FAUST
BY EUGENE CHIRIKOV
Translated by Lizzie B. Gorin. Copyright, 1907,by P. F. Collier & Son.
When Iván Mikhailovich awoke one morning, the whole household was already long up, and from the distance came the ringing voices of the children, the rattling of the breakfast dishes, the commanding voice of Maria Petrovna, his mother-in-law, and from the drawing-room the chirping of the canary, which sounded to his ears like a policeman’s whistle. He did not feel like getting up—he felt like lying a bit longer, too lazy to dress, therefore he smoked a few cigarettes before getting up strength for the ordeal.
He usually rose dissatisfied and out of sorts, because he did not much fancy the rules of life by which one had to hurry with ablutions, toilet, breakfast, and then go to the bank.
“Go and see if papa has awakened yet!” he heard his wife’s voice, and a moment afterward a round, little head was thrust through the doorway, and a child’s treble chimed in:
“Papa! Are you up?”
“I am, I am!” Iván Mikhailovich replied, ill-pleased, and angrily rinsed his mouth, gurgling, sputtering, and groaning.
At the breakfast table he sat sulky and preoccupied,as if wholly taken up with some very important thoughts, and did not deign to pay the least attention to any one. His wife, casually glancing up at him, thought: “He must have lost at cards at the club last night, and does not know now where to get the money to pay up.”
At ten, Iván Mikhailovich went to the bank, from which he returned at four, tired, hungry, and out of sorts. Sitting down to the table, he tucked his napkin under his chin, and ate with a loud smacking of the lips; after he had filled himself, he invariably grew good-natured, and said: “Well, now we shall take a little nap,” and went into his study, in which were displayed a bearskin, a pair of reindeer antlers, and a rifle from which he had never fired a shot. There he coughed and spat for a long time, and afterward snored so loudly that the children feared to approach too near the door of the study, and when the nurse wished to stop a fight or a quarrel between them, she would say: “There—the bear is asleep in papa’s room—I will let the bear out after you!”
Iván Mikhailovich was usually awakened about eight in the evening, when he would once more grow angry and shout: “Yes, yes, I hear,” immediately falling asleep again. Afterward he came out of the study puffy and heavy-eyed, looking indeed very much like a bear, and began to shout in a husky voice:
“I would like to know why I was not awakened in time?”
“You were, and you replied, ‘I hear!’”
“I did! Well, what of it? A person is not supposedto be responsible for what he says when half asleep. Is the samovár ready?”
Then he went into the dining-room, and sat down to the tea-table with his paper—and again with the appearance of a man whose thoughts are wholly occupied with very serious and important matters. His wife, Xenia Pavlovna, poured out the tea, and he could hardly see her face from behind the samovár. Maria Petrovna sat at the other end of the table, with a child’s stocking in her hand, which she was forever darning.
They were generally silent, only rarely exchanging laconic questions and answers: “More tea?”—“Please”—“Again there is no lemon?”—“Why, it is lying before your very nose!”
After tea Iván Mikhailovich went to his club, where he played cards, after which he had his supper there, and coming home about two past midnight, he found his wife already sleeping. Only Maria Petrovna was still up, and she usually met him in déshabillé, with an old wrap thrown over her shoulders, her hair in disorder, and with sighs. Iván Mikhailovich understood but too well the hidden meaning of these sighs: they expressed silent reproaches and indirect disapproval of his conduct. Therefore, while taking off his rubbers, Iván Mikhailovich said: “Please spare me your sighs!”
Xenia Pavlovna never reproached her husband. She had long ago become accustomed to either Iván Mikhailovich’s snoring or being away. Only Maria Petrovna could not become resigned to it.
“What kind of a husband is he! All you see of him is his dressing-gown on the peg,” she said.
“Oh, don’t say that, mother. All husbands are like that,” remarked Xenia Pavlovna, but her face became sad and clouded, and at last a sort of concentrated musing settled upon it. Walking up and down the salon in the twilight, she would keep thinking about something or other, and sing in a low, sweet voice: “Beyond the distant horizon there is a happy land.”
Then she shook her head with a jerk and went into the nursery. Here she played dolls with the children, romped about with them, and told them fairy-tales about Sister Alenushka and Brother Ivanushka.
The older boy was very like his father before the latter got into the habit of snoring and spitting and appearing before Xenia Pavlovna in his shirt-sleeves. Gazing at this boy of hers, Xenia Pavlovna was carried away into the past, and the dreams of her far-away youth, dimmed and partly obscured by time, drove out of her heart the feeling of emptiness, oppressive ennui, and dissatisfaction.
