‘‘Did you hear, she doesn’t want to study bugs and gnats because people are suffering. That’s how all macaques judge the likes of us. A slavish, deceitful tribe, intimidated by the knout and the fist for ten generations; they tremble, they wax tender, they burn incense only before force, but let a macaque into a free area, where there’s nobody to take it by the scruff of the neck, and it loses control and shows its real face. Look how brave it is at art exhibitions, in museums, in theaters, or when it passes judgment on science: it struts, it rears up, it denounces, it criticizes... And it’s sure to criticize—that’s a feature of slaves! Just listen: people of the liberal professions are abused more often than swindlers—that’s because three-quarters of society consists of slaves, the same macaques as these. It never happens that a slave offers you his hand and thanks you sincerely for the fact that you work.’’
‘‘I don’t know what you want!’’ Samoilenko said, yawning. ‘‘The poor woman, in her simplicity, wanted to chat with you about something intelligent, and you go drawing conclusions. You’re angry with him for something, and also with her just for company. But she’s a wonderful woman!’’
‘‘Oh, come now! An ordinary kept woman, depraved and banal. Listen, Alexander Davidych, when you meet a simple woman who isn’t living with her husband and does nothing but hee-hee-hee and ha-ha-ha, you tell her to go and work. Why are you timid and afraid to tell the truth here? Only because Nadezhda Fyodorovna is kept not by a sailor but by an official?’’
‘‘What am I to do with her, then?’’ Samoilenko became angry. ‘‘Beat her or something?’’
‘‘Don’t flatter vice. We curse vice only out of earshot, but that’s like a fig in the pocket.20 I’m a zoologist, or a sociologist, which is the same thing; you are a doctor; society believes us; it’s our duty to point out to it the terrible harm with which it and future generations are threatened by the existence of ladies like this Nadezhda Ivanovna.’’
‘‘Fyodorovna,’’ Samoilenko corrected. ‘‘And what should society do?’’
‘‘It? That’s its business. In my opinion, the most direct and proper way is force. She ought to be sent to her husband manu militari,4 and if the husband won’t have her, then send her to hard labor or some sort of correctional institution.’’
‘‘Oof !’’ sighed Samoilenko. He paused and asked softly: ‘‘The other day you said people like Laevsky ought to be destroyed... Tell me, if somehow ... suppose the state or society charged you with destroying him, would you... do it?’’
‘‘With a steady hand.’’
IX
RETURNING HOME, LAEVSKY and Nadezhda Fyodorovna went into their dark, dull, stuffy rooms. Both were silent. Laevsky lit a candle, and Nadezhda Fyodorovna sat down and, without taking off her cloak and hat, raised her sad, guilty eyes to him.
He realized that she was expecting a talk from him; but to talk would be boring, useless, and wearisome, and he felt downhearted because he had lost control and been rude to her. He chanced to feel in his pocket the letter he had been wanting to read to her every day, and he thought that if he showed her the letter now, it would turn her attention elsewhere.
‘‘It’s time to clarify our relations,’’ he thought. ‘‘I’ll give it to her, come what may.’’
He took out the letter and handed it to her.
‘‘Read it. It concerns you.’’
Having said this, he went to his study and lay down on the sofa in the darkness, without a pillow. Nadezhda Fyodorovna read the letter, and it seemed to her that the ceiling had lowered and the walls had closed in on her. It suddenly became cramped, dark, and frightening. She quickly crossed herself three times and said:
‘‘Give rest, O Lord... give rest, O Lord...’21
And she wept.
‘‘Vanya!’’ she called. ‘‘Ivan Andreich!’’
There was no answer. Thinking that Laevsky had come in and was standing behind her chair, she sobbed like a child and said:
‘‘Why didn’t you tell me earlier that he had died? I wouldn’t have gone on the picnic, I wouldn’t have laughed so terribly... Men were saying vulgar things to me. What sin, what sin! Save me, Vanya, save me... I’m going out of my mind... I’m lost...’
Laevsky heard her sobs. He felt unbearably suffocated, and his heart was pounding hard. In anguish, he got up, stood in the middle of the room for a while, felt in the darkness for the chair by the table, and sat down.
‘‘This is a prison...’ he thought. ‘‘I must get out... I can’t...’
It was too late to go and play cards, there were no restaurants in the town. He lay down again and stopped his ears so as not to hear the sobbing, and suddenly remembered that he could go to Samoilenko’s. To avoid walking past Nadezhda Fyodorovna, he climbed out the window to the garden, got over the fence, and went on down the street. It was dark. Some steamer had just arrived—a big passenger ship, judging by its lights... An anchor chain clanked. A small red light moved quickly from the coast to the ship: it was the customs boat.
‘‘The passengers are asleep in their cabins ...’ thought Laevsky, and he envied other people’s peace.
The windows of Samoilenko’s house were open. Laevsky looked through one of them, then another: it was dark and quiet inside.
‘‘Alexander Davidych, are you asleep?’’ he called. ‘‘Alexander Davidych!’’
Coughing was heard, and an anxious cry:
‘‘Who’s there? What the devil?’’
‘‘It’s me, Alexander Davidych. Forgive me.’’
A little later, a door opened; the soft light of an icon lamp gleamed, and the enormous Samoilenko appeared, all in white and wearing a white nightcap.
‘‘What do you want?’’ he asked, breathing heavily from being awakened and scratching himself. ‘‘Wait, I’ll open up at once.’’
