Part 16

In the last scene a whole revolution took place in the soul of Iván Mikhailovich. He began to imagine Xenia Pavlovna overtaken by the sad fate of Marguerite, and himself in the rôle of Faust, and grew very sorry for Xenia Pavlovna. The gloomy arches of the prison, on the gray stone floor some straw, and on it this woman, outraged, criminal, insane, and nevertheless so pure and saintly; the low melodies so full of sadness and tenderness in which arose hazy memories of past happiness, made Iván Mikhailovich’s breath come faster. He looked at Xenia Pavlovna, and noticing tears in her eyes, felt that this woman was very dear to him and that he was somehow very guilty toward her.

Iván Mikhailovich sadly gazed upon the stage, listened to the low strains of music, and it seemed to him at times that it was his Xenia thrown into prison, and he recalled how they first met at a ball and how he at the conclusion of it sang: “Amidst the noisy ball,” and how they afterward sat in the dark garden listening to the singing of the nightingale and gazing at the silvery stars.

All this was, but it had passed as if in a dream.

They returned from the theatre with souls refreshed, overfilled with sadness mingled with joy, and it seemed to both as if all their former disputes and frictions over trivialities had vanished forevermore, and a part of their former happiness had returned to them. They rode home dashingly in a light, new sleigh over the well-beaten road, and Iván Mikhailovich had his arm round Xenia Pavlovna’s waist as tightly as if he feared to lose her on the way. Xenia Pavlovna hid her face in the soft white fur of her collar, and only her sparkling eyes were visible from under a very becoming little hat of the same white fur, like two coals, dark and moist.

Iván Mikhailovich wished to kiss her, forgetting that they were in the open road, but Xenia Pavlovna screwed up her eyes, in which lurked silent laughter, and slightly shook her white fur hat.

At home the samovár and Maria Petrovna awaited them.

The samovár gurgled joyfully, rising importantly in all its beauty and sparkle from the snow-white of the table-cloth; the nice white loaves of bread smelt good and very tempting; and fresh, soft-boiled eggs seemed just waiting to be cracked over the nose with a spoon. And Maria Petrovna, sailing out of the nursery with her old wrap over her shoulders, spoke kindly: “Well, children, you must be quite hungry?”

Iván Mikhailovich did not reply. He entered the dimly lighted salon and paced it with a slow tread, smoothed his hair with the palm of his hand and purred: “Angel, Angel Marguerite!”

Then he returned to the dining-room, approached Xenia Pavlovna, silently kissed her on the head, and again went into the salon, where he continued purring.

“You had better eat and leave ‘Angel Marguerite’ for after,” said Maria Petrovna, thrusting her head into the doorway of the salon.

“In a moment! In a moment!” Iván Mikhailovich replied with vexation, and continued walking, wholly surrendering himself to vague emotions and recollections and the feeling of tender sadness for the past.

Afterward they all three had tea and spoke very amiably, and a good and peaceful feeling filled their hearts. Xenia Pavlovna changed her evening dress for a white capote with sleeves resembling wings, and let down her hair. She visited the nursery several times, and, sinking on her knees before the three little beds, she gazed with a mother’s passion and tenderness at the sleeping babies with their full, chubby little arms and sweet, carefree faces, and it seemed to her that here were sleeping the little angels, pure, gentle, helpless, and great in their purity, that had carried Marguerite into heaven.

“You look like Marguerite in prison,” remarked her husband, leaning on his arm and gazing at his wife long and attentively, and it seemed to him as if a whole chapter of his life had disappeared and before him was a sweet, young maiden with golden hair, whom one longed to love, to adore forever.

And under this glance Xenia Pavlovna lowered her eyes, smiled, and felt that somewhere far down at the very bottom of her soul the broken, unfinished song of her youthful heart sounded like a mountain echo.

Iván Mikhailovich who, generally supping at home in his shirt-sleeves, now felt constrained to take off his coat, endeavored to lend to his gestures and motions as much elegance and grace as possible, and was amiable and courteous at table, even to his mother-in-law.

“Shall I hand you the butter?” he asked, anticipating her wish.

“You are acting just as if you had come on a visit,” Maria Petrovna remarked, and, taking the butter with a pleasant smile, said: “Merci!”

