Collected Shorter Fiction, Volume 2

by Leo Tolstoy

  ‘Yes,’ said the General, ‘you know Allons au b …,18 and we’ll take him with us.’

  Five minutes later Seriozha was sitting in N.N.’s evening sledge; the fresh, frosty air stung his face, and in front of him he could see the driver’s burly back, as dim streetlights and the walls of houses sped past on both sides.

  Daydreams

  ‘Here I am in the country where I was born and spent my childhood, at Semyonovskoye, so full of dear and wonderful memories. It is an evening in spring, and I am in the garden, in the spot my late mother was so fond of beside the pond in the birch-tree walk, and I am not alone – with me is my wife, in a white dress, her hair swept up simply on her lovely head; and this wife of mine is the woman I love – the woman I love as I have never loved anyone before, more than anything in the world, more than myself even. The moon, sailing peacefully across a sky covered with transparent clouds, is brightly reflected, together with the clouds it illumines, in the mirror-like surface of the unruffled pond, and it lights up the green banks overgrown with yellowish sedge, the light-coloured logs of the little dam, the willow branches hanging above it, the dark-green foliage of the blossoming lilacs and bird-cherries which fill the pure air with a joyful spring fragrance, the leaves of the dogroses which crowd the flowerbeds between the winding paths, the long, leafy, motionless branches of the tall birches and the delicate greenery of the lime trees standing in their straight, dark avenues. From the far side of the pond the loud song of the nightingale can be heard in the overgrown thicket of trees, and the music is reflected even more sonorously from the still surface of the water. I am holding the soft hand of the woman I love, and gazing into her wonderful wide eyes whose look has such a comforting effect on my soul, and she smiles and squeezes my hand in return – she is happy too!’

  How stupid are these comforting dreams. Stupid because of their impossibility, comforting because of the poetic feeling with which they are filled. Granted, they will not, cannot indeed, come true; but why not let oneself be carried away by them if this fantasy is a source of such pure and lofty delight? It never occurred to Seriozha at that moment to ask himself the question: how could this woman become his wife when she was married already, and even if that were possible, would it be a good thing, the right thing? And if it were to be so, how then would he set about arranging his life? Beyond these few minutes of love and passion he was quite unable to picture this other life. True love experiences in itself such a range of sacred, innocent, powerful, invigorating, liberating feelings, that for true love neither crimes nor obstacles, nor the whole of the prosaic side of life, have any real existence.

  Suddenly the sleigh came to a halt, and this interruption of the regular lulling motion roused him from his reverie. On his left he could see a snow-covered open space quite large for the city, with a few bare trees, and on his right the entrance porch of a low, rather crooked, drab little house with closed shutters.

  ‘What, are we outside the town?’ he enquired of the driver.

  ‘Not at all, this is Patriarch’s Ponds if you want to know, and that’s right next to Kozikhi.’

  N.N. and the cheery General were already standing by the entrance. The latter was alternately kicking the cracked and shaky-looking house door with his foot, and tugging at a rusty piece of bent wire which hung from the lintel, shouting quite loudly as he did so: ‘Hey, you girls in there! Open up, girls!’ At length a rustling sound was heard – the noise of uncertain, cautious slippered footsteps, there was a glimmer of light behind the shutters, and the door opened. On the threshold appeared a bent old woman in a fox-fur coat which she had thrown on over a white nightshirt, holding a guttering tallow candle in her wrinkled hands. From a first glance at her sharp, forceful, wrinkled features, her glittering dark eyes, the jet-black hair streaked with grey sticking out from beneath her kerchief, and the swarthy brick-like hue of her skin, it could be seen beyond a doubt that she was a gypsy. She held up the candle to the faces of N.N. and the General, and at once recognized them, apparently with delight.

  ‘Ah, goodness gracious, good Lord! Mikhail Nikolayevich, my little father,’ she began in her harsh voice, with that particular accent which is peculiar to gypsies. ‘What a joy to see you, sun of our lives that you are! Aiee, and you too, N.N., it’s such a long time since you paid us a visit: won’t the girls be glad to see you! We humbly bid you come in, and we’ll have some dancing for you!’

