I am this year twenty-eight years old. Here are my earliest
recollections; I was living in the Tambov province, in the country house
of a rich landowner, Ivan Matveitch Koltovsky, in a small room on the
second storey. With me lived my mother, a Jewess, daughter of a dead
painter, who had come from abroad, a woman always ailing, with an
extraordinarily beautiful face, pale as wax, and such mournful eyes,
that sometimes when she gazed long at me, even without looking at her, I
was aware of her sorrowful, sorrowful eyes, and I would burst into tears
and rush to embrace her. I had tutors come to me; I had music lessons,
and was called 'miss.' I dined at the master's table together with my
mother. Mr. Koltovsky was a tall, handsome old man with a stately
manner; he always smelt of _ambre_. I stood in mortal terror of him,
though he called me Suzon and gave me his dry, sinewy hand to kiss under
its lace-ruffles. With my mother he was elaborately courteous, but he
talked little even with her. He would say two or three affable words, to
which she promptly made a hurried answer; and he would be silent and sit
looking about him with dignity, and slowly picking up a pinch of Spanish
snuff from his round, golden snuff-box with the arms of the Empress
Catherine on it.
My ninth year has always remained vivid in my memory.... I learnt then,
from the maids in the servants' room, that Ivan Matveitch Koltovsky was
my father, and almost on the same day, my mother, by his command, was
married to Mr. Ratsch, who was something like a steward to him. I was
utterly unable to comprehend the possibility of such a thing, I was
bewildered, I was almost ill, my brain suffered under the strain, my
mind was overclouded. 'Is it true, is it true, mamma,' I asked her,
'that scented bogey' (that was my name for Ivan Matveitch) 'is my
father?' My mother was terribly scared, she shut my mouth.... 'Never
speak to any one of that, do you hear, Susanna, do you hear, not a
word!'... she repeated in a shaking voice, pressing my head to her
bosom.... And I never did speak to any one of it.... That prohibition of
my mother's I understood.... I understood that I must be silent, that my
mother begged my forgiveness!
My unhappiness began from that day. Mr. Ratsch did not love my mother,
and she did not love him. He married her for money, and she was obliged
to submit. Mr. Koltovsky probably considered that in this way everything
had been arranged for the best, _la position était régularisée_. I
remember the day before the marriage my mother and I--both locked in
each other's arms--wept almost the whole morning--bitterly,
bitterly--and silently. It is not strange that she was silent.... What
could she say to me? But that I did not question her shows that unhappy
children learn wisdom sooner than happy ones... to their cost.
Mr. Koltovsky continued to interest himself in my education, and even by
degrees put me on a more intimate footing. He did not talk to me... but
morning and evening, after flicking the snuff from his jabot with two
fingers, he would with the same two fingers--always icy cold--pat me on
the cheek and give me some sort of dark-coloured sweetmeats, also
smelling of _ambre_, which I never ate. At twelve years old I
became his reader---_sa petite lectrice_. I read him French books
of the last century, the memoirs of Saint Simon, of Mably, Renal,
Helvetius, Voltaire's correspondence, the encyclopedists, of course
without understanding a word, even when, with a smile and a grimace, he
ordered me, 'relire ce dernier paragraphe, qui est bien remarquable!'
Ivan Matveitch was completely a Frenchman. He had lived in Paris till
the Revolution, remembered Marie Antoinette, and had received an
invitation to Trianon to see her. He had also seen Mirabeau, who,
according to his account, wore very large buttons--_exagéré en
tout_, and was altogether a man of _mauvais ton, en dépit de sa
naissance!_ Ivan Matveitch, however, rarely talked of that time; but
two or three times a year, addressing himself to the crooked old
emigrant whom he had taken into his house, and called for some unknown
reason 'M. le Commandeur,' he recited in his deliberate, nasal voice,
the impromptu he had once delivered at a soiree of the Duchesse de
Polignac. I remember only the first two lines.... It had reference to a
comparison between the Russians and the French:
'L'aigle se plait aux regions austères
Ou le ramier ne saurait habiter...'
'Digne de M. de Saint Aulaire!' M. le Commandeur would every time
exclaim.
Ivan Matveitch looked youngish up to the time of his death: his cheeks
were rosy, his teeth white, his eyebrows thick and immobile, his eyes
agreeable and expressive, clear, black eyes, perfect agate. He was not
at all unreasonable, and was very courteous with every one, even with
the servants.... But, my God! how wretched I was with him, with what joy
I always left him, what evil thoughts confounded me in his presence! Ah,
I was not to blame for them!... I was not to blame for what they had
made of me....
Mr. Ratsch was, after his marriage, assigned a lodge not far from the
big house. I lived there with my mother. It was a cheerless life I led
there. She soon gave birth to a son, Viktor, this same Viktor whom I
have every right to think and to call my enemy. From the time of his
birth my mother never regained her health, which had always been weak.
