CHAPTER I

A FAMILY OF NOBLEMEN

BY

MIKHAÏL Y. SALTYKOV

(N. SHCHEDRIN)

TRANSLATED BY A. YARMOLINSKY

BONI & LIVERIGHT, INC.

NEW YORK

1917

CONTENTS

Book I

THE FAMILY COUNCIL

Book II

AS BECOMES GOOD KINSFOLK

Book III

FAMILY ACCOUNTS SETTLED

Book IV

THE GOOD LITTLE NIECE

Book V

FORBIDDEN FAMILY JOYS

Book VI

THE DESERTED MANOR-HOUSE

Book VII

THE SETTLEMENT

BOOK I

THE FAMILY COUNCIL

CHAPTER I

Anton Vasilyev, the manager of a remote estate, was giving his

mistress, Arina Petrovna Golovliov, an account of his trip to Moscow.

He had gone there to collect the money due from those of her peasant

serfs who bought the right to live in the city by paying her a tax.

When he had finished with his report, she told him he might retire, but

he lingered on irresolutely, as though he had something else to say,

yet could not make up his mind to say it.

Arina Petrovna knew her servants through and through; she knew the

meaning of their slightest gestures, she could even divine their inmost

thoughts. And her steward's manner immediately aroused her disquietude.

"What else?" she asked, looking at him keenly.

"That's all," he replied evasively.

"Don't lie. There is something else. I can see it by your eyes."

Anton Vasilyev still hesitated and continued to shift from one foot to

the other.

"What is it? Tell me!" she shouted imperiously. "Out with it, out with

it! And don't wag your whole body like a dog, Telltale!"

Arina Petrovna liked to call her managers and domestics by nicknames.

She used Telltale for Anton Vasilyev, not because she had found him to

carry gossip treacherously, but simply because he had a loose tongue.

The centre of the estate that he managed was an important trading

village in which there were many taverns. He liked to take a glass

of tea in a tavern and boast of his mistress's great power. And in

the course of his boasting he would sometimes unconsciously blab out

secrets. His mistress was always with a lawsuit on her hands, so that

her trusty's garrulousness sometimes brought her sly stratagems to the

surface before they could be executed.

"Yes, I have got something else to say," Anton finally mumbled.

"What is it?" Arina Petrovna asked excitedly.

An imperious woman, with an extraordinarily lively imagination, she

instantly pictured all sorts of disagreeable opposition and antagonism,

and the thought so instantly took complete possession of her that she

turned white and jumped up from her chair.

"Stepan Vladimirych's house in Moscow has been sold," Anton said after

a pause.

"Well?"

"It's been sold."

"Why? How? Tell me."

"For debts, I suppose. Of course it can't be because of something nice."

"The police, the court, sold it, I suppose?"

"I suppose so. They say it was sold at auction for 8,000 rubles."

Arina Petrovna dropped back heavily into her armchair and gazed fixedly

at the window panes. She was so stunned by the news that she seemed

to have lost consciousness for a while. Had she heard that Stepan

Vladimirych had killed somebody, or that the Golovliov peasant serfs

had risen in revolt and refused to render the service due her on her

estates, or that serfdom had been abolished, she would not have been so

shocked. Her lips trembled, her eyes stared vacantly into the distance,

but she saw nothing. She did not even see the little girl, Duniashka,

run past the window carrying something hidden under her apron; she did

not see the child stop suddenly on beholding her mistress and wheel

round and then dart back guiltily to where she had come from. Such

suspicious conduct at any other time would have led to a thorough

investigation. Finally Arina Petrovna came to herself and managed to

bring out:

"A good joke, I must say." After which there again followed several

minutes of ominous silence.

"So the police sold the house for eight thousand?" she asked again.

"Yes, madam."

"So that's what he's done with his patrimony! Splendid! The blackguard!"

Arina Petrovna felt that the news called for a prompt decision, but

nothing occurred to her. Her thoughts ran confusedly in exactly

opposite directions. On the one hand she thought: "The police sold it.

But the police could not have sold it in a minute. An inventory must

first have been taken, then an appraisal made, and then the sale must

have been advertised. Sold for eight thousand when I myself two years

ago paid twelve thousand rubles for it, not a penny less. Had I only

known it was going to be up for sale, I could have bought it myself for

eight thousand rubles."

Her other thoughts ran: "The police sold it for eight thousand. That's

what he's done with his patrimony. To sell one's patrimony for eight

thousand rubles!"

"Who told you?" she asked, realizing finally that the house had been

sold and the chance to secure it cheaply was gone forever.

"Ivan Mikhailov, the inn-keeper."

"Why didn't he let me know in time?"

"I suppose he was afraid."

"Afraid? I'll teach him to be afraid. I'll make him come here from

Moscow, and the moment he comes I'll have him drafted into the army. He

was afraid!"

Although on the decline, serfdom still existed. Anton Vasilyev had

known his mistress to impose the most peculiar punishments, but, even

so, her present decision was so unexpected that it made him miserable.

He thought of his nickname Telltale. Ivan Mikhailov was an upright

peasant, and Anton never dreamed that misfortune would touch him.

Besides, Ivan Mikhailov was his friend and godfather. Now, all of a

sudden, he was to be made a soldier just because he, Anton Vasilyev,

the Telltale, could not hold his tongue.

"Forgive him--Ivan Mikhailov, I mean," he pleaded.

"Go away, you mollycoddler," she shouted in a voice so loud that he

lost all desire to intercede any further for his friend.

CHAPTER II

Arina Petrovna was sixty years old, still of sound health and

accustomed to have her own way in everything. Her manner was severe.

She lived alone, and managed the huge Golovliov estate all by herself,

without having to answer to any one else. She calculated closely,

almost parsimoniously, was not intimate with her neighbors, was

gracious to the local authorities, and exacted implicit obedience

from her children. They were not to do anything without first asking

themselves, "What would mamenka say about it?" She was independent,

inflexible, even stubborn, though her stubbornness was not so much

native as due chiefly to the circumstance that there was not one person

in the whole Golovliov family that could oppose her. Her husband was

a trifling creature, and drank. Arina Petrovna used to say of herself

that she was neither a widow nor a married woman. Some of the children

were in St. Petersburg, the others took after their father and were

relegated to the class of "horrid creatures," who were unfit for

household duties. In these circumstances Arina Petrovna soon began to

feel all left alone, and grew totally disaccustomed to family life,

although the word "family" was constantly on her lips, and outwardly

she seemed to be exclusively guided in all her work by the desire to

build up the family estate and keep the family affairs in order.

The head of the family, Vladimir Mikhailych Golovliov, was known from

his youth as a dissolute, quarrelsome fellow, with nothing in his

character that would be sympathetic to a serious, active woman like

Arina Petrovna. He led a lazy, good-for-nothing existence, usually

stayed locked up in his room, where he imitated the warble of the

starlings, the crowing of cocks, and the like, and composed ribald

doggerel. In bursts of confidence he would boast that he had been a

friend of the poet Barkov, intimating that the poet had blessed him

on his deathbed. Arina Petrovna disliked her husband's verses from

the very first. "Nasty stuff!" "Trash!" she called them. And since

Vladimir Mikhailych's very object in marrying had been to have someone

ever at hand to listen to his poetry, the result was that quarrels

soon began, which grew worse and worse and more frequent until they

ended with Arina Petrovna utterly indifferent and contemptuous of her

clown husband, and Vladimir Mikhailych hating his wife sincerely, with

a hatred considerably mixed with fear. The husband called the wife a

"hag" and a "devil"; the wife called the husband a "windmill" and a

"balalaika without strings."

They lived together in this way for more than forty years, and it never

occurred to either of them that there was anything unnatural in such a

life. Time did not diminish Vladimir Mikhailych's quarrelsomeness; on

the contrary, it took on a still sharper edge. Apart from the poetical

exercising in Barkov's spirit that he did, he began to drink and to

lie in wait eagerly for the servant girls in the corridors. At first

Arina Petrovna looked on this new occupation of her husband's with

repugnance. She even got wrought up over it, not so much from jealousy

as that she felt it to be an interference with her authority. After a

while, however, she shrugged her shoulders, and merely watched out that

the "dirty wenches" should not fetch brandy for their master.

From that time on, having said to herself once for all that her

husband was not a companion, she directed her efforts exclusively to

one object, the building up of the estate. And in the forty years of

her married life she actually succeeded in multiplying her property

tenfold. With astonishing patience and acumen she kept her eye on the

near and distant villages, found out in secret ways the relations that

existed between the neighboring landowners and the board of trustees,

and always appeared at the auctions like snow on the head. In this

fantastic hunt for new acquisitions Vladimir Mikhailych receded more

and more into the background, turned seedy and at last dropped out of

social life completely. He was now a decrepit old man already, keeping

his bed almost the whole time. On the rare occasions that he left his

room it was only to stick his head through the half-open door of his

wife's bedroom and shout: "Devil!" After which he would go back and

close himself up in his own room again.

Arina Petrovna was not much happier in her children. She was of a

celibate nature, so to speak, independent and self-sufficient, and her

children were nothing to her but a useless burden. The only times when

she breathed freely was when she was alone with her accounts and her

household affairs, and when no one interfered with her business talks

with her managers, stewards, housekeepers, and so on. In her eyes,

children were one of the preordained things in life that she felt she

had no right to protest against. Nevertheless they did not touch a

single chord in her inner being, which was given over wholly to the

numberless details of the household.

There were four children, one daughter and three sons. Of the oldest

son and the daughter she did not even like to speak; toward the

youngest son she was indifferent. It was only for the middle one,

Porfisha, that she cherished any feeling at all, a feeling not of love,

but of something very akin to fear.

Stepan Vladimirych, the oldest son, passed in the family by the name

of Simple Simon, or The Saucebox. He was very young when he was put

into the class of "horrid creatures," and from childhood up played the

rôle of half pariah, half clown. Unfortunately he was a bright child,

susceptible to the impressions of his environment. From his father he

inherited an irresistible inclination to play tricks, from his mother

the ability to divine the weak sides of people's natures. The first

characteristic soon made him his father's favorite, which still further

intensified his mother's dislike of him. Often when the mother was

absent on business, the father and the boy would betake themselves

into the study adorned with the portrait of Barkov, read ribald poems,

and gossip, the chief butt of their raillery being the "hag," that

is to say, Arina Petrovna. The "hag," instinctively divining their

occupation, would drive up to the front steps very quietly, then

tiptoe to the study door and listen to their fun-making. The murderous

punishment of Simple Simon followed swift and cruel. But Stiopka was

not subdued. He was impervious either to blows or to admonitions,

and in half an hour was back again at his tricks. He would cut up

Aniutka's, the servant girl's, scarf, or he would stick flies into

Vasiutka's mouth while he slept, or he would run into the kitchen and

carry off a cake (Arina Petrovna kept her children half hungry), which

he always divided with his brothers.

"You ought to be killed," his mother said. "I'll kill you, and I won't

have to answer for it either. Even God won't punish me for it."

This humiliation, constantly put upon a nature soft, yielding and

forgetful, did not remain without its effect. It did not embitter

him, nor did it make him rebellious. It made him servile, disposed to

buffoonery, with no sense of the fitness of things, and devoid of all

foresight and prudence. Such natures yield to all influences and may

become almost anything--drunkards, beggars, buffoons, even criminals.

At the age of twenty Stepan Golovliov graduated from the gymnasium

in Moscow and entered the university. But his student's life was a

bitter one. In the first place, his mother gave him just enough money

to keep him from dying of hunger. Secondly, he did not show the least

inclination to work. Instead, he developed an accursed talent, which

expressed itself chiefly in mimickry. And he suffered from a desire

for constant companionship. He hated to be alone a single instant.

So he played the light rôle of hanger-on and parasite, and thanks to

his readiness for any prank he soon became the favorite of the rich

students. However, though they received him into their society, they

looked on him, not as one of them, but as a clown; and the reputation

clung to him. Once placed on such a plane, he naturally slid down lower

and lower, and at the end of the fourth year was thoroughly confirmed

in his clownship. Nevertheless, thanks to his receptive ability and

good memory, he passed the examinations successfully and received his

bachelor's degree.

When he appeared before his mother with the diploma, she merely

shrugged her shoulders and said: "Well, that's funny." Then, after

letting him spend a month in the country, she shipped him back to St.

Petersburg with an allowance of a hundred rubles a month. Now there

began for him endless visits to various government offices. He had

neither patrons nor the determination to make his own way by hard work.

The lad's mind had lost so completely the habit of concentration that

bureaucratic tasks such as the drawing up of briefs and case abstracts

were beyond his power. After four years of struggle Stepan was forced

to admit that there was no hope of his ever rising above the rank of a

government clerk. In reply to his lamentations, Arina Petrovna wrote

him a stern letter which began with the words: "I was sure that would

happen," and wound up with a command to return at once to Moscow.

There, at the conclave of Arina Petrovna's favorite peasants, it was

decided to place Simple Simon in the Aulic Court, entrusting him to

the care of a pettifogger who from time immemorial had been the legal

adviser of the Golovliov family.

