And she did not marry him, but decided that, if she could make it, she would become an artist herself.
And she began to study character dancing, so she could somehow go out on the stage and earn money like other people.
But as a result of her chronic unpleasantness with the tourist and the writer, her doctor discovered a neurosis of the heart and a nervous rash on her body. And so she had to learn how to sing.
And now she sings. And she's already begun to earn money regularly in closed concerts and in rest houses.
But she informed her husband that she would no longer live with him now. That, formerly, she had had old-fashioned views
about money and matrimonial relations, but that now, since she was receiving up to a thousand rubles and more for her singing, she had fully re-educated herself and was even satisfied, and would do nothing to undermine the independence of women.
But her satisfaction lasted only so long as they did not tell her about her tourist. She was told that this foreigner of hers had found a very good place here in his rare specialty, that he received an excellent salary, that he had married a certain girl and had left with her for his native land in order to arrange his affairs and bring an automobile back here.
They told her that she really must have negotiated badly with him in Russian, since she had let such a splendid opportunity slip by.
This news, now, was really difficult for her to bear. She even lost her voice for awhile.
But within two weeks she had recovered, and now she is singing again, about as well as she can. But she still has the rash on her skin.
That's the kind of girls there are. And what can be done with them, if they want to make money in a way that isn't done among us.
As for the fact, after all this she became an artist—very good for her, but quite mediocre for the public.
And, naturally, in such cases it's always better to dance than to sing. And young persons should respect this ardent wish of the public.
AN AMUSING ADVENTURE
The wife of a certain employee, a fairly young and quite attractive lady, from a petit bourgeois family by birth, fell in love with a certain actor.
He was an artist of drama and comedy. And so, you see, she fell in love with him.
Either she had seen him on the stage, and he had subdued her with the splendor of his role, or, on the contrary, she had never seen him act, but he, perhaps, simply pleased her with his artistic mannerisms; the fact remains that she fell very much in love with him. And for a while she didn't even know what to do: to leave her husband and go live with the artist, or not leave her husband, but simply have an affair with the actor without attempting to build her life over again.
Seeing, however, that the dramatic actor didn't have very much —no position, and nothing very special—she decided not to leave her husband. All the more, since the artist himself was not exactly burning with the desire to marry her, being a man already burdened with a numerous family.
But since they loved one another, they managed to get together from time to time.
And he called her on the telephone and she ran down to watch him at rehearsals to see how smartly he performed in his role. As a result of all this, she fell even more strongly in love with him and dreamed of meeting him more often.
But since there really wasn't any place for them to meet, they, literally like Romeo and Juliet, began to meet on the street or in the movies, or ran off to a cafe, in order to be able to exchange some tender words.
But these brief encounters of theirs, naturally, satisfied them but little, and they were constantly grieving that life treated them shabbily, and that they didn't even have a place where they might speak of their mindless love.
She couldn't go to his place, naturally, because the artist was a family man.
And as far as his going to her place was concerned, she occasionally invited him when her husband was at work. But after having come a couple of times, he categorically refused to do so any more.
As a high-strung man, gifted moreover with an oversensitive, artistic imagination, he was simply afraid of being found at her place, thinking, well, wouldn't it be something if the husband walks in and starts big talk, with shooting and all that.
And under the pressure of such thoughts, the artist, when he was a guest at her place, so to speak, behaved abnormally and was generally half-dead with fear.
So she naturally stopped inviting him, seeing the man was in the throes of spiritual torment and out of this world entirely.
And so she says to him once: "Look here! If you want to see me, go to my friend's place your next free day."
The dramatic artist says: "Now that's what I call splendid! As you know, my profession demands fine nerves, and I," he says, "can't help feeling a bit tense at your place."
Her closest friend was named Sonechka. A very dear person, not uneducated. Seems she'd been in the ballet.
And our lady's husband fully approved of this friendship, saying that he could not hope for a better friend for his wife.
And so, our ballerina, after some ardent questioning, permitted her friend to use her place for conversations with the man she loved.
And so, on the morning of his day off, our artist dressed himself in the very best he had and hastened to his tryst.
One should say, however, that in the trolley a little episode occurred, a run-in with his neighbor. Well, generally speaking, some light insults were exchanged, a few yells and so forth. As a result of which, our artist, a man unable to restrain himself much more than he should, lost his temper a bit. And when his neighbor, after their exchange of insults, left the trolley, our artist, unable to hold himself back, spat at him. And was very glad that the trolley started up right away and his offended neighbor lost the opportunity of pursuing him as he wanted.
The mood of our artist was not spoiled, however, by this encounter. He met his soul mate and they went together to her friend's place, part of a communal apartment, a small but com-lortable room, the key to which was now in their hands.
And so they went into the room, sat down on the divan so they
might speak of their future life, but suddenly—someone knocked on the door. The young lady signaled the artist not to call out, but the artist remained silent even without her advice.
Suddenly a voice issued from behind the door: 'Tell me, will she be back soon?"
Having heard the voice, our lady grew terribly pale and whispered to the actor that it was her husband's. And her husband must have seen them on the street and had followed them.
The dramatic artist, having heard of a similar pretty story, simply went into a state of shock and trembled all over and, holding his breath, stretched out on the divan, looking at his soul mate with profound melancholy.
But the voice behind the door says: 'Then I'll write her a note. Tell her I was here."
And so, our lady's husband (and it really was he), after writing the note, slipped it under the door and left.
Our lady, very much surprised, instantly seized this note and began to read it. After which, she began to weep bitterly, to wail and throw herself on the divan.
The dramatic artist, brought back to consciousness somewhat by the sounds of his lady's voice, also read this note, not without surprise. It said: "Dear little Sonechka. By chance I got off early and hastened to you, but alas, you weren't in! I'll be back at three. A big kiss. Nicholas."
Our lady, through tears and weeping, says to the artist: "What could this mean? What do you think?"
The artist says: "Most likely your husband is having an affair with your friend. And he came here for no other reason than to relax a bit from his family life. Now your conscience should be at rest. Let me have your tender little hand."
And he was just about to lift her tender little hand to his rough lips, when a violent knock at the door is heard. And behind the door, the imperative voice of her friend: "Ah, open up right away! It's me. Was anyone here besides me?"
Af
ter hearing these words, our lady instantly burst into tears, and, having opened the door, gave her friend the little note, weeping all the while.
Having read the note, she was a little embarrassed, but said: "There's nothing surprising in all this. Since you know, I won't keep anything back. On the whole, I'd like you to leave instantly, since I'm expecting someone."
Our lady says: "What do you mean 'someone*? It's quite clear from the note that it's my husband you're expecting. A fine business—to leave at such a moment. Why, maybe I'd like to see how that rascal crosses the threshold of this hangout."
The young man, whose mood had been utterly spoiled by all these scrapes, wanted to leave, but our lady in the heat of her temper would not permit him.
She said: "My husband will show up at any moment, and then we will cut through this Gordian knot."
Hearing these words, so close to military terminology, the artist picked up his hat and began to say good-bye even more energetically and to leave. But at this point the friends began to exchange insults and to quarrel about whether he should go or not.
At first, both the friends wanted him to stay until the husband arrived, as material evidence. The first, in order to show her husband what kind of a bird this friend was, letting them use her room; the second, to show him what kind of a wife he had.
But after awhile they changed their minds. The friend suddenly did not wish to compromise herself, and the wife did not wish her husband to set eyes on her. Having talked this over, they ordered our artist to get out instantly.
The latter, quite content with the turn the argument had taken, had just begun to say good-bye when suddenly there was a knock on the door. And the husband's voice said: "Dear Sonia, it's me! Open up!"
At this point, a certain panic and confusion spread through the room.
The dramatic artist instantly suspended his breath and, falling into a fearful melancholy, wanted to stretch out on the divan so that he might create the role of a sick or dying man, but soon reflected that in this horizontal position he might be taken for someone lying frivolously on a divan, and so they might open fire on lim all the more readily.
Impelled by this thought, he began to scurry about the room, knocking against everything with his feet and producing a terrible noise and clatter.
The husband behind the door was exceedingly surprised at the delay and clatter and began to pound on the door with increased energy, thinking something strange must be going on in the room.
Then the friend says to the artist: "This door here leads into my neighbor's room. I will now open it for you. Go through it. From
there, you will find a door to the corridor and staircase. My best wishes!"
And she herself quickly opens the latch on the door and asks the artist to get out as quick as he can, all the more urgently that the husband, having heard all the noise in the room, was beginning to tear the door from its hinges in order to get in. Then our artist escaped the bullets, into the neighbor's room, and he would very much have liked to get into the corridor, when he suddenly noticed that the door to the corridor was locked on the outside, apparently with a padlock.
The artist would have rushed back to tell the ladies that he was in a critical position—the door was locked and he couldn't get out. But it was already too late.
The husband had been let into the room and a conversation had arisen there, into the midst of which the projection of the artist would have been most undesirable.
Then the artist, by no means a stolid man, felt himself instantly drained of strength because of the great number of events he had been through, and, feeling physical lassitude and dizziness, stretched out on the bed, assuming he was quite safe here.
So, you see, he stretches out on the bed and thinks various desperate thoughts—of this, that, and in particular of the foolishness of love's impulses. And suddenly he hears someone in the corridor turning a key in the lock. In a word, someone is standing by the door and would no doubt presently enter the room.
And suddenly the door is really opening, and on the threshold appears a man with a little basket of pastries and a bottle of wine.
Seeing the man lying on his bed, his mouth gapes in surprise, and, not getting it at all, he wants to slam the door behind him.
The artist begins to excuse himself and to chatter away in a confused fashion, and suddenly he notices with terror that the master of the room, the man who had just come in, was none other than the very man with whom he had swapped insults that morning and at whom he had spat from his seat in the trolley.
Unable to rely on his legs, our artist, like a child of tender years, once again stretches out on the bed, thinking that if worst came to worst it was after all only a dream which would soon pass away and then a splendid life would begin without any special unpleasantnesses or scrapes.
The man, whose surprise had given way to anger, had come in and says in a mournful voice: "What's going on here, gentlemen?
I'm expecting a visit from a friend at any moment, and here, just look, some kind of creep has stretched himself out in my room. How the hell did he get in? Through a locked door?"
The artist, seeing that his arms aren't being broken and no one is beating him up, says with some rise in spirit: "Ah, pardon me! I will leave this moment. I only lay down for half a second to take a little snooze ... I didn't know this was your bed ... So much has happened, I was feeling a bit dizzy . . ."
At this point the master of the room, whose surprise had again given way to anger, began to yell: "But this is really rude! Just look at him, he was lying with his feet up on my bed. Why, I wouldn't even let a friend of mine put his feet up there. There's something new for you! What a scoundrel!"
And he runs up to the artist, grabs him by the shoulders, and is literally pulling him off the bed—when suddenly he sees that the person of the artist is already known to him from the events of that morning.
At this point there follows a slight pause.
The master, beside himself, says: "Ah, so you've fallen into my hands, have you, fish face?!"
And he makes to grab him by the throat.
But just then there is a tender knock on the door. The master says: "Well, you can thank your lucky stars that the lady I've been expecting has arrived. Otherwise, I'd have made mincemeat out of you."
And taking the artist by the collar, he drags him to the doorway in order to heave him into the corridor like dirty laundry, to which object the artist fully consents and is even pleased.
But suddenly the door opens and on the threshold appears the quite attractive lady whom the master had been expecting and who had arrived, in a certain sense, as the savior of our ill-fated artist.
Our artist, however, on catching sight of this lady, simply staggered back from astonishment and even began to sway to and fro —inasmuch as the lady who had just come in was none other than his wife.
And speaking of coincidences, this was really something quite striking.
At this point, our artist, who had been extremely silent for the last two hours, suddenly began to spout and kick up a row, de-
manding explanations from his wife, and what did this mysterious visit mean.
His wife began to weep and wail and to say that this was her co-worker and that she really did visit him occasionally to drink a little tea and eat some pastries.
The embarrassed co-worker said that since they were even now, they might as well shake hands on it and the three of them sit down and have some tea. To this, the actor erupted with such violent abuse and such outcries that his wife went into a fit of hysterics. And her co-worker turned pugnacious again, remembering the humiliation of having been spat at.
And then all the neighbors ran in to see what was going on.
Among those who arrived was our lady with her husband and friend.
Having learned everything that happened, all six gathered in the room and took counsel as to what they should do next.
The ballerina spoke as follows to her frie
nd: "It's very simple! I will marry Nicholas. The artist will marry you, and these two co-workers will also make a happy couple, working together as they do in one institution. That's the way we should do it,"
The co-worker who had been visited by the artist's wife says: "Thanks, I'm sure! It seems she has a heap of kids, and I'm supposed to marry her. It's even supposed to be very simple."
The dramatic artist says: "I will thank you not to insult my wife. The more, since I have no intention of just giving her away to the firstcomer."
The artist's wife says: "Well, I wouldn't live with him anyway. Just look at the shape of his room! How could I live here with four kids?"
The co-worker says: "Why, I wouldn't let you in here with the children if you tried to ride in on a cannon ball. She's got a scoundrelly husband like that, and, to top it all off, she wants to take my room away. I see!—one of them's stretched out on my bed already."
Sonechka of the ballet says conciliatorily: "Let's work it this way, then. I will marry Nicholas, the artist and his wife will remain as they were, and we'll marry this stupid co-worker off to Nicholas' wife."
The co-worker says: "Thanks! Still no easier. Suppose I hitch up with her. Open your ear flaps wider. Why, I am seeing this
shabby figure for the first time. How do I know, maybe she's a pickpocket?!"
The artist says: "You are requested not to insult our ladies. I consider that this is the right way out."
Our lady says: "Well, it's not, you know. I don't intend to leave our apartment for anyplace. We have three rooms and a bath. I'm not ready to go hopping off to any of these communal outfits."
Sonechka says:
"Because of three scoundrels, all our couples are breaking up— that's the way it would work fine. I with Nicholas, she with that one. And these as they are."
At this point an exchange of coarse abuse commenced among the ladies on account of this or that. After which, the men, bolstering their spirits, decided that everything should remain as it was before. On this they went their separate ways.
However, entirely as they were before, things did not go. Soon afterward, Sonechka married her neighbor, the co-worker of the artist's wife. And from time to time our artist came to visit her as a guest; she found him very attractive on account of his soft, defenseless character.
And Other Stories Of Communist Russia Page 12