  ‘Are your people at home, then?’

  ‘Yes, yes, all at home, they’ll come running, my golden one. Come in, come in.’

  ‘Entrons,’19 said N.N., and all four of them, without removing their hats and overcoats, entered a small, lowceilinged dirty room which, its untidiness apart, resembled the sort of room normally to be found in the houses of lower-middle-class folk: it was furnished with little mirrors in pretty frames, a tattered wooden-backed divan, and dirty-looking veneered chairs and tables.

  Young men are easily carried away and are capable of being seduced even by something sordid, providing the seduction occurs under the influence of men whom they respect. Seriozha had already forgotten his dreams and was looking at this unfamiliar décor with the curiosity of a man watching some kind of chemical experiment being demonstrated. He observed impatiently what was before him, waiting to see what would come of it all; and his opinion was that it would be something most enjoyable.

  On the divan a young gypsy man lay asleep. He had long, dark, curly hair, slanting, almost sinister eyes, and large white teeth. In a moment he had sprung up, pulled on some clothes and spoken a few words to the old woman in the resonant gypsy tongue; he then began smilingly to greet the guests.

  ‘Who is the leader of the troupe here now?’ enquired N.N. ‘I haven’t been here for some time.’

  ‘Ivan Matvyeich,’ answered the gypsy.

  ‘Vanka?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, sir.’

  ‘And who is your chief singer?’

  ‘Tanya leads the singing, and Marya Vasilyevna too.’

  ‘Ah, Masha, that pretty little thing who used to live at Bryantsovo? She’s really back here again, is she?’

  ‘Yes indeed, sir,’ replied the gypsy, smiling. ‘And she sometimes joins in the dancing too.’

  ‘Just you go and fetch her, then, and bring us some champagne.’

  The young man accepted the money which was offered him and hurried out. The old General, as befitted a seasoned patron of the gypsies, sat astride a table and struck up a conversation with the old woman about all the old gypsy men and women who used to be at the encampment in times gone by. He knew the lineage of each and every one of them. The Guards officer explained how there were no real women to be found in Moscow, yet it was out of the question to go and enjoy oneself among the gypsies because their living conditions were simply so dirty that they would put off any decent man. On the other hand, getting them to come to you was another matter entirely. N.N. told him that gypsies at home were, on the contrary, a thoroughly good thing, but they needed understanding, etc., etc. Seriozha listened attentively to what was being said, and although he remained silent, in his heart he was thoroughly on the side of N.N. and found so much in his surroundings novel and attractive that he realized he was certain to experience something special and agreeable. Now and again the door leading to the porch opened, letting in a blast of cold air, and the gypsies who made up the choir came in two by two. The men were dressed in light-blue coats of knee length which fitted tightly round their shapely waists, and wide trousers tucked into their boots, and all of them had long curly hair. The women wore fox-fur coats lined with satin and had bright silken shawls over their heads, and dresses which, though not fashionable, looked quite elegant and expensive. The young gypsy came back with the champagne, announcing that Masha would be here presently, and proposing to start the dancing without her. He said something to the leader of the band, a small, slend
er, handsome fellow in a pleated coat with lace trimmings, who put one foot on the windowsill and began tuning his guitar. The leader said something testily in reply; several old women joined in the discussion, which gradually grew louder and finally turned into a general shouting match; the old women, with fire in their eyes, waved their arms and shouted in the most piercing voices, and the men and a few other old women showed that they did not intend to be left out. In their arguing, which was incomprehensible to the guests, one frequently repeated word could be made out: Maka, Maka. A very pretty young girl called Steshka, whom the leader recommended as their new singer, was sitting with downcast eyes, the only one not to join in the conversation. The General realized what the trouble was. The young gypsy who had gone for the champagne had misled them in promising that Maka (i.e. Masha) would come, and the others wanted Steshka to lead the singing. The question at issue was whether or not she should receive an extra half-share of the proceeds for her services.

