‘I don’t understand! I really don’t understand!’ she said, fluttering her fingers in front of her face. ‘It’s an impossible idea… complete folly! You’ve got to understand that it’s… it’s worse than exile, it’s a living grave! Heavens above,’ she said fervently, going up to Likharyov and fluttering her fingers before his smiling face; her upper lip was trembling and her spiky face had gone pale. ‘Well, just imagine the bare steppe and all that loneliness. No one to talk to, and you… with your passion for women! Coal-mines and women!’
Ilovaiskaya was suddenly ashamed of the strength of her feelings and, turning her back to Likharyov, she went over to the window.
‘No, you mustn’t go there, you mustn’t!’ she said, tracing her finger quickly over the windowpane.
She felt, not only in her soul but also in the small of her back, that behind her stood an endlessly unhappy, hopeless, and wretched person, but he was looking at her and smiling warmly, as if he did not acknowledge his unhappiness, and as if it had not been him crying during the night. It would have been better if he had carried on crying! She walked anxiously up and down the room a few times, then went and stood in the corner and became lost in thought. Likharyov was saying something, but she did not hear him. With her back turned to him, she took out of her purse a twenty-five rouble note and crumpled it for a long time in her hands, but when she glanced at Likharyov she went red and put the note in her pocket.
The voice of the coachman could be heard behind the door. Ilovaiskaya started to get dressed, silently and with a severe, concentrated expression. Likharyov wrapped her up, chatting away merrily, but every word he said lay heavily on her soul. It is not funny to hear people who are unhappy or dying making jokes.
When the transformation of a living person into a formless bundle was complete, Ilovaiskaya looked round for a final time at ‘the travellers’ room’, stood for a while in silence, then slowly walked out. Likharyov went to see her off…
Heaven knows why, but for some reason winter was still raging outside. Huge clouds of soft, large snowflakes were circling over the ground restlessly, unable to find a place to settle. The horses, the sleigh, the trees, and the bull tied to a post were all white, and seemed soft and fluffy.
‘Well, God be with you,’ murmured Likharyov as he helped seat Ilovaiskaya in her sleigh. ‘Remember me kindly…’
Ilovaiskaya did not say anything. When the sleigh started moving and was going round a large snowdrift, she glanced back at Likharyov, looking as if she wanted to say something to him. He ran after her but she did not say a word, and just looked at him through long eyelashes, on which hung snowflakes…
Maybe his sensitive soul could read that glance, or perhaps his imagination deceived him, but it suddenly seemed to him that two or three more good, strong stories and that girl would have forgiven him his failures, his old age, and his poverty, and followed him like a shot, without even thinking about it. He stood there for a long time rooted to the spot, staring at the tracks left by the runners. Snow-flakes landed eagerly on his hair, on his beard, and on his shoulders… Soon the tracks left by the runners disappeared, and he himself was covered in snow and beginning to look like a white boulder, but his eyes were still seeking something in the snowclouds.
THE LETTER
Archdeacon Fyodor Orlov, a handsome portly man of about fifty, pompous and austere as always, with his habitual expression of self-worth now joined by one of extreme tiredness, was pacing up and down his small room thinking obsessively about one thing: when would his guest finally leave? It was wearing him down and he could not think about anything else. His visitor, Father Anastasy, a priest in one of the outlying villages, had come to see him about three hours earlier regarding some business concerning him which was very unpleasant and boring; he had stayed too long and was now sitting in the corner at the round table with his elbow resting on a fat accounts book and clearly not planning to leave, even though it was already after eight in the evening.
