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- Автор : Gazragore
- 20.07.2019
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And what is her life like afterwards? You can understand: a well-educated, cultured woman is living with a stupid, boorish man; if she meets a cultivated man, an officer, an actor, or a doctor—well, she gets to love him, her life becomes unbearable to her, and she runs away from her husband.
Altogether life is horrid here, Nikolay Anastasyevitch, very horrid! Life is stifling for a girl and stifling when one is married. Here they laugh at Sonya for having run away from her husband, but if they could see into her soul they would not laugh. He growled angrily at some one, then howled miserably and dashed with all his force against the wall of the hut. For two minutes he could be heard outside comforting his dog.
There was nothing for it, I put off my unclean thoughts to a more favourable occasion, resigned myself to my failure and, as the saying is, waved my hand. I remember I sat in an easy chair by the wide-open window and glanced at the trees and darkened sky. The outlines of the acacias and the lime trees were just the same as they had been eight years before; just as then, in the days of my childhood, somewhere far away there was the tinkling of a wretched piano, and the public had just the same habit of sauntering to and fro along the avenues, but the people were not the same.
Along the avenues there walked now not my comrades and I and the object of my adoration, but schoolboys and young ladies who were strangers. And I felt melancholy. I drank it off, grew sentimental, and began telling a long story about something or other. Kisotchka listened as before, admiring me and my cleverness.
And time passed. The sky was by now so dark that the outlines of the acacias and lime trees melted into one, the public was no longer walking up and down the avenues, the piano was silent and the only sound was the even murmur of the sea. Be friendly to a young man, make much of him, regale him with wine, let him understand that he is attractive and he will sit on and on, forget that it is time to go, and talk and talk and talk.
That was what I did. Once I chanced to look at the clock; it was half-past ten. I began saying good-bye. As they passed the door they both glanced casually and indifferently at Kisotchka and me, and I fancied both of them were drunk. Tell me honestly, shall I be in your way? Not only you can, but you must. What will you have, beer or wine? At first she flushed red, then her face wore a timid, guilty expression; she seemed to be troubled by some anxiety, and I began to fancy that she was ashamed to show me her husband and wanted me to go.
Kisotchka saw me to the front door. Well, God give you every blessing. Thank you! As she said good-bye she was holding the candle in her hand; patches of light danced over her face and neck, as though chasing her mournful smile. I instinctively guessed how it was, and my conscience whispered to me that I, in my happiness and indifference, was face to face with a good, warm-hearted, loving creature, who was broken by suffering.
By now it was quite dark. In the south the evenings draw in early in July and it gets dark rapidly. I lighted a couple of dozen matches before, almost groping, I found my way to the gate. The silence of the grave. I could hear nothing but the murmur of the drowsy sea and the beating of my heart from the wine. Lifting my eyes to the sky I found not a single star.
It was dark and sullen. Evidently the sky was covered with clouds. For some reason I shrugged my shoulders, smiling foolishly, and once more, not quite so resolutely, shouted for a cab. A walk of three miles across open country and in the pitch dark was not an agreeable prospect. Before making up my mind to walk, I spent a long time deliberating and shouting for a cab; then, shrugging my shoulders, I walked lazily back to the copse, with no definite object in my mind.
It was dreadfully dark in the copse. Here and there between the trees the windows of the summer villas glowed a dull red. A raven, disturbed by my steps and the matches with which I lighted my way to the summer-house, flew from tree to tree and rustled among the leaves.
I felt vexed and ashamed, and the raven seemed to understand this, and croaked 'krrra! Far below me, behind a veil of thick darkness, the sea kept up a low angry growl. I remember that, as though I were blind, I could see neither sky nor sea, nor even the summer-house in which I was sitting. And it seemed to me as though the whole world consisted only of the thoughts that were straying through my head, dizzy from the wine, and of an unseen power murmuring monotonously somewhere below.
And afterwards, as I sank into a doze, it began to seem that it was not the sea murmuring, but my thoughts, and that the whole world consisted of nothing but me. And concentrating the whole world in myself in this way, I thought no more of cabs, of the town, and of Kisotchka, and abandoned myself to the sensation I was so fond of: that is, the sensation of fearful isolation when you feel that in the whole universe, dark and formless, you alone exist.
It is a proud, demoniac sensation, only possible to Russians whose thoughts and sensations are as large, boundless, and gloomy as their plains, their forests, and their snow. And together with this sensation come thoughts of the aimlessness of life, of death, and of the darkness of the grave. The thoughts are not worth a brass farthing, but the expression of face must be fine. Someone was coming hurriedly along the avenue.
Merciful Heavens! She walked irresolutely into the summer-house, sat down, and began half-praying, half-complaining aloud. I suffer in silence, but I want to live too. Oh, my God! My God! So as not to frighten her I first gave a loud sigh and coughed, then cautiously struck a match. There was a flash of bright light in the darkness, which lighted up the weeping figure. It was Kisotchka!
You only want Circassians with daggers to complete it. I am not telling you, but the doctor. It seemed as though she had known beforehand that she would find me in the summer-house. She was breathing in gasps and trembling all over as though in a fever, while her tear-stained face, so far as I could distinguish it as I struck match after match, was not the intelligent, submissive weary face I had seen before, but something different, which I cannot understand to this day.
It did not express pain, nor anxiety, nor misery—nothing of what was expressed by her words and her tears. I must own that, probably because I did not understand it, it looked to me senseless and as though she were drunk. Forgive me, Nikolav Anastasyitch. Take me there. I was flustered and muttered some nonsense trying to comfort her.
