Stepanitch; one may say that it crushed him. His appetite and sleep
failed, he lost interest in everything, even his bodily strength was
affected. His mother shed tears, and even his sisters were uneasy. Next
day his mother found it difficult to get from him any account of the
interview with his father. To all inquiries he returned the same answer:
"My father won't hear of it; I am a lost man, and life will soon be over
for me." And within a week he did really take to his bed; he was very
weak and often half-conscious; and, though his skin was not hot, he was
constantly delirious. No one could understand what was the matter with
him; but it was simply a nervous fever. The family were terribly
alarmed. As there were no doctors in the neighbourhood, they treated him
with domestic remedies; but he grew steadily worse till he was so weak
that his death was expected hourly. His mother and sisters screamed and
tore their hair. Stepan Mihailovitch, though he shed no tears and was
not always sitting by the bedside, probably suffered more than any one;
he understood perfectly what had caused this illness. But youth at last
asserted itself, and the turn came after exactly six weeks. Alexyei
Stepanitch woke up to life an absolute child, and life was slow in
resuming its normal course with him; his convalescence lasted two
months, and all the past seemed to have been blotted out from his
memory. Everything that he saw, both indoors and out, pleased him as
much as if it were new and strange. At last he got perfectly well; his
face filled out and got back the healthy colour which it had lost for
more than a year; he went out fishing and shooting quails, ate and drank
heartily, and was in good spirits. His parents felt more joy than they
could express, and were convinced that the illness had expelled all
former thoughts and feelings from his head and heart. And perhaps this
would really have been the case if they had taken him away from Ufa,
kept him a whole year at home, and found a pretty girl for him to marry.
But their fears were lulled to rest by his present condition, and they
sent him back to the same place and the same duties after six months.
This settled his fate once for all. The old passion revived and blazed
up with far greater power. I do not know whether love came back to his
heart all at once or by degrees; I only know that he went seldom at
first to the Zubins' house, and then oftener, and at last as often as he
could. I know also that his old friend, Mme. Alakayeff, continued her
visits to Sofya Nikolayevna, sounding her cautiously as to her
sentiments and bringing back favourable reports, which confirmed her own
hope that the proud beauty was not indifferent to her humble worshipper.
A few months after Alexyei Stepanitch had returned to Ufa, a letter from
him suddenly arrived at Bagrovo, in which he declared to his parents,
with his usual affection and respect, but also with a firmness not
characteristic of him, that he loved Sofya Nikolayevna more than his own
life and could not live without her; he had hopes of her accepting him,
and asked his parents to give him their blessing and their consent to
the match. This letter was a great surprise and shock to the old people.
Stepan Mihailovitch knitted his brows but did not express his feelings
by a single word. The family all sat round in perfect silence till he
dismissed them by a gesture. When he was alone, my grandfather sat there
a long time, tracing patterns on the floor of his room with his
blackthorn staff. He soon realised that it was a bad business, that they
had been mistaken, and that no fever would cure the lad of his passion.
His impulsive and kindly nature shook his resolve and made him inclined
to give his consent, as may be inferred from what he said to his wife.
When they were alone together next morning, he said: "Well, Arisha, what
do you think of it? If we refuse, we shall see no more of Alosha than of
our own ears. He will die of grief, or go off to the wars, or become a
monk--and that's the end of the Bagroff family!" But Arina Vassilyevna
had been primed already by her daughters, and she answered, as if her
son ran no risk: "As you please, Stepan Mihailovitch; your will is mine
too. But how can you hope they will respect you in future, if they
resist your positive commands now?" This mean and cunning trick was
successful: the old man's pride was touched, and he resolved to stand
firm. He dictated a letter, in which he expressed surprise that his son
should begin the old business over again, and repeated what he had
already said by word of mouth. In short, the letter contained a positive
refusal.
Two or three weeks passed, and brought no reply from Alexyei Stepanitch.
Then there came one stormy autumn morning, when my grandfather was
sitting across his bed in his own room; he was wearing his favourite
dressing-gown of fine camel's hair over a shirt buttoning up at the
side, and had slippers on his bare feet. Arina Vassilyevna was sitting
near him with her spinning-wheel, spinning goat's down and carefully
drawing out the fine long threads with which she intended to make
cloth--cloth to provide her son with light, warm, comfortable garments.
