arranging the tea things. The old woman was silent and thoughtful, and
looked as if she were ashamed of Petenka. In the customary way Yudushka
kissed her hand, and she made the sign of the cross over him. Then came
the usual questions, whether everybody felt well, and had had a good
night's rest, followed by the customary monosyllabic answers. Petenka's
asking Arina Petrovna for money and awakening the memory of the "curse"
had put her into a state of peculiar uneasiness. She was pursued by the
thought, "What if I threaten him with my curse?" When she had heard
that explanations in the study had begun, she had turned to Yevpraksia
with the request:
"Suppose, my dear, you go to the door quietly and listen to what they
say."
Yevpraksia went to eavesdrop, but was so stupid she could understand
nothing.
"Oh, they're just having a chat," she explained upon her return.
Then Arina Petrovna could not hold out any longer and went to the
dining-room, where the samovar had already been brought in. But the
interview was nearing its end, and all she noted was that Petenka's
voice was loud and angry, and Porfiry Vladimirych's replies were given
in a nagging voice.
"He's nagging him, that just it, nagging!" ran in her head. "I remember
he used to nag that way, and how is it I did not understand him then?"
At last, father and son appeared in the dining-room. Petenka's face
was red and he was breathing heavily. His eyes were staring widely,
his hair was disheveled, his forehead was covered with beads of
perspiration. Yudushka, on the contrary, entered pale and cross.
He wanted to appear indifferent but, in spite of all his efforts,
his lower lip trembled. He could hardly utter the customary morning
greetings to his mother dear.
All took their places at the table. Petenka seated himself at some
distance, leaned against the back of his chair, crossed his legs,
lighted a cigarette, and looked at his father ironically.
"You see, mother, the storm has abated," Yudushka began. "Yesterday
there was such an uproar, but God only had to will it, and here we have
a nice, bright, quiet day. Am I right, mother dear?"
"I don't know. I haven't been out to-day."
"By the way, we are going to see our dear guest off," continued
Yudushka. "I rose early this morning, looked out of the window--it
was still and quiet outdoors, as if God's angel had flown by and in a
moment allayed the riot with his wings."
But no one answered Yudushka's kindly words. Yevpraksia sipped her tea
from the saucer, blowing and puffing. Arina Petrovna looked into her
cup and was silent. Petenka, swaying in his chair, continued to eye
his father with an ironical, defiant air, as if he had to exert great
efforts to keep from bursting out laughing.
"Even if Petenka does not ride fast, he will reach the railway station
toward night," Porfiry Vladimirych resumed. "Our horses are not
overworked. They will feed for a couple of hours at Muravyevo, and they
will get him to the place in a jiffy. Ah, Petka, you are a bad boy!
Suppose you stay with us a while longer--really. We would enjoy your
company, and you would improve greatly in a week."
But Petenka continued to sway in his chair and eye his father.
"Why do you stare at me?" Yudushka flared up at last. "Do you see
pictures on me?"
"I'm just looking at you waiting for what's coming next."
"No use waiting, my son. It will be as I said. I will not change my
mind."
A minute of silence followed, after which a whisper could be distinctly
heard.
"Yudushka!"
Porfiry Vladimirych undoubtedly heard it, he even turned pale, but he
pretended the exclamation did not concern him.
"Ah, my dear little children," he said. "I should like to caress and
fondle you, but it seems it can't be done--ill luck! You run away from
your parents, you've got bosom friends who are dearer to you than
father and mother. Well, it can't be helped. One ponders a bit over it,
then resigns oneself. You are young folk, and youth, of course, prefers
the company of youth to that of an old grouch. So, I resign myself and
don't complain. I only pray to Our Father in Heaven, 'Do Thy will, oh
Lord!'"
"Murderer!" Petenka whispered, but this time so distinctly that Arina
Petrovna looked at him in fright. Something passed before her eyes. It
looked like the shadow of Simple Simon.
"Whom do you mean?" asked Yudushka, trembling with excitement.
"Oh, just an acquaintance of mine."
"I see. Well, you'd better make that clear. Lord knows what's in your
head. Maybe it is one of us that you style so."
Everybody became silent. The glasses of tea remained untouched.
Yudushka leaned against the back of his chair, swaying nervously.
Petenka, seeing that all hope was gone, had a sensation of deadly
anguish, under the influence of which he was ready to go to any
lengths. But father and son looked at each other with an indescribable
smile. Hardened though Porfiry Vladimirych was, the minute was nearing
when he would be unable to control himself.
"You'd better go, while the going's good," he burst out, finally. "You
better had."
"I'm going."
"Then why wait? I see you're trying to pick a quarrel, and I don't
want to quarrel with anybody. We live here quietly and in good order,
without disputes. Your old grandmother is here. You ought to have
regard for her at least. Well, tell us why you came here?"
"I told you why."
"If it's only for that, you are wasting your efforts. Go at once, my
son. Hey, who's there? Have the horses ready for the young master. And
some fried chicken, and caviar, and other things, eggs, I suppose. Wrap
them up well in paper. You'll take a bite at the station, my son, while
they feed the horses. Godspeed!"
"No, I am not going yet. I'm going to church first to have a memorial
service performed for the murdered servant of God, Vladimir."
"That is, for the suicide."
"No, for the murdered."
Father and son stared at each other. It looked as if in a moment both
would jump up. But Yudushka made a superhuman effort and, turning his
chair, faced the table again.
"Wonderful!" he said in a strained voice. "Wonderful!"
"Yes, for the murdered!" Petenka persisted brutally.
"Who murdered him?" Yudushka asked with curiosity, still hoping,
apparently, that his son would come to his senses.
But Petenka, unperturbed, whipped out:
"You!"
"I?"
Porfiry Vladimirych was astounded. It was a few moments before he came
to himself. He rose hastily from his seat, faced the ikon and began to
pray.
"You, you, you!" Petenka repeated.
"Well, now! Thank God, I feel better after praying," said Yudushka,
seating himself at table again. "Just a minute, though. I, as your
father, should not take you up on your talk, but we'll pursue the
matter this time. Then you mean to say that I killed Volodenka?"
"Yes, you did."
"And I beg leave to differ. I consider he shot himself. At that time
I was at Golovliovo and in St. Petersburg. So what could I have to do
with it? How could I kill him when he was seven hundred versts away?"
"As if you don't understand!"
"I don't understand, by the Lord, I don't!"
"And who left Volodya without a penny? Who discontinued his allowances?
Who?"
"Stuff and nonsense! Why did he marry against his father's will?"
"But you gave him your permission."
"Who? I? What are you talking about? I never did anything of the kind.
Nev-v-v-er!"
"Oh, of course, you acted as you always do. Everyone of your words has
ten meanings. Go, guess the right one."
"I never gave my permission. He wrote to me, 'Papa, I want to marry
Lida,' you understand, 'I want to,' not 'I beg your permission.' Well,
I answered him, 'If you want to marry, you can marry. I cannot stand in
your way.' That's all there was to it."
"That's all there was to it," Petenka said jeeringly. "And wasn't that
giving your permission?"
"That's exactly what it wasn't. What did I say? I said, 'I cannot stand
in your way.' That's all. But whether I give my permission or not, is
a different question. He did not ask my permission, he simply wrote,
'Papa, I want to marry Lida.' Well, and as to permission he kept mum.
You want to marry. Well, my friend, may God be with you, marry Lida or
Fida, I cannot stand in your way!"
"But you could leave him without a crust of bread. So why didn't you
write this way, 'I do not approve of your intention, and therefore,
though I will not hinder you, I warn you that you can not longer rely
on financial aid from me.' That, at least, would have been clear."
"No, I shall never permit myself to do such things, to make threats
against a grown son--never! I have a rule never to be in anybody's way.
If you want to marry--marry! Well, and as to consequences--I am sorry.
It was your business to foresee them yourself. That's why God gave you
reason. And as to me, brother, I don't like to thrust myself into other
people's affairs. I not only keep from meddling myself, but I don't
invite others to meddle in my affairs, I don't invite it, I don't, I
don't, I even forbid it! Do you hear me, you wicked, disrespectful son,
I f-o-r-b-i-d it!"
"You may forbid it, if you like, but you can't muzzle everybody."
"If at least he had repented! And if at least he had realized that he
offended his father! Well, you committed a folly--say you are sorry.
Ask forgiveness! 'Forgive me, dear papa, for the mortification I caused
you.' But he wouldn't!"
"But he did write to you. He made it clear to you that he had nothing
to live on, that he could not endure it any longer."
"That's not the kind of thing to write to a father. From a father one
asks pardon, that's all."
"He did so. He was so tortured that he begged forgiveness, too. He did
everything, he did."
"And even if he did, he was wrong. You ask forgiveness once, you see
your father does not forgive you, you ask again!"
"Oh, you!"
At this Petenka suddenly ceased swaying his chair, turned about, faced
the table and rested both elbows on it.
"And here I, too----" he whispered.
His face gradually became disfigured.
"And here I too----" he repeated, and burst into hysterical sobbing.
"Whose fault----"
But Yudushka had no chance to finish his sermon. At that moment
something quite unexpected took place. During their skirmish the man
had almost forgotten about Arina Petrovna. But she had not remained
an indifferent spectator. On the contrary, you could tell at a glance
that something quite unusual was taking place within her, and that
the moment perhaps had arrived when the ruthless vision of her entire
life appeared before her spiritual eye in a glaring light. Her face
livened up, her eyes widened and glittered, her lips moved as if they
were struggling to utter some word and could not. Suddenly, just at the
moment when Petenka's bitter weeping resounded in the dining-room she
rose heavily from her arm-chair, stretched her arms forward, and a loud
wail broke out from her breast.
"My cu-r-r-se upon you!"
BOOK IV
THE GOOD LITTLE NIECE
CHAPTER I
Yudushka did not give the money to Petenka, though, kind father that
he was, he gave orders just before the moment of departure for some
chicken, veal and pie to be placed in the carriage. Then he went out
on the porch in the chilling wind to see his son off, and inquired
whether Petenka was seated comfortably and whether he had wrapped his
feet up well. Re-entering the house, he stood at the window in the
dining-room a long time making the sign of the cross and sending his
blessings after the vehicle that was carrying Petenka away. In a word,
he performed the farewell ceremony fittingly, as becomes good kinsfolk.
"Oh, Petka, Petka," he said, "you are a bad, bad son. Look at the
mischief you have done. My, my, my! And what could have been better
than to live on quietly and peacefully, nicely and easily with father
and old granny? But no! Crash! Bang! I am my own master, I've got a
head on my shoulders, too! Well, there's your head! My, what trouble!"
Not a muscle quivered in his wooden face, not a note in his voice
sounded like an appeal to a prodigal son. But, then, there was nobody
to hear his words, for Arina Petrovna was the only one beside himself
in the room, and as a result of the shock she had just gone through
she seemed to have lost all vitality, and sat near the samovar, her
mouth open, looking straight ahead, without hearing anything, without a
single thought in her mind.
