THE SETTLEMENT
CHAPTER I
It is the middle of December. The country stretches still and benumbed, covered with a mantle of snow as far as the eye can reach. The horses, though pulling empty carts, wade with difficulty through the snow-drifts that the wind has driven during the night. There is not the trace of a path to the Golovliovo estate.
Porfiry Vladimirych had grown so unaccustomed to visits that in the beginning of autumn he barred the front entrance to the house and the main gateways leading to it, leaving only the servants' entrance and the side gates for the domestics to communicate with the outer world.
One morning as the clock was striking eleven, Yudushka in his dressing-gown was standing at the window staring aimlessly before him. Since early morning he had been walking to and fro in the room, deep in thought about a certain momentous matter, and ceaselessly counting imaginary profits. Finally, he became mixed in the ciphering and grew tired. Both the magnificent orchard in front of the manor and the village behind it were lost to view in the snow. After yesterday's blizzard the air was frosty, and the snow shimmered and sparkled in the sun, so that Porfiry Vladimirych had to blink. The court was silent and deserted. There was not the least movement, either in the servants' quarters or near the cattle yard. Even the village itself was so silent that it seemed as if death had suddenly stolen upon the people. The only thing that attracted Yudushka's attention was a curl of thin smoke floating upward from the priest's house.
"Eleven o'clock, and the parson's wife has not yet finished cooking," he thinks. "Those black coats are always gorging."
With this as a point of departure, his mind wandered on. Was it a weekday or a holiday, a fast day or not, and what can the parson's wife be cooking? But suddenly his attention was diverted. On the hill at the very beginning of the road from the village of Pogorelka a black dot appeared, approached gradually and grew larger and larger. Porfiry Vladimirych looked intently. "Who could be coming, a peasant or somebody else? Who could it be but a peasant? Yes, a peasant! What was he coming for? If for wood, why, then, the Naglovka forest was on the other side of the village. The knave must be intending to steal some wood. If he was making for the mill, why, then, he ought to have turned to the right. Perhaps he was coming to fetch the priest. Someone dying, or, perhaps, already dead? Or maybe a child had been born? Who could it be? In autumn Nenila walked about pregnant, but it was too early for her. If it should be a boy, he would get into the census. What was the population of Naglovka at the last census? But if a girl, she would not get into the census, and——Still, it is impossible to get along without the female sex. Fie!"
Yudushka spat and looked at the ikon in the corner, as if seeking its protection from the Evil One.
It is quite possible that he would have continued wandering in thought had the black speck been lost to view, but it kept on growing and at last turned toward the marsh road leading to the church. Then Yudushka saw quite clearly that it was a small wagon pulled by two horses, one behind the other. Next it went up the hill, and drove past the church. "Perhaps it is the bishop," passed through his mind. "That's why they have not yet finished cooking at the parson's house." Then the vehicle turned to the right and made straight for the manor-house. Porfiry Vladimirych instinctively drew his dressing-gown together and stepped away from the window, as if afraid of being seen by the traveller.
He had guessed correctly. The wagon drove up to the house and stopped at the side gate. A young woman jumped out of it quickly. She was dressed out of season in a large cotton-lined greatcoat trimmed with lamb's fur, more for show than for warmth. She was apparently frozen. No one appearing to receive her, the stranger hopped over to the maids' entrance. In a few seconds the outer door in the women's quarters banged shut, then another door, and another, until all the rooms adjacent to the maids' entrance were filled with a noise of hurried footsteps and banging doors.
Porfiry Vladimirych stood at his study door listening intently. It was so long since he had seen any strangers, and altogether he had become so unaccustomed to the company of human beings, that he was somewhat bewildered. Nearly a quarter of an hour passed, the running and the banging of the doors continued, and yet he was not told who had come. It was clear that the guest was a relative, who did not doubt her right to the host's hospitality. But what relatives had he? He tried to recall them, but his memory was dull. He had had two sons, Volodka and Petka; he had had a mother, Arina Petrovna—long, long ago! Last autumn Nadka Galkina, daughter of his late aunt Varvara Mikhailovna, had taken up her residence at Goryushkino. Could it be she? Why, no. She had already tried to make her way into the Golovliovo temple, but to no avail.
"She will not dare to, she will not dare to!" reiterated Yudushka, burning with indignation at the very thought of her intrusion. "But who else can it be?"
While he was busy guessing, Yevpraksia approached the door cautiously and announced:
"The young lady of Pogorelka, Anna Semyonovna, has arrived."
It was indeed Anninka, but changed beyond recognition. She was no longer the beautiful, lively, buoyant girl with rosy cheeks, full gray eyes, high breast and heavy, ash-colored tresses massed low on her head, who had come to Golovliovo shortly after the death of Arina Petrovna, but a weak, wasted creature with a sunken chest, hollow cheeks, a hectic face and languid movements—a bent creature, almost hunch-backed. Even her splendid braids looked miserable, and her eyes, blazing feverishly, seemed larger than ever in her emaciated face. Her eyes alone retained something of their former beauty. Yevpraksia stared long at her as at a stranger, then finally recognized her.
"You?" she cried out, clapping her hands.
"I. Well?"
Anninka laughed quietly, as if to add, "Yes, life has played me a dirty trick."
"Is uncle well?"
"Uncle? Nothing is the matter with him. He is alive, there is no doubt about that, but we hardly ever see him."
"What's the matter with him?"
"Just so—it's all because of lonesomeness."
"Don't tell me he has stopped haranguing?"
"He is real quiet now, miss. He used to talk and talk, but suddenly he became silent. Occasionally we hear him in his study talking to himself and sometimes even laughing, but as soon as he comes out of the room he is quiet. People say his late brother, Stepan Vladimirych, had the same trouble. At first he was gay, then suddenly he became quiet. And you, madam, are you well?"
Anninka only waved her hand in reply.
"And is your sister well?"
"She has been lying in her grave at the wayside at Krechetovo a month."
"Lord be merciful! At the wayside!"
"Of course, that's how they bury all suicides."
"Goodness! A lady—and to take her own life! How is that?"
"Yes, at first she was a 'lady,' and then she took poison, that's all. And I, I am a coward, I want to live, and here I have come to you. Not for long, oh, don't be afraid. I shall die soon, too."
Yevpraksia stared at her, as if she did not understand.
"Why are you looking at me? Am I such a fright? Well, never mind my looks. However, I'll tell you later—later. Now pay the coachman and announce me to uncle."
She produced an old pocketbook and took out two yellow bills.
"And here is all my property," she added, pointing to a small trunk. "Here's everything, both my inheritance and my own acquisitions. I am cold, Yevpraksia, very cold. I am quite sick, there's not a bone in my body that doesn't ache, and here as if to spite me, it is so cold. As I was riding, I thought of only one thing, to get to Golovliovo, and die there, at least in warmth. I'd like to have some vodka. Have you any?"
"You had better have some tea, madam. The samovar will soon be ready."
"No, I shall have tea later. Now I'd like to have some vodka. However, don't tell uncle about the vodka yet. It will all come out later."
While they set the table for tea in the dining-room Porfiry Vladimirych appeared. Now Anninka in her turn was completely surprised at her uncle's emaciation and wild, faded looks. Porfiry received Anninka in a strange manner, not coldly, but as if altogether indifferent. He spoke little, as if under compulsion, like an actor trying to recall sentences of parts acted in days gone by, and was absent-minded, as though his mind were absorbed in some grave, urgent business from which he had been torn away to attend to trifles.
"So you have arrived?" he said. "What will you have, tea, coffee? Order the servants to fetch it."
In former days, at family meetings, Yudushka always played the sentimental part. This time it was Anninka who was filled with emotions, genuine emotions. The claw of sorrow must have sunk deep into her being, for she threw herself on Porfiry Vladimirych's breast and embraced him ardently.
"Uncle, I have come to you!" she cried, and burst into tears.
"Well, you are welcome. I have enough rooms. Live here."
"I am sick, uncle, very, very sick."
"If you are sick, you must pray to God! Whenever I am not well, I always heal myself through prayer."
