“Good cloth and sweet jam.”
“Go on then, I’ll have a look right away.”
He picked up one letter, opened it and took in a page at a glance. It looked like an important Old Slavic document: the letter “v” was represented by two crossed strokes, one up, one down, while the letter “k” was simply two strokes; the whole thing was written without punctuation.
Aduyev began to read half-aloud:
Dear Mr. Pyotr Ivanovich! Having known your deceased father and been a friend, and I often comforted you yourself in childhood and broke bread in your home, for this reason I feel complete confidence in your zeal and favor, and that you have not forgotten me, an old man, Vasily Tikhonych, and we here esteem you and your parents most kindly, and pray God…
“What’s this nonsense? From whom is this?” said Pyotr Ivanych, looking at the signature, “Vasily Zayezzhalov–strike me dead–I don’t remember. What does he want of me?”
And he began to read further:
Now my most humble request and a bother for you–don’t refuse, dear sir… for you in Petersburg it isn’t the same as here, where, it seems, everything is known and everyone else’s business. I have been caught up in a cursed lawsuit and for the seventh year now I can’t get out of it. Do you remember the little wood a mile or so from my little village? The Registry Bureau made a mistake on the deed, and my adversary, Medvedev, is basing his suit on it. He says it’s a forgery and that’s that. Medvedev is the one who fished in your tracts without permission; your late father chased him out and shamed him, he wanted to complain to the governor about the man’s highhandedness, but out of kindness, God rest his soul, he let it go, considering it unnecessary to act against such a villain. Help me, dear sir, Pyotr Ivanych; the affair is now in the Senate, I don’t know in which department there and in whose hands, but surely they’ll show you at once. Go see the secretaries and senators; get them on my side; tell them it’s a mistake, that I’m truly suffering from a mistake in the deed: they’ll do anything for you. By the way, while there get me patents for three ranks and send them to me. There’s another little matter for you of great importance, dear sir, Pyotr Ivanych; show some sympathy to an innocently persecuted martyr and help us with advice and action. We have here in the provincial government a Councillor Drozhzhov, an angel, not a mere man; he’d die rather than betray his friends. I don’t stay with anyone in town but him–as soon as I arrive, I go straight to his place; I live there for weeks and God forbid I should even think of staying with anyone else. He feeds me and gives me drink, and we play Boston from dinner till late at night. And now they’ve conspired against this man and are pressing him to retire. Go to see all the powerful people there–you’re one of us–and persuade them what a fine man Afanasy Ivanych is. If there’s something to be done, he speeds it on its way. Tell them the denunciation is surely false by connivance of the governor’s secretary–they’ll listen to you, and write me about it by return mail. And go see my former colleague Kostyakov. I heard from a traveler from your Petersburg who was passing through, one Studenitsyn–maybe you know him–that he lives in the outskirts, in Peski; any child there will show you the house. Write by return post, don’t delay, whether he’s alive, in good health, what he’s doing, whether he remembers me. Make his acquaintance and become friends with him; he’s a splendid fellow–open-hearted and a real joker. I’ll finish my little note with one more tiny wish…
Aduyev stopped reading, slowly tore the letter in four and threw it under the table into the waste basket, then stretched and yawned.
He took the other letter and began reading half-aloud: “Dear Brother, Honored Sir, Pyotr Ivanych!”
“What sister!” said Aduyev, looking at the signature. “Marya Gorbatova…” He turned his face to the ceiling, half-remembering something…
“Whatever is this? Something familiar… oh, this is just great–my brother was married to a Gorbatova; this must be her sister, this is the girl… ah! I remember…”
He frowned and began to read. “Though destiny parted us, perhaps forever, and an abyss lies between us; years have passed…”
He skipped several lines and read further:
Until the grave I shall remember how we walked together around our lake, and you at risk of life and health waded up to your knees in water to get a big yellow flower for me with your cane, how some kind of sap flowed from its stem and dirtied our hands, but you dipped up water with your cap so we could wash them, and then we laughed a lot about it. How happy I was then! That very flower is pressed today in a book…
Aduyev stopped. Obviously all this very much displeased him. He even shook his head in disbelief.
“And do you have that little ribbon,” he continued reading, “that you pulled out of my bureau drawer despite all my cries and pleading…”
“I pulled out a little ribbon!” he said aloud with a deep frown. After a moment’s silence he again skipped a few lines and read:
“But I sentenced myself never to marry and I feel quite happy; no one will forbid me to remember those blessed times.”
“So, an old maid!” thought Pyotr Ivanych. “No wonder she still has yellow flowers on her mind! What else does she say?”
Are you married, dearest Brother, and to whom? Who is that dear partner, embellishing your life’s path by her presence; tell me her name. I shall love her like a real sister and join her image with yours in my dreams; I shall pray for you. But if you are not married, then for whatever reason–write openly. No one shall read your secrets; I will keep them on my breast, they will be torn out only along with my heart. Don’t delay; I am burning to read your ineffable lines…
“No, yours are the ineffable lines!” thought Pyotr Ivanych, and read on:
I did not know that our dear Sasha would suddenly want to visit the magnificent capital–the lucky fellow! He will see the splendid houses and stores, enjoy the luxury and embrace the uncle he worships–and I–I at the same time will shed tears, remembering a happy time. If I had known about his departure, I would have spent days and nights embroidering a pillow for you–an Arab with two dogs; you will not believe how I have cried many times looking at this pattern: what can be holier than friendship and faithfulness?… This one thought preoccupies me now; I shall devote my days to it, but I do not have any good wool here, and therefore most humbly beg you, most kind Brother, to send as quickly as possible from the best store whatever is the best English wool; use these samples I’ve enclosed. But what am I saying? A horrible thought stops my pen! Perhaps you have already forgotten us, and indeed, how could you remember a poor martyr who has retired from the world and now pours out her tears? But no! I cannot imagine that you could be a monster like all men–no! My heart tells me you have kept your former feelings for us, for us all, amid the luxury and pleasures of the magnificent capital. This thought acts as balsam for my heart. Forgive me, I cannot go on; my hand trembles.
I remain yours until the grave,
Marya Gorbatova
P. S. Do you have, dear friend, any good little books? Send them to me if you don’t need them: I will remember you with every page and weep. Or buy some new ones in the store if they’re not expensive. Mr. Zagoskin’s books are said to be very good, and Mr. Marlinsky’s–send them. And I also saw in the newspapers the title “Concerning Prejudices” by Mr. Puzini. Send it–I can’t stand prejudices.
Having read this, Aduyev wanted to dispatch it after its fellow, but stopped.
“No,” he thought, “I shall keep it: there are collectors of such letters; some compile whole collections. Perhaps by chance I can do someone a favor.”
He tossed the letter in the beaded basket on the wall, then took the third letter and began to read:
Dearest Brother-in-law Pyotr Ivanych!
Do you remember how we gave you a send-off seventeen years ago? Now God has brought us to bless the departure of our own offspring on his long journey. Look at him closely, dear Brother, and remember the deceased, our beloved F
yodor Ivanych, for Sasha is quite the image of him. God alone knows what my maternal heart has suffered in sending him forth to a strange world. I send him, my friend, straight to you. I have urged him not to delay anywhere, but to go to you…
Aduyev again shook his head.
“Silly old woman!” he muttered and read:
In his inexperience, of course, he might have stayed at the posthouse inn, but I know how that might offend you, his own uncle, and I told him to go straight to you. Oh, what a joy it will be to see him! Don’t deprive him of your advice, dear Brother-in-law, and take him under your wing. I pass him on from my care to yours.
