Forty Stories (27 page)

“I’ll rip your ears off!” Matvey Savvich shouted. “Filthy little brat!”

The cap was found at the bottom of the cart. Kuzka brushed off the straw, put it on, and crawled timidly into the cart, still wearing an expression of terror on his face, as though he expected a blow from behind. Matvey Savvich crossed himself, the driver pulled on the reins, and the cart rolled slowly out of the yard.

1891

WHEN Nadia Zelenina came home with her mother from the theater, where they had been watching a performance of
Eugene Onegin
, she went to her own room, slipped quickly out of her dress, and wearing only a petticoat and a white bodice, sat down at the table in a great hurry and began to write a letter in the manner of Tatiana: “I love you,” she wrote, “but you have no love for me—none at all!”

A moment later she burst out laughing.

She was only sixteen, and in all her life she had never been in love. She knew that Gorny, an officer, and Gruzdev, a student, were both in love with her, but now, having seen the opera, she was inclined to doubt that they loved her. To be unloved and unhappy—how interesting that was! How beautiful, poetic, and touching, when one was hopelessly in love with someone who was completely indifferent. What was interesting about Onegin was that he was incapable of loving, and what was enchanting about Tatiana was that she was hopelessly in love. If they had loved each other with an identical passion and were completely happy together, how boring!

“You must never again confess your love for me,” Nadia went on writing, thinking of Gorny, the officer. “I cannot believe your words. You are clever, well educated, serious, you have a great talent, and maybe a brilliant future awaits you. As for me, I am only an insignificant and uninteresting young woman,
and you yourself know perfectly well that I would only be a hindrance in your life; and though you were attracted to me, and thought you had found your ideal in me, still it was all a mistake, and even now you are saying to yourself in your despair: Why did I ever meet that girl?’ Only your goodness of heart prevents you from admitting it!”

At this point Nadia began to feel sorry for herself. She burst into tears, but continued writing: “If it were not so hard for me to leave my mother and my brother, I would take the veil and wander away wherever my feet led me. Then you would be free to love someone else. Oh, if only I were dead!”

Through her tears she could no longer see what she had written. Tiny rainbows trembled on the floor, on the table, on the ceiling, and it seemed to Nadia that she was looking through a prism. Impossible to go on writing. She threw herself back in her armchair and began thinking of Gorny.

Goodness, how attractive, how fascinating men were! Nadia remembered Gorny’s beautiful expression during a discussion on music: so compelling, so tender, so deferential, and he had difficulty subduing the passion in his voice. In society, where an icy pride and an air of indifference are the marks of a good education and fine breeding, he tried to conceal his feelings, but without success, and everyone knew how devoted he was—how passionately devoted—to music. Those never-ending discussions on music, and the loud criticisms of ignoramuses, kept him in a constant state of tension, so that he appeared to be awed, timid, and silent. He played the piano with the flair of a professional pianist, and if he had not been an officer, he would certainly have become a famous musician.

The tears dried on Nadia’s cheeks. She remembered now that Gorny had declared his love for her during a symphony concert, and then again downstairs near the cloakroom, where they were chilled by the strong draft which came at them from all sides.

“I am so glad you have at last made the acquaintance of
the student Gruzdev,” she wrote. “He is a very clever man, and I am sure you will be friends. Yesterday he came to see us, and stayed until two. We were all so happy—I am sorry you could not join us. He said some very remarkable things.

Nadia laid her arms on the table, and rested her head on them. Her hair fell over the letter. It occurred to her that the student Gruzdev was also in love with her, and deserved a letter as much as Gorny. But then—she wondered—perhaps after all she should be writing to Gruzdev. An unreasoning joy stirred in her heart: at first it was a very small joy, and rolled about in her heart like a little rubber ball, but it became more powerful and vaster, and at last poured out of her like a fountain. She had forgotten Gorny and Gruzdev. She was confused; but her joy grew and spread from her heart into her hands and feet, and it seemed that a gentle and refreshing wind was fanning her face and lifting her hair. Her shoulders shook with silent laughter, the table shook, the lamp chimney trembled. Her tears were sprinkled on the letter she was writing. She could not control her laughter and so, to prove that she was not laughing for no reason at all, she quickly thought of something funny.

