But that I should nurse a grudge, Nastenka! That I should cast a dark cloud over your bright, serene happiness; that I, with bitter reproaches, should cast pangs of anguish on your heart, wound it with secret remorse and force it to beat with anguish at the moment of bliss; that I would crush even one of those delicate flowers that you plaited into your black curls when you walked together with him to the altar … Oh, never, never! May your sky be clear, may your sweet smile be bright and serene, may you be blessed for that moment of bliss and happiness that you gave to another lonely, grateful heart!
My God! A whole minute of bliss! Is that really so little for the whole of a man’s life?
1848
A CHRISTMAS PARTY AND A WEDDING
(From the Notes of an Unknown Person)
The other day I saw a wedding … but no! I’d better tell you about the Christmas party. The wedding was nice; I liked it very much, but the other event was better. I don’t know how it was that I recalled that Christmas party as I watched the wedding. This is what happened. Exactly five years ago, on New Year’s Eve, I was invited to a children’s party. The person who invited me was a certain well-known businessman with connections, a circle of acquaintance and intrigues, so that one might think that the children’s party was a pretext for the parents to get together and talk about some interesting matters in an innocent, casual and extemporaneous way. I was an outsider; I didn’t have any business matters whatsoever, and therefore I spent the evening rather left to my own devices. There was another gentleman as well who seemed to be neither kith nor kin, but who, like me, had chanced upon this bit of family happiness … He was the first to catch my eye. He was a tall, thin man, quite serious, and quite decently dressed. But it was obvious that he was in no mood for celebrations and family happiness: he would walk over to some corner, immediately stop smiling and knit his bushy black brows. Apart from the host, he didn’t know a single soul at the party. It was obvious that he was terribly bored, but that he was valiantly playing the part of the thoroughly entertained and happy man to the very end. I learned afterwards that this was a certain gentleman from the provinces who had some sort of crucial, puzzling business in the capital, who had brought a letter of recommendation to our host, and whom our host was patronizing by no means con amore1 and who had been invited to the children’s party as a courtesy. They didn’t play cards with him, they didn’t offer him cigars, no one struck up a conversation with him, recognizing from afar, perhaps, the bird by its feathers and, therefore, my gentleman was forced to stroke his side whiskers all evening just so he had something to do with his hands. The side whiskers indeed were quite handsome. But he stroked them so very zealously that looking at him, one might very well think that first just the side whiskers had been brought into the world, and then later the gentleman was attached to them in order to stroke them.
Apart from this figure, who was taking part in the family happiness of our host (who had five chubby boys), I liked one other gentleman. But he was a completely different sort of character. This was a personage. His name was Yulian Mastakovich.2 Just one glance was enough to see that he was an honoured guest and that he was on the same terms with the host as the host was with the gentleman stroking his side whiskers. The host and hostess showered him with compliments, waited on him, made sure he had something to drink, pampered him, brought their guests to him to be introduced, but didn’t take him to be introduced to anybody. I noticed that our host’s eyes began to sparkle with tears when Yulian Mastakovich observed in regard to the evening that rarely did he spend his time in such a delightful fashion. I became somewhat terrified in the presence of such a personage and therefore, after admiring the children for a bit, I left for the small drawing room, which was completely empty, and sat down in the hostess’s flowery arbour that took up almost half of the whole room.
