‘‘I beg you, give it to me. I’ll keep it as a souvenir of you... of our acquaintance. It’s so wonderful!’’
‘‘Take it,’’ she said and blushed. ‘‘But there’s nothing wonderful about it.’’
He looked at her in rapture, silently, and not knowing what to say.
‘‘Ah, what am I doing keeping you out in this heat?’’ she said after some silence and laughed. ‘‘Let’s go inside.’’
‘‘But won’t I be disturbing you?’’
They went into the front hall. Yulia Sergeevna ran up the stairs, her dress rustling, white with little blue flowers.
‘‘It’s impossible to disturb me,’’ she said, stopping on the stairs, ‘‘I never do anything. Every day is a holiday for me, from morning till evening.’’
‘‘For me, what you’re saying is incomprehensible,’’ he said, going up to her. ‘‘I grew up in a milieu where people worked every day, all of them without exception, both the men and the women.’’
‘‘But if there’s nothing to do?’’ she asked.
‘‘You must set up your life on such conditions that labor will be necessary. Without labor, there can be no pure and joyful life.’’
He again clutched the parasol to his breast and said softly, unexpectedly for himself, not recognizing his own voice:
‘‘If you would consent to be my wife, I’d give anything. I’d give anything... There’s no price, no sacrifice I wouldn’t go to.’’
She gave a start and looked at him in surprise and fear.
‘‘What, what are you saying!’’ she said, turning pale. ‘‘It’s impossible, I assure you. Forgive me.’’
Then quickly, with the same rustling of her dress, she went further up and disappeared through the door.
Laptev understood what this meant, and his mood changed at once, abruptly, as if the light had suddenly gone out in his soul. Feeling the shame, the humiliation, of a man who has been scorned, who is disliked, repulsive, maybe vile, whom people flee from, he left the house.
‘‘ ‘I’d give anything,’ ’’ he mocked himself, going home in the heat and remembering the details of his proposal. ‘‘ ‘I’d give anything’—utterly merchantlike. Much need there is for your anything!’’
Everything he had just said seemed to him stupid to the point of revulsion. Why had he lied about growing up in a milieu where everybody worked without exception? Why had he spoken in an admonitory tone about a pure and joyful life? That was not intelligent, not interesting, false—false Moscow-style. But now a mood of indifference gradually set in, such as criminals lapse into after a harsh sentence, and he thought that, thank God, everything was now past, and there was not that terrible unknowing, there was no need to spend whole days waiting, languishing, thinking about one and the same thing; now everything was clear; he had to abandon any hope of personal happiness, to live without desires, without hopes, not to dream, not to wait, but so that there would not be this boredom he was so sick of nursing, he could be occupied with other people’s affairs, other people’s happiness, and then old age would set in imperceptibly, life would come to an end—and nothing would be needed anymore. It already made no difference to him, he did not want anything and could reason coldly, but there was some heaviness in his face, especially under his eyes, his forehead was taut as rubber—tears were ready to burst out. Feeling weak all over, he went to bed and in five minutes was fast asleep.
III
THE PROPOSAL LAPTEV had made so unexpectedly brought Yulia Sergeevna to despair.
She knew Laptev only slightly and had become acquainted with him by chance; he was a rich man, a representative of the well-known Moscow firm of Fyodor Laptev and Sons, always very serious, apparently intelligent, preoccupied with his sister’s illness; it had seemed to her that he never paid any attention to her, and she herself was totally indifferent to him—and suddenly this declaration on the stairs, this pitiful, admiring face...
The proposal had confused her by its suddenness, and by the fact that the word ‘‘wife’’ had been uttered, and by the fact that she had had to answer with a refusal. She no longer remembered what she had said to Laptev, but she went on smarting from the traces of that impulsive, unpleasant feeling with which she had refused him. She did not like him; he had the look of a shopkeeper, was personally uninteresting, she could not have responded otherwise than by refusal, but all the same, she felt awkward, as if she had acted badly.
‘‘My God, without even going in, right on the stairs,’’ she said in despair, addressing the little icon that hung at the head of her bed, ‘‘and without courting me beforehand, but somehow strangely, peculiarly...’
In solitude, her anxiety grew stronger with every hour, and it was beyond her strength to deal with this painful feeling alone. She needed someone to hear her out and tell her she had done the right thing. But she had no one to talk to. She had lost her mother long ago, and she considered her father a strange person and could not talk with him seriously. He inhibited her with his caprices, his excessive touchiness and indefinite gestures; and as soon as one got into conversation with him, he would at once begin talking about himself. And during her prayers she was not fully candid, because she did not know for certain what essentially she must ask from God.
The samovar was served. Yulia Sergeevna, very pale, tired, with a helpless look, came out to the dining room, made tea—this was her duty—and poured a glass for her father. Sergei Borisych, in his long frock coat below the knees, red-faced, uncombed, his hands in his pockets, paced the dining room, not up and down, but anyhow, like a caged animal. He would stop by the table, sip some tea with appetite, and again pace and go on thinking about something.
‘‘Laptev proposed to me today,’’ said Yulia Sergeevna, and she blushed.
The doctor looked at her and seemed not to understand.
‘‘Laptev?’’ he asked. ‘‘Mrs. Panaurov’s brother?’’
He loved his daughter; it was probable that she would marry sooner or later and leave him, but he tried not to think about it. He was frightened of solitude, and for some reason, it seemed to him that if he was left alone in this big house, he would have an apoplectic stroke, but he did not like to talk about it directly.
‘‘Well, then, I’m very glad,’’ he said and shrugged. ‘‘I heartily congratulate you. Now you’re presented with a beautiful opportunity for parting with me, to your great satisfaction. I understand you very well. To live with an old father, an ailing half-wit, must be very hard at your age. I understand you perfectly. And if I dropped dead the sooner and got snatched up by devils, everyone would be glad. I heartily congratulate you.’’
‘‘I refused him.’’
The doctor felt easier at heart but was no longer able to stop, and went on:
‘‘I’m amazed, I’ve long been amazed, why they haven’t put me in a madhouse yet. Why am I wearing this frock coat and not a straitjacket? I still believe in truth, in the good, I’m a fool of an idealist, and in our time, isn’t that madness? And how do they respond to my truth, to my honest attitude? They all but throw stones at me and ride on me. And even my close relations only try to ride on my neck, devil take me, old blockhead that I am...’
‘‘It’s impossible to have a human conversation with you!’’ said Yulia.
She got up from the table impulsively and went to her room in great wrath, remembering how often her father had been unfair to her. But a little later, she felt sorry for her father, and when he left for the club, she went downstairs to see him off and locked the door behind him herself. The weather outside was foul, restless; the door trembled from the gusts of wind, and in the front hall, there were drafts from all sides, so that the candle was nearly blown out. Upstairs Yulia went around all the rooms and made crosses at all the windows and doors; the wind howled, and it seemed as though someone was walking on the roof. It had never been so dismal, and she had never felt so alone.