Sister Pelagia and the White Bulldog

by Boris Akunin

  Pelagia coughed to indicate that she found this comparison infelicitous, but such subtleties were beyond Marya Afanasievna. She exclaimed in a voice filled with torment: “Lord, what can be taking them so long? What if something’s happened?”

  “And what about Naina Georgievna?” Pelagia asked, wishing to distract Tatishcheva from her troubled thoughts.

  “Takes after her mother,” her hostess snapped. “Just as capricious, only she inherited a passion for fashion from the prince as well. Wanton petulance, to use the good old Russian phrase. First she wanted to be an actress and kept declaiming monologues, then suddenly she was going to be an artist, and now there’s no telling what she’s jabbering about—she just rambles. And I’m to blame for it; I spoiled her far too much when she was a little girl. I felt sorry for her, being so young, and an orphan. And she was very like my little Polina…What’s that, are they bringing him?”

  She half-rose out of her chair, listened, and sat back down again.

  “No, I only imagined it…What’s going to happen to them when I die, God only knows. Stepan’s my only hope. He’s honest, devoted, decent. Now that’s the kind of husband Naina needs, and he loves her, I can see that, but what does she understand about a man’s value? Styopa’s our ward. He grew up here, went off to the academy to study to be an artist, and then Apollon Nikolaevich passed away. So even though he was only a boy then, Stepan gave up his studies, came back to Drozdovka, and took the estate in hand, and he manages the whole business so well that I’m the envy of the entire province. His heart’s not in the work, though, I can see that. But he sticks with it and doesn’t grumble, because he knows where his duty lies. I’m guilty before him, old sinner that I am. I quarreled with him the day before yesterday, and with my grandchildren, I was out of sorts after Zagulyai. I changed my will, and now my conscience is bothering me…”

  Pelagia almost opened her mouth to ask what changes had been made in the will, but she bit her tongue and said nothing, for something peculiar was happening to Marya Afanasievna.

  The general’s widow opened her mouth wide, her eyes bulged wildly, and the folds of flesh under her chin began shuddering rapidly.

  A stroke, the nun thought in fright. It could easily be—in someone so stout, apoplexy was always a risk.

  But Tatishcheva showed no signs of paralysis; on the contrary, she flung one hand up in the air and pointed her finger at something behind the nun’s back.

  Turning around, Pelagia saw Zakidai come crawling out of the garden toward the steps, leaving a scarlet trail on the ground. Protruding from the white, bumpy head was the handle of a firmly embedded hatchet, which was painted blue, so that the red, white, and blue combination precisely repeated the colors of the Russian flag.

  Zakidai was using his last ounces of strength to crawl along with his tongue lolling out and his eyes fixed on a single point—the spot where Marya Afanasievna was sitting, frozen in horror. He did not whine, he did not whimper, he simply crawled. At the edge of the veranda his strength deserted him; he thrust his head against the bottom step, twitched twice, and lay absolutely still.

  Tatishcheva’s dress rustled as she heeled over sideways, and before Sister Pelagia could catch hold of her, the old woman had slumped to the floor and struck her head against the pine boards with a resounding smack. Ejected from his cradle, little Zakusai went tumbling across the veranda like a soft white ball and yelped plaintively, still half-asleep.

  CHAPTER 4

  A Nest of Vipers

  THE DOCTOR FOUND no sign of a stroke, but neither did he hold out any great hope. A nervous fever, he said; there was nothing that medical science could do about it. It sometimes happened that a perfectly healthy person would be completely consumed in only a few days as a result of some shock, and this case involved advanced age, a bad heart, and a naturally hysterical temperament. When he was asked what could be done, how she should be treated, he gave a strange answer: “Distract her and cheer her up.”

  But how were they to distract her when she only talked of one thing all the time? How were they to cheer her up when the tears were flowing unceasingly from her eyes? And she would not even allow any members of her family to come near her, shouting: “You’re all murderers!”

  The doctor departed, taking the prescribed fee for his visit, and the family council decided to ask Sister Pelagia to assume responsibility for the spiritual care of the sick woman. Especially since Marya Afanasievna herself, while refusing to see her grandchildren or neighbors, or even her manager, kept asking after the nun all the time and demanding that she come to the bedroom almost every hour.

