"This is Moscow, white-stoned Mother Moscow," said Peter Ivánovich,
rubbing his eyes in the morning, and listening to the tolling of the
bells which was proceeding from Gazette Lane. Nothing so vividly
resurrects the past as sounds, and these sounds of the Moscow bells,
combined with the sight of a white wall opposite the window, and with
the rumbling of wheels, so vividly reminded him not only of the Moscow
which he had known thirty-five years before, but also of the Moscow with
the Kremlin, with the palaces, with Iván the bell, and so forth, which
he had been carrying in his heart, that he experienced a childish joy at
being a Russian, and in Moscow.
There appeared the Bukhara morning-gown, wide open over the broad chest
with its chintz shirt, the pipe with its amber, the lackey with soft
manners, tea, the odour of tobacco; a loud male voice was heard in
Chevalier's apartments; there resounded the morning kisses, and the
voices of daughter and son, and the Decembrist was as much at home as in
Irkútsk, and as he would have been in New York or in Paris.
No matter how much I should like to present to my readers the Decembrist
hero above all foibles, I must confess, for truth's sake, that Peter
Ivánovich took great pains in shaving and combing himself, and in
looking at himself in the mirror. He was dissatisfied with the garments,
which had been made in Siberia with little elegance, and two or three
times he buttoned and unbuttoned his coat.
But Natálya Nikoláevna entered the drawing-room, rustling with her black
moire gown, with mittens and with ribbons in her cap, which, though not
according to the latest fashion, were so arranged that, far from making
her appear _ridicule_, they made her look _distinguée_. For this ladies
have a special sixth sense and perspicacity, which cannot be compared to
anything.
Sónya, too, was so dressed that, although she was two years behind in
fashion, she could not be reproached in any way. On her mother
everything was dark and simple, and on the daughter bright and
cheerful.
Serézha had just awakened, and so they went by themselves to mass.
Father and mother sat in the back seat, and their daughter was opposite
them. Vasíli climbed on the box, and the hired carriage took them to the
Kremlin. When they got out of the carriage, the ladies adjusted their
robes, and Peter Ivánovich took the arm of his Natálya Nikoláevna, and,
throwing back his head, walked up to the door of the church. Many
people, merchants, officers, and everybody else, could not make out what
kind of people they were.
Who was that old man with his old sunburnt, and still unblanched face,
with the large, straight work wrinkles of a peculiar fold, different
from the wrinkles acquired in the English club, with snow-white hair and
beard, with a good, proud glance and energetic movements? Who was that
tall lady with that determined gait, and those weary, dimmed, large,
beautiful eyes? Who was that fresh, stately, strong young lady, neither
fashionable, nor timid? Merchants? No, no merchants. Germans? No, no
Germans. Gentlefolk? No, they are different,--they are distinguished
people. Thus thought those who saw them in church, and for some reason
more readily and cheerfully made way for them than for men in thick
epaulets. Peter Ivánovich bore himself just as majestically as at the
entrance, and prayed quietly, with reserve, and without forgetting
himself. Natálya Nikoláevna glided down on her knees, took out a
handkerchief, and wept much during the cherubical song. Sónya seemed to
be making an effort over herself in order to pray. Devotion did not come
to her, but she did not look around, and diligently made the signs of
the cross.
Serézha stayed at home, partly because he had overslept himself, partly
because he did not like to stand through a mass, which made his legs
faint,--a matter he was unable to understand, since it was a mere trifle
for him to walk forty miles on snow-shoes, whereas standing through
twelve pericopes was the greatest physical torture for him,--but chiefly
because he felt that more than anything he needed a new suit of clothes.
He dressed himself and went to Blacksmith Bridge. He had plenty of
money. His father had made it a rule, ever since his son had passed his
twenty-first year, to let him have as much money as he wished. It lay
with him to leave his parents entirely without money.
How sorry I am for the 250 roubles which he threw away in Kuntz's shop
of ready-made clothes! Any one of the gentlemen who met Serézha would
have been only too happy to show him around, and would have regarded it
as a piece of happiness to go with him to get his clothes made. But, as
it was, he was a stranger in the crowd, and, making his way in his cap
along Blacksmith Bridge, he went to the end, without looking into the
shops, opened the door, and came out from it in a cinnamon-coloured
half-dress coat, which was tight (though at that time they wore wide
coats), and in loose black trousers (though they wore tight trousers),
and in a flowery atlas waistcoat, which not one of the gentlemen, who
were in Chevalier's special room, would have allowed their lackeys to
wear, and bought a number of other a things; on the other hand, Kuntz
marvelled at the young man's slender waist, the like of which, as he
explained to everybody, he had never seen. Serézha knew that he had a
beautiful waist, and he was very much flattered by the praise of a
stranger, such as Kuntz was.