“Well, good night, my Marguerite!” said Iván Mikhailovich, approaching his wife and once more gazing attentively into her eyes; then he kissed her hand and cheek.

“Good night, my Faust!” jokingly replied Xenia Pavlovna, kissing her husband on the lips.

Then Iván Mikhailovich pressed Maria Petrovna’s hand and went into the bedroom.

The blue hanging-lamp flooded the chamber with a soft, tender, soothing, bluish light, and it was so peaceful and cozy. Iván Mikhailovich undressed, and, taking off his boots, still continued to sing from “Faust” in a tender falsetto:

“’Tis life alone to be near thee, Thine only, all thine own!”

THE DUEL

BY NIKOLAI DMITRIEVITCH TELESHOV

_Teleshov was born in 1867 and studied at the Moscow Academy of Applied Sciences. He started on his literary career in 1884 and met with almost immediate recognition._

_In his choice of subjects, as well as in the strong objective way in which he treats them, Teleshov is a disciple of Anton Chekhov, and his affinity with that great artist has been pointed out by the foremost Russian critics._

_Unlike some of the other younger Russian writers, Teleshov is wholly sound, sympathetic, and gentle in his writings. He takes his subjects wherever he can most easily lay his hand upon them--in the petty, gray, every-day life of the tradesman or from among the loose, unrestrained half-Bohemianism which is found in every great city._

THE DUEL BY NIKOLAI TELESHOV

Translated by Lizzie B. Gorin. Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son.

It was early morning--

Vladímir Kladunov, a tall, graceful young man, twenty-two years of age, almost boyish in appearance, with a handsome face and thick, fair curls, dressed in the uniform of an officer and in long riding boots, minus overcoat and cap, stood upon a meadow covered with new-fallen snow, and gazed at another officer, a tall, red-faced, mustached man, who faced him at a distance of thirty paces, and was slowly lifting his hand in which he held a revolver, and aimed it straight at Vladímir.

With his arms crossed over his breast and also holding in one hand a revolver, Kladunov, almost with indifference, awaited the shot of his opponent. His handsome, young face, though a little paler than usual, was alight with courage, and wore a scornful smile. His dangerous position, and the merciless determination of his adversary, the strenuous attention of the seconds who silently stood at one side, and the imminence of death, made the moment one of terrible intensity--mysterious, almost solemn. A question of honor was to be decided. Every one felt the importance of the question; the less they understood what they were doing, the deeper seemed the solemnity of the moment.

A shot was fired; a shiver ran through all. Vladímir threw his hands about, bent his knees, and fell. He lay upon the snow, shot through the head, his hands apart, his hair, face, and even the snow around his head covered with blood. The seconds ran toward him and lifted him; the doctor certified his death, and the question of honor was solved. It only remained to announce the news to the regiment and to inform, as tenderly and carefully as possible, the mother, who was now left alone in the world, for the boy that had been killed was her only son. Before the duel no one had given her even a thought; but now they all became very thoughtful. All knew and loved her, and recognized the fact that she must be prepared by degrees for the terrible news. At last Iván Golubenko was chosen as most fit to tell the mother, and smooth out matters as much as possible.

* * * * *

Pelageia Petrovna had just risen, and was preparing her morning tea when Iván Golubenko, gloomy and confused, entered the room.

“Just in time for tea, Iván Ivanovich!” amiably exclaimed the old lady, rising to meet her guest. “You have surely called to see Vladímir!”

“No, I--in passing by--” Golubenko stammered, abashed.

“You will have to excuse him, he is still asleep. He walked up and down his room the whole of last night, and I told the servant not to wake him, as it is a--holy day. But probably you came on urgent business?”

“No, I only stepped in for a moment in passing--”

“If you wish to see him, I will give the order to wake him up.”

“No, no, do not trouble yourself!”

But Pelageia Petrovna, believing that he had called to see her son on some business or other, left the room, murmuring to herself.

Golubenko walked excitedly to and fro, wringing his hands, not knowing how to tell her the terrible news. The decisive moment was quickly approaching, but he lost control of himself, was frightened, and cursed fate that had so mixed him up with the whole business.

