pond, turning hisface to the rain. Burkin and Alehin were dressed and ready to go, but hestill went on swimming and diving. "Oh, my goodness!. .. " he said. "Oh, Lord, have mercy on me!. .. "

"That's enough!" Burkin shouted to him. 

They went back to the house. And only when the lamp was lighted in thebig drawing-room upstairs, and Burkin and Ivan Ivanovitch, attired insilk dressing-gowns and warm slippers, were sitting in arm-chairs;and Alehin, washed and combed, in a new coat, was walking about thedrawing-room, evidently enjoying the feeling of warmth, cleanliness, dryclothes, and light shoes; and when lovely Pelagea, stepping noiselesslyon the carpet and smiling softly, handed tea and jam on a tray--onlythen Ivan Ivanovitch began on his story, and it seemed as though notonly Burkin and Alehin were listening, but also the ladies, young andold, and the officers who looked down upon them sternly and calmly fromtheir gold frames. 

"There are two of us brothers, " he began--"I, Ivan Ivanovitch, and mybrother, Nikolay Ivanovitch, two years younger. I went in for a learnedprofession and became a veterinary surgeon, while Nikolay sat ina government office from the time he was nineteen. Our father, Tchimsha-Himalaisky, was a kantonist, but he rose to be an officer andleft us a little estate and the rank of nobility. After his death thelittle estate went in debts and legal expenses; but, anyway, we hadspent our childhood running wild in the country. Like peasant children, we passed our days and nights in the fields and the woods, looked afterhorses, stripped the bark off the trees, fished, and so on. .. . And, you know, whoever has once in his life caught perch or has seen themigrating of the thrushes in autumn, watched how they float in flocksover the village on bright, cool days, he will never be a real townsman, and will have a yearning for freedom to the day of his death. My brotherwas miserable in the government office. Years passed by, and he went onsitting in the same place, went on writing the same papers and thinkingof one and the same thing--how to get into the country. And thisyearning by degrees passed into a definite desire, into a dream ofbuying himself a little farm somewhere on the banks of a river or alake. 

"He was a gentle, good-natured fellow, and I was fond of him, but Inever sympathized with this desire to shut himself up for the rest ofhis life in a little farm of his own. It's the correct thing to saythat a man needs no more than six feet of earth. But six feet is whata corpse needs, not a man. And they say, too, now, that if ourintellectual classes are attracted to the land and yearn for a farm, it's a good thing. But these farms are just the same as six feet ofearth. To retreat from town, from the struggle, from the bustle of life, to retreat and bury oneself in one's farm--it's not life, it's egoism, laziness, it's monasticism of a sort, but monasticism without goodworks. A man does not need six feet of earth or a farm, but the wholeglobe, all nature, where he can have room to display all the qualitiesand peculiarities of his free spirit. 

"My brother Nikolay, sitting in his government office, dreamed of how hewould eat his own cabbages, which would fill the whole yard with such asavoury smell, take his meals on the green grass, sleep in the sun, sitfor whole hours on the seat by the gate gazing at the fields and theforest. Gardening books and the agricultural hints in calendars werehis delight, his favourite spiritual sustenance; he enjoyed readingnewspapers, too, but the only things he read in them were theadvertisements of so many acres of arable land and a grass meadow withfarm-houses and buildings, a river, a garden, a mill and millponds, forsale. And his imagination pictured the garden-paths, flowers and fruit, starling cotes, the carp in the pond, and all that sort of thing, youknow. These imaginary pictures were of different kinds according to theadvertisements which he came across, but for some reason in every oneof them he had always to have gooseberries. He could not imagine ahomestead, he could not picture an idyllic nook, without gooseberries. 

"'Country life has its conveniences, ' he would sometimes say. 'You siton the verandah and you drink tea, while your ducks swim on the pond, there is a delicious smell everywhere, and. .. And the gooseberries aregrowing. '

"He used to draw a map of his property, and in every map there werethe same things--(a) house for the family, (b) servants' quarters, (c)kitchen-garden, (d) gooseberry-bushes. He lived parsimoniously, wasfrugal in food and drink, his clothes were beyond description; he lookedlike a beggar, but kept on saving and putting money in the bank. He grewfearfully avaricious. I did not like to look at him, and I used to givehim something and send him presents for Christmas and Easter, but heused to save that too. Once a man is absorbed by an idea there is nodoing anything with him. 

"Years passed: he was transferred to another province. He was overforty, and he was still reading the advertisements in the papers andsaving up. Then I heard he was married. Still with the same object ofbuying a farm and having gooseberries, he married an elderly and uglywidow without a trace of feeling for her, simply because she had filthylucre. He went on living frugally after marrying her, and kept her shortof food, while he put her money in the bank in his name. 

"Her first husband had been a postmaster, and with him she wasaccustomed to pies and home-made wines, while with her second husbandshe did not get enough black bread; she began to pine away with thissort of life, and three years later she gave up her soul to God. And Ineed hardly say that my brother never for one moment imagined that hewas responsible for her death. Money, like vodka, makes a man queer. Inour town there was a merchant who, before he died, ordered a platefulof honey and ate up all his money and lottery tickets with the honey, sothat no one might get the benefit of it. While I was inspecting cattleat a railway-station, a cattle-dealer fell under an engine and hadhis leg cut off. We carried him into the waiting-room, the blood wasflowing--it was a horrible thing--and he kept asking them to look forhis leg and was very much worried about it; there were twenty roubles inthe boot on the leg that had been cut off, and he was afraid they wouldbe lost. "

"That's a story from a different opera, " said Burkin. 

