Forty Stories (22 page)

The doctor laughed maliciously into his hat, and went on speaking rapidly, stammering out the words.

“What a game, eh? The lower-ranking officials in the rest home kept the sheets and blankets locked up, because they were afraid the old women would spoil them—’ Let the devil’s pepper-pots sleep on the floor!’ The old women didn’t dare sit on the beds, or put on their jackets, or walk on the smooth parquet floors. Everything was arranged for display purposes only, and everything was hidden away from the old women as though they were thieves; and so they had to be clothed and fed on the sly by charitable persons. Day and night these old women prayed God to deliver them from their prison as soon as possible, and
they prayed to be delivered from the edifying discourses of the fat swine into whose care they had been entrusted by you. And what did the higher-ranking officials do? It was perfectly charming! Twice a week, during the evening, there would descend upon us about thirty-five thousand messengers announcing that the Princess—you—would pay us a visit on the following day. That meant that on the next day I had to abandon my patients, dress up, and go on parade! Very well! I arrive. The old women are drawn up in a row to await your arrival. They wear their new, clean clothes. Around them marches the old garrison rat—the inspector—smiling his sweet, fawning smile. The old women yawn and exchange glances, but they are afraid to grumble aloud. We wait. The junior director comes hurrying up. Half an hour later he is followed by the senior director, and after him comes the director-in-chief of the finance department, and then another, and then another.… An endless crowd of them comes galloping up. They all have mysterious solemn faces. We wait, we wait. We shift our weight from one leg to the other, we look at the clock—all this happens in the silence of the grave because we hate each other to the death. An hour passes, then another, and finally the carriage is seen in the distance, and … and …”

The doctor went off into peals of shrill laughter, and continued in a high-pitched voice: “Well, you descend from your carriage, and at that moment the old hags, having heard the word of command from the garrison rat, begin to sing: ‘The Glory of our Lord in Zion the tongue of man cannot convey …’ Not bad at all, eh?

The doctor chuckled in a deep voice and waved his hand about, as though indicating that he was so overcome with laughter that he could not utter another word. He laughed heavily, harshly, his teeth powerfully locked together—you find evilly disposed people laughing like that—and from his voice, his face, his glittering, rather impertinent eyes, it was evident that he had a profound contempt for the Princess, the old women, and
the hostel itself. There was nothing in the least charming or amusing in those coarse, brutal descriptions of his, but he kept laughing with great joy and satisfaction.

“And the school?” he went on, breathing heavily because he was still laughing. “Do you remember how you wanted to teach the children of the peasants? You must have taught them very well, because the boys ran away so fast they had to be flogged and bribed to come back to you! Remember how you wanted to offer bottled milk to the breast-fed children whose mothers worked in the fields? You went about the village complaining because the children were not being placed at your disposal—the mothers were taking them to the fields. Then the village elder gave orders that the mothers should take turns leaving their babies with you—for your delectation. And what a wonderful thing that was! The women ran away from your charities like mice from a cat! Why? It was very simple! Not because our people were ignorant and ungrateful—that was the explanation you gave—but because in all your capricious behavior, if you’ll pardon the expression, there was never a kopeck’s worth of love or real kindness! There was only your desire to amuse yourself with living puppets, nothing more!… Someone who doesn’t know the difference between living people and lap dogs shouldn’t go in for works of charity. I assure you there’s a great difference between people and lap dogs!”

The Princess’s heart was beating wildly, and there was a roaring in her ears. She still had the feeling that the doctor was beating her around the head with his hat. The doctor was speaking in an ugly way, rapidly and fiercely, all the time stuttering and gesticulating far too frequently. All she knew was that a spiteful, ill-mannered, ill-bred, and ungrateful person was talking to her, but she could not understand what he wanted of her and what he was talking about.

“Go away!” she said in a tearful voice, raising her hands to protect her head from the doctor’s hat. “Go away!”

