power of maternal affection, the strongest of all our feelings, and she
was filled with awe by her present condition. She accepted it as a
sacred duty to maintain mental composure, and so to preserve the health
of her unborn infant and secure its existence, on which depended all her
hopes, all her future, and all her life. We know Sofya Nikolayevna
pretty well already; we know how apt she was to be carried away; and
therefore we shall not be surprised to hear that she gave herself up
wholly to her feeling for the child she bore. Every hour of the day and
night was devoted to the task of taking care of herself in all possible
ways. Her mind and her thoughts were so entirely concentrated upon this
one object that she noticed nothing else and was, apparently, quite
satisfied with her husband, though it is probable that things happened
which might have made her dissatisfied. The more Alexyei Stepanitch got
to know his wife, the more she surprised him. He was a man singularly
unable to appreciate excessive display of feeling, or to sympathise with
it, from whatever object it arose. Thus his wife's power of passionate
devotion frightened him; he dreaded it, just as he used to dread his
father's furious fits of anger. Excessive feeling always produces an
unpleasant impression upon quiet unemotional people; they cannot
recognise such a state of mind to be natural, and regard it as a kind of
morbid condition which some persons are liable to at times. They
disbelieve in the permanence of a mental composure which may break down
at any moment; and they are afraid of people with such a temperament.
And fear is fatal to love, even to a child's love for his parents. In
general I must say that, in point of mutual understanding and sympathy,
the relations between Alexyei Stepanitch and his wife, instead of
becoming closer, as might have been expected, grew less intimate. This
may seem strange, but it often happens thus in life.
Just at this time Klauss was transferred to an official post at Moscow.
He had already taken leave of his colleagues and all his acquaintance;
and he waited on solely with a view to Sofya Nikolayevna's confinement,
hoping to be of service to her in case of necessity. He calculated that
he might be able to get away on the 17th or 18th of September, and hired
horses for that date. Hiring was necessary, because he intended to break
his journey to visit a German friend, who lived at some distance from
the post-road, so that the coach would not serve his purpose. The 15th
of September passed, but the expected event did not take place. Sofya
Nikolayevna felt better and more enterprising than usual; and it was
only the pedantry of the doctor, she said, that kept her to the sofa.
When the 16th, 17th, and 18th had all gone by, the German, in spite of
his love for Sofya Nikolayevna, got very angry, because he had to pay a
_rouble_ a day to the driver he had hired--a terribly high price,
according to the ideas of those days; and the Bagroffs bantered him
about this in a friendly way. The reading and card-playing went on every
evening; and if the doctor won 60 _kopecks_[53] from his hosts, he was
much pleased, and said that his driver would not cost him much _that_
day. The 19th passed off with no change. On the 20th, when Klauss came
in the morning, Sofya Nikolayevna stood at her bedroom door and greeted
him with a curtsey. He got very angry: "Monster!" he said, "you are
treating me abominably"; but he kissed as usual the hand she held out to
him. "It is too bad, Alexyei Stepanitch," he went on; "your wife is
ruining me. Her baby ought to have been born on the 15th, and here she
is, dropping curtseys on the 20th!" "Never mind, my dear fellow," said
Alexyei Stepanitch, patting him on the shoulder; "you must rob us at
cards to-night. But the packs are nearly worn out." Klauss promised to
bring a new pack; he lunched there, and, after sitting on till two
o'clock, took his leave. He called again at six in the evening, punctual
to the minute. Finding no one in the hall, or parlour, or drawing-room,
he tried to get into the bedroom, but the door was locked; he knocked,
and it was opened by Mme. Cheprunoff. The doctor went in and stood dumb
with astonishment. The floor of the room was covered with rugs; green
silk curtains hung by the windows, and a fine silk canopy over the
double bed; a candle, shaded by a book, was burning in a corner; and in
the bed, resting on embroidered pillows and wearing a dainty, easy
morning wrapper, lay Sofya Nikolayevna. Her face looked fresh, and her
eyes were radiant with happiness. "Congratulate me, my dear friend!" she
said in a strong, audible voice; "I am the happy mother of a son!" The
doctor, when he looked at her face and heard her voice, took the whole
thing to be a mystification and a hoax. "Monster! don't try to play
tricks on so old a bird as I am!" he said. "Better get up; I have
brought a new pack of cards. It will be a present for the baby," he
added, coming up to the bed and shoving the cards under a pillow. "My
dear friend," said Sofya Nikolayevna, "I swear to you I have got a son!
