‘‘I’ll be sure to come and see you tomorrow,’’ she said.
She walked through the rooms and ordered the old man’s bedroom tidied up and the icon lamp lighted. Fyodor was sitting in his room and looking into an open book without reading it; Yulia talked to him and ordered his room tidied up as well, then went downstairs to the salesclerks. In the middle of the room where the salesclerks dined stood an unpainted wooden column that propped up the ceiling, keeping it from collapsing; the ceilings here were low, the walls covered with cheap wallpaper; it smelled of fumes and the kitchen. All the salesclerks were at home for Sunday and sat on their beds waiting for dinner. When Yulia came in, they jumped up from their places and answered her questions timidly, looking at her from under their brows like prisoners.
‘‘Lord, what bad living quarters you have!’’ she said, clasping her hands. ‘‘Aren’t you crowded here?’’
‘‘Crowded but content,’’ said Makeichev. ‘‘We’re much pleased with you and offer up our prayers to merciful God.’’
‘‘The correspondence of life to personal ambition,’’ said Pochatkin.
And, noticing that Yulia had not understood Pochatkin, Makeichev hastened to clarify:
‘‘We’re small people and should live according to our rank.’’
She looked at the boys’ living quarters and the kitchen, made the acquaintance of the housekeeper, and remained very displeased.
On returning home, she said to her husband:
‘‘We should move to Pyatnitskaya as soon as possible and live there. And you’ll go to the warehouse every day.’’
Then they both sat side by side in the study and were silent. His heart was heavy, he did not want to go to Pyanitskaya or to the warehouse, but he guessed what his wife was thinking and was unable to contradict her. He stroked her cheek and said:
‘‘I feel as if our life is already over, and what’s beginning is some sort of gray half-life. When I learned that my brother Fyodor was hopelessly ill, I wept; we spent our childhood and youth together, I once loved him with all my heart—and here comes catastrophe, and I think that in losing him, I’ve finally broken with my past. But now, when you said it’s necessary for us to move to Pyatnitskaya, into that prison, I began to think that I no longer have any future.’’
He got up and went to the window.
‘‘Be that as it may, we must bid farewell to thoughts of happiness,’’ he said, looking outside. ‘‘There isn’t any. I’ve never known it, and it must be that it simply doesn’t exist. However, once in my life I was happy, when I sat all night under your parasol. Remember when you forgot your parasol at my sister Nina’s?’’ he asked, turning to his wife. ‘‘I was in love with you then, and I remember sitting all night under that parasol in a state of bliss.’’
In the study next to the bookcase stood a mahogany chest of drawers trimmed with bronze, in which Laptev kept various useless objects, among them the parasol. He took it out and handed it to his wife.
‘‘Here it is.’’
Yulia looked at the parasol for a minute, recognized it, and smiled sadly.
‘‘I remember,’’ she said. ‘‘When you declared your love to me, you were holding it in your hands,’’ and, noticing that he was about to leave, she said: ‘‘If you can, please try to come back early. I’m bored without you.’’
And then she went to her room and looked for a long time at the parasol.
XVII
THERE WAS NO accountant at the warehouse, despite the complexity of the business and the enormous turnover, and it was impossible to understand anything from the books kept by the clerk at the counter. Every day, customers, Germans and Englishmen, came to the warehouse, and the salesclerks talked politics and religion with them; a nobleman came, a sick, pathetic drunkard who translated foreign correspondence for the office; the salesclerks called him a piddler and put salt in his tea. And in general, the whole trade appeared to Laptev as some great bizarrerie.
He came to the warehouse every day and tried to introduce a new order; he forbade whipping the boys and scoffing at customers; he was beside himself when salesclerks with a merry laugh disposed of musty, worthless wares somewhere in the provinces in the guise of the freshest and most fashionable. He was now the chief person in the warehouse, yet he still did not know how great his fortune was, whether the business was going well, how much salary the senior salesclerks got, and so on. Pochatkin and Makeichev considered him young and inexperienced, concealed a lot from him, and each evening exchanged mysterious whispers about something with the blind old man.
