‘‘To sit in a stuffy room,’’ I said, ‘‘to copy papers, to compete with a typewriter, for a man of my age is shameful and insulting. How can there be any talk about sacred fire here!’’
‘‘Still, it’s intellectual work,’’ said my father. ‘‘But enough, let’s break off this conversation, and in any case, I’m warning you: if you follow your despicable inclinations and don’t go back to work, then I and my daughter will deprive you of our love. I’ll deprive you of your inheritance—I swear by the true God!’’
With perfect sincerity, to show all the purity of the motives by which I wanted to be guided in my life, I said:
‘‘The question of inheritance seems unimportant to me. I renounce it all beforehand.’’
For some reason, quite unexpectedly for me, these words greatly offended my father. He turned all purple.
‘‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that, stupid boy!’’ he cried in a high, shrill voice. ‘‘Scoundrel!’’ And quickly and deftly, with an accustomed movement, he struck me on the cheek once and then again. ‘‘You begin to forget yourself!’
In childhood, when my father beat me, I had to stand up straight at attention and look him in the face. And now, when he beat me, I was completely at a loss and, as if my childhood was still going on, stood at attention and tried to look him right in the eye. My father was old and very skinny, but his thin muscles must have been strong as straps, because he struck me very painfully.
I backed away into the front hall, and here he seized his umbrella and struck me several times on the head and shoulders; just then my sister opened the door from the drawing room to find out what the noise was, but at once turned away with an expression of horror and pity, not saying a single word in my defense.
The intention not to go back to the office but to start a new working life was unshakable in me. It remained only to choose the kind of trade—and that did not appear especially difficult, because it seemed to me that I was very strong, enduring, capable of the most heavy labor. I had a monotonous working life ahead of me, with hunger, stench, and coarse surroundings, with the constant thought of wages and a crust of bread. And—who knows?—returning from work down Bolshaya Dvoryanskaya Street, maybe more than once I’d envy the engineer Dolzhikov, who lived by intellectual work, but now I enjoyed the thought of all these future adversities of mine. Once I used to dream of mental activity, imagining myself now a teacher, now a doctor, now a writer, but my dreams remained dreams. The inclination to intellectual pleasures, for instance, the theater and reading, was developed in me to the point of passion, but whether I had the capacity for intellectual work, I don’t know. In high school I had an invincible aversion to Greek, so that I had to be taken out of the fourth class.4 For a long time, tutors came and prepared me for the fifth class, then I served in various departments, spending the greater part of the day in total idleness, and was told that it was intellectual work; my activity in the spheres of learning and service called neither for mental effort, nor for talent, nor for personal ability, nor for a creative uplifting of spirit: it was mechanical; and such intellectual work I place lower than physical, and I don’t think it can serve even for a moment as justification for an idle, carefree life, since it is nothing but a deception itself, one of the forms of that same idleness. In all likelihood, I have never known real intellectual work.
Evening came. We lived on Bolshaya Dvoryanskaya—it was the main street of the town, and in the evenings our beau monde, for lack of a decent public garden, promenaded on it. This lovely street could partly replace a garden, because on both sides of it grew poplars, which were fragrant, especially after rain, and from behind fences and palisades hung acacias, tall lilac bushes, bird cherries, apple trees. The May twilight, the tender young greenery with its shadows, the smell of the lilacs, the hum of beetles, the silence, the warmth—how new it all is, and how extraordinary, though spring is repeated every year! I stood by the gate and looked at the promenaders. I had grown up and used to play pranks with most of them, but now my proximity might embarrass them, because I was dressed poorly, not fashionably, and on account of my very tight trousers and big, clumsy boots, people called me macaroni on ships. What’s more, I had a bad reputation in town because I had no social position and often played billiards in cheap taverns, and maybe also because, without any cause on my part, I was twice taken to the police.
In the big house opposite, at the engineer Dolzhikov’s, somebody was playing the piano. It was growing dark, and stars twinkled in the sky. Now my father, in an old top hat with a wide, turned-up brim, arm in arm with my sister, walked by slowly, responding to bows.
‘‘Look!’’ he was saying to my sister, pointing at the sky with the very umbrella he had struck me with earlier that day. ‘‘Look at the sky! The stars, even the smallest of them, are all worlds! How insignificant man is compared to the universe!’’
And he said it in such a tone as if he found it extremely flattering and agreeable to be so insignificant. What a giftless man! Unfortunately, he was our only architect, and in the last fifteen or twenty years, as I recall, not a single decent house was built in town. When he was asked for a plan, he usually drew the reception room and drawing room first; as boarding-school girls in the old days could only start dancing on the same foot, so his artistic idea could proceed and develop only from the reception room and drawing room. To them he added a dining room, a nursery, a study, connecting the rooms with doors, so that you inevitably had to pass through one to get to the next, and each had two or even three superfluous doors. His idea must have been unclear, extremely confused, curtailed; each time, as if sensing that something was lacking, he resorted to various sorts of annexes, attaching them one to the other, and I can see even now the narrow little entries, the narrow little corridors, the crooked stairways leading to entresols where you could only stand bent over and where, instead of a floor, there were three huge steps, like shelves in a bathhouse; and the kitchen was unfailingly under the house, with vaulting and a brick floor. The façade had a stubborn, hard expression; the lines were dry, timid, the roof low, flattened; and the fat, muffinlike chimneys unfailingly had wire covers with black, squeaking weathervanes. And for some reason, all these houses my father built, which were so like one another, vaguely reminded me of his top hat, the dry and stubborn nape of his neck. In the course of time, my father’s giftless-ness became a familiar sight in town, it struck root and became our style.
