He took the parasol and, in great excitement, flew off on the wings of love. It was hot outside. In the doctor’s enormous courtyard, overgrown with weeds and nettles, some two dozen boys were playing with a ball. These were all children of the tenants, workers who lived in three old, unsightly wings that the doctor intended to renovate every year and kept putting it off. Healthy, ringing voices resounded. Far to one side, near her porch, stood Yulia Sergeevna, her hands behind her back, watching the game.
‘‘Hello!’’ called Laptev.
She turned to look. Usually he saw her indifferent, cold, or, as yesterday, tired, but now her expression was lively and frisky, like the boys playing with the ball.
‘‘Look, in Moscow they never play so merrily,’’ she said, coming towards him. ‘‘Anyhow, they don’t have such big courtyards there, there’s no room to run around. And papa has just gone to your house,’’ she added, glancing back at the children.
‘‘I know, but I’ve come to see you, not him,’’ said Laptev, admiring her youth, which he had not noticed before, and which he seemed to have discovered in her only today; it was as if he was seeing her slender white neck with its golden chain for the first time today. ‘I’ve come to see you...’ he repeated. ‘‘My sister sends you your parasol, you forgot it yesterday.’’
She reached out to take the parasol, but he clutched it to his breast and said passionately, irrepressibly, yielding again to the sweet ecstasy he had experienced the previous night, sitting under the parasol:
‘‘I beg you, give it to me. I’ll keep it as a souvenir of you... of our acquaintance. It’s so wonderful!’’
‘‘Take it,’’ she said and blushed. ‘‘But there’s nothing wonderful about it.’’
He looked at her in rapture, silently, and not knowing what to say.
‘‘Ah, what am I doing keeping you out in this heat?’’ she said after some silence and laughed. ‘‘Let’s go inside.’’
‘‘But won’t I be disturbing you?’’
They went into the front hall. Yulia Sergeevna ran up the stairs, her dress rustling, white with little blue flowers.
‘‘It’s impossible to disturb me,’’ she said, stopping on the stairs, ‘‘I never do anything. Every day is a holiday for me, from morning till evening.’’
‘‘For me, what you’re saying is incomprehensible,’’ he said, going up to her. ‘‘I grew up in a milieu where people worked every day, all of them without exception, both the men and the women.’’
‘‘But if there’s nothing to do?’’ she asked.
‘‘You must set up your life on such conditions that labor will be necessary. Without labor, there can be no pure and joyful life.’’
He again clutched the parasol to his breast and said softly, unexpectedly for himself, not recognizing his own voice:
‘‘If you would consent to be my wife, I’d give anything. I’d give anything... There’s no price, no sacrifice I wouldn’t go to.’’
She gave a start and looked at him in surprise and fear.
‘‘What, what are you saying!’’ she said, turning pale. ‘‘It’s impossible, I assure you. Forgive me.’’
Then quickly, with the same rustling of her dress, she went further up and disappeared through the door.
Laptev understood what this meant, and his mood changed at once, abruptly, as if the light had suddenly gone out in his soul. Feeling the shame, the humiliation, of a man who has been scorned, who is disliked, repulsive, maybe vile, whom people flee from, he left the house.
‘‘ ‘I’d give anything,’ ’’ he mocked himself, going home in the heat and remembering the details of his proposal. ‘‘ ‘I’d give anything’—utterly merchantlike. Much need there is for your anything!’’
Everything he had just said seemed to him stupid to the point of revulsion. Why had he lied about growing up in a milieu where everybody worked without exception? Why had he spoken in an admonitory tone about a pure and joyful life? That was not intelligent, not interesting, false—false Moscow-style. But now a mood of indifference gradually set in, such as criminals lapse into after a harsh sentence, and he thought that, thank God, everything was now past, and there was not that terrible unknowing, there was no need to spend whole days waiting, languishing, thinking about one and the same thing; now everything was clear; he had to abandon any hope of personal happiness, to live without desires, without hopes, not to dream, not to wait, but so that there would not be this boredom he was so sick of nursing, he could be occupied with other people’s affairs, other people’s happiness, and then old age would set in imperceptibly, life would come to an end—and nothing would be needed anymore. It already made no difference to him, he did not want anything and could reason coldly, but there was some heaviness in his face, especially under his eyes, his forehead was taut as rubber—tears were ready to burst out. Feeling weak all over, he went to bed and in five minutes was fast asleep.