What Stepan Vladimirych did in the Aulic Court and how he behaved there

is a mystery. What is certain is that at the end of the third year he

was there no longer. Then Arina Petrovna took a heroic measure. She

"threw her son a bone," which was also supposed to fill the part of

the "parental blessing," that is to say, the patrimony. "The bone"

consisted of a house in Moscow, for which she had paid twelve thousand

rubles.

For the first time in his life Stepan Golovliov breathed freely. The

house promised to bring him an income of a thousand silver rubles, a

sum which in comparison with his former income, seemed like genuine

prosperity. He kissed his mamma's hand effusively, and promised to

justify her kindness, whereupon Arina Petrovna said: "That's better;

but mind you, you numskull, that's all you get from me!" But, alas!

so little was he used to handling money, so absurd was his estimation

of real values in life, that before long what he thought to be a

fabulous revenue proved insufficient. In five or six years he was

totally ruined, and was only too glad to enter the militia, which was

then being organized. No sooner, however, did the militia troops reach

Kharkov than peace was concluded, and Golovliov went back to Moscow,

dressed in a somewhat threadbare uniform and high boots. By this time

his house had already been sold, and the only thing he owned was a

hundred rubles. He began "speculating" with this capital, that is, he

tried his luck at cards, but in a short time he lost all he had. Then

he conceived the plan of visiting his mother's well-to-do peasants who

lived in Moscow. Some of them invited him to dinner, others, yielding

to his importunings, gave him tobacco or lent him small sums of money.

At last the hour came when he found himself before a blind wall, as

it were. He was already almost forty years old, and had to confess to

himself that his nomadic existence was too much for his strength. There

was only one thing left to him, to take the road leading to Golovliovo.

After Stepan Vladimirych, the oldest child, came Anna Vladimirovna,

about whom Arina Petrovna did not like to speak either. The truth

of the matter was, the old lady had placed definite expectations

in Annushka, but she, far from fulfilling her mother's hopes, had

perpetrated a scandal which set the whole district agog. When Annushka

left the girls' boarding-school, Arina Petrovna installed her at the

village, hoping to make of her a sort of unpaid private secretary and

bookkeeper, but instead Annushka eloped one fine night with cornet

Ulanov and married him.

"They have married like dogs, without a parent's blessing!" complained

Arina Petrovna. "Lucky, though, that he submitted to a wedding ceremony

at all. Another man would have taken advantage of her--and vanished

into thin air. A fine chance for catching a bird."

With her daughter Arina Petrovna dealt as peremptorily as she had with

her hated son. She bestowed "a bone" upon her too, in the shape of five

thousand rubles and a wretched little village of thirty souls and a

manor-house going with it, so dilapidated that the wind blew through

the gaping paneless windows and there was not one sound board in the

flooring. In two years the young couple had gone through the money, and

the cornet took himself off, deserting his wife and two twin girls,

Anninka and Lubinka. Three months later the mother died, and Arina

Petrovna, willy-nilly, had to take the little orphans into her own

house. She installed them in a side-wing and entrusted them to the care

of Palashka, old and one-eyed. "The Lord's mercy is great," remarked

Arina Petrovna. "The little orphans won't eat much of my bread, but

they'll be a solace to me in my old age. God has given me two daughters

instead of one." At the same time she wrote to her son, Porfiry

Vladimirych: "Your dear sister died as she lived, indecently, and now

her two children are hanging round my neck."

What we are going to say may seem cynical, but we feel it our duty to

state that the granting of the heritage to Stepan and Anna did not by

any means impair Arina Petrovna's financial condition. On the contrary,

in reducing the number of shareholders it contributed indirectly to the

rounding out of the family estate. For Arina Petrovna was a woman of

strict principles, and once having "thrown them a bone," she considered

her obligations toward her unloved children completely and definitely

settled. In regard to her grandchildren it never entered her mind that

in due time she would have to part with something for them. All she

cared for was to draw all the income possible from the small estate of

her deceased daughter and deposit it in the Chamber of Trustees. "There

I am," she would say, "laying by money for the orphans. For feeding and

bringing them up I take nothing from them. For the bread they eat it is

God who will pay me."

As for the younger children, Porfiry and Pavel, they served in St.

Petersburg, the former in a civil capacity, the latter in the army.

Porfiry was married; Pavel was an old bachelor.

Porfiry Vladimirych was known in the family by three nicknames,

Yudushka (diminutive of Judas), Bloodsucker, and Goody-goody Boy, which

had been invented by Simple Simon. From his early childhood Porfiry

had been oddly intent upon currying favor with his "dear mamma" and

showed a tendency to play the sycophant. He would open the door of his

mother's room softly, creep noiselessly into a corner, and sit there,

as if entranced, with his eyes fixed on his mother while she wrote

or busied herself with accounts. Even in those days Arina Petrovna

regarded her son's efforts to insinuate himself into her good graces

with vague suspicion. His stare puzzled her. She could not decide what

his eyes expressed, whether venom or filial reverence. "I cannot make

out what is in his eyes," she sometimes argued with herself. "His

glance is like a noose which he is getting ready to throw. He might

look like that handing a person poison or enticing him into a pitfall."

In this connection she often recollected highly significant details

of the time she was carrying Porfisha. An old man called Porfisha the

Saint was at that time living in the manor. He had the reputation

of a seer, and Arina Petrovna turned to him whenever she wanted to

learn something about the future. She had asked him when she would be

delivered of the child and whether it would be a boy or a girl; but the

pious old man gave no direct answer. Instead he crowed three times like

a cock and then mumbled:

"Cockerel, cockerel, sharp claw! The cock crows and threatens the

brood-hen; the brood-hen--cluck! cluck!--but it will be too late!"

That was all he said. Three days later (the seer crowed three times!)

Arina Petrovna gave birth to a son ("cockerel! cockerel!") and named

him Porfiry in honor of the old soothsayer. The first half of the

prophecy had been fulfilled; but what could be the hidden meaning of

the mysterious words, "the brood-hen--cluck! cluck!--but it will be too

late?" Arina Petrovna often pondered over it, whenever her eyes fell on

Porfisha, who sat in his nook with his enigmatic gaze fixed on her.

Meanwhile Porfisha kept on staring, quiet and meek, staring so intently

that his wide-open, motionless eyes began to swim in tears, as if

he vaguely sensed the doubts that tormented his mother's soul, and

wished to behave so as to disarm her most persistent suspicion. At the

risk of annoying his mother, he constantly hovered about her, and the

expression in his eyes seemed to say: "Look at me! I conceal nothing

from you. I am all obedience and devotion, and, mind you, I am obedient

and devoted not only from fear but also from loyalty." And although an

inner voice constantly sounded warning that the young scoundrel was

dangerous in spite of his wheedling and fawning, her heart could not

resist such unremitting devotion and her hand involuntarily felt for

the best piece in the dish to bestow upon the affectionate child. And

yet the very sight of him at times awakened a vague fear of something

puzzling and eery.

The exact opposite of Porfiry was his brother, Pavel, the most perfect

embodiment of absolute passivity. As a boy he manifested no inclination

whatever for study, or games, or playing with other boys, but liked

to keep to himself. He would get into a corner, pout, and set to work

building air castles, dreaming that he had gorged himself with oatmeal

so that his legs had become thin and he had no lessons to learn, or

else that he was Davidka, the shepherd, with a growing lump on his

forehead, just like David's, and cracked a whip and had no lessons to

learn. Arina Petrovna would gaze at him for a long time, and then her

motherly feelings would well up:

"Why do you sit there like a mouse on groats?" she would scold. "Is the

poison working in you already? Why don't you come over to your mother

and say: 'Mamenka darling, hug me?'"

Pavel would leave his place of refuge and slowly approach his mother,

as if someone were pushing him from behind. "Mamenka darling," he would

repeat in a bass voice unnatural in a child, "hug me."

"Get out of my sight, you sneak. You think if you get into your corner

I don't understand. You are mistaken, my darling. I see through and

through you. Your plans and projects are as clear as if they were

spread on the palm of my hand."

And Pavel would just as slowly retrace his steps and bury himself again

in his corner.

Years passed by, and Pavel Vladimirych gradually developed that

apathetic, unaccountably gloomy character which often goes with

absolute passivity. He was, perhaps, good, but he had done nobody any

good; he was, perhaps, not without some intelligence, but he had not

achieved anything intelligent in his life. He was hospitable, but

people did not like to avail themselves of his hospitality. He spent

money readily, but nothing good or pleasant came of his lavishness to

anybody. He never harmed anybody, but that was not considered a merit.

He was honest, but no one had ever heard it said: "How honorably Pavel

Golovliov dealt in that affair!" It must be added that sometimes, not

often, he snarled at his mother, although he feared her like poison. I

repeat, he was an ill-tempered person, but back of his moroseness was

nothing but sheer inertness.

When the brothers reached maturity, the difference in their characters

was most conspicuous in their relation to their mother. Yudushka

punctually every week sent a lengthy epistle to "mother dear," in

which he informed her in the greatest detail of all the minutiæ of his

life in St. Petersburg, and assured her of his disinterested filial

devotion in the most carefully selected terms. As for Pavel, he wrote

rarely, laconically, and sometimes even enigmatically, pulling every

word out of himself with a pair of tongs, as it were.

"My adorable friend and dear mother," is what Porfiry Vladimirych

wrote, for instance, "I have received the money from the peasant

Yerofeyev, and I send you my most heartfelt thanks for forwarding the

sum, which, according to your gracious wish, dearest mamenka, is to be

spent for my maintenance. I also kiss your hands with sincere filial

devotion. What worries and grieves me is the thought that you are

straining your precious health all too much by your ceaseless efforts

to satisfy not only our needs, but our whims as well. I don't know what

brother thinks, but I----" etc., etc.

As for Pavel, what he wrote on a similar occasion was: "Dear mother, am

in receipt of the money, and, according to my calculations, you still

owe six and a half rubles, for which I beg to be graciously forgiven."

When Arina Petrovna wrote reprimanding the children for their

extravagance--she did so rather frequently, although there was no

serious necessity for it--Porfisha invariably received her rebuke

submissively and replied: "I am well aware, my dearest friend and

mother, that you bear the heaviest burdens for the sake of us, your

unworthy children. I know that often our behavior does not justify

your motherly solicitude, and what is worse, erring humans that we

are, we often forget it, for which I apologize most devotedly and

sincerely, in the hope that in the course of time I will overcome my

weakness and be more prudent in my expenditure of the funds that you

send, my adorable friend and mother, for my maintenance and for other

purposes." Pavel would answer back: "Dearest mother, though you have

not as yet paid any of my debts, I accept most submissively the name

of spendthrift which you choose to bestow upon me, whereof I beg most

sincerely to accept my assurance."

Even the replies that the brothers made to the letter announcing the

death of their sister, Anna Vladimirovna, were quite different from

each other. Porfiry Vladimirych said: "The news of the death of my dear

sister and good playmate, Anna Vladimirovna, has filled my heart with

sorrow, a sorrow aggravated by the thought that a new cross has been

given you to bear, dearest little mother, in the shape of two little

orphans. Is it not sufficient that you, common benefactress to us all,

deny yourself everything and, without sparing your health, concentrate

all your power on the sole object of assuring the family not only

the necessaries of life but also the luxuries? Believe me, it is a

wicked thing to do, but now and then, I confess, I cannot refrain from

grumbling. As far as I can see, the only solace for you, my dearest,

in this state of affairs is to remember as often as you can all that

Christ himself had to undergo." Pavel's reply ran: "The news of my

sister, who has fallen a victim, I have received. I hope, however, that

the Most High will rest her in His celestial tent, although this is

uncertain."

Arina Petrovna reading these letters would try to guess which of the

two sons would be her destruction. At times she felt certain the

danger was coming from Porfiry Vladimirych.

"Look how he wags his tongue, a regular fiend at writing!" she would

exclaim. "Simple Simon's nickname suits to a tee--Yudushka! Not a word

of truth in all this stuff about my burdens, my cross, and the rest.

Sheer lies! Not an ounce of feeling in his heart!"

At other times Pavel Vladimirych seemed to be her real enemy.

"A fool, and yet look how deftly he tries to make love to mother on

the sly. 'Whereof I beg most sincerely to accept my assurance!' Wait a

while! I'll teach you what 'accept assurances' means! I shall deal with

you as I did with Simple Simon, and you'll find out what I mean by your

'assurances'!"

In the end a truly tragical cry would burst from her lips. "And for

whom am I hoarding all this wealth? For whom am I gathering all this? I

deny myself sleep and food--for whom?"

Such were the domestic circumstances of the Golovliovs at the time that

the bailiff, Anton Vasilyev, reported to Arina Petrovna that Simple

Simon had dissipated "the bone" flung to him, which, in view of its

loss, might now be called with especial significance the "parental

blessing."

Arina Petrovna sat in her bedroom, all her senses dazed. A vague,

unaccountable feeling stirred within her, whether pity, born suddenly

and miraculously, for her hated offspring, who, after all, was her son,

or whether merely thwarted despotism, the most expert psychologist

would have been unable to decide. Her sensations were utterly confused

and succeeded each other with bewildering swiftness. Finally, out of

the welter of her thoughts there crystallized one emotion, the fear

that "the horrid creature" would again be hanging round her neck.

"Aniutka has forced her whelps on me, and now this dunderhead is coming

here," she pondered deeply.

