The friends dined together. Then Laptev lay on the couch, while Yartsev sat near him and lit a cigar. Twilight fell.
‘I must be getting old’, Laptev said. ‘Since my sister Nina died I’ve taken to thinking about death, for some reason.’
They talked of death and immortality, about how lovely it would be if they were resurrected and then flew off to Mars or somewhere to enjoy eternal idleness and happiness – and, most of all, if they could think in some special, non-terrestrial way.
‘But I don’t want to die’, Yartsev said softly. ‘No philosophy can reconcile me to death and I look upon it simply as destruction. I want to live.’
‘Do you love life, old man?’
‘Yes, I love life.’
‘Well, in that respect I just can’t make myself out. Gloomy moods alternate with apathetic ones. I’m timid, I’ve no self-confidence, I’m cowardly in matters of conscience, I cannot adapt to life at all or become master of it. Other people talk rubbish or behave like rogues – and with such gusto! As for me, sometimes I consciously perform good deeds, but in the event I experience only anxiety or complete indifference. My explanation for all this is that I’m a slave – a serf’s grandson. Many of us rank and file will fall in battle before we find the right path.’
‘That’s all very well, dear man’, Yartsev sighed. ‘It only goes to show yet again how rich and varied Russian life is. Yes, very rich! Do you know, every day I’m more convinced that we’re on the threshold of some fantastic triumph. I’d like to survive till then and take part in it myself. Believe it or not, in my opinion a remarkable generation is growing up now. It’s a pleasure teaching children, especially girls. Wonderful children!’
Yartsev went over to the piano and struck a chord.
‘I’m a chemist’, he continued. ‘I think like a chemist and I’ll die a chemist. But I’m greedy, I’m afraid I’ll die without having gorged myself. Chemistry alone isn’t enough for me. I clutch at Russian history, at the history of art, at educational theory, music. Your wife told me this summer to write a historical play and now I want to write, write, write. I feel I could sit down and write for three days and nights, without ever getting up. Images have exhausted me, my head is crammed with them, I feel a pulse beating in my brain. I don’t want to make anything special out of myself or achieve something really great. All I want is to live, dream, hope, to be everywhere at the same time. Life, my dear man, is short and we must live it as best we can.’
After this friendly chat, which finished only at midnight, Laptev began calling at Yartsev’s almost every day. He felt drawn to the place. He usually arrived just before evening, lay down and waited impatiently for Yartsev to arrive, not feeling bored in the least. When he had returned from the office and eaten, Yartsev would sit down to work. But Laptev would ask him something, a conversation would start, work would be forgotten and the friends would part at midnight feeling very pleased with each other.
But this didn’t last long. Once, after arriving at Yartsev’s, Laptev found only Rassudina there, sitting practising at the piano. She gave him a cold, almost hostile look. Without shaking hands she asked, ‘Please tell me when all this will end?’
‘All what?’
‘You come here every day and stop Yartsev working. Yartsev’s no lousy little shopkeeper, he’s a scholar – every minute of his life is precious. Try and understand that, show some consideration at least!’
‘If you think I’m interfering’, Laptev replied curtly, somewhat embarrassed, ‘then I’ll put a stop to these visits.’
‘That’s all right by me. Leave now or he might come and find you here.’
The tone in which Rassudina said this, her apathetic look, was the finishing touch to his embarrassment. She had no feeling at all for him, all she wanted was for him to leave as soon as possible – what a difference from their former love! He left without shaking hands, thinking she might call him back. But he heard the scales again and as he slowly made his way downstairs he realized that he was a stranger to her now.
Three days later Yartsev came over to spend the evening with him.
‘I’ve news for you’, he laughed. ‘Polina Nikolayevna has moved in with me.’ He became rather embarrassed and added in a low voice, ‘Well now, we’re not in love of course but… hm… that doesn’t matter. I’m glad I can offer her a quiet sanctuary and the chance to stop working if she becomes ill. Well, she thinks there’ll be a lot more order in my life now that she’s living with me and that I’ll become a great scholar under her influence. If that’s what she thinks, then let her. There’s a saying down south: Idle thoughts give wings to fools. Ha, ha, ha!’