"After his wife's death, " Ivan Ivanovitch went on, after thinking forhalf a minute, "my brother began looking out for an estate for himself. Of course, you may look about for five years and yet end by making amistake, and buying something quite different from what you have dreamedof. My brother Nikolay bought through an agent a mortgaged estateof three hundred and thirty acres, with a house for the family, with servants' quarters, with a park, but with no orchard, nogooseberry-bushes, and no duck-pond; there was a river, but the water init was the colour of coffee, because on one side of the estate there wasa brickyard and on the other a factory for burning bones. But NikolayIvanovitch did not grieve much; he ordered twenty gooseberry-bushes, planted them, and began living as a country gentleman. 

"Last year I went to pay him a visit. I thought I would go and see whatit was like. In his letters my brother called his estate 'TchumbaroklovWaste, alias Himalaiskoe. ' I reached 'alias Himalaiskoe' in theafternoon. It was hot. Everywhere there were ditches, fences, hedges, fir-trees planted in rows, and there was no knowing how to get to theyard, where to put one's horse. I went up to the house, and was met bya fat red dog that looked like a pig. It wanted to bark, but it was toolazy. The cook, a fat, barefooted woman, came out of the kitchen, andshe, too, looked like a pig, and said that her master was resting afterdinner. I went in to see my brother. He was sitting up in bed with aquilt over his legs; he had grown older, fatter, wrinkled; his cheeks, his nose, and his mouth all stuck out--he looked as though he mightbegin grunting into the quilt at any moment. 

"We embraced each other, and shed tears of joy and of sadness at thethought that we had once been young and now were both grey-headed andnear the grave. He dressed, and led me out to show me the estate. 

"'Well, how are you getting on here?' I asked. 

"'Oh, all right, thank God; I am getting on very well. '

"He was no more a poor timid clerk, but a real landowner, a gentleman. He was already accustomed to it, had grown used to it, and liked it. Heate a great deal, went to the bath-house, was growing stout, was alreadyat law with the village commune and both factories, and was very muchoffended when the peasants did not call him 'Your Honour. ' And heconcerned himself with the salvation of his soul in a substantial, gentlemanly manner, and performed deeds of charity, not simply, butwith an air of consequence. And what deeds of charity! He treated thepeasants for every sort of disease with soda and castor oil, and on hisname-day had a thanksgiving service in the middle of the village, andthen treated the peasants to a gallon of vodka--he thought that wasthe thing to do. Oh, those horrible gallons of vodka! One day thefat landowner hauls the peasants up before the district captain fortrespass, and next day, in honour of a holiday, treats them to a gallonof vodka, and they drink and shout 'Hurrah!' and when they are drunk bowdown to his feet. A change of life for the better, and being well-fedand idle develop in a Russian the most insolent self-conceit. NikolayIvanovitch, who at one time in the government office was afraid to haveany views of his own, now could say nothing that was not gospel truth, and uttered such truths in the tone of a prime minister. 'Education isessential, but for the peasants it is premature. ' 'Corporal punishmentis harmful as a rule, but in some cases it is necessary and there isnothing to take its place. '

"'I know the peasants and understand how to treat them, ' he would say. 'The peasants like me. I need only to hold up my little finger and thepeasants will do anything I like. '

"And all this, observe, was uttered with a wise, benevolent smile. Herepeated twenty times over 'We noblemen, ' 'I as a noble'; obviously hedid not remember that our grandfather was a peasant, and our fathera soldier. Even our surname Tchimsha-Himalaisky, in reality soincongruous, seemed to him now melodious, distinguished, and veryagreeable. 

"But the point just now is not he, but myself. I want to tell you aboutthe change that took place in me during the brief hours I spent at hiscountry place. In the evening, when we were drinking tea, the cook puton the table a plateful of gooseberries. They were not bought, but hisown gooseberries, gathered for the first time since the bushes wereplanted. Nikolay Ivanovitch laughed and looked for a minute in silenceat the gooseberries, with tears in his eyes; he could not speak forexcitement. Then he put one gooseberry in his mouth, looked at me withthe triumph of a child who has at last received his favourite toy, andsaid:

"'How delicious!'

"And he ate them greedily, continually repeating, 'Ah, how delicious! Dotaste them!'

