If you only knew the kind of girl she is. One wouldn’t call her a beauty – she has a broad face, she’s terribly thin. But what a wonderfully kind expression, what a smile! Her voice is so resonant, she seems to be singing when she speaks. She never starts a conversation when she’s with me, I don’t really know her, but when I’m close to her I sense she is a rare, unusual person, imbued with intelligence and lofty ideals. She’s religious and you just can’t imagine how deeply this moves me, how much it raises her in my estimation. I’m ready to argue with you endlessly on this point. You’re right, you can think what you like, but I still love her going to church. She’s from the provinces, but she went to school in Moscow – she loves our Moscow – and she dresses in true Muscovite style. For that I love her, love her, love her.
I can see you frowning and getting up to read me a long lecture about the nature of love, whom one may or may not love, and so on. But before I fell in love I too knew exactly what love is, my dear Kostya!
My sister thanks you for your good wishes. She often remembers once taking Kostya Kochevoy to preparatory class. She still calls you ‘poor’, since she still remembers you as the little orphan. So, my poor orphan, I’m in love. It’s a secret for the time being – don’t say anything there to the familiar ‘personage’. That will all come right in the end – or as the servant says in Tolstoy, ‘everything will sort itself out…’5
Having finished the letter, Laptev went to bed. He was so tired, his eyes closed of their own accord, but for some reason he couldn’t sleep – the street noises seemed to be disturbing him. The herd of cattle was driven past and the horn blown, and soon after that the bells rang for early mass. A cart would creak past, then he would hear the voice of a woman going to market. And the sparrows never stopped chirping.
II
It was a cheerful, festive morning. At about ten o’clock Nina Fyodorovna, in a brown dress, hair combed, was led into the drawing-room and there she walked up and down. Then she stood by the open window with a broad innocent smile on her face. Looking at her, you were reminded of a local artist, a drunkard, who had called her face a ‘countenance’ and had wanted to include her in a painting of a Russian Shrovetide. Everyone, the children, servants and even her brother Aleksey Fyodorych, even she herself, was suddenly convinced that she was bound to recover. The little girls screamed with laughter as they pursued their uncle and tried to catch him, and the house grew noisy.
People from outside came to inquire about her health. They brought communion bread and said that prayers were being offered for her today in almost every church. She had done a great deal of good in that town and the people loved her. She dispensed charity with the same lack of fuss as her brother, who gave away money very readily, without stopping to consider whether he should or not. Nina Fyodorovna paid poor schoolboys’ fees, took tea, sugar and jam to old ladies, gave indigent brides dresses, and if she happened to see a newspaper she would first look for appeals or stories about anyone in dire straits.
Now she was holding a bundle of chits with which various impecunious petitioners had obtained goods at the grocer’s. This grocer had sent these to her yesterday, requesting eighty-two roubles.
‘Heavens, they’ve been taking so much, they really have no shame!’ she said, barely recognizing her own ugly handwriting. ‘That’s no joke, eighty-two roubles! I don’t feel like paying!’
‘I’ll pay it today’, Laptev said.
‘But what on earth for?’ Nina Fyodorovna said anxiously. ‘It’s really enough for me, those two hundred and fifty roubles I get every month from you and our brother. God bless you’, she added in a soft voice, so that the servants wouldn’t hear.
‘Well, I spend two thousand five hundred a month’, he said. ‘Let me tell you again, my dear, you’re just as entitled to spend money as Fyodor and myself. Never forget that. Father has three children, so one in every three copecks belongs to you.’
But Nina Fyodorovna didn’t understand and she looked as if she was trying to do a very complicated piece of mental arithmetic. This obtuseness in financial matters always worried and embarrassed Laptev. Moreover, he suspected that she had some personal debts which she was too ashamed to tell him about and which were distressing her.
They heard footsteps and heavy breathing. It was the doctor coming upstairs, as scruffy and unkempt as ever. He was humming away as usual.
