Selected Stories

Ninochka

A Love Story

THE DOOR OPENED QUIETLY and my good friend Pavel Sergeyevich Vikhlyenev entered. Although a young man, he was sickly, old-looking, and, in general—with his round shoulders, long nose, and gaunt features—unattractive. But, on the other hand, his face was so bland, soft, and undefined that every time you looked at it you experienced a strange desire to get hold of it with your five fingers and to feel, as it were, the doughy soft-heartedness and warmth of my friend. Like all bookish people, he was quiet, diffident, and shy; besides which, at this time he was paler than usual, and for some reason violently agitated.

“What’s the matter with you?” I asked, glancing at his white face and faintly trembling lips. “Are you sick, or has there been another misunderstanding with your wife? You don’t look yourself.”

After hesitating for a moment Vikhlyenev coughed slightly, then with a gesture of despair said, “Yes … with Ninochka again. I’ve been so miserable I couldn’t sleep all night, and, as you see, I’m barely alive. Damn it all! Other people don’t let things get them down; they take injury, loss, or pain lightly. But it requires a mere trifle to depress and upset me.”

“But what happened?”

“A trifle—a little domestic drama. But I’ll tell you the whole story, if you like. Yesterday my Ninochka did not go out. She took it into her head to spend an evening with me and stayed at home. I was, of course, overjoyed. She usually goes out to a meeting somewhere at night, and since that’s the only time I’m at home, you can imagine how I was … well … I was overjoyed. But then, you have never been married, so you don’t know how cozy and warm it feels when you come home from work to find the woman you live for. … Ah!”

Vikhlyenev made an inventory of the charms of married life. Then he wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and continued. “Ninochka thought she’d like to spend an evening with me. Well, you know how I am—dull, heavy, and far from clever. It’s not much fun to be with me; I’m forever at my drafting board or my soil filters; I never play, or dance, or joke. And you must admit that Ninochka is pleasure-loving. Youth has its rights, don’t you think so? Well, I began by showing her various little things, photographs and one thing and another, told her some stories, and then I suddenly remembered that I had some old letters in my desk, among them some that were very funny. In my student days I had friends who wrote devilishly clever letters: you read them and you split your guts laughing! I pulled these letters out of the desk and commenced reading them to Ninochka. I read her one, then another, then a third, and suddenly—the whole thing broke down! In one letter she came across the phrase: ‘Katya sends her regards.’ To a jealous wife such a phrase is like a sharp knife, and my Ninochka—an Othello in petticoats! The questions rained down on my unfortunate head: Who is this Katya? And how? And why? I explained to her that she was in some way a kind of first love, something out of my young student life, my salad days, to which it was impossible to attach any significance whatsoever. Every youth, I told her, has his Katya; it would be impossible not to—but my Ninochka wouldn’t listen. She imagined—God knows what!—and started to cry. After the tears, hysterics. ‘You’re vile, filthy,’ she screamed. ‘You hid your past from me! You probably have some kind of Katya even now, and you’re hiding it from me!’ I tried and I tried to reassure her, but to no avail. Masculine logic never convinced a woman. In the end I begged her forgiveness—on my knees. I crawled, and where did it get me? She went to bed in hysterics—she in the bedroom and I on the sofa in my study. This morning she was pouting, wouldn’t look at me, and spoke to me as though I were a stranger. She threatens to move to her mother’s, and she probably will—I know her!”

“Hm-m. Not a very pleasant story.”

“Women are incomprehensible to me! Granting that Ninochka is young, pure, fastidious, and can’t help being shocked by something so earthy—is that so hard to forgive? I may be guilty, but I begged her forgiveness—I crawled on my knees! I even, if you must know, wept!”

“Yes, women are a great riddle.”

“My dear friend, you have a strong influence over Ninochka. She respects you; she sees in you an authority. Please, go and see her. Exert your influence, and make her understand how wrong she is. I am suffering, my friend. If this goes on one more day I won’t be able to endure it. Go—be a friend!”

“But do you think that would be … proper?”

“Why not? You and she have been friends almost since childhood. She trusts you. As a friend, please go!”

