CHAPTER II

During Lent, when no theatrical performances were given, Anninka came to Golovliovo. Lubinka had been unable to accompany her because she had been engaged for the entire Lent and had gone to Romny, Izum, Kremenchug, etc., where she was to give concerts and sing her entire music-hall repertoire.

During her brief artistic career Anninka had greatly improved in looks. She was no longer the simple, anæmic, somewhat sluggish girl who in Dubrovino or Pogorelka had walked from room to room humming and swaying awkwardly, as if she could not find a place for herself. She was now quite developed, with confident, even dashing manners. At the very first glance one could tell she was quick at repartee. The change in her appearance gave Porfiry Vladimirych a pleasant surprise. Before him stood a tall, well-built woman with a lovely pink complexion, high, well-developed bust, full eyes, and abundant ash-colored hair, which she wore braided low on her neck--a woman evidently aware of her own attractiveness.

She arrived at Golovliovo early in the morning and at once retired to a room, from which she emerged in a splendid silk gown. She entered the dining-room with a swish of her train, manipulating it skilfully among the chairs. Though Yudushka loved God above all, it did not prevent him from having a taste for beautiful and, especially, tall, plump women. So he crossed Anninka first, then kissed her so emphatically on both cheeks, casting queer glances at her bust meanwhile, that Anninka could not refrain from smiling faintly.

They sat down at the tea table. Anninka raised her arms and stretched.

"Oh, uncle, how dull it is here!" she began, yawning slightly.

"There you are! Here only a minute and dull already. You stay with us some time, then we'll see, perhaps you won't find it so dull after all," answered Porfiry Vladimirych, his eyes suddenly taking on an oily glitter.

"No, there isn't an interesting thing here. What is there? Snow all around, no neighbors. Is there a regiment quartered anywhere near here?"

"Yes, there is a regiment and there are neighbors; but, to tell the truth, it doesn't interest me. Yet, if you----"

Porfiry Vladimirych looked at her and did not end his sentence, but coughed. Perhaps he had stopped intentionally, wishing to excite her feminine curiosity. At any rate the same faint smile as before glided over her lips. She leaned her elbows on the table and looked at Yevpraksia fixedly. The, girl all flushed, was drying the glasses, casting sly glances at Anninka with her large, heavy eyes.

"My new housekeeper--very industrious," said Porfiry Vladimirych.

Anninka nodded slightly and began to purr softly:

_"Ah, ah! que j'aime--que j'aime--que j'aime--les mili-mili-mili-taires!"_ and her hips quivered as she sang.

Silence set in, during which Yudushka, his eyes meekly lowered, sipped his tea from a glass.

"My, it's dull!" said Anninka, yawning again.

"It's dull, and it's dull! You never get tired of saying that. You wait a while, stay here a bit longer. We'll order the sleigh set to rights, and you'll ride to your heart's content."

"Uncle, why didn't you become a hussar?"

"Because, my friend, every man has his station ordained by the Lord. Some are to become hussars, others functionaries, others merchants; some are----"

"Oh, yes, and so on, and so forth. Who can keep track of it all? And God ordained all that, did He?"

"Why, yes, my friend, God. And it is not proper to scoff. Do you know what the Scriptures say? 'Without the will of God----'"

"Is it about the hair? Yes, I know that, too. But the trouble is, everybody wears false hair now, and I don't think that was foreseen. By the way, uncle, look what wonderful braids I have! Don't you think they're fine?"

Porfiry Vladimirych came nearer, for some reason, on tiptoe, and fingered her braids for some time. And Yevpraksia, without relaxing her hold on the saucer filled with tea and holding a bit of toast between her teeth, leaned forward and said, "False, I suppose?"

"Oh, no, my own. Some day I'll let my hair down for you, uncle."

"Yes, your hair is fine," said Yudushka, his lips parting in a repulsive smile. Then he recalled that one must turn his back on such temptations and added, "Oh, you hoyden! Always thinking about braids and trains, but you'd never think of inquiring about the main thing, the real thing?"

"Oh, about grandmother? She is dead, isn't she?"

"Yes, my friend, she died. And how she died! Peacefully, calmly, not a soul heard it. That's what I call a worthy end to one's earthly life. She thought of everybody, gave everybody her blessing, called a priest, received her last communion, and suddenly became so calm, so calm! Then she began to sigh. Sighed once, twice, three times, and before we knew it, she was no more."

