and vulgarity, deaden our sight, hearing, smell and taste, overcome
all sensibility, turn into stone. Otherwise we run the danger of
suffocation from the miasma of vulgarity.

Anninka understood this, a bit late, perhaps. At any rate, she decided
to let the process of her liberation from the Golovliovo captivity
take its own course. She was so thoroughly overcome by Yudushka's
irresistible twaddle that she dared not resist when he, like a good
relative, embraced her and stroked her back, saying as he did so:

"You see, now you are a good little girl."

She recoiled instinctively at the touch of his trembling bony hand
creeping over her back, but was held back from any other expression of
loathing by the hope that he might release her when the week was up.

Luckily for her Yudushka was not at all squeamish. He perhaps observed
her impatient gestures but paid no attention to them. Evidently he
adhered to the theory of sexual relationship epitomized in the saying,
"Kiss me, whether you love me or not."

At last came the long expected day of departure. Anninka rose at about
six o'clock, but Yudushka was already up and about. He had already
performed the ceremonial of his morning prayers, and was sauntering
from room to room in dressing-gown and slippers without any plan or
purpose. He was visibly agitated, and when he met Anninka looked at
her askew. It was almost full daylight, but the weather was bad. The
sky was covered with massive dark clouds, from which a chilling sleet
was drizzling. The road along the hamlet had turned black and was full
of puddles--a forecast of roads impassable because of the thaw. A
strong south wind was blowing, another indication of thawing weather.
The trees had cast off their snowy mantles, and their nude wet tops
swayed drearily. The barns in the yard looked black and slimy. Porfiry
Vladimirych led Anninka to the window and pointed out the picture of
spring's awakening.

"Does it really pay to go?" he asked. "Would it not be better to stay,
after all?"

"Oh no, no!" she cried in a frightened voice. "The bad weather will
soon be over."

"Hardly. If you start now I doubt if you will reach Pogorelka before
seven o'clock. And in this thawing weather you cannot travel at night,
you know. So you'll have to spend a night at Pogorelka anyway."

"Oh, no! I'll travel at night. I'll leave at once. I am brave, you
know. And wait till one o'clock? Uncle, darling! Let me leave at once."

"And what would grandma say? 'That's the kind of granddaughter I
have!' she'll say. 'She came here, romped about, and wouldn't even come
to ask my blessing.'"

Porfiry Vladimirych stopped. For a while he shifted from one foot to
the other, then looked at Anninka, then lowered his eyes. Apparently he
was making up his mind about something.

"Wait, I'll show you something," he said at last, took a folded note
from his pocket and gave it to Anninka. "Here, read this."

Anninka read:

"I was praying to-day, and I asked my good, kind God to leave me my
good little Anninka. And the good, kind God said, 'Put your arm around
good little Anninka's plump waist and press her close to your heart.'"

"Yes?" he asked turning slightly pale.

"Fi, how nasty!" she answered, looking at him in bewilderment.

Porfiry Vladimirych turned still paler and hissed through his teeth:

"I suppose, we must have hussars!" then crossed himself and shuffled
out of the room.

In about fifteen minutes he returned and resumed his jesting as if
nothing had happened.

"Well?" he asked. "Are you going to stop at Voplino? Will you go and
say good-by to your old granny? Do, my dear, do. It is very good of you
to have thought of your grandma. Never forget your kinsfolk, my dear,
especially those who, in a manner of speaking, were willing to die for
us."

They attended the mass and requiem services, ate some kutya in the
church, then came home, ate some more kutya and sat down at the tea
table. Porfiry Vladimirych, as if to spite her, sipped his tea more
slowly than usual, and dragged his words out wearisomely, discoursing
in the intervals between gulps. About ten o'clock they finished tea,
and Anninka said imploringly:

"May I leave now, uncle?"

"And what about a bite? What about dinner? Did you really think your
uncle would let you leave on an empty stomach? Nay, nay. We are not
used to such things at Golovliovo. Why, mother dear would have refused
to look at me again if she knew I let my own niece go without a morsel.
Don't dare think of it. Why, it's impossible."

Again she had to surrender. An hour and a half passed, but there were
no signs of preparation for dinner. Everybody was going about his
business. Yevpraksia, her bunch of keys jingling, was seen in the
yard darting between the pantry and the cellar. Porfiry Vladimirych
was explaining things to his clerk, wearying him with meaningless
orders and incessantly slapping his own thighs in an effort to while
away the time. Anninka, left to herself, walked up and down the
dining-room, looked at the clock, counted her steps, then the ticks of
the clock--one, two, three. At times she glanced out of the window and
noticed the puddles were growing larger and larger.

Finally knives, forks and plates began to rattle. The butler Stepan
entered the dining-room and spread a cloth upon the table. It seemed as
if a part of Yudushka's idle bustle had communicated itself to him. He
shuffled the plates sluggishly, breathed on the drinking glasses, and
examined them, holding them up to the light. Dinner began just at one
o'clock.

"Well, so you are going," Porfiry Vladimirych opened the conversation,
in a manner befitting the occasion. Before him was a plate of soup, but
he did not touch it. He looked at Anninka so affectionately that the
tip of his nose turned red.

Anninka swallowed her soup hastily. At last he took up his spoon and
dipped it in the soup, but changed his mind, and placed it back on the
tablecloth.

"I am an old man, you'll have to pardon me," he began nagging, "you
swallowed your soup in a gulp, but I must take it slowly. I don't like
it when people are careless with God's gifts. God gave us bread for
sustenance, and look how much of it you have wasted. Look at all the
crumbs you scattered. Altogether, I like to do things thoroughly and
carefully. It comes out safer in the end. Maybe it annoys you that I
am not quick enough, that I can't jump through a hoop, or whatever
you call it. Well, what can I do? If you feel like being annoyed, go
ahead. I know you will be cross a little while and then forgive the old
man. Remember, _you_ are not going to be young always. You will not be
jumping through hoops all of your life. Life will give you experience
and teach you wisdom. Then you will say, 'Maybe uncle was right after
all.' So, my dear, now while you listen to me, you probably think,
'Uncle is no good. Uncle is an old grouch.' But if you live to my old
age, you'll pipe a different tune. You'll say, 'Uncle was nice. Uncle
was a dear. Uncle taught me right.'"

Porfiry Vladimirych crossed himself and swallowed two spoonfuls of
soup, then put his spoon down and leaned back in his chair as a sign of
an ensuing monologue.

"Bloodsucker!" was on the tip of her tongue, but she pulled herself up,
poured out a glass of water, and drank it at a gulp. Yudushka sensed
her mental state.

"So, you don't like it? Well, like it or not, you'd better take uncle's
advice. I've been long meaning to talk to you about your hasty way of
doing things, but I could not find the time to do it. I don't like that
haste in you. There is fickleness in it, a lack of judgment. When you
left your old grandmother, you had no business to leave her and cause
the old woman anxiety. I really don't see why you did it."

"Oh, uncle, why recall it? It's done. It isn't kind of you."

"Wait. That's not the point I'm making--kind or unkind--what I want to
say is that even when a thing has been done, it can be undone, or done
all over again. Not only we mortals, but even God alters His deeds.
Now He sends rain, now He sends fair weather. So, suppose--really, the
theatre isn't a good place--suppose you decide to stay."

"No, uncle, let's not speak about it, I beg of you."

"And there's another thing I want to tell you. Your fickleness is bad
enough, but what is still worse is the way you slight the advice of
your elders. I speak for your own good and you say, 'Let's not speak
about it.' Uncle is kind and tender, and you snap at him. But do you
know who gave you your uncle? Well, tell me--who?"

Anninka looked at him in perplexity.

"God gave you your uncle, that is who. God did it. If not for God, you
would now be all alone in the world, you would not know how to manage
things, or how to file a petition or where to file it, and what to
expect from it. You would be lost in the woods. Anybody could deceive
you, abuse you or even disgrace you. You see? And with the aid of God
and your uncle the whole deal went through in one day. We went to
town, and filed a petition and got the necessary mandates. You see, my
dear, what uncle can do?"

"Yes, uncle, I am grateful to you."

"Well, if you are, don't snap at me, and do as I tell you. I mean your
good, though at times it seems to you that----"

Anninka could hardly control herself. There was one way left to rid
herself of uncle's sermons--to feign that in principle she accepted his
proposal to remain at Golovliovo.

"All right, uncle," she said, "I'll think it over. I myself feel it is
not quite proper to live alone, far from relatives. But I can't make up
my mind now--I'll have to think it over."

"Well, I am glad to see you have understood me, but what is there to
think over? We'll have the horses unhitched, your trunks taken out of
the cart--that's all the thinking there is to be done."

"No, uncle, you forget I have a sister."

Whether her argument convinced Porfiry Vladimirych or whether the whole
scene had been staged for the mere show of it, it is hard to say.
Porfiry Vladimirych himself did not know whether Anninka really ought
to stay at Golovliovo or whether it was simply a whim of his. At any
rate, from that moment on dinner proceeded at a livelier pace. Anninka
agreed to everything he said and answered his questions in a manner
that did not provoke much nagging and babbling. Nevertheless, the clock
showed half past two when dinner was over. Anninka jumped up from the
table as if she had been sitting in a steam bath, and ran to her uncle
to say good-by.

In ten minutes Yudushka, in his fur coat and bear-skin boots, saw her
to the porch and in person supervised the process of seating the young
mistress in the pony cart.

"Easy when you go downhill--you hear? And see that you don't drop her
out at the Senkino slope!" he shouted to the driver.

Finally Anninka was seated, wrapped up, and the leather cover of the
cart was fastened.

"Suppose you stay!" Yudushka shouted again, wishing that in the
presence of the servants gathered about, all go off properly as befits
good kinsfolk. But Anninka already felt free, and was suddenly seized
with a desire to play a girlish prank. She stood up in the cart and
emphasizing every word, said, "No, uncle, I will not! You are a fright!"

Yudushka pretended not to hear, but his lips turned pale.

CHAPTER VI

Anninka was so overjoyed at her liberation from the Golovliovo bondage,
that she did not even stop to think of the man who at her departure
lost all contact with the world of living beings. She thought only
of herself. She enjoyed the feeling of escape. And the sensation of
freedom was so strong that when she visited the grave at Voplino again
there was no longer a trace of that nervous sensibility which she had
betrayed the first time. She listened to the requiem quietly, bowed
before the grave without shedding a tear, and quite willingly accepted
the priest's invitation to have tea with him.

The house of the Voplino priest was very scantily furnished. The
only room of state in the house, which served as the reception room,
looked naked and dreary. Along the walls were arranged about a dozen
painted chairs, upholstered with haircloth, in holes here and there,
and a sofa of the same kind with its back bulging out, like the chest
of an old-time general. Against one of the walls between two windows
stood a plain table covered with a soiled cloth, on which lay several
confession books of the parish. From behind them peeped an inkpot with
a quill stuck in it. An image case containing an ikon handed down as a
family heirloom and a burning ikon lamp were suspended in the eastern
corner of the room. Underneath the image case stood two trunks covered
with a drab faded cloth holding the family linen, the dowry of the lady
of the house. The walls were not papered. A few daguerreotype portraits
of bishops hung in the center of one wall. There was a peculiar odor
in the room, as if many generations of flies and black beetles had met
their fate there. The priest himself, though a young man, had become
considerably faded amidst these surroundings. His thin flaxen hair hung
from his head in long, straight locks, like the boughs of a weeping
willow. His eyes, once blue, were now lifeless. His voice trembled, his
beard had taken on a wedge-like shape, his merino cassock hung on him
loosely. His wife, also young, looked even more faded than her husband,
because of frequent child bearing.

Nevertheless, Anninka could not help noticing that even these poor
timid, worn-out people looked upon her not as at a real parishioner,
but in pity, as if she were a lost sheep.

"You were visiting at your uncle's?" began the priest, carefully
removing a cup of tea from the tray held by his wife.

"Yes, I stayed there about a week."

"Porfiry Vladimirych is now the chief landowner in the district, and
has the greatest power. But it looks as if luck is not with him. First
one son died, then the other, and now his mother has departed. I am
surprised he did not insist on your staying with him."

"Uncle wanted me to stay, but I did not care to."

"Why so?"

"I prefer to live in freedom."

"Freedom, madam, is not a bad thing, of course, but it has its
dangers. And when you think you are the nearest relative to Porfiry
Vladimirych, you could forego a bit of that freedom, I imagine."

"No, father, one's own bread tastes better. It's easier to live when
you know you are under no obligations to anyone."

The priest looked at her with his extinguished eyes, as if he meant to
ask, "Come now, do you really know what 'one's own bread is?'" but he
had not the courage to hurt her, so he only drew his cassock closer
about him.

"Do you receive much salary as an actress?" inquired the priest's wife.

The priest became thoroughly frightened, and even began to wink at his
wife. He expected Anninka to be offended, but Anninka was not offended
and answered without a waver, "At present I get a hundred and fifty
rubles a month, and my sister earns one hundred. But then we have
benefit performances. All told, the two of us net about six thousand a
year."

"Why does sister get less? Is she of inferior merit, or what?"
continued the priest's wife.

"No, hers is a different _genre._ I have a voice and I sing. The
audience likes it more. Sister's voice is a little weaker. So she plays
in vaudeville mostly."

"So even in acting some are priests, some deacons and others just
sextons?"

"Yes, but we share our income equally. That was our understanding from
the very beginning--to share all money equally."

"Like good sisters? Well, there is nothing better than that. How much
will that be, father? If you divide six thousand by months, how much
will that make?"

"Five hundred rubles a month, and divided by two it makes two hundred
and fifty rubles a month each."

"My, what a heap of money! We could not spend that much in a year.
Another thing I meant to ask you, is it true that actresses are treated
as if they were not real women?"

The priest became so alarmed that his cassock flew open; but seeing
that Anninka took the question quite indifferently, he said to himself,
"Eh--eh--she is really a hard nut to crack," and felt reassured.

"What do you mean 'not real women?'" she asked.

"Well, they kiss and embrace. I heard they must do it whether they want
to or not."

"No, they don't kiss--they only pretend to. And as to whether they want
to or not, that is out of the question entirely, because everything is
done according to the play. They must act whatever is written in the
play."

"Yes, but even if it's in the play--you know--sometimes a man with a
slabbery snout sidles up to you. He is loathsome to look at, but you've
got to hold your lips ready to let him kiss you."

A blush suffused Anninka's face. There suddenly flashed up in her
memory the slabbery face of the brave Captain Papkov, who had actually
"sidled up to her" and, alas! not even in accordance with the play.

"You have a wrong notion of what takes place on the stage," she said
drily.

"Of course, we've never been to the theatre, but I am sure many things
happen there. Father and I have often been speaking about you, madam.
We are sorry for you, very sorry, indeed."

Anninka was silent. The priest tugged at his beard as if he, too, had
finally gathered up enough courage to say something.

"Of course, it must be admitted, madam, that every calling has its
agreeable and disagreeable sides," he at last delivered himself, "but
we humans in our failings extol the former and try to forget the
latter. And why do we try to forget? Because, madam, we want as far as
possible to avoid even the remembrance of duty and of the virtuous life
we formerly led." He heaved a sigh and added, "And above all, madam,
you must guard your treasure."

The priest glanced at Anninka admonishingly, and his wife shook her
head sadly, as much as to say, "Not much chance of that."

"And it is very doubtful whether you can preserve your treasure while
an actress," he continued.

Anninka was at a loss what answer to make to these warnings. Little
by little she began to see that the talk of these simple-minded folk
about her "treasure" was of the same value as the pointed remarks of
the officers of the regiments stationed in the various towns about _la
chose._ Now it became quite clear to her that both at her uncle's and
at the priest's she was considered a peculiar individual to whom one
may condescend, but from a distance, so as not to soil oneself.

"Father, why is your church so poor?" she asked to change the subject.

"There is nothing here to make it rich--that's why it's poor. The
landlords are all away in the government service, and the peasants
haven't much to thrive on. In all there are a little over two hundred
parishioners."

"Our bell, you see, is a very poor one," sighed the priest's wife.

"Yes, the bell and everything. Our bell, madam, weighs only five
hundred pounds, and to make matters worse, it is cracked. It does not
ring, it coughs. To be so poor is even sinful. The late Arina Petrovna
promised to erect a new bell and, if she were alive we would most
likely have a new bell by now."

"Why don't you tell uncle that grandmother promised you one?"

"I did tell him, madam, and I must admit he listened very kindly to my
grievance, but he could not give me a satisfactory answer. He said he
had heard nothing about it from mother; that his late dear mother had
never spoken about the matter. He would gladly carry out her wishes, he
said, if he had only heard mother express them."

"He could not help hearing them," said the priest's wife. "It was known
throughout the district."

"So we live on in this wise. At first we had hopes, at least, now we
have no hopes left. Not to mention our own personal needs, there is
nothing to perform the service with sometimes--neither host nor red
wine."

Anninka wanted to rise and take leave, but a new tray appeared on the
table, with two dishes on it, one of mushrooms, the other with bits of
caviar, and a bottle of Madeira.

"Do oblige us and have a bite--it's the best we have."

Anninka obeyed and quickly swallowed some mushrooms, but refused the
Madeira.

"Another thing I meant to ask," continued the priest's wife, "we
have a girl in our parish, the daughter of a peasant in the service
of Lyshechevsky. She was the chambermaid of a certain actress in St.
Petersburg. She says the life of an actress is very easy and pleasant,
but an actress must produce a special passport every month. Is that
true?"

Anninka stared at her and did not understand.

"That is for the greater freedom," explained the priest. "But I
think she did not tell the truth. On the contrary, I heard that many
actresses even get pensions from the government for their services."

Anninka became convinced that matters were going from bad to worse, and
she rose to take leave.

"We thought you would give up acting now," the priest's wife persisted.

"Why should I?"

"Yes, but--you are a lady. You have reached your majority, you have an
estate of your own--what could be better?"

"And you are your uncle's heiress, you know," added the priest.

"No, I sha'n't live here."

"And how we were hoping for it! The father and I would often speak
about our little mistress. We thought you would surely come to live at
Pogorelka. In the summer it is very nice here. You can go to the woods
and pick mushrooms," tempted the priest's wife.

"We have mushrooms even in a dry summer, plenty of mushrooms," chimed
the priest.

At last Anninka left. When she reached Pogorelka, her first word was,
"Horses! Please have the horses ready at once!" But Fedulych only
shrugged his shoulders.

"What's the use of shouting horses? We haven't fed them yet," he
grumbled.

"But why? Oh, my God, as if everybody were conspiring against me!"

"That's it, we have conspired. How can you help conspiring if it's
clear as day that we can't ride at night in thawing weather? Anyway,
you'll get stranded in the mud a whole night, so it is better to be
stranded at home, I think."

Grandmother's apartments had been well heated. The bedroom had been
prepared, and a samovar was puffing on the table. Afimyushka scraped
together the remnants of tea at the bottom of Arina Petrovna's
tea-caddy. While the tea was drawing, Fedulych stood at the door, his
arms folded, facing the young mistress. Beside him stood the cattle
woman and Morkovna looking as if at the first wave of the hand they
were ready to flee for their lives.

Fedulych was first to begin the conversation.

"The tea is grandmother's--just a bit left in the bottom of the box.
Porfiry Vladimirych was going to take the box away, too, but I wouldn't
let him. 'Maybe,' I say, 'the young mistress will come and will want
to have some hot tea. So let it stay here till she gets some of her
own.' Well, I had no trouble with him--he even joked. 'You old rascal,'
he says, 'you will use it up yourself! Be sure,' he says, 'to bring
the box to Golovliovo.' I wouldn't be surprised if he sends for it
tomorrow."

"You should have given it to him then."

"Why should we? He has enough tea of his own. And now, at least, we,
too, will have some after you. Another thing, madam, are you going to
make us over to Porfiry Vladimirych?"

"Why, I never meant to."

"Just so. We were going to mutiny, you know. If, supposing, let's say,
we are put under the rule of the Golovliovo master, we will all hand in
our resignations."

"Why? Is uncle really so terrible?"

"No, he is not terrible, but he tortures you, he is all words. He can
talk a man into his grave."

Anninka smiled involuntarily. It was vile dirt indeed, that oozed from
Yudushka's orations, not mere babble. It was an ill-smelling wound from
which the pus flowed incessantly.

"And what have you decided, about yourself?" Fedulych continued to
question.

"Why, what was there to decide about myself?" said Anninka, a bit
confused, feeling that she would again be compelled to listen to
orations on the "treasure."

"Aren't you really going to give up acting?"

"No--that is, I haven't thought of it so far. But what harm is there in
my earning my own bread?"

"I don't see any good in going with a bagpipe from fair to fair to
amuse drunkards. Surely you are a lady."

Anninka did not reply, only knitting her brows. A painful thought
drummed in her head, "God, when will I leave this place?"

"Of course, you know better how to take care of yourself. But we
thought you would come back to live with us. The house is warm,
and roomy enough to play tag in. The late mistress looked after
the building herself. And if you feel dull, why then you can go
sleigh-riding. In the summer you can go to the woods to pick mushrooms."

"We have all kinds of mushrooms here--lots of them," lisped Afimyushka
temptingly.

Anninka leaned her elbows on the table and tried not to listen.

"There was a girl here," continued Fedulych cruelly. "She was a
chambermaid in St. Petersburg. She says all actresses must have special
passports. Every month they have to present their license at the police
station."

Anninka could bear it no longer. She had had to listen to such speeches
all day long.

"Fedulych!" she shouted in pain. "What have I done to you? Why do you
take pleasure in insulting me?"

It was all she could stand. She felt as if something was strangling
her. Another word--and she would break down.

BOOK V

FORBIDDEN FAMILY JOYS

CHAPTER I

Not long before the catastrophe that befell Petenka, Arina Petrovna,
on one of her visits to Golovliovo, noticed a change in Yevpraksia.
Brought up in the practices of serfdom, where the pregnancy of
a domestic was the subject of a detailed and not uninteresting
investigation, and was even considered an item of income, Arina
Petrovna had a keen eye for such matters. She merely looked at
Yevpraksia, and the girl, without saying a word, turned away her
flushed face in full cognizance of her guilt.

"Come now, come now, my lady. Look at me. Pregnant, eh?" the
experienced old woman asked the young culprit. However, there was no
reproach in her voice, on the contrary, it sounded jocose, almost gay,
as if the old woman scented a whiff of the dear, good, old times.

Yevpraksia, bashful and complacent, kept silence, but under Arina
Petrovna's inquisitive look, the red of her cheeks deepened.

"For some time I have been noticing that you walk kind of stiff,
strutting about and twirling your skirts as if you were a respectable
lady! But, my dear, you can't fool me with your strutting and twirling.
I can see your girlish tricks five versts ahead! Is it the wind that
puffed you up? Since when is it? Out with it now. Tell me all about
it."

A detailed inquiry ensued, followed by a no less detailed explanation.
When had the first symptoms appeared? Had she a midwife in view? Did
Porfiry Vladimirych know of the joy in store for him? Was Yevpraksia
taking good care of herself? Was she careful not to lift anything
heavy? The findings were that it was now the fifth month since
Yevpraksia had been pregnant; that she had no midwife in view as yet;
that Porfiry Vladimirych had been informed of the matter, but had said
nothing. He had only folded his hands, mumbled something, and glanced
at the ikon, to intimate that all is from God and that He, the Heavenly
Father, provides for all occasions. Yevpraksia had been careless; she
had lifted a samovar and had then and there felt that something inside
of her snapped.

"You've got brains, I must say," said Arina Petrovna in a grieved
tone when the confession was out. "I see I'll have to look into the
matter myself. Did you ever! A woman in the fifth month and hasn't even
provided for a midwife! But why at least didn't you see Ulita about it,
you fool, you?"

"I was going to, but the master doesn't like Ulita, you know."

"Nonsense, girl, nonsense! Whether Ulita offended the master or not has
nothing at all to do with the case. He doesn't have to kiss her, does
he? No, there is no way out of it. I'll have to take this thing in hand
myself."

It was on the tip of her tongue to complain that even in her old age
she had hardships to bear, but the subject of the conversation was so
attractive that she only parted her lips with a smack and continued:

"Well, my girl, you are in for it. Take your medicine, try it and see
how it tastes. Go ahead, just try it. I myself raised three sons and
a daughter, and I buried five little ones--I ought to know. We are no
better than slaves to those nasty men!" she added, slapping herself on
the nape of her neck.

Suddenly, she stopped, struck by a new idea. "Holy saints! If it isn't
going to be in Lent! Wait, just a moment, let's figure it out."

They began to figure on their fingers, they figured once, twice, a
third time--it surely came out on a Lenten day.

"So that's how it is. That's the kind of saint he is. Just wait, I'll
tease the life out of him. A pretty mess for him! I'll tease him. My
name is mud if I won't," jested Arina Petrovna.

And truly, that very day, when all were gathered at evening tea, Arina
Petrovna began to poke fun at Yudushka.

"See what a trick our saint has played. Maybe it really is the wind
that puffed your queen up. Well, brother, you've surprised me, I must
say."

At first Yudushka answered his mother's banter with grimaces of
aversion, but seeing that Arina Petrovna spoke good-naturedly and meant
no harm, he brightened up little by little.

"You are wag, mother dear, you certainly are," he jested in his turn,
though evading the real point.

"Why call me a wag? We had better speak seriously about the matter.
It's no joke, you know. It's a 'sacrament,' that's what it is. Though
not a proper one but still----No, we've got to give it serious thought.
What do you think; is she to stay here, or will you send her to the
town?"

"I don't know, mother, I don't know a thing, darling," said Porfiry
Vladimirych evasively. "You are a wag, you certainly are."

"Well, my girl, never mind, then. We'll talk it over, just the two of
us, at leisure. We'll figure it out, and arrange things properly. These
mean men--all they need is to satisfy their lust, and we, poor devils,
we get the worst of it."

Arina Petrovna felt in her element. She spent a whole evening
discussing things with Yevpraksia and could have gone on indefinitely.
Even her cheeks began to glow and her eyes to glitter youthfully.

"You know, my dear, what it is? It's something divine, it is," she
insisted. "Because, even if it isn't in the proper way, still it's the
natural way. But you had better look out. If it comes during Lent--God
save you! I'll tease you to death, I'll make this world too hot for
you."

Ulita was also called into the council. First matters of real
importance were taken up; whether an injection was to be made or
whether the abdomen was to be massaged with quicksilver salve. Then
they turned to the favorite theme and figured on their fingers
again--it came out on a Lenten day! Yevpraksia turned as red as a peony
and did not deny it, but pleaded her subordinate position.

"What could I do?" she said. "I must do what he wants me to do. If the
master orders us to do something, we, poor devils, can't help but obey."

"Look at her playing the goody-goody. I'll bet, you yourself---" jested
Arina Petrovna.

The woman fairly revelled in the affair. Arina Petrovna recalled a
number of incidents from her past, and did not fail to narrate them.
First she told of her own pregnancies, what tortures she had had to
stand from Simple Simon; how, while carrying Pavel Vladimirych, she
travelled by post to Moscow, changing horses at every stage so as not
to miss the Dubrovino auction, and as a result nearly departed to the
better world, etc., etc. All her deliveries had been remarkable for
something or other. Yudushka's was the only one that had come easy.

"I didn't feel the least bit of heaviness," she said. "I would sit and
think, 'Lord, am I really pregnant?' And when the time came I just lay
down to rest for a few minutes and I don't know how it happened--I gave
birth to him. He was the easiest son to me, the very, very easiest."

Then followed stories about domestics, how she herself "caught some of
them in the act," how others were spied upon by her trusties, Ulita
being generally the leader. Her old woman's memory faithfully guarded
these remarkably distinct recollections. In all her drab past--always
devoted to hoarding on both a petty and a large scale, the tracking of
lust-stricken domestics was the only romantic element that touched a
living chord in her.

It was as if in a dull magazine where the reader expects to find
treatises on dry fogs and Ovid's grave, he suddenly comes upon "See
the troika, gaily dashing," or some such spirited song of gaiety or
sadness. The dénouement of these simple love affairs of the maids' room
was generally drastic and even cruel. The woman was married off into
a remote village, by all means to a widower with a large family, the
male culprit was degraded to the position of a cattle tender or even
pressed into military service. Arina Petrovna's recollection of the
closing chapters of such romances had faded (cultured people have a
memory indulgent of their own past), but the spying out of the amorous
intrigues passed before her eyes in all its vividness. And no wonder.
In those days there was the same absorbing interest in spying of that
sort as there is nowadays in the serial "evening story," in which the
author, instead of at once crowning the mutual longing of the hero and
the heroine, breaks off at the most pathetic place and writes, "to be
continued."

"Those girls gave me no end of trouble. Some would keep up the pretense
to the last minute, and would feign and sham in the hope of eluding me.
But no, my dear, you can't fool me. I am an old hand at it myself," she
added almost sternly, as if threatening some one.

Finally came the stories of diplomatic pregnancies, so to speak, in
which Arina Petrovna had figured not as the chastiser, but as the
accomplice and concealer.

For example, her father Piotr Ivanych, when he was an old, tottering
man of seventy, had also had a "mistress," who had also been discovered
with an "increment"; and for higher considerations it had been
necessary to conceal the "increment" from the old man. As ill luck
would have it, Arina Petrovna was then at odds with her brother Piotr
Petrovich who, also for some diplomatic reasons, had wanted to spy upon
the pregnancy and leave his father in no doubt as to his lady-love's
position.

"And what do you think? We carried the whole thing through almost in
front of father's nose. The old dear slept in his bedroom, and the two
of us, alongside of him, went on with our work, quietly, in a whisper
and on tiptoe. I myself with my own hands closed up her mouth, so she
could not scream, disposed of the linen, and then grabbed hold of her
baby--he was a fine, big fellow--and dispatched him to the foundling
asylum. When brother learned about it a week later he only gasped."

There had been another diplomatic pregnancy. Her cousin Varvara
Mikhailovna had been involved in the case. Her husband had left on a
campaign against the Turks, and she had not been sufficiently careful.
She came galloping to Golovliovo like one possessed and had shouted
"Save me, cousin!"

"Well, though we were on the outs with her at that time, I did not make
her feel it. I welcomed her in the most hospitable way, calmed her,
reassured her, pretended she had just come to us on a visit, and fixed
the matter up so that her husband did not know a thing about it till
his dying day."

Thus ran the tales of Arina Petrovna, and seldom has a narrator found
more attentive listeners. Yevpraksia swallowed every word as if the
incidents of a wonderful fairy tale were actually passing before her
eyes. As to Ulita, she as an erstwhile participant in most of it, only
made smacking sounds with the corners of her lips.

Ulita also brightened up and felt more comfortable than she had for a
long time. Hers was a restless life. Even in childhood she had burned
with servile ambitions. Sleeping and waking, she would dream about
gaining favor in her master's eyes and getting the whiphand over those
in her own station in life. But her dreams never came true. As soon
as she set foot on the rung higher up, she would be tugged back and
plunged into the inferno by an unseen, mysterious power. She possessed
in perfection the qualities of an all-round servant of the gentlefolk.
She was venomous, evil-tongued and always ready for treachery, but
also slavishly ready to go anywhere and do anything that neutralized
her viciousness. In former days, when it was necessary to follow up an
event in the maid servants' room, or settle any dubious affair, Arina
Petrovna had gladly made use of her services, though she had never
appreciated them and had not admitted her to any office of trust.
Ulita would then make loud complaints, and sting with her tongue,
but no one paid attention to her grumblings, for she was well known
as a malevolent woman, ready to curse herself and others to eternal
damnation, but the next moment at a mere wink willing to come running
and sit up on her hind legs prepared to do her master's bidding.

And so she had been knocked about, always trying to get somewhere and
never getting there, till the abolition of serfdom put an end to her
slavish ambitions.

One event in Ulita's youth had kindled in her great hopes. Porfiry
Vladimirych, on one of his visits to Golovliovo, had become intimate
with her, and, as tradition had it, had even had a child by her. That
had brought down upon him the wrath of Arina Petrovna. It is uncertain
whether the relationship had been kept up on his subsequent visits; at
any rate, when Yudushka decided to establish himself permanently at
Golovliovo, Ulita's hopes had been shattered grievously. Immediately
after his arrival she came to him with a heap of gossip, in which
Arina Petrovna was accused of all sorts of fraud. The master listened
very affably to her gossip, but gave Ulita a cold look, evidently
failing to remember her former "good services." Offended and deceived
in her hopes, Ulita transferred herself to Dubrovino, where Pavel
Vladimirych, because of his hatred for his dear brother Porfiry
Vladimirych, received her gladly and even made her his housekeeper.
Here for a long time her condition seemed to improve. Pavel Vladimirych
would sit in the entresol and sip one glass of vodka after another,
and she would run busily from storeroom to cellar, clanging a bunch
of keys, and rattling her tongue. She had even quarrelled with Arina
Petrovna, whom the sly wench nearly drove to her grave.

But Ulita loved treachery too well to be content with the peace and
quiet that had come with her "good living." That was when Pavel
Vladimirych had become so addicted to drink that his end could readily
be foreseen. Porfiry Vladimirych was alive to Ulita's priceless value
at this juncture, and he snapped his fingers again and summoned her.
He ordered her never for a moment to leave his prey, not to contradict
Pavel in anything, not even in his hatred of his brother Porfiry, and
by all means to eliminate the interference of Arina Petrovna. This
had been one of those domestic crimes which Yudushka had a gift of
perpetrating without previous deliberation, spontaneously, and as a
matter of course. Needless to say, Ulita carried out his orders most
faithfully. Pavel Vladimirych never ceased to hate his brother, and the
more he hated him, the more he drank his vodka, and the less capable
he became of heeding the remarks and advice of Arina Petrovna as to
"making provisions." Every moment of the dying man, every word uttered
were at once reported to Golovliovo, so that Yudushka, equipped with a
full knowledge of the facts, could determine the exact moment he should
have to leave his ambush and step in as master of the situation that
he had created. And so he had! He had come to Dubrovino at the very
moment that he could get the estate for the asking. Porfiry Vladimirych
had rewarded Ulita's services by making her a gift of cloth for a
woolen dress, but he never admitted her close to him.

Again Ulita had been plunged from the heights of grandeur into the
depths of inferno. It seemed to be her last fall. No one would snap his
fingers again and summon her for service. As a sign of special favor
and in consideration of her "nursing dear brother in his last days,"
she had been allotted a nook in the house where all the deserving old
servants, who had remained after the abolition of serfdom, had found
shelter. Here Ulita had become completely cowed, and when Porfiry
Vladimirych made his choice of Yevpraksia, she not only had not shown
any obstinacy, but had even been first to come to do homage to the
master's love and had kissed her shoulder.

And now, when she had given herself up as forgotten and abandoned,
she struck luck once more in Yevpraksia's pregnancy. It was suddenly
recalled that somewhere in the servants' room there was a handy person.
Somebody snapped her fingers and summoned Ulita. True, it was not the
master who had snapped his fingers. But that he offered no obstacles
was in itself sufficient grace. Ulita celebrated her entry into the
Golovliovo manor by taking the samovar from Yevpraksia's hands.
Bending sidewise a bit, with the weight of it, she walked smartly into
the dining-room, where Porfiry Vladimirych was already seated. The
master said not a word. He even smiled, she thought, when upon another
occasion, as she was bringing in the samovar, she shouted from a
distance, "Step to one side, master, or I'll scald you."

When Ulita answered the summons to the family council she made wry
faces at first and refused to be seated. But when Arina Petrovna
shouted at her in a kindly way, "Sit down,--will you? What's the use of
your tricks? God made us all equal--be seated." Ulita sat down and kept
silence a while. Very shortly, however, her tongue unloosened.

She, too, had her reminiscences. Her memory was stuffed with filth
from the days of her serfdom. Beside the carrying out of delicate
commissions like dogging the amorous doings of the maids' room, Ulita
had also held the office of leech and apothecary in the Golovliovo
manor. It was she who made all the injections, and applied the
cupping-glasses and mustard plasters. She had given even the old
master, Vladimir Mikhailych and Arina Petrovna injections, and the
young master, too--every one of them. She retained the most grateful
memories, and now there was a boundless field for all her reminiscences.

A new mysterious life animated the Golovliovo manor. Arina Petrovna
would come over from Pogorelka every now and then to pay her "good son"
a visit and supervise preparations that as yet were given no name.
After the evening, the three women would go into Yevpraksia's room,
would eat some homemade jam, play fool, and, till late into the night,
would revel in reminiscences that would often make the heroine of the
occasion blush. The least incident, the smallest trifle, served as
a pretext for endless narrations. Yevpraksia brought some raspberry
jam, and Arina Petrovna began a story that when she was carrying her
daughter Sonya she could not stand even the smell of raspberries.

"No sooner did a raspberry come into the house than I began to yell
at the top of my voice, 'Out, out with that damned thing!' After my
confinement it was all right again; I liked raspberries again."

Yevpraksia brought some caviar--and Arina Petrovna had an incident to
recall in connection with caviar, too.

"A really wonderful thing happened to me in connection with caviar. It
was a month or two after I was married and suddenly I was seized with
such a strong desire for caviar that I simply had to have it at any
cost. I would sneak into the cellar and eat as much as I could. And
once I said to my husband, 'Vladimir Mikhailych, why is it that I eat
caviar all the time?' He smiled at me, you know, and said, 'My dear,
it is because you are pregnant.' And surely enough, just nine months
afterward I gave birth to Simple Simon."

But Porfiry Vladimirych continued to be noncommittal, never once
admitting that he had anything to do with Yevpraksia's condition. Quite
naturally this attitude of his embarrassed the women and dampened their
effusions in his presence, so that he came to be completely abandoned.
They chased him without ceremony from Yevpraksia's room when he came in
the evening to rest up and have a chat.

"Be gone, you fine fellow!" Arina Petrovna said gaily. "You did your
part. Now it's none of your business any more, it's the women's
business. It's our turn now."

Yudushka took himself off in all meekness. Though not neglecting to
reproach his mother dear for being unkind to him, he rejoiced inwardly
that she was taking so much interest in the embarrassing affair, and
that he was left alone. If not for his mother's participation, God
knows what he would have had to undergo in order to hush up the nasty
affair, the very thought of which made him spit out in disgust. Now,
thanks to the experience of Arina Petrovna and the skill of Ulita,
he hoped the "trouble" would pass without gaining publicity, and he
himself, perhaps, would learn of the results after all was over.

CHAPTER II

Porfiry Vladimirych's hopes were not realized. First occurred the
catastrophe with Petenka, then Arina Petrovna's death. And there was no
possibility in sight of his extricating himself by means of some ugly
machinations. He could not dismiss Yevpraksia for dissolute conduct,
because Arina Petrovna had carried the affair too far and made it too
widely known. Nor was Ulita so very reliable. Dexterous woman though
she was, yet if he put his trust in her, he might have to deal with
the coroner. For the first time in his life Yudushka seriously and
sincerely regretted his loneliness; for the first time he realized
vaguely that the people around him were not mere pawns to be played
with.

"Why didn't she wait a while to die?" Yudushka reproached his mother
dear. "She should have fixed it all up quietly and with good sense,
and then--as she pleased! If it's time to die--you can't help it. I am
sorry for the old woman. But if God wills it so, all our tears, and the
doctors, and the cures, and all of us are naught before the power of
God. The old woman lived long enough. She had her day--was herself a
mistress all her life, and left her children a gentry estate. She lived
to old age--well that's enough."

And as usual his idle mind, not used to dwell on a matter presenting
practical obstacles, skipped to the easier topic that gave occasion to
endless, unhampered verbiage.

"And to think how she died! Why, her death was worthy of a saint," he
lied to himself, not knowing, though, whether he lied or spoke the
truth. "Without ailment, without trouble--just so. She heaved a sigh,
and before we knew it, she was no more. Oh, mother dear! And her smile,
and the glow of her cheeks! Her hands placed together as if she wanted
to confer a blessing. She shut her eyes and--good-by!"

But in the very heat of his sentimental babblings, something would
suddenly prick him. That filthy business again. Fi, fi! "And really why
didn't she wait a while! It was only a matter of a month or so, and
now, look what she did!"

For some time he attempted to pretend ignorance, and answered Ulita's
inquiries just as he had answered his mother's, "I don't know, I don't
know anything."

But Ulita, an impudent woman, who had suddenly become conscious of her
power, could not be dismissed like that.

"Do _I_ know? Have I brought this business on?" she cut him short. And
then he realized that from that moment on the happy combination of the
rôle of adulterer with the rôle of the unconcerned observer of the
consequences of his adultery had become quite impossible.

