At Epiphany he went back to Petersburg. He went off in the morning, and after dinner my sister came in. Without taking off her fur coat and her cap, she sat down in silence, very pale, and kept her eyes fixed on the same spot. She was chilled by the frost and one could see that she was upset by it.
“You must have caught cold,” I said.
Her eyes filled with tears; she got up and went out to Karpovna without saying a word to me, as though I had hurt her feelings. And a little later I heard her saying, in a tone of bitter reproach:
“Nurse, what have I been living for till now? What? Tell me, haven’t I wasted my youth? All the best years of my life to know nothing but keeping accounts, pouring out tea, counting the halfpence, entertaining visitors, and thinking there was nothing better in the world! Nurse, do understand, I have the cravings of a human being, and I want to live, and they have turned me into something like a housekeeper. It’s horrible, horrible!”
She flung her keys towards the door, and they fell with a jingle into my room. They were the keys of the sideboard, of the kitchen cupboard, of the cellar, and of the tea caddy, the keys which my mother used to carry.
“Oh, merciful heavens!” cried the old woman in horror. “Holy Saints above!”
Before going home, my sister came into my room to pick up the keys, and said:
“You must forgive me. Something queer has happened to me lately.”
8.
On returning home late one evening from Marya Viktorovna’s, I found waiting in my room a young police inspector in a new uniform; he was sitting at my table, looking through my books.
“At last,” he said, getting up and stretching himself. “This is the third time I have been to you. The governor commands you to present yourself before him at nine o’clock in the morning. Without fail.”
He took from me a signed statement that I would act upon His Excellency’s command, and went away. This late visit of the police inspector and unexpected invitation to the governor’s had an overwhelmingly oppressive effect upon me. From my earliest childhood I have felt terror stricken in the presence of gendarmes, policemen, and law-court officials, and now I was tormented by uneasiness, as though I were really guilty in some way. And I could not get to sleep. My nurse and Prokofy were also upset and could not sleep. My nurse had earache too; she moaned, and several times began crying with pain. Hearing that I was awake, Prokofy came into my room with a lamp and sat down at the table.
“You ought to have a drink of pepper cordial,” he said, after a moment’s thought. “If one does have a drink in this vale of tears it does no harm. And if Mamma were to pour a little pepper cordial in her ear it would do her a lot of good.”
Between two and three he was going to the slaughterhouse for the meat. I knew I should not sleep till morning now, and to get through the time till nine o’clock I went with him. We walked with a lantern, while his shopboy Nikolka, aged thirteen, with blue patches on his cheeks from frostbites, a regular young brigand to judge by his expression, drove after us in the sledge, urging on the horse in a husky voice.
“I suppose they will punish you at the governor’s,” Prokofy said to me on the way. “There are rules of the trade for governors, and rules for the higher clergy, and rules for the officers, and rules for the doctors, and every class has its rules. But you haven’t kept to your rules, and you can’t be allowed.”
The slaughterhouse was behind the cemetery, and till then I had only seen it in the distance. It consisted of three gloomy barns, surrounded by a gray fence, and when the wind blew from that quarter on hot days in summer, it brought a stifling stench from them. Now, going into the yard in the dark, I did not see the barns; I kept coming across horses and sledges, some empty, some loaded up with meat. Men were walking about with lanterns, swearing in a disgusting way. Prokofy and Nikolka swore just as revoltingly, and the air was in a continual uproar with swearing, coughing, and the neighing of horses.
There was a smell of dead bodies and of dung. It was thawing, the snow was changing into mud; and in the darkness it seemed to me that I was walking through pools of blood.
Having piled up the sledges full of meat, we set off to the butcher’s shop in the market. It began to get light. Cooks with baskets and elderly ladies in mantles came along one after another. Prokofy, with a chopper in his hand, in a white apron spattered with blood, swore fearful oaths, crossed himself at the church, shouted aloud for the whole market to hear that he was giving away the meat at cost price and even at a loss to himself. He gave short weight and short change, the cooks saw that, but, deafened by his shouts, did not protest and only called him a hangman. Brandishing and bringing down his terrible chopper he threw himself into picturesque attitudes, and each time uttered the sound “Geck” with a ferocious expression, and I was afraid he really would chop off somebody’s head or hand.
I spent all the morning in the butcher’s shop, and when at last I went to the governor’s, my overcoat smelled of meat and blood. My state of mind was as though I were being sent spear in hand to meet a bear. I remember the tall staircase with a striped carpet on it, and the young official, with shiny buttons, who mutely motioned me to the door with both hands, and ran to announce me. I went into a hall luxuriously but frigidly and tastelessly furnished, and the high, narrow mirrors in the spaces between the walls, and the bright yellow window curtains, struck the eye particularly unpleasantly. One could see that the governors were changed, but the furniture remained the same. Again the young official motioned me with both hands to the door, and I went up to a big green table at which a military general, with the Order of Vladimir on his breast, was standing.