"I have come to you, uncle, to die."
Porfiry Vladimirych looked at her with questioning eyes, and an almost imperceptible smile stole over his lips.
"So that is where your acting has brought you?"
"Yes, that is where my acting has brought me. Lubinka is dead and I—I am alive,"
At the news of Lubinka's death Yudushka piously crossed himself and whispered a prayer. Anninka seated herself at table, her chin in her hands, looking toward the church and continuing to cry bitterly.
"See here, as for weeping and being in despair, it is surely a sin," remarked Porfiry Vladimirych sententiously. "And do you know what a Christian must do on such an occasion? Not cry, but submit and hope—that's how a Christian has to act."
But Anninka threw herself back on the chair and repeated, her arms drooping helplessly:
"Ah, I do not know, I do not know, I do not know!"
"If you are crying your eyes out on account of your sister," Yudushka continued to sermonize, "that is a sin, too. For although it is praiseworthy to love one's sisters and brothers, yet, if it be the will of God to take one or several of them to Himself——"
"Oh, no, no! Uncle, are you kind? Are you kind? Tell me!"
Anninka threw herself on him again and embraced him.
"Well, I am kind, kind. Tell me, do you wish anything? Will you have a bite, or tea, or coffee? Ask for what you want. Order it."
Anninka suddenly remembered how during her first visit her uncle used to ask her, "Will you have beef, pork, potatoes?" And she realized that she would find no other consolation.
"Thank you, uncle," she said, seating herself at the table again. "I do not want anything in particular. I am sure I shall be contented with anything you offer me."
"If so, well and good. Will you go to Pogorelka?"
"No, uncle, for the time being I shall stay with you. You have nothing against it, have you?"
"Christ be with you, of course I don't object. I asked about Pogorelka only because in case you do wish to go there, it would be necessary to arrange for a wagon and horses."
"No, later, later."
"Very well, then. You will go there later on. Meanwhile you can stay with us. You will help about the house, for I'm all alone, you see. This queen," said Yudushka, almost in hatred, pointing to Yevpraksia pouring the tea, "is all the time running about in the servants' quarters, so that sometimes you can never get any service, not a soul in the whole house. Well, good-by for the present. I shall go to my room. I shall pray, do some work and pray again. So, my friend. Is it long since Lubinka died?"
"About a month, uncle."
"Then tomorrow we shall go to church early and order a mass to be read for God's recently deceased servant Lubinka. So good-by for the present. Have some tea, and if you want a bit of luncheon, have the servant bring it to you. At dinner we shall meet again, have a talk, a chat. And if anything has to be done, we shall attend to it, if not—not."
Such was the first family meeting. When it was over, Anninka entered upon her new life in that disgusting Golovliovo, where she was stranded for the second time in her short life.
CHAPTER II
Anninka had gone downhill very fast. It was true that her first visit to Golovliovo had aroused the consciousness of being a "lady," of having her own nest and her own graves, of not being confined in her life to the squalor and uproar of hotels and inns, and of having a shelter where she would be safe from vile breaths infected with the odor of wine and the stable, from hoarse voices, bloodshot eyes, indecent gestures. But alas! No sooner did Golovliovo disappear from sight than this purifying consciousness vanished from her mind.
Anninka had gone from Golovliovo straight to Moscow, and solicited a position on the government stage both for herself and her sister. With this in view she turned for aid to maman, that is, the directress of the boarding-school where she had been educated, and to several of her classmates. Maman was at first quite kind to her, but as soon as she discovered that her former pupil had acted on the provincial stage, her pleasant manner changed to one of haughtiness and sternness. As for Anninka's classmates, who were mostly married women, they eyed her with an impertinent astonishment that quite frightened her. Only one of them, better-natured than the rest, asked her, evidently wishing to show sympathy:
"Tell me, darling, is it true that when you actresses dress for the stage, officers lace your corsets?"
In a word, her attempts to gain a foothold in Moscow remained unsuccessful. The truth of the matter was, she did not possess the necessary qualifications for theatrical success in the capital. She and her sister Lubinka belonged to that class of lively, but not very talented actresses who play one part all their lives. Anninka had made a hit in Pericola, Lubinka in Pansies and Old-time Colonels, and whatever new rôles they studied strangely resembled their successful parts, or, in the majority of cases, were a complete failure. Anninka often had to play Fair Helen also. She would wear a flaming red wig over her ash-colored hair, and cut her tunic down to her waist line, but she was mediocre and dull, not even cynical. From Fair Helen she passed to the Duchess of Herolstein. In this her colorless acting was coupled with a completely preposterous mise en scène, and the outcome was altogether miserable. At last she undertook to play the role of Clairette in The White Slave. But she overdid her part to such an extent that even the none too refined provincial public was shocked by her behavior on the stage, which she turned into a mire of corruption. Anninka gained the reputation of being a clever actress with a fairly good voice, and since she was pretty, she could get an audience in the provinces. But that was all. Lacking individuality, she could not attain permanent success. Even among the provincial public she was popular mainly with army officers, whose chief ambition was to obtain access behind the scenes. She could have got an engagement in the capital only if she had been forced upon some manager by a powerful patron, and even then the public would have given her the unenviable nickname of "a tavern singer."
Thus the two girls had to go back to the provinces. In Moscow Anninka received a letter from Lubinka, saying that their company had removed from Krechetov to the city of Samovarnov, which made Lubinka quite glad, because there she had become friendly with a certain zemstvo leader, who was so infatuated that he was almost, in his own words, "ready to steal the zemstvo funds, if that were necessary to gratify all her desires."
In fact, on her arrival in Samovarnov, Anninka found her sister quite luxuriously situated and planning to give up the stage. Lubinka's admirer, the zemstvo official Gavrilo Stepanych Lyulkin, was a retired captain of the Hussars, recently a bel homme, but now somewhat corpulent. His appearance and manners and views taken separately were conspicuously noble, but taken together they gave one the strong impression that the man was altogether free from scruples. Lubinka received Anninka with open arms and told her a room had been prepared for her at the lodgings.
Anninka, still under the influence of her trip to Golovliovo, bridled up at the suggestion. The sisters exchanged tart words, and soon afterwards they separated. Involuntarily Anninka recalled the words of the Volpino parson, who had told her it was hard to safeguard a maiden's "honor" in the acting profession.
Anninka went to live at a hotel and broke off all relations with her sister. Easter passed. The next week the theatres opened, and Anninka found out that her sister's place was already filled by Nalimova, a girl from Kazan, a mediocre actress, but utterly unconstrained in the movements of her body. As usual, Anninka played Pericola and enchanted the Samovarnov theatregoers. On her return to the hotel, she found an envelope in her room containing a hundred ruble bill and a laconic note which read: "Should anything happen, you get as much. Merchant Kukishev, dealer in fancy goods." Anninka was enraged and went to complain to the hotel-keeper. He told her Kukishev had this peculiar habit of greeting the newly arrived actresses, and otherwise was a harmless man and it did not pay to take offence. Anninka sealed up the letter and the money in an envelope, sent it back the very next day, and regained her composure.
But Kukishev was more persistent than the hotel-keeper had reported him to be. He was among Lyulkin's friends and was on good terms with Lubinka. He was quite well-to-do and, besides, as a member of the city administration was in a most convenient position with regard to the city treasury. And like Lyulkin, boldness was not his least virtue. According to the taste of market people he possessed a seductive appearance, reminding one of the beetle, which, as the song has it, Masha found in the fields instead of berries:
"A beetle black, and on his crown
Nice curly hair, with whiskers smart,
His eyebrows colored a dark-brown,
The picture of my own sweetheart."
Being the happy possessor of such looks he thought he had the right to be aggressive, all the more so as Lubinka explicitly promised him her cooperation.
Lubinka, apparently, had burned all her bridges, and her reputation was by no means a pleasant topic in her sister's ears. Every night, it was said, a merry band caroused in her rooms from midnight till morning, Lubinka presiding and appearing as a "gypsy," half naked (at this, Lyulkin, addressing his intoxicated friends, would cry out, "Look, there's a breast!") and with loosened hair. She would sing to the accompaniment of a guitar:
"How I did love it with my mash,
Who had the darlingest mustache!"