“And then there’s the way you treat your servants!” the doctor
went on, surrendering to his indignation. “You don’t look at them as people! You treat them as though they were the lowest kind of rogues! For example, permit me to ask why you dismissed me. For ten years I served your father, and then I served you, always honestly, never taking a holiday or a leave of absence, and I was loved and respected for miles around, and then one fine day I am suddenly informed that my services are no longer required! Why? To this day I have never understood why. I am a doctor, a gentleman by birth, a graduate of Moscow University, the father of a family—that is, I am a paltry, insignificant creature, and so you can kick me in the teeth for no reason at all! Why do you stand on ceremony with me? It came to my knowledge that my wife, secretly, without asking my permission, approached you three times in order to intercede for me, and not once did you let her come near you! They tell me she wept in your hallway! To the day I die I shall never forgive her for that—never!”

The doctor grew silent and clenched his teeth, making an intense effort to think of something else to say—something very unpleasant and spiteful. Then he remembered something, and his cold, frowning face suddenly brightened.

“Take this attitude of yours toward the monastery,” he said eagerly. “You have never shown any mercy to anyone! The holier the place, the more chance there is of things getting hopelessly out of hand as a result of your charity and angelic meekness. Why do you come here? Excuse me for asking this, but what do you want from the monks? What is Hecuba to you, or you to Hecuba? It’s just another sport, another game, another sacrilege against human dignity, that’s all! You don’t believe in the God of the monks, you have your own God in your heart—a God who popped into your brain when you were attending spiritualistic séances. You have only a condescending attitude toward the ceremonies of the Church. You don’t go to mass or vespers. You sleep till midday.… Why do you come here?… You come with your own God into a monastery which is foreign to
you, and you imagine the monastery regards it as a tremendous honor to have you here. Of course it does! Ask the monks what your visit costs them! You were graciously pleased to arrive here this evening, but two days ago a messenger on horseback arrived from your estate to spread the news of your coming. All day yesterday they were getting the hostel ready for you, and waiting upon your arrival. This morning the advance guard arrived in the shape of an impudent maidservant, who kept running around the courtyard making a rustling sound with her skirts, demanding answers to her questions, and issuing orders.… I can’t bear it any longer! All day today the monks have been on the lookout—there would be trouble if you were not met with the proper ceremony! You would complain to the archbishop: ‘Your Holiness, the monks don’t approve of me! I don’t know what I have done to harm them! It’s true I’m a great sinner, but I’m so unhappy!’ Already one monastery has suffered as a result of your visits. The archbishop is a busy, learned man, he doesn’t have a moment for himself, but you keep on sending to him to come to your rooms. No respect for an old man’s dignity! It wouldn’t be so awful if you had given large sums to the monastery, but all this time the monks have not received a hundred rubles from you!”

Whenever the Princess was troubled or offended or misunderstood, and whenever she did not know what to say or do, she usually gave way to tears. Now at last she hid her face in her hands and wept in a thin childish voice. The doctor suddenly fell silent and gazed at her. His face darkened and grew stern.

“Forgive me, Princess,” he said in a dull voice. “I gave way to malice and forgot myself. It wasn’t a good thing to do!”

With an embarrassed cough, forgetting to put on his hat, he walked quickly away from the Princess.

The stars were already twinkling in the sky. The moon must have risen on the other side of the monastery, for the sky was brilliantly clear, soft, and transparent. There were bats flitting noiselessly along the white monastery wall.

Slowly the clock struck three-quarters, probably a quarter to nine. The Princess got up and walked silently to the gate. She felt she had been deeply wronged, and she wept, and then it seemed to her that the trees and the stars and the bats were all pitying her, and she thought the musical chiming of the clock was an expression of sympathy for her. She wept and kept thinking how good it would be to spend her whole life in a monastery. On silent summer evenings she would wander alone along the alleyways, insulted, injured, misunderstood by people, and only God and the starry heavens would observe her tears of suffering. In the church the evening service was still going on. The Princess paused and listened to the singing. How perfect the sound of their singing in the dark and motionless air! How sweet to weep and suffer to the sound of their singing!

