If she had listened to herself, she would have discovered that even in
Pogorelka, when just beginning to make plans for a life of honest toil
as a deliverance from Egyptian bondage, she could have caught herself
dreaming not so much of work as of being surrounded by a society of
congenial people, frittering her time away in empty talk. Of course,
the people of her dreams were clever, and their conversation was honest
and serious, but the idle side of life was always in the foreground.
Poverty was distinguished by neatness, privations amounted merely to
a lack of luxuries. So, when her dreams of a life of work came to a
head and she was offered a part in one of the provincial theatres,
she hesitated little, though the contrast between dream and reality
was great. She hastily freshened up her school information about the
relations of Helen and Menelaus, supplemented it by some biographical
details from the life of the splendid Prince of Tauris and decided
that that was quite sufficient to produce _Fair Helen_ and _Episodes
from the Life of the Duchess of Herolstein_ in the provincial theatres
and at the fairs. To clear her conscience she recalled the words of a
student she had met in Moscow who used to exclaim repeatedly, "Sacred
Art!" She made this her slogan, because it was the easiest way out,
and gave at least outward decorum to the path she had chosen--the path
toward which the whole of her being was instinctively tending.
The life of an actress upset her. Alone, without the guidance of proper
preparation, without a conscious aim, with only a temperament craving
for din, glamor, and applause, she soon found herself surrounded by
a chaos in which many persons thronged, some coming, others going,
without apparent order or connection. There were people of the most
diverse characters and views, so that the motives for becoming intimate
with this one or that one were not the same. Nevertheless, they were
all integral parts of her circle, so that there really could be no
question of motives.
Her life had become like the gate to an inn, at which every gay,
wealthy, young man could knock and claim entrance. Clearly it was
not a matter of selecting a congenial company, but of fitting into
any kind of company so as not to die of ennui. Her "sacred art" had
really thrown her into a mire, but her head was turned, and she did not
notice her position. Neither the dirty faces of the porters nor the
slimy, dilapidated stage properties, nor the din, stench, and noise of
the hotels and inns, nor the obscene behavior of her admirers--none
of these things produced a sobering effect. She did not even notice
that she was always in the society of men only, and that there was a
permanent barrier between her and the women of _established position._
The visit to Golovliovo sobered her for a moment.
In the morning, almost immediately after her arrival, she began to feel
uneasy. Highly impressionable, she quickly absorbed new sensations and
quickly adapted herself to new situations. Consequently, as soon as she
reached Golovliovo, she felt herself a "lady." She suddenly recalled
that she had something of her own: her own home, her own graves. She
became filled with a desire to see herself in her former surroundings,
to breathe the air from which she had only recently fled. But her
impression was immediately dispelled by contact with the reality she
found there. Her experience in this was like that of a person who
enters with a smile among friends he has not seen for a long time,
and suddenly notices that everybody responds to his cordial greetings
coldly. The nasty glances Yudushka cast at her figure reminded her
that her position was questionable and not easy to change. When she
remained alone, after the naive questions of the Pogorelka servants,
after the pious sighs of warning of the Pogorelka priest and his wife,
after the fresh sermons of Yudushka, when she examined her impressions
of the day at leisure, she became convinced that the former "lady"
was gone forever and that from now on she was only an actress in a
miserable provincial theatre, and the position of a Russian actress was
not far removed from that of a street woman. Until now she had lived
as if in a dream. She would go out half-naked in _Fair Helen,_ would
appear intoxicated in _Pericola,_ would sing all sorts of indecencies
in the _Episodes from the Life of the Duchess of Herolstein,_ and
would even regret that it was not the custom to represent _la chose_
and _l'amour_ on the stage, imagining how enticingly her hips would
quiver and how alluring her every movement would be. But it had never
occurred to her to give earnest thought to what she was doing. She had
only tried to make everything appear "charming" and _chic_ and at the
same time please the army officers of the town regiment. But what it
all meant, and what the sensation was that her quivering hips produced
in the army officers, she did not consider. The army officers were
the element that set the tone for the town, and she realized that her
success depended upon them. They would intrude behind the scenes, would
unceremoniously knock at the door of her dressing-room when she was yet
half-clad, would address her in endearing terms--and she looked upon
it all as a simple formality, an inevitable feature incidental to her
profession. All she asked herself was whether she rendered a feature
"charmingly" or not.