"They were sour and unripe, but, as Pushkin says:

 "'Dearer to us the falsehood that exalts Than hosts of baser truths. '

"I saw a happy man whose cherished dream was so obviously fulfilled, whohad attained his object in life, who had gained what he wanted, who wassatisfied with his fate and himself. There is always, for some reason, an element of sadness mingled with my thoughts of human happiness, and, on this occasion, at the sight of a happy man I was overcome byan oppressive feeling that was close upon despair. It was particularlyoppressive at night. A bed was made up for me in the room next to mybrother's bedroom, and I could hear that he was awake, and that he keptgetting up and going to the plate of gooseberries and taking one. Ireflected how many satisfied, happy people there really are! 'What asuffocating force it is! You look at life: the insolence and idlenessof the strong, the ignorance and brutishness of the weak, incrediblepoverty all about us, overcrowding, degeneration, drunkenness, hypocrisy, lying. .. . Yet all is calm and stillness in the houses and inthe streets; of the fifty thousand living in a town, there is not onewho would cry out, who would give vent to his indignation aloud. We seethe people going to market for provisions, eating by day, sleeping bynight, talking their silly nonsense, getting married, growing old, serenely escorting their dead to the cemetery; but we do not see andwe do not hear those who suffer, and what is terrible in life goes onsomewhere behind the scenes. .. . Everything is quiet and peaceful, andnothing protests but mute statistics: so many people gone out of theirminds, so many gallons of vodka drunk, so many children dead frommalnutrition. .. . And this order of things is evidently necessary;evidently the happy man only feels at ease because the unhappy beartheir burdens in silence, and without that silence happiness would beimpossible. It's a case of general hypnotism. There ought to be behindthe door of every happy, contented man some one standing with a hammercontinually reminding him with a tap that there are unhappy people; thathowever happy he may be, life will show him her laws sooner or later, trouble will come for him--disease, poverty, losses, and no one will seeor hear, just as now he neither sees nor hears others. But there is noman with a hammer; the happy man lives at his ease, and trivial dailycares faintly agitate him like the wind in the aspen-tree--and all goeswell. 

"That night I realized that I, too, was happy and contented, " IvanIvanovitch went on, getting up. "I, too, at dinner and at the hunt likedto lay down the law on life and religion, and the way to manage thepeasantry. I, too, used to say that science was light, that culture wasessential, but for the simple people reading and writing was enoughfor the time. Freedom is a blessing, I used to say; we can no more dowithout it than without air, but we must wait a little. Yes, I used totalk like that, and now I ask, 'For what reason are we to wait?'" askedIvan Ivanovitch, looking angrily at Burkin. "Why wait, I ask you? Whatgrounds have we for waiting? I shall be told, it can't be done all atonce; every idea takes shape in life gradually, in its due time. But whois it says that? Where is the proof that it's right? You will fall backupon the natural order of things, the uniformity of phenomena; but isthere order and uniformity in the fact that I, a living, thinking man, stand over a chasm and wait for it to close of itself, or to fill upwith mud at the very time when perhaps I might leap over it or builda bridge across it? And again, wait for the sake of what? Wait tillthere's no strength to live? And meanwhile one must live, and one wantsto live!

"I went away from my brother's early in the morning, and ever since thenit has been unbearable for me to be in town. I am oppressed by its peaceand quiet; I am afraid to look at the windows, for there is no spectaclemore painful to me now than the sight of a happy family sitting roundthe table drinking tea. I am old and am not fit for the struggle; I amnot even capable of hatred; I can only grieve inwardly, feel irritatedand vexed; but at night my head is hot from the rush of ideas, and Icannot sleep. .. . Ah, if I were young!"

Ivan Ivanovitch walked backwards and forwards in excitement, andrepeated: "If I were young!"

He suddenly went up to Alehin and began pressing first one of his handsand then the other. 

"Pavel Konstantinovitch, " he said in an imploring voice, "don't be calmand contented, don't let yourself be put to sleep! While you are young, strong, confident, be not weary in well-doing! There is no happiness, and there ought not to be; but if there is a meaning and an objectin life, that meaning and object is not our happiness, but somethinggreater and more rational. Do good!"

And all this Ivan Ivanovitch said with a pitiful, imploring smile, asthough he were asking him a personal favour. 

Then all three sat in arm-chairs at different ends of the drawing-roomand were silent. Ivan Ivanovitch's story had not satisfied either Burkinor Alehin. When the generals and ladies gazed down from their giltframes, looking in the dusk as though they were alive, it was dreary tolisten to the story of the poor clerk who ate gooseberries. They feltinclined, for some reason, to talk about elegant people, about women. And their sitting in the drawing-room where everything--thechandeliers in their covers, the arm-chairs, and the carpet under theirfeet--reminded them that those very people who were now looking downfrom their frames had once moved about, sat, drunk tea in this room, and the fact that lovely Pelagea was moving noiselessly about was betterthan any story. 

Alehin was fearfully sleepy; he had got up early, before three o'clockin the morning, to look after his work, and now his eyes were closing;but he was afraid his visitors might tell some interesting story afterhe had gone, and he lingered on. He did not go into the question whetherwhat Ivan Ivanovitch had just said was right and true. His visitors didnot talk of groats, nor of hay, nor of tar, but of something that had nodirect bearing on his life, and he was glad and wanted them to go on. 

"It's bed-time, though, " said Burkin, getting up. "Allow me to wish yougood-night. "

Alehin said good-night and went downstairs to his own domain, while thevisitors remained upstairs. They were both taken for the night to a bigroom where there stood two old wooden beds decorated with carvings, andin the corner was an ivory crucifix. The big cool beds, which had beenmade by the lovely Pelagea, smelt agreeably of clean linen. 

Ivan Ivanovitch undressed in silence and got into bed. 

"Lord forgive us sinners!" he said, and put his head under the quilt. 

His pipe lying on the table smelt strongly of stale tobacco, andBurkin could not sleep for a long while, and kept wondering where theoppressive smell came from. 

