After that the conversation between the guests became confidential and
very jolly. They were talking about the stout officer; he smiled as he
listened to what they were saying about him.
"How can one have such perverted taste!" cried one, through the
laughter. "Mlle. Clarisse! You know, Strúgov prefers such of the women
as have chicken calves."
Though Mlle. Clarisse did not understand the salt of that remark, she
behind her counter burst out into a laughter as silvery as her bad
teeth and advanced years permitted.
"Has the Siberian lady turned him to such thoughts?" and she laughed
more heartily still. M. Chevalier himself roared with laughter, as he
said:
"_Ce vieux coquin_," patting the officer of Cossacks on his head and
shoulders.
"But who are they, those Siberians? Mining proprietors or merchants?"
one of the gentlemen asked, during a pause in the laughter.
"Nikíta, ask ze passport from ze chentleman zat as come," said M.
Chevalier.
"We, Alexander, ze Autocrat--" M. Chevalier began to read the passport,
which had been brought in the meantime, but the officer of Cossacks tore
it out of his hands, and his face expressed surprise.
"Guess who it is," he said, "for you all know him by reputation."
"How can we guess? Show it to us! Well, Abdel Kader, ha, ha, ha! Well,
Cagliostro-- Well, Peter III.--ha, ha, ha, ha!"
"Well, read it!"
The officer of Cossacks unfolded the paper and read the name of him who
once had been Prince Peter Ivánovich, and the family name which
everybody knows and pronounces with a certain respect and pleasure, when
speaking of a person bearing that name, as of a near and familiar
person. We shall call him Labázov. The officer of Cossacks had a dim
recollection that this Peter Labázov had been something important in the
year '25, and that he had been sent to hard labour,--but what he had
been famous for, he did not exactly know. But of the others not one knew
anything about him, and they replied:
"Oh, yes, the famous prince," just as they would have said, "Of course,
he is famous!" about Shakespeare, who had written the "Æneid." But they
recognized him from the explanations of the stout officer, who told
them that he was a brother of Prince Iván, an uncle of the Chíkins, of
Countess Prut, in short, the well-known--
"He must be very rich, if he is a brother of Prince Iván," remarked one
of the young men, "if the fortune has been returned to him. It has been
returned to some."
"What a lot of exiles are returning nowadays!" remarked another.
"Really, fewer seem to have been sent away, than are returning now.
Zhikínski, tell us that story of the 18th!" he turned to an officer of
sharp-shooters, who had the reputation of being a good story-teller.
"Do tell it!"
"In the first place, it is a true story, and happened here, at
Chevalier's, in the large hall. Three Decembrists came to have their
dinner. They were sitting at one table, eating, drinking, talking.
Opposite them sat down a gentleman of respectable mien, of about the
same age, and he listened to their talking about Siberia. He asked them
something, they exchanged a few words, began to converse, and it turned
out that he, too, was from Siberia.
"'And do you know Nerchínsk?'
"'Indeed I do, I lived there.'
"'And do you know Tatyána Ivánovna?'
"'Of course I do!'
"'Permit me to ask you,--were you, too, exiled?'
"'Yes, I had the misfortune to suffer, and you?'
"'We are all exiles of the 14th of December. It is strange that we
should not know you, if you, too, were exiled for the 14th. Permit me to
know your name!'
"'Fédorov.'
"'Also for the 14th?'
"'No, for the 18th.'
"'For the 18th?'
"'For the 18th of September, for a gold watch. I was falsely accused of
having stolen it, and I suffered, though innocent.'"
All of them rolled in laughter, except the story-teller, who with a most
serious face looked at the outstretched hearers and swore that it was a
true story.
Soon after the story one of the young men got up and went to the club.
He passed through the halls which were filled with tables at which old
men were playing whist; turned into the "infernal region," where the
famous "Puchin" had begun his game against the "company;" stood for
awhile near one of the billiard-tables, where, holding on to the
cushion, a distinguished old man was fumbling around and with difficulty
striking a ball; looked into the library, where a general, holding a
newspaper a distance away from him, was reading it slowly above his
glasses, and a registered young man turned the leaves of one periodical
after another, trying to make no noise; and finally seated himself on a
divan in the billiard-room, near some young people who were playing
pyramids, and who were as much gilded as he was.
It was a day of dinners, and there were there many gentlemen who always
frequented the club. Among them was Iván Vavílovich Pákhtin. He was a
man of about forty years of age, of medium stature, fair-complexioned,
with broad shoulders and hips, with a bare head, and a glossy, happy,
clean-shaven face. He was not playing at pyramids, but had just sat down
beside Prince D----, with whom he was on "thou" terms, and had accepted
a glass of champagne which had been offered to him. He had located
himself so comfortably after the dinner, having quietly unbuckled his
trousers at the back, that it looked as though he could sit there all
his life, smoking a cigar, drinking champagne, and feeling the proximity
of princes, counts, and the children of ministers. The news of the
arrival of the Labázovs interfered with his calm.
"Where are you going, Pákhtin," said a minister's son, having noticed
during the game that Pákhtin had got up, pulled his waistcoat down, and
emptied his champagne in a large gulp.
"Syévernikov has invited me," said Pákhtin, feeling a restlessness in
his legs. "Well, will you go there?"
"Anastásya, Anastásya, please unlock the door for me." That was a
well-known gipsy-song, which was in vogue at that time.
"Perhaps. And you?"
"Where shall I, an old married man, go?"
"Well!"
Pákhtin, smiling, went to the glass hall, to join Syévernikov. He was
fond of having his last word appear to be a joke. And so it came out at
that time, too.
"Well, how is the countess's health?" he asked, walking over to
Syévernikov, who had not called him at all, but who, according to
Pákhtin's surmise, should more than any one else learn of the arrival of
the Labázovs. Syévernikov had somehow been mixed up with the affair of
the 14th, and was a friend of the Decembrists. The countess's health was
much better, and Pákhtin was very glad to hear it.
"Do you know, Labázov has arrived; he is staying at Chevalier's."
"You don't say so! We are old friends. How glad I am! How glad! The poor
old fellow must have grown old. His wife wrote to my wife--"
But Syévernikov did not finish saying what it was she had written,
because his partners, who were playing without trumps, had made some
mistake. While speaking with Iván Pávlovich, he kept an eye on them, and
now he leaned forward with his whole body against the table, and,
thumping it with his hands, he tried to prove that they ought to have
played from the seven. Iván Pávlovich got up and, going up to another
table, in the middle of a conversation informed another worthy gentleman
of his bit of news, again got up, and repeated the same at a third
table. The worthy gentlemen were all glad to hear of the arrival of the
Labázovs, so that, upon returning to the billiard-room, Iván Pávlovich,
who at first had had his misgivings about whether he had to rejoice in
the return of the Labázovs, or not, no longer started with an
introduction about the ball, about an article in the _Messenger_, about
health, or weather, but approached everybody directly with the
enthusiastic announcement of the safe return of the famous Decembrist.
The old man, who was still vainly endeavouring to hit the white ball
with his cue, would, in Pákhtin's opinion, be very much delighted to
hear the news. He went up to him.
"Are you playing well, your Excellency?" he said, just as the old man
stuck his cue into the marker's red waistcoat, wishing to indicate that
it had to be chalked.
"Your Excellency" was not said, as you might think, from a desire of
being subservient (no, that was not the fashion in '56). Iván Pávlovich
was in the habit of calling the old man by his name and patronymic, but
this was said partly as a joke on men who spoke that way, partly in
order to hint that he knew full well to whom he was talking, and yet was
taking liberties, and partly in truth: altogether it was a very delicate
jest.
"I have just learned that Peter Labázov has returned. Straight from
Siberia, with his whole family."
These words Pákhtin pronounced just as the old man again missed his
ball, for such was his bad luck.
"If he has returned as cracked as he went away, there is no cause for
rejoicing," gruffly said the old man, who was irritated by his
incomprehensible failure.
