The Bet, and other stories
“Reminiscences....” translated Mademoiselle Enquette.
“Reminiscences....” repeated Vorotov.
Smiling good naturedly and breathing heavily, he passed a quarter of
an hour over the word _mémoires_ and the same with the word _de._ This
tired Alice Ossipovna out. She answered his questions carelessly, got
confused and evidently neither understood her pupil nor tried to.
Vorotov asked her questions, and at the same time glanced furtively at
her fair hair, thinking:
“The hair is not naturally curly. She waves it. Marvellous! She works
from morning till night and yet she finds time to wave her hair.”
At eight o’clock sharp she got up, gave him a dry, cold “Au revoir,
Monsieur,” and left the study. After her lingered the same sweet,
subtle, agitating perfume. The pupil again did nothing for a long time,
but sat by the table and thought.
During the following days he became convinced that his teacher was a
charming girl serious and punctual, but very uneducated and incapable
of teaching grown up people; so he decided he would not waste his
time, but part with her and engage someone else. When she came for the
seventh lesson he took an envelope containing seven roubles out of his
pocket. Holding it in his hands and blushing furiously, he began:
“I am sorry, Alice Ossipovna, but I must tell you.... I am placed in an
awkward position....”
The Frenchwoman glanced at the envelope and guessed what was the
matter. For the first time during the lessons a shiver passed over her
face and the cold, business-like expression disappeared. She reddened
faintly, and casting her eyes down, began to play absently with her
thin gold chain. And Vorotov, noticing her confusion, understood how
precious this rouble was to her, how hard it would be for her to lose
this money.
“I must tell you,” he murmured, getting still more confused. His heart
gave a thump. Quickly he put the envelope back into his pocket and
continued:
“Excuse me. I ... I will leave you for ten minutes....”
And as though he did not want to dismiss her at all, but had only asked
permission to retire for a moment he went into another room and sat
there for ten minutes. Then he returned, more confused than ever; he
thought that his leaving her like that would be explained by her in a
certain way and this made him awkward.
The lessons began again.
Vorotov wanted them no more. Knowing that they would lead to nothing
he gave the Frenchwoman a free hand; he did not question or interrupt
her any more. She translated at her own sweet will, ten pages a lesson,
but he did not listen. He breathed heavily and for want of occupation
gazed now and then at her curly little head, her neck, her soft white
hands, and inhaled the perfume of her dress.
He caught himself thinking about her as he ought not and it shamed
him, or admiring her, and then he felt aggrieved and angry because
she behaved so coldly towards him, in such a businesslike way, never
smiling and as if afraid that he might suddenly touch her. All the
while he thought: How could he inspire her with confidence in him, how
could he get to know her better, to help her, to make her realise how
badly she taught, poor little soul?
Once Alice Ossipovna came to the lesson in a dainty pink dress, a
little _décolleté_, and such a sweet scent came from her that you might
have thought she was wrapped in a cloud, that you had only to blow on
her for her to fly away or dissolve like smoke. She apologised, saying
she could only stay for half an hour, because she had to go straight
from the lesson to a ball.
He gazed at her neck, at her bare shoulders and he thought he
understood why Frenchwomen were known to be light-minded and easily
won; he was drowned in this cloud of scent, beauty, and nudity, and
she, quite unaware of his thoughts and probably not in the least
interested in them, read over the pages quickly and translated full
steam ahead:
“He walked over the street and met the gentleman of his friend and
said: where do you rush? seeing your face so pale it makes me pain.”
The _Mémoires_ had been finished long ago; Alice was now translating
another book. Once she came to the lesson an hour earlier, apologising
because she had to go to the Little Theatre at seven o’clock. When the
lesson was over Vorotov dressed and he too went to the theatre. It
seemed to him only for the sake of rest and distraction, and he did not
even think of Alice. He would not admit that a serious man, preparing
for a scientific career, a stay-at-home, should brush aside his book
and rush to the theatre for the sake of meeting an unintellectual,
stupid girl whom he hardly knew.
But somehow, during the intervals his heart beat, and, without noticing
it, he ran about the foyer and the corridors like a boy, looking
impatiently for someone. Every time the interval was over he was
tired, but when he discovered the familiar pink dress and the lovely
shoulders veiled with tulle his heart jumped as if from a presentiment
of happiness, he smiled joyfully, and for the first time in his life he
felt jealous.
Alice was with two ugly students and an officer. She was laughing,
talking loudly and evidently flirting. Vorotov had never seen her like
that. Apparently she was happy, contented, natural, warm. Why? What was
the reason? Perhaps because these people were dear to her and belonged
to the same class as she. Vorotov felt the huge abyss between him and
that class. He bowed to his teacher, but she nodded coldly and quietly
passed by. It was plain she did not want her cavaliers to know that she
had pupils and gave lessons because she was poor.
After the meeting at the theatre Vorotov knew that he was in love.
During lessons that followed he devoured his elegant teacher with his
eyes, and no longer struggling, he gave full rein to his pure and
impure thoughts. Alice’s face was always cold. Exactly at eight o’clock
every evening she said calmly, “Au revoir, Monsieur,” and he felt that
she was indifferent to him and would remain indifferent, that--his
position was hopeless.
