THE SCHOOLMASTER
FYODOR
LUKITCH SYSOEV, the master of the factory school maintained at the
expense of the firm of Kulikin, was getting ready for the annual
dinner. Every year after the school examination the board of
managers
gave a dinner at which the inspector of elementary schools, all who
had conducted the examinations, and all the managers and foremen of
the factory were present. In spite of their official character,
these
dinners were always good and lively, and the guests sat a long time
over them; forgetting distinctions of rank and recalling only their
meritorious labours, they ate till they were full, drank amicably,
chattered till they were all hoarse and parted late in the evening,
deafening the whole factory settlement with their singing and the
sound of their kisses. Of such dinners Sysoev had taken part in
thirteen, as he had been that number of years master of the factory
school.Now,
getting ready for the fourteenth, he was trying to make himself
look
as festive and correct as possible. He had spent a whole hour
brushing his new black suit, and spent almost as long in front of a
looking-glass while he put on a fashionable shirt; the studs would
not go into the button-holes, and this circumstance called forth a
perfect storm of complaints, threats, and reproaches addressed to
his
wife.His
poor wife, bustling round him, wore herself out with her efforts.
And
indeed he, too, was exhausted in the end. When his polished boots
were brought him from the kitchen he had not strength to pull them
on. He had to lie down and have a drink of water."How
weak you have grown!" sighed his wife. "You ought not to go
to this dinner at all.""No
advice, please!" the schoolmaster cut her short angrily.He
was in a very bad temper, for he had been much displeased with the
recent examinations. The examinations had gone off splendidly; all
the boys of the senior division had gained certificates and prizes;
both the managers of the factory and the government officials were
pleased with the results; but that was not enough for the
schoolmaster. He was vexed that Babkin, a boy who never made a
mistake in writing, had made three mistakes in the dictation;
Sergeyev, another boy, had been so excited that he could not
remember
seventeen times thirteen; the inspector, a young and inexperienced
man, had chosen a difficult article for dictation, and Lyapunov,
the
master of a neighbouring school, whom the inspector had asked to
dictate, had not behaved like "a good comrade"; but in
dictating had, as it were, swallowed the words and had not
pronounced
them as written.After
pulling on his boots with the assistance of his wife, and looking
at
himself once more in the looking-glass, the schoolmaster took his
gnarled stick and set off for the dinner. Just before the factory
manager's house, where the festivity was to take place, he had a
little mishap. He was taken with a violent fit of coughing . . . .
He
was so shaken by it that the cap flew off his head and the stick
dropped out of his hand; and when the school inspector and the
teachers, hearing his cough, ran out of the house, he was sitting
on
the bottom step, bathed in perspiration."Fyodor
Lukitch, is that you?" said the inspector, surprised. "You
. . . have come?""Why
not?""You
ought to be at home, my dear fellow. You are not at all well
to-day.
. . .""I
am just the same to-day as I was yesterday. And if my presence is
not
agreeable to you, I can go back.""Oh,
Fyodor Lukitch, you must not talk like that! Please come in. Why,
the
function is really in your honour, not ours. And we are delighted
to
see you. Of course we are! . . ."Within,
everything was ready for the banquet. In the big dining-room
adorned
with German oleographs and smelling of geraniums and varnish there
were two tables, a larger one for the dinner and a smaller one for
the hors-d'oeuvres. The hot light of midday faintly percolated
through the lowered blinds. . . . The twilight of the room, the
Swiss
views on the blinds, the geraniums, the thin slices of sausage on
the
plates, all had a naïve, girlishly-sentimental air, and it was all
in keeping with the master of the house, a good-natured little
German
with a round little stomach and affectionate, oily little eyes.