“Mama! Mamochka! Now tell us about Baba Yaga! Good?”
“Well, very good. Once there was a Baba Yaga, with a bony leg—”
“Did she snore?” asked the little girl, and her blue eyes opened wide, resting with fear and expectation on her mother’s face. Xenia Pavlovna broke out in a hearty laugh, caught her girlie in her arms, and, kissing her, forgot everything else in the world.
About twice a month they received. All theirguests were sedate, respectable, and dull; people whose whole life ran smoothly, monotonously, without a hitch, through the same deep rut; they were all very tiresome, and loved to tell the same things over and over, and behave and act as if by long-established rule. First they sat in the drawing-room and spoke of their dwellings, of the weather, and while Xenia Pavlovna entertained them with conversation, her mother set the tea things, and while she filled the dishes with preserves she looked apprehensively into the jars and muttered: “It’s lasting so well that fresh fruit is not even to be thought of. The Lord grant it lasts till Easter.” And putting the sugar from the large paper bag into the cut-glass sugar-bowl, she thought aloud: “Twenty pounds, indeed! Why, even forty would not suffice!”
“Please come and have some tea!” she said invitingly, with an amiable, pleasant smile on her face. In the dining-room, where tea was served, they all took their places in a staid and dignified manner, making fun of those who were unlucky enough to get places at the table corners, telling them that they would not marry for seven years; and playing with their teaspoons, they said: “Merci,” and “Ach, if you will be so kind!” And then they once more returned to the talk about their apartments, the high price of provisions, and the ailments of the little ones. Tea finished, they repaired to the drawing-room, in which the little card-tables had already been placed, and provided with candles, cards, and chalk; everybody became livelier, and the oppressive frame of mind, under which peoplealways labor when they are called upon to do something they had not come to do, was dispelled.
The gentlemen and ladies sat down at the tables, quarreled, disputed, reproached one another, and broke out simultaneously into peals of merriment; in the main, they all seemed now the most happy people in the world. They were so much engrossed with the play that they resembled maniacs, who could with difficulty understand if an outsider, there by some chance, not playing cards, and therefore suffering with ennui, spoke to them about some outside matter.
Xenia Pavlovna did not play: she and her mother were wholly taken up with the preparations for supper, while the guests were occupied with the whist-tables. She and Maria Petrovna quarreled a little on such occasions, but always managed to hide their differences from their guests.
When supper was announced all the guests sprang from their seats, pushed back their chairs, and laughingly went to the table. Only two of the most enthusiastic would remain in their places, and continue to wrangle and to gesticulate over the Knave of Spades, seeming not to care whether they had their supper or not, if only they could prove to each other the truth of their own assertions. The master of the house would put his arm about the waist of each and carry them off.
“Well, let us have a tiny one!” Iván Mikhailovich generally began. A few “tiny” ones were drunk without any well-wishing, then they drank the health of Xenia Pavlovna and the other ladies present. Theirfaces reddened, their eyes became languishing, and from across the table was continually heard: “Please pass the caviar this way, Peter Vasilievich!” or “Please send those delicious herrings our way, Nicolai Gregorievich!”
Bon mots, jests, and anecdotes were incessantly exchanged, some of them very stale and told for the fiftieth time at that very table. On these occasions Iván Mikhailovich never failed to recount with evident pride that he and Xenia had married for love. “Ours was a love match. I can almost say that I abducted Xenia Pavlovna.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, just so! I remember it as if it happened to-day. I nearly committed suicide! Yes! We had an appointment in the garden (a luxurious garden it was! They very foolishly sold both the house and garden!) Well, so I stand there in the old arbor, stand and wait. And my heart is beating so loudly that it seems to me that a train must be passing somewhere—tock-tock-tock!” Here Iván Mikhailovich began to tell in detail how it all happened, and Xenia Pavlovna listened to his narrative from where she sat, slightly blushing, with half-closed eyes, and a little shiver. “At last she arrived in a carriage!”
“Came on foot, not in a carriage!” Xenia Pavlovna unexpectedly corrected him, because every stroke, every detail of these far-away recollections was inexpressibly dear to her.
“Well, in a carriage or on foot. What material difference does it make!” angrily remarked Iván Mikhailovich,greatly displeased at being interrupted, and continued his story, totally ignoring the correction as well as Xenia Pavlovna herself, as if this Xenia Pavlovna and—that other one—about whom he was telling his guests had nothing whatsoever in common.
