The Party and Other Stories ..............................................................................................................................1

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

AFTER the festive dinner with its eight courses and its endless conversation, Olga Mihalovna, whose

husband's nameday was being celebrated, went out into the garden. The duty of smiling and talking

incessantly, the clatter of the crockery, the stupidity of the servants, the long intervals between the courses,

and the stays she had put on to conceal her condition from the visitors, wearied her to exhaustion. She longed

to get away from the house, to sit in the shade and rest her heart with thoughts of the baby which was to be

born to her in another two months. She was used to these thoughts coming to her as she turned to the left out

of the big avenue into the narrow path. Here in the thick shade of the plums and cherrytrees the dry

branches used to scratch her neck and shoulders; a spider's web would settle on her face, and there would rise

up in her mind the image of a little creature of undetermined sex and undefined features, and it began to seem

as though it were not the spider's web that tickled her face and neck caressingly, but that little creature. When,

at the end of the path, a thin wicker hurdle came into sight, and behind it podgy beehives with tiled roofs;

when in the motionless, stagnant air there came a smell of hay and honey, and a soft buzzing of bees was

audible, then the little creature would take complete possession of Olga Mihalovna. She used to sit down on a

This time, too, she went on as far as the seat, sat down, and began thinking; but instead of the little creature

there rose up in her imagination the figures of the grownup people whom she had just left. She felt

dreadfully uneasy that she, the hostess, had deserted her guests, and she remembered how her husband, Pyotr

Dmitritch, and her uncle, Nikolay Nikolaitch, had argued at dinner about trial by jury, about the press, and

about the higher education of women. Her husband, as usual, argued in order to show off his Conservative

ideas before his visitors and still more in order to disagree with her uncle, whom he disliked. Her uncle

contradicted him and wrangled over every word he uttered, so as to show the company that he, Uncle Nikolay

Nikolaitch, still retained his youthful freshness of spirit and freethinking in spite of his fiftynine years. And

towards the end of dinner even Olga Mihalovna herself could not resist taking part and unskilfully attempting

to defend university education for women not that that education stood in need of her defence, but simply

because she wanted to annoy her husband, who to her mind was unfair. The guests were wearied by this

discussion, but they all thought it necessary to take part in it, and talked a great deal, although none of them

Olga Mihalovna was sitting on the nearest side of the hurdle near the shanty. The sun was hidden behind the

clouds. The trees and the air were overcast as before rain, but in spite of that it was hot and stifling. The hay

cut under the trees on the previous day was lying ungathered, looking melancholy, with here and there a

patch of colour from the faded flowers, and from it came a heavy, sickly scent. It was still. The other side of

Suddenly she heard footsteps and voices; some one was coming along the path towards the beehouse.

"How stifling it is!" said a feminine voice. "What do you think is it going to rain, or not?"

"It is going to rain, my charmer, but not before night," a very familiar male voice answered languidly. "There

Olga Mihalovna calculated that if she made haste to hide in the shanty they would pass by without seeing her,

and she would not have to talk and to force herself to smile. She picked up her skirts, bent down and crept

into the shanty. At once she felt upon her face, her neck, her arms, the hot air as heavy as steam. If it had not

been for the stuffiness and the close smell of rye bread, fennel, and brushwood, which prevented her from

breathing freely, it would have been delightful to hide from her visitors here under the thatched roof in the

"What a pretty spot!" said a feminine voice. "Let us sit here, Pyotr Dmitritch."

Olga Mihalovna began peeping through a crack between two branches. She saw her husband, Pyotr

Dmitritch, and Lubotchka Sheller, a girl of seventeen who had not long left boardingschool. Pyotr

Dmitritch, with his hat on the back of his head, languid and indolent from having drunk so much at dinner,

slouched by the hurdle and raked the hay into a heap with his foot; Lubotchka, pink with the heat and pretty

as ever, stood with her hands behind her, watching the lazy movements of his big handsome person.

Olga Mihalovna knew that her husband was attractive to women, and did not like to see him with them. There

was nothing out of the way in Pyotr Dmitritch's lazily raking together the hay in order to sit down on it with

Lubotchka and chatter to her of trivialities; there was nothing out of the way, either, in pretty Lubotchka's

looking at him with her soft eyes; but yet Olga Mihalovna felt vexed with her husband and frightened and

"Sit down, enchantress," said Pyotr Dmitritch, sinking down on the hay and stretching. "That's right. Come,

"Me go to sleep? Allah forbid! Can I go to sleep while eyes like yours are watching me?"

In her husband's words, and in the fact that he was lolling with his hat on the back of his head in the presence

of a lady, there was nothing out of the way either. He was spoilt by women, knew that they found him

attractive, and had adopted with them a special tone which every one said suited him. With Lubotchka he

"Tell me, please," said Lubotchka, after a brief silence "is it true that you are to be tried for something?"

"For nothing, but just . . . it's chiefly a question of politics," yawned Pyotr Dmitritch "the antagonisms of

Left and Right. I, an obscurantist and reactionary, ventured in an official paper to make use of an expression

offensive in the eyes of such immaculate Gladstones as Vladimir Pavlovitch Vladimirov and our local justice

"And it is the way with us that you may express disapproval of the sun or the moon, or anything you like, but

God preserve you from touching the Liberals! Heaven forbid! A Liberal is like the poisonous dry fungus

which covers you with a cloud of dust if you accidentally touch it with your finger."

"Nothing particular. The whole flareup started from the merest trifle. A teacher, a detestable person of

clerical associations, hands to Vostryakov a petition against a tavernkeeper, charging him with insulting

language and behaviour in a public place. Everything showed that both the teacher and the tavernkeeper

were drunk as cobblers, and that they behaved equally badly. If there had been insulting behaviour, the insult

had anyway been mutual. Vostryakov ought to have fined them both for a breach of the peace and have

turned them out of the court that is all. But that's not our way of doing things. With us what stands first is

not the person not the fact itself, but the trademark and label. However great a rascal a teacher may be,

he is always in the right because he is a teacher; a tavernkeeper is always in the wrong because he is a

tavernkeeper and a moneygrubber. Vostryakov placed the tavernkeeper under arrest. The man appealed

to the Circuit Court; the Circuit Court triumphantly upheld Vostryakov's decision. Well, I stuck to my own

Pyotr Dmitritch spoke calmly with careless irony. In reality the trial that was hanging over him worried him

extremely. Olga Mihalovna remembered how on his return from the unfortunate session he had tried to

conceal from his household how troubled he was, and how dissatisfied with himself. As an intelligent man he

could not help feeling that he had gone too far in expressing his disagreement; and how much lying had been

needful to conceal that feeling from himself and from others! How many unnecessary conversations there had

been! How much grumbling and insincere laughter at what was not laughable! When he learned that he was

to be brought up before the Court, he seemed at once harassed and depressed; he began to sleep badly, stood

oftener than ever at the windows, drumming on the panes with his fingers. And he was ashamed to let his

"Yes, it is very nice, very nice indeed; in fact, I arrived just in time for the haymaking, I must tell you, and in

the Ukraine the haymaking is the most poetical moment of the year. Here we have a big house, a big garden,

a lot of servants, and a lot going on, so that you don't see the haymaking; here it all passes unnoticed. There,

at the farm, I have a meadow of fortyfive acres as flat as my hand. You can see the men mowing from any

window you stand at. They are mowing in the meadow, they are mowing in the garden. There are no visitors,

no fuss nor hurry either, so that you can't help seeing, feeling, hearing nothing but the haymaking. There is a

smell of hay indoors and outdoors. There's the sound of the scythes from sunrise to sunset. Altogether Little

Russia is a charming country. Would you believe it, when I was drinking water from the rustic wells and

filthy vodka in some Jew's tavern, when on quiet evenings the strains of the Little Russian fiddle and the

tambourines reached me, I was tempted by a fascinating idea to settle down on my place and live there as

long as I chose, far away from Circuit Courts, intellectual conversations, philosophizing women, long

Pyotr Dmitritch was not lying. He was unhappy and really longed to rest. And he had visited his Poltava

property simply to avoid seeing his study, his servants, his acquaintances, and everything that could remind

"No, no, no," cried Lubotchka; and looking round at the bees, she walked rapidly back.

Pyotr Dmitritch walked away after her, looking at her with a softened and melancholy face. He was probably

thinking, as he looked at her, of his farm, of solitude, and who knows? perhaps he was even thinking

how snug and cosy life would be at the farm if his wife had been this girl young, pure, fresh, not corrupted

When the sound of their footsteps had died away, Olga Mihalovna came out of the shanty and turned towards

the house. She wanted to cry. She was by now acutely jealous. She could understand that her husband was

worried, dissatisfied with himself and ashamed, and when people are ashamed they hold aloof, above all from

those nearest to them, and are unreserved with strangers; she could understand, also, that she had nothing to

fear from Lubotchka or from those women who were now drinking coffee indoors. But everything in general

was terrible, incomprehensible, and it already seemed to Olga Mihalovna that Pyotr Dmitritch only half

"He has no right to do it!" she muttered, trying to formulate her jealousy and her vexation with her husband.

She made up her mind to find her husband at once and tell him all about it: it was disgusting, absolutely

disgusting, that he was attractive to other women and sought their admiration as though it were some

heavenly manna; it was unjust and dishonourable that he should give to others what belonged by right to his

wife, that he should hide his soul and his conscience from his wife to reveal them to the first pretty face he

came across. What harm had his wife done him? How was she to blame? Long ago she had been sickened by

his lying: he was for ever posing, flirting, saying what he did not think, and trying to seem different from

what he was and what he ought to be. Why this falsity? Was it seemly in a decent man? If he lied he was

demeaning himself and those to whom he lied, and slighting what he lied about. Could he not understand that

if he swaggered and posed at the judicial table, or held forth at dinner on the prerogatives of Government, that

he, simply to provoke her uncle, was showing thereby that he had not a ha'p'orth of respect for the Court, or

Coming out into the big avenue, Olga Mihalovna assumed an expression of face as though she had just gone

away to look after some domestic matter. In the verandah the gentlemen were drinking liqueur and eating

strawberries: one of them, the Examining Magistrate a stout elderly man, blagueur and wit must have

been telling some rather free anecdote, for, seeing their hostess, he suddenly clapped his hands over his fat

lips, rolled his eyes, and sat down. Olga Mihalovna did not like the local officials. She did not care for their

clumsy, ceremonious wives, their scandalmongering, their frequent visits, their flattery of her husband,

whom they all hated. Now, when they were drinking, were replete with food and showed no signs of going

away, she felt their presence an agonizing weariness; but not to appear impolite, she smiled cordially to the

Magistrate, and shook her finger at him. She walked across the diningroom and drawingroom smiling, and

looking as though she had gone to give some order and make some arrangement. "God grant no one stops

me," she thought, but she forced herself to stop in the drawingroom to listen from politeness to a young man

who was sitting at the piano playing: after standing for a minute, she cried, "Bravo, bravo, M. Georges!" and

She found her husband in his study. He was sitting at the table, thinking of something. His face looked stern,

thoughtful, and guilty. This was not the same Pyotr Dmitritch who had been arguing at dinner and whom his

guests knew, but a different man wearied, feeling guilty and dissatisfied with himself, whom nobody

knew but his wife. He must have come to the study to get cigarettes. Before him lay an open cigarettecase

full of cigarettes, and one of his hands was in the table drawer; he had paused and sunk into thought as he was

Olga Mihalovna felt sorry for him. It was as clear as day that this man was harassed, could find no rest, and

was perhaps struggling with himself. Olga Mihalovna went up to the table in silence: wanting to show that

she had forgotten the argument at dinner and was not cross, she shut the cigarettecase and put it in her

"What should I say to him?" she wondered; "I shall say that lying is like a forest the further one goes into

it the more difficult it is to get out of it. I will say to him, 'You have been carried away by the false part you

are playing; you have insulted people who were attached to you and have done you no harm. Go and

apologize to them, laugh at yourself, and you will feel better. And if you want peace and solitude, let us go

Meeting his wife's gaze, Pyotr Dmitritch's face immediately assumed the expression it had worn at dinner and

"It's past five," he said, looking at his watch. "If our visitors are merciful and leave us at eleven, even then we

And whistling something, he walked slowly out of the study with his usual dignified gait. She could hear him

with dignified firmness cross the diningroom, then the drawingroom, laugh with dignified assurance, and

say to the young man who was playing, "Bravo! bravo!" Soon his footsteps died away: he must have gone out

into the garden. And now not jealousy, not vexation, but real hatred of his footsteps, his insincere laugh and

voice, took possession of Olga Mihalovna. She went to the window and looked out into the garden. Pyotr

Dmitritch was already walking along the avenue. Putting one hand in his pocket and snapping the fingers of

the other, he walked with confident swinging steps, throwing his head back a little, and looking as though he

were very well satisfied with himself, with his dinner, with his digestion, and with nature. . . .

Two little schoolboys, the children of Madame Tchizhevsky, who had only just arrived, made their

appearance in the avenue, accompanied by their tutor, a student wearing a white tunic and very narrow

trousers. When they reached Pyotr Dmitritch, the boys and the student stopped, and probably congratulated

him on his nameday. With a graceful swing of his shoulders, he patted the children on their cheeks, and

carelessly offered the student his hand without looking at him. The student must have praised the weather and

compared it with the climate of Petersburg, for Pyotr Dmitritch said in a loud voice, in a tone as though he

"What! It's cold in Petersburg? And here, my good sir, we have a salubrious atmosphere and the fruits of the

And thrusting one hand in his pocket and snapping the fingers of the other, he walked on. Till he had

disappeared behind the nut bushes, Olga Mihalovna watched the back of his head in perplexity. How had this

man of thirtyfour come by the dignified deportment of a general? How had he come by that impressive,

elegant manner? Where had he got that vibration of authority in his voice? Where had he got these "what's,"

Olga Mihalovna remembered how in the first months of her marriage she had felt dreary at home alone and

had driven into the town to the Circuit Court, at which Pyotr Dmitritch had sometimes presided in place of

her godfather, Count Alexey Petrovitch. In the presidential chair, wearing his uniform and a chain on his

breast, he was completely changed. Stately gestures, a voice of thunder, "what," "to be sure," careless tones. .

. . Everything, all that was ordinary and human, all that was individual and personal to himself that Olga

Mihalovna was accustomed to seeing in him at home, vanished in grandeur, and in the presidential chair there

sat not Pyotr Dmitritch, but another man whom every one called Mr. President. This consciousness of power

prevented him from sitting still in his place, and he seized every opportunity to ring his bell, to glance sternly

at the public, to shout. . . . Where had he got his shortsight and his deafness when he suddenly began to see

and hear with difficulty, and, frowning majestically, insisted on people speaking louder and coming closer to

the table? From the height of his grandeur he could hardly distinguish faces or sounds, so that it seemed that

if Olga Mihalovna herself had gone up to him he would have shouted even to her, "Your name?" Peasant

witnesses he addressed familiarly, he shouted at the public so that his voice could be heard even in the street,

and behaved incredibly with the lawyers. If a lawyer had to speak to him, Pyotr Dmitritch, turning a little

away from him, looked with halfclosed eyes at the ceiling, meaning to signify thereby that the lawyer was

utterly superfluous and that he was neither recognizing him nor listening to him; if a badlydressed lawyer

spoke, Pyotr Dmitritch pricked up his ears and looked the man up and down with a sarcastic, annihilating

If a wouldbe eloquent lawyer mispronounced a foreign word, saying, for instance, "factitious" instead of

"fictitious," Pyotr Dmitritch brightened up at once and asked, "What? How? Factitious? What does that

mean?" and then observed impressively: "Don't make use of words you do not understand." And the lawyer,

finishing his speech, would walk away from the table, red and perspiring, while Pyotr Dmitritch; with a

selfsatisfied smile, would lean back in his chair triumphant. In his manner with the lawyers he imitated

Count Alexey Petrovitch a little, but when the latter said, for instance, "Counsel for the defence, you keep

quiet for a little!" it sounded paternally goodnatured and natural, while the same words in Pyotr Dmitritch's

There were sounds of applause. The young man had finished playing. Olga Mihalovna remembered her

"I have so enjoyed your playing," she said, going up to the piano. "I have so enjoyed it. You have a

At that moment the two schoolboys walked into the room, accompanied by the student.

"My goodness! Mitya and Kolya," Olga Mihalovna drawled joyfully, going to meet them: "How big they

"I congratulate you on the nameday," the student began in a freeandeasy tone, "and I wish you all

happiness. Ekaterina Andreyevna sends her congratulations and begs you to excuse her. She is not very well."

"How unkind of her! I have been expecting her all day. Is it long since you left Petersburg?" Olga Mihalovna

asked the student. "What kind of weather have you there now?" And without waiting for an answer, she

"How tall they have grown! It is not long since they used to come with their nurse, and they are at school

already! The old grow older while the young grow up. . . . Have you had dinner?"

"But I suppose you are hungry?" Olga Mihalovna said it in a harsh, rude voice, with impatience and vexation

it escaped her unawares, but at once she coughed, smiled, and flushed crimson. "How tall they have

The student begged her not to trouble; the boys said nothing; obviously all three of them were hungry. Olga

"How unkind of your mamma!" she said as she made them sit down. "She has quite forgotten me. Unkind,

unkind, unkind . . . you must tell her so. What are you studying?" she asked the student.

"Well, I have a weakness for doctors, only fancy. I am very sorry my husband is not a doctor. What courage

any one must have to perform an operation or dissect a corpse, for instance! Horrible! Aren't you frightened?

"After your journey you must have something to drink. Though I am a woman, even I drink sometimes. And

Mitya and Kolya will drink Malaga. It's not a strong wine; you need not be afraid of it. What fine fellows

Olga Mihalovna talked without ceasing; she knew by experience that when she had guests to entertain it was

far easier and more comfortable to talk than to listen. When you talk there is no need to strain your attention

to think of answers to questions, and to change your expression of face. But unawares she asked the student a

serious question; the student began a lengthy speech and she was forced to listen. The student knew that she

had once been at the University, and so tried to seem a serious person as he talked to her.

"What subject are you studying?" she asked, forgetting that she had already put that question to him.

Olga Mihalovna now remembered that she had been away from the ladies for a long while.

"Yes? Then I suppose you are going to be a doctor?" she said, getting up. "That's splendid. I am sorry I did

not go in for medicine myself. So you will finish your dinner here, gentlemen, and then come into the garden.

She went out and glanced at her watch: it was five minutes to six. And she wondered that the time had gone

so slowly, and thought with horror that there were six more hours before midnight, when the party would

break up. How could she get through those six hours? What phrases could she utter? How should she behave

There was not a soul in the drawingroom or on the verandah. All the guests were sauntering about the

"I shall have to suggest a walk in the birchwood before tea, or else a row in the boats," thought Olga

Mihalovna, hurrying to the croquet ground, from which came the sounds of voices and laughter.

"And sit the old people down to vint. . . ." She met Grigory the footman coming from the croquet ground with

"Oh, good heavens!" some one on the croquet lawn shouted with exasperation. "I have told you a thousand

times over! To know the Bulgarians you must see them! You can't judge from the papers!"

Either because of the outburst or for some other reason, Olga Mihalovna was suddenly aware of a terrible

weakness all over, especially in her legs and in her shoulders. She felt she could not bear to speak, to listen,

"Grigory," she said faintly and with an effort, "when you have to serve tea or anything, please don't appeal to

me, don't ask me anything, don't speak of anything. . . . Do it all yourself, and . . . and don't make a noise with

Without finishing, she walked on towards the croquet lawn, but on the way she thought of the ladies, and

turned towards the raspberrybushes. The sky, the air, and the trees looked gloomy again and threatened rain;

it was hot and stifling. An immense flock of crows, foreseeing a storm, flew cawing over the garden. The

paths. were more overgrown, darker, and narrower as they got nearer the kitchen garden. In one of them,

buried in a thick tangle of wild pear, crabapple, sorrel, young oaks, and hopbine, clouds of tiny black flies

swarmed round Olga Mihalovna. She covered her face with her hands and began forcing herself to think of

the little creature. . . . There floated through her imagination the figures of Grigory, Mitya, Kolya, the faces of

She heard footsteps, and she opened her eyes. Uncle Nikolay Nikolaitch was coming rapidly towards her.

"It's you, dear? I am very glad . . ." he began, breathless. "A couple of words. . . ." He mopped with his

handkerchief his red shaven chin, then suddenly stepped back a pace, flung up his hands and opened his eyes

wide. "My dear girl, how long is this going on?" he said rapidly, spluttering. "I ask you: is there no limit to it?

I say nothing of the demoralizing effect of his martinet views on all around him, of the way he insults all that

is sacred and best in me and in every honest thinking man I will say nothing about that, but he might at

least behave decently! Why, he shouts, he bellows, gives himself airs, poses as a sort of Bonaparte, does not

let one say a word. . . . I don't know what the devil's the matter with him! These lordly gestures, this

condescending tone; and laughing like a general! Who is he, allow me to ask you? I ask you, who is he? The

husband of his wife, with a few paltry acres and the rank of a titular who has had the luck to marry an heiress!

An upstart and a junker, like so many others! A type out of Shtchedrin! Upon my word, it's either that he's

suffering from megalomania, or that old rat in his dotage, Count Alexey Petrovitch, is right when he says that

children and young people are a long time growing up nowadays, and go on playing they are cabmen and

"Now just consider: what is it leading to?" her uncle went on, barring her way. "How will this playing at

being a general and a Conservative end? Already he has got into trouble! Yes, to stand his trial! I am very

glad of it! That's what his noise and shouting has brought him to to stand in the prisoner's dock. And it's

not as though it were the Circuit Court or something: it's the Central Court! Nothing worse could be

imagined, I think! And then he has quarrelled with every one! He is celebrating his nameday, and look,

Vostryakov's not here, nor Yahontov, nor Vladimirov, nor Shevud, nor the Count. . . . There is no one, I

imagine, more Conservative than Count Alexey Petrovitch, yet even he has not come. And he never will

"What has it to do with you? Why, you are his wife! You are clever, you have had a university education, and

"At the lectures I went to they did not teach us how to influence tiresome people. It seems as though I should

have to apologize to all of you for having been at the University," said Olga Mihalovna sharply. "Listen,

uncle. If people played the same scales over and over again the whole day long in your hearing, you wouldn't

be able to sit still and listen, but would run away. I hear the same thing over again for days together all the

Her uncle pulled a very long face, then looked at her searchingly and twisted his lips into a mocking smile.

"So that's how it is," he piped in a voice like an old woman's. "I beg your pardon!" he said, and made a

ceremonious bow. "If you have fallen under his influence yourself, and have abandoned your convictions,

"Yes, I have abandoned my convictions," she cried. "There; make the most of it!"

Her uncle for the last time made her a ceremonious bow, a little on one side, and, shrinking into himself,

She found the ladies and the young people among the raspberries in the kitchen garden. Some were eating

raspberries; others, tired of eating raspberries, were strolling about the strawberry beds or foraging among the

sugarpeas. A little on one side of the raspberry bed, near a branching appletree propped up by posts which

had been pulled out of an old fence, Pyotr Dmitritch was mowing the grass. His hair was falling over his

forehead, his cravat was untied. His watchchain was hanging loose. Every step and every swing of the

scythe showed skill and the possession of immense physical strength. Near him were standing Lubotchka and

the daughters of a neighbour, Colonel Bukryeev two anaemic and unhealthily stout fair girls, Natalya and

Valentina, or, as they were always called, Nata and Vata, both wearing white frocks and strikingly like each

"It's very simple," he said. "You have only to know how to hold the scythe and not to get too hot over it

that is, not to use more force than is necessary! Like this. . . . Wouldn't you like to try?" he said, offering the

"Don't be afraid, Lubov Alexandrovna!" cried Olga Mihalovna, loud enough for all the ladies to hear that she

was with them. "Don't be afraid! You must learn! If you marry a Tolstoyan he will make you mow."

Lubotchka raised the scythe, but began laughing again, and, helpless with laughter, let go of it at once. She

was ashamed and pleased at being talked to as though grown up. Nata, with a cold, serious face, with no trace

of smiling or shyness, took the scythe, swung it and caught it in the grass; Vata, also without a smile, as cold

and serious as her sister, took the scythe, and silently thrust it into the earth. Having done this, the two sisters

Pyotr Dmitritch laughed and played about like a boy, and this childish, frolicsome mood in which he became

exceedingly goodnatured suited him far better than any other. Olga Mihalovna loved him when he was like

that. But his boyishness did not usually last long. It did not this time; after playing with the scythe, he for

"When I am mowing, I feel, do you know, healthier and more normal," he said. "If I were forced to confine

myself to an intellectual life I believe I should go out of my mind. I feel that I was not born to be a man of

And Pyotr Dmitritch began a conversation with the ladies about the advantages of physical labour, about

culture, and then about the pernicious effects of money, of property. Listening to her husband, Olga

"And the time will come, I suppose," she thought, "when he will not forgive me for being richer than he. He

She stopped near Colonel Bukryeev, who was eating raspberries and also taking part in the conversation.

"Come," he said, making room for Olga Mihalovna and Pyotr Dmitritch. "The ripest are here. . . . And so,

according to Proudhon," he went on, raising his voice, "property is robbery. But I must confess I don't believe

in Proudhon, and don't consider him a philosopher. The French are not authorities, to my thinking God

"Well, as for Proudhons and Buckles and the rest of them, I am weak in that department," said Pyotr

Dmitritch. "For philosophy you must apply to my wife. She has been at University lectures and knows all

Olga Mihalovna felt bored again. She walked again along a little path by apple and pear trees, and looked

again as though she was on some very important errand. She reached the gardener's cottage. In the doorway

the gardener's wife, Varvara, was sitting together with her four little children with big shaven heads. Varvara,

too, was with child and expecting to be confined on Elijah's Day. After greeting her, Olga Mihalovna looked

A silence followed. The two women seemed to understand each other without words.

"It's dreadful having one's first baby," said Olga Mihalovna after a moment's thought. "I keep feeling as

Varvara, who was just going to have her fifth, looked down a little on her mistress from the height of her

experience and spoke in a rather didactic tone, and Olga Mihalovna could not help feeling her authority; she

would have liked to have talked of her fears, of the child, of her sensations, but she was afraid it might strike

Varvara as na�ve and trivial. And she waited in silence for Varvara to say something herself.

Olga Mihalovna liked being silent, waiting and watching Varvara. She would have been ready to stay like

that till night without speaking or having any duty to perform. But she had to go. She had hardly left the

cottage when Lubotchka, Nata, and Vata came running to meet her. The sisters stopped short abruptly a

couple of yards away; Lubotchka ran right up to her and flung herself on her neck.

"You dear, darling, precious," she said, kissing her face and her neck. "Let us go and have tea on the island!"

"On the island, on the island!" said the precisely similar Nata and Vata, both at once, without a smile.

"It's not, it's not," cried Lubotchka with a woebegone face. "They've all agreed to go. Dear! darling!"

"They are all getting ready to have tea on the island," said Pyotr Dmitritch, coming up. "See to arranging

things. . . . We will all go in the boats, and the samovars and all the rest of it must be sent in the carriage with

He walked beside his wife and gave her his arm. Olga Mihalovna had a desire to say something disagreeable

to her husband, something biting, even about her dowry perhaps the crueller the better, she felt. She

"I am very glad he hasn't come," said Pyotr Dmitritch, lying. "I'm sick to death of that old lunatic."

Half an hour later all the guests were crowding on the bank near the pile to which the boats were fastened.

They were all talking and laughing, and were in such excitement and commotion that they could hardly get

into the boats. Three boats were crammed with passengers, while two stood empty. The keys for unfastening

these two boats had been somehow mislaid, and messengers were continually running from the river to the

house to look for them. Some said Grigory had the keys, others that the bailiff had them, while others

suggested sending for a blacksmith and breaking the padlocks. And all talked at once, interrupting and

shouting one another down. Pyotr Dmitritch paced impatiently to and fro on the bank, shouting:

"What the devil's the meaning of it! The keys ought always to be lying in the hall window! Who has dared to

At last the keys were found. Then it appeared that two oars were missing. Again there was a great hullabaloo.

Pyotr Dmitritch, who was weary of pacing about the bank, jumped into a long, narrow boat hollowed out of

the trunk of a poplar, and, lurching from side to side and almost falling into the water, pushed off from the

bank. The other boats followed him one after another, amid loud laughter and the shrieks of the young ladies.

The white cloudy sky, the trees on the riverside, the boats with the people in them, and the oars, were

reflected in the water as in a mirror; under the boats, far away below in the bottomless depths, was a second

sky with the birds flying across it. The bank on which the house and gardens stood was high, steep, and

covered with trees; on the other, which was sloping, stretched broad green watermeadows with sheets of

water glistening in them. The boats had floated a hundred yards when, behind the mournfully drooping

willows on the sloping banks, huts and a herd of cows came into sight; they began to hear songs, drunken

Here and there on the river fishingboats were scattered about, setting their nets for the night. In one of these

Olga Mihalovna was sitting at the rudder; she was smiling affably and talking a great deal to entertain her

visitors, while she glanced stealthily at her husband. He was ahead of them all, standing up punting with one

oar. The light sharpnosed canoe, which all the guests called the "deathtrap" while Pyotr Dmitritch, for

some reason, called it Penderaklia flew along quickly; it had a brisk, crafty expression, as though it hated

its heavy occupant and was looking out for a favourable moment to glide away from under his feet. Olga

Mihalovna kept looking at her husband, and she loathed his good looks which attracted every one, the back of

his head, his attitude, his familiar manner with women; she hated all the women sitting in the boat with her,

was jealous, and at the same time was trembling every minute in terror that the frail craft would upset and

"Take care, Pyotr!" she cried, while her heart fluttered with terror. "Sit down! We believe in your courage

She was worried, too, by the people who were in the boat with her. They were all ordinary good sort of

people like thousands of others, but now each one of them struck her as exceptional and evil. In each one of

them she saw nothing but falsity. "That young man," she thought, "rowing, in goldrimmed spectacles, with

chestnut hair and a nicelooking beard: he is a mamma's darling, rich, and wellfed, and always fortunate,

and every one considers him an honourable, freethinking, advanced man. It's not a year since he left the

University and came to live in the district, but he already talks of himself as 'we active members of the

Zemstvo.' But in another year he will be bored like so many others and go off to Petersburg, and to justify

running away, will tell every one that the Zemstvos are goodfornothing, and that he has been deceived in

them. While from the other boat his young wife keeps her eyes fixed on him, and believes that he is 'an active

member of the Zemstvo,' just as in a year she will believe that the Zemstvo is goodfornothing. And that

stout, carefully shaven gentleman in the straw hat with the broad ribbon, with an expensive cigar in his

mouth: he is fond of saying, 'It is time to put away dreams and set to work!' He has Yorkshire pigs, Butler's

hives, rapeseed, pineapples, a dairy, a cheese factory, Italian bookkeeping by double entry; but every

summer he sells his timber and mortgages part of his land to spend the autumn with his mistress in the

Crimea. And there's Uncle Nikolay Nikolaitch, who has quarrelled with Pyotr Dmitritch, and yet for some

Olga Mihalovna looked at the other boats, and there, too, she saw only uninteresting, queer creatures, affected

or stupid people. She thought of all the people she knew in the district, and could not remember one person of

whom one could say or think anything good. They all seemed to her mediocre, insipid, unintelligent, narrow,

false, heartless; they all said what they did not think, and did what they did not want to. Dreariness and

despair were stifling her; she longed to leave off smiling, to leap up and cry out, "I am sick of you," and then

"In tow, in tow!" the others chimed in. "Olga Mihalovna, take your husband in tow."

To take him in tow, Olga Mihalovna, who was steering, had to seize the right moment and to catch bold of

his boat by the chain at the beak. When she bent over to the chain Pyotr Dmitritch frowned and looked at her

"If you are uneasy about me and the child, why do you torment me?" thought Olga Mihalovna.

Pyotr Dmitritch acknowledged himself vanquished, and, not caring to be towed, jumped from the Penderaklia

into the boat which was overful already, and jumped so carelessly that the boat lurched violently, and every

"He did that to please the ladies," thought Olga Mihalovna; "he knows it's charming." Her hands and feet

began trembling, as she supposed, from boredom, vexation from the strain of smiling and the discomfort she

felt all over her body. And to conceal this trembling from her guests, she tried to talk more loudly, to laugh,

"If I suddenly begin to cry," she thought, "I shall say I have toothache. . . ."

But at last the boats reached the "Island of Good Hope," as they called the peninsula formed by a bend in the

river at an acute angle, covered with a copse of old birchtrees, oaks, willows, and poplars. The tables were

already laid under the trees; the samovars were smoking, and Vassily and Grigory, in their swallowtails and

white knitted gloves, were already busy with the teathings. On the other bank, opposite the "Island of Good

Hope," there stood the carriages which had come with the provisions. The baskets and parcels of provisions

were carried across to the island in a little boat like the Penderaklia. The footmen, the coachmen, and even

the peasant who was sitting in the boat, had the solemn expression befitting a nameday such as one only

While Olga Mihalovna was making the tea and pouring out the first glasses, the visitors were busy with the

liqueurs and sweet things. Then there was the general commotion usual at picnics over drinking tea, very

wearisome and exhausting for the hostess. Grigory and Vassily had hardly had time to take the glasses round

before hands were being stretched out to Olga Mihalovna with empty glasses. One asked for no sugar,

another wanted it stronger, another weak, a fourth declined another glass. And all this Olga Mihalovna had to

remember, and then to call, "Ivan Petrovitch, is it without sugar for you?" or, "Gentlemen, which of you

wanted it weak?" But the guest who had asked for weak tea, or no sugar, had by now forgotten it, and,

absorbed in agreeable conversation, took the first glass that came. Depressedlooking figures wandered like

shadows at a little distance from the table, pretending to look for mushrooms in the grass, or reading the

labels on the boxes these were those for whom there were not glasses enough. "Have you had tea?" Olga

Mihalovna kept asking, and the guest so addressed begged her not to trouble, and said, "I will wait," though it

Some, absorbed in conversation, drank their tea slowly, keeping their glasses for half an hour; others,

especially some who had drunk a good deal at dinner, would not leave the table, and kept on drinking glass

after glass, so that Olga Mihalovna scarcely had time to fill them. One jocular young man sipped his tea

through a lump of sugar, and kept saying, "Sinful man that I am, I love to indulge myself with the Chinese

herb." He kept asking with a heavy sigh: "Another tiny dish of tea more, if you please." He drank a great deal,

nibbled his sugar, and thought it all very amusing and original, and imagined that he was doing a clever

imitation of a Russian merchant. None of them understood that these trifles were agonizing to their hostess,

and, indeed, it was hard to understand it, as Olga Mihalovna went on all the time smiling affably and talking

But she felt ill. . . . She was irritated by the crowd of people, the laughter, the questions, the jocular young

man, the footmen harassed and run off their legs, the children who hung round the table; she was irritated at

Vata's being like Nata, at Kolya's being like Mitya, so that one could not tell which of them had had tea and

which of them had not. She felt that her smile of forced affability was passing into an expression of anger,

Only a few drops were falling from the sky the real rain had not begun yet; but the company abandoned

their tea and made haste to get off. At first they all wanted to drive home in the carriages, but changed their

minds and made for the boats. On the pretext that she had to hasten home to give directions about the supper,

Olga Mihalovna asked to be excused for leaving the others, and went home in the carriage.