Adolf
Andreyitch Bruni (that was his name) was bustling round the table
of
hors-d'oeuvres as zealously as though it were a house on fire,
filling up the wine-glasses, loading the plates, and trying in
every
way to please, to amuse, and to show his friendly feelings. He
clapped people on the shoulder, looked into their eyes, chuckled,
rubbed his hands, in fact was as ingratiating as a friendly
dog."Whom
do I behold? Fyodor Lukitch!" he said in a jerky voice, on
seeing Sysoev. "How delightful! You have come in spite of your
illness. Gentlemen, let me congratulate you, Fyodor Lukitch has
come!"The
school-teachers were already crowding round the table and eating
the
hors-d'oeuvres. Sysoev frowned; he was displeased that his
colleagues
had begun to eat and drink without waiting for him. He noticed
among
them Lyapunov, the man who had dictated at the examination, and
going
up to him, began:"It
was not acting like a comrade! No, indeed! Gentlemanly people don't
dictate like that!""Good
Lord, you are still harping on it!" said Lyapunov, and he
frowned. "Aren't you sick of it?""Yes,
still harping on it! My Babkin has never made mistakes! I know why
you dictated like that. You simply wanted my pupils to be floored,
so
that your school might seem better than mine. I know all about it!
.
. .""Why
are you trying to get up a quarrel?" Lyapunov snarled. "Why
the devil do you pester me?""Come,
gentlemen," interposed the inspector, making a woebegone face.
"Is it worth while to get so heated over a trifle? Three
mistakes . . . not one mistake . . . does it matter?""Yes,
it does matter. Babkin has never made mistakes.""He
won't leave off," Lyapunov went on, snorting angrily. "He
takes advantage of his position as an invalid and worries us all to
death. Well, sir, I am not going to consider your being
ill.""Let
my illness alone!" cried Sysoev, angrily. "What is it to do
with you? They all keep repeating it at me: illness! illness!
illness! . . . As though I need your sympathy! Besides, where have
you picked up the notion that I am ill? I was ill before the
examinations, that's true, but now I have completely recovered,
there
is nothing left of it but weakness.""You
have regained your health, well, thank God," said the scripture
teacher, Father Nikolay, a young priest in a foppish
cinnamon-coloured cassock and trousers outside his boots. "You
ought to rejoice, but you are irritable and so on.""You
are a nice one, too," Sysoev interrupted him. "Questions
ought to be straightforward, clear, but you kept asking riddles.
That's not the thing to do!"By
combined efforts they succeeded in soothing him and making him sit
down to the table. He was a long time making up his mind what to
drink, and pulling a wry face drank a wine-glass of some green
liqueur; then he drew a bit of pie towards him, and sulkily picked
out of the inside an egg with onion on it. At the first mouthful it
seemed to him that there was no salt in it. He sprinkled salt on it
and at once pushed it away as the pie was too salt.At
dinner Sysoev was seated between the inspector and Bruni. After the
first course the toasts began, according to the old-established
custom."I
consider it my agreeable duty," the inspector began, "to
propose a vote of thanks to the absent school wardens, Daniel
Petrovitch and . . . and . . . and . . .""And
Ivan Petrovitch," Bruni prompted him."And
Ivan Petrovitch Kulikin, who grudge no expense for the school, and
I
propose to drink their health. . . .""For
my part," said Bruni, jumping up as though he had been stung, "I
propose a toast to the health of the honoured inspector of
elementary
schools, Pavel Gennadievitch Nadarov!"Chairs
were pushed back, faces beamed with smiles, and the usual clinking
of
glasses began.The
third toast always fell to Sysoev. And on this occasion, too, he
got
up and began to speak. Looking grave and clearing his throat, he
first of all announced that he had not the gift of eloquence and
that
he was not prepared to make a speech. Further he said that during
the
fourteen years that he had been schoolmaster there had been many
intrigues, many underhand attacks, and even secret reports on him
to
the authorities, and that he knew his enemies and those who had
informed against him, and he would not mention their names, "for
fear of spoiling somebody's appetite"; that in spite of these
intrigues the Kulikin school held the foremost place in the whole
province not only from a moral, but also from a material point of
view.""Everywhere
else," he said, "schoolmasters get two hundred or three
hundred roubles, while I get five hundred, and moreover my house
has
been redecorated and even furnished at the expense of the firm. And
this year all the walls have been repapered. . . ."Further
the schoolmaster enlarged on the liberality with which the pupils
were provided with writing materials in the factory schools as
compared with the Zemstvo and Government schools. And for all this
the school was indebted, in his opinion, not to the heads of the
firm, who lived abroad and scarcely knew of its existence, but to a
man who, in spite of his German origin and Lutheran faith, was a
Russian at heart.Sysoev
spoke at length, with pauses to get his breath and with pretensions
to rhetoric, and his speech was boring and unpleasant. He several
times referred to certain enemies of his, tried to drop hints,
repeated himself, coughed, and flourished his fingers unbecomingly.
