Fifty-Two Stories

Pyotr Mikhailych was no longer thinking of the slap in the face or the whip, and did not know what he was going to do at Vlasich’s. He turned coward. He feared for himself and for his sister, and was frightened that he was about to see her. How would she behave with her brother? What would the two of them talk about? Shouldn’t he turn back before it was too late? With these thoughts he rode down the linden alley towards the house, skirted the thick bushes of lilacs, and suddenly saw Vlasich.

Vlasich, hatless, in a cotton shirt and high boots, stooping under the rain, was walking from the corner of the house towards the porch; behind him came a workman carrying a hammer and a box of nails. They must have been repairing a shutter that was banging in the wind. Seeing Pyotr Mikhailych, Vlasich stopped.

“Is it you?” he said and smiled. “Well, that’s nice.”

“Yes, I’ve come, as you see…,” Pyotr Mikhailych said softly, shaking off the rain with both hands.

“Well, that’s good. I’m very glad,” Vlasich said, but did not offer his hand: evidently he hesitated and waited for a hand to be offered him. “It’s good for the oats!” he said and looked up at the sky.

“Yes.”

They silently went into the house. The door to the right from the front hall led to another hallway and then to the reception room, the door to the left to a small room where the steward lived in winter. Pyotr Mikhailych and Vlasich went into that room.

“Where did you get caught by the rain?” Vlasich asked.

“Not far away. Almost by the house.”

Pyotr Mikhailych sat down on the bed. He was glad that the rain made noise and that the room was dark. It was better that way: not so frightening, and there was no need to look his interlocutor in the face. He was no longer angry, but only fearful and vexed with himself. He felt that he had begun badly and that this visit of his would come to nothing.

The two were silent for a time and pretended to be listening to the rain.

“Thank you, Petrusha,” Vlasich began, clearing his throat. “I’m very grateful to you for coming. It is magnanimous and noble on your part. I understand that, and, believe me, I value it highly. Believe me.”

He looked out the window and went on, standing in the middle of the room.

“It all happened somehow in secret, as if we were concealing it from you. The consciousness that you might be offended and angry with us put a stain on our happiness all these days. But allow me to justify myself. We acted in secret not because we had little trust in you. In the first place, it all happened suddenly, by some sort of inspiration, and there was no time to reason things out. Secondly, this is an intimate, ticklish matter…it was awkward to mix a third person into it, even such a close one as you. But the main thing is that in all this we counted strongly on your magnanimity. You are a very magnanimous, very noble person. I’m infinitely grateful to you. If you ever need my life, come and take it.”¹

Vlasich spoke in a quiet, muffled bass, all on the same note, as if he were humming; he was obviously nervous. Pyotr Mikhailych sensed that it was his turn to speak, and that to listen and say nothing would mean that in fact he was playing the part of a magnanimous and noble simpleton, and that was not what he had come there for. He quickly stood up and said in a low voice, breathlessly:

“Listen, Grigory, you know I loved you and never wished my sister a better husband; but what’s happened is terrible! It’s awful to think of it!”

“Why awful?” Vlasich asked in a faltering voice. “It would be awful if we had acted badly, but that isn’t so!”

“Listen, Grigory, you know I’m without prejudice; but, forgive my frankness, in my opinion you both acted egocentrically. Of course, I wouldn’t say this to Zina, it would upset her, but you should know: Mother is suffering so much, it’s hard to describe.”

“Yes, that’s sad.” Vlasich sighed. “We foresaw it, Petrusha, but what were we to do? If your action upsets someone, that doesn’t mean it’s bad. Nothing to be done! Any serious step you take is inevitably going to upset someone. If you go to fight for freedom, that will also make your mother suffer. Nothing to be done! Anyone who places the peace of his family above all else must completely renounce the life of ideas.”

There was a bright flash of lightning outside the window, and this flash seemed to change the course of Vlasich’s thinking. He sat down beside Pyotr Mikhailych and began saying something completely uncalled for.

“I’m in awe of your sister, Petrusha,” he said. “When I used to visit you, I had the feeling each time as if I was on a pilgrimage, and I actually prayed before Zina. Now my awe increases with each day. She is higher than a wife for me! Higher!” (Vlasich raised his arms.) “She is sacred to me. Since she’s been living here, I enter my house as if it were a temple. She’s a rare, extraordinary, noble woman!”

“So, he’s grinding away on his barrel-organ!” thought Pyotr Mikhailych. He did not like the word “woman.”