After supper they once more drank tea, yawned, covering the mouth with the hand, or with the napkin, and breathed hard, looking at their watches, and exchanging glances with their wives. “Yes, it is about time!” replied the wives, and the guests began to take their leave, the women kissed good-by, the men looked for their rubbers and hats, and again joked.
After the guests had gone, leaving behind them tobacco smoke, glasses half-full of undrunk tea, and the scraps of the supper, the house suddenly subsided into quiet and peace, and Xenia Pavlovna sank into a chair, and remained motionless in a silent antipathy to her surroundings. She rested from the idle talk, noise, amiable smiles, and entertaining, and felt as if she were just recovering from a serious illness or had had to go through some severe penance. The mother, passing through the drawing-room, quickly threw open the ventilators, and remarked: “Just like a barrack,” pulling out of the jardinieres the cigarette-stubs which had been stuck into the earth by the smokers, and, waxing angry: “I purposely placed two ash-trays on each card-table, but no! they must go and stick their cigarette-stubs into the flower-pots!” Then she began to set the house to rights and clear the tables; and all this she did with irritation. Iván Mikhailovich threw off his coat, opened his vest, and, walking through therooms, yawned, opening his mouth wide and displaying his teeth. Then he went into the bedroom, undressed, and stretched himself comfortably on the soft mattress of the splendid, wide bed.
“Can’t you leave off putting the things in order till morning! Eh, how cleanliness has suddenly taken hold of them!” he shouted through the whole house, and listened: “Well, now the babes have revolted!”
From the nursery came the crying of the children and the soothing voice of his wife. Well, now he knew that the racket would go on for a long time—she would not get away from them so soon. And, turning to the wall, he pulled the coverlet higher.
Once or twice during the month they went visiting. And there the same story was repeated: conversations about the health of the little ones, the dwelling-houses, servants, the green tables, cigarette smoke, disputes about the Knave of Spades, and a supper with vodka, cheap wine, caviar, pickled herrings, and the indispensable cutlets and green pease. And after they left here, too, no doubt, was an opening of ventilators, and a perfect enjoyment of the ensuing quiet and peace.
And so their life went on from day to day, monotonous and tiresome, like a rainy evening, when everything is wet, gray, and cloudy—an oppressive, colorless life. “We live just as if we were turning over the pages of a cook-book. One day only differs from another in so far as that yesterday we had rice soup and cutlets for dinner, and to-day cabbage soup and cutlets,” sometimes thought Xenia Pavlovna, and a kind of despair suddenly took possession of all herbeing, and it seemed to her that she must decide on something, do something. But what should she do? And in reply to this a sad smile appeared on her lips—gentle and helpless—and her eyes filled with unbidden tears.
Then she would get a fit of the blues. Everything suddenly began to bore her, she did not care to see any one, nor talk to any one; it seemed to her that people spoke not of what they thought, nor of what interested them, but were, on the contrary, doing their best to hide their real thoughts; that they laughed at things not because they thought them laughable, but simply from politeness and wishing to appear amiable. And that all of them were only pretending to be good and clever, while in reality they were trivial, stupid, and unbearably tiresome.
She sat down at the window, resting her head on her hand, and looked out upon the street, where the tiresome, hateful day was dying away in a gray twilight. She remembered her youth, when life had seemed so big, with immeasurable horizons enveloped in an alluring, dove-colored mist, so interesting in its endless variations, so enigmatic and incomprehensible; when it seemed that the most important and wished-for thing was still before her, when her maiden heart stood still with fear and curiosity before the unknown future, when her heart was filled with a vague alarm in the expectation of a great happiness, perhaps the happiness of a triumphant love. And here it is—real life. The horizon ends with the grocery store across the street and is enveloped in the poesy of the cook-book.All of them live from day to day, are bored, gossip, speak of their dwellings, servants, occupations, play cards, bear children, and complain—the husbands about their wives and the wives about their husbands. And there is no triumphant love anywhere—but only triumphant triviality, rascality, and ennui. All that was interesting in life was already a thing of the past, it had all happened long before; then she had been supremely happy, and that happiness—which is given to one only once in life—passed away imperceptibly, and would nevermore return.
It grew darker; on the streets appeared timidly blinking yellow lights. The bells rang for vespers, and this ringing of the church-bells awakened in her soul something vague and alarming: a sad longing for something which had gone forever; or was it that it reproached the soul soiled by life? “Evening bells, evening bells!” Xenia whispered with a deep sigh.
Suddenly in the dim drawing-room appeared a whitish figure: it was Iván Mikhailovich, who came out of his study without a vest. He stretched, yawned, let out an “O-go-go-go!” and remarked: “I dined well and enjoyed a splendid snooze. What are you dreaming about?”