He came out with 250 roubles less, but was dressed badly, in fact so
badly that his apparel two days later passed over into Vasíli's
possession and always remained a disagreeable memory for Serézha.
At home he went down-stairs, seated himself in the large hall, looking
now and then into the sanctum, and ordered a breakfast of such strange
dishes that the servant in the kitchen had to laugh. Then he asked for
a periodical, and pretended to be reading. When the servant, encouraged
by the inexperience of the young man, addressed some questions to him,
Serézha said, "Go to your place!" and blushed. But he said this so
proudly that the servant obeyed. Mother, father, and daughter, upon
returning home, found his clothes excellent.
Do you remember that joyous sensation of childhood, when you were
dressed up for your name-day and taken to mass, and when, upon returning
with a holiday expression in your clothes, upon your countenance, and in
your soul, you found toys and guests at home? You knew that on that day
there would be no classes, that even the grown-ups celebrated on that
day, and that that was a day of exceptions and pleasures for the whole
house; you knew that you alone were the cause of that holiday, and that
you would be forgiven, no matter what you might do, and you were
surprised to see that the people in the streets did not celebrate along
with your home folk, and the sounds were more audible, and the colours
brighter,--in short, a name-day sensation. It was a sensation of that
kind that Peter Ivánovich experienced on his return from church.
Pákhtin's solicitude of the evening before did not pass in vain: instead
of toys Peter Ivánovich found at home several visiting-cards of
distinguished Muscovites, who, in the year '56, regarded it as their
peremptory duty to show every attention possible to a famous exile, whom
they would under no consideration have wished to see three years before.
In the eyes of Chevalier, the porter, and the servants of the hotel, the
appearance of carriages asking for Peter Ivánovich, on that one morning
increased their respect and subserviency tenfold.
All those were name-day toys for Peter Ivánovich. No matter how much
tried in life, how clever a man may be, the expression of respect from
people respected by a large number of men is always agreeable. Peter
Ivánovich felt light of heart when Chevalier, bowing, offered to change
his apartments and asked him to order anything he might need, and
assured him that he regarded Peter Ivánovich's visit as a piece of luck,
and when, examining the visiting-cards and throwing them into a vase, he
called out the names of Count S----, Prince D----, and so forth.
Natálya Nikoláevna said that she would not receive anybody and that she
would go at once to the house of Márya Ivánovna, to which Peter
Ivánovich consented, though he wished very much to talk to some of the
visitors.
Only one visitor managed to get through before the refusal to meet him.
That was Pákhtin. If this man had been asked why he went away from the
Prechístenka to go to Gazette Lane, he would have been unable to give
any excuse, except that he was fond of everything new and remarkable,
and so had come to see Peter Ivánovich, as something rare. One would
think that, coming to see a stranger for no other reason than that, he
would have been embarrassed. But the contrary was true. Peter Ivánovich
and his son and Sónya Petróvna became embarrassed. Natálya Nikoláevna
was too much of a _grande dame_ to become embarrassed for any reason
whatever. The weary glance of her beautiful black eyes was calmly
lowered on Pákhtin. But Pákhtin was refreshing, self-contented, and
gaily amiable, as always. He was a friend of Márya Ivánovna's.
"Ah!" said Natálya Nikoláevna.
"Not a friend,--the difference of our years,--but she has always been
kind to me."
Pákhtin was an old admirer of Peter Ivánovich's,--he knew his
companions. He hoped that he could be useful to the newcomers. He would
have appeared the previous evening, but could not find the time, and
begged to be excused, and sat down and talked for a long time.
"Yes, I must tell you, I have found many changes in Russia since then,"
Peter Ivánovich said, in reply to a question.
The moment Peter Ivánovich began to speak, you ought to have seen with
what respectful attention Pákhtin received every word that flew out of
the mouth of the distinguished old man, and how after each sentence, at
times after a word, Pákhtin with a nod, a smile, or a motion of his eyes
gave him to understand that he had received and accepted the memorable
sentence or word.
The weary glance approved of that manoeuvre. Sergyéy Petróvich seemed to
be afraid lest his father's conversation should not be weighty enough,
corresponding to the attention of the hearer. Sónya Petróvna, on the
contrary, smiled that imperceptible self-satisfied smile which people
smile who have caught a man's ridiculous side. It seemed to her that
nothing was to be got from him, that he was a "shyúshka," as she and her
brother nicknamed a certain class of people.
Peter Ivánovich declared that during his journey he had seen enormous
changes, which gave him pleasure.
"There is no comparison, the masses--the peasants--stand so much higher
now, have so much greater consciousness of their dignity," he said, as
though repeating some old phrases. "I must say that the masses have
always interested me most. I am of the opinion that the strength of
Russia does not lie in us, but in the masses," and so forth.
Peter Ivánovich with characteristic zeal evolved his more or less
original ideas in regard to many important subjects. We shall hear more
of them in fuller form. Pákhtin was melting for joy, and fully agreed
with him in everything.
"You must by all means meet the Aksátovs. Will you permit me to
introduce them to you, prince? You know they have permitted him to
publish his periodical. To-morrow, they say, the first number will
appear. I have also read his remarkable article on the consistency of
the theory of science in the abstract. Remarkably interesting. Another
article, the history of Servia in the eleventh century, of that famous
general Karbovánets, is also very interesting. Altogether an enormous
step."
"Indeed," said Peter Ivánovich. But he was apparently not interested in
all these bits of information; he did not even know the names and merits
of all those men whom Pákhtin quoted as universally known.
But Natálya Nikoláevna, without denying the necessity of knowing all
these men and conditions, remarked in justification of her husband that
Pierre received his periodicals very late. He read entirely too much.
"Papa, shall we not go to aunty?" asked Sónya, upon coming in.
"We shall, but we must have our breakfast. Won't you have anything?"
Pákhtin naturally declined, but Peter Ivánovich, with the hospitality
characteristic of every Russian and of him in particular, insisted that
Pákhtin should eat and drink something. He himself emptied a wine-glass
of vódka and a tumbler of Bordeaux. Pákhtin noticed that as he was
filling his glass, Natálya accidentally turned away from it, and the son
cast a peculiar glance on his father's hands.
After the wine, Peter Ivánovich, in response to Pákhtin's questions
about what his opinion was in respect to the new literature, the new
tendency, the war, the peace (Pákhtin had a knack of uniting the most
diversified subjects into one senseless but smooth conversation), in
response to these questions Peter Ivánovich at once replied with one
general _profession de foi_, and either under the influence of the wine,
or of the subject of the conversation, he became so excited that tears
appeared in his eyes, and Pákhtin, too, was in ecstasy, and himself
became tearful, and without embarrassment expressed his conviction that
Peter Ivánovich was now in advance of all the foremost men and should
become the head of all the parties. Peter Ivánovich's eyes became
inflamed,--he believed what Pákhtin was telling him,--and he would have
continued talking for a long time, if Sónya Petróvna had not schemed to
get Natálya Nikoláevna to put on her mantilla, and had not come herself
to raise Peter Ivánovich from his seat. He poured out the rest of the
wine into a glass, but Sónya Petróvna drank it.
"What is this?"
"I have not had any yet, papa, pardon."
He smiled.
"Well, let us go to Márya Ivánovna's. You will excuse us, Monsieur
Pákhtin."
And Peter Ivánovich left the room, carrying his head high. In the
vestibule he met a general, who had come to call on his old
acquaintance. They had not seen each other for thirty-five years. The
general was toothless and bald.
"How fresh you still are!" he said. "Evidently Siberia is better than
St. Petersburg. These are your family,--introduce me to them! What a
fine fellow your son is! So to dinner to-morrow?"
"Yes, yes, by all means."
On the porch they met the famous Chikháev, another old acquaintance.
"How did you find out that I had arrived?"
"It would be a shame for Moscow if it did not know it. It is a shame
that you were not met at the barrier. Where do you dine? No doubt with
your sister, Márya Ivánovna. Very well, I shall be there myself."
Peter Ivánovich always had the aspect of a proud man for one who could
not through that exterior make out the expression of unspeakable
goodness and impressionableness; but just then even Márya Nikoláevna was
delighted to see his unwonted dignity, and Sónya Petróvna smiled with
her eyes, as she looked at him. They arrived at the house of Márya
Ivánovna. Márya Ivánovna was Peter Ivánovich's godmother and ten years
his senior. She was an old maid.
Her history, why she did not get married, and how she had passed her
youth, I will tell some time later.
She had lived uninterruptedly for forty years in Moscow. She had neither
much intelligence, nor great wealth, and she did not think much of
connections,--on the contrary; and there was not a man who did not
respect her. She was so convinced that everybody ought to respect her
that everybody actually respected her. There were some young liberals
from the university who did not recognize her power, but these gentlemen
made a bold front only in her absence. She needed only to enter the
drawing-room with her royal gait, to say something in her calm manner,
to smile her kindly smile, and they were vanquished. Her society
consisted of everybody. She looked upon all of Moscow as her home folk,
and treated them as such. She had friends mostly among the young people
and clever men, but women she did not like. She had also dependents,
whom our literature has for some reason included with the Hungarian
woman and with generals in one common class for contempt; but Márya
Ivánovna considered it better for Skópin, who had been ruined in cards,
and Madame Byéshev, whom her husband had driven away, to be living with
her than in misery, and so she kept them.
