And yet even this self-confident, unflinching giant had his moments of
melancholy and depression. Without any visible cause he would suddenly
begin to be sad; he would lock himself up alone in his room, and
hum--positively hum--like a whole hive of bees; or he would call his
page Maximka, and tell him to read aloud to him out of the solitary
book which had somehow found its way into his house, an odd volume
of Novikovsky’s _The Worker at Leisure_, or else to sing to him. And
Maximka, who by some strange freak of chance, could spell out print,
syllable by syllable, would set to work with the usual chopping up of
the words and transference of the accent, bawling out phrases of the
following description: ‘but man in his wilfulness draws from this empty
hypothesis, which he applies to the animal kingdom, utterly opposite
conclusions. Every animal separately,’ he says, ‘is not capable of
making me happy!’ and so on. Or he would chant in a shrill little
voice a mournful song, of which nothing could be distinguished but:
‘Ee … eee … ee … a … ee … a … ee … Aaa … ska! O … oo … oo … bee … ee
… ee … ee … la!’ While Martin Petrovitch would shake his head, make
allusions to the mutability of life, how all things turn to ashes,
fade away like grass, pass--and will return no more! A picture had
somehow come into his hands, representing a burning candle, which
the winds, with puffed-out cheeks, were blowing upon from all sides;
below was the inscription: ‘Such is the life of man.’ He was very fond
of this picture; he had hung it up in his own room, but at ordinary,
not melancholy, times he used to keep it turned face to the wall, so
that it might not depress him. Harlov, that colossus, was afraid of
death! To the consolations of religion, to prayer, however, he rarely
had recourse in his fits of melancholy. Even then he chiefly relied
on his own intelligence. He had no particular religious feeling; he
was not often seen in church; he used to say, it is true, that he did
not go on the ground that, owing to his corporeal dimensions, he was
afraid of squeezing other people out. The fit of depression commonly
ended in Martin Petrovitch’s beginning to whistle, and suddenly, in a
voice of thunder, ordering out his droshky, and dashing off about the
neighbourhood, vigorously brandishing his disengaged hand over the
peak of his cap, as though he would say, ‘For all that, I don’t care a
straw!’ He was a regular Russian.
V
Strong men, like Martin Petrovitch, are for the most part of a
phlegmatic disposition; but he, on the contrary, was rather easily
irritated. He was specially short-tempered with a certain Bitchkov,
who had found a refuge in our house, where he occupied a position
between that of a buffoon and a dependant. He was the brother of
Harlov’s deceased wife, had been nicknamed Souvenir as a little boy,
and Souvenir he had remained for every one, even the servants, who
addressed him, it is true, as Souvenir Timofeitch. His real name he
seemed hardly to know himself. He was a pitiful creature, looked
down upon by every one; a toady, in fact. He had no teeth on one
side of his mouth, which gave his little wrinkled face a crooked
appearance. He was in a perpetual fuss and fidget; he used to poke
himself into the maids’ room, or into the counting-house, or into the
priest’s quarters, or else into the bailiff’s hut. He was repelled
from everywhere, but he only shrugged himself up, and screwed up his
little eyes, and laughed a pitiful mawkish laugh, like the sound of
rinsing a bottle. It always seemed to me that had Souvenir had money,
he would have turned into the basest person, unprincipled, spiteful,
even cruel. Poverty kept him within bounds. He was only allowed drink
on holidays. He was decently dressed, by my mother’s orders, since in
the evenings he took a hand in her game of picquet or boston. Souvenir
was constantly repeating, ‘Certainly, d’rectly, d’rectly.’ ‘D’rectly
what?’ my mother would ask, with annoyance. He instantly drew back his
hands, in a scare, and lisped, ‘At your service, ma’am!’ Listening at
doors, backbiting, and, above all, quizzing, teasing, were his sole
interest, and he used to quiz as though he had a right to, as though he
were avenging himself for something. He used to call Martin Petrovitch
brother, and tormented him beyond endurance. ‘What made you kill my
sister, Margarita Timofeevna?’ he used to persist, wriggling about
before him and sniggering. One day Martin Petrovitch was sitting in the
billiard-room, a cool apartment, in which no one had ever seen a single
fly, and which our neighbour, disliking heat and sunshine, greatly
favoured on this account. He was sitting between the wall and the
billiard-table. Souvenir was fidgeting before his bulky person, mocking
him, grimacing.… Martin Petrovitch wanted to get rid of him, and thrust
both hands out in front of him. Luckily for Souvenir he managed to get
away, his brother-in-law’s open hands came into collision with the edge
of the billiard-table, and the billiard-board went flying off all its
six screws.… What a mass of batter Souvenir would have been turned into
under those mighty hands!