Love and Other Stories .......................................................................................................................................1

Anton Chekhov........................................................................................................................................1

"THREE o'clock in the morning. The soft April night is looking in at my windows and caressingly winking at

"My whole being from head to heels is bursting with a strange, incomprehensible feeling. I can't analyse it

just now I haven't the time, I'm too lazy, and there hang analysis! Why, is a man likely to interpret his

sensations when he is flying head foremost from a belfry, or has just learned that he has won two hundred

This was more or less how I began my loveletter to Sasha, a girl of nineteen with whom I had fallen in love.

I began it five times, and as often tore up the sheets, scratched out whole pages, and copied it all over again. I

spent as long over the letter as if it had been a novel I had to write to order. And it was not because I tried to

make it longer, more elaborate, and more fervent, but because I wanted endlessly to prolong the process of

this writing, when one sits in the stillness of one's study and communes with one's own daydreams while the

spring night looks in at one's window. Between the lines I saw a beloved image, and it seemed to me that

there were, sitting at the same table writing with me, spirits as na�vely happy, as foolish, and as blissfully

smiling as I. I wrote continually, looking at my hand, which still ached deliciously where hers had lately

pressed it, and if I turned my eyes away I had a vision of the green trellis of the little gate. Through that trellis

Sasha gazed at me after I had said goodbye to her. When I was saying goodbye to Sasha I was thinking of

nothing and was simply admiring her figure as every decent man admires a pretty woman; when I saw

through the trellis two big eyes, I suddenly, as though by inspiration, knew that I was in love, that it was all

settled between us, and fully decided already, that I had nothing left to do but to carry out certain formalities.

It is a great delight also to seal up a loveletter, and, slowly putting on one's hat and coat, to go softly out of

the house and to carry the treasure to the post. There are no stars in the sky now: in their place there is a long

whitish streak in the east, broken here and there by clouds above the roofs of the dingy houses; from that

streak the whole sky is flooded with pale light. The town is asleep, but already the watercarts have come

out, and somewhere in a faraway factory a whistle sounds to wake up the workpeople. Beside the postbox,

slightly moist with dew, you are sure to see the clumsy figure of a house porter, wearing a bellshaped

sheepskin and carrying a stick. He is in a condition akin to catalepsy: he is not asleep or awake, but

If the boxes knew how often people resort to them for the decision of their fate, they would not have such a

humble air. I, anyway, almost kissed my postbox, and as I gazed at it I reflected that the post is the greatest of

I beg anyone who has ever been in love to remember how one usually hurries home after dropping the letter

in the box, rapidly gets into bed and pulls up the quilt in the full conviction that as soon as one wakes up in

the morning one will be overwhelmed with memories of the previous day and look with rapture at the

window, where the daylight will be eagerly making its way through the folds of the curtain.

Well, to facts. . . . Next morning at midday, Sasha's maid brought me the following answer: "I am delited be

Not a single comma. This lack of punctuation, and the misspelling of the word "delighted," the whole letter,

and even the long, narrow envelope in which it was put filled my heart with tenderness. In the sprawling but

diffident handwriting I recognised Sasha's walk, her way of raising her eyebrows when she laughed, the

movement of her lips. . . . But the contents of the letter did not satisfy me. In the first place, poetical letters

are not answered in that way, and in the second, why should I go to Sasha's house to wait till it should occur

to her stout mamma, her brothers, and poor relations to leave us alone together? It would never enter their

heads, and nothing is more hateful than to have to restrain one's raptures simply because of the intrusion of

some animate trumpery in the shape of a halfdeaf old woman or little girl pestering one with questions. I

sent an answer by the maid asking Sasha to select some park or boulevard for a rendezvous. My suggestion

Between four and five o'clock in the afternoon I made my way to the furthest and most overgrown part of the

park. There was not a soul in the park, and the tryst might have taken place somewhere nearer in one of the

avenues or arbours, but women don't like doing it by halves in romantic affairs; in for a penny, in for a pound

if you are in for a tryst, let it be in the furthest and most impenetrable thicket, where one runs the risk of

stumbling upon some rough or drunken man. When I went up to Sasha she was standing with her back to me,

and in that back I could read a devilish lot of mystery. It seemed as though that back and the nape of her neck,

and the black spots on her dress were saying: Hush! . . . The girl was wearing a simple cotton dress over

which she had thrown a light cape. To add to the air of mysterious secrecy, her face was covered with a white

veil. Not to spoil the effect, I had to approach on tiptoe and speak in a half whisper.

From what I remember now, I was not so much the essential point of the rendezvous as a detail of it. Sasha

was not so much absorbed in the interview itself as in its romantic mysteriousness, my kisses, the silence of

the gloomy trees, my vows. . . . There was not a minute in which she forgot herself, was overcome, or let the

mysterious expression drop from her face, and really if there had been any Ivan Sidoritch or Sidor Ivanitch in

my place she would have felt just as happy. How is one to make out in such circumstances whether one is

From the park I took Sasha home with me. The presence of the beloved woman in one's bachelor quarters

affects one like wine and music. Usually one begins to speak of the future, and the confidence and

selfreliance with which one does so is beyond bounds. You make plans and projects, talk fervently of the

rank of general though you have not yet reached the rank of a lieutenant, and altogether you fire off such

highflown nonsense that your listener must have a great deal of love and ignorance of life to assent to it.

Fortunately for men, women in love are always blinded by their feelings and never know anything of life. Far

from not assenting, they actually turn pale with holy awe, are full of reverence and hang greedily on the

maniac's words. Sasha listened to me with attention, but I soon detected an absentminded expression on her

face, she did not understand me. The future of which I talked interested her only in its external aspect and I

was wasting time in displaying my plans and projects before her. She was keenly interested in knowing

which would be her room, what paper she would have in the room, why I had an upright piano instead of a

grand piano, and so on. She examined carefully all the little things on my table, looked at the photographs,

sniffed at the bottles, peeled the old stamps off the envelopes, saying she wanted them for something.

"Why don't you stick little labels on the backs of your books?" she asked, taking a look at the bookcase.

"Oh, so that each book should have its number. And where am I to put my books? I've got books too, you

And if it had entered my head to ask her what thoughts, what convictions, what aims she had, she would no

doubt have raised her eyebrows, thought a minute, and have said in the same way: "All sorts."

Later I saw Sasha home and left her house regularly, officially engaged, and was so reckoned till our

wedding. If the reader will allow me to judge merely from my personal experience, I maintain that to be

engaged is very dreary, far more so than to be a husband or nothing at all. An engaged man is neither one

thing nor the other, he has left one side of the river and not reached the other, he is not married and yet he

can't be said to be a bachelor, but is in something not unlike the condition of the porter whom I have

Every day as soon as I had a free moment I hastened to my fianc�e. As I went I usually bore within me a

multitude of hopes, desires, intentions, suggestions, phrases. I always fancied that as soon as the maid opened

the door I should, from feeling oppressed and stifled, plunge at once up to my neck into a sea of refreshing

happiness. But it always turned out otherwise in fact. Every time I went to see my fianc�e I found all her

family and other members of the household busy over the silly trousseau. (And by the way, they were hard at

work sewing for two months and then they had less than a hundred roubles' worth of things). There was a

smell of irons, candle grease and fumes. Bugles scrunched under one's feet. The two most important rooms

were piled up with billows of linen, calico, and muslin and from among the billows peeped out Sasha's little

head with a thread between her teeth. All the sewing party welcomed me with cries of delight but at once led

me off into the diningroom where I could not hinder them nor see what only husbands are permitted to

behold. In spite of my feelings, I had to sit in the diningroom and converse with Pimenovna, one of the poor

relations. Sasha, looking worried and excited, kept running by me with a thimble, a skein of wool or some

"Wait, wait, I shan't be a minute," she would say when I raised imploring eyes to her. "Only fancy that wretch

And after waiting in vain for this grace, I lost my temper, went out of the house and walked about the streets

in the company of the new cane I had bought. Or I would want to go for a walk or a drive with my fianc�e,

would go round and find her already standing in the hall with her mother, dressed to go out and playing with

"Oh, we are going to the Arcade," she would say. "We have got to buy some more cashmere and change the

My outing is knocked on the head. I join the ladies and go with them to the Arcade. It is revoltingly dull to

listen to women shopping, haggling and trying to outdo the sharp shopman. I felt ashamed when Sasha, after

turning over masses of material and knocking down the prices to a minimum, walked out of the shop without

When they came out of the shop, Sasha and her mamma with scared and worried faces would discuss at

length having made a mistake, having bought the wrong thing, the flowers in the chintz being too dark, and

Now I am married. It is evening. I am sitting in my study reading. Behind me on the sofa Sasha is sitting

Sasha leaps up, rummages in a disorderly way among two or three heaps of papers, drops the matches, and

without finding the corkscrew, sits down in silence. . . . Five minutes pass ten. . . I begin to be fretted both

Sasha leaps up again and rummages among the papers near me. Her munching and rustling of the papers

affects me like the sound of sharpening knives against each other. . . . I get up and begin looking for the

corkscrew myself. At last it is found and the beer is uncorked. Sasha remains by the table and begins telling

She takes up a book, sits down facing me and begins moving her lips. . . . I look at her little forehead, moving

"She is getting on for twenty. . . ." I reflect. "If one takes a boy of the educated class and of that age and

compares them, what a difference! The boy would have knowledge and convictions and some intelligence."

But I forgive that difference just as the low forehead and moving lips are forgiven. I remember in my old

Lovelace days I have cast off women for a stain on their stockings, or for one foolish word, or for not

cleaning their teeth, and now I forgive everything: the munching, the muddling about after the corkscrew, the

slovenliness, the long talking about nothing that matters; I forgive it all almost unconsciously, with no effort

of will, as though Sasha's mistakes were my mistakes, and many things which would have made me wince in

old days move me to tenderness and even rapture. The explanation of this forgiveness of everything lies in

my love for Sasha, but what is the explanation of the love itself, I really don't know.

THE dog was barking excitedly outside. And Ananyev the engineer, his assistant called Von Schtenberg, and

I went out of the hut to see at whom it was barking. I was the visitor, and might have remained indoors, but I

must confess my head was a little dizzy from the wine I had drunk, and I was glad to get a breath of fresh air.

"There is nobody here," said Ananyev when we went out. "Why are you telling stories, Azorka? You fool!"

"The fool," Azorka, a black housedog, probably conscious of his guilt in barking for nothing and anxious to

propitiate us, approached us, diffidently wagging his tail. The engineer bent down and touched him between

"Why are you barking for nothing, creature?" he said in the tone in which goodnatured people talk to

children and dogs. "Have you had a bad dream or what? Here, doctor, let me commend to your attention," he

said, turning to me, "a wonderfully nervous subject! Would you believe it, he can't endure solitude he is

always having terrible dreams and suffering from nightmares; and when you shout at him he has something

Azorka must have understood that the conversation was concerning him. He turned his head upwards and

grinned plaintively, as though to say, "Yes, at times I suffer unbearably, but please excuse it!"

It was an August night, there were stars, but it was dark. Owing to the fact that I had never in my life been in

such exceptional surroundings, as I had chanced to come into now, the starry night seemed to me gloomy,

inhospitable, and darker than it was in reality. I was on a railway line which was still in process of

construction. The high, halffinished embankment, the mounds of sand, clay, and rubble, the holes, the

wheelbarrows standing here and there, the flat tops of the mud huts in which the workmen lived all this

muddle, coloured to one tint by the darkness, gave the earth a strange, wild aspect that suggested the times of

chaos. There was so little order in all that lay before me that it was somehow strange in the midst of the

hideously excavated, grotesquelooking earth to see the silhouettes of human beings and the slender

telegraph posts. Both spoiled the ensemble of the picture, and seemed to belong to a different world. It was

still, and the only sound came from the telegraph wire droning its wearisome refrain somewhere very high

We climbed up on the embankment and from its height looked down upon the earth. A hundred yards away

where the pits, holes, and mounds melted into the darkness of the night, a dim light was twinkling. Beyond it

gleamed another light, beyond that a third, then a hundred paces away two red eyes glowed side by side

probably the windows of some hut and a long series of such lights, growing continually closer and

dimmer, stretched along the line to the very horizon, then turned in a semicircle to the left and disappeared in

the darkness of the distance. The lights were motionless. There seemed to be something in common between

them and the stillness of the night and the disconsolate song of the telegraph wire. It seemed as though some

weighty secret were buried under the embankment and only the lights, the night, and the wires knew of it.

"How glorious, O Lord!" sighed Ananyev; "such space and beauty that one can't tear oneself away! And what

an embankment! It's not an embankment, my dear fellow, but a regular Mont Blanc. It's costing millions. . . ."

Going into ecstasies over the lights and the embankment that was costing millions, intoxicated by the wine

and his sentimental mood, the engineer slapped Von Schtenberg on the shoulder and went on in a jocose tone:

"Well, Mihail Mihailitch, lost in reveries? No doubt it is pleasant to look at the work of one's own hands, eh?

Last year this very spot was bare steppe, not a sight of human life, and now look: life . . . civilisation. . . And

how splendid it all is, upon my soul! You and I are building a railway, and after we are gone, in another

century or two, good men will build a factory, a school, a hospital, and things will begin to move! Eh!"

The student stood motionless with his hands thrust in his pockets, and did not take his eyes off the lights. He

was not listening to the engineer, but was thinking, and was apparently in the mood in which one does not

want to speak or to listen. After a prolonged silence he turned to me and said quietly:

"Do you know what those endless lights are like? They make me think of something long dead, that lived

thousands of years ago, something like the camps of the Amalekites or the Philistines. It is as though some

people of the Old Testament had pitched their camp and were waiting for morning to fight with Saul or

David. All that is wanting to complete the illusion is the blare of trumpets and sentries calling to one another

And, as though of design, the wind fluttered over the line and brought a sound like the clank of weapons. A

silence followed. I don't know what the engineer and the student were thinking of, but it seemed to me

already that I actually saw before me something long dead and even heard the sentry talking in an unknown

tongue. My imagination hastened to picture the tents, the strange people, their clothes, their armour.

"Yes," muttered the student pensively, "once Philistines and Amalekites were living in this world, making

wars, playing their part, and now no trace of them remains. So it will be with us. Now we are making a

railway, are standing here philosophising, but two thousand years will pass and of this embankment and

of all those men, asleep after their hard work, not one grain of dust will remain. In reality, it's awful!"

"You must drop those thoughts . . ." said the engineer gravely and admonishingly.

"Because. . . . Thoughts like that are for the end of life, not for the beginning of it. You are too young for

"All these thoughts of the transitoriness, the insignificance and the aimlessness of life, of the inevitability of

death, of the shadows of the grave, and so on, all such lofty thoughts, I tell you, my dear fellow, are good and

natural in old age when they come as the product of years of inner travail, and are won by suffering and really

are intellectual riches; for a youthful brain on the threshold of real life they are simply a calamity! A

calamity!" Ananyev repeated with a wave of his hand. "To my mind it is better at your age to have no head

on your shoulders at all than to think on these lines. I am speaking seriously, Baron. And I have been

meaning to speak to you about it for a long time, for I noticed from the very first day of our acquaintance

"Good gracious, why are they damnable?" the student asked with a smile, and from his voice and his face I

could see that he asked the question from simple politeness, and that the discussion raised by the engineer did

I could hardly keep my eyes open. I was dreaming that immediately after our walk we should wish each other

goodnight and go to bed, but my dream was not quickly realised. When we had returned to the hut the

engineer put away the empty bottles and took out of a large wicker hamper two full ones, and uncorking

them, sat down to his worktable with the evident intention of going on drinking, talking, and working.

Sipping a little from his glass, he made pencil notes on some plans and went on pointing out to the student

that the latter's way of thinking was not what it should be. The student sat beside him checking accounts and

saying nothing. He, like me, had no inclination to speak or to listen. That I might not interfere with their

work, I sat away from the table on the engineer's crookedlegged travelling bedstead, feeling bored and

expecting every moment that they would suggest I should go to bed. It was going on for one o'clock.

Having nothing to do, I watched my new acquaintances. I had never seen Ananyev or the student before. I

had only made their acquaintance on the night I have described. Late in the evening I was returning on

horseback from a fair to the house of a landowner with whom I was staying, had got on the wrong road in the

dark and lost my way. Going round and round by the railway line and seeing how dark the night was

becoming, I thought of the "barefoot railway roughs," who lie in wait for travellers on foot and on horseback,

was frightened, and knocked at the first hut I came to. There I was cordially received by Ananyev and the

student. As is usually the case with strangers casually brought together, we quickly became acquainted, grew

friendly and at first over the tea and afterward over the wine, began to feel as though we had known each

other for years. At the end of an hour or so, I knew who they were and how fate had brought them from town

to the faraway steppe; and they knew who I was, what my occupation and my way of thinking.

Nikolay Anastasyevitch Ananyev, the engineer, was a broadshouldered, thickset man, and, judging from

his appearance, he had, like Othello, begun the "descent into the vale of years," and was growing rather too

stout. He was just at that stage which old matchmaking women mean when they speak of "a man in the

prime of his age," that is, he was neither young nor old, was fond of good fare, good liquor, and praising the

past, panted a little as he walked, snored loudly when he was asleep, and in his manner with those

surrounding him displayed that calm imperturbable good humour which is always acquired by decent people

by the time they have reached the grade of a staff officer and begun to grow stout. His hair and beard were far

from being grey, but already, with a condescension of which he was unconscious, he addressed young men as

"my dear boy" and felt himself entitled to lecture them goodhumouredly about their way of thinking. His

movements and his voice were calm, smooth, and selfconfident, as they are in a man who is thoroughly well

aware that he has got his feet firmly planted on the right road, that he has definite work, a secure living, a

settled outlook. . . . His sunburnt, thicknosed face and muscular neck seemed to say: "I am well fed, healthy,

satisfied with myself, and the time will come when you young people too, will be wellfed, healthy, and

satisfied with yourselves. . . ." He was dressed in a cotton shirt with the collar awry and in full linen trousers

thrust into his high boots. From certain trifles, as for instance, from his coloured worsted girdle, his

embroidered collar, and the patch on his elbow, I was able to guess that he was married and in all probability

Baron Von Schtenberg, a student of the Institute of Transport, was a young man of about three or four and

twenty. Only his fair hair and scanty beard, and, perhaps, a certain coarseness and frigidity in his features

showed traces of his descent from Barons of the Baltic provinces; everything else his name, Mihail

Mihailovitch, his religion, his ideas, his manners, and the expression of his face were purely Russian.

Wearing, like Ananyev, a cotton shirt and high boots, with his round shoulders, his hair left uncut, and his

sunburnt face, he did not look like a student or a Baron, but like an ordinary Russian workman. His words

and gestures were few, he drank reluctantly without relish, checked the accounts mechanically, and seemed

all the while to be thinking of something else. His movements and voice were calm, and smooth too, but his

calmness was of a different kind from the engineer's. His sunburnt, slightly ironical, dreamy face, his eyes

which looked up from under his brows, and his whole figure were expressive of spiritual stagnation

mental sloth. He looked as though it did not matter to him in the least whether the light were burning before

him or not, whether the wine were nice or nasty, and whether the accounts he was checking were correct or

not. . . . And on his intelligent, calm face I read: "I don't see so far any good in definite work, a secure living,

and a settled outlook. It's all nonsense. I was in Petersburg, now I am sitting here in this hut, in the autumn I

shall go back to Petersburg, then in the spring here again. . . . What sense there is in all that I don't know, and

He listened to the engineer without interest, with the condescending indifference with which cadets in the

senior classes listen to an effusive and goodnatured old attendant. It seemed as though there were nothing

new to him in what the engineer said, and that if he had not himself been too lazy to talk, he would have said

something newer and cleverer. Meanwhile Ananyev would not desist. He had by now laid aside his

goodhumoured, jocose tone and spoke seriously, even with a fervour which was quite out of keeping with

his expression of calmness. Apparently he had no distaste for abstract subjects, was fond of them, indeed, but

had neither skill nor practice in the handling of them. And this lack of practice was so pronounced in his talk

"I hate those ideas with all my heart!" he said, "I was infected by them myself in my youth, I have not quite

got rid of them even now, and I tell you perhaps because I am stupid and such thoughts were not the right

food for my mind they did me nothing but harm. That's easy to understand! Thoughts of the aimlessness

of life, of the insignificance and transitoriness of the visible world, Solomon's 'vanity of vanities' have been,

and are to this day, the highest and final stage in the realm of thought. The thinker reaches that stage and

comes to a halt! There is nowhere further to go. The activity of the normal brain is completed with this, and

that is natural and in the order of things. Our misfortune is that we begin thinking at that end. What normal

people end with we begin with. From the first start, as soon as the brain begins working independently, we

mount to the very topmost, final step and refuse to know anything about the steps below."

"But you must understand that it's abnormal," shouted Ananyev, looking at him almost wrathfully. "If we find

means of mounting to the topmost step without the help of the lower ones, then the whole long ladder, that is

the whole of life, with its colours, sounds, and thoughts, loses all meaning for us. That at your age such

reflections are harmful and absurd, you can see from every step of your rational independent life. Let us

suppose you sit down this minute to read Darwin or Shakespeare, you have scarcely read a page before the

poison shows itself; and your long life, and Shakespeare, and Darwin, seem to you nonsense, absurdity,

because you know you will die, that Shakespeare and Darwin have died too, that their thoughts have not

saved them, nor the earth, nor you, and that if life is deprived of meaning in that way, all science, poetry, and

exalted thoughts seem only useless diversions, the idle playthings of grown up people; and you leave off

reading at the second page. Now, let us suppose that people come to you as an intelligent man and ask your

opinion about war, for instance: whether it is desirable, whether it is morally justifiable or not. In answer to

that terrible question you merely shrug your shoulders and confine yourself to some commonplace, because

for you, with your way of thinking, it makes absolutely no difference whether hundreds of thousands of

people die a violent death, or a natural one: the results are the same ashes and oblivion. You and I are

building a railway line. What's the use, one may ask, of our worrying our heads, inventing, rising above the

hackneyed thing, feeling for the workmen, stealing or not stealing, when we know that this railway line will

turn to dust within two thousand years, and so on, and so on. . . . You must admit that with such a disastrous

way of looking at things there can be no progress, no science, no art, nor even thought itself. We fancy that

we are cleverer than the crowd, and than Shakespeare. In reality our thinking leads to nothing because we

have no inclination to go down to the lower steps and there is nowhere higher to go, so our brain stands at the

freezing point neither up nor down; I was in bondage to these ideas for six years, and by all that is holy, I

never read a sensible book all that time, did not gain a ha'porth of wisdom, and did not raise my moral

standard an inch. Was not that disastrous? Moreover, besides being corrupted ourselves, we bring poison into

the lives of those surrounding us. It would be all right if, with our pessimism, we renounced life, went to live

in a cave, or made haste to die, but, as it is, in obedience to the universal law, we live, feel, love women,

"Ah! there you are again! do stop it! You have not yet had a good sniff at life. But when you have lived as

long as I have you will know a thing or two! Our theory of life is not so innocent as you suppose. In practical

life, in contact with human beings, it leads to nothing but horrors and follies. It has been my lot to pass

"For instance, take this example. More correctly, it is not an example, but a regular drama, with a plot and a

He poured out wine for himself and us, emptied his glass, stroked his broad chest with his open hands, and

"It was in the year 187, soon after the war, and when I had just left the University. I was going to the

Caucasus, and on the way stopped for five days in the seaside town of N. I must tell you that I was born and

grew up in that town, and so there is nothing odd in my thinking N. extraordinarily snug, cosy, and beautiful,

though for a man from Petersburg or Moscow, life in it would be as dreary and comfortless as in any

Tchuhloma or Kashira. With melancholy I passed by the high school where I had been a pupil; with

melancholy I walked about the very familiar park, I made a melancholy attempt to get a nearer look at people

"Among other things, I drove out one evening to the socalled Quarantine. It was a small mangy copse in

which, at some forgotten time of plague, there really had been a quarantine station, and which was now the

resort of summer visitors. It was a drive of three miles from the town along a good soft road. As one drove

along one saw on the left the blue sea, on the right the unending gloomy steppe; there was plenty of air to

breathe, and wide views for the eyes to rest on. The copse itself lay on the seashore. Dismissing my cabman, I

went in at the familiar gates and first turned along an avenue leading to a little stone summerhouse which I

had been fond of in my childhood. In my opinion that round, heavy summerhouse on its clumsy columns,

which combined the romantic charm of an old tomb with the ungainliness of a Sobakevitch,* was the most

poetical nook in the whole town. It stood at the edge above the cliff, and from it there was a splendid view of

"I sat down on the seat, and, bending over the parapet, looked down. A path ran from the summerhouse

along the steep, almost overhanging cliff, between the lumps of clay and tussocks of burdock. Where it

ended, far below on the sandy shore, low waves were languidly foaming and softly purring. The sea was as

majestic, as infinite, and as forbidding as seven years before when I left the high school and went from my

native town to the capital; in the distance there was a dark streak of smoke a steamer was passing and

except for this hardly visible and motionless streak and the seaswallows that flitted over the water, there was

nothing to give life to the monotonous view of sea and sky. To right and left of the summerhouse stretched

"You know that when a man in a melancholy mood is left t�te�t�te with the sea, or any landscape which

seems to him grandiose, there is always, for some reason, mixed with melancholy, a conviction that he will

live and die in obscurity, and he reflectively snatches up a pencil and hastens to write his name on the first

thing that comes handy. And that, I suppose, is why all convenient solitary nooks like my summerhouse are

always scrawled over in pencil or carved with penknives. I remember as though it were today; looking at the

parapet I read: 'Ivan Korolkov, May 16, 1876.' Beside Korolkov some local dreamer had scribbled freely,

" 'He stood on the desolate ocean's strand, While his soul was filled with imaginings grand.'

And his handwriting was dreamy, limp like wet silk. An individual called Kross, probably an insignificant,

little man, felt his unimportance so deeply that he gave full licence to his penknife and carved his name in

deep letters an inch high. I took a pencil out of my pocket mechanically, and I too scribbled on one of the

columns. All that is irrelevant, however. . . You must forgive me I don't know how to tell a story briefly.

"I was sad and a little bored. Boredom, the stillness, and the purring of the sea gradually brought me to the

line of thought we have been discussing. At that period, towards the end of the 'seventies, it had begun to be

fashionable with the public, and later, at the beginning of the 'eighties, it gradually passed from the general

public into literature, science, and politics. I was no more than twentysix at the time, but I knew perfectly

well that life was aimless and had no meaning, that everything was a deception and an illusion, that in its

essential nature and results a life of penal servitude in Sahalin was not in any way different from a life spent

in Nice, that the difference between the brain of a Kant and the brain of a fly was of no real significance, that

no one in this world is righteous or guilty, that everything was stuff and nonsense and damn it all! I lived as

though I were doing a favour to some unseen power which compelled me to live, and to which I seemed to

say: 'Look, I don't care a straw for life, but I am living!' I thought on one definite line, but in all sorts of keys,

and in that respect I was like the subtle gourmand who could prepare a hundred appetising dishes from

nothing but potatoes. There is no doubt that I was onesided and even to some extent narrow, but I fancied at

the time that my intellectual horizon had neither beginning nor end, and that my thought was as boundless as

the sea. Well, as far as I can judge by myself, the philosophy of which we are speaking has something

alluring, narcotic in its nature, like tobacco or morphia. It becomes a habit, a craving. You take advantage of

every minute of solitude to gloat over thoughts of the aimlessness of life and the darkness of the grave. While

I was sitting in the summerhouse, Greek children with long noses were decorously walking about the

avenues. I took advantage of the occasion and, looking at them, began reflecting in this style:

"'Why are these children born, and what are they living for? Is there any sort of meaning in their existence?

They grow up, without themselves knowing what for; they will live in this Godforsaken, comfortless hole

"And I actually felt vexed with those children because they were walking about decorously and talking with

dignity, as though they did not hold their little colourless lives so cheap and knew what they were living for. .

. . I remember that far away at the end of an avenue three feminine figures came into sight. Three young

ladies, one in a pink dress, two in white, were walking arminarm, talking and laughing. Looking after

" 'It wouldn't be bad to have an affair with some woman for a couple of days in this dull place.'

"I recalled by the way that it was three weeks since I had visited my Petersburg lady, and thought that a

passing love affair would come in very appropriately for me just now. The young lady in white in the middle

was rather younger and better looking than her companions, and judging by her manners and her laugh, she

was a highschool girl in an upper form. I looked, not without impure thoughts, at her bust, and at the same

time reflected about her: 'She will be trained in music and manners, she will be married to some Greek

God help us! will lead a grey, stupid, comfortless life, will bring into the world a crowd of children

"I must say that as a rule I was a great hand at combining my lofty ideas with the lowest prose.

Thoughts of the darkness of the grave did not prevent me from giving busts and legs their full due. Our dear

Baron's exalted ideas do not prevent him from going on Saturdays to Vukolovka on amatory expeditions. To

tell the honest truth, as far as I remember, my attitude to women was most insulting. Now, when I think of

that highschool girl, I blush for my thoughts then, but at the time my conscience was perfectly untroubled. I,

the son of honourable parents, a Christian, who had received a superior education, not naturally wicked or

stupid, felt not the slightest uneasiness when I paid women Blutgeld, as the Germans call it, or when I

followed highschool girls with insulting looks. . . . The trouble is that youth makes its demands, and our

philosophy has nothing in principle against those demands, whether they are good or whether they are

loathsome. One who knows that life is aimless and death inevitable is not interested in the struggle against

nature or the conception of sin: whether you struggle or whether you don't, you will die and rot just the same.

. . . Secondly, my friends, our philosophy instils even into very young people what is called reasonableness.

The predominance of reason over the heart is simply overwhelming amongst us. Direct feeling, inspiration

everything is choked by petty analysis. Where there is reasonableness there is coldness, and cold people

it's no use to disguise it know nothing of chastity. That virtue is only known to those who are warm,

affectionate, and capable of love. Thirdly, our philosophy denies the significance of each individual

personality. It's easy to see that if I deny the personality of some Natalya Stepanovna, it's absolutely nothing

to me whether she is insulted or not. Today one insults her dignity as a human being and pays her Blutgeld,

"So I sat in the summerhouse and watched the young ladies. Another woman's figure appeared in the

avenue, with fair hair, her head uncovered and a white knitted shawl on her shoulders. She walked along the

avenue, then came into the summerhouse, and taking hold of the parapet, looked indifferently below and

into the distance over the sea. As she came in she paid no attention to me, as though she did not notice me. I

scrutinised her from foot to head (not from head to foot, as one scrutinises men) and found that she was

young, not more than fiveandtwenty, nicelooking, with a good figure, in all probability married and

belonging to the class of respectable women. She was dressed as though she were at home, but fashionably

" 'This one would do nicely,' I thought, looking at her handsome figure and her arms; 'she is all right. . . . She

"But to make up to her that is, to make her the heroine of one of those impromptu affairs to which tourists

are so prone was not easy and, indeed, hardly possible. I felt that as I gazed at her face. The way she

looked, and the expression of her face, suggested that the sea, the smoke in the distance, and the sky had

bored her long, long ago, and wearied her sight. She seemed to be tired, bored, and thinking about something

dreary, and her face had not even that fussy, affectedly indifferent expression which one sees in the face of

almost every woman when she is conscious of the presence of an unknown man in her vicinity.

"The fairhaired lady took a bored and passing glance at me, sat down on a seat and sank into reverie, and

from her face I saw that she had no thoughts for me, and that I, with my Petersburg appearance, did not

arouse in her even simple curiosity. But yet I made up my mind to speak to her, and asked: 'Madam, allow me

"I thanked her. She glanced at me once or twice, and suddenly there was a gleam of curiosity, then of

something like wonder on her passionless face. . . . I made haste to assume an indifferent expression and to

fall into a suitable attitude; she was catching on! She suddenly jumped up from the seat, as though something

"I was a little confused. I looked intently at her, and would you believe it? I recognised her not from

her face nor her figure, but from her gentle, weary smile. It was Natalya Stepanovna, or, as she was called,

Kisotchka, the very girl I had been head over ears in love with seven or eight years before, when I was

wearing the uniform of a highschool boy. The doings of far, vanished days, the days of long ago. . . . I

remember this Kisotchka, a thin little highschool girl of fifteen or sixteen, when she was something just for

a schoolboy's taste, created by nature especially for Platonic love. What a charming little girl she was! Pale,

fragile, light she looked as though a breath would send her flying like a feather to the skies a gentle,

perplexed face, little hands, soft long hair to her belt, a waist as thin as a wasp's altogether something

ethereal, transparent like moonlight in fact, from the point of view of a highschool boy a peerless beauty.

