Chapter VIII: Part 8

_Teleshov was born in 1867 and studied at the Moscow Academy of Applied Sciences. He started on his literary career in 1884 and met with almost immediate recognition._

_In his choice of subjects, as well as in the strong objective way in which he treats them, Teleshov is a disciple of Anton Chekhov, and his affinity with that great artist has been pointed out by the foremost Russian critics._

_Unlike some of the other younger Russian writers, Teleshov is wholly sound, sympathetic, and gentle in his writings. He takes his subjects wherever he can most easily lay his hand upon them--in the petty, gray, every-day life of the tradesman or from among the loose, unrestrained half-Bohemianism which is found in every great city._

THE DUEL
BY NIKOLAI TELESHOV

Translated by Lizzie B. Gorin. Copyright, 1907,
by P. F. Collier & Son.

It was early morning--

Vladímir Kladunov, a tall, graceful young man, twenty-two years of age, almost boyish in appearance, with a handsome face and thick, fair curls, dressed in the uniform of an officer and in long riding boots, minus overcoat and cap, stood upon a meadow covered with new-fallen snow, and gazed at another officer, a tall, red-faced, mustached man, who faced him at a distance of thirty paces, and was slowly lifting his hand in which he held a revolver, and aimed it straight at Vladímir.

With his arms crossed over his breast and also holding in one hand a revolver, Kladunov, almost with indifference, awaited the shot of his opponent. His handsome, young face, though a little paler than usual, was alight with courage, and wore a scornful smile. His dangerous position, and the merciless determination of his adversary, the strenuous attention of the seconds who silently stood at one side, and the imminence of death, made the moment one of terrible intensity--mysterious, almost solemn. A question of honor was to be decided. Every one felt the importance of the question; the less they understood what they were doing, the deeper seemed the solemnity of the moment.

A shot was fired; a shiver ran through all. Vladímir threw his hands about, bent his knees, and fell. He lay upon the snow, shot through the head, his hands apart, his hair, face, and even the snow around his head covered with blood. The seconds ran toward him and lifted him; the doctor certified his death, and the question of honor was solved. It only remained to announce the news to the regiment and to inform, as tenderly and carefully as possible, the mother, who was now left alone in the world, for the boy that had been killed was her only son. Before the duel no one had given her even a thought; but now they all became very thoughtful. All knew and loved her, and recognized the fact that she must be prepared by degrees for the terrible news. At last Iván Golubenko was chosen as most fit to tell the mother, and smooth out matters as much as possible.

* * * * *

Pelageia Petrovna had just risen, and was preparing her morning tea when Iván Golubenko, gloomy and confused, entered the room.

“Just in time for tea, Iván Ivanovich!” amiably exclaimed the old lady, rising to meet her guest. “You have surely called to see Vladímir!”

“No, I--in passing by--” Golubenko stammered, abashed.

“You will have to excuse him, he is still asleep. He walked up and down his room the whole of last night, and I told the servant not to wake him, as it is a--holy day. But probably you came on urgent business?”

“No, I only stepped in for a moment in passing--”

“If you wish to see him, I will give the order to wake him up.”

“No, no, do not trouble yourself!”

But Pelageia Petrovna, believing that he had called to see her son on some business or other, left the room, murmuring to herself.

Golubenko walked excitedly to and fro, wringing his hands, not knowing how to tell her the terrible news. The decisive moment was quickly approaching, but he lost control of himself, was frightened, and cursed fate that had so mixed him up with the whole business.

“Now! How can a body trust you young people!” good-naturedly exclaimed Pelageia Petrovna to her guest, reentering the room. “Here I have been taking care not to make the least noise with the cups and saucers, and asking you not to wake my boy, and he has long ago departed without leaving a trace! But why do you not take a seat, Iván Ivanovich, and have a cup of tea? You have been neglecting us terribly lately!”

She smiled as with a secret joy, and added in a low voice:

“And we have had so much news during that time!--Vladímir surely could not keep it. He must have told you all about it by this; for he is very straightforward and open-hearted, my Vladímir. I was thinking last night, in my sinful thoughts: ‘Well, when my Vladímir paces the room the whole night--that means that he is dreaming of Lenochka!’ That is always the case with him: if he paces the room the whole night, he will surely leave to-morrow--Ah, Iván Ivanovich, I only ask the Lord to send me this joy in my old age. What more does an old woman need? I have but one desire, one joy--and it seems to me I shall have nothing more to pray for after Vladímir and Lenochka are married. So joyful and happy it would make me!--I do not need anything besides Vladímir; there is nothing dearer to me than his happiness.”

The old lady became so effected that she had to wipe away the tears which came to her eyes.

“Do you remember,” she continued, “things did not go well in the beginning--either between the two or on account of the money--You young officers are not even allowed to marry without bonds--Well, now everything has been arranged: I have obtained the necessary five thousand rubles for Vladímir, and they could go to the altar even to-morrow! Yes, and Lenochka has written such a lovely letter to me--My heart is rejoicing!”

Continuing to speak, Pelageia Petrovna took a letter out of her pocket, which she showed to Golubenko, and then put back again.

“She is such a dear girl! And so good!”

Iván Golubenko, listening to her talk, sat as if on red-hot coals. He wanted to interrupt her flow of words, to tell her that everything was at an end, that her Vladímir was dead, and that in one short hour nothing would remain to her of all her bright hopes; but he listened to her and kept silent. Looking upon her good, gentle face, he felt a convulsive gripping in his throat.

