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移除书签This happened not so very long ago in the Moscow Circuit Court. The jurymen, left in court for the night, before going to bed, began a conversation about overwhelming sensations. —
It was occasioned by someone’s recollection of a witness who became a stammerer and turned grey, owing, as he said, to one dreadful moment. —
The jurymen decided before going to bed that each one of them should dig into his memories and tell a story. —
Life is short; but still there is not a single man who can boast that he had not had some dreadful moments in his past.
One juryman related how he was nearly drowned. —
A second told how one night he poisoned his own child, in a place where there was neither doctor nor chemist, by giving the child white copperas in mistake for soda. —
The child did not die, but the father nearly went mad. —
A third, not an old man, but sickly, described his two attempts to commit suicide. —
Once he shot himself; the second time he threw himself in front of a train.
The fourth, a short, stout man, smartly dressed, told the following story:
“I was no more than twenty-two or twenty-three years old, when I fell head over heels in love with my present wife and proposed to her. —
Now, I would gladly give myself a thrashing for that early marriage; —
but then—well, I don’t know what would have happened to me if Natasha had refused. —
My love was most ardent, the kind described in novels as mad, passionate, and so on. —
My happiness choked me, and I did not know how to escape from it. —
I bored my father, my friends, the servants by continually telling them how desperately I was in love. —
Happy people are quite the most tiresome and boring. —
I used to be awfully exasperating. Even now I’m ashamed.
“At the time I had a newly-called barrister among my friends. —
The barrister is now known all over Russia, but then he was only at the beginning of his popularity, and he was not rich or famous enough to have the right not to recognise a friend when he met him or not to raise his hat. —
I used to go and see him once or twice a week.
“When I came, we used both to stretch ourselves upon the sofas and begin to philosophise.
“Once I lay on the sofa, harping on the theme that there is no more ungrateful profession than a barrister’s. —
I tried to show that after the witnesses have been heard the Court can easily dispense with the Crown Prosecutor and the barrister, because they are equally unnecessary and only hindrances. —
If an adult juryman, sound in spirit and mind, is convinced that this ceiling is white, or that Ivanov is guilty, no Demosthenes has the power to fight and overcome his conviction. —
Who can convince me that my moustache is carroty when I know it is black? —
When I listen to an orator I may perhaps get sentimental and even shed a tear, but my rooted convictions, for the most part based on the obvious and on facts, will not be changed an atom. —
My friend the barrister contended that I was still young and silly and was talking childish nonsense. —
In his opinion an obvious fact when illumined by conscientious experts became still more obvious. —
That was his first point. His second was that a talent is a force, an elemental power, a hurricane, that is able to turn even stones to dust, not to speak of such trifles as the convictions of householders and small shopkeepers. —
It is as hard for human frailty to struggle against a talent as it is to look at the sun without being blinded or to stop the wind. —
By the power of the word one single mortal converts thousands of convinced savages to Christianity. —
Ulysses was the most convinced person in the world, but he was all submission before the Syrens, and so on. —
All history is made up of such instances. In life we meet them at every turn. —
And so it ought to be; otherwise a clever person of talent would not be preferred before the stupid and untalented.
“I persisted and continued to argue that a conviction is stronger than any talent, though, speaking frankly, I myself could not define what exactly is a conviction and what is a talent. —
Probably I talked only for the sake of talking.
”‘Take even your own case’ … said the barrister. —
‘You are convinced that your fiancée is an angel and that there’s not a man in all the town happier than you. —
I tell you, ten or twenty minutes would be quite enough for me to make you sit down at this very table and write to break off the engagement.’
“I began to laugh.
”‘Don’t laugh. I’m talking seriously,’ said my friend. —
‘If I only had the desire, in twenty minutes you would be happy in the thought that you have been saved from marriage. —
My talent is not great, but neither are you strong?’
”‘Well, try, please,’ I said.
”‘No, why should I? I only said it in passing. You’re a good boy. —
It would be a pity to expose you to such an experiment. —
Besides, I’m not in the mood, to-day.’
“We sat down to supper. The wine and thoughts of Natasha and my love utterly filled me with a sense of youth and happiness. —
My happiness was so infinitely great that the green-eyed barrister opposite me seemed so unhappy, so little, so grey!”
”‘But do try,’ I pressed him. ‘I beg you.’
“The barrister shook his head and knit his brows. Evidently I had begun to bore him.
