AS BECOMES GOOD KINSFOLK
CHAPTER I
A hot midday in July; the Dubrovino manor-house all deserted. Workers and idlers alike resting in the shade. Under the canopy of a huge willow-tree in the front yard the dogs, too, were lying stretched out, and you could hear the sound of their jaws when they drowsily snapped at the flies. Even the trees drooped motionless, as if exhausted. All the windows in the manor-house and the servants' quarters were flung wide open. The heat seemed to surge in sweltering waves and the soil covered with short, singed grass was ablaze. The atmosphere was a blinding haze touched into gold, so that one could scarcely distinguish things in the distance. The manor-house, once painted gray and now faded into white, the small flower garden in front of the house, the birch grove, separated from the farm by the road, the pond, the village and the corn field, which touched the outskirts of the village, all were immersed in the dazzling torrent. The fragrance of blossoming linden trees mingled with the noxious emanations of the cattle shed. There was not a breath of air, not a sound. Only from the kitchen there came the grating of knives being sharpened, which foretold the inevitable hash and beef cutlets for dinner.
Inside the house reigned noiseless confusion. An old lady and two young girls were sitting in the dining room, forgetful of their crocheting, which lay on the table. They were waiting with intense anxiety. In the maids' room two women were busied preparing mustard plasters and poultices, and the rhythmic tinkling of the spoons pierced the silence like the chirping of a cricket. Barefooted girls were stealing silently along the corridor, scurrying back and forth from the entresol to the maids' room. At times a voice was heard from upstairs: "What about the mustard plasters? Are you asleep there?" And a girl would dash out of the maids' room. At last heavy footsteps sounded on the staircase, and the regimental surgeon entered the dining room, a tall, broad-shouldered man, with firm, ruddy cheeks, the picture of health. His voice was sonorous, his gait steady, his eyes clear, gay and frank, his lips full and fresh. In spite of his fifty years he was a thoroughly fast liver and expected to see many years pass before he would give up drinking and carousing. He wore a showy summer suit, and his spotless piqué coat was trimmed with white buttons bearing arms. On entering he made a clicking sound with his lips and tongue.
"Girls!" he shouted merrily, standing on the threshold. "Bring us some vodka and something to eat."
"Well, doctor, how is he?" the old lady asked, her voice full of anxiety.
"The Lord's mercy is infinite, Arina Petrovna," answered the physician.
"What do you mean? Then he——"
"Just so. He will last another two or three days, and then—good-bye!" The doctor made an expressive gesture with his hand and hummed: "Head over heels, head over heels he will fall."
"How's that? Doctors treated him—and now all of a sudden——"
"What doctors?"
"The zemstvo doctor and one from the town used to come here."
"Fine doctors! If they'd given him a good bleeding, they'd have saved him."
"So nothing at all can be done?"
"Well, I said, 'The Lord's mercy is great,' and I can add nothing to that."
"But perhaps it will work?"
"What will work?"
"I mean—the mustard plasters."
"Perhaps."
A woman in a black dress and black shawl brought in a tray holding a decanter of vodka, a dish of sausages and a dish of caviar. The doctor helped himself to the vodka, held the glass to the light and smacked his tongue.
"Your health, mother," he said to the old lady, and gulped the liquid.
"Drink in good health, my dear sir."
"This is the cause of Pavel Vladimirych dying in the prime of his life, this vodka," said the doctor, grimacing comfortably and spearing a piece of sausage with his fork.
"Yes, it's the ruin of many a man."
"That's because not everyone can stand it. But I can, and I shall have another glass. Your health, madam."
"Drink, drink. Nothing can happen to you."
"Nothing. My lungs and kidneys and liver and spleen are in excellent condition. By the way," he turned to the woman in black who stood at the door, listening to the conversation, "What will you have for dinner to-day?"
"Hash and beef cutlets and chicken for roast," she answered, smiling somewhat sourly.
"Have you any smoked fish?"
"We have, sir. We have white sturgeon and stellated sturgeon, plenty of it."
"Then have a cold soup with sturgeon for our dinner, and pick out a fat bit of sturgeon, you hear me? What is your name? Ulita?"
"Yes, sir, people call me Ulita."
"Well, then, hurry up, friend Ulita, hurry up."
Ulita left the room, and for a while oppressive silence reigned. Then Arina Petrovna rose from her seat and made sure Ulita was not eavesdropping.
"Andrey Osipych, have you spoken to him yet about the orphans?" she asked the doctor.
"Yes, I did."
"Well?"
"There was no change. 'When I get well' he kept on saying, 'I will make my will and write the notes.'"
Silence, heavier than before, filled the room. The girls took the crocheting from the table, and their trembling hands worked one row after the other. Arina Petrovna heaved a deep sigh of dejection. The doctor paced up and down the room and whistled, "Head over heels, head over heels."
"But did you try to drive the matter home to him, doctor?"
"Well, I said to him: 'You'll be a scoundrel if you don't make a definite provision for the orphans.' Could I make it clearer? Yes, mother, you certainly slipped up. If you had called me in a month ago, I would have given him a good bleeding and I would have seen to it that he made his will. But now everything will go to Yudushka, the lawful heir. It certainly will."
"Oh, grandmother, what will become of us?" said the older of the two girls, plaintively and almost in tears. "What is uncle doing to us?"
The girls were Anninka and Lubinka, the daughters of Anna Vladimirovna Ulanova, to whom Arina Petrovna had once "thrown a bone."
"I don't know, dear, I don't know. I don't even know what will become of me. Today I am here, and tomorrow God knows where I'll be. Maybe I'll have to sleep in a shed or at a peasant's."
"Goodness, isn't uncle silly!" exclaimed the younger girl.
"I wish, young lady, you would keep your mouth shut," remarked the doctor. Turning to Arina Petrovna, he suggested, "Why not try to talk to him yourself, mother?"
"No, no. There's no use my talking to him. He doesn't even want to see me. The other day I stuck my nose into his room, and he snarled, 'Have you come to see me off to the other world?'"
"I think Ulita is back of it all. She incites him against you."
"She surely does, nobody but she. And then she reports everything to Porfiry the Bloodsucker. People say he keeps a pair of horses harnessed all day waiting for the beginning of the agony. And just imagine, the other day Ulita went so far as to take an inventory of the furniture, wardrobe, and dishes, so that nothing should be lost, as she said. We are the thieves, just imagine it."
"Why don't you treat her more severely? Head over heels, you know, head over heels."
But fate decreed that the doctor should not develop his thought. A girl, all out of breath, dashed into the room and exclaimed in a fright:
"The master! The master wants the doctor."
CHAPTER II
Not more than ten years had passed since the death of Simple Simon, but the condition of the various members of the Golovliov family had so completely changed that not a trace remained of those artificial ties which had given the family the air of an impregnable stronghold. This stronghold, erected by the tireless hands of Arina Petrovna, had crumbled away, but so imperceptibly that she herself was ignorant of how it had happened, was even involved in the destruction, the leading spirit in which, of course, had been Porfiry the Bloodsucker.
From an irresponsible, hot-tempered ruler over the Golovliovo estate, Arina Petrovna had descended into a mere hanger-on in the home of her younger son, a useless hanger-on, with no voice in the household management. Her head was bowed, her back bent, the fire in her eyes had died out, her gait was languid, the vivacity of her movements was gone. She had taken to knitting to occupy her idleness, but her mind was always wandering somewhere away from her needles, and the knitting was a failure. She would knit for a few moments, then her hands would drop of themselves, her head would fall on the back of her chair, and she would begin to go over bygones in her mind, until she got drowsy and dropped off into a senile slumber. Or else she would get up and begin to pace the rooms, always searching for something; always looking into corners, like a good housewife hunting for her keys, which she usually carries about with her and has now misplaced somehow.
The first blow to her authority was not so much the abolition of serfdom as the preparations preceding it. At first, there were simply rumors, then came the meetings of landowners and addresses, next followed provincial committees, and revising commissions. All these things exhausted and confused her. Arina Petrovna's imagination, active enough without additional stimuli, conceived numerous absurd situations. "How am I going to call Agashka?" she'd think. "Perhaps I'll have to tack a 'Miss' before her name." Or she would see herself walking about in the empty rooms while the servants were taking it easy in their quarters and were gorging themselves with all kinds of food; and when they got tired of gorging she saw them throwing the remnants under the table. Then she would find herself surprising Yulka and Feshka in the cellar, devouring everything in sight, like beasts, and she would itch to reprimand them, but would have to check herself with the thought, "How dare one say anything to them, now that they are free? Why one can't even appeal to the court against them!"
However insignificant such trifles may be, a whole fantastic world is built up of them, which holds you tight and completely paralyzes your activity. Arina Petrovna somehow suddenly let the reins of government slip out of her grasp, and for a space of two years did nothing from morning until night except complain.
"One or the other," she was fond of saying, "gains all or loses all. But these meetings and addresses and commissions, they're nothing but trouble."
At that time, just when the committees were in full swing, Vladimir Mikhailych died. On his deathbed he repudiated Barkov and his teachings, and died appeased and reconciled to the world. His last words were:
"I thank my God that He did not suffer me to come into His presence on an equal footing with the serfs."
These words made a deep impression on his wife's receptive soul, so that both his death and her fantastic notions about the future laid a coloring of gloom and despair on the atmosphere of the house. It seemed as if both the old manor and its inhabitants were getting ready for death.
From a few complaints that found their way into the letters of Arina Petrovna, Porfiry Vladimirych's amazingly keen perceptions sensed the confusion that possessed her mind. Not that Arina Petrovna actually sermonized and moralized in her letters, but above all, she trusted in God's help, "which in these faithless times does not abandon even slaves, far less those who because of their means were the surest prop and ornament of the church." Yudushka instinctively understood that if mother dear began to put her hope in God, then there was some flaw in the fabric of her existence. And he took advantage of the flaw with his peculiar, subtle skill.
Almost at the very end of the preliminaries to the emancipation, he visited Golovliovo quite unexpectedly and found Arina Petrovna sunk into despondency, almost to a point of prostration.
"Well, what news? What do they say in St. Petersburg?" was her first question, after mutual greetings had been exchanged.
Porfiry cast down his eyes and sat speechless.
"No, you must consider my circumstances," continued Arina Petrovna, gathering from her son's silence that good news was not to be expected. "Right now in the maids' room I have about thirty of these creatures. What shall I do with them? If they remain in my care, what am I going to feed them on? At present I have a little cabbage, a little potatoes, some bread, enough of everything; and we manage somehow to make both ends meet. If the potatoes give out, I order cabbage to be cooked; if there is no cabbage, cucumbers have to do. But now, if I have to run to market for everything and pay for everything, and buy and serve, how am I ever to provide for such a crowd?"
Porfiry gazed into the eyes of his "mother dear" and smiled bitterly as a sign of sympathy.
"And then, if the government is going to turn them loose, give them absolute leeway—well, then, I don't know, I don't know, I don't know what it will come to."
Porfiry smiled as if there were something very funny in "what it was coming to."
"Don't you laugh. It is a serious matter, so serious that if only the Lord grants them a little more reason, only then—Here's my case, for instance. I am by no means an old rag, am I? I must have my bread and butter, too, mustn't I? How am I to go about getting it? Think of the bringing-up we received. The only thing we know is how to dance and sing and receive guests. Then how am I going to get along without those wretches, I'd like to know. I can't serve meals or cook. I can't do a thing."
"God is merciful, mother dear."
"He used to be, but not now. When we were good, the Almighty was merciful to us; when we became wicked, well, we mustn't complain. I'm beginning to think that the best thing for me is to throw everything to the dogs. Really, I'll build myself a little hut right next to father's grave, and that's where I'll spend the rest of my days."
Porfiry Vladimirych pricked up his ears. His mouth began to water.
"And who will manage the estates?" he questioned, carefully throwing his bait, as it were.
"Why, you boys will have to manage them yourselves. Thank God, I have provided plenty. I ought not carry the whole burden alone."
Arina Petrovna suddenly stopped and raised her head. Her eyes fell on Yudushka's simpering, drivelling, oily face, all suffused with a carnivorous inner glow.
"You seem to be getting ready to bury me," remarked Arina Petrovna drily. "Isn't it a bit too early, darling? Look out, don't make a mistake."
Thus the matter ended in nothing definite. But there are discussions which, once begun, never really come to an end. A few hours later Arina Petrovna renewed the conversation.
"I'll leave for the Trinity Monastery," she dreamed aloud. "I'll divide up the estate, buy a little cottage on the grounds and settle there."
But Porfiry Vladimirych, taught by past experience, remained silent this time.
"Last year, while your deceased father was still alive," continued Arina Petrovna, "I was sitting alone in my bedroom and suddenly I thought I heard someone whispering in my ear: 'Go to the Trinity Monastery. Go to the Trinity.' Three times, mind you. I turned about—there was nobody in the room. Well, then, I thought that must have been a sign for me. 'Well,' I said, 'if God is pleased with my faith, I am ready.' No sooner had I said that than suddenly the room was filled with such a wonderful fragrance. Of course I immediately ordered my things packed and by evening I was on my way."
Tears rose in Arina Petrovna's eyes. Yudushka took advantage of this to kiss his mother's hand, and even made free to put his arm around her waist.
"Now you are a good girl," he said. "Ah, how good it is, darling, when one lives in peace with God. You come to God with a prayer, and the Lord meets you with help. That's how it is, mother dear."
"Wait a minute, I haven't finished. Next day, in the evening I arrived at the monastery and went straight to the saint's chapel. Evening service was being held, the choir was singing, candles were burning, fragrance was wafted from the censers. I simply did not know where I was—on earth or in Heaven. I went from the service to Father Yon, and I said to him: 'Well, your Reverence, it was mighty good today at church.' 'No wonder, madam,' he said, 'Father Avvakum had a vision today at the evening service. He had just raised his arms to begin praying when he beheld a light in the cupola and a dove looking down at him.' Well, from that time, I came to the conclusion, sooner or later my last days will be spent at Trinity Monastery."
"And who will take care of us? Who will have your children's welfare at heart? Ah, mamma, mamma!"
"Well, you're not babies any longer, and you'll be able to look after yourselves. As for me, I'll go to the monastery with Annushka's orphans and live under the saint's wing. Perhaps the desire will awaken in one of the girls to serve God. Well, then, the convent is right at hand. I'll buy myself a little house, plant a little garden, potatoes, cabbage—there'll be enough of everything for me."
Such idle talk continued for several days, Arina Petrovna making the boldest plans, withdrawing them and remaking them, and then finally carrying the matter so far that she could not withdraw again. Within half a year after Yudushka's visit this was the situation: Arina Petrovna not at the monastery, nor in a little house built near her husband's grave. Instead of that she had divided the estate, leaving only the capital for herself. Porfiry Vladimirych received the better part and Pavel Vladimirych the worse part.
CHAPTER III
Arina Petrovna remained at Golovliovo. This gave rise, of course, to a domestic comedy. Yudushka shed tears and succeeded in inducing his mother dear to manage his household without accountability to him, to receive the income and to use it at her discretion. "And, dearest, whatever portion of the income you give me," he added, "I shall be satisfied with it." Pavel, on the other hand, thanked his mother coldly ("as if he wanted to bite me," were her words), immediately retired from service ("just so, without his mother's blessing, like a madman, he escaped to freedom") and settled down at Dubrovino.
From that time on, Arina Petrovna's judgment became somewhat dimmed. The image of Porfishka the Bloodsucker, whom she had once sized up so shrewdly, now went, as it were, behind a fog. She seemed no longer to understand anything except that, despite the division of the estate and the emancipation of the peasants, she still lived at Golovliovo and still owed no account to anyone. Here, at her side, lived another son, but what a difference! While Porfisha had entrusted both himself and his household into his mother's care, Pavel not only never consulted her about anything, but even spoke to her through his teeth.
And as her mind became more clouded, her heart warmed more to her gentle son. Porfiry Vladimirych asked nothing of her. She herself anticipated his desires. Little by little she became dissatisfied with the shape of the Golovliovo property. At such and such a place, a stranger's land jutted into it—it would be well to buy up that piece of land. In such and such a place it would be fine to have a separate farm, but there was too little meadow. And here, right next to it, was a meadow for sale, ah, a fine bit of meadow. Arina Petrovna's enthusiasm was that of a mother and a woman of affairs who wants her affectionate son to view her capabilities in all their glory. But Porfiry Vladimirych withdrew into his shell, impervious to all her suggestions. In vain did Arina Petrovna tempt him with bargains. To all her propositions for acquiring a piece of woodland or meadowland, he invariably answered: "Dear mother, I am perfectly satisfied with what you granted me in your kindness."
These answers only spurred Arina Petrovna on. Carried away by her household zeal, and also by indignation against the "scoundrel Pavlusha," who lived beside her but refused to have anything to do with her, Arina Petrovna lost sight of her actual relationship to the estate. Her former fever for acquiring possessed her with renewed strength, though now it was no longer aggrandizement for her own sake but for the sake of her beloved son. The Golovliovo estate grew, rounded out, and flourished.
And at the very moment when Arina Petrovna's capital had dwindled to a point at which it was almost impossible for her to live on the interest, Yudushka sent her a most respectful letter along with an enormous package of blank forms, which were to guide her in the future in the making out of the annual balance sheet. Beside the principal items of the household expenses were listed raspberries, gooseberries, mushrooms, etc. There was a special account for every item, on the following plan:
Number of raspberry bushes, year 18—,------------------------pounds
Number of bushes planted this year ----------------------------------"
Quantity of berries picked ---------------------------------------------"
Out of this total you, mother dear,
used for yourself----------------- --------------------------------"
Preserves used, or to be used, in the household of His Excellency
Porfiry Vladimirych Golovlio- ------------------------------------"
Given to boy in reward for good behavior----------------------------"
Sold to the common people for a tidbit-------------------------------"
Decayed because of absence of buyers and for
other reasons --------------------- -----------------------------------"
------
NOTE.—In case the crop in the year in which the account is
taken is less than that of the previous year, the reasons therefor,
like drought, rain, hail, and so forth, should be indicated.
Arina Petrovna fairly groaned. First of all, she was shocked at Yudushka's avarice. She had never heard of berries forming an item in the account of an estate, and he seemed to emphasize that item most. Secondly, she fully realized that the blanks were a constitution limiting her power hitherto autocratic.
After a long controversial correspondence between them, Arina Petrovna, humiliated and indignant, moved to Dubrovino, and Porfiry Vladimirych subsequently retired from office and settled at Golovliovo.
From that time on the old woman spent many wretched days in enforced idleness. Pavel Vladimirych was particularly offensive in his treatment of his mother. He received her in what he thought was quite a decent manner, that is, he promised to provide food and drink for both her and his orphan nieces, on two conditions, however, first, they were not to enter the entresol which he occupied; secondly, they were not to interfere in the management of the household. The second condition was particularly galling to Arina Petrovna. The management of the house was in the hands of the housekeeper Ulita, a viperous woman who had been found in secret communication with Yudushka and Kirushka, the late master's butler, a man who knew nothing about farming and whom Pavel Vladimirych almost feared. Both of them stole relentlessly. How often did Arina Petrovna's heart ache when she saw the house being ransacked; how she did long to warn her son and open his eyes to the theft of tea, sugar, butter! Loads of things were wasted, and Ulita, not in the least shamed by the presence of the old mistress, repeatedly hid whole handfuls of sugar in her pocket right before her eyes. Arina Petrovna saw it all, but was forced to remain a silent witness to the plunder. No sooner would she open her mouth to make some remark, than Pavel Vladimirych would instantly check her, saying:
"Mother, there should be only one person to manage a house. I'm not alone in that opinion, everybody says so. I know my orders are foolish. Never mind, let them be foolish. Your orders are wise. Let them be wise. Wise you are, very wise, still Yudushka left you without house or home, to shift for yourself."
The last straw was the awful discovery that Pavel Vladimirych drank. The craving had come from the loneliness of life in the country and had crept upon him stealthily, until finally it possessed him completely, and he was a doomed man. When his mother first came to live in the house, he seemed to have some scruples about drinking. He would come down from the entresol and talk to his mother quite often. She noticed that his speech was strangely incoherent but for a long time attributed it to his stupidity. She did not enjoy his visits. The chats with him oppressed her extremely. In fact he always seemed to be grumbling foolishly. Either there had been a drought for many weeks, or an overwhelming downpour of rain, or tree beetles had overrun the garden and ruined the trees, or moles had made their appearance and dug up the whole field. All this afforded an endless source for grumbling. He would come down from the entresol, seat himself opposite his mother and begin:
"There are clouds all around. Is Golovliovo far from here? The Bloodsucker had a shower yesterday and we don't get a single drop. The clouds wander about, all around here. If there were only a drop of rain for us!"
Or else he would say:
"Have you ever seen such a flood? The rye has just begun to flower and it comes pouring down. Half of the hay is rotten already, and the rain still spouts and spurts. Is Golovliovo far from here? The Bloodsucker has long since gathered in his crops, and here we're stuck. We'll have to feed our cattle on rotten hay this winter."
Arina Petrovna listened in silence to his stupid complaints, but at times her patience gave way and she said:
"Well, keep on sitting there with your arms folded."
Instantly Pavel Vladimirych would flare up.
"What would you advise me to do? Transfer the rain to Golovliovo?"
"I'm not talking about the rain, but in general."
"No 'in general,' please. Why don't you tell me straight out what you think I should do? Shall I change the climate? There's Golovliovo. When Golovliovo needs rain, it rains. When Golovliovo doesn't need rain, then it doesn't rain. And everything grows there, while here, the very opposite. Well, we'll see what you'll have to say when there isn't anything to eat."
"Then such will be the Lord's will."
"All right, then such will be the Lord's will. But you say 'in general' as if that were an explanation."
Sometimes Pavel even found his property a burden.
"Why in the world did I get the Dubrovino estate?" he would complain. "What good is it?"
"What's the matter with Dubrovino? The soil is good, there's plenty of everything. What's got into your head of a sudden?"
"This, that nowadays there's no use having any estate. Money, that's the thing. You take your money, put it in your pocket and off you go. But real estate——"
"What sort of an age have we come to when there's no use owning real estate?"
"Yes, this is a peculiar age. You don't read the newspapers, but I do. Nowadays the lawyers are everywhere—you can imagine the rest. If a lawyer finds out that you have real estate, then he begins to circle around you."
"Well, how is he going to get at you when you have the proper deeds to the property?"
"Deeds or no deeds, they'll get you. Porfiry the Bloodsucker may hire a lawyer and serve me with summons after summons."
"What are you talking about! We're not living in a lawless country."
"That's just why they serve summonses on you. If the country were lawless, they would take it away without a summons. There's my friend Gorlopiatov, for instance. His uncle died and he, fool that he was, up and accepted the inheritance. The inheritance proved worthless, but the debts figured up to the thousands, the bills of exchange were all false. Now they've been suing him for three years on end. First, they took his uncle's estate. Then they even sold his own property at auction. That's what real estate is."
"Can there possibly be a law like that?"
"If there were no such law, they couldn't have sold it. There's a law for everything. A man without a conscience finds a law to back him in everything. But there are no laws for a man with a conscience. Try and look for them in the books."
Arina Petrovna always let Pavel have his way in these controversies. Many a time she could hardly refrain from shouting, "Out of my sight, you scoundrel." But she would think it over and keep silent. Sometimes she would only murmur to herself:
"Goodness, whom do these monsters take after? One is a bloodsucker, the other is a lunatic. What did I hoard and save for? For what did I deny myself sleep and food? For whom did I do all that?"
The more completely drink took possession of Pavel Vladimirych, the more fantastic and annoying his conversations became. Finally Arina Petrovna noticed there was something wrong. A whole flask of vodka would be put away in the dining-room cupboard in the morning, and by dinner time there wouldn't be a drop left. Or she would be sitting in the parlor and would hear a mysterious creaking in the dining-room near the cupboard. She would call out, "Who's there?" and would hear footsteps quickly but carefully withdrawing toward the entresol.
"Goodness, can it be that he drinks?" she once asked Ulita.
"I shouldn't deny it," answered the latter, with a vicious grin.
When Pavel Vladimirych saw that his mother had discovered the truth, he lost all restraint. One morning Arina Petrovna found the cupboard had disappeared from the dining-room, and when she asked where it had gone to, Ulita told her she had been ordered to carry it to the entresol, because it would be more comfortable for the master to drink there.
In the entresol, the decanters of vodka followed one after the other with amazing rapidity. Shut up alone by himself, Pavel Vladimirych began to hate human society. He created a peculiar fantastic reality for himself, spinning out a long-winded nonsensical romance, in which the main heroes were himself and the Bloodsucker. He was not fully conscious of how, deeply rooted his hatred for Porfiry was. It gnawed at his bones and entrails every minute of his life. The loathed image of his brother stood lifelike before his eyes, and Yudushka's lachrymose, hypocritical twaddle rang in his ears. In his talk there lurked a cold, almost abstract hatred of every living thing that did not conform to the traditional code laid down by hypocrisy. Pavel Vladimirych drank and recalled memories, all the insults and humiliations he had had to suffer because of Yudushka's claims to supremacy in the house; the division of the estate in particular; how he had calculated every kopek and compared every scrap of land. Oh, how he detested him! Entire dramas were enacted in his imagination, heated by alcohol. In these dramas he avenged every offense that he had sustained, and not Yudushka but he himself was always the aggressor. He saw himself the winner of two hundred thousand, and informed Yudushka of his good luck in a long scene, making his brother's face writhe with envy. At other times he imagined his grandfather had died and left a million to him, while nothing at all to Porfiry. He also discovered a means of becoming invisible and when unseen he played wicked tricks on Porfiry to make him groan in agony. His genius for inventing tricks was inexhaustible, and for a long time his idiotic laughter would ring through the entresol, much to the delight of Ulita, who would hurry to inform Porfiry Vladimirych of his brother's doings.
He detested Yudushka and at the same time had a superstitious fear of him. He imagined his eyes discharged a venom of magic effect, that his voice crept, snake-like, into the soul and paralyzed the will. He absolutely refused to meet him, and when the Bloodsucker occasionally visited Dubrovino to kiss the hand of his mother dear, Pavel Vladimirych would lock himself into the entresol and remain imprisoned there until he left.
So the days passed until Pavel Vladimirych found himself face to face with a deadly malady.
CHAPTER IV
The doctor stayed at the house overnight merely for the sake of form, and departed for the city early the next day. On taking leave he said frankly that the patient had no more than two days to live, and it was already too late to talk about any "arrangements" since Pavel Vladimirych could not even sign his name properly.
"He'll sign the document wrong and then you will have a lawsuit on your hands," he added. "Of course, Yudushka respects his mother very highly, but, at that, he'll commence proceedings to prove fraud, and should 'mother dear' be sent to distant regions, the only thing he'll do is to have a mass said for the welfare of the travellers."
All morning Arina Petrovna walked about as if in a dream. She tried to say her prayers. Perhaps God would suggest something, but prayers would not enter her head. Even her tongue refused to obey. There was utter confusion in her mind. Fragments of prayers mingled with incoherent thoughts and vague impressions.
Finally she sat down and sobbed. The tears flowed from her dull eyes over her aged shrivelled cheeks, lingered in the hollows of her wrinkles, and dribbled down on the greasy collar of her old calico waist. Her tears spoke of bitterness, despair, and feeble, but stubborn resistance. Her age, her senile ailments, and the hopelessness of the situation, all seemed to point to death as the only way out. At the same time memories of the past intervened, memories of a life of power, prosperity and unrestrained freedom, and these reminiscences plunged their sting into her soul, dragging her down to earth. "To die!" passed through her mind, but the thought was instantly supplanted by a dogged desire to live. She recalled neither Yudushka nor her dying son. It was as if both had ceased to exist for her. She thought of no one, was indignant at no one, accused no one, even forgot whether she had any capital or no and whether it was sufficient to provide for her old age. A deadly anguish seized her entire being. Her tears had come from a deep source. Drop by drop they had been accumulating since the moment when she left Golovliovo and settled at Dubrovino. She was quite prepared for everything that awaited her. She had expected and foreseen everything, but somehow it had never come to her with such vividness that her fears would be realized. And now this very end had arrived, an end full of anguish and hopeless lonesomeness. All her life long she had been busy building up, she had worn herself to the bone for something, and now she felt as if she had wasted her life on a phantom. All her life the word "family" had never left her lips. In the name of "family" she had punished some and rewarded others. In the name of "family" she had subjected herself to privations, torments, she had crippled her whole life; and suddenly she discovered that "family" was exactly what she did not have.
"Good Lord! Can it possibly be the same everywhere?" was the thought that kept revolving in her mind.
She sat with her head resting on her hand and her face soaked with tears turned to the rising sun, as if to bid it, "Look!" She neither groaned nor cursed. She simply sobbed as if choked by her tears. At the same time the thought seared her soul, "There is no one! No one! No one!"
But now her eyes were drained of tears. She washed her face and wandered without purpose into the dining-room. Here she was assailed by the girls with new complaints which seemed at this time particularly importunate.
"What is going to come of it, grandma? Is it possible that we shall be left just so, without anything?" grumbled Anninka.
"How silly uncle is," Lubinka chimed in.
About midday, Arina Petrovna decided to go to her dying son. Stepping softly she climbed the stairs and groped in the dark till she found the door leading into the rooms. The entresol was buried in deepest gloom. The windows were darkened by green shades, through which the light could scarcely filter. A sickening mixture of odors pervaded the room, which had not been ventilated for a long while. There was the smell of berries, plaster, oil from the image-lamp, and those peculiar odors which bespeak the presence of sickness and death. There were only two rooms. In the first one sat Ulita, cleaning berries. The flies swarmed about the heap of gooseberries and impudently attacked her nose and lips, and she would keep driving them off in exasperation. Through the half-closed door of the adjoining room came the sound of incessant coughing which every now and then ended in painful expectoration. Arina Petrovna stopped in an uncertain pose, searching the gloom and waiting for the course of action that Ulita would take in view of her arrival. But Ulita never moved an eyelash, entirely confident that every attempt to influence the sick man would be fruitless. Her lips merely twitched in resentment, and Arina Petrovna heard the word "hag" pronounced under her breath.
"You had better go down, my dear," said Arina Petrovna, turning to Ulita.
"Where did you get that idea from?" snapped the latter.
"I have to talk to Pavel Vladimirych. Go down."
"Excuse me, madam, how can I leave the master? What if something should happen? There's no one to serve him and attend to him."
"What's the matter?" a hollow voice called from the bedroom.
"Order Ulita to go downstairs, my friend. I have matters to talk over with you."
This time Arina Petrovna pressed her point so persistently that she was victorious. She crossed herself and entered the room. The patient's bed stood near the inner wall far from the window. He lay on his back, covered with a white blanket, smoking a cigarette, though almost half unconscious. Notwithstanding the smoke, the flies pestered him with peculiar persistence, so that he had continually to pass his hand over his face. His arms were so weak, so bare of muscle, that they showed the bones, of almost equal thickness from wrist to shoulder, in clear outline. His head nestled despondently in the pillow. His whole body and face burned in a dry fever. His large round eyes were sunken and gazed aimlessly about, as if looking for something. The lines of his nose had grown longer and sharper. His mouth was half open. He had stopped coughing, but he breathed with such difficulty that it seemed as if all his vital energy were concentrated in his chest.
"Well, how do you feel to-day?" asked Arina Petrovna, sinking into the armchair at his feet.
"So—so—to-morrow—that is, to-day—when was the doctor here?"
"He was here to-day."
"Well, then, to-morrow——"
The patient fumbled as if struggling to recall a word.
"You'll be able to get up?" prompted Arina Petrovna. "God grant it, my friend, God grant it."
They both remained silent for a moment. Arina Petrovna found it very difficult to open a conversation when she was face to face with Pavel Vladimirych.
"Yudushka—is he alive?" finally asked the sick man himself.
"Nothing is the matter with him. He lives and prospers."
"I bet he is thinking, 'Now brother Pavel is going to die—and with God's help the estate will come to me.'"
"We'll all die, some day—and after every one of us, the estates will go to the lawful heirs."
"Only not to the Bloodsucker! I'll throw it to the dogs, but he shan't have it."
The situation was turning out excellently. Pavel Vladimirych himself was leading the conversation. Arina Petrovna did not fail to take advantage of the opportunity.
"You ought to consider that, my friend," she said, as if by the way, not looking at her son and examining the color of her hands as if they were the main object of her interest.
"What do you mean by 'that'?"
"Well, I mean, if you don't wish that the estate should go to your brother."
The patient was silent. Only his eyes widened unnaturally and his face flushed more and more.
"And also, my friend, you ought to take into consideration the fact that you have orphaned nieces—and what sort of capital have they? Then there is your mother," continued Arina Petrovna.
"You've managed to give everything away to Yudushka!"
"Whatever may have happened, I know that I myself am to blame. But it wasn't such a crime after all. I thought 'he is my son.' At any rate, it isn't kind of you to remember that against your mother."
Silence followed.
"Well, why don't you say something?"
"And how soon do you expect to bury me?"
"Oh, don't talk like that. All Christians——Everybody doesn't die right away, still in general——"
"There you go—'in general!' Always your 'in general!' You think I don't see."
"See what, my boy?"
"I see you take me for a fool. Well, if I am a fool, let me remain a fool. Why do you come to a fool? Don't come, don't worry about me."
"I'm not worrying. But in general there is a term set to everybody's life."
"Then wait for my term."
Arina Petrovna lowered her head and meditated. She saw clearly that her case was almost a failure, but she was so tortured that nothing could convince her of the fruitlessness of further attempts to influence her son.
"I don't know why you hate me," she declared finally.
"Not at all—on the contrary I—not at all. In fact I—why, the idea—you brought us all up—so impartially."
He spoke in jerks and gasps. A broken yet triumphant laugh made its way into his voice. His eyes sparkled. His shoulders and legs quivered.
"Perhaps I have really sinned against you, then for Christ's sake forgive me."
Arina Petrovna rose and bowed till her hand touched the floor. Pavel Vladimirych shut his eyes without replying.
"Suppose we let the question of the estate alone. You couldn't make any arrangement in your present condition. Porfiry is the lawful heir. Well, let the real estate go to him. But what about your personal property and capital?" Arina Petrovna ventured to state her point directly.
Pavel Vladimirych shuddered, but remained silent. It is very possible that at the word "capital" he gave no thought whatsoever to his mother's insinuations, but simply mused: "September is here already. I have to collect the interest."
"If you think I desire your death, you're very much mistaken, my child. If you would only live I should not need to complain in my old age. What have I to grumble about? I have food and shelter here, and should I want a little additional pleasure, I can get it. I merely wish to call your attention to the fact that there is a custom among Christians, according to which, in expectation of the life to come, we——"
Arina Petrovna paused, searching for a suitable word.
"We provide for the future of those related to us," she concluded, looking out of the window.
Pavel Vladimirych lay motionless, coughing softly. He did not betray by a single movement whether or not he was listening. Apparently his mother was boring him.
"The capital may go from hand to hand during life," said Arina Petrovna, as though passing a trivial remark and resuming the inspection of her hands.
The patient shuddered slightly, but Arina Petrovna did not notice it and continued:
"The law, my friend, expressly permits the free transfer of capital. Money is something one acquires. Yesterday you had it. To-day it is gone. And nobody can call you to account for it. You can give it to whomever you choose."
Pavel Vladimirych suddenly laughed viciously.
"You probably remember the story about Polochkin," he hissed. "He gave his capital to his wife 'from hand to hand' and she ran off with her lover."
"You may rest assured, my child, I have no lover."
"Then you'll run off without a lover—with the money."
"How well you understand my motives!"
"I don't understand you at all. You gave me the reputation of a fool. Well, I am a fool. Let me be a fool. What wonderful tricks they have invented—to pass my money from hand to hand! And where do I come in? I suppose you'll order me to go to a monastery for my salvation, and from there watch how you manage my money?"
He shot these words out in a volley, in a voice full of hatred and indignation. Then he broke down completely and burst into a fit of coughing that lasted a full quarter of an hour. It was amazing to see how much strength that wretched human skeleton contained. Finally he caught his breath and closed his eyes.
Arina Petrovna looked about in bewilderment. Until that moment she could not believe it, somehow, but now she was fully convinced that every attempt to persuade the dying man would only serve to hasten the day of Yudushka's triumph. Yudushka kept dancing before her eyes. She saw him walking behind the hearse, giving his brother the last Judas kiss and squeezing out two foul tears. Then she had a picture of the coffin being lowered into the grave and Yudushka exclaiming, "Farewell, brother!" his lips twitching and his eyes rolling upward. She heard his attempt to add a note of grief to his voice, and afterwards say, turning to Ulita: "The kutya,[A] the kutya, don't forget to take the kutya into the house. And be sure to put on a clean table cloth. We must honor brother's memory in the house, too." Next she saw him presiding over the funeral feast, chatting incessantly with the reverend father about the virtues of the deceased. She heard him say, "Ah, brother, brother, you didn't wish to live with us," as he rose from the table, stretching out his hand, palm upward, to receive the father's blessing. And lastly she saw Yudushka walking about the house with the air of a master, taking the inventory of all the effects and in doubtful cases casting suspicious glances at mother.
All these inevitable scenes of the future floated before Arina Petrovna's mental vision. In her ears rang Yudushka's shrill, unctuous voice as he said: "Do you remember, mother dear, the little golden shirt studs that brother had? They were so pretty. He used to wear them on holidays. I simply can't imagine where those studs could have gone to."
[A] A gruel made of rice or wheat or barley, boiled with raisins and mead. It is eaten after the mass for the dead and, in the South, on Christmas Eve.—Translator's Note.
CHAPTER V
No sooner did Arina Petrovna come downstairs, than a carriage drawn by a team of four horses made its appearance on a hill near the church. In it, in the place of honor, was seated Porfiry Golovliov, who had removed his hat and was crossing himself at the sight of the church. Opposite him sat his two sons, Petenka and Volodenka. The very blood froze in Arina Petrovna's veins as the thought flashed through her mind, "Speak of the devil and he's sure to appear." The girls also lost courage, and timidly clung closer to their grandmother. The house hitherto peaceful was suddenly filled with alarm. Doors banged, people ran about crying, "The master is coming, the master is coming!" and all the occupants of the house rushed out on the porch. Some made the sign of the cross, some stood in silent expectation, all apparently conscious of the fact that the existing order in Dubrovino had been only temporary, and that now the real management was to begin with a real master at the head. Under the former master some of the old, deserving serfs had enjoyed the privilege of a monthly allowance of provisions. Many of them fed their cattle on the master's hay, had kitchen gardens of their own, and altogether lived "freely." Everyone, of course, was now vitally interested to know whether the new master would permit the old order of things, or whether he would introduce a new one, similar to that which prevailed at Golovliovo.
Yudushka drove up to the house. From the reception accorded to him he concluded that affairs at Dubrovino were fast coming to a head. Without a sign of haste, he descended from the carriage, waved his hand to the servants who rushed forward to kiss it, then put his palms together, and began to climb the steps slowly, whispering a prayer. His face expressed a feeling of mingled grief, firmness, and resignation. As a man he grieved; as a Christian he did not dare to complain. He prayed to God to cure his brother, but above all he put his trust in the Lord and bowed before His will. His sons walked side by side behind him, Volodenka mimicking his father, clasping his hands, rolling his eyes heavenward and mumbling his lips. Petenka revelled in his brother's performance. Behind them, in silent procession, followed the servants.
Yudushka kissed dear mother's hand, then her lips, then her hand again and put his arm about her waist and said, shaking his head sadly:
"And you keep on worrying. That's bad, mother dear, very bad. Instead of that you should ask yourself: 'And what is God going to say to this?' He will say: 'Here have I in my infinite wisdom arranged everything for the best, and she grumbles.' Ah, mother dear, mother dear."
Then he kissed both of his nieces, and with the same charming familiarity in his voice, said:
"And you, too, romps, you are crying your eyes out. I won't permit it. I command you immediately to smile. And that shall be the end of it."
And he stamped his foot at them in jesting anger.
"Just look at me," he continued. "As a brother I am torn with grief. More than once I have shed tears. I am sorry for brother, sorry as can be. I weep. Then I bethink myself: 'And what is God for? Is it possible that God knows less than we what ought to be?' This thought inspires me with courage. That is how you all should act, you, mother dear, and you, little nieces, and—" he turned to the servants—"you all."
"Look at me, how well I bear up."
And in the same charming manner he proceeded to impersonate a man who bears up. He straightened his body, put one foot forward, expanded his chest, and threw back his head. The audience smiled sourly.
This performance over, Yudushka passed into the drawing-room and kissed his mother's hand again.
"Well, so that's how things are, mother dear," he said, seating himself on the couch. "So brother Pavel, too."
"Yes, Pavel, too," softly answered Arina Petrovna.
"Yes, yes—a little too early. Although I play the brave, in my soul I, too, suffer and grieve for my poor brother. He hated me—hated me bitterly. Maybe that is why God is punishing him."
"You might forget about it at such a moment. You must set old grudges aside."
"I have forgotten it all long ago. I only mentioned it in passing. My brother disliked me, for what reason, I know not. I tried one way and another, directly and indirectly. I called him 'dear' and 'kind brother,' but he drew back and that was the end of it."
"I asked you please not to bring all that up. The man is lying at the point of death."
"Yes, mother dear, death is a great mystery. 'For ye know neither the day nor the hour.' That's the kind of mystery it is. There he was making plans, thinking he was exalted so high, so high as to be beyond mortal reach. But in one instant with one blow God undid all his dreams. Perhaps he would be glad now to cover up his sins. But they are already recorded in the Book of Life. And whatever is written in that book, mother dear, won't be scraped off in a hurry."
"But does not the Lord accept the sinner's repentance?"
"That's just what I wish for him from the bottom of my heart. I know he hated me, still I wish him forgiveness. I wish the best for everybody—for those that hate me, those that insult me—everybody. He was unfair to me and now God sends him an ailment—not I, but God. Does he suffer much, mother dear?"
"Well, not very much. The doctor was here and even gave us hopes." So lied Arina Petrovna.
"What splendid news! Don't you worry, dear mother, he'll pull through yet. Here we are eating our hearts away and grumbling at the Creator, and perhaps he is sitting quietly on his bed thanking the Lord for his recovery."
The idea delighted Yudushka so immensely that he even giggled softly to himself.
"Do you know, mother dear, that I have come to stay here a while?" he went on, for all the world as if he were giving his mother a pleasant surprise. "It's among good kinsmen, you know. In case something happens—you understand, as a brother—I may console, advise, make arrangements. You will permit me, will you not?"
"What sort of permissions can I give when I am here myself only as a—guest?"
"Well, then, dearest, since this is Friday, just order them, if you please, to prepare a fish meal for me. Some salt-fish, mushrooms, a little cabbage—you know, I don't need much. And in the meantime, as a relative, I shall drag myself up to the entresol. Perhaps I shall still be in time to do some good, if not to his body, at least to his soul. In his position, it seems to me, the soul is of much more consequence. We can patch up the body, mother dear, with potions and poultices, but the soul needs a more potent remedy."
Arina Petrovna made no objection. The thought of the inevitability of the "end" had taken such complete hold of her, that she observed everything and listened to everything about her dazedly. She saw Yudushka rise from the sofa, stoop and shuffle his feet. He liked to appear invalided at times. He had an idea it added to his dignity. She knew the unexpected appearance of the Bloodsucker in the entresol would greatly excite the patient, might even hasten his end. But after the day of agitation, she was so exhausted that she felt as if in a dream.
Meanwhile Pavel Vladimirych was in an indescribable state of excitement. Though quite alone, he was aware of an unusual stir in the house. Every bang of a door, every hurried footstep in the hall awakened a mysterious alarm. For a while he called with all his might; but, soon convinced his shouts were useless, he gathered all his strength, sat up in bed, and listened. The sound of running feet and loud voices stopped and was followed by a dead silence. Something unknown and fearful surrounded him. Only a few, miserly rays of light sifted through the lowered shades and the dim light of the lamp burning before the ikon in the corner made the dusk filling the room seem all the darker and gloomier. Pavel fixed his gaze upon that mysterious corner as if for the first time he found something surprising in it. The ikon, in a gilt framework on which the rays from the lamp fell perpendicularly, stood out of the gloom with a sort of striking brightness, like something alive. A circle of light wavered upon the ceiling, flaring up or dying down in proportion to the strength or weakness of the lamplight. Strange shadows filled the room, and the dressing-gown hanging on the wall was alive with vacillating stripes of light and shadow. Pavel Vladimirych watched and watched, and he felt as if right there in that corner everything were suddenly beginning to move. Solitude, helplessness, dead silence—and shadows, a host of shadows. The shadows seemed to be coming, coming, coming. Gripped by an indescribable terror, he gazed into the mysterious corner, eyes and mouth agape, uttering no cries, but simply groaning—groaning in a stifled voice, in jerks, like the barking of a dog. He heard neither the creak of the stairs nor the careful shuffling steps in the adjacent room. Suddenly, beside his bed, there loomed up the detestable figure of Yudushka, as if from that gloom which had just mysteriously hovered before his eyes, and as if there were more, more of shadows, shadows without end—coming, coming——
"What? Where did you come from? Who let you in?" he cried instinctively, dropping back on his pillow helplessly. Yudushka stood at the bedside, scrutinizing the sick man and shaking his head sorrowfully.
"Does it hurt?" he asked, putting all the oiliness of which he was capable into his voice.
Pavel Vladimirych was silent, but stared at him stupidly, as if making every effort to understand him.
Meanwhile Yudushka approached the ikon, fell to his knees, bowed three times to the ground, arose and appeared again at the bedside.
"Well, brother, get up. May God send you grace," he said, sitting down in an armchair, in a voice so jovial that he actually appeared to be carrying "grace" about with him in his pocket.
At last Pavel Vladimirych realized that this was no shadow but the Bloodsucker in flesh. He seemed to coil up of a sudden as if in a cramp. Yudushka's eyes were bright with affection, but the invalid very distinctly saw the "noose" lurking in those eyes ready any instant to dart out and tighten round his neck.
"Ah, brother, brother, you've become no better than an old woman," Yudushka continued jocosely. "Come, brace up! Get up and run a little race. Come on, come on, give mother the joy of seeing what a strong fellow you are. Come on now! Up with you!"
"Get out of here, Bloodsucker!" the invalid cried in desperation.
"Ah, brother, brother! I come to you in kindness and sympathy, and you ... what do you say in return? Oh, what a sin! And how could your tongue say such a thing to your own brother! It's a shame, darling, it's a shame! Wait a minute, let me arrange the pillow for you."
Yudushka got up and poked his finger into the pillow.
"Like this," he continued. "That's fine now. Lie quietly, now. You won't need to touch it till tomorrow."
"You get out!"
"My, how cranky your illness has made you! Why, you have even become stubborn, really. You keep chasing me, 'Get out, get out!' But how can I go? Here, for instance, you feel thirsty and I hand you some water. Or I see the ikon is out of order, and I set it to rights, or pour in some oil. You just lie where you are and I'll be sitting nearby, real quietly. So we won't even see how time flies."
"Get out, you Bloodsucker!"
"Look here, you are insulting me, but I am going to pray to the Lord for you. I know it isn't you, it's your illness talking. You see, brother, I am used to forgiving. I forgive everybody. Today, for instance, as I was coming here I met a peasant, and he said something about me. Well, the Lord be with him. He defiled his own tongue. And I, why I not only was not angry at him, I even made the sign of the cross over him, I did truly."
"You robbed him, didn't you?"
"Who, I? Why, no, my friend, I don't rob people; highwaymen rob, but I—I act in accordance with the law. I caught his horse grazing in my meadows—well, let him go to the justice of the peace. If the justice says it's right to let your cattle graze on other people's fields, well, then I'll give him his horse back, but if the justice says it isn't right, I am sorry. The peasant will have to pay a fine. I act according to the law, my friend, according to the law."
"You Judas the traitor, you left mother a pauper."
"I repeat, you may be angry, if you please, but you are wrong. If I were not a Christian, I would even have cause to be angry at you for what you've just said."
"Yes, you did, you did make mother a pauper."
"Now, do be quiet, please. Here, I am going to pray for you. Maybe that will calm you down."
Though Yudushka had restrained himself successfully throughout the conversation, the dying man's curses affected him deeply. His lips curled queerly and turned pale. However, hypocrisy was so ingrained in his nature that once the comedy was begun, he could not leave it unfinished. So he knelt before the ikon and for fully fifteen minutes murmured prayers, his hands uplifted. Thereupon he returned to the dying man's bed with countenance calm and serene.
"You know, brother, I have come to talk serious matters over with you," he said, seating himself in the armchair. "Here you are insulting me, but I am thinking of your soul. Tell me, please, when did you communicate last?"
"Oh, Lord! What is all this? Take him away! Ulita, Agasha! Anybody here?" moaned Pavel.
"Now, now, darling, do be quiet. I know you don't like to talk about it. Yes, brother, you always were a bad Christian and you are still. But it wouldn't be bad, really it wouldn't, to give some thought to your soul. We've got to be careful with our souls, my friend, oh, how careful! Do you know what the Church prescribes? It says, 'Ye shall offer prayers and thanks.' And again, 'The end of a Christian's earthly life is painless, honorable and peaceable.' That's what it is, my friend. You really ought to send for the priest and sincerely, with penitence. All right, I won't, I won't. But really you'd better."
Pavel Vladimirych lay livid and nearly suffocated. If he could have, he would have dashed his head to pieces.
"And how about the estate? Have you already made arrangements?" continued Yudushka. "Yours is a fine little estate, a very fine one. The soil is even better than at Golovliovo. And you have money, too, I suppose. Of course, I don't know anything about your affairs. I only know that you received a lump sum on freeing your serfs, but exactly how much, I never cared to know. To-day, for instance, as I was coming here, I said to myself, 'I suppose brother Pavel has money.' 'But then,' I thought, 'if he has capital, he must have decided already how to dispose of it.'"
The patient turned away and sighed heavily.
"You have not made any disposition? Well, so much the better, my friend. It's even more just, according to the law. It won't be inherited by strangers, but by your own kind. Take me, for example, I am old, with one foot in the grave, but still I think, 'Why should I make disposition of my property if the law will do it all for me, after I am dead?' And it's really the right way, my friend. There will be no quarrels, no envy, no lawsuits. It's the law."
That was unbearable. Pavel Vladimirych felt as if he were lying in a coffin, fettered, in lethargy, unable to move a limb, and forced to hear the Bloodsucker revile his dead body.
"Get out—for Christ's sake, get out!" he finally implored his torturer.
"All right, you just be quiet, I'll go. I know you don't like me. It's a shame, my friend, a real shame, to dislike your own brother. You see, I do love you. And I've always been telling my children, 'Though Pavel Vladimirych has sinned against me, yet I love him.' So you did not make any disposition? Well, that's fine, my friend. Sometimes, though, one's money is stolen while one is yet alive, especially when one is without relatives, all alone. But I'll take care of it. Eh? What? Am I annoying you? Well, well, let it be as you wish. I'll go. Let me offer up a prayer."
He rose, placed his palms together, and whispered a prayer hurriedly.
"Good-by, friend, don't worry. Take a good rest, and perhaps with God's help you will get better. I will talk the matter over with mother dear. Maybe we'll think something up. I have ordered a fish meal for myself, some salt-fish, some mushrooms and cabbage. So you'll pardon me. What? Am I annoying you again? Ah, brother dear! Well, well, I'm going. Above all, don't be alarmed, don't be excited, sleep well and take a good rest," he said, and finally made his departure.
"Bloodsucker!" The word came after him in such a piercing shriek that even he felt as if he had been branded with a hot iron.
CHAPTER VI
While Porfiry Vladimirych was holding forth in the entresol, grandmother Arina Petrovna had gathered the young folks around her downstairs, and was talking to them, not without the hope of getting something out of them.
"Well, how are you?" she asked, turned to her eldest grandson, Petenka.
"I'm pretty well, granny. Next month I'll graduate as an officer."
"Really? How many years have you been promising that? Are the examinations so hard? Or what?"
"At the last examination, granny, he failed in his catechism. The priest asked him, 'What is God?' and he answered, 'God is Spirit—is Spirit—and Holy Spirit.'"
"Oh, you poor thing! How is that? Look at those little orphans. I'm sure even they know that."
"Why, certainly. God is invisible Spirit." Anninka hurried to show off her knowledge.
"Whom none ever beheld," Lubinka put in.
"Omniscient, most Gracious, Omnipotent, Omnipresent," Anninka continued.
"Whither can I go from Thy spirit and whither can I flee from Thy face? Should I rise to Heaven, there wouldst Thou be, should I descend to Hell, there wouldst Thou be."
"I wish you would have answered like that. You would have epaulets by this time. And how about you, Volodya, what are you going to do?"
Volodya flushed and remained silent.
"Apparently, you go no further than your brother with his 'Spirit—Holy Spirit,' Ah, children, children! You seem to be so bright and yet somehow you can't master your studies at all. I might understand if you had a father who spoiled you. Tell me, how does he treat you now?"
"Still the same old way, granny."
"Does he beat you? Didn't I hear he stopped thrashing you?"
"A little bit, but—the worst is, he pesters us to death."
"I must say, I don't understand. How can a father pester his children?"
"He does though, grandma, awfully. We can't go out without permission, we can't take a thing. It couldn't be worse."
"Well, then, ask permission. Your tongue wouldn't fall out in the effort, I imagine."
"Impossible. You just begin to talk to him, then he doesn't let go of you. 'Don't hurry and wait a while. Gently, gently, take it easy.' Really, granny, his talk is too tiresome for words."
"Granny, he listens to us on the sly behind our doors. Just the other day Piotr caught him in the act."
"Oh, you rogues! Well, what did he say?"
"Nothing. I said to him, 'It won't do, daddy, for you to eavesdrop at our doors. Some day you may get your nose squashed. And all he said was, 'Well, well, it's nothing, it's nothing. I, my child, am like a thief in the night, as it says in the Bible.'"
"The other day, granny, he picked up an apple in the orchard, and put it away in a cupboard. I ate it up. So he hunted and hunted for it, and cross-examined everybody."
"What do you mean? Has he become a miser?"
"No, he's not exactly stingy, but—how shall I put it? He is just swamped head over heels in little things. He hides slips of paper, and he hunts for wind-fallen fruit."
"Every morning he says mass in his study, and later he gives each of us a little piece of holy wafer, stale as stale can be."
"But once we played a trick on him. We discovered where he keeps the wafers, made a cut in the bottom of them, took out the pulp, and stuck butter in."
"Well, I must say you are regular cut-throats."
"My, just imagine his surprise, next day. Wafers with butter!"
"I suppose you got it good and hard afterwards."
"No, not a bit. But he kept spitting all day and muttering to himself, 'The rascals!' Of course we made believe he didn't mean us."
"Let me tell you, granny, he is afraid of you."
"Of me! I'm not a scarecrow to frighten him."
"I'm sure he's scared of you. He thinks you'll put a curse on him. He's desperately afraid of curses."
Arina Petrovna became lost in thought. At first the idea passed through her mind: "What if I really should put a curse on him—just take and curse him?" But the thought was instantly replaced by a more pressing question, "What is Yudushka doing now? What tricks is he playing upstairs? He must be up to one of his usual tricks." Finally a happy idea struck her.
"Volodya," she said, "you, dear heart, are light on your feet. Why shouldn't you go softly and listen to what's going on up there?"
"Gladly, granny."
Volodya tiptoed toward the doors and disappeared through them.
"What made you come over to us to-day?" Arina Petrovna continued with her questioning.
"We meant to come a long time ago, grandma, but today Ulita sent a messenger to say the doctor had been here and uncle was going to die, if not to-day, then surely to-morrow."
"Tell me, is there any talk among you about the heritage?"
"We keep talking about it the whole day, granny. Papa tells us how it used to be before grandpa's time. He even remembers Goriushkino, granny. 'See now,' he says, 'if Auntie Varvara Mikhailovna had no children, then Goriushkino would be ours. And God knows,' he says, 'who the children's father is. But let us not judge others. We see a mote in the eye of our neighbor, but fail to notice a beam in our own. That's how the world goes, brother.'"
"Nonsense, nonsense. Auntie was married, was she not? Even if there had been anything before that, the marriage made it all straight."
"That's true, grandma, and each time we go past Goriushkino, he brings up the same old tale: 'Grandma Natalya Vladimirovna,' he says, 'brought Goriushkino as a dowry. By all rights it should have stayed in the family. But your deceased grandfather gave it to sister as a dot. And what wonderful watermelons,' he says, 'used to grow at Goriushkino! Twenty pounds each. That's the kind of watermelons that grew there!'"
"Twenty pounds, bosh! I never heard of such melons. Well, and what are his intentions about Dubrovino?"
"In the same line, granny. Watermelons and muskmelons and other trifles. But of late he has constantly been asking us, 'What do you think, children, has uncle Pavel much money?' He has had it all figured out for a long time, grandma: the amount of redemption loan, and when the property was mortgaged, and how much debt is paid off. We even saw the paper on which he made the calculations; and guess what, granny, we stole it. We nearly drove him crazy with that slip of paper. He'd put it in a drawer, and we'd match the key and stick it into a holy wafer. Once he went to take a bath, when lo and behold! he saw the paper lying on the bath shelf."
"You've a gay life up there."
Volodenka returned and became the center of general attention.
"I couldn't hear a thing," he announced in a whisper, "the only thing I heard was father mouthing words like 'painless, untarnished, peaceful,' and uncle shouting, 'Get out of here, you Bloodsucker!'"
"Didn't you hear anything about the will?"
"I think there was something said about it, but I couldn't make it out. Father shut the door entirely too tight, granny. Only a buzzing came through. And then suddenly uncle yelled, 'Get—get out!' Well then I took to my heels and here I am."
"If only the orphans were given——" anxiously thought Arina Petrovna.
"If father gets his hands on it, granny, he'll not give a thing to anyone," Petenka assured her. "And I have a feeling he's even going to deprive us of the inheritance."
"Still, he can't take it to the grave with him, can he?"
"No, but he'll think up some scheme. It wasn't for nothing that he had a talk with the priest not long ago. 'How does the idea of building a tower of Babel strike you, Father?' he asked. 'Would one need much money?'"
"Well, he just said that perhaps out of curiosity."
"No, granny, he has some plan in mind. If it isn't for a tower of Babel, he'll donate the money to the St. Athos monastery; but he'll make sure we don't get any."
"Will father get a big estate when uncle dies?" asked Volodya, curiously.
"Well, God alone knows which of them will die first."
"Father is sure he'll outlive uncle. The other day, just as soon as we reached the boundary of the Dubrovino estate, he took off his cap, crossed himself, and said, 'Thank God we'll be riding again on our own land!"'
"He's made arrangements for everything already, granny. He noticed the woods. 'There,' he says, 'if there were a good landlord, that would be a ripping fine forest.' Then he looked at the meadows. 'What a meadow! Just look! Look at all those hay stacks!'"
"Yes, indeed, both the woods and the meadows, everything will be yours, my darlings," sighed Arina Petrovna. "Goodness! Wasn't that a squeak on the stairs?"
"Hush, granny, hush! That's he—'like a thief in the night,' listening behind the doors."
There was a silence, but it proved to be a false alarm. Arina Petrovna sighed and muttered to herself, "Ah, children, children!"
The boys stared at the orphans, fairly swallowing them with their gaze, while the little orphans sat in silent envy.
"Did you see Mademoiselle Lotar, cousin?" Petenka started a conversation.
Anninka and Lubinka exchanged glances as if they had been asked a question in history or geography.
"In Fair Helen she plays the part of Helen on the stage."
"Oh, yes—Helen—Paris—'Beautiful and young; he set the hearts of the goddesses aflame—' I know, I know it," cried Lubinka joyfully.
"Exactly. And how she sings 'Cas-ca-ader, ca-as-cader.' It's great."
"The doctor who was just here keeps humming 'Head over heels.'"
"That is Lyadova's song. Wasn't she splendid, cousin? When she died, nearly two thousand persons followed the hearse. People thought there would be a revolution."
"Is it about theatres you're chattering?" broke in Arina Petrovna. "Well, their destiny lies far from theatres, my boys. It leads rather to the convent."
"Granny, you've set your mind on burying us in a convent," complained Anninka.
"Come, cousin, let's go to St. Petersburg instead of to a convent. We'll show you everything to be seen there."
"Their minds should not be occupied with thoughts of pleasure, but rather with thoughts of God," continued Arina Petrovna sententiously.
"We will teach you everything under the sun. In St. Petersburg there are lots of girls like you. They walk about swinging their skirts."
"Stop bothering them, for Christ's sake, you teachers," Arina Petrovna interjected. "Nice things you can teach them."
"I'm going to take them to Khotkov, after Uncle Pavel's death, and we'll settle down comfortably there."
"So you're still at your blabbing," a voice at the door suddenly broke in.
Engrossed in conversation nobody had heard Yudushka steal up "like a thief in the night." He was all in tears, his head was bowed, his face pale, his hands crossed on his breast, his lips mumbling in prayer. For a few moments his eyes sought the ikons, then found them and for a brief while he prayed.
"He's very ill. Ah, how ill he is!" he finally exclaimed, embracing his mother dear.
"Is he?"
"Very, very ill, dear heart. And do you recollect what a strong fellow he was?"
"Well, he was never exactly strong. I can't remember that, somehow."
"Ah no, mother dear, don't say that. He was, always. I remember perfectly when he left the cadets corps how well shaped he was, broad shouldered, glowing with health. Yes, yes, mother dear, that's how it is. We're all in God's hands. To-day we're strong, in the best of health, we want to enjoy life to have a good meal, and tomorrow....
He shrugged his shoulders and assumed deep emotion.
"Did he say anything at least?"
"Very little, dearest. The only thing he said was, 'Good-by, brother.' And yet, mother dear, he can feel. He feels that he is in a bad way."
"Well, no wonder he feels he is in a bad way when he can hardly catch his breath."
"No, mother dear, that's not what I mean. I have in mind the inner vision which is given to the righteous and which allows them to foresee their death."
"Yes, yes! Didn't he say anything about his will?"
"No, mother. He wanted to say something about it, but I stopped him. 'No,' I said, 'don't talk about that! Whatever you leave me, brother, out of the kindness of your heart, I shall be satisfied. And even if you leave me nothing, I'll have mass said for you at my own expense.' And yet, mother dear, how he wants to live! How he longs for life!"
"Of course, who doesn't want to live?"
"No, mother. Take myself, for example. If it pleased the Lord God to call me to Himself, I'm ready on the spot."
"All well and good if you go to Heaven, but what if Satan gets you between his fangs?"
In this vein the talk continued till supper, during supper, and after supper. Arina Petrovna was very restless. While Yudushka was expatiating on various subjects, the thought entered her mind at shorter and shorter intervals, "What if I should really curse him?" But Yudushka had not the slightest suspicion of the storm raging in his mother's heart. He had an air of serenity, and continued slowly and gently to torture his "mother dear" with his endless twaddle.
"I'll curse him! I'll curse him! Curse him!" Arina Petrovna repeated inwardly, with greater and greater determination.
CHAPTER VII
An odor of incense pervaded the rooms, the sing-song of funeral chants was heard in the house, the doors were thrown open, those wishing to pay their last respects to the deceased came and went. While Pavel Vladimirych lived, nobody had paid any attention to him; at his death everybody mourned. People recalled that he "had never hurt a single person," that "he had never uttered a cross word to anyone," nor thrown anyone a look of ill-will—all qualities that had appeared purely negative, but now assumed a positive character. Many seemed to repent that at times they had taken advantage of the dead man's simplicity—but after all, who knew that the simple soul was destined to so speedy an end? One peasant brought Yudushka three silver rubles and said: "Here's a little debt I owe Pavel Vladimirych. No writing passed between us. Here, take it."
Yudushka took the money, praised the peasant, and said he would donate the three silver rubles for oil to burn forever before an ikon in the church.
"You, my dear friend, will see the flame, and everybody will see it, and the soul of my deceased brother will rejoice. Maybe he will obtain something for you in Heaven. You won't be expecting anything—and suddenly the Lord will send you luck."
Very probably the high estimate of the deceased's virtues was largely based on a comparison between him and his brother. People did not like Yudushka. Not that they couldn't get the better of him, but that he was entirely too much of a nuisance with his scrape-penny ways. Very few could bring themselves to lease land from him. They were afraid of his passion for litigation. He dragged any number of people to court, wasted their time, and won nothing, because his pettifogging habits were so well known in the district that almost without listening to the case the courts dismissed his claims.
Since meanness, or, to be more exact, a kind of moral hardness, especially when under the mask of hypocrisy, always inspires a sort of superstitious fear, Yudushka's neighbors bowed waist low as they passed by the Bloodsucker, standing all in black beside the coffin with palms crossed and eyes raised upward.
As long as the deceased lay in the house, the family walked about on tip-toe, stole glances into the dining-room, where the coffin stood on the table, wagged their heads, and talked in whispers. Yudushka pretended to be overcome by the disaster, and shuffled painfully along the corridor, paid a visit to the "dear deceased," affected deep emotional stress, arranged the pall on the coffin, and whispered to the commissioner of police, who was taking the inventory and affixing the seal. Petenka and Volodenka busied themselves about the coffin, placing and lighting the candles, handing over the censer, and so forth. Anninka and Lubinka cried and through their tears helped the chanters sing the mass for the dead in thin little voices. The woman servants, dressed in black calico, wiped their noses red from weeping on their aprons.
Immediately after the death of Pavel Vladimirych, Arina Petrovna went up to her room and locked herself in. She was not disposed to weep, for she realized that she had to decide upon a course of action immediately. To remain at Dubrovino was out of the question. Consequently, she had only one choice, to go to Pogorelka, the orphans' estate, the "bone" that she had once thrown to her disrespectful daughter, Anna Vladimirovna. Arriving at this decision, she felt relieved, as though Yudushka had suddenly and forever lost all power over her. Calmly she counted her five per cent. Government bonds. They totalled fifteen thousand rubles of her own, and as much belonging to the orphans, which she had saved up for them. And she went on composedly to calculate how much money she would have to spend to put the Pogorelka manor-house in order. Then she immediately sent for the bailiff of Pogorelka, gave the necessary orders about hiring carpenters and sending a horse and cart to Dubrovino for her and the orphans' belongings, ordered the coach to be made ready (the coach was her own, and she had evidence that it was her very own), and began to pack. She felt neither hatred nor goodwill toward Yudushka. It suddenly became disgusting to her to have any dealings with him. She even ate unwillingly and little, because from that day she had to eat not Pavel's but Yudushka's food. Several times Porfiry Vladimirych peeped into her room to have a chat with his "mother dear." He understood the meaning of her packing clearly, but pretended to notice nothing. Arina Petrovna refused to see him.
"Go, my friend, go," she said. "I have no time."
In three days, Arina Petrovna had everything in readiness for departure. They heard mass, performed the funeral service, and buried Pavel Vladimirych. At the funeral everything happened just as Arina Petrovna had imagined on the morning when Yudushka came to Dubrovino. In the very way she had foreseen Yudushka cried out, "Farewell, brother!" when they lowered the coffin into the grave, and turned to Ulita and said hastily: "Don't forget—don't forget to take the kutya, and put it in the dining-room on a clean table cloth. We will honor brother's memory in the house, too."
Three churchmen, the Father Provost and a deacon, were invited to the dinner served, as is the custom, immediately on the return from the funeral ceremony. A special table was laid in the entrance hall for the sextons. Arina Petrovna and the orphans entered clad in travelling clothes, but Yudushka pretended even then not to understand. He went over to the table, requested the Father Provost to bless the food and drink, poured a glassful of vodka for himself and the churchmen, put on an air of deep emotion and said, "Everlasting memory to the late deceased! Ah, brother, brother, you have forsaken us! Who of us more than you was fit to live a happy life? How sad, brother, how sad!"
Then he crossed himself, and emptied the glass. He crossed himself again and swallowed a piece of caviar, crossed himself again and took a taste of dried sturgeon.
"Eat, Father," he urged the Provost. "All this is my late brother's stock. How the deceased loved good fare! Not only that he ate well himself, but he even liked treating others better. Ah, brother, brother, you have forsaken us! How wrong it was of you, brother, how very wrong!"
He was so carried away by his incessant chatter that he even forgot about his dear mother. But suddenly she came to his mind as he scooped up a spoonful of mushrooms and was about to send it down his mouth.
"Mother, dearest, darling!" he exclaimed. "I, the fool, am here, gorging myself. What a sin! Mother dear, help yourself. Some mushrooms. These are Dubrovino mushrooms. The famous ones."
But Arina Petrovna did not stir. She only shook her head in silence. She seemed listening to something with intense curiosity, a new light seemed to fill her eyes, as if the comedy to which she had long since become accustomed and in which she had always taken active part, suddenly presented itself to her in a changed light.
The dinner commenced with a brief, pathetic discussion. Yudushka insisted that Arina Petrovna should take the hostess's place at the head of the table. Arina Petrovna refused.
"No, you are the host here, so sit where you please," she said drily.
"You are the hostess. You, mother dear, are the hostess everywhere, both at Golovliovo and Dubrovino, everywhere," said Yudushka, trying to convince her.
"Do stop and sit down. Wherever it will be the Lord's will to place me as a mistress, I will sit where I choose. Here you are master—so you take the seat."
"Then this is what we'll do," said Yudushka, much moved. "We'll leave the cover at the host's seat untouched, as if our brother were with us, an invisible companion. He shall be host, and we shall all be his guests."
That is how they arranged it. While the soup was being served, Yudushka chose a proper subject and started a conversation with the priests, addressing most of his remarks, however, to the Father Provost.
"There are many people nowadays who do not believe in the immortality of the soul, but I do," he said.
"Well, they must be desperadoes," answered the Father Provost.
"Not, not that they are desperadoes, but there is is a science about the soul not being immortal. It says that man exists all by himself. He lives and then suddenly—dies."
"There are too many sciences nowadays—if only there were less of them. People believe in sciences and don't believe in God. Take the peasants—even the peasants want to become learned."
"Yes, Father, you are right. They do long to become learned. Take my Naglovo peasants. They have nothing to eat, and still the other day they passed a resolution—they want to open up a school. The scholars!"
"Nowadays there is a science for everything under the sun. One science for rain, another science for fine weather, and so on. Formerly it was a very simple matter. People would come and sing a Te Deum—and the Lord would grant them their prayer. If they needed fine weather, God would grant fine weather; if they needed rain, the Lord had enough of it to go round. God has enough of everything. But since people have begun to live according to science, everything has changed, everything happens out of season. You sow—there is drought; you mow—there is rain."
"You speak the truth, Father, the gospel truth. Formerly people used to pray more to God, and the earth was more plentiful. The harvests were not like now. They were four times, five times, richer. The earth produced in abundance. Doesn't mother remember? Don't you remember, mother dear?" asked Yudushka, turning to Arina Petrovna with the intention of drawing her into the discussion.
"I never heard anything like that in our parts. Maybe you're speaking of the land of Canaan. It is said that was really the case there," drily responded Arina Petrovna.
"Yes, yes, yes," said Yudushka, as if he had not heard his mother's remark, "they don't believe in God, they don't believe in the immortality of the soul, but they want to eat all the same."
"That's just it—all they want is to eat and drink," repeated the Father Provost, rolling up the sleeves of his cassock to reach a piece of the funeral pie and put it on his plate.
Everybody attacked the soup. For a while nothing was heard but the clink of the spoons on the plates and the puffing of the priests as they blew upon the hot liquid.
"Now as for the Roman Catholics," continued Yudushka, stopping to eat, "although they do not deny the immortality of the soul, yet they claim the soul does not land straight in hell or in heaven, but stays for a while in a sort of middle place."
"That, too, is preposterous."
"To tell you the truth, Father," said Porfiry Vladimirych, deep in thought, "if we take the point of view of——"
"There is no use discussing nonsense. How goes the song of our Holy Church? It says, 'In a grassy place, in a cool place, in which there is neither sighing nor sorrow.' So of what use is it to talk of a 'middle' place?"
Yudushka did not fully agree and wanted to make some sort of objection, but Arina Petrovna, growing annoyed at the conversation, stopped him.
"Well, eat, eat, you theologian. I guess your soup is cold by now," she said, and to change the topic she turned to the Father Provost. "Have you gathered in the rye yet, Father?"
"Yes, madam. This time the rye is good, but the spring wheat doesn't promise well. The young oat seeds are ripening too soon. Neither straw nor oats can be expected."
"They are complaining everywhere about the oats," sighed Arina Petrovna, watching Yudushka scoop up the last dregs of his soup.
Another dish was served, ham and peas. Yudushka took advantage of the opportunity to resume the broken conversation.
"I'll wager the Jews don't eat this," he said.
"Jews are dirty," responded the Father Provost. "So people mock them, calling them 'pig's ears.'"
"But the Tartars don't eat ham either. There must be some reason for it."
"The Tartars are dirty, too. That's the reason."
"We don't eat horse flesh, and the Tartars refuse pigs' meat. They say rats were eaten during the siege in Paris."
"Well, they were—French!"
The whole supper passed in this way. When carp in cream was served, Yudushka expatiated: "Fall to, Father. These are not ordinary carp. They were a favorite dish of my departed brother."
Asparagus being served, Yudushka said:
"Just look at that asparagus! You'd have to pay a silver ruble for asparagus like that in St. Petersburg. My deceased brother was so fond of it. Bless it, look how thick it is."
Arina Petrovna was boiling with impatience. A whole hour gone and only half the supper eaten. Yudushka seemed to hold it back on purpose. He would eat something, put down his knife and fork, chatter a while, eat a bit again, and chatter again. How often, in bygone days, had Arina Petrovna scolded him for it. "Why don't you eat, you devil—God forgive me." But he seemed to have forgotten her instructions. Or perhaps he had not forgotten them, but was acting that way on purpose, to avenge himself. Or maybe he wasn't even avenging himself consciously. He might just be letting his devilish inner self have free play. Finally the roast was served.
At the very moment that all rose and the Father Provost was beginning to intone the hymn about "the beatific deceased," a noise broke out in the corridor. Shouts were heard that entirely spoiled the effect of the prayer.
"What's that noise?" shouted Porfiry Vladimirych. "Do they take this for a public-house?"
"For mercy's sake, don't yell. That is my—those are my trunks. They are being transferred," responded Arina Petrovna. Then she added with a touch of sarcasm: "Perhaps you intend to inspect them?"
A sudden silence fell. Even Yudushka turned pale and became confused. He realized instantly, however, that somehow he had to soften the effect of his mother's unpleasant words. Turning to the Father Provost, he began:
"Take woodcocks for instance. They are plentiful in Russia, but in other lands——"
"For Christ's sake, why don't you eat? We've got twenty-five versts to go and make them before dark," Arina Petrovna cut him short. "Petenka, dear, go hurry them in there, and see that they serve the pastry."
For a few moments there was silence. Porfiry Vladimirych quickly finished his piece of woodcock. His face was pale, his lips trembled, and he sat tapping his foot on the floor.
"You insult me, mother dear. You hurt me deeply," he declared, finally, but avoided his mother's eyes.
"Who is insulting you? And how am I hurting you—so deeply?"
"It is very—very insulting. So insulting, so very insulting! To think of your going away—at such a moment! You have lived here all the time—and suddenly—and then you mention the trunks—inspection—what an insult!"
"Well, then, if you're anxious to know all about it, why, I'll satisfy you. I lived here as long as my son Pavel was alive. He died—and I leave. And if you want to know about the trunks, why, Ulita has been watching me for a long time at your orders. And concerning myself—it's better to tell your mother straight to her face that she's under suspicion than to hiss at her behind her back like a snake."
"Mother dear! But you—but I——" groaned Yudushka.
"You've said enough," Arina Petrovna cut him short. "And I've had my say."
"But, how could I, mother dear——"
"I tell you, I'm through. For Christ's sake, let me go in peace. The coach is ready, I hear."
The sound of tinkling bells and an approaching vehicle came from the courtyard. Arina Petrovna was the first to arise from the table. The others followed.
"Now let us sit down for a moment, and then we're off," she said, going towards the parlor.
They sat a while in silence. By that time Yudushka had entirely recovered his presence of mind.
"After all, why shouldn't you live at Dubrovino, mother dear? Just see how nice it is here," he said, looking into his mother's eyes with the caressing expression of a guilty cur.
"No, my friend, that's enough. I don't want to leave you with unpleasant words, but I can't stay here. What for? Father, let us pray."
Everybody rose in prayer, then Arina Petrovna kissed everybody good-by, blessed them all, and with a heavy step went toward the door. Porfiry Vladimirych, at the head of the company of relatives, went with her to the porch. There on seeing the coach, he was struck by a devilish idea. "Why, the coach belongs to my brother," was the thought that flashed through his mind.
"So we'll see each other, mother dear?" he said, helping his mother in and casting side glances at the coach.
"If it's the Lord's will—and why shouldn't we see each other?"
"Ah, mother, dear mother, that was a good joke, really! You had better leave the coach—and, with God's help, in your old nest—indeed," urged Yudushka in a wheedling tone.
Arina Petrovna made no answer. She had already seated herself and made the sign of the cross, but the orphans seemed to hesitate.
Yudushka, all the while, kept throwing glance after glance at the coach.
"How about the coach, mother dear? Will you send it back yourself or shall I send for it?" he blurted out, unable to retain himself longer.
Arina Petrovna shook with indignation.
"The coach is—mine!" she cried in a voice so full of pain that everyone felt embarrassed and ashamed. "It's mine! Mine! My coach! I—I have testimony—witnesses. And you—may you——No, I'll wait——We shall see what becomes of you. Children, are you ready?"
"For mercy's sake, mother dear! I have no grievance against you. Even if the coach belonged to this estate——"
"It is my coach—mine! It does not belong to Dubrovino, it belongs to me! Don't you dare to say it—do you hear me?"
"Yes, mother dear. Don't forget us, dear heart. Simply, you know, without ceremony. We will come to you, you will come to us, as becomes good kinsfolk."
"Are you seated, children? Coachman, go on!" cried Arina Petrovna, hardly able to restrain herself.
The coach quivered and rolled off quickly down the road. Yudushka stood on the porch waving his handkerchief and calling until the coach had entirely disappeared from view:
"As becomes good kinsfolk! We will come to you, and you to us—as becomes good kinsfolk!"
[BOOK III]
FAMILY ACCOUNTS SETTLED
CHAPTER I
It had never occurred to Arina Petrovna that there might come a time when she would become "one mouth too many." Now that moment had stolen upon her just when for the first time in her life her physical and moral strength was undermined. Such moments always arrive suddenly. Though one may long have been on the verge of breaking down, one may still hold out and stave off the end, till suddenly the last blow strikes from a quarter least expected. To be aware of its approach and dodge it, is difficult. One has to resign oneself without complaint, for it is the very blow that in an instant shatters one who till recently has been hale and healthy.