“Oh, just so, I was thinking what a tiresome affair it is to live in this world!”
“How is that! After you have given birth to three children you all at once begin to find life tiresome?”
“Oh, how commonplace and trivial this is!”
“Well, you are again in the dumps!” Iván Mikhailovich spoke angrily and turned away. Xenia Pavlovnabroke into a laugh, then this laugh became intermixed with crying, and ended in hysterics.
“W-ell! The devil is loose!” muttered Iván Mikhailovich, and rang for the maid, whom he ordered to fetch some water. “Cold, from the faucet.”
His mother-in-law, rushing into the room, cried: “What is the matter? What have you done to her?” The whites of her eyes glittered in the dark, and her whole demeanor expressed a thirst for revenge and complete redress. “What have you done to her?”
“I have done absolutely nothing to her! And I do not know, absolutely do not know, why she started all this comedy! She is simply an unbalanced woman, your daughter is, absolutely unbalanced!”
“You have offended her?”
“Neither by word nor intention! I came into the drawing-room and found her moaning at the window; all at once, without provocation, she began to laugh, then to cry,” said Iván Mikhailovich, shrugging his shoulders and gesticulating, and Maria Petrovna, whom Iván Mikhailovich, in moments of exasperation, sometimes called “the old witch,” did not believe him, and insistently demanded an explanation: “Don’t you tell me that. Where did you get it that she is unbalanced? We never had any one of an unbalanced mind in our family—every one was healthy and sane. What have you been doing to her?”
“All right, then! All right, if they were all sane and normal! I am glad to hear it!” said Iván Mikhailovich angrily, and speedily left the house. He went to the club, where he played cards, playing highfrom pure spite, and losing also from pure spitefulness. In the mean time Maria Petrovna walked around with a pained expression on her face, not being able to understand what had passed between the two. Several times she approached Xenia Pavlovna, and began:
“Why is all this quarreling going on in the house lately? What is the reason for it? Have you found out anything wrong about him, or what?”
“I have found out nothing!”
“Has he offended you in any way?”
“No, no, what makes you think so?”
“You do wrong to hide it from me. It will leak out somehow, do not fear. I shall find out everything, my lady!” Then she suddenly changed her tone and approached the matter from a different side:
“He is jealous. You should not provoke him.”
“Oh, please don’t! He is simply stupid, that is all!” Xenia Pavlovna interrupted her, laughing through her tears, and Maria Petrovna grew angry.
“If a wife speaks like that about her husband, no good will ever come of it!” And she began to defend her son-in-law with all her might, and in the end it appeared, according to her own words, that a better man than Iván Mikhailovich could not be found the world over. “Just look at others, little mother! Take, for instance, the husband of Kapitolina Ivanovna! And it is nothing to her, my lady. She does not complain—she suffers in silence, and would not even think of dubbing her husband ‘stupid’—as you are doing. Of course, what we have we are careless of—and once we lose it—we cry!”
Nevertheless she could get no explanation of what had occurred, and could only take refuge in guesswork and supposition.
She did not go to sleep till the return of her son-in-law, and, sitting in the drawing-room on the sofa, she continually pondered over what now most interested her, letting escape from time to time an “M’m.”
And Iván Mikhailovich, after he had supped and taken an extra glass or two, came home and announced himself by a ring so angry and imperious that it sounded noisily through the quiet rooms, and frightened Maria Petrovna. “He must be drunk,” she thought, and, opening the door, she did not even sigh as usual, but spoke lovingly. “There is some supper left for you in the dining-room.”
Iván Mikhailovich did not reply. He passed through the rooms with protesting step, banged the doors, coughed loudly, and, in general, gave one to understand that he was his own master. And to still more emphasize his independence, he did not go to sleep in the superb double bed with its silver ornaments, but lay down on the sofa in his study under the reindeer antlers and the rifle from which he had never fired a shot.
“Here, take at least a pillow!” came Maria Petrovna’s meek voice from the other side of the door, and the white corner of a pillow was thrust through the slightly open door of the study. Her son-in-law did not reply. “It is uncomfortable to lie that way, your neck will pain you.”
“Don’t you trouble yourself about my neck!” came from the cabinet.
But Maria Petrovna threw the pillow on an easy chair, and the door closed. Iván Mikhailovich was a man who prided himself on the strength of his character, and, therefore, he did not take the pillow, but supported his head with his fist and puffed while he thought of the oppressive disagreeableness of married life.
