I
The date of the fête which Yulia Mihailovna was getting up for the
benefit of the governesses of our province had been several times fixed
and put off. She had invariably bustling round her Pyotr Stepanovitch
and a little clerk, Lyamshin, who used at one time to visit Stepan
Trofimovitch, and had suddenly found favour in the governor's house for
the way he played the piano and now was of use running errands. Liputin
was there a good deal too, and Yulia Mihailovna destined him to be the
editor of a new independent provincial paper. There were also several
ladies, married and single, and lastly, even Karmazinov who, though he
could not be said to bustle, announced aloud with a complacent air that
he would agreeably astonish every one when the literary quadrille began.
An extraordinary multitude of donors and subscribers had turned up, all
the select society of the town; but even the unselect were admitted, if
only they produced the cash. Yulia Mihailovna observed that sometimes it
was a positive duty to allow the mixing of classes, "for otherwise who
is to enlighten them?"
A private drawing-room committee was formed, at which it was decided
that the fête was to be of a democratic character. The enormous list
of subscriptions tempted them to lavish expenditure. They wanted to do
something on a marvellous scale--that's why it was put off. They were
still undecided where the ball was to take place, whether in the immense
house belonging to the marshal's wife, which she was willing to give up
to them for the day, or at Varvara Petrovna's mansion at Skvoreshniki.
It was rather a distance to Skvoreshniki, but many of the committee were
of opinion that it would be "freer" there. Varvara Petrovna would dearly
have liked it to have been in her house. It's difficult to understand
why this proud woman seemed almost making up to Yulia Mihailovna.
Probably what pleased her was that the latter in her turn seemed almost
fawning upon Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch and was more gracious to him
than to anyone. I repeat again that Pyotr Stepanovitch was always, in
continual whispers, strengthening in the governor's household an idea he
had insinuated there already, that Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch was a man who
had very mysterious connections with very mysterious circles, and that
he had certainly come here with some commission from them.
People here seemed in a strange state of mind at the time. Among the
ladies especially a sort of frivolity was conspicuous, and it could
not be said to be a gradual growth. Certain very free-and-easy notions
seemed to be in the air. There was a sort of dissipated gaiety and
levity, and I can't say it was always quite pleasant. A lax way of
thinking was the fashion. Afterwards when it was all over, people blamed
Yulia Mihailovna, her circle, her attitude. But it can hardly have
been altogether due to Yulia Mihailovna. On the contrary; at first many
people vied with one another in praising the new governor's wife for her
success in bringing local society together, and for making things
more lively. Several scandalous incidents took place, for which Yulia
Mihailovna was in no way responsible, but at the time people were amused
and did nothing but laugh, and there was no one to check them. A rather
large group of people, it is true, held themselves aloof, and had views
of their own on the course of events. But even these made no complaint
at the time; they smiled, in fact.
I remember that a fairly large circle came into existence, as it were,
spontaneously, the centre of which perhaps was really to be found
in Yulia Mihailovna's drawing-room. In this intimate circle which
surrounded her, among the younger members of it, of course, it was
considered admissible to play all sorts of pranks, sometimes rather
free-and-easy ones, and, in fact, such conduct became a principle among
them. In this circle there were even some very charming ladies. The
young people arranged picnics, and even parties, and sometimes went
about the town in a regular cavalcade, in carriages and on horseback.
They sought out adventures, even got them up themselves, simply for the
sake of having an amusing story to tell. They treated our town as though
it were a sort of Glupov. People called them the jeerers or sneerers,
because they did not stick at anything. It happened, for instance, that
the wife of a local lieutenant, a little brunette, very young though she
looked worn out from her husband's ill-treatment, at an evening party
thoughtlessly sat down to play whist for high stakes in the fervent hope
of winning enough to buy herself a mantle, and instead of winning, lost
fifteen roubles. Being afraid of her husband, and having no means of
paying, she plucked up the courage of former days and ventured on the
sly to ask for a loan, on the spot, at the party, from the son of our
mayor, a very nasty youth, precociously vicious. The latter not only
refused it, but went laughing aloud to tell her husband. The lieutenant,
who certainly was poor, with nothing but his salary, took his wife home
and avenged himself upon her to his heart's content in spite of her
shrieks, wails, and entreaties on her knees for forgiveness. This
revolting story excited nothing but mirth all over the town, and though
the poor wife did not belong to Yulia Mihailovna's circle, one of the
ladies of the "cavalcade," an eccentric and adventurous character who
happened to know her, drove round, and simply carried her off to her
own house. Here she was at once taken up by our madcaps, made much of,
loaded with presents, and kept for four days without being sent back to
her husband. She stayed at the adventurous lady's all day long, drove
about with her and all the sportive company in expeditions about the
town, and took part in dances and merry-making. They kept egging her
on to haul her husband before the court and to make a scandal. They
declared that they would all support her and would come and bear
witness. The husband kept quiet, not daring to oppose them. The poor
thing realised at last that she had got into a hopeless position and,
more dead than alive with fright, on the fourth day she ran off in the
dusk from her protectors to her lieutenant. It's not definitely known
what took place between husband and wife, but two shutters of the
low-pitched little house in which the lieutenant lodged were not opened
for a fortnight. Yulia Mihailovna was angry with the mischief-makers
when she heard about it all, and was greatly displeased with the
conduct of the adventurous lady, though the latter had presented the
lieutenant's wife to her on the day she carried her off. However, this
was soon forgotten.
Another time a petty clerk, a respectable head of a family, married his
daughter, a beautiful girl of seventeen, known to every one in the town,
to another petty clerk, a young man who came from a different district.
But suddenly it was learned that the young husband had treated the
beauty very roughly on the wedding night, chastising her for what he
regarded as a stain on his honour. Lyamshin, who was almost a witness of
the affair, because he got drunk at the wedding and so stayed the night,
as soon as day dawned, ran round with the diverting intelligence.