“Oh, what an amusing poodle!” she exclaimed, feeling faint with laughter. “What an amusing poodle!”

She remembered how on the previous day Gruzdev had romped with Maxim, the family poodle, after they had taken tea together, and later he told her the story of a clever poodle who chased a raven round the garden. Suddenly the raven stopped, looked round, and said: “Stinker!” The poodle was completely unaware that the raven was trained, and became terribly confused, running away with a look of utter bewilderment. After a while he began to bark.

“No, it would be much better to fall in love with Gruzdev,” Nadia decided, and she tore up the letter.

Her thoughts turned to the student, of his love for her and her love for him, and soon her thoughts went wandering, and she found herself thinking of many things: of her mother, of the
street, of the pencil, of the piano.… She thought of all these things with joy, and it seemed to her that everything was good and splendid and beautiful, and her joy spoke to her, saying there was much more to come, and in a little while it would be still better. Soon spring would come, and then it would be summer, and she would go with her mother to Gorbiky, and then Gorny would come for the holidays, take her for walks in the garden, and flirt with her. And then Gruzdev would come. They would play croquet and bowls, and he would tell her funny stories and others that would leave her dumb with astonishment. Passionately she longed for the garden, the darkness, the clear sky, the stars. Once more her shoulders shook with laughter: the room seemed to fill with aromatic scents, and a twig was tapping against the windowpane.

She went to her bed and sat down, and then not knowing what to do with the joy that was flooding into her heart, she gazed at the icon which hung at the head of her bed, and murmured: “Dear God, dear God, dear God!”

April 1892

ON his retirement State Councilor Kozerogov bought a modest property in the country and settled down on it. There, partly in imitation of Cincinnatus, but also partly in imitation of Professor Kaigorodov, he toiled in the sweat of his brow and wrote down his observations of natural phenomena. After his death these writings, together with his effects, following the desire expressed in his will, fell into the possession of his housekeeper, Marfa Yevlampyevna. As is well known, this inestimable old woman tore down his manor house and in its place erected a superb tavern licensed to sell strong liquor. This tavern acquired a “special room” fitted out for passing landowners and civil servants. On a table of this room were placed the writings of the deceased, for the convenience of such of the guests who might be in need of paper. One sheet fell into my hands. Apparently it relates to the very early agricultural efforts of the deceased, and contains the following information:

March 3.
The spring migration of birds has begun. Yesterday I saw sparrows. I greet you, O feathered children of the south! In your sweet chirping I seem to hear you express the wish: “Be happy, Your Excellency.”

March 14.
Today I asked Marfa Yevlampyevna: “Why does the cock crow so much?” She answered me: “Because he has a throat.” I replied: “I, too, have a throat, but I don’t crow!” So multitudinous are the mysteries of Nature! During my years
of service in St. Petersburg I ate turkey more than several times, but only yesterday for the first time in my life did I observe a living turkey. A very remarkable bird indeed!

March 22.
The rural officer called. For a long time we debated the subject of virtue—I sitting down, he standing. Among other things he said: “Have you ever wished, Your Excellency, to return to the days of your youth?” I replied to this question: “No, not in the least, for if I were young again, I would not be enjoying my present rank.” He agreed with my point of view, and went off, visibly moved.

April 16.
With my own hands I have dug up two rows in the kitchen garden and planted semolina. I said nothing about this to anyone, to surprise my Marfa Yevlampyevna, to whom I am indebted for many happy moments in my life. Yesterday at tea she grumbled bitterly about her constitution, remarking that her expanding girth prevented her from passing through the door leading to the storehouse. My observation to her was: “On the contrary, my dear, the fullness of your form serves as an embellishment and disposes me all the more favorably towards you.” She blushed at this. I rose and embraced her with both arms, for it is impossible to embrace her with only one.

May 28.
An old man, seeing me near the women’s bathing place, asked me why I was sitting there. I answered him with the observation: “The reason I am sitting here is because I want to see that young men do not come and sit here.” “Then let us watch together,” the old man said, and then he sat down beside me, and we began to talk about virtue.

