‘“He’s well over forty and she’s thirty,” the Head’s wife went on. “I think she’d accept him.”
‘Oh, the stupid, trivial things boredom makes us provincials do! And all because we can never get anything right. For example, why this sudden impulse to marry off our dear Belikov – surely not the ideal husband! The Head’s wife, the inspector’s wife and all the mistresses who taught at the high school suddenly brightened up, looked prettier even, as if they had discovered a purpose in life. The Head’s wife took a box at the theatre and who do we see sitting next to her but a radiant, happy Barbara, holding some kind of fan, with Belikov at her side, so small and hunched up you’d have thought he’d been dragged from his house with a pair of tongs. If I gave a party, the ladies would absolutely insist on my inviting both Belikov and Barbara. Briefly, the wheels had been set in motion. It turned out that Barbara wasn’t against marriage. Living with her brother wasn’t very cheerful and apparently they’d argue and squabble for days on end. Just picture the scene for yourself: Kovalenko, that lanky, healthy boor walking down the street in his embroidered shirt, a tuft of hair falling onto his forehead from under his cap. In one hand a bundle of books, in the other a thick knobbly stick. Then his sister following close behind, loaded with books as well.
‘“But Mikhail, you haven’t read it!” she says in a loud, argumentative voice. “I’m telling you, I swear it’s the truth, you’ve never read it!”
‘“And I’m telling you that I have!” Kovalenko thunders back, banging his stick on the pavement.
‘“Goodness gracious, Mikhail dear, don’t lose your temper. It’s only a matter of principle we’re arguing about!”
‘“But I’m telling you I have read it!” Kovalenko shouts, even louder.
‘And when they had visitors they’d be at each other’s throats again. She must have been fed up with that kind of life and wanted her own little place – and then of course there was her age. She couldn’t pick or choose any more, so anyone would do, even a Greek teacher. In fact most of the young ladies here aren’t too choosy, as long as they find a husband. Anyway, Barbara began to show a decided liking for Belikov.
‘And what about Belikov? He’d behave just the same at Kovalenko’s as he did with us. He would go and sit down and say nothing, while Barbara would sing “Breezes of the South” for him or gaze at him thoughtfully with her dark eyes, or suddenly break into loud peals of laughter.
‘In love affairs and above all in marriage a little persuasion plays a large part. Everyone, his colleagues and their wives, tried to persuade Belikov to get married – there was nothing else for him to live for. We all congratulated him and tried to look serious, and came out with such banal remarks as “marriage is a serious step”. Barbara was good-looking and interesting. What’s more, the daughter of a privy councillor, with a farm in the Ukraine. But most important, she was the first woman ever to treat Belikov with any warmth or affection. This turned his head and he made up his mind that he really should get married.’
‘Now that would have been the best time to relieve him of his galoshes and umbrella,’ Ivan Ivanych muttered.
‘But can you imagine, that proved impossible,’ Burkin said. ‘He put Barbara’s portrait on his desk and kept coming to see me and chatting about her, about family life, about marriage being a serious step. He often visited the Kovalenkos, but he did not change his way of life one jot. In fact, it was the reverse, and his decision to get married had a rather morbid effect on him. He grew thin and pale and seemed to withdraw even further into his shell.
‘“I like Barbara,” he told me, with a weak, wry little smile, “and I know that everyone should get married… but hm… it’s all been so sudden… I must think about it…”
‘“Why?” I asked. “Just go ahead, that’s all there is to it.”
‘“No, marriage is a serious step, one has carefully to consider the impending duties and responsibilities – you never know – in case there’s trouble. I’m so worried I can’t sleep at all. And to be honest, I’m scared. She and her brother have peculiar ideas, they have a strange way of talking, you know, and they’re a bit too smart. You can get married and before long find yourself mixed up in something – you never know.”
‘So he didn’t propose, but kept putting it off, much to the annoyance of the Head’s wife and all the ladies. He continually weighed up the “impending duties and responsibilities” and at the same time went for a walk with Barbara nearly every day, perhaps because he thought he should do that in his position, and kept calling on me to discuss family life. Most likely he would have proposed in the long run and we would have had another of those unnecessary, stupid marriages – thousands of them are made every day, the fruit of boredom and having nothing to do – if a kolossalische Skandal hadn’t suddenly erupted. Here I must say that Barbara’s brother had taken a violent dislike to Belikov from the start, he just couldn’t stand him.
‘“I just don’t understand,” he told us, shrugging his shoulders, “how you can stomach that ugly little sneak. Really, gentlemen, how can you live in this place! The air is foul, stifling. Call yourselves pedagogues, teachers? You’re lousy bureaucrats and this isn’t a temple of learning, it’s more like a police station and it has the sour stink of a sentrybox. No, my friends, I’m hanging on just a bit longer, then it’s off to the farm to catch crayfish and teach the peasants. Yes, I’ll be gone while you’ll be here with your Judas, blast his guts!”
‘Or he’d laugh out loud until the tears flowed – first in that deep bass, then in a thin squeaky tone. “Why does he hang around my room, what’s he after? He just sits and gapes,” he’d say, helplessly spreading his hands out.
‘He even thought up a nickname for Belikov – Mr Creepy-Crawly.5 Naturally we didn’t tell him his sister intended marrying this Mr Creepy-Crawly. Once, when the Head’s wife hinted how nice it would be if his sister settled down with such a reliable, universally respected person as Belikov, he frowned and growled, “That’s nothing to do with me. She can marry a viper if she wants. I don’t go poking my nose into other people’s business.”
‘Now listen to what happened next. Some practical joker drew a caricature of Belikov walking in his galoshes, his umbrella open, the bottoms of his trousers rolled up, and Barbara on his arm. Underneath was the caption The Lovesick Anthropos. It caught him to a tee, amazing. The artist must have worked many a long night, as all the teachers at the boys’ and girls’ high schools, as well as lecturers at the theological college and local civil servants – they all got a copy. So did Belikov, and it had the most depressing effect on him.
‘Next Sunday, the first of May, we left the house together. All the teachers and their pupils had arranged to meet first at the school and then go out of town for a walk in the woods. Off we went, with Belikov looking green and gloomier than a storm cloud.
‘“What wicked, evil people there are!” he said, his lips trembling. I really felt sorry for him. Then, as we were on our way, Kovalenko suddenly came bowling along on a bicycle, followed by his sister, also on one – she was flushed and looked worn out, but still cheerful and happy.
‘“We’re going on ahead!” she shouted. “What wonderful weather, oh, frightfully wonderful!”