In the course of a fortnight Lavretsky succeeded in setting Glafira
Petrovna's little house in order, and in trimming the court-yard
and the garden. Its stable became stocked with horses; comfortable
furniture was brought to it from Lavriki; and the town supplied it
with wine, and with books and newspapers. In short, Lavretsky provided
himself with every thing he wanted, and began to lead a life which was
neither exactly that of an ordinary landed proprietor, nor exactly
that of a regular hermit. His days passed by in uniform regularity,
but he never found them dull, although he had no visitors. He occupied
himself assiduously and attentively with the management of his estate;
he rode about the neighborhood, and he read. But he read little. He
preferred listening to old Anton's stories.
Lavretsky generally sat at the window, over a pipe and a cup of cold
tea. Anton would stand at the door, his hands crossed behind his back,
and would begin a deliberate narrative about old times, those fabulous
times when oats and rye were sold, not By measure, but in large sacks,
and for two or three roubles the sack; when on all sides, right up to
the town, there stretched impenetrable forests and untouched steppes.
"But now," grumbled the old man, over whose head eighty years had
already passed, "everything has been so cut down and ploughed up that
one can't drive anywhere." Anton would talk also at great length
about his late mistress, Glafira Petrovna, saying how judicious
and economical she was, how a certain gentleman, one of her young
neighbors, had tried to gain her good graces for a time, and had begun
to pay her frequent visits; and how in his honor she had deigned even
to put on her gala-day cap with massacas ribbons, and her yellow dress
made of _tru-tru-lévantine_; but how, a little later, having become
angry with her neighbor, that gentleman, on account of his indiscreet
question, "I suppose, madam, you doubtless have a good sum of money
in hand?" she told her servants never to let him enter her house
again--and how she then ordered that, after her death, every thing,
even to the smallest rag, should be handed over to Lavretsky. And, in
reality, Lavretsky found his aunt's property quite intact, even down
to the gala-day cap with the massacas ribbons, and the yellow dress of
_tru-tru-lévantine_.
As to the old papers and curious documents on which Lavretsky had
counted, he found nothing of the kind except one old volume in which
his grandfather, Peter Andreich, had made various entries. In one
place might be read, "Celebration in the city of St. Petersburg, of
the Peace concluded with the Turkish Empire by his Excellency, Prince
Alexander Alexandrovich Prozorovsky". In another, "Recipe of a
decoction for the chest," with the remark. "This prescription
was given the Generaless Prascovia Fedorovna Saltykof, by the
Archpresbyter of the Life-beginning Trinity, Fedor Avksentevich."
Sometimes there occurred a piece of political information, as
follows:--
"About the French tigers there is somehow silence"--and close by, "In
the _Moscow Gazette_ there is an announcement of the decease of the
First-Major Mikhail Petrovich Kolychef. Is not this the son of Peter
Vasilievich Kolychef?"
Lavretsky also found some old calendars and dream-books, and the
mystical work of M. Ambodik. Many a memory did the long-forgotten but
familiar "Symbols and Emblems" recall to his mind. In the furthest
recess of one of the drawers in Glafira's toilette-table, Lavretsky
found a small packet, sealed with black wax, and tied with a narrow
black ribbon. Inside the packet were two portraits lying face to face,
the one, in pastel, of his father as a young man, with soft curls
falling over his forehead, with long, languid eyes, and with a
half-open mouth; the other an almost obliterated picture of a pale
woman, in a white dress, with a white rose in her hand--his mother. Of
herself Glafira never would allow a portrait to be taken.
"Although I did not then live in the house," Anton would say to
Lavretsky, "yet I can remember your great grandfather, Andrei
Afanasich. I was eighteen years old when he died. One day I met him
in the garden--then my very thighs began to quake. But he didn't do
anything, only asked me what my name was, and sent me to his bed-room
for a pocket-handkerchief. He was truly a seigneur--every one must
allow that; and he wouldn't allow that any one was better than
himself. For I may tell you, your great grandfather had such a
wonderful amulet--a monk from Mount Athos had given him that
amulet--and that monk said to him, 'I give thee this, O Boyar, in
return for thy hospitality. Wear it, and fear no judge.' Well, it's
true, as is well known, that times were different then. What a
seigneur wanted to do, that he did. If ever one of the gentry took it
into his head to contradict him, he would just look at him, and say,
'Thou swimmest in shallow water'[A]--that was a favorite phrase with
him. And he lived, did your great grandfather of blessed memory, in
small, wooden rooms. But what riches he left behind him! What silver,
what stores of all kinds! All the cellars were crammed full of them.
