Alone, Ganin settled more comfortably in the old green armchair and smiled reflectively. He had called on the old poet because he was probably the only person who might understand his disturbed state. He wanted to tell him about many things — about sunsets over a highroad in Russia, about birch groves. He was, after all, that same Podtyagin whose verses were to be found beneath little vignettes in old bound volumes of magazines like
Anton Sergeyevich returned, gloomily shaking his head. ‘He insulted me,’ he said, sitting down at the table and drumming on it with his fingers. ‘Oh, how he insulted me.’
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Ganin.
Anton Sergeyevich took off his pince-nez and polished it with the edge of the tablecloth.
‘He despises me, that’s what’s the matter. Do you know what he said to me just now? He gave me one of his cold, sarcastic little smiles and he said, “You’ve been spending your time scribbling poetry and I haven’t read a word of it. If I had read it I would have wasted the time when I could have been working.” That’s what he said to me, Lev Glebovich; I ask you — is that an intelligent thing to say?’
‘What is he?’ asked Ganin.
‘Deuce knows. He makes money. Ah, well. You see, he’s a person who —’
‘But what’s there to feel insulted about? He has one talent, you have another. Anyway, I’ll bet you despise him too.’
‘But Lev Glebovich,’ Podtyagin fretted, ‘am I not right to despise him? It’s not that which is so awful — the awful thing is that a man like him dares to offer me money.’
He opened his clenched fist and threw a crumpled banknote onto the table.
‘And the awful thing is that I took it. Look and admire — twenty marks, God damn it.’
The old man seemed to quiver all over, his mouth was opening and shutting, the little gray beard under his lower lip twitching, his fat fingers drumming on the table. Then he sighed with a painful wheezing sound and shook his head.
‘Peter Kunitsyn. Yes, I still remember. He was good in school, the rascal. And always so punctual, with a watch in his pocket. During classes he used to hold up his fingers to show how many more minutes until the bell rang. Graduated from high school with a gold medal.’
‘It must be strange for you, remembering that,’ said Ganin pensively. ‘Come to think of it, it’s even odd to remember some everyday thing — though really not everyday at all — something that happened a few hours ago.’
Podtyagin gave him a keen but kindly look. ‘What’s happened to you, Lev Glebovich? Your face looks somehow brighter. Have you fallen in love again? Yes, there is a strangeness about the way we remember things. How nicely you beam, dash it.’
‘I had a good reason for coming to see you, Anton Sergeyevich.’
And all I could offer you was Kunitsyn. Let him be a warning to you. How did
‘So-so,’ said Ganin, smiling again. ‘The Balashov academy in Petersburg — know it?’ he went on, slipping into Podtyagin’s tone of voice, as one often does when talking to an old man. ‘I remember the schoolyard. We used to play football there. There was firewood piled up under an archway and now and again the ball used to knock down a log.’
‘We preferred bat-and-tag, and cossacks-and-robbers,’ said Podtyagin. ‘And now life has gone,’ he added unexpectedly.
‘Do you know, Anton Sergeyevich, today I remembered those old magazines which used to print your poetry. And the birch groves.’
‘Did you really?’ The old man turned to him with a look of good-natured irony. ‘What a fool I was — for the sake of those birch trees I wasted all my life, I overlooked the whole of Russia. Now, thank God, I’ve stopped writing poetry. Done with it. I even feel ashamed at describing myself as “poet” when I have to fill in forms. By the way, I made a complete mess of things again today. The official was even offended. I shall have to go again tomorrow.’
Ganin looked at his feet and said, ‘When I was in the upper forms my schoolmates thought I had a mistress. And what a mistress — a society lady. They respected me for it. I didn’t object, because it was I who started the rumor.’
‘I see,’ Podtyagin nodded. ‘There’s something artful about you, Lyovushka. I like it.’
‘In actual fact I was absurdly chaste and felt none the worse for it either. I was proud of it, like a special secret, yet everybody thought I was very experienced. Mind you, I certainly wasn’t prudish or shy. I was simply happy living as I was and waiting. And my schoolmates, the ones who used foul language and panted at the very word “woman,” were all so spotty and dirty, with sweaty palms. I despised them for their spots. And they lied revoltingly about their amorous adventures.’
‘I must confess,’ said Podtyagin in his lacklustre voice, ‘that I began with a chambermaid. She was so sweet and gentle, with gray eyes. Her name was Glasha. That’s the way it goes.’