The dog Norma evidently took the part of the husband, and whenever the couple quarreled and occupied different sleeping rooms, the dog would not stay with the woman.
Opening the door of the study with her paw, she approached the sofa, placed her black muzzle on Iván Mikhailovich’s breast, and gazed at him with eyes that wished to say: “What hags they are, all of them! They even do not know how to appreciate a man like you!” Iván Mikhailovich felt a silent gratitude toward Norma, and patted her with his hand, pulling lovingly at her long ears. But the door of the study again opened slightly, and from the other side came the whisper of Maria Petrovna: “Norma! Norma!” But Norma did not go. Iván Mikhailovich held her by the collar and patted her with redoubled energy. “She will let in fleas,” again came the low voice. “Norma! Norma!”
Iván Mikhailovich sprang from the sofa, closing the door tightly, and the melodious sound of the lock-spring ended the diplomatic overtures of his mother-in-law.
“Sleeps with the dog. A fine thing this!” spoke the grumbling voice behind the door, and all became quiet.
These were scenes with dramatic elements and effects in them. But there were other scenes of the ordinary sort, so to speak, without the dramatic effects, scenes which were repeated regularly in the same form and in the very same expressions.
These scenes always took place on the twentieth of the month, when Iván Mikhailovich received his salary, and the large number of small creditors had to be paid. Somehow there was never sufficient money to settle all the bills, and each time Iván Mikhailovich thought that the money ought to be enough to cover all expenses, and railed at the womenfolk who dreamed so much about the emancipation of women, while they did not even know how to regulate their own household. “Emancipation,” he grumbled, taking the money from his pocket-book and throwing it on the table.
“But what has emancipation to do with this matter?”
“They go and teach you the devil-knows-what—all kinds of geography, algebra, trigonometry, but you do not know how to make both ends meet—emancipation!”
“And you should go a little less to the club, Iván Mikhailovich; then probably the income would cover the expenditures!” replied Maria Petrovna, bitingly.
“And where, pray, can I get it for you? I am not coining money. I suppose you know I am not a counterfeiter?”
And all three started to upbraid and reproach eachother, and for a moment they became submerged in such trivialities and unpleasantness that they were afterward thoroughly ashamed of themselves. After every twentieth of the month there remained in the soul of Xenia Pavlovna a kind of soot, and this greasy soot dimmed her eyes, made her apathetic and slow, and it seemed as if she had all at once become old, ill-looking, and disheartened. This young and very charming woman looked at such times like a beautiful bouquet of flowers that had withered and been thrown out of the window. So they lived day after day, months and years, and when an acquaintance asked, “How are you getting along?” they invariably replied: “Very well, thank you!”
It sometimes became necessary to refresh themselves after this kind of life—to depart, at least for a day, from the beaten track—and so Iván Mikhailovich went on a short spree two or three times a year. “One must overhaul himself thoroughly from time to time; it is not only useful, but also necessary,” he usually said on the next day after such an exploit.
The only thing that ever brightened Xenia Pavlovna’s life a little was going to the theatre. This happened so seldom, however, that she looked upon such rarely occurring occasions in the light of important events. Iván Mikhailovich did not like to go to the theatre, and when Xenia Pavlovna said, “We ought to go to the theatre and refresh ourselves a little,” Iván Mikhailovich was sure to remember how, ten years before, when they visited St. Petersburg on their honeymoon, they had been to the opera and the drama,and would reply: “After seeing Figner and Mme. Savina, it is not worth while, my dear, to go to see such small fry, and it only spoils an impression for us!”
But whenever “Faust” was presented on the stage of the local theatre, no pleadings were necessary: Iván Mikhailovich never failed to take seats in the third row of the orchestra for himself and Xenia Pavlovna.
“To-day we go to see ‘Faust,’” he said in an angry tone on returning from the bank, carelessly throwing two colored tickets upon the table.
“‘Faust’?” joyfully exclaimed Xenia Pavlovna, and her face became radiant with joy.
Gay and exalted with the pleasure that awaited her, Xenia Pavlovna usually began to get ready very early. And while she was dressing and combing her hair, Iván Mikhailovich stood close by to see that it was all done properly, because when he appeared with his wife in society he liked everything to be “just so,” and was pleased to have every one think, as they saw her pass on his arm, “A charming woman that! Really charming!” Therefore he was a very stern critic, and while she dressed he continually vexed her by his remarks: “Your coiffure is too small! You have the face of a Marguerite, and you dress your hair to make you look like a Jewess!”
“It is not true!”
“A curious thing, really: women understand less than any one else what is becoming to them, and they care less than all to win the admiration of their husbands!”