”‘I know,’ he said, ‘that when the experiment is over you will thank me and call me saviour, but one must think of your sweetheart too. —
She loves you, and your refusal would make her suffer. —
But what a beauty she is ‘I envy you.’
“The barrister sighed, swallowed some wine, and began to speak of what a wonderful creature my Natasha was. —
He had an uncommon gift for description. —
He could pour out a whole heap of words about a woman’s eyelashes or her little finger. —
I listened to him with delight.
”‘I’ve seen many women in my life-time;’ he said, ‘but I give you my word of honour, I tell you as a friend, your Natasha Andreevna is a gem, a rare girl! —
Of course, there are defects, even a good many, I grant you, but still she is charming.’
“And the barrister began to speak of the defects of my sweetheart. —
Now I quite understand it was a general conversation about women, one about their weak points in general; —
but it appeared to me then as though he was speaking only of Natasha. —
He went into raptures about her snub-nose, her excited voice, her shrill laugh, her affectation—indeed, about everything I particularly disliked in her. —
All this was in his opinion infinitely amiable, gracious and feminine. —
Imperceptibly he changed from enthusiasm first to paternal edification, then to a light, sneering tone. —
… There was no Chairman of the Bench with us to stop the barrister riding the high horse. —
I hadn’t a chance of opening my mouth—and what could I have said? —
My friend said nothing new, his truths were long familiar. —
The poison was not at all in what he said, but altogether in the devilish form in which he said it. —
A form of Satan’s own invention! As I listened to him I was convinced that one and the same word had a thousand meanings and nuances according to the way it is pronounced and the turn given to the sentence. —
I certainly cannot reproduce the tone or the form. —
I can only say that as I listened to my friend and paced from corner to corner of my room, I was revolted, exasperated, contemptuous according as he felt. —
I even believed him when, with tears in his eyes, he declared to me that I was a great man, deserving a better fate, and destined in the future to accomplish some remarkable exploit, from which I might be prevented by my marriage.
”‘My dear friend,’ he exclaimed, firmly grasping my hand, ‘I implore you, I command you: —
stop before it is too late. Stop! God save you from this strange and terrible mistake! —
My friend, don’t ruin your youth.’
“Believe me or not as you will, but finally I sat down at the table and wrote to my sweetheart breaking off the engagement. —
I wrote and rejoiced that there was still time to repair my mistake. —
When the envelope was sealed I hurried into the street to put it in a pillar box. —
The barrister came with me.
”‘Splendid! Superb!’ he praised me when my letter to Natasha disappeared into the darkness of the pillar-box. —
‘I congratulate you with all my heart. I’m delighted for your sake.’
“After we had gone about ten steps together, the barrister continued:
”‘Of course, marriage has its bright side too. —
I, for instance, belong to the kind of men for whom marriage and family life are everything.’
“He was already describing his life: all the ugliness of a lonely bachelor existence appeared before me.
“He spoke with enthusiasm of his future wife, of the pleasures of an ordinary family life, and his transports were so beautiful and sincere that I was in absolute despair by the time we reached his door.
”‘What are you doing with me, you damnable man?’ I said panting. ‘You’ve ruined me! —
Why did you make me write that cursed letter? —
I love her! I love her!’
“And I swore that I was in love. I was terrified of my action. —
It already seemed wild and absurd to me. —
Gentlemen, it is quite impossible to imagine a more overwhelming sensation than mine at that moment! If a kind man had happened to slip a revolver into my hand I would have put a bullet through my head gladly.
”‘Well, that’s enough, enough!’ the advocate said, patting my shoulder and beginning to laugh. —
‘Stop crying! The letter won’t reach your sweetheart. —
It was I, not you, wrote the address on the envelope, and I muddled it up so that they won’t be able to make anything of it at the post-office. —
But let this be a lesson to you. Don’t discuss things you don’t understand.’”
“Now, gentlemen, next, please.”
The fifth juryman had settled himself comfortably and already opened his mouth to begin his story, when we heard the dock striking from Spaisky Church-tower.
“Twelve….” one of the jurymen counted. “To which class, gentlemen, would you assign the sensations which our prisoner at the bar is now feeling? —
The murderer passes the night here in a prisoner’s cell, either lying or sitting, certainly without sleeping and all through the sleepless night listens to the striking of the hours. —
What does he think of? What dreams visit him?”
