Three years later I again found myself in the country; suddenly a
servant entered and announced that Madame Pólteff was inquiring for me.
I knew no Madame Pólteff, and the servant who made the announcement was
grinning in a sarcastic sort of way, for some reason or other. In reply
to my questioning glance he said that the lady who was asking for me was
young, poorly clad, and had arrived in a peasant-cart drawn by one
horse which she was driving herself! I ordered that Madame Pólteff
should be requested to do me the favour to step into my study.
I beheld a woman of five-and-twenty,--belonging to the petty burgher
class, to judge from her attire,--with a large kerchief on her head. Her
face was simple, rather round in contour, not devoid of agreeability;
her gaze was downcast and rather melancholy, her movements were
embarrassed.
"Are you Madame Pólteff?" I asked, inviting her to be seated.
"Just so, sir," she answered, in a low voice, and without sitting
down.--"I am the widow of your nephew, Mikhaíl Andréevitch Pólteff."
"Is Mikhaíl Andréevitch dead? Has he been dead long?--But sit down, I
beg of you."
She dropped down on a chair.
"This is the second month since he died."
"And were you married to him long ago?"
"I lived with him one year in all."
"And whence come you now?"
"I come from the vicinity of Túla.... There is a village there called
Známenskoe-Glúshkovo--perhaps you deign to know it. I am the daughter of
the sexton there. Mikhaíl Andréitch and I lived there.... He settled
down with my father. We lived together a year in all." The young woman's
lips twitched slightly, and she raised her hand to them. She seemed to
be getting ready to cry, but conquered herself, and cleared her throat.
"The late Mikhaíl Andréitch, before his death," she went on, "bade me go
to you. 'Be sure to go,' he said. And he told me that I was to thank you
for all your goodness, and transmit to you ... this ... trifle" (she
drew from her pocket a small package), "which he always carried on his
person.... And Mikhaíl Andréitch said, Wouldn't you be so kind as to
accept it in memory--that you must not scorn it.... 'I have nothing else
to give him,' ... meaning you ... he said...."
In the packet was a small silver cup with the monogram of Mikhaíl's
mother. This tiny cup I had often seen in Mikhaíl's hands; and once he
had even said to me, in speaking of a pauper, that he must be stripped
bare, since he had neither cup nor bowl, "while I have this here," he
said.
I thanked her, took the cup and inquired, "Of what malady did Mikhaíl
Andréitch die?--Probably...."
Here I bit my tongue, but the young woman understood my unspoken
thought.... She darted a swift glance at me, then dropped her eyes,
smiled sadly, and immediately said, "Akh, no! He had abandoned that
entirely from the time he made my acquaintance.... Only, what health had
he?!... It was utterly ruined. As soon as he gave up drinking, his
malady immediately manifested itself. He became so steady, he was always
wanting to help my father, either in the household affairs, or in the
vegetable garden ... or whatever other work happened to be on hand ...
in spite of the fact that he was of noble birth. Only, where was he to
get the strength?... And he would have liked to busy himself in the
department of writing also,--he knew how to do that beautifully, as you
are aware; but his hands shook so, and he could not hold the pen
properly.... He was always reproaching himself: 'I'm an idle dog,' he
said. 'I have done no one any good, I have helped no one, I have not
toiled!' He was very much afflicted over that same.... He used to say,
'Our people toil, but what are we doing?...' Akh, Nikolái Nikoláitch, he
was a fine man--and he loved me ... and I.... Akh, forgive me...."
Here the young woman actually burst into tears. I would have liked to
comfort her, but I did not know how.
"Have you a baby?" I asked at last.
She sighed.--"No, I have not.... How could I have?"--And here tears
streamed worse than before.
So this was the end of Mísha's wanderings through tribulations [old P.
concluded his story].--You will agree with me, gentlemen, as a matter of
course, that I had a right to call him reckless; but you will probably
also agree with me that he did not resemble the reckless fellows of the
present day, although we must suppose that any philosopher would find
traits of similarity between him and them. In both cases there is the
thirst for self-annihilation, melancholy, dissatisfaction.... And what
that springs from I will permit precisely that philosopher to decide.