The rain was pattering on the window-panes all night. 

ABOUT LOVE

AT lunch next day there were very nice pies, crayfish, and muttoncutlets; and while we were eating, Nikanor, the cook, came up to askwhat the visitors would like for dinner. He was a man of medium height, with a puffy face and little eyes; he was close-shaven, and it lookedas though his moustaches had not been shaved, but had been pulled outby the roots. Alehin told us that the beautiful Pelagea was in love withthis cook. As he drank and was of a violent character, she did not wantto marry him, but was willing to live with him without. He was verydevout, and his religious convictions would not allow him to "live insin"; he insisted on her marrying him, and would consent to nothingelse, and when he was drunk he used to abuse her and even beat her. Whenever he got drunk she used to hide upstairs and sob, and on suchoccasions Alehin and the servants stayed in the house to be ready todefend her in case of necessity. 

We began talking about love. 

"How love is born, " said Alehin, "why Pelagea does not love somebodymore like herself in her spiritual and external qualities, and whyshe fell in love with Nikanor, that ugly snout--we all call him 'TheSnout'--how far questions of personal happiness are of consequence inlove--all that is known; one can take what view one likes of it. So faronly one incontestable truth has been uttered about love: 'This is agreat mystery. ' Everything else that has been written or said aboutlove is not a conclusion, but only a statement of questions which haveremained unanswered. The explanation which would seem to fit one casedoes not apply in a dozen others, and the very best thing, to my mind, would be to explain every case individually without attempting togeneralize. We ought, as the doctors say, to individualize each case. "

"Perfectly true, " Burkin assented. 

"We Russians of the educated class have a partiality for these questionsthat remain unanswered. Love is usually poeticized, decorated withroses, nightingales; we Russians decorate our loves with these momentousquestions, and select the most uninteresting of them, too. In Moscow, when I was a student, I had a friend who shared my life, a charminglady, and every time I took her in my arms she was thinking what I wouldallow her a month for housekeeping and what was the price of beef apound. In the same way, when we are in love we are never tired ofasking ourselves questions: whether it is honourable or dishonourable, sensible or stupid, what this love is leading up to, and so on. Whetherit is a good thing or not I don't know, but that it is in the way, unsatisfactory, and irritating, I do know. "

It looked as though he wanted to tell some story. People who lead asolitary existence always have something in their hearts which theyare eager to talk about. In town bachelors visit the baths and therestaurants on purpose to talk, and sometimes tell the most interestingthings to bath attendants and waiters; in the country, as a rule, theyunbosom themselves to their guests. Now from the window we could seea grey sky, trees drenched in the rain; in such weather we could gonowhere, and there was nothing for us to do but to tell stories and tolisten. 

"I have lived at Sofino and been farming for a long time, " Alehin began, "ever since I left the University. I am an idle gentleman by education, a studious person by disposition; but there was a big debt owing on theestate when I came here, and as my father was in debt partly becausehe had spent so much on my education, I resolved not to go away, butto work till I paid off the debt. I made up my mind to this and set towork, not, I must confess, without some repugnance. The land here doesnot yield much, and if one is not to farm at a loss one must employ serflabour or hired labourers, which is almost the same thing, or put iton a peasant footing--that is, work the fields oneself and with one'sfamily. There is no middle path. But in those days I did not go intosuch subtleties. I did not leave a clod of earth unturned; I gatheredtogether all the peasants, men and women, from the neighbouringvillages; the work went on at a tremendous pace. I myself ploughed andsowed and reaped, and was bored doing it, and frowned with disgust, likea village cat driven by hunger to eat cucumbers in the kitchen-garden. My body ached, and I slept as I walked. At first it seemed to me that Icould easily reconcile this life of toil with my cultured habits; to doso, I thought, all that is necessary is to maintain a certain externalorder in life. I established myself upstairs here in the best rooms, andordered them to bring me there coffee and liquor after lunch and dinner, and when I went to bed I read every night the _Yyesnik Evropi_. Butone day our priest, Father Ivan, came and drank up all my liquor at onesitting; and the _Yyesnik Evropi_ went to the priest's daughters; as inthe summer, especially at the haymaking, I did not succeed in getting tomy bed at all, and slept in the sledge in the barn, or somewhere in theforester's lodge, what chance was there of reading? Little by littleI moved downstairs, began dining in the servants' kitchen, and of myformer luxury nothing is left but the servants who were in my father'sservice, and whom it would be painful to turn away. 

"In the first years I was elected here an honourary justice of thepeace. I used to have to go to the town and take part in the sessionsof the congress and of the circuit court, and this was a pleasant changefor me. When you live here for two or three months without a break, especially in the winter, you begin at last to pine for a black coat. And in the circuit court there were frock-coats, and uniforms, and dress-coats, too, all lawyers, men who have received a generaleducation; I had some one to talk to. After sleeping in the sledge anddining in the kitchen, to sit in an arm-chair in clean linen, in thinboots, with a chain on one's waistcoat, is such luxury!