Vikhlyenev’s tearful pleading touched me. I dressed and went to see his wife. I found Ninochka engaged in her favorite occupation: she was sitting on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, blinking her beautiful eyes and doing nothing. When I came in she jumped up and ran to me; then she glanced round, quietly closed the door, and, with the lightness of a feather, clung to my neck. (You must not think, dear reader, that this is a misprint. For a year now, I had been sharing with Vikhlyenev his conjugal obligations.)

“What deviltry have you thought up now?” I asked Ninochka, seating her beside me.

“What do you mean?”

“Again you have managed to torment your better half. He came to see me today and told me all about it.”

“Oh—that! So he found someone to complain to!”

“What actually happened?”

“Oh, not much. I was bored last night … and got angry because I had no place to go, so, out of spite, I started nagging him about his Katya. I cried simply from boredom—and how can I explain that to him?”

“But you know, my darling, that’s cruel and inhuman. He’s so nervous, and yet you plague him with your scenes.”

“Oh, that’s nothing. He loves it when I act jealous. And there’s no better blind than fictitious jealousy. But let’s drop it. I don’t like it when you start talking about my milksop; I’m fed up with him! Let’s have tea.”

“Well, in any case, stop tormenting him. You know, he’s pathetic: he describes his happiness and his faith in your love so frankly and sincerely that it makes one uncomfortable. Do control yourself somehow; show him some affection; lie! One word from you and he’s in seventh heaven.”

Ninochka frowned and pouted, but a little later when Vikhlyenev came in and timidly looked into my face, she gaily and affectionately smiled at him.

“You’re just in time for tea!” she said to him. “How clever of you, my pet, never to be late. Lemon or cream for you?”

Vikhlyenev, not expecting such a welcome, was moved; he kissed his wife’s hand warmly, and embraced me. This embrace was so absurd and so untimely that both Ninochka and I blushed.

“Blessed are the peacemakers!” clucked the happy husband. “You’ve made her listen to reason; and why? Because you’re a man of the world; you mingle in society, and you know all the fine points of a woman’s heart! Ha! Ha! Ha! I’m a clumsy ox; when one word is needed, I say ten; when I should kiss her hand or something, I start to find fault! Ha! Ha!”

After tea Vikhlyenev led me into his study, buttonholed me, and mumbled, “I don’t know how to thank you, my dear friend. Believe me, I suffered; I was tortured; and now I am so happy—I’m simply overwhelmed! And this isn’t the first time that you’ve pulled me out of a terrible situation. My dear friend—now, don’t refuse me—I have here a little something. … It’s just a little model locomotive that I made myself; I got a medal for it at the exposition. Take it as a token of my gratitude … my friendship. Do me this favor!”

Naturally, I refused in every possible way, but Vikhlyenev was insistent and, like it or not, I had to accept his precious gift.

Days, weeks, months passed. Sooner or later the ugly truth was bound to be revealed to him in all its enormity. When, by accident, he did find out, he turned frightfully pale, sat down on the sofa, and stared dully at the ceiling without saying a word. A heartache has to express itself in some kind of movement, and he began to turn from side to side on the sofa in an agonizing way. Even these movements were circumscribed by his milksop nature.

A week later, somewhat recovered from the shock of this news, he came to see me. We were both embarrassed and avoided looking at each other. I began to spout some sort of nonsense about free love, marital selfishness, submission to fate.

“It wasn’t about that—” he interrupted meekly, “all that I understand perfectly. In matters of the heart, no one is guilty. What concerns me is the other side of the business … the purely practical. You see, I don’t know life at all, and where the actual arrangements … the social conventions are concerned, I’m a real greenhorn. So, help me, my friend! Tell me, what is Ninochka supposed to do now? Should she go on living with me, or do you think it would be better if she moved in with you?”

Having deliberated briefly, we left it at this: Ninochka would continue to live at Vikhlyenev’s; I would go to see her whenever I liked, and he would take the corner room, which formerly had been the storeroom, for himself. This room was rather dark and damp, and the entrance to it was through the kitchen, but, on the other hand, he could perfectly well shut himself up in it and not be a nuisance to anyone.

—1885