And all the jurymen suddenly forgot about overwhelming sensations. —
The experience of their friend, who once wrote the letter to his Natasha, seemed unimportant, and not even amusing. —
Nobody told any more stories; but they began to go to bed quietly, in silence. EXPENSIVE LESSONS
It is a great bore for an educated person not to know foreign languages. —
Vorotov felt it strongly, when on leaving the university after he had got his degree he occupied himself with a little scientific research.
“It’s awful!” he used to say, losing his breath (for although only twenty-six he was stout, heavy, and short of breath). —
“It’s awful. Without knowing languages I’m like a bird without wings. —
I’ll simply have to chuck the work.”
So he decided, come what might, to conquer his natural laziness and to study French and German, and he began to look out for a teacher.
One winter afternoon, as Vorotov sat working in his study, the servant announced a lady to see him.
“Show her in,” said Vorotov.
And a young lady, exquisitely dressed in the latest fashion, entered the study. —
She introduced herself as Alice Ossipovna Enquette, a teacher of French, and said that a friend of Vorotov’s had sent her to him.
“Very glad! Sit down!” said Vorotov, losing his breath, and clutching at the collar of his night shirt. —
(He always worked in a night shirt in order to breathe more easily. —
) “You were sent to me by Peter Sergueyevich? —
Yes…. Yes … I asked him…. Very glad!”
While he discussed the matter with Mademoiselle Enquette he glanced at her shyly, with curiosity. —
She was a genuine Frenchwoman, very elegant, and still quite young. —
From her pale and languid face, from her short, curly hair and unnaturally small waist, you would not think her more than eighteen, but looking at her broad, well-developed shoulders, her charming back and severe eyes, Vorotov decided that she was certainly not less than twenty-three, perhaps even twenty-five; —
but then again it seemed to him that she was only eighteen. —
Her face had the cold, business-like expression of one who had come to discuss a business matter. —
Never once did she smile or frown, and only once a look of perplexity flashed into her eyes, when she discovered that she was not asked to teach children but a grown up, stout young man.
“So, Alice Ossipovna,” Vorotov said to her, “you will give me a lesson daily from seven to eight o’clock in the evening. —
With regard to your wish to receive a rouble a lesson, I have no objection at all. —
A rouble—well, let it be a rouble….”
And he went on asking her if she wanted tea or coffee, if the weather was fine, and, smiling good naturedly, stroking the tablecloth with the palm of his hand, he asked her kindly who she was, where she had completed her education, and how she earned her living.
In a cold, business-like tone Alice Ossipovna answered that she had completed her education at a private school, and had then qualified as a domestic teacher, that her father had died recently of scarlet fever, her mother was alive and made artificial flowers, that she, Mademoiselle Enquette, gave private lessons at a pension in the morning, and from one o’clock right until the evening she taught in respectable private houses.
She went, leaving a slight and almost imperceptible perfume of a woman’s dress behind her. —
Vorotov did not work for a long time afterwards but sat at the table stroking the green cloth and thinking.
“It’s very pleasant to see girls earning their own living,” he thought. —
“On the other hand it is very unpleasant to realise that poverty does not spare even such elegant and pretty girls as Alice Ossipovna; —
she, too, must struggle for her existence. Rotten luck!…”
Having never seen virtuous Frenchwomen he also thought that this exquisitely dressed Alice Ossipovna, with her well-developed shoulders and unnaturally small waist was in all probability, engaged in something else besides teaching.
Next evening when the clock pointed to five minutes to seven, Alice Ossipovna arrived, rosy from the cold; —
she opened Margot (an elementary text-book) and began without any preamble:
“The French grammar has twenty-six letters. The first is called A, the second B….”
“Pardon,” interrupted Vorotov, smiling, “I must warn you, Mademoiselle, that you will have to change your methods somewhat in my case. —
The fact is that I know Russian, Latin and Greek very well. —
I have studied comparative philology, and it seems to me that we may leave out Margot and begin straight off to read some author.” —
And he explained to the Frenchwoman how grown-up people study languages.
“A friend of mine,” said he, “who wished to know modern languages put a French, German and Latin gospel in front of him and then minutely analysed one word after another. —
The result—he achieved his purpose in less than a year. —
Let us take some author and start reading.”
The Frenchwoman gave him a puzzled look. It was evident that Vorotov’s proposal appeared to her naive and absurd. —
If he had not been grown up she would certainly have got angry and stormed at him, but as he was a very stout, adult man at whom she could not storm, she only shrugged her shoulders half-perceptibly and said:
“Just as you please.”