Tanyusha was sitting by the window, reading a book. Elizabeth, who was
on a visit to Bagrovo, was sitting on the bed near her father, telling
him of her troubles--her husband's poor prospects, and the shifts they
had to practise at home to make ends meet. The old man listened sadly,
with his hands on his knees, and his head, now turning white, bent down
over his breast. Suddenly the door opened; and Ivan, a tall, handsome
lad, wearing a travelling jacket, entered the room with a quick step and
delivered a letter which he had brought from the post-town 25 _versts_
away. The stir among the party showed that the letter was eagerly
expected. "From Alosha?" asked the old man quickly and uneasily. "From
my brother," answered Tanyusha, who had gone to meet Ivan, taken the
letter quickly from him, and looked at the address. "You have lost no
time, and I thank you. A dram for Ivan! Then go and have your dinner and
rest." The spirit-case was opened at once; Tanyusha took out a long,
cut-glass decanter, filled a silver cup with brandy, and handed it to
Ivan. Ivan crossed himself and drank it, then coughed, bowed, and left
the room. "Read it aloud, Tanyusha," said her father; she did his
reading and writing for him. She placed herself by the window; her
father left his bed and her mother her spinning-wheel, and all crowded
round the reader, who had unsealed the letter by this time but dared not
take a preliminary peep. After a moment's silence, the letter was read
slowly and audibly. It began with the form of address usual in those
days--"Dear and honoured Father, and dear and honoured Mother," and then
went on in this fashion--
"In answer to my last letter, I had the misfortune to receive a refusal
of my request, my dearest parents. I cannot go against your will; I
submit to it, but I cannot long drag the burden of my life without my
adored Sofya Nikolayevna; and therefore a fatal bullet shall ere long
pierce the head of your unhappy son."[39]
[39] I know the letter nearly by heart. It probably still exists among
the old papers of one of my brothers. Some expressions in it are
clearly borrowed from the novels which Alexyei Stepanitch was fond
of reading. (_Author's note._)
The letter produced a powerful effect. My aunts began to whimper; my
grandmother, who was taken utterly by surprise, turned pale, threw out
her hands, and flopped down on the ground like a corn-sheaf. Even in
those days fainting-fits were not unknown. Stepan Mihailovitch never
stirred; but his head bent a little to one side, as it used to do when a
fit of anger was coming on, and began to tremble slightly; and that
tremulous motion went on from that hour till his death. The daughters
rushed to their mother's aid and soon brought her back to her senses. At
once, Arina Vassilyevna threw herself at her husband's feet, raising the
cry of mourning for the dead; and her daughters followed her example.
Taking no notice of the storm-signals on his brow, and quite forgetting
that she herself had egged him on to disappoint his son, she cried at
the top of her voice: "_Batyushka_ Stepan Mihailovitch! have pity and do
not be the death of your own child, our only son! Give Alosha leave to
marry! If anything happens to him, I will not live one hour longer!" The
old man never stirred. At last he said in an unsteady voice: "Enough of
that howling! Alosha deserves a good whipping. But we'll leave it till
to-morrow; morning brings good counsel. Now go and order dinner to be
served." Dinner my grandfather regarded as a sedative at every domestic
crisis. Arina Vassilyevna tried to begin again--"Mercy! Mercy!"--but
Stepan Mihailovitch called out loudly, "Leave the room, all of
you!"--and in his voice was audible the roar that goes before a storm.
The room was cleared instantly, and no one ventured near him before the
dinner-hour.
It is hard to imagine the thoughts that passed through his mind in the
interval, the struggle that took place in that iron heart between love
and prudence, and the final defeat of the stubborn spirit; but, when
Mazan's voice was heard outside the door, announcing dinner, my
grandfather came out of his room quite composed. His face was rather
pale, but his wife and daughters, who were standing, each by her own
chair, till he appeared, could not see the faintest sign of anger; on
the contrary, he was quieter and more cheerful than he had been in the
morning, and made a hearty meal. Arina Vassilyevna had to harden her
heart and suit her conversation to his mood; she dared not even sigh,
far less ask questions; in vain she tried to guess what was passing
through her husband's mind; the little chestnut-brown eyes in her fat
face might ask what questions they pleased, but the dark-blue eyes of
Stepan Mihailovitch, for all their frank good-humoured expression, gave
no answer. After dinner he lay down as usual, and woke in a still more
cheerful mood, but not a syllable did he utter about his son or the
letter. Yet it was clear that no wrath was brooding in the old man's
heart. When he said "good night"; to his wife after supper, she ventured
to say, "Please say something about Alosha." He smiled and answered:
"Did I not say that morning thoughts are best? Go to sleep, and God
bless you!"
