The Stories of Vladimir Nabokov Part 16

Anton Petrovich got up too. What should he do? Thank them?

"Well, thank you, gentlemen.... Thank you, gentlemen.... Everything is settled, then. All right, then."

The others bowed.

"We must still find a doctor and the pistols," said Gnushke.

In the front hall Anton Petrovich took Mityushin by the elbow and mumbled, "You know, it's awfully silly, but you see, I don't know how to shoot, so to speak, I mean, I know how, but I've had no practice at all...."

"Hm," said Mityushin, "that's too bad. Today is Sunday, otherwise you could have taken a lesson or two. That's really bad luck."

"Colonel Arkhangelski gives private shooting lessons," put in Gnushke.

"Yes," said Mityushin. "You're the smart one, aren't you? Still, what are we to do, Anton Petrovich? You know what-beginners are lucky. Put your trust in G.o.d and just press the trigger."

They left. Dusk was falling. n.o.body had lowered the blinds. There must be some cheese and graham bread in the sideboard. The rooms were deserted and motionless, as if all the furniture had once breathed and moved about but had now died. A ferocious cardboard dentist bending over a panic-stricken patient of cardboard-this he had seen such a short time ago, on a blue, green, violet, ruby night, shot with fireworks, at the Luna Amus.e.m.e.nt Park. Berg took a long time aiming, the air rifle popped, the pellet hit the target, releasing a spring, and the cardboard dentist yanked out a huge tooth with a quadruple root. Tanya clapped her hands, Anton Petrovich smiled, Berg fired again, and the cardboard discs rattled as they spun, the clay pipes were shattered one after another, and the Ping-Pong ball dancing on a slender jet of water disappeared. How awful.... And, most awful of all, Tanya had then said jokingly, "It wouldn't be much fun fighting a duel with you." Twenty paces. Anton Petrovich went from door to window, counting the paces. Eleven. He inserted his monocle, and tried to estimate the distance. Two such rooms. Oh, if only he could manage to disable Berg at the first fire. But he did not know how to aim the thing. He was bound to miss. Here, this letter opener, for example. No, better take this paperweight. You are supposed to hold it like this and take aim. Or like this, perhaps, right up near your chin-it seems easier to do it this way. And at this instant, as he held before him the paperweight in the form of a parrot, pointing it this way and that, Anton Petrovich realized that he would be killed.

At about ten he decided to go to bed. The bedroom, though, was taboo. With great effort he found some clean bedclothes in the dresser, recased the pillow, and spread a sheet over the leather couch in the parlor. As he undressed, he thought, I am going to bed for the last time in my life. Nonsense, faintly squeaked some little particle of Anton Petrovich's soul, the same particle that had made him throw the glove, slam the door, and call Berg a scoundrel. "Nonsense!" Anton Petrovich said in a thin voice, and at once told himself it was not right to say such things. If I think that nothing will happen to me, then the worst will happen. Everything in life always happens the other way around. It would be nice to read something-for the last time-before going to sleep.

There I go again, he moaned inwardly. Why "for the last time"? I am in a terrible state. I must take hold of myself. Oh, if only I were given some sign. Cards?

He found a deck of cards on a nearby console and took the top card, a three of diamonds. What does the three of diamonds mean chiromantically? No idea. Then he drew, in that order, the queen of diamonds, the eight of clubs, the ace of spades. Ah! That's bad. The ace of spades-I think that means death. But then that's a lot of nonsense, superst.i.tious nonsense.... Midnight. Five past. Tomorrow has become today. I have a duel today.

He sought peace in vain. Strange things kept happening: the book he was holding, a novel by some German writer or other, was called The Magic Mountain, and "mountain," in German is Berg; he decided that if he counted to three and a streetcar went by at "three" he would be killed, and a streetcar obliged. And then Anton Petrovich did the very worst thing a man in his situation could have done: he decided to reason out what death really meant. When he had thought along these lines for a minute or so, everything lost sense. He found it difficult to breathe. He got up, walked about the room, and took a look out the window at the pure and terrible night sky. Must write my testament, thought Anton Petrovich. But to make a will was, so to speak, playing with fire; it meant inspecting the contents of one's own urn in the columbarium. "Best thing is to get some sleep," he said aloud. But as soon as he closed his eyelids, Berg's grinning face would appear before him, purposively slitting one eye. He would turn on the light again, attempt to read, smoke, though he was not a regular smoker. Trivial memories floated by-a toy pistol, a path in the park, that sort of thing-and he would immediately cut short his recollections with the thought that those who are about to die always remember trifles from their past. Then the opposite thing frightened him: he realized that he was not thinking of Tanya, that he was numbed by a strange drug that made him insensitive to her absence. She was my life and she has gone, he thought. I have already, unconsciously, bid life farewell, and everything is now indifferent to me, since I shall be killed.... The night, meanwhile, was beginning to wane.