Once, at the beginning of June, Laptev and Pochatkin went to Bubnov’s tavern to have lunch and, incidentally, to discuss business. Pochatkin had worked for the Laptevs a long time, and had entered the firm when he was only eight years old. He was their own man, was trusted completely, and when, on leaving the warehouse, he took all the day’s earnings from the cash box and stuffed them in his pockets, it did not arouse any suspicion. He was the chief in the warehouse and at home, and also in church, where he fulfilled the duties of the warden in place of the old man. For his cruel treatment of his subordinates, the salesclerks and boys had nicknamed him Malyuta Skuratov.29
When they came to the tavern, he nodded to the waiter and said:
‘‘Well, brother, bring us a half-wonder and twenty-four objectionables.’’
A little later, the waiter brought a tray with a half-bottle of vodka and several plates of various snacks.
‘‘See here, my man,’’ Pochatkin said to him, ‘‘give us a helping of the past master of slander and malignity, with mashed potatoes.’’
The waiter did not understand and became confused and wanted to say something, but Pochatkin looked at him sternly and said:
‘‘Except!’’
The waiter thought with great effort, then went to consult his colleagues, and in the end figured it out and brought a helping of tongue. When they had drunk two glasses each and had some snacks, Laptev said:
‘‘Tell me, Ivan Vassilyich, is it true that our business has begun to fall off in the last few years?’’
‘‘By no means.’’
‘‘Tell me frankly, candidly, how much we’ve been earning, how much we’re earning now, and how great our fortune is. It’s simply impossible to walk in the dark. We recently had an accounting done at the warehouse, but, forgive me, I don’t believe this accounting; you find it necessary to conceal something from me and tell the truth only to my father. From early on, you’ve been accustomed to playing politics, and you can no longer do without it. But what use is it? Well, then, I beg you, be frank. What is the state of our business?’’
‘‘It all depends on the undulations of credit,’’ Pochatkin said after some reflection.
‘‘What do you mean by the undulations of credit?’’
Pochatkin started to explain, but Laptev did not understand anything and sent for Makeichev. The man came at once, said a prayer, had a bite to eat, and, in his sedate, dense baritone, began by saying that salesclerks were obliged to pray to God day and night for their benefactors.
‘‘Splendid, only allow me not to consider myself your benefactor,’’ said Laptev.
‘‘Every man should remember what he is and sense his rank. You, by God’s mercy, are our father and benefactor, and we are your slaves.’’
‘‘I’m sick of all this, finally!’’ Laptev became angry. ‘‘Please be my benefactor now, explain to me the state of our business. Kindly do not consider me a boy, otherwise I’ll close the warehouse tomorrow. Father has gone blind, my brother’s in the madhouse, my nieces are still young; I hate this business and would gladly walk out, but there’s nobody to replace me, you know that yourselves. For God’s sake, then, drop the politics!’’
They went to the warehouse to do the accounts. Then they did accounts at home in the evening, and the old man himself helped; initiating his son into his commercial secrets, he spoke in such a tone as if he was occupied not with t
rade but with sorcery. It turned out that the income increased by approximately a tenth yearly, and that the Laptevs’ fortune, counting only money and securities, equaled six million roubles.
When, past midnight, after the accounting, Laptev went out into the fresh air, he felt himself under the charm of those numbers. The night was still, moonlit, stifling; the white walls of the houses across the river, the sight of the heavy, locked gates, the silence, and the black shadows produced the general impression of some sort of fortress, and the only thing lacking was a sentry with a gun. Laptev went to the little garden and sat on a bench by the fence that separated it from the next yard, where there was also a little garden. The bird cherry was in bloom. Laptev remembered that in the time of his childhood, this bird cherry was just as gnarled and just as tall, and had not changed in the least since then. Every little corner of the garden and yard reminded him of the distant past. And in his childhood, just as now, one could see, through the sparse trees, the whole yard flooded with moonlight, the shadows were just as mysterious and severe, the black dog lay in just the same way in the middle of the yard, and the windows of the salesclerks’ lodgings were open wide. And these were all cheerless memories.
Light footsteps were heard behind the fence in the neighboring yard.
‘‘My dearest, my darling...’ a man’s voice whispered just by the fence, so that Laptev could even hear breathing.
