estates which are generally called "old-fashioned" in Little Russia, and
which, like ruinous and picturesque houses, are beautiful through their
simplicity and complete contrast to a new and regular building whose
walls have never yet been washed by the rain, whose roof has not yet
been overgrown with moss, and whose porch, still possessed of its
stucco, does not yet display its red bricks. I can still see the
low-roofed little house, with its veranda of slender, blackened wooden
columns, surrounding it on all sides, so that in case of a thunder-storm
or a hail-storm you could close the window shutters without getting wet;
behind it fragrant wild-cherry trees, row upon row of dwarf fruit-trees,
overtopped by crimson cherries and a purple sea of plums, covered with a
lead-colored bloom, luxuriant maples under whose shade rugs were spread
for repose; in front of the house the spacious yard, with short fresh
grass, through which paths had been worn from the storehouses to the
kitchen, from the kitchen to the apartments of the family; a long-necked
goose drinking water with her young goslings, soft as down; the picket
fence festooned with bunches of dried apples and pears, and rugs hung
out to air; a cart-load of melons standing near the store-house, the
oxen unyoked and lying lazily beside it. All this has for me an
indescribable charm,--perhaps because I no longer see it, and because
anything from which we are separated pleases us.
But more than all else, the owners of this distant nook,--an old man and
old woman,--hastening eagerly out to meet me, gave me pleasure. Afanasy
Ivanovitch Tovstogub and his wife, Pulkheria Ivanovna Tovstogubikha,
according to the neighboring peasants' way of expressing it, were the
old people of whom I began to speak. If I were a painter and wished to
depict Philemon and Baucis on canvas, I could have found no better
models than they. Afanasy Ivanovitch was sixty years old, Pulkheria
Ivanovna was fifty-five. Afanasy Ivanovitch was tall, always wore a
short sheepskin coat covered with camlet, sat all doubled up, and was
almost always smiling, whether he were telling a story or only listening
to one. Pulkheria Ivanovna was rather serious, and hardly ever laughed;
but her face and eyes expressed so much goodness, so much eagerness to
treat you to all the best they owned, that you would probably have found
a smile too repelling on her kind face. The delicate wrinkles were so
agreeably disposed on their countenances that an artist would certainly
have appropriated them. It seemed as though in them you might read their
whole life: the pure, peaceful life led by the old, patriotic,
simple-hearted, and at the same time wealthy families, which always
present a marked contrast to those baser Little-Russians who work up
from tar-burners and peddlers, throng the court-rooms like grasshoppers,
squeeze the last copper from their fellow-countrymen, crowd Petersburg
with scandal-mongers, finally acquire capital, and triumphantly add an
_f_ to their surnames which end in _o_. No, they did not resemble those
despicable and miserable creatures, but all ancient and native
Little-Russian families.
They never had any children, so all their affection was concentrated on
themselves.
The rooms of the little house in which our old couple dwelt were small,
low-ceiled, such as are generally to be seen with old-fashioned people.
In each room stood a huge stove, which occupied nearly one-third of the
space. These little rooms were frightfully hot, because both Afanasy
Ivanovitch and Pulkheria Ivanovna were fond of heat. All their fuel was
stored in the ante-room, which was always filled nearly to the ceiling
with straw, which is generally used in Little Russia in place of wood.
The chairs of the room were of wood, and massive, in the style which
generally marked those of the olden times: all had high, turned backs of
natural wood, without any paint or varnish; they were not even
upholstered, and somewhat resembled those which are still used by
bishops. Triangular tables stood in the corners, a square table stood in
front of the sofa; and there was a large mirror in a slender gilt frame,
carved in foliage, which the flies had covered with black spots; in
front of the sofa was a mat with flowers which resembled birds, and
birds which resembled flowers: and these things constituted almost the
entire furniture of the far from elegant little house where my old
people lived. The maids' room was filled with young and elderly
serving-women in striped chemises, to whom Pulkheria Ivanovna sometimes
gave trifles to sew, and whom she set to picking over berries, but who
ran about the kitchen or slept the greater part of the time. Pulkheria
Ivanovna regarded it as a necessity that she should keep them in the
house, and she kept a strict watch of their morals; but to no purpose.