To avoid meeting him, Laptev went into the dining-room, then down to his own rooms. It was quite clear to him that getting on more intimate terms with the doctor and calling informally was impossible. Any encounter with that ‘old mule’, as Panaurov called him, was unpleasant. This was why he saw Julia Sergeyevna so seldom. He reckoned that if he took the umbrella back now, when her father was out, he would catch her alone in the house, and his heart leapt with joy. He must hurry, hurry!
Greatly excited, he took the umbrella and flew off on the wings of love. It was hot in the street. At the doctor’s house, in the huge courtyard overgrown with tall weeds and nettles, about twenty boys were playing ball. They were all children of the tenants – working people who lived in the three old, unsightly outbuildings which the doctor was meaning to repair every year, but was always putting off. Healthy voices rang out. Far to one side, near her front porch, stood Julia Sergeyevna, her arms behind her back as she watched the game.
‘Good morning!’ Laptev called out.
She turned round. Usually she looked cool and indifferent when he saw her, or tired, as yesterday. But now she seemed as lively and playful as those boys at their game. ‘Just look at them’, she said, going over to him. ‘They don’t enjoy themselves like that in Moscow. But they don’t have such large yards there, so there’s no room for running about. Father’s just gone over to your place’, she added.
‘I know, but it’s you I’ve come to see, not him’, Laptev said, admiring her youthfulness, which he hadn’t noticed before, apparently seeing it only for the first time today. And he felt that he was looking at her delicate white neck, with its little golden chain, for the very first time.
‘I’ve come to see you’, he repeated. ‘My sister’s sent this umbrella you forgot yesterday.’
She stretched out her hand to take it, but he pressed the umbrella to his chest and said in a passionate, uncontrolled voice, as he surrendered once again to the exquisite delight experienced the previous night beneath the umbrella, ‘I beg you, give it to me. I shall keep it in memory of you, of our friendship. It’s a really wonderful umbrella!’
‘Keep it’, she said, blushing. ‘I don’t think it’s so wonderful.’
He looked at her in speechless ecstasy.
‘Why am I making you stand in this heat?’ she said after a short silence, laughing. ‘Let’s go inside.’
‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’
They entered the hall. Julia Sergeyevna ran upstairs, rustling her white dress with its blue flower pattern.
‘You can’t disturb me’, she replied, stopping on the stairs. ‘After all, I never do a thing. Every day’s a holiday for me, from morning to night.’
‘That’s something I can’t understand’, he said, going up to her. ‘I grew up in surroundings where everyone without exception – men and women – had to slave away, every single day.’
‘But supposing there’s nothing to do?’ she asked.
‘Then you must organize your life so that you just can’t avoid working. Without work life can never be honest and happy.’
He pressed the umbrella to his chest again and said in a soft voice that didn’t sound like his, ‘If you would agree to be my wife I would give anything. Just anything. There’s no price I wouldn’t pay, no sacrifice I wouldn’t make.’
She shuddered and looked at him in surprise and fear.
‘What are you saying!’ she exclaimed, turning pale. ‘It’s out of the question, I do assure you. I’m sorry.’
Still rustling her dress as before, she dashed upstairs and vanished through a door.
All the things he had said just now struck him as sickeningly stupid. Why had he lied to her about growing up in surroundings where everyone worked ‘without exception’? Why had he adopted that didactic tone about the ‘honest, happy life’? It was silly, boring, hypocritical – typical Moscow pomposity. But gradually he lapsed into the indifference felt by criminals after a harsh sentence. Now, thank God, it was all over, he thought, no longer was there that dreadful uncertainty, no longer would he have to wait day after day, suffer, forever thinking about the same thing. Everything was clear now. He must abandon all hope of personal happiness and live without desire or hope; he must never have yearnings or expectations any more. If he wanted to dispel the boredom that he was so sick and tired of, he could start caring about what other people did, about their happiness. Old age would then creep up on him unnoticed, his life would come to an end – and that was the long and short of it. Now he didn’t care about a thing, he wanted nothing and he could reflect coolly. But he felt a certain heaviness in his face, especially under the eyes. His forehead was as taut as stretched elastic and it seemed that tears would spurt at any moment. Feeling weak all over, he climbed into bed and in five minutes he was fast asleep.
III
Julia Sergeyevna was plunged into despair by Laptev’s proposal, which had been so unexpected.
She didn’t know him very well and they had met by chance. He was rich, a director of the well-known Moscow firm of Fyodor Laptev & Sons. He was always very serious, obviously highly intelligent and preoccupied with his sister’s health. She had thought that he had been completely ignoring her, and on her part she had treated him with the utmost indifference. But suddenly there was that declaration on the stairs, that pathetic, enraptured face…
His proposal had disturbed her by its very suddenness, and she was upset at his using the word ‘wife’ and that she had had to refuse him. She had forgotten what she actually told Laptev, but vestiges of that impetuous, unpleasant feeling she had experienced when refusing him still lingered. She did not like him. He looked like a shop assistant, he was boring, and the only possible reply was no. All the same, she felt awkward, as if she had behaved badly. ‘My God, not even in the flat. Right there, on the stairs’, she said despairingly, turning towards the small icon above the bed-head. ‘And he never paid me any attention before. It’s all rather unusual, strange…’
In her loneliness she felt more uneasy by the hour, unable to cope unaided with those oppressive feelings. She needed someone to listen to her and tell her that she had behaved correctly. But there was no one to talk to. Her mother had died long ago, and she looked on her father as some kind of eccentric with whom she couldn’t have a serious conversation. He embarrassed her with his whims, his excessive touchiness and vague gestures. The moment you started a discussion with him he would start talking about himself. Even in her prayers she hadn’t been completely frank, since she wasn’t sure exactly what she should ask of God.
The samovar was brought in. Very pale and tired, with a helpless-looking face, Julia Sergeyevna entered the dining-room, made the tea – this was her responsibility – and poured her father a glass. In that long frock-coat that reached below the knees, with his red face, uncombed hair, hands in pockets, the doctor paced the dining-room – not from corner to corner, but haphazardly, like a beast in a cage. He would stop by the table, drink with relish from his glass and then pensively pace the room again.
‘Laptev proposed to me today’, Julia Sergeyevna said, blushing.
The doctor looked at her and didn’t seem to understand. ‘Laptev?’ he asked. ‘Nina Panaurov’s brother?’
He loved his daughter. She would most probably marry sooner or later and leave him, but he tried not to think about it. He was scared at the prospect of loneliness and (for some reason) he felt he might have a stroke if he were left alone in that large house, but he didn’t like to say it outright.
‘I’m really very pleased’, he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘My heartiest congratulations! Now you have an excellent chance of abandoning me and that must give you great pleasure. I understand you very well. Living with a senile, sick, half-demented father must be rotten for someone of your age. I understand you perfectly. If only I were to peg out soon, if only the devil would cart me off, everyone would be so delighted. I congratulate you most heartily.’
‘I turned him down.’
The doctor felt relieved, but now he couldn’t stop talking and he continued, ‘I’m amazed. I’ve been asking myself this for a long time now, why haven’t they put me in a lunatic asylum? Why am I wearing this frock-coat, instead of a straitjacket? I still believe in truth, goodness, I’m a stupid old idealist – surely that’s madness in this day and age? And what do I get for my love of truth, for being honest with people? I’m almost stoned in the streets, everyone rides roughshod over me. Even my nearest and dearest walk all over me. So to hell with me, stupid old fool!’
