Fifty-Two Stories

Nikitin put out the candle and lay down. But he had no wish either to sleep or to lie down. It seemed to him that his head was huge and empty, like a barn, and that new, somehow special thoughts were wandering through it in the form of long shadows. He thought that, apart from the soft light of an icon lamp, smiling upon his quiet family happiness, apart from this little world in which he lived so peacefully and sweetly, along with this cat, there exists another world…And he suddenly wanted passionately, desperately, to be in that other world, so that he himself could work somewhere in a factory or a big workshop, speak from a podium, write, publish, make a noise, wear himself out, suffer…He wanted something that would absorb him to the point of self-forgetfulness, of indifference to his personal happiness, the sensations of which are so monotonous. And suddenly there rose up in his imagination, as if alive, the clean-shaven Shebaldin, who said with horror:

“You haven’t even read Lessing! You’re so far behind! My God, how low you’ve sunk!”

Manya again drank some water. He looked at her neck, her full shoulders and breast, and remembered what the brigadier general once said in church: a rose.

“A rose,” he murmured and laughed.

In reply the sleepy Mushka growled under the bed:

“Grrr…nya-nya-nya…”

Heavy spite, like a cold hammer, stirred in his soul, and he wanted to say something rude to Manya and even to jump up and hit her. His heart began to pound.

“You mean,” he asked, restraining himself, “that if I visited your house, I necessarily had to marry you?”

“Of course. You understand that perfectly well.”

“Nice.”

And a moment later he said again:

“Nice.”

To hold his tongue and quiet his heart, Nikitin went to his study and lay down on the divan without a pillow, then lay on the floor, on the carpet.

“What nonsense!” He tried to calm himself. “You’re a pedagogue, you work at a most noble profession…What need do you have of some other world? That’s all rubbish!”

But at once he told himself confidently that he was not a pedagogue at all, but a functionary, just as giftless and faceless as the Czech who taught Greek; he had never had any calling to be a teacher, was unfamiliar with pedagogy and had no interest in it, and did not know how to deal with children; the significance of what he taught was unknown to him, and he might even be teaching things that were not needed. The late Ippolit Ippolitych was plainly stupid, and all his colleagues and students knew who he was and what to expect of him; while he, Nikitin, like the Czech, was able to conceal his stupidity and cleverly deceive everybody, making it seem that with him, thank God, everything was going well. These new thoughts frightened Nikitin; he rejected them, called them foolish, and believed it was all caused by nerves, that he himself would come to laugh at himself.

And, indeed, by morning he was already laughing at his nervousness, called himself an old woman, but it was already clear to him that peace was lost, probably forever, and that in the two-story unstuccoed house happiness was already impossible for him. He felt that the illusion was exhausted, and that a new, nervous, conscious life was beginning, which was not in tune with peace and personal happiness.

The next day, Sunday, he went to the school church and met there with the headmaster and his colleagues. It seemed to him that they were all busy only with carefully concealing their ignorance and dissatisfaction with life, and he himself, so as not to betray his anxiety to them, smiled pleasantly and talked about trifles. Then he went to the station and saw the mail train come and go, and he was pleased to be alone and not to have to talk to anyone.

At home he found his father-in-law and Varya, who had come for dinner. Varya had tearful eyes and complained of a headache, and Shelestov ate a lot and talked about present-day young men being unreliable and having little of the gentleman about them.

“That’s boorishness!” he said. “I’ll tell him straight out: that’s boorishness, my dear sir!”

Nikitin smiled pleasantly and helped Manya to serve the guests, but after dinner he went to his study and shut the door.