Fifty-Two Stories

“Nice. Even very nice. I must tell you, I got there just during the haymaking, and in the Ukraine, haymaking is the most poetic time. Here we have a big house, a big garden, lots of people and fuss, so you don’t see them making hay; here everything goes by imperceptibly. On my farm there, the forty acres of fields are like in the palm of your hand; whichever window you stand at, you see the mowers from everywhere. They mow the field, they mow in the garden, there are no guests, no fuss either, so that like it or not all you hear, see, and feel is the haymaking. The yard and the rooms smell of hay, from dawn to dusk the scythes ring. Generally Khokhlandia⁵ is a nice country. Would you believe it, when I was drinking water from the wells, or foul vodka in the Jews’ taverns, when the sounds of a Ukrainian fiddle and tambourine reached me on a quiet evening, an enchanting thought tempted me—to settle on my farm and live there as long as I could stand it, away from these court sessions, clever conversations, philosophizing women, drawn-out dinners…”

Pyotr Dmitrich was not lying. It was hard for him and he really wanted to rest. He had gone to Poltava province only so as not to see his study, servants, acquaintances, and all that could remind him of his wounded vanity and his mistakes.

Lyubochka suddenly jumped up and waved her arms in fright.

“Ah, a bee, a bee!” she shrieked. “It’ll sting me!”

“Nonsense, it won’t sting!” said Pyotr Dmitrich. “What a coward you are!”

“No, no, no!” cried Lyubochka and, looking back at the bee, she quickly walked away.

Pyotr Dmitrich walked behind her and followed her with his eyes tenderly and sadly. Looking at her, he must have been thinking of his farm, of solitude, and—who knows?—maybe even of how warm and cozy his life on the farm would be if his wife were this girl—young, pure, fresh, unspoiled by education, not pregnant…

When the voices and footsteps died away, Olga Mikhailovna came out of the hut and headed for the house. She felt like crying. She was now intensely jealous over her husband. She understood that Pyotr Dmitrich was tired, displeased with himself, and ashamed, and when people are ashamed they hide first of all from their near ones and confide in strangers; she also understood that Lyubochka was not a threat, no more so than all the women who were now having coffee in the house. But in general everything was incomprehensible, frightening, and it now seemed to Olga Mikhailovna that Pyotr Dmitrich only half belonged to her…

“He has no right!” she murmured, trying to make sense of her jealousy and her vexation with her husband. “He has no right at all! I’ll speak my mind to him at once!”

She decided to find her husband at once and speak her mind to him: it was vile, utterly vile, that he pleased other women and sought it out like manna from heaven; it was unfair and dishonest that he gave to others what by right belonged to his wife, that he hid his soul and conscience from his wife and revealed them to the first pretty face that came along. What wrong had his wife done him? Where was her fault? Finally, she had long been sick of his lying: he was constantly showing off, mincing, flirting, saying things he did not mean, and trying to appear as other than what he was and what he ought to be. Why this lying? Was it becoming in a decent man? If he lied, he insulted himself and those to whom he lied, and showed no respect for the things he lied about. Did he not understand that if he minced and posed at the court bench or theorized over dinner about the prerogatives of authority only so as to spite her uncle—did he not understand that by doing that he was belittling the court, and himself, and all those who heard and saw him?

Coming out to the big avenue, Olga Mikhailovna put on an expression as if she had just gone about some household necessity. On the terrace the men were drinking liqueur and eating berries; one of them, a court prosecutor, a stout old man, a banterer and wit, must have been telling some dirty joke, because, seeing the hostess, he suddenly clapped his hand to his fat lips, goggled his eyes, and hunched over. Olga Mikhailovna did not like provincial functionaries. She did not care for their clumsy, ceremonious wives, who gossiped, paid frequent visits, and flattered her husband, whom they all hated. And now, when they were drinking, had eaten well, and were not about to leave, she felt their presence wearisome to the point of anguish, but, so as not to appear ungracious, she smiled affably to the prosecutor and shook her finger at him. She crossed the reception room and the drawing room smiling and with a look as if she were going to give orders and take care of things. “God forbid someone stops me!” she thought, but she forced herself to stop in the drawing room and out of politeness listened to the young man who was playing the piano. She stood there for a moment, cried, “Bravo, Monsieur Georges!” and, after clapping twice, went on.