I can bear no more. And I lighted match after match and went on striking till the box was empty. Cold-hearted people are apt to be awkward, and even stupid. Going out of the gate, we turned to the right and sauntered slowly along the soft dusty road. It was dark. As my eyes grew gradually accustomed to the darkness, I began to distinguish the silhouettes of the old gaunt oaks and lime trees which bordered the road.
The jagged, precipitous cliffs, intersected here and there by deep, narrow ravines and creeks, soon showed indistinctly, a black streak on the right. Low bushes nestled by the hollows, looking like sitting figures. It was uncanny. I looked sideways suspiciously at the cliffs, and the murmur of the sea and the stillness of the country alarmed my imagination. Kisotchka did not speak. She was still trembling, and before she had gone half a mile she was exhausted with walking and was out of breath.
I too was silent. It stood solitary on the cliff, and by day it could be seen for a long distance, both by sea and by land. Because it was deserted and no one lived in it, and because there was an echo in it which distinctly repeated the steps and voices of passers-by, it seemed mysterious. Picture me in the dark night arm-in-arm with a woman who was running away from her husband near this tall long monster which repeated the sound of every step I took and stared at me fixedly with its hundred black windows.
All is nonsense and vanity. But I am terribly unhappy! And you cannot even imagine how unhappy! Such a life, such a life! She clenched her teeth and moaned as though she were doing her utmost not to scream with pain.
Ah, my God, my God! Oh, my God, my God! She spoke as though she were singing, moved gracefully, and reminded me of a celebrated Little Russian actress. I have come to such disgrace that before a stranger I am running away from my husband by night, like some disreputable creature! Can I expect anything good after that? At the turning by the corner of the cemetery there stood a stone windmill, and by it a little hut in which the miller lived. We passed the mill and the hut, turned to the left and reached the gates of the cemetery.
You go home, and God bless you, but I am going back. I am not frightened. It was all about nothing that mattered. You and your talk took me back to the past and put all sort of ideas into my head. I was sad and wanted to cry, and my husband said rude things to me before that officer, and I could not bear it.
Will that make me any happier? I must go back. But never mind. All this I recognised distinctly, but at the same time I was troubled by an oppressive and unpleasant dread that Kisotchka would turn back, and that I should not manage to say to her what had to be said. Never at any other time in my life have thoughts of a higher order been so closely interwoven with the basest animal prose as on that night. It was horrible! How good you are!
All of you are so splendid—all of you! Honest, great-hearted, kind, clever. I will take you out of this hole and give you happiness. I love you. Let us go, my sweet? Will you? She stepped back from the street lamp and, completely overwhelmed, gazed at me with wide-open eyes. I gripped her by the arm, began showering kisses on her face, her neck, her shoulders, and went on making vows and promises. In love affairs vows and promises are almost a physiological necessity.
Sometimes you know you are lying and that promises are not necessary, but still you vow and protest. Kisotchka, utterly overwhelmed, kept staggering back and gazing at me with round eyes. All at once she broke into hysterical tears. And her face had the same senseless blank expression that I had seen in the summer-house when I lighted the matches.
Without asking her consent, preventing her from speaking, I dragged her forcibly towards my hotel. She seemed almost swooning and did not walk, but I took her under the arms and almost carried her. I remember, as we were going up the stairs, some man with a red band in his cap looked wonderingly at me and bowed to Kisotchka. He walked up and down near the table in silence, scratched the back of his head with an air of vexation, and several times shrugged his shoulders and twitched his shoulder-blades, while a shiver ran down his huge back.
The memory was painful and made him ashamed, and he was struggling with himself. Now that I have a wife and a little daughter, oh, how well I understand that advice! How I understand it, my God! You may as well hear the rest, though. First of all she felt for me a deep and passionate love. What was for me an ordinary amatory episode was for her an absolute revolution in her life. I remember, it seemed to me that she had gone out of her mind.
Happy for the first time in her life, looking five years younger, with an inspired enthusiastic face, not knowing what to do with herself for happiness, she laughed and cried and never ceased dreaming aloud how next day we would set off for the Caucasus, then in the autumn to Petersburg; how we would live afterwards.
Everyone in the town knows that he is living with the elder Kostovitch. We will get a divorce and be married. Kisotchka had only spent an hour and a half in my room when she already felt as though she were at home and was ready to treat my property as though it were her own. She packed my things in my portmanteau, scolded me for not hanging my new expensive overcoat on a peg instead of flinging it on a chair, and so on. I was conscious of a slight twinge of horror at the thought that a respectable, honest, and unhappy woman had so easily, after some three or four hours, succumbed to the first man she met.
Moreover, now that I was satisfied, I was vexed with myself for having been so stupid as to get entangled with a woman whom I should have to deceive. And in spite of my disorderly life I must observe that I could not bear telling lies. Very, very much? At parting we arranged to meet at midday next morning in the park, and the day after to set off together to Pyatigorsk.
I went into the street to see her home, and I remember that I caressed her with genuine tenderness on the way. There was a minute when I felt unbearably sorry for her, for trusting me so implicitly, and I made up my mind that I would really take her to Pyatigorsk, but remembering that I had only six hundred roubles in my portmanteau, and that it would be far more difficult to break it off with her in the autumn than now, I made haste to suppress my compassion. I pulled at the bell.
When footsteps were heard at the other side of the door Kisotchka suddenly looked grave, glanced upwards to the sky, made the sign of the Cross over me several times and, clutching my hand, pressed it to her lips. At first the windows were in darkness, then in one of the windows there was the glimmer of the faint bluish flame of a newly lighted candle; the flame grew, gave more light, and I saw shadows moving about the rooms together with it.
