the wife and other stories- 第12部分

〃Hold　your　tongue！〃　he　shouted。

〃That's　right！〃　the　son　persisted；　〃you　don't　like　to　hear　the　truth！　Excellent！　Very　good！　begin　shouting！　Excellent！〃

〃Hold　your　tongue；　I　tell　you！〃　roared　Yevgraf　Ivanovitch。

Fedosya　Semyonovna　appeared　in　the　doorway；　very　pale；　with　an　astonished　face；　she　tried　to　say　something；　but　she　could　not；　and　could　only　move　her　fingers。

〃It's　all　your　fault！〃　Shiryaev　shouted　at　her。　〃You　have　brought　him　up　like　this！〃

〃I　don't　want　to　go　on　living　in　this　house！〃　shouted　the　student；　crying；　and　looking　angrily　at　his　mother。　〃I　don't　want　to　live　with　you！〃

Varvara　uttered　a　shriek　behind　the　screen　and　broke　into　loud　sobs。　With　a　wave　of　his　hand；　Shiryaev　ran　out　of　the　house。

The　student　went　to　his　own　room　and　quietly　lay　down。　He　lay　till　midnight　without　moving　or　opening　his　eyes。　He　felt　neither　anger　nor　shame；　but　a　vague　ache　in　his　soul。　He　neither　blamed　his　father　nor　pitied　his　mother；　nor　was　he　tormented　by　stings　of　conscience；　he　realized　that　every　one　in　the　house　was　feeling　the　same　ache；　and　God　only　knew　which　was　most　to　blame；　which　was　suffering　most。　。　。　。

At　midnight　he　woke　the　labourer；　and　told　him　to　have　the　horse　ready　at　five　o'clock　in　the　morning　for　him　to　drive　to　the　station；　he　undressed　and　got　into　bed；　but　could　not　get　to　sleep。　He　heard　how　his　father；　still　awake；　paced　slowly　from　window　to　window；　sighing；　till　early　morning。　No　one　was　asleep；　they　spoke　rarely；　and　only　in　whispers。　Twice　his　mother　came　to　him　behind　the　screen。　Always　with　the　same　look　of　vacant　wonder；　she　slowly　made　the　cross　over　him；　shaking　nervously。

At　five　o'clock　in　the　morning　he　said　good…bye　to　them　all　affectionately；　and　even　shed　tears。　As　he　passed　his　father's　room；　he　glanced　in　at　the　door。　Yevgraf　Ivanovitch；　who　had　not　taken　off　his　clothes　or　gone　to　bed；　was　standing　by　the　window；　drumming　on　the　panes。

〃Good…bye；　I　am　going；〃　said　his　son。

〃Good…bye　。　。　。　the　money　is　on　the　round　table　。　。　。〃　his　father　answered；　without　turning　round。

A　cold；　hateful　rain　was　falling　as　the　labourer　drove　him　to　the　station。　The　sunflowers　were　drooping　their　heads　still　lower；　and　the　grass　seemed　darker　than　ever。


THE　GRASSHOPPER

I

ALL　Olga　Ivanovna's　friends　and　acquaintances　were　at　her　wedding。

〃Look　at　him；　isn't　it　true　that　there　is　something　in　him？〃　she　said　to　her　friends；　with　a　nod　towards　her　husband；　as　though　she　wanted　to　explain　why　she　was　marrying　a　simple；　very　ordinary；　and　in　no　way　remarkable　man。

