The Laptevs dined between two and three. Pyotr served the courses. During the day this Pyotr ran to the post office, to the warehouse, to the district court for Kostya, served; in the evenings he rolled cigarettes, during the night he ran to open the door, and by five o’clock in the morning was already stoking the stoves, and nobody knew when he slept. He very much enjoyed uncorking seltzer water, and did it easily, noiselessly, without spilling a drop.
‘‘God bless!’’ said Kostya, drinking a glass of vodka before dinner.
At first Yulia Sergeevna did not like Kostya; his bass voice, his little phrases like ‘‘stood me a bottle,’’ ‘‘socked him in the mug,’’ ‘‘scum,’’ ‘‘portray us the samovar,’’ his habit of clinking and mumbling over the glass seemed trivial to her. But when she got to know him better, she began to feel very easy in his presence. He was frank with her, in the evenings he liked to discuss things with her in a low voice, and he even let her read the novels he wrote, something that so far was a secret even from such friends as Laptev and Yartsev. She read these novels and praised them, so as not to upset him, and he was glad, because he hoped to become a famous writer sooner or later. In his novels he described only the country and landowners’ estates, though he had seen the country very rarely, only when visiting his acquaintances in their dachas, and had been on a landowner’s estate once in his life, when he went to Volokolamsk on a lawsuit. He avoided the amorous element, as if he was ashamed of it, he frequently described nature, and in his descriptions liked to use such expressions as ‘‘the whimsical contours of the mountains,’’ ‘‘the fantastic shapes of the clouds,’’ or ‘‘the accord of mysterious harmonies’...His novels were never published, and he explained that by the conditions of censorship.
He liked his activity as a lawyer, but even so, he considered these novels and not the legal profession his chief occupation. It seemed to him that he had a subtle, artistic constitution, and he had always been drawn to the arts. He did not sing or play any instrument himself, and was totally without a musical ear, but he attended all the symphonic and philharmonic gatherings, organized concerts for charitable purposes, met with singers...
During dinner they talked.
‘‘An amazing thing,’’ said Laptev, ‘‘again my Fyodor has nonplussed me! He says we must find out when is the hundredth anniversary of our firm, so as to petition for nobility, and he says it in the most serious way. What’s happened to him? Frankly speaking, I’m beginning to worry.’’
They talked about Fyodor, about the fact that it was now the fashion to affect something or other. Fyodor, for instance, tried to look like a simple merchant, though he was no longer a merchant, and when a teacher from the school where old Laptev was a trustee came to him for his salary, he even changed his voice and gait and behaved like the teacher’s superior.
After dinner there was nothing to do, so they went to the study. They talked about the decadents, about The Maid of Orleans, and Kostya recited a whole monologue; it seemed to him that he had done a very successful imitation of Ermolova.17 Then they sat down to play vint. The girls did not go to their wing but, pale and sad, sat both in one armchair, listening to the noise in the street: was it their father coming? In the evening, in the dark and with candles, they felt anguish. The conversation over cards, Pyotr’s footsteps, the crackling in the fireplace irritated them, and they did not want to look at the fire; in the evening they no longer even wanted to cry but felt eerie and heavyhearted. And they could not understand how it was possible to talk about something and laugh, when their mama was dead.
‘‘What did you see today through the binoculars?’’ Yulia Sergeevna asked Kostya.
‘‘Nothing today, but yesterday the old Frenchman himself took a bath.’’
At seven o’clock Yulia Sergeevna and Kostya went to the Maly Theater. Laptev stayed with the girls.
‘‘It’s time your papa came,’’ he kept saying, glancing at the clock. ‘‘The train must be late.’’
The girls sat silently in the armchair, huddled together like little animals in the cold, and he kept pacing the rooms, looking with impatience at his watch. The house was quiet. Then, towards nine o’clock, someone rang the bell. Pyotr went to open the door.
Hearing the familiar voice, the girls cried out, sobbed, and rushed to the front hall. Panaurov was wearing a luxurious fur coat, and his beard and mustache were white with hoarfrost.
‘‘One moment, one moment,’’ he muttered, but Sasha and Lida, sobbing and laughing, kissed his cold hands, his hat, his coat. Handsome, languid, pampered by love, he unhurriedly caressed the girls, then went into the study and said, rubbing his hands:
‘‘But I won’t stay with you long, my friends. Tomorrow I’m off to Petersburg. I’ve been promised a transfer to another town.’’
He stayed at the Dresden.
X
YARTSEV, IVAN GAVRILYCH, frequently visited the Laptevs. He was a healthy, robust man, black-haired, with an intelligent, pleasant face; he was considered handsome, but lately he had begun to put on weight, and that spoiled his face and figure; another thing that spoiled his looks was his close-cropped, almost shaven head. At the university, owing to his good height and strength, the students used to call him the ‘‘bouncer.’’
He took a degree in philology, along with the Laptev brothers, then studied natural science and now had a master’s degree in chemistry. He never counted on having a chair, and did not even work in any laboratory, but taught physics and natural history in a technical high school and in two girls’ schools. He was delighted with his students, especially the girls, and said that a wonderful generation was growing up. Besides chemistry, he was also occupied at home with sociology and Russian history, and his brief articles occasionally appeared in newspapers and magazines over the initial Y. When he talked about something from botany or zoology, he resembled a historian; when he discussed some historical question, he resembled a natural scientist.
Another familiar man at the Laptevs’ was Kish, nicknamed the eternal student. He had spent three years studying medicine, then had switched to mathematics and had sat through each course there twice. His father, a provincial pharmacist, sent him forty roubles a month, and his mother, in secret from his father, sent another ten, and this money was enough for his expenses and even such luxuries as an overcoat with Polish beaver, gloves, scent, and photography (he often had himself photographed and gave his portraits to acquaintances). Clean, slightly bald on top, with golden side-whiskers at his ears, modest, he had the look of a man ever ready to be of service. He always bustled about on other people’s business: ran around with a subscription list, froze by the theater box office from early in the morning to buy a ticket for a lady of his acquaintance, or went at someone’s request to order a wreath or a bouquet. All they said of him was: ‘‘Kish will go, Kish will do it, Kish will buy it.’’ For the most part, he performed his errands badly. Reproaches were showered on him, people often forgot to repay him for their purchases, but he never said anything and on embarrassing occasions only sighed. He was never especially glad or sorry, always told long and boring stories, and his witticisms provoked laughter each time only because they were not funny. Thus, one day, intending to make a joke, he said to Pyotr: ‘‘Pyotter, you’re not an otter,’’ and this provoked general laughter, and he himself laughed a long time, pleased to have made such a successful joke. Whenever some professor was buried, he walked in front with the torchbearers.