“Now! How can a body trust you young people!” good-naturedly exclaimed Pelageia Petrovna to her guest, reentering the room. “Here I have been taking care not to make the least noise with the cups and saucers, and asking you not to wake my boy, and he has long ago departed without leaving a trace! But why do you not take a seat, Iván Ivanovich, and have a cup of tea? You have been neglecting us terribly lately!”

She smiled as with a secret joy, and added in a low voice:

“And we have had so much news during that time!--Vladímir surely could not keep it. He must have told you all about it by this; for he is very straightforward and open-hearted, my Vladímir. I was thinking last night, in my sinful thoughts: ‘Well, when my Vladímir paces the room the whole night--that means that he is dreaming of Lenochka!’ That is always the case with him: if he paces the room the whole night, he will surely leave to-morrow--Ah, Iván Ivanovich, I only ask the Lord to send me this joy in my old age. What more does an old woman need? I have but one desire, one joy--and it seems to me I shall have nothing more to pray for after Vladímir and Lenochka are married. So joyful and happy it would make me!--I do not need anything besides Vladímir; there is nothing dearer to me than his happiness.”

The old lady became so effected that she had to wipe away the tears which came to her eyes.

“Do you remember,” she continued, “things did not go well in the beginning--either between the two or on account of the money--You young officers are not even allowed to marry without bonds--Well, now everything has been arranged: I have obtained the necessary five thousand rubles for Vladímir, and they could go to the altar even to-morrow! Yes, and Lenochka has written such a lovely letter to me--My heart is rejoicing!”

Continuing to speak, Pelageia Petrovna took a letter out of her pocket, which she showed to Golubenko, and then put back again.

“She is such a dear girl! And so good!”

Iván Golubenko, listening to her talk, sat as if on red-hot coals. He wanted to interrupt her flow of words, to tell her that everything was at an end, that her Vladímir was dead, and that in one short hour nothing would remain to her of all her bright hopes; but he listened to her and kept silent. Looking upon her good, gentle face, he felt a convulsive gripping in his throat.

“But why are you looking so gloomy to-day?” the old lady at last asked. “Why, your face looks as black as night!”

Iván wanted to say “Yes! And yours will be the same when I tell you!” but instead of telling her anything, he turned his head away, and began to twirl his mustaches.

Pelageia Petrovna did not notice it, and, wholly absorbed in her own thoughts, continued:

“I have a greeting for you. Lenochka writes that I should give Iván Ivanovich her regards, and should compel him to come with Vladímir and pay her a visit--You know yourself how she likes you, Iván Ivanovich!--No, it seems I am not able to keep it to myself. I must show you the letter. Just see for yourself how loving and sweet it is.”

And Pelageia Petrovna again took out the package of letters from her pocket, took from it a thin letter-sheet, closely written, and unfolded it before Iván Golubenko, whose face had become still gloomier, and he tried to push away with his hand the extended note, but Pelageia Petrovna had already started to read:

“Dear Pelageia Petrovna--When will the time arrive when I will be able to address you, not as above, but as my dear, sweet mother! I am anxiously awaiting the time, and hope so much that it will soon come that even now I do not want to call you otherwise than mama--”

Pelageia Petrovna lifted her head, and, ceasing to read, looked at Golubenko with eyes suffused with tears.

“You see, Iván Ivanovich!” she added; but seeing that Golubenko was biting his mustaches, and that his eyes too were moist, she rose, placed a trembling hand upon his hair, and quietly kissed him on the forehead. “Thank you, Iván Ivanovich,” she whispered, greatly moved. “I always thought that you and Vladímir were more like brothers than like simple friends--Forgive me--I am so very happy, God be thanked!”

Tears streamed down her cheeks, and Iván Golubenko was so disturbed and confused that he could only catch in his own her cold, bony hand and cover it with kisses; tears were suffocating him, and he could not utter a word, but in this outburst of motherly love he felt such a terrible reproach to himself that he would have preferred to be lying himself upon the field, shot through the head, than to hear himself praised for his friendship by this woman who would in half an hour find out the whole truth; what would she then think of him? Did not he, the friend, the almost brother, stand quietly by when a revolver was pointed at Vladímir? Did not this brother himself measure the space between the two antagonists and load the revolvers? All this he did himself, did consciously; and now this friend and brother silently sat there without having even the courage to fulfil his duty.