. . . Wasn't I in love with her! I did not sleep at night. I wrote verses. . . . Sometimes in the evenings she

would sit on a seat in the park while we schoolboys crowded round her, gazing reverently; in response to our

compliments, our sighing, and attitudinising, she would shrink nervously from the evening damp, screw up

her eyes, and smile gently, and at such times she was awfully like a pretty little kitten. As we gazed at her

every one of us had a desire to caress her and stroke her like a cat, hence her nickname of Kisotchka.

"In the course of the seven or eight years since we had met, Kisotchka had greatly changed. She had grown

more robust and stouter, and had quite lost the resemblance to a soft, fluffy kitten. It was not that her features

looked old or faded, but they had somehow lost their brilliance and looked sterner, her hair seemed shorter,

she looked taller, and her shoulders were quite twice as broad, and what was most striking, there was already

in her face the expression of motherliness and resignation commonly seen in respectable women of her age,

and this, of course, I had never seen in her before. . . . In short, of the schoolgirlish and the Platonic her face

"We got into conversation. Learning that I was already an engineer, Kisotchka was immensely delighted.

" 'How good that is!' she said, looking joyfully into my face. 'Ah, how good! And how splendid you all are!

Of all who left with you, not one has been a failure they have all turned out well. One an engineer, another

a doctor, a third a teacher, another, they say, is a celebrated singer in Petersburg. . . . You are all splendid, all

"Kisotchka's eyes shone with genuine goodwill and gladness. She was admiring me like an elder sister or a

former governess. 'While I looked at her sweet face and thought, 'It wouldn't be bad to get hold of her

" 'Do you remember, Natalya Stepanovna,' I asked her, 'how I once brought you in the park a bouquet with a

note in it? You read my note, and such a look of bewilderment came into your face. . . .'

" 'No, I don't remember that,' she said, laughing. 'But I remember how you wanted to challenge Florens to a

" 'Well, that's all over and done with . . .' sighed Kisotchka. 'At one time I was your idol, and now it is my

"From further conversation I learned that two years after leaving the high school, Kisotchka had been married

to a resident in the town who was half Greek, half Russian, had a post either in the bank or in the insurance

society, and also carried on a trade in corn. He had a strange surname, something in the style of Populaki or

Skarandopulo. . . . Goodness only knows I have forgotten. . . . As a matter of fact, Kisotchka spoke little

and with reluctance about herself. The conversation was only about me. She asked me about the College of

Engineering, about my comrades, about Petersburg, about my plans, and everything I said moved her to eager

"We went down to the sea and walked over the sands; then when the night air began to blow chill and damp

from the sea we climbed up again. All the while our talk was of me and of the past. We walked about until

the reflection of the sunset had died away from the windows of the summer villas.

" 'Come in and have some tea,' Kisotchka suggested. 'The samovar must have been on the table long ago. . . .

I am alone at home,' she said, as her villa came into sight through the green of the acacias. 'My husband is

always in the town and only comes home at night, and not always then, and I must own that I am so dull that

"I followed her in, admiring her back and shoulders. I was glad that she was married. Married women are

better material for temporary love affairs than girls. I was also pleased that her husband was not at home. At

"We went into the house. The rooms were smallish and had low ceilings, and the furniture was typical of the

summer villa (Russians like having at their summer villas uncomfortable heavy, dingy furniture which they

are sorry to throw away and have nowhere to put), but from certain details I could observe that Kisotchka and

her husband were not badly off, and must be spending five or six thousand roubles a year. I remember that in

the middle of the room which Kisotchka called the diningroom there was a round table, supported for some

reason on six legs, and on it a samovar and cups. At the edge of the table lay an open book, a pencil, and an

exercise book. I glanced at the book and recognised it as 'Malinin and Burenin's Arithmetical Examples.' It

" 'Nobody,' she answered. 'I am just doing some. . . . I have nothing to do, and am so bored that I think of the

"We began drinking tea. Admiring me, Kisotchka said again how good it was that I was an engineer, and how

glad she was of my success. And the more she talked and the more genuinely she smiled, the stronger was my

conviction that I should go away without having gained my object. I was a connoisseur in love affairs in

those days, and could accurately gauge my chances of success. You can boldly reckon on success if you are

tracking down a fool or a woman as much on the look out for new experiences and sensations as yourself, or

an adventuress to whom you are a stranger. If you come across a sensible and serious woman, whose face has

an expression of weary submission and goodwill, who is genuinely delighted at your presence, and, above all,

respects you, you may as well turn back. To succeed in that case needs longer than one day.

"And by evening light Kisotchka seemed even more charming than by day. She attracted me more and more,

and apparently she liked me too, and the surroundings were most appropriate: the husband not at home, no

servants visible, stillness around. . . . Though I had little confidence in success, I made up my mind to begin

the attack anyway. First of all it was necessary to get into a familiar tone and to change Kisotchka's lyrically

" 'Let us change the conversation, Natalya Stepanovna,' I began. 'Let us talk of something amusing. First of

" 'Tell me, please, Kisotchka,' I went on, 'what is the matter with all the fair sex here. What has happened to

them? In old days they were all so moral and virtuous, and now, upon my word, if one asks about anyone,

one is told such things that one is quite shocked at human nature. . . . One young lady has eloped with an

officer; another has run away and carried off a highschool boy with her; another a married woman

has run away from her husband with an actor; a fourth has left her husband and gone off with an officer, and

so on and so on. It's a regular epidemic! If it goes on like this there won't be a girl or a young woman left in

"I spoke in a vulgar, playful tone. If Kisotchka had laughed in response I should have gone on in this style:

'You had better look out, Kisotchka, or some officer or actor will be carrying you off!' She would have

dropped her eyes and said: 'As though anyone would care to carry me off; there are plenty younger and better

looking. . . .' And I should have said: 'Nonsense, Kisotchka I for one should be delighted!' And so on in

that style, and it would all have gone swimmingly. But Kisotchka did not laugh in response; on the contrary,

" 'All you have been told is true,' she said. 'My cousin Sonya ran away from her husband with an actor. Of

course, it is wrong. . . . Everyone ought to bear the lot that fate has laid on him, but I do not condemn them or

" 'That is so, Kisotchka, but what circumstances can produce a regular epidemic?'

" 'It's very simple and easy to understand,' replied Kisotchka, raising her eyebrows. 'There is absolutely

nothing for us educated girls and women to do with ourselves. Not everyone is able to go to the University, to

become a teacher, to live for ideas, in fact, as men do. They have to be married. . . . And whom would you

have them marry? You boys leave the highschool and go away to the University, never to return to your

native town again, and you marry in Petersburg or Moscow, while the girls remain. . . . To whom are they to

be married? Why, in the absence of decent cultured men, goodness knows what sort of men they marry

stockbrokers and such people of all kinds, who can do nothing but drink and get into rows at the club. . . . A

girl married like that, at random. . . . And what is her life like afterwards? You can understand: a

welleducated, cultured woman is living with a stupid, boorish man; if she meets a cultivated man, an officer,

an actor, or a doctor well, she gets to love him, her life becomes unbearable to her, and she runs away

" 'Yes, of course,' said Kisotchka with a sigh, 'but you know every girl fancies that any husband is better than

nothing. . . . Altogether life is horrid here, Nikolay Anastasyevitch, very horrid! Life is stifling for a girl and

stifling when one is married. . . . Here they laugh at Sonya for having run away from her husband, but if they

Azorka began barking outside again. He growled angrily at some one, then howled miserably and dashed

with all his force against the wall of the hut. . . . Ananyev's face was puckered with pity; he broke off his

story and went out. For two minutes he could be heard outside comforting his dog. "Good dog! poor dog!"

"Our Nikolay Anastasyevitch is fond of talking," said Von Schtenberg, laughing. "He is a good fellow," he

Returning to the hut, the engineer filled up our glasses and, smiling and stroking his chest, went on:

"And so my attack was unsuccessful. There was nothing for it, I put off my unclean thoughts to a more

favourable occasion, resigned myself to my failure and, as the saying is, waved my hand. What is more,

under the influence of Kisotchka's voice, the evening air, and the stillness, I gradually myself fell into a quiet

sentimental mood. I remember I sat in an easy chair by the wideopen window and glanced at the trees and

darkened sky. The outlines of the acacias and the lime trees were just the same as they had been eight years

before; just as then, in the days of my childhood, somewhere far away there was the tinkling of a wretched

piano, and the public had just the same habit of sauntering to and fro along the avenues, but the people were

not the same. Along the avenues there walked now not my comrades and I and the object of my adoration,

but schoolboys and young ladies who were strangers. And I felt melancholy. When to my inquiries about

acquaintances I five times received from Kisotchka the answer, 'He is dead,' my melancholy changed into the

feeling one has at the funeral service of a good man. And sitting there at the window, looking at the

promenading public and listening to the tinkling piano, I saw with my own eyes for the first time in my life

with what eagerness one generation hastens to replace another, and what a momentous significance even

"Kisotchka put a bottle of red wine on the table. I drank it off, grew sentimental, and began telling a long

story about something or other. Kisotchka listened as before, admiring me and my cleverness. And time

passed. The sky was by now so dark that the outlines of the acacias and lime trees melted into one, the public

was no longer walking up and down the avenues, the piano was silent and the only sound was the even

"Young people are all alike. Be friendly to a young man, make much of him, regale him with wine, let him

understand that he is attractive and he will sit on and on, forget that it is time to go, and talk and talk and talk.

. . . His hosts cannot keep their eyes open, it's past their bedtime, and he still stays and talks. That was what I

did. Once I chanced to look at the clock; it was halfpast ten. I began saying goodbye.

"I took another glass, again I began talking at length, forgot it was time to go, and sat down. Then there came

"The door creaked, two voices came now from the passage and I saw two men pass the door that led into the

diningroom: one a stout, solid, dark man with a hooked nose, wearing a straw hat, and the other a young

officer in a white tunic. As they passed the door they both glanced casually and indifferently at Kisotchka and

" 'She told you a lie then, and you believed her!' we heard a loud voice with a marked nasal twang say a

" 'You are angry, Jupiter, so you are wrong . . . .' said another voice, obviously the officer's, laughing and

coughing. 'I say, can I stay the night? Tell me honestly, shall I be in your way?'

" 'What a question! Not only you can, but you must. What will you have, beer or wine?'

"They were sitting two rooms away from us, talking loudly, and apparently feeling no interest in Kisotchka or

her visitor. A perceptible change came over Kisotchka on her husband's arrival. At first she flushed red, then

her face wore a timid, guilty expression; she seemed to be troubled by some anxiety, and I began to fancy that

"I began taking leave. Kisotchka saw me to the front door. I remember well her gentle mournful smile and

" 'Most likely we shall never see each other again. Well, God give you every blessing. Thank you!'

"Not one sigh, not one fine phrase. As she said goodbye she was holding the candle in her hand; patches of

light danced over her face and neck, as though chasing her mournful smile. I pictured to myself the old

Kisotchka whom one used to want to stroke like a cat, I looked intently at the present Kisotchka, and for

some reason recalled her words: 'Everyone ought to bear the lot that fate has laid on him.' And I had a pang at

my heart. I instinctively guessed how it was, and my conscience whispered to me that I, in my happiness and

indifference, was face to face with a good, warmhearted, loving creature, who was broken by suffering.

"I said goodbye and went to the gate. By now it was quite dark. In the south the evenings draw in early in

July and it gets dark rapidly. Towards ten o'clock it is so dark that you can't see an inch before your nose. I

lighted a couple of dozen matches before, almost groping, I found my way to the gate.

" 'Cab!' I shouted, going out of the gate; not a sound, not a sigh in answer. . . . 'Cab,' I repeated, 'hey, Cab!'

"But there was no cab of any description. The silence of the grave. I could hear nothing but the murmur of the

drowsy sea and the beating of my heart from the wine. Lifting my eyes to the sky I found not a single star. It

was dark and sullen. Evidently the sky was covered with clouds. For some reason I shrugged my shoulders,

"The echo answered me. A walk of three miles across open country and in the pitch dark was not an

agreeable prospect. Before making up my mind to walk, I spent a long time deliberating and shouting for a

cab; then, shrugging my shoulders, I walked lazily back to the copse, with no definite object in my mind. It

was dreadfully dark in the copse. Here and there between the trees the windows of the summer villas glowed

a dull red. A raven, disturbed by my steps and the matches with which I lighted my way to the

summerhouse, flew from tree to tree and rustled among the leaves. I felt vexed and ashamed, and the raven

seemed to understand this, and croaked 'krrra!' I was vexed that I had to walk, and ashamed that I had stayed

"I made my way to the summerhouse, felt for the seat and sat down. Far below me, behind a veil of thick

darkness, the sea kept up a low angry growl. I remember that, as though I were blind, I could see neither sky

nor sea, nor even the summerhouse in which I was sitting. And it seemed to me as though the whole world

consisted only of the thoughts that were straying through my head, dizzy from the wine, and of an unseen

power murmuring monotonously somewhere below. And afterwards, as I sank into a doze, it began to seem

that it was not the sea murmuring, but my thoughts, and that the whole world consisted of nothing but me.

And concentrating the whole world in myself in this way, I thought no more of cabs, of the town, and of

Kisotchka, and abandoned myself to the sensation I was so fond of: that is, the sensation of fearful isolation

when you feel that in the whole universe, dark and formless, you alone exist. It is a proud, demoniac

sensation, only possible to Russians whose thoughts and sensations are as large, boundless, and gloomy as

their plains, their forests, and their snow. If I had been an artist I should certainly have depicted the

expression of a Russian's face when he sits motionless and, with his legs under him and his head clasped in

his hands, abandons himself to this sensation. . . . And together with this sensation come thoughts of the

aimlessness of life, of death, and of the darkness of the grave. . . . The thoughts are not worth a brass farthing,

"While I was sitting and dozing, unable to bring myself to get up I was warm and comfortable all at

once, against the even monotonous murmur of the sea, as though upon a canvas, sounds began to grow

distinct which drew my attention from myself. . . . Someone was coming hurriedly along the avenue.

Reaching the summerhouse this someone stopped, gave a sob like a little girl, and said in the voice of a

"Judging from the voice and the weeping I took it to be a little girl of ten or twelve. She walked irresolutely

into the summerhouse, sat down, and began halfpraying, halfcomplaining aloud. . . .

" 'Merciful God!' she said, crying, 'it's unbearable. It's beyond all endurance! I suffer in silence, but I want to

"I wanted to look at the child and speak to her. So as not to frighten her I first gave a loud sigh and coughed,

then cautiously struck a match. . . . There was a flash of bright light in the darkness, which lighted up the

"Marvels upon marvels!" said Von Schtenberg with a sigh. "Black night, the murmur of the sea; she in grief,

he with a sensation of world solitude. . . . It's too much of a good thing. . . . You only want Circassians

"Well, even if it is a fact . . . it all proves nothing, and there is nothing new in it. . . ."

"Wait a little before you find fault! Let me finish," said Ananyev, waving his hand with vexation; "don't

interfere, please! I am not telling you, but the doctor. . . . Well," he went on, addressing me and glancing

askance at the student who bent over his books and seemed very well satisfied at having gibed at the engineer

"well, Kisotchka was not surprised or frightened at seeing me. It seemed as though she had known

beforehand that she would find me in the summerhouse. She was breathing in gasps and trembling all over

as though in a fever, while her tearstained face, so far as I could distinguish it as I struck match after match,

was not the intelligent, submissive weary face I had seen before, but something different, which I cannot

understand to this day. It did not express pain, nor anxiety, nor misery nothing of what was expressed by

her words and her tears. . . . I must own that, probably because I did not understand it, it looked to me

" 'I can't bear it,' muttered Kisotchka in the voice of a crying child. 'It's too much for me, Nikolay

Anastasyitch. Forgive me, Nikolav Anastasyitch. I can't go on living like this. . . . I am going to the town to

"In the presence of tears I can neither speak nor be silent. I was flustered and muttered some nonsense. trying

" 'No, no; I will go to my mother's,' said Kisotchka resolutely, getting up and clutching my arm convulsively

(her hands and her sleeves were wet with tears). 'Forgive me, Nikolay Anastasyitch, I am going. . . . I can

"I was embarrassed, but not touched. Kisotchka's tears, her trembling, and the blank expression of her face

suggested to me a trivial, French or Little Russian melodrama, in which every ounce of cheap shallow feeling

I didn t understand her, and knew I did not understand her; I ought to have been silent, but for some reason,

most likely for fear my silence might be taken for stupidity, I thought fit to try to persuade her not to go to her

mother's, but to stay at home. When people cry, they don't like their tears to be seen. And I lighted match

after match and went on striking till the box was empty. What I wanted with this ungenerous illumination, I

can't conceive to this day. Coldhearted people are apt to be awkward, and even stupid.

"In the end Kisotchka took my arm and we set off. Going out of the gate, we turned to the right and sauntered

slowly along the soft dusty road. It was dark. As my eyes grew gradually accustomed to the darkness, I began

to distinguish the silhouettes of the old gaunt oaks and lime trees which bordered the road. The jagged,

precipitous cliffs, intersected here and there by deep, narrow ravines and creeks, soon showed indistinctly, a

black streak on the right. Low bushes nestled by the hollows, looking like sitting figures. It was uncanny. I

looked sideways suspiciously at the cliffs, and the murmur of the sea and the stillness of the country alarmed

my imagination. Kisotchka did not speak. She was still trembling, and before she had gone half a mile she

"Threequarters of a mile from the Quarantine Station there was a deserted building of four storeys, with a

very high chimney in which there had once been a steam flour mill. It stood solitary on the cliff, and by day it

could be seen for a long distance, both by sea and by land. Because it was deserted and no one lived in it, and

because there was an echo in it which distinctly repeated the steps and voices of passersby, it seemed

mysterious. Picture me in the dark night arminarm with a woman who was running away from her husband

near this tall long monster which repeated the sound of every step I took and stared at me fixedly with its

hundred black windows. A normal young man would have been moved to romantic feelings in such

surroundings, but I looked at the dark windows and thought: 'All this is very impressive, but time will come

when of that building and of Kisntchka and her troubles and of me with my thoughts, not one grain of dust

"When we reached the flour mill Kisotchka suddenly stopped, took her arm out of mine, and said, no longer

" 'Nikolay Anastasvitch, I know all this seems strange to you. But I am terribly unhappy! And you cannot

even imagine how unhappy! It's impossible to imagine it! I don't tell you about it because one can't talk about

"Kisotchka did not finish. She clenched her teeth and moaned as though she were doing her utmost not to

" 'Such a life!' she repeated with horror, with the cadence and the southern, rather Ukrainian accent which

particularly in women gives to emotional speech the effect of singing. 'It is a life! Ah, my God, my God!

"As though trying to solve the riddle of her fate, she shrugged her shoulders in perplexity, shook her head,

and clasped her hands. She spoke as though she were singing, moved gracefully, and reminded me of a

" 'Great God, it is as though I were in a pit,' she went on. 'If one could live for one minute in happiness as

other people live! Oh, my God, my God! I have come to such disgrace that before a stranger I am running

away from my husband by night, like some disreputable creature! Can I expect anything good after that?'

"As I admired her movements and her voice, I began to feel annoyed that she was not on good terms with her

husband. 'It would be nice to have got on into relations with her!' flitted through my mind; and this pitiless

thought stayed in my brain, haunted me all the way and grew more and more alluring.

"About a mile from the flour mill we had to turn to the left by the cemetery. At the turning by the corner of

the cemetery there stood a stone windmill, and by it a little hut in which the miller lived. We passed the mill

and the hut, turned to the left and reached the gates of the cemetery. There Kisotchka stopped and said:

" 'I am going back, Nikolay Anastasyitch! You go home, and God bless you, but I am going back. I am not

" 'Well, what next!' I said, disconcerted. 'If you are going, you had better go!'

" 'I have been too hasty. . . . It was all about nothing that mattered. You and your talk took me back to the

past and put all sort of ideas into my head. . . . I was sad and wanted to cry, and my husband said rude things

to me before that officer, and I could not bear it. . . . And what's the good of my going to the town to my

mother's? Will that make me any happier? I must go back. . . . But never mind . . . let us go on,' said

"I remembered that over the gate of the cemetery there was an inscription: 'The hour will come wherein all

they that lie in the grave will hear the voice of the Son of God.' I knew very well that sooner of later I and

Kisotchka and her husband and the officer in the white tunic would lie under the dark trees in the churchyard;

I knew that an unhappy and insulted fellowcreature was walking beside me. All this I recognised distinctly,

but at the same time I was troubled by an oppressive and unpleasant dread that Kisotchka would turn back,

and that I should not manage to say to her what had to be said. Never at any other time in my life have

thoughts of a higher order been so closely interwoven with the basest animal prose as on that night. . . . It was

"Not far from the cemetery we found a cab. When we reached the High Street, where Kisotchka's mother

lived, we dismissed the cab and walked along the pavement. Kisotchka was silent all the while, while I

looked at her, and I raged at myself, 'Why don't you begin? Now's the time!' About twenty paces from the

hotel where I was staying, Kisotchka stopped by the lamppost and burst into tears.

" 'Nikolay Anastasyitch!' she said, crying and laughing and looking at me with wet shining eyes, 'I shall never

forget your sympathy. . . . How good you are! All of you are so splendid all of you! Honest,

"She saw in me a highly educated man, advanced in every sense of the word, and on her tearstained

laughing face, together with the emotion and enthusiasm aroused by my personality, there was clearly written

regret that she so rarely saw such people, and that God had not vouchsafed her the bliss of being the wife of

one of them. She muttered, 'Ah, how splendid it is!' The childish gladness on her face, the tears, the gentle

smile, the soft hair, which had escaped from under the kerchief, and the kerchief itself thrown carelessly over

her head, in the light of the street lamp reminded me of the old Kisotchka whom one had wanted to stroke

"I could not restrain myself, and began stroking her hair, her shoulders, and her hands.

" 'Kisotchka, what do you want?' I muttered. 'I'll go to the ends of the earth with you if you like! I will take

you out of this hole and give you happiness. I love you. . . . Let us go, my sweet? Yes? Will you?'

"Kisotchka's face was flooded with bewilderment. She stepped back from the street lamp and, completely

overwhelmed, gazed at me with wideopen eyes. I gripped her by the arm, began showering kisses on her

face, her neck, her shoulders, and went on making vows and promises. In love affairs vows and promises are

almost a physiological necessity. There's no getting on without them. Sometimes you know you are lying and

that promises are not necessary, but still you vow and protest. Kisotchka, utterly overwhelmed, kept

"I clasped her tightly in my arms. All at once she broke into hysterical tears. And her face had the same

senseless blank expression that I had seen in the summerhouse when I lighted the matches. Without asking

her consent, preventing her from speaking, I dragged her forcibly towards my hotel. She seemed almost

swooning and did not walk, but I took her under the arms and almost carried her. . . . I remember, as we were

going up the stairs, some man with a red band in his cap looked wonderingly at me and bowed to Kisotchka. .

Ananvev flushed crimson and paused. He walked up and down near the table in silence, scratched the back of

his head with an air of vexation, and several times shrugged his shoulders and twitched his shoulderblades,

while a shiver ran down his huge back. The memory was painful and made him ashamed, and he was

"It's horrible!" he said, draining a glass of wine and shaking his head. "I am told that in every introductory

lecture on women's diseases the medical students are admonished to remember that each one of them has a

mother, a sister, a fianc�e, before undressing and examining a female patient. . . . That advice would be very

good not only for medical students but for everyone who in one way or another has to deal with a woman's

life. Now that I have a wife and a little daughter, oh, how well I understand that advice! How I understand it,

my God! You may as well hear the rest, though. . . . As soon as she had become my mistress, Kisotchka's

view of the position was very different from mine. First of all she felt for me a deep and passionate love.

What was for me an ordinary amatory episode was for her an absolute revolution in her life. I remember, it

seemed to me that she had gone out of her mind. Happy for the first time in her life, looking five years

younger, with an inspired enthusiastic face, not knowing what to do with herself for happiness, she laughed

and cried and never ceased dreaming aloud how next day we would set off for the Caucasus, then in the

" 'Don't worry yourself about my husband,' she said to reassure me. 'He is bound to give me a divorce.

Everyone in the town knows that he is living with the elder Kostovitch. We will get a divorce and be

"When women love they become acclimatised and at home with people very quickly, like cats. Kisotchka had

only spent an hour and a half in my room when she already felt as though she were at home and was ready to

treat my property as though it were her own. She packed my things in my portmanteau, scolded me for not

hanging my new expensive overcoat on a peg instead of flinging it on a chair, and so on.

"I looked at her, listened, and felt weariness and vexation. I was conscious of a slight twinge of horror at the

thought that a respectable, honest, and unhappy woman had so easily, after some three or four hours,

succumbed to the first man she met. As a respectable man, you see, I didn't like it. Then, too, I was

unpleasantly impressed by the fact that women of Kisotchka's sort, not deep or serious, are too much in love

with life, and exalt what is in reality such a trifle as love for a man to the level of bliss, misery, a complete

revolution in life. . . . Moreover, now that I was satisfied, I was vexed with myself for having been so stupid

as to get entangled with a woman whom I should have to deceive. And in spite of my disorderly life I must

"I remember that Kisotchka sat down at my feet, laid her head on my knees, and, looking at me with shining,

"And she laughed with happiness. . . . This struck me as sentimental, affected, and not clever; and meanwhile

" 'Kisotchka, you had better go home,' I said, or else your people will be sure to miss you and will be looking

for you all over the town; and it would be awkward for you to go to your mother in the morning.'

"Kisotchka agreed. At parting we arranged to meet at midday next morning in the park, and the day after to

set off together to Pyatigorsk. I went into the street to see her home, and I remember that I caressed her with

genuine tenderness on the way. There was a minute when I felt unbearably sorry for her, for trusting me so

implicitly, and I made up my mind that I would really take her to Pyatigorsk, but remembering that I had only

six hundred roubles in my portmanteau, and that it would be far more difficult to break it off with her in the

"We reached the house where Kisotchka's mother lived. I pulled at the bell. When footsteps were heard at the

other side of the door Kisotchka suddenly looked grave, glanced upwards to the sky, made the sign of the

"I crossed to the opposite pavement and from there looked at the house. At first the windows were in

darkness, then in one of the windows there was the glimmer of the faint bluish flame of a newly lighted

candle; the flame grew, gave more light, and I saw shadows moving about the rooms together with it.

"Returning to my hotel room I undressed, drank off a glass of red wine, ate some fresh caviare which I had

bought that day in the bazaar, went to bed in a leisurely way, and slept the sound, untroubled sleep of a

"In the morning I woke up with a headache and in a bad humour. Something worried me.

" 'What's the matter?' I asked myself, trying to explain my uneasiness. 'What's upsetting me?'

"And I put down my uneasiness to the dread that Kisotchka might turn up any minute and prevent my going

away, and that I should have to tell lies and act a part before her. I hurriedly dressed, packed my things, and

left the hotel, giving instructions to the porter to take my luggage to the station for the seven o'clock train in

the evening. I spent the whole day with a doctor friend and left the town that evening. As you see, my

philosophy did not prevent me from taking to my heels in a mean and treacherous flight. . . .

"All the while that I was at my friend's, and afterwards driving to the station, I was tormented by anxiety. I

fancied that I was afraid of meeting with Kisotchka and a scene. In the station I purposely remained in the

toilet room till the second bell rang, and while I was making my way to my compartment, I was oppressed by

a feeling as though I were covered all over with stolen things. With what impatience and terror I waited for

"At last the third bell that brought my deliverance rang at last, the train moved; we passed the prison, the

barracks, came out into the open country, and yet, to my surprise, the feeling of uneasiness still persisted, and

still I felt like a thief passionately longing to escape. It was queer. To distract my mind and calm myself I

looked out of the window. The train ran along the coast. The sea was smooth, and the turquoise sky, almost

half covered with the tender, golden crimson light of sunset, was gaily and serenely mirrored in it. Here and

there fishing boats and rafts made black patches on its surface. The town, as clean and beautiful as a toy,

stood on the high cliff, and was already shrouded in the mist of evening. The golden domes of its churches,

the windows and the greenery reflected the setting sun, glowing and melting like shimmering gold. . . . The

"The train flew rapidly along. I heard the laughter of passengers and guards. Everyone was goodhumoured

and lighthearted, yet my unaccountable uneasiness grew greater and greater. . . . I looked at the white mist

that covered the town and I imagined how a woman with a senseless blank face was hurrying up and down in

that mist by the churches and the houses, looking for me and moaning, 'Oh, my God! Oh, my God!' in the

voice of a little girl or the cadences of a Little Russian actress. I recalled her grave face and big anxious eyes

as she made the sign of the Cross over me, as though I belonged to her, and mechanically I looked at the hand

"Only as night came on when the passengers were asleep and I was left t�te�t�te with my conscience, I

began to understand what I had not been able to grasp before. In the twilight of the railway carriage the image

of Kisotchka rose before me, haunted me and I recognised clearly that I had committed a crime as bad as

murder. My conscience tormented me. To stifle this unbearable feeling, I assured myself that everything was

nonsense and vanity, that Kisotchka and I would die and decay, that her grief was nothing in comparison with

death, and so on and so on . . . and that if you come to that, there is no such thing as freewill, and that

therefore I was not to blame. But all these arguments only irritated me and were extraordinarily quickly

crowded out by other thoughts. There was a miserable feeling in the hand that Kisotchka had kissed. . . . I

kept lying down and getting up again, drank vodka at the stations, forced myself to eat bread and butter, fell

to assuring myself again that life had no meaning, but nothing was of any use. A strange and if you like

absurd ferment was going on in my brain. The most incongruous ideas crowded one after another in disorder,

getting more and more tangled, thwarting each other, and I, the thinker, 'with my brow bent on the earth,'

could make out nothing and could not find my bearings in this mass of essential and nonessential ideas. It

appeared that I, the thinker, had not mastered the technique of thinking, and that I was no more capable of

managing my own brain than mending a watch. For the first time in my life I was really thinking eagerly and

intensely, and that seemed to me so monstrous that I said to myself: 'I am going off my head.' A man whose

brain does not work at all times, but only at painful moments, is often haunted by the thought of madness.

"I spent a day and a night in this misery, then a second night, and learning from experience how little my

philosophy was to me, I came to my senses and realised at last what sort of a creature I was. I saw that my

ideas were not worth a brass farthing, and that before meeting Kisotchka I had not begun to think and had not

even a conception of what thinking in earnest meant; now through suffering I realised that I had neither

convictions nor a definite moral standard, nor heart, nor reason; my whole intellectual and moral wealth

consisted of specialist knowledge, fragments, useless memories, other people's ideas and nothing else; and

my mental processes were as lacking in complexity, as useless and as rudimentary as a Yakut's. . . . If I had

disliked lying, had not stolen, had not murdered, and, in fact, made obviously gross mistakes, that was not

owing to my convictions I had none, but because I was in bondage, hand and foot, to my nurse's fairy

tales and to copybook morals, which had entered into my flesh and blood and without my noticing it guided

"I realised that I was not a thinker, not a philosopher, but simply a dilettante. God had given me a strong

healthy Russian brain with promise of talent. And, only fancy, here was that brain at twentysix,

undisciplined, completely free from principles, not weighed down by any stores of knowledge, but only

lightly sprinkled with information of a sort in the engineering line; it was young and had a physiological

craving for exercise, it was on the lookout for it, when all at once quite casually the fine juicy idea of the

aimlessness of life and the darkness beyond the tomb descends upon it. It greedily sucks it in, puts its whole

outlook at its disposal and begins playing with it, like a cat with a mouse. There is neither learning nor system

in the brain, but that does not matter. It deals with the great ideas with its own innate powers, like a

selfeducated man, and before a month has passed the owner of the brain can turn a potato into a hundred

"Our generation has carried this dilettantism, this playing with serious ideas into science, into literature, into

politics, and into everything which it is not too lazy to go into, and with its dilettantism has introduced, too,

its coldness, its boredom, and its onesidedness and, as it seems to me, it has already succeeded in

"I realised and appreciated my abnormality and utter ignorance, thanks to a misfortune. My normal thinking,

so it seems to me now, dates from the day when I began again from the A, B, C, when my conscience sent me

flying back to N., when with no philosophical subleties I repented, besought Kisotchka's forgiveness like a

"H'm. . . ." the student filtered through his teeth when the engineer had finished. "That's the sort of thing that

His face still expressed mental inertia, and apparently Ananyev's story had not touched him in the least. Only

when the engineer after a moment's pause, began expounding his view again and repeating what he had said

at first, the student frowned irritably, got up from the table and walked away to his bed. He made his bed and

"You look as though you have really convinced some one this time," he said irritably.

