IT was a sunny August midday as, in company with a Russian prince
who had come down in the world, I drove into the immense so-called
Shabelsky pine-forest where we were intending to look for woodcocks.
In virtue of the part he plays in this story my poor prince deserves
a detailed description. He was a tall, dark man, still youngish,
though already somewhat battered by life; with long moustaches like
a police captain's; with prominent black eyes, and with the manners
of a retired army man. He was a man of Oriental type, not very
intelligent, but straightforward and honest, not a bully, not a
fop, and not a rake--virtues which, in the eyes of the general
public, are equivalent to a certificate of being a nonentity and a
poor creature. People generally did not like him (he was never
spoken of in the district, except as "the illustrious duffer"). I
personally found the poor prince extremely nice with his misfortunes
and failures, which made up indeed his whole life. First of all he
was poor. He did not play cards, did not drink, had no occupation,
did not poke his nose into anything, and maintained a perpetual
silence but yet he had somehow succeeded in getting through thirty
to forty thousand roubles left him at his father's death. God only
knows what had become of the money. All that I can say is that owing
to lack of supervision a great deal was stolen by stewards, bailiffs,
and even footmen; a great deal went on lending money, giving bail,
and standing security. There were few landowners in the district
who did not owe him money. He gave to all who asked, and not so
much from good nature or confidence in people as from exaggerated
gentlemanliness as though he would say: "Take it and feel how _comme
il faut_ I am!" By the time I made his acquaintance he had got into
debt himself, had learned what it was like to have a second mortgage
on his land, and had sunk so deeply into difficulties that there
was no chance of his ever getting out of them again. There were
days when he had no dinner, and went about with an empty cigar-holder,
but he was always seen clean and fashionably dressed, and always
smelt strongly of ylang-ylang.
The prince's second misfortune was his absolute solitariness. He
was not married, he had no friends nor relations. His silent and
reserved character and his _comme il faut_ deportment, which became
the more conspicuous the more anxious he was to conceal his poverty,
prevented him from becoming intimate with people. For love affairs
he was too heavy, spiritless, and cold, and so rarely got on with
women. . . .
When we reached the forest this prince and I got out of the chaise
and walked along a narrow woodland path which was hidden among huge
ferns. But before we had gone a hundred paces a tall, lank figure
with a long oval face, wearing a shabby reefer jacket, a straw hat,
and patent leather boots, rose up from behind a young fir-tree some
three feet high, as though he had sprung out of the ground. The
stranger held in one hand a basket of mushrooms, with the other he
playfully fingered a cheap watch-chain on his waistcoat. On seeing
us he was taken aback, smoothed his waistcoat, coughed politely,
and gave an agreeable smile, as though he were delighted to see
such nice people as us. Then, to our complete surprise, he came up
to us, scraping with his long feet on the grass, bending his whole
person, and, still smiling agreeably, lifted his hat and pronounced
in a sugary voice with the intonations of a whining dog:
"Aie, aie . . . gentlemen, painful as it is, it is my duty to warn
you that shooting is forbidden in this wood. Pardon me for venturing
to disturb you, though unacquainted, but . . . allow me to present
myself. I am Grontovsky, the head clerk on Madame Kandurin's estate."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, but why can't we shoot?"
"Such is the wish of the owner of this forest!"
The prince and I exchanged glances. A moment passed in silence. The
prince stood looking pensively at a big fly agaric at his feet,
which he had crushed with his stick. Grontovsky went on smiling
agreeably. His whole face was twitching, exuding honey, and even
the watch-chain on his waistcoat seemed to be smiling and trying
to impress us all with its refinement. A shade of embarrassment
passed over us like an angel passing; all three of us felt awkward.
"Nonsense!" I said. "Only last week I was shooting here!"
"Very possible!" Grontovsky sniggered through his teeth. "As a
matter of fact everyone shoots here regardless of the prohibition.
But once I have met you, it is my duty . . . my sacred duty to warn
you. I am a man in a dependent position. If the forest were mine,
on the word of honour of a Grontovsky, I should not oppose your
agreeable pleasure. But whose fault is it that I am in a dependent
position?"
The lanky individual sighed and shrugged his shoulders. I began
arguing, getting hot and protesting, but the more loudly and
impressively I spoke the more mawkish and sugary Grontovsky's face
became. Evidently the consciousness of a certain power over us
afforded him the greatest gratification. He was enjoying his
condescending tone, his politeness, his manners, and with peculiar
relish pronounced his sonorous surname, of which he was probably
very fond. Standing before us he felt more than at ease, but judging
from the confused sideway glances he cast from time to time at his
basket, only one thing was spoiling his satisfaction--the mushrooms,
womanish, peasantish, prose, derogatory to his dignity.
"We can't go back!" I said. "We have come over ten miles!"
"What's to be done?" sighed Grontovsky. "If you had come not ten
but a hundred thousand miles, if the king even had come from America
or from some other distant land, even then I should think it my
duty . . . sacred, so to say, obligation . . ."
"Does the forest belong to Nadyezhda Lvovna?" asked the prince.
"Yes, Nadyezhda Lvovna . . ."
"Is she at home now?"