“But why are you looking so gloomy to-day?” the old lady at last asked. “Why, your face looks as black as night!”

Iván wanted to say “Yes! And yours will be the same when I tell you!” but instead of telling her anything, he turned his head away, and began to twirl his mustaches.

Pelageia Petrovna did not notice it, and, wholly absorbed in her own thoughts, continued:

“I have a greeting for you. Lenochka writes that I should give Iván Ivanovich her regards, and should compel him to come with Vladímir and pay her a visit--You know yourself how she likes you, Iván Ivanovich!--No, it seems I am not able to keep it to myself. I must show you the letter. Just see for yourself how loving and sweet it is.”

And Pelageia Petrovna again took out the package of letters from her pocket, took from it a thin letter-sheet, closely written, and unfolded it before Iván Golubenko, whose face had become still gloomier, and he tried to push away with his hand the extended note, but Pelageia Petrovna had already started to read:

“Dear Pelageia Petrovna--When will the time arrive when I will be able to address you, not as above, but as my dear, sweet mother! I am anxiously awaiting the time, and hope so much that it will soon come that even now I do not want to call you otherwise than mama--”

Pelageia Petrovna lifted her head, and, ceasing to read, looked at Golubenko with eyes suffused with tears.

“You see, Iván Ivanovich!” she added; but seeing that Golubenko was biting his mustaches, and that his eyes too were moist, she rose, placed a trembling hand upon his hair, and quietly kissed him on the forehead. “Thank you, Iván Ivanovich,” she whispered, greatly moved. “I always thought that you and Vladímir were more like brothers than like simple friends--Forgive me--I am so very happy, God be thanked!”

Tears streamed down her cheeks, and Iván Golubenko was so disturbed and confused that he could only catch in his own her cold, bony hand and cover it with kisses; tears were suffocating him, and he could not utter a word, but in this outburst of motherly love he felt such a terrible reproach to himself that he would have preferred to be lying himself upon the field, shot through the head, than to hear himself praised for his friendship by this woman who would in half an hour find out the whole truth; what would she then think of him? Did not he, the friend, the almost brother, stand quietly by when a revolver was pointed at Vladímir? Did not this brother himself measure the space between the two antagonists and load the revolvers? All this he did himself, did consciously; and now this friend and brother silently sat there without having even the courage to fulfil his duty.

He was afraid; at this moment he despised himself, but could not prevail upon himself to say even one word. His soul was oppressed by a strange lack of harmony; he felt sick at heart and stifling. And in the meanwhile time flew--he knew it, and the more he knew it the less had he the courage to deprive Pelageia Petrovna of her few last happy moments. What should he say to her? How should he prepare her? Iván Golubenko lost his head entirely.

He had had already time enough to curse in his thoughts all duels, all quarrels, every kind of heroism, and all kinds of so-called questions of honor, and he at last rose from his seat ready to confess or to run away. Silently and quickly he caught the hand of Pelageia Petrovna, and stooping over it to touch it with his lips, thus hid his face, over which a torrent of tears suddenly streamed down; impetuously, without another thought, he ran out into the corridor, snatching his great coat, and then out of the house without having said a word.

Pelageia Petrovna looked after him with astonishment, and thought:

“He also must be in love, poor fellow--Well, that is their young sorrow--before happiness!” ...

And she soon forgot him, absorbed in her dreams of the happiness which seemed to her so inviolable and entire.

BOLESS

BY MAXIM GORKI

_Alexei Maximovitch Pyeshkov, otherwise “Gorki,” or the “Bitter One,” was born in 1868, in the house of his grandfather, the dyer Kaschirin. A shoemaker’s apprentice at five years of age, his life has been a continued series of experiments and struggles--at one time gardener, at another, painter of icons, scullery boy on a Volga steamship, shoemaker, sawyer of wood, apple-seller, baker, and railroad porter. His first pictures of the life of the under-dog, based on his own experiences, were so masterly that he became in a surprisingly short time one of the most popular of Russian authors._

BOLESS
BY MAXIM GORKI

Translated by Lizzie B. Gorin. Copyright, 1907,
by P. F. Collier & Son.

An acquaintance of mine once told me the following story:

“While still a student at Moscow I happened to be living alongside one of those--well, she was a Polish woman, Teresa by name. A tall, powerfully built brunette with heavy, bushy eyebrows, and a large coarse, vulgar face, as if carved out with an ax--the animal gleam of her eyes, the deep bass voice, the gait and manners of a cabman, and her immense strength like that of a market-woman, inspired me with an inexpressible horror. I lived in the garret of the house, and her room was opposite mine. I never opened my door when I knew that she was in. But this, of course, happened very rarely. Sometimes I chanced to meet her on the landing, staircase, or in the yard, and she would look at me with a smile which seemed to me cynical and rapacious. Occasionally I saw her in her cups, with bleary eyes, her hair and clothes in disorder and with a particularly loathsome smile. On such occasions she would meet my eye with an impudent stare and say:

“‘How are you, Pan Student?’[10]

“And her stupid laugh would increase my dislike for her still more. I would have liked nothing better than to change my quarters in order to get rid of her proximity, but my room was so nice, and the view from my window was so fine, the street below so quiet and peaceful, that I concluded to endure it.

“One morning after I had dressed and was sprawling on the cot, trying to invent some sort of an excuse for not attending my classes, the door of my room suddenly opened, and the disgusting bass voice of the Polish woman sounded from the threshold:

“‘Good morning, Pan Student!’

