IV
He stopped and looked at me bashfully and questioningly, as if he felt that he had said something which was not proper for a railroad conversation. He was somewhat startled when the mathematician exhaled a thick cloud of smoke from his dark corner and said:
“Pavel Semenovich, I see you really are a crank. Isn’t that so? … Wonderful! … A man has a hundred thousand and shoots himself! Another lives as he likes, so to speak, healthy and ruddy. … A quiet soul. … Safe. … Is that strange? … By heavens, it’s impossible. … Good night. … It’s time to go to sleep. Nothing, nothing! … You won’t disturb me by talking. … I won’t listen. …”
He turned to the wall.
Pavel Semenovich modestly and questioningly looked at me with his naive gray eyes, and began in a lower tone:
“There’s a street in Tikhodol called Bolotnaya. They built a house on it near me. … New and of fresh wood. … The first year it shone so, and then it lost its freshness. It got covered with that especial dirt and weathering and rubbish. Then it got the same color as the old stables and sheds and you couldn’t tell it from them. Now they say it’s haunted. … The people suddenly said that Budnikov had robbed a woman.”
“That’s absolute nonsense,” called the mathematician. “I’ll never believe that Budnikov was a robber. That’s some stupid rumor.”
Pavel Semenovich smiled sadly and rather distractedly:
“That’s what he was. A robber! … A robber is the word, … precisely! But it was just a little personal … tangle with rather vague outlines. … You see. … I must tell you that since your time a mother and daughter moved in. … The women were simple and very poor and M. Budnikov was their protector and friend. They ran in debt for a long time, and he—always so strict in affairs of this kind—stood it, and even gave them money. For the doctor or for better food, when one was sick. Finally the old woman died and Yelena became an orphan. M. Budnikov became very sympathetic, gave her a pleasant little home, and got her work; she sewed—got along somehow. … Then she became a sort of housekeeper for M. Budnikov, and then—people began to say that their relations became more intimate. …”
“Oh, oh!” yawned the mathematician. “They didn’t need me for that. … Was she pretty?”
“Yes, rather pretty; fat, with flowing graceful movements and mild eyes. They said she was stupid. But, if she was, a woman’s stupidity is often very peculiar. … A naive and sleeping innocence of soul. She felt her situation very keenly. As is said in Uspensky, she was all shame. … M. Budnikov tried to teach her and lift her up, so to speak, to his level. She seemed incapable of it. She sat usually with a book, spelled it out with her fingers, and her face was interested like a child’s. She seemed to become dull and stupid when Budnikov was around. He got sick of her actions and then of Yelena, especially as other things took up his attention. But there was a time when he almost loved her. At least there were indications of it. In a word, the breach was not easy for him—his conscience troubled him and he wanted to silence it. He finally decided to give her a ticket of the domestic lottery. … He called her, took out three tickets, put them on the table, placed his hand on them, and said:
“ ‘Look here, Yelena. One of these tickets may win you two hundred thousand. Do you understand?’
“Of course she didn’t understand well. She couldn’t imagine so large a sum, but he went on:
“ ‘Now, I’ll give you one. This paper is worth 365 rubles, but don’t sell it. … Take it and may you be lucky. …’
“She didn’t take it, but huddled up, as if she were afraid. ‘All right,’ said M. Budnikov. ‘Give me your hand and take this paper.’ He took one of the tickets and guided her hand in making two pencil strokes sharply and heavily. His mind was clearly made up. … He gave it outright with all the results, we may say. ‘You see,’ he said, ‘this is yours, and if you win two hundred thousand, they’ll be yours too.’ He placed it back on the table. She reached out her hand and put in her bosom a paper with the number of the ticket.”
“Really?” asked the mathematician.
“Yes. … It had to happen so. … That machine was working in Petersburg, throwing out one number after another. … Children’s hands pick them up. … And one of these tickets won.”
“Two hundred thousand?” asked the mathematician, with great interest; apparently he had forgotten about sleeping.
“Not two hundred, but seventy-five. … During March, M. Budnikov looked at the list of drawings and saw that his number had won a large prize. Zero, again zero … 318 and 32. Suddenly he remembered that he had given one ticket to Yelena. … He also remembered that there were two lines on the first. He had three in a row: 317, 318 and 319. That means 317. … He got out the tickets and looked: there were two lines on 317. Yelena had won. …”
“The devil,” exclaimed the mathematician, raising himself a little. “That’s luck!”