At last he was exhausted and in a perspiration and he began talking
jerkily, in a low voice as though to himself, and finished his
speech
not quite coherently: "And so I propose the health of Bruni,
that is Adolf Andreyitch, who is here, among us . . . generally
speaking . . . you understand . . ."When
he finished everyone gave a faint sigh, as though someone had
sprinkled cold water and cleared the air. Bruni alone apparently
had
no unpleasant feeling. Beaming and rolling his sentimental eyes,
the
German shook Sysoev's hand with feeling and was again as friendly
as
a dog."Oh,
I thank you," he said, with an emphasis on the
oh, laying his left
hand on his heart. "I am very happy that you understand me! I,
with my whole heart, wish you all things good. But I ought only to
observe; you exaggerate my importance. The school owes its
flourishing condition only to you, my honoured friend, Fyodor
Lukitch. But for you it would be in no way distinguished from other
schools! You think the German is paying a compliment, the German is
saying something polite. Ha-ha! No, my dear Fyodor Lukitch, I am an
honest man and never make complimentary speeches. If we pay you
five
hundred roubles a year it is because you are valued by us. Isn't
that
so? Gentlemen, what I say is true, isn't it? We should not pay
anyone
else so much. . . . Why, a good school is an honour to the
factory!""I
must sincerely own that your school is really exceptional," said
the inspector. "Don't think this is flattery. Anyway, I have
never come across another like it in my life. As I sat at the
examination I was full of admiration. . . . Wonderful children!
They
know a great deal and answer brightly, and at the same time they
are
somehow special, unconstrained, sincere. . . . One can see that
they
love you, Fyodor Lukitch. You are a schoolmaster to the marrow of
your bones. You must have been born a teacher. You have all the
gifts
—innate vocation, long experience, and love for your work. . . .
It's simply amazing, considering the weak state of your health,
what
energy, what understanding . . . what perseverance, do you
understand, what confidence you have! Some one in the school
committee said truly that you were a poet in your work. . . . Yes,
a
poet you are!"And
all present at the dinner began as one man talking of Sysoev's
extraordinary talent. And as though a dam had been burst, there
followed a flood of sincere, enthusiastic words such as men do not
utter when they are restrained by prudent and cautious sobriety.
Sysoev's speech and his intolerable temper and the horrid, spiteful
expression on his face were all forgotten. Everyone talked freely,
even the shy and silent new teachers, poverty-stricken,
down-trodden
youths who never spoke to the inspector without addressing him as
"your honour." It was clear that in his own circle Sysoev
was a person of consequence.Having
been accustomed to success and praise for the fourteen years that
he
had been schoolmaster, he listened with indifference to the noisy
enthusiasm of his admirers.It
was Bruni who drank in the praise instead of the schoolmaster. The
German caught every word, beamed, clapped his hands, and flushed
modestly as though the praise referred not to the schoolmaster but
to
him."Bravo!
bravo!" he shouted. "That's true! You have grasped my
meaning! . . . Excellent! . . ." He looked into the
schoolmaster's eyes as though he wanted to share his bliss with
him.