At about four he shuffled into the dining room and drank a gla.s.s of soda water. A mirror near which he pa.s.sed reflected his striped pajamas and thinning, wispy hair. I'm going to look like my own ghost, he thought. But how can I get some sleep? How?

He wrapped himself in a lap robe, for he noticed that his teeth were chattering, and sat down in an armchair in the middle of the dim room that was slowly ascertaining itself. How will it all be? I must dress soberly, but elegantly. Tuxedo? No, that would be idiotic. A black suit, then ... and, yes, a black tie. The new black suit. But if there's a wound, a shoulder wound, say ... The suit will be ruined.... The blood, the hole, and, besides, they may start cutting off the sleeve. Nonsense, nothing of the sort is going to happen. I must wear my new black suit. And when the duel starts, I shall turn up my jacket collar-that's the custom, I think, in order to conceal the whiteness of one's shirt, probably, or simply because of the morning damp. That's how they did it in that film I saw. Then I must keep absolutely cool, and address everyone politely and calmly. Thank you, I have already fired. It is your turn now. If you do not remove that cigarette from your mouth I shall not fire. I am ready to continue. "Thank you, I have already laughed"-that's what you say to a stale joke.... Oh, if one could only imagine all the details! They would arrive-he, Mityushin, and Gnushke-in a car, leave the car on the road, walk into the woods. Berg and his seconds would probably be waiting there already, they always do in books. Now, there was a question: does one salute one's opponent? What does Onegin do in the opera? Perhaps a discreet tip of the hat from a distance would be just right. Then they would probably start marking off the yards and loading the pistols. What would he do meanwhile? Yes, of course-he would place one foot on a stump somewhere a little way off, and wait in a casual att.i.tude. But what if Berg also put one foot on a stump? Berg was capable of it.... Mimicking me to embarra.s.s me. That would be awful. Other possibilities would be to lean against a tree trunk, or simply sit down on the gra.s.s. Somebody (in a Pushkin story?) ate cherries from a paper bag. Yes, but you have to bring that bag to the dueling ground-looks silly. Oh, well, he would decide when the time came. Dignified and nonchalant. Then we would take our positions. Twenty yards between us. It would be then that he should turn up his collar. He would grasp the pistol like this. Colonel Angel would wave a handkerchief or count till three. And then, suddenly, something utterly terrible, something absurd would happen-an unimaginable thing, even if one thought about it for nights on end, even if one lived to be a hundred in Turkey.... Nice to travel, sit in cafes.... What does one feel when a bullet hits one between the ribs or in the forehead? Pain? Nausea? Or is there simply a bang followed by total darkness? The tenor Sobinov once crashed down so realistically that his pistol flew into the orchestra. And what if, instead, he received a ghastly wound of some kind-in one eye, or in the groin? No, Berg would kill him outright. Of course, here I've counted only the ones I killed outright. One more cross in that little black book. Unimaginable....

