The Party and other stories

irty he gave up his post and went in for agriculture. His farming was fairly successful, and yet it alwa

e were a baby; or when, overcoming his sleepiness, he began in his soft, cordial, almost imploring voice, to talk about his really excellent ideas, I saw him not as a farmer nor an agric

him on his own account, though I can’t say that for certain, as I have not up to now succeeded in analysing my feelings at that time. He was an intelligent, kind-hearted, genuine man, and not a bore, but I remember that when he confided to me his most treasured s

oman. I had no definite designs in regard to her, and did not dream of anything of the sort, yet for some reason, whenever we were left alone, I remembered that her husband looked upon me as his friend, and I felt awkward. When she played my favourite pieces on the piano or told me something interesting, I liste

r friend. We must send ou

Petrovitch came

s your friend

a year a

hka, who had been for a short time in my service as a footman and had been dismissed by me for drunkenness. He had been in Dmitri Petrovitch’s service, too, and by him had been dismissed for the same vice. He was an inveterate drunkard, and indeed his whole life was as drunk and disorderly as himself. His father had been a priest and his mother of noble rank, so by birth he belonged to the privileged class; but however carefully I scrutinized his exhausted, respectful, and always perspiring face, his red beard now turning grey, his pitifully torn reefer jacket and his red shirt, I could not discover in him the faintest trace of anything we associate with privilege. He spoke of himself as a man of education, and used to say that he had been in a clerical school, but had not finished his studies there, as he had been expelled for

t respectfully if need be. By now it was dark; there was a strong smell of evening dampness, and the moon was on the point of rising. There were only two clouds in the clear starr

s day!” said Dm

o his hand. “How was it, Dmitri Petrovitch, you thought to visit these parts?”

Forty Martyrs heaved a deep sigh a

ut it, I am a hopeless and incompetent man; but believe me, on my conscience, I am wi

e moving. And beyond the fire, further away, there were other lights, where there was a little village. They were singing there. On the river, and here and there on the meadows, a mist was rising. High narrow coils of mist, thick and white as milk, were trailing over the river, hiding the reflection of the stars and hovering over the wi

e, mysterious, and fantastic story, we draw our material, not from life, b

ed of what we do

me: do you understand life bette

lean face seemed paler than ever and his dark beard was black as soot. His eyes were sad, truthful, and a little frightene

uched my soul. I will confess to you as a friend that in moments of depression I have sometimes pictured to myself the hour of my death. My fancy invented thousands of the gloomiest visions, and I have succeeded in working myself up to an agonizing exaltation, to a state of nightmare, and I assure you that that did not seem to me more terrible than reality. What I mean is, apparitions are terrible, but life is terrible, too. I don’t understand life and I am afraid of it, my dear boy; I d

ly you are fright

e, and to avoid noticing it; and I am frightened at the thought that to the day of my death I shall not escape from this falsity. To-day I do something and tomorrow I do not understand why I did it. I entered the service in Petersburg and took fright; I came here to work on the land, and here, too, I am frightened. . . . I see that we know very little and so make mistakes every day. We are unjust, we slander one another and spoil each other’s lives, we waste all our powers on trash which we do not need and which hinders us from living; and that frightens me, because I don’t understand why and fo

him, Forty Martyrs coughed defe

le has been spirituous liquor. If a poor fellow like me were shown cons

ulling the rope. The bell, abruptly breaking upon the stilln

ary everyday thoughts, in which one would have thought there should be nothing dreadful. To prevent myself thinking I distract my mind with work and try to

h his hands, cleared h

good husband and father. They think I am very happy and envy me. But since it has come to that, I will tell you in secret: my happy family life is only

a beggar and marry me, she consented. . . . What she said to me was: ‘I don’t love you, but I will be true to you . . . .’ I accepted that condition with rapture. At the time I understood what that meant, but I swear to God I don’t understand it now. ‘I don’t love you, but I will be true to you.’ What does that mean? It’s a fog, a darkness. I love her now as intensely as I did the day we were married, while she, I believe, is as indifferent as ever, and I believe she is glad when I go away from home. I don’t know for certain whether she cares for me or not — I don’t know, I don’t know; but, as you see, we live under the same roof, call each other ‘thou,’ sleep together, have children, our

rrived. We got into the carriage, and Forty Martyrs, taking off his cap, helped us both into the carriage with an ex

, blinking furiously and tilting his head on one

ome, you shall stay three d

orty Martyrs, overjoyed.

tisfactory in his home life, he should have returned to Petersburg and taken up scientific work there. The movement which had driven so many gifted young men into the country was, he said, a deplorable movement. We had plenty of rye and wheat in Russia, but absolutely no cul

azed at the immense crimson moon which was rising, and pictured the tall, graceful, fair woman, with her pale face, always well-dre

ht that she certainly had wonderful hair and that her smile was unlike any other woman’s. I watched her, and I

ing with sleep. After supper he sa

have to be up at three o’clock tomo

d made me promise that I would certainly come the following week. That he

the Petersburg fashion, and for some r

e left alone, “and now you’ll

ano and played, I don’t remember what. I sat down beside her and looked at her plump white hands and

ithout your fri

aug

p to be here once a month, but I

e end of the room to the other. She too

t?” she said, raising her large

e no

t. “You only come here on account of Dmitri Petrovitch. Well, I

g what to say, I asked: “Would yo

ow that our conversation would be utterly trivial, and that there was nothing particular we should be able to say to one anot

weather!” I

ly no difference t

nding, as before, near the fireplace, with her hands b

e no difference

hout your friend, but I am always bored. Ho

struck a few chords, waiting

int of crying with vexation. “If you are sleepy, go to bed. Because you are Dmitri Petrovitch’s frien

urning over the music. Then I went out, too. We stood close together in the shadow of the curtains, and below us were the s

go away tomorro

how miserable you would be if you were in love with me! Wait a bit: one day I shall throw myself on

erty, and then for the first time I noticed that she had golden eyebrows, exquisite eyebrows. I had never seen such eyebrows before. The though

. . . . A peaceful

ing, following her into the drawing-room. “I s

door, I saw by her face that she understood

k my stick and went out into the garden. The mist had risen here, too, and the same tall, narrow, ghostly shapes which I had se

t was all smiling at me in the stillness half asleep, and as I passed the green seats I rec

in a moment I should hold in my arms, should press to my heart her magnificent body, should kiss her golden eyebrows; and

as Forty Martyrs. He sat down on the bench and heaved a deep sigh, then crossed himself three times and lay down.

said. “Wretched

nhappy, bitter life of which the confession had been made to me that day, and I felt u

stand on ceremony with it, bend it to your will, and u

my arms round her without a word, and began greedil

de haste to hold her tight to convince myself of the truth of it. It was long since I had known such raptures. . . . Yet somewhere far away at the bottom of my heart I felt an awkwardness, and I was ill at ease. In her love for me there was something incongruous a

end of the corridor Dmitri Petrovitch suddenly made his appearance; she started and stood aside to let him p

yesterday,” he said

s head; then he looked at my confused face, at my slipp

tand nothing. . . . If you understand anything, I

own hands. His hands were trembling, he was in nervous haste and kept looking round at the house; probably he was feeli

s day clung timidly to the bushes and the hillocks. On the box of the carriage was sitting

orses. “Ah, my honeys, I am a nobleman

ead, infected me. I thought of what had happened and could make nothing of it. I

t like this and not differently? To whom and for what was it necessary that she should love me

een Dmitri Petrovitch nor his wife since. I am told