Next day Martin Petrovitch came to dinner. My mother congratulated him
on the successful conclusion of his project. ‘You are now a free man,’
she said, ‘and ought to feel more at ease.’
‘More at ease, to be sure, madam,’ answered Martin Petrovitch, by no
means, however, showing in the expression of his face that he really
was more at ease. ‘Now I can meditate upon my soul, and make ready for
my last hour, as I ought.’
‘Well,’ queried my mother, ‘and do the shooting pains still tingle in
your arms?’
Harlov twice clenched and unclenched his left arm. ‘They do, madam; and
I’ve something else to tell you. As I begin to drop asleep, some one
cries in my head, “Take care!” “Take care!”’
‘That’s nerves,’ observed my mother, and she began speaking of the
previous day, and referred to certain circumstances which had attended
the completion of the deed of partition.…
‘To be sure, to be sure,’ Harlov interrupted her, ‘there was something
of the sort … of no consequence. Only there’s something I would
tell you,’ he added, hesitating--‘I was not disturbed yesterday by
Souvenir’s silly words--even Mr. Attorney, though he’s no fool--even he
did not trouble me; no, it was quite another person disturbed me----’
Here Harlov faltered.
‘Who?’ asked my mother.
Harlov fastened his eyes upon her: ‘Evlampia!’
‘Evlampia? Your daughter? How was that?’
‘Upon my word, madam, she was like a stone! nothing but a statue! Can
it be she has no feeling? Her sister, Anna--well, she was all she
should be. She’s a keen-witted creature! But Evlampia--why, I’d shown
her--I must own--so much partiality! Can it be she’s no feeling for
me! It’s clear I’m in a bad way; it’s clear I’ve a feeling that I’m
not long for this world, since I make over everything to them; and yet
she’s like a stone! she might at least utter a sound! Bows--yes, she
bows, but there’s no thankfulness to be seen.’
‘There, give over,’ observed my mother, ‘we’ll marry her to Gavrila
Fedulitch … she’ll soon get softer in his hands.’
Martin Petrovitch once more looked from under his brows at my mother.
‘Well, there’s Gavrila Fedulitch, to be sure! You have confidence in
him, then, madam?’
‘I’ve confidence in him.’
‘Very well; you should know best, to be sure. But Evlampia, let me
tell you, is like me. The character is just the same. She has the wild
Cossack blood, and her heart’s like a burning coal!’
‘Why, do you mean to tell me you’ve a heart like that, my dear sir?’
Harlov made no answer. A brief silence followed.
‘What are you going to do, Martin Petrovitch,’ my mother began, ‘in
what way do you mean to set about saving your soul now? Will you set
off to Mitrophan or to Kiev, or may be you’ll go to the Optin desert,
as it’s in the neighbourhood? There, they do say, there’s a holy monk
appeared … Father Makary they call him, no one remembers any one like
him! He sees right through all sins.’
‘If she really turns out an ungrateful daughter,’ Harlov enunciated in
a husky voice, ‘then it would be better for me, I believe, to kill her
with my own hands!’
‘What are you saying! Lord, have mercy on you!’ cried my mother.
‘Think what you’re saying! There, see, what a pretty pass it’s come to.
You should have listened to me the other day when you came to consult
me! Now, here, you’ll go tormenting yourself, instead of thinking of
your soul! You’ll be tormenting yourself, and all to no purpose! Yes!
Here you’re complaining now, and faint-hearted.…’
This reproach seemed to stab Harlov to the heart. All his old pride
came back to him with a rush. He shook himself, and thrust out his
chin. ‘I am not a man, madam, Natalia Nikolaevna, to complain or be
faint-hearted,’ he began sullenly. ‘I simply wished to reveal my
feelings to you as my benefactress and a person I respect. But the Lord
God knows (here he raised his hand high above his head) that this globe
of earth may crumble to pieces before I will go back from my word, or …
(here he positively snorted) show a faint heart, or regret what I have
done! I had good reasons, be sure! My daughters will never forget their
duty, for ever and ever, amen!’
My mother stopped her ears. ‘What’s this for, my good sir, like a
trumpet-blast! If you really have such faith in your family, well,
praise the Lord for it! You’ve quite put my brains in a whirl!’
Martin Petrovitch begged pardon, sighed twice, and was silent. My
mother once more referred to Kiev, the Optin desert, and Father
Makary.… Harlov assented, said that ‘he must … he must … he would have
to … his soul …’ and that was all. He did not regain his cheerfulness
before he went away. From time to time he clenched and unclenched
his fist, looked at his open hand, said that what he feared above
everything was dying without repentance, from a stroke, and that he had
made a vow to himself not to get angry, as anger vitiated his blood and
drove it to his head.… Besides, he had now withdrawn from everything.
What grounds could he have for getting angry? Let other people trouble
themselves now and vitiate their blood!
As he took leave of my mother he looked at her in a strange way,
mournfully and questioningly … and suddenly, with a rapid movement,
drew out of his pocket the volume of _The Worker’s Leisure-Hour_, and
thrust it into my mother’s hand.
‘What’s that?’ she inquired.
‘Read … here,’ he said hurriedly, ‘where the corner’s turned down,
about death. It seems to me, it’s terribly well said, but I can’t make
it out at all. Can’t you explain it to me, my benefactress? I’ll come
back again and you explain it me.’
With these words Martin Petrovitch went away.
‘He’s in a bad way, he’s in a bad way,’ observed my mother, directly
he had disappeared through the doorway, and she set to work upon the
_Leisure-Hour_. On the page turned down by Harlov were the following
words:
‘Death is a grand and solemn work of nature. It is nothing else than
that the spirit, inasmuch as it is lighter, finer, and infinitely more
penetrating than those elements under whose sway it has been subject,
nay, even than the force of electricity itself, so is chemically
purified and striveth upward till what time it attaineth an equally
spiritual abiding-place for itself …’ and so on.
My mother read this passage through twice, and exclaiming, ‘Pooh!’ she
flung the book away.
Three days later, she received the news that her sister’s husband was
dead, and set off to her sister’s country-seat, taking me with her. My
mother proposed to spend a month with her, but she stayed on till late
in the autumn, and it was only at the end of September that we returned
to our own estate.