The doctor said that Fyodor's mind was affected. Laptev did not
know what to do in his father's house, while the dark warehouse in
which neither his father nor Fyodor ever appeared now seemed to him
like a sepulchre. When his wife told him that he absolutely must
go every day to the warehouse and also to his father's, he either
said nothing, or began talking irritably of his childhood, saying
that it was beyond his power to forgive his father for his past,
that the warehouse and the house in Pyatnitsky Street were hateful
to him, and so on.
One Sunday morning Yulia went herself to Pyatnitsky Street. She
found old Fyodor Stepanovitch in the same big drawing-room in which
the service had been held on her first arrival. Wearing slippers,
and without a cravat, he was sitting motionless in his arm-chair,
blinking with his sightless eyes.
"It's I--your daughter-in-law," she said, going up to him. "I've
come to see how you are."
He began breathing heavily with excitement.
Touched by his affliction and his loneliness, she kissed his hand;
and he passed his hand over her face and head, and having satisfied
himself that it was she, made the sign of the cross over her.
"Thank you, thank you," he said. "You know I've lost my eyes and
can see nothing. . . . I can dimly see the window and the fire, but
people and things I cannot see at all. Yes, I'm going blind, and
Fyodor has fallen ill, and without the master's eye things are in
a bad way now. If there is any irregularity there's no one to look
into it; and folks soon get spoiled. And why is it Fyodor has fallen
ill? Did he catch cold? Here I have never ailed in my life and never
taken medicine. I never saw anything of doctors."
And, as he always did, the old man began boasting. Meanwhile the
servants hurriedly laid the table and brought in lunch and bottles
of wine.
Ten bottles were put on the table; one of them was in the shape of
the Eiffel Tower. There was a whole dish of hot pies smelling of
jam, rice, and fish.
"I beg my dear guest to have lunch," said the old man.
She took him by the arm, led him to the table, and poured him out
a glass of vodka.
"I will come to you again to-morrow," she said, "and I'll bring
your grandchildren, Sasha and Lida. They will be sorry for you, and
fondle you."
"There's no need. Don't bring them. They are illegitimate."
"Why are they illegitimate? Why, their father and mother were
married."
"Without my permission. I do not bless them, and I don't want to
know them. Let them be."
"You speak strangely, Fyodor Stepanovitch," said Yulia, with a sigh.
"It is written in the Gospel: children must fear and honour their
parents."
"Nothing of the sort. The Gospel tells us that we must forgive even
our enemies."
"One can't forgive in our business. If you were to forgive every
one, you would come to ruin in three years."
"But to forgive, to say a kind, friendly word to any one, even a
sinner, is something far above business, far above wealth."
Yulia longed to soften the old man, to awaken a feeling of compassion
in him, to move him to repentance; but he only listened condescendingly
to all she said, as a grown-up person listens to a child.
"Fyodor Stepanovitch," said Yulia resolutely, "you are an old man,
and God soon will call you to Himself. He won't ask you how you
managed your business, and whether you were successful in it, but
whether you were gracious to people; or whether you were harsh to
those who were weaker than you, such as your servants, your clerks."
"I was always the benefactor of those that served me; they ought
to remember me in their prayers forever," said the old man, with
conviction, but touched by Yulia's tone of sincerity, and anxious
to give her pleasure, he said: "Very well; bring my grandchildren
to-morrow. I will tell them to buy me some little presents for
them."
The old man was slovenly in his dress, and there was cigar ash on
his breast and on his knees; apparently no one cleaned his boots,
or brushed his clothes. The rice in the pies was half cooked, the
tablecloth smelt of soap, the servants tramped noisily about the
room. And the old man and the whole house had a neglected look, and
Yulia, who felt this, was ashamed of herself and of her husband.
"I will be sure to come and see you to-morrow," she said.
She walked through the rooms, and gave orders for the old man's
bedroom to be set to rights, and the lamp to be lighted under the
ikons in it. Fyodor, sitting in his own room, was looking at an
open book without reading it. Yulia talked to him and told the
servants to tidy his room, too; then she went downstairs to the
clerks. In the middle of the room where the clerks used to dine,
there was an unpainted wooden post to support the ceiling and to
prevent its coming down. The ceilings in the basement were low, the
walls covered with cheap paper, and there was a smell of charcoal
fumes and cooking. As it was a holiday, all the clerks were at home,
sitting on their bedsteads waiting for dinner. When Yulia went in
they jumped up, and answered her questions timidly, looking up at
her from under their brows like convicts.
"Good heavens! What a horrid room you have!" she said, throwing up
her hands. "Aren't you crowded here?"
"Crowded, but not aggrieved," said Makeitchev. "We are greatly
indebted to you, and will offer up our prayers for you to our
Heavenly Father."
"The congruity of life with the conceit of the personality," said
Potchatkin.
And noticing that Yulia did not understand Potchatkin, Makeitchev
hastened to explain:
"We are humble people and must live according to our position."
She inspected the boys' quarters, and then the kitchen, made
acquaintance with the housekeeper, and was thoroughly dissatisfied.
When she got home she said to her husband:
"We ought to move into your father's house and settle there for
good as soon as possible. And you will go every day to the warehouse."
Then they both sat side by side in the study without speaking. His
heart was heavy, and he did not want to move into Pyatnitsky Street
or to go into the warehouse; but he guessed what his wife was
thinking, and could not oppose her. He stroked her cheek and said:
"I feel as though our life is already over, and that a grey half-life
is beginning for us. When I knew that my brother Fyodor was hopelessly
ill, I shed tears; we spent our childhood and youth together, when
I loved him with my whole soul. And now this catastrophe has come,
and it seems, too, as though, losing him, I am finally cut away
from my past. And when you said just now that we must move into the
house in Pyatnitsky Street, to that prison, it began to seem to me
that there was no future for me either."
He got up and walked to the window.
"However that may be, one has to give up all thoughts of happiness,"
he said, looking out into the street. "There is none. I never have
had any, and I suppose it doesn't exist at all. I was happy once
in my life, though, when I sat at night under your parasol. Do you
remember how you left your parasol at Nina's?" he asked, turning
to his wife. "I was in love with you then, and I remember I spent
all night sitting under your parasol, and was perfectly blissful."
Near the book-case in the study stood a mahogany chest with bronze
fittings where Laptev kept various useless things, including the
parasol. He took it out and handed it to his wife.
"Here it is."
Yulia looked for a minute at the parasol, recognised it, and smiled
mournfully.
"I remember," she said. "When you proposed to me you held it in
your hand." And seeing that he was preparing to go out, she said:
"Please come back early if you can. I am dull without you."
And then she went into her own room, and gazed for a long time at
the parasol.