The Best Stories of Anton Chekhov

THE

BEST STORIES

ANTON CHEKHOV

THE

BEST STORIES

ANTON CHEKHOV

Edited by John Kulka

Barnes &.NOBLE

B O O K S

NLW Y ORK

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This edition published by Barnes & Noble, Inc.

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CONTENTS

Introduction vn

The Lady with the Dog i

Gusev 2 7

An Upheaval 4 9

Neighbours 6i

Ward No. 6 91

The Darling 173

The Husband 193

Ariadne 201

Peasants 243

The Man in a Case 293

Gooseberries 313

About Love 329

INTRODUCTION

Anton Pavlovich Chekhov was born on january 17, 1860, in the southern Russian seaport town of Taganrog. He was the third child in a family of five boys and a girl. If not for 3,500 rubles scraped together by a shrewd and ambitious grandfather, with which he purchased his own and his family's freedom, the future writer would have been born a serf. The writer's father, Pavel, rose further into lower-middle-class respectability as the proprietor of a small grocery in Taganrog. He was a religious, church-going man and a strict disciplinarian who took it as his parental duty to beat his children. Chekhov thought him a tyrant. "It is sickening and dreadful to recall," he wrote to his brother Alexander, "the extent to which despotism and lying mutilated our childhood."

Chekhov's mother, on the other hand, was kind but unable to alter the course of the situation at home. When the grocery business failed in 1876, Pavel fled to Moscow to escape an angry creditor. The rest of the family soon followed—all but the sixteen-year-old Anton, who remained behind to appease the creditor by tutoring his son for a pit- tance. Left to fend for himself, Chekhov finished high school in Taganrog, then rejoined the family and enrolled in Moscow University to study medicine.

Chekhov's beginnings as a writer were humble. While attending the university, he began to write humorous sketches for periodicals to ease the family's poverty. He would later recall these earli- est efforts as "trash." The first of his stories was published in 1880, and in the next half-dozen years he finished perhaps as many as six hun- dred. In 1884, he took up the practice of medi- cine in a provincial district—by no means a lucra- tive career move, but one that appealed to Chekhov's civic-mindedness. He continued to earn his living chiefly through his pen, however. As a provincial doctor, Chekhov came into close contact with the peasants, army officers, petty officials, and innumerable provincial types that became the subjects of his stories. It was only his poor health that dictated his decision to give up the practice of medicine. (Before graduating from the university, he had already contracted the tuberculosis that would kill him.) Chekhov had always seen medicine and writing as allied in his quest for spiritual fulfillment.

Speckled Tales, Chekhov's first collection of short stories, appeared in 1886 to public and criti- cal acclaim. In the same year, Dimitry Grigorovich, a venerable old man of letters, wrote encouragingly to Chekhov after reading "The Huntsman" in the Petersburg Gazette and hailed him as a writer possessed of talents that "set you far above other writers of the younger genera- tion." This bit of recognition was nearly as important to the future of Russian literature as Emerson's congratulatory letter to Walt Whitman was to the future of our own. From this time on, Chekhov was considered among Russia's leading writers, and he published his stories in the most important periodicals of the day. He enjoyed an enormous popular following. Recognition as a playwright came somewhat later. Not until 1898, when Stanislavski's Moscow Art Theatre present- ed The Seagull—a miserable failure in its first pro- duction in 1896—did Chekhov finally find an appreciative audience for his plays.

In 1901, Chekhov married Olga Knipper, a gift- ed actress in the Moscow Art Theatre. Husband and wife spent little of their married life togeth- er. For health reasons, Chekhov relocated to Yalta, while Olga pursued her theatrical career in Moscow. Much of their relationship was carried on by correspondence that reveals genuine feel- ing on both sides. Olga was with Chekhov at a health resort in Badenweiler, Germany, when he died of a severe pulmonary hemorrhage on July z, 1904. His body was transported to Moscow in a refrigeration car bearing the legend "Fresh Oysters."

Chekhov inspires almost universal praise and adoration among readers. His stories are especially admired by other writers. His champions com- prise a wide and surprisingly diverse group of tal- ents: Leo Tolstoy, William Faulkner, Virginia Woolf, James T. Farrell, V. S. Pritchett, Vladimir Nabokov, John Cheever, john Barth, and Flannery O'Connor. For Tolstoy, Chekhov was the most astute and gifted photographer of the Russian countryside; James T. Farrell proclaimed him the most influential practitioner of the short story form; and Nabokov—not one to mince words—insisted that to prefer Dostoyevsky or Gorky to Chekhov is to be unable to grasp "the essentials of universal literary art." What other writer commands such high praise from fellow writers? Ovid. Dante. Shakespeare. James Joyce, perhaps, in our own age.

Chekhov is a simple writer, one who easily exceeds the sum of his parts. He is neither a styl- istic innovator nor a writer of pretty prose. He rarely engages in metaphor or simile, and his working vocabulary is small. He is the antithesis of a clever writer. Instead, his modest prose, always in the service of his art, is notable for swiftness, compression, understatement, gray and twilight tonalities, freedom from all temporizing, and, above all else, emotional truth. His stories give the impression of being very close to direct experience, yet few stories have been written that equal the heartbreaking beauty of "The Lady with the Dog," or "\Vard Six."

Chekhov is arguably the first writer to employ understatement and suggestion to convey stab- bing pathos. In "The Lady with the Dog," he rarely discusses Gurov's moods or feelings, and he never touches on the difficult moral dilemma of marital infidelity. Instead, he captures these elements through the details of his character's life. When Gurov breaks off his affair with Anna (the lady with the dog), and returns to Moscow, he settles into the routine of winter life with the rest of the city. It is the tedium of life that con- trasts so sharply with the affair. Unable to contain himself any longer, he speaks warmly but abstractly on the subject of love to his wife, who, with raised eyebrow, merely responds, "The part of a lady-killer does not suit you at all, Dmitri." The narrator reports nothing further about this exchange, but we feel Gurov's silently mounting frustration, and we understand exactly how the comment cuts him. In the hands of a lesser artist, this scene would have been protracted and explained, with questions raised about the wife's SUSpiCIOnS.

Part of Chekhov's genius lay in knowing exact- ly when to summarize thought, when to reveal it in dialogue, and when to merely suggest it through detail. In "The Lady with the Dog," when Chekhov describes the day in which the relationship between Gurov and Anna moves from flirtation to physical intimacy, he first care- fullv distances us from Gurov and then brings us close to him to startling effect. It is a hot day, and Gurov entreats Anna to share an ice. Then they walk together to the harbor to watch a steamer dock as daylight gradually dwindles. Whatever passes through Gurov's mind is not mentioned, and any exchanges between the cou- ple are reported indirectly and at a great dis- tance: "She talked a great deal and asked discon- nected questions, forgetting next moment what she had asked; then she dropped her lorgnette in the crush." When Gurov's proposition finally comes, it is all the more jarring for what has passed so hazily before, more profound and vivid in the way that certain details seem in recollec- tion: "'Let us go to your hotel,' he said softly." Chekhov reports Gurov's thoughts only afterward, in a moment of postcoital melancholy as Gurov attempts to place "the lady with the dog" in his apparently considerable catalog of sexual exploits. We plunge directly into his mind with: "'What different people one meets in the world!"' It is a chilling moment, as if we were suddenly granted access to the thoughts of our own inscrutable lover.

Chekhov's most characteristic stories lack plot in the normal sense of rising action, climax, and denouement. They have, as john Galsworthy once noted, "apparently neither head nor tail, they seem all middle like a tortoise." But, as

Galsworthy goes on to point out, Chekhov's many imitators fail "to realize the heads and tails are merely tucked in." For example, "Gusev" seems particularly shapeless. It allows retelling no more than does a poem by Thomas Hardy. A consump- tive military orderly on sick leave travels home by steamer; he engages in conversation with some of the other men in the infirmary; he goes briefly above deck; and then he dies. The story continues for a page or two beyond Gusev's brusquely noted death. We follow his body into the water, where it slowly sinks, drifts, and then is cautiously approached by a shark that eventual- ly attacks it, ripping open the body bag. In a sense, the story is all anticlimax because Gusev is already dying when the story opens. The most dynamic event in the story is the shark attack on the body, and even that is implied rather than seen. The interior passages in which Gusev reflects on home provide no narrative tissue— only broken glimpses of Gusev's former life, seen through the gauze of fever. "Gusev," for all its lack of plot, is always compelling. When we read the story, we give ourselves up to a twilight mood that washes through us like the ebb and flow of dark waters.

Chekhov's stories frequently end abruptly and inconclusively, or they simply fade out. In his let- ters, Chekhov insisted on the necessity of the incompleteness of his art. "You are right in demanding that an artist approach his work con- sciously," he wrote to his friend Alcksey Suvorin in 1888, "but you are confusing two concepts: the solution of a problem and the correct formulation of a problem. Only the second is required of the artist." "The Lady with the Dog" breaks every rule of conventional storytelling, ending at the very place any other writer would begin a story about marital infidelity. The story comes full cir- cle with the realization that "it was clear to both of them that the end was still far off, and that what was to be most complicated and difficult for them was just beginning." Even in the stories that end with death, there is often no real closure or resolution, only cessation of suffering and dis- appointed hopes. And not always in those stories is there an end to suffering because so long as some character remains alive, suffering continues. By calculated design, Chekhov ends his stories—as things tend to end in real life—on broken musical notes.

—John Kulka March 2000

Note on this collection and translation\ Few would argue that the stories included here are not among Chekhov's best, but some will undoubted- ly complain about those stories that are missmg: some overlooked favorite or ignored classic. The only response to such objections is to agree with them. Another editor would certainly have made a different selection, but readers may rest assured that included among this baker's dozen are some of Chekhov's most accomplished masterpieces. These translations are the excellent ones by Constance Garnett, which, although roughly seized upon by contemporary critics, remain arguably the best English translations of Chekhovs work to date. No less a critic than V. S. Pritchett preferred Garnett's translations to any others, pointing out her proximity in age and spirit to Chekhov.

THE

BEST

STORIES

—°f— ANTON

CHEKHOV

THE BEST STORIES OF ANTON CHEKHOV

THE LADY WITH THE DOG I

It was said that a new person had appeared on the sea-front: a lady with a little dog. Dmitri Dmitritch Gurov, who had by then been a fort- night at Yalta, and so was fairly at home there, had begun to take an interest in new arrivals. Sitting in Verney's pavilion, he saw, walking on the sea-front, a fair-haired young lady of medium height, wearing a beret; a white Pomeranian dog was running behind her.

And afterwards he met her in the public gardens and in the square several times a day. She was walking alone, always wearing the same be'ret, and always with the same white dog; no one knew who she was, and every one called her simply " the lady with the dog."

" If she is here alone without a husband or friends, it wouldn't be amiss to make her ac- quaintance," Gurov reflected.

He was under forty, but he had a daughter already twelve years old, and two sons at school. He had been married young, when he was a student in his second year, and by now his wife seemed half as old again as he. She was a tall, erect woman with dark eyebrows, staid and dignified, and, as she said of herself, intellectual. She read a great deal, used phonetic spelling, called her hus- band, not Dmitri, but Dimitri, and he secretly con- sidered her unintelligent, narrow, inelegant, was afraid of her, and did not like to be at home. He had begun being unfaithful to her long ago — had been unfaithful to her often, and, probably on that account, almost always spoke ill of women, and when they were talked about in his presence, used to call them " the lower race."

It seemed to him that he had been so schooled by bitter experience that he might call them what he liked, and yet he could not get on for two days together without " the lower race." In the society of men he was bored and not himself, with them he was cold and uncommunicative; but when he was in the company of women he felt free, and knew what to say to them and how to behave; and he was at ease with them even when he was siler;^. In his appearance, in his character, in his whole nature, there was something attractive and elusive which allured women and disposed them in his favour ; he knew that, and some force seemed to draw him, too, to them.

Experience often repeated, truly bitter experience, had taught him long ago that with decent people, especially Moscow people — always slow to move and irresolute — every intimacy, which at first so agreeably diversifies life and appears a light and charming adventure, inevitably grows into a regular problem of extreme intricacy, and in the long run the situation becomes unbearable. But at every fresh meeting with an interesting woman this experi- ence seemed to slip out of his memory, and he was eager for life, and everything seemed simple and amusmg.

One evening he was dining in the gardens, and the lady in the beret came up slowly to take the next table. Her expression, her gait, her dress, and the way she did her hair told him that she was a lady, that she was married, that she was in Yalta for the first time and alone, and that she was dull there. . . . The stories told of the immorality in such places as Yalta are to a great extent untrue; he despised them, and knew that such stories were for the most part made up by persons who would themselves have been glad to sin if they had been able; but when the lady sat down at the next table three paces from him, he remembered these tales of easy conquests, of trips to the mountains, and the tempting thought of a swift, fleeting love affair, a romance with an unknown woman, whose name he did not know, suddenly took possession of him.

He beckoned coaxingly to the Pomeranian, and when the dog came up to him he shook his finger at it. The Pomeranian growled: Gurov shook his finger at it again.

The lady looked at him and at once dropped her eyes.

" He doesn't bite," she said, and blushed.

" May I give him a bone? " he asked; and when she nodded he asked courteously, " Have you been long in Yalta ? "

" Five days."

¹¹ And I have already dragged out a fortnight here."

There was a brief silence.

" Time goes fast, and yet it is so dull here I " she said, not looking at him.

¹¹ That's only the fashion to say it is dull here. A provincial will live in Belyov or Zhidra and not be dull, and when he comes here it's ' Oh, the dul- ness I Oh, the dust!' One would think he came from Grenada."

She laughed. Then both continued eating in silence, like strangers, but after dinner they walked side by side; and there sprang up between them the light jesting conversation of people who are free and satisfied, to whom it does not matter where they go or what they talk about. They walked and talked of the strange light on the sea: the water was of a soft warm lilac hue, and there was a golden streak from the moon upon it. They talked of how sultry it was after a hot day. Gurov told her that he came from Moscow, that he had taken his degree in Arts, but had a post in a bank; that he had trained as an opera-singer, but had given it up, that he owned two houses in Moscow. . . . And from her he learnt that she had grown up in Petersburg, but had lived in S since her marriage two years before, that she was staying another month in Yalta, and that her husband, who needed a holiday too, might perhaps come and fetch her. She was not sure whether her husband had a post in a Crown Department or under the Provincial Council — and was amused by her own ignorance. And Gurov learnt, too, that she was called Anna Sergeyevna.

Afterwards he thought about her in his room at the hotel — thought she would certainly meet him next day; it would be sure to happen. As he got into bed he thought how lately she had been a girl at school, doing lessons like his own daughter; he recalled the diffidence, the angularity, that was still manifest in her laugh and her manner of talking with a stranger. This must have been the first time in her life she had been alone in surroundings in which she was followed, looked at, and spoken to merely from a secret motive which she could hardly fail to guess. He recalled her slender, delicate neck, her lovely grey eyes.

" There's something pathetic about her, anyway," he thought, and fell asleep.

II

A week had passed since they had made ac- quaintance. It was a holiday. It was sultry in- doors, while in the street the wind whirled the dust round and round, and blew people's hats off. It was a thirsty day, and Gurov often went into the pavilion, and pressed Anna Sergeyevna to have syrup and water or an ice. One did not know what to do with oneself.