Vorotov ransacked his bookshelves and produced a ragged French book.
“Will this do?” he asked.
“It’s all the same.”
“In that case let us begin. Let us start from the title, Mémoires.”
“Reminiscences….” translated Mademoiselle Enquette.
“Reminiscences….” repeated Vorotov.
Smiling good naturedly and breathing heavily, he passed a quarter of an hour over the word mémoires and the same with the word de. —
This tired Alice Ossipovna out. She answered his questions carelessly, got confused and evidently neither understood her pupil nor tried to. —
Vorotov asked her questions, and at the same time glanced furtively at her fair hair, thinking:
“The hair is not naturally curly. She waves it. Marvellous! —
She works from morning till night and yet she finds time to wave her hair.”
At eight o’clock sharp she got up, gave him a dry, cold “Au revoir, Monsieur,” and left the study. —
After her lingered the same sweet, subtle, agitating perfume. —
The pupil again did nothing for a long time, but sat by the table and thought.
During the following days he became convinced that his teacher was a charming girl serious and punctual, but very uneducated and incapable of teaching grown up people; —
so he decided he would not waste his time, but part with her and engage someone else. —
When she came for the seventh lesson he took an envelope containing seven roubles out of his pocket. —
Holding it in his hands and blushing furiously, he began:
“I am sorry, Alice Ossipovna, but I must tell you…. I am placed in an awkward position….”
The Frenchwoman glanced at the envelope and guessed what was the matter. —
For the first time during the lessons a shiver passed over her face and the cold, business-like expression disappeared. —
She reddened faintly, and casting her eyes down, began to play absently with her thin gold chain. —
And Vorotov, noticing her confusion, understood how precious this rouble was to her, how hard it would be for her to lose this money.
“I must tell you,” he murmured, getting still more confused. His heart gave a thump. —
Quickly he put the envelope back into his pocket and continued:
“Excuse me. I … I will leave you for ten minutes….”
And as though he did not want to dismiss her at all, but had only asked permission to retire for a moment he went into another room and sat there for ten minutes. —
Then he returned, more confused than ever; —
he thought that his leaving her like that would be explained by her in a certain way and this made him awkward.
The lessons began again.
Vorotov wanted them no more. Knowing that they would lead to nothing he gave the Frenchwoman a free hand; —
he did not question or interrupt her any more. —
She translated at her own sweet will, ten pages a lesson, but he did not listen. —
He breathed heavily and for want of occupation gazed now and then at her curly little head, her neck, her soft white hands, and inhaled the perfume of her dress.
He caught himself thinking about her as he ought not and it shamed him, or admiring her, and then he felt aggrieved and angry because she behaved so coldly towards him, in such a businesslike way, never smiling and as if afraid that he might suddenly touch her. —
All the while he thought: How could he inspire her with confidence in him, how could he get to know her better, to help her, to make her realise how badly she taught, poor little soul?
Once Alice Ossipovna came to the lesson in a dainty pink dress, a little décolleté, and such a sweet scent came from her that you might have thought she was wrapped in a cloud, that you had only to blow on her for her to fly away or dissolve like smoke. —
She apologised, saying she could only stay for half an hour, because she had to go straight from the lesson to a ball.
He gazed at her neck, at her bare shoulders and he thought he understood why Frenchwomen were known to be light-minded and easily won; —
he was drowned in this cloud of scent, beauty, and nudity, and she, quite unaware of his thoughts and probably not in the least interested in them, read over the pages quickly and translated full steam ahead:
“He walked over the street and met the gentleman of his friend and said: —
where do you rush? seeing your face so pale it makes me pain.”
The Mémoires had been finished long ago; Alice was now translating another book. —
Once she came to the lesson an hour earlier, apologising because she had to go to the Little Theatre at seven o’clock. —
When the lesson was over Vorotov dressed and he too went to the theatre. —
It seemed to him only for the sake of rest and distraction, and he did not even think of Alice. He would not admit that a serious man, preparing for a scientific career, a stay-at-home, should brush aside his book and rush to the theatre for the sake of meeting an unintellectual, stupid girl whom he hardly knew.
But somehow, dining the intervals his heart beat, and, without noticing it, he ran about the foyer and the corridors like a boy, looking impatiently for someone. —
Every time the interval was over he was tired, but when he discovered the familiar pink dress and the lovely shoulders veiled with tulle his heart jumped as if from a presentiment of happiness, he smiled joyfully, and for the first time in his life he felt jealous.
