Fifty-Two Stories

“I see no psychology here,” Varya sighed. “A psychologist is someone who describes the twists of the human soul, but this is just beautiful verse and nothing more.”

“I know what kind of psychology you want!” Nikitin was offended. “You want someone to saw my finger with a dull saw and me to scream at the top of my lungs—that’s what you call psychology.”

“Banal! However, you still haven’t proven it to me: what makes Pushkin a psychologist?”

When Nikitin had to dispute what he found commonplace, narrow-minded, or something of that sort, he usually jumped up, clutched his head with both hands, and started groaning and rushing up and down. And now he did the same: he jumped up, clutched his head, and walked groaning around the table, then sat down further off.

The officers took his side. Staff-Captain Polyansky started assuring Varya that Pushkin really was a psychologist, and to prove it produced two verses from Lermontov;⁶ Lieutenant Gernet said that if Pushkin were not a psychologist, they would not have set up a monument to him in Moscow.

“That’s boorishness!” came from the other end of the table. “As I said to the governor: that, Your Excellency, is boorishness!”

“I won’t argue any more!” cried Nikitin. “Of his kingdom there shall be no end!⁷ Basta! Ah, get away, you vile dog!” he shouted at Som, who put his head and paw on his knees.

“Grrr…nya-nya-nya…” came from under the chair.

“Admit you’re wrong!” shouted Varya. “Admit it!”

But some young ladies came calling, and the argument stopped by itself. They all went to the reception room. Varya sat down at the grand piano and began to play dances. First they danced a waltz, then a polka, then a quadrille with a grand rond through all the rooms led by Staff-Captain Polyansky, then they danced another waltz.

During the dancing, the old men sat in the reception room, smoked, and watched the young people. Among them was Shebaldin, director of the municipal credit society, known for his love of literature and the theater arts. He was the founder of the local “Music and Drama Circle,” and took part in performances himself, for some reason playing only funny lackeys or reciting “The Sinful Woman”⁸ in singsong. In town they called him a mummy, because he was tall, very lean, sinewy, and always had a solemn expression on his face and dull, fixed eyes. He loved the theater arts so sincerely that he shaved his moustache and beard, and that made him look still more like a mummy.

After the grand rond, he came up to Nikitin hesitantly, somehow sideways, coughed, and said:

“I had the pleasure of being present at tea during the argument. I fully share your opinion. You and I are like-minded, and I would be very pleased to talk with you. Have you read Lessing’s Hamburg Dramaturgy?”⁹

“No, I haven’t.”

Shebaldin was horrified and waved his hands as if he had burned his fingers, and, saying nothing, backed away from Nikitin. Shebaldin’s figure, his question, and his astonishment seemed ridiculous to Nikitin, but all the same he thought:

“In fact it’s embarrassing. I’m a teacher of literature, and I still haven’t read Lessing. I must read him.”

Before supper everyone, young and old, sat down to play “fate.” They took two decks of cards: one was dealt out equally among them, the other was placed facedown on the table.

“Whoever holds this card,” old Shelestov solemnly began, lifting the top card from the second deck, “is fated to go right now to the nursery and kiss the nanny.”

The pleasure of kissing the nanny fell to Shebaldin. They all surrounded him, flocked to the nursery, and, laughing and clapping their hands, made him kiss the nanny. There was noise, shouting…

“Not so passionately!” Shelestov shouted, weeping with laughter. “Not so passionately!”

Nikitin’s fate was to confess them all. He sat on a chair in the middle of the reception room. They brought a shawl and covered him head and all. The first to come for confession was Varya.

“I know your sins,” Nikitin began, looking at her stern profile in the darkness. “Tell me, my lady, why on earth do you go strolling with Polyansky every day? Oh, not in vain, ’tis not in vain, that she with a hussar doth remain.”¹⁰

“That’s banal,” said Varya and she left.

Then big, motionless eyes gleamed under the shawl, a dear profile outlined itself in the darkness, and there was the scent of something cherished, long familiar, which reminded Nikitin of Manyusya’s room.

“Maria Godefroi,” he said and did not recognize his own voice, so tender and soft it was, “what are your sins?”

Manyusya narrowed her eyes and showed him the tip of her tongue, then burst out laughing and left. A moment later she was standing in the middle of the reception room, clapping her hands and calling out:

“Supper, supper, supper!”

And they all flocked to the dining room.