Afanasy Ivan'itch very rarely occupied himself with the farming;
although he sometimes went out to see the mowers and reapers, and gazed
with great intensity at their work. All the burden of management
devolved upon Pulkheria Ivan'na. Pulkheria Ivanovna's housekeeping
consisted of a constant locking and unlocking of the storehouse, of
salting, drying, and preserving incalculable quantities of fruits and
vegetables. Her house was exactly like a chemical laboratory. A fire was
constantly laid under an apple-tree; and the kettle or the brass pan
with preserves, jelly, marmalade,--made with honey, with sugar, and with
I know not what else,--was hardly ever taken from the tripod. Under
another tree the coachman was forever distilling vodka with
peach-leaves, with wild cherry, cherry flowers, wild gentian, or
cherry-stones, in a copper still; and at the end of the process he was
never able to control his tongue, but chattered all sorts of nonsense
which Pulkheria Ivanovna did not understand, and took himself off to the
kitchen to sleep. Such a quantity of all this stuff was preserved,
salted, and dried that it would probably have overwhelmed the whole yard
at least (for Pulkheria Ivanovna liked to lay in a store far beyond what
was calculated for consumption), if the greater part of it had not been
devoured by the maid-servants, who crept into the storehouse and overate
themselves to such a fearful extent that they groaned and complained of
their stomachs for a whole day afterwards.
Both the old folks, in accordance with old-fashioned customs, were very
fond of eating. As soon as daylight dawned (they always rose early) and
the doors had begun their many-toned concert of squeaks, they sat down
at the table and drank coffee. When Afanasy Ivanovitch had drunk his
coffee, he went out, flirted his handkerchief, and said, "Kish, kish! go
away from the veranda, geese!" In the yard he generally encountered the
steward: he usually entered into conversation with him, inquired about
the work of the estate with the greatest minuteness, and imparted to him
such a multitude of observations and orders as would have caused any one
to marvel at his understanding of business; and no novice would have
ventured to conjecture that so acute a master could be robbed. But his
steward was a clever rascal: he knew well what answers he must give, and
better still how to manage things.
This done, Afanasy Ivanovitch returned to the house, and approaching
Pulkheria Ivanovna, said, "Well, Pulkheria Ivan'na, is it time to eat
something, do you think?"
"What shall we have to eat now, Afanasy Ivan'itch,--some wheat and suet
cakes, or some patties with poppy-seeds, or some salted mushrooms?"
"Some mushrooms, then, or some patties, if you please," said Afanasy
Ivan'itch; and then suddenly a table-cloth would make its appearance on
the table, with the patties and mushrooms.
An hour before dinner Afanasy Ivan'itch took another snack, and drank
vodka from an ancient silver cup, ate mushrooms, divers dried fishes,
and other things. They sat down to dine at twelve o'clock. There stood
upon the table, in addition to the platters and sauce-boats, a multitude
of pots with covers pasted on, that the appetizing products of the
savory old-fashioned cooking might not be exhaled abroad. At dinner the
conversation turned upon subjects closely connected with the meal.
After dinner Afanasy Ivanovitch went to lie down for an hour, at the end
of which time Pulkheria Ivanovna brought him a sliced watermelon and
said, "Here, try this, Afanasy Ivan'itch; see what a good melon it is."
"Don't put faith in it because it is red in the centre, Pulkheria
Ivan'na," said Afanasy Ivanovitch, taking a good-sized chunk. "Sometimes
they are not good though they are red."
But the watermelon slowly disappeared. Then Afanasy Ivanovitch ate a few
pears, and went out into the garden for a walk with Pulkheria Ivanovna.
When they returned to the house, Pulkheria Ivanovna went about her own
affairs; but he sat down on the veranda facing the yard, and observed
how the interior of the store-room was alternately disclosed and
revealed, and how the girls jostled each other as they carried in or
brought out all sorts of stuff in wooden boxes, sieves, trays, and other
receptacles for fruit. After waiting a while, he sent for Pulkheria
Ivanovna or went in search of her himself, and said, "What is there for
me to eat, Pulkheria Ivan'na?"
"What is there?" asked Pulkheria Ivanovna. "Shall I go and tell them to
bring you some curd dumplings with berries, which I had set aside for
you?"
