We talked a little more and I gave in. I said the thought of working for the railway that was under construction had never once entered my head, and that maybe I was ready to try.
She smiled joyfully through her tears and pressed my hand, and after that still went on crying because she couldn’t stop, and I went to the kitchen to get some kerosene.
II
AMONG THE LOVERS of amateur theater, concerts, and tableaux vivants for charitable purposes, the first place in town went to the Azhogins, who lived in their own house on Bolshaya Dvoryanskaya; they provided the space each time and also took upon themselves all the cares and expenses. This rich landowning family had about ten thousand acres and a magnificent estate in the district, but they didn’t like the country and lived in town year-round. It consisted of the mother, a tall, lean, delicate woman who cut her hair short and wore a short jacket and a straight skirt after the English fashion, and three daughters who, when spoken of, were called not by their names but simply the eldest, the middle, and the youngest. They all had unattractively sharp chins, were nearsighted, stoop-shouldered, and dressed the same as their mother, lisped unpleasantly, and despite all that were sure to take part in every performance and were constantly doing something for philanthropic purposes—acting, reciting, singing. They were very serious and never smiled, and even in vaudevilles with songs, acted without the slightest merriment, with a businesslike air, as if they were doing bookkeeping.
I loved our theatricals and especially the rehearsals, frequent, noisy and often slightly witless, after which we were always given supper. I took no part in choosing the plays and distributing the roles. My part lay backstage. I painted the sets, copied the parts, prompted, did makeup, and was also in charge of arranging various effects such as thunder, nightingales’ singing, and so on. Since I had no social position or decent clothes, I kept myself apart at rehearsals, in the shadow of the wings, and was timidly silent.
I painted the sets either in the Azhogins’ shed or in the yard. I was helped by a housepainter—or, as he called himself, a housepainting contractor—Andrei Ivanov, a man of about fifty, tall, very thin and pale, with a sunken chest, sunken temples, and blue rings under his eyes, whose appearance was even a little frightening. He was sick with some wasting disease, and every fall and spring they said he was on the way out, but he’d lie down for a while, get up, and then say with surprise: ‘‘Again I didn’t die!’’
In town he was known as Radish, and they said it was his real family name. He loved the theater as much as I did, and as soon as the rumor reached him that a production was being prepared, he’d drop all his work and go to the Azhogins’ to paint sets.
The day after my talk with my sister, I worked from morning till night at the Azhogins’. The rehearsal was set for seven o’clock in the evening, and an hour before the start, all the amateurs had gathered in the reception room, and the eldest, the middle, and the youngest walked about the stage reading from their notebooks. Radish, in a long, rusty coat and with a scarf wrapped around his neck, stood leaning his temple against the wall and looking at the stage with a pious expression. The Azhogin mother went up to one guest, then another, and said something pleasant to each of them. She had a manner of looking intently into your face and speaking quietly, as if in secret.
‘‘It must be difficult to paint sets,’’ she said quietly, coming up to me. ‘‘And Madame Mufke and I were just talking about prejudice, and I saw you come in. My God, all my life, all my life I’ve fought against prejudice! To convince the servants of what nonsense all these fears are, I always light three candles in my house and begin all my important business on the thirteenth.’’
The daughter of the engineer Dolzhikov came in, a beautiful, plump blonde, dressed, as they said here, in everything Parisian. She didn’t act, but a chair was placed onstage for her at rehearsals, and the performances would not begin until she appeared in the front row, radiant and amazing everyone with her finery. As a young thing from the capital, she was allowed to make observations during the rehearsals, and she made them with a sweet, condescending smile, and one could see that she looked upon our performances as a childish amusement. It was said of her that she had studied singing at the Petersburg Conservatory and had even sung one whole winter in a private opera. I liked her very much, and usually, at rehearsals and during performances, I never took my eyes off her.
I had already picked up the notebook to start prompting when my sister unexpectedly appeared. Without taking off her coat and hat, she came over to me and said:
‘‘Please come with me.’’
I went. Backstage, in the doorway, stood Anyuta Blagovo, also wearing a hat with a dark little veil. She was the daughter of the associate court magistrate, who had long served in our town, almost from the very founding of the district court. As she was tall and well built, her participation in tableaux vivants was considered obligatory, and when she represented some sort of fairy or Glory, her face burned with shame; but she didn’t take part in the plays and would come to the rehearsals only for a moment, on some errand, and would not go to the reception room. Now, too, it was evident that she had come only for a moment.
‘‘My father has spoken for you,’’ she said drily, not looking at me and blushing. ‘‘Dolzhikov has promised you a position on the railway. Go to see him tomorrow, he will be at home.’’
I bowed and thanked her for taking the trouble.
‘‘And you can drop this,’’ she said, pointing to the notebook.
She and my sister went over to Mrs. Azhogin and exchanged whispers with her for a couple of moments, glancing at me. They were discussing something.
‘‘Indeed,’’ Mrs. Azhogin said quietly, coming up to me and looking intently into my face, ‘‘indeed, if this distracts you from serious occupations,’’ she pulled the notebook from my hands, ‘‘you may pass it on to someone else. Don’t worry, my friend, God be with you.’’
I took leave of her and went out in embarrassment. As I was going down the stairs, I saw my sister and Anyuta Blagovo leave; they were talking animatedly about something, most likely my starting work at the railway, and were hurrying. My sister had never before come to rehearsals, and now probably had pangs of conscience and was afraid father would find out that she had gone to the Azhogins’ without his permission.
I went to see Dolzhikov the next day between twelve and one. The footman took me to a very beautiful room that served the engineer simultaneously as a drawing room and a study. Here everything was soft, elegant, and, for an unaccustomed person like me, even strange. Costly rugs, enormous armchairs, bronze, paintings, gilt and plush frames; in the photographs scattered over the walls, very beautiful women, intelligent, wonderful faces, free poses; the door from the drawing room leads straight to the garden, to the balcony, and one can see lilacs, one can see a table set for lunch, many bottles, a bouquet of roses, it smells of spring and expensive cigars, it smells of happiness—and everything seems to want to say that this is a man who has lived, worked, and achieved that happiness which is possible on earth. The engineer’s daughter was sitting at the desk and reading a newspaper.
‘‘You’ve come to see my father?’’ she asked. ‘‘He’s taking a shower, he’ll be here presently. Meanwhile, please be seated.’’