“‘What is it you wish?’ I asked her. I saw she looked confused and had in her face a kind of pleading expression, something unusual with her.

“‘You see, Pan Student, I came to beg you to do me a great favor. Don’t refuse me, please!’

“Lying there on my cot I thought that it was just some pretext or other to make my further acquaintance. Take care, my boy!

“‘You see, I have to send a letter to my native country,’ she continued in a supplicating, low, tremulous voice.

“‘Well,’ I thought, ‘the devil take you. If you wish I will write it for you.’ And springing to my feet I sat down to the table, took some paper and said: ‘Well, come nearer; sit down and dictate.’

“She came over; sat down cautiously on the edge of the chair and looked at me in rather a guilty way.

“‘To whom shall I write?’

“‘To Boleslav Kapshat, in the town Sventsiani, on the Warsaw railroad.’

“‘Well, what shall I write? Speak.’

“‘My dearest Boless, my heart’s delight, my beloved. May the Mother of God protect you! My golden heart, why have you not written for so long a time to your sorrowing dove, Teresa--’

“I could hardly keep from laughing. A sorrowing dove, indeed! Almost six feet tall, with the fists of a prize-fighter, and a face so black that it seemed as if the ‘dove’ had been sweeping chimneys all her life and had never thoroughly washed herself. But I somehow kept my face straight and asked:

“‘Who is this Bolesst?’

“‘Boless, Pan Student,’ she replied seemingly offended because of my mispronouncing the name. ‘He is my affianced.’

“‘Affianced!’

“‘And why are you so astonished? Can not I, a girl, have an affianced?’

“She--a girl! well, this beats everything I ever heard. Oh, well, who can tell about such matters! Everything is possible in this world.

“‘And have you been long engaged?’

“‘The sixth year.’

“‘Oh, oh!’ I thought and then said aloud: ‘Well, go ahead with your letter.’

“And I must confess--so tender and loving was this message--that I would have willingly exchanged places with this Boless had the fair correspondent been any one else but Teresa.

“‘I thank you from my inmost soul for your favor, Pan Student,’ Teresa said, bowing low. ‘Can I in any way be of service to you?’

“‘No, thank you.’

“‘But maybe the Pan’s shirts or trousers need mending?’

“This made me quite angry. I felt that this mastodon in petticoats was making the blood mount to my cheeks, and I told her quite sharply that her services were not required; and she departed.

“Two weeks or so passed. One evening I was sitting at my window, softly whistling and thinking hard how to get away from myself. I felt very bored. The weather was as nasty as it could be. To go out that evening was out of the question, and having nothing better to do I began from sheer ennui a course of self-analysis. This proved dull enough work, but there was nothing else to do. Suddenly the door opened, thank God! Some one was coming to see me.

“‘Are you very busy just now, Pan Student?’

“‘Teresa! H’m--’ I thought I would have preferred any one at all to her. Then I said aloud:

“‘No, what is it you want now?’

“‘I wish to ask the Pan Student to write me another letter.’

“‘Very well. Is it again to Boless you wish me to write?’

“‘No, this time I want you to write a letter from Boless to me.’

“‘Wha-at?’

“‘I beg your pardon, Pan Student. How stupid of me! It is not for me, this letter, but for a friend of mine, a man acquaintance; he has a fiancée. Her name is like mine, Teresa. He does not know how to write, so I want the Pan Student to write for him a letter to that Teresa--’

“I looked at her. She seemed very confused and frightened, and her fingers trembled. And though I failed at first to understand what was the matter with her I at last understood.

“‘Look here, my lady,’ I said to her. ‘You have been telling me a pack of lies. There are no Bolesses nor Teresas among your acquaintances. It is only a pretext for coming in here. I tell you outright that there is no use of coming sneaking around me, as I do not wish to have anything to do with you. Do you understand?’

“She grew very red in the face and I saw that she was strangely frightened and confused, and moved her lips so oddly, wishing to say something, without being able to say it. And somehow I began to think that I had misjudged her a little. There was something behind all this. But what?

“‘Pan Student,’ she suddenly began, but broke off, and turning toward the door walked out of the room.

“I remained with a very unpleasant feeling in my heart. I heard her shut her own door with a bang; evidently the poor girl was very angry--I thought the matter over and decided to go in to her and induce her to return; I would write her the letter she wished.

“I entered her room. She was sitting at the table with her head pressed in her hands.

“‘Teresa,’ I said, ‘will you listen to me a moment?’

“Whenever I come to this turn of the story I always feel very awkward and embarrassed. But let us return to my narrative. Seeing that she did not reply I repeated:

“‘Listen to me, my girl--’

“She sprang to her feet, came close up to me, with eyes flashing, and placing her two hands on my shoulders she began to whisper, or rather to hum in her deep bass voice:

“‘Look you here, Pan Student. What of it, what of it if there is no Boless? And what if there is no Teresa? What difference does it make to you? Is it so hard for you to draw a few lines on the paper! Oh, you! And I thought you such a good fellow, such a nice fair-haired little boy. Yes, it is true--there is no Boless, and there is no Teresa, there is only me! Well, what of it?’

“‘Allow me,’ I said greatly disconcerted by this reception. ‘What is it you are saying? Is there no Boless?’

“‘Yes, there is none. But what of it?’

“‘And no Teresa either?’

“‘No, no Teresa either; that is, yes, I am her.’

