Childhood, Boyhood, Youth Read online

  Karl Ivanitch confirmed my words, but said nothing as to the subject of

  the dream. Then, after a little conversation on the weather, in which

  Mimi also took part, Mamma laid some lumps of sugar on the tray for

  one or two of the more privileged servants, and crossed over to her

  embroidery frame, which stood near one of the windows.

  "Go to Papa now, children," she said, "and ask him to come to me before

  he goes to the home farm."

  Then the music, the counting, and the wrathful looks from Mimi began

  again, and we went off to see Papa. Passing through the room which had

  been known ever since Grandpapa's time as "the pantry," we entered the

  study.

  III -- PAPA

  He was standing near his writing-table, and pointing angrily to some

  envelopes, papers, and little piles of coin upon it as he addressed some

  observations to the bailiff, Jakoff Michaelovitch, who was standing in

  his usual place (that is to say, between the door and the barometer)

  and rapidly closing and unclosing the fingers of the hand which he held

  behind his back. The more angry Papa grew, the more rapidly did those

  fingers twirl, and when Papa ceased speaking they came to rest also.

  Yet, as soon as ever Jakoff himself began to talk, they flew here,

  there, and everywhere with lightning rapidity. These movements always

  appeared to me an index of Jakoff's secret thoughts, though his face was

  invariably placid, and expressive alike of dignity and submissiveness,

  as who should say, "I am right, yet let it be as you wish." On seeing

  us, Papa said, "Directly--wait a moment," and looked towards the door as

  a hint for it to be shut.

  "Gracious heavens! What can be the matter with you to-day, Jakoff?" he

  went on with a hitch of one shoulder (a habit of his). "This envelope

  here with the 800 roubles enclosed,"--Jacob took out a set of tablets,

  put down "800" and remained looking at the figures while he waited

  for what was to come next--"is for expenses during my absence. Do you

  understand? From the mill you ought to receive 1000 roubles. Is not

  that so? And from the Treasury mortgage you ought to receive some 8000

  roubles. From the hay--of which, according to your calculations, we

  shall be able to sell 7000 poods [The pood = 40 lbs.]at 45 copecks a

  piece there should come in 3000. Consequently the sum-total that you

  ought to have in hand soon is--how much?--12,000 roubles. Is that

  right?"

  "Precisely," answered Jakoff. Yet by the extreme rapidity with which

  his fingers were twitching I could see that he had an objection to make.

  Papa went on:

  "Well, of this money you will send 10,000 roubles to the Petrovskoe

  local council. As for the money already at the office, you will remit it

  to me, and enter it as spent on this present date." Jakoff turned over

  the tablet marked "12,000," and put down "21,000"--seeming, by his

  action, to imply that 12,000 roubles had been turned over in the

  same fashion as he had turned the tablet. "And this envelope with the

  enclosed money," concluded Papa, "you will deliver for me to the person

  to whom it is addressed."

  I was standing close to the table, and could see the address. It was "To

  Karl Ivanitch Mayer." Perhaps Papa had an idea that I had read something

  which I ought not, for he touched my shoulder with his hand and made me

  aware, by a slight movement, that I must withdraw from the table. Not

  sure whether the movement was meant for a caress or a command, I kissed

  the large, sinewy hand which rested upon my shoulder.

  "Very well," said Jakoff. "And what are your orders about the accounts

  for the money from Chabarovska?" (Chabarovska was Mamma's village.)

  "Only that they are to remain in my office, and not to be taken thence

  without my express instructions."

  For a minute or two Jakoff was silent. Then his fingers began to twitch

  with extraordinary rapidity, and, changing the expression of deferential

  vacancy with which he had listened to his orders for one of shrewd

  intelligence, he turned his tablets back and spoke.

  "Will you allow me to inform you, Peter Alexandritch," he said, with

  frequent pauses between his words, "that, however much you wish it, it

  is out of the question to repay the local council now. You enumerated

  some items, I think, as to what ought to come in from the mortgage, the

  mill, and the hay (he jotted down each of these items on his tablets

  again as he spoke). Yet I fear that we must have made a mistake

  somewhere in the accounts." Here he paused a while, and looked gravely

  at Papa.

  "How so?"

  "Well, will you be good enough to look for yourself? There is the

  account for the mill. The miller has been to me twice to ask for time,

  and I am afraid that he has no money whatever in hand. He is here now.

  Would you like to speak to him?"

  "No. Tell me what he says," replied Papa, showing by a movement of his

  head that he had no desire to have speech with the miller.