"Yes . . . I tell you what, you go to her, it is not more than half
a mile from here; if she gives you a note, then I. . . . I needn't
say! Ha--ha . . . he--he--!"
"By all means," I agreed. "It's much nearer than to go back. . . .
You go to her, Sergey Ivanitch," I said, addressing the prince.
"You know her."
The prince, who had been gazing the whole time at the crushed agaric,
raised his eyes to me, thought a minute, and said:
"I used to know her at one time, but . . . it's rather awkward for
me to go to her. Besides, I am in shabby clothes. . . . You go, you
don't know her. . . . It's more suitable for you to go."
I agreed. We got into our chaise and, followed by Grontovsky's
smiles, drove along the edge of the forest to the manor house. I
was not acquainted with Nadyezhda Lvovna Kandurin, née Shabelsky.
I had never seen her at close quarters, and knew her only by hearsay.
I knew that she was incredibly wealthy, richer than anyone else in
the province. After the death of her father, Shabelsky, who was a
landowner with no other children, she was left with several estates,
a stud farm, and a lot of money. I had heard that, though she was
only twenty-five or twenty-six, she was ugly, uninteresting, and
as insignificant as anybody, and was only distinguished from the
ordinary ladies of the district by her immense wealth.
It has always seemed to me that wealth is felt, and that the rich
must have special feelings unknown to the poor. Often as I passed
by Nadyezhda Lvovna's big fruit garden, in which stood the large,
heavy house with its windows always curtained, I thought: "What is
she thinking at this moment? Is there happiness behind those blinds?"
and so on. Once I saw her from a distance in a fine light cabriolet,
driving a handsome white horse, and, sinful man that I am, I not
only envied her, but even thought that in her poses, in her movements,
there was something special, not to be found in people who are not
rich, just as persons of a servile nature succeed in discovering
"good family" at the first glance in people of the most ordinary
exterior, if they are a little more distinguished than themselves.
Nadyezhda Lvovna's inner life was only known to me by scandal. It
was said in the district that five or six years ago, before she was
married, during her father's lifetime, she had been passionately
in love with Prince Sergey Ivanitch, who was now beside me in the
chaise. The prince had been fond of visiting her father, and used
to spend whole days in his billiard room, where he played pyramids
indefatigably till his arms and legs ached. Six months before the
old man's death he had suddenly given up visiting the Shabelskys.
The gossip of the district having no positive facts to go upon
explained this abrupt change in their relations in various ways.
Some said that the prince, having observed the plain daughter's
feeling for him and being unable to reciprocate it, considered it
the duty of a gentleman to cut short his visits. Others maintained
that old Shabelsky had discovered why his daughter was pining away,
and had proposed to the poverty-stricken prince that he should marry
her; the prince, imagining in his narrow-minded way that they were
trying to buy him together with his title, was indignant, said
foolish things, and quarrelled with them. What was true and what
was false in this nonsense was difficult to say. But that there was
a portion of truth in it was evident, from the fact that the prince
always avoided conversation about Nadyezhda Lvovna.
I knew that soon after her father's death Nadyezhda Lvovna had
married one Kandurin, a bachelor of law, not wealthy, but adroit,
who had come on a visit to the neighbourhood. She married him not
from love, but because she was touched by the love of the legal
gentleman who, so it was said, had cleverly played the love-sick
swain. At the time I am describing, Kandurin was for some reason
living in Cairo, and writing thence to his friend, the marshal of
the district, "Notes of Travel," while she sat languishing behind
lowered blinds, surrounded by idle parasites, and whiled away her
dreary days in petty philanthropy.
On the way to the house the prince fell to talking.
"It's three days since I have been at home," he said in a half
whisper, with a sidelong glance at the driver. "I am not a child,
nor a silly woman, and I have no prejudices, but I can't stand the
bailiffs. When I see a bailiff in my house I turn pale and tremble,
and even have a twitching in the calves of my legs. Do you know
Rogozhin refused to honour my note?"
The prince did not, as a rule, like to complain of his straitened
circumstances; where poverty was concerned he was reserved and
exceedingly proud and sensitive, and so this announcement surprised
me. He stared a long time at the yellow clearing, warmed by the
sun, watched a long string of cranes float in the azure sky, and
turned facing me.
"And by the sixth of September I must have the money ready for the
bank . . . the interest for my estate," he said aloud, by now
regardless of the coachman. "And where am I to get it? Altogether,
old man, I am in a tight fix! An awfully tight fix!"
The prince examined the cock of his gun, blew on it for some reason,
and began looking for the cranes which by now were out of sight.
"Sergey Ivanitch," I asked, after a minute's silence, "imagine if
they sell your Shatilovka, what will you do?"
"I? I don't know! Shatilovka can't be saved, that's clear as daylight,
but I cannot imagine such a calamity. I can't imagine myself without
my daily bread secure. What can I do? I have had hardly any education;
I have not tried working yet; for government service it is late to
begin, . . . Besides, where could I serve? Where could I be of use?