“I could not understand a word. I stared straight into her eyes, trying to determine which of us two had lost our reason. And she returned once more to the table, rummaged for some time in the drawer, and coming back to me said in an offended tone:

“‘Here is the letter you wrote for me, take it back. You do not wish to write me a second one anyway. Others will probably be kinder than you and would do so.’

“I recognized the letter she held out to me as the one I wrote for her to Boless. Humph!

“‘Look here, Teresa,’ I said to her. ‘Will you please explain to me what it all means? Why do you ask people to write letters for you when you do not find it necessary even to post them?’

“‘Post them? Where to?’

“‘Why, to this Boless, of course.’

“‘But he does not exist!’

“I really could not understand a word. There was nothing left for me to do but to spit and walk out of the room. But she explained herself.

“‘Well, what of it?’ she began in an offended voice. ‘He does not exist. He does not, so,’ and she extended her hands as if she could not herself clearly understand why he did not exist in reality. ‘But I want him to. Am I not as much of a human being as the others? Of course I--I know.--But it does no harm to any one, that I am writing to him.--’

“‘Allow me--to whom?’

“‘To Boless, of course.’

“‘But he does not exist.’

“‘Oh, Mother of God! What if he does not exist? He does not; still to me he does. And Teresa--this is myself, and he replies to my letters, and I write to him again.’

“I understood. I felt so sick at heart, so ashamed of myself to know that alongside of me, only three paces removed, lived a human being who had no one in the whole world to love and sympathize with her, and that this being had to invent a friend for herself.

“‘Here you have written a letter from me to Boless, and I gave it to another to read, and when I hear it read it really begins to seem to me as if there is a Boless. And then I ask that a letter be written from Boless to Teresa--that is to me. And when such a letter is written and is read to me then I am almost entirely convinced that there is a Boless, and that makes my life easier.’

“Yes, the devil take it all,” continued my acquaintance. “To make a long story short I began from that time on to write with the greatest punctuality twice a week letters to Boless and vice versa. I wrote splendid replies to her. She used to listen to my reading of those epistles and to weep in her bass voice. In return for this she used to mend my clothes and darn my socks.

“Three months later she was thrown into prison for some reason or other and by now she must surely be dead.”

My acquaintance blew the ashes from his cigarette, looked thoughtfully at the sky, and concluded:

“Y-e-s, the more a human being has drunk of the cup of bitterness the more ardently he longs for sweetness. And we, enveloped in our worn-out virtues and gazing at each other through the haze of self-sufficiency and convinced of our righteousness, fail to understand it.

“And the whole affair turns out very stupid, and very cruel. Fallen people we say--but who and what are those fallen ones? First of all they are human beings of the very same bone and blood, of the very same flesh and nerves as ourselves. We have been told the very same thing for whole ages, day in and day out. And we listen and--and the devil alone knows how stupid it all is! In reality we, too, are but fallen people and more deeply fallen too, probably--into the abyss of self-sufficiency, convinced of our own sinlessness and superiority, the superiority of our own nerves and brains over the nerves and brains of those who are only less crafty than we are, and who can not, as we can, feign a goodness they do not possess--but enough of this. It is all so old and stale--so old and stale indeed that one is ashamed to speak of it--”

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Pan is Polish for Mister.

THE LOVE OF A SCENE-PAINTER BY “SKITALITZ”

_“Skitalitz,” meaning “wanderer,” is the nom de plume of a very talented young author by the name of A. Petrov. He is about 36 years old and a native of Nijni-Novgorod. Students of Russian literature have generally thought “Skitalitz” to be a nom de plume of Leonid Andreiev, but that is incorrect. Nearly all his works have been published by the “Znaniye” Company, which is backed by Gorki, and which until lately was the standard of Russian literature. “Skitalitz” writes poetry as well as prose. His works have been translated into the chief European languages, English included._

THE LOVE OF A SCENE-PAINTER
BY “SKITALITZ”

Translated by Lizzie B. Gorin. Copyright, 1907,
by P. F. Collier & Son.

The scene-painter Kostovsky had gone on a spree just at a time when he should not have done so: preparations were afoot for the presentation of a spectacular play, the success of which wholly depended upon the beauty of the decorations. The posters were already scattered all over the city; it was necessary to hurry forward the different arrangements and to paint the new scenery, and now something happened that the stage-manager had feared all along: Kostovsky went on a spree.

This always occurred just at a time when he was indispensable. As if an evil spirit prompted him just at such time and the forbidden liquid became more tempting than ever, he felt an unconquerable longing to experience a feeling of guilt, to act against the will of every one, against his own interests, but certainly not against the promptings of the Evil One, who had, for the time being, wholly taken possession of him.

His impetuous nature, full of talent, could not exist, it seemed, without powerful impressions--and he found them only in carousing. The days of revelry were for him always full of interesting encounters and strange adventures peculiar only to himself. But as soon as he came to his senses and sobered up, he took to his work with a sort of furious energy: everything around him at such times was at a fever-heat of excitement and he himself was burning with the fire of inspiration. Only because he was a wonderful scene-painter, a genius of his craft, he was not discharged. He hurt the reputation of the company with his scandals, adventures, and careless, soiled dress, his whole plebeian appearance; but for all that, from under his brush came the most exquisite, artistically executed decorations, for which the public often called the “decorator” before the curtain, and about which the press remarked afterward.

Behind the scenes the members of the company kept aloof from Kostovsky, and no one wanted to be on intimate terms with him; the chorus-singers “drank,” too, but considered themselves of a higher breed than the workman-decorator, and did not want him in their society, and the chorus-girls and ballet-dancers treated him like some sexless being, kept aloof from him, and looked at him with a grimace of disgust. He, on his part, also took little interest in them.

