“Take them, if you wish, only I haven’t made any profit from your husband. Take them, get rich!” Pasha went on, insulted by the threat of going on her knees. “And if you’re his noble…lawful wife, you should have kept him by you. So there! I didn’t invite him, he came on his own…”
Through her tears the lady looked over the things presented to her and said:
“This isn’t all…It wouldn’t make even five hundred roubles.”
Pasha impulsively flung a gold watch, a cigarette case, and a pair of cufflinks at her and said, spreading her arms:
“I have nothing else left…Go on and search me!”
The visitor sighed, wrapped the things in a handkerchief with trembling hands, and not saying a word, not even nodding her head, went out.
The door to the next room opened, and Kolpakov came in. He was pale and shook his head nervously, as if he had just swallowed something bitter. Tears glistened in his eyes.
“What things did you bring me?” Pasha fell upon him. “When, if I may ask?”
“Things…That’s nonsense—things!” Kolpakov said and shook his head. “My God! She wept, she humiliated herself before you…”
“I’m asking you: what things did you bring me?” cried Pasha.
“My God, she, decent, proud, pure…even wanted to go on her knees before…before this slut! And I drove her to it! I made it happen!”
He clutched his head and moaned:
“No, I’ll never forgive myself! Never! Get away from me, you…trash!” he cried in revulsion, stepping back from Pasha and pushing her away from him with trembling hands. “She wanted to go on her knees and…before whom? Before you! Oh, my God!”
He dressed quickly and, squeamishly avoiding Pasha, went to the door and left.
Pasha lay down and began to cry loudly. She was sorry now for the things she had given away on an impulse, and she was offended. She remembered how a shopkeeper had given her a beating three years ago for no reason at all, and she cried even louder.
1886
THE FIRST-CLASS PASSENGER
A FIRST-CLASS PASSENGER, who had just had dinner at the station and was slightly tipsy, sprawled on the velvet seat, stretched out sweetly, and dozed off. After dozing for no more than five minutes, he looked with oily eyes at his vis-à-vis, grinned, and said:
“My father, of blessed memory, liked to have his heels scratched by a peasant wench after dinner. I’m exactly the same, with the only difference that each time after dinner I scratch not my heels but my tongue and brain. Sinner that I am, I love to babble on a full stomach. Will you allow me to chat with you a little?”
“By all means,” the vis-à-vis agreed.
“After a good dinner, it takes only the most insignificant pretext for devilishly big thoughts to come into my head. For instance, you and I just saw two young men at the buffet, and you heard one of them congratulate the other on becoming a celebrity. ‘Congratulations,’ he said, ‘you’re already a celebrity and are beginning to be famous.’ Obviously actors or microscopic journalists. But they’re not the point. I, sir, am now interested in the question of what, in fact, should be understood by the words ‘fame’ and ‘celebrity.’ What’s your opinion, sir? Pushkin called fame a bright patch on rags;1 we all understand it Pushkin fashion, that is, more or less subjectively, but no one has yet given a clear, logical definition of this word. I’d give a lot for such a definition.”
“Why do you need it so much?”
“You see, if we knew what fame is, we might also know the ways of winning it,” the first-class passenger said after some thought. “I must point out to you, sir, that when I was younger I strove for celebrity with every fiber of my soul. Popularity was, so to speak, my madness. For the sake of it I studied, worked, didn’t sleep nights, didn’t eat enough, and ruined my health. And it seems, insofar as I can judge impartially, that I had all the qualifications for it. First of all, sir, I am an engineer by profession. In my lifetime I’ve built a couple of dozen splendid bridges in Russia, I’ve constructed water supply systems for three towns, I’ve worked in Russia, in England, in Belgium…Second, I’ve written many specialized articles in my line. Third, my dear sir, I’ve had a weakness for chemistry since childhood; devoting my leisure to this science, I have discovered methods for obtaining certain organic acids, so that you will find my name in all foreign chemistry textbooks. All this while I held a position, rose to the rank of actual state councillor, and have a spotless record. I won’t impose on your attention by listing all my honors and achievements, and will only say that I did much more than some celebrities. And what then? I’m already old, on my last legs, one might say, and I’m as much a celebrity as that black dog running along the embankment.”