“Yes, it was. And she was so stupid. The lines were on that number, when he thought that he would give her another. … A mistake, a mechanical wave of the hand, mere chance. … And, because of this chance, Yelena, a stupid woman who understood nothing and did not know what to do with money, would take from him … him, M. Budnikov, take away, so to speak, a large sum of money. That was foolish, wasn’t it? He was educated, had an aim in his life, or had had. … He might again. He would perhaps have used the money for some good cause. He would write again to his friend and ask his advice. … But she … she? A beast with a round form and beautiful eyes, which didn’t even show clearly what was in them: the stupidity of a calf or the innocence of a youth who had not yet grown to conscious life. … Do you understand? … It was so natural. … Anyone in Budnikov’s place, you … I … even Petr Petrovich, would have felt the same way. …”
Petr Petrovich made some sort of an indistinct sound, which was susceptible of different interpretations.
“No?” said Pavel Semenovich. “Excuse me. … I’m speaking about myself. … My thoughts or rather my inclinations would have been the same, perhaps in the subconscious realm. … Because … knowledge and all restraining influences are a sort of bark, a thin cover under which purely egoistic, primal and animal desires live and move. … If they find a weak spot. …”
“Fine, fine,” laughed Petr Petrovich condescendingly, and I thought that he winked at me from his dark corner. “Let’s get back to Budnikov. … What did he do? Pay it … and that’s all.”
“Apparently, yes; because he wanted to settle the question and was a little afraid, he called Yelena and congratulated her on winning. Then, apparently wishing to make use of a favorable opportunity, he hinted: ‘When we separate, you’ll be all right.’ Then he got angry. …”
“What for?”
“I think, because she was such a fool. If she’d chosen then, she probably wouldn’t have taken that number. But now it happened because of her folly. An orderly and wise man lost that money. That’s what I imagine from Yelena’s story. … ‘He ran from one corner to another and found fault with me.’ …”
“What of her? Glad, of course?”
“N-no. … She was frightened and began to weep. He got angry and she cried and he became still more angry.”
“Really? What a fool!”
“Y-yes. … I’ve already explained: I don’t call her wise, but weeping. … No, it wasn’t foolishness. … When she told it to me afterwards … she got to this point, looked at me with her clear, birdlike eyes, and burst into tears. Even now I can’t forget those eyes. … Foolishness, perhaps, but there’s foolishness and foolishness. It wasn’t clear knowledge and calculation about the situation. But in those blue eyes there was something very deep—just as if a true instinct shone in them. … Those foolish tears, perhaps, were the only correct thing at that time. … I dare to say—the wisest thing in the whole confused story. … Somewhere, not far off, was hidden the solution, like a secret door. …”
“Fine, fine. … Go on!”
“Next, … M. Budnikov looked a long time intently at the foolish woman. Then he sat down beside her, put his arms around her, and, for the first time after the perceptible cooling of their relations, he asked her not to go to her rooms, but to spend the night with him. …
“So things went on for some time. Yelena bloomed. … Her love was ‘foolish’; it was very direct. At first—she told me herself—M. Budnikov was repugnant to her. Later, after he had taken her, he dried her up, as she said. Such direct feminine natures do not separate feelings and facts, so to speak. Wherever you touch it, the whole complex reacts together. … He came back to her; therefore, he loved her. … For two weeks she was so joyful and beautiful that everyone looked at her—glad of her limitless joy. … But in two weeks M. Budnikov again cooled off. … A cold storm was raging in our yard. … Yelena’s eyes showed that she had been weeping. … The neighbors grumbled and pitied. M. Budnikov was sullen. … Those two lines had sunk deep into the hearts of both and a third felt them. … The porter Gavrilo. …”
“H-m! The whole story!” said Petr Petrovich, again getting up and sitting down beside Pavel Semenovich. “Was he there? Did he learn she’d won?”
“He knew nothing about it. I’ve spoken of him. A less clever person you could hardly imagine—absolutely heavenly directness. … Sometimes he didn’t seem to be a man, but … what shall I say? … a simple collection of muscles, partially conscious of their existence. He was constructed properly, harmoniously, rightly, and always in motion. And, in addition, two good human eyes looked at the whole world from the point of view of physical and moral indifference, so to speak. … Sometimes these eyes really gleamed with curiosity and such unconscious excellence that you actually felt jealous. Sometimes it seemed to me that if it wasn’t Gavrilo himself, there was something in him which understood M. Budinov, Yelena, and me. … He understood and smiled at us, just because he did understand. … Suddenly the man became confused. … It began when Budnikov made up with Yelena and dropped her again. … To him she was an abandoned ‘master’s lady,’ a creature which inspired in him no special respect, and very probably his first advances seemed rather simple and rustic. She met these advances with deep hostility and anger. Then Gavrilo ‘began to think,’ that is, began to eat little, become slack in his work, grow thin, and generally to dry up.
