with blue feet. Why are your feet blue? I ask. My stockings ran, she says. And you keep grinding away! Lucky man, you’ve got patience.”
“Medicine’s that sort of thing, you have to grind away at it.”
“Hm … I beg your pardon, Klochkov, but you live like an awful swine. Devil knows how you can live this way!”
“How do you mean? I can’t live any other way … I get only twelve roubles a month from the old man, and it’s a real trick to live decently on that.”
“So it is …” said the artist, wincing squeamishly, “but all the same you could live better … A developed man absolutely must be an aesthete. Isn’t that true? And here you’ve got devil knows what! The bed isn’t made, there’s swill, litter … yesterday’s kasha on a plate … pah!”
“That’s true,” said the medical student, and he became embarrassed, “but Anyuta didn’t manage to tidy up today. She’s busy all the time.”
When the artist and Anyuta left, Klochkov lay down on the sofa and began to study lying down, then accidentally fell asleep, woke up an hour later, propped his head on his fists and pondered gloomily. He remembered the artist’s words, that a developed man absolutely must be an aesthete, and his room indeed seemeddisgusting, repulsive to him now. It was as if he foresaw the future with his mental eye, when he would receive patients in his office, have tea in a spacious dining room in company with his wife, a respectable woman—and now this basin of swill with cigarette butts floating in it lookedunbelievably vile. Anyuta, too, seemed homely, slovenly, pitiful … And he decided to separate from her, at once, whatever the cost.
When she came back from the artist’s and began taking off her coat, he stood up and said to her seriously:
“The thing is this, my dear … Sit down and listen to me. We have to separate! In short, I don’t wish to live with you anymore.”
Anyuta had come back from the artist’s so tired, so worn out. She had posed for so long that her face had become pinched, thin, and her chin had grown sharper. She said nothing in reply to the medical student’s words, only her lips began to tremble.
“You must agree that we’ll have to separate sooner or later anyway,” said the medical student. “You’re good, kind, and not stupid—you’ll understand …”
Anyuta put her coat back on, silently wrapped her embroidery in paper, gathered up her needles and thread; she found the little packet with four pieces of sugar in it on the windowsill and put it on the table near the books.
“It’s yours … some sugar …” she said softly and turned away to hide her tears.
“Well, what are you crying for?” asked Klochkov.
He walked across the room in embarrassment and said:
“You’re strange, really … You know yourself that we have to separate. We can’t be together forever.”
She had already picked up all her bundles and turned to him to say good-bye, but he felt sorry for her.
“Why not let her stay another week?” he thought. “Yes, indeed, let her stay, and in a week I’ll tell her to leave.”
And, annoyed at his own lack of character, he shouted at her sternly:
“Well, why are you standing there! If you’re going, go, and if you don’t want to, take your coat off and stay! Stay!”
Silently, quietly, Anyuta took off her coat, then blew her nose, also quietly, gave a sigh, and noiselessly went to her permanent post—the stool by the window.
The student drew the textbook towards him and again began pacing up and down.
“The right lung consists of three sections …” he ground away. “The upper section reaches the fourth or fifth rib on the front wall of the chest …”
And someone in the corridor shouted at the top of his voice:
“Gr-r-rigory, the samovar!”
F EBRUARY 1886
E ASTER N IGHT
I was standing on the bank of the Goltva and waiting for the ferry from the other side. Ordinarily the Goltva is a middling sort of stream, silent
“Medicine’s that sort of thing, you have to grind away at it.”
“Hm … I beg your pardon, Klochkov, but you live like an awful swine. Devil knows how you can live this way!”
“How do you mean? I can’t live any other way … I get only twelve roubles a month from the old man, and it’s a real trick to live decently on that.”
“So it is …” said the artist, wincing squeamishly, “but all the same you could live better … A developed man absolutely must be an aesthete. Isn’t that true? And here you’ve got devil knows what! The bed isn’t made, there’s swill, litter … yesterday’s kasha on a plate … pah!”
“That’s true,” said the medical student, and he became embarrassed, “but Anyuta didn’t manage to tidy up today. She’s busy all the time.”
When the artist and Anyuta left, Klochkov lay down on the sofa and began to study lying down, then accidentally fell asleep, woke up an hour later, propped his head on his fists and pondered gloomily. He remembered the artist’s words, that a developed man absolutely must be an aesthete, and his room indeed seemeddisgusting, repulsive to him now. It was as if he foresaw the future with his mental eye, when he would receive patients in his office, have tea in a spacious dining room in company with his wife, a respectable woman—and now this basin of swill with cigarette butts floating in it lookedunbelievably vile. Anyuta, too, seemed homely, slovenly, pitiful … And he decided to separate from her, at once, whatever the cost.
When she came back from the artist’s and began taking off her coat, he stood up and said to her seriously:
“The thing is this, my dear … Sit down and listen to me. We have to separate! In short, I don’t wish to live with you anymore.”
Anyuta had come back from the artist’s so tired, so worn out. She had posed for so long that her face had become pinched, thin, and her chin had grown sharper. She said nothing in reply to the medical student’s words, only her lips began to tremble.
“You must agree that we’ll have to separate sooner or later anyway,” said the medical student. “You’re good, kind, and not stupid—you’ll understand …”
Anyuta put her coat back on, silently wrapped her embroidery in paper, gathered up her needles and thread; she found the little packet with four pieces of sugar in it on the windowsill and put it on the table near the books.
“It’s yours … some sugar …” she said softly and turned away to hide her tears.
“Well, what are you crying for?” asked Klochkov.
He walked across the room in embarrassment and said:
“You’re strange, really … You know yourself that we have to separate. We can’t be together forever.”
She had already picked up all her bundles and turned to him to say good-bye, but he felt sorry for her.
“Why not let her stay another week?” he thought. “Yes, indeed, let her stay, and in a week I’ll tell her to leave.”
And, annoyed at his own lack of character, he shouted at her sternly:
“Well, why are you standing there! If you’re going, go, and if you don’t want to, take your coat off and stay! Stay!”
Silently, quietly, Anyuta took off her coat, then blew her nose, also quietly, gave a sigh, and noiselessly went to her permanent post—the stool by the window.
The student drew the textbook towards him and again began pacing up and down.
“The right lung consists of three sections …” he ground away. “The upper section reaches the fourth or fifth rib on the front wall of the chest …”
And someone in the corridor shouted at the top of his voice:
“Gr-r-rigory, the samovar!”
F EBRUARY 1886
E ASTER N IGHT
I was standing on the bank of the Goltva and waiting for the ferry from the other side. Ordinarily the Goltva is a middling sort of stream, silent
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