Alice was with two ugly students and an officer. —
She was laughing, talking loudly and evidently flirting. Vorotov had never seen her like that. —
Apparently she was happy, contented, natural, warm. Why? What was the reason? —
Perhaps because these people were dear to her and belonged to the same class as she. —
Vorotov felt the huge abyss between him and that class. —
He bowed to his teacher, but she nodded coldly and quietly passed by. —
It was plain she did not want her cavaliers to know that she had pupils and gave lessons because she was poor.
After the meeting at the theatre Vorotov knew that he was in love. —
During lessons that followed he devoured his elegant teacher with his eyes, and no longer struggling, he gave full rein to his pure and impure thoughts. —
Alice’s face was always cold. Exactly at eight o’clock every evening she said calmly, “Au revoir, Monsieur,” and he felt that she was indifferent to him and would remain indifferent, that—his position was hopeless.
Sometimes in the middle of a lesson he would begin dreaming, hoping, building plans; —
he composed an amorous declaration, remembering that Frenchwomen were frivolous and complaisant, but he had only to give his teacher one glance for his thoughts to be blown out like a candle, when you carry it on to the verandah of a bungalow and the wind is blowing. —
Once, overcome, forgetting everything, in a frenzy, he could stand it no longer. —
He barred her way when she came from the study into the hall after the lesson and, losing his breath and stammering, began to declare his love:
“You are dear to me!… I love you. Please let me speak!”
Alice grew pale: probably she was afraid that after this declaration she would not be able to come to him any more and receive a rouble a lesson. —
She looked at him with terrified eyes and began in a loud whisper:
“Ah, it’s impossible! Do not speak, I beg you! Impossible!”
Afterwards Vorotov did not sleep all night; —
he tortured himself with shame, abused himself, thinking feverishly. —
He thought that his declaration had offended the girl and that she would not come any more. —
He made up his mind to find out where she lived from the Address Bureau and to write her an apology. But Alice came without the letter. —
For a moment she felt awkward, and then opened the book and began to translate quickly, in an animated voice, as always:
”‘Oh, young gentleman, do not rend these flowers in my garden which I want to give to my sick daughter.’”
She still goes. Four books have been translated by now but Vorotov knows nothing beyond the word mémoires, and when he is asked about his scientific research work he waves his hand, leaves the question unanswered, and begins to talk about the weather. A LIVING CALENDAR
State-Councillor Sharamykin’s drawing-room is wrapped in a pleasant half-darkness. —
The big bronze lamp with the green shade, makes the walls, the furniture, the faces, all green, couleur “Nuit d’Ukraine” Occasionally a smouldering log flares up in the dying fire and for a moment casts a red glow over the faces; —
but this does not spoil the general harmony of light. —
The general tone, as the painters say, is well sustained.
Sharamykin sits in a chair in front of the fireplace, in the attitude of a man who has just dined. —
He is an elderly man with a high official’s grey side whiskers and meek blue eyes. —
Tenderness is shed over his face, and his lips are set in a melancholy smile. —
At his feet, stretched out lazily, with his legs towards the fire-place, Vice-Governor Lopniev sits on a little stool. —
He is a brave-looking man of about forty. Sharamykin’s children are moving about round the piano; —
Nina, Kolya, Nadya, and Vanya. The door leading to Madame Sharamykin’s room is slightly open and the light breaks through timidly. —
There behind the door sits Sharamykin’s wife, Anna Pavlovna, in front of her writing- table. —
She is president of the local ladies’ committee, a lively, piquant lady of thirty years and a little bit over. —
Through her pince- nez her vivacious black eyes are running over the pages of a French novel. —
Beneath the novel lies a tattered copy of the report of the committee for last year.
“Formerly our town was much better off in these things,” says Sharamykin, screwing up his meek eyes at the glowing coals. —
“Never a winter passed but some star would pay us a visit. Famous actors and singers used to come . —
.. but now, besides acrobats and organ-grinders, the devil only knows what comes. —
There’s no aesthetic pleasure at all…. We might be living in a forest. —
Yes…. And does your Excellency remember that Italian tragedian?… What’s his name?. —
.. He was so dark, and tall…. Let me think…. Oh, yes! Luigi Ernesto di Ruggiero. —
… Remarkable talent…. And strength. He had only to say one word and the whole theatre was on the qui vive. —
My darling Anna used to take a great interest in his talent. —
She hired the theatre for him and sold tickets for the performances in advance. —
… In return he taught her elocution and gesture. A first-rate fellow! He came here . —
.. to be quite exact … twelve years ago…. No, that’s not true. —
… Less, ten years…. Anna dear, how old is our Nina?”