Something worried me. I spent the whole day with a doctor friend and left the town that evening. As you see, my philosophy did not prevent me from taking to my heels in a mean and treacherous flight. I fancied that I was afraid of meeting with Kisotchka and a scene. In the station I purposely remained in the toilet room till the second bell rang, and while I was making my way to my compartment, I was oppressed by a feeling as though I were covered all over with stolen things.
With what impatience and terror I waited for the third bell! It was queer. To distract my mind and calm myself I looked out of the window. The train ran along the coast. The sea was smooth, and the turquoise sky, almost half covered with the tender, golden crimson light of sunset, was gaily and serenely mirrored in it.
Here and there fishing boats and rafts made black patches on its surface. The town, as clean and beautiful as a toy, stood on the high cliff, and was already shrouded in the mist of evening. The golden domes of its churches, the windows and the greenery reflected the setting sun, glowing and melting like shimmering gold. The scent of the fields mingled with the soft damp air from the sea. I heard the laughter of passengers and guards. Everyone was good-humoured and light-hearted, yet my unaccountable uneasiness grew greater and greater.
I recalled her grave face and big anxious eyes as she made the sign of the Cross over me, as though I belonged to her, and mechanically I looked at the hand which she had kissed the day before. In the twilight of the railway carriage the image of Kisotchka rose before me, haunted me and I recognised clearly that I had committed a crime as bad as murder.
My conscience tormented me. To stifle this unbearable feeling, I assured myself that everything was nonsense and vanity, that Kisotchka and I would die and decay, that her grief was nothing in comparison with death, and so on and so on. But all these arguments only irritated me and were extraordinarily quickly crowded out by other thoughts. There was a miserable feeling in the hand that Kisotchka had kissed. I kept lying down and getting up again, drank vodka at the stations, forced myself to eat bread and butter, fell to assuring myself again that life had no meaning, but nothing was of any use.
A strange and if you like absurd ferment was going on in my brain. It appeared that I, the thinker, had not mastered the technique of thinking, and that I was no more capable of managing my own brain than mending a watch. God had given me a strong healthy Russian brain with promise of talent. And, only fancy, here was that brain at twenty-six, undisciplined, completely free from principles, not weighed down by any stores of knowledge, but only lightly sprinkled with information of a sort in the engineering line; it was young and had a physiological craving for exercise, it was on the look-out for it, when all at once quite casually the fine juicy idea of the aimlessness of life and the darkness beyond the tomb descends upon it.
It greedily sucks it in, puts its whole outlook at its disposal and begins playing with it, like a cat with a mouse. There is neither learning nor system in the brain, but that does not matter. It deals with the great ideas with its own innate powers, like a self-educated man, and before a month has passed the owner of the brain can turn a potato into a hundred dainty dishes, and fancies himself a philosopher.
My normal thinking, so it seems to me now, dates from the day when I began again from the A, B, C, when my conscience sent me flying back to N. He made his bed and began undressing. God bless you! To convince you is impossible. You can reach conviction only by way of personal experience and suffering! Where do the old get this privilege? What is it based upon? If these ideas are poison, they are equally poisonous for all? In the first place, old men are not dilettanti. Their pessimism comes to them not casually from outside, but from the depths of their own brains, and only after they have exhaustively studied the Hegels and Kants of all sorts, have suffered, have made no end of mistakes, in fact—when they have climbed the whole ladder from bottom to top.
Their pessimism has both personal experience and sound philosophic training behind it. Secondly, the pessimism of old thinkers does not take the form of idle talk, as it does with you and me, but of Weltschmertz, of suffering; it rests in them on a Christian foundation because it is derived from love for humanity and from thoughts about humanity, and is entirely free from the egoism which is noticeable in dilettanti.
You despise life because its meaning and its object are hidden just from you, and you are only afraid of your own death, while the real thinker is unhappy because the truth is hidden from all and he is afraid for all men. For instance, there is living not far from here the Crown forester, Ivan Alexandritch.
He is a nice old man. At one time he was a teacher somewhere, and used to write something; the devil only knows what he was, but anyway he is a remarkably clever fellow and in philosophy he is A1. He has read a great deal and he is continually reading now. Well, we came across him lately in the Gruzovsky district. They were laying the sleepers and rails just at the time. It takes an experienced workman less than a minute to lay a sleeper and fix a rail on it. The workmen were in good form and really were working smartly and rapidly; one rascal in particular brought his hammer down with exceptional smartness on the head of the nail and drove it in at one blow, though the handle of the hammer was two yards or more in length and each nail was a foot long.
No one knows anything and nothing can be proved by words. You can prove and disprove anything you like with words, and people will soon perfect the technique of language to such a point that they will prove with mathematical certainty that twice two is seven. I believe only in God, but as for you, if you talk to me till the Second Coming and seduce another five hundred Kisothchkas, I shall believe in you only when I go out of my mind. The argument ended at that.
Before going to bed the engineer and I went out of the hut, and I saw the lights once more. The only pleasure we have in this dull hole is drinking and philosophising. What an embankment, Lord have mercy on us! You know the thoughts of each individual man are scattered like that in disorder, stretch in a straight line towards some goal in the midst of the darkness and, without shedding light on anything, without lighting up the night, they vanish somewhere far beyond old age.
But enough philosophising! I can sleep anywhere, and, besides, I am not going to bed just yet. One must think now of food and clothes and saving for the future. And I have two of them, a little son and a daughter.
