He remained silent.
“You’re not even listening,” she said. “What is it you’re staring at so intently?”
Pensively, without saying a word, he pointed to the far distance. Anna Pavlovna looked and her face fell. In the distance between the fields a road snaked beyond the woods, a road leading to the Promised Land, to St Petersburg. Anna Pavlovna fell silent for a while until she felt strong enough to speak.
“So, that’s it!” She pronounced the words despondently. “Well, my dear, have it your way! Go, if you feel so strongly that you must leave; I won’t try to keep you! At least you won’t be able to say that your mother held you back and ruined your youth and your life.”
The poor mother! This is the reward you get for your love. Is that what you expected? Well, the fact of the matter is that mothers don’t expect rewards. There’s no rhyme or reason – they just love. Do you achieve greatness and fame, are you proud, is your name on everyone’s lips, do your deeds resound around the world? Then your mother trembles with joy, she weeps, laughs and prays long and ardently. But you, the son, rarely think of sharing your success with the woman who bore you. Are you lacking in wit or spirit, has nature denied you beauty, are your heart and body dogged by ill health, do people shun you, and is there no place for you among them? Then so much the bigger is your place in a mother’s heart, and so much more tightly does she enfold you in her arms, ill-favoured, failed creature though you are, and so much the longer and more fervently does she pray for you.
Are we to call Alexander unfeeling because he is bent on leaving home? He was twenty years old. Life has smiled on him from the cradle, his mother has coddled and pampered him, as you would expect with an only child; in his cradle his nanny crooned to him how he would be clothed in gold and never know sorrow; his teachers predicted that he would go far, and on his return home the neighbour’s daughter would favour him with her smile. Even Vaska, their old cat, was more affectionate to him than any other member of the household.
Sorrow, tears, hardship were all things he had only heard about as if they were some kind of disease which had never actually manifested itself, but was lurking somewhere among the masses. That was why to him the future shone with all the radiance of a rainbow and drew him towards something in the distance, although what it was he did not know. He was beguiled by wraith-like visions luring him on, but could not grasp their substance; he heard a chorus of voices which he could not distinguish – were they singing of fame, of love? He couldn’t tell, but he was aquiver with a pleasurable anticipation.
He soon came to feel cramped by the world of his home. Nature, his mother’s tender loving care, his nanny’s veneration, and that of all the household servants, his soft bed, the delicious treats, the purring of Vaska – all those pleasures which are so highly valued in later years, he was happy to trade in for the unknown, an unknown fraught with a seductive and mysterious delight. Even Sofia’s love, first love, tender and roseate, was not enough to hold him back. What was that kind of love to him? He dreamt of a tremendous passion which knew no obstacles and crowned glorious exploits. The love he had for Sofia was a small thing compared with the great love yet to come. He dreamt also of the great services he would render his country. He had studied diligently and widely. His diploma stated that he was well versed in a dozen branches of knowledge, and half a dozen ancient and modern languages. But his greatest dream was that of becoming a famous writer. His friends were amazed by his poems. Before him there stretched any number of paths each more attractive than the last. He did not know in which direction to strike out. The only one he failed to see was the one straight ahead of him: if he had seen it, then perhaps he might never have left.
Yes, Alexander had been spoilt growing up at home, but that didn’t turn him into a “spoilt brat”. Fortunately nature had seen to it that he reacted in a positive way to his mother’s love and the adoration of those around him – which, among other things, developed in him early in life temperamental instincts which made him trusting to a fault. This itself may even have stimulated a feeling of self-esteem within him, but, of course, self-esteem itself is nothing but a mould, and what results depends on what mixture is poured into it.
For him a much greater misfortune was the fact that his mother, for all her loving care, was unable to provide him a proper perspective on life, and had failed to prepare him for the battles in store for him as they are for everyone. But for this she would have needed certain skills, sharper wits and a wealth of experience not limited by her narrow rural horizons. It would even have been better for her to have loved him a little less, not to have spent every minute of the day thinking about him, not to have spared him every possible trouble and unpleasantness, not to have done his weeping and suffering for him even in his childhood so as to give him a chance of developing a feeling for the prospect of adversity, and a chance to learn to muster his own resources and consider what lay ahead – in a word to realize that he was a man. How could Anna Pavlovna possibly have understood all this, let alone act on this understanding? Should we perhaps take a closer look?
She had already forgotten her son’s selfishness. Alexander found her repacking his linen and clothes. Amidst the bustle of the preparations for his journey, it seemed that she had totally forgotten how upset she was.
“Now, Sashenka, take a careful look at where I’m putting everything,” she said. “At the very bottom of the trunk, underneath everything else, are the sheets: a dozen. Look and see whether it’s all according to the list?”
“Yes, Mummy.”
“Everything is marked with your name, you see – it’s all dear Sonyushka’s work. Without her, our own oafs would never have got it done in time.
