I.
A SLOW JOURNEY
Again two carriages stood at the front door of the house at Petrovskoe.
In one of them sat Mimi, the two girls, and their maid, with the
bailiff, Jakoff, on the box, while in the other—a _britchka_—sat
Woloda, myself, and our servant Vassili. Papa, who was to follow us to
Moscow in a few days, was standing bareheaded on the entrance-steps. He
made the sign of the cross at the windows of the carriages, and said:
“Christ go with you! Good-bye.”
Jakoff and our coachman (for we had our own horses) lifted their caps
in answer, and also made the sign of the cross.
“Amen. God go with us!”
The carriages began to roll away, and the birch-trees of the great
avenue filed out of sight.
I was not in the least depressed on this occasion, for my mind was not
so much turned upon what I had left as upon what was awaiting me. In
proportion as the various objects connected with the sad recollections
which had recently filled my imagination receded behind me, those
recollections lost their power, and gave place to a consolatory feeling
of life, youthful vigour, freshness, and hope.
Seldom have I spent four days more—well, I will not say gaily, since I
should still have shrunk from appearing gay—but more agreeably and
pleasantly than those occupied by our journey.
No longer were my eyes confronted with the closed door of Mamma’s room
(which I had never been able to pass without a pang), nor with the
covered piano (which nobody opened now, and at which I could never look
without trembling), nor with mourning dresses (we had each of us on our
ordinary travelling clothes), nor with all those other objects which
recalled to me so vividly our irreparable loss, and forced me to
abstain from any manifestation of merriment lest I should unwittingly
offend against _her_ memory.
On the contrary, a continual succession of new and exciting objects and
places now caught and held my attention, and the charms of spring
awakened in my soul a soothing sense of satisfaction with the present
and of blissful hope for the future.
Very early next morning the merciless Vassili (who had only just
entered our service, and was therefore, like most people in such a
position, zealous to a fault) came and stripped off my counterpane,
affirming that it was time for me to get up, since everything was in
readiness for us to continue our journey. Though I felt inclined to
stretch myself and rebel—though I would gladly have spent another
quarter of an hour in sweet enjoyment of my morning slumber—Vassili’s
inexorable face showed that he would grant me no respite, but that he
was ready to tear away the counterpane twenty times more if necessary.
Accordingly I submitted myself to the inevitable and ran down into the
courtyard to wash myself at the fountain.
In the coffee-room, a tea-kettle was already surmounting the fire which
Milka the ostler, as red in the face as a crab, was blowing with a pair
of bellows. All was grey and misty in the courtyard, like steam from a
smoking dunghill, but in the eastern sky the sun was diffusing a clear,
cheerful radiance, and making the straw roofs of the sheds around the
courtyard sparkle with the night dew. Beneath them stood our horses,
tied to mangers, and I could hear the ceaseless sound of their chewing.
A curly-haired dog which had been spending the night on a dry dunghill
now rose in lazy fashion and, wagging its tail, walked slowly across
the courtyard.
The bustling landlady opened the creaking gates, turned her meditative
cows into the street (whence came the lowing and bellowing of other
cattle), and exchanged a word or two with a sleepy neighbour. Philip,
with his shirt-sleeves rolled up, was working the windlass of a
draw-well, and sending sparkling fresh water coursing into an oaken
trough, while in the pool beneath it some early-rising ducks were
taking a bath. It gave me pleasure to watch his strongly-marked,
bearded face, and the veins and muscles as they stood out upon his
great powerful hands whenever he made an extra effort. In the room
behind the partition-wall where Mimi and the girls had slept (yet so
near to ourselves that we had exchanged confidences overnight)
movements now became audible, their maid kept passing in and out with
clothes, and, at last the door opened and we were summoned to
breakfast. Woloda, however, remained in a state of bustle throughout as
he ran to fetch first one article and then another and urged the maid
to hasten her preparations.
The horses were put to, and showed their impatience by tinkling their
bells. Parcels, trunks, dressing-cases, and boxes were replaced, and we
set about taking our seats. Yet, every time that we got in, the
mountain of luggage in the _britchka_ seemed to have grown larger than
before, and we had much ado to understand how things had been arranged
yesterday, and how we should sit now. A tea-chest, in particular,
greatly inconvenienced me, but Vassili declared that “things will soon
right themselves,” and I had no choice but to believe him.
The sun was just rising, covered with dense white clouds, and every
object around us was standing out in a cheerful, calm sort of radiance.
The whole was beautiful to look at, and I felt comfortable and light of
heart.
Before us the road ran like a broad, sinuous ribbon through cornfields
glittering with dew. Here and there a dark bush or young birch-tree
cast a long shadow over the ruts and scattered grass-tufts of the
track. Yet even the monotonous din of our carriage-wheels and
collar-bells could not drown the joyous song of soaring larks, nor the
combined odour of moth-eaten cloth, dust, and sourness peculiar to our
_britchka_ overpower the fresh scents of the morning. I felt in my
heart that delightful impulse to be up and doing which is a sign of
sincere enjoyment.
As I had not been able to say my prayers in the courtyard of the inn,
but had nevertheless been assured once that on the very first day when
I omitted to perform that ceremony some misfortune would overtake me, I
now hastened to rectify the omission. Taking off my cap, and stooping
down in a corner of the _britchka_, I duly recited my orisons, and
unobtrusively signed the sign of the cross beneath my coat. Yet all the
while a thousand different objects were distracting my attention, and
more than once I inadvertently repeated a prayer twice over.
Soon on the little footpath beside the road became visible some slowly
moving figures. They were pilgrims. On their heads they had dirty
handkerchiefs, on their backs wallets of birch-bark, and on their feet
bundles of soiled rags and heavy bast shoes. Moving their staffs in
regular rhythm, and scarcely throwing us a glance, they pressed onwards
with heavy tread and in single file.
“Where have they come from?” I wondered to myself, “and whither are
they bound? Is it a long pilgrimage they are making?” But soon the
shadows they cast on the road became indistinguishable from the shadows
of the bushes which they passed.
Next a carriage-and-four could be seen approaching us. In two seconds
the faces which looked out at us from it with smiling curiosity had
vanished. How strange it seemed that those faces should have nothing in
common with me, and that in all probability they would never meet my
eyes again!
Next came a pair of post-horses, with the traces looped up to their
collars. On one of them a young postillion—his lamb’s wool cap cocked
to one side—was negligently kicking his booted legs against the flanks
of his steed as he sang a melancholy ditty. Yet his face and attitude
seemed to me to express such perfect carelessness and indolent ease
that I imagined it to be the height of happiness to be a postillion and
to sing melancholy songs.
Far off, through a cutting in the road, there soon stood out against
the light-blue sky, the green roof of a village church. Presently the
village itself became visible, together with the roof of the
manor-house and the garden attached to it. Who lived in that house?
Children, parents, teachers? Why should we not call there and make the
acquaintance of its inmates?
Next we overtook a file of loaded waggons—a procession to which our
vehicles had to yield the road.
“What have you got in there?” asked Vassili of one waggoner who was
dangling his legs lazily over the splashboard of his conveyance and
flicking his whip about as he gazed at us with a stolid, vacant look;
but he only made answer when we were too far off to catch what he said.
“And what have _you_ got?” asked Vassili of a second waggoner who was
lying at full length under a new rug on the driving-seat of his
vehicle. The red poll and red face beneath it lifted themselves up for
a second from the folds of the rug, measured our _britchka_ with a
cold, contemptuous look, and lay down again; whereupon I concluded that
the driver was wondering to himself who we were, whence we had come,
and whither we were going.
These various objects of interest had absorbed so much of my time that,
as yet, I had paid no attention to the crooked figures on the verst
posts as we passed them in rapid succession; but in time the sun began
to burn my head and back, the road to become increasingly dusty, the
impedimenta in the carriage to grow more and more uncomfortable, and
myself to feel more and more cramped. Consequently, I relapsed into
devoting my whole faculties to the distance-posts and their numerals,
and to solving difficult mathematical problems for reckoning the time
when we should arrive at the next posting-house.
“Twelve versts are a third of thirty-six, and in all there are
forty-one to Lipetz. We have done a third and how much, then?”, and so
forth, and so forth.
“Vassili,” was my next remark, on observing that he was beginning to
nod on the box-seat, “suppose we change seats? Will you?” Vassili
agreed, and had no sooner stretched himself out in the body of the
vehicle than he began to snore. To me on my new perch, however, a most
interesting spectacle now became visible—namely, our horses, all of
which were familiar to me down to the smallest detail.
“Why is Diashak on the right today, Philip, not on the left?” I asked
knowingly. “And Nerusinka is not doing her proper share of the
pulling.”
