LITMIR.BIZ

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thirty pieces of silver, may the Lord punish me! Mihail Ivanitch, little sucking pig, where is your mother? Lost! Gone! Sold into slavery! Well, I am a scoundrel.”

      These tears and these words turned Groholsky’s soul inside out. He would look timidly at Liza’s pale face and wring his hands.

      “Go to bed, Ivan Petrovitch,” he would say timidly.

      “I am going…. Come along, Mishutka…. The Lord be our judge! I cannot think of sleep while I know that my wife is a slave…. But it is not Groholsky’s fault…. The goods were mine, the money his…. Freedom for the free and Heaven for the saved.”

      By day Ivan Petrovitch was no less insufferable to Groholsky. To Groholsky’s intense horror, he was always at Liza’s side. He went fishing with her, told her stories, walked with her, and even on one occasion, taking advantage of Groholsky’s having a cold, carried her off in his carriage, goodness knows where, and did not bring her back till night!

      “It’s outrageous, inhuman,” thought Groholsky, biting his lips.

      Groholsky liked to be continually kissing Liza. He could not exist without those honeyed kisses, and it was awkward to kiss her before Ivan Petrovitch. It was agony. The poor fellow felt forlorn, but fate soon had compassion on him. Ivan Petrovitch suddenly went off somewhere for a whole week. Visitors had come and carried him off with them… And Mishutka was taken too.

      One fine morning Groholsky came home from a walk good-humoured and beaming.

      “He has come,” he said to Liza, rubbing his hands. “I am very glad he has come. Ha-ha-ha!”

      “What are you laughing at?”

      “There are women with him.”

      “What women?”

      “I don’t know…. It’s a good thing he has got women…. A capital thing, in fact…. He is still young and fresh. Come here! Look!”

      Groholsky led Liza on to the verandah, and pointed to the villa opposite. They both held their sides, and roared with laughter. It was funny. Ivan Petrovitch was standing on the verandah of the villa opposite, smiling. Two dark-haired ladies and Mishutka were standing below, under the verandah. The ladies were laughing, and loudly talking French.

      “French women,” observed Groholsky. “The one nearest us isn’t at all bad-looking. Lively damsels, but that’s no matter. There are good women to be found even among such…. But they really do go too far.”

      What was funny was that Ivan Petrovitch bent across the verandah, and stretching with his long arms, put them round the shoulders of one of the French girls, lifted her in the air, and set her giggling on the verandah. After lifting up both ladies on to the verandah, he lifted up Mishutka too. The ladies ran down and the proceedings were repeated.

      “Powerful muscles, I must say,” muttered Groholsky looking at this scene. The operation was repeated some six times, the ladies were so amiable as to show no embarrassment whatever when the boisterous wind disposed of their inflated skirts as it willed while they were being lifted. Groholsky dropped his eyes in a shamefaced way when the ladies flung their legs over the parapet as they reached the verandah. But Liza watched and laughed! What did she care? It was not a case of men misbehaving themselves, which would have put her, as a woman, to shame, but of ladies.

      In the evening, Ivan Petrovitch flew over, and with some embarrassment announced that he was now a man with a household to look after….

      “You mustn’t imagine they are just anybody,” he said. “It is true they are French. They shout at the top of their voices, and drink… but we all know! The French are brought up to be like that! It can’t be helped…. The prince,” Ivan Petrovitch added, “let me have them almost for nothing…. He said: ‘take them, take them… .’ I must introduce you to the prince sometime. A man of culture! He’s for ever writing, writing…. And do you know what their names are? One is Fanny, the other Isabella…. There’s Europe, ha-ha-ha!… The west! Goodbye!”

      Ivan Petrovitch left Liza and Groholsky in peace, and devoted himself to his ladies. All day long sound of talk, laughter, and the clatter of crockery came from his villa…. The lights were not put out till far into the night…. Groholsky was in bliss…. At last, after a prolonged interval of agony, he felt happy and at peace again. Ivan Petrovitch with his two ladies had no such happiness as he had with one. But alas, destiny has no heart. She plays with the Groholskys, the Lizas, the Ivans, and the Mishutkas as with pawns…. Groholsky lost his peace again….

      One morning, about ten days afterwards, on waking up late, he went out on to the verandah and saw a spectacle which shocked him, revolted him, and moved him to intense indignation. Under the verandah of the villa opposite stood the French women, and between them Liza. She was talking and looking askance at her own villa as though to see whether that tyrant, that despot were awake (so Groholsky interpreted those looks). Ivan Petrovitch standing on the verandah with his sleeves tucked up, lifted Isabella into the air, then Fanny, and then Liza. When he was lifting Liza it seemed to Groholsky that he pressed her to himself…. Liza too flung one leg over the parapet…. Oh these women! All sphinxes, every one of them!

      When Liza returned home from her husband’s villa and went into the bedroom on tip-toe, as though nothing had happened, Groholsky, pale, with hectic flushes on his cheeks, was lying in the attitude of a man at his last gasp and moaning.

      On seeing Liza, he sprang out of bed, and began pacing about the bedroom.

      “So that’s what you are like, is it?” he shrieked in a high tenor. “So that’s it! Very much obliged to you! It’s revolting, madam! Immoral, in fact! Let me tell you that!”

      Liza turned pale, and of course burst into tears. When women feel that they are in the right, they scold and shed tears; when they are conscious of being in fault, they shed tears only.

      “On a level with those depraved creatures! It’s… it’s… it’s… lower than any impropriety! Why, do you know what they are? They are kept women! Cocottes! And you a respectable woman go rushing off where they are… And he… He! What does he want? What more does he want of me? I don’t understand it! I have given him half of my property — I have given him more! You know it yourself! I have given him what I have not myself…. I have given him almost all…. And he! I’ve put up with your calling him Vanya, though he has no right whatever to such intimacy. I have put up with your walks, kisses after dinner…. I have put up with everything, but this I will not put up with…. Either he or I! Let him go away, or I go away! I’m not equal to living like this any longer, no! You can see that for yourself!… Either he or I…. Enough! The cup is brimming over…. I have suffered a great deal as it is…. I am going to talk to him at once — this minute! What is he, after all? What has he to be proud of? No, indeed…. He has no reason to think so much of himself…. “

      Groholsky said a great many more valiant and stinging things, but did not “go at once”; he felt timid and abashed…. He went to Ivan Petrovitch three days later.

      When he went into his apartment, he gaped with astonishment. He was amazed at the wealth and luxury with which Bugrov had surrounded himself. Velvet hangings, fearfully expensive chairs…. One was positively ashamed to step on the carpet. Groholsky had seen many rich men in his day, but he had never seen such frenzied luxury…. And the higgledy-piggledy muddle he saw when, with an inexplicable tremor, he walked into the drawing-room — plates with bits of bread on them were lying about on the grand piano, a glass was standing on a chair, under the table there was a basket with a filthy rag in it…. Nut shells were strewn about in the windows. Bugrov himself was not quite in his usual trim when Groholsky walked in…. With a red face and uncombed locks he was pacing about the room in deshabille, talking to himself, apparently much agitated. Mishutka was sitting on the sofa there in the drawing-room, and was making the air vibrate with a piercing scream.

      “It’s awful, Grigory Vassilyevitch!” Bugrov began on seeing Groholsky, “such disorder… such disorder… Please sit down. You must excuse

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