The Lady with the Dog and Other Stories
even when they see in it their unhappiness; and if they begin a
conversation about it themselves, it is usually embarrassing, awkward,
and long.
"How is one to say it?" Korolyov wondered. "And is it necessary to
speak?"
And he said what he meant in a roundabout way:
"You in the position of a factory owner and a wealthy heiress are
dissatisfied; you don't believe in your right to it; and here now you
can't sleep. That, of course, is better than if you were satisfied,
slept soundly, and thought everything was satisfactory. Your
sleeplessness does you credit; in any case, it is a good sign. In
reality, such a conversation as this between us now would have been
unthinkable for our parents. At night they did not talk, but slept
sound; we, our generation, sleep badly, are restless, but talk a great
deal, and are always trying to settle whether we are right or not. For
our children or grandchildren that question--whether they are right or
not--will have been settled. Things will be clearer for them than for
us. Life will be good in fifty years' time; it's only a pity we shall
not last out till then. It would be interesting to have a peep at it."
"What will our children and grandchildren do?" asked Liza.
"I don't know.... I suppose they will throw it all up and go away."
"Go where?"
"Where?... Why, where they like," said Korolyov; and he laughed. "There
are lots of places a good, intelligent person can go to."
He glanced at his watch.
"The sun has risen, though," he said. "It is time you were asleep.
Undress and sleep soundly. Very glad to have made your acquaintance," he
went on, pressing her hand. "You are a good, interesting woman.
Good-night!"
He went to his room and went to bed.
In the morning when the carriage was brought round they all came out on
to the steps to see him off. Liza, pale and exhausted, was in a white
dress as though for a holiday, with a flower in her hair; she looked at
him, as yesterday, sorrowfully and intelligently, smiled and talked, and
all with an expression as though she wanted to tell him something
special, important--him alone. They could hear the larks trilling and
the church bells pealing. The windows in the factory buildings were
sparkling gaily, and, driving across the yard and afterwards along the
road to the station, Korolyov thought neither of the workpeople nor of
lake dwellings, nor of the devil, but thought of the time, perhaps close
at hand, when life would be as bright and joyous as that still Sunday
morning; and he thought how pleasant it was on such a morning in the
spring to drive with three horses in a good carriage, and to bask in the
sunshine.
AN UPHEAVAL
MASHENKA PAVLETSKY, a young girl who had only just finished her studies
at a boarding school, returning from a walk to the house of the
Kushkins, with whom she was living as a governess, found the household
in a terrible turmoil. Mihailo, the porter who opened the door to her,
was excited and red as a crab.
Loud voices were heard from upstairs.
"Madame Kushkin is in a fit, most likely, or else she has quarrelled
with her husband," thought Mashenka.
In the hall and in the corridor she met maid-servants. One of them was
crying. Then Mashenka saw, running out of her room, the master of the
house himself, Nikolay Sergeitch, a little man with a flabby face and a
bald head, though he was not old. He was red in the face and twitching
all over. He passed the governess without noticing her, and throwing up
his arms, exclaimed:
"Oh, how horrible it is! How tactless! How stupid! How barbarous!
Abominable!"
Mashenka went into her room, and then, for the first time in her life,
it was her lot to experience in all its acuteness the feeling that is so
familiar to persons in dependent positions, who eat the bread of the
rich and powerful, and cannot speak their minds. There was a search
going on in her room. The lady of the house, Fedosya Vassilyevna, a
stout, broad-shouldered, uncouth woman with thick black eyebrows, a
faintly perceptible moustache, and red hands, who was exactly like a
plain, illiterate cook in face and manners, was standing, without her
cap on, at the table, putting back into Mashenka's workbag balls of
wool, scraps of materials, and bits of paper.... Evidently the
governess's arrival took her by surprise, since, on looking round and
seeing the girl's pale and astonished face, she was a little taken
aback, and muttered:
"_Pardon_. I ... I upset it accidentally.... My sleeve caught in it ..."
And saying something more, Madame Kushkin rustled her long skirts and
went out. Mashenka looked round her room with wondering eyes, and,
unable to understand it, not knowing what to think, shrugged her
shoulders, and turned cold with dismay. What had Fedosya Vassilyevna
been looking for in her work-bag? If she really had, as she said, caught
her sleeve in it and upset everything, why had Nikolay Sergeitch dashed
out of her room so excited and red in the face? Why was one drawer of
the table pulled out a little way? The money-box, in which the governess
put away ten kopeck pieces and old stamps, was open. They had opened it,
but did not know how to shut it, though they had scratched the lock all
over. The whatnot with her books on it, the things on the table, the
bed--all bore fresh traces of a search. Her linen-basket, too. The linen
had been carefully folded, but it was not in the same order as Mashenka
had left it when she went out. So the search had been thorough, most
thorough. But what was it for? Why? What had happened? Mashenka
remembered the excited porter, the general turmoil which was still going
on, the weeping servant-girl; had it not all some connection with the
search that had just been made in her room? Was not she mixed up in
something dreadful? Mashenka turned pale, and feeling cold all over,
sank on to her linen-basket.
A maid-servant came into the room.
"Liza, you don't know why they have been rummaging in my room?" the
governess asked her.
