V

Unexpectedly, the evening was calm and warm, and the candles on the terrace and in the dining-room burned with a steady flame. At dinner Prince Vasily Lvovich amused the company. He had an extraordinary and very peculiar gift for telling stories. He would take some incident that had happened to one of the company or a common acquaintance, but would embellish it so, and use so matter-of-fact a tone, that his listeners would split their sides with laughter. That night he was telling the story of Nikolai Nikolayevich’s unhappy wooing of a wealthy and beautiful lady. The only authentic detail was the husband’s refusal to give her a divorce. But the prince skilfully combined fact and fancy. He made the grave, rather priggish Nikolai run down the street in his stocking-feet at the dead of night, his boots under his arm. At a corner the young man was stopped by the policeman, and it was only after a long and stormy explanation that Nikolai managed to convince him that he was an assistant public prosecutor and not a burglar. The wedding all hut came off, or so the narrator said, except that at the crucial moment a band of false witnesses, who had a hand in the affair, suddenly went on strike, demanding a rise. Being a stingy man – which he actually was, to some extent – and also being opposed on principle to all forms of strike, Nikolai flatly refused to pay more, referring to a certain clause in the law, which was confirmed by a ruling of the court of appeal. Then, in reply to the customary question, “Does anyone here present know of any impediment to the lawful joining together of these two in matrimony?” the enraged perjurers said as one man, “Yes, we do. All that we have testified under oath in court is a falsehood to which the prosecutor here forced us by intimidation and coercion. As for this lady’s husband, we can only say from personal knowledge that he is the most respectable man in the world, chaste as Joseph and kind as an angel.”

Having begun to tell wedding stories, Prince Vasily did not spare even Gustav Ivanovich Friesse, Anna’s husband, who, he said, had on the day following his wedding called the police to evict the young bride from her parents’ house because she had no passport of her own and to install her in her lawful husband’s home. The only part of the tale which was true was the fact that, in the very first days of her married life, Anna had had to be continually with her sick mother because Vera had gone off south, and poor Gustav Ivanovich was plunged in despair.

Everybody laughed. Anna smiled with her narrowed eyes. Gustav Ivanovich guffawed in delight, and his gaunt face with the tight, shining skin, the thin, light hair sleeked carefully down and the deep-set eyes, was like a skull mirthfully baring a set of very bad teeth. He still adored Anna as on the first day of their married life; he was always trying to sit beside her, and touch her surreptitiously, and he danced attendance on her with such smug infatuation that you often pitied him and felt embarrassed for him.

Before rising from the table Vera Nikolayevna mechanically counted the guests. There were thirteen of them. She was superstitious and she said to herself, “What a nuisance! Why didn’t I think of counting them before? And Vasya’s to blame too – he told me nothing on the telephone.”

When friends gathered at Sheyin’s or Friesse’s they usually played poker after dinner, because both sisters were ridiculously fond of games of chance. In fact, certain rules had been established in both houses: all the players would be given an equal number of ivory tokens of a specific value, and the game would go on until all the tokens passed to one of the players; then it would be stopped for the evening, no matter how earnestly the others insisted on continuing it. It was strictly forbidden to take fresh tokens from the cash-box. Experience had shown that these rigid rules were indispensable to check Vera and Anna, who would grow so excited in the course of the game that there was no stopping them. The total loss seldom exceeded two hundred rubles.

This time, too, they sat down to poker. Vera, who was not playing, was about to go out on to the terrace, where the table was being set for tea, when the housemaid, looking rather mysterious, suddenly called her from the drawing-room.

“What is it, Dasha?” asked Princess Vera in annoyance, passing into her little study next to the bedroom. “Why are you staring at me so stupidly? And what are you holding there?”

Dasha put en the table a small square object, neatly wrapped in white paper and tied by a pink ribbon.

“It isn’t my fault, Your Highness, honest to God,” she stammered, blushing offendedly. “He came in and said – ”

“Who is he?”

“A messenger boy, Your Highness.”

“Well?”

“He came into the kitchen and put this on the table. ‘Give it to your mistress,’ he said. ‘Only,’ he says, ‘be sure to hand it to her personally. “Who’s it from?’ I asked. ‘It’s written here,’ he said. And then he ran away.”

“Go and bring him back.”

“Oh, but I couldn’t do that, Your Highness. He came when you were in the middle of dinner, so I didn’t dare to disturb you. It must have been half an hour ago.”

“All right, you may go.”

She cut the ribbon with scissors and threw it into the waste-basket along with the paper bearing her address. Under the wrapping she found a small jeweller’s box of red plush, apparently fresh from the shop. She raised the lid, which was lined with light-blue silk, and saw, stuck into the black velvet, an oval gold bracelet, and inside it a note carefully folded into a neat octagon. Quickly she unfolded the paper. She thought she knew the handwriting, but, woman that she was, she put aside the note to take a look at the bracelet.