When she got into the carriage, she first of all let her face rest from smiling. With an angry face she drove

through the village, and with an angry face acknowledged the bows of the peasants she met. When she got

home, she went to the bedroom by the back way and lay down on her husband's bed.

"Merciful God!" she whispered. "What is all this hard labour for? Why do all these people hustle each other

here and pretend that they are enjoying themselves? Why do I smile and lie? I don't understand it."

"Marya Grigoryevna, what is the meaning of this?" she began in an injured voice, going to meet Marya

"I can't help it, darling! I've stayed too long as it is; my children are expecting me home."

"If you will let me, dear, I will bring them on some ordinary day, but today . . ."

"Oh, please do," Olga Mihalovna interrupted; "I shall be delighted! Your children are so sweet! Kiss them all

for me. . . . But, really, I am offended with you! I don't understand why you are in such a hurry!"

"I really must, I really must. . . . Goodbye, dear. Take care of yourself. In your condition, you know . . ."

And the ladies kissed each other. After seeing the departing guest to her carriage, Olga Mihalovna went in to

the ladies in the drawingroom. There the lamps were already lighted and the gentlemen were sitting down to

The party broke up after supper about a quarter past twelve. Seeing her visitors off, Olga Mihalovna stood at

"You really ought to take a shawl! It's turning a little chilly. Please God, you don't catch cold!"

"Don't trouble, Olga Mihalovna," the ladies answered as they got into the carriage. "Well, goodbye. Mind

The carriage started and immediately disappeared into the darkness. In the red circle of light cast by the lamp

in the road, a fresh pair or trio of impatient horses, and the silhouette of a coachman with his hands held out

stiffly before him, would come into view. Again there began kisses, reproaches, and entreaties to come again

or to take a shawl. Pyotr Dmitritch kept running out and helping the ladies into their carriages.

"You go now by Efremovshtchina," he directed the coachman; "it's nearer through Mankino, but the road is

worse that way. You might have an upset. . . . Goodbye, my charmer. Mille compliments to your artist!"

"Goodbye, Olga Mihalovna, darling! Go indoors, or you will catch cold! It's damp!"

The last visitor was gone at last; the red circle on the road quivered, moved aside, contracted and went out, as

Vassily carried away the lamp from the entrance. On previous occasions when they had seen off their visitors,

Pyotr Dmitritch and Olga Mihalovna had begun dancing about the drawingroom, facing each other,

clapping their hands and singing: "They've gone! They've gone!" But now Olga Mihalovna was not equal to

She fancied she would fall asleep at once and sleep soundly. Her legs and her shoulders ached painfully, her

head was heavy from the strain of talking, and she was conscious, as before, of discomfort all over her body.

Covering her head over, she lay still for three or four minutes, then peeped out from under the bedclothes at

"It's nice, it's nice," she whispered, curling up her legs, which felt as if they had grown longer from so much

Her legs would not get into a comfortable position; she felt uneasy all over, and she turned on the other side.

A big fly blew buzzing about the bedroom and thumped against the ceiling. She could hear, too, Grigory and

Vassily stepping cautiously about the drawingroom, putting the chairs back in their places; it seemed to

Olga Mihalovna that she could not go to sleep, nor be comfortable till those sounds were hushed. And again

She heard her husband's voice in the drawingroom. Some one must be staying the night, as Pyotr Dmitritch

"I don't say that Count Alexey Petrovitch is an impostor. But he can't help seeming to be one, because all of

you gentlemen attempt to see in him something different from what he really is. His craziness is looked upon

as originality, his familiar manners as goodnature, and his complete absence of opinions as Conservatism.

Even granted that he is a Conservative of the stamp of '84, what after all is Conservatism?"

Pyotr Dmitritch, angry with Count Alexey Petrovitch, his visitors, and himself, was relieving his heart. He

abused both the Count and his visitors, and in his vexation with himself was ready to speak out and to hold

forth upon anything. After seeing his guest to his room, he walked up and down the drawingroom, walked

through the diningroom, down the corridor, then into his study, then again went into the drawingroom, and

came into the bedroom. Olga Mihalovna was lying on her back, with the bedclothes only to her waist (by

now she felt hot), and with an angry face, watched the fly that was thumping against the ceiling.

Without speaking, he lighted a cigarette, and he, too, fell to watching the fly. There was an uneasy and

forbidding look in his eyes. Olga Mihalovna looked at his handsome profile for five minutes in silence. It

seemed to her for some reason that if her husband were suddenly to turn facing her, and to say, "Olga, I am

unhappy," she would cry or laugh, and she would be at ease. She fancied that her legs were aching and her

"Why is it not right?" answered Pyotr Dmitritch drily and not at once. "We all have our personal life, every

"Personal life, our secrets . . . that's all words! Understand you are wounding me!" said Olga Mihalovna,

sitting up in bed. "If you have a load on your heart, why do you hide it from me? And why do you find it

more suitable to open your heart to women who are nothing to you, instead of to your wife? I overheard your

This meant "Leave me alone and let me think." Olga Mihalovna was indignant. Vexation, hatred, and wrath,

which had been accumulating within her during the whole day, suddenly boiled over; she wanted at once to

speak out, to hurt her husband without putting it off till tomorrow, to wound him, to punish him. . . . Making

"Let me tell you, then, that it's all loathsome, loathsome, loathsome! I've been hating you all day; you see

"It's loathsome, loathsome, loathsome," Olga Mihalovna went on, beginning to tremble all over. "There's no

need to congratulate me; you had better congratulate yourself! It's a shame, a disgrace. You have wrapped

yourself in lies till you are ashamed to be alone in the room with your wife! You are a deceitful man! I see

"Olya, I wish you would please warn me when you are out of humour. Then I will sleep in the study."

Saying this, Pyotr Dmitritch picked up his pillow and walked out of the bedroom. Olga Mihalovna had not

foreseen this. For some minutes she remained silent with her mouth open, trembling all over and looking at

the door by which her husband had gone out, and trying to understand what it meant. Was this one of the

devices to which deceitful people have recourse when they are in the wrong, or was it a deliberate insult

aimed at her pride? How was she to take it? Olga Mihalovna remembered her cousin, a lively young officer,

who often used to tell her, laughing, that when "his spouse nagged at him" at night, he usually picked up his

pillow and went whistling to spend the night in his study, leaving his wife in a foolish and ridiculous position.

This officer was married to a rich, capricious, and foolish woman whom he did not respect but simply put up

Olga Mihalovna jumped out of bed. To her mind there was only one thing left for her to do now; to dress

with all possible haste and to leave the house forever. The house was her own, but so much the worse for

Pyotr Dmitritch. Without pausing to consider whether this was necessary or not, she went quickly to the

study to inform her husband of her intention ("Feminine logic!" flashed through her mind), and to say

Pyotr Dmitritch was lying on the sofa and pretending to read a newspaper. There was a candle burning on a

"Be so kind . . . " Pyotr Dmitritch mimicked her, not showing his face. "It's sickening, Olga! Upon my

honour, I am exhausted and not up to it. . . . Let us do our quarrelling tomorrow."

"No, I understand you perfectly!" Olga Mihalovna went on. "You hate me! Yes, yes! You hate me because I

am richer than you! You will never forgive me for that, and will always be lying to me!" (" Feminine logic!"

flashed through her mind again.) "You are laughing at me now. . . . I am convinced, in fact, that you only

married me in order to have property qualifications and those wretched horses. . . . Oh, I am miserable!"

Pyotr Dmitritch dropped the newspaper and got up. The unexpected insult overwhelmed him. With a

childishly helpless smile he looked desperately at his wife, and holding out his hands to her as though to ward

And expecting her to say something else awful, he leaned back in his chair, and his huge figure seemed as

Olga Mihalovna came to herself. She was suddenly aware of her passionate love for this man, remembered

that he was her husband, Pyotr Dmitritch, without whom she could not live for a day, and who loved her

passionately, too. She burst into loud sobs that sounded strange and unlike her, and ran back to her bedroom.

She fell on the bed, and short hysterical sobs, choking her and making her arms and legs twitch, filled the

bedroom. Remembering there was a visitor sleeping three or four rooms away, she buried her head under the

pillow to stifle her sobs, but the pillow rolled on to the floor, and she almost fell on the floor herself when she

stooped to pick it up. She pulled the quilt up to her face, but her hands would not obey her, but tore

She thought that everything was lost, that the falsehood she had told to wound her husband had shattered her

life into fragments. Her husband would not forgive her. The insult she had hurled at him was not one that

could be effaced by any caresses, by any vows. . . . How could she convince her husband that she did not

"It's all over, it's all over!" she cried, not noticing that the pillow had slipped on to the floor again. "For God's

Probably roused by her cries, the guest and the servants were now awake; next day all the neighbourhood

would know that she had been in hysterics and would blame Pyotr Dmitritch. She made an effort to restrain

"For God's sake," she cried in a voice not like her own, and not knowing why she cried it. "For God's sake!"

She felt as though the bed were heaving under her and her feet were entangled in the bedclothes. Pyotr

Dmitritch, in his dressinggown, with a candle in his hand, came into the bedroom.

She raised herself, and kneeling up in bed, screwing up her eyes at the light, articulated through her sobs:

She wanted to tell him that she was tired to death by the party, by his falsity, by her own falsity, that it had all

She took the glass obediently and began drinking, but the water splashed over and was spilt on her arms, her

Pyotr Dmitritch put her back in bed without a word, and covered her with the quilt, then he took the candle

Suddenly something gripped her in the lower part of her body and back with such violence that her wailing

was cut short, and she bit the pillow from the pain. But the pain let her go again at once, and she began

"Olya, I entreat you, calm yourself," he said. "I did not mean to hurt you. I would not have gone out of the

room if I had known it would have hurt you so much; I simply felt depressed. I tell you, on my honour . . ."

"I understand. . . . Come, come, that's enough! I understand," said Pyotr Dmitritch tenderly, sitting down on

her bed. "You said that in anger; I quite understand. I swear to God I love you beyond anything on earth, and

when I married you I never once thought of your being rich. I loved you immensely, and that's all . . . I assure

you. I have never been in want of money or felt the value of it, and so I cannot feel the difference between

your fortune and mine. It always seemed to me we were equally well off. And that I have been deceitful in

little things, that . . . of course, is true. My life has hitherto been arranged in such a frivolous way that it has

somehow been impossible to get on without paltry lying. It weighs on me, too, now. . . . Let us leave off

Olga Mihalovna again felt in acute pain, and clutched her husband by the sleeve.

"Damnation take those visitors!" muttered Pyotr Dmitritch, getting up. "You ought not to have gone to the

He scratched his head in vexation, and, with a wave of his hand, walked out of the room.

Then he came into the room several times, sat down on the bed beside her, and talked a great deal, sometimes

tenderly, sometimes angrily, but she hardly heard him. Her sobs were continually interrupted by fearful

attacks of pain, and each time the pain was more acute and prolonged. At first she held her breath and bit the

pillow during the pain, but then she began screaming on an unseemly piercing note. Once seeing her husband

near her, she remembered that she had insulted him, and without pausing to think whether it were really Pyotr

Dmitritch or whether she were in delirium, clutched his hand in both hers and began kissing it.

"You were lying, I was lying . . ." she began justifying herself. "Understand, understand. . . . They have

Olga Mihalovna raised her head and saw Varvara, who was kneeling by the chest of drawers and pulling out

the bottom drawer. The top drawers were already open. Then Varvara got up, red from the strained position,

Marya, the maid, was digging a candle end out of the candlestick with a pair of scissors, so as to put in a new

"There should be nothing locked . . ." whispered Varvara. "Unlock this basket, too, my good girl. Master,"

she said, "you should send to Father Mihail to unlock the holy gates! You must!"

"Do what you like," said Pyotr Dmitritch, breathing hard, "only, for God's sake, make haste and fetch the

doctor or the midwife! Has Vassily gone? Send some one else. Send your husband!"

"It's the birth," Olga Mihalovna thought. "Varvara," she moaned, "but he won't be born alive!"

"It's all right, it's all right, mistress," whispered Varvara. "Please God, he will be alive! he will be alive!"

When Olga Mihalovna came to herself again after a pain she was no longer sobbing nor tossing from side to

side, but moaning. She could not refrain from moaning even in the intervals between the pains. The candles

were still burning, but the morning light was coming through the blinds. It was probably about five o'clock in

the morning. At the round table there was sitting some unknown woman with a very discreet air, wearing a

white apron. From her whole appearance it was evident she had been sitting there a long time. Olga

"Will it soon be over?" she asked, and in her voice she heard a peculiar and unfamiliar note which had never

Pyotr Dmitritch came cautiously into the bedroom, dressed for the day, and stood at the window with his

"What time is it?" asked Olga Mihalovna, in order to hear the unfamiliar note in her voice again.

"And what if I really am dying?" thought Olga Mihalovna, looking at her husband's head and the

windowpanes on which the rain was beating. "How will he live without me? With whom will he have tea

And he seemed to her like a forlorn child; she felt sorry for him and wanted to say something nice, caressing

and consolatory. She remembered how in the spring he had meant to buy himself some harriers, and she,

He dropped the blind and went up to the bed, and would have said something; but at that moment the pain

The pain and the constant screaming and moaning stupefied her. She heard, saw, and sometimes spoke, but

hardly understood anything, and was only conscious that she was in pain or was just going to be in pain. It

seemed to her that the nameday party had been long, long ago not yesterday, but a year ago perhaps; and

that her new life of agony had lasted longer than her childhood, her schooldays, her time at the University,

and her marriage, and would go on for a long, long time, endlessly. She saw them bring tea to the midwife,

and summon her at midday to lunch and afterwards to dinner; she saw Pyotr Dmitritch grow used to coming

in, standing for long intervals by the window, and going out again; saw strange men, the maid, Varvara, come

in as though they were at home. . . . Varvara said nothing but, "He will, he will," and was angry when any

one closed the drawers and the chest. Olga Mihalovna saw the light change in the room and in the windows:

at one time it was twilight, then thick like fog, then bright daylight as it had been at dinnertime the day

before, then again twilight . . . and each of these changes lasted as long as her childhood, her schooldays,

In the evening two doctors one bony, bald, with a big red beard; the other with a swarthy Jewish face and

cheap spectacles performed some sort of operation on Olga Mihalovna. To these unknown men touching

her body she felt utterly indifferent. By now she had no feeling of shame, no will, and any one might do what

he would with her. If any one had rushed at her with a knife, or had insulted Pyotr Dmitritch, or had robbed

They gave her chloroform during the operation. When she came to again, the pain was still there and

insufferable. It was night. And Olga Mihalovna remembered that there had been just such a night with the

stillness, the lamp, with the midwife sitting motionless by the bed, with the drawers of the chest pulled out,

with Pyotr Dmitritch standing by the window, but some time very, very long ago. . . .

"I am not dead . . ." thought Olga Mihalovna when she began to understand her surroundings again, and when

A bright summer day looked in at the widely open windows; in the garden below the windows, the sparrows

The drawers were shut now, her husband's bed had been made. There was no sign of the midwife or of the

maid, or of Varvara in the room, only Pyotr Dmitritch was standing, as before, motionless by the window

looking into the garden. There was no sound of a child's crying, no one was congratulating her or rejoicing, it

Pyotr Dmitritch looked round. It seemed as though a long time must have passed since the last guest had

departed and Olga Mihalovna had insulted her husband, for Pyotr Dmitritch was perceptibly thinner and

Pyotr Dmitritch tried to make some answer, but his lips quivered and his mouth worked like a toothless old

"Olya," he said, wringing his hands; big tears suddenly dropping from his eyes. "Olya, I don't care about your

property qualification, nor the Circuit Courts . . ." (he gave a sob) "nor particular views, nor those visitors,

nor your fortune. . . . I don't care about anything! Why didn't we take care of our child? Oh, it's no good

But nothing mattered to Olga Mihalovna now, there was a mistiness in her brain from the chloroform, an

emptiness in her soul. . . . The dull indifference to life which had overcome her when the two doctors were

DMITRI PETROVITCH SILIN had taken his degree and entered the government service in Petersburg, but

at thirty he gave up his post and went in for agriculture. His farming was fairly successful, and yet it always

seemed to me that he was not in his proper place, and that he would do well to go back to Petersburg. When

sunburnt, grey with dust, exhausted with toil, he met me near the gates or at the entrance, and then at supper

struggled with sleepiness and his wife took him off to bed as though he were a baby; or when, overcoming his

sleepiness, he began in his soft, cordial, almost imploring voice, to talk about his really excellent ideas, I saw

him not as a farmer nor an agriculturist, but only as a worried and exhausted man, and it was clear to me that

he did not really care for farming, but that all he wanted was for the day to be over and "Thank God for it."

I liked to be with him, and I used to stay on his farm for two or three days at a time. I liked his house, and his

park, and his big fruit garden, and the river and his philosophy, which was clear, though rather spiritless

and rhetorical. I suppose I was fond of him on his own account, though I can't say that for certain, as I have

not up to now succeeded in analysing my feelings at that time. He was an intelligent, kindhearted, genuine

man, and not a bore, but I remember that when he confided to me his most treasured secrets and spoke of our

relation to each other as friendship, it disturbed me unpleasantly, and I was conscious of awkwardness. In his

affection for me there was something inappropriate, tiresome, and I should have greatly preferred

The fact is that I was extremely attracted by his wife, Marya Sergeyevna. I was not in love with her, but I was

attracted by her face, her eyes, her voice, her walk. I missed her when I did not see her for a long time, and

my imagination pictured no one at that time so eagerly as that young, beautiful, elegant woman. I had no

definite designs in regard to her, and did not dream of anything of the sort, yet for some reason, whenever we

were left alone, I remembered that her husband looked upon me as his friend, and I felt awkward. When she

played my favourite pieces on the piano or told me something interesting, I listened with pleasure, and yet at

the same time for some reason the reflection that she loved her husband, that he was my friend, and that she

herself looked upon me as his friend, obtruded themselves upon me, my spirits flagged, and I became listless,

It somehow happened one July Sunday that Dmitri Petrovitch and I, having nothing to do, drove to the big

village of Klushino to buy things for supper. While we were going from one shop to another the sun set and

the evening came on the evening which I shall probably never forget in my life. After buying cheese that

smelt like soap, and petrified sausages that smelt of tar, we went to the tavern to ask whether they had any

beer. Our coachman went off to the blacksmith to get our horses shod, and we told him we would wait for

him near the church. We walked, talked, laughed over our purchases, while a man who was known in the

district by a very strange nickname, "Forty Martyrs," followed us all the while in silence with a mysterious

air like a detective. This Forty Martyrs was no other than Gavril Syeverov, or more simply Gavryushka, who

had been for a short time in my service as a footman and had been dismissed by me for drunkenness. He had

been in Dmitri Petrovitch's service, too, and by him had been dismissed for the same vice. He was an

inveterate drunkard, and indeed his whole life was as drunk and disorderly as himself. His father had been a

priest and his mother of noble rank, so by birth he belonged to the privileged class; but however carefully I

scrutinized his exhausted, respectful, and always perspiring face, his red beard now turning grey, his pitifully

torn reefer jacket and his red shirt, I could not discover in him the faintest trace of anything we associate with

privilege. He spoke of himself as a man of education, and used to say that he had been in a clerical school,

but had not finished his studies there, as he had been expelled for smoking; then he had sung in the bishop's

choir and lived for two years in a monastery, from which he was also expelled, but this time not for smoking

but for "his weakness." He had walked all over two provinces, had presented petitions to the Consistory, and

to various government offices, and had been four times on his trial. At last, being stranded in our district, he

had served as a footman, as a forester, as a kennelman, as a sexton, had married a cook who was a widow and

rather a loose character, and had so hopelessly sunk into a menial position, and had grown so used to filth and

dirt, that he even spoke of his privileged origin with a certain scepticism, as of some myth. At the time I am

describing, he was hanging about without a job, calling himself a carrier and a huntsman, and his wife had

From the tavern we went to the church and sat in the porch, waiting for the coachman. Forty Martyrs stood a

little way off and put his hand before his mouth in order to cough in it respectfully if need be. By now it was

dark; there was a strong smell of evening dampness, and the moon was on the point of rising. There were

only two clouds in the clear starry sky exactly over our heads: one big one and one smaller; alone in the sky

they were racing after one another like mother and child, in the direction where the sunset was glowing.

"In the extreme . . ." Forty Martyrs assented, and he coughed respectfully into his hand. "How was it, Dmitri

Petrovitch, you thought to visit these parts?" he asked in an ingratiating voice, evidently anxious to get up a

Dmitri Petrovitch made no answer. Forty Martyrs heaved a deep sigh and said softly, not looking at us:

"I suffer solely through a cause to which I must answer to Almighty God. No doubt about it, I am a hopeless

and incompetent man; but believe me, on my conscience, I am without a crust of bread and worse off than a

Silin was not listening, but sat musing with his head propped on his fists. The church stood at the end of the

street on the high riverbank, and through the trellis gate of the enclosure we could see the river, the

watermeadows on the near side of it, and the crimson glare of a camp fire about which black figures of men

and horses were moving. And beyond the fire, further away, there were other lights, where there was a little

village. They were singing there. On the river, and here and there on the meadows, a mist was rising. High

narrow coils of mist, thick and white as milk, were trailing over the river, hiding the reflection of the stars and

hovering over the willows. Every minute they changed their form, and it seemed as though some were

embracing, others were bowing, others lifting up their arms to heaven with wide sleeves like priests, as

though they were praying. . . . Probably they reminded Dmitri Petrovitch of ghosts and of the dead, for he

"Tell me, my dear fellow, why is it that when we want to tell some terrible, mysterious, and fantastic story,

we draw our material, not from life, but invariably from the world of ghosts and of the shadows beyond the

"And do you understand life? Tell me: do you understand life better than the world beyond the grave?"

Dmitri Petrovitch was sitting quite close to me, so that I felt his breath upon my cheek. In the evening

twilight his pale, lean face seemed paler than ever and his dark beard was black as soot. His eyes were sad,

truthful, and a little frightened, as though he were about to tell me something horrible. He looked into my

"Our life and the life beyond the grave are equally incomprehensible and horrible. If any one is afraid of

ghosts he ought to be afraid, too, of me, and of those lights and of the sky, seeing that, if you come to reflect,

all that is no less fantastic and beyond our grasp than apparitions from the other world. Prince Hamlet did not

kill himself because he was afraid of the visions that might haunt his dreams after death. I like that famous

soliloquy of his, but, to be candid, it never touched my soul. I will confess to you as a friend that in moments

of depression I have sometimes pictured to myself the hour of my death. My fancy invented thousands of the

gloomiest visions, and I have succeeded in working myself up to an agonizing exaltation, to a state of

nightmare, and I assure you that that did not seem to me more terrible than reality. What I mean is,

apparitions are terrible, but life is terrible, too. I don't understand life and I am afraid of it, my dear boy; I

don't know. Perhaps I am a morbid person, unhinged. It seems to a sound, healthy man that he understands

everything he sees and hears, but that 'seeming' is lost to me, and from day to day I am poisoning myself with

terror. There is a disease, the fear of open spaces, but my disease is the fear of life. When I lie on the grass

and watch a little beetle which was born yesterday and understands nothing, it seems to me that its life

"I am afraid of everything. I am not by nature a profound thinker, and I take little interest in such questions as

the life beyond the grave, the destiny of humanity, and, in fact, I am rarely carried away to the heights. What

chiefly frightens me is the common routine of life from which none of us can escape. I am incapable of

distinguishing what is true and what is false in my actions, and they worry me. I recognize that education and

the conditions of life have imprisoned me in a narrow circle of falsity, that my whole life is nothing else than

a daily effort to deceive myself and other people, and to avoid noticing it; and I am frightened at the thought

that to the day of my death I shall not escape from this falsity. Today I do something and tomorrow I do

not understand why I did it. I entered the service in Petersburg and took fright; I came here to work on the

land, and here, too, I am frightened. . . . I see that we know very little and so make mistakes every day. We

are unjust, we slander one another and spoil each other's lives, we waste all our powers on trash which we do

not need and which hinders us from living; and that frightens me, because I don't understand why and for

whom it is necessary. I don't understand men, my dear fellow, and I am afraid of them. It frightens me to look

at the peasants, and I don't know for what higher objects they are suffering and what they are living for. If life

is an enjoyment, then they are unnecessary, superfluous people; if the object and meaning of life is to be

found in poverty and unending, hopeless ignorance, I can't understand for whom and what this torture is

necessary. I understand no one and nothing. Kindly try to understand this specimen, for instance," said Dmitri

Noticing that we were looking at him, Forty Martyrs coughed deferentially into his fist and said:

"I was always a faithful servant with good masters, but the great trouble has been spirituous liquor. If a poor

fellow like me were shown consideration and given a place, I would kiss the ikon. My word's my bond."

The sexton walked by, looked at us in amazement, and began pulling the rope. The bell, abruptly breaking

"It's ten o'clock, though," said Dmitri Petrovitch. "It's time we were going. Yes, my dear fellow," he sighed,

"if only you knew how afraid I am of my ordinary everyday thoughts, in which one would have thought there

should be nothing dreadful. To prevent myself thinking I distract my mind with work and try to tire myself

out that I may sleep sound at night. Children, a wife all that seems ordinary with other people; but how

"If I could only tell you how I have played the fool in my life! " he said. "They all tell me that I have a sweet

wife, charming children, and that I am a good husband and father. They think I am very happy and envy me.

But since it has come to that, I will tell you in secret: my happy family life is only a grievous

misunderstanding, and I am afraid of it." His pale face was distorted by a wry smile. He put his arm round my

"You are my true friend; I believe in you and have a deep respect for you. Heaven gave us friendship that we

may open our hearts and escape from the secrets that weigh upon us. Let me take advantage of your friendly

feeling for me and tell you the whole truth. My home life, which seems to you so enchanting, is my chief

misery and my chief terror. I got married in a strange and stupid way. I must tell you that I was madly in love

with Masha before I married her, and was courting her for two years. I asked her to marry me five times, and

she refused me because she did not care for me in the least. The sixth, when burning with passion I crawled

on my knees before her and implored her to take a beggar and marry me, she consented. . . . What she said to

me was: 'I don't love you, but I will be true to you. . . .' I accepted that condition with rapture. At the time I

understood what that meant, but I swear to God I don't understand it now. 'I don't love you, but I will be true

to you.' What does that mean? It's a fog, a darkness. I love her now as intensely as I did the day we were

married, while she, I believe, is as indifferent as ever, and I believe she is glad when I go away from home. I

don't know for certain whether she cares for me or not I don't know, I don't know; but, as you see, we live

under the same roof, call each other 'thou,' sleep together, have children, our property is in common. . . . What

does it mean, what does it mean? What is the object of it? And do you understand it at all, my dear fellow?

It's cruel torture! Because I don't understand our relations, I hate, sometimes her, sometimes myself,

sometimes both at once. Everything is in a tangle in my brain; I torment myself and grow stupid. And as

though to spite me, she grows more beautiful every day, she is getting more wonderful. . . I fancy her hair is

marvellous, and her smile is like no other woman's. I love her, and I know that my love is hopeless. Hopeless

love for a woman by whom one has two children! Is that intelligible? And isn't it terrible? Isn't it more

He was in the mood to have talked on a good deal longer, but luckily we heard the coachman's voice. Our

horses had arrived. We got into the carriage, and Forty Martyrs, taking off his cap, helped us both into the

carriage with an expression that suggested that he had long been waiting for an opportunity to come in

"Dmitri Petrovitch, let me come to you," he said, blinking furiously and tilting his head on one side. "Show

"Very well," said Silin. "Come, you shall stay three days, and then we shall see."

It was a five miles' drive home. Dmitri Petrovitch, glad that he had at last opened his heart to his friend, kept

his arm round my waist all the way; and speaking now, not with bitterness and not with apprehension, but

quite cheerfully, told me that if everything had been satisfactory in his home life, he should have returned to

Petersburg and taken up scientific work there. The movement which had driven so many gifted young men

into the country was, he said, a deplorable movement. We had plenty of rye and wheat in Russia, but

absolutely no cultured people. The strong and gifted among the young ought to take up science, art, and

politics; to act otherwise meant being wasteful. He generalized with pleasure and expressed regret that he

would be parting from me early next morning, as he had to go to a sale of timber.

And I felt awkward and depressed, and it seemed to me that I was deceiving the man. And at the same time it

was pleasant to me. I gazed at the immense crimson moon which was rising, and pictured the tall, graceful,

fair woman, with her pale face, always welldressed and fragrant with some special scent, rather like musk,

On reaching home, we sat down to supper. Marya Sergeyevna, laughing, regaled us with our purchases, and I

thought that she certainly had wonderful hair and that her smile was unlike any other woman's. I watched her,

and I wanted to detect in every look and movement that she did not love her husband, and I fancied that I did

Dmitri Petrovitch was soon struggling with sleep. After supper he sat with us for ten minutes and said:

"Do as you please, my friends, but I have to be up at three o'clock tomorrow morning. Excuse my leaving

He kissed his wife tenderly, pressed my hand with warmth and gratitude, and made me promise that I would

certainly come the following week. That he might not oversleep next morning, he went to spend the night in

Marya Sergeyevna always sat up late, in the Petersburg fashion, and for some reason on this occasion I was

"And now," I began when we were left alone, "and now you'll be kind and play me something."

I felt no desire for music, but I did not know how to begin the conversation. She sat down to the piano and

played, I don't remember what. I sat down beside her and looked at her plump white hands and tried to read

something on her cold, indifferent face. Then she smiled at something and looked at me.

"It would be enough for friendship to be here once a month, but I turn up oftener than once a week."

Saying this, I got up and walked from one end of the room to the other. She too got up and walked away to

"What do you mean to say by that?" she said, raising her large, clear eyes and looking at me.

"What you say is not true," she went on, after a moment's thought. "You only come here on account of Dmitri

Petrovitch. Well, I am very glad. One does not often see such friendships nowadays."

"Aha!" I thought, and, not knowing what to say, I asked: "Would you care for a turn in the garden?"

I went out upon the verandah. Nervous shudders were running over my head and I felt chilly with excitement.

I was convinced now that our conversation would be utterly trivial, and that there was nothing particular we

should be able to say to one another, but that, that night, what I did not dare to dream of was bound to happen

I went into the drawingroom. Marya Sergeyevna was standing, as before, near the fireplace, with her hands

"Because I am bored. You are only bored without your friend, but I am always bored. However . . . that is of

I sat down to the piano and struck a few chords, waiting to hear what she would say.

"Please don't stand on ceremony," she said, looking angrily at me, and she seemed as though on the point of

crying with vexation. "If you are sleepy, go to bed. Because you are Dmitri Petrovitch's friend, you are not in

duty bound to be bored with his wife's company. I don't want a sacrifice. Please go."

I did not, of course, go to bed. She went out on the verandah while I remained in the drawingroom and spent

five minutes turning over the music. Then I went out, too. We stood close together in the shadow of the

curtains, and below us were the steps bathed in moonlight. The black shadows of the trees stretched across

"Of course, if my husband's not at home you can't stay here," she said sarcastically. "I can imagine how

miserable you would be if you were in love with me! Wait a bit: one day I shall throw myself on your neck. .

. . I shall see with what horror you will run away from me. That would be interesting."

Her words and her pale face were angry, but her eyes were full of tender passionate love. I already looked

upon this lovely creature as my property, and then for the first time I noticed that she had golden eyebrows,

exquisite eyebrows. I had never seen such eyebrows before. The thought that I might at once press her to my

heart, caress her, touch her wonderful hair, seemed to me such a miracle that I laughed and shut my eyes.

"I don't want a peaceful night," I said, laughing, following her into the drawingroom. "I shall curse this night

Pressing her hand, and escorting her to the door, I saw by her face that she understood me, and was glad that I

I went to my room. Near the books on the table lay Dmitri Petrovitch's cap, and that reminded me of his

affection for me. I took my stick and went out into the garden. The mist had risen here, too, and the same tall,

narrow, ghostly shapes which I had seen earlier on the river were trailing round the trees and bushes and

In the extraordinarily transparent air, each leaf, each drop of dew stood out distinctly; it was all smiling at me

in the stillness half asleep, and as I passed the green seats I recalled the words in some play of Shakespeare's:

There was a mound in the garden; I went up it and sat down. I was tormented by a delicious feeling. I knew

for certain that in a moment I should hold in my arms, should press to my heart her magnificent body, should

kiss her golden eyebrows; and I wanted to disbelieve it, to tantalize myself, and was sorry that she had cost

But suddenly I heard heavy footsteps. A man of medium height appeared in the avenue, and I recognized him

at once as Forty Martyrs. He sat down on the bench and heaved a deep sigh, then crossed himself three times

and lay down. A minute later he got up and lay on the other side. The gnats and the dampness of the night

Looking at his bent, wasted body and hearing his heavy, noisy sighs, I thought of an unhappy, bitter life of

which the confession had been made to me that day, and I felt uneasy and frightened at my blissful mood. I

"Life, as he thinks, is terrible," I thought, "so don't stand on ceremony with it, bend it to your will, and until it

Marya Sergeyevna was standing on the verandah. I put my arms round her without a word, and began

In my room she told me she had loved me for a long time, more than a year. She vowed eternal love, cried

and begged me to take her away with me. I repeatedly took her to the window to look at her face in the

moonlight, and she seemed to me a lovely dream, and I made haste to hold her tight to convince myself of the

truth of it. It was long since I had known such raptures. . . . Yet somewhere far away at the bottom of my

heart I felt an awkwardness, and I was ill at ease. In her love for me there was something incongruous and

burdensome, just as in Dmitri Petrovitch's friendship. It was a great, serious passion with tears and vows, and

I wanted nothing serious in it no tears, no vows, no talk of the future. Let that moonlight night flash

At three o'clock she went out of my room, and, while I was standing in the doorway, looking after her, at the

end of the corridor Dmitri Petrovitch suddenly made his appearance; she started and stood aside to let him

pass, and her whole figure was expressive of repulsion. He gave a strange smile, coughed, and came into my

He found it and, holding it in both hands, put it on his head; then he looked at my confused face, at my

"I suppose it must be my fate that I should understand nothing. . . . If you understand anything, I congratulate

And he went out, clearing his throat. Afterwards from the window I saw him by the stable, harnessing the

horses with his own hands. His hands were trembling, he was in nervous haste and kept looking round at the

house; probably he was feeling terror. Then he got into the gig, and, with a strange expression as though

Shortly afterwards I set off, too. The sun was already rising, and the mist of the previous day clung timidly to

the bushes and the hillocks. On the box of the carriage was sitting Forty Martyrs; he had already succeeded in

"I am a free man," he shouted to the horses. "Ah, my honeys, I am a nobleman in my own right, if you care to

The terror of Dmitri Petrovitch, the thought of whom I could not get out of my head, infected me. I thought of

what had happened and could make nothing of it. I looked at the rooks, and it seemed so strange and terrible

"Why have I done this?" I kept asking myself in bewilderment and despair. "Why has it turned out like this

and not differently? To whom and for what was it necessary that she should love me in earnest, and that he

I set off for Petersburg that day, and I have not seen Dmitri Petrovitch nor his wife since. I am told that they

HERE was a thick roll of notes. It came from the bailiff at the forest villa; he wrote that he was sending

fifteen hundred roubles, which he had been awarded as damages, having won an appeal. Anna Akimovna

disliked and feared such words as "awarded damages" and "won the suit." She knew that it was impossible to

do without the law, but for some reason, whenever Nazaritch, the manager of the factory, or the bailiff of her

villa in the country, both of whom frequently went to law, used to win lawsuits of some sort for her benefit,

she always felt uneasy and, as it were, ashamed. On this occasion, too, she felt uneasy and awkward, and

wanted to put that fifteen hundred roubles further away that it might be out of her sight.