Admitting that no great cleverness is needed for serving in our
Zemstvo, for example, yet I suffer from . . . the devil knows what,
a sort of faintheartedness, I haven't a ha'p'orth of pluck. If I
went into the Service I should always feel I was not in my right
place. I am not an idealist; I am not a Utopian; I haven't any
special principles; but am simply, I suppose, stupid and thoroughly
incompetent, a neurotic and a coward. Altogether not like other
people. All other people are like other people, only I seem to be
something . . . a poor thing. . . . I met Naryagin last Wednesday
--you know him?--drunken, slovenly . . . doesn't pay his debts,
stupid" (the prince frowned and tossed his head) . . . "a horrible
person! He said to me, staggering: 'I'm being balloted for as a
justice of the peace!' Of course, they won't elect him, but, you
see, he believes he is fit to be a justice of the peace and considers
that position within his capacity. He has boldness and self-confidence.
I went to see our investigating magistrate too. The man gets two
hundred and fifty roubles a month, and does scarcely anything. All
he can do is to stride backwards and forwards for days together in
nothing but his underclothes, but, ask him, he is convinced he is
doing his work and honourably performing his duty. I couldn't go
on like that! I should be ashamed to look the clerk in the face."
At that moment Grontovsky, on a chestnut horse, galloped by us with
a flourish. On his left arm the basket bobbed up and down with the
mushrooms dancing in it. As he passed us he grinned and waved his
hand, as though we were old friends.
"Blockhead!" the prince filtered through his teeth, looking after
him. "It's wonderful how disgusting it sometimes is to see satisfied
faces. A stupid, animal feeling due to hunger, I expect. . . . What
was I saying? Oh, yes, about going into the Service, . . . I should
be ashamed to take the salary, and yet, to tell the truth, it is
stupid. If one looks at it from a broader point of view, more
seriously, I am eating what isn't mine now. Am I not? But why am I
not ashamed of that. . . . It is a case of habit, I suppose . . .
and not being able to realize one's true position. . . . But that
position is most likely awful. . ."
I looked at him, wondering if the prince were showing off. But his
face was mild and his eyes were mournfully following the movements
of the chestnut horse racing away, as though his happiness were
racing away with it.
Apparently he was in that mood of irritation and sadness when women
weep quietly for no reason, and men feel a craving to complain of
themselves, of life, of God. . . .
When I got out of the chaise at the gates of the house the prince
said to me:
"A man once said, wanting to annoy me, that I have the face of a
cardsharper. I have noticed that cardsharpers are usually dark. Do
you know, it seems that if I really had been born a cardsharper I
should have remained a decent person to the day of my death, for I
should never have had the boldness to do wrong. I tell you frankly
I have had the chance once in my life of getting rich if I had told
a lie, a lie to myself and one woman . . . and one other person
whom I know would have forgiven me for lying; I should have put
into my pocket a million. But I could not. I hadn't the pluck!"
From the gates we had to go to the house through the copse by a
long road, level as a ruler, and planted on each side with thick,
lopped lilacs. The house looked somewhat heavy, tasteless, like a
façade on the stage. It rose clumsily out of a mass of greenery,
and caught the eye like a great stone thrown on the velvety turf.
At the chief entrance I was met by a fat old footman in a green
swallow-tail coat and big silver-rimmed spectacles; without making
any announcement, only looking contemptuously at my dusty figure,
he showed me in. As I mounted the soft carpeted stairs there was,
for some reason, a strong smell of india-rubber. At the top I was
enveloped in an atmosphere found only in museums, in signorial
mansions and old-fashioned merchant houses; it seemed like the smell
of something long past, which had once lived and died and had left
its soul in the rooms. I passed through three or four rooms on my
way from the entry to the drawing-room. I remember bright yellow,
shining floors, lustres wrapped in stiff muslin, narrow, striped
rugs which stretched not straight from door to door, as they usually
do, but along the walls, so that not venturing to touch the bright
floor with my muddy boots I had to describe a rectangle in each
room. In the drawing-room, where the footman left me, stood
old-fashioned ancestral furniture in white covers, shrouded in
twilight. It looked surly and elderly, and, as though out of respect
for its repose, not a sound was audible.
Even the clock was silent . . . it seemed as though the Princess
Tarakanov had fallen asleep in the golden frame, and the water and
the rats were still and motionless through magic. The daylight,
afraid of disturbing the universal tranquillity, scarcely pierced
through the lowered blinds, and lay on the soft rugs in pale,
slumbering streaks.
Three minutes passed and a big, elderly woman in black, with her
cheek bandaged up, walked noiselessly into the drawing-room. She
bowed to me and pulled up the blinds. At once, enveloped in the
bright sunlight, the rats and water in the picture came to life and
movement, Princess Tarakanov was awakened, and the old chairs frowned
gloomily.
"Her honour will be here in a minute, sir . . ." sighed the old
lady, frowning too.
A few more minutes of waiting and I saw Nadyezhda Lvovna. What
struck me first of all was that she certainly was ugly, short,
scraggy, and round-shouldered. Her thick, chestnut hair was
magnificent; her face, pure and with a look of culture in it, was
aglow with youth; there was a clear and intelligent expression in
her eyes; but the whole charm of her head was lost through the
thickness of her lips and the over-acute facial angle.