Until now she had not thought of her body or her soul as being public,
but for a moment feeling herself a "lady" again, she looked on her past
in utter disgust and abhorrence, as if she had been stripped naked and
were being exposed on the public square; as if all those vile creatures
infected with the odors of wine and the stable had suddenly gripped
her in their embrace, as her body felt the contact of hands moist with
perspiration, of slabbery lips and the dull, greedy, brutal eyes that
lingered animal-like over the curved lines of her nude body.
Where was she to go? How was she to throw off that accumulated load,
which began to leave its mark on her shoulders? The question tossed
in her head desperately--tossed, indeed, for she neither found nor,
as a matter of fact, sought an answer. This stay in Golovliovo, too,
was a kind of dream. Her past life had been a dream, and her present
awakening was a dream. Something had made the little girl ill at ease,
and she had become sentimental--that was all. It would pass. There
are pleasant moments and there are unpleasant ones--that is how they
go. Both merely glide past but do not alter the course of life once
determined upon. To give life a new course, to divert its channel,
one needs not only moral but also physical courage. It is almost the
same as suicide. Before attempting suicide a man may denounce his life,
he may be certain that death is the only salvation, yet the weapon
of death trembles in his hands, the knife slides harmlessly over the
neck, the bullet, instead of striking the forehead, hits lower and
only cripples. That is what happened in Anninka's case. She had to
kill her former life, but though killing it, she herself had to remain
alive. The "nothingness" that in regular suicide is attained by merely
pressing the trigger, was to be attained in the peculiar suicide called
rejuvenation only after many stern almost ascetic efforts.
A pampered person already undermined by the habit of easy living will
turn dizzy at the mere perspective of a rejuvenation. He instinctively
turns his head away and shuts his eyes. Then filled with shame and
accusing himself of lack of courage, he will take the easy way again.
Oh, the life of toil is a glorious thing! Yet none but strong people
can live it and those who are destined for it because of original sin.
They are the only ones it does not frighten; the former because they
realize the significance and resources of toil and can find pleasure in
it; the latter, because to them toil is first a duty, then a habit.
Anninka did not think of remaining at Golovliovo or Pogorelka for even
a moment. In this she was fortified by the business routine of her
circumstances, to which she clung instinctively. She had been given
leave of absence and had arranged her schedule ahead of time, even
designating the day on which she was to leave Golovliovo. For people
of weak wills the external checks upon their life considerably lighten
its burdens. In difficult cases they cling to them instinctively and
use them as a justification for their acts.
Anninka decided to leave Golovliovo as soon as possible, and if uncle
persisted in his coaxing, to counter him by invoking the necessity of
reporting for duty on the set date.
When she arose in the morning she walked leisurely through all
the rooms of the vast Golovliovo mansion. She found them dreary,
uninviting, deserted. There was an air of decay and haunting
unfriendliness about them. The thought of living there indefinitely
quite frightened her. "Never!" she kept repeating in a state of
inexplicable agitation, "Never!"
CHAPTER V.
The next day Porfiry Vladimirych greeted her again with his ambiguous
geniality, from which it was impossible to gather whether he wanted to
show her affection or suck her blood dry.
"Well, you 'always-in-a-hurry-to-get-there,' did you sleep well? And
where are you hurrying to now?" he asked her jestingly.
"Yes, uncle, I am in a hurry, indeed. I am on leave of absence, you
know, and I must report on time."
"Is it to play the clown again? I won't let you."
"Whether you let me or not, I am going."
Yudushka shook his head sadly. "And what would your deceased grandma
say?" he asked in a tone of kindly reproach.
"Grandma knew about it when she was alive. But why do you use those
expressions, uncle? Yesterday you were sending me to the fairs with a
guitar and today you speak of playing the clown. I won't allow you to
talk like that to me, you hear?"
"Eh-eh! The truth hurts! Well, and I like the truth. I think that if
the truth----"
"No, no, I won't listen, I won't listen. I don't want your truth or
your untruth. Do you hear me? I don't want you to talk like that to me."
"Well, well! Look at her flaring up! Oh, you romp! Suppose we go in to
tea while the drinking is good. I suppose the samovar is making music
on the table by now."