Not everyone has the gift of knowing when to be silent and when to leave. Even well-brought-up, tactful people sometimes do not notice that their presence is arousing in their tired or busy host a feeling akin to hatred, which is carefully concealed and covered up with lies. Father Anastasy could see and understand perfectly well that his presence was tedious and unwanted, that the archdeacon was worn out and needed to rest, having conducted a night-time service, and then a long mass at midday; he kept planning to get up and leave, but somehow it did not happen, so he just carried on sitting there, as if he was waiting for something. He was an old man of about sixty-five, prematurely decrepit, bony and stooping, with an old man’s dark gaunt face, red eyelids, and a long narrow back like that of a fish; he was wearing a flamboyant pale lilac cassock which was too big for him (it had been given to him by the widow of a young priest who had recently died), a cotton kaftan with a wide leather belt, and a pair of clumsy boots, whose size and colour clearly showed that Father Anastasy made do without galoshes. Despite his office and advanced years, there was something pathetic, downtrodden, and oppressed in his tired red eyes, in the grey pigtail tinged with green which hung down from the back of his head and in the large shoulder-blades on his skinny back… He sat there silently without moving, and coughed with such circumspection that it was as if he was afraid the sound of his coughing would make his presence even more noticeable.
The old man had come to see the archdeacon on business. About two months earlier he had been forbidden to conduct services until further notice and was now being investigated. He had racked up a good number of sins. He did not lead a sober life, he did not get on with the clergy and the community, was careless about the church register and the bookkeeping—these were all things of which he had been formally accused, but in addition there had long been rumours that he had performed unlawful marriages for money and sold certificates showing proof of fasting * to civil servants and officers who came to him from the town. These rumours had persisted because he was poor and had nine children living off him who were failures just like he was. The sons were uneducated and spoilt and sat around doing nothing, while the unattractive daughters were not getting married.
Not possessing the strength to be frank, the archdeacon just walked up and down without saying anything, then tried to make a few hints.
‘So you’re not going home tonight?’ he asked, pausing by the dark window and poking his little finger in at the sleeping canary whose feathers were all puffed up.
Father Anastasy gave a start, coughed circumspectly, and then said in a rush:
‘Home? Never mind about that, Fyodor Ilyich. As you know, I can’t hold services anywhere, so what will I do there? I don’t want to have to look people in the eye; that’s why I left. As you know, it’s shameful not to be able to hold services. And I’ve got business here, Fyodor Ilyich. After breaking the fast tomorrow I want to have a good talk with the Father conducting the investigation.’
‘I see…’ said the archdeacon with a yawn. ‘But where are you staying?’
‘At Zyavkin’s.’
Father Anastasy suddenly remembered that in about two hours the archdeacon would have to conduct the Easter service, and he became so ashamed of his unwelcome, disagreeable presence that he decided to get up at once and give the exhausted man some rest. The old man stood up in order to leave, but before beginning to say his farewells, he spent a minute coughing and looking searchingly at the archdeacon’s back, his whole frame still expressing a sense of vague expectation; his face reflected a mixture of shame, timidity, and pathetic, forced merriment, of the kind exhibited by people who have no self-respect. Somehow managing to gesture decisively with his hand, he said with a hoarse, tinkling laugh:
‘Father Fyodor, extend your charity right to the limit; to send me off, ask for me to be given… just a little glass of vodka!’
‘This is not the time to be drinking vodka,’ said the archdeacon severely. ‘You should be ashamed.’
Father Anastasy be
came even more embarrassed, started laughing, and sank back down on to the chair, forgetting his decision to go home. The archdeacon looked at his bewildered, disconcerted face and at his hunched-up figure and felt sorry for the old man.
‘The Lord will permit us to drink tomorrow,’ he said, wishing to soften his harsh refusal. ‘Everything in its own good time.’
The archdeacon believed in the possibility of people being reformed, but now that the feeling of pity had been aroused in him, it seemed to him that there was just no hope for this haggard old man under investigation, and entangled in sin and infirmities; there was now no power on earth which could straighten out his back, give his vision clarity, and restrain the disagreeable timid laugh which he deliberately employed in order to try to smooth over the abrasive impression he made on people.
The old man seemed to Father Fyodor to be not so much depraved and guilty as oppressed, abused, and unhappy; the archdeacon remembered his wife, his nine children, and Zyavkin’s squalid rooms; he also remembered for some reason the people who revel in seeing drunk priests and convicted officials, and he thought that the best thing which could happen to Father Anastasy now would be for him to die as quickly as possible and leave this world forever.
