But I did see them again. Anna Martinovna I came across in the most
ordinary way.
After my mother’s death I paid a visit to our village, where I had
not been for over fifteen years, and there I received an invitation
from the mediator (at that time the process of settling the boundaries
between the peasants and their former owners was taking place over the
whole of Russia with a slowness not yet forgotten) to a meeting of
the other landowners of our neighbourhood, to be held on the estate
of the widow Anna Sletkin. The news that my mother’s ‘nasty little
Jew,’ with the prune-coloured eyes, no longer existed in this world,
caused me, I confess, no regret whatever. But it was interesting to get
a glimpse of his widow. She had the reputation in the neighbourhood
of a first-rate manager. And so it proved; her estate and homestead
and the house itself (I could not help glancing at the roof; it was
an iron one) all turned out to be in excellent order; everything was
neat, clean, tidied-up, where needful--painted, as though its mistress
were a German. Anna Martinovna herself, of course, looked older. But
the peculiar, cold, and, as it were, wicked charm which had once so
fascinated me had not altogether left her. She was dressed in rustic
fashion, but elegantly. She received us, not cordially--that word was
not applicable to her--but courteously, and on seeing me, a witness of
that fearful scene, not an eyelash quivered. She made not the slightest
reference to my mother, nor her father, nor her sister, nor her husband.
She had two daughters, both very pretty, slim young things, with
charming little faces and a bright and friendly expression in their
black eyes. There was a son, too, a little like his father, but still a
boy to be proud of! During the discussions between the landowners, Anna
Martinovna’s attitude was composed and dignified, she showed no sign of
being specially obstinate, nor specially grasping. But none had a truer
perception of their own interests than she of hers; none could more
convincingly expound and defend their rights. All the laws ‘pertinent
to the case,’ even the Minister’s circulars, she had thoroughly
mastered. She spoke little, and in a quiet voice, but every word she
uttered was to the point. It ended in our all signifying our agreement
to all her demands, and making concessions, which we could only marvel
at ourselves. On our way home, some of the worthy landowners even used
harsh words of themselves; they all hummed and hawed, and shook their
heads.
‘Ah, she’s got brains that woman!’ said one.
‘A tricky baggage!’ put in another less delicate proprietor. ‘Smooth in
word, but cruel in deed!’
‘And a screw into the bargain!’ added a third; ‘not a glass of vodka
nor a morsel of caviare for us--what do you think of that?’
‘What can one expect of her?’ suddenly croaked a gentleman who had been
silent till then, ‘every one knows she poisoned her husband!’
To my astonishment, nobody thought fit to controvert this awful and
certainly unfounded charge! I was the more surprised at this, as, in
spite of the slighting expressions I have reported, all of them felt
respect for Anna Martinovna, not excluding the indelicate landowner. As
for the mediator, he waxed positively eloquent.
‘Put her on a throne,’ he exclaimed, ‘she’d be another Semiramis or
Catherine the Second! The discipline among her peasants is a perfect
model.… The education of her children is model! What a head! What
brains!’
Without going into the question of Semiramis and Catherine, there was
no doubt Anna Martinovna was living a very happy life. Ease, inward and
external, the pleasant serenity of spiritual health, seemed the very
atmosphere about herself, her family, all her surroundings. How far she
had deserved such happiness … that is another question. Such questions,
though, are only propounded in youth. Everything in the world, good and
bad, comes to man, not through his deserts, but in consequence of some
as yet unknown but logical laws which I will not take upon myself to
indicate, though I sometimes fancy I have a dim perception of them.