The children were all unbelievably sweet and flatly refused to behave like grown-ups, despite the exhortations of their governesses and doting mothers. They stripped bare the entire Christmas tree in a flash, down to the last candy, and had already managed to break half of the toys before they found out which one was meant for whom. Particularly winsome was one boy, with dark eyes and curly hair, who kept wanting to shoot me with his wooden gun. But his sister attracted more attention than anyone, a girl about eleven years old, charming as a little cherub, quiet, thoughtful, pale, with big, pensive, prominent eyes. The children had somehow hurt her feelings, and so she had come into the same drawing room where I was sitting and busied herself in the corner – with her doll. The guests were respectfully pointing out a certain rich tax-farmer,3 her father, and somebody remarked in a whisper that 300,000 roubles had already been set aside for her dowry. I turned around to cast a glance at those who were intrigued by this circumstance, and my glance fell on Yulian Mastakovich, who, with his hands clasped behind his back and his head inclined a bit to one side, seemed to be listening with special attention to the idle chatter of these gentlemen. Afterwards I could not but marvel at the wisdom of our hosts in distributing the children’s presents. The little girl who already possessed a dowry of 300,000 roubles received the most expensive doll. Then came the presents which decreased in value in accordance with the decrease in rank of the parents of these happy children. Finally, the last child, a boy of about ten years old, a skinny, little, freckled redhead, received only a little book of stories that expounded on the grandeur of nature, the tears of emotion, and so forth, without pictures and even without a single vignette. He was the son of a poor widow, the governess of our hosts’ children, a boy who was extremely cowed and frightened. He was dressed in a jacket made out of some cheap nankeen.4 After receiving his book, he hovered for a long time near the other toys; he wanted terribly to play with the other children, but he didn’t dare; it was clear that he sensed and understood his position. I like to observe children very much. Their first manifestation of independence is extremely interesting. I noticed that the little red-haired boy was so tempted by the other children’s expensive toys, in particular the theatre in which he very definitely wanted to play a part, that he made up his mind to wheedle his way in. He smiled and started to play with the other children, he gave away his apple to a pudgy little boy who already had a lot of presents tied up in his handkerchief, and he had even undertaken giving a ride on his back to another boy, just so he wouldn’t be chased away from the theatre. But a minute later some troublemaker thrashed him good. The child didn’t dare cry. Then the governess, his mother, appeared and ordered him not to bother the other children who were playing. The child went into the same drawing room as the girl. She welcomed him and the two of them quite diligently set about dressing the expensive doll.
I had already been sitting for half an hour in the ivy arbour and had almost dozed off listening to the faint murmur of the red-haired boy and the beauty with a dowry of 300,000 as they busied themselves with the doll, when suddenly Yulian Mastakovich entered the room. He had taken advantage of a deplorable episode of the children quarrelling to leave the room quietly. I noticed that a minute earlier he had been talking quite ardently with the papa of the future wealthy bride, with whom he had just become acquainted, about the advantages of one line of work over another. Now he was standing lost in contemplation and seemed to be counting something on his fingers.
‘Three hundred … three hundred,’ he whispered. ‘Eleven … twelve … thirteen and so forth. Sixteen – five years. Let’s say four per cent interest – 12 times 5 equals 60, and on that 60 … well, let’s say, for five years in all – four hundred. Yes! That’s it … But he won’t settle for four per cent, the swindler! He might get eight or even ten per cent. Well, let’s say five hundred, five hundred thousand, at the very least, that’s for certain; well, and what’s left over can go towards the glad rags for the trousseau, hmm …’
His contemplation concluded, he blew his nose and was about to leave the room, when he suddenly glanced at the little girl and came to a stop. He didn’t see me behind the pot
s of greenery. He seemed to be extremely agitated. Either his calculations were having their effect on him, or something else, but he rubbed his hands and couldn’t stand still. This agitation increased to nec plus ultra,5 when he came to a stop and cast another, decisive glance at the future bride. He was on the verge of moving forward, but had a look around first. Then, on tiptoe, as though he were feeling guilty, he started to approach the child. He walked up with a little smile, bent down and kissed her on the head. Not expecting an assault, she cried out in fear.
‘And what are you doing here, dear child?’ he asked in a whisper, looking around and patting her on the cheek.
‘We’re playing …’
‘What, with him?’ Yulian Mastakovich looked askance at the boy.
‘And you, my dear boy, should go into the ballroom,’ he said to him.