She thought with vexation that other girls of her age she was in her twentysixth year were now busy

looking after their households, were weary and would sleep sound, and would wake up tomorrow morning in

holiday mood; many of them had long been married and had children. Only she, for some reason, was

compelled to sit like an old woman over these letters, to make notes upon them, to write answers, then to do

nothing the whole evening till midnight, but wait till she was sleepy; and tomorrow they would all day long

be coming with Christmas greetings and asking for favours; and the day after tomorrow there would certainly

be some scandal at the factory some one would be beaten or would die of drinking too much vodka, and

she would be fretted by pangs of conscience; and after the holidays Nazaritch would turn off some twenty of

the workpeople for absence from work, and all of the twenty would hang about at the front door, without their

caps on, and she would be ashamed to go out to them, and they would be driven away like dogs. And all her

acquaintances would say behind her back, and write to her in anonymous letters, that she was a millionaire

and exploiter that she was devouring other men's lives and sucking the blood of the workers.

Here there lay a heap of letters read through and laid aside already. They were all begging letters. They were

from people who were hungry, drunken, dragged down by large families, sick, degraded, despised. . . . Anna

Akimovna had already noted on each letter, three roubles to be paid to one, five to another; these letters

would go the same day to the office, and next the distribution of assistance would take place, or, as the clerks

They would distribute also in small sums four hundred and seventy roubles the interest on a sum

bequeathed by the late Akim Ivanovitch for the relief of the poor and needy. There would be a hideous crush.

From the gates to the doors of the office there would stretch a long file of strange people with brutal faces, in

rags, numb with cold, hungry and already drunk, in husky voices calling down blessings upon Anna

Akimovna, their benefactress, and her parents: those at the back would press upon those in front, and those in

front would abuse them with bad language. The clerk would get tired of the noise, the swearing, and the

singsong whining and blessing; would fly out and give some one a box on the ear to the delight of all. And

her own people, the factory hands, who received nothing at Christmas but their wages, and had already spent

every farthing of it, would stand in the middle of the yard, looking on and laughing some enviously,

"Merchants, and still more their wives, are fonder of beggars than they are of their own workpeople," thought

Her eye fell upon the roll of money. It would be nice to distribute that hateful, useless money among the

workpeople tomorrow, but it did not do to give the workpeople anything for nothing, or they would demand it

again next time. And what would be the good of fifteen hundred roubles when there were eighteen hundred

workmen in the factory besides their wives and children? Or she might, perhaps, pick out one of the writers

of those begging letters some luckless man who had long ago lost all hope of anything better, and give

him the fifteen hundred. The money would come upon the poor creature like a thunderclap, and perhaps for

the first time in his life he would feel happy. This idea struck Anna Akimovna as original and amusing, and it

fascinated her. She took one letter at random out of the pile and read it. Some petty official called Tchalikov

had long been out of a situation, was ill, and living in Gushtchin's Buildings; his wife was in consumption,

and he had five little girls. Anna Akimovna knew well the fourstoreyed house, Gushtchin's Buildings, in

"Well, I will give it to that Tchalikov," she decided. "I won't send it; I had better take it myself to prevent

unnecessary talk. Yes," she reflected, as she put the fifteen hundred roubles in her pocket, "and I'll have a

She felt lighthearted; she rang the bell and ordered the horses to be brought round.

When she got into the sledge it was past six o'clock in the evening. The windows in all the blocks of

buildings were brightly lighted up, and that made the huge courtyard seem very dark: at the gates, and at the

far end of the yard near the warehouses and the workpeople's barracks, electric lamps were gleaming.

Anna Akimovna disliked and feared those huge dark buildings, warehouses, and barracks where the workmen

lived. She had only once been in the main building since her father's death. The high ceilings with iron

girders; the multitude of huge, rapidly turning wheels, connecting straps and levers; the shrill hissing; the

clank of steel; the rattle of the trolleys; the harsh puffing of steam; the faces pale, crimson, or black with

coaldust; the shirts soaked with sweat; the gleam of steel, of copper, and of fire; the smell of oil and coal;

and the draught, at times very hot and at times very cold gave her an impression of hell. It seemed to her

as though the wheels, the levers, and the hot hissing cylinders were trying to tear themselves away from their

fastenings to crush the men, while the men, not hearing one another, ran about with anxious faces, and busied

themselves about the machines, trying to stop their terrible movement. They showed Anna Akimovna

something and respectfully explained it to her. She remembered how in the forge a piece of redhot iron was

pulled out of the furnace; and how an old man with a strap round his head, and another, a young man in a

blue shirt with a chain on his breast, and an angry face, probably one of the foremen, struck the piece of iron

with hammers; and how the golden sparks had been scattered in all directions; and how, a little afterwards,

they had dragged out a huge piece of sheetiron with a clang. The old man had stood erect and smiled, while

the young man had wiped his face with his sleeve and explained something to her. And she remembered, too,

how in another department an old man with one eye had been filing a piece of iron, and how the iron filings

were scattered about; and how a redhaired man in black spectacles, with holes in his shirt, had been working

at a lathe, making something out of a piece of steel: the lathe roared and hissed and squeaked, and Anna

Akimovna felt sick at the sound, and it seemed as though they were boring into her ears. She looked, listened,

did not understand, smiled graciously, and felt ashamed. To get hundreds of thousands of roubles from a

And she had not once been in the workpeople's barracks. There, she was told, it was damp; there were bugs,

debauchery, anarchy. It was an astonishing thing: a thousand roubles were spent annually on keeping the

barracks in good order, yet, if she were to believe the anonymous letters, the condition of the workpeople was

"There was more order in my father's day," thought Anna Akimovna, as she drove out of the yard, "because

he had been a workman himself. I know nothing about it and only do silly things."

She felt depressed again, and was no longer glad that she had come, and the thought of the lucky man upon

whom fifteen hundred roubles would drop from heaven no longer struck her as original and amusing. To go

to some Tchalikov or other, when at home a business worth a million was gradually going to pieces and being

ruined, and the workpeople in the barracks were living worse than convicts, meant doing something silly and

cheating her conscience. Along the highroad and across the fields near it, workpeople from the neighbouring

cotton and paper factories were walking towards the lights of the town. There was the sound of talk and

laughter in the frosty air. Anna Akimovna looked at the women and young people, and she suddenly felt a

longing for a plain rough life among a crowd. She recalled vividly that faraway time when she used to be

called Anyutka, when she was a little girl and used to lie under the same quilt with her mother, while a

washerwoman who lodged with them used to wash clothes in the next room; while through the thin walls

there came from the neighbouring flats sounds of laughter, swearing, children's crying, the accordion, and the

whirr of carpenters' lathes and sewingmachines; while her father, Akim Ivanovitch, who was clever at

almost every craft, would be soldering something near the stove, or drawing or planing, taking no notice

whatever of the noise and stuffiness. And she longed to wash, to iron, to run to the shop and the tavern as she

used to do every day when she lived with her mother. She ought to have been a workgirl and not the factory

owner! Her big house with its chandeliers and pictures; her footman Mishenka, with his glossy moustache

and swallowtail coat; the devout and dignified Varvarushka, and smoothtongued Agafyushka; and the

young people of both sexes who came almost every day to ask her for money, and with whom she always for

some reason felt guilty; and the clerks, the doctors, and the ladies who were charitable at her expense, who

flattered her and secretly despised her for her humble origin how wearisome and alien it all was to her!

Here was the railway crossing and the city gate; then came houses alternating with kitchen gardens; and at

last the broad street where stood the renowned Gushtchin's Buildings. The street, usually quiet, was now on

Christmas Eve full of life and movement. The eatinghouses and beershops were noisy. If some one who

did not belong to that quarter but lived in the centre of the town had driven through the street now, he would

have noticed nothing but dirty, drunken, and abusive people; but Anna Akimovna, who had lived in those

parts all her life, was constantly recognizing in the crowd her own father or mother or uncle. Her father was a

soft fluid character, a little fantastical, frivolous, and irresponsible. He did not care for money, respectability,

or power; he used to say that a working man had no time to keep the holydays and go to church; and if it

had not been for his wife, he would probably never have gone to confession, taken the sacrament or kept the

fasts. While her uncle, Ivan Ivanovitch, on the contrary, was like flint; in everything relating to religion,

politics, and morality, he was harsh and relentless, and kept a strict watch, not only over himself, but also

over all his servants and acquaintances. God forbid that one should go into his room without crossing oneself

before the ikon! The luxurious mansion in which Anna Akimovna now lived he had always kept locked up,

and only opened it on great holidays for important visitors, while he lived himself in the office, in a little

room covered with ikons. He had leanings towards the Old Believers, and was continually entertaining priests

and bishops of the old ritual, though he had been christened, and married, and had buried his wife in

accordance with the Orthodox rites. He disliked Akim, his only brother and his heir, for his frivolity, which

he called simpleness and folly, and for his indifference to religion. He treated him as an inferior, kept him in

the position of a workman, paid him sixteen roubles a month. Akim addressed his brother with formal

respect, and on the days of asking forgiveness, he and his wife and daughter bowed down to the ground

before him. But three years before his death Ivan Ivanovitch had drawn closer to his brother, forgave his

There was a dark, deep, evilsmelling archway under Gushtchin's Buildings; there was a sound of men

coughing near the walls. Leaving the sledge in the street, Anna Akimovna went in at the gate and there

inquired how to get to No. 46 to see a clerk called Tchalikov. She was directed to the furthest door on the

right in the third story. And in the courtyard and near the outer door, and even on the stairs, there was still the

same loathsome smell as under the archway. In Anna Akimovna's childhood, when her father was a simple

workman, she used to live in a building like that, and afterwards, when their circumstances were different,

she had often visited them in the character of a Lady Bountiful. The narrow stone staircase with its steep dirty

steps, with landings at every story; the greasy swinging lanterns; the stench; the troughs, pots, and rags on the

landings near the doors, all this had been familiar to her long ago. . . . One door was open, and within

could be seen Jewish tailors in caps, sewing. Anna Akimovna met people on the stairs, but it never entered

her head that people might be rude to her. She was no more afraid of peasants or workpeople, drunk or sober,

There was no entry at No. 46; the door opened straight into the kitchen. As a rule the dwellings of workmen

and mechanics smell of varnish, tar, hides, smoke, according to the occupation of the tenant; the dwellings of

persons of noble or official class who have come to poverty may be known by a peculiar rancid, sour smell.

This disgusting smell enveloped Anna Akimovna on all sides, and as yet she was only on the threshold. A

man in a black coat, no doubt Tchalikov himself, was sitting in a corner at the table with his back to the door,

and with him were five little girls. The eldest, a broadfaced thin girl with a comb in her hair, looked about

fifteen, while the youngest, a chubby child with hair that stood up like a hedgehog, was not more than three.

All the six were eating. Near the stove stood a very thin little woman with a yellow face, far gone in

pregnancy. She was wearing a skirt and a white blouse, and had an oven fork in her hand.

"I did not expect you to be so disobedient, Liza," the man was saying reproachfully. "Fie, fie, for shame! Do

Seeing an unknown lady in the doorway, the thin woman started, and put down the fork.

"Vassily Nikititch!" she cried, after a pause, in a hollow voice, as though she could not believe her eyes.

The man looked round and jumped up. He was a flatchested, bony man with narrow shoulders and sunken

temples. His eyes were small and hollow with dark rings round them, he had a wide mouth, and a long nose

like a bird's beak a little bit bent to the right. His beard was parted in the middle, his moustache was

shaven, and this made him look more like a hired footman than a government clerk.

"Yes, madam," Tchalikov answered severely, but immediately recognizing Anna Akimovna, he cried: "Anna

Akimovna!" and all at once he gasped and clasped his hands as though in terrible alarm. "Benefactress!"

With a moan he ran to her, grunting inarticulately as though he were paralyzed there was cabbage on his

beard and he smelt of vodka pressed his forehead to her muff, and seemed as though he were in a swoon.

"Your hand, your holy hand!" he brought out breathlessly. "It's a dream, a glorious dream! Children, awaken

"Providence has heard us! Our saviour, our angel, has come! We are saved! Children, down on your knees!

Madame Tchalikov and the little girls, except the youngest one, began for some reason rapidly clearing the

"You wrote that your wife was very ill," said Anna Akimovna, and she felt ashamed and annoyed. "I am not

"Here she is, my wife," said Tchalikov in a thin feminine voice, as though his tears had gone to his head.

"Here she is, unhappy creature! With one foot in the grave! But we do not complain, madam. Better death

"Why is he playing these antics?" thought Anna Akimovna with annoyance. "One can see at once he is used

"Yes, madam; five bereaved children round their mother's coffin with funeral candles that's a farce? Eh?"

"Hold your tongue," whispered his wife, and she pulled at his sleeve. "The place has not been tidied up,

madam," she said, addressing Anna Akimovna; "please excuse it . . . you know what it is where there are

And to escape as soon as possible from these people and from the sour smell, she brought out her purse and

made up her mind to leave them twentyfive roubles, not more; but she suddenly felt ashamed that she had

"If you give me paper and ink, I will write at once to a doctor who is a friend of mine to come and see you,"

she said, flushing red. "He is a very good doctor. And I will leave you some money for medicine."

"It's messy here! What are you doing?" hissed Tchalikov, looking at her wrathfully. "Take her to the lodger's

room! I make bold to ask you, madam, to step into the lodger's room," he said, addressing Anna Akimovna.

"Osip Ilyitch told us not to go into his room!" said one of the little girls, sternly.

But they had already led Anna Akimovna out of the kitchen, through a narrow passage room between two

bedsteads: it was evident from the arrangement of the beds that in one two slept lengthwise, and in the other

three slept across the bed. In the lodger's room, that came next, it really was clean. A neatlooking bed with a

red woollen quilt, a pillow in a white pillowcase, even a slipper for the watch, a table covered with a

hempen cloth and on it, an inkstand of milkylooking glass, pens, paper, photographs in frames

everything as it ought to be; and another table for rough work, on which lay tidily arranged a watchmaker's

tools and watches taken to pieces. On the walls hung hammers, pliers, awls, chisels, nippers, and so on, and

there were three hanging clocks which were ticking; one was a big clock with thick weights, such as one sees

As she sat down to write the letter, Anna Akimovna saw facing her on the table the photographs of her father

After a brief silence during which nothing could be heard but the ticking of the clocks and the scratching of

the pen on the paper, Tchalikov heaved a sigh and said ironically, with indignation:

"It's a true saying: gentle birth and a grade in the service won't put a coat on your back. A cockade in your

cap and a noble title, but nothing to eat. To my thinking, if any one of humble class helps the poor he is much

To flatter Anna Akimovna, he uttered a few more disparaging phrases about his gentle birth, and it was

evident that he was humbling himself because he considered himself superior to her. Meanwhile she had

finished her letter and had sealed it up. The letter would be thrown away and the money would not be spent

on medicine that she knew, but she put twentyfive roubles on the table all the same, and after a moment's

thought, added two more red notes. She saw the wasted, yellow hand of Madame Tchalikov, like the claw of

"You have graciously given this for medicine," said Tchalikov in a quivering voice, "but hold out a helping

hand to me also . . . and the children!" he added with a sob. "My unhappy children! I am not afraid for

Trying to open her purse, the catch of which had gone wrong, Anna Akimovna was confused and turned red.

She felt ashamed that people should be standing before her, looking at her hands and waiting, and most likely

at the bottom of their hearts laughing at her. At that instant some one came into the kitchen and stamped his

Anna Akimovna grew even more confused. She did not want any one from the factory to find her in this

ridiculous position. As illluck would have it, the lodger came in at the very moment when, having broken

the catch at last, she was giving Tchalikov some notes, and Tchalikov, grunting as though he were paraylzed,

was feeling about with his lips where he could kiss her. In the lodger she recognized the workman who had

once clanked the sheetiron before her in the forge, and had explained things to her. Evidently he had come

in straight from the factory; his face looked dark and grimy, and on one cheek near his nose was a smudge of

soot. His hands were perfectly black, and his unbelted shirt shone with oil and grease. He was a man of thirty,

of medium height, with black hair and broad shoulders, and a look of great physical strength. At the first

glance Anna Akimovna perceived that he must be a foreman, who must be receiving at least thirtyfive

roubles a month, and a stern, loudvoiced man who struck the workmen in the face; all this was evident from

his manner of standing, from the attitude he involuntarily assumed at once on seeing a lady in his room, and

most of all from the fact that he did not wear topboots, that he had breast pockets, and a pointed,

picturesquely clipped beard. Her father, Akim Ivanovitch, had been the brother of the factory owner, and yet

he had been afraid of foremen like this lodger and had tried to win their favour.

"You must speak a little louder, madam . . . ." said Tchalikov softly. "When Mr. Pimenov comes home from

But Anna Akimovna was by now relieved that there was nothing more for her to do here; she nodded to them

"Have you been long in our employment?" she asked in a loud voice, without turning to him.

"That's a long while! My uncle and my father knew all the workpeople, and I know hardly any of them. I had

Anna Akimovna felt a desire to justify herself before him, to pretend that she had just given the money not

"Oh, this poverty," she sighed. "We give charity on holidays and working days, and still there is no sense in

"Of course it is useless," he agreed. "However much you give him, he will drink it all away. And now the

husband and wife will be snatching it from one another and fighting all night," he added with a laugh.

"Yes, one must admit that our philanthropy is useless, boring, and absurd. But still, you must agree, one can't

sit with one's hand in one's lap; one must do something. What's to be done with the Tchalikovs, for instance?"

She turned to Pimenov and stopped, expecting an answer from him; he, too, stopped and slowly, without

speaking, shrugged his shoulders. Obviously he knew what to do with the Tchalikovs, but the treatment

would have been so coarse and inhuman that he did not venture to put it into words. And the Tchalikovs were

to him so utterly uninteresting and worthless, that a moment later he had forgotten them; looking into Anna

Akimovna's eyes, he smiled with pleasure, and his face wore an expression as though he were dreaming

about something very pleasant. Only, now standing close to him, Anna Akimovna saw from his face, and

"Here, I ought to give him the fifteen hundred roubles!" she thought, but for some reason this idea seemed to

"I am sure you are aching all over after your work, and you come to the door with me," she said as they went

But he did not catch her words. When they came out into the street, he ran on ahead, unfastened the cover of

"They have left off ringing ever so long! It's dreadful; you won't be there before the service is over! Get up!"

"Two horses are racing, racing . . ." said Anna Akimovna, and she woke up; before her, candle in hand, stood

"Service is over already," said Masha with despair. "I have called you three times! Sleep till evening for me,

Anna Akimovna raised herself on her elbow and glanced towards the window. It was still quite dark outside,

and only the lower edge of the windowframe was white with snow. She could hear a low, mellow chime of

bells; it was not the parish church, but somewhere further away. The watch on the little table showed three

"Very well, Masha. . . . In three minutes . . ." said Anna Akimovna in an imploring voice, and she snuggled

She imagined the snow at the front door, the sledge, the dark sky, the crowd in the church, and the smell of

juniper, and she felt dread at the thought; but all the same, she made up her mind that she would get up at

once and go to early service. And while she was warm in bed and struggling with sleep which seems, as

though to spite one, particularly sweet when one ought to get up and while she had visions of an immense

garden on a mountain and then Gushtchin's Buildings, she was worried all the time by the thought that she

But when she got up it was quite light, and it turned out to be halfpast nine. There had been a heavy fall of

snow in the night; the trees were clothed in white, and the air was particularly light, transparent, and tender,

so that when Anna Akimovna looked out of the window her first impulse was to draw a deep, deep breath.

And when she had washed, a relic of faraway childish feelings joy that today was Christmas

suddenly stirred within her; after that she felt lighthearted, free and pure in soul, as though her soul, too, had

been washed or plunged in the white snow. Masha came in, dressed up and tightly laced, and wished her a

happy Christmas; then she spent a long time combing her mistress's hair and helping her to dress. The

fragrance and feeling of the new, gorgeous, splendid dress, its faint rustle, and the smell of fresh scent,

"Well, it's Christmas," she said gaily to Masha. "Now we will try our fortunes."

"Well, Anna Akimovna, what I think is, rather than neither one thing nor the other, I'd marry an old man,"

said Masha mournfully, and she heaved a sigh. "I am turned twenty; it's no joke."

Every one in the house knew that redhaired Masha was in love with Mishenka, the footman, and this

"Come, don't talk nonsense," Anna Akimovna consoled her. "I am going on for thirty, but I am still meaning

While his mistress was dressing, Mishenka, in a new swallowtail and polished boots, walked about the hall

and drawingroom and waited for her to come out, to wish her a happy Christmas. He had a peculiar walk,

stepping softly and delicately; looking at his feet, his hands, and the bend of his head, it might be imagined

that he was not simply walking, but learning to dance the first figure of a quadrille. In spite of his fine velvety

moustache and handsome, rather flashy appearance, he was steady, prudent, and devout as an old man. He

said his prayers, bowing down to the ground, and liked burning incense in his room. He respected people of

wealth and rank and had a reverence for them; he despised poor people, and all who came to ask favours of

any kind, with all the strength of his cleanly flunkey soul. Under his starched shirt he wore a flannel, winter

and summer alike, being very careful of his health; his ears were plugged with cottonwool.

When Anna Akimovna crossed the hall with Masha, he bent his head downwards a little and said in his

"I have the honour to congratulate you, Anna Akimovna, on the most solemn feast of the birth of our Lord."

Anna Akimovna gave him five roubles, while poor Masha was numb with ecstasy. His holiday getup, his

attitude, his voice, and what he said, impressed her by their beauty and elegance; as she followed her mistress

she could think of nothing, could see nothing, she could only smile, first blissfully and then bitterly. The

upper story of the house was called the best or visitors' half, while the name of the business part old

people's or simply women's part was given to the rooms on the lower story where Aunt Tatyana Ivanovna

kept house. In the upper part the gentry and educated visitors were entertained; in the lower story, simpler

folk and the aunt's personal friends. Handsome, plump, and healthy, still young and fresh, and feeling she had

on a magnificent dress which seemed to her to diffuse a sort of radiance all about her, Anna Akimovna went

down to the lower story. Here she was met with reproaches for forgetting God now that she was so highly

educated, for sleeping too late for the service, and for not coming downstairs to break the fast, and they all

clasped their hands and exclaimed with perfect sincerity that she was lovely, wonderful; and she believed it,

laughed, kissed them, gave one a rouble, another three or five according to their position. She liked being

downstairs. Wherever one looked there were shrines, ikons, little lamps, portraits of ecclesiastical personages

the place smelt of monks; there was a rattle of knives in the kitchen, and already a smell of something

savoury, exceedingly appetizing, was pervading all the rooms. The yellowpainted floors shone, and from the

doors narrow rugs with bright blue stripes ran like little paths to the ikon corner, and the sunshine was simply

In the diningroom some old women, strangers, were sitting; in Varvarushka's room, too, there were old

women, and with them a deaf and dumb girl, who seemed abashed about something and kept saying, "Bli,

bli! . . ." Two skinnylooking little girls who had been brought out of the orphanage for Christmas came up

to kiss Anna Akimovna's hand, and stood before her transfixed with admiration of her splendid dress; she

noticed that one of the girls squinted, and in the midst of her lighthearted holiday mood she felt a sick pang

at her heart at the thought that young men would despise the girl, and that she would never marry. In the cook

Agafya's room, five huge peasants in new shirts were sitting round the samovar; these were not workmen

from the factory, but relations of the cook. Seeing Anna Akimovna, all the peasants jumped up from their

seats, and from regard for decorum, ceased munching, though their mouths were full. The cook Stepan, in a

white cap, with a knife in his hand, came into the room and gave her his greetings; porters in high felt boots

came in, and they, too, offered their greetings. The watercarrier peeped in with icicles on his beard, but did

Anna Akimovna walked through the rooms followed by her retinue the aunt, Varvarushka, Nikandrovna,

the sewingmaid Marfa Petrovna, and the downstairs Masha. Varvarushka a tall, thin, slender woman,

taller than any one in the house, dressed all in black, smelling of cypress and coffee crossed herself in

each room before the ikon, bowing down from the waist. And whenever one looked at her one was reminded

that she had already prepared her shroud and that lottery tickets were hidden away by her in the same box.

"Anyutinka, be merciful at Christmas," she said, opening the door into the kitchen. "Forgive him, bless the

The coachman Panteley, who had been dismissed for drunkenness in November, was on his knees in the

middle of the kitchen. He was a goodnatured man, but he used to be unruly when he was drunk, and could

not go to sleep, but persisted in wandering about the buildings and shouting in a threatening voice, "I know

all about it!" Now from his beefy and bloated face and from his bloodshot eyes it could be seen that he had

"Forgive me, Anna Akimovna," he brought out in a hoarse voice, striking his forehead on the floor and

"What about auntie?" said her aunt, walking into the kitchen, breathing heavily; she was very stout, and on

her bosom one might have stood a tray of teacups and a samovar. "What about auntie now? You are mistress

here, give your own orders; though these rascals might be all dead for all I care. Come, get up, you hog!" she

shouted at Panteley, losing patience. "Get out of my sight! It's the last time I forgive you, but if you transgress

Then they went into the diningroom to coffee. But they had hardly sat down, when the downstairs Masha

rushed headlong in, saying with horror, "The singers!" And ran back again. They heard some one blowing his

nose, a low bass cough, and footsteps that sounded like horses' ironshod hoofs tramping about the entry near

the hall. For half a minute all was hushed. . . . The singers burst out so suddenly and loudly that every one

started. While they were singing, the priest from the almshouses with the deacon and the sexton arrived.

Putting on the stole, the priest slowly said that when they were ringing for matins it was snowing and not

cold, but that the frost was sharper towards morning, God bless it! and now there must be twenty degrees of

"Many people maintain, though, that winter is healthier than summer," said the deacon; then immediately

assumed an austere expression and chanted after the priest. "Thy Birth, O Christ our Lord. . . ."

Soon the priest from the workmen's hospital came with the deacon, then the Sisters from the hospital,

children from the orphanage, and then singing could be heard almost uninterruptedly. They sang, had lunch,

About twenty men from the factory came to offer their Christmas greetings. They were only the foremen,

mechanicians, and their assistants, the patternmakers, the accountant, and so on all of good appearance,

in new black coats. They were all firstrate men, as it were picked men; each one knew his value that is,

knew that if he lost his berth today, people would be glad to take him on at another factory. Evidently they

liked Auntie, as they behaved freely in her presence and even smoked, and when they had all trooped in to

have something to eat, the accountant put his arm round her immense waist. They were freeandeasy,

perhaps, partly also because Varvarushka, who under the old masters had wielded great power and had kept

watch over the morals of the clerks, had now no authority whatever in the house; and perhaps because many

of them still remembered the time when Auntie Tatyana Ivanovna, whose brothers kept a strict hand over her,

had been dressed like a simple peasant woman like Agafya, and when Anna Akimovna used to run about the

The foremen ate, talked, and kept looking with amazement at Anna Akimovna, how she had grown up and

how handsome she had become! But this elegant girl, educated by governesses and teachers, was a stranger to

them; they could not understand her, and they instinctively kept closer to "Auntie," who called them by their

names, continually pressed them to eat and drink, and, clinking glasses with them, had already drunk two

wineglasses of rowanberry wine with them. Anna Akimovna was always afraid of their thinking her proud,

an upstart, or a crow in peacock's feathers; and now while the foremen were crowding round the food, she did

not leave the diningroom, but took part in the conversation. She asked Pimenov, her acquaintance of the

"I mend clocks," he answered. "I take the work up between times, on holidays, or when I can't sleep."

"So if my watch goes wrong I can bring it to you to be repaired?" Anna Akimovna asked, laughing.

"To be sure, I will do it with pleasure," said Pimenov, and there was an expression of tender devotion in his

face, when, not herself knowing why, she unfastened her magnificent watch from its chain and handed it to

him; he looked at it in silence and gave it back. "To be sure, I will do it with pleasure," he repeated. "I don't

mend watches now. My eyes are weak, and the doctors have forbidden me to do fine work. But for you I can

"Doctors talk nonsense," said the accountant. They all laughed. "Don't you believe them," he went on,

flattered by the laughing; "last year a tooth flew out of a cylinder and hit old Kalmykov such a crack on the

head that you could see his brains, and the doctor said he would die; but he is alive and working to this day,

"Doctors do talk nonsense, they do, but not so much," sighed Auntie. "Pyotr Andreyitch, poor dear, lost his

sight. Just like you, he used to work day in day out at the factory near the hot furnace, and he went blind. The

eyes don't like heat. But what are we talking about?" she said, rousing herself. "Come and have a drink. My

best wishes for Christmas, my dears. I never drink with any one else, but I drink with you, sinful woman as I

Anna Akimovna fancied that after yesterday Pimenov despised her as a philanthropist, but was fascinated by

her as a woman. She looked at him and thought that he behaved very charmingly and was nicely dressed. It is

true that the sleeves of his coat were not quite long enough, and the coat itself seemed shortwaisted, and his

trousers were not wide and fashionable, but his tie was tied carelessly and with taste and was not as gaudy as

the others'. And he seemed to be a goodnatured man, for he ate submissively whatever Auntie put on his

plate. She remembered how black he had been the day before, and how sleepy, and the thought of it for some

When the men were preparing to go, Anna Akimovna put out her hand to Pimenov. She wanted to ask him to

come in sometimes to see her, without ceremony, but she did not know how to her tongue would not obey

her; and that they might not think she was attracted by Pimenov, she shook hands with his companions, too.

Then the boys from the school of which she was a patroness came. They all had their heads closely cropped

and all wore grey blouses of the same pattern. The teacher a tall, beardless young man with patches of red

on his face was visibly agitated as he formed the boys into rows; the boys sang in tune, but with harsh,

disagreeable voices. The manager of the factory, Nazaritch, a bald, sharpeyed Old Believer, could never get

on with the teachers, but the one who was now anxiously waving his hands he despised and hated, though he

could not have said why. He behaved rudely and condescendingly to the young man, kept back his salary,

meddled with the teaching, and had finally tried to dislodge him by appointing, a fortnight before Christmas,

as porter to the school a drunken peasant, a distant relation of his wife's, who disobeyed the teacher and said

Anna Akimovna was aware of all this, but she could be of no help, for she was afraid of Nazaritch herself.

Now she wanted at least to be very nice to the schoolmaster, to tell him she was very much pleased with him;

but when after the singing he began apologizing for something in great confusion, and Auntie began to

address him familiarly as she drew him without ceremony to the table, she felt, for some reason, bored and

awkward, and giving orders that the children should be given sweets, went upstairs.

"In reality there is something cruel in these Christmas customs," she said a little while afterwards, as it were

to herself, looking out of window at the boys, who were flocking from the house to the gates and shivering

with cold, putting their coats on as they ran. "At Christmas one wants to rest, to sit at home with one's own

people, and the poor boys, the teacher, and the clerks and foremen, are obliged for some reason to go through

the frost, then to offer their greetings, show their respect, be put to confusion . . ."

Mishenka, who was standing at the door of the drawingroom and overheard this, said:

"It has not come from us, and it will not end with us. Of course, I am not an educated man, Anna Akimovna,

but I do understand that the poor must always respect the rich. It is well said, 'God marks the rogue.' In

prisons, night refuges, and pothouses you never see any but the poor, while decent people, you may notice,

"You always express yourself so tediously and incomprehensibly," said Anna Akimovna, and she walked to

It was only just past eleven. The stillness of the big room, only broken by the singing that floated up from

below, made her yawn. The bronzes, the albums, and the pictures on the walls, representing a ship at sea,

cows in a meadow, and views of the Rhine, were so absolutely stale that her eyes simply glided over them

without observing them. The holiday mood was already growing tedious. As before, Anna Akimovna felt that

she was beautiful, goodnatured, and wonderful, but now it seemed to her that that was of no use to any one;

it seemed to her that she did not know for whom and for what she had put on this expensive dress, too, and,

as always happened on all holidays, she began to be fretted by loneliness and the persistent thought that her

beauty, her health, and her wealth, were a mere cheat, since she was not wanted, was of no use to any one,

and nobody loved her. She walked through all the rooms, humming and looking out of window; stopping in

"I don't know what you think of yourself, Misha," she said, and heaved a sigh. "Really, God might punish you

"You know what I mean. Excuse my meddling in your affairs. But it seems you are spoiling your own life out

of obstinacy. You'll admit that it is high time you got married, and she is an excellent and deserving girl. You

will never find any one better. She's a beauty, clever, gentle, and devoted. . . . And her appearance! . . . If she

belonged to our circle or a higher one, people would be falling in love with her for her red hair alone. See

how beautifully her hair goes with her complexion. Oh, goodness! You don't understand anything, and don't

know what you want," Anna Akimovna said bitterly, and tears came into her eyes. "Poor girl, I am so sorry

for her! I know you want a wife with money, but I have told you already I will give Masha a dowry."

Mishenka could not picture his future spouse in his imagination except as a tall, plump, substantial, pious

woman, stepping like a peacock, and, for some reason, with a long shawl over her shoulders; while Masha

was thin, slender, tightly laced, and walked with little steps, and, worst of all, she was too fascinating and at

times extremely attractive to Mishenka, and that, in his opinion, was incongruous with matrimony and only in

keeping with loose behaviour. When Anna Akimovna had promised to give Masha a dowry, he had hesitated

for a time; but once a poor student in a brown overcoat over his uniform, coming with a letter for Anna

Akimovna, was fascinated by Masha, and could not resist embracing her near the hatstand, and she had

uttered a faint shriek; Mishenka, standing on the stairs above, had seen this, and from that time had begun to

cherish a feeling of disgust for Masha. A poor student! Who knows, if she had been embraced by a rich

Mishenka was silent and looked at the armchair fixedly, and raised his eyebrows.

Silence. The redhaired Masha came in with letters and visiting cards on a tray. Guessing that they were

"The postmen have come," she muttered. "And there is a clerk called Tchalikov waiting below. He says you

"What insolence!" said Anna Akimovna, moved to anger. "I gave him no orders. Tell him to take himself off;

A ring was heard. It was the priests from her parish. They were always shown into the aristocratic part of the

house that is, upstairs. After the priests, Nazaritch, the manager of the factory, came to pay his visit, and

then the factory doctor; then Mishenka announced the inspector of the elementary schools. Visitors kept

When there was a moment free, Anna Akimovna sat down in a deep armchair in the drawingroom, and

shutting her eyes, thought that her loneliness was quite natural because she had not married and never would

marry. . . . But that was not her fault. Fate itself had flung her out of the simple workingclass surroundings

in which, if she could trust her memory, she had felt so snug and at home, into these immense rooms, where

she could never think what to do with herself, and could not understand why so many people kept passing

before her eyes. What was happening now seemed to her trivial, useless, since it did not and could not give

"If I could fall in love," she thought, stretching; the very thought of this sent a rush of warmth to her heart.

