In spite of the complexity of the business and the immense turnover,
there were no bookkeepers in the warehouse, and it was impossible
to make anything out of the books kept by the cashier in the office.
Every day the warehouse was visited by agents, German and English,
with whom the clerks talked politics and religion. A man of noble
birth, ruined by drink, an ailing, pitiable creature, used to come
to translate the foreign correspondence in the office; the clerks
used to call him a midge, and put salt in his tea. And altogether
the whole concern struck Laptev as a very queer business.
He went to the warehouse every day and tried to establish a new
order of things; he forbade them to thrash the boys and to jeer at
the buyers, and was violently angry when the clerks gleefully
despatched to the provinces worthless shop-soiled goods as though
they were new and fashionable. Now he was the chief person in the
warehouse, but still, as before, he did not know how large his
fortune was, whether his business was doing well, how much the
senior clerks were paid, and so on. Potchatkin and Makeitchev looked
upon him as young and inexperienced, concealed a great deal from
him, and whispered mysteriously every evening with his blind old
father.
It somehow happened at the beginning of June that Laptev went into
the Bubnovsky restaurant with Potchatkin to talk business with him
over lunch. Potchatkin had been with the Laptevs a long while, and
had entered their service at eight years old. He seemed to belong
to them--they trusted him fully; and when on leaving the warehouse
he gathered up all the takings from the till and thrust them into
his pocket, it never aroused the slightest suspicion. He was the
head man in the business and in the house, and also in the church,
where he performed the duties of churchwarden in place of his old
master. He was nicknamed Malyuta Skuratov on account of his cruel
treatment of the boys and clerks under him.
When they went into the restaurant he nodded to a waiter and said:
"Bring us, my lad, half a bodkin and twenty-four unsavouries."
After a brief pause the waiter brought on a tray half a bottle of
vodka and some plates of various kinds of savouries.
"Look here, my good fellow," said Potchatkin. "Give us a plateful
of the source of all slander and evil-speaking, with mashed potatoes."
The waiter did not understand; he was puzzled, and would have said
something, but Potchatkin looked at him sternly and said:
"Except."
The waiter thought intently, then went to consult with his colleagues,
and in the end guessing what was meant, brought a plateful of tongue.
When they had drunk a couple of glasses and had had lunch, Laptev
asked:
"Tell me, Ivan Vassilitch, is it true that our business has been
dropping off for the last year?"
"Not a bit of it."
"Tell me frankly and honestly what income we have been making and
are making, and what our profits are. We can't go on in the dark.
We had a balancing of the accounts at the warehouse lately, but,
excuse me, I don't believe in it; you think fit to conceal something
from me and only tell the truth to my father. You have been used
to being diplomatic from your childhood, and now you can't get on
without it. And what's the use of it? So I beg you to be open. What
is our position?"
"It all depends upon the fluctuation of credit," Potchatkin answered
after a moment's pause.
"What do you understand by the fluctuation of credit?"
Potchatkin began explaining, but Laptev could make nothing of it,
and sent for Makeitchev. The latter promptly made his appearance,
had some lunch after saying grace, and in his sedate, mellow baritone
began saying first of all that the clerks were in duty bound to
pray night and day for their benefactors.
"By all means, only allow me not to consider myself your benefactor,"
said Laptev.
"Every man ought to remember what he is, and to be conscious of his
station. By the grace of God you are a father and benefactor to us,
and we are your slaves."
"I am sick of all that!" said Laptev, getting angry. "Please be a
benefactor to me now. Please explain the position of our business.
Give up looking upon me as a boy, or to-morrow I shall close the
business. My father is blind, my brother is in the asylum, my nieces
are only children. I hate the business; I should be glad to go away,
but there's no one to take my place, as you know. For goodness'
sake, drop your diplomacy!"
They went to the warehouse to go into the accounts; then they went
on with them at home in the evening, the old father himself assisting.
Initiating his son into his commercial secrets, the old man spoke
as though he were engaged, not in trade, but in sorcery. It appeared
that the profits of the business were increasing approximately ten
per cent. per annum, and that the Laptevs' fortune, reckoning only
money and paper securities, amounted to six million roubles.
When at one o'clock at night, after balancing the accounts, Laptev
went out into the open air, he was still under the spell of those
figures. It was a still, sultry, moonlight night. The white walls
of the houses beyond the river, the heavy barred gates, the stillness
and the black shadows, combined to give the impression of a fortress,
and nothing was wanting to complete the picture but a sentinel with
a gun. Laptev went into the garden and sat down on a seat near the
fence, which divided them from the neighbour's yard, where there
was a garden, too. The bird-cherry was in bloom. Laptev remembered
that the tree had been just as gnarled and just as big when he was
a child, and had not changed at all since then. Every corner of the
garden and of the yard recalled the far-away past. And in his
childhood, too, just as now, the whole yard bathed in moonlight
could be seen through the sparse trees, the shadows had been
mysterious and forbidding, a black dog had lain in the middle of
the yard, and the clerks' windows had stood wide open. And all these
were cheerless memories.
