bat-and-tag, and cossacks-and-robbers,”said Podtyagin. “And now life has gone,” he added unexpectedly.
“Do you know, Anton Sergeyevich, today I remembered those old magazines which used to print your poetry. And the birch groves.”
“Did you really?” The old man turned to him with a look of good-natured irony. “What a fool I was—for the sake of those birch trees I wasted all my life, I overlooked the whole of Russia. Now, thank God, I’ve stopped writing poetry. Done with it. I even feel ashamed at describing myself as ‘poet’ when I have to fill in forms. By the way, I made a complete mess of things again today. The official was even offended. I shall have to go again tomorrow.”
Ganin looked at his feet and said, “When I was in the upper forms my schoolmates thought I had a mistress. And what a mistress—a society lady. They respected me for it. I didn’t object, because it was I who started the rumor.”
“I see,” Podtyagin nodded. “There’s something artful about you, Lyovushka. I like it.”
“In actual fact I was absurdly chaste and felt none the worse for it either. I was proud of it, like a special secret, yet everybody thought I was very experienced. Mind you, I certainly wasn’t prudish or shy. I was simply happy living as I was and waiting. And my schoolmates, the ones who used foul language and panted at the very word ‘woman,’ were all so spotty and dirty, with sweaty palms. I despised them for their spots. And they lied revoltingly about their amorous adventures.”
“I must confess,” said Podtyagin in his lacklustre voice, “that I began with a chambermaid. She was so sweet and gentle, with gray eyes. Her name was Glasha. That’s the way it goes.”
“No, I waited,” said Ganin softly. “From the onset of puberty to sixteen, say, three years. When I was thirteen wewere playing hide-and-seek once and I and another boy of the same age found ourselves hiding together in a wardrobe. In the darkness he told me that there were marvelous beauties who allowed themselves to be undressed for money. I didn’t properly hear what he called them and I thought it was ‘prinstitute’—a mixture of princess and young ladies’ institute. So I had an entrancing, mysterious mental image of them. But then of course I soon realized how mistaken I had been because I saw nothing attractive about the women who strolled up and down the Nevski rolling their hips and called us high-school boys ‘pencils.’ And so after three years of proud chastity my wait came to an end. It was in summer, at our place in the country.”
“Yes, yes,” said Podtyagin. “I can see it all. Rather hackneyed, though. Sweet sixteen, love in the woods.”
Ganin looked at him with curiosity. “But what could be nicer, Anton Sergeyevich?”
“Oh, I don’t know, don’t ask me, my dear chap. I put everything into my poetry that I should have put into my life, and now it’s too late for me to start all over again. The only thought that occurs to me at the moment is that in the final reckoning it’s better to have been sanguine by temperament, a man of action, and if you must get drunk do it properly and smash the place up.”
“There was that too,” Ganin smiled.
Podtyagin thought for a moment. “You were talking about the Russian countryside, Lev Glebovich. You, I expect, will probably see it again. But I shall leave my old bones here. Or if not here then in Paris. I seem to be thoroughly out of sorts today. Forgive me.”
Both were silent. A train passed. Far, far away a locomotive gave a wild, inconsolable scream. The night was a cold blue outside the uncurtained windowpanes, which reflected the lampshade and a brightly lit corner of the table. Podtyaginsat hunched, his gray head bowed, twirling a leather cigarette case in his hands. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking about: whether it was about the dullness of his past life; or whether old age, illness and poverty had risen
“Do you know, Anton Sergeyevich, today I remembered those old magazines which used to print your poetry. And the birch groves.”
“Did you really?” The old man turned to him with a look of good-natured irony. “What a fool I was—for the sake of those birch trees I wasted all my life, I overlooked the whole of Russia. Now, thank God, I’ve stopped writing poetry. Done with it. I even feel ashamed at describing myself as ‘poet’ when I have to fill in forms. By the way, I made a complete mess of things again today. The official was even offended. I shall have to go again tomorrow.”
Ganin looked at his feet and said, “When I was in the upper forms my schoolmates thought I had a mistress. And what a mistress—a society lady. They respected me for it. I didn’t object, because it was I who started the rumor.”
“I see,” Podtyagin nodded. “There’s something artful about you, Lyovushka. I like it.”
“In actual fact I was absurdly chaste and felt none the worse for it either. I was proud of it, like a special secret, yet everybody thought I was very experienced. Mind you, I certainly wasn’t prudish or shy. I was simply happy living as I was and waiting. And my schoolmates, the ones who used foul language and panted at the very word ‘woman,’ were all so spotty and dirty, with sweaty palms. I despised them for their spots. And they lied revoltingly about their amorous adventures.”
“I must confess,” said Podtyagin in his lacklustre voice, “that I began with a chambermaid. She was so sweet and gentle, with gray eyes. Her name was Glasha. That’s the way it goes.”
“No, I waited,” said Ganin softly. “From the onset of puberty to sixteen, say, three years. When I was thirteen wewere playing hide-and-seek once and I and another boy of the same age found ourselves hiding together in a wardrobe. In the darkness he told me that there were marvelous beauties who allowed themselves to be undressed for money. I didn’t properly hear what he called them and I thought it was ‘prinstitute’—a mixture of princess and young ladies’ institute. So I had an entrancing, mysterious mental image of them. But then of course I soon realized how mistaken I had been because I saw nothing attractive about the women who strolled up and down the Nevski rolling their hips and called us high-school boys ‘pencils.’ And so after three years of proud chastity my wait came to an end. It was in summer, at our place in the country.”
“Yes, yes,” said Podtyagin. “I can see it all. Rather hackneyed, though. Sweet sixteen, love in the woods.”
Ganin looked at him with curiosity. “But what could be nicer, Anton Sergeyevich?”
“Oh, I don’t know, don’t ask me, my dear chap. I put everything into my poetry that I should have put into my life, and now it’s too late for me to start all over again. The only thought that occurs to me at the moment is that in the final reckoning it’s better to have been sanguine by temperament, a man of action, and if you must get drunk do it properly and smash the place up.”
“There was that too,” Ganin smiled.
Podtyagin thought for a moment. “You were talking about the Russian countryside, Lev Glebovich. You, I expect, will probably see it again. But I shall leave my old bones here. Or if not here then in Paris. I seem to be thoroughly out of sorts today. Forgive me.”
Both were silent. A train passed. Far, far away a locomotive gave a wild, inconsolable scream. The night was a cold blue outside the uncurtained windowpanes, which reflected the lampshade and a brightly lit corner of the table. Podtyaginsat hunched, his gray head bowed, twirling a leather cigarette case in his hands. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking about: whether it was about the dullness of his past life; or whether old age, illness and poverty had risen
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