In the evening when the wind had dropped a little, they went out on the groyne to see the steamer come in. There were a great many people walking about the harbour; they had gathered to welcome some one, bringing bouquets. And two peculiari- ties of a well-dressed Yalta crowd were very con- spicuous: the elderly ladies were dressed like young ones, and there were great numbers of generals.

Owing to the roughness of the sea, the steamer arrived late, after the sun had set, and it was a long time turning about before it reached the groyne. Anna Sergeyevna looked through her lorgnette at the steamer and the passengers as though looking for acquaintances, and when she turned to Gurov her eyes were shining. She talked a great deal and asked disconnected questions, forgetting next mo- ment what she had asked; then she dropped her lorgnette in the crush.

The festive crowd began to disperse; it was too dark to see people's faces. The wind had com- pletely dropped, but Gurov and Anna Sergeyevna still stood as though waiting to see some one else come from the steamer. Anna Sergeyevna was silent now, and sniffed the flowers without looking at Gurov.

" The weather is better this evening," he said. " Where shall we go now? Shall we drive some- where? "

She made no answer.

Then he looked at her intently, and all at once put his arm round her and kissed her on the lips, and breathed in the moisture and the fragrance of the flowers; and he immediately looked round him, anxiously wondering whether any one had seen them.

" Let us go to your hotel," he said softly. And both walked quickly.

The room was close and smelt of the scent she had bought at the Japanese shop. Gurov looked at her and thought: " What different people one meets in the world I " From the past he preserved memories of careless, good-natured women, who loved cheerfully and were grateful to him for the happiness he gave them, however brief it might be; and of women like his wife who loved without any genuine feeling, with superfluous phrases, affect- edly, hysterically, with an expression that suggested that it was not love nor passion, but something more significant; and of two or three others, very beautiful, cold women, on whose faces he had caught a glimpse of a rapacious expression — an obstinate desire to snatch from life more than it could give, and these were capricious, unreflecting, domineering, unintelligent women not in their first youth, and when Gurov grew cold to them their beauty excited his hatred, and the lace on their linen seemed to him like scales.

But in this case there was still the diffidence, the angularity of inexperienced youth, an awkward feeling; and there was a sense of consternation as though some one had suddenly knocked at the door. The attitude of Anna Sergeyevna — " the lady with the dog" — to what had happened was somehow peculiar, very grave, as though it were her fall — so it seemed, and it was strange and inappropriate. Her face dropped and faded, and on both sides of it her long hair hung down mournfully; she mused in a dejected attitude like " the woman who was a sinner " in an old-fashioned picture.

" It's wrong," she said. " You will be the first to despise me now."

There was a water-melon on the table. Gurov cut himself a slice and began eating it without haste. There followed at least half an hour of silence.

Anna Sergeyevna was touching; there was about her the purity of a good, simple woman who had seen little of life. The solitary candle burning on the table threw a faint light on her face, yet it was clear that she was very unhappy.

"How could I despise you?" asked Gurov. " You don't know what you are saying."

" God forgive me," she said, and her eyes filled with tears. " It's awful."

" You seem to feel you need to be forgiven."

" Forgiven? No. I am a bad, low woman; I despise myself and don't attempt to justify myself. It's not my husband but myself I have deceived. And not only just now; I have been deceiving myself for a long time. My husband may be a good, honest man, but he is a fl.unkey I I don't know what he does there, what his work is, but I know he is a flunkey I I was twenty when I was married to him. I have been tormented by curiosity; I wanted something better. 'There must be a dif- ferent sort of life,' I said to myself. I wanted to live I To live, to live I ... I was fired by curi- osity . • . you don't understand it, but, I swear to God, I could not control myself; something hap- pened to me : I could not be restrained. I told my husband I was ill, and came here. . . . And here I have been walking about as though I were dazed, like a mad creature; . . . and now I have become a vulgar, contemptible woman whom any one may despise."

Gurov felt bored already, listening to her. He was irritated by the naive tone, by this remorse, so unexpected and inopportune; but for the tears in her eyes, he might have thought she was jesting or playing a part.

" I don't understand," he said softly. " What is it you want? "

She hid her face on his breast and pressed close to him.

" Believe me, believe me, I beseech you . • ." she said. " I love a pure, honest life, and sin is loathsome to me. I don't know what I am doing. Simple people say: 'The Evil One has beguiled me.' And I may say of myself now that the Evil One has beguiled me."

" Hush, hush I . . he muttered.

He looked at her fixed, scared eyes, kissed her, talked softly and affectionately, and by degrees she was comforted, and her gaiety returned; they both began laughing.

Afterwards when they went out there was not a soul on the sea-front. The town with its cypresses had quite a deathlike air, but the sea still broke noisily on the shore ; a single barge was rocking on the waves, and a lantern was blinking sleepily on it.

They found a cab and drove to Oreanda.

" I found out your surname in the hall just now: it was written on the board — Von Diderits," said Gurov. " Is your husband a German? "

" No; I believe his grandfather was a German, but he is an Orthodox Russian himself."

At Oreanda they sat on a seat not far from the church, looked down at the sea, and were silent. Yalta was hardly visible through the morning mist; white clouds stood motionless on the mountain-tops. The leaves did not stir on the trees, grasshoppers chirruped, and the monotonous hollow sound of the sea rising up from below, spoke of the peace, of the eternal sleep awaiting us. So it must have sounded when there was no Yalta, no Oreanda here; so it sounds now, and it will sound as indifferently and monotonously when we are all no more. And in this constancy, in this complete indifference to the life and death of each of us, there lies hid, per- haps, a pledge of our eternal salvation, of the un- ceasing movement of life upon earth, of unceasing progress towards perfection. Sitting beside a young woman who in the dawn seemed so lovely, soothed and spellbound in these magical surround- ings — the sea, mountains, clouds, the open sky — Gurov thought how in reality everything is beautiful in this world when one reflects: everything except what we think or do ourselves when we forget our human dignity and the higher aims of our exist- ence.

A man walked up to them — probably a keeper — looked at them and walked away. And this detail seemed mysterious and beautiful, too. They saw a steamer come from Theodosia, with its lights out in the glow of dawn.

" There is dew on the grass," said Anna Sergey- evna, after a silence.

" Yes. It's time to go home."

They w-=nt back to the town.

Then they met every day at twelve o'clock on the sea-front, lunched and dined together, went for walks, admired the sea. She complained that she slept badly, that her heart throbbed violently; asked the same questions, troubled now by jealousy and now by the fear that he did not respect her suffi- ciently. And often in the square or gardens, when there was no one near them, he suddenly drew her to him and kissed her passionately. Complete idle- ness, these kisses in broad daylight while he looked round in dread of some one's seeing them, the heat, the smell of the sea, and the continual passing to and fro before him of idle, well-dressed, well-fed people, made a new man of him; he told Anna Ser- geyevna how beautiful she was, how fascinating. He was impatiently passionate, he would not move a step away from her, while she was often pensive and continually urged him to confess that he did not respect her, did not love her in the least, and thought of her as nothing but a common woman. Rather late almost every evening they drove somewhere out of town, to Oreanda or to the waterfall; and the ex- pedition was always a success, the scenery invariably impressed them as grand and beautiful.

They were expecting her husband to come, but a letter came from him, saying that there was some- thing wrong with his eyes, and he entreated his wife to come home as quickly as possible. Anna Ser- geyevna made haste to go.

" It's a good thing I am going away," she said to Gurov. " It's the finger of destiny! "

She went by coach and he went with her. They were driving the whole day. When she had got into a compartment of the express, and when the second bell had rung, she said:

" Let me look at you once more . . . look at you once again. That's right."

She did not shed tears, but was so sad that she seemed ill, and her face was quivering.

" I shall remember you . . . think of you," she said. " God be with you; be happy. Don't remem- ber evil against me. We are parting forever — it must be so, for we ought never to have met. Well, God be with you."

The train moved off rapidly, its lights soon van- ished from sight, and a minute later there was no sound of it, as though everything had conspired to- gether to end as quickly as possible that sweet de- lirium, that madness. Left alone on the platform, and gazing into the dark distance, Gurov listened to the chirrup of the grasshoppers and the hum of the telegraph wires, feeling as though he had only just waked up. And he thought, musing, that there had been another episode or adventure in his life, and it, too, was at an end, and nothing was left of it but a memory. . • • He was moved, sad, and conscious of a slight remorse. This young woman whom he would never meet again had not been happy with him; he was genuinely warm and affectionate with her, but yet in his manner, his tone, and his caresses there had been a shade of light irony, the coarse con- descension of a happy man who was, besides, almost twice her age. All the time she had called him kind, exceptional, lofty; obviously he had seemed to her different from what he really was, so he had uninten- tionally deceived her. . . .

Here at the station was already a scent of autumn; it was a cold evening.

¹¹ It's time for me to go north," thought Gurov as he left the platform. ¹¹ High time I "

III

At home in Moscow everything was in its winter routine; the stoves were heated, and in the morning it was still dark when the children were having break- fast and getting ready for school, and the nurse would light the lamp for a short time. The frosts had begun already. When the first snow has fallen, on the first day of sledge-driving it is pleasant to see the white earth, the white roofs, to draw soft, de- licious breath, and the season brings back the days of one's youth. The old limes and birches, white with hoar-frost, have a good-natured expression; they are nearer to one's heart than cypresses and palms, and near them one doesn't want to be think- ing of the sea and the mountains.

Gurov was Moscow born; he arrived in Moscow on a fine frosty day, and when he put on his fur coat and warm gloves, and walked along Petrovka, and when on Saturday evening he heard the ringing of the bells, his recent trip and the places he had seen lost all charm for him. Little by little he became absorbed in Moscow life, greedily read three news- papers a day, and declared he did not read the Mos- cow papers on principle! He already felt a longing to go to restaurants, clubs, dinner-parties, anniver- sary celebrations, and he felt flattered at entertaining distinguished lawyers and artists, and at playing cards with a professor at the doctors' club. He could already eat a whole plateful of salt fish and cabbage. . . •

In another month, he fancied, the image of Anna Sergeyevna would be shrouded in a mist in his mem- ory, and only from time to time would visit him in his dreams with a touching smile as others did. But more than a month passed, real winter had come, and everything was still clear in his memory as though he had parted with Anna Sergeyevna only the day before. And his memories glowed more and more vividly. When in the evening stillness he heard from his study the voices of his children, pre- paring their lessons, or when he listened to a song or the organ at the restaurant, or the storm howled in the chimney, suddenly everything would rise up in his memory: what had happened on the groyne, and the early morning with the mist on the moun- tains, and the steamer coming from Theodosia, and the kisses. He would pace a long time about his room, remembering it all and smiling; then his mem- ories passed into dreams, and in his fancy the past was mingled with what was to come. Anna Sergey- evna did not visit him in dreams, but followed him about everywhere like a shadow and haunted him. When he shut his eyes he saw her as though she were living before him, and she seemed to him lovelier, younger, tenderer than she was; and he imagined himself finer than he had been in Yalta. In the evenings she peeped out at him from the bookcase, from the fireplace, from the corner — he heard her breathing, the caressing rustle of her dress. In the street he watched the women, looking for some one like her.

He was tormented by an intense desire to confi.de his memories to some one. But in his home it was impossible to talk of his love, and he had no one out- side ; he could not talk to his tenants nor to any one at the bank. And what had he to talk of? Had he been in love, then? Had there been anything beau- tiful, poetical, or edifying or simply interesting in his relations with Anna Sergeyevna? And there was nothing for him but to talk vaguely of love, of woman, and no one guessed what it meant; only his wife twitched her black eyebrows, and said: " The part of a lady-killer does not suit you at all, Dimitri."

One evening, coming out of the doctors' club with an official with whom he had been playing cards, he could not resist saying:

" If only you knew what a fascinating woman I made the acquaintance of in Yalta I ¹¹

The official got into his sledge and was driving away, but turned suddenly and shouted: " Dmitri Dmitritch I "

" What?"

¹¹ You were right this evening: the sturgeon was a bit too strong I "

These words, so ordinary, for some reason moved Gurov to indignation, and struck him as degrading and unclean. What savage manners, what people I What senseless nights, what uninteresting, unevent- ful days I The rage for card-playing, the gluttony, the drunkenness, the continual talk always about the same thing. Useless pursuits and conversations al- ways about the same things absorb the better part of one's time, the better part of one's strength, and in the end there is left a life grovelling and curtailed, worthless and trivial, and there is no escaping or getting away from it — just as though one were in a madhouse or a prison.

Gurov did not sleep all night, and was filled with indignation. And he had a headache all next day. And the next night he slept badly; he sat up in bed, thinking, or paced up and down his room. He was sick of his children, sick of the bank; he had no de- sire to go anywhere or to talk of anything.

In the holidays in December he prepared for a journey, and told his wife he was going to Peters- burg to do something in the interests of a young friend — and he set off for S. What for? He did not very well know himself. He wanted to see Anna Sergeyevna and to talk with her — to ar- range a meeting, if possible.

He reached S in the morning, and took the

best room at the hotel, in which the floor was cov- ered with grey army cloth, and on the table was an inkstand, grey with dust and adorned with a figure on horseback, with its hat in its hand and its head broken off. The hotel porter gave him the neces- sary information; Von Diderits lived in a house of his own in Old Gontcharny Street — it was not far from the hotel: he was rich and lived in good style, and had his own horses ; every one in the town knew him. The porter pronounced the name " Dridirits."

Gurov went without haste to Old Gontcharny Street and found the house. Just opposite the house stretched a long grey fence adorned with nails.

" One would run away from a fence like that," thought Gurov, looking from the fence to the win- dows of the house and back again.

He considered: to-day was a holiday, and the hus- band would probably be at home. And in any case it would be tactless to go into the house and upset her. If he were to send her a note it might fall into her husband's hands, and then it might ruin everything. The best thing was to trust to chance. And he kept walking up and down the street by the fence, waiting for the chance. He saw a beggar go in at the gate and dogs fly at him; then an hour later he heard a piano, and the sounds were faint and in- distinct. Probably it was Anna Sergeyevna playing. The front door suddenly opened, and an old woman came out, followed by the familiar white Pomera- nian. Gurov was on the point of calling to the dog, but his heart began beating violently, and in his ex- citement he could not remember the dog's name.

He walked up and down, and loathed the grey fence more and more, and by now he thought irri- tably that Anna Sergeyevna had forgotten him, and was perhaps already amusing herself with some one else, and that that was very natural in a young woman who had nothing to look at from morning till night but that confounded fence. He went back to his hotel room and sat for a long while on the sofa, not knowing what to do, then he had dinner and a long nap.

" How stupid and worrying it is I " he thought when he woke and looked at the dark windows: it was already evening. " Here I've had a good sleep for some reason. What shall I do in the night? " He sat on the bed, which was covered by a cheap grey blanket, such as one sees in hospitals, and he taunted himself in his vexation:

" So much for the lady with the dog . . . so much for the adventure. . . . You're in a nice fix. . . ."