Morning did indeed bring good counsel and kindly action. My grandfather
got up at four o'clock when Mazan was kindling his fire, and his first
words were: "Tanaichonok, you are to take a letter at once to Ufa for
Alexyei Stepanitch. Get ready immediately, and no one is to know your
errand or where you are going. Put the young brown horse in the shafts,
and the roarer abreast of him. Take six bushels of oats with you and a
loaf of bread. Ask the housekeeper for two _roubles_ in copper for your
expenses. See that all is ready when my letter is written, and don't
lose a moment!" When my grandfather demanded haste, he always got it.
Then he opened the oak desk which served him as a writing-table, got
writing materials, and with some effort--for ten years past he had
written nothing but his signature--he wrote as follows in a stiff,
old-fashioned hand:--
"_Dear Son Alexyei_,
"Your mother, Arina Vassilyevna, and I, give you our permission
to marry Sofya Nikolayevna Zubin, if that be God's will, and we
send you our blessing.
"Your father,
"_Stepan Bagroff_."
Half an hour later, long before it was light, Tanaichonok had reached
the top of the long hill and passed the stackyard, and was trotting
briskly along the road to Ufa. At six o'clock Stepan Mihailovitch
ordered Aksyutka to bring the _samovar_ but to wake no one in the house.
In spite of this, the mistress was called and told in confidence that
Tanaichonok had started very early with a pair of horses from the
stable; he was carrying a letter from the master, but his destination
was unknown. She did not venture to join her husband at once: she waited
an hour or so, and appeared when he had finished his tea and was
chatting with Aksyutka, the maid, who had been plain as a child and was
now still plainer in middle life. "Well, what did they wake you for?"
said Stepan Mihailovitch, holding out his hand to his wife. "I dare say
you had a bad night." Arina Vassilyevna kissed his hand respectfully:
"No," she said, "no one called me, I woke of myself; and I had a good
night, for I hoped you would be kind to our poor boy." He looked
attentively at her; but her face was accustomed to wear a mask, and he
could not read her thoughts. "In that case," he said, "I have good news
for you. I have sent a special messenger to Ufa and written to Alexyei
that he has permission from us both to marry Sofya Nikolayevna."
Arina Vassilyevna had been horrified by her son's tragic intentions, and
had sincerely begged and prayed her stern husband to consent to the
marriage. Yet, when she heard how Stepan Mihailovitch had decided, she
felt more fear than joy; or rather, she did not dare to feel joy,
because she feared her daughters. She knew already what Elizabeth
thought of the letter, and guessed what Alexandra would say. For these
reasons she received the decision, which her husband hoped would delight
her, rather coldly and strangely; and this did not escape him. Elizabeth
expressed no satisfaction whatever, but merely respectful submission to
her father's will; but Tanyusha, who took her brother's letter quite
seriously, rejoiced with all her heart. Elizabeth was not alarmed even
at first by her brother's threat; she shed tears and interceded for him,
merely because it would not look well to act differently from her mother
and youngest sister. She wrote at once to Alexandra, who was furious
when she heard of the decision and came with all speed to Bagrovo. She
too treated her brother's letter as an empty threat, a trick suggested
by Sofya Nikolayevna; and the two together soon converted their mother
and even Tanyusha to this belief. But the matter was settled, and open
rebellion was now out of the question. Stepan Mihailovitch had thought
that Sofya Nikolayevna would refuse his son; but no one else at Bagrovo
believed this. But it is time now to leave Bagrovo and see what was
going on at Ufa.
I will not take upon myself to decide positively whether Alexyei
Stepanitch really intended to shoot himself, if his parents were
obdurate, or took a hint from some incident in a novel and tried to
excite their fears by suggesting the awful result of their refusal.