The dining-room clock struck five: ding-dawn. With a tremendous effort, shivering and clutching at the lap robe, Anton Petrovich got up, then paused again, lost in thought, and suddenly stamped his foot, as Louis XVI stamped his when told it was time, Your Majesty, to go to the scaffold. Nothing to be done about it. Stamped his soft clumsy foot. The execution was inevitable. Time to shave, wash, and dress. Scrupulously clean underwear and the new black suit. As he inserted the opal links into his shirt cuffs, Anton Petrovich mused that opals were the stones of fate and that it was only two or three hours before the shirt would be all b.l.o.o.d.y. Where would the hole be? He stroked the shiny hairs that went down his fat warm chest, and felt so frightened that he covered his eyes with his hand. There was something pathetically independent about the way everything within him was moving now-the heart pulsating, the lungs swelling, the blood circulating, the intestines contracting-and he was leading to slaughter this tender, defenseless, inner creature, that lived so blindly, so trustingly.... Slaughter! He grabbed his favorite shirt, undid one b.u.t.ton, and grunted as he plunged headfirst into the cold, white darkness of the linen enveloping him. Socks, tie. He awkwardly shined his shoes with a chamois rag. As he searched for a clean handkerchief he stumbled on a stick of rouge. He glanced into the mirror at his hideously pale face, and then tentatively touched his cheek with the crimson stuff. At first it made him look even worse than before. He licked his finger and rubbed his cheek, regretting that he had never taken a close look at how women apply make-up. A light, brick hue was finally imparted to his cheeks, and he decided it looked all right. "There, I'm ready now," he said, addressing the mirror; then came an agonizing yawn, and the mirror dissolved into tears. He rapidly scented his handkerchief, distributed papers, handkerchief, keys, and fountain pen in various pockets, and slipped into the black noose of his monocle. Pity I don't have a good pair of gloves. The pair I had was nice and new, but the left glove is widowed. The drawback inherent in duels. He sat down at his writing desk, placed his elbows on it, and began waiting, glancing now out of the window, now at the traveling clock in its folding leather case.

It was a beautiful morning. The sparrows twittered like mad in the tall linden tree under the window. A pale-blue, velvet shadow covered the street, and here and there a roof would flash silver. Anton Petrovich was cold and had an unbearable headache. A nip of brandy would be paradise. None in the house. House already deserted; master going away forever. Oh, nonsense. We insist on calmness. The frontdoor bell will ring in a moment. I must keep perfectly calm. The bell is going to ring right now. They are already three minutes late. Maybe they won't come? Such a marvelous summer morning.... Who was the last person killed in a duel in Russia? A Baron Manteuffel, twenty years ago. No, they won't come. Good. He would wait another half-hour, and then go to bed-the bedroom was losing its horror and becoming definitely attractive. Anton Petrovich opened his mouth wide, preparing to squeeze out a huge lump of yawn-he felt the crunch in his ears, the swelling under his palate-and it was then that the doorbell brutally rang. Spasmodically swallowing the unfinished yawn, Anton Petrovich went into the front hall, unlocked the door, and Mityushin and Gnushke ushered each other across the threshold.

"Time to go," said Mityushin, gazing intently at Anton Petrovich. He was wearing his usual pistachio-colored tie, but Gnushke had put on an old frock coat.

"Yes, I am ready," said Anton Petrovich, "I'll be right with you...."

He left them standing in the front hall, rushed into the bedroom, and, in order to gain time, started washing his hands, while he kept repeating to himself, "What is happening? My G.o.d, what is happening?" Just five minutes ago there had still been hope, there might have been an earthquake, Berg might have died of a heart attack, fate might have intervened, suspended events, saved him.

"Anton Petrovich, hurry up," called Mityushin from the front hall. Quickly he dried his hands and joined the others.

"Yes, yes, I'm ready, let's go."

"We'll have to take the train," said Mityushin when they were outside. "Because if we arrive by taxi in the middle of the forest, and at this hour, it might seem suspicious, and the driver might tell the police. Anton Petrovich, please don't start losing your nerve."

"I'm not-don't be silly," replied Anton Petrovich with a helpless smile.

Gnushke, who had remained silent until this point, loudly blew his nose and said matter-of-factly: "Our adversary is bringing the doctor. We were unable to find dueling pistols. However, our colleagues did procure two identical Brownings."

In the taxi that was to take them to the station, they seated themselves thus: Anton Petrovich and Mityushin in back, and Gnushke facing them on the jump seat, with his legs pulled in. Anton Petrovich was again overcome by a nervous fit of yawning. That revengeful yawn he had suppressed. Again and again came that humpy spasm, so that his eyes watered. Mityushin and Gnushke looked very solemn, but at the same time seemed exceedingly pleased with themselves.

Anton Petrovich clenched his teeth and yawned with his nostrils only. Then, abruptly, he said, "I had an excellent night's sleep." He tried to think of something else to say....