"Mistress has lost a brooch worth two thousand," said Liza.
"Yes, but why have they been rummaging in my room?"
"They've been searching every one, miss. They've searched all my things,
too. They stripped us all naked and searched us.... God knows, miss, I
never went near her toilet-table, let alone touching the brooch. I shall
say the same at the police-station."
"But ... why have they been rummaging here?" the governess still
wondered.
"A brooch has been stolen, I tell you. The mistress has been rummaging
in everything with her own hands. She even searched Mihailo, the porter,
herself. It's a perfect disgrace! Nikolay Sergeitch simply looks on and
cackles like a hen. But you've no need to tremble like that, miss. They
found nothing here. You've nothing to be afraid of if you didn't take
the brooch."
"But, Liza, it's vile ... it's insulting," said Mashenka, breathless
with indignation. "It's so mean, so low! What right had she to suspect
me and to rummage in my things?"
"You are living with strangers, miss," sighed Liza. "Though you are a
young lady, still you are ... as it were ... a servant.... It's not like
living with your papa and mamma."
Mashenka threw herself on the bed and sobbed bitterly. Never in her life
had she been subjected to such an outrage, never had she been so deeply
insulted.... She, well-educated, refined, the daughter of a teacher, was
suspected of theft; she had been searched like a street-walker! She
could not imagine a greater insult. And to this feeling of resentment
was added an oppressive dread of what would come next. All sorts of
absurd ideas came into her mind. If they could suspect her of theft,
then they might arrest her, strip her naked, and search her, then lead
her through the street with an escort of soldiers, cast her into a cold,
dark cell with mice and woodlice, exactly like the dungeon in which
Princess Tarakanov was imprisoned. Who would stand up for her? Her
parents lived far away in the provinces; they had not the money to come
to her. In the capital she was as solitary as in a desert, without
friends or kindred. They could do what they liked with her.
"I will go to all the courts and all the lawyers," Mashenka thought,
trembling. "I will explain to them, I will take an oath.... They will
believe that I could not be a thief!"
Mashenka remembered that under the sheets in her basket she had some
sweetmeats, which, following the habits of her schooldays, she had put
in her pocket at dinner and carried off to her room. She felt hot all
over, and was ashamed at the thought that her little secret was known to
the lady of the house; and all this terror, shame, resentment, brought
on an attack of palpitation of the heart, which set up a throbbing in
her temples, in her heart, and deep down in her stomach.
"Dinner is ready," the servant summoned Mashenka.
"Shall I go, or not?"
Mashenka brushed her hair, wiped her face with a wet towel, and went
into the dining-room. There they had already begun dinner. At one end of
the table sat Fedosya Vassilyevna with a stupid, solemn, serious face;
at the other end Nikolay Sergeitch. At the sides there were the visitors
and the children. The dishes were handed by two footmen in swallowtails
and white gloves. Every one knew that there was an upset in the house,
that Madame Kushkin was in trouble, and every one was silent. Nothing
was heard but the sound of munching and the rattle of spoons on the
plates.
The lady of the house, herself, was the first to speak.
"What is the third course?" she asked the footman in a weary, injured
voice.
"_Esturgeon à la russe_," answered the footman.
"I ordered that, Fenya," Nikolay Sergeitch hastened to observe. "I
wanted some fish. If you don't like it, _ma chère_, don't let them serve
it. I just ordered it...."
Fedosya Vassilyevna did not like dishes that she had not ordered
herself, and now her eyes filled with tears.
"Come, don't let us agitate ourselves," Mamikov, her household doctor,
observed in a honeyed voice, just touching her arm, with a smile as
honeyed. "We are nervous enough as it is. Let us forget the brooch!
Health is worth more than two thousand roubles!"
"It's not the two thousand I regret," answered the lady, and a big tear
rolled down her cheek. "It's the fact itself that revolts me! I cannot
put up with thieves in my house. I don't regret it--I regret nothing;
but to steal from me is such ingratitude! That's how they repay me for
my kindness...."
They all looked into their plates, but Mashenka fancied after the lady's
words that every one was looking at her. A lump rose in her throat; she
began crying and put her handkerchief to her lips.
"_Pardon_," she muttered. "I can't help it. My head aches. I'll go
away."
And she got up from the table, scraping her chair awkwardly, and went
out quickly, still more overcome with confusion.
"It's beyond everything!" said Nikolay Sergeitch, frowning. "What need
was there to search her room? How out of place it was!"
"I don't say she took the brooch," said Fedosya Vassilyevna, "but can
you answer for her? To tell the truth, I haven't much confidence in
these learned paupers."
"It really was unsuitable, Fenya.... Excuse me, Fenya, but you've no
kind of legal right to make a search."
"I know nothing about your laws. All I know is that I've lost my brooch.
And I will find the brooch!" She brought her fork down on the plate with
a clatter, and her eyes flashed angrily. "And you eat your dinner, and
don't interfere in what doesn't concern you!"
Nikolay Sergeitch dropped his eyes mildly and sighed. Meanwhile
Mashenka, reaching her room, flung herself on her bed. She felt now
neither alarm nor shame, but she felt an intense longing to go and slap