“She’ll be ten next birthday,” calls Anna Pavlovna from her room. “Why?”
“Nothing in particular, my dear. I was just curious…. And good singers used to come. —
Do you remember Prilipchin, the tenore di grazia? What a charming fellow he was! How good looking! —
Fair … a very expressive face, Parisian manners…. And what a voice, your Excellency! —
Only one weakness: he would sing some notes with his stomach and would take re falsetto—otherwise everything was good. —
Tamberlik, he said, had taught him…. My dear Anna and I hired a hall for him at the Social Club, and in gratitude for that he used to sing to us for whole days and nights. —
… He taught dear Anna to sing. He came—I remember it as though it were last night—in Lent, some twelve years ago. —
No, it’s more…. How bad my memory is getting, Heaven help me! —
Anna dear, how old is our darling Nadya?
“Twelve.”
“Twelve … then we’ve got to add ten months…. That makes it exact … thirteen. —
Somehow there used to be more life in our town then…. Take, for instance, the charity soirées. —
What enjoyable soirées we used to have before! How elegant! —
There were singing, playing, and recitation. —
… After the war, I remember, when the Turkish prisoners were here, dear Anna arranged a soiree on behalf of the wounded. —
We collected eleven hundred roubles. I remember the Turkish officers were passionately fond of dear Anna’s voice, and kissed her hand incessantly. —
He-he! Asiatics, but a grateful nation. Would you believe me, the soiree was such a success that I wrote an account of it in my diary? —
It was,—I remember it as though it had only just happened,—in ‘76,… no, in ‘77…. No! —
Pray, when were the Turks here? Anna dear, how old is our little Kolya?”
“I’m seven, Papa!” says Kolya, a brat with a swarthy face and coal black hair.
“Yes, we’re old, and we’ve lost the energy we used to have,” Lopniev agreed with a sigh. —
“That’s the real cause. Old age, my friend. —
No new moving spirits arrive, and the old ones grow old…. The old fire is dull now. —
When I was younger I did not like company to be bored. —
… I was your Anna Pavlovna’s first assistant. —
Whether it was a charity soirée or a tombola to support a star who was going to arrive, whatever Anna Pavlovna was arranging, I used to throw over everything and begin to bustle about. —
One winter, I remember, I bustled and ran so much that I even got ill. —
… I shan’t forget that winter…. Do you remember what a performance we arranged with Anna Pavlovna in aid of the victims of the fire?”
“What year was it?”
“Not so very long ago…. In ‘79. No, in ‘80, I believe! Tell me how old is your Vanya?”
“Five,” Anna Pavlovna calls from the study.
“Well, that means it was six years ago. Yes, my dear friend, that was a time. —
It’s all over now. The old fire’s quite gone.”
Lopniev and Sharamykin grew thoughtful. The smouldering log flares up for the last time, and then is covered in ash. OLD AGE
State-Councillor Usielkov, architect, arrived in his native town, where he had been summoned to restore the cemetery church. —
He was born in the town, he had grown up and been married there, and yet when he got out of the train he hardly recognised it. —
Everything was changed. For instance, eighteen years ago, when he left the town to settle in Petersburg, where the railway station is now boys used to hunt for marmots: —
now as you come into the High Street there is a four storied “Hotel Vienna,” with apartments, where there was of old an ugly grey fence. —
But not the fence or the houses, or anything had changed so much as the people. —
Questioning the hall-porter, Usielkov discovered that more than half of the people he remembered were dead or paupers or forgotten.
“Do you remember Usielkov?” he asked the porter. —
“Usielkov, the architect, who divorced his wife. —
… He had a house in Sviribev Street…. Surely you remember.”
“No, I don’t remember anyone of the name.”
“Why, it’s impossible not to remember. It was an exciting case. All the cabmen knew, even. —
Try to remember. His divorce was managed by the attorney, Shapkin, the swindler . —
.. the notorious sharper, the man who was thrashed at the dub….”
“You mean Ivan Nicolaich?”