Instantly a party of a dozen was made up, all of them on horseback, some
on hired Cossack horses, Pyotr Stepanovitch, for instance, and Liputin,
who, in spite of his grey hairs, took part in almost every scandalous
adventure of our reckless youngsters. When the young couple appeared in
the street in a droshky with a pair of horses to make the calls which
are obligatory in our town on the day after a wedding, in spite of
anything that may happen, the whole cavalcade, with merry laughter,
surrounded the droshky and followed them about the town all the morning.
They did not, it's true, go into the house, but waited for them
outside, on horseback. They refrained from marked insult to the bride
or bridegroom, but still they caused a scandal. The whole town began
talking of it. Every one laughed, of course. But at this Von Lembke was
angry, and again had a lively scene with Yulia Mihailovna. She, too, was
extremely angry, and formed the intention of turning the scapegraces out
of her house. But next day she forgave them all after persuasions from
Pyotr Stepanovitch and some words from Karmazinov, who considered the
affair rather amusing.
"It's in harmony with the traditions of the place," he said. "Anyway
it's characteristic and... bold; and look, every one's laughing, you're
the only person indignant."
But there were pranks of a certain character that were absolutely past
endurance.
A respectable woman of the artisan class, who went about selling
gospels, came into the town. People talked about her, because some
interesting references to these gospel women had just appeared in the
Petersburg papers. Again the same buffoon, Lyamshin, with the help of a
divinity student, who was taking a holiday while waiting for a post in
the school, succeeded, on the pretence of buying books from the gospel
woman, in thrusting into her bag a whole bundle of indecent and obscene
photographs from abroad, sacrificed expressly for the purpose, as we
learned afterwards, by a highly respectable old gentleman (I will omit
his name) with an order on his breast, who, to use his own words, loved
"a healthy laugh and a merry jest." When the poor woman went to take out
the holy books in the bazaar, the photographs were scattered about the
place. There were roars of laughter and murmurs of indignation. A crowd
collected, began abusing her, and would have come to blows if the police
had not arrived in the nick of time. The gospel woman was taken to
the lock-up, and only in the evening, thanks to the efforts of Mavriky
Nikolaevitch, who had learned with indignation the secret details of
this loathsome affair, she was released and escorted out of the town. At
this point Yulia Mihailovna would certainly have forbidden Lyamshin her
house, but that very evening the whole circle brought him to her with
the intelligence that he had just composed a new piece for the piano,
and persuaded her at least to hear it. The piece turned out to be really
amusing, and bore the comic title of "The Franco-Prussian War." It began
with the menacing strains of the "Marseillaise":
_"Qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons."_
There is heard the pompous challenge, the intoxication of future
victories. But suddenly mingling with the masterly variations on the
national hymn, somewhere from some corner quite close, on one side come
the vulgar strains of "Mein lieber Augustin." The "Marseillaise" goes
on unconscious of them. The "Marseillaise" is at the climax of its
intoxication with its own grandeur; but Augustin gains strength;
Augustin grows more and more insolent, and suddenly the melody of
Augustin begins to blend with the melody of the "Marseillaise." The
latter begins, as it were, to get angry; becoming aware of Augustin
at last she tries to fling him off, to brush him aside like a tiresome
insignificant fly. But "Mein lieber Augustin" holds his ground firmly,
he is cheerful and self-confident, he is gleeful and impudent, and the
"Marseillaise" seems suddenly to become terribly stupid. She can no
longer conceal her anger and mortification; it is a wail of indignation,
tears, and curses, with hands outstretched to Providence.
_"Pas un pouce de notre terrain; pas une de nos forteresses."_
But she is forced to sing in time with "Mein lieber Augustin." Her
melody passes in a sort of foolish way into Augustin; she yields and
dies away. And only by snatches there is heard again:
_"Qu'un sang impur..."_
But at once it passes very offensively into the vulgar waltz. She
submits altogether. It is Jules Favre sobbing on Bismarck's bosom
and surrendering every thing.... But at this point Augustin too grows
fierce; hoarse sounds are heard; there is a suggestion of countless
gallons of beer, of a frenzy of self-glorification, demands for
millions, for fine cigars, champagne, and hostages. Augustin passes into
a wild yell.... "The Franco-Prussian War" is over. Our circle applauded,
Yulia Mihailovna smiled, and said, "Now, how is one to turn him out?"
Peace was made. The rascal really had talent. Stepan Trofimovitch
assured me on one occasion that the very highest artistic talents may
exist in the most abominable blackguards, and that the one thing
does not interfere with the other. There was a rumour afterwards that
Lyamshin had stolen this burlesque from a talented and modest young man
of his acquaintance, whose name remained unknown. But this is beside the
mark. This worthless fellow who had hung about Stepan Trofimovitch for
years, who used at his evening parties, when invited, to mimic Jews of
various types, a deaf peasant woman making her confession, or the birth
of a child, now at Yulia Mihailovna's caricatured Stepan Trofimovitch
himself in a killing way, under the title of "A Liberal of the
Forties." Everybody shook with laughter, so that in the end it was
quite impossible to turn him out: he had become too necessary a person.
Besides he fawned upon Pyotr Stepanovitch in a slavish way, and he,
in his turn, had obtained by this time a strange and unaccountable
influence over Yulia Mihailovna.
I wouldn't have talked about this scoundrel, and, indeed, he would not
be worth dwelling upon, but there was another revolting story, so people
declare, in which he had a hand, and this story I cannot omit from my
record.
