And Ivan Petrovich set off for St Petersburg with a light heart. An unknown future awaited him; poverty might threaten, but he had said good-bye to hateful country life and – most important of all – he had not betrayed his teachers, had in fact ‘put them to good use’ and vindicated Rousseau, Diderot and la déclaration des droits de l’homme. A feeling of duty accomplished, of triumph, a feeling of pride filled his soul; separation from his wife, what is more, did not dismay him unduly; rather, he would have been annoyed by the necessity of having to live constantly with her. That matter was now done with; the time had come to do other things. In St Petersburg, contrary to his expectations, luck smiled on him; Princess Kubenskaya, whom M. Courtin had already succeeded in abandoning, but who had not yet succeeded in dying, by way of atonement to her nephew, recommended him to all her friends and made him a gift of five thousand roubles (almost the last of her money) and a watch by Lepic inscribed with his monogram in a garland of cupids. Before three months were up he had received a post with the Russian mission in London and on the first outward-bound English sailing ship (there were no steamships in those days) voyaged away across the sea. A few months later he received a letter from Pestov. The kind-hearted landowner congratulated Ivan Petrovich on the birth of a son, who had seen the light of day in the village of Pokrovskoye on 20 August 1807 and had been named Fyodor in honour of the holy martyr Theodore Stratelates.4 On account of her weak condition Malanya Sergeyevna had added only a few lines; but even these few lines astonished Ivan Petrovich, for he did not know that Marfa Timofeyevna had taught his wife to read and write. Still, Ivan Petrovich did not succumb for long to the sweet thrill of parental pride: he was busy paying court to one of the famous beauties of the time, some Phryne or Laïs (classical names were much in vogue); the Tilsit5 peace had just been concluded and everyone was in a hurry to enjoy himself, all went spinning in a frenzied whirlwind of pleasure, just as the black eyes of his vivacious beauty sent his head spinning. He had very little money; but he was lucky at cards, struck up many acquaintanceships, took part in every conceivable kind of entertainment – in short, sped along under full sail.
IX
FOR a long while old Lavretsky was unable to forgive his son for having got married; if, after six months, say, Ivan Petrovich had appeared before him with his head hung in shame and thrown himself down at his feet, he would most likely have pardoned him, having first given him a good talking-to and a tap or two with his stick so as to instil the requisite respect; but Ivan was living abroad and, by all accounts, didn’t give a tinker’s cuss. ‘Hold your tongue! Don’t you dare!’ Pyotr Andreyich would insist to his wife every time she tried to incline him towards thoughts of forgiveness. ‘That puppy-dog, he ought to thank God eternally that I didn’t lay my curse on him; my late lamented father would’ve killed him with his own bare hands, the good-for-nothing, and it’d have been a good thing if he had.’ In face of such terrible speeches Anna Pavlovna could do no more than cross herself in secret. So far as Ivan Petrovich’s wife was concerned, Pyotr Andreyich at first would not even hear of her and in answer to a letter from Pestov, in which his daughter-in-law was mentioned, even ordered him to be informed that he had no knowledge of any such daughter-in-law and that it was forbidden by law to harbour runaway serf-girls, about which he considered it his duty to give him due warning; but later, having learned of the birth of his grandson, he softened and gave orders that he should be made privy to any news about the mother’s health and also, as if it were not from him, sent her a little money. Fedya was not yet a year old when Anna Pavlovna contracted a fatal illness. A few days before her death, when she was already confined to her bed, with reticent tears brimming in her fading eyes she announced to her husband in the presence of the priest that she wished to see and say good-bye to her daughter-in-law and pronounce her blessing upon her grandson. The old man, in great distress, comforted her and at once sent his own carriage to fetch his daughter-in-law, calling her for the first time Malanya Sergeyevna. She came with her son and with Marfa Timofeyevna, who would on no account have let her come alone and be slighted. Half-dead with fright, Malanya Sergeyevna entered Pyotr Andreyich’s study. Behind her came a nurse carrying Fedya. Pyotr Andreyich looked at her in silence; she approached his hand; her trembling lips were scarcely able to form themselves into a soundless kiss.
‘Well, my fine backstairs young lady,’ he said eventually, ‘how do you do? Let us go to the mistress.’
He rose and bent towards Fedya; the baby smiled and stretched out its pale little hands to him. The old man was overcome.
‘Oh,’ he cried, ‘my poor orphaned child! You were imploring me for your father; I’m not one to forsake you, poor mite.’