Nearer and nearer came the disaster, inevitable, tangible. It pursued
him relentlessly and--what was worst of all--it paralyzed his idle
mind. He exerted all possible efforts to rid himself of the thought of
the approaching calamity, to drown it in a torrent of idle words, but
he succeeded only in part. He tried to hide behind the infallibility
of the law of Providence and, as was his custom, turned it into a ball
of thread which he could wind and unwind without end. There was the
parable of the hair falling from a man's head, and the legend of the
house built on sand; but just at the moment when his idle thoughts were
about to roll down into a kind of mysterious abyss, when the endless
winding of the ball seemed quite assured, a single word suddenly
jumped out from the ambush and broke the thread. Alas! That one word
was "adultery" and designated an act of which Yudushka did not wish to
confess himself guilty even to himself.

When all his efforts to forget the disaster or to do away with it
proved futile, when he realized at last that he was caught, his soul
became filled with anguish. He walked back and forth in the room,
thinking of nothing, and he felt that something inside of him trembled
and ached. It was a check that his idle mind felt for the first time.
Up to now, wherever his idle and empty imagination carried him, it
always found boundless space, space that gave room to all possible
kinds of combinations. Even the deaths of Volodka and Petka, even the
death of Arina Petrovna had not baffled his flow of idle thoughts and
words. Those were common, well recognized situations, met by well
recognized, well established forms--requiems, funeral dinners, and
the like. All this he had done in strict accordance with the custom
and thus vindicated himself, so to speak, before the laws of man and
Providence. But adultery--what was that? Why, that meant an arraignment
of his entire life, the showing up of its inner sham. Though he had
formerly been known as a pettifogger, even as a Bloodsucker, gossip
had had so little legal background that he could safely retort, "Prove
it!"

And now, all of a sudden--adulterer! A known, convicted adulterer. He
had not even resorted to "measures," so great had been his confidence
in Arina Petrovna; he had not even worked up a story to cover the
thing. And on a Lenten day at that. The shame of it!

In these inner talks with himself, in spite of their confusion, there
was something like an awakening of conscience. But the question was
whether Yudushka would continue along that path or whether his idle
mind would even in this grave matter perform its usual function
of finding a loophole through which he could crawl out and emerge
unscathed.

While Yudushka was thus smarting under his own mental vacuity,
Yevpraksia was undergoing an unexpected inner change. Evidently the
anticipation of motherhood untied the mental fetters that had hitherto
held her bound. Up to that time she had been indifferent to everything
and regarded Porfiry Vladimirych as a "master" in relation to whom she
was a mere subordinate. Now, for the first time, she grasped a definite
idea. It began to dawn on her that here was a state of affairs where
she was the most important figure, and where she could not be driven
about with impunity. As a consequence, even her face, usually blank and
stolid, became lighted up and intelligent.

The death of Arina Petrovna had been the first fact in her
semi-conscious life that produced a sobering effect upon her. No
matter how peculiar the attitude of the old mistress to Yevpraksia's
prospective motherhood was, still there were glimpses of sympathy
in it and nothing of the disgusting evasiveness of Yudushka. So
Yevpraksia had begun to see a protector in Arina Petrovna, as if
expecting that some kind of attack was being planned against her. The
forebodings of that attack were all the more persistent since they were
not illuminated by consciousness, but merely filled the whole of her
being with vague anxiety. Her mind was not vigorous enough to tell her
definitely the point from which the attack would come and the form it
would take; but her instincts had already been so aroused that the very
sight of Yudushka filled her with an inexplicable fear. "Yes, that's
where it will come from," reverberated in the inner chambers of her
soul--from that coffin filled with dead dust, from that coffin she had
so long been tending like a hireling, from that coffin which by some
miracle had become the father and lord of _her_ child! The feeling
this thought awakened in her was akin to hatred and would inevitably
have passed into hatred had it not been diverted by the sympathy and
interest of Arina Petrovna, who, by constant chatter, never gave
Yevpraksia a chance to think.

But Arina Petrovna retired to Pogorelka, and then vanished entirely.
The feeling of anxiety and uneasiness in Yevpraksia became still more
intense.

The stillness in which the Golovliovo manor became engulfed was broken
only by a rustle announcing that Yudushka was stealing through the
corridors, listening at the doors. Or sometimes, some one of the
servants would come running from the yard and bang the door of the
maids' room. But then stillness would again creep in from all sides. It
was a dead stillness that filled Yevpraksia's being with superstitions
and anguish. And since she was nearing her time, she had not even the
sleepy feeling to look forward to that came in the evening after a day
of household chores.

She tried once or twice to be affectionate with Porfiry Vladimirych and
engage his kindly sympathies. Her attempts only resulted in brief but
mean scenes that reacted painfully even on her crude sensibilities.
All that was left to her was to sit with her arms folded and think,
that is, be alarmed. And as to the causes for alarm, they multiplied
daily. The death of Arina Petrovna had untied Yudushka's hands and
introduced into the Golovliovo manor a new element of tale-bearing,
which thereafter became the one thing in which Yudushka's soul reveled.

Ulita was aware that Porfiry Vladimirych was afraid and that with his
idle, empty, perfidious character fear bordered on hatred. Besides, she
knew very well that he was incapable not only of attachment but even of
simple pity, and he kept Yevpraksia only because, thanks to her, his
daily life flowed on in an undeviating rut. Equipped with these simple
data, Ulita was in a position to nurse the feeling of hatred that arose
in Yudushka whenever he was reminded of the coming "disaster."

Soon Yevpraksia became entangled in a web of gossip. Ulita every now
and then "reported" to the master. In one instance she complained about
the wasteful disposal of house provisions.

"I am afraid, master, your stuff is spent a bit too fast. I went to the
cellar a while ago to get cured beef. I remembered a new tub had been
begun not long ago, and--would you believe it? I look into the tub and
find only two or three slices at the bottom."

"Is it possible?" said Porfiry Vladimirych, staring at her.

"If I had not seen it myself, I shouldn't have believed it, either.
It's surprising what heaps of stuff are used up! Butter, barley,
pickles--everything. Other folk feed their servants on gruel and
goose-fat, but our servants must have it with butter, and sweet butter
at that."

"Is that so?" exclaimed Porfiry Vladimirych, almost frightened.

At another time she entered casually and "reported" about the master's
linen.

"Master, I think you ought to stop Yevpraksia, really. Of course, she
is a girl, inexperienced, but still, take the linen for instance. She
wasted piles of it on bed sheets and swaddling clothes, and it's all
fine linen, you know."

Porfiry Vladimirych merely cast a fiery glance, but the whole of his
empty being was thrown into convulsions by her "report."

"Of course, she cares for her infant," continued Ulita, in a
mellifluous voice. "She thinks Lord knows what, a prince is going to
be born. And I think that he, I mean the infant, could well sleep on
fustian bedding--with such a mother."

At times she simply teased Yudushka.

"Do you know, master, what I was going to ask you?" she began. "What
are you going to do about the infant? Are you going to make him your
son, or will you, like other folk, put him in the foundling asylum."

At this Porfiry Vladimirych flashed such a fierce glance at her that
she was instantly silenced.

And amidst the hatred that was rising from every corner, the moment
drew nearer and nearer when the appearance of a tiny, crying, "servant
of God" would in one way or another bring order into the moral chaos
of the Golovliovo manor, and would increase the number of the "servants
of God" that inhabit this universe.

It was seven o'clock in the evening. Porfiry Vladimirych had had his
after-dinner nap and was in his study filling up sheets of paper with
columns of figures. He was busy with the following problem: How much
money would he now have had, if his dear mother Arina Petrovna had not
appropriated the hundred ruble note his grandfather had given him on
the day of his birth, but had placed it in the bank to the credit of
the minor Porfiry? It came out not much--only eight hundred rubles in
notes.

"It isn't a lot of money, let's say," Yudushka mused idly, "but still
it's good to know that you have it for a rainy day. Any time you need
it--you can just go and get it. You don't have to bow to anybody, or
ask favors--just take your own money, given to you by your grandfather.
Oh, mother dear! How could you have acted so rashly?"

Porfiry Vladimirych had allayed the fears that had only recently
paralyzed his capacity for thinking idle nonsense. The glimmerings of
conscience awakened by the difficult position in which Yevpraksia's
pregnancy put him, and by the sudden death of Arina Petrovna, little
by little faded away. His idle mind had done its work, and Yudushka
had finally succeeded by great effort, it is true, in drowning all
thought of the impending "disaster" in his bottomless pit of verbiage.
One could not say he had made up his mind consciously, but rather
intuitively. It was instinct in him that made him revert to his
favorite formula: "I don't know anything, I allow nothing, I forbid
everything," which he applied in every difficulty. On this occasion,
too, it put an end to the inner turbulence that had briefly agitated
him.

Now, this matter of the coming birth was of no concern to him, and
his face assumed an indifferent, impenetrable look. He almost ignored
Yevpraksia, not even calling her by name. If ever he did inquire about
her he would say, "How about that woman--still sick?" He proved to be
so strong that eyen Ulita, who had been through the school of serfdom
and had learned quite a lot about reading people's minds, realized
that to battle with a man who had no scruples and who would go to any
lengths was quite impossible.

The Golovliovo manor was plunged in darkness. Only Yudushka's study and
the side room occupied by Yevpraksia were illuminated by a glimmering
light. Stillness reigned in Yudushka's rooms, broken only by the rattle
of the beads on the counting board and the faint squeak of Yudushka's
pencil.

Suddenly, in the dead stillness he heard a distant but piercing groan.
Yudushka trembled, his lips quivered, his pencil jerked.

"One hundred and twenty rubles plus twelve rubles and ten kopeks,"
whispered Porfiry Vladimirych, endeavoring to stifle the unpleasant
sensation produced by the groan.

But the groans were now coming with increasing frequency. Finally they
got to be annoying. It became so difficult for him to work that he
left the desk. First he paced back and forth trying not to hear; but
little by little curiosity gained the upper hand. He opened the door
cautiously, put his head into the darkness of the adjacent room and
listened in an attitude of watchful expectation.

"My, I think I forgot to light the lamp before the ikon of the Holy
Virgin, the Assuager of Our Sorrows," flashed through his mind.

Suddenly he heard quick footsteps in the corridor, and he darted back
into his study, cautiously closing the door and mincing on tiptoe to
the ikon.

A moment later he was already in "proper form," so that when the door
opened wide and Ulita rushed into the room, she found him in a pose of
prayer with folded hands.

"I am afraid Yevpraksia's life is in danger," said Ulita, not
hesitating to interrupt Yudushka's prayers. But Porfiry Vladimirych did
not even turn his face; he began to move his lips faster than before,
and instead of answering waved his hand in the air as if to chase away
an annoying fly.

"What's the use of waving your hand? I say Yevpraksia is doing poorly.
She may die any moment," Ulita insisted gruffly.

This time Yudushka turned toward her, but his face was as calm and
unctuous as if he had just been in communion with the Deity, and had
cast off all earthly cares, and did not even understand what could make
people disturb him.

"Though it's sinful to chide after prayer, still as a human being I
cannot keep from complaining. How many times have I not asked you not
to disturb me when I say my prayers?" he said in a voice befitting his
worshipful mood, and permitting himself only a shake of his head as a
sign of Christian reproach. "Well, what has happened?"

"What could have happened? Yevpraksia is in labor and cannot give
birth. As if you haven't heard it before. Oh, you! Go and look at her
at least."

"What is there to look at? Am I a doctor? Can I give her advice, or
what? I don't know anything, I don't know any of your business. I know
there is a sick woman in the house, but why she is sick and what her
sickness is, that, I confess, I never had the curiosity to find out.
Send for the priest if the patient is in danger. That's one piece of
advice I can give you. Send for the priest, pray with him, light the
ikon lamps. And then I'll have tea with the parson."

Porfiry Vladimirych was glad that he expressed himself so well in this
most decisive moment. He looked at Ulita firmly as if he meant to say,
"Well refute me, if you can."

Even she was baffled by his equanimity. "Suppose you do come and take a
look," she repeated.

"I will not go because I have nothing to do there. If it were business,
I would go without being called. If I have to go five versts on
business, I'll go five versts, and if ten versts, I'll go ten. It may
be in wind and storm, but I'll go. For I know there is business to
attend to and I've got to go whether I want to or not."

Ulita thought she was asleep and that in her sleep she saw Satan
himself standing before her and discoursing.

"To send for the priest--that's business! A prayer--do you know what
the Scriptures say about a prayer? 'A prayer cures the afflicted.'
That's what it says. So see to it. Send for the priest, pray together,
and I, too, will pray in the meantime. You will pray there, in the ikon
room, and I will invoke God's mercy here in my study. By joint effort,
you on one side, I on the other, we may after all succeed in making our
prayers heard in Heaven."

The priest was sent for, but before he came, Yevpraksia, in agony,
delivered herself of the child. From the hurried steps and banging
doors, Porfiry Vladimirych understood that something decisive had
happened. And, indeed, in a few minutes hurried steps were heard in the
corridor, and Ulita rushed in holding a tiny creature wrapped up in
linen.

"Here! Look at it!" she exclaimed triumphantly, bringing the child
close to the face of Porfiry Vladimirych.

For a moment it looked as if Yudushka were hesitating. His body swayed
forward and a bright spark flashed in his eyes. But only for a moment.
The next instant he turned up his nose squeamishly and waved his hand.

"No, no! I am afraid. I don't like them. Go away, go away!" he began to
stammer, with infinite aversion in his face.

"Why don't you at least ask if it's a boy or a girl?" Ulita pleaded
with him.

"No, no! What for? It's none of my business. It's your affair, and I
don't know anything. I don't know anything, and I don't want to know
either. Go away, for Christ's sake, be gone!"

Again Ulita felt as though she were in a nightmare with Satan standing
in front of her. It exasperated her.

"I'll take him and put him on your sofa. Go nurse him!" That was a
threat.

But Yudushka was not the man to be moved. While Ulita was threatening,
he was already facing the ikon, with hands stretched upward. Evidently
he was imploring God to forgive all people, those who sinned knowingly,
and those who sinned unknowingly; those who sinned in word and those
who sinned in deed; and he thanked the Lord that he himself was not a
sinner or an adulterer, and that the Lord in His grace had led him in
the righteous path. Even his nose trembled with the solemnity of his
feeling. Ulita observed him for some time, blew out her lips in disgust
and left.

"God took one Volodka and gave another Volodka," flashed up in
Yudushka's mind quite irrelevantly; but he at once became aware of this
sudden play of thought and spat inwardly in annoyance.

Soon the priest came and chanted and burned incense. Yudushka heard
the drawl of the sexton as he was chanting, "Oh, Zealous Protectress!"
and gladly chimed in. Soon Ulita came running to the door again and
shouted, "He was christened Volodimir!"

Yudushka was moved by the strange coincidence of this circumstance and
his recent aberration of mind. He saw the will of God in it, and this
time he did not spit, but said to himself:

"Well, then, thank God! He took one Volodka and gave another. That's
what God can do. You lose something in one place and you think it's
gone, but God, if He wishes, rewards you for it a hundredfold."

At last it was announced that the samovar was on the table and the
priest was waiting in the dining-room. Porfiry Vladimirych became quite
peaceful and solemn. The Golovliovo priest, Father Aleksandr, was a
polite man, and he endeavored to give his intercourse with Yudushka
a worldly tone. In the landlord's manor there were all-night vigils
every week and on the eve of every principal holiday, in addition to
the ceremonial services performed every first of the month. That meant
an income of over a hundred rubles a year. Father Aleksandr was not
unmindful of this, nor of the fact that the landmarks between the
church lands and Yudushka's lands had not yet been settled upon, and
Yudushka, on passing the church meadows, would many times exclaim, "My,
what fine meadows!" So the priest's worldly behavior toward Yudushka
was tempered by fear, which came out every time the priest visited the
manor. He would work himself up into gay spirits, though he really had
no occasion to feel happy. And when Porfiry Vladimirych gave expression
to heresies concerning the ways of Providence, the after-life, and so
forth, the priest, though not quite approving of the heresies, still
did not consider them sacrilegious and blasphemous, but ascribed them
to the temerity of spirit characteristic of the gentry.

When Yudushka entered, the priest hurriedly gave him his blessing and
just as hurriedly pulled his hand back as if afraid the Bloodsucker
would bite it. He wanted to congratulate his spiritual son on the birth
of the new little Vladimir, but uncertain how Yudushka was taking the
matter, he decided not to congratulate him.

"It's misty outdoors," the priest began. "By popular signs, in which
one may say there seems to be a great deal of superstition, such a
state of the atmosphere signifies that thawing weather is near."

"And maybe it will turn out to be a frost. We are foretelling thawing
weather and God will go ahead and send us a frost," retorted Yudushka,
with a bustling; air of gaiety, and seated himself at the table, this
time attended by the butler Prokhor.

"It is true that man in his aspirations strives to attain the
unattainable and to gain access to the inaccessible; and as a
consequence he incurs cause for penance, or even veritable grief."

"That is why we ought to refrain from guessing and foretelling and
be satisfied with what God sends us. If He sends us warm weather, we
ought to be satisfied with warm weather; if He send us frost, let us
welcome the frost. We'll order the stoves heated more than usual, and
those who travel will wrap themselves tight in fur coats, and there you
are--we're all warm."

"Quite true."

"There are many nowadays who go circling round. They don't like this
and they are dissatisfied with that, and the other thing is not after
their heart, but I don't approve. I don't make forecasts myself, and I
don't care for it in others. It is haughtiness of spirit--that's what I
call it."

"That's true, too."

"We are all pilgrims here, that's how I look at it. Well, as to having
a glass of tea, or a light bite, or something, we are allowed to do
that, for God gave us our body and limbs. Even the government would not
forbid us that. 'You can eat, if you want to,' it says, 'but hold your
tongue.'"

"Also perfectly true," exclaimed the priest, tapping the saucer with
the bottom of his empty tea-glass in exultation over the harmony
between them.

"As I understand it, God gave man reason not to explore the unknown,
but to refrain from sin. If I, for instance, feel a craving of the
flesh or a temptation of some kind, I call my reason to the rescue
and say, 'Show me, forsooth, the ways by which I may overcome this
craving,' and I am quite right, for in such cases reason can really be
of great use."

"Still, faith is superior, in a way," the priest offered in slight
correction.

"Faith is one thing and reason is another. Faith points out the
goal, and reason finds the way. It goes searching in every direction
till at last it finds something. Take, for instance, all these drugs
and plasters and healing herbs and potions--all of them have been
invented by reason. But we ought to see to it that such invention is in
accordance with faith, to our salvation and not to our ruin."

"I cannot disagree with you in this, either."

"There is a certain book, father, that I read some time ago. It says
that one must not disdain the offices of reason if the latter is
guided by faith, for a man without reason soon becomes the plaything
of passion; and I even think that the first downfall of man came about
because the devil in the shape of the serpent beclouded the human
reason."

The reverend father did not object to this either, though he refrained
from assent, since it was not yet clear to him what Yudushka had up his
sleeve.

"We often see that people not only fall into sinful thought, but even
commit crimes, all because of lack of reason. The flesh tempts, and
if there is no reason, man falls into the abyss. Man craves something
sweet, he craves gaiety and pleasure, especially when it comes through
women. How will you preserve yourself without the aid of reason? And
if, let's say, for instance, I do possess reason, I'll take some
camphor and rub it in where necessary, and put some in other parts, and
before you know, the craving is over as if it had never been there."

Yudushka became silent as if waiting to hear what the priest had to
say in response, but the priest was still uncertain what Yudushka was
driving at and therefore he only coughed and said quite irrelevantly:

"There are hens in my yard--very restless on account of the change of
season. They run and jump about, and can't find a place for themselves."

"All because neither birds nor beasts nor reptiles possess reason. What
is a bird? It has no worry, no cares--just flies about. The other day,
for instance, I looked out of the window and saw some sparrows pecking
at manure. Manure is enough for them but not for man."

"Yet in some cases even the Scriptures take birds as examples."

"In some cases, that's true. Where faith without reason can be a man's
salvation, we must do as the birds do, pray to God, compose verses."

Porfiry Vladimirych grew silent. Though talkative by nature and though
the event of the day naturally lent itself to a lengthy discussion, the
most suitable form for the remarks on the subject had evidently not yet
ripened in his mind.

"Birds need no reason," he said at last, "because they have no
temptations. Or, rather, they have temptations but they are never
called to answer for their doings. Birds lead a natural life. They
have no property to take care of, no legitimate marriages, hence no
widowhood. They are responsible neither to God nor to the authorities.
They have only one lord--the cock."

"The cock! That's true. The cock is a sort of Sultan of Turkey to them."

"But man has so arranged his life, that he has given up the liberties
granted to him by nature, and therefore he needs much reason: first, to
keep himself from falling into sin, and second, not to tempt others. Am
I right, father?"

"It is gospel truth. The Scriptures advise us to pluck out the tempting
eye."

"That is, if you understand it literally, but there may be a way of
avoiding sin not by plucking out the eyes, but by seeing to it that the
eye is not tempted. One must have more frequent recourse to prayer, and
curb the unruly flesh. Take me, for instance. I am in good health and
vigor, I dare say. Well, I have female servants. Still that does not
disturb me in the least. I know I can't get along without servants,
well then, I keep them. I keep male servants, and female servants of
every kind. A maid is needed in the household to fetch something from
the cellar, to pour the tea, bring in something to eat--well--God bless
her!--She does her work and I do mine, and so we get along very nicely
indeed."

While speaking Yudushka tried to look into the priest's eyes, and the
latter in his turn, tried to look into Yudushka's. But happily, there
was a burning candle between them, so that they could look at each
other to their hearts' content and see nothing but the flame of the
candle.

"And then again, I take it this way. If you become intimate with your
female servants, they'll begin to have their way in the house. And
you'll have squabbles and disorder and quarrels and impertinence. I
like to keep away from such things."

The priest stared so steadily that his eyes began to swim. Good
manners, he knew, demanded that in a general conversation one should
every now and then join in with at least a word. So he shook his head
and muttered:

"Tss----"

"And if, at that, one behaves as other folks do, as my dear neighbor,
Mr. Anpetov, for example, or my other neighbor, Mr. Utrobin, then you
can fall into sin before you know it. Utrobin has six offspring on his
place begot in that disgraceful way. But I don't want it. I say that if
God took away my guardian angel, it means that such was His holy will,
that He wanted me to be a widower. And if I am a widower by the grace
of God, I must observe my widowerhood honestly and not contaminate my
bed. Am I right, father?"

"It's hard, sir."

"I know it's hard, but still I observe it. Some say it's hard, and I
say the harder the better, provided God is with you! We can't all have
it sweet and easy. Some of us must bear hardships in the name of God.
If you deny yourself something _here,_ you will obtain it _there. Here_
it is called hardship and _there,_ virtue. Am I right?"

"As right as can be."

"And talking about virtues--they are not all of the same kind. Some
virtues are great, others are small. What do you think?"

"Yes, quite possible, there may be small virtues and great virtues."

"That's just what I say. If a man is careful in his behavior, if he
does not speak vile words, if he does not speak vain words, if he does
not judge others, if, in addition to all this, he does not vex anybody
or take away what is not his--that man will have a clear conscience,
and no mud can soil him. And if anyone secretly speaks ill of a man
like that, give it no heed. Spit at his insinuations--that's the long
and short of it."

"In such cases the precepts of Christianity recommend forgiveness."

"Yes, forgive also. That's what I always do. If someone speaks ill
of me, I forgive him and even pray to God for him. He is the gainer
because a prayer on his behalf goes to Heaven, and I, too, am the
gainer, for after I have prayed I forget about the whole matter."

"That's correct. Nothing lightens one's heart as much as a prayer.
Sorrow and anger, and even ailment, all run before it as does the
darkness of night before the sun."

"Well, thank God, then. And we should always conduct ourselves so that
our life is like a candle in a lantern--seen from every side. Then
we will not be misjudged, for there will be no cause. Take us, for
example. We sat down here a while ago, have been chatting and talking
things over--who could find fault with us? And now let us go and pray
to the Lord, and then--to bed. And tomorrow we shall rise again. Isn't
that so, father?"

Yudushka rose noisily, shoving his chair aside in sign that the
conversation was at an end. The priest also rose and made ready to
raise his arm to bless, but Porfiry Vladimirych, as an indication of
special favor, caught the priest's hand and pressed it in his own.

"So he was christened Vladimir, father?" said Yudushka, shaking his
head sadly in the direction of Yevpraksia's room.

"In honor of the saintly Prince Vladimir, sir."

"Well, God be praised. She is a good and faithful servant, but as to
intelligence--well, she hasn't much of it. That's why they fall into
adultery."

The whole of the next day Porfiry Vladimirych remained in his study,
praying to God for guidance. On the third day he emerged for morning
tea, not in his dressing gown, as usual, but in full holiday attire,
the way he always dressed when he intended to transact important
business. His face was pale, but radiated inner serenity; a benign
smile played upon his lips; his eyes looked kindly and all-forgiving.
The tip of his nose was slightly red with elation.

He drank his three glasses of tea in silence, and between gulps moved
his lips, folded his hands, and looked at the ikon as if, in spite
of yesterday's vigil, he still expected speedy aid and intercession
from it. Finally he sent for Ulita, and while waiting for her, kneeled
again before the ikon, that he might once more strengthen himself by
communion with God, and also that Ulita might see plainly that what was
about to happen was not his doing, but the work of God. Ulita, however,
as soon as she glanced at Yudushka, perceived there was treachery in
the depth of his soul.

"Well, now I have prayed to God," began Porfiry Vladimirych, and in
token of obedience to His holy will, he lowered his head and spread his
arms.

"That's fine," answered Ulita, but her voice expressed such deep
comprehension that Yudushka involuntarily raised his eyes.

She stood before him in her usual pose, one hand upon her breast,
the other supporting her chin. But her face sparkled with suppressed
laughter. Yudushka shook his head in sign of Christian reproach.

"I suppose God bestowed His grace upon you," continued Ulita,
unperturbed by his gesture of warning.

"You always blaspheme," Yudushka blustered. "How many times have I
warned you with kindness, and you are the same as ever. Yours is an
evil tongue, a malicious tongue."

"It seems to me I haven't said anything. Generally when people have
prayed to God, it means that God's grace is visited upon them."

"That's just it--'it seems!' But why do you prate about all that
'seems' to you? Why don't you learn how to hold your tongue when
necessary? I am talking business and she--'it seems to me!'"

Instead of replying Ulita shifted from one foot to the other, as if to
indicate that she knew everything Porfiry Vladimirych had to tell her
by heart.

"Listen to me, you!" Yudushka began. "I prayed to the Lord all day
yesterday, and to-day too, and--look at it from whatever angle you
wish--we've got to provide for Volodka."

"Of course, you've got to provide for him. He is not a puppy, I dare
say. You can't throw him into a pond."

"Wait a while! Let me say a word. You plague. So this is what I say.
Take it any way you please, we've got to provide for Volodka. First, we
must do it out of consideration for Yevpraksia and then we've got to
make a man of him."

Porfiry Vladimirych glanced at Ulita in the hope that she might show
her willingness to have a good long chat with him, but she took the
matter plainly and even cynically.

