The Bet, and other stories
where one would imagine that people should be united by the community
of grief, there is more injustice and cruelty done than among the
comparatively contented.
“Send me home, please,” the doctor cried, out of breath.
Aboguin rang the bell violently. Nobody came. He rang once more; then
flung the bell angrily to the floor. It struck dully on the carpet and
gave out a mournful sound like a death-moan. The footman appeared.
“Where have you been hiding, damn you?” The master sprang upon him with
clenched fists. “Where have you been just now? Go away and tell them to
send the carriage round for this gentleman, and get the brougham ready
for me. Wait,” he called out as the footman turned to go. “Not a single
traitor remains to-morrow. Pack off all of you! I will engage new ones
... Rabble!”
While they waited Aboguin and the doctor were silent. Already the
expression of satisfaction and the subtle elegance had returned to
the former. He paced the drawing-room, shook his head elegantly and
evidently was planning something. His anger was not yet cool, but he
tried to make as if he did not notice his enemy.... The doctor stood
with one hand on the edge of the table, looking at Aboguin with that
deep, rather cynical, ugly contempt with which only grief and an unjust
lot can look, when they see satiety and elegance before them.
A little later, when the doctor took his seat in the carriage and drove
away, his eyes still glanced contemptuously. It was dark, much darker
than an hour ago. The red half-moon had now disappeared behind the
little hill, and the clouds which watched it lay in dark spots round
the stars. The brougham with the red lamps began to rattle on the road
and passed the doctor. It was Aboguin on his way to protest, to commit
all manner of folly.
All the way the doctor thought not of his wife or Andrey, but only of
Aboguin and those who lived in the house he just left. His thoughts
were unjust, inhuman, and cruel. He passed sentence on Aboguin, his
wife, Papchinsky, and all those who live in rosy semi-darkness and
smell of scent. All the way he hated them, and his heart ached with his
contempt for them. The conviction he formed about them would last his
life long.
Time will pass and Kirilov’s sorrow, but this conviction, unjust and
unworthy of the human heart, will not pass, but will remain in the
doctor’s mind until the grave.
A TRIFLING OCCURRENCE
Nicolai Ilyich Byelyaev, a Petersburg landlord, very fond of the
racecourse, a well fed, pink young man of about thirty-two, once called
towards evening on Madame Irnin--Olga Ivanovna--with whom he had a
_liaison,_ or, to use his own phrase, spun out a long and tedious
romance. And indeed the first pages of this romance, pages of interest
and inspiration, had been read long ago; now they dragged on and on,
and presented neither novelty nor interest.
Finding that Olga Ivanovna was not at home, my hero lay down a moment
on the drawing-room sofa and began to wait.
“Good evening, Nicolai Ilyich,” he suddenly heard a child’s voice say.
“Mother will be in in a moment. She’s gone to the dressmaker’s with
Sonya.”
In the same drawing-room on the sofa lay Olga Vassilievna’s son,
Alyosha, a boy about eight years old, well built, well looked after,
dressed up like a picture in a velvet jacket and long black stockings.
He lay on a satin pillow, and apparently imitating an acrobat whom
he had lately seen in the circus, lifted up first one leg then the
other. When his elegant legs began to be tired, he moved his hands, or
he jumped up impetuously and then went on all fours, trying to stand
with his legs in the air. All this he did with a most serious face,
breathing heavily, as if he himself found no happiness in God’s gift of
such a restless body.
“Ah, how do you do, my friend?” said Byelyaev. “Is it you? I didn’t
notice you. Is your mother well?”
At the moment Alyosha had just taken hold of the toe of his left foot
in his right hand and got into a most awkward pose. He turned head over
heels, jumped up, and glanced from under the big, fluffy lampshade at
Byelyaev.
“How can I put it?” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “As a matter of
plain fact mother is never well. You see she’s a woman, and women,
Nicolai Ilyich, have always some pain or another.”
For something to do, Byelyaev began to examine Alyosha’s face. All the
time he had been acquainted with Olga Ivanovna he had never once turned
his attention to the boy and had completely ignored his existence. A
boy is stuck in front of your eyes, but what is he doing here, what is
his _rôle_?--you don’t want to give a single thought to the question.
In the evening dusk Alyosha’s face with a pale forehead and steady
black eyes unexpectedly reminded Byelyaev of Olga Vassilievna as
she was in the first pages of the romance. He had the desire to be
affectionate to the boy.
“Come here, whipper-snapper,” he said. “Come and let me have a good
look at you, quite close.”
The boy jumped off the sofa and ran to Byelyaev.
“Well?” Nicolai Ilyich began, putting his hand on the thin shoulders.
“And how are things with you?”
“How shall I put it?... They used to be much better before.”
“How?”
“Quite simple. Before, Sonya and I only had to do music and reading,
and now we’re given French verses to learn. You’ve had your hair cut
lately?”
“Yes, just lately.”
“That’s why I noticed it. Your beard’s shorter. May I touch it ...
doesn’t it hurt?”
“No, not a bit.”
“Why is it that it hurts if you pull one hair, and when you pull a
whole lot, it doesn’t hurt a bit? Ah, ah! You know it’s a pity you
don’t have side-whiskers. You should shave here, and at the sides ...
and leave the hair just here.”
The boy pressed close to Byelyaev and began to play with his
watch-chain.
“When I go to the gymnasium,” he said, “Mother is going to buy me a
watch. I’ll ask her to buy me a chain just like this. What a fine
locket! Father has one just the same, but yours has stripes, here,
and his has got letters.... Inside it’s mother’s picture. Father has
another chain now, not in links, but like a ribbon....”
