A Father

"I don't deny it; I have had a drop too much. ... Forgive me; the fact

is I happened to pass by the public, and, all owing to the heat, I

drank a couple of bottles. It's hot, brother!"

Old Musátoff took a rag from his pocket, and wiped the sweat from his

clean-shaven, dissipated face.

"I have come to you, Bórenka, angel mine, just for a minute," he

continued, looking at his son, "on very important business. Forgive

me if I am in the way. Tell me, my soul ... do you happen to have ten

roubles to spare till Tuesday? You understand me ... yesterday I ought

to have paid for the rooms, but the money question ... you understand.

Not a kopeck!"

Young Musátoff went out silently, and behind the door began a whispered

consultation with his housekeeper and the colleagues in the Civil

Service with whom he shared the villa. In a minute he returned, and

silently handed his father a ten-rouble note. The old gentleman took it

carelessly, and without looking at it thrust it into his pocket, and

said:

"_Merci!_ And how is the world using you? We haven't met for ages."

"Yes, it is a long time--since All Saints' Day."

"Five times I did my best to get over to you, but never could get

time. First one matter, then another ... simply ruination. But, Boris,

I may confess it, I am not telling the truth.... I lie.... I always

lie. Don't believe me, Bórenka. I promised to let you have the ten

roubles back on Tuesday; don't believe that either! Don't believe a

single word I say! I have no business matters at all, simply idleness,

drink, and shame to show myself in the street in this get-up. But you,

Bórenka, will forgive me. Three times I sent the girl for money, and

wrote you piteous letters. For the money, thanks! But don't believe the

letters.... I lied. It hurts me to plunder you in this way, angel mine;

I know that you can hardly make both ends meet, and live--so to say--on

locusts. But with impudence like mine you can do nothing. A rascal who

only shows his face when he wants money!... Forgive me, Bórenka, I tell

you the plain truth, because I cannot look with indifference upon your

angel face...."

A minute passed in silence. The old man sighed deeply, and began:

"Let us make the supposition, brother, that you were to treat me to a

glass of beer."

Without a word, Boris again went out and whispered outside the door.

The beer was brought in. At the sight of the bottle Musátoff enlivened,

and suddenly changed his tone.

"The other day I was at the races," he began, making frightened faces.

"There were three of us, and together we put in the totalisator a

three-rouble note on Shustri.[1] And good luck to Shustri! With the

risk of one rouble we each got back thirty-two. It is a noble sport.

The old woman always pitches into me about the races, but I go. I love

it!"

[Footnote 1: Rapid.]

Boris, a young fair-haired man, with a sad, apathetic face, walked from

corner to corner, and listened silently. When Musátoff interrupted his

story in order to cough, he went up to him and said:

"The other day, papa, I bought myself a new pair of boots, but they

turned out too small. I wish you would take them off my hands. I will

let you have them cheap!"

"I shall be charmed!" said the old man, with a grimace. "Only for the

same price--without any reduction."

"Very well.... We will regard that as a loan also."

Boris stretched his arm under the bed, and pulled out the new boots.

Old Musátoff removed his own awkward brown shoes--plainly someone

else's--and tried the new boots on.

"Like a shot!" he exclaimed. "Your hand on it. ... I'll take them.

On Tuesday, when I get my pension, I'll send the money.... But I may

as well confess, I lie." He resumed his former piteous tone. "About

the races I lied, and about the pension I lie. You are deceiving me,

Bórenka.... I see very well through your magnanimous pretext. I can see

through you! The boots are too small for you because your heart is too

large! Akh, Borya, Borya, I understand it ... and I feel it!"

"You have gone to your new rooms?" asked Boris, with the object of

changing the subject. "Yes, brother, into the new rooms.... Every

month we shift. With a character like the old woman's we cannot stay

anywhere."

"I have been at the old rooms. But now I want to ask you to come to

the country. In your state of health it will do you good to be in the

fresh air." Musátoff waved his hand. "The old woman wouldn't let me

go, and myself I don't care to. A hundred times you have tried to drag

me out of the pit.... I have tried to drag myself ... but the devil an

improvement! Give it up! In the pit I'll die as I have lived. At this

moment I sit in front of you and look at your angel face ... yet I am

being dragged down into the pit. It's destiny, brother! You can't get

flies from a dunghill to a rose bush. No. ... Well, I'm off ... it's

getting dark."

"If you wait a minute, well go together. I have business in town

myself."

Musátoff and his son put on their coats, and went out. By the time they

had found a droschky it was quite dark, and the windows were lighted up.

"I know I'm ruining you, Bórenka," stammered the father. "My poor, poor

children! What an affliction to be cursed with such a father! Bórenka,

angel mine, I cannot lie when I see your face. Forgive me!... To what

a pass, my God, has impudence brought me! This very minute I have

taken your money, and shamed you with my drunken face; your brothers

also I spunge on and put to shame. If you had seen me yesterday!