"Me convince anybody!" said the engineer. "My dear soul, do you suppose I claim to do that? God bless you!

To convince you is impossible. You can reach conviction only by way of personal experience and suffering!"

"And then it's queer logic!" grumbled the student as he put on his nightshirt. "The ideas which you so

dislike, which are so ruinous for the young are, according to you, the normal thing for the old; it's as though it

were a question of grey hairs. . . . Where do the old get this privilege? What is it based upon? If these ideas

"Oh, no, my dear soul, don't say so!" said the engineer with a sly wink. "Don't say so. In the first place, old

men are not dilettanti. Their pessimism comes to them not casually from outside, but from the depths of their

own brains, and only after they have exhaustively studied the Hegels and Kants of all sorts, have suffered,

have made no end of mistakes, in fact when they have climbed the whole ladder from bottom to top. Their

pessimism has both personal experience and sound philosophic training behind it. Secondly, the pessimism of

old thinkers does not take the form of idle talk, as it does with you and me, but of Weltschmertz, of suffering;

it rests in them on a Christian foundation because it is derived from love for humanity and from thoughts

about humanity, and is entirely free from the egoism which is noticeable in dilettanti. You despise life

because its meaning and its object are hidden just from you, and you are only afraid of your own death, while

the real thinker is unhappy because the truth is hidden from all and he is afraid for all men. For instance, there

is living not far from here the Crown forester, Ivan Alexandritch. He is a nice old man. At one time he was a

teacher somewhere, and used to write something; the devil only knows what he was, but anyway he is a

remarkably clever fellow and in philosophy he is A1. He has read a great deal and he is continually reading

now. Well, we came across him lately in the Gruzovsky district. . . . They were laying the sleepers and rails

just at the time. It's not a difficult job, but Ivan Alexandritch, not being a specialist, looked at it as though it

were a conjuring trick. It takes an experienced workman less than a minute to lay a sleeper and fix a rail on it.

The workmen were in good form and really were working smartly and rapidly; one rascal in particular

brought his hammer down with exceptional smartness on the head of the nail and drove it in at one blow,

though the handle of the hammer was two yards or more in length and each nail was a foot long. Ivan

Alexandritch watched the workmen a long time, was moved, and said to me with tears in his eyes:

"All that proves nothing and explains nothing," said the student, covering himself up with a sheet; "all that is

simply pounding liquid in a mortar. No one knows anything and nothing can be proved by words."

He peeped out from under the sheet, lifted up his head and, frowning irritably, said quickly:

"One must be very na�ve to believe in human words and logic and to ascribe any determining value to them.

You can prove and disprove anything you like with words, and people will soon perfect the technique of

language to such a point that they will prove with mathematical certainty that twice two is seven. I am fond of

reading and listening, but as to believing, no thank you; I can't, and I don't want to. I believe only in God, but

as for you, if you talk to me till the Second Coming and seduce another five hundred Kisothchkas, I shall

The student hid his head under the sheet and turned his face towards the wall, meaning by this action to let us

Before going to bed the engineer and I went out of the hut, and I saw the lights once more.

"We have tired you out with our chatter," said Ananyev, yawning and looking at the sky. "Well, my good sir!

The only pleasure we have in this dull hole is drinking and philosophising. . . . What an embankment, Lord

have mercy on us!" he said admiringly, as we approached the embankment; "it is more like Mount Ararat

He paused for a little, then said: "Those lights remind the Baron of the Amalekites, but it seems to me that

they are like the thoughts of man. . . . You know the thoughts of each individual man are scattered like that in

disorder, stretch in a straight line towards some goal in the midst of the darkness and, without shedding light

on anything, without lighting up the night, they vanish somewhere far beyond old age. But enough

"Oh please!" he said imploringly, pressing both hands on his heart. "I entreat you, and don't worry about me!

I can sleep anywhere, and, besides, I am not going to bed just yet. Please do it's a favour!"

I agreed, undressed, and went to bed, while he sat down to the table and set to work on the plans.

"We fellows have no time for sleep," he said in a low voice when I had got into bed and shut my eyes. "When

a man has a wife and two children he can't think of sleep. One must think now of food and clothes and saving

for the future. And I have two of them, a little son and a daughter. . . . The boy, little rascal, has a jolly little

face. He's not six yet, and already he shows remarkable abilities, I assure you. . . . I have their photographs

He rummaged among his papers, found their photographs, and began looking at them. I fell asleep.

I was awakened by the barking of Azorka and loud voices. Von Schtenberg with bare feet and ruffled hair

was standing in the doorway dressed in his underclothes, talking loudly with some one . . . . It was getting

light. A gloomy dark blue dawn was peeping in at the door, at the windows, and through the crevices in the

hut walls, and casting a faint light on my bed, on the table with the papers, and on Ananyev. Stretched on the

floor on a cloak, with a leather pillow under his head, the engineer lay asleep with his fleshy, hairy chest

uppermost; he was snoring so loudly that I pitied the student from the bottom of my heart for having to sleep

"Why on earth are we to take them?" shouted Von Schtenberg. "It has nothing to do with us! Go to

"Well, then, take them to Tchalisov. . . . That's not in our department. What the devil are you standing there

"Your honour, we have been to Tchalisov already," said the bass voice still more gruffly. "Yesterday we were

the whole day looking for him down the line, and were told at his hut that he had gone to the Dymkovsky

section. Please take them, your honour! How much longer are we to go carting them about? We go carting

"They have brought some cauldrons from Nikitin's," said the student, "and he is begging us to take them. And

"Do be so kind, your honour, and set things right! The horses have been two days without food and the

master, for sure, will be angry. Are we to take them back, or what? The railway ordered the cauldrons, so it

"Can't you understand, you blockhead, that it has nothing to do with us? Go on to Tchalisov!"

"What is it? Who's there?" Ananyev asked huskily again. "Damnation take them all," he said, getting up and

I dressed, and two minutes later went out of the hut. Ananyev and the student, both in their underclothes and

barefooted, were angrily and impatiently explaining to a peasant who was standing before them bareheaded,

with his whip in his hand, apparently not understanding them. Both faces looked preoccupied with workaday

"What use are your cauldrons to me," shouted Ananyev. "Am I to put them on my head, or what? If you can't

Seeing me, the student probably recalled the conversation of the previous night. The workaday expression

vanished from his sleepy face and a look of mental inertia came into it. He waved the peasant off and walked

It was a cloudy morning. On the line where the lights had been gleaming the night before, the workmen, just

roused from sleep, were swarming. There was a sound of voices and the squeaking of wheelbarrows. The

working day was beginning. One poor little nag harnessed with cord was already plodding towards the

I began saying goodbye. . . . A great deal had been said in the night, but I carried away with me no answer

to any question, and in the morning, of the whole conversation there remained in my memory, as in a filter,

only the lights and the image of Kisotchka. As I got on the horse, I looked at the student and Ananyev for the

last time, at the hysterical dog with the lustreless, tipsylooking eyes, at the workmen flitting to and fro in the

morning fog, at the embankment, at the little nag straining with its neck, and thought:

And when I lashed my horse and galloped along the line, and when a little later I saw nothing before me but

the endless gloomy plain and the cold overcast sky, I recalled the questions which were discussed in the

night. I pondered while the sunscorched plain, the immense sky, the oak forest, dark on the horizon and the

SOON after two o'clock one night, long ago, the cook, pale and agitated, rushed unexpectedly into my study

and informed me that Madame Mimotih, the old woman who owned the house next door, was sitting in her

"She begs you to go in to her, sir . . ." said the cook, panting. "Something bad has happened about her lodger.

"How is she to look for a doctor! She can hardly breathe, and she has huddled under the stove, she is so

I put on my coat and hat and went to Madame Mimotih's house. The gate towards which I directed my steps

was open. After pausing beside it, uncertain what to do, I went into the yard without feeling for the porter's

bell. In the dark and dilapidated porch the door was not locked. I opened it and walked into the entry. Here

there was not a glimmer of light, it was pitch dark, and, moreover, there was a marked smell of incense.

Groping my way out of the entry I knocked my elbow against something made of iron, and in the darkness

stumbled against a board of some sort which almost fell to the floor. At last the door covered with torn baize

I am not at the moment writing a fairy tale, and am far from intending to alarm the reader, but the picture I

saw from the passage was fantastic and could only have been drawn by death. Straight before me was a door

leading to a little drawingroom. Three fivekopeck wax candles, standing in a row, threw a scanty light on

the faded slatecoloured wallpaper. A coffin was standing on two tables in the middle of the little room. The

two candles served only to light up a swarthy yellow face with a halfopen mouth and sharp nose. Billows of

muslin were mingled in disorder from the face to the tips of the two shoes, and from among the billows

peeped out two pale motionless hands, holding a wax cross. The dark gloomy corners of the little

drawingroom, the ikons behind the coffin, the coffin itself, everything except the softly glimmering lights,

"How strange!" I thought, dumbfoundered by the unexpected panorama of death. "Why this haste? The

lodger has hardly had time to hang himself, or shoot himself, and here is the coffin already!"

I looked round. On the left there was a door with a glass panel; on the right a lame hatstand with a shabby

The moan came from the left, beyond the door with the glass panel. I opened the door and walked into a little

dark room with a solitary window, through which there came a faint light from a street lamp outside.

And without waiting for an answer I struck a match. This is what I saw while it was burning. A man was

sitting on the bloodstained floor at my very feet. If my step had been a longer one I should have trodden on

him. With his legs thrust forward and his hands pressed on the floor, he was making an effort to raise his

handsome face, which was deathly pale against his pitchblack beard. In the big eyes which he lifted upon

me, I read unutterable terror, pain, and entreaty. A cold sweat trickled in big drops down his face. That sweat,

the expression of his face, the trembling of the hands he leaned upon, his hard breathing and his clenched

teeth, showed that he was suffering beyond endurance. Near his right hand in a pool of blood lay a revolver.

"Don't go away," I heard a faint voice when the match had gone out. "There's a candle on the table."

I lighted the candle and stood still in the middle of the room not knowing what to do next. I stood and looked

"The pain is insufferable," he whispered, "and I haven't the strength to shoot myself again. Incomprehensible

I flung off my overcoat and attended to the sick man. Lifting him from the floor like a baby, I laid him on the

Americanleather covered sofa and carefully undressed him. He was shivering and cold when I took off his

clothes; the wound which I saw was not in keeping either with his shivering nor the expression on his face. It

was a trifling one. The bullet had passed between the fifth and sixth ribs on the left side, only piercing the

skin and the flesh. I found the bullet itself in the folds of the coatlining near the back pocket. Stopping the

bleeding as best I could and making a temporary bandage of a pillowcase, a towel, and two handkerchiefs, I

gave the wounded man some water and covered him with a fur coat that was hanging in the passage. We

neither of us said a word while the bandaging was being done. I did my work while he lay motionless looking

at me with his eyes screwed up as though he were ashamed of his unsuccessful shot and the trouble he was

"Now I must trouble you to lie still," I said, when I had finished the bandaging, "while I run to the chemist

"No need! Stay another five minutes . . . ten. If it doesn't disgust you, do stay, I entreat you."

As he begged me he was trembling and his teeth were chattering. I obeyed, and sat down on the edge of the

sofa. Ten minutes passed in silence. I sat silent, looking about the room into which fate had brought me so

unexpectedly. What poverty! This man who was the possessor of a handsome, effeminate face and a luxuriant

welltended beard, had surroundings which a humble working man would not have envied. A sofa with its

Americanleather torn and peeling, a humble greasylooking chair, a table covered with a little of paper, and

"Yes," I said. "I say, I fancy I know you. Didn't you take part in some private theatricals in General

Vassilyev closed his eyes and, as though offended, turned his face to the back of the sofa.

"I don't understand your curiosity," he muttered. "You'll be asking me next what it was drove me to commit

Before a minute had passed, he turned round towards me again, opened his eyes and said in a tearful voice:

"Excuse me for taking such a tone, but you'll admit I'm right! To ask a convict how he got into prison, or a

suicide why he shot himself is not generous . . . and indelicate. To think of gratifying idle curiosity at the

"There is no need to excite yourself. . . . It never occurred to me to question you about your motives."

"You would have asked. . . . It's what people always do. Though it would be no use to ask. If I told you, you

would not believe or understand. . . . I must own I don't understand it myself. . . . There are phrases used in

the police reports and newspapers such as: 'unrequited love,' and 'hopeless poverty,' but the reasons are not

known. . . . They are not known to me, nor to you, nor to your newspaper offices, where they have the

impudence to write 'The diary of a suicide.' God alone understands the state of a man's soul when he takes his

But my suicide could not be stopped, he leaned his head on his fist, and went on in the tone of some great

"Man will never understand the psychological subtleties of suicide! How can one speak of reasons? Today

the reason makes one snatch up a revolver, while tomorrow the same reason seems not worth a rotten egg. It

all depends most likely on the particular condition of the individual at the given moment. . . . Take me for

instance. Half an hour ago, I had a passionate desire for death, now when the candle is lighted, and you are

sitting by me, I don't even think of the hour of death. Explain that change if you can! Am I better off, or has

my wife risen from the dead? Is it the influence of the light on me, or the presence of an outsider?"

"The light certainly has an influence . . . " I muttered for the sake of saying something. "The influence of light

"The influence of light. . . . We admit it! But you know men do shoot themselves by candlelight! And it

would be ignominious indeed for the heroes of your novels if such a trifling thing as a candle were to change

the course of the drama so abruptly. All this nonsense can be explained perhaps, but not by us. It's useless to

"Forgive me," I said, "but . . . judging by the expression of your face, it seems to me that at this moment you .

"Yes," Vassilyev said, startled. "It's very possible! I am naturally vain and fatuous. Well, explain it, if you

believe in your power of reading faces! Half an hour ago I shot myself, and just now I am posing. . . . Explain

These last words Vassilyev pronounced in a faint, failing voice. He was exhausted, and sank into silence. A

pause followed. I began scrutinising his face. It was as pale as a dead man's. It seemed as though life were

almost extinct in him, and only the signs of the suffering that the "vain and fatuous" man was feeling

betrayed that it was still alive. It was painful to look at that face, but what must it have been for Vassilyev

"You here are you here ?" he asked suddenly, raising himself on his elbow. "My God, just listen!"

I began listening. The rain was pattering angrily on the dark window, never ceasing for a minute. The wind

" 'And I shall be whiter than snow, and my ears will hear gladness and rejoicing.' " Madame Mimotih, who

had returned, was reading in the drawingroom in a languid, weary voice, neither raising nor dropping the

"It is cheerful, isn't it?" whispered Vassilyev, turning his frightened eyes towards me. "My God, the things a

man has to see and hear! If only one could set this chaos to music! As Hamlet says, 'it would

How well I should have understood that music then! How I should have felt it! What time is it?"

"Morning is still far off. And in the morning there's the funeral. A lovely prospect! One follows the coffin

through the mud and rain. One walks along, seeing nothing but the cloudy sky and the wretched scenery. The

muddy mutes, taverns, woodstacks. . . . One's trousers drenched to the knees. The neverending streets. The

time dragging out like eternity, the coarse people. And on the heart a stone, a stone!"

After a brief pause he suddenly asked: "Is it long since you saw General Luhatchev?"

"He likes to be cock of the walk, but he is a nice little old chap. And are you still writing?"

"Ah. . . . Do you remember how I pranced about like a needle, like an enthusiastic ass at those private

theatricals when I was courting Zina? It was stupid, but it was good, it was fun. . . . The very memory of it

brings back a whiff of spring. . . . And now! What a cruel change of scene! There is a subject for you! Only

don't you go in for writing 'the diary of a suicide.' That's vulgar and conventional. You make something

"Again you are . . . posing," I said. "There's nothing humorous in your position."

"Nothing laughable? You say nothing laughable?" Vassilyev sat up, and tears glistened in his eyes. An

"You laugh at the deceit of cheating clerks and faithless wives," he said, "but no clerk, no faithless wife has

cheated as my fate has cheated me! I have been deceived as no bank depositor, no duped husband has ever

been deceived! Only realise what an absurd fool I have been made! Last year before your eyes I did not know

"Nothing more absurd and stupid than such a change could possibly be imagined. Chapter one: spring, love,

honeymoon . . . honey, in fact; chapter two: looking for a job, the pawnshop, pallor, the chemist's shop, and . .

He made no answer. I put on my greatcoat and went out of his room. As I crossed the passage I glanced at

the coffin and Madame Mimotih reading over it. I strained my eyes in vain, I could not recognise in the

With that I went out, not forgetting to take the revolver, and made my way to the chemist's. But I ought not to

have gone away. When I came back from the chemist's, Vassilyev lay on the sofa fainting. The bandages had

been roughly torn off, and blood was flowing from the reopened wound. It was daylight before I succeeded in

restoring him to consciousness. He was raving in delirium, shivering, and looking with unseeing eyes about

the room till morning had come, and we heard the booming voice of the priest as he read the service over the

When Vassilyev's rooms were crowded with old women and mutes, when the coffin had been moved and

carried out of the yard, I advised him to remain at home. But he would not obey me, in spite of the pain and

the grey, rainy morning. He walked bareheaded and in silence behind the coffin all the way to the cemetery,

hardly able to move one leg after the other, and from time to time clutching convulsively at his wounded side.

His face expressed complete apathy. Only once when I roused him from his lethargy by some insignificant

question he shifted his eyes over the pavement and the grey fence, and for a moment there was a gleam of

" 'Weelright,' " he read on a signboard. "Ignorant, illiterate people, devil take them!"

Only one year has passed since that night, and Vassilyev has hardly had time to wear out the boots in

At the present time as I finish this story, he is sitting in my drawingroom and, playing on the piano, is

showing the ladies how provincial misses sing sentimental songs. The ladies are laughing, and he is laughing

I call him into my study. Evidently not pleased at my taking him from agreeable company, he comes to me

and stands before me in the attitude of a man who has no time to spare. I give him this story, and ask him to

read it. Always condescending about my authorship, he stifles a sigh, the sigh of a lazy reader, sits down in

But the further he gets into the reading, the graver his face becomes. At last, under the stress of painful

memories, he turns terribly pale, he gets up and goes on reading as he stands. When he has finished he begins

He looks at the room, at me, at himself. . . . He sees his new fashionable suit, hears the ladies laughing and . .

"Wasn't I right when I told you it was all absurd? My God! I have had burdens to bear that would have

broken an elephant's back; the devil knows what I have suffered no one could have suffered more, I think,

and where are the traces? It's astonishing. One would have thought the imprint made on a man by his agonies

would have been everlasting, never to be effaced or eradicated. And yet that imprint wears out as easily as a

pair of cheap boots. There is nothing left, not a scrap. It's as though I hadn't been suffering then, but had been

dancing a mazurka. Everything in the world is transitory, and that transitoriness is absurd! A wide field for

"This minute," answers the "vain and fatuous" man, setting his tie straight. "It's absurd and pitiful, my friend,

pitiful and absurd, but what's to be done? Homo sum. . . . And I praise Mother Nature all the same for her

transmutation of substances. If we retained an agonising memory of toothache and of all the terrors which

every one of us has had to experience, if all that were everlasting, we poor mortals would have a bad time of

I look at his smiling face and I remember the despair and the horror with which his eyes were filled a year

ago when he looked at the dark window. I see him, entering into his habitual r�le of intellectual chatterer,

prepare to show off his idle theories, such as the transmutation of substances before me, and at the same time

I recall him sitting on the floor in a pool of blood with his sick imploring eyes.

Vassilyev, whistling and straightening his tie, walks off into the drawingroom, and I look after him, and feel

vexed. For some reason I regret his past sufferings, I regret all that I felt myself on that man's account on that

IT was a free night. Natalya Andreyevna Bronin (her married name was Nikitin), the opera singer, is lying in

her bedroom, her whole being abandoned to repose. She lies, deliciously drowsy, thinking of her little

daughter who lives somewhere far away with her grandmother or aunt. . . . The child is more precious to her

than the public, bouquets, notices in the papers, adorers . . . and she would be glad to think about her till

morning. She is happy, at peace, and all she longs for is not to be prevented from lying undisturbed, dozing

All at once the singer starts, and opens her eyes wide: there is a harsh abrupt ring in the entry. Before ten

seconds have passed the bell tinkles a second time and a third time. The door is opened noisily and some one

walks into the entry stamping his feet like a horse, snorting and puffing with the cold.

"Damn it all, nowhere to hang one's coat!" the singer hears a husky bass voice. "Celebrated singer, look at

"My husband!" thinks the singer, frowning. "And I believe he has brought one of his friends to stay the night

No more peace. When the loud noise of some one blowing his nose and putting off his goloshes dies away,

the singer hears cautious footsteps in her bedroom. . . . It is her husband, mari d'elle, Denis Petrovitch Nikitin.

He brings a whiff of cold air and a smell of brandy. For a long while he walks about the bedroom, breathing

heavily, and, stumbling against the chairs in the dark, seems to be looking for something. . . .

"What do you want?" his wife moans, when she is sick of his fussing about. "You have woken me."

"I am looking for the matches, my love. You . . . you are not asleep then? I have brought you a message. . . .

Greetings from that . . . what'shisname? . . . redheaded fellow who is always sending you bouquets. . . .

"Oh, nothing particular. . . . We sat and talked and had a drink. Say what you like, Nathalie, I dislike that

individual I dislike him awfully! He is a rare blockhead. He is a wealthy man, a capitalist; he has six

hundred thousand, and you would never guess it. Money is no more use to him than a radish to a dog. He

does not eat it himself nor give it to others. Money ought to circulate, but he keeps tight hold of it, is afraid to

part with it. . . . What's the good of capital lying idle? Capital lying idle is no better than grass."

Mari d'elle gropes his way to the edge of the bed and, puffing, sits down at his wife's feet.

"Capital lying idle is pernicious," he goes on. "Why has business gone downhill in Russia? Because there is

so much capital lying idle among us; they are afraid to invest it. It's very different in England. . . . There are

no such queer fish as Zagvozdkin in England, my girl. . . . There every farthing is in circulation. . . . Yes. . . .

"Directly. . . . Whatever was it I was talking about? Yes. . . . In these hard times hanging is too good for

Zagvozdkin. . . . He is a fool and a scoundrel. . . . No better than a fool. If I asked him for a loan without

security why, a child could see that he runs no risk whatever. He doesn't understand, the ass! For ten

thousand he would have got a hundred. In a year he would have another hundred thousand. I asked, I talked .

"H'm. . . . A queer question. . . ." Mari d'elle is offended. "Anyway he would sooner give me ten thousand

than you. You are a woman, and I am a man anyway, a businesslike person. And what a scheme I propose

to him! Not a bubble, not some chimera, but a sound thing, substantial! If one could hit on a man who would

understand, one might get twenty thousand for the idea alone! Even you would understand if I were to tell

you about it. Only you . . . don't chatter about it . . . not a word . . . but I fancy I have talked to you about it

"I believe I have. . . . Do you see the point of it? Now the provision shops and the sausagemakers get their

sausageskins locally, and pay a high price for them. Well, but if one were to bring sausageskins from the

Caucasus where they are worth nothing, and where they are thrown away, then . . . where do you suppose the

sausagemakers would buy their skins, here in the slaughterhouses or from me? From me, of course! Why, I

shall sell them ten times as cheap! Now let us look at it like this: every year in Petersburg and Moscow and in

other centres these same skins would be bought to the. . . to the sum of five hundred thousand, let us suppose.

"Yes, that's true. You are sleepy, pardon, I am just going . . . say what you like, but with capital you can do

good business everywhere, wherever you go. . . . With capital even out of cigarette ends one may make a

million. . . . Take your theatrical business now. Why, for example, did Lentovsky come to grief? It's very

simple. He did not go the right way to work from the very first. He had no capital and he went headlong to

the dogs. . . . He ought first to have secured his capital, and then to have gone slowly and cautiously. . . .

Nowadays, one can easily make money by a theatre, whether it is a private one or a people's one. . . . If one

produces the right plays, charges a low price for admission, and hits the public fancy, one may put a hundred

thousand in one's pocket the first year. . . . You don't understand, but I am talking sense. . . . You see you are

fond of hoarding capital; you are no better than that fool Zagvozdkin, you heap it up and don't know what for.

. . . You won't listen, you don't want to. . . . If you were to put it into circulation, you wouldn't have to be

rushing all over the place . . . . You see for a private theatre, five thousand would be enough for a beginning. .

. . Not like Lentovsky, of course, but on a modest scale in a small way. I have got a manager already, I have

looked at a suitable building. . . . It's only the money I haven't got. . . . If only you understood things you

"No, merci. . . . You have fleeced me enough already. . . . Let me alone, I have been punished already. . . ."

"If you are going to argue like a woman, then of course . . ." sighs Nikitin, getting up. "Of course. . . ."

"Let me alone. . . . Come, go away and don't keep me awake. . . . I am sick of listening to your nonsense."

"H'm. . . . To be sure . . . of course! Fleeced. . . plundered. . . . What we give we remember, but we don't

"Is that so? But when we weren't a celebrated singer, at whose expense did we live then? And who, allow me

to ask, lifted you out of beggary and secured your happiness? Don't you remember that?"

"Do you mean to say you think I am drunk? . . . if I am so low in the eyes of such a grand lady. . . I can go

Nikitin mutters something to himself, and, stumbling over the chairs, goes out of the bedroom. Then sounds

reach her from the entry of whispering, the shuffling of goloshes and a door being shut. Mari d'elle has taken

And as she falls asleep she thinks of her mari d'elle, what sort of a man he is, and how this affliction has

come upon her. At one time he used to live at Tchernigov, and had a situation there as a bookkeeper. As an

ordinary obscure individual and not the mari d'elle, he had been quite endurable: he used to go to his work

and take his salary, and all his whims and projects went no further than a new guitar, fashionable trousers,

and an amber cigaretteholder. Since he had become "the husband of a celebrity" he was completely

transformed. The singer remembered that when first she told him she was going on the stage he had made a

fuss, been indignant, complained to her parents, turned her out of the house. She had been obliged to go on

the stage without his permission. Afterwards, when he learned from the papers and from various people that

she was earning big sums, he had 'forgiven her,' abandoned bookkeeping, and become her hangeron. The

singer was overcome with amazement when she looked at her hangeron: when and where had he managed

to pick up new tastes, polish, and airs and graces? Where had he learned the taste of oysters and of different

Burgundies? Who had taught him to dress and do his hair in the fashion and call her 'Nathalie' instead of

"It's strange," thinks the singer. "In old days he used to get his salary and put it away, but now a hundred

roubles a day is not enough for him. In old days he was afraid to talk before schoolboys for fear of saying

something silly, and now he is overfamiliar even with princes . . . wretched, contemptible little creature!"

But then the singer starts again; again there is the clang of the bell in the entry. The housemaid, scolding and

angrily flopping with her slippers, goes to open the door. Again some one comes in and stamps like a horse.

"He has come back!" thinks the singer. "When shall I be left in peace? It's revolting!" She is overcome by

"Wait a bit. . . . I'll teach you to get up these farces! You shall go away. I'll make you go away!"

The singer leaps up and runs barefoot into the little drawingroom where her mari usually sleeps. She comes

at the moment when he is undressing, and carefully folding his clothes on a chair.

"You went away!" she says, looking at him with bright eyes full of hatred. "What did you come back for?"

"You went away! Kindly take yourself off this very minute! This very minute! Do you hear?"

"If you don't go away, you insolent creature, I shall go," the singer goes on, stamping her bare foot, and

looking at him with flashing eyes. "I shall go! Do you hear, insolent . . . worthless wretch, flunkey, out you

The singer looks round and only then sees an unfamiliar countenance that looks like an actor's. . . . The

countenance, seeing the singer's uncovered shoulders and bare feet, shows signs of embarrassment, and looks

"There, you see . . ." says mari d'elle, as he stretches himself on the sofa, "it was all honey just now . . . my

love, my dear, my darling, kisses and embraces . . . but as soon as money is touched upon, then. . . . As you

GROHOLSKY embraced Liza, kept kissing one after another all her little fingers with their bitten pink nails,

and laid her on the couch covered with cheap velvet. Liza crossed one foot over the other, clasped her hands

Groholsky sat down in a chair beside her and bent over. He was entirely absorbed in contemplation of her.

There was a complete view from the window of the setting sun, golden, lightly flecked with purple.

The whole drawingroom, including Liza, was bathed by it with brilliant light that did not hurt the eyes, and

Groholsky was lost in admiration. Liza was so incredibly beautiful. It is true her little kittenish face with its

brown eyes, and turn up nose was fresh, and even piquant, his scanty hair was black as soot and curly, her

little figure was graceful, well proportioned and mobile as the body of an electric eel, but on the whole. . . .

However my taste has nothing to do with it. Groholsky who was spoilt by women, and who had been in love

and out of love hundreds of times in his life, saw her as a beauty. He loved her, and blind love finds ideal

"I say," he said, looking straight into her eyes, "I have come to talk to you, my precious. Love cannot bear

anything vague or indefinite. . . . Indefinite relations, you know, I told you yesterday, Liza . . . we will try

today to settle the question we raised yesterday. Come, let us decide together. . . ."

"Well, yes, what are we to do? Come, decide, wise little head . . . I love you, and a man in love is not fond of

sharing. He is more than an egoist. It is too much for me to go shares with your husband. I mentally tear him

to pieces, when I remember that he loves you too. In the second place you love me. . . . Perfect freedom is an

essential condition for love. . . . And are you free? Are you not tortured by the thought that that man towers

for ever over your soul? A man whom you do not love, whom very likely and quite naturally, you hate. . . .

That's the second thing. . . . And thirdly. . . . What is the third thing? Oh yes. . . . We are deceiving him and

that . . . is dishonourable. Truth before everything, Liza. Let us have done with lying!"

"You can guess. . . . I think it necessary, obligatory, to inform him of our relations and to leave him, to begin

to live in freedom. Both must be done as quickly as possible. . . . This very evening, for instance. . . . It's time

"He will be upset. He'll make a row, do all sorts of unpleasant things. . . . Don't you know what he is like?

"Yes," he said, "he will be more than upset. I am robbing him of his happiness. Does he love you?"

"There's another complication! One does not know where to begin. To conceal it from him is base, telling

him would kill him. . . . Goodness knows what's one to do. Well, how is it to be?"

"Let us go on always as we are now," said Liza. "Let him find out for himself, if he wants to."

"But you know that . . . is sinful, and besides the fact is you are mine, and no one has the right to think that

you do not belong to me but to someone else! You are mine! I will not give way to anyone! . . . I am sorry for

him God knows how sorry I am for him, Liza! It hurts me to see him! But . . . it can't be helped after all.

You don't love him, do you? What's the good of your going on being miserable with him? We must have it

out! We will have it out with him, and you will come to me. You are my wife, and not his. Let him do what

he likes. He'll get over his troubles somehow. . . . He is not the first, and he won't be the last. . . . Will you run

"Yes. . . . To my estate. . . . Then to the Crimea. . . . We will tell him by letter. . . . We can go at night. There

Patches of red came out of her cheeks, her eyes swelled, and tears flowed down her kittenish face. . . .

