“I am sorry, Valentina Mihailovna,” Mariana said, drawing near to her,
“I was busy and could not get away.”
She bowed to Kollomietzev and withdrew into a corner, where she sat down
on a little stool near the parrot, who began flapping its wings as soon
as it caught sight of her.
“Why so far away, Mariana?” Valentina Mihailovna asked, looking after
her. “Do you want to be near your little friend? Just think, Simion
Petrovitch,” she said, turning to Kollomietzev, “our parrot has simply
fallen in love with Mariana!”
“I don’t wonder at it!”
“But he simply can’t bear me!”
“How extraordinary! Perhaps you tease him.”
“Oh, no, I never tease him. On the contrary, I feed him with sugar.
But he won’t take anything out of my hand. It is a case of sympathy and
antipathy.”
Mariana looked sternly at Valentina Mihailovna and Valentina Mihailovna
looked at her. These two women did not love one another.
Compared to her aunt Mariana seemed plain. She had a round face, a large
aquiline nose, big bright grey eyes, fine eyebrows, and thin lips.
Her thick brown hair was cut short; she seemed retiring, but there was
something strong and daring, impetuous and passionate, in the whole of
her personality. She had tiny little hands and feet, and her healthy,
lithesome little figure reminded one of a Florentine statuette of the
sixteenth century. Her movements were free and graceful.
Mariana’s position in the Sipiagin’s house was a very difficult one. Her
father, a brilliant man of Polish extraction, who had attained the rank
of general, was discovered to have embezzled large state funds. He
was tried and convicted, deprived of his rank, nobility, and exiled
to Siberia. After some time he was pardoned and returned, but was too
utterly crushed to begin life anew, and died in extreme poverty. His
wife, Sipiagin’s sister, did not survive the shock of the disgrace and
her husband’s death, and died soon after. Uncle Sipiagin gave a home to
their only child, Mariana. She loathed her life of dependence and longed
for freedom with all the force of her upright soul. There was a constant
inner battle between her and her aunt. Valentina Mihailovna looked upon
her as a nihilist and freethinker, and Mariana detested her aunt as
an unconscious tyrant. She held aloof from her uncle and, indeed, from
everyone else in the house. She held aloof, but was not afraid of them.
She was not timid by nature.
“Antipathy is a strange thing,” Kollomietzev repeated. “Everybody knows
that I am a deeply religious man, orthodox in the fullest sense of the
word, but the sight of a priest’s flowing locks drives me nearly mad. It
makes me boil over with rage.”
“I believe hair in general has an irritating effect upon you, Simion
Petrovitch,” Mariana remarked. “I feel sure you can’t bear to see it cut
short like mine.”
Valentina Mihailovna lifted her eyebrows slowly, then dropped her head,
as if astonished at the freedom with which modern young girls entered
into conversation. Kollomietzev smiled condescendingly.
“Of course,” he said, “I can’t help feeling sorry for beautiful curls
such as yours, Mariana Vikentievna, falling under the merciless snip of
a pair of scissors, but it doesn’t arouse antipathy in me. In any case,
your example might even ... even ... convert me!”
Kollomietzev could not think of a Russian word, and did not like using a
French one, after what his hostess had said.
“Thank heaven,” Valentina Mihailovna remarked, “Mariana does not wear
glasses and has not yet discarded collars and cuffs; but, unfortunately,
she studies natural history, and is even interested in the woman
question. Isn’t that so, Mariana?”
This was evidently said to make Mariana feel uncomfortable, but Mariana,
however, did not feel uncomfortable.
“Yes, auntie,” she replied, “I read everything I can get hold of on the
subject. I am trying to understand the woman question.”
“There is youth for you!” Valentina Mihailovna exclaimed, turning to
Kollomietzev. “Now you and I are not at all interested in that sort of
thing, are we?”
Kollomietzev smiled good-naturedly; he could not help entering into the
playful mood of his amiable hostess.
“Mariana Vikentievna,” he began, “is still full of the ideals.. . the
romanticism of youth ... which ... in time—”
“Heaven, I was unjust to myself,” Valentina Mihailovna interrupted him;
“I am also interested in these questions. I am not quite an old lady
yet.”
“Of course. So am I in a way,” Kollomietzev put in hastily. “Only I
would forbid such things being talked about!”
“Forbid them being talked about?” Mariana asked in astonishment.
“Yes! I would say to the public, ‘Interest yourselves in these things as
much as you like, but talk about them ... sh.’” He layed his finger
on his lips.
“I would, at any rate, forbid speaking through _the press_ under any
conditions!”
Valentina Mihailovna laughed.
“What? Would you have a commission appointed by the ministers for
settling these questions?”
“Why not? Don’t you think we could do it better than these ignorant,
hungry loafers who know nothing and imagine themselves to be men of
genius? We could appoint Boris Andraevitch as president.”
Valentina Mihailovna laughed louder still.
“You had better take care, Boris Andraevitch is sometimes such a
Jacobin—”
“Jacko, jacko, jacko,” the parrot screamed. Valentina Mihailovna waved
her handkerchief at him. “Don’t interrupt an intelligent conversation!
Mariana, do teach him manners!”
Mariana turned to the cage and began stroking the parrot’s neck with her
finger; the parrot stretched towards her.
“Yes,” Valentina Mihailovna continued, “Boris Andraevitch astonishes me,
too, sometimes. There is a certain strain in him... a certain strain...
of the tribune.”
