“Yes.”
“How is this!” I said. “Why, you’ve sold me a broken-winded horse.”
“Broken-winded? . . . Heaven preserve us.”
“And lame into the bargain, and a jibber as well.”
“Lame? I don’t know, your coachman must certainly have hurt him somehow . . . but I, before God . . .”
“Really, Anastasei Ivanich, you ought to take him back.”
“No, sir, no, I’m sorry; once he’s out of my yard, the deal is done. You should have been good enough to look at him first.”
I understood what I was up against, submitted to my fate, laughed, and went off. Luckily I hadn’t paid too dear for my lesson.
Two days later I departed, but returned to Lebedyan a week afterwards on the way back. In the coffee-house I found almost the same faces and caught Prince N——at billiards again. But Mr. Khlopakov’s fortunes had already suffered one of their usual vicissitudes. The little fair-haired officer had replaced him in the prince’s favors. The poor Ensign (retired) tried once more in my presence to put in his catch-word—surely, he thought, it will work as it did before—but the prince not only failed to smile, he actually frowned and shrugged a shoulder. Mr. Khlopakov looked down, shrank into himself, crept away into a corner, and began quietly filling his pipe. . . .
Tatyana Borisovna and Her Nephew
GIVE ME YOUR HAND, DEAR READER, AND COME WITH ME. THE weather is glorious; the May sky is a tender blue; the smooth young willow leaves shine as if they had been washed; the wide, even highway is all covered with that fine, red-stemmed grass which sheep crop with such enjoyment; to right and left, on the long slopes of the gentle hills, a peaceful ripple passes over the green rye; over it glide in faint outline the shadows of small clouds. In the distance are green forests, glittering pools, yellow villages; larks rise in their hundreds, sing, drop like plummets, and sit with necks outstretched on tussocks; rooks halt on the road, look at you, bow down to the earth, let you drive by, and, after a couple of hops, fly ponderously away; on the hill across the ravine there is a peasant ploughing; a roan foal, dock-tailed and wild-maned, runs on unsteady legs after his mother; you can hear his faint whinnying. We drive into a birchwood; the strong, cool smell holds you breathless with delight. We have come to a village-boundary. The coachman gets down, the horses snort, the side-horses look round, the shaft-horse flicks his tail and leans his head against the shaft-bow . . . the gate opens with a squeak. The coachman takes his seat . . . Off we go! In front of us is the village. After passing five back-yards, we turn to the right, go down into a hollow and drive out over a dam. Beyond a small pond, behind round-topped apple-trees and lilacs, we can see a wooden roof that was once red, and two chimneys; the coachman turns to the left along the fence and, to the whining, throaty barking of three aged mongrels, drives through open gates, wheels smartly around a wide courtyard, past a stable and a barn, bows gallantly to an old housekeeper who has just stepped sideways over the high threshold into the open larder-door, and stops at last before the porch of a dark little house with gleaming windows . . . We are at Tatyana Borisovna’s. And here she is herself, opening a casement and nodding her head at us . . .
Good day to you, madam!
Tatyana Borisovna is a woman of about fifty, with large, protruding gray eyes, a bluntish nose, red cheeks, and a double chin. Her face radiates warm-heartedness and affection. Once upon a time she was married, but she early became a widow. Tatyana Borisovna is a very remarkable woman. She never leaves her little estate, hardly knows her neighbors, entertains and loves young people only. She was born of a family of very poor landowners and never received any education, that’s to say, she doesn’t speak French; she has never been to Moscow—and, notwithstanding all these deficiencies, she is so simple and good, so free in feeling and thought, so little infected with the usual ailments of the ladies of the smaller gentry, that it is really impossible not to admire her . . . And, indeed, a woman who lives the whole year round in the country, at the back of beyond—and neither gossips, nor squeaks, nor drops curtsies, nor has fits of agitation or choking, nor gets the shivers from curiosity—such a woman is a regular portent! She usually wears a gray taffeta dress and a white bonnet with lilac-colored ribbons hanging from it; she likes food, but there is no gluttony about her; she leaves jam-making, drying, and pickling to her housekeeper. Then what does she do all day? you will ask. Read?