Father introduced this style into my sister’s life as well. Beginning with the fact that he called her Cleopatra (and me Misail).5 When she was still a little girl, he used to frighten her by telling her about the stars, about the ancient sages, about our ancestors, explaining to her at length what life was, what duty was; and now, when she was twenty-six, he went on the same way, allowing her to walk arm in arm only with him, and imagining for some reason that sooner or later a decent young man must appear who would wish to contract a marriage with her out of respect for his personal qualities. And she adored my father, feared him, and believed in his extraordinary intelligence.
It grew quite dark, and the street gradually became deserted. In the house opposite, the music ceased; the gates were thrust open, and a troika of prancing horses drove down our street with a soft ringing of little bells. It was the engineer and his daughter going for a ride. Time for bed!
I had my own room in the house, but I lived in the yard, in a little shack under the same roof as the brick shed, probably built once for storing harness—there were big spikes driven into the walls—but now no longer needed, and for thirty years my father had been storing his newspapers in it, which for some reason he had bound every six months and allowed no one to touch. Living there, I ran across my father and his visitors less often, and it seemed to me that if I didn’t live in my real room and didn’t go to the house every day for dinner, my father’s words about my living on his neck wouldn’t sound so offensive.
My sister was waiting for me. She had brought me
supper in secret from my father: a small piece of cold veal and a slice of bread. ‘‘Money loves counting,’’ ‘‘A kopeck saves a rouble,’’ and the like, were often repeated in our house, and my sister, oppressed by these banalities, did her utmost to reduce expenses, and therefore we ate badly. She set the plate on the table, sat down on my bed, and began to cry.
‘‘Misail,’’ she said, ‘‘what are you doing to us?’’
She didn’t cover her face, the tears dropped on her breast and hands, and her expression was grief-stricken. She fell on the pillow and let her tears flow freely, shaking all over and sobbing.
‘‘Again you’ve left your job...’ she said. ‘‘Oh, it’s so terrible!’’
‘‘But understand, sister, understand...’ I said, and despair came over me because she was crying.
As if on purpose, all the kerosene had burnt up in my lamp, it smoked and was about to go out, and the old spikes in the walls looked stern, and their shadows wavered.
‘‘Spare us!’’ my sister said, getting up. ‘‘Father is awfully grieved, and I’m sick, I’m losing my mind. What will become of you?’’ she asked, sobbing and reaching her arms out to me. ‘‘I beg you, I implore you, in the name of our late mama, I beg you: go back to your job!’’
‘‘I can’t, Cleopatra!’’ I said, feeling that a little more and I’d give in. ‘‘I can’t!’’
‘‘Why?’’ my sister went on. ‘‘Why? Well, if you didn’t get along with your superior, look for another position. For instance, why don’t you go and work for the railway? I was just talking with Anyuta Blagovo, and she assures me you’d be accepted at the railway, and even promised to put in a word for you. For God’s sake, Misail, think! Think, I implore you!’’
We talked a little more and I gave in. I said the thought of working for the railway that was under construction had never once entered my head, and that maybe I was ready to try.
She smiled joyfully through her tears and pressed my hand, and after that still went on crying because she couldn’t stop, and I went to the kitchen to get some kerosene.
II
AMONG THE LOVERS of amateur theater, concerts, and tableaux vivants for charitable purposes, the first place in town went to the Azhogins, who lived in their own house on Bolshaya Dvoryanskaya; they provided the space each time and also took upon themselves all the cares and expenses. This rich landowning family had about ten thousand acres and a magnificent estate in the district, but they didn’t like the country and lived in town year-round. It consisted of the mother, a tall, lean, delicate woman who cut her hair short and wore a short jacket and a straight skirt after the English fashion, and three daughters who, when spoken of, were called not by their names but simply the eldest, the middle, and the youngest. They all had unattractively sharp chins, were nearsighted, stoop-shouldered, and dressed the same as their mother, lisped unpleasantly, and despite all that were sure to take part in every performance and were constantly doing something for philanthropic purposes—acting, reciting, singing. They were very serious and never smiled, and even in vaudevilles with songs, acted without the slightest merriment, with a businesslike air, as if they were doing bookkeeping.