Xenia Pavlovna also wished to look well, but she did not trust overmuch to the good taste of Iván Mikhailovich, and at the same time she distrusted herself, too, and the upshot of it all was that they invariably quarreled, and left the house sulking and displeased with each other. Deeply aggravated and disheartened, they went to the theatre without any pleasurable anticipation, as if some one were driving them thither. First they walked arm in arm, feeling angry with each other, and longing to pull their arms away and walk apart; then Iván Mikhailovich called a cabman in an angry voice that seemed to hate all the cabbies in the world. Having helped his wife into the sleigh, he sat down by her side and placed his arm around her waist. The whole way they never exchanged a word, but Iván Mikhailovich gave vent to his irritation in a shower of abuse directed at the poor cabby: “Careful there! Don’t you see the hollows, you stupid!”—“To the right, you dolt!”
The orchestra played the overture from “Faust.” Iván Mikhailovich and his wife walked arm in arm through the long, carpeted aisle between two long rows of orchestra chairs toward their seats. Iván Mikhailovich felt as if all eyes were directed toward him, and he tried to walk with greater dignity, with his head proudly thrown back and his rounded paunch thrown forward. Xenia Pavlovna walked with downcast eyes and a face which looked rigidly cold and offended, as if she had been sentenced to die and were walking toward the gallows. The electric lights went out; the curtain rose upon a sea looking very muchlike a sky and a sky very much like a sea, with some sort of fantastic ruins and tropical vegetation. The traditional Faust, in his brown dressing-gown, nightcap, and long, gray beard, sang in his metallic tenor voice, smoothing his beard with his hand:
“Accursed be human science, human prayer, human faith!”
At first Xenia Pavlovna was not much affected by either the music or the singing. She looked more than she listened. When the red Mephistopheles appeared and sang that everything was well with him, and that he had plenty of money, Xenia Pavlovna remembered that it would soon be the twentieth and that they owed the butcher for two months. “Emancipation!” she seemed to hear Iván Mikhailovich exclaiming, and when she stopped thinking of the butcher and emancipation, Faust had already thrown off his dressing-gown and beard, and had changed from a decrepit old man into a handsome, strong youth, and this unexpectedness called forth the first smile upon her lips.
“To me returned lovely youth!” victoriously sang Faust, approaching the footlights and raising his hand, and Xenia Pavlovna began to think how old she was and how old Iván Mikhailovich was; that their youth had already passed, and would nevermore return. Xenia Pavlovna sighed and stealthily glanced at Iván Mikhailovich’s face. He sat deep in his chair, with head bent to one side and his hands locked over his paunch, and in his well-groomed face, with its waxed and twisted mustaches, there was so much of that self-sufficiencyand well-bred sleekness of the native that Xenia Pavlovna hurriedly turned away.
During the first entr’acte they went into the lobby of the theatre, she leaning on his arm, and he feeling uneasy the whole time at the thought that his wife’s hair was badly dressed and that her face was not alight with the joy and rapture of the other women, who, with their sparkling eyes and rustling skirts, laughed and talked incessantly in their ringing, happy voices.
After walking a little up and down the spacious lobby, engrossed in their own thoughts, the pair returned to their seats. Under the cascades of light falling from the electric lustre, the orchestra dazzled the eyes with the beautiful dresses of the ladies, and buzzed like a beehive from the multitude of noises, motions, and rustling, but this talk, glitter, and dazzle seemed to Xenia Pavlovna distant and strange, and the walls of people, the boxes resembling rich bouquets of flowers, awakened in her a feeling of loneliness and remoteness. She sat with her hands lying listlessly on her lap and with downcast eyes; she did not wish to be disturbed in her present brooding mood, and feared that some acquaintance might approach them and ask how they were, or that Iván Mikhailovich might suddenly begin to compare the singers with those they had once heard.