Judging by the later development of his character--and I knew it well--I
cannot think him capable of either course of action. Therefore, as I
suppose, the young man was not playing a trick in order to frighten his
parents; on the contrary, he sincerely intended to blow out his brains,
if he was forbidden to marry Sofya Nikolayevna. But at the same time I
do not think he could ever have brought himself to carry out his fatal
purpose, although your mild quiet people, who are often called
faint-hearted, are sometimes more capable of desperate actions than men
of bold and energetic temperament. The idea of suicide was certainly
borrowed from some novel: it was quite out of keeping with the character
of Alexyei Stepanitch, his view of life, and the circle of ideas in
which he had been born and brought up. However that may be, when he had
launched the fatal letter, he became greatly agitated and was soon laid
up with fever. His friend and confidante, Mme. Alakayeff, knew nothing
of the letter; she came to see him daily and soon perceived that his
illness and his love-affair were not enough to account for his excessive
agitation. She was sitting beside him one day, knitting a stocking and
talking about trifles, in order to amuse the invalid and distract his
mind from his hopeless passion; he was lying on the sofa, with his hands
behind his head, looking out of the window. Suddenly he turned as white
as a sheet. A cart with a pair of horses had turned off the street into
the courtyard, and he recognised the horses and Tanaichonok. He sprang
to his feet, cried out, "A message from my father, from Bagrovo!" and
made for the door. Mme. Alakayeff seized his arm, and, with the help of
a servant, prevented him from hurrying to the steps; it was wet and cold
autumn weather. Meanwhile Tanaichonok came quickly into the room and
delivered the letter. Alexyei Stepanitch broke the seal with trembling
fingers, read the few lines, burst into tears, and fell on his knees
before the _ikon_. Mme. Alakayeff was puzzled until he handed her the
letter; but, when she had read it, she too shed tears of joy. The young
man was beside himself with happiness. He now confessed the nature of
the letter he had written to his parents, and she shook her head when
she heard it. Tanaichonok was called in and closely questioned; when he
told how he had been sent off, they saw that Stepan Mihailovitch had
settled the matter by himself, without the knowledge of his womankind
and probably against their wishes.
Mme. Alakayeff was entirely taken by surprise: even when she had read
the letter over again she could not believe her own eyes, because she
knew Stepan Mihailovitch of old and quite realised the opposition of the
family. But, when the first excitement of surprise and joy was over, the
two began to discuss how they should set to work. So long as opposition
from their own side made the marriage seem remote and impossible, they
had been sanguine as to the feelings of the lady; but now a doubt seized
on Mme. Alakayeff. When she recalled and examined all the favourable
signs, she felt that perhaps she had attached more importance to them
than they deserved; and, like a sensible woman, she made haste to
moderate the young man's confident hopes, prudently calculating that, if
he were seduced by them, he would find it harder to bear the sudden
collapse of those radiant dreams. A refusal now seemed to her quite
possible, and her fears had effect upon her companion. Still, she did
not back out of her promise to help him: on the contrary, she went next
day and laid his proposal before Sofya Nikolayevna.
Simply, clearly, and with no exaggeration, she described the constant
and ardent attachment of Alexyei Stepanitch--all the town had long known
it, and certainly Sofya Nikolayevna did; she spoke warmly of the fine
character of her young relative, his kind heart, his rare modesty; she
gave true and exact details of his financial position and prospects; she
told the facts about his family, not forgetting to state that he had
received by letter yesterday his parents' blessing and their full
consent to seek the hand of a lady so worthy and highly respected as
Sofya Nikolayevna; she added, that the young man had caught a fever in
the excitement of waiting for his parents' reply, but found it
impossible to postpone the decision of his fate, and therefore had asked
her, as his kinswoman and a friend of Sofya Nikolayevna's, to find out
whether a formal proposal for her hand, laid before her father, would be
distasteful to her or not.
Sofya Nikolayevna had long been accustomed to act for herself: without
confusion and without any of the affectation and prudery expected of
women in those days, she replied as follows:--
"I thank Alexyei Stepanitch for the honour he has done me, and you, dear
lady, for your interest in the matter. I say frankly that I noticed long
ago his partiality for me and have long expected that he would make me a
proposal; but I have never decided whether I would accept or reject it.