"What is it?" cried Groholsky in a flutter. "Liza! what's the matter? Come! what are you crying for? What a

Liza held out her hands to Groholsky, and hung on his neck. There was a sound of sobbing.

"And do you suppose I'm not? But what's to be done? We are causing him suffering. . . . He will be unhappy,

As he uttered the last word, Groholsky darted away from Liza as though he had been stung and sat down in

an easy chair. Liza sprang away from his neck and rapidly in one instant dropped on the lounge.

A tall, broadshouldered man of thirty, in the uniform of a government clerk, had walked into the

drawingroom. He had walked in unnoticed. Only the bang of a chair which he knocked in the doorway had

warned the lovers of his presence, and made them look round. It was the husband.

He had seen Groholsky's arm round Liza's waist, and had seen Liza hanging on Groholsky's white and

"He saw us!" Liza and Groholsky thought at the same moment, while they did not know what to do with their

An agonising, strange, soulrevolting silence lasted for three minutes. Oh, those three minutes! Groholsky

The first to move and break the silence was the husband. He stepped up to Groholsky and, screwing his face

into a senseless grimace like a smile, gave him his hand. Groholsky shook the soft perspiring hand and

"How are you?" the husband brought out in a faint husky, almost inaudible voice, and he sat down opposite

Again, an agonising silence followed . . . but that silence was no longer so stupid. . . . The first step, most

All that was left now was for one of the two to depart in search of matches or on some such trifling errand.

Both longed intensely to get away. They sat still, not looking at one another, and pulled at their beards while

they ransacked their troubled brains for some means of escape from their horribly awkward position. Both

were perspiring. Both were unbearably miserable and both were devoured by hatred. They longed to begin

the tussle but how were they to begin and which was to begin first? If only she would have gone out!

"I saw you yesterday at the Assembly Hall," muttered Bugrov (that was the husband's name).

"M'm . . . yes . . . with that . . . with the younger Lyukovtsky. . . . She dances heavily. . . . She dances

impossibly. She is a great chatterbox." (Pause.) "She is never tired of talking."

Groholsky accidentally glanced at Bugrov. . . . He caught the shifting eyes of the deceived husband and could

not bear it. He got up quickly, quickly seized Bugrov's hand, shook it, picked up his hat, and walked towards

the door, conscious of his own back. He felt as though thousands of eyes were looking at his back. It is a

feeling known to the actor who has been hissed and is making his exit from the stage, and to the young dandy

who has received a blow on the back of the head and is being led away in charge of a policeman.

As soon as the sound of Groholsky's steps had died away and the door in the hall creaked, Bugrov leapt up,

and after making two or three rounds of the drawingroom, strolled up to his wife. The kittenish face

puckered up and began blinking its eyes as though expecting a slap. Her husband went up to her, and with a

pale, distorted face, with arms, head, and shoulders shaking, stepped on her dress and knocked her knees with

"If, you wretched creature," he began in a hollow, wailing voice, "you let him come here once again, I'll. . . .

Don't let him dare to set his foot. . . . I'll kill you. Do you understand? Aaah . . . worthless creature, you

Bugrov seized her by the elbow, shook her, and flung her like an indiarubber ball towards the window. . . .

She flew towards the window, hardly touching the floor with her feet, and caught at the curtains with her

"Hold your tongue," shouted her husband, going up to her with flashing eyes and stamping his foot.

She did hold her tongue, she looked at the ceiling, and whimpered while her face wore the expression of a

"So that's what you are like! Eh? Carrying on with a fop! Good! And your promise before the altar? What are

And he struck her on her pretty supple shoulder. "Hold your tongue, you wretched creature. I'll give you

worse than that! If that scoundrel dares to show himself here ever again, if I see you listen! with that

blackguard ever again, don't ask for mercy! I'll kill you, if I go to Siberia for it! And him too. I shouldn't think

Bugrov wiped his eyes and his brow with his sleeve and strode about the drawingroom, Liza sobbing more

and more loudly, twitching her shoulders and her little turned up nose, became absorbed in examining the

"You are crazy," her husband shouted. "Your silly head is full of nonsense! Nothing but whims! I won't allow

it, Elizaveta, my girl! You had better be careful with me! I don't like it! If you want to behave like a pig, then

. . . then out you go, there is no place in my house for you! Out you pack if. . . . You are a wife, so you must

forget these dandies, put them out of your silly head! It's all foolishness! Don't let it happen again! You try

defending yourself! Love your husband! You have been given to your husband, so you must love him. Yes,

"Go away I tell you, go to the nursery! Why are you blubbering, it is your own fault, and you blubber! What a

woman! Last year you were after Petka Totchkov, now you are after this devil. Lord forgive us! . . . Tfoo, it's

time you understood what you are! A wife! A mother! Last year there were unpleasantnesses, and now there

Bugrov heaved a loud sigh, and the air was filled with the smell of sherry. He had come back from dining and

"Don't you know your duty? No! . . . you must be taught, you've not been taught so far! Your mamma was a

"Don't stand by the window, people will see you blubbering. . . . Don't let it happen again. You'll go from

embracing to worse trouble. You'll come to grief. Do you suppose I like to be made a fool of? And you will

make a fool of me if you carry on with them, the low brutes. . . . Come, that's enough. . . . Don't you. . . .

"You are young and silly, you don't understand anything. . . . I am never at home. . . . And they take

advantage of it. You must be sensible, prudent. They will deceive you. And then I won't endure it. . . . Then I

may do anything. . . . Of course! Then you can just lie down, and die. I . . . I am capable of doing anything if

you deceive me, my good girl. I might beat you to death. . . . And . . . I shall turn you out of the house, and

And Bugrov (horribile dictu) wiped the wet, tearful face of the traitress Liza with his big soft hand. He treated

"Come, that's enough. . . . I forgive you. Only God forbid it should happen again! I forgive you for the fifth

time, but I shall not forgive you for the sixth, as God is holy. God does not forgive such as you for such

Bugrov bent down and put out his shining lips towards Liza's little head. But the kiss did not follow. The

doors of the hall, of the diningroom, of the parlour, and of the drawingroom all slammed, and Groholsky

flew into the drawingroom like a whirlwind. He was pale and trembling. He was flourishing his arms and

crushing his expensive hat in his hands. His coat fluttered upon him as though it were on a peg. He was the

incarnation of acute fever. When Bugrov saw him he moved away from his wife and began looking out of the

other window. Groholsky flew up to him, and waving his arms and breathing heavily and looking at no one,

"Ivan Petrovitch! Let us leave off keeping up this farce with one another! We have deceived each other long

enough! It's too much! I cannot stand it. You must do as you like, but I cannot! It's hateful and mean, it's

"It's against my principles. And you are an honest man. I love her! I love her more than anything on earth!

"We must make an end of it. This farce cannot drag on much longer! It must be settled somehow."

"I cannot live without her; she feels the same. You are an educated man, you will understand that in such

circumstances your family life is impossible. This woman is not yours, so . . . in short, I beg you to look at

the matter from an indulgent humane point of view. . . . Ivan Petrovitch, you must understand at last that I

love her love her more than myself, more than anything in the world, and to struggle against that love is

"Ask her; come now, ask her! For her to live with a man she does not love, to live with you is . . . is a

"She . . . she loves me! We love each other, Ivan Petrovitch! Kill us, despise us, pursue us, do as you will, but

we can no longer conceal it from you. We are standing face to face you may judge us with all the severity

Bugrov turned as red as a boiled crab, and looked out of one eye at Liza. He began blinking. His fingers, his

lips, and his eyelids twitched. Poor fellow! The eyes of his weeping wife told him that Groholsky was right,

"As God is above," Groholsky shrilled in his high tenor, "we understand you. Do you suppose we have no

sense, no feeling? I know what agonies I am causing you, as God's above! But be indulgent, I beseech you!

We are not to blame. Love is not a crime. No will can struggle against it. . . . Give her up to me, Ivan

Petrovitch! Let her go with me! Take from me what you will for your sufferings. Take my life, but give me

Liza. I am ready to do anything. . . . Come, tell me how I can do something to make up in part at least! To

make up for that lost happiness, I can give you other happiness. I can, Ivan Petrovitch; I am ready to do

anything! It would be base on my part to leave you without satisfaction. . . . I understand you at this

Bugrov waved his hand as though to say, 'For God's sake, go away.' His eyes began to be dimmed by a

"I understand you, Ivan Petrovitch. I will give you another happiness, such as hitherto you have not known.

What would you like? I have money, my father is an influential man. . . . Will you? Come, how much do you

Bugrov's heart suddenly began throbbing. . . . He clutched at the window curtains with both hands. . . .

"Will you have fifty thousand? Ivan Petrovitch, I entreat you. . . . It's not a bribe, not a bargain. . . .

I only want by a sacrifice on my part to atone a little for your inevitable loss. Would you like a hundred

My God! Two immense hammers began beating on the perspiring temples of the unhappy Ivan Petrovitch.

"Accept this sacrifice from me," Groholsky went on, "I entreat you! You will take a load off my conscience. .

My God! A smart carriage rolled along the road wet from a May shower, passed the window through which

Bugrov's wet eyes were looking. The horses were fine, spirited, welltrained beasts. People in straw hats,

with contented faces, were sitting in the carriage with long fishingrods and bags. . . . A schoolboy in a white

cap was holding a gun. They were driving out into the country to catch fish, to shoot, to walk about and have

tea in the open air. They were driving to that region of bliss in which Bugrov as a boy the barefoot,

sunburnt, but infinitely happy son of a village deacon had once raced about the meadows, the woods, and

the river banks. Oh, how fiendishly seductive was that May! How happy those who can take off their heavy

uniforms, get into a carriage and fly off to the country where the quails are calling and there is the scent of

fresh hay. Bugrov's heart ached with a sweet thrill that made him shiver. A hundred thousand! With the

carriage there floated before him all the secret dreams over which he had gloated, through the long years of

his life as a government clerk as he sat in the office of his department or in his wretched little study. . . . A

river, deep, with fish, a wide garden with narrow avenues, little fountains, shade, flowers, arbours, a

luxurious villa with terraces and turrets with an Aeolian harp and little silver bells (he had heard of the

existence of an Aeolian harp from German romances); a cloudless blue sky; pure limpid air fragrant with the

scents that recall his hungry, barefoot, crushed childhood. . . . To get up at five, to go to bed at nine; to spend

"H'm . . . a hundred and fifty thousand!" muttered Bugrov in a hollow voice, the voice of a husky bull. He

"Good," said Groholsky, "I agree. I thank you, Ivan Petrovitch . . . . In a minute. . . . I will not keep you

Groholsky jumped up, put on his hat, and staggering backwards, ran out of the drawingroom

Bugrov clutched the window curtains more tightly than ever. . . . He was ashamed . . . . There was a nasty,

stupid feeling in his soul, but, on the other hand, what fair shining hopes swarmed between his throbbing

Liza, who had grasped nothing of what was happening, darted through the halfopened door trembling all

over and afraid that he would come to her window and fling her away from it. She went into the nursery, laid

herself down on the nurse's bed, and curled herself up. She was shivering with fever.

Bugrov was left alone. He felt stifled, and he opened the window. What glorious air breathed fragrance on his

face and neck! It would be good to breathe such air lolling on the cushions of a carriage. . . . Out there, far

beyond the town, among the villages and the summer villas, the air was sweeter still. . . . Bugrov actually

smiled as he dreamed of the air that would be about him when he would go out on the verandah of his villa

and admire the view. A long while he dreamed. . . . The sun had set, and still he stood and dreamed, trying his

utmost to cast out of his mind the image of Liza which obstinately pursued him in all his dreams.

"I have brought it, Ivan Petrovitch!" Groholsky, reentering, whispered above his ear. "I have brought it

take it. . . . Here in this roll there are forty thousand. . . . With this cheque will you kindly get twenty the day

after tomorrow from Valentinov? . . . Here is a bill of exchange . . . a cheque. . . . The remaining thirty

Groholsky, pink and excited, with all his limbs in motion, laid before Bugrov a heap of rolls of notes and

bundles of papers. The heap was big, and of all sorts of hues and tints. Never in the course of his life had

Bugrov seen such a heap. He spread out his fat fingers and, not looking at Groholsky, fell to going through

Groholsky spread out all the money, and moved restlessly about the room, looking for the Dulcinea who had

Filling his pockets and his pocketbook, Bugrov thrust the securities into the table drawer, and, drinking off

At halfpast eleven that night he drove up to the entrance of the Paris Hotel. He went noisily upstairs and

knocked at the door of Groholsky's apartments. He was admitted. Groholsky was packing his things in a

portmanteau, Liza was sitting at the table trying on bracelets. They were both frightened when Bugrov went

in to them. They fancied that he had come for Liza and had brought back the money which he had taken in

haste without reflection. But Bugrov had not come for Liza. Ashamed of his new getup and feeling

frightfully awkward in it, he bowed and stood at the door in the attitude of a flunkey. The getup was superb.

Bugrov was unrecognisable. His huge person, which had never hitherto worn anything but a uniform, was

clothed in a fresh, brandnew suit of fine French cloth and of the most fashionable cut. On his feet spats

shone with sparkling buckles. He stood ashamed of his new getup, and with his right hand covered the

"I have come about something," he began. "A business agreement is beyond price. I am not going to give up

Groholsky and Liza looked at each other. Liza's eyes bulged, her cheeks flushed, and her lips twitched. . . .

She thought of Mishutka's warm little cot. It would be cruel to exchange that warm little cot for a chilly sofa

Bugrov bowed, walked out, and flew down the stairs in his splendour, cleaving the air with his expensive

"Home," he said to the cabman. "I am starting at five o'clock tomorrow morning. . . . You will come; if I am

It was a lovely August evening. The sun, set in a golden background lightly flecked with purple, stood above

the western horizon on the point of sinking behind the faraway tumuli. In the garden, shadows and

halfshadows had vanished, and the air had grown damp, but the golden light was still playing on the

treetops. . . . It was warm. . . . Rain had just fallen, and made the fresh, transparent fragrant air still fresher.

I am not describing the August of Petersburg or Moscow, foggy, tearful, and dark, with its cold, incredibly

damp sunsets. God forbid! I am not describing our cruel northern August. I ask the reader to move with me to

the Crimea, to one of its shores, not far from Feodosia, the spot where stands the villa of one of our heroes. It

is a pretty, neat villa surrounded by flowerbeds and clipped bushes. A hundred paces behind it is an orchard

in which its inmates walk. . . . Groholsky pays a high rent for that villa, a thousand roubles a year, I believe. .

. . The villa is not worth that rent, but it is pretty. . . . Tall, with delicate walls and very delicate parapets,

fragile, slender, painted a pale blue colour, hung with curtains, porti�res, draperies, it suggests a charming,

On the evening described above, Groholsky and Liza were sitting on the verandah of this villa. Groholsky

was reading Novoye Vremya and drinking milk out of a green mug. A syphon of Seltzer water was standing

on the table before him. Groholsky imagined that he was suffering from catarrh of the lungs, and by the

advice of Dr. Dmitriev consumed an immense quantity of grapes, milk, and Seltzer water. Liza was sitting in

a soft easy chair some distance from the table. With her elbows on the parapet, and her little face propped on

her little fists, she was gazing at the villa opposite. . . . The sun was playing upon the windows of the villa

opposite, the glittering panes reflected the dazzling light. . . . Beyond the little garden and the few trees that

surrounded the villa there was a glimpse of the sea with its waves, its dark blue colour, its immensity, its

white masts. . . . It was so delightful! Groholsky was reading an article by Anonymous, and after every dozen

lines he raised his blue eyes to Liza's back. . . . The same passionate, fervent love was shining in those eyes

still. . . . He was infinitely happy in spite of his imaginary catarrh of the lungs. . . . Liza was conscious of his

eyes upon her back, and was thinking of Mishutka's brilliant future, and she felt so comfortable, so serene. . .

She was not so much interested by the sea, and the glittering reflection on the windows of the villa opposite

The waggons were full of furniture and all sorts of domestic articles. Liza watched the trellis gates and big

glass doors of the villa being opened and the men bustling about the furniture and wrangling incessantly. Big

armchairs and a sofa covered with dark raspberry coloured velvet, tables for the hall, the drawingroom and

the diningroom, a big double bed and a child's cot were carried in by the glass doors; something big,

wrapped up in sacking, was carried in too. A grand piano, thought Liza, and her heart throbbed.

It was long since she had heard the piano, and she was so fond of it. They had not a single musical instrument

in their villa. Groholsky and she were musicians only in soul, no more. There were a great many boxes and

They were boxes of lookingglasses and crockery. A gorgeous and luxurious carriage was dragged in, at the

"My goodness, what riches!" thought Liza, remembering her old pony which Groholsky, who did not care for

riding, had bought her for a hundred roubles. Compared with those swanlike steeds, her pony seemed to her

no better than a bug. Groholsky, who was afraid of riding fast, had purposely bought Liza a poor horse.

The sun hid behind the tumuli, the air began to lose its dryness and limpidity, and still the furniture was being

driven up and hauled into the house. At last it was so dark that Groholsky left off reading the newspaper

"Shouldn't we light the lamp?" said Groholsky, afraid that a fly might drop into his milk and be swallowed in

Liza did not answer. She was interested in a chaise which had driven up to the villa opposite. . . . What a

charming little mare was in that chaise. Of medium size, not large, but graceful. . . . A gentleman in a top hat

was sitting in the chaise, a child about three, apparently a boy, was sitting on his knees waving his little

The tall, broadshouldered gentleman in the top hat jumped out of the chaise, lifted the boy down, and with a

skip and a hop ran gaily in at the glass door. The door opened noisily and he vanished into the darkness of the

Two smart footmen ran up to the horse in the chaise, and most respectfully led it to the gate. Soon the villa

opposite was lighted up, and the clatter of plates, knives, and forks was audible. The gentleman in the top hat

was having his supper, and judging by the duration of the clatter of crockery, his supper lasted long. Liza

fancied she could smell chicken soup and roast duck. After supper discordant sounds of the piano floated

across from the villa. In all probability the gentleman in the top hat was trying to amuse the child in some

"What wonderful weather!" he said. "What air! Do you feel it? I am very happy, Liza, very happy indeed. My

happiness is so great that I am really afraid of its destruction. The greatest things are usually destroyed, and

do you know, Liza, in spite of all my happiness, I am not absolutely . . . at peace. . . . One haunting thought

torments me . . . it torments me horribly. It gives me no peace by day or by night. . . ."

"An awful thought, my love. I am tortured by the thought of your husband. I have been silent hitherto. I have

feared to trouble your inner peace, but I cannot go on being silent. Where is he? What has happened to him?

What has become of him with his money? It is awful! Every night I see his face, exhausted, suffering,

imploring. . . . Why, only think, my angel can the money he so generously accepted make up to him for

"There you see! He has either taken to drink now, or . . . I am anxious about him! Ah, how anxious I am!

Should we write to him, do you think? We ought to comfort him . . . a kind word, you know."

Groholsky heaved a deep sigh, shook his head, and sank into an easy chair exhausted by painful reflection.

Leaning his head on his fists he fell to musing. Judging from his face, his musings were painful.

Liza went to her own room, undressed, and dived under the bedclothes. She used to go to bed at ten o'clock

She was soon in the arms of Morpheus. Throughout the whole night she had the most fascinating dreams. . . .

She dreamed whole romances, novels, Arabian Nights. . . . The hero of all these dreams was the gentleman in

The gentleman in the top hat was carrying her off from Groholsky, was singing, was beating Groholsky and

her, was flogging the boy under the window, was declaring his love, and driving her off in the chaise. . . . Oh,

dreams! In one night, lying with one's eyes shut, one may sometimes live through more than ten years of

happiness. . . . That night Liza lived through a great variety of experiences, and very happy ones, even in

Waking up between six and seven, she flung on her clothes, hurriedly did her hair, and without even putting

on her Tatar slippers with pointed toes, ran impulsively on to the verandah. Shading her eyes from the sun

with one hand, and with the other holding up her slipping clothes, she gazed at the villa opposite. Her face

On the verandah in the villa opposite there was a table in front of the glass door. A tea service was shining

and glistening on the table with a silver samovar at the head. Ivan Petrovitch was sitting at the table. He had

in his hand a glass in a silver holder, and was drinking tea. He was drinking it with great relish. That fact

could be deduced from the smacking of his lips, the sound of which reached Liza's ears. He was wearing a

brown dressinggown with black flowers on it. Massive tassels fell down to the ground. It was the first time

in her life Liza had seen her husband in a dressinggown, and such an expensivelooking one.

Mishutka was sitting on one of his knees, and hindering him from drinking his tea. The child jumped up and

down and tried to clutch his papa's shining lip. After every three or four sips the father bent down to his son

and kissed him on the head. A grey cat with its tail in the air was rubbing itself against one of the table legs,

and with a plaintive mew proclaiming its desire for food. Liza hid behind the verandah curtain, and fastened

"Misha!" she murmured, "Misha! Are you really here, Misha? The darling! And how he loves Vanya!

And Liza went off into a giggle when Mishutka stirred his father's tea with a spoon. "And how Vanya loves

Liza's heart throbbed, and her head went round with joy and happiness. She sank into an armchair and went

"How did they come here?" she wondered as she sent airy kisses to Mishutka. "Who gave them the idea of

coming here? Heavens! Can all that wealth belong to them? Can those swanlike horses that were led in at

When he had finished his tea, Ivan Petrovitch went into the house. Ten minutes later, he appeared on the

steps and Liza was astounded. . . . He, who in his youth only seven years ago had been called Vanushka and

Vanka and had been ready to punch a man in the face and turn the house upside down over twenty kopecks,

was dressed devilishly well. He had on a broadbrimmed straw hat, exquisite brilliant boots, a piqu�

waistcoat. . . . Thousands of suns, big and little, glistened on his watchchain. With much chic he held in his

And what swagger, what style there was in his heavy figure when, with a graceful motion of his hand, he

He got into the chaise with dignity, and told the footmen standing round the chaise to give him Mishutka and

the fishing tackle they had brought. Setting Mishutka beside him, and putting his left arm round him, he held

Liza, unaware of what she was doing, waved her handkerchief after them. If she had looked in the glass she

would have been surprised at her flushed, laughing, and, at the same time, tearstained face. She was vexed

that she was not beside her gleeful boy, and that she could not for some reason shower kisses on him at once.

"Grisha! Grisha!" Liza ran into Groholsky's bedroom and set to work to wake him. "Get up, they have come!

"Our people . . . Vanya and Misha, they have come, they are in the villa opposite. . . . I looked out, and there

they were drinking tea. . . . And Misha too. . . . What a little angel our Misha has grown! If only you had seen

"Vanya and Misha. . . . I have been looking at the villa opposite, while they were sitting drinking tea. Misha

can drink his tea by himself now. . . . Didn't you see them moving in yesterday, it was they who arrived!"

"Most likely he is going to live here. They don't know we are here. If they did, they would have looked at our

"He has gone fishing with Misha in the chaise. Did you see the horses yesterday? Those are their horses . . .

Vanya's . . . Vanya drives with them. Do you know what, Grisha? We will have Misha to stay with us. . . .

"This is an unexpected meeting," said Groholsky, after prolonged and, as usual, harrassing reflection. "Well,

who could have expected that we should meet here? Well. . . There it is. . . . So be it. It seems that it is fated. I

"Yes, we will. . . . It will be awkward meeting him. . . . Why, what can I say to him? What can I talk of? It

will be awkward for him and awkward for me. . . . We ought not to meet. We will carry on communications,

if necessary, through the servants. . . . My head does ache so, Lizotchka. My arms and legs too, I ache all

"I had dreadful dreams all night . . . I shan't get up today. I shall stay in bed . . . I must take some quinine.

Groholsky took quinine and lay in bed the whole day. He drank warm water, moaned, had the sheets and

pillowcase changed, whimpered, and induced an agonising boredom in all surrounding him.

He was insupportable when he imagined he had caught a chill. Liza had continually to interrupt her

inquisitive observations and run from the verandah to his room. At dinnertime she had to put on mustard

plasters. How boring all this would have been, O reader, if the villa opposite had not been at the service of

my heroine! Liza watched that villa all day long and was gasping with happiness.

At ten o'clock Ivan Petrovitch and Mishutka came back from fishing and had breakfast. At two o'clock they

had dinner, and at four o'clock they drove off somewhere in a carriage. The white horses bore them away

with the swiftness of lightning. At seven o'clock visitors came to see them all of them men. They were

playing cards on two tables in the verandah till midnight. One of the men played superbly on the piano. The

visitors played, ate, drank, and laughed. Ivan Petrovitch guffawing loudly, told them an anecdote of

Armenian life at the top of his voice, so that all the villas round could hear. It was very gay and Mishutka sat

"Misha is merry, he is not crying," thought Liza, "so he does not remember his mamma. So he has forgotten

And there was a horrible bitter feeling in Liza' s soul. She spent the whole night crying. She was fretted by

her little conscience, and by vexation and misery, and the desire to talk to Mishutka and kiss him. . . . In the

morning she got up with a headache and tearstained eyes. Her tears Groholsky put down to his own account.

"Do not weep, darling," he said to her, "I am all right today, my chest is a little painful, but that is nothing."

While they were having tea, lunch was being served at the villa opposite. Ivan Petrovitch was looking at his

"I am very glad," said Groholsky, looking askance at Bugrov, "very glad that his life is so tolerable! I hope

that decent surroundings anyway may help to stifle his grief. Keep out of sight, Liza! They will see you . . . I

am not disposed to talk to him just now . . . God be with him! Why trouble his peace?"

But the dinner did not pass off so quietly. During dinner precisely that "awkward position" which Groholsky

so dreaded occurred. Just when the partridges, Groholsky's favorite dish, had been put on the table, Liza was

suddenly overcome with confusion, and Groholsky began wiping his face with his dinner napkin. On the

verandah of the villa opposite they saw Bugrov. He was standing with his arms leaning on the parapet, and

"Go in, Liza, go in," Groholsky whispered. "I said we must have dinner indoors! What a girl you are, really. .

Bugrov stared and stared, and suddenly began shouting. Groholsky looked at him and saw a face full of

Groholsky passed his fingers from one shoulder to another, as though to say, "My chest is weak, and so I

can't shout across such a distance." Liza's heart began throbbing, and everything turned round before her

eyes. Bugrov ran from his verandah, ran across the road, and a few seconds later was standing under the

"How are you?" he began, flushing crimson, and stuffing his big hands in his pockets. "Are you here? Are

"I? It's a long story, a regular romance, my good friend! But don't put yourselves out eat your dinner! I've

been living, you know, ever since then . . . in the Oryol province. I rented an estate. A splendid estate! But do

eat your dinner! I stayed there from the end of May, but now I have given it up. . . . It was cold there, and

"Oh, well. . . . There always seems, as it were. . . something gurgling here. . . ."

And at the word "here" Ivan Petrovitch passed his open hand from his neck down to the middle of his

"So you are here too. . . . Yes . . . that's very pleasant. Have you been here long?"

"You miss Mishutka, I'll be bound. Eh? Well, he's here with me. . . . I'll send him over to you directly with

Nikifor. This is very nice. Well, goodbye! I have to go off directly. . . . I made the acquaintance of Prince

TerHaimazov yesterday; delightful man, though he is an Armenian. So he has a croquet party today; we

Ivan Petrovitch whirled round, tossed his head, and, waving adieu to them, ran home.

Before evening Liza was hugging and kissing Mishutka. At first the boy howled, but when he was offered

For three days Groholsky and Liza did not see Bugrov. He had disappeared somewhere, and was only at

home at night. On the fourth day he visited them again at dinnertime. He came in, shook hands with both of

"I have come to you on business," he said. "Read this." And he handed Groholsky a letter. "Read it! Read it

"My beloved and consoling, neverforgotten son Ioann! I have received the respectful and loving letter in

which you invite your aged father to the mild and salubrious Crimea, to breathe the fragrant air, and behold

strange lands. To that letter I reply that on taking my holiday, I will come to you, but not for long. My

colleague, Father Gerasim, is a frail and delicate man, and cannot be left alone for long. I am very sensible of

your not forgetting your parents, your father and your mother. . . . You rejoice your father with your

affection, and you remember your mother in your prayers, and so it is fitting to do. Meet me at Feodosia.

What sort of town is Feodosia what is it like? It will be very agreeable to see it. Your godmother, who

took you from the font, is called Feodosia. You write that God has been graciously pleased that you should

win two hundred thousand roubles. That is gratifying to me. But I cannot approve of your having left the

service while still of a grade of little importance; even a rich man ought to be in the service. I bless you

always, now and hereafter. Ilya and Seryozhka Andronov send you their greetings. You might send them ten

Groholsky read this letter aloud, and he and Liza both looked inquiringly at Bugrov.

"You see what it is," Ivan Petrovitch began hesitatingly. "I should like to ask you, Liza, not to let him see

you, to keep out of his sight while he is here. I have written to him that you are ill and gone to the Caucasus

for a cure. If you meet him. . . You see yourself. . . . It's awkward. . . H'm. . . ."

"We can do that," thought Groholsky, "since he makes sacrifices, why shouldn't we?"

"Please do. . . . If he sees you there will be trouble. . . . My father is a man of strict principles. He would curse

me in seven churches. Don't go out of doors, Liza, that is all. He won't be here long. Don't be afraid."

Father Pyotr did not long keep them waiting. One fine morning Ivan Petrovitch ran in and hissed in a

And Liza was shut up within four walls. She did not venture to go out into the yard or on to the verandah. She

could only see the sky from behind the window curtain. Unluckily for her, Ivan Petrovitch's papa spent his

whole time in the open air, and even slept on the verandah. Usually Father Pyotr, a little parish priest, in a

brown cassock and a top hat with a curly brim, walked slowly round the villas and gazed with curiosity at the

"strange lands" through his grandfatherly spectacles. Ivan Petrovitch with the Stanislav on a little ribbon

accompanied him. He did not wear a decoration as a rule, but before his own people he liked to show off. In

Liza was bored to death. Groholsky suffered too. He had to go for his walks alone without a companion. He

almost shed tears, but . . . had to submit to his fate. And to make things worse, Bugrov would run across

every morning and in a hissing whisper would give some quite unnecessary bulletin concerning the health of

"He slept well," he informed them. "Yesterday he was put out because I had no salted cucumbers. . . He has

At last, a fortnight later, little Father Pyotr walked for the last time round the villas and, to Groholsky's

immense relief, departed. He had enjoyed himself, and went off very well satisfied. Liza and Groholsky fell

back into their old manner of life. Groholsky once more blessed his fate. But his happiness did not last for

long. A new trouble worse than Father Pyotr followed. Ivan Petrovitch took to coming to see them every day.

Ivan Petrovitch, to be frank, though a capital fellow, was a very tedious person. He came at dinnertime,

dined with them and stayed a very long time. That would not have mattered. But they had to buy vodka,

which Groholsky could not endure, for his dinner. He would drink five glasses and talk the whole

dinnertime. That, too, would not have mattered. . . . But he would sit on till two o'clock in the morning, and

not let them get to bed, and, worse still, he permitted himself to talk of things about which he should have

been silent. When towards two o'clock in the morning he had drunk too much vodka and champagne, he

would take Mishutka in his arms, and weeping, say to him, before Groholsky and Liza:

"Mihail, my son, what am I? I . . . am a scoundrel. I have sold your mother! Sold her for thirty pieces of

silver, may the Lord punish me! Mihail Ivanitch, little sucking pig, where is your mother? Lost! Gone! Sold

These tears and these words turned Groholsky's soul inside out. He would look timidly at Liza's pale face and

"I am going. . . . Come along, Mishutka. . . . The Lord be our judge! I cannot think of sleep while I know that

my wife is a slave. . . . But it is not Groholsky's fault. . . . The goods were mine, the money his. . . . Freedom

By day Ivan Petrovitch was no less insufferable to Groholsky. To Groholsky's intense horror, he was always

at Liza's side. He went fishing with her, told her stories, walked with her, and even on one occasion, taking

advantage of Groholsky's having a cold, carried her off in his carriage, goodness knows where, and did not

Groholsky liked to be continually kissing Liza. He could not exist without those honeyed kisses, and it was

awkward to kiss her before Ivan Petrovitch. It was agony. The poor fellow felt forlorn, but fate soon had

compassion on him. Ivan Petrovitch suddenly went off somewhere for a whole week. Visitors had come and

"He has come," he said to Liza, rubbing his hands. "I am very glad he has come. Hahaha!"

