Short Fiction by Fyodor Sologub (hot novels to read txt) 📕

“Nor I either,” said her husband.

“But,” insisted the stranger, “don’t you think that these people are just like wooden dolls and that they play without understanding the music just as in all probability they don’t understand anything of their beautiful surroundings?”

Agnes Rudolfovna shook her head as she answered:

“If they didn’t understand the music they couldn’t play so well.”

“No,” said the old professor, “their lack of understanding would be bound to show itself in their playing. And I think, or rather I am convinced, that they don’t make any mistakes. At least my ear doesn’t distinguish any false notes, and though I can’t call myself a musician I understand something about music and I play a little myself.”

Agnes Rudolfovna looked tenderly at her husband.

“Edward plays excellently,” said she. “He has a good touch and an irreproachable ear.”

Professor Roggenfeldt kissed his wife’s hand and said:

“Well, well, we won’t exaggerate. But they certainly play very accurately.”

“Accurately!” exclaimed the stranger. “It would be better if they made mistakes and confused the time, if only they didn’t play so soullessly. Don’t you think it would be better if these people didn’t play at all? Just look at them⁠—isn’t it dreadful to watch their wooden movements? The dancers are obliged to move stiffly and the children are as immovable as in a trance. Look, isn’t it as if some cruel devil had changed human beings into marionettes!”

Professor Roggenfeldt looked at the stranger in some perplexity, and then looking again at the musicians he said:

“I think you exaggerate a little. Of course it’s not a first-class band, and Nikish is not there to conduct, but I don’t think they deserve such a cruel attack.”

The stranger seemed a little confused.

“No, that’s true,” said he. “I was exaggerating. Please forgive me. You are quite right. But it’s dreadful to look upon these good devils. I must go away from such a sight.”

He raised his hat again, and, walking off quickly in the direction from which he had come, was soon out of sight.

The old couple looked at one another and both smiled.

“What a strange person!” said the professor.

“Yes, very strange,” agreed his wife. “He expects far too much from these simple peasants. They can only do what is in their power and give what they are able to give.”

“No, they can’t give more,” said the professor.

They were silent and looked once more at the dancers. At length Professor Roggenfeldt said:

“It’s true they play without any vivacity. And the young people dance very languidly to their music. If you remember, Agnes, we used not to dance like that. The poet is right indeed when he says that the world is growing wiser, but colder.”

Agnes smiled but did not reply. Her delicate youthful-looking face was again suffused with a slight blush.

Presently there came an interval between two dances. The lame conductor talked to the dancers, and a ringing voice was heard:

“A mazurka, a mazurka, please.”

Agnes turned to her husband, and in a strangely agitated way began to speak.

“Edward,” said she, “I used to think, or rather I used to feel, in the same way as this strange gentleman. Yes, in just the same way, and I even more than he. The measured beat of life bored me and I did what he advocates. I made a daring, but a false, note.”

The old professor shook his fine grey head and smiled as he said gently:

“No, Agnes, you have played your part well. Your partner has never been put out of tune through your mistakes.”

But the old lady showed still greater agitation. She nearly wept as she said:

“No, no, Edward, you don’t know. I have been silent for a long time, but today I have resolved to tell you all. And that’s the reason why Doctor Horn hasn’t come.”

And still trembling, and with difficulty keeping back her tears, the old lady began hurriedly to tell the story of what had happened to her so many years before, on one clear and perfumed night of May, when she had deceived her husband and allowed his friend Bernard Horn to make love to her.

“It was in the third year of our married life,” said Agnes. “We lived here during the first summer, and there were few other visitors, so it was sometimes difficult to get provisions. But because our young friend Bernard Horn⁠—he wasn’t a doctor then⁠—often went into the town, he used to get things for us as well as for himself. You were indoors a good deal, for you were very busy then, finishing your thesis for your doctor’s degree. In the evenings, when it didn’t rain, we used to go for walks, and our young friend Bernard often accompanied us. One evening at the end of May you didn’t want to go as usual. You were so much interested in an article in a magazine which had come that day from Brussels that we couldn’t tear you away from it, and we went off by ourselves, laughing and chattering together.”

“Yes, yes,” said Edward Roggenfeldt quietly. “The author had so mixed his true judgments with paradoxes that even now I haven’t forgotten the article. I sat over it a long time, looked up some points in several other books, and then in consequence wrote three superfluous pages of my thesis. Superfluous, that is, in comparison with my original idea, but as I think not entirely superfluous in essence.”

He was silent for a few moments and then went on:

“However, half an hour after your departure I came after you. I remember it was a lovely evening. I wanted to think over some matter, and I walked along the shore where the sea made scarcely a splash on the sand. But afterwards I returned and sat down to my books again.”

“Bernard and I walked to the West Cape,” continued Agnes. “The sunset that night was wonderful. I don’t think ever before or since have I seen such a magnificent sky, such a sea, and such