Short Fiction - Fyodor Sologub (best romance ebooks .txt) 📗

be difficult for two people to live in Petersburg on the money your father allows you.

“Especially with a princess.

“You must remember that in spite of her sweet ways she’s probably accustomed to live in good style.

“She has very small soft hands. True, she has been very modest here, and you say she was barefoot when you met her first and had very little clothing. But we don’t know what kind of garments she will want to wear in a town.”

Peter Antònovitch himself was rather pessimistic at first. But by and by he remembered how he had found a dress for Turandina in the little bag. A bold thought came into his mind, and he smiled and said:

“I found a house-frock for Turandina in her little bag. Perhaps if I were to rummage in it again I might find a ball-dress for her.”

But the teacher’s wife, a kind young woman with a genius for housekeeping, said:

“Much better if you could find some money. If only she had five hundred roubles we could manage to get her a good trousseau.”

“We ought to find five hundred thousand⁠—for a princess’s dowry,” said Peter Antònovitch, laughing.

“Oh, a hundred thousand would be quite enough for you,” laughed his cousin in reply.

Just then Turandina came quietly up the steps leading from the garden, and Peter Antònovitch called to her and said:

“Turandina, show me your little bag, dear. Perhaps you have a hundred thousand roubles there.”

Turandina held out her little bag to him and said:

“If it’s necessary, you will find it in the bag.”

And Peter Antònovitch again put his hand into the little bag and drew forth a large packet of notes. He began to count them, but without counting he could see they represented a large quantity of money.

VII

So this great fairytale came into the young man’s life. And though it didn’t seem well suited to the taking-in of a fairytale, yet room was found for it somewhere. The fairytale bought a place in his life⁠—with its own charm and the treasures of the enchanted bag.

Turandina and the young lawyer were married. And Turandina had first a little son and then a daughter. The boy was like his mother, and grew up to be a gentle dreamy child. The girl was like her father, gay and intelligent.

And so the years went by. Every summer, when the days were at their longest, a strange melancholy overshadowed Turandina. She used to go out in the mornings to the edge of the forest and stand there listening to the forest voices. And after some time she would walk home again slowly and sadly.

And once, standing there at midday, she heard a loud voice calling to her:

“Turandina, come. Your father has forgiven you.”

And so she went away and never returned. Her little son was then seven years old and her daughter three.

Thus the fairytale departed from this life and never came back. But Turandina’s little son never forgot his mother.

Sometimes he would wander away by himself so as to be quite alone. And when he came home again there was such an expression upon his face that the teacher’s wife said to her husband in a whisper:

“He has been with Turandina.”

Lohengrin I

Mashenka Pestryàkova was a young and pretty girl, dreamy in temperament, and by no means intellectual. Her nose was a little upturned, her eyes grey and vivacious, and in the Spring she had freckles on her cheeks, under her eyes, and on her nose. She lived with her mother and brother in Pea Street, in the same house in which Oblomof once lived. She taught in a sort of private school, and received her meagre salary at irregular intervals. She was very fond of going to the opera, and liked best of all to hear Wagner.

Mashenka’s mother had a small pension, which she augmented by selling some books on commission and by letting apartments. They gave up three rooms of their house in this way and used the rest themselves. The little brother went to school every day, and Mashenka helped him with his lessons in the evening and gave part of her salary to her mother.

Mashenka often let her thoughts wander into vague and pleasant reveries. Sometimes these reveries would take a more definite form, and the sweet image of her dream would be identified with one or other of her youthful acquaintances. Then for a while meetings with the new friend would be very agreeable to her. But the friendship never lasted very long.

The reality was always disappointing. The actual happening was so different from her own beautiful vision of life. Instead of listening to passionate glowing words like those which sound so attractive in the pages of a novel and are so charming when sung by Sobinof on the stage of the Marinsky Theatre⁠—so different from the usual sounds of life in Pea Street⁠—her companion would speak in a dull and prosaic way about their own doings or those of their neighbours, would utter words about money, words of blame, envious sneers, spiteful gossip, sometimes even compliment her in an embarrassing way. Then the dear figure of her dream would grow dim and become no longer attractive, and there would be days when Mashenka didn’t want to dream about anything or anybody; she would only feel apathetic and bored. Then she would look forward to the next meeting. And next time she would be disappointed again.

And yet in spite of this someone did come and take possession of Mashenka’s soul⁠—a rather ugly young man, short and awkward, and delicate in health, with weak eyes that seemed to blink continuously, thin reddish hair, meagre reddish whiskers, and scanty beard. He dressed himself neatly and carefully, wore a cornelian stone ring on his finger and a pearl pin in his mauve or green necktie, but his dress showed neither special taste nor abundance of means.

For a long time Mashenka did not know his real name nor his