The boy kept silent and looked at him with his eyes wideopen. Yulian Mastakovich again took a look around and again bent down towards the girl.
‘And what is that you have, a dolly, dear child?’ he asked.
‘A dolly,’ the girl answered, knitting her brow and quailing a bit.
‘A dolly … And do you know, dear child, what your dolly is made of?’
‘No, I don’t …’ the girl answered in a whisper, looking down at the ground.
‘Why, it’s made out of rags, my darling. My dear boy, you should go to the ballroom and be with your playmates,’ Yulian Mastakovich said, after casting a stern look at the child. The girl and boy knitted their brows and grabbed hold of each other. They didn’t want to be separated.
‘And do you know why they gave you this dolly?’ Yulian Mastakovich asked, lowering his voice more and more.
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Because you were a sweet and well-behaved child all week long.’
Then Yulian Mastakovich, unable to contain his agitation, took a look around and, lowering his voice more and more, asked finally in an inaudible voice that faltered with agitation and impatience:
‘And will you love me, my dear girl, when I come to visit your parents?’
Having said this Yulian Mastakovich wanted to kiss the sweet girl one more time, but the red-haired boy, seeing that she was on the verge of tears, clasped her by the hands and started to whimper in complete sympathy with her. Yulian Mastakovich became angry in earnest.
‘Get out, get out of here, get out!’ he said to the little boy. ‘Go to the ballroom! Run along to your playmates!’
‘No, don’t, don’t! You get out of here,’ the girl said, ‘leave him alone, leave him alone!’ she said, almost bursting into tears.
Someone made a noise at the door, Yulian Mastakovich took fright and immediately raised his majestic body. But the red-haired boy was even more frightened than Yulian Mastakovich; he abandoned the girl and quietly, hugging the wall, passed from the drawing room into the dining room. So as not to arouse suspicion, Yulian Mastakovich went to the dining room as well. He was as red as a crayfish, and after taking a look at himself in the mirror, he apparently became ashamed of himself. Perhaps he had become annoyed at his impetuousness and his impatience. Perhaps he was so struck by the calculation he’d made on his fingers, so tempted and inspired that, despite all his respectability and importance, he had decided to act like a little boy and take his object by storm, despite the fact that this object could not become a real object for at least another five years. I followed the estimable gentleman into the dining room and witnessed a strange sight. Yulian Mastakovich, all red with vexation and fury, was threatening the red-haired boy, who kept moving further and further away – he didn’t know where to run to in his fear.
‘Get out, what are you doing here, get out, you ne’er-do-well, get out! You’re filching fruit here, are you? Filching fruit, are you? Get out, you ne’er-do-well, get out, you sniveller, get out, run along to your playmates.’
The frightened boy, having resolved on a desperate measure, tried crawling under the table. Then his persecutor, exasperated to the utmost, took out his long cambric handkerchief and started to flick it under the table at the child, who had become as quiet as quiet can be. It should be noted that Yulian Mastakovich was a bit on the heavy side. This was a man who was somewhat portly, ruddy, thickset, with a paunch, with fat thighs, in a word, as they say, a hearty fellow, as round as a little nut. He broke out into a sweat, was panting and became terribly flushed. In the end, he became almost frenzied, so great was his feeling of indignation and, perhaps (who knows?), jealousy. I doubled over with laughter. Yulian Mastakovich turned around and, all his importance notwithstanding, became thoroughly flustered. At this moment the host entered through the door opposite. The little boy crawled out from under the table and brushed off his knees and elbows. Yulian Mastakovich hurried to raise to his nose the handkerchief that he was holding by one end.
The host looked at the three of us in some bewilderment; but, as a person who knows life and looks upon it with some seriousness, he immediately made use of the fact that he had caught his guest alone.
‘That’s the boy, sir,’ he said, after pointing out the redhead, ‘about whom I had the honour to request …’
‘What was that?’ Yulian Mastakovich answered, still not fully recovered.