That morning at the station a poster in large let- ters had caught his eye. " The Geisha " was to be performed for the first time. He thought of this and went to the theatre.

" It's quite possible she may go to the first per- formance," he thought.

The theatre was full. As in all provincial thea- tres, there was a fog above the chandelier, the gal- lery was noisy and restless; in the front row the local dandies were standing up before the beginning of the performance, with their hands behind them; in the Governor's box the Governor's daughter, wearing a boa, was sitting in the front seat, while the Governor himself lurked modestly behind the curtain with only his hands visible; the orchestra was a long time tuning up; the stage curtain swayed. All the time the audience were coming in and taking their seats Gurov looked at them eagerly.

Anna Sergeyevna, too, came in. She sat down in the third row, and when Gurov looked at her his heart contracted, and he understood clearly that for him there was in the whole world no creature so near, so precious, and so important to him; she, this little woman, in no way remarkable, lost in a pro- vincial crowd, with a vulgar lorgnette in her hand, filled his whole life now, was his sorrow and his joy, the one happiness that he now desired for himself, and to the sounds of the inferior orchestra, of the wretched provincial violins, he thought how lovely she was. He thought and dreamed.

A young man with small side-whiskers, tall and stooping, came in with Anna Sergeyevna and sat down beside her; he bent his head at every step and seemed to be continually bowing. Most likely this was the husband whom at Yalta, in a rush of bitter feeling, she had called a flunkey. And there really was in his long figure, his side-whiskers, and the small bald patch on his head, something of the flunkey's obsequiousness; his smile was sugary, and in his but- tonhole there was some badge of distinction like the number on a waiter.

During the first interval the husband went away to smoke; she remained alone in her stall. Gurov, who was sitting in the stalls, too, went up to her and said in a trembling voice, with a forced smile:

" Good-evening."

She glanced at him and turned pale, then glanced again with horror, unable to believe her eyes, and tightly gripped the fan and the lorgnette in her hands, evidently struggling with herself not to faint. Both were silent. She was sitting, he was standing, frightened by her confusion and not venturing to sit down beside her. The violins and the fl.ute began tuning up. He felt suddenly frightened; it seemed as though all the people in the boxes were looking at them. She got up and went quickly to the door; he followed her, and both walked senselessly along pas- sages, and up and down stairs, and figures in legal, scholastic, and civil service uniforms, all wearing badges, flitted before their eyes. They caught glimpses of ladies, of fur coats hanging on pegs; the draughts blew on them, bringing a smell of stale tobacco. And Gurov, whose heart was beating vio- lently, thought:

" Oh, heavens I Why are these people here and this orchestra I . . ."

And at that instant he recalled how when he had seen Anna Sergeyevna off at the station he had thought that everything was over and they would never meet again. But how far they were still from the end!

On the narrow, gloomy staircase over which was written " To the Amphitheatre," she stopped.

¹¹ How you have frightened me I " she said, breath- ing hard, still pale and overwhelmed. " Oh, how you have frightened me I I am half dead. Why have you come? Why? "

" But do understand, Anna, do understand . . ." he said hastily in a low voice. " I entreat you to understand. . . ."

She looked at him with dread, with entreaty, with love; she looked at him intently, to keep his features more distinctly in her memory.

" I am so unhappy," she went on, not heeding him. " I have thought of nothing but you all the time; I live only in the thought of you. And I wanted to forget, to forget you; but why, oh, why, have you come ? "

On the landing above them two schoolboys were smoking and looking down, but that was nothing to Gurov; he drew Anna Sergeyevna to him, and began kissing her face, her cheeks, and her hands.

" What are you doing, what are you doing I " she cried in horror, pushing him away. " We are mad. Go away to-day; go away at once. ... I beseech you by all that is sacred, I implore you. . . . There are people coming this way I "

Some one was coming up the stairs.

" You must go away," Anna Sergeyevna went on in a whisper. " Do you hear, Dmitri Dmitritch? I will come and see you in Moscow. I have never been happy; I am miserable now, and I never, never shall be happy, never I Don't make me suffer still more! I swear I'll come to Moscow. But now let us part. My precious, good, dear one, we must part I "

She pressed his hand and began rapidly going downstairs, looking round at him, and from her eyes he could see that she really was unhappy. Gurov stood for a little while, listened, then, when all sound had died away, he found his coat and left tbe theatre.

IV

And Anna Sergeyevna began coming to see him in Moscow. Once in two or three months she left

S , telling her husband that she was going to con-

sult a doctor about an internal complaint—and her husband believed her, and did not believe her. In Moscow she stayed at the Slaviansky Bazaar hotel, and at once sent a man in a red cap to Gurov. Gurov went to see her, and no one in Moscow knew of it.

Once he was going to see her in this way on a win- ter morning (the messenger had come the evening before when he was out). With him walked his daughter, whom he wanted to take to school: it was on the way. Snow was falling in big wet flakes.

" It's three degrees above freezing-point, and yet it is snowing," said Gurov to his daughter. " The thaw is only on the surface of the earth; there is quite a different temperature at a greater height in the atmosphere."

" And why are there no thunderstorms in the winter, father? "

He explained that, too. He talked, thinking all the while that he was going to see her, and no living soul knew of it, and probably never would know. He had two lives: one, open, seen and known by all who cared to know, full of relative truth and of rela- tive falsehood, exactly like the lives of his friends and acquaintances; and another life running its course in secret. And through some strange, per- haps accidental, conjunction of circumstances, every- thing that was essential, of interest and of value to him, everything in which he was sincere and did not deceive himself, everything that made the kernel of his life, was hidden from other people; and all that was false in him, the sheath in which he hid himself to conceal the truth — such, for instance, as his work in the bank, his discussions at the club, his " lower race," his presence with his wife at anniversary fes- tivities — all that was open. And he judged of others by himself, not believing in what he saw, and always believing that every man had his real, most interesting life under the cover of secrecy and under the cover of night. All personal life rested on secrecy, and possibly it was partly on that account that civilised man was so nervously anxious that personal privacy should be respected.

After leaving his daughter at school, Gurov went on to the Slaviansky Bazaar. He took off his fur coat below, went upstairs, and softly knocked at the door. Anna Sergeyevna, wearing his favourite grey dress, exhausted by the journey and the suspense, had been expecting him since the evening before. She was pale; she looked at him, and did not smile, and he had hardly come in when she fell on his breast. Their kiss was slow and prolonged, as though they had not met for two years.

" Well, how are you getting on there? " he asked. " What news? "

" Wait; I'll tell you directly. ... I can't talk."

She could not speak; she was crying. She turned away from him, and pressed her handkerchief to her eyes.

" Let her have her cry out. I'll sit down and wait," he thought, and he sat down in an arm-chair.

Then he rang and asked for tea to be brought him, and while he drank his tea she remained stand- ing at the window with her back to him. She was crying from emotion, from the miserable conscious- ness that their life was so hard for them; they could only meet in secret, hiding themselves from people, like thieves I Was not their life shattered?

" Come, do stop I " he said.

It was evident to him that this love of theirs would not soon be over, that he could not see the end of it. Anna Sergeyevna grew more and more attached to him. She adored him, and it was unthinkable to say to her that it was bound to have an end some day; besides, she would not have believed it l

He went up to her and took her by the shoulders to say something affectionate and cheering, and at that moment he saw himself in the looking-glass.

His hair was already beginning to turn grey. And it seemed strange to him that he had grown so much older, so much plainer during the last few years. The shoulders on which his hands rested were warm and quivering. He felt compassion for this life, still so warm and lovely, but probably al- ready not far from beginning to fade and wither like his own. Why did she love him so much? He al- ways seemed to women different from what he was, and they loved in him not himself, but the man cre- ated by their imagination, whom they had been eagerly seeking all their lives; and afterwards, when they noticed their mistake, they loved him all the same. And not one of them had been happy with him. Time passed, he had made their acquaintance, got on with them, parted, but he had never once loved; it was anything you like, but not love.

And only now when his head was grey he had fallen properly, really in love — for the first time in his life.

Anna Sergeyevna and he loved each other like people very close and akin, like husband and wife, like tender friends; it seemed to them that fate itself had meant them for one another, and they could not understand why he had a wife and she a husband; and it was as though they were a pair of birds of passage, caught and forced to live in different cages. They forgave each other for what they were ashamed of in their past, they forgave everything in the present, and felt that this love of theirs had changed them both.

In moments of depression in the past he had com- forted himself with any arguments that came into his mind, but now he no longer cared for arguments ; he felt profound compassion, he wanted to be sincere and tender. . . .

" Don't cry, my darling," he said. " You've had your cry; that's enough. . • . Let us talk now, let us think of some plan."

Then they spent a long while taking counsel to- gether, talked of how to avoid the necessity for secrecy, for deception, for living in different towns and not seeing each other for long at a time. How could they be free from this intolerable bondage?

¹¹ How? How? " he asked, clutching his head. " How? "

And it seemed as though in a little while the solution would be found, and then a new and splen- did life would begin; and it was clear to both of them that they had still a long, long road before them, and that the most complicated and difficult part of it was only just beginning.

1899

GUSEV

I

It was getting dark; it would soon be night.

Gusev, a discharged soldier, sat up in his ham- mock and said in an undertone:

" I say, Pavel Ivanitch. A soldier at Sutchan told me: while they were sailing a big fish came into collision with their ship and stove a hole in it."

The nondescript individual whom he was address- ing, and whom everyone in the ship's hospital called Pavel Ivanitch, was silent, as though he had not heard.

And again a stillness followed. . . . The wind frolicked with the rigging, the screw throbbed, the waves lashed, the hammocks creaked, but the ear had long ago become accustomed to these sounds, and it seemed that everything around was asleep and silent. It was dreary. The three invalids — two soldiers and a sailor — who had been playing cards all the day were asleep and talking in their dreams.

It seemed as though the ship were beginning to rock. The hammock slowly rose and fell under Gusev, as though it were heaving a sigh, and this was repeated once, twice, three times. . . . Some- thing crashed on to the floor with a clang: it must have been a jug falling down.

" The wind has broken loose from its chain . . ." said Gusev, listening.

This time Pavel I vanitch cleared his throat and answered irritably:

¹¹ One minute a vessel's running into a fish, the next, the wind's breaking loose from its chain . . . . Is the wind a beast that it can break loose from its chain? "

" That's how christened folk talk."

" They are as ignorant as you are then. . . • They say all sorts of things. One must keep a head on one's shoulders and use one's reason. You are a senseless creature."

Pavel Ivanitch was subject to sea-sickness. When the sea was rough he was usually ill-humoured, and the merest trifle would make him irritable. And in Gusev's opinion there was absolutely nothing to be vexed about. What was there strange or won- derful, for instance, in the fish or in the wind's breaking loose from its chain? Suppose the fish were as big as a mountain and its back were as hard as a sturgeon: and in the same way, supposing that away yonder at the end of the world there stood great stone walls and the fierce winds were chained up to the walls . . . if they had not broken loose, why did they tear about all over the sea like maniacs, and struggle to escape like dogs? If they were not chained up, what did become of them when it was calm?

Gusev pondered for a long time about fishes as big as a mountain and stout, rusty chains, then he began to feel dull and thought of his native place to which he was returning after five years' service in the East. He pictured an immense pond covered with snow. . . . On one side of the pond the red- brick building of the potteries with a tall chimney and clouds of black smoke; on the other side — a village. . . . His brother Alexey comes out in a sledge from the fifth yard from the end; behind him sits his little son Vanka in big felt over-boots, and his little girl Akulka, also in big felt boots. Alexey has been drinking, Vanka is laughing, Akulka's face he could not see, she had muffled herself up.

" You never know, he'll get the children frozen . . ." thought Gusev. " Lord send them sense and judgment that they may honour their father and mother and not be wiser than their par- ents."

" They want re-soleing," a delirious sailor says in a bass voice. " Yes, yes ! "

Gusev's thoughts break off, and instead of a pond there suddenly appears apropos of nothing a huge bull's head without eyes, and the horse and sledge are not driving along, but are whirling round and round in a cloud of smoke. But still he was glad he had seen his own folks. He held his breath from delight, shudders ran all over him, and his fingers twitched.

" The Lord let us meet again," he muttered feverishly, but he at once opened his eyes and sought in the darkness for water.

He drank and lay back, and again the sledge was moving, then again the bull's head without eyes, smoke, clouds. . . . And so on till daybreak.

II

The first outline visible in the darkness was a blue circle — the little round window; then little by little Gusev could distinguish his neighbour in the next hammock, Pavel Ivanitch. The man slept sitting up, as he could not breathe lying down. His face was grey, his nose was long and sharp, his eyes looked huge from the terrible thinness of his face, his temples were sunken, his beard was skimpy, his hair was long. . . • Looking at him you could not make out of what class he was, whether he were a gentleman, a merchant, or a peasant. Judging from his expression and his long hair he might have been a hermit or a lay brother in a monastery — but if one listened to what he said it seemed that he could not be a monk. He was worn out by his cough and his illness and by the stifling heat, and breathed with difficulty, moving his parched lips. Noticing that Gusev was looking at him he turned his face towards him and said:

" I begin to guess. . . . Yes. ... I understand it all perfectly now."

" What do you understand, Pavel I vanitch? " " I'll tell you . . . . It has always seemed to me strange that terribly ill as you are you should be here in a steamer where it is so hot and stifling and we are always being tossed up and down, where, in fact, everything threatens you with death; now it is all clear to me. . . . Yes. . . . Your doctors put you on the steamer to get rid of you. They get sick of looking after poor brutes like you. . . . You don't pay them anything, they have a bother with you, and you damage their records with your deaths — so, of course, you are brutes! It's not difficult to get rid of you. . . . All that is necessary is, in the first place, to have no conscience or hu- manity, and, secondly, to deceive the steamer author- ities. The first condition need hardly be considered, in that respect we are artists; and one can always succeed in the second with a little practice. In a crowd of four hundred healthy soldiers and sailors half a dozen sick ones are not conspicuous; well, they drove you all on to the steamer, mixed you with the healthy ones, hurriedly counted you over, and in the confusion nothing amiss was noticed, and when the steamer had started they saw that there were paralytics and consumptives in the last stage lying about on the deck. . . ."

Gusev did not understand Pavel Ivanitch; but sup- posing he was being blamed, he said in self-defence:

¹¹I lay on the deck because I had not the strength to stand; when we were unloaded from the barge on to the ship I caught a fearful chill."

" It's revolting," Pavel Ivanitch went on. " The worst of it is they know perfectly well that you can't last out the long journey, and yet they put you here. Supposing you get as far as the Indian Ocean, what then? It's horrible to think of it. . . . And that's their gratitude for your faithful, irreproachable service I "

Pavel Ivanitch's eyes looked angry; he frowned contemptuously and said, gasping:

" Those are the people who ought to be plucked in the newspapers till the feathers fly in all direc- tions."

The two sick soldiers and the sailor were awake and already playing cards. The sailor was half re- clining in his hammock, the soldiers were sitting near him on the floor in the most uncomfortable attitudes. One of the soldiers had his right arm in a sling, and the hand was swathed up in a regular bundle so that he held his cards under his right arm or in the crook of his elbow while he played with the left. The ship was rolling heavily. They could not stand up, nor drink tea, nor take their medi- cmes.