Porfiry Vladimirych wanted by joke and jest to make amends for having
said "playing the clown," and even tried to embrace her as a sign of
reconciliation. But it all seemed so stupid to Anninka, so abominable,
that she declined his advance with repugnance.
"I tell you seriously, uncle, I am in a hurry," she said.
"Well, then, let's go and have tea first, then we'll talk."
"But why talk after tea? Why not now?"
"Because. Because everything has got to be done in its proper time.
First one, then the other, first we'll have tea and a chat, then we'll
talk business. Plenty of time."
She could not help but yield. His prattle was not to be overcome. They
went in to tea, and Yudushka temporized maliciously, sipping his tea
with deliberation, crossing himself, slapping his thigh, babbling about
his late mother dear, and so on.
"Well, now we can talk," he said at last. "Do you intend making a long
visit here?"
"Not more than a week. I have to be in Moscow before returning to the
company."
"A week is a long time, my dear. You can accomplish a lot in a week,
and you can accomplish little. It depends on how you go about it."
"We'd better try and accomplish a great deal, uncle."
"That's just what I say. You can do a lot and you can do little, and
sometimes you think you are doing little but before you look around,
all the work is attended to. Here, for instance, you are in a hurry to
go to Moscow, you've got business there, you say; and what the business
is, you yourself don't know, I dare say. But the way I look on it is
this, that you spend all your time here in real business instead of
going to Moscow."
"No, I must go to Moscow because I want to see if I can't get on the
stage there. And as to business, didn't you say we could accomplish a
lot in a week?"
"Depending on how you go about it, my friend. If you go about it
properly, all will be well and smooth, but if you don't go about it in
a proper way, well, you'll strike a snag, and the thing will drag on."
"Well, you guide me, uncle."
"That's just it. When in need then 'You guide me, uncle,' but when not
in need, then 'It's dull here, uncle, and I want to go away.' You can't
say I'm not right."
"But please do tell me just what I am to do."
"Wait, don't be in a hurry! So, as I was saying, when uncle is needed,
he is a dear and darling and a sweety, and when he is not needed he is
no good. But you would never trust your uncle and ask him, 'What do you
think, uncle dear, ought I to go to Moscow or not?'"
"How funny you are, uncle! I _must_ go to Moscow, and suppose I ask
your advice and you say no?"
"Well, if I say no, then stay here! It is not a stranger who says so.
It's your uncle, and you may as well take your own uncle's advice.
Oh, my friend! It's a good thing you've got an uncle. At least there
is somebody to feel with you and to warn you when necessary. Think of
others who have nobody. Nobody to feel with them, nobody to warn them.
And they live all by themselves. And things happen to them--many
things that happen in life, my dear."
Anninka wanted to reply, but realized it would be adding fuel to the
fire, and remained silent. She sat there, her eyes turned despairingly
at her uncle, who was going ahead under full steam.
"I wanted to tell you," Yudushka continued, "I don't like your going
to those fairs, no, I don't like it a bit. Though you didn't relish my
talking about guitars, I still must say--"
"But it is not enough to say 'I don't like.' Show me a way out."
"Stay with me. That's the way out."
"No, that never!"
"Why?"
"Because I have nothing to do here. What can I do here? Get up in the
morning, have tea, at tea think that breakfast is coming, at breakfast
think about dinner, and at dinner about afternoon tea. Then supper and
then to sleep. No, one can die here."
"They all do it, my friend. First people have tea, after tea those who
like to breakfast do so. I, for instance, don't like to have breakfast,
so I don't. Then dinner, then afternoon tea, then to bed. Well, I don't
see anything ridiculous or objectionable in it. But if I--"
"Nothing objectionable; but it is not after my heart."
"But if I had offended somebody, or misjudged or spoken ill, well,
then, really it would be objectionable. But to have tea and breakfast
and dinner--goodness! I guess, no matter how clever you are, you can't
get along without food."
"Yes, well and good, but it is not after my heart."
"But don't measure things by your own yardstick. Take the advice of
your elders. 'This I like, and that I don't like.' Now, you mustn't
talk that way! You ought to say instead, 'If it please God, or 'if it
does not please God'. That would be the proper kind of talk. Let's say,
for instance, in Golovliovo we don't live according to God, if we go
against Him, if we sin or question His wisdom, if we envy and do other
evil things, well, then we are really guilty and deserve to be blamed.