At last he could restrain himself no longer; he leapt up, and,
overpowering all the other voices with his shrill little tenor,
shouted:"Gentlemen!
Allow me to speak! Sh-h! To all you say I can make only one reply:
the management of the factory will not be forgetful of what it owes
to Fyodor Lukitch! . . ."All
were silent. Sysoev raised his eyes to the German's rosy
face."We
know how to appreciate it," Bruni went on, dropping his
voice."In
response to your words I ought to tell you that . . .
FyodorLukitch's
family will be provided for and that a sum of money wasplaced
in the bank a month ago for that object."Sysoev
looked enquiringly at the German, at his colleagues, as though
unable
to understand why his family should be provided for and not he
himself. And at once on all the faces, in all the motionless eyes
bent upon him, he read not the sympathy, not the commiseration
which
he could not endure, but something else, something soft, tender,
but
at the same time intensely sinister, like a terrible truth,
something
which in one instant turned him cold all over and filled his soul
with unutterable despair. With a pale, distorted face he suddenly
jumped up and clutched at his head. For a quarter of a minute he
stood like that, stared with horror at a fixed point before him as
though he saw the swiftly coming death of which Bruni was speaking,
then sat down and burst into tears."Come,
come! . . . What is it?" he heard agitated voices
saying."Water!
drink a little water!"A
short time passed and the schoolmaster grew calmer, but the party
did
not recover their previous liveliness. The dinner ended in gloomy
silence, and much earlier than on previous occasions.When
he got home Sysoev first of all looked at himself in the
glass."Of
course there was no need for me to blubber like that!" he
thought, looking at his sunken cheeks and his eyes with dark rings
under them. "My face is a much better colour to-day than
yesterday. I am suffering from anemia and catarrh of the stomach,
and
my cough is only a stomach cough."Reassured,
he slowly began undressing, and spent a long time brushing his new
black suit, then carefully folded it up and put it in the chest of
drawers.Then
he went up to the table where there lay a pile of his pupils'
exercise-books, and picking out Babkin's, sat down and fell to
contemplating the beautiful childish handwriting. . . .And
meantime, while he was examining the exercise-books, the district
doctor was sitting in the next room and telling his wife in a
whisper
that a man ought not to have been allowed to go out to dinner who
had
not in all probability more than a week to live.
ENEMIES
BETWEEN nine and ten on a dark
September evening the only son of the district doctor, Kirilov, a
child of six, called Andrey, died of diphtheria. Just as the
doctor's wife sank on her knees by the dead child's bedside and was
overwhelmed by the first rush of despair there came a sharp ring at
the bell in the entry.All the servants had been sent out of the house that morning
on account of the diphtheria. Kirilov went to open the door just as
he was, without his coat on, with his waistcoat unbuttoned, without
wiping his wet face or his hands which were scalded with carbolic.
It was dark in the entry and nothing could be distinguished in the
man who came in but medium height, a white scarf, and a large,
extremely pale face, so pale that its entrance seemed to make the
passage lighter."Is the doctor at home?" the newcomer asked
quickly."I am at home," answered Kirilov. "What do you
want?""Oh, it's you? I am very glad," said the stranger in a tone
of relief, and he began feeling in the dark for the doctor's hand,
found it and squeezed it tightly in his own. "I am very . . . very
glad! We are acquainted. My name is Abogin, and I had the honour of
meeting you in the summer at Gnutchev's. I am very glad I have
found you at home. For God's sake don't refuse to come back with me
at once. . . . My wife has been taken dangerously ill. . . . And
the carriage is waiting. . . ."From the voice and gestures of the speaker it could be seen
that he was in a state of great excitement. Like a man terrified by
a house on fire or a mad dog, he could hardly restrain his rapid
breathing and spoke quickly in a shaking voice, and there was a
note of unaffected sincerity and childish alarm in his voice. As
people always do who are frightened and overwhelmed, he spoke in
brief, jerky sentences and uttered a great many unnecessary,
irrelevant words."I was afraid I might not find you in," he went on. "I was in
a perfect agony as I drove here. Put on your things and let us go,
for God's sake. . . . This is how it happened. Alexandr
Semyonovitch Paptchinsky, whom you know, came to see me. . . . We
talked a little and then we sat down to tea; suddenly my wife cried
out, clutched at her heart, and fell back on her chair. We carried
her to bed and . . . and I rubbed her forehead with ammonia and
sprinkled her with water . . . she lay as though she were dead. . .