Her　husband；　Osip　Stepanitch　Dymov；　was　a　doctor；　and　only　of　the　rank　　of　a　titular　councillor。　He　was　on　the　staff　of　two　hospitals：　in　one　a　ward…surgeon　and　in　the　other　a　dissecting　demonstrator。　Every　day　from　nine　to　twelve　he　saw　patients　and　was　busy　in　his　ward；　and　after　twelve　o'clock　he　went　by　tram　to　the　other　hospital；　where　he　dissected。　His　private　practice　was　a　small　one；　not　worth　more　than　five　hundred　roubles　a　year。　That　was　all。　What　more　could　one　say　about　him？　Meanwhile；　Olga　Ivanovna　and　her　friends　and　acquaintances　were　not　quite　ordinary　people。　Every　one　of　them　was　remarkable　in　some　way；　and　more　or　less　famous；　already　had　made　a　reputation　and　was　looked　upon　as　a　celebrity；　or　if　not　yet　a　celebrity；　gave　brilliant　promise　of　becoming　one。　There　was　an　actor　from　the　Dramatic　Theatre；　who　was　a　great　talent　of　established　reputation；　as　well　as　an　elegant；　intelligent；　and　modest　man；　and　a　capital　elocutionist；　and　who　taught　Olga　Ivanovna　to　recite；　there　was　a　singer　from　the　opera；　a　good…natured；　fat　man　who　assured　Olga　Ivanovna；　with　a　sigh；　that　she　was　ruining　herself；　that　if　she　would　take　herself　in　hand　and　not　be　lazy　she　might　make　a　remarkable　singer；　then　there　were　several　artists；　and　chief　among　them　Ryabovsky；　a　very　handsome；　fair　young　man　of　five…and…twenty　who　painted　genre　pieces；　animal　studies；　and　landscapes；　was　successful　at　exhibitions；　and　had　sold　his　last　picture　for　five　hundred　roubles。　He　touched　up　Olga　Ivanovna's　sketches；　and　used　to　say　she　might　do　something。　Then　a　violoncellist；　whose　instrument　used　to　sob；　and　who　openly　declared　that　of　all　the　ladies　of　his　acquaintance　the　only　one　who　could　accompany　him　was　Olga　Ivanovna；　then　there　was　a　literary　man；　young　but　already　well　known；　who　had　written　stories；　novels；　and　plays。　Who　else？　Why；　Vassily　Vassilyitch；　a　landowner　and　amateur　illustrator　and　vignettist；　with　a　great　feeling　for　the　old　Russian　style；　the　old　ballad　and　epic。　On　paper；　on　china；　and　on　smoked　plates；　he　produced　literally　marvels。　In　the　midst　of　this　free　artistic　company；　spoiled　by　fortune；　though　refined　and　modest；　who　recalled　the　existence　of　doctors　only　in　times　of　illness；　and　to　whom　the　name　of　Dymov　sounded　in　no　way　different　from　Sidorov　or　Tarasov　　in　the　midst　of　this　company　Dymov　seemed　strange；　not　wanted；　and　small；　though　he　was　tall　and　broad…shouldered。　He　looked　as　though　he　had　on　somebody　else's　coat；　and　his　beard　was　like　a　shopman's。　Though　if　he　had　been　a　writer　or　an　artist；　they　would　have　said　that　his　beard　reminded　them　of　Zola。

An　artist　said　to　Olga　Ivanovna　that　with　her　flaxen　hair　and　in　her　wedding…dress　she　was　very　much　like　a　graceful　cherry…tree　when　it　is　covered　all　over　with　delicate　white　blossoms　in　spring。

〃Oh；　let　me　tell　you；〃　said　Olga　Ivanovna；　taking　his　arm；　〃how　it　was　it　all　came　to　pass　so　suddenly。　Listen；　listen！　。　。　。　I　must　tell　you　that　my　father　was　on　the　same　staff　at　the　hospital　as　Dymov。　When　my　poor　father　was　taken　ill；　Dymov　watched　for　days　and　nights　together　at　his　bedside。　Such　self…sacrifice！　Listen；　Ryabovsky！　You；　my　writer；　listen；　it　is　very　interesting！　Come　nearer。　Such　self…sacrifice；　such　genuine　sympathy！　I　sat　up　with　my　father；　and　did　not　sleep　for　nights；　either。　And　all　at　once　　the　princess　had　won　the　hero's　heart　　my　Dymov　fell　head　over　ears　in　love。　Really；　fate　is　so　strange　at　times！　Well；　after　my　father's　death　he　came　to　see　me　sometimes；　met　me　in　the　street；　and　one　fine　evening；　all　at　once　he　made　me　an　offer　。　。　。　like　snow　upon　my　head。　。　。　。　I　lay　awake　all　night；　crying；　and　fell　hellishly　in　love　myself。　And　here；　as　you　see；　I　am　his　wife。　There　really　is　something　strong；　powerful；　bearlike　about　him；　isn't　there？　Now　his　face　is　turned　three…quarters　towards　us　in　a　bad　light；　but　when　he　turns　round　look　at　his　forehead。　Ryabovsky；　what　do　you　say　to　that　forehead？　Dymov；　we　are　talking　about　you！〃　she　called　to　her　husband。　〃Come　here；　hold　out　your　honest　hand　to　Ryabovsky。　。　。　。　That's　right；　be　friends。〃

Dymov；　with　a　naive　and　good…natured　smile；　held　out　his　hand　to　Ryabovsky；　and　said：

〃Very　glad　to　meet　you。　There　was　a　Ryabovsky　in　my　year　at　the　medical　school。　Was　he　a　relation　of　yours？〃


II


Olga　Ivanovna　was　twenty…two；　Dymov　was　thirty…one。　They　got　on　splendidly　together　when　they　were　married。　Olga　Ivanovna　hung　all　her　drawing…room　walls　with　her　own　and　other　people's　sketches；　in　frames　and　without　frames；　and　near　the　piano　and　furniture　arranged　picturesque　corners　with　Japanese　parasols；　easels；　daggers；　busts；　photographs；　and　rags　of　many　colours。　。　。　。　In　the　dining…room　she　papered　the　walls　with　peasant　woodcuts；　hung　up　bark　shoes　and　sickles；　stood　in　a　corner　a　scythe　and　a　rake；　and　so　achieved　a　dining…room　in　the　Russian　style。　In　her　bedroom　she　draped　the　ceiling　and　the　walls　with　dark　cloths　to　make　it　like　a　cavern；　hung　a　Venetian　lantern　over　the　beds；　and　at　the　door　set　a　figure　with　a　halberd。　And　every　one　thought　that　the　young　people　had　a　very　charming　little　home。

When　she　got　up　at　eleven　o'clock　every　morning；　Olga　Ivanovna　played　the　piano　or；　if　it　were　sunny；　painted　something　in　oils。　Then　between　twelve　and　one　she　drove　to　her　dressmaker's。　As　Dymov　and　she　had　very　little　money；　only　just　enough；　she　and　her　dressmaker　were　often　put　to　clever　shifts　to　enable　her　to　appear　constantly　in　new　dresses　and　make　a　sensation　with　them。　Very　often　out　of　an　old　dyed　dress；　out　of　bits　of　tulle；　lace；　plush；　and　silk；　costing　nothing；　perfect　marvels　were　created；　something　bewitching　　not　a　dress；　but　a　dream。　From　the　dressmaker's　Olga　Ivanovna　usually　drove　to　some　actress　of　her　acquaintance　to　hear　the　latest　theatrical　gossip；　and　incidentally　to　try　and　get　hold　of　tickets　for　the　first　night　of　some　new　play　or　for　a　benefit　performance。　From　the　actress's　she　had　to　go　to　some　artist's　studio　or　to　some　exhibition　or　to　see　some　celebrity　　either　to　pay　a　visit　or　to　give　an　invitation　or　simply　to　have　a　chat。　And　everywhere　she　met　with　a　gay　and　friendly　welcome；　and　was　assured　that　she　was　good；　that　she　was　sweet；　that　she　was　rare。　。　。　。　Those　whom　she　called　great　and　famous　received　her　as　one　of　themselves；　as　an　equal；　and　predicted　with　one　voice　that；　with　her　talents；　her　taste；　and　her　intelligence；　she　would　do　great　things　if　she　concentrated　herself。　She　sang；　she　played　the　piano；　she　painted　in　oils；　she　carved；　she　took　part　in　amateur　performances；　and　all　this　not　just　anyhow；　but　all　with　talent；　whether　she　made　lanterns　for　an　illumination　or　dressed　up　or　tied　somebody's　cravat　　everything　she　did　was　exceptionally　graceful；　artistic；　and　charming。　But　her　talents　showed　themselves　in　nothing　so　clearly　as　in　her　faculty　for　quickly　becoming　acquainted　and　on　intimate　terms　with　celebrated　people。　No　sooner　did　any　one　become　ever　so　little　celebrated；　and　set　people　talking　about　him；　than　she　made　his　acquaintance；　got　on　friendly　terms　the　same　day；　and　invited　him　to　her　house。　Every　new　acquaintance　she　made　was　a　veritable　fete　for　her。　She　adored　celebrated　people；　was　proud　of　them；　dreamed　of　them　every　night。　She　craved　for　them；　and　never　could　satisfy　her　craving。　The　old　ones　departed　and　were　forgotten；　new　ones　came　to　replace　them；　but　to　these；　too；　she　soon　grew　accustomed　or　was　disappointed　in　them；　and　began　eagerly　seeking　for　fresh　great　men；　finding　them　and　seeking　for　them　again。　What　for？

Between　four　and　five　she　dined　at　home　with　her　husband。　His　simplicity；　good　sense；　and　kind…heartedness　touched　her　and　moved　her　up　to　enthusiasm。