Mr. Ratsch did not think fit in those days to keep up such a show of
good spirits as he maintains now: he always wore a morose air and tried
to pass for a busy, hard-working person. To me he was cruel and rude. I
felt relief when I retired from Ivan Matveitch's presence; but my own
home too I was glad to leave.... Unhappy was my youth! For ever tossed
from one shore to the other, with no desire to anchor at either! I would
run across the courtyard in winter, through the deep snow, in a thin
frock--run to the big house to read to Ivan Matveitch, and as it were be
glad to go.... But when I was there, when I saw those great cheerless
rooms, the bright-coloured, upholstered furniture, that courteous and
heartless old man in the open silk wadded jacket, in the white jabot and
white cravat, with lace ruffles falling over his fingers, with a
_soupçon_ of powder (so his valet expressed it) on his combed-back
hair, I felt choked by the stifling scent of _ambre_, and my heart
sank. Ivan Matveitch usually sat in a large low chair; on the wall
behind his head hung a picture, representing a young woman, with a
bright and bold expression of face, dressed in a sumptuous Hebrew
costume, and simply covered with precious stones, with diamonds.... I
often stole a glance at this picture, but only later on I learned that
it was the portrait of my mother, painted by her father at Ivan
Matveitch's request. She had changed indeed since those days! Well had
he succeeded in subduing and crushing her! 'And she loved him! Loved
that old man!' was my thought.... 'How could it be! Love him!' And yet,
when I recalled some of my mother's glances, some half-uttered phrases
and unconscious gestures.... 'Yes, yes, she did love him!' I repeated
with horror. Ah, God, spare others from knowing aught of such feelings!
Every day I read to Ivan Matveitch, sometimes for three or four hours
together.... So much reading in such a loud voice was harmful to me. Our
doctor was anxious about my lungs and even once communicated his fears
to Ivan Matveitch. But the old man only smiled--no; he never smiled, but
somehow sharpened and moved forward his lips--and told him: 'Vous ne
savez pas ce qu'il y a de ressources dans cette jeunesse.' 'In former
years, however, M. le Commandeur,'... the doctor ventured to observe.
Ivan Matveitch smiled as before. 'Vous rêvez, mon cher,' he interposed:
'le commandeur n'a plus de dents, et il crache à chaque mot. J'aime les
voix jeunes.'
And I still went on reading, though my cough was very troublesome in the
mornings and at night.... Sometimes Ivan Matveitch made me play the
piano. But music always had a soporific influence on his nerves. His
eyes closed at once, his head nodded in time, and only rarely I heard,
'C'est du Steibelt, n'est-ce pas? Jouez-moi du Steibelt!' Ivan Matveitch
looked upon Steibelt as a great genius, who had succeeded in overcoming
in himself 'la grossière lourdeur des Allemands,' and only found fault
with him for one thing: 'trop de fougue! trop d'imagination!'... When
Ivan Matveitch noticed that I was tired from playing he would offer me
'du cachou de Bologne.' So day after day slipped by....
And then one night--a night never to be forgotten!--a terrible calamity
fell upon me. My mother died almost suddenly. I was only just fifteen.
Oh, what a sorrow that was, with what cruel violence it swooped down
upon me! How terrified I was at that first meeting with death! My poor
mother! Strange were our relations; we passionately loved each other...
passionately and hopelessly; we both as it were treasured up and hid
from each other our common secret, kept obstinately silent about it,
though we knew all that was passing at the bottom of our hearts! Even of
the past, of her own early past, my mother never spoke to me, and she
never complained in words, though her whole being was nothing but one
dumb complaint. We avoided all conversation of any seriousness. Alas! I
kept hoping that the hour would come, and she would open her heart at
last, and I too should speak out, and both of us would be more at
ease.... But the daily little cares, her irresolute, shrinking temper,
illnesses, the presence of Mr. Ratsch, and most of all the eternal
question,--what is the use? and the relentless, unbroken flowing away of
time, of life.... All was ended as though by a clap of thunder, and the
words which would have loosed us from the burden of our secret--even the
last dying words of leave-taking--I was not destined to hear from my
mother! All that is left in my memory is Mr. Ratsch's calling, 'Susanna
Ivanovna, go, please, your mother wishes to give you her blessing!' and
then the pale hand stretched out from the heavy counterpane, the
agonised breathing, the dying eyes.... Oh, enough! enough!
With what horror, with what indignation and piteous curiosity I looked
next day, and on the day of the funeral, into the face of my father...
yes, my father! In my dead mother's writing-case were found his letters.