“One could not put Diashak on the left,” replied Philip, altogether
ignoring my last remark. “He is not the kind of horse to put there at
all. A horse like the one on the left now is the right kind of one for
the job.”
After this fragment of eloquence, Philip turned towards Diashak and
began to do his best to worry the poor animal by jogging at the reins,
in spite of the fact that Diashak was doing well and dragging the
vehicle almost unaided. This Philip continued to do until he found it
convenient to breathe and rest himself awhile and to settle his cap
askew, though it had looked well enough before.
I profited by the opportunity to ask him to let me have the reins to
hold, until, the whole six in my hand, as well as the whip, I had
attained complete happiness. Several times I asked whether I was doing
things right, but, as usual, Philip was never satisfied, and soon
destroyed my felicity.
The heat increased until a hand showed itself at the carriage window,
and waved a bottle and a parcel of eatables; whereupon Vassili leapt
briskly from the _britchka_, and ran forward to get us something to eat
and drink.
When we arrived at a steep descent, we all got out and ran down it to a
little bridge, while Vassili and Jakoff followed, supporting the
carriage on either side, as though to hold it up in the event of its
threatening to upset.
After that, Mimi gave permission for a change of seats, and sometimes
Woloda or myself would ride in the carriage, and Lubotshka or Katenka
in the _britchka_. This arrangement greatly pleased the girls, since
much more fun went on in the _britchka_. Just when the day was at its
hottest, we got out at a wood, and, breaking off a quantity of
branches, transformed our vehicle into a bower. This travelling arbour
then bustled on to catch the carriage up, and had the effect of
exciting Lubotshka to one of those piercing shrieks of delight which
she was in the habit of occasionally emitting.
At last we drew near the village where we were to halt and dine.
Already we could perceive the smell of the place—the smell of smoke and
tar and sheep—and distinguish the sound of voices, footsteps, and
carts. The bells on our horses began to ring less clearly than they had
done in the open country, and on both sides the road became lined with
huts—dwellings with straw roofs, carved porches, and small red or green
painted shutters to the windows, through which, here and there, was a
woman’s face looking inquisitively out. Peasant children clad in smocks
only stood staring open-eyed or, stretching out their arms to us, ran
barefooted through the dust to climb on to the luggage behind, despite
Philip’s menacing gestures. Likewise, red-haired waiters came darting
around the carriages to invite us, with words and signs, to select
their several hostelries as our halting-place.
Presently a gate creaked, and we entered a courtyard. Four hours of
rest and liberty now awaited us.
II.
THE THUNDERSTORM
The sun was sinking towards the west, and his long, hot rays were
burning my neck and cheeks beyond endurance, while thick clouds of dust
were rising from the road and filling the whole air. Not the slightest
wind was there to carry it away. I could not think what to do. Neither
the dust-blackened face of Woloda dozing in a corner, nor the motion of
Philip’s back, nor the long shadow of our _britchka_ as it came bowling
along behind us brought me any relief. I concentrated my whole
attention upon the distance-posts ahead and the clouds which, hitherto
dispersed over the sky, were now assuming a menacing blackness, and
beginning to form themselves into a single solid mass.
From time to time distant thunder could be heard—a circumstance which
greatly increased my impatience to arrive at the inn where we were to
spend the night. A thunderstorm always communicated to me an
inexpressibly oppressive feeling of fear and gloom.
Yet we were still ten versts from the next village, and in the
meanwhile the large purple cloudbank—arisen from no one knows where—was
advancing steadily towards us. The sun, not yet obscured, was picking
out its fuscous shape with dazzling light, and marking its front with
grey stripes running right down to the horizon. At intervals, vivid
lightning could be seen in the distance, followed by low rumbles which
increased steadily in volume until they merged into a prolonged roll
which seemed to embrace the entire heavens. At length, Vassili got up
and covered over the _britchka_, the coachman wrapped himself up in his
cloak and lifted his cap to make the sign of the cross at each
successive thunderclap, and the horses pricked up their ears and
snorted as though to drink in the fresh air which the flying clouds
were outdistancing. The _britchka_ began to roll more swiftly along the
dusty road, and I felt uneasy, and as though the blood were coursing
more quickly through my veins. Soon the clouds had veiled the face of
the sun, and though he threw a last gleam of light to the dark and
terrifying horizon, he had no choice but to disappear behind them.
Suddenly everything around us seemed changed, and assumed a gloomy
aspect. A wood of aspen trees which we were passing seemed to be all in
a tremble, with its leaves showing white against the dark lilac
background of the clouds, murmuring together in an agitated manner. The
tops of the larger trees began to bend to and fro, and dried leaves and
grass to whirl about in eddies over the road. Swallows and
white-breasted swifts came darting around the _britchka_ and even
passing in front of the forelegs of the horses. While rooks, despite
their outstretched wings, were laid, as it were, on their keels by the
wind. Finally, the leather apron which covered us began to flutter
about and to beat against the sides of the conveyance.
The lightning flashed right into the _britchka_ as, cleaving the
obscurity for a second, it lit up the grey cloth and silk galloon of
the lining and Woloda’s figure pressed back into a corner.
Next came a terrible sound which, rising higher and higher, and
spreading further and further, increased until it reached its climax in
a deafening thunderclap which made us tremble and hold our breaths.
“The wrath of God”—what poetry there is in that simple popular
conception!
The pace of the vehicle was continually increasing, and from Philip’s
and Vassili’s backs (the former was tugging furiously at the reins) I
could see that they too were alarmed.
Bowling rapidly down an incline, the _britchka_ cannoned violently
against a wooden bridge at the bottom. I dared not stir and expected
destruction every moment.
Crack! A trace had given way, and, in spite of the ceaseless, deafening
thunderclaps, we had to pull up on the bridge.
Leaning my head despairingly against the side of the _britchka_, I
followed with a beating heart the movements of Philip’s great black
fingers as he tied up the broken trace and, with hands and the butt-end
of the whip, pushed the harness vigorously back into its place.
My sense of terror was increasing with the violence of the thunder.
Indeed, at the moment of supreme silence which generally precedes the
greatest intensity of a storm, it mounted to such a height that I felt
as though another quarter of an hour of this emotion would kill me.
Just then there appeared from beneath the bridge a human being who,
clad in a torn, filthy smock, and supported on a pair of thin shanks
bare of muscles, thrust an idiotic face, a tremulous, bare, shaven
head, and a pair of red, shining stumps in place of hands into the
_britchka_.
“M-my lord! A copeck for—for God’s sake!” groaned a feeble voice as at
each word the wretched being made the sign of the cross and bowed
himself to the ground.
I cannot describe the chill feeling of horror which penetrated my heart
at that moment. A shudder crept through all my hair, and my eyes stared
in vacant terror at the outcast.
Vassili, who was charged with the apportioning of alms during the
journey, was busy helping Philip, and only when everything had been put
straight and Philip had resumed the reins again had he time to look for
his purse. Hardly had the _britchka_ begun to move when a blinding
flash filled the welkin with a blaze of light which brought the horses
to their haunches. Then, the flash was followed by such an
ear-splitting roar that the very vault of heaven seemed to be
descending upon our heads. The wind blew harder than ever, and
Vassili’s cloak, the manes and tails of the horses, and the
carriage-apron were all slanted in one direction as they waved
furiously in the violent blast.
Presently, upon the _britchka’s_ top there fell some large drops of
rain—“one, two, three:” then suddenly, and as though a roll of drums
were being beaten over our heads, the whole countryside resounded with
the clatter of the deluge.
From Vassili’s movements, I could see that he had now got his purse
open, and that the poor outcast was still bowing and making the sign of
the cross as he ran beside the wheels of the vehicle, at the imminent
risk of being run over, and reiterated from time to time his plea,
“For-for God’s sake!” At last a copeck rolled upon the ground, and the
miserable creature—his mutilated arms, with their sleeves wet through
and through, held out before him—stopped perplexed in the roadway and
vanished from my sight.
The heavy rain, driven before the tempestuous wind, poured down in
pailfuls and, dripping from Vassili’s thick cloak, formed a series of
pools on the apron. The dust became changed to a paste which clung to
the wheels, and the ruts became transformed into muddy rivulets.
At last, however, the lightning grew paler and more diffuse, and the
thunderclaps lost some of their terror amid the monotonous rattling of
the downpour. Then the rain also abated, and the clouds began to
disperse. In the region of the sun, a lightness appeared, and between
the white-grey clouds could be caught glimpses of an azure sky.
Finally, a dazzling ray shot across the pools on the road, shot through
the threads of rain—now falling thin and straight, as from a sieve—,
and fell upon the fresh leaves and blades of grass. The great cloud was
still louring black and threatening on the far horizon, but I no longer
felt afraid of it—I felt only an inexpressibly pleasant hopefulness in
proportion, as trust in life replaced the late burden of fear. Indeed,
my heart was smiling like that of refreshed, revivified Nature herself.