" Were you an officer's servant? " Pavel Ivanitch asked Gusev.

" Yes, an officer's servant."

" My God, my God! " said Pavel Ivanitch, and he shook his head mournfully. " To tear a man out of his home, drag him twelve thousand miles away, then to drive him into consumption and . . . and what is it all for, one wonders? To turn him into a servant for some Captain Kopeikin or mid- shipman Dirka ! How logical! "

" It's not hard work, Pavel Ivanitch. You get up in the morning and clean the boots, get the samovar, sweep the rooms, and then you have noth- ing more to do. The lieutenant is all the day draw- ing plans, and if you like you can say your prayers, if you like you can read a book or go out into the street. God grant everyone such a life."

" Yes, very nice, the lieutenant draws plans all the day and you sit in the kitchen and pine for home. . . . Plans indeed I . . . It is not plans that matter, but a human life. Life is not given twice, it must be treated mercifully."

¹¹ Of course, Pavel Ivanitch, a bad man gets no 'flercy anywhere, neither at home nor in the army, but if you live as you ought and obey orders, who has any need to insult you? The officers are edu- cated gentlemen, they understand. . . . In five years I was never once in prison, and I was 11ever struck a blow, so help me God, but once."

" What for ? "

" For fighting. I have a heavy hand, Pavel Ivan- itch. Four Chinamen came into our yard; they were bringing firewood or something, I don't re- member. Well, I was bored and I knocked them about a bit, one's nose began bleeding, damn the fellow. . . . The lieutenant saw it through the little window, he was angry and gave me a box on the ear."

" Foolish, pitiful man . . ." whispered Pavel Ivanitch. " You don't understand anything."

He was utterly exhausted by the tossing of the ship and closed his eyes; his head alternately fell back and dropped forward on his breast. Several times he tried to lie down but nothing came of it; his difficulty in breathing prevented it.

" And what did you hit the four Chinamen for? " he asked a little while afterwards.

" Oh, nothing. They came into the yard and I hit them."

And a stillness followed. . . . The card-players had been playing for two hours with enthusiasm and loud abuse of one another, but the motion of the ship overcame them, too; they threw aside the cards and lay down. Again Gusev saw the big pond, the brick building, the village. . . . Again the sledge was coming along, again Vanka was laugh- ing and Akulka, silly little thing, threw open her fur coat and stuck her feet out, as much as to say: " Look, good people, my snowboots are not like Vanka's, they are new ones."

" Five years old, and she has no sense yet," Gusev muttered in delirium. " Instead of kicking your legs you had better come and get your soldier uncle a drink. I will give you something nice."

Then Andron with a flintlock gun on his shoulder was carrying a hare he had killed, and he was fol- lowed by the decrepit old Jcw Isaitchik, who offers to barter the hare for a piece of soap; then the black calf in the shed, then Domna sewing at a shirt and crying about something, and then again the bull's head without eyes, black smoke. . . .

Overhead someone gave a loud shout, several sailors ran by, they seemed to be dragging some- thing bulky over the deck, something fell with a crash. Again they ran by. . . . Had something gone wrong? Gusev raised his head, listened, and saw that the two soldiers and the sailor were play- ing cards again; Pavel Ivanitch was sitting up mov- ing his lips. It was stifling, one hadn't strength to breathe, one was thirsty, the water was warm, dis- gusting. The ship heaved as much as ever.

Suddenly something strange happened to one of the soldiers playing cards. . . . He called hearts diamonds, got muddled in his score, and dropped his cards, then with a frightened, foolish smile looked round at aU of them.

" I shan't be a minute, mates, I'll . . ." he said, and lay down on the floor.

Everybody was amazed. They called to him, he did not answer.

" Stephan, maybe you are feeling bad, eh?" the soldier with his arm in a sling asked him. " Per- haps we had better bring the priest, eh? "

" Have a drink of water, Stepan . . ." said the sailor. " Here, lad, drink."

" Why are you knocking the jug against his teeth? " said Gusev angrily. " Don't you see, tur- nip head?' " What?"

" What? " Gusev repeated, mimicking him. " There is no breath in him, he is dead! That's what I What nonsensical people, Lord have mercy on us . . • I "

III

The ship was not rocking and Pavel Ivanitch was more cheerful. He was no longer ill-humoured. His face had a boastful, defiant, mocking expres- sion. He looked as though he wanted to say: " Yes, in a minute I will tell you something that will make you split your sides with laughing." The lit- tle round window was open and a soft breeze was blowing on Pavel Ivanitch. There was a sound of voices, of the plash of oars in the water. . . . Just under the little window someone began droning in a high, unpleasant voice: no doubt it was a China- man singing.

" Here we are in the harbour," said Pavel Ivan- itch, smiling ironically. " Only another month and we shall be in Russia. Well, worthy gentlemen and warriors I I shall arrive at Odessa and from there go straight to Harkov. In Harkov I have a friend, a literary man. I shall go to him and say, ¹ Come, old man, put aside your horrid subjects, ladies' amours and the beauties of nature, and show up human depravity.' "

For a minute he pondered, then said: " Gusev, do you know how I took them in? " " Took in whom, Pavel Ivanitch? " " Why, these fellows. . . . You know that on this steamer there is only a first-class and a third- class, and they only allow peasants — that is the riff-raff — to go in the third. If you have got on a reefer jacket and have the faintest resemblance to a gentleman or a bourgeois you must go first- class, if you please. You must fork out five hun- dred roubles if you die for it. Why, I ask, have you made such a rule? Do you want to raise the prestige of educated Russians thereby? Not a bit of it. We don't let you go third-class simply be- cause a decent person can't go third-class; it is ^very horrible and disgusting. Yes, indeed. I am very grateful for such solicitude for decent people's wel- fare. But in any case, whether it is nasty there or nice, five hundred roubles I haven't got. I haven't pilfered government money. I haven't exploited the natives, I haven't trafficked in contraband, I have flogged no one to death, so judge whether I have the right to travel first-class and even less to reckon myself of the educated class? But you won't catch them with logic. . . . One has to resort to decep- tion. I put on a workman's coat and high boots, I assumed a drunken, servile mug and went to the agents: ' Give us a little ticket, your honour,' said

I. . . ."

" Why, what class do you belong to? " asked a sailor.

" Clerical. My father was an honest priest, he always told the great ones of the world the truth to their faces; and he had a great deal to put up with in consequence."

Pavel Ivanitch was exhausted with talking and gasped for breath, but still went on:

" Yes, I always tell people the truth to their faces. I am not afraid of anyone or anything. There is a vast difference between me and all of you in that respect. You are in darkness, you are blind, crushed; you see nothing and what you do see you don't understand. . . . You are told the wind breaks loose from its chain, that you are beasts, Petchenyegs, and you believe it; they punch you in the neck, you kiss their hands; some animal in a sable-lined coat robs you and then tips you fifteen kopecks and you: ' Let me kiss your hand, sir.' You are pariahs, pitiful people. ... I am a differ- ent sort. My eyes are open, I see it all as clearly as a hawk or an eagle when it floats over the earth, and I understand it all. I am a living protest. I see irresponsible tyranny — I protest. I see cant and hypocrisy—I protest. I see swine triumphant — I protest. And I cannot be suppressed, no Span- ish Inquisition can make me hold my tongue. No. . . . Cut out my tongue and I would protest in dumb show; shut me up in a cellar — I will shout from it to be heard half a mile away, or I will starve myself to death that they may have another weight on their black consciences. Kill me and I will haunt them with my ghost. All my acquaintances say to me: ' You are a most insufferable person, Pavel Ivanitch.' I am proud of such a reputation. I have served three years in the far East, and I shall be remembered there for a hundred years: I had rows with everyone. My friends write to me from Russia, ' Don't come back,' but here I am going back to spite them . . . yes. . . . That is life as I understand it. That is what one can call life.''

Gusev was looking at the little window and was not listening. A boat was swaying on the trans- parent, soft, turquoise water all bathed in hot, daz- zling sunshine. In it there were naked Chinamen holding up cages with canaries and calling out:

" It sings, it sings! "

Another boat knocked against the first; the steam cutter darted by. And then there came another boat with a fat Chinaman sitting in it, eating rice with little sticks.

Languidly the water heaved, languidly the white seagulls floated over it.

" I should like to give that fat fellow one in the neck," thought Gusev, gazing at the stout China- man, with a yawn.

He dozed off, and it seemed to him that all nature was dozing, too. Time flew swiftly by; im- perceptibly the day passed, imperceptibly the dark- ness came on. . . . The steamer was no longer standing still, but moving on further.

IV

Two days passed, Pavel Ivanitch lay down in- stead of sitting up ; his eyes were closed, his nose seemed to have grown sharper.

" Pavel Ivanitch," Gusev called to him. ¹¹ Hey, Pavel Ivanitch."

Pavel Ivanitch opened his eyes and moved his lips.

¹¹ Are you feeling bad? "

" No • . . it's nothing . • ." answered Pavel I vanitch, gasping. " Nothing; on the contrary . . . I am rather better. . . . You see I can lie down . • . . I am a little easier. . . ."

" Well, thank God for that, Pavel Ivanitch."

" When I compare myself with you I am sorry for you . . . poor fellow. My lungs are all right, it is only a stomach cough. . . . I can stand hell, let alone the Red Sea. Besides I take a critical attitude to my illness and to the medicines they give me for it. While you . . . you are in dark- ness. . . . It's hard for you, very, very hard 1 "

The ship was not rolling, it was calm, but as hot and stifling as a bath-house ; it was not only hard to speak but even hard to listen. Gusev hugged his knees, laid his head on them and thought of his home. Good heavens, what a relief it was to think of snow and cold in that stifling heat I You drive in a sledge, all at once the horses take fright at something and bolt. . . . Regardless of the road, the ditches, the ravines, they dash like mad things, right through the village, over the pond by the pot- tery works, out across the open fields. " Hold on," the pottery hands and the peasants shout, meeting them. " Hold on." But why? Let the keen, cold wind beat in one's face and bite one's hands ; let the lumps of snow, kicked up by the horses' hoofs, fall on one's cap, on one's back, down one's collar, on one's chest; let the runners ring on the snow, and the traces and the sledge be smashed, deuce take them one and all 1 And how delightful when the sledge upsets and you go Hying full tilt into a drift, face downwards in the snow, and then you get up white all over with icicles on your moustaches ; no cap, no gloves, your belt undone. . . . People laugh, the dogs bark. . . .

Pavel Ivanitch half opened one eye, looked at Gusev with it, and asked softly:

" Gusev, did your commanding officer steal? "

" Who can tell, Pavel Ivanitch I We can't say, it didn't reach us."

And after that a long time passed in silence. Gusev brooded, muttered something in delirium, and kept drinking water ; it was hard for him to talk and hard to listen, and he was afraid of being talked to. An hour passed, a second, a third; evening came on, then night, but he did not notice it. He still sat dreaming of the frost.

There was a sound as though someone came into the hospital, and voices were audible, but a few min- utes passed and all was still again.

¹¹ The Kingdom of Heaven and eternal peace," said the soldier with his arm in a sling. " He was an uncomfortable man."

" What ? " asked Gusev. " Who ? "

¹¹ He is dead, they have just carried him up."

" Oh, well," muttered Gusev, yawning, ¹¹ the King- dom of Heaven be his."

" What do you think? " the soldier with his arm in a sling asked Gusev. " Will he be in the King- dom of Heaven or not? "

" Who is it you are talking about? "

" Pavel I vanitch."

" He will be . . . he suffered so long. And there is another thing, he belonged to the clergy, and the priests always have a lot of relations. Their pray- ers will save him."

The soldier with the sling sat down on a ham- mock near Gusev and said in an undertone:

" And you, Gusev, are not long for this world. You will never get to Russia."

" Did the doctor or his assistant say so? " asked Gusev.

" It isn't that they said so, but one can see it. . . . One can see directly when a man's going to die. You don't eat, you don't drink; it's dreadful to see how thin you've got. It's consumption, in fact. I say it, not to upset you, but because maybe you would like to have the sacrament and extreme unc- tion. And if you have any money you had better give it to the senior officer."

" I haven't written home . . ." Gusev sighed. " I shall die and they won't know."

" They'll hear of it," the sick sailor brought out in a bass voice. " When you die they will put it down in the Gazette, at Odessa they will send in a report to the commanding officer there and he will send it to the parish or somewhere. . . ."

Gusev began to be uneasy after such a conversa- tion and to feel a vague yearning. He drank wa- ter — it was not that; he dragged himself to the window and breathed the hot, moist air — it was not that; he tried to think of home, of the frost — it was not that. . . . At last it seemed to him one minute longer in the ward and he would certainly expire.

" It's stifling, mates . . ." he said. " I'll go on deck. Help me up, for Christ's sake."

" All right," assented the soldier with the sling. " I'll carry you, you can't walk, hold on to my neck."

Gusev put his arm round the soldier's neck, the latter put his unhurt arm round him and carried him up. On the deck sailors and time-expired sol- diers were lying asleep side by side; there were so many of them it was difficult to pass.

" Stand down," the soldier with the sling said softly. " Follow me quietly, hold on to my shirt. . . ."

It was dark. There was no light on deck, nor on the masts, nor anywhere on the sea around. At the furthest end of the ship the man on watch was standing perfectly still like a statue, and it looked as though he were asleep. It seemed as though the steamer were abandoned to itself and were going at its own will.

" Now they will throw Pavel Ivanitch into the sea," said the soldier with the sling. ¹¹ In a sack and then into the water."

" Yes, that's the rule."

" But it's better to lie at home in the earth. Any- way, your mother comes to the grave and weeps."

" Of course."

There was a smell of hay and of dung. There were oxen standing with drooping heads by the ship's rail. One, two, three; eight of them 1 And there was a little horse. Gusev put out his hand to stroke it, but it shook its head, showed its teeth, and tried to bite his sleeve.

" Damned brute . . ." said Gusev angrily.

The two of them, he and the soldier, threaded their way to the head of the ship, then stood at the rail and looked up and down. Overhead deep sky, bright stars, peace and stillness, exactly as at home in the village, below darkness and disorder. The tall waves were resounding, no one could tell why. Whichever wave you looked at each one was trying to rise higher than all the rest and to chase and crush the next one; after it a third as fierce and hideous flew noisily, with a glint of light on its white crest.

The sea has no sense and no pity. If the steamer had been smaller and not made of thick iron, the waves would have crushed it to pieces without the slightest compunction, and would have devoured all the people in it with no distinction of saints or sin- ners. The steamer had the same cruel and mean- ingless expression. This monster with its huge beak was dashing onwards, cutting millions of waves in its path; it had no fear of the darkness nor the wind, nor of space, nor of solitude, caring for nothing, and if the ocean had its people, this monster would have crushed them, too, without distinction of saints or smners.

" Where are we now? " asked Gusev.

" I don't know. We must be in the ocean."

" There is no sight of land. . . ."

" No indeed! They say we shan't see it for seven days."

The two soldiers watched the white foam with the phosphorus light on it and were silent, think- ing. Gusev was the first to break the silence.