Now they kissed... Laptev was sure that the millions and the business, which he had no heart for, would ruin his life and turn him finally into a slave; he imagined how he would gradually become accustomed to his position, would gradually enter into the role of head of a trading firm, would grow dull, old, and finally die, as average people generally die, squalidly, sourly, boring everyone around him. But what prevented him from abandoning both the millions and the business, and leaving this little garden and yard that had been hateful to him ever since childhood?
The whispering and kisses on the other side of the fence stirred him. He went out to the middle of the yard and, unbuttoning his shirt on his chest, looked at the moon, and he fancied that he would now order the gate to be opened, go out and never come back there again; his heart was sweetly wrung by the foretaste of freedom, he laughed joyfully and imagined what a wonderful, poetic, and maybe even holy life it could be...
But he went on standing there and asking himself: ‘‘What holds me here?’’ And he was vexed both with himself and with this black dog, which lay on the stones instead of going off to the fields, to the forest, where it would be independent, joyful. Obviously the same thing prevented both him and this dog from leaving the yard: the habit of captivity, of the slavish condition...
The next day, at noon, he went to see his wife, and so as not to be bored, he invited Yartsev to come with him. Yulia Sergeevna was living in a dacha in Butovo, and he had not seen her for five days now. Arriving at the station, the friends got into a carriage, and Yartsev kept singing all the way and admiring the splendid weather. The dacha was in a big park not far from the station. About twenty paces from the gate, at the beginning of the main alley, under an old, spreading poplar, sat Yulia Sergeevna, waiting for her guests. She was wearing a light, elegant, lace-trimmed dress of a pale cream color, and in her hands was the same old, familiar parasol. Yartsev greeted her and went to the dacha, from which came the voices of Sasha and Lida, but Laptev sat down beside her to talk about their affairs.
‘‘Why haven’t you come for so long?’’ she asked without letting go of his hand. ‘‘I sit here for whole days and watch to see if you’re coming. I’m bored without you!’’
She got up and passed her hand over his hair, looking curiously at his face, his shoulders, his hat.
‘‘You know, I love you,’’ she said and blushed. ‘‘You’re dear to me. Here you’ve come, I see you, and I’m so happy I can’t say. Well, let’s talk. Tell me something.’’
She was declaring her love for him, but he felt as if he had been married to her for ten years already, and he wanted to have lunch. She hugged him around the neck, tickling his cheek with the silk of her dress; he carefully removed her arm, got up, and, without saying a word, went to the dacha. The girls came running to meet him.
‘‘How they’ve grown!’’ he thought. ‘‘And so many changes in these three years... But maybe I’m to live another thirteen or thirty years... The future still holds something for us! Time will tell.’’
He embraced Sasha and Lida, who hung on his neck, and said:
‘‘Grandpa sends his greetings... Uncle Fedya will die soon, Uncle Kostya has sent a letter from America and says hello to you. He’s bored with the exposition30 and will come back soon. And Uncle Alyosha’s hungry.’’
Then he sat on the terrace and watched his wife slowly walking down the alley towards the dacha. She was thinking about something, and on her face there was a sad, charming expression, and tears glistened in her eyes. She was no longer the slender, fragile, pale-faced girl she once had been, but a mature, beautiful, strong woman. And Laptev noticed the rapturous look with which Yartsev met her, how her new, beautiful expression was reflected in his face, also sad and admiring. It seemed as if he was seeing her for the first time in his life. And while they were having lunch on the terrace, Yartsev smiled somehow joyfully and bashfully, and kept looking at Yulia, at her beautiful neck. Laptev watched him involuntarily and thought that maybe he was to live another thirteen or thirty years...And what were they to live through in that time? What does the future hold for us?
And he thought:
‘‘Time will tell.’’
1895
MY LIFE
A Provincial’s Story
I
THE MANAGER SAID to me: ‘‘I keep you only out of respect for your esteemed father, otherwise I’d have sent you flying long ago.’’ I answered him: ‘‘You flatter me too much, Your Excellency, in supposing I can fly.’’ And then I heard him say: ‘‘Take the gentleman away, he’s bad for my nerves.’’