"I received a warm welcome in the town. I made friends eagerly. And ofall my acquaintanceships the most intimate and, to tell the truth, the most agreeable to me was my acquaintance with Luganovitch, thevice-president of the circuit court. You both know him: a mostcharming personality. It all happened just after a celebrated case ofincendiarism; the preliminary investigation lasted two days; we wereexhausted. Luganovitch looked at me and said:

"'Look here, come round to dinner with me. '

"This was unexpected, as I knew Luganovitch very little, onlyofficially, and I had never been to his house. I only just went to myhotel room to change and went off to dinner. And here it was my lot tomeet Anna Alexyevna, Luganovitch's wife. At that time she was still veryyoung, not more than twenty-two, and her first baby had been born justsix months before. It is all a thing of the past; and now I should findit difficult to define what there was so exceptional in her, what itwas in her attracted me so much; at the time, at dinner, it wasall perfectly clear to me. I saw a lovely young, good, intelligent, fascinating woman, such as I had never met before; and I felt her atonce some one close and already familiar, as though that face, thosecordial, intelligent eyes, I had seen somewhere in my childhood, in thealbum which lay on my mother's chest of drawers. 

"Four Jews were charged with being incendiaries, were regarded as a gangof robbers, and, to my mind, quite groundlessly. At dinner I was verymuch excited, I was uncomfortable, and I don't know what I said, butAnna Alexyevna kept shaking her head and saying to her husband:

"'Dmitry, how is this?'

"Luganovitch is a good-natured man, one of those simple-hearted peoplewho firmly maintain the opinion that once a man is charged beforea court he is guilty, and to express doubt of the correctness of asentence cannot be done except in legal form on paper, and not at dinnerand in private conversation. 

"'You and I did not set fire to the place, ' he said softly, 'and yousee we are not condemned, and not in prison. '

"And both husband and wife tried to make me eat and drink as much aspossible. From some trifling details, from the way they made the coffeetogether, for instance, and from the way they understood each other athalf a word, I could gather that they lived in harmony and comfort, andthat they were glad of a visitor. After dinner they played a duet on thepiano; then it got dark, and I went home. That was at the beginning ofspring. 

"After that I spent the whole summer at Sofino without a break, and Ihad no time to think of the town, either, but the memory of the gracefulfair-haired woman remained in my mind all those days; I did not think ofher, but it was as though her light shadow were lying on my heart. 

"In the late autumn there was a theatrical performance for somecharitable object in the town. I went into the governor's box (I wasinvited to go there in the interval); I looked, and there was AnnaAlexyevna sitting beside the governor's wife; and again the sameirresistible, thrilling impression of beauty and sweet, caressing eyes, and again the same feeling of nearness. We sat side by side, then wentto the foyer. 

"'You've grown thinner, ' she said; 'have you been ill?'

"'Yes, I've had rheumatism in my shoulder, and in rainy weather I can'tsleep. '

"'You look dispirited. In the spring, when you came to dinner, you wereyounger, more confident. You were full of eagerness, and talked a greatdeal then; you were very interesting, and I really must confess I wasa little carried away by you. For some reason you often came back to mymemory during the summer, and when I was getting ready for the theatretoday I thought I should see you. '

"And she laughed. 

"'But you look dispirited today, ' she repeated; 'it makes you seemolder. '

"The next day I lunched at the Luganovitchs'. After lunch they droveout to their summer villa, in order to make arrangements there for thewinter, and I went with them. I returned with them to the town, and atmidnight drank tea with them in quiet domestic surroundings, while thefire glowed, and the young mother kept going to see if her baby girlwas asleep. And after that, every time I went to town I never failed tovisit the Luganovitchs. They grew used to me, and I grew used to them. As a rule I went in unannounced, as though I were one of the family. 

"'Who is there?' I would hear from a faraway room, in the drawlingvoice that seemed to me so lovely. 

"'It is Pavel Konstantinovitch, ' answered the maid or the nurs e. 

"Anna Alexyevna would come out to me with an anxious face, and would askevery time:

"'Why is it so long since you have been? Has anything happened?'

"Her eyes, the elegant refined hand she gave me, her indoor dress, theway she did her hair, her voice, her step, always produced the sameimpression on me of something new and extraordinary in my life, and veryimportant. We talked together for hours, were silent, thinking each ourown thoughts, or she played for hours to me on the piano. If there wereno one at home I stayed and waited, talked to the nurse, played with thechild, or lay on the sofa in the study and read; and when Anna Alexyevnacame back I met her in the hall, took all her parcels from her, and forsome reason I carried those parcels every time with as much love, withas much solemnity, as a boy. 

"There is a proverb that if a peasant woman has no troubles she will buya pig. The Luganovitchs had no troubles, so they made friends withme. If I did not come to the town I must be ill or something must havehappened to me, and both of them were extremely anxious. They wereworried that I, an educated man with a knowledge of languages, should, instead of devoting myself to science or literary work, live in thecountry, rush round like a squirrel in a rage, work hard with never apenny to show for it. They fancied that I was unhappy, and that I onlytalked, laughed, and ate to conceal my sufferings, and even at cheerfulmoments when I felt happy I was aware of their searching eyes fixed uponme. They were particularly touching when I really was depressed, whenI was being worried by some creditor or had not money enough to payinterest on the proper day. The two of them, husband and wife, wouldwhisper together at the window; then he would come to me and say with agrave face:

"'If you really are in need of money at the moment, PavelKonstantinovitch, my wife and I beg you not to hesitate to borrow fromus. '

"And he would blush to his ears with emotion. And it would happen that, after whispering in the same way at the window, he would come up to me, with red ears, and say:

"'My wife and I earnestly beg you to accept this present. '

"And he would give me studs, a cigar-case, or a lamp, and I would sendthem game, butter, and flowers from the country. They both, by the way, had considerable means of their own. In early days I often borrowedmoney, and was not very particular about it--borrowed wherever Icould--but nothing in the world would have induced me to borrow from theLuganovitchs. But why talk of it?