I fancied he looked a little pale and drawn... but no! Nothing was
stirring in that heart of stone. Exactly as before, he summoned me to
his room, a week later; exactly in the same voice he asked me to read:
'Si vous le voulez bien, les observations sur l'histoire de France de
Mably, à la page 74... là où nous avons ètè interrompus.' And he had
not even had my mother's portrait moved! On dismissing me, he did indeed
call me to him, and giving me his hand to kiss a second time, he
observed: 'Suzanne, la mort de votre mère vous a privée de votre appui
naturel; mais vous pourrez toujours compter sur ma protection,' but with
the other hand he gave me at once a slight push on the shoulder, and,
with the sharpening of the corners of the mouth habitual with him, he
added, 'Allez, mon enfant.' I longed to shriek at him: 'Why, but you
know you're my father!' but I said nothing and left the room.
Next morning, early, I went to the graveyard. May had come in all its
glory of flowers and leaves, and a long while I sat on the new grave. I
did not weep, nor grieve; one thought was filling my brain: 'Do you
hear, mother? He means to extend his protection to me, too!' And it
seemed to me that my mother ought not to be wounded by the smile which
it instinctively called up on my lips.
At times I wonder what made me so persistently desire to wring--not a
confession... no, indeed! but, at least, one warm word of kinship from
Ivan Matveitch? Didn't I know what he was, and how little he was like
all that I pictured in my dreams as a _father_!... But I was so
lonely, so alone on earth! And then, that thought, ever recurring, gave
me no rest: 'Did not she love him? She must have loved him for
something?'
Three years more slipped by. Nothing changed in the monotonous round of
life, marked out and arranged for us. Viktor was growing into a boy. I
was eight years older and would gladly have looked after him, but Mr.
Ratsch opposed my doing so. He gave him a nurse, who had orders to keep
strict watch that the child was not 'spoilt,' that is, not to allow me
to go near him. And Viktor himself fought shy of me. One day Mr. Ratsch
came into my room, perturbed, excited, and angry. On the previous
evening unpleasant rumours had reached me about my stepfather; the
servants were talking of his having been caught embezzling a
considerable sum of money, and taking bribes from a merchant.
'You can assist me,' he began, tapping impatiently on the table with his
fingers. 'Go and speak for me to Ivan Matveitch.'
'Speak for you? On what ground? What about?'
'Intercede for me.... I'm not like a stranger any way... I'm accused...
well, the fact is, I may be left without bread to eat, and you, too.'
'But how can I go to him? How can I disturb him?'
'What next! You have a right to disturb him!'
'What right, Ivan Demianitch?'
'Come, no humbug.... He cannot refuse you, for many reasons. Do you mean
to tell me you don't understand that?'
He looked insolently into my eyes, and I felt my cheeks simply burning.
Hatred, contempt, rose up within me, surged in a rush upon me, drowning
me.
'Yes, I understand you, Ivan Demianitch,' I answered at last--my own
voice seemed strange to me--'and I am not going to Ivan Matveitch, and I
will not ask him for anything. Bread, or no bread!'
Mr. Ratsch shivered, ground his teeth, and clenched his fists.
'All right, wait a bit, your highness!' he muttered huskily. 'I won't
forget it!' That same day, Ivan Matveitch sent for him, and, I was told,
shook his cane at him, the very cane which he had once exchanged with
the Due de la Rochefoucauld, and cried, 'You be a scoundrel and
extortioner! I put you outside!' Ivan Matveitch could hardly speak
Russian at all, and despised our 'coarse jargon,' _ce jargon vulgaire
et rude_. Some one once said before him, 'That same's self-understood.'
Ivan Matveitch was quite indignant, and often afterwards quoted the phrase
as an example of the senselessness and absurdity of the Russian tongue.
'What does it mean, that same's self-understood?' he would ask in Russian,
with emphasis on each syllable. 'Why not simply that's understood, and why
same and self?'
Ivan Matveitch did not, however, dismiss Mr. Ratsch, he did not even
deprive him of his position. But my stepfather kept his word: he never
forgot it.
I began to notice a change in Ivan Matveitch. He was low-spirited,
depressed, his health broke down a little. His fresh, rosy face grew
yellow and wrinkled; he lost a front tooth. He quite ceased going out,
and gave up the reception-days he had established for the peasants,
without the assistance of the priest, _sans le concours du clergé_.
On such days Ivan Matveitch had been in the habit of going in to the
peasants in the hall or on the balcony, with a rose in his buttonhole,
and putting his lips to a silver goblet of vodka, he would make them a
speech something like this: 'You are content with my actions, even as I
am content with your zeal, whereat I rejoice truly. We are all _brothers_;
at our birth we are equal; I drink your health!' He bowed to them, and
the peasants bowed to him, but only from the waist, no prostrating
themselves to the ground, that was strictly forbidden. The peasants were
entertained with good cheer as before, but Ivan Matveitch no longer
showed himself to his subjects. Sometimes he interrupted my reading with
exclamations: 'La machine se détraque! Cela se gâte!' Even his
eyes--those bright, stony eyes--began to grow dim and, as it were,
smaller; he dozed oftener than ever and breathed hard in his sleep. His
manner with me was unchanged; only a shade of chivalrous deference began
to be perceptible in it. He never failed to get up--though with
difficulty--from his chair when I came in, conducted me to the door,
supporting me with his hand under my elbow, and instead of Suzon began
to call me sometimes, 'ma chère demoiselle,' sometimes, 'mon Antigone.'