  Pelagia came when she was summoned, sat at the head of the bed, and listened patiently to the widow’s feverish talk. The curtains in the room were drawn, a lamp was lit under a green shade on the side table, there was a smell of aniseed and mint lozenges. Tatishcheva either sobbed and pressed her face into the pillow in fright, or flew into a sudden fury, but that soon came to an end, because she no longer had the strength to remain angry for long. Zakusai lay close at her side almost constantly. Marya Afanasievna stroked him, called him her “orphan,” and fed him with chocolate. The poor creature was completely worn out with all this immobility and from time to time he rebelled, barking and squealing. Then Tanya would put him on his lead and take him out for a walk, but the lady of the house was ill at ease all the time they were absent and kept glancing constantly at the large clock on the wall.

  Of course, Pelagia pitied the old woman for her suffering, but at the same time she was amazed that there could be so much spite in someone so weak that she could barely even control her tongue.

  As she kissed Zakusai on his wrinkled little face, Marya Afanasievna said: “Dogs are so much better than people!”

  She listened to the soft voices rising from somewhere in the depths of the house and whispered venomously: “This is no home, it’s a nest of vipers.”

  Or she would simply fix her eyes on the nun’s hands as they clattered away nimbly with the knitting needles and make a horrified face: “What’s that you’re knitting, holy mother? It’s disgusting. Throw it away immediately.”

  Most unpleasant of all, however, were the fits of suspicion that came over the general’s widow several times a day. Then the servants would go rushing off to seek out Sister Pelagia. They would find her in her room, or in the library, or in the park, and bring her to Marya Afanasievna, who would already be huddled up under the blanket so that only her frightened, glittering eyes could be seen, whispering:

  “I know, it’s Petya, it couldn’t be anyone else! He hates me, he wants to do away with me! He’s being held here against his will, and I’m responsible for him to the police officer. He called me a ‘Benckendorf’ and all kinds of other names. It’s him, he’s the one, that spawn of Telianov’s! I’m always getting in his way. He wanted to teach the village children and I wouldn’t let him, because he wouldn’t teach them anything worthwhile. I don’t give him any money, either—he’d send it to those nihilists of his. And now he’s gone completely out of his mind and decided he wants to marry my Tanya. Marry the maid! ‘Don’t you dare be so dismissive of her, grandmother,’ he says, ‘you have to see the human being in her.’ That would be a fine thing now, eh? If my grandson marries the estate flirt! If only he was madly in love with her, anything’s possible, after all, but he isn’t. It’s an idea he has—to sacrifice himself on the altar, to turn a common, semiliterate girl into an educated woman. ‘Great works,’ he says, ‘are for great people, but I’m a small man, and my work will be small, but it will be good. If every one of us can make at least one other person happy, then his life has not been lived in vain.’ I said to him: ‘You won’t make the girl happy without love, not even if you shower her with gold, not even if you read every book in the world out loud to her. Why fill Tanya’s head with nonsense? I’ve already picked out a groom for her, a cattle dealer’s son, he’ll be a perfect match for her. But all you’re doing is giving her pointless ambition;
you want her to suffer the rest of her life for things that could never be.’ And you know, the most shameful thing is that he’s not even sleeping with her, he’s such a sissy! I’ve no doubt if he was to go to her at night, he’d work it out of his system soon enough and start to see reason. Now why are you giving me that reproachful look, mother? I’ve seen life; I know what I’m talking about.”

  But an hour later her head would be full of other ideas.

  “No, it’s Nainka. The idleness has driven her mad. I know her kind, I was the same myself. I remember the way it is, you just can’t wait to get your fill of life, I could have strangled my parents with my own hands, I wanted my freedom so much. Especially when I was stupid enough to fall in love with the parish priest at the age of seventeen. He was so handsome and young, with such a velvety voice. I almost ran off with him—it was lucky my dear late papa caught me, gave me a sound beating, and locked me in the shed. Now Nainka’s fallen for somebody, just look how many of those men she has circling around her. Her granny’s in her way now, spoiling her happiness. She’s chosen someone or other for herself that I’ll never agree to while I’m alive and she’s decided to take what she wants over my dead body. She could, she has the character for it. Ah, Nainka, Nainka, didn’t I love you, didn’t I give you my heart and soul…Zakusai, my little love, my angel without wings, you’re the only one who won’t betray me. You won’t, will you, my sweet?”