The boy, little rascal, has a jolly little face. I have their photographs here, somewhere. Ah, my children, my children! I fell asleep. I was awakened by the barking of Azorka and loud voices. Von Schtenberg with bare feet and ruffled hair was standing in the doorway dressed in his underclothes, talking loudly with some one. It was getting light. A gloomy dark blue dawn was peeping in at the door, at the windows, and through the crevices in the hut walls, and casting a faint light on my bed, on the table with the papers, and on Ananyev.
Stretched on the floor on a cloak, with a leather pillow under his head, the engineer lay asleep with his fleshy, hairy chest uppermost; he was snoring so loudly that I pitied the student from the bottom of my heart for having to sleep in the same room with him every night. Go to Tchalisov! From whom do the cauldrons come? What the devil are you standing there for? Drive on! Please take them, your honour! How much longer are we to go carting them about?
We go carting them on and on along the line, and see no end to it. And what business is it of ours to take them? The horses have been two days without food and the master, for sure, will be angry. Are we to take them back, or what? The railway ordered the cauldrons, so it ought to take them. Go on to Tchalisov! Ananyev and the student, both in their underclothes and barefooted, were angrily and impatiently explaining to a peasant who was standing before them bare-headed, with his whip in his hand, apparently not understanding them.
Both faces looked preoccupied with workaday cares. The workaday expression vanished from his sleepy face and a look of mental inertia came into it. He waved the peasant off and walked away absorbed in thought. It was a cloudy morning. On the line where the lights had been gleaming the night before, the workmen, just roused from sleep, were swarming. There was a sound of voices and the squeaking of wheelbarrows. The working day was beginning. One poor little nag harnessed with cord was already plodding towards the embankment, tugging with its neck, and dragging along a cartful of sand.
A great deal had been said in the night, but I carried away with me no answer to any question, and in the morning, of the whole conversation there remained in my memory, as in a filter, only the lights and the image of Kisotchka. He has shot himself or hanged himself. She can hardly breathe, and she has huddled under the stove, she is so frightened. You had better go round, sir.
The gate towards which I directed my steps was open. In the dark and dilapidated porch the door was not locked. I opened it and walked into the entry. Here there was not a glimmer of light, it was pitch dark, and, moreover, there was a marked smell of incense. Groping my way out of the entry I knocked my elbow against something made of iron, and in the darkness stumbled against a board of some sort which almost fell to the floor.
At last the door covered with torn baize was found, and I went into a little hall. I am not at the moment writing a fairy tale, and am far from intending to alarm the reader, but the picture I saw from the passage was fantastic and could only have been drawn by death. Straight before me was a door leading to a little drawing-room. Three five-kopeck wax candles, standing in a row, threw a scanty light on the faded slate-coloured wallpaper.
A coffin was standing on two tables in the middle of the little room. The two candles served only to light up a swarthy yellow face with a half-open mouth and sharp nose. Billows of muslin were mingled in disorder from the face to the tips of the two shoes, and from among the billows peeped out two pale motionless hands, holding a wax cross.
The dark gloomy corners of the little drawing-room, the ikons behind the coffin, the coffin itself, everything except the softly glimmering lights, were still as death, as the tomb itself. The lodger has hardly had time to hang himself, or shoot himself, and here is the coffin already! On the left there was a door with a glass panel; on the right a lame hat-stand with a shabby fur coat on it. The moan came from the left, beyond the door with the glass panel. I opened the door and walked into a little dark room with a solitary window, through which there came a faint light from a street lamp outside.
And without waiting for an answer I struck a match. This is what I saw while it was burning. A man was sitting on the blood-stained floor at my very feet. If my step had been a longer one I should have trodden on him. With his legs thrust forward and his hands pressed on the floor, he was making an effort to raise his handsome face, which was deathly pale against his pitch-black beard. In the big eyes which he lifted upon me, I read unutterable terror, pain, and entreaty.
A cold sweat trickled in big drops down his face. That sweat, the expression of his face, the trembling of the hands he leaned upon, his hard breathing and his clenched teeth, showed that he was suffering beyond endurance. Near his right hand in a pool of blood lay a revolver. I stood and looked at the man on the floor, and it seemed to me that I had seen him before. Incomprehensible lack of will. Lifting him from the floor like a baby, I laid him on the American-leather covered sofa and carefully undressed him.
He was shivering and cold when I took off his clothes; the wound which I saw was not in keeping either with his shivering nor the expression on his face. It was a trifling one. The bullet had passed between the fifth and sixth ribs on the left side, only piercing the skin and the flesh. I found the bullet itself in the folds of the coat-lining near the back pocket.
Stopping the bleeding as best I could and making a temporary bandage of a pillow-case, a towel, and two handkerchiefs, I gave the wounded man some water and covered him with a fur coat that was hanging in the passage.
We neither of us said a word while the bandaging was being done. I did my work while he lay motionless looking at me with his eyes screwed up as though he were ashamed of his unsuccessful shot and the trouble he was giving me. I read terror in his eyes. He was afraid of my going away. Stay another five minutes. I obeyed, and sat down on the edge of the sofa. Ten minutes passed in silence.
I sat silent, looking about the room into which fate had brought me so unexpectedly. What poverty! This man who was the possessor of a handsome, effeminate face and a luxuriant well-tended beard, had surroundings which a humble working man would not have envied. A sofa with its American-leather torn and peeling, a humble greasy-looking chair, a table covered with a little of paper, and a wretched oleograph on the wall, that was all I saw.