But here, too, it would have to be proved first that we really do not
act according to God. And you come and say, 'It is not my style.' Now,
take me as an example. There are many things that aren't my style.
Here, for instance, I don't like the way you talk to me, the way you
pooh-pooh my hospitality. Yet I keep mum. I want to persuade you in a
quiet way, maybe you'll come to your senses. Maybe while I am jesting
and talking lightly, along will come your guardian angel and lead you
along the right path. You know, my friend, I am solicitous not of my
welfare, but of yours. Ah, my friend, how bad of you! If, so to speak,
I had offended you by word or deed, well, then you would have reason
to complain. Though it behooves young people to heed even a sermon
when it comes from their elders, yet had I offended you, I wouldn't
mind your being angry. But here I am calm and quiet and easy. I don't
say a word, but only try to figure out how to make things better and
more comfortable for you and for others so that all may rejoice and
be happy. And look how you greet my kindness! What you want to do, my
dear, is not to be rash in your speech. First think, then pray to the
Lord and implore His guidance. And then if, let's say for example--"
Porfiry Vladimirych expatiated in this strain for a long time. His
words flowed like thick saliva. Anninka looked at him with instinctive
fear and thought, "How is it that the gush of words does not choke
him?" And for all his talk, her dear uncle did not utter a word of
advice as to what she was to do in connection with the death of Arina
Petrovna. She tried to bring the matter up at dinner and later at
afternoon tea, but every time Yudushka spun a different web, so that
Anninka was sorry she had resumed the conversation, and thought in
anguish, "Will it ever end?"
After dinner, when Porfiry Vladimirych retired for his afternoon nap,
Anninka remained alone with Yevpraksia and suddenly felt a desire to
have a talk with her uncle's housekeeper.
She wanted to know why Yevpraksia did not find it horrible to live at
Golovliovo and what gave her the strength to endure the torrents of
meaningless words that uncle's mouth belched forth from morning to
night.
"Do you find it dull here at Golovliovo, Yevpraksia?"
"Why should we find it dull? We are not of the gentlefolk."
"But still--always alone--no diversion, no pleasures--"
"What pleasures do I need? When it's dull, I look out of the window. I
didn't have much merriment when I lived with father."
"Still, I suppose, it was better at home. You had friends, went
visiting, played."
"Ah, what's the use!"
"And here with uncle. He says such dull things and he is so
long-winded. Is he always like that?"
"Always, all day long the same way."
"And it doesn't bore you?"
"Why should it? I don't listen to him."
"But it's impossible not to listen at all. He may notice it and become
offended."
"How can he tell? I look at him. He keeps on talking and I keep on
looking and at the same time I think my own thoughts."
"What do you generally think about?"
"Different things. If I have to pickle gherkins, I think about
gherkins. If I have to send someone to town, I think about town.
Whatever the household needs, that's what I think about."
"So, I see, you live with uncle, but you are always alone?"
"Yes, as good as alone. Unless he sometimes wishes to play cards. Well,
then we play cards. But even then he often stops in the middle of the
game, puts the cards away and begins to talk. And I look at him. It was
much livelier when Arina Petrovna was alive. When she was around he
was afraid to talk too much, because the old woman would often cut him
short. But now the liberties he takes are the limit."
"Well, you see, Yevpraksia, that's just the horror of it. It is
frightful when a man talks and does not know what he says, why he talks
and whether he'll ever get through. Doesn't it scare you?"
Yevpraksia looked at her as if struck by a new, wonderful idea.
"You're not the only one," she said. "Many people around here don't
like him for the same thing."
"Is that so?"
"Yes. Even the servants. Not one of them can stay here long. He changes
them almost every month. The clerks, too. And all on account of that."
"He annoys them?"
"Terribly. The drunkards--they stay because drunkards don't hear. You
may blow a bugle, but it's as if they had their ears stuffed. But the
trouble is, he doesn't like drunkards."
"Oh, Yevpraksia, and he is trying to persuade me to stay here."
"Well, madam, it really would be nice of you to stay a while. Maybe in
your presence he would be ashamed."
"No. Thank you. I haven't the patience to look at him."
"Yes, of course, you are of the gentlefolk. You can have your own way,
and at that I suppose you've got to dance to somebody's music."