This statement vexed Iván Pávlovich, and again he was at a loss whether
there was any cause for rejoicing at Labázov's return, and, in order
fully to settle his doubt, he directed his steps to a room, where
generally assembled the clever people, who knew the meaning and value of
each thing, and, in short, knew everything. Iván Pávlovich was on the
same footing of friendship with the frequenters of the intellectual room
as with the gilded youths and with the dignitaries. It is true, he had
no special place of his own in the intellectual room, but nobody was
surprised to see him enter and seat himself on a divan. They were just
discussing in what year and upon what occasion there had taken place a
quarrel between two Russian journalists. Waiting for a moment of
silence, Iván Pávlovich communicated his bit of news, not as something
joyous, nor as an unimportant event, but as though part of the
conversation. But immediately, from the way the "intellectuals" (I use
the word "intellectuals" as a name for the frequenters of the
"intellectual" room) received the news and began to discuss it, Iván
Pávlovich understood that it belonged there, and that only there would
it receive such an elaboration as to enable him to carry it farther and
_savoir à quoi s'en tenir_.
"Labázov was the only one who was wanting," said one of the
intellectuals; "now all the living Decembrists have returned to Russia."
"He was one of the herd of the famous--" said Pákhtin, still with an
inquisitive glance, prepared to make that quotation both jocular and
serious.
"Indeed, Labázov was one of the most remarkable men of that time," began
an intellectual. "In 1819 he was an ensign of the Seménovski regiment,
and was sent abroad with messages to Duke Z----. Then he returned and in
the year '24 was received in the First Masonic lodge. The Masons of that
time used all to gather at the house of D---- and at his house. He was
very rich. Prince Zh----, Fédor D----, Iván P----, those were his
nearest friends. Then his uncle, Prince Visarión, to remove the young
man from that society, took him to Moscow."
"Pardon me, Nikoláy Stepánovich," another intellectual interrupted him,
"it seems to me that that happened in the year '23, because Visarión
Labázov was appointed a commander of the Third Corps in '24, and was
then in Warsaw. He had offered him an adjutantship, and after his
refusal, he was removed. However, pardon me for interrupting you."
"Not at all. Proceed!"
"Pardon me!"
"Proceed! You ought to know that better than I, and, besides, your
memory and knowledge have been sufficiently attested here."
"In Moscow he against his uncle's will left the army," continued the one
whose memory and knowledge had been attested, "and there he gathered
around him a second society, of which he was the progenitor and the
heart, if it be possible so to express it. He was rich, handsome,
clever, educated; they say he was exceedingly amiable. My aunt used to
tell me that she did not know a more bewitching man. Here he married
Miss Krínski, a few months before the revolt broke out."
"The daughter of Nikoláy Krínski, the one of Borodinó fame, you know,"
somebody interrupted him.
"Well, yes. Her immense fortune he still possesses, but his own paternal
estate passed over to his younger brother, Prince Iván, who is now
Ober-Hof-Kaffermeister" (he gave him some such name) "and was a
minister."
"The best thing is what he did for his brother," continued the narrator.
"When he was arrested, there was one thing which he succeeded in
destroying, and that was his brother's letters and documents."
"Was his brother mixed up in it, too?"
The narrator did not say "Yes," but compressed his lips and gave a
significant wink.
"Then, during all the inquests Peter Labázov kept denying everything
which concerned his brother, and so suffered more than the rest. But the
best part of it is that Prince Iván got all the property, and never sent
a penny to his brother."
"They say that Peter Labázov himself declined it," remarked one of the
hearers.
"Yes; but he declined it only because Prince Iván wrote him before the
coronation, excusing himself and saying that if he had not taken it, it
would have been confiscated, and that he had children and debts, and
that now he was unable to return it to him. Peter Labázov replied to him
in two lines: 'Neither I nor my heirs have any right, nor can have any
right, to the property legally appropriated by you.' That was all. How
was that? And Prince Iván swallowed it, and in delight locked up that
document with the notes in a safe, and showed it to no one."
One of the peculiarities of the intellectual room was that its visitors
knew, whenever they wanted to know, everything that was taking place in
the world, no matter how secret the event might have been.
"Still it is a question," said a new interlocutor, "whether it was just
to deprive the children of Prince Iván of the property, with which they
have grown up and have been educated, and to which they thought they had
a right."
Thus the conversation was transferred to an abstract sphere, which did
not interest Pákhtin.
He felt the necessity of communicating the news to fresh people, and so
he rose and, speaking to the right and to the left, walked from one hall
to another. One of his fellow officers stopped him to give him the news
of Labázov's arrival.