"And if I could escape from the factory . . ." she mused, imagining how the weight of those factory buildings,

barracks, and schools would roll off her conscience, roll off her mind. . . . Then she remembered her father,

and thought if he had lived longer he would certainly have married her to a working man to Pimenov, for

instance. He would have told her to marry, and that would have been all about it. And it would have been a

She pictured his curly head, his bold profile, his delicate, ironical lips and the strength, the tremendous

strength, in his shoulders, in his arms, in his chest, and the tenderness with which he had looked at her watch

"Anna Akimovna," he said, laying his hand on his heart and raising his eyebrows, "you are my mistress and

my benefactress, and no one but you can tell me what I ought to do about marriage, for you are as good as a

mother to me. . . . But kindly forbid them to laugh and jeer at me downstairs. They won't let me pass without

"Pooh, what nonsense!" cried Anna Akimovna indignantly. "How stupid you all are! What a stupid you are,

Just as the year before, the last to pay her visits were Krylin, an actual civil councillor, and Lysevitch, a

wellknown barrister. It was already dark when they arrived. Krylin, a man of sixty, with a wide mouth and

with grey whiskers close to his ears, with a face like a lynx, was wearing a uniform with an Anna ribbon, and

white trousers. He held Anna Akimovna's hand in both of his for a long while, looked intently in her face,

"I used to respect your uncle . . . and your father, and enjoyed the privilege of their friendship. Now I feel it

an agreeable duty, as you see, to present my Christmas wishes to their honoured heiress in spite of my

infirmities and the distance I have to come. . . . And I am very glad to see you in good health."

The lawyer Lysevitch, a tall, handsome fair man, with a slight sprinkling of grey on his temples and beard,

was distinguished by exceptionally elegant manners; he walked with a swaying step, bowed as it were

reluctantly, and shrugged his shoulders as he talked, and all this with an indolent grace, like a spoiled horse

fresh from the stable. He was well fed, extremely healthy, and very well off; on one occasion he had won

forty thousand roubles, but concealed the fact from his friends. He was fond of good fare, especially cheese,

truffles, and grated radish with hemp oil; while in Paris he had eaten, so he said, baked but unwashed guts.

He spoke smoothly, fluently, without hesitation, and only occasionally, for the sake of effect, permitted

himself to hesitate and snap his fingers as if picking up a word. He had long ceased to believe in anything he

had to say in the law courts, or perhaps he did believe in it, but attached no kind of significance to it; it had all

so long been familiar, stale, ordinary. . . . He believed in nothing but what was original and unusual. A

copybook moral in an original form would move him to tears. Both his notebooks were filled with

extraordinary expressions which he had read in various authors; and when he needed to look up any

expression, he would search nervously in both books, and usually failed to find it. Anna Akimovna's father

had in a goodhumoured moment ostentatiously appointed him legal adviser in matters concerning the

factory, and had assigned him a salary of twelve thousand roubles. The legal business of the factory had been

confined to two or three trivial actions for recovering debts, which Lysevitch handed to his assistants.

Anna Akimovna knew that he had nothing to do at the factory, but she could not dismiss him she had not

the moral courage; and besides, she was used to him. He used to call himself her legal adviser, and his salary,

which he invariably sent for on the first of the month punctually, he used to call "stern prose." Anna

Akimovna knew that when, after her father's death, the timber of her forest was sold for railway sleepers,

Lysevitch had made more than fifteen thousand out of the transaction, and had shared it with Nazaritch.

When first she found out they had cheated her she had wept bitterly, but afterwards she had grown used to it.

Wishing her a happy Christmas, and kissing both her hands, he looked her up and down, and frowned.

"You mustn't," he said with genuine disappointment. "I have told you, my dear, you mustn't!"

"I have told you you mustn't get fat. All your family have an unfortunate tendency to grow fat. You mustn't,"

he repeated in an imploring voice, and kissed her hand. "You are so handsome! You are so splendid! Here,

your Excellency, let me introduce the one woman in the world whom I have ever seriously loved."

"There is nothing surprising in that. To know Anna Akimovna at your age and not to be in love with her, that

"I adore her," the lawyer continued with perfect sincerity, but with his usual indolent grace. "I love her, but

not because I am a man and she is a woman. When I am with her I always feel as though she belongs to some

third sex, and I to a fourth, and we float away together into the domain of the subtlest shades, and there we

blend into the spectrum. Leconte de Lisle defines such relations better than any one. He has a superb passage,

Lysevitch rummaged in one notebook, then in the other, and, not finding the quotation, subsided. They began

talking of the weather, of the opera, of the arrival, expected shortly, of Duse. Anna Akimovna remembered

that the year before Lysevitch and, she fancied, Krylin had dined with her, and now when they were getting

ready to go away, she began with perfect sincerity pointing out to them in an imploring voice that as they had

no more visits to pay, they ought to remain to dinner with her. After some hesitation the visitors agreed.

In addition to the family dinner, consisting of cabbage soup, sucking pig, goose with apples, and so on, a

socalled "French" or "chef's" dinner used to be prepared in the kitchen on great holidays, in case any visitor

in the upper story wanted a meal. When they heard the clatter of crockery in the diningroom, Lysevitch

began to betray a noticeable excitement; he rubbed his hands, shrugged his shoulders, screwed up his eyes,

and described with feeling what dinners her father and uncle used to give at one time, and a marvellous

matelote of turbots the cook here could make: it was not a matelote, but a veritable revelation! He was

already gloating over the dinner, already eating it in imagination and enjoying it. When Anna Akimovna took

his arm and led him to the diningroom, he tossed off a glass of vodka and put a piece of salmon in his

mouth; he positively purred with pleasure. He munched loudly, disgustingly, emitting sounds from his nose,

The hors d'oeuvres were superb; among other things, there were fresh white mushrooms stewed in cream, and

sauce proven�ale made of fried oysters and crayfish, strongly flavoured with some bitter pickles. The dinner,

consisting of elaborate holiday dishes, was excellent, and so were the wines. Mishenka waited at table with

enthusiasm. When he laid some new dish on the table and lifted the shining cover, or poured out the wine, he

did it with the solemnity of a professor of black magic, and, looking at his face and his movements

suggesting the first figure of a quadrille, the lawyer thought several times, "What a fool!"

"The fin de si�cle woman I mean when she is young, and of course wealthy must be independent,

clever, elegant, intellectual, bold, and a little depraved. Depraved within limits, a little; for excess, you know,

is wearisome. You ought not to vegetate, my dear; you ought not to live like every one else, but to get the full

savour of life, and a slight flavour of depravity is the sauce of life. Revel among flowers of intoxicating

fragrance, breathe the perfume of musk, eat hashish, and best of all, love, love, love. . . . To begin with, in

your place I would set up seven lovers one for each day of the week; and one I would call Monday, one

This conversation troubled Anna Akimovna; she ate nothing and only drank a glass of wine.

"Let me speak at last," she said. "For myself personally, I can't conceive of love without family life. I am

lonely, lonely as the moon in the sky, and a waning moon, too; and whatever you may say, I am convinced, I

feel that this waning can only be restored by love in its ordinary sense. It seems to me that such love would

define my duties, my work, make clear my conception of life. I want from love peace of soul, tranquillity; I

want the very opposite of musk, and spiritualism, and fin de si�cle . . . in short" she grew embarrassed

"You want to be married? Well, you can do that, too," Lysevitch assented. "You ought to have all

experiences: marriage, and jealousy, and the sweetness of the first infidelity, and even children. . . . But make

"Yes, I'll go and get married!" she said, looking angrily at his wellfed, satisfied face. "I will marry in the

simplest, most ordinary way and be radiant with happiness. And, would you believe it, I will marry some

"There is no harm in that, either. The Duchess Josiana loved Gwinplin, and that was permissible for her

because she was a grand duchess. Everything is permissible for you, too, because you are an exceptional

woman: if, my dear, you want to love a negro or an Arab, don't scruple; send for a negro. Don't deny yourself

"Can it be so hard to understand me?" Anna Akimovna asked with amazement, and her eyes were bright with

tears. "Understand, I have an immense business on my hands two thousand workmen, for whom I must

answer before God. The men who work for me grow blind and deaf. I am afraid to go on like this; I am

afraid! I am wretched, and you have the cruelty to talk to me of negroes and . . . and you smile!" Anna

Akimovna brought her fist down on the table. "To go on living the life I am living now, or to marry some one

as idle and incompetent as myself, would be a crime. I can't go on living like this," she said hotly, "I cannot!"

"How handsome she is!" said Lysevitch, fascinated by her. "My God, how handsome she is! But why are you

angry, my dear? Perhaps I am wrong; but surely you don't imagine that if, for the sake of ideas for which I

have the deepest respect, you renounce the joys of life and lead a dreary existence, your workmen will be any

the better for it? Not a scrap! No, frivolity, frivolity!" he said decisively. "It's essential for you; it's your duty

Anna Akimovna was glad she had spoken out, and her spirits rose. She was pleased she had spoken so well,

and that her ideas were so fine and just, and she was already convinced that if Pimenov, for instance, loved

"You make me angry, Viktor Nikolaitch," she said, clinking glasses with the lawyer. "It seems to me you give

advice and know nothing of life yourself. According to you, if a man be a mechanic or a draughtsman, he is

bound to be a peasant and an ignoramus! But they are the cleverest people! Extraordinary people!"

"Your uncle and father . . . I knew them and respected them . . ." Krylin said, pausing for emphasis (he had

been sitting upright as a post, and had been eating steadily the whole time), "were people of considerable

"Oh, to be sure, we know all about their qualities," the lawyer muttered, and asked permission to smoke.

When dinner was over Krylin was led away for a nap. Lysevitch finished his cigar, and, staggering from

repletion, followed Anna Akimovna into her study. Cosy corners with photographs and fans on the walls, and

the inevitable pink or pale blue lanterns in the middle of the ceiling, he did not like, as the expression of an

insipid and unoriginal character; besides, the memory of certain of his love affairs of which he was now

ashamed was associated with such lanterns. Anna Akimovna's study with its bare walls and tasteless furniture

pleased him exceedingly. It was snug and comfortable for him to sit on a Turkish divan and look at Anna

Akimovna, who usually sat on the rug before the fire, clasping her knees and looking into the fire and

thinking of something; and at such moments it seemed to him that her peasant Old Believer blood was

Every time after dinner when coffee and liqueurs were handed, he grew livelier and began telling her various

bits of literary gossip. He spoke with eloquence and inspiration, and was carried away by his own stories; and

she listened to him and thought every time that for such enjoyment it was worth paying not only twelve

thousand, but three times that sum, and forgave him everything she disliked in him. He sometimes told her

the story of some tale or novel he had been reading, and then two or three hours passed unnoticed like a

"It's ages, my dear, since I have read anything," he said when she asked him to tell her something. "Though I

"H'm! . . . new," Lysevitch muttered sleepily, and he settled himself further back in the corner of the sofa.

"None of the new literature, my dear, is any use for you or me. Of course, it is bound to be such as it is, and

to refuse to recognize it is to refuse to recognize would mean refusing to recognize the natural order of

things, and I do recognize it, but . . ." Lysevitch seemed to have fallen asleep. But a minute later his voice

"All the new literature moans and howls like the autumn wind in the chimney. 'Ah, unhappy wretch! Ah, your

life may be likened to a prison! Ah, how damp and dark it is in your prison! Ah, you will certainly come to

ruin, and there is no chance of escape for you!' That's very fine, but I should prefer a literature that would tell

us how to escape from prison. Of all contemporary writers, however, I prefer Maupassant." Lysevitch opened

his eyes. "A fine writer, a perfect writer!" Lysevitch shifted in his seat. "A wonderful artist! A terrible,

prodigious, supernatural artist!" Lysevitch got up from the sofa and raised his right arm. "Maupassant!" he

said rapturously. "My dear, read Maupassant! one page of his gives you more than all the riches of the earth!

Every line is a new horizon. The softest, tenderest impulses of the soul alternate with violent tempestuous

sensations; your soul, as though under the weight of forty thousand atmospheres, is transformed into the most

insignificant little bit of some great thing of an undefined rosy hue which I fancy, if one could put it on one's

tongue, would yield a pungent, voluptuous taste. What a fury of transitions, of motives, of melodies! You rest

peacefully on the lilies and the roses, and suddenly a thought a terrible, splendid, irresistible thought

swoops down upon you like a locomotive, and bathes you in hot steam and deafens you with its whistle. Read

"Yes, it is inconceivable," he pronounced, as though in despair; "his last thing overwhelmed me, intoxicated

me! But I am afraid you will not care for it. To be carried away by it you must savour it, slowly suck the juice

After a long introduction, containing many words such as d�monic sensuality, a network of the most delicate

nerves, simoom, crystal, and so on, he began at last telling the story of the novel. He did not tell the story so

whimsically, but told it in minute detail, quoting from memory whole descriptions and conversations; the

characters of the novel fascinated him, and to describe them he threw himself into attitudes, changed the

expression of his face and voice like a real actor. He laughed with delight at one moment in a deep bass, and

at another, on a high shrill note, clasped his hands and clutched at his head with an expression which

suggested that it was just going to burst. Anna Akimovna listened enthralled, though she had already read the

novel, and it seemed to her ever so much finer and more subtle in the lawyer's version than in the book itself.

He drew her attention to various subtleties, and emphasized the felicitous expressions and the profound

thoughts, but she saw in it, only life, life, life and herself, as though she had been a character in the novel. Her

spirits rose, and she, too, laughing and clasping her hands, thought that she could not go on living such a life,

that there was no need to have a wretched life when one might have a splendid one. She remembered her

words and thoughts at dinner, and was proud of them; and when Pimenov suddenly rose up in her

"How splendid you are! How handsome!" he began, a little while afterwards in a faint voice as if he were ill.

"I am happy near you, dear girl, but why am I fortytwo instead of thirty? Your tastes and mine do not

coincide: you ought to be depraved, and I have long passed that phase, and want a love as delicate and

immaterial as a ray of sunshine that is, from the point of view of a woman of your age, I am of no earthly

In his own words, he loved Turgenev, the singer of virginal love and purity, of youth, and of the melancholy

Russian landscape; but he loved virginal love, not from knowledge but from hearsay, as something abstract,

existing outside real life. Now he assured himself that he loved Anna Akimovna platonically, ideally, though

he did not know what those words meant. But he felt comfortable, snug, warm. Anna Akimovna seemed to

him enchanting, original, and he imagined that the pleasant sensation that was aroused in him by these

He laid his cheek on her hand and said in the tone commonly used in coaxing little children:

Anna Akimovna had never heard before of their sending a Christmas box to the lawyer, and now she was at a

loss how much to give him. But she must give him something, for he was expecting it, though he looked at

"I suppose Nazaritch forgot it," she said, "but it is not too late to set it right."

She suddenly remembered the fifteen hundred she had received the day before, which was now lying in the

toilet drawer in her bedroom. And when she brought that ungrateful money and gave it to the lawyer, and he

put it in his coat pocket with indolent grace, the whole incident passed off charmingly and naturally. The

sudden reminder of a Christmas box and this fifteen hundred was not unbecoming in Lysevitch.

Lysevitch and he stayed a little longer and drank a glass of tea each, and began to get ready to go. Anna

Akimovna was a little embarrassed. . . . She had utterly forgotten in what department Krylin served, and

whether she had to give him money or not; and if she had to, whether to give it now or send it afterwards in

She reflected that if Krylin used to visit her father and her uncle and respected them, it was probably not for

nothing: apparently he had been charitable at their expense, serving in some charitable institution. As she said

goodbye she slipped three hundred roubles into his hand; he seemed taken aback, and looked at her for a

minute in silence with his pewtery eyes, but then seemed to understand and said:

Lysevitch had become utterly limp and heavy, and he staggered when Mishenka put on his overcoat.

As he went downstairs he looked like a man in the last stage of exhaustion, and it was evident that he would

"Your Excellency," he said languidly to Krylin, stopping in the middle of the staircase, "has it ever happened

to you to experience a feeling as though some unseen force were drawing you out longer and longer? You are

drawn out and turn into the finest wire. Subjectively this finds expression in a curious voluptuous feeling

Anna Akimovna, standing at the top of the stairs, saw each of them give Mishenka a note.

She quickly threw off her dress, that she was weary of already, put on a dressinggown, and ran downstairs;

and as she ran downstairs she laughed and thumped with her feet like a schoolboy; she had a great desire for

Auntie, in a loose print blouse, Varvarushka and two old women, were sitting in the diningroom having

supper. A big piece of salt meat, a ham, and various savouries, were lying on the table before them, and

clouds of steam were rising from the meat, which looked particularly fat and appetizing. Wine was not served

on the lower story, but they made up for it with a great number of spirits and homemade liqueurs.

Agafyushka, the fat, whiteskinned, wellfed cook, was standing with her arms crossed in the doorway and

talking to the old women, and the dishes were being handed by the downstairs Masha, a dark girl with a

crimson ribbon in her hair. The old women had had enough to eat before the morning was over, and an hour

before supper had had tea and buns, and so they were now eating with effort as it were, from a sense of

"Oh, my girl!" sighed Auntie, as Anna Akimovna ran into the diningroom and sat down beside her. "You've

Every one in the house was pleased when Anna Akimovna was in good spirits and played pranks; this always

reminded them that the old men were dead and that the old women had no authority in the house, and any one

could do as he liked without any fear of being sharply called to account for it. Only the two old women

glanced askance at Anna Akimovna with amazement: she was humming, and it was a sin to sing at table.

"Our mistress, our beauty, our picture," Agafyushka began chanting with sugary sweetness. "Our precious

jewel! The people, the people that have come today to look at our queen. Lord have mercy upon us!

Generals, and officers and gentlemen. . . . I kept looking out of window and counting and counting till I gave

"I'd as soon they did not come at all," said Auntie; she looked sadly at her niece and added: "They only waste

Anna Akimovna felt hungry, as she had eaten nothing since the morning. They poured her out some very

bitter liqueur; she drank it off, and tasted the salt meat with mustard, and thought it extraordinarily nice. Then

the downstairs Masha brought in the turkey, the pickled apples and the gooseberries. And that pleased her,

too. There was only one thing that was disagreeable: there was a draught of hot air from the tiled stove; it was

stiflingly close and every one's cheeks were burning. After supper the cloth was taken off and plates of

Agafyushka sighed and sat down to the table; Masha set a wineglass of liqueur before her, too, and Anna

Akimovna began to feel as though Agafyushka's white neck were giving out heat like the stove. They were

all talking of how difficult it was nowadays to get married, and saying that in old days, if men did not court

beauty, they paid attention to money, but now there was no making out what they wanted; and while

hunchbacks and cripples used to be left old maids, nowadays men would not have even the beautiful and

wealthy. Auntie began to set this down to immorality, and said that people had no fear of God, but she

suddenly remembered that Ivan Ivanitch, her brother, and Varvarushka both people of holy life had

feared God, but all the same had had children on the sly, and had sent them to the Foundling Asylum. She

pulled herself up and changed the conversation, telling them about a suitor she had once had, a factory hand,

and how she had loved him, but her brothers had forced her to marry a widower, an ikonpainter, who, thank

God, had died two years after. The downstairs Masha sat down to the table, too, and told them with a

mysterious air that for the last week some unknown man with a black moustache, in a greatcoat with an

astrachan collar, had made his appearance every morning in the yard, had stared at the windows of the big

house, and had gone on further to the buildings; the man was all right, nicelooking.

All this conversation made Anna Akimovna suddenly long to be married long intensely, painfully; she felt

as though she would give half her life and all her fortune only to know that upstairs there was a man who was

closer to her than any one in the world, that he loved her warmly and was missing her; and the thought of

such closeness, ecstatic and inexpressible in words, troubled her soul. And the instinct of youth and health

flattered her with lying assurances that the real poetry of life was not over but still to come, and she believed

it, and leaning back in her chair (her hair fell down as she did so), she began laughing, and, looking at her, the

others laughed, too. And it was a long time before this causeless laughter died down in the diningroom.

She was informed that the Stinging Beetle had come. This was a pilgrim woman called Pasha or

Spiridonovna a thin little woman of fifty, in a black dress with a white kerchief, with keen eyes, sharp

nose, and a sharp chin; she had sly, viperish eyes and she looked as though she could see right through every

one. Her lips were shaped like a heart. Her viperishness and hostility to every one had earned her the

Going into the diningroom without looking at any one, she made for the ikons and chanted in a high voice

"Thy Holy Birth," then she sang "The Virgin today gives birth to the Son," then "Christ is born," then she

"A happy Christmas," she said, and she kissed Anna Akimovna on the shoulder. "It's all I could do, all I could

do to get to you, my kind friends." She kissed Auntie on the shoulder. "I should have come to you this

morning, but I went in to some good people to rest on the way. 'Stay, Spiridonovna, stay,' they said, and I did

As she did not eat meat, they gave her salmon and caviare. She ate looking from under her eyelids at the

company, and drank three glasses of vodka. When she had finished she said a prayer and bowed down to

They began to play a game of "kings," as they had done the year before, and the year before that, and all the

servants in both stories crowded in at the doors to watch the game. Anna Akimovna fancied she caught a

glimpse once or twice of Mishenka, with a patronizing smile on his face, among the crowd of peasant men

and women. The first to be king was Stinging Beetle, and Anna Akimovna as the soldier paid her tribute; and

then Auntie was king and Anna Akimovna was peasant, which excited general delight, and Agafyushka was

prince, and was quite abashed with pleasure. Another game was got up at the other end of the table played

by the two Mashas, Varvarushka, and the sewingmaid Marfa Ptrovna, who was waked on purpose to play

While they were playing they talked of men, and of how difficult it was to get a good husband nowadays, and

"You are a handsome, healthy, sturdy lass," said Stinging Beetle to Anna Akimovna. "But I can't make out

"Or maybe you have taken a vow to remain a maid?" Stinging Beetle went on, as though she did not hear.

"Well, that's a good deed. . . . Remain one," she repeated, looking intently and maliciously at her cards. "All

right, my dear, remain one. . . . Yes . . . only maids, these saintly maids, are not all alike." She heaved a sigh

and played the king. "Oh, no, my girl, they are not all alike! Some really watch over themselves like nuns,

and butter would not melt in their mouths; and if such a one does sin in an hour of weakness, she is worried

to death, poor thing! so it would be a sin to condemn her. While others will go dressed in black and sew their

shroud, and yet love rich old men on the sly. Yes, yes, my canary birds, some hussies will bewitch an old

man and rule over him, my doves, rule over him and turn his head; and when they've saved up money and

Varvarushka's only response to these hints was to heave a sigh and look towards the ikons. There was an

"I know a maid like that, my bitterest enemy," Stinging Beetle went on, looking round at every one in

triumph; "she is always sighing, too, and looking at the ikons, the shedevil. When she used to rule in a

certain old man's house, if one went to her she would give one a crust, and bid one bow down to the ikons

while she would sing: 'In conception Thou dost abide a Virgin . . . !' On holidays she will give one a bite, and

on working days she will reproach one for it. But nowadays I will make merry over her! I will make as merry

"But no one will have me, Spiridonovna," said Anna Akimovna to change the conversation. "What's to be

"It's your own fault. You keep waiting for highly educated gentlemen, but you ought to marry one of your

"We don't want a merchant," said Auntie, all in a flutter. "Queen of Heaven, preserve us! A gentleman will

spend your money, but then he will be kind to you, you poor little fool. But a merchant will be so strict that

you won't feel at home in your own house. You'll be wanting to fondle him and he will be counting his

money, and when you sit down to meals with him, he'll grudge you every mouthful, though it's your own, the

They all talked at once, loudly interrupting one another, and Auntie tapped on the table with the nutcrackers

"We won't have a merchant; we won't have one! If you choose a merchant I shall go to an almshouse."

"Sh . . . Sh! . . . Hush!" cried Stinging Beetle; when all were silent she screwed up one eye and said: "Do you

know what, Annushka, my birdie . . .? There is no need for you to get married really like every one else.

You're rich and free, you are your own mistress; but yet, my child, it doesn't seem the right thing for you to

be an old maid. I'll find you, you know, some trumpery and simplewitted man. You'll marry him for

appearances and then have your fling, bonny lass! You can hand him five thousand or ten maybe, and pack

him off where he came from, and you will be mistress in your own house you can love whom you like and

no one can say anything to you. And then you can love your highly educated gentleman. You'll have a jolly

"Oh, sinful," laughed Stinging Beetle. "She is educated, she understands. To cut some one's throat or bewitch

an old man that's a sin, that's true; but to love some charming young friend is not a sin at all. And what is

there in it, really? There's no sin in it at all! The old pilgrim women have invented all that to make fools of

simple folk. I, too, say everywhere it's a sin; I don't know myself why it's a sin." Stinging Beetle emptied her

glass and cleared her throat. "Have your fling, bonny lass," this time evidently addressing herself. "For thirty

years, wenches, I have thought of nothing but sins and been afraid, but now I see I have wasted my time, I've

let it slip by like a ninny! Ah, I have been a fool, a fool!" She sighed. "A woman's time is short and every day

is precious. You are handsome, Annushka, and very rich; but as soon as thirtyfive or forty strikes for you

your time is up. Don't listen to any one, my girl; live, have your fling till you are forty, and then you will have

time to pray forgiveness there will be plenty of time to bow down and to sew your shroud. A candle to

God and a poker to the devil! You can do both at once! Well, how is it to be? Will you make some little man

"I will," laughed Anna Akimovna. "I don't care now; I would marry a working man."

"Well, that would do all right! Oh, what a fine fellow you would choose then!" Stinging Beetle screwed up

"I tell her myself," said Auntie, "it's no good waiting for a gentleman, so she had better marry, not a

gentleman, but some one humbler; anyway we should have a man in the house to look after things. And there

are lots of good men. She might have some one out of the factory. They are all sober, steady men. . . ."

"I should think so," Stinging Beetle agreed. "They are capital fellows. If you like, Aunt, I will make a match

"Oh, Vasya's legs are so long," said Auntie seriously. "He is so lanky. He has no looks."

"Well, Pimenov? Would you like to marry Pimenov?" Stinging Beetle asked Anna Akimovna.

"Yes, do!" Anna Akimovna said resolutely, and she struck her fist on the table. "On my honour, I will marry

Anna Akimovna suddenly felt ashamed that her cheeks were burning and that every one was looking at her;

she flung the cards together on the table and ran out of the room. As she ran up the stairs and, reaching the

upper story, sat down to the piano in the drawingroom, a murmur of sound reached her from below like the

roar of the sea; most likely they were talking of her and of Pimenov, and perhaps Stinging Beetle was taking

advantage of her absence to insult Varvarushka and was putting no check on her language.

The lamp in the big room was the only light burning in the upper story, and it sent a glimmer through the

door into the dark drawingroom. It was between nine and ten, not later. Anna Akimovna played a waltz,

then another, then a third; she went on playing without stopping. She looked into the dark corner beyond the

piano, smiled, and inwardly called to it, and the idea occurred to her that she might drive off to the town to

see some one, Lysevitch for instance, and tell him what was passing in her heart. She wanted to talk without

ceasing, to laugh, to play the fool, but the dark corner was sullenly silent, and all round in all the rooms of the

She was fond of sentimental songs, but she had a harsh, untrained voice, and so she only played the

accompaniment and sang hardly audibly, just above her breath. She sang in a whisper one song after another,

for the most part about love, separation, and frustrated hopes, and she imagined how she would hold out her

hands to him and say with entreaty, with tears, "Pimenov, take this burden from me!" And then, just as

though her sins had been forgiven, there would be joy and comfort in her soul, and perhaps a free, happy life

would begin. In an anguish of anticipation she leant over the keys, with a passionate longing for the change in

her life to come at once without delay, and was terrified at the thought that her old life would go on for some

time longer. Then she played again and sang hardly above her breath, and all was stillness about her. There

was no noise coming from downstairs now, they must have gone to bed. It had struck ten some time before. A

Anna Akimovna walked through all the rooms, lay down for a while on the sofa, and read in her study the

letters that had come that evening; there were twelve letters of Christmas greetings and three anonymous

letters. In one of them some workman complained in a horrible, almost illegible handwriting that Lenten oil

sold in the factory shop was rancid and smelt of paraffin; in another, some one respectfully informed her that

over a purchase of iron Nazaritch had lately taken a bribe of a thousand roubles from some one; in a third she

The excitement of Christmas was passing off, and to keep it up Anna Akimovna sat down at the piano again

and softly played one of the new waltzes, then she remembered how cleverly and creditably she had spoken

at dinner today. She looked round at the dark windows, at the walls with the pictures, at the faint light that

came from the big room, and all at once she began suddenly crying, and she felt vexed that she was so lonely,

and that she had no one to talk to and consult. To cheer herself she tried to picture Pimenov in her

It struck twelve. Mishenka, no longer wearing his swallowtail but in his reefer jacket, came in, and without

speaking lighted two candles; then he went out and returned a minute later with a cup of tea on a tray.

"I was downstairs and heard the jokes you were making about Pimenov . . ." he said, and put his hand before

his laughing mouth. "If he were sat down to dinner today with Viktor Nikolaevitch and the general, he'd have

died of fright." Mishenka's shoulders were shaking with laughter. "He doesn't know even how to hold his

The footman's laughter and words, his reefer jacket and moustache, gave Anna Akimovna a feeling of

uncleanness. She shut her eyes to avoid seeing him, and, against her own will, imagined Pimenov dining with

Lysevitch and Krylin, and his timid, unintellectual figure seemed to her pitiful and helpless, and she felt

repelled by it. And only now, for the first time in the whole day, she realized clearly that all she had said and

thought about Pimenov and marrying a workman was nonsense, folly, and wilfulness. To convince herself of

the opposite, to overcome her repulsion, she tried to recall what she had said at dinner, but now she could not

see anything in it: shame at her own thoughts and actions, and the fear that she had said something improper

during the day, and disgust at her own lack of spirit, overwhelmed her completely. She took up a candle and,

as rapidly as if some one were pursuing her, ran downstairs, woke Spiridonovna, and began assuring her she

had been joking. Then she went to her bedroom. Redhaired Masha, who was dozing in an armchair near

the bed, jumped up and began shaking up the pillows. Her face was exhausted and sleepy, and her

"Tchalikov came again this evening," she said, yawning, "but I did not dare to announce him; he was very

"What does he want with me?" said Anna Akimovna, and she flung her comb on the floor. "I won't see him, I

She made up her mind she had no one left in life but this Tchalikov, that he would never leave off persecuting

her, and would remind her every day how uninteresting and absurd her life was. So all she was fit for was to

She lay down without undressing, and sobbed with shame and depression: what seemed to her most vexatious

and stupid of all was that her dreams that day about Pimenov had been right, lofty, honourable, but at the

same time she felt that Lysevitch and even Krylin were nearer to her than Pimenov and all the workpeople

taken together. She thought that if the long day she had just spent could have been represented in a picture, all

that had been bad and vulgar as, for instance, the dinner, the lawyer's talk, the game of "kings" would

have been true, while her dreams and talk about Pimenov would have stood out from the whole as something

false, as out of drawing; and she thought, too, that it was too late to dream of happiness, that everything was

over for her, and it was impossible to go back to the life when she had slept under the same quilt with her

Redhaired Masha was kneeling before the bed, gazing at her in mournful perplexity; then she, too, began

crying, and laid her face against her mistress's arm, and without words it was clear why she was so wretched.

"We are fools!" said Anna Akimovna, laughing and crying. "We are fools! Oh, what fools we are!"

THE strictest measures were taken that the Uskovs' family secret might not leak out and become generally

known. Half of the servants were sent off to the theatre or the circus; the other half were sitting in the kitchen

and not allowed to leave it. Orders were given that no one was to be admitted. The wife of the Colonel, her

sister, and the governess, though they had been initiated into the secret, kept up a pretence of knowing

nothing; they sat in the diningroom and did not show themselves in the drawingroom or the hall.

Sasha Uskov, the young man of twentyfive who was the cause of all the commotion, had arrived some time

before, and by the advice of kindhearted Ivan Markovitch, his uncle, who was taking his part, he sat meekly

in the hall by the door leading to the study, and prepared himself to make an open, candid explanation.

The other side of the door, in the study, a family council was being held. The subject under discussion was an

exceedingly disagreeable and delicate one. Sasha Uskov had cashed at one of the banks a false promissory

note, and it had become due for payment three days before, and now his two paternal uncles and Ivan

Markovitch, the brother of his dead mother, were deciding the question whether they should pay the money

and save the family honour, or wash their hands of it and leave the case to go for trial.

To outsiders who have no personal interest in the matter such questions seem simple; for those who are so

unfortunate as to have to decide them in earnest they are extremely difficult. The uncles had been talking for

"My friends!" said the uncle who was a colonel, and there was a note of exhaustion and bitterness in his

voice. "Who says that family honour is a mere convention? I don't say that at all. I am only warning you

against a false view; I am pointing out the possibility of an unpardonable mistake. How can you fail to see it?

"How can you understand if you say that I don't believe in family honour? I repeat once more: family

honour falsely understood is a prejudice! Falsely understood! That's what I say: whatever may be the

motives for screening a scoundrel, whoever he may be, and helping him to escape punishment, it is contrary

to law and unworthy of a gentleman. It's not saving the family honour; it's civic cowardice! Take the army,

for instance. . . . The honour of the army is more precious to us than any other honour, yet we don't screen our

guilty members, but condemn them. And does the honour of the army suffer in consequence? Quite the

The other paternal uncle, an official in the Treasury, a taciturn, dullwitted, and rheumatic man, sat silent, or

spoke only of the fact that the Uskovs' name would get into the newspapers if the case went for trial. His

opinion was that the case ought to be hushed up from the first and not become public property; but, apart

from publicity in the newspapers, he advanced no other argument in support of this opinion.

The maternal uncle, kindhearted Ivan Markovitch, spoke smoothly, softly, and with a tremor in his voice.

He began with saying that youth has its rights and its peculiar temptations. Which of us has not been young,

and who has not been led astray? To say nothing of ordinary mortals, even great men have not escaped errors

and mistakes in their youth. Take, for instance, the biography of great writers. Did not every one of them

gamble, drink, and draw down upon himself the anger of rightthinking people in his young days? If Sasha's

error bordered upon crime, they must remember that Sasha had received practically no education; he had

been expelled from the high school in the fifth class; he had lost his parents in early childhood, and so had

been left at the tenderest age without guidance and good, benevolent influences. He was nervous, excitable,

had no firm ground under his feet, and, above all, he had been unlucky. Even if he were guilty, anyway he

deserved indulgence and the sympathy of all compassionate souls. He ought, of course, to be punished, but he

was punished as it was by his conscience and the agonies he was enduring now while awaiting the sentence

of his relations. The comparison with the army made by the Colonel was delightful, and did credit to his lofty

intelligence; his appeal to their feeling of public duty spoke for the chivalry of his soul, but they must not

forget that in each individual the citizen is closely linked with the Christian. . . .

"Shall we be false to civic duty," Ivan Markovitch exclaimed passionately, "if instead of punishing an erring

Ivan Markovitch talked further of family honour. He had not the honour to belong to the Uskov family

himself, but he knew their distinguished family went back to the thirteenth century; he did not forget for a

minute, either, that his precious, beloved sister had been the wife of one of the representatives of that name.