When the lights went out and the curtain rose again, she felt a great relief, and it suddenly seemed to her that she was once more in her maiden bower and had locked the door on the outside world. Gazingat the scene before her, she was gradually carried away into the realm of sound and melody, and wholly surrendered herself to the vague, disturbing emotions that had arisen in her soul under the influence of music and song. The rancor and vexation she had felt toward her husband gradually subsided, and the memory of the harsh wrangles, petty disputes, all the tiresome prosiness of her daily life, vanished, and an exquisite calm and tranquillity took possession of her soul, brightening and clearing up everything within her. In the third act the soul of Xenia Pavlovna flew away from her native town, and she forgot herself and everybody else, and wholly surrendered herself to the power of music and song, to the moonlit night, the silvery shimmer of the stars, and the contemplation of a happy love, which waxed stronger and stronger, seemingly measureless and all-powerful, but at the same time full of a sadness and pensiveness as quiet and gentle as this moonlit night itself, and as this exquisite young girl before her, with her thick, long braid of golden hair, who, with the sincerity and straightforwardness of a child, was kneeling before her handsome, youthful lover, pleading with him for mercy. Here she stands flooded by the radiant moonlight, trembling with fear and happiness, her head resting on the shoulder of the handsome youth. Here she sings at the wide-open window, telling the stars, the quiet night, and the slumbering old garden, that seems to have been enchanted by dreams of love, of her happiness; and her song, pure and sacred like a prayer, soars upward to the starry, blue heavens.
How very dear and near this is to people who have lived through the fantom of happiness. She, Xenia Pavlovna, had once been just such a sweet girl, with a thick, golden braid hanging down her back; she had been just as happy and carefree, and sang just as sweetly to the stars and the silent garden flooded with the mysterious, sad moonlight, and she also, just as this maiden, had trembled with fear and pleaded with the man she loved for mercy.
“Ha! ha! ha! ha!” rolled the thundering laugh of Mephistopheles—such pitiless, powerful, and provoking laughter—and the chord, which echoed in Xenia Pavlovna’s heart with inexpressible tenderness and sadness, broke and grew silent, leaving room only for this laughter, oppressive and revolting in its triumphant triviality and truth. And reality suddenly broke into the realm of dreams and fancies. Xenia Pavlovna lowered her eyes, compressed her lips, and a smile passed over her face, the strange smile of a person who has been caught unawares.
“He laughs first rate!” remarked Iván Mikhailovich in an earnest voice, slightly moving in his chair.
Xenia Pavlovna looked at her husband and sighed sorrowfully. She had already resigned herself to Iván Mikhailovich, to his pompous solemnity, and his hands crossed over his paunch. Those hands no longer awakened her ire. Once this very same man who now sat by her side washerFaust, and with him was closely bound up her love-drama. Even if it had been a mirage, a mistake, it was the mistake of herwhole life, a mistake which would never be repeated—like youth itself.
The curtain came down. The noise of applause, resembling a rainstorm, and the wild roar of the over-enthusiastic gallery filled the theatre from top to bottom. The curtain rose once more on the sea and the ruins, and Faust, Marguerite, and Mephistopheles appeared holding each other’s hands, bowing and smiling to the public, and Xenia Pavlovna felt as if she had been suddenly awakened from a sleep full of tender, delicious dreams, vague and enchanting, but already forgotten, and she felt vexed because she was awakened, and was now possessed by a tormenting longing to recall and bring back the frightened-off dreams.
She did not want to look at Marguerite, who had suddenly turned into an actress, thirsting for hand-clapping and making eyes at that huge monster—the public; at Mephistopheles, who stood with his right hand pressed to his breast as a token of gratitude and sincere pleasure, nor at Faust, who suddenly looked very much like a hair-dresser, and who was sending in all directions sweetish, airy kisses.
“Come, Vania!”
Iván Mikhailovich rose and offered her his arm, and they once more repaired to the lobby. Here he treated her to tea and fruits. “It is splendid for allaying thirst!” he said, handing her an orange. And from this moment all animosity was forgotten, and peace reigned once more between them.
“Not sour, I hope?”
“No, it is very good.”
Xenia Pavlovna ate her orange, and gazed at the men who passed them. “They are all different here from what they are at home,” she thought; “they are all rude, all go to their clubs, and my Vania is in reality much better than many of these men.”
“How did you like Marguerite, Vania?”
“Pretty well—though, after Alma Fostrem, she is, of course—”
“Have you heard Alma in that rôle?”
“Well, I like that, really! Did we not hear her together at St. Petersburg! Have you forgotten already?”
“Ach, that was so long ago.”
“Though this opera is immortal by itself, I have seen it over a hundred times, and will be glad to see it as many times more. Here one sees life as in a mirror—Yes—Do you remember—in the garden?” he concluded in a low voice, leaning toward his wife.
Xenia Pavlovna’s face was covered with a slight blush, and her eyes had a thoughtful, far-away look in them, which gradually grew sad and dreamy.
“All this was, but it has passed as if in a dream,” her lips whispered, and her head swayed on her beautiful bare neck.
Here some acquaintances passed and, pressing their hands warmly, inquired:
“How are you?”
“Very well, thank you. And you?”