" There is nothing to be afraid of," he said, " only one is full of dread as though one were sit- ting in a dark forest; but if, for instance, they let a boat down on to the water this minute and an officer ordered me to go a hundred miles over the sea to catch fish, I'd go. Or, let's say, if a Chris- tian were to fall into the water this minute, I'd go in after him. A German or a Chinaman I wouldn't save, but I'd go in after a Christian."

" And are you afraid to die? "

" Yes. I am sorry for the folks at home. My brother at home, you know, isn't steady; he drinks, he beats his wife for nothing, he does not honour his parents. Everything will go to ruin without me, and father and my old mother will be begging their bread, I shouldn't wonder. But my legs won't bear me, brother, and it's hot here. Let's go to sleep."

v

Gusev went back to the ward and got into his hammock. He was again tormented by a vague craving, and he could not make out what he wanted. There was an oppression on his chest, a throbbing in his head, his mouth was so dry that it was diffi- cult for him to move his tongue. He dozed, and murmured in his sleep, and, worn out with night- mares, his cough, and the stifling heat, towards morning he fell into a sound sleep. He dreamed that they were just taking the bread out of the oven in the barracks and he climbed into the stove and had a steam bath in it, lashing himself with a bunch of birch twigs. He slept for two days, and at mid- day on the third two sailors came down and carried him out.

He was sewn up in sailcloth and to make him heavier they put with him two iron weights. Sewn up in the sailcloth he looked like a carrot or a radish: broad at the head and narrow at the feet. . . . Be- fore sunset they brought him up to the deck and put him on a plank; one end of the plank lay on the side of the ship, the other on a box, placed on a stool. Round him stood the soldiers and the offi- cers with their caps off.

" Blessed be the Narne of the Lord . . ." the priest began. " As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be."

" Amen," chanted three sailors.

The soldiers and the officers crossed themselves and looked away at the waves. It was strange that a man should be sewn up in sailcloth and should soon be flying into the sea. Was it possible that such a thing might happen to anyone?

The priest strewed earth upon Gusev and bowed down. They sang " Eternal Memory."

The man on watch duty tilted up the end of the plank, Gusev slid off and flew head foremost, turned a somersault in the air and splashed into the sea. He was covered with foam and for a moment looked as though he were wrapped in lace, but the minute passed and he disappeared in the waves.

He went rapidly towards the bottom. Did he reach it? It was said to be three miles to the bot- tom. After sinking sixty or seventy feet, he began moving more and more slowly, swaying rhythmically, as though he were hesitating and, carried along by the current, moved more rapidly sideways than downwards.

Then he was met by a shoal of the fish called har- bour pilots. Seeing the dark body the fish stopped as though petrified, and suddenly turned round and disappeared. In less than a minute they flew back swift as an arrow to Gusev, and began zig-zagging round him in the water.

After that another dark body appeared. It was a shark. It swam under Gusev with dignity and no show of interest, as though it did not notice him, and sank down upon its back, then it turned belly upwards, basking in the warm, transparent water and languidly opened its jaws with two rows of teeth. The harbour pilots are delighted, they stop to see what will come next. After playing a little with the body the shark nonchalantly puts its jaws under it, cautiously touches it with its teeth, and the sail- cloth is rent its full length from head to foot; one of the weights falls out and frightens the harbour pilots, and striking the shark on the ribs goes rapidly to the bottom.

Overhead at this time the clouds are massed to- gether on the side where the sun is setting; one cloud like a triumphal arch, another like a lion, a third like a pair of scissors. . . . From behind the clouds a broad, green shaft of light pierces through and stretches to the middle of the sky; a little later an- other, violet-coloured, lies beside it; next that, one of gold, then one rose-coloured. . . . The sky turns a soft lilac. Looking at this gorgeous, enchanted sky, at first the ocean scowls, but soon it, too, takes ten- der, joyous, passionate colours for which it is hard to find a name in human speech.

1890

AN UPHEAVAL

Mashenka Pavletsky, a young girl who had only just finished her studies at a boarding school, returning from a walk to the house of the Kush- kins, with whom she was living as a governess, found the household in a terrible turmoil. Mihailo, the porter who opened the door to her, was excited and red as a crab.

Loud voices were heard from upstairs. " Madame Kushkin is in a fit, most likely, or else she has quarrelled with her husband," thought Mashenka.

In the hall and in the corridor she met maid- servants. One of them was crying. l'hen Mash- enka saw, running out of her room, the master of the house himself, Nikolay Sergeitch, a little man with a flabby face and a bald head, though he was not old. He was red in the face and twitching all over. He passed the governess without notic- ing her, and throwing up his arms, exclaimed:

" Oh, how horrible it is I How tactless I How stupid I How barbarous I Abominable! "

Mashenka went into her room, and then, for the first time in her life, it was her lot to experience in all its acuteness the feeling that is so familiar to persons in dependent positions, who eat the bread of the rich and powerful, and cannot speak their minds. There was a search going on in her room. The lady of the house, Fedosya Vassilyevna, a stout, broad-shouldered, uncouth woman with thick black eyebrows, a faintly perceptible moustache, and red hands, who was exactly like a plain, illiterate cook in face and manners, was standing, without her cap on, at the table, putting back into Mashenka's work- bag balls of wool, scraps of materials, and bits of paper. . . . Evidently the governess's arrival took her by surprise, since, on looking round and seeing the girl's pale and astonished face, she was a little taken aback, and muttered :

" Pardon. I ... I upset it accidentally. . • . My sleeve caught in it. . . ."

And saying something more, Madame Kushkin rustled her long skirts and went out. Mashenka looked round her room with wondering eyes, and, unable to understand it, not knowing what to think, shrugged her shoulders, and turned cold with dis- may. What had Fedosya Vassilyevna been looking for in her work-bag? If she really had, as she said, caught her sleeve in it and upset everything, why had Nikolay Sergeitch dashed out of her room so excited and red in the face? Why was one drawer of the table pulled out a little way? The money-box, in which the governess put away ten kopeck pieces and old stamps, was open. They had opened it, but did not know how to shut it, though they had scratched the lock all over. The whatnot with her books on it, the things on the table, the bed — all bore fresh traces of a search. Her linen- basket, too. The linen had been carefully folded, but it was not in the same order as Mashenka had left it when she went out. So the search had been thorough, most thorough. But what was it for? Why? What had happened? Mashenka remem- bered the excited porter, the general turmoil which was still going on, the weeping servant-girl; had it not all some connection with the search that had just been made in her room? Was not she mixed up in something dreadful? Mashenka turned pale, and feeling cold all over, sank on to her linen- basket.

A maid-servant came into the room.

" Liza, you don't know why they have been rum- maging in my room?" the governess asked her.

" Mistress has lost a brooch worth two thou- sand," said Liza.

" Yes, but why have they been rummaging in my room ?''

" They've been searching every one, miss. They've searched all my things, too. They stripped us all naked and searched us. . . . God knows, miss, I never went near her toilet-table, let alone touching the brooch. I shall say the same at the police-station."

" But . . . why have they been rummaging here? " the governess still wondered.

" A brooch has been stolen, I tell you. The mis- tress has been rummaging in everything with her own hands. She even searched Mihailo, the por- ter, herself. It's a perfect disgrace I Nikolay Sergeitch simply looks on and cackles like a hen. But you've no need to tremble like that, miss. They found nothing here. You've nothing to be afraid of if you didn't take the brooch."

" But, Liza, it's vile . . . it's insulting," said Mashenka, breathless with indignation. " It's so mean, so low I What right had she to suspect me and to rummage in my things ? "

" You are living with strangers, miss," sighed Liza. " Though you are a young lady, still you are . . . as it were . . . a servant. • . . It's not like living with your papa and mamma."

Mashenka threw herself on the bed and sobbed bitterly. Never in her life had she been subjected to such an outrage, never had she been so deeply insulted. . . . She, well-educated, refined, the daughter of a teacher, was suspected of theft; she had been searched like a street-walker I She could not imagine a greater insult. And to this feeling of resentment was added an oppressive dread of what would come next. All sorts of absurd ideas came into her mind. If they could suspect her of theft, then they might arrest her, strip her naked, and search her, then lead her through the street with an escort of soldiers, cast her into a cold, dark cell with mice and woodlice, exactly like the dungeon in which Princess Tarakanov was imprisoned. Who would stand up for her? Her parents lived far away in the provinces; they had not the money to come to her. In the capital she was as solitary as in a desert, without friends or kindred. They could do what they liked with her.

" I will go to all the courts and all the lawyers," Mashenka thought, trembling. " I will explain to them, I will take an oath. . . . They will believe that I could not be a thief I "

Mashenka remembered that under the sheets in her basket she had some sweetmeats, which, follow- ing the habits of her schooldays, she had put in her pocket at dinner and carried off to her room. She felt hot all over, and was ashamed at the thought that her little secret was known to the lady of the house; and all this terror, shame, resentment, brought on an attack of palpitation of the heart, which set up a throbbing in her temples, in her heart, and deep down in her stomach.

" Dinner is ready," the servant summoned Mash- enka.

" Shall I go, or not? "

Mashenka brushed her hair, wiped her face with a wet towel, and went into the dining-room. There they had already begun dinner. At one end of the table sat Fedosya Vassilyevna with a stupid, solemn, serious face; at the other end Nikolay Sergeitch. At the sides there were the visitors and the children. The dishes were handed by two footmen in swallow- tails and white gloves. Every one knew that there was an upset in the house, that Madame Kushkin was in trouble, and every one was silent. Nothing was heard but the sound of munching and the rattle of spoons on the plates.

The lady of the house, herself, was the first to speak.

" What is the third course? " she asked the foot- man in a weary, injured voice.

" Esturgeon a la russe," answered the footman.

" I ordered that, Fenya," Nikolay Sergeitch hastened to observe. " I wanted some fish. If you don't like it, ma chere, don't let them serve it. I just or dered 'it. • . •"

Fedosya Vassilyevna did not like dishes that she had not ordered herself, and now her eyes filled with tears.

" Come, don't let us agitate ourselves," Mami- kov, her household doctor, observed in a honeyed voice, just touching her arm, with a smile as honeyed. " We are nervous enough as it is. Let us forget the brooch I Health is worth more than two thou- sand roubles I "

" It's not the two thousand I regret," answered the lady, and a big tear rolled down her cheek. " It's the fact itself that revolts me I I cannot put up with thieves in my house. I don't regret it — I regret nothing; but to steal from me is such in- gratitude I That's how they repay me for my kindness. . . ."

They all looked into their plates, but Mashenka fancied after the lady's words that every one was looking at her. A lump rose in her throat; she began crying and put her handkerchief to her lips.

u Pardon," she muttered. " I can't help it. My head aches. I'll go away."

And she got up from the table, scraping her chair awkwardly, and went out quickly, still more overcome with confusion.

" It's beyond everything! " said Nikolay Ser- geitch, frowning. " What need was there to search her room? How out of place it was! "

" I don't say she took the brooch," said Fedosya Vassilyevna, " but can you answer for her? To tell the truth, I haven't much confidence in these learned paupers."

" It really was unsuitable, Fenya. . . . Excuse me, Fenya, but you've no kind of legal right to make a search."

" I know nothing about your laws. All I know is that I've lost my brooch. And I will find the brooch I " She brought her fork down on the plate with a clatter, and her eyes flashed angrily. " And you eat your dinner, and don't interfere in what doesn't concern you I "

Nikolay Sergeitch dropped his eyes mildly and sighed. Meanwhile Mashenka, reaching her room, flung herself on her bed. She felt now neither alarm nor shame, but she felt an intense longing to go and slap the cheeks of this hard, arrogant, dull- witted, prosperous woman.

Lying on her bed she breathed into her pillow and dreamed of how nice it would be to go and buy the most expensive brooch and fling it into the face of this bullying woman. If only it were God's will that Fedosya Vassilyevna should come to ruin and wander about begging, and should taste all the horrors of poverty and dependence, and that Mash- enka, whom she had insulted, might give her alms! Oh, if only she could come in for a big fortune, could buy a carriage, and could drive noisily past the windows so as to be envied by that woman I

But all these were only dreams, in reality there was only one thing left to do — to get away as quickly as possible, not to stay another hour in this place. It was true it was terrible to lose her place, to go back to her parents, who had nothing; but what could she do? Mashenka could not bear the sight of the lady of the house nor of her little room; she felt stifled and wretched here. She was so dis- gusted with Fedosya Vassilyevna, who was so obsessed by her illnesses and her supposed aristo- cratic rank, that everything in the world seemed to have become coarse and unattractive because this woman was living in it. Mashenka jumped up from the bed and began packing.

" May I come in?" asked Nikolay Sergeitch at the door; he had come up noiselessly to the door, and spoke in a soft, subdued voice. " May I ? "

" Come in."

He came in and stood still near the door. His eyes looked dim and his red little nose was shiny. After dinner he used to drink beer, and the fact was perceptible in his walk, in his feeble, flabby hands.

" What's this? " he asked, pointing to the basket.

" I am packing. Forgive me, Nikolay Sergeitch, but I cannot remain in your house. I feel deeply in- sulted by this search I "

" I understand. . . . Only you are wrong to go. . . . Why should you? They've searched your things, but you . . . what does it matter to you? You will be none the worse for it."

Mashenka was silent and went on packing. Niko- lay Sergeitch pinched his moustache, as though won- dering what he should say next, and went on in an ingratiating voice:

" I understand, of course, but you must make al- lowances. You know my wife is nervous, head- strong; you mustn't judge her too harshly."

M ashenka did not speak.

" If you are so offended," Nikolay Sergeitch went on, " well, if you like, I'm ready to apologise. I ask your pardon."

Mashenka made no answer, but only bent lower over her box. This exhausted, irresolute man was of absolutely no significance in the household. He stood in the pitiful position of a dependent and hanger-on, even with the servants, and his apology meant nothing either.

" H'm! . . . You say nothing I That's not enough for you. In that case, I will apologise for my wife. In my wife's name. • . . She behaved tactlessly, I admit it as a gentleman. . . ."

Nikolay Sergeitch walked about the room, heaved a sigh, and went on:

" Then you want me to have it rankling here, un- der my heart. . . . You want mv conscience to tor- ment me . . . ."

" I know it's not your fault, Nikolay Sergeitch," said Mashenka, looking him full in the face with her big tear-stained eyes. " Why should you worry yourself? "

" Of course, no . . . . But still, don't you . . . go away. I entreat you."

Mashenka shook her head. Nikolay Sergeitch stopped at the window and drummed on the pane with his finger-tips.

" Such misunderstandings are simply torture to me," he said. " \Vhy, do you want me to go down on my knees to you, or what? Your pride is wounded, and here you've been crying and packing up to go; but I have pride, too, and you do not spare it I Or do you want me to tell you what I would not tell as Confession? Do you? Listen; you want me to tell you what I won't tell the priest on my death- bed? "

Mashenka made no answer.

" I took my wife's brooch," Nikolay Sergeitch said quickly. " Is that enough now? Are you satisfied? Yes, I • . . took it. . . . But, ofcourse, I count on your discretion. . • . For God's sake, not a word,. not half a hint to any one I "

Mashenka, amazed and frightened, went on pack- ing; she snatched her things, crumpled them up, and thrust them anyhow into the box and the basket. Now, after this candid avowal on the part of Nikolay Sergeitch, she could not remain another minute, and could not understand how she could have gone on living in the house before.