I won't hide anything, Bórenka. Yesterday our neighbours--all the

rascality, in short--came in to see the old woman. I drank with them,

and actually abused you behind your back, and complained that you

had neglected me. I tried, you understand, to get the drunken old

women to pity me, and played the part of an unhappy father. That's my

besetting sin; when I want to hide my faults, I heap them on the heads

of my innocent children.... But I cannot lie to you, Bórenka, or hide

things. I came to you in pride, but when I had felt your kindness and

all-mercifulness, my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth, and all my

conscience turned upside down."

"Yes, father, but let us talk about something else."

"Mother of God, what children I have!" continued the old man, paying

no attention to his son, "What a glory the Lord has sent me! Such

children should be sent not to me, a good-for-nothing, but to a real

man with a soul and a heart. I am not worthy of it!"

Musátoff took off his cap and crossed himself piously thrice.

"Glory be to Thee, O God!" he sighed, looking around as if seeking an

ikon. "Astonishing, priceless children! Three sons I have, and all of

them the same! Sober, serious, diligent--and what intellects! Cabman,

what intellects! Gregory alone has as much brains as ten ordinary men.

French ... and German ... he speaks both ... and you never get tired

of listening. Children, children mine, I cannot believe that you are

mine at all! I don't believe it! You, Bórenka, are a very martyr! I am

ruining you ... before long I shall have mined you. You give me money

without end, although you know very well that not a kopeck goes on

necessaries. Only the other day I sent you a piteous letter about my

illness.... But I lied; the money was wanted to buy rum. Yet you gave

it to me sooner than offend your old father with a refusal. All this I

know ... and feel ... Grisha also is a martyr. On Thursday, angel mine,

I went to his office, drunk, dirty, ragged ... smelling of vodka like a

cellar. I went straight up to him and began in my usual vulgar slang,

although he was with the other clerks, the head of the department--and

petitioners all around! Disgraced him for his whole life!.. Yet he

never got the least confused, only a little pale; he smiled, and got

up from his desk as if nothing were wrong--even introduced me to his

colleagues. And he brought me the whole way home, without a word of

reproach! I spunge on him even worse than on you!

"Then take your brother, Sasha! There's another martyr! Married to a

colonel's daughter, moving in a circle of aristocrats, with a dot ...

and everything else.... He, at any rate, you would think would have

nothing to do with me. Well, brother, what does he do? When he gets

married the very first thing after the wedding he comes to me with his

young wife, and pays me the first visit ... to my lair, to the lair ...

I swear to God!"

The old man began to sob, but soon laughed again.

"At the very moment, as the fates would have it, when we were eating

scraped radishes and kvas, and frying fish, with a stench in the room

enough to stink out the devil. I was lying drunk as usual, and the old

woman jumps up and greets them with a face the colour of beefsteak ...

in one word, a scandal. But Sasha bore it all."

"Yes, our Sasha is a good man," said Boris.

"Incomparable! You are all of you gold, both you and Grisha, and Sasha

and Sonia. I torture, pester, disgrace, and spunge on you, yet in my

whole life I have never heard a word of reproach, or seen a single

sidelong look. If you had a decent father it would be different, but

... You have never had anything from me but evil. I am a wicked,

dissolute man.... Now, thank God, I have quieted down, and have no

character left in me, but formerly, when you were little children, I

had a character and no mistake. Whatever I said or did seemed to me

gospel! I remember! I used to come back late from the club, drunk and

irritated, and begin to abuse your poor mother about the household

expenses. I would keep on at her all night, and imagine that she was in

the wrong; in the morning you would get up and go to school, but all

the time I would keep on showing her that I had a character. Heaven

rest her soul, how I tortured the poor martyr! And when you came back

from school and found me asleep you weren't allowed your dinner until I

got up. And after dinner the same music! Primps you remember. May God

forbid that anyone else should be cursed with such a father! He sent

you to me as a blessing. A blessing! Continue in this way, children, to

the end. Honour thy father that thy days may be long in the land! For

your goodness Heaven will reward you with long life! Cabman, stop!"

Musátoff alighted and ran into a beerhouse. After a delay of half an

hour he returned, grunted tipsily, and took his seat.

"And where is Sonia now?" he asked. "Still at the boarding-school?"

"No, she finished last May. She lives now with Sasha's aunt."

"What?" exclaimed the old man. "Left school? And a glorious girl, God

bless her--went with her brothers. _Akh_, Bórenka, no mother, no one to

console her! Tell me, Bórenka, does she know ... does she know that I

am alive? Eh?"

Boris did not answer. Five minutes passed in deep silence. The old man

sobbed, wiped his face with a rag, and said:

"I love her, Bórenka! She was the only daughter, and in old age there

is no consolation like a daughter. If I could only see her for a

moment. Tell me, Bórenka, may I?"

"Of course, whenever you like."

"And she won't object?"

"Of course not; she herself went to look for you."

