‘‘It was a mistake! Leave me alone!’’ Nadezhda Fyodorovna said sharply, looking at him with fear on that beautiful, wonderful evening, and asking herself in perplexity if there could indeed have been a moment when she had liked this man and been intimate with him.
‘‘So, ma’am!’’ said Kirilin. He stood silently for a while, pondering, and said: ‘‘What, then? Let’s wait till you’re in a better mood, and meanwhile, I venture to assure you that I am a respectable man and will not allow anyone to doubt it. I am not to be toyed with! Adieu!’’
He saluted her and walked off, making his way through the bushes. A little later, Atchmianov approached hesitantly.
‘‘A fine evening tonight!’’ he said with a slight Armenian accent.
He was not bad-looking, dressed according to fashion, had the simple manners of a well-bred young man, but Nadezhda Fyodorovna disliked him because she owed his father three hundred roubles; there was also the unpleasantness of a shopkeeper being invited to the picnic, and the unpleasantness of his having approached her precisely that evening, when her soul felt so pure.
‘‘Generally, the picnic’s a success,’’ he said after some silence.
‘‘Yes,’’ she agreed, and as if she had just remembered her debt, she said casually: ‘‘Ah, yes, tell them in your shop that Ivan Andreich will come one of these days and pay them the three hundred ... or I don’t remember how much.’’
‘‘I’m ready to give you another three hundred, if only you’ll stop mentioning this debt every day. Why such prose?’’
Nadezhda Fyodorovna laughed. The amusing thought came to her head that, if she were immoral enough and wished to, she could get rid of this debt in one minute. If, for instance, she were to turn the head of this handsome young fool! How amusing, absurd, wild it would be indeed! And she suddenly wanted to make him fall in love with her, to fleece him, to drop him, and then see what would come of it.
‘‘Allow me to give you one piece of advice,’’ Atchmianov said timidly. ‘‘Beware of Kirilin, I beg you. He tells terrible things about you everywhere.’’
‘‘I’m not interested in knowing what every fool tells about me,’’ Nadezhda Fyodorovna said coldly, and uneasiness came over her, and the amusing thought of toying with the pretty young Atchmianov suddenly lost its charm.
‘‘We must go down,’’ she said. ‘‘They’re calling.’’
Down there the fish soup was ready. It was poured into plates and eaten with that religious solemnity which only occurs at picnics. They all found the soup very tasty and said they had never had anything so tasty at home. As happens at all picnics, lost amidst a mass of napkins, packets, needless greasy wrappings scudding about in the wind, no one knew which glass and which piece of bread was whose, they poured wine on the rug and on their knees, spilled salt, and it was dark around them, and the fire burned less brightly, and they were all too lazy to get up and put on more brush. They all drank wine, and Kostya and Katya got half a glass each. Nadezhda Fyodorovna drank a glass, then another, became drunk, and forgot about Kirilin.
‘‘A splendid picnic, a charming evening,’’ said Laevsky, made merry by the wine, ‘‘but I’d prefer a nice winter to all this. ‘A frosty dust silvers his beaver collar.’ ’’19
‘‘Tastes vary,’’ observed von Koren.
Laevsky felt awkward: the heat of the fire struck him in the back, and von Koren’s hatred in the front and face; this hatred from a decent, intelligent man, which probably concealed a substantial reason, humiliated him, weakened him, and, unable to confront it, he said in an ingratiating tone:
‘‘I passionately love nature and regret not being a student of natural science. I envy you.’’
‘‘Well, and I have no regret or envy,’’ said Nadezhda Fyodorovna. ‘‘I don’t understand how it’s possible to be seriously occupied with bugs and gnats when people are suffering.’’
Laevsky shared her opinion. He was totally unacquainted with natural science and therefore could never reconcile himself to the authoritative tone and learned, profound air of people who studied the feelers of ants and the legs of cockroaches, and it had always vexed him that, on the basis of feelers, legs, and some sort of protoplasm (for some reason, he always imagined it like an oyster), these people should undertake to resolve questions that embraced the origin and life of man. But he heard a ring of falseness in Nadezhda Fyodorovna’s words, and he said, only so as to contradict her:
‘‘The point is not in the bugs but in the conclusions!’’