Footsteps could be heard.
‘Father Fyodor, are you resting?’ came a bass voice from the hall.
‘No, deacon, come in.’
Deacon Lyubimov, Orlov’s colleague, came into the room. He was an old but hearty man with black hair, a large bald patch on the top of his head, and thick black brows like a Georgian. He bowed to Anastasy and sat down.
‘What good tidings do you bring?’ asked the archdeacon.
‘There’s no good news,’ answered the deacon, continuing after a pause with a smile. ‘Little children, little trouble, big children, big trouble. Father Fyodor, there is something that has happened and I just can’t work out what to do. It would be funny if it weren’t so sad.’
He was silent again, then smiled more broadly and said:
‘Nikolay Matveyevich came back from Kharkov today. He was telling me about my Pyotr. He went to see him a couple of times.’ ‘And what he did tell you?’
‘It’s not his fault, but he’s got me worried. He wanted to make me happy, but when I got to thinking about it, I realized there wasn’t much to be happy about. I should be grieving rather than rejoicing… Your Petrushka, he said, is pretty sharp-witted; impossible to keep up with him. Well that’s good, I said. I had lunch with him, he said, saw his way of life. It’s a good life he has, he said, doesn’t want for anything. I was curious, of course, so I asked: what he did he dish up for lunch? There was a fish course to begin with, he said, a sort of fish soup, then there was tongue with peas, and then, he said, roast turkey. Turkey during Lent? That’s a piece of joy, that is, I said. Turkey during our great fast? Eh?’
‘Nothing surprises me,’ said the archdeacon, narrowing his eyes in a withering way.
Sliding the large fingers of both hands behind his belt, he pulled himself up to his full height, and in the tone he usually used for sermons or for teaching scripture to the children in the district school, he said:
‘People who do not observe the fasts fall into two categories: there are those who are just irresponsible, and there are those who do not believe. Your Pyotr does not observe the fasts because of lack of faith. Ah, yes.’
The deacon looked timidly at Father Fyodor’s stern face and said:
‘There’s more, it gets worse… They talked, got into discussion about this and that, and it also turns out that my heathen son is living with some madam, someone else’s wife. She is living in his flat instead of a proper wife and mistress, pouring the tea, receiving guests, and all that kind of thing, as if they are wed. It’s been three years he has been larking about with this viper. It would be funny if it weren’t so sad. They have been living together for three years, and there are no children.’
‘They must be living chastely then,’ chuckled Father Anastasy, coughing huskily. ‘There are children, Father Deacon, it’s just that they aren’t kept at home! They get sent off to foundling homes. Hee-hee-hee…’ (Anastasy had a fit of coughing at this point.)
‘Don’t interfere, Father Anastasy,’ said the archdeacon severely.
‘Nikolay Matveyevich asked him: who is this madam sitting at table ladling the soup?’ the deacon continued, peering gloomily at Father Anastasy’s bent frame. ‘And he says to him: that’s my wife. And then he asked: Have you been married long? And Pyotr replies to him: we got married in Kulikov’s cake shop.’
The eyes of the archdeacon blazed angrily, and colour appeared in his temples. Apart from his sinfulness, Pyotr was not someone he was fond of anyway. Father Fyodor had a bit of a grudge against him. He remembered him when he was a boy studying at the gymnasium; he remembered him clearly, because even then the boy had seemed abnormal to him. When he was a schoolboy, Petrusha had been ashamed of serving at the altar, he had taken offence if you were over-familiar with him, he had never crossed himself when entering the room, and most memorable of all, he had loved to talk volubly and passionately, and in Father Fyodor’s opinion it was indecent and harmful for children to talk too much; apart from that, Petrusha was dismissive and critical of fishing, which the archdeacon and the deacon were both keen on. Pyotr did not go to church at all when he was a student; he slept until midday, looked down on people, and liked to raise sensitive, forbidden topics with a particular zeal.
