Part 14

Mitia fell into a troubled sleep. In his dreams strange visions come to him. At one time an enormous violin of impossible dimensions with a tiger’s head moves toward him, opening its monstrous jaws to devour him. At another, he beholds his own violin, but it is no longer in its case. It has grown fast to his chest, he tries with all his might to wrench it off, but in vain; it is part of himself, like his arm, his leg, or his head. And Anton Egoritsch is pushing the bow into his hand and whispering: “Play, Mitenka, play, little dove, now it has grown part of you, you can’t help yourself.” He would like to join in the games of the little girls and boys who are moving around merrily in their light holiday dresses in the brightly illumined room. But it is impossible, the violin is part of himself, and Anton Egoritsch is leading him on the platform. The Hall is full of people, great ladies and fine-looking gentlemen; and there in the front row sits the Prince fixing him with his single eyeglass. A great stillness prevails in anticipation of his playing. Anton Egoritsch is at his back and whispers in his ear: “Play, Mitenka, and play to astonish them all. Then there will be fame and wealth.” No, he will not play. He wants no fame, no wealth. All he wants is freedom--freedom to live as other children live--to play, to rejoice, to laugh--“Play,” whispers Anton Egoritsch, “dearest little one, play.” “No, I won’t, I won’t. There.” With both hands Mitia grasps the violin grown to his breast, summons all his strength, and with a cry tears it away, and with it a portion of his body. A river of blood flows from the wound. The audience, the Prince, all are wildly applauding and calling “Bravo! Bravo!”

Anton Egoritsch, beaming with gratification, is loudest in his applause. Onkel steps on the platform and shouts: “It is I who have made so superb a musician of him. His fame is my fame!”

“No,” says Anton Egoritsch. “It is my fame. Mine, mine, mine.” They quarrel, they fight, and no one notices that meanwhile he is bleeding to death.

Mitia awakes in terror. He clutches at his chest, which aches unbearably. The dawn is breaking. He can faintly distinguish the objects in the room. The first to meet his eye is the violin peeping from its open case, the first thought to strike his mind--to-day’s Grand Concert. Success, universal admiration, invitations, parties, concerts, and at home the never-ending practising. The more his fame increases, the more frequent, unceasing, will be the demands of Anton Egoritsch. “Mitenka, little dove, play the twenty-third exercise. Mr. Onkel says--”

A feeling of despair comes over him. Life to him seems but a narrow, dark dungeon from which he is released only that he may show the public what progress he has made--then he must back to prison. The violin is an instrument of torture, Anton Egoritsch and Onkel are jailers, hangmen, who watch his every breath. He turns his head toward the door, and listens with beating heart. Seven o’clock strikes--he will soon be here, will bring the milk, will say: “Mitenka, play, apply yourself, little dove. To-day is the Grand Concert.”

He hears a match struck, he hears the flip-flop of slippers, the jailer is coming! No, he has gone to the kitchen for the milk. In half an hour he will be here, then the violin, the practising, the endless, never varying scraping for ever and ever--and all for the sake of a something called fame. Mitia gets up and presses his teeth into his lower lip till the blood comes. “Wait, dear Papa, wait. I will arrange a fame for you.” He is as pale as his sheet. His eyes are wandering and full of tears. His frail body is shaking with fever. He has but one thought in his mind: “I must be quick--in half an hour the jailer will be here.” He hastens his actions. With trembling hands he grasps his leather belt and fastens one end to the hook which holds the towel. Then he makes a loop and pauses. He signs himself with the cross ardently and firmly. Big tears course down his cheeks unrestrainedly. He is intensely sorry for some one. Somebody beckons to him--is it his mother or his little sisters? But the jailer is coming. There is not a moment to lose. Again he makes the sign of the cross, closes his eyes, and puts his head into the noose.

* * * * *

At ten o’clock, on the morning of the same day, a woman rushed into the Conservatory. Her hair was disheveled, and in spite of the cold she was very thinly clad. She cried, screamed, wrung her hands, but could find no words to give expression to her sorrow. She was taken to the Director, who placed her in a chair and said:

“Calm yourself, Madam, and tell us what is the matter. We will do all we can for you.”