When Arina Petrovna took up her abode in Dubrovino, after having broken with Yudushka, she had labored under great difficulties. But then, at least, she had known that Pavel Vladimirych, though looking askance at her intrusion, was still a well-to-do man to whom another morsel meant little. Now things were very different. She stood at the head of a household that counted every crumb. And she knew the value of crumbs, having spent all her life in the country in constant intercourse with peasants and having assimilated the peasant's notions of the harm a "superfluous mouth" does to a house in which stores are already scanty.
Nevertheless, in the first days after the removal to Pogorelka, she still maintained her usual attitude, busied herself with putting things in shape in the new place, and exercised her former clarity of judgment in household management. But the affairs of the estate were troublesome and petty, and demanded her constant personal supervision; and though on first thought she did not see much sense in keeping accurate accounts in a place where farthings are put together to make up kopek pieces and these in turn to make ten-kopek pieces, she was soon forced to admit that she had been wrong in this. To be sure, there really was no sense in keeping careful accounts; but the point was, she no longer possessed her former industry and strength. Then, too, it was autumn, the busiest time of reckoning up accounts and taking inventories, and the incessant bad weather imposed inevitable limits to Arina Petrovna's energy. Ailments of old age came upon her and prevented her from leaving the house. The long dreary fall evenings set in and doomed her to enforced idleness. The old woman was all upset and exerted herself to the utmost, but succeeded in accomplishing nothing.
Another thing. She could not help noticing that something queer was coming over the orphans. They suddenly became dull and dispirited and were agitated by some vague plans for the future, plans in which notions of work were interspersed with notions of pleasures of the most innocent kind, of course—reminiscences of the boarding-school where they had been brought up, mingled with stray notions about men of toil, which they retained from their fragmentary reading, and timid hopes of clutching at some thread through their boarding-school connections, and so entering the bright kingdom of human life. One tormenting hope stood out definitely from the other vague longings, to leave hateful Pogorelka at whatever costs.
And at length one fine day Anninka and Lubinka actually announced to grandma that they simply could not stay at Pogorelka a moment longer; they led a beastly life there, met nobody but the priest, and he, when he met them, felt it incumbent upon him to tell of the virgins who had extinguished their lamps. It wasn't right, it wasn't fair.
The girls spoke sharply, afraid of their grandmother and simulating courage in order to overcome the anger and resistance they expected. But to their surprise Arina Petrovna listened without anger, without even a disposition toward the useless sermonizing that impotent old age is so given to.
Alas, she was no longer that dominating woman who used to say so confidently: "I am going to Khotkov and will take the little orphans with me." The change was due, not to senile impotence alone, but also to an acquired sense of something better and truer. The last buffets of fortune had not only tamed Arina Petrovna; they had also lighted up some corners of her mental horizon into which her thoughts evidently had never before entered. Now, she knew, there were certain forces in the human being that can remain dormant a long while, but once awakened, they carry one irresistibly on to the glimmering ray of life, that cheering ray for whose appearance one's eyes have been yearning so long amidst the hopeless darkness of the present. Once realizing the legitimacy of such a striving, she was powerless to oppose it. It is true, she tried to dissuade her granddaughters from their purpose, but feebly, without conviction. She was uneasy about the future in store for them; all the more so since she herself had no connections in so-called "society." Yet she felt that the parting with the girls was a proper and inevitable thing. What would become of them? frequently pressed on her mind; but she was now fully aware that neither this question nor others more terrible would restrain one who was struggling for release from captivity.
The girls insisted on one thing, on shaking the dust of Pogorelka from their feet. And finally, after some hesitating and postponing to please grandmother, they left.
The Pogorelka manor-house was now steeped in a forlorn quiet. Self-centered as Arina Petrovna was by nature, yet the proximity of human breath had its calming effect even upon her. For the first time, perhaps, she felt that something had torn itself away from her being, and the freedom with which she herself was now confronted was so boundless that all she saw was empty space. To hide the void from her eyes, she ordered the state-rooms and the attic where the orphans had lived to be nailed up.
"Incidentally, there will be less firewood burned," she said to herself.
She retained only two rooms, in one of which a large ikon case with images was stowed away. The other was a combined bedroom, study and dining-room. For the sake of economy she dismissed her retinue of servants, retaining only her housekeeper Afimyushka, an old, broken-down woman, and Markovna, one-eyed, the soldier's wife, who did the cooking and washing.
All these precautions, however, were of little help. The sensation of emptiness was not slow to penetrate into the two rooms that were meant to be guarded from it. Helpless solitude and dreary idleness were the two enemies Arina Petrovna now confronted. And she was to be bound to these two enemies the rest of her days. Physical and mental disintegration were not slow to follow in the wake of loneliness and idleness, and the less the resistance, the crueller, the more destructive its work.
Days dragged on in the oppressive monotony peculiar to rural life when there are no comforts or there is no executive work to be done, and there is no material for mental occupation. In addition to the external causes at work to take the management of household affairs away from her, was an inner aversion that Arina Petrovna now felt to the petty cares and bustle coming at the sunset of her life. Perhaps she would have overcome her repugnance had she had an aim in view to justify her efforts, but that very aim was wanting. Everybody was sick and weary of her, and she was sick and weary of everybody and everything. Her feverish activity of old suddenly yielded to idleness, and idleness little by little corrupted her will and induced propensities of which Arina Petrovna could never have dreamed only a few months ago.
The strong, reserved woman, whom no one would have thought of calling old, turned into a wreck of her former self. There was neither past nor future for her, but only the immediate moment to live through. The greater part of the day she dozed, sitting in an easy-chair by the table, on which ill-smelling cards were arranged. She would doze for hours on end. Then her body would shudder convulsively, she would wake up, look out of the window, and for a long time stare into the distance, without a single conscious thought.
Pogorelka was a dreary manor-house. It stood all alone, without orchard or shade, or the least indication of comfort. There was not even a flower garden in front of the house. It was a one-story structure, squat, weather-beaten, all black with age. Back of it were the many out-buildings, also half worn-out, and all around was one vast stretch of fields—fields without end. Not even the glimpse of forest anywhere on the horizon. But from her very childhood Arina Petrovna had hardly ever left the country, and this monotonous landscape did not seem dreary to her. It even appealed to her heart and awakened remnants of emotion still glowing within her. The best part of her being lived in these naked fields, and her gaze sought them instinctively.
She stared at the expanse of fields; she stared at the drenched hamlets making black specks on the landscape; she stared at the white churches of the rural parishes; she stared at the motley spots that the cloud shadows formed on the plains; she stared at the peasant unknown to her who walked along the ploughed furrows, and she thought him slow and stiff. While staring, she had no conscious thoughts, or, rather, her thoughts were so fragmentary and disconnected that they could not stay with any one thing for even a short time. She just gazed, gazed till senile slumber again hummed dully in her ears, and the fields, the churches, the hamlets and the peasant in the distance became wrapped in mist.
At times, apparently, she recollected something; but the memories of the past came incoherently, in fragments. Her attention could not concentrate on one point. It jumped from one remote memory to another. Yet sometimes she would be struck by something singular, not joy—her past was very scant in joys—but some grievance, some abuse, bitter and unbearable. Then sudden anger would flare up, anguish would creep into her heart, and tears come to her eyes. She would weep grievously, painfully, the weeping of piteous old age, when tears flow as if under the load of a nightmare. But even while her tears were flowing, her mind unconsciously continued to work in its usual way, and her thoughts drifted imperceptibly away from the cause of her mood, so that in a few minutes the old woman was wondering what had been the matter with her.
Altogether, she lived as if not participating in life personally, but solely because in those ruins there were still left a few odds and ends which had to be collected, recorded, and accounted for. While these odds and ends were present, life went its way compelling the ruin to perform all the external functions necessary to keep that half-asleep existence from crumbling to dust.
But if the days passed in unconscious slumber, the nights were sheer torment. At night Arina Petrovna was afraid; she was afraid of thieves, of ghosts, of devils, of all that was the product of her education and life. And the defenses of the place were very poor, for beside the two tottering women domestics Pogorelka had a night-watch in the person of the lame little peasant Fedoseyushka, who for two rubles a month came from the village to guard the manor-house, and usually slept in the vestibule, coming out at the appointed hours to strike the steel plate. In the cattle-yard, it is true, there lived a few farm hands, men and women, but the cattle house was about fifty yards away and it was not easy to summon any one from there.
There is something exceedingly dreary and oppressive in a sleepless night in the country. At nine, or at latest ten o'clock, life ceases. A weird stillness sets in that is full of terrors. There is nothing to do, and it is a waste to burn candles. Willy-nilly one must go to bed. As soon as the samovar was removed from the table Afimyushka, from an old habit acquired during serfdom, spread a felt blanket in front of the door leading to the mistress's bedroom, scratched her head, yawned, flopped down on the floor, and fell dead asleep. Markovna always fumbled in the maids' room a trifle longer, muttering something to herself as if scolding somebody. But at last she, too, got quiet, and a moment later you could hear her snoring and raving intermittently. The watchman banged on the plate several times to announce his presence, then kept quiet for a long time. Arina Petrovna, sitting in front of a snuffy tallow candle, tried to stave off sleep by playing "patience," but scarcely did she have the cards arranged when she fell into a doze.
"It is as easy as not for a fire to start while one is asleep," she would say to herself, and decide to go to bed. But no sooner did she sink into the down pillows than another trouble set in. Her sleepiness, so inviting and insistent all evening long, now left her completely. The room was a close one at the best, and now, from the open flue the heat came thick, and the down pillows were insufferable. Arina Petrovna tossed restlessly. She wanted to call someone, but knew no one would come in answer to her summons. A mysterious quiet reigned all around, a quiet in which the delicate ear could distinguish a multitude of sounds. Now something crackled somewhere, now a whining was audible, now it seemed as if somebody were walking through the corridor, now a puff of wind swept through the room and even touched her face. The ikon lamp burned in front of an image, and the light gave the objects in the room a kind of elusiveness, as if they were not actual things, but only the contours of things. Another bit of light strayed from the open door of the adjacent room, where four or five ikon lamps were burning before the image case. A mouse squeaked behind the wall paper. "Sh-sh-sh, you nasty thing," said Arina Petrovna, and all was silent again. And shadows again, whisperings again coming from no one knew where. The greater part of the night passed in that half-awake senile slumber. Real sleep did not set in and do its work until nearly morning. By six o'clock Arina Petrovna was already on her feet, tired out after a sleepless night.
Other things to add to the misery of this miserable existence of Arina Petrovna's were the poor food she ate and the discomfort of her home. She ate little and used poor food, wishing, probably, to make up for the loss caused by insufficient supervision. And the Pogorelka manor-house was dilapidated and damp. The room into which Arina Petrovna locked herself was never ventilated and remained without cleaning for weeks on end. In this complete helplessness and the absence of all comfort and care, decrepitude began slowly to set in. But her desire to live grew stronger, or, rather, her desire for "a dainty bit" asserted itself. With this came coupled a total absence of the thought of death. Previously, she had been afraid of death; now she seemed to have quite forgotten about it. And with ideals of life differing but little from a peasant's, her conception of a "comfortable life" was of rather a base kind. Everything she had formerly denied herself, dainties, rest, association with wide-awake people, now forced itself upon her in an insistent craving. All the propensities of a regular sponger and hanger-on, idle talk, subservience for the sake of a prospective gift, gluttony, grew in her with astounding rapidity. Like the servants, she fed on cabbage-soup and cured bacon of doubtful quality, and at the same time dreamed of the stores of provisions at Golovliovo, of the German carps that swarmed in the Dubrovino ponds, of the mushrooms that filled the Golovliovo woods, of the fowl that fattened in the Golovliovo poultry-yard.
"Some soup with giblets, or some garden-cress in cream would not be a bad thing," would cross her mind so vividly that her mouth watered. At night when she tossed about rigid with fright at the least rustling, she would think: "Yes, at Golovliovo the locks are secure and the watchmen reliable. They keep banging on the steel plates all the time, and you can sleep in perfect safety." During the day, from sheer lack of human companionship, she was compelled to be silent for hours, and during these spells of compulsory taciturnity, she could not help thinking: "At Golovliovo there are lots of people. There you can talk your troubles away." In fact, Golovliovo kept constantly recurring to her mind, and the reminiscences of her former estate became a radiant spot in which "comfortable living" concentrated itself.
The more frequently the vision of Golovliovo came back to her mind, the stronger became her will to live again, and the farther the deadly affronts she had recently sustained sank into oblivion. The Russian woman, by the very nature of her life and bringing-up, too quickly acquiesces in the lot of a hanger-on. Even Arina Petrovna did not escape that fate, though her past, it would seem, should have tended to warn and guard her against such a yoke. Had she not made a mistake "at that time," had she not portioned out her estate to her sons, had she not trusted Yudushka, she would to this very day have been a harsh, exacting old woman, with everybody under her thumb. But since the mistake was fatal, the transition from a testy, arbitrary mistress to an obedient, obsequious parasite was only a matter of time. As long as she still retained remnants of former vigor, the change was not evident, but as soon as she realized that she was irrevocably doomed to helplessness and solitude, all the pusillanimous propensities began to make their way into her soul, and her will, already weakened, became completely shattered. Yudushka, who used to be received most coldly when he visited Pogorelka, suddenly ceased to be hateful to her. The old injuries were somehow forgotten, and Arina Petrovna was the first to court intimacy.
It began with begging. Messengers from Pogorelka would come to Yudushka, at first rarely, but then with increasing frequency. Now there had been a poor crop of garden-cress at Pogorelka, now the rains had ruined the gherkins, now the turkey-poults had died—there's freedom for you! And then it came to: "Would you mind, my dear friend, ordering some German carps caught in Dubrovino? My late son Pavel never refused them to me." Yudushka frowned, but thought it best not to show open displeasure. The carps were an item, to be sure, but he was filled with terror at the thought that his mother might put her curse upon him. He well remembered her once saying: "I will come to Golovliovo, order the church opened, call in the priest and shout: 'I curse you!'" It was the recollection of this that held him back from many dastardly acts that quite accorded with his nature. But in fulfilling the wish of his "mother dear" he did not omit to hint casually to the people around him that God had ordained that every man bear his cross, and that He did so not without divine purpose, for he who bears not his cross wanders from the righteous path and becomes corrupted. To his mother he wrote: "I am sending you some gherkins, mother dear, as many as my resources allow. As to the turkeys, I am sorry to inform you that besides those left for breeding, there remain only turkey-cocks, which in view of their size and the limited needs of your table are quite useless to you. And will it not be your pleasure to let me welcome you to Golovliovo and share my paltry viands with you? Then we can have one of those idlers (idlers, indeed, for my cook Matvey caponizes them most skilfully) roasted, and you and I, my dearest friend, shall feast on him to our heart's content."
From that day Arina Petrovna became a frequent guest at Golovliovo. Assisted by Yudushka she tasted of turkeys and ducks; she slept her fill both by night and by day, and after dinner she eased her heart with copious small talk, in which Yudushka was proficient by nature, she proficient because of old age. Her visits were not discontinued even when it reached her ears that Yudushka, weary of solitude, had taken in a damsel named Yevpraksia, from among the clergy, as his housekeeper. On the contrary, she made off right for Golovliovo and before alighting from the carriage called to Yudushka with childish impatience: "Well, well, you old sinner, let's see your queen, let's see your queen." That entire day she spent most pleasurably, because Yevpraksia herself waited upon her at table and made her bed after dinner, and because in the evening she played fool with Yudushka and his queen.
Yudushka himself was pleased with this dénouement, and in token of filial gratitude ordered a pound of caviar, among other things, to be put into Arina Petrovna's carriage as she was about to depart. That was the highest token of esteem, for caviar is not a home product; one has to buy it. The courtesy so touched the old woman that she could refrain no longer and said: "Well, I do thank you for this. And God, too, will love you, because you cherish and sustain your mother in her old age. Now, when I get back to Pogorelka, I shall not be bored any more. I always did like caviar. Well, thanks to you, I'll have a dainty morsel now."
CHAPTER II
Five years had passed since Arina Petrovna took up her abode at Pogorelka. Yudushka struck root in Golovliovo and would not budge. He became considerably older, faded and tarnished greatly, but was more of a knave, liar and babbler than ever, for now his "mother dear" was nearly always with him, and for the sake of dainties, she became a ready and indispensable listener to his empty talk.
One must not think of Yudushka as a hypocrite in the sense of Tartuffe, for instance, or some modern French bourgeois, mellifluous and fond of expatiating on "the foundations of society." No, he was a hypocrite of the purely Russian breed, simply a man devoid of moral standards and ignorant of any except the most elementary truths. His ignorance was profound. He was mendacious, had a passion for litigation and empty talk, and was afraid of the devil, too—all negative traits that are not the material for the making of a genuine hypocrite.
In France hypocrisy is a result of education; it constitutes, so to say, a part of "good manners," and always has a distinct political or social coloring. There are hypocrites of religion, hypocrites of "the foundations of society," of property, of family, of politics. And lately there have come up even hypocrites of "law and order." Though this sort of hypocrisy cannot be termed conviction, still it is a banner around which those people rally who find it profitable to play the hypocrite in that way and no other. They sham consciously, that is they know they are hypocrites, and they also know that others know. According to the notions of a French bourgeois, the universe is nothing but a large stage on which is played an endless drama with one hypocrite taking his cue from the other. Hypocrisy is an invitation to decency, decorum, outward elegance and politeness. And what is most important, hypocrisy is a restraint, not for those, of course, who play the hypocrite, hovering in the rarified atmosphere of the social heights, but for those who swarm at the bottom of the social caldron. Hypocrisy keeps society from the debauchery of passion and makes passion the privilege of a very limited minority. When licentiousness keeps within the limits of a small, well-organized corporation, it is not only harmless, but even supports and nourishes the traditions of elegance. The exquisite would perish if there were not a certain number of cabinets particuliers, in which licentiousness is cultivated in the moments that are free from the worship of official hypocrisy. But licentiousness becomes really dangerous as soon as it is accessible to all and is combined with the general extension of the right to make demands and insist upon the legitimacy and naturalness of such demands. New social stratifications form, which endeavor to crowd out the old ones, or, at least, limit them considerably. The demand for cabinets particuliers grows to such an extent that the question arises: Would it not be simpler in the future to get along without them? It is against these unwelcome questions and formulations of demands that the ruling classes of French society guard the systematic hypocrisy that begins by being an accident of manners and ends by becoming a compulsory law.
The modern French theatre is based on this reverence for hypocrisy. The first four acts of a popular French play are realistic, depicting the decay and disintegration of all standards of marital fidelity. But the fifth act always ends up with some sentimental ringing phrase eulogizing the sweet atmosphere of the fireside and the supreme triumph of virtue over vice. Which is the truth? Which is the sham? Both and neither. In the first four acts the audience sees itself mirrored in the realistic portrayal on the stage, but the fifth act is an equally faithful portrayal of the audience's conception of ideal virtue and pure matrimonial life. So, if French hypocrisy is a superstructure upon the body of public immorality, it is so completely a part of the entire fabric of morality that it keeps the edifice from toppling over.
We Russians have no system of social bringing up. We are not mustered or drilled to become champions of "social principles" or other principles, but simply left to grow wild, like nettles by the fence. That is why there are few hypocrites among us, but many liars, empty-headed bigots, and babblers. We have no need of playing the hypocrite for the sake of social principles, for we know of no such thing as social principles. We exist in perfect liberty, that is, we vegetate, lie, chatter quite naturally, without regard for principle. Whether we ought to rejoice over it or regret it, I cannot say. I think, though, that if hypocrisy breeds resentment and fear, useless lying causes boredom and repugnance. The best thing, therefore, is to ignore the question of the advantages of conscious over unconscious hypocrisy, and vice versa, and have nothing to do with either hypocrites or liars.
Yudushka was more of a chatterbox, liar and rascal than hypocrite. On shutting himself up on his country estate, he at once felt at perfect liberty. In no other environment could his propensities find so vast a field for operation. At Golovliovo he encountered neither direct resistance nor even indirect restraints that would make him think: "I should like to do something mean, but what will people say?" There was none to disturb him with disapproval, no one to intrude into his affairs. Consequently there was no reason for controlling himself. Extreme slovenliness became the dominating feature of his attitude toward himself. He had long had a craving for this perfect freedom from any moral restraint, and the fact that he had not gone to live in the country earlier was entirely due to his fear of idleness. Having spent over thirty years in the dull atmosphere of the bureaucratic department, he had acquired all the habits and appetites of an inveterate official, who does not allow a single moment of his life to pass without being busily engaged in doing nothing. But on studying the matter more closely, he came to the conclusion that the realm of busy idleness can easily be transposed to any sphere.
In fact, scarcely settled at Golovliovo but he at once created a world of trifles in which to rummage without the slightest risk of them ever being exhausted. In the morning he would seat himself at his desk and attend to business matters. First he would carefully check the accounts of the housekeeper, the cattle-yard woman, and the steward. He had established a very complicated accounting system, both for money and inventory. Every kopek, every bit of produce, was entered in twenty books, and on checking up he would find the total either half a kopek behind, or a whole kopek ahead. Lastly he would take up his pen and write complaints to the justice of the peace and the judge of appeals. This took up all his time and had the appearance of assiduous hard work. Yudushka often complained that he had no time to do everything that had to be done, though he pored over the ledgers all day long and did not even stop to take off his dressing-gown. Heaps of well filed but unexamined reports were always lying about on his desk, and among them was the annual report of the cattle-house woman, Fekla, whose activity had long seemed suspicious, though he had had no time to check up her accounts.
All connections with the outside world were completely severed. He received no books, no newspapers, not even letters. One of his sons, Volodya, committed suicide. With the other, Petenka, he corresponded briefly and only on sending him a remittance. He was caught in an atmosphere thick with ignorance, superstition and industrious idleness, and felt no desire to rescue himself from it. Even the fact that Napoleon III. was no longer emperor came to him through the local chief of police a year after the emperor's death. On hearing of it he expressed no particular interest, but only crossed himself and murmured: "May he enter the Kingdom of Heaven," and then said aloud: "And how proud he was! My, my! This was no good, and that did not suit him. Kings went to do him homage, princes kept watch in his antechamber. So the Lord, you see, in one moment cast down all his proud dreams."
The truth of the matter was that for all his reckoning and checking up he was far from knowing what was going on on his own estate. In this respect he was a typical official. Imagine a chief clerk to whom his superior says: "My friend, it is necessary to my plans for me to know exactly how large a crop of potatoes Russia can produce annually. Will you kindly compute this for me?" You think a question like that would baffle the chief clerk? You think he would at least ponder over the methods to be employed in the execution of such a task? Not at all. All he would do is this. He would draw a map of Russia, rule it out into perfect squares, and find out how many acres each square represents. Then he would go to the greengrocer's, would find out the quantity of potatoes each acre requires for seed and what the average ratio is of yield to seed, and, finally, with the help of God and the four fundamental operations of arithmetic, he would arrive at the conclusion that Russia under favorable circumstances could yield so and so many potatoes and under unfavorable circumstances, so and so many. And his work would not only please the chief, but would also be placed in Volume CII of some "Proceedings."
Yudushka even chose a housekeeper who exactly fitted the environment he had created. The maiden Yevpraksia was the daughter of the sexton at the church of St. Nicholas-in-Drops. She was an all-round treasure. Not alert in thinking, not ingenious, not even handy, but diligent, submissive, in no sense exigent. When Yudushka "drew her nearer" to his person, her one request was to be permitted to take some cold cider without asking leave. Such disinterestedness touched even Yudushka. He immediately put at her disposal two tubs of pickled apples beside the cider, and freed her from accountability for any of these items. Her exterior had nothing attractive in it to a connoisseur, but she was quite satisfactory to a man who was not fastidious and knew what he wanted. She had a broad white face, a low forehead bordered with thin yellowish hair, large lack-lustre eyes, a perfectly straight nose, a flat mouth on which there played a mysterious elusive smile, such as one sees in the portraits painted by homebred artists. In short there was nothing remarkable about her, except, perhaps, her back between her shoulder-blades, which was so broad and powerful that even the most indifferent man felt like giving her a good, hearty slap there. She knew it, but did not mind it, so that when Yudushka for the first time patted the fat nape of her neck, she only twitched her shoulders.
Amidst these drab surroundings days wore on, one exactly like the other, without the slightest change, without the least hope of a brightening ray. The arrival of Arina Petrovna was the one thing that brought a bit of animation. At first, when Porfiry Vladimirych had seen his mother's carriage approaching he had frowned, but in time he grew accustomed to her visits and even got to like them. They catered to his loquacity, for even he found it impossible to chatter to himself when all alone. To babble about various records and reports with "mother dear" was very pleasant, and, once together, they talked from morning till night without having enough. They discussed everything—the harvests of long ago and of the present; the way the landed gentry had lived in "those days;" the salt that had been so strong in former years; and the gherkins that were not what they had been in days gone by.
These chats had the advantage of flowing on like water and being forgotten without effort, so that they could be renewed with interest ad infinitum, and enjoyed each time as if just put into circulation. Yevpraksia was present at these talks. Arina Petrovna came to love her so well that she would not have her away for a moment. At times, when tired of talking, the three of them would sit down to play fool, and they would keep on playing till long after midnight. They tried to teach Yevpraksia how to play whist with the dummy, but she could not understand the game. On such evenings the enormous Golovliovo mansion became animated. Lights shone in all the windows, shadows appeared here and there, so that a chance passer-by might think Heaven knows what celebration was going on. Samovars, coffee pots, refreshments took their turn on the table, which was never empty. Arina Petrovna's heart brimmed over with joy and merriment and instead of remaining for one day, she would spend three or four days at Golovliovo. And on the way back to Pogorelka she would think up a pretext for returning as soon as possible to the temptations of the "good living" there.
CHAPTER III
It was the end of November. As far as eye could see the ground was covered with a white shroud. A blizzard reigned in the night outdoors; the biting wind drove the snow, piled up huge snow-drifts in an instant, lashed the snow higher and higher, covering every object and filling the air with a wailing. The village, the church, the nearby woods, all vanished in the whirling snowy mist. The wind howled in the trees of the ancient Golovliovo orchard. But inside the landlord's manor it was warm and cozy. In the dining-room there was a samovar on the table. Around it were Arina Petrovna, Porfiry Vladimirych, and Yevpraksia. To one side stood a card-table with tattered cards on it. The open door from the dining-room led on one side to the ikon room, all flooded with light from the ikon lamps, on the other, to the master's study, where an ikon lamp was also burning before an image. The rooms were overheated and stuffy, the odor of olive oil and of the charcoal burning in the samovar filled the air. Yevpraksia, seated in front of the samovar, was engaged in rinsing the cups and drying them with a dish towel. The samovar made spirited music, now humming aloud with all its might, now falling into a doze, as it were, and snoring. Clouds of steam escaped from under the cover and wrapped the tea-pot in a mist. The three at the table were conversing.
"Well, how many times were you the 'fool' to-day?" Arina Petrovna asked Yevpraksia.
"I shouldn't have been fool once if I hadn't given in. I wanted to please you, you see," answered Yevpraksia.
"Fiddlesticks! I remember how pleased you were last time when I bombarded you with threes and fives. You see, I am not Porfiry Vladimirych. He makes it easy for you, hands only one at a time, but I, my dear, have no reason to."
"Yes, indeed! You were playing foul!"
"Well, I say! I never do such things."
"No? Who was it I caught a little while ago? Who wanted to slip through a seven of clubs and an eight of hearts and call them a pair? Well, I saw it myself and I myself showed you up!" While talking Yevpraksia rose to remove the tea-pot from the samovar and turned her back to Arina Petrovna.
"My, what a back you have! God bless you!" Arina Petrovna exclaimed, in involuntary admiration.
"Yes, a wonderful back," Yudushka repeated mechanically.
"My back again! Aren't you ashamed of yourself? What has my back done to you?" Yevpraksia turned her back first to the right, then to the left, and smiled. Her back was her joy. A few days before even the cook Savelich, an old man, had looked at her admiringly and said: "Well, well, what a back! Just like a hearth-plate!" She did not, be it noticed, complain to Porfiry Vladimirych about the cook's remark.
The cups were filled with tea over and over again, and the samovar grew silent. Meanwhile the snowstorm became fiercer and fiercer. A veritable cataract of snow struck the windowpanes every now and then, and wild sobs ran at intervals down the chimney flue.
"The storm seems to be in real earnest," said Arina Petrovna. "Listen to it howling and whining."
"Oh, well, let it whine. The blizzard keeps on whining and we keep on drinking tea. That's how it is, mother dear," replied Porfiry Vladimirych.
"It must be a terrible thing for one to be out in the fields now."
"Yes, it may be terrible to some, but what do we care? Some feel cold and dreary, but we are bright and cheery. We sit here and sip our tea, with sugar, and cream, and lemon. And should we want tea with rum, we can have it with rum."
"Yes, but suppose——"
"Just a moment, mother dear. I say, it is very bad in the open now. There is no road or path. Everything is wiped out. And then—wolves! But here we are warm and cozy, afraid of nothing. We just keep sitting here, quietly and peacefully. If we want to play a little game of cards, we play cards; if we want to have some hot tea, well, then we have tea. We won't drink more than we want to, but we may drink to our heart's content. And why all this? Because, mother dear, God's mercy is with us. Were it not for Him, the King of Kings, maybe we, too, would now be wandering in the fields, in the cold and the darkness, in a shabby little coat, a flimsy little girdle, bast shoes."
"Oh, come now, what do you mean—bast shoes? We are gentlefolk, surely. In any circumstances we can afford decent footwear."
"Do you know why we were born in the gentry, mother dear? All because God's mercy was with us. Were it not for that we would now be in a hut and it would be lighted not by a candle but by a luchina and as to tea or coffee, we wouldn't dare dream about them. I would be patching my miserable little bast shoes, and you would be getting ready to sup off thin cabbage soup, and Yevpraksia would be weaving tick, and on top of it all, maybe the desyatsky would come to press us and the wagon into service."
"Yes, catch the desyatsky coming on a night like this!"
"Who knows, mother dear? And maybe the regiments would come! Maybe there would be war or mutiny. The regiments must be there on the dot. The other day, for instance, the chief of police was telling me Napoleon III. had died. So you may be sure the French will be up to some mischief again. Naturally, our soldiers will have to make for the front at once, and you, friend peasant, will have to get your wagon out, quick! Never mind cold, blizzard, and snowdrifts. You go if the authorities tell you to, and if you know what is good for you. But we, don't you see, will be spared a while. They won't turn us out with the wagon."
"Yes, who dares deny it? The mercy the Lord has shown us is great."
"That's just what I say. God, mother dear, is everything. He gives us wood to burn and food to eat. It's all His doing. We think we buy things ourselves, and pay our own hard cash, but when you look into it more deeply, and reckon it up, and figure it out, it's all He, it's all God. If it be His will, we'll have nothing. Here, for instance, I would like to have some fine little oranges, I would have some myself, would offer one to my mother dear, would give an orange to everyone. I have the money to buy oranges. Suppose I produce some coin and say, 'Here, let me have some oranges,' but God says, 'Halt, man!' Then here I am, a philosopher without cucumbers."
They laughed.
"That's all talk," said Yevpraksia. "My uncle was sexton at the Uspenye Church in Pesochnoye. You may be sure he was as pious a man as ever was. So I think God ought to have done something for him. But he was caught in a snowstorm out in the fields and froze to death all the same."
"That's just my point. If such is God's will, you will freeze to death, and if such is not His will, you will remain alive. There are prayers that please God and there are prayers that do not please Him. If a prayer pleases God it will reach Him, if it does not, you may as well not pray at all."
"I remember in 1824 I was travelling and was pregnant with Pavel. It was in the month of December, and I was going to Moscow——"
"Just a moment, mother dear. Let me finish about the prayers. A man prays for everything, for he needs everything. He needs some butter and some cabbage, and some gherkins, well, in a word, he needs everything. Sometimes he doesn't need the thing, but in his human weakness he prays for it all the same. But God from above sees better. You pray for butter, and he gives you cabbage or onions. You are after fair and warm weather and he sends you rain and hail. What you have to do is to understand it all and not complain. Last September, for example, we prayed God for frost, so that the winter corn might not rot, but God, you see, sent no frosts, and our winter corn rotted away."
"It certainly did rot away," remarked Arina Petrovna commiseratingly. "The peasants' winter fields at Novinky weren't worth a straw. They'll have to plow them all over and plant spring corn."
"That's just it. Here we are planning and philosophizing, and figuring it one way, and trying it another way, but God in a trice reduces all our plots and plans to dust. You, mother dear, wanted to tell us something that happened to you in 1824?"
"What was it? I really don't remember. I suppose I wanted to tell you again about God's mercy. I don't remember, my friend, I don't."
"Well, you'll recall it some other time, if God is willing. And while the blizzard is whirling out there you'd better have some jam, my dear. This is cherry jam from the Golovliovo orchard. Yevpraksia herself put it up."
"I am already helping myself to some. I must admit cherry jam is a rare thing with me now. Years ago I used to indulge every now and then, but now——! Your Golovliovo cherries are fine, so large and juicy. No matter how hard I tried to grow them at Dubrovino, they wouldn't come. Did you add some French brandy to the jam, Yevpraksia?"
"Of course I did. Followed your directions. Another thing I meant to ask you, how do you pickle cucumbers, do you use cardamoms?"
Arina Petrovna thought a bit, then made a gesture of perplexity.
"I don't remember, my dear. I think I used to put cardamoms in. Now I don't. My pickling now is not much. But I used to put cardamoms in, yes, I remember very well now. When I get home I'll look among the recipes, maybe I'll find it. When I had my strength I used to make a note of everything. If I liked something somewhere, I would ask how it was made, write it on a piece of paper, and then try it at home. I once learned a secret, such a secret that the man who knew it was offered a thousand rubles to tell. He wouldn't do it. And I gave the housekeeper a quarter, and she told me every bit of it."
"Yes, mother dear, in your day you certainly were a wizard."
"Well, I don't know if I was a wizard, but I can thank the Lord, I didn't squander my fortune. I kept adding to it. Even now I taste of my righteous labors. It was I who planted the cherry trees in Golovliovo."
"Thanks for it, mother dear, many thanks. Eternal thanks from me and my descendants. That's what I say."
Yudushka rose, went to mother dear and kissed her hand.
"And thanks to you, too, that you take your mother's welfare to heart. Yes, your provisions are fine, very fine."
"Well, how do my provisions compare? You used to have provisions—perfectly stunning! My, what cellars! And not an empty spot!"
"Yes, I used to have provisions, I may as well be frank about it. Mine was a well-stocked house. And as to the many cellars I had, well, the household was much larger, ten times as many mouths as you have to-day. Take the domestics alone. Everyone had to be fed and provided for. Gherkins for one, cider for another, little by little, bit by bit, and it mounts up."
"Yes, those were good times. Plenty of everything. Grain and fruit, all in abundance."
"We used to save more manure, that is why."
"No, mother dear, that is not the reason. It was God's blessing, that's what it was. I remember father once brought an apple from the orchard, and it surprised everybody, it was too big to be put on a plate."
"Well, I don't remember that. I know generally that apples used to be fine, but that they were the size of a plate, that I don't remember. I do remember though, that we caught a carp in the Dubrovino pond weighing twenty pounds, yes, I remember that."
"Carps and fruit—everything was large then. I remember the watermelons the gardener Ivan used to get. They were as big as this!"
Yudushka stretched out his arms in a circle, pretending he could not embrace the imaginary watermelon.
"Yes, those were watermelons. Watermelons, my friend, are according to the year. One year you get lots of them and they are good. Another year they are poor and few. And some years you don't get any at all. Well, it depends upon the lucky ground, too. On the estate of Grigory Aleksandrovich, for example, nothing came up, no fruit and no berries—nothing. Only melons. Nothing but melons used to come up."
"Then he had God's blessing for melons."
"Why, yes, certainly. You can't get along without God's mercy. You can't run away from it either."
Arina Petrovna finished her second cup and cast glances at the card table. Yevpraksia, too, was burning with impatience to have a hand at cards. But the plans were thwarted by Arina Petrovna herself. She suddenly recollected something.
"I have a bit of news for you," she declared. "I received a letter from the orphans yesterday."
"And you kept it to yourself all this time, and only just thought of it? I suppose they are hard up. Do they ask for money?"
"No, they do not. Here, read it. You'll like it."
Arina Petrovna produced a letter from her pocket and gave it to Yudushka, who read aloud:
"Please, grandma, don't send us any more turkeys or hens. Don't send us money, either, but invest the money. We are not at Moscow but at Kharkov. We've gone on the stage, and in summer we are going to travel to the fairs. I, Anninka, made my début in Pericola, and Lubinka in Pansies. I was called out several times, especially after the scene where Pericola comes out and sings 'I am ready, ready, read-d-d-y!' Lubinka made a hit, too. The director put me on a salary of one hundred rubles a month and a benefit performance at Kharkov; and Lubinka, at seventy-five a month and a benefit the coming summer, at a fair. Besides, we get gifts from army officers and lawyers. The lawyers sometimes, though, give you counterfeit money, and you have to be careful. And you, dear granny, can have Pogorelka all to yourself, we will never come there again, we don't understand how people can live there. We had the first snow here yesterday, and we had troika rides with the lawyers. One looks like Plevako—my! just stunning! He put a glass of champagne on his head and danced a trepak. It's jolly, beats anything I've seen! The other one isn't so handsome, he looks a little like Yazikov from St. Petersburg. Just think, after he read "The Collection of the Best Russian Songs and Romances," his imagination became unstrung and he got so weak that he fainted in the court-room. And so we spend almost every day in the company of army officers and lawyers. We go on rides and dine and sup in the best restaurants, and pay nothing. And you, granny dear, don't be stingy and use up everything growing in Pogorelka, corn, chickens, mushrooms. We shall be very glad to send some money. Good-by. Our gentlemen have just arrived. They have come to take us driving again. Darling! Divine! Farewell!
ANNINKA.
And I, too—LUBINKA."
Yudushka spat in disgust and returned the letter. For a while Arina Petrovna was pensive and silent.
"Mother dear, you haven't answered them yet?"
"No, not yet. I just got the letter yesterday. I came here on purpose to show it to you, but between this and that I almost forgot all about it."
"Don't answer it. It's best not to."
"How can I? I must account to them. Pogorelka is theirs, you know."
Yudushka also became pensive. A sinister plan flashed through his mind.
"And I keep wondering how they will preserve themselves in that foul den," Arina Petrovna continued. "You know how it is in these things—once you stumble, you can't get your maiden honor back! Go hunt for it!"
"Much they need it!" Yudushka snarled back.
"Still, you know. Honor is a girl's best treasure, one may say. Who will marry a girl without it?"
"Nowadays, mother dear, unmarried people live like married ones. Nowadays they laugh at the precepts of religion. They get married without benefit of clergy, like heathens. They call it civil marriage."
Yudushka suddenly recollected that he, too, was living in sinful relationship with a daughter of the clergy.
"Of course, sometimes you can't help it," he hastened to add. "If a man, let us say, is in full vigor and a widower—in an emergency the law itself is often modified."
"Yes, of course. When hard pressed a snipe sings like a nightingale. Even saints sin when sorely tried, let alone us mortals."
"Yes, that's just it. Do you know what I would do if I were you?"
"Yes, tell me, please tell me."
"I would insist that they make Pogorelka over to you in full legal fashion."
Arina Petrovna looked at him in fright.
"Well, I have a deed giving me the full powers and rights of a manager."
"Manager is not enough. You ought to get a deed that would entitle you to sell and mortgage it, in a word, to dispose of the property as you see fit."
Arina Petrovna lowered her eyes and remained silent.
"Of course, it is a matter that requires deliberation. Think it over, mother dear," Yudushka insisted.