Long she sat silent, her eyes fixed and intent. Dinner was brought in,

but she hardly touched it; a servant came and said the master wanted

brandy. Without looking up she threw him the keys of the store-room.

After the meal she ordered the bath to be prepared for her. Then she

went into the oratory, ordered all the image lamps to be lit, and

shut herself in. These were all clear signs that the mistress was

"in a temper," and so the house turned as quiet as a churchyard. The

chambermaids walked on tiptoe; Akulina, the housekeeper, ran back and

forth like a lunatic. The preparations for preserving had been set

for after dinner; the berries had been rinsed and made ready, but the

mistress gave no orders either to go ahead or to wait. The gardener,

Matvey, came to ask whether it was time to gather the peaches, but such

was his reception in the maids' room that he fled precipitately.

Prayers and bath over, Arina Petrovna felt almost reconciled with the

world and had the bailiff summoned again.

"Now tell me, what is the numskull doing?" she asked.

"Well, Moscow is big, it would take more than a year to walk through

it."

"But he needs something to fill his stomach with, doesn't he?"

"Our peasants feed him. He eats with one, gets money for tobacco from

another."

"And who permits them to give him anything?"

"Goodness me, madam! The people don't complain. They give alms to

strangers. Should they refuse a mite to their own master's son?"

"I'll teach them to give mites! I'll have the blockhead deported to

your estate, and the community will have to maintain him at its own

expense."

"As you command, madam."

"What? What did you say?"

"As you command, my lady. If you order it, we shall feed him."

"That's better. But talk sensibly."

A pause ensued. Then the bailiff, true to his nature and his nickname,

lost patience and began to shift from one leg to another, obviously

burning with the desire to unburden his mind of something.

"He's a clever one, though," he finally blurted out. "People say he

brought back a hundred rubles from the campaign. It isn't a fortune,

but still one can live on it for a time."

"Well?"

"He thought he might improve his situation and went in for a shady

business."

"Go on, go on, and don't give me any lies."

"He went to the German Club. He thought he would find a fool to beat at

cards, but instead he happened on a cunning hawk. He tried to get away,

but was held up in the lobby. Of course, he was plucked clean."

"I suppose he was roughly handled, too."

"Of course. The next morning he came to our man, Ivan Mikhailych, and

told the tale himself. It's queer, he was in high spirits and laughed

as if they had treated him like a lord."

"Things run from him like water off a duck's back. But I won't grieve

over it, provided he does not come within sight of me."

"But I believe he will."

"Nonsense, I will not allow him to cross my threshold."

"But I'm sure he will," insisted Anton Vasilyev. "He said so in plain

words to Ivan Mikhailych. 'Enough,' he says, 'I am going back to the

old woman to eat her dry crusts.' And, madam, to speak the truth, where

can he lay his head but here? He cannot keep on forever feeding on our

men in Moscow. And besides, he needs clothing and comforts."

That was exactly the thing Arina Petrovna dreaded. It was the very

essence of the obscure thought that so deeply alarmed her. "Yes, he

will turn up," she said to herself, "he has no other place to go to,

there's no doubt of it." He would always be there, within her sight,

that accursed, hated stranger of a son. What had been the good of

throwing his portion to him? She had thought that, having received "his

due," he would drop into eternity. And there he was, rising from the

dead. He would come, make insolent demands, and hang on like a leech,

shocking everybody by his beggarly appearance. And she would have to

meet his demands, because he was a brazen-faced bully, capable of any

violence. You cannot put such a man under restraint; he is capable of

parading in tatters before strangers, of the wildest debauchery, of

running away to the neighbors and telling them the ins and outs of the

family affairs. Should she have him deported to the Suzdal Monastery,

which was said to be a place for ridding parents in distress of the

sight of their refractory children? But the Lord knows whether that

fabulous institution existed at all. People said there were such

things as houses of correction. But how could one get an overgrown dolt

into one of them?

In short, Arina Petrovna was altogether upset by the thought of how the

arrival of Simple Simon was going to disturb her peaceful existence.

"I shall billet him upon you," was her threat to the bailiff. "Feed him

at your own expense."

"Why so, madam?"

"Because you stand there croaking: 'He's sure to come,'" she mimicked.

"Get out of my sight, you raven!"

Anton Vasilyev turned to go, but Arina Petrovna stopped him:

"Wait a minute. Is it true that he is starting out for Golovliovo?"

"I'm not in the habit of telling lies, madam. He said so plainly--'I am

going back to the old woman to eat her dry crusts.'"

"He'll soon find out what kind of crusts the old woman has prepared for

him."

"But, madam, he won't live with you long."

"Why not?"

"Well, madam, he coughs very badly and keeps on clutching the left side

of his chest. He won't live long."

"That kind generally lives very long. He'll outlive us all. The

coughing doesn't hurt him. Well, we shall see about it later. Leave me

now. I have several matters to attend to."

Arina Petrovna spent the whole evening pondering over this problem.

Finally she found it best to convoke the family council for the

purpose of deciding what was to be done with Simple Simon. Such

constitutionalism was not her habit. She made up her mind to digress

from the traditions of autocracy solely for the purpose of shielding

herself from public censure, and as she did not doubt the outcome of

the conference, she sat down with a light heart to write to Porfiry and

Pavel asking them to come to Golovliovo immediately.

CHAPTER III

Meanwhile, the cause of all this mess, Simple Simon, was on his way

to Golovliovo. In Moscow he engaged a seat in one of the so-called

"diligences," in which small merchants and peasant traders used to

travel, and which are still seen in some districts. The diligence

had the city of Vladimir as its point of destination, and Stepan

was enabled to travel in it through the liberality of the aforesaid

innkeeper Ivan Mikhailych, who also paid for his master's meals on the

journey.

"Listen," said Ivan Mikhailych, with the air of an accomplice. "Do

this, get off at the station and go straight up to your mother just as

you are."

"Yes, yes, yes," answered Stepan Vladimirych approvingly. "The house is

only about fifteen versts from there. I can walk it in no time. I shall

appear before her all dirty and dusty."

"When your mother sees you in that rig, perhaps she'll take pity on

you."

"She will, she will. Mother, after all, is a kindly old woman."

Stepan Golovliov was not quite forty, but he looked like fifty. Life

had so thoroughly worn him out that there was not a vestige of his

noble origin left, not a single trace of his university education nor

of the enlightening word of science which in days bygone had been

addressed to him, too. He was tall as a Maypole, racked by hunger,

unkempt, untidy, with a sunken chest and long bony arms. His bloated

face, his dishevelled hair, streaked with grey, his loud, hoarse voice,

his bulging, bloodshot eyes were unmistakable signs of heavy drinking

and a weather-beaten life. He wore an old, threadbare uniform, with the

galloons gone--they had been sold to a smelter--and a pair of reddish

boots, patched and sadly worn. Beneath his coat, when unbuttoned,

peeped a dirty shirt, as black as if it had been smeared with soot.

With the cynicism of a militiaman, he called it "a flea nest."

His glance was stealthy and gloomy, the expression not of inner

discontent, but rather of a vague anxiety which seemed to come from

an ever-present fear of death by starvation. He talked ceaselessly

and disconnectedly, passing without transition from one subject to

another. He spoke whether Ivan Mikhailych listened or dozed off under

the soporific of his garrulousness. He was dreadfully uncomfortable,

because there were four people in the diligence and he had to sit with

his legs bent, so that at the end of three or four versts he had an

intolerable pain in his knee-joints. Nevertheless the pain did not

prevent him from talking. Clouds of dust entered through the side

windows of the vehicle, at times flooded by a flaming, scorching sheet

of sunlight. But Stepan Golovliov kept on talking.

"Yes, brother," he held forth, "I have lived hard all my life. It is

high time to rest. I shan't be eating her out of house and home, shall

I? She has enough and to spare. What d'you think, Ivan Mikhailych?"

"Oh, your mother has plenty to eat."

"Yes, but not for me, you mean to say? Yes, friend, she has heaps of

money, but not a copper for me. And to think the hag has always hated

me. Why? But now I'll sing her a different song. I've made up my mind.

I'm desperate. If she tries to drive me out, I won't go. If she doesn't

give me food, I'll take it. I've served my country, brother. Now it's

everyone's duty to help me. There's only one thing I'm afraid of, that

she won't give me tobacco."

"Yes, you'll have to say good-by to tobacco."

"Then I'll put the screw on the bailiff. The devil can well afford to

give his master a present now and then."

"Oh, yes, he may do that, but what if your mother forbids him to?"

"Well, in that case I'll be done for. Tobacco is the only luxury that

has remained of my former style. When I had money I used to smoke not

less than a quarter of a pound of Zhukov's tobacco every day."

"I guess you'll have to do without brandy, too."

"Another calamity. Brandy does me a lot of good. It breaks up my

phlegm. When we were marching to Sebastopol, we had hardly reached

Serpukhov, when each man had already been given three gallons of

brandy."

"You must have lost your senses."

"I don't remember. We marched as far as Kharkov, but I'll be hanged

if I remember anything else. The only thing I can recall is that we

passed through villages and towns and that at Tula an _otkupshchik_

made a speech. He shed tears, the scoundrel did. Yes, our holy mother

Russia drank from the cup of sorrow in those days. _Otkupshchiki,_

contractors, receivers--it's a wonder God succeeded in saving the

country from them."

"Oh, your mother came in for some of the profits. In our village hardly

half of the soldiers returned home. A recruit's receipt is now given

for each man lost in the campaign, and the government rates such a

quittance at more than four hundred rubles."

"Yes, my mater is a cunning blade. She ought to be a minister of state

instead of housekeeper at Golovliovo. Let me tell you, she has been

unjust to me and she has insulted me, but I respect her. The main thing

is, she's clever as the devil. If not for her, where would we have been

now? We would have had nothing but Golovliovo with its one hundred and

one and a half souls. Just think what an enormous pile she has made."

"Well, your brothers will certainly be rich."

"Yes. But I'll have nothing, that's just as certain. Yes, friend, I've

gone to rack and ruin. But my brothers, they'll be rich, especially the

Bloodsucker. He can ensnare a person in no time, and it won't be long

before he'll undo her, too. He'll pump the estate and the money out of

her. I have an eye for these things. But Pavel, he's a fine chap. He

will send my tobacco on the sly. You'll see if he doesn't. As soon as I

reach Golovliovo, I'll send a note off to him: 'Dear brother, it's so

and so with me. Ease my soul.' Ah, if I were rich!"

"What would you do?"

"In the first place, I'd make you roll in wealth."

"Why me? First think of yourself. I'm contented, living as I do under

your mother's rule."

"Oh, no, brother, _attendez!_ I would make you the chief marshal of all

my estates. Yes, my dear friend, you have fed and warmed a soldier,

accept my thanks. If not for your generosity, I should now be footing

it all the way to the home of my fathers. And, of course, I would free

you on the spot and open up all my treasury to you--drink, eat and be

merry. What did you think I would do?"

"You'd better stop worrying about me, sir. What else would you do if

you were rich?"

"In the second place, I'd get a mistress at once. At Kursk I went to

mass once and saw one--a queen! She was very fidgety and restless."

"But maybe she would object to becoming your mistress."

"And how about hard cash? What's the filthy lucre for? If a hundred

thousand is not enough for her, she'll take two hundred thousand. When

I have money, no expense is too great for me, if it is a question of

getting a bit of pleasure out of life. I must confess that at the time

I let her know through our corporal that I would give her three rubles.

But the wench asked five."

"That was too much for you, of course!"

"Well, I can't tell. As I said, I was in a dream the whole time.

Maybe she came to me, but I forget. Those two months of marching have

gone completely out of my mind. No such thing has happened to you, I

suppose?"

Ivan Mikhailych was silent. Stepan Vladimirych looked at him

attentively and discovered that his fellow-traveller was sound asleep.

"Umph," he said. "He has nodded off, the sleepy-head. You have grown

fat, brother, on the tea and fare of your eating-house. I can't sleep,

not a wink. A good chance for a lark."

Golovliov looked around and saw that everybody was asleep. The merchant

at his side was constantly striking his head against a cross-beam, but

kept on sleeping. His face shone as if veneered, and flies swarmed

about his mouth. A splendid idea, Stepan thought, to cram all the flies

down the merchant's throat. His hand began to move toward the merchant,

but halfway he repented and gave up the idea. "No more pranks," he

said, "enough. Sleep, friends, and rest." Meanwhile--where had he

hidden the bottle? Here, the darling! "Let me see you. Lord, save Thy

creatures," he hummed, taking out a bottle from a bag fastened to the

side of the vehicle and applying it to his mouth. "Ah, that's better.

It warms your insides, you know. Shall I have some more? Well, no. The

station is about twenty versts from here. I'll have time to get as

drunk as a lord. But shan't I have just one drop more? The deuce take

it, the vodka. The bottle simply acts like a charm. It's wicked to

drink, but how can you help it, if it is the only way of getting some

sleep? I wish the vodka, the deuce take it, would do for me quick."

He gulped down some more vodka, returned the bottle to its place, and

began to fill his pipe.

"We are all right," he said, talking to himself. "First, we had a sip,

and here we are smoking. She won't let me have any tobacco, the old

hag, sure as fate she won't, the man is right. Will she give me food?