“Monsieur Poloznev, I have asked you to come,” he began, holding a letter in his hand, and opening his mouth like a round “o,” “I have asked you to come here to inform you of this. Your highly respected father has appealed by letter and by word of mouth to the Marshal of Nobility begging him to summon you and to lay before you the inconsistency of your behavior with the rank of the nobility to which you have the honor to belong. His excellency Alexandr Pavlovich, justly supposing that your conduct might serve as a bad example, and considering that mere persuasion on his part would not be sufficient, but that official intervention in earnest was essential, presents me here in this letter with his views in regard to you, which I share.”
He said this, quietly, respectfully, standing erect, as though I were his superior officer and looking at me with no trace of severity. His face looked worn and wizened and was all wrinkles; there were bags under his eyes, his hair was dyed, and it was impossible to tell from his appearance how old he was—forty or sixty.
“I trust,” he went on, “that you appreciate the delicacy of our honored Alexandr Pavlovich, who has addressed himself to me not officially, but privately. I, too, have asked you to come here unofficially, and I am speaking to you, not as a governor, but from a sincere regard for your father. And so I beg you either to alter your line of conduct and return to duties in keeping with your rank, or, to avoid setting a bad example, remove to another district where you are not known, and where you can follow any occupation you please. In the other case, I shall be forced to take extreme measures.”
He stood for half a minute in silence, looking at me with his mouth open.
“Are you a vegetarian?” he asked.
“No, Your Excellency, I eat meat.”
He sat down and drew some papers towards him. I bowed and went out.
It was not worth while now to go to work before dinner. I went home to sleep, but could not sleep from an unpleasant, sickly feeling, induced by the slaughterhouse and my conversation with the governor; and when the evening came I went, gloomy and out of sorts, to Marya Viktorovna. I told her how I had been at the governor’s, while she stared at me in perplexity as though she did not believe it, then suddenly began laughing gaily, loudly, irrepressibly, as only good-natured laughter-loving people can.
“If only one could tell that in Petersburg!” she
brought out, almost falling over with laughter, and propping herself against the table. “If one could tell that in Petersburg!”
9.
Now we used to see each other often, sometimes twice a day. She used to come to the cemetery almost every day after dinner, and read the epitaphs on the crosses and tombstones while she waited for me. Sometimes she would come into the church, and, standing by me, would look on while I worked. The stillness, the naive work of the painters and gilders, Radish’s sage reflections, and the fact that I did not differ externally from the other workmen, and worked just as they did in my waistcoat with no socks on, and that I was addressed familiarly by them—all this was new to her and touched her. One day a workman, who was painting a dove on the ceiling, called out to me in her presence:
“Misail, hand me up the white paint.”
I took him the white paint, and afterwards, when I let myself down by the frail scaffolding, she looked at me, touched to tears and smiling.
“What a dear you are!” she said.
I remembered from my childhood how a green parrot, belonging to one of the rich men of the town, had escaped from its cage, and how for quite a month afterwards the beautiful bird had haunted the town, flying from garden to garden, homeless and solitary. Marya Viktorovna reminded me of that bird.
“There is positively nowhere for me to go now but the cemetery,” she said to me with a laugh. “The town has become disgustingly dull. At the Azhogins’ they are still reciting, singing, lisping. I have grown to detest them of late; your sister is an unsociable creature; Mademoiselle Blagovo hates me for some reason. I don’t care for the theater. Tell me where am I to go?”
When I went to see her I smelled of paint and turpentine, and my hands were stained—and she liked that; she wanted me to come to her in my ordinary working clothes; but in her drawing-room those clothes made me feel awkward. I felt embarrassed, as though I were in uniform, so I always put on my new serge trousers when I went to her. And she did not like that.
“You must own you are not quite at home in your new character,” she said to me one day. “Your workman’s dress does not feel natural to you; you are awkward in it. Tell me, isn’t that because you haven’t a firm conviction and are not satisfied? The very kind of work you have chosen—your painting—surely it does not satisfy you, does it?” she asked, laughing. “I know paint makes things look nicer and last longer, but those things belong to rich people who live in towns, and after all they are luxuries. Besides, you have often said yourself that everybody ought to get his bread by the work of his own hands, yet you get money and not bread. Why shouldn’t you keep to the literal sense of your words? You ought to be getting bread, that is, you ought to be plowing, sowing, reaping, threshing, or doing something which has a direct connection with agriculture, for instance, looking after cows, digging, building huts of logs. . . .”
She opened a pretty cupboard that stood near her writing table, and said:
“I am saying all this to you because I want to let you into my secret. Voilà! This is my agricultural library. Here I have fields, kitchen garden and orchard, and cattle yard and beehives. I read them greedily and have already learned all the theory to the tiniest detail. My dream, my darling wish, is to go to our Dubechnya as soon as March is here. It’s marvelous there, exquisite, isn’t it? The first year I shall have a look round and get into things, and the year after I shall begin to work properly myself, putting my back into it as they say. My father has promised to give me Dubechnya and I shall do exactly what I like with it.”
Flushed, excited to tears, and laughing, she dreamed aloud how she would live at Dubechnya, and what an interesting life it would be! I envied her. March was near, the days were growing longer and longer, and on bright sunny days water dripped from the roofs at midday, and there was a fragrance of spring; I, too, longed for the country.
And when she said that she should move to Dubechnya, I realized vividly that I should remain in the town alone, and I felt that I envied her with her cupboard of books and her agriculture. I knew nothing of work on the land and did not like it, and I should have liked to have told her that work on the land was slavish toil, but I remembered that something similar had been said more than once by my father, and I held my tongue.
Lent began. Viktor Ivanich, whose existence I had begun to forget, arrived from Petersburg. He arrived unexpectedly, without even a telegram to say he was coming. When I went in, as usual in the evening, he was walking about the drawing-room, telling some story, with his face freshly washed and shaven, looking ten years younger: his daughter was kneeling on the floor, taking out of his trunks boxes, bottles, and books, and handing them to Pavel, the footman. I involuntarily drew back a step when I saw the engineer, but he held out both hands to me and said, smiling, showing his strong white teeth that looked like a sledge driver’s:
“Here he is, here he is! Very glad to see you, Monsieur House-painter! Masha has told me all about it; she has been singing your praises. I quite understand and approve,” he went on, taking my arm. “To be a good workman is ever so much more honest and more sensible than wasting government paper and wearing a cockade on your head. I myself worked in Belgium with these very hands and then spent two years as a mechanic. . . .”
He was wearing a short reefer jacket and indoor slippers; he walked like a man with the gout, rolling slightly from side to side and rubbing his hands. Humming something, he softly purred and hugged himself with satisfaction at being at home again at last, and able to have his beloved shower bath.
“There is no disputing,” he said to me at supper, “there is no disputing; you are all nice and charming people, but for some reason, as soon as you take to manual labor, or go in for saving the peasants, in the long run it all comes to no more than being a dissenter. Aren’t you a dissenter? Here you don’t take vodka. What’s the meaning of that if it is not being a dissenter?”
To satisfy him I drank some vodka and I drank some wine, too. We tasted the cheese, the sausage, the pâtés, the pickles, and the savories of all sorts that the engineer had brought with him, and the wine that had come in his absence from abroad. The wine was first-rate. For some reason the engineer got wine and cigars from abroad without paying duty; the caviar and the dried sturgeon someone sent him for nothing; he did not pay rent for his flat as the owner of the house provided the kerosene for the line; and altogether he and his daughter produced on me the impression that all the best in the world was at their service and provided for them for nothing.
I went on going to see them, but not with the same eagerness. The engineer made me feel constrained. I could not face his clear, guileless eyes, his reflections wearied and sickened me; I was sickened, too, by the memory that so lately I had been in the employ of this red-faced, well-fed man, and that he had been brutally rude to me. It is true that he put his arm round my waist, slapped me on the shoulder in a friendly way, approved my manner of life, but I felt that, as before, he despised my insignificance, and only put up with me to please his daughter, and I couldn’t now laugh and talk as I liked, and I behaved unsociably and kept expecting that in another minute he would address me as Pantelei as he did his footman Pavel. How my pride as a provincial and a workingman was revolted. I, a proletarian, a house painter, went every day to rich people who were alien to me, and whom the whole town regarded as though they were foreigners, and every day I drank costly wines with them and ate unusual dainties—my conscience refused to be reconciled to it! On my way to the house I sullenly avoided meeting people, and looked at them from under my brows as though I really were a dissenter, and when I was going home from the engineer’s I was ashamed of my well-fed condition.
Above all I was afraid of being carried away. Whether I was walking along the street, or working, or talking to the other fellows, I was all the time thinking of one thing only, of going in the evening to see Marya Viktorovna and was picturing her voice, her laugh, her movements. When I was getting ready to go to her, I always spent a long
time before my nurse’s warped looking glass as I fastened my tie; my serge trousers were detestable in my eyes, and I suffered torments, and at the same time despised myself for being so trivial. When she called to me out of the other room that she was not dressed and asked me to wait, I listened to her dressing; it agitated me, I felt as though the ground were giving way under my feet. And when I saw a woman’s figure in the street, even at a distance, I invariably compared it. It seemed to me that all our girls and women were vulgar, that they were absurdly dressed and did not know how to hold themselves; and these comparisons aroused a feeling of pride in me: Marya Viktorovna was the best of them all! And I dreamed of her and myself at night.
One evening at supper with the engineer we ate a whole lobster. As I was going home afterwards I remembered that the engineer twice called me “My dear fellow” at supper, and I reflected that they treated me very kindly in that house, as they might an unfortunate big dog that had been kicked out by its owners, that they were amusing themselves with me, and that when they were tired of me they would turn me out like a dog. I felt ashamed and wounded, wounded to the point of tears as though I had been insulted, and, looking up at the sky, I took a vow to put an end to all this.