Malanya Sergeyevna no sooner entered Anna Pavlovna’s bedroom than she dropped on her knees by the door. Anna Pavlovna signalled for her to come to the bed, embraced her and blessed her son; then, turning a face utterly wasted by her cruel disease towards her husband, showed that she wished to speak…
‘I know, I know what it is you want to ask,’ said Pyotr Andreyich. ‘Don’t be sad: she will stay here with us, and for her sake I’ll forgive Vanka.’
With an effort Anna Pavlovna took her husband’s hand and pressed her lips to it. That same evening she died.
Pyotr Andreyich kept his word. He informed his son that for the sake of his mother’s dying wish and for the sake of the infant Fyodor he was returning to him his blessing and allowing Malanya Sergeyevna to remain with him in his house. She was given two rooms in the attic, and he introduced her to his two most honoured guests, the one-eyed brigadier Skurekhin and his wife. He also gave her two maids and a boy to run her errands. Marfa Timofeyevna said good-bye to her: she could not stand the sight of Glafira and in the course of one day quarrelled with her three times.
It was hard and uncomfortable for the poor woman at first, but later she learned to put up with things and became accustomed to her father-in-law. He also grew used to her and even became fond of her, although he hardly ever spoke to her and such endearments as he offered her were notable for a kind of involuntary deprecation. Malanya Sergeyevna had most of all to put up with from her sister-in-law. While her mother was still alive Glafira had succeeded in gradually taking over the running of the whole house: everyone, beginning with her father, submitted to her authority; a lump of sugar could not be handed out without her permission; she would rather have died than allow her authority to be shared with another mistress – and what a mistress! Her brother’s marriage had incensed her even more than it had Pyotr Andreyich: she took it upon herself to teach the upstart a lesson, and from the very start Malanya Sergeyevna became her slave. For how could she stand up against the wilful, arrogant Glafira, she who was so docile, so constantly fearful, afraid and in poor health? A day did not pass without Glafira reminding her of her former position and commending her for not having forgotten. Malanya Sergeyevna would gladly have reconciled herself to these reminders and commendations, no matter how bitter… but Fedya was taken away from her, that was what crushed her. On the pretext that she was in no condition to see to his upbringing, she was hardly allowed to see him at all; Glafira undertook to do this; the child passed entirely into her keeping. In her grief Malanya Sergeyevna began to implore Ivan Petrovich in her letters to return as soon as possible; Pyotr Andreyich himself wished to see his son; but all he did was to write back thanking his father for looking after his wife and for sending money and promising to come soon – and he did not come. The year 1812 brought him back finally from abroad. When they met for the first time after the six-year separation, father and son embraced and did not mention a word about their former discord; that was not the time for it: all Russia was up in arms against the enemy, and both felt that there was Russian blood flowing in their veins. Pyotr Andreyich fitted out a whole regiment of militia at his own expense. But the war ended and the danger passed; Ivan Petrovich again grew bored, once again felt drawn to distant parts, to the world with which he had grown
familiar and where he felt himself at home. Malanya Sergeyevna could not prevent him; she meant too little to him. Even her hopes had not materialized: her husband also found that it was much more suitable for Glafira to take charge of Fedya’s upbringing. Ivan Petrovich’s poor wife did not survive this blow and their second parting: uncomplainingly, in a matter of a few days, her life was snuffed out. Throughout her whole life she had never known how to gainsay anything, and she did not struggle with her illness. She was already unable to speak, already the shadows of the grave were lying across her face, but her features expressed as ever a patient bewilderment and a perpetual meek resignation; with the same dumb submissiveness she looked at Glafira, and as Anna Pavlovna on her deathbed had kissed Pyotr Andreyich’s hand so she pressed her lips to Glafira’s hand, entrusting to her, Glafira, her one and only son. So ended the earthly existence of this quiet and kindly soul who had been torn, for God knows what reason, from her native soil and cast aside at once like an uprooted sapling with its roots in the sun; it had withered and gone without trace, this poor soul, and no one grieved for it. Malanya Sergeyevna’s passing was regretted by her servants and by Pyotr Andreyich. The old man missed her silent presence. ‘Forgive me – farewell, my docile one!’ he whispered, making a final obeisance to her, in the church. He wept as he threw a handful of earth into her grave.
He had not long to outlive her, not more than five years. In the winter of 1819 he died quietly in Moscow, where he had gone with Glafira and his grandson, and requested in his will that he be buried alongside Anna Pavlovna and ‘Malasha’. Ivan Petrovich was then in Paris, enjoying himself; he had gone into retirement soon after 1815. When he learned of the death of his father, he decided to return to Russia. It was essential to give some thought to the management of the estate and what is more, according to a letter from Glafira, Fedya was already twelve and the time had come to be seriously concerned about his education.