Vassili took off his cloak and wrung the water from it. Woloda flung
back the apron, and I stood up in the _britchka_ to drink in the new,
fresh, balm-laden air. In front of us was the carriage, rolling along
and looking as wet and resplendent in the sunlight as though it had
just been polished. On one side of the road boundless oatfields,
intersected in places by small ravines which now showed bright with
their moist earth and greenery, stretched to the far horizon like a
checkered carpet, while on the other side of us an aspen wood,
intermingled with hazel bushes, and parquetted with wild thyme in
joyous profusion, no longer rustled and trembled, but slowly dropped
rich, sparkling diamonds from its newly-bathed branches on to the
withered leaves of last year.
From above us, from every side, came the happy songs of little birds
calling to one another among the dripping brushwood, while clear from
the inmost depths of the wood sounded the voice of the cuckoo. So
delicious was the wondrous scent of the wood, the scent which follows a
thunderstorm in spring, the scent of birch-trees, violets, mushrooms,
and thyme, that I could no longer remain in the _britchka_. Jumping
out, I ran to some bushes, and, regardless of the showers of drops
discharged upon me, tore off a few sprigs of thyme, and buried my face
in them to smell their glorious scent.
Then, despite the mud which had got into my boots, as also the fact
that my stockings were soaked, I went skipping through the puddles to
the window of the carriage.
“Lubotshka! Katenka!” I shouted as I handed them some of the thyme,
“Just look how delicious this is!”
The girls smelt it and cried, “A-ah!” but Mimi shrieked to me to go
away, for fear I should be run over by the wheels.
“Oh, but smell how delicious it is!” I persisted.
III.
A NEW POINT OF VIEW
Katenka was with me in the _britchka;_ her lovely head inclined as she
gazed pensively at the roadway. I looked at her in silence and wondered
what had brought the unchildlike expression of sadness to her face
which I now observed for the first time there.
“We shall soon be in Moscow,” I said at last. “How large do you suppose
it is?”
“I don’t know,” she replied.
“Well, but how large do you _imagine?_ As large as Serpukhov?”
“What do you say?”
“Nothing.”
Yet the instinctive feeling which enables one person to guess the
thoughts of another and serves as a guiding thread in conversation soon
made Katenka feel that her indifference was disagreeable to me;
wherefore she raised her head presently, and, turning round, said:
“Did your Papa tell you that we girls too were going to live at your
Grandmamma’s?”
“Yes, he said that we should _all_ live there.”
“_All_ live there?”
“Yes, of course. We shall have one half of the upper floor, and you the
other half, and Papa the wing; but we shall all of us dine together
with Grandmamma downstairs.”
“But Mamma says that your Grandmamma is so very grave and so easily
made angry?”
“No, she only _seems_ like that at first. She is grave, but not
bad-tempered. On the contrary, she is both kind and cheerful. If you
could only have seen the ball at her house!”
“All the same, I am afraid of her. Besides, who knows whether we—”
Katenka stopped short, and once again became thoughtful.
“What?” I asked with some anxiety.
“Nothing, I only said that—”
“No. You said, ‘Who knows whether we—‘”
“And _you_ said, didn’t you, that once there was ever such a ball at
Grandmamma’s?”
“Yes. It is a pity you were not there. There were heaps of guests—about
a thousand people, and all of them princes or generals, and there was
music, and I danced—But, Katenka” I broke off, “you are not listening
to me?”
“Oh yes, I am listening. You said that you danced—?”
“Why are you so serious?”
“Well, one cannot _always_ be gay.”
“But you have changed tremendously since Woloda and I first went to
Moscow. Tell me the truth, now: why are you so odd?” My tone was
resolute.
“_Am_ I so odd?” said Katenka with an animation which showed me that my
question had interested her. “I don’t see that I am so at all.”
“Well, you are not the same as you were before,” I continued. “Once
upon a time any one could see that you were our equal in everything,
and that you loved us like relations, just as we did you; but now you
are always serious, and keep yourself apart from us.”
“Oh, not at all.”
“But let me finish, please,” I interrupted, already conscious of a
slight tickling in my nose—the precursor of the tears which usually
came to my eyes whenever I had to vent any long pent-up feeling. “You
avoid us, and talk to no one but Mimi, as though you had no wish for
our further acquaintance.”
“But one cannot always remain the same—one _must_ change a little
sometimes,” replied Katenka, who had an inveterate habit of pleading
some such fatalistic necessity whenever she did not know what else to
say.
I recollect that once, when having a quarrel with Lubotshka, who had
called her “a stupid girl,” she (Katenka) retorted that _everybody_
could not be wise, seeing that a certain number of stupid people was a
necessity in the world. However, on the present occasion, I was not
satisfied that any such inevitable necessity for “changing sometimes”
existed, and asked further:
“_Why_ is it necessary?”
“Well, you see, we _may_ not always go on living together as we are
doing now,” said Katenka, colouring slightly, and regarding Philip’s
back with a grave expression on her face. “My Mamma was able to live
with your mother because she was her friend; but will a similar
arrangement always suit the Countess, who, they say, is so easily
offended? Besides, in any case, we shall have to separate _some_ day.
You are rich—you have Petrovskoe, while we are poor—Mamma has nothing.”
“You are rich,” “we are poor”—both the words and the ideas which they
connoted seemed to me extremely strange. Hitherto, I had conceived that
only beggars and peasants were poor and could not reconcile in my mind
the idea of poverty and the graceful, charming Katenka. I felt that
Mimi and her daughter ought to live with us _always_ and to share
everything that we possessed. Things ought never to be otherwise. Yet,
at this moment, a thousand new thoughts with regard to their lonely
position came crowding into my head, and I felt so remorseful at the
notion that we were rich and they poor, that I coloured up and could
not look Katenka in the face.
“Yet what does it matter,” I thought, “that we are well off and they
are not? Why should that necessitate a separation? Why should we not
share in common what we possess?” Yet, I had a feeling that I could not
talk to Katenka on the subject, since a certain practical instinct,
opposed to all logical reasoning, warned me that, right though she
possibly was, I should do wrong to tell her so.
“It is impossible that you should leave us. How could we ever live
apart?”
“Yet what else is there to be done? Certainly I do not _want_ to do it;
yet, if it _has_ to be done, I know what my plan in life will be.”
“Yes, to become an actress! How absurd!” I exclaimed (for I knew that
to enter that profession had always been her favourite dream).
“Oh no. I only used to say that when I was a little girl.”
“Well, then? What?”
“To go into a convent and live there. Then I could walk out in a black
dress and velvet cap!” cried Katenka.
Has it ever befallen you, my readers, to become suddenly aware that
your conception of things has altered—as though every object in life
had unexpectedly turned a side towards you of which you had hitherto
remained unaware? Such a species of moral change occurred, as regards
myself, during this journey, and therefore from it I date the beginning
of my boyhood. For the first time in my life, I then envisaged the idea
that we—_i.e._ our family—were not the only persons in the world; that
not every conceivable interest was centred in ourselves; and that there
existed numbers of people who had nothing in common with us, cared
nothing for us, and even knew nothing of our existence. No doubt I had
known all this before—only I had not known it then as I knew it now; I
had never properly felt or understood it.
Thought merges into conviction through paths of its own, as well as,
sometimes, with great suddenness and by methods wholly different from
those which have brought other intellects to the same conclusion. For
me the conversation with Katenka—striking deeply as it did, and forcing
me to reflect on her future position—constituted such a path. As I
gazed at the towns and villages through which we passed, and in each
house of which lived at least one family like our own, as well as at
the women and children who stared with curiosity at our carriages and
then became lost to sight for ever, and the peasants and workmen who
did not even look at us, much less make us any obeisance, the question
arose for the first time in my thoughts, “Whom else do they care for if
not for us?” And this question was followed by others, such as, “To
what end do they live?” “How do they educate their children?” “Do they
teach their children and let them play? What are their names?” and so
forth.
IV.
IN MOSCOW
From the time of our arrival in Moscow, the change in my conception of
objects, of persons, and of my connection with them became increasingly
perceptible. When at my first meeting with Grandmamma, I saw her thin,
wrinkled face and faded eyes, the mingled respect and fear with which
she had hitherto inspired me gave place to compassion, and when, laying
her cheek against Lubotshka’s head, she sobbed as though she saw before
her the corpse of her beloved daughter, my compassion grew to love.
I felt deeply sorry to see her grief at our meeting, even though I knew
that in ourselves we represented nothing in her eyes, but were dear to
her only as reminders of our mother—that every kiss which she imprinted
upon my cheeks expressed the one thought, “She is no more—she is dead,
and I shall never see her again.”
Papa, who took little notice of us here in Moscow, and whose face was
perpetually preoccupied on the rare occasions when he came in his black
dress-coat to take formal dinner with us, lost much in my eyes at this
period, in spite of his turned-up ruffles, _robes de chambre_,
overseers, bailiffs, expeditions to the estate, and hunting exploits.
Karl Ivanitch—whom Grandmamma always called “Uncle,” and who (Heaven
knows why!) had taken it into his head to adorn the bald pate of my
childhood’s days with a red wig parted in the middle—now looked to me
so strange and ridiculous that I wondered how I could ever have failed
to observe the fact before. Even between the girls and ourselves there
seemed to have sprung up an invisible barrier. They, too, began to have
secrets among themselves, as well as to evince a desire to show off
their ever-lengthening skirts even as we boys did our trousers and
ankle-straps. As for Mimi, she appeared at luncheon, the first Sunday,
in such a gorgeous dress and with so many ribbons in her cap that it
was clear that we were no longer _en campagne_, and that everything was
now going to be different.
V.
MY ELDER BROTHER
I was only a year and some odd months younger than Woloda, and from the
first we had grown up and studied and played together. Hitherto, the
difference between elder and younger brother had never been felt
between us, but at the period of which I am speaking, I began to have a
notion that I was not Woloda’s equal either in years, in tastes, or in
capabilities. I even began to fancy that Woloda himself was aware of
his superiority and that he was proud of it, and, though, perhaps, I
was wrong, the idea wounded my conceit—already suffering from frequent
comparison with him. He was my superior in everything—in games, in
studies, in quarrels, and in deportment. All this brought about an
estrangement between us and occasioned me moral sufferings which I had
never hitherto experienced.
When for the first time Woloda wore Dutch pleated shirts, I at once
said that I was greatly put out at not being given similar ones, and
each time that he arranged his collar, I felt that he was doing so on
purpose to offend me. But, what tormented me most of all was the idea
that Woloda could see through me, yet did not choose to show it.
Who has not known those secret, wordless communications which spring
from some barely perceptible smile or movement—from a casual glance
between two persons who live as constantly together as do brothers,
friends, man and wife, or master and servant—particularly if those two
persons do not in all things cultivate mutual frankness? How many
half-expressed wishes, thoughts, and meanings which one shrinks from
revealing are made plain by a single accidental glance which timidly
and irresolutely meets the eye!
However, in my own case I may have been deceived by my excessive
capacity for, and love of, analysis. Possibly Woloda did not feel at
all as I did. Passionate and frank, but unstable in his likings, he was
attracted by the most diverse things, and always surrendered himself
wholly to such attraction. For instance, he suddenly conceived a
passion for pictures, spent all his money on their purchase, begged
Papa, Grandmamma, and his drawing master to add to their number, and
applied himself with enthusiasm to art. Next came a sudden rage for
curios, with which he covered his table, and for which he ransacked the
whole house. Following upon that, he took to violent
novel-reading—procuring such works by stealth, and devouring them day
and night. Involuntarily I was influenced by his whims, for, though too
proud to imitate him, I was also too young and too lacking in
independence to choose my own way. Above all, I envied Woloda his
happy, nobly frank character, which showed itself most strikingly when
we quarrelled. I always felt that he was in the right, yet could not
imitate him. For instance, on one occasion when his passion for curios
was at its height, I went to his table and accidentally broke an empty
many-coloured smelling-bottle.
“Who gave you leave to touch my things?” asked Woloda, chancing to
enter the room at that moment and at once perceiving the disorder which
I had occasioned in the orderly arrangement of the treasures on his
table. “And where is that smelling bottle? Perhaps you—?”
“I let it fall, and it smashed to pieces; but what does that matter?”
“Well, please do me the favour never to _dare_ to touch my things
again,” he said as he gathered up the broken fragments and looked at
them vexedly.
“And will _you_ please do me the favour never to _order_ me to do
anything whatever,” I retorted. “When a thing’s broken, it’s broken,
and there is no more to be said.” Then I smiled, though I hardly felt
like smiling.
“Oh, it may mean nothing to you, but to me it means a good deal,” said
Woloda, shrugging his shoulders (a habit he had caught from Papa).
“First of all you go and break my things, and then you laugh. What a
nuisance a little boy can be!”
“_Little_ boy, indeed? Then _you_, I suppose, are a man, and ever so
wise?”
“I do not intend to quarrel with you,” said Woloda, giving me a slight
push. “Go away.”
“Don’t you push me!”
“Go away.”
“I say again—don’t you push me!”
Woloda took me by the hand and tried to drag me away from the table,
but I was excited to the last degree, and gave the table such a push
with my foot that I upset the whole concern, and brought china and
crystal ornaments and everything else with a crash to the floor.
“You disgusting little brute!” exclaimed Woloda, trying to save some of
his falling treasures.
“At last all is over between us,” I thought to myself as I strode from
the room. “We are separated now for ever.”
It was not until evening that we again exchanged a word. Yet I felt
guilty, and was afraid to look at him, and remained at a loose end all
day.
Woloda, on the contrary, did his lessons as diligently as ever, and
passed the time after luncheon in talking and laughing with the girls.
As soon, again, as afternoon lessons were over I left the room, for it
would have been terribly embarrassing for me to be alone with my
brother. When, too, the evening class in history was ended I took my
notebook and moved towards the door. Just as I passed Woloda, I pouted
and pulled an angry face, though in reality I should have liked to have
made my peace with him. At the same moment he lifted his head, and with
a barely perceptible and good-humouredly satirical smile looked me full
in the face. Our eyes met, and I saw that he understood me, while he,
for his part, saw that I knew that he understood me; yet a feeling
stronger than myself obliged me to turn away from him.
“Nicolinka,” he said in a perfectly simple and anything but
mock-pathetic way, “you have been angry with me long enough. I am sorry
if I offended you,” and he tendered me his hand.
It was as though something welled up from my heart and nearly choked
me. Presently it passed away, the tears rushed to my eyes, and I felt
immensely relieved.
“I too am so-rry, Wo-lo-da,” I said, taking his hand. Yet he only
looked at me with an expression as though he could not understand why
there should be tears in my eyes.
VI.
MASHA
None of the changes produced in my conception of things were so
striking as the one which led me to cease to see in one of our
chambermaids a mere servant of the female sex, but, on the contrary, a
_woman_ upon whom depended, to a certain extent, my peace of mind and
happiness. From the time of my earliest recollection I can remember
Masha an inmate of our house, yet never until the occurrence of which I
am going to speak—an occurrence which entirely altered my impression of
her—had I bestowed the smallest attention upon her. She was twenty-five
years old, while I was but fourteen. Also, she was very beautiful. But
I hesitate to give a further description of her lest my imagination
should once more picture the bewitching, though deceptive, conception
of her which filled my mind during the period of my passion. To be
frank, I will only say that she was extraordinarily handsome,
magnificently developed, and a _woman_—as also that I was but fourteen.
At one of those moments when, lesson-book in hand, I would pace the
room, and try to keep strictly to one particular crack in the floor as
I hummed a fragment of some tune or repeated some vague formula—in
short, at one of those moments when the mind leaves off thinking and
the imagination gains the upper hand and yearns for new impressions—I
left the schoolroom, and turned, with no definite purpose in view,
towards the head of the staircase.
Somebody in slippers was ascending the second flight of stairs. Of
course I felt curious to see who it was, but the footsteps ceased
abruptly, and then I heard Masha’s voice say:
“Go away! What nonsense! What would Maria Ivanovna think if she were to
come now?”
“Oh, but she will not come,” answered Woloda’s voice in a whisper.
“Well, go away, you silly boy,” and Masha came running up, and fled
past me.
I cannot describe the way in which this discovery confounded me.
Nevertheless the feeling of amazement soon gave place to a kind of
sympathy with Woloda’s conduct. I found myself wondering less at the
conduct itself than at his ability to behave so agreeably. Also, I
found myself involuntarily desiring to imitate him.
Sometimes I would pace the landing for an hour at a time, with no other
thought in my head than to watch for movements from above. Yet,
although I longed beyond all things to do as Woloda had done, I could
not bring myself to the point. At other times, filled with a sense of
envious jealousy, I would conceal myself behind a door and listen to
the sounds which came from the maidservants’ room, until the thought
would occur to my mind, “How if I were to go in now and, like Woloda,
kiss Masha? What should I say when she asked me—_me_ with the huge nose
and the tuft on the top of my head—what I wanted?” Sometimes, too, I
could hear her saying to Woloda,
“That serves you right! Go away! Nicolas Petrovitch never comes in here
with such nonsense.” Alas! she did not know that Nicolas Petrovitch was
sitting on the staircase just below and feeling that he would give all
he possessed to be in “that bold fellow Woloda’s” place! I was shy by
nature, and rendered worse in that respect by a consciousness of my own
ugliness. I am certain that nothing so much influences the development
of a man as his exterior—though the exterior itself less than his
belief in its plainness or beauty.
Yet I was too conceited altogether to resign myself to my fate. I tried
to comfort myself much as the fox did when he declared that the grapes
were sour. That is to say, I tried to make light of the satisfaction to
be gained from making such use of a pleasing exterior as I believed
Woloda to employ (satisfaction which I nevertheless envied him from my
heart), and endeavoured with every faculty of my intellect and
imagination to console myself with a pride in my isolation.
VII.
SMALL SHOT
“Good gracious! Powder!” exclaimed Mimi in a voice trembling with
alarm. “Whatever are you doing? You will set the house on fire in a
moment, and be the death of us all!” Upon that, with an indescribable
expression of firmness, Mimi ordered every one to stand aside, and,
regardless of all possible danger from a premature explosion, strode
with long and resolute steps to where some small shot was scattered
about the floor, and began to trample upon it.
When, in her opinion, the peril was at least lessened, she called for
Michael and commanded him to throw the “powder” away into some remote
spot, or, better still, to immerse it in water; after which she
adjusted her cap and returned proudly to the drawing-room, murmuring as
she went, “At least I can say that they are well looked after.”
When Papa issued from his room and took us to see Grandmamma we found
Mimi sitting by the window and glancing with a grave, mysterious,
official expression towards the door. In her hand she was holding
something carefully wrapped in paper. I guessed that that something was
the small shot, and that Grandmamma had been informed of the
occurrence. In the room also were the maidservant Gasha (who, to judge
by her angry flushed face, was in a state of great irritation) and
Doctor Blumenthal—the latter a little man pitted with smallpox, who was
endeavouring by tacit, pacificatory signs with his head and eyes to
reassure the perturbed Gasha. Grandmamma was sitting a little askew and
playing that variety of “patience” which is called “The Traveller”—two
unmistakable signs of her displeasure.
“How are you to-day, Mamma?” said Papa as he kissed her hand
respectfully. “Have you had a good night?”
“Yes, very good, my dear; you _know_ that I always enjoy sound health,”
replied Grandmamma in a tone implying that Papa’s inquiries were out of
place and highly offensive. “Please give me a clean
pocket-handkerchief,” she added to Gasha.
“I _have_ given you one, madam,” answered Gasha, pointing to the
snow-white cambric handkerchief which she had just laid on the arm of
Grandmamma’s chair.
“No, no; it’s a nasty, dirty thing. Take it away and bring me a _clean_
one, my dear.”
Gasha went to a cupboard and slammed the door of it back so violently
that every window rattled. Grandmamma glared angrily at each of us, and
then turned her attention to following the movements of the servant.
After the latter had presented her with what I suspected to be the same
handkerchief as before, Grandmamma continued:
“And when do you mean to cut me some snuff, my dear?”
“When I have time.”
“What do you say?”
“To-day.”
“If you don’t want to continue in my service you had better say so at
once. I would have sent you away long ago had I known that you wished
it.”
“It wouldn’t have broken my heart if you had!” muttered the woman in an
undertone.
Here the doctor winked at her again, but she returned his gaze so
firmly and wrathfully that he soon lowered it and went on playing with
his watch-key.
“You see, my dear, how people speak to me in my own house!” said
Grandmamma to Papa when Gasha had left the room grumbling.
“Well, Mamma, I will cut you some snuff myself,” replied Papa, though
evidently at a loss how to proceed now that he had made this rash
promise.
“No, no, I thank you. Probably she is cross because she knows that no
one except herself can cut the snuff just as I like it. Do you know, my
dear,” she went on after a pause, “that your children very nearly set
the house on fire this morning?”
Papa gazed at Grandmamma with respectful astonishment.
“Yes, they were playing with something or another. Tell him the story,”
she added to Mimi.
Papa could not help smiling as he took the shot in his hand.
“This is only small shot, Mamma,” he remarked, “and could never be
dangerous.”
“I thank you, my dear, for your instruction, but I am rather too old
for that sort of thing.”
“Nerves, nerves!” whispered the doctor.
Papa turned to us and asked us where we had got the stuff, and how we
could dare to play with it.
“Don’t ask _them_, ask that useless ‘Uncle,’ rather,” put in
Grandmamma, laying a peculiar stress upon the word “_Uncle_.” “What
else is he for?”
“Woloda says that Karl Ivanitch gave him the powder himself,” declared
Mimi.
“Then you can see for yourself what use he is,” continued Grandmamma.
“And where IS he—this precious ‘Uncle’? How is one to get hold of him?
Send him here.”
“He has gone an errand for me,” said Papa.
“That is not at all right,” rejoined Grandmamma. “He ought _always_ to
be here. True, the children are yours, not mine, and I have nothing to
do with them, seeing that you are so much cleverer than I am; yet all
the same I think it is time we had a regular tutor for them, and not
this ‘Uncle’ of a German—a stupid fellow who knows only how to teach
them rude manners and Tyrolean songs! Is it necessary, I ask you, that
they should learn Tyrolean songs? However, there is no one for me to
consult about it, and you must do just as you like.”
The word “_now_” meant “_now that they have no mother_,” and suddenly
awakened sad recollections in Grandmamma’s heart. She threw a glance at
the snuff-box bearing Mamma’s portrait and sighed.
“I thought of all this long ago,” said Papa eagerly, “as well as taking
your advice on the subject. How would you like St. Jerome to
superintend their lessons?”
“Oh, I think he would do excellently, my friend,” said Grandmamma in a
mollified tone, “He is at least a tutor _comme il faut_, and knows how
to instruct _des enfants de bonne maison_. He is not a mere ‘Uncle’ who
is good only for taking them out walking.”
“Very well; I will talk to him to-morrow,” said Papa. And, sure enough,
two days later saw Karl Ivanitch forced to retire in favour of the
young Frenchman referred to.
VIII.
KARL IVANITCH’S HISTORY
Thw evening before the day when Karl was to leave us for ever, he was
standing (clad, as usual, in his wadded dressing-gown and red cap) near
the bed in his room, and bending down over a trunk as he carefully
packed his belongings.
His behaviour towards us had been very cool of late, and he had seemed
to shrink from all contact with us. Consequently, when I entered his
room on the present occasion, he only glanced at me for a second and
then went on with his occupation. Even though I proceeded to jump on to
his bed (a thing hitherto always forbidden me to do), he said not a
word; and the idea that he would soon be scolding or forgiving us no
longer—no longer having anything to do with us—reminded me vividly of
the impending separation. I felt grieved to think that he had ceased to
love us and wanted to show him my grief.
“Will you let me help you?” I said, approaching him.
He looked at me for a moment and turned away again. Yet the expression
of pain in his eyes showed that his coldness was not the result of
indifference, but rather of sincere and concentrated sorrow.
“God sees and knows everything,” he said at length, raising himself to
his full height and drawing a deep sigh. “Yes, Nicolinka,” he went on,
observing, the expression of sincere pity on my face, “my fate has been
an unhappy one from the cradle, and will continue so to the grave. The
good that I have done to people has always been repaid with evil; yet,
though I shall receive no reward here, I shall find one _there_” (he
pointed upwards). “Ah, if only you knew my whole story, and all that I
have endured in this life!—I who have been a bootmaker, a soldier, a
deserter, a factory hand, and a teacher! Yet now—now I am nothing, and,
like the Son of Man, have nowhere to lay my head.” Sitting down upon a
chair, he covered his eyes with his hand.
Seeing that he was in the introspective mood in which a man pays no
attention to his listener as he cons over his secret thoughts, I
remained silent, and, seating myself upon the bed, continued to watch
his kind face.
“You are no longer a child. You can understand things now, and I will
tell you my whole story and all that I have undergone. Some day, my
children, you may remember the old friend who loved you so much—”
He leant his elbow upon the table by his side, took a pinch of snuff,
and, in the peculiarly measured, guttural tone in which he used to
dictate us our lessons, began the story of his career.
Since he many times in later years repeated the whole to me
again—always in the same order, and with the same expressions and the
same unvarying intonation—I will try to render it literally, and
without omitting the innumerable grammatical errors into which he
always strayed when speaking in Russian. Whether it was really the
history of his life, or whether it was the mere product of his
imagination—that is to say, some narrative which he had conceived
during his lonely residence in our house, and had at last, from endless
repetition, come to believe in himself—or whether he was adorning with
imaginary facts the true record of his career, I have never quite been
able to make out. On the one hand, there was too much depth of feeling
and practical consistency in its recital for it to be wholly
incredible, while, on the other hand, the abundance of poetical beauty
which it contained tended to raise doubts in the mind of the listener.
