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

that, I remember some things, and such things as the story of Charlotte Corday it is impossible to forget.”

“Where were you at school, Nadejda Nicolaievna?”

“Why do you want to know? If possible, let us begin.”

Her tone suddenly changed. She spoke these words jerkily and gloomily, as she had spoken the night before to Bezsonow.

I said nothing. Having got out of a cupboard the dark-blue dress long ago made by me, the cap, and all the accessories of the costume of Charlotte Corday, I begged her to go into the next room and change. I had scarcely got everything ready when she came back. Before me stood my picture!

“Ah, my goodness, gracious me!” I exclaimed, with enthusiasm. “How grand it is! Tell me, Nadejda Nicolaievna, have we not seen each other before? Otherwise it is impossible to explain it. I pictured this subject to myself just exactly as you look now. I think I have seen you somewhere. Your face must unconsciously have impressed itself on my memory.⁠ ⁠… Tell me, where have I seen you?”

“Where could you have seen me?” she asked in return. “I do not know; I never met you before last night. Begin, please. Put me as you want me; paint.” I begged her to stand, arranged the folds of the dress, lightly touched her hands, giving to them that helpless position which I always pictured to myself, and went to the easel.

She stood before me.⁠ ⁠… She stands before me now, there on the canvas.⁠ ⁠… She is looking at me as if alive. She has the same sorrowful and thoughtful expression, the same tokens of death on the pale face as on that morning. I wiped off all the charcoal from the canvas, and rapidly sketched in Nadejda Nicolaievna. Then I began to paint. Never before or since have I worked so quickly and successfully. The time flew by unnoticed, and only after an hour, when glancing at my model’s face, I noticed that she was on the point of falling from fatigue.

“Forgive, forgive me⁠ ⁠…” I said, leading her down from the dais on which she was standing, and sitting her in a chair. “I have quite worn you out.”

“Never mind,” she replied, pale, but smiling. “If one earns one’s living, one must suffer a little. I am glad that you were so engrossed. May I look?” said she, nodding her head towards the picture, the face of which she could not see.

“Of course, of course!”

“Oh, what a daub!” she cried. “I have never before seen the beginning of an artist’s work. But how interesting!⁠ ⁠… And, do you know, even in this mess I see what it will be.⁠ ⁠… You have thought out a good picture, Andrei Nicolaievich. I will try to do all to make it a success⁠ ⁠… so far as it depends on me.”

“What can you do?”

“I told you yesterday.⁠ ⁠… I will put on the expression. It will make the work easier.⁠ ⁠…”

She quickly went to her place, raised her head, dropped her white hands, and on her face was reflected all that I had dreamt of for my picture. Determination and longing, pride and fear, love and hate⁠ ⁠… all were there.

“Like that?” she asked. “If like that, then I will stand as long as you like.”

“I do not want anything better, Nadejda Nicolaievna; but, surely, it will be difficult for you to keep up that expression for long. Thank you. We will see. It is still far from that.⁠ ⁠… May I ask you to have lunch with me?”

She refused for a long time, but at last consented.

My faithful old nurse, Agatha Alexeievna, brought in the lunch, and we for the first time sat at table together. How often did this happen afterwards!⁠ ⁠… Nadejda Nicolaievna ate little and kept silent. She was evidently embarrassed. I poured her out a glass of wine; she drank it off almost at a gulp. The crimson played on her pallid cheeks.

“Tell me,” she suddenly asked, “have you known Bezsonow long?”

I did not expect this question. Recalling all that had passed between me and Bezsonow about her, I felt confused.

“Why do you blush? But never mind; only answer my question.”

“A long time, since childhood.”

“Is he a good man?”

“Yes, in my opinion he is a good man. He is honourable, and works hard. He is very talented. He behaves very well to his mother.”

“He has a mother? Where is she?”

“In ⸻. She has a little house there. He sends her money, and sometimes goes there himself. I have never seen a mother more in love with her son.”

“Why does he not bring her here?”

“Apparently she does not want to come.⁠ ⁠… But I do not know.⁠ ⁠… She has her house there, and is accustomed to the place.”

“That is not true,” said Nadejda Nicolaievna musingly. “He will not bring his mother here because he thinks she will be in the way. I do not know, but only think so.⁠ ⁠… She embarrasses him. She is a provincial, the widow of some small chinovnik.13 She would shock him.”

She pronounced the “shock” bitterly and deliberately.

“I do not like the man, Andrei Nicolaievich,” she said.

“Why? He is, all the same, a good fellow.”

“I do not like him.⁠ ⁠… I am afraid of him.⁠ ⁠… Well, never mind; let us get to work.”

She went to her place. The short autumn day was drawing to a close.

I worked up to twilight, giving Nadejda Nicolaievna a rest now and then, and only when the paints began to become mingled in their colours, and the model standing before me on the dais had already become merged in the darkness, did I lay down my brushes.⁠ ⁠… Nadejda Nicolaievna changed her dress and went.

VIII