'Gadding about at night again . . .' grumbled the Old Believer innkeeper as he opened the gates for him in a long garment like a woman's nightdress. 'You ought to be praying to God.'
Ivan Alekseich went into his room, sank down on his bed and for a long, long time stared at the lamp. Then he shook his head and began packing . ..
A Drama
'If you please, sir, therc's this lady wants to speak toyou,' announced Luka. 'She's been waiting a good hour . . .'
Pavel Vasilyevich had just finished lunch. Hearing of the lady, he frowned and said:
'To hell with her! Say I'm busy.'
'But she's been here four times already, sir. Says she simply must speak ro you . . . Almost m tears, she is.'
'Hm . . . Oh well, all right, ask her into the study.'
Taking his time, Pavel Vasilyevich put on his frock-coat, picked up a pen in one hand and a book in the other, and givingthe appearance of being exrremely busy, walked into the study. His visitor had already been shown in: a large stout lady with fleshy red cheeks and wearing glasses, clearly a person of extreme respectability and more than respectably dressed (she was wearing a four-flounced bustle and a tall hat surmounted by a ginger bird). On seeing the master of the house, she rolled her eyes heavenward and clasped her hands together as if in prayer.
'You won't remember me, of course,' she began in a kind of mannish falsetto, visibly agitated. '1-1 had the pleasure of making your acquaintance at the Khrutskys . . . My name is Medusina . . .'
'Ah . . . aha . . .mm ... Dotake a seat! And how can I be of service to you?'
'Well, you see, I ... I . . .' the lady continued, sitting down and becoming even more agitated. 'You won't remember me . .. My name is Medusina . .. You see, I'm a great admirer of your talent and always read your articles with such enjoyment . .. Please don't think I say that to flatter - Heaven forbid - I'm only giving credit where credit's due ... I read every word of yours. I am not a complete stranger to authorship myself . . . That's to say, I naturally wouldn't dare call myself a writer . . . but nevertheless I have added my own drop of honey to the comb. I've had three children'sstories published at various times - you won't have read them, of course . .. and a number of translarions . . . and my late brother worked on The Cause.'
'Aha . . . mm . . . And how can 1 be of service to you?'
'Well, you see,' (Medusina looked down bashfully and blushed) 'knowing your talent . . . and your views, Pavel Vasilyevich, I should like to find out your opinion, or should I say, seek your advice. I must tell you that I have recently -pardo« pour /'expressio« — conceived and brought forth a drama, and before sending it to the censor, I should like to have your opinion.'
Fluttering about like a trapped bird, Medusina began rummaging nervously in her skirts and pulled out a huge fat exercise-book.
Pavel Vasilyevich liked only his own articles, and whenever he had to read or listen to other people's, he always felt as if the mouth of a cannon were being aimed straight at his head. Scared by the sight of the exercise-book, he said quickly:
'Very well, leave it with me ... I'll read it.'
'Pavel Vasilyevich!' moaned Medusina, rising to her feet and clasping her hands together as if in prayer.' I know how busy you are, how every minute is precious to you . . . and I know that in your heart of hearts you must be cursing me at this moment, but please let me read my drama to you now . .. Please!'
'I'd be delighted,' stammered Pavel Vasilyevich, 'but my dear lady, I'm . . . I'm busy . .. I'm about to - about to leave town.'
'Pavel Vasilyevich,' the good lady groaned, and her eyes filled with tears. 'I'm asking for a sacrifice. Call me brazen and importunate, but be magnanimous! I'm leaving for Kazan tomorrow and that's why I'd like to hear your opinion today. Spare me your attention for half an hour - just half an hour! I implore you!'
Pavel Vasilyevich was a spineless fellow and did not know how to refuse; so when the lady seemed on the point of bursting into tears and falling on her knees, he lost his nerve and mumbled helplessly:
'Very well then, please do ... I'm listening ... I can spare half an hour.'
With a squeal of delight, Medusina took off her hat, settled herself more comfortably and began to read. First she read how a maid and a footman, as they were tidying up a magnificent drawing-room, had a long conversation about their young mistress, Anna Sergeyevna, who had just built a school and a hospital for the village peasants. When the footman had gone off, the maid delivered a monologue on the theme that 'knowledge is light and ignorance darkness'; then Medusina brought the footman back into the drawing-room and made him recite a long monologue on their master, the General, who could not abide his daughter's convictions, intended to marry her to a rich Groom of the Chamber, and believed that the salvation of the peasantry lay in total ignorance. After the servants had made their exit, the young lady herself entered and informed the audience that she had lain awake all night thinking of Valentinelvanovich, the son of the impecunious schoolmaster, who assisted his sick father with no thought of reward. Valentine had studied all the sciences, but believed neither in love nor friendship, had no aim in life and longed for death, and therefore she, the young lady, had to save him.
Pavel Vasilyevich listened and thought back fondly to his sofa. He glared at Medusina, felt his eardrums being battered by hcr strident voice, took in nothing and thought to himself:
'Why pick on me? . . . Why should I have to listen to your drivel ? Is it my fault you've written this "drama"? Heavens, look how fat that exercise-book is! This is torture!'
Pavel Vasilyevich glanced at his wife's portrait which hung be- tween the windows, and remembered that she had instructed him to buy four yards of braid, a pound of cheese and some toothpaste, and bring them back with him to their datcha.
'Hope to goodness I haven't lost the sample for the braid,' he thought. 'Where did I put it? In my blue jacket, I think . . . Those wretched flies have sprinkled full stops all over her portrait again. I must tell Olga to wipe the glass . . . She's on to Scene Twelve, so it'll soon be the end of Act One. How could anyone be inspired in this heat, let alone a mountain of flesh like her? Instead of writing dramas, she'd be better offdrinkingiced soup and having a nap in the cellar . . .'
'You don't find this monologue a trifle long.?' Medusina asked suddenly, looking up.
Pavel Vasilyevich had not heard the monologue. Caught off his guard, he answered so apologetically that one might have thought the monologue had been written by him, not the lady.
'No, indeed, not in the least . . . It's most charming.'
Medusina beamed with happiness and continued reading:
'Anna. Analysis has eaten into your soul. You ceased too soon living by the heart and put all your faith in the intellect. Valentine. What do you mean by the heart? It's a concept in anatomy. As a conventional term to describe what are referred to as the feelings, I refuse to acknowledge it. Anna (in confusion). And love? Is that too only a product of the association of ideas? Tell me frankly: have you ever loved? Valentine (bitterly). Let us not open up old wounds, wounds yet barely healed. (Pause.) What are you thinking about.5 Anna. It seems to me that you are unhappy.'
During the course of Scene Sixteen Pavel Vasilyevich yawned, and his teeth inadvertently produced the kind of noise that dogs make when they are snapping at flies. Scared by the impropriety of this noise, he tried to cover it up by assuming an expression of rapt attention.