“Me vere very unhappy from ze time of my birth,” he began with a
profound sigh. “Ze noble blot of ze Countess of Zomerblat flows in my
veins. Me vere born six veek after ze vetting. Ze man of my _Mutter_ (I
called him ‘Papa’) vere farmer to ze Count von Zomerblat. He coult not
forget my _Mutter’s_ shame, ant loaft me not. I had a youngster broser
Johann ant two sister, pot me vere strange petween my own family. Ven
Johann mate several silly trick Papa sayt, ‘Wit sis chilt Karl I am
never to have one moment tranquil!’ and zen he scoltet and ponishet me.
Ven ze sister quarrellet among zemselves Papa sayt, ‘Karl vill never be
one opedient poy,’ ant still scoltet ant ponishet me. My goot Mamma
alone loaft ant tenteret me. Often she sayt to me, ‘Karl, come in my
room,’ ant zere she kisset me secretly. ‘Poorly, poorly Karl!’ she
sayt. ‘Nopoty loaf you, pot I will not exchange you for somepoty in ze
worlt, One zing your _Mutter_ pegs you, to rememper,’ sayt she to me,
‘learn vell, ant be efer one honest man; zen Got will not forsake you.’
Ant I triet so to become. Ven my fourteen year hat expiret, ant me
coult partake of ze Holy Sopper, my _Mutter_ sayt to my _Vater_, ‘Karl
is one pig poy now, Kustaf. Vat shall we do wis him?’ Ant Papa sayt,
‘Me ton’t know.’ Zen Mamma sayt, ‘Let us give him to town at Mister
Schultzen’s, and he may pe a _Schumacher_,’ ant my _Vater_ sayt,
‘Goot!’ Six year ant seven mons livet I in town wis ze Mister
Shoemaker, ant he loaft me. He sayt, ‘Karl are one goot vorkman, ant
shall soon become my _Geselle_.’ Pot—man makes ze proposition, ant Got
ze deposition. In ze year 1796 one conscription took place, ant each
which vas serviceable, from ze eighteens to ze twenty-first year, hat
to go to town.
“My _Fater_ and my broser Johann come to town, ant ve go togezer to
throw ze lot for which shoult pe _Soldat_. Johann drew ze fatal nomper,
and me vas not necessary to pe _Soldat_. Ant Papa sayt, ‘I have only
vun son, ant wis him I must now separate!’
“Den I take his hant, ant says, ‘Why say you so, Papa? Come wis me, ant
I will say you somesing.’ Ant Papa come, ant we seat togezer at ze
publics-house, ant me sayt, ‘Vaiter, give us one _Bierkrug_,’ ant he
gives us one. We trink altogezer, and broser Johann also trink. ‘Papa,’
sayt me, ‘ton’t say zat you have only one son, ant wis it you must
separate, My heart was breaking ven you say sis. Broser Johann must not
serve; _me_ shall pe _Soldat_. Karl is for nopoty necessary, and Karl
shall pe _Soldat_.’
“‘You is one honest man, Karl,’ sayt Papa, ant kiss me. Ant me was
_Soldat_.”
IX.
CONTINUATION OF KARL’S NARRATIVE
“Zat was a terrible time, Nicolinka,” continued Karl Ivanitch, “ze time
of Napoleon. He vanted to conquer Germany, ant we protected our
_Vaterland_ to ze last trop of plot. Me vere at Ulm, me vere at
Austerlitz, me vere at Wagram.”
“Did you really fight?” I asked with a gaze of astonishment “Did you
really kill anybody?”
Karl instantly reassured me on this point,
“Vonce one French grenadier was left behint, ant fell to ze grount. I
sprang forvarts wis my gon, ant vere about to kill him, _aber der
Franzose warf sein Gewehr hin und rief_, ‘Pardon’—ant I let him loose.
“At Wagram, Napoleon cut us open, ant surrountet us in such a way as
zere vas no helping. Sree days hat we no provisions, ant stoot in ze
vater op to ze knees. Ze evil Napoleon neiser let us go loose nor
catchet us.
“On ze fours day zey took us prisoners—zank Got! ant sent us to one
fortress. Upon me vas one blue trousers, uniforms of very goot clos,
fifteen of _Thalers_, ant one silver clock which my _Vater_ hat given
me, Ze Frans _Soldaten_ took from me everysing. For my happiness zere
vas sree tucats on me which my Mamma hat sewn in my shirt of flannel.
Nopoty fount zem.
“I liket not long to stay in ze fortresses, ant resoluted to ron away.
Von day, von pig holitay, says I to the sergeant which hat to look
after us, ‘Mister Sergeant, to-day is a pig holitay, ant me vants to
celeprate it. Pring here, if you please, two pottle Mateira, ant we
shall trink zem wis each oser.’ Ant ze sergeant says, ‘Goot!’ Ven ze
sergeant pring ze Mateira ant we trink it out to ze last trop, I taket
his hant ant says, ‘Mister Sergeant, perhaps you have still one _Vater_
and one _Mutter?_’ He says, ‘So I have, Mister Mayer.’ ‘My _Vater_ ant
_Mutter_ not seen me eight year,’ I goes on to him, ‘ant zey know not
if I am yet alive or if my bones be reposing in ze grave. Oh, Mister
Sergeant, I have two tucats which is in my shirt of flannel. Take zem,
ant let me loose! You will pe my penefactor, ant my _Mutter_ will be
praying for you all her life to ze Almighty Got!’
“Ze sergeant emptiet his glass of Mateira, ant says, ‘Mister Mayer, I
loaf and pity you very much, pot you is one prisoner, ant I one
_soldat_.’ So I take his hant ant says, ‘Mister Sergeant!’
“Ant ze sergeant says, ‘You is one poor man, ant I will not take your
money, pot I will help you. Ven I go to sleep, puy one pail of pranty
for ze _Soldaten_, ant zey will sleep. Me will not look after you.’ Sis
was one goot man. I puyet ze pail of pranty, ant ven ze _Soldaten_ was
trunken me tresset in one olt coat, ant gang in silence out of ze doon.
“I go to ze wall, ant will leap down, pot zere is vater pelow, ant I
will not spoil my last tressing, so I go to ze gate.
“Ze sentry go up and town wis one gon, ant look at me. ‘Who goes zere?’
ant I was silent. ‘Who goes zere ze second time?’ ant I was silent.
‘Who goes zere ze third time?’ ant I ron away, I sprang in ze vater,
climp op to ze oser site, ant walk on.
“Ze entire night I ron on ze vay, pot ven taylight came I was afrait
zat zey woult catch me, ant I hit myself in ze high corn. Zere I
kneelet town, zanket ze _Vater_ in Heaven for my safety, ant fall
asleep wis a tranquil feeling.
“I wakenet op in ze evening, ant gang furser. At once one large German
carriage, wis two raven-black horse, came alongside me. In ze carriage
sit one well-tresset man, smoking pipe, ant look at me. I go slowly, so
zat ze carriage shall have time to pass me, pot I go slowly, ant ze
carriage go slowly, ant ze man look at me. I go quick, ant ze carriage
go quick, ant ze man stop its two horses, ant look at me. ‘Young man,’
says he, ‘where go you so late?’ I says, ‘I go to Frankfort.’ ‘Sit in
ze carriage—zere is room enough, ant I will trag you,’ he says. ‘Bot
why have you nosing about you? Your boots is dirty, ant your beart not
shaven.’ I seated wis him, ant says, ‘_Ich bin_ one poor man, ant I
would like to pusy myself wis somesing in a manufactory. My tressing is
dirty because I fell in ze mud on ze roat.’
“‘You tell me ontruse, young man,’ says he. ‘Ze roat is kvite dry now.’
I was silent. ‘Tell me ze _whole_ truse,’ goes on ze goot man—‘who you
are, ant vere you go to? I like your face, ant ven you is one honest
man, so I will help you.’ Ant I tell all.
“‘Goot, young man!’ he says. ‘Come to my manufactory of rope, ant I
will give you work ant tress ant money, ant you can live wis os.’ I
says, ‘Goot!’
“I go to ze manufactory of rope, ant ze goot man says to his voman,
‘Here is one yong man who defented his _Vaterland_, ant ron away from
prisons. He has not house nor tresses nor preat. He will live wis os.
Give him clean linen, ant norish him.’
“I livet one ant a half year in ze manufactory of rope, ant my lantlort
loaft me so much zat he would not let me loose. Ant I felt very goot.