III
THE PROPOSAL LAPTEV had made so unexpectedly brought Yulia Sergeevna to despair.
She knew Laptev only slightly and had become acquainted with him by chance; he was a rich man, a representative of the well-known Moscow firm of Fyodor Laptev and Sons, always very serious, apparently intelligent, preoccupied with his sister’s illness; it had seemed to her that he never paid any attention to her, and she herself was totally indifferent to him—and suddenly this declaration on the stairs, this pitiful, admiring face...
The proposal had confused her by its suddenness, and by the fact that the word ‘‘wife’’ had been uttered, and by the fact that she had had to answer with a refusal. She no longer remembered what she had said to Laptev, but she went on smarting from the traces of that impulsive, unpleasant feeling with which she had refused him. She did not like him; he had the look of a shopkeeper, was personally uninteresting, she could not have responded otherwise than by refusal, but all the same, she felt awkward, as if she had acted badly.
‘‘My God, without even going in, right on the stairs,’’ she said in despair, addressing the little icon that hung at the head of her bed, ‘‘and without courting me beforehand, but somehow strangely, peculiarly...’
In solitude, her anxiety grew stronger with every hour, and it was beyond her strength to deal with this painful feeling alone. She needed someone to hear her out and tell her she had done the right thing. But she had no one to talk to. She had lost her mother long ago, and she considered her father a strange person and could not talk with him seriously. He inhibited her with his caprices, his excessive touchiness and indefinite gestures; and as soon as one got into conversation with him, he would at once begin talking about himself. And during her prayers she was not fully candid, because she did not know for certain what essentially she must ask from God.
The samovar was served. Yulia Sergeevna, very pale, tired, with a helpless look, came out to the dining room, made tea—this was her duty—and poured a glass for her father. Sergei Borisych, in his long frock coat below the knees, red-faced, uncombed, his hands in his pockets, paced the dining room, not up and down, but anyhow, like a caged animal. He would stop by the table, sip some tea with appetite, and again pace and go on thinking about something.
‘‘Laptev proposed to me today,’’ said Yulia Sergeevna, and she blushed.
The doctor looked at her and seemed not to understand.
‘‘Laptev?’’ he asked. ‘‘Mrs. Panaurov’s brother?’’
He loved his daughter; it was probable that she would marry sooner or later and leave him, but he tried not to think about it. He was frightened of solitude, and for some reason, it seemed to him that if he was left alone in this big house, he would have an apoplectic stroke, but he did not like to talk about it directly.
‘‘Well, then, I’m very glad,’’ he said and shrugged. ‘‘I heartily congratulate you. Now you’re presented with a beautiful opportunity for parting with me, to your great satisfaction. I understand you very well. To live with an old father, an ailing half
-wit, must be very hard at your age. I understand you perfectly. And if I dropped dead the sooner and got snatched up by devils, everyone would be glad. I heartily congratulate you.’’
‘‘I refused him.’’
The doctor felt easier at heart but was no longer able to stop, and went on:
‘‘I’m amazed, I’ve long been amazed, why they haven’t put me in a madhouse yet. Why am I wearing this frock coat and not a straitjacket? I still believe in truth, in the good, I’m a fool of an idealist, and in our time, isn’t that madness? And how do they respond to my truth, to my honest attitude? They all but throw stones at me and ride on me. And even my close relations only try to ride on my neck, devil take me, old blockhead that I am...’
‘‘It’s impossible to have a human conversation with you!’’ said Yulia.