His last visit to his parents, the suddenness--you told me this
yourself--of his long and dangerous illness at home, and the change in
him when he came back to Ufa--these were signs that his parents
disapproved of me as a daughter-in-law. This, I confess, I did not
expect; it seemed more natural to fear opposition on the part of my
father. Later I saw that Alexyei Stepanitch had revived his former
feeling for me; and now I suppose that he has been able to induce his
father and mother to consent. But you must admit yourself, my dear lady,
that the matter now assumes quite a new aspect. To enter a family where
one is not welcome, is too great a risk. Certainly, my father would not
oppose my choice; but can I venture to conceal the truth from him? If he
were to learn that an obscure country squire thought twice before
admitting me to the honour of alliance with his family, he would
consider it a degradation, and nothing would induce him to consent. I am
not in love with Alexyei Stepanitch: I only respect his good qualities
and his constant affection, and I believe he might make the woman he
loved happy. Allow me, therefore, to think it over; and also, before I
speak of this to my father and trouble him in his feeble state with such
news, I wish to speak myself to Alexyei Stepanitch. Let him come and see
us, when he is well enough."
Mme. Alakayeff reported this answer exactly to the young man. He did not
think it promising, but she disagreed with him and tried to sooth his
anxiety.
After parting on very friendly terms with her visitor, Sofya Nikolayevna
sat for a long time alone in her drawing-room, and thought hard. Her
bright lively eyes were clouded; sombre thoughts raced through her brain
and were reflected on the mirror of her beautiful face. All that she had
said to Mme. Alakayeff was perfectly true: the question, whether she
should marry Alexyei Stepanitch or not, was really not settled. But the
proposal had now been made, and it was necessary to make the great
decision, so critical in every woman's life. Sofya Nikolayevna had an
unusually clear head; in later years, the trials of life and her own
passionate temperament may have warped her judgment, but she was able
then to see everything exactly in its true light. Her prospects were not
bright. Her father was a hopeless invalid, and Zanden, their best
doctor, declared he could not live more than a year. His property
consisted of two villages near Ufa, Zubkova and Kasimofka--forty serfs
in all and a small amount of land; he had also scraped together a sum of
10,000 _roubles_ which he intended as a portion for his daughter. To see
her married was his constant and eager desire; but strange things do
happen, and Sofya Nikolayevna had never before received a formal offer.
He would leave behind him six orphans, the children of his two
marriages, and separate guardians would have to be appointed. The three
youngest would go to their grandmother, Mme. Rychkoff; their mother's
fortune consisted of a small estate of fifty serfs. Sofya Nikolayevna's
own brothers were at a boarding-school in Moscow; she would be left
absolutely alone, without even distant relations to take her under their
roof. In short, she had no where to lay her head. To face poverty and
want, to live on the charity of strangers and in complete dependence
upon strangers--such a fate might distress any one; but to a girl who
had lived in comfort and held a high position in society, a girl proud
by nature and flattered by general attention and popularity, a girl who
had experienced all the burden of dependence and then all the charm of
authority--such a change might well seem intolerable. And here was a
young man, good-looking, honest, modest, the heir of an ancient line and
an only son, whose father possessed 180 serfs and who was himself to
inherit wealth from an aunt; and this young man worshipped her and
offered her his hand and heart. At first sight, hesitation seemed out of
the question. But, on the other hand, they were ill-matched in mind and
temperament. No one in the town could believe that Sofya Nikolayevna
would accept Alexyei Stepanitch, and she realised the justice of public
opinion and could not but attach importance to it. She was considered a
marvel of beauty and intelligence: her suitor was certainly pretty in a
boyish way--which was no recommendation to Sofya Nikolayevna--but rather
simple and stupid, and passed with every one for a plain country lad.
She was quick and enterprising: he was timid and slow. She was educated
and might almost be called learned, had read much, and had a wide range
of intellectual interests: he was quite ignorant, had read nothing but a
few silly novels and a song-book, and cared for little beyond snaring
quails and flying his hawks. She was witty and tactful and shone in
society: he could not string three words together; clumsy, shy, abject,
and ridiculous, he could only blush and bow and squeeze into a corner or
against a door, to escape from the talkative and sociable young men whom
he positively feared, though he was in truth far cleverer than many of
them. She had a firm, positive, unbending temper: he was humble and
wanting in energy, easily silenced and easily discomfited. Was he the
man to support and defend his wife in society and in domestic life?