  "Well, it is easy enough to guess what he says. He declares that there

  is no grinding to be got now, and that his last remaining money has gone

  to pay for the dam. What good would it do for us to turn him out? As to

  what you were pleased to say about the mortgage, you yourself are aware

  that your money there is locked up and cannot be recovered at a moment's

  notice. I was sending a load of flour to Ivan Afanovitch to-day, and

  sent him a letter as well, to which he replies that he would have been

  glad to oblige you, Peter Alexandritch, were it not that the matter is

  out of his hands now, and that all the circumstances show that it would

  take you at least two months to withdraw the money. From the hay I

  understood you to estimate a return of 3000 roubles?" (Here Jakoff

  jotted down "3000" on his tablets, and then looked for a moment from the

  figures to Papa with a peculiar expression on his face.) "Well, surely

  you see for yourself how little that is? And even then we should lose if

  we were to sell the stuff now, for you must know that--"

  It was clear that he would have had many other arguments to adduce had

  not Papa interrupted him.

  "I cannot make any change in my arrangements," said Papa. "Yet if there

  should REALLY have to be any delay in the recovery of these sums, we

  could borrow what we wanted from the Chabarovska funds."

  "Very well, sir." The expression of Jakoff's face and the way in which

  he twitched his fingers showed that this order had given him great

  satisfaction. He was a serf, and a most zealous, devoted one, but,

  like all good bailiffs, exacting and parsimonious to a degree in the

  interests of his master. Moreover, he had some queer notions of his own.

  He was forever endeavouring to increase his master's property at the

  expense of his mistress's, and to prove that it would be impossible to

  avoid using the rents from her estates for the benefit of Petrovskoe (my

  father's village, and the place where we lived). This point he had now

  gained and was delighted in consequence.

  Papa then greeted ourselves, and said that if we stayed much longer in


  the country we should become lazy boys; that we were growing quite big

  now, and must set about doing lessons in earnest,

  "I suppose you know that I am starting for Moscow to-night?" he went on,

  "and that I am going to take you with me? You will live with Grandmamma,

  but Mamma and the girls will remain here. You know, too, I am sure, that

  Mamma's one consolation will be to hear that you are doing your lessons

  well and pleasing every one around you."

  The preparations which had been in progress for some days past had

  made us expect some unusual event, but this news left us thunderstruck,

  Woloda turned red, and, with a shaking voice, delivered Mamma's message

  to Papa.

  "So this was what my dream foreboded!" I thought to myself. "God send

  that there come nothing worse!" I felt terribly sorry to have to leave

  Mamma, but at the same rejoiced to think that I should soon be grown up,

  "If we are going to-day, we shall probably have no lessons to do, and

  that will be splendid. However, I am sorry for Karl Ivanitch, for he

  will certainly be dismissed now. That was why that envelope had been

  prepared for him. I think I would almost rather stay and do lessons here

  than leave Mamma or hurt poor Karl. He is miserable enough already."

  As these thoughts crossed my mind I stood looking sadly at the black

  ribbons on my shoes. After a few words to Karl Ivanitch about the

  depression of the barometer and an injunction to Jakoff not to feed

  the hounds, since a farewell meet was to be held after luncheon, Papa

  disappointed my hopes by sending us off to lessons--though he also

  consoled us by promising to take us out hunting later.

  On my way upstairs I made a digression to the terrace. Near the door

  leading on to it Papa's favourite hound, Milka, was lying in the sun and

  blinking her eyes.

  "Miloshka," I cried as I caressed her and kissed her nose, "we are going

  away today. Good-bye. Perhaps we shall never see each other again." I

  was crying and laughing at the same time.

  IV -- LESSONS

  Karl Ivanitch was in a bad temper. This was clear from his contracted

  brows, and from the way in which he flung his frockcoat into a drawer,

  angrily donned his old dressing-gown again, and made deep dints with

  his nails to mark the place in the book of dialogues to which we were

  to learn by heart. Woloda began working diligently, but I was too

  distracted to do anything at all. For a long while I stared vacantly

  at the book; but tears at the thought of the impending separation kept

  rushing to my eyes and preventing me from reading a single word. When at

  length the time came to repeat the dialogues to Karl (who listened to us

  with blinking eyes--a very bad sign), I had no sooner reached the place

  where some one asks, "Wo kommen Sie her?" ("Where do you come from?")

  and some one else answers him, "Ich komme vom Kaffeehaus" ("I come from

  the coffee-house"), than I burst into tears and, for sobbing, could not

  pronounce, "Haben Sie die Zeitung nicht gelesen?" ("Have you not read the

  newspaper?") at all. Next, when we came to our writing lesson, the tears

  kept falling from my eyes and, making a mess on the paper, as though

  some one had written on blotting-paper with water, Karl was very

  angry. He ordered me to go down upon my knees, declared that it was all

  obstinacy and "puppet-comedy playing" (a favourite expression of his)

  on my part, threatened me with the ruler, and commanded me to say that

  I was sorry. Yet for sobbing and crying I could not get a word out. At

  last--conscious, perhaps, that he was unjust--he departed to Nicola's

  pantry, and slammed the door behind him. Nevertheless their conversation

  there carried to the schoolroom.