Yudushka rose, turned toward the ikon, folded his hands, and offered up a prayer. Tears rose to his eyes, so well did he simulate. But Anninka apparently was not of the sentimental kind. It is true she remained pensive for a while but for quite a different reason.

"Do you remember, uncle, how she used to feed my sister and me on sour milk when we were little ones? Not later. Later she was splendid. I mean when she was still rich."

"Oh, well, let bygones be bygones. She fed you on sour milk, but you look none the worse for it, may the Lord be with you. Do you think you would care to visit her grave?"

"Yes, I wouldn't mind."

"But you know, it would be well if you purified yourself first."

"What do you mean, purified?"

"You know--an actress. You think it was easy for the old woman? So before you go to her grave I think you should attend a mass to purify yourself, you know. You see, I'll order a mass early tomorrow morning, and then--Godspeed!"

Absurd as Yudushka's proposition was, it confused Anninka for a minute. But she soon knitted her brows angrily and said sharply:

"No, I'll go now--as I am!"

"Well, I don't know, do as you please. But my advice is: let's attend the mass tomorrow morning, then take tea and have a pair of swift little horses hitched to a pony cart, and then go together. You see, you would become cleansed of your sins, and your grandmother's soul would----"

"Oh, uncle, how foolish you are, though. Lord knows what nonsense you talk. And you even insist on it."

"So you don't like it? Well, don't hold it against me, my dear. I am straight from the shoulder, you know. When it comes to truth, I'll tell it to others and take it from others as well. Though at times it goes against the grain, though truth is hard at times, but I'll always listen to it. And one must listen to it, because--it's the truth. So, my dear. You stay with us a while and live the way we do. Then you'll see that it's better than going with a guitar from fair to fair."

"Heaven knows what you're talking about, uncle. 'With a guitar!'"

"Well, if it isn't a guitar, then it's a bagpipe or something. Besides, you offended me first, called me foolish. So I, an old man, surely have a right to tell you the truth to your face."

"All right, let it be the truth. We won't argue about it. But tell me, please, did grandmother leave anything?"

"Why, of course, she did. But the legitimate heir was present in person."

"That is you. All the better. Was she buried here in Golovliovo?"

"No, near Pogorelka, at the St. Nicholas Church. It was her own wish."

"I'll go. Can I hire horses here, uncle?"

"Why hire? I've got my own. You are not a stranger, I dare say, a niece, my little niece."

Porfiry Vladimirych began to liven up, and put on an _en famille_ grin. "A pony cart, a pair of fine little horses--thank God, I am not poor, I dare say! And wouldn't it be well for me to go with you? We would visit the grave, you see, and then would go to Pogorelka and peep in here and there, and we would think matters over, talk things over--about this and that. Yours is a fine little estate, you know. It has some very good spots."

"No, I'll go alone, I think. Why should you go? By the way, Petenka's dead, too, I hear?"

"Yes, my dear friend, Petenka is dead, too. I am sorry for him in one way, very sorry--to the point of tears; but then--it was all his own fault. He was always disrespectful to his father, that's why God punished him. And what God, in His great wisdom, did, you and I cannot undo."

"Of course, we can't. But what makes me wonder is, why you don't find it too horrible to live."

"Why should I fear? You see how much succor I have all around." Yudushka made a gesture, pointing to the ikons. "Succor here and succor in my study. The ikon room is a veritable paradise. You see how many protectors I have."

"But still, you are always alone. It's frightful."

"And if I am afraid, I fall on my knees, say a prayer, and the fear is all gone. And why be afraid? It's light during the day, and at night I have ikon lamps burning in every room. From outside in the dark it looks as if there were a ball in the house. And what ball? Who are the guests? Holy protectors, God's chosen. Those are my guests!"

"You know, Petenka wrote to us before his death."

"Well, of course, he is a relative. It's a good thing he did not lose his feelings of kinship."

"Yes, he wrote to us. It was after the trial, when sentence had been pronounced. He wrote he had lost three thousand rubles in cards and you would not give him the money. But you are rich, uncle, aren't you?"

"Ah, my dear, it's easy to count money in another man's pocket. Sometimes we think a man has mountains of gold, and when you come closer you see he has barely enough for oil and a candle--not for himself--for God."

"Well, then, we are richer than you. We gave some of our own money and took up a collection among our gentlemen friends. We scraped six hundred rubles together and sent it to him."

"What do you mean 'gentlemen friends?'"