One morning the news of a hideous and revolting sacrilege was all over
the town. At the entrance to our immense marketplace there stands the
ancient church of Our Lady's Nativity, which was a remarkable antiquity
in our ancient town. At the gates of the precincts there is a large ikon
of the Mother of God fixed behind a grating in the wall. And behold, one
night the ikon had been robbed, the glass of the case was broken, the
grating was smashed and several stones and pearls (I don't know whether
they were very precious ones) had been removed from the crown and the
setting. But what was worse, besides the theft a senseless, scoffing
sacrilege had been perpetrated. Behind the broken glass of the ikon they
found in the morning, so it was said, a live mouse. Now, four months
since, it has been established beyond doubt that the crime was committed
by the convict Fedka, but for some reason it is added that Lyamshin took
part in it. At the time no one spoke of Lyamshin or had any suspicion
of him. But now every one says it was he who put the mouse there. I
remember all our responsible officials were rather staggered. A crowd
thronged round the scene of the crime from early morning. There was a
crowd continually before it, not a very huge one, but always about a
hundred people, some coming and some going. As they approached they
crossed themselves and bowed down to the ikon. They began to give
offerings, and a church dish made its appearance, and with the dish a
monk. But it was only about three o'clock in the afternoon it occurred
to the authorities that it was possible to prohibit the crowds standing
about, and to command them when they had prayed, bowed down and left
their offerings, to pass on. Upon Von Lembke this unfortunate incident
made the gloomiest impression. As I was told, Yulia Mihailovna said
afterwards it was from this ill-omened morning that she first noticed in
her husband that strange depression which persisted in him until he
left our province on account of illness two months ago, and, I believe,
haunts him still in Switzerland, where he has gone for a rest after his
brief career amongst us.
I remember at one o'clock in the afternoon I crossed the marketplace;
the crowd was silent and their faces solemn and gloomy. A merchant, fat
and sallow, drove up, got out of his carriage, made a bow to the ground,
kissed the ikon, offered a rouble, sighing, got back into his carriage
and drove off. Another carriage drove up with two ladies accompanied
by two of our scapegraces. The young people (one of whom was not quite
young) got out of their carriage too, and squeezed their way up to the
ikon, pushing people aside rather carelessly. Neither of the young men
took off his hat, and one of them put a pince-nez on his nose. In the
crowd there was a murmur, vague but unfriendly. The dandy with the
pince-nez took out of his purse, which was stuffed full of bank-notes,
a copper farthing and flung it into the dish. Both laughed, and, talking
loudly, went back to their carriage. At that moment Lizaveta Nikolaevna
galloped up, escorted by Mavriky Nikolaevitch. She jumped off her horse,
flung the reins to her companion, who, at her bidding, remained on his
horse, and approached the ikon at the very moment when the farthing had
been flung down. A flush of indignation suffused her cheeks; she took
off her round hat and her gloves, fell straight on her knees before the
ikon on the muddy pavement, and reverently bowed down three times to the
earth. Then she took out her purse, but as it appeared she had only a
few small coins in it she instantly took off her diamond ear-rings and
put them in the dish.
"May I? May I? For the adornment of the setting?" she asked the monk.
"It is permitted," replied the latter, "every gift is good." The crowd
was silent, expressing neither dissent nor approval.
Liza got on her horse again, in her muddy riding-habit, and galloped
away.
II
Two days after the incident I have described I met her in a numerous
company, who were driving out on some expedition in three coaches,
surrounded by others on horseback. She beckoned to me, stopped her
carriage, and pressingly urged me to join their party. A place was
found for me in the carriage, and she laughingly introduced me to her
companions, gorgeously attired ladies, and explained to me that they
were all going on a very interesting expedition. She was laughing, and
seemed somewhat excessively happy. Just lately she had been very lively,
even playful, in fact.
The expedition was certainly an eccentric one. They were all going to a
house the other side of the river, to the merchant Sevastyanov's. In
the lodge of this merchant's house our saint and prophet, Semyon
Yakovlevitch, who was famous not only amongst us but in the surrounding
provinces and even in Petersburg and Moscow, had been living for the
last ten years, in retirement, ease, and comfort. Every one went to see
him, especially visitors to the neighbourhood, extracting from him some
crazy utterance, bowing down to him, and leaving an offering. These
offerings were sometimes considerable, and if Semyon Yakovlevitch did
not himself assign them to some other purpose were piously sent to
some church or more often to the monastery of Our Lady. A monk from
the monastery was always in waiting upon Semyon Yakovlevitch with this
object.
All were in expectation of great amusement. No one of the party had seen
Semyon Yakovlevitch before, except Lyamshin, who declared that the saint
had given orders that he should be driven out with a broom, and had with
his own hand flung two big baked potatoes after him. Among the party I
noticed Pyotr Stepanovitch, again riding a hired Cossack horse, on which
he sat extremely badly, and Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, also on horseback.
The latter did not always hold aloof from social diversions, and on such
occasions always wore an air of gaiety, although, as always, he spoke
little and seldom. When our party had crossed the bridge and reached the
hotel of the town, someone suddenly announced that in one of the rooms
of the hotel they had just found a traveller who had shot himself, and
were expecting the police. At once the suggestion was made that they
should go and look at the suicide. The idea met with approval: our
ladies had never seen a suicide. I remember one of them said aloud on
the occasion, "Everything's so boring, one can't be squeamish over one's
amusements, as long as they're interesting." Only a few of them remained
outside. The others went in a body into the dirty corridor, and amongst
the others I saw, to my amazement, Lizaveta Nikolaevna. The door of the
room was open, and they did not, of course, dare to prevent our going
in to look at the suicide. He was quite a young lad, not more than
nineteen. He must have been very good-looking, with thick fair hair,
with a regular oval face, and a fine, pure forehead. The body was
already stiff, and his white young face looked like marble. On the table
lay a note, in his handwriting, to the effect that no one was to blame
for his death, that he had killed himself because he had "squandered"
four hundred roubles. The word "squandered" was used in the letter; in
the four lines of his letter there were three mistakes in spelling. A
stout country gentleman, evidently a neighbour, who had been staying in
the hotel on some business of his own, was particularly distressed about
it. From his words it appeared that the boy had been sent by his family,
that is, a widowed mother, sisters, and aunts, from the country to the
town in order that, under the supervision of a female relation in the
town, he might purchase and take home with him various articles for the
trousseau of his eldest sister, who was going to be married. The family
had, with sighs of apprehension, entrusted him with the four hundred
roubles, the savings of ten years, and had sent him on his way with
exhortations, prayers, and signs of the cross. The boy had till then
been well-behaved and trustworthy. Arriving three days before at the
town, he had not gone to his relations, had put up at the hotel, and
gone straight to the club in the hope of finding in some back room a
"travelling banker," or at least some game of cards for money. But that
evening there was no "banker" there or gambling going on. Going back
to the hotel about midnight he asked for champagne, Havana cigars, and
ordered a supper of six or seven dishes. But the champagne made him
drunk, and the cigar made him sick, so that he did not touch the food
when it was brought to him, and went to bed almost unconscious. Waking
next morning as fresh as an apple, he went at once to the gipsies' camp,
which was in a suburb beyond the river, and of which he had heard the
day before at the club. He did not reappear at the hotel for two days.