"Quite a few people in the streets," he said, and added, "In spite of the early hour." Mityushin and Gnushke were silent. Another fit of yawning. Oh, G.o.d....

They soon arrived at the station. It seemed to Anton Petrovich that he had never traveled so fast. Gnushke bought the tickets and, holding them fanwise, went ahead. Suddenly he looked around at Mityushin and cleared his throat significantly. By the refreshment booth stood Berg. He was getting some change out of his trouser pocket, thrusting his left hand deep inside it, and holding the pocket in place with his right, the way Anglo-Saxons do in cartoons. He procured a coin in the palm of his hand and, as he handed it to the woman vendor, said something that made her laugh. Berg laughed too. He stood with legs slightly spread. He was wearing a gray flannel suit.

"Let's go around that booth," said Mityushin. "It would be awkward pa.s.sing right next to him."

A strange numbness came over Anton Petrovich. Totally unconscious of what he was doing, he boarded the coach, took a window seat, removed his hat, donned it again. Only when the train jerked and began to move did his brain start working again, and in this instant he was possessed by the feeling that comes in dreams when, speeding along in a train from nowhere to nowhere, you suddenly realize that you are traveling clad only in your underpants.

"They are in the next coach," said Mityushin, taking out a cigarette case. "Why on earth do you keep yawning all the time, Anton Petrovich? It gives one the creeps."

"I always do in the morning," mechanically answered Anton Petrovich.

Pine trees, pine trees, pine trees. A sandy slope. More pine trees. Such a marvelous morning....

"That frock coat, Henry, is not a success," said Mityushin. "No question about it-to put it bluntly-it just isn't."

"That is my business," said Gnushke.

Lovely, those pines. And now a gleam of water. Woods again. How touching, the world, how fragile.... If I could only keep from yawning again ... jaws aching. If you restrain the yawn, your eyes begin watering. He was sitting with his face turned toward the window, listening to the wheels beating out the rhythm Abattoir ... abattoir ... abattoir ...

"Here's what I advise you to do," said Gnushke. "Blaze at once. I advise you to aim at the center of his body-you have more of a chance that way."

"It's all a question of luck," said Mityushin. "If you hit him, fine, and if not, don't worry-he might miss too. A duel becomes real only after the first exchange. It is then that the interesting part begins, so to speak."

A station. Did not stop long. Why did they torture him so? To die today would be unthinkable. What if I faint? You have to be a good actor.... What can I try? What shall I do? Such a marvelous morning....

"Anton Petrovich, excuse me for asking," said Mityushin, "but it's important. You don't have anything to entrust to us? I mean, papers, doc.u.ments. A letter, maybe, or a will? It's the usual procedure."

Anton Petrovich shook his head.

"Pity," said Mityushin. "Never know what might happen. Take Henry and me-we're all set for a sojourn in jail. Are your affairs in order?"

Anton Petrovich nodded. He was no longer able to speak. The only way to keep from screaming was to watch the pines that kept flashing past.

"We get off in a minute," said Gnushke, and rose. Mityushin rose also. Clenching his teeth, Anton Petrovich wanted to rise too, but a jolt of the train made him fall back into his seat.

"Here we are," said Mityushin Only then did Anton Petrovich manage to separate himself from the seat. Pressing his monocle into his eye socket, he cautiously descended to the platform. The sun welcomed him warmly.

"They are behind," said Gnushke. Anton Petrovich felt his back growing a hump. No, this is unthinkable, I must wake up.

They left the station and set out along the highway, past tiny brick houses with petunias in the windows. There was a tavern at the intersection of the highway and of a soft, white road leading off into the forest. Suddenly Anton Petrovich stopped.

"I'm awfully thirsty," he muttered. "I could do with a drop of something."

"Yes, wouldn't hurt," said Mityushin. Gnushke looked back and said, "They have left the road and turned into the woods."

"It will only take a minute," said Mityushin.

The three of them entered the tavern. A fat woman was wiping the counter with a rag. She scowled at them and poured three mugs of beer.

Anton Petrovich swallowed, choked slightly, and said, "Excuse me for a second."

"Hurry," said Mityushin, putting his mug back on the bar.

Anton Petrovich turned into the pa.s.sage, followed the arrow to men, mankind, human beings, marched past the toilet, past the kitchen, gave a start when a cat darted under his feet, quickened his step, reached the end of the pa.s.sage, pushed open a door, and a shower of sunlight splashed his face. He found himself in a little green yard, where hens walked about and a boy in a faded bathing suit sat on a log. Anton Petrovich rushed past him, past some elder bushes, down a couple of wooden steps and into more bushes, then suddenly slipped, for the ground sloped. Branches whipped against his face, and he pushed them aside awkwardly, diving and slipping; the slope, overgrown with elder, kept growing steeper. At last his headlong descent became uncontrollable. He slid down on tense, outspread legs, warding off the springy twigs. Then he embraced an unexpected tree at full speed, and began moving obliquely. The bushes thinned out. Ahead was a tall fence. He saw a loophole in it, rustled through the nettles, and found himself in a pine grove, where shadow-dappled laundry hung between the tree trunks near a shack. With the same purposefulness he traversed the grove and presently realized that he was again sliding downhill. Ahead of him water shimmered among the trees. He stumbled, then saw a path to his right. It led him to the lake.

An old fisherman, suntanned, the color of smoked flounder and wearing a straw hat, indicated the way to the Wannsee station. The road at first skirted the lake, then turned into the forest, and he wandered through the woods for about two hours before emerging at the railroad tracks. He trudged to the nearest station, and as he reached it a train approached. He boarded a car and squeezed in between two pa.s.sengers, who glanced with curiosity at this fat, pale, moist man in black, with painted cheeks and dirty shoes, a monocle in his begrimed eye socket. Only upon reaching Berlin did he pause for a moment, or at least he had the sensation that, up to that moment, he had been fleeing continuously and only now had stopped to catch his breath and look around him. He was in a familiar square. Beside him an old flower woman with an enormous woolen bosom was selling carnations. A man in an armorlike coating of newspapers was touting the t.i.tle of a local scandal sheet. A shoeshine man gave Anton Petrovich a fawning look. Anton Petrovich sighed with relief and placed his foot firmly on the stand; whereupon the man's elbows began working lickety-split.

It is all horrible, of course, he thought, as he watched the tip of his shoe begin to gleam. But I am alive, and for the moment that is the main thing. Mityushin and Gnushke had probably traveled back to town and were standing guard before his house, so he would have to wait a while for things to blow over. In no circ.u.mstances must he meet them. Much later he would go to fetch his things. And he must leave Berlin that very night....

"Dobryy den' [Good day], Anton Petrovich," came a gentle voice right above his ear.

He gave such a start that his foot slipped off the stand. No, it was all right-false alarm. The voice belonged to a certain Leontiev, a man he had met three or four times, a journalist or something of the sort. A talkative but harmless fellow. They said his wife deceived him right and left.

"Out for a stroll?" asked Leontiev, giving him a melancholy handshake.

"Yes. No, I have various things to do," replied Anton Petrovich, thinking at the same time, "I hope he proceeds on his way, otherwise it will be quite dreadful."

Leontiev looked around, and said, as if he had made a happy discovery, "Splendid weather!"

Actually he was a pessimist and, like all pessimists, a ridiculously un.o.bservant man. His face was ill-shaven, yellowish and long, and all of him looked clumsy, emaciated, and lugubrious, as if nature had suffered from toothache when creating him.

The shoeshine man jauntily clapped his brushes together. Anton Petrovich looked at his revived shoes.

"Which way are you headed?" asked Leontiev.

"And you?" asked Anton Petrovich.

"Makes no difference to me. I'm free right now. I can keep you company for a while." He cleared his throat and added insinuatingly, "If you allow me, of course."

"Of course, please do," mumbled Anton Petrovich. Now he's attached himself, he thought. Must find some less familiar street, or else more acquaintances will turn up. If I can only avoid meeting those two....

"Well, how is life treating you?" asked Leontiev. He belonged to the breed of people who ask how life is treating you only to give a detailed account of how it is treating them.

"Oh, well, I am all right," Anton Petrovich replied. Of course he'll find out all about it afterwards. Good Lord, what a mess. "I am going this way," he said aloud, and turned sharply. Smiling sadly at his own thoughts, Leontiev almost ran into him and swayed slightly on lanky legs. "This way? All right, it's all the same to me."

What shall I do? thought Anton Petrovich. After all, I can't just keep strolling with him like this. I have to think things over and decide so much.... And I'm awfully tired, and my corns hurt.

As for Leontiev, he had already launched into a long story. He spoke in a level, unhurried voice. He spoke of how much he paid for his room, how hard it was to pay, how hard life was for him and his wife, how rarely one got a good landlady, how insolent theirs was with his wife.

"Adelaida Albertovna, of course, has a quick temper herself," he added with a sigh. He was one of those middle-cla.s.s Russians who use the patronymic when speaking of their spouses.

They were walking along an anonymous street where the pavement was being repaired. One of the workmen had a dragon tattooed on his bare chest. Anton Petrovich wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and said: "I have some business near here. They are waiting for me. A business appointment."

"Oh, I'll walk you there," said Leontiev sadly.

Anton Petrovich surveyed the street. A sign said "HOTEL." A squalid and squat little hotel between a scaffolded building and a warehouse.

"I have to go in here," said Anton Petrovich. "Yes, this hotel. A business appointment."

Leontiev took off his torn glove and gave him a soft handshake. "Know what? I think I'll wait a while for you. Won't be long, will you?"

"Quite long, I'm afraid," said Anton Petrovich.

"Pity. You see, I wanted to talk something over with you, and ask your advice. Well, no matter. I'll wait around for a while, just in case. Maybe you'll get through early."

Anton Petrovich went into the hotel. He had no choice. It was empty and darkish inside. A disheveled person materialized from behind a desk and asked what he wanted.

"A room," Anton Petrovich answered softly.

The man pondered this, scratched his head, and demanded a deposit. Anton Petrovich handed over ten marks. A red-haired maid, rapidly wiggling her behind, led him down a long corridor and unlocked a door. He entered, heaved a deep sigh, and sat down in a low armchair of ribbed velvet. He was alone. The furniture, the bed, the wash-stand seemed to awake, to give him a frowning look, and go back to sleep. In this drowsy, totally unremarkable hotel room, Anton Petrovich was at last alone.

Hunching over, covering his eyes with his hand, he lapsed into thought, and before him bright, speckled images pa.s.sed by, patches of sunny greenery, a boy on a log, a fisherman, Leontiev, Berg, Tanya. And, at the thought of Tanya, he moaned and hunched over even more tensely. Her voice, her dear voice. So light, so girlish, quick of eye and limb, she would perch on the sofa, tuck her legs under her, and her skirt would float up around her like a silk dome and then drop back. Or else, she would sit at the table, quite motionless, only blinking now and then, and blowing out cigarette smoke with her face upturned. It's senseless.... Why did you cheat? For you did cheat. What shall I do without you? Tanya!... Don't you see-you cheated. My darling-why? Why?

Emitting little moans and cracking his finger joints, he began pacing up and down the room, b.u.mping against the furniture without noticing it. He happened to stop by the window and glance out into the street. At first he could not see the street because of the mist in his eyes, but presently the street appeared, with a truck at the curb, a bicyclist, an old lady gingerly stepping off the sidewalk. And along the sidewalk slowly strolled Leontiev, reading a newspaper as he went; he pa.s.sed and turned the corner. And, for some reason, at the sight of Leontiev, Anton Petrovich realized just how hopeless his situation was-yes, hopeless, for there was no other word for it. Only yesterday he had been a perfectly honorable man, respected by friends, acquaintances, and fellow workers at the bank. His job! There was not even any question of it. Everything was different now: he had run down a slippery slope, and now he was at the bottom.

"But how can it be? I must decide to do something," Anton Petrovich said in a thin voice. Perhaps there was a way out? They had tormented him for a while, but enough was enough. Yes, he had to decide. He remembered the suspicious gaze of the man at the desk. What should one say to that person? Oh, obviously: "I'm going to fetch my luggage-I left it at the station." So. Good-bye forever, little hotel! The street, thank G.o.d, was now clear: Leontiev had finally given up and left. How do I get to the nearest streetcar stop? Oh, just go straight, my dear sir, and you will reach the nearest streetcar stop. No, better take a taxi. Off we go. The streets grow familiar again. Calmly, quite calmly. Tip the taxi driver. Home! Five floors. Calmly, quite calmly he went into the front hall. Then quickly opened the parlor door. My, what a surprise!

