evening
auntie, in a loose print blouse, varvarushka and two old women, were sitting in the dining-room having supper. a big piece of salt meat, a ham, and various savouries, were lying on the table before them, and clouds of steam were rising from the meat, which looked particularly fat and appetizing. wine was not served on the lower story, but they made up for it with a great number of spirits and home-made liqueurs. agafyushka, the fat, white-skinned, well-fed cook, was standing with her arms crossed in the doorway and talking to the old women, and the dishes were being handed by the downstairs masha, a dark girl with a crimson ribbon in her hair. the old women had had enough to eat before the morning was over, and an hour before supper had had tea and buns, and so they were now eating with effort — as it were, from a sense of duty.
“oh, my girl!” sighed auntie, as anna akimovna ran into the dining-room and sat down beside her. “you’ve frightened me to death!”
every one in the house was pleased when anna akimovna was in good spirits and played pranks; this always reminded them that the old men were dead and that the old women had no authority in the house, and any one could do as he liked without any fear of being sharply called to account for it. only the two old women glanced askance at anna akimovna with amazement: she was humming, and it was a sin to sing at table.
“our mistress, our beauty, our picture,” agafyushka began chanting with sugary sweetness. “our precious jewel! the people, the people that have come today to look at our queen. lord have mercy upon us! generals, and officers and gentlemen. . . . i kept looking out of window and counting and counting till i gave it up.”
“i’d as soon they did not come at all,” said auntie; she looked sadly at her niece and added: “they only waste the time for my poor orphan girl.”
anna akimovna felt hungry, as she had eaten nothing since the morning. they poured her out some very bitter liqueur; she drank it off, and tasted the salt meat with mustard, and thought it extraordinarily nice. then the downstairs masha brought in the turkey, the pickled apples and the gooseberries. and that pleased her, too. there was only one thing that was disagreeable: there was a draught of hot air from the tiled stove; it was stiflingly close and every one’s cheeks were burning. after supper the cloth was taken off and plates of peppermint biscuits, walnuts, and raisins were brought in.
“you sit down, too . . . no need to stand there!” said auntie to the cook.
agafyushka sighed and sat down to the table; masha set a wineglass of liqueur before her, too, and anna akimovna began to feel as though agafyushka’s white neck were giving out heat like the stove. they were all talking of how difficult it was nowadays to get married, and saying that in old days, if men did not court beauty, they paid attention to money, but now there was no making out what they wanted; and while hunchbacks and cripples used to be left old maids, nowadays men would not have even the beautiful and wealthy. auntie began to set this down to immorality, and said that people had no fear of god, but she suddenly remembered that ivan ivanitch, her brother, and varvarushka — both people of holy life — had feared god, but all the same had had children on the sly, and had sent them to the foundling asylum. she pulled herself up and changed the conversation, telling them about a suitor she had once had, a factory hand, and how she had loved him, but her brothers had forced her to marry a widower, an ikon-painter, who, thank god, had died two years after. the downstairs masha sat down to the table, too, and told them with a mysterious air that for the last week some unknown man with a black moustache, in a great-coat with an astrachan collar, had made his appearance every morning in the yard, had stared at the windows of the big house, and had gone on further — to the buildings; the man was all right, nice-looking.
all this conversation made anna akimovna suddenly long to be married — long intensely, painfully; she felt as though she would give half her life and all her fortune only to know that upstairs there was a man who was closer to her than any one in the world, that he loved her warmly and was missing her; and the thought of such closeness, ecstatic and inexpressible in words, troubled her soul. and the instinct of youth and health flattered her with lying assurances that the real poetry of life was not over but still to come, and she believed it, and leaning back in her chair (her hair fell down as she did so), she began laughing, and, looking at her, the others laughed, too. and it was a long time before this causeless laughter died down in the dining-room.
she was informed that the stinging beetle had come. this was a pilgrim woman called pasha or spiridonovna — a thin little woman of fifty, in a black dress with a white kerchief, with keen eyes, sharp nose, and a sharp chin; she had sly, viperish eyes and she looked as though she could see right through every one. her lips were shaped like a heart. her viperishness and hostility to every one had earned her the nickname of the stinging beetle.
going into the dining-room without looking at any one, she made for the ikons and chanted in a high voice “thy holy birth,” then she sang “the virgin today gives birth to the son,” then “christ is born,” then she turned round and bent a piercing gaze upon all of them.
