The Russian Masters: Works by Dostoevsky, Chekhov, Tolstoy, Pushkin, Gogol, Turgenev and More. Максим Горький
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Give me the crust. It's so brown.
WIFE
I told you, you'd choke.
MAN
No, it went down. I swallowed it.
WIFE
The milk is running down my chin and neck. Oh, it's tickling me.
MAN.
Lean over. I'll lick it off. We mustn't let a drop go to waste.
WIFE
You're a cunning one.
MAN
There! Quick work. All good things soon come to an end. This bottle seems to have a double bottom. It looks so large. The glass manufacturers are terrible cheats.
[He lights the cigar with the air of a man relaxing into beatific repose. His Wife ties the red ribbon in her hair, looking at herself in the dark pane of the window.
WIFE
Don't you see?
MAN
I see everything. I see your ribbon, and I see, you want me to kiss you on your dear little bare neck.
WIFE.
No, sir, I won't permit that. You've grown too forward of late anyway. You take such liberties. Please go on smoking your cigar and leave my neck—
MAN
What, isn't your neck mine? I'll be jiggered! Why, it's an attack on the sacred rights of property (She runs away; he catches her and kisses her) So, the property rights have been restored. Now, my dear, we'll dance. Imagine that this is a magnificent, a luxurious, a wonderful, a supernatural, ah exquisitely beautiful palace.
WIFE
Very well. I'm imagining it.
MAN
Imagine you're the queen of the ball.
WIFE
All right. It is imagined.
MAN
And that counts, marquises, and dukes come up and ask you to dance. But you refuse. You choose that one—What's his name?—the one in uniform—the prince. What's the matter?
WIFE
I don't like princes.
MAN
Indeed? Then whom do you like?
WIFE
Talented artists.
MAN
Very well. Here's one for you. Why, girl, what are you doing? Are you flirting with the air?
WIFE
I am imagining.
MAN
All right. Imagine a wonderful orchestra. Here is the Turkish drum—boom, boom, boom! (He strikes his fist on the table as on a drum)
WIFE
Why, dear, it's only in the circus that they attract crowds by beating drums, but in a palace—
MAN
Oh, hang it! Stop imagining that, then. Now imagine something else. The violins are playing a melodious plaint; the flutes are singing gently; the double bass drones like a beetle.
[Man sits down, still wearing his oak wreath, and strikes up a dance tune, clapping his hands in accompaniment. The melody is the same as in the next scene at Man's ball. The Wife dances. She is well-formed and graceful.
MAN
Oh, you darling!
WIFE
I am the queen of the ball.
[The song and dance grow ever jollier. Man rises slowly and begins to dance lightly on the spot where he is standing; then he seizes his Wife and dances with her. The oak wreath slips to one side. Someone in Gray looks on indifferently, the candle burning brightly in his petrified hand.
THE THIRD SCENE
A BALL AT MAN'S HOUSE
The ball is in the drawing-room of Man's large mansion. It is a very lofty, spacious, perfectly rectangular room. The floor is bright and smooth. There is a certain irregularity about the room due to the disproportionate size of the parts. Thus, the doors are very small in proportion to the windows. This produces a strange, irritating impression, as of something disharmonious, something lacking, and also of something superfluous and adventitious. The whole is pervaded by a chilly white, the monotony of which is broken only by a row of windows in the rear wall. They are very high, reaching almost to the ceiling, and dense with the blackness of night. Not one gleam, not a bright spot shows in the blank spaces between the window frames. Man's wealth shows in the abundance of gildings. There are gilded chairs, and very wide gold frames enclose the pictures. These constitute the only furniture as well as the only ornamentation. The lighting is from three chandeliers shaped like tings, with a few electric lights placed at a great distance apart. At the ceiling the light is bright, but considerably less so below, so that the walls seem grayish.
The ball is in full swing. The music is furnished by an orchestra of three pieces. The musicians resemble closely their respective instruments; the violinist, a violin—lean neck, small head, a shock of hair brushed to one side, back somewhat bent, a handkerchief correctly adjusted on his shoulder under the violin; the flute-player, a flute—very, tall, with a thin, elongated face, and stiff, thin legs, the bass-violinist, a double-bass—stumpy, round-shouldered, lower part of his body very stout, wide trousers. The uncommon effort with which the musicians play is painfully evident. They beat time, swing their heads, and shake their bodies. The tune is the same throughout the ball, a short polka in two musical phrases, producing a jolly, hopping, extremely insipid effect. The three instruments do not quite keep time with one another, producing a sort of queer detachment, a vacant space, as it were, between them and the sounds which they produce.
Young men and girls are dancing dreamily. All are handsome, distinguished-looking, with good figures. In contrast to the piercing notes of the music, their dancing is smooth, noiseless, light. At the first musical phrase, they circle around; at the second, they gracefully part and join again. There is a slight mannerism in their dancing.
Along the walls, on the gilded chairs, sit the Guests, stiff and constrained. They scarcely venture to move their heads. Their conversation is also constrained. They do not whisper to one another; they do not laugh, and they scarcely look at one another. They speak abruptly, as if chopping out the words