"I don't know. . . . It's a good thing he has got women. . . . A capital thing, in fact. . . . He is still young and

Groholsky led Liza on to the verandah, and pointed to the villa opposite. They both held their sides, and

roared with laughter. It was funny. Ivan Petrovitch was standing on the verandah of the villa opposite,

smiling. Two darkhaired ladies and Mishutka were standing below, under the verandah. The ladies were

"French women," observed Groholsky. "The one nearest us isn't at all badlooking. Lively damsels, but that's

no matter. There are good women to be found even among such. . . . But they really do go too far."

What was funny was that Ivan Petrovitch bent across the verandah, and stretching with his long arms, put

them round the shoulders of one of the French girls, lifted her in the air, and set her giggling on the verandah.

After lifting up both ladies on to the verandah, he lifted up Mishutka too. The ladies ran down and the

"Powerful muscles, I must say," muttered Groholsky looking at this scene. The operation was repeated some

six times, the ladies were so amiable as to show no embarrassment whatever when the boisterous wind

disposed of their inflated skirts as it willed while they were being lifted. Groholsky dropped his eyes in a

shamefaced way when the ladies flung their legs over the parapet as they reached the verandah. But Liza

watched and laughed! What did she care? It was not a case of men misbehaving themselves, which would

In the evening, Ivan Petrovitch flew over, and with some embarrassment announced that he was now a man

"You mustn't imagine they are just anybody," he said. "It is true they are French. They shout at the top of

their voices, and drink . . . but we all know! The French are brought up to be like that! It can't be helped. . . .

The prince," Ivan Petrovitch added, "let me have them almost for nothing. . . . He said: 'take them, take them.

. . .' I must introduce you to the prince sometime. A man of culture! He's for ever writing, writing. . . . And do

you know what their names are? One is Fanny, the other Isabella. . . . There's Europe, hahaha! . . . The

Ivan Petrovitch left Liza and Groholsky in peace, and devoted himself to his ladies. All day long sound of

talk, laughter, and the clatter of crockery came from his villa. . . . The lights were not put out till far into the

night. . . . Groholsky was in bliss. . . . At last, after a prolonged interval of agony, he felt happy and at peace

again. Ivan Petrovitch with his two ladies had no such happiness as he had with one. But alas, destiny has no

heart. She plays with the Groholskys, the Lizas, the Ivans, and the Mishutkas as with pawns. . . . Groholsky

One morning, about ten days afterwards, on waking up late, he went out on to the verandah and saw a

spectacle which shocked him, revolted him, and moved him to intense indignation. Under the verandah of the

villa opposite stood the French women, and between them Liza. She was talking and looking askance at her

own villa as though to see whether that tyrant, that despot were awake (so Groholsky interpreted those looks).

Ivan Petrovitch standing on the verandah with his sleeves tucked up, lifted Isabella into the air, then Fanny,

and then Liza. When he was lifting Liza it seemed to Groholsky that he pressed her to himself. . . . Liza too

flung one leg over the parapet. . . . Oh these women! All sphinxes, every one of them!

When Liza returned home from her husband's villa and went into the bedroom on tiptoe, as though nothing

had happened, Groholsky, pale, with hectic flushes on his cheeks, was lying in the attitude of a man at his last

"So that's what you are like, is it?" he shrieked in a high tenor. "So that's it! Very much obliged to you! It's

Liza turned pale, and of course burst into tears. When women feel that they are in the right, they scold and

"On a level with those depraved creatures! It's . . . it's . . . it's . . . lower than any impropriety! Why, do you

know what they are? They are kept women! Cocottes! And you a respectable woman go rushing off where

they are. . . And he . . . He! What does he want? What more does he want of me? I don't understand it! I have

given him half of my property I have given him more! You know it yourself! I have given him what I

have not myself. . . . I have given him almost all. . . . And he! I've put up with your calling him Vanya,

though he has no right whatever to such intimacy. I have put up with your walks, kisses after dinner. . . . I

have put up with everything, but this I will not put up with. . . . Either he or I! Let him go away, or I go away!

I'm not equal to living like this any longer, no! You can see that for yourself! . . . Either he or I. . . . Enough!

The cup is brimming over. . . . I have suffered a great deal as it is. . . . I am going to talk to him at once

this minute! What is he, after all? What has he to be proud of? No, indeed. . . . He has no reason to think so

Groholsky said a great many more valiant and stinging things, but did not "go at once"; he felt timid and

When he went into his apartment, he gaped with astonishment. He was amazed at the wealth and luxury with

which Bugrov had surrounded himself. Velvet hangings, fearfully expensive chairs. . . . One was positively

ashamed to step on the carpet. Groholsky had seen many rich men in his day, but he had never seen such

frenzied luxury. . . . And the higgledypiggledy muddle he saw when, with an inexplicable tremor, he walked

into the drawingroom plates with bits of bread on them were lying about on the grand piano, a glass was

standing on a chair, under the table there was a basket with a filthy rag in it. . . . Nut shells were strewn about

in the windows. Bugrov himself was not quite in his usual trim when Groholsky walked in. . . . With a red

face and uncombed locks he was pacing about the room in deshabille, talking to himself, apparently much

agitated. Mishutka was sitting on the sofa there in the drawingroom, and was making the air vibrate with a

"It's awful, Grigory Vassilyevitch!" Bugrov began on seeing Groholsky, "such disorder. . . such disorder. . .

Please sit down. You must excuse my being in the costume of Adam and Eve. . . . It's of no consequence. . . .

Horrible disorderliness! I don't understand how people can exist here, I don't understand it! The servants

won't do what they are told, the climate is horrible, everything is expensive. . . . Stop your noise," Bugrov

shouted, suddenly coming to a halt before Mishutka; "stop it, I tell you! Little beast, won't you stop it?"

"That's revolting, Ivan Petrovitch," said Groholsky in a tearful voice. "How can you treat a tiny child like

"Don't cry, Misha darling. . . . Papa won't touch you again. Don't beat him, Ivan Petrovitch; why, he is hardly

more than a baby. . . . There, there. . . . Would you like a little horse? I'll send you a little horse. . . . You

"Not at all. I've turned them out without ceremony. I might have gone on keeping them, but it's awkward. . . .

The boy will grow up. . . . A father's example. . . . If I were alone, then it would be a different thing. . . .

Besides, what's the use of my keeping them? Poof . . . it's a regular farce! I talk to them in Russian, and they

answer me in French. They don't understand a thing you can't knock anything into their heads."

"I've come to you about something, Ivan Petrovitch, to talk things over. . . . H'm. . . . It's nothing very

particular. But just . . . two or three words. . . . In reality, I have a favour to ask of you."

"Would you think it possible, Ivan Petrovitch, to go away? We are delighted that you are here; it's very

agreeable for us, but it's inconvenient, don't you know. . . . You will understand me. It's awkward in a way. . .

. Such indefinite relations, such continual awkwardness in regard to one another. . . . We must part. . . . It's

essential in fact. Excuse my saying so, but . . . you must see for yourself, of course, that in such

circumstances to be living side by side leads to . . . reflections. . . that is . . . not to reflections, but there is a

"Yes. . . . That is so, I have thought of it myself. Very good, I will go away."

"We shall be very grateful to you. . . . Believe me, Ivan Petrovitch, we shall preserve the most flattering

"Very good. . . . Only what am I to do with all this? I say, you buy this furniture of mine! What do you say?

It's not expensive, eight thousand . . . ten. . . . The furniture, the carriage, the grand piano. . . ."

"Well, that is capital! I will set off tomorrow. I shall go to Moscow. It's impossible to live here. Everything

is so dear! Awfully dear! The money fairly flies. . . . You can't take a step without spending a thousand! I

can't go on like that. I have a child to bring up. . . . Well, thank God that you will buy my furniture. . . . That

Groholsky got up, took leave of Bugrov, and went home rejoicing. In the evening he sent him ten thousand

Several months had passed; spring had come. With spring, fine bright days had come too. Life was not so

dull and hateful, and the earth was more fair to look upon. . . . There was a warm breeze from the sea and the

open country. . . . The earth was covered with fresh grass, fresh leaves were green upon the trees. Nature had

It might be thought that new hopes and new desires would surge up in man when everything in nature is

Groholsky was still living in the same villa. His hopes and desires, small and unexacting, were still

concentrated on the same Liza, on her alone, and on nothing else! As before, he could not take his eyes off

her, and gloated over the thought: how happy I am! The poor fellow really did feel awfully happy. Liza sat as

before on the verandah, and unaccountably stared with bored eyes at the villa opposite and the trees near it

through which there was a peep at the dark blue sea. . . . As before, she spent her days for the most part in

silence, often in tears and from time to time in putting mustard plasters on Groholsky. She might be

congratulated on one new sensation, however. There was a worm gnawing at her vitals. . . . That worm was

misery. . . . She was fearfully miserable, pining for her son, for her old, her cheerful manner of life. Her life

in the past had not been particularly cheerful, but still it was livelier than her present existence. When she

lived with her husband she used from time to time to go to a theatre, to an entertainment, to visit

acquaintances. But here with Groholsky it was all quietness and emptiness. . . . Besides, here there was one

man, and he with his ailments and his continual mawkish kisses, was like an old grandfather for ever

It was boring! Here she had not Mihey Sergeyitch who used to be fond of dancing the mazurka with her. She

had not Spiridon Nikolaitch, the son of the editor of the Provincial News. Spiridon Nikolaitch sang well and

recited poetry. Here she had not a table set with lunch for visitors. She had not Gerasimovna, the old nurse

who used to be continually grumbling at her for eating too much jam. . . . She had no one! There was simply

nothing for her but to lie down and die of depression. Groholsky rejoiced in his solitude, but . . . he was

wrong to rejoice in it. All too soon he paid for his egoism. At the beginning of May when the very air seemed

to be in love and faint with happiness, Groholsky lost everything; the woman he loved and. . .

That year Bugrov, too, visited the Crimea. He did not take the villa opposite, but pottered about, going from

one town to another with Mishutka. He spent his time eating, drinking, sleeping, and playing cards. He had

lost all relish for fishing, shooting and the French women, who, between ourselves, had robbed him a bit. He

had grown thin, lost his broad and beaming smiles, and had taken to dressing in canvas. Ivan Petrovitch from

time to time visited Groholsky's villa. He brought Liza jam, sweets, and fruit, and seemed trying to dispel her

ennui. Groholsky was not troubled by these visits, especially as they were brief and infrequent, and were

apparently paid on account of Mishutka, who could not under any circumstances have been altogether

deprived of the privilege of seeing his mother. Bugrov came, unpacked his presents, and after saying a few

words, departed. And those few words he said not to Liza but to Groholsky. . . . With Liza he was silent and

Groholsky's mind was at rest; but there is a Russian proverb which he would have done well to remember:

"Don't fear the dog that barks, but fear the dog that's quiet. . . ." A fiendish proverb, but in practical life

As he was walking in the garden one day, Groholsky heard two voices in conversation. One voice was a

man's, the other was a woman's. One belonged to Bugrov, the other to Liza. Groholsky listened, and turning

white as death, turned softly towards the speakers. He halted behind a lilac bush, and proceeded to watch and

listen. His arms and legs turned cold. A cold sweat came out upon his brow. He clutched several branches of

"My darling! what are we to do? It seems it was God's will. . . . I am a scoundrel. . . . I sold you. I was

seduced by that Herod's money, plague take him, and what good have I had from the money? Nothing but

anxiety and display! No peace, no happiness, no position. . . . One sits like a fat invalid at the same spot, and

never a step forwarder. . . . Have you heard that Andrushka Markuzin has been made a head clerk?

Andrushka, that fool! While I stagnate. . . . Good heavens! I have lost you, I have lost my happiness. I am a

scoundrel, a blackguard, how do you think I shall feel at the dread day of judgment?"

"Let us go away, Vanya," wailed Liza. "I am dull. . . . I am dying of depression."

"I should be glad to, but . . . wait a minute. I have spent it all. We must submit, my girl. God is chastising us.

Me for my covetousness and you for your frivolity. Well, let us be tortured. . . . It will be the better for us in

"Well, there is no help for it. I'm miserable too. Do you suppose I am happy without you? I am pining and

wasting away! And my chest has begun to be bad! . . . You are my lawful wife, flesh of my flesh . . . one

flesh. . . . You must live and bear it! While I . . . will drive over . . . visit you."

And bending down to Liza, Bugrov whispered, loudly enough, however, to be heard several yards away:

"I will come to you at night, Lizanka. . . . Don't worry. . . . I am staying at Feodosia close by. . . . I will live

here near you till I have run through everything . . . and I soon shall be at my last farthing! Aaah, what a

Bugrov ceased speaking, and then it was Liza's turn. . . . My God, the cruelty of that woman! She began

weeping, complaining, enumerating all the defects of her lover and her own sufferings. Groholsky as he

After kissing Liza at parting, and going out at the garden gate, Bugrov came upon Groholsky, who was

"Ivan Petrovitch," said Groholsky in the tone of a dying man, "I have seen and heard it all. . . It's not

honourable on your part, but I do not blame you. . . . You love her too, but you must understand that she is

mine. Mine! I cannot live without her! How is it you don't understand that? Granted that you love her, that

you are miserable. . . . Have I not paid you, in part at least, for your sufferings? For God's sake, go away! For

God's sake, go away! Go away from here for ever, I implore you, or you will kill me. . . ."

"H'm, you have squandered everything. . . . You are an impulsive man. Very well. . . . Go to my estate in the

province of Tchernigov. If you like I will make you a present of the property. It's a small estate, but a good

"I will give it you. . . . This very day I will write to my steward and send him an authorisation for completing

the purchase. You must tell everyone you have bought it. . . . Go away, I entreat you."

"Let us go to a notary . . . at once," said Groholsky, greatly cheered, and he went to order the carriage.

On the following evening, when Liza was sitting on the garden seat where her rendezvous with Ivan

Petrovitch usually took place, Groholsky went quietly to her. He sat down beside her, and took her hand.

"Are you dull, Lizotchka?" he said, after a brief silence. "Are you depressed? Why shouldn't we go away

somewhere? Why is it we always stay at home? We want to go about, to enjoy ourselves, to make

"I want nothing," said Liza, and turned her pale, thin face towards the path by which Bugrov used to come to

"You are expecting him?" he asked, and made a wry face as though his heart had been gripped with redhot

"He has gone away, gone to the Tchernigov province. I have given him my estate. . . ."

Liza turned fearfully pale, and caught at Groholsky's shoulder to save herself from falling.

Liza suddenly clutched at her head, made a movement, and falling on the seat, began shaking all over.

And from that evening, right up to July, two shadows could be seen in the park in which the summer visitors

took their walks. The shadows wandered about from morning till evening, and made the summer visitors feel

dismal. . . . After Liza's shadow invariably walked the shadow of Groholsky. . . . I call them shadows because

they had both lost their natural appearance. They had grown thin and pale and shrunken, and looked more

like shadows than living people. . . . Both were pining away like fleas in the classic anecdote of the Jew who

At the beginning of July, Liza ran away from Groholsky, leaving a note in which she wrote that she was

going for a time to "her son" . . . For a time! She ran away by night when Groholsky was asleep. . . . After

reading her letter Groholsky spent a whole week wandering round about the villa as though he were mad, and

neither ate nor slept. In August, he had an attack of recurrent fever, and in September he went abroad. There

he took to drink. . . . He hoped in drink and dissipation to find comfort. . . . He squandered all his fortune, but

did not succeed, poor fellow, in driving out of his brain the image of the beloved woman with the kittenish

face. . . . Men do not die of happiness, nor do they die of misery. Groholsky's hair went grey, but he did not

die: he is alive to this day. . . . He came back from abroad to have "just a peep" at Liza. . . . Bugrov met him

with open arms, and made him stay for an indefinite period. He is staying with Bugrov to this day.

This year I happened to be passing through Groholyovka, Bugrov's estate. I found the master and the mistress

of the house having supper. . . . Ivan Petrovitch was highly delighted to see me, and fell to pressing good

things upon me. . . . He had grown rather stout, and his face was a trifle puffy, though it was still rosy and

looked sleek and wellnourished. . . . He was not bald. Liza, too, had grown fatter. Plumpness did not suit

her. Her face was beginning to lose the kittenish look, and was, alas! more suggestive of the seal. Her cheeks

were spreading upwards, outwards, and to both sides. The Bugrovs were living in firstrate style. They had

plenty of everything. The house was overflowing with servants and edibles. . . .

When we had finished supper we got into conversation. Forgetting that Liza did not play, I asked her to play

"She does not play," said Bugrov; "she is no musician. . . . Hey, you there! Ivan! call Grigory Vassilyevitch

here! What's he doing there?" And turning to me, Bugrov added, "Our musician will come directly; he plays

Five minutes later, Groholsky walked into the room sleepy, unkempt, and unshaven. . . . He walked in,

"Why, whoever goes to bed so early?" said Bugrov, addressing him. "What a fellow you are really! He's

always asleep, always asleep. . . . The sleepy head! Come, play us something lively. . . ."

"Yesterday I waited for my dear one. . . ." I listened to the singing, looked at Bugrov's wellfed countenance,

and thought: "Nasty brute!" I felt like crying. . . . When he had finished singing, Groholsky bowed to us, and

"And what am I to do with him?" Bugrov said when he had gone away. "I do have trouble with him! In the

day he is always brooding and brooding. . . . And at night he moans. . . . He sleeps, but he sighs and moans in

his sleep. . . . It is a sort of illness. . . . What am I to do with him, I can't think! He won't let us sleep. . . . I am

afraid that he will go out of his mind. People think he is badly treated here. . . . In what way is he badly

treated? He eats with us, and he drinks with us. . . . Only we won't give him money. If we were to give him

any he would spend it on drink or waste it. . . . That's another trouble for me! Lord forgive me, a sinner!"

They made me stay the night. When I woke next morning, Bugrov was giving some one a lecture in the

"Set a fool to say his prayers, and he will crack his skull on the floor! Why, who paints oars green! Do think,

"He is a despot, a tyrant," he kept whispering to me all the way. "He is a generous man, but a tyrant! Neither

heart nor brain are developed in him. . . . He tortures me! If it were not for that noble woman, I should have

gone away long ago. I am sorry to leave her. It's somehow easier to endure together."

"She is with child. . . . You notice it? It is really my child. . . . Mine. . . . She soon saw her mistake, and gave

"Yes, I am a man of weak character. . . . That is quite true. I was born so. Do you know how I came into the

world? My late papa cruelly oppressed a certain little clerk it was awful how he treated him! He poisoned

his life. Well . . . and my late mama was tenderhearted. She came from the people, she was of the working

class. . . . She took that little clerk to her heart from pity. . . . Well . . . and so I came into the world. . . . The

son of the illtreated clerk. How could I have a strong will? Where was I to get it from? But that's the second

bell. . . . Goodbye. Come and see us again, but don't tell Ivan Petrovitch what I have said about him."

I pressed Groholsky's hand, and got into the train. He bowed towards the carriage, and went to the

IT was still in the drawingroom, so still that a housefly that had flown in from outside could be distinctly

heard brushing against the ceiling. Olga Ivanovna, the lady of the villa, was standing by the window, looking

out at the flowerbeds and thinking. Dr. Tsvyetkov, who was her doctor as well as an old friend, and had

been sent for to treat her son Misha, was sitting in an easy chair and swinging his hat, which he held in both

hands, and he too was thinking. Except them, there was not a soul in the drawingroom or in the adjoining

rooms. The sun had set, and the shades of evening began settling in the corners under the furniture and on the

"No misfortune more terrible can be imagined," she said, without turning from the window. "You know that

"No value whatever," said Olga Ivanovna, and her voice quivered. "He is everything to me. He is my joy, my

happiness, my wealth. And if, as you say, I cease to be a mother, if he . . . dies, there will be nothing left of

Wringing her hands, Olga Ivanovna walked from one window to the other and went on:

"When he was born, I wanted to send him away to the Foundling Hospital, you remember that, but, my God,

how can that time be compared with now? Then I was vulgar, stupid, featherheaded, but now I am a mother,

do you understand? I am a mother, and that's all I care to know. Between the present and the past there is an

Silence followed again. The doctor shifted his seat from the chair to the sofa and impatiently playing with his

hat, kept his eyes fixed upon Olga Ivanovna. From his face it could be seen that he wanted to speak, and was

"You are silent, but still I do not give up hope," said the lady, turning round. "Why are you silent?"

"I should be as glad of any hope as you, Olga, but there is none," Tsvyetkov answered, "we must look the

hideous truth in the face. The boy has a tumour on the brain, and we must try to prepare ourselves for his

"Such questions lead to nothing. I am ready to answer as many as you like, but it will make it no better for

Olga Ivanovna pressed her face into the window curtains, and began weeping bitterly. The doctor got up and

walked several times up and down the drawingroom, then went to the weeping woman, and lightly touched

her arm. Judging from his uncertain movements, from the expression of his gloomy face, which looked dark

"Listen, Olga," he began. "Spare me a minute's attention; there is something I must ask you. You can't attend

to me now, though. I'll come later, afterwards. . . ." He sat down again, and sank into thought. The bitter,

imploring weeping, like the weeping of a little girl, continued. Without waiting for it to end, Tsvyetkov

heaved a sigh and walked out of the drawingroom. He went into the nursery to Misha. The boy was lying on

his back as before, staring at one point as though he were listening. The doctor sat down on his bed and felt

The doctor, who did not know how to talk with weeping women or with children, stroked his burning head,

"Never mind, poor boy, never mind. . . . One can't go through life without illness. . . . Misha, who am I do

After examining him and putting a few questions to the maid who was looking after the sick child, the doctor

went slowly back to the drawingroom. There it was by now dark, and Olga Ivanovna, standing by the

No answer followed. The housefly was still brushing against the ceiling. Not a sound floated in from outside

as though the whole world, like the doctor, were thinking, and could not bring itself to speak. Olga Ivanovna

was not weeping now, but as before, staring at the flowerbed in profound silence. When Tsvyetkov went up

to her, and through the twilight glanced at her pale face, exhausted with grief, her expression was such as he

"Nikolay Trofimitch!" she addressed him, "and what do you think about a consultation?"

From the doctor's tone it could be easily seen that he put little faith in the benefit of a consultation. Olga

Ivanovna would have asked him something else, but her sobs prevented her. Again she pressed her face into

the window curtain. At that moment, the strains of a band playing at the club floated in distinctly. They could

"If he is in pain, why is he silent?" asked Olga Ivanovna. "All day long, not a sound, he never complains, and

never cries. I know God will take the poor boy from us because we have not known how to prize him. Such a

The band finished the march, and a minute later began playing a lively waltz for the opening of the ball.

"Good God, can nothing really be done?" moaned Olga Ivanovna. "Nikolay, you are a doctor and ought to

know what to do! You must understand that I can't bear the loss of him! I can't survive it."

The doctor, who did not know how to talk to weeping women, heaved a sigh, and paced slowly about the

drawingroom. There followed a succession of oppressive pauses interspersed with weeping and the

questions which lead to nothing. The band had already played a quadrille, a polka, and another quadrille. It

got quite dark. In the adjoining room, the maid lighted the lamp; and all the while the doctor kept his hat in

his hands, and seemed trying to say something. Several times Olga Ivanovna went off to her son, sat by him

for half an hour, and came back again into the drawingroom; she was continually breaking into tears and

lamentations. The time dragged agonisingly, and it seemed as though the evening had no end.

At midnight, when the band had played the cotillion and ceased altogether, the doctor got ready to go.

"I will come again tomorrow," he said, pressing the mother's cold hand. "You go to bed."

After putting on his greatcoat in the passage and picking up his walkingstick, he stopped, thought a minute,

She did not answer, and it seemed as though grief had robbed her of all power of speech. In his greatcoat and

with his stick still in his hand, the doctor sat down beside her, and began in a soft, tender halfwhisper, which

"Olga! For the sake of your sorrow which I share. . . . Now, when falsehood is criminal, I beseech you to tell

me the truth. You have always declared that the boy is my son. Is that the truth?"

"You have been the one attachment in my life," the doctor went on, "and you cannot imagine how deeply my

feeling is wounded by falsehood. . . . Come, I entreat you, Olga, for once in your life, tell me the truth. . . . At

Olga Ivanovna's face could not be seen, but in her voice the doctor could hear hesitation. He sighed.

"Even at such moments you can bring yourself to tell a lie," he said in his ordinary voice. "There is nothing

sacred to you! Do listen, do understand me. . . . You have been the one only attachment in my life. Yes, you

were depraved, vulgar, but I have loved no one else but you in my life. That trivial love, now that I am

growing old, is the one solitary bright spot in my memories. Why do you darken it with deception? What is it

"Oh my God!" cried Tsvyetkov. "You are lying, you understand very well!" he cried more loudly, and he

began pacing about the drawingroom, angrily waving his stick. "Or have you forgotten? Then I will remind

you! A father's rights to the boy are equally shared with me by Petrov and Kurovsky the lawyer, who still

make you an allowance for their son's education, just as I do! Yes, indeed! I know all that quite well! I

forgive your lying in the past, what does it matter? But now when you have grown older, at this moment

when the boy is dying, your lying stifles me! How sorry I am that I cannot speak, how sorry I am!"

"Wretched woman! Even such moments have no effect on her! Even now she lies as freely as nine years ago

in the Hermitage Restaurant! She is afraid if she tells me the truth I shall leave off giving her money, she

thinks that if she did not lie I should not love the boy! You are lying! It's contemptible!"

"It's loathsome. Warped, corrupted creature! I must despise you, and I ought to be ashamed of my feeling.

Yes! Your lying has stuck in my throat these nine years, I have endured it, but now it's too much too

From the dark corner where Olga Ivanovna was sitting there came the sound of weeping. The doctor ceased

speaking and cleared his throat. A silence followed. The doctor slowly buttoned up his overcoat, and began

"I lost my temper," he muttered, bending down to the floor. "I quite lost sight of the fact that you cannot

attend to me now. . . . God knows what I have said. . . . Don't take any notice of it, Olga."

"I have wounded you," he said in a soft, tender halfwhisper, "but once more I entreat you, tell me the truth;

there should not be lying between us. . . . I blurted it out, and now you know that Petrov and Kurovsky are no

"My God," moaned the doctor, "then I will tell you something more: I have kept your letter to Petrov in

which you call him Misha's father! Olga, I know the truth, but I want to hear it from you! Do you hear?"

Olga Ivanovna made no reply, but went on weeping. After waiting for an answer the doctor shrugged his

All the way home, as he sat in his carriage, he was shrugging his shoulders and muttering:

"What a pity that I don't know how to speak! I haven't the gift of persuading and convincing. It's evident she

does not understand me since she lies! It's evident! How can I make her see? How?"

THE bells are ringing for service in the village of Shalmovo. The sun is already kissing the earth on the

horizon; it has turned crimson and will soon disappear. In Semyon's pothouse, which has lately changed its

name and become a restaurant a title quite out of keeping with the wretched little hut with its thatch torn

off its roof, and its couple of dingy windows two peasant sportsmen are sitting. One of them is called

Filimon Slyunka; he is an old man of sixty, formerly a houseserf, belonging to the Counts Zavalin, by trade

a carpenter. He has at one time been employed in a nail factory, has been turned off for drunkenness and

idleness, and now lives upon his old wife, who begs for alms. He is thin and weak, with a mangylooking

little beard, speaks with a hissing sound, and after every word twitches the right side of his face and jerkily

shrugs his right shoulder. The other, Ignat Ryabov, a sturdy, broadshouldered peasant who never does

anything and is everlastingly silent, is sitting in the corner under a big string of bread rings. The door,

opening inwards, throws a thick shadow upon him, so that Slyunka and Semyon the publican can see nothing

but his patched knees, his long fleshy nose, and a big tuft of hair which has escaped from the thick uncombed

tangle covering his head. Semyon, a sickly little man, with a pale face and a long sinewy neck, stands behind

"You think it over now, if you have any sense," Slyunka says to him, twitching his cheek. "You have the

thing lying by unused and get no sort of benefit from it. While we need it. A sportsman without a gun is like a

sacristan without a voice. You ought to understand that, but I see you don't understand it, so you can have no

"You left the gun in pledge, you know!" says Semyon in a thin womanish little voice, sighing deeply, and not

taking his eyes off the string of bread rings. "Hand over the rouble you borrowed, and then take your gun."

"I haven't got a rouble. I swear to you, Semyon Mitritch, as God sees me: you give me the gun and I will go

today with Ignashka and bring it you back again. I'll bring it back, strike me dead. May I have happiness

"Semyon Mitritch, do give it," Ignat Ryabov says in his bass, and his voice betrays a passionate desire to get

"But what do you want the gun for?" sighs Semyon, sadly shaking his head. "What sort of shooting is there

"Winter, indeed," says Slyunka, hooing the ash out of his pipe with his finger, "it is early yet of course, but

you never can tell with the snipe. The snipe's a bird that wants watching. If you are unlucky, you may sit

waiting at home, and miss his flying over, and then you must wait till autumn. . . . It is a business! The snipe

is not a rook. . . . Last year he was flying the week before Easter, while the year before we had to wait till the

week after Easter! Come, do us a favour, Semyon Mitritch, give us the gun. Make us pray for you for ever.

As illluck would have it, Ignashka has pledged his gun for drink too. Ah, when you drink you feel nothing,

but now . . . ah, I wish I had never looked at it, the cursed vodka! Truly it is the blood of Satan! Give it us,

"I won't give it you," says Semyon, clasping his yellow hands on his breast as though he were going to pray.

"You must act fairly, Filimonushka. . . . A thing is not taken out of pawn just anyhow; you must pay the

money. . . . Besides, what do you want to kill birds for? What's the use? It's Lent now you are not going to

Slyunka exchanges glances with Ryabov in embarrassment, sighs, and says: "We would only go

"And what for? It's all foolishness. You are not the sort of man to spend your time in foolishness. . . .

Ignashka, to be sure, is a man of no understanding, God has afflicted him, but you, thank the Lord, are an old

man. It's time to prepare for your end. Here, you ought to go to the midnight service."

The allusion to his age visibly stings Slyunka. He clears his throat, wrinkles up his forehead, and remains

"I say, Semyon Mitritch," he says hotly, getting up and twitching not only in his right cheek but all over his

face. "It's God's truth. . . . May the Almighty strike me dead, after Easter I shall get something from Stepan

Kuzmitch for an axle, and I will pay you not one rouble but two! May the Lord chastise me! Before the holy

"Giive it," Ryabov says in his growling bass; they can hear him breathing hard, and it seems that he would

"No, brothers, and don't ask," sighs Semyon, shaking his head mournfully. "Don't lead me into sin. I won't

give you the gun. It's not the fashion for a thing to be taken out of pawn and no money paid. Besides why

Slyunka rubs his perspiring face with his sleeve and begins hotly swearing and entreating. He crosses

himself, holds out his hands to the ikon, calls his deceased father and mother to bear witness, but Semyon

sighs and meekly looks as before at the string of bread rings. In the end Ignashka Ryabov, hitherto

motionless, gets up impulsively and bows down to the ground before the innkeeper, but even that has no

"May you choke with my gun, you devil," says Slyunka, with his face twitching, and his shoulders,

Swearing and shaking his fists, he goes out of the tavern with Ryabov and stands still in the middle of the

"He won't give it, the damned brute," he says, in a weeping voice, looking into Ryabov's face with an injured

The windows of the furthest huts, the starling cote on the tavern, the tops of the poplars, and the cross on the

church are all gleaming with a bright golden flame. Now they can see only half of the sun, which, as it goes

to its night's rest, is winking, shedding a crimson light, and seems laughing gleefully. Slyunka and Ryabov

can see the forest lying, a dark blur, to the right of the sun, a mile and a half from the village, and tiny clouds

flitting over the clear sky, and they feel that the evening will be fine and still.