"That would be good," answered Afanasy Ivanovitch.
"Or perhaps you could eat some kisel?" [A jelly-like pudding, made of
potato flour, and flavored with some sour fruit juice.]
"That is good also," replied Afanasy Invanovitch; whereupon all of them
were immediately brought and eaten in due course.
Before supper Afanasy Invanovitch took another appetizing snack.
At half-past nine they sat down to supper. After supper they went
directly to bed, and universal silence settled down upon this busy yet
quiet nook.
The chamber in which Afanasy Ivanovitch and Pulkheria Ivanovna slept was
so hot that very few people could have stayed in it more than a few
hours; but Afanasy Ivanovitch, for the sake of more warmth, slept upon
the stove bench, although the excessive heat caused him to rise several
times in the course of the night and walk about the room. Sometimes
Afanasy Ivanovitch groaned as he walked thus about the room.
Then Pulkheria Ivanovna inquired, "Why do you groan, Afanasy Ivan'itch?"
"God knows, Pulkheria Ivan'na! It seems to me that my stomach aches a
little," said Afanasy Ivanovitch.
"Hadn't you better eat something, Afanasy Ivan'itch?"
"I don't know; perhaps it would be well, Pulkheria Ivan'na: by the way,
what is there to eat?"
"Sour milk, or some stewed dried pears."
"If you please, I will try them," said Afanasy Ivanovitch. A sleepy maid
was sent to ransack the cupboards, and Afanasy Ivanovitch ate a
plateful; after which he remarked, "Now I seem to feel relieved."
I loved to visit them; and though I over-ate myself horribly, like all
their guests, and although it was very bad for me, still I was always
glad to go to them. Besides, I think that the air of Little Russia must
possess some special properties which aid digestion; for if any one were
to undertake to eat in that way here, there is not a doubt but that he
would find himself lying on the table a corpse, instead of in bed.
Pulkheria Ivanovna had a little gray cat, which almost always lay coiled
up in a ball at her feet. Pulkheria Ivanovna stroked her occasionally,
and tickled her neck with her finger, the petted cat stretching it out
as long as possible. It would not be correct to affirm that Pulkheria
Ivanovna loved her so very much, but she had simply become attached to
her from seeing her continually about. Afanasy Ivanovitch often joked
about the attachment.
Behind their garden lay a large forest, which had been spared by the
enterprising steward, possibly because the sound of the axe might have
reached the ears of Pulkheria Ivanovna. It was dense, neglected; the old
tree trunks were concealed by luxuriant hazel-bushes, and resembled the
feathered legs of pigeons. In this wood dwelt wild cats. These cats had
a long conference with Pulkheria Ivanovna's tame cat through a hole
under the storehouse, and at last led her astray, as a detachment of
soldiers leads astray a dull-witted peasant. Pulkheria Ivanovna noticed
that her cat was missing, and caused search to be made for her; but no
cat was to be found. Three days passed; Pulkheria Ivanovna felt sorry,
but in the end forgot all about her loss.
[The cat returns to the place half starved, and is coaxed to
come into the house and eat, but runs away on Pulkheria
Ivanovna's trying to pet her.]
The old woman became pensive. "It is my death which is come for me," she
said to herself; and nothing could cheer her. All day she was sad. In
vain did Afanasy Ivanovitch jest, and seek to discover why she had
suddenly grown so grave. Pulkheria Ivanovna either made no reply, or one
which did not in the least satisfy Afanasy Ivanovitch. The next day she
had grown visibly thinner.
"What is the matter with you, Pulkheria Ivanovna? You are not ill?"
"No, I am not ill, Afanasy Ivan'itch. I want to tell you about a strange
occurrence, I know that I shall die this year; my death has already come
for me."
Afanasy Ivanovitch's mouth was distorted with pain. Nevertheless he
tried to conquer the sad feeling in his mind, and said smiling, "God
only knows what you are talking about, Pulkheria Ivan'na! You must have
drunk some of your peach infusion instead of your usual herb tea."
