The Bet, and other stories
affecting, romantic in the fact that one loves deeply while the other
is indifferent. Oniegin is interesting because he does not love at all,
and Tatiana is delightful because she is very much in love; but if
they loved each other equally and were happy, they would seem boring,
instead.
“Don’t go on protesting that you love me,” Nadya wrote on, thinking
of Gorny, the officer, “I can’t believe you. You’re very clever,
educated, serious; you have a great talent, and perhaps, a splendid
future waiting, but I am an uninteresting poor-spirited girl, and you
yourself know quite well that I shall only be a drag upon your life.
It’s true I carried you off your feet, and you thought you had met your
ideal in me, but that was a mistake. Already you are asking yourself in
despair, ‘Why did I meet this girl?’ Only your kindness prevents you
from confessing it.”
Nadya pitied herself. She wept and went on.
“If it were not so difficult for me to leave mother and brother I would
put on a nun’s gown and go where my eyes direct me. You would then be
free to love another. If I were to die!”
Through her tears she could not make out what she had written. Brief
rainbows trembled on the table, on the floor and the ceiling, as though
Nadya were looking through a prism. Impossible to write. She sank back
in her chair and began to think of Gorny.
Oh, how fascinating, how interesting men are! Nadya remembered the
beautiful expression of Gorny’s face, appealing, guilty, and tender,
when someone discussed music with him,--the efforts he made to prevent
the passion from sounding in his voice. Passion must be concealed in
a society where cold reserve and indifference are the signs of good
breeding. And he does try to conceal it, but he does not succeed,
and everybody knows quite well that he has a passion for music.
Never-ending discussions about music, blundering pronouncements by men
who do not understand--keep him in incessant tension. He is scared,
timid, silent. He plays superbly, as an ardent pianist. If he were not
an officer, he would be a famous musician.
The tears dried in her eyes. Nadya remembered how Gorny told her of his
love at a symphony concert, and again downstairs by the cloak-room.
“I am so glad you have at last made the acquaintance of the student
Gronsdiev,” she continued to write. “He is a very clever man, and you
are sure to love him. Yesterday he was sitting with us till two o’clock
in the morning. We were all so happy. I was sorry that you hadn’t come
to us. He said a lot of remarkable things.”
Nadya laid her hands on the table and lowered her head. Her hair
covered the letter. She remembered that Gronsdiev also loved her,
and that he had the same right to her letter as Gorny. Perhaps she
had better write to Gronsdiev? For no cause, a happiness began to
quicken in her breast. At first it was a little one, rolling about in
her breast like a rubber ball. Then it grew broader and bigger, and
broke forth like a wave. Nadya had already forgotten about Gorny and
Gronsdiev. Her thoughts became confused. The happiness grew more and
more. From her breast it ran into her arms and legs, and it seemed
that a light fresh breeze blew over her head, stirring her hair. Her
shoulders trembled with quiet laughter. The table and the lampglass
trembled. Tears from her eyes splashed the letter. She was powerless to
stop her laughter; and to convince herself that she had a reason for
it, she hastened to remember something funny.
“What a funny poodle!” she cried, feeling that she was choking with
laughter. “What a funny poodle!”
She remembered how Gronsdiev was playing with Maxim the poodle after
tea yesterday; how he told a story afterwards of a very clever poodle
who was chasing a crow in the yard. The crow gave him a look and said:
“Oh, you swindler!”
The poodle did not know he had to do with a learned crow. He was
terribly confused, and ran away dumfounded. Afterwards he began to bark.
“No, I’d better love Gronsdiev,” Nadya decided and tore up the letter.
She began to think of the student, of his love, of her own love, with
the result that the thoughts in her head swam apart and she thought
about everything, about her mother, the street, the pencil, the
piano. She was happy thinking, and found that everything was good,
magnificent. Her happiness told her that this was not all, that a
little later it would be still better. Soon it will be spring, summer.
They will go with mother to Gorbiki in the country. Gorny will come for
his holidays. He will walk in the orchard with her, and make love to
her. Gronsdiev will come too. He will play croquet with her and bowls.
He will tell funny, wonderful stories. She passionately longed for the
orchard, the darkness, the pure sky, the stars. Again her shoulders
trembled with laughter and she seemed to awake to a smell of wormwood
in the room; and a branch was tapping at the window.
She went to her bed and sat down. She did not know what to do with her
great happiness. It overwhelmed her. She stared at the crucifix which
hung at the head of her bed and saying:
“Dear God, dear God, dear God.”
THAT WRETCHED BOY
Ivan Ivanich Lapkin, a pleasant looking young man, and Anna Zamblizky,
a young girl with a little snub nose, walked down the sloping bank
and sat down on the bench. The bench was close to the water’s edge,
among thick bushes of young willow. A heavenly spot! You sat down, and
you were hidden from the world. Only the fish could see you and the
catspaws which flashed over the water like lightning. The two young
persons were equipped with rods, fish hooks, bags, tins of worms and
everything else necessary. Once seated, they immediately began to fish.
“I am glad that we’re left alone at last,” said Lapkin, looking round.