Anninka listened to the stories about her sister and became greatly worried. What surprised her most was that Lubinka sang the ditty about the "mash who had the darlingest mustache" in a gypsy-like manner, just like the celebrated Matryusha of Moscow. Anninka always gave her sister due credit, and had she been told that Lubinka sang couplets from Old-time Colonels with unsurpassed excellence, she would have considered it quite natural and would have readily believed it. The theatergoers of Kursk, Tambov and Penza had not yet forgotten with what inimitable naïveté Lubinka sang the most atrocious ambiguities in her soft little voice. But that Lubinka could sing like a gypsy—pardon me! A lie! She, Anninka, could sing like that, no doubt of it. It was her genre, her business, and everyone in Kursk who had seen her in the play, Russian Romances Personified, would willingly testify to it.
Anninka would take the guitar, sling the striped sash over her shoulder, sit down on a chair, cross her legs and begin: "I-ekh! I-akh!" It was the very manner of Matryusha the gypsy.
However that may have been, one thing was certain, that Lubinka was extravagant. And Lyulkin, for fear of introducing a discordant note into the drunken bliss, had already resorted to borrowing from the zemstvo treasury. Not to speak of the tremendous amount of champagne which was both consumed and poured out on the floor in Lubinka's quarters, all sorts of things had to be provided to feed her growing capriciousness and extravagance. First it was dresses from Mme. Minangois of Moscow, then jewelry from Fuld. Lubinka was rather thrifty and did not scorn valuables. Her licentiousness by no means interfered with her love of gold, diamonds and especially lottery bonds. At any rate, it was a life not of gaiety, but of boisterous debauchery and continuous intoxication.
There was one thorn in the rose-bush. It was necessary for Lubinka to curry favor with the chief of police. Although a friend of Lyulkin's, he sometimes liked to make his power felt, and Lubinka always guessed when he was dissatisfied with her hospitality, for the next day the police warden would come to ask for her passport. And she yielded. In the morning she would treat the district chief of police to vodka and a light repast, while in the evening she would personally prepare a "Swedish" punch of which he was very fond.
Kukishev watched this ocean of luxury and burned with envy. He conceived a desire to lead a similar life and have just such a mistress. That would put an end to the monotony of provincial life. One night he would spend with Lyulkin's queen, the next night with his own queen. That was the dream of his life, the ambition of an imbecile, who is the more obstinate in his strivings the greater his stupidity. Anninka seemed to be the most suitable person for the realization of his hopes.
But Anninka would not surrender. She was still new to the stir of passion, although she had had numerous suitors and had been rather free in her relations with them. At one time she even thought she was ready to fall in love with the local tragedian Miloslavsky X, who was consumed with passion for her. But Miloslavsky X was so hare-brained and so persistently drunk that he never told her of his love, only stared at her and stolidly hiccoughed when she passed by. So the love affair never ripened. The other suitors Anninka considered as something in the nature of indispensable furniture, to which a provincial actress is doomed by the very conditions of her profession. She submitted to these conditions, and took advantage of their minor privileges, such as applause, bouquets, drives, picnics, etc., but further than this so to speak external dissipation, she did not go.
She persisted in this manner of conduct. During the whole summer she had kept to the path of virtue, jealously guarding her honor, as if anxious to show the Volpino priest that moral strength can be found even among actresses. Once she even decided to complain about Kukishev to the governor, who listened to her with kindly favor and commended her for her heroism. But seeing that her complaint was an indirect attack on his own person as the governor of the province, he added that, having spent all his strength against the internal enemy, he strongly doubted whether he could be of any use. Hearing this, Anninka blushed and went away.
Meanwhile Kukishev acted so artfully that he succeeded in making the public take an interest in his efforts. People suddenly became convinced that Kukishev was right and that Pogorelskaya I, as she was dubbed on the posters, only looked as if butter would not melt in her mouth. A whole clique was formed with the express purpose of taming the refractory upstart. The campaign was started by several habitués of the theatre who gradually began to hang around her dressing-room and made their nest in the adjoining room belonging to Miss Nalimova. Then, without exhibiting direct enmity, the audiences began to receive Pogorelskaya I, when she appeared on the stage, with a disheartening reserve, as if she were not the star actress, but some insignificant dumb performer. At last the clique insisted that the manager take some parts away from Anninka and give them to Nalimova. And what was most curious, the most important part in this underhand intrigue was played by Lubinka, whose confidant was Nalimova.
Toward autumn Anninka was surprised to find that she was compelled to play the rôle of Orestes in Fair Helen, and only Pericola had been left to her of all her main parts. That was because Nalimova would not dare to vie with her in the rôle. In addition, the manager notified her that in view of her cold reception by the audiences, her salary would be reduced to seventy-five rubles a month, with only half the proceeds of one benefit during the year.
Anninka lost courage, because with so small a salary she would have to move from the hotel to an inn. She wrote letters to two or three managers offering her services, but invariably received the answer that they were actually flooded with applicants for the Pericola rôle, and besides, they had learned of her shrewish obstinacy from reliable sources, and so could not foresee any hopes of her success.
Anninka was now living on her last savings. Another week and she would have to move to the inn and live with Khoroshavina, who was playing Parthenis and was favored with the attention of a constable. She began to yield to despair, especially since a mysterious hand put a note into her room every day containing the same words, "Pericola, submit. Your Kukishev." And at the critical moment Lubinka most unexpectedly rushed in.
"Tell me, please, for what prince are you saving your treasure?" she asked curtly.
Anninka was taken aback. First of all she was amazed to find that both the Volpino priest and Lubinka employed the same word "treasure" for maidenly honor. Only the priest had regarded it as the "foundation of life," while Lubinka looked upon it as a mere trifle over which the "rascally males" go mad.
Then she involuntarily questioned herself, What is this "treasure," anyhow? Is it really a treasure and is it really worth hoarding? Alas, she could find no satisfactory answer to her questions. On one hand, it is rather shameful to remain without honor, and on the other——Ah, the devil take it! And could it be that the whole purpose, the whole merit of her existence consisted in struggling every moment of her life to maintain this treasure?
"In only six months I have succeeded in getting thirty bonds," Lubinka continued, "and lots of things. Look what a dress I have on!"
Lubinka turned about, pulled at the front, then at the sides, letting herself be examined. The dress was really an expensive one and unusually well made. It came straight from Minangois in Moscow.
"Kukishev is a kind sort," Lubinka resumed. "He will dress you up like a doll, and he will give you money. You'll be able to send the theatre to the devil. You have had enough of it."
"Never!" cried Anninka heatedly. She had not as yet forgotten the phrase, "sacred art."
"You may remain if you wish to. You will get your former salary again and outstrip Nalimova."
Anninka was silent.
"Well, good-by. They are waiting for me downstairs. Kukishev is there, too. Will you come?"
But Anninka maintained her silence.
"Well, think it over, if there is anything to think about. And when you have done thinking, come to see me. Good-by."
On the seventeenth of September, Lubinka's birthday, the posters of the Samovarnov theatre announced a gala performance. Anninka appeared as Fair Helen again, and the same evening the part of Orestes was performed by Pogorelskaya II, Lubinka. To complete the triumph of the sisters, Nalimova was given the part of Cleon, the blacksmith. She appeared on the stage dressed in tights and a short coat, her face touched with soot, and a sheet of iron in her hands. The audience was elated. Hardly did Anninka appear on the stage when the audience raised such a clamor that, already unaccustomed to ovations, she nearly broke into tears. And when, in the third act, in the scene where she is awakened at night, she stood up on the sofa almost naked, the house was one groaning mass of humanity. One man in the audience was so thoroughly worked up that he shouted to Menelaus, who was entering the stage, "Get out, damn you!" Anninka understood that the public had pardoned her. As for Kukishev, he was in full dress, white tie and white gloves. In the entr'actes he generously treated friends and strangers alike to champagne and spoke of his triumph with dignity. At last the manager of the theatre, brimming over with jubilation, appeared in Anninka's room and, kneeling before her, said, "Now, madam, you are a good girl and you will get your previous salary with the corresponding number of benefits."