“How can you tell? Maybe you are a celebrity.”
“Hm!…We’ll test it right now…Tell me, have you ever heard the name Krikunov?”
The vis-à-vis looked up at the ceiling, thought a little, and laughed.
“No, never heard it…,” he said.
“It’s my last name. You, an educated and elderly man, have never heard of me—conclusive proof! Obviously, in striving to become a celebrity, I didn’t do what I should have done at all. I didn’t know the proper methods, and, wishing to catch fame by the tail, I started from the wrong end.”
“What are the proper methods?”
“Devil knows! You say: talent? genius? originality? Not at all, my dear sir…Parallel with me people lived and pursued their careers who, compared to me, were empty, worthless, and even trashy. They worked a thousand times less than I did, didn’t turn inside out, didn’t sparkle with talent or strive for fame, but look at them! Their names turn up in the newspapers and in conversations all the time! If you’re not tired of listening, I’ll clarify with an example. Several years ago I built a bridge in the town of K. I must tell you that this shabby K. was a terribly boring town. If it hadn’t been for women and cards, I probably would have gone out of my mind. Well, sir, it’s all long past: out of boredom there I took up with a little singer. Devil knows why, everybody went into raptures over this little singer, but in my view—how shall I put it to you?—she was an ordinary, commonplace little type, like many others. An empty, capricious, greedy girl, and a fool besides. She ate a lot, drank a lot, slept till five in the afternoon—and nothing more, it seems. She was considered a cocotte—that was her profession—and when they wanted to refer to her more literarily, they called her an actress and singer. I used to be an inveterate theatergoer, and therefore this fraudulent toying with the title of actress outraged me terribly! My little singer didn’t have the least right to be called an actress or even a singer. This was a being totally devoid of talent, devoid of feeling, one might even say pathetic. To my understanding, her singing was disgusting, and the whole charm of her ‘art’ was that she kicked up her leg when necessary and was not embarrassed when someone came into her dressing room. She usually chose translated vaudevilles, with songs, the sort in which she could show off in a tightly fitting male costume. In a word—pfui! Now, sir, I ask for your attention. I remember as if it were today, a solemn ceremony was held for the opening of the newly built bridge to traffic. There was a prayer service, speeches, telegrams, and all the rest. I, you know, was hovering around this child of mine, and kept worrying that my heart would burst from authorial excitement. It’s all long past, there’s no need to play modest, so I’ll tell you that my bridge turned out to be magnificent! Not a bridge, but a picture, simply splendid! Just try not being excited when the whole town comes to the opening. ‘Well,’ I thought, ‘now the public will stare all eyes at me. Where can I hide?’ But, my dear sir, I worried over nothing—alas! Apart from the officials, no one paid the slightest attention to me. The crowd of them stood on the bank, gazing at the bridge like sheep, and not caring at all about the one who built it. And, devil take them, from that time on, by the way, I began to hate this most esteemed public of ours. But to go on. Suddenly the public stirred: psst, psst, psst…Faces smiled, shoulders moved. ‘They must have spotted me,’ I thought. Oh, yes, fat chance! I look: my little singer is making her way through the crowd, with a bunch of wags behind her; the eyes of the crowd hasten to follow the whole procession. A thousand-voiced whispering began: ‘It’s So-and-So…Lovely! Enchanting!’ It was then that they noticed me…Two milksops—must have been local amateurs of the scenic art—looked at me, exchanged glances, and whispered: ‘That’s her lover!’ How do you like that? And some sort of runty figure in a top hat, with a long-unshaven mug, shuffled beside me for a long time, then turned to me with these words: