Forty Stories - Anton Chekhov [155]
“Yes, she’s very nice,” Sasha agreed. “In her own way, of course. She’s good and kind, but somehow … How shall I put it? Early this morning I went down to your kitchen. I saw four maidservants sleeping right there on the floor, no beds, just a few rags for bedclothes, stench, bedbugs, cockroaches.… It was like that twenty years ago, and since then there’s been no change at all. It’s no use blaming your grandmother, God bless her soul, but your mother speaks French and acts in amateur theatricals.… You’d think she’d understand about these things.”
While Sasha talked, he held out two long bony fingers in front of Nadya’s face.
“Everything here looks strange to me,” he went on. “Maybe it’s because I’m not used to it. God in heaven, no one ever does anything! Your mother does nothing all day but walk about like a duchess, your grandmother does nothing either, and you’re the same. And your fiancé, Andrey Andreyich, does nothing either!”
Nadya had heard all this the year before, and she thought she had heard it the year before that: she knew that was how Sasha’s mind worked. Once these speeches had amused her, but now for some reason they irritated her.
“It’s old stuff,” she said, and got up. “I wish you’d say something new.”
He laughed and got up too, and they walked together to the house. She was tall, beautiful, well formed, and looked almost offensively healthy and stylishly dressed beside him; she was even conscious of this herself, and felt sorry for him, and strangely awkward.
“You talk a lot of nonsense!” she said. “Look what you just said about my Andrey—you really don’t know him at all!”
“My Andrey!… Never mind your Andrey!… It’s your youth I’m sorry for!”
When they reached the dining room, everyone was already at supper. The grandmother—“Granny” to everyone in the house—was a very corpulent, plain old lady with thick eyebrows and a tiny mustache, who talked in a loud voice: from her voice and manner of speaking it was obvious that she was the most important woman in the household. She owned a row of stalls in the market place, the old house with its pillars and garden was hers, and every morning she prayed tearfully to God to spare her from ruin. Her daughter-in-law, Nadya’s mother, Nina Ivanovna, was a tightly corseted blonde who wore pince-nez and rings on all her fingers. Father Andrey was a lean toothless old man who wore an expression which suggested that he was always about to say something amusing, and his son Andrey Andreyich, Nadya’s fiancé, was a plump handsome creature with curly hair, who resembled an actor or a painter. They were all talking about hypnotism.
“You’ll be well again in a week here,” Granny said, turning to Sasha. “Only you must eat more. Just look at you,” she sighed. “You look dreadful! Why, you look like the Prodigal Son, and that’s the truth!”
“He wasted his substance in riotous living,” Father Andrey said slowly, his eyes lighting up with amusement. “And it was his curse to feed with the unmitigated swine!”
“I admire my old man,” Andrey Andreyich said, patting his father’s shoulder. “He’s really a splendid old fellow. Very decent.”
They were silent for a while. Sasha suddenly burst out laughing, and covered his mouth with his napkin.
“So you believe in hypnotism?” Father Andrey asked Nina Ivanovna.
“No, I can’t exactly say I believe in it,” Nina Ivanovna replied, assuming a very grave, almost harsh expression. “Still, I must admit there is a good deal that remains mysterious and incomprehensible in nature.”
“I am entirely of your opinion, though I would add that for us faith decidedly narrows the sphere of the mysterious.”
A huge, immensely fat turkey was being served. Father Andrey and Nina Ivanovna continued their conversation. The diamonds on Nina Ivanovna’s fingers sparkled, but soon tears came to gleam in her eyes, and she was overcome with emotion.
“Yes, yes,” she said. “I wouldn’t dream of arguing with you, but you must agree that there are many insoluble riddles to life!”
“Well, I don’t know one insoluble riddle!