Sometimes in the middle of a lesson he would begin dreaming, hoping,
building plans; he composed an amorous declaration, remembering that
Frenchwomen were frivolous and complaisant, but he had only to give his
teacher one glance for his thoughts to be blown out like a candle, when
you carry it on to the verandah of a bungalow and the wind is blowing.
Once, overcome, forgetting everything, in a frenzy, he could stand it
no longer. He barred her way when she came from the study into the
hall after the lesson and, losing his breath and stammering, began to
declare his love:
“You are dear to me!... I love you. Please let me speak!”
Alice grew pale: probably she was afraid that after this declaration
she would not be able to come to him any more and receive a rouble
a lesson. She looked at him with terrified eyes and began in a loud
whisper:
“Ah, it’s impossible! Do not speak, I beg you! Impossible!”
Afterwards Vorotov did not sleep all night; he tortured himself with
shame, abused himself, thinking feverishly. He thought that his
declaration had offended the girl and that she would not come any
more. He made up his mind to find out where she lived from the Address
Bureau and to write her an apology. But Alice came without the letter.
For a moment she felt awkward, and then opened the book and began to
translate quickly, in an animated voice, as always:
“‘Oh, young gentleman, do not rend these flowers in my garden which I
want to give to my sick daughter.’”
She still goes. Four books have been translated by now but Vorotov
knows nothing beyond the word _mémoires,_ and when he is asked about
his scientific research work he waves his hand, leaves the question
unanswered, and begins to talk about the weather.
A LIVING CALENDAR
State-Councillor Sharamykin’s drawing-room is wrapped in a pleasant
half-darkness. The big bronze lamp with the green shade, makes
the walls, the furniture, the faces, all green, _couleur_ “_Nuit
d’Ukraine_” Occasionally a smouldering log flares up in the dying fire
and for a moment casts a red glow over the faces; but this does not
spoil the general harmony of light. The general tone, as the painters
say, is well sustained.
Sharamykin sits in a chair in front of the fireplace, in the attitude
of a man who has just dined. He is an elderly man with a high
official’s grey side whiskers and meek blue eyes. Tenderness is shed
over his face, and his lips are set in a melancholy smile. At his
feet, stretched out lazily, with his legs towards the fire-place,
Vice-Governor Lopniev sits on a little stool. He is a brave-looking man
of about forty. Sharamykin’s children are moving about round the piano;
Nina, Kolya, Nadya, and Vanya. The door leading to Madame Sharamykin’s
room is slightly open and the light breaks through timidly. There
behind the door sits Sharamykin’s wife, Anna Pavlovna, in front of
her writing-table. She is president of the local ladies’ committee, a
lively, piquant lady of thirty years and a little bit over. Through
her pince-nez her vivacious black eyes are running over the pages of a
French novel. Beneath the novel lies a tattered copy of the report of
the committee for last year.
“Formerly our town was much better off in these things,” says
Sharamykin, screwing up his meek eyes at the glowing coals. “Never a
winter passed but some star would pay us a visit. Famous actors and
singers used to come ... but now, besides acrobats and organ-grinders,
the devil only knows what comes. There’s no aesthetic pleasure
at all.... We might be living in a forest. Yes.... And does your
Excellency remember that Italian tragedian?... What’s his name?... He
was so dark, and tall.... Let me think.... Oh, yes! Luigi Ernesto di
Ruggiero.... Remarkable talent.... And strength. He had only to say
one word and the whole theatre was on the _qui vive._ My darling Anna
used to take a great interest in his talent. She hired the theatre for
him and sold tickets for the performances in advance.... In return he
taught her elocution and gesture. A first-rate fellow! He came here
... to be quite exact ... twelve years ago.... No, that’s not true....
Less, ten years.... Anna dear, how old is our Nina?”
“She’ll be ten next birthday,” calls Anna Pavlovna from her room. “Why?”
“Nothing in particular, my dear. I was just curious.... And good
singers used to come. Do you remember Prilipchin, the _tenore di
grazia_? What a charming fellow he was! How good looking! Fair ...
a very expressive face, Parisian manners.... And what a voice, your
Excellency! Only one weakness: he would sing some notes with his
stomach and would take _re_ falsetto--otherwise everything was good.
Tamberlik, he said, had taught him.... My dear Anna and I hired a hall
for him at the Social Club, and in gratitude for that he used to sing
to us for whole days and nights.... He taught dear Anna to sing. He
came--I remember it as though it were last night--in Lent, some twelve
years ago. No, it’s more.... How bad my memory is getting, Heaven help
me! Anna dear, how old is our darling Nadya?
“Twelve.”
“Twelve ... then we’ve got to add ten months.... That makes it exact
... thirteen. Somehow there used to be more life in our town then....
Take, for instance, the charity soirées. What enjoyable soirées we
used to have before! How elegant! There were singing, playing, and
recitation.... After the war, I remember, when the Turkish prisoners
were here, dear Anna arranged a soiree on behalf of the wounded. We
collected eleven hundred roubles. I remember the Turkish officers
were passionately fond of dear Anna’s voice, and kissed her hand
incessantly. He-he! Asiatics, but a grateful nation. Would you believe