“Yes…. Is he alive? dead?”
“Thank heaven, his honour’s alive. His honour’s a notary now, with an office. Well-to-do. —
Two houses in Kirpichny Street. Just lately married his daughter off.”
Usielkov strode from one corner of the room to another. An idea flashed into his mind. —
From boredom, he decided to see Shapkin. —
It was afternoon when he left the hotel and quietly walked to Kirpichny Street. —
He found Shapkin in his office and hardly recognised him. —
From the well-built, alert attorney with a quick, impudent, perpetually tipsy expression, Shapkin had become a modest, grey-haired, shrunken old man.
“You don’t recognise me…. You have forgotten . —
…” Usielkov began. “I’m your old client, Usielkov.”
“Usielkov? Which Usielkov? Ah!” Remembrance came to Shapkin: —
he recognised him and was confused. Began exclamations, questions, recollections.
“Never expected … never thought….” chuckled Shapkin. “What will you have? —
Would you like champagne? Perhaps you’d like oysters. —
My dear man, what a lot of money I got out of you in the old days—so much that I can’t think what I ought to stand you.”
“Please don’t trouble,” said Usielkov. “I haven’t time. —
I must go to the cemetery and examine the church. —
I have a commission.”
“Splendid. We’ll have something to eat and a drink and go together. I’ve got some splendid horses! —
I’ll take you there and introduce you to the churchwarden…. I’ll fix up everything. —
… But what’s the matter, my dearest man? You’re not avoiding me, not afraid? Please sit nearer. —
There’s nothing to be afraid of now…. Long ago, I really was pretty sharp, a bit of a rogue . —
.. but now I’m quieter than water, humbler than grass. I’ve grown old; —
got a family. There are children…. Time to die!”
The friends had something to eat and drink, and went in a coach and pair to the cemetery.
“Yes, it was a good time,” Shapkin was reminiscent, sitting in the sledge. —
“I remember, but I simply can’t believe it. Do you remember how you divorced your wife? —
It’s almost twenty years ago, and you’ve probably forgotten everything, but I remember it as though I conducted the petition yesterday. —
My God, how rotten I was! Then I was a smart, casuistical devil, full of sharp practice and devilry…. and I used to run into some shady affairs, particularly when there was a good fee, as in your case, for instance. —
What was it you paid me then? Five—six hundred. Enough to upset anybody! —
By the time you left for Petersburg you’d left the whole affair completely in my hands. —
‘Do what you like!’ And your former wife, Sophia Mikhailovna, though she did come from a merchant family, was proud and selfish. —
To bribe her to take the guilt on herself was difficult—extremely difficult. —
I used to come to her for a business talk, and when she saw me, she would say to her maid: —
‘Masha, surely I told you I wasn’t at home to scoundrels.’ I tried one way, then another . —
.. wrote letters to her, tried to meet her accidentally—no good. —
I had to work through a third person. For a long time I had trouble with her, and she only yielded when you agreed to give her ten thousand. —
She could not stand out against ten thousand. She succumbed. —
… She began to weep, spat in my face, but she yielded and took the guilt on herself.”
“If I remember it was fifteen, not ten thousand she took from me,” said Usielkov.
“Yes, of course … fifteen, my mistake.” Shapkin was disconcerted. —
“Anyway it’s all past and done with now. Why shouldn’t I confess, frankly? —
Ten I gave to her, and the remaining five I bargained out of you for my own share. —
I deceived both of you…. It’s all past, why be ashamed of it? —
And who else was there to take from, Boris Pietrovich, if not from you? I ask you. —
… You were rich and well-to-do. You married in caprice: you were divorced in caprice. —
You were making a fortune. I remember you got twenty thousand out of a single contract. —
Whom was I to tap, if not you? And I must confess, I was tortured by envy. —
If you got hold of a nice lot of money, people would take off their hats to you: —
but the same people would beat me for shillings and smack my face in the club. —
But why recall it? It’s time to forget.”
“Tell me, please, how did Sophia Mikhailovna live afterwards?”
“With her ten thousand? On ne peut plus badly. —
… God knows whether it was frenzy or pride and conscience that tortured her, because she had sold herself for money—or perhaps she loved you; —
but, she took to drink, you know. She received the money and began to gad about with officers in troikas. —
… Drunkenness, philandering, debauchery. —
… She would come into a tavern with an officer, and instead of port or a light wine, she would drink the strongest cognac to drive her into a frenzy.”