. I am afraid it is aneurism . . . . Come along . . . her father
died of aneurism."Kirilov listened and said nothing, as though he did not
understandRussian.When Abogin mentioned again Paptchinsky and his wife's father
and once more began feeling in the dark for his hand the doctor
shook his head and said apathetically, dragging out each
word:"Excuse me, I cannot come . . . my son died . . . five
minutes ago!""Is it possible!" whispered Abogin, stepping back a pace. "My
God, at what an unlucky moment I have come! A wonderfully unhappy
day . . . wonderfully. What a coincidence. . . . It's as though it
were on purpose!"Abogin took hold of the door-handle and bowed his head. He
was evidently hesitating and did not know what to do—whether to go
away or to continue entreating the doctor."Listen," he said fervently, catching hold of Kirilov's
sleeve. "I well understand your position! God is my witness that I
am ashamed of attempting at such a moment to intrude on your
attention, but what am I to do? Only think, to whom can I go? There
is no other doctor here, you know. For God's sake come! I am not
asking you for myself. . . . I am not the patient!"A silence followed. Kirilov turned his back on Abogin, stood
still a moment, and slowly walked into the drawing-room. Judging
from his unsteady, mechanical step, from the attention with which
he set straight the fluffy shade on the unlighted lamp in the
drawing-room and glanced into a thick book lying on the table, at
that instant he had no intention, no desire, was thinking of
nothing and most likely did not remember that there was a stranger
in the entry. The twilight and stillness of the drawing-room seemed
to increase his numbness. Going out of the drawing-room into his
study he raised his right foot higher than was necessary, and felt
for the doorposts with his hands, and as he did so there was an air
of perplexity about his whole figure as though he were in somebody
else's house, or were drunk for the first time in his life and were
now abandoning himself with surprise to the new sensation. A broad
streak of light stretched across the bookcase on one wall of the
study; this light came together with the close, heavy smell of
carbolic and ether from the door into the bedroom, which stood a
little way open. . . . The doctor sank into a low chair in front of
the table; for a minute he stared drowsily at his books, which lay
with the light on them, then got up and went into the
bedroom.Here in the bedroom reigned a dead silence. Everything to the
smallest detail was eloquent of the storm that had been passed
through, of exhaustion, and everything was at rest. A candle
standing among a crowd of bottles, boxes, and pots on a stool and a
big lamp on the chest of drawers threw a brilliant light over all
the room. On the bed under the window lay a boy with open eyes and
a look of wonder on his face. He did not move, but his open eyes
seemed every moment growing darker and sinking further into his
head. The mother was kneeling by the bed with her arms on his body
and her head hidden in the bedclothes. Like the child, she did not
stir; but what throbbing life was suggested in the curves of her
body and in her arms! She leaned against the bed with all her
being, pressing against it greedily with all her might, as though
she were afraid of disturbing the peaceful and comfortable attitude
she had found at last for her exhausted body. The bedclothes, the
rags and bowls, the splashes of water on the floor, the little
paint-brushes and spoons thrown down here and there, the white
bottle of lime water, the very air, heavy and stifling—were all
hushed and seemed plunged in repose.The doctor stopped close to his wife, thrust his hands in his
trouser pockets, and slanting his head on one side fixed his eyes
on his son. His face bore an expression of indifference, and only
from the drops that glittered on his beard it could be seen that he
had just been crying.That repellent horror which is thought of when we speak of
death was absent from the room. In the numbness of everything, in
the mother's attitude, in the indifference on the doctor's face
there was something that attracted and touched the heart, that
subtle, almost elusive beauty of human sorrow which men will not
for a long time learn to understand and describe, and which it
seems only music can convey. There was a feeling of beauty, too, in
the austere stillness. Kirilov and his wife were silent and not
weeping, as though besides the bitterness of their loss they were
conscious, too, of all the tragedy of their position; just as once