‘It’s impossible to have a proper talk with you!’ Julia said. Abruptly, she stood up from the table and furiously went to her room. She well remembered how often her father had been unfair to her. But after a little while she began to feel sorry for him, and when he left for his club she went downstairs with him and shut the door after him. The weather was bad, very blustery. The door shook from the force of the wind and in the hall there were draughts everywhere which nearly blew the candle out. Julia went all through her rooms upstairs and made the sign of the cross over all windows and doors. The wind howled and someone seemed to be walking about on the roof. Never had she felt so low, never had she felt so lonely.
She wondered if she had behaved badly in refusing a man just because she didn’t care for his looks. She didn’t love him – that was true – and marrying him would have meant saying farewell to her dreams and ideas of a happy married life. But would she ever meet the man of her dreams and fall in love? She was already twenty-one. There were no eligible bachelors in town. She thought of all the men she knew – civil servants, teachers, officers. Some of them were already married and their family life was staggeringly empty and boring. Others were dull, colourless, stupid and immoral. Whatever you said about Laptev, he was a Muscovite, he’d been to university, he spoke French. He lived in Moscow, the capital, where there were so many clever, idealistic, remarkable people, where everything was so lively, with magnificent theatres, musical evenings, first-class dressmakers and patisseries. The Bible says that a wife must love her husband and love is of prime importance in novels. But wasn’t all that going too far? Surely family life without love was somehow possible? Wasn’t it said that love soon passes, that it becomes a mere habit and that the purpose of family life isn’t love and happiness, but responsibility – bringing up children, looking after the house and so on. Perhaps what the Bible meant was loving one’s husband in the same way as one’s neighbour, having respect, making allowances…
That night Julia Sergeyevna attentively read her evening prayers, then she knelt down, clasped her hands to her breast and looked at the icon-lamp. ‘Teach me to understand, Holy Mother. Teach me, O Lord!’ she said, with deep feeling.
In the course of her life she had met poor, pathetic old maids who bitterly regretted having turned down their suitors at some time. Wouldn’t the same thing happen to her? Shouldn’t she enter a convent or become a nurse?
She undressed and got into bed, crossing herself and the air around. Suddenly a bell rang sharply, plaintively, in the corridor. ‘Good God!�
�� she said, feeling intense irritation all over her body at this sound. She lay there thinking about provincial life, so uneventful and monotonous, yet so disturbing at times: you were always being forced to shudder, to feel angry and guilty and in the end your nerves became so shattered you were too frightened to look out from under the blankets.
Half an hour later the bell rang again, just as sharply. The servants were most probably asleep and didn’t hear it. Annoyed with them and shivering, Julia Sergeyevna lit a candle and started dressing. When she had finished and gone out into the corridor the maid was bolting the downstairs door. ‘I thought it was the master, but it was somebody one of the patients sent over’, she said.
Julia Sergeyevna returned to her room. She took a pack of cards from her chest of drawers and decided that if, after shuffling them well and cutting them, the bottom card turned out red, that would mean yes, that is, she had to accept Laptev. If it was black she must say no. The card was the ten of spades.
This had a calming effect and she fell asleep. But in the morning it was neither ‘yes’ nor ‘no’ again. She realized that she could change her whole life now if she so wanted. These thoughts wearied her – she felt exhausted and ill. However, just after eleven o’clock, she dressed and went to visit Nina Fyodorovna. She wanted to see Laptev – he might strike her as more attractive now and perhaps she had been making a mistake.
Fighting one’s way against that wind was hard work. She hardly made any progress, and she held her hat with both hands, seeing nothing for dust.
IV
When he entered his sister’s room and unexpectedly saw Julia Sergeyevna there, Laptev again felt the humiliation of someone who has been snubbed. He concluded that if, after yesterday, she had no qualms about visiting his sister and meeting him, then either he didn’t exist as far as she was concerned, or he was considered a complete nonentity. But when he greeted her and she looked at him sadly and guiltily with a pale face and dust under her eyes, he could see that she too was suffering.
Ward No. 6 and Other Stories, 1892-1895 Page 30