“I were zen handsome man—yong, of pig stature, with blue eyes and
_römische_ nose—ant Missis L— (I like not to say her name—she was ze
voman of my lantlort) was yong ant handsome laty. Ant she fell in loaf
wis me.”
Here Karl Ivanitch made a long pause, lowered his kindly blue eyes,
shook his head quietly, and smiled as people always do under the
influence of a pleasing recollection.
“Yes,” he resumed as he leant back in his arm-chair and adjusted his
dressing-gown, “I have experiencet many sings in my life, pot zere is
my witness,”—here he pointed to an image of the Saviour, embroidered on
wool, which was hanging over his bed—“zat nopoty in ze worlt can say
zat Karl Ivanitch has been one dishonest man, I would not repay black
ingratitude for ze goot which Mister L— dit me, ant I resoluted to ron
away. So in ze evening, ven all were asleep, I writet one letter to my
lantlort, ant laid it on ze table in his room. Zen I taket my tresses,
tree _Thaler_ of money, ant go mysteriously into ze street. Nopoty have
seen me, ant I go on ze roat.”
X.
CONCLUSION OF KARL’S NARRATIVE
“I had not seen my Mamma for nine year, ant I know not whether she
lived or whether her bones had long since lain in ze dark grave. Ven I
come to my own country and go to ze town I ask, ‘Where live Kustaf
Mayer who was farmer to ze Count von Zomerblat?’ ant zey answer me,
‘_Graf_ Zomerblat is deat, ant Kustaf Mayer live now in ze pig street,
ant keep a public-house.’ So I tress in my new waistcoat and one noble
coat which ze manufacturist presented me, arranged my hairs nice, ant
go to ze public-house of my Papa. Sister Mariechen vas sitting on a
pench, and she ask me what I want. I says, ‘Might I trink one glass of
pranty?’ ant she says, ‘_Vater_, here is a yong man who wish to trink
one glass of pranty.’ Ant Papa says, ‘Give him ze glass.’ I set to ze
table, trink my glass of pranty, smoke my pipe, ant look at Papa,
Mariechen, ant Johann (who also come into ze shop). In ze conversation
Papa says, ‘You know, perhaps, yong man, where stants our army?’ and I
say, ‘I myself am come from ze army, ant it stants now at Wien.’ ‘Our
son,’ says Papa, ‘is a _Soldat_, ant now is it nine years since he
wrote never one wort, and we know not whether he is alive or dead. My
voman cry continually for him.’ I still fumigate the pipe, ant say,
‘What was your son’s name, and where servet he? Perhaps I may know
him.’ ‘His name was Karl Mayer, ant he servet in ze Austrian Jägers.’
‘He were of pig stature, ant a handsome man like yourself,’ puts in
Mariechen. I say, ‘I know your Karl.’ ‘Amalia,’ exclaimet my _Vater_.
‘Come here! Here is yong man which knows our Karl!’—ant my dear
_Mutter_ comes out from a back door. I knew her directly. ‘You know our
Karl?’ says she, ant looks at me, ant, white all over, trembles. ‘Yes,
I haf seen him,’ I says, without ze corage to look at her, for my heart
did almost burst. ‘My Karl is alive?’ she cry. ‘Zen tank Got! Vere is
he, my Karl? I woult die in peace if I coult see him once more—my
darling son! Bot Got will not haf it so.’ Then she cried, and I coult
no longer stant it. ‘Darling Mamma!’ I say, ‘I am your son, I am your
Karl!’—and she fell into my arms.”
Karl Ivanitch covered his eyes, and his lips were quivering.
“‘_Mutter,’ sagte ich, ‘ich bin ihr Sohn, ich bin ihr Karl!’—und sie
stürtzte mir in die Arme!_’” he repeated, recovering a little and
wiping the tears from his eyes.
“Bot Got did not wish me to finish my tays in my own town. I were
pursuet by fate. I livet in my own town only sree mons. One Suntay I
sit in a coffee-house, ant trinket one pint of _Pier_, ant fumigated my
pipe, ant speaket wis some frients of _Politik_, of ze Emperor Franz,
of Napoleon, of ze war—ant anypoty might say his opinion. But next to
us sits a strange chentleman in a grey _Uberrock_, who trink coffee,
fumigate the pipe, ant says nosing. Ven the night watchman shoutet ten
o’clock I taket my hat, paid ze money, and go home. At ze middle of ze
night some one knock at ze door. I rise ant says, ‘Who is zere?’
‘Open!’ says someone. I shout again, ‘First say who is zere, ant I will
open.’ ‘Open in the name of the law!’ say the someone behint the door.
I now do so. Two _Soldaten_ wis gons stant at ze door, ant into ze room
steps ze man in ze grey _Uberrock_, who had sat with us in ze
coffeehouse. He were _Spion!_ ‘Come wis me,’ says ze _Spion_, ‘Very
goot!’ say I. I dresset myself in boots, trousers, ant coat, ant go
srough ze room. Ven I come to ze wall where my gon hangs I take it, ant
says, ‘You are a _Spion_, so defent you!’ I give one stroke left, one
right, ant one on ze head. Ze _Spion_ lay precipitated on ze floor! Zen
I taket my cloak-bag ant money, ant jompet out of ze vintow. I vent to
Ems, where I was acquainted wis one General Sasin, who loaft me, givet
me a passport from ze Embassy, ant taket me to Russland to learn his
chiltren. Ven General Sasin tiet, your Mamma callet for me, ant says,
‘Karl Ivanitch, I gif you my children. Loaf them, ant I will never
leave you, ant will take care for your olt age.’ Now is she teat, ant
all is forgotten! For my twenty year full of service I most now go into
ze street ant seek for a try crust of preat for my olt age! Got sees
all sis, ant knows all sis. His holy will be done! Only-only, I yearn
for you, my children!”—and Karl drew me to him, and kissed me on the
forehead.
XI.
ONE MARK ONLY
The year of mourning over, Grandmamma recovered a little from her
grief, and once more took to receiving occasional guests, especially
children of the same age as ourselves.
On the 13th of December—Lubotshka’s birthday—the Princess Kornakoff and
her daughters, with Madame Valakhin, Sonetchka, Ilinka Grap, and the
two younger Iwins, arrived at our house before luncheon.
Though we could hear the sounds of talking, laughter, and movements
going on in the drawing-room, we could not join the party until our
morning lessons were finished. The table of studies in the schoolroom
said, “_Lundi, de_ 2 _à_ 3, _maître d’Histoire et de Geographie_,” and
this infernal _maître d’Histoire_ we must await, listen to, and see the
back of before we could gain our liberty. Already it was twenty minutes
past two, and nothing was to be heard of the tutor, nor yet anything to
be seen of him in the street, although I kept looking up and down it
with the greatest impatience and with an emphatic longing never to see
the _maître_ again.
“I believe he is not coming to-day,” said Woloda, looking up for a
moment from his lesson-book.
“I hope he is not, please the Lord!” I answered, but in a despondent
tone. “Yet there he _does_ come, I believe, all the same!”
“Not he! Why, that is a _gentleman_,” said Woloda, likewise looking out
of the window, “Let us wait till half-past two, and then ask St. Jerome
if we may put away our books.”
“Yes, and wish them _au revoir_,” I added, stretching my arms, with the
book clasped in my hands, over my head. Having hitherto idled away my
time, I now opened the book at the place where the lesson was to begin,
and started to learn it. It was long and difficult, and, moreover, I
was in the mood when one’s thoughts refuse to be arrested by anything
at all. Consequently I made no progress. After our last lesson in
history (which always seemed to me a peculiarly arduous and wearisome
subject) the history master had complained to St. Jerome of me because
only two good marks stood to my credit in the register—a very small
total. St. Jerome had then told me that if I failed to gain less than
_three_ marks at the next lesson I should be severely punished. The
next lesson was now imminent, and I confess that I felt a little
nervous.
So absorbed, however, did I become in my reading that the sound of
goloshes being taken off in the ante-room came upon me almost as a
shock. I had just time to look up when there appeared in the doorway
the servile and (to me) very disgusting face and form of the master,
clad in a blue frockcoat with brass buttons.
Slowly he set down his hat and books and adjusted the folds of his coat
(as though such a thing were necessary!), and seated himself in his
place.
“Well, gentlemen,” he said, rubbing his hands, “let us first of all
repeat the general contents of the last lesson: after which I will
proceed to narrate the succeeding events of the middle ages.”
This meant “Say over the last lesson.” While Woloda was answering the
master with the entire ease and confidence which come of knowing a
subject well, I went aimlessly out on to the landing, and, since I was
not allowed to go downstairs, what more natural than that I should
involuntarily turn towards the alcove on the landing? Yet before I had
time to establish myself in my usual coign of vantage behind the door I
found myself pounced upon by Mimi—always the cause of my misfortunes!