Two days later I was dismissed. And so, in all the time I’ve been considered an adult, to the great chagrin of my father, the town architect, I have changed jobs nine times. I worked in various departments, but all these nine jobs were as alike as drops of water; I had to sit, write, listen to stupid or rude remarks, and wait until they dismissed me.
My father, when I came to him, was sitting in a deep armchair with his eyes closed. His face, lean, dry, with a bluish tinge on the shaved areas (in looks he resembled an old Catholic organist), expressed humility and submissiveness. Without answering my greeting or opening his eyes, he said:
‘‘If my dear wife, your mother, were alive, your life would be a source of constant grief for her. I see divine providence in her premature death. I beg you, unfortunate boy,’’ he went on, opening his eyes, ‘‘instruct me: what am I to do with you?’’
Formerly, when I was younger, my relations and friends knew what to do with me: some advised me to become a volunteer soldier, others to work in a pharmacy, still others in a telegraph office; but now that I’ve turned twenty-five, and gray has even appeared at my temples, and I’ve already been a volunteer soldier and a pharmacist and a telegrapher, everything earthly seems exhausted for me, and people no longer advise me but only sigh or shake their heads.
‘‘What do you think of yourself ?’ my father went on. ‘‘At your age, young people already have a firm social position, but look at you: a proletarian, destitute, living on your father’s neck!’’
And, as usual, he began his talk about young men nowadays being lost, lost through unbelief, materialism, and superfluous self-confidence, and about how amateur performances ought to be forbidden because they distract young people from religion and their duties.
‘‘Tomorrow we’ll go together, and you’ll apologize to the manager and promise him to work conscientiously,’’ he concluded. ‘‘You shouldn’t remain without a social position even for a single day.’’
‘‘I beg you to hear me out,�
��’ I said sullenly, expecting nothing good from this conversation. ‘‘What you call a social position consists in the privilege of capital and education. Unwealthy and uneducated people earn their crust of bread by physical labor, and I see no reason why I should be an exception.’’
‘‘When you start talking about physical labor, it comes out stupid and banal,’’ my father said with irritation. ‘‘Understand, you dullard, understand, you brainless head, that besides crude physical strength, you also have the spirit of God, the holy fire, which distinguishes you in the highest degree from an ass or a reptile and brings you close to divinity! This fire has been obtained over thousands of years by the best people. Your great-grandfather Poloznev, a general, fought at Borodino,1 your grandfather was a poet, an orator, and a marshal of the nobility,2 your uncle is a pedagogue, and lastly, I, your father, am an architect! All the Poloznevs kept the sacred fire just so that you could put it out!’’
‘‘One must be fair,’’ I said. ‘‘Millions of people bear physical labor.’’
‘‘And let them bear it! They can’t do anything else! Anybody can take up physical labor, even an utter fool or a criminal, such labor is the distinctive quality of the slave and the barbarian, while fire falls to the lot of only a few!’’
To prolong this conversation was useless. My father adored himself, and for him, only what he said himself was convincing. Besides, I knew very well that the arrogance with which he referred to common labor had its basis not so much in considerations regarding the sacred fire as in the secret fear that I would become a worker and set the whole town talking about me; and the main thing was that all my peers had long since finished university and were on good paths, and the son of the manager of the State Bank office was already a collegiate assessor,3 while I, an only son, was nothing! To prolong the conversation was useless and unpleasant, but I went on sitting there and objecting weakly, hoping to be understood at last. For the whole question was simple and clear and only had to do with my means of obtaining a crust of bread, but he didn’t see the simplicity and talked to me in sweetly rounded phrases about Borodino, about the sacred fire, about my uncle, a forgotten poet who once wrote bad and false verses, and called me a brainless head and a dullard. And I wanted so much to be understood! Despite all, I love my father and sister, and since childhood the habit has been lodged in me of asking their opinion, lodged so firmly that it’s unlikely I’ll ever get rid of it; whether I’m right or wrong, I’m constantly afraid of upsetting them, afraid that my father’s skinny neck is turning red now with agitation and he may have a stroke.
The Complete Short Novels Page 45