She got up from the table impulsively and went to her room in great wrath, remembering how often her father had been unfair to her. But a little later, she felt sorry for her father, and when he left for the club, she went downstairs to see him off and locked the door behind him herself. The weather outside was foul, restless; the door trembled from the gusts of wind, and in the front hall, there were drafts from all sides, so that the candle was nearly blown out. Upstairs Yulia went around all the rooms and made crosses at all the windows and doors; the wind howled, and it seemed as though someone was walking on the roof. It had never been so dismal, and she had never felt so alone.
She asked herself: had she acted well in refusing a man only because she did not like his looks? True, this was a man she did not love, and to marry him would mean saying good-bye forever to her dreams, her notions of happiness and married life, but would she ever meet the man she was dreaming of and fall in love with him? She was already twenty-one years old. There were no suitors in town. She pictured to herself all the men she knew—officials, teachers, officers—and some were already married, and their family life struck her as empty and boring, and the others were uninteresting, colorless, unintelligent, immoral. Laptev, whatever else he was, was a Muscovite, he had finished the university, he spoke French; he lived in the capital, where there were many intelligent, noble, remarkable people, where there was noise, splendid theaters, musical evenings, excellent dressmakers, confectioners... It was said in the Holy Scriptures that a wife should love her husband, and in novels love was given enormous significance, but was there not some exaggeration in that? Was family life really impossible without love? Yet they say love soon passes and only habit remains, and that the very goal of family life lies not in love, not in happiness, but in responsibilities, for instance, in bringing up children, taking care of the household, and so on. And the Holy Scriptures may have in mind love for one’s husband as for a neighbor, respect for him, tolerance.
That night Yulia Sergeevna attentively read the evening prayers, then knelt and, pressing her hands to her breast, looking at the light of the icon lamp, said with feeling:
‘‘Grant me wisdom, Mother of God! Grant me wisdom, Lord!’’
During her life she had happened to meet old maids, poor and insignificant, who bitterly repented and expressed regret that they had once rejected their suitors. Might not the same thing happen to her? Should she not go to a convent or become a sister of mercy?
She undressed and went to bed, crossing herself and crossing the air around her. Suddenly the bell in the corridor rang sharply and plaintively.
‘‘Ah, my God!’’ she said, feeling a painful irritation all over her body from the ringing. She lay and went on thinking how poor in events this provincial life was, how monotonous and at the same time restless. One kept shuddering, being apprehensive of something, feeling angry or guilty, and in the end one’s nerves became upset to such a degree that it was frightening to peek out from under the blanket.
Half an hour later, the bell rang again, as sharply as the first time. It must be that the maid was asleep and did not hear it. Yulia Sergeevna lighted a candle and, trembling, vexed with the maid, began to dress, and when, having dressed, she went out to the corridor, the maid was already locking the door downstairs.
‘‘I thought it was the master, but it was someone sent from a patient,’’ she said.
Yulia Sergeevna went back to her room. She took a pack of cards from the chest of drawers and decided that if she shuffled the cards well and then cut them, and if the card on the bottom was red, it would mean yes, that is, she ought to accept Laptev’s proposal, but if it was black, it meant no. The card was the ten of spades.
That set her at ease, she fell asleep, but in the morning it was again neither yes nor no, and she thought that if she wished, she could now change her life. The thinking wearied her, she languished and felt ill, but all the same, shortly after eleven o’clock, she got dressed and went to visit Nina Fyodorovna. She wanted to see Laptev: maybe now he would seem better to her; maybe she had been mistaken all the while...
It was hard for her to walk against the wind; she inched along, holding her hat with both hands, and could see nothing because of the dust.
IV
GOING INTO HIS sister’s room and unexpectedly seeing Yulia Sergeevna, Laptev again experienced the humiliating condition of a man who inspires revulsion. He concluded that if, after what had happened yesterday, she could so easily visit his sister and meet him, it meant she did not notice him, or considered him a total nonentity. But when he greeted her, she, pale, with dust under her eyes, looked at him sadly and guiltily; he realized that she, too, was suffering.