She may send me what is left over from her meals. Well, we, too, had

money, but now we have none. Such is life. To-day you eat and drink

your fill, you enjoy yourself and smoke a pipe,

"'And to-morrow--where art thou, man?'

Still it would not be a bad thing to have a bite now. I drink like a

fish and I hardly ever have a square meal. Doctors say drinking does

you good only when followed by a hearty meal, as the Most Reverend

Smaragd said when we passed through Oboyan. Was it Oboyan? The deuce

knows, it may have been Kromy. But that's immaterial now. The main

question is, how to get something to eat. I recollect that my man put a

sausage and three rolls into the bag. Caviar is too expensive for the

rascal. Look at the fellow--sleeps like a log and sings through his

nose. I wouldn't be surprised if he were sitting on the bag."

He rummaged about in search of the bag, but could not find it.

"Ivan Mikhailych, Ivan Mikhailych," he shouted to the sleeping

innkeeper. The man woke up and for a while could not make out where he

was and how he happened to be sitting opposite his master.

"I was just beginning to nap," he said finally.

"Sleep, friend, sleep. I only want to know where the bag with the food

is."

"Are you hungry? But you would like a drink first, I suppose."

"Right. Where is the bottle?"

Stepan Vladimirych took a drink, and then attacked the sausage, which

happened to be as salty as salt itself and as hard as stone, so that he

had to use the point of his knife to pierce it.

"Some whitefish would taste good now," he remarked.

"Excuse me, sir, I clean forgot about the whitefish. All morning I kept

saying to my wife: 'Be sure to remind me of the whitefish.' I am very

sorry."

"Oh, it doesn't matter. The sausage is good enough for me. When we

were on the campaign, we ate worse things. Father used to tell that two

Englishmen made a bet. One of them was to eat a dead cat, and he ate

it."

"You don't say!"

"He did. And he was as sick as a dog afterwards. He cured himself with

rum. He guzzled two bottles as fast as he could, and that set him right

at once. Another Englishman made a bet that he would live a whole year

on nothing but sugar."

"Did he win?"

"No. He kicked the bucket two days before the end of the year. And how

about you, why don't you take a drink?"

"I never touch it."

"So you swill nothing but tea. No good, brother. That's why your belly

has grown so big. One must be careful with tea. A cup of tea must be

followed by a glass of vodka. Tea gathers phlegm, vodka breaks it up.

Isn't that so?"

"Well, I don't know. You are learned; you know better."

"True. On the campaign we had no time to bother with tea or coffee. But

vodka--that's a holy affair. You unscrew the flask, pour the vodka into

a cup, drink, and that's all. At that time we had to march so fast that

for ten days I went without washing."

"You certainly roughed it, sir."

"Yes, marching on the highroad is not a joke. Still, on our way forward

it was not so bad. People gave us money, and there was plenty to eat

and drink. But when we marched back there was no more fêting."

Golovliov gnawed at the sausage and finally chewed up a piece.

"It is very salty, this sausage is," he said. "But I'm not squeamish.

After all, mother won't feed me on tid-bits. A plate of cabbage soup

and some gruel--that's all she'll let me have."

"God is merciful. Maybe she'll give you pie on holidays."

"No, I imagine there'll be no tea, no tobacco, no vodka. People say she

has become fond of playing fool, so she may call me in to take a hand

at the game and give me some tea. As for the rest, there is no hope."

There was a four-hour rest to feed the horses. Golovliov had finished

the bottle and was tormented by hunger. The travellers entered the inn

and settled down to a hearty meal.

Stepan Vladimirych took a stroll in the court, paid a visit to the

backyard, the stables and the dovecote, and even tried to sleep.

Finally he came to the conclusion that the best thing for him to do

was to join his fellow-travellers in the inn. There the cabbage soup

was already steaming and on a wooden tray on the sideboard lay a great

chunk of beef, which Ivan Mikhailych was just then engaged in carving.

Golovliov seated himself a little way from the table, lighted his pipe,

and sat silent for quite a while pondering over the way in which he

could allay the pangs of hunger.

"I wish you a good appetite, gentlemen," he said finally, "the soup

seems to be good and rich."

"The soup is all right," answered Ivan Mikhailych. "Why don't you order

a portion for yourself?"

"Oh, it was only a remark on my part. I'm not hungry."

"Impossible. All you've eaten is a bit of sausage, and the damned

thing only teases one's appetite. Please eat something. I'll have a

separate table laid for you. My dear woman," he turned to the hostess,

"a place for the gentleman."

The passengers silently attacked their meal and now and then exchanged

meaningful looks. Golovliov felt his fellow-travellers suspected how

matters stood, although he had played master throughout the journey,

not without some arrogance, and had addressed the faithful innkeeper as

if he had merely entrusted him with his cash. His brows knitted, and

a thick cloud of smoke escaped from his mouth. In the depths of his

heart he felt he ought to refuse, but so imperative are the dictates

of hunger that he set upon the bowl of cabbage soup like a beast of

prey and emptied it in a trice. Along with satiety came his customary

self-assurance and, as if nothing were the matter, he said, turning to

Ivan Mikhailych:

"Well, my cashier, you will pay up for me, and I am off for the hayloft

to have a talk with Mr. Khrapovitzky."

He jogged over to the hayloft, and as his stomach was full he was soon

fast asleep. He woke up at five o'clock in the morning. Noticing that

the horses stood at their empty bins rubbing their noses against the

edges, he roused the driver. "He sleeps like a top, the rascal," he

shouted. "We're in a hurry, and he's having pleasant dreams."

Soon the travellers reached the station at which the road turned

off to Golovliovo. Here at last Stepan Vladimirych lost some of his

devil-may-care attitude and became crestfallen and taciturn. Ivan

Mikhailych tried to cheer him up and insisted that he part with his

pipe.

"You'd better throw the pipe into the nettles, sir, when you come to

the manor-house," he coaxed. "You will find it later on."

Finally the horses that were to take the innkeeper to the end of his

journey were ready, and the moment of parting came.

"Good-by, brother," said Golovliov in a tremulous voice, kissing Ivan

Mikhailych. "She'll plague the life out of me."

"The Lord is merciful. Keep up a stout heart."

"She'll eat me up alive," repeated Stepan Vladimirych, with such

conviction that the innkeeper involuntarily lowered his eyes.

With these words Golovliov turned sharply along the country road,

walking in a shuffle and leaning on a gnarled stick which he had cut

off a tree.

Ivan Mikhailych followed him with his eyes for a while, and then ran

after him.

"Listen, master," he said. "When I was cleaning your uniform a few

minutes ago, I saw three rubles in your side pocket. Please don't lose

them."

Stepan Vladimirych was visibly irresolute and could not make up his

mind how to act in this contingency. Finally, he stretched out his hand

to the peasant and said, with tears in his eyes:

"I understand--to buy tobacco for the old trooper? Thanks. But she'll

eat me up alive, friend. Sure as hell."

Golovliov found the country road again and several minutes later his

grey soldier's cap showed afar off, now vanishing, now appearing above

the young wood. It was early in the day. The morning mist, touched into

gold by the first rays of the sun, hovered above the country road. The

grass glistened with the dew, and the air was redolent of fir-trees,

mushrooms, and wild berries. The road meandered across a plain swarming

with birds.

Stepan Vladimirych, however, noticed nothing of the beauty about him.

All his frivolity had suddenly gone, and he walked as if to the Last

Judgment. One thought filled his mind to the exclusion of everything

else. In three or four hours he would have reached his goal. He

recalled his life at Golovliovo, and he felt as if the doors of a damp

cellar were opening to let him in, and no sooner would he penetrate

into the gloomy interior than the doors would close behind him and

everything would be over. Memories prophetic of what awaited him at

Golovliovo surged in his mind. There had been uncle Mikhail Petrovich,

popularly known as Mishka the Squabbler, one of the "horrid" members of

the family, whom grandfather Piotr Ivanych had exiled to Golovliovo,

where he had lived in the servants' quarters and eaten out of the

same dish with Trezorka, the house dog. There had been Aunt Vera

Mikhailovna, who had lived on the estate by her brother's favor and

died of "moderate living"; for Arina Petrovna had begrudged her every

mouthful at dinner and every billet of wood for the stove in her room.

And a similar fate awaited him.

He foresaw an endless succession of joyless days losing themselves in

a grey yawning abyss, and he involuntarily shut his eyes. Henceforth

he would have to be alone with a wicked old woman, half dead in the

stagnation of despotism. She would be the death of him before long, as

sure as fate. Not a soul to speak to, not a place to visit. She would

be everywhere, scornful, despotic, deadening. The thought of that

inevitable future made his heart so heavy that he stopped under a

tree in desperation, and struck his head against it several times. His

entire life with all its farcical strutting, idleness, and buffoonery

loomed up as if flooded with sudden light. Then he started on his way

again. He felt there was nothing else left for him. The least of men

can make some effort, can earn his bread. He alone was helpless. It

was a new thought. He had been accustomed in thinking of his future to

picture various prospects, but always prospects of wealth coupled with

idleness, never prospects of work. And now the time had come when he

had to pay for the wickedness and aimlessness of his existence. It was

a bitter settlement, summed up in the terrible phrase: "She will be the

end of me."

It was about nine o'clock in the morning when the white Golovliovo

belfry showed above the forest. The traveller's face grew pale, and his

hands began to tremble. He took off his cap and crossed himself. The

parable of the prodigal son and his return occurred to him, but he at

once rejected the idea as a bit of self-delusion.

Finally, he noticed the boundary-post standing by the wayside, and

presently he was treading the Golovliovo soil, the hateful soil that

had borne him, an unloved child, that had reared him, sent him, hated,

into the wide world, and was now receiving him, the unloved one, back

into its arms again. The sun was high in the heavens and was ruthlessly

scorching the boundless fields of Golovliovo. But Stepan Vladimirych

was growing paler and shivering with ague.

At length he reached the churchyard, and here his courage failed

utterly. The manor-house looked out from behind the trees as if nothing

unpleasant had ever happened there; yet the sight of it worked on him

like the vision of a Medusa head. His paternal abode seemed to be a

tomb. "A tomb, tomb, tomb," he repeated unconsciously. He had not the

courage to go straight to the house, but first called on the priest

and sent him to break the news of his arrival and inquire whether his

mother would receive him.

The priest's wife was very sympathetic and hastened to prepare an

omelette. The village children gathered about him and stared at the

master with wondering eyes. The peasants passing by lifted their hats

in silence and looked at him curiously. One old servant ran up with

the intention of kissing the master's hand. Everyone understood that a

wastrel was before them, an unloved son who had returned to his hated

home never to leave it except for the graveyard. At the thought of it

the people were overwhelmed with a mingled feeling of pity and dread.

At last the priest returned and announced that the lady of the manor

was ready to receive Stepan Vladimirych. Ten minutes later he was

standing in her presence. Arina Petrovna met him severely and solemnly,

and measured him icily from head to foot, but allowed herself no

useless reproaches. She received him, not in the living room, but on

the porch, and ordered the young master to be taken to his father

through another entrance. The old man was dozing in his bed, under a

white coverlet, in a white nightcap, all white like a corpse. When he

felt the presence of his son he woke up and began to laugh idiotically.

"Well, friend, so now you are under the hag's paw," he cried, while his

son kissed his hand. Then he crowed like a cock, burst out laughing

again, and repeated several times: "She'll eat him up! She'll eat him

up!" The phrase found echo in Stepan's soul.

His fears were justified. He was installed in a separate room in

the wing that also housed the counting-room. He was given homespun

underwear and an old discarded dressing-gown of his father's, which he

put on immediately. The doors of the burial vault had opened, let him

in, and closed again.

There now began a long succession of dull, ugly days, which Time's

grey, yawning abyss swallowed up, one after the other. Arina Petrovna

never received him, nor was he allowed to see his father. Three days

after his arrival, his mother informed him through Finogey Ipatych, the

bailiff, that he would receive board and clothing and also a pound of

Faler's tobacco monthly. Stepan Vladimirych listened to the bailiff,

and merely remarked:

"The hag! She's found out that Zhukov's tobacco costs two rubles, while

Faler's is only one ruble ninety kopeks a pound. So she pockets ten

kopeks a month."

The symptoms of the moral sobering that had appeared during the

hours of his approaching Golovliovo on the country road, vanished.

Frivolity reasserted its rights and was followed by an acceptance of

the conditions his mother imposed upon him. The disquieting thought of

the hopeless future, which had once pierced his mind, faded gradually

away and finally was no more. The day and the evil thereof, the petty

interests of existence in all its undisguised ugliness absorbed his

entire being. What part, indeed, could his intentions and opinions play

when the course of the rest of his life in all its details was laid out

in advance in Arina Petrovna's brain?

All day long he walked to and fro in his room, pipe in mouth, humming

bits of songs, passing unaccountably from church tunes to boisterous

airs. If the village clerk happened to be in the office, he went up to

him and engaged in a conversation, of which the chief topic was Arina

Petrovna's income.

"What does she do with all her wealth?" he would exclaim wonderingly,

having reached the sum of more than eighty thousand rubles. "My

brothers' allowances are rather poor; she herself lives shabbily, and

she feeds cured meats to father. She deposits the money in the bank,

that's what she does with it."