Then life flowed on as usual, full of idle bustle and babbling.
Contrary to Petenka's expectations, Porfiry Vladimirych took the
maternal curse quite coolly and did not recede a hair's breadth from
the decision that had come from his head full-formed, as it were.
It is true he turned slightly pale and rushed toward his mother with a
cry:
"Mother, dear! Darling! Lord be with you! Be calm, dear! God is
merciful. All will be well."
But his words were expressive of alarm for her rather than for himself.
Her act had been so unexpected that Yudushka even forgot to pretend
to be frightened. Only last night his mother had been affectionate,
had jested, and played fool with Yevpraksia. Evidently, then, it
had all happened in a moment of sudden anger, and there was nothing
premeditated, nothing real about it all.
Indeed, he had been very much afraid of his mother's curse but he
had pictured it quite differently. In his idle mind he had built
an elaborate staging for the occasion, ikons, burning candles, his
mother standing in the center of the room, terrible, with a darkened
face as she hurled the curse. Then, thunder, candles going out, the
veil tearing asunder, darkness covering the earth, and above, amidst
the clouds the wrathful countenance of Jehovah illumined by a flash
of lightning. But nothing of the sort had happened, so his mother
had simply done something rash and silly. And she had had no reason
to curse him in earnest, because of late there had been no cause
for quarreling. Many changes had occurred since Yudushka expressed
his doubt as to whether a certain coach belonged to his mother dear
(Yudushka admitted to _himself_ that _then_ he had been wrong and
deserved damnation). Arina Petrovna had become more submissive, and
Porfiry Vladimirych had but one thought in his head: how to placate his
mother dear.
"The old woman is doing poorly, my, how poorly! At times she even
raves," he consoled himself. "The darling sits down to play fool and
before you know it, she dozes off."
In justice to Yudushka it must be admitted that his mother's
decrepitude gave him some alarm. Even he was not quite ready for her
death, had not made any plans, had had no time to make estimates--how
much capital mother had when she left Dubrovino, what that capital
might bring in annually, how much of the interest she had spent, and
how much she had added to the principal. In a word, he had not gone
through an infinity of useless trifles, without which he always felt as
if he were caught unawares.
"The old woman is hale and hearty," he would muse at times. "Still she
won't spend it all--impossible. When she shared us out, she had a neat
sum. Maybe she transferred some to the orphans. Oh, the old woman is
rich. Yes, she is."
But these musings were not so very serious, and vanished without
leaving an impress on his mind. The mass of daily trivialities was
already great, and there was as yet no urgent need to augment them by
the addition of new trivialities. Porfiry Vladimirych kept putting the
matter off, and did not realize it was time to begin until after the
damnation scene.
The catastrophe came sooner than he expected. On the second day after
Petenka's departure Arina Petrovna left for Pogorelka, and never again
visited Golovliovo. She spent a month in total solitude, keeping to her
room and scarcely exchanging a word with her servants. From force of
habit she rose early in the morning, sat down at her desk, and began
to play patience, but hardly ever brought the game to an end, and sat
in frozen rigidity--with her glazed eyes fixed on the window. What she
thought about or whether she thought at all, even the keenest judge of
the deep-lying mysteries of the human soul could not have divined. She
seemed to be trying to recollect something, perhaps how she came to be
within those walls, and could not. Alarmed by her mistress's silence,
Afimyushka would appear in the room, arrange the pillows lining her
easy-chair, and try to open a conversation on this or that, but
received only impatient monosyllabic replies.
Once or twice Porfiry Vladimirych came to Pogorelka, invited mother
dear to Golovliovo, tried to kindle her imagination with the prospect
of mushrooms, German carp, and the other allurements of Golovliovo, but
his overtures evoked nothing but an enigmatic smile.
One morning she tried to leave her bed as usual, but could not, though
she felt no particular pain, and complained of nothing. She took it,
apparently, as a matter of course, without any sign of alarm. The very
day before she had been sitting at the table and even walked, though
with difficulty, and now she was in bed "feeling indisposed." It was
even more comfortable. But Afimyushka became thoroughly frightened
and without the mistress's knowledge sent a messenger to Porfiry
Vladimirych.
Yudushka came early the next morning. Arina Petrovna was considerably
worse. He put the servants through a cross-examination as to what
mother had eaten and whether she had not overeaten. But Arina Petrovna
had eaten almost nothing for a whole month, and had refused all food
the previous day. Yudushka expressed his grief, waved his hands, and
like a good son, warmed himself at the oven in the maids' room so that
he would not bring the cold into the patient's room. At the same time
he began to give orders and make arrangements. He had an extraordinary
keenness for scenting death. He made inquiries as to whether the priest
was home and arranged that in case of emergency he should be sent for
at once. He informed himself where mother's chest with her papers was,
whether it was locked, and having satisfied himself concerning the
state of things, he called in the cook and ordered dinner for himself.
"I need but little," he said. "Have you got a chicken? Well, prepare
some chicken soup. If you have some cured beef, get a bit of cured beef
ready. Then something fried, and I'll have enough."
Arina Petrovna lay prostrate on her back with her mouth open, breathing
heavily. Her eyes were staring wide. One hand projected from under the
quilt of hare's fur and hung stiff. She was evidently alive to the
commotion incident upon her son's arrival, and perhaps his orders even
reached her ears. The lowered window-shades put the room in twilight.
The wicks were flickering their last at the bottom of the ikon lamps
and sputtered audibly at contact with the water. The air was close
and fetid, unbearably suffocating from the overheated stoves, the
sickening smell of the ikon lamps, and the breath of illness. Porfiry
Vladimirych, in his felt boots, glided to his mother's bed like a
snake. His tall, lean figure wrapped in twilight swayed uncannily.
Arina Petrovna with a look half of surprise and half of fright followed
his movements and huddled under her quilt.
"It is I, mother dear," he said. "What's the matter with you? You are
all out of gear today. My, my, my! No wonder I could not sleep all
night. Something seemed to urge me on. 'Let's go and see,' I thought,
'how our Pogorelka friends are getting along.' I got up in the morning,
hitched a couple of horses to the pony cart, and here I am!"
Porfiry Vladimirych tittered affably, but Arina Petrovna did not
answer, and drew herself together in a closer coil under her quilt.
"Well, God is merciful, mother dear," continued Yudushka. "The main
thing is to stand up for yourself. Don't put any stock in the ailment.
Get up and take a walk through the room, like a sound, hale person. You
see, just like this."
Porfiry Vladimirych rose from his seat and demonstrated how sound, hale
persons walk.
"Oh, just a moment. I'll raise the window-shade and take a good look
at you. Oh, but you are first rate, my darling. Just pluck up some
courage, say your prayers, doll up, get into your Sunday best, and
you'll be ready for a dance. There, I have brought you some jolly good
holy water, just taste some."
Porfiry Vladimirych took a flask out of his pocket, found a wine glass
on the table, filled it and gave it to the patient. Arina Petrovna made
an effort to lift her head, but in vain.
"I wish the orphans were here," she moaned.
"Well, much need you have of the orphans here. Oh, mother, mother! How
is it all of a sudden you--really! Just a little bad turn, and at
once you are ready to give up the ship. We'll attend to it all. We'll
send a special messenger to the orphans and we'll do everything else
in due time. Now, what's the hurry, really? We are going to live yet,
yes indeed we are. And we'll have a fine time of it, too. Wait till
summer is here, we'll both of us go to the woods to pick mushrooms,
and raspberries, and nice juicy black currants. Or else, we'll go
to Dubrovino to catch German carps. We'll bring out the horse and
carriage, get into it, and one, two, three--there we go. Nicely and
easily."
"I wish the orphans were here," repeated Arina Petrovna in anguish.
"We'll bring the orphans, too. Give us time. We'll call them together,
all of them. We'll all be here and sit by you. You will be the
brood-hen and we'll be your chicks. We'll have it all, if you behave.
Now you are a naughty girl, because you went and took sick. That's
the kind of mischief you're up to. My, my! Instead of being good and
serving as an example for others, look what you're doing. That's bad,
my dear, very bad."
But no matter how hard Porfiry Vladimirych tried to cheer up his mother
dear with banter, her strength waned from hour to hour. A messenger was
dispatched to town to fetch a doctor, and since the patient persisted
in moaning and calling the orphans, Yudushka in his own hand wrote
a letter to Anninka and Lubinka in which he compared his and their
conduct, called himself a Christian and them ungrateful. At night the
doctor arrived, but it was too late. Arina Petrovna's fate was sealed.
At about four o'clock in the morning the death agony set in and at six
Porfiry Vladimirych was kneeling at his mother's bed wailing:
"Mother dear! My friend! Give me your blessing!"
But Arina Petrovna did not hear him. Her wide-open eyes stared dimly
into space as if she were trying to understand something and could not.
Yudushka, too, did not understand. He did not understand that the
yawning grave was to carry off the last creature that linked him to the
living world.
With his usual bustle he delved into the mass of trifles and details
that were incident upon the ceremonial of burial. He had requiems
chanted, ordered memorial masses for the future, discussed matters
with the priest, hurried from room to room with his shambling gait.
Every now and then he peeped into the dining-room where the deceased
lay, crossed himself, lifted his hands heavenward, and late at night
stole quietly to the door to listen to the sexton's monotonous reading
of the Psalms. He was pleasantly surprised that his expenses upon the
occasions would be very slight, for Arina Petrovna long before her
death had put away a sum of money for her burial and itemized in detail
the various expenditures.
Having buried his mother, Porfiry Vladimirych at once began to
familiarize himself with her effects. Examining the papers he
found about a dozen various wills (in one of them she called him
"undutiful"); but all of them had been written when Arina Petrovna was
still the domineering, despotic mistress, and were incomplete--in the
form of tentative drafts.
So Yudushka was quite pleased that he had no need to play foul in order
to declare himself the sole legitimate heir to his mother's property.
The latter consisted of a capital of fifteen thousand rubles and of a
scanty movable estate which included the famous coach that had nearly
become the cause of dissension between mother and son. Arina Petrovna
kept her own accounts quite separate and distinct from those of her
wards, so that one could see at a glance what belonged to her and what
to the orphans. Yudushka lost no time in declaring himself heir at the
proper legal places. He sealed the papers bearing on the guardianship,
gave the servants his mother's scanty wardrobe, and sent the coach and
two cows to Golovliovo, which were placed in the inventory under the
heading "mine." Then he had the last requiem performed and went his way.
"Wait for the owners," he told the people gathered in the hallway to
see him off. "If they come, they'll be welcome; if they don't--just as
they please. For my part, I did all I could. I straightened out the
guardianship accounts and hid nothing. Everything was done in plain
view, in front of everybody. The money that mother left belongs to me
legally. The coach and the two cows that I sent to Golovliovo are mine
_by law._ Maybe some of my property is left _here._ However, I won't
insist on it. God Himself commands us to give to orphans. I am sorry to
have lost mother, she was a good old woman, a kindly soul. Oh, mother
dear, it was not right of you, darling, to have left us poor orphans.
