“Pavel Pavlovich! Pavel Pavlovich!” the voices were heard again.
“Well, go, then!” Velchaninov released him at last, continuing to laugh good-naturedly.
“So you won’t come, sir!” Pavel Pavlovich, all but in despair, whispered a last time, and even clasped his hands before him, palms together, as in old times.
“No, I swear to you, I won’t come! Run, or there’ll be trouble!”
And he sweepingly offered him his hand—offered it and gave a start: Pavel Pavlovich did not take his hand, he even drew his own back.
The third bell rang.
In an instant something strange happened with the two men; they both as if transformed. Something wavered as it were and suddenly snapped in Velchaninov, who had been laughing so much only a moment before. He firmly and furiously seized Pavel Pavlovich by the shoulder.
“If I, if I offer you this hand here,” he showed him the palm of his left hand, on which there clearly remained a big scar from the cut, “then you might well take it!” he whispered with trembling and paled lips.
Pavel Pavlovich also paled and his lips also trembled. Some sort of spasms suddenly passed over his face.
“And Liza, sir?” he murmured in a quick whisper—and suddenly his lips, cheeks, and chin quivered, and tears poured from his eyes. Velchaninov stood before him like a post.
“Pavel Pavlovich! Pavel Pavlovich!” screams came from the car, as if someone were being slaughtered there—and suddenly the whistle blew.
Pavel Pavlovich came to his senses, clasped his hands, and dashed off at top speed; the train had already started, but he somehow managed to hold on and climb into his car in flight. Velchaninov remained at the station and continued his journey only toward evening, having waited for the next train in the same direction. He did not go to the right, to his provincial lady acquaintance—he was much too out of sorts. And how sorry he was later!
BOBOK
NOTES OF A CERTAIN PERSON
THIS TIME I am including the “Notes of a Certain Person.”1 It is not I; it is an entirely different person. I think there is no need for any further preface.
Semyon Ardalyonovich hands me this the other day: “But, pray tell me, Ivan Ivanych, will you ever be sober?”
A strange demand. I’m not offended, I’m a timid man; but, anyhow, now they’ve made a madman out of me. An artist had occasion to paint my portrait. “After all,” he says, “you’re a writer.” I yielded; he exhibited it. I read: “Go look at this morbid, nearly crazy person.”
Maybe it’s so, but still, why come right out with it in print? In print we need everything noble; we need ideals, but this…
At least say it indirectly, that’s what you have style for. No, he no longer wants it indirect. Nowadays humor and good style are disappearing, and abuse is taken for wit. I’m not offended: God knows I’m not such a writer as to lose my mind over it. I wrote a story—it wasn’t published. I wrote a feuilleton—it was rejected. I took a lot of these feuilletons to various editorial offices, they were rejected everywhere: you lack salt, they said.
“What kind of salt do you want,” I ask mockingly, “Attic salt?”2
He doesn’t even understand. I mainly translate from the French for booksellers. I also write advertisements for merchants: “A rarity!” I say. “Red tea from our own plantations…” I made a pile on a panegyric for His Excellency the late Pyotr Matveevich. I put together The Art of Pleasing the Ladies on commission from a bookseller. I’ve turned out about six such books in my life. I want to make a collection of Voltaire’s bons mots,3 but I’m afraid it might seem insipid to the likes of us. What’s Voltaire now! These days it’s the cudgel, not Voltaire! They’ve knocked the last teeth out of each other! So that’s the whole of my literary activity. Except that I also send letters to editors gratis, over my full signature. I keep giving admonishments and advice, I criticize and show the way. Last week I sent my fortieth letter to an editor in two years; four roubles on postage alone. I have a nasty character, that’s what.
I think the artist painted me not for the sake of literature, but for the sake of the two symmetrical warts on my forehead: a phenomenon, they say. They have no ideas, so now they trade on phenomena. And how well my warts came out in this portrait—to the life! This they call realism.
Regarding craziness, last year they set down a lot of people as madmen. And in what style! “With such a singular talent…” they say, “and look what came of it in the end… however, it should have been foreseen long ago…” Still, this is rather clever; so that from the point of pure art it can even be praised. Well, but they’ve suddenly come back smarter still. Now, to drive someone mad is possible with us, but they’ve never yet made anyone smarter.
The smartest one, in my opinion, is the one who calls himself a fool at least once a month—an unheard-of ability nowadays! Formerly, in any case, a fool knew at least once a year that he was a fool, but now unh-unh! And they’ve confused things so much that you can’t tell a fool from a smart man. They’ve done it on purpose.
I’m reminded of a Spanish joke, how the French built themselves the first madhouse two and a half centuries ago: “They locked up all their fools in a special house, to show what smart people they were themselves.” That’s just it: by locking someone else up in a madhouse, you don’t prove how smart you are. “K. has lost his wits, that means we’re the smart ones now.” No, it doesn’t quite mean that.
Anyhow, the devil… and what am I doing pothering over my own wits: grumble, grumble. Even the maid is sick of me. A friend stopped by yesterday: “Your style is changing,” he says, “it’s getting choppy. You chop and chop—then an inserted phrase, then a phrase inserted in the inserted phrase, then you stick in something in parentheses, and then you go back to chopping, chopping…”
My friend is right. Something strange is happening to me. My character is changing, and my head is aching. I’ve begun seeing and hearing some strange things. Not really voices, but as if there were someone just nearby: “Bobok, bobok, bobok!”
What is this bobok? I need some diversion.
I went out for diversion and wound up in a funeral. A distant relative. A collegiate councillor, however. A widow, five daughters, all young girls. The shoes alone, just think what that will add up to! The deceased used to provide, but now—a wretched little pension. They’ll have their tails between their legs. They always gave me a cool reception. I wouldn’t have gone now, either, if it hadn’t been for this urgent occasion. I went to the cemetery along with the others; they snubbed me and put on airs. My uniform is indeed a bit shabby.4 It’s a good twenty-five years, I think, since I’ve been to the cemetery; a nice little place!
First of all, the odor. About fifteen dead people arrived. Palls of various prices; there were even two catafalques: for a general, and for some lady. A lot of mournful faces, a lot of sham mourning, a lot of outright merriment. The clergy can’t complain: it’s a living. But the odor, the odor. I wouldn’t wish it on myself even for the odor of sanctity.
I peeked cautiously into the dead men’s faces, not trusting my impressionability. Some of the expressions are soft, some unpleasant. Generally, the smiles are not nice, and in some even very much so. I don’t like them; they visit my dreams.
During the liturgy I stepped out of church for some air; the day was grayish but dry. Cold, too; but then, it’s October. I strolled among the little graves. Various classes. The third class costs thirty roubles: decent and not so expensive. The first two are inside the church and under the porch; now, that’s a bit stiff. This time some six people were buried third class, the general and the lady among them.