"You mean me to take him to the foundling asylum?" she asked, looking
straight at him.

"Oh, oh," exclaimed Yudushka, "you are very quick to decide. Oh, Ulita,
Ulita! You always do things in a hurry and without due consideration.
You're always ready to say something rash. How do you know? Maybe I
don't intend to send him to the foundling asylum. Maybe I thought of
something else for Volodka."

"Well, if you did, there's nothing bad about it."

"This is what I was going to say. On the one hand I feel for Volodka,
but on the other hand, if you think the matter over and weigh it
carefully, you see it's impossible to keep him here."

"Of course, what will people say? They'll say, 'How did a little baby
boy come to the Golovliovo manor?'"

"Yes, they'll say that and other things. And besides, to stay here will
be of no benefit to him. His mother is young, and she'll spoil him.
I am old, and though I have nothing to do with the matter, still, in
consideration of his mother's faithful service, I would also be easy
with him. You can't help it, you know, the little fellow will have to
be flogged for doing mischief, but how can you? It's this and that, and
a woman's tears, and screams, and all. Am I right?"

"Yes, quite right. It is annoying."

"What I want is, that all should be well in our house. I want to
see Volodka become a real man in time, a servant of God and a good
subject of the Czar. If God wants him to be a peasant, I should like
him to know how to plow, mow, chop wood--a little of everything. And
if it will be his lot to be of a more exalted station, I want him to
know some trade, some profession. Children from the foundling asylum
sometimes rise to be teachers."

"From the foundling asylum? They are made generals at once, I suppose."

"Well, I wouldn't say generals, but still--maybe Volodka will live to
be a famous man. And as to the manner they are brought up in there,
it's excellent. I know all about it myself. Clean beds, healthy
wet-nurses, white linen clothes, nipples, bottles, diapers, in a word,
everything."

"Yes, it couldn't be better--for illegitimates!"

"And if he is placed in the country as a fosterchild, well, that will
be just as good. He will get used to toil from his young days. Toil,
you know, is as good as prayer. We, you see, pray in the regular way.
We stand before the ikon, make the sign of the cross, and if our prayer
pleases God, He rewards us for it. But the peasant--he toils. Sometimes
he would be glad to pray in the proper way, but he hasn't the time
for it. But God sees his labors and rewards him for his toil just as
He rewards us for our prayers. We can't all live in palaces and go to
balls and dances. Some of us must live in smoky hovels and take care
of Mother Earth and nurse her. And as to where happiness lies, there
are two guesses to it. Some live in palaces and in luxury, and yet shed
tears; others live behind clay walls on bread and cider, yet feel as if
they were in paradise. Am I right?"

"Nothing better if you feel as if you were in paradise."

"So, my dear, that's what we will do. Take that little rascal Volodka,
wrap him up warm and cosy and go to Moscow at once with him. I'll
order a roofed cart for you and a pair of good horses. The road is
smooth, straight, fair, no puddles, no pitfalls. You'll roll along
merrily. But see to it that everything is done in the best fashion, in
Golovliovo fashion, just the way I like things to be done. The nipple
should be clean, and the bottle, clothes, and sheets, and blankets, and
diapers--take enough of everything. And if they won't give it all to
you, come and tell me. When you get to Moscow, stop at an inn. Ask for
enough to eat and a samovar and tea and all that. Oh, Volodka, dear!
What trouble you are to me! It breaks my heart to part with you, but it
can't be helped, my child. When you grow up, you'll see that it was for
your own good, and you'll thank me for it."

Yudushka raised his hands slightly and moved his lips in sign of inner
prayer. But that did not prevent him from glancing sideways at Ulita
and noticing the sarcastic quivering of her face.

"Well, what--did you want to say something?"

"No, nothing. Of course, you know--he'll thank his benefactors--if he
finds them."

"Oh, you wicked thing! You think we'll place him there without a proper
card? Why, of course, you'll take out a card, from which document we'll
be able to find him. They'll bring him up and teach him sense, and then
we'll come with the card and say, 'Here, now, let's have our fellow,
our Volodka.' With the card we'll get him from the bottom of the sea.
Am I right?"

Ulita made no reply. The caustic quivering of her face showed more
distinctly than before and it exasperated Porfiry Vladimirych.

"You are a mean thing," he said. "The devil dwells in you. Fi, fi!
Well, enough. To-morrow, before the sun is up, you'll take Volodka and
quickly, so that Yevpraksia does not hear you, and set out for Moscow.
You know where the Foundling Asylum is?"

"I've carried them," Ulita answered laconically, as if hinting at
something in the past.

"Well, if you are used to it--all the better for you. You must know all
the ins and outs of the place. Be sure to place him there and bow low
before the authorities--like this." Yudushka rose and bowed, touching
the floor with his hands.

"Beg of them to make him comfortable. And be sure to get the card,
don't forget! The card will help us find him anywhere. I'll allow you
two twenty-five ruble bills for expenses. I know how it is--you'll
have to give some here and put a couple of rubles there. Ah, ah, how
sinful man is! We are all human beings, nothing but human beings! We
all like sweets and dainties. Why, even our Volodka! Look at him--he is
no bigger than my finger nail--and see the money I've already spent on
him."

Yudushka crossed himself and bowed low before Ulita, silently begging
her to take good care of the little rascal.

Thus, in the simplest way, was the future of the little illegitimate
arranged for.

The next morning, while the young mother was tossing about in delirium,
Porfiry Vladimirych was standing at the window in the dining-room,
moving his lips and making the sign of the cross on the window pane.
A cart, roofed over with mats, was leaving the front yard. It was
carrying Volodka away.

It climbed up the hill, drove by the church, turned to the left and
vanished in the village. Yudushka made another sign of the cross and
sighed:

"The other day the priest was speaking about thawing weather," he
said to himself, "but God sent us a frost instead. And a fine frost,
at that. So it always is with us. We dream, we build castles in the
air, we philosophize proudly and think we'll excel God Himself in
His wisdom, but God in a trice turns our haughtiness of spirit into
nothingness."

BOOK VI

THE DESERTED MANOR-HOUSE

CHAPTER I

Yudushka's agony commenced when the resources of loquaciousness,
in which he had so freely indulged, began to give out. A void had
formed around him. Some had died, others had deserted him. Even
Anninka preferred the miserable future of a nomadic actress to the
flesh-pots of Golovliovo. Yevpraksia alone remained. But Yevpraksia's
conversational gifts were limited, and, more than that, Yevpraksia was
now a changed person. It was the difference that had occurred in her
which convinced Yudushka that his halcyon days were gone forever.

Till then Yevpraksia had been so helpless that Porfiry Vladimirych
could tyrannize over her without the slightest risk, and her mental
development was so backward and her character so flabby that she had
not even felt the oppression. During Yudushka's harangues she would
look into his eyes apathetically, and think of something else. But now
suddenly she grasped something important, and the first consequence of
awakened understanding was repugnance, sudden and half-conscious, but
vicious and insuperable.

Anninka's stay had evidently not been without results for Yevpraksia.
The casual conversations with the young actress had quite upset her.
Previously she would never have dreamed of wondering why Porfiry
Vladimirych, as soon as he met a man, instantly started to weave around
him an oppressive net of words, sinister in their emptiness. Now she
perceived it was not talking that Yudushka did, but tyrannizing, and
it would be well worth the while to pull him up short and make him
feel the time had come for him, too, to go easy. So, from now on, she
listened to his endless flow of words and soon realized that the one
purpose of Yudushka's talk was to worry, annoy, nag.

"The mistress herself said she didn't know why he talked so much,"
Yevpraksia reasoned. "No, it's his meanness working in him. He knows
who is unprotected and at his mercy. And so he turns and twists them
anyway he wants to."

But that was only secondary. The main effect of Anninka's visit was
that it stirred up the instincts of youth in Yevpraksia, which had
hitherto smouldered in her undeveloped mind and now suddenly flared up
in a blaze. Many things became clear to her--for instance, why Anninka
had refused to remain at Golovliovo and why she had said flatly, "It's
horrible here!" She had acted that way because she was young and wanted
to enjoy life. Yevpraksia, too, was young, indeed she was! It only
seemed that her youth was crushed under a load of fat, in reality it
manifested itself quite boldly. It called and lured her; its flame
now died down, now flared up. She had thought Yudushka would do for
her, but now she perceived her mistake. "The old, rotten stump, how he
got round me!" ran through her mind. "Wouldn't it be fine now to live
with a real lover, young and handsome? He would hug me and kiss me and
whisper caressing words in my ear. The old scarecrow, how did he ever
tempt me? The Pogorelka lady must have a lover, I'm sure. That's why
she gathered up her skirts and sailed away so rapidly. And I must sit
here, in a jail, chained to that old man."

Of course, some time passed before Yevpraksia mutinied openly; but once
on the road of revolt she did not halt. A storm was brewing within
her, and her hatred grew each minute. Yudushka, for his part, remained
in ignorance of her state of mind. Yevpraksia began with general
complaints, such as "he has spoiled my life." Then came comparisons.
"In Mazulina," she reflected, "Pelageyushka lives with her master as a
housekeeper. She never does a stroke of work, and wears silk dresses.
She sits in a cosy little room doing bead embroidery. How I hate you
now, you old fright; How I hate you, I hate you!" she wound up with a
cry.

In addition to this, the main cause of irritation, there was another
one, one that was valuable because it could serve as a good occasion
for the declaration of war against Yudushka. It was her confinement and
the disappearance of her son Volodya.

At the time of the child's removal Yevpraksia had been rather
indifferent. Porfiry Vladimirych had curtly announced that the baby
had been entrusted to reliable people, and he presented her with a new
shawl by way of solace. Then life resumed its course, and Yevpraksia
plunged into the mire of household affairs with greater industry than
before, as if to atone for her unsuccessful motherhood. But whether the
mother feeling continued to smoulder in her, or whether it was merely a
whim, at any rate, the memory of Volodka came back to her, and at the
precise moment when Yevpraksia felt the breath of freedom and it began
to dawn upon her that there existed another life different from that
at Golovliovo. The occasion was too good not to be taken advantage of.

"To think of what the scoundrel has done!" she reflected, trying
consciously to work herself into a rage. "He has robbed me of my own
child. Just as one drowns a pup in the pond."

Little by little the thought filled her mind completely. She came to
believe that she had always longed for her child passionately. Her
hatred of Porfiry Vladimirych fed on this new and rapidly growing
obsession.

"At least, I should have had something to amuse me now. Volodya,
Volodyushka! My dear little son! Where are you now? He must have
shipped you to some wretched peasant woman. God curse them, the damned
gentry. They bring children in the world and then throw them like pups
into a ditch, and no one takes them to account. It would have been
better for me to cut my throat than to allow that shameless old brute
to outrage me."

Her hatred was now ripe. She felt a desire to vex and pester him and
spoil life for him. War began, the most unbearable of wars, squabbles
and provocations, and petty pricking. It was the only form of warfare
that could have subdued Porfiry Vladimirych.

CHAPTER II

One morning when Porfiry Vladimirych was sitting at tea, he was
unpleasantly surprised. He was discharging masses of verbal pus, while
Yevpraksia, with a saucer of tea in her hand and a piece of sugar
between her teeth, was listening in silence, snorting from time to
time. Warm, fresh-baked bread had been served, and he had just begun
to develop a theory of his own to the effect that there are two kinds
of bread, visible bread which we eat and thereby sustain our bodies,
and the invisible, spiritual bread of which we partake for the good
of our soul. Suddenly Yevpraksia broke in upon his discourse most
unceremoniously.

"People say Palageyushka lives so well at Mazulino," she began, turning
her entire body round to the window and swinging her crossed feet with
impudent nonchalance.

Yudushka was somewhat startled by the unexpected remark, but attributed
no peculiar importance to it.

"In case we don't eat visible bread for a long time," he went on, "we
feel bodily hunger; and if we don't partake of the spiritual bread for
some length of time----"

"I say, Palageyushka certainly lives well at Mazulino," Yevpraksia
interrupted again.

Porfiry Vladimirych, somewhat startled, looked at her in amazement, but
refrained from scolding, evidently smelling a rat.

"If Palageyushka has a fine life, let her," he replied meekly.

"Her master," Yevpraksia kept on provokingly, "makes it nice and easy
for her, he does not compel her to work, and dresses her in silk."

Yudushka's amazement grew. Yevpraksia's words were so preposterous that
he was taken completely by surprise.

"A different dress every day, one to-day, one to-morrow, and another
for holidays. She drives to church in a four-horse carriage. She goes
first, and the master follows. When the priest sees her carriage, he
has the bells rung. Then she sits in her own room. If her master wishes
to spend some time with her, she receives him in her room. And her maid
entertains her, or she does bead embroidery."

"Well, what of it?" asked Porfiry Vladimirych, at last coming to his
senses.

"I was just telling what a pleasant life Palageyushka leads."

"And you, is your life worse? My, my, aren't you insatiable!"

Had Yevpraksia left his remark unanswered, Porfiry Vladimirych would
have belched forth a torrent of empty words to drown her foolish hints.
He would have resumed his twaddle. But apparently Yevpraksia had no
intention of holding her tongue.

"I can't say that," she snapped back. "My life is not a sad one. Thank
goodness I don't wear tick. Last year you bought me two calico dresses
and paid five rubles for each. How generous!"

"And how about the woolen dress? And for whom was a shawl bought
lately? My, my!"

Instead of answering, Yevpraksia placed her elbows on the table and
flashed on Yudushka a side glance brimming over with such deep contempt
that, unaccustomed to such looks, he was overcome with something like
dread.

"Do you know how the Lord punishes ingratitude?" he mumbled feebly,
hoping the reference to God would bring the woman to her senses. But
his remark did not placate the mutineer. She cut him short at once.

"Don't talk me blind!" she exclaimed, "and don't drag in God. I'm not a
baby. Enough! I've had enough of your tyranny."

Porfiry Vladimirych grew silent. His glass of tea stood untouched. His
face grew pale, his lips trembled, as if trying vainly to curl up into
a grin.

"These are Anninka's tricks," he said finally, though without a clear
perception of what he was saying. "It's she, the snake, who has incited
you."

"What tricks do you mean?"

"I mean the way you are talking to me. She, she taught you. No one
else!" he foamed in a rage. "Give her silk dresses! The impudence!
Do you know, you shameless creature, who in your position wears silk
dresses?"

"Tell me and I will know."

"The most--the most dissolute ones. They are the only ones who wear
silk dresses."

But Yevpraksia was not impressed. On the contrary, she answered him
back with saucy arguments.

"I don't know why you call them dissolute. Everybody knows it's the
masters that insist upon it. If a master seduces one of us, well, she
lives with him. You and I are not so saintly either, we are doing the
same as the Mazulina master and his queen."

"Oh, you! Fie, fie, for shame!"

Yudushka stared at his rebellious companion in utter consternation. A
flow of empty words came tripping to his tongue, but for the first time
in his life he felt a vague suspicion that there are occasions when
even talk is useless.

"Well, my friend, I see there's no use talking to you to-day," he said,
rising from the table.

"Neither to-day, nor to-morrow--never! No more of your tyranny! I've
listened to you enough; now it's time for you to listen to me."

Porfiry Vladimirych made a movement as if to throw himself at her with
clenched fists, but she protruded her chest with such determination
that he lost heart. He turned his face to the ikon, lifted up his hands
prayerfully, mumbled a prayer, and trudged slowly away into his room.

The whole day he felt uneasy. He had no definite fears for the future,
but the feeling that something had broken in upon his well-ordered life
and had passed unpunished greatly upset him. He did not go to dinner,
pleading ill health, and in a meek, feeble voice asked that his food
be brought into his room. In the evening after tea, which passed in
silence for the first time in his life, he rose, as was his habit, to
say his prayers. In vain did his lips seek to whisper the customary
words. His agitated mind refused to follow the prayer. A persistent
enervating anxiety pervaded his being, and he involuntarily strained
his ear to catch the dying echoes of the day, which were lingering
in the various corners of the vast manor-house. Finally, when even
the yawning of the people could be heard no more, and the house was
plunged in the profoundest quiet, he could not hold out any longer.
Stealing noiselessly along the corridor, he went to Yevpraksia's room
and put his ear to the door to listen. She was alone, and Yudushka
heard her yawning and saying, "Lord! Savior! Holy Virgin," as she
scratched her back.

Porfiry Vladimirych tried the knob, but the door was locked.

"Yevpraksia, darling, are you there?" he called.

"Yes, but not for you!" she snapped, so rudely that he immediately
retreated to his room.

The next morning there was another conversation. Yevpraksia
intentionally selected morning tea for launching her attacks on Porfiry
Vladimirych. She felt instinctively that a spoiled morning would fill
the entire day with anxiety and pain.

"I'd like to see how some people live," she began in a rather enigmatic
manner.

Yudushka changed countenance. "It's beginning," flashed through his
mind; but he held his tongue and waited for what would come next.

"It's fine to live with a handsome young friend, upon my word. You walk
about in the rooms and look at each other. Not a cross word exchanged.
'My darling' and 'my heart'--that's your whole conversation. Lovely and
noble!"

The subject was peculiarly hateful to Porfiry Vladimirych. Although of
necessity he tolerated adultery within strict limits, he nevertheless
considered lovemaking a diabolical temptation. This time, however, he
restrained himself, all the more so because he wanted his tea. The
tea-pot had been boiling on the samovar for quite some time, but
Yevpraksia seemed to have forgotten about filling the glasses.

"Of course, many of us women are foolish," she went on, impudently
swinging in her chair and drumming on the table with her fingers. "Some
are so silly that they are ready to do anything for a calico dress;
others give themselves away for nothing at all. 'Cider,' you said,
'drink as much as you please,' A fine thing to seduce a woman with!"

"Is it from interest alone that----" Yudushka risked a timid remark,
watching the tea-pot from which steam had begun to escape.

"Who says from interest alone? Is it I who am a selfish woman?" cried
Yevpraksia heatedly, suddenly shifting the conversation. "Do you mean
to reproach me for the bread I eat?"

"I don't reproach you. I only said that not from interest alone do
people----"

"'I said'! Talk, but talk sensibly. The idea! I serve from interest!
Kindly permit me to ask you what particular advantage I have derived
except cider and gherkins?"

"Well, cider and gherkins are not the only things----" ventured
Yudushka, unable to restrain himself.

"What else have I gotten? Let me hear, let me hear!"

"Who sends four sacks of flour to your parents every month?"

"Four sacks. What else?"

"Groats, hemp-seed oil and other things----"

"So you are begrudging my poor parents the wretched groats and oil you
send them? Oh, you!"

"I am not begrudging them. It's you----"

"Now you are accusing me. I can't eat a crust of bread without being
reproached for it, and it's I who am blamed for everything."

Yevpraksia could hold out no longer and burst into tears. Meanwhile
the tea kept on boiling, so that Porfiry Vladimirych became seriously
alarmed. So he suppressed his growing temper, seated himself beside
Yevpraksia and patted her on her back.

"Well, well. All right. Pour the tea. What is all this crying for?"

Yevpraksia emitted a few more sobs, pouted and looked into space with
her dull eyes. "You have just been speaking of young fellows," he
went on, trying to lend his voice as caressing a ring as possible.
"Well--after all, I'm not so old, am I?"

"The idea! Leave me alone."

"Come, come. I--do you know--when I served in St. Petersburg, our
director wanted to give me his daughter in marriage?"

"Must have been an old maid--or a cripple."

"No, she was quite a presentable young lady. And how she sang, how she
sang!"

"Maybe she sang well, but you accompanied her badly," she retorted.

"No, I----"

Porfiry Vladimirych was completely put out. He was ready to act against
his conscience and show that he, too, was skilled in the art of
love-making. So he began to rock his body rather clumsily and went so
far as to make an attempt to embrace Yevpraksia round her waist. But
she drew back firmly from his outstretched arms and cried out angrily:

"Do me a favor and leave me, you goblin! Else I'll scald you with this
boiling water. And I don't want your tea. I don't want anything. The
idea--to reproach me for the piece of bread I eat. I'll go away from
here! By Jesus, I will!"

She banged the door and ran out, leaving Porfiry Vladimirych alone in
the dining-room.

Yudushka was completely puzzled. He began to pour the tea himself, but
his hands trembled so violently that he had to call a servant to his
assistance.

"No, this is impossible. I must think up something, arrange matters,"
he whispered, pacing up and down the dining-room in excitement.

But he turned out to be quite unable "to think up something" or "to
arrange matters." His mind was so accustomed to leaping unrestrainedly
from one fantastic subject to another, that the simplest problem of
workaday reality threw him off his balance. No sooner did he make an
effort to concentrate than a swarm of futile trifles attacked him from
all sides and shut actuality out from his consideration. A strange
stupor, a kind of mental and moral anæmia possessed his being. He was
constantly lured away from the hard realities of life to the pleasant
softness of phantoms, which he could shift and rearrange at will and
without any hindrance whatever.

He spent the entire day in solitude, for Yevpraksia did not make her
appearance at dinner or at evening tea. She stayed at the priest's
the entire time and returned late in the evening. Yudushka's distress
was extreme. He could not apply himself to any task, he even lost his
wonted interest in trifles. One irrepressible thought tormented him:
"I must somehow arrange matters, I must." He could not engage in idle
calculations, nor even say prayers. He felt that a strange ailment was
about to attack him. Many a time he halted before the window in the
hope of concentrating his wavering mind on something, or distracting
his attention, but all in vain.

It was early spring. The trees stood naked and the new grass had not
yet appeared. Black fields, spotted here and there with white cakes of
snow, stretched far away. The road was black and boggy and glittered
with puddles. Yudushka saw it all as through a mist. There was no
one round the rain-soaked servants' buildings, though all the doors
were ajar. Nor could he reach anyone in the manor-house, although he
constantly heard sounds as of doors banging in the distance. "How fine
it would be," he mused, "to turn invisible and overhear what the knaves
are saying about me. Do the rascals appreciate my favors or do they
return abuse for my kindness? You stuff their bellies from morning till
night, and still they squeal for more. Only the other day we opened a
barrel of pickled cucumbers, and----" But no sooner did his thoughts
embark upon the exploration of some fantastic subject, no sooner did
he began to calculate how many pickles the barrel held and how many
pickles one man could consume, than the piercing thought of Yevpraksia
brought him back to harsh reality and upset all his calculations.

"She went away without so much as saying a word to me," he reflected,
while his eyes scanned the distance, endeavoring to sight the priest's
house, in which Yevpraksia was in all probability chatting away at that
moment.

Dinner was served. Yudushka sat at table alone slowly sipping thin
soup (_she_ knew he hated thin soup and had had it cooked watery on
purpose). "I imagine the Father must be distressed by Yevpraksia's
unbidden visit," he reflected. "She's a hearty eater and an extra
dish, perhaps a roast, will have to be served for the guest." His
imagination began to run away with him once more, and his mind began to
ponder over questions like these: How many spoonfuls of cabbage-soup
will Yevpraksia swallow? How many spoonfuls of gruel? What would the
Father say to his wife about Yevpraksia's visit? How do they abuse her
when alone? All this, the food and the conversation, hovered before his
eyes with corporeal vividness.

"I fancy they all guzzle the soup from the same dish. The idea! A
fine place she found to hunt for knick-knacks. Outside it's wet and
slushy--just the kind of weather that breeds disease. Soon she will
return, her skirt all dripping with mud, the disgusting creature. Yes,
I must, I must do something!" All his musings inevitably ended with
this phrase.

After dinner, he lay down for his nap, as usual, but tossed from side
to side, unable to fall asleep. Yevpraksia came back after dark and
stole into her nook so quietly that he did not observe her entrance. He
had ordered the servants to let him know when she returned, but none
of them said a word, as if they had agreed among themselves. He made
another attempt to penetrate into her room, but again found the door
locked.

Next morning Yevpraksia made her appearance at tea, but now her words
were even more alarming and threatening.

"Dear me, where is my little Volodya?" she began, speaking in a
studiously tearful tone.

Porfiry Vladimirych shuddered.

"If I could have the tiniest glimpse of him, if I could see how the
darling suffers away from his mother! But maybe he is dead already."

Yudushka's lips whispered a prayer.

"It isn't the same as at other people's here. When Palageyushka gave
birth to a daughter, they dressed the baby in batiste and silks and
made a pink little bed for her. The nurse received more sarafans and
frontlets than I ever had. And here--oh, you!"

Yevpraksia abruptly turned her head toward the window and sighed
noisily.

"It is true what they say, that all the gentry are an abomination," she
went on. "They make children and then throw them in the swamp, like
puppies. What does it matter to them? They owe no account to anybody.
Is there no God in Heaven? Even a wolf would not act like that."

Porfiry Vladimirych felt like a man sitting on pins and needles. He
restrained himself for a long time, but finally could stand it no
longer and said through clenched teeth:

"This is the third day that I've been listening to your talk."

"Well, why should _you_ do all the talking? Other people have a right
to say a word, too. Yes, sir! You've had a child. What have you done
with it? I bet you let him rot in the hands of a wretched peasant woman
in a dirty hut. I suppose the baby is lying somewhere in filth, sucking
at a bottle turned sour, with no one to take care of it, and feed and
clothe it."

She shed tears and dried her eyes with the end of her neckerchief.

"The Pogorelka lady was right; she said it's horrible here with you. It
_is_ horrible. No pleasures, no joy, nothing but mean, underhand ways.
Prisoners in jail are better off. At least, if I had a baby now, there
would be something to amuse me. But you have taken it away from me."

Porfiry Vladimirych sat shaking his head in torture. From time to time
he groaned.

"Oh, how painful!" he finally said.

"Painful? Well, you have made the bed, lie on it. Upon my word, I
shall go to Moscow and have a look at my dear little Volodya. Volodya,
Volodya! Da-a-ar-ling! Master, shall I take a trip to Moscow?"

"It's no use," answered Porfiry Vladimirych in a hollow voice.

"Then I'll go without asking your permission, and no one can stop me.
Because I am--a mother!"

"What sort of mother are you? You are a strumpet--that's what you are,"
Yudushka finally burst out. "Tell me plainly what you want of me."

Yevpraksia, apparently, was not prepared for this question. She stared
at Yudushka and kept silence, as if wondering what she really wanted of
him.

"So you call me a strumpet already?" she exclaimed, bursting into tears.

"Yes, a strumpet, a strumpet, a strumpet! Fie, fie, fie!"

Utterly enraged, Porfiry Vladimirych leapt to his feet and ran out of
the room.

That was the last flicker of energy. Then he began rapidly to collapse,
while Yevpraksia kept up her campaign. She had enormous power at her
disposal, the stubbornness of stupidity, sometimes truly appalling
because always trained upon the same point with the sole object of
annoying, teasing, plaguing. Little by little the confines of the
dining-room became too narrow for her. She invaded the study and
attacked Yudushka within the precincts of that sanctuary, into which
she would not even have thought of entering formerly when her master
was "busy." She would come in, seat herself at the window, stare
into space, scratch her shoulder blades on the post of the window,
and begin to storm at him. She was especially fond of harping on the
threat of leaving Golovliovo. As a matter of fact, she had never
seriously thought of carrying out her threat, and she would have been
astonished had anyone suggested to her that she return to her parental
roof. But she suspected that Porfiry Vladimirych feared her desertion
more than anything else, and she spared neither time nor energy in
taking advantage of this. She approached the subject cautiously and
in a roundabout way. She would sit a while, scratch her ear, and then
remark, as if in a reminiscent frame of mind:

"To-day, I suppose, they are baking pancakes at father's."