Look at him; there he is!" And there, resting on a large down-pillow
trimmed with lace, and wrapped in a pink velvet coverlet, he really saw
a newborn infant, a strong boy; and Alyona Maksimovna, the midwife, was
standing near the bed.
[53] 1 _rouble_ = 100 _kopecks_.
The doctor flew into a furious rage. He sprang back from the bed as if
he had burnt himself, and roared out, "What! in my absence! after my
staying on here for a week and losing money every day, you did not send
for me!" His face turned from red to purple, his wig came half off, and
his whole stumpy figure looked so ridiculous that the lady in the bed
burst out laughing. Then the midwife tried to soothe him: "_Batyushka_,"
she said, "we had no time to think of anything at the moment; then, when
we had got things straight, we meant to send for your Honour, but Sofya
Nikolayevna said you would be here at once." The worthy man soon
recovered from his vexation; tears of joy started to his eyes; he caught
hold of the infant in his practised hands and began to examine it by the
candle-light, turning it round and feeling it till it squalled loudly.
Then he thrust a finger into its mouth, and, when the infant began to
suck lustily, the doctor was pleased and called out, "How fine and
healthy he is, the little Turk!" Sofya Nikolayevna was frightened when
she saw her priceless treasure so freely handed; and the midwife tried
to take it from him, fearing it would be "overlooked." But Klauss was
inexorable: he ran about the room, holding the child, and called for a
tub of warm water with a sponge and some soap, and a binder. Then he
turned back his sleeves, tied on an apron, threw down his wig, and began
to wash the babe, talking to it like this: "Ah, my little Turk, that
stops your crying; you like the feel of the warm water!"
Then Alexyei Stepanitch hurried into the room, almost beside himself
with joy. He had been dispatching a special messenger to carry the good
news to Stepan Mihailovitch, and writing letters to his parents; and
there was a separate letter for his sister Aksinya, begging her to come
as soon as possible and stand godmother to his son. Before the doctor
had time to dry himself, the happy father embraced him till he nearly
choked him; he had already exchanged greetings with every one in the
house, and many tears of joy had been shed. And Sofya Nikolayevna--but,
what _she_ felt, I dare not try to express in words: her bliss was such
as few on earth ever feel and no one can feel for long.
The event produced extraordinary rejoicing within the house, and even
the neighbours shared in it. The intoxication of joy was prolonged by
liquor; and soon all the servants were singing and dancing in the court.
Some who never drank at other times now took a drop too much; and one of
these was Yevseitch. They found it impossible to control him: he was
always begging to go to his mistress's bedroom to see the little son. At
last his wife, with Parasha's help, tied him tightly to a heavy bench;
and even then he went on kicking out his legs, cracking his fingers, and
attempting to articulate the chorus of a song.
Tired out by his exertions and by joyful excitement, Klauss at last sat
down in an armchair and much enjoyed a cup of tea. He was somewhat too
liberal with the rum that evening, and felt a buzzing in his head after
the third cup. So he gave instructions that the baby was to have no milk
but only syrup of rhubarb till the morning, and took leave of his happy
host and hostess. He kissed the baby's hand, promised to call early the
next morning, and went off to spend the night at his own house. As he
passed through the court, he saw the dancing, and the sound of singing
came from every window of the kitchen and servants' quarter. He stood
still; and, though he was sorry to interfere with the good people's
merriment, yet he advised them to stop their singing and dancing,
because their mistress needed rest. To his surprise, they all took his
hint and lay down at once, intending to sleep. As he passed out of the
gate he muttered to himself: "Well, he's a lucky child! How glad they
all are to have him!"
And it is really true that this child was born under a happy star. His
mother, who had suffered constantly before her former confinement, had
perfect health before his birth; his parents lived in peace together
during those halcyon days; a foster-mother was found for him who proved
to be more devoted than most real mothers; he was the answer to prayers
and the object of fond desires, and the joy over his coming into the
world spread far beyond his parents. The very day of his birth, though
the season was autumn, was warm as summer.
But what happened at Bagrovo, when the good news came that God had given
a son and heir to Alexyei Stepanitch? This is what happened at Bagrovo.