M. le Commandeur died two years after my mother's death; his death
seemed to affect Ivan Matveitch far more deeply. A contemporary had
disappeared: that was what distressed him. And yet in later years M. le
Commandeur's sole service had consisted in crying, 'Bien joué, mal
réussi!' every time Ivan Matveitch missed a stroke, playing billiards
with Mr. Ratsch; though, indeed, too, when Ivan Matveitch addressed him
at table with some such question as: 'N'est-ce pas, M. le Commandeur,
c'est Montesquieu qui a dit cela dans ses _Lettres Persanes_?' he had
still, sometimes dropping a spoonful of soup on his ruffle, responded
profoundly: 'Ah, Monsieur de Montesquieu? Un grand écrivain, monsieur,
un grand écrivain!' Only once, when Ivan Matveitch told him that 'les
théophilanthropes ont eu pourtant du bon!' the old man cried in an
excited voice, 'Monsieur de Kolontouskoi' (he hadn't succeeded in the
course of twenty years in learning to pronounce his patron's name
correctly), 'Monsieur de Kolontouskoi! Leur fondateur, l'instigateur de
cette secte, ce La Reveillère Lepeaux était un bonnet rouge!' 'Non,
non,' said Ivan Matveitch, smiling and rolling together a pinch of
snuff: 'des fleurs, des jeunes vierges, le culte de la Nature... ils out
eu du bon, ils out eu du bon!'...I was always surprised at the extent of
Ivan Matveitch's knowledge, and at the uselessness of his knowledge to
himself.
Ivan Matveitch was perceptibly failing, but he still put a good face on
it. One day, three weeks before his death, he had a violent attack of
giddiness just after dinner. He sank into thought, said, 'C'est la fin,'
and pulling himself together with a sigh, he wrote a letter to
Petersburg to his sole heir, a brother with whom he had had no
intercourse for twenty years. Hearing that Ivan Matveitch was unwell, a
neighbour paid him a visit--a German, a Catholic--once a distinguished
physician, who was living in retirement in his little place in the
country. He was very rarely at Ivan Matveitch's, but the latter always
received him with special deference, and in fact had a great respect for
him. He was almost the only person in the world he did respect. The old
man advised Ivan Matveitch to send for a priest, but Ivan Matveitch
responded that 'ces messieurs et moi, nous n'avons rien à nous dire,'
and begged him to change the subject. On the neighbour's departure, he
gave his valet orders to admit no one in future.
Then he sent for me. I was frightened when I saw him; there were blue
patches under his eyes, his face looked drawn and stiff, his jaw hung
down. 'Vous voila grande, Suzon,' he said, with difficulty articulating
the consonants, but still trying to smile (I was then nineteen), 'vous
allez peut-être bientót rester seule. Soyez toujours sage et vertueuse.
C'est la dernière récommandation d'un'--he coughed--'d'un vieillard qui
vous veut du bien. Je vous ai recommandé à mon frère et je ne doute pas
qu'il ne respecte mes volontés....' He coughed again, and anxiously felt
his chest. 'Du reste, j'esèpre encore pouvoir faire quelque chose pour
vous... dans mon testament.' This last phrase cut me to the heart, like
a knife. Ah, it was really too... too contemptuous and insulting! Ivan
Matveitch probably ascribed to some other feeling--to a feeling of grief
or gratitude--what was expressed in my face, and as though wishing to
comfort me, he patted me on the shoulder, at the same time, as usual,
gently repelling me, and observed: 'Voyons, mon enfant, du courage! Nous
sommes tous mortels! Et puis il n'y a pas encore de danger. Ce n'est
qu'une précaution que j'ai cru devoir prendre.... Allez!'
Again, just as when he had summoned me after my mother's death, I longed
to shriek at him, 'But I'm your daughter! your daughter!' But I thought
in those words, in that cry of the heart, he would doubtless hear
nothing but a desire to assert my rights, my claims on his property, on
his money.... Oh, no, for nothing in the world would I say a word to
this man, who had not once mentioned my mother's name to me, in whose
eyes I was of so little account that he did not even trouble himself to
ascertain whether I was aware of my parentage! Or, perhaps, he
suspected, even knew it, and did not wish 'to raise a dust' (a favourite
saying of his, almost the only Russian expression he ever used), did not
care to deprive himself of a good reader with a young voice! No! no! Let
him go on wronging his daughter, as he had wronged her mother! Let him
carry both sins to the grave! I swore it, I swore he should not hear
from my lips the word which must have something of a sweet and holy
sound in every ear! I would not say to him father! I would not forgive
him for my mother and myself! He felt no need of that forgiveness, of
that name.... It could not be, it could not be that he felt no need of
it! But he should not have forgiveness, he should not, he should not!