"Oh, I should say so."
"Yes, I thought so. I meant to ask you another thing. Is it nice to be
an actress?"
"You earn your own bread and butter. That's one good thing."
"And is it true, as Porfiry Vladimirych was telling me, that strangers
embrace actresses about the waist?"
Anninka flushed up an instant.
"Porfiry Vladimirych does not understand," she said with irritation.
"That's why he talks nonsense. He seems to have no notion that it's
only play and not reality on the stage."
"And yet, even he, that is, Porfiry Vladimirych, when he saw you first,
his mouth began to water. 'My niece,' and 'dear,' and 'darling,' like a
gay blade. And his shameless eyes just devour you."
"Yevpraksia, why do you talk nonsense?"
"I? Oh, I don't care. You stay here and you'll see. And I--I don't
care. I'll give up my position, and go back to father. It's dull here,
anyway, you were right about it."
"It is silly for you to suppose that I am going to stay here. But
you're right about one thing, Golovliovo certainly _is_ a dull place.
And the longer you stay here the duller you feel."
Yevpraksia turned pensive, then yawned and said:
"When I stayed with father I was very, very slim. Now, you see how
stout I am, like an oven. So dullness does one good, after all."
"You won't stand it long, anyway. Remember what I say--you won't."
With this the conversation ended.
Luckily Porfiry Vladimirych did not hear it, otherwise he would have
obtained a new and fruitful theme for his endless sermonizing.
Porfiry Vladimirych tortured Anninka for two whole days. He kept on
saying, "Wait, don't be in a hurry! Quietly, easily. Say your prayers
and receive your benediction," and so on. He tired her to death.
Finally, on the fifth day, he was ready to go to town with her, though
he found another way of tormenting his dear niece.
She was in her fur coat waiting for him in the vestibule, and he, as if
to spite her, lingered a whole hour, dressing and washing and clapping
his thighs and crossing himself, and walking back and forth, and
sitting down, and giving orders. "Here--, or see to it--you know what I
mean. See that nothing happens--you know."
He behaved as if he were leaving Golovliovo not for a few hours, but
forever. Having tired everybody out, the men and horses who had been
waiting at the porch for an hour and a half, his own throat at last got
dry from gabbling, and he decided to start out.
The entire affair in town was concluded while the horses were eating
their oats at the inn. Porfiry Vladimirych produced an account book,
from which it appeared that when Arina Petrovna died the orphans had
twenty thousand rubles or a trifle less in five per cent securities.
Then the petition to remove the guardianship was filed, along with the
papers testifying to the majority of the orphans, and the order was
immediately issued to remove the guardianship and transfer both capital
and land to the rightful owners. In the evening of the same day Anninka
signed all the papers and inventories that Yudushka had prepared and
when all was done, heaved a sigh of relief.
The remaining few days Anninka spent in the greatest agitation. She
wanted to leave Golovliovo at once, but her uncle met her attempts with
a jest, which, good-natured as it sounded, screened a stupid obstinacy
that no human power could overcome.
"You yourself said you were going to stay a week. Then stay," he said.
"I don't understand why you are in such a hurry. You don't have to pay
rent, you are welcome without pay. You will have tea and dinner and
anything your heart may desire."
"But, uncle, I must go," Anninka pleaded.
"You are on pins and needles, but I am not going to give you horses,"
jested Yudushka. "I just won't give you horses, and you'll have to be
my prisoner. When the week is up, I won't say a word. We'll attend
mass, and have a bite, and some tea, and a chat, and we'll take a good
look at each other, and then--God speed you! But, see here, suppose
we visit the grave at Voplino again. It would be best to take leave of
your grandmother, you know. Maybe her soul will be of guidance to you."
"I shouldn't mind it," Anninka consented.
"So that's what we'll do. Early in the morning on Wednesday we'll
attend mass here, then we'll have a bite before you go, and then my
team will take you to Pogorelka. From there to Dvoriky you will go with
your own team. You are a landlady yourself, I dare say. You've got your
own horses."
She had to consent. There is something tremendously powerful in
vulgarity. It catches a person unawares, and while he is staring in
bewilderment, it has him in its clutches. When we pass a cesspool
we close our noses and try not to breathe. We have to do the same
violence to ourselves in an atmosphere saturated with idle chatter
and vulgarity, deaden our sight, hearing, smell and taste, overcome
all sensibility, turn into stone. Otherwise we run the danger of
suffocation from the miasma of vulgarity.