But if it had pleased God to take you, it befits us to submit to His
holy will. May, at least, your soul rejoice in heaven, and as for
us--well, we are not to be considered."
The first death was soon followed by another.
Yudushka's attitude toward his son's fate was quite puzzling. Since he
did not receive newspapers and was not in correspondence with anybody,
he could not learn anything of the trial in which Petenka figured. And
he hardly wished to. Above all things, he shunned disturbance of every
kind. He was buried up to his ears in a swamp of petty details, all
centering around the welfare and preservation of his precious self.
There are many such people in this world. They live apart from the rest
of humanity, having neither the desire nor the knowledge to identify
themselves with a "cause," and bursting in the end like so many soap
bubbles. They have no ties of friendship, for friendship presupposes
the existence of common interests; nor do they have any business
connections. For thirty years at a stretch Porfiry Vladimirych had
marked time in a government office. Then, one fine day he disappeared,
and no one noticed the fact.
He learned of his son's fate after his domestics had. But even then
he feigned ignorance, so that when Yevpraksia once tried to mention
Petenka, he waved her off and said:
"No, no, no! I don't know, I did not hear anything, and I don't want to
hear anything. I don't want to know a thing about his dirty affairs."
But finally he did learn about Petenka. He received a letter from him
saying he was about to leave for one of the remote provinces and asking
his father to continue to send him an allowance in his new position.
The whole of the next day Porfiry Vladimirych was in a state of visible
perplexity. He darted from room to room, peeped into the oratory,
crossed himself, and sighed. But toward evening he plucked up courage
and wrote the following letter:
/#
"My criminal son Piotr:
"As a faithful and law-abiding subject I should not even
answer your letter. But as a father given to human weaknesses,
I cannot, from a sense of compassion, refuse good advice to
a child who, through his own fault, plunged himself into a
whirlpool of evil.
"Here, in short, is my opinion on the subject. The punishment
that has been meted out to you is severe, but you quite deserve
it. That is the first and most important consideration that
should always accompany you in your new life from now on.
All your other vagaries and even the memory thereof you must
forget, for in your present situation all this will only tend
to irritate you and urge you on to impious complaint. You have
already tasted of the bitter fruits of haughtiness of spirit.
Try now to taste of the fruits of humility, all the more so
since there is nothing else left for you in the future. Do not
complain of the punishment, for the authorities do not even
punish you, but only provide means for your correction. To be
grateful for this, and to endeavor to make amends for what
you did--that is what you must incessantly bear in mind, and
not the luxurious frittering away of time, which I myself, by
the way, never did, although I was never under indictment.
So follow this prudent advice of mine and turn over a new
leaf, satisfied with what the authorities, in their kindness,
will deem it necessary to allot to you. I, for my part, will
pray the Giver of all things good to grant you firmness and
humility. Even on the very day on which I write these lines I
have been to church and offered up fervent prayers for you. And
now, I bless you for the new journey and remain, your indignant
but still loving father, Porfiry Golovliov."
#/
It is uncertain whether the letter ever reached Petenka, but no more
than a month after it was sent, Porfiry Vladimirych was officially
notified that his son, while on his way to the place of exile, had
fallen ill and died in a hospital.
Yudushka remained alone, but at first did not realize that this
new loss had made his life an absolute void. The realization came
soon after the death of Arina Petrovna, when he was all absorbed in
reckoning and figuring. He read every paper of the deceased, took into
account every kopek, traced the relation of this kopek to the kopeks
of the guardianship, not wishing, as he put it, either to acquire
another's, or to lose his own. Amidst this bustle the question never
once arose in his mind: To what end was he doing all this, and who was
to enjoy the fruits of his busy hoarding?
From morning to night he bent over his desk musing and criticizing the
arrangements of the deceased. Engrossed in these cares he began little
by little to neglect the bookkeeping of his own estate.
The manor fell into profound silence. The domestics, who had always
preferred the servants' quarters, abandoned the house almost entirely,
and when in the master's rooms would walk on tiptoe and speak in a
whisper. There was an air of desertion and death about the place and
about the man, something eery. The gloom enveloping Yudushka was to
grow denser every day.
CHAPTER II
During Lent, when no theatrical performances were given, Anninka came
to Golovliovo. Lubinka had been unable to accompany her because she
had been engaged for the entire Lent and had gone to Romny, Izum,
Kremenchug, etc., where she was to give concerts and sing her entire
music-hall repertoire.
During her brief artistic career Anninka had greatly improved in looks.
She was no longer the simple, anæmic, somewhat sluggish girl who in
Dubrovino or Pogorelka had walked from room to room humming and swaying
awkwardly, as if she could not find a place for herself. She was now
quite developed, with confident, even dashing manners. At the very
first glance one could tell she was quick at repartee. The change in
her appearance gave Porfiry Vladimirych a pleasant surprise. Before him
stood a tall, well-built woman with a lovely pink complexion, high,
well-developed bust, full eyes, and abundant ash-colored hair, which
she wore braided low on her neck--a woman evidently aware of her own
attractiveness.
She arrived at Golovliovo early in the morning and at once retired to a
room, from which she emerged in a splendid silk gown. She entered the
dining-room with a swish of her train, manipulating it skilfully among
the chairs. Though Yudushka loved God above all, it did not prevent him
from having a taste for beautiful and, especially, tall, plump women.
So he crossed Anninka first, then kissed her so emphatically on both
cheeks, casting queer glances at her bust meanwhile, that Anninka could
not refrain from smiling faintly.
They sat down at the tea table. Anninka raised her arms and stretched.
"Oh, uncle, how dull it is here!" she began, yawning slightly.
"There you are! Here only a minute and dull already. You stay with us
some time, then we'll see, perhaps you won't find it so dull after
all," answered Porfiry Vladimirych, his eyes suddenly taking on an oily
glitter.
"No, there isn't an interesting thing here. What is there? Snow all
around, no neighbors. Is there a regiment quartered anywhere near here?"
"Yes, there is a regiment and there are neighbors; but, to tell the
truth, it doesn't interest me. Yet, if you----"
Porfiry Vladimirych looked at her and did not end his sentence, but
coughed. Perhaps he had stopped intentionally, wishing to excite
her feminine curiosity. At any rate the same faint smile as before
glided over her lips. She leaned her elbows on the table and looked
at Yevpraksia fixedly. The, girl all flushed, was drying the glasses,
casting sly glances at Anninka with her large, heavy eyes.
"My new housekeeper--very industrious," said Porfiry Vladimirych.
Anninka nodded slightly and began to purr softly:
_"Ah, ah! que j'aime--que j'aime--que j'aime--les
mili-mili-mili-taires!"_ and her hips quivered as she sang.
Silence set in, during which Yudushka, his eyes meekly lowered, sipped
his tea from a glass.
"My, it's dull!" said Anninka, yawning again.
"It's dull, and it's dull! You never get tired of saying that. You wait
a while, stay here a bit longer. We'll order the sleigh set to rights,
and you'll ride to your heart's content."
"Uncle, why didn't you become a hussar?"
"Because, my friend, every man has his station ordained by the Lord.
Some are to become hussars, others functionaries, others merchants;
some are----"
"Oh, yes, and so on, and so forth. Who can keep track of it all? And
God ordained all that, did He?"
"Why, yes, my friend, God. And it is not proper to scoff. Do you know
what the Scriptures say? 'Without the will of God----'"
"Is it about the hair? Yes, I know that, too. But the trouble is,
everybody wears false hair now, and I don't think that was foreseen.
By the way, uncle, look what wonderful braids I have! Don't you think
they're fine?"
Porfiry Vladimirych came nearer, for some reason, on tiptoe, and
fingered her braids for some time. And Yevpraksia, without relaxing her
hold on the saucer filled with tea and holding a bit of toast between
her teeth, leaned forward and said, "False, I suppose?"
"Oh, no, my own. Some day I'll let my hair down for you, uncle."
"Yes, your hair is fine," said Yudushka, his lips parting in a
repulsive smile. Then he recalled that one must turn his back on such
temptations and added, "Oh, you hoyden! Always thinking about braids
and trains, but you'd never think of inquiring about the main thing,
the real thing?"
"Oh, about grandmother? She is dead, isn't she?"
"Yes, my friend, she died. And how she died! Peacefully, calmly, not a
soul heard it. That's what I call a worthy end to one's earthly life.
She thought of everybody, gave everybody her blessing, called a priest,
received her last communion, and suddenly became so calm, so calm! Then
she began to sigh. Sighed once, twice, three times, and before we knew
it, she was no more."
Yudushka rose, turned toward the ikon, folded his hands, and offered up
a prayer. Tears rose to his eyes, so well did he simulate. But Anninka
apparently was not of the sentimental kind. It is true she remained
pensive for a while but for quite a different reason.
"Do you remember, uncle, how she used to feed my sister and me on sour
milk when we were little ones? Not later. Later she was splendid. I
mean when she was still rich."
"Oh, well, let bygones be bygones. She fed you on sour milk, but you
look none the worse for it, may the Lord be with you. Do you think you
would care to visit her grave?"
"Yes, I wouldn't mind."
"But you know, it would be well if you purified yourself first."
"What do you mean, purified?"
"You know--an actress. You think it was easy for the old woman? So
before you go to her grave I think you should attend a mass to purify
yourself, you know. You see, I'll order a mass early tomorrow morning,
and then--Godspeed!"
Absurd as Yudushka's proposition was, it confused Anninka for a minute.
But she soon knitted her brows angrily and said sharply:
"No, I'll go now--as I am!"
"Well, I don't know, do as you please. But my advice is: let's attend
the mass tomorrow morning, then take tea and have a pair of swift
little horses hitched to a pony cart, and then go together. You see,
you would become cleansed of your sins, and your grandmother's soul
would----"
"Oh, uncle, how foolish you are, though. Lord knows what nonsense you
talk. And you even insist on it."
"So you don't like it? Well, don't hold it against me, my dear. I am
straight from the shoulder, you know. When it comes to truth, I'll
tell it to others and take it from others as well. Though at times it
goes against the grain, though truth is hard at times, but I'll always
listen to it. And one must listen to it, because--it's the truth. So,
my dear. You stay with us a while and live the way we do. Then you'll
see that it's better than going with a guitar from fair to fair."
"Heaven knows what you're talking about, uncle. 'With a guitar!'"
"Well, if it isn't a guitar, then it's a bagpipe or something. Besides,
you offended me first, called me foolish. So I, an old man, surely have
a right to tell you the truth to your face."
"All right, let it be the truth. We won't argue about it. But tell me,
please, did grandmother leave anything?"
"Why, of course, she did. But the legitimate heir was present in
person."