She was unwell. She stayed a very short time, about ten minutes, and began saying good-bye. And, going out, she said to Laptev:
‘‘See me home, Alexei Fyodorych.’’
They walked down the street in silence, holding their hats, and he, walking behind, tried to shield her from the wind. In the lane, it was quieter, and here they walked side by side.
‘‘If I was unfeeling yesterday, forgive me,’’ she began, and her voice trembled as if she was about to cry. ‘‘This is so tormenting! I didn’t sleep all night.’’
‘‘And I slept splendidly all night,’’ Laptev said without looking at her, ‘‘but that doesn’t mean I’m well. My life is broken, I’m deeply unhappy, and after your refusal yesterday, I walk around as if I’ve been poisoned. The hardest part was said yesterday, today I feel no constraint with you and can speak directly. I love you more than my sister, more than my late mother... I can and have lived without my sister and my mother, but to live without you—it’s senseless for me, I can’t...’
And now, as usual, he guessed her intention. It was clear to him that she wanted to continue yesterday’s talk and had asked him to accompany her only for that, and now she was leading him to her home. But what more could she add to her refusal? What new thing had she thought up? By everything, by her glances, by her smile, and even by the way she held her head and shoulders as she walked beside him, he could see that she still did not love him, that he was a stranger to her. What more did she want to say?
Dr. Sergei Borisych was at home.
‘‘Welcome, Fyodor Alexeich, very glad to see you,’’ he said, confusing his name and patronymic. ‘‘Very, very glad.’’
Before, he had not been so cordial, and Laptev concluded that the doctor already knew about his proposal; and he did not like that. He was now sitting in the drawing room, and this room made a strange impression, with its poor bourgeois furnishings, its bad paintings, and though there were armchairs in it and an enormous lamp with a lamp shade, it still resembled an uninhabited space, a roomy barn, and it was obvious that only such a man as the doctor could feel at home there; the other room, nearly twice bigger, was called the reception hall, and here there were only straight chairs, as in a dancing school. And Laptev, as he sat in the drawing room and talked with the doctor about his sister, began to be tormented by a certain suspicion. What if Yulia Sergeevna had visited his sister, Nina, and then brought him here in order to announce to him that she accepted his proposal? Oh, how terrible t
hat would be, but most terrible of all was that his soul was accessible to such suspicions. He pictured to himself how yesterday evening and night the father and daughter had discussed it for a long time, maybe argued for a long time, and then come to an agreement that Yulia had acted light-mindedly in refusing a rich man. Even the words parents speak on such occasions rang in his ears:
‘‘True, you don’t love him, but then think how much good you can do!’’
The doctor was about to go on his sick rounds. Laptev wanted to leave with him, but Yulia Sergeevna said:
‘‘No, please stay.’’
She was tormented, dispirited, and was now persuading herself that to refuse a decent, kind, loving man only because she did not like him, especially when this marriage would present an opportunity to change her life, her cheerless, monotonous, idle life, when youth was passing by, and there was nothing bright to look forward to in the future—to refuse under such circumstances was madness, it was a caprice and a whim, and God might even punish her for it.
Her father left. When the sound of his footsteps died away, she suddenly stopped in front of Laptev and said resolutely, turning terribly pale:
‘‘I thought for a long time yesterday, Alexei Fyodorych ... I accept your proposal.’’
He bent down and kissed her hand, she awkwardly kissed him on the head with cold lips. He felt that in this declaration of love, the main thing—her love—was missing, and there was much that was superfluous, and he wanted to shout, to run away, to leave at once for Moscow, but she was standing close by, she seemed so beautiful to him, and passion suddenly overcame him, he realized that it was now too late to reason, he embraced her passionately, pressed her to his breast, and, murmuring something, calling her dear , kissed her on the neck, then on the cheek, on the head...
The Complete Short Novels Page 37