At last, at five o'clock in the afternoon of the previous day, he had
returned drunk, had at once gone to bed, and had slept till ten o'clock
in the evening. On waking up he had asked for a cutlet, a bottle of
Chateau d'Yquem, and some grapes, paper, and ink, and his bill. No one
noticed anything special about him; he was quiet, gentle, and friendly.
He must have shot himself at about midnight, though it was strange that
no one had heard the shot, and they only raised the alarm at midday,
when, after knocking in vain, they had broken in the door. The bottle of
Chateau d'Yquem was half empty, there was half a plateful of grapes left
too. The shot had been fired from a little three-chambered revolver,
straight into the heart. Very little blood had flowed. The revolver had
dropped from his hand on to the carpet. The boy himself was half lying
in a corner of the sofa. Death must have been instantaneous. There was
no trace of the anguish of death in the face; the expression was serene,
almost happy, as though there were no cares in his life. All our party
stared at him with greedy curiosity. In every misfortune of one's
neighbour there is always something cheering for an onlooker--whoever
he may be. Our ladies gazed in silence, their companions distinguished
themselves by their wit and their superb equanimity. One observed that
his was the best way out of it, and that the boy could not have hit upon
anything more sensible; another observed that he had had a good time if
only for a moment. A third suddenly blurted out the inquiry why people
had begun hanging and shooting themselves among us of late, as though
they had suddenly lost their roots, as though the ground were giving way
under every one's feet. People looked coldly at this raisonneur. Then
Lyamshin, who prided himself on playing the fool, took a bunch of grapes
from the plate; another, laughing, followed his example, and a third
stretched out his hand for the Chateau d'Yquem. But the head of police
arriving checked him, and even ordered that the room should be cleared.
As every one had seen all they wanted they went out without disputing,
though Lyamshin began pestering the police captain about something. The
general merrymaking, laughter, and playful talk were twice as lively on
the latter half of the way.
We arrived at Semyon Yakovlevitch's just at one o'clock. The gate of the
rather large house stood unfastened, and the approach to the lodge was
open. We learnt at once that Semyon Yakovlevitch was dining, but was
receiving guests. The whole crowd of us went in. The room in which the
saint dined and received visitors had three windows, and was fairly
large. It was divided into two equal parts by a wooden lattice-work
partition, which ran from wall to wall, and was three or four feet high.
Ordinary visitors remained on the outside of this partition, but lucky
ones were by the saint's invitation admitted through the partition doors
into his half of the room. And if so disposed he made them sit down on
the sofa or on his old leather chairs. He himself invariably sat in
an old-fashioned shabby Voltaire arm-chair. He was a rather big,
bloated-looking, yellow-faced man of five and fifty, with a bald head
and scanty flaxen hair. He wore no beard; his right cheek was swollen,
and his mouth seemed somehow twisted awry. He had a large wart on
the left side of his nose; narrow eyes, and a calm, stolid, sleepy
expression. He was dressed in European style, in a black coat, but had
no waistcoat or tie. A rather coarse, but white shirt, peeped out below
his coat. There was something the matter with his feet, I believe, and
he kept them in slippers. I've heard that he had at one time been a
clerk, and received a rank in the service. He had just finished some
fish soup, and was beginning his second dish of potatoes in their skins,
eaten with salt. He never ate anything else, but he drank a great
deal of tea, of which he was very fond. Three servants provided by
the merchant were running to and fro about him. One of them was in a
swallow-tail, the second looked like a workman, and the third like
a verger. There was also a very lively boy of sixteen. Besides the
servants there was present, holding a jug, a reverend, grey-headed
monk, who was a little too fat. On one of the tables a huge samovar was
boiling, and a tray with almost two dozen glasses was standing near it.
On another table opposite offerings had been placed: some loaves and
also some pounds of sugar, two pounds of tea, a pair of embroidered
slippers, a foulard handkerchief, a length of cloth, a piece of linen,
and so on. Money offerings almost all went into the monk's jug. The room
was full of people, at least a dozen visitors, of whom two were sitting
with Semyon Yakovlevitch on the other side of the partition. One was a
grey-headed old pilgrim of the peasant class, and the other a little,
dried-up monk, who sat demurely, with his eyes cast down. The other
visitors were all standing on the near side of the partition, and
were mostly, too, of the peasant class, except one elderly and
poverty-stricken lady, one landowner, and a stout merchant, who had come
from the district town, a man with a big beard, dressed in the Russian
style, though he was known to be worth a hundred thousand.
All were waiting for their chance, not daring to speak of themselves.
Four were on their knees, but the one who attracted most attention
was the landowner, a stout man of forty-five, kneeling right at the
partition, more conspicuous than any one, waiting reverently for a
propitious word or look from Semyon Yakovlevitch. He had been there for
about an hour already, but the saint still did not notice him.
Our ladies crowded right up to the partition, whispering gaily and
laughingly together. They pushed aside or got in front of all the other
visitors, even those on their knees, except the landowner, who remained
obstinately in his prominent position even holding on to the
partition. Merry and greedily inquisitive eyes were turned upon Semyon
Yakovlevitch, as well as lorgnettes, pince-nez, and even opera-glasses.
Lyamshin, at any rate, looked through an opera-glass. Semyon
Yakovlevitch calmly and lazily scanned all with his little eyes.
"Milovzors! Milovzors!" he deigned to pronounce, in a hoarse bass, and
slightly staccato.
