“My Grisha must be about two years older,” Sophia said. “Up there in the factory, without his mother, he lives like a slave. I dare say his master beats him. When I looked at this poor orphan just now, I thought of my own Grisha, and my heart’s blood turned to ice.”
There was silence between them for a few moments.
“I wonder whether he remembers his mother,” the old woman asked.
“How could he?”
From Sophia’s eyes large tears flowed.
“He’s all curled up like a kitten,” she said, sobbing and laughing with tenderness and sorrow. “Poor little orphan!”
Kuzka started and opened his eyes. He saw above him an ugly, wrinkled, tear-stained face, and beside it another face, old and toothless, with a sharp chin and a humped nose, and high above them the unfathomable sky and the rushing clouds and the moon; and he screamed in terror. Sophia also screamed, echoes answered their screams, the heavy air trembled, a watchman tapped with his stick, and a dog barked. Matvey Savvich muttered in his sleep and turned over on the other side.
Late at night when Dyudya and the old woman and the watchman were all asleep, Sophia came out to the gate and sat down on a bench. The heat was stifling, and her head ached from crying. The street was wide and long; it stretched for nearly two miles to the right, and two miles to the left, and there was no end to it. The moon no longer shone over the courtyard, but from behind the church. One side of the street was flooded with moonlight, the other lay in deep darkness; and the long shadows of the poplars and the starling cotes stretched across the whole street, while the black and menacing shadows of the church spread far and wide, embracing Dyudya’s gate and half his house. No one was about; only silence. From time to time there came faint strains of music from the end of the street. It was Alyoshka playing on his concertina.
Something moved in the shadows near the walls of the church: impossible to tell whether it was a man or a cow, or only a big bird rustling in the trees. And then a figure emerged out of the shadows, paused, said something in a man’s voice, and disappeared down the church lane. A moment later another figure emerged about six feet away from the church gate, and this figure went straight from the church to the gate, and when it saw Sophia sitting on the bench, it stood still.
“Is that you, Varvara?” Sophia said.
“What if it is?”
It was Varvara. She stood perfectly still for a few moments, and then she went to the bench and sat down.
“Where have you been?” Sophia asked.
Varvara said nothing.
“You’ll get into trouble if you play around, you young bride!” Sophia said. “Did you hear what happened to Mashenka, how she was kicked and beaten with the reins? Look out, or the same thing will happen to you!”
“I don’t care!” Varvara laughed into her handkerchief and whispered: “I’ve been having fun with the priest’s son.”
“You’re making it up!”
“I swear to God …”
“It’s a sin,” whispered Sophia.
“I don’t care! What should I be sorry for? If it’s a sin, then it’s a sin, and it’s better to be struck dead by lightning than to live as I am doing. I’m young and healthy. I’m saddled with a horrible, hunchbacked husband, and he’s worse than that damned Dyudya! Before I was married I never had enough to eat, I went barefoot, I had to get away from all that misery, and there was Alyoshka’s wealth tempting me, and so I became a slave, or a fish caught in a net, and I would sooner sleep with a serpent than with that scab-covered Alyoshka! And what about your life? It’s terrible to think about it! Your Fedor threw you out of the factory and sent you home to his father, and now he has taken another woman: they took your boy away and sold him into slavery. You work like a horse, and never hear a kind word! I’d rather spend my days an old maid and get half a ruble from the priest’s son, I’d rather beg for a pittance, I’d rather throw myself down a well.…”
“It’s a sin,” Sophia whispered again.
“I don’t care.”
From somewhere behind the church came the mournful song of three voices: two tenors and a bass. And again it was impossible to distinguish the words.
“They’re nightbirds all right,” Varvara said, laughing.
And she began to whisper about her nightly escapades with the priest’s son, and what he said to her, and what his friends were like, and how she carried on with the officials and merchants who came to the house. The mournful songs awoke in Sophia a longing for life and freedom, and she began to laugh. For her, it was all sinful and terrible and sweet to hear about, and she envied Varvara and was sorry that she too had not been a sinner when she was young and beautiful.