At this prefatory remark Yudushka would grow green with rage. He was
just getting ready to plunge into a complicated computation of how much
he would get for his milk if all the cows of the neighborhood perished
and none but his own, with God's help, remained unharmed and doubled
their yield of milk.

"Why are they baking pancakes there?" he asked, trying to force a
smile. "Goodness, to-day is Memorial Day! Isn't it stupid of me to have
forgotten about it? And there's nothing in the house with which to
honor the memory of my late mother. What a sin!"

"I should like to eat father's pancakes."

"Why not? Give orders to have them baked. Get hold of cook Marya or
Ulita. Ulita cooks delicious pancakes."

"Maybe she has pleased you in some other way, too," remarked Yevpraksia
acidly.

"No, but, oh, she's a witch at cooking pancakes, Ulita is. She cooks
them light, soft--a sheer delight!"

Porfiry Vladimirych was evidently trying to mollify Yevpraksia, but to
no avail.

"What I want is not yours, but father's pancakes," she answered,
playing the spoiled darling.

"Well, that's not difficult. Get hold of the coachman, have him put a
pair of horses to the carriage, and drive over to father's."

"No, sir, that won't do. If I've fallen in the trap, that's my own
fault. Who has any use for one like me? You yourself called me a
strumpet the other day. It's no use!"

"My, my! Isn't it a sin in you to accuse me falsely? Do you know how
God punishes false accusations?"

"You did call me strumpet! You did! You did it in the presence of this
ikon. How I hate your Golovliovo! I shall run away from here. I shall,
by God!"

In the course of this spirited dialogue Yevpraksia behaved in a rather
unconstrained manner. She swung about on the chair, picked her nose,
and scratched her back. She was obviously playing comedy.

"Porfiry Vladimirych, I should like to tell you something," she went on
mischievously. "I want to go home."

"Do you wish to pay a visit to your parents?"

"No, I mean to stay there altogether."

"What's the matter? Has anybody offended you?"

"No, but--I'm not going to stay here forever. Besides, it's too dull
here--it's frightful. The house is like a deserted place. The servants
poke themselves away in the kitchens and their own quarters, and I sit
in the house all alone. Some of these days I shall be murdered. At
night, when I go to bed, strange whispers come from every corner."

Days went by, but Yevpraksia never thought of carrying out her threat;
which did not lessen its effect on Porfiry Vladimirych. It dawned upon
him that in spite of his labors, so-called, he was utterly helpless,
that if there were not someone to take care of his household affairs,
he would have no dinner, no clean linen, no decent clothing. Hitherto
he had not been aware of the fact that his surroundings had been
artificially created. His day had passed in a manner established once
and for all. Everything in the house centered around his person and
existed for him; everything was done in its proper time, everything was
in its proper place; in short, there reigned such mechanical precision
everywhere that he gave no thought to it. Owing to this clock-work
orderliness he could indulge in idle talk and thought without running
against the sharp corners of reality. Of course, this artificial
paradise held together only by a hair; but Yudushka, always centered
in himself, did not know it. His life seemed to him to be built on a
rock-bottom foundation, unchangeable, eternal. And suddenly the edifice
was about to collapse because of Yevpraksia's foolish whim. Yudushka
was completely taken aback. "What if she really leaves?" he reflected
panic-stricken. And he began to frame all sorts of preposterous plans
to keep her from going. He even decided on concessions to Yevpraksia's
rebellious youth which would never before have entered his mind.

"Ugh, ugh, ugh!" he thought, and spat out in disgust when the
possibility of having anything to do with the coachman Arkhip or the
clerk Ignat presented itself to him in all its offensive nakedness.

Soon, however, he became convinced that his fears were groundless.
Thereupon his existence entered a new and quite unexpected phase.
Yevpraksia did not leave him, she even abated her attacks, but, to
compensate, deserted him altogether. May set in, the weather was fair,
and Yevpraksia scarcely ever put in appearance. She ran in for a moment
and the next moment had disappeared. In the morning Yudushka did not
find his clothing in its usual place, and he had to engage in lengthy
negotiations with the servants before he got clean linen. His tea and
meals were served either too early or too late, and he was waited upon
by the tipsy lackey Prokhor, who came in a stained coat emanating a
peculiarly disgusting odor of fish and vodka.

Nevertheless, Porfiry Vladimirych was glad that Yevpraksia left him
in peace. He even reconciled himself to the disorder as long as he
knew that there was someone to bear the responsibility for it. What
frightened him was not so much the disorder as the thought that it
might be necessary for him to interfere personally in the details of
everyday life. He pictured with horror the minute he would have to
administer, give orders and supervise. In anticipation of that awful
moment, he endeavored to stifle the voice of protest that at times rose
in him, tried to shut his eyes to the confusion reigning in the house,
and keep in the background and hold his tongue.

In the meantime open debauchery made its nest in the manor-house. With
the coming of fair weather a new life pervaded the estate, hitherto
quiet and gloomy. In the evening all the servants, both young and old,
went out in the village streets. The young people sang, played the
accordion, laughed merrily, screamed and played tag.

The clerk Ignat appeared in a flaming red shirt and an astonishingly
narrow jacket, that never closed over his chest, thrown out like a
pouter-pigeon's, while the coachman Arkhip took possession of the silk
shirt and plush sleeveless jacket worn on holidays, obviously vying
with Ignat in the conquest of Yevpraksia's heart. The maiden herself
ran from one to the other, bestowing her favors now on the clerk, now
on the coachman. Porfiry Vladimirych dared not look out of the window
for fear of witnessing a love scene; but he could not help hearing
what was going on outside. At times he caught the resounding blow that
Arkhip bestowed playfully upon Yevpraksia's back while playing tag. At
other times he would catch fragments of conversation such as this:

"Yevpraksia Nikitishna! Yevpraksia Nikitishna! Madam!" the drunken
Prokhor would call from the steps of the mansion.

"What do you want?"

"The key of the tea-chest, please. The master is asking for tea."

"Let him wait, the scarecrow!"

In a short time Porfiry had completely lost all habits of sociability.
He no longer paid any attention to the confusion that had come into
his existence. He demanded nothing better of life than to be left
alone in his last refuge, his study. He had lost all his former ways
of cavilling with and pestering those about him, and he was timorous
and glumly meek. All ties between him and reality were cut. To hear
nothing, to see nothing, that was his heart's desire. The behavior of
Yevpraksia and the servants no longer concerned him. Formerly, had the
clerk allowed himself the least inaccuracy in presenting his reports
on the various branches of the household management, he would have
talked him to death. Now at times the reports were weeks late, and
he was unresentful except when he needed some data for his fantastic
computations. But when alone in his study he felt himself absolute
master, free to give himself over nonchalantly to inane musings. Both
of his brothers had died from drink. He, too, fell into the clutches
of drunkenness. But his intoxication was mental. Shut up in his study,
he racked his brains from early morning till far into the night over
fantastic problems. He elaborated various fabulous schemes, made
speeches before imaginary audiences, and wove whole scenes about the
first person that crossed his mind.

In this wild maze of fantastic acts and images a morbid passion for
gain played the most important part.

Porfiry Vladimirych had always had a strong leaning toward the
petty annoyance of people and litigation, but because of his lack
of practicality he had derived no direct profit from it. Sometimes
he was even the first to suffer. This proclivity of his was now
transferred to a world of abstractions and phantoms, where there was
no scope for resistance on the part of the oppressed and no need for
self-justification. The dividing line between the weak and the powerful
vanished. In that world there were no police or justices of the peace,
or rather, there were, but they existed solely for the purpose of
protecting his own interests. On this fantastic plane he could freely
enmesh the whole universe in his net of intriguing, cavilling, and
petty oppression.

He loved to torment people, ruin them, make them unhappy, suck their
blood--at least, in his imagination. He would look over the various
branches of his establishment and on each build up a fantastic
structure of all manner of oppression and plunder--a veritable
paradise, but the foulest ever conceived by a landed proprietor. And
everything depended here on overpayments and underpayments assumed
arbitrarily, each overpaid or underpaid kopek served as a pretext for
remodelling the entire edifice, which thus passed through endless
changes.

When his tired thoughts were no longer capable of following out all
the details of the intricate computations on which his imaginary
operations were based, he applied his imagination to a more plastic
material. He recalled every conflict and altercation he had had not
only in recent times, but far back in his youth, and he so manipulated
his reminiscences as always to come out the victor. He took revenge on
those of his former colleagues who had gone over his head in service
and had so deeply wounded his self-love that he renounced his official
career. He revenged himself on his schoolmates who had taken advantage
of their physical strength to tease or persecute him; on the neighbors
that had opposed his claims and stood up for their rights; on the
servants who had offended him or simply had not treated him with
sufficient respect; on "dearest mamma" Arina Petrovna for having wasted
too much of the money that "by law" belonged to him on the repairs
of Pogorelka; on his brother Simple Simon for having nicknamed him
Yudushka; on aunt Varvara Mikhailovna for having unexpectedly given
birth to children, with the result that the property of Gavryushkino
was forever lost to the family. He revenged himself on the living and
he revenged himself on the dead.

Gradually he worked himself into a state of actual intoxication. The
ground vanished from under his feet, wings grew on his shoulders, his
eyes shone, his lips trembled and foamed, his face grew ghastly pale,
and took on a threatening air. The atmosphere around him swarmed with
ghosts, and he fought them in imaginary battles.

His existence became so ample and independent that there was nothing
left for him to desire. The whole universe was at his feet, that
is, the universe of which his wretched mind could conceive. It was
something in the nature of ecstatic clairvoyance, not unlike the
phenomena that take place at the seances of mediums. His untrammeled
imagination created an illusory reality, rendered concrete and almost
tangible by his constant mental frenzy. It was not faith or conviction,
but unrestrained mental debauchery, a sort of trance in which his
tongue involuntarily uttered words and his body made automatic gestures.

Porfiry Vladimirych was happy. He locked up the windows and doors
that he might not hear, he drew down the curtains that he might not
see. He went through the customary functions and duties which had no
connection with the world of his imagination, in haste, almost with
disgust. When the ever-drunken Prokhor rapped at his door and announced
that dinner was served, he ran into the dining-room impatiently,
hurriedly swallowed his three courses and disappeared again into his
study. Something new showed in his manners--a mixture of timidity and
derision, as if he both feared and defied the few people whom he met.
He rose very early and immediately set to work. He cut down the time
devoted to worship, said his prayers indifferently, without thinking of
their meaning, crossed himself and went through the other gestures of
worship mechanically and carelessly. Apparently even the notion of a
hell with its complicated system of punishments was no longer present
in his mind.

Meanwhile Yevpraksia reveled in the satisfaction of carnal desires.
Dancing between the clerk Ignat and the coachman Arkhip, and also
casting glances at the red-faced carpenter Ilyusha, who was mending the
cellars at the head of a gang of workmen, she did not notice what was
going on in the manor-house. She thought the master was playing "a new
comedy," and many a light remark about the master was passed in the
jolly gatherings of the servants. But one day she happened to enter the
dining-room when Yudushka was hurriedly despatching the remnants of
roast goose, and suddenly a kind of dread fell upon her.

Porfiry Vladimirych wore a greasy dressing-gown, through the holes of
which the cotton interlining peeped out. He was pale, unkempt, and his
face bristled with a many days' growth.

"Dear master, what is it? What is the matter?" she turned to him in
fright.

Porfiry Vladimirych only smiled half sheepishly, half derisively, and
the meaning of his smile was: "I'd like to see how you could get at me
now."

"Darling master, what is the matter? Tell me, what has happened to
you?" repeated Yevpraksia.

He rose, fixed on her a gaze brimming over with hatred, and said,
pausing after each word:

"If you, you hussy, ever dare--enter my study--I will kill you!"

CHAPTER IV

As a result of this scene Yudushka's life outwardly changed for
the better. Distracted by no material hindrances, he gave himself
completely over to his solitude, so that he did not even notice how the
summer passed away.

It was late in August, the days grew shorter; it drizzled ceaselessly
and the soil became boggy. The trees looked mournful, with their
yellow leaves bestrewing the ground. Absolute silence reigned in the
court-yard and about the servants' quarters. The domestics sat quietly
under cover, partly because of the weather, partly because they finally
perceived that something was the matter with the master. Yevpraksia
came completely to her senses, forgot the silk dresses and her lovers,
and sat in the maids' room for hours on end, brooding and wondering
what she could do. The drunken Prokhor teased her that she had designs
on the master's life, that she had poisoned him and she could not
escape the road to Siberia.

Meanwhile, Yudushka sat in his study, deep in reveries. The ceaseless
patter of the rain on the window-panes lulled him half to sleep--the
most favorable state for the play of his fancy. He imagined he was
invisible and was inspecting his possessions, accompanied by old Ilya,
who had served as bailiff under Yudushka's father, and whose bones had
long since been rotting in the village churchyard.

"Ilya is a clever fellow," argued Porfiry Vladimirych with himself,
glad that Ilya had arisen from the dead. "An old servant! Nowadays his
kind is getting rare. Nowadays they know how to chat and fidget, but
when it comes to business, they're good for nothing."

After saying an appropriate prayer, Yudushka and Ilya pick their way
leisurely across meadows and ravines, dales and hills, and soon reach