He was a real manager. That little decanter which you were pleased to
praise was his. He used to drink brandy out of it. But just see! your
grandfather, Peter Andreich, provided himself with a stone mansion,
but he lived worse than his father, and got himself no satisfaction,
but spent all his money, and now there is nothing to remember him
by--not so much as a silver spoon has come down to us from him; and
for all that is left, one must thank Glafira Petrovna's care."
[Footnote A: Part of a Russian proverb.]
"But is it true," interrupted Lavretsky, "that people used to call her
an old witch?"
"But, then, who called her so?" replied Anton, with an air of
discontent.
"But what is our mistress doing now, _batyushka_?" the old man
ventured to ask one day. "Where does she please to have her
habitation?"
"I am separated from my wife," answered Lavretsky, with an effort.
"Please don't ask me about her."
"I obey," sadly replied the old man.
At the end of three weeks Lavretsky rode over to O., and spent the
evening at the Kalitines' house. He found Lemm there, and took a great
liking to him. Although, thanks to his father, Lavretsky could not
play any instrument, yet he was passionately fond of music--of
classical, serious music, that is to say. Panshine was not at the
Kalitines' that evening, for the Governor had sent him somewhere into
the country. Liza played unaccompanied, and that with great accuracy.
Lemm grew lively and animated, rolled up a sheet of paper, and
conducted the music. Maria Dmitrievna looked at him laughingly for a
while, and then went off to bed. According to her, Beethoven was too
agitating for her nerves.
At midnight Lavretsky saw Lemm home, and remained with him till three
in the morning. Lemm talked a great deal. He stooped less than usual,
his eyes opened wide and sparkled, his very hair remained pushed off
from his brow. It was so long since any one had shown any sympathy
with him, and Lavretsky was evidently interested in him, and
questioned him carefully and attentively. This touched the old man. He
ended by showing his music to his guest, and he played, and even sang,
in his worn-out voice, some passages from his own works; among others,
an entire ballad of Schiller's that he had set to music--that of
Fridolin. Lavretsky was loud in its praise, made him repeat several
parts, and, on going away, invited him to spend some days with him.
Lemm, who was conducting him to the door, immediately consented,
pressing his hand cordially. But when he found himself alone in the
fresh, damp air, beneath the just-appearing dawn, he looked round,
half-shut his eyes, bent himself together, and crept back, like a
culprit, to his bed-room. "_Ich bin wohl nicht klug_"--("I must be out
of my wits"), he murmured, as he lay down on his short, hard bed.
He tried to make out that he was ill when, a few days later,
Lavretsky's carriage came for him. But Lavretsky went up into his
room, and persuaded him to go. Stronger than every other argument with
him was the fact that Lavretsky had ordered a piano to be sent out to
the country-house on purpose for him. The two companions went to the
Kalitines' together, and spent the evening there, but not quite so
pleasantly as on the previous occasion. Panshine was there, talking a
great deal about his journey, and very amusingly mimicking the various
proprietors he had met, and parodying their conversation. Lavretsky
laughed, but Lemm refused to come out of his corner, where he remained
in silence, noiselessly working his limbs like a spider, and wearing
a dull and sulky look. It was not till he rose to take leave that he
became at all animated. Even when sitting in the carriage, the old man
at first seemed still unsociable and absorbed in his own thoughts. But
the calm, warm air, the gentle breeze, the dim shadows, the scent of
the grass and the birch buds, the peaceful light of the moonless,
starry sky, the rhythmical tramp and snorting of the horses, the
mingled fascinations of the journey, of the spring, of the night--all
entered into the soul of the poor German, and he began to talk with
Lavretsky of his own accord.