From the church cemetery came the twelve strokes of the watchman’s rattle, announcing midnight.
“It’s time to sleep,” Sophia said, getting up. “Dyudya will catch us if we don’t!”
They both went quietly into the courtyard.
“I went away and never heard what happened to Mashenka afterwards,” Varvara said, making her bed beneath the window.
“He said she died in prison. She poisoned her husband.”
Varvara lay down beside Sophia, deep in thought, and then she said softly: “I could kill Alyoshka and never regret it.”
“God help you, you are talking nonsense!”
When Sophia was dropping asleep, Varvara pressed close to her and whispered in her ear: “Let’s kill Dyudya and Alyoshka!”
Sophia shuddered and said nothing, but her eyes were open wide and for a long time she gazed steadily at the sky.
“People might find out,” she murmured.
“No, they would never find out. Dyudya is old, and it’s time for him to die, and they’d say Alyoshka had croaked from drinking!”
“It’s terrible.… God would strike us dead.…”
“I don’t care.”
Neither of them slept; they went on thinking in silence.
“It’s cold,” Sophia said, and she was beginning to shiver all over. “It will soon be light. Are you sleeping?”
“No.… Don’t listen to me, my dear,” Varvara whispered. “I get so mad with those damned swine, and sometimes I don’t know what I am saying. Go to sleep—the dawn will be coming up soon.… Are you asleep?”
They were both quiet, and soon they grew calm and fell asleep.
Old Afanasyevna was the first to wake up. She woke Sophia, and they both went to the cowshed to milk the cows. Then the hunchback Alyoshka walked in, hopelessly drunk, without his concertina, and with his knees and chest all covered with dust and straw—he must have fallen down on the road. Swaying from side to side, he went into the cowshed, and without undressing he rolled over on a sleigh and a moment later was snoring. And when the rising sun shone with a clear flame on the gold crosses of the church, and silvered the windows, and the shadows of the trees and the wellhead were strewn across the courtyard over the dew-wet grass, then Matvey Savvich rose and attended to business.
“Kuzka, get up!” he shouted. “Time to harness the horses! Get going!”
The morning uproar was about to begin. A young Jewess in a flounced brown dress led a horse to the yard for water. The pulley of the well creaked painfully, the bucket rattled. Still tired and sleepy, his clothes covered with dew, Kuzka sat up in the cart, and lazily slipping on his overcoat, he listened to the water splashing out of the bucket into the well, and all the time he was shivering from cold.
“Auntie!” shouted Matvey Savvich. “Tell that brat of mine to harness the horses!”
At the same moment Dyudya shouted from the window: “Sophia, make that Jewess pay a kopeck for watering the horses! They’re making a habit of it, the slobs!”
Up and down the street ran the bleating sheep; the peasant women were screeching at the shepherd, who played on his reed pipe, cracked his whip, and replied to them in his rough sleepy bass voice. Three sheep came running into the yard; not finding the gate, they butted the fence. Varvara was awaken
ed by the noise, and taking up her bedding in her hands, she wandered into the house.
“You ought at least to drive the sheep out,” the old woman shouted after her. “Ladylike, eh?”
“What’s more, you needn’t think I’m going to work for a lot of Herods,” Varvara said as she entered the house.
The axles were greased and the horses harnessed. Dyudya emerged from the house with his accounts in his hands, sat down on the step, and began reckoning how much the travelers owed for oats, the night’s lodging, and watering the horses.
“Grandfather, you charged a lot for the oats,” Matvey Savvich said.
“If it’s too much, you don’t have to take it. We’re not forcing you!”
Just when the travelers were about to get into the cart and ride off, an accident occurred. Kuzka lost his cap.
“Where did you put it, you little swine?” Matvey Savvich roared at the boy. “Where is it?”
Kuzka’s face was contorted with terror; he searched all round the cart, and not finding it, he ran to the gate and then to the cowshed. The old woman and Sophia helped him look for it.
