But Arina Petrovna did not hear him. Her wide-open eyes stared dimly
into space as if she were trying to understand something and could not.
Yudushka, too, did not understand. He did not understand that the
yawning grave was to carry off the last creature that linked him to the
living world.
With his usual bustle he delved into the mass of trifles and details
that were incident upon the ceremonial of burial. He had requiems
chanted, ordered memorial masses for the future, discussed matters
with the priest, hurried from room to room with his shambling gait.
Every now and then he peeped into the dining-room where the deceased
lay, crossed himself, lifted his hands heavenward, and late at night
stole quietly to the door to listen to the sexton's monotonous reading
of the Psalms. He was pleasantly surprised that his expenses upon the
occasions would be very slight, for Arina Petrovna long before her
death had put away a sum of money for her burial and itemized in detail
the various expenditures.
Having buried his mother, Porfiry Vladimirych at once began to
familiarize himself with her effects. Examining the papers he
found about a dozen various wills (in one of them she called him
"undutiful"); but all of them had been written when Arina Petrovna was
still the domineering, despotic mistress, and were incomplete--in the
form of tentative drafts.
So Yudushka was quite pleased that he had no need to play foul in order
to declare himself the sole legitimate heir to his mother's property.
The latter consisted of a capital of fifteen thousand rubles and of a
scanty movable estate which included the famous coach that had nearly
become the cause of dissension between mother and son. Arina Petrovna
kept her own accounts quite separate and distinct from those of her
wards, so that one could see at a glance what belonged to her and what
to the orphans. Yudushka lost no time in declaring himself heir at the
proper legal places. He sealed the papers bearing on the guardianship,
gave the servants his mother's scanty wardrobe, and sent the coach and
two cows to Golovliovo, which were placed in the inventory under the
heading "mine." Then he had the last requiem performed and went his way.
"Wait for the owners," he told the people gathered in the hallway to
see him off. "If they come, they'll be welcome; if they don't--just as
they please. For my part, I did all I could. I straightened out the
guardianship accounts and hid nothing. Everything was done in plain
view, in front of everybody. The money that mother left belongs to me
legally. The coach and the two cows that I sent to Golovliovo are mine
_by law._ Maybe some of my property is left _here._ However, I won't
insist on it. God Himself commands us to give to orphans. I am sorry to
have lost mother, she was a good old woman, a kindly soul. Oh, mother
dear, it was not right of you, darling, to have left us poor orphans.
But if it had pleased God to take you, it befits us to submit to His
holy will. May, at least, your soul rejoice in heaven, and as for
us--well, we are not to be considered."
The first death was soon followed by another.
Yudushka's attitude toward his son's fate was quite puzzling. Since he
did not receive newspapers and was not in correspondence with anybody,
he could not learn anything of the trial in which Petenka figured. And
he hardly wished to. Above all things, he shunned disturbance of every
kind. He was buried up to his ears in a swamp of petty details, all
centering around the welfare and preservation of his precious self.
There are many such people in this world. They live apart from the rest
of humanity, having neither the desire nor the knowledge to identify
themselves with a "cause," and bursting in the end like so many soap
bubbles. They have no ties of friendship, for friendship presupposes
the existence of common interests; nor do they have any business
connections. For thirty years at a stretch Porfiry Vladimirych had
marked time in a government office. Then, one fine day he disappeared,
and no one noticed the fact.
He learned of his son's fate after his domestics had. But even then
he feigned ignorance, so that when Yevpraksia once tried to mention
Petenka, he waved her off and said:
"No, no, no! I don't know, I did not hear anything, and I don't want to
hear anything. I don't want to know a thing about his dirty affairs."
But finally he did learn about Petenka. He received a letter from him
saying he was about to leave for one of the remote provinces and asking
his father to continue to send him an allowance in his new position.
The whole of the next day Porfiry Vladimirych was in a state of visible
perplexity. He darted from room to room, peeped into the oratory,
crossed himself, and sighed. But toward evening he plucked up courage
and wrote the following letter:
/#
"My criminal son Piotr:
"As a faithful and law-abiding subject I should not even
answer your letter. But as a father given to human weaknesses,
I cannot, from a sense of compassion, refuse good advice to
a child who, through his own fault, plunged himself into a
whirlpool of evil.
"Here, in short, is my opinion on the subject. The punishment
that has been meted out to you is severe, but you quite deserve
it. That is the first and most important consideration that
should always accompany you in your new life from now on.
All your other vagaries and even the memory thereof you must
forget, for in your present situation all this will only tend
to irritate you and urge you on to impious complaint. You have
already tasted of the bitter fruits of haughtiness of spirit.
Try now to taste of the fruits of humility, all the more so
since there is nothing else left for you in the future. Do not
complain of the punishment, for the authorities do not even
punish you, but only provide means for your correction. To be
grateful for this, and to endeavor to make amends for what
you did--that is what you must incessantly bear in mind, and
not the luxurious frittering away of time, which I myself, by
the way, never did, although I was never under indictment.
So follow this prudent advice of mine and turn over a new
leaf, satisfied with what the authorities, in their kindness,
will deem it necessary to allot to you. I, for my part, will
pray the Giver of all things good to grant you firmness and
humility. Even on the very day on which I write these lines I
have been to church and offered up fervent prayers for you. And
now, I bless you for the new journey and remain, your indignant
but still loving father, Porfiry Golovliov."
#/
It is uncertain whether the letter ever reached Petenka, but no more
than a month after it was sent, Porfiry Vladimirych was officially
notified that his son, while on his way to the place of exile, had
fallen ill and died in a hospital.
Yudushka remained alone, but at first did not realize that this
new loss had made his life an absolute void. The realization came
soon after the death of Arina Petrovna, when he was all absorbed in
reckoning and figuring. He read every paper of the deceased, took into
account every kopek, traced the relation of this kopek to the kopeks
of the guardianship, not wishing, as he put it, either to acquire
another's, or to lose his own. Amidst this bustle the question never
once arose in his mind: To what end was he doing all this, and who was
to enjoy the fruits of his busy hoarding?
From morning to night he bent over his desk musing and criticizing the
arrangements of the deceased. Engrossed in these cares he began little
by little to neglect the bookkeeping of his own estate.
The manor fell into profound silence. The domestics, who had always
preferred the servants' quarters, abandoned the house almost entirely,
and when in the master's rooms would walk on tiptoe and speak in a
whisper. There was an air of desertion and death about the place and
about the man, something eery. The gloom enveloping Yudushka was to
grow denser every day.
CHAPTER II
During Lent, when no theatrical performances were given, Anninka came
to Golovliovo. Lubinka had been unable to accompany her because she
had been engaged for the entire Lent and had gone to Romny, Izum,
Kremenchug, etc., where she was to give concerts and sing her entire
music-hall repertoire.
During her brief artistic career Anninka had greatly improved in looks.
She was no longer the simple, anæmic, somewhat sluggish girl who in
Dubrovino or Pogorelka had walked from room to room humming and swaying
awkwardly, as if she could not find a place for herself. She was now
quite developed, with confident, even dashing manners. At the very
first glance one could tell she was quick at repartee. The change in
her appearance gave Porfiry Vladimirych a pleasant surprise. Before him
stood a tall, well-built woman with a lovely pink complexion, high,
well-developed bust, full eyes, and abundant ash-colored hair, which
she wore braided low on her neck--a woman evidently aware of her own
attractiveness.
She arrived at Golovliovo early in the morning and at once retired to a
room, from which she emerged in a splendid silk gown. She entered the
dining-room with a swish of her train, manipulating it skilfully among
the chairs. Though Yudushka loved God above all, it did not prevent him
from having a taste for beautiful and, especially, tall, plump women.
So he crossed Anninka first, then kissed her so emphatically on both
cheeks, casting queer glances at her bust meanwhile, that Anninka could
not refrain from smiling faintly.
They sat down at the tea table. Anninka raised her arms and stretched.
"Oh, uncle, how dull it is here!" she began, yawning slightly.
"There you are! Here only a minute and dull already. You stay with us
some time, then we'll see, perhaps you won't find it so dull after
all," answered Porfiry Vladimirych, his eyes suddenly taking on an oily
glitter.
"No, there isn't an interesting thing here. What is there? Snow all
around, no neighbors. Is there a regiment quartered anywhere near here?"
"Yes, there is a regiment and there are neighbors; but, to tell the
truth, it doesn't interest me. Yet, if you----"
Porfiry Vladimirych looked at her and did not end his sentence, but
coughed. Perhaps he had stopped intentionally, wishing to excite
her feminine curiosity. At any rate the same faint smile as before
glided over her lips. She leaned her elbows on the table and looked
at Yevpraksia fixedly. The, girl all flushed, was drying the glasses,
casting sly glances at Anninka with her large, heavy eyes.
"My new housekeeper--very industrious," said Porfiry Vladimirych.
Anninka nodded slightly and began to purr softly:
_"Ah, ah! que j'aime--que j'aime--que j'aime--les
mili-mili-mili-taires!"_ and her hips quivered as she sang.
Silence set in, during which Yudushka, his eyes meekly lowered, sipped
his tea from a glass.
"My, it's dull!" said Anninka, yawning again.
"It's dull, and it's dull! You never get tired of saying that. You wait
a while, stay here a bit longer. We'll order the sleigh set to rights,
and you'll ride to your heart's content."
"Uncle, why didn't you become a hussar?"
"Because, my friend, every man has his station ordained by the Lord.
Some are to become hussars, others functionaries, others merchants;
some are----"
"Oh, yes, and so on, and so forth. Who can keep track of it all? And
God ordained all that, did He?"
"Why, yes, my friend, God. And it is not proper to scoff. Do you know
what the Scriptures say? 'Without the will of God----'"
"Is it about the hair? Yes, I know that, too. But the trouble is,
everybody wears false hair now, and I don't think that was foreseen.
By the way, uncle, look what wonderful braids I have! Don't you think
they're fine?"
Porfiry Vladimirych came nearer, for some reason, on tiptoe, and
fingered her braids for some time. And Yevpraksia, without relaxing her
hold on the saucer filled with tea and holding a bit of toast between
her teeth, leaned forward and said, "False, I suppose?"
"Oh, no, my own. Some day I'll let my hair down for you, uncle."
"Yes, your hair is fine," said Yudushka, his lips parting in a
repulsive smile. Then he recalled that one must turn his back on such
temptations and added, "Oh, you hoyden! Always thinking about braids
and trains, but you'd never think of inquiring about the main thing,
the real thing?"
"Oh, about grandmother? She is dead, isn't she?"
"Yes, my friend, she died. And how she died! Peacefully, calmly, not a
soul heard it. That's what I call a worthy end to one's earthly life.
She thought of everybody, gave everybody her blessing, called a priest,
received her last communion, and suddenly became so calm, so calm! Then
she began to sigh. Sighed once, twice, three times, and before we knew
it, she was no more."
Yudushka rose, turned toward the ikon, folded his hands, and offered up
a prayer. Tears rose to his eyes, so well did he simulate. But Anninka
apparently was not of the sentimental kind. It is true she remained
pensive for a while but for quite a different reason.
"Do you remember, uncle, how she used to feed my sister and me on sour
milk when we were little ones? Not later. Later she was splendid. I
mean when she was still rich."
"Oh, well, let bygones be bygones. She fed you on sour milk, but you
look none the worse for it, may the Lord be with you. Do you think you
would care to visit her grave?"
"Yes, I wouldn't mind."
"But you know, it would be well if you purified yourself first."
"What do you mean, purified?"
"You know--an actress. You think it was easy for the old woman? So
before you go to her grave I think you should attend a mass to purify
yourself, you know. You see, I'll order a mass early tomorrow morning,
and then--Godspeed!"
Absurd as Yudushka's proposition was, it confused Anninka for a minute.
But she soon knitted her brows angrily and said sharply:
"No, I'll go now--as I am!"
"Well, I don't know, do as you please. But my advice is: let's attend
the mass tomorrow morning, then take tea and have a pair of swift
little horses hitched to a pony cart, and then go together. You see,
you would become cleansed of your sins, and your grandmother's soul
would----"
"Oh, uncle, how foolish you are, though. Lord knows what nonsense you
talk. And you even insist on it."
"So you don't like it? Well, don't hold it against me, my dear. I am
straight from the shoulder, you know. When it comes to truth, I'll
tell it to others and take it from others as well. Though at times it
goes against the grain, though truth is hard at times, but I'll always
listen to it. And one must listen to it, because--it's the truth. So,
my dear. You stay with us a while and live the way we do. Then you'll
see that it's better than going with a guitar from fair to fair."
"Heaven knows what you're talking about, uncle. 'With a guitar!'"
"Well, if it isn't a guitar, then it's a bagpipe or something. Besides,
you offended me first, called me foolish. So I, an old man, surely have
a right to tell you the truth to your face."
"All right, let it be the truth. We won't argue about it. But tell me,
please, did grandmother leave anything?"
"Why, of course, she did. But the legitimate heir was present in
person."
"That is you. All the better. Was she buried here in Golovliovo?"
"No, near Pogorelka, at the St. Nicholas Church. It was her own wish."
"I'll go. Can I hire horses here, uncle?"
"Why hire? I've got my own. You are not a stranger, I dare say, a
niece, my little niece."
Porfiry Vladimirych began to liven up, and put on an _en famille_ grin.
"A pony cart, a pair of fine little horses--thank God, I am not poor, I
dare say! And wouldn't it be well for me to go with you? We would visit
the grave, you see, and then would go to Pogorelka and peep in here and
there, and we would think matters over, talk things over--about this
and that. Yours is a fine little estate, you know. It has some very
good spots."
"No, I'll go alone, I think. Why should you go? By the way, Petenka's
dead, too, I hear?"
"Yes, my dear friend, Petenka is dead, too. I am sorry for him in
one way, very sorry--to the point of tears; but then--it was all his
own fault. He was always disrespectful to his father, that's why God
punished him. And what God, in His great wisdom, did, you and I cannot
undo."
"Of course, we can't. But what makes me wonder is, why you don't find
it too horrible to live."
"Why should I fear? You see how much succor I have all around."
Yudushka made a gesture, pointing to the ikons. "Succor here and succor
in my study. The ikon room is a veritable paradise. You see how many
protectors I have."
"But still, you are always alone. It's frightful."
"And if I am afraid, I fall on my knees, say a prayer, and the fear is
all gone. And why be afraid? It's light during the day, and at night
I have ikon lamps burning in every room. From outside in the dark it
looks as if there were a ball in the house. And what ball? Who are the
guests? Holy protectors, God's chosen. Those are my guests!"
"You know, Petenka wrote to us before his death."
"Well, of course, he is a relative. It's a good thing he did not lose
his feelings of kinship."
"Yes, he wrote to us. It was after the trial, when sentence had been
pronounced. He wrote he had lost three thousand rubles in cards and you
would not give him the money. But you are rich, uncle, aren't you?"
"Ah, my dear, it's easy to count money in another man's pocket.
Sometimes we think a man has mountains of gold, and when you come
closer you see he has barely enough for oil and a candle--not for
himself--for God."
"Well, then, we are richer than you. We gave some of our own money
and took up a collection among our gentlemen friends. We scraped six
hundred rubles together and sent it to him."
"What do you mean 'gentlemen friends?'"
"Oh, uncle, we are actresses, you know. Didn't you yourself suggest
that I purify myself?"
"I don't like it when you speak that way."
"What can you do? Whether you like it or not, you can't undo what has
been done. According to you, God is in that, too."
"Don't blaspheme at least. You may say anything you want, but don't
blaspheme. I won't stand for it. Where did you send the money to?"
"I don't remember. To a little town of some sort. He wrote us the name."
"I didn't know. If there was money, I should have gotten it after his
death. It is not possible that he spent it all at once. Well, I don't
know, I didn't get any. I suppose the jailers and guards were on to it."
"I'm not asking for it, uncle. I just mentioned it while we were on the
subject. It's awful, uncle, for a man to perish on account of three
thousand rubles."
"It wasn't all on account of the three thousand. Haven't you something
else to say than to keep on repeating 'three thousand, three thousand?'
But God----"
Yudushka had got his cue and was about to explain in detail
how God--Providence--by unseen ways--and all that, but Anninka
unceremoniously yawned and said:
"Oh, uncle, how boring it is here."
This time Porfiry Vladimirych was truly offended and became silent.
For a long time they both paced up and down the dining room. Anninka
yawned, Porfiry Vladimirych crossed himself at every step. At last the
carriage was announced and the usual comedy of seeing relations off
began. Golovliov put on his fur coat, went out on the porch, kissed
Anninka and shouted to the servants, "Her feet! Wrap up her feet well!"
and "What about the blankets, have you taken the blankets along? See
you don't forget them!" all the while making signs of the cross in the
air.
Anninka visited her grandmother's grave, asked the priest to say the
mass, and when the choir began to chant the "Eternal memory," she cried
a bit. The background of the ceremony was rather sad. The church near
which Arina Petrovna had been buried was of the poorest kind. In some
places the plaster had fallen off its walls and exposed large patches
of brick. The sound of the bells was feeble and hollow, the priest's
robe was threadbare. The cemetery was snowed under, so that the path to
the grave had to be shovelled clear. No monument had yet been placed.
Nothing but a plain white cross, even without an inscription, marked
the grave. The cemetery was in a lonely spot removed from any dwelling.
Not far from the church stood the houses of the priest and the church
officials and all around the cheerless, snow-covered plains stretched
as far as the eye could reach. Here and there one could see brushwood
jutting out from the snow. A sharp March wind was sweeping over the
churchyard, wafting away the chanting of the churchmen and lashing the
priest's robe.
"Who would have thought, madam, that the richest landlady in the
district would rest here under this modest cross in our poor parish?"
said the priest when he was through with the requiem.
At these words Anninka cried again. She recalled the poet's line:
"Where feasts once reigned a hearse now stands!" And the tears kept
streaming down her cheeks. Then she went to the priest's house, had tea
there, and talked with his wife. Another line came back to her: "And
pallid death on all doth stare," and again she wept, long and bitterly.
Nobody had notified the people at Pogorelka that the young lady was
coming, so that the rooms were not even heated. Anninka, with her
fur coat on, walked through all the rooms, remaining a moment in
grandmother's bedroom and the ikon room. In the former she found
a bedstead with a heap of soiled, greasy pillows, some without
pillow-cases. Scraps of paper lay on the desk in disorder, the floor
had not been swept and a thick coat of dust covered everything. Anninka
sat down in the easy-chair where her grandmother used to sit, and
became lost in thought. At first came up reminiscences of the past;
then they were crowded out by images of the present. The former came in
the shape of fleeting patches and fragments, pausing in her mind for no
more than a moment; the latter were more persistent. It was but a brief
while ago that she had longed to flee from Pogorelka and it had seemed
a hateful place. Now her heart suddenly filled with a morbid desire to
live there again.
"It is quiet here, it is not cozy, and it is unsightly; but it is
quiet, so quiet, as if everything around were dead. There is much air
and much room."
She looked out over the endless fields and felt a desire to dash
straight across them, without aim or purpose, just to breathe fast
and feel a pain in her chest. And _there,_ in the half-nomadic life
from which she had just escaped and to which she _must_ return--what
awaited her there? What had she gained by it? Nothing but recollections
of hotels permeated with stench, of an everlasting din coming from
the dining and billiard rooms, of unkempt porters, of rehearsals on
the stage in the twilight and among the scenes of painted linen, the
feel of which was abominable, in the draught and in the dampness. And
then, army officers, lawyers, obscene language, and the eternal uproar!
What hadn't the men told her! With what obscenity hadn't they touched
her! Especially the one with the mustache, with a voice hoarse from
drink, inflamed eyes, and a perpetual smell of the stable about him.
Lord, what he had told her! Anninka shivered at the very recollection
and shut her eyes. Then she came to, sighed, and went into the ikon
room. There were now only a few ikons in the image-case, only those
which had unquestionably belonged to her mother. The rest of them,
her grandmother's, Yudushka, as the legitimate heir, had removed to
Golovliovo. The empty spaces where they had stood stared like the
hollow eye-sockets in a deathshead. Nor were there any ikon lamps.
Yudushka had taken all of them. Only one yellow bit of wax candle
stood out, orphan-like, from a miniature tin candlestick that had been
forgotten.
"His Excellency wanted to take the image case, too. He was trying
to make sure if it really was a part of madam's dowry," reported
Afimyushka.
"Well, he could have taken it. Tell me, Afimyushka, did grandma suffer
much before she died?"
"No, not much, she was laid up for only a day or so. She just went out,
of her own self. She wasn't really sick or anything. She didn't talk
either, just mentioned you and your sister once or twice."
"So Porfiry Vladimirych carried off the ikons?"
"Yes, he did. He said they were his mother's personal property. He also
took the coach and two cows. From the mistress's papers he gathered, I
suppose, that they belonged to your grandmother, not to you. He also
wanted to take away a horse, but Fedulych would not give it to him.
'It's our horse,' he said, 'an old-timer in Pogorelka.' So Porfiry
Vladimirych left it here. He was afraid."
Anninka walked through the yard, peeped into the servants' quarters,
the barn, and the cattle yard. In a swamp of manure stood about twenty
lean cows and three horses. She ordered some bread to be brought,
saying, "I'll pay for it," and gave every cow a piece of bread.
Then the cattle-house woman invited the young lady into the house.
There was a jug of milk on the table, and in the corner near the oven,
behind a low wainscot screening, a new-born calf was sheltered.
Anninka tasted some milk, ran to the little calf, kissed his snout,
but quickly wiped her lips, saying the calf had a horrid snout,
all slabbery. At the end, she produced three yellow bills from her
pocketbook, distributed them to the old domestics, and prepared to go.
"What are you going to do?" she asked, while she made herself
comfortable in the pony cart, of old Fedulych, who, as the _starosta,_
followed the young owner, with his hands crossed on his breast.
"Well, what can we do? We'll live," answered Fedulych simply.
Anninka became sad again for a moment. There seemed to be irony in
Fedulych's words. She waited a while, sighed, and said:
"Well, good-by."
"We thought that you would come back and live with us," said Fedulych.
"No, what's the use? Anyway--you live on!"
Tears flowed from her eyes again and the others cried, too. It seemed
peculiar to her; there was nothing to regret in leaving the place,
nothing sentimental to remember it by, and yet she was crying. And
those people, too. She had not said anything out of the ordinary to
them--just the usual questions and answers--and yet their hearts were
heavy, they were sorry to see her go. She was seated in the cart,
wrapped up and well covered. Everybody heaved a sigh. "Good luck!" came
running after her when the cart started. Passing the churchyard she
stopped again and went to the grave alone without the ecclesiastics,
following the path that had been cleared. It was quite dark, and
lights began to appear in the houses of the church officials. She
stood there with one hand holding on to the cross rising from the
grave. She did not cry, but only swayed slightly, thinking of nothing
in particular, unable to formulate any definite thought. But she was
unhappy, in every way unhappy. Not because of grandmother, but on her
own account. So she stood for a quarter of an hour, and suddenly before
her eyes rose the image of Lubinka, who perhaps at that very moment was
singing merrily in a rollicking company, somewhere in Kremenchug:
/$
"_Ah, ah, que j'aime, que j'aime!
Que j'aime, les mili-mili-mili-taires!"_
$/
She almost broke down. She ran to her cart, seated herself, and ordered
the coachman to drive to Golovliovo as fast as possible.
CHAPTER III
When Anninka returned to her uncle's, she was dull and silent, though
she did feel a bit hungry (in the hurry, uncle had not given her some
chicken to take along) and was very glad the table was already set for
tea. Of course, Porfiry Vladimirych was not slow to open a conversation.
"Well, were you there?"
"Yes, I was."
"Did you pray at the grave? Did you have the requiem sung?"
"Yes."
"So the priest was at home?"
"Of course he was, or who would have performed the requiem?"
"Oh, yes, certainly. And the two sextons, were they there? Did they
sing: 'Eternal memory?'"
"Yes, they did."
"Yes, eternal memory! May she rest in peace. She was a good, kind
woman."
Yudushka rose from his seat, faced the ikon and offered up a prayer.
"Well, and how did you find things in Pogorelka, everything in good
shape?"
"I don't know, really. I think everything is in its proper place."
"Indeed, 'I think.' You always 'think,' but when you take a good look
you find this is wrong and that is wrong. That's how we judge of other
people's business. We 'think' and we 'guess!' But anyway, you've got
a nice little estate. My late mother fixed it all up very nicely. She
even spent a good deal of her own money on it. Well, it's only right to
help orphans along."
Listening to these chants of praise, Anninka could not refrain from
teasing her kindhearted uncle.
"Uncle, why did you take two cows away from Pogorelka?" she asked.
"Cows, what cows? Oh, you mean the black and the spotted one? Well, my
dear, they belonged to my mother."
"And you are her legitimate heir? Oh, well, you can have them. Do you
want me to send you a little calf? I will, if you want me to."
"Now, there! Look at her getting excited! Let's talk business, whom do
you think the cows belong to?"
"How do I know? They were in Pogorelka."
"And I do know. I have proof that the cows belonged to mother. I found
a memorandum written in her own hand. 'Mine,' is plainly written there."
"Oh, let's drop it. It isn't worth talking about."
"There's a pony at Pogorelka, too, little old Baldy, you know. Well,
about Baldy I am not sure. I think Baldy belonged to mother, but I'm
not sure. And I can't speak of what I don't know."
"Let's drop it, uncle."
"No, why drop it? I'm straight from the shoulder, my dear, I like to
bring out the truth of things. Why not talk it over? Nobody wants to
part with his own. I don't, you don't. Well, then, let's talk it over
and see who's right. And when it comes to talking, I'll tell you
plainly: I don't want what's yours and I won't let go of mine, either.
Because, though you are not a stranger to me, still I----"
"And you even took the ikons," Anninka could not refrain from remarking.
"Yes, the ikons, too. I took everything that belonged to me by law."
"Now the image case looks as if it has holes in it."
"What can you do? You'll have to pray before it as it is. God, you
know, does not want your image case, but your prayers. If you are
sincere about it, your prayer will reach Him, even if it's done before
poor ikons. And if you just pray without meaning it, and look around
and make a courtesy, then the best images will be of no avail."
Nevertheless, Yudushka rose and offered thanks to God for the fact that
his images were "good."
"Well, and if you don't like the old image case, have a new one built
and put in new ikons instead of those taken out. My deceased mother
acquired the old ikons at her own cost, and now it's up to you to get
new ones."
Porfiry Vladimirych even tittered, so clear and simple did his
reasoning seem to him.
"But tell me, please, what am I to do now?" Anninka asked.
"Well, wait a while. Rest up first, loll around, get some sleep. We'll
talk the matter over and examine it from every angle, and we'll see
what can be done. Both of us together may think up something."
"Sister and I are of age, I think?"
"Yes, of age. Quite so. You can now manage yourself and your estate."
"Thank God at least for that."
"I have the honor to congratulate you."
Porfiry Vladimirych rose to kiss her.
"How funny you are, uncle, always kissing."
"Why shouldn't I kiss you? You are not a stranger, I may say, you are
my niece. I like kinsfolk, my dear. I am always for my relatives, near
or distant, second, third, or fourth cousins, I'm always with them."
"You'd better tell me what I am to do. Must I go to town and see all
the officials?"
"Yes, and we'll go to town and we'll attend to the matter--all in due
time. But before we do that, rest up a bit. Stay here a while. You are
not stopping at an inn but at your uncle's, I may say. You'll have
enough to eat and drink, and for your sweet tooth we've got plenty of
everything. If you don't like a dish, ask for a different one. Demand,
insist! If you don't care for cabbage soup, ask for chicken soup. Order
cutlets, duck, pork. Get after Yevpraksia. Here I boasted about pork
and I don't really know if we've got any. Have we?"
Yevpraksia, holding the saucer with the hot tea to her mouth, nodded
affirmatively.
"Well, you see, we've got pork too, and all in all you can have
whatever your heart desires."
Yudushka approached Anninka again and like a good relative clapped her
on the knee and quite inadvertently let his hand rest there a little,
so that Anninka instinctively recoiled.
"But I've got to go," she said.
"That's just what I've been saying. We'll discuss matters and talk
things over and then we'll go with a prayer and a benediction, but
not--hop! jump! run! The more haste the less speed. You may hurry to a
fire, but our house is not ablaze. Well, Lubinka has got to hurry to
the fair, but what is your hurry? Another thing I meant to ask you, Are
you going to live in Pogorelka?"
"No, there's nothing for me to do there."
"That's just what I was going to say. Move here, to my house. We'll
live here and have a fine time of it."
Yudushka looked at Anninka with such oily eyes that she became
embarrassed.
"No, uncle, I don't want to stay here with you. It's too dull."
"Oh, you silly little thing! Why do you keep repeating 'dull, dull?'
You speak of dullness and I'll bet you don't know what's dull around
here. If you have something to keep you busy, and if you know how to
manage yourself, you'll never feel dull. Take me, for example, I don't
notice how time flies. On week days I'm busy with the affairs of the
estate. I look at this and take a peep into that, and figure out one
thing and discuss another thing. Before I know it, the day is gone.
And on a holiday--to church! You will do the same thing. Stay with us
for a while. We'll find something for you to do. In your leisure time
you may play fool with Yevpraksia, or go sleigh-riding--slide along as
fast as you wish. And when summer comes we'll go to the woods picking
mushrooms. And we'll have tea on the lawn."
"No, uncle, it's no use trying to persuade me."
"Really, you ought to stay."
"No. But the journey has tired me, so I should like to go to bed if
possible."
"Yes, you can go rock-a-by. I've got a nice little bed ready for you,
everything in proper fashion. If you want to go rock-a-by, go right
ahead. But I should advise you to think the matter over. I think it
would be best for you to stay with us at Golovliovo."
CHAPTER IV
Anninka spent a restless night. The hysterical mood that had overtaken
her at Pogorelka still persisted. There are moments when a person
who has been merely existing suddenly realizes that there is a vile
ulcer of some kind festering in his life. Where it came from, how it
formed itself--one cannot always explain to oneself. In most cases it
is not ascribed to the causes that have really brought it on. But an
explanation is not even needed. It is sufficient that such an ulcer
exists. The effects of such a sudden discovery, while equally painful
to everyone, vary in their practical results, with the individual's
temperament. Some are rejuvenated and inspired with a determination to
begin a new life on new foundations. Others feel but a passing pain
that will not bring a profound change for the better, but is even
sharper than when the disturbed conscience sees the faint hope of a
brighter future.
Anninka was not of those in whom the consciousness of ulcers produces
the impulse to rejuvenation. Nevertheless, she realized, being an
intelligent person, that there was an abyss between the vague dreams
of honest toil which had impelled her to leave Pogorelka forever and
her position of provincial actress. Instead of a life of quiet and
toil, she had fallen upon a stormy existence, filled with perpetual
debauchery, shameless obscenity and cynicism, with vain and
everlasting bustle. Instead of the privations and stern surroundings
in which she had once lived, she had met comparative ease and comfort.
She could not think of it now without a blush of shame. She had
hardly noticed the gradual transformation. She had wanted to go to a
good place but had entered the wrong door. Her desires had been very
modest, indeed. How often she had dreamed, in the attic of Pogorelka,
of becoming an earnest girl, working, thirsting for education, bearing
hardships with fortitude, all for the sake of the good. (It is true,
"good" hardly had definite meaning to her.) But as soon as she had
stepped out on to the highroad of independent activity, bitter reality
had shattered her dreams at once. An honest livelihood does not come
of itself, but is attained only by persistent search and previous
training which help in the quest to some extent. But neither Anninka's
temperament nor education provided her with this. Her temperament
was not marked by passion, it was simply sensitive. The material
that her education had given her and on which she meant to build up
her life of honest toil was so unreliable and poor that it could
hardly serve as a basis for serious work. Her education was of the
boarding-school, music-hall kind, with the balance tipping to the side
of the music-hall. It was a chaotic heap in which problems were piled
up about a flock of geese, dancing steps with a shawl, the sermons of
Peter of Picardy, the exploits of Fair Helen, the _Ode to Felitza,_ and
the prescribed feeling of gratitude to the instructors and patrons of
the institution. What was left clear of this chaotic jumble in her soul
might quite properly be called a _tabula rasa_. There was scarcely a
thing to be read in it; it certainly offered no possibility of finding
a starting-point in her for better things. Whatever preparation she
had had inspired not love for work but love for a "society" life, the
desire to be surrounded by admirers and listen to their flattery, the
desire to plunge into the social din, glamor and whirlwind. |
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