‘Well what exactly is it you want?’ asked the archdeacon, as he walked up to the deacon and looked angrily at him. ‘What do you want, eh? This is just what could have been predicted! I always knew and was quite sure that nothing good would come of your Pyotr! I told you then and I’m telling you now. What you sowed, you are now reaping! You must now reap!’
‘But what did I sow, Father Fyodor?’ asked the deacon quietly, looking up at the archdeacon.
‘Well, who is guilty if not you? You’re his parent; he’s your progeny! You should have instructed him, inspired him with the fear of God. You have to teach! You have children, and you don’t instruct them! It’s a sin! It’s bad! It’s shameful!’
The archdeacon forgot his tiredness, and paced up and down as he continued to talk. Tiny beads of sweat appeared on the deacon’s bald patch and on his forehead. He raised his guilty eyes to the archdeacon and said:
‘But didn’t I give him instruction, Father Fyodor? Heavens above, was I not a father to my child? You know yourself that I spared him nothing, and prayed all my life to God to do my best and give him a proper education. He had a classical education at the gymnasium, and I hired tutors, and he graduated from university. If I haven’t been able to direct his mind, Father Fyodor, it’s because I am simply not capable of it, judge for yourself! He used to come back here when he was a student, and I would try and instruct him as best I could and he wouldn’t have any of it. I’d say to him: go to church, and he would answer: “Why? What’s the point?” Or he would slap me on the back and say: everything in this world is relative, approximate, and contingent. I don’t know anything, and neither do you, Papa.’
Father Anastasy started laughing huskily, then had a fit of coughing and waved his fingers in the air as if he was about to say something. The archdeacon looked at him and said severely:
‘Don’t interfere, Father Anastasy.’
The old man beamed as he laughed, obviously enjoying listening to the deacon; it was as if he was glad there were other sinners in the world apart from him. The deacon was talking sincerely, with a grieving heart, and there were even tears in his eyes. Father Fyodor started to feel sorry for him.
‘You’re the one who is to blame, deacon, you know,’ he said, but less sternly and fiercely than before. ‘If you were able to have a child, you should have been able to provide instruction. You should have instructed him when he was a child–it’s hard to reform a student!’
Silence ensued. The deacon threw up his hands and said with a sigh:
/> ‘But I am the one who is going to have to take responsibility for him!’
‘That’s precisely the point!’
After a short pause, the archdeacon yawned and sighed at the same time, then asked:
‘Who is reading the Acts of the Apostles? *
‘Evstrat. Evstrat always reads them.’
The deacon stood up and asked, looking beseechingly at the archdeacon:
‘Father Fyodor, what am I going to do now?’
‘Do what you want. You’re the father, not me. You know best.’
‘But I don’t know anything, Father Fyodor! Be merciful and teach me! Please believe me, my soul is weary! I can’t sleep or even sit calmly at the moment; the holiday is not going to be a holiday at all for me. Please teach me, Father Fyodor!’
‘Write him a letter.’
‘What on earth am I going to write to him?’
‘Write and tell him it won’t do. Write a short letter, but make it strict and thorough, without easing or lessening his guilt. It’s your duty as a parent. If you write to him you will be doing your duty, and then you will calm down.’
‘It’s true, but what on earth am I going to write to him? How do I phrase it? I’ll write to him and he will just reply: Why? What for? Why is it a sin?’
Father Anastasy started his husky laugh again and wiggled his fingers.
‘Why? What for? Why is it a sin?’ he began saying in a shrill voice. ‘I was hearing the confession of a gentleman one day and I told him that hoping too much for God’s mercy was a sin, and he asked why. I was just about to answer him and then–Anastasy struck himself on the forehead–I had nothing in here to answer him with! Hee-hee-hee…’
Anastasy’s remarks and his hoarse tinkling laugh about things which were not funny made an unpleasant impression on the archdeacon and the deacon. The archdeacon was about to say to the old man ‘Don’t interfere’, but then decided not to and just frowned.
‘I can’t write to him!’ said the deacon with a sigh.
About Love and Other Stories Page 7
