‘A lot of them got it today.’
Belikov’s bedroom was very small, not much more than a box and a cot with curtains. Lying down to sleep he pulled the covers over his head; it was hot, stifling, the wind rattled the closed doors, there was a howling in the stove; deep sighs were heard from the kitchen . . .
And beneath his blanket he was afraid. He was frightened that something might happen to him, that Aphanasy might murder him, that thieves might get in, and late in the night he’d have anxious dreams, and in the morning when we walked to the school together, he was on edge, pale, and it was evident that the bustling school he was going to was frightening and repulsive to his whole being, and that to walk along beside me was distressing to a person of his solitary nature.
‘They’ve been making a lot of noise in our classrooms,’ he said, as if trying to find an explanation for his dark mood. ‘I’ve never heard anything like it.’
And this teacher of Greek, this man in a shell, can you imagine that he almost got married?”
Ivan Ivanych took a quick look in the shed and said, “You’re joking.”
“Yes, he nearly got married, however strange that may be. We were assigned a new history and geography teacher, a certain Mikhail Savvich Kovalenko, from the Ukraine. He arrived, not on his own, but with his sister Varenka. He was young, tall, swarthy, with enormous hands, and you knew just to look at him that he spoke in a bass voice, and in fact his voice was just like the sound out of a barrel – boom, boom, boom. And she was no longer young, thirty years old, but she was tall, well-proportioned, dark brows, red cheeks – in a word, not some dainty miss but a real jam tart, lively and adept, and she sang all the Little Russian romances and laughed out loud. At the drop of a hat she burst into full-throated laughter – ha-ha-ha. The first thing I remember as we grew familiar with the Kovalenkos took place on the principal’s name day. In the midst of those stern, so-very-boring teachers who dutifully attended the name day, we all of us together observed a new Aphrodite rise up from the foam: she walked about with her hands on her hips, laughed, sang, danced . . . She sang with feeling ‘The Winds Whirl,’ and then another romance and another, and she charmed us all, every one, even Belikov. He sat next to her, and smiling sweetly he said, ‘The Little Russian language – in its delicacy and pleasant sonority – resembles ancient Greek.’
This pleased her, and she began to talk to him seriously and with feeling about how she had a farm in the district of Gadyachsko and on this farm lived her Mum, and there were such pears, such melons, such pubs – in the Ukraine they called the pumpkins pubs, and the pubs pothouses – and they cooked borscht with tomatoes and eggplant, ‘so delicious, so delicious that it was simply . . . scary!’
We listened and we listened, and a thought came to all of us at once.
‘It would be a good thing for them to marry,’ the headmistress said to me quietly.
For some reason, we had all been reminded that our Belikov was unmarried, and at that moment it seemed strange to us that up till now we somehow hadn’t exactly noticed, had entirely lost sight of such an important detail about his life. How did he generally regard women, had he made his own decision about this vital question? Up till now this didn’t interest us at all; it may be that we didn’t even allow ourselves to consider whether this man who went about in galoshes in all weathers and slept behind curtains might fall in love.
‘He’s well past forty now, and she’s thirty . . .’ the headmistress said, explaining what was in her mind. ‘It seems to me she might accept him.’
Just what didn’t occur to us in the provinces out of our boredom? So many redundancies, absurdities. And this one, though it didn’t quite come about, seemed as if it should. But why did the lot of us feel the need to marry off this Belikov, whom we couldn’t even imagine married? The headmistress, the inspector, and all our lady teachers grew animated, even grew better-looking, as if all together they had caught sight of a purpose in life. The headmistress rented a box in the theatre, and we kept an eye out – in the box sat Varenka with oh such a fan – beaming, happy, and beside her sat Belikov, small, doubled-up, as if he’d been dragged out of his house with pincers. I gave an evening party, and the ladies demanded that I invite – and without fail – both Belikov and Varenka. In a word, the machinery set to work. It turned out that Varenka was not unwilling to marry. Her life with her brother was not all that happy; the only thing we knew was that they argued all day long and abused each other. Here’s a scene for you: Kovalenko goes out into the street, a tall, lanky fellow with an embroidered shirt, his hair falling on his forehead out of his folding cap, a parcel of books in one hand, in the other a thick, knotty walking stick. Behind him comes his sister, also with some books.
‘Well, then I say you didn’t read it, Mikhailik,’ she argues loudly. ‘I swear you didn’t read it at all.’
‘And I tell you that I read it,’ Kovalenko cries out, thumping his stick on the sidewalk.
‘Oh my God, Michnik! You get so angry about it, and we’re just having a principled discussion.’
‘I told you I read it,’ Kovalenko cries out even louder.
And at home whenever there was a visitor there was a squabble. Really, a life like that must have left her bored, wishing for a home of her own – yes, and there was age to consider. Living as she did would never work out; you’d want to marry anyone, even that teacher of Greek. All they talked about, the majority of our young ladies, was whether or not she’d marry him. Whether that was to be or not, Varenka showed our Belikov obvious good will.
And Belikov? He visited Kovalenko just as he did the rest of us. He arrived and sat in silence. He was silent and Varenka sang to him ‘The Wind Whirls’ or glanced at him thoughtfully with her dark eyes, or suddenly laughed out loud.
‘Ha-ha-ha.’
In matters of the heart, and especially when it comes to marriage, suggestion plays a large role. Everyone – gentlemen and ladies – assured Belikov that he was ready to marry, that marriage was the one thing left in life for him; we all congratulated him, recited with self-important faces our various commonplaces – that marriage was a serious step, for example – and besides, Varenka was not a bad or uninteresting choice for him; she was the daughter of a Councillor of State and understood farming, and most of all she was the first woman who had taken to him with warmth and affection. His head was turned, and he actually decided he must marry her.”
“And that would be the end of his galoshes and umbrella,” remarked Ivan Ivanych.
“But you know it turned out to be impossible. He had furnished his place with a portrait of Varenka, which sat on a table, and he constantly came to me and spoke about Varenka, about domestic life, and of how marriage was a serious step; often he was at Kovalenko’s, but his way of life didn’t change a bit. Quite the reverse, the decision to marry had a troubling effect on him somehow, he lost weight, grew pale, and it seemed he sank deeper into his shell.
‘I like Varvara Savvishna,’ he said to me with a feeble, wry little smile – ‘and I know everyone must marry, but . . . all this, you know, is happening so suddenly . . . I need to think.’
‘What is there to think about?’ I say to him. ‘Marry and that’s it.’
‘No, marriage – it’s a serious step, it’s necessary first of all to examine one’s future duties, responsibilities, compatibility . . . so that things don’t come out later on. It worries me, so that I’m not sleeping at all. And to tell the truth, I’m frightened: at her place with her brother I think strange thoughts; they argue, don’t you know, so strangely somehow, and their manner is so forward. You get married, and the next thing you know everyone’s talking about you.’