—no, she doesn’t read; to tell the truth, books are not printed for the likes of her. . . . If she has no company, my friend Tatyana Borisovna sits alone at the window and knits a stocking—in winter, that is; in summer she walks in the garden, plants and waters her flowers, plays for whole hours with her kittens, feeds her pigeons . . . She has little to do with the management of her land. But if someone calls, some young neighbour, whom she likes, Tatyana Borisovna becomes quite animated; she makes him sit down, serves him with tea, listens to his stories, laughs, sometimes pats his cheek, but speaks little herself; in misfortune or grief she will have comfort and good advice to give. How many people have confided in her the secrets of their homes and hearts, how many have wept on her shoulder! Sometimes she sits opposite her visitor, leans quietly on one elbow and looks him in the eyes with such sympathy, smiles with such affection, that the visitor thinks in spite of himself: You’re a wonderful woman, Tatyana Borisovna! let me tell you all that’s in my heart. In her small, cozy rooms it is comfortable and warm; the weather in her house is always fine, if I may so express it. Tatyana Borisovna is a marvellous woman, and yet no one marvels at her: her common sense, her firmness and frankness, her burning sympathy in the joys and sorrows of others, all her good qualities, in a word, seem to have been born with her and to have cost her no pain or trouble. . . . It would be impossible to imagine her otherwise; therefore there can be nothing to thank her for. She particularly likes looking on at the pranks and games of the young; she folds her arms below her breasts, throws back her head, screws up her eyes, and sits there smiling, then suddenly sighs and says: “Oh, you children, my children!” . . . So, at times, you want to go up to her, take her by the hand and say to her: “Listen, Tatyana Borisovna, you don’t know your own worth; with all your simplicity and lack of book-learning, you’re a remarkable being.” Her very name has something familiar and welcoming about it, one likes pronouncing it, it excites an affectionate smile. Often, for instance, I have chanced to ask a passing peasant how to get, say, to Grachevka. “Ah, sir, you go first to Vyazovoye, and from there to Tatyana Borisovna’s, and from Tatyana Borisovna’s anyone will be able to show you the way.” And at the name Tatyana Borisovna the peasant has a special shake of the head. In keeping with her means, she has few servants. Her house, laundry, larder, and kitchen are under the charge of Agafya the housekeeper, her old nurse, an excellent, tearful, toothless creature; two hale and hearty girls, with firm, dove-colored cheeks like Antonov apples, serve under her direction. The functions of footman, majordomo, and butler are discharged by a seventy-year-old man-servant named Polikarp, a freak if ever there was one—a well-read fellow, a retired violinist and devotee of Viotti, a personal enemy of Napoleon, or, as he calls him, “Bonapartishka,” and a passionate trapper of nightingales. He always has five or six of them in his room. In early spring he sits for whole days beside the cages, waiting for the first “roll” and, when his vigil is over, covers his face with his hands and groans, “Oh, dear, dear me!” and bursts into floods of tears. Polikarp is assisted by his grandson Vasya, a curly-headed, quick-eyed lad of twelve; Polikarp loves him to distraction and grumbles at him from morning to night. He also occupies himself with his education. “Vasya,” he says, “say ‘Bonapartishka is a rascal.’” “And what will you give me, grandfather?” “What will I give you? . . . I’ll give you nothing. . . . Look here, what are you? Are you a Russian?” “I’m an Amchanian, grandpa: I was born in Amchensk.*” “You stupid! and where is Amchensk?” “And how should I know?” “Amchensk is in Russia, stupid!” “What if it is in Russia?” “What if it
is? Why, Bonapartishka was driven off Russian soil by his Grace the late prince Mikhailo Ilarionovich Kutuzov of Smolensk, with the help of God. That’s when they made up the song:
Bonaparte’s forgot his paces
Since he went and lost his braces . . .
“D’you understand: he liberated your native land.” “But what’s that got to do with me?” “Oh, you stupid, stupid boy. Look, if his Grace Prince Mikhailo Ilarionovich had not driven Bonapartishka out, some Moussieu would be hitting you on the noddle with a stick. He would come up to you, see, and say to you: ‘Coman voo portay voo?’—and then, rap-rap.” “But I’d punch him in the pot.” “And he’d say to you: ‘Bonzhur, bonzhur, venay ici’—and he’d pull you by the hair.” “But I’d get him by the legs—by the spring-onions.” “Quite right, their legs are like spring-onions. . . . But supposing he began to tie your hands?” “I wouldn’t let him; I’d call Mikhei the coachman to help me.” “Why, yes, Vasya, the Frenchman wouldn’t be able to stand up against Mikhei, would he?” “Stand up against him, indeed! Why, Mikhei’s as strong as a horse.” “Well, and what would you do to him?” “We’d give it to him on the back, we would . . .” “But he would shout: ‘Pardon, pardon, sivooplay!’” “And we would answer him: ‘None of your sivooplay, you Frenchman, you!’” “Well done, Vasya! . . . Well, shout it out, then: ‘Bonapartishka is a rascal!’” “And you give me some sugar!” “There’s a lad for you!”