It was of low-standard gold, very thick but hollow and studded on the outside with small, poorly polished old garnets. But in the centre there arose, surrounding a strange small green stone, five excellent cabochon garnets, each the size of a pea. As Vera happened to turn the bracelet at a lucky angle under the electric light, beautiful crimson lights flashed suddenly, deep under the smooth egg-shaped surface of the stones.

“It’s like blood!” Vera thought with apprehension.

Then she recalled the letter. It was written in an elegant hand and ran as follows:

“Your Highness, Princess Vera Nikolayevna, “Respectfully congratulating you on your bright and happy birthday, I take the liberty of sending to you my humble offering.”

“Oh, so that’s who it is,” Vera said to herself resentfully. But she read the letter to the end.

“I should never have dared to offer you a present of my own choice, for I have neither the right, nor the refined taste, nor, to be frank, the money to do so. Moreover, I believe there is no treasure on earth worthy of adorning you.

“But this bracelet belonged to my great-grandmother, and my late mother was the last to wear it. In the middle, among the bigger stones, you will see a green one. It is a very rare stone – a green garnet. We have an old family tradition that this stone enables the women who wear it to foresee the future, and keeps off unhappy thoughts, and protects men from violent death.

“All the stones have been carefully transferred from the old, silver bracelet, and you may rest assured that no one has worn this bracelet before you.

“You may at once throw away this absurd trinket, or present it to someone else; I shall be happy to know that your hands have touched it.

“I beseech you not to be angry with me. I blush to remember my audacity of seven years ago, when I dared write to you, a young lady, stupid and wild letters, and even had the assurance to expect an answer to them. Today I have nothing for you but awe, everlasting admiration and the humble devotion of a slave. All that I can do now is to wish you perpetual happiness and to rejoice if you are happy. In my mind I bow deeply to the, chair on which you sit, the floor you tread, the trees which you touch in passing, the servants to whom you speak. I no longer presume to envy those people or things.

“Once again I beg your pardon for having bothered you with a long, useless letter.

“Your humble servant till death and after,

“G.S.Z.”

“Shall I show it to Vasya or not? If so, when? Now or after the guests have left? No, I’d better do it later – now I’d look as silly as this poor man.”

While debating thus with herself Princess Vera could not take her eyes off the five blood-red lights glowing inside the five garnets.

VI

It was only with great difficulty that Colonel Ponamaryov was induced to play poker. He said that he knew nothing about the game, that he did not gamble even for fun and that the only game he cared for and had any skill in was vint. But in the end he gave in.

At first they had to teach and prompt him, but soon he had mastered the rules of the game, and within half an hour he had all the chips piled in front of him.

“That isn’t fair!” said Anna in mock reproach. “You might have allowed us a little more of the excitement.”

Vera did not know how to entertain three of the guests – Speshnikov, the colonel and the vice-governor, a doltish, respectable and dull German. She got up a game of vint for them and invited Gustav Ivanovich to make a fourth. Anna thanked her by lowering her eyelids, and her sister at once understood. Everybody knew that unless Gustav Ivanovich was disposed of by suggesting a game of cards he would hang about his wife all evening, baring the rotten teeth in his skull-face and making a perfect nuisance of himself.

Now things went smoothly, in an easy and lively atmosphere. Vasyuchok, accompanied by Jennie Reiter, sang in an undertone Italian folk canzonets and Oriental songs by Rubinstein. He had a light but pleasant voice, responsive and true. Jennie Reiter, a very exacting musician, was always willing to accompany him; but then it was said that he was courting her.

Sitting on a couch in a corner, Anna was flirting audaciously with the Hussar. Vera walked over and listened with a smile.

“Oh, please don’t laugh,” said Anna gaily, narrowing her lovely, mischievous Tatar eyes at the officer. “Of course, you think it’s a feat to gallop at the head of a squadron, or to clear hurdles at races. But look at our feats. We’ve just finished a lottery. Do you think that’s easy? Fie! The place was so crowded and full of tobacco smoke, there were porters and cabbies and God knows who else, and they all pestered me with complaints and grievances. I didn’t have a moment’s rest all day. And that isn’t all, either, for now there’s to be a concert in aid of needy gentlewomen, and then comes a charity ball – ”

“At which you will not refuse me a mazurka, I hope?” Bakhtinsky put in and, bending slightly forward, clicked his heels under the arm-chair.

“Thank you. But the saddest case is our children’s home. You know what I mean – a home for vicious children.”

“Oh, I see. That must be very amusing.”

“Don’t, you should be ashamed of laughing at things like that. But do you know what the trouble is? We’d like to give shelter to those unfortunate children, whose souls are corrupted by inherited vice and bad example, we’d like to give them warmth and comfort – ”

“Humph!”

“ – to improve their morality, land instil in them a sense of duty. Do you see my point? And every day hundreds and thousands of children are brought to us, but there isn’t a single vicious child among them! If you ask the parents whether their child is vicious they take offence – can you imagine that? And so the home has been opened and dedicated, everything is ready and waiting, but it hasn’t a single inmate! We’re almost at the stage of offering a prize for every vicious child brought in.”