“I’ll rip your ears off!” Matvey Savvich shouted. “Filthy little brat!”
The cap was found at the bottom of the cart. Kuzka brushed off the straw, put it on, and crawled timidly into the cart, still wearing an expression of terror on his face, as though he expected a blow from behind. Matvey Savvich crossed himself, the driver pulled on the reins, and the cart rolled slowly out of the yard.
1891
After the Theater
WHEN Nadia Zelenina came home with her mother from the theater, where they had been watching a performance of Eugene Onegin, she went to her own room, slipped quickly out of her dress, and wearing only a petticoat and a white bodice, sat down at the table in a great hurry and began to write a letter in the manner of Tatiana: “I love you,” she wrote, “but you have no love for me—none at all!”
A moment later she burst out laughing.
She was only sixteen, and in all her life she had never been in love. She knew that Gorny, an officer, and Gruzdev, a student, were both in love with her, but now, having seen the opera, she was inclined to doubt that they loved her. To be unloved and unhappy—how interesting that was! How beautiful, poetic, and touching, when one was hopelessly in love with someone who was completely indifferent. What was interesting about Onegin was that he was incapable of loving, and what was enchanting about Tatiana was that she was hopelessly in love. If they had loved each other with an identical passion and were completely happy together, how boring!
“You must never again confess your love for me,” Nadia went on writing, thinking of Gorny, the officer. “I cannot believe your words. You are clever, well educated, serious, you have a great talent, and maybe a brilliant future awaits you. As for me, I am only an insignificant and uninteresting young woman, and you yourself know perfectly well that I would only be a hindrance in your life; and though you were attracted to me, and thought you had found your ideal in me, still it was all a mistake, and even now you are saying to yourself in your despair: Why did I ever meet that girl?’ Only your goodness of heart prevents you from admitting it!”
At this point Nadia began to feel sorry for herself. She burst into tears, but continued writing: “If it were not so hard for me to leave my mother and my brother, I would take the veil and wander away wherever my feet led me. Then you would be free to love someone else. Oh, if only I were dead!”
Through her tears she could no longer see what she had written. Tiny rainbows trembled on the floor, on the table, on the ceiling, and it seemed to Nadia that she was looking through a prism. Impossible to go on writing. She threw herself back in her armchair and began thinking of Gorny.
Goodness, how attractive, how fascinating men were! Nadia remembered Gorny’s beautiful expression during a discussion on music: so compelling, so tender, so deferential, and he had difficulty subduing the passion in his voice. In society, where an icy pride and an air of indifference are the marks of a good education and fine breeding, he tried to conceal his feelings, but without success, and everyone knew how devoted he was—how passionately devoted—to music. Those never-ending discussions on music, and the loud criticisms of ignoramuses, kept him in a constant state of tension, so that he appeared to be awed, timid, and silent. He played the piano with the flair of a professional pianist, and if he had not been an officer, he would certainly have become a famous musician.
The tears dried on Nadia’s cheeks. She remembered now that Gorny had declared his love for her during a symphony concert, and then again downstairs near the cloakroom, where they were chilled by the strong draft which came at them from all sides.
“I am so glad you have at last made the acquaintance of the student Gruzdev,” she wrote. “He is a very clever man, and I am sure you will be friends. Yesterday he came to see us, and stayed until two. We were all so happy—I am sorry you could not join us. He said some very remarkable things.
Nadia laid her arms on the table, and rested her head on them. Her hair fell over the letter. It occurred to her that the student Gruzdev was also in love with her, and deserved a letter as much as Gorny. But then—she wondered—perhaps after all she should be writing to Gruzdev. An unreasoning joy stirred in her heart: at first it was a very small joy, and rolled about in her heart like a little rubber ball, but it became more powerful and vaster, and at last poured out of her like a fountain. She had forgotten Gorny and Gruzdev. She was confused; but her joy grew and spread from her heart into her hands and feet, and it seemed that a gentle and refreshing wind was fanning her face and lifting her hair. Her shoulders shook with silent laughter, the table shook, the lamp chimney trembled. Her tears were sprinkled on the letter she was writing. She could not control her laughter and so, to prove that she was not laughing for no reason at all, she quickly thought of something funny.