On one occasion Finogey Ipatych came to deliver the taxes he had

gathered, and the table was littered with paper money, and Stepan's

eyes glittered.

"Ah, what a heap of money!" he exclaimed. "And it all flows right down

her throat. As for giving her son some of these nice greenbacks, no,

she wouldn't do that. She wouldn't say: 'Here, my son, you who are

visited by sorrow, here is some cash for wine and tobacco.'"

This was usually followed by endless cynical talks about how he could

win over his mother's heart.

"In Moscow," he held forth, "I used to meet a man who knew a magic

word. If his mother refused to give him money he would utter 'the

word,' and she instantly got cramps in her hands and feet, in fact all

over."

"It must have been a spell, I suppose," remarked the village clerk.

"Well, whatever it may have been, it is gospel truth that there is such

a 'word.' Another man told me this: 'Take,' he says, 'a frog, and put

it into an anthill at midnight. By morning the ants will have gnawed

it clean, so that only its skeleton will be left. Take the skeleton,

and when it is in your pocket ask anything you wish of any woman, and

she won't refuse you."

"Well, that's easy."

"The trouble is, one must first damn oneself forever. If it weren't for

that, the old hag would be cringing before me."

Hours on end were spent in such talk, but no remedy was found. The

preliminary condition was that you either had to call a curse down on

yourself, or sell your soul to the devil. There was no help. Stepan

Vladimirych had to go on living under his mother's rule, the only

relief coming in the small voluntary contributions that he raised from

the village officials in the form of tobacco, tea, and sugar. His fare

consisted mainly of what remained from his mother's table, and as Arina

Petrovna was moderate to the point of avarice, his board was meagre,

to say the least; which was all the more painful because ever since

vodka had become unattainable, his appetite had grown considerably

keener. All day long hunger gnawed at him, and his sole preoccupation

was how to fill his stomach. He awaited the hour when his mother would

retire for a rest, then sneaked into the kitchen and looked into the

servants' quarters, snatching a bit here, a bit there. Sometimes he

would sit at his open window watching for passers-by. If one of the

serfs came along, he stopped him and levied toll in the form of an egg,

a curd-cake, and the like.

At the first meeting between mother and son, Arina Petrovna briefly

explained the whole program of his life.

"Live here," she said. "Here is a shelter for you in the

counting-house. Your meals you will get from my table. In other matters

you will have to put up with things as they are. There were never any

dainties in the house, and I shan't change my ways for your sake. Your

brothers will soon arrive. Whatever they will decide about you, I shall

carry out. I shall take no sin upon my soul. Let them dispose of your

fate."

He looked forward to his brothers' arrival with impatience. Not that he

reflected on the influence their arrival might have on his existence,

as he had evidently decided that the matter was not worth his thought.

The only thing that interested him was whether Pavel would bring him

tobacco and how much.

"Maybe he'll hand me over some coin, too," he mused. "Porfishka the

Bloodsucker, he won't, but Pavel ... I'll say to him: 'Brother, give a

soldier some cash for wine.' He'll give me some. He's sure to."

He did not notice the passage of the days, nor did he feel the weight

of his absolute idleness. The only time he was lonesome was in the

evenings, because the constable left at eight, and Arina Petrovna did

not allow her son any candles, on the ground that one can walk to and

fro without light. He soon became accustomed to the dark and even began

to love it, for in the darkness his imagination had free play and

carried him far, far away from the dreary place which was his home. In

those hours only one thing disturbed him. He had a dull pain in the

chest and his heart palpitated queerly, especially when he went to bed.

Sometimes he jumped out of bed and ran about the room, clutching the

left side of his chest.

"I wish I would die," he thought at such moments. "But, no, I shan't

die. But maybe I shall."

One morning when the village clerk with an air of mystery reported that

his brothers had arrived the night before, he shuddered and grew pale.

Something childlike suddenly awoke in him. He felt like running to the

house to see how his brothers were dressed, and find out what beds had

been prepared for them, and whether they had travelling cases like one

he had seen a militia captain carrying, and hear how they would talk

to mother, and spy out what would be served at dinner. In short, a

desire once more arose in him to return to life, which so persistently

rejected him, to fall at "dear mamma's" knees, and obtain her pardon.

Then perhaps he would eat the fatted calf and be merry.

The house was still quiet, but he had already visited, the kitchen and

found out that the following courses had been ordered for dinner: soup

with fresh cabbage, also some soup left over from yesterday, cured meat

served with cutlets of chopped meat for entree, fried mutton chops and

four snipes for the roast, and raspberry pie with cream for dessert.

"Yesterday's soup, cured meat, and the chops--that, brother, is for

me," he said to the cook. "There will be no pie for me, I guess."

"For your mother to say, sir."

"Ah, friend, there was a time when I ate snipe. Yes, I did. Once I made

a bet with Lieutenant Gremykin that I would eat fifteen snipes one

after the other, and what do you think? I won the bet. After that I

couldn't look at snipe for a month."

"But you won't refuse to have some now?"

"She wouldn't let me have any. I can't see, though, what makes her

so stingy. A snipe is a free bird. You don't have to feed it or look

after it. It is self-supporting. She doesn't buy snipes any more than

she buys sheep--and yet! The hag knows snipe tastes better than mutton.

That's why she won't let me have it. She'd rather let it rot than give

it to me. What's ordered for breakfast?"

"Liver, mushrooms in sour cream, and custard."

"Why not send me a custard? Do, brother."

"Well, I'll try hard. Let me tell you, sir. When the brothers sit down

to breakfast, you send the village clerk here. He'll fetch you a couple

of custards under his coat."

Next day Stepan Vladimirych waited the entire morning for his brothers,

but they did not arrive. Finally, about eleven o'clock, the village

clerk brought the two promised custards and reported that the brothers

had just finished breakfast and were closeted with Arina Petrovna in

her bedroom.

CHAPTER IV

Arina Petrovna received her sons solemnly, weighed down by grief. Two

maids supported her under the armpits. Her grey locks streamed out from

under her cap, her head drooped, and shook from side to side, and her

limbs seemed hardly able to support her. She always liked to play the

part of a venerable, careworn mother before her children, moving with

difficulty and getting her maids to assist her. Simple Simon called

such solemn receptions high mass, herself a bishop, and the maids,

Polka and Yulka, mace-bearers. As it was late at night the interview

was almost a silent one. Without saying a word she gave her sons her

hand to kiss; kissed them in turn, and made the sign of the cross over

them; and when Porfiry Vladimirych made it clear that he would gladly

spend the rest of the night with "mother dear," she merely waved her

hand and said:

"Come now. Take a rest, you must be tired after the journey. This is

not the time for discussion. We shall talk to-morrow."

Next morning the two sons went to kiss papa's hand, but papa refused

his hand. He lay on his bed with closed eyes, and when they entered he

cried out:

"Have you come to judge the toll-gatherer? Get out, Pharisees! Get

out!"

But in spite of this reception, Porfiry Vladimirych emerged from papa's

room agitated and with tears on his eyelids, while Pavel Vladimirych,

like "the heartless dolt" that he was, merely picked his nose.

"He is very weak, mother dear, very weak!" exclaimed Porfiry

Vladimirych, throwing himself on his mother's breast.

"Is it so bad?"

"Yes, very bad. He won't live much longer."

"Oh, well, it isn't as bad as that."

"No, dear, no. And although your life has never been too joyful, yet

as I think how Fate deals you so many blows at once, upon my word, I

wonder where you get the strength to bear up under it all."

"Well, my friend, the strength comes if such is the Lord's will. You

know what it says in the Scriptures: 'Bear one another's burdens.' It

seems that our Heavenly Father has chosen me to bear the burdens of my

family."

Arina Petrovna shut her eyes, so delightful was this vision of the

family finding their tables covered for them and of her toiling for

them and bearing their burdens.

"Yes, my friend," she said after a minute's pause, "it's a hard life I

lead in my old age. I have provided for my children, and it is time for

me to rest. It's no joke--four thousand souls! At my age to take care

of such an estate, to have an eye on everybody and everything, to run

back and forth! As for all those bailiffs and managers, they look you

straight in the eye, but, believe me, they are the most faithless kind.

And you," she interrupted herself, turning to Pavel, "what are you

digging in your nose for?"

"What have I to do with it?" snarled Pavel Vladimirych, disturbed in

the very midst of his absorbing occupation.

"What do you mean? After all, he's your father. You might find a word

of pity for him."

"Well--a father! A father like any other father. He has been that way

for ten years. You always make things unpleasant for me."

"Why in the world should I, my boy? I am your mother. Here is Porfisha.

He has found words of affection and pity for me as befits a good son,

but you don't even look at your mother properly. You look at her out of

the corner of your eye, as if she were not your mother, but your foe.

Please don't bite me."

"Well, what----"

"Stop! Hold your tongue for a minute. Let your mother say a word. Do

you remember the commandment, 'Honor thy father and thy mother, and all

will be well with thee?' Am I to understand that you don't wish to be

well?"

Pavel Vladimirych kept silence and looked at his mother in perplexity.

"You see, you're silenced," went on Arina Petrovna, "you are guilty.

But I shall let you alone. For the sake of this joyful meeting we shall

dispense with this talk. God, my child, sees everything. As for me, I

see you through and through, and I always have. Children, children, you

will remember your mother when she lies in her grave. You will remember

her, but it will be too late."

"Mamma dear!" interposed Porfiry Vladimirych. "Away with such black

thoughts, away with them!"

"We must all die," said Arina Petrovna sententiously. "These are not

black, but pious thoughts. I'm growing weak, children, oh, how weak!

Debility and ailments are the only things left of my former strength.

Even the maids have noticed it, and they don't care a rap for me. If I

say one word, they have ten in reply. I have only one threat, that I

shall complain to the young masters. That works sometimes."

Tea was served and then breakfast, during which Arina Petrovna

continued her complaining and self-pitying. After breakfast she invited

her sons to her bedroom.

When the door was locked, she went straight to the business for which

she had convoked the family council.

"Simple Simon is here," she began.

"We heard about it, mamma dear," said Porfiry Vladimirych; and it was

hard to say whether it was irony or the calm complacency of a man who

has just eaten a hearty meal that sounded in his voice.

"He has come here as if that were the proper thing to do. Whatever he

may have done, he seems to think the old mother will always have bread

for him. Think of all his hatred for me, of all the trouble his tricks

and buffoonery have caused me. And what have I not done to get him a

good berth? It all ran off like water from a duck's back. At last, I

made up my mind. Goodness, if he cannot take care of himself, am I to

ruin my life on account of the big lout? I'll give him a piece of the

property, I decided. Perhaps, I thought, once an independent proprietor

he'll sober down. No sooner said than done. I myself found a house

for him and paid out twelve thousand silver rubles for it with my own

hands. And what's the upshot? After less than three years he's hanging

round my neck again. How long am I to stand such insults?"

Porfisha lifted up his eyes and shook his head sorrowfully, as if to

say, "Fine doings. Why disturb mother dear so ruthlessly? Why not

live peacefully and quietly? Then dear mamma would not be angry. Fine

doings." But Porfisha's gestures did not please Arina Petrovna, who

objected to any interruption to the course of her thoughts.

"Wait a minute," she said, "don't shake your head. Listen first. Think

of my feelings when I learned that he had thrown away his parental

blessing like a gnawed bone into a cesspool. Think how he outraged me,

me, who for years refused myself sleep and food. He has done to his

patrimony what one would do to a bauble bought at a fair."

"Oh, mother dear, what a shame, what a shame!" began Porfiry

Vladimirych, but Arina Petrovna stopped him again.

"Wait a minute. Let me have your opinion when I order you to. If at

least the scoundrel had come to me in time and said: 'I am guilty,

dear mamma, I couldn't restrain myself,' I might have bought the house

back for a song. The unworthy son did not know how to make use of the

property. Perhaps the worthier children would. The house easily brought

in fifteen per cent. income yearly. Maybe I would have thrown him out

another thousand rubles in his distress. But instead, he disposed of

the property without so much as saying a word to me. With my own hands,

I paid out twelve thousand rubles for the house, and it was sold at

auction for eight thousand rubles!"

"The main thing, dear mamma, is that he has dealt so basely with the

parental blessing," Porfiry interjected hastily, as if afraid of being

stopped again.

"Yes, that's so, too. My money does not come lightly. I have earned it

with the sweat of my brow. When I married your father, all he owned

was the estate of Golovliovo with one hundred and one souls, and a few

more souls scattered in distant estates, a hundred and fifty in all.

As for me, I had nothing at all. Now look what an estate I have built

up on that foundation. There are four thousand souls, not a single one

less. I can't take them into the grave with me. Do you think it was an

easy task to scrape four thousand souls together? No, dear child, not

easy, far from easy. I spent many a sleepless night trying to work out

a good business scheme, so that no one should smell it out and stand in

my way. And what have I not endured in my business travels? I have had

plenty of hard road and bad weather and slippery ice. It is only lately

that I allow myself the luxury of a coach. In former times I rode in a

plain two-horse peasant's cart with a cover put on extra for me. It was

in nothing but a cart that I used to go to Moscow. And the filth and

stench I had to put up with in the Moscow inns! I begrudged myself the

dime for the cabby, and I walked all the way from Rogozhskaya Street

to Solyanka. The house-porter would say to me wonderingly: "Mistress,

they say you are young and well-to-do, why do you work so hard?" But I

was silent and patient. At first all I had at my disposal were thirty

thousand rubles in bank notes. I sold your father's remote estates with

their one hundred souls, and with what I realized from the sale I set

out to buy a property with a thousand souls. I had a mass said at the

Iverska Church and went to Solyanka to try my luck. What do you think

happened? The Holy Virgin must have seen my bitter tears. She helped

me buy the estate. It was like a miracle. The instant I bid thirty

thousand rubles the auction came to an end. There had been a lot of

noise and excitement, but then the people stopped bidding, and it was

as quiet as could be. The auctioneer got up and congratulated me. I was

dumfounded. Ivan Nikolaich, the lawyer, came over to me and said: 'Let

me congratulate you, madam, on your purchase.' But I stood there stiff

as a post. How great is God's mercy! Think of it, if in my confusion

someone had called out just for spite, 'I bid thirty-five thousand,' I

should certainly have offered every bit of forty thousand. And where

would I have gotten the money from?"

Many a time before had Arina Petrovna regaled her children with the

epical beginnings of her career of acquisition. It had never lost

the charm of novelty for them. Porfiry Vladimirych listened smiling,

sighing, turning up his eye-balls, lowering them, to the tune of the

rapid changes through which the tale passed. As for Pavel Vladimirych,

he sat with wide-open eyes, like a child, listening to a familiar, yet

ever-fascinating fairy tale.

"Do you think your mother built up her fortune without trouble?" went

on Arina Petrovna. "It takes trouble even to make a pimple on your

nose. After the first purchase I was laid up with fever for six weeks.

So judge for yourselves how it must make my heart ache to see my

hard-earned money, money I went through torments to get, you may say,

thrown out into the gutter for no earthly reason."

There was a minute's pause. Porfiry Vladimirych was ready to rend his

garments, but refrained, fearing there would be no one in the village

to mend them. Pavel Vladimirych, as soon as the fairy tale was over,

fell back into his wonted apathy, and his face resumed its customary

dull expression.

"That is why I asked you to come here," began Arina Petrovna anew. "Now

judge us, me and the villain. Whatever you decide will be done. If you

condemn him, he will be guilty. If you condemn me, I shall be guilty.

Only I shall not allow the rascal to get the better of me," she added,

quite unexpectedly.

Porfiry Vladimirych felt his turn had come, and he prepared to hold

forth, but approached the subject in a roundabout way.

"If you will permit me, dearest mother, to express my opinion," he

said, "here it is in two words: children must obey their parents,

blindly do their bidding, cherish them in their old age. That's all!

What are children, dear mother? Children are loving creatures who owe

their parents everything, from their persons to the last rag they

possess. Therefore, parents may judge children, while children may

never judge parents. Children are in duty bound to respect, not to

judge. You say: 'Judge us.' That is magnanimous of you, dear mother,

_mag_nificent! But how can we think about it without fear, we whom from

the first day of our birth you have been clothing with kindness from

head to foot? Say what you may, it would not be judgment but blasphemy.

It would be such blasphemy, such blasphemy----"

"Stop, wait a minute. If you say you cannot sit in judgment on me,

acquit me and condemn _him,_" Arina Petrovna interrupted. She was

listening and trying to search his meaning, but could not make out what

new plot was back of the Bloodsucker's mind.

"No, mother dear, even that I cannot do, or rather I don't dare to. I

have no right to. I can neither acquit nor condemn. I simply cannot

judge. You are the mother; you alone know how to deal with us children.

You have the right to reward us if we deserve it, and chastise us if we

are guilty. Our duty is not to criticise, but to obey. And if at the

moment of parental wrath you exceed the measure of justice, even then

we dare not grumble, for the ways of Providence are hidden from us. Who

knows, perhaps it was necessary. Our brother Stepan has acted basely,

unspeakably, but you alone can determine the degree of punishment he

deserves."

"Then you refuse to help me? You would have me get out of this affair

as best I can?"

"Oh, dearest, dearest, how you misunderstood me! Goodness, goodness! I

said, that however you might be pleased to dispose of brother Stepan's

fate, so shall it be, and you--what horrible thoughts you ascribe to

me."

"All right. And you?" she turned to Pavel Vladimirych.

"Do you want my opinion? But what's my opinion to you?" said he, as if

only half-awake. However, he braced himself unexpectedly and went on:

"Of course, he's guilty. Have him torn to pieces--ground to dust in a

mortar--it's settled in advance. What am I in this?"

Having mumbled these incoherent words, he stopped and stared at his

mother, his mouth wide open, as if not trusting his own ears.

"Well, my dear, I shall speak to you later," Arina Petrovna cut him off

coldly. "I see that you are anxious to tread in Stiopka's tracks. Take

care, my child. You will repent, but it will be too late."

"Why, what's the matter? I'm not saying anything. I say, just as you

please. What is there disrespectful in that?" said Pavel Vladimirych,

faintly.

"I'll talk with you later on, my boy, later on. You think because you

are an army officer, you can run wild. You are greatly mistaken. Then

neither of you wants to sit in judgment?"

"I, dearest mother----"

"What am I in this?" said Pavel Vladimirych. "I don't care. Have him

torn to pieces."

"Hold your tongue, for Christ's sake, you wicked man!" Arina Petrovna

felt she was fully entitled to call her son "scoundrel," but refrained

in deference to the joyous meeting. "Well, if you refuse to judge him I

shall. Here is my verdict. I shall try to treat him kindly once more. I

shall hand over to him the little Vologda village, have a cottage built

there, and let him live there and be fed by the peasants."

Although Porfiry Vladimirych had refused to sit in judgment on his

brother, his mother's generosity was so amazing that he felt he simply

had to point out the dangerous consequences of her project.

"Dearest mamma," he exclaimed, "you are more than magnanimous. You are

confronted by a deed--well, the vilest, meanest deed--and then you

forget and pardon. _Mag_nificent! But forgive me, I am afraid for you,

dearest. Think what you will of me, but if I were you, I wouldn't do

it."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. Perhaps I lack your magnanimity, that motherly feeling

of yours. But one thought comes back to me all the while--what if

brother Stepan does the same with his second legacy as he did with his

first?"

Arina Petrovna had already thought of that, yet in the back of her mind

was another consideration.

"The Vologda estate is father's property, it belongs to the patrimony,"

she said through her teeth. "Sooner or later a portion of the patrimony

will have to be doled out to him."

"I understand that very well, mother dear."

"Then you also understand that on giving him the Vologda village we can

make him sign a document to the effect that he has received his full

share and that he renounces all further inheritance claims."

"I understand that too, dearest mother. Your excessive kindness caused

you to commit a grave mistake. At the time you bought him the house you

ought to have made him give you such a document then."

"Yes, that was a blunder."

"At that time, in his joy, he would have signed any document. But you,

dearest, in the kindness of your heart--goodness, what a mistake! What

a mistake!"

"Don't talk of it any more. Why didn't you speak up before it was too

late? Now you are ready to blame everything on your mother, but when it

comes to business, you are not there. However, it isn't the document

I have in mind. I can make him sign it even now. Papa, I suppose,

isn't going to die at once. Until his death the blockhead must live on

something. In case he refuses to sign, we can chase him out and bid him

wait for papa's death. No, what I want to know is, do you dislike my

idea of giving him the Vologda estate?"

"He will squander away the village, darling, as he did the house."

"If he does, let him blame himself."

"He'll come back to you, again, to no one else."

"Oh, no, I won't stand for it. I won't let him come near my threshold.

There won't be a drink of water for him in my house. And people won't

condemn me for it, nor will God punish me. To squander away first a

house, then an estate! Am I his slave? Is he the only one I have to

provide for? Have I not other children?"

"Still, it is to you that he will come. Isn't he brazen-faced enough to

do that, darling mamma?"

"I tell you, I won't let him come near my threshold. Why do you sit

there croaking, 'he'll come, he'll come?' I won't let him in."

Arina Petrovna grew silent and fixed her gaze on the window. She

herself vaguely realized that the Vologda estate would only temporarily

free her from "the horrid creature," that in the end he would dispose

of it, too, and would return to her again, and that as a mother she

could not refuse him a corner in her house. But the thought that the

odious fellow would always be with her, that even though locked up in

the counting-house he would be preying on her imagination like a spook,

was so appalling that she shuddered involuntarily.

"Not for the world!" she exclaimed, striking the table with her fist

and leaping to her feet.

Meanwhile, Porfiry Vladimirych kept on staring at "mother dear" and

shaking his head rhythmically in token of condolence.

"I see you are angry, dearest mamma," he said at last in a tone so

sugared that he seemed to be getting ready to tickle Arina Petrovna.

"What would you have me do? Dance a jig?"

"Excuse me, darling, but what do the Scriptures say about patience?

'In patience,' it says, 'possess ye your souls,' 'In patience'--that's

the word. Do you think God does not see? He sees everything, mother

dear. We perhaps don't suspect anything, we sit here proposing this and

planning that, while He may already have disposed. Oh, dearest mamma,

how unjust you are to me."

But Arina Petrovna was fully aware that the Bloodsucker was throwing a

snare, and she flew into a rage.

"Are you making sport of me?" she shouted. "I am discussing business,

and he's trying to hoax me. Don't pull the wool over my eyes. Speak

plainly. Do you want him to remain at Golovliovo, hanging around his

mother's neck?"

"Just so, dearest mother, if you please. Let him be where he is and

make him sign a paper about the heritage."

"So, so. I knew that was what you would advise. All right. God alone

knows how it will pain me always to be having that creature around.

However, it seems nobody will take pity on me. When I was young I bore

my cross. Shall I refuse it in my old age? But there is still another

point. While papa and I are alive, _he'll_ live at Golovliovo, and we

won't let him starve. But how about afterwards?"

"Dearest mother! Darling! Why such melancholy thoughts?" cried the

Bloodsucker.

"Melancholy or not, still one has to provide ahead. We aren't babies.

When we die, what will become of him?"

"Dearest mother! Can't you count on us, your children? Have we not been

properly brought up by you?"

Porfiry Vladimirych flashed on her one of those puzzling glances which

had always made her uneasy, and went on:

"The poor man, dear mamma, I shall help with greater joy than the rich.

The rich man, Christ be with him, the rich man has enough of his own.

But the poor man--you know what Christ said of the poor."

Porfiry Vladimirych got up and kissed his mother's hand.

"Dearest mamma, allow me to present my brother with two pounds of

tobacco," he said entreatingly.

Arina Petrovna did not answer. She looked at him and reflected: "Is he

really such a Bloodsucker that he would turn his own brother out on the

streets?"

"Well, do as you please. Let him live at Golovliovo," she said finally,

turning to Porfiry. "You have trapped me. You started with 'just

as you please, dearest mamma,' and finished by dancing me on your

wire. But let me tell you this, I hate him and he has disgraced and

pestered me all his life, he has even dishonored my motherly blessing.

Nevertheless, if you turn him out into the streets or make a beggar of

him, you shall not have my blessing. No, no, no. Now you two go to him.

The idiot is wearing out his silly eyes looking for you."

The sons left. Arina Petrovna rose and watched them stride over the

front yard to the counting-house without exchanging a word. Porfiry was

constantly taking off his cap and crossing himself, now at the sight

of the church, which shimmered afar off, now before the chapel, now

before the wooden post to which a charity box was attached. As for

Pavel, he seemed unable to take his eyes off his boot tips shining in

the sunlight.

"For whom have I been accumulating riches? Refused myself sleep and

food--for whom?" she cried bitterly.

CHAPTER V

The brothers departed, and the manor-house of Golovliovo was deserted.

With renewed energy, Arina Petrovna took up her work again. The

clatter of the knives in the kitchen ceased, but activities in office,

storehouses, cellars, were redoubled. Summer, the great provider,

was nearly over; preserving, canning, pickling, storing were in full

swing. Winter provisions flowed in from all quarters, dried mushrooms,

berries, eggs, vegetables. This requisition in kind imposed upon the

peasant women came in wagons from all the various family estates.

Everything was measured and added to the stores of former years. Not in

vain had the lady of Golovliovo had a long row of cellars, storehouses

and granaries built. They were full to the brim. Quite a good deal of

damaged material was along with the rest and smelt foully. At the end

of summer the stuff was all sorted and what was suspicious was sent to

the servants' quarters.

"The pickles are still in good condition, only the skin is coming off

in some places, and they smell a little. Well, let the servants enjoy a

dainty bit," Arina Petrovna would say, pointing out the barrels to be

put aside.

Stepan Vladimirych adapted himself admirably to his new condition. At

times he felt a strong craving to get drunk as a piper. He had money

for the purpose, as we shall see later. But he restrained himself

stoically, as if considering that the time had not yet arrived. He

was always busy now, for he took a lively part in the provisioning,

rejoicing in its successes and regretting its failures in a wholly

disinterested manner. In a sort of ecstasy, hatless, clad in his

dressing-gown, he scurried from the office to the cellars, hiding from

his mother behind trees and various small buildings that crowded the

court-yard. Arina Petrovna noticed him in this garb many times, and

felt an itching in her motherly heart to give Simple Simon a severe

scolding, but on second thought she left him alone in his escapades.