  ‘Hey there, girls,’ the General shouted, ‘listen, listen,’ but no one paid him the slightest attention. Finally he somehow got them to hear him out.

  ‘If Maka is not coming,’ he said, ‘then you should say so.’

  ‘On my honour,’ said the leader, ‘Steshka will sing just as well as she would: you should just hear how she sings “Night time” – there’s no other gypsy girl to touch her, she has all the style of Tanyusha – you’ll see. All our people here know I am speaking the truth,’ he added, knowing that this would gratify the General. ‘Please be so good as to hear her.’

  The gypsy women raised their various voices to appeal to the General in similar terms.

  ‘Well all right, all right, so please get on with it.’

  ‘What song do you wish to hear?’ asked the leader, standing, guitar in hand, before the half-circle of seated gypsies.

  ‘Follow the usual order, of course, start with “You can hear”.’ The gypsy pushed the guitar into the right position with his knee and played a chord, and the choir launched smoothly and simultaneously into ‘Just as you can he-e-ear …’

  ‘Stop, stop,’ cried the General, ‘there is something missing still. We must all have a drink.’

  All the gentlemen drank a glass of bad lukewarm champagne each. The General approached the gypsies, told one of the women, a former notable beauty who was still quite young, to stand up, sat down in her seat and planted her firmly on his knees. The choir once more struck up ‘Just as you can hear’. At first the singing was smooth, but then it grew livelier and livelier, and finally it sounded as only gypsies singing their own songs can make it sound – full of extraordinary energy and inimitable art. Suddenly and unexpectedly the choir stopped singing. Again came an introductory chord, and the same melody was repeated by a sweetly tender, resonant solo voice, with remarkably original decorations and intonation, and the solo voice, in just the same way the choir had done, grew ever more powerful and animated, until at length it returned the melody discreetly and smoothly to the whole choir, who took it up again.

  There was a time when no kind of music in all Russia was more beloved than the music of the gypsies, and when the gypsies used to sing the good old Russian folksongs such as ‘Not alone’ and ‘You can hear’, ‘Youth’, ‘Farewell’ and others, and when it was not considered eccentric to listen to the gypsies and to prefer them to the Italian singers. Nowadays the gypsies sing vaudeville ballads like ‘Two maids’, ‘Vanka and Tanka’, and so forth, for a public which gathers round them in city arcades. To love gypsy music, perhaps even to describe their singing as music, may appear absurd. It is a sad thing that this music has so fallen from favour. In our country gypsy music once formed a unique bridge between folk music and classical art music. Why should it be that in Italy every lazzarone20 can appreciate a Donizetti or a Rossini aria and derive pleasure from it, whereas in Russia a merchant or a tradesman or suchlike, hearing something from The Tomb of Askold or A Life for the Tsar,21 can only admire the decorations? And I am not referring here to the kind of Italian music for which not even a hundredth part of Russian concert-goers has any feeling, but to so-called popular operas. Whereas every Russian will be able to appreciate a gypsy song because its roots are in folk music. But people will tell me that this music does not obey the rules. No one is obliged to believe me, but I will say what I have experienced for myself, and those who like gypsy music will believe me, and those who are willing to try the experiment will also be convinced.

  At one time I was very fond of gypsy music and of German music too, and I devoted myself to the study of both. A certain very good musician who was a friend of mine, German by his musical tendency as well as by his origins, was always falling out with me because gypsy choral singing contained unpardonable musical irregularities (though like everyone else he found the solos quite superlative), and he wanted to prove this to me. I composed reasonably well; he, very well indeed. We persuaded a gypsy choir to sing through a particular song some ten times and we both noted down every vocal line. On comparing our two scores we actually discovered passages in parallel fifths; but I still refused to give in and retorted that we might have written down the actual sounds correctly, but we could not grasp the precise tempi, and that the sequence of fifths he had pointed out to me was nothing other than an imitation at the fifth – something resembling a fugue, and very successfully worked out at that. We set about writing down the music yet again, and R. was completely convinced of what I had been saying. It should be said that each time we noted down the music something new emerged – the movement of the harmony was the same, but sometimes the chords were more condensed, and sometimes in place of a single note there was repetition of the preceding motif – an imitation in fact. But to make them sing each part separately was out of the question: they were all singing the top line, and each time the choir began to sing each one was effectively improvising.