  "Have you heard that the children are going to Moscow, Nicola?" said

  Karl.

  "Yes. How could I help hearing it?"

  At this point Nicola seemed to get up for Karl said, "Sit down, Nicola,"

  and then locked the door. However, I came out of my corner and crept to

  the door to listen.

  "However much you may do for people, and however fond of them you may

  be, never expect any gratitude, Nicola," said Karl warmly. Nicola, who

  was shoe-cobbling by the window, nodded his head in assent.

  "Twelve years have I lived in this house," went on Karl, lifting his

  eyes and his snuff-box towards the ceiling, "and before God I can say

  that I have loved them, and worked for them, even more than if they had

  been my own children. You recollect, Nicola, when Woloda had the fever?

  You recollect how, for nine days and nights, I never closed my eyes as

  I sat beside his bed? Yes, at that time I was 'the dear, good Karl

  Ivanitch'--I was wanted then; but now"--and he smiled ironically--"the

  children are growing up, and must go to study in earnest. Perhaps they

  never learnt anything with me, Nicola? Eh?"

  "I am sure they did," replied Nicola, laying his awl down and

  straightening a piece of thread with his hands.

  "No, I am wanted no longer, and am to be turned out. What good are

  promises and gratitude? Natalia Nicolaevna"--here he laid his hand upon

  his heart--"I love and revere, but what can SHE I do here? Her will is

  powerless in this house."

  He flung a strip of leather on the floor with an angry gesture. "Yet I

  know who has been playing tricks here, and why I am no longer wanted. It

  is because I do not flatter and toady as certain people do. I am in

  the habit of speaking the truth in all places and to all persons," he

  continued proudly, "God be with these children, for my leaving them will

  benefit them little, whereas I--well, by God's help I may be able to

  earn a crust of bread somewhere. Nicola, eh?"

  Nicola raised his head and looked at Karl as though to consider whether

  he would indeed be able to earn a crust of bread, but he said nothing.

  Karl said a great deal more of the same kind--in particular how much

  better his services had been appreciated at a certain general's where

  he had formerly lived (I regretted to hear that). Likewise he spoke of

  Saxony, his parents, his friend the tailor, Schonheit (beauty), and so

  on.

  I sympathised with his distress, and felt dreadfully sorry that he and

  Papa (both of whom I loved about equally) had had a difference. Then I

  returned to my corner, crouched down upon my heels, and fell to thinking

  how a reconciliation between them might be effected.

  Returning to the study, Karl ordered me to get up and prepare to write

  from dictation. When I was ready he sat down with a dignified air in

  his arm-chair, and in a voice which seemed to come from a profound abyss

  began to dictate: "Von al-len Lei-den-shaf-ten die grau-samste ist. Have

  you written that?" He paused, took a pinch of snuff, and began again:

  "Die grausamste ist die Un-dank-bar-keit [The most cruel of all passions

  is ingratitude.] a capital U, mind."

  The last word written, I looked at him, for him to go on.

  "Punctum" (stop), he concluded, with a faintly perceptible smile, as he

  signed to us to hand him our copy-books.

  Several times, and in several different tone
s, and always with an

  expression of the greatest satisfaction, did he read out that sentence,

  which expressed his predominant thought at the moment. Then he set us

  to learn a lesson in history, and sat down near the window. His face did

  not look so depressed now, but, on the contrary, expressed eloquently

  the satisfaction of a man who had avenged himself for an injury dealt

  him.

  By this time it was a quarter to one o'clock, but Karl Ivanitch never

  thought of releasing us. He merely set us a new lesson to learn. My

  fatigue and hunger were increasing in equal proportions, so that I

  eagerly followed every sign of the approach of luncheon. First came the

  housemaid with a cloth to wipe the plates. Next, the sound of crockery

  resounded in the dining-room, as the table was moved and chairs placed

  round it. After that, Mimi, Lubotshka, and Katenka. (Katenka was Mimi's

  daughter, and twelve years old) came in from the garden, but Foka (the

  servant who always used to come and announce luncheon) was not yet to be

  seen. Only when he entered was it lawful to throw one's books aside and

  run downstairs.

  Hark! Steps resounded on the staircase, but they were not Foka's. Foka's

  I had learnt to study, and knew the creaking of his boots well. The door

  opened, and a figure unknown to me made its appearance.

  V -- THE IDIOT

  The man who now entered the room was about fifty years old, with a pale,

  attenuated face pitted with smallpox, long grey hair, and a scanty beard

  of a reddish hue. Likewise he was so tall that, on coming through the

  doorway, he was forced not only to bend his head, but to incline his

  whole body forward. He was dressed in a sort of smock that was much