A Russian Gentleman

by S. T. Aksakov

Two or three weeks passed, and brought no reply from Alexyéi Stepanitch. Then there came one stormy autumn morning, when my grandfather was sitting across his bed in his own room; he was wearing his favourite dressing-gown of fine camel's hair over a shirt buttoning up at the side, and had slippers on his bare feet. Arina Vassilyevna was sitting near him with her spinning-wheel, spinning goat's down and carefully drawing out the fine long threads with which she intended to make cloth—cloth to provide her son with light, warm, comfortable garments. Tanyusha was sitting by the window, reading a book. Elizabeth, who was on a visit to Bagrovo, was sitting on the bed near her father, telling him of her troubles—her husband's poor prospects, and the shifts they had to practise at home to make ends meet. The old man listened sadly, with his hands on his knees, and his head, now turning white, bent down over his breast. Suddenly the door opened; and Ivan, a tall, handsome lad, wearing a travelling jacket, entered the room with a quick step and delivered a letter which he had brought from the post-town 25 versts away. The stir among the party showed that the letter was eagerly expected. "From Alosha?" asked the old man quickly and uneasily. "From my brother," answered Tanyusha, who had gone to meet Ivan, taken the letter quickly from him, and looked at the address. "You have lost no time, and I thank you. A dram for Ivan! Then go and have your dinner and rest." The spirit-case was opened at once; Tanyusha took out a long, cut-glass decanter, filled a silver cup with brandy, and handed it to Ivan. Ivan crossed himself and drank it, then coughed, bowed, and left the room. "Read it aloud, Tanyusha," said her father; she did his reading and writing for him. She placed herself by the window; her father left his bed and her mother her spinning-wheel, and all crowded round the reader, who had unsealed the letter by this time but dared not take a preliminary peep. After a moment's silence, the letter was read slowly and audibly. It began with the form of address usual in those days—"Dear and honoured Father, and dear and honoured Mother," and then went on in this fashion—

"In answer to my last letter, I had the misfortune to receive a refusal of my request, my dearest parents. I cannot go against your will; I submit to it, but I cannot long drag the burden of my life without my adored Sofya Nikolayevna; and therefore a fatal bullet shall ere long pierce the head of your unhappy son."[³⁹]

The letter produced a powerful effect. My aunts began to whimper; my grandmother, who was taken utterly by surprise, turned pale, threw out her hands, and flopped down on the ground like a corn-sheaf. Even in those days fainting-fits were not unknown. Stepan Mihailovitch never stirred; but his head bent a little to one side, as it used to do when a fit of anger was coming on, and began to tremble slightly; and that tremulous motion went on from that hour till his death. The daughters rushed to their mother's aid and soon brought her back to her senses. At once, Arina Vassilyevna threw herself at her husband's feet, raising the cry of mourning for the dead; and her daughters followed her example. Taking no notice of the storm-signals on his brow, and quite forgetting that she herself had egged him on to disappoint his son, she cried at the top of her voice: "Batyushka Stepan Mihailovitch! have pity and do not be the death of your own child, our only son! Give Alosha leave to marry! If anything happens to him, I will not live one hour longer!" The old man never stirred. At last he said in an unsteady voice: "Enough of that howling! Alosha deserves a good whipping. But we'll leave it till to-morrow; morning brings good counsel. Now go and order dinner to be served." Dinner my grandfather regarded as a sedative at every domestic crisis. Arina Vassilyevna tried to begin again—"Mercy! Mercy!"—but Stepan Mihailovitch called out loudly, "Leave the room, all of you!"—and in his voice was audible the roar that goes before a storm. The room was cleared instantly, and no one ventured near him before the dinner-hour.

It is hard to imagine the thoughts that passed through his mind in the interval, the struggle that took place in that iron heart between love and prudence, and the final defeat of the stubborn spirit; but, when Mazan's voice was heard outside the door, announcing dinner, my grandfather came out of his room quite composed. His face was rather pale, but his wife and daughters, who were standing, each by her own chair, till he appeared, could not see the faintest sign of anger; on the contrary, he was quieter and more cheerful than he had been in the morning, and made a hearty meal. Arina Vassilyevna had to harden her heart and suit her conversation to his mood; she dared not even sigh, far less ask questions; in vain she tried to guess what was passing through her husband's mind; the little chestnut-brown eyes in her fat face might ask what questions they pleased, but the dark-blue eyes of Stepan Mihailovitch, for all their frank good-humoured expression, gave no answer. After dinner he lay down as usual, and woke in a still more cheerful mood, but not a syllable did he utter about his son or the letter. Yet it was clear that no wrath was brooding in the old man's heart. When he said "good night"; to his wife after supper, she ventured to say, "Please say something about Alosha." He smiled and answered: "Did I not say that morning thoughts are best? Go to sleep, and God bless you!"