"That is you. All the better. Was she buried here in Golovliovo?"
"No, near Pogorelka, at the St. Nicholas Church. It was her own wish."
"I'll go. Can I hire horses here, uncle?"
"Why hire? I've got my own. You are not a stranger, I dare say, a
niece, my little niece."
Porfiry Vladimirych began to liven up, and put on an _en famille_ grin.
"A pony cart, a pair of fine little horses--thank God, I am not poor, I
dare say! And wouldn't it be well for me to go with you? We would visit
the grave, you see, and then would go to Pogorelka and peep in here and
there, and we would think matters over, talk things over--about this
and that. Yours is a fine little estate, you know. It has some very
good spots."
"No, I'll go alone, I think. Why should you go? By the way, Petenka's
dead, too, I hear?"
"Yes, my dear friend, Petenka is dead, too. I am sorry for him in
one way, very sorry--to the point of tears; but then--it was all his
own fault. He was always disrespectful to his father, that's why God
punished him. And what God, in His great wisdom, did, you and I cannot
undo."
"Of course, we can't. But what makes me wonder is, why you don't find
it too horrible to live."
"Why should I fear? You see how much succor I have all around."
Yudushka made a gesture, pointing to the ikons. "Succor here and succor
in my study. The ikon room is a veritable paradise. You see how many
protectors I have."
"But still, you are always alone. It's frightful."
"And if I am afraid, I fall on my knees, say a prayer, and the fear is
all gone. And why be afraid? It's light during the day, and at night
I have ikon lamps burning in every room. From outside in the dark it
looks as if there were a ball in the house. And what ball? Who are the
guests? Holy protectors, God's chosen. Those are my guests!"
"You know, Petenka wrote to us before his death."
"Well, of course, he is a relative. It's a good thing he did not lose
his feelings of kinship."
"Yes, he wrote to us. It was after the trial, when sentence had been
pronounced. He wrote he had lost three thousand rubles in cards and you
would not give him the money. But you are rich, uncle, aren't you?"
"Ah, my dear, it's easy to count money in another man's pocket.
Sometimes we think a man has mountains of gold, and when you come
closer you see he has barely enough for oil and a candle--not for
himself--for God."
"Well, then, we are richer than you. We gave some of our own money
and took up a collection among our gentlemen friends. We scraped six
hundred rubles together and sent it to him."
"What do you mean 'gentlemen friends?'"
"Oh, uncle, we are actresses, you know. Didn't you yourself suggest
that I purify myself?"
"I don't like it when you speak that way."
"What can you do? Whether you like it or not, you can't undo what has
been done. According to you, God is in that, too."
"Don't blaspheme at least. You may say anything you want, but don't
blaspheme. I won't stand for it. Where did you send the money to?"
"I don't remember. To a little town of some sort. He wrote us the name."
"I didn't know. If there was money, I should have gotten it after his
death. It is not possible that he spent it all at once. Well, I don't
know, I didn't get any. I suppose the jailers and guards were on to it."
"I'm not asking for it, uncle. I just mentioned it while we were on the
subject. It's awful, uncle, for a man to perish on account of three
thousand rubles."
"It wasn't all on account of the three thousand. Haven't you something
else to say than to keep on repeating 'three thousand, three thousand?'
But God----"
Yudushka had got his cue and was about to explain in detail
how God--Providence--by unseen ways--and all that, but Anninka
unceremoniously yawned and said:
"Oh, uncle, how boring it is here."
This time Porfiry Vladimirych was truly offended and became silent.
For a long time they both paced up and down the dining room. Anninka
yawned, Porfiry Vladimirych crossed himself at every step. At last the
carriage was announced and the usual comedy of seeing relations off
began. Golovliov put on his fur coat, went out on the porch, kissed
Anninka and shouted to the servants, "Her feet! Wrap up her feet well!"
and "What about the blankets, have you taken the blankets along? See
you don't forget them!" all the while making signs of the cross in the
air.
Anninka visited her grandmother's grave, asked the priest to say the
mass, and when the choir began to chant the "Eternal memory," she cried
a bit. The background of the ceremony was rather sad. The church near
which Arina Petrovna had been buried was of the poorest kind. In some
places the plaster had fallen off its walls and exposed large patches
of brick. The sound of the bells was feeble and hollow, the priest's
robe was threadbare. The cemetery was snowed under, so that the path to
the grave had to be shovelled clear. No monument had yet been placed.
Nothing but a plain white cross, even without an inscription, marked
the grave. The cemetery was in a lonely spot removed from any dwelling.
Not far from the church stood the houses of the priest and the church
officials and all around the cheerless, snow-covered plains stretched
as far as the eye could reach. Here and there one could see brushwood
jutting out from the snow. A sharp March wind was sweeping over the
churchyard, wafting away the chanting of the churchmen and lashing the
priest's robe.
"Who would have thought, madam, that the richest landlady in the
district would rest here under this modest cross in our poor parish?"
said the priest when he was through with the requiem.
At these words Anninka cried again. She recalled the poet's line:
"Where feasts once reigned a hearse now stands!" And the tears kept
streaming down her cheeks. Then she went to the priest's house, had tea
there, and talked with his wife. Another line came back to her: "And
pallid death on all doth stare," and again she wept, long and bitterly.
Nobody had notified the people at Pogorelka that the young lady was
coming, so that the rooms were not even heated. Anninka, with her
fur coat on, walked through all the rooms, remaining a moment in
grandmother's bedroom and the ikon room. In the former she found
a bedstead with a heap of soiled, greasy pillows, some without
pillow-cases. Scraps of paper lay on the desk in disorder, the floor
had not been swept and a thick coat of dust covered everything. Anninka
sat down in the easy-chair where her grandmother used to sit, and
became lost in thought. At first came up reminiscences of the past;
then they were crowded out by images of the present. The former came in
the shape of fleeting patches and fragments, pausing in her mind for no
more than a moment; the latter were more persistent. It was but a brief
while ago that she had longed to flee from Pogorelka and it had seemed
a hateful place. Now her heart suddenly filled with a morbid desire to
live there again.
"It is quiet here, it is not cozy, and it is unsightly; but it is
quiet, so quiet, as if everything around were dead. There is much air
and much room."
She looked out over the endless fields and felt a desire to dash
straight across them, without aim or purpose, just to breathe fast
and feel a pain in her chest. And _there,_ in the half-nomadic life
from which she had just escaped and to which she _must_ return--what
awaited her there? What had she gained by it? Nothing but recollections
of hotels permeated with stench, of an everlasting din coming from
the dining and billiard rooms, of unkempt porters, of rehearsals on
the stage in the twilight and among the scenes of painted linen, the
feel of which was abominable, in the draught and in the dampness. And
then, army officers, lawyers, obscene language, and the eternal uproar!
What hadn't the men told her! With what obscenity hadn't they touched
her! Especially the one with the mustache, with a voice hoarse from
drink, inflamed eyes, and a perpetual smell of the stable about him.
Lord, what he had told her! Anninka shivered at the very recollection
and shut her eyes. Then she came to, sighed, and went into the ikon
room. There were now only a few ikons in the image-case, only those
which had unquestionably belonged to her mother. The rest of them,
her grandmother's, Yudushka, as the legitimate heir, had removed to
Golovliovo. The empty spaces where they had stood stared like the
hollow eye-sockets in a deathshead. Nor were there any ikon lamps.
Yudushka had taken all of them. Only one yellow bit of wax candle
stood out, orphan-like, from a miniature tin candlestick that had been
forgotten.
"His Excellency wanted to take the image case, too. He was trying
to make sure if it really was a part of madam's dowry," reported
Afimyushka.
"Well, he could have taken it. Tell me, Afimyushka, did grandma suffer
much before she died?"
"No, not much, she was laid up for only a day or so. She just went out,
of her own self. She wasn't really sick or anything. She didn't talk
either, just mentioned you and your sister once or twice."
"So Porfiry Vladimirych carried off the ikons?"
"Yes, he did. He said they were his mother's personal property. He also
took the coach and two cows. From the mistress's papers he gathered, I
suppose, that they belonged to your grandmother, not to you. He also
wanted to take away a horse, but Fedulych would not give it to him.
'It's our horse,' he said, 'an old-timer in Pogorelka.' So Porfiry
Vladimirych left it here. He was afraid."
Anninka walked through the yard, peeped into the servants' quarters,
the barn, and the cattle yard. In a swamp of manure stood about twenty
lean cows and three horses. She ordered some bread to be brought,
saying, "I'll pay for it," and gave every cow a piece of bread.
Then the cattle-house woman invited the young lady into the house.
There was a jug of milk on the table, and in the corner near the oven,
behind a low wainscot screening, a new-born calf was sheltered.
Anninka tasted some milk, ran to the little calf, kissed his snout,
but quickly wiped her lips, saying the calf had a horrid snout,
all slabbery. At the end, she produced three yellow bills from her
pocketbook, distributed them to the old domestics, and prepared to go.
"What are you going to do?" she asked, while she made herself
comfortable in the pony cart, of old Fedulych, who, as the _starosta,_
followed the young owner, with his hands crossed on his breast.
"Well, what can we do? We'll live," answered Fedulych simply.
Anninka became sad again for a moment. There seemed to be irony in
Fedulych's words. She waited a while, sighed, and said:
"Well, good-by."
"We thought that you would come back and live with us," said Fedulych.
"No, what's the use? Anyway--you live on!"
Tears flowed from her eyes again and the others cried, too. It seemed
peculiar to her; there was nothing to regret in leaving the place,
nothing sentimental to remember it by, and yet she was crying. And
those people, too. She had not said anything out of the ordinary to
them--just the usual questions and answers--and yet their hearts were
heavy, they were sorry to see her go. She was seated in the cart,
wrapped up and well covered. Everybody heaved a sigh. "Good luck!" came
running after her when the cart started. Passing the churchyard she
stopped again and went to the grave alone without the ecclesiastics,
following the path that had been cleared. It was quite dark, and
lights began to appear in the houses of the church officials. She
stood there with one hand holding on to the cross rising from the
grave. She did not cry, but only swayed slightly, thinking of nothing
in particular, unable to formulate any definite thought. But she was
unhappy, in every way unhappy. Not because of grandmother, but on her
own account. So she stood for a quarter of an hour, and suddenly before
her eyes rose the image of Lubinka, who perhaps at that very moment was
singing merrily in a rollicking company, somewhere in Kremenchug:
/$
"_Ah, ah, que j'aime, que j'aime!
Que j'aime, les mili-mili-mili-taires!"_
$/
She almost broke down. She ran to her cart, seated herself, and ordered
the coachman to drive to Golovliovo as fast as possible.
CHAPTER III
When Anninka returned to her uncle's, she was dull and silent, though
she did feel a bit hungry (in the hurry, uncle had not given her some
chicken to take along) and was very glad the table was already set for
tea. Of course, Porfiry Vladimirych was not slow to open a conversation.