“Pretty well, as usual. But you, Xenia Pavlovna, still continue to grow more beautiful!”
Xenia Pavlovna blushed, and a hardly perceptibleshade of pleasure flitted over her face, and made it sweet and strong and proud.
“What are you saying!” she replied, slightly screwing up her eyes and coquettishly fanning herself. “On the contrary, I think I am growing worse looking with each passing day!”
Then all the men began to protest in chorus, and the women silently fixed their coiffures with their fingers, while Iván Mikhailovich looked at his wife and thought that she was really a very lovely woman, probably one of the loveliest in the whole theatre, and he also began to feel very pleased, and twirling his mustaches, he spoke proudly:
“You ought to see her portrait when she was my fiancée! It hangs over my desk. She had a braid twice as thick as this Marguerite’s—”
In the last scene a whole revolution took place in the soul of Iván Mikhailovich. He began to imagine Xenia Pavlovna overtaken by the sad fate of Marguerite, and himself in the rôle of Faust, and grew very sorry for Xenia Pavlovna. The gloomy arches of the prison, on the gray stone floor some straw, and on it this woman, outraged, criminal, insane, and nevertheless so pure and saintly; the low melodies so full of sadness and tenderness in which arose hazy memories of past happiness, made Iván Mikhailovich’s breath come faster. He looked at Xenia Pavlovna, and noticing tears in her eyes, felt that this woman was very dear to him and that he was somehow very guilty toward her.
Iván Mikhailovich sadly gazed upon the stage, listenedto the low strains of music, and it seemed to him at times that it was his Xenia thrown into prison, and he recalled how they first met at a ball and how he at the conclusion of it sang: “Amidst the noisy ball,” and how they afterward sat in the dark garden listening to the singing of the nightingale and gazing at the silvery stars.
All this was, but it had passed as if in a dream.
They returned from the theatre with souls refreshed, overfilled with sadness mingled with joy, and it seemed to both as if all their former disputes and frictions over trivialities had vanished forevermore, and a part of their former happiness had returned to them. They rode home dashingly in a light, new sleigh over the well-beaten road, and Iván Mikhailovich had his arm round Xenia Pavlovna’s waist as tightly as if he feared to lose her on the way. Xenia Pavlovna hid her face in the soft white fur of her collar, and only her sparkling eyes were visible from under a very becoming little hat of the same white fur, like two coals, dark and moist.
Iván Mikhailovich wished to kiss her, forgetting that they were in the open road, but Xenia Pavlovna screwed up her eyes, in which lurked silent laughter, and slightly shook her white fur hat.
At home the samovár and Maria Petrovna awaited them.
The samovár gurgled joyfully, rising importantly in all its beauty and sparkle from the snow-white of the table-cloth; the nice white loaves of bread smelt good and very tempting; and fresh, soft-boiled eggsseemed just waiting to be cracked over the nose with a spoon. And Maria Petrovna, sailing out of the nursery with her old wrap over her shoulders, spoke kindly: “Well, children, you must be quite hungry?”
Iván Mikhailovich did not reply. He entered the dimly lighted salon and paced it with a slow tread, smoothed his hair with the palm of his hand and purred: “Angel, Angel Marguerite!”
Then he returned to the dining-room, approached Xenia Pavlovna, silently kissed her on the head, and again went into the salon, where he continued purring.
“You had better eat and leave ‘Angel Marguerite’ for after,” said Maria Petrovna, thrusting her head into the doorway of the salon.
“In a moment! In a moment!” Iván Mikhailovich replied with vexation, and continued walking, wholly surrendering himself to vague emotions and recollections and the feeling of tender sadness for the past.
Afterward they all three had tea and spoke very amiably, and a good and peaceful feeling filled their hearts. Xenia Pavlovna changed her evening dress for a white capote with sleeves resembling wings, and let down her hair. She visited the nursery several times, and, sinking on her knees before the three little beds, she gazed with a mother’s passion and tenderness at the sleeping babies with their full, chubby little arms and sweet, carefree faces, and it seemed to her that here were sleeping the little angels, pure, gentle, helpless, and great in their purity, that had carried Marguerite into heaven.
“You look like Marguerite in prison,” remarked her husband, leaning on his arm and gazing at his wife long and attentively, and it seemed to him as if a whole chapter of his life had disappeared and before him was a sweet, young maiden with golden hair, whom one longed to love, to adore forever.
And under this glance Xenia Pavlovna lowered her eyes, smiled, and felt that somewhere far down at the very bottom of her soul the broken, unfinished song of her youthful heart sounded like a mountain echo.