how to look after herself, does my little wife.”
Kolin and Gornotsvetov exchanged looks and giggled. Silently, sullenly, Ganin rolled a bread-ball. He almost got up and went out, but mastered himself. Raising his head he made himself look at Alfyorov, and having looked, was amazed how Mary could have married that person with the sparse little beard and shiny, plump nose. And the thought that he was sitting beside the man who had caressed Mary, who knew the feel of her lips, her jokes, her laugh, her movements, and who was now waiting for her—the thought was terrible, but with it he also felt a certain thrilling pride as he recalled that it had been to him and not her husband that Mary had first surrendered her profound, unique fragrance.
After lunch he went for a walk, then climbed up onto the top deck of a bus. Down below the streets poured by, little black figures dashed around on the shiny sunlit asphalt, the bus swayed and thundered—and Ganin felt that this alien city passing before him was nothing but a moving picture. As he returned home he saw Podtyagin knocking on Klara’s door and Podtyagin too seemed to him a ghost, something extraneous and irrelevant.
“Our friend is in love with someone again.” Anton Sergeyevich nodded toward the door as he drank tea with Klara. “It’s not you, is it?”
Klara turned away; her ample bust rose and fell. She couldnot believe it to be true; it frightened her, she was frightened by the Ganin who rifled other people’s desks, but she was nevertheless pleased by Podtyagin’s question.
“He’s not in love with you, is he, Klarochka?” he repeated, blowing on his tea and giving her a sidelong glance over his pince-nez.
“He broke it off with Lyudmila yesterday,” Klara said suddenly, feeling that she could reveal the secret to Podtyagin.
“I thought so,” the old man nodded, sipping with relish. “He wouldn’t be looking so radiant for nothing. Away with the old, on with the new. Did you hear what he suggested to me today? He’s coming with me to the police tomorrow.”
“I shall be seeing her this evening,” said Klara reflectively. “Poor girl. She sounded deathly on the telephone.”
Podtyagin sighed. “Ah, youth. That girl will get over it. No harm done. It’s all for the best. As for me, Klarochka, I shall die soon.”
“Good heavens, Anton Sergeyevich! What nonsense!”
“No, it’s not nonsense. I had another attack last night. At one moment my heart was in my mouth, at the next moment it was under the bed.”
“You poor man,” said Klara anxiously. “You should see a doctor.”
Podtyagin smiled. “I was joking. On the contrary, I’ve felt far better lately. And there was no attack. I invented it on the spur of the moment just to see your great eyes open still wider. If we were in Russia, Klarochka, some country doctor or a well-to-do architect would be courting you. Tell me—do you love Russia?”
“Very much.”
“Quite so. We should love Russia. Without the love of us émigrés, Russia is finished. None of the people there love her.”
“I’m already twenty-six,” said Klara, “I type all morning,and five times a week I work until six. I get very tired. I’m quite alone in Berlin. What do you think, Anton Sergeyevich—will it go on like this for long?”
“I don’t know, my dear,” sighed Podtyagin. “I’d tell you if I knew, but I don’t. I worked too, I started up a magazine here. And now I’ve got nothing to show for it. I only hope to God I can get to Paris. Life’s more free and easy there. What do you think—will I get there?”
“Why, of course you will, Anton Sergeyevich. Everything will be arranged tomorrow.”
“Life’s freer—and cheaper, apparently,” said Podtyagin, spooning up an unmelted scrap of sugar and thinking that there was something Russian about that little porous lump, something rather like the melting snow in springtime.
eight
In the sense of routine Ganin’s day became
Kolin and Gornotsvetov exchanged looks and giggled. Silently, sullenly, Ganin rolled a bread-ball. He almost got up and went out, but mastered himself. Raising his head he made himself look at Alfyorov, and having looked, was amazed how Mary could have married that person with the sparse little beard and shiny, plump nose. And the thought that he was sitting beside the man who had caressed Mary, who knew the feel of her lips, her jokes, her laugh, her movements, and who was now waiting for her—the thought was terrible, but with it he also felt a certain thrilling pride as he recalled that it had been to him and not her husband that Mary had first surrendered her profound, unique fragrance.
After lunch he went for a walk, then climbed up onto the top deck of a bus. Down below the streets poured by, little black figures dashed around on the shiny sunlit asphalt, the bus swayed and thundered—and Ganin felt that this alien city passing before him was nothing but a moving picture. As he returned home he saw Podtyagin knocking on Klara’s door and Podtyagin too seemed to him a ghost, something extraneous and irrelevant.
“Our friend is in love with someone again.” Anton Sergeyevich nodded toward the door as he drank tea with Klara. “It’s not you, is it?”
Klara turned away; her ample bust rose and fell. She couldnot believe it to be true; it frightened her, she was frightened by the Ganin who rifled other people’s desks, but she was nevertheless pleased by Podtyagin’s question.
“He’s not in love with you, is he, Klarochka?” he repeated, blowing on his tea and giving her a sidelong glance over his pince-nez.
“He broke it off with Lyudmila yesterday,” Klara said suddenly, feeling that she could reveal the secret to Podtyagin.
“I thought so,” the old man nodded, sipping with relish. “He wouldn’t be looking so radiant for nothing. Away with the old, on with the new. Did you hear what he suggested to me today? He’s coming with me to the police tomorrow.”
“I shall be seeing her this evening,” said Klara reflectively. “Poor girl. She sounded deathly on the telephone.”
Podtyagin sighed. “Ah, youth. That girl will get over it. No harm done. It’s all for the best. As for me, Klarochka, I shall die soon.”
“Good heavens, Anton Sergeyevich! What nonsense!”
“No, it’s not nonsense. I had another attack last night. At one moment my heart was in my mouth, at the next moment it was under the bed.”
“You poor man,” said Klara anxiously. “You should see a doctor.”
Podtyagin smiled. “I was joking. On the contrary, I’ve felt far better lately. And there was no attack. I invented it on the spur of the moment just to see your great eyes open still wider. If we were in Russia, Klarochka, some country doctor or a well-to-do architect would be courting you. Tell me—do you love Russia?”
“Very much.”
“Quite so. We should love Russia. Without the love of us émigrés, Russia is finished. None of the people there love her.”
“I’m already twenty-six,” said Klara, “I type all morning,and five times a week I work until six. I get very tired. I’m quite alone in Berlin. What do you think, Anton Sergeyevich—will it go on like this for long?”
“I don’t know, my dear,” sighed Podtyagin. “I’d tell you if I knew, but I don’t. I worked too, I started up a magazine here. And now I’ve got nothing to show for it. I only hope to God I can get to Paris. Life’s more free and easy there. What do you think—will I get there?”
“Why, of course you will, Anton Sergeyevich. Everything will be arranged tomorrow.”
“Life’s freer—and cheaper, apparently,” said Podtyagin, spooning up an unmelted scrap of sugar and thinking that there was something Russian about that little porous lump, something rather like the melting snow in springtime.
eight
In the sense of routine Ganin’s day became
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