" And it's nothing to wonder at," Nikolay Ser- geitch went on after a pause. " It's an everyday story I I need money, and she . . . won't give it to me. It was my father's money that bought this house and everything, you know I It's all mine, and the brooch belonged to my mother, and . . . it's all mine I And she took it, took possession of every- thing . ... I can't go to law with her, you'll admit. . . . I beg you most earnestly, overlook it ... stay on. Tout comprendre, tout pardonner. Will you stay? "

" No I " said Mashenka resolutely, beginning to tremble. " Let me alone, I entreat you I "

" Well, God bless you! " sighed Nikolay Sergeitch, sitting down on the stool near the box. " I must own I like people who still can feel resentment, con- tempt, and so on. I could sit here forever and look at your indignant face. . . . So you won't stay, then? I understand. . . . It's bound to be so. . . • Yes, of course . . . . It's all right for you, but for me — wo-o-o-o I ... I can't stir a step out of this cellar. I'd go off to one of our estates, but in every one of them there are some of my wife's rascals . . . stewards, experts, damn them all! They mortgage and remortgage. . . . You mustn't catch fish, must keep off the grass, mustn't break the trees."

" Nikolay Sergeitch! " his wife's voice called from the drawing-room. " Agnia, call your master! "

" Then you won't stay ? " asked Nikolay Sergeitch, getting up quickly and going towards the door. " You might as well stay, really. In the evenings I could come and have a talk with you. Eh? Stay! If you go, there won't be a human face left in the house. It's awful ! "

Nikolay Sergeitch's pale, exhausted face besought her, but Mashenka shook her head, and with a wave of his hand he went out.

Half an hour later she was on her way.

NEIGHBOURS

PYOTR Mihalitch Ivashin was very much out of humour: his sister, a young girl, had gone away to live with Vlassitch, a married man. To shake off the despondency and depression which pursued him at home and in the fields, he called to his aid his sense of justice, his genuine and noble ideas — he had always defended free-love I — but this was of no avail, and he always came back to the same con- clusion as their foolish old nurse, that his sister had acted wrongly and that Vlassitch had abducted his sister. And that was distressing.

His mother did not leave her room all day long; the old nurse kept sighing and speaking in whispers; his aunt had been on the point of taking her de- parture every day, and her trunks were continually being brought down to the hall and carried up again to her room. In the house, in the yard, and in the garden it was as still as though there were some one dead in the house. His aunt, the servants, and even the peasants, so it seemed to Pyotr Mihalitch, looked at him enigmatically and with perplexity, as though they wanted to say " Your sister has been seduced; why are you doing nothing? " And he reproached himself for inactivity, though he did not know pre- cisely what action he ought to have taken.

So passed six days. On the seventh — it was Sunday afternoon — a messenger on horseback brought a letter. The address was in a familiar feminine handwriting: " Her Excy. Anna Niko- laevna Ivashin." Pyotr Mihalitch fancied that there was something defiant, provocative, in the handwriting and in the abbreviation " Excy." And advanced ideas in women are obstinate, ruthless, cruel.

" She'd rather die than make any concession to her unhappy mother, or beg her forgiveness," thought Pyotr Mihalitch, as he went to his mother with the letter.

His mother was lying on her bed, dressed. See- ing her son, she rose impulsively, and straightening her grey hair, which had fallen from under her cap, asked quickly:

" What is it? What is it? " " This has come . . ." said her son, giving her the letter.

Zina's name, and even the pronoun " she " was not uttered in the house. Zina was spoken of im- personally: " this has come," " Gone away," and so on. . . . The mother recognised her daughter's handwriting, and her face grew ugly and unpleasant, and her grey hair escaped again from her cap.

" No I " she said, with a motion of her hands, as though the letter scorched her fi.ngers. " No, no, never I Nothing would induce me ! ''

The mother broke into hysterical sobs of grief and shame; she evidently longed to read the letter, but her pride prevented her. Pyotr Mihalitch real- ised that he ought to open the letter himself and read it aloud, but he was overcome by anger such as he had never felt before; he ran out into the yard and shouted to the messenger:

" Say there will be no answer I There will be no answer! Tell them that, you beast I "

And he tore up the letter; then tears came into his eyes, and feeling that he was cruel, miserable, and to blame, he went out into the fields.

He was only twenty-seven, but he was already stout. He dressed like an old man in loose, roomy clothes, and suffered from asthma. He already seemed to be developing the characteristics of an elderly country bachelor. He never fell in love, never thought of marriage, and loved no one but his mother, his sister, his old nurse, and the gardener, Vassilitch. He was fond of good fare, of his nap after dinner, and of talking about politics and ex- alted subjects. He had in his day taken his degree at the university, but he now looked upon his studies as though in them he had discharged a duty incum- bent upon young men between the ages of eighteen and twenty-fi.ve; at any rate, the ideas which now strayed every day through his mind had nothing in common with the university or the subjects he had studied there.

In the fields it was hot and still, as though rain were commg. It was steaming in the wood, and there was a heavy fragrant scent from the pines and rotting leaves. Pyotr Mihalitch stopped several times and wiped his wet brow. He looked at his winter corn and his spring oats, walked round the clover-fi.eld, and twice drove away a partridge with its chicks which had strayed in from the wood. And all the while he was thinking that this insufferable state of things could not go on for ever, and that he must end it one way or another. End it stupidly, madly, but he must end it.

" But how? What can I do?" he asked him- self, and looked imploringly at the sky and at the trees, as though begging for their help.

But the sky and the trees were mute. His noble ideas were no help, and his common sense whispered that the agonising question could have no solution but a stupid one, and that to-day's scene with the messenger was not the last one of its kind. It was terrible to think what was in store for him I

As he returned home the sun was setting. By now it seemed to him that the problem was incap- able of solution. He could not accept the accom- plished fact, and he could not refuse to accept it, and there was no intermediate course. When, tak- ing off his hat and fanning himself with his hand- kerchief, he was walking along the road, and had only another mile and a half to go before he would reach home, he heard bells behind him. It was a very choice and successful combination of bells, which gave a clear crystal note. No one had such bells on his horses but the police captain, Medovsky, formerly an officer in the hussars, a man in broken- down health, who had been a great rake and spend- thrift, and was a distant relation of Pyotr Mihalitch. He was like one of the family at the Ivashins' and had a tender, fatherly affection for Zina, as well as a great admiration for her.

" I was coming to see you," he said, overtaking Pyotr Mihalitch. " Get in; I'll give you a lift."

He was smiling and looked cheerful. Evidently he did not yet know that Zina had gone to live with Vlassitch; perhaps he had been told of it already, but did not believe it. Pyotr Mihalitch felt in a difficult position.

" You are very welcome," he muttered, blushing till the tears came into his eyes, and not knowing how to lie or what to say. " I am delighted," he went on, trying to smile, " but . . . Zina is away and mother is ill."

¹¹ How annoying I " said the police captain, look- ing pensively at Pyotr Mihalitch. " And I was meaning to spend the evening with you. Where has Zinaida Mihalovna gone? "

" To the Sinitskys', and I believe she meant to go from there to the monastery. I don't quite know."

The police captain talked a little longer and then turned back. Pyotr Mihalitch walked home, and thought with horror what the police captain's feel- ings would be when he learned the truth. And Pyotr Mihalitch imagined his feelings, and actually

experiencing them himself, went into the house.

" Lord help us," he thought, " Lord help us I "

At evening tea the only one at the table was his aunt. As usual, her face wore the expression that seemed to say that though she was a weak, defence- less woman, she would allow no one to insult her. Pyotr Mihalitch sat down at the other end of the table (he did not like his aunt) and began drinking tea in silence.

" Your mother has had no dinner again to-day," said his aunt. " You ought to do something about it, Petrusha. Starving oneself is no help in sor- row."

It struck Pyotr Mihalitch as absurd that his aunt should meddle in other people's business and should make her departure depend on Zina's having gone away. He was tempted to say something rude to her, but restrained himself. And as he restrained himself he felt the time had come for action, and that he could not bear it any longer. Either he must act at once or fall on the ground, and scream and bang his head upon the floor. He pictured Vlassitch and Zina, both of them progressive and self-satisfied, kissing each other somewhere under a maple tree, and all the anger and bitterness that had been accumulating in him for the last seven days fastened upon Vlassitch.

" One has seduced and abducted my sister," he thought, " another will come and murder my mother, a third will set fire to the house and sack the place.

. . . And all this under the mask of friendship, lofty ideas, unhappiness I "

" No, it shall not be I " Pyotr Mihalitch cried sud- denly, and he brought his fist down on the table.

He jumped up and ran out of the dining-room. In the stable the steward's horse was standing ready saddled. He got on it and galloped off to Vlassitch.

There was a perfect tempest within him. He felt a longing to do something extraordinary, start- ling, even if he had to repent of it all his life after- wards. Should he call Vlassitch a blackguard, slap him in the face, and then challenge him to a duel? But Vlassitch was not one of those men who do fight duels; being called a blackguard and slapped in the face would only make him more unhappy, and would make him shrink into himself more than ever. These unhappy, defenceless people are the most in- sufferable, the most tiresome creatures in the world. They can do anything with impunity. When the luckless man responds to well-deserved reproach by looking at you with eyes full of deep and guilty feel- ing, and with a sickly smile bends his head submis- sively, even justice itself could not lift its hand against him.

" No matter. I'll horsewhip him before her eyes and tell him what I think of him," Pyotr Mihalitch decided.

He was riding through his wood and waste land, and he imagined Zina would try to justify her con- duct by talking about the rights of women and indi- vidual freedom, and about there being no difference between legal marriage and free union. Like a woman, she would argue about what she did not understand. And very likely at the end she would ask, ¹¹ How do you come in? What right have you to interfere? "

" No, I have no right," muttered Pyotr Mihal- itch. " But so much the better. . . . The harsher I am, the less right I have to interfere, the better."

It was sultry. Clouds of gnats hung over the ground and in the waste places the peewits called plaintively. Everything betokened rain, but he could not see a cloud in the sky. Pyotr Mihalitch crossed the boundary of his estate and galloped over a smooth, level field. He often went along this road and knew every bush, every hollow in it. What now in the far distance looked in the dusk like a dark cliff was a red church; he could picture it all down to the smallest detail, even the plaster on the gate and the calves that were always grazing in the church enclosure. Three-quarters of a mile to the right of the church there was a copse like a dark blur — it was Count Koltonovitch's. And be- yond the church Vlassitch's estate began.

From behind the church and the count's copse a huge black storm-cloud was rising, and there were ashes of white lightning.

" Here it is! " thought Pyotr Mihalitch. ¹¹ Lord help us, Lord help us! "

The horse was soon tired after its quick gallop, and Pyotr Mihalitch was tired too. The storm- cloud looked at him angrily and seemed to advise him to go home. He felt a little scared.

" I will prove to them they are wrong," he tried to reassure himself. " They will say that it is free- love, individual freedom; but freedom means self- control and not subjection to passion. It's not lib- erty but license I "

He reached the count's big pond; it looked dark blue and frowning under the cloud, and a smell of damp and slime rose from it. Near the dam, two willows, one old and one young, drooped tenderly towards one another. Pyotr Mihalitch and Vlas- sitch had been walking near this very spot only a fortnight before, humming a students' song:

" ' Youth is wasted, life is nought, when the heart is cold and love- less.'"

A wretched song I

It was thundering as Pyotr Mihalitch rode through the copse, and the trees were bending and rustling in the wind. He had to make haste. It was only three-quarters of a mile through a meadow from the copse to Vlassitch's house. Here ihere were old birch-trees on each side of the road. They the same melancholy and unhappy air as their owner Vlassitch, and looked as tall and lanky as he. Big drops of rain pattered on the birches and on the grass; the wind had suddenly dropped, and there was a smell of wet earth and poplars. Be- fore him he saw Vlassitch's fence with a row of yel- low acacias, which were tall and lanky too; where the fence was broken he could see the neglected orchard.

Pyotr Mihalitch was not thinking now of the horsewhip or of a slap in the face, and did not know what he would do at Vlassitch's. He felt nervous. He felt frightened on his own account and on his sister's, and was terrified at the thought of seeing her. How would she behave with her brother? What would they both talk about? And had he not better go back before it was too late? As he made these reflections, he galloped up the avenue of lime- trees to the house, rode round the big clumps of li- lacs, and suddenly saw Vlassitch.

Vlassitch, wearing a cotton shirt, and top-boots, bending forward, with no hat on in the rain, was coming from the corner of the house to the front door. He was followed by a workman with a ham- mer and a box of nails. They must have been mending a shutter which had been banging in the wind. Seeing Pyotr Mihalitch, Vlassitch stopped.

" It's you I " he said, smiling. " That's nice."

" Yes, I've come, as you see," said Pyotr Mihal- itch, brushing the rain off himself with both hands.

" Well, that's capital l I'm very glad," said Vlas- sitch, but he did not hold out his hand: evidently he did not venture, but waited for Pyotr Mihalitch to hold out his. " It will do the oats good," he said, looking at the sky.

" Yes."

They went into the house in silence. To the right of the hall was a door leading to another hall and then to the drawing-room, and' on the left was a little room which in winter was used by the steward. Pyotr Mihalitch and Vlassitch went into this little room.

" Where were you caught in the rain? "

" Not far off, quite close to the house."

Pyotr Mihalitch sat down on the bed. He was glad of the noise of the rain and the darkness of the room. It was better: it made it less dreadful, and there was no need to see his companion's face. There was no anger in his heart now, nothing but fear and vexation with himself. He felt he had made a bad beginning, and that nothing would come of this visit.

Both were silent for some time and affected to be listening to the rain.

" Thank you, Petrusha," Vlassitch began, clear- ing his throat. " I am very grateful to you for coming. It's generous and noble of you. I under- stand it, and, believe me, I appreciate it. Believe me."

He looked out of the window and went on, stand- ing in the middle of the room:

" Everything happened so secretly, as though we were concealing it all from you. The feeling that you might be wounded and angry has been a blot on our happiness all these days. But let me justify myself. We kept it secret not because we did not trust you. To begin with, it all happened suddenly, by a kind of inspiration; there was no time to dis- cuss it. Besides, it's such a private, delicate mat- ter, and it was awkward to bring a third person in, even some one as intimate as you. Above all, in all this we reckoned on your generosity. You are a very noble and generous person. I am infinitely grateful to you. If you ever need my life, come and take it."

Vlassitch talked in a quiet, hollow bass, always on the same droning note; he was evidently agi- tated. Pyotr Mihalitch felt it was his turn to speak, and that to listen and keep silent would really mean playing the part of a generous and noble simpleton, and that had not been his idea in coming. He got up quickly and said, breathlessly in an undertone:

" Listen, Grigory. You know I liked you and could have desired no better husband for my sister; but what has happened is awful! It's terrible to think of it! "

" \Vhy is it terrible?" asked Vlassitch, with a quiver in his voice. " It would be terrible if we had done wrong, but that isn't so."