Again Pyotr Ivanych stopped:
You see, you’re all he has. Keep an eye on him, don’t spoil him too much, but don’t make very severe demands either. There’ll be someone to make severe demands, others will see to that, but there will be no one to be caring to him but his own. He is himself such a loving fellow–you need only see him, then you won’t turn away. And the superior under whom he will work–tell him to take care of my Sasha and go easy. Protect him from alcohol and cards. At night–for I imagine you likely will sleep in the same room–Sasha is accustomed to lie on his back. Because of this he moans pitifully and tosses; wake him gently and make the sign of the cross over him, the fit will pass. In the summer cover his mouth with a hankie; if he opens his mouth wide in his sleep, the wretched flies will crawl in toward morning. Also, don’t abandon him in case of need and as for money…
Aduyev frowned, but his face cleared again quickly, as he continued reading:
I shall send him as much as he needs; indeed, I’ve now put in his hands a thousand rubles, but please don’t let him waste them for nothing, or don’t let hangers-on talk him out of them. For there in your capital, I understand, there are a lot of rascals and all kinds of people without conscience. Finally, forgive me, dear Brother-in-law, I’ve quite lost the habit of writing.
I remain your sincerely respectful sister-in-law,
A. Aduyeva
P. S. With this I send our country delights–raspberries from our garden, white honey–clear as a teardrop, Dutch cloth sufficient for two dozen shirts and homemade jam. Eat and wear with joy, and when they run out, I’ll send more. Look out for Evsei; he’s docile and doesn’t drink, but if, indeed, he gets spoiled there in the capital, then you may give him a beating.
Pyotr Ivanych slowly laid the letter on the table, even more slowly fetched a cigar, and having rolled it in his hands, began to smoke. For a long time he thought about this trick, as he called it in thought, which his sister-in-law had played on him. He carefully went over in his mind both what they had done to him, and what he himself ought to do.
These are the assumptions on which he based the whole case. He didn’t know his nephew and consequently did not love him; the matter had to be decided by the laws of reason and justice. His brother married and enjoyed the benefits of conjugal life–so why ought he, Pyotr Ivanych, to burden himself with the care of his brother’s son, he who hadn’t enjoyed the advantages of marriage? Of course, there was no reason for him to do it.
But looking at it from another point of view, he saw it thus: a mother had sent her son straight to him, into his hands, not knowing whether he was alive and in a position to do something for his nephew. Of course, this was stupid, but if the deed was already done and the nephew in Petersburg without help, without friends, even without letters of recommendation, young, without any experience… had he the right to leave him at the mercy of fate, throw him into the crowd without instructions, without advice, and if something bad happened–wouldn’t he be responsible before his own conscience?…
At this moment Aduyev opportunely remembered how his dead brother and this same Anna Pavlovna had sent him on his way seventeen years before. Of course, they weren’t able to do anything for him in Petersburg; he had found his own way… But he remembered her tears of farewell, her motherly blessings, her kindnesses, her meat pies, and finally, her last words: “Well, when little Sasha”–then a three-year-old child–“grows up, perhaps you will be kind to him, Brother…” At this point Pyotr Ivanych got up and quickly went into the hall…
“Vasily!” he said, “when my nephew comes, don’t send him away. And go find out now whether the room upstairs here is taken, the one that was being rented a while ago, and if it isn’t taken, say I’m keeping it for myself. Oh, and these delicacies! Well, what are we going to do with them?”
“Just now our storekeeper saw them being carried upstairs. He asked whether we wouldn’t let him have the honey: ‘I’ll pay a good price, of course,’ he said, and he’ll take the raspberries…”
“Wonderful! Give them to him. Well, what can we do with the cloth? Might it not do for furniture covers? Hide the cloth and hide the jam. We can eat it: it seems rather good.”
Just as Pyotr Ivanych was getting ready to shave, Alexander Fyodorych arrived. He was about to throw himself around his uncle’s neck, but the latter, pressing Alexander’s tender youthful hand in his own powerful one, held him back at some distance, as if to get a good look at him, but more, it seems, to stop this impulse and limit it to a handshake.
“Your mother tells the truth,” he said, “you’re the living picture of my late brother; I would have recognized you on the street. But you’re more handsome than he. So, without ceremony I will go on shaving, and you sit down over here–opposite, so I can see you, and we can chat.”
Pyotr Ivanych immediately began his shaving as if no one were there. He soaped his cheeks, tensing with his tongue now one, now the other. Alexander was puzzled by this reception and didn’t know how to begin the conversation. He attributed his uncle’s coldness to the fact that he hadn’t stayed with him straight off.
“So, how is your mother? In good health? I imagine she has grown old?” his uncle asked, making various grimaces in front of the mirror.
“Mama is well, thank God; she sends her respects, and Aunt Marya Pavlovna too,” said Alexander Fyodorych hesitantly. “Auntie told me to embrace you…” He stood and walked over to his uncle to kiss him on the cheek or the head or the shoulder or, finally, wherever he could.
“Your aunt should have become smarter with age, but I see she’s still the same silly girl she was twenty years ago…”
Embarrassed, Alexander backed away to return to his seat.
“You received the letter, dear Uncle?” he asked.
“Yes, I got it!”
“Vasily Tikhonych Zayezzhalov,” Alexander Fyodorych began, “urgently asks you to find out about his lawsuit and do something about it.”
“Yes, he has written me… Aren’t asses of his sort extinct yet in the country?”
Alexander didn’t know what to think. These responses overwhelmed him.
“Pardon me, Uncle,” he began, almost trembling.
“What?”
“Pardon me for staying overnight at the inn and not coming straight to your house. I didn’t know your apartment…”
“Why ask my pardon for that? You did quite right. Heavens knows what your mother thought up. How could you come straight to my house, not knowing whether you could stay with me or not? My apartment, as you see, is a bachelor’s for one person: hall, living room, dining room, study, another working room, cloakroom, dressing room–there is no extra room. I would bother you, you me. But I’ve found an apartment for you here in this house…”
“Oh, Uncle!” said Alexander, “how can I thank you for your trouble?”
And he again jumped up from his seat, intending by word and deed to show his gratitude.
“Easy, easy! Don’t touch me!” his uncle said quickly, “the razor’s sharp and before you know it, you’ll get cut and so will I.”
Alexander saw that despite all his efforts he would not succeed that day in even once embracing his adored uncle and pressing him to his heart, and so he postponed that intention to another time.
“It’s a cheerful little room,” Pyotr Ivanych began. “The windows
look partly out onto a wall; but then, you see, you won’t begin to sit at the window all the time; if you’re at home, you’ll be busy and won’t have time to be yawning out the window. And it’s not expensive–forty rubles a month. There’s a front hall for your man. You’ll have to learn to live alone from the very beginning without a nursemaid, and to run your own little household, that is, to eat at home, in a word, to have your own place–a chez soi, as the French say. You can be free to have anyone in you want… By the way, when I dine at home, I shall ask the pleasure of your company, and on other days–young people here usually dine out, but I advise you to have your dinner sent in: it’s quieter at home and you don’t risk encounters with God knows whom. Don’t you think?”
“I’m very grateful, Uncle…”
“Why be grateful? You’re my relative, aren’t you? I’m only doing my duty. So now I’ll get dressed and leave; I have both a government job and the factory…”
“I didn’t know you had a factory, Uncle!”
“A glass and china factory. I’m not alone, though: there are three partners.”
“Is it doing well?”
“Yes, very decently. We mostly visit the fairs in the interior provinces. The last two years–we’ve been everywhere! If it goes on like this for five years, we’ll have made it… One partner, true, isn’t very reliable; he squanders everything, but I can keep him in hand. Well, goodbye. Have a look at the city now, dine somewhere, and in the evening come have tea with me. I’ll be at home–we’ll have a talk then. Come here, Vasily! Show him the room and help him get settled there.”
“So that’s how it is here in Petersburg,” Alexander thought, sitting in his new quarters. “If my own relative’s like this, what are the others like?”
Young Aduyev walked back and forth in the room in deep thought, and Evsei talked to himself as he straightened up the room.
“What a life here,” he muttered, “at Pyotr Ivanych’s–hear?–they light the stove once a month; people eat dinner at other people’s houses. Good Lord, they’re strange people, you have to admit! And still they call themselves Petersburgers! Where we come from, even a dog laps from his own dish.”
An Ordinary Story Page 5