"I swear to God! There is a nest of angels! Cabman, eh? Arrange it,

Bórenka, angel! Of course she is a young lady now, _délicatesse ...

consommé,_ and all that sort of thing in the noble style. So I can't

see her in this get-up. But all this, Bórenka, we can arrange. For

three days I won't taste a drop--that'll bring my accursed drunken

snout into shape. Then I will go to your place and put on a suit of

your clothes, and get a shave and have my hair cut. Then you will

drive over and take me with you? Is it agreed?"

"All right."

"Cabman, stop!"

The old man jumped out of the carriage and ran into another beershop.

Before they reached his lodgings he visited two more; and every time

his son waited silently and patiently. When, having dismissed the

cabman, they crossed the broad, muddy yard to the rooms of the "old

woman," Musátoff looked contused and guilty, grunted timidly, and

smacked his lips.

"Bórenka," he began, in an imploring voice, "if the old woman says

anything of that kind to you--you understand--don't pay any attention

to her. And be polite to her. She is very ignorant and impertinent, but

not a bad sort at bottom. She has a good, warm heart."

They crossed the yard and entered a dark hall. The door squeaked, the

kitchen smelt, the samovar smoked, and shrill voices were heard....

While they passed through the kitchen Boris noticed only the black

smoke, a rope with washing spread out, and the chimney of a samovar,

through the chinks of which burst golden sparks.

"This is my cell," said Musátoff, bowing his head, and showing his son

into a little, low-ceilinged room, filled with atmosphere unbearable

from proximity to the kitchen. At a table sat three women, helping

one another to food. Seeing the guest, they looked at one another and

stopped eating.

"Well, did you get it?" asked one, apparently "the old woman," roughly.

"Got it, got it," stammered the old man. "Now, Boris, do us the honour!

Sit down! With us, brother--young man--everything is simple.... We live

in a simple way."

Musátoff fussed about without any visible reason. He was ashamed before

his son, and at the same time apparently wished to bear himself before

the women as a man of importance and a forsaken, unhappy father.

"Yes, brother mine--young man--we live simply, without show-off," he

stammered. "We are plain folk, young man.... We are not like you ... we

do, not trouble to throw dust in other people's eyes. No!... A drop of

vodka, eh?"

One of the women, ashamed of drinking before a stranger, sighed and

said:

"I must have another glass after these mushrooms. After mushrooms,

whether you like it or not, you have to drink.... Ivan Gerasiuitch, ask

him ... perhaps he'll have a drink."

"Drink, young man!" said Musátoff, without looking at his son. "Wines

and liqueurs we don't keep, brother, we live plainly."

"I'm afraid our arrangements don't suit him," sighed the old woman.

"Leave him alone, leave him alone, he'll drink all right."

To avoid giving offence to his father, Boris took a glass, and drained

it in silence. When the samovar was brought in he, silently and with a

melancholy air--again to please his father--drank two cups of atrocious

tea. And without a word he listened while the "old woman" lamented

the fact that in this world you will sometimes find cruel and godless

children who forsake their parents in their old age.

"I know what you are thinking," said the drunken old man, falling

into his customary state of excitement. "You are thinking that I have

fallen in the world, that I have dirtied myself, that I am an object of

pity! But in my mind this simple life is far more natural than yours,

young man. I do not need for anything ... and I have no intention of

humiliating myself ... I can stand a lot ... but tolerance is at an end

when a brat of a boy looks at me with pity."

When he had drunk his tea, he cleaned a herring, and squeezed onion

on it with such vigour that tears of emotion sprang into his eyes.

He spoke again of the totalisator, of his winnings, and of a hat of

Panama straw for which he had paid sixteen roubles the day before. He

lied with the same appetite with which he had drunk and devoured the

herring. His son sat silently for more than an hour, and then rose to

take leave.

"I wouldn't think of detaining you," said Musátoff stiffly. "I ask

your pardon, young man, for not living in the way to which you are

accustomed."

He bristled up, sniffed with dignity, and winked to the women.

"Good-bye, young man!" he said, escorting his son into the hall.

"_Attendez!_"

But in the hall, where it was quite dark, he suddenly pressed his face

to his son's arm, and sobbed. "If I could only see Sóniushka!" he

whispered. "Arrange it, Bórenka, angel mine! I will have a shave, and

put on one of your suits ... and make a severe face. I won't open my

mouth while she's present I won't say a word. I swear to God!"

He glanced timidly at the door, from behind which came the shrill

voices of the women, smothered his sobs, and said in a loud voice:

"Well, good-bye, young man! _Attendez!_"

TWO TRAGEDIES

At ten o'clock on a dark September evening six-year-old Andrei, the

only son of Dr. Kiríloff, a Zemstvo physician, died from diphtheria.

