CHAPTER I

It had never occurred to Arina Petrovna that there might come a time when she would become "one mouth too many." Now that moment had stolen upon her just when for the first time in her life her physical and moral strength was undermined. Such moments always arrive suddenly. Though one may long have been on the verge of breaking down, one may still hold out and stave off the end, till suddenly the last blow strikes from a quarter least expected. To be aware of its approach and dodge it, is difficult. One has to resign oneself without complaint, for it is the very blow that in an instant shatters one who till recently has been hale and healthy.

When Arina Petrovna took up her abode in Dubrovino, after having broken with Yudushka, she had labored under great difficulties. But then, at least, she had known that Pavel Vladimirych, though looking askance at her intrusion, was still a well-to-do man to whom another morsel meant little. Now things were very different. She stood at the head of a household that counted every crumb. And she knew the value of crumbs, having spent all her life in the country in constant intercourse with peasants and having assimilated the peasant's notions of the harm a "superfluous mouth" does to a house in which stores are already scanty.

Nevertheless, in the first days after the removal to Pogorelka, she still maintained her usual attitude, busied herself with putting things in shape in the new place, and exercised her former clarity of judgment in household management. But the affairs of the estate were troublesome and petty, and demanded her constant personal supervision; and though on first thought she did not see much sense in keeping accurate accounts in a place where farthings are put together to make up kopek pieces and these in turn to make ten-kopek pieces, she was soon forced to admit that she had been wrong in this. To be sure, there really was no sense in keeping careful accounts; but the point was, she no longer possessed her former industry and strength. Then, too, it was autumn, the busiest time of reckoning up accounts and taking inventories, and the incessant bad weather imposed inevitable limits to Arina Petrovna's energy. Ailments of old age came upon her and prevented her from leaving the house. The long dreary fall evenings set in and doomed her to enforced idleness. The old woman was all upset and exerted herself to the utmost, but succeeded in accomplishing nothing.

Another thing. She could not help noticing that something queer was coming over the orphans. They suddenly became dull and dispirited and were agitated by some vague plans for the future, plans in which notions of work were interspersed with notions of pleasures of the most innocent kind, of course--reminiscences of the boarding-school where they had been brought up, mingled with stray notions about men of toil, which they retained from their fragmentary reading, and timid hopes of clutching at some thread through their boarding-school connections, and so entering the bright kingdom of human life. One tormenting hope stood out definitely from the other vague longings, to leave hateful Pogorelka at whatever costs.

And at length one fine day Anninka and Lubinka actually announced to grandma that they simply could not stay at Pogorelka a moment longer; they led a beastly life there, met nobody but the priest, and he, when he met them, felt it incumbent upon him to tell of the virgins who had extinguished their lamps. It wasn't right, it wasn't fair.

The girls spoke sharply, afraid of their grandmother and simulating courage in order to overcome the anger and resistance they expected. But to their surprise Arina Petrovna listened without anger, without even a disposition toward the useless sermonizing that impotent old age is so given to.

Alas, she was no longer that dominating woman who used to say so confidently: "I am going to Khotkov and will take the little orphans with me." The change was due, not to senile impotence alone, but also to an acquired sense of something better and truer. The last buffets of fortune had not only tamed Arina Petrovna; they had also lighted up some corners of her mental horizon into which her thoughts evidently had never before entered. Now, she knew, there were certain forces in the human being that can remain dormant a long while, but once awakened, they carry one irresistibly on to the glimmering ray of life, that cheering ray for whose appearance one's eyes have been yearning so long amidst the hopeless darkness of the present. Once realizing the legitimacy of such a striving, she was powerless to oppose it. It is true, she tried to dissuade her granddaughters from their purpose, but feebly, without conviction. She was uneasy about the future in store for them; all the more so since she herself had no connections in so-called "society." Yet she felt that the parting with the girls was a proper and inevitable thing. What would become of them? frequently pressed on her mind; but she was now fully aware that neither this question nor others more terrible would restrain one who was struggling for release from captivity.

The girls insisted on one thing, on shaking the dust of Pogorelka from their feet. And finally, after some hesitating and postponing to please grandmother, they left.

The Pogorelka manor-house was now steeped in a forlorn quiet. Self-centered as Arina Petrovna was by nature, yet the proximity of human breath had its calming effect even upon her. For the first time, perhaps, she felt that something had torn itself away from her being, and the freedom with which she herself was now confronted was so boundless that all she saw was empty space. To hide the void from her eyes, she ordered the state-rooms and the attic where the orphans had lived to be nailed up.

"Incidentally, there will be less firewood burned," she said to herself.

She retained only two rooms, in one of which a large ikon case with images was stowed away. The other was a combined bedroom, study and dining-room. For the sake of economy she dismissed her retinue of servants, retaining only her housekeeper Afimyushka, an old, broken-down woman, and Markovna, one-eyed, the soldier's wife, who did the cooking and washing.

All these precautions, however, were of little help. The sensation of emptiness was not slow to penetrate into the two rooms that were meant to be guarded from it. Helpless solitude and dreary idleness were the two enemies Arina Petrovna now confronted. And she was to be bound to these two enemies the rest of her days. Physical and mental disintegration were not slow to follow in the wake of loneliness and idleness, and the less the resistance, the crueller, the more destructive its work.

Days dragged on in the oppressive monotony peculiar to rural life when there are no comforts or there is no executive work to be done, and there is no material for mental occupation. In addition to the external causes at work to take the management of household affairs away from her, was an inner aversion that Arina Petrovna now felt to the petty cares and bustle coming at the sunset of her life. Perhaps she would have overcome her repugnance had she had an aim in view to justify her efforts, but that very aim was wanting. Everybody was sick and weary of her, and she was sick and weary of everybody and everything. Her feverish activity of old suddenly yielded to idleness, and idleness little by little corrupted her will and induced propensities of which Arina Petrovna could never have dreamed only a few months ago.

The strong, reserved woman, whom no one would have thought of calling old, turned into a wreck of her former self. There was neither past nor future for her, but only the immediate moment to live through. The greater part of the day she dozed, sitting in an easy-chair by the table, on which ill-smelling cards were arranged. She would doze for hours on end. Then her body would shudder convulsively, she would wake up, look out of the window, and for a long time stare into the distance, without a single conscious thought.

Pogorelka was a dreary manor-house. It stood all alone, without orchard or shade, or the least indication of comfort. There was not even a flower garden in front of the house. It was a one-story structure, squat, weather-beaten, all black with age. Back of it were the many out-buildings, also half worn-out, and all around was one vast stretch of fields--fields without end. Not even the glimpse of forest anywhere on the horizon. But from her very childhood Arina Petrovna had hardly ever left the country, and this monotonous landscape did not seem dreary to her. It even appealed to her heart and awakened remnants of emotion still glowing within her. The best part of her being lived in these naked fields, and her gaze sought them instinctively.

She stared at the expanse of fields; she stared at the drenched hamlets making black specks on the landscape; she stared at the white churches of the rural parishes; she stared at the motley spots that the cloud shadows formed on the plains; she stared at the peasant unknown to her who walked along the ploughed furrows, and she thought him slow and stiff. While staring, she had no conscious thoughts, or, rather, her thoughts were so fragmentary and disconnected that they could not stay with any one thing for even a short time. She just gazed, gazed till senile slumber again hummed dully in her ears, and the fields, the churches, the hamlets and the peasant in the distance became wrapped in mist.

At times, apparently, she recollected something; but the memories of the past came incoherently, in fragments. Her attention could not concentrate on one point. It jumped from one remote memory to another. Yet sometimes she would be struck by something singular, not joy--her past was very scant in joys--but some grievance, some abuse, bitter and unbearable. Then sudden anger would flare up, anguish would creep into her heart, and tears come to her eyes. She would weep grievously, painfully, the weeping of piteous old age, when tears flow as if under the load of a nightmare. But even while her tears were flowing, her mind unconsciously continued to work in its usual way, and her thoughts drifted imperceptibly away from the cause of her mood, so that in a few minutes the old woman was wondering what had been the matter with her.

Altogether, she lived as if not participating in life personally, but solely because in those ruins there were still left a few odds and ends which had to be collected, recorded, and accounted for. While these odds and ends were present, life went its way compelling the ruin to perform all the external functions necessary to keep that half-asleep existence from crumbling to dust.

But if the days passed in unconscious slumber, the nights were sheer torment. At night Arina Petrovna was _afraid;_ she was afraid of thieves, of ghosts, of devils, of all that was the product of her education and life. And the defenses of the place were very poor, for beside the two tottering women domestics Pogorelka had a night-watch in the person of the lame little peasant Fedoseyushka, who for two rubles a month came from the village to guard the manor-house, and usually slept in the vestibule, coming out at the appointed hours to strike the steel plate. In the cattle-yard, it is true, there lived a few farm hands, men and women, but the cattle house was about fifty yards away and it was not easy to summon any one from there.

There is something exceedingly dreary and oppressive in a sleepless night in the country. At nine, or at latest ten o'clock, life ceases. A weird stillness sets in that is full of terrors. There is nothing to do, and it is a waste to burn candles. Willy-nilly one must go to bed. As soon as the samovar was removed from the table Afimyushka, from an old habit acquired during serfdom, spread a felt blanket in front of the door leading to the mistress's bedroom, scratched her head, yawned, flopped down on the floor, and fell dead asleep. Markovna always fumbled in the maids' room a trifle longer, muttering something to herself as if scolding somebody. But at last she, too, got quiet, and a moment later you could hear her snoring and raving intermittently. The watchman banged on the plate several times to announce his presence, then kept quiet for a long time. Arina Petrovna, sitting in front of a snuffy tallow candle, tried to stave off sleep by playing "patience," but scarcely did she have the cards arranged when she fell into a doze.

"It is as easy as not for a fire to start while one is asleep," she would say to herself, and decide to go to bed. But no sooner did she sink into the down pillows than another trouble set in. Her sleepiness, so inviting and insistent all evening long, now left her completely. The room was a close one at the best, and now, from the open flue the heat came thick, and the down pillows were insufferable. Arina Petrovna tossed restlessly. She wanted to call someone, but knew no one would come in answer to her summons. A mysterious quiet reigned all around, a quiet in which the delicate ear could distinguish a multitude of sounds. Now something crackled somewhere, now a whining was audible, now it seemed as if somebody were walking through the corridor, now a puff of wind swept through the room and even touched her face. The ikon lamp burned in front of an image, and the light gave the objects in the room a kind of elusiveness, as if they were not actual things, but only the contours of things. Another bit of light strayed from the open door of the adjacent room, where four or five ikon lamps were burning before the image case. A mouse squeaked behind the wall paper. "Sh-sh-sh, you nasty thing," said Arina Petrovna, and all was silent again. And shadows again, whisperings again coming from no one knew where. The greater part of the night passed in that half-awake senile slumber. Real sleep did not set in and do its work until nearly morning. By six o'clock Arina Petrovna was already on her feet, tired out after a sleepless night.

Other things to add to the misery of this miserable existence of Arina Petrovna's were the poor food she ate and the discomfort of her home. She ate little and used poor food, wishing, probably, to make up for the loss caused by insufficient supervision. And the Pogorelka manor-house was dilapidated and damp. The room into which Arina Petrovna locked herself was never ventilated and remained without cleaning for weeks on end. In this complete helplessness and the absence of all comfort and care, decrepitude began slowly to set in. But her desire to live grew stronger, or, rather, her desire for "a dainty bit" asserted itself. With this came coupled a total absence of the thought of death. Previously, she had been afraid of death; now she seemed to have quite forgotten about it. And with ideals of life differing but little from a peasant's, her conception of a "comfortable life" was of rather a base kind. Everything she had formerly denied herself, dainties, rest, association with wide-awake people, now forced itself upon her in an insistent craving. All the propensities of a regular sponger and hanger-on, idle talk, subservience for the sake of a prospective gift, gluttony, grew in her with astounding rapidity. Like the servants, she fed on cabbage-soup and cured bacon of doubtful quality, and at the same time dreamed of the stores of provisions at Golovliovo, of the German carps that swarmed in the Dubrovino ponds, of the mushrooms that filled the Golovliovo woods, of the fowl that fattened in the Golovliovo poultry-yard.

"Some soup with giblets, or some garden-cress in cream would not be a bad thing," would cross her mind so vividly that her mouth watered. At night when she tossed about rigid with fright at the least rustling, she would think: "Yes, at Golovliovo the locks are secure and the watchmen reliable. They keep banging on the steel plates all the time, and you can sleep in perfect safety." During the day, from sheer lack of human companionship, she was compelled to be silent for hours, and during these spells of compulsory taciturnity, she could not help thinking: "At Golovliovo there are lots of people. There you can talk your troubles away." In fact, Golovliovo kept constantly recurring to her mind, and the reminiscences of her former estate became a radiant spot in which "comfortable living" concentrated itself.

The more frequently the vision of Golovliovo came back to her mind, the stronger became her will to live again, and the farther the deadly affronts she had recently sustained sank into oblivion. The Russian woman, by the very nature of her life and bringing-up, too quickly acquiesces in the lot of a hanger-on. Even Arina Petrovna did not escape that fate, though her past, it would seem, should have tended to warn and guard her against such a yoke. Had she not made a mistake "at that time," had she not portioned out her estate to her sons, had she not trusted Yudushka, she would to this very day have been a harsh, exacting old woman, with everybody under her thumb. But since the mistake was fatal, the transition from a testy, arbitrary mistress to an obedient, obsequious parasite was only a matter of time. As long as she still retained remnants of former vigor, the change was not evident, but as soon as she realized that she was irrevocably doomed to helplessness and solitude, all the pusillanimous propensities began to make their way into her soul, and her will, already weakened, became completely shattered. Yudushka, who used to be received most coldly when he visited Pogorelka, suddenly ceased to be hateful to her. The old injuries were somehow forgotten, and Arina Petrovna was the first to court intimacy.

It began with begging. Messengers from Pogorelka would come to Yudushka, at first rarely, but then with increasing frequency. Now there had been a poor crop of garden-cress at Pogorelka, now the rains had ruined the gherkins, now the turkey-poults had died--there's freedom for you! And then it came to: "Would you mind, my dear friend, ordering some German carps caught in Dubrovino? My late son Pavel never refused them to me." Yudushka frowned, but thought it best not to show open displeasure. The carps were an item, to be sure, but he was filled with terror at the thought that his mother might put her curse upon him. He well remembered her once saying: "I will come to Golovliovo, order the church opened, call in the priest and shout: 'I curse you!'" It was the recollection of this that held him back from many dastardly acts that quite accorded with his nature. But in fulfilling the wish of his "mother dear" he did not omit to hint casually to the people around him that God had ordained that every man bear his cross, and that He did so not without divine purpose, for he who bears not his cross wanders from the righteous path and becomes corrupted. To his mother he wrote: "I am sending you some gherkins, mother dear, as many as my resources allow. As to the turkeys, I am sorry to inform you that besides those left for breeding, there remain only turkey-cocks, which in view of their size and the limited needs of your table are quite useless to you. And will it not be your pleasure to let me welcome you to Golovliovo and share my paltry viands with you? Then we can have one of those idlers (idlers, indeed, for my cook Matvey caponizes them most skilfully) roasted, and you and I, my dearest friend, shall feast on him to our heart's content."

From that day Arina Petrovna became a frequent guest at Golovliovo. Assisted by Yudushka she tasted of turkeys and ducks; she slept her fill both by night and by day, and after dinner she eased her heart with copious small talk, in which Yudushka was proficient by nature, she proficient because of old age. Her visits were not discontinued even when it reached her ears that Yudushka, weary of solitude, had taken in a damsel named Yevpraksia, from among the clergy, as his housekeeper. On the contrary, she made off right for Golovliovo and before alighting from the carriage called to Yudushka with childish impatience: "Well, well, you old sinner, let's see your queen, let's see your queen." That entire day she spent most pleasurably, because Yevpraksia herself waited upon her at table and made her bed after dinner, and because in the evening she played fool with Yudushka and his queen.

Yudushka himself was pleased with this dénouement, and in token of filial gratitude ordered a pound of caviar, among other things, to be put into Arina Petrovna's carriage as she was about to depart. That was the highest token of esteem, for caviar is not a home product; one has to buy it. The courtesy so touched the old woman that she could refrain no longer and said: "Well, I do thank you for this. And God, too, will love you, because you cherish and sustain your mother in her old age. Now, when I get back to Pogorelka, I shall not be bored any more. I always did like caviar. Well, thanks to you, I'll have a dainty morsel now."