God knows whether I should have kept my vow, and whether my heart would
not have softened, whether I should not have overcome my shyness, my
shame, and my pride... but it happened with Ivan Matveitch just as with
my mother. Death carried him off suddenly, and also in the night. It was
again Mr. Ratsch who waked me, and ran with me to the big house, to Ivan
Matveitch's bedroom.... But I found not even the last dying gestures,
which had left such a vivid impression on my memory at my mother's
bedside. On the embroidered, lace-edged pillows lay a sort of withered,
dark-coloured doll, with sharp nose and ruffled grey eyebrows.... I
shrieked with horror, with loathing, rushed away, stumbled in doorways
against bearded peasants in smocks with holiday red sashes, and found
myself, I don't remember how, in the fresh air....
I was told afterwards that when the valet ran into the bedroom, at a
violent ring of the bell, he found Ivan Matveitch not in the bed, but a
few feet from it. And that he was sitting huddled up on the floor, and
that twice over he repeated, 'Well, granny, here's a pretty holiday for
you!' And that these were his last words. But I cannot believe that. Was
it likely he would speak Russian at such a moment, and such a homely old
Russian saying too!
For a whole fortnight afterwards we were awaiting the arrival of the new
master, Semyon Matveitch Koltovsky. He sent orders that nothing was to
be touched, no one was to be discharged, till he had looked into
everything in person. All the doors, all the furniture, drawers,
tables--all were locked and sealed up. All the servants were downcast
and apprehensive. I became suddenly one of the most important persons in
the house, perhaps the most important. I had been spoken of as 'the
young lady' before; but now this expression seemed to take a new
significance, and was pronounced with a peculiar emphasis. It began to
be whispered that 'the old master had died suddenly, and hadn't time to
send for a priest, indeed and he hadn't been at confession for many a
long day; but still, a will doesn't take long to make.'
Mr. Ratsch, too, thought well to change his mode of action. He did not
affect good-nature and friendliness; he knew he would not impose upon
me, but his face wore an expression of sulky resignation. 'You see, I
give in,' he seemed to say. Every one showed me deference, and tried to
please me... while I did not know what to do or how to behave, and could
only marvel that people failed to perceive how they were hurting me. At
last Semyon Matveitch arrived.
Semyon Matveitch was ten years younger than Ivan Matveitch, and his
whole life had taken a completely different turn. He was a government
official in Petersburg, filling an important position.... He had married
and been left early a widower; he had one son. In face Semyon Matveitch
was like his brother, only he was shorter and stouter, and had a round
bald head, bright black eyes, like Ivan Matveitch's, only more
prominent, and full red lips. Unlike his brother, whom he spoke of even
after his death as a French philosopher, and sometimes bluntly as a
queer fish, Semyon Matveitch almost invariably talked Russian, loudly
and fluently, and he was constantly laughing, completely closing his
eyes as he did so and shaking all over in an unpleasant way, as though
he were shaking with rage. He looked after things very sharply, went
into everything himself, exacted the strictest account from every one.
The very first day of his arrival he ordered a service with holy water,
and sprinkled everything with water, all the rooms in the house, even
the lofts and the cellars, in order, as he put it, 'radically to expel
the Voltairean and Jacobin spirit.' In the first week several of Ivan
Matveitch's favourites were sent to the right-about, one was even
banished to a settlement, corporal punishment was inflicted on others;
the old valet--he was a Turk, knew French, and had been given to Ivan
Matveitch by the late field-marshal Kamensky--received his freedom,
indeed, but with it a command to be gone within twenty-four hours, 'as
an example to others.' Semyon Matveitch turned out to be a harsh master;
many probably regretted the late owner.
'With the old master, Ivan Matveitch,' a butler, decrepit with age,
wailed in my presence, 'our only trouble was to see that the linen put
out was clean, and that the rooms smelt sweet, and that the servants'
voices weren't heard in the passages--God forbid! For the rest, you
might do as you pleased. The old master never hurt a fly in his life!
Ah, it's hard times now! It's time to die!'
Rapid, too, was the change in my position, that is to say in the
position in which I had been placed for a few days against my own
will.... No sort of will was found among Ivan Matveitch's papers, not a
line written for my benefit. At once every one seemed in haste to avoid
me.... I am not speaking of Mr. Ratsch... every one else, too, was angry
with me, and tried to show their anger, as though I had deceived them.
One Sunday after matins, in which he invariably officiated at the altar,
Semyon Matveitch sent for me. Till that day I had seen him by glimpses,
and he seemed not to have noticed me. He received me in his study,
standing at the window. He was wearing an official uniform with two
stars. I stood still, near the door; my heart was beating violently from
fear and from another feeling, vague as yet, but still oppressive. 'I
wish to see you, young lady,' began Semyon Matveitch, glancing first at
my feet, and then suddenly into my eyes. The look was like a slap in the
face. 'I wished to see you to inform you of my decision, and to assure
you of my unhesitating inclination to be of service to you.' He raised
his voice. 'Claims, of course, you have none, but as... my brother's
reader you may always reckon on my... my consideration. I am... of
course convinced of your good sense and of your principles. Mr. Ratsch,
your stepfather, has already received from me the necessary
instructions. To which I must add that your attractive exterior seems to
me a pledge of the excellence of your sentiments.' Semyon Matveitch went
off into a thin chuckle, while I... I was not offended exactly... but I
suddenly felt very sorry for myself... and at that moment I fully
realised how utterly forsaken and alone I was. Semyon Matveitch went
with short, firm steps to the table, took a roll of notes out of the
drawer, and putting it in my hand, he added: 'Here is a small sum from
me for pocket-money. I won't forget you in future, my pretty; but
good-bye for the present, and be a good girl.' I took the roll
mechanically: I should have taken anything he had offered me, and going
back to my own room, a long while I wept, sitting on my bed. I did not
notice that I had dropped the roll of notes on the floor. Mr. Ratsch
found it and picked it up, and, asking me what I meant to do with it,
kept it for himself.
An important change had taken place in his fortunes too in those days.
After a few conversations with Semyon Matveitch, he became a great
favourite, and soon after received the position of head steward. From
that time dates his cheerfulness, that eternal laugh of his; at first it
was an effort to adapt himself to his patron... in the end it became a
habit. It was then, too, that he became a Russian patriot. Semyon
Matveitch was an admirer of everything national, he called himself 'a
true Russian bear,' and ridiculed the European dress, which he wore
however. He sent away to a remote village a cook, on whose training Ivan
Matveitch had spent vast sums: he sent him away because he had not known
how to prepare pickled giblets.
Semyon Matveitch used to stand at the altar and join in the responses
with the deacons, and when the serf-girls were brought together to dance
and sing choruses, he would join in their songs too, and beat time with
his feet, and pinch their cheeks.... But he soon went back to
Petersburg, leaving my stepfather practically in complete control of the
whole property.
Bitter days began for me.... My one consolation was music, and I gave
myself up to it with my whole soul. Fortunately Mr. Ratsch was very
fully occupied, but he took every opportunity to make me feel his
hostility; as he had promised, he 'did not forget' my refusal. He
ill-treated me, made me copy his long and lying reports to Semyon
Matveitch, and correct for him the mistakes in spelling. I was forced to
obey him absolutely, and I did obey him. He announced that he meant to
tame me, to make me as soft as silk. 'What do you mean by those mutinous
eyes?' he shouted sometimes at dinner, drinking his beer, and slapping
the table with his hand. 'You think, maybe, you're as silent as a sheep,
so you must be all right.... Oh, no! You'll please look at me like a
sheep too!' My position became a torture, insufferable,... my heart was
growing bitter. Something dangerous began more and more frequently to
stir within it. I passed nights without sleep and without a light,
thinking, thinking incessantly; and in the darkness without and the
gloom within, a fearful determination began to shape itself. The arrival
of Semyon Matveitch gave another turn to my thoughts.
No one had expected him. It turned out that he was retiring in
unpleasant circumstances; he had hoped to receive the Alexander ribbon,
and they had presented him with a snuff-box. Discontented with the
government, which had failed to appreciate his talents, and with
Petersburg society, which had shown him little sympathy, and did not
share his indignation, he determined to settle in the country, and
devote himself to the management of his property. He arrived alone. His
son, Mihail Semyonitch, arrived later, in the holidays for the New Year.
My stepfather was scarcely ever out of Semyon Matveitch's room; he still
stood high in his good graces. He left me in peace; he had no time for
me then... Semyon Matveitch had taken it into his head to start a paper
factory. Mr. Ratsch had no knowledge whatever of manufacturing work, and
Semyon Matveitch was aware of the fact; but then my stepfather was an
active man (the favourite expression just then), an 'Araktcheev!' That
was just what Semyon Matveitch used to call him--'my Araktcheev!'
'That's all I want,' Semyon Matveitch maintained; 'if there is zeal, I
myself will direct it.' In the midst of his numerous occupations--he had
to superintend the factory, the estate, the foundation of a
counting-house, the drawing up of counting-house regulations, the
creation of new offices and duties--Semyon Matveitch still had time to
attend to me.