“This lasted during the fall and winter. Budnikov finally grew cold to Yelena; she felt insulted and believed that he was ‘laughing’ at her. … Gavrilo’s character was rather spoiled and the old harmony between him and Budnikov disappeared. … And the ticket with the two lines on it lay in the table drawer and seemed forgotten by everyone. …
“Spring came with everything in this condition. … For a while I lost sight of the little drama which was being enacted before my eyes. … My examinations were coming on; I was very tired and could not sleep. If you do fall asleep, you awake with a start and can’t get to sleep again. You light a candle—your books are on the table—you begin to study. … And it’s sunrise. … You go out on the steps, look at the sleeping street, the trees in the garden. … A sleepy coachman is going along the street; the trees are rustling faintly, as if they were shivering in the morning chill. … You envy the coachman, and even the trees. … You want rest and this concentrated unconscious life. … Then you go out in the garden. … Sit down on a bench and just get to sleep, when the sun shines in your eyes. There was just such a bench in a quiet corner by the stable wall. When the sunlight fell on it at seven o’clock you’d wake up, drink your tea, and go to your classes.
“I went out one day at dawn and fell asleep on this bench. Suddenly I woke up as if someone had called me. The sun had scarcely risen very high and the bench was still in the shadow. What’s the matter, I wondered. … What woke me up? Suddenly I heard Yelena’s voice in Gavrilo’s stable. I wanted to get up and leave. … I don’t like to be an eavesdropper and it was rather unpleasant to hear the simple solution of Yelena’s drama. But, while I was getting ready to leave, the conversation continued and finally I didn’t go. … I just listened.
“ ‘You see I’ve come,’ said Yelena. … ‘What do you want?’
“Suddenly, with such a deep and simple grief, she added:
“ ‘You’ve been torturing me. …’
“She said this … with such a sincere and heartfelt groan. Before, yes, and after, she always spoke formally to him, but that time … a woman’s heart, sick with shame and love, used the form of affection—frankly, unconditionally, freely. …
“ ‘You’ve tortured me, too, Yelena Petrovna,’ answered Gavrilo. ‘I’ve lost my strength. I’ve dried up. I can’t work and I can’t eat. …’
“ ‘What are you going to do now?’ asked Yelena.
“ ‘What?’ he said. ‘Marry you, of course.’
“For a few minutes neither spoke. Yelena seemed to be weeping softly. And yet that silence was wonderfully clear, simple, frank. ‘You see the situation: you’re no match for me; I would have worked for Budnikov as well as I could, gone to the village, gotten a place, married and taken some good girl. … But that’s past; willy nilly I want you as you are. …’
“ ‘I’m lost,’ said Yelena softly.
“ ‘Why, Yelena Petrovna,’ answered Gavrilo, with a grim tenderness. … ‘I don’t see that you’re lost. … It’s just the same. … I can’t live. … Like a corpse. … I can’t eat. … I’ve got no strength. …’
“Yelena wept more loudly. … She was having a good cry. It seemed painful but healing. Gavrilo said sternly:
“ ‘Come, what are you going to do? … Are you coming?’
“Yelena apparently exerted herself, stopped weeping, and answered the repeated question:
“ ‘Do you fear God, Gavrilo Stepanich?’
“ ‘Why?’ asked Gavrilo.
“ ‘You won’t find fault with me?’
“ ‘No,’ he said, ‘I won’t find fault with you. And I won’t let anyone else. If you’re serious in throwing this overboard forever. … Forever. … I’ll trust you. …’
“Silence. I didn’t hear Yelena’s answer. I only imagined that she must have turned to the east, and perhaps there was an icon in the room. … She crossed herself. … Then she suddenly took his head in her arms and I heard them kiss. That same instant Yelena ran out, rushed almost to the house, but she suddenly stopped, opened the gate, and came into the garden.