Everybody praised her and congratulated her and protested their sympathy, so that she, who at first was timid, restless, and haunted with a feeling of oppressive melancholy, grew suddenly convinced that she had fulfilled her mission.
After the theatre the whole company went to Lubinka's birthday celebration, and there the congratulations were reiterated. So large a crowd gathered in Lubinka's quarters that the tobacco smoke made it hard to breathe. They sat down to supper, and champagne began to flow freely. Kukishev kept close to Anninka. This made her somewhat shy, but she was no longer oppressed by his attentions. It seemed rather funny, but also flattering, that she had so easily gotten hold of this big, powerful man, who could bend and straighten out a horseshoe without effort, and whom she could order about and do with as she wished. The supper was crowned by that drunken, disorderly gaiety in which neither the head nor the heart takes a part, and which results only in headaches and nausea. The tragedian Miloslavsky X was the only one who looked gloomy and declined champagne, preferring plain vodka, which he gulped down glass after glass. As to Anninka, she abstained from drink for some time, but Kukishev was insistent. He went down on his knees and implored her:
"Anna Semyonovna, it is your turn. I beseech you. For your happiness, for friendship and love. Do us a favor."
She was annoyed by his foolish figure and foolish talk, yet she could not refuse, and before she had time to collect her thoughts, she was already dizzy. Lubinka, for her part, was so magnanimous that she herself asked her sister to sing, "How I did love it with my mash." Anninka performed it so well that everybody exclaimed, "Ah, that was just like Matryusha the gypsy." Then Lubinka sang an obscene song of a different kind, and at once convinced everybody that that kind of singing was her real genre, in which she had no rivals, just as Anninka had none in the gypsy songs. In conclusion, Miloslavsky X and Nalimova presented a "masquerade scene" in which the tragedian recited parts from Ugolino (a tragedy in five acts, by Polevoy), and Nalimova followed with a scene from an unpublished tragedy of Barkov. The result was so unexpected that Nalimova nearly eclipsed the two sisters and almost became the heroine of the evening.
It was already dawn when Kukishev, leaving the charming hostess, helped Anninka into her carriage. Pious townspeople were coming from matins. At the sight of Anninka, elaborately attired and somewhat unsteady on her feet, they muttered darkly, "People are coming out of church, and they are gulping wine. A curse on them!"
On leaving her sister's, Anninka went not to the hotel but to her own quarters, small but snug and nicely furnished. She was followed by Kukishev.
The whole winter passed in an indescribable hurly-burly. Anninka was completely in the swing, and if she ever reminded herself of her "treasure," it was only in order to laugh it off with "How foolish I was!" Kukishev, very proud of the fact that his "idea" of securing a mistress like Lubinka had materialized, made ducks and drakes of his money. Instigated by emulation, he ordered two gowns to Lyulkin's one, and two dozen bottles of champagne to his one dozen. Lubinka herself began to envy her sister, because she succeeded in laying by forty lottery bonds during the winter in addition to a considerable amount of jewelry. However, they became friendly again and decided to pool their hoardings.
Anninka always hoped for something, and during an intimate talk with her sister, said:
"When all this will be over, we will go back to Pogorelka. We will have money and establish a home for ourselves."
"And you think this will ever end? Fool!" Lubinka retorted cynically.
To Anninka's misfortune, Kukishev soon came upon a new "idea," which he began to pursue with his usual obstinacy. A vulgar and eminently shallow-pated man, he imagined he would reach the pinnacle of bliss if his queen would "accompany" him, that is, if she would drink vodka with him.
Anninka for some time declined, referring to the fact that Lyulkin never compelled Lubinka to drink vodka.
"And yet she drinks out of love for Lyulkin," Kukishev retorted. "And may I ask you, darling, do you take the Lyulkins as an example? They are Lyulkins, while you and I, we are Kukishevs. Therefore we will drink in our own Kukishev way."
Kukishev had his way. Once Anninka took a small glass of green liquid from the hands of her "beloved" and gulped it down. Of course she saw stars, choked, coughed, became dizzy, thereby putting Kukishev in transports of delight.
"Permit me to remark, darling, that you do not drink well! You did it too fast," he instructed her, as she quieted down somewhat. "The wineglass should be held in the tiny hands, so! Then you bring it over to the lips, slowly—one, two, three—the Lord bless us!"
And he calmly and gravely gulped down the contents of the glass, as if he were pouring vodka into a barrel. He did not even frown, but only took a bit of black bread, dipped it in the salt cellar, and chewed it.
And so Kukishev succeeded in realizing his second "idea" and even began to plan another one, which would beat the Lyulkins hollow. Of course he succeeded in inventing one.
"You know," he suddenly announced, "as soon as summer comes we will go to my mill with the Lyulkins, take along some provisions and bathe in the river."
"Never!" Anninka objected indignantly.
"Why not? We will bathe, then have a cocktail, rest a little, and bathe again. That would be delightful."
It is not known whether Kukishev's third idea materialized or not, but it is certain that this drunken debauchery lasted a whole year, during which time neither the zemstvo nor the city administration exhibited the slightest anxiety concerning Messrs. Kukishev and Lyulkin. For appearance's sake Lyulkin visited Moscow twice, and on his return declared he had sold one of his forests. On being reminded that he had sold the same forest four years before when living with Domashka the gypsy, he answered it was another forest that he had sold that time, and, to give his tale the appearance of veracity, he added detailed information concerning the name of his newly sold forest-estate. As for Kukishev, he gave currency to the story that he had smuggled in a large stock of embroidery from abroad, thereby earning a great deal of money.
In September of the next year the chief of police asked Kukishev for a "loan" of a thousand rubles and, Kukishev was foolish enough to refuse. Then the police superintendent began to confer secretly with the assistant attorney. ("Both of them guzzled champagne in my house every evening," Kukishev testified later at the trial.) On September 17th, at the anniversary of Kukishev's liaison, when he and the others celebrated Lubinka's birthday again, a member of the city council came running in and announced to Kukishev that a warrant was being made out at the City Board for his arrest.
"They must have found out something!" Kukishev exclaimed rather pluckily, and without further comment followed the messenger to the council-hall, and from there to prison.
The next day the zemstvo council also took fright. The members assembled and ordered the money in the treasury counted and recounted, and at last came to the conclusion that their treasury, too, had been drained by somebody. Lyulkin was present at the examination, pale, gloomy, but "noble"! When the loss had been discovered, and when it became apparent to Lyulkin that he had no hope of escaping, he walked to the window, drew a revolver from his pocket, and fired a bullet into his temple.
The event created quite a turmoil in the town. The people pitied Lyulkin, saying, "At least he ended nobly!" But the general opinion about Kukishev was, "He was born a shopkeeper, and a shopkeeper he will die!" Concerning Anninka and Lubinka they simply said that "they were the cause of it all," and that it would not do any harm to put them behind the bars, too, so that in future matters might not be very inviting for such wretches.
The prosecutors, however, did not arrest them, but terrorized them so mercilessly that they were completely dismayed. Of course there were some kind people who advised them to conceal all their valuables, but they listened and understood nothing. Owing to this, the attorney for the plaintiffs (both councils hired the same attorney), a daring fellow, wishing to satisfy his clients, came to the sisters one day, accompanied by the process server, to take an inventory. He seized and sealed everything except their dresses and such gold and silver things as bore inscriptions showing they had been the gifts of the appreciative public. Lubinka, however, succeeded in hiding a roll of bank-notes, presented to her the previous evening, in her corset. It was a thousand rubles, on which the sisters would have to exist for an indefinite time.
In expectation of Kukishev's trial, they were kept in the town about four months. Then the trial began, and the sisters, Anninka particularly, had to undergo a ruthless ordeal. Kukishev was cynical in the extreme. He revelled in the disclosure of details, for which there was really no need, but apparently he was desirous of striking a pose before the ladies of Samovarnov and exposed everything indiscreetly. The attorney and the private prosecutor, young and anxious to afford pleasure to the ladies, took advantage of this and endeavored to lend the proceeding a frivolous character, in which they succeeded, of course. Anninka fainted a number of times, but the private prosecutor paid no attention to this and bombarded her with questions. At last the investigation ended, and both sides had their say. Late at night the jurors announced that Kukishev was guilty, but that there were alleviating circumstances. In view of this he was sentenced to be deported to Western Siberia. When the trial was over, the sisters obtained permission to leave Samovarnov. And it was high time, for the thousand rubles were nearly exhausted. Besides, the manager of the Kretchetov theatre, with whom they had made arrangements, demanded that they appear in Kretchetov at once, threatening to discontinue negotiations if they delayed. Nothing was seen or heard of the valuables and documents sealed at the demand of the private prosecutor.
Such were the consequences of their disregard for their "treasure." Tormented, crushed, despised by everybody, the sisters lost all faith in their own strength and all hope for a brighter future. They became emaciated, slovenly, cowardly. And Anninka, to boot, having been in Kukishev's school, had learned to drink.
Matters grew worse. No sooner did they alight from the train at Kretchetov than they at once found "protectors." Lubinka was taken by Captain Popkov, Anninka by the merchant Zabvenny. But the jolly times were no more. Both Popkov and Zabvenny were coarse, quarrelsome, and rather close-fisted. After three or four months they became considerably colder. The sisters were even less successful on the stage than in love affairs. The manager who had accepted the sisters on the strength of the scandal they had caused at Samovarnov quite unexpectedly found himself out of his reckoning. At the very first performance somebody in the gallery shouted when the two girls made their appearance on the stage, "You convicts!" And the name stuck. It decided Anninka's and Lubinka's theatrical fate.
They now lived a dull, drowsy life, devoid of all intellectual interest. The public was cold, the managers scowled at them, the "protectors" would not intercede. Zabvenny dreamed, as once Kukishev had, of how he would "compel" his queen to have a cocktail with him, how she would at first affect horror, and gradually submit. But he was very angry when he found out that she was already past mistress in the art of drinking. The only satisfaction left him was to show his friends how Anninka "guzzled vodka." Popkov, too, was dissatisfied and declared Lubinka had grown thin.
"You once had flesh on your bones," he would say, "tell me, where did you lose it?"
On account of this, he was not only unceremonious with her, but often even beat her when he was drunk.
Toward the end of the winter the sisters had neither "real" admirers nor a "permanent position." They still stuck to the theatre, but there could be no question now either of Pericola or the Old-time Colonels. Lubinka was more cheerful, but Anninka, being more high-strung, broke down completely. She seemed to have forgotten the past and was not aware of the present. In addition, she began to cough suspiciously, apparently on her way toward an enigmatic malady.
Next summer was terrible. Gradually the sisters were taken to hotels and were given to travelling gentlemen for a moderate fixed price. Scandals and beatings followed one another, but the sisters clung to life desperately, with the tenacity of cats. They reminded one of those wretched dogs who, in spite of being crippled by a beating, crawl back to their favorite place, whining as they go. It was not proper to keep women like that on the stage.
In those dark days only once did a ray of light find its way into Anninka's existence. Miloslavsky X, the tragedian, sent her a letter from Samovarnov in which he persistently offered her his hand and heart. Anninka read the letter and cried. The night long she tossed about in bed, and in the morning she sent a curt reply, "Why? Only that we may drink together?" Then darkness closed down upon her intenser than ever, and endless, base debauchery began again.
Lubinka was the first to wake up, or if not to wake up, at least to feel instinctively that she had lived long enough. There was no work in sight. Her youth, her beauty, and her embryonic talent, all had somehow vanished. That they had a shelter in Pogorelka, she never remembered. It was something distant, vague, long-forgotten. They never did have much of a liking for Pogorelka, and now their hatred toward the place was only intensified. Even when they were almost starving the place attracted her less than ever. And what sort of a figure would she cut there? A figure which all sorts of drunken, lustful breaths had branded as a "creature." Those accursed breaths saturated her entire body. She felt them everywhere, in every place. And what is more horrible, she grew so accustomed to those disgusting breaths that they became a part of her very being. So with Anninka, too. Neither the stench of eating-houses, nor the din of the inns, nor the obscene language of the drunkards seemed abominable to them, so that had they gone to Pogorelka, they would surely have missed the "life." Besides, even in Pogorelka they must have something to live on. All these many years that they had wandered about the world they had heard nothing of the revenue that Pogorelka brought. Perhaps the estate was a myth. Perhaps the folks had all died, all those witnesses of the distant and yet ever-present years, when they had been brought up by their grandmother, Arina Petrovna, on sour milk and stale cured meat.
It was clear that it was best for Lubinka to die. Once this thought dawns on one's consciousness, it becomes an obsession. The sisters not infrequently had moments of awakening, but in the case of Anninka they were accompanied by hysterics, sobs, tears, and so passed away faster. Lubinka was colder by nature. She did not cry or curse, but the thought that she was a "hussy" constantly preyed on her mind. And Lubinka was more reasonable and saw quite clearly that there was not even any profit in their mode of living. For the future she expected nothing but shame, poverty and the street. Shame is a matter of habit, it can be tolerated, but poverty—never! It is better to end it all at once.
"We must die," she once said to Anninka in that same cool and deliberate tone in which two years ago she had asked her for whom she was saving her "treasure."
"Why?" Anninka objected, somewhat frightened.
"I mean it seriously. We must die," Lubinka repeated. "Understand, wake up, think!"
"Well—let us die," Anninka assented, hardly realizing the dismal meaning of her decision.
That same day Lubinka cut off the tips of some matches and prepared two glasses of the mixture. One of these she drank herself, the other she offered her sister. But Anninka immediately lost courage and refused to drink.
"Drink, you slut," Lubinka cried out. "Sister, dearest, darling, drink!"
Anninka, almost insane with fear, ran about the room, instinctively clutching at her throat as if trying to choke herself.
"Drink, drink—you street-walker!"
The artistic career of the two sisters was ended. That same evening Lubinka's corpse was taken into the field and buried. Anninka remained alive.
CHAPTER III
Anninka soon introduced an atmosphere of Bohemian life into Yudushka's nest. She rose late and would roam about the house until dinner-time, undressed, uncombed, with an aching head, and coughing in such agony that each time it would send a shudder through Porfiry Vladimirych in his study and quite frighten him. Her room was always untidy, the bedding in disorder, and her clothes lying about on the chairs and floor. At first she saw her uncle only at dinner and evening tea. The master of Golovliovo came out of his room all dressed in black, spoke little, and ate with his old-time exasperating slowness. He was apparently observing her. After dinner came the early December twilight. Anninka loved to watch the glimmer of the gray winter day gradually die out and the fields grow dim; she loved to see the shadows flood the rooms until finally the whole house was plunged in impenetrable darkness. In the darkness she always felt at ease and hardly ever lit the candles. The only one she allowed to burn was at one end of the sitting-room. It was of cheap palm wax, and sputtered and dripped, its feeble flame formed a tiny circle of light. For some time the house would be astir with the usual after-dinner noises. Plates would rattle in the hands of the dish-washers, and drawers open and close with a clatter; but soon the sound of receding steps would be heard and a dead silence begin to reign. Porfiry Vladimirych would take his after-dinner nap and Yevpraksia bury herself in the bedding in her room. Prokhor would go into the servants' room, and Anninka would remain entirely alone.