"No, Afanasy Ivan'itch, I have not drunk my peach infusion," replied
Pulkheria Ivanovna. "I beg of you, Afanasy Ivan'itch, to fulfill my
wishes. When I die, bury me by the church wall. Put on me my grayish
gown,--the one with the small flowers on a cinnamon ground. My satin
gown with the red stripes you must not put on me: a corpse needs no
clothes; of what use are they to her? But it will be good for you. Make
yourself a fine dressing-gown, in case visitors come, so that you can
make a good appearance when you receive them."
"God knows what you are saying, Pulkheria Ivan'na!" said Afanasy
Ivanovitch. "Death will come some time; but you frighten me with such
remarks."
"Mind, Yavdokha," she said, turning to the housekeeper, whom she had
sent for expressly, "that you look after your master when I am dead, and
cherish him like the apple of your eye, like your own child. See that
everything he likes is prepared in the kitchen; that his linen and
clothes are always clean; that when visitors happen in, you dress him
properly, otherwise he will come forth in his old dressing-gown, for he
often forgets now whether it is a festival or an ordinary day."
Poor old woman! She had no thought for the great moment which was
awaiting her, nor of her soul, nor of the future life; she thought only
of her poor companion, with whom she had passed her life, and whom she
was about to leave an orphan and unprotected. After this fashion did she
arrange everything with great skill, so that after her death Afanasy
Ivanovitch might not perceive her absence. Her faith in her approaching
end was so firm, and her mind was so fixed upon it, that in a few days
she actually took to her bed, and was unable to swallow any nourishment.
Afanasy Ivanovitch was all attention, and never left her bedside.
"Perhaps you could eat something, Pulkheria Ivan'na," he said, gazing
uneasily into her eyes. But Pulkheria Ivanovna made no reply. At length,
after a long silence, she moved her lips as though desirous of saying
something--and her spirit fled.
Afanasy Ivanovitch was utterly amazed. It seemed to him so terrible that
he did not even weep. He gazed at her with troubled eyes, as though he
did not understand the meaning of a corpse.
Five years passed. Being in the vicinity at the end of the five years, I
went to the little estate of Afanasy Ivanovitch, to inquire after my old
neighbor, with whom I had spent the day so agreeably in former times,
dining always on the choicest delicacies of his kind-hearted wife. When
I drove up to the door, the house seemed twice as old as formerly; the
peasants' cottages were lying on one side, without doubt exactly like
their owners; the fence and hedge around the yard were dilapidated; and
I myself saw the cook pull out a paling to heat the stove, when she had
only a couple of steps to take in order to get the kindling-wood which
had been piled there expressly for her use. I stepped sadly upon the
veranda; the same dogs, now blind or with broken legs, raised their
bushy tails, all matted with burs, and barked.
The old man came out to meet me. So this was he! I recognized him at
once, but he was twice as bent as formerly. He knew me, and greeted me
with the smile which was so familiar to me. I followed him into the
room. All there seemed as in the past; but I observed a strange
disorder, a tangible loss of something. In everything was visible the
absence of the painstaking Pulkheria Ivanovna. At table, they gave us a
knife without a handle; the dishes were prepared with little art. I did
not care to inquire about the management of the estate; I was even
afraid to glance at the farm buildings. I tried to interest Afanasy
Ivanovitch in something, and told him divers bits of news. He listened
with his customary smile, but his glance was at times quite
unintelligent; and thoughts did not wander therein--they simply
disappeared.
"This is the dish--" said Afanasy Ivanovitch when they brought us curds
and flour with cream, "--this is the dish--" he continued, and I
observed that his voice began to quiver, and that tears were on the
point of bursting from his leaden eyes; but he collected all his
strength in the effort to repress them: "this is the dish which
the--the--the de--ceas--" and his tears suddenly gushed forth, his hand
fell upon his plate, the plate was overturned, flew from the table, and
was broken. He sat stupidly, holding the spoon, and tears like a
never-ceasing fountain flowed, flowed in streams down upon his napkin.
He did not live long after this. I heard of his death recently. What was
strange, though, was that the circumstances attending it somewhat
resembled those connected with the death of Pulkheria Ivanovna. One day,
Afanasy Ivanovitch decided to take a short stroll in the garden. As he
went slowly down the path with his usual heedlessness, a strange thing
happened to him. All at once he heard some one behind him say in a
distinct voice, "Afanasy Ivan'itch!" He turned round, but there was no
one there. He looked on all sides; he peered into the shrubbery,--no one
anywhere. The day was calm and the sun was shining brightly. He pondered
for a moment. Then his face lighted up, and at last he cried, "It is
Pulkheria Ivanovna calling me!"