Morning did indeed bring good counsel and kindly action. My grandfather got up at four o'clock when Mazan was kindling his fire, and his first words were: "Tanaichonok, you are to take a letter at once to Ufa for Alexyéi Stepanitch. Get ready immediately, and no one is to know your errand or where you are going. Put the young brown horse in the shafts, and the roarer abreast of him. Take six bushels of oats with you and a loaf of bread. Ask the housekeeper for two roubles in copper for your expenses. See that all is ready when my letter is written, and don't lose a moment!" When my grandfather demanded haste, he always got it. Then he opened the oak desk which served him as a writing-table, got writing materials, and with some effort—for ten years past he had written nothing but his signature—he wrote as follows in a stiff, old-fashioned hand:—

"Dear Son Alexyéi,

"Your mother, Arina Vassilyevna, and I, give you our permission to marry Sofya Nikolayevna Zubin, if that be God's will, and we send you our blessing.

"Your father,

"Stepan Bagroff."

"Your father,

"Stepan Bagroff."

Half an hour later, long before it was light, Tanaichonok had reached the top of the long hill and passed the stackyard, and was trotting briskly along the road to Ufa. At six o'clock Stepan Mihailovitch ordered Aksyutka to bring the samovar but to wake no one in the house. In spite of this, the mistress was called and told in confidence that Tanaichonok had started very early with a pair of horses from the stable; he was carrying a letter from the master, but his destination was unknown. She did not venture to join her husband at once: she waited an hour or so, and appeared when he had finished his tea and was chatting with Aksyutka, the maid, who had been plain as a child and was now still plainer in middle life. "Well, what did they wake you for?" said Stepan Mihailovitch, holding out his hand to his wife. "I dare say you had a bad night." Arina Vassilyevna kissed his hand respectfully: "No," she said, "no one called me, I woke of myself; and I had a good night, for I hoped you would be kind to our poor boy." He looked attentively at her; but her face was accustomed to wear a mask, and he could not read her thoughts. "In that case," he said, "I have good news for you. I have sent a special messenger to Ufa and written to Alexyéi that he has permission from us both to marry Sofya Nikolayevna."

Arina Vassilyevna had been horrified by her son's tragic intentions, and had sincerely begged and prayed her stern husband to consent to the marriage. Yet, when she heard how Stepan Mihailovitch had decided, she felt more fear than joy; or rather, she did not dare to feel joy, because she feared her daughters. She knew already what Elizabeth thought of the letter, and guessed what Alexandra would say. For these reasons she received the decision, which her husband hoped would delight her, rather coldly and strangely; and this did not escape him. Elizabeth expressed no satisfaction whatever, but merely respectful submission to her father's will; but Tanyusha, who took her brother's letter quite seriously, rejoiced with all her heart. Elizabeth was not alarmed even at first by her brother's threat; she shed tears and interceded for him, merely because it would not look well to act differently from her mother and youngest sister. She wrote at once to Alexandra, who was furious when she heard of the decision and came with all speed to Bagrovo. She too treated her brother's letter as an empty threat, a trick suggested by Sofya Nikolayevna; and the two together soon converted their mother and even Tanyusha to this belief. But the matter was settled, and open rebellion was now out of the question. Stepan Mihailovitch had thought that Sofya Nikolayevna would refuse his son; but no one else at Bagrovo believed this. But it is time now to leave Bagrovo and see what was going on at Ufa.

I will not take upon myself to decide positively whether Alexyéi Stepanitch really intended to shoot himself, if his parents were obdurate, or took a hint from some incident in a novel and tried to excite their fears by suggesting the awful result of their refusal. Judging by the later development of his character—and I knew it well—I cannot think him capable of either course of action. Therefore, as I suppose, the young man was not playing a trick in order to frighten his parents; on the contrary, he sincerely intended to blow out his brains, if he was forbidden to marry Sofya Nikolayevna. But at the same time I do not think he could ever have brought himself to carry out his fatal purpose, although your mild quiet people, who are often called faint-hearted, are sometimes more capable of desperate actions than men of bold and energetic temperament. The idea of suicide was certainly borrowed from some novel: it was quite out of keeping with the character of Alexyéi Stepanitch, his view of life, and the circle of ideas in which he had been born and brought up. However that may be, when he had launched the fatal letter, he became greatly agitated and was soon laid up with fever. His friend and confidante, Mme. Alakayeff, knew nothing of the letter; she came to see him daily and soon perceived that his illness and his love-affair were not enough to account for his excessive agitation. She was sitting beside him one day, knitting a stocking and talking about trifles, in order to amuse the invalid and distract his mind from his hopeless passion; he was lying on the sofa, with his hands behind his head, looking out of the window. Suddenly he turned as white as a sheet. A cart with a pair of horses had turned off the street into the courtyard, and he recognised the horses and Tanaichonok. He sprang to his feet, cried out, "A message from my father, from Bagrovo!" and made for the door. Mme. Alakayeff seized his arm, and, with the help of a servant, prevented him from hurrying to the steps; it was wet and cold autumn weather. Meanwhile Tanaichonok came quickly into the room and delivered the letter. Alexyéi Stepanitch broke the seal with trembling fingers, read the few lines, burst into tears, and fell on his knees before the ikon. Mme. Alakayeff was puzzled until he handed her the letter; but, when she had read it, she too shed tears of joy. The young man was beside himself with happiness. He now confessed the nature of the letter he had written to his parents, and she shook her head when she heard it. Tanaichonok was called in and closely questioned; when he told how he had been sent off, they saw that Stepan Mihailovitch had settled the matter by himself, without the knowledge of his womankind and probably against their wishes.