The Lady with the Dog and Other Stories
bony, bearded frame, I should go on living in those little blue eyes,
that silky flaxen hair, those dimpled pink hands which stroked my face
so lovingly and were clasped round my neck.
Sonya's future made me anxious. Orlov was her father; in her birth
certificate she was called Krasnovsky, and the only person who knew of
her existence, and took interest in her--that is, I--was at death's
door. I had to think about her seriously.
The day after I arrived in Petersburg I went to see Orlov. The door was
opened to me by a stout old fellow with red whiskers and no moustache,
who looked like a German. Polya, who was tidying the drawing-room, did
not recognise me, but Orlov knew me at once.
"Ah, Mr. Revolutionist!" he said, looking at me with curiosity, and
laughing. "What fate has brought you?"
He was not changed in the least: the same well-groomed, unpleasant face,
the same irony. And a new book was lying on the table just as of old,
with an ivory paper-knife thrust in it. He had evidently been reading
before I came in. He made me sit down, offered me a cigar, and with a
delicacy only found in well-bred people, concealing the unpleasant
feeling aroused by my face and my wasted figure, observed casually that
I was not in the least changed, and that he would have known me anywhere
in spite of my having grown a beard. We talked of the weather, of Paris.
To dispose as quickly as possible of the oppressive, inevitable
question, which weighed upon him and me, he asked:
"Zinaida Fyodorovna is dead?"
"Yes," I answered.
"In childbirth?"
"Yes, in childbirth. The doctor suspected another cause of death, but
... it is more comforting for you and for me to think that she died in
childbirth."
He sighed decorously and was silent. The angel of silence passed over
us, as they say.
"Yes. And here everything is as it used to be--no changes," he said
briskly, seeing that I was looking about the room. "My father, as you
know, has left the service and is living in retirement; I am still in
the same department. Do you remember Pekarsky? He is just the same as
ever. Gruzin died of diphtheria a year ago.... Kukushkin is alive, and
often speaks of you. By the way," said Orlov, dropping his eyes with an
air of reserve, "when Kukushkin heard who you were, he began telling
every one you had attacked him and tried to murder him ... and that he
only just escaped with his life."
I did not speak.
"Old servants do not forget their masters.... It's very nice of you,"
said Orlov jocosely. "Will you have some wine and some coffee, though? I
will tell them to make some."
"No, thank you. I have come to see you about a very important matter,
Georgy Ivanitch."
"I am not very fond of important matters, but I shall be glad to be of
service to you. What do you want?"
"You see," I began, growing agitated, "I have here with me Zinaida
Fyodorovna's daughter.... Hitherto I have brought her up, but, as you
see, before many days I shall be an empty sound. I should like to die
with the thought that she is provided for."
Orlov coloured a little, frowned a little, and took a cursory and sullen
glance at me. He was unpleasantly affected, not so much by the
"important matter" as by my words about death, about becoming an empty
sound.
"Yes, it must be thought about," he said, screening his eyes as though
from the sun. "Thank you. You say it's a girl?"
"Yes, a girl. A wonderful child!"
"Yes. Of course, it's not a lap-dog, but a human being. I understand we
must consider it seriously. I am prepared to do my part, and am very
grateful to you."
He got up, walked about, biting his nails, and stopped before a picture.
"We must think about it," he said in a hollow voice, standing with his
back to me. "I shall go to Pekarsky's to-day and will ask him to go to
Krasnovsky's. I don't think he will make much ado about consenting to
take the child."
"But, excuse me, I don't see what Krasnovsky has got to do with it," I
said, also getting up and walking to a picture at the other end of the
room.
"But she bears his name, of course!" said Orlov.
"Yes, he may be legally obliged to accept the child--I don't know; but I
came to you, Georgy Ivanitch, not to discuss the legal aspect."
"Yes, yes, you are right," he agreed briskly. "I believe I am talking
nonsense. But don't excite yourself. We will decide the matter to our
mutual satisfaction. If one thing won't do, we'll try another; and if
that won't do, we'll try a third--one way or another this delicate
question shall be settled. Pekarsky will arrange it all. Be so good as
to leave me your address and I will let you know at once what we decide.
Where are you living?"
Orlov wrote down my address, sighed, and said with a smile:
"Oh, Lord, what a job it is to be the father of a little daughter! But
Pekarsky will arrange it all. He is a sensible man. Did you stay long in
Paris?"
"Two months."
We were silent. Orlov was evidently afraid I should begin talking of the
child again, and to turn my attention in another direction, said:
"You have probably forgotten your letter by now. But I have kept it. I
understand your mood at the time, and, I must own, I respect that
letter. 'Damnable cold blood,' 'Asiatic,' 'coarse laugh'--that was
charming and characteristic," he went on with an ironical smile. "And
the fundamental thought is perhaps near the truth, though one might
dispute the question endlessly. That is," he hesitated, "not dispute the
thought itself, but your attitude to the question--your temperament, so
to say. Yes, my life is abnormal, corrupted, of no use to any one, and
what prevents me from beginning a new life is cowardice--there you are
quite right. But that you take it so much to heart, are troubled, and
reduced to despair by it--that's irrational; there you are quite wrong."
"A living man cannot help being troubled and reduced to despair when he
sees that he himself is going to ruin and others are going to ruin round
him."
"Who doubts it! I am not advocating indifference; all I ask for is an
objective attitude to life. The more objective, the less danger of
falling into error. One must look into the root of things, and try to
see in every phenomenon a cause of all the other causes. We have grown
feeble, slack--degraded, in fact. Our generation is entirely composed of
neurasthenics and whimperers; we do nothing but talk of fatigue and
exhaustion. But the fault is neither yours nor mine; we are of too
little consequence to affect the destiny of a whole generation. We must
suppose for that larger, more general causes with a solid _raison
d'être_ from the biological point of view. We are neurasthenics, flabby,
renegades, but perhaps it's necessary and of service for generations
that will come after us. Not one hair falls from the head without the
will of the Heavenly Father--in other words, nothing happens by chance
in Nature and in human environment. Everything has its cause and is
inevitable. And if so, why should we worry and write despairing
letters?"
"That's all very well," I said, thinking a little. "I believe it will be
easier and clearer for the generations to come; our experience will be
at their service. But one wants to live apart from future generations
and not only for their sake. Life is only given us once, and one wants
to live it boldly, with full consciousness and beauty. One wants to play
a striking, independent, noble part; one wants to make history so that
those generations may not have the right to say of each of us that we
were nonentities or worse.... I believe what is going on about us is
inevitable and not without a purpose, but what have I to do with that
inevitability? Why should my ego be lost?"
"Well, there's no help for it," sighed Orlov, getting up and, as it
were, giving me to understand that our conversation was over.
I took my hat.
"We've only been sitting here half an hour, and how many questions we
have settled, when you come to think of it!" said Orlov, seeing me into
the hall. "So I will see to that matter.... I will see Pekarsky
to-day.... Don't be uneasy."
He stood waiting while I put on my coat, and was obviously relieved at
the feeling that I was going away.
"Georgy Ivanitch, give me back my letter," I said.
"Certainly."
He went to his study, and a minute later returned with the letter. I
thanked him and went away.
The next day I got a letter from him. He congratulated me on the
satisfactory settlement of the question. Pekarsky knew a lady, he wrote,
who kept a school, something like a kindergarten, where she took quite
little children. The lady could be entirely depended upon, but before
concluding anything with her it would be as well to discuss the matter
with Krasnovsky--it was a matter of form. He advised me to see Pekarsky
at once and to take the birth certificate with me, if I had it. "Rest
assured of the sincere respect and devotion of your humble servant...."
I read this letter, and Sonya sat on the table and gazed at me
attentively without blinking, as though she knew her fate was being
decided.
THE HUSBAND
IN the course of the manoeuvres the N---- cavalry regiment halted for a
night at the district town of K----. Such an event as the visit of
officers always has the most exciting and inspiring effect on the
inhabitants of provincial towns. The shopkeepers dream of getting rid of
the rusty sausages and "best brand" sardines that have been lying for
ten years on their shelves; the inns and restaurants keep open all
night; the Military Commandant, his secretary, and the local garrison
put on their best uniforms; the police flit to and fro like mad, while
the effect on the ladies is beyond all description.
The ladies of K----, hearing the regiment approaching, forsook their
pans of boiling jam and ran into the street. Forgetting their morning
_deshabille_ and general untidiness, they rushed breathless with
excitement to meet the regiment, and listened greedily to the band
playing the march. Looking at their pale, ecstatic faces, one might have
thought those strains came from some heavenly choir rather than from a
military brass band.
"The regiment!" they cried joyfully. "The regiment is coming!"
What could this unknown regiment that came by chance to-day and would
depart at dawn to-morrow mean to them?
Afterwards, when the officers were standing in the middle of the square,
and, with their hands behind them, discussing the question of billets,
all the ladies were gathered together at the examining magistrate's and
vying with one another in their criticisms of the regiment. They already
knew, goodness knows how, that the colonel was married, but not living
with his wife; that the senior officer's wife had a baby born dead every
year; that the adjutant was hopelessly in love with some countess, and
had even once attempted suicide. They knew everything. When a
pock-marked soldier in a red shirt darted past the windows, they knew
for certain that it was Lieutenant Rymzov's orderly running about the
town, trying to get some English bitter ale on tick for his master. They
had only caught a passing glimpse of the officers' backs, but had
already decided that there was not one handsome or interesting man among
them.... Having talked to their hearts' content, they sent for the
Military Commandant and the committee of the club, and instructed them
at all costs to make arrangements for a dance.
Their wishes were carried out. At nine o'clock in the evening the
military band was playing in the street before the club, while in the
club itself the officers were dancing with the ladies of K----. The
ladies felt as though they were on wings. Intoxicated by the dancing,
the music, and the clank of spurs, they threw themselves heart and soul