The Torrents Of Spring

‘Isn’t it the truth? Isn’t it the truth?’ Maria Nikolaevna pronounced
insistently.
‘Come, look me in the face and tell me I was wrong!’
Sanin did not know what to do with his eyes. ‘Well, if you like; it’s the
truth, if you absolutely insist upon it,’ he said at last.
Maria Nikolaevna shook her head. ‘Quite so, quite so. Well, and did
you ask yourself, you who can swim, what could be the reason of such a
strange … step on the part of a woman, not poor … and not a fool … and
not ugly? All that does not interest you, perhaps, but no matter. I’ll tell
you the reason not this minute, but directly the entr’acte is over. I am in
continual uneasiness for fear some one should come in… .’
Maria Nikolaevna had hardly uttered this last word when the outer
door actually was half opened, and into the box was thrust a head – red,
oily, perspiring, still young, but toothless; with sleek long hair, a pendent
nose, huge ears like a bat’s, with gold spectacles on inquisitive dull eyes,
and a pince-nez over the spectacles. The head looked round, saw Maria
Nikolaevna, gave a nasty grin, nodded… . A scraggy neck craned in after
it… .
Maria Nikolaevna shook her handkerchief at it. ‘I’m not at home! Ich
bin nicht zu Hause, Herr P… .! Ich bin nicht zu Hause… . Ksh-sk! ksh-sh-sh!’
The head was disconcerted, gave a forced laugh, said with a sort of
sob, in imitation of Liszt, at whose feet he had once reverently grovelled,
‘Sehr gut, sehr gut!’ and vanished.
‘What is that object?’ inquired Sanin.
‘Oh, a Wiesbaden critic. A literary man or a flunkey, as you like. He is
in the pay of a local speculator here, and so is bound to praise everything
and be ecstatic over every one, though for his part he is soaked through
and through with the nastiest venom, to which he does not dare to give
vent. I am afraid he’s an awful scandalmonger; he’ll run at once to tell
every one I’m in the theatre. Well, what does it matter?’
The orchestra played through a waltz, the curtain floated up again… .
The grimacing and whimpering began again on the stage.
‘Well,’ began Maria Nikolaevna, sinking again on to the sofa. ‘Since
you are here and obliged to sit with me, instead of enjoying the society of
your betrothed – don’t turn away your eyes and get cross – I understand
you, and have promised already to let you go to the other end of the
earth – but now hear my confession. Do you care to know what I like
more than anything?’
‘Freedom,’ hazarded Sanin.
Maria Nikolaevna laid her hand on his hand.
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