In short, the family was dear to him for many reasons, and he refused to admit the idea that, for the sake of a

paltry fifteen hundred roubles, a blot should be cast on the escutcheon that was beyond all price. If all the

motives he had brought forward were not sufficiently convincing, he, Ivan Markovitch, in conclusion, begged

his listeners to ask themselves what was meant by crime? Crime is an immoral act founded upon illwill. But

is the will of man free? Philosophy has not yet given a positive answer to that question. Different views were

held by the learned. The latest school of Lombroso, for instance, denies the freedom of the will, and considers

every crime as the product of the purely anatomical peculiarities of the individual.

"Ivan Markovitch," said the Colonel, in a voice of entreaty, "we are talking seriously about an important

matter, and you bring in Lombroso, you clever fellow. Think a little, what are you saying all this for? Can

you imagine that all your thunderings and rhetoric will furnish an answer to the question?"

Sasha Uskov sat at the door and listened. He felt neither terror, shame, nor depression, but only weariness and

inward emptiness. It seemed to him that it made absolutely no difference to him whether they forgave him or

not; he had come here to hear his sentence and to explain himself simply because kindhearted Ivan

Markovitch had begged him to do so. He was not afraid of the future. It made no difference to him where he

He was sick of life and found it insufferably hard. He was inextricably involved in debt; he had not a farthing

in his pocket; his family had become detestable to him; he would have to part from his friends and his women

sooner or later, as they had begun to be too contemptuous of his sponging on them. The future looked black.

Sasha was indifferent, and was only disturbed by one circumstance; the other side of the door they were

calling him a scoundrel and a criminal. Every minute he was on the point of jumping up, bursting into the

"Criminal" is a dreadful word that is what murderers, thieves, robbers are; in fact, wicked and morally

hopeless people. And Sasha was very far from being all that. . . . It was true he owed a great deal and did not

pay his debts. But debt is not a crime, and it is unusual for a man not to be in debt. The Colonel and Ivan

He had discounted a forged note. But all the young men he knew did the same. Handrikov and Von Burst

always forged IOU's from their parents or friends when their allowances were not paid at the regular time,

and then when they got their money from home they redeemed them before they became due. Sasha had done

the same, but had not redeemed the IOU because he had not got the money which Handrikov had promised to

lend him. He was not to blame; it was the fault of circumstances. It was true that the use of another person's

signature was considered reprehensible; but, still, it was not a crime but a generally accepted dodge, an ugly

formality which injured no one and was quite harmless, for in forging the Colonel's signature Sasha had had

"No, it doesn't mean that I am a criminal . . ." thought Sasha. "And it's not in my character to bring myself to

commit a crime. I am soft, emotional. . . . When I have the money I help the poor. . . ."

Sasha was musing after this fashion while they went on talking the other side of the door.

"But, my friends, this is endless," the Colonel declared, getting excited. "Suppose we were to forgive him and

pay the money. You know he would not give up leading a dissipated life, squandering money, making debts,

going to our tailors and ordering suits in our names! Can you guarantee that this will be his last prank? As far

The official of the Treasury muttered something in reply; after him Ivan Markovitch began talking blandly

and suavely again. The Colonel moved his chair impatiently and drowned the other's words with his

detestable metallic voice. At last the door opened and Ivan Markovitch came out of the study; there were

"Come along," he said, taking Sasha by the hand. "Come and speak frankly from your heart. Without pride,

Sasha went into the study. The official of the Treasury was sitting down; the Colonel was standing before the

table with one hand in his pocket and one knee on a chair. It was smoky and stifling in the study. Sasha did

not look at the official or the Colonel; he felt suddenly ashamed and uncomfortable. He looked uneasily at

Sasha could say no more. He went out of the study and sat down again on the chair near the door.

He would have been glad to go away altogether at once, but he was choking with hatred and he awfully

wanted to remain, to tear the Colonel to pieces, to say something rude to him. He sat trying to think of

something violent and effective to say to his hated uncle, and at that moment a woman's figure, shrouded in

the twilight, appeared at the drawingroom door. It was the Colonel's wife. She beckoned Sasha to her, and,

"Alexandre, I know you don't like me, but . . . listen to me; listen, I beg you. . . . But, my dear, how can this

have happened? Why, it's awful, awful! For goodness' sake, beg them, defend yourself, entreat them."

Sasha looked at her quivering shoulders, at the big tears that were rolling down her cheeks, heard behind his

back the hollow, nervous voices of worried and exhausted people, and shrugged his shoulders. He had not in

the least expected that his aristocratic relations would raise such a tempest over a paltry fifteen hundred

An hour later he heard that the Colonel was getting the best of it; the uncles were finally inclining to let the

After this decision all the uncles, even the emphatic Colonel, became noticeably depressed. A silence

And he began saying in a subdued voice that most likely his sister, Sasha's mother, was present unseen in the

study at that moment. He felt in his soul how the unhappy, saintly woman was weeping, grieving, and

begging for her boy. For the sake of her peace beyond the grave, they ought to spare Sasha.

The sound of a muffled sob was heard. Ivan Markovitch was weeping and muttering something which it was

impossible to catch through the door. The Colonel got up and paced from corner to corner. The long

But then the clock in the drawingroom struck two. The family council was over. To avoid seeing the person

who had moved him to such wrath, the Colonel went from the study, not into the hall, but into the vestibule. .

. . Ivan Markovitch came out into the hall. . . . He was agitated and rubbing his hands joyfully. His

"Capital," he said to Sasha. "Thank God! You can go home, my dear, and sleep tranquilly. We have decided

to pay the sum, but on condition that you repent and come with me tomorrow into the country and set to

A minute later Ivan Markovitch and Sasha in their greatcoats and caps were going down the stairs. The

uncle was muttering something edifying. Sasha did not listen, but felt as though some uneasy weight were

gradually slipping off his shoulders. They had forgiven him; he was free! A gust of joy sprang up within him

and sent a sweet chill to his heart. He longed to breathe, to move swiftly, to live! Glancing at the street lamps

and the black sky, he remembered that Von Burst was celebrating his nameday that evening at the "Bear,"

But then he remembered he had not a farthing, that the companions he was going to would despise him at

"Give it to me," said Sasha, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other and beginning to pant. "Uncle, I

His face worked; he trembled, and seemed on the point of attacking his uncle. . . .

"Won't you?" he kept asking, seeing that his uncle was still amazed and did not understand. "Listen. If you

don't, I'll give myself up tomorrow! I won't let you pay the IOU! I'll present another false note tomorrow!"

Petrified, muttering something incoherent in his horror, Ivan Markovitch took a hundredrouble note out of

his pocketbook and gave it to Sasha. The young man took it and walked rapidly away from him. . . .

Taking a sledge, Sasha grew calmer, and felt a rush of joy within him again. The "rights of youth" of which

kindhearted Ivan Markovitch had spoken at the family council woke up and asserted themselves. Sasha

pictured the drinkingparty before him, and, among the bottles, the women, and his friends, the thought

AT eight o'clock on the evening of the twentieth of May all the six batteries of the N Reserve Artillery

Brigade halted for the night in the village of Myestetchki on their way to camp. When the general commotion

was at its height, while some officers were busily occupied around the guns, while others, gathered together

in the square near the church enclosure, were listening to the quartermasters, a man in civilian dress, riding a

strange horse, came into sight round the church. The little duncoloured horse with a good neck and a short

tail came, moving not straight forward, but as it were sideways, with a sort of dance step, as though it were

being lashed about the legs. When he reached the officers the man on the horse took off his hat and said:

"His Excellency LieutenantGeneral von Rabbek invites the gentlemen to drink tea with him this minute. . .

The horse turned, danced, and retired sideways; the messenger raised his hat once more, and in an instant

"What the devil does it mean?" grumbled some of the officers, dispersing to their quarters. "One is sleepy,

The officers of all the six batteries remembered vividly an incident of the previous year, when during

manoeuvres they, together with the officers of a Cossack regiment, were in the same way invited to tea by a

count who had an estate in the neighbourhood and was a retired army officer: the hospitable and genial count

made much of them, fed them, and gave them drink, refused to let them go to their quarters in the village and

made them stay the night. All that, of course, was very nice nothing better could be desired, but the worst

of it was, the old army officer was so carried away by the pleasure of the young men's company that till

sunrise he was telling the officers anecdotes of his glorious past, taking them over the house, showing them

expensive pictures, old engravings, rare guns, reading them autograph letters from great people, while the

weary and exhausted officers looked and listened, longing for their beds and yawning in their sleeves; when

Might not this Von Rabbek be just such another? Whether he were or not, there was no help for it. The

officers changed their uniforms, brushed themselves, and went all together in search of the gentleman's

house. In the square by the church they were told they could get to His Excellency's by the lower path

going down behind the church to the river, going along the bank to the garden, and there an avenue would

taken them to the house; or by the upper way straight from the church by the road which, half a mile from

the village, led right up to His Excellency's granaries. The officers decided to go by the upper way.

"What Von Rabbek is it?" they wondered on the way. "Surely not the one who was in command of the

At the first of the granaries the road divided in two: one branch went straight on and vanished in the evening

darkness, the other led to the owner's house on the right. The officers turned to the right and began to speak

more softly. . . . On both sides of the road stretched stone granaries with red roofs, heavy and sullenlooking,

very much like barracks of a district town. Ahead of them gleamed the windows of the manorhouse.

"A good omen, gentlemen," said one of the officers. "Our setter is the foremost of all; no doubt he scents

Lieutenant Lobytko, who was walking in front, a tall and stalwart fellow, though entirely without moustache

(he was over fiveandtwenty, yet for some reason there was no sign of hair on his round, wellfed face),

renowned in the brigade for his peculiar faculty for divining the presence of women at a distance, turned

On the threshold the officers were met by Von Rabbek himself, a comelylooking man of sixty in civilian

dress. Shaking hands with his guests, he said that he was very glad and happy to see them, but begged them

earnestly for God's sake to excuse him for not asking them to stay the night; two sisters with their children,

some brothers, and some neighbours, had come on a visit to him, so that he had not one spare room left.

The General shook hands with every one, made his apologies, and smiled, but it was evident by his face that

he was by no means so delighted as their last year's count, and that he had invited the officers simply because,

in his opinion, it was a social obligation to do so. And the officers themselves, as they walked up the softly

carpeted stairs, as they listened to him, felt that they had been invited to this house simply because it would

have been awkward not to invite them; and at the sight of the footmen, who hastened to light the lamps in the

entrance below and in the anteroom above, they began to feel as though they had brought uneasiness and

discomfort into the house with them. In a house in which two sisters and their children, brothers, and

neighbours were gathered together, probably on account of some family festivity, or event, how could the

At the entrance to the drawingroom the officers were met by a tall, graceful old lady with black eyebrows

and a long face, very much like the Empress Eug�nie. Smiling graciously and majestically, she said she was

glad and happy to see her guests, and apologized that her husband and she were on this occasion unable to

invite messieurs les officiers to stay the night. From her beautiful majestic smile, which instantly vanished

from her face every time she turned away from her guests, it was evident that she had seen numbers of

officers in her day, that she was in no humour for them now, and if she invited them to her house and

apologized for not doing more, it was only because her breeding and position in society required it of her.

When the officers went into the big diningroom, there were about a dozen people, men and ladies, young

and old, sitting at tea at the end of a long table. A group of men was dimly visible behind their chairs,

wrapped in a haze of cigar smoke; and in the midst of them stood a lanky young man with red whiskers,

talking loudly, with a lisp, in English. Through a door beyond the group could be seen a light room with pale

"Gentlemen, there are so many of you that it is impossible to introduce you all!" said the General in a loud

voice, trying to sound very cheerful. "Make each other's acquaintance, gentlemen, without any ceremony!"

The officers some with very serious and even stern faces, others with forced smiles, and all feeling

The most ill at ease of them all was Ryabovitch a little officer in spectacles, with sloping shoulders, and

whiskers like a lynx's. While some of his comrades assumed a serious expression, while others wore forced

smiles, his face, his lynxlike whiskers, and spectacles seemed to say: "I am the shyest, most modest, and

most undistinguished officer in the whole brigade!" At first, on going into the room and sitting down to the

table, he could not fix his attention on any one face or object. The faces, the dresses, the cutglass decanters

of brandy, the steam from the glasses, the moulded cornices all blended in one general impression that

inspired in Ryabovitch alarm and a desire to hide his head. Like a lecturer making his first appearance before

the public, he saw everything that was before his eyes, but apparently only had a dim understanding of it

(among physiologists this condition, when the subject sees but does not understand, is called psychical

blindness). After a little while, growing accustomed to his surroundings, Ryabovitch saw clearly and began to

observe. As a shy man, unused to society, what struck him first was that in which he had always been

deficient namely, the extraordinary boldness of his new acquaintances. Von Rabbek, his wife, two elderly

ladies, a young lady in a lilac dress, and the young man with the red whiskers, who was, it appeared, a

younger son of Von Rabbek, very cleverly, as though they had rehearsed it beforehand, took seats between

the officers, and at once got up a heated discussion in which the visitors could not help taking part. The lilac

young lady hotly asserted that the artillery had a much better time than the cavalry and the infantry, while

Von Rabbek and the elderly ladies maintained the opposite. A brisk interchange of talk followed. Ryabovitch

watched the lilac young lady who argued so hotly about what was unfamiliar and utterly uninteresting to her,

Von Rabbek and his family skilfully drew the officers into the discussion, and meanwhile kept a sharp

lookout over their glasses and mouths, to see whether all of them were drinking, whether all had enough

sugar, why some one was not eating cakes or not drinking brandy. And the longer Ryabovitch watched and

listened, the more he was attracted by this insincere but splendidly disciplined family.

After tea the officers went into the drawingroom. Lieutenant Lobytko's instinct had not deceived him. There

were a great number of girls and young married ladies. The "setter" lieutenant was soon standing by a very

young, fair girl in a black dress, and, bending down to her jauntily, as though leaning on an unseen sword,

smiled and shrugged his shoulders coquettishly. He probably talked very interesting nonsense, for the fair girl

looked at his wellfed face condescendingly and asked indifferently, "Really?" And from that uninterested

"Really?" the setter, had he been intelligent, might have concluded that she would never call him to heel.

The piano struck up; the melancholy strains of a valse floated out of the wide open windows, and every one,

for some reason, remembered that it was spring, a May evening. Every one was conscious of the fragrance of

roses, of lilac, and of the young leaves of the poplar. Ryabovitch, in whom the brandy he had drunk made

itself felt, under the influence of the music stole a glance towards the window, smiled, and began watching

the movements of the women, and it seemed to him that the smell of roses, of poplars, and lilac came not

Von Rabbek's son invited a scraggylooking young lady to dance, and waltzed round the room twice with

her. Lobytko, gliding over the parquet floor, flew up to the lilac young lady and whirled her away. Dancing

began. . . . Ryabovitch stood near the door among those who were not dancing and looked on. He had never

once danced in his whole life, and he had never once in his life put his arm round the waist of a respectable

woman. He was highly delighted that a man should in the sight of all take a girl he did not know round the

waist and offer her his shoulder to put her hand on, but he could not imagine himself in the position of such a

man. There were times when he envied the boldness and swagger of his companions and was inwardly

wretched; the consciousness that he was timid, that he was roundshouldered and uninteresting, that he had a

long waist and lynxlike whiskers, had deeply mortified him, but with years he had grown used to this

feeling, and now, looking at his comrades dancing or loudly talking, he no longer envied them, but only felt

When the quadrille began, young Von Rabbek came up to those who were not dancing and invited two

officers to have a game at billiards. The officers accepted and went with him out of the drawingroom.

Ryabovitch, having nothing to do and wishing to take part in the general movement, slouched after them.

From the big drawingroom they went into the little drawingroom, then into a narrow corridor with a glass

roof, and thence into a room in which on their entrance three sleepylooking footmen jumped up quickly

from the sofa. At last, after passing through a long succession of rooms, young Von Rabbek and the officers

Ryabovitch, who had never played any game but cards, stood near the billiardtable and looked indifferently

at the players, while they in unbuttoned coats, with cues in their hands, stepped about, made puns, and kept

The players took no notice of him, and only now and then one of them, shoving him with his elbow or

accidentally touching him with the end of his cue, would turn round and say "Pardon!" Before the first game

was over he was weary of it, and began to feel he was not wanted and in the way. . . . He felt disposed to

On his way back he met with a little adventure. When he had gone halfway he noticed he had taken a wrong

turning. He distinctly remembered that he ought to meet three sleepy footmen on his way, but he had passed

five or six rooms, and those sleepy figures seemed to have vanished into the earth. Noticing his mistake, he

walked back a little way and turned to the right; he found himself in a little dark room which he had not seen

on his way to the billiardroom. After standing there a little while, he resolutely opened the first door that

met his eyes and walked into an absolutely dark room. Straight in front could be seen the crack in the

doorway through which there was a gleam of vivid light; from the other side of the door came the muffled

sound of a melancholy mazurka. Here, too, as in the drawingroom, the windows were wide open and there

Ryabovitch stood still in hesitation. . . . At that moment, to his surprise, he heard hurried footsteps and the

rustling of a dress, a breathless feminine voice whispered "At last!" And two soft, fragrant, unmistakably

feminine arms were clasped about his neck; a warm cheek was pressed to his cheek, and simultaneously there

was the sound of a kiss. But at once the bestower of the kiss uttered a faint shriek and skipped back from him,

as it seemed to Ryabovitch, with aversion. He, too, almost shrieked and rushed towards the gleam of light at

When he went back into the drawingroom his heart was beating and his hands were trembling so noticeably

that he made haste to hide them behind his back. At first he was tormented by shame and dread that the whole

drawingroom knew that he had just been kissed and embraced by a woman. He shrank into himself and

looked uneasily about him, but as he became convinced that people were dancing and talking as calmly as

ever, he gave himself up entirely to the new sensation which he had never experienced before in his life.

Something strange was happening to him. . . . His neck, round which soft, fragrant arms had so lately been

clasped, seemed to him to be anointed with oil; on his left cheek near his moustache where the unknown had

kissed him there was a faint chilly tingling sensation as from peppermint drops, and the more he rubbed the

place the more distinct was the chilly sensation; all over, from head to foot, he was full of a strange new

feeling which grew stronger and stronger. . . . He wanted to dance, to talk, to run into the garden, to laugh

aloud. . . . He quite forgot that he was roundshouldered and uninteresting, that he had lynxlike whiskers

and an "undistinguished appearance" (that was how his appearance had been described by some ladies whose

conversation he had accidentally overheard). When Von Rabbek's wife happened to pass by him, he gave her

such a broad and friendly smile that she stood still and looked at him inquiringly.

The General's wife smiled and said that the house had belonged to her father; then she asked whether his

parents were living, whether he had long been in the army, why he was so thin, and so on. . . . After receiving

answers to her questions, she went on, and after his conversation with her his smiles were more friendly than

At supper Ryabovitch ate mechanically everything offered him, drank, and without listening to anything,

tried to understand what had just happened to him. . . . The adventure was of a mysterious and romantic

character, but it was not difficult to explain it. No doubt some girl or young married lady had arranged a tryst

with some one in the dark room; had waited a long time, and being nervous and excited had taken Ryabovitch

for her hero; this was the more probable as Ryabovitch had stood still hesitating in the dark room, so that he,

too, had seemed like a person expecting something. . . . This was how Ryabovitch explained to himself the

"And who is she?" he wondered, looking round at the women's faces. "She must be young, for elderly ladies

don't give rendezvous. That she was a lady, one could tell by the rustle of her dress, her perfume, her voice. . .

His eyes rested on the lilac young lady, and he thought her very attractive; she had beautiful shoulders and

arms, a clever face, and a delightful voice. Ryabovitch, looking at her, hoped that she and no one else was his

unknown. . . . But she laughed somehow artificially and wrinkled up her long nose, which seemed to him to

make her look old. Then he turned his eyes upon the fair girl in a black dress. She was younger, simpler, and

more genuine, had a charming brow, and drank very daintily out of her wineglass. Ryabovitch now hoped

that it was she. But soon he began to think her face flat, and fixed his eyes upon the one next her.

"It's difficult to guess," he thought, musing. "If one takes the shoulders and arms of the lilac one only, adds

the brow of the fair one and the eyes of the one on the left of Lobytko, then . . ."

He made a combination of these things in his mind and so formed the image of the girl who had kissed him,

After supper, replete and exhilarated, the officers began to take leave and say thank you. Von Rabbek and his

"Very, very glad to have met you, gentlemen," said Von Rabbek, and this time sincerely (probably because

people are far more sincere and goodhumoured at speeding their parting guests than on meeting them).

"Delighted. I hope you will come on your way back! Don't stand on ceremony! Where are you going? Do you

want to go by the upper way? No, go across the garden; it's nearer here by the lower way."

The officers went out into the garden. After the bright light and the noise the garden seemed very dark and

quiet. They walked in silence all the way to the gate. They were a little drunk, pleased, and in good spirits,

but the darkness and silence made them thoughtful for a minute. Probably the same idea occurred to each one

of them as to Ryabovitch: would there ever come a time for them when, like Von Rabbek, they would have a

large house, a family, a garden when they, too, would be able to welcome people, even though

Going out of the garden gate, they all began talking at once and laughing loudly about nothing. They were

walking now along the little path that led down to the river, and then ran along the water's edge, winding

round the bushes on the bank, the pools, and the willows that overhung the water. The bank and the path were

scarcely visible, and the other bank was entirely plunged in darkness. Stars were reflected here and there on

the dark water; they quivered and were broken up on the surface and from that alone it could be seen that

the river was flowing rapidly. It was still. Drowsy curlews cried plaintively on the further bank, and in one of

the bushes on the nearest side a nightingale was trilling loudly, taking no notice of the crowd of officers. The

"What a fellow!" they exclaimed approvingly. "We stand beside him and he takes not a bit of notice! What a

At the end of the way the path went uphill, and, skirting the church enclosure, turned into the road. Here the

officers, tired with walking uphill, sat down and lighted their cigarettes. On the other side of the river a

murky red fire came into sight, and having nothing better to do, they spent a long time in discussing whether

it was a camp fire or a light in a window, or something else. . . . Ryabovitch, too, looked at the light, and he

fancied that the light looked and winked at him, as though it knew about the kiss.

On reaching his quarters, Ryabovitch undressed as quickly as possible and got into bed. Lobytko and

Lieutenant Merzlyakov a peaceable, silent fellow, who was considered in his own circle a highly educated

officer, and was always, whenever it was possible, reading the "Vyestnik Evropi," which he carried about

with him everywhere were quartered in the same hut with Ryabovitch. Lobytko undressed, walked up and

down the room for a long while with the air of a man who has not been satisfied, and sent his orderly for beer.

Merzlyakov got into bed, put a candle by his pillow and plunged into reading the "Vyestnik Evropi."

His neck still felt as though he had been anointed with oil, and there was still the chilly sensation near his

mouth as though from peppermint drops. The shoulders and arms of the young lady in lilac, the brow and the

truthful eyes of the fair girl in black, waists, dresses, and brooches, floated through his imagination. He tried

to fix his attention on these images, but they danced about, broke up and flickered. When these images

vanished altogether from the broad dark background which every man sees when he closes his eyes, he began

to hear hurried footsteps, the rustle of skirts, the sound of a kiss and an intense groundless joy took

possession of him. . . . Abandoning himself to this joy, he heard the orderly return and announce that there

was no beer. Lobytko was terribly indignant, and began pacing up and down again.

"Well, isn't he an idiot?" he kept saying, stopping first before Ryabovitch and then before Merzlyakov. "What

a fool and a dummy a man must be not to get hold of any beer! Eh? Isn't he a scoundrel?"

"Of course you can't get beer here," said Merzlyakov, not removing his eyes from the "Vyestnik Evropi."

"Oh! Is that your opinion?" Lobytko persisted. "Lord have mercy upon us, if you dropped me on the moon I'd

find you beer and women directly! I'll go and find some at once. . . . You may call me an impostor if I don't!"

He spent a long time in dressing and pulling on his high boots, then finished smoking his cigarette in silence

"Rabbek, Grabbek, Labbek," he muttered, stopping in the outer room. "I don't care to go alone, damn it all!

Receiving no answer, he returned, slowly undressed and got into bed. Merzlyakov sighed, put the "Vyestnik

Ryabovitch pulled the bedclothes over his head, curled himself up in bed, and tried to gather together the

floating images in his mind and to combine them into one whole. But nothing came of it. He soon fell asleep,

and his last thought was that some one had caressed him and made him happy that something

extraordinary, foolish, but joyful and delightful, had come into his life. The thought did not leave him even in

When he woke up the sensations of oil on his neck and the chill of peppermint about his lips had gone, but

joy flooded his heart just as the day before. He looked enthusiastically at the windowframes, gilded by the

light of the rising sun, and listened to the movement of the passersby in the street. People were talking

loudly close to the window. Lebedetsky, the commander of Ryabovitch's battery, who had only just overtaken

the brigade, was talking to his sergeant at the top of his voice, being always accustomed to shout.

"When they were shoeing yesterday, your high nobility, they drove a nail into Pigeon's hoof. The vet. put on

clay and vinegar; they are leading him apart now. And also, your honour, Artemyev got drunk yesterday, and

The sergeant reported that Karpov had forgotten the new cords for the trumpets and the rings for the tents,

and that their honours, the officers, had spent the previous evening visiting General Von Rabbek. In the

middle of this conversation the redbearded face of Lebedetsky appeared in the window. He screwed up his

shortsighted eyes, looking at the sleepy faces of the officers, and said goodmorning to them.

"One of the horses has a sore neck from the new collar," answered Lobytko, yawning.

"I am thinking of going to see Alexandra Yevgrafovna. I must call on her. Well, goodbye. I shall catch you

A quarter of an hour later the brigade set off on its way. When it was moving along the road by the granaries,

Ryabovitch looked at the house on the right. The blinds were down in all the windows. Evidently the

household was still asleep. The one who had kissed Ryabovitch the day before was asleep, too. He tried to

imagine her asleep. The wideopen windows of the bedroom, the green branches peeping in, the morning

freshness, the scent of the poplars, lilac, and roses, the bed, a chair, and on it the skirts that had rustled the

day before, the little slippers, the little watch on the table all this he pictured to himself clearly and

distinctly, but the features of the face, the sweet sleepy smile, just what was characteristic and important,

slipped through his imagination like quicksilver through the fingers. When he had ridden on half a mile, he

looked back: the yellow church, the house, and the river, were all bathed in light; the river with its bright

green banks, with the blue sky reflected in it and glints of silver in the sunshine here and there, was very

beautiful. Ryabovitch gazed for the last time at Myestetchki, and he felt as sad as though he were parting with

And before him on the road lay nothing but long familiar, uninteresting pictures. . . . To right and to left,

fields of young rye and buckwheat with rooks hopping about in them. If one looked ahead, one saw dust and

the backs of men's heads; if one looked back, one saw the same dust and faces. . . . Foremost of all marched

four men with sabres this was the vanguard. Next, behind, the crowd of singers, and behind them the

trumpeters on horseback. The vanguard and the chorus of singers, like torchbearers in a funeral procession,

often forgot to keep the regulation distance and pushed a long way ahead. . . . Ryabovitch was with the first

cannon of the fifth battery. He could see all the four batteries moving in front of him. For any one not a

military man this long tedious procession of a moving brigade seems an intricate and unintelligible muddle;

one cannot understand why there are so many people round one cannon, and why it is drawn by so many

horses in such a strange network of harness, as though it really were so terrible and heavy. To Ryabovitch it

was all perfectly comprehensible and therefore uninteresting. He had known for ever so long why at the head

of each battery there rode a stalwart bombardier, and why he was called a bombardier; immediately behind

this bombardier could be seen the horsemen of the first and then of the middle units. Ryabovitch knew that

the horses on which they rode, those on the left, were called one name, while those on the right were called

another it was extremely uninteresting. Behind the horsemen came two shafthorses. On one of them sat a

rider with the dust of yesterday on his back and a clumsy and funnylooking piece of wood on his leg.

Ryabovitch knew the object of this piece of wood, and did not think it funny. All the riders waved their whips

mechanically and shouted from time to time. The cannon itself was ugly. On the fore part lay sacks of oats

covered with canvas, and the cannon itself was hung all over with kettles, soldiers' knapsacks, bags, and

looked like some small harmless animal surrounded for some unknown reason by men and horses. To the

leeward of it marched six men, the gunners, swinging their arms. After the cannon there came again more

bombardiers, riders, shafthorses, and behind them another cannon, as ugly and unimpressive as the first.

After the second followed a third, a fourth; near the fourth an officer, and so on. There were six batteries in

all in the brigade, and four cannons in each battery. The procession covered half a mile; it ended in a string of

wagons near which an extremely attractive creature the ass, Magar, brought by a battery commander from

Ryabovitch looked indifferently before and behind, at the backs of heads and at faces; at any other time he

would have been half asleep, but now he was entirely absorbed in his new agreeable thoughts. At first when

the brigade was setting off on the march he tried to persuade himself that the incident of the kiss could only

be interesting as a mysterious little adventure, that it was in reality trivial, and to think of it seriously, to say

the least of it, was stupid; but now he bade farewell to logic and gave himself up to dreams. . . . At one

moment he imagined himself in Von Rabbek's drawingroom beside a girl who was like the young lady in

lilac and the fair girl in black; then he would close his eyes and see himself with another, entirely unknown

girl, whose features were very vague. In his imagination he talked, caressed her, leaned on her shoulder,

pictured war, separation, then meeting again, supper with his wife, children. . . .

He, too, shouted "Brakes on!" and was afraid this shout would disturb his reverie and bring him back to

As they passed by some landowner's estate Ryabovitch looked over the fence into the garden. A long avenue,

straight as a ruler, strewn with yellow sand and bordered with young birchtrees, met his eyes. . . . With the

eagerness of a man given up to dreaming, he pictured to himself little feminine feet tripping along yellow

sand, and quite unexpectedly had a clear vision in his imagination of the girl who had kissed him and whom

he had succeeded in picturing to himself the evening before at supper. This image remained in his brain and

The general of the brigade drove by in a carriage with a pair of white horses. He stopped near the second

battery, and shouted something which no one understood. Several officers, among them Ryabovitch, galloped

Receiving an answer, the general, a little skinny man, chewed, thought for a moment and said, addressing one

"One of your drivers of the third cannon has taken off his legguard and hung it on the fore part of the

"You look very melancholy today, Lieutenant Lobytko," he said. "Are you pining for Madame Lopuhov? Eh?

The lady in question was a very stout and tall person who had long passed her fortieth year. The general, who

had a predilection for solid ladies, whatever their ages, suspected a similar taste in his officers. The officers

smiled respectfully. The general, delighted at having said something very amusing and biting, laughed loudly,

"All I am dreaming about now which seems to me so impossible and unearthly is really quite an ordinary

thing," thought Ryabovitch, looking at the clouds of dust racing after the general's carriage. "It's all very

ordinary, and every one goes through it. . . . That general, for instance, has once been in love; now he is

married and has children. Captain Vahter, too, is married and beloved, though the nape of his neck is very red

and ugly and he has no waist. . . . Salrnanov is coarse and very Tatar, but he has had a love affair that has

ended in marriage. . . . I am the same as every one else, and I, too, shall have the same experience as every

And the thought that he was an ordinary person, and that his life was ordinary, delighted him and gave him

courage. He pictured her and his happiness as he pleased, and put no rein on his imagination.

When the brigade reached their haltingplace in the evening, and the officers were resting in their tents,

Ryabovitch, Merzlyakov, and Lobytko were sitting round a box having supper. Merzlyakov ate without haste,

and, as he munched deliberately, read the "Vyestnik Evropi," which he held on his knees. Lobytko talked

incessantly and kept filling up his glass with beer, and Ryabovitch, whose head was confused from dreaming

all day long, drank and said nothing. After three glasses he got a little drunk, felt weak, and had an irresistible

"A strange thing happened to me at those Von Rabbeks'," he began, trying to put an indifferent and ironical

He began describing very minutely the incident of the kiss, and a moment later relapsed into silence. . . . In

the course of that moment he had told everything, and it surprised him dreadfully to find how short a time it

took him to tell it. He had imagined that he could have been telling the story of the kiss till next morning.

Listening to him, Lobytko, who was a great liar and consequently believed no one, looked at him sceptically

and laughed. Merzlyakov twitched his eyebrows and, without removing his eyes from the "Vyestnik Evropi,"

"That's an odd thing! How strange! . . . throws herself on a man's neck, without addressing him by name. .. .

"A similar thing once happened to me," said Lobytko, assuming a scared expression. "I was going last year to

Kovno. . . . I took a secondclass ticket. The train was crammed, and it was impossible to sleep. I gave the

guard half a rouble; he took my luggage and led me to another compartment. . . . I lay down and covered

myself with a rug. . . . It was dark, you understand. Suddenly I felt some one touch me on the shoulder and

breathe in my face. I made a movement with my hand and felt somebody's elbow. . . . I opened my eyes and

only imagine a woman. Black eyes, lips red as a prime salmon, nostrils breathing passionately a bosom

"Excuse me," Merzlyakov interrupted calmly, "I understand about the bosom, but how could you see the lips

Lobytko began trying to put himself right and laughing at Merzlyakov's unimaginativeness. It made

Ryabovitch wince. He walked away from the box, got into bed, and vowed never to confide again.

Camp life began. . . . The days flowed by, one very much like another. All those days Ryabovitch felt,

thought, and behaved as though he were in love. Every morning when his orderly handed him water to wash

with, and he sluiced his head with cold water, he thought there was something warm and delightful in his life.

In the evenings when his comrades began talking of love and women, he would listen, and draw up closer;

and he wore the expression of a soldier when he hears the description of a battle in which he has taken part.

And on the evenings when the officers, out on the spree with the setter Lobytko at their head, made

Don Juan excursions to the "suburb," and Ryabovitch took part in such excursions, he always was sad, felt

profoundly guilty, and inwardly begged her forgiveness. . . . In hours of leisure or on sleepless nights, when

he felt moved to recall his childhood, his father and mother everything near and dear, in fact, he invariably

thought of Myestetchki, the strange horse, Von Rabbek, his wife who was like the Empress Eug�nie, the dark

On the thirtyfirst of August he went back from the camp, not with the whole brigade, but with only two

batteries of it. He was dreaming and excited all the way, as though he were going back to his native place. He

had an intense longing to see again the strange horse, the church, the insincere family of the Von Rabbeks,

the dark room. The "inner voice," which so often deceives lovers, whispered to him for some reason that he

would be sure to see her . . . and he was tortured by the questions, How he should meet her? What he would

talk to her about? Whether she had forgotten the kiss? If the worst came to the worst, he thought, even if he

did not meet her, it would be a pleasure to him merely to go through the dark room and recall the past. . . .

Towards evening there appeared on the horizon the familiar church and white granaries. Ryabovitch's heart

beat. . . . He did not hear the officer who was riding beside him and saying something to him, he forgot

everything, and looked eagerly at the river shining in the distance, at the roof of the house, at the dovecote

When they reached the church and were listening to the billeting orders, he expected every second that a man

on horseback would come round the church enclosure and invite the officers to tea, but . . . the billeting

orders were read, the officers were in haste to go on to the village, and the man on horseback did not appear.

