CHAPTER VII

An odor of incense pervaded the rooms, the sing-song of funeral chants

was heard in the house, the doors were thrown open, those wishing to

pay their last respects to the deceased came and went. While Pavel

Vladimirych lived, nobody had paid any attention to him; at his death

everybody mourned. People recalled that he "had never hurt a single

person," that "he had never uttered a cross word to anyone," nor

thrown anyone a look of ill-will--all qualities that had appeared

purely negative, but now assumed a positive character. Many seemed

to repent that at times they had taken advantage of the dead man's

simplicity--but after all, who knew that the simple soul was destined

to so speedy an end? One peasant brought Yudushka three silver rubles

and said: "Here's a little debt I owe Pavel Vladimirych. No writing

passed between us. Here, take it."

Yudushka took the money, praised the peasant, and said he would donate

the three silver rubles for oil to burn forever before an ikon in the

church.

"You, my dear friend, will see the flame, and everybody will see it,

and the soul of my deceased brother will rejoice. Maybe he will obtain

something for you in Heaven. You won't be expecting anything--and

suddenly the Lord will send you luck."

Very probably the high estimate of the deceased's virtues was largely

based on a comparison between him and his brother. People did not like

Yudushka. Not that they couldn't get the better of him, but that he

was entirely too much of a nuisance with his scrape-penny ways. Very

few could bring themselves to lease land from him. They were afraid of

his passion for litigation. He dragged any number of people to court,

wasted their time, and won nothing, because his pettifogging habits

were so well known in the district that almost without listening to the

case the courts dismissed his claims.

Since meanness, or, to be more exact, a kind of moral hardness,

especially when under the mask of hypocrisy, always inspires a sort of

superstitious fear, Yudushka's neighbors bowed waist low as they passed

by the Bloodsucker, standing all in black beside the coffin with palms

crossed and eyes raised upward.

As long as the deceased lay in the house, the family walked about on

tip-toe, stole glances into the dining-room, where the coffin stood

on the table, wagged their heads, and talked in whispers. Yudushka

pretended to be overcome by the disaster, and shuffled painfully along

the corridor, paid a visit to the "dear deceased," affected deep

emotional stress, arranged the pall on the coffin, and whispered to the

commissioner of police, who was taking the inventory and affixing the

seal. Petenka and Volodenka busied themselves about the coffin, placing

and lighting the candles, handing over the censer, and so forth.

Anninka and Lubinka cried and through their tears helped the chanters

sing the mass for the dead in thin little voices. The woman servants,

dressed in black calico, wiped their noses red from weeping on their

aprons.

Immediately after the death of Pavel Vladimirych, Arina Petrovna

went up to her room and locked herself in. She was not disposed

to weep, for she realized that she had to decide upon a course of

action immediately. To remain at Dubrovino was out of the question.

Consequently, she had only one choice, to go to Pogorelka, the orphans'

estate, the "bone" that she had once thrown to her disrespectful

daughter, Anna Vladimirovna. Arriving at this decision, she felt

relieved, as though Yudushka had suddenly and forever lost all power

over her. Calmly she counted her five per cent. Government bonds. They

totalled fifteen thousand rubles of her own, and as much belonging

to the orphans, which she had saved up for them. And she went on

composedly to calculate how much money she would have to spend to put

the Pogorelka manor-house in order. Then she immediately sent for the

bailiff of Pogorelka, gave the necessary orders about hiring carpenters

and sending a horse and cart to Dubrovino for her and the orphans'

belongings, ordered the coach to be made ready (the coach was her own,

and she had evidence that it was her very own), and began to pack.

She felt neither hatred nor goodwill toward Yudushka. It suddenly

became disgusting to her to have any dealings with him. She even ate

unwillingly and little, because from that day she had to eat not

Pavel's but Yudushka's food. Several times Porfiry Vladimirych peeped

into her room to have a chat with his "mother dear." He understood the

meaning of her packing clearly, but pretended to notice nothing. Arina

Petrovna refused to see him.

"Go, my friend, go," she said. "I have no time."

In three days, Arina Petrovna had everything in readiness for

departure. They heard mass, performed the funeral service, and buried

Pavel Vladimirych. At the funeral everything happened just as Arina

Petrovna had imagined on the morning when Yudushka came to Dubrovino.

In the very way she had foreseen Yudushka cried out, "Farewell,

brother!" when they lowered the coffin into the grave, and turned to

Ulita and said hastily: "Don't forget--don't forget to take the kutya,

and put it in the dining-room on a clean table cloth. We will honor

brother's memory in the house, too."

Three churchmen, the Father Provost and a deacon, were invited to the

dinner served, as is the custom, immediately on the return from the

funeral ceremony. A special table was laid in the entrance hall for

the sextons. Arina Petrovna and the orphans entered clad in travelling

clothes, but Yudushka pretended even then not to understand. He went

over to the table, requested the Father Provost to bless the food and

drink, poured a glassful of vodka for himself and the churchmen, put

on an air of deep emotion and said, "Everlasting memory to the late

deceased! Ah, brother, brother, you have forsaken us! Who of us more

than you was fit to live a happy life? How sad, brother, how sad!"

Then he crossed himself, and emptied the glass. He crossed himself

again and swallowed a piece of caviar, crossed himself again and took a

taste of dried sturgeon.

"Eat, Father," he urged the Provost. "All this is my late brother's

stock. How the deceased loved good fare! Not only that he ate well

himself, but he even liked treating others better. Ah, brother,

brother, you have forsaken us! How wrong it was of you, brother, how

very wrong!"

He was so carried away by his incessant chatter that he even forgot

about his dear mother. But suddenly she came to his mind as he scooped

up a spoonful of mushrooms and was about to send it down his mouth.

"Mother, dearest, darling!" he exclaimed. "I, the fool, am here,

gorging myself. What a sin! Mother dear, help yourself. Some mushrooms.

These are Dubrovino mushrooms. The famous ones."

But Arina Petrovna did not stir. She only shook her head in silence.

She seemed listening to something with intense curiosity, a new light

seemed to fill her eyes, as if the comedy to which she had long since

become accustomed and in which she had always taken active part,

suddenly presented itself to her in a changed light.

The dinner commenced with a brief, pathetic discussion. Yudushka

insisted that Arina Petrovna should take the hostess's place at the

head of the table. Arina Petrovna refused.

"No, you are the host here, so sit where you please," she said drily.

"You are the hostess. You, mother dear, are the hostess everywhere,

both at Golovliovo and Dubrovino, everywhere," said Yudushka, trying to

convince her.

"Do stop and sit down. Wherever it will be the Lord's will to place me

as a mistress, I will sit where I choose. Here you are master--so you

take the seat."

"Then this is what we'll do," said Yudushka, much moved. "We'll leave

the cover at the host's seat untouched, as if our brother were with

us, an invisible companion. He shall be host, and we shall all be his

guests."

That is how they arranged it. While the soup was being served,

Yudushka chose a proper subject and started a conversation with the

priests, addressing most of his remarks, however, to the Father Provost.

"There are many people nowadays who do not believe in the immortality

of the soul, but I do," he said.

"Well, they must be desperadoes," answered the Father Provost.

"Not, not that they are desperadoes, but there is is a science about

the soul not being immortal. It says that man exists all by himself. He

lives and then suddenly--dies."

"There are too many sciences nowadays--if only there were less of

them. People believe in sciences and don't believe in God. Take the

peasants--even the peasants want to become learned."

"Yes, Father, you are right. They do long to become learned. Take my

Naglovo peasants. They have nothing to eat, and still the other day

they passed a resolution--they want to open up a school. The scholars!"

"Nowadays there is a science for everything under the sun. One science

for rain, another science for fine weather, and so on. Formerly it was

a very simple matter. People would come and sing a Te Deum--and the

Lord would grant them their prayer. If they needed fine weather, God

would grant fine weather; if they needed rain, the Lord had enough of

it to go round. God has enough of everything. But since people have

begun to live according to science, everything has changed, everything

happens out of season. You sow--there is drought; you mow--there is

rain."

"You speak the truth, Father, the gospel truth. Formerly people used

to pray more to God, and the earth was more plentiful. The harvests

were not like now. They were four times, five times, richer. The earth

produced in abundance. Doesn't mother remember? Don't you remember,

mother dear?" asked Yudushka, turning to Arina Petrovna with the

intention of drawing her into the discussion.

"I never heard anything like that in our parts. Maybe you're speaking

of the land of Canaan. It is said that was really the case there,"

drily responded Arina Petrovna.

"Yes, yes, yes," said Yudushka, as if he had not heard his mother's

remark, "they don't believe in God, they don't believe in the

immortality of the soul, but they want to eat all the same."

"That's just it--all they want is to eat and drink," repeated the

Father Provost, rolling up the sleeves of his cassock to reach a piece

of the funeral pie and put it on his plate.

Everybody attacked the soup. For a while nothing was heard but the

clink of the spoons on the plates and the puffing of the priests as

they blew upon the hot liquid.

"Now as for the Roman Catholics," continued Yudushka, stopping to eat,

"although they do not deny the immortality of the soul, yet they claim

the soul does not land straight in hell or in heaven, but stays for a

while in a sort of middle place."

"That, too, is preposterous."

"To tell you the truth, Father," said Porfiry Vladimirych, deep in

thought, "if we take the point of view of----"

"There is no use discussing nonsense. How goes the song of our Holy

Church? It says, 'In a grassy place, in a cool place, in which there

is neither sighing nor sorrow.' So of what use is it to talk of a

'middle' place?"

Yudushka did not fully agree and wanted to make some sort of objection,

but Arina Petrovna, growing annoyed at the conversation, stopped him.

"Well, eat, eat, you theologian. I guess your soup is cold by now," she

said, and to change the topic she turned to the Father Provost. "Have

you gathered in the rye yet, Father?"

"Yes, madam. This time the rye is good, but the spring wheat doesn't

promise well. The young oat seeds are ripening too soon. Neither straw

nor oats can be expected."

"They are complaining everywhere about the oats," sighed Arina

Petrovna, watching Yudushka scoop up the last dregs of his soup.

Another dish was served, ham and peas. Yudushka took advantage of the

opportunity to resume the broken conversation.

"I'll wager the Jews don't eat this," he said.

"Jews are dirty," responded the Father Provost. "So people mock them,

calling them 'pig's ears.'"

"But the Tartars don't eat ham either. There must be some reason for

it."

"The Tartars are dirty, too. That's the reason."

"We don't eat horse flesh, and the Tartars refuse pigs' meat. They say

rats were eaten during the siege in Paris."

"Well, they were--French!"

The whole supper passed in this way. When carp in cream was served,

Yudushka expatiated: "Fall to, Father. These are not ordinary carp.

They were a favorite dish of my departed brother."

Asparagus being served, Yudushka said:

"Just look at that asparagus! You'd have to pay a silver ruble for

asparagus like that in St. Petersburg. My deceased brother was so fond

of it. Bless it, look how thick it is."

Arina Petrovna was boiling with impatience. A whole hour gone and only

half the supper eaten. Yudushka seemed to hold it back on purpose. He

would eat something, put down his knife and fork, chatter a while, eat

a bit again, and chatter again. How often, in bygone days, had Arina

Petrovna scolded him for it. "Why don't you eat, you devil--God forgive

me." But he seemed to have forgotten her instructions. Or perhaps he

had not forgotten them, but was acting that way on purpose, to avenge

himself. Or maybe he wasn't even avenging himself consciously. He might

just be letting his devilish inner self have free play. Finally the

roast was served.

