Short Fiction by Vsevolod Garshin (always you kirsty moseley TXT) 📕

And give me a big bottle. Here you are, pay for it all and take a couple of dvu-grivenniks4 for yourself. In an hour’s time send me home in an izvoschik.5 Do you know where I live?”

“I know.⁠ ⁠… Only, sir, what does it all mean?”

He evidently could not understand. It was the first experience of the kind in all his long career.

“No, wait a bit; better for me to do it.”

Ivan Ivanovich went out into the passage, put on his coat, and going out on to the street, turned in at a wine-vault in the low window of which, brilliantly lighted up by the gaslight, were bottles with various coloured labels, tastefully arranged in a layer of moss. A minute later he came out carrying two bottles, went to his lodging, which he had in some furnished rooms, and locked himself in.

III

I have again forgotten and again I am awake. Three weeks of incessant debauchery! How do I stand it? Today my head, bones, every part of my body is aching. Remorse, boredom, fruitless and tormenting arguing! If only someone would come!

As if in answer to my thought a ring at the door sounded. “Is Evgenia at home?” “At home; come in, please,” I heard the voice of the cook reply. Uneven, hurried steps resounded along the corridor, the door flew open, and through it appeared Ivan Ivanovich.

He was not at all like the timid, bashful man who had come to see me two months ago. His hat was on the side of his head, he wore a bright-coloured tie, and a self-assured, insolent expression. His gait was staggering, and he smelt strongly of liquor.

Nadejda Nicolaievna jumped up from her seat.

“How do you do?” he began. “I have come to see you.”

And he sat down on a chair near the door, without taking off his hat or overcoat. She said nothing and he said no more. Had he not been drunk she would have found something to say, but now she lost her presence of mind. Whilst she was thinking what to do, he again spoke.

“Nadia! See, I have come.⁠ ⁠… I have the right!” he suddenly shouted out, and drew himself up to his full height. His hat fell off, and his black hair fell in disorder on to his face, his eyes blazed. His whole appearance expressed such delirium that for a moment Nadejda Nicolaievna was frightened.

She tried to speak tenderly with him.

“Listen, Ivan Ivanovich, I shall be very pleased if you will come another time, only go home now. You have had too much to drink. Be a good fellow and go home. Come and see me when you are well.”

“She is frightened,” Ivan Ivanovich muttered half to himself, again sitting down on the chair⁠—tamed! “But why are you hunting me away?” he broke out again fiercely. “Why? I began to drink through you; I used to be sober! Why do you draw me to you, tell me?”

He wept. Drunken tears stifled him, trickled down his face, falling into his mouth contorted with sobbing. He could scarcely speak.

“Another woman would consider it a piece of fortune to be taken out of this hell. I would slave for you like a bullock. You would live without care, quietly and honourably. Tell me, what have I done to merit your hatred?”

Nadejda Nicolaievna kept silent.

“Why are you silent?” he yelled. “Speak, say something!⁠—anything you like, only say something. I am drunk⁠—that’s true.⁠ ⁠… I should not have come here if I were not. Do you know how afraid I am of you when I am sober? You can do what you like with me. Tell me to steal⁠—I’ll steal. Tell me to kill⁠—I’ll kill. Do you know this? Of course you know! You are clever and see everything. If you do not know it⁠ ⁠… Nadia, Nadia, my heart’s darling, pity me!”

And he threw himself on to his knees before her. But she sat motionless, resting against the wall, with her head thrown back and her hands behind her back. Her eyes were fixed on some faraway point. Did she see anything? Did she hear anything? What were her feelings at the sight of this man who had thrown himself at her feet and was imploring her love? Pity? Contempt? She wanted to pity him, but felt she could not. He only excited her aversion. And could he have excited any other feeling in this pitiful state?⁠—drunk, dirty, abjectly imploring?

He had already for some days past given up going to his work. He drank every day. Finding consolation in drink, he began to follow the object of his passion less, and sat all the time at home drinking and trying to muster up courage to go to her and tell her all. What he would say to her he did not himself know. “I will tell her everything, open my soul,” flashed through his fuddled head. At length he made up his mind, went and began to speak. Even through the mist of his drunkenness he realized that he was saying and doing things not at all calculated to inspire love towards him, but all the same, he went on speaking, feeling that with every word he was falling lower and lower, and drawing the noose tighter and tighter around his neck.

He spoke long and disjointedly. His speech became slower and slower, and finally his drunken, swollen eyelids closed, and with his head thrown back against the chair, he fell asleep.

Nadejda Nicolaievna remained in her former pose, vacantly gazing at the ceiling, drumming with her fingers on the wallpaper.

“Am I sorry for him? No. What can I do for him? Marry him? Dare I? Would it not be the same selling of myself? Yes⁠—no, it would be even worse!”

She did not know why it would be worse, but felt it.

“Now, I am at least frank. Anyone may strike me. Have I not suffered insults? But then, how would I