“a happy christmas,” she said, and she kissed anna akimovna on the shoulder. “it’s all i could do, all i could do to get to you, my kind friends.” she kissed auntie on the shoulder. “i should have come to you this morning, but i went in to some good people to rest on the way. ‘stay, spiridonovna, stay,’ they said, and i did not notice that evening was coming on.”
as she did not eat meat, they gave her salmon and caviare. she ate looking from under her eyelids at the company, and drank three glasses of vodka. when she had finished she said a prayer and bowed down to anna akimovna’s feet.
they began to play a game of “kings,” as they had done the year before, and the year before that, and all the servants in both stories crowded in at the doors to watch the game. anna akimovna fancied she caught a glimpse once or twice of mishenka, with a patronizing smile on his face, among the crowd of peasant men and women. the first to be king was stinging beetle, and anna akimovna as the soldier paid her tribute; and then auntie was king and anna akimovna was peasant, which excited general delight, and agafyushka was prince, and was quite abashed with pleasure. another game was got up at the other end of the table — played by the two mashas, varvarushka, and the sewing-maid marfa ptrovna, who was waked on purpose to play “kings,” and whose face looked cross and sleepy.
while they were playing they talked of men, and of how difficult it was to get a good husband nowadays, and which state was to be preferred — that of an old maid or a widow.
“you are a handsome, healthy, sturdy lass,” said stinging beetle to anna akimovna. “but i can’t make out for whose sake you are holding back.”
“what’s to be done if nobody will have me?”
“or maybe you have taken a vow to remain a maid?” stinging beetle went on, as though she did not hear. “well, that’s a good deed. . . . remain one,” she repeated, looking intently and maliciously at her cards. “all right, my dear, remain one. . . . yes . . . only maids, these saintly maids, are not all alike.” she heaved a sigh and played the king. “oh, no, my girl, they are not all alike! some really watch over themselves like nuns, and butter would not melt in their mouths; and if such a one does sin in an hour of weakness, she is worried to death, poor thing! so it would be a sin to condemn her. while others will go dressed in black and sew their shroud, and yet love rich old men on the sly. yes, y-es, my canary birds, some hussies will bewitch an old man and rule over him, my doves, rule over him and turn his head; and when they’ve saved up money and lottery tickets enough, they will bewitch him to his death.”
varvarushka’s only response to these hints was to heave a sigh and look towards the ikons. there was an expression of christian meekness on her countenance.
“i know a maid like that, my bitterest enemy,” stinging beetle went on, looking round at every one in triumph; “she is always sighing, too, and looking at the ikons, the she-devil. when she used to rule in a certain old man’s house, if one went to her she would give one a crust, and bid one bow down to the ikons while she would sing: ‘in conception thou dost abide a virgin . . .!’ on holidays she will give one a bite, and on working days she will reproach one for it. but nowadays i will make merry over her! i will make as merry as i please, my jewel.”
varvarushka glanced at the ikons again and crossed herself.
“but no one will have me, spiridonovna,” said anna akimovna to change the conversation. “what’s to be done?”
“it’s your own fault. you keep waiting for highly educated gentlemen, but you ought to marry one of your own sort, a merchant.”
“we don’t want a merchant,” said auntie, all in a flutter. “queen of heaven, preserve us! a gentleman will spend your money, but then he will be kind to you, you poor little fool. but a merchant will be so strict that you won’t feel at home in your own house. you’ll be wanting to fondle him and he will be counting his money, and when you sit down to meals with him, he’ll grudge you every mouthful, though it’s your own, the lout! . . . marry a gentleman.”
they all talked at once, loudly interrupting one another, and auntie tapped on the table with the nutcrackers and said, flushed and angry:
“we won’t have a merchant; we won’t have one! if you choose a merchant i shall go to an almshouse.”
“sh . . . sh! . . . hush!” cried stinging beetle; when all were silent she screwed up one eye and said: “do you know what, annushka, my birdie . . .? there is no need for you to get married really like every one else. you’re rich and free, you are your own mistress; but yet, my child, it doesn’t seem the right thing for you to be an old maid. i’ll find you, you know, some trumpery and simple-witted man. you’ll marry him for appearances and then have your fling, bonny lass! you can hand him five thousand or ten maybe, and pack him off where he came from, and you will be mistress in your own house — you can love whom you like and no one can say anything to you. and then you can love your highly educated gentleman. you’ll have a jolly time!” stinging beetle snapped her fingers and gave a whistle.
“it’s sinful,” said auntie.
“oh, sinful,” laughed stinging beetle. “she is educated, she understands. to cut some one’s throat or bewitch an old man — that’s a sin, that’s true; but to love some charming young friend is not a sin at all. and what is there in it, really? there’s no sin in it at all! the old pilgrim women have invented all that to make fools of simple folk. i, too, say everywhere it’s a sin; i don’t know myself why it’s a sin.” stinging beetle emptied her glass and cleared her throat. “have your fling, bonny lass,” this time evidently addressing herself. “for thirty years, wenches, i have thought of nothing but sins and been afraid, but now i see i have wasted my time, i’ve let it slip by like a ninny! ah, i have been a fool, a fool!” she sighed. “a woman’s time is short and every day is precious. you are handsome, annushka, and very rich; but as soon as thirty-five or forty strikes for you your time is up. don’t listen to any one, my girl; live, have your fling till you are forty, and then you will have time to pray forgiveness — there will be plenty of time to bow down and to sew your shroud. a candle to god and a poker to the devil! you can do both at once! well, how is it to be? will you make some little man happy?”
“i will,” laughed anna akimovna. “i don’t care now; i would marry a working man.”
“well, that would do all right! oh, what a fine fellow you would choose then!” stinging beetle screwed up her eyes and shook her head. “o— o — oh!”
“i tell her myself,” said auntie, “it’s no good waiting for a gentleman, so she had better marry, not a gentleman, but some one humbler; anyway we should have a man in the house to look after things. and there are lots of good men. she might have some one out of the factory. they are all sober, steady men . . . .”
“i should think so,” stinging beetle agreed. “they are capital fellows. if you like, aunt, i will make a match for her with vassily lebedinsky?”
“oh, vasya’s legs are so long,” said auntie seriously. “he is so lanky. he has no looks.”
there was laughter in the crowd by the door.
“well, pimenov? would you like to marry pimenov?” stinging beetle asked anna akimovna.
“very good. make a match for me with pimenov.”
“really?”
“yes, do!” anna akimovna said resolutely, and she struck her fist on the table. “on my honour, i will marry him.”
“really?”
anna akimovna suddenly felt ashamed that her cheeks were burning and that every one was looking at her; she flung the cards together on the table and ran out of the room. as she ran up the stairs and, reaching the upper story, sat down to the piano in the drawing-room, a murmur of sound reached her from below like the roar of the sea; most likely they were talking of her and of pimenov, and perhaps stinging beetle was taking advantage of her absence to insult varvarushka and was putting no check on her language.
the lamp in the big room was the only light burning in the upper story, and it sent a glimmer through the door into the dark drawing-room. it was between nine and ten, not later. anna akimovna played a waltz, then another, then a third; she went on playing without stopping. she looked into the dark corner beyond the piano, smiled, and inwardly called to it, and the idea occurred to her that she might drive off to the town to see some one, lysevitch for instance, and tell him what was passing in her heart. she wanted to talk without ceasing, to laugh, to play the fool, but the dark corner was sullenly silent, and all round in all the rooms of the upper story it was still and desolate.
she was fond of sentimental songs, but she had a harsh, untrained voice, and so she only played the accompaniment and sang hardly audibly, just above her breath. she sang in a whisper one song after another, for the most part about love, separation, and frustrated hopes, and she imagined how she would hold out her hands to him and say with entreaty, with tears, “pimenov, take this burden from me!” and then, just as though her sins had been forgiven, there would be joy and comfort in her soul, and perhaps a free, happy life would begin. in an anguish of anticipation she leant over the keys, with a passionate longing for the change in her life to come at once without delay, and was terrified at the thought that her old life would go on for some time longer. then she played again and sang hardly above her breath, and all was stillness about her. there was no noise coming from downstairs now, they must have gone to bed. it had struck ten some time before. a long, solitary, wearisome night was approaching.