At the very moment that all rose and the Father Provost was beginning

to intone the hymn about "the beatific deceased," a noise broke out in

the corridor. Shouts were heard that entirely spoiled the effect of the

prayer.

"What's that noise?" shouted Porfiry Vladimirych. "Do they take this

for a public-house?"

"For mercy's sake, don't yell. That is my--those are my trunks. They

are being transferred," responded Arina Petrovna. Then she added with a

touch of sarcasm: "Perhaps you intend to inspect them?"

A sudden silence fell. Even Yudushka turned pale and became confused.

He realized instantly, however, that somehow he had to soften the

effect of his mother's unpleasant words. Turning to the Father Provost,

he began:

"Take woodcocks for instance. They are plentiful in Russia, but in

other lands----"

"For Christ's sake, why don't you eat? We've got twenty-five versts to

go and make them before dark," Arina Petrovna cut him short. "Petenka,

dear, go hurry them in there, and see that they serve the pastry."

For a few moments there was silence. Porfiry Vladimirych quickly

finished his piece of woodcock. His face was pale, his lips trembled,

and he sat tapping his foot on the floor.

"You insult me, mother dear. You hurt me deeply," he declared, finally,

but avoided his mother's eyes.

"Who is insulting you? And how am I hurting you--so deeply?"

"It is very--very insulting. So insulting, so very insulting! To think

of your going away--at such a moment! You have lived here all the

time--and suddenly--and then you mention the trunks--inspection--what

an insult!"

"Well, then, if you're anxious to know all about it, why, I'll satisfy

you. I lived here as long as my son Pavel was alive. He died--and I

leave. And if you want to know about the trunks, why, Ulita has been

watching me for a long time at your orders. And concerning myself--it's

better to tell your mother straight to her face that she's under

suspicion than to hiss at her behind her back like a snake."

"Mother dear! But you--but I----" groaned Yudushka.

"You've said enough," Arina Petrovna cut him short. "And I've had my

say."

"But, how could I, mother dear----"

"I tell you, I'm through. For Christ's sake, let me go in peace. The

coach is ready, I hear."

The sound of tinkling bells and an approaching vehicle came from the

courtyard. Arina Petrovna was the first to arise from the table. The

others followed.

"Now let us sit down for a moment, and then we're off," she said, going

towards the parlor.

They sat a while in silence. By that time Yudushka had entirely

recovered his presence of mind.

"After all, why shouldn't you live at Dubrovino, mother dear? Just see

how nice it is here," he said, looking into his mother's eyes with the

caressing expression of a guilty cur.

"No, my friend, that's enough. I don't want to leave you with

unpleasant words, but I can't stay here. What for? Father, let us pray."

Everybody rose in prayer, then Arina Petrovna kissed everybody good-by,

blessed them all, and with a heavy step went toward the door. Porfiry

Vladimirych, at the head of the company of relatives, went with her to

the porch. There on seeing the coach, he was struck by a devilish idea.

"Why, the coach belongs to my brother," was the thought that flashed

through his mind.

"So we'll see each other, mother dear?" he said, helping his mother in

and casting side glances at the coach.

"If it's the Lord's will--and why shouldn't we see each other?"

"Ah, mother, dear mother, that was a good joke, really! You had better

leave the coach--and, with God's help, in your old nest--indeed," urged

Yudushka in a wheedling tone.

Arina Petrovna made no answer. She had already seated herself and made

the sign of the cross, but the orphans seemed to hesitate.

Yudushka, all the while, kept throwing glance after glance at the coach.

"How about the coach, mother dear? Will you send it back yourself or

shall I send for it?" he blurted out, unable to retain himself longer.

Arina Petrovna shook with indignation.

"The coach is--mine!" she cried in a voice so full of pain that

everyone felt embarrassed and ashamed. "It's mine! Mine! My coach! I--I

have testimony--witnesses. And you--may you----No, I'll wait----We

shall see what becomes of you. Children, are you ready?"

"For mercy's sake, mother dear! I have no grievance against you. Even

if the coach belonged to this estate----"

"It is my coach--mine! It does not belong to Dubrovino, it belongs to

me! Don't you dare to say it--do you hear me?"

"Yes, mother dear. Don't forget us, dear heart. Simply, you know,

without ceremony. We will come to you, you will come to us, as becomes

good kinsfolk."

"Are you seated, children? Coachman, go on!" cried Arina Petrovna,

hardly able to restrain herself.

The coach quivered and rolled off quickly down the road. Yudushka stood

on the porch waving his handkerchief and calling until the coach had

entirely disappeared from view:

"As becomes good kinsfolk! We will come to you, and you to us--as

becomes good kinsfolk!"

BOOK III

FAMILY ACCOUNTS SETTLED

CHAPTER I

It had never occurred to Arina Petrovna that there might come a time

when she would become "one mouth too many." Now that moment had stolen

upon her just when for the first time in her life her physical and

moral strength was undermined. Such moments always arrive suddenly.

Though one may long have been on the verge of breaking down, one may

still hold out and stave off the end, till suddenly the last blow

strikes from a quarter least expected. To be aware of its approach and

dodge it, is difficult. One has to resign oneself without complaint,

for it is the very blow that in an instant shatters one who till

recently has been hale and healthy.

When Arina Petrovna took up her abode in Dubrovino, after having broken

with Yudushka, she had labored under great difficulties. But then, at

least, she had known that Pavel Vladimirych, though looking askance at

her intrusion, was still a well-to-do man to whom another morsel meant

little. Now things were very different. She stood at the head of a

household that counted every crumb. And she knew the value of crumbs,

having spent all her life in the country in constant intercourse with

peasants and having assimilated the peasant's notions of the harm a

"superfluous mouth" does to a house in which stores are already scanty.

Nevertheless, in the first days after the removal to Pogorelka, she

still maintained her usual attitude, busied herself with putting things

in shape in the new place, and exercised her former clarity of judgment

in household management. But the affairs of the estate were troublesome

and petty, and demanded her constant personal supervision; and though

on first thought she did not see much sense in keeping accurate

accounts in a place where farthings are put together to make up kopek

pieces and these in turn to make ten-kopek pieces, she was soon forced

to admit that she had been wrong in this. To be sure, there really was

no sense in keeping careful accounts; but the point was, she no longer

possessed her former industry and strength. Then, too, it was autumn,

the busiest time of reckoning up accounts and taking inventories, and

the incessant bad weather imposed inevitable limits to Arina Petrovna's

energy. Ailments of old age came upon her and prevented her from

leaving the house. The long dreary fall evenings set in and doomed her

to enforced idleness. The old woman was all upset and exerted herself

to the utmost, but succeeded in accomplishing nothing.

Another thing. She could not help noticing that something queer was

coming over the orphans. They suddenly became dull and dispirited

and were agitated by some vague plans for the future, plans in which

notions of work were interspersed with notions of pleasures of the most

innocent kind, of course--reminiscences of the boarding-school where

they had been brought up, mingled with stray notions about men of toil,

which they retained from their fragmentary reading, and timid hopes of

clutching at some thread through their boarding-school connections,

and so entering the bright kingdom of human life. One tormenting hope

stood out definitely from the other vague longings, to leave hateful

Pogorelka at whatever costs.

And at length one fine day Anninka and Lubinka actually announced to

grandma that they simply could not stay at Pogorelka a moment longer;

they led a beastly life there, met nobody but the priest, and he, when

he met them, felt it incumbent upon him to tell of the virgins who had

extinguished their lamps. It wasn't right, it wasn't fair.

The girls spoke sharply, afraid of their grandmother and simulating

courage in order to overcome the anger and resistance they expected.

But to their surprise Arina Petrovna listened without anger, without

even a disposition toward the useless sermonizing that impotent old age

is so given to.

Alas, she was no longer that dominating woman who used to say so

confidently: "I am going to Khotkov and will take the little orphans

with me." The change was due, not to senile impotence alone, but also

to an acquired sense of something better and truer. The last buffets

of fortune had not only tamed Arina Petrovna; they had also lighted up

some corners of her mental horizon into which her thoughts evidently

had never before entered. Now, she knew, there were certain forces

in the human being that can remain dormant a long while, but once

awakened, they carry one irresistibly on to the glimmering ray of life,

that cheering ray for whose appearance one's eyes have been yearning

so long amidst the hopeless darkness of the present. Once realizing

the legitimacy of such a striving, she was powerless to oppose it. It

is true, she tried to dissuade her granddaughters from their purpose,

but feebly, without conviction. She was uneasy about the future in

store for them; all the more so since she herself had no connections in

so-called "society." Yet she felt that the parting with the girls was

a proper and inevitable thing. What would become of them? frequently

pressed on her mind; but she was now fully aware that neither this

question nor others more terrible would restrain one who was struggling

for release from captivity.

The girls insisted on one thing, on shaking the dust of Pogorelka from

their feet. And finally, after some hesitating and postponing to please

grandmother, they left.

The Pogorelka manor-house was now steeped in a forlorn quiet.

Self-centered as Arina Petrovna was by nature, yet the proximity of

human breath had its calming effect even upon her. For the first time,

perhaps, she felt that something had torn itself away from her being,

and the freedom with which she herself was now confronted was so

boundless that all she saw was empty space. To hide the void from her

eyes, she ordered the state-rooms and the attic where the orphans had

lived to be nailed up.

"Incidentally, there will be less firewood burned," she said to herself.

She retained only two rooms, in one of which a large ikon case with

images was stowed away. The other was a combined bedroom, study

and dining-room. For the sake of economy she dismissed her retinue

of servants, retaining only her housekeeper Afimyushka, an old,

broken-down woman, and Markovna, one-eyed, the soldier's wife, who did

the cooking and washing.

All these precautions, however, were of little help. The sensation

of emptiness was not slow to penetrate into the two rooms that were

meant to be guarded from it. Helpless solitude and dreary idleness

were the two enemies Arina Petrovna now confronted. And she was to be

bound to these two enemies the rest of her days. Physical and mental

disintegration were not slow to follow in the wake of loneliness

and idleness, and the less the resistance, the crueller, the more

destructive its work.

Days dragged on in the oppressive monotony peculiar to rural life when

there are no comforts or there is no executive work to be done, and

there is no material for mental occupation. In addition to the external

causes at work to take the management of household affairs away from

her, was an inner aversion that Arina Petrovna now felt to the petty

cares and bustle coming at the sunset of her life. Perhaps she would

have overcome her repugnance had she had an aim in view to justify her

efforts, but that very aim was wanting. Everybody was sick and weary

of her, and she was sick and weary of everybody and everything. Her

feverish activity of old suddenly yielded to idleness, and idleness

little by little corrupted her will and induced propensities of which

Arina Petrovna could never have dreamed only a few months ago.

The strong, reserved woman, whom no one would have thought of calling

old, turned into a wreck of her former self. There was neither past

nor future for her, but only the immediate moment to live through.

The greater part of the day she dozed, sitting in an easy-chair by

the table, on which ill-smelling cards were arranged. She would doze

for hours on end. Then her body would shudder convulsively, she would

wake up, look out of the window, and for a long time stare into the

distance, without a single conscious thought.

Pogorelka was a dreary manor-house. It stood all alone, without orchard

or shade, or the least indication of comfort. There was not even a

flower garden in front of the house. It was a one-story structure,

squat, weather-beaten, all black with age. Back of it were the many

out-buildings, also half worn-out, and all around was one vast stretch

of fields--fields without end. Not even the glimpse of forest anywhere

on the horizon. But from her very childhood Arina Petrovna had hardly

ever left the country, and this monotonous landscape did not seem

dreary to her. It even appealed to her heart and awakened remnants of

emotion still glowing within her. The best part of her being lived in

these naked fields, and her gaze sought them instinctively.

She stared at the expanse of fields; she stared at the drenched hamlets

making black specks on the landscape; she stared at the white churches

of the rural parishes; she stared at the motley spots that the cloud

shadows formed on the plains; she stared at the peasant unknown to her

who walked along the ploughed furrows, and she thought him slow and

stiff. While staring, she had no conscious thoughts, or, rather, her

thoughts were so fragmentary and disconnected that they could not stay

with any one thing for even a short time. She just gazed, gazed till

senile slumber again hummed dully in her ears, and the fields, the

churches, the hamlets and the peasant in the distance became wrapped in

mist.

At times, apparently, she recollected something; but the memories of

the past came incoherently, in fragments. Her attention could not

concentrate on one point. It jumped from one remote memory to another.

Yet sometimes she would be struck by something singular, not joy--her

past was very scant in joys--but some grievance, some abuse, bitter

and unbearable. Then sudden anger would flare up, anguish would creep

into her heart, and tears come to her eyes. She would weep grievously,

painfully, the weeping of piteous old age, when tears flow as if under

the load of a nightmare. But even while her tears were flowing, her

mind unconsciously continued to work in its usual way, and her thoughts

drifted imperceptibly away from the cause of her mood, so that in a few

minutes the old woman was wondering what had been the matter with her.

Altogether, she lived as if not participating in life personally, but

solely because in those ruins there were still left a few odds and ends

which had to be collected, recorded, and accounted for. While these

odds and ends were present, life went its way compelling the ruin to

perform all the external functions necessary to keep that half-asleep

existence from crumbling to dust.

But if the days passed in unconscious slumber, the nights were sheer

torment. At night Arina Petrovna was _afraid;_ she was afraid of

thieves, of ghosts, of devils, of all that was the product of her

education and life. And the defenses of the place were very poor, for

beside the two tottering women domestics Pogorelka had a night-watch in

the person of the lame little peasant Fedoseyushka, who for two rubles

a month came from the village to guard the manor-house, and usually

slept in the vestibule, coming out at the appointed hours to strike the

steel plate. In the cattle-yard, it is true, there lived a few farm

hands, men and women, but the cattle house was about fifty yards away

and it was not easy to summon any one from there.

There is something exceedingly dreary and oppressive in a sleepless

night in the country. At nine, or at latest ten o'clock, life ceases.

A weird stillness sets in that is full of terrors. There is nothing to

do, and it is a waste to burn candles. Willy-nilly one must go to bed.

As soon as the samovar was removed from the table Afimyushka, from an

old habit acquired during serfdom, spread a felt blanket in front of

the door leading to the mistress's bedroom, scratched her head, yawned,

flopped down on the floor, and fell dead asleep. Markovna always

fumbled in the maids' room a trifle longer, muttering something to

herself as if scolding somebody. But at last she, too, got quiet, and a

moment later you could hear her snoring and raving intermittently. The

watchman banged on the plate several times to announce his presence,

then kept quiet for a long time. Arina Petrovna, sitting in front of a

snuffy tallow candle, tried to stave off sleep by playing "patience,"

but scarcely did she have the cards arranged when she fell into a doze.

"It is as easy as not for a fire to start while one is asleep," she

would say to herself, and decide to go to bed. But no sooner did she

sink into the down pillows than another trouble set in. Her sleepiness,

so inviting and insistent all evening long, now left her completely.

The room was a close one at the best, and now, from the open flue the

heat came thick, and the down pillows were insufferable. Arina Petrovna

tossed restlessly. She wanted to call someone, but knew no one would

come in answer to her summons. A mysterious quiet reigned all around,

a quiet in which the delicate ear could distinguish a multitude of

sounds. Now something crackled somewhere, now a whining was audible,

now it seemed as if somebody were walking through the corridor, now a

puff of wind swept through the room and even touched her face. The ikon

lamp burned in front of an image, and the light gave the objects in the

room a kind of elusiveness, as if they were not actual things, but only

the contours of things. Another bit of light strayed from the open door

of the adjacent room, where four or five ikon lamps were burning before

the image case. A mouse squeaked behind the wall paper. "Sh-sh-sh,

you nasty thing," said Arina Petrovna, and all was silent again. And

shadows again, whisperings again coming from no one knew where. The

greater part of the night passed in that half-awake senile slumber.

Real sleep did not set in and do its work until nearly morning. By

six o'clock Arina Petrovna was already on her feet, tired out after a

sleepless night.

Other things to add to the misery of this miserable existence of

Arina Petrovna's were the poor food she ate and the discomfort of her

home. She ate little and used poor food, wishing, probably, to make

up for the loss caused by insufficient supervision. And the Pogorelka

manor-house was dilapidated and damp. The room into which Arina

Petrovna locked herself was never ventilated and remained without

cleaning for weeks on end. In this complete helplessness and the

absence of all comfort and care, decrepitude began slowly to set in.

But her desire to live grew stronger, or, rather, her desire for "a

dainty bit" asserted itself. With this came coupled a total absence of

the thought of death. Previously, she had been afraid of death; now

she seemed to have quite forgotten about it. And with ideals of life

differing but little from a peasant's, her conception of a "comfortable

life" was of rather a base kind. Everything she had formerly denied

herself, dainties, rest, association with wide-awake people, now forced

itself upon her in an insistent craving. All the propensities of a

regular sponger and hanger-on, idle talk, subservience for the sake of

a prospective gift, gluttony, grew in her with astounding rapidity.

Like the servants, she fed on cabbage-soup and cured bacon of doubtful

quality, and at the same time dreamed of the stores of provisions at

Golovliovo, of the German carps that swarmed in the Dubrovino ponds,

of the mushrooms that filled the Golovliovo woods, of the fowl that

fattened in the Golovliovo poultry-yard.

"Some soup with giblets, or some garden-cress in cream would not be a

bad thing," would cross her mind so vividly that her mouth watered. At

night when she tossed about rigid with fright at the least rustling,

she would think: "Yes, at Golovliovo the locks are secure and the

watchmen reliable. They keep banging on the steel plates all the time,

and you can sleep in perfect safety." During the day, from sheer lack

of human companionship, she was compelled to be silent for hours, and

during these spells of compulsory taciturnity, she could not help

thinking: "At Golovliovo there are lots of people. There you can talk

your troubles away." In fact, Golovliovo kept constantly recurring to

her mind, and the reminiscences of her former estate became a radiant

spot in which "comfortable living" concentrated itself.

The more frequently the vision of Golovliovo came back to her mind,

the stronger became her will to live again, and the farther the deadly

affronts she had recently sustained sank into oblivion. The Russian

woman, by the very nature of her life and bringing-up, too quickly

acquiesces in the lot of a hanger-on. Even Arina Petrovna did not

escape that fate, though her past, it would seem, should have tended

to warn and guard her against such a yoke. Had she not made a mistake

"at that time," had she not portioned out her estate to her sons,

had she not trusted Yudushka, she would to this very day have been a

harsh, exacting old woman, with everybody under her thumb. But since

the mistake was fatal, the transition from a testy, arbitrary mistress

to an obedient, obsequious parasite was only a matter of time. As long

as she still retained remnants of former vigor, the change was not

evident, but as soon as she realized that she was irrevocably doomed to

helplessness and solitude, all the pusillanimous propensities began to

make their way into her soul, and her will, already weakened, became

completely shattered. Yudushka, who used to be received most coldly

when he visited Pogorelka, suddenly ceased to be hateful to her. The

old injuries were somehow forgotten, and Arina Petrovna was the first

to court intimacy.

It began with begging. Messengers from Pogorelka would come to

Yudushka, at first rarely, but then with increasing frequency. Now

there had been a poor crop of garden-cress at Pogorelka, now the rains

had ruined the gherkins, now the turkey-poults had died--there's

freedom for you! And then it came to: "Would you mind, my dear friend,

ordering some German carps caught in Dubrovino? My late son Pavel never

refused them to me." Yudushka frowned, but thought it best not to show

open displeasure. The carps were an item, to be sure, but he was filled

with terror at the thought that his mother might put her curse upon

him. He well remembered her once saying: "I will come to Golovliovo,

order the church opened, call in the priest and shout: 'I curse you!'"

It was the recollection of this that held him back from many dastardly

acts that quite accorded with his nature. But in fulfilling the wish

of his "mother dear" he did not omit to hint casually to the people

around him that God had ordained that every man bear his cross, and

that He did so not without divine purpose, for he who bears not his

cross wanders from the righteous path and becomes corrupted. To his

mother he wrote: "I am sending you some gherkins, mother dear, as many

as my resources allow. As to the turkeys, I am sorry to inform you that

besides those left for breeding, there remain only turkey-cocks, which

in view of their size and the limited needs of your table are quite

useless to you. And will it not be your pleasure to let me welcome you

to Golovliovo and share my paltry viands with you? Then we can have one

of those idlers (idlers, indeed, for my cook Matvey caponizes them most

skilfully) roasted, and you and I, my dearest friend, shall feast on

him to our heart's content."

From that day Arina Petrovna became a frequent guest at Golovliovo.

Assisted by Yudushka she tasted of turkeys and ducks; she slept her

fill both by night and by day, and after dinner she eased her heart

with copious small talk, in which Yudushka was proficient by nature,

she proficient because of old age. Her visits were not discontinued

even when it reached her ears that Yudushka, weary of solitude, had

taken in a damsel named Yevpraksia, from among the clergy, as his

housekeeper. On the contrary, she made off right for Golovliovo and

before alighting from the carriage called to Yudushka with childish

impatience: "Well, well, you old sinner, let's see your queen, let's

see your queen." That entire day she spent most pleasurably, because

Yevpraksia herself waited upon her at table and made her bed after

dinner, and because in the evening she played fool with Yudushka and

his queen.

Yudushka himself was pleased with this dénouement, and in token of

filial gratitude ordered a pound of caviar, among other things, to be

put into Arina Petrovna's carriage as she was about to depart. That was

the highest token of esteem, for caviar is not a home product; one has

to buy it. The courtesy so touched the old woman that she could refrain

no longer and said: "Well, I do thank you for this. And God, too, will

love you, because you cherish and sustain your mother in her old age.

Now, when I get back to Pogorelka, I shall not be bored any more. I

always did like caviar. Well, thanks to you, I'll have a dainty morsel

now."

CHAPTER II

Five years had passed since Arina Petrovna took up her abode at

Pogorelka. Yudushka struck root in Golovliovo and would not budge. He

became considerably older, faded and tarnished greatly, but was more

of a knave, liar and babbler than ever, for now his "mother dear" was

nearly always with him, and for the sake of dainties, she became a

ready and indispensable listener to his empty talk.

One must not think of Yudushka as a hypocrite in the sense of Tartuffe,

for instance, or some modern French bourgeois, mellifluous and fond of

expatiating on "the foundations of society." No, he was a hypocrite of

the purely Russian breed, simply a man devoid of moral standards and

ignorant of any except the most elementary truths. His ignorance was

profound. He was mendacious, had a passion for litigation and empty

talk, and was afraid of the devil, too--all negative traits that are

not the material for the making of a genuine hypocrite.

In France hypocrisy is a result of education; it constitutes, so to

say, a part of "good manners," and always has a distinct political

or social coloring. There are hypocrites of religion, hypocrites of

"the foundations of society," of property, of family, of politics.

And lately there have come up even hypocrites of "law and order."

Though this sort of hypocrisy cannot be termed conviction, still it

is a banner around which those people rally who find it profitable to

play the hypocrite in that way and no other. They sham consciously,

that is they know they are hypocrites, and they also know that others

know. According to the notions of a French bourgeois, the universe is

nothing but a large stage on which is played an endless drama with one

hypocrite taking his cue from the other. Hypocrisy is an invitation to

decency, decorum, outward elegance and politeness. And what is most

important, hypocrisy is a restraint, not for those, of course, who

play the hypocrite, hovering in the rarified atmosphere of the social

heights, but for those who swarm at the bottom of the social caldron.

Hypocrisy keeps society from the debauchery of passion and makes

passion the privilege of a very limited minority. When licentiousness

keeps within the limits of a small, well-organized corporation, it is

not only harmless, but even supports and nourishes the traditions of

elegance. The exquisite would perish if there were not a certain number

of _cabinets particuliers,_ in which licentiousness is cultivated in

the moments that are free from the worship of official hypocrisy. But

licentiousness becomes really dangerous as soon as it is accessible to

all and is combined with the general extension of the right to make

demands and insist upon the legitimacy and naturalness of such demands.

New social stratifications form, which endeavor to crowd out the old

ones, or, at least, limit them considerably. The demand for _cabinets

particuliers_ grows to such an extent that the question arises: Would

it not be simpler in the future to get along without them? It is

against these unwelcome questions and formulations of demands that

the ruling classes of French society guard the systematic hypocrisy

that begins by being an accident of manners and ends by becoming a

compulsory law.

The modern French theatre is based on this reverence for hypocrisy.

The first four acts of a popular French play are realistic, depicting

the decay and disintegration of all standards of marital fidelity.

But the fifth act always ends up with some sentimental ringing phrase

eulogizing the sweet atmosphere of the fireside and the supreme triumph

of virtue over vice. Which is the truth? Which is the sham? Both and

neither. In the first four acts the audience sees itself mirrored in

the realistic portrayal on the stage, but the fifth act is an equally

faithful portrayal of the audience's conception of ideal virtue and

pure matrimonial life. So, if French hypocrisy is a superstructure upon

the body of public immorality, it is so completely a part of the entire

fabric of morality that it keeps the edifice from toppling over.

We Russians have no system of social bringing up. We are not mustered

or drilled to become champions of "social principles" or other

principles, but simply left to grow wild, like nettles by the fence.

That is why there are few hypocrites among us, but many liars,

empty-headed bigots, and babblers. We have no need of playing the

hypocrite for the sake of social principles, for we know of no such

thing as social principles. We exist in perfect liberty, that is, we

vegetate, lie, chatter quite naturally, without regard for principle.

Whether we ought to rejoice over it or regret it, I cannot say. I

think, though, that if hypocrisy breeds resentment and fear, useless

lying causes boredom and repugnance. The best thing, therefore, is to

ignore the question of the advantages of conscious over unconscious

hypocrisy, and vice versa, and have nothing to do with either

hypocrites or liars.

Yudushka was more of a chatterbox, liar and rascal than hypocrite. On

shutting himself up on his country estate, he at once felt at perfect

liberty. In no other environment could his propensities find so vast

a field for operation. At Golovliovo he encountered neither direct

resistance nor even indirect restraints that would make him think: "I

should like to do something mean, but what will people say?" There

was none to disturb him with disapproval, no one to intrude into his

affairs. Consequently there was no reason for controlling himself.

Extreme slovenliness became the dominating feature of his attitude

toward himself. He had long had a craving for this perfect freedom

from any moral restraint, and the fact that he had not gone to live in

the country earlier was entirely due to his fear of idleness. Having

spent over thirty years in the dull atmosphere of the bureaucratic

department, he had acquired all the habits and appetites of an

inveterate official, who does not allow a single moment of his life to

pass without being busily engaged in doing nothing. But on studying the

matter more closely, he came to the conclusion that the realm of busy

idleness can easily be transposed to any sphere.

In fact, scarcely settled at Golovliovo but he at once created a world

of trifles in which to rummage without the slightest risk of them ever

being exhausted. In the morning he would seat himself at his desk and

attend to business matters. First he would carefully check the accounts

of the housekeeper, the cattle-yard woman, and the steward. He had

established a very complicated accounting system, both for money and

inventory. Every kopek, every bit of produce, was entered in twenty

books, and on checking up he would find the total either half a kopek

behind, or a whole kopek ahead. Lastly he would take up his pen and

write complaints to the justice of the peace and the judge of appeals.

This took up all his time and had the appearance of assiduous hard

work. Yudushka often complained that he had no time to do everything

that had to be done, though he pored over the ledgers all day long and

did not even stop to take off his dressing-gown. Heaps of well filed

but unexamined reports were always lying about on his desk, and among

them was the annual report of the cattle-house woman, Fekla, whose

activity had long seemed suspicious, though he had had no time to check

up her accounts.

All connections with the outside world were completely severed. He

received no books, no newspapers, not even letters. One of his sons,

Volodya, committed suicide. With the other, Petenka, he corresponded

briefly and only on sending him a remittance. He was caught in an

atmosphere thick with ignorance, superstition and industrious idleness,

and felt no desire to rescue himself from it. Even the fact that

Napoleon III. was no longer emperor came to him through the local

chief of police a year after the emperor's death. On hearing of it

he expressed no particular interest, but only crossed himself and

murmured: "May he enter the Kingdom of Heaven," and then said aloud:

"And how proud he was! My, my! This was no good, and that did not

suit him. Kings went to do him homage, princes kept watch in his

antechamber. So the Lord, you see, in one moment cast down all his

proud dreams."

The truth of the matter was that for all his reckoning and checking up

he was far from knowing what was going on on his own estate. In this

respect he was a typical official. Imagine a chief clerk to whom his

superior says: "My friend, it is necessary to my plans for me to know

exactly how large a crop of potatoes Russia can produce annually. Will

you kindly compute this for me?" You think a question like that would

baffle the chief clerk? You think he would at least ponder over the

methods to be employed in the execution of such a task? Not at all. All

he would do is this. He would draw a map of Russia, rule it out into

perfect squares, and find out how many acres each square represents.

Then he would go to the greengrocer's, would find out the quantity

of potatoes each acre requires for seed and what the average ratio

is of yield to seed, and, finally, with the help of God and the four

fundamental operations of arithmetic, he would arrive at the conclusion

that Russia under favorable circumstances could yield so and so many

potatoes and under unfavorable circumstances, so and so many. And his

work would not only please the chief, but would also be placed in

Volume CII of some "Proceedings."

Yudushka even chose a housekeeper who exactly fitted the environment

he had created. The maiden Yevpraksia was the daughter of the sexton

at the church of St. Nicholas-in-Drops. She was an all-round treasure.

Not alert in thinking, not ingenious, not even handy, but diligent,

submissive, in no sense exigent. When Yudushka "drew her nearer" to his

person, her one request was to be permitted to take some cold cider

without asking leave. Such disinterestedness touched even Yudushka. He

immediately put at her disposal two tubs of pickled apples beside the

cider, and freed her from accountability for any of these items. Her

exterior had nothing attractive in it to a connoisseur, but she was

quite satisfactory to a man who was not fastidious and knew what he

wanted. She had a broad white face, a low forehead bordered with thin

yellowish hair, large lack-lustre eyes, a perfectly straight nose, a

flat mouth on which there played a mysterious elusive smile, such as

one sees in the portraits painted by homebred artists. In short there

was nothing remarkable about her, except, perhaps, her back between her

shoulder-blades, which was so broad and powerful that even the most

indifferent man felt like giving her a good, hearty slap there. She

knew it, but did not mind it, so that when Yudushka for the first time

patted the fat nape of her neck, she only twitched her shoulders.

Amidst these drab surroundings days wore on, one exactly like the

other, without the slightest change, without the least hope of a

brightening ray. The arrival of Arina Petrovna was the one thing that

brought a bit of animation. At first, when Porfiry Vladimirych had seen

his mother's carriage approaching he had frowned, but in time he grew

accustomed to her visits and even got to like them. They catered to his

loquacity, for even he found it impossible to chatter to himself when

all alone. To babble about various records and reports with "mother

dear" was very pleasant, and, once together, they talked from morning

till night without having enough. They discussed everything--the

harvests of long ago and of the present; the way the landed gentry

had lived in "those days;" the salt that had been so strong in former

years; and the gherkins that were not what they had been in days gone

by.

These chats had the advantage of flowing on like water and being

forgotten without effort, so that they could be renewed with interest

_ad infinitum,_ and enjoyed each time as if just put into circulation.

Yevpraksia was present at these talks. Arina Petrovna came to love her

so well that she would not have her away for a moment. At times, when

tired of talking, the three of them would sit down to play fool, and

they would keep on playing till long after midnight. They tried to

teach Yevpraksia how to play whist with the dummy, but she could not

understand the game. On such evenings the enormous Golovliovo mansion

became animated. Lights shone in all the windows, shadows appeared here

and there, so that a chance passer-by might think Heaven knows what

celebration was going on. Samovars, coffee pots, refreshments took

their turn on the table, which was never empty. Arina Petrovna's heart

brimmed over with joy and merriment and instead of remaining for one

day, she would spend three or four days at Golovliovo. And on the way

back to Pogorelka she would think up a pretext for returning as soon as

possible to the temptations of the "good living" there.

CHAPTER III

It was the end of November. As far as eye could see the ground was

covered with a white shroud. A blizzard reigned in the night outdoors;

the biting wind drove the snow, piled up huge snow-drifts in an

instant, lashed the snow higher and higher, covering every object and

filling the air with a wailing. The village, the church, the nearby

woods, all vanished in the whirling snowy mist. The wind howled in the

trees of the ancient Golovliovo orchard. But inside the landlord's

manor it was warm and cozy. In the dining-room there was a samovar on

the table. Around it were Arina Petrovna, Porfiry Vladimirych, and

Yevpraksia. To one side stood a card-table with tattered cards on it.

The open door from the dining-room led on one side to the ikon room,

all flooded with light from the ikon lamps, on the other, to the

master's study, where an ikon lamp was also burning before an image.

The rooms were overheated and stuffy, the odor of olive oil and of the

charcoal burning in the samovar filled the air. Yevpraksia, seated in

front of the samovar, was engaged in rinsing the cups and drying them

with a dish towel. The samovar made spirited music, now humming aloud

with all its might, now falling into a doze, as it were, and snoring.

Clouds of steam escaped from under the cover and wrapped the tea-pot in

a mist. The three at the table were conversing.

"Well, how many times were you the 'fool' to-day?" Arina Petrovna asked

Yevpraksia.

"I shouldn't have been fool once if I hadn't given in. I wanted to

please you, you see," answered Yevpraksia.

