XIII
THE police captain read the real formal document, the deed of gift, drawn up by Martin Petrovitch. Then he went out on to the steps with the attorney and explained what had taken place to the crowd assembled at the gates, consisting of the witnesses required by law and other people from the neighbourhood, Harlov’s peasants, and a few house - serfs. Then began the ceremony of the new owners entering into possession. They came out, too, upon the steps, and the police captain pointed to them when, slightly scowling with one eyebrow, while his careless face assumed for an instant a threatening air, he exhorted the crowd to “subordination.” He might well have dispensed with these exhortations: a less unruly set of countenances than those of the Harlov peasants, I imagine, have never existed in creation. Clothed in thin smocks and torn sheepskins, but very tightly girt round their waists, as is always the peasants’ way on solemn occasions, they stood motionless as though cut out of stone, and whenever the police captain uttered any exclamation such as, “D’ye hear, you brutes? d’ye understand, you devils?” they suddenly bowed all at once, as though at the word of command. Each of these “brutes and devils” held his cap tight in both hands, and never took his eyes off the window, where Martin Petrovitch’s figure was visible. The witnesses themselves were hardly less awed. “Is any impediment known to you,” the police captain roared at them, “against the entrance into possession of these the sole and legitimate heirs and daughters of Martin Petrovitch Harlov?”
All the witnesses seemed to huddle together at once.
“Do you know any, you devils?” the police captain shouted again.
“We know nothing, your excellency,” responded sturdily a little old man, marked with small - pox, with a clipped beard and whiskers, an old soldier.
“I say! Eremeitch’s a bold fellow!” the witnesses said of him as they dispersed.
In spite of the police captain’s entreaties, Harlov would not come out with his daughters on to the steps. “My subjects will obey my will without that!” he answered. Something like sadness had come over him on the completion of the conveyance. His face had grown pale. This new unprecedented expression of sadness looked so out of place on Martin Petrovitch’s broad and kindly features that I positively was at a loss what to think. Was an attack of melancholy coming over him? The peasants, on their side, too, were obviously puzzled. And no wonder! “The master’s alive, - - there he stands, and such a master, too; Martin Petrovitch! And all of a sudden he won’t be their owner. . . . A queer thing!” I don’t know whether Harlov had an inkling of the notions that were straying through his “subjects’“ heads, or whether he wanted to display his power for the last time, but he suddenly opened the little window, stuck his head out, and shouted in a voice of thunder, “obedience!” Then he slammed - to the window. The peasants’ bewilderment was certainly not dispelled nor decreased by this proceeding. They became stonier than ever, and even seemed to cease looking at anything. The group of house - serfs (among them were two sturdy wenches, in short chintz gowns, with muscles such as one might perhaps match in Michael Angelo’s “Last Judgment,” and one utterly decrepit old man, hoary with age and half blind, in a threadbare frieze cloak, rumoured to have been “cornet - player” in the days of Potemkin, - - the page Maximka, Harlov had reserved for himself) this group showed more life than the peasants; at least, it moved restlessly about. The new mistresses themselves were very dignified in their attitude, especially Anna. Her thin lips tightly compressed, she looked obstinately down . . . her stern figure augured little good to the house - serfs. Evlampia, too, did not raise her eyes; only once she turned round and deliberately, as it were with surprise, scanned her betrothed, Zhitkov, who had thought fit, following Sletkin, to come out, too, on to the steps. “What business have you here?” those handsome prominent eyes seemed to demand. Sletkin was the most changed of all. A bustling cheeriness showed itself in his whole bearing, as though he were overtaken by hunger; the movements of his head and his legs were as obsequious as ever, but how gleefully he kept working his arms, how fussily he twitched his shoulder - blades. “Arrived at last!” he seemed to say. Having finished the ceremony of the entrance into possession, the police captain, whose mouth was literally watering at the prospect of lunch, rubbed his hands in that peculiar manner which usually precedes the tossing - off of the first glass of spirits. But it appeared