_“C’est parce qu’il est orateur!”_ Kollomietzev exclaimed
enthusiastically in French. “Your husband is a marvellous orator and is
accustomed to success ... _ses propres paroles le grisent_ ... and then
his desire for popularity.... By the way, he is rather annoyed just now,
is he not? _Il boude?_ Eh?”
Valentina Mihailovna looked at Mariana.
“I haven’t noticed it,” she said after a pause. “Yes,” Kollomietzev
continued pensively, “he was rather overlooked at Easter.”
Valentina Mihailovna indicated Mariana with her eyes. Kollomietzev
smiled and screwed up his eyes, conveying to her that he understood.
“Mariana Vikentievna,” he exclaimed suddenly, in an unnecessarily loud
tone of voice, “do you intend teaching at the school again this year?”
Mariana turned round from the cage.
“Are you interested to know, Simion Petrovitch?”
“Certainly. I am very much interested.”
“Would you forbid it?”
“I would forbid nihilists even so much as to think of schools. I would
put all schools into the hands of the clergy, and with an eye on them I
wouldn’t mind running one myself!”
“Really! I haven’t the slightest idea what I shall do this year. Last
year things were not at all successful. Besides, how can you get a
school together in the summer?”
Mariana blushed deeply all the time she was speaking, as if it cost her
some effort. She was still very self-conscious.
“Are you not sufficiently prepared?” Valentina Mihailovna asked
sarcastically.
“Perhaps not.”
“Heavens!” Kollomietzev exclaimed. “What do I hear? Oh ye gods! Is
preparation necessary to teach peasants the alphabet?”
At this moment Kolia ran into the drawing room shouting “Mamma! mamma!
Papa has come!” And after him, waddling on her stout little legs,
appeared an old grey-haired lady in a cap and yellow shawl, and also
announced that Boris had come.
This lady was Sipiagin’s aunt, and was called Anna Zaharovna. Everyone
in the drawing room rushed out into the hall, down the stairs, and on
to the steps of the portico. A long avenue of chipped yews ran straight
from these steps to the high road—a carriage and four was already
rolling up the avenue straight towards them. Valentina Mihailovna,
standing in front, waved her pocket handkerchief, Kolia shrieked with
delight, the coachman adroitly pulled up the steaming horses, a footman
came down headlong from the box and almost pulled the carriage door
off its hinges in his effort to open it—and then, with a condescending
smile on his lips, in his eyes, over the whole of his face, Boris
Andraevitch, with one graceful gesture of the shoulders, dropped his
cloak and sprang to the ground. Valentina Mihailovna gracefully threw
her arms round his neck and they kissed three times. Kolia stamped
his little feet and pulled at his father’s coat from behind, but
Boris Andraevitch first kissed Anna Zaharovna, quickly threw off his
uncomfortable, ugly Scotch cap, greeted Mariana and Kollomietzev, who
had also come out (he gave Kollomietzev a hearty shake of the hand in
the English fashion), and then turned to his little son, lifted him
under the arms, and kissed him.
During this scene Nejdanov half guiltily scrambled out of the carriage
and, without removing his cap, stood quietly near the front wheel,
looking out from under his eyebrows. Valentina Mihailovna, when
embracing her husband, had cast a penetrating look over his shoulder at
this new figure. Sipiagin had informed her that he was bringing a tutor.
Everyone continued exchanging greetings and shaking hands with the
newly-arrived host as they all moved up the broad stairs, lined on
either side with the principal men and maid servants. They did not come
forward to kiss the master’s hand (an Asiatic custom they had abandoned
long ago), but bowed respectfully. Sipiagin responded to their
salutations with a slight movement of the nose and eyebrows, rather than
an inclination of the head.
Nejdanov followed the stream up the wide stairs. As soon as they reached
the hall, Sipiagin, who had been searching for Nejdanov with his eyes,
introduced him to his wife, Anna Zaharovna, and Mariana, and said to
Kolia, “This is your tutor. Mind you do as he tells you. Give him your
hand.” Kolia extended his hand timidly, stared at him fixedly, but
finding nothing particularly interesting about his tutor, turned to his
“papa” again. Nejdanov felt uncomfortable, just as he had done at the
theatre. He wore an old shabby coat, and his face and hands were covered
with dust from the journey. Valentina Mihailovna said something kindly
to him, but he did not quite catch what it was and did not reply.
He noticed that she was very bright, and clung to her husband
affectionately. He did not like Kolia’s befrizzled and pomaded head, and
when his eye fell on Kollomietzev, thought, “What a sleek individual.” He
paid no attention to the others. Sipiagin turned his head once or twice
in a dignified manner, as if looking round at his worldly belongings, a
pose that set off to perfection his long drooping whiskers and somewhat
small round neck. Then he shouted to one of the servants in a loud
resonant voice, not at all husky from the journey, “Ivan! Take this
gentleman to the green room and see to his luggage afterwards!” He then
told Nejdanov that he could change and rest awhile, and that dinner
would be served at five o’clock. Nejdanov bowed and followed Ivan to the
“green” room, which was situated on the second floor.
The whole company went into the drawing room. The host was welcomed all
over again. An old blind nurse appeared and made him a courtesy. Out of
consideration for her years, Sipiagin gave her his hand to kiss. He
then begged Kollomietzev to excuse him, and retired to his own room
accompanied by his wife.