“How do you know? Do you see your father?”
“I? Mm ... no ... I ...”
Alyosha blushed and in the violent confusion of being detected in a
lie began to scratch the locket busily with his finger-nail. Byelyaev
looked steadily at his face and asked:
“Do you see your father?”
“No ... no!”
“But, be honest--on your honour. By your face I can see you’re not
telling me the truth. If you made a slip of the tongue by mistake,
what’s the use of shuffling. Tell me, do you see him? As one friend to
another.”
Alyosha mused.
“And you won’t tell Mother?” he asked.
“What next.”
“On your word of honour.”
“My word of honour.”
“Swear an oath.”
“What a nuisance you are! What do you take me for?”
Alyosha looked round, made big eyes and began to whisper.
“Only for God’s sake don’t tell Mother! Never tell it to anyone at all,
because it’s a secret. God forbid that Mother should ever get to know;
then I and Sonya and Pelagueia will pay for it.... Listen. Sonya and
I meet Father every Tuesday and Friday. When Pelagueia takes us for a
walk before dinner, we go into Apfel’s sweet-shop and Father’s waiting
for us. He always sits in a separate room, you know, where there’s a
splendid marble table and an ash-tray shaped like a goose without a
back....”
“And what do you do there?”
“Nothing!--First, we welcome one another, then we sit down at a little
table and Father begins to treat us to coffee and cakes. You know,
Sonya eats meat-pies, and I can’t bear pies with meat in them! I like
them made of cabbage and eggs. We eat so much that afterwards at dinner
we try to eat as much as we possibly can so that Mother shan’t notice.”
“What do you talk about there?”
“To Father? About anything. He kisses us and cuddles us, tells us
all kinds of funny stories. You know, he says that he will take us
to live with him when we are grown up. Sonya doesn’t want to go, but
I say ‘Yes.’ Of course, it’ll be lonely without Mother; but I’ll
write letters to her. How funny: we could go to her for our holidays
then--couldn’t we? Besides, Father says that he’ll buy me a horse. He’s
a splendid man. I can’t understand why Mother doesn’t invite him to
live with her or why she says we mustn’t meet him. He loves Mother very
much indeed. He’s always asking us how she is and what she’s doing.
When she was ill, he took hold of his head like this ... and ran, ran,
all the time. He is always telling us to obey and respect her. Tell me,
is it true that we’re unlucky?”
“H’m ... how?”
“Father says so. He says: ‘You are unlucky children.’ It’s quite
strange to listen to him. He says: ‘You are unhappy, I’m unhappy, and
Mother’s unhappy.’ He says: ‘Pray to God for yourselves and for her.’”
Alyosha’s eyes rested upon the stuffed bird and he mused.
“Exactly ...” snorted Byelyaev. “This is what you do. You arrange
conferences in sweet-shops. And your mother doesn’t know?”
“N--no.... How could she know? Pelagueia won’t tell for anything. The
day before yesterday Father stood us pears. Sweet, like jam. I had
two.”
“H’m ... well, now ... tell me, doesn’t your father speak about me?”
“About you? How shall I put it?” Alyosha gave a searching glance to
Byelyaev’s face and shrugged his shoulders.
“He doesn’t say anything in particular.”
“What does he say, for instance?”
“You won’t be offended?”
“What next? Why, does he abuse me?”
“He doesn’t abuse you, but you know ... he is cross with you. He says
that it’s through you that Mother’s unhappy and that you ... ruined
Mother. But he is so queer! I explain to him that you are good and
never shout at Mother, but he only shakes his head.”
“Does he say those very words: that I ruined her?”
“Yes. Don’t be offended, Nicolai Ilyich!”
Byelyaev got up, stood still a moment, and then began to walk about the
drawing-room.
“This is strange, and ... funny,” he murmured, shrugging his shoulders
and smiling ironically. “He is to blame all round, and now I’ve ruined
her, eh? What an innocent lamb! Did he say those very words to you:
that I ruined your mother?”
“Yes, but ... you said that you wouldn’t get offended.”
“I’m not offended, and ... and it’s none of your business! No, it ...
it’s quite funny though. I fell, into the trap, yet I’m to be blamed as
well.”
The bell rang. The boy dashed from his place and ran out. In a minute
a lady entered the room with a little girl. It was Olga Ivanovna,
Alyosha’s mother. After her, hopping, humming noisily, and waving his
hands, followed Alyosha.
“Of course, who is there to accuse except me?” he murmured, sniffing.
“He’s right, he’s the injured husband.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Olga Ivanovna.
“What’s the matter! Listen to the kind of sermon your dear husband
preaches. It appears I’m a scoundrel and a murderer, I’ve ruined you
and the children. All of you are unhappy, and only I am awfully happy!
Awfully, awfully happy!”
“I don’t understand, Nicolai! What is it?”
“Just listen to this young gentleman,” Byelyaev said, pointing to
Alyosha.
Alyosha blushed, then became pale suddenly and his whole face was
twisted in fright.
“Nicolai Ilyich,” he whispered loudly. “Shh!”
Olga Ivanovna glanced in surprise at Alyosha, at Byelyaev, and then
again at Alyosha.
“Ask him, if you please,” went on Byelyaev. “That stupid fool Pelagueia
of yours, takes them to sweet-shops and arranges meetings with their
dear father there. But that’s not the point. The point is that the dear
father is a martyr, and I’m a murderer, I’m a scoundrel, who broke the
lives of both of you....”
“Nicolai Ilyich!” moaned Alyosha. “You gave your word of honour!”