"Well, were you there?"
"Yes, I was."
"Did you pray at the grave? Did you have the requiem sung?"
"Yes."
"So the priest was at home?"
"Of course he was, or who would have performed the requiem?"
"Oh, yes, certainly. And the two sextons, were they there? Did they
sing: 'Eternal memory?'"
"Yes, they did."
"Yes, eternal memory! May she rest in peace. She was a good, kind
woman."
Yudushka rose from his seat, faced the ikon and offered up a prayer.
"Well, and how did you find things in Pogorelka, everything in good
shape?"
"I don't know, really. I think everything is in its proper place."
"Indeed, 'I think.' You always 'think,' but when you take a good look
you find this is wrong and that is wrong. That's how we judge of other
people's business. We 'think' and we 'guess!' But anyway, you've got
a nice little estate. My late mother fixed it all up very nicely. She
even spent a good deal of her own money on it. Well, it's only right to
help orphans along."
Listening to these chants of praise, Anninka could not refrain from
teasing her kindhearted uncle.
"Uncle, why did you take two cows away from Pogorelka?" she asked.
"Cows, what cows? Oh, you mean the black and the spotted one? Well, my
dear, they belonged to my mother."
"And you are her legitimate heir? Oh, well, you can have them. Do you
want me to send you a little calf? I will, if you want me to."
"Now, there! Look at her getting excited! Let's talk business, whom do
you think the cows belong to?"
"How do I know? They were in Pogorelka."
"And I do know. I have proof that the cows belonged to mother. I found
a memorandum written in her own hand. 'Mine,' is plainly written there."
"Oh, let's drop it. It isn't worth talking about."
"There's a pony at Pogorelka, too, little old Baldy, you know. Well,
about Baldy I am not sure. I think Baldy belonged to mother, but I'm
not sure. And I can't speak of what I don't know."
"Let's drop it, uncle."
"No, why drop it? I'm straight from the shoulder, my dear, I like to
bring out the truth of things. Why not talk it over? Nobody wants to
part with his own. I don't, you don't. Well, then, let's talk it over
and see who's right. And when it comes to talking, I'll tell you
plainly: I don't want what's yours and I won't let go of mine, either.
Because, though you are not a stranger to me, still I----"
"And you even took the ikons," Anninka could not refrain from remarking.
"Yes, the ikons, too. I took everything that belonged to me by law."
"Now the image case looks as if it has holes in it."
"What can you do? You'll have to pray before it as it is. God, you
know, does not want your image case, but your prayers. If you are
sincere about it, your prayer will reach Him, even if it's done before
poor ikons. And if you just pray without meaning it, and look around
and make a courtesy, then the best images will be of no avail."
Nevertheless, Yudushka rose and offered thanks to God for the fact that
his images were "good."
"Well, and if you don't like the old image case, have a new one built
and put in new ikons instead of those taken out. My deceased mother
acquired the old ikons at her own cost, and now it's up to you to get
new ones."
Porfiry Vladimirych even tittered, so clear and simple did his
reasoning seem to him.
"But tell me, please, what am I to do now?" Anninka asked.
"Well, wait a while. Rest up first, loll around, get some sleep. We'll
talk the matter over and examine it from every angle, and we'll see
what can be done. Both of us together may think up something."
"Sister and I are of age, I think?"
"Yes, of age. Quite so. You can now manage yourself and your estate."
"Thank God at least for that."
"I have the honor to congratulate you."
Porfiry Vladimirych rose to kiss her.
"How funny you are, uncle, always kissing."
"Why shouldn't I kiss you? You are not a stranger, I may say, you are
my niece. I like kinsfolk, my dear. I am always for my relatives, near
or distant, second, third, or fourth cousins, I'm always with them."
"You'd better tell me what I am to do. Must I go to town and see all
the officials?"
"Yes, and we'll go to town and we'll attend to the matter--all in due
time. But before we do that, rest up a bit. Stay here a while. You are
not stopping at an inn but at your uncle's, I may say. You'll have
enough to eat and drink, and for your sweet tooth we've got plenty of
everything. If you don't like a dish, ask for a different one. Demand,
insist! If you don't care for cabbage soup, ask for chicken soup. Order
cutlets, duck, pork. Get after Yevpraksia. Here I boasted about pork
and I don't really know if we've got any. Have we?"
Yevpraksia, holding the saucer with the hot tea to her mouth, nodded
affirmatively.
"Well, you see, we've got pork too, and all in all you can have
whatever your heart desires."
Yudushka approached Anninka again and like a good relative clapped her
on the knee and quite inadvertently let his hand rest there a little,
so that Anninka instinctively recoiled.
"But I've got to go," she said.
"That's just what I've been saying. We'll discuss matters and talk
things over and then we'll go with a prayer and a benediction, but
not--hop! jump! run! The more haste the less speed. You may hurry to a
fire, but our house is not ablaze. Well, Lubinka has got to hurry to
the fair, but what is your hurry? Another thing I meant to ask you, Are
you going to live in Pogorelka?"
"No, there's nothing for me to do there."
"That's just what I was going to say. Move here, to my house. We'll
live here and have a fine time of it."
Yudushka looked at Anninka with such oily eyes that she became
embarrassed.
"No, uncle, I don't want to stay here with you. It's too dull."
"Oh, you silly little thing! Why do you keep repeating 'dull, dull?'
You speak of dullness and I'll bet you don't know what's dull around
here. If you have something to keep you busy, and if you know how to
manage yourself, you'll never feel dull. Take me, for example, I don't
notice how time flies. On week days I'm busy with the affairs of the
estate. I look at this and take a peep into that, and figure out one
thing and discuss another thing. Before I know it, the day is gone.
And on a holiday--to church! You will do the same thing. Stay with us
for a while. We'll find something for you to do. In your leisure time
you may play fool with Yevpraksia, or go sleigh-riding--slide along as
fast as you wish. And when summer comes we'll go to the woods picking
mushrooms. And we'll have tea on the lawn."
"No, uncle, it's no use trying to persuade me."
"Really, you ought to stay."
"No. But the journey has tired me, so I should like to go to bed if
possible."
"Yes, you can go rock-a-by. I've got a nice little bed ready for you,
everything in proper fashion. If you want to go rock-a-by, go right
ahead. But I should advise you to think the matter over. I think it
would be best for you to stay with us at Golovliovo."
CHAPTER IV
Anninka spent a restless night. The hysterical mood that had overtaken
her at Pogorelka still persisted. There are moments when a person
who has been merely existing suddenly realizes that there is a vile
ulcer of some kind festering in his life. Where it came from, how it
formed itself--one cannot always explain to oneself. In most cases it
is not ascribed to the causes that have really brought it on. But an
explanation is not even needed. It is sufficient that such an ulcer
exists. The effects of such a sudden discovery, while equally painful
to everyone, vary in their practical results, with the individual's
temperament. Some are rejuvenated and inspired with a determination to
begin a new life on new foundations. Others feel but a passing pain
that will not bring a profound change for the better, but is even
sharper than when the disturbed conscience sees the faint hope of a
brighter future.
Anninka was not of those in whom the consciousness of ulcers produces
the impulse to rejuvenation. Nevertheless, she realized, being an
intelligent person, that there was an abyss between the vague dreams
of honest toil which had impelled her to leave Pogorelka forever and
her position of provincial actress. Instead of a life of quiet and
toil, she had fallen upon a stormy existence, filled with perpetual
debauchery, shameless obscenity and cynicism, with vain and
everlasting bustle. Instead of the privations and stern surroundings
in which she had once lived, she had met comparative ease and comfort.
She could not think of it now without a blush of shame. She had
hardly noticed the gradual transformation. She had wanted to go to a
good place but had entered the wrong door. Her desires had been very
modest, indeed. How often she had dreamed, in the attic of Pogorelka,
of becoming an earnest girl, working, thirsting for education, bearing
hardships with fortitude, all for the sake of the good. (It is true,
"good" hardly had definite meaning to her.) But as soon as she had
stepped out on to the highroad of independent activity, bitter reality
had shattered her dreams at once. An honest livelihood does not come
of itself, but is attained only by persistent search and previous
training which help in the quest to some extent. But neither Anninka's
temperament nor education provided her with this. Her temperament
was not marked by passion, it was simply sensitive. The material
that her education had given her and on which she meant to build up
her life of honest toil was so unreliable and poor that it could
hardly serve as a basis for serious work. Her education was of the
boarding-school, music-hall kind, with the balance tipping to the side
of the music-hall. It was a chaotic heap in which problems were piled
up about a flock of geese, dancing steps with a shawl, the sermons of
Peter of Picardy, the exploits of Fair Helen, the _Ode to Felitza,_ and
the prescribed feeling of gratitude to the instructors and patrons of
the institution. What was left clear of this chaotic jumble in her soul
might quite properly be called a _tabula rasa_. There was scarcely a
thing to be read in it; it certainly offered no possibility of finding
a starting-point in her for better things. Whatever preparation she
had had inspired not love for work but love for a "society" life, the
desire to be surrounded by admirers and listen to their flattery, the
desire to plunge into the social din, glamor and whirlwind.
If she had listened to herself, she would have discovered that even in
Pogorelka, when just beginning to make plans for a life of honest toil
as a deliverance from Egyptian bondage, she could have caught herself
dreaming not so much of work as of being surrounded by a society of
congenial people, frittering her time away in empty talk. Of course,
the people of her dreams were clever, and their conversation was honest
and serious, but the idle side of life was always in the foreground.
Poverty was distinguished by neatness, privations amounted merely to
a lack of luxuries. So, when her dreams of a life of work came to a
head and she was offered a part in one of the provincial theatres,
she hesitated little, though the contrast between dream and reality
was great. She hastily freshened up her school information about the
relations of Helen and Menelaus, supplemented it by some biographical
details from the life of the splendid Prince of Tauris and decided
that that was quite sufficient to produce _Fair Helen_ and _Episodes
from the Life of the Duchess of Herolstein_ in the provincial theatres
and at the fairs. To clear her conscience she recalled the words of a
student she had met in Moscow who used to exclaim repeatedly, "Sacred
Art!" She made this her slogan, because it was the easiest way out,
and gave at least outward decorum to the path she had chosen--the path
toward which the whole of her being was instinctively tending.
The life of an actress upset her. Alone, without the guidance of proper
preparation, without a conscious aim, with only a temperament craving
for din, glamor, and applause, she soon found herself surrounded by
a chaos in which many persons thronged, some coming, others going,
without apparent order or connection. There were people of the most
diverse characters and views, so that the motives for becoming intimate
with this one or that one were not the same. Nevertheless, they were
all integral parts of her circle, so that there really could be no
question of motives.