But Arina Petrovna said nothing. Though age had considerably dulled her powers of judgment, she was somehow uneasy about Yudushka's insinuations. She was afraid of Yudushka, and loath to part with the warmth, spaciousness, and abundance that reigned at Golovliovo, but at the same time she felt that Yudushka had something up his sleeve when he spoke of the Pogorelka deed, and was casting a new snare. The situation grew so embarrassing that she began to scold herself inwardly for having shown him the letter. Happily Yevpraksia came to the rescue.
"Well, are we going to play cards or not?" she asked.
"Yes, come on, come on!" Arina Petrovna hurried them and jumped up quickly. On her way to the card table a new thought dawned upon her.
"Do you know what day it is?" she turned to Porfiry Vladimirych.
"The twenty-third of November," Yudushka replied, somewhat nonplussed.
"Yes, the twenty-third. Do you remember what happened on the twenty-third of November? You have forgotten about the requiem, haven't you?"
Porfiry Vladimirych turned pale and made the sign of the cross.
"Oh, Lord! Did you ever!" he exclaimed. "Really? Is that so? Just a moment. Let's look at the calendar."
In a few minutes he had brought the calendar and taken out a sheet of paper inserted in it, on which was written.
"November 23. The death of my dear son Vladimir."
"Rest in peace, beloved dust, till the joyous morn. And pray the Lord for your father, who will never fail to have memorial services performed on this day."
"There, now!" said Porfiry Vladimirych. "Ah, Volodya! You are not a good son. You are a wicked son. You haven't prayed for your papa in Heaven, it seems, and so he has lost his memory. What are we going to do about it, mother dear?"
"It is not so terrible, after all. You can have the requiem service tomorrow. A requiem and a mass—we'll have both of them sung. It is all my fault, I am old and have lost my memory. I came on purpose to remind you, but on my way it slipped my mind."
"Ah, what a sin! It is a good thing the ikon lamps are burning. It is as if it had dawned on me from above. To-day is not a holiday, but the lamps have been left burning ever since the day of Presentation. The other day Yevpraksia came over to me and asked: 'Do you think I ought to put out the side ikon lamps?' And I, as if a voice were speaking to me from within, thought a while and said: 'Don't touch them. Let them burn.' And now I see what it all meant."
"Well, it is good at least the lamps have been burning. It is some relief to the soul. Where will you sit? Will you be my partner, or will you join your queen?"
"But, mother dear, I don't know if it's proper."
"Yes, it is. Sit down. God will forgive you. It wasn't done on purpose, with evil intentions. It was just because you forgot. It may happen even to saints. To-morrow, you see, we'll rise with the sun, and stand throughout the mass and have the requiem sung—all as it should be. His soul will rejoice that good people remembered him, and we will be at peace because we did our duty. That's the way to do, my friend. No use worrying. I'll always say, in the first place, worry will not bring back your son, and, in the second place, it is a sin before God."
Yudushka yielded to the persuasiveness of these words, and kissed his mother's hands.
"Ah, mother, mother, you have a golden soul, really! If not for you what would I do now? It would be the end of me, that's all. I just wouldn't know what to do and would go under."
Porfiry Vladimirych gave orders for to-morrow's ceremony, and all sat down to play. They played one hand out, then another. Arina Petrovna became heated and denounced Yudushka because he had been handing Yevpraksia only one card at a time. In the intervals between the deals, Yudushka abandoned himself to reminiscences of his dead son.
"And how kind he was," he said. "He wouldn't take a thing without permission. If he needed paper, 'May I have some paper, papa?' 'Yes, you may, my friend,' Or, 'Won't you be so kind, father dear, as to order carps for breakfast?' 'If you wish it, my friend.' Ah, Volodya, my son, you were a good lad in every way, but it was not good of you to leave your father."
A few more hands were played, and Yudushka again gave vent to his reminiscences.
"And, pray, what in the world happened to him? I really can't understand it. He lived quietly and nicely, was a joy to me—it couldn't have been better. And all of a sudden—bang! What a sin, what a sin! Just think of it, mother dear, what a deed! His very life, the gift of the Heavenly Father. Why? What for? What did he lack? Was it money? I think I never held back his allowance. Even my enemies will not dare say that about me. Well, and if his allowance was not enough, I couldn't help it. Your father's money wasn't stolen money. If you haven't enough money, well, learn to restrain yourself. You can't always be eating cookies, you must sometimes be content with simpler fare. Yes, you must. Your father, for example, expected some money the other day, and then the manager comes and says, 'The Torpenlovskoye peasants won't pay their rent.' Well, I couldn't help it, I wrote a complaint to the Justice of the Peace. Ah, Volodya, Volodya! No, you were not a good boy. You deserted your poor father. Left him an orphan."
The livelier the game the more copious and sentimental Yudushka's reminiscences.
"And how bright he was! I remember once, he was laid up with the measles. He was no more than seven years old. My late Sasha came over to him, and he says, 'Mother, mother, is it true that only angels have wings?' 'Well,' she said, 'yes, only angels.' 'Why?' he asked. 'Did father have wings when he came here a while ago?'"
Yudushka remained the fool with as many as eight cards on his hands, among them the ace, king and queen of trumps. Peals of laughter rose, Yudushka was displeased, but he affably joined in the merriment. In the midst of the general excitement, Arina Petrovna suddenly grew silent and listened attentively.
"Stop, be quiet. Somebody is coming," she said.
Yudushka and Yevpraksia listened, but heard no sound.
"I tell you, somebody is coming. Listen, listen! Someone is coming and he is not far off."
They listened again, and surely there was a faint tinkling in the distance, which the wind brought nearer one moment and carried away the next. Five minutes later the bells were distinctly heard. The sound of them was followed by voices in the court-yard.
"The young master, Piotr Porfirych, has arrived," came from the antechamber.
Yudushka rose, and remained standing, dumfounded and pale as death.
CHAPTER IV
Petenka walked in looking flabby and dispirited, kissed his father's hand, observed the same ceremony with his grandmother, then bowed to Yevpraksia, and sat down. He was about twenty-five, rather good-looking, in an army officer's travelling uniform. That was all one could say about him. Even Yudushka knew scarcely more. The relations of father and son were not of the kind one could call strained. There simply were no relations, you might say. Yudushka knew Petenka to be a man who in the eyes of the law was his son and to whom he had to send a certain allowance determined by Yudushka himself, in consideration of which he was entitled to homage and obedience. Petenka, on the other hand, knew that he had a father who could make things unpleasant for him at any time he wished. He made trips to Golovliovo quite willingly, especially since he had become a commissioned officer, not because he greatly enjoyed his father's company, but simply because every man who is not clearly conscious of his aim in life instinctively gravitates to his native place. But now, apparently, he had come because he had been obliged to come, and consequently manifested not a single sign of the joyous perplexity with which every prodigal son of the gentry celebrates his arrival home. Petenka was not talkative.
All his father's ejaculations of pleasant surprise were met with silence, or a forced smile, and when Yudushka asked, "Why did it occur to you all of a sudden?" he answered even crossly, "It just occurred to me and here I am."
"Well, thank you, thank you for remembering your father. I am glad you came. I suppose you thought of grandmother, too?"
"Yes, I thought of grandmother, too."
"Hold on! Maybe you recollected that today is the Anniversary of your brother Volodenka's death?"
"Yes, I thought of that, too."
Thus the conversation went for about half an hour, so that it was impossible to tell whether Petenka were answering or dodging the questions. So, in spite of Yudushka's tolerance of his children's indifference to him, he could not refrain from remarking:
"Well, my child, you are not affectionate. One could hardly call you an affectionate son!"
Had Petenka kept silence this time also, had he taken his father's remark meekly, or better still, had he kissed his father's hand and said, "Excuse me, father dear, you know I am tired from the journey," things would have passed off pleasantly. But Petenka behaved like an ungrateful child.
"Yes, that's what I am," he answered gruffly. "Let me alone, please."
Then Porfiry Vladimirych felt so hurt, so wounded that he could not keep quiet any longer.
"To think of the pains I have taken for your sake!" he said, with bitterness. "Even here I never stop thinking how to improve this and that, so that you may be comfortable and cozy, and suffer no lack, and have no worry. And all of you fight shy of me."
"Who is 'all of you'?"
"Well, you. And the deceased, too, may his soul rest in peace, he was just the same."
"Well, I am grateful to you."
"I don't see your gratitude—neither gratitude nor affection—nothing."
"I'm not affectionate—that's all. But you speak in the plural all the time. One of us is dead already."
"Yes, he is dead. God punished him. God punishes disobedient children. Still, I remember him. He was unruly, but I remember him. Tomorrow, you see, we shall have the memorial services performed. He offended me, but I, notwithstanding, remember my duty. Lord! The sort of thing that goes on these days! Here a son comes to his father and snarls at the very first word. Is that how we acted in our days? I remember we used to come to Golovliovo, and when we were thirty versts away, we began to shiver in our boots. Well, here is mother dear, a live witness, she will tell you. And nowadays. I don't understand it. I don't understand it."
"I don't either. I came quietly, greeted you, kissed your hand and now I sit here and don't bother you. I drink tea, and if you give me supper, I'll have my supper. Why did you raise all this fuss?"
Arina Petrovna sat in her chair listening attentively. She seemed to be hearing the same old familiar tale that had begun long, long ago, time out of mind. Aware that such a meeting of father and son foreboded no good, she considered it her duty to intervene and put in a word of reconciliation:
"Well, well, you turkey-cocks!" she said, trying to give the situation a humorous turn. "Just met and already quarreling. Look at them jumping at each other, look at them! Feathers will soon be flying. My, my, how naughty! Why don't you fellows sit down quietly and properly and have a friendly chat, and let your old mother enjoy it, too? Petenka, you give in. My child, you must always give in to your father, because he is your father. Even if at times father gives you bitter medicine, take it without complaint, with obedience, with respect, because you are his son. Who knows, maybe the bitter medicine will turn sweet—so it will be to your good. And you, Porfiry Vladimirych, come down from your high perch. He is your son, young, delicate. He has made seventy-five versts over hollows and snow-drifts, he is tired, and chilled, and sleepy. We are through with the tea now, suppose you order supper and then let's all go to bed. So, my friend. We'll all go to our nooks and offer up a prayer, and maybe our temper will pass away. And then we'll rise early in the morning and pray for Volodya's soul. We'll have a memorial service performed, and then we'll go home and have a talk. Both of you will be rested and you'll state your affairs in a clear, orderly way. Petenka, you will tell us about St. Petersburg and you, Porfiry, about your country life. And now, let's have supper and to bed!"
The exhortation had its effect not because it was convincing but because Yudushka himself saw he had gone too far and it would be best to end the day peacefully. He rose from his seat, kissed his mother's hand, thanked her for the "lesson," and ordered supper.
The meal was eaten in morose silence. Then they left the dining-room and went to their rooms. Little by little the house became still. The dead quiet crept from room to room and finally reached the study of the Golovliovo master. Having finished the required number of genuflexions before the ikons, Yudushka, too, went to bed.
Porfiry Vladimirych lay in bed, but was unable to shut his eyes. He felt his son's arrival portended something unusual, and various absurd sermons already rose in his mind. Yudushka's harangues had the merit of being good for all occasions and did not consist of a connected chain of thoughts, but came to him in the shape of fragmentary aphorisms. Whenever confronted by an extraordinary situation, such a flood of aphorisms overwhelmed him that even sleep could not drive them from his consciousness.
He could not fall asleep. He was a prey to his absurd sermonizings, though, as a matter of fact, he was not much perturbed by Petenka's mysterious arrival. He was prepared for no matter what happened. He knew nothing would catch him napping and nothing would make him recede in the slightest from the web of empty, musty aphorisms in which he was entangled. For him there existed neither sorrow nor joy, neither hatred, nor love. To him the entire world was a vast coffin which served him as a pretext for endless prattling.
What greater grief could there be for a father than for his son to commit suicide? But even with respect to Volodya's suicide he remained true to himself. It had been a very sad story, which had lasted two years. For two years Volodya had held out, at first showing a pride and determination not to ask his father's aid. Then he weakened, began to implore, to expostulate, to threaten. In reply he always received a ready aphorism, the stone given to the hungry man. It is doubtful whether Yudushka realized that he had handed his son a stone and not bread. At any rate a stone was all he had to give, and so he gave it. When Volodya shot himself he had a requiem service performed, entered the day of his death in the calendar, and promised himself to have memorial services performed on the 23rd of November of every year. Sometimes a dull voice muttered in his ears that the solution of a family quarrel by suicide is rather a questionable method, to say the least; and even then he brought into play a train of aphorisms, such as "God punishes disobedient children," "God is against the proud," and was at peace again.
And now! There was no doubt that something sinister had happened to Petenka. But whatever had happened, he, Porfiry Vladimirych, must be above those chance happenings. "You knew how to get in, then know how to get out." "If the cat wants the fish, let her wet her feet." Just so. That is what he would say to his son the next day, no matter what Petenka told him. And suppose Petenka, like Volodya, were also to refuse to take a stone instead of bread? What if he, too——Yudushka drove the thought from him. It was a diabolical suggestion. He tossed about and tried in vain to fall asleep. Whenever sleep seemed about to come, there flashed across his mind maxims such as "I should like to reach the sky but my arms are too short," or "You can't stretch more than the length of your bed," or "Speed is good for nothing but catching fleas."
Twaddle surrounded him on all sides, crawled upon him, crept over him, embraced him. Under this load of nonsensicality, with which he hoped to regale his soul tomorrow, he could not fall asleep.
Nor could Petenka find sleep, though the journey had tired him exceedingly. He had an affair that could not be settled anywhere except at Golovliovo, but it was a situation of such a nature that he did not know how to meet it. Petenka, indeed, realized full well that his case was hopeless and his trip to Golovliovo would only add to the difficulties of his situation. But the primitive instinct of self-preservation in man overcomes all reason and urges him on to try everything to the very last straw. That's why he had come. But instead of hardening himself so as to be prepared for whatever might come, he had almost from the first word got into a quarrel with his father. What would be the outcome of this trip? Would a miracle happen? Would stone turn into bread? Would it not have been simpler to put the revolver to his temple and say, "Gentlemen, I am unworthy of wearing your uniform. I have embezzled crown money and I pronounce a just, though severe sentence upon myself"? Bang! And all is over. The deceased Lieutenant Golovliov is hereby struck off the list of officers. Yes, how radical that would be and—how beautiful! The comrades would say, "You were unfortunate, you went too far, still you were an honorable man."
But instead of acting that way at once, he had brought the affair to a point where it became a matter of common knowledge; and then he had been given leave of absence for a fixed time on condition that within that time he would refund the embezzled sum. If not—out of the regiment! The disgraceful end of his early career! So he had come to Golovliovo, though he knew full well that he would be given a stone instead of bread.
But perhaps a miracle would come to change things. Miracles sometimes happen. Perhaps the present Golovliovo would vanish and a new Golovliovo would arise, in which he might——And perhaps grandmother would—hadn't she money? Maybe, if he told her he was in great trouble, she might give him some. Who could tell? "Here," she might say, "hurry, so that you get back before the time is up."
And he rode fast, fast—hurried the driver, just made the train and got to the regiment two hours before the respite was over. "Good for you, Golovliov," his comrades would say, "your hand, honorable young man! Let's forget the matter." And he not only remained in the regiment, but was even promoted to staff-captain, then captain, after that adjutant of the regiment (he had been bursar, already) and, finally, on the anniversary day of the regiment——Ah, if only the night would pass quickly! Tomorrow—well, let happen what may tomorrow. But what he would have to listen to! Gods, what would he not be told! Tomorrow—but why tomorrow? He had a whole day yet. He asked for two days just because he wanted to have enough time to move "him." A likely chance! A fine prospect of persuading and touching him! No use——
Here his thoughts became confused and sank, one after the other, into the mist of sleep. In a few minutes the Golovliovo manor was steeped in heavy slumber.
The next day the whole household was up early in the morning. Everybody went to church except Petenka, who pleaded fatigue. They listened to the mass and the requiem and returned home. Petenka, as usual, came up to kiss his father's hand, but Yudushka extended it sidewise, and everyone noticed that he did not even make the sign of the cross over his son. Tea was served, then kutya. Yudushka was dismal, scraped the floor with his feet, avoided conversation, sighed, folded his hands incessantly as if for inner prayer, and never once looked at his son. Petenka, for his part, bristled up and smoked one cigarette after another. The strained situation of yesterday, so far from relaxing, became still more acute. It made Arina Petrovna very uneasy, and she decided to find out from Yevpraksia if anything had happened.
"Has anything happened," she asked, "that makes them look daggers at each other like that?"
"How do I know? I don't interfere in their private affairs," the girl snapped back.
"Maybe it's on account of you. Perhaps my grandson is running after you too?"
"Why should he run after me? A little while ago he tried to catch hold of me in the corridor, and Porfiry Vladimirych saw him."
"Oh. So that's what it is."
In fact, in spite of his critical situation, Petenka had not lost a bit of his levity. His eyes riveted themselves on Yevpraksia's powerful back and he determined to let her know about it. That was the real reason he had not gone to church, hoping Yevpraksia, as the housekeeper, would stay home. So, when the house had turned silent, he had thrown his cloak over his shoulders and hidden himself in the corridor. A minute or two passed, the door of the maids' room banged, and Yevpraksia appeared at the other end of the corridor, carrying a tray with a butter-cake to be served with the tea. Petenka struck her between the shoulder-blades and said, "A wonderful back you've got!" and that instant the dining-room door opened and his father appeared.
"You, scoundrel! If you came here to behave in a nasty way, I'll throw you down the stairs!" Yudushka hissed venomously.
Naturally, Petenka vanished in a moment. He could not fail to realize that the incident of the morning was scarcely likely to improve his case. So he decided to be silent and postpone the explanation until the morrow. Nevertheless he did nothing to allay his father's irritation; on the contrary, he behaved in a foolish, unguarded manner, smoking cigarettes incessantly, heedless of his father's energetically fanning away the clouds of smoke that filled the room; and every now and then making sheep's eyes at Yevpraksia, who smiled queerly under the influence of his glances. Yudushka noticed that, too.
The day dragged on slowly. Arina Petrovna tried to play fool with Yevpraksia, but nothing came of it. No one felt like playing or talking; they could not even think of small talk, though everyone had stores of this merchandise. At last dinner time came. But dinner passed in silence also. After dinner Arina Petrovna made preparations for returning to Pogorelka. But this intention of his "mother dear" alarmed Yudushka.
"God bless you, darling!" he exclaimed. "Do you mean to say you'll leave me here alone with this—this wicked son? No, no, don't think of it. I won't allow it."
"But what is the matter? Has anything happened between the two of you? Why don't you tell me?" she asked.
"No, nothing has happened—as yet, but you'll see. No, please don't go! Be present at——There is something behind his coming here in such a hurry. So, if anything happens—you be the witness."
Arina Petrovna shook her head and decided to stay.
After dinner Porfiry Vladimirych retired, having first sent Yevpraksia to the village priest, and Arina Petrovna also went to her room and dozed off in her easy-chair.
Petenka thought it the most favorable time to try his luck with grandmother, and went to her room.
"What is the matter? Have you come to play a game of fool with an old woman?" she asked.
"No, granny, I am on business."
"Well, what is your business? Tell me."
Petenka hesitated a minute, then blurted out:
"I lost crown money at cards."
Arina Petrovna's eyes grew dim from the shock.
"Much?" she asked in a frightened voice, staring at him.
"Three thousand."
For a moment both were silent. Arina Petrovna looked around restlessly, as if expecting somebody to come to her rescue.
"Do you know they can send you to Siberia for that?" she said at last.
"Yes, I know."
"Poor fellow!"
"Granny, I meant to borrow it from you. I'll pay good interest."
Arina Petrovna became thoroughly frightened.
"Oh no, no!" she protested. "I have only enough money for my coffin and memorial prayers. It's my granddaughters that keep me a-going, and my son, too. No, no, no! You'd better let me alone. Let me see—why not ask your papa?"
"Oh, well, you can't squeeze blood out of an onion. All my hope was in you, granny."