The other side of the fence, in the neighbour's yard, there was a
sound of light steps.
"My sweet, my precious . . ." said a man's voice so near the fence
that Laptev could hear the man's breathing.
Now they were kissing. Laptev was convinced that the millions and
the business which was so distasteful to him were ruining his life,
and would make him a complete slave. He imagined how, little by
little, he would grow accustomed to his position; would, little by
little, enter into the part of the head of a great firm; would begin
to grow dull and old, die in the end, as the average man usually
does die, in a decrepit, soured old age, making every one about him
miserable and depressed. But what hindered him from giving up those
millions and that business, and leaving that yard and garden which
had been hateful to him from his childhood?
The whispering and kisses the other side of the fence disturbed
him. He moved into the middle of the yard, and, unbuttoning his
shirt over his chest, looked at the moon, and it seemed to him that
he would order the gate to be unlocked, and would go out and never
come back again. His heart ached sweetly with the foretaste of
freedom; he laughed joyously, and pictured how exquisite, poetical,
and even holy, life might be. . . .
But he still stood and did not go away, and kept asking himself:
"What keeps me here?" And he felt angry with himself and with the
black dog, which still lay stretched on the stone yard, instead of
running off to the open country, to the woods, where it would have
been free and happy. It was clear that that dog and he were prevented
from leaving the yard by the same thing; the habit of bondage, of
servitude. . . .
At midday next morning he went to see his wife, and that he might
not be dull, asked Yartsev to go with him. Yulia Sergeyevna was
staying in a summer villa at Butovo, and he had not been to see her
for five days. When they reached the station the friends got into
a carriage, and all the way there Yartsev was singing and in raptures
over the exquisite weather. The villa was in a great park not far
from the station. At the beginning of an avenue, about twenty paces
from the gates, Yulia Sergeyevna was sitting under a broad, spreading
poplar, waiting for her guests. She had on a light, elegant dress
of a pale cream colour trimmed with lace, and in her hand she had
the old familiar parasol. Yartsev greeted her and went on to the
villa from which came the sound of Sasha's and Lida's voices, while
Laptev sat down beside her to talk of business matters.
"Why is it you haven't been for so long?" she said, keeping his
hand in hers. "I have been sitting here for days watching for you
to come. I miss you so when you are away!"
She stood up and passed her hand over his hair, and scanned his
face, his shoulders, his hat, with interest.
"You know I love you," she said, and flushed crimson. "You are
precious to me. Here you've come. I see you, and I'm so happy I
can't tell you. Well, let us talk. Tell me something."
She had told him she loved him, and he could only feel as though
he had been married to her for ten years, and that he was hungry
for his lunch. She had put her arm round his neck, tickling his
cheek with the silk of her dress; he cautiously removed her hand,
stood up, and without uttering a single word, walked to the villa.
The little girls ran to meet him.
"How they have grown!" he thought. "And what changes in these three
years. . . . But one may have to live another thirteen years, another
thirty years. . . . What is there in store for us in the future?
If we live, we shall see."
He embraced Sasha and Lida, who hung upon his neck, and said:
"Grandpapa sends his love. . . . Uncle Fyodor is dying. Uncle Kostya
has sent a letter from America and sends you his love in it. He's
bored at the exhibition and will soon be back. And Uncle Alyosha
is hungry."
Then he sat on the verandah and saw his wife walking slowly along
the avenue towards the house. She was deep in thought; there was a
mournful, charming expression in her face, and her eyes were bright
with tears. She was not now the slender, fragile, pale-faced girl
she used to be; she was a mature, beautiful, vigorous woman. And
Laptev saw the enthusiasm with which Yartsev looked at her when he
met her, and the way her new, lovely expression was reflected in
his face, which looked mournful and ecstatic too. One would have
thought that he was seeing her for the first time in his life. And
while they were at lunch on the verandah, Yartsev smiled with a
sort of joyous shyness, and kept gazing at Yulia and at her beautiful
neck. Laptev could not help watching them while he thought that he
had perhaps another thirteen, another thirty years of life before
him. . . . And what would he have to live through in that time?
What is in store for us in the future?
And he thought:
"Let us live, and we shall see."