Damp, gloomy, and grey. A cloud seemed to pass over his face. It makes it no better that you should know me. To ask a convict how he got into prison, or a suicide why he shot himself is not generous. It never occurred to me to question you about your motives. Though it would be no use to ask. If I told you, you would not believe or understand. How can one speak of reasons? To-day the reason makes one snatch up a revolver, while to-morrow the same reason seems not worth a rotten egg.
It all depends most likely on the particular condition of the individual at the given moment. Take me for instance. Explain that change if you can! Am I better off, or has my wife risen from the dead? Is it the influence of the light on me, or the presence of an outsider? We admit it! But you know men do shoot themselves by candle-light! And it would be ignominious indeed for the heroes of your novels if such a trifling thing as a candle were to change the course of the drama so abruptly.
All this nonsense can be explained perhaps, but not by us. I am naturally vain and fatuous. Well, explain it, if you believe in your power of reading faces! Half an hour ago I shot myself, and just now I am posing. Explain that if you can. He was exhausted, and sank into silence. A pause followed. I began scrutinising his face. It was painful to look at that face, but what must it have been for Vassilyev himself who yet had the strength to argue and, if I were not mistaken, to pose?
The rain was pattering angrily on the dark window, never ceasing for a minute. The wind howled plaintively and lugubriously. If only one could set this chaos to music! How I should have felt it! What time is it? A lovely prospect! One follows the coffin through the mud and rain.
One walks along, seeing nothing but the cloudy sky and the wretched scenery. The muddy mutes, taverns, woodstacks. The never-ending streets. The time dragging out like eternity, the coarse people. And on the heart a stone, a stone! And are you still writing? Do you remember how I pranced about like a needle, like an enthusiastic ass at those private theatricals when I was courting Zina?
It was stupid, but it was good, it was fun. The very memory of it brings back a whiff of spring. And now! What a cruel change of scene! There is a subject for you! You make something humorous of it. You say nothing laughable? An expression of bitter distress came into his pale face. His chin quivered. I have been deceived as no bank depositor, no duped husband has ever been deceived! Only realise what an absurd fool I have been made!
Last year before your eyes I did not know what to do with myself for happiness. And now before your eyes. Chapter one: spring, love, honeymoon. I felt acutely uncomfortable and made up my mind to go. I put on my great-coat and went out of his room. As I crossed the passage I glanced at the coffin and Madame Mimotih reading over it. But I ought not to have gone away.
The bandages had been roughly torn off, and blood was flowing from the reopened wound. It was daylight before I succeeded in restoring him to consciousness. He was raving in delirium, shivering, and looking with unseeing eyes about the room till morning had come, and we heard the booming voice of the priest as he read the service over the dead. But he would not obey me, in spite of the pain and the grey, rainy morning.
He walked bareheaded and in silence behind the coffin all the way to the cemetery, hardly able to move one leg after the other, and from time to time clutching convulsively at his wounded side. His face expressed complete apathy. Only once when I roused him from his lethargy by some insignificant question he shifted his eyes over the pavement and the grey fence, and for a moment there was a gleam of gloomy anger in them. At the present time as I finish this story, he is sitting in my drawing-room and, playing on the piano, is showing the ladies how provincial misses sing sentimental songs.
The ladies are laughing, and he is laughing too. He is enjoying himself. I call him into my study. Evidently not pleased at my taking him from agreeable company, he comes to me and stands before me in the attitude of a man who has no time to spare. I give him this story, and ask him to read it. Always condescending about my authorship, he stifles a sigh, the sigh of a lazy reader, sits down in an armchair and begins upon it.
But the further he gets into the reading, the graver his face becomes. At last, under the stress of painful memories, he turns terribly pale, he gets up and goes on reading as he stands. When he has finished he begins pacing from corner to corner.
He sees his new fashionable suit, hears the ladies laughing and. One would have thought the imprint made on a man by his agonies would have been everlasting, never to be effaced or eradicated. And yet that imprint wears out as easily as a pair of cheap boots. There is nothing left, not a scrap. Everything in the world is transitory, and that transitoriness is absurd! A wide field for humorists! Tack on a humorous end, my friend!
Homo sum. And I praise Mother Nature all the same for her transmutation of substances. If we retained an agonising memory of toothache and of all the terrors which every one of us has had to experience, if all that were everlasting, we poor mortals would have a bad time of it in this life.
Vassilyev, whistling and straightening his tie, walks off into the drawing-room, and I look after him, and feel vexed. It is as though I had lost something. Natalya Andreyevna Bronin her married name was Nikitin , the opera singer, is lying in her bedroom, her whole being abandoned to repose. She lies, deliciously drowsy, thinking of her little daughter who lives somewhere far away with her grandmother or aunt.
The child is more precious to her than the public, bouquets, notices in the papers, adorers. She is happy, at peace, and all she longs for is not to be prevented from lying undisturbed, dozing and dreaming of her little girl. All at once the singer starts, and opens her eyes wide: there is a harsh abrupt ring in the entry. Before ten seconds have passed the bell tinkles a second time and a third time. The door is opened noisily and some one walks into the entry stamping his feet like a horse, snorting and puffing with the cold.
When the loud noise of some one blowing his nose and putting off his goloshes dies away, the singer hears cautious footsteps in her bedroom. He brings a whiff of cold air and a smell of brandy. For a long while he walks about the bedroom, breathing heavily, and, stumbling against the chairs in the dark, seems to be looking for something.
I have brought you a message. Greetings from that. I have just been to see him. We sat and talked and had a drink. Say what you like, Nathalie, I dislike that individual—I dislike him awfully! He is a rare blockhead. He is a wealthy man, a capitalist; he has six hundred thousand, and you would never guess it. Money is no more use to him than a radish to a dog. He does not eat it himself nor give it to others. Money ought to circulate, but he keeps tight hold of it, is afraid to part with it.
