where we are going.’ I saw a small dark house; two little windows showed a dim light in the fog. ‘In this house,’ Kolosov went on, ‘lives a man called Sidorenko, a retired lieutenant, with his sister, an old maid, and his daughter. I shall pass you off as a relation of mine—you must sit down and play at cards with him.’ I nodded without a word.
I wanted to show Kolosov that I could be as silent as Gavrilov…. But I will own I was suffering agonies of curiosity. As we went up to the steps of the house, I caught sight, at a lighted window, of the slender figure of a girl…. She seemed waiting for us and vanished at once. We went into a dark and narrow passage. A crooked, hunchback old woman came to meet us, and looked at me with astonishment. ‘Is Ivan Semyonitch at home?’ inquired Kolosov. ‘He is at home.’… ‘He is at home!’ called a deep masculine voice from within. We went into the dining-room, if dining-room one can call the long, rather dirty room; a small old piano huddled unassumingly in a corner beside the stove; a few chairs stood out along the walls which had once been yellow. In the middle of the room stood a tall, stooping man of fifty, in a greasy dressing-gown. I looked at him more attentively: a morose looking countenance, hair standing up like a brush, a low forehead, grey eyes, immense whiskers, thick lips…. ‘A nice customer!’ I thought. ‘It’s a longish time since we’ve seen you, Andrei Nikolaevitch,’ he observed, holding out his hideous red hand, ‘a longish time it is! And where’s Sevastian Sevastianovitch?’ ‘Gavrilov is dead,’ answered Kolosov mournfully. ‘Dead! you don’t say so! And who’s this?’ ‘My relation—I have the honour to present to you Nikolai Alexei….’ ‘All right, all right,’ Ivan Semyonitch cut him short, ‘delighted, delighted. And does he play cards?’ ‘Play, of course he does!’ ‘Ah, then, that’s capital; we’ll sit down directly. Hey! Matrona Semyonovna—where are you? the card-table—quick!… And tea!’ With these words Mr. Sidorenko walked into the next room. Kolosov looked at me. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘you can’t think how ashamed I am!’… I shut him up. ‘Come, you there, what’s your name, this way,’ called Ivan Semyonitch. I went into the drawing-room. The drawing-room was even smaller than the dining-room. On the walls hung some monstrosities of portraits; in front of the sofa, of which the stuffing protruded in several places, stood a green table; on the sofa sat Ivan Semyonitch, already shuffling the cards. Near him on the extreme edge of a low chair sat a spare woman in a white cap and a black gown, yellow and wrinkled, with short-sighted eyes and thin cat-like lips. ‘Here,’ said Ivan Semyonitch, ‘let me introduce him; the first man’s dead; Andrei Nikolaevitch has brought us another; let’s see how he plays!’ The old lady bowed awkwardly and cleared her throat. I looked round; Kolosov was no longer in the room. ‘Stop that coughing, Matrona Semyonovna; sheep cough,’ grumbled Sidorenko. I sat down; the game began. Mr. Sidorenko got fearfully hot and furious at my slightest mistake; he pelted his sister with abusive epithets, but she had apparently had time to get used to her brother’s amenities, and only blinked in response. But when he announced to Matrona Semyonovna that she was ‘Antichrist,’ the poor old woman fired up. ‘Ivan Semyonitch,’ she protested with heat, ‘you were the death of your wife, Anfisa Karpovna, but you shan’t worry me into my grave!’ ‘Indeed?’ ‘No! you shan’t.’ ‘Indeed?’ ‘No! you shan’t.’ They kept it up in this fashion for some time. My position was, as you perceive, not merely an unenviable one: it was positively idiotic. I couldn’t conceive what had induced Kolosov to bring me…. I have never been a good card-player; but on that occasion I was aware myself that I was playing excruciatingly badly. ‘No!’ the retired lieutenant repeated continually,’ you can’t hold a candle to Sevastianovitch! No! you play carelessly!’ I, you may be sure, was inwardly wishing him at the devil. This torture continued for two hours; they beat me hollow. Before the end of the last rubber, I heard a slight sound behind my chair—I looked round and saw Kolosov; beside him stood a girl of seventeen, who was watching me with a scarcely perceptible smile. ‘Fill me my pipe, Varia,’ muttered Ivan Semyonitch. The girl promptly flew off into the other room. She was not very pretty, rather pale, rather thin; but never before or since have I seen such hair, such eyes. We finished the rubber somehow; I paid up, Sidorenko lighted his pipe and grumbled:
‘Well, now it’s time for supper!’ Kolosov presented me to Varia, that is, to Varvara Ivanovna, the daughter of Ivan Semyonitch. Varia was embarrassed; I too was embarrassed. But in a few minutes Kolosov, as usual, had got everything and everyone into full swing; he sat Varia down to the piano, begged her to play a dance tune, and proceeded to dance a Cossack dance in competition with Ivan Semyonitch. The lieutenant uttered little shrieks, stamped and cut such incredible capers that even Matrona Semyonovna burst out laughing and retreated to her own room upstairs. The hunchback old woman laid the table; we sat down to supper. At supper Kolosov told all sorts of nonsensical stories; the lieutenant’s guffaws were deafening; I peeped from under my eyelids at Varia. She never took her eyes off Kolosov … and from the expression of her face alone, I could divine that she both loved him and was loved by him. Her lips were slightly parted, her head bent a little forward, a faint colour kept flitting across her whole face; from time to time she sighed deeply, suddenly dropped her eyes, and softly laughed to herself…. I rejoiced for Kolosov…. But at the same time, deuce take it, I was envious….