“Oh, what an amusing poodle!” she exclaimed, feeling faint with laughter. “What an amusing poodle!”
She remembered how on the previous day Gruzdev had romped with Maxim, the family poodle, after they had taken tea together, and later he told her the story of a clever poodle who chased a raven round the garden. Suddenly the raven stopped, looked round, and said: “Stinker!” The poodle was completely unaware that the raven was trained, and became terribly confused, running away with a look of utter bewilderment. After a while he began to bark.
“No, it would be much better to fall in love with Gruzdev,” Nadia decided, and she tore up the letter.
Her thoughts turned to the student, of his love for her and her love for him, and soon her thoughts went wandering, and she found herself thinking of many things: of her mother, of the street, of the pencil, of the piano.… She thought of all these things with joy, and it seemed to her that everything was good and splendid and beautiful, and her joy spoke to her, saying there was much more to come, and in a little while it would be still better. Soon spring would come, and then it would be summer, and she would go with her mother to Gorbiky, and then Gorny would come for the holidays, take her for walks in the garden, and flirt with her. And then Gruzdev would come. They would play croquet and bowls, and he would tell her funny stories and others that would leave her dumb with astonishment. Passionately she longed for the garden, the darkness, the clear sky, the stars. Once more her shoulders shook with laughter: the room seemed to fill with aromatic scents, and a twig was tapping against the windowpane.
She went to her bed and sat down, and then not knowing what to do with the joy that was flooding into her heart, she gazed at the icon which hung at the head of her bed, and murmured: “Dear God, dear God, dear God!”
April 1892
A Fragment
ON his retirement State Councilor Kozerogov bought a modest property in the country and settled down on it. There, partly in imitation of Cincinnatus, but also partly in imitation of Professor Kaigorodov, he toiled in the sweat of his brow and wrote down his observations of natural phenome
na. After his death these writings, together with his effects, following the desire expressed in his will, fell into the possession of his housekeeper, Marfa Yevlampyevna. As is well known, this inestimable old woman tore down his manor house and in its place erected a superb tavern licensed to sell strong liquor. This tavern acquired a “special room” fitted out for passing landowners and civil servants. On a table of this room were placed the writings of the deceased, for the convenience of such of the guests who might be in need of paper. One sheet fell into my hands. Apparently it relates to the very early agricultural efforts of the deceased, and contains the following information:
March 3. The spring migration of birds has begun. Yesterday I saw sparrows. I greet you, O feathered children of the south! In your sweet chirping I seem to hear you express the wish: “Be happy, Your Excellency.”
March 14. Today I asked Marfa Yevlampyevna: “Why does the cock crow so much?” She answered me: “Because he has a throat.” I replied: “I, too, have a throat, but I don’t crow!” So multitudinous are the mysteries of Nature! During my years of service in St. Petersburg I ate turkey more than several times, but only yesterday for the first time in my life did I observe a living turkey. A very remarkable bird indeed!
March 22. The rural officer called. For a long time we debated the subject of virtue—I sitting down, he standing. Among other things he said: “Have you ever wished, Your Excellency, to return to the days of your youth?” I replied to this question: “No, not in the least, for if I were young again, I would not be enjoying my present rank.” He agreed with my point of view, and went off, visibly moved.
April 16. With my own hands I have dug up two rows in the kitchen garden and planted semolina. I said nothing about this to anyone, to surprise my Marfa Yevlampyevna, to whom I am indebted for many happy moments in my life. Yesterday at tea she grumbled bitterly about her constitution, remarking that her expanding girth prevented her from passing through the door leading to the storehouse. My observation to her was: “On the contrary, my dear, the fullness of your form serves as an embellishment and disposes me all the more favorably towards you.” She blushed at this. I rose and embraced her with both arms, for it is impossible to embrace her with only one.