He was afraid; at this moment he despised himself, but could not prevail upon himself to say even one word. His soul was oppressed by a strange lack of harmony; he felt sick at heart and stifling. And in the meanwhile time flew--he knew it, and the more he knew it the less had he the courage to deprive Pelageia Petrovna of her few last happy moments. What should he say to her? How should he prepare her? Iván Golubenko lost his head entirely.

He had had already time enough to curse in his thoughts all duels, all quarrels, every kind of heroism, and all kinds of so-called questions of honor, and he at last rose from his seat ready to confess or to run away. Silently and quickly he caught the hand of Pelageia Petrovna, and stooping over it to touch it with his lips, thus hid his face, over which a torrent of tears suddenly streamed down; impetuously, without another thought, he ran out into the corridor, snatching his great coat, and then out of the house without having said a word.

Pelageia Petrovna looked after him with astonishment, and thought:

“He also must be in love, poor fellow--Well, that is their young sorrow--before happiness!” ...

And she soon forgot him, absorbed in her dreams of the happiness which seemed to her so inviolable and entire.

BOLESS

BY MAXIM GORKI

_Alexei Maximovitch Pyeshkov, otherwise “Gorki,” or the “Bitter One,” was born in 1868, in the house of his grandfather, the dyer Kaschirin. A shoemaker’s apprentice at five years of age, his life has been a continued series of experiments and struggles--at one time gardener, at another, painter of icons, scullery boy on a Volga steamship, shoemaker, sawyer of wood, apple-seller, baker, and railroad porter. His first pictures of the life of the under-dog, based on his own experiences, were so masterly that he became in a surprisingly short time one of the most popular of Russian authors._

BOLESS BY MAXIM GORKI

Translated by Lizzie B. Gorin. Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son.

An acquaintance of mine once told me the following story:

“While still a student at Moscow I happened to be living alongside one of those--well, she was a Polish woman, Teresa by name. A tall, powerfully built brunette with heavy, bushy eyebrows, and a large coarse, vulgar face, as if carved out with an ax--the animal gleam of her eyes, the deep bass voice, the gait and manners of a cabman, and her immense strength like that of a market-woman, inspired me with an inexpressible horror. I lived in the garret of the house, and her room was opposite mine. I never opened my door when I knew that she was in. But this, of course, happened very rarely. Sometimes I chanced to meet her on the landing, staircase, or in the yard, and she would look at me with a smile which seemed to me cynical and rapacious. Occasionally I saw her in her cups, with bleary eyes, her hair and clothes in disorder and with a particularly loathsome smile. On such occasions she would meet my eye with an impudent stare and say:

“‘How are you, Pan Student?’[10]

“And her stupid laugh would increase my dislike for her still more. I would have liked nothing better than to change my quarters in order to get rid of her proximity, but my room was so nice, and the view from my window was so fine, the street below so quiet and peaceful, that I concluded to endure it.

“One morning after I had dressed and was sprawling on the cot, trying to invent some sort of an excuse for not attending my classes, the door of my room suddenly opened, and the disgusting bass voice of the Polish woman sounded from the threshold:

“‘Good morning, Pan Student!’

“‘What is it you wish?’ I asked her. I saw she looked confused and had in her face a kind of pleading expression, something unusual with her.

“‘You see, Pan Student, I came to beg you to do me a great favor. Don’t refuse me, please!’

“Lying there on my cot I thought that it was just some pretext or other to make my further acquaintance. Take care, my boy!

“‘You see, I have to send a letter to my native country,’ she continued in a supplicating, low, tremulous voice.

“‘Well,’ I thought, ‘the devil take you. If you wish I will write it for you.’ And springing to my feet I sat down to the table, took some paper and said: ‘Well, come nearer; sit down and dictate.’

“She came over; sat down cautiously on the edge of the chair and looked at me in rather a guilty way.

“‘To whom shall I write?’

“‘To Boleslav Kapshat, in the town Sventsiani, on the Warsaw railroad.’

“‘Well, what shall I write? Speak.’