anna akimovna walked through all the rooms, lay down for a while on the sofa, and read in her study the letters that had come that evening; there were twelve letters of christmas greetings and three anonymous letters. in one of them some workman complained in a horrible, almost illegible handwriting that lenten oil sold in the factory shop was rancid and smelt of paraffin; in another, some one respectfully informed her that over a purchase of iron nazaritch had lately taken a bribe of a thousand roubles from some one; in a third she was abused for her inhumanity.
the excitement of christmas was passing off, and to keep it up anna akimovna sat down at the piano again and softly played one of the new waltzes, then she remembered how cleverly and creditably she had spoken at dinner today. she looked round at the dark windows, at the walls with the pictures, at the faint light that came from the big room, and all at once she began suddenly crying, and she felt vexed that she was so lonely, and that she had no one to talk to and consult. to cheer herself she tried to picture pimenov in her imagination, but it was unsuccessful.
it struck twelve. mishenka, no longer wearing his swallow-tail but in his reefer jacket, came in, and without speaking lighted two candles; then he went out and returned a minute later with a cup of tea on a tray.
“what are you laughing at?” she asked, noticing a smile on his face.
“i was downstairs and heard the jokes you were making about pimenov . . .” he said, and put his hand before his laughing mouth. “if he were sat down to dinner today with viktor nikolaevitch and the general, he’d have died of fright.” mishenka’s shoulders were shaking with laughter. “he doesn’t know even how to hold his fork, i bet.”
the footman’s laughter and words, his reefer jacket and moustache, gave anna akimovna a feeling of uncleanness. she shut her eyes to avoid seeing him, and, against her own will, imagined pimenov dining with lysevitch and krylin, and his timid, unintellectual figure seemed to her pitiful and helpless, and she felt repelled by it. and only now, for the first time in the whole day, she realized clearly that all she had said and thought about pimenov and marrying a workman was nonsense, folly, and wilfulness. to convince herself of the opposite, to overcome her repulsion, she tried to recall what she had said at dinner, but now she could not see anything in it: shame at her own thoughts and actions, and the fear that she had said something improper during the day, and disgust at her own lack of spirit, overwhelmed her completely. she took up a candle and, as rapidly as if some one were pursuing her, ran downstairs, woke spiridonovna, and began assuring her she had been joking. then she went to her bedroom. red-haired masha, who was dozing in an arm-chair near the bed, jumped up and began shaking up the pillows. her face was exhausted and sleepy, and her magnificent hair had fallen on one side.
“tchalikov came again this evening,” she said, yawning, “but i did not dare to announce him; he was very drunk. he says he will come again tomorrow.”
“what does he want with me?” said anna akimovna, and she flung her comb on the floor. “i won’t see him, i won’t.”
she made up her mind she had no one left in life but this tchalikov, that he would never leave off persecuting her, and would remind her every day how uninteresting and absurd her life was. so all she was fit for was to help the poor. oh, how stupid it was!
she lay down without undressing, and sobbed with shame and depression: what seemed to her most vexatious and stupid of all was that her dreams that day about pimenov had been right, lofty, honourable, but at the same time she felt that lysevitch and even krylin were nearer to her than pimenov and all the workpeople taken together. she thought that if the long day she had just spent could have been represented in a picture, all that had been bad and vulgar — as, for instance, the dinner, the lawyer’s talk, the game of “kings” — would have been true, while her dreams and talk about pimenov would have stood out from the whole as something false, as out of drawing; and she thought, too, that it was too late to dream of happiness, that everything was over for her, and it was impossible to go back to the life when she had slept under the same quilt with her mother, or to devise some new special sort of life.
red-haired masha was kneeling before the bed, gazing at her in mournful perplexity; then she, too, began crying, and laid her face against her mistress’s arm, and without words it was clear why she was so wretched.
“we are fools!” said anna akimovna, laughing and crying. “we are fools! oh, what fools we are!”