The doctor's wife had just thrown herself upon her knees at the bedside

of her dead child, and was giving way to the first ecstacy of despair,

when the hall-door bell rang loudly. Owing to the danger of infection

all the servants had been sent out of the house that morning; and

Kiríloff, in his shirtsleeves, with unbuttoned waistcoat, with sweating

face, and hands burned with carbolic acid, opened the door himself. The

hall was dark, and the stranger who entered it was hardly visible. All

that Kiríloff could distinguish was that he was of middle height, that

he wore a white muffler, and had a big, extraordinarily pale face--a

face so pale that at first it seemed to illumine the darkness of the

hall.

"Is the doctor at home?" he asked quickly.

"I am the doctor," answered Kiríloff, "What do you want?"

"Ah, it is you. I am glad!" said the stranger. He stretched out through

the darkness for the doctor's hand, found it, and pressed it tightly.

"I am very ... very glad. We are acquaintances. My name is Abógin....

I had the pleasure of meeting you last summer at Gnutcheffs. I am very

glad that you are in.... For the love of Christ do not refuse to come

with me at once.... My wife is dangerously ill.... I have brought a

trap."

From Abógin's voice and movements it was plain that he was greatly

agitated. Like a man frightened by a fire or by a mad dog, he could

not contain his breath. He spoke rapidly in a trembling voice, and

something inexpressibly sincere and childishly imploring sounded in

his speech. But, like all men frightened and thunderstruck, he spoke

in short abrupt phrases, and used many superfluous and inconsequential

words.

"I was afraid I should not find you at home," he continued. "While I

was driving here I was in a state of torture.... Dress and come at

once, for the love of God ... It happened thus. Paptchinski--Alexander

Semionevitch--whom you know, had driven over.... We talked for awhile

... then we had tea; suddenly my wife screamed, laid her hand upon

her heart, and fell against the back of the chair. We put her on the

bed.... I bathed her forehead with ammonia, and sprinkled her with

water ... she lies like a corpse.... It is aneurism.... Come.... Her

father died from aneurism...."

Kiríloff listened and said nothing. It seemed he had forgotten his own

language. But when Abógin repeated what he had said about Paptchinski

and about his wife's father, the doctor shook his head, and said

apathetically, drawling every word:

"Excuse me, I cannot go.... Five minutes ago ... my child died."

"Is it possible?" cried Abógin, taking a step hack. "Good God, at what

an unlucky time I have come! An amazingly unhappy day ... amazing! What

a coincidence ... as if on purpose."

Abógin put his hand upon the door-handle, and inclined his head as if

in doubt. He was plainly undecided as to what to do; whether to go, or

again to ask the doctor to come.

"Listen to me," he said passionately, seizing Kiríloff by the arm; "I

thoroughly understand your position. God is my witness that I feel

shame in trying to distract your attention at such a moment, but ...

what can I do? Judge yourself--whom can I apply to? Except you, there

is no doctor in the neighbourhood. Come! For the love of God! It is not

for myself I ask.... It is not I who am ill."

A silence followed. Kiríloff turned his back to Abógin, for a moment

stood still, and went slowly from the anteroom into the hall.

Judging by his uncertain, mechanical gait, by the care with which he

straightened the shade upon the unlit lamp, and looked into a thick

book which lay upon the table--in this moment he had no intentions,

no wishes, thought of nothing; and probably had even forgotten that

in the anteroom a stranger was waiting. The twilight and silence of

the hall apparently intensified his stupor. Walking from the hall into

his study, he raised his right leg high, and sought with his hands the

doorpost. All his figure showed a strange uncertainty, as if he were in

another's house, or for the first time in life were intoxicated, and

were surrendering himself questioningly to the new sensation. Along the

wall of the study and across the bookshelves ran a long zone of light.

Together with a heavy, close smell of carbolic and ether, this light

came from a slightly opened door which led from the study into the

bedroom. The doctor threw himself into an armchair before the table. A

minute he looked drowsily at the illumined books, and then rose, and

went into the bedroom.

In the bedroom reigned the silence of the grave. All, to the smallest

trifle, spoke eloquently of a struggle just lived through, of

exhaustion, and of final rest. A candle standing on the stool among

phials, boxes, and jars, and a large lamp upon the dressing-table

lighted the room. On the bed beside the window lay a boy with open eyes

and an expression of surprise upon his face. He did not move, but his

eyes, it seemed, every second grew darker and darker, and vanished into

his skull. With her hands upon his body, and her face hidden in the

folds of the bedclothes, knelt the mother. Like the child, she made no

movement; life showed itself alone in the bend of her back and in the

position of her hands. She pressed against the bed with all her being,

with force and eagerness, us if she feared to destroy the tranquil and

convenient pose which she had found for her weary body. Counterpane,

dressings, jars, pools on the floor, brashes and spoons scattered here

and there, the white bottle of lime-water, the very air, heavy and

stifling--all were dead and seemed immersed in rest.

The doctor stopped near his wife, thrust his hands into his trouser

pockets, and turning his head, bent his gaze upon his son. His face

expressed indifference; only by the drops upon his beard could it be

seen that he had just been crying.