"Fiddlesticks! I remember how pleased you were last time when I

bombarded you with threes and fives. You see, I am not Porfiry

Vladimirych. He makes it easy for you, hands only one at a time, but I,

my dear, have no reason to."

"Yes, indeed! You were playing foul!"

"Well, I say! I never do such things."

"No? Who was it I caught a little while ago? Who wanted to slip through

a seven of clubs and an eight of hearts and call them a pair? Well, I

saw it myself and I myself showed you up!" While talking Yevpraksia

rose to remove the tea-pot from the samovar and turned her back to

Arina Petrovna.

"My, what a back you have! God bless you!" Arina Petrovna exclaimed, in

involuntary admiration.

"Yes, a wonderful back," Yudushka repeated mechanically.

"My back again! Aren't you ashamed of yourself? What has my back done

to you?" Yevpraksia turned her back first to the right, then to the

left, and smiled. Her back was her joy. A few days before even the

cook Savelich, an old man, had looked at her admiringly and said:

"Well, well, what a back! Just like a hearth-plate!" She did not, be it

noticed, complain to Porfiry Vladimirych about the cook's remark.

The cups were filled with tea over and over again, and the samovar grew

silent. Meanwhile the snowstorm became fiercer and fiercer. A veritable

cataract of snow struck the windowpanes every now and then, and wild

sobs ran at intervals down the chimney flue.

"The storm seems to be in real earnest," said Arina Petrovna. "Listen

to it howling and whining."

"Oh, well, let it whine. The blizzard keeps on whining and we keep

on drinking tea. That's how it is, mother dear," replied Porfiry

Vladimirych.

"It must be a terrible thing for one to be out in the fields now."

"Yes, it may be terrible to some, but what do we care? Some feel cold

and dreary, but we are bright and cheery. We sit here and sip our tea,

with sugar, and cream, and lemon. And should we want tea with rum, we

can have it with rum."

"Yes, but suppose----"

"Just a moment, mother dear. I say, it is very bad in the open now.

There is no road or path. Everything is wiped out. And then--wolves!

But here we are warm and cozy, afraid of nothing. We just keep sitting

here, quietly and peacefully. If we want to play a little game of

cards, we play cards; if we want to have some hot tea, well, then we

have tea. We won't drink more than we want to, but we may drink to our

heart's content. And why all this? Because, mother dear, God's mercy is

with us. Were it not for Him, the King of Kings, maybe we, too, would

now be wandering in the fields, in the cold and the darkness, in a

shabby little coat, a flimsy little girdle, bast shoes."

"Oh, come now, what do you mean--bast shoes? We are gentlefolk, surely.

In any circumstances we can afford decent footwear."

"Do you know why we were born in the gentry, mother dear? All because

God's mercy was with us. Were it not for that we would now be in a hut

and it would be lighted not by a candle but by a _luchina_ and as to

tea or coffee, we wouldn't dare dream about them. I would be patching

my miserable little bast shoes, and you would be getting ready to sup

off thin cabbage soup, and Yevpraksia would be weaving tick, and on top

of it all, maybe the _desyatsky_ would come to press us and the wagon

into service."

"Yes, catch the _desyatsky_ coming on a night like this!"

"Who knows, mother dear? And maybe the regiments would come! Maybe

there would be war or mutiny. The regiments must be there on the

dot. The other day, for instance, the chief of police was telling me

Napoleon III. had died. So you may be sure the French will be up to

some mischief again. Naturally, our soldiers will have to make for the

front at once, and you, friend peasant, will have to get your wagon

out, quick! Never mind cold, blizzard, and snowdrifts. You go if the

authorities tell you to, and if you know what is good for you. But we,

don't you see, will be spared a while. They won't turn us out with the

wagon."

"Yes, who dares deny it? The mercy the Lord has shown us is great."

"That's just what I say. God, mother dear, is everything. He gives

us wood to burn and food to eat. It's all His doing. We think we buy

things ourselves, and pay our own hard cash, but when you look into it

more deeply, and reckon it up, and figure it out, it's all He, it's all

God. If it be His will, we'll have nothing. Here, for instance, I would

like to have some fine little oranges, I would have some myself, would

offer one to my mother dear, would give an orange to everyone. I have

the money to buy oranges. Suppose I produce some coin and say, 'Here,

let me have some oranges,' but God says, 'Halt, man!' Then here I am,

a philosopher without cucumbers."

They laughed.

"That's all talk," said Yevpraksia. "My uncle was sexton at the Uspenye

Church in Pesochnoye. You may be sure he was as pious a man as ever

was. So I think God ought to have done something for him. But he was

caught in a snowstorm out in the fields and froze to death all the

same."

"That's just my point. If such is God's will, you will freeze to death,

and if such is not His will, you will remain alive. There are prayers

that please God and there are prayers that do not please Him. If a

prayer pleases God it will reach Him, if it does not, you may as well

not pray at all."

"I remember in 1824 I was travelling and was pregnant with Pavel. It

was in the month of December, and I was going to Moscow----"

"Just a moment, mother dear. Let me finish about the prayers. A man

prays for everything, for he needs everything. He needs some butter and

some cabbage, and some gherkins, well, in a word, he needs everything.

Sometimes he doesn't need the thing, but in his human weakness he

prays for it all the same. But God from above sees better. You pray

for butter, and he gives you cabbage or onions. You are after fair and

warm weather and he sends you rain and hail. What you have to do is to

understand it all and not complain. Last September, for example, we

prayed God for frost, so that the winter corn might not rot, but God,

you see, sent no frosts, and our winter corn rotted away."

"It certainly did rot away," remarked Arina Petrovna commiseratingly.

"The peasants' winter fields at Novinky weren't worth a straw. They'll

have to plow them all over and plant spring corn."

"That's just it. Here we are planning and philosophizing, and figuring

it one way, and trying it another way, but God in a trice reduces

all our plots and plans to dust. You, mother dear, wanted to tell us

something that happened to you in 1824?"

"What was it? I really don't remember. I suppose I wanted to tell you

again about God's mercy. I don't remember, my friend, I don't."

"Well, you'll recall it some other time, if God is willing. And while

the blizzard is whirling out there you'd better have some jam, my dear.

This is cherry jam from the Golovliovo orchard. Yevpraksia herself put

it up."

"I am already helping myself to some. I must admit cherry jam is a rare

thing with me now. Years ago I used to indulge every now and then, but

now----! Your Golovliovo cherries are fine, so large and juicy. No

matter how hard I tried to grow them at Dubrovino, they wouldn't come.

Did you add some French brandy to the jam, Yevpraksia?"

"Of course I did. Followed your directions. Another thing I meant to

ask you, how do you pickle cucumbers, do you use cardamoms?"

Arina Petrovna thought a bit, then made a gesture of perplexity.

"I don't remember, my dear. I think I used to put cardamoms in. Now I

don't. My pickling now is not much. But I used to put cardamoms in,

yes, I remember very well now. When I get home I'll look among the

recipes, maybe I'll find it. When I had my strength I used to make a

note of everything. If I liked something somewhere, I would ask how

it was made, write it on a piece of paper, and then try it at home.

I once learned a secret, such a secret that the man who knew it was

offered a thousand rubles to tell. He wouldn't do it. And I gave the

housekeeper a quarter, and she told me every bit of it."

"Yes, mother dear, in your day you certainly were a wizard."

"Well, I don't know if I was a wizard, but I can thank the Lord, I

didn't squander my fortune. I kept adding to it. Even now I taste of my

righteous labors. It was I who planted the cherry trees in Golovliovo."

"Thanks for it, mother dear, many thanks. Eternal thanks from me and my

descendants. That's what I say."

Yudushka rose, went to mother dear and kissed her hand.

"And thanks to you, too, that you take your mother's welfare to heart.

Yes, your provisions are fine, very fine."

"Well, how do my provisions compare? You used to have

provisions--perfectly stunning! My, what cellars! And not an empty

spot!"

"Yes, I used to have provisions, I may as well be frank about it. Mine

was a well-stocked house. And as to the many cellars I had, well, the

household was much larger, ten times as many mouths as you have to-day.

Take the domestics alone. Everyone had to be fed and provided for.

Gherkins for one, cider for another, little by little, bit by bit, and

it mounts up."

"Yes, those were good times. Plenty of everything. Grain and fruit, all

in abundance."

"We used to save more manure, that is why."

"No, mother dear, that is not the reason. It was God's blessing, that's

what it was. I remember father once brought an apple from the orchard,

and it surprised everybody, it was too big to be put on a plate."

"Well, I don't remember that. I know generally that apples used to be

fine, but that they were the size of a plate, that I don't remember.

I do remember though, that we caught a carp in the Dubrovino pond

weighing twenty pounds, yes, I remember that."

"Carps and fruit--everything was large then. I remember the watermelons

the gardener Ivan used to get. They were as big as this!"

Yudushka stretched out his arms in a circle, pretending he could not

embrace the imaginary watermelon.

"Yes, those were watermelons. Watermelons, my friend, are according

to the year. One year you get lots of them and they are good. Another

year they are poor and few. And some years you don't get any at

all. Well, it depends upon the lucky ground, too. On the estate of

Grigory Aleksandrovich, for example, nothing came up, no fruit and no

berries--nothing. Only melons. Nothing but melons used to come up."

"Then he had God's blessing for melons."

"Why, yes, certainly. You can't get along without God's mercy. You

can't run away from it either."

Arina Petrovna finished her second cup and cast glances at the card

table. Yevpraksia, too, was burning with impatience to have a hand

at cards. But the plans were thwarted by Arina Petrovna herself. She

suddenly recollected something.

"I have a bit of news for you," she declared. "I received a letter from

the orphans yesterday."

"And you kept it to yourself all this time, and only just thought of

it? I suppose they are hard up. Do they ask for money?"

"No, they do not. Here, read it. You'll like it."

Arina Petrovna produced a letter from her pocket and gave it to

Yudushka, who read aloud:

/#

"Please, grandma, don't send us any more turkeys or hens. Don't

send us money, either, but invest the money. We are not at

Moscow but at Kharkov. We've gone on the stage, and in summer

we are going to travel to the fairs. I, Anninka, made my début

in _Pericola,_ and Lubinka in _Pansies_. I was called out

several times, especially after the scene where Pericola comes

out and sings 'I am ready, ready, read-d-d-y!' Lubinka made a

hit, too. The director put me on a salary of one hundred rubles

a month and a benefit performance at Kharkov; and Lubinka, at

seventy-five a month and a benefit the coming summer, at a

fair. Besides, we get gifts from army officers and lawyers.

The lawyers sometimes, though, give you counterfeit money,

and you have to be careful. And you, dear granny, can have

Pogorelka all to yourself, we will never come there again, we

don't understand how people can live there. We had the first

snow here yesterday, and we had troika rides with the lawyers.

One looks like Plevako--my! just stunning! He put a glass of

champagne on his head and danced a trepak. It's jolly, beats

anything I've seen! The other one isn't so handsome, he looks a

little like Yazikov from St. Petersburg. Just think, after he

read "The Collection of the Best Russian Songs and Romances,"

his imagination became unstrung and he got so weak that he

fainted in the court-room. And so we spend almost every day in

the company of army officers and lawyers. We go on rides and

dine and sup in the best restaurants, and pay nothing. And you,

granny dear, don't be stingy and use up everything growing in

Pogorelka, corn, chickens, mushrooms. We shall be very glad to

send some money. Good-by. Our gentlemen have just arrived. They

have come to take us driving again. Darling! Divine! Farewell!