that Martin Petrovitch wished first to have a service performed with sprinklings of holy water. The priest put on an ancient and decrepit chasuble; a decrepit deacon came out of the kitchen, with difficulty kindling the incense in an old brazen church - vessel. The service began. Harlov sighed continually; he was unable, owing to his corpulence, to bow to the ground, but crossing himself with his right hand and bending his head, he pointed with the forefinger of his left hand to the floor. Sletkin positively beamed and even shed tears. Zhitkov, with dignity, in martial fashion, flourished his fingers only slightly between the third and fourth button of his uniform. Kvitsinsky, as a Catholic, remained in the next room. But the attorney prayed so fervently, sighed so sympathetically after Martin Petrovitch, and so persistently muttered and chewed his lips, turning his eyes upwards, that I felt moved, as I looked at him, and began to pray fervently too. At the conclusion of the service and the sprinkling with holy water, during which every one present, even the blind cornet - player, the contemporary of Potemkin, even Kvitsinsky, moistened their eyes with holy water, Anna and Evlampia once more, at Martin Petrovitch’s bidding, prostrated themselves to the ground to thank him. Then at last came the moment of lunch. There were a great many dishes and all very nice; we all ate terribly much. The inevitable bottle of Don wine made its appearance. The police captain, who was of all of us the most familiar with the usages of the world, and besides, the representative of government, was the first to propose the toast to the health “of the fair proprietresses!” Then he proposed we should drink to the health of our most honoured and most generous - hearted friend, Martin Petrovitch. At the words “most generous - hearted,” Sletkin uttered a shrill little cry and ran to kiss his benefactor. . . . “There, that’ll do, that’ll do,” muttered Harlov, as it were with annoyance, keeping him off with his elbow . . . But at this point a not quite pleasant, as they say, incident took place.
XIV
SOUVENIR, who had been drinking continuously ever since the beginning of luncheon, suddenly got up from his chair as red as a beetroot, and pointing his finger at Martin Petrovitch, went off into his mawkish, paltry laugh.
“Generous - hearted! Generous - hearted!” he began croaking; “but we shall see whether this generosity will be much to his taste when he’s stripped naked, the servant of God . . . and out in the snow, too!”
“What rot are you talking, fool?” said Harlov contemptuously.
“Fool! fool!” repeated Souvenir. “God Almighty alone knows which of us is the real fool. But you, brother, did my sister, your wife, to her death, and now you’ve done for yourself . . . ha - ha - ha!”
“How dare you insult our honoured benefactor?” Sletkin began shrilly, and, tearing himself away from Martin Petrovitch, whose shoulder he had clutched, he flew at Souvenir. “But let me tell you, if our benefactor desires it, we can cancel the deed this very minute!”
“And yet, you’ll strip him naked, and turn him out into the snow . . .” returned Souvenir, retreating behind Kvitsinsky.
“Silence!” thundered Harlov. “I’ll pound you into a jelly! And you hold your tongue too, puppy!” he turned to Sletkin; “don’t put in your word where you’re not wanted! If I, Martin Petrovitch Harlov, have decided to make a deed of partition, who can cancel the same act against my will? Why, in the whole world there is no power.” . . .
“Martin Petrovitch!” the attorney began in a mellow bass - - he too had drunk a good deal, but his dignity was only increased thereby - - “but how if the gentleman has spoken the truth? You have done a generous action; to be sure, but how if - - God forbid - - in reality in place of fitting gratitude, some a
ffront come of it?”
I stole a glance at both Martin Petrovitch’s daughters. Anna’s eyes were simply pinned upon the speaker, and a face more spiteful, more snake - like, and more beautiful in its very spite I had certainly never seen! Evlampia sat turned away, with her arms folded. A smile more scornful than ever curved her full, rosy lips.
Harlov got up from his chair, opened his mouth, but apparently his tongue failed him. . . . He suddenly brought his fist down on the table, so that everything in the room danced and rang.
“Father,” Anna said hurriedly, “they do not know us, and that is why they judge of us so. But don’t, please, make yourself ill. You are angered for nothing, indeed; see, your face is, as it were, twisted awry.”
Harlov looked towards Evlampia; she did not stir, though Zhitkov, sitting beside her, gave her a poke in the side.
“Thank you, my daughter Anna,” said Harlov huskily; “you are a sensible girl; I rely upon you and on your husband too.” Sletkin once more gave vent to a shrill little sound; Zhitkov expanded his chest and gave a little scrape with his foot; but Harlov did not observe his efforts. “This dolt,” he went on, with a motion of his chin in the direction of Souvenir, “is pleased to get a chance to tease me; but you, my dear sir,” he addressed himself to the attorney, “it is not for you to pass judgment on Martin Harlov; that is something beyond you. Though you are a man in official position, your words are most foolish. Besides, the deed is done, there will be no going back from my determination. . . . Now, I will wish you good - day, I am going away. I am no longer the master of this house, but a guest in it. Anna, do you do your best; but I will go to my own room. Enough!”
Martin Petrovitch turned his back on us, and, without adding another word, walked deliberately out of the room.
This sudden withdrawal on the part of our host could not but break up the party, especially as the two hostesses also vanished not long after. Sletkin vainly tried to keep us. The police captain did not fail to blame the attorney for his uncalled - for candour. “Couldn’t help it!” the latter responded. . . . “My conscience spoke.”
“There, you see that he’s a mason,” Souvenir whispered to me.
“Conscience!” retorted the police captain. “We know all about your conscience! I suppose it’s in your pocket, just the same as it is with us sinners!”
The priest, meanwhile, even though already on his feet, foreseeing the speedy termination of the repast, lifted mouthful after mouthful to his mouth without a pause.
“You’ve got a fine appetite, I see,” Sletkin observed to him sharply.
“Storing up for the future,” the priest responded with a meek grimace; years of hunger were expressed in that reply.
The carriages rattled up . . . and we separated. On the way home, no one hindered Souvenir’s chatter and silly tricks, as Kvitsinsky had announced that he was sick of all this “wholly superfluous” unpleasantness, and had set off home before us on foot. In his place, Zhitkov took a seat in our coach. The retired major wore a most dissatisfied expression, and kept twitching his moustaches like a spider.
“Well, your noble Excellency,” lisped Souvenir, “is subordination exploded, eh? Wait a bit and see what will happen! They’ll give you the sack too. Ah, a poor bridegroom you are, a poor bridegroom, an unlucky bridegroom!”
Souvenir was positively beside himself; while poor Zhitkov could do nothing but twitch his moustaches.
When I got home I told my mother all I had seen. She heard me to the end, and shook her head several times. “It’s a bad business,” was her comment. “I don’t like all these innovations!”
XV
NEXT day Martin Petrovitch came to dinner. My mother congratulated him on the successful conclusion of his project. “You are now a free man,” she said, “and ought to feel more at ease.”
“More at ease, to be sure, madam,” answered Martin Petrovitch, by no means, however, showing in the expression of his face that he really was more at ease. “Now I can meditate upon my soul, and make ready for my last hour, as I ought.”
“Well,” queried my mother, “and do the shooting pains still tingle in your arms?”
Harlov twice clenched and unclenched his left arm. “They do, madam; and I’ve something else to tell you. As I begin to drop asleep, some one cries in my head, ‘Take care!’ ‘Take care!’“
“That’s nerves,” observed my mother, and she began speaking of the previous day, and referred to certain circumstances which had attended the completion of the deed of partition. . . .
“To be sure, to be sure,” Harlov interrupted her, “there was something of the sort . . . of no consequence. Only there’s something I would tell you,” he added, hesitating - - “I was not disturbed yesterday by Souvenir’s silly words - - even Mr. Attorney, though he’s no fool - - even he did not trouble me; no, it was quite another person disturbed me - - - - “ Here Harlov faltered.
“Who?” asked my mother.
Harlov fastened his eyes upon her: “Evlampia!”
“Evlampia? Your daughter? How was that?”
“Upon my word, madam, she was like a stone! nothing but a statue! Can it be she has no feeling? Her sister, Anna - - well, she was all she should be. She’s a keen - witted creature! But Evlampia - - why, I’d shown her - - I must own - - so much partiality! Can it be she’s no feeling for me! It’s clear I’m in a bad way; it’s clear I’ve a feeling that I’m not long for this world, since I make over everything to them; and yet she’s like a stone! she might at least utter a sound! Bows - - yes, she bows, but there’s no thankfulness to be seen.”
