How can we call Alexander heartless because he resolved to leave? He was twenty years old. Life had smiled upon him since infancy. His mother sang him lullabies and spoiled him as an only child will be spoiled. His nurse always sang to him in his cradle that he would walk in gold and know no pain. His teachers affirmed that he would go far, and after his return home his neighbor’s daughter smiled at him. Even the old cat Vaska was friendlier to him than to anyone in the house.
He knew about grief, tears, and misfortunes only by hearsay, as one knows about some disease which has not yet broken out, but which lurks imperceptibly somewhere among the masses. And so he saw the future in a cheerful light. Something beckoned him from afar, but precisely what–he didn’t know. He couldn’t quite make out the alluring spirits that fluttered there. He could hear mixed sounds–first the voice of fame, then the voice of love, and all this put him in a state of sweet agitation.
His domestic world soon began to constrain him. Nature, his mother’s kindnesses, the awe of his nanny and all the servants, his soft bed, the tasty delicacies, even Vaska’s purring–all these blessings so highly esteemed in our declining years–he was happy to exchange for the unknown which was full of alluring and mysterious charms. Even Sophie’s love, a first, tender, and rosy love, could not keep him here. What was this love to him? He dreamed of a colossal passion which knows no limits and moves men to perform celebrated feats. Meanwhile, while awaiting a great love, he loved Sophie with a small one. He dreamed, too, of the good he would do his country. A diligent student, he had learned a lot. His diploma documented his knowledge of some dozen subjects and some half-dozen ancient and modern languages. Most of all, he dreamed of a writer’s fame. His poetry astonished his comrades. Numerous paths spread out before him, and each one seemed better than the other. He didn’t know which one to rush on to. Only the direct path was hidden from his gaze; had he noted it, then perhaps he wouldn’t have left.
How could he have stayed? His mother wished it–that was another matter again and a very natural one. All the feelings in her heart had died but one–love for her son–and her heart clung fervently to this last object. What would she do without him? Simply die. It was proven long ago that a woman’s heart cannot live without love.
Alexander was spoiled, but he had not been ruined by his life at home. Nature had done so well in creating him that his mother’s love and the adoration of those around him had affected only his good sides, prematurely developing, for example, an affectionate tenderness in him and implanting an excessive trust in everything. These same causes, perhaps, also aroused self-esteem in him, but self-esteem in itself, after all, is only a form; everything depends on the material you pour into it.
A much greater misfortune for him was the fact that for all her tenderness his mother was not able to give him a real view of life and did not prepare him for the struggle which awaited him and awaits everyone. But that would have required a skillful hand, a subtle mind, and a store of much experience not limited by the narrow horizon of the village. She would even have had to love him less, not think for him every minute, not avert every worry and unpleasantness from him, not weep and suffer in his stead, so that even in childhood he might have felt the approach of a storm himself, managed with his own forces and thought about his destiny–in a word, come to know that he was a man. How was Anna Pavlovna to understand all that, let alone carry it out? The reader has seen what sort she was. Still, shouldn’t we take another look?
She has already forgotten her son’s egoism. Alexander Fyodorych found her packing linen and clothes for a second time. In her frantic efforts to prepare things for the road she seemed to have quite failed to remember her grief.
“Now, Sasha dear, note carefully where I’m putting things,” she said. “The sheets are at the very bottom of the trunk–a dozen. Look, are they listed?”
“Yes, Mama dear.”
“All with your initials, see, A. A. All done by darling Sonya! Without her our foolish servants wouldn’t have moved so fast. What next? Yes, the pillowcases. One, two, three, four–yes, a dozen here. Here are the shirts, three dozen. What fabric–it’s a pleasure to see! This is Dutch material. I went to Vasily Vasilich’s factory myself; he picked out three pieces of the best. Check them, dear, by your list each time you fetch them from the laundress; they’re all new. You won’t see many such shirts there–they might substitute others. There are, after all, people so low they have no fear of God. Twenty-two pairs of socks… Do you know what I thought o f? Putting your wallet with the money in one sock. You won’t need it before St. Petersburg, so if–God forbid!–somebody rummages around, he won’t find it. And the letters to your uncle I’m putting in the same place. I expect he’ll be delighted! After all, not to exchange a word for seventeen years is no laughing matter! Here are your neckerchiefs, here are the handkerchiefs; Sonya still has a half a dozen. Don’t lose the handkerchiefs, dear; they’re made of splendid material–half-cambric. I got it for two and a quarter at Mikheyev’s. Well, we’re done with the linen. Now the clothes… Now, where’s Evsei? Why isn’t he watching? Evsei!”
Evsei lazily entered the room.
“Madam wishes?” he asked even more lazily.
“Madam wishes?” said Mrs. Aduyeva angrily. “Why aren’t you watching the way I’m packing? And on the way there, when you have to get out something you’ll go turning everything topsy-turvy. Can’t tear yourself away from your beloved–that treasure! The day is long, you’ll have time! Is this the way you’ll be taking care of the master when you get there? Watch me! Here, look, this is the good dress coat–see where I’m putting it? And you, Sasha dear, take care of it, don’t pull it out every day; they were asking sixteen rubles for this cloth. Put it on when you go to see proper people, and don’t sit any old way, the way your aunt, almost deliberately, never sits down on an empty chair or sofa, but manages to plop down where there’s a hat or something like that; the other day she sat down on a plate with jam, made such a mess! When you go to see more simple people, wear this cotton coat. Now for the vests–one, two, three, four. Two pairs of trousers. Well, then! That’s enough clothes for about three years. Oh, I’m worn out! It’s not easy to rush about the whole morning! Run along, Evsei. Let’s talk, Sasha dear, about something else. If guests come, there won’t be time for this.”
She sat down on the sofa and made him sit down beside her.
“So, Sasha,” she said after a moment’s silence, “you’re going to a foreign land…”
“What kind of ‘foreign’ land is Petersburg! Come now, Mama dear!”
“Wait a minute, wait–listen to everything I want to say! God alone knows what you’ll encounter there, what you’ll look upon with pleasure–both good and bad. I hope my Heavenly Father will give you strength; and above all, dear, don’t you forget Him; remember that there’s no salvation anywhere and in anything without faith. If you rise to a high rank there, or join the nobility–after all, we’re not worse than others: your father was a nobleman, a major–all the same, be obedient to the Lord God. Pray, whether in good or bad fortune, and not according to the saying, ‘The peasant won’t make the sign of the cross if it doesn’t thunder.’ Some men won’t look into a church as long as their luck lasts, but as soon as they suffer a setback they’ll go light candles at a ruble each and give to the poor. This is a great sin. A word about the poor. Don’t waste money on them for nothing, don’t give a lot. Why spoil them? You won’t impress them. They’ll spend it on drink and laugh at you. I know you have a soft heart; you’ll probably start handing out silver coins. That’s not at all necessary; God will provide. Will you go to church? Will you go to mass on Sundays?”
She sighed.
Alexander was silent. He remembered that when he was a university student and lived in the capital of the province, he hadn’t attended church very faithfully, and in the country he had accompanied his mother to mass only to please her. It went against his conscience to deceive her. He was silent. His mother un
derstood his silence and sighed again.
“Well, I shan’t force you,” she went on. “You’re young. Where would you have found such zeal for God’s church as we old people? Besides, perhaps your work will prevent you, or you’ll stay late at society people’s and sleep late. God will forgive your youth. Don’t be sorry–you have a mother. She won’t sleep late. As long as even a drop of blood remains in me, as long as the tears in my eyes have not dried and God suffers my sins, I will crawl, if I haven’t the strength to walk, to the church door, and I will give my last sigh, weep my last tear for you, my dear. I’ll pray that you’ll find good health and advancement and medals and earthly and heavenly blessings. Surely the merciful father will not scorn a poor old woman’s prayer. I need nothing for myself. Let him take everything from me: health, life; let him send me blindness–if only he gives you every joy, happiness and bliss…”
She did not finish speaking; tears fell from her eyes.
Alexander jumped up from his place.
“Mama dear,” he said.
“Please, sit down, sit down!” she answered, quickly wiping her tears. “I still have a lot to say… What, indeed, did I want to say?–it’s gone… Look, what a memory I have nowadays… Oh, yes! fast for Lent, my dear, that’s important! God will forgive you for Wednesdays and Fridays, but the Lenten Fast–God forbid! Take Mikhailo Mikhailych, who thinks he’s an intelligent person and what does he do? He eats the same way whether it’s Passion Week or a season you can eat meat. Makes your hair stand on end! And he goes and helps the poor, as if his donations were acceptable to God. Listen, he once gave a ten-ruble bill to an old man who took it, then turned aside and spat. They all bow to him and say God knows what to his face, but behind his back they cross themselves when he’s mentioned, as if he’s some evil spirit.”
Alexander listened with some impatience and looked out the window at the distant road.
She fell silent a moment.
“Take care of your health, above all,” she continued. “If–God forbid–you fall dangerously ill, write… I’ll gather up my forces and come. Who will take care of you there? Besides, they’ll manage to cheat a sick person there. Don’t walk in the streets late at night, keep away from people who look vicious. Watch your money… Oh, take care of it for a rainy day! Spend sensibly. Money, curses on it, is the root of all good and evil. Don’t throw it away, don’t acquire unnecessary tastes. You will get exactly two thousand five hundred rubles a year from me. Two thousand five hundred rubles is no joke! Don’t start acquiring luxuries of any sort, nothing like that, but don’t deny yourself what you can afford; if you feel like treating yourself, don’t be miserly. Don’t surrender to alcohol–alas, it’s the greatest enemy of man! And one more thing” (here she lowered her voice) “beware of women! I know them! There are ones so shameless they’ll hang themselves round the neck of someone like you on first sight…”
She looked lovingly at her son.
“Enough, Mama dear; might I have breakfast?” he said almost with vexation.
“Right away, right away… one more word…”
“Don’t cast your eye upon a married woman,” she hurried to finish, adding, “It’s a great sin! ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife,’ it says in the Bible. If some woman there should try to catch you before there’s a wedding–God prevent!–don’t dare even think of it! They’re ready to attach themselves to you as soon as they see you have money and are good-looking. Should your superior or some important person or rich nobleman set his sights on you and want to marry his daughter to you–well, that’s possible, but you must write then; somehow I’ll get there and have a look so they won’t palm off some girl just to get rid of her–an old maid or a good-for-nothing. It’s a plus for any one to catch a bachelor like you. Well, and if you fall in love yourself and a nice girl is willing, then in that case…”–here she spoke still more softly–“Sonya can be pushed aside.” (Out of love for her son the old woman was ready to go against her conscience.) “What if Marya Karpovna has begun to dream of it! Her daughter’s no match for you. A country girl! The likes of her needn’t set their caps for you.”
“Sofiya! No, Mama dear, I s hall never forget her!” Alexander said.
“Come, come, my dear! calm down! I’m just talking. Do your work there, come back here, and then see what God wills. There will always be enough girls to marry! If you don’t forget her, so be it… But…”
She wanted to say something, but hesitated, then bent down to his ear and asked softly, “But will you remember… your mother?”
“Look what we’ve talked ourselves around to,” he interrupted. “Tell them to serve right away whatever there is for breakfast–fried eggs, did you say? Forget you! How could you think that? God will punish me…”
“Stop, stop, Sasha,” she began hastily, “Don’t bring that down on yourself! No, no! whatever comes, if such a sin takes place, let me alone suffer. You’re young, just beginning to live, you’ll make friends and marry–a young wife will take your mother’s place, and all that… No! May God bless you, as I give you my blessing.”
She kissed him on the forehead and with this concluded her admonitions.
“So why hasn’t anyone come to say goodbye?” she said. “Aren’t Marya Karpovna or Anton Ivanych or our priest coming? Communion is surely over by now! Oh, look, someone’s driving up! It looks like Anton Ivanych… So it is, speak of the devil and he appears.”
Who doesn’t know Anton Ivanych? He’s the Eternal Jew. He has existed always and everywhere, since the most ancient times, and he has never become extinct. He attended Greek and Roman banquets and ate, of course, of the fatted calf slaughtered by a happy father upon the return of his prodigal son.
Here in our Russia he takes on various shapes. The one we’re talking about was this sort: he owned around twenty serfs who had been pawned and pawned again. He lived practically in a peasant’s hut, or some kind of strange building that looked like a shed–the entrance somewhere in back across a plank alongside a wicker fence. Yet for twenty years he’s been insisting he’ll begin building a new house in the spring. He doesn’t keep house. There isn’t one of his acquaintances who has dined or supped or drunk tea at his house, but there isn’t one either at whose house he hasn’t done all that fifty times a year. Anton Ivanych used to wear wide, baggy pants and a short jacket; now on weekdays he goes about in a frock coat and trousers and on holidays he wears a cutaway of indescribable tailoring. He’s stout in appearance because he doesn’t have any grief, worries or trouble, though he pretends he has lived his whole life with the grief and worry of others. But, after all, everyone knows that the grief and worry of others don’t make us lose weight–that’s the way people are.
Properly speaking, Anton Ivanych is of no use to anyone for anything, but no ceremony–neither wedding nor funeral–takes place without him. He is present at every dinner and evening party and all family conferences; nobody takes a step without him. Some might perhaps think that he’s very helpful, that he is carrying out some important mission here, giving good advice or concluding a piece of business there–no, not in the least! Nobody entrusts anything of the sort to him; he has no qualifications and knows nothing, neither how to appear in court, nor how to be an intermediary or an arbitrator–absolutely nothing.
But, for all that, they commission him, for instance, to drop by in passing to give a greeting from a certain lady to a certain gentleman and he’ll take it there at an opportune time to have breakfast too. Or he’ll be asked to inform a certain person that a certain document has been received, but which document isn’t specified; or to take a tub of honey somewhere with the caution not to spill it, or a packet of seeds with the warning not to strew any; or to send remembrances when someone has a birthday. Anton Ivanych is also used for matters considered unsuitable to be entrusted to a servant. “We can’t send Petrushka,” they say. “Before you know it, he’ll garble it. No, better have Anton Ivanych drive over!” Or: “It’s awkward to send
a servant; this or that lady or gentleman will be offended, and so it’s better to send Anton Ivanych.”
How it would astonish everyone if suddenly he failed to come to a dinner or a party!
“But where’s Anton Ivanych?” everyone would be sure to ask in astonishment. “What’s the matter with him? Why isn’t he here?”
And without him the dinner isn’t a dinner. Then they’ll even send someone as a deputy to find out what’s the matter, whether he’s taken ill or gone away. And if he’s sick, he’ll get more sympathy than one of their own relatives.
Anton Ivanych kissed Anna Pavlovna’s hand.
“Good day, dear Anna Pavlovna! I have the honor to congratulate you on your new acquisition.”
“What new acquisition, Anton Ivanych?” asked Anna Pavlovna, looking herself over from head to toe.
“Why the little bridge at the gate! You can see you’ve just nailed it together, haven’t you? I hear the boards don’t dance under the wheels. I look, and it’s new!”
Upon encountering acquaintances he almost always greets them with best wishes for some occasion–either for Lent or spring or autumn; if it gets cold after a thaw, then he congratulates them on the cold; if after a cold spell it thaws, then on its warming up…
This time there wasn’t anything of the sort, but he thinks of something, of course.
“Alexandra Vasilievna, Matryona Mikhailovna, Pyotr Sergeich send you greetings,” he said.
“My deepest thanks, Anton Ivanych! Are their children well?”
“Yes, thank God. I bring you God’s blessing: the priest is on his way behind me. But have you heard, Madame, that our Semyon Arkhipych?…”
“What is it?”
“He’s departed this life.”
“What did you say! When?”
“Yesterday morning. I was informed toward evening. A young fellow galloped over, and I set off, indeed, I didn’t sleep all night. Everyone’s weeping and condolences must be offered and arrangements made–everyone there has lost heart. There are floods of tears–I alone…”
An Ordinary Story Page 3