"Who does not know that?" replied Iván Pávlovich, with a calm smile,
turning to the exit. The news had had time to complete its circle, and
was again returning to him.
There was nothing else to do in the club, and he went to an evening
party. It was not a special entertainment, but a salon where guests were
received any evening. There were there eight ladies, and one old
colonel, and all found it terribly dull. Pákhtin's firm gait alone and
his smiling face cheered the ladies and maidens. And the news was the
more appropriate, since the old Countess Fuks and her daughter were
present in the salon. When Pákhtin told nearly word for word what he had
heard in the intellectual room, Madame Fuks, shaking her head and
marvelling at her old age, began to recall how she used to go out
together with Natásha Krínski, the present Princess Labázov.
"Her marriage is a very romantic story, and all that happened under my
eyes. Natásha was almost engaged to Myátlin, who was later killed in a
duel with Debras. Just then Prince Peter arrived in Moscow, fell in love
with her, and proposed to her. But her father, who wanted Myátlin very
much,--they were, in general, afraid of Labázov because he was a
Mason,--refused him. The young man continued to see her at balls,
everywhere, and became friendly with Myátlin, whom he begged to decline.
Myátlin agreed to do so, and he persuaded her to elope. She, too,
agreed, but the last repentance----" (the conversation was taking place
in French), "and she went to her father and said that everything was
ready for the elopement, and she could leave him, but hoped for his
magnanimity. And, indeed, her father forgave her,--everybody begged for
her,--and gave his consent. Thus the wedding was celebrated, and it was
a jolly wedding! Who of us thought that a year later she would follow
him to Siberia! She, an only daughter, the most beautiful, the richest
woman of that time. Emperor Alexander always used to notice her at
balls, and had danced with her so often. Countess G---- gave a _bal
costumé_,--I remember it as though it were to-day,--and she was a
Neapolitan maid, oh, so charming! Whenever he came to Moscow, he used to
ask, '_que fait la belle Napolitaine_?' And suddenly this woman, in such
a condition (she bore a child on the way), did not stop for a moment to
think, without preparing anything, without collecting her things, just
as she was, when they took him, followed him a distance of five thousand
versts."
"Oh, what a remarkable woman!" said the hostess.
"Both he and she were remarkable people," said another lady. "I have
been told,--I don't know whether it is true,--that wherever they worked
in the mines in Siberia, or whatever it is called, the convicts, who
were with them, improved in their presence."
"But she has never worked in the mines," Pákhtin corrected her.
How much that year '56 meant! Three years before no one had been
thinking of the Labázovs, and if any one recalled them, it was with that
unaccountable feeling of dread with which one speaks of one lately dead;
but now they vividly recalled all the former relations, all the
beautiful qualities, and each lady was making a plan for getting the
monopoly of the Labázovs, in order to treat the other guests to them.
"Their son and their daughter have come with them," said Pákhtin.
"If they are only as handsome as their mother used to be," said Countess
Fuks. "Still, their father, too, was very, very handsome."
"How could they educate their children there?" asked the hostess.
"They say, nicely. They say that the young man is as nice, as amiable,
and as cultured as though he had been brought up in Paris."
"I predict great success to that young person," said a homely spinster.
"All those Siberian ladies have something pleasantly trivial about them,
which everybody, however, likes."
"Yes, yes," said another spinster.
"Here we have another rich prospective bride," said a third spinster.
The old colonel, of German origin, who had come to Moscow three years
before, in order to marry a rich girl, decided as quickly as possible,
before the young people knew anything about it, to present himself and
propose. But the spinsters and ladies thought almost the same about the
young Siberian.
"No doubt that is the one I am destined to marry," thought a spinster
who had been going out for eight years.
"No doubt it was for the best that that stupid officer of the Chevalier
Guards did not propose to me. I should certainly have been unhappy."
"Well, they will again grow yellow with envy, if this one, too, falls in
love with me," thought a young and pretty lady.
We hear much about the provincialism of small towns,--but there is
nothing worse than the provincialism of the upper classes. There are no
new persons there, and society is prepared to receive all kinds of new
persons, if they should make their appearance; but they are rarely, very
rarely, recognized as belonging to their circle and accepted, as was the
case with the Labázovs, and the sensation produced by them is stronger
than in a provincial town.