In the cellars Stepan Vladimirych with feverish impatience watched how

the carts were unloaded, how jars, barrels and tubs were brought in

from the estate, and everything was assorted and finally sent off into

the yawning abyss of cellars and storehouses. He felt satisfied in most

instances.

"To-day two wagons of mushrooms came from Dubrovino. Ripping fine

mushrooms, brother," he informed the village clerk rapturously. "And we

were afraid we should have to get along without mushrooms this winter.

Bravo, Dubrovino fellow, much obliged! Fine fellows they are! They have

helped us out!"

On another occasion, he said:

"To-day mother gave an order to catch some carps in the pond. You ought

to see them! Some three feet long! It looks as if we were going to live

on carp the whole week."

Sometimes he was worried.

"The cucumbers failed completely this season. There is not a good one

among them--all crooked and spotty. They're just good enough to be

sent to the servants' quarters. We shall have to use last year's."

He did not approve of Arina Petrovna's management. "Goodness, what

heaps of provisions she allows to rot! Just now she's having cured

meat, pickles, fish and what not hauled to the servants' quarters.

Is that what you call good business? Is that the right way of doing

things, I'd like to know. There are lots of fresh provisions, but she

will not touch them until the old rot is eaten up."

The confidence entertained by Arina Petrovna that it would be easy to

induce Simple Simon to sign any paper proved wholly justified. Not only

did he not object to signing all the papers that his mother sent him,

but the same evening he even boasted about it to the village clerk.

"Well, brother, to-day I have been doing nothing but signing papers. I

have renounced all my rights of inheritance. I am cleaned out. Not a

cent to my name, and none coming. I have set the old woman at ease."

He parted with his brothers peaceably, and was in raptures over his

big supply of tobacco. Of course, he couldn't help calling Porfisha

Bloodsucker and Yudushka, but the disparaging terms were drowned in a

deluge of incoherent, meaningless chatter.

In taking leave the brothers became liberal and even gave him money.

Porfiry Vladimirych accompanied his gift with the following speech:

"This money will be handy in case you need oil for the ikon lamp or if

you want to set up a candle in the church. That's how it is, brother.

Be good and gentle, and our dear mother will be satisfied. You will

have your comforts, and all of us will be merry and happy. Our mother

is a kindly soul, you know."

"There is no denying that she is kindly," agreed Stepan Vladimirych.

"Only she feeds me on rotten pickled meat."

"Whose fault is it? Who treated mother's blessing with disrespect? It

is your own fault that you lost your estate. What a nice little estate

it was. If you only knew how to behave yourself and live modestly, you

would now be eating beef and veal and even ordering sauce with them.

You would have plenty of everything, potatoes, cabbage, peas. Am I not

right, brother?"

Had Arina Petrovna heard this harangue, it would have made her

impatient, and she would have let the orator know that it did. But

Simple Simon was fortunate that his mind could not, as it were, retain

other people's words, and not a syllable of Yudushka's speech reached

its destination.

So Stepan Vladimirych parted with his brothers amicably. And there was

some vanity in his showing Yakov, the village clerk, two twenty-five

ruble notes that had been left in his hands after the brothers had

departed.

"This will last me a long time," he said. "We've got tobacco. We're

well provided with tea and sugar. Nothing is missing but vodka.

However, should we want vodka, we'll get vodka, too. Nevertheless, I

will restrain myself for a little while yet. I am too busy now, I have

to keep an eye on the cellars. Weaken your watch for a single instant,

and everything will be pillaged. _She_ saw me, brother, she saw me, the

hag, once, when I was gliding by along the kitchen wall. She stood at

the window looking at me and I bet she thought: 'Well, well, so that's

why I miss so many cucumbers.'"

Then came October. It began to rain, the road turned black, into

an impassable stream of mud. Stepan Vladimirych could not go out

because his only garments were his father's old dressing-gown and

worn slippers. He sat at his window watching the tiny, humble village

drowned in mud. There, in the gray autumn mist, men were moving about

briskly, looking like black dots.

The heavy summer work was still in full swing, but now its setting was

no longer the jubilant, sun-flooded hues of summer, but the endless

autumn twilight. The corn kilns emitted clouds of smoke far into the

night. The melancholy clatter of the flails resounded in the air.

Thrashing was also going on in the manorial barns, and in the office

they said it would hardly be possible to get through with the whole

mass of grain before Shrovetide. Everything looked gloomy and drowsy,

everything spoke of oppressiveness. The doors of the counting-house

were no longer ajar, and inside the air was filled with a bluish fog

rising from the wet fur cloaks.

It is difficult to say what impression this spectacle of a toilsome,

rural autumn made on Stepan's mind, and whether he was at all aware of

the labors going on in the incessant rain out in the boggy fields. One

thing is certain, that the drab, tearful autumn sky oppressed him. It

seemed to hang close down over his head and threaten to drown him in a

deluge of mud. All he had to do was to look out through the window and

watch the heavy masses of clouds. From the dawn on they covered the

heavens, hanging motionless as if spellbound. Even after several hours

they were still in the same place, without the slightest apparent

change in hue or outline. In the morning, one cloud, heavy and black,

had a ragged shape resembling a priest in a cassock with outstretched

arms. It was clearly outlined on the pallid background of the upper

clouds, and at noon it still had the identically same form. The right

hand, it is true, had become shorter, and the left was stretched out in

an ugly fashion and was sending down such a flood of rain that against

the dark background of the sky there formed a streak still darker,

almost black. Another huge shaggy lump of a cloud a little farther up

hung over the village, threatening to smother it, you would think.

Hours later it was still hanging in the same place, the same shaggy

monster with outstretched paws, as though ready to pounce upon the

earth. Clouds, clouds, nothing but clouds! Around five o'clock a change

took place, darkness gradually enveloped heaven and earth, and soon

the clouds disappeared completely, vanishing beneath a black shroud.

They were the first to go, next followed the forest and the village,

then the church, the chapel, the hamlet, the orchard, and finally the

manor-house, several yards away.

It has already become quite dark in the room, and there is no light.

So what can one do but pace up and down? A morbid languor seizes

Stepan's brain; his entire body, despite its idleness, is filled

with an incomprehensible, indescribable feeling of fatigue. Just one

thought moves in him and sucks at him--the grave, the grave, the

grave! Those black dots which have recently been moving busily on the

dark background of the boggy soil and near the village barns are not

oppressed by that thought. They will not perish under the burden of

despondency and weariness. If they do not challenge the sky directly,

at least they struggle, build, make enclosures, repair their houses.

Stepan did not question whether all this bustle was worth the while,

but he was aware that even the nameless dots were incomparably superior

to him, that he couldn't even struggle, that he had nothing to build,

nothing to repair.

He spent the evenings in the counting-house, because Arina Petrovna

refused to supply him with candles. Several times, through the

bailiff, he asked for boots and a fur coat, and was invariably told

that boots were not kept in store for him, but that he would be given

a pair of felt shoes as soon as the cold spells arrived. Evidently,

Arina Petrovna intended to fulfill her program literally, that was,

to sustain her son in such a manner as barely to keep him from

starvation. At first he abused his mother, but then behaved as though

he had forgotten all about her. Even the light of the candles in the

counting-room annoyed him, and he began to lock himself in his room

and remain all alone in the darkness. There was just a single refuge

left, one that he still dreaded but that attracted him irresistibly,

to get drunk and forget deeply, irrevocably, to plunge into the sea

of oblivion and never emerge again. Everything drove him to it, the

debauchery of the past, the enforced idleness of the present, his

ailing body with the torturing cough, the unbearable asthma, and the

constantly increasing pains in his heart. At last the hour came.

"You must fetch me a bottle of vodka for to-night," he said once to the

village clerk in a voice boding little good.

That one bottle of vodka was followed by a long succession of other

bottles. After that he got drunk every night. At nine o'clock, when

the light in the counting-house had been put out and the servants had

retired to their quarters, he placed a bottle of vodka and a slice of

rye bread thickly strewn over with salt on the table. He did not attack

the liquor at once, but approached it stealthily as it were. Everybody

on the place was fast asleep. The mice scudded behind the wall paper

and the clock in the counting-house ticked ominously. Stepan threw off

his dressing-gown, and began to stride back and forth in the overheated

room, with nothing but a shirt on his back. At times he stopped, went

over to the table, searched for the bottle in the darkness, then

resumed his restless pacing. The first tumblers he emptied in a sort of

passion, voluptuously swallowing down the burning liquid. But little by

little his heart began to beat faster, the blood mounted to his head,

and he mumbled incoherently. His feeble imagination tried to create

images, his blunted memory attempted to pierce the mists of the past.

But the images were broken and meaningless, and the past remained dim

and formless. There was no recollection, either bitter or sweet, as

though an impervious wall separated the past from the present.

He was completely filled by the present, which seemed like a prison

cell, in which he would be locked up for eternity without consciousness

of time or space. His mind took in nothing but the room, the stove,

the three windows in the front wall, the squeaking wooden bed with its

mattress worn thin, and the table with the bottle.

As the contents of the bottle decreased and his head grew hotter and

hotter, even this boresome sense of the present gradually faded. His

mumblings, to which at first there had been a bit of form, now lost

all meaning. His pupils dilated in the attempt to pierce the engulfing

darkness. Finally, the darkness itself vanished and its place was taken

by a phosphorescent sheen.

It was an endless void, with not a color or a sound, but radiant with

sinister splendor. The void followed him in his wanderings, trod on

his heels at every step. There were no walls, no windows, nothing

but this endless vacant splendor. Dread fell on him, coupled with an

irresistible impulse to annihilate even the void. A few more efforts,

and his goal was reached. His stumbling legs carried a benumbed body,

his chest gave forth not a murmur but an inarticulate cry, his very

existence seemingly ceased. A strange stupor took possession of him, in

which conscious life had no part, which plumbed the depths of a life

independent of and beyond the boundaries of normal existence. Groans

burst from his chest without in the least disturbing his sleep. His

organic disease continued its destructive work, without apparently

causing him any physical pain.

He rose early in the morning, filled with agonizing longing, disgust

and hatred. It was an inarticulate hatred, without either cause

or definite object. His bloodshot eyes rolled restlessly, his

limbs trembled, his heart worked with sickening irregularity, now

stopping altogether, now hammering with such violence that his hand

involuntarily clutched at his breast. Not a thought, not a desire!

Objects of immediate perception filled his mind so completely that it

was closed to other impressions.

He filled his pipe and lighted it. It dropped from his nerveless

fingers. His tongue mumbled something, but seemingly by force of habit

only. He sat in silence and stared at one point. He felt an intense

craving to raise the temperature of his body so that he would feel

the presence of life for at least a short while. But he had no way of

getting vodka in the daytime. He had to wait for night to attain those

blissful moments when the ground vanished from under his feet and the

four odious prison walls were replaced by a shoreless, shining void.

Arina Petrovna had not the slightest idea of how Simple Simon spent his

time. The casual glimmer of feeling which had appeared for a moment

during the conversation with the Bloodsucker vanished so precipitately

that she was unconscious of its ever having appeared. It was not a

premeditated course of action on her part, but sheer oblivion. She

completely forgot that in the counting-house, in close proximity to

her, there lived a human being bound to her by ties of blood, who

perhaps was pining away in the yearning for life. Once having cut out

a certain channel in life and filling it almost mechanically with

the same things, she thought others ought to do likewise, it never

occurring to her that the very character of the things life holds vary

among people according to a multitude of circumstances in different

combinations, and that these things may be dear to some, herself among

these some, while they are an abomination and a tyranny to others.

Therefore when the bailiff repeatedly reported that "something was the

matter" with Stepan Vladimirych, the words slipped by her ears, leaving

no impression on her mind. Indeed, she scarcely ever even replied, and

when she did, then only with the stereotyped reply:

"Oh, well, he'll be all right. I bet he'll outlive you and me. Nothing

is the matter with the shambling colt. Coughing, you say! Well, some

people cough thirty years on end and they don't feel it."

Nevertheless, one morning when they came and told her that Stepan

Vladimirych had disappeared during the night, she was aroused.

Immediately she sent out all the available men in search of him, and

herself started an investigation beginning with the room in which

Stepan had lived. The first thing that struck her was a bottle standing

on the table, with a bit of vodka in it.

"What's this?" she asked, pretending not to understand.

"Why, I guess--the young master indulged," stammered the bailiff.

"Who supplied----?" she began, flaring up. But she restrained herself,

and continued her investigation, hiding her rage.

The room was so filthy that even she, who did not know and did not

recognize any demands of comfort, began to feel awkward. The ceiling

was smutty, the wall paper in many places was hanging in tatters, the

window-sills were black with a thick layer of tobacco ashes, pillows

were lying about on the floor beslimed with viscous mud, on the bed lay

a crumpled sheet, gray with accumulated dirt. In one window the winter

frame had been taken, or, rather, torn out, and the window itself was

left half open. Apparently it was through this opening that Simple

Simon had disappeared. Arina Petrovna instinctively looked out on the

road and became more frightened. It was already the first of November,

but the autumn that year had lasted long, and the cold spells had not

yet arrived. Both the road and the field were one black sea of mud. How

had he got away? Where had he gone to? Here it occurred to her that he

had nothing on but a dressing-gown and a slipper. The other slipper had

been found under the window. And the night before it had been pouring

ceaselessly.