All our party laughed: "What's the meaning of 'Milovzors'?" But Semyon
Yakovlevitch relapsed into silence, and finished his potatoes. Presently
he wiped his lips with his napkin, and they handed him tea.
As a rule, he did not take tea alone, but poured out some for his
visitors, but by no means for all, usually pointing himself to those
he wished to honour. And his choice always surprised people by its
unexpectedness. Passing by the wealthy and the high-placed, he sometimes
pitched upon a peasant or some decrepit old woman. Another time he
would pass over the beggars to honour some fat wealthy merchant. Tea was
served differently, too, to different people, sugar was put into some of
the glasses and handed separately with others, while some got it without
any sugar at all. This time the favoured one was the monk sitting by
him, who had sugar put in; and the old pilgrim, to whom it was given
without any sugar. The fat monk with the jug, from the monastery, for
some reason had none handed to him at all, though up till then he had
had his glass every day.
"Semyon Yakovlevitch, do say something to me. I've been longing to make
your acquaintance for ever so long," carolled the gorgeously dressed
lady from our carriage, screwing up her eyes and smiling. She was
the lady who had observed that one must not be squeamish about one's
amusements, so long as they were interesting. Semyon Yakovlevitch did
not even look at her. The kneeling landowner uttered a deep, sonorous
sigh, like the sound of a big pair of bellows.
"With sugar in it!" said Semyon Yakovlevitch suddenly, pointing to the
wealthy merchant. The latter moved forward and stood beside the kneeling
gentleman.
"Some more sugar for him!" ordered Semyon Yakovlevitch, after the glass
had already been poured out. They put some more in. "More, more, for
him!" More was put in a third time, and again a fourth. The merchant
began submissively drinking his syrup.
"Heavens!" whispered the people, crossing themselves. The kneeling
gentleman again heaved a deep, sonorous sigh.
"Father! Semyon Yakovlevitch!" The voice of the poor lady rang out all
at once plaintively, though so sharply that it was startling. Our party
had shoved her back to the wall. "A whole hour, dear father, I've been
waiting for grace. Speak to me. Consider my case in my helplessness."
"Ask her," said Semyon Yakovlevitch to the verger, who went to the
partition.
"Have you done what Semyon Yakovlevitch bade you last time?" he asked
the widow in a soft and measured voice.
"Done it! Father Semyon Yakovlevitch. How can one do it with them?"
wailed the widow. "They're cannibals; they're lodging a complaint
against me, in the court; they threaten to take it to the senate. That's
how they treat their own mother!"
"Give her!" Semyon Yakovlevitch pointed to a sugar-loaf. The boy skipped
up, seized the sugar-loaf and dragged it to the widow.
"Ach, father; great is your merciful kindness. What am I to do with so
much?" wailed the widow.
"More, more," said Semyon Yakovlevitch lavishly.
They dragged her another sugar-loaf. "More, more!" the saint commanded.
They took her a third, and finally a fourth. The widow was surrounded
with sugar on all sides. The monk from the monastery sighed; all this
might have gone to the monastery that day as it had done on former
occasions.
"What am I to do with so much," the widow sighed obsequiously. "It's
enough to make one person sick!... Is it some sort of a prophecy,
father?"
"Be sure it's by way of a prophecy," said someone in the crowd.
"Another pound for her, another!" Semyon Yakovlevitch persisted.
There was a whole sugar-loaf still on the table, but the saint ordered a
pound to be given, and they gave her a pound.
"Lord have mercy on us!" gasped the people, crossing themselves. "It's
surely a prophecy."
"Sweeten your heart for the future with mercy and loving kindness, and
then come to make complaints against your own children; bone of your
bone. That's what we must take this emblem to mean," the stout monk
from the monastery, who had had no tea given to him, said softly but
self-complacently, taking upon himself the rôle of interpreter in an
access of wounded vanity.
"What are you saying, father?" cried the widow, suddenly infuriated.
"Why, they dragged me into the fire with a rope round me when the
Verhishins' house was burnt, and they locked up a dead cat in my chest.
They are ready to do any villainy...."
"Away with her! Away with her!" Semyon Yakovlevitch said suddenly,
waving his hands.
The verger and the boy dashed through the partition. The verger took the
widow by the arm, and without resisting she trailed to the door, keeping
her eyes fixed on the loaves of sugar that had been bestowed on her,
which the boy dragged after her.
"One to be taken away. Take it away," Semyon Yakovlevitch commanded to
the servant like a workman, who remained with him. The latter rushed
after the retreating woman, and the three servants returned somewhat
later bringing back one loaf of sugar which had been presented to the
widow and now taken away from her. She carried off three, however.
"Semyon Yakovlevitch," said a voice at the door. "I dreamt of a bird, a
jackdaw; it flew out of the water and flew into the fire. What does the
dream mean?"
"Frost," Semyon Yakovlevitch pronounced.
"Semyon Yakovlevitch, why don't you answer me all this time? I've been
interested in you ever so long," the lady of our party began again.
"Ask him!" said Semyon Yakovlevitch, not heeding her, but pointing to
the kneeling gentleman.
The monk from the monastery to whom the order was given moved sedately
to the kneeling figure.
"How have you sinned? And was not some command laid upon you?"
"Not to fight; not to give the rein to my hands," answered the kneeling
gentleman hoarsely.
"Have you obeyed?" asked the monk.
"I cannot obey. My own strength gets the better of me."
"Away with him, away with him! With a broom, with a broom!" cried Semyon
Yakovlevitch, waving his hands. The gentleman rushed out of the room
without waiting for this penalty.
"He's left a gold piece where he knelt," observed the monk, picking up a
half-imperial.
"For him!" said the saint, pointing to the rich merchant. The latter
dared not refuse it, and took it.
"Gold to gold," the monk from the monastery could not refrain from
saying.
"And give him some with sugar in it," said the saint, pointing to
Mavriky Nikolaevitch. The servant poured out the tea and took it by
mistake to the dandy with the pince-nez.
"The long one, the long one!" Semyon Yakovlevitch corrected him.