The repellent terror which we conceive when we speak of death was

absent from the room. The general stupefaction, the mother's pose, the

father's indifferent face, exhaled something attractive and touching;

exhaled that subtle, intangible beauty of human sorrow which cannot

be analysed or described, and which music alone can express. Beauty

breathed even in the grim tranquillity of the mourners. Kiríloff and

his wife were silent; they did not weep, as if in addition to the

weight of their sorrow they were conscious also of the poetry of

their position. It seemed that they were thinking how in its time

their youth had passed, how now with this child had passed even their

right to have children at all. The doctor was forty-four years old,

already grey, with the face of an old man; his faded and sickly wife,

thirty-five. Andreï was not only their only son, but also their last.

In contrast with his wife, Kiríloff belonged to those natures which in

time of spiritual pain feel a need for movement. After standing five

minutes beside his wife, he, again lifting high his right leg, went

from the bedroom into a little room half taken up by a long, broad

sofa, and thence into the kitchen. After wandering about the stove and

the cook's bed he bowed his head and went through a little door back to

the anteroom. Here again he saw the white muffler and the pale face.

"At last!" sighed Abógin, taking hold of the door-handle. "Come,

please!"

The doctor shuddered, looked at him, and remembered.

"Listen to me; have I not already told you I cannot come?" he said,

waking up. "How extraordinary!"

"Doctor, I am not made of stone.... I thoroughly understand your

position.... I sympathise with you!" said Abógin, with an imploring

voice, laying one hand upon his muffler. "But I am not asking this

for myself.... My wife is dying! If you had heard her cry, if you

had seen her face, then you would understand my persistence! My God!

and I thought that you had gone to get ready! Dr. Kiríloff, time is

precious. Come, I implore you!"

"I cannot go," said Kiríloff with a pause between each word. Then he

returned to the hall.

Abógin went after him, and seized him by the arm.

"You are overcome by your sorrow--that I understand. But remember ...

I am not asking you to come and cure a toothache ... not as an adviser

... but to save a human life," he continued, in the voice of a beggar.

"A human life should be supreme over every personal sorrow.... I beg of

you manliness, an exploit!... In the name of humanity!"

"Humanity is a stick with two ends," said Kiríloff with irritation.

"In the name of the same humanity I beg of you not to drag me away. How

strange this seems! Here I am hardly standing on my legs, yet you worry

me with your humanity! At the present moment I am good for nothing....

I will not go on any consideration! And for whom should I leave my

wife? No.... No."

Kiríloff waved his hands and staggered back.

"Do not ... do not ask me," he continued in a frightened voice. "Excuse

me.... By the Thirteenth Volume of the Code I am bound to go, and you

have the right to drag me by the arm.... If you will have it, drag

me ... but I am useless.... Even for conversation I am not in a fit

state.... Excuse me."

"It is useless, doctor, for you to speak to me in that tone," said

Abógin, again taking Kiríloff's arm. "The devil take your Thirteenth

Volume!... To do violence to your will I have no right. If you will,

come; if you don't, then God be with you; but it is not to your will

that I appeal, but to your heart!... A young woman is at the point of

death! This moment your own son has died, and who if not you should

understand my terror?"

Abógin's voice trembled with agitation; in tremble and in tone was

something more persuasive than in the words. He was certainly sincere;

but it was remarkable that no matter how well chosen his phrases, they

seemed to come from him stilted, soulless, inappropriately ornate, to

such an extent that they seemed an insult to the atmosphere of the

doctor's house and to his own dying wife. He felt this himself, and

therefore, fearing to be misunderstood, he tried with all his force to

make his voice sound soft and tender, so as to win if not with words

at least by sincerity of tone. In general, phrases, however beautiful

and profound, act only on those who are indifferent, and seldom satisfy

the happy or unhappy; it is for this reason that the most touching

expression of joy or sorrow is always silence; sweethearts understand

one another best when they are silent; and a burning passionate eulogy

spoken above a grave touches only the strangers present, and seems to

widow and child inexpressive and cold.

Kiríloff stood still and said nothing. When Abógin used some more

phrases about the high vocation of a physician, self-sacrifice, and so

on, the doctor asked gloomily:

"Is it far?"

"Something between thirteen and fourteen versts. I have excellent

horses. I give you my word of honour to bring you there and back in an

hour. In a single hour!"

The last words aided on the doctor more powerfully than the references

to humanity and the vocation of a doctor. He thought for a moment and

said, with a sigh:

"All right.... I will go."

With a rapid, steady gait he went into his study, and after a moment's

delay returned with a long overcoat. Moving nervously beside him,

shuffling his feet, and overjoyed, Abógin helped him into his coat.

Together they left the house.

It was dark outside, but not so dark as in the anteroom. In the

darkness was clearly defined the outline of the tall, stooping doctor,

with his long, narrow beard and eagle nose. As for Abógin, in addition

to his pale face the doctor could now distinguish a big head, and a

little student's cap barely covering the crown. The white muffler

gleamed only in front; behind, it was hidden under long hair.

"Believe me, I appreciate your generosity," he muttered, seating the

doctor in the calêche. "We will get there in no time. Listen, Luka, old

man, drive as hard as you can! Quick!"

The coachman drove rapidly. First they flew past a row of ugly

buildings, with a great open yard; everywhere around it was dark, but

from a window a bright light glimmered through the palisade, and three

windows in the upper story of the great block seemed paler than the

air. After that they drove through intense darkness. There was a smell

of mushroom dampness, and a lisping of trees; ravens awakened by the

noise of the calêche stirred in the foliage, and raised a frightened,

complaining cry, as if they knew that Kiríloff's son was dead, and

that Abógin's wife was dying. They flashed past single trees, past a

coppice; a pond, crossed with great black shadows, scintillated--and

the calêche rolled across a level plain. The cry of the ravens was

heard indistinctly far behind, and then ceased entirely.

For nearly the whole way Abógin and Kiríloff were silent. Only once,

Abógin sighed and exclaimed:

"A frightful business! A man never so loves those who are near to him

as when he is in danger of losing them."

And when the calêche slowly crossed the river, Kiríloff started

suddenly as if he were frightened by the plash of the water, and moved.

"Listen! Let me go for a moment," he said wearily. "I will come again.

I must send a feldscher to my wife. She is alone!"

Abógin did not answer. The calêche, swaying and banging over the

stones, crossed a sandy bank, and rolled onward. Kiríloff, wrapped

in weariness, looked around him. Behind, in the scanty starlight,

gleamed the road; and the willows by the river bank vanished in the

darkness. To the right stretched a plain, flat and interminable as

heaven; and far in the distance, no doubt on some sodden marsh, gleamed

will-of-the-wisps. On the left, running parallel to the road, stretched

a hillock, shaggy with a small shrubbery, and over the hill hung

immovably a great half-moon, rosy, half muffled in the mist and fringed

with light clouds, which, it seemed, watched it on every side, that it

might not escape.

On all sides Nature exhaled something hopeless and sickly; the earth,

like a fallen woman sitting in her dark chamber and trying to forget

the past, seemed tormented with remembrances of spring and summer, and

waited in apathy the inevitable winter. Everywhere the world seemed

a dark, unfathomable deep, an icy pit from which there was no escape

either for Kiríloff or for Abógin or for the red half-moon....

The nearer to its goal whirled the calêche, the more impatient seemed

Abógin. He shifted, jumped up, and looked over the coachman's shoulder.

And when at last the carriage stopped before steps handsomely covered

with striped drugget, he looked up at the lighted windows of the second

story, and panted audibly.

"If anything happens ... I will never survive it," he said, entering

the hall with Kiríloff, and rubbing his hands in agitation. But after

listening a moment, he added, "There is no confusion ... things must be

going well."

In the hall were neither voices nor footsteps, and the whole house,

notwithstanding its brilliant lights, seemed asleep. Only now, for the

first time, the doctor and Abógin, after their sojourn in darkness,

could see one another plainly. Kiríloff was tall, round-shouldered, and

ugly, and was carelessly dressed. His thick, almost negro, lips, his

eagle nose, and his withered, indifferent glance, expressed something

cutting, unkindly, and rude. His uncombed hair, his sunken temples, the

premature grey in the long, narrow beard, through which appeared his

chin, the pale grey of his skin, and his careless, angular manners, all

reflected a career of need endured, of misfortune, of weariness with

life and with men. Judging by his dry figure, no one would ever believe

that this man had a wife, and that he had wept over his child.

Abógin was a contrast. He was a thick-set, solid blond, with a big

head, with heavy but soft features; and he was dressed elegantly and

fashionably. From his carriage, from his closely-buttoned frock-coat,

from his mane of hair, and from his face, flowed something noble and

leonine; he walked with his head erect and his chest expanded, he spoke

in an agreeable baritone, and the way in which he took off his muffler

and smoothed his hair breathed a delicate, feminine elegance. Even

his pallor, and the childish terror with which, while taking off his

coat, he looked up the staircase, did not detract from his dignity,

or diminish the satiety, health, and aplomb which his whole figure

breathed.

"There is no one about ... I can hear nothing," he said, going

upstairs. "There is no confusion.... God is merciful!"

He led the doctor through the hall into a great drawing-room, with a

black piano, and lustres in white covers. From this they went into a

small, cosy, and well-furnished dining-room, full of a pleasant, rosy

twilight.

"Wait a moment," said Abógin, "I shall be back immediately. I will look

around and tell them you are here...."

Kiríloff remained alone. The luxury of the room, the pleasant twilight,

and even his presence in the unknown house of a stranger, which had the

character of an adventure, apparently did not affect him. He lay back

in the armchair and examined his hands, burnt with carbolic acid. Only

faintly could he see the bright red lamp shade and a violoncello case.

