The Party and other stories

tmas

ong! It’s dreadful; you won’t be ther

ovna, and she woke up; before her, candle in hand, s

r. “I have called you three times! Sleep till eve

only the lower edge of the window-frame was white with snow. She could hear a low, mellow chime of bells; it wa

. .” said Anna Akimovna in an imploring vo

at she would get up at once and go to early service. And while she was warm in bed and struggling with sleep — which seems, as though to spite one, particularly sweet when one ought to get up —

se was to draw a deep, deep breath. And when she had washed, a relic of far-away childish feelings — joy that today was Christmas — suddenly stirred within her; after that she felt light-hearted, free and pure in soul, as though her soul, too, had been washed or plunged in the white snow. M

e said gaily to Masha. “No

ry an old man. It turned

od is me

thing nor the other, I’d marry an old man,” said Masha mournf

n love with Mishenka, the footman, and this genuine, pa

consoled her. “I am going on for thirty, bu

ed that he was not simply walking, but learning to dance the first figure of a quadrille. In spite of his fine velvety moustache and handsome, rather flashy appearance, he was steady, prudent, and devout as an old man. He said his prayers, bowing down to the ground, and liked burning incense in his room. He respected

Masha, he bent his head downwards a littl

you, Anna Akimovna, on the most sol

visitors were entertained; in the lower story, simpler folk and the aunt’s personal friends. Handsome, plump, and healthy, still young and fresh, and feeling she had on a magnificent dress which seemed to her to diffuse a sort of radiance all about her, Anna Akimovna went down to the lower story. Here she was met with reproaches for forgetting God now that she was so highly educated, for sleeping too late for the service, and for not coming downstairs to break the fast, and they all clasped their hands and exclaimed with perfect sincerity that she was lovely, wonderful; and she

endid dress; she noticed that one of the girls squinted, and in the midst of her light-hearted holiday mood she felt a sick pang at her heart at the thought that young men would despise the girl, and that she would never marry. In the cook Agafya’s room, five huge peasants in new shirts were sitting round the samovar; these were not workmen from the factory, but relations of the cook. Seeing Anna

a tall, thin, slender woman, taller than any one in the house, dressed all in black, smelling of cypress and coffee — crossed herself in each room before the ikon, bowing do

aid, opening the door into the kitchen. “For

ed to be unruly when he was drunk, and could not go to sleep, but persisted in wandering about the buildings and shouting in a threatening voice, “I know all

in a hoarse voice, striking his forehead o

e dismissed y

and a samovar. “What about auntie now? You are mistress here, give your own orders; though these rascals might be all dead for all I care. Come, get up, yo

sounded like horses’ iron-shod hoofs tramping about the entry near the hall. For half a minute all was hushed. . . . The singers burst out so suddenly and loudly that every one started. While they were singing, the priest from the almshouses with the

,” said the deacon; then immediately assumed an austere expression

Sisters from the hospital, children from the orphanage, and then singing

ad to take him on at another factory. Evidently they liked Auntie, as they behaved freely in her presence and even smoked, and when they had all trooped in to have something to eat, the accountant put his arm round her immense waist. They were free-and-easy, perhaps, partly also because Varvarushka, who under the old masters had wielded great power and had kept watch over

ey instinctively kept closer to “Auntie,” who called them by their names, continually pressed them to eat and drink, and, clinking glasses with them, had already drunk two wineglasses of rowanberry wine with them. Anna Akimovna was always afraid of th

so many clocks

take the work up between times, o

bring it to you to be repaired?

unfastened her magnificent watch from its chain and handed it to him; he looked at it in silence and gave it back. “To be sure, I will do it with pleas

ing; “last year a tooth flew out of a cylinder and hit old Kalmykov such a crack on the head that you could see his brains,

n day out at the factory near the hot furnace, and he went blind. The eyes don’t like heat. But what are we talking about?” she said, rousing herself.

at the sleeves of his coat were not quite long enough, and the coat itself seemed short-waisted, and his trousers were not wide and fashionable, but his tie was tied carelessly and with taste and was not as gaudy as the ot

ome in sometimes to see her, without ceremony, but she did not know how to — her tongue would not obey h

tune, but with harsh, disagreeable voices. The manager of the factory, Nazaritch, a bald, sharp-eyed Old Believer, could never get on with the teachers, but the one who was now anxiously waving his hands he despised and hated, though he could not have said why. He behaved rudely and condescendingl

o tell him she was very much pleased with him; but when after the singing he began apologizing for something in great confusion, and Auntie began to address him familiar

g from the house to the gates and shivering with cold, putting their coats on as they ran. “At Christmas one wants to rest, to sit at home with one’s own people, and the poor b

t the door of the drawing-ro

t the poor must always respect the rich. It is well said, ‘God marks the rogue.’ In prisons, night refuges, and pot-houses you nev

ncomprehensibly,” said Anna Akimovna, and she w

The holiday mood was already growing tedious. As before, Anna Akimovna felt that she was beautiful, good-natured, and wonderful, but now it seemed to her that that was of no use to any one; it seemed to her that she did not know for whom and for what she had put on this expensive dress, too, and, as always happened on all holidays, she bega

f, Misha,” she said, and heaved a sigh.

do you

She’s a beauty, clever, gentle, and devoted. . . . And her appearance! . . . If she belonged to our circle or a higher one, people would be falling in love with her for her red hair alone. See how beautifully her hair goes with her complexion. Oh, good

y attractive to Mishenka, and that, in his opinion, was incongruous with matrimony and only in keeping with loose behaviour. When Anna Akimovna had promised to give Masha a dowry, he had hesitated for a time; but once a poor student in a brown overcoat over his uniform, coming with a letter for Anna Akimovna, was fascinated by Masha, and

” Anna Akimovna asked.

ked at the arm-chair fixedl

ove some

rs and visiting cards on a tray. Guessing that t

re is a clerk called Tchalikov waiting below. H

to anger. “I gave him no orders. Tell him

ouse — that is, upstairs. After the priests, Nazaritch, the manager of the factory, came to pay his visit, and t

t that was not her fault. Fate itself had flung her out of the simple working-class surroundings in which, if she could trust her memory, she had felt so snug and at home, into these immense rooms, where she could never th

factory buildings, barracks, and schools would roll off her conscience, roll off her mind. . . . Then she remembered her father, and thought if he had lived longer he would certainly have married her to

nd the strength, the tremendous strength, in his shoulders, in his arms, in

ld have been all right. I

shenka, coming noiseless

she said, trembling all

benefactress, and no one but you can tell me what I ought to do about marriage, for you are as good as a moth

they jee

me Mashenka

stupid you all are! What a stupid you are, Misha! How sick