He admired only Julia, a little ballet-dancer, and even her he loved only as an artist, when she danced on the stage enveloped in the electric rays of the reflector which he himself manipulated. He liked the turn of her pretty little head, and he admired her, distinguishing her in the crowd of the other ballet-dancers by an exceptionally bright ray. “In life” he never spoke to her, and she pretended that she did not notice his attentions at all.

Living in a strange solitude, without love or friends, not having the sympathy of any one in the company, but being at the same time “indispensable” to it, he experienced an immeasurable feeling of “offense,” and caroused, as happened now when he was so badly “needed.”

The stout stage-manager stood on the stage after the rehearsal and spoke about Kostovsky with the business-manager of the troupe, an elegant, dark-complexioned man of the Hebrew type.

The broad, fat face of the stage-manager expressed restrained wrath, anxiety, and sorrow.

“Well, just tell me, please,” he spoke tearfully, while in his heart a storm was raging, “what am I to do now? What am I to do n-o-w?”

And, crossing his fat hands helplessly on his paunch, he wrathfully and sorrowfully looked at his companion.

“Hoggishness, that is all!” replied the business-manager. “He started to drink on the steamer when we were coming here and has not sobered up yet. And do you know, he fell into the sea on the way here! That was a joke. I was suddenly awakened by the cry: ‘Man overboard!’ I sprang to my feet. ‘Who is it?’ ‘Kostovsky!’ ‘Ah, Kostovsky, and I thought it was--some one else!’ And I again went to bed as if nothing had happened, because, in my opinion, Kostovsky is not a man, but a pig.”

“How did he come to fall into the water? Was he drunk?”

“Of course he must have been drunk. He fell asleep on the deck and was forgotten. The vessel lurched and he rolled over.”

“Ho-ho-ho!” the stage-manager’s deep laugh rang out.

“He-he-he!” chorused the business-manager in his thin, piping laugh. “But what is still funnier, the sea would have none of him, and he was fished out even before he had time to become entirely awake. A wonderful accident, really! The sea even refused to swallow such a rascal!”

“But where is he now?” inquired the stage-manager after he had ceased laughing, and a little softened by the story of Kostovsky’s mishap at sea.

“Here. He is sobering up a little in the wardrobe. They searched for him all over town, and at last they found the darling in a tavern engaged in a hot battle with some apprentice; they did not even allow him to finish the fistic argument, but pulled them apart, and brought him here. Now he is nursing a beautiful black eye.”

“Bring him in here, the rascal.”

The young man ran briskly across the stage and vanished behind the scenes. And immediately the empty theatre loudly resounded with his piping voice:

“Kostovsky! Kostovsky!”

“He will come at once,” the man said on returning, and winked his eye as if wishing to say: “The comedy will start immediately.”

A slow, unsteady step was heard approaching, and upon the stage appeared the man who had caused so much bad blood and ill-feeling and whom the sea would not accept.

He was of middle height, sinuous, muscular, and slightly round-shouldered, dressed in a coarse blue blouse full of paint spots and girded by a leather strap; his trousers, bespattered with paint, he wore tucked into his tall boots. Kostovsky had the appearance of a common workman, with long, muscular hands like those of a gorilla, and probably of great strength; his far from good-looking but very characteristic face, with its prominent cheek-bones and long, reddish mustaches, breathed of power. From under knitted brows gloomily, and at the same time good-naturedly, looked out a pair of large blue eyes. The main peculiarity of this face was an expression of impetuousness and energy; his left eye was embellished by a large discoloration--the mark of a well-aimed blow--and his coarse, reddish locks bristled out rebelliously in all directions. On the whole, Kostovsky impressed one as a bold, untamable being.

He bowed, at once shamefacedly and proudly, and did not offer any one his hand.

“What are you up to now, Kostovsky? Eh?” the stage-manager spoke in a freezingly cold manner. “The play is announced for to-morrow and we shall have to revoke it! What are you doing me all this injury for? Is it honest of you? Why are you drinking? Just look what an ornament you have under the eye! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

Kostovsky took a step backward, thrust his long fingers through his locks, and suddenly became alight with a passionate, indomitable emotion:

“Mark Lukich!” he exclaimed in a dull, husky, but convincing voice: “I drank! That is true! But now--basta! I will make everything necessary! To-day is Saturday and there is no performance, I shall not go out of here till to-morrow! I shall work the whole night through! I! I--Ach, thou great God!”

Kostovsky waved his hands in the air, and it seemed that he was suddenly possessed with a desperate energy. He longed for work as for expiation.

“But do you understand what there is to be done? Entirely new scenery must be painted. And painted good! Do you understand? Painted g-o-o-d!”

“I shall paint it well, no fear of that!” exclaimed Kostovsky enthusiastically, once more running all his ten fingers through his coarse locks. After musingly pacing the stage for some moments, he stopped before the stage-manager.

“Please tell me all about it, what sort of scenery is wanted, and for what it is needed,” he said in a more calm voice.

“You see, this will be the second act. Two people are lost in the steppe at night. The place must be a dull, obscure wilderness, a terrible fear possesses them, and supernatural things take place there. You must paint for us this steppe; everything must be in it: the impression of remoteness, the darkness and clouds, and so vividly that a shiver of dread should run through the public.”

“That is enough!” interrupted Kostovsky. “I shall paint you the steppe. I will work the whole night on the stage by lamplight and to-morrow everything will be ready. Have you the necessary material?”