Mavriky Nikolaevitch took the glass, made a military half-bow, and began
drinking it. I don't know why, but all our party burst into peals of
laughter.
"Mavriky Nikolaevitch," cried Liza, addressing him suddenly. "That
kneeling gentleman has gone away. You kneel down in his place."
Mavriky Nikolaevitch looked at her in amazement.
"I beg you to. You'll do me the greatest favour. Listen, Mavriky
Nikolaevitch," she went on, speaking in an emphatic, obstinate, excited,
and rapid voice. "You must kneel down; I must see you kneel down. If you
won't, don't come near me. I insist, I insist!"
I don't know what she meant by it; but she insisted upon it
relentlessly, as though she were in a fit. Mavriky Nikolaevitch, as
we shall see later, set down these capricious impulses, which had been
particularly frequent of late, to outbreaks of blind hatred for him,
not due to spite, for, on the contrary, she esteemed him, loved him,
and respected him, and he knew that himself--but from a peculiar
unconscious hatred which at times she could not control.
In silence he gave his cup to an old woman standing behind him, opened
the door of the partition, and, without being invited, stepped into
Semyon Yakovlevitch's private apartment, and knelt down in the middle
of the room in sight of all. I imagine that he was deeply shocked in his
candid and delicate heart by Liza's coarse and mocking freak before
the whole company. Perhaps he imagined that she would feel ashamed of
herself, seeing his humiliation, on which she had so insisted. Of course
no one but he would have dreamt of bringing a woman to reason by
so naïve and risky a proceeding. He remained kneeling with his
imperturbable gravity--long, tall, awkward, and ridiculous. But our
party did not laugh. The unexpectedness of the action produced a painful
shock. Every one looked at Liza.
"Anoint, anoint!" muttered Semyon Yakovlevitch.
Liza suddenly turned white, cried out, and rushed through the partition.
Then a rapid and hysterical scene followed. She began pulling Mavriky
Nikolaevitch up with all her might, tugging at his elbows with both
hands.
"Get up! Get up!" she screamed, as though she were crazy. "Get up at
once, at once. How dare you?"
Mavriky Nikolaevitch got up from his knees. She clutched his arms above
the elbow and looked intently into his face. There was terror in her
expression.
"Milovzors! Milovzors!" Semyon Yakovlevitch repeated again.
She dragged Mavriky Nikolaevitch back to the other part of the room at
last. There was some commotion in all our company. The lady from our
carriage, probably intending to relieve the situation, loudly and
shrilly asked the saint for the third time, with an affected smile:
"Well, Semyon Yakovlevitch, won't you utter some saying for me? I've
been reckoning so much on you."
"Out with the ----, out with the ----," said Semyon Yakovlevitch, suddenly
addressing her, with an extremely indecent word. The words were uttered
savagely, and with horrifying distinctness. Our ladies shrieked, and
rushed headlong away, while the gentlemen escorting them burst into
Homeric laughter. So ended our visit to Semyon Yakovlevitch.
At this point, however, there took place, I am told, an extremely
enigmatic incident, and, I must own, it was chiefly on account of it
that I have described this expedition so minutely.
I am told that when all flocked out, Liza, supported by Mavriky
Nikolaevitch, was jostled against Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch in the crush
in the doorway. I must mention that since that Sunday morning when she
fainted they had not approached each other, nor exchanged a word, though
they had met more than once. I saw them brought together in the doorway.
I fancied they both stood still for an instant, and looked, as it were,
strangely at one another, but I may not have seen rightly in the
crowd. It is asserted, on the contrary, and quite seriously, that Liza,
glancing at Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, quickly raised her hand to the
level of his face, and would certainly have struck him if he had not
drawn back in time. Perhaps she was displeased with the expression of
his face, or the way he smiled, particularly just after such an episode
with Mavriky Nikolaevitch. I must admit I saw nothing myself, but all
the others declared they had, though they certainly could not all have
seen it in such a crush, though perhaps some may have. But I did
not believe it at the time. I remember, however, that Nikolay
Vsyevolodovitch was rather pale all the way home.
III
Almost at the same time, and certainly on the same day, the interview
at last took place between Stepan Trofimovitch and Varvara Petrovna. She
had long had this meeting in her mind, and had sent word about it to
her former friend, but for some reason she had kept putting it off till
then. It took place at Skvoreshniki; Varvara Petrovna arrived at her
country house all in a bustle; it had been definitely decided the
evening before that the fête was to take place at the marshal's, but
Varvara Petrovna's rapid brain at once grasped that no one could
prevent her from afterwards giving her own special entertainment at
Skvoreshniki, and again assembling the whole town. Then every one could
see for themselves whose house was best, and in which more taste was
displayed in receiving guests and giving a ball. Altogether she was
hardly to be recognised. She seemed completely transformed, and instead
of the unapproachable "noble lady" (Stepan Trofimovitch's expression)
seemed changed into the most commonplace, whimsical society woman. But
perhaps this may only have been on the surface.
When she reached the empty house she had gone through all the rooms,
accompanied by her faithful old butler, Alexey Yegorytch, and by
Fomushka, a man who had seen much of life and was a specialist in
decoration. They began to consult and deliberate: what furniture was to
be brought from the town house, what things, what pictures, where they
were to be put, how the conservatories and flowers could be put to
the best use, where to put new curtains, where to have the refreshment
rooms, whether one or two, and so on and so on. And, behold, in the
midst of this exciting bustle she suddenly took it into her head to send
for Stepan Trofimovitch.
The latter had long before received notice of this interview and was
prepared for it, and he had every day been expecting just such a sudden
summons. As he got into the carriage he crossed himself: his fate was
being decided. He found his friend in the big drawing-room on the little
sofa in the recess, before a little marble table with a pencil and paper
in her hands. Fomushka, with a yard measure, was measuring the height
of the galleries and the windows, while Varvara Petrovna herself was
writing down the numbers and making notes on the margin. She nodded in
Stepan Trofimovitch's direction without breaking off from what she was
doing, and when the latter muttered some sort of greeting, she hurriedly
gave him her hand, and without looking at him motioned him to a seat
beside her.
