Fifty-Two Stories

“You’re a strange one, by God…,” said Pasha, beginning to be offended. “I assure you that, apart from this bracelet and ring, I haven’t seen a thing from your husband. He only brought me little pastries.”

“Little pastries…,” the woman smirked. “At home the children have nothing to eat, and here it’s little pastries. So you flatly refuse to return the things?”

Receiving no reply, the lady sat down and, pondering something, fixed her eyes on one spot.

“What am I to do now?” she said. “If I don’t find nine hundred roubles, he will perish, and I and the children will perish, too. Shall I kill this loathsome creature or go on my knees to her?”

The lady pressed her handkerchief to her face and burst into sobs.

“I beg you!” could be heard through her sobs. “You bankrupted and ruined my husband. Save him…You have no compassion for him, but the children…the children…What are the children guilty of?”

Pasha imagined little children standing in the street and crying from hunger, and burst into sobs herself.

“What can I do, madam?” she said. “You say I’m a loathsome creature and I’ve ruined Nikolai Petrovich, but, as God is my witness…I assure you I have never profited from him…In our chorus, only Motya has a rich patron, and the rest of us get by on bread and kvass. Nikolai Petrovich is a cultivated and delicate man, well, so I received him. We can’t do without it.”

“I’m asking for the things! Give me the things! I weep…I humiliate myself…If you like, I’ll go on my knees to you! If you like!”

Pasha cried out in fear and waved her hands. She sensed that this pale, beautiful lady, who spoke nobly, as in a theater, was actually capable of going on her knees to her, precisely out of pride, out of nobility, to elevate herself and humiliate the chorus girl.

“All right, I’ll give you the things!” Pasha started bustling about, wiping her eyes. “If you like. Only they don’t come from Nikolai Petrovich…I got them from my other guests. As you please, ma’am…”

Pasha pulled open the upper drawer of the chest, took out a brooch with diamonds, a coral necklace, several rings, a bracelet, and gave them all to the lady.

“Take them, if you wish, only I haven’t made any profit from your husband. Take them, get rich!” Pasha went on, insulted by the threat of going on her knees. “And if you’re his noble…lawful wife, you should have kept him by you. So there! I didn’t invite him, he came on his own…”

Through her tears the lady looked over the things presented to her and said:

“This isn’t all…It wouldn’t make even five hundred roubles.”

Pasha impulsively flung a gold watch, a cigarette case, and a pair of cufflinks at her and said, spreading her arms:

“I have nothing else left…Go on and search me!”

The visitor sighed, wrapped the things in a handkerchief with trembling hands, and not saying a word, not even nodding her head, went out.

The door to the next room opened, and Kolpakov came in. He was pale and shook his head nervously, as if he had just swallowed something bitter. Tears glistened in his eyes.

“What things did you bring me?” Pasha fell upon him. “When, if I may ask?”

“Things…That’s nonsense—things!” Kolpakov said and shook his head. “My God! She wept, she humiliated herself before you…”

“I’m asking you: what things did you bring me?” cried Pasha.

“My God, she, decent, proud, pure…even wanted to go on her knees before…before this slut! And I drove her to it! I made it happen!”

He clutched his head and moaned:

“No, I’ll never forgive myself! Never! Get away from me, you…trash!” he cried in revulsion, stepping back from Pasha and pushing her away from him with trembling hands. “She wanted to go on her knees and…before whom? Before you! Oh, my God!”

He dressed quickly and, squeamishly avoiding Pasha, went to the door and left.

Pasha lay down and began to cry loudly. She was sorry now for the things she had given away on an impulse, and she was offended. She remembered how a shopkeeper had given her a beating three years ago for no reason at all, and she cried even louder.

1886

THE FIRST-CLASS PASSENGER

A FIRST-CLASS PASSENGER, who had just had dinner at the station and was slightly tipsy, sprawled on the velvet seat, stretched out sweetly, and dozed off. After dozing for no more than five minutes, he looked with oily eyes at his vis-à-vis, grinned, and said:

“My father, of blessed memory, liked to have his heels scratched by a peasant wench after dinner. I’m exactly the same, with the only difference that each time after dinner I scratch not my heels but my tongue and brain. Sinner that I am, I love to babble on a full stomach. Will you allow me to chat with you a little?”

“By all means,” the vis-à-vis agreed.