He surrendered himself utterly to the moral conviction that Pulkheria
Ivanovna was calling him. He yielded with the meekness of a submissive
child, withered up, coughed, melted away like a candle, and at last
expired like it when nothing remains to feed its poor flame. "Lay me
beside Pulkheria Ivan'na"--that was all he said before his death.
His wish was fulfilled; and they buried him beside the churchyard wall
close to Pulkheria Ivanovna's grave. The guests at the funeral were few,
but there was a throng of common and poor people. The house was already
quite deserted. The enterprising clerk and village elder carried off to
their cottages all the old household utensils which the housekeeper did
not manage to appropriate.
Translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature,'
by Isabel F. Hapgood
[Illustration: CARLO GOLDONI.]
CARLO GOLDONI
(1707-1793)
BY WILLIAM CRANSTON LAWTON
Italy is generally felt to be, above all other lands, the natural home
of the drama. In acting, as in music, indeed, the sceptre has never
wholly passed from her: Ristori and Salvini certainly are not yet
forgotten. The Graeco-Roman comedies of Plautus and Terence, the
rhetorical tragedy of Seneca, have had a far more direct hand in molding
the modern dramatists' art than have the loftier creative masterpieces
of the great Attic Four. Indeed, Latin has never become in Italy a
really dead language, remote from the popular consciousness. The
splendor of the Church ritual, the great mass of the educated clergy,
the almost purely Latin roots of the vernacular, have made such a loss
impossible.
In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries Terence and Plautus were often
revived on the stage, still oftener imitated in Latin. Many of the
greatest names in modern Italian literature are in some degree
associated with drama. Thus Machiavelli made free Italian versions from
both the comic Latin poets, and wrote a powerful though immoral prose
comedy, 'The Magic Draught' (Mandragola). Tasso's 'Aminta' is as sweet
and musical, and hardly so artificial, as that famous 'Pastor Fido' of
Guarini, which has become the ideal type of all the mock-pastoral comedy
out of which the modern opera has risen.
So, when Goldoni is hailed as the father of modern Italian comedy, it
can only mean that his prolific Muse has dominated the stage in our own
century and in its native land. In his delightfully naive Memoirs he
frequently announces himself as the leader of _reform_ in the dramatic
art. And this claim is better founded; though there is a startling
discrepancy between the character, the temper, the life of this child of
the sun, and the Anglo-Saxon ideal of "Man the Reformer" as delineated,
for instance, by our own cooler-blooded Emerson!
Under the lead of Goldoni's elder contemporary Metastasio, the lyrical
drama of pastoral and artificial love had become fully wedded to music;
and it is rightly felt that the resulting modern opera is a genus of its
own, not essentially nor chiefly dramatic in character and aims. An
opera can be sung without action; it cannot be acted without music. On
the other hand, the farce had become almost restricted to the stock
masked characters, Pantaloon, the Dottore, Arlecchino, and the rest,
with a narrow range of childish buffoonery in the action. The companies
of professional actors, endowed with that marvelous power of
improvisation which the very language of Italy seems to stimulate,
hardly permitted the poet to offer them more than a mere outline of a
shallow plot, to be filled in from scene to scene at the impulse of the
moment on the stage!
Under these circumstances it was indeed necessary to reclaim the rights
of the dramatic poet, to reduce to decent limits the "gag" which the
comic actor has doubtless always been eager to use, and also to educate
or beguile his public up to the point of lending a moderately attentive
ear to a play of sustained interest and culminating plot. In this
seemingly modest but really most difficult task, Goldoni scored a
decided success,--a triumph.
Even his checkered life as a whole was, at eighty, in his own retrospect
a happy comedy, mingled with few serious reverses and hardly darkened at
all by remorse. Such lives at best are nowise numerous. Adequate
self-portraitures of successful artists are so rare that the
autobiographies of the gentle Goldoni, and of his savage
fellow-countryman Benvenuto Cellini, almost form a class of literature
by themselves.