" Listen, Grigory. You know I have no preju- dices; but, excuse my frankness, to my mind you have both acted selfishly. Of course, I shan't say so to my sister — it will distress her; but you ought to know: mother is miserable beyond all description." " Yes, that's sad," sighed Vlassitch. " We fore- saw that, Petrusha, but what could we have done? Because one's actions hurt other people, it doesn't prove that they are wrong. What's to be done! Every important step one takes is bound to distress somebody. If you went to fight for freedom, that would distress your mother, too. What's to be done I Any one who puts the peace of his family be- fore everything has to renounce the life of ideas completely."

There was a vivid flash of lightning at the win- dow, and the lightning seemed to change the course of Vlassitch's thoughts. He sat down beside Pyotr Mihalitch and began saying what was utterly beside the point.

" I have such a reverence for your sister, Pe- trusha," he said. " When I used to come and see you, I felt as though I were going to a holy shrine, and I really did worship Zina. Now my rever- ence for her grows every day. For me she is some- thing higher than a wife — yes, higher I " Vlas- sitch waved his hands. " She is my holy of holies. Since she is living with me, I enter my house as though it were a temple. She is an extraordinary, rare, most noble woman I "

" Well, he's off now I " thought Pyotr Mihalitch; he disliked the word " woman."

" Why shouldn't you be married properly? " he asked. " How much does your wife want for a di- vorce ? "

" Seventy-five thousand."

" It's rather a lot. But if we were to negotiate with her? "

" She won't take a farthing less. She is an awful woman, brother," sighed Vlassitch. " I've never talked to you about her before — it was unpleasant to think of her; but now that the subject has come up, I'll tell you about her. I married her on the impulse of the moment — a fine, honourable im- pulse. An officer in command of a battalion of our regiment—if you care to hear the details — had an affair with a girl of eighteen; that is, to put it plainly, he seduced her, lived with her for two months, and abandoned her. She was in an awful position, brother. She was ashamed to go home to her parents; besides, they wouldn't have received her. Her lover had abandoned her; there was nothing left for her but to go to the barracks and sell herself. The other officers in the regiment were indignant. They were by no means saints them- selves, but the baseness of it was so striking. Be- sides, no one in the regiment could endure the man. And to spite him, you understand, the indignant lieu- tenants and ensigns began getting up a subscription for the unfortunate girl. And when we subalterns met together and began to subscribe five or ten roubles each, I had a sudden inspiration. I felt it was an opportunity to do something fine. I hastened to the girl and warmly expressed my sympathy. And while I was on my way to her, and while I was talking to her, I loved her fervently as a woman insulted and injured. Yes. . . . Well, a week later I made her an offer. The colonel and my com- rades thought my marriage out of keeping with the dignity of an officer. That roused me more than ever. I wrote a long letter, do you know, in which I proved that my action ought to be inscribed in the annals of the regiment in letters of gold, and so on. I sent the letter to my colonel and copies to my comrades. Well, I was excited, and, of course, I could not avoid being rude. I was asked to leave the regiment. I have a rough copy of it put away somewhere ; I'll give it to you to read some- time. It was written with great feeling. You will see what lofty and noble sentiments I was experienc- ing. I resigned my commission and came here with my wife. My father had left a few debts, I had no money, and from the first day my wife began making acquaintances, dressing herself smartly, and playing cards, and I was obliged to mortgage the estate. She led a bad life, you understand, and you are the only one of the neighbours who hasn't been her lover. After two years I gave her all I had to set me free and she went off to town. Yes. . . . And now I pay her twelve hundred roubles a year. She is an awful woman I There is a fly, brother, which lays an egg in the back of a spider so that the spider can't shake it off: the grub fastens upon the spider and drinks its heart's blood. That was how this woman fastened upon me and sucks the blood of my heart. She hates and despises me for being so stupid; that is, for marrying a woman like her. My chivalry seems to her despicable. ' A wise man cast me off,' she says, ' and a fool picked me up.' To her thinking no one but a pitiful idiot could have behaved as I did. And that is insuffer- ably bitter to me, brother. Altogether, I may say in parenthesis, fate has been hard upon me, very hard."

Pyotr Mihalitch listened to Vlassitch and won- dered in perplexity what it was in this man that had so charmed his sister. He was not young — he was forty-one — lean and lanky, narrow-chested, with a long nose, and grey hairs in his beard. He talked in a droning voice, had a sickly smile, and waved his hands awkwardly as he talked. He had neither health, nor pleasant, manly manners, nor savoir-faire, nor gaiety, and in all his exterior there was something colourless and indefinite. He dressed without taste, his surroundings were depress- ing, he did not care for poetry or painting because " they have no answer to give to the questions of the day "—that is, he did not understand them; music did not touch him. He was a poor farmer.

His estate was in a wretched condition and was mortgaged; he was paying twelve per cent. on the second mortgage and owed ten thousand on personal securities as well. When the time came to pay the interest on the mortgage or to send money to his wife, he asked every one to lend him money with as much agitation as though his house were on fire, and, at the same time losing his head, he, would sell the whole of his winter store of fuel for five roubles and a stack of straw for three roubles, and then have his garden fence or old cucumber-frames chopped up to heat his stoves. His meadows were ruined by pigs, the peasants' cattle strayed in the under- growth in his woods, and every year the old trees were fewer and fewer: beehives and rusty pails lay about in his garden and kitchen-garden. He had neither talents nor abilities, nor even ordinary ca- pacity for living like other people. In practical life he was a weak, naive man, easy to deceive and to cheat, and the peasants with good reason called him " simple."

He was a Liberal, and in the district was re- garded as a " Red," but even his progressiveness was a bore. There was no originality nor moving power about his independent views: he was revolted, indignant, and delighted always on the same note; it was always spiritless and ineffective. Even in mo- ments of strong enthusiasm he never raised his head or stood upright. But the most tiresome thing of all was that he managed to express even his best and finest ideas so that they seemed in him commonplace and out of date. It reminded one of something old one had read long ago, when slowly and with an air of profundity he would begin discoursing of his noble, lofty moments, of his best years; or when he went into raptures over the younger generation, which has always been, and still is, in advance of society; or abused Russians for donning their dress- ing-gowns at thirty and forgetting the principles of their alma mater. If you stayed the night with him, he would put Pissarev or Darwin on your bedroom table ; if you said you had read it, he would go and bring Dobrolubov.

In the district this was called free-thinking, and many people looked upon this free-thinking as an innocent and harmless eccentricity; it made him pro- foundly unhappy, however. It was for him the maggot of which he had just been speaking; it had fastened upon him and was sucking his life-blood. In his past there had been the strange marriage in the style of Dostoevsky; long letters and copies writ- ten in a bad, unintelligible hand-writing, but with great feeling, endless misunderstandings, explana- tions, disappointments, then debts, a second mort- gage, the allowance to his wife, the monthly borrow- ing of money — and all this for no benefit to any one, either himself or others. And in the present, as in the past, he was still in a nervous flurry, on the lookout for heroic actions, and poking his nose into other people's affairs; as before, at every favourable opportunity there were long letters and copies, wearisome, stereotyped conversations about the village community, or the revival of handicrafts or the establishment of cheese factories — conversa- tions as like one another as though he had prepared them, not in his living brain, but by some mechanical process. And finally this scandal with Zina of which one could not see the end I

And meanwhile Zina was young — she was only twenty-two — good-looking, elegant, gay; she was fond of laughing, chatter, argument, a passionate musician ; she had good taste in dress, in furniture, in books, and in her own home she would not have put up with a room like this, smelling of boots and cheap vodka. She, too, had advanced ideas, but in her free-thinking one felt the overflow of energy, the vanity of a young, strong, spirited girl, passion- ately eager to be better and more original than others. . . . How had it happened that she had fallen in love with Vlassitch?

" He is a Quixote, an obstinate fanatic, a maniac," thought Pyotr Mihalitch, " and she is as soft, yield- ing, and weak in character as I am. . . . She and I give in easily, without resistance. She loves him; but, then, I, too, love him in spite of every- thing."

Pyotr Mihalitch considered Vlassitch a good, straightforward man, but narrow and one-sided. In his perturbations and his sufferings, and in fact in his whole life, he saw no lofty aims, remote or immediate; he saw nothing but boredom and inca- pacity for life. His self-sacrifi.ce and all that Vlas- sitch himself called heroic actions or noble impulses seemed to him a useless waste of force, unnecessary blank shots which consumed a great deal of powder.

And Vlassitch's fanatical belief in the extraordinary loftiness and faultlessness of his own way of think- ing struck him as naive and even morbid; and the fact that Vlassitch all his life had contrived to mix the trivial with the exalted, that he had made a stupid marriage and looked upon it as an act of hero- ism, and then had affairs with other women and regarded that as a triumph of some idea or other was simply incomprehensible.

Nevertheless, Pyotr Mihalitch was fond of Vlas- sitch ; he was conscious of a sort of power in him, and for some reason he had never had the heart to contradict him.

Vlassitch sat down quite close to him for a talk in the dark, to the accompaniment of the rain, and he had cleared his throat as a prelude to beginning on something lengthy, such as the history of his marriage. But it was intolerable for Pyotr Mihal- itch to listen to him; he was tormented by the thought that he would see his sister directly.

" Yes, you've had bad luck," he said gently; " but, excuse me, we've been wandering from the point. That's not what we are talking about."

" Yes, yes, quite so. Well, let us come back to the point," said Vlassitch, and he stood up. " I tell you, Petrusha, our conscience is clear. We are not married, but there is no need for me to prove to you that our marriage is perfectly legiti- mate. You are as free in your ideas as I am, and, happily, there can be no disagreement between us on that point. As for our future, that ought not to alarm you. I'll work in the sweat of my brow, I'll work day and night — in fact, I will strain every nerve to make Zina happy. Her life will be a splendid one I You may ask, am I able to do it. I am, brother I When a man devotes every minute to one thought, it's not difficult for him to attain his object. But let us go to Zina; it will be a joy to her to see you."

Pyotr Mihalitch's heart began to beat. He got up and followed Vlassitch into the hall, and from there into the drawing-room. There was nothing in the huge gloomy room but a piano and a long row of old chairs ornamented with bronze, on which no one ever sat. There was a candle alight on the piano. From the drawing-room they went in silence into the dining-room. This room, too, was large and comfortless ; in the middle of the room there was a round table with two leaves with six thick legs, and only one candle. A clock in a large mahogany case like an ikon stand pointed to half- past two.

Vlassitch opened the door into the next room and said:

" Zina, here is Petrusha come to see us I "

At once there was the sound of hurried footsteps and Zina came into the dining-room. She was tall, plump, and very pale, and, just as when he had seen her for the last time at home, she was wearing a black skirt and a red blouse, with a large buckle on her belt. She flung one arm round her brother and kissed him on the temple.

" What a storm I " she said. " Grigory went off somewhere and I was left quite alone in the house."

She was not embarrassed, and looked at her brother as frankly and candidly as at home ; looking at her, Pyotr Mihalitch, too, lost his embarrassment.

" But you are not afraid of storms," he said, sit- ting down at the table.

" No," she said, " but here the rooms are so big, the house is so old, and when there is thunder it all rattles like a cupboard full of crockery. It's a charming house altogether," she went on, sitting down opposite her brother. " There's some pleas- ant memory in every room. In my room, only fancy, Grigory's grandfather shot himself."

" In August we shall have the money to do up the lodge in the garden," said Vlassitch.

" For some reason when it thunders I think of that grandfather," Zina went on. " And in this dining-room somebody was flogged to death."

" That's an actual fact," said Vlassitch, and he looked with wide-open eyes at Pyotr Mihalitch. " Sometime in the forties this place was let to a Frenchman called Olivier. The portrait of his daughter is lying in an attic now — a very pretty girl. This Olivier, so my father told me, despised Russians for their ignorance and treated them with cruel derision. Thus, for instance, he insisted on the priest walking without his hat for half a mile round his house, and on the church bells being rung when the Olivier family drove through the village. The serfs and altogether the humble of this world, of course, he treated with even less ceremony. Once there came along this road one of the simple-hearted sons of wandering Russia, somewhat after the style of Gogol's divinity student, Homa Brut. He asked for a night's lodging, pleased the bailiffs, and was given a job at the office of the estate. There are many variations of the story. Some say the divinity student stirred up the peasants, others that Olivier's daughter fell in love with him. I don't know which is true, only one fine evening Olivier called him in here and cross-examined him, then ordered him to be beaten. Do you know, he sat here at thrs table drinking claret while the stable-boys beat the man. He must have tried to wring something out of him. Towards morning the divinity student died of the torture and his body was hidden. They say it was thrown into Koltovitch's pond. There was an in- quiry, but the Frenchman paid some thousands to some one in authority and went away to Alsace. His lease was up just then, and so the matter ended."

" What scoundrels! " said Zina, shuddering.

" My father remembered Olivier and his daughter well. He used to say she was remarkably beautiful and eccentric. I imagine the divinity student had done both — stirred up the peasants and won the daughter's heart. Perhaps he wasn't a divinity stu- dent at all, but some one travelling incognito."

Zina grew thoughtful; the story of the divinity student and the beautiful French girl had evidently carried her imagination far away. It seemed to Pyotr Mihalitch that she had not changed in the least during the last week, except that she was a little paler. She looked calm and just as usual, as though she had come with her brother to visit Vlas- sitch. But Pyotr Mihalitch felt that some change had taken place in himself. Before, when she was living at home, he could have spoken to her about anything, and now he did not feel equal to asking her the simple question, " How do you like being here?" The question seemed awkward and un- necessary. Probably the same change had taken place in her. She was in no haste to turn the con- versation to her mother, to her home, to her rela- tions with Vlassitch; she did not defend herself, she did not say that free unions are better than mar- riages in the church; she was not agitated, and calmly brooded over the story of Olivier. . . . And why had they suddenly begun talking of Olivier?

" You are both of you wet with the rain," said Zina, and she smiled joyfully; she was touched by this point of resemblance between her brother and Vlassitch.

And Pyotr Mihalitch felt all the bitterness and horror of his position. He thought of his deserted home, the closed piano, and Zina's bright little room into which no one went now; he thought there were no prints of little feet on the 19r^Ј^paths, and that before tea no one went off, laughing gaily, to bathe. What he had clung to more and more from his childhood upwards, what he had loved thinking about when he used to sit in the stuffy class-room or the lecture theatre — brightness, purity, and joy, everything that filled the house with life and light, had gone never to return, had vanished, and was mixed up with a coarse, clumsy story of some bat- talion officer, a chivalrous lieutenant, a depraved woman and a grandfather who had shot himself. . . . And to begin to talk about his mother or to think that the past could ever return would mean not understanding what was clear.

Pyotr Mihalitch's eyes filled with tears and his hand began to tremble as it lay on the table. Zina guessed what he was thinking about, and her eyes, too, glistened and looked red.

" Grigory, come here," she said to Vlassitch.

They walked away to the window and began talk- ing of something in a whisper. From the way that Vlassitch stooped down to her and the way she looked at him, Pyotr Mihalitch realised again that everything was irreparably over, and that it was no use to talk of anything. Zina we.nt out of the room.

