watching the two of them.
‘‘And so,’’ the officer pronounced slowly, ‘‘our love withered away before it had time to flower, so to speak. How am I to understand that? Is it coquetry on your part, or do you regard me as a scapegrace with whom you can act however you please?’’
‘‘It was a mistake! Leave me alone!’’ Nadezhda Fyodorovna said sharply, looking at him with fear on that beautiful, wonderful evening, and asking herself in perplexity if there could indeed have been a moment when she had liked this man and been intimate with him.
‘‘So, ma’am!’’ said Kirilin. He stood silently for a while, pondering, and said: ‘‘What, then? Let’s wait till you’re in a better mood, and meanwhile, I venture to assure you that I am a respectable man and will not allow anyone to doubt it. I am not to be toyed with! Adieu!’’
He saluted her and walked off, making his way through the bushes. A little later, Atchmianov approached hesitantly.
‘‘A fine evening tonight!’’ he said with a slight Armenian accent.
He was not bad-looking, dressed according to fashion, had the simple manners of a well-bred young man, but Nadezhda Fyodorovna disliked him because she owed his father three hundred roubles; there was also the unpleasantness of a shopkeeper being invited to the picnic, and the unpleasantness of his having approached her precisely that evening, when her soul felt so pure.
‘‘Generally, the picnic’s a success,’’ he said after some silence.
‘‘Yes,’’ she agreed, and as if she had just remembered her debt, she said casually: ‘‘Ah, yes, tell them in your shop that Ivan Andreich will come one of these days and pay them the three hundred ... or I don’t remember how much.’’
‘‘I’m ready to give you another three hundred, if only you’ll stop mentioning this debt every day. Why such prose?’’
Nadezhda Fyodorovna laughed. The amusing thought came to her head that, if she were immoral enough and wished to, she could get rid of this debt in one minute. If, for instance, she were to turn the head of this handsome young fool! How amusing, absurd, wild it would be indeed! And she suddenly wanted to make him fall in love with her, to fleece him, to drop him, and then see what would come of it.
‘‘Allow me to give you one piece of advice,’’ Atchmianov said timidly. ‘‘Beware of Kirilin, I beg you. He tells terrible things about you everywhere.’’
‘‘I’m not interested in knowing what every fool tells about me,’’ Nadezhda Fyodorovna said coldly, and uneasiness came over her, and the amusing thought of toying with the pretty young Atchmianov suddenly lost its charm.
‘‘We must go down,’’ she said. ‘‘They’re calling.’’
Down there the fish soup was ready. It was poured into plates and eaten with that religious solemnity which only occurs at picnics. They all found the soup very tasty and said they had never had anything so tasty at home. As happens at all picnics, lost amidst a mass of napkins, packets, needless greasy wrappings scudding about in the wind, no one knew which glass and which piece of bread was whose, they poured wine on the rug and on their knees, spilled salt, and it was dark around them, and the fire burned less brightly, and they were all too lazy to get up and put on more brush. They all drank wine, and Kostya and Katya got half a glass each. Nadezhda Fyodorovna drank a glass, then another, became drunk, and forgot about Kirilin.
‘‘A splendid picnic, a charming evening,’’ said Laevsky, made merry by the wine, ‘‘but I’d prefer a nice winter to all this. ‘A frosty dust silvers his beaver collar.’ ’’19
‘‘Tastes vary,’’ observed von Koren.
Laevsky felt awkward: the heat of the fire struck him in the back, and von Koren’s hatred in the front and face; this hatred from a decent, intelligent man, which probably concealed a substantial reason, humiliated him, weakened him, and, unable to confront it, he said in an ingratiating tone:
‘‘I passionately love nature and regret not being a student of natural science. I envy you.’’
‘‘Well, and I have no regret or envy,’’ said Nadezhda Fyodorovna. ‘‘I don’t understand how it’s possible to be seriously occupied with bugs and gnats when people are suffering.’’
Laevsky shared her opinion. He was totally unacquainted with natural science and therefore could never reconcile himself to the authoritative tone and learned, profound air of people who studied the feelers of ants and the legs of cockroaches, and it had always vexed him that, on the basis of feelers, legs, and some sort of protoplasm (for some reason, he always imagined it like an oyster), these people should undertake to resolve questions that embraced the origin and life of man. But he heard a ring of falseness in Nadezhda Fyodorovna’s words, and he said, only so as to contradict her:
‘‘The point is not in the bugs but in the conclusions!’’
VIII
IT WAS LATE, past ten o’clock, when they began getting into the carriages to go home. Everyone settled in, the only ones missing were Nadezhda Fyodorovna and Atchmianov, who were racing each other and laughing on the other side of the river.
‘‘Hurry up, please!’’ Samoilenko called to them.
‘‘The ladies shouldn’t have been given wine,’’ von Koren said in a low voice.
Laevsky, wearied by the picnic, by von Koren’s hatred, and by his own thoughts, went to meet Nadezhda Fyodorovna, and when, merry, joyful, feeling light as a feather, breathless and laughing, she seized him by both hands and put her head on his chest, he took a step back and said sternly:
‘‘You behave like a ... cocotte.’
This came out very rudely, so that he even felt sorry for her. On his angry, tired face she read hatred, pity, vexation with her, and she suddenly lost heart. She realized that she had overdone it, that she had behaved too casually, and, saddened, feeling heavy, fat, coarse, and drunk, she sat in the first empty carriage she found, along with Atchmianov. Laevsky sat with Kirilin, the zoologist with Samoilenko, the deacon with the ladies, and the train set off.
‘‘That’s how they are, the macaques...’ von Koren began, wrapping himself in his cloak and closing his eyes.