She would pace from room to room, humming, trying to tire herself out, but chiefly endeavoring to drive her thoughts away. In walking toward the sitting-room she would fix her eyes upon the circle of light about the candle, and walking away from it, she would try to single out some point in the darkness and keep her eyes fixed on it. But in spite of her efforts reminiscences surged up in her mind irresistibly. She saw the dressing-room with its cheap wall paper, the inevitable pier-glass and the equally inevitable bouquet from Lieutenant Pankov II; the stage with the stage-properties, sooty, slippery from the damp; the hall with its pieces of furniture picked up at random and its boxes upholstered in threadbare purple plush,—the hall which, seen from the stage, looked trim and even splendid, but in reality was dark and miserable. And finally—officers, officers, officers without end. Then she saw the hotel with the vile-smelling corridor, dimly lit by the smoky kerosene lamp; the room she would dart into in order to change her dress for further triumphs, the room with the bed in disorder from the morning; the wash-stand full of dirty water, the bed-sheet lying on the floor, her cast-off underwear forgotten on a chair. Next she saw herself in the general dining-room, filled with kitchen odors, the tables set for supper, with its tobacco smoke, noise, crowds, drinking, debauchery. And again officers, officers, officers without end.
Such were her memories of the time she had once called the years of her successes, triumphs, prosperity.
These reminiscences were followed by others, the prominent part in which was played by the inn, filled with a foul stench, with walls on which the vapor froze in the winter time, insecure flooring, and board partitions, the glossy bellies of bed-bugs showing in the crevices. Nights of drinking and brawls, travelling squires hastily taking greenbacks out of their meager pocket-books, merchants encouraging the "actresses" almost with a whip in hand. And in the morning—headaches, nausea, and utter dejection. At last—Golovliovo.
Golovliovo was death itself, relentless, hollow-wombed death, constantly lying in wait for new victims. Two uncles had died there, two cousins had received mortal wounds. And Lubinka! Although Lubinka, to be sure, had died somewhere in Kretchetov because of her "own affairs," yet the origin of her wounds went back to her life at Golovliovo. All the deaths, all the poisonings, all the pestilence, came from there. There the orphans had been fed on rotten cured meats, there they heard the first words of hatred and contempt for human dignity. Not the slightest childish misdeed had passed without punishment. Nothing could be hidden from the stony-hearted, eccentric old woman, not an extra bite of bread, not a broken clay doll, not a torn rag, not a worn shoe. Each breach of law and order was instantly punished either with a reproach or a slap. And then, when they had been permitted to dispose of themselves, when they had understood that they might run away from the disgusting place, they ran—there! And nobody kept them from running away, nor could they have been kept from running away, because they could imagine nothing worse or more repulsive than Golovliovo.
Ah, if all that could only be forgotten, if one could create a different existence in one's dreams, a magic world that would supplant both the past and the present! But alas, the reality Anninka had lived through had so powerful a hold, that the clutch of it suppressed the feeble efforts of her imagination. In vain did fancy endeavor to imagine angels with silvery wings. From behind those angels peeped inexorably the legions of Kukishevs, Lyulkins, Zabvennys, Popkovs. Lord! Was all lost? Even the ability to deceive and beguile herself? Had that been lost forever in the night revels, in wine, and in debauchery? Yet that past had to be killed somehow, so as not to poison her blood and rend her heart. It had to be crushed, utterly annihilated.
How strange and ruthless was that which had happened! It was impossible even to conceive of some future, of some door by which to escape from the situation, of anything at all that might occur to change things. Nothing could occur. And what was even more unbearable was the fact that to all intents and purposes she was already dead, with the outward signs of life yet present. She should have ended it then, along with Lubinka. Somehow she had remained alive. How was it that the mass of shame which had come upon her then from all sides had not crushed her? And what an insignificant worm she must have been to have crept out from underneath that heap of heavy stones piled up on top of her!
She groaned in agony, and ran about the sitting-room, trying to kill the burning memories. Before her eyes swam familiar images, the Duchess of Herolstein shaking a pelisse, Clairette Angot in her wedding gown with a slit in front up to her waist-line, Fair Helen with slits in front, behind and at the sides. Nothing but obscenity and nakedness. That was what her life had consisted of. Could all that possibly have occurred?
About seven o'clock the house came to life again. The sounds of the preparations for tea were heard, and at last came the voice of Porfiry Vladimirych. Uncle and niece sat down at the tea table and exchanged remarks about the day just ended; but the daily happenings were scanty and so the conversation was brief. Having taken tea and kissed Anninka on the forehead, Yudushka crept back into his den, while Anninka went into Yevpraksia's room to play cards.
At eleven o'clock the debauchery began. Having ascertained that Porfiry Vladimirych was fast asleep, Yevpraksia set the table with various country corned meats and a bottle of vodka. Now came meaningless and obscene songs, strumming on the guitar, and Anninka drinking between the songs and the shameless talk. At first she drank after Kukishev's manner, coolly, with a "Lord bless us" to each glass, but then she gradually sank into gloom and began to moan and curse. Yevpraksia looked at her and pitied her:
"As I look at you, lady," she said, "I am so sorry for you, so sorry."
"Drink with me and you won't be sorry," Anninka retorted.
"No, how can I? They nearly chased me out of the clergy estate because of your uncle, and now if I become——"
"Well, then it can't be helped. Let me sing you The Mustache."
She strummed the guitar again, and again came the cry, "I-akh! I-okh!" Late at night sleep would suddenly overtake her, obliterating her past and allaying her sufferings for a few hours. The next day, broken down, half-insane, she would again creep out from beneath the deadening load of sleep and live anew.
One of those vile nights when Anninka was singing her filthy songs to Yevpraksia, Yudushka's pale face, ghastly and harassed, appeared in the doorway. His lips were quivering, his sunken eyes looked like sightless cavities by the light of the candle. His hands were folded for prayer. For a few seconds he stood in front of the dumfounded women, and then slowly faced round and passed out.
CHAPTER IV
There are families that are weighed down by an inevitable fate. They are frequent among that portion of the nobility which once lived idle, useless, and uninfluential, under the wing of serfdom in all parts of Russia and is now passing its last days helpless and unprotected in dilapidated manor-houses. In the life of these wretched families both success and failure come unexpectedly and as if by sheer accident.
Sometimes it happens that a shower of good luck, as it were, suddenly comes streaming down on such a family. The ruined cornet and his wife, peacefully fading away in an out-of-the-way village, will suddenly be blessed with a brood of young people, strong, clean, alert, pushing, adaptable to the new conditions of life—the boys as well as the girls—in a word, "knowing ones." The boys pass examinations with flying colors and even establish connections and procure patrons while still at school. In the nick of time they exhibit their modesty ("j'aime cette modestie" their superiors say about them), and in the nick of time they show that they can be independent ("j'aime cette indépendance!") They quickly scent the direction from which the wind blows, but they never burn their bridges, so that retreat is free and easy. These successful makers of our modern history begin with obsequious cringing, and almost invariably end with perfidy. As to the girls, they, too, in their line, contribute to the regeneration of the family, that is, they all marry successfully and then exhibit so much tact in the art of dressing that they experience no difficulty in gaining prominent places in so-called society.
From this combination of circumstances, success fairly pours down upon the impoverished family. The first successful members who struggle through courageously, bring up another clean generation, which is still better off because the main paths have not only been broken but also well trodden. Other generations succeed until at last a family comes that has no preliminary struggles and deems it has an inborn right to lifelong rejoicing.
Lately, on account of a modern demand for so-called "new men" resulting from the gradual degeneration of the old men, there have been frequent instances of successful families. Even in earlier days a comet would now and then make its appearance on the horizon, but it was a rare occurrence, the reason being that, first, there were no cracks in the wall surrounding that blissful region over the gateway to which is inscribed: "Here pies are eaten daily," and, secondly, because in order to penetrate into that region, one had to have genuine ability. But now quite a number of cracks have appeared and the matter of penetration is considerably simplified, since great merits are no longer demanded of the newcomer, but only "newness" and nothing else.
Besides these lucky families there is a great multitude of families upon whose members the household gods bestow nothing but misfortune and despair. Like a baleful blight, vice and ill-luck beset them and devour their substance. The malignant influences attack the whole stock, eating their way into the very heart and laying waste generation after generation. There is born a race of weaklings, drunkards, petty rakes, idlers and shiftless ne'er-do-wells. As time goes on the race degenerates more and more, until finally there appear miserable weaklings, like Yudushka's two sons, who perish at the first onslaught of life.
