The Bet, and other stories
me, the soiree was such a success that I wrote an account of it in my
diary? It was,--I remember it as though it had only just happened,--in
’76,... no, in ’77.... No! Pray, when were the Turks here? Anna dear,
how old is our little Kolya?”
“I’m seven, Papa!” says Kolya, a brat with a swarthy face and coal
black hair.
“Yes, we’re old, and we’ve lost the energy we used to have,” Lopniev
agreed with a sigh. “That’s the real cause. Old age, my friend. No new
moving spirits arrive, and the old ones grow old.... The old fire is
dull now. When I was younger I did not like company to be bored....
I was your Anna Pavlovna’s first assistant. Whether it was a charity
soirée or a tombola to support a star who was going to arrive, whatever
Anna Pavlovna was arranging, I used to throw over everything and begin
to bustle about. One winter, I remember, I bustled and ran so much that
I even got ill.... I shan’t forget that winter.... Do you remember what
a performance we arranged with Anna Pavlovna in aid of the victims of
the fire?”
“What year was it?”
“Not so very long ago.... In ’79. No, in ’80, I believe! Tell me how
old is your Vanya?”
“Five,” Anna Pavlovna calls from the study.
“Well, that means it was six years ago. Yes, my dear friend, that was a
time. It’s all over now. The old fire’s quite gone.”
Lopniev and Sharamykin grew thoughtful. The smouldering log flares up
for the last time, and then is covered in ash.
OLD AGE
State-Councillor Usielkov, architect, arrived in his native town,
where he had been summoned to restore the cemetery church. He was born
in the town, he had grown up and been married there, and yet when he
got out of the train he hardly recognised it. Everything was changed.
For instance, eighteen years ago, when he left the town to settle in
Petersburg, where the railway station is now boys used to hunt for
marmots: now as you come into the High Street there is a four storied
“Hotel Vienna,” with apartments, where there was of old an ugly grey
fence. But not the fence or the houses, or anything had changed so much
as the people. Questioning the hall-porter, Usielkov discovered that
more than half of the people he remembered were dead or paupers or
forgotten.
“Do you remember Usielkov?” he asked the porter. “Usielkov, the
architect, who divorced his wife.... He had a house in Sviribev
Street.... Surely you remember.”
“No, I don’t remember anyone of the name.”
“Why, it’s impossible not to remember. It was an exciting case. All
the cabmen knew, even. Try to remember. His divorce was managed by the
attorney, Shapkin, the swindler ... the notorious sharper, the man who
was thrashed at the club....”
“You mean Ivan Nicolaich?”
“Yes.... Is he alive? dead?”
“Thank heaven, his honour’s alive. His honour’s a notary now, with an
office. Well-to-do. Two houses in Kirpichny Street. Just lately married
his daughter off.”
Usielkov strode from one corner of the room to another. An idea
flashed into his mind. From boredom, he decided to see Shapkin. It
was afternoon when he left the hotel and quietly walked to Kirpichny
Street. He found Shapkin in his office and hardly recognised him. From
the well-built, alert attorney with a quick, impudent, perpetually
tipsy expression, Shapkin had become a modest, grey-haired, shrunken
old man.
“You don’t recognise me.... You have forgotten ....” Usielkov began.
“I’m your old client, Usielkov.”
“Usielkov? Which Usielkov? Ah!” Remembrance came to Shapkin: he
recognised him and was confused. Began exclamations, questions,
recollections.
“Never expected ... never thought....” chuckled Shapkin. “What will you
have? Would you like champagne? Perhaps you’d like oysters. My dear
man, what a lot of money I got out of you in the old days--so much that
I can’t think what I ought to stand you.”
“Please don’t trouble,” said Usielkov. “I haven’t time. I must go to
the cemetery and examine the church. I have a commission.”
“Splendid. We’ll have something to eat and a drink and go together.
I’ve got some splendid horses! I’ll take you there and introduce you to
the churchwarden.... I’ll fix up everything.... But what’s the matter,
my dearest man? You’re not avoiding me, not afraid? Please sit nearer.
There’s nothing to be afraid of now.... Long ago, I really was pretty
sharp, a bit of a rogue ... but now I’m quieter than water, humbler
than grass. I’ve grown old; got a family. There are children.... Time
to die!”
The friends had something to eat and drink, and went in a coach and
pair to the cemetery.
“Yes, it was a good time,” Shapkin was reminiscent, sitting in the
sledge. “I remember, but I simply can’t believe it. Do you remember
how you divorced your wife? It’s almost twenty years ago, and you’ve
probably forgotten everything, but I remember it as though I conducted
the petition yesterday. My God, how rotten I was! Then I was a smart,
casuistical devil, full of sharp practice and devilry.... and I used
to run into some shady affairs, particularly when there was a good
fee, as in your case, for instance. What was it you paid me then?
Five--six hundred. Enough to upset anybody! By the time you left for
Petersburg you’d left the whole affair completely in my hands. ‘Do what
you like!’ And your former wife, Sophia Mikhailovna, though she did
come from a merchant family, was proud and selfish. To bribe her to
take the guilt on herself was difficult--extremely difficult. I used to
come to her for a business talk, and when she saw me, she would say to
her maid: ‘Masha, surely I told you I wasn’t at home to scoundrels.’
I tried one way, then another ... wrote letters to her, tried to meet
her accidentally--no good. I had to work through a third person. For a
long time I had trouble with her, and she only yielded when you agreed
to give her ten thousand. She could not stand out against ten thousand.
She succumbed.... She began to weep, spat in my face, but she yielded
and took the guilt on herself.”
“If I remember it was fifteen, not ten thousand she took from me,” said
Usielkov.
“Yes, of course ... fifteen, my mistake.” Shapkin was disconcerted.
“Anyway it’s all past and done with now. Why shouldn’t I confess,
frankly? Ten I gave to her, and the remaining five I bargained out of
you for my own share. I deceived both of you.... It’s all past, why be
ashamed of it? And who else was there to take from, Boris Pietrovich,
if not from you? I ask you.... You were rich and well-to-do. You
married in caprice: you were divorced in caprice. You were making a
fortune. I remember you got twenty thousand out of a single contract.
Whom was I to tap, if not you? And I must confess, I was tortured by
envy. If you got hold of a nice lot of money, people would take off
their hats to you: but the same people would beat me for shillings and
smack my face in the club. But why recall it? It’s time to forget.”
“Tell me, please, how did Sophia Mikhailovna live afterwards?”
“With her ten thousand? _On ne peut plus_ badly.... God knows whether
it was frenzy or pride and conscience that tortured her, because she
had sold herself for money--or perhaps she loved you; but, she took to
drink, you know. She received the money and began to gad about with
officers in troikas.... Drunkenness, philandering, debauchery.... She
would come into a tavern with an officer, and instead of port or a
light wine, she would drink the strongest cognac to drive her into a
frenzy.”
“Yes, she was eccentric. I suffered enough with her. She would take
offence at some trifle and then get nervous.... And what happened
afterwards?”
“A week passed, a fortnight.... I was sitting at home writing.
Suddenly, the door opened and she comes in. ‘Take your cursed money,’
she said, and threw the parcel in my face.... She could not resist
it.... Five hundred were missing. She had only got rid of five
hundred.”
“And what did you do with the money?”
“It’s all past and done with. What’s the good of concealing it?...
I certainly took it. What are you staring at me like that for? Wait
for the sequel. It’s a complete novel, the sickness of a soul! Two
months passed by. One night I came home drunk, in a wicked mood....
I turned on the light and saw Sophia Mikhailovna sitting on my sofa,
drunk too, wandering a bit, with something savage in her face as if
she had just escaped from the mad-house. ‘Give me my money back,’ she
said. ‘I’ve changed my mind. If I’m going to the dogs, I want to go
madly, passionately. Make haste, you scoundrel, give me the money.’ How
indecent it was!”
“And you ... did you give it her?”
“I remember I gave her ten roubles.”
“Oh ... is it possible?” Usielkov frowned. “If you couldn’t do it
yourself, or you didn’t want to, you could have written to me.... And I
didn’t know ... I didn’t know.”
“My dear man, why should I write, when she wrote herself afterwards
when she was in hospital?”
“I was so taken up with the new marriage that I paid no attention to
letters.... But you were an outsider; you had no antagonism to Sophia
Mikhailovna.... Why didn’t you help her?”
“We can’t judge by our present standards, Boris Pietrovich. Now we
think in this way; but then we thought quite differently.... Now I
might perhaps give her a thousand roubles; but then even ten roubles
... she didn’t get them for nothing. It’s a terrible story. It’s time
to forget.... But here you are!”
The sledge stopped at the churchyard gate. Usielkov and Shapkin got
out of the sledge, went through the gate and walked along a long,
broad avenue. The bare cherry trees, the acacias, the grey crosses and
monuments sparkled with hoar-frost. In each flake of snow the bright
sunny day was reflected. There was the smell you find in all cemeteries
of incense and fresh-dug earth.
“You have a beautiful cemetery,” said Usielkov. “It’s almost an
orchard.”
“Yes, but it’s a pity the thieves steal the monuments. Look, there,
behind that cast-iron memorial, on the right, Sophia Mikhailovna is
buried. Would you like to see?”
The friends turned to the right, stepping in deep snow towards the
cast-iron memorial.
“Down here,” said Shapkin, pointing to a little stone of white marble.
“Some subaltern or other put up the monument on her grave.” Usielkov
slowly took off his hat and showed his bald pate to the snow. Eying
him, Shapkin also took off his hat, and another baldness shone beneath
the sun. The silence round about was like the tomb, as though the air
were dead, too. The friends looked at the stone, silent, thinking.
“She is asleep!” Shapkin broke the silence. “And she cares very little
that she took the guilt upon herself and drank cognac. Confess, Boris
Pietrovich!”
“What?” asked Usielkov, sternly.
“That, however loathsome the past may be, it’s better than this.” And
Shapkin pointed to his grey hairs.
“In the old days I did not even think of death.... If I’d met her, I
would have circumvented her, but now ... well, now!”
Sadness took hold of Usielkov. Suddenly he wanted to cry, passionately,
as he once desired to love.... And he felt that these tears would be
exquisite, refreshing. Moisture came out of his eyes and a lump rose in
his throat, but.... Shapkin was standing by his side, and Usielkov felt
ashamed of his weakness before a witness. He turned back quickly and
walked towards the church.
Two hours later, having arranged with the churchwarden and examined the
church, he seized the opportunity while Shapkin was talking away to the
priest, and ran to shed a tear. He walked to the stone surreptitiously,
with stealthy steps, looking round all the time. The little white
monument stared at him absently, so sadly and innocently, as though a
girl and not a wanton _divorcée_ were beneath.
“If I could weep, could weep!” thought Usielkov.