Laptev said nothing. Yartsev paced the study, glanced at the paintings he had seen many times before and heaved a sigh as he said, ‘Yes, my friend. I’m three years older than you and it’s too late for me to start thinking about true love. Really, a woman like Polina is a godsend and I’ll live happily with her until old age, of course. But to hell with it, I have regrets and I’m always hankering after something and imagining that I’m lying in a valley in Daghestan,48 dreaming I’m at a ball. In short, one’s never satisfied with what one has.’
He went into the drawing-room and sang some songs, as if he had no worries at all, while Laptev stayed in the study, eyes closed, trying to fathom why Rassudina had moved in with Yartsev. Then he kept mourning the fact that there was no such thing as a firm, lasting attachment. He was annoyed about Rassudina having an affair with Yartsev and he was annoyed with himself for feeling quite differently towards his wife now.
XV
Laptev was sitting in his armchair, rocking himself as he read. Julia was also in the study reading. Apparently there was nothing to discuss and neither had said a word since morning. Now and then he looked at her over his book and wondered if it made any difference if one married from passionate love or without any love at all. That time of jealousy, great agitation and suffering seemed remote now. He had already managed a trip abroad and was now recovering from the journey, hoping to return to England, which he had liked very much, at the beginning of spring.
Julia Sergeyevna had grown inured to her grief and no longer went to the lodge to cry. That winter she didn’t visit the shops, or go to the theatre or concerts, but stayed at home. She didn’t like large rooms and was always either in her husband’s study or in her own room, where she had some icon-cases that were part of her dowry and where the landscape painting she had admired so much at the exhibition hung on the wall. She spent no money on herself and got through as little as in her father’s house.
Winter passed cheerlessly. All over Moscow people were playing cards, but whenever some other entertainment was devised – singing, reciting, sketching, for example – this made life even more boring. Because there were so few talented people in Moscow and because the same old singers and reciters were to be found at every soirée, enjoyment of the arts gradually palled and for many was transformed into a boring, monotonous duty.
Besides this, not one day passed at the Laptevs without some upset. Old Fyodor Stepanych’s eyesight was very poor, he no longer went to the warehouse and the eye surgeons said he would soon go blind. For some reason Fyodor stopped going there too, staying at home the whole time to write. Panaurov had obtained his transfer – he had been promoted to Councillor of State – and he was living at the Dresden Hotel now. Almost every day he called on Laptev to borrow money. Kish had finally left university and while he was waiting for the Laptevs to find him a job would hang around for days on end, regaling them with long, boring stories. All this was very irritating and wearisome, and made everyday life most unpleasant.
Pyotr entered the study to announce the arrival of a lady they didn’t know: the name on her visiting card was ‘Josephine Milan’. Julia Sergeyevna lazily stood up and went out, limping slightly from pins and needles in one leg. A thin, very pale lady with dark eyebrows, dressed completely in black, appeared at the door. She clasped her breast and said pleadingly,
‘Monsieur Laptev, please save my children!’
Laptev was familiar with the clink of those bracelets and that powder-blotched face. He recognized her as the lady at whose house he had been so stupid as to dine just before the wedding. She was Panaurov’s second wife.
‘Save my children!’ she repeated and her face trembled and suddenly looked old and pathetic. Her eyes reddened. ‘Only you can save us and I’ve spent my last rouble to come and see you in Moscow. My children will starve!’
She made as if to go down on her knees. This scared Laptev and he gripped her arms above the elbows.
‘Please sit down, I beg you’, he muttered as he gave her a chair.
‘We have no money for food now,’ she said. ‘Grigory Nikolaich is leaving to take up his new position but he doesn’t want to take me or the children, and that money you were so generous to send us he only spends on himself. What on earth can we do? I’m asking you. Those poor, unfortunate children!’
‘Please calm yourself ! I’ll tell the people at the office to send the money direct to you.’