their youth had passed away, so now together with this boy their
right to have children had gone for ever to all eternity! The
doctor was forty-four, his hair was grey and he looked like an old
man; his faded and invalid wife was thirty-five. Andrey was not
merely the only child, but also the last child.In contrast to his wife the doctor belonged to the class of
people who at times of spiritual suffering feel a craving for
movement. After standing for five minutes by his wife, he walked,
raising his right foot high, from the bedroom into a little room
which was half filled up by a big sofa; from there he went into the
kitchen. After wandering by the stove and the cook's bed he bent
down and went by a little door into the passage.There he saw again the white scarf and the white
face."At last," sighed Abogin, reaching towards the door-handle.
"Let us go, please."The doctor started, glanced at him, and remembered. . .
."Why, I have told you already that I can't go!" he said,
growing more animated. "How strange!""Doctor, I am not a stone, I fully understand your position .
. . I feel for you," Abogin said in an imploring voice, laying his
hand on his scarf. "But I am not asking you for myself. My wife is
dying. If you had heard that cry, if you had seen her face, you
would understand my pertinacity. My God, I thought you had gone to
get ready! Doctor, time is precious. Let us go, I entreat
you.""I cannot go," said Kirilov emphatically and he took a step
into the drawing-room.Abogin followed him and caught hold of his sleeve."You are in sorrow, I understand. But I'm not asking you to a
case of toothache, or to a consultation, but to save a human life!"
he went on entreating like a beggar. "Life comes before any
personal sorrow! Come, I ask for courage, for heroism! For the love
of humanity!""Humanity—that cuts both ways," Kirilov said irritably. "In
the name of humanity I beg you not to take me. And how queer it is,
really! I can hardly stand and you talk to me about humanity! I am
fit for nothing just now. . . . Nothing will induce me to go, and I
can't leave my wife alone. No, no. . ."Kirilov waved his hands and staggered back."And . . . and don't ask me," he went on in a tone of alarm.
"Excuse me. By No. XIII of the regulations I am obliged to go and
you have the right to drag me by my collar . . . drag me if you
like, but . . . I am not fit . . . I can't even speak . . . excuse
me.""There is no need to take that tone to me, doctor!" said
Abogin, again taking the doctor by his sleeve. "What do I care
about No. XIII! To force you against your will I have no right
whatever. If you will, come; if you will not—God forgive you; but I
am not appealing to your will, but to your feelings. A young woman
is dying. You were just speaking of the death of your son. Who
should understand my horror if not you?"Abogin's voice quivered with emotion; that quiver and his
tone were far more persuasive than his words. Abogin was sincere,
but it was remarkable that whatever he said his words sounded
stilted, soulless, and inappropriately flowery, and even seemed an
outrage on the atmosphere of the doctor's home and on the woman who
was somewhere dying. He felt this himself, and so, afraid of not
being understood, did his utmost to put softness and tenderness
into his voice so that the sincerity of his tone might prevail if
his words did not. As a rule, however fine and deep a phrase may
be, it only affects the indifferent, and cannot fully satisfy those
who are happy or unhappy; that is why dumbness is most often the
highest expression of happiness or unhappiness; lovers understand
each other better when they are silent, and a fervent, passionate
speech delivered by the grave only touches outsiders, while to the
widow and children of the dead man it seems cold and
trivial.Kirilov stood in silence. When Abogin uttered a few more
phrases concerning the noble calling of a doctor, self-sacrifice,
and so on, the doctor asked sullenly: "Is it far?""Something like eight or nine miles. I have capital horses,
doctor! I give you my word of honour that I will get you there and
back in an hour. Only one hour."These words had more effect on Kirilov than the appeals to
humanity or the noble calling of the doctor. He thought a moment
and said with a sigh: "Very well, let us go!"He went rapidly with a more certain step to his study, and
afterwards came back in a long frock-coat. Abogin, greatly
relieved, fidgeted round him and scraped with his feet as he helped
him on with his overcoat, and went out of the house with
him.It was dark out of doors, though lighter than in the entry.