/$

ANNINKA.

And I, too--LUBINKA."

$/

#/

Yudushka spat in disgust and returned the letter. For a while Arina

Petrovna was pensive and silent.

"Mother dear, you haven't answered them yet?"

"No, not yet. I just got the letter yesterday. I came here on purpose

to show it to you, but between this and that I almost forgot all about

it."

"Don't answer it. It's best not to."

"How can I? I must account to them. Pogorelka is theirs, you know."

Yudushka also became pensive. A sinister plan flashed through his mind.

"And I keep wondering how they will preserve themselves in that

foul den," Arina Petrovna continued. "You know how it is in these

things--once you stumble, you can't get your maiden honor back! Go hunt

for it!"

"Much they need it!" Yudushka snarled back.

"Still, you know. Honor is a girl's best treasure, one may say. Who

will marry a girl without it?"

"Nowadays, mother dear, unmarried people live like married ones.

Nowadays they laugh at the precepts of religion. They get married

without benefit of clergy, like heathens. They call it civil marriage."

Yudushka suddenly recollected that he, too, was living in sinful

relationship with a daughter of the clergy.

"Of course, sometimes you can't help it," he hastened to add. "If a

man, let us say, is in full vigor and a widower--in an emergency the

law itself is often modified."

"Yes, of course. When hard pressed a snipe sings like a nightingale.

Even saints sin when sorely tried, let alone us mortals."

"Yes, that's just it. Do you know what I would do if I were you?"

"Yes, tell me, please tell me."

"I would insist that they make Pogorelka over to you in full legal

fashion."

Arina Petrovna looked at him in fright.

"Well, I have a deed giving me the full powers and rights of a manager."

"Manager is not enough. You ought to get a deed that would entitle you

to sell and mortgage it, in a word, to dispose of the property as you

see fit."

Arina Petrovna lowered her eyes and remained silent.

"Of course, it is a matter that requires deliberation. Think it over,

mother dear," Yudushka insisted.

But Arina Petrovna said nothing. Though age had considerably dulled

her powers of judgment, she was somehow uneasy about Yudushka's

insinuations. She was afraid of Yudushka, and loath to part with the

warmth, spaciousness, and abundance that reigned at Golovliovo, but

at the same time she felt that Yudushka had something up his sleeve

when he spoke of the Pogorelka deed, and was casting a new snare.

The situation grew so embarrassing that she began to scold herself

inwardly for having shown him the letter. Happily Yevpraksia came to

the rescue.

"Well, are we going to play cards or not?" she asked.

"Yes, come on, come on!" Arina Petrovna hurried them and jumped up

quickly. On her way to the card table a new thought dawned upon her.

"Do you know what day it is?" she turned to Porfiry Vladimirych.

"The twenty-third of November," Yudushka replied, somewhat nonplussed.

"Yes, the twenty-third. Do you remember what happened on the

twenty-third of November? You have forgotten about the requiem, haven't

you?"

Porfiry Vladimirych turned pale and made the sign of the cross.

"Oh, Lord! Did you ever!" he exclaimed. "Really? Is that so? Just a

moment. Let's look at the calendar."

In a few minutes he had brought the calendar and taken out a sheet of

paper inserted in it, on which was written.

"November 23. The death of my dear son Vladimir."

"Rest in peace, beloved dust, till the joyous morn. And pray the

Lord for your father, who will never fail to have memorial services

performed on this day."

"There, now!" said Porfiry Vladimirych. "Ah, Volodya! You are not a

good son. You are a wicked son. You haven't prayed for your papa in

Heaven, it seems, and so he has lost his memory. What are we going to

do about it, mother dear?"

"It is not so terrible, after all. You can have the requiem service

tomorrow. A requiem and a mass--we'll have both of them sung. It is

all my fault, I am old and have lost my memory. I came on purpose to

remind you, but on my way it slipped my mind."

"Ah, what a sin! It is a good thing the ikon lamps are burning. It is

as if it had dawned on me from above. To-day is not a holiday, but the

lamps have been left burning ever since the day of Presentation. The

other day Yevpraksia came over to me and asked: 'Do you think I ought

to put out the side ikon lamps?' And I, as if a voice were speaking to

me from within, thought a while and said: 'Don't touch them. Let them

burn.' And now I see what it all meant."

"Well, it is good at least the lamps have been burning. It is some

relief to the soul. Where will you sit? Will you be my partner, or will

you join your queen?"

"But, mother dear, I don't know if it's proper."

"Yes, it is. Sit down. God will forgive you. It wasn't done on purpose,

with evil intentions. It was just because you forgot. It may happen

even to saints. To-morrow, you see, we'll rise with the sun, and stand

throughout the mass and have the requiem sung--all as it should be.

His soul will rejoice that good people remembered him, and we will be

at peace because we did our duty. That's the way to do, my friend. No

use worrying. I'll always say, in the first place, worry will not bring

back your son, and, in the second place, it is a sin before God."

Yudushka yielded to the persuasiveness of these words, and kissed his

mother's hands.

"Ah, mother, mother, you have a golden soul, really! If not for you

what would I do now? It would be the end of me, that's all. I just

wouldn't know what to do and would go under."

Porfiry Vladimirych gave orders for to-morrow's ceremony, and all sat

down to play. They played one hand out, then another. Arina Petrovna

became heated and denounced Yudushka because he had been handing

Yevpraksia only one card at a time. In the intervals between the deals,

Yudushka abandoned himself to reminiscences of his dead son.

"And how kind he was," he said. "He wouldn't take a thing without

permission. If he needed paper, 'May I have some paper, papa?' 'Yes,

you may, my friend,' Or, 'Won't you be so kind, father dear, as to

order carps for breakfast?' 'If you wish it, my friend.' Ah, Volodya,

my son, you were a good lad in every way, but it was not good of you to

leave your father."

A few more hands were played, and Yudushka again gave vent to his

reminiscences.

"And, pray, what in the world happened to him? I really can't

understand it. He lived quietly and nicely, was a joy to me--it

couldn't have been better. And all of a sudden--bang! What a sin, what

a sin! Just think of it, mother dear, what a deed! His very life, the

gift of the Heavenly Father. Why? What for? What did he lack? Was it

money? I think I never held back his allowance. Even my enemies will

not dare say that about me. Well, and if his allowance was not enough,

I couldn't help it. Your father's money wasn't stolen money. If you

haven't enough money, well, learn to restrain yourself. You can't

always be eating cookies, you must sometimes be content with simpler

fare. Yes, you must. Your father, for example, expected some money the

other day, and then the manager comes and says, 'The Torpenlovskoye

peasants won't pay their rent.' Well, I couldn't help it, I wrote a

complaint to the Justice of the Peace. Ah, Volodya, Volodya! No, you

were not a good boy. You deserted your poor father. Left him an orphan."

The livelier the game the more copious and sentimental Yudushka's

reminiscences.

"And how bright he was! I remember once, he was laid up with the

measles. He was no more than seven years old. My late Sasha came over

to him, and he says, 'Mother, mother, is it true that only angels have

wings?' 'Well,' she said, 'yes, only angels.' 'Why?' he asked. 'Did

father have wings when he came here a while ago?'"

Yudushka remained the fool with as many as eight cards on his hands,

among them the ace, king and queen of trumps. Peals of laughter rose,

Yudushka was displeased, but he affably joined in the merriment. In the

midst of the general excitement, Arina Petrovna suddenly grew silent

and listened attentively.

"Stop, be quiet. Somebody is coming," she said.

Yudushka and Yevpraksia listened, but heard no sound.

"I tell you, somebody is coming. Listen, listen! Someone is coming and

he is not far off."

They listened again, and surely there was a faint tinkling in the

distance, which the wind brought nearer one moment and carried away the

next. Five minutes later the bells were distinctly heard. The sound of

them was followed by voices in the court-yard.

"The young master, Piotr Porfirych, has arrived," came from the

antechamber.

Yudushka rose, and remained standing, dumfounded and pale as death.

CHAPTER IV

Petenka walked in looking flabby and dispirited, kissed his father's

hand, observed the same ceremony with his grandmother, then bowed

to Yevpraksia, and sat down. He was about twenty-five, rather

good-looking, in an army officer's travelling uniform. That was all one

could say about him. Even Yudushka knew scarcely more. The relations

of father and son were not of the kind one could call strained. There

simply were no relations, you might say. Yudushka knew Petenka to be a

man who in the eyes of the law was his son and to whom he had to send a

certain allowance determined by Yudushka himself, in consideration of

which he was entitled to homage and obedience. Petenka, on the other

hand, knew that he had a father who could make things unpleasant for

him at any time he wished. He made trips to Golovliovo quite willingly,

especially since he had become a commissioned officer, not because he

greatly enjoyed his father's company, but simply because every man who

is not clearly conscious of his aim in life instinctively gravitates

to his native place. But now, apparently, he had come because he had

been obliged to come, and consequently manifested not a single sign

of the joyous perplexity with which every prodigal son of the gentry

celebrates his arrival home. Petenka was not talkative.

All his father's ejaculations of pleasant surprise were met with

silence, or a forced smile, and when Yudushka asked, "Why did it occur

to you all of a sudden?" he answered even crossly, "It just occurred to

me and here I am."

"Well, thank you, thank you for remembering your father. I am glad you

came. I suppose you thought of grandmother, too?"

"Yes, I thought of grandmother, too."

"Hold on! Maybe you recollected that today is the Anniversary of your

brother Volodenka's death?"

"Yes, I thought of that, too."

Thus the conversation went for about half an hour, so that it was

impossible to tell whether Petenka were answering or dodging the

questions. So, in spite of Yudushka's tolerance of his children's

indifference to him, he could not refrain from remarking:

"Well, my child, you are not affectionate. One could hardly call you an

affectionate son!"

Had Petenka kept silence this time also, had he taken his father's

remark meekly, or better still, had he kissed his father's hand and

said, "Excuse me, father dear, you know I am tired from the journey,"

things would have passed off pleasantly. But Petenka behaved like an

ungrateful child.

"Yes, that's what I am," he answered gruffly. "Let me alone, please."

Then Porfiry Vladimirych felt so hurt, so wounded that he could not

keep quiet any longer.

"To think of the pains I have taken for your sake!" he said, with

bitterness. "Even here I never stop thinking how to improve this and

that, so that you may be comfortable and cozy, and suffer no lack, and

have no worry. And all of you fight shy of me."

"Who is 'all of you'?"

"Well, you. And the deceased, too, may his soul rest in peace, he was

just the same."

"Well, I am grateful to you."

"I don't see your gratitude--neither gratitude nor affection--nothing."

"I'm not affectionate--that's all. But you speak in the plural all the

time. One of us is dead already."

"Yes, he is dead. God punished him. God punishes disobedient children.

Still, I remember him. He was unruly, but I remember him. Tomorrow, you

see, we shall have the memorial services performed. He offended me,

but I, notwithstanding, remember my duty. Lord! The sort of thing that

goes on these days! Here a son comes to his father and snarls at the

very first word. Is that how we acted in our days? I remember we used

to come to Golovliovo, and when we were thirty versts away, we began

to shiver in our boots. Well, here is mother dear, a live witness, she

will tell you. And nowadays. I don't understand it. I don't understand

it."

"I don't either. I came quietly, greeted you, kissed your hand and

now I sit here and don't bother you. I drink tea, and if you give me

supper, I'll have my supper. Why did you raise all this fuss?"

Arina Petrovna sat in her chair listening attentively. She seemed to

be hearing the same old familiar tale that had begun long, long ago,

time out of mind. Aware that such a meeting of father and son foreboded

no good, she considered it her duty to intervene and put in a word of

reconciliation:

"Well, well, you turkey-cocks!" she said, trying to give the situation

a humorous turn. "Just met and already quarreling. Look at them jumping

at each other, look at them! Feathers will soon be flying. My, my, how

naughty! Why don't you fellows sit down quietly and properly and have

a friendly chat, and let your old mother enjoy it, too? Petenka, you

give in. My child, you must always give in to your father, because he

is your father. Even if at times father gives you bitter medicine, take

it without complaint, with obedience, with respect, because you are his

son. Who knows, maybe the bitter medicine will turn sweet--so it will

be to your good. And you, Porfiry Vladimirych, come down from your high

perch. He is your son, young, delicate. He has made seventy-five versts

over hollows and snow-drifts, he is tired, and chilled, and sleepy. We

are through with the tea now, suppose you order supper and then let's

all go to bed. So, my friend. We'll all go to our nooks and offer up

a prayer, and maybe our temper will pass away. And then we'll rise

early in the morning and pray for Volodya's soul. We'll have a memorial

service performed, and then we'll go home and have a talk. Both of you

will be rested and you'll state your affairs in a clear, orderly way.

Petenka, you will tell us about St. Petersburg and you, Porfiry, about

your country life. And now, let's have supper and to bed!"

The exhortation had its effect not because it was convincing but

because Yudushka himself saw he had gone too far and it would be best

to end the day peacefully. He rose from his seat, kissed his mother's

hand, thanked her for the "lesson," and ordered supper.

The meal was eaten in morose silence. Then they left the dining-room

and went to their rooms. Little by little the house became still. The

dead quiet crept from room to room and finally reached the study

of the Golovliovo master. Having finished the required number of

genuflexions before the ikons, Yudushka, too, went to bed.

Porfiry Vladimirych lay in bed, but was unable to shut his eyes. He

felt his son's arrival portended something unusual, and various absurd

sermons already rose in his mind. Yudushka's harangues had the merit of

being good for all occasions and did not consist of a connected chain

of thoughts, but came to him in the shape of fragmentary aphorisms.

Whenever confronted by an extraordinary situation, such a flood of

aphorisms overwhelmed him that even sleep could not drive them from his

consciousness.

He could not fall asleep. He was a prey to his absurd sermonizings,

though, as a matter of fact, he was not much perturbed by Petenka's

mysterious arrival. He was prepared for no matter what happened. He

knew nothing would catch him napping and nothing would make him recede

in the slightest from the web of empty, musty aphorisms in which he

was entangled. For him there existed neither sorrow nor joy, neither

hatred, nor love. To him the entire world was a vast coffin which

served him as a pretext for endless prattling.

What greater grief could there be for a father than for his son to

commit suicide? But even with respect to Volodya's suicide he remained

true to himself. It had been a very sad story, which had lasted two

years. For two years Volodya had held out, at first showing a pride

and determination not to ask his father's aid. Then he weakened, began

to implore, to expostulate, to threaten. In reply he always received

a ready aphorism, the stone given to the hungry man. It is doubtful

whether Yudushka realized that he had handed his son a stone and not

bread. At any rate a stone was all he had to give, and so he gave it.

When Volodya shot himself he had a requiem service performed, entered

the day of his death in the calendar, and promised himself to have

memorial services performed on the 23rd of November of every year.

Sometimes a dull voice muttered in his ears that the solution of a

family quarrel by suicide is rather a questionable method, to say the

least; and even then he brought into play a train of aphorisms, such as

"God punishes disobedient children," "God is against the proud," and

was at peace again.

And now! There was no doubt that something sinister had happened to

Petenka. But whatever had happened, he, Porfiry Vladimirych, must be

above those chance happenings. "You knew how to get in, then know how

to get out." "If the cat wants the fish, let her wet her feet." Just

so. That is what he would say to his son the next day, no matter what

Petenka told him. And suppose Petenka, like Volodya, were also to

refuse to take a stone instead of bread? What if he, too----Yudushka

drove the thought from him. It was a diabolical suggestion. He tossed

about and tried in vain to fall asleep. Whenever sleep seemed about

to come, there flashed across his mind maxims such as "I should like

to reach the sky but my arms are too short," or "You can't stretch

more than the length of your bed," or "Speed is good for nothing but

catching fleas."

Twaddle surrounded him on all sides, crawled upon him, crept over him,

embraced him. Under this load of nonsensicality, with which he hoped to

regale his soul tomorrow, he could not fall asleep.

Nor could Petenka find sleep, though the journey had tired him

exceedingly. He had an affair that could not be settled anywhere

except at Golovliovo, but it was a situation of such a nature that

he did not know how to meet it. Petenka, indeed, realized full well

that his case was hopeless and his trip to Golovliovo would only add

to the difficulties of his situation. But the primitive instinct of

self-preservation in man overcomes all reason and urges him on to try

everything to the very last straw. That's why he had come. But instead

of hardening himself so as to be prepared for whatever might come, he

had almost from the first word got into a quarrel with his father. What

would be the outcome of this trip? Would a miracle happen? Would stone

turn into bread? Would it not have been simpler to put the revolver to

his temple and say, "Gentlemen, I am unworthy of wearing your uniform.

I have embezzled crown money and I pronounce a just, though severe

sentence upon myself"? Bang! And all is over. The deceased Lieutenant

Golovliov is hereby struck off the list of officers. Yes, how radical

that would be and--how beautiful! The comrades would say, "You were

unfortunate, you went too far, still you were an honorable man."

But instead of acting that way at once, he had brought the affair to

a point where it became a matter of common knowledge; and then he

had been given leave of absence for a fixed time on condition that

within that time he would refund the embezzled sum. If not--out of the

regiment! The disgraceful end of his early career! So he had come to

Golovliovo, though he knew full well that he would be given a stone

instead of bread.

But perhaps a miracle would come to change things. Miracles sometimes

happen. Perhaps the present Golovliovo would vanish and a new

Golovliovo would arise, in which he might----And perhaps grandmother

would--hadn't she money? Maybe, if he told her he was in great trouble,

she might give him some. Who could tell? "Here," she might say, "hurry,

so that you get back before the time is up."

And he rode fast, fast--hurried the driver, just made the train and got

to the regiment two hours before the respite was over. "Good for you,

Golovliov," his comrades would say, "your hand, honorable young man!

Let's forget the matter." And he not only remained in the regiment, but

was even promoted to staff-captain, then captain, after that adjutant

of the regiment (he had been bursar, already) and, finally, on the

anniversary day of the regiment----Ah, if only the night would pass

quickly! Tomorrow--well, let happen what may tomorrow. But what he

would have to listen to! Gods, what would he not be told! Tomorrow--but

why tomorrow? He had a whole day yet. He asked for two days just

because he wanted to have enough time to move "him." A likely chance! A

fine prospect of persuading and touching him! No use----

Here his thoughts became confused and sank, one after the other, into

the mist of sleep. In a few minutes the Golovliovo manor was steeped in

heavy slumber.

The next day the whole household was up early in the morning. Everybody

went to church except Petenka, who pleaded fatigue. They listened to

the mass and the requiem and returned home. Petenka, as usual, came

up to kiss his father's hand, but Yudushka extended it sidewise, and

everyone noticed that he did not even make the sign of the cross over

his son. Tea was served, then _kutya._ Yudushka was dismal, scraped

the floor with his feet, avoided conversation, sighed, folded his

hands incessantly as if for inner prayer, and never once looked at his

son. Petenka, for his part, bristled up and smoked one cigarette after

another. The strained situation of yesterday, so far from relaxing,

became still more acute. It made Arina Petrovna very uneasy, and she

decided to find out from Yevpraksia if anything had happened.

"Has anything happened," she asked, "that makes them look daggers at

each other like that?"

"How do I know? I don't interfere in their private affairs," the girl

snapped back.

"Maybe it's on account of you. Perhaps my grandson is running after you

too?"

"Why should he run after me? A little while ago he tried to catch hold

of me in the corridor, and Porfiry Vladimirych saw him."

"Oh. So that's what it is."

In fact, in spite of his critical situation, Petenka had not lost

a bit of his levity. His eyes riveted themselves on Yevpraksia's

powerful back and he determined to let her know about it. That was

the real reason he had not gone to church, hoping Yevpraksia, as the

housekeeper, would stay home. So, when the house had turned silent,

he had thrown his cloak over his shoulders and hidden himself in the

corridor. A minute or two passed, the door of the maids' room banged,

and Yevpraksia appeared at the other end of the corridor, carrying a

tray with a butter-cake to be served with the tea. Petenka struck her

between the shoulder-blades and said, "A wonderful back you've got!"

and that instant the dining-room door opened and his father appeared.

"You, scoundrel! If you came here to behave in a nasty way, I'll throw

you down the stairs!" Yudushka hissed venomously.

Naturally, Petenka vanished in a moment. He could not fail to realize

that the incident of the morning was scarcely likely to improve his

case. So he decided to be silent and postpone the explanation until the

morrow. Nevertheless he did nothing to allay his father's irritation;

on the contrary, he behaved in a foolish, unguarded manner, smoking

cigarettes incessantly, heedless of his father's energetically fanning

away the clouds of smoke that filled the room; and every now and

then making sheep's eyes at Yevpraksia, who smiled queerly under the

influence of his glances. Yudushka noticed that, too.

The day dragged on slowly. Arina Petrovna tried to play fool with

Yevpraksia, but nothing came of it. No one felt like playing or

talking; they could not even think of small talk, though everyone had

stores of this merchandise. At last dinner time came. But dinner passed

in silence also. After dinner Arina Petrovna made preparations for

returning to Pogorelka. But this intention of his "mother dear" alarmed

Yudushka.

"God bless you, darling!" he exclaimed. "Do you mean to say you'll

leave me here alone with this--this wicked son? No, no, don't think of

it. I won't allow it."

"But what is the matter? Has anything happened between the two of you?

Why don't you tell me?" she asked.

"No, nothing has happened--as yet, but you'll see. No, please don't

go! Be present at----There is something behind his coming here in such

a hurry. So, if anything happens--you be the witness."

Arina Petrovna shook her head and decided to stay.

After dinner Porfiry Vladimirych retired, having first sent Yevpraksia

to the village priest, and Arina Petrovna also went to her room and

dozed off in her easy-chair.

Petenka thought it the most favorable time to try his luck with

grandmother, and went to her room.

"What is the matter? Have you come to play a game of fool with an old

woman?" she asked.

"No, granny, I am on business."

"Well, what is your business? Tell me."

Petenka hesitated a minute, then blurted out:

"I lost crown money at cards."

Arina Petrovna's eyes grew dim from the shock.

"Much?" she asked in a frightened voice, staring at him.

"Three thousand."

For a moment both were silent. Arina Petrovna looked around restlessly,

as if expecting somebody to come to her rescue.

"Do you know they can send you to Siberia for that?" she said at last.

"Yes, I know."

"Poor fellow!"

"Granny, I meant to borrow it from you. I'll pay good interest."

Arina Petrovna became thoroughly frightened.