Tatyana Borisovna has few dealings with the ladies of the neighborhood; they are not fond of visiting her and she is unskilful at entertaining them, drops off to sleep to the murmur of their conversation, then starts up, struggles to open her eyes, and drops off to sleep again. On the whole, Tatyana Borisovna doesn’t like women. One of her friends, an excellent and quiet young man, had a sister, an old maid of thirty-eight and a half, a very good creature, but warped, overstrung, and given to enthusiasms. Her brother used often to tell her about their neighbor. One fine morning my old maid—just like that, out of the blue—ordered her horse to be saddled and set off to Tatyana Borisovna’s. In her long dress, with a hat on, a green veil, and straying curls, she entered the hall and, passing the astonished Vasya, who took her for a fairy, rushed into the drawing-room. Tatyana Borisovna, startled, tried to get up, but her legs gave way. “Tatyana Borisovna,” began the visitor, in a voice of entreaty, “forgive my boldness. I am the sister of your friend Alexei Nikolaevich K——, and I’ve heard so much about you from him, that I’ve decided to make your acquaintance.” “Very much honored,” murmured her stupefied hostess. The visitor threw off her hat, shook her curls, sat down beside Tatyana Borisovna, took her by the hand. . . . “So this is she,” she began thoughtfully, with a catch in her voice. “This is that good, serene, noble, holy being! This is she, that woman so simple and at the same time so profound! What a joy, what a joy! What friends we are going to be! I can breathe at last! . . . Just as I imagined her,” she added in a whisper, gazing into the eyes of Tatyana Borisovna. “You’re not angry with me, you good kind soul?” “Not at all, I am very pleased . . . won’t you have some tea?” The visitor smiled condescendingly. “Wie wahr, wie unreflectirt,” she murmured, as if to herself. “Let me kiss you, you dear creature!”
The old maid sat on at Tatyana Borisovna’s for three hours, without even a moment of silence. She tried to explain to her new acquaintance just what her significance was. As soon as the unexpected guest had left, the poor lady took a bath, had a good drink of lime tea, and went to bed. But the next day the old maid returned, sat for four hours and left with a promise to visit Tatyana Borisovna every day. She had determined to put the finishing touches to the evolution and development of what she described as such a richly-endowed nature. And indeed she would probably have finished her off completely if, in the first place, she hadn’t been thoroughly disillusioned about her brother’s friend before two weeks were up, and secondly, if she hadn’t fallen in love with a young student who was passing by and with whom she at once embarked on an energetic correspondence; in her epistles, she sent him the customary blessings for the holiness and beauty of his life, offered “to sacrifice her whole being,” asked him just to call her sister, went off into descriptions of nature, referred to Goethe, Schiller, Bettin, and German philosophy, and ended by landing the poor young man into a state of black despair. But youth claimed its own: one fine morning he woke up in such a frenzy of hatred for his “sister and best friend” that he almost killed his servant in the heat of the moment, and for a long time afterwards he practically snapped at the slightest allusion to pure and exalted love. . . . But from that time on Tatyana Borisovna began to avoid contacts with the ladies of the neighborhood even more decidedly than before.
Alas! There is nothing durable on earth. All that I have told you about the good lady’s way of life is a thing of the past; the peace that reigned in her house is broken for ever. For more than a year she has had living with her a nephew, an artist from Petersburg.
Eight years ago there lived at Tatyana Borisovna’s a lad of twelve, an orphan, little Andrei, the son of her late brother. Little Andrei had big, bright, dewy eyes, a tiny little mouth, a straight nose, and a fine high forehead. He spoke in a sweet, gentle voice, conducted himself in a neat and orderly fashion, was charming and attentive with guests, and kissed his aunt’s hand with all the sensibility of an orphan. You had hardly time to appear before, lo and behold, he would be bringing you a chair. He never got into any sort of mischief: he never made a noise; he would sit by himself in a corner with a book, and so quietly and modestly, he wouldn’t even lean against the back of the chair. A visitor would come in—and up Andrei would get, with a respectful smile and a blush; the visitor would leave—down he would sit again, bring out of his pocket a little brush and looking-glass, and tidy his hair. From his earliest years he had been fond of drawing. If a scrap of paper came his way, he would at once ask Agafya the housekeeper for a pair of scissors, carefully cut out of the paper an exact square, put a border round it, and get to work: he would draw an eye with an enormous pupil, or a Grecian nose, or a house with a chimney and a spiral of smoke, a dog “en face” looking like a bench, or a tree with two pigeons, and underneath he would write: “Drawn by Andrei Belovzorov, on such and such a date in such and such a year, in the village of Malye Bryki.” For the two weeks before Tatyana Borisovna’s name-day he was at work with a special zeal: he was the first to appear with good wishes, and brought a little scroll tied up in pink ribbon. Tatyana Borisovna kissed her nephew on his forehead and undid the knot. The scroll opened and the curious gaze of the beholder fell on a round frame in bold shading, with pillars and an altar in the middle; on the altar was a burning heart and a wreath and above, on a twisted banderole, was written in bold letters: “To his aunt and benefactress Tatyana Borisovna Bogdanova from her respectful and loving nephew, as an expression of his deepest affection.” Tatyana Borisovna kissed him again and gave him a silver ruble. All the same, she felt no great attachment towards him: little Andrei’s obsequiousness did not altogether please her. Meanwhile Andrei was growing up; Tatyana Borisovna began to feel anxious about his future. An unexpected development delivered her from her perplexity. . . .
