The Complete Short Novels

‘‘You can reassure her,’’ Rassudina grinned, sitting down again, ‘‘there’ll be a dozen more. Who hasn’t got wits enough to make babies?’’ ²⁶

Laptev remembered hearing the same thing or something like it many times long ago, and the poetry of the past wafted over him, the freedom of solitary, unmarried life, when it seemed to him that he was young and could do whatever he liked, and when there was no love for his wife or memory of their baby.

‘‘Let’s go together,’’ he said, stretching.

When they came to the university, Rassudina stopped to wait by the gate, and Laptev went to the office; a little later, he returned and handed Rassudina five receipts.

‘‘Where to now?’’ he asked.

‘‘Yartsev’s.’’

‘‘I’ll come with you.’’

‘‘But you’ll keep him from working.’’

‘‘No, I assure you!’’ he said and looked at her imploringly.

She was wearing a black hat trimmed with crape, as if she was in mourning, and a very short, shabby coat with the pockets sticking out. Her nose seemed longer than it used to be, and her face was deathly pale, despite the cold. Laptev found it pleasing to follow her, obey her, and listen to her grumbling. He walked along and thought about her: what inner strength this woman must have if, being so unattractive, angular, restless, unable to dress properly, aways untidily combed, and always somehow ungainly, she still could charm.

They entered Yartsev’s apartment by the back door, through the kitchen, where they were met by the cook, a neat little old woman with gray curls; she got very embarrassed, smiled sweetly, which made her face resemble a piece of pastry, and said:

‘‘Please come in.’’

Yartsev was not at home. Rassudina sat at the piano and took up some dull, difficult exercises, ordering Laptev not to bother her. And he did not distract her with talk but sat to one side and leafed through The Messenger of Europe. After playing for two hours—this was her daily helping—she ate something in the kitchen and went to her lessons. Laptev read the sequel to some novel, then sat for a long time, not reading and not feeling bored, and pleased that he was late for dinner at home.

‘‘Ha, ha, ha!’’ Yartsev’s laughter rang out, and he himself came in, hale, cheerful, red-cheeked, in a new tailcoat with bright buttons. ‘‘Ha, ha, ha!’’

The friends had dinner together. Then Laptev lay down on the sofa, and Yartsev sat by him and lit a cigar. Dusk fell.

‘‘I must be getting old,’’ said Laptev. ‘‘Since my sister Nina died, for some reason I’ve begun thinking frequently of death.’’

They talked about death, about the immortality of the soul, how it would indeed be nice to resurrect and then fly off somewhere to Mars, to be eternally idle and happy, and above all, to think in some special unearthly way.

‘‘I have no wish to die,’’ Yartsev said softly. ‘‘No philosophy can reconcile me with death, and I look upon it simply as a disaster. I want to live.’’

‘‘You love life, Gavrilych?’’

‘‘Yes, I do.’’

‘‘And I can’t understand myself at all in this connection. First I’m in a gloomy mood, then I’m indifferent. I’m timid, unsure of myself, I have a cowardly conscience, I’m quite unable to adjust to life, to master it. Another man talks stupidly, or cheats, and does it so cheerfully, while it happens that I do good consciously and feel nothing but anxiety or total indifference. All this, Gavrilych, I explain by the fact that I’m a slave, the grandson of a bonded serf. Before we smutty-faced ones make it onto the real path, a lot of our kind will have to lay down their bones!’’

‘‘That’s all to the good, dear heart,’’ Yartsev said and sighed. ‘‘It only shows once again how rich and diverse Russian life is. Ah, how rich! You know, I’m more convinced every day that we’re living on the eve of the greatest triumph, and I’d like to live long enough to take part in it myself. Believe it or not, but I think a remarkable generation is now growing up. When I teach children, especially girls, it delights me. Wonderful children!’’

Yartsev went to the piano and played a chord.

‘‘I’m a chemist, I think chemically, and I’ll die a chemist,’’ he went on. ‘‘But I’m greedy, I’m afraid I’ll die unsated; chemistry alone isn’t enough for me, I snatch at Russian history, art history, pedagogy, music... Your wife told me once in the summer that I should write a history play, and now I want to write and write; it seems I could just sit for three days and nights, without getting up, and keep writing. Images wear me out, they crowd in my head, and I feel as if my brain is pulsing. I have no wish at all that something special should come from me, that I should create some great thing, I simply want to live, to dream, to hope, to keep up everywhere . . . Life, dear heart, is short, and we must live it the best we can.’’

After this friendly conversation, which ended only at midnight, Laptev began to visit Yartsev almost every day. He was drawn to him. Usually he came before evening, lay down, and waited patiently for him to come, without feeling the least boredom. Yartsev, having come home from school and eaten, would sit down to work, but Laptev would ask some question, a conversation would begin, work was set aside, and at midnight the friends would part, very pleased with each other.

But this did not last long. Once, coming to Yartsev’s, Laptev found Rassudina alone, sitting at the piano and playing her exercises. She looked him over coldly, almost hostilely, and asked, without offering him her hand:

‘‘Tell me, please, when will there be an end to this?’’

‘‘To what?’’ Laptev asked, not understanding.

‘‘You come here every day and hinder Yartsev in his work. Yartsev is not a little merchant, he’s a scholar, and every minute of his life is precious. You must understand that and have at least a little delicacy!’’

‘‘If you find that I’m hindering him,’’ Laptev said meekly, feeling confused, ‘‘I’ll discontinue my visits.’’