At the Corner of a Little Square
CHAPTER ONE
Votre coeur est l’éponge imbibée de fiel et de vinaigre.
Correspondance inédite*1
At the corner of a little square, in front of a small wooden house, stood a carriage—a rare occurrence in that remote part of the city. The driver lay asleep on the box, and the postillion was having a snowball fight with some servant boys.
In a room decorated with taste and luxury, on a sofa, dressed with great refinement, propped on pillows, lay a pale lady, no longer young, but still beautiful. Before the fireplace sat a young man of about twenty-six, leafing through the pages of an English novel.
The pale lady did not take from him her dark and sunken eyes, ringed with an unhealthy blue. Night was falling, the fire was dying down; the young man went on with his reading. Finally she said:
“What’s the matter with you, Valerian? You’re angry today.”
“Yes, I am,” he replied, without raising his eyes from the book.
“With whom?”
“With Prince Goretsky. He’s giving a ball tonight, and I’m not invited.”
“And do you want so much to be at his ball?”
“Not in the least. Devil take him and his ball. But if he invites the whole town, he ought to invite me as well.”
“Which Goretsky is it? Not Prince Yakov?”
“Not at all. Prince Yakov died long ago. It’s his brother, Prince Grigory, a notorious brute.”
“Who is he married to?”
“The daughter of that chorister…what’s his name?”
“I haven’t gone out for so long that I’ve quite lost touch with your high society. So you value very much the attention of Prince Grigory, the notorious scoundrel, and the good graces of his wife, a chorister’s daughter?”
“But of course,” the young man replied hotly, flinging his book on the table. “I’m a man of society and do not want to be scorned by society aristocrats. I am not concerned either with their genealogies or with their morals.”
“Who are you calling aristocrats?”
“Those to whom Countess Fuflygina offers her hand.”
“And who is this Countess Fuflygina?”
“An insolent fool.”
“And the scorn of people you despise can upset you so much?!” said the lady, after some silence. “Confess, there’s some other reason here.”
“So: again suspicions! again jealousy! By God, this is insufferable.”
With those words he stood up and took his hat.
“You’re leaving already?” the lady said anxiously. “Don’t you want to dine here?”
“No, I gave my word.”
“Dine with me,” she went on in a gentle and timid voice. “I’ve ordered champagne.”
“What for? Am I some Moscow card player? Can’t I do without champagne?”
“But the last time you found my wine bad, you were angry that women are poor judges in that. I can’t please you.”
“I’m not asking you to please me.”
She made no reply. The young man immediately regretted the rudeness of these last words. He went to her, took her hand, and said tenderly:
“Zinaida, forgive me: I’m not myself today; I’m angry with everybody and for everything. At such moments I ought to stay home…Forgive me; don’t be angry.”
“I’m not angry, Valerian; but it pains me to see that for some time now you’ve been quite changed. You come to see me as if out of duty, not by your heart’s prompting. You’re bored with me. You keep silent, don’t know how to occupy yourself, fumble with books, find fault with me, so as to quarrel with me and leave…I’m not reproaching you: our hearts are not in our power, but I…”
Valerian was no longer listening. He was pulling at the glove he had long since put on and kept glancing impatiently outside. She fell silent with an air of restrained vexation. He pressed her hand, said a few meaningless words, and ran out of the room, the way a frisky schoolboy runs out of class. Zinaida went to the window; she watched the carriage brought for him, watched him get into it and drive off. She stood for a long time in the same place, leaning her hot brow against the icy windowpane. Finally she said aloud, “No, he doesn’t love me!”—rang for the maid, told her to light the lamp, and sat down at her little writing desk.
CHAPTER TWO
Vous écrivez vos lettres de 4 pages plus vite que je ne puis les lire.*2
* * * soon became convinced of his wife’s infidelity. He found this extremely upsetting. He did not know what course to take: to pretend he had noticed nothing seemed stupid to him; to laugh at such a commonplace misfortune—contemptible; to get downright angry—too sensational; to complain with an air of deeply offended feeling—too ridiculous. Fortunately, his wife came to his aid.
Having fallen in love with Volodsky, she felt an aversion for her husband proper only to women and which only they can understand. One day she went into his study, shut the door behind her, and announced that she loved Volodsky, that she did not want to deceive her husband and dishonor him in secret, and that she had resolved to divorce him. * * * was alarmed by such openness and precipitousness. She gave him no time to recover, moved that same day from the English Embankment to Kolomna, and in a short note made it all known to Volodsky, who was not expecting anything of the sort…
He was in despair. He had never thought of binding himself with such ties. He disliked boredom, feared any obligation, and above all valued his egotistical independence. But that was all over. Zinaida was left on his hands. He pretended to be grateful and prepared himself for the bother of a liaison, as for the performance of a duty or the boring obligation of checking his butler’s monthly accounts…
*1 “Your heart is a sponge soaked in bile and vinegar.” Unpublished correspondence.
*2 “You write your four-page letters more quickly than I can read them.”