"I was unhappy. At home, in the fields, in the barn, I thought of her;I tried to understand the mystery of a beautiful, intelligent youngwoman's marrying some one so uninteresting, almost an old man (herhusband was over forty), and having children by him; to understand themystery of this uninteresting, good, simple-hearted man, who argued withsuch wearisome good sense, at balls and evening parties kept near themore solid people, looking listless and superfluous, with a submissive, uninterested expression, as though he had been brought there for sale, who yet believed in his right to be happy, to have children by her; andI kept trying to understand why she had met him first and not me, andwhy such a terrible mistake in our lives need have happened. 

"And when I went to the town I saw every time from her eyes that shewas expecting me, and she would confess to me herself that she had hada peculiar feeling all that day and had guessed that I should come. Wetalked a long time, and were silent, yet we did not confess our love toeach other, but timidly and jealously concealed it. We were afraidof everything that might reveal our secret to ourselves. I loved hertenderly, deeply, but I reflected and kept asking myself what our lovecould lead to if we had not the strength to fight against it. It seemedto be incredible that my gentle, sad love could all at once coarselybreak up the even tenor of the life of her husband, her children, andall the household in which I was so loved and trusted. Would it behonourable? She would go away with me, but where? Where could I takeher? It would have been a different matter if I had had a beautiful, interesting life--if, for instance, I had been struggling for theemancipation of my country, or had been a celebrated man of science, an artist or a painter; but as it was it would mean taking her from oneeveryday humdrum life to another as humdrum or perhaps more so. And howlong would our happiness last? What would happen to her in case I wasill, in case I died, or if we simply grew cold to one another?

"And she apparently reasoned in the same way. She thought of herhusband, her children, and of her mother, who loved the husband like ason. If she abandoned herself to her feelings she would have to lie, or else to tell the truth, and in her position either would have beenequally terrible and inconvenient. And she was tormented by the questionwhether her love would bring me happiness--would she not complicatemy life, which, as it was, was hard enough and full of all sorts oftrouble? She fancied she was not young enough for me, that she was notindustrious nor energetic enough to begin a new life, and she oftentalked to her husband of the importance of my marrying a girl ofintelligence and merit who would be a capable housewife and a help tome--and she would immediately add that it would be difficult to findsuch a girl in the whole town. 

"Meanwhile the years were passing. Anna Alexyevna already had twochildren. When I arrived at the Luganovitchs' the servants smiledcordially, the children shouted that Uncle Pavel Konstantinovitchhad come, and hung on my neck; every one was overjoyed. They did notunderstand what was passing in my soul, and thought that I, too, washappy. Every one looked on me as a noble being. And grown-ups andchildren alike felt that a noble being was walking about their rooms, and that gave a peculiar charm to their manner towards me, as thoughin my presence their life, too, was purer and more beautiful. AnnaAlexyevna and I used to go to the theatre together, always walkingthere; we used to sit side by side in the stalls, our shoulderstouching. I would take the opera-glass from her hands without a word, and feel at that minute that she was near me, that she was mine, that wecould not live without each other; but by some strange misunderstanding, when we came out of the theatre we always said good-bye and parted asthough we were strangers. Goodness knows what people were saying aboutus in the town already, but there was not a word of truth in it all!

"In the latter years Anna Alexyevna took to going away for frequentvisits to her mother or to her sister; she began to suffer fromlow spirits, she began to recognize that her life was spoilt andunsatisfied, and at times she did not care to see her husband nor herchildren. She was already being treated for neurasthenia. 

"We were silent and still silent, and in the presence of outsiders shedisplayed a strange irritation in regard to me; whatever I talkedabout, she disagreed with me, and if I had an argument she sided with myopponent. If I dropped anything, she would say coldly:

"'I congratulate you. '

"If I forgot to take the opera-glass when we were going to the theatre, she would say afterwards:

"'I knew you would forget it. '

"Luckily or unluckily, there is nothing in our lives that does not endsooner or later. The time of parting came, as Luganovitch was appointedpresident in one of the western provinces. They had to sell theirfurniture, their horses, their summer villa. When they drove out to thevilla, and afterwards looked back as they were going away, to look forthe last time at the garden, at the green roof, every one was sad, andI realized that I had to say goodbye not only to the villa. It wasarranged that at the end of August we should see Anna Alexyevna off tothe Crimea, where the doctors were sending her, and that a little laterLuganovitch and the children would set off for the western province. 

