In these strong, healthy, cheerful people how wonderfully balanced everything is, how finished and smooth is everything in their minds and souls! They sing, and have a passion for the theatre, and draw, and talk a great deal, and drink, and they don't have headaches the day after; they are both poetical and debauched, both soft and hard; they can work, too, and be indignant, and laugh without reason, and talk nonsense; they are warm, honest, self-sacrificing, and as men are in no way inferior to himself, Vassilyev, who watched over every step he took and every word he uttered, who was fastidious and cautious, and ready to raise every trifle to the level of a problem.And he longed for one evening to live as his friends did, to open out, to let himself loose from his own control.If vodka had to be drunk, he would drink it, though his head would be splitting next morning.If he were taken to the women he would go.He would laugh, play the fool, gaily respond to the passing advances of strangers in the street....
He went out of the restaurant laughing.He liked his friends --one in a crushed broad-brimmed hat, with an affectation of artistic untidiness; the other in a sealskin cap, a man not poor, though he affected to belong to the Bohemia of learning.He liked the snow, the pale street lamps, the sharp black tracks left in the first snow by the feet of the passers-by.He liked the air, and especially that limpid, tender, naive, as it were virginal tone, which can be seen in nature only twice in the year -- when everything is covered with snow, and in spring on bright days and moonlight evenings when the ice breaks on the river.
"Against my will an unknown force, Has led me to these mournful shores,"he hummed in an undertone.
And the tune for some reason haunted him and his friends all the way, and all three of them hummed it mechanically, not in time with one another.
Vassilyev's imagination was picturing how, in another ten minutes, he and his friends would knock at a door; how by little dark passages and dark rooms they would steal in to the women;how, taking advantage of the darkness, he would strike a match, would light up and see the face of a martyr and a guilty smile.
The unknown, fair or dark, would certainly have her hair down and be wearing a white dressing-jacket; she would be panic-stricken by the light, would be fearfully confused, and would say: "For God's sake, what are you doing! Put it out!" It would all be dreadful, but interesting and new.
II
The friends turned out of Trubnoy Square into Gratchevka, and soon reached the side street which Vassilyev only knew by reputation.Seeing two rows of houses with brightly lighted windows and wide-open doors, and hearing gay strains of pianos and violins, sounds which floated out from every door and mingled in a strange chaos, as though an unseen orchestra were tuning up in the darkness above the roofs, Vassilyev was surprised and said:
"What a lot of houses!"
"That's nothing," said the medical student."In London there are ten times as many.There are about a hundred thousand such women there."The cabmen were sitting on their boxes as calmly and indifferently as in any other side street; the same passers-by were walking along the pavement as in other streets.No one was hurrying, no one was hiding his face in his coat-collar, no one shook his head reproachfully....And in this indifference to the noisy chaos of pianos and violins, to the bright windows and wide-open doors, there was a feeling of something very open, insolent, reckless, and devil-may-care.Probably it was as gay and noisy at the slave-markets in their day, and people's faces and movements showed the same indifference.
"Let us begin from the beginning," said the artist.
The friends went into a narrow passage lighted by a lamp with a reflector.When they opened the door a man in a black coat, with an unshaven face like a flunkey's, and sleepy-looking eyes, got up lazily from a yellow sofa in the hall.The place smelt like a laundry with an odor of vinegar in addition.A door from the hall led into a brightly lighted room.The medical student and the artist stopped at this door and, craning their necks, peeped into the room.
"Buona sera, signori, rigolleto -- hugenotti -- traviata!" began the artist, with a theatrical bow.
"Havanna -- tarakano -- pistoleto!" said the medical student, pressing his cap to his breast and bowing low.
Vassilyev was standing behind them.He would have liked to make a theatrical bow and say something silly, too, but he only smiled, felt an awkwardness that was like shame, and waited impatiently for what would happen next.
A little fair girl of seventeen or eighteen, with short hair, in a short light-blue frock with a bunch of white ribbon on her bosom, appeared in the doorway.
"Why do you stand at the door?" she said."Take off your coats and come into the drawing-room."The medical student and the artist, still talking Italian, went into the drawing-room.Vassilyev followed them irresolutely.
"Gentlemen, take off your coats!" the flunkey said sternly; "you can't go in like that."In the drawing-room there was, besides the girl, another woman, very stout and tall, with a foreign face and bare arms.She was sitting near the piano, laying out a game of patience on her lap.
She took no notice whatever of the visitors.
"Where are the other young ladies?" asked the medical student.
"They are having their tea," said the fair girl."Stepan," she called, "go and tell the young ladies some students have come!"A little later a third young lady came into the room.She was wearing a bright red dress with blue stripes.Her face was painted thickly and unskillfully, her brow was hidden under her hair, and there was an unblinking, frightened stare in her eyes.
As she came in, she began at once singing some song in a coarse, powerful contralto.After her a fourth appeared, and after her a fifth....