But the two great passions in Márya Ivánovna's present life were her two
brothers. Peter Ivánovich was her idol. Prince Iván was hateful to her.
She had not known that Peter Ivánovich had arrived; she had attended
mass, and was just finishing her coffee.
At the table sat the vicar of Moscow, Madame Byéshev, and Skópin. Márya
Ivánovna was telling them about young Count V----, the son of P----
Z----, who had returned from Sevastopol, and with whom she was in love.
(She had some passion all the time.) He was to dine with her on that
day. The vicar got up and bowed himself out. Márya Ivánovna did not keep
him,--she was a freethinker in this respect: she was pious, but had no
use for monks and laughed at the ladies that ran after them, and boldly
asserted that in her opinion monks were just such men as we sinful
people, and that it was better to find salvation in the world than in a
monastery.
"Give the order not to receive anybody, my dear," she said, "I will
write to Pierre. I cannot understand why he is not coming. No doubt,
Natálya Nikoláevna is ill."
Márya Ivánovna was of the opinion that Natálya Nikoláevna did not like
her and was her enemy. She could not forgive her because it was not she,
his sister, who had given up her property and had followed him to
Siberia, but Natálya Nikoláevna, and because her brother had definitely
declined her offer when she got ready to go with him. After thirty-five
years she was beginning to believe that Natálya Nikoláevna was the best
woman in the world and his guardian angel; but she was envious, and it
seemed all the time to her that she was not a good woman.
She got up, took a few steps in the parlour, and was on the point of
entering the cabinet when the door opened, and Madame Byéshev's
wrinkled, grayish face, expressing joyous terror, was thrust through the
door.
"Márya Ivánovna, prepare yourself," she said.
"A letter?"
"No, something better--"
But before she had a chance to finish, a man's loud voice was heard in
the antechamber:
"Where is she? Go, Natásha."
"He!" muttered Márya Ivánovna, walking with long, firm steps toward her
brother. She met them all as though she had last seen them the day
before.
"When didst thou arrive? Where have you stopped? How have you come,--in
a carriage?" Such were the questions which Márya Ivánovna put, walking
with them to the drawing-room and not hearing the answers, and looking
with large eyes, now upon one, and now upon another. Madame Byéshev was
surprised at this calm, even indifference, and did not approve of it.
They all smiled; the conversation died down, and Márya Ivánovna looked
silently and seriously at her brother.
"How are you?" asked Peter Ivánovich, taking her hand, and smiling.
Peter Ivánovich said "you" to her, though she had said "thou." Márya
Ivánovna once more looked at his gray beard, his bald head, his teeth,
his wrinkles, his eyes, his sunburnt face, and recognized all that.
"Here is my Sónya."
But she did not look around.
"What a stup--" her voice faltered, and she took hold of his bald head
with her large white hands. "What a stupid you are," she had intended to
say, "not to have prepared me," but her shoulders and breast began to
tremble, her old face twitched, and she burst out into sobs, pressing to
her breast his bald head, and repeating: "What a stupid you are not to
have prepared me!"
Peter Ivánovich no longer appeared as such a great man to himself, not
so important as he had appeared on Chevalier's porch. His back was
resting against a chair, but his head was in his sister's arms, his nose
was pressed against her corset, his nose was tickled, his hair
dishevelled, and there were tears in his eyes. But he felt happy.
When this outburst of joyous tears was over, Márya Ivánovna understood
what had happened and believed it, and began to examine them all. But
several times during the course of the day, whenever she recalled what
he had been then, and what she had been, and what they were now, and
whenever the past misfortunes, and past joys and loves, vividly rose in
her imagination, she was again seized by emotion, and got up and
repeated: "What a stupid you are, Pierre, what a stupid not to have
prepared me!"
"Why did you not come straight to me? I should have found room for you,"
said Márya Ivánovna. "At least, stay to dinner. You will not feel
lonesome, Sergyéy,--a young, brave Sevastopol soldier is dining here
to-day. Do you not know Nikoláy Mikháylovich's son? He is a writer,--has
written something nice. I have not read it, but they praise it, and he
is a dear fellow,--I shall send for him. Chikháev, too, wanted to come.