"Oh no, no!" she protested. "I have only enough money for my coffin and

memorial prayers. It's my granddaughters that keep me a-going, and my

son, too. No, no, no! You'd better let me alone. Let me see--why not

ask your papa?"

"Oh, well, you can't squeeze blood out of an onion. All my hope was in

you, granny."

"Just think of what you are saying. I would gladly do it, but where am

I to get the money from? I have no money at all. But suppose you ask

father, you know, affectionately, respectfully. 'Here, father dear,

such is the case. I know I am guilty, I am young and I made a blunder.'

You know, with a smile and a laugh. Kiss his hand and fall on your

knees, and cry a bit. He likes it. Then maybe father will untie his

purse for his sonny dear."

"So you really think it's worth trying? Just a moment. See here,

granny, suppose you say to him, 'If you don't give him the money I'll

lay a curse on you!' He has always been afraid of your curse, you know."

"No, why curse? You can ask right out. Do ask him, my dear. There is no

harm if you bow before your father once too many. He will understand

your position, you know. Do it. Be sure to do it."

Petenka, his arms akimbo, walked back and forth as if deliberating.

Finally he halted and said:

"No, I won't. He is not likely to give it--it's no use. No matter what

I do, even if I smash my head in bowing--he won't do it. But you see,

if you threatened him with your curse. What am I to do, granny?"

"I don't know, really. Try and perhaps you'll soften him a bit. How

did you come to take such liberties? To lose crown money is no small

matter. Did anybody inveigle you into it?"

"It just happened. I took it and lost it at cards. Well, if you have

no money of your own, give me some of the orphans'."

"What is the matter with you? Have you lost your wits? How can I let

you have the orphans' money? No, no, I can't. Don't talk to me about

it, for Christ's sake."

"So you won't. Too bad. And I would pay good interest. Do you want five

per cent. per month? No? Well, double the principal in a year?"

"Don't you tempt me!" shouted Arina Petrovna, throwing up her hands.

"Leave me alone, for Christ's sake! It won't surprise me if father

hears us and says I urged you on! Oh, Lord! I am an old woman, I wanted

to rest a bit. I had just dozed off and then he comes with such an

offer."

"Very well, then. I am going. So it's impossible? Very good. Just like

kinsfolk. On account of three thousand rubles your grandson will go to

Siberia. Don't forget to have a Te Deum sung when I go."

Petenka left the room, closing the door with a bang. One of his flimsy

hopes was gone. What was he to do next? Only one way out was left--to

confess all to father. Who knows, perhaps, perhaps, something would----

"I'll go at once and be done with it," he said to himself. "Or no! What

can I hope for? Better tomorrow. Yes, I think tomorrow is better. I'll

tell him and leave at once." So he decided. Tomorrow would see and end

it all.

After the talk with grandmother the evening dragged on still more

slowly. Even Arina Petrovna grew silent after she had learned the real

cause of Petenka's arrival. Yudushka tried to be jocular with mother,

but perceiving she was absorbed in her own thoughts, also grew silent.

Petenka did nothing but smoke. At supper Porfiry Vladimirych asked him:

"Are you going to tell me at last why you have honored me with this

visit?"

"I will tell you tomorrow," answered Petenka morosely.

CHAPTER V

Petenka rose early after a sleepless night. His harassed mind

vacillated between hope and utter despair. Perhaps he did not really

know his father, but one thing he was sure of, that there was not in

him a single feeling, a single weak spot that could be grasped at

and made use of. When face to face with his father, all he felt was

something inexplicable. He did not know how to approach him, what to

say first, and this made him very uneasy in his presence. It had been

like that since his childhood. As far back as he could remember, it

always seemed better not to attempt any forecast at all than to make a

matter depend upon his father's decision. So now, too. How was he to

begin? How was he to approach the matter? What was he to say first? And

why had he come here at all?

A feeling of disgust seized him. Nevertheless he realized he had only

a few hours left and something had to be done. Having worked himself

up into a fair state of courage, he buttoned up his coat, and walked

firmly to his father's study, whispering something to himself. Yudushka

was saying prayers. He was pious, and every day gladly devoted a few

hours to prayer, not because he loved God and hoped through prayer to

enter into communion with Him, but because he feared the devil and

hoped God would deliver him from the Evil One.

He knew many prayers and was especially versed in the technique of the

poses and gestures of worship. He knew how to move his lips, how to

roll his eyes, when it was proper to place the hands palm inward, and

when they were to be lifted up, when to be moved with feeling, and when

to stand with reverential calm and slowly make the sign of the cross.

Even his eyes and his nostrils moistened at the proper moments. But

prayer did not rejuvenate him, did not ennoble his feelings, or bring

a single ray into his dull existence. He could pray and go through all

the requisite bodily movements, and at the same time be looking out

of the window to see if someone was entering the cellar without his

permission. It was quite a distinct, particular function of life, which

was self-sufficient and could exist outside of the general scheme of

life.

When Petenka entered the study, Porfiry Vladimirych was on his knees

with his hands raised. He did not change his position, but made a

jerky movement with one of his hands to indicate that he had not yet

finished. Petenka seated himself in the dining-room, where the table

was already set for tea, and waited. The half hour that passed seemed

like eternity, especially as he was sure his father was prolonging

the wait intentionally. The studied coolness with which he had armed

himself little by little gave way to vexation. At first he sat stiff,

then began to walk to and fro, and finally fell to whistling airs. As

a result, the door of the study opened, and Yudushka's irritated voice

was heard calling:

"Whoever wants to whistle may do so in the stables."

After a while Porfiry Vladimirych came out clad all in black, in

clean linen, as if prepared for a solemn occasion. His countenance was

radiant, glowing, breathing meekness and joy, as if he had just been at

communion. He approached his son, made the sign of the cross over him,

and then kissed him.

"Good morning, friend," he said.

"Good morning."

"Did you sleep well? Was your bed made properly? Were there no little

fleas and bedbugs to bother you?"

"Thank you. I slept well."

"Well, thanks to God, if you slept well. It's only at one's parents'

home that one can sleep really well. I know it from my own experience.

No matter how comfortable I might be at St. Petersburg, I could never

sleep so well as at Golovliovo. You feel just as if you were rocked in

a cradle. So what are we going to do? Shall we have some tea first, or

do you want to say something now?"

"Let's talk it over now. I have to leave in six hours, and maybe we'll

need some time for deliberation."

"Oh, well. But, my dear, I tell you directly, I never deliberate, my

answer is always ready. If your request is a proper one, well, I never

refuse anything proper. It may be hard on me at times, and I can't

always afford it, but if it is proper, I can't refuse it. That's the

kind of man I am. But if you ask for something that isn't right, I am

sorry. Though I feel for you, I shall have to refuse. You observe, my

son, I have no underhand ways. I am exactly as you see me. Well, then,

let's go into the study. Speak and I will listen. Let's hear, let's

hear what the matter is."

On entering the study, Porfiry left the door ajar and instead of

seating himself and asking his son to be seated, he began pacing the

room, as if instinctively feeling that the matter was delicate and it

would be easier to discuss it while walking. The expression of one's

face may be more easily concealed, and if the conversation takes a

disagreeable turn it may be more readily cut off, and the door half

ajar makes it possible to appeal to witnesses; for mother dear and

Yevpraksia were sure to come into the dining-room before long to have

tea.

"Papa," blurted out Petenka, "I lost some crown money at cards."

Yudushka said nothing, but his lips quivered, and he immediately fell

to muttering, as was his habit.

"I lost three thousand," explained Petenka, "and if I don't return

the money the day after tomorrow, there may be very disagreeable

consequences for me."

"Well, refund the money," said Porfiry Vladimirych affably.

Father and son made a few turns around the room in silence. Petenka

wished to make further explanations, but felt a lump rising in his

throat.

"Yes, but where am I to get the money from?" he said at last.

"My dear friend, I don't know your resources. Pay it back from the

resources you figured on when you gambled crown money away."

"You know very well that in such cases people forget about their

resources."

"I don't know a thing, my friend. I never played cards, except with

mother, when I play fool to amuse the old woman. And please don't drag

me into this dirty business, and let's go and have tea. We'll have tea

and sit around, maybe we'll talk about something, but, for the Lord's

sake, not about that."

Yudushka started to make for the door and into the dining-room, but

Petenka stopped him.

"Look here," he said, "I have to get out of this predicament somehow."

Yudushka grinned and stared at Petenka.

"Yes, my dear, you have to," he agreed.

"Then help me."

"Ah, that's a different matter. You have to get out of the difficulty

somehow, to be sure, but how to get out of it--well, that's none of my

business."

"But why don't you want to help me?"

"First, because I have no money to cover up your dastardly deeds, and

secondly because the entire matter does not concern me in the least.

You knew how to get in, then know how to get out. The cat likes fish,

then let her wet her feet. You see, my boy, that's just what I said at

the start, that if your request is a proper one----"

"I know. You've got a lot of words on the tip of your tongue."

"Wait, save your impudent remarks, and let me say what I wish to say.

That they are not mere words I'll prove to you in a minute. So, as I

said a while ago, if your request is a proper, a sensible one, all

right, my boy. I am always ready to satisfy you. But if you come to

me with an unreasonable request, I am very sorry, I have no money for

stuff and nonsense. No sir, never. And you won't get any--you may as

well be sure of it. And don't dare tell me I use mere words. My words

are mighty near deeds."

"But think what will become of me."

"Whatever pleases God, that will happen," answered Yudushka, slightly

lifting up his arms and looking sideways at the ikon.

Father and son again made a few turns across the room. Yudushka paced

reluctantly, as if in complaint that his son was holding him in

captivity. Petenka, his arms akimbo, followed him, biting his moustache

and smiling nervously.

"I am your last son," he said. "Don't forget that."

"My boy, God bereft Job of everything, and Job did not complain, but

only said: 'God hath given and God hath taken away--may thy will be

done, oh, Lord!' So, my boy."

"In the Bible it was God that took, and here you take away from

yourself. Volodya----"

"Oh, well, you are talking nonsense."

"No, it isn't nonsense, it's the truth. Everybody knows that

Volodya----"

"No, no, no! I don't want to listen to your preposterous remarks.

Enough! You've said everything necessary. I have given you my answer.

And now let's go and have tea. We'll chat a while, then we'll have a

bite, then a drink before you go--and then God speed you! You see how

good the Lord is to you? The weather has abated and the road become

smoother. Little by little, bit by bit, one, two, and you'll hardly

notice when you get to the station."

"Now, listen, I implore you. If you have a drop of feeling----"

"No, no, no! Don't let us talk about it. Let's go into the dining-room.

I dare say mother dear must be dull without her tea. It isn't proper to

keep the dear old woman waiting."

Yudushka made a sharp turn and almost ran to the door.

"You may go or not, it's all the same to me, but I am not going to drop

this conversation," Petenka shouted after him. "It will be worse if we

begin talking in the presence of witnesses."

Yudushka came back and planted himself squarely before his son.

"What do you want of me, you scoundrel? Speak up!"

"I want you to pay the money that I lost."

"Never!"

"Is that your last word?"

"You see," exclaimed Yudushka solemnly, pointing at the ikon that hung

in the corner, "You see that? It is grandfather's benediction. So, in

the presence of that image I say, Never!"

And with a firm step he left the study.

"Murderer!" was hurled after him.

CHAPTER VI