But looking at the other side of the room, where ticked a clock, he

noticed a stuffed wolf, as solid and sated as Abógin himself.

Not a sound.... Then in a distant room someone loudly ejaculated "Ah!";

a glass door, probably the door of a wardrobe, closed ... and again

all was silent. After waiting a moment Kiríloff ceased to examine his

hands, and raised his eyes upon the door through which Abógin had gone.

On the threshold stood Abógin. But it was not the Abógin who had

left the room. The expression of satiety, the delicate elegance had

vanished; his face, his figure, his pose were contorted by a repulsive

expression not quite of terror, not quite of physical pain. His nose,

his lips, his moustaches, all his features twitched; it seemed they

wished to tear themselves off his face; and his eyes were transfigured

as if from torture.

Abógin walked heavily into the middle of the room, bent himself in two,

groaned, and shook his fists. "Deceived!" he shouted, with a strong

hissing accentuation of the second syllable. "Cheated! Gone! Got ill,

and sent for a doctor, only to fly with that buffoon Paptchinski! My

God!"

Abógin walked heavily up to the doctor, stretched up to his face his

white, soft fists, and, shaking them, continued in a howl:

"Gone! Deceived! But why this extra lie? My God! My God! But why this

filthy swindler's trick, this devilish reptile play? What have I ever

done? Gone!"

The tears burst from his eyes. He turned on one foot and walked up and

down the room. And now in his short coat, in the narrow, fashionable

trousers, which made his legs seem too thin for his body, with his

great head and mane, he still more closely resembled a lion. On the

doctor's indifferent face appeared curiosity. He rose and looked at

Abógin.

"Be so good as to tell me ... where is the patient?"

"Patient! Patient!" cried Abógin, with a laugh, a sob, and a shaking

of his fists. "This is no sick woman, but a woman accursed! Meanness,

baseness, lower than Satan himself could have conceived! Sent for a

doctor, to fly with him--to fly with that buffoon, that clown, that

Alphonse. Oh, God, better a thousand times that she had died! I cannot

bear it.... I cannot bear it!"

The doctor drew himself up. His eyes blinked and filled with team, his

narrow beard moved to the right and to the left in accord with the

movement of his jaws.

"Be so good as to inform me what is the meaning of this?" he asked,

looking around him in curiosity. "My child lies dead, my wife in

despair is left alone in a great house. I myself can hardly stand on

my feet, for three nights I have not slept, and what is this? am

brought here to play in some trivial comedy, to take the part of a

property-man.... I don't understand it!"

Abógin opened one of his fists, flung upon the floor a crumpled paper,

and trod on it as upon an insect which he wished to crush.

"And I never saw it! I never understood!" he said through his clenched

teeth, shaking one of his fists beside his face, with an expression as

if someone had trod upon a corn. "I never noticed that he rode here

every day, never noticed that to-day he came in a carriage! Why in a

carriage? And I never noticed! Fool!"

"I don't understand ... I really don't understand," stammered Kiríloff.

"What is the meaning of this? This is practical joking at the expense

of another ... it is mocking at human suffering. It is impossible. ...

I have never heard of such a thing!"

With the dull astonishment depicted on his face of a man who is only

beginning to understand that he has been badly insulted, the doctor

shrugged his shoulders, and not knowing what to say, threw himself in

exhaustion into the chair.

"Got tired of me, loved another! Well, God be with them! But why

this deception, why this base, this traitorous trick?" cried Abógin

in a whining voice. "Why? For what? What have I done to her? Listen,

doctor," he said passionately, coming nearer to Kiríloff. "You are

the involuntary witness of my misfortune, and I will not conceal from

you the truth. I swear to you that I loved that woman, that I loved

her to adoration, that I was her slave. For her I gave up everything;

I quarrelled with my parents, I threw up my career and my music,

I forgave her what I could not have forgiven in my own mother or

sister.... I have never said an unkind word to her.... I gave her no

cause! But why this lie? I do not ask for love, but why this shameless

deception P If a woman doesn't love, then let her say so openly,

honestly, all the more since she knew my views on that subject...."

With tears in his eyes, and with his body trembling all over, Abógin

sincerely poured forth to the doctor his whole soul. He spoke

passionately, with both hands pressed to his heart, he revealed

family secrets without a moment's hesitation; and, it seemed, was

even relieved when these secrets escaped him. Had he spoken thus for

an hour, for two hours, and poured out his soul, he would certainly

have felt better. Who knows whether the doctor might not have listened

to him, sympathised with him as a friend, and, even without protest,

become reconciled to his own unhappiness.... But it happened otherwise.

While Abógin spoke, the insulted doctor changed. The indifference and

surprise on his face gave way little by little to an expression of

bitter offence, indignation, and wrath. His features became sharper,

harder, and more disagreeable. And finally when Abógin held before

his eyes the photograph of a young woman with a face handsome but dry

and inexpressive as a nun's, and asked him could he, looking at this

photograph, imagine that she was capable of telling a lie, the doctor

suddenly leaped up, averted his eyes, and said, rudely ringing out

every word:

"What do you mean by talking to me like this? I don't want to hear you!

I will not listen!" He shouted and banged his fist upon the table.

"What have I to do with your stupid secrets, devil take them! You dare

to communicate to me these base trifles! Do you not see that I have

already been insulted enough? Am I a lackey who will bear insults

without retaliation?"

Abógin staggered backwards, and looked at Kiríloff in amazement.

"Why did you bring me here?" continued the doctor, shaking his

beard.... "If you marry filth, then storm with your filth, and play

your melodramas; but what affair is that of mine? What have I to do

with your romances? Leave me alone! Display your well-born meanness,

show off your humane ideas, (the doctor pointed to the violoncello

case) play on your double basses and trombones, get as fat as a capon,

but do not dare to mock the personality of another! If you cannot

respect it, then rid it of your detestable attention!"

Abógin reddened. "What does all this mean?" he asked.

"It means this: that it is base and infamous to play practical jokes

on other men. I am a doctor; you regard doctors and all other working

men who do not smell of scent and prostitution as your lackeys and your

servants. But reflect, reflect--no one has I given you the right to

make a property man of a suffering human being!"

"You dare to speak this to me?" said Abógin; and his face again

twitched, this time plainly from anger.

"Yes ... and you, knowing of the misery in my home, have dared to drag

me here to witness this insanity," cried the doctor, again banging

his fist upon the table. "Who gave you the right to mock at human

misfortune?"

"You are out of your mind," said Abógin. "You are not generous. I also

am deeply unhappy, and...."

"Unhappy!" cried Kiríloff, with a contemptuous laugh. "Do not touch

that word; it ill becomes you. Oafs who have no money to meet their

bills also call themselves unfortunate. Geese that are stuffed with too

much fat are also unhappy. Insignificant curs!"

"You forget yourself, you forget yourself!" screamed Abógin. "For

words like those ... people are horsewhipped. Do you hear me?"

He suddenly thrust his hand into his side pocket, took out a

pocket-book, and taking two bank-notes, flung them on the table.

"There you have the money for your visit!" he said, dilating his

nostrils. "You are paid!"

"Do not dare to offer money to me," cried Kiríloff, sweeping the notes

on to the floor. "For insults money is not the payment."

The two men stood face to face, and in their anger flung insults at one

another. It is certain that never in their lives had they uttered so

many unjust, inhuman, and ridiculous words. In each was fully expressed

the egoism of the unfortunate. And men who are unfortunate, egoistical,

angry, unjust, and heartless are even less than stupid men capable of

understanding one another. For misfortune does not unite, but severs;

and those who should be bound by community of sorrow are much more

unjust and heartless than the happy and contented.

"Be so good as to send me home!" cried the doctor at last.

Abógin rang sharply. Receiving no answer he rang again, and angrily

flung the bell upon the floor; it fell heavily on the carpet and

emitted a plaintive and ominous sound.... A footman appeared.

"Where have you been hiding yourself? May Satan take you!" roared

Abógin, rushing at him with clenched fists. "Where have you been? Go,

tell them at once to give this gentleman the calêche, and get the

carriage ready for me!... Stop!" he cried, when the servant turned to

go. "To-morrow let none of you traitors remain in this house! The whole

pack of you! I will get others! Curs!"

Awaiting their carriages, Abógin and Kiríloff were silent. The first

had already regained his expression of satiety and his delicate

elegance. He walked up and down the room, shook his head gracefully,

and apparently thought something out. His anger had not yet evaporated,

but he tried to look as if he did not notice his enemy.... The doctor

stood, with one hand on the edge of the table, and looked at Abógin

with deep, somewhat cynical and ugly contempt--with the eyes of sorrow

and misfortune when they see before them satiety and elegance.

When, after a short delay, the doctor took his seat in the calêche,

his eyes retained their contemptuous look. It was dark, much darker

than an hour before. The red half-moon had fallen below the hill,

and the clouds that had guarded it lay in black spots among the

stars. A carriage with red lamps rattled along the road, and overtook

Kiríloff. It was Abógin, driving away to protest ... and make a fool of

himself....

And all the way home Kiríloff thought, not of his wife or of dead

Andreï, but of Abógin and of the people who lived in the house which

he had just left. His thoughts were unjust, heartless, inhuman. He

condemned Abógin and his wife, and Paptchinski, and all that class of

persons who live in a rosy twilight and smell of perfumes; all the way

he hated and despised them to the point of torture; and his mind was

full of unshakeable convictions as to the worthlessness of such people.

Time will pass; the sorrow of Kiríloff will pass away also, but this

conviction--unjust, unworthy of a human heart--will never pass away,

and will remain with the doctor to the day of his death.