Fifty-Two Stories

“Yes, sir…Everybody was astonished looking at her…But I didn’t love her for her beauty, gentlemen, nor for her good nature. Those two qualities are inherent in all womankind and are quite often met with in the sublunary realm. I loved her for another quality of the soul. Namely, sirs: I loved my late wife—may she rest in peace—because, for all the pertness and playfulness of her character, she was faithful to her husband. She was faithful to me, though she was only twenty and I will soon hit sixty! She was faithful to me, old as I am!”

The deacon, sharing the communal meal with us, grunted and coughed eloquently to express his doubts.

“So you don’t believe it?” The widower turned to him.

“It’s not that I don’t believe it”—the deacon became embarrassed—“it’s just…young wives these days are much too…rendevous, sauce provençale…”

“You doubt it, but I’ll prove it to you, sir! I kept her faithful by various means of a strategic sort, so to speak, something like fortifications. With my behavior and my cunning character, there was no way she could betray me. I used cunning to protect my marital bed. I know certain words, a sort of password. I say these same words and—basta, I can sleep peacefully as regards her faithfulness.”

“What are those words?”

“Simple as could be. I spread a wicked rumor around town. This rumor is well known to you. I told everybody: ‘My wife Alyona is cohabiting with our police chief, Ivan Alexeich Swashbuckle.’ These words were enough. Not a single man dared to court Alyona, for fear of the police chief’s wrath. It used to be they’d just run away at the sight of her, so that Swashbuckle wouldn’t get any ideas. Heh, heh, heh. Once you got mixed up with that mustachioed idol, you’d really regret it, he could slap five fines on you over sanitary conditions. For instance, he’d see your cat on the street and slap a fine on you as if it was a stray cow.”

“So that means your wife didn’t live with Ivan Alexeich?” we all drawled in surprise.

“No, that was my cunning…Heh, heh…So I really hoodwinked you, eh, boys? Well, there you have it.”

Three minutes passed in silence. We sat and said nothing, feeling offended and ashamed that this fat, red-nosed old man had led us on so cunningly.

“Well, God willing, you’ll marry again!” the deacon muttered.

1883

READING

An Old Coot’s Story

ONCE THE IMPRESARIO of our theater, Galamidov, was sitting in the office of our bureau chief, Ivan Petrovich Semipalatov, and talking with him about the art and the beauty of our actresses.

“But I don’t agree with you,” Ivan Petrovich was saying, signing some budget documents. “Sofya Yuryevna has a strong, original talent! She’s so sweet, graceful…Such a delight…”

Ivan Petrovich wanted to go on, but rapture kept him from uttering a single word, and he smiled so broadly and sweetly that the impresario, looking at him, felt a sweet taste in his mouth.

“What I like in her…e-e-eh…is the agitation and the tremor of her young breast when she recites monologues…How she glows, how she glows! At such moments, tell her, I’m ready…for anything!”

“Your Excellency, kindly sign the reply to the letter from the Khersonese Police Department concerning…”

Semipalatov raised his smiling face and saw before him the clerk Merdyaev. Merdyaev stood before him, goggle-eyed, and held out to him the paper to be signed. Semipalatov winced: prose interrupted poetry at the most interesting place.

“This could have waited till later,” he said. “You can see I’m talking! Terribly ill-mannered, indelicate people! See, Mr. Galamidov…You said we no longer have any Gogolian types…But here, you see! Isn’t he one? Scruffy, out at the elbows, cross-eyed…never combs his hair…And look how he writes! Devil knows what it is! Illiterate, meaningless…like a cobbler! Just look!”

“M-m-yes…,” mumbled Galamidov, having looked at the paper. “Indeed…You probably don’t read much, Mr. Merdyaev.”

“It’s not done, my dear fellow!” the chief went on. “I’m ashamed for you! You might at least read books…”

“Reading means a lot!” Galamidov said and sighed for no reason. “A whole lot! Read and you’ll see at once how sharply your horizons change. And you can get hold of books anywhere. From me, for instance…It will be my pleasure. I’ll bring some tomorrow, if you like.”

“Say thank you, my dear fellow!” said Semipalatov.

Merdyaev bowed awkwardly, moved his lips, and left.

The next day Galamidov came to our office and brought along a stack of books. With this moment the story began. Posterity will never forgive Semipalatov for his light-minded behavior! A young man might perhaps be forgiven, but an experienced actual state councillor—never!¹ When the impresario came, Merdyaev was summoned to the office.

“Here, read this, my dear fellow!” said Semipalatov, handing him a book. “Read it attentively.”