Her life had become like the gate to an inn, at which every gay,
wealthy, young man could knock and claim entrance. Clearly it was
not a matter of selecting a congenial company, but of fitting into
any kind of company so as not to die of ennui. Her "sacred art" had
really thrown her into a mire, but her head was turned, and she did not
notice her position. Neither the dirty faces of the porters nor the
slimy, dilapidated stage properties, nor the din, stench, and noise of
the hotels and inns, nor the obscene behavior of her admirers--none
of these things produced a sobering effect. She did not even notice
that she was always in the society of men only, and that there was a
permanent barrier between her and the women of _established position._
The visit to Golovliovo sobered her for a moment.
In the morning, almost immediately after her arrival, she began to feel
uneasy. Highly impressionable, she quickly absorbed new sensations and
quickly adapted herself to new situations. Consequently, as soon as she
reached Golovliovo, she felt herself a "lady." She suddenly recalled
that she had something of her own: her own home, her own graves. She
became filled with a desire to see herself in her former surroundings,
to breathe the air from which she had only recently fled. But her
impression was immediately dispelled by contact with the reality she
found there. Her experience in this was like that of a person who
enters with a smile among friends he has not seen for a long time,
and suddenly notices that everybody responds to his cordial greetings
coldly. The nasty glances Yudushka cast at her figure reminded her
that her position was questionable and not easy to change. When she
remained alone, after the naïve questions of the Pogorelka servants,
after the pious sighs of warning of the Pogorelka priest and his wife,
after the fresh sermons of Yudushka, when she examined her impressions
of the day at leisure, she became convinced that the former "lady"
was gone forever and that from now on she was only an actress in a
miserable provincial theatre, and the position of a Russian actress was
not far removed from that of a street woman. Until now she had lived
as if in a dream. She would go out half-naked in _Fair Helen,_ would
appear intoxicated in _Pericola,_ would sing all sorts of indecencies
in the _Episodes from the Life of the Duchess of Herolstein,_ and
would even regret that it was not the custom to represent _la chose_
and _l'amour_ on the stage, imagining how enticingly her hips would
quiver and how alluring her every movement would be. But it had never
occurred to her to give earnest thought to what she was doing. She had
only tried to make everything appear "charming" and _chic_ and at the
same time please the army officers of the town regiment. But what it
all meant, and what the sensation was that her quivering hips produced
in the army officers, she did not consider. The army officers were
the element that set the tone for the town, and she realized that her
success depended upon them. They would intrude behind the scenes, would
unceremoniously knock at the door of her dressing-room when she was yet
half-clad, would address her in endearing terms--and she looked upon
it all as a simple formality, an inevitable feature incidental to her
profession. All she asked herself was whether she rendered a feature
"charmingly" or not.
Until now she had not thought of her body or her soul as being public,
but for a moment feeling herself a "lady" again, she looked on her past
in utter disgust and abhorrence, as if she had been stripped naked and
were being exposed on the public square; as if all those vile creatures
infected with the odors of wine and the stable had suddenly gripped
her in their embrace, as her body felt the contact of hands moist with
perspiration, of slabbery lips and the dull, greedy, brutal eyes that
lingered animal-like over the curved lines of her nude body.
Where was she to go? How was she to throw off that accumulated load,
which began to leave its mark on her shoulders? The question tossed
in her head desperately--tossed, indeed, for she neither found nor,
as a matter of fact, sought an answer. This stay in Golovliovo, too,
was a kind of dream. Her past life had been a dream, and her present
awakening was a dream. Something had made the little girl ill at ease,
and she had become sentimental--that was all. It would pass. There
are pleasant moments and there are unpleasant ones--that is how they
go. Both merely glide past but do not alter the course of life once
determined upon. To give life a new course, to divert its channel,
one needs not only moral but also physical courage. It is almost the
same as suicide. Before attempting suicide a man may denounce his life,
he may be certain that death is the only salvation, yet the weapon
of death trembles in his hands, the knife slides harmlessly over the
neck, the bullet, instead of striking the forehead, hits lower and
only cripples. That is what happened in Anninka's case. She had to
kill her former life, but though killing it, she herself had to remain
alive. The "nothingness" that in regular suicide is attained by merely
pressing the trigger, was to be attained in the peculiar suicide called
rejuvenation only after many stern almost ascetic efforts.
A pampered person already undermined by the habit of easy living will
turn dizzy at the mere perspective of a rejuvenation. He instinctively
turns his head away and shuts his eyes. Then filled with shame and
accusing himself of lack of courage, he will take the easy way again.
Oh, the life of toil is a glorious thing! Yet none but strong people
can live it and those who are destined for it because of original sin.
They are the only ones it does not frighten; the former because they
realize the significance and resources of toil and can find pleasure in
it; the latter, because to them toil is first a duty, then a habit.
Anninka did not think of remaining at Golovliovo or Pogorelka for even
a moment. In this she was fortified by the business routine of her
circumstances, to which she clung instinctively. She had been given
leave of absence and had arranged her schedule ahead of time, even
designating the day on which she was to leave Golovliovo. For people
of weak wills the external checks upon their life considerably lighten
its burdens. In difficult cases they cling to them instinctively and
use them as a justification for their acts.
Anninka decided to leave Golovliovo as soon as possible, and if uncle
persisted in his coaxing, to counter him by invoking the necessity of
reporting for duty on the set date.
When she arose in the morning she walked leisurely through all
the rooms of the vast Golovliovo mansion. She found them dreary,
uninviting, deserted. There was an air of decay and haunting
unfriendliness about them. The thought of living there indefinitely
quite frightened her. "Never!" she kept repeating in a state of
inexplicable agitation, "Never!"
CHAPTER V.
The next day Porfiry Vladimirych greeted her again with his ambiguous
geniality, from which it was impossible to gather whether he wanted to
show her affection or suck her blood dry.
"Well, you 'always-in-a-hurry-to-get-there,' did you sleep well? And
where are you hurrying to now?" he asked her jestingly.
"Yes, uncle, I am in a hurry, indeed. I am on leave of absence, you
know, and I must report on time."
"Is it to play the clown again? I won't let you."
"Whether you let me or not, I am going."
Yudushka shook his head sadly. "And what would your deceased grandma
say?" he asked in a tone of kindly reproach.
"Grandma knew about it when she was alive. But why do you use those
expressions, uncle? Yesterday you were sending me to the fairs with a
guitar and today you speak of playing the clown. I won't allow you to
talk like that to me, you hear?"
"Eh-eh! The truth hurts! Well, and I like the truth. I think that if
the truth----"
"No, no, I won't listen, I won't listen. I don't want your truth or
your untruth. Do you hear me? I don't want you to talk like that to me."
"Well, well! Look at her flaring up! Oh, you romp! Suppose we go in to
tea while the drinking is good. I suppose the samovar is making music
on the table by now."
Porfiry Vladimirych wanted by joke and jest to make amends for having
said "playing the clown," and even tried to embrace her as a sign of
reconciliation. But it all seemed so stupid to Anninka, so abominable,
that she declined his advance with repugnance.
"I tell you seriously, uncle, I am in a hurry," she said.
"Well, then, let's go and have tea first, then we'll talk."
"But why talk after tea? Why not now?"
"Because. Because everything has got to be done in its proper time.
First one, then the other, first we'll have tea and a chat, then we'll
talk business. Plenty of time."
She could not help but yield. His prattle was not to be overcome. They
went in to tea, and Yudushka temporized maliciously, sipping his tea
with deliberation, crossing himself, slapping his thigh, babbling about
his late mother dear, and so on.
"Well, now we can talk," he said at last. "Do you intend making a long
visit here?"
"Not more than a week. I have to be in Moscow before returning to the
company."
"A week is a long time, my dear. You can accomplish a lot in a week,
and you can accomplish little. It depends on how you go about it."
"We'd better try and accomplish a great deal, uncle."
"That's just what I say. You can do a lot and you can do little, and
sometimes you think you are doing little but before you look around,
all the work is attended to. Here, for instance, you are in a hurry to
go to Moscow, you've got business there, you say; and what the business
is, you yourself don't know, I dare say. But the way I look on it is
this, that you spend all your time here in real business instead of
going to Moscow."
"No, I must go to Moscow because I want to see if I can't get on the
stage there. And as to business, didn't you say we could accomplish a
lot in a week?"
"Depending on how you go about it, my friend. If you go about it
properly, all will be well and smooth, but if you don't go about it in
a proper way, well, you'll strike a snag, and the thing will drag on."
"Well, you guide me, uncle."
"That's just it. When in need then 'You guide me, uncle,' but when not
in need, then 'It's dull here, uncle, and I want to go away.' You can't
say I'm not right."
"But please do tell me just what I am to do."
"Wait, don't be in a hurry! So, as I was saying, when uncle is needed,
he is a dear and darling and a sweety, and when he is not needed he is
no good. But you would never trust your uncle and ask him, 'What do you
think, uncle dear, ought I to go to Moscow or not?'"
"How funny you are, uncle! I _must_ go to Moscow, and suppose I ask
your advice and you say no?"
"Well, if I say no, then stay here! It is not a stranger who says so.
It's your uncle, and you may as well take your own uncle's advice.
Oh, my friend! It's a good thing you've got an uncle. At least there
is somebody to feel with you and to warn you when necessary. Think of
others who have nobody. Nobody to feel with them, nobody to warn them.
And they live all by themselves. And things happen to them--many
things that happen in life, my dear."
Anninka wanted to reply, but realized it would be adding fuel to the
fire, and remained silent. She sat there, her eyes turned despairingly
at her uncle, who was going ahead under full steam.
"I wanted to tell you," Yudushka continued, "I don't like your going
to those fairs, no, I don't like it a bit. Though you didn't relish my
talking about guitars, I still must say--"
"But it is not enough to say 'I don't like.' Show me a way out."
"Stay with me. That's the way out."
"No, that never!"
"Why?"
"Because I have nothing to do here. What can I do here? Get up in the
morning, have tea, at tea think that breakfast is coming, at breakfast
think about dinner, and at dinner about afternoon tea. Then supper and
then to sleep. No, one can die here."
"They all do it, my friend. First people have tea, after tea those who
like to breakfast do so. I, for instance, don't like to have breakfast,
so I don't. Then dinner, then afternoon tea, then to bed. Well, I don't
see anything ridiculous or objectionable in it. But if I--"
"Nothing objectionable; but it is not after my heart."
"But if I had offended somebody, or misjudged or spoken ill, well,
then, really it would be objectionable. But to have tea and breakfast
and dinner--goodness! I guess, no matter how clever you are, you can't
get along without food."
"Yes, well and good, but it is not after my heart."
"But don't measure things by your own yardstick. Take the advice of
your elders. 'This I like, and that I don't like.' Now, you mustn't
talk that way! You ought to say instead, 'If it please God, or 'if it
does not please God'. That would be the proper kind of talk. Let's say,
for instance, in Golovliovo we don't live according to God, if we go
against Him, if we sin or question His wisdom, if we envy and do other
evil things, well, then we are really guilty and deserve to be blamed.