But he felt ashamed of these politely sympathetic words when he finally succeeded in learning that the woman was the mother of Mitia Spiridonoff, and that the hope and future pride of the Conservatory had that morning hanged himself in his room by a leather belt. He was further shocked to learn that Anton Egoritsch, that honorable elderly man, whom they had all so often seen leading his son by the hand, had lost his reason, that he neither saw nor heard, but sat hugging Mitia’s violin, kissing it and saying: “This is my son, my son. He will make us famous.”

When Onkel heard of the catastrophe, he staggered and fell back heavily in his chair. He narrowly escaped a paralytic stroke. Through Mitia’s death the greatest chance of his life to acquire fame was lost.

In half an hour the Conservatory was in a state of horror. The terrible news had rapidly spread from mouth to mouth. The ladies cried, fainted, or went into hysterics.

The following day the entire Conservatory was at the funeral of Mitia Spiridonoff. His playfellows carried the small coffin, followed by his grief-stricken mother and little sisters. Anton Egoritsch alone was not there. They had been compelled to send him to the asylum. He had broken into ravings and cursings by Mitia’s coffin.

A WORK OF ART

AND

THE SLANDERER

BY ANTON PAVLOVITCH CHEKHOV

[Illustration]

_Chekhov, who has been called the Russian De Maupassant, was born of humble parents in the suburbs of Moscow in 1860, and died of consumption in 1904. Though he received the degree of M.D., he never practised medicine. His was a nature far more poetical than that of De Maupassant, and it would perhaps be nearer right to call him a Russian Stevenson, for, like him, he had a lifelong struggle against illness, and, like him, illness and suffering mellowed and sweetened his character. Chekhov was an artist to his finger-tips, in a sense and to a degree beyond that of any of his Russian predecessors._

[Illustration]

A WORK OF ART THE STORY OF A GIFT

BY ANTON CHEKHOV

Translated by Archibald J. Wolfe. Copyright, 1905, by the Short Stories Co., Limited.

Alexander Smirnoff, the only son of his mother, holding in his hand some object carefully wrapped in a newspaper, an angelic smile on his youthful face, entered the consulting-room of Dr. Koshelkoff.

“Ah, dear youth!” exclaimed the doctor, “how are you? What is the good news?”

Confused and excited, the young man replied:

“Doctor, my mother is sending her regards--I am her only son, you know--You saved my life. Your skill--We hardly know how to thank you!”

“Say no more, dear boy!” said the doctor, beaming with delight. “I have only done my duty. Anybody else would have done the same.”

“I am the only son of my mother. We are poor, and, of course, can not repay you for your labors as you have deserved--and we feel it deeply. At the same time my mother--I am her only son, doctor--my mother humbly begs you to accept as a token of our gratitude a little statuette she values very highly. It is a piece of antique bronze, and a rare work of art.”

“My good fellow--” commenced the physician.

“No, doctor, you must not refuse,” continued Alexander, unfolding his parcel. “You will deeply offend mother and myself, too. It is a little beauty. A rare antique. We have kept it in memory of father, who was a dealer in antique bronzes. My mother and myself continue the business.”

Finally the youth succeeded in freeing his present from its wrappings, and placed it on the table with an air of great solemnity. It was a moderately tall candelabrum of antique bronze and of artistic workmanship. It represented two female figures somewhat scantily attired, and bearing an air of frivolity to describe which I have neither the required daring nor the temperament. The figures smiled coquettishly, and looked as if they were ready to jump on the floor and to engage in some wild frolic, were they not restrained by the task of supporting the candle holder.

The doctor regarded his present for a few moments in silence, then scratched his head and coughed irresolutely.

“A beautiful article, to be sure,” he finally said. “But you know--what shall I say? Why, it is hardly the thing, you know. Talk of _déshabillé_! This is beyond the bounds of propriety. The devil!”

“W-w-why?”

“Now, how could I put a thing like that on my table? It will corrupt my residence.”