I’ve got a lot to tell you, Anna--tremendous ... when I saw you for
the first time ... you’ve got a nibble ... I understood then--why I
am alive, I knew where my idol was, to whom I can devote my honest,
hardworking life.... It must be a big one ... it is biting.... When I
saw you--for the first time in my life I fell in love--fell in love
passionately! Don’t pull. Let it go on biting.... Tell me, darling,
tell me--will you let me hope? No! I’m not worth it. I dare not even
think of it--may I hope for.... Pull!
Anna lifted her hand that held the rod--pulled, cried out. A silvery
green fish shone in the air.
“Goodness! it’s a perch! Help--quick! It’s slipping off.” The perch
tore itself from the hook--danced in the grass towards its native
element and ... leaped into the water.
But instead of the little fish that he was chasing, Lapkin quite by
accident caught hold of Anna’s hand--quite by accident pressed it to
his lips. She drew back, but it was too late; quite by accident their
lips met and kissed; yes, it was an absolute accident! They kissed and
kissed. Then came vows and assurances.... Blissful moments! But there
is no such thing as absolute happiness in this life. If happiness
itself does not contain a poison, poison will enter in from without.
Which happened this time. Suddenly, while the two were kissing, a laugh
was heard. They looked at the river and were paralysed. The schoolboy
Kolia, Anna’s brother, was standing in the water, watching the young
people and maliciously laughing.
“Ah--ha! Kissing!” said he. “Right O, I’ll tell Mother.”
“I hope that you--as a man of honour,” Lapkin muttered, blushing. “It’s
disgusting to spy on us, it’s loathsome to tell tales, it’s rotten. As
a man of honour....”
“Give me a shilling, then I’ll shut up!” the man of honour retorted.
“If you don’t, I’ll tell.”
Lapkin took a shilling out of his pocket and gave it to Kolia, who
squeezed it in his wet fist, whistled, and swam away. And the young
people did not kiss any more just then.
Next day Lapkin brought Kolia some paints and a ball from town, and his
sister gave him all her empty pill boxes. Then they had to present him
with a set of studs like dogs’ heads. The wretched boy enjoyed this
game immensely, and to keep it going he began to spy on them. Wherever
Lapkin and Anna went, he was there too. He did not leave them alone for
a single moment.
“Beast!” Lapkin gnashed his teeth. “So young and yet such a full
fledged scoundrel. What on earth will become of him later!”
During the whole of July the poor lovers had no life apart from him. He
threatened to tell on them; he dogged them and demanded more presents.
Nothing satisfied him--finally he hinted at a gold watch. All right,
they had to promise the watch.
Once, at table, when biscuits were being handed round, he burst out
laughing and said to Lapkin: “Shall I let on? Ah--ha!”
Lapkin blushed fearfully and instead of a biscuit he began to chew his
table napkin. Anna jumped up from the table and rushed out of the room.
And this state of things went on until the end of August, up to the
day when Lapkin at last proposed to Anna. Ah! What a happy day that
was! When he had spoken to her parents and obtained their consent
Lapkin rushed into the garden after Kolia. When he found him he nearly
cried for joy and caught hold of the wretched boy by the ear. Anna, who
was also looking for Kolia came running up and grabbed him by the other
ear. You should have seen the happiness depicted on their faces while
Kolia roared and begged them:
“Darling, precious pets, I won’t do it again. O-oh--O-oh! Forgive me!”
And both of them confessed afterwards that during all the time they
were in love with each other they never experienced such happiness,
such overwhelming joy as during those moments when they pulled the
wretched boy’s ears.
ENEMIES
About ten o’clock of a dark September evening the Zemstvo doctor
Kirilov’s only son, six-year-old Andrey, died of diphtheria. As the
doctor’s wife dropped on to her knees before the dead child’s cot and
the first paroxysm of despair took hold of her, the bell rang sharply
in the hall.
When the diphtheria came all the servants were sent away from the
house, that very morning. Kirilov himself went to the door, just as he
was, in his shirt-sleeves with his waistcoat unbuttoned, without wiping
his wet face or hands, which had been burnt with carbolic acid. It was
dark in the hall, and of the person who entered could be distinguished
only his middle height, a white scarf and a big, extraordinarily pale
face, so pale that it seemed as though its appearance made the hall
brighter....
“Is the doctor in?” the visitor asked abruptly.
“I’m at home,” answered Kirilov. “What do you want?”
“Oh, you’re the doctor? I’m so glad!” The visitor was overjoyed and
began to seek for the doctor’s hand in the darkness. He found it
and squeezed it hard in his own. “I’m very ... very glad! We were
introduced ... I am Aboguin ... had the pleasure of meeting you this
summer at Mr. Gnouchev’s. I am very glad to have found you at home....
For God’s sake, don’t say you won’t come with me immediately.... My
wife has been taken dangerously ill.... I have the carriage with me....”
From the visitor’s voice and movements it was evident that he had
been in a state of violent agitation. Exactly as though he had been
frightened by a fire or a mad dog, he could hardly restrain his hurried
breathing, and he spoke quickly in a trembling voice. In his speech
there sounded a note of real sincerity, of childish fright. Like all
men who are frightened and dazed, he spoke in short, abrupt phrases and
uttered many superfluous, quite unnecessary, words.
“I was afraid I shouldn’t find you at home,” he continued. “While I was
coming to you I suffered terribly.... Dress yourself and let us go, for
God’s sake.... It happened like this. Papchinsky came to me--Alexander
Siemionovich, you know him.... We were chatting.... Then we sat down to