Short Fiction - Vsevolod Garshin (my miracle luna book free read .TXT) 📗

“Madame Nadedja Nicolaievna,

“Although I thoroughly understand that I am nothing to you, I nevertheless believe that you are a nice girl and will not want to offend me. For the first and last time I beg you to come and see me, as today is my name-day. I have no relations, no friends. I implore you to come. I give you my word I will say nothing displeasing or offensive. Pity your devoted

“Ivan Nikitin.

“P.S.⁠—I cannot think of my recent behaviour in your rooms without shame. Come today at six o’clock. I enclose my address.⁠—I. N.”

What does this mean? He has had the courage to write to me. There is something behind it all. What does he want to do with me? Shall I go or not?

It is difficult to decide⁠—go or not? If he wants to lure me into a trap, either to kill me or⁠ ⁠… but if he kills me, all is ended.

I will go.

I will dress more plainly and modestly, wash the rouge and powder off my face. It will be more pleasing to him. I will do my hair more plainly. How my hair has fallen out! I did my hair, put on a black woollen dress, a black scarf, white collar and cuffs, and went to the glass to look at myself.

I almost cried out at seeing in it a woman not at all like the Evgenia who performs indecent dances so well at various cafés. It was not the impudent, berouged cocotte with smiling face, flash puffed-out chignon, and pencilled lashes. This draggled and suffering woman, pale-faced and melancholy-looking, with big black eyes and dark circles around them, is something quite new⁠—it is not I. But perhaps it is I. And that Evgenia whom all see and know is something strange, mocking me, pressing me, killing me.

And I really cried. I cried long and bitterly. They have assured me since babyhood that one feels easier after crying, but this cannot be true for all, because I do not feel easier, but worse. Every sob hurts me, every tear is a bitter one. To those who have still some hope of peace and of being cured such tears perhaps give relief; but what hope have I?

I dried my tears and started off.

I found the address without any difficulty, and the Finnish maidservant showed me Ivan Ivanovich’s door.

“May I come in?”

There was a sound in the room of a drawer being hurriedly shut. “Come in!” Ivan Ivanovich called out quickly. I entered. He was sitting at a writing-table and was sealing an envelope. He did not seem even to be glad to see me.

“How do you do, Ivan Ivanovich?” I said.

“How do you do, Nadejda Nicolaievna?” he replied, rising and putting out his hand. A gleam of tenderness flashed across his face when I put out my hand, but disappeared immediately. He was serious and even severe. “Thank you for coming.”

“Why did you ask me?” I inquired.

“My goodness, surely you know what it means to me to see you! But that is an unpleasant topic for you.”

We sat down and kept silent. The Finn maid brought a samovar. Ivan Ivanovich gave me some tea and sugar. Then he placed some jam, biscuits, sweets, and half a bottle of wine on the table.

“Forgive me for this ‘treat’ Nadejda Nicolaievna. Perhaps it is displeasing to you, but don’t be angry. Be kind, make and pour out the tea. Eat something⁠—there are the sweets and wine.”

I began to do the duties of hostess, and he sat opposite me so that his face was in the shade, and began to gaze at me. I felt his eyes fixed steadily on me, and felt that I was getting red.

For a moment I raised my eyes, but dropped them again directly because he continued to look me straight in the face. What does it mean? Surely the surroundings, the modest black dress, the absence of impudent people and stupid talk has not affected me so strongly that I have once more turned into a demure and confused girl, such as I was two years ago? I was annoyed, vexed with myself.

“Tell me, please, why are you poking your eyes out at me like that for?” I said, with an effort, but bravely.

Ivan Ivanovich jumped up and began to walk about the room.

“Nadejda Nicolaievna, don’t be common. Be just for an hour as you were when you arrived.”

“But I don’t understand why you have sent for me. Surely not merely to sit and look at me and say nothing.”

“Yes, Nadejda Nicolaievna, only for this. It at least does not give you any special annoyance, and it comforts me to look at you⁠—for the last time. It was so good of you to come in that dress. I did not expect that, and I am still more grateful to you for it.”

“But why for the last time, Ivan Ivanovich?”

“I am going away.”

“Where?”

“Far away, Nadejda Nicolaievna. It is not my name-day at all today. I don’t know why I wrote that. I simply wanted to see you once more. First, I meant to have gone out and waited until I met you, but afterwards I decided to beg you to come here. And you were good enough to come. God grant you happiness!”

“There is little happiness ahead for me, Ivan Ivanovich.”

“Yes, that is true, for you there is little happiness. But you know better than I what is ahead of you.⁠ ⁠…” His voice trembled. “I am better off,” he added, “because I am going away.” And his voice trembled still more.

I began to feel inexpressibly sorry for him. Was it just all the bad I had felt against him? Why had I pushed him away so coarsely and harshly? But now it was already too late for regrets.

I got up and began to put on my things. Ivan Ivanovich jumped up as if stung.

“You are going