goes to town, don’t forget to tell him to… er… er… to get some cigarette-papers…. But do, please sit down.”
“Cigarette-papers? good…. Was wollen Sie noch?”
“Ich will… there’s nothing I will, but… But do sit down! I shall think of something else in a minute.”
“It is shocking for a maiden in a man’s room to remain…. Mr. Vaxin, you are, I see, a naughty man…. I understand…. To order cigarette-papers one does not a person wake…. I understand you… .”
Rosalia Karlovna turned and went out of the room.
Somewhat reassured by his conversation with her and ashamed of his cowardice, Vaxin pulled the bedclothes over his head and shut his eyes. For about ten minutes he felt fairly comfortable, then the same nonsense came creeping back into his mind…. He swore to himself, felt for the matches, and without opening his eyes lighted a candle.
But even the light was no use. To Vaxin’ s excited imagination it seemed as though someone were peeping round the corner and that his uncle’s eyes were moving.
“I’ll ring her up again… damn the woman!” he decided. “I’ll tell her I’m unwell and ask for some drops.”
Vaxin rang. There was no response. He rang again, and as though answering his ring, he heard the church-bell toll the hour.
Overcome with terror, cold all over, he jumped out of bed, ran headlong out of his bedroom, and making the sign of the cross and cursing himself for his cowardice, he fled barefoot in his nightshirt to the governess’s room.
“Rosalia Karlovna!” he began in a shaking voice as he knocked at her door, “Rosalia Karlovna!… Are you asleep?… I feel… so… er… er… unwell…. Drops! …”
There was no answer. Silence reigned.
“I beg you… do you understand? I beg you! Why this squeamishness, I can’t understand… especially when a man… is ill… How absurdly zierlich manierlich you are really… at your age… .”
“I to your wife shall tell…. Will not leave an honest maiden in peace…. When I was at Baron Anzig’s, and the baron try to come to me for matches, I understand at once what his matches mean and tell to the baroness…. I am an honest maiden.”
“Hang your honesty! I am ill I tell you… and asking you for drops. Do you understand? I’m ill!”
“Your wife is an honest, good woman, and you ought her to love! Ja! She is noble!… I will not be her foe!”
“You are a fool! simply a fool! Do you understand, a fool?”
Vaxin leaned against the doorpost, folded his arms and waited for his panic to pass off. To return to his room where the lamp flickered and his uncle stared at him from his frame was more than he could face, and to stand at the governess’s door in nothing but his nightshirt was inconvenient from every point of view. What could he do?
It struck two o’clock and his terror had not left him. There was no light in the passage and something dark seemed to be peeping out from every corner. Vaxin turned so as to face the doorpost, but at that instant it seemed as though somebody tweaked his nightshirt from behind and touched him on the shoulder.
“Damnation!… Rosalia Karlovna!”
No answer. Vaxin hesitatingly opened the door and peeped into the room. The virtuous German was sweetly slumbering. The tiny flame of a night-light threw her solid buxom person into relief. Vaxin stepped into the room and sat down on a wickerwork trunk near the door. He felt better in the presence of a living creature, even though that creature was asleep.
“Let the German idiot sleep,” he thought, “I’ll sit here, and when it gets light I’ll go back…. It’s daylight early now.”
Vaxin curled up on the trunk and put his arm under his head to await the coming of dawn.
“What a thing it is to have nerves!” he reflected. “An educated, intelligent man!… Hang it all!… It’s a perfect disgrace!”
As he listened to the gentle, even breathing of Rosalia Karlovna, he soon recovered himself completely.
At six o’clock, Vaxin’s wife returned from the all-night service, and not finding her husband in their bedroom, went to the governess to ask her for some change for the cabman.
On entering the German’s room, a strange sight met her eyes.
On the bed lay stretched Rosalia Karlovna fast asleep, and a couple of yards from her was her husband curled up on the trunk sleeping the sleep of the just and snoring loudly.
What she said to her husband, and how he looked when he woke, I leave to others to describe. It is beyond my powers.
A COUNTRY COTTAGE
Translation By Constance Garnett
Two young people who had not long been married were walking up and down the platform of a little country station. His arm was round her waist, her head was almost on his shoulder, and both were happy.
The moon peeped up from the drifting cloudlets and frowned, as it seemed, envying their happiness and regretting her tedious and utterly superfluous virginity. The still air was heavy with the fragrance of lilac and wild cherry. Somewhere in the distance beyond the line a corncrake was calling.
“How beautiful it is, Sasha, how beautiful!” murmured the young wife. “It all seems like a dream. See, how sweet and inviting that little copse looks! How nice those solid, silent telegraph posts are! They add a special note to the landscape, suggesting humanity, civilization in the distance…. Don’t you think it’s lovely when the wind brings the rushing sound of a train?”
“Yes…. But what hot little hands you’ve got… That’s because you’re excited, Varya…. What have you got for our supper tonight?”
“Chicken and salad…. It’s a chicken just big enough for two…. Then there is the salmon and sardines that were sent from town.”
The moon as though she had taken a pinch of snuff hid her face behind a cloud. Human happiness reminded her of her own loneliness, of her solitary couch beyond the hills and dales.
“The train is coming!” said Varya, “how jolly!”
Three eyes of fire could be seen in the distance. The stationmaster came out on the platform. Signal lights flashed here and there on the line.
“Let’s see the train in and go home,” said Sasha, yawning. “What a splendid time we are having together, Varya, it’s so splendid, one can hardly believe it’s true!”
The dark monster crept noiselessly alongside the platform and came to a standstill. They caught glimpses of sleepy faces, of hats and shoulders at the dimly lighted windows.
