bowl in exchange for her pot, and I had supposedly suggested doing it that way. Such baseness on her part naturally drove me beyond the final limits; my blood boiled, I jumped up and flew to her. By the time I reach the old woman I'm, so to speak, already beside myself; I see her sitting all alone in the corner of the front hall, as if hiding from the sun, resting her cheek on her hand. I immediately loosed a whole thunderstorm on her: 'You're this,' I said, 'and you're that!'—you know, in the best Russian way. Only I see something strange is happening: she sits, her face is turned to me, her eyes are popping out, and she says not a word in reply, and she looks at me so strangely, strangely, as if she's swaying back and forth. I finally calm down, look closely at her, ask her something—not a word in reply. I stand there irresolutely; flies are buzzing, the sun is setting, silence; completely bewildered, I finally leave. Before I reached home I was summoned to the major's, then I had to pass by my company, so that I got home quite late. Nikifor's first words: 'You know, Your Honor, our landlady died.' 'When?' 'This evening, an hour and a half ago.' Which meant that, just at the time when I was abusing her, she was departing. I was so struck, I must tell you, that I had a hard time recovering. It even made its way into my thoughts, you know, even into my dreams at night. I, of course, have no prejudices, but on the third day I went to church for the funeral. In short, the more time passed, the more I thought about her. Nothing special, only I pictured it occasionally and felt rather bad. The main thing is, how did I reason in the end? First, the woman was, so to speak, a personal being, what's known in our time as a human; she lived, lived a long time, too long finally. She once had children, a husband, a family, relations, everything around her was at the boil, there were all these smiles, so to speak, and suddenly—total zero, everything's gone smash, she's left alone, like . . . some sort of fly bearing a curse from time immemorial. And then, finally, God brings her to an end. At sunset, on a quiet summer evening, my old woman also flies away—of course, this is not without its moralizing idea; and at that very moment, instead of, so to speak, a farewell tear, this desperate young lieutenant, jaunty and arms akimbo, sees her off the face of the earth with the Russian element of riotous abuse over a lost bowl! No doubt I was at fault, and though, owing to the distance in time and to changes in my character, I've long regarded my deed as someone else's, I nevertheless continue to regret it. So that, I repeat, I find it strange, the
more so as, even if I am at fault, it's not so completely: why did she decide to die precisely at that moment? Naturally, there's some excuse here—that the deed was in a certain sense psychological— but all the same I never felt at peace until I began, about fifteen years ago, to keep two permanent sick old women at my expense in the almshouse, with the purpose of easing their last days of earthly life by decent maintenance. I intend to leave capital for it in perpetuity. Well, sirs, that's all. I repeat that I may be to blame for many things in life, but I consider this occasion, in all conscience, the nastiest deed of my whole life."
"And instead of the nastiest, Your Excellency has told us one of the good deeds of your life. You've hoodwinked Ferdyshchenko!" concluded Ferdyshchenko.
"Indeed, General, I never imagined that you had a good heart after all; it's even a pity," Nastasya Filippovna said casually.
"A pity? Why is that?" asked the general, laughing amiably and sipping, not without self-satisfaction, from his champagne.
But now it was Afanasy Ivanovich's turn, and he, too, was prepared. They could all tell beforehand that he would not decline like Ivan Petrovich, and, for certain reasons, they awaited his story with particular curiosity and at the same time with occasional glances at Nastasya Filippovna. With extraordinary dignity, which fully corresponded to his stately appearance, in a quiet, amiable voice, Afanasy Ivanovich began one of his "charming stories." (Incidentally speaking, he was an impressive, stately man, tall, slightly bald, slightly gray-haired, and rather corpulent, with soft, ruddy, and somewhat flabby cheeks and false teeth. He wore loose and elegant clothes, and his linen was of astonishing quality. One could not have enough of gazing at his plump white hands. On the index finger of his right hand there was an expensive diamond ring.) All the while he was telling his story, Nastasya Filippovna intently studied the lace on the ruffle of her sleeve and kept plucking at it with two fingers of her left hand, so that she managed not to glance at the storyteller even once.
"What facilitates my task most of all," Afanasy Ivanovich began, "is that I am duty-bound to tell nothing other than the worst thing I've done in my whole life. In that case, naturally, there can be no hesitation: conscience and the heart's memory straightaway prompt one with what must be told. I confess with bitterness that numbered among all the numberless, perhaps light-minded and . . . flighty deeds of my life, there is one the impression of which
weighs all too heavily on my memory. It happened about twenty years ago. I had gone then to visit Platon Ordyntsev on his estate. He had just been elected marshal 40and had come there with his young wife for the winter holidays. Anfisa Alexeevna's birthday also fell just then, and two balls were planned. At that time an enchanting novel by Dumas filshad just become terribly fashionable and made a great deal of noise in high society— La Dame aux camélias, 41a poem which, in my opinion, will never die or grow old. In the provinces all the ladies admired it to the point of rapture, those at least who had read it. The enchanting story, the originality with which the main character is portrayed, that enticing world, so subtly analyzed, and, finally, all those charming details scattered through the book (for instance, about the way bouquets of white and pink camellias are used in turn), in short, all those enchanting details, and everything together, produced almost a shock. The flowers of the camellia became extraordinarily fashionable. Everyone demanded camellias, everyone sought them. I ask you: can one get many camellias in the provinces, when everyone demands them for balls, even though the balls are few? Petya Vorkhovskoy, poor fellow, was then pining away for Anfisa Alexeevna. I really don't know if there was anything between them, that is, I mean to say, whether he could have had any serious hopes. The poor man lost his mind over getting camellias for Anfisa Alexeevna by the evening of the ball. Countess Sotsky, from Petersburg, a guest of the governor's wife, and Sofya Bespalov, as became known, were certain to come with bouquets of white ones. Anfisa Alexeevna, for the sake of some special effect, wanted red ones. Poor Platon nearly broke down; a husband, you know; he promised to get the bouquet, and—what then? It was snapped up the day before by Mytishchev, Katerina Alexandrovna, a fierce rival of Anfisa Alexeevna's in everything. They were at daggers drawn. Naturally, there were hysterics, fainting fits. Platon was lost. It was clear that if Petya could, at this interesting moment, procure a bouquet somewhere, his affairs would improve greatly; a woman's gratitude on such occasions knows no bounds. He rushes about like crazy; but it's an impossible thing, no use talking about it. Suddenly I run into him at eleven in the evening, the night before the birthday and the ball, at Marya Petrovna Zubkov's, a neighbor of the Ordyntsevs. He's beaming. 'What's with you?' 'I found it. Eureka!' 'Well, brother, you surprise me! Where? How?' 'In Ekshaisk' (a little town there, only fifteen miles away, and not in our district),