She burst out sobbing, then calmed down, and he noticed that the tears had made little channels on her powdered cheeks and that she had a little moustache.
‘You’re infinitely generous, Monsieur Laptev. But please be our guardian angel, our good fairy. Persuade Grigory Nikolaich not to leave me, to take me with him. I do love him, I’m mad about him. He’s the light of my life.’
Laptev gave her a hundred roubles and promised he would have a talk with Panaurov. As he saw her into the hall he became frightened she might start sobbing again or fall on her knees.
Kish was next to arrive. Then in came Kostya, with a camera. Recently he’d become keen on photography and would take snaps of everyone in the house several times a day. This new hobby was causing him a great deal of distress and he’d even lost weight.
Fyodor arrived before afternoon tea. He sat down in a corner of the study, opened a book and stared at the same page for ages, obviously not reading. Then he lingered over his tea; his face was red. Laptev felt depressed in his presence and even found his silence unpleasant.
‘You can congratulate Russia on her new pamphleteer’, Fyodor remarked. ‘Joking aside, old man, it’s to put my pen to the test, so to speak, and I’ve come here to show you it. Please read it, dear chap, and tell me what you think. Only please be quite frank.’
He took an exercise book from his pocket and handed it to his brother. The article was called ‘The Russian Soul’ and it was written in that dull flat style usually employed by untalented people who are secretly conceited. Its main idea was as follows: intellectuals have the right not to believe in the supernatural, but they are obliged to conceal their lack of belief so as not to lead others astray or shake them in their faith. Without faith there is no idealism, and idealism is destined to save Europe and show humanity the true path.
‘But you don’t say from what Europe must be saved’, Laptev commented.
‘That’s self-evident.’
‘No it’s not’, Laptev said, walking up and down excitedly. ‘It’s not at all clear why you wrote it. However, that’s your affair.’
‘I want to have it published as a pamphlet.’
‘That’s your affair.’
For a minute they didn’t speak, then Fyodor sighed and said, ‘I deeply, infinitely regret that we see things differently. Oh, Aleksey, my dear brother Aleksey! We’re both Russians, we belong to the Orthodox Church, we have breadth of vision. Those rotten German and Jewish ideas – do they really suit us? We’re not a pair of blackguards, are we? We’re representatives of a distinguished family.’
‘Distinguished my foot!’ Laptev exclaimed, trying to keep back his irritation. ‘Distinguished family! Our grandfather was knocked around by rich landowners, the most miserable little clerk used to hit him in the face. Grandfather beat Father, Father beat you and me. What ever did this “distinguished family” of yours give you or me? What kind of nerves and blood did we inherit? For close on three years you’ve been blethering away like some wretched parish priest, spouting no end of drivel. And now this thing you’ve penned – why, it’s the ravings of a lackey! And what about me? Just take a look. I’m quite unadaptable, I’ve no spirit or moral fibre.
‘For every step I take I’m scared of being flogged. I cringe before nonentities, idiots, swine who are immeasurably inferior to me both intellectually and morally. I’m afraid of house porters, janitors, city police. I’m scared of everyone because I was born of a persecuted mother – from childhood I’ve been beaten and bullied. We’d both do well not to have children. Let’s hope, God willing, that this distinguished merchant house comes to an end with us!’
Julia Sergeyevna entered the study and sat by the desk.
‘Were you having an argument?’ she asked. ‘I’m not interrupting, am I?’
‘No, my dear sister-in-law’, Fyodor replied. ‘We’re discussing questions of principle. So, you were saying’, he went on, turning to his brother, ‘that our family is this and that. But this family built up a million-rouble business. That’s something!’
‘Blast your million-rouble business! A man without any special intelligence or ability becomes a merchant by accident, makes his fortune and does his business day in day out without any method or purpose – without even any craving for wealth. He carries on like a machine and the money just pours in, without him lifting a finger. His whole life is business and he likes it only because he can lord it over his clerks and make fun of customers. He’s a churchwarden only because he can bully the choir and keep them under his thumb. He’s a school governor because he likes to see the schoolmaster as his subordinate and can order him around. It’s not business you merchants care for, it’s being the boss. That warehouse of yours is no business premises, it’s a torture-chamber! Yes, for your sort of business you need clerks with no personality, deprived of any material share in it, and you train them to be that way. From childhood you force them to prostrate themselves before you for every crust of bread, from childhood you bring them up to believe that you are their benefactors. I could never imagine you having university men in your warehouse – no question about that!’