"Von Rabbek will hear at once from the peasants that we have come and will send for us," thought

Ryabovitch, as he went into the hut, unable to understand why a comrade was lighting a candle and why the

A painful uneasiness took possession of him. He lay down, then got up and looked out of the window to see

He lay down again, but half an hour later he got up, and, unable to restrain his uneasiness, went into the street

and strode towards the church. It was dark and deserted in the square near the church. . . . Three soldiers were

standing silent in a row where the road began to go downhill. Seeing Ryabovitch, they roused themselves and

On the further side of the river the whole sky was flooded with crimson: the moon was rising; two peasant

women, talking loudly, were picking cabbage in the kitchen garden; behind the kitchen garden there were

some dark huts. . . . And everything on the near side of the river was just as it had been in May: the path, the

bushes, the willows overhanging the water . . . but there was no sound of the brave nightingale, and no scent

Reaching the garden, Ryabovitch looked in at the gate. The garden was dark and still. . . . He could see

nothing but the white stems of the nearest birchtrees and a little bit of the avenue; all the rest melted

together into a dark blur. Ryabovitch looked and listened eagerly, but after waiting for a quarter of an hour

without hearing a sound or catching a glimpse of a light, he trudged back. . . .

He went down to the river. The General's bathhouse and the bathsheets on the rail of the little bridge

showed white before him. . . . He went on to the bridge, stood a little, and, quite unnecessarily, touched the

sheets. They felt rough and cold. He looked down at the water. . . . The river ran rapidly and with a faintly

audible gurgle round the piles of the bathhouse. The red moon was reflected near the left bank; little ripples

ran over the reflection, stretching it out, breaking it into bits, and seemed trying to carry it away.

"How stupid, how stupid!" thought Ryabovitch, looking at the running water. "How unintelligent it all is!"

Now that he expected nothing, the incident of the kiss, his impatience, his vague hopes and disappointment,

presented themselves in a clear light. It no longer seemed to him strange that he had not seen the General's

messenger, and that he would never see the girl who had accidentally kissed him instead of some one else; on

The water was running, he knew not where or why, just as it did in May. In May it had flowed into the great

river, from the great river into the sea; then it had risen in vapour, turned into rain, and perhaps the very same

And the whole world, the whole of life, seemed to Ryabovitch an unintelligible, aimless jest. . . . And turning

his eyes from the water and looking at the sky, he remembered again how fate in the person of an unknown

woman had by chance caressed him, he remembered his summer dreams and fancies, and his life struck him

When he went back to his hut he did not find one of his comrades. The orderly informed him that they had all

gone to "General von Rabbek's, who had sent a messenger on horseback to invite them. . . ."

For an instant there was a flash of joy in Ryabovitch's heart, but he quenched it at once, got into bed, and in

AFTER the wedding they had not even light refreshments; the happy pair simply drank a glass of champagne,

changed into their travelling things, and drove to the station. Instead of a gay wedding ball and supper,

instead of music and dancing, they went on a journey to pray at a shrine a hundred and fifty miles away.

Many people commended this, saying that Modest Alexeitch was a man high up in the service and no longer

young, and that a noisy wedding might not have seemed quite suitable; and music is apt to sound dreary when

a government official of fiftytwo marries a girl who is only just eighteen. People said, too, that Modest

Alexeitch, being a man of principle, had arranged this visit to the monastery expressly in order to make his

young bride realize that even in marriage he put religion and morality above everything.

The happy pair were seen off at the station. The crowd of relations and colleagues in the service stood, with

glasses in their hands, waiting for the train to start to shout "Hurrah!" and the bride's father, Pyotr Leontyitch,

wearing a tophat and the uniform of a teacher, already drunk and very pale, kept craning towards the

Anna bent out of the window to him, and he whispered something to her, enveloping her in a stale smell of

alcohol, blew into her ear she could make out nothing and made the sign of the cross over her face, her

bosom, and her hands; meanwhile he was breathing in gasps and tears were shining in his eyes. And the

schoolboys, Anna's brothers, Petya and Andrusha, pulled at his coat from behind, whispering in confusion:

When the train started, Anna saw her father run a little way after the train, staggering and spilling his wine,

The happy pair were left alone. Modest Alexeitch looked about the compartment, arranged their things on the

shelves, and sat down, smiling, opposite his young wife. He was an official of medium height, rather stout

and puffy, who looked exceedingly well nourished, with long whiskers and no moustache. His cleanshaven,

round, sharply defined chin looked like the heel of a foot. The most characteristic point in his face was the

absence of moustache, the bare, freshly shaven place, which gradually passed into the fat cheeks, quivering

like jelly. His deportment was dignified, his movements were deliberate, his manner was soft.

"I cannot help remembering now one circumstance," he said, smiling. "When, five years ago, Kosorotov

received the order of St. Anna of the second grade, and went to thank His Excellency, His Excellency

expressed himself as follows: 'So now you have three Annas: one in your buttonhole and two on your neck.'

And it must be explained that at that time Kosorotov's wife, a quarrelsome and frivolous person, had just

returned to him, and that her name was Anna. I trust that when I receive the Anna of the second grade His

He smiled with his little eyes. And she, too, smiled, troubled at the thought that at any moment this man

might kiss her with his thick damp lips, and that she had no right to prevent his doing so. The soft movements

of his fat person frightened her; she felt both fear and disgust. He got up, without haste took off the order

Anna remembered what agony the wedding had been, when it had seemed to her that the priest, and the

guests, and every one in church had been looking at her sorrowfully and asking why, why was she, such a

sweet, nice girl, marrying such an elderly, uninteresting gentleman. Only that morning she was delighted that

everything had been satisfactorily arranged, but at the time of the wedding, and now in the railway carriage,

she felt cheated, guilty, and ridiculous. Here she had married a rich man and yet she had no money, her

weddingdress had been bought on credit, and when her father and brothers had been saying goodbye, she

could see from their faces that they had not a farthing. Would they have any supper that day? And tomorrow?

And for some reason it seemed to her that her father and the boys were sitting tonight hungry without her, and

With the awkwardness of a man with settled habits, unaccustomed to deal with women, Modest Alexeitch

touched her on the waist and patted her on the shoulder, while she went on thinking about money, about her

mother and her mother's death. When her mother died, her father, Pyotr Leontyitch, a teacher of drawing and

writing in the high school, had taken to drink, impoverishment had followed, the boys had not had boots or

goloshes, their father had been hauled up before the magistrate, the warrant officer had come and made an

inventory of the furniture. . . . What a disgrace! Anna had had to look after her drunken father, darn her

brothers' stockings, go to market, and when she was complimented on her youth, her beauty, and her elegant

manners, it seemed to her that every one was looking at her cheap hat and the holes in her boots that were

inked over. And at night there had been tears and a haunting dread that her father would soon, very soon, be

dismissed from the school for his weakness, and that he would not survive it, but would die, too, like their

mother. But ladies of their acquaintance had taken the matter in hand and looked about for a good match for

Anna. This Modest Alexevitch, who was neither young nor goodlooking but had money, was soon found.

He had a hundred thousand in the bank and the family estate, which he had let on lease. He was a man of

principle and stood well with His Excellency; it would be nothing to him, so they told Anna, to get a note

from His Excellency to the directors of the high school, or even to the Education Commissioner, to prevent

While she was recalling these details, she suddenly heard strains of music which floated in at the window,

together with the sound of voices. The train was stopping at a station. In the crowd beyond the platform an

accordion and a cheap squeaky fiddle were being briskly played, and the sound of a military band came from

beyond the villas and the tall birches and poplars that lay bathed in the moonlight; there must have been a

dance in the place. Summer visitors and townspeople, who used to come out here by train in fine weather for

a breath of fresh air, were parading up and down on the platform. Among them was the wealthy owner of all

the summer villas a tall, stout, dark man called Artynov. He had prominent eyes and looked like an

Armenian. He wore a strange costume; his shirt was unbuttoned, showing his chest; he wore high boots with

spurs, and a black cloak hung from his shoulders and dragged on the ground like a train. Two boarhounds

Tears were still shining in Anna's eyes, but she was not thinking now of her mother, nor of money, nor of her

marriage; but shaking hands with schoolboys and officers she knew, she laughed gaily and said quickly:

She went out on to the platform between the carriages into the moonlight, and stood so that they could all see

Seeing that Artynov was looking at her, she screwed up her eyes coquettishly and began talking aloud in

French; and because her voice sounded so pleasant, and because she heard music and the moon was reflected

in the pond, and because Artynov, the notorious Don Juan and spoiled child of fortune, was looking at her

eagerly and with curiosity, and because every one was in good spirits she suddenly felt joyful, and when

the train started and the officers of her acquaintance saluted her, she was humming the polka the strains of

which reached her from the military band playing beyond the trees; and she returned to her compartment

feeling as though it had been proved to her at the station that she would certainly be happy in spite of

The happy pair spent two days at the monastery, then went back to town. They lived in a rentfree flat. When

Modest Alexevitch had gone to the office, Anna played the piano, or shed tears of depression, or lay down on

a couch and read novels or looked through fashion papers. At dinner Modest Alexevitch ate a great deal and

talked about politics, about appointments, transfers, and promotions in the service, about the necessity of hard

work, and said that, family life not being a pleasure but a duty, if you took care of the kopecks the roubles

would take care of themselves, and that he put religion and morality before everything else in the world. And

And Anna listened to him, was frightened, and could not eat, and she usually got up from the table hungry.

After dinner her husband lay down for a nap and snored loudly, while Anna went to see her own people. Her

father and the boys looked at her in a peculiar way, as though just before she came in they had been blaming

her for having married for money a tedious, wearisome man she did not love; her rustling skirts, her bracelets,

and her general air of a married lady, offended them and made them uncomfortable. In her presence they felt

a little embarrassed and did not know what to talk to her about; but yet they still loved her as before, and were

not used to having dinner without her. She sat down with them to cabbage soup, porridge, and fried potatoes,

smelling of mutton dripping. Pyotr Leontyitch filled his glass from the decanter with a trembling hand and

drank it off hurriedly, greedily, with repulsion, then poured out a second glass and then a third. Petya and

Andrusha, thin, pale boys with big eyes, would take the decanter and say desperately:

And Anna, too, was troubled and entreated him to drink no more; and he would suddenly fly into a rage and

"I won't allow any one to dictate to me!" he would shout. "Wretched boys! wretched girl! I'll turn you all

But there was a note of weakness, of goodnature in his voice, and no one was afraid of him. After dinner he

usually dressed in his best. Pale, with a cut on his chin from shaving, craning his thin neck, he would stand

for half an hour before the glass, prinking, combing his hair, twisting his black moustache, sprinkling himself

with scent, tying his cravat in a bow; then he would put on his gloves and his tophat, and go off to give his

private lessons. Or if it was a holiday he would stay at home and paint, or play the harmonium, which

wheezed and growled; he would try to wrest from it pure harmonious sounds and would sing to it; or would

In the evening Anna's husband played cards with his colleagues, who lived under the same roof in the

government quarters. The wives of these gentlemen would come in ugly, tastelessly dressed women, as

coarse as cooks and gossip would begin in the flat as tasteless and unattractive as the ladies themselves.

Sometimes Modest Alexevitch would take Anna to the theatre. In the intervals he would never let her stir a

step from his side, but walked about arm in arm with her through the corridors and the foyer. When he bowed

to some one, he immediately whispered to Anna: "A civil councillor . . . visits at His Excellency's"; or, "A

man of means . . . has a house of his own." When they passed the buffet Anna had a great longing for

something sweet; she was fond of chocolate and apple cakes, but she had no money, and she did not like to

ask her husband. He would take a pear, pinch it with his fingers, and ask uncertainly:

"I say!" he would reply, and put it down; but as it was awkward to leave the buffet without buying anything,

he would order some seltzerwater and drink the whole bottle himself, and tears would come into his eyes.

"No matter. That's the wife of the director of the local treasury! Bow, I tell you," he would grumble

Anna bowed and her head certainly did not drop off, but it was agonizing. She did everything her husband

wanted her to, and was furious with herself for having let him deceive her like the veriest idiot. She had only

married him for his money, and yet she had less money now than before her marriage. In old days her father

To take money by stealth or ask for it, she could not; she was afraid of her husband, she trembled before him.

She felt as though she had been afraid of him for years. In her childhood the director of the high school had

always seemed the most impressive and terrifying force in the world, sweeping down like a thunderstorm or a

steamengine ready to crush her; another similar force of which the whole family talked, and of which they

were for some reason afraid, was His Excellency; then there were a dozen others, less formidable, and among

them the teachers at the high school, with shaven upper lips, stern, implacable; and now finally, there was

Modest Alexeitch, a man of principle, who even resembled the director in the face. And in Anna's

imagination all these forces blended together into one, and, in the form of a terrible, huge white bear,

menaced the weak and erring such as her father. And she was afraid to say anything in opposition to her

husband, and gave a forced smile, and tried to make a show of pleasure when she was coarsely caressed and

defiled by embraces that excited her terror. Only once Pyotr Leontyitch had the temerity to ask for a loan of

fifty roubles in order to pay some very irksome debt, but what an agony it had been!

"Very good; I'll give it to you," said Modest Alexeitch after a moment's thought; "but I warn you I won't help

you again till you give up drinking. Such a failing is disgraceful in a man in the government service! I must

remind you of the wellknown fact that many capable people have been ruined by that passion, though they

And longwinded phrases followed: "inasmuch as . . .," "following upon which proposition . . . ," in view of

the aforesaid contention . . ."; and Pyotr Leontyitch was in agonies of humiliation and felt an intense craving

And when the boys came to visit Anna, generally in broken boots and threadbare trousers, they, too, had to

And he did not give them money. But he did give Anna bracelets, rings, and brooches, saying that these

things would come in useful for a rainy day. And he often unlocked her drawer and made an inspection to see

Meanwhile winter came on. Long before Christmas there was an announcement in the local papers that the

usual winter ball would take place on the twentyninth of December in the Hall of Nobility. Every evening

after cards Modest Alexeitch was excitedly whispering with his colleagues' wives and glancing at Anna, and

then paced up and down the room for a long while, thinking. At last, late one evening, he stood still, facing

"You ought to get yourself a ball dress. Do you understand? Only please consult Marya Grigoryevna and

And he gave her a hundred roubles. She took the money, but she did not consult any one when she ordered

the ball dress; she spoke to no one but her father, and tried to imagine how her mother would have dressed for

a ball. Her mother had always dressed in the latest fashion and had always taken trouble over Anna, dressing

her elegantly like a doll, and had taught her to speak French and dance the mazurka superbly (she had been a

governess for five years before her marriage). Like her mother, Anna could make a new dress out of an old

one, clean gloves with benzine, hire jewels; and, like her mother, she knew how to screw up her eyes, lisp,

assume graceful attitudes, fly into raptures when necessary, and throw a mournful and enigmatic look into her

eyes. And from her father she had inherited the dark colour of her hair and eyes, her highlystrung nerves,

When, half an hour before setting off for the ball, Modest Alexeitch went into her room without his coat on,

to put his order round his neck before her pierglass, dazzled by her beauty and the splendour of her fresh,

"So that's what my wife can look like . . . so that's what you can look like! Anyuta!" he went on, dropping

into a tone of solemnity, "I have made your fortune, and now I beg you to do something for mine. I beg you

to get introduced to the wife of His Excellency! For God's sake, do! Through her I may get the post of senior

They went to the ball. They reached the Hall of Nobility, the entrance with the hall porter. They came to the

vestibule with the hatstands, the fur coats; footmen scurrying about, and ladies with low necks putting up

their fans to screen themselves from the draughts. There was a smell of gas and of soldiers. When Anna,

walking upstairs on her husband's arm, heard the music and saw herself full length in the lookingglass in the

full glow of the lights, there was a rush of joy in her heart, and she felt the same presentiment of happiness as

in the moonlight at the station. She walked in proudly, confidently, for the first time feeling herself not a girl

but a lady, and unconsciously imitating her mother in her walk and in her manner. And for the first time in

her life she felt rich and free. Even her husband's presence did not oppress her, for as she crossed the

threshold of the hall she had guessed instinctively that the proximity of an old husband did not detract from

her in the least, but, on the contrary, gave her that shade of piquant mystery that is so attractive to men. The

orchestra was already playing and the dances had begun. After their flat Anna was overwhelmed by the

lights, the bright colours, the music, the noise, and looking round the room, thought, "Oh, how lovely!" She at

once distinguished in the crowd all her acquaintances, every one she had met before at parties or on picnics

all the officers, the teachers, the lawyers, the officials, the landowners, His Excellency, Artynov, and the

ladies of the highest standing, dressed up and very d�collett�es, handsome and ugly, who had already taken

up their positions in the stalls and pavilions of the charity bazaar, to begin selling things for the benefit of the

poor. A huge officer in epaulettes she had been introduced to him in StaroKievsky Street when she was a

schoolgirl, but now she could not remember his name seemed to spring from out of the ground, begging

her for a waltz, and she flew away from her husband, feeling as though she were floating away in a

sailingboat in a violent storm, while her husband was left far away on the shore. She danced passionately,

with fervour, a waltz, then a polka and a quadrille, being snatched by one partner as soon as she was left by

another, dizzy with music and the noise, mixing Russian with French, lisping, laughing, and with no thought

of her husband or anything else. She excited great admiration among the men that was evident, and indeed

it could not have been otherwise; she was breathless with excitement, felt thirsty, and convulsively clutched

her fan. Pyotr Leontyitch, her father, in a crumpled dresscoat that smelt of benzine, came up to her, offering

"You are enchanting this evening," he said, looking at her rapturously, "and I have never so much regretted

that you were in such a hurry to get married. . . . What was it for? I know you did it for our sake, but . . ."

With a shaking hand he drew out a roll of notes and said: "I got the money for my lessons today, and can pay

She put the plate back into his hand, and was pounced upon by some one and borne off to a distance. She

caught a glimpse over her partner's shoulder of her father gliding over the floor, putting his arm round a lady

She danced the mazurka with the same huge officer; he moved gravely, as heavily as a dead carcase in a

uniform, twitched his shoulders and his chest, stamped his feet very languidly he felt fearfully disinclined

to dance. She fluttered round him, provoking him by her beauty, her bare neck; her eyes glowed defiantly, her

movements were passionate, while he became more and more indifferent, and held out his hands to her as

But little by little the huge officer, too, broke out; he grew lively, excited, and, overcome by her fascination,

was carried away and danced lightly, youthfully, while she merely moved her shoulders and looked slyly at

him as though she were now the queen and he were her slave; and at that moment it seemed to her that the

whole room was looking at them, and that everybody was thrilled and envied them. The huge officer had

hardly had time to thank her for the dance, when the crowd suddenly parted and the men drew themselves up

His Excellency, with two stars on his dresscoat, was walking up to her. Yes, His Excellency was walking

straight towards her, for he was staring directly at her with a sugary smile, while he licked his lips as he

"Delighted, delighted . . ." he began. "I shall order your husband to be clapped in a lockup for keeping such

a treasure hidden from us till now. I've come to you with a message from my wife," he went on, offering her

his arm. "You must help us. . . . Mmyes. . . . We ought to give you the prize for beauty as they do in

America. . . . Mmyes. . . . The Americans. . . . My wife is expecting you impatiently."

He led her to a stall and presented her to a middleaged lady, the lower part of whose face was

disproportionately large, so that she looked as though she were holding a big stone in her mouth.

"You must help us," she said through her nose in a singsong voice. "All the pretty women are working for

our charity bazaar, and you are the only one enjoying yourself. Why won't you help us?"

She went away, and Anna took her place by the cups and the silver samovar. She was soon doing a lively

trade. Anna asked no less than a rouble for a cup of tea, and made the huge officer drink three cups. Artynov,

the rich man with prominent eyes, who suffered from asthma, came up, too; he was not dressed in the strange

costume in which Anna had seen him in the summer at the station, but wore a dresscoat like every one else.

Keeping his eyes fixed on Anna, he drank a glass of champagne and paid a hundred roubles for it, then drank

some tea and gave another hundred all this without saying a word, as he was short of breath through

asthma. . . . Anna invited purchasers and got money out of them, firmly convinced by now that her smiles and

glances could not fail to afford these people great pleasure. She realized now that she was created exclusively

for this noisy, brilliant, laughing life, with its music, its dancers, its adorers, and her old terror of a force that

was sweeping down upon her and menacing to crush her seemed to her ridiculous: she was afraid of no one

now, and only regretted that her mother could not be there to rejoice at her success.

Pyotr Leontyitch, pale by now but still steady on his legs, came up to the stall and asked for a glass of brandy.

Anna turned crimson, expecting him to say something inappropriate (she was already ashamed of having

such a poor and ordinary father); but he emptied his glass, took ten roubles out of his roll of notes, flung it

down, and walked away with dignity without uttering a word. A little later she saw him dancing in the grand

chain, and by now he was staggering and kept shouting something, to the great confusion of his partner; and

Anna remembered how at the ball three years before he had staggered and shouted in the same way, and it

had ended in the policesergeant's taking him home to bed, and next day the director had threatened to

When the samovars were put out in the stalls and the exhausted ladies handed over their takings to the

middleaged lady with the stone in her mouth, Artynov took Anna on his arm to the hall where supper was

served to all who had assisted at the bazaar. There were some twenty people at supper, not more, but it was

"In this magnificent diningroom it will be appropriate to drink to the success of the cheap diningrooms,

The brigadiergeneral proposed the toast: "To the power by which even the artillery is vanquished," and all

When Anna was escorted home it was daylight and the cooks were going to market. Joyful, intoxicated, full

of new sensations, exhausted, she undressed, dropped into bed, and at once fell asleep. . . .

It was past one in the afternoon when the servant waked her and announced that M. Artynov had called. She

dressed quickly and went down into the drawingroom. Soon after Artynov, His Excellency called to thank

her for her assistance in the bazaar. With a sugary smile, chewing his lips, he kissed her hand, and asking her

permission to come again, took his leave, while she remained standing in the middle of the drawingroom,

amazed, enchanted, unable to believe that this change in her life, this marvellous change, had taken place so

quickly; and at that moment Modest Alexeitch walked in . . . and he, too, stood before her now with the same

ingratiating, sugary, cringingly respectful expression which she was accustomed to see on his face in the

presence of the great and powerful; and with rapture, with indignation, with contempt, convinced that no

From this time forward Anna never had one day free, as she was always taking part in picnics, expeditions,

performances. She returned home every day after midnight, and went to bed on the floor in the

drawingroom, and afterwards used to tell every one, touchingly, how she slept under flowers. She needed a

very great deal of money, but she was no longer afraid of Modest Alexeitch, and spent his money as though it

were her own; and she did not ask, did not demand it, simply sent him in the bills. "Give bearer two hundred

At Easter Modest Alexeitch received the Anna of the second grade. When he went to offer his thanks, His

Excellency put aside the paper he was reading and settled himself more comfortably in his chair.

"So now you have three Annas," he said, scrutinizing his white hands and pink nails "one on your

Modest Alexeitch put two fingers to his lips as a precaution against laughing too loud and said:

"Now I have only to look forward to the arrival of a little Vladimir. I make bold to beg your Excellency to

He was alluding to Vladimir of the fourth grade, and was already imagining how he would tell everywhere

the story of this pun, so happy in its readiness and audacity, and he wanted to say something equally happy,

but His Excellency was buried again in his newspaper, and merely gave him a nod.

And Anna went on driving about with three horses, going out hunting with Artynov, playing in oneact

dramas, going out to supper, and was more and more rarely with her own family; they dined now alone. Pyotr

Leontyitch was drinking more heavily than ever; there was no money, and the harmonium had been sold long

ago for debt. The boys did not let him go out alone in the street now, but looked after him for fear he might

fall down; and whenever they met Anna driving in StaroKievsky Street with a pair of horses and Artynov on

the box instead of a coachman, Pyotr Leontyitch took off his tophat, and was about to shout to her, but

THERE was the thud of horses' hoofs on the wooden floor; they brought out of the stable the black horse,

Count Nulin; then the white, Giant; then his sister Maika. They were all magnificent, expensive horses. Old

Masha Shelestov was the youngest of the family; she was eighteen, but her family could not get used to

thinking that she was not a little girl, and so they still called her Manya and Manyusa; and after there had

been a circus in the town which she had eagerly visited, every one began to call her Marie Godefroi.

"Hopla!" she cried, mounting Giant. Her sister Varya got on Maika, Nikitin on Count Nulin, the officers on

their horses, and the long picturesque cavalcade, with the officers in white tunics and the ladies in their riding

Nikitin noticed that when they were mounting the horses and afterwards riding out into the street, Masha for

some reason paid attention to no one but himself. She looked anxiously at him and at Count Nulin and said:

"You must hold him all the time on the curb, Sergey Vassilitch. Don't let him shy. He's pretending."

And either because her Giant was very friendly with Count Nulin, or perhaps by chance, she rode all the time

beside Nikitin, as she had done the day before, and the day before that. And he looked at her graceful little

figure sitting on the proud white beast, at her delicate profile, at the chimneypot hat, which did not suit her

at all and made her look older than her age looked at her with joy, with tenderness, with rapture; listened

"I promise on my honour, I swear to God, I won't be afraid and I'll speak to her today."

It was seven o'clock in the evening the time when the scent of white acacia and lilac is so strong that the

air and the very trees seem heavy with the fragrance. The band was already playing in the town gardens. The

horses made a resounding thud on the pavement, on all sides there were sounds of laughter, talk, and the

banging of gates. The soldiers they met saluted the officers, the schoolboys bowed to Nikitin, and all the

people who were hurrying to the gardens to hear the band were pleased at the sight of the party. And how

warm it was! How softlooking were the clouds scattered carelessly about the sky, how kindly and

comforting the shadows of the poplars and the acacias, which stretched across the street and reached as far as

They rode on out of the town and set off at a trot along the highroad. Here there was no scent of lilac and

acacia, no music of the band, but there was the fragrance of the fields, there was the green of young rye and

wheat, the marmots were squeaking, the rooks were cawing. Wherever one looked it was green, with only

here and there black patches of bare ground, and far away to the left in the cemetery a white streak of

They passed the slaughterhouses, then the brewery, and overtook a military band hastening to the suburban

"Polyansky has a very fine horse, I don't deny that," Masha said to Nikitin, with a glance towards the officer

who was riding beside Varya. "But it has blemishes. That white patch on its left leg ought not to be there,

and, look, it tosses its head. You can't train it not to now; it will toss its head till the end of its days."

Masha was as passionate a lover of horses as her father. She felt a pang when she saw other people with fine

horses, and was pleased when she saw defects in them. Nikitin knew nothing about horses; it made absolutely

no difference to him whether he held his horse on the bridle or on the curb, whether he trotted or galloped; he

only felt that his position was strained and unnatural, and that consequently the officers who knew how to sit

in their saddles must please Masha more than he could. And he was jealous of the officers.

As they rode by the suburban gardens some one suggested their going in and getting some seltzerwater.

They went in. There were no trees but oaks in the gardens; they had only just come into leaf, so that through

the young foliage the whole garden could still be seen with its platform, little tables, and swings, and the

crows' nests were visible, looking like big hats. The party dismounted near a table and asked for

seltzerwater. People they knew, walking about the garden, came up to them. Among them the army doctor

in high boots, and the conductor of the band, waiting for the musicians. The doctor must have taken Nikitin

"You don't say so?" said the doctor, with surprise. "So young and already a teacher?"

"You have a beard and moustache, but yet one would never guess you were more than twentytwo or

He disliked it extremely when people referred to his youth, especially in the presence of women or the

schoolboys. Ever since he had come to the town as a master in the school he had detested his own youthful

appearance. The schoolboys were not afraid of him, old people called him "young man," ladies preferred

dancing with him to listening to his long arguments, and he would have given a great deal to be ten years

From the garden they went on to the Shelestovs' farm. There they stopped at the gate and asked the bailiff's

wife, Praskovya, to bring some new milk. Nobody drank the milk; they all looked at one another, laughed,

and galloped back. As they rode back the band was playing in the suburban garden; the sun was setting

Masha again rode beside Nikitin. He wanted to tell her how passionately he loved her, but he was afraid he

would be overheard by the officers and Varya, and he was silent. Masha was silent, too, and he felt why she

was silent and why she was riding beside him, and was so happy that the earth, the sky, the lights of the town,

the black outline of the brewery all blended for him into something very pleasant and comforting, and it

seemed to him as though Count Nulin were stepping on air and would climb up into the crimson sky.

They arrived home. The samovar was already boiling on the table, old Shelestov was sitting with his friends,

Since Nikitin had been in love with Masha, everything at the Shelestovs' pleased him: the house, the garden,

and the evening tea, and the wickerwork chairs, and the old nurse, and even the word "loutishness," which the

old man was fond of using. The only thing he did not like was the number of cats and dogs and the Egyptian

pigeons, who moaned disconsolately in a big cage in the verandah. There were so many housedogs and

yarddogs that he had only learnt to recognize two of them in the course of his acquaintance with the

Shelestovs: Mushka and Som. Mushka was a little mangy dog with a shaggy face, spiteful and spoiled. She

hated Nikitin: when she saw him she put her head on one side, showed her teeth, and began: "Rrr . . .

nganganga . . . rrr . . . !" Then she would get under his chair, and when he would try to drive her away she

would go off into piercing yaps, and the family would say: "Don't be frightened. She doesn't bite. She is a

Som was a tall black dog with long legs and a tail as hard as a stick. At dinner and tea he usually moved

about under the table, and thumped on people's boots and on the legs of the table with his tail. He was a

goodnatured, stupid dog, but Nikitin could not endure him because he had the habit of putting his head on

people's knees at dinner and messing their trousers with saliva. Nikitin had more than once tried to hit him on

his head with a knifehandle, to flip him on the nose, had abused him, had complained of him, but nothing

After their ride the tea, jam, rusks, and butter seemed very nice. They all drank their first glass in silence and

with great relish; over the second they began an argument. It was always Varya who started the arguments at

tea; she was goodlooking, handsomer than Masha, and was considered the cleverest and most cultured

person in the house, and she behaved with dignity and severity, as an eldest daughter should who has taken

the place of her dead mother in the house. As the mistress of the house, she felt herself entitled to wear a

dressinggown in the presence of her guests, and to call the officers by their surnames; she looked on Masha

as a little girl, and talked to her as though she were a schoolmistress. She used to speak of herself as an old

Every conversation, even about the weather, she invariably turned into an argument. She had a passion for

catching at words, pouncing on contradictions, quibbling over phrases. You would begin talking to her, and

she would stare at you and suddenly interrupt: "Excuse me, excuse me, Petrov, the other day you said the

Or she would smile ironically and say: "I notice, though, you begin to advocate the principles of the secret

If you jested or made a pun, you would hear her voice at once: "That's stale," "That's pointless." If an officer

ventured on a joke, she would make a contemptuous grimace and say, "An army joke!"

And she rolled the r so impressively that Mushka invariably answered from under a chair, "Rrr . . .

On this occasion at tea the argument began with Nikitin's mentioning the school examinations.

"Excuse me, Sergey Vassilitch," Varya interrupted him. "You say it's difficult for the boys. And whose fault

is that, let me ask you? For instance, you set the boys in the eighth class an essay on 'Pushkin as a

Psychologist.' To begin with, you shouldn't set such a difficult subject; and, secondly, Pushkin was not a

psychologist. Shtchedrin now, or Dostoevsky let us say, is a different matter, but Pushkin is a great poet and

"I know you don't think much of Shtchedrin at the high school, but that's not the point. Tell me, in what sense

"Why, do you mean to say he was not a psychologist? If you like, I'll give you examples."

And Nikitin recited several passages from "Onyegin" and then from "Boris Godunov."

"I see no psychology in that." Varya sighed. "The psychologist is the man who describes the recesses of the

"I know the sort of psychology you want," said Nikitin, offended. "You want some one to saw my finger with

a blunt saw while I howl at the top of my voice that's what you mean by psychology."

"That's poor! But still you haven't shown me in what sense Pushkin is a psychologist?"

When Nikitin had to argue against anything that seemed to him narrow, conventional, or something of that

kind, he usually leaped up from his seat, clutched at his head with both hands, and began with a moan,

running from one end of the room to another. And it was the same now: he jumped up, clutched his head in

his hands, and with a moan walked round the table, then he sat down a little way off.

The officers took his part. Captain Polyansky began assuring Varya that Pushkin really was a psychologist,

and to prove it quoted two lines from Lermontov; Lieutenant Gernet said that if Pushkin had not been a

"That's loutishness!" was heard from the other end of the table. "I said as much to the governor: 'It's

"I won't argue any more," cried Nikitin. "It's unending. . . . Enough! Ach, get away, you nasty dog!" he cried

But some young ladies came in, and the argument dropped of itself. They all went into the drawingroom.

Varya sat down at the piano and began playing dances. They danced first a waltz, then a polka, then a

quadrille with a grand chain which Captain Polyansky led through all the rooms, then a waltz again.

During the dancing the old men sat in the drawingroom, smoking and looking at the young people. Among

them was Shebaldin, the director of the municipal bank, who was famed for his love of literature and

dramatic art. He had founded the local Musical and Dramatic Society, and took part in the performances

himself, confining himself, for some reason, to playing comic footmen or to reading in a singsong voice

"The Woman who was a Sinner." His nickname in the town was "the Mummy," as he was tall, very lean and

scraggy, and always had a solemn air and a fixed, lustreless eye. He was so devoted to the dramatic art that he

"I had the pleasure of being present during the argument at tea. I fully share your opinion. We are of one

mind, and it would be a great pleasure to me to talk to you. Have you read Lessing on the dramatic art of

Shebaldin was horrified, and waved his hands as though he had burnt his fingers, and saying nothing more,

staggered back from Nikitin. Shebaldin's appearance, his question, and his surprise, struck Nikitin as funny,

"It really is awkward. I am a teacher of literature, and to this day I've not read Lessing. I must read him."

Before supper the whole company, old and young, sat down to play "fate." They took two packs of cards: one

pack was dealt round to the company, the other was laid on the table face downwards.

"The one who has this card in his hand," old Shelestov began solemnly, lifting the top card of the second

The pleasure of kissing the nurse fell to the lot of Shebaldin. They all crowded round him, took him to the

nursery, and laughing and clapping their hands, made him kiss the nurse. There was a great uproar and

It was Nikitin's "fate" to hear the confessions of all. He sat on a chair in the middle of the drawingroom. A

shawl was brought and put over his head. The first who came to confess to him was Varya.

"I know your sins," Nikitin began, looking in the darkness at her stern profile. "Tell me, madam, how do you

explain your walking with Polyansky every day? Oh, it's not for nothing she walks with an hussar!"

Then under the shawl he saw the shine of big motionless eyes, caught the lines of a dear profile in the dark,

together with a familiar, precious fragrance which reminded Nikitin of Masha's room.

"Marie Godefroi," he said, and did not know his own voice, it was so soft and tender, "what are your sins?"

Masha screwed up her eyes and put out the tip of her tongue at him, then she laughed and went away. And a

minute later she was standing in the middle of the room, clapping her hands and crying:

And they all streamed into the diningroom. At supper Varya had another argument, and this time with her

father. Polyansky ate stolidly, drank red wine, and described to Nikitin how once in a winter campaign he had

stood all night up to his knees in a bog; the enemy was so near that they were not allowed to speak or smoke,

the night was cold and dark, a piercing wind was blowing. Nikitin listened and stole sideglances at Masha.