“What now? Oh yes, pillowcases. One, two, three, four – there’s a whole dozen here. And here are your shirts – three dozen. What fine linen – so lovely! It’s Dutch. I went myself to see Vasily Vasilych at the factory; he chose three lengths of the very best quality. Remember, my dear, to check against the receipt whenever you get them back from the laundress: they’re all brand new. You won’t see many shirts like that in St Petersburg, so they may even try to fob you off with imitations: some people are such crooks – not even afraid of God! Twenty-two pairs of socks… You know, I’ve just had an idea, why not put your wallet with the cash in a sock? You won’t need any money before you get to St Petersburg. Like that, God willing, if anything should happen and someone tries to go through your luggage, they won’t find it. And I’ll put the letters to your uncle in the same place – I’m sure he’ll be so pleased! I mean, it’s seventeen years now since we’ve been in touch – it’s hard to believe! Here are your scarves, and here are your handkerchiefs; Sonya still has half a dozen of them. Try not to lose them, my love, they’re the best cambric! I bought them at Mikheyev’s for two and a quarter each. Well, so much for the linen. Now for the clothes… but where is Yevsei? Why isn’t he watching? Yevsei!”
Yevsei was in no hurry to enter the room – and in even less of a hurry to enquire: “How can I be of service?”
“‘How can I be of service?’” Aduyeva retorted angrily. “Why didn’t you come to watch me pack? And now if something is needed on the journey, you’ll be turning everything upside down looking for it! Can’t tear yourself away from your girlfriend – what use are you? There’s plenty of the day still left; you’ll have time later. Is this how you’ll be looking after your master when you’re there? Now, watch me! You see, this is a good tailcoat, watch where I’m putting it! And, Sashenka, you take good care of it, it’s not to be worn every day; the cloth cost sixteen roubles a length. Put it on when you’re paying social calls on the right people, and mind where you sit, not just anywhere like your aunt, who practically makes a point of never sitting on an empty chair or sofa, but always manages to plonk herself down on a hat or something of the sort; just the other day she sat down on a plate of jam – what a disgrace! When you go out more casually
, wear the tailcoat in dark red. Now waistcoats – one, two, three, four. Two pairs of trousers. These clothes should last you for three years. Whew! I’m tired, and no mistake. I’ve been running about the whole morning. You can go, Yevsei.
“Sashenka, I want to talk to you about something else. Our guests will soon be here, and we don’t have much time.” She sat down on the divan and made him sit down beside her.
“Well, Sasha,” she began after a short silence, “now you’re going somewhere entirely new and different…”
“How do you mean, ‘different’? It’s only St Petersburg, Mummy!”
“Hold on just a moment, wait until you hear what I have to say. God alone knows what lies in store for you, and what things you will be seeing, both good and bad. I only hope that Our Heavenly Father will give you strength; but you, my dear, whatever you do, don’t forget him, and remember: without faith there is no salvation anywhere or in anything. No matter how high you rise, no matter what high society you’ll be moving in – after all, we are just as good as others, your father was a member of the nobility, a major – remember to humble yourself before the Lord God, pray in happiness and in sorrow, and don’t go by that old proverb: ‘The common man never crosses himself until he hears thunder.’ Some people, when things are going well for them, never even go near a church, but when they’re in trouble – well, there they are, lighting one-rouble candles and giving alms to the poor: and that’s a great sin. And while we’re on the subject of the poor, don’t throw money away on them, and don’t give too much. There’s no point in being generous, they’ll just spend it on drink and have a good laugh at your expense. I know you have a soft heart, and you would probably give away more than just small change. So please don’t. God will give. Will you promise me you’ll attend church and go to Mass on Sundays?”
She sighed.
Alexander remained silent. He remembered that while he was studying at the university and living in the provincial capital he wasn’t too keen on going to church, and in the country he only accompanied his mother to church to please her. He was ashamed to lie, so he just kept quiet. His mother understood his silence and sighed again.
“Well, I won’t try to force you,” she continued. “You’re still young, how can you be expected to be as churchgoing as oldsters like us? I expect your duties will prevent you, and you’ll stay up late in the company of your society friends, and get up late the next morning. God will be understanding because of your youth. But don’t worry, you have a mother. She won’t sleep late. As long as a drop of blood remains in my veins, my eyes can still shed tears, and God tolerates my sins, if I don’t have the strength to walk, I’ll drag myself on my knees to the church door; I’ll give up my last breath and offer up my last tear for you, my dear. I’ll pray for your health, for your honours, promotions and decorations, and for every blessing that heaven and earth can bestow upon you. Surely Our Merciful Father will not reject the prayers of a poor old woman? I want nothing for myself. Let everything be taken from me, my health, my life, strike me blind, just as long as every joy, every happiness is granted you…”
Before she could finish, tears welled up in her eyes.
Alexander sprang up from his seat.
“Mummy…” he said.
“No sit, sit!” she responded, quickly wiping away her tears. “I still have a lot left to say… Now, whatever is it I wanted to say? – it’s just slipped my mind… You see what’s happened to my memory… Oh, yes! Keep the fasts, my dear; that’s supremely important! Wednesdays and Fridays, well, God will overlook that; but Lent itself, God forbid! Take Mikhailo Mikhailych: he passes for an intelligent man, and what do we see? Whether it’s forbidden or not, he gorges on meat anyway, even during Holy Week. It positively makes your hair stand on end! All right, he helps the poor; does that make his charity acceptable to the Lord? Did you know that he once gave ten roubles to an old man, who took it but turned away and spat? Everyone is very respectful in his presence, and God knows what they say to him, but behind his back, whenever his name comes up, they cross themselves as if he were the very Devil.”