"Now is just the time," says Slyunka, with his face twitching. "It would be nice to stand for an hour or two.

"For standshooting, now is the very time . . ." Ryabov articulated, as though with an effort, stammering.

After standing still for a little they walk out of the village, without saying a word to each other, and look

towards the dark streak of the forest. The whole sky above the forest is studded with moving black spots, the

rooks flying home to roost. The snow, lying white here and there on the dark brown ploughland, is lightly

"This time last year I went standshooting in Zhivki," says Slyunka, after a long silence. "I brought back

Again there follows a silence. Both stand a long time and look towards the forest, and then lazily move and

"It's most likely the snipe haven't come yet," says Slyunka, "but may be they are here."

"We can stand and watch; it wouldn't be amiss to go to the forest and have a look. If they are there we will

tell Kostka, or maybe get a gun ourselves and come tomorrow. What a misfortune, God forgive me. It was

the devil put it in my mind to take my gun to the pothouse! I am more sorry than I can tell you, Ignashka."

Conversing thus, the sportsmen approach the forest. The sun has set and left behind it a red streak like the

glow of a fire, scattered here and there with clouds; there is no catching the colours of those clouds: their

edges are red, but they themselves are one minute grey, at the next lilac, at the next ashen.

In the forest, among the thick branches of firtrees and under the birch bushes, it is dark, and only the

outermost twigs on the side of the sun, with their fat buds and shining bark, stand out clearly in the air. There

is a smell of thawing snow and rotting leaves. It is still; nothing stirs. From the distance comes the subsiding

"We ought to be standing in Zhivki now," whispers Slyunka, looking with awe at Ryabov; "there's good

"A lovely time," Slyunka says in a trembling whisper. "The Lord is sending a fine spring . . . and I should

think the snipe are here by now. . . . Why not? The days are warm now. . . . The cranes were flying in the

Slyunka and Ryabov, splashing cautiously through the melting snow and sticking in the mud, walk two

hundred paces along the edge of the forest and there halt. Their faces wear a look of alarm and expectation of

something terrible and extraordinary. They stand like posts, do not speak nor stir, and their hands gradually

A big shadow creeps from the left and envelops the earth. The dusk of evening comes on. If one looks to the

right, through the bushes and tree trunks, there can be seen crimson patches of the afterglow. It is still and

"There's no sound of them," whispers Slyunka, shrugging with the cold and sniffing with his chilly nose.

But frightened by his own whisper, he holds his finger up at some one, opens his eyes wide, and purses up his

lips. There is a sound of a light snapping. The sportsmen look at each other significantly, and tell each other

with their eyes that it is nothing. It is the snapping of a dry twig or a bit of bark. The shadows of evening keep

growing and growing, the patches of crimson gradually grow dim, and the dampness becomes unpleasant.

The sportsmen remain standing a long time, but they see and hear nothing. Every instant they expect to see a

delicate leaf float through the air, to hear a hurried call like the husky cough of a child, and the flutter of

"No, not a sound," Slyunka says aloud, dropping his hands and beginning to blink. "So they have not come

"We must wait another five days," says Slyunka, as he comes out from behind a bush with Ryabov. "It's too

MAXIM TORTCHAKOV, a farmer in southern Russia, was driving home from church with his young wife

and bringing back an Easter cake which had just been blessed. The sun had not yet risen, but the east was all

tinged with red and gold and had dissipated the haze which usually, in the early morning, screens the blue of

the sky from the eyes. It was quiet. . . . The birds were hardly yet awake. . . . The corncrake uttered its clear

note, and far away above a little tumulus, a sleepy kite floated, heavily flapping its wings, and no other living

Tortchakov drove on and thought that there was no better nor happier holiday than the Feast of Christ's

Resurrection. He had only lately been married, and was now keeping his first Easter with his wife. Whatever

he looked at, whatever he thought about, it all seemed to him bright, joyous, and happy. He thought about his

farming, and thought that it was all going well, that the furnishing of his house was all the heart could desire

there was enough of everything and all of it good; he looked at his wife, and she seemed to him lovely,

kind, and gentle. He was delighted by the glow in the east, and the young grass, and his squeaking chaise, and

the kite. . . . And when on the way, he ran into a tavern to light his cigarette and drank a glass, he felt happier

"It is said, 'Great is the day,' he chattered. "Yes, it is great! Wait a bit, Lizaveta, the sun will begin to dance. It

"But there are people on it!" exclaimed Tortchakov, "there are really! Ivan Stepanitch told me that there are

people on all the planets on the sun, and on the moon! Truly . . . but maybe the learned men tell lies

At the Crooked Ravine, which was just halfway on the journey home, Tortchakov and his wife saw a

saddled horse standing motionless, and sniffing last year's dry grass. On a hillock beside the roadside a

"H'm. What a misfortune! People are keeping holiday, and you fall sick! But you should ride on to a village

The Cossack raised his head, and with big, exhausted eyes, scanned Maxim, his wife, and the horse.

"The holiday found me on the high road. It was not God's will for me to reach home. I'd get on my horse at

once and ride off, but I haven't the strength. . . . You might, good Christians, give a wayfarer some Easter

"Easter cake?" Tortchakov repeated, "That we can, to be sure. . . . Stay, I'll. . . ."

"I haven't a knife, nothing to cut it with. And I don't like to break it, it would spoil the whole cake. There's a

"What an idea," said Tortchakov's wife angrily. "I won't let you slice up the Easter cake! What should I look

like, taking it home already cut! Ride on to the peasants in the village, and break your fast there!"

The wife took the napkin with the Easter cake in it out of her husband's hands and said:

"I won't allow it! One must do things properly; it's not a loaf, but a holy Easter cake. And it's a sin to cut it

"Well, Cossack, don't be angry," laughed Tortchakov. "The wife forbids it! Goodbye. Good luck on your

Maxim shook the reins, clicked to his horse, and the chaise rolled on squeaking. For some time his wife went

on grumbling, and declaring that to cut the Easter cake before reaching home was a sin and not the proper

thing. In the east the first rays of the rising sun shone out, cutting their way through the feathery clouds, and

the song of the lark was heard in the sky. Now not one but three kites were hovering over the steppe at a

respectful distance from one another. Grasshoppers began churring in the young grass.

When they had driven threequarters of a mile from the Crooked Ravine, Tortchakov looked round and

"I can't see the Cossack," he said. "Poor, dear fellow, to take it into his head to fall ill on the road. There

couldn't be a worse misfortune, to have to travel and not have the strength. . . . I shouldn't wonder if he dies

by the roadside. We didn't give him any Easter cake, Lizaveta, and we ought to have given it. I'll be bound he

The sun had risen, but whether it was dancing or not Tortchakov did not see. He remained silent all the way

home, thinking and keeping his eyes fixed on the horse's black tail. For some unknown reason he felt

overcome by depression, and not a trace of the holiday gladness was left in his heart. When he had arrived

home and said, "Christ is risen" to his workmen, he grew cheerful again and began talking, but when he had

sat down to break the fast and had taken a bite from his piece of Easter cake, he looked regretfully at his wife,

"You are a queer one, upon my word," said Lizaveta, shrugging her shoulders in surprise. "Where did you

pick up such a fashion as giving away the holy Easter cake on the high road? Is it an ordinary loaf? Now that

it is cut and lying on the table, let anyone eat it that likes your Cossack too! Do you suppose I grudge it?"

"That's all right, but we ought to have given the Cossack some. . . . Why, he was worse off than a beggar or

Tortchakov drank half a glass of tea, and neither ate nor drank anything more. He had no appetite, the tea

seemed to choke him, and he felt depressed again. After breaking their fast, his wife and he lay down to

sleep. When Lizaveta woke two hours later, he was standing by the window, looking into the yard.

"I somehow can't sleep. . . . Ah, Lizaveta," he sighed. "We were unkind, you and I, to that Cossack!"

"Talking about that Cossack again!" yawned his wife. "You have got him on the brain."

"He has served his Tsar, shed his blood maybe, and we treated him as though he were a pig. We ought to

have brought the sick man home and fed him, and we did not even give him a morsel of bread."

"Catch me letting you spoil the Easter cake for nothing! And one that has been blessed too! You would have

Without saying anything to his wife, Maxim went into the kitchen, wrapped a piece of cake up in a napkin,

"Kuzma, put down your concertina," he said to one of them. "Saddle the bay, or Ivantchik, and ride briskly to

he Crooked Ravine. There you will see a sick Cossack with a horse, so give him this. Maybe he hasn't ridden

Maxim felt cheerful again, but after waiting for Kuzma for some hours, he could bear it no longer, so he

Tortchakov took the bundle from Kuzma, and galloped on farther. When he reached Shustrovo he asked the

"Friends, have you seen a sick Cossack with a horse? Didn't he ride by here? A redheaded fellow on a bay

"The returning postman drove by, it's true, but as for a Cossack or anyone else, there has been no such."

"I can't get that Cossack out of my head, do what you will!" he said to his wife. "He gives me no peace. I

keep thinking: what if God meant to try us, and sent some saint or angel in the form of a Cossack? It does

"What do you keep pestering me with that Cossack for?" cried Lizaveta, losing patience at last. "You stick to

And for the first time since his marriage he perceived that he wife was not kind.

"I may be unkind," cried Lizaveta, tapping angrily with her spoon, "but I am not going to give away the holy

Maxim got up from the table and began reproaching his young wife for hardheartedness and stupidity. She,

getting angry too, answered his reproaches with reproaches, burst into tears, and went away into their

bedroom, declaring she would go home to her father's. This was the first matrimonial squabble that had

happened in the Tortchakov's married life. He walked about the yard till the evening, picturing his wife's face,

and it seemed to him now spiteful and ugly. And as though to torment him the Cossack haunted his brain, and

When it got dark, he was overcome by an insufferable depression such as he had never felt before. Feeling so

dreary, and being angry with his wife, he got drunk, as he had sometimes done before he was married. In his

drunkenness he used bad language and shouted to his wife that she had a spiteful, ugly face, and that next day

he would send her packing to her father's. On the morning of Easter Monday, he drank some more to sober

His horses, cows, sheep, and hives disappeared one by one from the yard; Maxim was more and more often

drunk, debts mounted up, he felt an aversion for his wife. Maxim put down all his misfortunes to the fact that

he had an unkind wife, and above all, that God was angry with him on account of the sick Cossack.

BETWEEN nine and ten in the morning. Ivan Lyashkevsky, a lieutenant of Polish origin, who has at some

time or other been wounded in the head, and now lives on his pension in a town in one of the southern

provinces, is sitting in his lodgings at the open window talking to Franz Stepanitch Finks, the town architect,

who has come in to see him for a minute. Both have thrust their heads out of the window, and are looking in

the direction of the gate near which Lyashkevsky's landlord, a plump little native with pendulous perspiring

cheeks, in full, blue trousers, is sitting on a bench with his waistcoat unbuttoned. The native is plunged in

"Extraordinary people, I tell you," grumbled Lyashkevsky, looking angrily at the native, "here he has sat

down on the bench, and so he will sit, damn the fellow, with his hands folded till evening. They do absolutely

nothing. The wastrels and loafers! It would be all right, you scoundrel, if you had money lying in the bank, or

had a farm of your own where others would be working for you, but here you have not a penny to your name,

you eat the bread of others, you are in debt all round, and you starve your family devil take you! You

wouldn't believe me, Franz Stepanitch, sometimes it makes me so cross that I could jump out of the window

and give the low fellow a good horsewhipping. Come, why don't you work? What are you sitting there for?"

The native looks indifferently at Lyashkevsky, tries to say something but cannot; sloth and the sultry heat

have paralysed his conversational faculties. . . . Yawning lazily, he makes the sign of the cross over his

mouth, and turns his eyes up towards the sky where pigeons fly, bathing in the hot air.

"You must not be too severe in your judgments, honoured friend," sighs Finks, mopping his big bald head

with his handkerchief. "Put yourself in their place: business is slack now, there's unemployment all round, a

"Good gracious, how you talk!" cries Lyashkevsky in indignation, angrily wrapping his dressing gown round

him. "Supposing he has no job and no trade, why doesn't he work in his own home, the devil flay him! I say!

Is there no work for you at home? Just look, you brute! Your steps have come to pieces, the plankway is

falling into the ditch, the fence is rotten; you had better set to and mend it all, or if you don't know how, go

into the kitchen and help your wife. Your wife is running out every minute to fetch water or carry out the

slops. Why shouldn't you run instead, you rascal? And then you must remember, Franz Stepanitch, that he

has six acres of garden, that he has pigsties and poultry houses, but it is all wasted and no use. The flower

garden is overgrown with weeds and almost baked dry, while the boys play ball in the kitchen garden. Isn't he

a lazy brute? I assure you, though I have only the use of an acre and a half with my lodgings, you will always

find radishes, and salad, and fennel, and onions, while that blackguard buys everything at the market."

"He is a Russian, there is no doing anything with him," said Finks with a condescending smile; "it's in the

Russian blood. . . . They are a very lazy people! If all property were given to Germans or Poles, in a year's

The native in the blue trousers beckons a girl with a sieve, buys a kopeck's worth of sunflower seeds from her

"A race of curs!" says Lyashkevsky angrily. "That's their only occupation, they crack sunflower seeds and

Staring wrathfully at the blue trousers, Lyashkevsky is gradually roused to fury, and gets so excited that he

actually foams at the mouth. He speaks with a Polish accent, rapping out each syllable venomously, till at last

the little bags under his eyes swell, and he abandons the Russian "scoundrels, blackguards, and rascals," and

rolling his eyes, begins pouring out a shower of Polish oaths, coughing from his efforts. "Lazy dogs, race of

The native hears this abuse distinctly, but, judging from the appearance of his crumpled little figure, it does

not affect him. Apparently he has long ago grown as used to it as to the buzzing of the flies, and feels it

superfluous to protest. At every visit Finks has to listen to a tirade on the subject of the lazy

"But . . . I must be going," he says, remembering that he has no time to spare. "Goodbye!"

"I only looked in on you for a minute. The wall of the cellar has cracked in the girls' high school, so they

"H'm. . . . I have told Varvara to get the samovar," says Lyashkevsky, surprised. "Stay a little, we will have

Finks obediently puts down his hat on the table and remains to drink tea. Over their tea Lyashkevsky

maintains that the natives are hopelessly ruined, that there is only one thing to do, to take them all

"Why, upon my word," he says, getting hot, "you may ask what does that goose sitting there live upon! He

lets me lodgings in his house for seven roubles a month, and he goes to nameday parties, that's all that he

has to live on, the knave, may the devil take him! He has neither earnings nor an income. They are not merely

sluggards and wastrels, they are swindlers too, they are continually borrowing money from the town bank,

and what do they do with it? They plunge into some scheme such as sending bulls to Moscow, or building oil

presses on a new system; but to send bulls to Moscow or to press oil you want to have a head on your

shoulders, and these rascals have pumpkins on theirs! Of course all their schemes end in smoke. . . . They

waste their money, get into a mess, and then snap their fingers at the bank. What can you get out of them?

Their houses are mortgaged over and over again, they have no other property it's all been drunk and eaten

up long ago. Ninetenths of them are swindlers, the scoundrels! To borrow money and not return it is their

"I was at Yegorov's yesterday," Finks interrupts the Pole, anxious to change the conversation, "and only

"I believe I still owe you something at picquet," Lyashkevsky recollects, "I ought to win it back. Wouldn't

"Perhaps just one," Finks assents. "I must make haste to the high school, you know."

Lyashkevsky and Finks sit down at the open window and begin a game of picquet. The native in the blue

trousers stretches with relish, and husks of sunflower seeds fall in showers from all over him on to the

ground. At that moment from the gate opposite appears another native with a long beard, wearing a crumpled

yellowishgrey cotton coat. He screws up his eyes affectionately at the blue trousers and shouts:

"Goodmorning, Semyon Nikolaitch, I have the honour to congratulate you on the Thursday."

The blue trousers, with much sighing and groaning and waddling from side to side like a duck, cross the

"Tierce major . . ." mutters Lyashkevsky, "from the queen. . . . Five and fifteen. . . . The rascals are talking of

"Yes, it's yours. Do you hear? They are abusing Beaconsfield. They don't know, the swine, that Beaconsfield

"Eight . . . nine . . . ten . . . . Yes, amazing people, these Russians! Eleven . . . twelve. . . . The Russian inertia

"Thirty . . . Thirtyone. . . . One ought to take a good whip, you know. Go out and give them Beaconsfield. I

say, how their tongues are wagging! It's easier to babble than to work. I suppose you threw away the queen of

"Thirteen . . . Fourteen. . . . It's unbearably hot! One must be made of iron to sit in such heat on a seat in the

The first game is followed by a second, the second by a third. . . . Finks loses, and by degrees works himself

up into a gambling fever and forgets all about the cracking walls of the high school cellar. As Lyashkevsky

plays he keeps looking at the aborigines. He sees them, entertaining each other with conversation, go to the

open gate, cross the filthy yard and sit down on a scanty patch of shade under an aspen tree. Between twelve

and one o'clock the fat cook with brown legs spreads before them something like a baby's sheet with brown

stains upon it, and gives them their dinner. They eat with wooden spoons, keep brushing away the flies, and

"The devil, it is beyond everything," cries Lyashkevsky, revolted. "I am very glad I have not a gun or a

revolver or I should have a shot at those cattle. I have four knaves fourteen. . . . Your point. . . . It really

gives me a twitching in my legs. I can't see those ruffians without being upset."

When he has finished dinner the native in blue trousers, worn out and exhausted, staggering with laziness and

repletion, crosses the street to his own house and sinks feebly on to his bench. He is struggling with

drowsiness and the gnats, and is looking about him as dejectedly as though he were every minute expecting

his end. His helpless air drives Lyashkevsky out of all patience. The Pole pokes his head out of the window

"Been gorging? Ah, the old woman! The sweet darling. He has been stuffing himself, and now he doesn't

know what to do with his tummy! Get out of my sight, you confounded fellow! Plague take you!"

The native looks sourly at him, and merely twiddles his fingers instead of answering. A schoolboy of his

acquaintance passes by him with his satchel on his back. Stopping him the native ponders a long time what to

"Aha. . . . And so one has to know all that," sighs the blue trousers. "You have to go into it all. . . . It's hard

"Holy Saints, why it's three o'clock already. How I have been staying on. Goodbye, I must run. . . ."

"Have dinner with me, and then go," says Lyashkevsky. "You have plenty of time."

Finks stays, but only on condition that dinner shall last no more than ten minutes. After dining he sits for

some five minutes on the sofa and thinks of the cracked wall, then resolutely lays his head on the cushion and

fills the room with a shrill whistling through his nose. While he is asleep, Lyashkevsky, who does not

approve of an afternoon nap, sits at the window, stares at the dozing native, and grumbles:

"Race of curs! I wonder you don't choke with laziness. No work, no intellectual or moral interests, nothing

"It's too late to go to the high school now," he says, stretching. "I shall have to go tomorrow, and now. . . .

After seeing his visitor off, between nine and ten, Lyashkevsky looks after him for some time, and says:

"Damn the fellow, staying here the whole day and doing absolutely nothing. . . . Simply get their salary and

He looks out of the window, but the native is no longer there. He has gone to bed. There is no one to grumble

at, and for the first time in the day he keeps his mouth shut, but ten minutes passes and he cannot restrain the

depression that overpowers him, and begins to grumble, shoving the old shabby armchair:

"You only take up room, rubbishly old thing! You ought to have been burnt long ago, but I keep forgetting to

And as he gets into bed he presses his hand on a spring of the mattress, frowns and says peevishly:

"The confounded spring! It will cut my side all night. I will tell them to rip up the mattress tomorrow

He falls asleep at midnight, and dreams that he is pouring boiling water over the natives, Finks, and the old

IT was midday. Voldyrev, a tall, thickset country gentleman with a cropped head and prominent eyes, took

off his overcoat, mopped his brow with his silk handkerchief, and somewhat diffidently went into the

"Where can I make an inquiry here?" he said, addressing a porter who was bringing a trayful of glasses from

the furthest recesses of the office. "I have to make an inquiry here and to take a copy of a resolution of the

"That way please! To that one sitting near the window!" said the porter, indicating with the tray the furthest

window. Voldyrev coughed and went towards the window; there, at a green table spotted like typhus, was

sitting a young man with his hair standing up in four tufts on his head, with a long pimply nose, and a long

faded uniform. He was writing, thrusting his long nose into the papers. A fly was walking about near his right

nostril, and he was continually stretching out his lower lip and blowing under his nose, which gave his face

"May I make an inquiry about my case here . . . of you? My name is Voldyrev. and, by the way, I have to

The clerk dipped his pen in the ink and looked to see if he had got too much on it. Having satisfied himself

that the pen would not make a blot, he began scribbling away. His lip was thrust out, but it was no longer

"Can I make an inquiry here?" Voldyrev repeated a minute later, "my name is Voldyrev, I am a landowner. . .

"Ivan Alexeitch!" the clerk shouted into the air as though he had not observed Voldyrev, "will you tell the

merchant Yalikov when he comes to sign the copy of the complaint lodged with the police! I've told him a

"I have come in reference to my lawsuit with the heirs of Princess Gugulin," muttered Voldyrev. "The case is

Still failing to observe Voldyrev, the clerk caught the fly on his lip, looked at it attentively and flung it away.

The country gentleman coughed and blew his nose loudly on his checked pocket handkerchief. But this was

no use either. He was still unheard. The silence lasted for two minutes. Voldyrev took a rouble note from his

pocket and laid it on an open book before the clerk. The clerk wrinkled up his forehead, drew the book

"A little inquiry. . . . I want only to find out on what grounds the heirs of Princess Gugulin. . . . May I trouble

The clerk, absorbed in his own thoughts, got up and, scratching his elbow, went to a cupboard for something.

Returning a minute later to his table he became absorbed in the book again: another rouble note was lying

He walked away from the table and stopped in the middle of the room, his hands hanging hopelessly at his

sides. The porter, passing again with glasses, probably noticed the helpless expression of his face, for he went

The clerk drew the book towards him again and began turning over the leaves, and all at once, as though by

chance, lifted his eyes to Voldyrev. His nose began to shine, turned red, and wrinkled up in a grin.

"With pleasure! The Gugulin case, isn't it? Very good. What is it then exactly?"

The clerk became as lively as though he were whirled round by a hurricane. He gave the necessary

information, arranged for a copy to be made, gave the petitioner a chair, and all in one instant. He even spoke

about the weather and asked after the harvest. And when Voldyrev went away he accompanied him down the

stairs, smiling affably and respectfully, and looking as though he were ready any minute to fall on his face

before the gentleman. Voldyrev for some reason felt uncomfortable, and in obedience to some inward

impulse he took a rouble out of his pocket and gave it to the clerk. And the latter kept bowing and smiling,

and took the rouble like a conjuror, so that it seemed to flash through the air.

"Well, what people!" thought the country gentleman as he went out into the street, and he stopped and

LIZOTCHKA KUDRINSKY, a young married lady who had many admirers, was suddenly taken ill, and so

seriously that her husband did not go to his office, and a telegram was sent to her mamma at Tver. This is

"I went to Lyesnoe to auntie's. I stayed there a week and then I went with all the rest to cousin Varya's.

Varya's husband is a surly brute and a despot (I'd shoot a husband like that), but we had a very jolly time

there. To begin with I took part in some private theatricals. It was A Scandal in a Respectable Family.

Hrustalev acted marvellously! Between the acts I drank some cold, awfully cold, lemon squash, with the

tiniest nip of brandy in it. Lemon squash with brandy in it is very much like champagne. . . . I drank it and I

felt nothing. Next day after the performance I rode out on horseback with that Adolf Ivanitch. It was rather

damp and there was a strong wind. It was most likely then that I caught cold. Three days later I came home to

see how my dear, good Vassya was getting on, and while here to get my silk dress, the one that has little

flowers on it. Vassya, of course, I did not find at home. I went into the kitchen to tell Praskovya to set the

samovar, and there I saw on the table some pretty little carrots and turnips like playthings. I ate one little

carrot and well, a turnip too. I ate very little, but only fancy, I began having a sharp pain at once spasms . .

. spasms . . . spasms . . . ah, I am dying. Vassya runs from the office. Naturally he clutches at his hair and

turns white. They run for the doctor. . . . Do you understand, I am dying, dying."

The spasms began at midday, before three o'clock the doctor came, and at six Lizotchka fell asleep and slept

It strikes two. . . . The light of the little night lamp filters scantily through the pale blue shade. Lizotchka is

lying in bed, her white lace cap stands out sharply against the dark background of the red cushion. Shadows

from the blue lampshade lie in patterns on her pale face and her round plump shoulders. Vassily

Stepanovitch is sitting at her feet. The poor fellow is happy that his wife is at home at last, and at the same

"Well, how do you feel, Lizotchka?" he asks in a whisper, noticing that she is awake.

"I am better," moans Lizotchka. "I don't feel the spasms now, but there is no sleeping. . . . I can't get to

Lizotchka sits up slowly with the expression of a martyr and gracefully turns her head on one side. Vassily

Stepanovitch with reverent awe, scarcely touching her hot body with his fingers, changes the compress.

Lizotchka shrinks, laughs at the cold water which tickles her, and lies down again.

"It's my nerves, Vassya, I am a very nervous woman. The doctor has prescribed for stomach trouble, but I

feel that he doesn't understand my illness. It's nerves and not the stomach, I swear that it is my nerves. There

"Hardly likely! I am not afraid for myself. . . . I don't care, indeed, I shall be glad to die, but I am sorry for

Vassitchka rarely enjoys his wife's society, and has long been used to solitude, but Lizotchka's words agitate

"Well, you will cry and grieve, and then you will get used to it. You'll even get married again."

"There, there, I won't!" Lizotchka soothes him, "only you ought to be prepared for anything."

And Lizotchka draws a mental picture of her own death, how her mother, her husband, her cousin Varya with

her husband, her relations, the admirers of her "talent" press round her death bed, as she whispers her last

farewell. All are weeping. Then when she is dead they dress her, interestingly pale and darkhaired, in a pink

dress (it suits her) and lay her in a very expensive coffin on gold legs, full of flowers. There is a smell of

incense, the candles splutter. Her husband never leaves the coffin, while the admirers of her talent cannot take

their eyes off her, and say: "As though living! She is lovely in her coffin!" The whole town is talking of the

life cut short so prematurely. But now they are carrying her to the church. The bearers are Ivan Petrovitch,

Adolf Ivanitch, Varya's husband, Nikolay Semyonitch, and the blackeyed student who had taught her to

drink lemon squash with brandy. It's only a pity there's no music playing. After the burial service comes the

leavetaking. The church is full of sobs, they bring the lid with tassels, and . . . Lizotchka is shut off from the

light of day for ever, there is the sound of hammering nails. Knock, knock, knock.

"Vassya, are you here?" she asks. "I have such gloomy thoughts. Goodness, why am I so unlucky as not to

"Something about love," Lizotchka says languidly. "Or some anecdote about Jews. . . ."

Vassily Stepanovitch, ready for anything if only his wife will be cheerful and not talk about death, combs

"It does, it does," giggles Lizotchka, and hands him her gold watch from the little table. "Mend it."

Vassya takes the watch, examines the mechanism for a long time, and wriggling and shrugging, says: "She

"Capital," she exclaims. "Wonderful. Do you know, Vassya, it's awfully stupid of you not to take part in

amateur theatricals! You have a remarkable talent! You are much better than Sysunov. There was an amateur

called Sysunov who played with us in It's My Birthday. A firstclass comic talent, only fancy: a nose as thick

as a parsnip, green eyes, and he walks like a crane. . . . We all roared; stay, I will show you how he walks."

Lizotchka springs out of bed and begins pacing about the floor, barefooted and without her cap.

"A very good day to you!" she says in a bass, imitating a man's voice. "Anything pretty? Anything new under

"Ha, ha, ha!" Vassya seconds her. And the young pair, roaring with laughter, forgetting the illness, chase one

another about the room. The race ends in Vassya's catching his wife by her nightgown and eagerly showering

kisses upon her. After one particularly passionate embrace Lizotchka suddenly remembers that she is

"What silliness!" she says, making a serious face and covering herself with the quilt. "I suppose you have

Lizotchka closes her eyes and is silent. Her former languor and expression of martyrdom return again, there is

a sound of gentle moans. Vassya changes the compress, and glad that his wife is at home and not gadding off

to her aunt's, sits meekly at her feet. He does not sleep all night. At ten o'clock the doctor comes.

"She is awfully depressed," Vassya whispers in his ear, "such gloomy thoughts, such pessimism. I am

The doctor sits down to the little table, and rubbing his forehead, prescribes bromide of potassium for

Lizotchka, then makes his bow, and promising to look in again in the evening, departs. Vassya does not go to

At midday the admirers of her talent arrive in a crowd. They are agitated and alarmed, they bring masses of

flowers and French novels. Lizotchka, in a snowwhite cap and a light dressing jacket, lies in bed with an

enigmatic look, as though she did not believe in her own recovery. The admirers of her talent see her

husband, but readily forgive his presence: they and he are united by one calamity at that bedside!

At six o'clock in the evening Lizotchka falls asleep, and again sleeps till two o'clock in the morning. Vassya

as before sits at her feet, struggles with drowsiness, changes her compress, plays at being a Jew, and in the

morning after a second night of suffering, Liza is prinking before the lookingglass and putting on her hat.

"What?" says Lizotchka in wonder, assuming a scared expression, "don't you know that there is a rehearsal

After escorting her there, Vassya having nothing to do to while away his boredom, takes his portfolio and

goes to the office. His head aches so violently from his sleepless nights that his left eye shuts of itself and

"Don't ask me, your Excellency," he says with a sigh. "What I have suffered in these two days, what I have

"Good heavens," cried his chief in alarm. "Lizaveta Pavlovna, what is wrong with her?"

Vassily Stepanovitch merely throws up his hands and raises his eyes to the ceiling, as though he would say:

"Ah, my boy, I can sympathise with you with all my heart!" sighs his chief, rolling his eyes. "I've lost my

wife, my dear, I understand. That is a loss, it is a loss! It's awful, awful! I hope Lizaveta Pavlovna is better

"Von Schterk! But you would have been better to have called in Magnus or Semandritsky. But how very pale

"Yes, your Excellency, I haven't slept. What I have suffered, what I have been through!"

"And yet you came! Why you came I can't understand? One can't force oneself like that! One mustn't do

oneself harm like that. Go home and stay there till you are well again! Go home, I command you! Zeal is a

very fine thing in a young official, but you mustn't forget as the Romans used to say: 'mens sana in corpore

Vassya agrees, puts his papers back in his portfolio, and, taking leave of his chief, goes home to bed.

IN one of the towns lying on this side of the Urals a rumour was afloat that a Persian magnate, called

RahatHelam, was staying for a few days in the town and putting up at the "Japan Hotel." This rumour made

no impression whatever upon the inhabitants; a Persian had arrived, well, so be it. Only Stepan Ivanovitch

Kutsyn, the mayor of the town, hearing of the arrival of the oriental gentleman from the secretary of the

As he went home from the Town Hall and had his dinner, the mayor sank into thought again, and this time he

went on thinking till the evening. The arrival of the distinguished Persian greatly intrigued him. It seemed to

him that fate itself had sent him this RahatHelam, and that a favourable opportunity had come at last for

realising his passionate, secretly cherished dream. Kutsyn had already two medals, and the Stanislav of the

third degree, the badge of the Red Cross, and the badge of the Society of Saving from Drowning, and in

addition to these he had made himself a little gold gun crossed by a guitar, and this ornament, hung from a

buttonhole in his uniform, looked in the distance like something special, and delightfully resembled a badge

of distinction. It is well known that the more orders and medals you have the more you want and the

mayor had long been desirous of receiving the Persian order of The Lion and the Sun; he desired it

passionately, madly. He knew very well that there was no need to fight, or to subscribe to an asylum, or to

serve on committees to obtain this order; all that was needed was a favourable opportunity. And now it

At noon on the following day he put on his chain and all his badges of distinction and went to the 'Japan.'

