I believe I have already mentioned that, for this second daughter of
Harlov’s too, my mother had already prepared a match. This was one of
the poorest of our neighbours, a retired army major, Gavrila Fedulitch
Zhitkov, a man no longer young, and, as he himself expressed it, not
without a certain complacency, however, as though recommending himself,
‘battered and broken down.’ He could barely read and write, and was
exceedingly stupid but secretly aspired to become my mother’s steward,
as he felt himself to be a ‘man of action.’ ‘I can warm the peasant’s
hides for them, if I can do anything,’ he used to say, almost gnashing
his own teeth, ‘because I was used to it,’ he used to explain, ‘in my
former duties, I mean.’ Had Zhitkov been less of a fool, he would have
realised that he had not the slightest chance of being steward to my
mother, seeing that, for that, it would have been necessary to get rid
of the present steward, one Kvitsinsky, a very capable Pole of great
character, in whom my mother had the fullest confidence. Zhitkov
had a long face, like a horse’s; it was all overgrown with hair of
a dusty whitish colour; his cheeks were covered with it right up to
the eyes; and even in the severest frosts, it was sprinkled with an
abundant sweat, like drops of dew. At the sight of my mother, he drew
himself upright as a post, his head positively quivered with zeal, his
huge hands slapped a little against his thighs, and his whole person
seemed to express: ‘Command!… and I will strive my utmost!’ My mother
was under no illusion on the score of his abilities, which did not,
however, hinder her from taking steps to marry him to Evlampia.
‘Only, will you be able to manage her, my good sir?’ she asked him one
day.
Zhitkov smiled complacently.
‘Upon my word, Natalia Nikolaevna! I used to keep a whole regiment in
order; they were tame enough in my hands; and what’s this? A trumpery
business!’
‘A regiment’s one thing, sir, but a well-bred girl, a wife, is a very
different matter,’ my mother observed with displeasure.
‘Upon my word, ma’am! Natalia Nikolaevna!’ Zhitkov cried again, ‘that
we’re quite able to understand. In one word: a young lady, a delicate
person!’
‘Well!’ my mother decided at length, ‘Evlampia won’t let herself be
trampled upon.’
X
One day--it was the month of June, and evening was coming on--a servant
announced the arrival of Martin Petrovitch. My mother was surprised: we
had not seen him for over a week, but he had never visited us so late
before. ‘Something has happened!’ she exclaimed in an undertone. The
face of Martin Petrovitch, when he rolled into the room and at once
sank into a chair near the door, wore such an unusual expression, it
was so preoccupied and positively pale, that my mother involuntarily
repeated her exclamation aloud. Martin Petrovitch fixed his little eyes
upon her, was silent for a space, sighed heavily, was silent again, and
articulated at last that he had come about something … which … was of a
kind, that on account of.…
Muttering these disconnected words, he suddenly got up and went out.
My mother rang, ordered the footman, who appeared, to overtake Martin
Petrovitch at once and bring him back without fail, but the latter had
already had time to get into his droshky and drive away.
Next morning my mother, who was astonished and even alarmed, as much
by Martin Petrovitch’s strange behaviour as by the extraordinary
expression of his face, was on the point of sending a special messenger
to him, when he made his appearance. This time he seemed more composed.
‘Tell me, my good friend, tell me,’ cried my mother, directly she saw
him, ‘what ever has happened to you? I thought yesterday, upon my word
I did.… “Mercy on us!” I thought, “Hasn’t our old friend gone right off
his head?”’
‘I’ve not gone off my head, madam,’ answered Martin Petrovitch; ‘I’m
not that sort of man. But I want to consult with you.’
‘What about?’
‘I’m only in doubt, whether it will be agreeable to you in this same
contingency----’
‘Speak away, speak away, my good sir, but more simply. Don’t alarm
me! What’s this same contingency? Speak more plainly. Or is it your
melancholy come upon you again?’
Harlov scowled. ‘No, it’s not melancholy--that comes upon me in the new
moon; but allow me to ask you, madam, what do you think about death?’
My mother was taken aback. ‘About what?’
‘About death. Can death spare any one whatever in this world?’
‘What have you got in your head, my good friend? Who of us is immortal?
For all you’re born a giant, even to you there’ll be an end in time.’
‘There will! oh, there will!’ Harlov assented and he looked downcast.
‘I’ve had a vision come to me in my dreams,’ he brought out at last.
‘What are you saying?’ my mother interrupted him.
‘A vision in my dreams,’ he repeated--‘I’m a seer of visions, you know!’
‘You!’
‘I. Didn’t you know it?’ Harlov sighed. ‘Well, so.… Over a week ago,
madam, I lay down, on the very last day of eating meat before St.
Peter’s fast-day; I lay down after dinner to rest a bit, well, and so I
fell asleep, and dreamed a raven colt ran into the room to me. And this
colt began sporting about and grinning. Black as a beetle was the raven
colt.’ Harlov ceased.
‘Well?’ said my mother.
‘And all of a sudden this same colt turns round, and gives me a kick
in the left elbow, right in the funny bone.… I waked up; my arm would
not move nor my leg either. Well, thinks I, it’s paralysis; however, I
worked them up and down, and got them to move again; only there were
shooting pains in the joints a long time, and there are still. When I
open my hand, the pains shoot through the joints.’
‘Why, Martin Petrovitch, you must have lain upon your arm somehow and
crushed it.’
‘No, madam; pray, don’t talk like that! It was an intimation …
referring to my death, I mean.’
‘Well, upon my word,’ my mother was beginning.
‘An intimation. Prepare thyself, man, as ’twere to say. And therefore,
madam, here is what I have to announce to you, without a moment’s
delay. Not wishing,’ Harlov suddenly began shouting, ‘that the same
death should come upon me, the servant of God, unawares, I have planned
in my own mind this: to divide--now during my lifetime--my estate
between my two daughters, Anna and Evlampia, according as God Almighty
directs me--’ Martin Petrovitch stopped, groaned, and added, ‘without a
moment’s delay.’
‘Well, that would be a good idea,’ observed my mother; ‘though I think
you have no need to be in a hurry.’
‘And seeing that herein I desire,’ Harlov continued, raising his voice
still higher, ‘to be observant of all due order and legality, so I
humbly beg your young son, Dmitri Semyonovitch--I would not venture,
madam, to trouble you--I beg the said Dmitri Semyonovitch, your son,
and I claim of my kinsman, Bitchkov, as a plain duty, to assist at the
ratification of the formal act and transference of possession to my two
daughters--Anna, married, and Evlampia, spinster. Which act will be
drawn up in readiness the day after to-morrow at twelve o’clock, at my
own place, Eskovo, also called Kozulkino, in the presence of the ruling
authorities and functionaries, who are thereto invited.’
Martin Petrovitch with difficulty reached the end of this speech, which
he had obviously learnt by heart, and which was interspersed with
frequent sighs.… He seemed to have no breath left in his chest; his
pale face was crimson again, and he several times wiped the sweat off
it.
‘So you’ve already composed the deed dividing your property?’ my mother
queried. ‘When did you manage that?’
‘I managed it … oh! Neither eating, nor drinking----’
‘Did you write it yourself?’
‘Volodka … oh! helped.’
‘And have you forwarded a petition?’
‘I have, and the chamber has sanctioned it, and notice has been given
to the district court, and the temporary division of the local court
has … oh!… been notified to be present.’
My mother laughed. ‘I see, Martin Petrovitch, you’ve made every
arrangement already--and how quickly. You’ve not spared money, I should
say?’
‘No, indeed, madam.’
‘Well, well. And you say you want to consult with me. Well, my
little Dmitri can go; and I’ll send Souvenir with him, and speak to
Kvitsinsky.… But you haven’t invited Gavrila Fedulitch?’
‘Gavrila Fedulitch--Mr. Zhitkov--has had notice … from me also. As a
betrothed, it was only fitting.’
Martin Petrovitch had obviously exhausted all the resources of his
eloquence. Besides, it always seemed to me that he did not look
altogether favourably on the match my mother had made for his daughter;
possibly, he had expected a more advantageous marriage for his darling
Evlampia.
He got up from his chair, and made a scrape with his foot. ‘Thank you
for your consent.’
‘Where are you off to?’ asked my mother. ‘Stay a bit; I’ll order some
lunch to be served you.’
‘Much obliged,’ responded Harlov. ‘But I cannot.… Oh! I must get home.’
He backed and was about to move sideways, as his habit was, through the
door.
‘Stop, stop a minute,’ my mother went on, ‘can you possibly mean to
make over the whole of your property without reserve to your daughters?’
‘Certainly, without reserve.’
‘Well, but how about yourself--where are you going to live?’
Harlov positively flung up his hands in amazement. ‘You ask where? In
my house, at home, as I’ve lived hitherto … so henceforward. Whatever
difference could there be?’
‘You have such confidence in your daughters and your son-in-law, then?’
‘Were you pleased to speak of Volodka? A poor stick like him? Why, I
can do as I like with him, whatever it is … what authority has he? As
for them, my daughters, that is, to care for me till I’m in the grave,
to give me meat and drink, and clothe me.… Merciful heavens! it’s their
first duty. I shall not long be an eyesore to them. Death’s not over
the hills--it’s upon my shoulders.’
‘Death is in God’s hands,’ observed my mother; ‘though that is their
duty, to be sure. Only pardon me, Martin Petrovitch; your elder girl,
Anna, is well known to be proud and imperious, and--well--the second
has a fierce look.…’
‘Natalia Nikolaevna!’ Harlov broke in, ‘why do you say that?… Why,
as though they … My daughters … Why, as though I … Forget their duty?
Never in their wildest dreams.… Offer opposition? To whom? Their parent
… Dare to do such a thing? Have they not my curse to fear? They’ve
passed their life long in fear and in submission--and all of a sudden …
Good Lord!’
Harlov choked, there was a rattle in his throat.
‘Very well, very well,’ my mother made haste to soothe him; ‘only I
don’t understand all the same what has put it into your head to divide
the property up now. It would have come to them afterwards, in any
case. I imagine it’s your melancholy that’s at the bottom of it all.’
‘Eh, ma’am,’ Harlov rejoined, not without vexation, ‘you will keep
coming back to that. There is, maybe, a higher power at work in this,
and you talk of melancholy. I thought to do this, madam, because in my
own person, while still in life, I wish to decide in my presence, who
is to possess what, and with what I will reward each, so that they may
possess, and feel thankfulness, and carry out my wishes, and what their
father and benefactor has resolved upon, they may accept as a bountiful
gift.’
Harlov’s voice broke again.
‘Come, that’s enough, that’s enough, my good friend,’ my mother cut him
short; ‘or your raven colt will be putting in an appearance in earnest.’
‘O Natalia Nikolaevna, don’t talk to me of it,’ groaned Harlov. ‘That’s
my death come after me. Forgive my intrusion. And you, my little sir, I
shall have the honour of expecting you the day after to-morrow.’
Martin Petrovitch went out; my mother looked after him, and shook her
head significantly. ‘This is a bad business,’ she murmured, ‘a bad
business. You noticed’--she addressed herself to me--‘he talked, and
all the while seemed blinking, as though the sun were in his eyes;
that’s a bad sign. When a man’s like that, his heart’s sure to be
heavy, and misfortune threatens him. You must go over the day after
to-morrow with Vikenty Osipovitch and Souvenir.’