She was gazing at him immovably, without blinking, as though she was pondering something or was lost in a

"Why does she look at me like that?" was the question that fretted him. "It's awkward. People may notice it.

The party broke up at midnight. When Nikitin went out at the gate, a window opened on the firstfloor, and

"I tell you what . . ." said Masha, evidently thinking of something to say. "I tell you what. . . Polyansky said

he would come in a day or two with his camera and take us all. We must meet here."

Masha vanished, the window was slammed, and some one immediately began playing the piano in the house.

"Well, it is a house!" thought Nikitin while he crossed the street. "A house in which there is no moaning

except from Egyptian pigeons, and they only do it because they have no other means of expressing their joy!"

But the Shelestovs were not the only festive household. Nikitin had not gone two hundred paces before he

heard the strains of a piano from another house. A little further he met a peasant playing the balalaika at the

Nikitin lived nearly half a mile from the Shelestoys' in a flat of eight rooms at the rent of three hundred

roubles a year, which he shared with his colleague Ippolit Ippolititch, a teacher of geography and history.

When Nikitin went in this Ippolit Ippolititch, a snubnosed, middleaged man with a reddish beard, with a

coarse, goodnatured, unintellectual face like a workman's, was sitting at the table correcting his pupils'

maps. He considered that the most important and necessary part of the study of geography was the drawing of

maps, and of the study of history the learning of dates: he would sit for nights together correcting in blue

pencil the maps drawn by the boys and girls he taught, or making chronological tables.

"What a lovely day it has been!" said Nikitin, going in to him. "I wonder at you how can you sit indoors?"

Ippolit Ippolititch was not a talkative person; he either remained silent or talked of things which everybody

"Yes, very fine weather. It's May now; we soon shall have real summer. And summer's a very different thing

from winter. In the winter you have to heat the stoves, but in summer you can keep warm without. In summer

you have your window open at night and still are warm, and in winter you are cold even with the double

"Goodnight!" he said, getting up and yawning. "I wanted to tell you something romantic concerning myself,

but you are geography! If one talks to you of love, you will ask one at once, 'What was the date of the

And vexed that he had not spoken to Masha, and that he had no one to talk to of his love, he went to his study

and lay down upon the sofa. It was dark and still in the study. Lying gazing into the darkness, Nikitin for

some reason began thinking how in two or three years he would go to Petersburg, how Masha would see him

off at the station and would cry; in Petersburg he would get a long letter from her in which she would entreat

him to come home as quickly as possible. And he would write to her. . . . He would begin his letter like that:

He was lying in an uncomfortable position. He put his arms under his head and put his left leg over the back

of the sofa. He felt more comfortable. Meanwhile a pale light was more and more perceptible at the windows,

sleepy cocks crowed in the yard. Nikitin went on thinking how he would come back from Petersburg, how

Masha would meet him at the station, and with a shriek of delight would fling herself on his neck; or, better

still, he would cheat her and come home by stealth late at night: the cook would open the door, then he would

go on tiptoe to the bedroom, undress noiselessly, and jump into bed! And she would wake up and be

It was beginning to get quite light. By now there were no windows, no study. On the steps of the brewery by

which they had ridden that day Masha was sitting, saying something. Then she took Nikitin by the arm and

went with him to the suburban garden. There he saw the oaks and, the crows' nests like hats. One of the nests

rocked; out of it peeped Shebaldin, shouting loudly: "You have not read Lessing!"

Nikitin shuddered all over and opened his eyes. Ippolit Ippolititch was standing before the sofa, and throwing

"Get up; it's time for school," he said. "You shouldn't sleep in your clothes; it spoils your clothes. You should

Nikitin's first lesson was on Russian language in the second class. When at nine o'clock punctually he went

into the classroom, he saw written on the blackboard two large letters M. S. That, no doubt, meant Masha

"They've scented it out already, the rascals . . ." thought Nikitin. "How is it they know everything?"

The second lesson was in the fifth class. And there two letters, M. S., were written on the blackboard; and

when he went out of the classroom at the end of the lesson, he heard the shout behind him as though from a

His head was heavy from sleeping in his clothes, his limbs were weighted down with inertia. The boys, who

were expecting every day to break up before the examinations, did nothing, were restless, and so bored that

they got into mischief. Nikitin, too, was restless, did not notice their pranks, and was continually going to the

window. He could see the street brilliantly lighted up with the sun; above the houses the blue limpid sky, the

birds, and far, far away, beyond the gardens and the houses, vast indefinite distance, the forests in the blue

Here two officers in white tunics, playing with their whips, passed in the street in the shade of the acacias.

Here a lot of Jews, with grey beards, and caps on, drove past in a waggonette. . . . The governess walked by

with the director's granddaughter. Som ran by in the company of two other dogs. . . . And then Varya,

wearing a simple grey dress and red stockings, carrying the "Vyestnik Evropi" in her hand, passed by. She

And it would be a long time before lessons were over at three o'clock! And after school he could not go home

nor to the Shelestovs', but must go to give a lesson at Wolf's. This Wolf, a wealthy Jew who had turned

Lutheran, did not send his children to the high school, but had them taught at home by the highschool

At three o'clock he went to Wolf's and spent there, as it seemed to him, an eternity. He left there at five

o'clock, and before seven he had to be at the high school again to a meeting of the masters to draw up the

When late in the evening he left the high school and went to the Shelestovs', his heart was beating and his

face was flushed. A month before, even a week before, he had, every time that he made up his mind to speak

to her, prepared a whole speech, with an introduction and a conclusion. Now he had not one word ready;

everything was in a muddle in his head, and all he knew was that today he would certainly declare himself,

"I will ask her to come to the garden," he thought; "we'll walk about a little and I'll speak."

There was not a soul in the hall; he went into the diningroom and then into the drawingroom. . . . There

was no one there either. He could hear Varya arguing with some one upstairs and the clink of the

There was a little room in the house which had three names: the little room, the passage room, and the dark

room. There was a big cupboard in it where they kept medicines, gunpowder, and their hunting gear. Leading

from this room to the first floor was a narrow wooden staircase where cats were always asleep. There were

two doors in it one leading to the nursery, one to the drawingroom. When Nikitin went into this room to

go upstairs, the door from the nursery opened and shut with such a bang that it made the stairs and the

cupboard tremble; Masha, in a dark dress, ran in with a piece of blue material in her hand, and, not noticing

"Stay . . ." said Nikitin, stopping her. "Goodevening, Godefroi. . . . Allow me. . . ."

He gasped, he did not know what to say; with one hand he held her hand and with the other the blue material.

"Allow me . . ." Nikitin went on, afraid she would go away. "There's something I must say to you. . . . Only . .

. it's inconvenient here. I cannot, I am incapable. . . . Understand, Godefroi, I can't that's all . . . ."

The blue material slipped on to the floor, and Nikitin took Masha by the other hand. She turned pale, moved

her lips, then stepped back from Nikitin and found herself in the corner between the wall and the cupboard.

She threw back her head and he kissed her lips, and that the kiss might last longer he put his fingers to her

cheeks; and it somehow happened that he found himself in the corner between the cupboard and the wall, and

Then they both ran into the garden. The Shelestoys had a garden of nine acres. There were about twenty old

maples and limetrees in it; there was one firtree, and all the rest were fruittrees: cherries, apples, pears,

Nikitin and Masha ran along the avenues in silence, laughed, asked each other from time to time disconnected

questions which they did not answer. A crescent moon was shining over the garden, and drowsy tulips and

irises were stretching up from the dark grass in its faint light, as though entreating for words of love for them,

When Nikitin and Masha went back to the house, the officers and the young ladies were already assembled

and dancing the mazurka. Again Polyansky led the grand chain through all the rooms, again after dancing

they played "fate." Before supper, when the visitors had gone into the diningroom, Masha, left alone with

After supper he talked to the old father. After listening to him, Shelestov thought a little and said:

"I am very grateful for the honour you do me and my daughter, but let me speak to you as a friend. I will

speak to you, not as a father, but as one gentleman to another. Tell me, why do you want to be married so

young? Only peasants are married so young, and that, of course, is loutishness. But why should you? Where's

And the conversation broke off. Varya, Masha, and Polyansky saw Nikitin home. When they reached his

"Why is it your mysterious Metropolit Metropolititch never shows himself anywhere? He might come and

The mysterious Ippolit Ippolititch was sitting on his bed, taking off his trousers, when Nikitin went in to him.

"Don't go to bed, my dear fellow," said Nikitin breathlessly. "Stop a minute; don't go to bed!"

Nikitin sat down beside his companion, and looking at him wonderingly, as though surprised at himself, said:

"Only fancy, I am going to be married! To Masha Shelestov! I made an offer today."

"Yes, she is young," sighed Nikitin, and shrugged his shoulders with a careworn air. "Very, very young!"

"She was my pupil at the high school. I know her. She wasn't bad at geography, but she was no good at

Nikitin for some reason felt suddenly sorry for his companion, and longed to say something kind and

"My dear fellow, why don't you get married?" he asked. "Why don't you marry Varya, for instance? She is a

splendid, firstrate girl! It's true she is very fond of arguing, but a heart . . . what a heart! She was just asking

He knew perfectly well that Varya would not marry this dull, snubnosed man, but still persuaded him to

"Marriage is a serious step," said Ippolit Ippolititch after a moment's thought. "One has to look at it all round

and weigh things thoroughly; it's not to be done rashly. Prudence is always a good thing, and especially in

And he talked of what every one has known for ages. Nikitin did not stay to listen, said goodnight, and went

to his own room. He undressed quickly and quickly got into bed, in order to be able to think the sooner of his

happiness, of Masha, of the future; he smiled, then suddenly recalled that he had not read Lessing.

And exhausted by his happiness, he fell asleep at once and went on smiling till the morning.

He dreamed of the thud of horses' hoofs on a wooden floor; he dreamed of the black horse Count Nulin, then

"It was very crowded and noisy in the church, and once some one cried out, and the head priest, who was

marrying Masha and me, looked through his spectacles at the crowd, and said severely: 'Don't move about the

church, and don't make a noise, but stand quietly and pray. You should have the fear of God in your hearts.'

"My best men were two of my colleagues, and Masha's best men were Captain Polyansky and Lieutenant

Gernet. The bishop's choir sang superbly. The sputtering of the candles, the brilliant light, the gorgeous

dresses, the officers, the numbers of gay, happy faces, and a special ethereal look in Masha, everything

together the surroundings and the words of the wedding prayers moved me to tears and filled me with

triumph. I thought how my life had blossomed, how poetically it was shaping itself! Two years ago I was still

a student, I was living in cheap furnished rooms, without money, without relations, and, as I fancied then,

with nothing to look forward to. Now I am a teacher in the high school in one of the best provincial towns,

with a secure income, loved, spoiled. It is for my sake, I thought, this crowd is collected, for my sake three

candelabra have been lighted, the deacon is booming, the choir is doing its best; and it's for my sake that this

young creature, whom I soon shall call my wife, is so young, so elegant, and so joyful. I recalled our first

meetings, our rides into the country, my declaration of love and the weather, which, as though expressly, was

so exquisitely fine all the summer; and the happiness which at one time in my old rooms seemed to me

possible only in novels and stories, I was now experiencing in reality I was now, as it were, holding it in

"After the ceremony they all crowded in disorder round Masha and me, expressed their genuine pleasure,

congratulated us and wished us joy. The brigadiergeneral, an old man of seventy, confined himself to

congratulating Masha, and said to her in a squeaky, aged voice, so loud that it could be heard all over the

" 'I hope that even after you are married you may remain the rose you are now, my dear.'

"The officers, the director, and all the teachers smiled from politeness, and I was conscious of an agreeable

artificial smile on my face, too. Dear Ippolit Ippolititch, the teacher of history and geography, who always

says what every one has heard before, pressed my hand warmly and said with feeling:

" 'Hitherto you have been unmarried and have lived alone, and now you are married and no longer single.'

"From the church we went to a twostoried house which I am receiving as part of the dowry. Besides that

house Masha is bringing me twenty thousand roubles, as well as a piece of waste land with a shanty on it,

where I am told there are numbers of hens and ducks which are not looked after and are turning wild. When I

got home from the church, I stretched myself at full length on the low sofa in my new study and began to

smoke; I felt snug, cosy, and comfortable, as I never had in my life before. And meanwhile the wedding party

were shouting 'Hurrah!' while a wretched band in the hall played flourishes and all sorts of trash. Varya,

Masha's sister, ran into the study with a wineglass in her hand, and with a queer, strained expression, as

though her mouth were full of water; apparently she had meant to go on further, but she suddenly burst out

laughing and sobbing, and the wineglass crashed on the floor. We took her by the arms and led her away.

" 'Nobody can understand!' she muttered afterwards, lying on the old nurse's bed in a back room. 'Nobody,

"But every one understood very well that she was four years older than her sister Masha, and still unmarried,

and that she was crying, not from envy, but from the melancholy consciousness that her time was passing,

and perhaps had passed. When they danced the quadrille, she was back in the drawingroom with a

tearstained and heavily powdered face, and I saw Captain Polyansky holding a plate of ice before her while

"It is past five o'clock in the morning. I took up my diary to describe my complete and perfect happiness, and

thought I would write a good six pages, and read it tomorrow to Masha; but, strange to say, everything is

muddled in my head and as misty as a dream, and I can remember vividly nothing but that episode with

Varya, and I want to write, 'Poor Varya!' I could go on sitting here and writing 'Poor Varya!' By the way, the

trees have begun rustling; it will rain. The crows are cawing, and my Masha, who has just gone to sleep, has

For a long while afterwards Nikitin did not write his diary. At the beginning of August he had the school

examinations, and after the fifteenth the classes began. As a rule he set off for school before nine in the

morning, and before ten o'clock he was looking at his watch and pining for his Masha and his new house. In

the lower forms he would set some boy to dictate, and while the boys were writing, would sit in the window

with his eyes shut, dreaming; whether he dreamed of the future or recalled the past, everything seemed to him

equally delightful, like a fairy tale. In the senior classes they were reading aloud Gogol or Pushkin's prose

works, and that made him sleepy; people, trees, fields, horses, rose before his imagination, and he would say

At the midday recess Masha used to send him lunch in a snowwhite napkin, and he would eat it slowly, with

pauses, to prolong the enjoyment of it; and Ippolit Ippolititch, whose lunch as a rule consisted of nothing but

bread, looked at him with respect and envy, and gave expression to some familiar fact, such as:

After school Nikitin went straight to give his private lessons, and when at last by six o'clock he got home, he

felt excited and anxious, as though he had been away for a year. He would run upstairs breathless, find

Masha, throw his arms round her, and kiss her and swear that he loved her, that he could not live without her,

declare that he had missed her fearfully, and ask her in trepidation how she was and why she looked so

depressed. Then they would dine together. After dinner he would lie on the sofa in his study and smoke,

His happiest days now were Sundays and holidays, when he was at home from morning till evening. On those

days he took part in the na�ve but extraordinarily pleasant life which reminded him of a pastoral idyl. He was

never weary of watching how his sensible and practical Masha was arranging her nest, and anxious to show

that he was of some use in the house, he would do something useless for instance, bring the chaise out of

the stable and look at it from every side. Masha had installed a regular dairy with three cows, and in her cellar

she had many jugs of milk and pots of sour cream, and she kept it all for butter. Sometimes, by way of a joke,

Nikitin would ask her for a glass of milk, and she would be quite upset because it was against her rules; but

Or he would laugh at her strictness when, finding in the cupboard some stale bit of cheese or sausage as hard

He would observe that such a scrap was only fit for a mousetrap, and she would reply warmly that men knew

nothing about housekeeping, and that it was just the same to the servants if you were to send down a

hundredweight of savouries to the kitchen. He would agree, and embrace her enthusiastically. Everything that

was just in what she said seemed to him extraordinary and amazing; and what did not fit in with his

Sometimes he was in a philosophical mood, and he would begin to discuss some abstract subject while she

"I am immensely happy with you, my joy," he used to say, playing with her fingers or plaiting and unplaiting

her hair. "But I don't look upon this happiness of mine as something that has come to me by chance, as

though it had dropped from heaven. This happiness is a perfectly natural, consistent, logical consequence. I

believe that man is the creator of his own happiness, and now I am enjoying just what I have myself created.

Yes, I speak without false modesty: I have created this happiness myself and I have a right to it. You know

my past. My unhappy childhood, without father or mother; my depressing youth, poverty all this was a

In October the school sustained a heavy loss: Ippolit Ippolititch was taken ill with erysipelas on the head and

died. For two days before his death he was unconscious and delirious, but even in his delirium he said

There were no lessons at the high school on the day of his funeral. His colleagues and pupils were the

coffinbearers, and the school choir sang all the way to the grave the anthem "Holy God." Three priests, two

deacons, all his pupils and the staff of the boys' high school, and the bishop's choir in their best kaftans, took

part in the procession. And passersby who met the solemn procession, crossed themselves and said:

Returning home from the cemetery much moved, Nikitin got out his diary from the table and wrote:

"We have just consigned to the tomb Ippolit Ippolititch Ryzhitsky. Peace to your ashes, modest worker!

Masha, Varya, and all the women at the funeral, wept from genuine feeling, perhaps because they knew this

uninteresting, humble man had never been loved by a woman. I wanted to say a warm word at my colleague's

grave, but I was warned that this might displease the director, as he did not like our poor friend. I believe that

The winter was mild, with wet snow and no frost; on Epiphany Eve, for instance, the wind howled all night

as though it were autumn, and water trickled off the roofs; and in the morning, at the ceremony of the

blessing of the water, the police allowed no one to go on the river, because they said the ice was swelling up

and looked dark. But in spite of bad weather Nikitin's life was as happy as in summer. And, indeed, he

acquired another source of pleasure; he learned to play vint. Only one thing troubled him, moved him to

anger, and seemed to prevent him from being perfectly happy: the cats and dogs which formed part of his

wife's dowry. The rooms, especially in the morning, always smelt like a menagerie, and nothing could

destroy the odour; the cats frequently fought with the dogs. The spiteful beast Mushka was fed a dozen times

a day; she still refused to recognize Nikitin and growled at him: "Rrr . . . nganganga!"

One night in Lent he was returning home from the club where he had been playing cards. It was dark, raining,

and muddy. Nikitin had an unpleasant feeling at the bottom of his heart and could not account for it. He did

not know whether it was because he had lost twelve roubles at cards, or whether because one of the players,

when they were settling up, had said that of course Nikitin had pots of money, with obvious reference to his

wife's portion. He did not regret the twelve roubles, and there was nothing offensive in what had been said;

but, still, there was the unpleasant feeling. He did not even feel a desire to go home.

It occurred to him that he did not regret the twelve roubles because he got them for nothing. If he had been a

working man he would have known the value of every farthing, and would not have been so careless whether

he lost or won. And his goodfortune had all, he reflected, come to him by chance, for nothing, and really

was as superfluous for him as medicine for the healthy. If, like the vast majority of people, he had been

harassed by anxiety for his daily bread, had been struggling for existence, if his back and chest had ached

from work, then supper, a warm snug home, and domestic happiness, would have been the necessity, the

compensation, the crown of his life; as it was, all this had a strange, indefinite significance for him.

"Foo, how horrid!" he repeated, knowing perfectly well that these reflections were in themselves a bad sign.

When he got home Masha was in bed: she was breathing evenly and smiling, and was evidently sleeping with

great enjoyment. Near her the white cat lay curled up, purring. While Nikitin lit the candle and lighted his

"I ate too many sweets," she said, and laughed. "Have you been home?" she asked after a pause.

Nikitin knew already that Captain Polyansky, on whom Varya had been building great hopes of late, was

being transferred to one of the western provinces, and was already making his farewell visits in the town, and

"Varya looked in this evening," said Masha, sitting up. "She did not say anything, but one could see from her

face how wretched she is, poor darling! I can't bear Polyansky. He is fat and bloated, and when he walks or

dances his cheeks shake. . . . He is not a man I would choose. But, still, I did think he was a decent person."

"Why badly?" asked Nikitin, beginning to feel irritation against the white cat, who was stretching and arching

its back. "As far as I know, he has made no proposal and has given her no promises."

"Then why was he so often at the house? If he didn't mean to marry her, he oughtn't to have come."

Nikitin put out the candle and got into bed. But he felt disinclined to lie down and to sleep. He felt as though

his head were immense and empty as a barn, and that new, peculiar thoughts were wandering about in it like

tall shadows. He thought that, apart from the soft light of the ikon lamp, that beamed upon their quiet

domestic happiness, that apart from this little world in which he and this cat lived so peacefully and happily,

there was another world. . . . And he had a passionate, poignant longing to be in that other world, to work

himself at some factory or big workshop, to address big audiences, to write, to publish, to raise a stir, to

exhaust himself, to suffer. . . . He wanted something that would engross him till he forgot himself, ceased to

care for the personal happiness which yielded him only sensations so monotonous. And suddenly there rose

vividly before his imagination the figure of Shebaldin with his cleanshaven face, saying to him with horror:

"You haven't even read Lessing! You are quite behind the times! How you have gone to seed!"

Masha woke up and again drank some water. He glanced at her neck, at her plump shoulders and throat, and

His laugh was answered by a sleepy growl from Mushka under the bed: "Rrr . . . nganganga . . . !"

A heavy anger sank like a cold weight on his heart, and he felt tempted to say something rude to Masha, and

"So then," he asked, restraining himself, "since I went to your house, I was bound in duty to marry you?"

To relieve the throbbing of his heart, and to avoid saying too much, Nikitin went to his study and lay down

"What nonsense it is!" he said to reassure himself. "You are a teacher, you are working in the noblest of

But almost immediately he told himself with conviction that he was not a real teacher, but simply a

government employ�, as commonplace and mediocre as the Czech who taught Greek. He had never had a

vocation for teaching, he knew nothing of the theory of teaching, and never had been interested in the subject;

he did not know how to treat children; he did not understand the significance of what he taught, and perhaps

did not teach the right things. Poor Ippolit Ippolititch had been frankly stupid, and all the boys, as well as his

colleagues, knew what he was and what to expect from him; but he, Nikitin, like the Czech, knew how to

conceal his stupidity and cleverly deceived every one by pretending that, thank God, his teaching was a

success. These new ideas frightened Nikitin; he rejected them, called them stupid, and believed that all this

And he did, in fact, by the morning laugh at himself and call himself an old woman; but it was clear to him

that his peace of mind was lost, perhaps, for ever, and that in that little twostory house happiness was

henceforth impossible for him. He realized that the illusion had evaporated, and that a new life of unrest and

clear sight was beginning which was incompatible with peace and personal happiness.

Next day, which was Sunday, he was at the school chapel, and there met his colleagues and the director. It

seemed to him that they were entirely preoccupied with concealing their ignorance and discontent with life,

and he, too, to conceal his uneasiness, smiled affably and talked of trivialities. Then he went to the station and

saw the mail train come in and go out, and it was agreeable to him to be alone and not to have to talk to any

At home he found Varya and his fatherinlaw, who had come to dinner. Varya's eyes were red with crying,

and she complained of a headache, while Shelestov ate a great deal, saying that young men nowadays were

"It's loutishness!" he said. "I shall tell him so to his face: 'It's loutishness, sir,' I shall say."

Nikitin smiled affably and helped Masha to look after their guests, but after dinner he went to his study and

The March sun was shining brightly in at the windows and shedding its warm rays on the table. It was only

the twentieth of the month, but already the cabmen were driving with wheels, and the starlings were noisy in

the garden. It was just the weather in which Masha would come in, put one arm round his neck, tell him the

horses were saddled or the chaise was at the door, and ask him what she should put on to keep warm. Spring

was beginning as exquisitely as last spring, and it promised the same joys. . . . But Nikitin was thinking that it

would be nice to take a holiday and go to Moscow, and stay at his old lodgings there. In the next room they

were drinking coffee and talking of Captain Polyansky, while he tried not to listen and wrote in his diary:

"Where am I, my God? I am surrounded by vulgarity and vulgarity. Wearisome, insignificant people, pots of

sour cream, jugs of milk, cockroaches, stupid women. . . . There is nothing more terrible, mortifying, and

distressing than vulgarity. I must escape from here, I must escape today, or I shall go out of my mind!"

BETWEEN six and seven o'clock on a July evening, a crowd of summer visitors mostly fathers of

families burdened with parcels, portfolios, and ladies' hatboxes, was trailing along from the little station

of Helkovo, in the direction of the summer villas. They all looked exhausted, hungry, and illhumoured, as

Trudging along among the others was Pavel Matveyitch Zaikin, a member of the Circuit Court, a tall,

stooping man, in a cheap cotton dustcoat and with a cockade on his faded cap. He was perspiring, red in the

"Do you come out to your holiday home every day?" said a summer visitor, in gingercoloured trousers,

"No, not every day," Zaikin answered sullenly. "My wife and son are staying here all the while, and I come

down two or three times a week. I haven't time to come every day; besides, it is expensive."

"You're right there; it is expensive," sighed he of the ginger trousers. "In town you can't walk to the station,

you have to take a cab; and then, the ticket costs fortytwo kopecks; you buy a paper for the journey; one is

tempted to drink a glass of vodka. It's all petty expenditure not worth considering, but, mind you, in the

course of the summer it will run up to some two hundred roubles. Of course, to be in the lap of Nature is

worth any money I don't dispute it . . . idyllic and all the rest of it; but of course, with the salary an official

gets, as you know yourself, every farthing has to be considered. If you waste a halfpenny you lie awake all

night. . . . Yes. . . I receive, my dear sir I haven't the honour of knowing your name I receive a salary

of very nearly two thousand roubles a year. I am a civil councillor, I smoke secondrate tobacco, and I

haven't a rouble to spare to buy Vichy water, prescribed me by the doctor for gallstones."

"It's altogether abominable," said Zaikin after a brief silence. "I maintain, sir, that summer holidays are the

invention of the devil and of woman. The devil was actuated in the present instance by malice, woman by

excessive frivolity. Mercy on us, it is not life at all; it is hard labour, it is hell! It's hot and stifling, you can

hardly breathe, and you wander about like a lost soul and can find no refuge. In town there is no furniture, no

servants. . . everything has been carried off to the villa: you eat what you can get; you go without your tea

because there is no one to heat the samovar; you can't wash yourself; and when you come down here into this

'lap of Nature' you have to walk, if you please, through the dust and heat. . . . Phew! Are you married?"

At last the summer visitors reached their destination. Zaikin said goodbye to Ginger Trousers and went into

his villa. He found a deathlike silence in the house. He could hear nothing but the buzzing of the gnats, and

the prayer for help of a fly destined for the dinner of a spider. The windows were hung with muslin curtains,

through which the faded flowers of the geraniums showed red. On the unpainted wooden walls near the

oleographs flies were slumbering. There was not a soul in the passage, the kitchen, or the diningroom. In the

room which was called indifferently the parlour or the drawingroom, Zaikin found his son Petya, a little boy

of six. Petya was sitting at the table, and breathing loudly with his lower lip stuck out, was engaged in cutting

"Mother? She is gone with Olga Kirillovna to a rehearsal of the play. The day after tomorrow they will have a

"Mamma took Natalya with her to help her dress for the performance, and Akulina has gone to the wood to

get mushrooms. Father, why is it that when gnats bite you their stomachs get red?"

"I don't know. . . . Because they suck blood. So there is no one in the house, then?"

"They haven't cooked any dinner today, father. Mamma thought you were not coming today, and did not

order any dinner. She is going to have dinner with Olga Kirillovna at the rehearsal."

"I've had some milk. They bought me six kopecks' worth of milk. And, father, why do gnats suck blood?"

Zaikin suddenly felt as though something heavy were rolling down on his liver and beginning to gnaw it. He

felt so vexed, so aggrieved, and so bitter, that he was choking and tremulous; he wanted to jump up, to bang

something on the floor, and to burst into loud abuse; but then he remembered that his doctor had absolutely

forbidden him all excitement, so he got up, and making an effort to control himself, began whistling a tune

"Oh, don't worry me with stupid questions!" said Zaikin, getting angry. "He sticks to one like a leaf in the

bath! Here you are, six years old, and just as silly as you were three years ago. . . . Stupid, neglected child!

"You are telling fibs, you are telling fibs, you horrid boy!" said Zaikin, growing more and more irritated.

"You are always telling fibs! You want a whipping, you horrid little pig! I will pull your ears!

Petya leapt up, and craning his neck, stared fixedly at his father's red and wrathful face. His big eyes first

began blinking, then were dimmed with moisture, and the boy's face began working.

"But why are you scolding?" squealed Petya. "Why do you attack me, you stupid? I am not interfering with

anybody; I am not naughty; I do what I am told, and yet . . . you are cross! Why are you scolding me?"

The boy spoke with conviction, and wept so bitterly that Zaikin felt consciencestricken.

"Yes, really, why am I falling foul of him?" he thought. "Come, come," he said, touching the boy on the

shoulder. "I am sorry, Petya . . . forgive me. You are my good boy, my nice boy, I love you."

Petya wiped his eyes with his sleeve, sat down, with a sigh, in the same place and began cutting out the

queen. Zaikin went off to his own room. He stretched himself on the sofa, and putting his hands behind his

head, sank into thought. The boy's tears had softened his anger, and by degrees the oppression on his liver

"Father," he heard on the other side of the door, "shall I show you my collection of insects?"

Petya came into the study and handed his father a long green box. Before raising it to his ear Zaikin could

hear a despairing buzz and the scratching of claws on the sides of the box. Opening the lid, he saw a number

of butterflies, beetles, grasshoppers, and flies fastened to the bottom of the box with pins. All except two or

"Why, the grasshopper is still alive!" said Petya in surprise. "I caught him yesterday morning, and he is still

"Olga Kirillovna ought to be pinned down like that herself!" said Zaikin with repulsion. "Take them away!

Pavel Matveyitch forgot his exhaustion and hunger, and thought of nothing but his boy's future. Meanwhile,

outside the light was gradually fading. . . . He could hear the summer visitors trooping back from the evening

bathe. Some one was stopping near the open diningroom window and shouting: "Do you want any

mushrooms?" And getting no answer, shuffled on with bare feet. . . . But at last, when the dusk was so thick

that the outlines of the geraniums behind the muslin curtain were lost, and whiffs of the freshness of evening

were coming in at the window, the door of the passage was thrown open noisily, and there came a sound of

Zaikin peeped out of his study and saw his wife, Nadyezhda Stepanovna, healthy and rosy as ever; with her

he saw Olga Kirillovna, a spare woman with fair hair and heavy freckles, and two unknown men: one a lanky

young man with curly red hair and a big Adam's apple; the other, a short stubby man with a shaven face like

"Natalya, set the samovar," cried Nadyezhda Stepanovna, with a loud rustle of her skirts. "I hear Pavel

Matveyitch is come. Pavel, where are you? Goodevening, Pavel!" she said, running into the study

breathlessly. "So you've come. I am so glad. . . . Two of our amateurs have come with me. . . . Come, I'll

introduce you. . . . Here, the taller one is Koromyslov . . . he sings splendidly; and the other, the little one . . .

is called Smerkalov: he is a real actor . . . he recites magnificently. Oh, how tired I am! We have just had a

rehearsal. . . . It goes splendidly. We are acting 'The Lodger with the Trombone' and 'Waiting for Him.' . . .

"I couldn't help it, Poppet; after tea we must rehearse our parts and sing something. . . . I am to sing a duet

with Koromyslov. . . . Oh, yes, I was almost forgetting! Darling, send Natalya to get some sardines, vodka,

cheese, and something else. They will most likely stay to supper. . . . Oh, how tired I am!"

Half an hour later Natalya was sent for vodka and savouries; Zaikin, after drinking tea and eating a whole

French loaf, went to his bedroom and lay down on the bed, while Nadyezhda Stepanovna and her visitors,

with much noise and laughter, set to work to rehearse their parts. For a long time Pavel Matveyitch heard

Koromyslov's nasal reciting and Smerkalov's theatrical exclamations. . . . The rehearsal was followed by a

long conversation, interrupted by the shrill laughter of Olga Kirillovna. Smerkalov, as a real actor, explained

Then followed the duet, and after the duet there was the clatter of crockery. . . . Through his drowsiness

Zaikin heard them persuading Smerkalov to read "The Woman who was a Sinner," and heard him, after

affecting to refuse, begin to recite. He hissed, beat himself on the breast, wept, laughed in a husky bass. . . .

"It's a long way for you to go, and it's dark," he heard Nadyezhda Stepanovna's voice an hour later. "Why

shouldn't you stay the night here? Koromyslov can sleep here in the drawingroom on the sofa, and you,

Smerkalov, in Petya's bed. . . . I can put Petya in my husband's study. . . . Do stay, really!"

At last when the clock was striking two, all was hushed, the bedroom door opened, and Nadyezhda

"Go into your study, darling, and lie on the sofa. I am going to put Olga Kirillovna here, in your bed. Do go,

dear! I would put her to sleep in the study, but she is afraid to sleep alone. . . . Do get up!"

Zaikin got up, threw on his dressinggown, and taking his pillow, crept wearily to the study. . . . Feeling his

way to his sofa, he lighted a match, and saw Petya lying on the sofa. The boy was not asleep, and, looking at

"Because . . . because . . . you and I are not wanted. . . . We have nowhere to sleep even."

After a moment's thought, Zaikin dressed and went out into the street for a breath of air. . . . He looked at the

grey morning sky, at the motionless clouds, heard the lazy call of the drowsy corncrake, and began dreaming

of the next day, when he would go to town, and coming back from the court would tumble into bed. . . .

"A watchman, no doubt," thought Zaikin. But going nearer and looking more closely he recognized in the

"No, I can't sleep," sighed Ginger Trousers. "I am enjoying Nature. . . . A welcome visitor, my wife's mother,

arrived by the night train, you know. She brought with her our nieces . . . splendid girls! I was delighted to

"Yes," grunted Zaikin, "I am enjoying it, too. . . . Do you know whether there is any sort of tavern or

A YOUNG lieutenant called Klimov was travelling from Petersburg to Moscow in a smoking carriage of the

mail train. Opposite him was sitting an elderly man with a shaven face like a sea captain's, by all appearances

a welltodo Finn or Swede. He pulled at his pipe the whole journey and kept talking about the same subject:

"Ha, you are an officer! I have a brother an officer too, only he is a naval officer. . . . He is a naval officer,

"My brother's an officer, only he is a naval officer; he has a wife and three children. Ha!"

The Finn seemed continually surprised at something, and gave a broad idiotic grin when he exclaimed "Ha!"

and continually puffed at his stinking pipe. Klimov, who for some reason did not feel well, and found it

burdensome to answer questions, hated him with all his heart. He dreamed of how nice it would be to snatch

the wheezing pipe out of his hand and fling it under the seat, and drive the Finn himself into another

"Detestable people these Finns and . . . Greeks," he thought. "Absolutely superfluous, useless, detestable

And the thought of Finns and Greeks produced a feeling akin to sickness all over his body. For the sake of

comparison he tried to think of the French, of the Italians, but his efforts to think of these people evoked in

his mind, for some reason, nothing but images of organgrinders, naked women, and the foreign oleographs

Altogether the officer felt in an abnormal state. He could not arrange his arms and legs comfortably on the

seat, though he had the whole seat to himself. His mouth felt dry and sticky; there was a heavy fog in his

brain; his thoughts seemed to be straying, not only within his head, but outside his skull, among the seats and

the people that were shrouded in the darkness of night. Through the mist in his brain, as through a dream, he

heard the murmur of voices, the rumble of wheels, the slamming of doors. The sounds of the bells, the

whistles, the guards, the running to and fro of passengers on the platforms, seemed more frequent than usual.