The tall, stooping figure of the doctor, with his long, narrow
beard and aquiline nose, stood out distinctly in the darkness.
Abogin's big head and the little student's cap that barely covered
it could be seen now as well as his pale face. The scarf showed
white only in front, behind it was hidden by his long
hair."Believe me, I know how to appreciate your generosity,"
Abogin muttered as he helped the doctor into the carriage. "We
shall get there quickly. Drive as fast as you can, Luka, there's a
good fellow! Please!"The coachman drove rapidly. At first there was a row of
indistinct buildings that stretched alongside the hospital yard; it
was dark everywhere except for a bright light from a window that
gleamed through the fence into the furthest part of the yard while
three windows of the upper storey of the hospital looked paler than
the surrounding air. Then the carriage drove into dense shadow;
here there was the smell of dampness and mushrooms, and the sound
of rustling trees; the crows, awakened by the noise of the wheels,
stirred among the foliage and uttered prolonged plaintive cries as
though they knew the doctor's son was dead and that Abogin's wife
was ill. Then came glimpses of separate trees, of bushes; a pond,
on which great black shadows were slumbering, gleamed with a sullen
light—and the carriage rolled over a smooth level ground. The
clamour of the crows sounded dimly far away and soon ceased
altogether.Kirilov and Abogin were silent almost all the way. Only once
Abogin heaved a deep sigh and muttered:"It's an agonizing state! One never loves those who are near
one so much as when one is in danger of losing them."And when the carriage slowly drove over the river, Kirilov
started all at once as though the splash of the water had
frightened him, and made a movement."Listen—let me go," he said miserably. "I'll come to you
later.I must just send my assistant to my wife. She is alone, you
know!"Abogin did not speak. The carriage swaying from side to side
and crunching over the stones drove up the sandy bank and rolled on
its way. Kirilov moved restlessly and looked about him in misery.
Behind them in the dim light of the stars the road could be seen
and the riverside willows vanishing into the darkness. On the right
lay a plain as uniform and as boundless as the sky; here and there
in the distance, probably on the peat marshes, dim lights were
glimmering. On the left, parallel with the road, ran a hill tufted
with small bushes, and above the hill stood motionless a big, red
half-moon, slightly veiled with mist and encircled by tiny clouds,
which seemed to be looking round at it from all sides and watching
that it did not go away.In all nature there seemed to be a feeling of hopelessness
and pain. The earth, like a ruined woman sitting alone in a dark
room and trying not to think of the past, was brooding over
memories of spring and summer and apathetically waiting for the
inevitable winter. Wherever one looked, on all sides, nature seemed
like a dark, infinitely deep, cold pit from which neither Kirilov
nor Abogin nor the red half-moon could escape. . . .The nearer the carriage got to its goal the more impatient
Abogin became. He kept moving, leaping up, looking over the
coachman's shoulder. And when at last the carriage stopped before
the entrance, which was elegantly curtained with striped linen, and
when he looked at the lighted windows of the second storey there
was an audible catch in his breath."If anything happens . . . I shall not survive it," he said,
going into the hall with the doctor, and rubbing his hands in
agitation. "But there is no commotion, so everything must be going
well so far," he added, listening in the stillness.There was no sound in the hall of steps or voices and all the
house seemed asleep in spite of the lighted windows. Now the doctor
and Abogin, who till then had been in darkness, could see each
other clearly. The doctor was tall and stooped, was untidily
