“Don’t leave me in such a state of distress, Anton Ivanych,” said Anna Pavlovna. “Stay for dinner!”
“Very well, my dear lady, I’ll be happy to, and perhaps I will even stay for supper.”
“Then you might as well stay the night.”
“But how can I, the funeral is tomorrow!”
“Yes, of course, but I’m not forcing you. Say hello to Fedosya Petrovna for me; tell her that my heart goes out to her in her grief, and I would pay her a visit myself if it were not that God, you know, has sent me my own sorrow: I’ve had to say goodbye to my son.”
“I will, I will, I won’t forget.”
“Sashenka, my love,” she whispered, looking round. “But he’s gone, just disappeared!”
Aduyeva spent the whole day sitting in silence, going without dinner and supper. Anton Ivanych on the other hand had no trouble talking, dining and eating his supper.
Her only contribution to the conversation was the occasional “Where is my dear boy now?”
“By now he must be in Neplyuyeva. No, I’m wrong, he can’t be there yet, but just approaching it. He’ll stop there for some tea,” replied Anton Ivanych.
“No, he never drinks tea at this time.”
That was how Anna Pavlovna was mentally accompanying him on his journey. Later on – when, according to her reckoning, he must have reached St Petersburg – she spent her time praying, telling her fortune from the cards or talking about him to Maria Karpovna.
But what about him?
We shall meet him again in St Petersburg.
Chapter 2
Pyotr Ivanych Aduyev, Alexander’s uncle, at the age of twenty had, just like his nephew, been sent to St Petersburg by his older brother, Alexander’s father, and had now been living there continuously for seventeen years. After his brother’s death he had stopped corresponding with his relatives, and Anna Pavlovna had heard nothing from him since the time when he had sold the small estate he had owned not far from her own.
In St Petersburg he passed for a man of some wealth, and not without reason. He was in the service of an important personage as an official in charge of special assignments, and sported a number of ribbons on the lapel of his tailcoat. He rented a good apartment on one of the smarter streets, kept three servants and the same number of horses. He was not old, but was known rather as “a man in his prime” – somewhere between thirty-five and forty. As a matter of fact, he preferred to keep his age to himself, not as a matter of petty pride, but rather on account of a kind of careful calculation, as if he were bent on insuring his life on more advantageous terms. However, there was no suggestion that behind his reticence about his age there lurked some vanity, and that this reticence would somehow succeed in impressing the fair sex.
He was a tall, well-proportioned man with pronounced features set in a lustreless dark face. He moved with an even, graceful carriage, and his manner was reserved, but pleasant – the type who is usually described as a bel homme.*
His face conveyed the same element of reserve, of a kind of self-possession, and his eyes would not let you see through them into his soul. It was his feeling that this would be uncomfortable both for himself and others. This was how he appeared in company. Of course, this is not to say that his face was wooden: no, it was just untroubled. Only at times did it betray signs of weariness – most probably because his work was so demanding. He was thought of as someone both businesslike and efficient. He always dressed with care and with some elegance, but always within the bounds of good taste. His linen was immaculate, his hands were white and had some substance to them, his fingernails long and clear.
One morning, after waking up and ringing, his servant brought in three letters together with his tea, as well as the news that a young gentleman who called himself Alexander Fyodorych Aduyev had arrived, and had called him – Pyotr Ivanych – his “uncle”, and promised to call back some time after eleven.
Pyotr Ivanych, as was his custom, took the news calmly, reacting only with a slight quickening of his attention and an equally slight raising of his eyebrows.
“Very well, you may go,” he told the servant.
Then he picked up one of the letters, was on the point of opening it, but stopped to think for a moment.
“It’s that nephew from the country – that’s surprising!” he grumbled to himself. “I had hoped that the people in those parts had forgotten all about me! Anyway, no need to pretend to be civil! I’ll just talk my way out of it…”
He rang again.
“When that gentleman comes, tell him that when I got up this morning I got an urgent message to leave for the factory, and won’t be back for three months.”
“Yes sir, but what should I do about the presents?”
“What presents?”
“A servant brought them: it was the mistress,” he said, “who sent them from the country.”
“Presents?”
“Yes sir, a tub of honey, a sack of dried raspberries…”
Pyotr Ivanych shrugged.
“As well as two lengths of linen and some preserves…”
“Yes, I see, it must be good cloth…”
“Yes, it is, and the preserves are sweetened.”
“Well, off with you, I’ll come and see in a moment.”
He picked up one of the letters, opened it and glanced at a page.
It looked like that Old Slavonic-style large writing. The letter v had been replaced by two struck-through vertical lines, and the letter k simply by two lines; and there was no punctuation.
Aduyev started to read out the letter under his breath:
“Honourable Sir, Mr Pyotr Ivanych,
“I was a close acquaintance and friend of your late parents; I also used to play with you quite often when you were a child, and was frequently a guest at your parents’ table. So I feel confident that I can count on your help and goodwill, and that you will not have forgotten old Vasily Tikhonych. All of us here have the fondest memories of you and your parents, and pray for you…
“What is this rubbish? Who is this from?” said Pyotr Ivanych, glancing at the signature. “Vasily Zayezzhalov! Zayezzhalov? For the life of me, I can’t remember. What does he want from me?”
He continued reading.
“I don’t mean to impose on you, but I do have this very humble favour to ask of you – I am sure you won’t refuse. In St Petersburg, I’m sure it’s not like it is for us back here. Up there, you know what’s what, and everything that’s going on. I’ve had this damned lawsuit dumped on me and it has been hanging over me for seven years now, and I can’t fight it off. Do you happen to remember that grove about two versts from my village? The court made a mistake with the deed of sale, and my adversary, Medvedev, has seized on it and won’t let go. There’s one clause in it which he claims is forged. He’s the same Medvedev who used to poach fish on your grounds; your late father drove him away in disgrace and was minded to lodge a complaint with the governor against him for his impertinence, but he was a kind-hearted man, may his soul rest in peace, and he let him go. But that rascal should never have been let off. Please be a good fellow and help me, Pyotr Ivanych, the case is now before the National Senate, but I don’t know which department, or who is dealing with it, but I’m sure you can find out quickly. Go and see the various secretaries and senators and try to influence them in my favour; tell them that I’m a victim of a mistake in the deed of sale, yes, a definite mistake; they will do whatever is necessary for you. Oh, and while you’re about it, see if you can get the papers granting me an official promotion to a higher grade.
“One more thing, Pyotr Ivanych, dear fellow, a little matter of a most deserving case: please find it in your heart to offer advice, help and sympathy to a poor, downtrodden and innocent victim. There is a councillor in our provincial administration by the name of Drozhov, a man with a heart of gold, not
mere flesh and blood, who would die sooner than let down a friend. When I’m in town, there’s nowhere else I stay except with him. The moment I arrive I go straight to his place, and stay there for weeks at a time – God forbid that I should even think of staying with anyone else. He gives me food and drink, and after dinner we play cards until late at night. And it’s a man like this that they have passed over for promotion, and they are pestering him to send in his resignation. Like a good father, please go to see those bigwigs and make them see what kind of man Afanasy Ivanych really is. Whenever there’s work to be done, he does it in a flash; tell them that he is the victim of a trumped-up denunciation engineered by the scheming provincial secretary – they will listen to you – and then send me a letter by the first post. And go and see my old colleague, Kostyakov. I heard from a visitor from St Petersburg by the name of Studenitsyn, whom you probably know, that he lives at Peski; the neighbourhood kids will show you his house; and write back to me by the same post – and make an effort to find out whether he is alive, in good health, what he is doing and whether he remembers me. Get to know him and make friends with him, he’s a great fellow, easy-going and a real clown. Before I finish I just have one more little favour to ask…”
Aduyev stopped reading, slowly tore the letter into four pieces, and threw them into the waste-paper basket under the desk. Then he stretched and yawned.
He took up another letter, and started to read it, once again under his breath.
“‘Dear brother, kind sir, Pyotr Ivanych!’ Who can this be, calling herself my sister?” said Aduyev, looking at the signature. “Maria Gorbatova…” He looked up towards the ceiling, trying to recall…
“Who on earth can it be?… Sounds somehow familiar. Yes, now I’ve got it, my brother was married to a Gorbatova, so it must be her sister; yes, now I remember…”
He frowned, and continued reading.
“‘Although fate has kept us apart, perhaps for ever, and there’s a great gulf between us, the years have slipped away…’”
He skipped a few lines and went on reading:
“One memory I will carry to my grave was when we were strolling together around our lake, when you, at the risk of your life and limb, ventured into the water up to your knees to fetch me a big yellow flower growing among the reeds. There was some kind of sap trickling from the stalk which got our hands dirty, and you filled your cap with water so that we could wash the dirt off. That made us laugh so much, and how happy I was then! Ever since, I’ve kept that flower pressed inside a book…”
Aduyev stopped reading. Clearly, something in what he had read was bothering him; he even shook his head in disbelief.
He read on.
“‘And do you still have that ribbon, that you filched from one of my drawers in spite of all my protestations and pleading?’ I pinched her ribbon?” he said aloud, scowling. He fell silent and, skipping a few more lines, continued reading.
“‘I have resigned myself to life as a single woman and am very happy with it, but no one can stop me recalling those blissful old days…’ Ah, an old maid,” Pyotr Ivanych thought to himself. “No wonder she can’t get those yellow flowers out of her head! What else does she have to say?
“Are you married, my dear brother, and if so, to whom? Who is that dear companion who now graces the path of your existence? Tell me her name; I will love her like my own sister, and in my dreams I will join your two images and pray for you both. And if you are not married, what’s the reason – please write and tell me frankly; there’s no one here to read your secrets, I will lock them in my bosom, and someone would have to tear out my heart to get at them. Please write back without delay: I’m burning with impatience to read your ineffable words…
“Well – how’s that for your own ‘ineffable’ words!” Pyotr Ivanych thought to himself.
“‘I didn’t know,’” he read on,
“that dear Sasha would suddenly take it into his head to visit our magnificent capital – how lucky he will be to see those beautiful houses and shops, to enjoy such luxury and to clasp to his bosom the uncle he adores, while I will be shedding tears as I am reminded of those happy days. If I had known he would be leaving, I would have spent the days and nights embroidering a blackamoor with two dogs on a cushion for you; you won’t believe how often I have burst into tears at the sight of that design; what could be more sacred than friendship and loyalty?… Now I am possessed by a single thought, and I will devote my days to it, but I don’t have any good wool here. So may I most humbly request you, my dear brother, as soon as possible and from the best shop, to procure some of the highest-quality English wool for embroidering the designs which I have enclosed. But what am I saying? A most horrifying thought has frozen the pen in my hand! What if you have already forgotten us, and why should you even remember this poor unfortunate who has hidden herself from the world and sheds tears? But no, I refuse to believe that you could possibly be a brute like all other men – no! My heart tells me that amidst all the luxury and pleasure of our magnificent capital you still have the same feelings as always for all of us. It is this thought which is balm to my soul. Forgive me, I cannot continue, my hand is trembling.
“I remain to the grave,
yours,
Maria Gorbatova.
“P.S. My brother, do you happen to have any nice books? If you have any to spare, please send them. As I turn every page, I will be reminded of you, and will weep, otherwise please buy some new ones, but not expensive ones. I hear that there are some good ones by Mr Zagoskin and Mr Marlinsky,* so perhaps those; otherwise, I’ve also seen something in the papers about a book called On Prejudice by Mr Puzin* – please send it, I can’t stand prejudices.”
After finishing the letter, Aduyev felt like throwing it into the same waste basket as the one before, but he stopped himself.
“No,” he thought, “I’ll keep it: there are people who value letters like this; some people even collect them, maybe I can give it to someone, and he will owe me a favour. He threw the letter into the beaded basket hanging on the wall and then picked up the third letter and began to read it.
“My dearest brother-in-law Pyotr Ivanych,
“Do you remember the send-off we gave you when you left seventeen years ago?
“Well, now it has been God’s will that I should be blessing my own son on his long journey. Be kind to him, my dear, and remember our dear departed Fyodor Ivanych, whom Sashenka resembles in every way. God alone knows the anguish in this mother’s heart when I saw him off on his journey into the unknown. I am sending the person closest to me straight into your care, and told him to take shelter nowhere else…”
Aduyev shook his head once again.
“Stupid old woman!” he said.
“Left to himself he might, because of inexperience, have chosen to stay at an inn, but I know how that would have upset his very own uncle, so I suggested that he go straight to you. What a pleasure it will be for you to meet him! My dear brother-in-law, please give him the benefit of your good counsel and take him under your wing; I hand him straight over into your care.”
Once again Pyotr Aduyev paused in his reading, and then resumed.
“As you know, you are the only one he has. Look after him, don’t pamper him, but don’t be too hard on him either; you can be sure there will be others to do that. He can’t count on affection from anyone except his family; he himself is a very sweet boy; once you’ve set eyes on him you won’t want to let him out of your sight. And tell whoever his future boss turns out to be to take care of my Sasha, and to treat him above all with kindness, just as I have always treated him at home. Keep him away from wine and cards. At night, you will no doubt be sleeping in the same room. Now, Sashenka is used to sleeping on his back, and the darling moans a lot during his sleep and tosses and turns; wake him gently and make the sign of the cross over him, and he will soon be asleep peacefully. In the summer,
cover his mouth with a handkerchief; he sleeps with his mouth open, and those damned flies start going inside it towards the morning. Also, don’t leave him short of money if he should need any…”
Aduyev frowned, but as he continued reading he brightened up.
“I will send him whatever he needs, and I have given him a thousand roubles to take with him, only I don’t want him to waste it on trifles or allow strangers to cheat him, and remember that where you are, in the capital, there are a lot of swindlers and other unscrupulous types. But now, forgive me, dear brother-in-law, I’ve simply grown out of the habit of writing.
“With my sincere respects, your sister-in-law,
“A. Aduyeva.
“P.S. I am sending you some gifts of produce from the country – raspberries from our garden, white honey as pure as tears, Dutch linen, enough for two dozen shirts, and some of my homemade preserves. Please eat and wear these presents in good health, and when they run out, I’ll send some more. Keep an eye on Yevsei: he is quiet and doesn’t drink, but it may be that there in the capital he will get into bad habits; if so, don’t hesitate to give him a good hiding.”
Pyotr Aduyev slowly placed the letter on his desk – and even more slowly picked out a cigar and, after rolling it in his hands, began to smoke it. He spent a long time mulling over what he thought of as a “stunt” that his sister-in-law had pulled on him. He carefully turned the matter over in his mind, comparing how he had been treated and how he should act in his turn. This was how his reasoning proceeded on this matter. He didn’t know this nephew of his, and accordingly had no affection for him, and therefore his feelings placed him under no obligation: thus the whole matter should be decided purely on the basis of reason and justice. His brother had married and enjoyed all the benefits of married life, so why should he, Pyotr Ivanych, who had enjoyed none of the benefits of married life, assume any obligations towards his brother’s son? No reason at all, of course. But on the other hand, the matter could be viewed from a different angle. His mother had sent the young man directly to him and entrusted him with his care, without even knowing whether he was prepared to shoulder this burden, or even knowing whether he was alive and in a position to do anything for his nephew in St Petersburg. This was stupid of her, of course, but since the deed had been done and the nephew was already in St Petersburg without help, without knowing anyone, without even letters of recommendation, young and inexperienced, did he have the right to leave him at the mercy of fate and strangers, without any guidance or advice? And if he were to meet with some misfortune, would he then have to answer to his conscience?
The Same Old Story Page 4