But here, too, it would have to be proved first that we really do not
act according to God. And you come and say, 'It is not my style.' Now,
take me as an example. There are many things that aren't my style.
Here, for instance, I don't like the way you talk to me, the way you
pooh-pooh my hospitality. Yet I keep mum. I want to persuade you in a
quiet way, maybe you'll come to your senses. Maybe while I am jesting
and talking lightly, along will come your guardian angel and lead you
along the right path. You know, my friend, I am solicitous not of my
welfare, but of yours. Ah, my friend, how bad of you! If, so to speak,
I had offended you by word or deed, well, then you would have reason
to complain. Though it behooves young people to heed even a sermon
when it comes from their elders, yet had I offended you, I wouldn't
mind your being angry. But here I am calm and quiet and easy. I don't
say a word, but only try to figure out how to make things better and
more comfortable for you and for others so that all may rejoice and
be happy. And look how you greet my kindness! What you want to do, my
dear, is not to be rash in your speech. First think, then pray to the
Lord and implore His guidance. And then if, let's say for example--"
Porfiry Vladimirych expatiated in this strain for a long time. His
words flowed like thick saliva. Anninka looked at him with instinctive
fear and thought, "How is it that the gush of words does not choke
him?" And for all his talk, her dear uncle did not utter a word of
advice as to what she was to do in connection with the death of Arina
Petrovna. She tried to bring the matter up at dinner and later at
afternoon tea, but every time Yudushka spun a different web, so that
Anninka was sorry she had resumed the conversation, and thought in
anguish, "Will it ever end?"
After dinner, when Porfiry Vladimirych retired for his afternoon nap,
Anninka remained alone with Yevpraksia and suddenly felt a desire to
have a talk with her uncle's housekeeper.
She wanted to know why Yevpraksia did not find it horrible to live at
Golovliovo and what gave her the strength to endure the torrents of
meaningless words that uncle's mouth belched forth from morning to
night.
"Do you find it dull here at Golovliovo, Yevpraksia?"
"Why should we find it dull? We are not of the gentlefolk."
"But still--always alone--no diversion, no pleasures--"
"What pleasures do I need? When it's dull, I look out of the window. I
didn't have much merriment when I lived with father."
"Still, I suppose, it was better at home. You had friends, went
visiting, played."
"Ah, what's the use!"
"And here with uncle. He says such dull things and he is so
long-winded. Is he always like that?"
"Always, all day long the same way."
"And it doesn't bore you?"
"Why should it? I don't listen to him."
"But it's impossible not to listen at all. He may notice it and become
offended."
"How can he tell? I look at him. He keeps on talking and I keep on
looking and at the same time I think my own thoughts."
"What do you generally think about?"
"Different things. If I have to pickle gherkins, I think about
gherkins. If I have to send someone to town, I think about town.
Whatever the household needs, that's what I think about."
"So, I see, you live with uncle, but you are always alone?"
"Yes, as good as alone. Unless he sometimes wishes to play cards. Well,
then we play cards. But even then he often stops in the middle of the
game, puts the cards away and begins to talk. And I look at him. It was
much livelier when Arina Petrovna was alive. When she was around he
was afraid to talk too much, because the old woman would often cut him
short. But now the liberties he takes are the limit."
"Well, you see, Yevpraksia, that's just the horror of it. It is
frightful when a man talks and does not know what he says, why he talks
and whether he'll ever get through. Doesn't it scare you?"
Yevpraksia looked at her as if struck by a new, wonderful idea.
"You're not the only one," she said. "Many people around here don't
like him for the same thing."
"Is that so?"
"Yes. Even the servants. Not one of them can stay here long. He changes
them almost every month. The clerks, too. And all on account of that."
"He annoys them?"
"Terribly. The drunkards--they stay because drunkards don't hear. You
may blow a bugle, but it's as if they had their ears stuffed. But the
trouble is, he doesn't like drunkards."
"Oh, Yevpraksia, and he is trying to persuade me to stay here."
"Well, madam, it really would be nice of you to stay a while. Maybe in
your presence he would be ashamed."
"No. Thank you. I haven't the patience to look at him."
"Yes, of course, you are of the gentlefolk. You can have your own way,
and at that I suppose you've got to dance to somebody's music."
"Oh, I should say so."
"Yes, I thought so. I meant to ask you another thing. Is it nice to be
an actress?"
"You earn your own bread and butter. That's one good thing."
"And is it true, as Porfiry Vladimirych was telling me, that strangers
embrace actresses about the waist?"
Anninka flushed up an instant.
"Porfiry Vladimirych does not understand," she said with irritation.
"That's why he talks nonsense. He seems to have no notion that it's
only play and not reality on the stage."
"And yet, even he, that is, Porfiry Vladimirych, when he saw you first,
his mouth began to water. 'My niece,' and 'dear,' and 'darling,' like a
gay blade. And his shameless eyes just devour you."
"Yevpraksia, why do you talk nonsense?"
"I? Oh, I don't care. You stay here and you'll see. And I--I don't
care. I'll give up my position, and go back to father. It's dull here,
anyway, you were right about it."
"It is silly for you to suppose that I am going to stay here. But
you're right about one thing, Golovliovo certainly _is_ a dull place.
And the longer you stay here the duller you feel."
Yevpraksia turned pensive, then yawned and said:
"When I stayed with father I was very, very slim. Now, you see how
stout I am, like an oven. So dullness does one good, after all."
"You won't stand it long, anyway. Remember what I say--you won't."
With this the conversation ended.
Luckily Porfiry Vladimirych did not hear it, otherwise he would have
obtained a new and fruitful theme for his endless sermonizing.
Porfiry Vladimirych tortured Anninka for two whole days. He kept on
saying, "Wait, don't be in a hurry! Quietly, easily. Say your prayers
and receive your benediction," and so on. He tired her to death.
Finally, on the fifth day, he was ready to go to town with her, though
he found another way of tormenting his dear niece.
She was in her fur coat waiting for him in the vestibule, and he, as if
to spite her, lingered a whole hour, dressing and washing and clapping
his thighs and crossing himself, and walking back and forth, and
sitting down, and giving orders. "Here--, or see to it--you know what I
mean. See that nothing happens--you know."
He behaved as if he were leaving Golovliovo not for a few hours, but
forever. Having tired everybody out, the men and horses who had been
waiting at the porch for an hour and a half, his own throat at last got
dry from gabbling, and he decided to start out.
The entire affair in town was concluded while the horses were eating
their oats at the inn. Porfiry Vladimirych produced an account book,
from which it appeared that when Arina Petrovna died the orphans had
twenty thousand rubles or a trifle less in five per cent securities.
Then the petition to remove the guardianship was filed, along with the
papers testifying to the majority of the orphans, and the order was
immediately issued to remove the guardianship and transfer both capital
and land to the rightful owners. In the evening of the same day Anninka
signed all the papers and inventories that Yudushka had prepared and
when all was done, heaved a sigh of relief.
The remaining few days Anninka spent in the greatest agitation. She
wanted to leave Golovliovo at once, but her uncle met her attempts with
a jest, which, good-natured as it sounded, screened a stupid obstinacy
that no human power could overcome.
"You yourself said you were going to stay a week. Then stay," he said.
"I don't understand why you are in such a hurry. You don't have to pay
rent, you are welcome without pay. You will have tea and dinner and
anything your heart may desire."
"But, uncle, I must go," Anninka pleaded.
"You are on pins and needles, but I am not going to give you horses,"
jested Yudushka. "I just won't give you horses, and you'll have to be
my prisoner. When the week is up, I won't say a word. We'll attend
mass, and have a bite, and some tea, and a chat, and we'll take a good
look at each other, and then--God speed you! But, see here, suppose
we visit the grave at Voplino again. It would be best to take leave of
your grandmother, you know. Maybe her soul will be of guidance to you."
"I shouldn't mind it," Anninka consented.
"So that's what we'll do. Early in the morning on Wednesday we'll
attend mass here, then we'll have a bite before you go, and then my
team will take you to Pogorelka. From there to Dvoriky you will go with
your own team. You are a landlady yourself, I dare say. You've got your
own horses."
She had to consent. There is something tremendously powerful in
vulgarity. It catches a person unawares, and while he is staring in
bewilderment, it has him in its clutches. When we pass a cesspool
we close our noses and try not to breathe. We have to do the same
violence to ourselves in an atmosphere saturated with idle chatter
and vulgarity, deaden our sight, hearing, smell and taste, overcome
all sensibility, turn into stone. Otherwise we run the danger of
suffocation from the miasma of vulgarity.
Anninka understood this, a bit late, perhaps. At any rate, she decided
to let the process of her liberation from the Golovliovo captivity
take its own course. She was so thoroughly overcome by Yudushka's
irresistible twaddle that she dared not resist when he, like a good
relative, embraced her and stroked her back, saying as he did so:
"You see, now you are a good little girl."
She recoiled instinctively at the touch of his trembling bony hand
creeping over her back, but was held back from any other expression of
loathing by the hope that he might release her when the week was up.
Luckily for her Yudushka was not at all squeamish. He perhaps observed
her impatient gestures but paid no attention to them. Evidently he
adhered to the theory of sexual relationship epitomized in the saying,
"Kiss me, whether you love me or not."
At last came the long expected day of departure. Anninka rose at about
six o'clock, but Yudushka was already up and about. He had already
performed the ceremonial of his morning prayers, and was sauntering
from room to room in dressing-gown and slippers without any plan or
purpose. He was visibly agitated, and when he met Anninka looked at
her askew. It was almost full daylight, but the weather was bad. The
sky was covered with massive dark clouds, from which a chilling sleet
was drizzling. The road along the hamlet had turned black and was full
of puddles--a forecast of roads impassable because of the thaw. A
strong south wind was blowing, another indication of thawing weather.
The trees had cast off their snowy mantles, and their nude wet tops
swayed drearily. The barns in the yard looked black and slimy. Porfiry
Vladimirych led Anninka to the window and pointed out the picture of
spring's awakening.
"Does it really pay to go?" he asked. "Would it not be better to stay,
after all?"
"Oh no, no!" she cried in a frightened voice. "The bad weather will
soon be over."
"Hardly. If you start now I doubt if you will reach Pogorelka before
seven o'clock. And in this thawing weather you cannot travel at night,
you know. So you'll have to spend a night at Pogorelka anyway."
"Oh, no! I'll travel at night. I'll leave at once. I am brave, you
know. And wait till one o'clock? Uncle, darling! Let me leave at once."
"And what would grandma say? 'That's the kind of granddaughter I
have!' she'll say. 'She came here, romped about, and wouldn't even come
to ask my blessing.'"
Porfiry Vladimirych stopped. For a while he shifted from one foot to
the other, then looked at Anninka, then lowered his eyes. Apparently he
was making up his mind about something.
"Wait, I'll show you something," he said at last, took a folded note
from his pocket and gave it to Anninka. "Here, read this."