"I sat waiting for five minutes, 'mastering my heart,'" he told me
afterwards. "I saw before me not the woman whom I had known for twenty
years. An absolute conviction that all was over gave me a strength which
astounded even her. I swear that she was surprised at my stoicism in
that last hour."
Varvara Petrovna suddenly put down her pencil on the table and turned
quickly to Stepan Trofimovitch.
"Stepan Trofimovitch, we have to talk of business. I'm sure you have
prepared all your fervent words and various phrases, but we'd better go
straight to the point, hadn't we?"
She had been in too great a hurry to show the tone she meant to take.
And what might not come next?
"Wait, be quiet; let me speak. Afterwards you shall, though really I
don't know what you can answer me," she said in a rapid patter. "The
twelve hundred roubles of your pension I consider a sacred obligation
to pay you as long as you live. Though why a sacred obligation, simply
a contract; that would be a great deal more real, wouldn't it? If you
like, we'll write it out. Special arrangements have been made in case
of my death. But you are receiving from me at present lodging, servants,
and your maintenance in addition. Reckoning that in money it would
amount to fifteen hundred roubles, wouldn't it? I will add another three
hundred roubles, making three thousand roubles in all. Will that be
enough a year for you? I think that's not too little? In any extreme
emergency I would add something more. And so, take your money, send me
back my servants, and live by yourself where you like in Petersburg, in
Moscow, abroad, or here, only not with me. Do you hear?"
"Only lately those lips dictated to me as imperatively and as suddenly
very different demands," said Stepan Trofimovitch slowly and with
sorrowful distinctness. "I submitted... and danced the Cossack dance
to please you. _Oui, la comparaison peut être permise. C'était comme un
petit Cosaque du Don qui sautait sur sa propre tombe._ Now..."
"Stop, Stepan Trofimovitch, you are horribly long-winded. You didn't
dance, but came to see me in a new tie, new linen, gloves, scented
and pomatumed. I assure you that you were very anxious to get married
yourself; it was written on your face, and I assure you a most unseemly
expression it was. If I did not mention it to you at the time, it was
simply out of delicacy. But you wished it, you wanted to be married, in
spite of the abominable things you wrote about me and your betrothed.
Now it's very different. And what has the Cosaque du Don to do with it,
and what tomb do you mean? I don't understand the comparison. On the
contrary, you have only to live. Live as long as you can. I shall be
delighted."
"In an almshouse?"
"In an almshouse? People don't go into almshouses with three thousand
roubles a year. Ah, I remember," she laughed. "Pyotr Stepanovitch
did joke about an almshouse once. Bah, there certainly is a special
almshouse, which is worth considering. It's for persons who are highly
respectable; there are colonels there, and there's positively one
general who wants to get into it. If you went into it with all your
money, you would find peace, comfort, servants to wait on you. There you
could occupy yourself with study, and could always make up a party for
cards."
_"Passons."_
_"Passons?"_ Varvara Petrovna winced. "But, if so, that's all. You've been
informed that we shall live henceforward entirely apart."
"And that's all?" he said. "All that's left of twenty years? Our last
farewell?"
"You're awfully fond of these exclamations, Stepan Trofimovitch. It's
not at all the fashion. Nowadays people talk roughly but simply. You
keep harping on our twenty years! Twenty years of mutual vanity, and
nothing more. Every letter you've written me was written not for me but
for posterity. You're a stylist, and not a friend, and friendship is
only a splendid word. In reality--a mutual exchange of sloppiness...."
"Good heavens! How many sayings not your own! Lessons learned by heart!
They've already put their uniform on you too. You, too, are rejoicing;
you, too, are basking in the sunshine. _Chère, chère,_ for what a mess of
pottage you have sold them your freedom!"
"I'm not a parrot, to repeat other people's phrases!" cried Varvara
Petrovna, boiling over. "You may be sure I have stored up many sayings
of my own. What have you been doing for me all these twenty years? You
refused me even the books I ordered for you, though, except for the
binder, they would have remained uncut. What did you give me to read
when I asked you during those first years to be my guide? Always Kapfig,
and nothing but Kapfig. You were jealous of my culture even, and took
measures. And all the while every one's laughing at you. I must confess
I always considered you only as a critic. You are a literary critic and
nothing more. When on the way to Petersburg I told you that I meant
to found a journal and to devote my whole life to it, you looked at me
ironically at once, and suddenly became horribly supercilious."
"That was not that, not that.... we were afraid then of
persecution...."
"It was just that. And you couldn't have been afraid of persecution in
Petersburg at that time. Do you remember that in February, too, when the
news of the emancipation came, you ran to me in a panic, and demanded
that I should at once give you a written statement that the proposed
magazine had nothing to do with you; that the young people had been
coming to see me and not you; that you were only a tutor who lived in
the house, only because he had not yet received his salary. Isn't that
so? Do remember that? You have distinguished yourself all your life,
Stepan Trofimovitch."
"That was only a moment of weakness, a moment when we were alone," he
exclaimed mournfully. "But is it possible, is it possible, to break
off everything for the sake of such petty impressions? Can it be that
nothing more has been left between us after those long years?"
"You are horribly calculating; you keep trying to leave me in your debt.
When you came back from abroad you looked down upon me and wouldn't
let me utter a word, but when I came back myself and talked to you
afterwards of my impressions of the Madonna, you wouldn't hear me,
you began smiling condescendingly into your cravat, as though I were
incapable of the same feelings as you."
"It was not so. It was probably not so. _J'ai oublié!_"
"No; it was so," she answered, "and, what's more, you've nothing to
pride yourself on. That's all nonsense, and one of your fancies. Now,
there's no one, absolutely no one, in ecstasies over the Madonna; no
one wastes time over it except old men who are hopelessly out of date.
That's established."
"Established, is it?"
"It's of no use whatever. This jug's of use because one can pour water
into it. This pencil's of use because you can write anything with it.