Capital lying idle is no better than grass. Because there is so much capital lying idle among us; they are afraid to invest it. There are no such queer fish as Zagvozdkin in England, my girl. There every farthing is in circulation. I am sleepy. Whatever was it I was talking about? In these hard times hanging is too good for Zagvozdkin. He is a fool and a scoundrel. No better than a fool. If I asked him for a loan without security—why, a child could see that he runs no risk whatever. For ten thousand he would have got a hundred.
In a year he would have another hundred thousand. I asked, I talked. A queer question. You are a woman, and I am a man anyway, a business-like person. And what a scheme I propose to him! Not a bubble, not some chimera, but a sound thing, substantial!
If one could hit on a man who would understand, one might get twenty thousand for the idea alone! Even you would understand if I were to tell you about it. Only you. Have I talked to you about sausage-skins? Do you see the point of it? Now the provision shops and the sausage-makers get their sausage-skins locally, and pay a high price for them. Well, but if one were to bring sausage-skins from the Caucasus where they are worth nothing, and where they are thrown away, then. From me, of course!
Why, I shall sell them ten times as cheap! Now let us look at it like this: every year in Petersburg and Moscow and in other centres these same skins would be bought to the. Well, and if. You are sleepy, pardon, I am just going. With capital even out of cigarette ends one may make a million. Take your theatrical business now. Why, for example, did Lentovsky come to grief? He did not go the right way to work from the very first. He had no capital and he went headlong to the dogs.
He ought first to have secured his capital, and then to have gone slowly and cautiously. You see for a private theatre, five thousand would be enough for a beginning. Not like Lentovsky, of course, but on a modest scale in a small way. I have got a manager already, I have looked at a suitable building. If only you understood things you would have parted with your Five per cents.
You have fleeced me enough already. Let me alone, I have been punished already. I am sick of listening to your nonsense. To be sure. And who, allow me to ask, lifted you out of beggary and secured your happiness?
Go along and sleep it off. I can go away altogether. A good thing too. I have humbled myself enough. And I will go. Oh, do go, then! I shall be delighted! Then sounds reach her from the entry of whispering, the shuffling of goloshes and a door being shut. At one time he used to live at Tchernigov, and had a situation there as a book-keeper. The singer remembered that when first she told him she was going on the stage he had made a fuss, been indignant, complained to her parents, turned her out of the house.
She had been obliged to go on the stage without his permission. The singer was overcome with amazement when she looked at her hanger-on: when and where had he managed to pick up new tastes, polish, and airs and graces? Where had he learned the taste of oysters and of different Burgundies?
In old days he was afraid to talk before schoolboys for fear of saying something silly, and now he is overfamiliar even with princes. The housemaid, scolding and angrily flopping with her slippers, goes to open the door. Again some one comes in and stamps like a horse. You shall go away. She comes at the moment when he is undressing, and carefully folding his clothes on a chair.
Kindly take yourself off this very minute! This very minute! Do you hear? Do you hear, insolent. As you see. Good night! Liza crossed one foot over the other, clasped her hands behind her head, and lay down. Groholsky sat down in a chair beside her and bent over. He was entirely absorbed in contemplation of her. How pretty she seemed to him, lighted up by the rays of the setting sun!
There was a complete view from the window of the setting sun, golden, lightly flecked with purple. The whole drawing-room, including Liza, was bathed by it with brilliant light that did not hurt the eyes, and for a little while covered with gold. Groholsky was lost in admiration.
Liza was so incredibly beautiful. It is true her little kittenish face with its brown eyes, and turn up nose was fresh, and even piquant, his scanty hair was black as soot and curly, her little figure was graceful, well proportioned and mobile as the body of an electric eel, but on the whole.
However my taste has nothing to do with it. Groholsky who was spoilt by women, and who had been in love and out of love hundreds of times in his life, saw her as a beauty. He loved her, and blind love finds ideal beauty everywhere. Love cannot bear anything vague or indefinite. Indefinite relations, you know, I told you yesterday, Liza.
Come, let us decide together. Come, decide, wise little head. I love you, and a man in love is not fond of sharing. He is more than an egoist. It is too much for me to go shares with your husband. I mentally tear him to pieces, when I remember that he loves you too.
In the second place you love me. Perfect freedom is an essential condition for love. And are you free? Are you not tortured by the thought that that man towers for ever over your soul? A man whom you do not love, whom very likely and quite naturally, you hate. And thirdly. What is the third thing? Oh yes. We are deceiving him and that. Truth before everything, Liza.
Let us have done with lying! I think it necessary, obligatory, to inform him of our relations and to leave him, to begin to live in freedom. Both must be done as quickly as possible. In , around 50 per cent of the waste produced in Sweden was biologically or materially recycled, but it would have been even better if the waste had never been created to begin with.
Biological recycling includes, for example, recycling food waste and converting it to biogas and biofertiliser. The objects tell a story See that wall with different levers and buttons? Furthest to the right is the control cabinet, a precursor of the computer. This was used by the operator to see and to some degree control what happened in different parts of the Uppsala water system. Turn the dials!
Did something happen? Good, because nothing is supposed to happen, the house and central control unit have not been in use for many years. Today, everything is being controlled using a more modern system, housed in a much larger waterworks. In the shelves to your right, you will find objects from the past. That strange grey lump is a calcium deposit that has been built up over a long period of time in the water piping, which is not that uncommon when dealing with water as hard as what we have here in Uppsala and in large portions of Uppland.