“_You_ here?” she said, looking severely, first at myself, and then at
the maidservants’ door, and then at myself again.
I felt thoroughly guilty, firstly, because I was not in the schoolroom,
and secondly, because I was in a forbidden place. So I remained silent,
and, dropping my head, assumed a touching expression of contrition.
“Indeed, this is _too_ bad!” Mimi went on, “What are you doing here?”
Still I said nothing.
“Well, it shall not rest where it is,” she added, tapping the banister
with her yellow fingers. “I shall inform the Countess.”
It was five minutes to three when I re-entered the schoolroom. The
master, as though oblivious of my presence or absence, was explaining
the new lesson to Woloda. When he had finished doing this, and had put
his books together (while Woloda went into the other room to fetch his
ticket), the comforting idea occurred to me that perhaps the whole
thing was over now, and that the master had forgotten me.
But suddenly he turned in my direction with a malicious smile, and said
as he rubbed his hands anew, “I hope you have learnt your lesson?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Would you be so kind, then, as to tell me something about St. Louis’
Crusade?” he went on, balancing himself on his chair and looking
gravely at his feet. “Firstly, tell me something about the reasons
which induced the French king to assume the cross” (here he raised his
eyebrows and pointed to the inkstand); “then explain to me the general
characteristics of the Crusade” (here he made a sweeping gesture with
his hand, as though to seize hold of something with it); “and lastly,
expound to me the influence of this Crusade upon the European states in
general” (drawing the copy books to the left side of the table) “and
upon the French state in particular” (drawing one of them to the right,
and inclining his head in the same direction).
I swallowed a few times, coughed, bent forward, and was silent. Then,
taking a pen from the table, I began to pick it to pieces, yet still
said nothing.
“Allow me the pen—I shall want it,” said the master. “Well?”
“Louis the-er-Saint was-was-a very good and wise king.”
“What?”
“King, He took it into his head to go to Jerusalem, and handed over the
reins of government to his mother.”
“What was her name?
“B-b-b-lanka.”
“What? Belanka?”
I laughed in a rather forced manner.
“Well, is that all you know?” he asked again, smiling.
I had nothing to lose now, so I began chattering the first thing that
came into my head. The master remained silent as he gathered together
the remains of the pen which I had left strewn about the table, looked
gravely past my ear at the wall, and repeated from time to time, “Very
well, very well.” Though I was conscious that I knew nothing whatever
and was expressing myself all wrong, I felt much hurt at the fact that
he never either corrected or interrupted me.
“What made him think of going to Jerusalem?” he asked at last,
repeating some words of my own.
“Because—because—that is to say—”
My confusion was complete, and I relapsed into silence, I felt that,
even if this disgusting history master were to go on putting questions
to me, and gazing inquiringly into my face, for a year, I should never
be able to enunciate another syllable. After staring at me for some
three minutes, he suddenly assumed a mournful cast of countenance, and
said in an agitated voice to Woloda (who was just re-entering the
room):
“Allow me the register. I will write my remarks.”
He opened the book thoughtfully, and in his fine caligraphy marked
_five_ for Woloda for diligence, and the same for good behaviour. Then,
resting his pen on the line where my report was to go, he looked at me
and reflected. Suddenly his hand made a decisive movement and, behold,
against my name stood a clearly-marked _one_, with a full stop after
it! Another movement and in the behaviour column there stood another
_one_ and another full stop! Quietly closing the book, the master then
rose, and moved towards the door as though unconscious of my look of
entreaty, despair, and reproach.
“Michael Lavionitch!” I said.
“No!” he replied, as though knowing beforehand what I was about to say.
“It is impossible for you to learn in that way. I am not going to earn
my money for nothing.”
He put on his goloshes and cloak, and then slowly tied a scarf about
his neck. To think that he could care about such trifles after what had
just happened to me! To him it was all a mere stroke of the pen, but to
me it meant the direst misfortune.
“Is the lesson over?” asked St. Jerome, entering.
“Yes.”
“And was the master pleased with you?”
“Yes.”
“How many marks did he give you?”
“Five.”
“And to Nicholas?”
I was silent.
“I think four,” said Woloda. His idea was to save me for at least
today. If punishment there must be, it need not be awarded while we had
guests.
“_Voyons, Messieurs!_” (St. Jerome was forever saying “_Voyons!_”)
“_Faites votre toilette, et descendons._”
XII.
THE KEY
We had hardly descended and greeted our guests when luncheon was
announced. Papa was in the highest of spirits since for some time past
he had been winning. He had presented Lubotshka with a silver tea
service, and suddenly remembered, after luncheon, that he had forgotten
a box of bonbons which she was to have too.
“Why send a servant for it? _You_ had better go, Koko,” he said to me
jestingly. “The keys are in the tray on the table, you know. Take them,
and with the largest one open the second drawer on the right. There you
will find the box of bonbons. Bring it here.”
“Shall I get you some cigars as well?” said I, knowing that he always
smoked after luncheon.
“Yes, do; but don’t touch anything else.”
I found the keys, and was about to carry out my orders, when I was
seized with a desire to know what the smallest of the keys on the bunch
belonged to.
On the table I saw, among many other things, a padlocked portfolio, and
at once felt curious to see if _that_ was what the key fitted. My
experiment was crowned with success. The portfolio opened and disclosed
a number of papers. Curiosity so strongly urged me also to ascertain
what those papers contained that the voice of conscience was stilled,
and I began to read their contents. . . .
My childish feeling of unlimited respect for my elders, especially for
Papa, was so strong within me that my intellect involuntarily refused
to draw any conclusions from what I had seen. I felt that Papa was
living in a sphere completely apart from, incomprehensible by, and
unattainable for, me, as well as one that was in every way excellent,
and that any attempt on my part to criticise the secrets of his life
would constitute something like sacrilege.
For this reason, the discovery which I made from Papa’s portfolio left
no clear impression upon my mind, but only a dim consciousness that I
had done wrong. I felt ashamed and confused.
The feeling made me eager to shut the portfolio again as quickly as
possible, but it seemed as though on this unlucky day I was destined to
experience every possible kind of adversity. I put the key back into
the padlock and turned it round, but not in the right direction.
Thinking that the portfolio was now locked, I pulled at the key and, oh
horror! found my hand come away with only the top half of the key in
it! In vain did I try to put the two halves together, and to extract
the portion that was sticking in the padlock. At last I had to resign
myself to the dreadful thought that I had committed a new crime—one
which would be discovered to-day as soon as ever Papa returned to his
study! First of all, Mimi’s accusation on the staircase, and then that
one mark, and then this key! Nothing worse could happen now. This very
evening I should be assailed successively by Grandmamma (because of
Mimi’s denunciation), by St. Jerome (because of the solitary mark), and
by Papa (because of the matter of this key)—yes, all in one evening!
“What on earth is to become of me? What have I done?” I exclaimed as I
paced the soft carpet. “Well,” I went on with sudden determination,
“what _must_ come, _must_—that’s all;” and, taking up the bonbons and
the cigars, I ran back to the other part of the house.
The fatalistic formula with which I had concluded (and which was one
that I often heard Nicola utter during my childhood) always produced in
me, at the more difficult crises of my life, a momentarily soothing,
beneficial effect. Consequently, when I re-entered the drawing-room, I
was in a rather excited, unnatural mood, yet one that was perfectly
cheerful.
XIII.
THE TRAITRESS
After luncheon we began to play at round games, in which I took a
lively part. While indulging in “cat and mouse”, I happened to cannon
rather awkwardly against the Kornakoffs’ governess, who was playing
with us, and, stepping on her dress, tore a large hole in it. Seeing
that the girls—particularly Sonetchka—were anything but displeased at
the spectacle of the governess angrily departing to the maidservants’
room to have her dress mended, I resolved to procure them the
satisfaction a second time. Accordingly, in pursuance of this amiable
resolution, I waited until my victim returned, and then began to gallop
madly round her, until a favourable moment occurred for once more
planting my heel upon her dress and reopening the rent. Sonetchka and
the young princesses had much ado to restrain their laughter, which
excited my conceit the more, but St. Jerome, who had probably divined
my tricks, came up to me with the frown which I could never abide in
him, and said that, since I seemed disposed to mischief, he would have
to send me away if I did not moderate my behaviour.
However, I was in the desperate position of a person who, having staked
more than he has in his pocket, and feeling that he can never make up
his account, continues to plunge on unlucky cards—not because he hopes
to regain his losses, but because it will not do for him to stop and
consider. So, I merely laughed in an impudent fashion and flung away
from my monitor.