But that woman's face is inferior to any face in nature. Try drawing
an apple, and put a real apple beside it. Which would you take? You
wouldn't make a mistake, I'm sure. This is what all our theories amount
to, now that the first light of free investigation has dawned upon
them."
"Indeed, indeed."
"You laugh ironically. And what used you to say to me about charity?
Yet the enjoyment derived from charity is a haughty and immoral
enjoyment. The rich man's enjoyment in his wealth, his power, and in the
comparison of his importance with the poor. Charity corrupts giver and
taker alike; and, what's more, does not attain its object, as it
only increases poverty. Fathers who don't want to work crowd round the
charitable like gamblers round the gambling-table, hoping for gain,
while the pitiful farthings that are flung them are a hundred times too
little. Have you given away much in your life? Less than a rouble, if
you try and think. Try to remember when last you gave away anything;
it'll be two years ago, maybe four. You make an outcry and only hinder
things. Charity ought to be forbidden by law, even in the present state
of society. In the new regime there will be no poor at all."
"Oh, what an eruption of borrowed phrases! So it's come to the new
regime already? Unhappy woman, God help you!"
"Yes; it has, Stepan Trofimovitch. You carefully concealed all these new
ideas from me, though every one's familiar with them nowadays. And you
did it simply out of jealousy, so as to have power over me. So that now
even that Yulia is a hundred miles ahead of me. But now my eyes have
been opened. I have defended you, Stepan Trofimovitch, all I could, but
there is no one who does not blame you."
"Enough!" said he, getting up from his seat. "Enough! And what can I
wish you now, unless it's repentance?"
"Sit still a minute, Stepan Trofimovitch. I have another question to ask
you. You've been told of the invitation to read at the literary matinée.
It was arranged through me. Tell me what you're going to read?"
"Why, about that very Queen of Queens, that ideal of humanity, the
Sistine Madonna, who to your thinking is inferior to a glass or a
pencil."
"So you're not taking something historical?'" said Varvara Petrovna
in mournful surprise. "But they won't listen to you. You've got that
Madonna on your brain. You seem bent on putting every one to sleep! Let
me assure you, Stepan Trofimovitch, I am speaking entirely in your own
interest. It would be a different matter if you would take some short
but interesting story of mediæval court life from Spanish history, or,
better still, some anecdote, and pad it out with other anecdotes and
witty phrases of your own. There were magnificent courts then; ladies,
you know, poisonings. Karmazinov says it would be strange if you
couldn't read something interesting from Spanish history."
"Karmazinov--that fool who has written himself out--looking for a
subject for me!"
"Karmazinov, that almost imperial intellect. You are too free in your
language, Stepan Trofimovitch."
"Your Karmazinov is a spiteful old woman whose day is over. _Chère,
chère,_ how long have you been so enslaved by them? Oh God!"
"I can't endure him even now for the airs he gives himself. But I do
justice to his intellect. I repeat, I have done my best to defend you
as far as I could. And why do you insist on being absurd and tedious?
On the contrary, come on to the platform with a dignified smile as
the representative of the last generation, and tell them two or three
anecdotes in your witty way, as only you can tell things sometimes.
Though you may be an old man now, though you may belong to a past age,
though you may have dropped behind them, in fact, yet you'll recognise
it yourself, with a smile, in your preface, and all will see that you're
an amiable, good-natured, witty relic... in brief, a man of the old
savour, and so far advanced as to be capable of appreciating at their
value all the absurdities of certain ideas which you have hitherto
followed. Come, as a favour to me, I beg you."
"_Chère,_ enough. Don't ask me. I can't. I shall speak of the Madonna,
but I shall raise a storm that will either crush them all or shatter me
alone."
"It will certainly be you alone, Stepan Trofimovitch."
"Such is my fate. I will speak of the contemptible slave, of the
stinking, depraved flunkey who will first climb a ladder with scissors
in his hands, and slash to pieces the divine image of the great ideal,
in the name of equality, envy, and... digestion. Let my curse thunder
out upon them, and then--then..."
"The madhouse?"
"Perhaps. But in any case, whether I shall be left vanquished or
victorious, that very evening I shall take my bag, my beggar's bag.
I shall leave all my goods and chattels, all your presents, all your
pensions and promises of future benefits, and go forth on foot to end my
life a tutor in a merchant's family or to die somewhere of hunger in a
ditch. I have said it. _Alea jacta est._" He got up again.
"I've been convinced for years," said Varvara Petrovna, getting up with
flashing eyes, "that your only object in life is to put me and my house
to shame by your calumnies! What do you mean by being a tutor in a
merchant's family or dying in a ditch? It's spite, calumny, and nothing
more."
"You have always despised me. But I will end like a knight, faithful to
my lady. Your good opinion has always been dearer to me than
anything. From this moment I will take nothing, but will worship you
disinterestedly."
"How stupid that is!"
"You have never respected me. I may have had a mass of weaknesses. Yes,
I have sponged on you. I speak the language of nihilism, but sponging
has never been the guiding motive of my action. It has happened so
of itself. I don't know how.... I always imagined there was something
higher than meat and drink between us, and--I've never, never been a
scoundrel! And so, to take the open road, to set things right. I set
off late, late autumn out of doors, the mist lies over the fields, the
hoarfrost of old age covers the road before me, and the wind howls about
the approaching grave.... But so forward, forward, on my new way
'Filled with purest love and fervour,
Faith which my sweet dream did yield.'
Oh, my dreams. Farewell. Twenty years. _Alea jacta est!_"
His face was wet with a sudden gush of tears. He took his hat.
"I don't understand Latin," said Varvara Petrovna, doing her best to
control herself.
Who knows, perhaps, she too felt like crying. But caprice and
indignation once more got the upper hand.
"I know only one thing, that all this is childish nonsense. You will
never be capable of carrying out your threats, which are a mass of
egoism. You will set off nowhere, to no merchant; you'll end very
peaceably on my hands, taking your pension, and receiving your utterly
impossible friends on Tuesdays. Good-bye, Stepan Trofimovitch."
_"Alea jacta est!"_ He made her a deep bow, and returned home, almost
dead with emotion.