“Doctor, you surprise me,” answered Alexander, with an offended tone, “What queer views of art! This is a work of art! Look at it! What beauty, what delicacy of workmanship! It fills the soul with joy merely to look at it; it brings tears to one’s eyes. Observe the movement, the atmosphere, the expression!”

[Illustration: =Anton Chekhov=]

“I fully appreciate it, my boy,” interrupted the physician. “But you know I am a man of family. I have children. A mother-in-law. Ladies call here.”

“Of course, if you look at it from the point of view of the common herd, you might regard it in a different light. But I beg of you, rise above the mob. Your refusal would hurt the feelings of my mother and of myself. I am her only son. You saved my life. We are asking you to accept something we hold very dear. I only deplore the fact that we have no companion piece to it.”

“Thank you, dear fellow, and thank your mother. I see that I can not reason with you. But you should have thought of my children, you know, and the ladies. But I fear you will not listen to arguments.”

“No use arguing, doctor,” replied the grateful patient, made happy by the implied acceptance. “You put it right here, next to the Japanese vase. What a pity I have not the pair. What a pity!”

When his caller departed the doctor thoughtfully regarded his unwelcome present. He scratched his head and pondered.

“It is an exquisite thing, without doubt. It would be a pity to throw it into the street. It is quite impossible to leave it here, though. What a dilemma to be in. To whom could I give it? How to get rid of it?”

Finally he bethought himself of Ukhoff, a dear friend of his school days, and a rising lawyer, who had just successfully represented him in some trifling case.

“Good,” said the doctor. “As a friend he refused to charge me a fee, and it is perfectly proper that I should make him a present. Besides, he is a single man and tremendously sporty.”

Losing no time, the doctor carefully wrapped up the candlestick and drove to Ukhoff.

“There, old chap,” he said to the lawyer, whom he happily found at home; “there I have come to thank you for that little favor. You refused to charge me a fee, but you must accept this present in token of my gratitude. Look--what a beauty!”

On seeing the present the attorney was transported with delight.

“This beats everything!” he fairly howled. “Hang it all, what inventive genius! Exquisite, immense. Where did you get such a little gem?”

Having expressed his delight, the lawyer anxiously looked at his friend and said:

“But, you know, you must not leave this thing here. I can not accept it.”

“Why?” gasped the doctor.

“You know my mother calls here, clients, I would not dare to look my servants in the face. Take it away.”

“Never! You must not refuse,” exclaimed the physician with the energy of despair. “Look at the workmanship! Look at the expression! I will not listen to any refusals. I will feel insulted.”

With these words the doctor hurried out of the house.

“A white elephant,” the lawyer mumbled sadly, while the doctor, rubbing his hands with glee, drove home with an expression of relief.

The attorney studied his present at length and wondered what to do with it.

“It is simply delicious, but I can not keep it. It would be vandalism to throw it away, and the only thing to do is to give it away. But to whom?

“I have it now,” he fairly shouted. “The very thing, and how appropriate. I will take it to Shashkin, the comedian. The rascal is a connoisseur in such things. And this is the night of his jubilee.”

In the evening the candelabrum, carefully wrapped, was taken to Shashkin’s dressing-room by a messenger boy. The whole evening that dressing-room was besieged by a crowd of men who came to view the present. An incessant roar of delight was kept up within, sounding like the joyous neighing of many horses. Whenever an actress approached the door leading to the sanctum, and curiously knocked, Shashkin’s hoarse voice was heard in reply:

“No, my dear, you can’t come in, I am not fully dressed.”

After the performance Shashkin shrugged his shoulders and said:

“What on earth shall I do with this disreputable thing? My landlady would not tolerate it in the house. Here actresses call to see me. This is not a photograph, you can’t hide it in the drawer.”

The hair-dresser listened sympathetically while arranging the comedian’s hair.

“Why don’t you sell it?” he finally asked the actor. “A neighbor of mine, an old lady, deals in such things, and she will pay you a good price for it. An old woman by the name of Smirnoff, the whole town knows her.”

Shashkin obeyed.