Destiny favoured him. When he entered the distinguished Persian's apartment the latter was alone and doing

nothing. RahatHelam, an enormous Asiatic, with a long nose like the beak of a snipe, with prominent eyes,

and with a fez on his head, was sitting on the floor rummaging in his portmanteau.

"I beg you to excuse my disturbing you," began Kutsyn, smiling. "I have the honour to introduce myself, the

hereditary, honourable citizen and cavalier, Stepan Ivanovitch Kutsyn, mayor of this town. I regard it as my

duty to honour, in the person of your Highness, so to say, the representative of a friendly and neighbourly

The Persian turned and muttered something in very bad French, that sounded like tapping a board with a

"The frontiers of Persia" Kutsyn continued the greeting he had previously learned by heart "are in

close contact with the borders of our spacious fatherland, and therefore mutual sympathies impel me, so to

The illustrious Persian got up and again muttered something in a wooden tongue. Kutsyn, who knew no

"Well, how am I to talk to him?" he thought. "It would be a good thing to send for an interpreter at once, but

it is a delicate matter, I can't talk before witnesses. The interpreter would be chattering all over the town

And Kutsyn tried to recall the foreign words he had picked up from the newspapers.

"I am the mayor of the town," he muttered. "That is the lord mayor . . . municipalais . . . Vwee? Kompreney?"

He wanted to express his social position in words or in gesture, and did not know how. A picture hanging on

the wall with an inscription in large letters, "The Town of Venice," helped him out of his difficulties. He

pointed with his finger at the town, then at his own head, and in that way obtained, as he imagined, the

phrase: "I am the head of the town." The Persian did not understand, but he gave a smile, and said:

"Goot, monsieur . . . goot . . . . ." Halfanhour later the mayor was slapping the Persian, first on the knee

"Kompreney? Vwee? As lord mayor and municipalais I suggest that you should take a little promenage . . .

Kutsyn pointed at Venice, and with two fingers represented walking legs. RahatHelam who kept his eyes

fixed on his medals, and was apparently guessing that this was the most important person in the town,

understood the word promenage and grinned politely. Then they both put on their coats and went out of the

room. Downstairs near the door leading to the restaurant of the 'Japan,' Kutsyn reflected that it would not be

"By Russian custom it wouldn't be amiss . . . puree, entrekot, champagne and so on, kompreney."

The illustrious visitor understood, and a little later they were both sitting in the very best room of the

"Let us drink to the prosperity of Persia!" said Kutsyn. "We Russians love the Persians. Though we are of

another faith, yet there are common interests, mutual, so to say, sympathies . . . progress . . . Asiatic markets. .

The illustrious Persian ate and drank with an excellent appetite, he stuck his fork into a slice of smoked

"You like it?" said the mayor delighted. "Bien, that's capital." And turning to the waiter he said: "Luka, my

lad, see that two pieces of smoked sturgeon, the best you have, are sent up to his Highness's room!"

Then the mayor and the Persian magnate went to look at the menagerie. The townspeople saw their Stepan

Ivanovitch, flushed with champagne, gay and very well pleased, leading the Persian about the principal

streets and the bazaar, showing him the points of interest of the town, and even taking him to the fire tower.

Among other things the townspeople saw him stop near some stone gates with lions on it, and point out to the

Persian first the lion, then the sun overhead, and then his own breast; then again he pointed to the lion and to

the sun while the Persian nodded his head as though in sign of assent, and smiling showed his white teeth. In

the evening they were sitting in the London Hotel listening to the harpplayers, and where they spent the

Next day the mayor was at the Town Hall in the morning; the officials there apparently already knew

something and were making their conjectures, for the secretary went up to him and said with an ironical

"It is the custom of the Pcrsians when an illustrious visitor comes to visit you, you must slaughter a sheep

And a little later an envelope that had come by post was handed to him. The mayor tore it open and saw a

caricature in it. It was a drawing of RahatHelam with the mayor on his knees before him, stretching out his

"To prove our Russian friendship For Persia's mighty realm, And show respect for you, her envoy, Myself I'd

The mayor was conscious of an unpleasant feeling like a gnawing in the pit of the stomach, but not for long.

By midday he was again with the illustrious Persian, again he was regaling him and showing him the points

of interest in the town. Again he led him to the stone gates, and again pointed to the lion, to the sun and to his

own breast. They dined at the 'Japan'; after dinner, with cigars in their teeth, both, flushed and blissful, again

mounted the fire tower, and the mayor, evidently wishing to entertain the visitor with an unusual spectacle,

They supped at the 'London' and, after supper, the Persian departed. When he saw him off, Stepan Ivanovitch

kissed him three times after the Russian fashion, and even grew tearful. And when the train started, he

A year and four months had passed. There was a bitter frost, thirtyfive degrees, and a piercing wind was

blowing. Stepan Ivanovitch was walking along the street with his fur coat thrown open over his chest, and he

was annoyed that he met no one to see the Lion and the Sun upon his breast. He walked about like this till

evening with his fur coat open, was chilled to the bone, and at night tossed from side to side and could not get

There was a burning sensation inside him, and his heart throbbed uneasily; he had a longing now to get a

A FINE carriage with rubber tyres, a fat coachman, and velvet on the seats, rolled up to the house of a

landowner called Gryabov. Fyodor Andreitch Otsov, the district Marshal of Nobility, jumped out of the

"No, sir. The mistress and the children are gone out paying visits, while the master and mademoiselle are

Otsov stood a little, thought a little, and then went to the river to look for Gryabov. Going down to the river

he found him a mile and a half from the house. Looking down from the steep bank and catching sight of

Gryabov, Otsov gushed with laughter. . . . Gryabov, a large stout man, with a very big head, was sitting on

the sand, angling, with his legs tucked under him like a Turk. His hat was on the back of his head and his

cravat had slipped on one side. Beside him stood a tall thin Englishwoman, with prominent eyes like a crab's,

and a big birdlike nose more like a hook than a nose. She was dressed in a white muslin gown through

which her scraggy yellow shoulders were very distinctly apparent. On her gold belt hung a little gold watch.

She too was angling. The stillness of the grave reigned about them both. Both were motionless, as the river

"A desperate passion, but deadly dull!" laughed Otsov. "Goodday, Ivan Kuzmitch."

"Ah . . . is that you ?" asked Gryabov, not taking his eyes off the water. "Have you come?"

"As you see . . . . And you are still taken up with your crazy nonsense! Not given it up yet?"

"The devil's in it. . . . I begin in the morning and fish all day. . . . The fishing is not up to much today. I've

caught nothing and this dummy hasn't either. We sit on and on and not a devil of a fish! I could scream!"

"Wait a little, maybe we shall catch something. Towards evening the fish bite better . . . . I've been sitting

here, my boy, ever since the morning! I can't tell you how fearfully boring it is. It was the devil drove me to

take to this fishing! I know that it is rotten idiocy for me to sit here. I sit here like some scoundrel, like a

convict, and I stare at the water like a fool. I ought to go to the haymaking, but here I sit catching fish.

Yesterday His Holiness held a service at Haponyevo, but I didn't go. I spent the day here with this . . . with

"But . . . have you taken leave of your senses?" asked Otsov, glancing in embarrassment at the

"Oh, confound her, it doesn't matter, she doesn't understand a syllable of Russian, whether you praise her or

blame her, it is all the same to her! Just look at her nose! Her nose alone is enough to make one faint. We sit

here for whole days together and not a single word! She stands like a stuffed image and rolls the whites of her

The Englishwoman gave a yawn, put a new worm on, and dropped the hook into the water.

"I wonder at her not a little," Gryabov went on, "the great stupid has been living in Russia for ten years and

not a word of Russian! . . . Any little aristocrat among us goes to them and learns to babble away in their

lingo, while they . . . there's no making them out. Just look at her nose, do look at her nose!"

"She's not a woman, but a maiden lady. . . . I bet she's dreaming of suitors. The ugly doll. And she smells of

something decaying . . . . I've got a loathing for her, my boy! I can't look at her with indifference. When she

turns her ugly eyes on me it sends a twinge all through me as though I had knocked my elbow on the parapet.

She likes fishing too. Watch her: she fishes as though it were a holy rite! She looks upon everything with

disdain . . . . She stands there, the wretch, and is conscious that she is a human being, and that therefore she is

the monarch of nature. And do you know what her name is? Wilka Charlesovna Fyce! Tfoo! There is no

The Englishwoman, hearing her name, deliberately turned her nose in Gryabov's direction and scanned him

with a disdainful glance; she raised her eyes from Gryabov to Otsov and steeped him in disdain. And all this

"Did you see?" said Gryabov chuckling. "As though to say 'take that.' Ah, you monster! It's only for the

children's sake that I keep that triton. If it weren't for the children, I wouldn't let her come within ten miles of

my estate. . . . She has got a nose like a hawk's . . . and her figure! That doll makes me think of a long nail, so

I could take her, and knock her into the ground, you know. Stay, I believe I have got a bite. . . ."

Gryabov jumped up and raised his rod. The line drew taut. . . . Gryabov tugged again, but could not pull out

"It has caught," he said, frowning, "on a stone I expect . . . damnation take it . . . ."

There was a look of distress on Gryabov's face. Sighing, moving uneasily, and muttering oaths, he began

"I can't. . . . There's always good fishing in the evening. . . . What a nuisance. Lord, forgive us, I shall have to

wade into the water, I must! And if only you knew, I have no inclination to undress. I shall have to get rid of

the Englishwoman. . . . It's awkward to undress before her. After all, she is a lady, you know!"

"Meess . . . er, er . . ." he said, addressing the Englishwoman, "Meess Fyce, je voo pree . . . ? Well, what am I

to say to her? How am I to tell you so that you can understand? I say . . . over there! Go away over there! Do

"What? Don't you understand? Go away from here, I tell you! I must undress, you devil's doll! Go over there!

Gryabov pulled the lady by her sleeve, pointed her towards the bushes, and made as though he would sit

down, as much as to say: Go behind the bushes and hide yourself there. . . . The Englishwoman, moving her

eyebrows vigorously, uttered rapidly a long sentence in English. The gentlemen gushed with laughter.

"It's the first time in my life I've heard her voice. There's no denying, it is a voice! She does not understand!

"I can't. Now's the time to fish, the evening. . . . It's evening . . . . Come, what would you have me do? It is a

Gryabov flung off his coat and his waistcoat and sat on the sand to take off his boots.

"I say, Ivan Kuzmitch," said the marshal, chuckling behind his hand. "It's really outrageous, an insult."

Gryabov took off his boots and his trousers, flung off his undergarments and remained in the costume of

Adam. Otsov held his sides, he turned crimson both from laughter and embarrassment. The Englishwoman

twitched her brows and blinked . . . . A haughty, disdainful smile passed over her yellow face.

"I must cool off," said Gryabov, slapping himself on the ribs. "Tell me if you please, Fyodor Andreitch, why I

"Oh, do get into the water quickly or cover yourself with something, you beast."

"And if only she were confused, the nasty thing," said Gryabov, crossing himself as he waded into the water.

"Brrrr . . . the water's cold. . . . Look how she moves her eyebrows! She doesn't go away . . . she is far above

Wading knee deep in the water and drawing his huge figure up to its full height, he gave a wink and said:

Miss Fyce coolly put on another worm, gave a yawn, and dropped the hook in. Otsov turned away, Gryabov

released his hook, ducked into the water and, spluttering, waded out. Two minutes later he was sitting on the

THE Justice of the Peace, who had received a letter from Petersburg, had set the news going that the owner of

Yefremovo, Count Vladimir Ivanovitch, would soon be arriving. When he would arrive there was no

"Like a thief in the night," said Father Kuzma, a greyheaded little priest in a lilac cassock. "And when he

does come the place will be crowded with the nobility and other high gentry. All the neighbours will flock

here. Mind now, do your best, Alexey Alexeitch. . . . I beg you most earnestly."

"You need not trouble about me," said Alexey Alexeitch, frowning. "I know my business. If only my enemy

Alexey Alexeitch was the sacristan of the Yefremovo church. He also taught the schoolboys church and

secular singing, for which he received sixty roubles a year from the revenues of the Count's estate. The

schoolboys were bound to sing in church in return for their teaching. Alexey Alexeitch was a tall, thickset

man of dignified deportment, with a fat, cleanshaven face that reminded one of a cow's udder. His imposing

figure and double chin made him look like a man occupying an important position in the secular hierarchy

rather than a sacristan. It was strange to see him, so dignified and imposing, flop to the ground before the

bishop and, on one occasion, after too loud a squabble with the deacon Yevlampy Avdiessov, remain on his

knees for two hours by order of the head priest of the district. Grandeur was more in keeping with his figure

On account of the rumours of the Count's approaching visit he had a choir practice every day, morning and

evening. The choir practice was held at the school. It did not interfere much with the school work. During the

practice the schoolmaster, Sergey Makaritch, set the children writing copies while he joined the tenors as an

This is how the choir practice was conducted. Alexey Alexeitch would come into the schoolroom, slamming

the door and blowing his nose. The trebles and altos extricated themselves noisily from the schooltables.

The tenors and basses, who had been waiting for some time in the yard, came in, tramping like horses. They

all took their places. Alexey Alexeitch drew himself up, made a sign to enforce silence, and struck a note

After the "Amen" there followed "Lord have mercy upon us" from the Great Litany. All this had been learned

long ago, sung a thousand times and thoroughly digested, and it was gone through simply as a formality. It

was sung indolently, unconsciously. Alexey Alexeitch waved his arms calmly and chimed in now in a tenor,

now in a bass voice. It was all slow, there was nothing interesting. . . . But before the "Cherubim" hymn the

whole choir suddenly began blowing their noses, coughing and zealously turning the pages of their music.

The sacristan turned his back on the choir and with a mysterious expression on his face began tuning his

"Take your places. Look at your music carefully. . . . Basses, don't overdo it . . . rather softly."

Bortnyansky's "Cherubim" hymn, No. 7, was selected. At a given signal silence prevailed. All eyes were

fastened on the music, the trebles opened their mouths. Alexey Alexeitch softly lowered his arm.

"Piano . . . piano. . . . You see 'piano' is written there. . . . More lightly, more lightly."

When they had to sing "piano" an expression of benevolence and amiability overspread Alexey Alexeitch's

And when they had to sing "forte" the sacristan's fat face expressed alarm and even horror.

The "Cherubim" hymn was sung well, so well that the schoolchildren abandoned their copies and fell to

watching the movements of Alexey Alexeitch. People stood under the windows. The schoolwatchman,

Vassily, came in wearing an apron and carrying a dinnerknife in his hand and stood listening. Father

Kuzma, with an anxious face appeared suddenly as though he had sprung from out of the earth. . . . After 'Let

us lay aside all earthly cares' Alexey Alexeitch wiped the sweat off his brow and went up to Father Kuzma in

"It puzzles me, Father Kuzma," he said, shrugging his shoulders, "why is it that the Russian people have no

understanding? It puzzles me, may the Lord chastise me! Such an uncultured people that you really cannot

tell whether they have a windpipe in their throats or some other sort of internal arrangement. Were you

choking, or what?" he asked, addressing the bass Gennady Semitchov, the innkeeper's brother.

"What is your voice like? It rattles like a saucepan. I bet you were boozing yesterday! That's what it is! Your

breath smells like a tavern. . . . Eech! You are a clodhopper, brother! You are a lout! How can you be a

chorister if you keep company with peasants in the tavern? Ech, you are an ass, brother!"

"It's a sin, it's a sin, brother," muttered Father Kuzma. "God sees everything . . . through and through . . . ."

"That's why you have no idea of singing because you care more for vodka than for godliness, you fool."

"Don't work yourself up," said Father Kuzma. "Don't be cross. . . . I will persuade him."

Father Kuzma went up to Gennady Semitchov and began "persuading" him: "What do you do it for? Try and

put your mind to it. A man who sings ought to restrain himself, because his throat is . . . er . . tender."

Gennady scratched his neck and looked sideways towards the window as though the words did not apply to

After the "Cherubim" hymn they sang the Creed, then "It is meet and right"; they sang smoothly and with

"To my mind, Father Kuzma," said the sacristan, "the old 'Our Father' is better than the modern. That's what

"No, no. . . . Sing the modern one. For the Count hears nothing but modern music when he goes to Mass in

Petersburg or Moscow. . . . In the churches there, I imagine . . . there's very different sort of music there,

After "Our Father" there was again a great blowing of noses, coughing and turning over of pages. The most

difficult part of the performance came next: the "concert." Alexey Alexeitch was practising two pieces, "Who

is the God of glory" and "Universal Praise." Whichever the choir learned best would be sung before the

Count. During the "concert" the sacristan rose to a pitch of enthusiasm. The expression of benevolence was

"Forte!" he muttered. "Andante! let yourselves go! Sing, you image! Tenors, you don't bring it off!

Tototitotom. . . . Sol . . . si . . . sol, I tell you, you blockhead! Glory! Basses, glo . . . o . . . ry.

His bow travelled over the heads and shoulders of the erring trebles and altos. His left hand was continually

pulling the ears of the young singers. On one occasion, carried away by his feelings he flipped the bass

Gennady under the chin with his bent thumb. But the choristers were not moved to tears or to anger at his

After the "concert" came a minute of silence. Alexey Alexeitch, red, perspiring and exhausted, sat down on

the windowsill, and turned upon the company lustreless, wearied, but triumphant eyes. In the listening

crowd he observed to his immense annoyance the deacon Avdiessov. The deacon, a tall thickset man with a

red pockmarked face, and straw in his hair, stood leaning against the stove and grinning contemptuously.

"That's right, sing away! Perform your music!" he muttered in a deep bass. "Much the Count will care for

your singing! He doesn't care whether you sing with music or without. . . . For he is an atheist."

After the "concert" they sang "May our lips be filled with praise," and the choir practice was over. The choir

broke up to reassemble in the evening for another practice. And so it went on every day.

One month passed and then a second. . . . The steward, too, had by then received a notice that the Count

would soon be coming. At last the dusty sunblinds were taken off the windows of the big house, and

Yefremovo heard the strains of the brokendown, outoftune piano. Father Kuzma was pining, though he

could not himself have said why, or whether it was from delight or alarm. . . . The deacon went about

The following Saturday evening Father Kuzma went to the sacristan's lodgings. His face was pale, his

"I have just been at his Excellency's," he said to the sacristan, stammering. "He is a cultivated gentleman with

refined ideas. But . . . er . . . it's mortifying, brother. . . . 'At what o'clock, your Excellency, do you desire us to

ring for Mass tomorrow?' And he said: 'As you think best. Only, couldn't it be as short and quick as possible

without a choir.' Without a choir! Er . . . do you understand, without, without a choir. . . ."

Alexey Alexeitch turned crimson. He would rather have spent two hours on his knees again than have heard

those words! He did not sleep all night. He was not so much mortified at the waste of his labours as at the fact

that the deacon would give him no peace now with his jeers. The deacon was delighted at his discomfiture.

Next day all through the service he was casting disdainful glances towards the choir where Alexey Alexeitch

was booming responses in solitude. When he passed by the choir with the censer he muttered:

"Perform your music! Do your utmost! The Count will give a tenrouble note to the choir!"

After the service the sacristan went home, crushed and ill with mortification. At the gate he was overtaken by

"Stop a minute, Alyosha!" said the deacon. "Stop a minute, silly, don't be cross! You are not the only one, I

am in for it too! Immediately after the Mass Father Kuzma went up to the Count and asked: 'And what did

you think of the deacon's voice, your Excellency. He has a deep bass, hasn't he?' And the Count do you

know what he answered by way of compliment? 'Anyone can bawl,' he said. 'A man's voice is not as

important as his brains.' A learned gentleman from Petersburg! An atheist is an atheist, and that's all about it!

DMITRI OSIPOVITCH VAXIN, the architect, returned from town to his holiday cottage greatly impressed

by the spiritualistic s�ance at which he had been present. As he undressed and got into his solitary bed

(Madame Vaxin had gone to an allnight service) he could not help remembering all he had seen and heard.

It had not, properly speaking, been a s�ance at all, but the whole evening had been spent in terrifying

conversation. A young lady had begun it by talking, apropos of nothing, about thoughtreading. From

thoughtreading they had passed imperceptibly to spirits, and from spirits to ghosts, from ghosts to people

buried alive. . . . A gentleman had read a horrible story of a corpse turning round in the coffin. Vaxin himself

had asked for a saucer and shown the young ladies how to converse with spirits. He had called up among

others the spirit of his deceased uncle, Klavdy Mironitch, and had mentally asked him:

"Has not the time come for me to transfer the ownership of our house to my wife?"

"There is a great deal in nature that is mysterious and . . . terrible . . ." thought Vaxin, as he got into bed. "It's

It struck one o'clock. Vaxin turned over on the other side and peeped out from beneath the bedclothes at the

blue light of the lamp burning before the holy ikon. The flame flickered and cast a faint light on the

"And what if the ghost of Uncle Klavdy should appear this minute?" flashed through Vaxin's mind. "But, of

Ghosts are, we all know, a superstition, the offspring of undeveloped intelligence, but Vaxin, nevertheless,

pulled the bedclothes over his head, and shut his eyes very tight. The corpse that turned round in its coffin

came back to his mind, and the figures of his deceased motherinlaw, of a colleague who had hanged

himself, and of a girl who had drowned herself, rose before his imagination. . . . Vaxin began trying to dispel

these gloomy ideas, but the more he tried to drive them away the more haunting the figures and fearful

"Hang it all!" he thought. "Here I am afraid in the dark like a child! Idiotic!"

Tick . . . tick . . . tick . . . he heard the clock in the next room. The churchbell chimed the hour in the

churchyard close by. The bell tolled slowly, depressingly, mournfully. . . . A cold chill ran down Vaxin's neck

and spine. He fancied he heard someone breathing heavily over his head, as though Uncle Klavdy had

stepped out of his frame and was bending over his nephew. . . . Vaxin felt unbearably frightened. He clenched

At last, when a cockchafer flew in at the open window and began buzzing over his bed, he could bear it no

"Dmitri Osipitch, was wollen Sie?" he heard the voice of the German governess at his door a moment later.

"Ah, it's you, Rosalia Karlovna!" Vaxin cried, delighted. "Why do you trouble? Gavrila might just . . ."

"Yourself Gavrila to the town sent. And Glafira is somewhere all the evening gone. . . . There's nobody in the

"Well, what I wanted . . . it's . . . but, please, come in . . . you needn't mind! . . . it's dark."

Rosalia Karlovna, a stout redcheeked person, came in to the bedroom and stood in an expectant attitude at

"Sit down, please . . . you see, it's like this. . . . What on earth am I to ask her for?" he wondered, stealing a

glance at Uncle Klavdy's portrait and feeling his soul gradually returning to tranquility.

"What I really wanted to ask you was . . . Oh, when the man goes to town, don't forget to tell him to . . . er . . .

"Ich will . . . there's nothing I will, but. . . But do sit down! I shall think of something else in a minute."

"It is shocking for a maiden in a man's room to remain. . . . Mr. Vaxin, you are, I see, a naughty man. . . . I

understand. . . . To order cigarettepapers one does not a person wake. . . . I understand you. . . ."

Somewhat reassured by his conversation with her and ashamed of his cowardice, Vaxin pulled the bedclothes

over his head and shut his eyes. For about ten minutes he felt fairly comfortable, then the same nonsense

came creeping back into his mind. . . . He swore to himself, felt for the matches, and without opening his eyes

But even the light was no use. To Vaxin' s excited imagination it seemed as though someone were peeping

"I'll ring her up again . . . damn the woman!" he decided. "I'll tell her I'm unwell and ask for some drops."

Vaxin rang. There was no response. He rang again, and as though answering his ring, he heard the

Overcome with terror, cold all over, he jumped out of bed, ran headlong out of his bedroom, and making the

sign of the cross and cursing himself for his cowardice, he fled barefoot in his nightshirt to the governess's

"Rosalia Karlovna!" he began in a shaking voice as he knocked at her door, "Rosalia Karlovna! . . . Are you

asleep? . . . I feel . . . so . . . er . . . er . . . unwell. . . . Drops! . . ."

"I beg you . . . do you understand? I beg you! Why this squeamishness, I can't understand . . . especially when

a man . . . is ill . . . How absurdly zierlich manierlich you are really . . . at your age. . . ."

"I to your wife shall tell. . . . Will not leave an honest maiden in peace. . . . When I was at Baron Anzig's, and

the baron try to come to me for matches, I understand at once what his matches mean and tell to the baroness.

"Hang your honesty! I am ill I tell you . . . and asking you for drops. Do you understand? I'm ill!"

"Your wife is an honest, good woman, and you ought her to love! Ja! She is noble! . . . I will not be her foe!"

Vaxin leaned against the doorpost, folded his arms and waited for his panic to pass off. To return to his

room where the lamp flickered and his uncle stared at him from his frame was more than he could face, and

to stand at the governess's door in nothing but his nightshirt was inconvenient from every point of view.

It struck two o'clock and his terror had not left him. There was no light in the passage and something dark

seemed to be peeping out from every corner. Vaxin turned so as to face the doorpost, but at that instant it

seemed as though somebody tweaked his nightshirt from behind and touched him on the shoulder.

No answer. Vaxin hesitatingly opened the door and peeped into the room. The virtuous German was sweetly

slumbering. The tiny flame of a nightlight threw her solid buxom person into relief. Vaxin stepped into the

room and sat down on a wickerwork trunk near the door. He felt better in the presence of a living creature,

"Let the German idiot sleep," he thought, "I'll sit here, and when it gets light I'll go back. . . . It's daylight

Vaxin curled up on the trunk and put his arm under his head to await the coming of dawn.

"What a thing it is to have nerves!" he reflected. "An educated, intelligent man! . . . Hang it all! . . . It's a

As he listened to the gentle, even breathing of Rosalia Karlovna, he soon recovered himself completely.

At six o'clock, Vaxin's wife returned from the allnight service, and not finding her husband in their

On the bed lay stretched Rosalia Karlovna fast asleep, and a couple of yards from her was her husband curled

What she said to her husband, and how he looked when he woke, I leave to others to describe. It is beyond

SASHA SMIRNOV, the only son of his mother, holding under his arm, something wrapped up in No. 223 of

the Financial News, assumed a sentimental expression, and went into Dr. Koshelkov's consultingroom.

"Ah, dear lad!" was how the doctor greeted him. "Well! how are we feeling? What good news have you for

Sasha blinked, laid his hand on his heart and said in an agitated voice: "Mamma sends her greetings to you,

Ivan Nikolaevitch, and told me to thank you. . . . I am the only son of my mother and you have saved my life

. . . you have brought me through a dangerous illness and . . . we do not know how to thank you."

"Nonsense, lad!" said the doctor, highly delighted. "I only did what anyone else would have done in my

"I am the only son of my mother . . . we are poor people and cannot of course repay you, and we are quite

ashamed, doctor, although, however, mamma and I . . . the only son of my mother, earnestly beg you to

accept in token of our gratitude . . . this object, which . . . An object of great value, an antique bronze. . . . A

"No, please do not refuse," Sasha went on muttering as he unpacked the parcel. "You will wound mamma and

me by refusing. . . . It's a fine thing . . . an antique bronze. . . . It was left us by my deceased father and we

have kept it as a precious souvenir. My father used to buy antique bronzes and sell them to connoisseurs . . .

Sasha undid the object and put it solemnly on the table. It was a not very tall candelabra of old bronze and

artistic workmanship. It consisted of a group: on the pedestal stood two female figures in the costume of Eve

and in attitudes for the description of which I have neither the courage nor the fitting temperament. The

figures were smiling coquettishly and altogether looked as though, had it not been for the necessity of

supporting the candlestick, they would have skipped off the pedestal and have indulged in an orgy such as is

Looking at the present, the doctor slowly scratched behind his ear, cleared his throat and blew his nose

"Yes, it certainly is a fine thing," he muttered, "but . . . how shall I express it? . . . it's . . . h'm . . . it's not quite

for family reading. It's not simply decollet� but beyond anything, dash it all. . . ."

"The serpenttempter himself could not have invented anything worse. . . . Why, to put such a

"What a strange way of looking at art, doctor!" said Sasha, offended. "Why, it is an artistic thing, look at it!

There is so much beauty and elegance that it fills one's soul with a feeling of reverence and brings a lump into

one's throat! When one sees anything so beautiful one forgets everything earthly. . . . Only look, how much

"I understand all that very well, my dear boy," the doctor interposed, "but you know I am a family man, my

"Of course if you look at it from the point of view of the crowd," said Sasha, "then this exquisitely artistic

work may appear in a certain light. . . . But, doctor, rise superior to the crowd, especially as you will wound

mamma and me by refusing it. I am the only son of my mother, you have saved my life. . . . We are giving

you the thing most precious to us and . . . and I only regret that I have not the pair to present to you. . . ."

"Thank you, my dear fellow, I am very grateful . . . Give my respects to your mother but really consider, my

children run in here, ladies come. . . . However, let it remain! I see there's no arguing with you."

"And there is nothing to argue about," said Sasha, relieved. "Put the candlestick here, by this vase. What a

After Sasha's departure the doctor looked for a long time at the candelabra, scratched behind his ear and

"It's a superb thing, there's no denying it," he thought, "and it would be a pity to throw it away. . . . But it's

impossible for me to keep it. . . . H'm! . . . Here's a problem! To whom can I make a present of it, or to what

After long meditation he thought of his good friend, the lawyer Uhov, to whom he was indebted for the

"Excellent," the doctor decided, "it would be awkward for him as a friend to take money from me, and it will

be very suitable for me to present him with this. I will take him the devilish thing! Luckily he is a bachelor

Without further procrastination the doctor put on his hat and coat, took the candelabra and went off to Uhov's.

"How are you, friend!" he said, finding the lawyer at home. "I've come to see you . . . to thank you for your

efforts. . . . You won't take money so you must at least accept this thing here. . . . See, my dear fellow. . . .

"What a specimen!" he chuckled. "Ah, deuce take it, to think of them imagining such a thing, the devils!

After pouring out his ecstasies the lawyer looked timidly towards the door and said: "Only you must carry off

"Why . . . because my mother is here at times, my clients . . . besides I should be ashamed for my servants to

"Nonsense! Nonsense! Don't you dare to refuse!" said the doctor, gesticulating. "It's piggish of you! It's a

work of art! . . . What movement. . . what expression! I won't even talk of it! You will offend me!"

But the doctor gesticulated more violently than before, and dashing out of the flat went home, glad that he

When he had gone away the lawyer examined the candelabra, fingered it all over, and then, like the doctor,

"It's a fine thing," he mused, "and it would be a pity to throw it away and improper to keep it. The very best

thing would be to make a present of it to someone. . . . I know what! I'll take it this evening to Shashkin, the

comedian. The rascal is fond of such things, and by the way it is his benefit tonight."

No sooner said than done. In the evening the candelabra, carefully wrapped up, was duly carried to

Shashkin's. The whole evening the comic actor's dressingroom was besieged by men coming to admire the

present; the dressingroom was filled with the hum of enthusiasm and laughter like the neighing of horses. If

one of the actresses approached the door and asked: "May I come in?" the comedian's husky voice was heard

After the performance the comedian shrugged his shoulders, flung up his hands and said: "Well what am I to

do with the horrid thing? Why, I live in a private flat! Actresses come and see me! It's not a photograph that

"You had better sell it, sir," the hairdresser who was disrobing the actor advised him. "There's an old woman

living about here who buys antique bronzes. Go and enquire for Madame Smirnov . . . everyone knows her."

The actor followed his advice. . . . Two days later the doctor was sitting in his consultingroom, and with his

finger to his brow was meditating on the acids of the bile. All at once the door opened and Sasha Smirnov

flew into the room. He was smiling, beaming, and his whole figure was radiant with happiness. In his hands

"Doctor!" he began breathlessly, "imagine my delight! Happily for you we have succeeded in picking up the

pair to your candelabra! Mamma is so happy. . . . I am the only son of my mother, you saved my life. . . ."