Returning to the hostel, she gazed in a mirror at her tear-stained face, and then she powdered her face and sat down to supper. The monks knew she liked pickled sturgeon, little mushrooms, and simple gingerbread cakes which left a taste of cypress in her mouth, and each time she came they served the things she liked. Eating the mushrooms and drinking their Málaga wine, the Princess dreamed of how in the end she would be abandoned and forsaken, and all her stewards, bailiffs, clerks, and maid-servants, for whom she had done so much, would betray her and say coarse things about her, and how everyone all over the world would attack her and speak evil of her and jeer at her. She would renounce her title of Princess, she would renounce luxury and society, and she would enter a monastery without a word of reproach to anyone; and she would pray for her enemies, and then they would all suddenly come to understand her, and seek her forgiveness, but by then it would be too late.…

After supper she fell on her knees in a corner of the room in front of the icon and read two chapters of the Gospels. Then her maidservant made her bed and she lay down to sleep. Stretching herself under a white blanket, she uttered a sweet and prolonged
sigh, such as one utters after weeping, and she closed her eyes and fell asleep.…

In the morning she woke and glanced at her little clock: it was half past nine. On the carpet near her bed there lay a clear, thin streak of light made by a sunbeam which came from the window and vaguely lit the room. From behind the black window curtain came the buzzing of flies.

“It’s still early,” the Princess thought, and she shut her eyes.

Stretching herself out, lying comfortably in bed, she remembered her meeting with the doctor the previous day and all the thoughts with which she had fallen asleep; and she remembered she was unhappy. Then the memory of her husband, living in St. Petersburg, came back to her, and her stewards, and the doctor, and neighbors, and officials she knew … a long procession of familiar masculine faces marched through her imagination. She smiled, and it occurred to her that if only these people could peer into her soul and understand her, they would be at her feet.…

At a quarter past eleven she called her maid. “Let me get dressed now,” she said languidly. “But first, tell them to harness the horses. I must go and visit Claudia Nikolayevna.”

When she left the hostel and was about to get into her carriage, she had to screw up her eyes against the strong sun, and she laughed with joy: it was such a wonderfully fine day! And looking through half-closed eyes at the monks who had gathered by the steps to bid her farewell, she nodded pleasantly and said: “Good-by, my friends! Until the day after tomorrow!”

She was pleasantly surprised to find the doctor standing on the steps with the monks. His face was pale and stern.

“Princess,” he said, removing his hat, “I’ve been waiting for you a long time. Forgive me, for God’s sake! A bad, vindictive feeling came over me yesterday. I said terrible things to you … stupid things. I beg your forgiveness!”

The Princess smiled graciously and held out her hand to his lips. He kissed it and his face reddened.

Trying to resemble a little bird, the Princess fluttered into the
carriage, nodding in all directions. Her heart was warm and bright and gay, and she thought her smile was unusually sweet and friendly. As the carriage rolled up to the gates and then along the dusty road past peasant huts and gardens, past long trains of carts and processions of pilgrims making their way to the monastery, she was still screwing up her eyes and smiling softly. She was thinking there was no greater delight than to bring joy, warmth, and light to those she met, to forgive wrongs, and to smile kindly at her enemies. The peasants bowed to her as she passed, the carriage rustled softly, clouds of dust rose from under the wheels and the wind carried them across the fields of golden rye, and it seemed to the Princess that her body was swaying not on the cushions in the carriage but on clouds, and she herself was like a light transparent little cloud.…

“How happy I am!” she murmured, closing her eyes. “How happy I am!”

1889

IT was already dark, and would soon be night.

Gusev, a discharged soldier, sat up in his hammock and said softly: “Pavel Ivanich, are you listening to me? At Suchan there was a soldier who said a big fish came smack against his ship and tore a hole in the bottom.”

He was addressing a rather nondescript individual known to everyone in sick bay as Pavel Ivanich, but there was no answer: the man seemed not to have heard.

Once more there was silence. The wind wandered over the rigging, the propeller throbbed, waves dashed against the ship, hammocks creaked, but the ear had long since grown accustomed to these sounds, and everything seemed to sleep, caught up in a trance of silence. It was boring. The three sick men—two soldiers and a sailor—had spent the day playing cards; now they slept and uttered all kinds of nonsense in their dreams.