"Just think of what you are saying. I would gladly do it, but where am I to get the money from? I have no money at all. But suppose you ask father, you know, affectionately, respectfully. 'Here, father dear, such is the case. I know I am guilty, I am young and I made a blunder.' You know, with a smile and a laugh. Kiss his hand and fall on your knees, and cry a bit. He likes it. Then maybe father will untie his purse for his sonny dear."
"So you really think it's worth trying? Just a moment. See here, granny, suppose you say to him, 'If you don't give him the money I'll lay a curse on you!' He has always been afraid of your curse, you know."
"No, why curse? You can ask right out. Do ask him, my dear. There is no harm if you bow before your father once too many. He will understand your position, you know. Do it. Be sure to do it."
Petenka, his arms akimbo, walked back and forth as if deliberating. Finally he halted and said:
"No, I won't. He is not likely to give it—it's no use. No matter what I do, even if I smash my head in bowing—he won't do it. But you see, if you threatened him with your curse. What am I to do, granny?"
"I don't know, really. Try and perhaps you'll soften him a bit. How did you come to take such liberties? To lose crown money is no small matter. Did anybody inveigle you into it?"
"It just happened. I took it and lost it at cards. Well, if you have no money of your own, give me some of the orphans'."
"What is the matter with you? Have you lost your wits? How can I let you have the orphans' money? No, no, I can't. Don't talk to me about it, for Christ's sake."
"So you won't. Too bad. And I would pay good interest. Do you want five per cent. per month? No? Well, double the principal in a year?"
"Don't you tempt me!" shouted Arina Petrovna, throwing up her hands. "Leave me alone, for Christ's sake! It won't surprise me if father hears us and says I urged you on! Oh, Lord! I am an old woman, I wanted to rest a bit. I had just dozed off and then he comes with such an offer."
"Very well, then. I am going. So it's impossible? Very good. Just like kinsfolk. On account of three thousand rubles your grandson will go to Siberia. Don't forget to have a Te Deum sung when I go."
Petenka left the room, closing the door with a bang. One of his flimsy hopes was gone. What was he to do next? Only one way out was left—to confess all to father. Who knows, perhaps, perhaps, something would——
"I'll go at once and be done with it," he said to himself. "Or no! What can I hope for? Better tomorrow. Yes, I think tomorrow is better. I'll tell him and leave at once." So he decided. Tomorrow would see and end it all.
After the talk with grandmother the evening dragged on still more slowly. Even Arina Petrovna grew silent after she had learned the real cause of Petenka's arrival. Yudushka tried to be jocular with mother, but perceiving she was absorbed in her own thoughts, also grew silent. Petenka did nothing but smoke. At supper Porfiry Vladimirych asked him:
"Are you going to tell me at last why you have honored me with this visit?"
"I will tell you tomorrow," answered Petenka morosely.
CHAPTER V
Petenka rose early after a sleepless night. His harassed mind vacillated between hope and utter despair. Perhaps he did not really know his father, but one thing he was sure of, that there was not in him a single feeling, a single weak spot that could be grasped at and made use of. When face to face with his father, all he felt was something inexplicable. He did not know how to approach him, what to say first, and this made him very uneasy in his presence. It had been like that since his childhood. As far back as he could remember, it always seemed better not to attempt any forecast at all than to make a matter depend upon his father's decision. So now, too. How was he to begin? How was he to approach the matter? What was he to say first? And why had he come here at all?
A feeling of disgust seized him. Nevertheless he realized he had only a few hours left and something had to be done. Having worked himself up into a fair state of courage, he buttoned up his coat, and walked firmly to his father's study, whispering something to himself. Yudushka was saying prayers. He was pious, and every day gladly devoted a few hours to prayer, not because he loved God and hoped through prayer to enter into communion with Him, but because he feared the devil and hoped God would deliver him from the Evil One.
He knew many prayers and was especially versed in the technique of the poses and gestures of worship. He knew how to move his lips, how to roll his eyes, when it was proper to place the hands palm inward, and when they were to be lifted up, when to be moved with feeling, and when to stand with reverential calm and slowly make the sign of the cross. Even his eyes and his nostrils moistened at the proper moments. But prayer did not rejuvenate him, did not ennoble his feelings, or bring a single ray into his dull existence. He could pray and go through all the requisite bodily movements, and at the same time be looking out of the window to see if someone was entering the cellar without his permission. It was quite a distinct, particular function of life, which was self-sufficient and could exist outside of the general scheme of life.
When Petenka entered the study, Porfiry Vladimirych was on his knees with his hands raised. He did not change his position, but made a jerky movement with one of his hands to indicate that he had not yet finished. Petenka seated himself in the dining-room, where the table was already set for tea, and waited. The half hour that passed seemed like eternity, especially as he was sure his father was prolonging the wait intentionally. The studied coolness with which he had armed himself little by little gave way to vexation. At first he sat stiff, then began to walk to and fro, and finally fell to whistling airs. As a result, the door of the study opened, and Yudushka's irritated voice was heard calling:
"Whoever wants to whistle may do so in the stables."
After a while Porfiry Vladimirych came out clad all in black, in clean linen, as if prepared for a solemn occasion. His countenance was radiant, glowing, breathing meekness and joy, as if he had just been at communion. He approached his son, made the sign of the cross over him, and then kissed him.
"Good morning, friend," he said.
"Good morning."
"Did you sleep well? Was your bed made properly? Were there no little fleas and bedbugs to bother you?"
"Thank you. I slept well."
"Well, thanks to God, if you slept well. It's only at one's parents' home that one can sleep really well. I know it from my own experience. No matter how comfortable I might be at St. Petersburg, I could never sleep so well as at Golovliovo. You feel just as if you were rocked in a cradle. So what are we going to do? Shall we have some tea first, or do you want to say something now?"
"Let's talk it over now. I have to leave in six hours, and maybe we'll need some time for deliberation."
"Oh, well. But, my dear, I tell you directly, I never deliberate, my answer is always ready. If your request is a proper one, well, I never refuse anything proper. It may be hard on me at times, and I can't always afford it, but if it is proper, I can't refuse it. That's the kind of man I am. But if you ask for something that isn't right, I am sorry. Though I feel for you, I shall have to refuse. You observe, my son, I have no underhand ways. I am exactly as you see me. Well, then, let's go into the study. Speak and I will listen. Let's hear, let's hear what the matter is."
On entering the study, Porfiry left the door ajar and instead of seating himself and asking his son to be seated, he began pacing the room, as if instinctively feeling that the matter was delicate and it would be easier to discuss it while walking. The expression of one's face may be more easily concealed, and if the conversation takes a disagreeable turn it may be more readily cut off, and the door half ajar makes it possible to appeal to witnesses; for mother dear and Yevpraksia were sure to come into the dining-room before long to have tea.
"Papa," blurted out Petenka, "I lost some crown money at cards."
Yudushka said nothing, but his lips quivered, and he immediately fell to muttering, as was his habit.
"I lost three thousand," explained Petenka, "and if I don't return the money the day after tomorrow, there may be very disagreeable consequences for me."
"Well, refund the money," said Porfiry Vladimirych affably.
Father and son made a few turns around the room in silence. Petenka wished to make further explanations, but felt a lump rising in his throat.
"Yes, but where am I to get the money from?" he said at last.
"My dear friend, I don't know your resources. Pay it back from the resources you figured on when you gambled crown money away."
"You know very well that in such cases people forget about their resources."
"I don't know a thing, my friend. I never played cards, except with mother, when I play fool to amuse the old woman. And please don't drag me into this dirty business, and let's go and have tea. We'll have tea and sit around, maybe we'll talk about something, but, for the Lord's sake, not about that."
Yudushka started to make for the door and into the dining-room, but Petenka stopped him.
"Look here," he said, "I have to get out of this predicament somehow."
Yudushka grinned and stared at Petenka.
"Yes, my dear, you have to," he agreed.
"Then help me."
"Ah, that's a different matter. You have to get out of the difficulty somehow, to be sure, but how to get out of it—well, that's none of my business."
"But why don't you want to help me?"
"First, because I have no money to cover up your dastardly deeds, and secondly because the entire matter does not concern me in the least. You knew how to get in, then know how to get out. The cat likes fish, then let her wet her feet. You see, my boy, that's just what I said at the start, that if your request is a proper one——"
"I know. You've got a lot of words on the tip of your tongue."
"Wait, save your impudent remarks, and let me say what I wish to say. That they are not mere words I'll prove to you in a minute. So, as I said a while ago, if your request is a proper, a sensible one, all right, my boy. I am always ready to satisfy you. But if you come to me with an unreasonable request, I am very sorry, I have no money for stuff and nonsense. No sir, never. And you won't get any—you may as well be sure of it. And don't dare tell me I use mere words. My words are mighty near deeds."
"But think what will become of me."
"Whatever pleases God, that will happen," answered Yudushka, slightly lifting up his arms and looking sideways at the ikon.
Father and son again made a few turns across the room. Yudushka paced reluctantly, as if in complaint that his son was holding him in captivity. Petenka, his arms akimbo, followed him, biting his moustache and smiling nervously.
"I am your last son," he said. "Don't forget that."
"My boy, God bereft Job of everything, and Job did not complain, but only said: 'God hath given and God hath taken away—may thy will be done, oh, Lord!' So, my boy."
"In the Bible it was God that took, and here you take away from yourself. Volodya——"
"Oh, well, you are talking nonsense."
"No, it isn't nonsense, it's the truth. Everybody knows that Volodya——"
"No, no, no! I don't want to listen to your preposterous remarks. Enough! You've said everything necessary. I have given you my answer. And now let's go and have tea. We'll chat a while, then we'll have a bite, then a drink before you go—and then God speed you! You see how good the Lord is to you? The weather has abated and the road become smoother. Little by little, bit by bit, one, two, and you'll hardly notice when you get to the station."
"Now, listen, I implore you. If you have a drop of feeling——"
"No, no, no! Don't let us talk about it. Let's go into the dining-room. I dare say mother dear must be dull without her tea. It isn't proper to keep the dear old woman waiting."
Yudushka made a sharp turn and almost ran to the door.
"You may go or not, it's all the same to me, but I am not going to drop this conversation," Petenka shouted after him. "It will be worse if we begin talking in the presence of witnesses."
Yudushka came back and planted himself squarely before his son.
"What do you want of me, you scoundrel? Speak up!"
"I want you to pay the money that I lost."
"Never!"
"Is that your last word?"
"You see," exclaimed Yudushka solemnly, pointing at the ikon that hung in the corner, "You see that? It is grandfather's benediction. So, in the presence of that image I say, Never!"
And with a firm step he left the study.
"Murderer!" was hurled after him.
CHAPTER VI
Arina Petrovna was already at the table, and Yevpraksia was busy arranging the tea things. The old woman was silent and thoughtful, and looked as if she were ashamed of Petenka. In the customary way Yudushka kissed her hand, and she made the sign of the cross over him. Then came the usual questions, whether everybody felt well, and had had a good night's rest, followed by the customary monosyllabic answers. Petenka's asking Arina Petrovna for money and awakening the memory of the "curse" had put her into a state of peculiar uneasiness. She was pursued by the thought, "What if I threaten him with my curse?" When she had heard that explanations in the study had begun, she had turned to Yevpraksia with the request:
"Suppose, my dear, you go to the door quietly and listen to what they say."
Yevpraksia went to eavesdrop, but was so stupid she could understand nothing.
"Oh, they're just having a chat," she explained upon her return.
Then Arina Petrovna could not hold out any longer and went to the dining-room, where the samovar had already been brought in. But the interview was nearing its end, and all she noted was that Petenka's voice was loud and angry, and Porfiry Vladimirych's replies were given in a nagging voice.
"He's nagging him, that just it, nagging!" ran in her head. "I remember he used to nag that way, and how is it I did not understand him then?"
At last, father and son appeared in the dining-room. Petenka's face was red and he was breathing heavily. His eyes were staring widely, his hair was disheveled, his forehead was covered with beads of perspiration. Yudushka, on the contrary, entered pale and cross. He wanted to appear indifferent but, in spite of all his efforts, his lower lip trembled. He could hardly utter the customary morning greetings to his mother dear.
All took their places at the table. Petenka seated himself at some distance, leaned against the back of his chair, crossed his legs, lighted a cigarette, and looked at his father ironically.
"You see, mother, the storm has abated," Yudushka began. "Yesterday there was such an uproar, but God only had to will it, and here we have a nice, bright, quiet day. Am I right, mother dear?"
"I don't know. I haven't been out to-day."
"By the way, we are going to see our dear guest off," continued Yudushka. "I rose early this morning, looked out of the window—it was still and quiet outdoors, as if God's angel had flown by and in a moment allayed the riot with his wings."
But no one answered Yudushka's kindly words. Yevpraksia sipped her tea from the saucer, blowing and puffing. Arina Petrovna looked into her cup and was silent. Petenka, swaying in his chair, continued to eye his father with an ironical, defiant air, as if he had to exert great efforts to keep from bursting out laughing.
"Even if Petenka does not ride fast, he will reach the railway station toward night," Porfiry Vladimirych resumed. "Our horses are not overworked. They will feed for a couple of hours at Muravyevo, and they will get him to the place in a jiffy. Ah, Petka, you are a bad boy! Suppose you stay with us a while longer—really. We would enjoy your company, and you would improve greatly in a week."
But Petenka continued to sway in his chair and eye his father.
"Why do you stare at me?" Yudushka flared up at last. "Do you see pictures on me?"
"I'm just looking at you waiting for what's coming next."
"No use waiting, my son. It will be as I said. I will not change my mind."
A minute of silence followed, after which a whisper could be distinctly heard.
"Yudushka!"
Porfiry Vladimirych undoubtedly heard it, he even turned pale, but he pretended the exclamation did not concern him.
"Ah, my dear little children," he said. "I should like to caress and fondle you, but it seems it can't be done—ill luck! You run away from your parents, you've got bosom friends who are dearer to you than father and mother. Well, it can't be helped. One ponders a bit over it, then resigns oneself. You are young folk, and youth, of course, prefers the company of youth to that of an old grouch. So, I resign myself and don't complain. I only pray to Our Father in Heaven, 'Do Thy will, oh Lord!'"
"Murderer!" Petenka whispered, but this time so distinctly that Arina Petrovna looked at him in fright. Something passed before her eyes. It looked like the shadow of Simple Simon.
"Whom do you mean?" asked Yudushka, trembling with excitement.
"Oh, just an acquaintance of mine."
"I see. Well, you'd better make that clear. Lord knows what's in your head. Maybe it is one of us that you style so."
Everybody became silent. The glasses of tea remained untouched. Yudushka leaned against the back of his chair, swaying nervously. Petenka, seeing that all hope was gone, had a sensation of deadly anguish, under the influence of which he was ready to go to any lengths. But father and son looked at each other with an indescribable smile. Hardened though Porfiry Vladimirych was, the minute was nearing when he would be unable to control himself.
"You'd better go, while the going's good," he burst out, finally. "You better had."
"I'm going."
"Then why wait? I see you're trying to pick a quarrel, and I don't want to quarrel with anybody. We live here quietly and in good order, without disputes. Your old grandmother is here. You ought to have regard for her at least. Well, tell us why you came here?"
"I told you why."
"If it's only for that, you are wasting your efforts. Go at once, my son. Hey, who's there? Have the horses ready for the young master. And some fried chicken, and caviar, and other things, eggs, I suppose. Wrap them up well in paper. You'll take a bite at the station, my son, while they feed the horses. Godspeed!"
"No, I am not going yet. I'm going to church first to have a memorial service performed for the murdered servant of God, Vladimir."
"That is, for the suicide."
"No, for the murdered."
Father and son stared at each other. It looked as if in a moment both would jump up. But Yudushka made a superhuman effort and, turning his chair, faced the table again.
"Wonderful!" he said in a strained voice. "Wonderful!"
"Yes, for the murdered!" Petenka persisted brutally.
"Who murdered him?" Yudushka asked with curiosity, still hoping, apparently, that his son would come to his senses.
But Petenka, unperturbed, whipped out:
"You!"
"I?"
Porfiry Vladimirych was astounded. It was a few moments before he came to himself. He rose hastily from his seat, faced the ikon and began to pray.
"You, you, you!" Petenka repeated.
"Well, now! Thank God, I feel better after praying," said Yudushka, seating himself at table again. "Just a minute, though. I, as your father, should not take you up on your talk, but we'll pursue the matter this time. Then you mean to say that I killed Volodenka?"
"Yes, you did."
"And I beg leave to differ. I consider he shot himself. At that time I was at Golovliovo and in St. Petersburg. So what could I have to do with it? How could I kill him when he was seven hundred versts away?"
"As if you don't understand!"
"I don't understand, by the Lord, I don't!"
"And who left Volodya without a penny? Who discontinued his allowances? Who?"
"Stuff and nonsense! Why did he marry against his father's will?"
"But you gave him your permission."
"Who? I? What are you talking about? I never did anything of the kind. Nev-v-v-er!"
"Oh, of course, you acted as you always do. Everyone of your words has ten meanings. Go, guess the right one."
"I never gave my permission. He wrote to me, 'Papa, I want to marry Lida,' you understand, 'I want to,' not 'I beg your permission.' Well, I answered him, 'If you want to marry, you can marry. I cannot stand in your way.' That's all there was to it."
"That's all there was to it," Petenka said jeeringly. "And wasn't that giving your permission?"
"That's exactly what it wasn't. What did I say? I said, 'I cannot stand in your way.' That's all. But whether I give my permission or not, is a different question. He did not ask my permission, he simply wrote, 'Papa, I want to marry Lida.' Well, and as to permission he kept mum. You want to marry. Well, my friend, may God be with you, marry Lida or Fida, I cannot stand in your way!"
"But you could leave him without a crust of bread. So why didn't you write this way, 'I do not approve of your intention, and therefore, though I will not hinder you, I warn you that you can not longer rely on financial aid from me.' That, at least, would have been clear."
"No, I shall never permit myself to do such things, to make threats against a grown son—never! I have a rule never to be in anybody's way. If you want to marry—marry! Well, and as to consequences—I am sorry. It was your business to foresee them yourself. That's why God gave you reason. And as to me, brother, I don't like to thrust myself into other people's affairs. I not only keep from meddling myself, but I don't invite others to meddle in my affairs, I don't invite it, I don't, I don't, I even forbid it! Do you hear me, you wicked, disrespectful son, I f-o-r-b-i-d it!"
"You may forbid it, if you like, but you can't muzzle everybody."
"If at least he had repented! And if at least he had realized that he offended his father! Well, you committed a folly—say you are sorry. Ask forgiveness! 'Forgive me, dear papa, for the mortification I caused you.' But he wouldn't!"
"But he did write to you. He made it clear to you that he had nothing to live on, that he could not endure it any longer."
"That's not the kind of thing to write to a father. From a father one asks pardon, that's all."
"He did so. He was so tortured that he begged forgiveness, too. He did everything, he did."
"And even if he did, he was wrong. You ask forgiveness once, you see your father does not forgive you, you ask again!"
"Oh, you!"
At this Petenka suddenly ceased swaying his chair, turned about, faced the table and rested both elbows on it.
"And here I, too——" he whispered.
His face gradually became disfigured.
"And here I too——" he repeated, and burst into hysterical sobbing.
"Whose fault——"
But Yudushka had no chance to finish his sermon. At that moment something quite unexpected took place. During their skirmish the man had almost forgotten about Arina Petrovna. But she had not remained an indifferent spectator. On the contrary, you could tell at a glance that something quite unusual was taking place within her, and that the moment perhaps had arrived when the ruthless vision of her entire life appeared before her spiritual eye in a glaring light. Her face livened up, her eyes widened and glittered, her lips moved as if they were struggling to utter some word and could not. Suddenly, just at the moment when Petenka's bitter weeping resounded in the dining-room she rose heavily from her arm-chair, stretched her arms forward, and a loud wail broke out from her breast.
"My cu-r-r-se upon you!"