VIII
IT WAS LATE, past ten o’clock, when they began getting into the carriages to go home. Everyone settled in, the only ones missing were Nadezhda Fyodorovna and Atchmianov, who were racing each other and laughing on the other side of the river.
‘‘Hurry up, please!’’ Samoilenko called to them.
‘‘The ladies shouldn’t have been given wine,’’ von Koren said in a low voice.
Laevsky, wearied by the picnic, by von Koren’s hatred, and by his own thoughts, went to meet Nadezhda Fyodorovna, and when, merry, joyful, feeling light as a feather, breathless and laughing, she seized him by both hands and put her head on his chest, he took a step back and said sternly:
‘‘You behave like a ... cocotte.’
This came out very rudely, so that he even felt sorry for her. On his angry, tired face she read hatred, pity, vexation with her, and she suddenly lost heart. She realized that she had overdone it, that she had behaved too casually, and, saddened, feeling heavy, fat, coarse, and drunk, she sat in the first empty carriage she found, along with Atchmianov. Laevsky sat with Kirilin, the zoologist with Samoilenko, the deacon with the ladies, and the train set off.
‘‘That’s how they are, the macaques...’ von Koren began, wrapping himself in his cloak and closing his eyes. ‘‘Did you hear, she doesn’t want to study bugs and gnats because people are suffering. That’s how all macaques judge the likes of us. A slavish, deceitful tribe, intimidated by the knout and the fist for ten generations; they tremble, they wax tender, they burn incense only before force, but let a macaque into a free area, where there’s nobody to take it by the scruff of the neck, and it loses control and shows its real face. Look how brave it is at art exhibitions, in museums, in theaters, or when it passes judgment on science: it struts, it rears up, it denounces, it criticizes... And it’s sure to criticize—that’s a feature of slaves! Just listen: people of the liberal professions are abused more often than swindlers—that’s because three-quarters of society consists of slaves, the same macaques as these. It never happens that a slave offers you his hand and thanks you sincerely for the fact that you work.’’
‘‘I don’t know what you want!’’ Samoilenko said, yawning. ‘‘The poor woman, in her simplicity, wanted to chat with you about something intelligent, and you go drawing conclusions. You’re angry with him for something, and also with her just for company. But she’s a wonderful woman!’’
‘‘Oh, come now! An ordinary kept woman, depraved and banal. Listen, Alexander Davidych, when you meet a simple woman who isn’t living with her husband and does nothing but hee-hee-hee and ha-ha-ha, you tell her to go and work. Why are you timid and afraid to tell the truth here? Only because Nadezhda Fyodorovna is kept not by a sailor but by an official?’’
‘‘What am I to do with her, then?’’ Samoilenko became angry. ‘‘Beat her or something?’’
‘‘Don’t flatter vice. We curse vice only out of earshot, but that’s like a fig in the pocket.20 I’m a zoologist, or a sociologist, which is the same thing; you are a doctor; society believes us; it’s our duty to point out to it the terrible harm with which it and future generations are threatened by the existence of ladies like this Nadezhda Ivanovna.’’
‘‘Fyodorovna,’’ Samoilenko corrected. ‘‘And what should society do?’’
‘‘It? That’s its business. In my opinion, the most direct and proper way is force. She ought to be sent to her husband manu militari,4 and if the h
usband won’t have her, then send her to hard labor or some sort of correctional institution.’’
‘‘Oof !’’ sighed Samoilenko. He paused and asked softly: ‘‘The other day you said people like Laevsky ought to be destroyed... Tell me, if somehow ... suppose the state or society charged you with destroying him, would you... do it?’’
‘‘With a steady hand.’’
IX
RETURNING HOME, LAEVSKY and Nadezhda Fyodorovna went into their dark, dull, stuffy rooms. Both were silent. Laevsky lit a candle, and Nadezhda Fyodorovna sat down and, without taking off her cloak and hat, raised her sad, guilty eyes to him.
He realized that she was expecting a talk from him; but to talk would be boring, useless, and wearisome, and he felt downhearted because he had lost control and been rude to her. He chanced to feel in his pocket the letter he had been wanting to read to her every day, and he thought that if he showed her the letter now, it would turn her attention elsewhere.
‘‘It’s time to clarify our relations,’’ he thought. ‘‘I’ll give it to her, come what may.’’
He took out the letter and handed it to her.
‘‘Read it. It concerns you.’’
Having said this, he went to his study and lay down on the sofa in the darkness, without a pillow. Nadezhda Fyodorovna read the letter, and it seemed to her that the ceiling had lowered and the walls had closed in on her. It suddenly became cramped, dark, and frightening. She quickly crossed herself three times and said:
‘‘Give rest, O Lord... give rest, O Lord...’21
And she wept.
‘‘Vanya!’’ she called. ‘‘Ivan Andreich!’’
There was no answer. Thinking that Laevsky had come in and was standing behind her chair, she sobbed like a child and said:
‘‘Why didn’t you tell me earlier that he had died? I wouldn’t have gone on the picnic, I wouldn’t have laughed so terribly... Men were saying vulgar things to me. What sin, what sin! Save me, Vanya, save me... I’m going out of my mind... I’m lost...’
Laevsky heard her sobs. He felt unbearably suffocated, and his heart was pounding hard. In anguish, he got up, stood in the middle of the room for a while, felt in the darkness for the chair by the table, and sat down.
‘‘This is a prison...’ he thought. ‘‘I must get out... I can’t...’
It was too late to go and play cards, there were no restaurants in the town. He lay down again and stopped his ears so as not to hear the sobbing, and suddenly remembered that he could go to Samoilenko’s. To avoid walking past Nadezhda Fyodorovna, he climbed out the window to the garden, got over the fence, and went on down the street. It was dark. Some steamer had just arrived—a big passenger ship, judging by its lights... An anchor chain clanked. A small red light moved quickly from the coast to the ship: it was the customs boat.
‘‘The passengers are asleep in their cabins ...’ thought Laevsky, and he envied other people’s peace.
The windows of Samoilenko’s house were open. Laevsky looked through one of them, then another: it was dark and quiet inside.
‘‘Alexander Davidych, are you asleep?’’ he called. ‘‘Alexander Davidych!’’
Coughing was heard, and an anxious cry:
‘‘Who’s there? What the devil?’’
‘‘It’s me, Alexander Davidych. Forgive me.’’
A little later, a door opened; the soft light of an icon lamp gleamed, and the enormous Samoilenko appeared, all in white and wearing a white nightcap.
‘‘What do you want?’’ he asked, breathing heavily from being awakened and scratching himself. ‘‘Wait, I’ll open up at once.’’
‘‘Don’t bother, I’ll come in the window...’
Laevsky climbed through the window and, going up to Samoilenko, seized him by the hand.
‘‘Alexander Davidych,’’ he said in a trembling voice, ‘‘save me! I beseech you, I adjure you, understand me! My situation is tormenting. If it goes on for another day or two, I’ll strangle myself like ... like a dog!’’
‘Wait ... What exactly are you referring to?’’
‘‘Light a candle.’’
‘Ho-hum ...’ sighed Samoilenko, lighting a candle. ‘‘My God, my God... It’s already past one o’clock, brother.’’
‘‘Forgive me, but I can’t stay at home,’’ said Laevsky, feeling greatly relieved by the light and Samoilenko’s presence. ‘‘You, Alexander Davidych, are my best and only friend... All my hope lies in you. Whether you want to or not, for God’s sake, help me out. I must leave here at all costs. Lend me some money!’’
‘‘Oh, my God, my God!...’ Samoilenko sighed, scratching himself. ‘‘I’m falling asleep and I hear a whistle—a steamer has come—and then you... How much do you need?’’
‘‘At least three hundred roubles. I should leave her a hundred, and I’ll need two hundred for my trip... I already owe you about four hundred, but I’ll send you all of it ... all of it...’
Samoilenko took hold of both his side-whiskers with one hand, stood straddle-legged, and pondered.
‘So ...’ he murmured, reflecting. ‘‘Three hundred... Yes... But I haven’t got that much. I’ll have to borrow it from somebody.’’
‘‘Borrow it, for God’s sake!’’ said Laevsky, seeing by Samoilenko’s face that he wanted to give him the money and was sure to do it. ‘‘Borrow it, and I’ll be sure to pay it back. I’ll send it from Petersburg as soon as I get there. Don’t worry about that. Look, Sasha,’’ he said, reviving, ‘‘let’s have some wine!’’