Anninka read:
"I was praying to-day, and I asked my good, kind God to leave me my
good little Anninka. And the good, kind God said, 'Put your arm around
good little Anninka's plump waist and press her close to your heart.'"
"Yes?" he asked turning slightly pale.
"Fi, how nasty!" she answered, looking at him in bewilderment.
Porfiry Vladimirych turned still paler and hissed through his teeth:
"I suppose, we must have hussars!" then crossed himself and shuffled
out of the room.
In about fifteen minutes he returned and resumed his jesting as if
nothing had happened.
"Well?" he asked. "Are you going to stop at Voplino? Will you go and
say good-by to your old granny? Do, my dear, do. It is very good of you
to have thought of your grandma. Never forget your kinsfolk, my dear,
especially those who, in a manner of speaking, were willing to die for
us."
They attended the mass and requiem services, ate some kutya in the
church, then came home, ate some more kutya and sat down at the tea
table. Porfiry Vladimirych, as if to spite her, sipped his tea more
slowly than usual, and dragged his words out wearisomely, discoursing
in the intervals between gulps. About ten o'clock they finished tea,
and Anninka said imploringly:
"May I leave now, uncle?"
"And what about a bite? What about dinner? Did you really think your
uncle would let you leave on an empty stomach? Nay, nay. We are not
used to such things at Golovliovo. Why, mother dear would have refused
to look at me again if she knew I let my own niece go without a morsel.
Don't dare think of it. Why, it's impossible."
Again she had to surrender. An hour and a half passed, but there were
no signs of preparation for dinner. Everybody was going about his
business. Yevpraksia, her bunch of keys jingling, was seen in the
yard darting between the pantry and the cellar. Porfiry Vladimirych
was explaining things to his clerk, wearying him with meaningless
orders and incessantly slapping his own thighs in an effort to while
away the time. Anninka, left to herself, walked up and down the
dining-room, looked at the clock, counted her steps, then the ticks of
the clock--one, two, three. At times she glanced out of the window and
noticed the puddles were growing larger and larger.
Finally knives, forks and plates began to rattle. The butler Stepan
entered the dining-room and spread a cloth upon the table. It seemed as
if a part of Yudushka's idle bustle had communicated itself to him. He
shuffled the plates sluggishly, breathed on the drinking glasses, and
examined them, holding them up to the light. Dinner began just at one
o'clock.
"Well, so you are going," Porfiry Vladimirych opened the conversation,
in a manner befitting the occasion. Before him was a plate of soup, but
he did not touch it. He looked at Anninka so affectionately that the
tip of his nose turned red.
Anninka swallowed her soup hastily. At last he took up his spoon and
dipped it in the soup, but changed his mind, and placed it back on the
tablecloth.
"I am an old man, you'll have to pardon me," he began nagging, "you
swallowed your soup in a gulp, but I must take it slowly. I don't like
it when people are careless with God's gifts. God gave us bread for
sustenance, and look how much of it you have wasted. Look at all the
crumbs you scattered. Altogether, I like to do things thoroughly and
carefully. It comes out safer in the end. Maybe it annoys you that I
am not quick enough, that I can't jump through a hoop, or whatever
you call it. Well, what can I do? If you feel like being annoyed, go
ahead. I know you will be cross a little while and then forgive the old
man. Remember, _you_ are not going to be young always. You will not be
jumping through hoops all of your life. Life will give you experience
and teach you wisdom. Then you will say, 'Maybe uncle was right after
all.' So, my dear, now while you listen to me, you probably think,
'Uncle is no good. Uncle is an old grouch.' But if you live to my old
age, you'll pipe a different tune. You'll say, 'Uncle was nice. Uncle
was a dear. Uncle taught me right.'"
Porfiry Vladimirych crossed himself and swallowed two spoonfuls of
soup, then put his spoon down and leaned back in his chair as a sign of
an ensuing monologue.
"Bloodsucker!" was on the tip of her tongue, but she pulled herself up,
poured out a glass of water, and drank it at a gulp. Yudushka sensed
her mental state.
"So, you don't like it? Well, like it or not, you'd better take uncle's
advice. I've been long meaning to talk to you about your hasty way of
doing things, but I could not find the time to do it. I don't like that
haste in you. There is fickleness in it, a lack of judgment. When you
left your old grandmother, you had no business to leave her and cause
the old woman anxiety. I really don't see why you did it."
"Oh, uncle, why recall it? It's done. It isn't kind of you."
"Wait. That's not the point I'm making--kind or unkind--what I want to
say is that even when a thing has been done, it can be undone, or done
all over again. Not only we mortals, but even God alters His deeds.
Now He sends rain, now He sends fair weather. So, suppose--really, the
theatre isn't a good place--suppose you decide to stay."
"No, uncle, let's not speak about it, I beg of you."
"And there's another thing I want to tell you. Your fickleness is bad
enough, but what is still worse is the way you slight the advice of
your elders. I speak for your own good and you say, 'Let's not speak
about it.' Uncle is kind and tender, and you snap at him. But do you
know who gave you your uncle? Well, tell me--who?"
Anninka looked at him in perplexity.
"God gave you your uncle, that is who. God did it. If not for God, you
would now be all alone in the world, you would not know how to manage
things, or how to file a petition or where to file it, and what to
expect from it. You would be lost in the woods. Anybody could deceive
you, abuse you or even disgrace you. You see? And with the aid of God
and your uncle the whole deal went through in one day. We went to
town, and filed a petition and got the necessary mandates. You see, my
dear, what uncle can do?"
"Yes, uncle, I am grateful to you."
"Well, if you are, don't snap at me, and do as I tell you. I mean your
good, though at times it seems to you that----"
Anninka could hardly control herself. There was one way left to rid
herself of uncle's sermons--to feign that in principle she accepted his
proposal to remain at Golovliovo.
"All right, uncle," she said, "I'll think it over. I myself feel it is
not quite proper to live alone, far from relatives. But I can't make up
my mind now--I'll have to think it over."
"Well, I am glad to see you have understood me, but what is there to
think over? We'll have the horses unhitched, your trunks taken out of
the cart--that's all the thinking there is to be done."
"No, uncle, you forget I have a sister."
Whether her argument convinced Porfiry Vladimirych or whether the whole
scene had been staged for the mere show of it, it is hard to say.
Porfiry Vladimirych himself did not know whether Anninka really ought
to stay at Golovliovo or whether it was simply a whim of his. At any
rate, from that moment on dinner proceeded at a livelier pace. Anninka
agreed to everything he said and answered his questions in a manner
that did not provoke much nagging and babbling. Nevertheless, the clock
showed half past two when dinner was over. Anninka jumped up from the
table as if she had been sitting in a steam bath, and ran to her uncle
to say good-by.
In ten minutes Yudushka, in his fur coat and bear-skin boots, saw her
to the porch and in person supervised the process of seating the young
mistress in the pony cart.
"Easy when you go downhill--you hear? And see that you don't drop her
out at the Senkino slope!" he shouted to the driver.
Finally Anninka was seated, wrapped up, and the leather cover of the
cart was fastened.
"Suppose you stay!" Yudushka shouted again, wishing that in the
presence of the servants gathered about, all go off properly as befits
good kinsfolk. But Anninka already felt free, and was suddenly seized
with a desire to play a girlish prank. She stood up in the cart and
emphasizing every word, said, "No, uncle, I will not! You are a fright!"
Yudushka pretended not to hear, but his lips turned pale.
CHAPTER VI
Anninka was so overjoyed at her liberation from the Golovliovo bondage,
that she did not even stop to think of the man who at her departure
lost all contact with the world of living beings. She thought only
of herself. She enjoyed the feeling of escape. And the sensation of
freedom was so strong that when she visited the grave at Voplino again
there was no longer a trace of that nervous sensibility which she had
betrayed the first time. She listened to the requiem quietly, bowed
before the grave without shedding a tear, and quite willingly accepted
the priest's invitation to have tea with him.
The house of the Voplino priest was very scantily furnished. The
only room of state in the house, which served as the reception room,
looked naked and dreary. Along the walls were arranged about a dozen
painted chairs, upholstered with haircloth, in holes here and there,
and a sofa of the same kind with its back bulging out, like the chest
of an old-time general. Against one of the walls between two windows
stood a plain table covered with a soiled cloth, on which lay several
confession books of the parish. From behind them peeped an inkpot with
a quill stuck in it. An image case containing an ikon handed down as a
family heirloom and a burning ikon lamp were suspended in the eastern
corner of the room. Underneath the image case stood two trunks covered
with a drab faded cloth holding the family linen, the dowry of the lady
of the house. The walls were not papered. A few daguerreotype portraits
of bishops hung in the center of one wall. There was a peculiar odor
in the room, as if many generations of flies and black beetles had met
their fate there. The priest himself, though a young man, had become
considerably faded amidst these surroundings. His thin flaxen hair hung
from his head in long, straight locks, like the boughs of a weeping
willow. His eyes, once blue, were now lifeless. His voice trembled, his
beard had taken on a wedge-like shape, his merino cassock hung on him
loosely. His wife, also young, looked even more faded than her husband,
because of frequent child bearing.
Nevertheless, Anninka could not help noticing that even these poor
timid, worn-out people looked upon her not as at a real parishioner,
but in pity, as if she were a lost sheep.
"You were visiting at your uncle's?" began the priest, carefully
removing a cup of tea from the tray held by his wife.
"Yes, I stayed there about a week."
"Porfiry Vladimirych is now the chief landowner in the district, and
has the greatest power. But it looks as if luck is not with him. First
one son died, then the other, and now his mother has departed. I am
surprised he did not insist on your staying with him."
"Uncle wanted me to stay, but I did not care to."
"Why so?"
"I prefer to live in freedom."
"Freedom, madam, is not a bad thing, of course, but it has its
dangers. And when you think you are the nearest relative to Porfiry
Vladimirych, you could forego a bit of that freedom, I imagine."
"No, father, one's own bread tastes better. It's easier to live when
you know you are under no obligations to anyone."
The priest looked at her with his extinguished eyes, as if he meant to
ask, "Come now, do you really know what 'one's own bread is?'" but he
had not the courage to hurt her, so he only drew his cassock closer
about him.
"Do you receive much salary as an actress?" inquired the priest's wife.
The priest became thoroughly frightened, and even began to wink at his
wife. He expected Anninka to be offended, but Anninka was not offended
and answered without a waver, "At present I get a hundred and fifty
rubles a month, and my sister earns one hundred. But then we have
benefit performances. All told, the two of us net about six thousand a
year."
"Why does sister get less? Is she of inferior merit, or what?"
continued the priest's wife.
"No, hers is a different _genre._ I have a voice and I sing. The
audience likes it more. Sister's voice is a little weaker. So she plays
in vaudeville mostly."
"So even in acting some are priests, some deacons and others just
sextons?"
"Yes, but we share our income equally. That was our understanding from
the very beginning--to share all money equally."