April 1892

OLD Semyon, nicknamed Smarty, and a young Tartar whom nobody knew by name, were sitting by a bonfire near the river: the other three ferrymen were inside the hut. Semyon was an old man of sixty, and though gaunt and toothless he was broad in the shoulder and gave an appearance of health. He was drunk, and would have been asleep long ago if it had not been for the half bottle in his pocket and his dread that the young fellows in the hut would want his vodka. The Tartar was ill and tired, and wrapping himself up in his rags, he talked about how good it was in Simbirsk province and about the good-looking, clever wife he had left behind him. He was no more than twenty-five, but looking at his pale, sick, melancholy face in the firelight, you would have thought he was only a boy.

“You can hardly call this place Paradise,” Smarty said. “You can see for yourself: water, the naked shore, clay everywhere—nothing else.… Holy Week is over, but the ice is still floating down the river, and there was snow this morning.”

“Misery, misery!” moaned the Tartar, looking round him in terror.

Ten paces below, the river flowed darkly, muttering to itself as it dug a path between the steep clay banks and made its way to the distant sea. The dark shape of one of those huge barges which the ferrymen call a
karbass
loomed against the bank. Far-off, on the further shore, dying down and flickering up again, were little serpents of fire: they were burning last year’s
grasses. And behind these serpents darkness again. There could be heard the sound of little blocks of ice crashing against the barge. Dampness and cold.…

The Tartar looked at the sky. There were as many stars as there were at home, and the same darkness around, but something was missing. At home, in Simbirsk province, the stars were altogether different, and so was the sky.

“Misery, misery!” he repeated.

“You’ll get used to it,” Smarty said, laughing. “You’re young and foolish now, and wet round the ears, and it’s only your folly which makes you believe you are the most miserable mortal on earth, but the time will come when you will say: ‘May God grant everyone such a life!’ Just look at me. In a week’s time the water will have fallen, and then we’ll launch the small boat, and you’ll go wandering around Siberia to amuse yourself, and I’ll be staying here, rowing back and forth across the river. For twenty years I’ve been doing just that. Day and night! White salmon and pike beneath the water, and I above it! And glory be, I’m not in need of anything. God grant everyone such a life!”

The Tartar thrust some brushwood into the flames, drew closer to the fire, and said: “My father ill. When he dies, my mother, my wife come here. They have promised.”

“What’s the use of having a mother and a wife here?” asked Smarty. “It’s all foolishness, brother. The devil is tormenting you, damn his soul. Don’t listen to the accursed one. Don’t surrender to him. If he talks about women, answer him: ‘Don’t want them.’ If he talks about freedom, tell him straightway: ‘Don’t want it.’ You don’t need anything. Neither father, nor mother, nor wife, nor freedom, nor house, nor home. I don’t want anything, damn their souls!”.

Smarty took a swig at the bottle and went on: “Brother, I’m no peasant, I don’t come from the class of slaves, I’m the son of a sexton, and when I was free in Kursk I wore a frock coat, but now I have brought myself to such a point that I can sleep
naked on the earth and eat grass. God grant everyone such a life! I don’t want for anything, and I don’t fear anyone, and I know there is no one in the world as rich and free as I am! From the very first day they sent me here from Russia, I got into the swing of it—I wanted for nothing. The devil was at me for a wife, for a home, for freedom, but I told him: ‘I want for nothing!’ I tired him out, and now, as you can see, I live well and don’t complain about anything. If anyone should give an inch to the devil and listen to him just once, then he’s lost and there’s no salvation for him: he’ll sink into the bog up to his ears and never crawl out again. It’s not only boys like you, poor stupid peasants, who get lost—even well-educated gentleman fall by the wayside. Fifteen years ago they sent a gentleman here from Russia. There was something he refused to share with his brothers—he had forged a will or something. They said he was a prince or a baron, but maybe he was just an official. Who knows? Well, this gentleman came here, and the first thing he did was to buy a house and some land at Mukhortinskoe. He said he wanted to live by his own labor, by the sweat of his brow, because, he said, he was no longer a gentleman but an exile.
¹
So I said: ‘God help you, it’s the best thing you can do!’ He was then a young man, a hustler, always busy, he used to mow the grass himself and ride sixty versts on horseback. And that was the cause of his trouble.