“There, give over,” observed my mother, “we’ll marry her to Gavrila Fedulitch . . . she’ll soon get softer in his hands.”
Martin Petrovitch once more looked from under his brows at my mother. “Well, there’s Gavrila Fedulitch, to be sure! You have confidence in him, then, madam?”
“I’ve confidence in him.”
“Very well; you should know best, to be sure. But Evlampia, let me tell you, is like me. The character is just the same. She has the wild Cossack blood, and her heart’s like a burning coal!”
“Why, do you mean to tell me you’ve a heart like that, my dear sir?”
Harlov made no answer. A brief silence followed.
“What are you going to do, Martin Petrovitch,” my mother began, “in what way do you mean to set about saving your soul now? Will you set off to Mitrophan or to Kiev, or may be you’ll go to the Optin desert, as it’s in the neighbourhood? There, they do say, there’s a holy monk appeared . . . Father Makary they call him, no one remembers any one like him! He sees right through all sins.”
“If she really turns out an ungrateful daughter,” Harlov enunciated in a husky voice, “then it would be better for me, I believe, to kill her with my own hands!”
“What are you saying! Lord, have mercy on you!” cried my mother. “Think what you’re saying! There, see, what a pretty pass it’s come to. You should have listened to me the other day when you came to consult me! Now, here, you’ll go tormenting yourself, instead of thinking of your soul! You’ll be tormenting yourself, and all to no purpose! Yes! Here you’re complaining now, and fainthearted . . .”
This reproach seemed to stab Harlov to the heart. All his old pride came back to him with a rush. He shook himself and thrust out his chin. “I am not a man, madam, Natalia Nikolaevna, to complain or be faint - hearted,” he began sullenly. “I simply wished to reveal my feelings to you as my benefactress and a person I respect. But the Lord God knows (here he raised his hand high above his head) that this globe of earth may crumble to pieces before I will go back from my word, or . . . (here he positively snorted) show a faint heart, or regret what I have done! I had good reasons, be sure! My daughters will never forget their duty, for ever and ever, amen!”
My mother stopped her ears. “What’s this for, my good sir, like a trumpet - blast! If you really have such faith in your family, well, praise the Lord for it! You’ve quite put m
y brains in a whirl!”
Martin Petrovitch begged pardon, sighed twice, and was silent. My mother once more referred to Kiev, the Optin desert, and Father Makary. . . . Harlov assented, said that “he must . . . he must . . . he would have to . . . his soul” . . . and that was all. He did not regain his cheerfulness before he went away. From time to time he clenched and unclenched his fist, looked at his open hand, said that what he feared above everything was dying without repentance, from a stroke, and that he had made a vow to himself not to get angry, as anger vitiated his blood and drove it to his head. . . . Besides, he had now withdrawn from everything. What grounds could he have for getting angry? Let other people trouble themselves now and vitiate their blood!
As he took leave of my mother he looked at her in a strange way, mournfully and questioningly. . . and suddenly, with a rapid movement, drew out of his pocket the volume of The Worker’s Leisure - Hour, and thrust it into my mother’s hand.
“What’s that?” she inquired.
“Read . . . here,” he said hurriedly, “where the corner’s turned down, about death. It seems to me, it’s terribly well said, but I can’t make it out at all. Can’t you explain it to me, my benefactress? I’ll come back again and you explain it me.”
With these words Martin Petrovitch went away.
“He’s in a bad way, he’s in a bad way,” observed my mother, directly he had disappeared through the doorway, and she set to work upon the Leisure - Hour. On the page turned down by Harlov were the following words:
“Death is a grand and solemn work of nature. It is nothing else than that the spirit, inasmuch as it is lighter, finer, and infinitely more penetrating than those elements under whose sway it has been subject, nay, even than the force of electricity itself, so is chemically purified and striveth upward till what time it attaineth an equally spiritual abiding - place for itself . . .” and so on.
Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) Page 158