This is what happened: one day, eight years ago, she received a visit from a certain Mr. Pyotr Mikhailich Benevolensky, a Collegiate Councillor and Cavalier of an Order. Mr. Benevolensky had once held a Government appointment in the nearest provincial town and had been assiduous in his visits to Tatyana Borisovna; then he had been transferred to Petersburg, entered a Ministry, reached a fairly important position, and on one of his frequent tours on official business had remembered his old acquaintance and turned up to see her, with the intention of resting for two days from the cares of office in the bosom of the peaceful countryside. Tatyana Borisovna received him with her usual cordiality, and Mr. Benevolensky . . . but before we proceed with our story, allow me, amiable reader, to acquaint you with this new character. Mr. Benevolensky was a stoutish, soft-looking ma
n of medium build, with short legs and podgy little hands. He wore a voluminous and extremely neat frock-coat, a high, wide cravat, snow-white linen, a gold chain on his silk waistcoat, a ring with a stone in it on his index finger, and a blond wig; he spoke quietly and with authority, walked noiselessly, had a pleasant smile, a pleasantly roving eye, and a pleasant way of sinking his chin in his cravat: he was an altogether pleasant person. He had also been endowed by the Lord with an excellent heart: he was easily moved to tears or enthusiasm; in addition to which he burnt with a disinterested passion for the arts, a really disinterested one, because the truth was that in matters of art Mr. Benevolensky understood not the first thing. It is a mystery, from what quarter, in virtue of what secret and incomprehensible laws, this passion had gained its hold on him. He gave the impression of being a matter-of-fact, indeed a humdrum sort of man . . . in fact his type is fairly well represented in Mother Russia. . . .
Their love for art and artists gives these people an indescribable, cloying sweetness; acquaintance or conversation with them is excruciating: they are bores of a honeyed variety. For instance, they never call Raphael Raphael, or Correggio Correggio. “The Divine Sanzio, the inimitable de Allegris,” they say, in a voice which is invariably affected. Every home-bred, self-satisfied, over-subtilized, mediocre talent becomes a genius for them: the blue sky of Italy, the lemons of the south, the scented mists of Brenta’s banks never leave their tongue. “Ah, Vanya, Vanya,” or: “Ah, Sasha, Sasha,” they say to each other with emotion: “We ought to be off to the South, to the South . . . you and I are Greeks at heart, ancient Greeks.” They are to be observed at exhibitions, before certain works of certain Russian painters. (It must be remembered that for the most part these gentlemen are impassioned patriots.) Now they take two steps back and put their heads to one side, now they go up to the picture again; their eyes are veiled in oily moisture . . . “Phew, my goodness me,” they say at last, in a voice broken with emotion, “what soul, what soul! . . . look, what heart, what heart! He’s put his soul into it!—his very soul! . . . And the composition! The masterly composition!” And the pictures that hang in their own drawing-rooms! The artists that go to their evening parties, drink their tea, listen to their discourses! The offerings they receive, the perspectives of their own rooms with a brush in the right foreground, a pile of dirt on a glossy floor, a yellow samovar on a table by the window, and the master himself in a dressing-gown and skull-cap, with a sharp highlight on his cheek! What long-haired nurselings of the Muses visit them, and with what feverishly superior smiles! What pale-green young ladies whine at their pianos! For such is the custom in Mother Russia: a man cannot devote himself to a single art,—he must take on the whole lot. So it is not at all surprising that these gentlemen-amateurs also extend their vigorous protection to Russian literature and in particular to the drama. . . . It is for them that works like Jacob Sanazar are written. The thousand-times depicted struggle of unrecognized talent against society, against the whole world, shakes them to the bottom of their soul. . . .
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