Hello, auntie!
Tatyana Borisovna is a lady of about fifty with large, grey, bulging eyes, a slightly blunt nose, pink cheeks and a double chin. Her face breathes welcome and warmth. She was married at one time but was quickly widowed. Tatyana Borisovna is a very remarkable lady. She lives permanently on her little estate, has little to do with her neighbours and only likes and receives young people. She was the daughter of extremely poor landowners and received no education – that is to say, she doesn’t speak French; nor has she ever been to Moscow and yet, despite these many handicaps, she conducts herself so simply and well, feels and thinks so freely and is so little affected by the usual ailments of ladies on small estates that one cannot help being amazed at her… And, to be sure, for a lady living the whole year round in one village in the heart of the country not to be engaged in gossip, talking with a squeaky voice, dropping curtsies, becoming emotional, choking with horror and quivering with curiosity is quite miraculous! She usually wears a grey taffeta dress and white bonnet with hanging lilac ribbons. She’s fond of eating but not to excess and she leaves the jam-making, drying and salting to her housekeeper.
What does she do all day, you may ask. Does she read? No, she doesn’t read, and, truth to tell, books are not printed for the likes of her. If she has no guests, my Tatyana Borisovna sits in winter by the window and knits stockings; in the summer she walks in the garden, plants flowers and waters them, plays for hours at a time with her kittens and feeds the pigeons. She takes little interest in the running of her house. But as soon as a guest arrives, some young neighbour of whom she’s fond, Tatyana Borisovna at once grows lively, sits him down, pours him tea, listens to his stories, laughs, occasionally pats him on the cheek, but says little herself. In misfortune and in grief she always offers comfort and gives good advice. How many people have entrusted her with their most private and domestic secrets and cried in her arms! It’s usual for her to sit down opposite her guest, lean on one elbow and look him in the eye with such sympathy and smile with such friendliness that the guest can’t help thinking: ‘What a wonderful lady you are, Tatyana Borisovna! I’ll be glad to tell you everything in my heart.’ In her small, comfortable rooms one always feels warm; there is always beautiful weather in her house, if one may put it that way. Tatyana Borisovna is a surprising lady and yet no one is surprised at her. Her common sense, firmness and frankness, her passionate immersion in others’ sorrows and joys – in a word, all her talents – were given her at birth and never cost her any labour or fuss… It would be impossible to imagine her in any other way, just as there’s really nothing to thank her for.
She’s especially fond of watching the games and pranks of the young. She folds her arms below her bosom, tosses back her head, screws up her eyes and sits there smiling, and then she suddenly sighs and says: ‘Oh, you young things, you!’ It makes you want to go up to her and take her hand and say: ‘Tatyana Borisovna, listen, you don’t know your own worth, why, with all your simplicity and artlessness, you’re a simply extraordinary person!’ Her name itself has a familiar ring, is welcomed and uttered with pleasure and gives rise to friendly smiles. The number of times, for example, I’ve had occasion to ask a peasant how to get to Grachovka, say, and heard ‘Well, sir, go first to Vyazovoe and from there to Tatyana Borisovna’s and anyone’ll tell you the way from Tatyana Borisovna’s.’ And at Tatyana Borisovna’s name the peasant’ll give a special shake of the head. She keeps only a small number of servants, according to her needs. The house, laundry, store-room and kitchen are the preserve of her housekeeper Agafya, her former nurse, the kindest of creatures, toothless and prone to tears. She has charge of two healthy girls with strong dusky cheeks the colour of ripe apples. The positions of valet, butler and steward are filled by the seventy-year-old servant Polikarp, a very unusual old chap, well-read, a retired violinist and devotee of Viotti,1 personal enemy of Napoleon or ‘Old Boney’, as he calls him, and passionately fond of nightingales. He always has five or six of them in his room and in early spring spends whole days sitting beside the cages waiting for the first ‘burst of song’ and, on hearing it, covers his face with his hands and bursts into tears, moaning ‘Oh my! Oh, my!’ Polikarp has a grandson to help him, Vasya, a boy of about twelve, with curly hair and lively eyes. Polikarp loves him to distraction and grumbles at him from dawn to dusk. He also occupies himself with his education.
‘Vasya,’ he says, ‘say: Old Boney’s a robber.’
‘What’ll you give me, grandad?’
‘What’ll I give you? I won’t give you nuthin’. Who d’you think you are? You’re Russian, aren’t you?’
‘I’m an Amchenian, grandad. I was born in Amchensk.’*
‘Oh, you silly thing! Where d’you think Amchensk is?’
‘How should I know?’
‘Amchensk’s in Russia, silly!’
‘So what if it’s in Russia?’
‘So what? ’Cos His Magnificence, the late-lamented Prince Mikhaylo Illarionovich Golenishchev-Kutuzov, with God’s help, drove that Old Boney right beyond the Russian borders. An’ on account of it a song was made up: “Old Boney’s gone and lost’ is fasteners, so he can’t go to no more dances…” He liberated the fatherland, understand?’
‘What’s it to me?’
‘Oh, you silly boy, you! If His Magnificence Prince Mikhaylo Illarionovich hadn’t driven out Old Boney, some monsewer or other’d be beatin’ you about the head with a stick. He’d come up to you an’ say: Koman vu porty vu? an’ bash, bash he’d go!’
‘Then I’d give ’im my fist in the stomach!’
‘An’ he’d say to you: Bonjur, bonjur, veney issy an’ grab hold of your hair, he would!’
‘I’d grab ’im by the legs, I would! I’d grab ’im by the goat’s legs!’
‘It’s true they’ve got legs like goats!… But what if he started tying your hands?’
‘I wouldn’t let ’im! I’d call Mickey the coachman to come an’ help.’
‘So, Vasya, you don’t think a Frenchie’d be a match for Mickey?’
‘’Course he wouldn’t! Mickey’s real strong!’
‘Well, what’d you do to him?’
‘We’d bash ’im on the back, that’s what!’
‘An’ he’d start shoutin’: Pardon, pardon, sivuplay!’
‘An’ we’d tell ’im no sivuplay to you, you Frenchie, you!’
‘Bravo, Vasya! Well, go on, shout out: “Old boney’s a robber!” ’
‘You give me some sugar!’
‘Oh, you’re a one!’
Tatyana Borisovna has little to do with local ladies. They don’t like visiting her and she doesn’t know how to entertain them, falls asleep under the sound of their talk, then shakes herself, forces herself to open her eyes and once more falls asleep. Tatyana Borisovna is not fond of women in general. One of her friends, a decent and quiet young man, had a sister who was an old maid of thirty-eight and a half, the kindest creature but extremely artificial, intense and emotional. Her brother frequently spoke to her about their neighbour. One fine morning my old maid, without a word of warning, ordered a horse saddled for her and set off for Tatyana Borisovna’s. In her long dress, with a hat on her head, a green veil and curls let down, she walked into the hallway and, slipping past an astonished Vasya who took her for a water sprite, ran into the drawing-room. Tatyana Borisovna was frightened out of her wits, tried to get up, but her legs failed her.
‘Tatyana Borisovna,’ her guest started saying in a pleading voice, ‘forgive me for being so bold. I’m the sister of your neighbour Aleksey Nikolaevich K— and have heard so much about you I decided to make your acquaintance.’
‘It’s a great honour,’ murmured the astonished hostess.
Her guest tossed off her hat, shook out her curls, seated herself beside Tatyana Borisovna and took her hand.
‘So here she is,’ she began in a thoughtful and affected voice, ‘here is the kind, placid, noble, holy being herself! Here she is, the simple an
d yet profound lady! How delighted I am, how delighted! How fond we’ll be of each other! I’m content at last!… You are just as I’d imagined you’d be,’ she added in a whisper, directing her eyes into Tatyana Borisovna’s. ‘Tell me the truth, you’re not annoyed with me, my dear one, my fine one, are you?’
‘Not at all, I’m very glad… Would you care for some tea?’
The guest smiled condescendingly. ‘Wie wahr, wie unreflektiert,’ she whispered as if to herself. ‘Permit me to embrace you, my darling!’
The old maid spent three hours at Tatyana Borisovna’s without being quiet for an instant. She tried to demonstrate to her new acquaintance her own importance. The moment the unexpected guest had left the poor lady of the house set off for the bath-house, drank plentifully of lime tea and took to her bed. But the next day the old maid returned, spent four hours with her and left promising to visit Tatyana Borisovna every day. She’d taken it upon herself, you see, to complete the development of – or the education of – such a rich nature, as she put it, and probably she’d have carried it through completely if, firstly, after a couple of weeks she hadn’t become ‘utterly’ disillusioned by her brother’s friend and, secondly, if she hadn’t fallen in love with a young student who came her way and with whom she immediately entered into a vigorous and passionate correspondence. In her letters she gave him, as is customary, her blessing for a sacred and beautiful life, offered ‘every bit of herself’ as a sacrifice, demanded only that he call her his sister, embarked on descriptions of nature, mentioned Goethe, Schiller, Bettina von Arnim2 and German philosophy and finally drove the poor lad to grim despair. But youth asserted itself. One fine morning he awoke in such a frenzy of loathing for this ‘sister and best friend’ of his that he barely restrained himself from giving his valet a thumping in the heat of the moment and for a long while felt like biting anyone who made the slightest mention of exalted and disinterested love… But from that moment on Tatyana Borisovna began to avoid contact with her female neighbours even more than before.
Alas, nothing is certain on this earth! Everything I’ve told you so far about the life and times of my kind lady is a matter of the past. The calm which reigned in her house has gone forever. She has already had living with her for more than a year her nephew, an artist from St Petersburg. This is how it came about.
About eight years ago Tatyana Borisovna had living with her a boy of about twelve called Andryusha, an orphan without mother or father and the son of her late brother. Andryusha had large, bright, moist eyes, a small mouth, straight nose and fine high forehead. He spoke in a quiet, sweet voice, was neat and well-behaved, polite and considerate to guests and always kissed his aunt’s hand with an orphan’s appropriate tenderness. You’d scarcely have put in an appearance when, lo and behold, he’d be bringing in an armchair for you. He was not one for pranks of any kind and never made a noise, but would sit in a corner with a book so deferentially and quietly he wouldn’t even lean back against the back of the chair. A guest would arrive and my Andryusha’d be up on his feet, smile politely and turn pink. When the guest left, he’d sit down again, take a little brush and mirror from his pocket and start brushing his hair. From a very early age he had a fondness for drawing. Should a scrap of paper come his way, he’d at once beg a pair of scissors from Agafya, the housekeeper, carefully set about cutting the paper into a perfect rectangle, make a border round it and start work, drawing an eye with an enormous pupil, or a Grecian nose, or a house with a chimney and smoke rising in a spiral, or a dog en face looking like a park bench, or a small tree with two little pigeons, and he’d sign it: ‘Drawn by Andrey Belovzorov on such-and-such a day of such-and-such a year in the village of Lower Kicking.’ He used to be especially zealous for a couple of weeks before Tatyana Borisovna’s name-day. He’d be the first to appear with best wishes and he’d be carrying a rolled-up sheet of paper tied with pink ribbon. Tatyana Borisovna’d kiss her nephew on the forehead and untie the ribbon. The paper would unroll and reveal to the curious eye of the beholder a briskly shaded picture of a round temple with columns and an altar in the middle. On the altar there glowed a heart and lay a wreath, while above it, on a winding scroll, was the printed legend: ‘To my Auntie and Benefactress Tatyana Borisovna Bogdanova from her Respectful and Loving Nephew as a Token of my Most Profound Affection.’ Tatyana Borisovna would kiss him again and present him with a coin. However, she never felt any great attachment to him and An-dryusha’s fawning attitude didn’t appeal to her at all. In the meantime Andryusha grew up. Tatyana Borisovna began to be concerned about his future. An unexpected event provided a way out of her difficulties…
It was this: once, some eight years before, she had been visited by a certain Mr Benevolensky, Pyotr Mikhaylych, a collegiate counsellor and knight. Mr Benevolensky had at one time been in the civil service in the nearest county town and had visited Tatyana Borisovna assiduously. Later he had moved to St Petersburg, served in a ministry, achieved a fairly important post and, on one of his frequent journeys on official business, he’d remembered his old acquaintance and made a detour to call on her with the intention of spending a couple of days resting from the cares of the service ‘in the bosom of rural tranquillity’.3 Tatyana Borisovna received him with her usual warmth and Mr Benevolensky… But before we go on with our story, permit me, dear reader, to acquaint you with this new personage.
Mr Benevolensky was on the fat side, of medium height, soft in appearance, with tiny feet and plump little hands. He used to wear a capacious and extraordinarily neat frockcoat, a tall and broad cravat, linen that was white as snow, a gold chain in his silk waistcoat, a cameo ring on his index finger and a blond wig. He had a way of speaking convincingly and deferentially, would pace about noiselessly, smile pleasantly, roll his eyes about pleasantly and pleasantly bury his chin in his cravat. Generally speaking, he was a pleasant man. The Good Lord had also endowed him with the kindest of hearts with the result that he used to cry and grow emotional easily. Above all, he burned with a selfless passion for art, and it was genuinely selfless, because it was precisely in art that Mr Benevolensky, truth to tell, had absolutely no insight whatever. It was even a matter of some amazement as to how on the strength of what mysterious and incomprehensible laws such a passion had gained such a hold on him. It seems he was a positive man, quite ordinary… None the less in Russia we have a good many such people.
Love of art and artists gives such people an inexplicably cloying affectedness. To know them and talk to them is torture because they’re real blockheads smeared with honey. For example, they never refer to Rafael as Rafael or Correggio as Correggio, it’s always, as they say: ‘Oh, the divine Sanzio, oh, the inimitable de Allegris,’ always emphasizing the ‘oh’. Any homegrown, ambitious, overrated and mediocre talent they proclaim a genius or – more correctly – a ‘henius’. They never stop babbling about the blue sky of Italy, southern lemons, the fragrant airs of Brenta’s banks. ‘Oh, Vanya, Vanya,’ or ‘Oh, Sasha, Sasha,’ they say to each other with feeling, ‘we must be off to the south, the south… We’re Greeks in spirit, you and I, ancient Greeks!’ They can be observed at exhibitions standing in front of the works of Russian painters. (It has to be noted that for the most part all these gentlemen are frightful patriots.) They will take a couple of steps back and throw back their heads, then once more advance towards the picture, their little eyes fattily misting over. ‘My God, there you are!’ they tend to say at last in voices hoarse with emotion. ‘The soulfulness of it, the soulfulness! Oh, the feeling in it, the feeling! Oh, he’s shown such soulfulness, a mass of soulfulness! Oh, the way it’s done! Masterfully!’ And yet what paintings they have in their own drawing-rooms! What artists they have visiting them in the evenings, drinking tea with them and listening to their talk! And what perspective views of their own rooms they bring them, with a broom on the right-hand side, a pile of rubbish on a polished floor, a yellow samovar on a table next the window and the master of the house himself in a dressing-gown and skull
-cap with a bright splodge of highlight on his cheek! What longhaired devotees of the Muses visit them with their feverishly condescending smiles! What pale-green young ladies screech their way through songs at their pianos! Because with us in Russia it’s now ordained that one cannot be devoted only to one branch of art: it’s all or nothing now. And therefore it’s not at all surprising that these gentlemen amateurs are also showing strong protective feeling towards Russian literature, particularly the drama… The Giacobo Sannazaros4 of this world are written for them: the struggle of unrecognized talent against people, against the whole world, something told a thousand times before, shakes their souls to their very depths…
The day after Mr Benevolensky’s arrival, Tatyana Borisovna over tea ordered her nephew to show their guest his drawings.
‘So he draws, does he?’ uttered Mr Benevolensky, not without surprise, and turned with interest towards Andryusha.
‘Certainly he does,’ said Tatyana Borisovna. ‘He’s very fond of it! And he does it by himself without a teacher.’
‘Oh, show me, show me,’ chimed in Mr Benevolensky.
Andryusha, reddening and smiling, brought their guest his drawing-book.
Mr Benevolensky began to look through it with the air of an expert.
‘Good, young man,’ he said finally. ‘Good, very good.’ And he stroked Andryusha on the head. Andryusha gave his hand a flying kiss. ‘Well, well, what a talent! I congratulate you, Tatyana Borisovna, I congratulate you.’
‘But you see, Pyotr Mikhaylych, I simply cannot find a teacher anywhere here. It’s expensive having one from the town. Our neighbours, the Artamonovs, have a painter and they say he’s very good, but the young lady there forbids him to teach anyone else for fear he may spoil his taste, as she puts it.’