‘The son of my children’s governess,’ the host continued in a tone befitting a request, ‘a poor woman, a widow, the wife of an honest official; and therefore … Yulian Mastakovich, if it were possible …’
‘Oh no, no,’ Yulian Mastakovich hurriedly cried out, ‘no, forgive me, Filipp Alexeyevich, that’s quite impossible, sir. I’ve made enquiries: there aren’t any vacancies, and if there were, there would already be ten candidates a great deal more entitled to it than he … What a pity, what a pity …’
‘A pity, sir,’ the host repeated, ‘the boy is modest, quiet …’
‘A big mischief-maker, from what I’ve seen,’ Yulian Mastakovich answered, hysterically curling his lip, ‘off with you, boy, why are you standing there, run along to your playmates!’ he said, addressing the child.
Here, it seems, he couldn’t restrain himself and he shot a glance at me with one eye. I also could not restrain myself and began to laugh right in his face. Yulian Mastakovich turned around at once and asked the host rather distinctly so that I should hear it, who that strange young man was. They started to converse in whispers and left the room. I then saw how Yulian Mastakovich shook his head warily as he listened to the host.
Having laughed my fill, I returned to the ballroom. There the great man, surrounded by the fathers and mothers of families, by the hostess and host, was heatedly explaining something to a lady to whom he had just been introduced. The lady was holding by the hand the little girl with whom, ten minutes ago, Yulian Mastakovich had had the scene in the drawing room. Now he was singing the praises of and going into raptures over the beauty, talents, grace and good manners of the dear little child. He was conspicuously playing up to the mother. The mother was listening to him practically with tears of rapture. The father’s lips had a smile on them. The host rejoiced in the outpouring of universal joy. Even all the guests sympathized, even the children’s games were stopped so as not to interfere with the conversation. The very air was suffused with reverence. I then heard how the mother of the interesting little girl, touched to the bottom of her heart, requested in the most elegant language that Yulian Mastakovich do her the particular honour of favouring their home with his precious acquaintance; I heard the genuine rapture with which Yulian Mastakovich accepted the invitation and later how the guests as they were breaking up to go their separate ways, as dictated by decorum, sang the heart-swelling praises of the tax-farmer, the tax-farmer’s wife, the little girl and Yulian Mastakovich in particular.
‘Is that gentleman married?’ I asked, almost aloud, one of my acquaintances who was standing closest to Yulian Mastakovich.
Yulian Mastakovich threw me a searching and spiteful glance.
‘No!’ answered my acquaintance, who was distressed to the
very depths of his being by the blunder that I had intentionally committed …
Not long ago I was walking past —skaya Church; I was struck by the crowd and the throng of carriages. All around there was talk of a wedding. The day was overcast, it had started to drizzle; I fought my way through the crowd into the church and saw the groom. He was a small, roundish, portly little man with a paunch, decked out to the hilt. He was running around, bustling about and giving orders. At last, word spread that the bride had arrived. I elbowed my way through the crowd and saw the marvellous beauty for whom the first spring had scarcely begun. But the beauty was pale and sad. She looked about absentmindedly; it even seemed that her eyes were red with recent tears. The classical severity of every feature of her face imparted a certain gravity and solemnity to her beauty. But through this severity and gravity, through this sadness still shined the first childish look of innocence; one sensed something utterly naive, unformed, youthful, which seemed to be silently begging for mercy.
People were saying that she had just turned sixteen. After taking a careful look at the groom, I suddenly recognized him as Yulian Mastakovich, whom I had not seen in exactly five years. I took another look at her … My God! I started to elbow my way out of the church as quickly as I could. In the crowd they were saying that the bride was rich, that the bride had a dowry of 500,000 … plus so much for glad rags for her trousseau.
‘All the same, a fine bit of calculation!’ I thought to myself, as I elbowed my way to the street …
1848
A NASTY BUSINESS
The Gambler and Other Stories (Penguin ed.) Page 11