dressed and not good-looking. There was an unpleasantly harsh,
morose, and unfriendly look about his lips, thick as a negro's, his
aquiline nose, and listless, apathetic eyes. His unkempt head and
sunken temples, the premature greyness of his long, narrow beard
through which his chin was visible, the pale grey hue of his skin
and his careless, uncouth manners—the harshness of all this was
suggestive of years of poverty, of ill fortune, of weariness with
life and with men. Looking at his frigid figure one could hardly
believe that this man had a wife, that he was capable of weeping
over his child. Abogin presented a very different appearance. He
was a thick-set, sturdy-looking, fair man with a big head and
large, soft features; he was elegantly dressed in the very latest
fashion. In his carriage, his closely buttoned coat, his long hair,
and his face there was a suggestion of something generous, leonine;
he walked with his head erect and his chest squared, he spoke in an
agreeable baritone, and there was a shade of refined almost
feminine elegance in the manner in which he took off his scarf and
smoothed his hair. Even his paleness and the childlike terror with
which he looked up at the stairs as he took off his coat did not
detract from his dignity nor diminish the air of sleekness, health,
and aplomb which characterized his whole figure."There is nobody and no sound," he said going up the stairs.
"There is no commotion. God grant all is well."He led the doctor through the hall into a big drawing-room
where there was a black piano and a chandelier in a white cover;
from there they both went into a very snug, pretty little
drawing-room full of an agreeable, rosy twilight."Well, sit down here, doctor, and I . . . will be back
directly. I will go and have a look and prepare them."Kirilov was left alone. The luxury of the drawing-room, the
agreeably subdued light and his own presence in the stranger's
unfamiliar house, which had something of the character of an
adventure, did not apparently affect him. He sat in a low chair and
scrutinized his hands, which were burnt with carbolic. He only
caught a passing glimpse of the bright red lamp-shade and the
violoncello case, and glancing in the direction where the clock was
ticking he noticed a stuffed wolf as substantial and sleek-looking
as Abogin himself.It was quiet. . . . Somewhere far away in the adjoining rooms
someone uttered a loud exclamation:"Ah!" There was a clang of a glass door, probably of a
cupboard, and again all was still. After waiting five minutes
Kirilov left off scrutinizing his hands and raised his eyes to the
door by which Abogin had vanished.In the doorway stood Abogin, but he was not the same as when
he had gone out. The look of sleekness and refined elegance had
disappeared —his face, his hands, his attitude were contorted by a
revolting expression of something between horror and agonizing
physical pain. His nose, his lips, his moustache, all his features
were moving and seemed trying to tear themselves from his face, his
eyes looked as though they were laughing with agony. . .
.Abogin took a heavy stride into the drawing-room, bent
forward, moaned, and shook his fists."She has deceived me," he cried, with a strong emphasis on
the second syllable of the verb. "Deceived me, gone away. She fell
ill and sent me for the doctor only to run away with that clown
Paptchinsky! My God!"Abogin took a heavy step towards the doctor, held out his
soft white fists in his face, and shaking them went on
yelling:"Gone away! Deceived me! But why this deception? My God! My
God! What need of this dirty, scoundrelly trick, this diabolical,
snakish farce? What have I done to her? Gone away!"Tears gushed from his eyes. He turned on one foot and began
pacing up and down the drawing-room. Now in his short coat, his
fashionable narrow trousers which made his legs look
disproportionately slim, with his big head and long mane he was
extremely like a lion. A gleam of curiosity came into the apathetic
face of t [...]