“Then she caught sight of me. … But it didn’t embarrass her. She walked up, stopped, and looked at me out of her happy eyes, and said:
“ ‘Do you always take a walk mornings? … Friend. …’
“Suddenly, overcome by her emotions, she came nearer, took hold of my shoulders, shook me unceremoniously, looked into my eyes, and laughed. … It was so naive. She felt that I had been listening and saw nothing bad in it. … When Gavrilo came out with his broom and also entered the garden, she blushed and ran past him. Gavrilo looked after her with quiet joy, and then his gaze fell on me. He bowed with his habitual quiet politeness and commenced to sweep the path. He again showed that same beautiful and effortless play of healthy, free muscles. … And I remember how the monastery bell sounded for early matins—it was Sunday. Gavrilo stopped in a broad bay of the alley, took off his cap, held the broom in his left hand, and crossed himself with his right. The whole seemed to me so extraordinarily bright and beautiful. The man stood in the centre of a world of light, where everything was very good, that is, all his relations to earth and heaven. … In a word, it was so soothing a sight that I went to my room and fell fast asleep after so many sleepless nights. There’s something healing and calming in honest human happiness. You know it sometimes occurs to me that we are all bound to be well and happy, because … you see … happiness is the highest possible condition of spiritual health. And health is contagious like disease. … We are so to speak open on all sides: to the sun, wind, and other things. Others enter us, and we them, without noticing it. … And that’s why—”
Pavel Semenovich suddenly stopped as he felt the fixed and cynical gaze of Petr Petrovich.
“Yes, yes! … Excuse me,” he said, “this is really a little unclear. …”
“It is a little. You’d better go on. Without philosophy. …”
“… M. Budnikov woke me up. It happened to be the twentieth. He came as usual, and as usual he drank two cups of tea with rum, but I saw that M. Budnikov was out of humor, and even nervous. … And I involuntarily connected it with the incident of the morning.
“For some time he kept out of sorts and everyone around noticed that something secret and hidden had gone wrong between master and servant. Gavrilo wanted to leave. … Budnikov would not let him go, although he often told me that he was disappointed in Gavrilo. As I was walking one day through the garden, I saw them both standing by the gate and talking. Budnikov was excited; Gavrilo, calm. He was standing in an easy position and kept looking at his spade, which was stuck in the ground. He was evidently insisting on something which enraged Budnikov. … But I thought that the subject of conversation created between them a strange equality. …
“ ‘Yes, friend, of course, it’s your business,’ said M. Budnikov. He caught sight of me but did not think it necessary to change the subject. He spoke spitefully and angrily. … ‘Yes. … You’re a free man. … But just remember, Gavrilo Stepanich, if you have any utilitarian object, … I, of course, can give only a very small sum. …’
“M. Budnikov was unable to speak simply, and used foreign words, even when talking to Gavrilo. … Gavrilo looked at him calmly and answered:
“ ‘We don’t want anything. … We have enough. …’
“M. Budnikov glanced cautiously at him and answered:
“ ‘Fine! Remember! Afterwards. … I’ll go to Petersburg on business. … Do what you want to.’
“Gavrilo bowed and said:
“ ‘I thank you. …’
“ ‘Excuse me,’ replied M. Budnikov, with a shadow of ironical melancholy, ‘I don’t expect gratitude.’
“He slammed the gate and left the garden.
“He stopped and waited for me in the yard, took my arm, and came up to my rooms. On the way, and in my apartments, he kept talking confusedly and incoherently. He did not conceal the fact that he had had some affection for a certain woman. This might be still ‘alive under the ashes.’ … On the other hand he was dreaming of union and the possibility of friendship with his humblest brother. Although both of these feelings had led to his disillusionment, he could show something, so that everyone would feel it. … But in general, magnanimity and the finer feelings belong only to highly cultured people. …
“He was nervous and under his rather artificial pathos, I could see his real exasperation and anger.
“I later had a chance to see his diary. These were separate pages, written like letters to his distant friend. … Apparently he hadn’t sent any letters for a long time, but these pages were like lights in the darkness. Under the approximate day of the conversation with Gavrilo was a passionate note. He told the whole story of Yelena, and wrote that he had made a mistake, and that he now loved her. … And that he would try once more. … This ended with a sudden burst of poetry: ‘My distant friend, you, of course, do not doubt that I will do what I consider the duty of magnanimity. …’
“Then, sending Gavrilo one day with the horse somewhere outside the city, M. Budnikov went to the wing where Yelena still lived.
“ ‘Yelena! You should come to me. You must fix up something. …’
“A few days before this he had been thoughtful and solemn, but now he dressed in style, went to the wing, and entered Yelena’s room, without heeding the inquisitive looks of his tenants.
“No one knew what happened in that room, but a half-hour later M. Budnikov came out, stubborn, affected, but apparently dazed. Everyone began to say that he had formally proposed to Yelena and—she had rejected him.
“After this he left for Petersburg, where he had a lawsuit before the Senate. He lost it, and when he returned, Gavrilo and Yelena were already married.