He is a babbler,--I do not like him. Has he already called on you? Have
you seen Nikíta? That is all nonsense. What do you intend to do? How are
you, how is your health, Natálya? What are you going to do with this
young fellow, and with this beauty?"
But the conversation somehow did not flow.
Before dinner Natálya Nikoláevna went with the children to an old aunt;
brother and sister were left alone, and he began to tell her of his
plans.
"Sónya is a young lady, she has to be taken out; consequently, we are
going to live in Moscow," said Márya Ivánovna.
"Never."
"Serézha has to serve."
"Never."
"You are still as crazy as ever."
But she was just as fond of the crazy man.
"First we must stay here, then go to the country, and show everything to
the children."
"It is my rule not to interfere in family matters," said Márya
Ivánovna, after calming down from her agitation, "and not to give
advice. A young man has to serve, that I have always thought, and now
more than ever. You do not know, Pierre, what these young men nowadays
are. I know them all: there, Prince Dmítri's son is all ruined. Their
own fault. I am not afraid of anybody, I am an old woman. It is not
good." And she began to talk about the government. She was dissatisfied
with it for the excessive liberty which was given to everything. "The
one good thing they have done was to let you out. That is good."
Pierre began to defend it, but Márya Ivánovna was not Pákhtin: they
could come to no terms. She grew excited.
"What business have you to defend it? You are just as senseless as ever,
I see."
Peter Ivánovich grew silent, with a smile which showed that he did not
surrender, but that he did not wish to quarrel with Márya Ivánovna.
"You are smiling. We know that. You do not wish to discuss with me, a
woman," she, said, merrily and kindly, and casting a shrewd, intelligent
glance at her brother, such as could not be expected from her old,
large-featured face. "You could not convince me, my friend. I am ending
my three score and ten. I have not been a fool all that time, and have
seen a thing or two. I have read none of your books, and I never will.
There is only nonsense in them!"
"Well, how do you like my children? Serézha?" Peter Ivánovich said, with
the same smile.
"Wait, wait!" his sister replied, with a threatening gesture. "Don't
switch me off on your children! We shall have time to talk about them.
Here is what I wanted to tell you. You are a senseless man, as senseless
as ever, I see it in your eye. Now they are going to carry you in their
arms. Such is the fashion. You are all in vogue now. Yes, yes, I see by
your eyes that you are as senseless as ever," she added, in response to
his smile. "Keep away, I implore you in the name of Jesus Christ our
Lord, from those modern liberals. God knows what they are up to. I know
it will not end well. Our government is silent just now, but when it
comes later to showing up the nails, you will recall my words. I am
afraid lest you should get mixed up in things again. Give it up! It is
all nonsense. You have children."
"Evidently you do not know me, Márya Ivánovna," said her brother.
"All right, all right, we shall see. Either I do not know you, or you do
not know yourself. I just told you what I had on my heart, and if you
will listen to me, well and good. Now we can talk about Serézha. What
kind of a lad is he?" She wanted to say, "I do not like him very much,"
but she only said: "He resembles his mother remarkably: they are like
two drops of water. Sónya is you all over,--I like her very much, very
much--so sweet and open. She is a dear. Where is she, Sónya? Yes, I
forgot."
"How shall I tell you? Sónya will make a good wife and a good mother,
but my Serézha is clever, very clever,--nobody will take that from him.
He studied well,--a little lazy. He is very fond of the natural
sciences. We have been fortunate: we had an excellent, excellent
teacher. He wants to enter the university,--to attend lectures on the
natural sciences, chemistry--"
Márya Ivánovna scarcely listened when her brother began to speak of the
natural sciences. She seemed to feel sad, especially when he mentioned
chemistry. She heaved a deep sigh and replied directly to that train of
thoughts which the natural sciences evoked in her.
"If you knew how sorry I am for them, Pierre," she said, with sincere,
calm, humble sadness. "So sorry, so sorry. A whole life before them. Oh,
how much they will suffer yet!"
"Well, we must hope that they will be more fortunate than we."
"God grant it, God grant it! It is hard to live, Pierre! Take this one
advice from me, my dear: don't philosophize! What a stupid you are,
Pierre, oh, what a stupid! But I must attend to matters. I have invited
a lot of people, but how am I going to feed them?" She flared up, turned
away, and rang the bell.
"Call Tarás!"
"Is the old man still with you?"
"Yes; why, he is a boy in comparison with me."
Tarás was angry and clean, but he undertook to get everything done.
Soon Natálya Nikoláevna and Sónya, agleam with cold and happiness, and
rustling in their dresses, entered the room; Serézha was still out,
attending to some purchases.
"Let me get a good look at her!"
Márya Ivánovna took her face. Natálya Nikoláevna began to tell
something.