" Well, brother I " Vlassitch began, after a brief silence, rubbing his hands and smiling. " I called our life happiness just now, but that was, so to speak, poetical license. In reality, there has not been a sense of happiness so far. Zina has been thinking all the time of you, of her mother, and has been worrying; looking at her, I, too, felt worried. Hers is a bold, free nature, but, you know, it's difficult when you're not used to it, and she is young, too. The servants call her ' Miss '; i t seems a trifle, but it upsets her. There it is, brother."

Zina brought in a plateful of strawberries. She was followed by a little maidservant, looking crushed and humble, who set a jug of milk on the table and made a very low bow : she had something about her that was in keeping with the old furniture, something petrified and dreary.

The sound of the rain had ceased. Pyotr Mihal- itch ate strawberries while Vlassitch and Zina looked at him in silence. The moment of the inevitable but useless conversation was approaching, and all three felt the burden of it. Pyotr Mihalitch's eyes filled with tears again; he pushed away his plate and said that he must be going home, or it would be getting late, and perhaps it would rain again. The time had come when common decency required Zina to speak of those at home and of her new life.

" How are things at home? " she asked rapidly, and her pale face quivered. " How is mother? "

" You know mother . . ." said Pyotr Mihalitch, not looking at her.

" Petrusha, you've thought a great deal about what has happened," she said, taking hold of her brother's sleeve, and he knew how hard it was for her to speak. " You've thought a great deal: tell me, can we reckon on mother's accepting Grigory . . . and the whole position, one day? "

She stood close to her brother, face to face with him, and he was astonished that she was so beauti- ful, and that he seemed not to have noticed it before. And it seemed to him utterly absurd that his sister, so like his mother, pampered, elegant, should be liv- ing with Vlassitch and in Vlassitch's house, with the petrified servant, and the table with six legs — in the house where a man had been flogged to death, and that she was not going home with him, but was staying here to sleep.

" You know mother," he said, not answering her question. " I think you ought to have . . . to do something, to ask her forgiveness or something. . . ."

"But to ask her forgiveness would mean pretend- ing we had done wrong. I'm ready to tell a lie to comfort mother, but it won't lead anywhere. I know mother. Well, what will be, must be I " said Zina, growing more cheerful now that the most un- pleasant had been said. " We'll wait for five years, ten years, and be patient, and then God's will be done."

She took her brother's arm, and when she walked through the dark hall she squeezed close to him. They went out on the steps. Pyotr Mihalitch said good-bye, got on his horse, and set off at a walk; Zina and Vlassitch walked a little way with him. It was still and warm, with a delicious smell of hay; stars were twinkling brightly between the clouds.

Vlassitch's old garden, which had seen so many gloomy stories in its time, lay slumbering in the dark- ness, and for some reason it was mournful riding through it.

" Zina and I to-day after dinner spent some really exalted moments," said Vlassitch. " I read aloud to her an excellent article on the question of emi- gration. You must read it, brother I You really must. It's remarkable for its lofty tone. I could not resist writing a letter to the editor to be for- warded to the author. I wrote only a single line : ' I thank you and warmly press your noble hand.' "

Pyotr Mihalitch was tempted to say, " Don't med- dle in what does not concern you," but he held his tongue.

Vlassitch walked by his right stirrup and Zina by the left; both seemed to have forgotten that they had to go home. It was damp, and they had almost reached Koltovitch's copse. Pyotr Mihalitch felt that they were expecting something from him, though they hardly knew what it was, and he felt unbearably sorry for them. Now as they walked by the horse with submissive faces, lost in thought, he had a deep conviction that they were unhappy, and could not be happy, and their love seemed to him a melancholy, irreparable mistake. Pity and the sense that he could do nothing to help them re- duced him to that state of spiritual softening when he was ready to make any sacrifice to get rid of the painful feeling of sympathy.

" I'll come over sometimes for a night," he said. But it sounded as though he were making a con- cession, and did not satisfy him. When they stopped near Koltovitch's copse to say good-bye, he bent down to Zina, touched her shoulder, and said: " You are right, Zina I You have done well." To avoid saying more and bursting into tears, he lashed his horse and galloped into the wood. As he rode into the darkness, he looked round and saw Vlassitch and Zina walking home along the road — he taking long strides, while she walked with a hurried, jerky step beside him — talking eagerly about something.

" I am an old woman I " thought Pyotr Mihal- itch. " I went to solve the question and I have only made it more complicated — there it is I "

He was heavy at heart. When he got out of the copse he rode at a walk and then stopped his horse near the pond. He wanted to sit and think without moving. The moon was rising and was refl.ected in a streak of red on the other side of the pond. There were low rumbles of thunder in the distance. Pyotr Mihalitch looked steadily at the water and imagined his sister's despair, her martyr-like pallor, the tearless eyes with which she would conceal her humiliation from others. He imagined her with child, imagined the death of their mother, her funeral, Zina's horror. . . . The proud, supersti- tious old woman would be sure to die of grief. Ter- rible pictures of the future rose before him on the background of smooth, dark water, and among pale feminine figures he saw himself, a weak, cowardly man with a guilty face.

A hundred paces off on the right bank of the pond, something dark was standing motionless : was it a man or a tall post? Pyotr Mihalitch thought of the divinity student who had been killed and thrown into the pond.

" Olivier behaved inhumanly, but one way or an- other he did settle the question, while I have settled nothing and have only made it worse," he thought, gazing at the dark figure that looked like a ghost. " He said and did what he thought right while I say and do what I don't think right; and I don't know really what I do think. . . ."

He rode up to the dark figure: it was an old rot- ten post, the relic of some shed.

From Koltovitch's copse and garden there came a strong fragrant scent of lilies of the valley and honey-laden flowers. Pyotr Mihalitch rode along the bank of the pond and looked mournfully into the water. And thinking about his life, he came to the conclusion he had never said or acted upon what he really thought, and other people had repaid him in the same way. And so the whole of life seemed to him as dark as this water in which the night sky was reflected and water-weeds grew in a tangle. And it seemed to him that nothing could ever set it right.

WARD NO. 6

I

In the hospital yard there stands a small lodge surrounded by a perfect forest of burdocks, nettles, and wild hemp. Its roof is rusty, the chimney is tumbling down, the steps at the front-door are rot- ting away and overgrown with grass, and there are only traces left of the stucco. The front of the lodge faces the hospital; at the back it looks out into the open country, from which it is separated by the grey hospital fence with nails on it. These nails, with their points upwards, and the fence, and the lodge itself, have that peculiar, desolate, God-for- saken look which is only found in our hospital and prison buildings.

If you are not afraid of being stung by the nettles, come by the narrow footpath that leads to the lodge, and let us see what is going on inside. Opening the first door, we walk into the entry. Here along the walls and by the stove every sort of hospital rubbish lies littered about. Mattresses, old tattered dress- ing-gowns, trousers, blue striped shirts, boots and shoes no good for anything—all these remnants are piled up in heaps, mixed up and crumpled, moulder- ing and giving out a sickly smell.

The porter, Nikita, an old soldier wearing rusty good-conduct stripes, is always lying on the litter with a pipe between his teeth. He has a grim, surly, battered-looking face, overhanging eyebrows which give him the expression of a sheep-dog of the steppes, and a red nose ; he is short and looks thin and scraggy, but he is of imposing deportment and his fists are vigorous. He belongs to the class of simple-hearted, practical, and dull-witted people, prompt in carrying out orders, who like discipline better than anything in the world, and so are con- vinced that it is their duty to beat people. He showers blows on the face, on the chest, on the back, on whatever comes first, and is convinced that there would be no order in the place if he did not.

Next you come into a big, spacious room which fills up the whole lodge except for the entry. Here the walls are painted a dirty blue, the ceiling is as sooty as in a hut without a chimney—it is evident that in the winter the stove smokes and the room is full of fumes. The windows are disfigured by iron gratings on the inside. The wooden floor is grey and full of splinters. There is a stench of sour cab- bage, of smouldering wicks, of bugs, and of am- monia, and for the first minute this stench gives you the impression of having walked into a menagerie. . . .

There are bedsteads screwed to the floor. Men in blue hospital dressing-gowns, and wearing night- caps in the old style, are sitting and lying on them. These are the lunatics.

There are five of them in all here. Only one is of the upper class, the rest are all artisans. The one nearest the door—a tall, lean workman with shining red whiskers and tear-stained eyes—sits with his head propped on his hand, staring at the same point. Day and night he grieves, shaking his head, sighing and smiling bitterly. He rarely takes a part in conversation and usually makes no answer to questions; he eats and drinks mechanically when food is offered him. From his agonizing, throbbing cough, his thinness, and the flush on his cheeks, one may judge that he is in the first stage of consump- tion. Next him is a little, alert, very lively old man, with a pointed beard and curly black hair like a negro's. By day he walks up and down the ward from window to window, or sits on his bed, cross- legged like a Turk, and, ceaselessly as a bullfinch whistles, softly sings and titters. He shows his childish gaiety and lively character at night also when he gets up to say his prayers—that is, to beat himself on the chest with his fists, and to scratch with his fingers at the door. This is the Jew Moi- seika, an imbecile, who went crazy twenty years ago when his hat factory was burnt down.

And of all the inhabitants of Ward No. 6, he is the only one who is allowed to go out of the lodge, and even out of the yard into the street. He has enjoyed this privilege for years, probably because he is an old inhabitant of the hospital—a quiet, harm- less imbecile, the buffoon of the town, where people are used to seeing him surrounded by boys and dogs. In his wretched gown, in his absurd night-cap, and in slippers, sometimes with bare legs and even with- out trousers, he walks about the streets, stopping at the gates and little shops, and begging for a copper. In one place they will give him some kvass, in an- other some bread, in another a copper, so that he generally goes back to the ward feeling rich and well fed. Everything that he brings back Nikita takes from him for his own benefit. The soldier does this roughly, angrily turning the Jew's pockets inside out, and calling God to witness that he will not let him go into the street again, and that breach of the regulations is worse to him than anything in the world.

Moiseika likes to make himself useful. He gives his companions water, and covers them up when they are asleep; he promises each of them to bring him back a kopeck, and to make him a new cap ; he feeds with a spoon his neighbour on the left, who is paralyzed. He acts in this way, not from corn- passion nor from any considerations of a humane kind, but through imitation, unconsciously dominated by Grornov, his neighbour on the right hand.

Ivan Drnitritch Grornov, a man of thirty-three, who is a gentleman by birth, and has been a court usher and provincial secretary, suffers from the mania of persecution. He either lies curled up in bed, or walks from corner to corner as though for exercise; he very rarely sits down. He is always excited, agitated, and overwrought by a sort of vague, undefined expectation. The faintest rustle in the entry or shout in the yard is enough to make him raise his head and begin listening: whether they are corning for him, whether they are looking for him. And at such times his face expresses the utmost uneasiness and repulsion.

I like his broad face with its high cheek-bones, always pale and unhappy, and reflecting, as though in a mirror, a soul tormented by conflict and long- continued terror. His grimaces are strange and abnormal, but the delicate lines traced on his face by profound, genuine suffering show intelligence and sense, and there is a warm and healthy light in his eyes. I like the man himself, courteous, anxious to be of use, and extraordinarily gentle to everyone except Nikita. When anyone drops a button or a spoon, he jumps up from his bed quickly and picks it up; every day he says good-morning to his compan- ions, and when he goes to bed he wishes them good-night.

Besides his continually overwrought condition and his grimaces, his madness shows itself in the following way also. Sometimes in the evenings he wraps himself in his dressing-gown, and, trembling all over, with his teeth chattering, begins walking rapidly from corner to corner and between the bed- steads. It seems as though he is in a violent fever. From the way he suddenly stops and glances at his companions, it can be seen that he is longing to say something very important, but, apparently reflecting that they would not listen, or would not understand him, he shakes his head impatiently and goes on pacing up and down. But soon the desire to speak gets the upper hand of every consideration, and he will let himself go and speak fervently and passion- ately. His talk is disordered and feverish like de- lirium, disconnected, and not always intelligible, but, on the other hand, something extremely fine may be felt in it, both in the words and the voice. When he talks you recognize in him the lunatic and the man. It is difficult to reproduce on paper his insane talk.

He speaks of the baseness of mankind, of violence trampling on justice, of the glorious life which will one day be upon earth, of the window-gratings, which remind him every minute of the stupidity and cruelty of oppressors. It makes a disorderly, incoherent potpourri of themes old but not yet out of date.

II

Some twelve or fifteen years ago an official called Gromov, a highly respectable and prosperous per- son, was living in his own house in the principal street of the town. He had two sons, Sergey and Ivan. When Sergey was a student in his fourth year he was taken ill with galloping consumption and died, and his death was, as it were, the first of a whole series of calamities which suddenly showered on the Gromov family. Within a week of Sergey's funeral the old father was put on his trial for fraud and misappropriation, and he died of typhoid in the prison hospital soon afterwards. The house, with all their belongings, was sold by auction, and Ivan Dmitritch and his mother were left entirely without means.

Hitherto in his father's lifetime, Ivan Dmitritch, who was studying in the University of Petersburg, had received an allowance of sixty or seventy roubles a month, and had had no conception of poverty; now he had to make an abrupt change in his life. He had to spend his time from morning to night giving lessons for next to nothing, to work at copying, and with all that to go hungry, as all his earnings were sent to keep his mother. Ivan Dmitritch could not stand such a life; he lost heart and strength, and, giving up the university, went home.

Here, through interest, he obtained the post of teacher in the district school, but could not get on with his colleagues, was not liked by the boys, and soon gave up the post. His mother died. He was for six months without work, living on nothing but bread and water; then he became a court usher. He kept this post until he was dismissed owing to his illness.

He had never even in his young student days given the impression of being perfectly healthy. He had always been pale, thin, and given to catching cold; he ate little and slept badly. A single glass of wine went to his head and made him hysterical. He always had a craving for society, but, owing to his irritable temperament and suspiciousness, he never became very intimate with anyone, and had no friends. He always spoke with contempt of his fellow-townsmen, saying that their coarse ignorance and sleepy animal existence seemed to him loath- some and horrible. He spoke in a loud tenor, with heat, and invariably either with scorn and indigna- tion, or with wonder and enthusiasm, and always with perfect sincerity. Whatever one talked to him about he always brought it round to the same sub- ject: that life was dull and stifling in the town; that the townspeople had no lofty interests, but lived a dingy, meaningless life, diversified by violence, coarse profligacy, and hypocrisy; that scoundrels were well fed and clothed, while honest men lived from hand to mouth; that they needed schools, a progressive local paper, a theatre, public lectures, the co-ordination of the intellectual elements; that society must see its failings and be horrified. In his criticisms of people he laid on the colours thick, using only black and white, and no fine shades; man- kind was divided for him into honest men and scoun- drels: there was nothing in between. He always spoke with passion and enthusiasm of women and of love, but he had never been in love.

In spite of the severity of his judgments and his nervousness, he was liked, and behind his back was spoken of affectionately as Vanya. His innate re- finement and readiness to be of service, his good breeding, his moral purity, and his shabby coat, his frail appearance and family misfortunes, aroused a kind, warm, sorrowful feeling. Moreover, he was well educated and well read; according to the towns- people's notions, he knew everything, and was in their eyes something like a walking encyclop