Anninka understood this, a bit late, perhaps. At any rate, she decided
to let the process of her liberation from the Golovliovo captivity
take its own course. She was so thoroughly overcome by Yudushka's
irresistible twaddle that she dared not resist when he, like a good
relative, embraced her and stroked her back, saying as he did so:
"You see, now you are a good little girl."
She recoiled instinctively at the touch of his trembling bony hand
creeping over her back, but was held back from any other expression of
loathing by the hope that he might release her when the week was up.
Luckily for her Yudushka was not at all squeamish. He perhaps observed
her impatient gestures but paid no attention to them. Evidently he
adhered to the theory of sexual relationship epitomized in the saying,
"Kiss me, whether you love me or not."
At last came the long expected day of departure. Anninka rose at about
six o'clock, but Yudushka was already up and about. He had already
performed the ceremonial of his morning prayers, and was sauntering
from room to room in dressing-gown and slippers without any plan or
purpose. He was visibly agitated, and when he met Anninka looked at
her askew. It was almost full daylight, but the weather was bad. The
sky was covered with massive dark clouds, from which a chilling sleet
was drizzling. The road along the hamlet had turned black and was full
of puddles--a forecast of roads impassable because of the thaw. A
strong south wind was blowing, another indication of thawing weather.
The trees had cast off their snowy mantles, and their nude wet tops
swayed drearily. The barns in the yard looked black and slimy. Porfiry
Vladimirych led Anninka to the window and pointed out the picture of
spring's awakening.
"Does it really pay to go?" he asked. "Would it not be better to stay,
after all?"
"Oh no, no!" she cried in a frightened voice. "The bad weather will
soon be over."
"Hardly. If you start now I doubt if you will reach Pogorelka before
seven o'clock. And in this thawing weather you cannot travel at night,
you know. So you'll have to spend a night at Pogorelka anyway."
"Oh, no! I'll travel at night. I'll leave at once. I am brave, you
know. And wait till one o'clock? Uncle, darling! Let me leave at once."
"And what would grandma say? 'That's the kind of granddaughter I
have!' she'll say. 'She came here, romped about, and wouldn't even come
to ask my blessing.'"
Porfiry Vladimirych stopped. For a while he shifted from one foot to
the other, then looked at Anninka, then lowered his eyes. Apparently he
was making up his mind about something.
"Wait, I'll show you something," he said at last, took a folded note
from his pocket and gave it to Anninka. "Here, read this."
Anninka read:
"I was praying to-day, and I asked my good, kind God to leave me my
good little Anninka. And the good, kind God said, 'Put your arm around
good little Anninka's plump waist and press her close to your heart.'"
"Yes?" he asked turning slightly pale.
"Fi, how nasty!" she answered, looking at him in bewilderment.
Porfiry Vladimirych turned still paler and hissed through his teeth:
"I suppose, we must have hussars!" then crossed himself and shuffled
out of the room.
In about fifteen minutes he returned and resumed his jesting as if
nothing had happened.
"Well?" he asked. "Are you going to stop at Voplino? Will you go and
say good-by to your old granny? Do, my dear, do. It is very good of you
to have thought of your grandma. Never forget your kinsfolk, my dear,
especially those who, in a manner of speaking, were willing to die for
us."
They attended the mass and requiem services, ate some kutya in the
church, then came home, ate some more kutya and sat down at the tea
table. Porfiry Vladimirych, as if to spite her, sipped his tea more
slowly than usual, and dragged his words out wearisomely, discoursing
in the intervals between gulps. About ten o'clock they finished tea,
and Anninka said imploringly:
"May I leave now, uncle?"
"And what about a bite? What about dinner? Did you really think your
uncle would let you leave on an empty stomach? Nay, nay. We are not
used to such things at Golovliovo. Why, mother dear would have refused
to look at me again if she knew I let my own niece go without a morsel.
Don't dare think of it. Why, it's impossible."
Again she had to surrender. An hour and a half passed, but there were
no signs of preparation for dinner. Everybody was going about his
business. Yevpraksia, her bunch of keys jingling, was seen in the
yard darting between the pantry and the cellar. Porfiry Vladimirych
was explaining things to his clerk, wearying him with meaningless
orders and incessantly slapping his own thighs in an effort to while
away the time. Anninka, left to herself, walked up and down the
dining-room, looked at the clock, counted her steps, then the ticks of
the clock--one, two, three. At times she glanced out of the window and
noticed the puddles were growing larger and larger.
Finally knives, forks and plates began to rattle. The butler Stepan
entered the dining-room and spread a cloth upon the table. It seemed as
if a part of Yudushka's idle bustle had communicated itself to him. He
shuffled the plates sluggishly, breathed on the drinking glasses, and
examined them, holding them up to the light. Dinner began just at one
o'clock.
"Well, so you are going," Porfiry Vladimirych opened the conversation,
in a manner befitting the occasion. Before him was a plate of soup, but
he did not touch it. He looked at Anninka so affectionately that the
tip of his nose turned red.
Anninka swallowed her soup hastily. At last he took up his spoon and
dipped it in the soup, but changed his mind, and placed it back on the
tablecloth.
"I am an old man, you'll have to pardon me," he began nagging, "you
swallowed your soup in a gulp, but I must take it slowly. I don't like
it when people are careless with God's gifts. God gave us bread for
sustenance, and look how much of it you have wasted. Look at all the
crumbs you scattered. Altogether, I like to do things thoroughly and
carefully. It comes out safer in the end. Maybe it annoys you that I
am not quick enough, that I can't jump through a hoop, or whatever
you call it. Well, what can I do? If you feel like being annoyed, go
ahead. I know you will be cross a little while and then forgive the old
man. Remember, _you_ are not going to be young always. You will not be
jumping through hoops all of your life. Life will give you experience
and teach you wisdom. Then you will say, 'Maybe uncle was right after
all.' So, my dear, now while you listen to me, you probably think,
'Uncle is no good. Uncle is an old grouch.' But if you live to my old
age, you'll pipe a different tune. You'll say, 'Uncle was nice. Uncle
was a dear. Uncle taught me right.'"
Porfiry Vladimirych crossed himself and swallowed two spoonfuls of
soup, then put his spoon down and leaned back in his chair as a sign of
an ensuing monologue.
"Bloodsucker!" was on the tip of her tongue, but she pulled herself up,
poured out a glass of water, and drank it at a gulp. Yudushka sensed
her mental state.
"So, you don't like it? Well, like it or not, you'd better take uncle's
advice. I've been long meaning to talk to you about your hasty way of
doing things, but I could not find the time to do it. I don't like that
haste in you. There is fickleness in it, a lack of judgment. When you
left your old grandmother, you had no business to leave her and cause
the old woman anxiety. I really don't see why you did it."
"Oh, uncle, why recall it? It's done. It isn't kind of you."
"Wait. That's not the point I'm making--kind or unkind--what I want to
say is that even when a thing has been done, it can be undone, or done
all over again. Not only we mortals, but even God alters His deeds.
Now He sends rain, now He sends fair weather. So, suppose--really, the
theatre isn't a good place--suppose you decide to stay."
"No, uncle, let's not speak about it, I beg of you."
"And there's another thing I want to tell you. Your fickleness is bad
enough, but what is still worse is the way you slight the advice of
your elders. I speak for your own good and you say, 'Let's not speak
about it.' Uncle is kind and tender, and you snap at him. But do you
know who gave you your uncle? Well, tell me--who?"
Anninka looked at him in perplexity.
"God gave you your uncle, that is who. God did it. If not for God, you
would now be all alone in the world, you would not know how to manage
things, or how to file a petition or where to file it, and what to
expect from it. You would be lost in the woods. Anybody could deceive
you, abuse you or even disgrace you. You see? And with the aid of God
and your uncle the whole deal went through in one day. We went to
town, and filed a petition and got the necessary mandates. You see, my
dear, what uncle can do?"
"Yes, uncle, I am grateful to you."
"Well, if you are, don't snap at me, and do as I tell you. I mean your
good, though at times it seems to you that----"
Anninka could hardly control herself. There was one way left to rid
herself of uncle's sermons--to feign that in principle she accepted his
proposal to remain at Golovliovo.
"All right, uncle," she said, "I'll think it over. I myself feel it is
not quite proper to live alone, far from relatives. But I can't make up
my mind now--I'll have to think it over."
"Well, I am glad to see you have understood me, but what is there to
think over? We'll have the horses unhitched, your trunks taken out of
the cart--that's all the thinking there is to be done."
"No, uncle, you forget I have a sister."
Whether her argument convinced Porfiry Vladimirych or whether the whole
scene had been staged for the mere show of it, it is hard to say.
Porfiry Vladimirych himself did not know whether Anninka really ought
to stay at Golovliovo or whether it was simply a whim of his. At any
rate, from that moment on dinner proceeded at a livelier pace. Anninka
agreed to everything he said and answered his questions in a manner
that did not provoke much nagging and babbling. Nevertheless, the clock
showed half past two when dinner was over. Anninka jumped up from the
table as if she had been sitting in a steam bath, and ran to her uncle
to say good-by.
In ten minutes Yudushka, in his fur coat and bear-skin boots, saw her
to the porch and in person supervised the process of seating the young
mistress in the pony cart.
"Easy when you go downhill--you hear? And see that you don't drop her
out at the Senkino slope!" he shouted to the driver.
Finally Anninka was seated, wrapped up, and the leather cover of the
cart was fastened.
"Suppose you stay!" Yudushka shouted again, wishing that in the
presence of the servants gathered about, all go off properly as befits
good kinsfolk. But Anninka already felt free, and was suddenly seized
with a desire to play a girlish prank. She stood up in the cart and
emphasizing every word, said, "No, uncle, I will not! You are a fright!"
Yudushka pretended not to hear, but his lips turned pale.
CHAPTER VI
Anninka was so overjoyed at her liberation from the Golovliovo bondage,
that she did not even stop to think of the man who at her departure
lost all contact with the world of living beings. She thought only
of herself. She enjoyed the feeling of escape. And the sensation of
freedom was so strong that when she visited the grave at Voplino again
there was no longer a trace of that nervous sensibility which she had
betrayed the first time. She listened to the requiem quietly, bowed
before the grave without shedding a tear, and quite willingly accepted
the priest's invitation to have tea with him.
The house of the Voplino priest was very scantily furnished. The
only room of state in the house, which served as the reception room,
looked naked and dreary. Along the walls were arranged about a dozen
painted chairs, upholstered with haircloth, in holes here and there,
and a sofa of the same kind with its back bulging out, like the chest
of an old-time general. Against one of the walls between two windows
stood a plain table covered with a soiled cloth, on which lay several
confession books of the parish. From behind them peeped an inkpot with
a quill stuck in it. An image case containing an ikon handed down as a
family heirloom and a burning ikon lamp were suspended in the eastern
corner of the room. Underneath the image case stood two trunks covered
with a drab faded cloth holding the family linen, the dowry of the lady
of the house. The walls were not papered. A few daguerreotype portraits
of bishops hung in the center of one wall. There was a peculiar odor
in the room, as if many generations of flies and black beetles had met
their fate there. The priest himself, though a young man, had become
considerably faded amidst these surroundings. His thin flaxen hair hung
from his head in long, straight locks, like the boughs of a weeping
willow. His eyes, once blue, were now lifeless. His voice trembled, his
beard had taken on a wedge-like shape, his merino cassock hung on him
loosely. His wife, also young, looked even more faded than her husband,
because of frequent child bearing.
Nevertheless, Anninka could not help noticing that even these poor
timid, worn-out people looked upon her not as at a real parishioner,
but in pity, as if she were a lost sheep.
"You were visiting at your uncle's?" began the priest, carefully
removing a cup of tea from the tray held by his wife.
"Yes, I stayed there about a week."
"Porfiry Vladimirych is now the chief landowner in the district, and
has the greatest power. But it looks as if luck is not with him. First
one son died, then the other, and now his mother has departed. I am
surprised he did not insist on your staying with him."
"Uncle wanted me to stay, but I did not care to."
"Why so?"
"I prefer to live in freedom."
"Freedom, madam, is not a bad thing, of course, but it has its
dangers. And when you think you are the nearest relative to Porfiry
Vladimirych, you could forego a bit of that freedom, I imagine."
"No, father, one's own bread tastes better. It's easier to live when
you know you are under no obligations to anyone." |
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