  And then, a little while later, Pelagia found Marya Afanasievna in a state of conciliatory self-reproach. Sobbing at her own nobility, the general’s widow said: “Sit down, mother, listen. I’ve had a revelation: It’s Stepan, and I don’t blame him. How long can I go on making his life a misery? He’s been stuck here with me for nigh on twenty years as it is. He gave up his dream, buried his talent in the ground, and at the age of forty he’s still single. All I do is just sponge off all his hard work. Without him I’d have frittered away my husband’s legacy long ago, with my foolish character, but he’s preserved it and increased it. But he’s a living human being, too. He must be thinking: ‘You’ve lived long enough already, old woman, time to do the right thing.’ That Poggio has turned his head by coming here, that’s as clear as day. Styopa got his easel down out of the attic, brought some paints from the town, and the look in his eyes completely changed. It’s all right, I understand, I don’t judge him…although he could have told me straight out. This is the way it is, Marya Afanasievna, I’ve done enough work for you, now I’m asking you to let me go. But he won’t say it, he’s not like that. He feels ashamed. It’s easier to do away with the old woman than appear ungrateful to her. I know that breed well enough, it has its fair share of pride and passion…Ah, no, how could I be so blind! It’s not Stepan, it’s Poggio!” She reached upward, struggling to raise herself up off the pillows. “Perhaps in secret Stepan wishes I would croak soon, but he wouldn’t poison the poor defenseless dogs. But Poggio would! Just for amusement’s sake, or out of friendship, to free his friend from slavery! He’s depraved, a devil! He tried to seduce Naina, making drawings of her and photographing her. And he’s leading Stepan astray…I noticed him looking daggers at me a long time ago. It’s him! Look how long he’s stayed, over two months already. And at first he said, ‘Just for a month or so.’ He won’t go away now until he’s driven me into my grave!”

  Very soon after this a new conviction, no less unshakable, appeared.

  “Sytnikov! He’s a terrible man, give him profit at any price, he’s sold his soul to the devil for it. It’s true what they say, that he married for money and then poisoned his wife. And the reason I’m an obstacle to him is clear enough, too! The Goryaev wasteland! He’s been badgering me for ages to let him have it, wants to set up a commercial wharf there—it’s a very convenient spot. But I told him I wouldn’t sell. I won’t have him ruining my view with his barges! But he’s not one just to let something go. His law is that everything has to be the way he wants. Otherwise he thinks life isn’t worth living. He finished off his wife and now he wants to finish me off, too! Once I’m gone, Petka and Nainka will sell him everything here, let alone the wasteland, and they’ll be up and off to the big cities and foreign parts. So Donat has good reason to despatch me to the next world as soon as possible. Well, curse the lot of them!” The old woman raised a feeble hand in a gesture of disdainful dismissal. “I was right to change my will two days ago. I left everything I have to the Englishwoman. I only wanted to give them a scare, but now I’ll leave it like that. If they don’t want me around, then they can have Janet for their mistress. She’ll keep them all on their toes.”

  At first Pelagia listened very attentively to the sick woman’s confused talk, comparing it with her own thoughts and observations, but every new hypothesis was even more outrageous than the ones before it.

  The final one completely abandoned the ground of common sense.

  “Kirya Krasnov,” Marya Afanasievna rapped out as soon as Tanya brought the nun to the bedroom for another visit. “Cunning, the devil, but makes himself out to be a fool. Why does he come trailing around here every day? He wants money from me. This autumn his estate’s going under the hammer, with all his wonderful telegraphs. He says: ‘I’ll die then.’ And he will die, he will for sure. What will he do with himself without Krasnovka? He goes around moaning all the time. Give him one and a half thousand to pay his interest! I told him: I won’t give it to you. I’ve already given you money more than once. That’s enough. So he’s decided to take his revenge on me. I know what he’s thinking: If I’m going to die, then you’re not going to live, either, you old witch!”