"We were a great crowd to see Anna Alexyevna off. When she had saidgood-bye to her husband and her children and there was only a minuteleft before the third bell, I ran into her compartment to put a basket, which she had almost forgotten, on the rack, and I had to say good-bye. When our eyes met in the compartment our spiritual fortitude desertedus both; I took her in my arms, she pressed her face to my breast, andtears flowed from her eyes. Kissing her face, her shoulders, her handswet with tears--oh, how unhappy we were!--I confessed my love for her, and with a burning pain in my heart I realized how unnecessary, howpetty, and how deceptive all that had hindered us from loving was. Iunderstood that when you love you must either, in your reasonings aboutthat love, start from what is highest, from what is more important thanhappiness or unhappiness, sin or virtue in their accepted meaning, oryou must not reason at all. 

"I kissed her for the last time, pressed her hand, and parted for ever. The train had already started. I went into the next compartment--it wasempty--and until I reached the next station I sat there crying. Then Iwalked home to Sofino. .. . "

While Alehin was telling his story, the rain left off and the sun cameout. Burkin and Ivan Ivanovitch went out on the balcony, from whichthere was a beautiful view over the garden and the mill-pond, which wasshining now in the sunshine like a mirror. They admired it, and at thesame time they were sorry that this man with the kind, clever eyes, whohad told them this story with such genuine feeling, should be rushinground and round this huge estate like a squirrel on a wheel instead ofdevoting himself to science or something else which would have madehis life more pleasant; and they thought what a sorrowful faceAnna Alexyevna must have had when he said good-bye to her in therailway-carriage and kissed her face and shoulders. Both of them had mether in the town, and Burkin knew her and thought her beautiful. 

THE LOTTERY TICKET

IVAN DMITRITCH, a middle-class man who lived with his family on anincome of twelve hundred a year and was very well satisfied with hislot, sat down on the sofa after supper and began reading the newspaper. 

"I forgot to look at the newspaper today, " his wife said to him as shecleared the table. "Look and see whether the list of drawings is there. "

"Yes, it is, " said Ivan Dmitritch; "but hasn't your ticket lapsed?"

"No; I took the interest on Tuesday. "

"What is the number?"

"Series 9, 499, number 26. "

"All right. .. We will look. .. 9, 499 and 26. "

Ivan Dmitritch had no faith in lottery luck, and would not, as a rule, have consented to look at the lists of winning numbers, but now, ashe had nothing else to do and as the newspaper was before his eyes, he passed his finger downwards along the column of numbers. Andimmediately, as though in mockery of his scepticism, no further than thesecond line from the top, his eye was caught by the figure 9, 499! Unableto believe his eyes, he hurriedly dropped the paper on his knees withoutlooking to see the number of the ticket, and, just as though some onehad given him a douche of cold water, he felt an agreeable chill in thepit of the stomach; tingling and terrible and sweet!

"Masha, 9, 499 is there!" he said in a hollow voice. 

His wife looked at his astonished and panic-stricken face, and realizedthat he was not joking. 

"9, 499?" she asked, turning pale and dropping the folded tablecloth onthe table. 

"Yes, yes. .. It really is there!"

"And the number of the ticket?"

"Oh, yes! There's the number of the ticket too. But stay. .. Wait! No, I say! Anyway, the number of our series is there! Anyway, youunderstand. .. . "

Looking at his wife, Ivan Dmitritch gave a broad, senseless smile, likea baby when a bright object is shown it. His wife smiled too; it was aspleasant to her as to him that he only mentioned the series, and didnot try to find out the number of the winning ticket. To tormentand tantalize oneself with hopes of possible fortune is so sweet, sothrilling!

"It is our series, " said Ivan Dmitritch, after a long silence. "So thereis a probability that we have won. It's only a probability, but there itis!"

"Well, now look!"

"Wait a little. We have plenty of time to be disappointed. It's on thesecond line from the top, so the prize is seventy-five thousand. That'snot money, but power, capital! And in a minute I shall look at the list, and there--26! Eh? I say, what if we really have won?"

The husband and wife began laughing and staring at one another insilence. The possibility of winning bewildered them; they could not havesaid, could not have dreamed, what they both needed that seventy-fivethousand for, what they would buy, where they would go. They thoughtonly of the figures 9, 499 and 75, 000 and pictured them in theirimagination, while somehow they could not think of the happiness itselfwhich was so possible. 

Ivan Dmitritch, holding the paper in his hand, walked several timesfrom corner to corner, and only when he had recovered from the firstimpression began dreaming a little. 

"And if we have won, " he said--"why, it will be a new life, it will be atransformation! The ticket is yours, but if it were mine I should, firstof all, of course, spend twenty-five thousand on real property inthe shape of an estate; ten thousand on immediate expenses, newfurnishing. .. Travelling. .. Paying debts, and so on. .. . The other fortythousand I would put in the bank and get interest on it. "

"Yes, an estate, that would be nice, " said his wife, sitting down anddropping her hands in her lap. 

"Somewhere in the Tula or Oryol provinces. .. . In the first place weshouldn't need a summer villa, and besides, it would always bring in anincome. "

And pictures came crowding on his imagination, each more graciousand poetical than the last. And in all these pictures he saw himselfwell-fed, serene, healthy, felt warm, even hot! Here, after eating asummer soup, cold as ice, he lay on his back on the burning sand closeto a stream or in the garden under a lime-tree. .. . It is hot. .. . Hislittle boy and girl are crawling about near him, digging in the sand orcatching ladybirds in the grass. He dozes sweetly, thinking of nothing, and feeling all over that he need not go to the office today, tomorrow, or the day after. Or, tired of lying still, he goes to the hayfield, orto the forest for mushrooms, or watches the peasants catching fish witha net. When the sun sets he takes a towel and soap and saunters to thebathing-shed, where he undresses at his leisure, slowly rubs his barechest with his hands, and goes into the water. And in the water, near the opaque soapy circles, little fish flit to and fro and greenwater-weeds nod their heads. After bathing there is tea with cream andmilk rolls. .. . In the evening a walk or _vint_ with the neighbours. 