And Sasha, all of a tremor with gratitude, set the candelabra before the doctor. The doctor opened his mouth,

IT was a bright winter midday. . . . There was a sharp snapping frost and the curls on Nadenka's temples and

the down on her upper lip were covered with silvery frost. She was holding my arm and we were standing on

a high hill. From where we stood to the ground below there stretched a smooth sloping descent in which the

sun was reflected as in a lookingglass. Beside us was a little sledge lined with bright red cloth.

"Let us go down, Nadyezhda Petrovna!" I besought her. "Only once! I assure you we shall be all right and not

But Nadenka was afraid. The slope from her little goloshes to the bottom of the ice hill seemed to her a

terrible, immensely deep abyss. Her spirit failed her, and she held her breath as she looked down, when I

merely suggested her getting into the sledge, but what would it be if she were to risk flying into the abyss!

"I entreat you!" I said. "You mustn't be afraid! You know it's poorspirited, it's cowardly!"

Nadenka gave way at last, and from her face I saw that she gave way in mortal dread. I sat her in the sledge,

pale and trembling, put my arm round her and with her cast myself down the precipice.

The sledge flew like a bullet. The air cleft by our flight beat in our faces, roared, whistled in our ears, tore at

us, nipped us cruelly in its anger, tried to tear our heads off our shoulders. We had hardly strength to breathe

from the pressure of the wind. It seemed as though the devil himself had caught us in his claws and was

dragging us with a roar to hell. Surrounding objects melted into one long furiously racing streak . . . another

The sledge began moving more and more slowly, the roar of the wind and the whirr of the runners was no

longer so terrible, it was easier to breathe, and at last we were at the bottom. Nadenka was more dead than

"Nothing would induce me to go again," she said, looking at me with wide eyes full of horror. "Nothing in

A little later she recovered herself and looked enquiringly into my eyes, wondering had I really uttered those

four words or had she fancied them in the roar of the hurricane. And I stood beside her smoking and looking

She took my arm and we spent a long while walking near the icehill. The riddle evidently would not let her

rest. . . . Had those words been uttered or not? . . . Yes or no? Yes or no? It was the question of pride, or

honour, of life a very important question, the most important question in the world. Nadenka kept

impatiently, sorrowfully looking into my face with a penetrating glance; she answered at random, waiting to

see whether I would not speak. Oh, the play of feeling on that sweet face! I saw that she was struggling with

herself, that she wanted to say something, to ask some question, but she could not find the words; she felt

We clambered up the icehill by the steps again. I sat Nadenka, pale and trembling, in the sledge; again we

flew into the terrible abyss, again the wind roared and the runners whirred, and again when the flight of our

When the sledge stopped, Nadenka flung a glance at the hill down which we had both slid, then bent a long

look upon my face, listened to my voice which was unconcerned and passionless, and the whole of her little

figure, every bit of it, even her muff and her hood expressed the utmost bewilderment, and on her face was

written: "What does it mean? Who uttered those words? Did he, or did I only fancy it?"

The uncertainty worried her and drove her out of all patience. The poor girl did not answer my questions,

"Well, I . . . I like this tobogganning," she said, flushing. "Shall we go down once more?"

She "liked" the tobogganning, and yet as she got into the sledge she was, as both times before, pale,

We went down for the third time, and I saw she was looking at my face and watching my lips. But I put my

handkerchief to my lips, coughed, and when we reached the middle of the hill I succeeded in bringing out:

And the mystery remained a mystery! Nadenka was silent, pondering on something. . . . I saw her home, she

tried to walk slowly, slackened her pace and kept waiting to see whether I would not say those words to her,

and I saw how her soul was suffering, what effort she was making not to say to herself:

"It cannot be that the wind said them! And I don't want it to be the wind that said them!"

And from that time I began going every day tobogganning with Nadenka, and as we flew down in the sledge,

Soon Nadenka grew used to that phrase as to alcohol or morphia. She could not live without it. It is true that

flying down the icehill terrified her as before, but now the terror and danger gave a peculiar fascination to

words of love words which as before were a mystery and tantalized the soul. The same two the wind

and I were still suspected. . . . Which of the two was making love to her she did not know, but apparently by

now she did not care; from which goblet one drinks matters little if only the beverage is intoxicating.

It happened I went to the skatingground alone at midday; mingling with the crowd I saw Nadenka go up to

the icehill and look about for me. . . then she timidly mounted the steps. . . . She was frightened of going

alone oh, how frightened! She was white as the snow, she was trembling, she went as though to the

scaffold, but she went, she went without looking back, resolutely. She had evidently determined to put it to

the test at last: would those sweet amazing words be heard when I was not there? I saw her, pale, her lips

parted with horror, get into the sledge, shut her eyes and saying goodbye for ever to the earth, set off. . . .

"Whrrr!" whirred the runners. Whether Nadenka heard those words I do not know. I only saw her getting up

from the sledge looking faint and exhausted. And one could tell from her face that she could not tell herself

whether she had heard anything or not. Her terror while she had been flying down had deprived of her all

But then the month of March arrived . . . the spring sunshine was more kindly. . . . Our icehill turned dark,

lost its brilliance and finally melted. We gave up tobogganning. There was nowhere now where poor

Nadenka could hear those words, and indeed no one to utter them, since there was no wind and I was going to

It happened two days before my departure I was sitting in the dusk in the little garden which was separated

from the yard of Nadenka's house by a high fence with nails in it. . . . It was still pretty cold, there was still

snow by the manure heap, the trees looked dead but there was already the scent of spring and the rooks were

cawing loudly as they settled for their night's rest. I went up to the fence and stood for a long while peeping

through a chink. I saw Nadenka come out into the porch and fix a mournful yearning gaze on the sky. . . . The

spring wind was blowing straight into her pale dejected face. . . . It reminded her of the wind which roared at

us on the icehill when she heard those four words, and her face became very, very sorrowful, a tear trickled

down her cheek, and the poor child held out both arms as though begging the wind to bring her those words

Mercy! The change that came over Nadenka! She uttered a cry, smiled all over her face and looking joyful,

That was long ago. Now Nadenka is married; she married whether of her own choice or not does not

matter a secretary of the Nobility Wardenship and now she has three children. That we once went

tobogganning together, and that the wind brought her the words "I love you, Nadenka," is not forgotten; it is

for her now the happiest, most touching, and beautiful memory in her life. . . .

But now that I am older I cannot understand why I uttered those words, what was my motive in that joke. . . .

Two young people who had not long been married were walking up and down the platform of a little country

station. His arm was round her waist, her head was almost on his shoulder, and both were happy.

The moon peeped up from the drifting cloudlets and frowned, as it seemed, envying their happiness and

regretting her tedious and utterly superfluous virginity. The still air was heavy with the fragrance of lilac and

"How beautiful it is, Sasha, how beautiful!" murmured the young wife. "It all seems like a dream. See, how

sweet and inviting that little copse looks! How nice those solid, silent telegraph posts are! They add a special

note to the landscape, suggesting humanity, civilization in the distance. . . . Don't you think it's lovely when

"Yes. . . . But what hot little hands you've got. . . That's because you're excited, Varya. . . . What have you got

"Chicken and salad. . . . It's a chicken just big enough for two. . . . Then there is the salmon and sardines that

The moon as though she had taken a pinch of snuff hid her face behind a cloud. Human happiness reminded

Three eyes of fire could be seen in the distance. The stationmaster came out on the platform. Signal lights

"Let's see the train in and go home," said Sasha, yawning. "What a splendid time we are having together,

The dark monster crept noiselessly alongside the platform and came to a standstill. They caught glimpses of

"Look! look!" they heard from one of the carriages. "Varya and Sasha have come to meet us! There they are!

Two little girls skipped out of the train and hung on Varya's neck. They were followed by a stout,

middleaged lady, and a tall, lanky gentleman with grey whiskers; behind them came two schoolboys, laden

with bags, and after the schoolboys, the governess, after the governess the grandmother.

"Here we are, here we are, dear boy!" began the whiskered gentleman, squeezing Sasha's hand. "Sick of

waiting for us, I expect! You have been pitching into your old uncle for not coming down all this time, I

daresay! Kolya, Kostya, Nina, Fifa . . . children! Kiss your cousin Sasha! We're all here, the whole troop of

us, just for three or four days. . . . I hope we shan't be too many for you? You mustn't let us put you out!"

At the sight of their uncle and his family, the young couple were horrorstricken. While his uncle talked and

kissed them, Sasha had a vision of their little cottage: he and Varya giving up their three little rooms, all the

pillows and bedding to their guests; the salmon, the sardines, the chicken all devoured in a single instant; the

cousins plucking the flowers in their little garden, spilling the ink, filled the cottage with noise and confusion;

his aunt talking continually about her ailments and her papa's having been Baron von Fintich. . . .

"No, it's you," answered Varya, pale with anger. "They're your relations! they're not mine!"

And turning to her visitors, she said with a smile of welcome: "Welcome to the cottage!"

The moon came out again. She seemed to smile, as though she were glad she had no relations. Sasha, turning

his head away to hide his angry despairing face, struggled to give a note of cordial welcome to his voice as he

ILYA SERGEITCH PEPLOV and his wife Kleopatra Petrovna were standing at the door, listening greedily.

On the other side in the little drawingroom a love scene was apparently taking place between two persons:

their daughter Natashenka and a teacher of the district school, called Shchupkin.

"He's rising!" whispered Peplov, quivering with impatience and rubbing his hands. "Now, Kleopatra, mind;

as soon as they begin talking of their feelings, take down the ikon from the wall and we'll go in and bless

them. . . . We'll catch him. . . . A blessing with an ikon is sacred and binding. . . He couldn't get out of it, if he

"Don't go on like that!" said Shchupkin, striking a match against his checked trousers. "I never wrote you any

"I like that! As though I didn't know your writing!" giggled the girl with an affected shriek, continually

peeping at herself in the glass. "I knew it at once! And what a queer man you are! You are a writing master,

and you write like a spider! How can you teach writing if you write so badly yourself?"

"H'm! . . . That means nothing. The great thing in writing lessons is not the hand one writes, but keeping the

boys in order. You hit one on the head with a ruler, make another kneel down. . . . Besides, there's nothing in

handwriting! Nekrassov was an author, but his handwriting's a disgrace, there's a specimen of it in his

"You are not Nekrassov. . . ." (A sigh). "I should love to marry an author. He'd always be writing poems to

"Love passion your eyes. You'll be crazy when you read it. It would draw a tear from a stone! And if I

Shchupkin jumped up, and making sheepish eyes, bent over the fat little hand that smelt of egg soap.

"Take down the ikon," Peplov whispered in a fluster, pale with excitement, and buttoning his coat as he

"Children," he muttered, lifting up his arms and blinking tearfully, "the Lord bless you, my children. May you

"And and I bless you, too," the mamma brought out, crying with happiness. "May you be happy, my dear

ones! Oh, you are taking from me my only treasure!" she said to Shchupkin. "Love my girl, be good to her. . .

Shchupkin's mouth fell open with amazement and alarm. The parents' attack was so bold and unexpected that

"I'm in for it! I'm spliced!" he thought, going limp with horror. "It's all over with you now, my boy! There's

And he bowed his head submissively, as though to say, "Take me, I'm vanquished."

"Bleblessings on you," the papa went on, and he, too, shed tears. "Natashenka, my daughter, stand by his

But at this point the father suddenly left off weeping, and his face was contorted with anger.

What had happened? The writing master raised himself and saw that he was saved; in her flutter the mamma

had snatched from the wall the portrait of Lazhetchnikov, the author, in mistake for the ikon. Old Peplov and

his wife stood disconcerted in the middle of the room, holding the portrait aloft, not knowing what to do or

what to say. The writing master took advantage of the general confusion and slipped away.

Two friends one a fat man and the other a thin man met at the Nikolaevsky station. The fat man had

just dined in the station and his greasy lips shone like ripe cherries. He smelt of sherry and fleur d'orange. The

thin man had just slipped out of the train and was laden with portmanteaus, bundles, and bandboxes. He smelt

of ham and coffee grounds. A thin woman with a long chin, his wife, and a tall schoolboy with one eye

"Porfiry," cried the fat man on seeing the thin man. "Is it you? My dear fellow! How many summers, how

"Holy saints!" cried the thin man in amazement. "Misha! The friend of my childhood! Where have you

The friends kissed each other three times, and gazed at each other with eyes full of tears. Both were agreeably

"My dear boy!" began the thin man after the kissing. "This is unexpected! This is a surprise! Come have a

good look at me! Just as handsome as I used to be! Just as great a darling and a dandy! Good gracious me!

Well, and how are you? Made your fortune? Married? I am married as you see. . . . This is my wife Luise, her

maiden name was Vantsenbach . . . of the Lutheran persuasion. . . . And this is my son Nafanail, a schoolboy

in the third class. This is the friend of my childhood, Nafanya. We were boys at school together!"

"We were boys at school together," the thin man went on. "Do you remember how they used to tease you?

You were nicknamed Herostratus because you burned a hole in a schoolbook with a cigarette, and I was

nicknamed Ephialtes because I was fond of telling tales. Hoho! . . . we were children! . . . Don't be shy,

Nafanya. Go nearer to him. And this is my wife, her maiden name was Vantsenbach, of the Lutheran

"Well, how are you doing my friend?" the fat man asked, looking enthusiastically at his friend. "Are you in

"I am, dear boy! I have been a collegiate assessor for the last two years and I have the Stanislav. The salary is

poor, but that's no great matter! The wife gives music lessons, and I go in for carving wooden cigarette cases

in a private way. Capital cigarette cases! I sell them for a rouble each. If any one takes ten or more I make a

reduction of course. We get along somehow. I served as a clerk, you know, and now I have been transferred

here as a head clerk in the same department. I am going to serve here. And what about you? I bet you are a

"No dear boy, go higher than that," said the fat man. "I have risen to privy councillor already . . . I have two

The thin man turned pale and rigid all at once, but soon his face twisted in all directions in the broadest smile;

it seemed as though sparks were flashing from his face and eyes. He squirmed, he doubled together, crumpled

up. . . . His portmanteaus, bundles and cardboard boxes seemed to shrink and crumple up too. . . . His wife's

long chin grew longer still; Nafanail drew himself up to attention and fastened all the buttons of his uniform.

"Your Excellency, I . . . delighted! The friend, one may say, of childhood and to have turned into such a great

"Come, come!" the fat man frowned. "What's this tone for? You and I were friends as boys, and there is no

"Merciful heavens, your Excellency! What are you saying. . . ?" sniggered the thin man, wriggling more than

ever. "Your Excellency's gracious attention is like refreshing manna. . . . This, your Excellency, is my son

The fat man was about to make some protest, but the face of the thin man wore an expression of such

reverence, sugariness, and mawkish respectfulness that the privy councillor was sickened. He turned away

The thin man pressed three fingers, bowed his whole body and sniggered like a Chinaman: "Hehehe!"

His wife smiled. Nafanail scraped with his foot and dropped his cap. All three were agreeably overwhelmed.

ONE fine evening, a no less fine government clerk called Ivan Dmitritch Tchervyakov was sitting in the

second row of the stalls, gazing through an opera glass at the Cloches de Corneville. He gazed and felt at the

acme of bliss. But suddenly. . . . In stories one so often meets with this "But suddenly." The authors are right:

life is so full of surprises! But suddenly his face puckered up, his eyes disappeared, his breathing was arrested

. . . he took the opera glass from his eyes, bent over and . . . "Aptchee!!" he sneezed as you perceive. It is not

reprehensible for anyone to sneeze anywhere. Peasants sneeze and so do police superintendents, and

sometimes even privy councillors. All men sneeze. Tchervyakov was not in the least confused, he wiped his

face with his handkerchief, and like a polite man, looked round to see whether he had disturbed any one by

his sneezing. But then he was overcome with confusion. He saw that an old gentleman sitting in front of him

in the first row of the stalls was carefully wiping his bald head and his neck with his glove and muttering

something to himself. In the old gentleman, Tchervyakov recognised Brizzhalov, a civilian general serving in

"I have spattered him," thought Tchervyakov, "he is not the head of my department, but still it is awkward. I

Tchervyakov gave a cough, bent his whole person forward, and whispered in the general's ear.

Tchervyakov was embarrassed, he smiled stupidly and fell to gazing at the stage. He gazed at it but was no

longer feeling bliss. He began to be troubled by uneasiness. In the interval, he went up to Brizzhalov, walked

"I spattered you, your Excellency, forgive me . . . you see . . . I didn't do it to . . . ."

"Oh, that's enough . . . I'd forgotten it, and you keep on about it!" said the general, moving his lower lip

"He has forgotten, but there is a fiendish light in his eye," thought Tchervyakov, looking suspiciously at the

general. "And he doesn't want to talk. I ought to explain to him . . . that I really didn't intend . . . that it is the

law of nature or else he will think I meant to spit on him. He doesn't think so now, but he will think so later!"

On getting home, Tchervyakov told his wife of his breach of good manners. It struck him that his wife took

too frivolous a view of the incident; she was a little frightened, but when she learned that Brizzhalov was in a

"Still, you had better go and apologise," she said, "or he will think you don't know how to behave in public."

"That's just it! I did apologise, but he took it somehow queerly . . . he didn't say a word of sense. There wasn't

Next day Tchervyakov put on a new uniform, had his hair cut and went to Brizzhalov's to explain; going into

the general's reception room he saw there a number of petitioners and among them the general himself, who

was beginning to interview them. After questioning several petitioners the general raised his eyes and looked

"Yesterday at the Arcadia, if you recollect, your Excellency," the latter began, "I sneezed and . . . accidentally

"What nonsense. . . . It's beyond anything! What can I do for you," said the general addressing the next

"He won't speak," thought Tchervyakov, turning pale; "that means that he is angry. . . . No, it can't be left like

When the general had finished his conversation with the last of the petitioners and was turning towards his

"Your Excellency! If I venture to trouble your Excellency, it is simply from a feeling I may say of regret! . . .

"Why, you are simply making fun of me, sir," he said as he closed the door behind him.

"Where's the making fun in it?" thought Tchervyakov, "there is nothing of the sort! He is a general, but he

can't understand. If that is how it is I am not going to apologise to that fanfaron any more! The devil take him.

So thought Tchervyakov as he walked home; he did not write a letter to the general, he pondered and

pondered and could not make up that letter. He had to go next day to explain in person.

"I ventured to disturb your Excellency yesterday," he muttered, when the general lifted enquiring eyes upon

him, "not to make fun as you were pleased to say. I was apologising for having spattered you in sneezing. . . .

And I did not dream of making fun of you. Should I dare to make fun of you, if we should take to making

Something seemed to give way in Tchervyakov's stomach. Seeing nothing and hearing nothing he reeled to

the door, went out into the street, and went staggering along. . . . Reaching home mechanically, without

A DULL, rainy day. The sky is completely covered with heavy clouds, and there is no prospect of the rain

ceasing. Outside sleet, puddles, and drenched jackdaws. Indoors it is half dark, and so cold that one wants the

Pavel Petrovitch Somov is pacing up and down his study, grumbling at the weather. The tears of rain on the

windows and the darkness of the room make him depressed. He is insufferably bored and has nothing to do. .

. . The newspapers have not been brought yet; shooting is out of the question, and it is not nearly

Somov is not alone in his study. Madame Somov, a pretty little lady in a light blouse and pink stockings, is

sitting at his writing table. She is eagerly scribbling a letter. Every time he passes her as he strides up and

down, Ivan Petrovitch looks over her shoulder at what she is writing. He sees big sprawling letters, thin and

narrow, with all sorts of tails and flourishes. There are numbers of blots, smears, and fingermarks. Madame

Somov does not like ruled paper, and every line runs downhill with horrid wriggles as it reaches the margin. .

"Lidotchka, who is it you are writing such a lot to?" Somov inquires, seeing that his wife is just beginning to

Somov takes the written pages and, still pacing up and down, begins reading. Lidotchka leans her elbows on

the back of her chair and watches the expression of his face. . . . After the first page his face lengthens and an

expression of something almost like panic comes into it. . . . At the third page Somov frowns and scratches

the back of his head. At the fourth he pauses, looks with a scared face at his wife, and seems to ponder. After

thinking a little, he takes up the letter again with a sigh. . . . His face betrays perplexity and even alarm. . . ."

"Well, this is beyond anything!" he mutters, as he finishes reading the letter and flings the sheets on the table,

"What's the matter! You've covered six pages, wasted a good two hours scribbling, and there's nothing in it at

all! If there were one tiny idea! One reads on and on, and one's brain is as muddled as though one were

"Yes, that's true, Vanya, . . ." says Lidotchka, reddening. "I wrote it carelessly. . . ."

"Queer sort of carelessness! In a careless letter there is some meaning and style there is sense in it

while yours . . . excuse me, but I don't know what to call it! It's absolute twaddle! There are words and

sentences, but not the slightest sense in them. Your whole letter is exactly like the conversation of two boys:

'We had pancakes today! And we had a soldier come to see us!' You say the same thing over and over

again! You drag it out, repeat yourself. . . . The wretched ideas dance about like devils: there's no making out

"If I had been writing carefully," Lidotchka says in self defence, "then there would not have been mistakes. . .

"Oh, I'm not talking about mistakes! The awful grammatical howlers! There's not a line that's not a personal

insult to grammar! No stops nor commas and the spelling . . . brrr! 'Earth' has an a in it!! And the writing!

It's desperate! I'm not joking, Lida. . . . I'm surprised and appalled at your letter. . . . You mustn't be angry,

darling, but, really, I had no idea you were such a duffer at grammar. . . . And yet you belong to a cultivated,

welleducated circle: you are the wife of a University man, and the daughter of a general! Tell me, did you

Somov shrugs his shoulders and continues to pace up and down, sighing. Lidotchka, conscious of her

ignorance and ashamed of it, sighs too and casts down her eyes. . . . Ten minutes pass in silence.

"You know, Lidotchka, it really is awful!" says Somov, suddenly halting in front of her and looking into her

face with horror. "You are a mother . . . do you understand? A mother! How can you teach your children if

you know nothing yourself? You have a good brain, but what's the use of it if you have never mastered the

very rudiments of knowledge? There never mind about knowledge . . . the children will get that at school,

but, you know, you are very shaky on the moral side too! You sometimes use such language that it makes my

Somov shrugs his shoulders again, wraps himself in the folds of his dressinggown and continues his pacing.

. . . He feels vexed and injured, and at the same time sorry for Lidotchka, who does not protest, but merely

blinks. . . . Both feel oppressed and miserable. . . . Absorbed in their woes, they do not notice how time is

Sitting down to dinner, Somov, who is fond of good eating and of eating in peace, drinks a large glass of

vodka and begins talking about something else. Lidotchka listens and assents, but suddenly over the soup her

"It's all mother's fault!" she says, wiping away her tears with her dinner napkin. "Everyone advised her to

send me to the high school, and from the high school I should have been sure to go on to the University!"

"University . . . high school," mutters Somov. "That's running to extremes, my girl! What's the good of being

a blue stocking! A blue stocking is the very deuce! Neither man nor woman, but just something midway:

neither one thing nor another. . . I hate blue stockings! I would never have married a learned woman. . . ."

"There's no making you out . . .," says Lidotchka. "You are angry because I am not learned, and at the same

time you hate learned women; you are annoyed because I have no ideas in my letter, and yet you yourself are

"You do catch me up at a word, my dear," yawns Somov, pouring out a second glass of vodka in his

Under the influence of vodka and a good dinner, Somov grows more goodhumoured, lively, and soft. . . . He

watches his pretty wife making the salad with an anxious face and a rush of affection for her, of indulgence

"It was stupid of me to depress her, poor girl . . . ," he thought. "Why did I say such a lot of dreadful things?

She is silly, that's true, uncivilised and narrow; but . . . there are two sides to the question, and audiatur et

altera pars. . . . Perhaps people are perfectly right when they say that woman's shallowness rests on her very

vocation. Granted that it is her vocation to love her husband, to bear children, and to mix salad, what the devil

At that point he remembers that learned women are usually tedious, that they are exacting, strict, and

unyielding; and, on the other hand, how easy it is to get on with silly Lidotchka, who never pokes her nose

into anything, does not understand so much, and never obtrudes her criticism. There is peace and comfort

"Confound them, those clever and learned women! It's better and easier to live with simple ones," he thinks,

He recollects that a civilised man sometimes feels a desire to talk and share his thoughts with a clever and

welleducated woman. "What of it?" thinks Somov. "If I want to talk of intellectual subjects, I'll go to

Natalya Andreyevna . . . or to Marya Frantsovna. . . . It's very simple! But no, I shan't go. One can discuss

"I LOVE YOU. You are my life, my happiness everything to me! Forgive the avowal, but I have not the

strength to suffer and be silent. I ask not for love in return, but for sympathy. Be at the old arbour at eight

o'clock this evening. . . . To sign my name is unnecessary I think, but do not be uneasy at my being

When Pavel Ivanitch Vyhodtsev, a practical married man who was spending his holidays at a summer villa,

read this letter, he shrugged his shoulders and scratched his forehead in perplexity.

"What devilry is this?" he thought. "I'm a married man, and to send me such a queer . . . silly letter! Who

Pavel Ivanitch turned the letter over and over before his eyes, read it through again, and spat with disgust.

" 'I love you' " . . . he said jeeringly. "A nice boy she has pitched on! So I'm to run off to meet you in the

arbour! . . . I got over all such romances and fleurs d'amour years ago, my girl. . . . Hm! She must be some

reckless, immoral creature. . . . Well, these women are a set! What a whirligig God forgive us! she

must be to write a letter like that to a stranger, and a married man, too! It's real demoralisation!"

In the course of his eight years of married life Pavel Ivanitch had completely got over all sentimental feeling,

and he had received no letters from ladies except letters of congratulation, and so, although he tried to carry it

"Of course I am not a silly boy, and I am not going to rush off to this idiotic rendezvous; but yet it would be

interesting to know who wrote it! Hm. . . . It is certainly a woman's writing. . . . The letter is written with

genuine feeling, and so it can hardly be a joke. . . . Most likely it's some neurotic girl, or perhaps a widow . . .

What made it the more difficult to decide the question was that Pavel Ivanitch had not one feminine

"It is queer . . ." he mused. " 'I love you!'. . . When did she manage to fall in love? Amazing woman! To fall

in love like this, apropos of nothing, without making any acquaintance and finding out what sort of man I am.

. . . She must be extremely young and romantic if she is capable of falling in love after two or three looks at

Pavel Ivanitch suddenly recalled that when he had been walking among the summer villas the day before, and

the day before that, he had several times been met by a fair young lady with a light blue hat and a turnup

nose. The fair charmer had kept looking at him, and when he sat down on a seat she had sat down beside him.

"Can it be she?" Vyhodtsev wondered. "It can't be! Could a delicate ephemeral creature like that fall in love

"She writes that she is young and nicelooking. . . . So she's not old. . . . Hm. . . . To tell the truth, honestly I

am not so old and plain that no one could fall in love with me. My wife loves me! Besides, love is blind, we

He made up his mind that it was stupid to pay attention to such a nonsensical thing as a loveletter, and

laughed at it and at its authoress, but alas! powerful is the "dacha"enemy of mankind! After dinner,

"But there, I daresay she is expecting me to come! What a silly! I can just imagine what a nervous fidget

she'll be in and how her tournure will quiver when she does not find me in the arbour! I shan't go, though. . . .

"Though I might, perhaps, just out of curiosity. . ." he was musing, half an hour later. "I might go and look

from a distance what sort of a creature she is. . . . It would be interesting to have a look at her! It would be

fun, and that's all! After all, why shouldn't I have a little fun since such a chance has turned up?"

Pavel Ivanitch got up from his bed and began dressing. "What are you getting yourself up so smartly for?" his

wife asked, noticing that he was putting on a clean shirt and a fashionable tie.

Pavel Ivanitch dressed in his best, and waiting till eight o'clock, went out of the house. When the figures of

gaily dressed summer visitors of both sexes began passing before his eyes against the bright green

"Which of them is it? . . ." he wondered, advancing irresolutely. "Come, what am I afraid of? Why, I am not

going to the rendezvous! What . . . a fool! Go forward boldly! And what if I go into the arbour? Well, well . .

Pavel Ivanitch's heart beat still more violently. . . . Involuntarily, with no desire to do so, he suddenly pictured

to himself the halfdarkness of the arbour. . . . A graceful fair girl with a little blue hat and a turnup nose

rose before his imagination. He saw her, abashed by her love and trembling all over, timidly approach him,

"If I weren't married it would be all right . . ." he mused, driving sinful ideas out of his head. "Though . . . for

once in my life, it would do no harm to have the experience, or else one will die without knowing what. . . .

And my wife, what will it matter to her? Thank God, for eight years I've never moved one step away from

her. . . . Eight years of irreproachable duty! Enough of her. . . . It's positively vexatious. . . . I'm ready to go to

Trembling all over and holding his breath, Pavel Ivanitch went up to the arbour, wreathed with ivy and wild

vine, and peeped into it. . . . A smell of dampness and mildew reached him. . . .

"I believe there's nobody . . ." he thought, going into the arbour, and at once saw a human silhouette in the

The silhouette was that of a man. . . . Looking more closely, Pavel Ivanitch recognised his wife's brother,

"Oh, it's you . . ." he growled discontentedly, as he took off his hat and sat down.

"Excuse me, Pavel Ivanitch," began Mitya: "but might I ask you to leave me alone?? . . . I am thinking over

the dissertation for my degree and. . . and the presence of anybody else prevents my thinking."

"You had better go somewhere in a dark avenue. . ." Pavel Ivanitch observed mildly. "It's easier to think in

the open air, and, besides, . . . er . . . I should like to have a little sleep here on this seat. . . It's not so hot here.

"You want to sleep, but it's a question of my dissertation . . ." Mitya grumbled. "The dissertation is more

Again there was a silence. Pavel Ivanitch, who had given the rein to his imagination and was continually

"Come, I beg you, Mitya! You are younger and ought to consider me. . . . I am unwell and . . . I need sleep. . .

"That's egoism. . . . Why must you be here and not I? I won't go as a matter of principle."

"Come, I ask you to! Suppose I am an egoist, a despot and a fool . . . but I ask you to go! For once in my life I

"What a beast! . . ." thought Pavel Ivanitch. "That can't be a rendezvous with him here! It's impossible with

"I say, Mitya," he said, "I ask you for the last time. . . . Show that you are a sensible, humane, and cultivated

"I don't know why you keep on so!" . . . said Mitya, shrugging his shoulders. "I've said I won't go, and I

"She is gone!" thought Pavel Ivanitch, looking angrily at Mitya. "She saw that blackguard and fled! It's all

"You're a beast, a low brute and a blackguard! Yes! A beast! It's mean . . . and silly! Everything is at an end

"Delighted to hear it!" muttered Mitya, also getting up and putting on his hat. "Let me tell you that by being

here just now you've played me such a dirty trick that I'll never forgive you as long as I live."

Pavel Ivanitch went out of the arbour, and beside himself with rage, strode rapidly to his villa. Even the sight

"Once in a lifetime such a chance has turned up," he thought in agitation; "and then it's been prevented! Now

At supper Pavel Ivanitch and Mitya kept their eyes on their plates and maintained a sullen silence. . . . They

"What are you smiling at?" asked Pavel Ivanitch, pouncing on his wife. "It's only silly fools who laugh for

His wife looked at her husband's angry face, and went off into a peal of laughter.

"I? . . . I didn't get one. . . ." Pavel Ivanitch was overcome with confusion. "You are inventing. . .

"Oh, come, tell us! Own up, you did! Why, it was I sent you that letter! Honour bright, I did! Ha ha!"

Pavel Ivanitch turned crimson and bent over his plate. "Silly jokes," he growled.

"But what could I do? Tell me that. . . . We had to scrub the rooms out this evening, and how could we get

you out of the house? There was no other way of getting you out. . . . But don't be angry, stupid. . . . I didn't

want you to be dull in the arbour, so I sent the same letter to Mitya too! Mitya, have you been to the arbour?"