“Everything is ready, all that is necessary is to work!” put in the business-manager.

But Kostovsky already felt the inspiration of the decorator. He turned away from his superiors, no longer even aware of their presence, and, standing in the centre of the stage, he shouted in a powerful, imperious voice:

“Here, Pavel, hurry there! Vanka, here with you! Lively there, you sons of the devil, Kostovsky means to work now!”

The stage-workman Pavel and the apprentice Vanka, a nimble, slouchy fellow, passionately devoted to the stage, came rushing in and immediately began to bustle about, spreading the enormous canvas and bringing forward the paints and brushes.

“Well,” said the business-manager to the stage-manager, “thank God, he has come to his senses at last; we will not be compelled now to revoke the play! Let us go and have our dinner. He must not be interfered with now.”

The whole night the stage was brightly illuminated, and in the empty theatre reigned the quiet of the grave. Only the tread of Kostovsky could be heard as, with his long brush in his hand, he continually approached and retreated from his canvas; all around stood pails and pots of paint.

He made rapid strides in his work. With a blue mark under his eye, dirty with paint, with bristling hair and mustaches, he accomplished with his enormous brush a titanic kind of work. His eyes were ablaze and his face looked inspired. He created.

At eleven o’clock in the morning the whole company, which had gathered for the rehearsal, stood agape before the creation of Kostovsky. The actors, chorus-singers, male and female, and the ballet-dancers gazed at the enormous canvas from the stage and afterward from the orchestra, and freely expressed their opinions. The whole background of the stage was occupied by the gigantic picture. It was the steppe. On the edge it was overgrown with tall, dense burdocks and other steppe-grass, farther could be seen a desolate-looking steppe-grave, thickly overgrown with grass, and still farther unrolled the cheerless, dull steppe with a wonderful, immeasurable perspective, a steppe out of the fairy-tales, out of the times of knighthood--pathless and unpeopled. It seemed to the onlookers that suddenly the famous Knight of the Russian fairy-tale, Ilia Muromets, would appear from behind the mound and would bawl out: “Is there a live man in this field?” But the bleak steppe was silent, terribly, gloomily silent; looming up against the sky were dark grave-mounds, and sinister, black, bushy clouds were gathering. There was no end to these clouds and grave-mounds, and the measureless vista of this steppe. The whole picture breathed gloom and oppressed the soul. It seemed as if something terrible would immediately take place, that the grave-mounds and the clouds had a symbolic meaning, that they were in a way animated. True, when one stepped up too close to Kostovsky’s scenery he could not make out anything: he saw before him a mere daub and splash made with the large brush--hasty, bold strokes, and nothing more. But the farther the spectator retreated from the canvas the clearer appeared the picture of the enormous steppe, spiritualized by a powerful mood, and the more attentively he looked at it, all the more was he possessed by the feeling of uncanny dread.

“Well, what do you say to this!” hummed the crowd. “Devilish fellow, Kostovsky! A real talent! Just see what deviltry he has let loose!”

“Well, that is nothing!” he replied naively. “We are simple workmen: when we work we work, but when once we are bent on having a good time we take our fill--that is how we are!”

They all laughed at him, but they spoke about him the whole day: he had never succeeded so well as at this time.

And he continued at his work; it seemed as if his energy had only just now become aroused. While the rehearsal was going on, he painted a “Hindu Temple,” shouted at his helpers, and in the heat of inspiration even railed at the stage-manager, who wanted to draw his attention to something.

He was untamable, irresponsible, and great. Dirtier and more unkempt than ever, he strutted through his workroom at the back of the stage, painted the superbly beautiful, fantastic “Temple,” and lived through the happiness of inspiration. His whole appearance, excited by the sleepless night full of inspiration, was the embodiment of power and passionate energy: the pale face with the blue discoloration under the eye, the bristling locks, and the flaming eyes that seemed to emanate blue rays--all this showed that the inspiration of Kostovsky did not flash up for a moment, but that it burned long and steadily with an inexhaustible, even light.

He was wholly engrossed by his “Temple,” when he suddenly felt close to him some one’s light step, and an exquisite perfume was wafted to where he stood. He turned around--before him stood Julia.

She wore the costume of a ballet-dancer, that is, almost no costume, as she had to dance at the rehearsal. She was a pretty little thing in pink tights, white satin slippers, and short gauze skirts; her high, strong bosom heaved tranquilly and peacefully, and her creamy face smiled. Her black, almond-shaped, languid eyes looked tenderly and promisingly at Kostovsky. In the costume of a ballet-dancer she looked like a being just out of fairyland, and it was difficult to imagine a being so totally different from Kostovsky as was this fairy. She was all exquisite grace and litheness; he, ungainly, dark, and big, stood before her abashed and confused, and gazed at her with delight and admiration; the long brush was lowered to the floor to her feet.

Kostovsky forgot his work, and Julia broke into a ringing laugh, and, sparkling with her sharp little teeth, she came nearer to him with her light, graceful step, and, stretching out to him her beautiful little hand, she boldly said: “How do you do, Kostovsky!”

* * * * *

Several months passed. The enormous opera-house was crowded to the doors. Behind the scenes they were hot at work, crowding one another, bustling and pushing. Through the curtain came the hum of the public and the solemn waves of the orchestra music.

The stage-workmen ran about like men possessed, adjusting and shifting the scenery, and from somewhere in the darkness above rose and descended enormous canvases, the walls of temples, steeples, woods, and sea-waves.