I was summoned one evening to the drawing-room, and set to play the
piano. Semyon Matveitch cared for music even less than his brother; he
praised and thanked me, however, and next day I was invited to dine at
the master's table. After dinner Semyon Matveitch had rather a long
conversation with me, asked me questions, laughed at some of my replies,
though there was, I remember, nothing amusing in them, and stared at me
so strangely... I felt uncomfortable. I did not like his eyes, I did not
like their open expression, their clear glance.... It always seemed to
me that this very openness concealed something evil, that under that
clear brilliance it was dark within in his soul. 'You shall not be my
reader,' Semyon Matveitch announced to me at last, prinking and setting
himself to rights in a repulsive way. 'I am, thank God, not blind yet,
and can read myself; but coffee will taste better to me from your little
hands, and I shall listen to your playing with pleasure.' From that day
I always went over to the big house to dinner, and sometimes remained in
the drawing-room till evening. I too, like my stepfather, was in favour:
it was not a source of joy for me. Semyon Matveitch, I am bound to own,
showed me a certain respect, but in the man there was, I felt it,
something that repelled and alarmed me. And that 'something' showed
itself not in words, but in his eyes, in those wicked eyes, and in his
laugh. He never spoke to me of my father, of his brother, and it seemed
to me that he avoided the subject, not because he did not want to excite
ambitious ideas or pretensions in me, but from another cause, to which I
could not give a definite shape, but which made me blush and feel
bewildered.... Towards Christmas came his son, Mihail Semyonitch.
Ah, I feel I cannot go on as I have begun; these memories are too
painful. Especially now I cannot tell my story calmly.... But what is
the use of concealment? I loved Michel, and he loved me.
How it came to pass--I am not going to describe that either. From the
very evening when he came into the drawing-room--I was at the piano,
playing a sonata of Weber's when he came in--handsome and slender, in a
velvet coat lined with sheepskin and high gaiters, just as he was,
straight from the frost outside, and shaking his snow-sprinkled, sable
cap, before he had greeted his father, glanced swiftly at me, and
wondered--I knew that from that evening I could never forget him--I
could never forget that good, young face. He began to speak... and his
voice went straight to my heart.... A manly and soft voice, and in every
sound such a true, honest nature!
Semyon Matveitch was delighted at his son's arrival, embraced him, but
at once asked, 'For a fortnight, eh? On leave, eh?' and sent me away.
I sat a long while at my window, and gazed at the lights flitting to and
fro in the rooms of the big house. I watched them, I listened to the
new, unfamiliar voices; I was attracted by the cheerful commotion, and
something new, unfamiliar, bright, flitted into my soul too.... The next
day before dinner I had my first conversation with him. He had come
across to see my stepfather with some message from Semyon Matveitch, and
he found me in our little sitting-room. I was getting up to go; he
detained me. He was very lively and unconstrained in all his movements
and words, but of superciliousness or arrogance, of the tone of
Petersburg superiority, there was not a trace in him, and nothing of the
officer, of the guardsman.... On the contrary, in the very freedom of
his manner there was something appealing, almost shamefaced, as though
he were begging you to overlook something. Some people's eyes are never
laughing, even at the moment of laughter; with _him_ it was the
lips that almost never changed their beautiful line, while his eyes were
almost always smiling. So we chatted for about an hour... what about I
don't remember; I remember only that I looked him straight in the face
all the while, and oh, how delightfully at ease I felt with him!
In the evening I played on the piano. He was very fond of music, and he
sat down in a low chair, and laying his curly head on his arm, he
listened intently. He did not once praise me, but I felt that he liked
my playing, and I played with ardour. Semyon Matveitch, who was sitting
near his son, looking through some plans, suddenly frowned. 'Come,
madam,' he said, smoothing himself down and buttoning himself up, as his
manner was, 'that's enough; why are you trilling away like a canary?
It's enough to make one's head ache. For us old folks you wouldn't exert
yourself so, no fear...' he added in an undertone, and again he sent me
away. Michel followed me to the door with his eyes, and got up from his
seat. 'Where are you off to? Where are you off to?' cried Semyon
Matveitch, and he suddenly laughed, and then said something more... I
could not catch his words; but Mr. Ratsch, who was present, sitting in a
corner of the drawing-room (he was always 'present,' and that time he
had brought in the plans), laughed, and his laugh reached my ears....
The same thing, or almost the same thing, was repeated the following
evening... Semyon Matveitch grew suddenly cooler to me.
Four days later I met Michel in the corridor that divided the big house
in two. He took me by the hand, and led me to a room near the
dining-room, which was called the portrait gallery. I followed him, not
without emotion, but with perfect confidence. Even then, I believe, I
would have followed him to the end of the world, though I had as yet no
suspicion of all that he was to me. Alas, I loved him with all the
passion, all the despair of a young creature who not only has no one to
love, but feels herself an uninvited and unnecessary guest among
strangers, among enemies!... Michel said to me--and it was strange! I
looked boldly, directly in his face, while he did not look at me, and
flushed slightly--he said to me that he understood my position, and
sympathised with me, and begged me to forgive his father.... 'As far as
I'm concerned,' he added, 'I beseech you always to trust me, and believe
me, to me you 're a sister--yes, a sister.' Here he pressed my hand
warmly. I was confused, it was my turn to look down; I had somehow
expected something else, some other word. I began to thank him. 'No,
please,'--he cut me short--'don't talk like that.... But remember, it's
a brother's duty to defend his sister, and if you ever need protection,
against any one whatever, rely upon me. I have not been here long, but I
have seen a good deal already... and among other things, I see through
your stepfather.' He squeezed my hand again, and left me.