  I trust that those readers who have no interest in gypsy music will pardon this digression; I felt that it was out of place here, but my love for this unorthodox yet truly popular music which has always given me so much pleasure, got the upper hand.

  While the choir were singing the first ballad the General listened attentively, sometimes smiling and screwing up his eyes, sometimes frowning and shaking his head in disapproval; then he stopped listening altogether and fell to conversing with Lyubasha, who at one moment was flashing her pearly teeth in a smile as she spoke to him, and the next calling comments and directions to the choir in her powerful alto voice as she glanced severely to left and right among the girl singers and gestured to them with her hands. The Guards officer took a seat near to the pretty Steshka, and turning to N.N., kept repeating ‘Charmant, délicieux!’22 or offering her advice with no great success. This clearly displeased the gypsy girls and set them whispering to one another: one of them even nudged his arm and said ‘Master, if you please.’ N.N. had put his feet up on the divan and was holding a whispered conversation with a pretty dancer named Malushka. Seriozha, his waistcoat unbuttoned, was standing in front of the choir, evidently listening to them with delight. He was also aware that the young gypsy girls were throwing him glances, smiling and whispering among themselves, and he realized that they were not mocking but admiring him, which made him feel that he was a very attractive young fellow. But all of a sudden the General rose to his feet and said to N.N., ‘Non, cela ne va pas sans Mashka, ce choeur ne vaut rien, n’est-ce pas?’23 N.N., who had appeared sleepy and apathetic since leaving the ball, agreed with him. The General handed the poor old woman some money but did not order them to sing anything in his honour, as was the custom.

  ‘Partons.’24 N.N., yawning, replied ‘Partons’ The Guards officer alone wanted to argue, but they paid him no attention. They all put on their fur coats and went out.

  ‘I can’t think of going to sleep now,’ said the General as he invited N.N. to take a seat in his conveyance. ‘Allons au b …’25

  ‘Ich mache alles mit,’26 said N.N., and once more the two ca
rriages and the sledge sped along the dark and silent streets. Seriozha felt only that his head was spinning and rested it against the padded wall of the carriage as he attempted to set his muddled thoughts in order, and he was not listening when the General said to him in a thoroughly calm and sober voice: ‘Si ma femme savait que je bamboche avec vous …’27

  The carriage stopped. Seriozha, the General, N.N. and the Guards officer walked up a reasonably neat and well-lit flight of steps into a clean entrance hall where a footman took their overcoats, and from there they entered a brightly lit room furnished somewhat strangely, but with pretentions to luxury. In this room there was music playing and a few men and ladies were dancing. Some other ladies in low-necked dresses were sitting around the walls. Our friends walked past them and came into another room. Several of the ladies followed them. They were given some more champagne. Seriozha was at first surprised by the strange manner in which his companions addressed these ladies, and still more surprised by the strange language, resembling German, which these ladies used with each other. Seriozha drank several more glasses of wine. N.N., who was sitting on a divan next to one of these women, beckoned him over. Seriozha went up to them and was struck, not so much by the beauty of this woman (she was in fact unusually good-looking) as by her unusual resemblance to the Countess. The same eyes, the same smile, only her expression was different – now too shy, now too pert. Finding himself alongside her, Seriozha spoke to her. Later he had only the vaguest recollection of the content of this conversation. Yet he did recall that the story of the Lady of the Camellias28 was running with all its poetic fascination through his fevered imagination; he remembered N.N. calling her la Dame aux Camélias and saying that he had never seen a more beautiful woman, except for her hands; and that the Dame aux Camélias herself did not speak, but kept smiling at him from time to time, so that Seriozha began to be irritated by the sight of that smile; but the vapours of the wine had gone too powerfully to his young and unaccustomed head.