* * * * *

Two days later Dr. Koshelkoff sat peacefully in his study, enjoying his pipe and thinking of things medical, when suddenly the door of his room flew open, and Alexander Smirnoff burst upon his sight. His face beamed with joy, he fairly shone, and his whole body breathed inexpressible content.

In his hands he held an object wrapped in a newspaper.

“Doctor,” he began breathlessly, “imagine my joy! What good fortune! Luckily for you my mother has succeeded in obtaining a companion piece to your candelabrum. You now have the pair complete. Mother is so happy. I am her only son, you know. You saved my life.”

Trembling with joy and with excess of gratitude, young Smirnoff placed the candelabrum before the doctor. The physician opened his mouth, attempted to say something, but the power of speech failed him--and he said nothing.

THE SLANDERER BY ANTON CHEKHOV

Translated by Herman Bernstein. Copyright, 1901, by the Globe and Commercial Advertiser.

Sergey Kapitonich Akhineyev, the teacher of calligraphy, gave his daughter Natalya in marriage to the teacher of history and geography, Iván Petrovich Loshadinikh. The wedding feast went on swimmingly. They sang, played, and danced in the parlor. Waiters, hired for the occasion from the club, bustled about hither and thither like madmen, in black frock coats and soiled white neckties. A loud noise of voices smote the air. From the outside people looked in at the windows--their social standing gave them no right to enter.

Just at midnight the host, Akhineyev, made his way to the kitchen to see whether everything was ready for the supper. The kitchen was filled with smoke from the floor to the ceiling; the smoke reeked with the odors of geese, ducks, and many other things. Victuals and beverages were scattered about on two tables in artistic disorder. Marfa, the cook, a stout, red-faced woman, was busying herself near the loaded tables.

“Show me the sturgeon, dear,” said Akhineyev, rubbing his hands and licking his lips. “What a fine odor! I could just devour the whole kitchen! Well, let me see the sturgeon!”

Marfa walked up to one of the benches and carefully lifted a greasy newspaper. Beneath that paper, in a huge dish, lay a big fat sturgeon, amid capers, olives, and carrots. Akhineyev glanced at the sturgeon and heaved a sigh of relief. His face became radiant, his eyes rolled. He bent down, and, smacking his lips, gave vent to a sound like a creaking wheel. He stood a while, then snapped his fingers for pleasure, and smacked his lips once more.

“Bah! The sound of a hearty kiss. Whom have you been kissing there, Marfusha?” some one’s voice was heard from the adjoining room, and soon the closely cropped head of Vankin, the assistant school instructor, appeared in the doorway. “Whom have you been kissing here? A-a-ah! Very good! Sergey Kapitonich! A fine old man indeed! With the female sex tête-à-tête!”

“I wasn’t kissing at all,” said Akhineyev, confused; “who told you, you fool? I only--smacked my lips on account of--in consideration of my pleasure--at the sight of the fish.”

“Tell that to some one else, not to me!” exclaimed Vankin, whose face expanded into a broad smile as he disappeared behind the door. Akhineyev blushed.

“The devil knows what may be the outcome of this!” he thought. “He’ll go about tale-bearing now, the rascal. He’ll disgrace me before the whole town, the brute!”

Akhineyev entered the parlor timidly and cast furtive glances to see what Vankin was doing. Vankin stood near the piano and, deftly bending down, whispered something to the inspector’s sister-in-law, who was laughing.

“That’s about me!” thought Akhineyev. “About me, the devil take him! She believes him, she’s laughing. My God! No, that mustn’t be left like that. No. I’ll have to fix it so that no one shall believe him. I’ll speak to all of them, and he’ll remain a foolish gossip in the end.”

Akhineyev scratched his head, and, still confused, walked up to Padekoi.

“I was in the kitchen a little while ago, arranging things there for the supper,” he said to the Frenchman. “You like fish, I know, and I have a sturgeon just so big. About two yards. Ha, ha, ha! Yes, by the way, I have almost forgotten. There was a real anecdote about that sturgeon in the kitchen. I entered the kitchen a little while ago and wanted to examine the food. I glanced at the sturgeon and for pleasure, I smacked my lips--it was so piquant! And just at that moment the fool Vankin entered and says--ha, ha, ha--and says: ‘A-a! A-a-ah! You have been kissing here?’--with Marfa; just think of it--with the cook! What a piece of invention, that blockhead. The woman is ugly, she looks like a monkey, and he says we were kissing. What a queer fellow!”