Such a sinister fate pursued the Golovliovo family. For several generations, their history was marked by three characteristics, idleness, utter uselessness, and habitual hard drinking, the last coming as the sorry crown to a chaotic life. The Golovliovo family would have run to seed completely but for the fact that Arina Petrovna flashed like a casual meteor through this drunken confusion. By her personal energy alone this woman brought the family to an unprecedented height of prosperity. Nevertheless her labors were in vain. Not only did she not transmit any of her qualities to her children, but she herself died ensnared by idleness, empty talk and mental vacuity.
Until now Porfiry Vladimirych had held out against the temptation of drink. It may be that he had been frightened off by the fate of his brothers and had consciously abstained from drink, or that he had been satisfied by the intoxication of his frenzied day dreams. But it was not for nothing that he had the reputation of a drunkard among his neighbors. At times he himself felt something was lacking in his existence. Idle musings gave him much, but not all. They did not supply that sharp, stupefying sensation which would completely do away with his sense of reality and plunge him headlong into the void forever.
And now the long-wished-for opportunity presented itself. Ever since Anninka's arrival, Yudushka had been aware of a vague noise at night coming from the other end of the house. For a long time he had puzzled his head over the significance of the mysterious sounds. At last he discovered what they were.
Anninka expected a reprimand the next day. None came. Porfiry Vladimirych spent the morning locked up in his study as usual, but when he appeared at the midday meal, he poured out two wineglasses of vodka instead of only one for himself, and pointed to one with a sheepish smile. Anninka accepted the silent invitation.
"So you say Lubinka is dead?" said Yudushka when the dinner was well under way, as if recalling something.
"Yes, uncle, she is dead."
"Well, God rest her soul! To grumble is a sin, but to honor her memory is quite fitting. Shall we?"
"Yes, uncle, let's honor her memory."
They emptied one more glass, and then Yudushka grew silent. He was evidently still unaccustomed to the society of human beings. When the meal was over, Anninka, performing a family rite, kissed uncle's cheek, and in response he patted her on her cheek and said:
"So that's the kind you are."
The evening of the same day, at tea, which lasted longer this time than usual, Porfiry Vladimirych looked at his niece for a while with a quizzical smile, and finally said:
"Shall we have some corned meats served?"
"Well, if you wish."
"Yes. It's better you should do it in uncle's sight than on the sly. At least, uncle will——"
Yudushka did not finish the sentence. Perhaps he had wanted to say that uncle would keep her from drinking, but something prevented him from saying it.
From that time on cold cuts were served in the dining-room every evening. The outer window shutters were closed, the servants retired, and uncle and niece remained all alone. In the beginning Yudushka did not keep pace with Anninka, but with a little practice he came up to her. They sat slowly sipping their vodka and talking. The conversation, at first dull and indifferent, became more and more animated as their heads grew hotter, and invariably passed into a chaotic quarrel, at the bottom of which were always reminiscences about the victims of Golovliovo.
Anninka started the quarrels. She dug up the family archives with ruthless persistence and delighted in teasing Yudushka by arguing that he along with Arina Petrovna had been the chief cause of the Golovliovo tragedies. Every word breathed such cynicism and such burning hatred that it was difficult to understand how so much vitality could still exist in that worn-out, shattered body. Anninka's attacks galled Yudushka immensely, but he defended himself feebly, angrily sputtering ejaculations of discomfiture. At times, when Anninka went too far in her insolence, he shouted and cursed.
Such scenes repeated themselves day in, day out, without change. Every detail of the pitiful family chronicle was speedily exhausted, but it still held the minds of the two riveted. Every episode of the past lacerated some wound in their hearts, and they felt a bitter delight in constantly evoking, scrutinizing and exaggerating painful memories. Neither the past nor the present contained any moral mainstay on which Anninka could lean. Nothing but sordid stinginess on one side, and mental vacuity on the other. Her youthful heart had thirsted for warmth and love, but had received a stone instead of bread, blows instead of instruction. By the irony of fate, the cruel school in which she had been taught implanted in her not an austere attitude toward life, but a passionate yearning to partake of its sweet poisons. Youth had wrought the miracle of oblivion, it kept her heart from hardening and the germs of hatred from developing. Youth had made her drunk with the thirst for life. That was why a turbulent, furtive debauchery had held her in its sway for several years, and had pushed Golovliovo into the background. Now, when the end was drawing close, her heart began to ache. Now for the first time did Anninka grasp the significance of her past and begin to hate it truly.
The drinking lasted far into the night, and had it not been for the drunken confusion of both thoughts and words, it might have resulted in something frightful. But if alcohol opened the well-springs of pain in these shattered hearts, it also appeased them. The further the night advanced, the more incoherent became their talk and the more impotent their hatred. Toward the end of the debauch, the aching disappeared and their surroundings vanished from their eyes, supplanted by a shining void. They faltered, their eyes closed, they grew muscle-bound. Uncle and niece would then rise from their places and retire to their rooms with tottering steps.
Of course, these night adventures could not remain a secret. Before long the notion of crime became associated with them in the minds of the servants. Life abandoned the vast Golovliovo manor-house. Nothing stirred even in the morning. Uncle and niece rose late and till the midday meal Anninka's racking cough, accompanied by curses, rang from one end of the house to the other. Yudushka listened to the harrowing sounds in terror and a vague presentiment of his own impending doom stirred in him.
It seemed that all the Golovliovo victims were now creeping from out of the nooks and crannies of the deserted house. Gray apparitions stirred everywhere. Here was old Vladimir Mikhailovich, in his white nightcap, making wry faces and citing Barkov; here was Simple Simon and Pavel the Sneak; here were Lubinka and the last offshoots of the Golovliovo stock, Volodya and Petka. All were drunk, lustful, weary and bleeding. And over all these ghosts there brooded a living phantom, Porfiry Vladimirych Golovliov, the last representative of the decadent family.
CHAPTER V
The continual reverting to the past and its victims was bound to have its effect on Yudushka. The natural outcome—was it fear?—No, rather the awakening of conscience. He discovered he had a conscience, and oblivion and contempt, although blunting its sensitiveness, could not destroy it.
The awakening of a torpid conscience is usually fraught with pain. It brings no peace, holds no promise of a new life, but merely tortures, endlessly and fruitlessly. Man sees himself immured in a narrow prison, a helpless victim of the agonies of repentance, with no hope of ever returning to life. And he perceives no other way of allaying his gnawing pain than to break his head against the stony walls of the prison cell.
Never in the course of his long, useless life had it occurred to Yudushka that dire tragedies were interwoven with his existence. He had lived peacefully and calmly, with a constant prayer on his lips, and the thought had been far from him that this manner of life had caused so much sorrow. Least of all could he imagine that he himself had been the source of these tragedies. Suddenly the terrible truth was revealed to his conscience, but all too late—too late for him to make amends for the crimes of his life. He was unsociable, old, with one foot in the grave, and there was not a single human being who approached him with loving pity. Why was he alone? Why did he see nothing but indifference and hatred around him? Why was it that everything he touched had perished? This estate of Golovliovo was once so full, a human nest. How had it happened that now there was not a trace, not a feather left? Of the fledgelings nursed there his niece was the only one that remained alive, and she had come back only to sneer at him and deal him his deathblow. Even Yevpraksia, simple as she was, hated him. She lived at Golovliovo because Porfiry sent her father, the sacristan, provisions every month, but undoubtedly she hated him. He had made her unhappy, too, by robbing her of her child. What was the outcome of his existence? Wherefore had he lied, babbled, persecuted, hoarded? Who would inherit his wealth? Who was to enjoy the fruits of his life? Who?
I repeat, his conscience had awakened. Yudushka waited for the evening with feverish impatience not only in order to get bestially drunk, but also to drown his conscience. He hated the "dissolute wench," who lacerated his wounds with such cold cynicism, yet he was drawn to her irresistibly, as if there was still something to be said between them and some wounds to be torn open. Every evening he made Anninka retell the story of Lubinka's death, and every evening the idea of self-destruction became riper in his mind. At first, the idea occurred to him casually. But as his iniquities became more apparent to him, it sank deeper and deeper into his being and soon was the sole shining spot in all the gloom he saw ahead of him.
