Anton
Chekhov's Three Years
I
II
III IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XV Laptev sat reading and swaying to and fro in a rocking-chair;
Yulia was in the study, and she, too, was reading. It seemed
there was nothing to talk about; they had both been silent all
day. From time to time he looked at her from over his book and
thought: "Whether one marries from passionate love, or without
love at all, doesn't it come to the same thing?" And the time
when he used to be jealous, troubled, distressed, seemed to him
far away. He had succeeded in going abroad, and now he was
resting after the journey and looking forward to another visit
in the spring to England, which he had very much liked.
And Yulia Sergeyevna had grown used to her sorrow, and had left
off going to the lodge to cry. That winter she had given up
driving out shopping, had given up the theatres and concerts,
and had stayed at home. She never cared for big rooms, and
always sat in her husband's study or in her own room, where she
had shrines of ikons that had come to her on her marriage, and
where there hung on the wall the landscape that had pleased her
so much at the exhibition. She spent hardly any money on
herself, and was almost as frugal now as she had been in her
father's house.
The winter passed cheerlessly. Card-playing was the rule
everywhere in Moscow, and if any other recreation was attempted,
such as singing, reading, drawing, the result was even more
tedious. And since there were few talented people in Moscow, and
the same singers and reciters performed at every entertainment,
even the enjoyment of art gradually palled and became for many
people a tiresome and monotonous social duty.
Moreover, the Laptevs never had a day without something
vexatious happening. Old Laptev's eyesight was failing; he no
longer went to the warehouse, and the oculist told them that he
would soon be blind. Fyodor had for some reason given up going
to the warehouse and spent his time sitting at home writing
something. Panaurov had got a post in another town, and had been
promoted an actual civil councillor, and was now staying at the
Dresden. He came to the Laptevs' almost every day to ask for
money. Kish had finished his studies at last, and while waiting
for Laptev to find him a job, used to spend whole days at a time
with them, telling them long, tedious stories. All this was
irritating and exhausting, and made daily life unpleasant.
Pyotr came into the study, and announced an unknown lady. On the
card he brought in was the name "Josephina Iosefovna Milan."
Yulia Sergeyevna got up languidly and went out limping slightly,
as her foot had gone to sleep. In the doorway appeared a pale,
thin lady with dark eyebrows, dressed altogether in black. She
clasped her hands on her bosom and said supplicatingly:
"M. Laptev, save my children!"
The jingle of her bracelets sounded familiar to him, and he knew
the face with patches of powder on it; he recognised her as the
lady with whom he had once so inappropriately dined before his
marriage. It was Panaurov's second wife.
"Save my children," she repeated, and her face suddenly quivered
and looked old and pitiful. "You alone can save us, and I have
spent my last penny coming to Moscow to see you! My children are
starving!"
She made a motion as though she were going to fall on her knees.
Laptev was alarmed, and clutched her by the arm.
"Sit down, sit down . . ." he muttered, making her sit down. "I
beg you to be seated."
"We have no money to buy bread," she said. "Grigory Nikolaevitch
is going away to a new post, but he will not take the children
and me with him, and the money which you so generously send us
he spends only on himself. What are we to do? What? My poor,
unhappy children!"
"Calm yourself, I beg. I will give orders that that money shall
be made payable to you."
She began sobbing, and then grew calmer, and he noticed that the
tears had made little pathways through the powder on her cheeks,
and that she was growing a moustache.
"You are infinitely generous, M. Laptev. But be our guardian
angel, our good fairy, persuade Grigory Nikolaevitch not to
abandon me, but to take me with him. You know I love him -- I
love him insanely; he's the comfort of my life."
Laptev gave her a hundred roubles, and promised to talk to
Panaurov, and saw her out to the hall in trepidation the whole
time, for fear she should break into sobs or fall on her knees.
After her, Kish made his appearance. Then Kostya came in with
his photographic apparatus. Of late he had been attracted by
photography and took photographs of every one in the house
several times a day. This new pursuit caused him many
disappointments, and he had actually grown thinner.
Before evening tea Fyodor arrived. Sitting in a corner in the
study, he opened a book and stared for a long time at a page,
obviously not reading. Then he spent a long time drinking tea;
his face turned red. In his presence Laptev felt a load on his
heart; even his silence was irksome to him.
"Russia may be congratulated on the appearance of a new author,"
said Fyodor. "Joking apart, though, brother, I have turned out a
little article -- the firstfruits of my pen, so to say -- and
I've brought it to show you. Read it, dear boy, and tell me your
opinion -- but sincerely."
He took a manuscript out of his pocket and gave it to his
brother. The article was called "The Russian Soul"; it was
written tediously, in the colourless style in which people with
no talent, but full of secret vanity, usually write. The leading
idea of it was that the intellectual man has the right to
disbelieve in the supernatural, but it is his duty to conceal
his lack of faith, that he may not be a stumbling-block and
shake the faith of others. Without faith there is no idealism,
and idealism is destined to save Europe and guide humanity into
the true path.
"But you don't say what Europe has to be saved from," said
Laptev.
"That's intelligible of itself."
"Nothing is intelligible," said Laptev, and he walked about the
room in agitation. "It's not intelligible to me why you wrote
it. But that's your business."
"I want to publish it in pamphlet form."
"That's your affair."
They were silent for a minute. Fyodor sighed and said:
"It's an immense regret to me, dear brother, that we think
differently. Oh, Alyosha, Alyosha, my darling brother! You and I
are true Russians, true believers, men of broad nature; all of
these German and Jewish crochets are not for us. You and I are
not wretched upstarts, you know, but representatives of a
distinguished merchant family."
"What do you mean by a distinguished family?" said Laptev,
restraining his irritation. "A distinguished family! The
landowners beat our grandfather and every low little government
clerk punched him in the face. Our grandfather thrashed our
father, and our father thrashed us. What has your distinguished
family done for us? What sort of nerves, what sort of blood,
have we inherited? For nearly three years you've been arguing
like an ignorant deacon, and talking all sorts of nonsense, and
now you've written -- this slavish drivel here! While I, while
I! Look at me. . . . No elasticity, no boldness, no strength of
will; I tremble over every step I take as though I should be
flogged for it. I am timid before nonentities, idiots, brutes,
who are immeasurably my inferiors mentally and morally; I am
afraid of porters, doorkeepers, policemen, gendarmes. I am
afraid of every one, because I was born of a mother who was
terrified, and because from a child I was beaten and frightened!
. . . You and I will do well to have no children. Oh, God, grant
that this distinguished merchant family may die with us!"
Yulia Sergeyevna came into the study and sat down at the table.
"Are you arguing about something here?" she asked. "Am I
interrupting?"
"No, little sister," answered Fyodor. "Our discussion was of
principles. Here, you are abusing the family," he added, turning
to his brother. "That family has created a business worth a
million, though. That stands for something, anyway!"
"A great distinction -- a business worth a million! A man with
no particular brains, without abilities, by chance becomes a
trader, and then when he has grown rich he goes on trading from
day to day, with no sort of system, with no aim, without having
any particular greed for money. He trades mechanically, and
money comes to him of itself, without his going to meet it. He
sits all his life at his work, likes it only because he can
domineer over his clerks and get the better of his customers.
He's a churchwarden because he can domineer over the choristers
and keep them under his thumb; he's the patron of a school
because he likes to feel the teacher is his subordinate and
enjoys lording it over him. The merchant does not love trading,
he loves dominating, and your warehouse is not so much a
commercial establishment as a torture chamber! And for a
business like yours, you want clerks who have been deprived of
individual character and personal life -- and you make them such
by forcing them in childhood to lick the dust for a crust of
bread, and you've trained them from childhood to believe that
you are their benefactors. No fear of your taking a university
man into your warehouse!"
"University men are not suitable for our business."
"That's not true," cried Laptev. "It's a lie!"
"Excuse me, it seems to me you spit into the well from which you
drink yourself," said Fyodor, and he got up. "Our business is
hateful to you, yet you make use of the income from it."
"Aha! We've spoken our minds," said Laptev, and he laughed,
looking angrily at his brother. "Yes, if I didn't belong to your
distinguished family -- if I had an ounce of will and courage, I
should long ago have flung away that income, and have gone to
work for my living. But in your warehouse you've destroyed all
character in me from a child! I'm your product."
Fyodor looked at the clock and began hurriedly saying good-bye.
He kissed Yulia's hand and went out, but instead of going into
the hall, walked into the drawing-room, then into the bedroom.
"I've forgotten how the rooms go," he said in extreme confusion.
"It's a strange house. Isn't it a strange house!"
He seemed utterly overcome as he put on his coat, and there was
a look of pain on his face. Laptev felt no more anger; he was
frightened, and at the same time felt sorry for Fyodor, and the
warm, true love for his brother, which seemed to have died down
in his heart during those three years, awoke, and he felt an
intense desire to express that love.
"Come to dinner with us to-morrow, Fyodor," he said, and stroked
him on the shoulder. "Will you come?"
"Yes, yes; but give me some water."
Laptev ran himself to the dining-room to take the first thing he
could get from the sideboard. This was a tall beer-jug. He
poured water into it and brought it to his brother. Fyodor began
drinking, but bit a piece out of the jug; they heard a crunch,
and then sobs. The water ran over his fur coat and his jacket,
and Laptev, who had never seen men cry, stood in confusion and
dismay, not knowing what to do. He looked on helplessly while
Yulia and the servant took off Fyodor's coat and helped him back
again into the room, and went with him, feeling guilty.
Yulia made Fyodor lie down on the sofa and knelt beside him.
"It's nothing," she said, trying to comfort him. "It's your
nerves. . . ."
"I'm so miserable, my dear!" he said. "I am so unhappy, unhappy
. . . but all the time I've been hiding it, I've been hiding
it!"
He put his arm round her neck and whispered in her ear:
"Every night I see my sister Nina. She comes and sits in the
chair near my bed. . . ."
When, an hour later, he put on his fur coat in the hall, he was
smiling again and ashamed to face the servant. Laptev went with
him to Pyatnitsky Street.
"Come and have dinner with us to-morrow," he said on the way,
holding him by the arm, "and at Easter we'll go abroad together.
You absolutely must have a change, or you'll be getting quite
morbid."
When he got home Laptev found his wife in a state of great
nervous agitation. The scene with Fyodor had upset her, and she
could not recover her composure. She wasn't crying but kept
tossing on the bed, clutching with cold fingers at the quilt, at
the pillows, at her husband's hands. Her eyes looked big and
frightened.
"Don't go away from me, don't go away," she said to her husband.
"Tell me, Alyosha, why have I left off saying my prayers? What
has become of my faith? Oh, why did you talk of religion before
me? You've shaken my faith, you and your friends. I never pray
now."
He put compresses on her forehead, chafed her hands, gave her
tea to drink, while she huddled up to him in terror. . . .
Towards morning she was worn out and fell asleep, while Laptev
sat beside her and held her hand. So that he could get no sleep.
The whole day afterwards he felt shattered and dull, and
wandered listlessly about the rooms without a thought in his
head.
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