“Anna Nikolayevna,” the Hussar interrupted her, with insinuating earnestness. “Why offer a prize? Take me free. Upon my honour, you couldn’t find a more vicious child than I am.”

“Stop it! It’s impossible to talk to you seriously.” She burst out laughing, and sat back on the couch, her eyes shining.

Seated at a large round table, Prince Vasily was showing his sister, Anosov and his brother-in-law a family album of cartoons drawn by himself. All four were laughing heartily, and gradually those other guests who were not playing cards gathered round them.

The album was a sort of supplement to Prince Vasily’s satirical stories – a collection of illustrations. With imperturbable calm he showed “The Story of the Amorous Adventures of the Brave General Anosov in Turkey, Bulgaria and Elsewhere,” “An Adventure of Prince Nicole Boulate-TouganofskI the Coxcomb in Monte Carlo,” and so on.

“I’ll now acquaint you, ladies and gentlemen, with a brief biography of my beloved sister, Lyudmila Lvovna,” he said, with a swift teasing glance at his sister. “Part One. Childhood. The child was growing. Her name was Lima.”

The album leaf displayed the figure of a little girl, purposely drawn in childish style, her face set in profile and yet showing both eyes; two broken lines sticking out from under her skirt represented her legs, and the fingers of both hands were spread out.

“Nobody ever called me Lima,” said Lyudmila Lvovna with a laugh.

“Part Two. First Love. A cavalry cadet, kneeling before the damsel Lima, presents her with a poem of his own production. It contains these lines of rare beauty:

 

Your gorgeous leg, I do opine,

Is a thing of love divine!

 

And here is an original likeness of the leg.

Here the cadet induces the innocent Lima to elope from her parents’ home. Here you see them in flight. And here is a critical situation: the enraged father has overtaken the fugitives. The faint-hearted cadet leaves the meek Lima in the lurch.

 

You powdered your nose in a manner so slack

That now our pursuers are hot on our track;

So just do your best to hold them at bay,

While into the bushes I run away.

 

The story of “the damsel Lima” was followed by one entitled “Princess Vera and the Infatuated Telegraphist.”

“This moving poem is so far only in illustrations,” Vasily Lvovich explained with a serious air. “The text is in the making.”

“That’s something new,” said Anosov, “I haven’t seen it before.”

“It’s the latest issue. First edition.”

Vera gently touched his shoulder.

“Don’t, please,” she said.

But Vasily Lvovich did not hear, or perhaps he did not take it seriously.

“It dates from prehistoric times. One fine day in May a damsel by the name of Vera received a letter with kissing doves on the first page. Here’s the letter, and here are the doves.

“The letter contains an ardent confession of love, written against all rules of spelling. It begins: ‘O Beutiful Blonde who art – a raging sea of flames seathing in my chest. Thy gaze clings to my tormented soal like a venomus serpent,’ and so on. It ends in this humble way: ‘I am only a poor telegrafist, but my feelings are worthy of Milord George. I dare not reveel my full name – it is too indecent. I only sign my inicials: P.P.Z. Please send your anser to the post-office, poste restante.’ Here, ladies and gentlemen, you can see the portrait of the telegraphist himself, very skilfully executed in crayon.

Vera’s heart was pierced (here’s her heart and here’s the arrow). But, as beseemed a well-behaved and good-mannered damsel, she showed the letter to her honourable parents, and also to her childhood friend and fiance, Vasya Sheyin, a handsome young man. Here’s the illustration. Given time the drawings will be supplied with explanations in verse.

Vasya Sheyin, sobbing, returned the engagement ring to Vera. ‘I will not stand in the way of your happiness,’ he said, ‘but, I implore you, do not be hasty. Think it over before you take the final step – test his feelings and your own. Child, you know nothing about life, and you are flying like a moth to a glowing flame. But I – alas! I know the cold, hypocritical world. You should know that telegraphists are attractive but perfidious. It gives them an indescribable pleasure to deceive an innocent victim by their proud beauty and false feelings and cruelly abandon her afterwards.’

Six months rolled by. In the whirl of life’s waltz Vera forgot her admirer and married young handsome Vasya, but the telegraphist did not forget her. One day he disguised himself as a chimney-sweep and, smearing himself with soot, made his way into Princess Vera’s boudoir. You can see that he left the traces of his five fingers and two lips everywhere: on the rugs and pillows and wallpaper, and even on the floor.

Then, dressed as a countrywoman, he took up the duties of dish-washer in our kitchen. But the excessive favour which Luka the cook bestowed upon him put him to flight.

He found himself in a mad-house. And here you see him as a monk. But every day he unfailingly sent a passionate letter to Vera. And where his tears fell on the paper the ink ran in splotches.

At last he died, but before his death he willed to Vera two telegraph-office buttons and a perfume bottle, filled with his tears.

“How about some tea, ladies and gentlemen?” asked Vera Nikolayevna.