All this work was superintended by Kostovsky. He was unrecognizable, his face looked years younger and brighter, his blue eyes were alight with joy and happiness, his feet were encased in shiny patent-leather boots, and he wore a well-fitting, elegant velvet jacket; his fair locks were no longer bristling.

“Let down the bottom of the sea!” he commanded in a ringing voice.

The enormous canvas on which was depicted the bottom of the sea was lowered. The decorator retreated a few steps and once more looked lovingly at the “sea bottom.” This was his latest creation.

“Listen, Pavel!” he shouted, “when the mermaids begin to swim, you will let Julia come first and lower than all the rest; let her down to the very bottom!”

“It shall be done!”

At last everything was ready for the mermaids to swim through the bottom of the sea. Kostovsky was already on the elevation, with the electric reflector turned on the stage; he himself had to manage the lighting up of the scenery and the actors. The “Bottom of the Sea” became suffused with a tender, poetic light. This greenish-silvery light seemed to penetrate the water as if with the bright sunlit day above. And here at the bottom everything lived, knowing no light. In the distance stood a coral-reef, and everywhere half-alive vegetation greedily stretched its branches over the water, and all around floated slimy medusæ.

Underneath, the first thing to meet the eye was the yawning mouth of a submarine cave, from which were thrust out the arms of a hideous, enormous devil-fish that, without moving, glared out of its two green eyes.

And from amid this primitive, abnormal world appeared a wonderfully beautiful woman with flowing hair and bare shoulders, with the form of a fish below the waist, covered with shining, silvery scales. The loveliness of her head and the beauty of her shoulders was enhanced by the ugliness of the submarine world.

She swam like a fish, easily and gracefully, turning and twisting, her scales sparkling and glittering; she was followed by another mermaid, a whole school.

Lighted by the rays of the reflector, at the will of Kostovsky, they became marvelous, fairy-like beauties.

But they were all eclipsed by one. She swam lower than all, and was distinguished from all by the radiance of her beauty. She was lighted better and more alluringly than the rest, the tenderest rays of the reflector warmly and lovingly fell upon her, ran after her, and lovingly caressed her graceful body, adding a seductive expression to her face and making her eyes shine like stars. She seemed to be created of light, and this light changed with every moment, and she changed with it, garbed in thousands of different tints. A veritable queen of the deep. She felt that the enchanter decorator had bestowed on her a marvelous loveliness, that the delighted public was ready to break forth into a storm of applause in honor of this beauty, and, swimming close to the decorator, she gratefully waved her sparkling fish-tail, over which, by the will of the generous, enamored decorator, suddenly fell a shower of many-colored diamonds.

She swam behind the scenes, and he, rising on tiptoe and smiling happily, sent her an airy kiss from behind the reflector.

All in the company knew of this love affair behind the scenes: Julia always left the theatre in the company of Kostovsky, they stayed at the same hotel, and his room adjoined hers. Kostovsky was always with her, enjoying to the full the pleasure that the contemplation of her beauty afforded him, while she willingly allowed him to pay court to her. He followed her like a faithful dog, and waited long and patiently at the door of the women’s dressing-room while she leisurely removed the make-up from her face, dressed, and chatted with the other girls.

This time, after the conclusion of the performance, he had to wait particularly long at the foot of the stairs; one after another the closely wrapped little figures came down the stairs and went off with the men who were awaiting them, just as the scene-painter was awaiting Julia. But “she” was not to be seen.

Sad and troubled, Kostovsky stood at his place, looking about him indifferently and continually throwing expectant glances at the door of the dressing-room. And the door opened less and less often, as almost all the women had already departed.

At last Rosa, a vivacious Jewish chorus girl, came out. “What are you standing here for?” she drawled, lifting her brows in surprise and making a sly grimace. “I am the very last one, there is no one else, and Julia left long ago. It seems you did not notice when she went out.”

“What, is she gone?” asked Kostovsky, and on his face appeared a pained expression.

“Ha-ha-ha!” Rosa’s silvery laugh rang out; “very simple, she left before the end of the performance in the company of her new admirer, and you, my sweet one, have tired her long ago!”

The scene-painter stepped back and caught himself by the head. “It is not true!” he said in a dull voice.

“Well, I like that!” Rosa said excitedly, “and it is your own doing, too! She only wished to be pushed ahead. You always light her up so that the whole front row is after her! She has made a career for herself, and does not need you any longer.” And Rosa ran laughingly down the stairs.

Kostovsky stood long motionless on the same place, and, enveloped in the quiet and darkness of the empty theatre, he felt that, little by little, then stronger and stronger, his breast was filled with acute pain.

When Kostovsky knocked at the door of Julia’s room she received him very coldly. Her moist eyes looked indifferently and tranquilly from under her thick, black eyelashes; her black hair, carelessly pinned, lay like a luxurious crown, and two thick curls fell over her full cheeks. She wore a wide kimono of some cheap sheer material, and light slippers.

“Julia,” whispered Kostovsky, breathless with excitement.

“Sit down!” she said carelessly, not noticing anything especial in his appearance, and added: “And try to occupy yourself with something. I really haven’t any time to entertain you.”

“Julia!”

She half-leaned upon the bed and became wholly absorbed in her book.

He was irritated by this woman’s unnecessary artfulness; why use these artifices, which offended him the more, because she could easily tell him outright and settle it?

“Julia, you speak to me as to a visitor who has to be entertained? Why this ceremony?”