And his health began to decline rapidly. He coughed violently and at times had spells of asthma that in themselves were sufficient to make life intolerable, let alone the moral pangs from which he suffered. All the symptoms of the malady that had sent his brothers to their graves were present. He heard the groans of his brother Pavel, as he choked in the entresol of the Dubrovino manor-house. Still Yudushka was doggedly tenacious of life. His sunken, emaciated chest held out against the pain that grew from hour to hour. It was as if his body too were resisting with unexpected vigor so as to take revenge on him for his crimes.
"Is this the end?" he would wonder hopefully, whenever he felt the approach of a paroxysm. But death was slow in coming. Evidently it would be necessary to use violence to hasten the end. All his accounts with life were settled—it was both painful and useless to him. What he needed was death, but, to his sorrow, death was slow in coming. There is something mean and treacherous in the teasing hesitancy of death when it is called upon with all the strength of one's soul.
It was late in March and Passion Week was nearing its end. However abject Yudushka's condition was, he preserved an attitude of reverence toward the sanctity of these days implanted in him in his childhood. His thoughts of themselves took a serious turn, and there was no other desire in his heart than complete silence. In this mood the evenings were no longer spent in wild drinking, but passed in gloomy silence.
Porfiry Vladimirych and Anninka were sitting all alone in the dining-room. The evening service, accompanied by the reading of the gospel, had just ended, and the odor of incense still lingered in the room. The clock struck ten, the servants had retired, and deep, pensive quiet settled over the house. Anninka, her hands clasping her head, was deep in thought. Porfiry Vladimirych sat opposite, silent and sad.
Upon Anninka the Passion Week evening service always made an overwhelming impression. As a child she had wept bitterly at the priest's words: "And when they plaited a crown of thorns, they put it upon His head, and a reed in His right hand," and in a tremulous treble she used to sing after the sexton: "Glory be to Thy long-suffering, oh, Lord! Glory be to Thee!" After the service she used to run, all a-quiver with emotion, to the maids' room, and there, in the growing twilight (Arina Petrovna allowed no candles in that room when there was no work being done), she related "The Passion of our Lord" to the servants. Silent tears flowed from the eyes of the slaves, and they heaved deep sighs. The poor servants felt their Master and Redeemer with their whole hearts and believed He would arise from the dead, arise from the dead in truth. Anninka, too, felt and believed. Beyond the gloom of their life of suffering and persecution, all these poor in spirit beheld the radiant kingdom of freedom. Even the old lady, usually so redoubtable, was gentle during Passion Week. She did not grumble or remind Anninka that she was an orphan. On the contrary, she fondled her and soothed her with kindly words. But Anninka was restless even in bed, she tossed about and talked to herself in her sleep.
Then came her school years and wanderings, the first empty, the second painful. But even as a nomadic actress, Anninka had jealously observed the "holy days," calling back echoes of her distant past and moods of childlike devotion. But now when she saw her life clearly to its last detail, when she had cursed her life and when it became obvious that the future promised neither repentance nor forgiveness, when the source of devotion and the well-spring of tears had dried up, the effect of the tale of the Crucifixion upon her was truly overwhelming. In childhood a gloomy night had surrounded her, but beyond the darkness she had sensed the presence of light. Now nothing but interminable everlasting night stretched ahead endlessly. She neither sighed, nor was agitated, nor even thought. She merely sank into a state of profound torpor.
Porfiry Vladimirych, too, from his very childhood, had revered the "holy days," but, true idol-worshipper that he was, he had observed merely the rites. Every year on the eve of Good Friday he had had the priest come and read the gospel, had sighed, lifted up his arms, touched the ground with his forehead, marked the number of chapters read by means of wax balls, but had understood nothing. Not until now, when his conscience was awakened, had he grasped the fact that the gospel contained the story of how Untruth visited a bloody judgment on Truth.
Of course, it would be an exaggeration to say that this discovery led him to definite conclusions about his own life, yet there is no doubt that it produced in him a commotion bordering on despair. This state of mind was the more painful the more unconsciously he lived through the past which was the source of his commotion.
There was something terrible in his past, he could not tell exactly what. It was as if a mountainous mass, hitherto motionless and hidden by an impenetrable veil, had suddenly moved upon him, threatening every moment to crush him. What he feared was that he might not be crushed, and he felt he must hasten the climax. He had been brooding over the idea for quite some time. "We shall have communion on Saturday," suddenly flashed through his mind. "It would be well to visit dear mother's grave and take leave of her."
"Shall we walk over to the cemetery?" he turned to Anninka and explained his idea to her.
"Why, if you wish, we'll drive out there."
"No, not drive, but——" started Porfiry Vladimirych, but halted abruptly, as if struck by the thought that Anninka might be in his way.
"I have sinned against my dear departed mother. I, I was the cause of her death!"
The thought preyed on him, and the desire to "take leave" grew stronger in his heart, to take leave not by mere conventional words, but by throwing himself on her grave and bursting out in the sobs of a death agony.
"So you say no one is to be blamed for Lubinka's death?" he suddenly asked, as if trying to cheer himself up.
At first Anninka paid no attention to his question. Two or three minutes later, however, she felt an irresistible impulse to return to the subject of Lubinka's death and torment herself with it.
"And her words were, 'Drink, you street-walker,'" he said, after she had repeated the story in detail.
"Yes, her very words."
"And you didn't drink?"
"I didn't. I am alive, as you see."
He rose and paced up and down the room several times, visibly affected. At last he went over to Anninka and stroked her head.
"My poor, poor Anninka!" he said softly.
At the touch of his hands a startling change took place in her. At first she was amazed, then her face began to work, and suddenly a violent torrent of hysterical, inhuman sobs burst from her chest.
"Uncle, are you good? Tell me, are you good?" she fairly shrieked.
In a broken voice, through tears and sobs, she kept on reiterating her query, the same she had asked him the day of her return to Golovliovo, to which he had given such an absurd reply.
"You are good? Tell me, answer me, are you good?"
"Did you hear what the priest read at the evening service?" he said, when she finally grew calm. "Oh, what sufferings He underwent! Only such sufferings can——And yet He forgave, forgave forever!"
He resumed his pacing, his very soul rent with suffering and his face covered with beads of perspiration.
"He pardoned every one," he reflected aloud. "Not only those who at that time gave Him vinegar mingled with gall to drink, but also those who are doing the same thing now and will do it again in future ages. What a horror!"
Suddenly he stopped before her and said:
"And you—have you forgiven?"
Instead of replying she threw herself on him and clasped him firmly.
"You must forgive me," he went on. "For every one—on your own account—and for those who are no longer here. What has happened?" he cried, looking round distractedly. "Where are they all?"
Utterly shaken and exhausted, they retired to their rooms. But Porfiry Vladimirych could not sleep. He tossed in his bed, all the while trying to recall an obligation that lay on him. Suddenly he clearly remembered the words that had flashed through his mind about two hours before, "I must walk to mother's grave and take leave of her."
An exhausting restlessness seized his being. At last he got up and donned his dressing-gown. It was still dark, and unbroken silence reigned in the house. For a while Porfiry Vladimirych paced back and forth in the room, stopped before the lighted ikon of the Saviour with a thorny crown, and scanned his face. Finally he determined upon a course of action, perhaps half-unconsciously. He stole into the antechamber and opened the outer door.
Outside a March blizzard was raging and blinded him with a torrent of sleet. Porfiry Vladimirych struggled along the road, splashing through the puddles, insensible to the wind and the snow. Instinctively he drew together the skirts of his dressing-gown.
Early next morning a messenger came speeding from the village near the churchyard where Arina Petrovna was buried. He brought the news that the frozen body of the Golovliovo master had been found by the roadside. The servants rushed into Anninka's room. She lay in her bed unconscious in delirium. A messenger was hastily dispatched to Nadezhda Ivanovna Galkina (daughter of Aunt Varvara Mikhailovna), who ever since the previous autumn had been keeping a watchful eye on everything taking place at Golovliovo.