Alexander listened as patiently as he could, turning to look out of the window from time to time at the road in the distance.
She fell silent for a minute.
“Above all, take care of your health,” she went on. “If you’re taken seriously ill – God forbid! – write… and I’ll make every effort to come to you. Who will be there to look after you? They won’t scruple to rob even a sick man. Don’t walk the streets at night, and avoid anyone who looks dangerous. Don’t waste your money… please, save it for a rainy day! Spend it prudently! Money can be a curse: all evil comes from it, as well as all good. Don’t squander it, don’t cultivate extravagant tastes. You’ll be getting 2,500 roubles from me on the dot every year. Two thousand five hundred is a tidy sum! Don’t go in for luxuries of any kind, absolutely not, but don’t deny yourself anything you can afford, and don’t begrudge yourself the occasional treat. Don’t get into the habit of drinking wine – no, it’s man’s worst enemy! And another thing” – here she lowered her voice – “be careful with women! I should know! Some are so shameless that they will come and throw their arms around your neck when they see someone like you.”
She looked lovingly at her son.
“That’s enough, Mummy; what about some breakfast?” he said with an edge of annoyance.
“Right now, right now… just one more thing…
“Don’t go after married women,” she hastened to add, “there’s no greater sin! It says in the Bible: ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife.’ If some woman seems to have marriage in mind – God forbid – don’t even think about it! Once they spot someone with money, and good-looking into the bargain, they won’t let go. But if your boss or some prominent person or rich aristocrat should take a fancy to you and wants you to marry his daughter, that would be all right – but write to me, and I’ll manage somehow or other to come and look her over just to make sure that they’re not trying to saddle you with some old maid or some good-for-nothing they’re just trying to get off their hands. Anyone would be delighted to reel in a catch like you. But if you should happen to fall in love yourself and it’s with a nice young woman, then, well…” – and here she lowered her voice even further – “…we can forget about Sonyushka.” (The old lady allowed her love for her son to get the better of her scruples.) “How did Maria Karpovna ever get such an idea into her head! Her daughter is no match for you. Just a country girl. There are better candidates who would set their caps at you.”
“Sofia! No, Mummy, I will never forget her,” said Alexander.
“Never mind, my love, calm down! No need to take it seriously. You’ll find a position, you’ll come back, and the Lord will provide; there will be plenty of brides! And if you haven’t forgotten her by then – well, so be it… and so…”
She wanted to add something, but couldn’t quite bring herself to say it, and then bent towards his ear and asked him softly:
“But will you remember… your mother?”
“So that’s what you’ve been trying to say,” he said, interrupting her. “Better to order whatever there is to eat, scrambled eggs or whatever. Forget you? How could you even think it! God would punish me…”
“Stop that, Sasha, don’t place yourself in harm’s way like that! No matter what happens, if such a sin were committed, let me be the only one to suffer for it. You’re young, you’re only just beginning life, you’ll make friends, you’ll get married – your young wife will take the place of your mother, and that’s the way it is… No! May God bless you, just as I bless you.”
She kissed his forehead, thus concluding her homily.
“How come no one is coming?” she said. “No Maria Karpovna, no Anton Ivanych, not even the priest. Mass must be over by now! Ah yes, someone is coming! Anton Ivanych, I think… so it is, talk of the Devil.”
<
br /> Everyone knows an Anton Ivanych. He’s like the Wandering Jew. He has been with us from time immemorial and he is everywhere, and has never become extinct. He was a guest at feasts in ancient Greece and banquets in ancient Rome; he has, of course, also partaken of the fatted calf sacrificed by a happy father to welcome the return of his prodigal son.
Here in Russia, he has assumed various forms; the form taken by this particular person was as follows: he owns twenty souls, mortgaged over and over again; he lives in what is virtually a peasant’s hut or a strange kind of structure which looks like a barn from the outside – the entrance is somewhere round the back, and you have to clamber over some logs by the wattle fence in order to enter; for twenty years, however, he has been telling everyone that, come next spring, he is going to start building a new house. He doesn’t keep house, or any servants to do it for him. None of his acquaintances has ever been entertained to dinner, supper or even a cup of tea there, but neither is there anyone at whose house he hasn’t been entertained at least fifty times a year. Formerly, he went about clothed in wide and baggy trousers and a knee-length pleated coat, now for everyday wear he sports a frock coat and trousers, and on high days and holidays he appears in a tailcoat, but God only knows of what style. He has a well-fed look, because he has no worries, no cares and nothing to upset him, although he pretends that his whole existence is weighed down with the woes and cares of others, but we all know that the woes and cares of others do not shrink us: that’s just the way it is with people.
The Same Old Story Page 2
