Fifty-Two Stories

AFTER THE THEATER

NADYA ZELENINA CAME BACK with her mama from the theater, where there had been a performance of Evgeny Onegin, and, going to her room, quickly took off her dress, loosened her braid, and, wearing only a petticoat and a white bed jacket, hurriedly sat down at the table to write the sort of letter Tatiana wrote.¹

“I love you,” she wrote, “but you do not love me, you do not love me!”

She wrote it and laughed.

She was only sixteen and had never loved anyone yet. She knew that the officer Gorny and the student Gruzdev loved her, but now, after the opera, she felt like doubting their love. To be unloved and unhappy—how interesting! When the one loves much and the other is indifferent, there is something beautiful, touching, and poetic about it. Onegin is interesting in that he does not love at all, and Tatiana is enchanting because she loves so much, and if they loved each other equally and were happy, they might seem dull.

“So stop assuring me that you love me,” Nadya went on writing, thinking about the officer Gorny. “I cannot believe you. You are very intelligent, cultivated, serious, you have great talents, and it may be that a brilliant future awaits you, while I am an uninteresting, worthless girl, and you know perfectly well that I will only be a hindrance in your life. True, you took a fancy to me, and you thought that in me you had met your ideal, but that was a mistake, and now you are already asking yourself in despair: why did I meet this girl? And only your kindness keeps you from admitting it!…”

Nadya felt sorry for herself, started to cry, and went on:

“It is painful for me to leave Mama and my brother, otherwise I would put on a nun’s habit and go wherever my feet took me. And you would be free and would fall in love with someone else. Ah, if only I could die!”

Through her tears she could not make out what she was writing; brief rainbows trembled on the table, the floor, the ceiling, as if Nadya were looking through a prism. She could not write, so she leaned back in her armchair and started thinking about Gorny.

My God, how interesting, how charming men are! Nadya recalled what a wonderful expression—ingratiating, guilty, and gentle—the officer had when someone argued with him about music, and how he tried at the same time to keep his voice from sounding passionate. In society, where cool haughtiness and indifference are considered signs of good upbringing and noble character, one must hide one’s passion. And so he does, but he doesn’t succeed, and everybody knows perfectly well that he loves music passionately. Endless arguments about music, the bold opinions of uncomprehending people, keep him under constant strain; he becomes frightened, shy, taciturn. He plays the piano magnificently, like a true pianist, and if he were not an officer, he would probably be a famous musician.

The tears dried up in her eyes. Nadya recalled that Gorny had declared his love at a symphony concert and then downstairs by the cloakroom, where drafts were blowing from all sides.

“I am very glad that you have finally made the acquaintance of the student Gruzdev,” she went on writing. “He is a very intelligent person, and you will probably like him. Yesterday he visited us and stayed until two. We were all delighted, and I was sorry you did not come. He said many remarkable things.”

Nadya put her arms on the desk and lowered her head onto them, and her hair covered the letter. She recalled that the student Gruzdev also loved her and that he had the same right to a letter from her as Gorny. In fact, hadn’t she better write to Gruzdev? Joy stirred in her breast for no reason at all: at first the joy was small and rolled around in her breast like a rubber ball; then it became wider, bigger, and surged up like a wave. Nadya had already forgotten about Gorny and Gruzdev, her thoughts were confused, and the joy was growing, growing, it spread from her breast into her arms and legs, and it seemed as if a light, cool breeze blew on her head and ruffled her hair. Her shoulders shook with quiet laughter, the table also shook, and the glass of the lamp, and tears from her eyes spattered the letter. She was unable to stop this laughter, and to show herself that she was not laughing for no reason, she hurriedly recalled something funny.

“What a funny poodle!” she said, feeling as if she was choking with laughter. “What a funny poodle!”

She remembered how, after tea yesterday, Gruzdev had frolicked with the poodle Maxim and then told about a very smart poodle who chased a raven in the yard, and the raven turned to him and said:

“Ah, you scallywag!”

The poodle, who did not know he was dealing with a learned raven, was terribly embarrassed and backed off in perplexity, then started barking.

“No, I’d better love Gruzdev,” Nadya decided and tore up the letter.

She started thinking about the student, about his love, about her love, but it turned out that the thoughts in her head became blurred and she thought about everything: about Mama, about the street, about her pencil, about the grand piano…She was thinking joyfully and it turned out that everything was good, splendid, and her joy told her that this was not all, that a little later it would be still better. Soon it would be spring, summer, time to go with Mama to Gorbiki, Gorny will come for vacation, he will be strolling with her in the garden and courting her. Gruzdev will also come. He will play croquet and skittles with her, tell her funny or astonishing things. She passionately longed for the garden, the darkness, the clear sky, the stars. Again her shoulders shook with laughter, and it seemed to her that the room smelled of wormwood and a branch was knocking on the window.

She went to her bedroom, sat on the bed, and, not knowing what to do with her immense joy, which wearied her, gazed at the icon that hung at the head of her bed and kept saying:

“Lord! Lord! Lord!”

1892