“‘My dearest Boless, my heart’s delight, my beloved. May the Mother of God protect you! My golden heart, why have you not written for so long a time to your sorrowing dove, Teresa--’

“I could hardly keep from laughing. A sorrowing dove, indeed! Almost six feet tall, with the fists of a prize-fighter, and a face so black that it seemed as if the ‘dove’ had been sweeping chimneys all her life and had never thoroughly washed herself. But I somehow kept my face straight and asked:

“‘Who is this Bolesst?’

“‘Boless, Pan Student,’ she replied seemingly offended because of my mispronouncing the name. ‘He is my affianced.’

“‘Affianced!’

“‘And why are you so astonished? Can not I, a girl, have an affianced?’

“She--a girl! well, this beats everything I ever heard. Oh, well, who can tell about such matters! Everything is possible in this world.

“‘And have you been long engaged?’

“‘The sixth year.’

“‘Oh, oh!’ I thought and then said aloud: ‘Well, go ahead with your letter.’

“And I must confess--so tender and loving was this message--that I would have willingly exchanged places with this Boless had the fair correspondent been any one else but Teresa.

“‘I thank you from my inmost soul for your favor, Pan Student,’ Teresa said, bowing low. ‘Can I in any way be of service to you?’

“‘No, thank you.’

“‘But maybe the Pan’s shirts or trousers need mending?’

“This made me quite angry. I felt that this mastodon in petticoats was making the blood mount to my cheeks, and I told her quite sharply that her services were not required; and she departed.

“Two weeks or so passed. One evening I was sitting at my window, softly whistling and thinking hard how to get away from myself. I felt very bored. The weather was as nasty as it could be. To go out that evening was out of the question, and having nothing better to do I began from sheer ennui a course of self-analysis. This proved dull enough work, but there was nothing else to do. Suddenly the door opened, thank God! Some one was coming to see me.

“‘Are you very busy just now, Pan Student?’

“‘Teresa! H’m--’ I thought I would have preferred any one at all to her. Then I said aloud:

“‘No, what is it you want now?’

“‘I wish to ask the Pan Student to write me another letter.’

“‘Very well. Is it again to Boless you wish me to write?’

“‘No, this time I want you to write a letter from Boless to me.’

“‘Wha-at?’

“‘I beg your pardon, Pan Student. How stupid of me! It is not for me, this letter, but for a friend of mine, a man acquaintance; he has a fiancée. Her name is like mine, Teresa. He does not know how to write, so I want the Pan Student to write for him a letter to that Teresa--’

“I looked at her. She seemed very confused and frightened, and her fingers trembled. And though I failed at first to understand what was the matter with her I at last understood.

“‘Look here, my lady,’ I said to her. ‘You have been telling me a pack of lies. There are no Bolesses nor Teresas among your acquaintances. It is only a pretext for coming in here. I tell you outright that there is no use of coming sneaking around me, as I do not wish to have anything to do with you. Do you understand?’

“She grew very red in the face and I saw that she was strangely frightened and confused, and moved her lips so oddly, wishing to say something, without being able to say it. And somehow I began to think that I had misjudged her a little. There was something behind all this. But what?

“‘Pan Student,’ she suddenly began, but broke off, and turning toward the door walked out of the room.

“I remained with a very unpleasant feeling in my heart. I heard her shut her own door with a bang; evidently the poor girl was very angry--I thought the matter over and decided to go in to her and induce her to return; I would write her the letter she wished.

“I entered her room. She was sitting at the table with her head pressed in her hands.

“‘Teresa,’ I said, ‘will you listen to me a moment?’

“Whenever I come to this turn of the story I always feel very awkward and embarrassed. But let us return to my narrative. Seeing that she did not reply I repeated:

“‘Listen to me, my girl--’

“She sprang to her feet, came close up to me, with eyes flashing, and placing her two hands on my shoulders she began to whisper, or rather to hum in her deep bass voice:

“‘Look you here, Pan Student. What of it, what of it if there is no Boless? And what if there is no Teresa? What difference does it make to you? Is it so hard for you to draw a few lines on the paper! Oh, you! And I thought you such a good fellow, such a nice fair-haired little boy. Yes, it is true--there is no Boless, and there is no Teresa, there is only me! Well, what of it?’