“Who’s a queer fellow?” asked Tarantulov, as he approached them.

“I refer to Vankin. I went out into the kitchen--”

The story of Marfa and the sturgeon was repeated.

“That makes me laugh. What a queer fellow he is. In my opinion it is more pleasant to kiss the dog than to kiss Marfa,” added Akhineyev, and, turning around, he noticed Mzda.

“We have been speaking about Vankin,” he said to him. “What a queer fellow. He entered the kitchen and noticed me standing beside Marfa, and immediately he began to invent different stories. ‘What?’ he says, ‘you have been kissing each other!’ He was drunk, so he must have been dreaming. ‘And I,’ I said, ‘I would rather kiss a duck than kiss Marfa. And I have a wife,’ said I, ‘you fool.’ He made me appear ridiculous.”

“Who made you appear ridiculous?” inquired the teacher of religion, addressing Akhineyev.

“Vankin. I was standing in the kitchen, you know, and looking at the sturgeon--” And so forth. In about half an hour all the guests knew the story about Vankin and the sturgeon.

“Now let him tell,” thought Akhineyev, rubbing his hands. “Let him do it. He’ll start to tell them, and they’ll cut him short: ‘Don’t talk nonsense, you fool! We know all about it.’”

And Akhineyev felt so much appeased that, for joy, he drank four glasses of brandy over and above his fill. Having escorted his daughter to her room, he went to his own and soon slept the sleep of an innocent child, and on the following day he no longer remembered the story of the sturgeon. But, alas! Man proposes and God disposes. The evil tongue does its wicked work, and even Akhineyev’s cunning did not do him any good. One week later, on a Wednesday, after the third lesson, when Akhineyev stood in the teachers’ room and discussed the vicious inclinations of the pupil Visyekin, the director approached him, and, beckoning to him, called him aside.

“See here, Sergey Kapitonich,” said the director. “Pardon me. It isn’t my affair, yet I must make it clear to you, nevertheless. It is my duty--You see, rumors are on foot that you are on intimate terms with that woman--with your cook--It isn’t my affair, but--You may be on intimate terms with her, you may kiss her--You may do whatever you like, but, please, don’t do it so openly! I beg of you. Don’t forget that you are a pedagogue.”

Akhineyev stood as though frozen and petrified. Like one stung by a swarm of bees and scalded with boiling water, he went home. On his way it seemed to him as though the whole town stared at him as at one besmeared with tar--At home new troubles awaited him.

“Why don’t you eat anything?” asked his wife at their dinner. “What are you thinking about? Are you thinking about Cupid, eh? You are longing for Marfushka. I know everything already, you Mahomet. Kind people have opened my eyes, you barbarian!”

And she slapped him on the cheek.

He rose from the table, and staggering, without cap or coat, directed his footsteps toward Vankin. The latter was at home.

“You rascal!” he said to Vankin. “Why have you covered me with mud before the whole world? Why have you slandered me?”

“How; what slander? What are you inventing?”

“And who told everybody that I was kissing Marfa? Not you, perhaps? Not you, you murderer?”

Vankin began to blink his eyes, and all the fibres of his face began to quiver. He lifted his eyes toward the image and ejaculated:

“May God punish me, may I lose my eyesight and die, if I said even a single word about you to any one! May I have neither house nor home!”

Vankin’s sincerity admitted of no doubt. It was evident that it was not he who had gossiped.

“But who was it? Who?” Akhineyev asked himself, going over in his mind all his acquaintances, and striking his chest. “Who was it?”

FAUST

BY EUGENE NIKOLAIEVITCH CHIRIKOV

[Illustration]

_Chirikov was born in 1864. He comes of a noble family from the Province of Smibirsk. Though he began to write while still a law student and worked a long time for the provincial press, his real literary career dates from 1893._