From the 15th of September, Stepan Mihailovitch counted the days and
hours, and waited for the special messenger from Ufa. The man had been
told to gallop day and night with relays of horses. This method of
travelling was new, and Stepan Mihailovitch disapproved of it as a
foolish waste of money and an unnecessary tax on the country people. He
preferred to use his own horses; but the importance and solemnity of
this occasion made him depart from his regular practice. Fortune did not
keep him in suspense too long: on the 22nd of September, when he was
sleeping after dinner, the messenger arrived, bearing letters and the
good news. The old man woke from a sound sleep, and had hardly had time
to stretch himself and clear his throat when Mazan rushed into the room
and, stammering with joyful excitement, got out the words, "A grandson,
_batyushka_ Stepan Mihailovitch! Hearty congratulations!"
The first movement of Stepan Mihailovitch was to cross himself. Then he
sprang out of bed, went barefoot to his desk, snatched from it the
family tree, took the pen from the ink-bottle, drew a line from the
circle containing the name Alexyei, traced a fresh circle at the end of
the line, and wrote in the centre of the circle, "_Serghei_."
----
Farewell! my figures, bright or dark, my people, good or bad--I should
rather say, figures that have their bright and dark sides, and people
who have both virtues and vices. You are not great heroes, not imposing
personalities; you trod your path on earth in silence and obscurity, and
it is long, very long, since you left it. But you were men and women,
and your inward and outward life was not mere dull prose, but as
interesting and instructive to us as we and our life in turn will be
interesting and instructive to our descendants. You were actors in that
mighty drama which mankind has played on this earth since time
immemorial; you played your parts as conscientiously as others, and you
deserve as well to be remembered. By the mighty power of the pen and of
print, your descendants have now been made acquainted with you.[54] They
have greeted you with sympathy and recognised you as brothers, whenever
and however you lived, and whatever clothes you wore. May no harsh
judgment and no flippant tongue ever wrong your memory!
[54] This work first appeared in parts in a Moscow magazine. When they
were collected in a book, this epilogue was added.
THE END.
----
PRINTED BY
WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND BECCLES
----
_By SERGE AKSAKOFF_.
YEARS OF CHILDHOOD
By SERGE AKSAKOFF.
Translated, for the first time, from the Russian by J. D. DUFF,
Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge.
_Demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net._
----
"We are grateful to Mr. Duff for translating for the first time into
English this remarkable book. 'Years of Childhood' becomes the more
fascinating the more one reads and thinks about it. Aksakoff read a new
and ecstatic meaning into things which are banal and tame to most men
and women, and the eager eye of his mind scanned deep into the lives and
loves of the people round about him."--_Morning Post._
"Serge Aksakoff holds a distinct and, one might say, delightful position
in Russian literature. He placed himself, almost without an effort, in
the ranks of the great masters of his nation by instinctively obeying
the precept that men of letters should look in their own hearts and
write. One can hardly thank the translator sufficiently for this first
rendering of the book in any other language than Russian."--_The Times._
"English readers may well be grateful to Mr. J. D. Duff for his
translation of a very unusual book. He promises us a translation of 'A
Family History,' which carries on the narrative of Aksakoff's life and
gives some account of his family. In the original the two make one book,
and all who read this first instalment will welcome the completion of
it."--_Spectator._
"A book of rare charm."--_Observer._
"Mr. Duff, with this admirable rendering, has unearthed a treasure for
the English reader. Let us hope that the other portion of these memoirs
will appear without delay. For this is Russia herself--convincingly real
and intimate." --_English Review._
"Apart from its great artistic value, Aksakoff's work has the
attractiveness that belongs to all origins. What Mr. Maurice Baring once
said, that the story of Aksakoff's memoirs is as vivid and interesting
as any novel, is quite true. And it is not only true but remarkable; for
reminiscences, especially of childhood, do not usually have the sort of
interest that a novel has, however vivid they may be.... The fact is,
Aksakoff succeeded in solving perhaps the hardest problem in
literature,--the problem of working a child's consciousness as a medium
for all it is worth. The book has, for us, this advantage over the other
major works of Russian literature, that it has found in Mr. Duff a
translator who is not only a scholar, but an artist skilful enough never
to force the note for a moment." --_New Statesman._
"A charming Russian book. At this time when so many translations from
the Russian are appearing, well advised and ill advised, it is good to
be able to put the hand on one superlatively good book. Here is a
refreshment for tired eyes and tired souls. It is put into beautiful
English, and the book can be read aloud with much profit and
pleasure."--_Country Life._
"Of an extraordinary richness and novelty."--_Westminster Gazette._
LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD