This happened not long ago, in the reign of Alexander
II., in our days of civilization, progress, questions, regeneration
of Russia, and so forth, and so forth; at a time
when the victorious Russian army was returning from
Sevastopol, surrendered to the enemy; when all of Russia
celebrated the annihilation of the Black Sea fleet, and
white-stoned Moscow received and congratulated with this
happy event the remainders of the crews of that fleet,
offering them a good Russian cup of vódka, and bread and
salt, according to the good Russian custom, and bowing
down to their feet. It was that time when Russia, in the
person of far-sighted virgin politicians, lamented the shattered
dream of a Te Deum in the Cathedral of St. Sophia,
and the loss of two great men, so painful for the country,
who had perished during the war (one, who had been
carried away by the desire to celebrate the Te Deum in
the above-mentioned cathedral at the earliest time possible,
and who fell in the fields of Wallachia, but who, at least,
left two squadrons of hussars in the same fields, and the
other, an unappreciated man, who had distributed tea,
other people's money, and bed-sheets to the wounded,
without stealing any of these things); that time, when on
all sides, in all branches of human activities, great men—generals,
administrators, economists, writers, orators,
and simply great men, without any especial calling or
purpose—sprang up in Russia like mushrooms; that
time, when, at the jubilee of a Moscow actor, there appeared
the public opinion, confirmed by a toast, which
began to rebuke all the criminals,—when menacing
commissions galloped south from St. Petersburg, to convict
and punish the evil-doers of the commissariat,—when
in all the cities dinners with speeches were given
to the heroes of Sevastopol, and when to them, with arms
and legs torn off, toasts were drunk, on meeting them on
the bridges and on the highways; that time, when oratorical
talents developed so rapidly in the nation that a certain
dram-shopkeeper everywhere and upon all occasions
wrote and printed and recited by rote at dinners such
strong speeches, that the guardians of the peace had to
take repressive measures against the dram-shopkeeper's
eloquence,—when in the very English club a special
room was set aside for the discussion of public matters,—when
periodicals sprang up under the most diversified
standards,—periodicals that evolved European principles
on a European basis, but with a Russian world conception,
and periodicals on an exclusively Russian basis, but
with a European world conception,—when suddenly
there appeared so many periodicals that all names seemed
to be exhausted,—"The Messenger," and "The Word,"
and "The Speaker," and "The Observer," and "The Star,"
and "The Eagle," and many more, and, in spite of it, there
appeared ever new names; that time, when the constellation
of philosophic writers made its appearance to prove
that science was national, and not national, and non-national,
and so forth, and the constellation of artistic
writers, who described a grove, and the sunrise, and a
storm, and the love of a Russian maiden, and the indolence
of a certain official, and the bad conduct of many
officials; that time, when on all sides appeared questions
(as in the year '56 they called every concourse of circumstances,
of which no one could make any sense), questions
of cadet corps, universities, censorship, oral judicature,
finance, banking, police, emancipation, and many more:—everybody
tried to discover ever new questions, everybody
tried to solve them, wrote, read, spoke, made projects,
wanted to mend everything, destroy, change, and all
Russians, like one man, were in indescribable ecstasy.
That is a state of affairs which has been twice repeated
in the Russia of the nineteenth century,—the first time,
when in the year '12 we repulsed Napoleon I., and the second
time, when in the year '56 we were repulsed by Napoleon
III. Great, unforgettable time of the regeneration
of the Russian people! Like the Frenchman who said
that he has not lived who has not lived through the great
French Revolution, I venture to say that he who has not
lived through the year '56 in Russia does not know
what life is. The writer of these lines not only lived
through that time, but was one of the actors of that
period. Not only did he pass several weeks in one of the
blindages of Sevastopol, but he also wrote a work on
the Crimean War, which brought him great fame, and in
which he described clearly and minutely how the soldiers
fired their guns from the bastions, how the wounds were
dressed at the ambulance, and how they buried people in
the cemetery. Having achieved these deeds, the writer
of these lines arrived in the centre of the empire,—a
rocket establishment,—where he cut the laurels for his
deeds. He saw the transports of the two capitals and of
the whole nation, and experienced in his person to what
extent Russia knew how to reward real deserts. The
mighty of this world sought his friendship, pressed his
hands, gave him dinners, urged him to come to their
houses, and, in order to learn the details of the war from
him, informed him of their own sentimentalities. Consequently
the writer of these lines can appreciate that great
and memorable time. But that is another matter.
At that very time, two vehicles on wheels and a sleigh
were standing at the entrance of the best Moscow hotel.
A young man ran through the door, to find out about
quarters. In one of the vehicles sat an old man with two
ladies. He was talking about the condition of Blacksmith
Bridge in the days of the French. It was the
continuation of a conversation started as they entered
Moscow, and now the old man with the white beard, in
his unbuttoned fur coat, calmly continued his conversation
in the vehicle, as though he intended to stay in it overnight.
His wife and daughter listened to him, but kept
looking at the door with some impatience. The young
man emerged from the door with the porter and room
servant.
"Well, Sergyéy," asked the mother, thrusting her emaciated
face out into the glare of the lamplight.
Either because it was his habit, or because he did not
wish the porter to take him for a lackey on account of
the short fur coat which he wore, Sergyéy replied in
French that there were rooms to be had, and opened the
carriage door. The old man looked for a moment at his
son, and again turned to the dark corner of the vehicle,
as though nothing else concerned him:
"There was no theatre then."
"Pierre!" said his wife, lifting her cloak; but he continued:
"Madame Chalmé was in Tverskáya Street—"
Deep in the vehicle could be heard a youthful, sonorous
laugh.
"Papa, step out! You are forgetting where we are."
The old man only then seemed to recall that they had
arrived, and looked around him.
"Do step out!"
He pulled his cap down, and submissively passed
through the door. The porter took him under his arm,
but, seeing that the old man was walking well, he at once
offered his services to the lady. Judging from the sable
cloak, and from the time it took for her to emerge, and
from the way she pressed down on his arm, and from the
way she, leaning on her son's arm, walked straight toward
the porch, without looking to either side, Natálya
Nikoláevna, his wife, seemed to the porter to be an important
personage. He did not even separate the young
lady from the maids, who climbed out from the other
vehicle; like them, she carried a bundle and a pipe, and
walked behind. He recognized her only by her laughing
and by her calling the old man father.
"Not that way, father,—to the right!" she said, taking
hold of the sleeve of his sheepskin coat. "To the
right."
On the staircase there resounded, through the noise of
the steps, the doors, and the heavy breathing of the
elderly lady, the same laughter which had been heard in
the vehicle, and about which any one who heard it
thought: "How excellently she laughs,—I just envy
her."
Their son, Sergyéy, had attended to all the material
conditions on the road, and, though he lacked knowledge
of the matter, he had attended to it with the energy and
self-satisfying activity which are characteristic of twenty-five
years of age. Some twenty times, and apparently for
no important reason, he ran down to the sleigh in his
greatcoat, and ran up-stairs again, shivering in the cold
and taking two or three steps at a time with his long,
youthful legs. Natálya Nikoláevna asked him not to
catch a cold, but he said that it was all right, and continued
to give orders, slamming doors, and walking, and,
when it seemed that only the servants and peasants had
to be attended to, he several times walked through all
the rooms, leaving the drawing-room by one door, and
coming in through another, as though he were looking
for something else to do.
"Well, papa, will you be driven to the bath-house?
Shall I find out?" he asked.
His papa was deep in thought and, it seemed, was not
at all conscious of where he was. He did not answer at
once. He heard the words, but did not comprehend
them. Suddenly he comprehended.
"Yes, yes, yes. Find out, if you please, at Stone
Bridge."
The head of the family walked through the rooms with
hasty, agitated steps, and seated himself in a chair.
"Now we must decide what to do, how to arrange
matters," he said. "Help along, children, lively! Like
good fellows, drag things around, put them up, and to-morrow
we shall send Serézha with a note to sister
Márya Ivánovna, to the Nikítins, or we shall go there ourselves.
Am I right, Natásha? But now, fix things!"
"To-morrow is Sunday. I hope, Pierre, that first of all
you will go to mass," said his wife, kneeling in front of a
trunk and opening it.
"That is so, it is Sunday! We shall by all means all
of us go to the Cathedral of the Assumption. Thus will
our return begin. O Lord! When I think of the day
when I was for the last time in the Cathedral of the Assumption!
Do you remember, Natásha? But that is
another matter."
And the head of the family rose quickly from the chair,
on which he had just seated himself.
"Now we must settle down!"
And without doing anything, he kept walking from one
room to another.
"Well, shall we drink tea? Or are you tired, and
do you want to rest?"
"Yes, yes," replied his wife, taking something out from
the trunk. "You wanted to go to the bath-house, did
you not?"
"Yes—in my day it was near Stone Bridge. Serézha,
go and find out whether there is still a bath-house near
Stone Bridge. This room here Serézha and I shall occupy.
Serézha! Will you be comfortable here?"
But Serézha had gone to find out about the bath-house.
"No, that will not do," he continued. "You will not
have a straight passage to the drawing-room. What do
you think, Natásha?"
"Calm yourself, Pierre, everything will come out all
right," Natásha said, from another room, where peasants
were bringing in things.
But Pierre was still under the influence of that ecstatic
mood which the arrival had evoked in him.
"Look there,—don't mix up Serézha's things! You
have thrown his snow-shoes down in the drawing-room."
And he himself picked them up and with great care, as
though the whole future order of the quarters depended
upon it, leaned them against the door-post and tried to
make them stand there. But the snow-shoes did not stick
to it, and, the moment Pierre walked away from them,
fell with a racket across the door. Natálya Nikoláevna
frowned and shuddered, but, seeing the cause of the fall,
she said:
"Sónya, darling, pick them up!"
"Pick them up, darling," repeated the husband, "and I
will go to the landlord, or else you will never get done.
I must talk things over with him."
"You had better send for him, Pierre. Why should
you trouble yourself?"
Pierre assented.
"Sónya, bring him here, what do you call him? M.
Cavalier, if you please. Tell him that we want to speak
about everything."
"Chevalier, papa," said Sónya, ready to go out.
Natálya Nikoláevna, who was giving her commands in
a soft voice, and was softly stepping from room to room,
now with a box, now with a pipe, now with a pillow,
imperceptibly finding places for a mountain of baggage, in
passing Sónya, had time to whisper to her:
"Do not go yourself, but send a man!"
While a man went to call the landlord, Pierre used his
leisure, under the pretext of aiding his consort, in crushing
a garment of hers and in stumbling against an empty
box. Steadying himself with his hand against the wall,
the Decembrist looked around with a smile; but Sónya
was looking at him with such smiling eyes that she
seemed to be waiting for permission to laugh. He readily
granted her that permission, and himself burst out into
such a good-natured laugh that all those who were in the
room, his wife, the maids, and the peasants, laughed with
him. This laughter animated the old man still more.
He discovered that the divan in the room for his wife and
daughter was not standing very conveniently for them,
although they affirmed the opposite, and asked him to
calm himself. Just as he was trying with his own hands
to help a peasant to change the position of that piece of
furniture, the landlord, a Frenchman, entered the room.
"You sent for me," the landlord asked sternly and, in
proof of his indifference, if not contempt, slowly drew out
his handkerchief, slowly unfolded it, and slowly cleared
his nose.
"Yes, my dear sir," said Peter Ivánovich, stepping up
toward him, "you see, we do not know ourselves how
long we are going to stay here, I and my wife—" and
Peter Ivánovich, who had the weakness of seeing a neighbour
in every man, began to expound his plans and affairs
to him.
M. Chevalier did not share that view of people and
was not interested in the information communicated to
him by Peter Ivánovich, but the good French which
Peter Ivánovich spoke (the French language, as is known,
is something like rank in Russia) and his lordly manner
somewhat raised the landlord's opinion about the newcomers.
"What can I do for you?" he asked.
This question did not embarrass Peter Ivánovich. He
expressed his desire to have rooms, tea, a samovár, supper,
dinner, food for the servants, in short, all those things for
which hotels exist, and when M. Chevalier, marvelling at
the innocence of the old man, who apparently imagined
that he was in the Trukhmén steppe, or supposed that all
these things would be given him without pay, informed
him that he could have all those things, Peter Ivánovich
was in ecstasy.
"Now that is nice! Very nice! And so we shall get
things all fixed. Well, then please—" but he felt embarrassed
to be speaking all the time about himself, and he
began to ask M. Chevalier about his family and his business.
When Sergyéy Petróvich returned to the room, he
did not seem to approve of his father's address; he observed
the landlord's dissatisfaction, and reminded his father
of the bath. But Peter Ivánovich was interested in the
question of how a French hotel could be run in Moscow
in the year '56, and of how Madame Chevalier
passed her time. Finally the landlord himself bowed
and asked him whether he was not pleased to order anything.
"We will have tea, Natásha. Yes? Tea, then, if you
please! We will have some other talks, my dear monsieur!
What a charming man!"
"And the bath, papa?"
"Oh, yes, then we shall have no tea."
Thus the only result from the conversation with the
newly arrived guests was taken from the landlord. But
Peter Ivánovich was now proud and happy of his arrangements.
The drivers, who came to ask a pourboire, vexed
him, because Serézha had no change, and Peter Ivánovich
was on the point of sending once more for the landlord,
but the happy thought that others, too, ought to be happy
on that evening helped him out of that predicament. He
took two three-rouble bills, and, sticking one bill into the
hand of one of the drivers, he said, "This is for you"
(Peter Ivánovich was in the habit of saying "you" to all
without exception, unless to a member of his family);
"and this is for you," he said, transferring the other bill
from the palm of his hand to that of the driver, in some
such manner as people do when paying a doctor for a
visit. After attending to all these things, he was taken
to the bath-house.
Sónya, who was sitting on the divan, put her hand
under her head and burst out laughing.
"Oh, how nice it is, mamma! Oh, how nice!"
Then she placed her feet on the divan, stretched herself,
adjusted herself, and fell into the sound, calm sleep
of a healthy girl of eighteen years of age, after six weeks
on the road. Natálya Nikoláevna, who was still busy
taking out things in her sleeping-room, heard, no doubt
with her maternal ear, that Sónya was not stirring, and
went out to take a look at her. She took a pillow and,
raising the girl's reddened, dishevelled head with her large
white hand, placed her on the pillow. Sónya drew a
deep, deep sigh, shrugged her shoulders, and put her head
on the pillow, without saying "Merci," as though that had
all been done of its own accord.
"Not on that bed, not on that, Gavrílovna, Kátya,"
Natálya Nikoláevna immediately turned to the maids who
were making a bed, and with one hand, as though in
passing, she adjusted the straying hair of her daughter.
Without stopping and without hurrying, Natálya Nikoláevna
dressed herself, and upon the arrival of her husband
and her son everything was ready: the trunks were no
longer in the rooms; in Pierre's sleeping-room everything
was arranged as it had been for several decades in
Irkútsk: the morning-gown, the pipe, the tobacco-pouch,
the sugared water, the Gospel, which he read at night,
and even the image stuck to the rich wall-paper in the
rooms of Chevalier, who never used such adornments,
but on that evening they appeared in all the rooms of
the third division of the hotel.
Having dressed herself, Natálya Nikoláevna adjusted
her collar and cuffs, which, in spite of the journey, were
still clean, combed herself, and seated herself opposite the
table. Her beautiful black eyes gazed somewhere into
the distance: she looked and rested herself. She seemed
to be resting, not from the unpacking alone, nor from the
road, nor from the oppressive years,—she seemed to be
resting from her whole life, and the distance into which
she was gazing, and in which she saw living and beloved
faces, was that rest which she was wishing for. Whether
it was an act of love, which she had done for her husband,
or the love which she had experienced for her children
when they were young, or whether it was a heavy loss, or
a peculiarity of her character,—everyone who looked at
that woman could not help seeing that nothing could be
expected from her, that she had long ago given all of herself
to life, and that nothing was left of her. All that
there was left was something worthy of respect, something
beautiful and sad, as a reminiscence, as the moonlight.
She could not be imagined otherwise than surrounded by
all the comforts of life. It was impossible for her ever to
be hungry, or to eat eagerly, or to have on soiled clothes,
or to stumble, or to forget to clear her nose. It was a
physical impossibility. Why it was so, I do not know,
but every motion of hers was dignity, grace, gentleness
toward all those who could enjoy her sight.
"Sie pflegen und weben
Himmlische Rosen ins irdische Leben."
She knew those verses and loved them, but was not
guided by them. All her nature was an expression of
that thought; all her life was this one unconscious weaving
of invisible roses in the lives of those with whom she
came in contact. She had followed her husband to Siberia
only because she loved him; she had not thought
what she could do for him, and instinctively had done
everything. She had made his bed, had put away his
things, had prepared his dinner and his tea, and, above all,
had always been where he was, and no woman could have
given more happiness to her husband.
In the drawing-room the samovár was boiling on the
round table. Natálya Nikoláevna sat near it. Sónya
wrinkled her face and smiled under her mother's hand,
which was tickling her, when father and son, with wrinkled
finger-tips and glossy cheeks and foreheads (the
father's bald spot was particularly glistening), with fluffy
white and black hair, and with beaming countenances,
entered the room.
"It has grown brighter since you have come in," said
Natálya Nikoláevna. "O Lord, how white you are!"
She had been saying that each Saturday, for several
decades, and each Saturday Pierre experienced bashfulness
and delight, whenever he heard that. They seated
themselves at the table; there was an odour of tea and
of the pipe, and there were heard the voices of the parents,
the children, and the servants, who received their cups
in the same room. They recalled everything funny that
had happened on the road, admired Sónya's hair-dressing,
and laughed. Geographically they were all transferred a
distance of five thousand versts, into an entirely different,
strange milieu, but morally they were that evening still
at home, just such as the peculiar, long, solitary family
life had made them to be. It will not be so to-morrow.
Peter Ivánovich seated himself near the samovár, and
lighted his pipe. He was not in a cheerful mood.
"So here we are," he said, "and I am glad that we shall
not see any one to-night; this is the last evening we
shall pass with the family," and he washed these words
down with a large mouthful of tea.
"Why the last, Pierre?"
"Why? Because the eaglets have learned to fly, and
they have to make their own nests, and from here they
will fly each in a different direction—"
"What nonsense!" said Sónya, taking his glass from
him, and smiling at him, as she smiled at everything.
"The old nest is good enough!"
"The old nest is a sad nest; the old man did not know
how to make it,—he was caught in a cage, and in the
cage he reared his young ones, and was let out only when
his wings no longer would hold him up. No, the eaglets
must make their nests higher up, more auspiciously, nearer
to the sun; that is what they are his children for, that his
example might serve them; but the old one will look on,
so long as he is not blind, and will listen, when he becomes
blind— Pour in some rum, more, more—enough!"
"We shall see who is going to leave," replied Sónya,
casting a cursory glance at her mother, as though she
felt uneasy speaking in her presence. "We shall see who
is going to leave," she continued. "I am not afraid for
myself, neither am I for Serézha." (Serézha was walking
up and down in the room, thinking of how clothes would be
ordered for him to-morrow, and wondering whether he had
better go to the tailor, or send for him; he was not interested
in Sónya's conversation with his father.) Sónya
began to laugh.
"What is the matter? What?" asked her father.
"You are younger than we, papa. Much younger, indeed,"
she said, again bursting out into a laugh.
"Indeed!" said the old man, and his austere wrinkles
formed themselves into a gentle, and yet contemptuous,
smile.
Natálya Nikoláevna bent away from the samovár
which prevented her seeing her husband.
"Sónya is right. You are still sixteen years old,
Pierre. Serézha is younger in feelings, but you are
younger in soul. I can foresee what he will do, but you
will astound me yet."
Whether he recognized the justice of this remark, or
was flattered by it, he did not know what reply to make,
and only smoked in silence, drank his tea, and beamed
with his eyes. But Serézha, with characteristic egoism
of youth, interested in what was said about him, entered
into the conversation and affirmed that he was really old,
that his arrival in Moscow and the new life, which was
opening before him, did not gladden him in the least, and
that he calmly reflected on the future and looked forward
toward it.
"Still, it is the last evening," repeated Peter Ivánovich.
"It will not be again to-morrow."
And he poured a little more rum into his glass. He
sat for a long time at the tea-table, with an expression as
though he wished to say many things, but had no hearers.
He moved up the rum toward him, but his daughter softly
carried away the bottle.
When M. Chevalier, who had been up-stairs to look
after his guests, returned to his room and gave the benefit
of his observations on the newcomers to his life companion,
in laces and a silk garment, who in Parisian fashion was
sitting back of the counter, several habitual visitors of the
establishment were sitting in the room. Serézha, who
had been down-stairs, had taken notice of that room and
of its visitors. If you have been in Moscow, you have,
no doubt, noticed that room yourself.
If you, a modest man who do not know Moscow, have
missed a dinner to which you are invited, or have made
a mistake in your calculations, imagining that the hospitable
Muscovites would invite you to dinner, or simply
wish to dine in the best restaurant, you enter the lackeys'
room. Three or four lackeys jump up: one of them
takes off your fur coat and congratulates you on the occasion
of the New Year, or of the Butter-week, or of your
arrival, or simply remarks that you have not called for a
long while, though you have never been in that establishment
before.
You enter, and the first thing that strikes your eyes is
a table set, as you in the first moment imagine, with an
endless quantity of palatable dishes. But that is only
an optical illusion, for the greater part of that table is
occupied by pheasants in feather, raw lobsters, boxes with
perfume and pomatum, and bottles with cosmetics and
candy. Only at the very edge, if you look well, will you
find the vódka and a piece of bread with butter and
sardines, under a wire globe, which is quite useless in
Moscow in the month of December, even though it is
precisely such as those which are used in Paris. Then,
beyond the table, you see the room, where behind a counter
sits a Frenchwoman, of extremely repulsive exterior, but
wearing the cleanest of gloves and a most exquisite,
fashionable gown. Near the Frenchwoman you will see
an officer in unbuttoned uniform, taking a dram of vódka,
a civilian reading a newspaper, and somebody's military
or civilian legs lying on a velvet chair, and you will
hear French conversation, and more or less sincere, loud
laughter.
If you wish to know what is going on in that room, I
should advise you not to enter within, but only to look in,
as though merely passing by to take a sandwich. Otherwise
you will feel ill at ease from the interrogative silence
and glances, and you will certainly take your tail between
your legs and skulk away to one of the tables in the
large hall, or to the winter garden. Nobody will keep
you from doing so. These tables are for everybody, and
there, in your solitude, you may call Dey a garçon
and order as many truffles as you please. The room with
the Frenchwoman, however, exists for the select, golden
Moscow youth, and it is not so easy to find your way
among the select as you imagine.
On returning to this room, M. Chevalier told his wife
that the gentleman from Siberia was dull, but that his
son and daughter were fine people, such as could be raised
only in Siberia.
"You ought just to see the daughter! She is a little
rose-bush!"
"Oh, this old man is fond of fresh-looking women,"
said one of the guests, who was smoking a cigar. (The
conversation, of course, was carried on in French, but I
render it in Russian, as I shall continue to do in this
story.)
"Oh, I am very fond of them!" replied M. Chevalier.
"Women are my passion. Do you not believe me?"
"Do you hear, Madame Chevalier?" shouted a stout
officer of Cossacks, who owed a big bill in the institution
and was fond of chatting with the landlord.
"He shares my taste," said M. Chevalier, patting the
stout man on his epaulet.
"And is this Siberian young lady really pretty?"
M. Chevalier folded his fingers and kissed them.
After that the conversation between the guests became
confidential and very jolly. They were talking about the
stout officer; he smiled as he listened to what they were
saying about him.
"How can one have such perverted taste!" cried one,
through the laughter. "Mlle. Clarisse! You know,
Strúgov prefers such of the women as have chicken
calves."
Though Mlle. Clarisse did not understand the salt of
that remark, she behind her counter burst out into a
laughter as silvery as her bad teeth and advanced years
permitted.
"Has the Siberian lady turned him to such thoughts?"
and she laughed more heartily still. M. Chevalier himself
roared with laughter, as he said:
"Ce vieux coquin," patting the officer of Cossacks on
his head and shoulders.
"But who are they, those Siberians? Mining proprietors
or merchants?" one of the gentlemen asked,
during a pause in the laughter.
"Nikíta, ask ze passport from ze chentleman zat as
come," said M. Chevalier.
"We, Alexander, ze Autocrat—" M. Chevalier began
to read the passport, which had been brought in the meantime,
but the officer of Cossacks tore it out of his hands,
and his face expressed surprise.
"Guess who it is," he said, "for you all know him by
reputation."
"How can we guess? Show it to us! Well, Abdel
Kader, ha, ha, ha! Well, Cagliostro— Well, Peter III.—ha,
ha, ha, ha!"
"Well, read it!"
The officer of Cossacks unfolded the paper and read
the name of him who once had been Prince Peter Ivánovich,
and the family name which everybody knows and
pronounces with a certain respect and pleasure, when
speaking of a person bearing that name, as of a near and
familiar person. We shall call him Labázov. The officer
of Cossacks had a dim recollection that this Peter Labázov
had been something important in the year '25, and that
he had been sent to hard labour,—but what he had been
famous for, he did not exactly know. But of the others
not one knew anything about him, and they replied:
"Oh, yes, the famous prince," just as they would have
said, "Of course, he is famous!" about Shakespeare, who
had written the "Æneid." But they recognized him from
the explanations of the stout officer, who told them that
he was a brother of Prince Iván, an uncle of the Chíkins,
of Countess Prut, in short, the well-known—
"He must be very rich, if he is a brother of Prince
Iván," remarked one of the young men, "if the fortune
has been returned to him. It has been returned to
some."
"What a lot of exiles are returning nowadays!" remarked
another. "Really, fewer seem to have been sent
away, than are returning now. Zhikínski, tell us that
story of the 18th!" he turned to an officer of sharp-shooters,
who had the reputation of being a good story-teller.
"Do tell it!"
"In the first place, it is a true story, and happened
here, at Chevalier's, in the large hall. Three Decembrists
came to have their dinner. They were sitting at one
table, eating, drinking, talking. Opposite them sat down
a gentleman of respectable mien, of about the same
age, and he listened to their talking about Siberia. He
asked them something, they exchanged a few words,
began to converse, and it turned out that he, too, was
from Siberia.
"'And do you know Nerchínsk?'
"'Indeed I do, I lived there.'
"'And do you know Tatyána Ivánovna?'
"'Of course I do!'
"'Permit me to ask you,—were you, too, exiled?'
"'Yes, I had the misfortune to suffer, and you?'
"'We are all exiles of the 14th of December. It is
strange that we should not know you, if you, too, were
exiled for the 14th. Permit me to know your name!'
"'Fédorov.'
"'Also for the 14th?'
"'No, for the 18th.'
"'For the 18th?'
"'For the 18th of September, for a gold watch. I
was falsely accused of having stolen it, and I suffered,
though innocent.'"
All of them rolled in laughter, except the story-teller,
who with a most serious face looked at the outstretched
hearers and swore that it was a true story.
Soon after the story one of the young men got up and
went to the club. He passed through the halls which
were filled with tables at which old men were playing
whist; turned into the "infernal region," where the
famous "Puchin" had begun his game against the "company;"
stood for awhile near one of the billiard-tables,
where, holding on to the cushion, a distinguished old
man was fumbling around and with difficulty striking a
ball; looked into the library, where a general, holding a
newspaper a distance away from him, was reading it
slowly above his glasses, and a registered young man
turned the leaves of one periodical after another, trying
to make no noise; and finally seated himself on a divan
in the billiard-room, near some young people who were
playing pyramids, and who were as much gilded as he
was.
It was a day of dinners, and there were there many
gentlemen who always frequented the club. Among
them was Iván Vavílovich Pákhtin. He was a man of
about forty years of age, of medium stature, fair-complexioned,
with broad shoulders and hips, with a bare
head, and a glossy, happy, clean-shaven face. He was
not playing at pyramids, but had just sat down beside
Prince D——, with whom he was on "thou" terms, and
had accepted a glass of champagne which had been
offered to him. He had located himself so comfortably
after the dinner, having quietly unbuckled his trousers at
the back, that it looked as though he could sit there all
his life, smoking a cigar, drinking champagne, and feeling
the proximity of princes, counts, and the children of
ministers. The news of the arrival of the Labázovs
interfered with his calm.
"Where are you going, Pákhtin," said a minister's son,
having noticed during the game that Pákhtin had got up,
pulled his waistcoat down, and emptied his champagne in
a large gulp.
"Syévernikov has invited me," said Pákhtin, feeling a
restlessness in his legs. "Well, will you go there?"
"Anastásya, Anastásya, please unlock the door for me."
That was a well-known gipsy-song, which was in vogue
at that time.
"Perhaps. And you?"
"Where shall I, an old married man, go?"
"Well!"
Pákhtin, smiling, went to the glass hall, to join Syévernikov.
He was fond of having his last word appear
to be a joke. And so it came out at that time, too.
"Well, how is the countess's health?" he asked, walking
over to Syévernikov, who had not called him at all,
but who, according to Pákhtin's surmise, should more
than any one else learn of the arrival of the Labázovs.
Syévernikov had somehow been mixed up with the affair
of the 14th, and was a friend of the Decembrists. The
countess's health was much better, and Pákhtin was very
glad to hear it.
"Do you know, Labázov has arrived; he is staying at
Chevalier's."
"You don't say so! We are old friends. How glad I
am! How glad! The poor old fellow must have grown
old. His wife wrote to my wife—"
But Syévernikov did not finish saying what it was she
had written, because his partners, who were playing without
trumps, had made some mistake. While speaking
with Iván Pávlovich, he kept an eye on them, and now
he leaned forward with his whole body against the table,
and, thumping it with his hands, he tried to prove that
they ought to have played from the seven. Iván Pávlovich
got up and, going up to another table, in the middle
of a conversation informed another worthy gentleman of
his bit of news, again got up, and repeated the same at a
third table. The worthy gentlemen were all glad to hear
of the arrival of the Labázovs, so that, upon returning to
the billiard-room, Iván Pávlovich, who at first had had
his misgivings about whether he had to rejoice in the
return of the Labázovs, or not, no longer started with an
introduction about the ball, about an article in the Messenger,
about health, or weather, but approached everybody
directly with the enthusiastic announcement of the
safe return of the famous Decembrist.
The old man, who was still vainly endeavouring to hit
the white ball with his cue, would, in Pákhtin's opinion,
be very much delighted to hear the news. He went up
to him.
"Are you playing well, your Excellency?" he said,
just as the old man stuck his cue into the marker's red
waistcoat, wishing to indicate that it had to be chalked.
"Your Excellency" was not said, as you might think,
from a desire of being subservient (no, that was not the
fashion in '56). Iván Pávlovich was in the habit of calling
the old man by his name and patronymic, but this
was said partly as a joke on men who spoke that way,
partly in order to hint that he knew full well to whom
he was talking, and yet was taking liberties, and partly
in truth: altogether it was a very delicate jest.
"I have just learned that Peter Labázov has returned.
Straight from Siberia, with his whole family."
These words Pákhtin pronounced just as the old man
again missed his ball, for such was his bad luck.
"If he has returned as cracked as he went away, there
is no cause for rejoicing," gruffly said the old man, who
was irritated by his incomprehensible failure.
This statement vexed Iván Pávlovich, and again he
was at a loss whether there was any cause for rejoicing at
Labázov's return, and, in order fully to settle his doubt,
he directed his steps to a room, where generally assembled
the clever people, who knew the meaning and value
of each thing, and, in short, knew everything. Iván
Pávlovich was on the same footing of friendship with
the frequenters of the intellectual room as with the
gilded youths and with the dignitaries. It is true, he
had no special place of his own in the intellectual room,
but nobody was surprised to see him enter and seat himself
on a divan. They were just discussing in what year
and upon what occasion there had taken place a quarrel
between two Russian journalists. Waiting for a moment
of silence, Iván Pávlovich communicated his bit of news,
not as something joyous, nor as an unimportant event,
but as though part of the conversation. But immediately,
from the way the "intellectuals" (I use the word
"intellectuals" as a name for the frequenters of the
"intellectual" room) received the news and began to
discuss it, Iván Pávlovich understood that it belonged
there, and that only there would it receive such an elaboration
as to enable him to carry it farther and savoir à
quoi s'en tenir.
"Labázov was the only one who was wanting," said
one of the intellectuals; "now all the living Decembrists
have returned to Russia."
"He was one of the herd of the famous—" said Pákhtin,
still with an inquisitive glance, prepared to make that
quotation both jocular and serious.
"Indeed, Labázov was one of the most remarkable men
of that time," began an intellectual. "In 1819 he was
an ensign of the Seménovski regiment, and was sent
abroad with messages to Duke Z——. Then he returned
and in the year '24 was received in the First Masonic
lodge. The Masons of that time used all to gather at
the house of D—— and at his house. He was very
rich. Prince Zh——, Fédor D——, Iván P——, those
were his nearest friends. Then his uncle, Prince Visarión,
to remove the young man from that society, took him to
Moscow."
"Pardon me, Nikoláy Stepánovich," another intellectual
interrupted him, "it seems to me that that happened in
the year '23, because Visarión Labázov was appointed a
commander of the Third Corps in '24, and was then in
Warsaw. He had offered him an adjutantship, and after
his refusal, he was removed. However, pardon me for
interrupting you."
"Not at all. Proceed!"
"Pardon me!"
"Proceed! You ought to know that better than I, and,
besides, your memory and knowledge have been sufficiently
attested here."
"In Moscow he against his uncle's will left the army,"
continued the one whose memory and knowledge had
been attested, "and there he gathered around him a
second society, of which he was the progenitor and the
heart, if it be possible so to express it. He was rich,
handsome, clever, educated; they say he was exceedingly
amiable. My aunt used to tell me that she did not know
a more bewitching man. Here he married Miss Krínski, a
few months before the revolt broke out."
"The daughter of Nikoláy Krínski, the one of Borodinó
fame, you know," somebody interrupted him.
"Well, yes. Her immense fortune he still possesses,
but his own paternal estate passed over to his younger
brother, Prince Iván, who is now Ober-Hof-Kaffermeister"
(he gave him some such name) "and was a minister."
"The best thing is what he did for his brother," continued
the narrator. "When he was arrested, there was
one thing which he succeeded in destroying, and that
was his brother's letters and documents."
"Was his brother mixed up in it, too?"
The narrator did not say "Yes," but compressed his
lips and gave a significant wink.
"Then, during all the inquests Peter Labázov kept
denying everything which concerned his brother, and so
suffered more than the rest. But the best part of it is that
Prince Iván got all the property, and never sent a penny
to his brother."
"They say that Peter Labázov himself declined it,"
remarked one of the hearers.
"Yes; but he declined it only because Prince Iván
wrote him before the coronation, excusing himself and
saying that if he had not taken it, it would have been
confiscated, and that he had children and debts, and that
now he was unable to return it to him. Peter Labázov
replied to him in two lines: 'Neither I nor my heirs
have any right, nor can have any right, to the property
legally appropriated by you.' That was all. How was
that? And Prince Iván swallowed it, and in delight
locked up that document with the notes in a safe, and
showed it to no one."
One of the peculiarities of the intellectual room was
that its visitors knew, whenever they wanted to know,
everything that was taking place in the world, no matter
how secret the event might have been.
"Still it is a question," said a new interlocutor, "whether
it was just to deprive the children of Prince Iván of the
property, with which they have grown up and have been
educated, and to which they thought they had a right."
Thus the conversation was transferred to an abstract
sphere, which did not interest Pákhtin.
He felt the necessity of communicating the news to
fresh people, and so he rose and, speaking to the right
and to the left, walked from one hall to another. One
of his fellow officers stopped him to give him the news of
Labázov's arrival.
"Who does not know that?" replied Iván Pávlovich,
with a calm smile, turning to the exit. The news had
had time to complete its circle, and was again returning
to him.
There was nothing else to do in the club, and he went
to an evening party. It was not a special entertainment,
but a salon where guests were received any evening.
There were there eight ladies, and one old colonel, and all
found it terribly dull. Pákhtin's firm gait alone and his
smiling face cheered the ladies and maidens. And the
news was the more appropriate, since the old Countess
Fuks and her daughter were present in the salon. When
Pákhtin told nearly word for word what he had heard in
the intellectual room, Madame Fuks, shaking her head
and marvelling at her old age, began to recall how she
used to go out together with Natásha Krínski, the present
Princess Labázov.
"Her marriage is a very romantic story, and all that
happened under my eyes. Natásha was almost engaged
to Myátlin, who was later killed in a duel with Debras.
Just then Prince Peter arrived in Moscow, fell in love
with her, and proposed to her. But her father, who
wanted Myátlin very much,—they were, in general,
afraid of Labázov because he was a Mason,—refused
him. The young man continued to see her at balls, everywhere,
and became friendly with Myátlin, whom he begged
to decline. Myátlin agreed to do so, and he persuaded
her to elope. She, too, agreed, but the last repentance——"
(the conversation was taking place in French),
"and she went to her father and said that everything was
ready for the elopement, and she could leave him, but
hoped for his magnanimity. And, indeed, her father forgave
her,—everybody begged for her,—and gave his
consent. Thus the wedding was celebrated, and it was a
jolly wedding! Who of us thought that a year later she
would follow him to Siberia! She, an only daughter,
the most beautiful, the richest woman of that time. Emperor
Alexander always used to notice her at balls, and
had danced with her so often. Countess G—— gave a
bal costumé,—I remember it as though it were to-day,—and
she was a Neapolitan maid, oh, so charming! Whenever
he came to Moscow, he used to ask, 'que fait la
belle Napolitaine?' And suddenly this woman, in such
a condition (she bore a child on the way), did not stop
for a moment to think, without preparing anything, without
collecting her things, just as she was, when they took
him, followed him a distance of five thousand versts."
"Oh, what a remarkable woman!" said the hostess.
"Both he and she were remarkable people," said another
lady. "I have been told,—I don't know whether it is
true,—that wherever they worked in the mines in Siberia,
or whatever it is called, the convicts, who were with them,
improved in their presence."
"But she has never worked in the mines," Pákhtin corrected
her.
How much that year '56 meant! Three years before
no one had been thinking of the Labázovs, and if any
one recalled them, it was with that unaccountable feeling
of dread with which one speaks of one lately dead; but
now they vividly recalled all the former relations, all the
beautiful qualities, and each lady was making a plan for
getting the monopoly of the Labázovs, in order to treat
the other guests to them.
"Their son and their daughter have come with them,"
said Pákhtin.
"If they are only as handsome as their mother used to
be," said Countess Fuks. "Still, their father, too, was
very, very handsome."
"How could they educate their children there?" asked
the hostess.
"They say, nicely. They say that the young man is
as nice, as amiable, and as cultured as though he had been
brought up in Paris."
"I predict great success to that young person," said a
homely spinster. "All those Siberian ladies have something
pleasantly trivial about them, which everybody,
however, likes."
"Yes, yes," said another spinster.
"Here we have another rich prospective bride," said a
third spinster.
The old colonel, of German origin, who had come to
Moscow three years before, in order to marry a rich girl,
decided as quickly as possible, before the young people
knew anything about it, to present himself and propose.
But the spinsters and ladies thought almost the same
about the young Siberian.
"No doubt that is the one I am destined to marry,"
thought a spinster who had been going out for eight
years.
"No doubt it was for the best that that stupid officer
of the Chevalier Guards did not propose to me. I should
certainly have been unhappy."
"Well, they will again grow yellow with envy, if this
one, too, falls in love with me," thought a young and
pretty lady.
We hear much about the provincialism of small towns,—but
there is nothing worse than the provincialism of
the upper classes. There are no new persons there, and
society is prepared to receive all kinds of new persons, if
they should make their appearance; but they are rarely,
very rarely, recognized as belonging to their circle and
accepted, as was the case with the Labázovs, and the sensation
produced by them is stronger than in a provincial
town.
"This is Moscow, white-stoned Mother Moscow," said
Peter Ivánovich, rubbing his eyes in the morning, and
listening to the tolling of the bells which was proceeding
from Gazette Lane. Nothing so vividly resurrects the past
as sounds, and these sounds of the Moscow bells, combined
with the sight of a white wall opposite the window, and
with the rumbling of wheels, so vividly reminded him not
only of the Moscow which he had known thirty-five
years before, but also of the Moscow with the Kremlin,
with the palaces, with Iván the bell, and so forth, which
he had been carrying in his heart, that he experienced a
childish joy at being a Russian, and in Moscow.
There appeared the Bukhara morning-gown, wide open
over the broad chest with its chintz shirt, the pipe with
its amber, the lackey with soft manners, tea, the odour of
tobacco; a loud male voice was heard in Chevalier's apartments;
there resounded the morning kisses, and the
voices of daughter and son, and the Decembrist was as
much at home as in Irkútsk, and as he would have been
in New York or in Paris.
No matter how much I should like to present to my
readers the Decembrist hero above all foibles, I must confess,
for truth's sake, that Peter Ivánovich took great
pains in shaving and combing himself, and in looking at
himself in the mirror. He was dissatisfied with the garments,
which had been made in Siberia with little elegance,
and two or three times he buttoned and unbuttoned his
coat.
But Natálya Nikoláevna entered the drawing-room,
rustling with her black moire gown, with mittens and with
ribbons in her cap, which, though not according to the
latest fashion, were so arranged that, far from making her
appear ridicule, they made her look distinguée. For this
ladies have a special sixth sense and perspicacity, which
cannot be compared to anything.
Sónya, too, was so dressed that, although she was two
years behind in fashion, she could not be reproached in
any way. On her mother everything was dark and simple,
and on the daughter bright and cheerful.
Serézha had just awakened, and so they went by themselves
to mass. Father and mother sat in the back seat,
and their daughter was opposite them. Vasíli climbed on
the box, and the hired carriage took them to the Kremlin.
When they got out of the carriage, the ladies adjusted
their robes, and Peter Ivánovich took the arm of his
Natálya Nikoláevna, and, throwing back his head, walked
up to the door of the church. Many people, merchants,
officers, and everybody else, could not make out what
kind of people they were.
Who was that old man with his old sunburnt, and
still unblanched face, with the large, straight work
wrinkles of a peculiar fold, different from the wrinkles
acquired in the English club, with snow-white hair and
beard, with a good, proud glance and energetic movements?
Who was that tall lady with that determined
gait, and those weary, dimmed, large, beautiful eyes?
Who was that fresh, stately, strong young lady, neither
fashionable, nor timid? Merchants? No, no merchants.
Germans? No, no Germans. Gentlefolk? No, they are
different,—they are distinguished people. Thus thought
those who saw them in church, and for some reason
more readily and cheerfully made way for them than for
men in thick epaulets. Peter Ivánovich bore himself just
as majestically as at the entrance, and prayed quietly,
with reserve, and without forgetting himself. Natálya
Nikoláevna glided down on her knees, took out a handkerchief,
and wept much during the cherubical song.
Sónya seemed to be making an effort over herself in
order to pray. Devotion did not come to her, but she
did not look around, and diligently made the signs of the
cross.
Serézha stayed at home, partly because he had overslept
himself, partly because he did not like to stand
through a mass, which made his legs faint,—a matter he
was unable to understand, since it was a mere trifle for
him to walk forty miles on snow-shoes, whereas standing
through twelve pericopes was the greatest physical torture
for him,—but chiefly because he felt that more
than anything he needed a new suit of clothes. He
dressed himself and went to Blacksmith Bridge. He had
plenty of money. His father had made it a rule, ever
since his son had passed his twenty-first year, to let him
have as much money as he wished. It lay with him to
leave his parents entirely without money.
How sorry I am for the 250 roubles which he threw
away in Kuntz's shop of ready-made clothes! Any one
of the gentlemen who met Serézha would have been only
too happy to show him around, and would have regarded
it as a piece of happiness to go with him to get his
clothes made. But, as it was, he was a stranger in the
crowd, and, making his way in his cap along Blacksmith
Bridge, he went to the end, without looking into the
shops, opened the door, and came out from it in a cinnamon-coloured
half-dress coat, which was tight (though at
that time they wore wide coats), and in loose black trousers
(though they wore tight trousers), and in a flowery
atlas waistcoat, which not one of the gentlemen, who
were in Chevalier's special room, would have allowed
their lackeys to wear, and bought a number of other a
things; on the other hand, Kuntz marvelled at the young
man's slender waist, the like of which, as he explained to
everybody, he had never seen. Serézha knew that he
had a beautiful waist, and he was very much flattered by
the praise of a stranger, such as Kuntz was.
He came out with 250 roubles less, but was dressed
badly, in fact so badly that his apparel two days later
passed over into Vasíli's possession and always remained
a disagreeable memory for Serézha.
At home he went down-stairs, seated himself in the
large hall, looking now and then into the sanctum, and
ordered a breakfast of such strange dishes that the servant
in the kitchen had to laugh. Then he asked for a
periodical, and pretended to be reading. When the servant,
encouraged by the inexperience of the young man,
addressed some questions to him, Serézha said, "Go to
your place!" and blushed. But he said this so proudly
that the servant obeyed. Mother, father, and daughter,
upon returning home, found his clothes excellent.
Do you remember that joyous sensation of childhood,
when you were dressed up for your name-day and taken
to mass, and when, upon returning with a holiday expression
in your clothes, upon your countenance, and in your
soul, you found toys and guests at home? You knew
that on that day there would be no classes, that even the
grown-ups celebrated on that day, and that that was a
day of exceptions and pleasures for the whole house; you
knew that you alone were the cause of that holiday, and
that you would be forgiven, no matter what you might do,
and you were surprised to see that the people in the
streets did not celebrate along with your home folk, and
the sounds were more audible, and the colours brighter,—in
short, a name-day sensation. It was a sensation of
that kind that Peter Ivánovich experienced on his return
from church.
Pákhtin's solicitude of the evening before did not pass
in vain: instead of toys Peter Ivánovich found at home
several visiting-cards of distinguished Muscovites, who, in
the year '56, regarded it as their peremptory duty to show
every attention possible to a famous exile, whom they
would under no consideration have wished to see three
years before. In the eyes of Chevalier, the porter, and
the servants of the hotel, the appearance of carriages asking
for Peter Ivánovich, on that one morning increased
their respect and subserviency tenfold.
All those were name-day toys for Peter Ivánovich.
No matter how much tried in life, how clever a man may
be, the expression of respect from people respected by a
large number of men is always agreeable. Peter Ivánovich
felt light of heart when Chevalier, bowing, offered
to change his apartments and asked him to order anything
he might need, and assured him that he regarded
Peter Ivánovich's visit as a piece of luck, and
when, examining the visiting-cards and throwing them
into a vase, he called out the names of Count S——,
Prince D——, and so forth.
Natálya Nikoláevna said that she would not receive
anybody and that she would go at once to the house of
Márya Ivánovna, to which Peter Ivánovich consented,
though he wished very much to talk to some of the visitors.
Only one visitor managed to get through before the refusal
to meet him. That was Pákhtin. If this man had
been asked why he went away from the Prechístenka to
go to Gazette Lane, he would have been unable to give
any excuse, except that he was fond of everything new
and remarkable, and so had come to see Peter Ivánovich,
as something rare. One would think that, coming to see
a stranger for no other reason than that, he would have
been embarrassed. But the contrary was true. Peter
Ivánovich and his son and Sónya Petróvna became embarrassed.
Natálya Nikoláevna was too much of a
grande dame to become embarrassed for any reason whatever.
The weary glance of her beautiful black eyes was
calmly lowered on Pákhtin. But Pákhtin was refreshing,
self-contented, and gaily amiable, as always. He was a
friend of Márya Ivánovna's.
"Ah!" said Natálya Nikoláevna.
"Not a friend,—the difference of our years,—but she
has always been kind to me."
Pákhtin was an old admirer of Peter Ivánovich's,—he
knew his companions. He hoped that he could be
useful to the newcomers. He would have appeared
the previous evening, but could not find the time, and
begged to be excused, and sat down and talked for a long
time.
"Yes, I must tell you, I have found many changes in
Russia since then," Peter Ivánovich said, in reply to a
question.
The moment Peter Ivánovich began to speak, you
ought to have seen with what respectful attention Pákhtin
received every word that flew out of the mouth of the
distinguished old man, and how after each sentence, at
times after a word, Pákhtin with a nod, a smile, or a
motion of his eyes gave him to understand that he had
received and accepted the memorable sentence or word.
The weary glance approved of that manœuvre. Sergyéy
Petróvich seemed to be afraid lest his father's
conversation should not be weighty enough, corresponding
to the attention of the hearer. Sónya Petróvna, on the
contrary, smiled that imperceptible self-satisfied smile
which people smile who have caught a man's ridiculous
side. It seemed to her that nothing was to be got from
him, that he was a "shyúshka," as she and her brother
nicknamed a certain class of people.
Peter Ivánovich declared that during his journey he
had seen enormous changes, which gave him pleasure.
"There is no comparison, the masses—the peasants—stand
so much higher now, have so much greater consciousness
of their dignity," he said, as though repeating
some old phrases. "I must say that the masses have
always interested me most. I am of the opinion that the
strength of Russia does not lie in us, but in the masses,"
and so forth.
Peter Ivánovich with characteristic zeal evolved his
more or less original ideas in regard to many important
subjects. We shall hear more of them in fuller form.
Pákhtin was melting for joy, and fully agreed with him
in everything.
"You must by all means meet the Aksátovs. Will you
permit me to introduce them to you, prince? You know
they have permitted him to publish his periodical. To-morrow,
they say, the first number will appear. I have
also read his remarkable article on the consistency of the
theory of science in the abstract. Remarkably interesting.
Another article, the history of Servia in the eleventh
century, of that famous general Karbovánets, is also very
interesting. Altogether an enormous step."
"Indeed," said Peter Ivánovich. But he was apparently
not interested in all these bits of information; he
did not even know the names and merits of all those men
whom Pákhtin quoted as universally known.
But Natálya Nikoláevna, without denying the necessity
of knowing all these men and conditions, remarked in
justification of her husband that Pierre received his periodicals
very late. He read entirely too much.
"Papa, shall we not go to aunty?" asked Sónya, upon
coming in.
"We shall, but we must have our breakfast. Won't
you have anything?"
Pákhtin naturally declined, but Peter Ivánovich, with
the hospitality characteristic of every Russian and of him
in particular, insisted that Pákhtin should eat and drink
something. He himself emptied a wine-glass of vódka
and a tumbler of Bordeaux. Pákhtin noticed that as he
was filling his glass, Natálya accidentally turned away
from it, and the son cast a peculiar glance on his father's
hands.
After the wine, Peter Ivánovich, in response to Pákhtin's
questions about what his opinion was in respect to
the new literature, the new tendency, the war, the peace
(Pákhtin had a knack of uniting the most diversified subjects
into one senseless but smooth conversation), in response
to these questions Peter Ivánovich at once replied
with one general profession de foi, and either under the
influence of the wine, or of the subject of the conversation,
he became so excited that tears appeared in his eyes, and
Pákhtin, too, was in ecstasy, and himself became tearful,
and without embarrassment expressed his conviction that
Peter Ivánovich was now in advance of all the foremost
men and should become the head of all the parties. Peter
Ivánovich's eyes became inflamed,—he believed what
Pákhtin was telling him,—and he would have continued
talking for a long time, if Sónya Petróvna had not schemed
to get Natálya Nikoláevna to put on her mantilla, and
had not come herself to raise Peter Ivánovich from his
seat. He poured out the rest of the wine into a glass,
but Sónya Petróvna drank it.
"What is this?"
"I have not had any yet, papa, pardon."
He smiled.
"Well, let us go to Márya Ivánovna's. You will excuse
us, Monsieur Pákhtin."
And Peter Ivánovich left the room, carrying his head
high. In the vestibule he met a general, who had come
to call on his old acquaintance. They had not seen each
other for thirty-five years. The general was toothless and
bald.
"How fresh you still are!" he said. "Evidently Siberia
is better than St. Petersburg. These are your family,—introduce
me to them! What a fine fellow your son
is! So to dinner to-morrow?"
"Yes, yes, by all means."
On the porch they met the famous Chikháev, another
old acquaintance.
"How did you find out that I had arrived?"
"It would be a shame for Moscow if it did not know it.
It is a shame that you were not met at the barrier. Where
do you dine? No doubt with your sister, Márya Ivánovna.
Very well, I shall be there myself."
Peter Ivánovich always had the aspect of a proud man
for one who could not through that exterior make out the
expression of unspeakable goodness and impressionableness;
but just then even Márya Nikoláevna was delighted
to see his unwonted dignity, and Sónya Petróvna smiled
with her eyes, as she looked at him. They arrived at the
house of Márya Ivánovna. Márya Ivánovna was Peter
Ivánovich's godmother and ten years his senior. She was
an old maid.
Her history, why she did not get married, and how she
had passed her youth, I will tell some time later.
She had lived uninterruptedly for forty years in Moscow.
She had neither much intelligence, nor great
wealth, and she did not think much of connections,—on
the contrary; and there was not a man who did not
respect her. She was so convinced that everybody ought
to respect her that everybody actually respected her.
There were some young liberals from the university who
did not recognize her power, but these gentlemen made a
bold front only in her absence. She needed only to enter
the drawing-room with her royal gait, to say something in
her calm manner, to smile her kindly smile, and they were
vanquished. Her society consisted of everybody. She
looked upon all of Moscow as her home folk, and treated
them as such. She had friends mostly among the young
people and clever men, but women she did not like. She
had also dependents, whom our literature has for some
reason included with the Hungarian woman and with
generals in one common class for contempt; but Márya
Ivánovna considered it better for Skópin, who had been
ruined in cards, and Madame Byéshev, whom her husband
had driven away, to be living with her than in misery,
and so she kept them.
But the two great passions in Márya Ivánovna's present
life were her two brothers. Peter Ivánovich was her
idol. Prince Iván was hateful to her. She had not
known that Peter Ivánovich had arrived; she had attended
mass, and was just finishing her coffee.
At the table sat the vicar of Moscow, Madame Byéshev,
and Skópin. Márya Ivánovna was telling them
about young Count V——, the son of P—— Z——, who
had returned from Sevastopol, and with whom she was in
love. (She had some passion all the time.) He was to
dine with her on that day. The vicar got up and bowed
himself out. Márya Ivánovna did not keep him,—she
was a freethinker in this respect: she was pious, but had
no use for monks and laughed at the ladies that ran after
them, and boldly asserted that in her opinion monks were
just such men as we sinful people, and that it was better
to find salvation in the world than in a monastery.
"Give the order not to receive anybody, my dear," she
said, "I will write to Pierre. I cannot understand why
he is not coming. No doubt, Natálya Nikoláevna is ill."
Márya Ivánovna was of the opinion that Natálya Nikoláevna
did not like her and was her enemy. She could
not forgive her because it was not she, his sister, who had
given up her property and had followed him to Siberia,
but Natálya Nikoláevna, and because her brother had
definitely declined her offer when she got ready to go
with him. After thirty-five years she was beginning to
believe that Natálya Nikoláevna was the best woman in
the world and his guardian angel; but she was envious,
and it seemed all the time to her that she was not a
good woman.
She got up, took a few steps in the parlour, and was
on the point of entering the cabinet when the door
opened, and Madame Byéshev's wrinkled, grayish face,
expressing joyous terror, was thrust through the door.
"Márya Ivánovna, prepare yourself," she said.
"A letter?"
"No, something better—"
But before she had a chance to finish, a man's loud
voice was heard in the antechamber:
"Where is she? Go, Natásha."
"He!" muttered Márya Ivánovna, walking with long,
firm steps toward her brother. She met them all as
though she had last seen them the day before.
"When didst thou arrive? Where have you stopped?
How have you come,—in a carriage?" Such were the
questions which Márya Ivánovna put, walking with them
to the drawing-room and not hearing the answers, and
looking with large eyes, now upon one, and now upon
another. Madame Byéshev was surprised at this calm,
even indifference, and did not approve of it. They all
smiled; the conversation died down, and Márya Ivánovna
looked silently and seriously at her brother.
"How are you?" asked Peter Ivánovich, taking her
hand, and smiling.
Peter Ivánovich said "you" to her, though she had said
"thou." Márya Ivánovna once more looked at his gray
beard, his bald head, his teeth, his wrinkles, his eyes, his
sunburnt face, and recognized all that.
"Here is my Sónya."
But she did not look around.
"What a stup—" her voice faltered, and she took hold
of his bald head with her large white hands. "What a
stupid you are," she had intended to say, "not to have
prepared me," but her shoulders and breast began to
tremble, her old face twitched, and she burst out into
sobs, pressing to her breast his bald head, and repeating:
"What a stupid you are not to have prepared me!"
Peter Ivánovich no longer appeared as such a great
man to himself, not so important as he had appeared on
Chevalier's porch. His back was resting against a chair,
but his head was in his sister's arms, his nose was
pressed against her corset, his nose was tickled, his hair
dishevelled, and there were tears in his eyes. But he felt
happy.
When this outburst of joyous tears was over, Márya
Ivánovna understood what had happened and believed it,
and began to examine them all. But several times during
the course of the day, whenever she recalled what he had
been then, and what she had been, and what they were
now, and whenever the past misfortunes, and past joys
and loves, vividly rose in her imagination, she was again
seized by emotion, and got up and repeated: "What a
stupid you are, Pierre, what a stupid not to have prepared
me!"
"Why did you not come straight to me? I should
have found room for you," said Márya Ivánovna. "At
least, stay to dinner. You will not feel lonesome, Sergyéy,—a
young, brave Sevastopol soldier is dining here
to-day. Do you not know Nikoláy Mikháylovich's son?
He is a writer,—has written something nice. I have
not read it, but they praise it, and he is a dear fellow,—I
shall send for him. Chikháev, too, wanted to come. He
is a babbler,—I do not like him. Has he already called on
you? Have you seen Nikíta? That is all nonsense.
What do you intend to do? How are you, how is your
health, Natálya? What are you going to do with this
young fellow, and with this beauty?"
But the conversation somehow did not flow.
Before dinner Natálya Nikoláevna went with the
children to an old aunt; brother and sister were left
alone, and he began to tell her of his plans.
"Sónya is a young lady, she has to be taken out; consequently,
we are going to live in Moscow," said Márya
Ivánovna.
"Never."
"Serézha has to serve."
"Never."
"You are still as crazy as ever."
But she was just as fond of the crazy man.
"First we must stay here, then go to the country, and
show everything to the children."
"It is my rule not to interfere in family matters," said
Márya Ivánovna, after calming down from her agitation,
"and not to give advice. A young man has to serve,
that I have always thought, and now more than ever.
You do not know, Pierre, what these young men nowadays
are. I know them all: there, Prince Dmítri's son is
all ruined. Their own fault. I am not afraid of anybody,
I am an old woman. It is not good." And she
began to talk about the government. She was dissatisfied
with it for the excessive liberty which was given to everything.
"The one good thing they have done was to let
you out. That is good."
Pierre began to defend it, but Márya Ivánovna was not
Pákhtin: they could come to no terms. She grew excited.
"What business have you to defend it? You are just
as senseless as ever, I see."
Peter Ivánovich grew silent, with a smile which showed
that he did not surrender, but that he did not wish to
quarrel with Márya Ivánovna.
"You are smiling. We know that. You do not wish
to discuss with me, a woman," she, said, merrily and
kindly, and casting a shrewd, intelligent glance at her
brother, such as could not be expected from her old, large-featured
face. "You could not convince me, my friend.
I am ending my three score and ten. I have not been a
fool all that time, and have seen a thing or two. I have
read none of your books, and I never will. There is only
nonsense in them!"
"Well, how do you like my children? Serézha?"
Peter Ivánovich said, with the same smile.
"Wait, wait!" his sister replied, with a threatening
gesture. "Don't switch me off on your children! We
shall have time to talk about them. Here is what I
wanted to tell you. You are a senseless man, as senseless
as ever, I see it in your eye. Now they are going to
carry you in their arms. Such is the fashion. You are
all in vogue now. Yes, yes, I see by your eyes that you
are as senseless as ever," she added, in response to his
smile. "Keep away, I implore you in the name of Jesus
Christ our Lord, from those modern liberals. God knows
what they are up to. I know it will not end well. Our
government is silent just now, but when it comes later to
showing up the nails, you will recall my words. I am
afraid lest you should get mixed up in things again. Give
it up! It is all nonsense. You have children."
"Evidently you do not know me, Márya Ivánovna,"
said her brother.
"All right, all right, we shall see. Either I do not
know you, or you do not know yourself. I just told you
what I had on my heart, and if you will listen to me, well
and good. Now we can talk about Serézha. What kind
of a lad is he?" She wanted to say, "I do not like him
very much," but she only said: "He resembles his mother
remarkably: they are like two drops of water. Sónya is
you all over,—I like her very much, very much—so
sweet and open. She is a dear. Where is she, Sónya?
Yes, I forgot."
"How shall I tell you? Sónya will make a good wife
and a good mother, but my Serézha is clever, very clever,—nobody
will take that from him. He studied well,—a
little lazy. He is very fond of the natural sciences.
We have been fortunate: we had an excellent, excellent
teacher. He wants to enter the university,—to attend
lectures on the natural sciences, chemistry—"
Márya Ivánovna scarcely listened when her brother
began to speak of the natural sciences. She seemed to
feel sad, especially when he mentioned chemistry. She
heaved a deep sigh and replied directly to that train of
thoughts which the natural sciences evoked in her.
"If you knew how sorry I am for them, Pierre," she
said, with sincere, calm, humble sadness. "So sorry, so
sorry. A whole life before them. Oh, how much they
will suffer yet!"
"Well, we must hope that they will be more fortunate
than we."
"God grant it, God grant it! It is hard to live, Pierre!
Take this one advice from me, my dear: don't philosophize!
What a stupid you are, Pierre, oh, what a stupid!
But I must attend to matters. I have invited a lot of
people, but how am I going to feed them?" She flared
up, turned away, and rang the bell.
"Call Tarás!"
"Is the old man still with you?"
"Yes; why, he is a boy in comparison with me."
Tarás was angry and clean, but he undertook to get
everything done.
Soon Natálya Nikoláevna and Sónya, agleam with cold
and happiness, and rustling in their dresses, entered the
room; Serézha was still out, attending to some purchases.
"Let me get a good look at her!"
Márya Ivánovna took her face. Natálya Nikoláevna
began to tell something.
THE DECEMBRISTS
SECOND FRAGMENT
(Variant of the First Chapter)
The litigation "about the seizure in the Government of
Pénza, County of Krasnoslobódsk, by the landed proprietor
and ex-lieutenant of the Guards, Iván Apýkhtin, of
four thousand desyatínas of land from the neighbouring
Crown peasants of the village of Izlegóshcha," was through
the solicitude of the peasants' representative, Iván Mirónov,
decided in the court of the first instance—the
County Court—in favour of the peasants, and the enormous
parcel of land, partly in forest, and partly in ploughings
which had been broken by Apýkhtin's serfs, in the
year 1815 returned into the possession of the peasants,
and they in the year 1816 sowed in this land and harvested.
The winning of this irregular case by the peasants
surprised all the neighbours and even the peasants themselves.
This success of theirs could be explained only
on the supposition that Iván Petróvich Apýkhtin, a very
meek, peaceful man, who was opposed to litigations and
was convinced of the righteousness of this matter, had
taken no measures against the action of the peasants.
On the other hand, Iván Mirónov, the peasants' representative,
a dry, hook-nosed, literate peasant, who had been
a township elder and had acted in the capacity of collector
of taxes, had collected fifty kopeks from each peasant,
which money he cleverly applied in the distribution
of presents, and had very shrewdly conducted the whole
affair.
Immediately after the decision handed down by the
County Court, Apýkhtin, seeing the danger, gave a power
of attorney to the shrewd manumitted serf, Ilyá Mitrofánov,
who appealed to the higher court against the decision
of the County Court. Ilyá Mitrofánov managed the
affair so shrewdly that, in spite of all the cunning of
the peasants' representative, Iván Mirónov, in spite of the
considerable presents distributed by him to the members
of the higher court, the case was retried in the Government
Court in favour of the proprietor, and the land was
to go back to him from the peasants, of which fact their
representative was duly informed.
The representative, Iván Mirónov, told the peasants at
the meeting of the Commune that the gentleman in the
Government capital had pulled the proprietor's leg and
had "mixed up" the whole business, so that they wanted
to take the land back again, but that the proprietor would
not be successful, because he had a petition all written up
to be sent to the Senate, and that then the land would be
for ever confirmed to the peasants; all they had to do
was to collect a rouble from each soul. The peasants
decided to collect the money and again to entrust the
whole matter to Iván Mirónov. When Mirónov had all
the money in his hands, he went to St. Petersburg.
When, in the year 1817, during Passion-week,—it
fell late that year,—the time came to plough the ground,
the Izlegóshcha peasants began to discuss at a meeting
whether they ought to plough the land under litigation
during that year, or not; and, although Apýkhtin's clerk
had come to see them during Lent with the order that
they should not plough the land and should come to some
agreement with him in regard to the rye already planted
in what had been the doubtful, and now was Apýkhtin's
land, the peasants, for the very reason that the winter
crop had been sowed on the debatable land, and because
Apýkhtin, in his desire to avoid being unfair to them,
wished to arbitrate the matter with them, decided to
plough the land under litigation and to take possession
of it before touching any other fields.
On the very day when the peasants went out to plough,
which was Maundy Thursday, Iván Petróvich Apýkhtin,
who had been preparing himself for communion during
the Passion-week, went to communion, and early in the
morning drove to the church in the village of Izlegóshcha,
of which he was a parishioner, and there he, without
knowing anything about the matter, amicably chatted with
the church elder. Iván Petróvich had been to confession
the night before, and had attended vigils at home;
in the morning he had himself read the Rules, and at
eight o'clock had left the house. They waited for him
with the mass. As he stood at the altar, where he usually
stood, Iván Petróvich rather reflected than prayed, which
made him dissatisfied with himself.
Like many people of that time, and, so far as that goes,
of all times, he was not quite clear in matters of religion.
He was past fifty years of age; he never omitted carrying
out any rite, attended church, and went to communion
once a year; in talking to his only daughter, he instructed
her in the articles of faith; but, if he had been asked
whether he really believed, he would not have known
what to reply.
On that day more than on any other, he felt meek of
spirit, and, standing at the altar, he, instead of praying,
thought of how strangely everything was constructed in
the world: there he was, almost an old man, taking the
communion for perhaps the fortieth time in his life, and
he knew that everybody, all his home folk and all the
people in the church, looked at him as a model and took
him for an example, and he felt himself obliged to act as
an example in matters of religion, whereas he himself did
not know anything, and soon, very soon, he would die, and
even if he were killed he could not tell whether that in
which he was showing an example to others was true.
And it also seemed strange to him how every one considered—that
he saw—old people to be firm and to
know what was necessary and what not (thus he always
thought about old men), and there he was old and positively
failed to know, and was just as frivolous as he had
been twenty years before; the only difference was that
formerly he did not conceal it, while now he did. Just
as in his childhood it had occurred to him during the
service that he might crow like a cock, even so now all
kinds of foolish things passed through his mind, and he,
the old man, reverentially bent his head, touching the
flagstones of the church with the old knuckles of his
hands, and Father Vasíli was evidently timid in celebrating
mass in his presence, and incited to zeal by his zeal.
"If they only knew what foolish things are running
through my head! But that is a sin, a sin; I must pray,"
he said to himself, when the service commenced; and,
trying to catch the meaning of the responses, he began to
pray. Indeed, he soon transferred himself in feeling
to the prayer and thought of his sins and of everything
which he regretted.
A respectable-looking old man, bald-headed, with thick
gray hair, dressed in a fur coat with a new white patch
on one-half of his back, stepping evenly with his out-toeing
bast shoes, went up to the altar, bowed low to him,
tossed his hair, and went beyond the altar to place some
tapers. This was the church elder, Iván Fedótov, one of
the best peasants of the village of Izlegóshcha. Iván
Petróvich knew him. The sight of this stern, firm face
led Iván Petróvich to a new train of thoughts. He was
one of those peasants who wanted to take the land away
from him, and one of the best and richest married farmers,
who needed the land, who could manage it, and had the
means to work it. His stern aspect, ceremonious bow,
and measured gait, and the exactness of his wearing-apparel,—the
leg-rags fitted his legs like stockings and
the laces crossed each other symmetrically on either leg,—all
his appearance seemed to express rebuke and enmity
on account of the land.
"I have asked forgiveness of my wife, of Mánya" (his
daughter), "of the nurse, of my valet, Volódya, but it is
his forgiveness that I ought to ask for, and I ought to
forgive him," thought Iván Petróvich, and he decided
that after matins he would ask Iván Fedótov to forgive
him.
And so he did.
There were but few people in church. The country
people were in the habit of going to communion in the
first and in the fourth week. Now there were only forty
men and women present, who had not had time to go to
communion before, a few old peasant women, the church
servants, and the manorial people of the Apýkhtins and
his rich neighbours, the Chernýshevs. There was also
there an old woman, a relative of the Chernýshevs, who
was living with them, and a deacon's widow, whose son
the Chernýshevs, in the goodness of their hearts, had
educated and made a man of, and who now was serving
as an official in the Senate. Between the matins and the
mass there were even fewer people left in the church.
There were left two beggar women, who were sitting in
the corner and conversing with each other and looking at
Iván Petróvich with the evident desire to congratulate
him and talk with him, and two lackeys,—one his own,
in livery, and the other, Chernýshev's, who had come
with the old woman. These two were also whispering
in an animated manner to each other, just as Iván Petróvich
came out from the altar-place; when they saw him,
they grew silent. There was also a woman in a tall
head-gear with a pearl face-ornament and in a white fur
coat, with which she covered up a sick child, who was
crying, and whom she was attempting to quiet; and another,
a stooping old woman, also in a head-gear, but with
a woollen face-ornament and a white kerchief, which
was tied in the fashion of old women, and in a gray
gathered coat with an iris-design on the back, who,
kneeling in the middle of the church, and turning to an
old image between two latticed windows, over which hung
a new scarf with red edges, was praying so fervently,
solemnly, and impassionately that one could not fail
directing one's attention to her.
Before reaching the elder, who, standing at the little
safe, was kneading over the remnants of some tapers into
one piece of wax, Iván Petróvich stopped to take a look
at the praying woman. The old woman was praying well.
She knelt as straight as it was possible to kneel in
front of the image; all the members of her body were
mathematically symmetrical; her feet behind her pressed
with the tips of her bast shoes at the same angle against
the stone floor; her body was bent back, to the extent
to which her stooping shoulders permitted her to do so;
her hands were quite regularly placed below her abdomen;
her head was thrown back, and her face, with an expression
of bashful commiseration, wrinkled, and with a dim
glance, was turned straight toward the image with the
scarf. Having remained in an immobile position for a
minute or less,—evidently a definite space of time,—she
heaved a deep sigh and, taking her right hand away,
swung it above her head-gear, touched the crown of her
head with folded fingers, and made ample crosses by
carrying her hand down again to her abdomen and to her
shoulders; then she swayed back and dropped her head
on her hands, which were placed evenly on the floor, and
again raised herself, and repeated the same.
"Now she is praying," Iván Petróvich thought, as he
looked at her. "She does it differently from us sinners:
this is faith, though I know that she is praying to her
own image, or to her scarf, or to her adornment on the
image, just like the rest of them. All right. What of
it?" he said to himself, "every person has his own faith:
she prays to her image, and I consider it necessary to beg
the peasant's forgiveness."
And he walked over to the elder, instinctively scrutinizing
the church in order to see who was going to see his
deed, which both pleased and shamed him. It was disagreeable
to him, because the old beggar women would
see it, and more disagreeable still, because Míshka, his
lackey, would see it. In the presence of Míshka,—he
knew how wide-awake and shrewd he was,—he felt that
he should not have the strength to walk up to Iván Fedótov.
He beckoned to Míshka to come up to him.
"What is it you wish?"
"Go, my dear, and bring me the rug from the carriage,
for it is too damp here for my feet."
"Yes, sir."
When Míshka went away, Iván Petróvich at once went
up to Iván Fedótov. Iván Fedótov was disconcerted,
like a guilty person, at the approach of the gentleman.
Timidity and hasty motions formed a queer contradiction
to his austere face and curly steel-gray hair and beard.
"Do you wish a dime taper?" he said, raising the
desk, and now and then casting his large, beautiful eyes
upon the master.
"No, I do not want a taper, Iván. I ask you to forgive
me for Christ's sake, if I have in any way offended you.
Forgive me, for Christ's sake," Iván Petróvich repeated,
with a low bow.
Iván Fedótov completely lost his composure and began
to move restlessly, but when he comprehended it all, he
smiled a gentle smile:
"God forgives," he said. "It seems to me, I have received
no offence from you. God will forgive you,—I
have not been offended by you," he hastened to repeat.
"Still—"
"God will forgive you, Iván Petróvich. So you want
two dime tapers?"
"Yes, two."
"He is an angel, truly, an angel. He begs even a
base peasant to forgive him. O Lord, true angels,"
muttered the deacon's widow, in an old black capote
and black kerchief. "Truly, we ought to understand
that."
"Ah, Paramónovna!" Iván Petróvich turned to her.
"Are you getting ready for communion, too? You, too,
must forgive me, for Christ's sake."
"God will forgive you, sir, angel, merciful benefactor!
Let me kiss your hand!"
"That will do, that will do, you know I do not like
that," said Iván Petróvich, smiling, and going away from
the altar.
The mass, as always, did not take long to celebrate in
the parish of Izlegóshcha, the more so since there were
few communicants. Just as, after the Lord's Prayer, the
regal doors were closed, Iván Petróvich looked through
the north door, to call Míshka to take off his fur coat.
When the priest saw that motion, he angrily beckoned to
the deacon, and the deacon almost ran out to call in the
lackey. Iván Petróvich was in a pretty good humour,
but this subserviency and expression of respect from the
priest who was celebrating mass again soured him entirely;
his thin, bent, shaven lips were bent still more
and his kindly eyes were lighted up by sarcasm.
"He acts as though I were his general," he thought,
and immediately he thought of the words of the German
tutor, whom he had once taken to the altar to attend a
Russian divine service, and who had made him laugh
and had angered his wife, when he said, "Der Pop war
ganz böse, dass ich ihm Alles nachgesehen hatte." He
also recalled the answer of the young Turk that there was
no God, because he had eaten up the last piece of him.
"And here I am going to communion," he thought, and,
frowning, he made a low obeisance.
He took off his bear-fur coat, and in his blue dress
coat with bright buttons and in his tall white neckerchief
and waistcoat, and tightly fitting trousers, and heelless,
sharp-toed boots, went with his soft, modest, and light
gait to make his obeisances to the large images. Here
he again met that same obsequiousness from the other
communicants, who gave up their places to him.
"They act as though they said, 'Après vous, s'il en
reste,'" he thought, awkwardly making side obeisances;
this awkwardness was due to the fact that he was trying
to find that mean in which there would be neither disrespect,
nor hypocrisy. Finally the doors were opened. He
said the prayer after the priest, repeating the words, "As
a robber;" his neckerchief was covered with the chalice
cloth, and he received his communion and the lukewarm
water in the ancient dipper, having put new silver twenty-kopek
pieces on ancient plates; after hearing the last
prayers, he kissed the cross and, putting on his fur coat
left the church, receiving congratulations and experiencing
the pleasant sensation of having everything over. As he
left the church, he again fell in with Iván Fedótov.
"Thank you, thank you!" he replied to his congratulations.
"Well, are you going to plough soon?"
"The boys have gone out, the boys have," replied Iván
Fedótov, more timidly even than before. He supposed
that Iván Petróvich knew whither the Izlegóshcha peasants
had gone out to plough. "It is damp, though.
Damp it is. It is early yet, early it is."
Iván Petróvich went up to his parents' monument,
bowed to it, and went back to be helped into his six-in-hand
with an outrider.
"Well, thank God," he said to himself, swaying on the
soft, round springs and looking at the vernal sky with the
scattering clouds, at the bared earth and the white spots
of unmelted snow, and at the tightly braided tail of a side
horse, and inhaling the fresh spring air, which was particularly
pleasant after the air in the church.
"Thank God that I have been through the communion,
and thank God that I now may take a pinch of snuff."
And he took out his snuff-box and for a long time held
the pinch between his fingers, smiling and, without letting
the pinch out of the hand, raising his cap in response
to the low bows of the people on the way, especially of the
women, who were washing the tables and chairs in front
of their houses, just as the carriage at a fast trot of the
large horses of the six-in-hand plashed and clattered
through the mud of the street of the village of Izlegóshcha.
Iván Petróvich held the pinch of snuff, anticipating the
pleasure of snuffing, not only down the whole village, but
even until they got out of a bad place at the foot of a hill,
toward which the coachman descended not without anxiety:
he held up the reins, seated himself more firmly,
and shouted to the outrider to go over the ice. When
they went around the bridge, over the bed of the river, and
scrambled out of the breaking ice and mud, Iván Petróvich,
looking at two plovers that rose from the hollow, took the
snuff and, feeling chilly, put on his glove, wrapped himself
in his fur coat, plunged his chin into the high neckerchief,
and said to himself, almost aloud, "Glorious!" which he
was in the habit of saying secretly to himself whenever
he felt well.
In the night snow had fallen, and when Iván Petróvich
had driven to church the snow had not yet disappeared,
but was soft; now, though there was no sun, it was
all melted from the moisture, and on the highway, on
which he had to travel for three versts before turning
into Chirakóvo, the snow was white only in last year's
grass, which grew in parallel lines along the ruts; but on
the black road the horses splashed through the viscous
mud. The good, well-fed, large horses of his own stud
had no difficulty in pulling the carriage, and it just rolled
over the grass, where it left black marks, and over the
mud, without being at all detained. Iván Petróvich was
having pleasant reveries; he was thinking of his home,
his wife, and his daughter.
"Mánya will meet me at the porch, and with delight.
She will see such holiness in me! She is a strange,
sweet girl, but she takes everything too much to heart.
The rôle of importance and of knowing everything that
is going on in this world, which I must play before her,
is getting to be too serious and ridiculous. If she knew
that I am afraid of her!" he thought. "Well, Káto," (his
wife) "will no doubt be in good humour to-day, she will
purposely be in good humour, and we shall have a fine
day. It will not be as it was last week on account of the
Próshkin women. What a remarkable creature! How
afraid of her I am! What is to be done? She does
not like it herself." And he recalled a famous anecdote
about a calf. A proprietor, having quarrelled with his
wife, was sitting at a window, when he saw a frisky calf:
"I should like to get you married!" he said. And Iván
Petróvich smiled again, according to his custom solving
every difficulty and every perplexity by a joke, which
generally was directed against himself.
At the third verst, near a chapel, the outrider bore to
the left, into a cross-road, and the coachman shouted to
him for having turned in so abruptly that the centre
horses were struck by the shaft; and the carriage almost
glided all the way down-hill. Before reaching the house,
the outrider looked back at the coachman and pointed to
something; the coachman looked back at the lackey, and
indicated something to him. And all of them looked in
the same direction.
"What are you looking at?" asked Iván Petróvich.
"Geese," said Míshka.
"Where?"
Though he strained his vision, he could not see them.
"There they are. There is the forest, and there is the
cloud, so be pleased to look between the two."
Iván Petróvich could not see anything.
"It is time for them. Why, it is less than a week to
Annunciation."
"That's so."
"Well, go on!"
Near a puddle, Míshka jumped down from the footboard
and tested the road, again climbed up, and the
carriage safely drove on the pond dam in the garden,
ascended the avenue, drove past the cellar and the
laundry, from which water was falling, and nimbly
rolled up and stopped at the porch. The Chernýshev
calash had just left the yard. From the house at once
ran the servants: gloomy old Danílych with the side
whiskers, Nikoláy, Míshka's brother, and the boy Pavlúshka;
and after them came a girl with large black eyes
and red arms, which were bared above the elbow, and
with just such a bared neck.
"Márya Ivánovna, Márya Ivánovna! Where are you
going? Your mother will be worried. You will have
time," was heard the voice of fat Katerína behind her.
But the girl paid no attention to her; just as her father
had expected her to do, she took hold of his arm and
looked at him with a strange glance.
"Well, papa, have you been to communion?" she asked,
as though in dread.
"Yes. You look as though you were afraid that I
am such a sinner that I could not receive the communion."
The girl was apparently offended by her father's jest at
such a solemn moment. She heaved a sigh and, following
him, held his hand, which she kissed.
"Who is here?"
"Young Chernýshev. He is in the drawing-room."
"Is mamma up? How is she?"
"Mamma feels better to-day. She is sitting down-stairs."
In the passage room Iván Petróvich was met by nurse
Evprakséya, clerk Andréy Ivánovich, and a surveyor, who
was living at the house, in order to lay out some land.
All of them congratulated Iván Petróvich. In the drawing-room
sat Luíza Kárlovna Trugóni, for ten years a
friend of the house, an emigrant governess, and a young
man of sixteen years, Chernýshev, with his French tutor.
THE DECEMBRISTS
THIRD FRAGMENT
(Variant of the First Chapter)
On the 2d of August, 1817, the sixth department of
the Directing Senate handed down a decision in the debatable
land case between the economic peasants of the
village of Izlegóshcha and Chernýshev, which was in
favour of the peasants and against Chernýshev. This
decision was an unexpected and important calamitous
event for Chernýshev. The case had lasted five years.
It had been begun by the attorney of the rich village
of Izlegóshcha with its three thousand inhabitants, and
was won by the peasants in the County Court; but when,
with the advice of lawyer Ilyá Mitrofánov, a manorial
servant bought of Prince Saltykóv, Prince Chernýshev
carried the case to the Government, he won it and
besides, the Izlegóshcha peasants were punished by having
six of them, who had insulted the surveyor, put in
jail.
After that, Prince Chernýshev, with his good-natured
and merry carelessness, entirely acquiesced, the more so
since he knew full well that he had not "appropriated"
any land of the peasants, as was said in the petition of
the peasants. If the land was "appropriated," his father
had done it, and since then more than forty years had
passed. He knew that the peasants of the village of
Izlegóshcha were getting along well without that land,
had no need of it, and lived on terms of friendship with
him, and was unable to understand why they had become
so infuriated against him. He knew that he never offended
and never wished to offend any one, that he lived
in peace with everybody, and that he never wished to do
otherwise, and so could not believe that any one should
think of offending him. He hated litigations, and so did
not defend his case in the Senate, in spite of the advice
and earnest solicitations of his lawyer, Ilyá Mitrofánov;
by allowing the time for the appeal to lapse, he lost the
case in the Senate, and lost it in such a way that he was
confronted with complete ruin. By the decree of the Senate
he not only was to be deprived of five thousand desyatínas
of land, but also, for the illegal tenure of that land,
was to be mulcted to the amount of 107,000 roubles in
favour of the peasants.
Prince Chernýshev had eight thousand souls, but all
the estates were mortgaged and he had large debts, so that
this decree of the Senate ruined him with his whole large
family. He had a son and five daughters. He thought
of his case when it was too late to attend to it in the Senate.
According to Ilyá Mitrofánov's words there was but
one salvation, and that was, to petition the sovereign and
to transfer the case to the Imperial Council. To obtain
this it was necessary in person to approach one of the ministers
or a member of the Council, or, better still, the emperor
himself. Taking all that into consideration, Prince
Grigóri Ivánovich in the fall of the year 1817 with his
whole family left his beloved estate of Studénets, where
he had lived so long without leaving it, and went to Moscow.
He started for Moscow, and not for St. Petersburg,
because in the fall of that year the emperor with his
whole court, with all the highest dignitaries, and with part
of the Guards, in which the son of Grigóri Ivánovich was
serving, was to arrive in Moscow to lay the corner-stone
of the Church of the Saviour in commemoration of the
liberation of Russia from the French invasion.
In August, immediately after receiving the terrible
news of the decree of the Senate, Prince Grigóri Ivánovich
got ready to go to Moscow. At first the majordomo
was sent away to fix the prince's own house on the Arbát;
then was sent out a caravan with furniture, servants,
horses, carriages, and provisions. In September the prince
with his whole family travelled in seven carriages, drawn
by his own horses, and, after arriving in Moscow, settled
in his house. Relatives, friends, visitors from the province
and from St. Petersburg began to assemble in Moscow
in the month of September. The Moscow life, with its
entertainments, the arrival of his son, the débuts of his
daughters, and the success of his eldest daughter, Aleksándra,
the only blonde among all the brunettes of the
Chernýshevs, so much occupied and diverted the prince's
attention that, in spite of the fact that here in Moscow he
was spending everything which would be left to him after
paying all he owed, he forgot his affair and was annoyed
and tired whenever Ilyá Mitrofánov talked of it, and undertook
nothing for the success of his case.
Iván Mirónovich Baúshkin, the chief attorney of the
peasants, who had conducted the case against the prince
with so much zeal in the Senate, who knew all the approaches
to the secretaries and departmental chiefs, and
who had so skilfully distributed the ten thousand roubles,
collected from the peasants, in the shape of presents, now
himself brought his activity to an end and returned to
the village, where, with the money collected for him as a
reward and with what was left of the presents, he bought
himself a grove from a neighbouring proprietor and built
there a hut and an office. The case was finished in the
court of the highest instance, and everything would now
proceed of its own accord.
The only ones of those concerned in the case who could
not forget it were the six peasants who were passing
their seventh month in jail, and their families that were
left without their heads. But nothing could be done in
the matter. They were imprisoned in Krasnoslobódsk,
and their families tried to get along as well as they could.
Nobody could be invoked in the case. Iván Mirónovich
himself said that he could not take it up, because it was
not a communal, nor a civil, but a criminal case. The
peasants were in prison, and nobody paid any attention to
them; but one family, that of Mikhaíl Gerásimovich, particularly
his wife Tíkhonovna, could not get used to the
idea that the precious old man, Gerásimovich, was sitting
in prison with a shaven head. Tíkhonovna could not rest
quiet. She begged Mirónovich to take the case, but he
declined it. Then she decided to go herself to pray to
God for the old man. She had made a vow the year before
that she would go on a pilgrimage to a saint, and had
delayed it for another year only because she had had no
time and did not wish to leave the house to the young
daughters-in-law. Now that the misfortune had happened
and Gerásimovich was put into jail, she recalled her vow;
she turned her back on her house and, together with the
deacon's wife of the same village, got ready to go on the
pilgrimage.
First they went to the county seat to see her old man
in the prison and to take him some shirts; from there
they went through the capital of the Government to Moscow.
On her way Tíkhonovna told the deacon's wife of
her sorrow, and the latter advised her to petition the emperor
who, it was said, was to be in Pénza, telling her of
various cases of pardon granted by him.
When the pilgrims arrived in Pénza, they heard that
there was there, not the emperor, but his brother Grand
Duke Nikoláy Pávlovich. When he came out of the
cathedral, Tíkhonovna pushed herself forward, dropped
down on her knees, and began to beg for her husband.
The grand duke was surprised, the governor was angry,
and the old woman was taken to the lockup. The next
day she was let out and she proceeded to Tróitsa. In
Tróitsa she went to communion and confessed to Father
Paísi. At the confession she told him of her sorrow, and
repented having petitioned the brother of the Tsar. Father
Paísi told her that there was no sin in that and
that there was no sin in petitioning the Tsar even in a
just case, and dismissed her. In Khótkov she called on
the blessed abbess, and she ordered her to petition the
Tsar himself.
On their way back, Tíkhonovna and the deacon's
wife stopped in Moscow to see the saints. Here
she heard that the Tsar was there, and she thought
that it was evidently God's command that she should
petition the Tsar. All that had to be done was to write
the petition.
In Moscow the pilgrims stopped in a hostelry. They
begged permission to stay there overnight; they were
allowed to do so. After supper the deacon's wife lay
down on the oven, and Tíkhonovna, placing her wallet
under her head, lay down on a bench and fell asleep. In
the morning, before daybreak, Tíkhonovna got up, woke
the deacon's wife, and went out. The innkeeper spoke
to her just as she walked into the yard.
"You are up early, granny," he said.
"Before we get there, it will be time for matins," Tíkhonovna
replied.
"God be with you, granny!"
"Christ save you!" said Tíkhonovna, and the pilgrims
went to the Kremlin.
After standing through the matins and the mass, and
having kissed the relics, the old women, with difficulty
making their way, arrived at the house of the Chernýshevs.
The deacon's wife said that the old lady had
given her an urgent invitation to stop at her house, and
had ordered that all pilgrims should be received.
"There we shall find a man who will write the petition,"
said the deacon's wife, and the pilgrims started to
blunder through the streets and ask their way. The deacon's
wife had been there before, but had forgotten where
it was. Two or three times they were almost crushed,
and people shouted at them and scolded them. Once a
policeman took the deacon's wife by the shoulder and,
giving her a push, forbade her to walk through the street
on which they were, and directed them through a forest of
lanes. Tíkhonovna did not know that they were driven
off the Vozdvízhenka for the very reason that through
that street was to drive the Tsar, of whom she was thinking
all the time, and to whom she intended to give the
petition.
The deacon's wife walked, as always, heavily and complainingly,
while Tíkhonovna, as usual, walked lightly
and briskly, with the gait of a young woman. At the
gate the pilgrims stopped. The deacon's wife did not
recognize the house: there was there a new hut which
she had not seen before; but on scanning the well with
the pumps in the corner of the yard, she recognized it all.
The dogs began to bark and made for the women with
the staffs.
"Don't mind them, aunties, they will not touch you.
Away there, accursed ones!" the janitor shouted to the
dogs, raising the broom on them. "They are themselves
from the country, and just see them bark at country people!
Come this way! You will stick in the mud,—God
has not given any frost yet."
But the deacon's wife, frightened by the dogs, and muttering
in a whining tone, sat down on a bench near the
gate and asked the janitor to take her by. Tíkhonovna
made her customary bow to the janitor and, leaning on
her crutch and spreading her feet, which were tightly covered
with leg-rags, stopped near her, looking as always
calmly in front of her and waiting for the janitor to come
up to them.
"Whom do you want?" the janitor asked.
"Do you not recognize us, dear man? Is not your
name Egór?" asked the deacon's wife. "We are coming
back from the saints, and so are calling on her Serenity."
"You are from Izlegóshcha," said the janitor. "You
are the wife of the old deacon,—of course. All right,
all right. Go to the house! Everybody is received here,—nobody
is refused. And who is this one?"
He pointed to Tíkhonovna.
"From Izlegóshcha, Gerásimovich's wife,—used to be
Fadyéev's,—I suppose you know her?" said Tíkhonovna.
"I myself am from Izlegóshcha."
"Of course! They say your husband has been put
into jail."
Tíkhonovna made no reply; she only sighed and with
a strong motion threw her wallet and fur coat over her
shoulder.
The deacon's wife asked whether the old lady was at
home and, hearing that she was, asked him to announce
them to her. Then she asked about her son, who was an
official and, thanks to the prince's influence, was serving
in St. Petersburg. The janitor could not give her any
information about him and directed them over a walk,
which crossed the yard, to the servants' house. The
old women went into the house, which was full of people,—women,
children, both old and young,—all of them
manorial servants, and prayed turning to the front corner.
The deacon's wife was at once recognized by the laundress
and the old lady's maid, and she was at once surrounded
and overwhelmed with questions: they took off
her wallet, placed her at the table, and offered her something
to eat. In the meantime Tíkhonovna, having
made the sign of the cross to the images and saluted
everybody, was standing at the door, waiting to be invited
in. At the very door, in front of the first window, sat an
old man, making boots.
"Sit down, granny! Don't stand up. Sit down here,
and take off your wallet," he said.
"There is not enough room to turn around as it is.
Take her to the 'black' room," said a woman.
"This comes straight from Madame Chalmé," said a
young lackey, pointing to the iris design on Tíkhonovna's
peasant coat, "and the pretty stockings and shoes."
He pointed to her leg-rags and bast shoes, which were
new, as she had specially put them on for Moscow.
"Parásha, you ought to have such."
"If you are to go to the 'black' room, all right; I will
take you there." And the old man stuck in his awl and
got up; but, on seeing a little girl, he called her to take
the old woman to the black room.
Tíkhonovna not only paid no attention to what was
being said in her presence and of her, but did not even
look or listen. From the time that she entered the house,
she was permeated with the feeling of the necessity of
working for God and with the other feeling, which had
entered her soul, she did not know when, of the necessity
of handing the petition. Leaving the clean servant room,
she walked over to the deacon's wife and, bowing, said to
her:
"Mother Paramónovna, for Christ's sake do not forget
about my affair! See whether you can't find a man."
"What does that woman need?"
"She has suffered insult, and people have advised her
to hand a petition to the Tsar."
"Take her straight to the Tsar!" said the jesting
lackey.
"Oh, you fool, you rough fool," said the old shoemaker.
"I will teach you a lesson with this last, then you will
know how to grin at old people."
The lackey began to scold, but the old man, paying no
attention to him, took Tíkhonovna to the black room.
Tíkhonovna was glad that she was sent out of the
baking-room, and was taken to the black, the coachmen's
room. In the baking-room everything looked clean, and
the people were all clean, and Tíkhonovna did not feel at
ease there. The black coachmen's room was more like
the inside of a peasant house, and Tíkhonovna was more
at home there. The black hut was a dark pine building,
twenty by twenty feet, with a large oven, bed places,
and hanging-beds, and a newly paved, dirt-covered floor.
When Tíkhonovna entered the room, there were there the
cook, a white, ruddy-faced, fat, manorial woman, with
the sleeves of her chintz dress rolled up, who with difficulty
was moving a pot in the oven with an oven-fork;
then a young, small coachman, who was learning to play
the balaláyka; an old man with an unshaven, soft white
beard, who was sitting on a bed place with his bare feet
and, holding a skein of silk between his lips, was sewing
on some fine, good material, and a shaggy-haired, swarthy
young man, in a shirt and blue trousers, with a coarse
face, who, chewing bread, was sitting on a bench at the
oven and leaning his head on both his arms, which were
steadied against his knees.
Barefoot Nástka with sparkling eyes ran into the room
with her lithe, bare feet, in front of the old woman, jerking
open the door, which stuck fast from the steam within,
and squeaking in her thin voice:
"Aunty Marína, Simónych sends this old woman, and
says that she should be fed. She is from our parts: she
has been with Paramónovna to worship the saints. Paramónovna
is having tea.—Vlásevna has sent for her—"
The garrulous little girl would have gone on talking
for quite awhile yet; the words just poured forth from
her and, apparently, it gave her pleasure to hear her own
voice. But Marína, who was in a perspiration, and who
had not yet succeeded in pushing away the pot with the
beet soup, which had caught in the hearth, shouted angrily
at her:
"Stop your babbling! What old woman am I to feed
now? I have enough to do to feed our own people.
Shoot you!" she shouted to the pot, which came very near
falling down, as she removed it from the spot where it
was caught.
But when she was satisfied in regard to the pot, she
looked around and, seeing trim Tíkhonovna with her wallet
and correct peasant attire, making the sign of the cross
and bowing low toward the front corner, felt ashamed of
her words and, as though regaining her consciousness after
the cares which had worn her out, she put her hand to her
breast, where beneath the collar-bone buttons clasped
her dress, and examined it to see whether it was buttoned,
and then put her hands to her head to fasten the knot
of the kerchief, which covered her greasy hair, and took
up an attitude, leaning against the oven-fork and waiting
for the salute of the trim old woman. Tíkhonovna made
her last low obeisance to God, and turned around and
saluted in three directions.
"God aid you, good day!" she said.
"You are welcome, aunty!" said the tailor.
"Thank you, granny, take off your wallet! Sit down
here," said the cook, pointing to a bench where sat the
shaggy-haired man. "Move a little, can't you? Are you
stuck fast?"
The shaggy man, scowling more angrily still, rose,
moved away, and, continuing to chew, riveted his eyes
on the old woman. The young coachman made a bow
and, stopping his playing, began to tighten the strings of
his balaláyka, looking now at the old woman, and now at
the tailor, not knowing how to treat the old woman,—whether
respectfully, as he thought she ought to be
treated, because the old woman wore the same kind
of attire that his grandmother and mother wore at home
(he had been taken from the village to be an outrider), or
making fun of her, as he wished to do and as seemed
to him to accord with his present condition, his blue coat
and his boots. The tailor winked with one eye and
seemed to smile, drawing the silk to one side of his
mouth, and looked on. Marína started to put in another
pot, but, even though she was busy working, she kept
looking at the old woman, while she briskly and nimbly
took off her wallet and, trying not to disturb any one, put
it under the bench. Nástka ran up to her and helped
her, by taking away the boots, which were lying in her
way under the bench.
"Uncle Pankrát," she turned to the gloomy man, "I
will put the boots here. Is it all right?"
"The devil take them! Throw them into the oven, if
you wish," said the gloomy man, throwing them into
another corner.
"Nástka, you are a clever girl," said the tailor. "A
pilgrim has to be made comfortable."
"Christ save you, girl! That is nice," said Tíkhonovna.
"I am afraid I have put you out, dear man," she said,
turning to Pankrát.
"All right," said Pankrát.
Tíkhonovna sat down on the bench, having taken off
her coat and carefully folded it, and began to take off her
footgear. At first she untied the laces, which she had
taken special care in twisting smooth for her pilgrimage;
then she carefully unwrapped the white lambskin leg-rags
and, carefully rubbing them soft, placed them on her
wallet. Just as she was working on her other foot,
another of awkward Marína's pots got caught and spilled
over, and she again started to scold somebody, catching
the pot with the fork.
"The hearth is evidently burned out, grandfather. It
ought to be plastered," said Tíkhonovna.
"When are you going to plaster it? The chimney
never cools off: twice a day you have to bake bread; one
set is taken out, and the other is started."
In response to Marína's complaint about the bread-baking
and the burnt-out hearth, the tailor defended the
ways of the Chernýshev house and said that they had
suddenly arrived in Moscow, that the hut was built and
the oven put up in three weeks, and that there were
nearly one hundred servants who had to be fed.
"Of course, lots of cares. A large establishment,"
Tíkhonovna confirmed him.
"Whence does God bring you?" the tailor turned to
her.
And Tíkhonovna, continuing to take off her foot-gear,
at once told him where she came from, whither she had
gone, and how she was going home. She did not say
anything about the petition. The conversation never
broke off. The tailor found out everything about the old
woman, and the old woman heard all about awkward,
pretty Marína. She learned that Marína's husband was
a soldier, and she was made a cook; that the tailor was
making caftans for the driving coachmen; that the
stewardess's errand girl was an orphan, and that shaggy-haired,
gloomy Pankrát was a servant of the clerk, Iván
Vasílevich.
Pankrát left the room, slamming the door. The tailor
told her that he was a gruff peasant, but that on that
day he was particularly rude because the day before he
had smashed the clerk's knickknacks on the window, and
that he was going to be flogged to-day in the stable. As
soon as Iván Vasílevich should come, he would be flogged.
The little coachman was a peasant lad, who had been
made an outrider, and now that he was grown he had
nothing to do but attend to the horses, and strum the
balaláyka. But he was not much of a hand at it.
"The clerk beat Sidor's face until the
blood came"