"It's a long, long time since I've been here," she said, inhaling

instead of air a foul mixture of vodka, tobacco and sheepskin

evaporations.

All day long, while the servants were searching the forest, she stood

at the window staring dully out upon the naked fields unrolled before

her eyes. So much ado on account of Simple Simon! It seemed like a

preposterous dream. She had _said_ he ought to have been shipped off to

the Vologda village. "No," that cursed Yudushka had wheedled, "leave

him here, dearest mother, at Golovliovo." Now handle him, if you

please, Yudushka.

"I wish he had lived there, out of my sight, as he pleased--Christ

be with him!" Arina Petrovna mused. "But I did my part. If he wasted

one good thing, well, I would throw him another. If he'd have wasted

the other, too, well, what could I do then? Even God can't fill a

bottomless belly. Everything would have been peaceful and quiet here.

But now--who knows what he has been up to? Go, look in the forest and

whistle for him. It would be good if he were brought home alive, but

with drunken eyes one is liable to run into a noose--take a rope, tie

it to a branch, put it round his neck, and no more Stiopka. His mother

denied herself sleep and food, and he has invented a new style--hanging

himself. There would be some excuse for him if he had had it hard

here. But goodness, what did he have to do but walk about in his

room all day and eat and drink? Another son would not have known how

to thank his mother enough. And how does this precious son repay his

mother? Goes and hangs himself. The idea!"

Arina Petrovna's surmises about Simple Simon's violent death were not

justified. Toward evening he was brought back in a peasant wagon, still

alive. He was in a semi-conscious state, all bruised and cut, his face

blue and swollen. He had been found at the Dubrovino estate, twenty

miles away.

The returned fugitive slept straight through the next twenty-four

hours. When he awoke, he stumbled to his feet and began to pace up and

down the room as was his habit, but he did not touch the pipe and made

no reply to the questions he was asked. Arina Petrovna's heart softened

so that on the spur of the moment she all but had him transferred

to the manor-house. Then she quieted down, and left him in the

counting-house, but gave orders for the room to be scoured and tidied

up, the bed linen changed, curtains hung, and so on.

The following evening, when told that Stepan Vladimirych was awake, she

had him brought to the house for tea and found it possible, in talking

to him, to inject kindliness into her voice.

"Why did you go away from your mother?" she began. "Do you know you

caused her great anxiety? It's good the news did not reach papa. It

would have been a terrible shock to the poor sick man."

But Stepan seemed altogether indifferent to his mother's kindly words.

He kept staring at the candle with his glassy eyes, as if watching the

snuff forming on the wick.

"My, my, aren't you a foolish boy?" continued Arina Petrovna, growing

kinder and kinder. "Just think what rumors will be spread about your

mother because of you. There are enough people who envy her. What will

they not say about her? They will say she did not give you food or

clothes. My, my, what a foolish boy you are!"

There was the same silence and the same motionless staring glance.

"Was your stay at mother's so bad? Thank God, you don't go hungry or

naked. What else do you want? If you are lonesome, don't fret. This

is nothing but a village, my boy. We have no entertainments or halls,

we sit in our nooks and we hardly know how to while away the time. I,

myself, would be glad to dance now and then or sing a song, but you

look out upon the road and you lose the desire to go even to church in

such weather."

Arina Petrovna paused, hoping that Simple Simon would give utterance to

at least some sounds, but he was as dumb as a stone. She was beginning

to work up a temper, but restrained herself.

"And if you were discontented with anything, if perhaps you lacked

food or linen, could you not explain it frankly to your mother? Could

you not say, 'Mamma, darling, won't you have some liver or curd-cakes

prepared for me?' Do you think your mother would have refused you? Or

if you wanted a drop of vodka, goodness, I wouldn't have begrudged you

a glass or two. To think of it, you were not ashamed to beg from a

serf, while it was difficult for you to say a word to your own mother."

But her flattering words were of no avail. Simple Simon remained

impervious to either emotion (Arina Petrovna had hoped he would kiss

her hand) or repentance. In fact, he seemed to have heard nothing.

From that time on he never spoke a single word. All day long he

walked up and down his room, his brows knit and his lips moving,

apparently never growing tired. At times he halted as if wishing to

say something, but he could not find the words. He had not lost the

capacity for thinking, but impressions left so slight a trace on his

brain that he could not hold them for any appreciable length of time.

Consequently his failure to find the necessary words did not even make

him impatient. Arina Petrovna, for her part, thought he would surely

set the house on fire.

"He does not say a word all day long," she repeated. "Still he must be

thinking of something, the blockhead! I am sure he'll set the house on

fire one of these days."

But the blockhead did not think of anything at all. He was deeply

immersed in absolute darkness, in which there was no room either for

reality or the illusory world of imagination. His brain did work, but

in a void, disconnected from either the past, the present, or the

future. It was as though he was completely wrapt up in a black cloud

and all he did was to scan it, to watch its imaginary fluctuations,

and, at times, to make a feeble attempt at resisting its sinister sway.

The whole physical and spiritual world dwindled down to that enigmatic

cloud.

In December of the same year, Porfiry Vladimirych received the

following letter from his mother:

"Yesterday morning God visited us with a new ordeal. My son and your

brother, Stepan, breathed his last. The very evening before he had been

quite well and even took his supper, but in the morning he was found

dead in bed. Such is the brevity of this earthly life! And what is most

grievous to a mother's heart is that he left this world of vanity for

the realm of the unknown without the last communion.

"May this be a warning to us all. He who sets at naught the ties of

kinship must always await such an end. Failures in this life, untimely

death, and everlasting torments in the life to come, all these evils

spring from the one source. For, however learned and exalted we may

be, if we do not honor our parents, our learning and eminence will

be turned into nothingness. Such are the precepts which every one

inhabiting this world must commit to his mind. Besides, slaves should

revere their masters.

"Notwithstanding this, all honors were duly given to him who had

departed into life eternal, as becomes my son. The pall was ordered

from Moscow, and the burial ceremonies were solemnly presided over by

the Father archimandrite. And according to the Christian custom, I am

having memorial services performed daily. I mourn the loss of my son,

but I do not complain, nor do I advise you, my children, to do so. For

who knows? We may be mourning and complaining here while his soul may

be rejoicing in Heaven."

BOOK II

AS BECOMES GOOD KINSFOLK

CHAPTER I

A hot midday in July; the Dubrovino manor-house all deserted. Workers

and idlers alike resting in the shade. Under the canopy of a huge

willow-tree in the front yard the dogs, too, were lying stretched out,

and you could hear the sound of their jaws when they drowsily snapped

at the flies. Even the trees drooped motionless, as if exhausted. All

the windows in the manor-house and the servants' quarters were flung

wide open. The heat seemed to surge in sweltering waves and the soil

covered with short, singed grass was ablaze. The atmosphere was a

blinding haze touched into gold, so that one could scarcely distinguish

things in the distance. The manor-house, once painted gray and now

faded into white, the small flower garden in front of the house, the

birch grove, separated from the farm by the road, the pond, the village

and the corn field, which touched the outskirts of the village, all

were immersed in the dazzling torrent. The fragrance of blossoming

linden trees mingled with the noxious emanations of the cattle shed.

There was not a breath of air, not a sound. Only from the kitchen

there came the grating of knives being sharpened, which foretold the

inevitable hash and beef cutlets for dinner.

Inside the house reigned noiseless confusion. An old lady and two young

girls were sitting in the dining room, forgetful of their crocheting,

which lay on the table. They were waiting with intense anxiety. In

the maids' room two women were busied preparing mustard plasters

and poultices, and the rhythmic tinkling of the spoons pierced the

silence like the chirping of a cricket. Barefooted girls were stealing

silently along the corridor, scurrying back and forth from the entresol

to the maids' room. At times a voice was heard from upstairs: "What

about the mustard plasters? Are you asleep there?" And a girl would

dash out of the maids' room. At last heavy footsteps sounded on the

staircase, and the regimental surgeon entered the dining room, a tall,

broad-shouldered man, with firm, ruddy cheeks, the picture of health.

His voice was sonorous, his gait steady, his eyes clear, gay and

frank, his lips full and fresh. In spite of his fifty years he was a

thoroughly fast liver and expected to see many years pass before he

would give up drinking and carousing. He wore a showy summer suit, and

his spotless piqué coat was trimmed with white buttons bearing arms. On

entering he made a clicking sound with his lips and tongue.

"Girls!" he shouted merrily, standing on the threshold. "Bring us some

vodka and something to eat."

"Well, doctor, how is he?" the old lady asked, her voice full of

anxiety.

"The Lord's mercy is infinite, Arina Petrovna," answered the physician.

"What do you mean? Then he----"

"Just so. He will last another two or three days, and then--good-bye!"

The doctor made an expressive gesture with his hand and hummed: "Head

over heels, head over heels he will fall."

"How's that? Doctors treated him--and now all of a sudden----"

"What doctors?"

"The _zemstvo_ doctor and one from the town used to come here."

"Fine doctors! If they'd given him a good bleeding, they'd have saved

him."

"So nothing at all can be done?"

"Well, I said, 'The Lord's mercy is great,' and I can add nothing to

that."

"But perhaps it will work?"

"What will work?"

"I mean--the mustard plasters."

"Perhaps."

A woman in a black dress and black shawl brought in a tray holding a

decanter of vodka, a dish of sausages and a dish of caviar. The doctor

helped himself to the vodka, held the glass to the light and smacked

his tongue.

"Your health, mother," he said to the old lady, and gulped the liquid.

"Drink in good health, my dear sir."

"This is the cause of Pavel Vladimirych dying in the prime of his life,

this vodka," said the doctor, grimacing comfortably and spearing a

piece of sausage with his fork.

"Yes, it's the ruin of many a man."

"That's because not everyone can stand it. But I can, and I shall have

another glass. Your health, madam."

"Drink, drink. Nothing can happen to you."

"Nothing. My lungs and kidneys and liver and spleen are in excellent

condition. By the way," he turned to the woman in black who stood at

the door, listening to the conversation, "What will you have for dinner

to-day?"

"Hash and beef cutlets and chicken for roast," she answered, smiling

somewhat sourly.

"Have you any smoked fish?"

"We have, sir. We have white sturgeon and stellated sturgeon, plenty of

it."

"Then have a cold soup with sturgeon for our dinner, and pick out a fat

bit of sturgeon, you hear me? What is your name? Ulita?"

"Yes, sir, people call me Ulita."

"Well, then, hurry up, friend Ulita, hurry up."

Ulita left the room, and for a while oppressive silence reigned.

Then Arina Petrovna rose from her seat and made sure Ulita was not

eavesdropping.

"Andrey Osipych, have you spoken to him yet about the orphans?" she

asked the doctor.

"Yes, I did."

"Well?"

"There was no change. 'When I get well' he kept on saying, 'I will make

my will and write the notes.'"

Silence, heavier than before, filled the room. The girls took the

crocheting from the table, and their trembling hands worked one row

after the other. Arina Petrovna heaved a deep sigh of dejection. The

doctor paced up and down the room and whistled, "Head over heels, head

over heels."

"But did you try to drive the matter home to him, doctor?"

"Well, I said to him: 'You'll be a scoundrel if you don't make a

definite provision for the orphans.' Could I make it clearer? Yes,

mother, you certainly slipped up. If you had called me in a month ago,

I would have given him a good bleeding and I would have seen to it that

he made his will. But now everything will go to Yudushka, the lawful

heir. It certainly will."

"Oh, grandmother, what will become of us?" said the older of the two

girls, plaintively and almost in tears. "What is uncle doing to us?"

The girls were Anninka and Lubinka, the daughters of Anna Vladimirovna

Ulanova, to whom Arina Petrovna had once "thrown a bone."

"I don't know, dear, I don't know. I don't even know what will become

of me. Today I am here, and tomorrow God knows where I'll be. Maybe

I'll have to sleep in a shed or at a peasant's."

"Goodness, isn't uncle silly!" exclaimed the younger girl.

"I wish, young lady, you would keep your mouth shut," remarked the

doctor. Turning to Arina Petrovna, he suggested, "Why not try to talk

to him yourself, mother?"

"No, no. There's no use my talking to him. He doesn't even want to see

me. The other day I stuck my nose into his room, and he snarled, 'Have

you come to see me off to the other world?'"

"I think Ulita is back of it all. She incites him against you."

"She surely does, nobody but she. And then she reports everything to

Porfiry the Bloodsucker. People say he keeps a pair of horses harnessed

all day waiting for the beginning of the agony. And just imagine, the

other day Ulita went so far as to take an inventory of the furniture,

wardrobe, and dishes, so that nothing should be lost, as she said. We

are the thieves, just imagine it."

"Why don't you treat her more severely? Head over heels, you know, head

over heels."

But fate decreed that the doctor should not develop his thought. A

girl, all out of breath, dashed into the room and exclaimed in a fright:

"The master! The master wants the doctor."