‘Graduates are no good in our kind of business.’
‘That’s not true!’ Laptev shouted. ‘That’s a lie!’
‘I’m sorry, but you seem to be fouling your own water’, Fyodor said, getting up. ‘You find our business hateful, yet you still enjoy the profits!’
‘Aha, so now we’ve come to the point!’ Laptev laughed and gave his brother an angry look. ‘Yes, if I didn’t belong to your distinguished family, if I had one iota of willpower and courage, I’d have chucked away all these profits of yours years ago and gone out to earn my own living. But you in your warehouse have been stripping me of all individuality since I was a child. I’m yours now!’
Fyodor glanced at his watch and hurriedly made his farewell. He kissed Julia’s hand and left the room. But instead of going into the hall he went into the drawing-room, then into a bedroom.
‘I’ve forgotten which rooms are which here’, he said, deeply embarrassed. ‘It’s a strange house, don’t you think? Most peculiar.’
While he was putting on his fur coat he seemed stunned by something and his face was full of pain. Laptev no longer felt angry: he was afraid and at the same time he felt sorry for Fyodor. That fine, heartfelt love for his brother that had seemingly died within him during those past three years awoke now and he felt a strong urge to express it.
‘Fyodor, come and have lunch tomorrow’, he said, stroking his brother’s shoulder. ‘Will you come?’
‘Oh, all right. But please fetch me some water.’
Laptev dashed into the dining-room himself, picked up the first thing he found on the sideboard – a tall beer jug – poured some water and took it to his brother. Fyodor started drinking thirstily, but suddenly he bit on the jug and then the gnashing of teeth could be heard, followed by sobbing. The water spilt
onto his fur coat and frock-coat. Laptev, who had never seen a man weep before, stood there embarrassed and frightened, at a loss what to do. In his bewilderment he watched Julia and the maid remove Fyodor’s fur coat and take him back into the house. He followed them, feeling that he was to blame.
Julia helped Fyodor lie down and sank to her knees before him.
‘It’s nothing, it’s only nerves’, she said comfortingly.
‘My dear, I feel so low’, he said. ‘I’m so unhappy, but I’ve been trying to keep it a secret the whole time.’
He put his arms round her neck and whispered in her ear, ‘Every night I dream of my sister Nina. She comes and sits in the armchair by my bed.’
An hour later, when he was putting on his fur coat again in the hall, he was smiling and he felt ashamed because of the maid. Laptev drove with him to Pyatnitsky Street.
‘Please come and have lunch tomorrow’, he said on the way, holding his arm, ‘and let’s go abroad together at Easter. You must get some fresh air – you’ve really let yourself go.’
‘Yes, of course I’ll come. And we’ll take sister-in-law Julia with us.’
Back home Laptev found his wife terribly overwrought. That incident with Fyodor had shocked her and she just wouldn’t calm down. She wasn’t crying, but she looked very pale, tossing and turning in bed and clutching at the quilt, pillow and her husband’s hands with cold fingers. Her eyes were dilated with fear.
‘Don’t leave me, please don’t leave me’, she said to her husband. ‘Tell me, Aleksey, why have I stopped saying my prayers? Where is my faith? Oh, why did you have to talk about religion in my presence? You and those friends of yours have muddled me. I don’t pray any more.’
He put compresses on her forehead, warmed her hands and made her drink tea, while she clung to him in terror…
By morning she was exhausted and fell asleep with Laptev sitting by her holding her hand. So he didn’t get any sleep. All next day he felt shattered and listless, his mind a blank as he sluggishly wandered round the house.
Ward No. 6 and Other Stories, 1892-1895 Page 37