‘Wine... That’s possible.’’
They both went to the dining room.
‘‘And what about Nadezhda Fyodorovna?’’ asked Samoilenko, setting three bottles and a plate of peaches on the table. ‘‘Can she be staying on?’’
‘‘I’ll arrange it all, I’ll arrange it all ...’ said Laevsky, feeling an unexpected surge of joy. ‘‘I’ll send her money afterwards, and she’ll come to me... And then we’ll clarify our relations. To your health, friend.’’
‘‘Wait,’’ said Samoilenko. ‘‘Drink this one first... It’s from my vineyard. This bottle is from Navaridze’s vineyard, and this one from Akhatulov’s... Try all three and tell me frankly... Mine seems to be a bit acidic. Eh? Don’t you find?’’
‘‘Yes. You’ve really comforted me, Alexander Davidych. Thank you... I’ve revived.’’
‘‘A bit acidic?’’
‘‘Devil knows, I don’t know. But you’re a splendid, wonderful man!’’
Looking at his pale, agitated, kindly face, Samoilenko remembered von Koren’s opinion that such people should be destroyed, and Laevsky seemed to him a weak, defenseless child whom anyone could offend and destroy.
‘‘And when you go, make peace with your mother,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s not nice.’’
‘‘Yes, yes, without fail.’’
They were silent for a while. When they had drunk the first bottle, Samoilenko said:
‘‘Make peace with von Koren as well. You’re both most excellent and intelligent people, but you stare at each other like two wolves.’’
‘‘Yes, he’s a most excellent and intelligent man,’’ agreed Laevsky, ready now to praise and forgive everybody. ‘‘He’s a remarkable man, but it’s impossible for me to be friends with him. No! Our natures are too different. I’m sluggish, weak, submissive by nature; I might offer him my hand at a good moment, but he’d turn away from me ... with scorn.’’
Laevsky sipped some wine, paced from corner to corner, and, stopping in the middle of the room, went on:
‘‘I understand von Koren very well. He’s firm, strong, despotic by nature. You’ve heard him talking constantly about an expedition, and they’re not empty words. He needs the desert, a moonlit night; around him in tents and under the open sky sleep his hungry and sick Cossacks, guides, porters, a doctor, a priest, worn out by the difficult marches, and he alone doesn’t sleep and, like Stanley,22 sits in his folding chair and feels himsel
f the king of the desert and master of these people. He walks, and walks, and walks somewhere, his people groan and die one after the other, but he walks and walks, and in the end dies himself, and still remains the despot and king of the desert, because the cross on his grave can be seen by caravans from thirty or forty miles away, and it reigns over the desert. I’m sorry the man is not in military service. He’d make an excellent, brilliant general. He’d know how to drown his cavalry in the river and make bridges from the corpses, and such boldness is more necessary in war than any fortifications or tactics. Oh, I understand him very well! Tell me, why does he eat himself up here? What does he need here?’’
‘‘He’s studying marine fauna.’’
‘‘No. No, brother, no!’’ sighed Laevsky. ‘‘I was told by a scientist traveling on the steamer that the Black Sea is poor in fauna, and that organic life is impossible in the depths of it owing to the abundance of hydrogen sulfate. All serious zoologists work at biological stations in Naples or Villefranche. But von Koren is independent and stubborn: he works on the Black Sea because nobody works here; he’s broken with the university, doesn’t want to know any scientists and colleagues, because he’s first of all a despot and only then a zoologist. And you’ll see, something great will come of him. He’s already dreaming now that when he returns from the expedition, he’ll smoke out the intrigue and mediocrity in our universities and tie the scientists in knots. Despotism is as strong in science as in war. And he’s living for the second summer in this stinking little town, because it’s better to be first in a village than second in a city.23 Here he’s a king and an eagle; he’s got all the inhabitants under his thumb and oppresses them with his authority. He’s taken everybody in hand, he interferes in other people’s affairs, he wants to be in on everything, and everybody’s afraid of him. I’m slipping out from under his paw, he senses it, and he hates me. Didn’t he tell you that I should be destroyed or sent to the public works?’’
The Complete Short Novels Page 19