I found out later that Michel had felt an aversion for Mr. Ratsch from
his very first meeting with him. Mr. Ratsch tried to ingratiate himself
with him too, but becoming convinced of the uselessness of his efforts,
promptly took up himself an attitude of hostility to him, and not only
did not disguise it from Semyon Matveitch, but, on the contrary, lost no
opportunity of showing it, expressing, at the same time, his regret that
he had been so unlucky as to displease the young heir. Mr. Ratsch had
carefully studied Semyon Matveitch's character; his calculations did not
lead him astray. 'This man's devotion to me admits of no doubt, for the
very reason that after I am gone he will be ruined; my heir cannot
endure him.'... This idea grew and strengthened in the old man's head.
They say all persons in power, as they grow old, are readily caught by
that bait, the bait of exclusive personal devotion....
Semyon Matveitch had good reason to call Mr. Ratsch his Araktcheev....
He might well have called him another name too. 'You're not one to make
difficulties,' he used to say to him. He had begun in this
condescendingly familiar tone with him from the very first, and my
stepfather would gaze fondly at Semyon Matveitch, let his head droop
deprecatingly on one side, and laugh with good-humoured simplicity, as
though to say, 'Here I am, entirely in your hands.'
Ah, I feel my hands shaking, and my heart's thumping against the table
on which I write at this moment. It's terrible for me to recall those
days, and my blood boils.... But I will tell everything to the end... to
the end!
A new element had come into Mr. Ratsch's treatment of me during my brief
period of favour. He began to be deferential to me, to be respectfully
familiar with me, as though I had grown sensible, and become more on a
level with him. 'You've done with your airs and graces,' he said to me
one day, as we were going back from the big house to the lodge. 'Quite
right too! All those fine principles and delicate sentiments--moral
precepts in fact--are not for us, young lady, they're not for poor
folks.'
When I had fallen out of favour, and Michel did not think it necessary
to disguise his contempt for Mr. Ratsch and his sympathy with me, the
latter suddenly redoubled his severity with me; he was continually
following me about, as though I were capable of any crime, and must be
sharply looked after. 'You mind what I say,' he shouted, bursting
without knocking into my room, in muddy boots and with his cap on his
head; 'I won't put up with such goings on! I won't stand your stuck-up
airs! You're not going to impose on me. I'll break your proud spirit.'
And accordingly, one morning he informed me that the decree had gone
forth from Semyon Matveitch that I was not to appear at the dinner-table
for the future without special invitation.... I don't know how all this
would have ended if it had not been for an event which was the final
turning-point of my destiny....
Michel was passionately fond of horses. He took it into his head to
break in a young horse, which went well for a while, then began kicking
and flung him out of the sledge.... He was brought home unconscious,
with a broken arm and bruises on his chest. His father was
panic-stricken; he sent for the best doctors from the town. They did a
great deal for Michel; but he had to lie down for a month. He did not
play cards, the doctor forbade him to talk, and it was awkward for him
to read, holding the book up in one hand all the while. It ended by
Semyon Matveitch sending me in to his son, in my old capacity of reader.
Then followed hours I can never forget! I used to go in to Michel
directly after dinner, and sit at a little round table in the
half-darkened window. He used to be lying down in a little room out of
the drawing-room, at the further end, on a broad leather sofa in the
Empire style, with a gold bas-relief on its high, straight back. The
bas-relief represented a marriage procession among the ancients.
Michel's head, thrown a little back on the pillow, always moved at once,
and his pale face turned towards me: he smiled, his whole face
brightened, he flung back his soft, damp curls, and said to me softly,
'Good-morning, my kind sweet girl.' I took up the book--Walter Scott's
novels were at the height of their fame in those days--the reading of
Ivanhoe has left a particularly vivid recollection in my mind.... I
could not help my voice thrilling and quivering as I gave utterance to
Rebecca's speeches. I, too, had Jewish blood, and was not my lot like
hers? Was I not, like Rebecca, waiting on a sick man, dear to me? Every
time I removed my eyes from the page and lifted them to him, I met his
eyes with the same soft, bright smile over all his face. We talked very
little; the door into the drawing-room was invariably open and some one
was always sitting there; but whenever it was quiet there, I used, I
don't know why, to cease reading and look intently at Michel, and he
looked at me, and we both felt happy then and, as it were, glad and
shamefaced, and everything, everything we told each other then without a
gesture or a word! Alas! our hearts came together, ran to meet each
other, as underground streams flow together, unseen, unheard... and
irresistibly.
'Can you play chess or draughts?' he asked me one day.
'I can play chess a little,' I answered.
'That's good. Tell them to bring a chess-board and push up the table.'
I sat down beside the sofa, my heart was throbbing, I did not dare
glance at Michel,... Yet from the window, across the room, how freely I
had gazed at him!