After supper, Kolosov and I promptly took up our caps, which did not, however, prevent the lieutenant from saying, with a yawn: ‘You’ve paid us a long visit, gentlemen; it’s time to say good-bye.’ Varia accompanied Kolosov into the passage: ‘When are you coming, Andrei Nikolaevitch?’ she whispered to him. ‘In a few days, for certain.’ ‘Bring him too,’ she added, with a very sly smile. ‘Of course, of course.’ … ‘Your humble servant!’ thought I….
On the way home, I heard the following story. Six months before, Kolosov had become acquainted with Mr. Sidorenko in a rather queer way. One rainy evening, Kolosov was returning home from shooting, and had reached the gate of the city, when suddenly, at no great distance from the highroad, he heard groans, interspersed with curses. He had a gun; without thinking long, he made straight for the sound, and found a man lying on the ground with a dislocated ankle. This man was Mr. Sidorenko. With great difficulty he got him home, handed him over to the care of his frightened sister and his daughter, and ran for the doctor…. Meantime it was nearly morning; Kolosov was almost dropping with fatigue. With the permission of Matrona Semyonovna, he lay down on the sofa in the parlour, and slept till eight o’clock. On waking up he would at once have gone home; but they kept him and gave him some tea. In the night he had twice succeeded in catching a glimpse of the pale face of Varvara Ivanovna; he had not particularly noticed her, but in the morning she made a decidedly agreeable impression on him. Matrona Semyonovna garrulously praised and thanked Kolosov; Varvara sat silent, pouring out the tea, glanced at him now and then, and with timid shame-faced attentiveness handed him first a cup of tea, then the cream, then the sugar-basin. Meanwhile the lieutenant waked up, loudly called for his pipe, and after a short pause bawled: ‘Sister! hi, sister!’ Matrona Semyonovna went to his bedroom. ‘What about that…what the devil’s his name? is he gone?’ ‘No, I’m still here,’ answered Kolosov, going up to the door; ‘are you better now?’ ‘Yes,’ answered the lieutenant; ‘come in here, my good sir.’ Kolosov went in. Sidorenko looked at him, and reluctantly observed: ‘Well, thanks; come sometimes and see me—what’s your name? who the devil’s to know?’ ‘Kolosov,’ answered Andrei. ‘Well, well, come and see us; but it’s no use your sticking on here now, I daresay they’re expecting you at home.’ Kolosov retreated, said good-bye to Matrona Semyonovna, bowed to Varvara Ivanovna, and returned home. From that day he began to visit Ivan Semyonitch, at first at long intervals, then more and more frequently. The summer came on; he would sometimes take his gun, put on his knapsack, and set off as if he were going shooting. He would go to the retired lieutenant’s, and stay on there till evening.
Varvara Ivanovna’s father had served twenty-five years in the army, had saved a small sum of money, and bought himself a few acres of land a mile and a half from Moscow. He could scarcely read and write; but in spite of his external clumsiness and coarseness, he was shrewd and cunning, and even, on occasion, capable of sharp practice, like many Little Russians. He was a fearful egoist, obstinate as an ox, and in general exceedingly impolite, especially with strangers; I even detected in him something like a contempt for the whole human race. He indulged himself in every caprice, like a spoilt child; would know no one, and lived for his own pleasure. We were once somehow
