her at home alone, and his heart ached with joy. Haste, haste!
He took the parasol and, violently agitated, flew on the wings of love. It was hot in the street. In the big courtyard of the doctor's house, overgrown with coarse grass and nettles, some twenty urchins were playing ball. These were all the children of working-class families who tenanted the three disreputable-looking lodges, which the doctor was always meaning to have done up, though he put it off from year to year. The yard resounded with ringing, healthy voices. At some distance on one side, Yulia Sergeyevna was standing at her porch, her hands folded, watching the game.
'Good-morning!' Laptev called to her.
She looked round. Usually he saw her indifferent, cold, or tired as she had been the evening before. Now her face looked full of life and frolic, like the faces of the boys who were playing ball.
'Look, they never play so merrily in Moscow,' she said, going to meet him. 'There are no such big yards there, though; they've no place to run there. Papa has only just gone to you,' she added, looking round at the children.
'I know; but I've not come to see him, but to see you,' said Laptev, admiring her youthfulness, which he had not noticed till then, and seemed only that day to have discovered in her; it seemed to him as though he were seeing her slender white neck with the gold chain for the first time. 'I've come to see you . . .' he repeated. 'My sister has sent you your parasol; you forgot it yesterday.'
She put out her hand to take the parasol, but he pressed it to his bosom and spoke passionately, without restraint, yielding again to the sweet ecstasy he had felt the night before, sitting under the parasol.
'I entreat you, give it me. I shall keep it in memory of you . . . of our acquaintance. It's so wonderful!'
'Take it,' she said, and blushed; 'but there's nothing wonderful about it.'
He looked at her in ecstasy, in silence, not knowing what to say.
'Why am I keeping you here in the heat?' she said after a brief pause, laughing. 'Let us go indoors.'
'I am not disturbing you?'
They went into the hall. Yulia Sergeyevna ran upstairs, her white dress with blue flowers on it rustling as she went.
'I can't be disturbed,' she answered, stopping on the landing. 'I never do anything. Every day is a holiday for me, from morning till night.'
'What you say is inconceivable to me,' he said, going up to her. 'I grew up in a world in which every one without exception, men and women alike, worked hard every day.'
'But if one has nothing to do?' she asked. 'One has to arrange one's life under such conditions, that work is inevitable. There can be no clean and happy life without work.'
Again he pressed the parasol to his bosom, and to his own surprise spoke softly, in a voice unlike his own:
'If you would consent to be my wife I would give everything—I would give everything. There's no price I would not pay, no sacrifice I would not make.'
She started and looked at him with wonder and alarm.
'What are you saying!' she brought out, turning pale. 'It's impossible,
I assure you. Forgive me.'
Then with the same rustle of her skirts she went up higher, and vanished through the doorway.
Laptev grasped what this meant, and his mood was transformed, completely, abruptly, as though a light in his soul had suddenly been extinguished. Filled with the shame of a man humiliated, of a man who is disdained, who is not liked, who is distasteful, perhaps disgusting, who is shunned, he walked out of the house.
'I would give everything,' he thought, mimicking himself as he went home through the heat and recalled the details of his declaration. 'I would give everything—like a regular tradesman. As though she wanted your
All he had just said seemed to him repulsively stupid. Why had he lied, saying that he had grown up in a world where every one worked, without exception? Why had he talked to her in a lecturing tone about a clean and happy life? It was not clever, not interesting; it was false—false in the Moscow style. But by degrees there followed that mood of indifference into which criminals sink after a severe sentence. He began thinking that, thank God! everything was at an end and that the terrible uncertainty was over; that now there was no need to spend whole days in anticipation, in pining, in thinking always of the same thing. Now everything was clear; he must give up all hope of personal happiness, live without desires, without hopes, without dreams, or expectations, and to escape that dreary sadness which he was so sick of trying to soothe, he could busy himself with other people's affairs, other people's happiness, and old age would come on imperceptibly, and life would reach its end—and nothing more was wanted. He did not care, he wished for nothing, and could reason about it coolly, but there was a sort of heaviness in his face especially under his eyes, his forehead felt drawn tight like elastic—and tears were almost starting into his eyes. Feeling weak all over, he lay down on his bed, and in five minutes was sound asleep.
III
The proposal Laptev had made so suddenly threw Yulia Sergeyevna into despair.
She knew Laptev very little, had made his acquaintance by chance; he was a rich man, a partner in the well- known Moscow firm of 'Fyodor Laptev and Sons'; always serious, apparently clever, and anxious about his sister's illness. It had seemed to her that he took no notice of her whatever, and she did not care about him in the least — and then all of a sudden that declaration on the stairs, that pitiful, ecstatic face. . . .
The offer had overwhelmed her by its suddenness and by the fact that the word wife had been uttered, and by the necessity of rejecting it. She could not remember what she had said to Laptev, but she still felt traces of the sudden, unpleasant feeling with which she had rejected him. He did not attract her; he looked like a shopman; he was not interesting; she could not have answered him except with a refusal, and yet she felt uncomfortable, as though she had done wrong.
'My God! without waiting to get into the room, on the stairs,' she said to herself in despair, addressing the ikon which hung over her pillow; 'and no courting beforehand, but so strangely, so oddly. . . .'
In her solitude her agitation grew more intense every hour, and it was beyond her strength to master this oppressive feeling alone. She needed some one to listen to her story and to tell her that she had done right. But she had no one to talk to. She had lost her mother long before; she thought her father a queer man, and could not talk to him seriously. He worried her with his whims, his extreme readiness to take offence, and his meaningless gestures; and as soon as one began to talk to him, he promptly turned the conversation on himself. And in her prayer she was not perfectly open, because she did not know for certain what she ought to pray for.
The samovar was brought in. Yulia Sergeyevna, very pale and tired, looking dejected, came into the dining- room to make tea—it was one of her duties—and poured out a glass for her father. Sergey Borisovitch, in his long coat that reached below his knees, with his red face and unkempt hair, walked up and down the room with his hands in his pockets, pacing, not from corner to corner, but backwards and forwards at random, like a wild beast in its cage. He would stand still by the table, sip his glass of tea with relish, and pace about again, lost in thought.
'Laptev made me an offer to-day,' said Yulia Sergeyevna, and she flushed crimson.
The doctor looked at her and did not seem to understand.
'Laptev?' he queried. 'Panaurov's brother-in-law?'
He was fond of his daughter; it was most likely that she would sooner or later be married, and leave him, but he tried not to think about that. He was afraid of being alone, and for some reason fancied, that if he were left alone in that great house, he would have an apoplectic stroke, but he did not like to speak of this directly.
'Well, I'm delighted to hear it,' he said, shrugging his shoulders. 'I congratulate you with all my heart. It offers you a splendid opportunity for leaving me, to your great satisfaction. And I quite understand your feelings. To live with an old father, an invalid, half crazy, must be very irksome at your age. I quite understand you. And the sooner I'm laid out and in the devil's clutches, the better every one will be pleased. I congratulate you with all my heart.'
'I refused him.'
The doctor felt relieved, but he was unable to stop himself and went on:
