The police captain read the real formal document, the deed of gift,
drawn up by Martin Petrovitch. Then he went out on to the steps
with the attorney and explained what had taken place to the crowd
assembled at the gates, consisting of the witnesses required by law
and other people from the neighbourhood, Harlov’s peasants, and a few
house-serfs. Then began the ceremony of the new owners entering into
possession. They came out, too, upon the steps, and the police captain
pointed to them when, slightly scowling with one eyebrow, while his
careless face assumed for an instant a threatening air, he exhorted
the crowd to ‘subordination.’ He might well have dispensed with these
exhortations: a less unruly set of countenances than those of the
Harlov peasants, I imagine, have never existed in creation. Clothed
in thin smocks and torn sheepskins, but very tightly girt round their
waists, as is always the peasants’ way on solemn occasions, they
stood motionless as though cut out of stone, and whenever the police
captain uttered any exclamation such as, ‘D’ye hear, you brutes? d’ye
understand, you devils?’ they suddenly bowed all at once, as though at
the word of command. Each of these ‘brutes and devils’ held his cap
tight in both hands, and never took his eyes off the window, where
Martin Petrovitch’s figure was visible. The witnesses themselves were
hardly less awed. ‘Is any impediment known to you,’ the police captain
roared at them, ‘against the entrance into possession of these the sole
and legitimate heirs and daughters of Martin Petrovitch Harlov?’
All the witnesses seemed to huddle together at once.
‘Do you know any, you devils?’ the police captain shouted again.
‘We know nothing, your excellency,’ responded sturdily a little old
man, marked with small-pox, with a clipped beard and whiskers, an old
soldier.
‘I say! Eremeitch’s a bold fellow!’ the witnesses said of him as they
dispersed.
In spite of the police captain’s entreaties, Harlov would not come out
with his daughters on to the steps. ‘My subjects will obey my will
without that!’ he answered. Something like sadness had come over him
on the completion of the conveyance. His face had grown pale. This new
unprecedented expression of sadness looked so out of place on Martin
Petrovitch’s broad and kindly features that I positively was at a
loss what to think. Was an attack of melancholy coming over him? The
peasants, on their side, too, were obviously puzzled. And no wonder!
‘The master’s alive,--there he stands, and such a master, too; Martin
Petrovitch! And all of a sudden he won’t be their owner.… A queer
thing!’ I don’t know whether Harlov had an inkling of the notions
that were straying through his ‘subjects’ heads, or whether he wanted
to display his power for the last time, but he suddenly opened the
little window, stuck his head out, and shouted in a voice of thunder,
‘obedience!’ Then he slammed-to the window. The peasants’ bewilderment
was certainly not dispelled nor decreased by this proceeding. They
became stonier than ever, and even seemed to cease looking at anything.
The group of house-serfs (among them were two sturdy wenches, in short
chintz gowns, with muscles such as one might perhaps match in Michael
Angelo’s ‘Last Judgment,’ and one utterly decrepit old man, hoary with
age and half blind, in a threadbare frieze cloak, rumoured to have been
‘cornet-player’ in the days of Potemkin,--the page Maximka, Harlov had
reserved for himself) this group showed more life than the peasants;
at least, it moved restlessly about. The new mistresses themselves
were very dignified in their attitude, especially Anna. Her thin lips
tightly compressed, she looked obstinately down … her stern figure
augured little good to the house-serfs. Evlampia, too, did not raise
her eyes; only once she turned round and deliberately, as it were
with surprise, scanned her betrothed, Zhitkov, who had thought fit,
following Sletkin, to come out, too, on to the steps. ‘What business
have you here?’ those handsome prominent eyes seemed to demand. Sletkin
was the most changed of all. A bustling cheeriness showed itself in his
whole bearing, as though he were overtaken by hunger; the movements of
his head and his legs were as obsequious as ever, but how gleefully he
kept working his arms, how fussily he twitched his shoulder-blades.
‘Arrived at last!’ he seemed to say. Having finished the ceremony of
the entrance into possession, the police captain, whose mouth was
literally watering at the prospect of lunch, rubbed his hands in that
peculiar manner which usually precedes the tossing-off of the first
glass of spirits. But it appeared that Martin Petrovitch wished first
to have a service performed with sprinklings of holy water. The priest
put on an ancient and decrepit chasuble; a decrepit deacon came out
of the kitchen, with difficulty kindling the incense in an old brazen
church-vessel. The service began. Harlov sighed continually; he was
unable, owing to his corpulence, to bow to the ground, but crossing
himself with his right hand and bending his head, he pointed with the
forefinger of his left hand to the floor. Sletkin positively beamed and
even shed tears. Zhitkov, with dignity, in martial fashion, flourished
his fingers only slightly between the third and fourth button of his
uniform. Kvitsinsky, as a Catholic, remained in the next room. But
the attorney prayed so fervently, sighed so sympathetically after
Martin Petrovitch, and so persistently muttered and chewed his lips,
turning his eyes upwards, that I felt moved, as I looked at him, and
began to pray fervently too. At the conclusion of the service and the
sprinkling with holy water, during which every one present, even the
blind cornet-player, the contemporary of Potemkin, even Kvitsinsky,
moistened their eyes with holy water, Anna and Evlampia once more, at
Martin Petrovitch’s bidding, prostrated themselves to the ground to
thank him. Then at last came the moment of lunch. There were a great
many dishes and all very nice; we all ate terribly much. The inevitable
bottle of Don wine made its appearance. The police captain, who was of
all of us the most familiar with the usages of the world, and besides,
the representative of government, was the first to propose the toast
to the health ‘of the fair proprietresses!’ Then he proposed we should
drink to the health of our most honoured and most generous-hearted
friend, Martin Petrovitch. At the words ‘most generous-hearted,’
Sletkin uttered a shrill little cry and ran to kiss his benefactor.…
‘There, that’ll do, that’ll do,’ muttered Harlov, as it were with
annoyance, keeping him off with his elbow.… But at this point a not
quite pleasant, as they say, incident took place.