  Pelagia began admonishing the sick woman—to bring her back to her senses and also in case, God forbid, she might really go and die, it was sinful to leave the earth in a state of such bitterness.

  “Marya Afanasievna, perhaps if you lent Kirill Nifontovich the money, he would calm down? What do a thousand and a half rubles mean to you? You can’t take them with you to the next world; money will be no use there.”

  This simple argument had its effect on Tatishcheva.

  “Yes, yes,” she muttered, looking at Zakusai as he slept, and the fevered look in her eyes softened. “What good is it to me; it will all go to Miss Wrigley anyway. I’ll give it to him. Let him carry on with his foolish pranks for one more year. I’ll give him two thousand.”

  “And this business with the will is wrong,” the nun continued, encouraged by her success. “Miss Wrigley is a worthy individual, of course, but would it be fair to treat Pyotr Georgievich and Naina Georgievna like that? After all, they are not to blame that you raised them in idleness and did not teach them to do anything useful. And you would be ashamed to look Stepan Trofimovich in the eye in the next world. All those years he devoted to you, all of his best years. And you say yourself that he has greatly increased your fortune. Surely it is a sin?”

  “It is, mother,” Tatishcheva confessed in a pitiful voice. “You’re quite right. I was angry, I got carried away. And I ought to leave something to my other relatives as well as my grandchildren. Hey, Tanya! Go and call her…Tanya, have them send to the town for Korsh. I want him to come to change my will.”

  DURING THE INTERVALS between summonses to the widow’s bedroom, Pelagia spent most of her time strolling in the park. She also spent quite a lot of that time in a plank hut that stood not far from the edge of the cliff. Here there were mattocks, spades, saws, rakes, hoes, and other garden implements from Gerasim’s arsenal, all of them painted blue. This was where the unknown villain had found the hatchet. Pelagia picked up some lumps of dried earth from the floor and rubbed them in her fingers, squatted down and crept around outside the little building, but she did not discover any clues. The hut did not have a lock; anyone at all could have taken the little axe, and there were no tracks to be found either outside or inside. There was nothing to be done but wait to see what would happen next.

  In two days she walked the entire length and breadth of the park. She also came across the famous Eng
lish lawn, a little square of neatly trimmed grass that someone really had trampled very thoroughly only recently, but the short, springy stems had already begun to straighten up and it was clear that this oasis of civilization would soon be restored to its former glory. From here it was only a stone’s throw to the River, there was a fresh breeze blowing, and beside the lawn a little aspen tree that was withering away swayed branches that were still green but no longer alive. The nun came here often—as she sat in the white arbor above the high, steep bluff, finishing the belt for Sister Emilia, she would freeze motionless for long moments, looking at the wide River, at the sky, at the marshes on the far bank. And it was good to wander through the clearings, along the overgrown pathways, where the air trembled with the humming of bees and the rustling of leaves.

  But the calm was false, not genuine; in the electrified air of Drozdovka the nun could sense turmoil and hear a subtle ringing tone, as if somewhere someone were plucking a string stretched to its very breaking point. It was surprising that on the first day the estate had seemed almost like the Garden of Eden to her. Though Pelagia did not deliberately spy or eavesdrop on anyone, every now and again she found herself an inadvertent witness to certain scenes that were difficult to understand and the perplexed observer of the obscure relationships between the locals. It was obvious that the nervous conversation she had partly overheard by chance from her window was entirely in keeping with the order of things here.

  On the morning of her third day, Pelagia was slowly wandering at random through the bushes, screwing up her eyes against the sunlight filtering through the foliage, when she suddenly saw a clearing ahead of her, and Shiryaev and Poggio standing in it, their backs to the bushes. They were both wearing wide-brimmed hats and canvas smocks and holding sketchbooks. She didn’t want to distract them from their artistic endeavors by calling out, but she wanted to take a look, especially after what had been said the previous day about Stepan Trofimovich’s talent.