ON the first of February every year, St. Trifon's day, there is an
extraordinary commotion on the estate of Madame Zavzyatov, the widow
of Trifon Lvovitch, the late marshal of the district. On that day,
the nameday of the deceased marshal, the widow Lyubov Petrovna has
a requiem service celebrated in his memory, and after the requiem
a thanksgiving to the Lord. The whole district assembles for the
service. There you will see Hrumov the present marshal, Marfutkin,
the president of the Zemstvo, Potrashkov, the permanent member of
the Rural Board, the two justices of the peace of the district, the
police captain, Krinolinov, two police-superintendents, the district
doctor, Dvornyagin, smelling of iodoform, all the landowners, great
and small, and so on. There are about fifty people assembled in
all.
Precisely at twelve o'clock, the visitors, with long faces, make
their way from all the rooms to the big hall. There are carpets on
the floor and their steps are noiseless, but the solemnity of the
occasion makes them instinctively walk on tip-toe, holding out their
hands to balance themselves. In the hall everything is already
prepared. Father Yevmeny, a little old man in a high faded cap,
puts on his black vestments. Konkordiev, the deacon, already in his
vestments, and as red as a crab, is noiselessly turning over the
leaves of his missal and putting slips of paper in it. At the door
leading to the vestibule, Luka, the sacristan, puffing out his
cheeks and making round eyes, blows up the censer. The hall is
gradually filled with bluish transparent smoke and the smell of
incense.
Gelikonsky, the elementary schoolmaster, a young man with big pimples
on his frightened face, wearing a new greatcoat like a sack, carries
round wax candles on a silver-plated tray. The hostess, Lyubov
Petrovna, stands in the front by a little table with a dish of
funeral rice on it, and holds her handkerchief in readiness to her
face. There is a profound stillness, broken from time to time by
sighs. Everybody has a long, solemn face. . . .
The requiem service begins. The blue smoke curls up from the censer
and plays in the slanting sunbeams, the lighted candles faintly
splutter. The singing, at first harsh and deafening, soon becomes
quiet and musical as the choir gradually adapt themselves to the
acoustic conditions of the rooms. . . . The tunes are all mournful
and sad. . . . The guests are gradually brought to a melancholy
mood and grow pensive. Thoughts of the brevity of human life, of
mutability, of worldly vanity stray through their brains. . . .
They recall the deceased Zavzyatov, a thick-set, red-cheeked man
who used to drink off a bottle of champagne at one gulp and smash
looking-glasses with his forehead. And when they sing "With Thy
Saints, O Lord," and the sobs of their hostess are audible, the
guests shift uneasily from one foot to the other. The more emotional
begin to feel a tickling in their throat and about their eyelids.
Marfutkin, the president of the Zemstvo, to stifle the unpleasant
feeling, bends down to the police captain's ear and whispers:
"I was at Ivan Fyodoritch's yesterday. . . . Pyotr Petrovitch and
I took all the tricks, playing no trumps. . . . Yes, indeed. . . .
Olga Andreyevna was so exasperated that her false tooth fell out
of her mouth."
But at last the "Eternal Memory" is sung. Gelikonsky respectfully
takes away the candles, and the memorial service is over. Thereupon
there follows a momentary commotion; there is a changing of vestments
and a thanksgiving service. After the thanksgiving, while Father
Yevmeny is disrobing, the visitors rub their hands and cough, while
their hostess tells some anecdote of the good-heartedness of the
deceased Trifon Lvovitch.
"Pray come to lunch, friends," she says, concluding her story with
a sigh.
The visitors, trying not to push or tread on each other's feet,
hasten into the dining-room. . . . There the luncheon is awaiting
them. The repast is so magnificent that the deacon Konkordiev thinks
it his duty every year to fling up his hands as he looks at it and,
shaking his head in amazement, say:
"Supernatural! It's not so much like human fare, Father Yevmeny,
as offerings to the gods."
The lunch is certainly exceptional. Everything that the flora and
fauna of the country can furnish is on the table, but the only thing
supernatural about it, perhaps, is that on the table there is
everything except . . . alcoholic beverages. Lyubov Petrovna has
taken a vow never to have in her house cards or spirituous liquors
--the two sources of her husband's ruin. And the only bottles
contain oil and vinegar, as though in mockery and chastisement of
the guests who are to a man desperately fond of the bottle, and
given to tippling.
"Please help yourselves, gentlemen!" the marshal's widow presses
them. "Only you must excuse me, I have no vodka. . . . I have none
in the house."
The guests approach the table and hesitatingly attack the pie. But
the progress with eating is slow. In the plying of forks, in the
cutting up and munching, there is a certain sloth and apathy. . . .
Evidently something is wanting.
"I feel as though I had lost something," one of the justices of the
peace whispers to the other. "I feel as I did when my wife ran away
with the engineer. . . . I can't eat."
Marfutkin, before beginning to eat, fumbles for a long time in his
pocket and looks for his handkerchief.
"Oh, my handkerchief must be in my greatcoat," he recalls in a loud
voice, "and here I am looking for it," and he goes into the vestibule
where the fur coats are hanging up.
He returns from the vestibule with glistening eyes, and at once
attacks the pie with relish.
"I say, it's horrid munching away with a dry mouth, isn't it?" he
whispers to Father Yevmeny. "Go into the vestibule, Father. There's
a bottle there in my fur coat. . . . Only mind you are careful;
don't make a clatter with the bottle."
Father Yevmeny recollects that he has some direction to give to
Luka, and trips off to the vestibule.
"Father, a couple of words in confidence," says Dvornyagin, overtaking
him.
"You should see the fur coat I've bought myself, gentlemen," Hrumov
boasts. "It's worth a thousand, and I gave . . . you won't believe
it . . . two hundred and fifty! Not a farthing more."
At any other time the guests would have greeted this information
with indifference, but now they display surprise and incredulity.
In the end they all troop out into the vestibule to look at the fur
coat, and go on looking at it till the doctor's man Mikeshka carries
five empty bottles out on the sly. When the steamed sturgeon is
served, Marfutkin remembers that he has left his cigar case in his
sledge and goes to the stable. That he may not be lonely on this
expedition, he takes with him the deacon, who appropriately feels
it necessary to have a look at his horse. . . .
On the evening of the same day, Lyubov Petrovna is sitting in her
study, writing a letter to an old friend in Petersburg:
"To-day, as in past years," she writes among other things, "I had
a memorial service for my dear husband. All my neighbours came to
the service. They are a simple, rough set, but what hearts! I gave
them a splendid lunch, but of course, as in previous years, without
a drop of alcoholic liquor. Ever since he died from excessive
drinking I have vowed to establish temperance in this district and
thereby to expiate his sins. I have begun the campaign for temperance
at my own house. Father Yevmeny is delighted with my efforts, and
helps me both in word and deed. Oh, _ma chère_, if you knew how
fond my bears are of me! The president of the Zemstvo, Marfutkin,
kissed my hand after lunch, held it a long while to his lips, and,
wagging his head in an absurd way, burst into tears: so much feeling
but no words! Father Yevmeny, that delightful little old man, sat
down by me, and looking tearfully at me kept babbling something
like a child. I did not understand what he said, but I know how to
understand true feeling. The police captain, the handsome man of
whom I wrote to you, went down on his knees to me, tried to read
me some verses of his own composition (he is a poet), but . . . his
feelings were too much for him, he lurched and fell over . . . that
huge giant went into hysterics, you can imagine my delight! The day
did not pass without a hitch, however. Poor Alalykin, the president
of the judges' assembly, a stout and apoplectic man, was overcome
by illness and lay on the sofa in a state of unconsciousness for
two hours. We had to pour water on him. . . . I am thankful to
Doctor Dvornyagin: he had brought a bottle of brandy from his
dispensary and he moistened the patient's temples, which quickly
revived him, and he was able to be moved. . . ."