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.