All the items behind the glass panels have their own history, but these are only a small portion of all the things contained within the Pump House when it was still in use. Piping and technology Water does not make its way to your tap by itself — it needs piping, and high quality piping at that! Over the years, the material used for piping intended for drinking water has varied, but today we use specific types of plastic and concrete pipes.
This is a major contrast to the first pipes, which were made of heavy iron or hollowed out logs. In the glass panel, you can see a model of how they drill! A nine-metre log, one hole on each side. And everything has to line up. Turn around! It is impossible to miss the large, elongated black machine stretching the full length of the room. That machine is our electrically powered pumps!
However, they were not the first nor the only pumps to be used in the Pump House. Two piston pumps were primarily used. The electric pumps served as a back-up to help when the water power provided by the Fyris River was insufficient. Prior to the electric pump, when the Pump House had recently been built, there was a coal-powered steam pump and the house had a tall chimney. However, at the dawn of the 20th century, the steam pump had to make way for the, at the time, highly modern electric pump, a technological marvel that used both alternating and direct current.
Water in Uppsala The Pump House was completed in , and for the first time, Uppsala residents could get clean drinking water from a tap in or near their home. Such modern, luxurious technology! However, carrying water is quite heavy work, try it yourself! A yoke is a simple technical equipment which is still being used today.
When you place the wooden part on your neck, it centralises the weight of the buckets over your body, making it much easier and less strenuous to carry the water large distances. But how many times a day would you have the strength to fill these buckets? With our current water consumption in Uppsala, you would have had to fill our yoke and carry it back seven times per day!
And that would only cover your own average need of litres of water per day. What is all that water used for, though? We would have liked to ask Hjalmar, who worked and lived in the building with his wife and nine children. He had an annual salary of SEK 1,, along with free accommodation and firewood.
The floors were mopped every Friday and the machines had to be continuously polished to keep them shiny — after all, this place produced vital goods! There was always something that needed doing, but there was also time for a cup of coffee or two, sometimes in the company of police officers out on evening patrols.
This made for pleasant company in the early hours of the morning. In general, the house was not a public space, and even today, many Uppsala residents have not seen its interior. The Path Here Join us on a journey through history! We will start from the beginning, when the land where Uppsala would be built was encased in the thick continental glacier. There was a river running through the glacier, and that river brought with it stones, gravel and sand — creating our beloved Uppsala ridge! Naturally clean ground water is formed in a ridge thanks to the snow and rainwater that seeps through the ridge's airy layers.
It is purified of microorganisms, gravel and sand along the way. You can use this station to sift through time. You will see Uppsala grow bit by bit, framed by historical facts about waste and water. For example, Uppsala had a temporary water system as early as the 17th century!
Talk about early water technology! Flip to — the year the Pump House was built! The picture shows the Pump House in a slightly different form than you are used to. The part to the left, where the collection well is located and where you are currently standing, is not there, and the house in the picture also has a chimney. As the population of Uppsala grew, the capacity of the Pump House was expanded Before the last year the house was in use , the steam pump was replaced by electric pumps, and one water turbine became two.
In other words, a growing need for drinking water led to investments to meet the increasing demand, just like today. The Pump House was working overtime! Two apartments on the upper floor Did you hear that people used to live in the Pump House? During a period of time, a few families were lucky enough to be tenants in this beautiful building. Not where you are standing now, but the upper floor! The upper floor of the house is divided into two parts, dubbed the northern and southern apartment, as they were used as just that: apartments.
The apartments were small and cramped, but the house contains a wide array of memories, from joyous births to tragic demises, games and everyday struggles. Today, the apartments have been converted to spaces used by the personnel working here. The operator booth This is a historical site for the telephone! The first telephones in all of Uppsala were placed in the operator booth. The Pump House personnel received calls regarding issues with the water piping network, but also about other forms of infrastructure, such as roads and the electrical grid.
People would call if no water came through their tap, a repair job which could have various degrees of urgency. Once, the water had been switched off in an entire apartment complex, where a woman was in the middle of dying her hair when all of a sudden, there was no water! Panicked, she called the Pump House telephone, but unfortunately, the operator could not help her.
Tough break! She worked as an air stewardess and reluctantly had to go to work with green hair for some time. Enter the booth and have a seat! The missions in the Operator Booth game are based on real events and real calls. Answer the phone and see if you can complete the missions. Here in our green city, we use the ground water as drinking water. Follow the water through the waterworks by turning the dial and touching the monitor. See how we only do two things to the water before sending it to the houses?
In Uppsala, we first soften the water to reduce its hardness. We then add a small amount of chlorine, and then the water is ready for delivery. Simple, right? Waterworks and water towers Many natural minerals such as calcium and magnesium end up in the grond water as it is being formed. Water rich in calcium and magnesium is called hard water. In Uppsala, we remove around 50 per cent of the calcium contained in the water.
This makes the water softer. After it has been treated, the Uppsala drinking water is classified as medium hard. For those living and working here, this means that they normally need to use less soap, detergent and washing-up liquid.
Softer water means less calcium is build-up on the sink and in household appliances. At Uppsala Vatten, softer water allows us to use the sludge from the sewage-treatment plant in a more circular manner, which we will come back to. Once the water is ready, it is delivered to the houses and water towers waiting to be used. When you open the tap at home, the great height of the water tower allows for the creation of water pressure that reaches all the way to the tap, even if you live in a high-rise or far away from both water towers and waterworks.