“There is no ceremony about it!” she replied in a displeased tone. “It--simplifies our relations, that is all: every one occupies himself--with what he pleases. I am--reading. And you occupy yourself with something else, and if you feel ennui--go away.”

She was driving him out.

Kostovsky was beside himself with rage at this “simplifying of relations,” and at her sudden leaving off of the familiar “thou” and adopting the more conventional “you.”

“Listen to me,” he said, in a voice full of irritation, and likewise availing himself of the term “you.” “I wish to speak to you, and will not wait till you finish reading.”

She did not reply, and, half-reclining on the bed, she continued looking at the open book. A painful silence ensued.

Kostovsky sat at the table and quietly gazed at Julia. Leaning on her elbows on the pillow, she had thrown herself into a graceful, kittenish pose, her little feet encased in their tiny, light slippers, impishly hid under the folds of her kimono, and from their hiding-place teased Kostovsky. The lovely curves of her body showed through the thin dress, the wide sleeves left visible her chubby arms to the elbow; and she was, as a whole, so sweet and graceful that Kostovsky, hating her at this moment, longed to take her in his arms.

He turned his eyes away from her. The room was poorly furnished--a cheap hotel room, lighted by electricity. Near the door stood the wardrobe with her costumes, in the centre the table, and near the window the dresser and a mirror. On a rack close to the entrance into the room hung her plush jacket, trimmed with tiny cats’ paws. He looked long and with hatred at this jacket with its cats’ paws, and recalled how amiably she used to meet him before, forcing him into a chair and smoothing his bristly locks tenderly, and how pleasant it was to feel the tender touch of the little hand.

She quickly flung away her book, and angrily rose from the bed. “You have nothing to speak to me about!” she exclaimed, reddening. “Everything has been said already! It is time to end this spoony love affair, this sentimental driveling!”

“Spooniness--sentimental driveling,” he bitterly repeated. “Julia! What has come between us?”

“There is nothing between us, nothing could be!” she energetically declared. “We have nothing in common--nothing whatsoever--and--we must put an end to our acquaintanceship!”

She gave the table a push and sat down in the darkest corner of the room, looking at him from there with her large, black eyes. Her eyes had always the same expression; no matter at whom they looked, they seemed to be inviting and promising something without the knowledge of their possessor. Spurning him, she at the same time lured him on.

“I understand!” he spoke sadly, and pushed his chair close to her. “You wish to part with me; they say you have another--some one from the first row of the orchestra. Well, let us part. But why all this subterfuge and why quarrel? I do not wish that all this should end so badly--with a quarrel. I wish at least to keep the memory. But, Julia, know that all those--from the first row--despise you--humiliate you--love in you only the flesh. And I--Why I--l-o-v-e you, the devil take you, accursed one!”

He grasped her arm above the elbow and shook her with his large paws.

“Phui! How rude! He abuses me! Let me go! Let me go, I say; you will dislocate my arm! Ruffian!”

She longed to quarrel with him. And he, on his part, felt an influx of ferocious wrath, a passionate longing to tear, lacerate, beat, and throw her out.

He grasped her arms still tighter. His eyes turned a greenish color, his teeth gave out a grating sound.

“Ai!” she cried. But he fell on his knees before her.

“Sweetest, dearest, my golden one, my sun, my joy! You are my--all; all my thoughts, all my feelings, everything is for you, from you, and--about you! Oh, I am rude; I am--a brute, but I love you! Without you there is no life for me; I will again sink to the bottom from which you raised me! Well, darling, well, my happiness, forgive me. You see I kiss your hands, your dress. Forgive!”

And on his bent knees this big, powerful man caught the tiny hands of the tiny woman and kissed them, kissed her dress, and wept.

When he lifted his head he suddenly caught her glance directed toward him, a strange, attentive glance. In this glance of her moist, black eyes there was no love, nor pity for him; nor even contempt, but something offensive, resembling curiosity, but more heartless than curiosity. It was the curiosity of a vivisectionist, the curiosity he exhibits when dissecting a live rabbit, or that of a naturalist when he sticks his pin through a rare beetle, and looks on at its contortions. He even now interested her--but only as something primitive, original: his sharp transitions from rudeness to tenderness, the strangeness of the declaration, the sudden fits of ferocious rage only to humble himself before her and to weep a moment later--all this was very interesting.

But Kostovsky’s mind was suddenly illuminated, as if by lightning: he understood all at once the real relation of Julia toward him, and felt that he had received a deadly wound at her hands, that she was only interested in him, but she had never loved him, could not love him; that she was a being from a world other than his--that he was a total stranger to her. The words died away in his heart. He grew silent, caught his hat, and without another glance at Julia rushed out of the room and the hotel.

Kostovsky found himself suddenly in a dirty dramshop, where his steps had almost unconsciously led him. He had not drunk for a long time, but now he felt a terrible necessity for the dramshop, the noise, the clinking of the glasses, and the smell of bad vodka.

He sat in a corner of the dramshop, alone, at a small table. Before him stood a large bottle of vodka and the noxious side-dishes peculiar to such resorts. The dirty table-cloth was stained with vodka and beer, and the kerosene hanging-lamp dimly lighted the room, filled with tipsy people. They were all bawling, drinking, and clinking their glasses; the pale-faced waiters ran around, serving the drinks, and in the adjoining room cracked the billiard-balls, and some one of the players, whenever he hit the ball, sang out in a merry tenor voice a popular song: “Wherever I go, or stroll, I see only Ju-li-a, only Ju-li-a.”