The time flew by rapidly, imperceptibly, and so it seemed as though the train were stopping at stations every

It seemed as though the man in charge of the heating came in too often to look at the thermometer, that the

noise of trains going in the opposite direction and the rumble of the wheels over the bridges was incessant.

The noise, the whistles, the Finn, the tobacco smoke all this mingling with the menace and flickering of

the misty images in his brain, the shape and character of which a man in health can never recall, weighed

upon Klimov like an unbearable nightmare. In horrible misery he lifted his heavy head, looked at the lamp in

the rays of which shadows and misty blurs seemed to be dancing. He wanted to ask for water, but his parched

tongue would hardly move, and he scarcely had strength to answer the Finn's questions. He tried to lie down

more comfortably and go to sleep, but he could not succeed. The Finn several times fell asleep, woke up

again, lighted his pipe, addressed him with his "Ha!" and went to sleep again; and still the lieutenant's legs

could not get into a comfortable position, and still the menacing images stood facing him.

At Spirovo he went out into the station for a drink of water. He saw people sitting at the table and hurriedly

"And how can they eat!" he thought, trying not to sniff the air, that smelt of roast meat, and not to look at the

A goodlooking lady was conversing loudly with a military man in a red cap, and showing magnificent white

teeth as she smiled; and the smile, and the teeth, and the lady herself made on Klimov the same revolting

impression as the ham and the rissoles. He could not understand how it was the military man in the red cap

was not ill at ease, sitting beside her and looking at her healthy, smiling face.

When after drinking some water he went back to his carriage, the Finn was sitting smoking; his pipe was

"I don't know," answered Klimov, lying down and shutting his mouth that he might not breathe the acrid

"I don't know. Excuse me, I . . . I can't answer. I am ill. I caught cold today."

The Finn knocked his pipe against the windowframe and began talking of his brother, the naval officer.

Klimov no longer heard him; he was thinking miserably of his soft, comfortable bed, of a bottle of cold

water, of his sister Katya, who was so good at making one comfortable, soothing, giving one water. He even

smiled when the vision of his orderly Pavel, taking off his heavy stifling boots and putting water on the little

table, flitted through his imagination. He fancied that if he could only get into his bed, have a drink of water,

The time was flying rapidly in leaps and bounds, and it seemed as though the bells, whistles, and stoppings

would never end. In despair Klimov buried his face in the corner of the seat, clutched his head in his hands,

and began again thinking of his sister Katya and his orderly Pavel, but his sister and his orderly were mixed

up with the misty images in his brain, whirled round, and disappeared. His burning breath, reflected from the

back of the seat, seemed to scald his face; his legs were uncomfortable; there was a draught from the window

on his back; but, however wretched he was, he did not want to change his position. . . . A heavy nightmarish

When he brought himself to raise his head, it was already light in the carriage. The passengers were putting

on their fur coats and moving about. The train was stopping. Porters in white aprons and with discs on their

breasts were bustling among the passengers and snatching up their boxes. Klimov put on his greatcoat,

mechanically followed the other passengers out of the carriage, and it seemed to him that not he, but some

one else was moving, and he felt that his fever, his thirst, and the menacing images which had not let him

sleep all night, came out of the carriage with him. Mechanically he took his luggage and engaged a

sledgedriver. The man asked him for a rouble and a quarter to drive to Povarsky Street, but he did not

haggle, and without protest got submissively into the sledge. He still understood the difference of numbers,

At home Klimov was met by his aunt and his sister Katya, a girl of eighteen. When Katya greeted him she

had a pencil and exercise book in her hand, and he remembered that she was preparing for an examination as

a teacher. Gasping with fever, he walked aimlessly through all the rooms without answering their questions

or greetings, and when he reached his bed he sank down on the pillow. The Finn, the red cap, the lady with

the white teeth, the smell of roast meat, the flickering blurs, filled his consciousness, and by now he did not

When he recovered consciousness he found himself in bed, undressed, saw a bottle of water and Pavel, but it

was no cooler, nor softer, nor more comfortable for that. His arms and legs, as before, refused to lie

comfortably; his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he heard the wheezing of the Finn's pipe. . . . A

stalwart, blackbearded doctor was busy doing something beside the bed, brushing against Pavel with his

"It's all right, it's all right, young man," he muttered. "Excellent, excellent . . . goood, goood . . . !"

The doctor called Klimov "young man," said "goood" instead of "good" and "soo" instead of "so."

"Soo . . . soo . . . soo," he murmured. "Goood, goood . . . ! Excellent, young man. You mustn't lose

The doctor's rapid, careless talk, his wellfed countenance, and condescending "young man," irritated

And he was frightened by his own voice. The voice was so dried up, so weak and peevish, that he would not

"Excellent, excellent!" muttered the doctor, not in the least offended. . . . "You mustn't get angry, soo, soo,

And the time flew by at home with the same startling swiftness as in the railway carriage. The daylight was

continually being replaced by the dusk of evening. The doctor seemed never to leave his bedside, and he

heard at every moment his "soo, soo, soo." A continual succession of people was incessantly crossing the

bedroom. Among them were: Pavel, the Finn, Captain Yaroshevitch, LanceCorporal Maximenko, the red

cap, the lady with the white teeth, the doctor. They were all talking and waving their arms, smoking and

eating. Once by daylight Klimov saw the chaplain of the regiment, Father Alexandr, who was standing before

the bed, wearing a stole and with a prayerbook in his hand. He was muttering something with a grave face

such as Klimov had never seen in him before. The lieutenant remembered that Father Alexandr used in a

friendly way to call all the Catholic officers "Poles," and wanting to amuse him, he cried:

But Father Alexandr, a lighthearted man who loved a joke, did not smile, but became graver than ever, and

made the sign of the cross over Klimov. At nighttime by turn two shadows came noiselessly in and out; they

were his aunt and sister. His sister's shadow knelt down and prayed; she bowed down to the ikon, and her

grey shadow on the wall bowed down too, so that two shadows were praying. The whole time there was a

smell of roast meat and the Finn's pipe, but once Klimov smelt the strong smell of incense. He felt so sick he

There was no answer. He could only hear the subdued singing of the priest somewhere and some one running

When Klimov came to himself there was not a soul in his bedroom. The morning sun was streaming in at the

window through the lower blind, and a quivering sunbeam, bright and keen as the sword's edge, was flashing

on the glass bottle. He heard the rattle of wheels so there was no snow now in the street. The lieutenant

looked at the ray, at the familiar furniture, at the door, and the first thing he did was to laugh. His chest and

stomach heaved with delicious, happy, tickling laughter. His whole body from head to foot was overcome by

a sensation of infinite happiness and joy in life, such as the first man must have felt when he was created and

first saw the world. Klimov felt a passionate desire for movement, people, talk. His body lay a motionless

block; only his hands stirred, but that he hardly noticed, and his whole attention was concentrated on trifles.

He rejoiced in his breathing, in his laughter, rejoiced in the existence of the waterbottle, the ceiling, the

sunshine, the tape on the curtains. God's world, even in the narrow space of his bedroom, seemed beautiful,

varied, grand. When the doctor made his appearance, the lieutenant was thinking what a delicious thing

medicine was, how charming and pleasant the doctor was, and how nice and interesting people were in

"Soo, so, so. . . Excellent, excellent! . . . Now we are well again. . . . Goood, goood!" the doctor pattered.

The lieutenant listened and laughed joyously; he remembered the Finn, the lady with the white teeth, the

"Doctor," he said, "tell them to give me a crust of rye bread and salt, and . . . and sardines."

The doctor refused; Pavel did not obey the order, and did not go for the bread. The lieutenant could not bear

Klimov laughed, too, and when the doctor went away he fell into a sound sleep. He woke up with the same

The old lady said this and looked at her stocking; her lips began quivering, she turned away, and suddenly

She dropped her stocking and bent down to it, and as she did so her cap fell off her head. Looking at her grey

The old woman, who had forgotten Klimov and was thinking only of her sorrow, said:

"She caught typhus from you, and is dead. She was buried the day before yesterday."

This terrible, unexpected news was fully grasped by Klimov's consciousness; but terrible and startling as it

was, it could not overcome the animal joy that filled the convalescent. He cried and laughed, and soon began

Only a week later when, leaning on Pavel, he went in his dressinggown to the window, looked at the

overcast spring sky and listened to the unpleasant clang of the old iron rails which were being carted by, his

heart ached, he burst into tears, and leaned his forehead against the windowframe.

And joy gave way to the boredom of everyday life and the feeling of his irrevocable loss.

SOFYA PETROVNA, the wife of Lubyantsev the notary, a handsome young woman of fiveandtwenty,

was walking slowly along a track that had been cleared in the wood, with Ilyin, a lawyer who was spending

the summer in the neighbourhood. It was five o'clock in the evening. Featherywhite masses of cloud stood

overhead; patches of bright blue sky peeped out between them. The clouds stood motionless, as though they

Farther on, the track was crossed by a low railway embankment on which a sentinel with a gun was for some

reason pacing up and down. Just beyond the embankment there was a large white church with six domes and

"I did not expect to meet you here," said Sofya Petrovna, looking at the ground and prodding at the last year's

leaves with the tip of her parasol, "and now I am glad we have met. I want to speak to you seriously and once

for all. I beg you, Ivan Mihalovitch, if you really love and respect me, please make an end of this pursuit of

me! You follow me about like a shadow, you are continually looking at me not in a nice way, making love to

me, writing me strange letters, and . . . and I don't know where it's all going to end! Why, what can come of

"And this complete transformation in you all came about in the course of two or three weeks, after five years'

Sofya Petrovna stole a glance at her companion. Screwing up his eyes, he was looking intently at the fluffy

clouds. His face looked angry, illhumoured, and preoccupied, like that of a man in pain forced to listen to

"I wonder you don't see it yourself," Madame Lubyantsev went on, shrugging her shoulders. "You ought to

realize that it's not a very nice part you are playing. I am married; I love and respect my husband. . . . I have a

daughter . . . . Can you think all that means nothing? Besides, as an old friend you know my attitude to family

Yes, yes. . . . I love my husband, I respect him; and in any case I value the peace of my home. I would rather

let myself be killed than be a cause of unhappiness to Andrey and his daughter. . . . And I beg you, Ivan

Mihalovitch, for God's sake, leave me in peace! Let us be as good, true friends as we used to be, and give up

these sighs and groans, which really don't suit you. It's settled and over! Not a word more about it. Let us talk

Sofya Petrovna again stole a glance at Ilyin's face. Ilyin was looking up; he was pale, and was angrily biting

his quivering lips. She could not understand why he was angry and why he was indignant, but his pallor

"Don't be angry; let us be friends," she said affectionately. "Agreed? Here's my hand."

Ilyin took her plump little hand in both of his, squeezed it, and slowly raised it to his lips.

"I am not a schoolboy," he muttered. "I am not in the least tempted by friendship with the woman I love."

"Enough, enough! It's settled and done with. We have reached the seat; let us sit down."

Sofya Petrovna's soul was filled with a sweet sense of relief: the most difficult and delicate thing had been

said, the painful question was settled and done with. Now she could breathe freely and look Ilyin straight in

the face. She looked at him, and the egoistic feeling of the superiority of the woman over the man who loves

her, agreeably flattered her. It pleased her to see this huge, strong man, with his manly, angry face and his big

black beard clever, cultivated, and, people said, talented sit down obediently beside her and bow his

"Nothing is settled or done with," began Ilyin. "You repeat copybook maxims to me. 'I love and respect my

husband . . . the sanctity of marriage. . . .' I know all that without your help, and I could tell you more, too. I

tell you truthfully and honestly that I consider the way I am behaving as criminal and immoral. What more

can one say than that? But what's the good of saying what everybody knows? Instead of feeding nightingales

"As you know perfectly well, I have gone away five times, and every time I turned back on the way. I can

show you my through tickets I've kept them all. I have not will enough to run away from you! I am

struggling. I am struggling horribly; but what the devil am I good for if I have no backbone, if I am weak,

cowardly! I can't struggle with Nature! Do you understand? I cannot! I run away from here, and she holds on

"I feel as cross as a dog," he muttered, clenching his fists. "I hate and despise myself! My God! like some

depraved schoolboy, I am making love to another man's wife, writing idiotic letters, degrading myself . . .

Ilyin clutched at his head, grunted, and sat down. "And then your insincerity!" he went on bitterly. "If you do

dislike my disgusting behaviour, why have you come here? What drew you here? In my letters I only ask you

for a direct, definite answer yes or no; but instead of a direct answer, you contrive every day these 'chance'

Madame Lubyantsev was frightened and flushed. She suddenly felt the awkwardness which a decent woman

"You seem to suspect I am playing with you," she muttered. "I have always given you a direct answer, and . .

"Ough! as though one begged in such cases! If you were to say straight out 'Get away,' I should have been

gone long ago; but you've never said that. You've never once given me a direct answer. Strange indecision!

Ilyin leaned his head on his fists without finishing. Sofya Petrovna began going over in her own mind the

way she had behaved from beginning to end. She remembered that not only in her actions, but even in her

secret thoughts, she had always been opposed to Ilyin's lovemaking; but yet she felt there was a grain of

truth in the lawyer's words. But not knowing exactly what the truth was, she could not find answers to make

to Ilyin's complaint, however hard she thought. It was awkward to be silent, and, shrugging her shoulders, she

"I don't blame you for your insincerity," sighed Ilyin. "I did not mean that when I spoke of it. . . . Your

insincerity is natural and in the order of things. If people agreed together and suddenly became sincere,

Sofya Petrovna was in no mood for philosophical reflections, but she was glad of a chance to change the

"Because only savage women and animals are sincere. Once civilization has introduced a demand for such

Ilyin jabbed his stick angrily into the sand. Madame Lubyantsev listened to him and liked his conversation,

though a great deal of it she did not understand. What gratified her most was that she, an ordinary woman,

was talked to by a talented man on "intellectual" subjects; it afforded her great pleasure, too, to watch the

working of his mobile, young face, which was still pale and angry. She failed to understand a great deal that

he said, but what was clear to her in his words was the attractive boldness with which the modern man

without hesitation or doubt decides great questions and draws conclusive deductions.

"Forgive me, but I don't understand," she said hurriedly. "What makes you talk of insincerity? I repeat my

request again: be my good, true friend; let me alone! I beg you most earnestly!"

"Very good; I'll try again," sighed Ilyin. "Glad to do my best. . . . Only I doubt whether anything will come of

my efforts. Either I shall put a bullet through my brains or take to drink in an idiotic way. I shall come to a

bad end! There's a limit to everything to struggles with Nature, too. Tell me, how can one struggle against

madness? If you drink wine, how are you to struggle against intoxication? What am I to do if your image has

grown into my soul, and day and night stands persistently before my eyes, like that pine there at this

moment? Come, tell me, what hard and difficult thing can I do to get free from this abominable, miserable

condition, in which all my thoughts, desires, and dreams are no longer my own, but belong to some demon

who has taken possession of me? I love you, love you so much that I am completely thrown out of gear; I've

given up my work and all who are dear to me; I've forgotten my God! I've never been in love like this in my

Sofya Petrovna, who had not expected such a turn to their conversation, drew away from Ilyin and looked

into his face in dismay. Tears came into his eyes, his lips were quivering, and there was an imploring, hungry

"I love you!" he muttered, bringing his eyes near her big, frightened eyes. "You are so beautiful! I am in

agony now, but I swear I would sit here all my life, suffering and looking in your eyes. But . . . be silent, I

Sofya Petrovna, feeling utterly disconcerted, tried to think as quickly as possible of something to say to stop

him. "I'll go away," she decided, but before she had time to make a movement to get up, Ilyin was on his

knees before her. . . . He was clasping her knees, gazing into her face and speaking passionately, hotly,

eloquently. In her terror and confusion she did not hear his words; for some reason now, at this dangerous

moment, while her knees were being agreeably squeezed and felt as though they were in a warm bath, she

was trying, with a sort of angry spite, to interpret her own sensations. She was angry that instead of brimming

over with protesting virtue, she was entirely overwhelmed with weakness, apathy, and emptiness, like a

drunken man utterly reckless; only at the bottom of her soul a remote bit of herself was malignantly taunting

Seeking for some explanation, she could not understand how it was she did not pull away the hand to which

Ilyin was clinging like a leech, and why, like Ilyin, she hastily glanced to right and to left to see whether any

one was looking. The clouds and the pines stood motionless, looking at them severely, like old ushers seeing

mischief, but bribed not to tell the school authorities. The sentry stood like a post on the embankment and

"But . . . but listen," she said at last, with despair in her voice. "What can come of this? What will be the end

"I don't know, I don't know," he whispered, waving off the disagreeable questions.

They heard the hoarse, discordant whistle of the train. This cold, irrelevant sound from the everyday world of

"I can't stay . . . it's time I was at home," she said, getting up quickly. "The train is coming in. . . Andrey is

Sofya Petrovna turned towards the embankment with a burning face. The engine slowly crawled by, then

came the carriages. It was not the local train, as she had supposed, but a goods train. The trucks filed by

against the background of the white church in a long string like the days of a man's life, and it seemed as

But at last the train passed, and the last carriage with the guard and a light in it had disappeared behind the

trees. Sofya Petrovna turned round sharply, and without looking at Ilyin, walked rapidly back along the track.

She had regained her selfpossession. Crimson with shame, humiliated not by Ilyin no, but by her own

cowardice, by the shamelessness with which she, a chaste and highprincipled woman, had allowed a man,

not her husband, to hug her knees she had only one thought now: to get home as quickly as possible to her

villa, to her family. The lawyer could hardly keep pace with her. Turning from the clearing into a narrow

path, she turned round and glanced at him so quickly that she saw nothing but the sand on his knees, and

Reaching home, Sofya Petrovna stood in the middle of her room for five minutes without moving, and looked

To spite herself, she recalled in precise detail, keeping nothing back she recalled that though all this time

she had been opposed to Ilyin's lovemaking, something had impelled her to seek an interview with him; and

what was more, when he was at her feet she had enjoyed it enormously. She recalled it all without sparing

herself, and now, breathless with shame, she would have liked to slap herself in the face.

"Poor Andrey!" she said to herself, trying as she thought of her husband to put into her face as tender an

expression as she could. "Varya, my poor little girl, doesn't know what a mother she has! Forgive me, my

And anxious to prove to herself that she was still a good wife and mother, and that corruption had not yet

touched that "sanctity of marriage" of which she had spoken to Ilyin, Sofya Petrovna ran to the kitchen and

abused the cook for not having yet laid the table for Andrey Ilyitch. She tried to picture her husband's hungry

and exhausted appearance, commiserated him aloud, and laid the table for him with her own hands, which

she had never done before. Then she found her daughter Varya, picked her up in her arms and hugged her

warmly; the child seemed to her cold and heavy, but she was unwilling to acknowledge this to herself, and

But when Andrey Ilyitch arrived soon afterwards she hardly greeted him. The rush of false feeling had

already passed off without proving anything to her, only irritating and exasperating her by its falsity. She was

sitting by the window, feeling miserable and cross. It is only by being in trouble that people can understand

how far from easy it is to be the master of one's feelings and thoughts. Sofya Petrovna said afterwards that

there was a tangle within her which it was as difficult to unravel as to count a flock of sparrows rapidly flying

by. From the fact that she was not overjoyed to see her husband, that she did not like his manner at dinner,

Andrey Ilyitch, languid with hunger and exhaustion, fell upon the sausage while waiting for the soup to be

"My goodness!" thought Sofya Petrovna. "I love and respect him, but . . . why does he munch so

The disorder in her thoughts was no less than the disorder in her feelings. Like all persons inexperienced in

combating unpleasant ideas, Madame Lubyantsev did her utmost not to think of her trouble, and the harder

she tried the more vividly Ilyin, the sand on his knees, the fluffy clouds, the train, stood out in her

"And why did I go there this afternoon like a fool?" she thought, tormenting herself. "And am I really so

Fear magnifies danger. By the time Andrey Ilyitch was finishing the last course, she had firmly made up her

"I've something serious to say to you, Andrey," she began after dinner while her husband was taking off his

"For a tour . . ." repeated the notary, stretching. "I dream of that myself, but where are we to get the money,

Sofya Petrovna agreed, but at once reflected that Ilyin would be delighted with the opportunity, and would go

with her in the same train, in the same compartment. . . . She thought and looked at her husband, now

satisfied but still languid. For some reason her eyes rested on his feet miniature, almost feminine feet, clad

Behind the blind a bumblebee was beating itself against the windowpane and buzzing. Sofya Petrovna

looked at the threads on the socks, listened to the bee, and pictured how she would set off. . . . vis�vis Ilyin

would sit, day and night, never taking his eyes off her, wrathful at his own weakness and pale with spiritual

agony. He would call himself an immoral schoolboy, would abuse her, tear his hair, but when darkness came

on and the passengers were asleep or got out at a station, he would seize the opportunity to kneel before her

"Nonsense, Sofotchka!" sighed Lubyantsev. "One must be sensible and not want the impossible."

Making up her mind to go at all costs, she felt that she was out of danger. Little by little her ideas grew

clearer; her spirits rose and she allowed herself to think about it all, feeling that however much she thought,

however much she dreamed, she would go away. While her husband was asleep, the evening gradually came

on. She sat in the drawingroom and played the piano. The greater liveliness out of doors, the sound of

music, but above all the thought that she was a sensible person, that she had surmounted her difficulties,

completely restored her spirits. Other women, her appeased conscience told her, would probably have been

carried off their feet in her position, and would have lost their balance, while she had almost died of shame,

had been miserable, and was now running out of the danger which perhaps did not exist! She was so touched

by her own virtue and determination that she even looked at herself two or three times in the lookingglass.

When it got dark, visitors arrived. The men sat down in the diningroom to play cards; the ladies remained in

the drawingroom and the verandah. The last to arrive was Ilyin. He was gloomy, morose, and looked ill. He

sat down in the corner of the sofa and did not move the whole evening. Usually goodhumoured and

talkative, this time he remained silent, frowned, and rubbed his eyebrows. When he had to answer some

question, he gave a forced smile with his upper lip only, and answered jerkily and irritably. Four or five times

he made some jest, but his jests sounded harsh and cutting. It seemed to Sofya Petrovna that he was on the

verge of hysterics. Only now, sitting at the piano, she recognized fully for the first time that this unhappy man

was in deadly earnest, that his soul was sick, and that he could find no rest. For her sake he was wasting the

best days of his youth and his career, spending the last of his money on a summer villa, abandoning his

mother and sisters, and, worst of all, wearing himself out in an agonizing struggle with himself. From mere

She recognized all this clearly till it made her heart ache, and if at that moment she had gone up to him and

said to him, "No," there would have been a force in her voice hard to disobey. But she did not go up to him

and did not speak indeed, never thought of doing so. The pettiness and egoism of youth had never been

more patent in her than that evening. She realized that Ilyin was unhappy, and that he was sitting on the sofa

as though he were on hot coals; she felt sorry for him, but at the same time the presence of a man who loved

her to distraction, filled her soul with triumph and a sense of her own power. She felt her youth, her beauty,

and her unassailable virtue, and, since she had decided to go away, gave herself full licence for that evening.

She flirted, laughed incessantly, sang with peculiar feeling and gusto. Everything delighted and amused her.

She was amused at the memory of what had happened at the seat in the wood, of the sentinel who had looked

on. She was amused by her guests, by Ilyin's cutting jests, by the pin in his cravat, which she had never

noticed before. There was a red snake with diamond eyes on the pin; this snake struck her as so amusing that

Sofya Petrovna sang nervously, with defiant recklessness as though half intoxicated, and she chose sad,

mournful songs which dealt with wasted hopes, the past, old age, as though in mockery of another's grief. "

'And old age comes nearer and nearer' . . ." she sang. And what was old age to her?

"It seems as though there is something going wrong with me," she thought from time to time through her

The party broke up at twelve o'clock. Ilyin was the last to leave. Sofya Petrovna was still reckless enough to

accompany him to the bottom step of the verandah. She wanted to tell him that she was going away with her

The moon was hidden behind the clouds, but it was light enough for Sofya Petrovna to see how the wind

played with the skirts of his overcoat and with the awning of the verandah. She could see, too, how white

"Sonia, Sonitchka . . . my darling woman!" he muttered, preventing her from speaking. "My dear! my sweet!"

In a rush of tenderness, with tears in his voice, he showered caressing words upon her, that grew tenderer and

tenderer, and even called her "thou," as though she were his wife or mistress. Quite unexpectedly he put one

"My precious! my delight!" he whispered, kissing the nape of her neck; "be sincere; come to me at once!"

She slipped out of his arms and raised her head to give vent to her indignation and anger, but the indignation

did not come off, and all her vaunted virtue and chastity was only sufficient to enable her to utter the phrase

"Come, let us go," Ilyin continued. "I felt just now, as well as at the seat in the wood, that you are as helpless

as I am, Sonia. . . . You are in the same plight! You love me and are fruitlessly trying to appease your

Seeing that she was moving away, he caught her by her lace cuff and said rapidly:

"If not today, then tomorrow you will have to give in! Why, then, this waste of time? My precious, darling

Sonia, the sentence is passed; why put off the execution? Why deceive yourself?"

Sofya Petrovna tore herself from him and darted in at the door. Returning to the drawingroom, she

mechanically shut the piano, looked for a long time at the musicstand, and sat down. She could not stand up

nor think. All that was left of her excitement and recklessness was a fearful weakness, apathy, and dreariness.

Her conscience whispered to her that she had behaved badly, foolishly, that evening, like some madcap girl

that she had just been embraced on the verandah, and still had an uneasy feeling in her waist and her

elbow. There was not a soul in the drawingroom; there was only one candle burning. Madame Lubyantsev

sat on the round stool before the piano, motionless, as though expecting something. And as though taking

advantage of the darkness and her extreme lassitude, an oppressive, overpowering desire began to assail her.

Like a boaconstrictor it gripped her limbs and her soul, and grew stronger every second, and no longer

She sat for half an hour without stirring, not restraining herself from thinking of Ilyin, then she got up

languidly and dragged herself to her bedroom. Andrey Ilyitch was already in bed. She sat down by the open

window and gave herself up to desire. There was no "tangle" now in her head; all her thoughts and feelings

were bent with one accord upon a single aim. She tried to struggle against it, but instantly gave it up. . . . She

understood now how strong and relentless was the foe. Strength and fortitude were needed to combat him,

and her birth, her education, and her life had given her nothing to fall back upon.

"Immoral wretch! Low creature!" she nagged at herself for her weakness. "So that's what you're like!"

Her outraged sense of propriety was moved to such indignation by this weakness that she lavished upon

herself every term of abuse she knew, and told herself many offensive and humiliating truths. So, for

instance, she told herself that she never had been moral, that she had not come to grief before simply because

she had had no opportunity, that her inward conflict during that day had all been a farce. . . .

"And even if I have struggled," she thought, "what sort of struggle was it? Even the woman who sells herself

struggles before she brings herself to it, and yet she sells herself. A fine struggle! Like milk, I've turned in a

She convicted herself of being tempted, not by feeling, not by Ilyin personally, but by sensations which

awaited her . . . an idle lady, having her fling in the summer holidays, like so many!

" 'Like an unfledged bird when the mother has been slain,' " sang a husky tenor outside the window.

"If I am to go, it's time," thought Sofya Petrovna. Her heart suddenly began beating violently.

"But listen," she began. "If you don't go with me, you are in danger of losing me. I believe I am . . . in love

Andrey Ilyitch sat up with his feet out of bed and looked wonderingly at his wife's dark figure.

He did not believe her, but yet he was frightened. After thinking a little and asking his wife several

unimportant questions, he delivered himself of his opinions on the family, on infidelity . . . spoke listlessly

for about ten minutes and got into bed again. His moralizing produced no effect. There are a great many

opinions in the world, and a good half of them are held by people who have never been in trouble!

In spite of the late hour, summer visitors were still walking outside. Sofya Petrovna put on a light cape, stood

a little, thought a little. . . . She still had resolution enough to say to her sleeping husband:

That was her last hope. Receiving no answer, she went out. . . . It was fresh and windy. She was conscious

neither of the wind nor the darkness, but went on and on. . . . An overmastering force drove her on, and it

She was breathless, hot with shame, did not feel her legs under her, but what drove her on was stronger than

A WELLFED, redcheeked young man called Nikolay Ilyitch Belyaev, of thirtytwo, who was an owner of

house property in Petersburg, and a devotee of the racecourse, went one evening to see Olga Ivanovna Irnin,

with whom he was living, or, to use his own expression, was dragging out a long, wearisome romance. And,

indeed, the first interesting and enthusiastic pages of this romance had long been perused; now the pages

dragged on, and still dragged on, without presenting anything new or of interest.

Not finding Olga Ivanovna at home, my hero lay down on the lounge chair and proceeded to wait for her in

"Goodevening, Nikolay Ilyitch!" he heard a child's voice. "Mother will be here directly. She has gone with

Olga Ivanovna's son, Alyosha a boy of eight who looked graceful and very well cared for, who was

dressed like a picture, in a black velvet jacket and long black stockings was lying on the sofa in the same

room. He was lying on a satin cushion and, evidently imitating an acrobat he had lately seen at the circus,

stuck up in the air first one leg and then the other. When his elegant legs were exhausted, he brought his arms

into play or jumped up impulsively and went on all fours, trying to stand with his legs in the air. All this he

was doing with the utmost gravity, gasping and groaning painfully as though he regretted that God had given

"Ah, goodevening, my boy," said Belyaev. "It's you! I did not notice you. Is your mother well?"

Alyosha, taking hold of the tip of his left toe with his right hand and falling into the most unnatural attitude,

turned over, jumped up, and peeped at Belyaev from behind the big fluffy lampshade.

"What shall I say?" he said, shrugging his shoulders. "In reality mother's never well. You see, she is a

Belyaev, having nothing better to do, began watching Alyosha's face. He had never before during the whole

of his intimacy with Olga Ivanovna paid any attention to the boy, and had completely ignored his existence;

the boy had been before his eyes, but he had not cared to think why he was there and what part he was

In the twilight of the evening, Alyosha's face, with his white forehead and black, unblinking eyes,

unexpectedly reminded Belyaev of Olga Ivanovna as she had been during the first pages of their romance.

"Well," began Nikolay Ilyitch, putting a hand on the boy's thin shoulder. "How are you getting on?"

"It's very simple. Sonia and I used only to learn music and reading, and now they give us French poetry to

"Yes, I see you have. Your beard is shorter. Let me touch it. . . . Does that hurt?"

"Why is it that if you pull one hair it hurts, but if you pull a lot at once it doesn't hurt a bit? Ha, ha! And, you

know, it's a pity you don't have whiskers. Here ought to be shaved . . . but here at the sides the hair ought to

"When I go to the highschool," he said, "mother is going to buy me a watch. I shall ask her to buy me a

watchchain like this. . . . What a loket! Father's got a locket like that, only yours has little bars on it and

his has letters. . . . There's mother's portrait in the middle of his. Father has a different sort of chain now, not

Alyosha blushed, and in great confusion, feeling caught in a lie, began zealously scratching the locket with

"Come, speak frankly, on your honour. . . . I see from your face you are telling a fib. Once you've let a thing

slip out it's no good wriggling about it. Tell me, do you see him? Come, as a friend."

"Only, for goodness' sake, don't tell mother. . . . Don't tell any one at all, for it is a secret. I hope to goodness

mother won't find out, or we should all catch it Sonia, and I, and Pelagea. . . . Well, listen. . . Sonia and I

see father every Tuesday and Friday. When Pelagea takes us for a walk before dinner we go to the Apfel

Restaurant, and there is father waiting for us. . . . He is always sitting in a room apart, where you know there's

"Nothing! First we say howdoyoudo, then we all sit round the table, and father treats us with coffee and

pies. You know Sonia eats the meatpies, but I can't endure meatpies! I like the pies made of cabbage and

eggs. We eat such a lot that we have to try hard to eat as much as we can at dinner, for fear mother should

"With father? About anything. He kisses us, he hugs us, tells us all sorts of amusing jokes. Do you know, he

says when we are grown up he is going to take us to live with him. Sonia does not want to go, but I agree. Of

course, I should miss mother; but, then, I should write her letters! It's a queer idea, but we could come and

visit her on holidays couldn't we? Father says, too, that he will buy me a horse. He's an awfully kind man!

I can't understand why mother does not ask him to come and live with us, and why she forbids us to see him.

You know he loves mother very much. He is always asking us how she is and what she is doing. When she

was ill he clutched his head like this, and . . . and kept running about. He always tells us to be obedient and

"That's what father says. 'You are unhappy children,' he says. It's strange to hear him, really. 'You are

unhappy,' he says, 'I am unhappy, and mother's unhappy. You must pray to God,' he says; 'for yourselves and

"So . . ." growled Belyaev. "So that's how you are going on. You arrange meetings at restaurants. And mother

"Noo. . . . How should she know? Pelagea would not tell her for anything, you know. The day before

"He doesn't abuse you, but you know he is angry with you. He says mother's unhappy owing to you . . . and

that you have ruined mother. You know he is so queer! I explain to him that you are kind, that you never

"That's strange and . . . ridiculous!" he muttered, shrugging his shoulders and smiling sarcastically. "He's

entirely to blame, and I have ruined her, eh? An innocent lamb, I must say. So he told you I ruined your

"I am not offended, and . . . and it's not your business. Why, it's . . . why, it's positively ridiculous! I have

been thrust into it like a chicken in the broth, and now it seems I'm to blame!"

A ring was heard. The boy sprang up from his place and ran out. A minute later a lady came into the room

with a little girl; this was Olga Ivanovna, Alyosha's mother. Alyosha followed them in, skipping and jumping,

humming aloud and waving his hands. Belyaev nodded, and went on walking up and down.

"Of course, whose fault is it if not mine?" he muttered with a snort. "He is right! He is an injured husband."

"What about? . . . Why, just listen to the tales your lawful spouse is spreading now! It appears that I am a

scoundrel and a villain, that I have ruined you and the children. All of you are unhappy, and I am the only

Alyosha flushed crimson, then turned pale, and his whole face began working with terror.

Olga Ivanovna looked in surprise at Alyosha, then at Belyaev, then at Alyosha again.

"Just ask him," Belyaev went on. "Your Pelagea, like a regular fool, takes them about to restaurants and

arranges meetings with their papa. But that's not the point: the point is that their dear papa is a victim, while

"Oh, get away!" said Belyaev, waving him off. "This is more important than any word of honour. It's the

"I don't understand it," said Olga Ivanovna, and tears glistened in her eyes. "Tell me, Alyosha," she turned to

Belyaev dismissed him with a wave of his hand, and went on walking up and down. He was absorbed in his

grievance and was oblivious of the boy's presence, as he always had been. He, a grownup, serious person, had

no thought to spare for boys. And Alyosha sat down in the corner and told Sonia with horror how he had been

deceived. He was trembling, stammering, and crying. It was the first time in his life that he had been brought

into such coarse contact with lying; till then he had not known that there are in the world, besides sweet

pears, pies, and expensive watches, a great many things for which the language of children has no expression.