The water towers also allow us to store water, ensuring that there is enough water both day and night. This also applies to the times when water consumption is at its highest, such as morning and evenings. In order to keep the pressure at the desired level in all parts of Uppsala, the piping network is supported by booster stations to provide sufficient water pressure to all customers connected to the municipal water system. Sewage treatment plants Head on over to the other side of the model, do you see the part for the sewage treatment plant?
All sewage water passes through the sewage treatment plant in three steps: mechanical, biological and chemical treatment. The mechanical treatment removes visible debris, sand and larger particles. The biological treatment uses microorganisms such as bacteria to break down and convert the natural organic materials we flush. They convert ammonia to nitrogen and also make poo and toilet paper sink to the bottom.
The chemical stage binds the last remaining pieces of dirt that were not separated from the water. Out of this process, we get waste to burn, sewage for producing biogas and fertiliser, as well as clean water that can be returned to nature. Once you have used water, it is full of different forms of contaminants and must be purified.
We all contaminate water, not just with obvious things like poo and pee, but also different kinds of chemicals. Do you think about the fact that you flush soap, shampoo and sun screen down the drain when you shower? Or that your body may excrete pharmaceuticals and pharmaceutical residue when you go to the bathroom?
So what can you do to improve? Hand in old pharmaceutical products to your pharmacy! Use eco-labelled hygiene products and cleaning supplies for the sake of yourself, your family and the environment. But what is an eco-labelled product? In the model before you, you should be able to find a toy toilet on one of the short sides. Open the bathroom cabinet next to it, do you find any eco-label products there?
There are a few, and the same goes for the store where you do your shopping. But you can also make a difference here, ask the staff for any products you feel are missing. Buy products with eco-labels so that you know that they are better for you, the sewage treatment plant and nature. A home can easily be kept clean using only eco-labelled soap and washing-up liquid, along with some citric acid. Do you accept the challenge?
When standing by our talking toilet, do you know what is okay and not okay to throw into the toilet? Try it out! The sewage treatment plant is only designed to handle bodily waste and toilet paper. Everything else is rubbish and should be tossed in the bin or recycled!
Every day, the sewage treatment plant receives 1, kilos of rubbish. What can we do to reduce this needlessly large amount? If you make sure that there is a bin in the bathroom, you are already halfway there. The sewage treatment plant is tasked with removing visible contaminants, natural organic substances and nutrients such as phosphorus and nitrogen. In other words; poo, pee and toilet paper. Close to 24 hours pass from the sewage reaching the treatment plant to it being fully processed! So the thing you contaminate in seconds takes a full day to purify.
Samples are taken from the sewage as it arrives and multiple times during the process before it is released back out. The samples are used to check the contents to see if there are any changes and to ensure that harmful amounts of nutrients are not released into the environment. If there is too much of the wrong substance in the treated water, this can lead to overfertilization in lakes, lakebeds devoid of oxygen and other major environmental damages.
Today, the sewage treatment plant operates under clear and substantial requirements, but no less than a hundred years ago, a lot was dumped directly into the Fyris River. Talk about unsustainable! Sludge for fertiliser and biogas When sewage water is purified over several steps, it results in a nutritious gooey mass called sludge.
This sticky goo is incredibly useful for a number of purposes. Firstly, it can be used to make biogas! The sludge contains plenty of nutrients which we can use in digesters to feed the microorganisms that create methane, also known as biogas. It is an incredible way of creating environmentally friendly fuel from an unwanted waste product produced by you and your drain.
Once the sludge has spent a month in our digester, it is dried and converted into fertiliser. The nutritious fertiliser can be spread on arable land to return nutrition and humus to the soil. How about that! When we previously softened water, we could not use the sludge on the fields. The hard water dislodged large amounts of copper from the pipes it passed through, which led to high concentrations of copper in the sludge.
But now, thanks to the softening of drinking water, we can return useful nutrients to the fields as part of a more sustainable cycle. The sludge goes into interim storage for at least six months. During that time, the sludge is closely monitored in accordance with a strict schedule, where metals and other substances are measured. Only sludge that can live up to the highest requirements may be used to fertilise the appropriate crops.
Nutrients are returned to the soil, the cycle is closed - we have created a circular, sustainable system in Uppsala! Who knew something good could come from poo? All your water How much water do we actually use every day? Today , the average Uppsala citizen uses litres on average. But what are we using all this water for? This station will allow you to see how much water is hidden in your everyday life, in your food and in your clothes.
Did you know that a 3-minute shower uses 36 litres of water? If you shower for 20 minutes, that is litres. It is so easy to use large amounts of water when all you have to do is turn a handle. The question is, would you shower for 20 minutes if you had to carry all that water from the nearest well?
Chances are this would make your shower a lot shorter. Click the screen, select the map! Do you see the differences across the world for how much water a person uses every day? If you have water close by, it is naturally easier to use more than if you have to make a long journey to fetch it. Another factor is whether the toilets, laundry machines and dishwashers are designed to use reduced volumes of water.
Of course, the perception of water can vary throughout the world. Compare the different countries, quite the difference, right? Just having a flush toilet leads to a significant daily usage. Flushing a toilet uses litres of water, and older toilet models use even more!
There is also such a thing as virtual, or invisible, water. How much water is used to produce a hamburger, a pair of jeans or a cotton shirt. There is plenty of water to save in this area! Reduce your meat consumption or buy your clothes and other things from flea markets. How many pieces of clothing do you really need?
Think twice, it will help you save both money and the environment. The turbine room Welcome to the turbine room, where you will find one of the two turbines that powered the Pump House while it was still in use.
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