"Yes, it would be nice to buy an estate, " said his wife, also dreaming, and from her face it was evident that she was enchanted by her thoughts. 

Ivan Dmitritch pictured to himself autumn with its rains, its coldevenings, and its St. Martin's summer. At that season he would have totake longer walks about the garden and beside the river, so as to getthoroughly chilled, and then drink a big glass of vodka and eat a saltedmushroom or a soused cucumber, and then--drink another. .. . The childrenwould come running from the kitchen-garden, bringing a carrot and aradish smelling of fresh earth. .. . And then, he would lie stretched fulllength on the sofa, and in leisurely fashion turn over the pages of someillustrated magazine, or, covering his face with it and unbuttoning hiswaistcoat, give himself up to slumber. 

The St. Martin's summer is followed by cloudy, gloomy weather. It rainsday and night, the bare trees weep, the wind is damp and cold. Thedogs, the horses, the fowls--all are wet, depressed, downcast. There isnowhere to walk; one can't go out for days together; one has to paceup and down the room, looking despondently at the grey window. It isdreary!

Ivan Dmitritch stopped and looked at his wife. 

"I should go abroad, you know, Masha, " he said. 

And he began thinking how nice it would be in late autumn to go abroadsomewhere to the South of France. .. To Italy. .. . To India!

"I should certainly go abroad too, " his wife said. "But look at thenumber of the ticket!"

"Wait, wait!. .. "

He walked about the room and went on thinking. It occurred to him: whatif his wife really did go abroad? It is pleasant to travel alone, or inthe society of light, careless women who live in the present, and notsuch as think and talk all the journey about nothing but their children, sigh, and tremble with dismay over every farthing. Ivan Dmitritchimagined his wife in the train with a multitude of parcels, baskets, andbags; she would be sighing over something, complaining that the trainmade her head ache, that she had spent so much money. .. . At the stationshe would continually be having to run for boiling water, bread andbutter. .. . She wouldn't have dinner because of its being too dear. .. . 

"She would begrudge me every farthing, " he thought, with a glance at hiswife. "The lottery ticket is hers, not mine! Besides, what is the use ofher going abroad? What does she want there? She would shut herself up inthe hotel, and not let me out of her sight. .. . I know!"

And for the first time in his life his mind dwelt on the fact that hiswife had grown elderly and plain, and that she was saturated through andthrough with the smell of cooking, while he was still young, fresh, andhealthy, and might well have got married again. 

"Of course, all that is silly nonsense, " he thought; "but. .. Why shouldshe go abroad? What would she make of it? And yet she would go, ofcourse. .. . I can fancy. .. In reality it is all one to her, whether it isNaples or Klin. She would only be in my way. I should be dependent uponher. I can fancy how, like a regular woman, she will lock the money upas soon as she gets it. .. . She will hide it from me. .. . She will lookafter her relations and grudge me every farthing. "

Ivan Dmitritch thought of her relations. All those wretched brothers andsisters and aunts and uncles would come crawling about as soon as theyheard of the winning ticket, would begin whining like beggars, andfawning upon them with oily, hypocritical smiles. Wretched, detestablepeople! If they were given anything, they would ask for more; while ifthey were refused, they would swear at them, slander them, and wish themevery kind of misfortune. 

Ivan Dmitritch remembered his own relations, and their faces, at whichhe had looked impartially in the past, struck him now as repulsive andhateful. 

"They are such reptiles!" he thought. 

And his wife's face, too, struck him as repulsive and hateful. Angersurged up in his heart against her, and he thought malignantly:

"She knows nothing about money, and so she is stingy. If she won it shewould give me a hundred roubles, and put the rest away under lock andkey. "

And he looked at his wife, not with a smile now, but with hatred. Sheglanced at him too, and also with hatred and anger. She had her owndaydreams, her own plans, her own reflections; she understood perfectlywell what her husband's dreams were. She knew who would be the first totry and grab her winnings. 

"It's very nice making daydreams at other people's expense!" is what hereyes expressed. "No, don't you dare!"

Her husband understood her look; hatred began stirring again in hisbreast, and in order to annoy his wife he glanced quickly, to spite herat the fourth page on the newspaper and read out triumphantly:

"Series 9, 499, number 46! Not 26!"

Hatred and hope both disappeared at once, and it began immediately toseem to Ivan Dmitritch and his wife that their rooms were dark and smalland low-pitched, that the supper they had been eating was not doing themgood, but lying heavy on their stomachs, that the evenings were long andwearisome. .. . 

"What the devil's the meaning of it?" said Ivan Dmitritch, beginning tobe ill-humoured. "Wherever one steps there are bits of paper under one'sfeet, crumbs, husks. The rooms are never swept! One is simply forced togo out. Damnation take my soul entirely! I shall go and hang myself onthe first aspen-tree!"