In the parlor, around the circular table, sat Mityushin, Gnushke, and Tanya. On the table stood bottles, gla.s.ses, and cups. Mityushin beamed-pink-faced, shiny-eyed, drunk as an owl. Gnushke was drunk too, and also beamed, rubbing his hands together. Tanya was sitting with her bare elbows on the table, gazing at him motionlessly....

"At last!" exclaimed Mityushin, and took him by the arm. "At last you've shown up!" He added in a whisper, with a mischievous wink, "You sly-boots, you!"

Anton Petrovich now sits down and has some vodka. Mityushin and Gnushke keep giving him the same mischievous but good-natured looks. Tanya says: "You must be hungry. I'll get you a sandwich."

Yes, a big ham sandwich, with the edge of fat overlapping. She goes to make it and then Mityushin and Gnushke rush to him and begin to talk, interrupting each other.

"You lucky fellow! Just imagine-Mr. Berg also lost his nerve. Well, not 'also,' but lost his nerve anyhow. While we were waiting for you at the tavern, his seconds came in and announced that Berg had changed his mind. Those broad-shouldered bullies always turn out to be cowards. 'Gentlemen, we ask you to excuse us for having agreed to act as seconds for this scoundrel.' That's how lucky you are, Anton Petrovich! So everything is now just dandy. And you came out of it honorably, while he is disgraced forever. And, most important, your wife, when she heard about it, immediately left Berg and returned to you. And you must forgive her."

Anton Petrovich smiled broadly, got up, and started fiddling with the ribbon of his monocle. His smile slowly faded away. Such things don't happen in real life.

He looked at the moth-eaten plush, the plump bed, the washstand, and this wretched room in this wretched hotel seemed to him to be the room in which he would have to live from that day on. He sat down on the bed, took off his shoes, wiggled his toes with relief, and noticed that there was a blister on his heel, and a corresponding hole in his sock. Then he rang the bell and ordered a ham sandwich. When the maid placed the plate on the table, he deliberately looked away, but as soon as the door had shut, he grabbed the sandwich with both hands, immediately soiled his fingers and chin with the hanging margin of fat, and, grunting greedily, began to munch.

THE CHRISTMAS STORY.

SILENCE fell. Pitilessly illuminated by the lamplight, young and plump-faced, wearing a side-b.u.t.toned Russian blouse under his black jacket, his eyes tensely downcast, Anton Goliy began gathering the ma.n.u.script pages that he had discarded helter-skelter during his reading. His mentor, the critic from Red Reality, stared at the floor as he patted his pockets in search of some matches. The writer Novodvortsev was silent too, but his was a different, venerable, silence. Wearing a substantial pince-nez, exceptionally large of forehead, two strands of his spa.r.s.e dark hair pulled across his bald pate, gray streaks on his close-cropped temples, he sat with closed eyes is if he were still listening, his heavy legs crossed and one hand compressed between a kneecap and a hamstring. This was not the first time he had been subjected to such glum, earnest rustic fictionists. And not the first time he had detected, in their immature narratives, echoes-not yet noted by the critics-of his own twenty-five years of writing; for Goliy's story was a clumsy rehash of one of his subjects, that of "The Verge," a novella he had excitedly and hopefully composed, whose publication the previous year had done nothing to enhance his secure but pallid reputation.

The critic lit a cigarette. Goliy, without raising his eyes, was stuffing his ma.n.u.script into his briefcase. But their host kept his silence, not because he did not know how to evaluate the story, but because he was waiting, meekly and drearily, in the hope that the critic might perhaps say the words that he, Novodvortsev, was embarra.s.sed to p.r.o.nounce: that the subject was Novodvortsev's, that it was Novodvortsev who had inspired the image of that taciturn fellow, selflessly devoted to his laborer grandfather, who, not by dint of education, but rather through some serene, internal power wins a psychological victory over the spiteful intellectual. But the critic, hunched on the edge of the leather couch like a large, melancholy bird, remained hopelessly silent.