“Yes, she was eccentric. I suffered enough with her. —
She would take offence at some trifle and then get nervous…. And what happened afterwards?”
“A week passed, a fortnight…. I was sitting at home writing. —
Suddenly, the door opened and she comes in. —
‘Take your cursed money,’ she said, and threw the parcel in my face. —
… She could not resist it…. Five hundred were missing. —
She had only got rid of five hundred.”
“And what did you do with the money?”
“It’s all past and done with. What’s the good of concealing it?… I certainly took it. —
What are you staring at me like that for? Wait for the sequel. —
It’s a complete novel, the sickness of a soul! Two months passed by. —
One night I came home drunk, in a wicked mood. —
… I turned on the light and saw Sophia Mikhailovna sitting on my sofa, drunk too, wandering a bit, with something savage in her face as if she had just escaped from the mad-house. —
‘Give me my money back,’ she said. ‘I’ve changed my mind. —
If I’m going to the dogs, I want to go madly, passionately. —
Make haste, you scoundrel, give me the money.’ —
How indecent it was!”
“And you … did you give it her?”
“I remember I gave her ten roubles.”
“Oh … is it possible?” Usielkov frowned. —
“If you couldn’t do it yourself, or you didn’t want to, you could have written to me. —
… And I didn’t know … I didn’t know.”
“My dear man, why should I write, when she wrote herself afterwards when she was in hospital?”
“I was so taken up with the new marriage that I paid no attention to letters. —
… But you were an outsider; you had no antagonism to Sophia Mikhailovna. —
… Why didn’t you help her?”
“We can’t judge by our present standards, Boris Pietrovich. Now we think in this way; —
but then we thought quite differently…. Now I might perhaps give her a thousand roubles; —
but then even ten roubles … she didn’t get them for nothing. —
It’s a terrible story. It’s time to forget. —
… But here you are!”
The sledge stopped at the churchyard gate. —
Usielkov and Shapkin got out of the sledge, went through the gate and walked along a long, broad avenue. —
The bare cherry trees, the acacias, the grey crosses and monuments sparkled with hoar-frost. —
In each flake of snow the bright sunny day was reflected. —
There was the smell you find in all cemeteries of incense and fresh-dug earth.
“You have a beautiful cemetery,” said Usielkov. “It’s almost an orchard.”
“Yes, but it’s a pity the thieves steal the monuments. —
Look, there, behind that cast-iron memorial, on the right, Sophia Mikhailovna is buried. —
Would you like to see?”
The friends turned to the right, stepping in deep snow towards the cast- iron memorial.
“Down here,” said Shapkin, pointing to a little stone of white marble. —
“Some subaltern or other put up the monument on her grave.” —
Usielkov slowly took off his hat and showed his bald pate to the snow. —
Eying him, Shapkin also took off his hat, and another baldness shone beneath the sun. —
The silence round about was like the tomb, as though the air were dead, too. The friends looked at the stone, silent, thinking.
“She is asleep!” Shapkin broke the silence. —
“And she cares very little that she took the guilt upon herself and drank cognac. —
Confess, Boris Pietrovich!”
“What?” asked Usielkov, sternly.
“That, however loathsome the past may be, it’s better than this.” —
And Shapkin pointed to his grey hairs.
“In the old days I did not even think of death. —
… If I’d met her, I would have circumvented her, but now … well, now!”
Sadness took hold of Usielkov. Suddenly he wanted to cry, passionately, as he once desired to love. —
… And he felt that these tears would be exquisite, refreshing. —
Moisture came out of his eyes and a lump rose in his throat, but. —
… Shapkin was standing by his side, and Usielkov felt ashamed of his weakness before a witness. —
He turned back quickly and walked towards the church.
Two hours later, having arranged with the churchwarden and examined the church, he seized the opportunity while Shapkin was talking away to the priest, and ran to shed a tear. —
He walked to the stone surreptitiously, with stealthy steps, looking round all the time. —
The little white monument stared at him absently, so sadly and innocently, as though a girl and not a wanton divorcée were beneath.
“If I could weep, could weep!” thought Usielkov.
But the moment for weeping had been lost. —
Though the old man managed to make his eyes shine, and tried to bring himself to the right pitch, the tears did not flow and the lump did not rise in his throat. —
… After waiting for about ten minutes, Usielkov waved his arm and went to look for + Shapkin.
The Darling and Other Stories
