Translated by Constance Garnett
Russian Literature – Children Books – Russian Poetry – Anton Chekhov – The Fit – Contents
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II
The friends turned out of Trubnoi Square into the Grachovka and soon arrived at the street which Vassiliev knew only from hearsay. Seeing two rows of houses with brightly lighted windows and wide open doors, and hearing the gay sound of pianos and fiddles—sounds which flew out of all the doors and mingled in a strange confusion, as if somewhere in the darkness over the roof-tops an unseen orchestra were tuning, Vassiliev was bewildered and said:
“What a lot of houses!”
“What’s that?” said the medico. “There are ten times as many in London. There are a hundred thousand of these women there.”
The cabmen sat on their boxes quiet and indifferent as in other streets; on the pavement walked the same passers-by. No one was in a hurry; no one hid his face in his collar; no one shook his head reproachfully. And in this indifference, in the confused sound of the pianos and fiddles, in the bright windows and wide-open doors, something very free, impudent, bold and daring could be felt. It must have been the same as this in the old times on the slave-markets, as gay and as noisy; people looked and walked with the same indifference.
“Let’s begin right at the beginning,” said the painter.
The friends walked into a narrow little passage lighted by a single lamp with a reflector. When they opened the door a man in a black jacket rose lazily from the yellow sofa in the hall. He had an unshaven lackey’s face and sleepy eyes. The place smelt like a laundry, and of vinegar. From the hall a door led into a brightly lighted room. The medico and the painter stopped in the doorway, stretched out their necks and peeped into the room together:
“Buona sera, signore, Rigoletto—huguenote—traviata!—” the painter began, making a theatrical bow.
“Havanna—blackbeetlano—pistoletto!” said the medico, pressing his hat to his heart and bowing low.
Vassiliev kept behind them. He wanted to bow theatrically too and say something silly. But he only smiled, felt awkward and ashamed, and awaited impatiently what was to follow. In the door appeared a little fair girl of seventeen or eighteen, with short hair, wearing a short blue dress with a white bow on her breast.
“What are you standing in the door for?” she said. “Take off your overcoats and come into the salon.”
The medico and the painter went into the salon, still speaking Italian. Vassiliev followed them irresolutely.
“Gentlemen, take off your overcoats,” said the lackey stiffly. “You’re not allowed in as you are.”
Besides the fair girl there was another woman in the salon, very stout and tall, with a foreign face and bare arms. She sat by the piano, with a game of patience spread on her knees. She took no notice of the guests.
“Where are the other girls?” asked the medico.
“They’re drinking tea,” said the fair one. “Stiepan,” she called out. “Go and tell the girls some students have come!”
A little later a third girl entered, in a bright red dress with blue stripes. Her face was thickly and unskilfully painted. Her forehead was hidden under her hair. She stared with dull, frightened eyes. As she came she immediately began to sing in a strong hoarse contralto. After her a fourth girl. After her a fifth.
In all this Vassiliev saw nothing new or curious. It seemed to him that he had seen before, and more than once, this salon, piano, cheap gilt mirror, the white bow, the dress with blue stripes and the stupid, indifferent faces. But of darkness, quiet, mystery, and guilty smile—of all he had expected to meet here and which frightened him—he did not see even a shadow.
Everything was commonplace, prosaic, and dull. Only one thing provoked his curiosity a little, that was the terrible, as it were intentional lack of taste, which was seen in the overmantels, the absurd pictures, the dresses and the White bow. In this lack of taste there was something characteristic and singular.
“How poor and foolish it all is!” thought Vassiliev. “What is there in all this rubbish to tempt a normal man, to provoke him into committing a frightful sin, to buy a living soul for a rouble? I can understand anyone sinning for the sake of splendour, beauty, grace, passion; but what is there here? What tempts people here? But … it’s no good thinking!”
“Whiskers, stand me champagne.” The fair one turned to him.
Vassiliev suddenly blushed.
“With pleasure,” he said, bowing politely. “But excuse me if I … I don’t drink with you, I don’t drink.”
Five minutes after the friends were off to another house.
“Why did you order drinks?” stormed the medico. “What a millionaire, flinging six roubles into the gutter like that for nothing at all.”
“Why shouldn’t I give her pleasure if she wants it?” said Vassiliev, justifying himself.
“You didn’t give her any pleasure. Madame got that. It’s Madame who tells them to ask the guests for drinks. She makes by it.”
“Behold the mill,” the painter began to sing, “Now fall’n to ruin….”
When they came to another house the friends stood outside in the vestibule, but did not enter the salon. As in the first house, a figure rose up from the sofa in the hall, in a black jacket, with a sleepy lackey’s face. As he looked at this lackey, at his face and shabby jacket, Vassiliev thought: “What must an ordinary simple Russian go through before Fate casts him up here? Where was he before, and what was he doing? What awaits him? Is he married, where’s his mother, and does she know he’s a lackey here?” Thenceforward in every house Vassiliev involuntarily turned his attention to the lackey first of all.
In one of the houses, it seemed to be the fourth, the lackey was a dry little, puny fellow, with a chain across his waistcoat. He was reading a newspaper and took no notice of the guests at all. Glancing at his face, Vassiliev had the idea that a fellow with a face like that could steal and murder and perjure. And indeed the face was interesting: a big forehead, grey eyes, a flat little nose, small close-set teeth, and the expression on his face dull and impudent at once, like a puppy hard on a hare. Vassiliev had the thought that he would like to touch this lackey’s hair: is it rough or soft f It must be rough like a dog’s.
Russian Literature – Children Books – Russian Poetry – Anton Chekhov – The Fit – Contents
Copyright holders – Public Domain Book
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