I loved our theatricals and especially the rehearsals, frequent, noisy and often slightly witless, after which we were always given supper. I took no part in choosing the plays and distributing the roles. My part lay backstage. I painted the sets, copied the parts, prompted, did makeup, and was also in charge of arranging various effects such as thunder, nightingales’ singing, and so on. Since I had no social position or decent clothes, I kept myself apart at rehearsals, in the shadow of the wings, and was timidly silent.
I painted the sets either in the Azhogins’ shed or in the yard. I was helped by a housepainter—or, as he called himself, a housepainting contractor—Andrei Ivanov, a man of about fifty, tall, very thin and pale, with a sunken chest, sunken temples, and blue rings under his eyes, whose appearance was even a little frightening. He was sick with some wasting disease, and every fall and spring they said he was on the way out, but he’d lie down for a while, get up, and then say with surprise: ‘‘Again I didn’t die!’’
In town he was known as Radish, and they said it was his real family name. He loved the theater as much as I did, and as soon as the rumor reached him that a production was being prepared, he’d drop all his work and go to the Azhogins’ to paint sets.
The day after my talk with my sister, I worked from morning till night at the Azhogins’. The rehearsal was set for seven o’clock in the evening, and an hour before the start, all the amateurs had gathered in the reception room, and the eldest, the middle, and the youngest walked about the stage reading from their notebooks. Radish, in a long, rusty coat and with a scarf wrapped around his neck, stood leaning his temple against the wall and looking at the stage with a pious expression. The Azhogin mother went up to one guest, then another, and said something pleasant to each of them. She had a manner of looking intently into your face and speaking quietly, as if in secret.
‘‘It must be difficult to paint sets,’’ she said quietly, coming up to me. ‘‘And Madame Mufke and I were just talking about prejudice, and I saw you come in. My God, all my life, all my life I’ve fought against prejudice! To convince the servants of what nonsense all these fears are, I always light three candles in my house and begin all my important business on the thirteenth.’’
The daughter of the engineer Dolzhikov came in, a beautiful, plump blonde, dressed, as they said here, in everything Parisian. She didn’t act, but a chair was placed onstage for her at rehearsals, and the performances would not begin until she appeared in the front row, radiant and amazing everyone with her finery. As a young thing from the capital, she was allowed to make observations during the rehearsals, and she made them with a sweet, condescending smile, and one could see that she looked upon our performances as a childish amusement. It was said of her that she had studied singing at the Petersburg Conservatory and had even sung one whole winter in a private opera. I liked her very much, and usually, at rehearsals and during performances, I never took my eyes off her.
I had already picked up the notebook to start prompting when my sister unexpectedly appeared. Without taking off her coat and hat, she came over to me and said:
‘‘Please come with me.’’
I went. Backstage, in the doorway, stood Anyuta Blagovo, also wearing a hat with a dark little veil. She was the daughter of the associate court magistrate, who had long served in our town, almost from the very founding of the district court. As she was tall and well built, her participation in tableaux vivants was considered obligatory, and when she represented some sort of fairy or Glory, her face burned with shame; but she didn’t take part in the plays and would come to the rehearsals only for a moment, on some errand, and would not go to the reception room. Now, too, it was evident that she had come only for a moment.
‘‘My father has spoken for you,’’ she said drily, not looking at me and blushing. ‘‘Dolzhikov has promised you a position on the railway. Go to see him tomorrow, he will be at home.’’
I bowed and thanked her for taking the trouble.
‘‘And you can drop this,’’ she said, pointing to the notebook.
She and my sister went over to Mrs. Azhogin and exchanged whispers with her for a couple of moments, glancing at me. They were discussing something.
‘‘Indeed,’’ Mrs. Azhogin said quietly, coming up to me and looking intently into my face, ‘‘indeed, if this distracts you from serious occupations,’’ she pulled the notebook from my hands, ‘‘you may pass it on to someone else. Don’t worry, my friend, God be with you.’’
I took leave of her and went out in embarrassment. As I was going down the stairs, I saw my sister and Anyuta Blagovo leave; they were talking animatedly about something, most likely my starting work at the railway, and were hurrying. My sister had never before come to rehearsals, and now probably had pangs of conscience and was afraid father would f
ind out that she had gone to the Azhogins’ without his permission.
I went to see Dolzhikov the next day between twelve and one. The footman took me to a very beautiful room that served the engineer simultaneously as a drawing room and a study. Here everything was soft, elegant, and, for an unaccustomed person like me, even strange. Costly rugs, enormous armchairs, bronze, paintings, gilt and plush frames; in the photographs scattered over the walls, very beautiful women, intelligent, wonderful faces, free poses; the door from the drawing room leads straight to the garden, to the balcony, and one can see lilacs, one can see a table set for lunch, many bottles, a bouquet of roses, it smells of spring and expensive cigars, it smells of happiness—and everything seems to want to say that this is a man who has lived, worked, and achieved that happiness which is possible on earth. The engineer’s daughter was sitting at the desk and reading a newspaper.
‘‘You’ve come to see my father?’’ she asked. ‘‘He’s taking a shower, he’ll be here presently. Meanwhile, please be seated.’’
The Complete Short Novels Page 46