"Oh, uncle, we are actresses, you know. Didn't you yourself suggest that I purify myself?"

"I don't like it when you speak that way."

"What can you do? Whether you like it or not, you can't undo what has been done. According to you, God is in that, too."

"Don't blaspheme at least. You may say anything you want, but don't blaspheme. I won't stand for it. Where did you send the money to?"

"I don't remember. To a little town of some sort. He wrote us the name."

"I didn't know. If there was money, I should have gotten it after his death. It is not possible that he spent it all at once. Well, I don't know, I didn't get any. I suppose the jailers and guards were on to it."

"I'm not asking for it, uncle. I just mentioned it while we were on the subject. It's awful, uncle, for a man to perish on account of three thousand rubles."

"It wasn't all on account of the three thousand. Haven't you something else to say than to keep on repeating 'three thousand, three thousand?' But God----"

Yudushka had got his cue and was about to explain in detail how God--Providence--by unseen ways--and all that, but Anninka unceremoniously yawned and said:

"Oh, uncle, how boring it is here."

This time Porfiry Vladimirych was truly offended and became silent. For a long time they both paced up and down the dining room. Anninka yawned, Porfiry Vladimirych crossed himself at every step. At last the carriage was announced and the usual comedy of seeing relations off began. Golovliov put on his fur coat, went out on the porch, kissed Anninka and shouted to the servants, "Her feet! Wrap up her feet well!" and "What about the blankets, have you taken the blankets along? See you don't forget them!" all the while making signs of the cross in the air.

Anninka visited her grandmother's grave, asked the priest to say the mass, and when the choir began to chant the "Eternal memory," she cried a bit. The background of the ceremony was rather sad. The church near which Arina Petrovna had been buried was of the poorest kind. In some places the plaster had fallen off its walls and exposed large patches of brick. The sound of the bells was feeble and hollow, the priest's robe was threadbare. The cemetery was snowed under, so that the path to the grave had to be shovelled clear. No monument had yet been placed. Nothing but a plain white cross, even without an inscription, marked the grave. The cemetery was in a lonely spot removed from any dwelling. Not far from the church stood the houses of the priest and the church officials and all around the cheerless, snow-covered plains stretched as far as the eye could reach. Here and there one could see brushwood jutting out from the snow. A sharp March wind was sweeping over the churchyard, wafting away the chanting of the churchmen and lashing the priest's robe.

"Who would have thought, madam, that the richest landlady in the district would rest here under this modest cross in our poor parish?" said the priest when he was through with the requiem.

At these words Anninka cried again. She recalled the poet's line: "Where feasts once reigned a hearse now stands!" And the tears kept streaming down her cheeks. Then she went to the priest's house, had tea there, and talked with his wife. Another line came back to her: "And pallid death on all doth stare," and again she wept, long and bitterly.

Nobody had notified the people at Pogorelka that the young lady was coming, so that the rooms were not even heated. Anninka, with her fur coat on, walked through all the rooms, remaining a moment in grandmother's bedroom and the ikon room. In the former she found a bedstead with a heap of soiled, greasy pillows, some without pillow-cases. Scraps of paper lay on the desk in disorder, the floor had not been swept and a thick coat of dust covered everything. Anninka sat down in the easy-chair where her grandmother used to sit, and became lost in thought. At first came up reminiscences of the past; then they were crowded out by images of the present. The former came in the shape of fleeting patches and fragments, pausing in her mind for no more than a moment; the latter were more persistent. It was but a brief while ago that she had longed to flee from Pogorelka and it had seemed a hateful place. Now her heart suddenly filled with a morbid desire to live there again.

"It is quiet here, it is not cozy, and it is unsightly; but it is quiet, so quiet, as if everything around were dead. There is much air and much room."

She looked out over the endless fields and felt a desire to dash straight across them, without aim or purpose, just to breathe fast and feel a pain in her chest. And _there,_ in the half-nomadic life from which she had just escaped and to which she _must_ return--what awaited her there? What had she gained by it? Nothing but recollections of hotels permeated with stench, of an everlasting din coming from the dining and billiard rooms, of unkempt porters, of rehearsals on the stage in the twilight and among the scenes of painted linen, the feel of which was abominable, in the draught and in the dampness. And then, army officers, lawyers, obscene language, and the eternal uproar! What hadn't the men told her! With what obscenity hadn't they touched her! Especially the one with the mustache, with a voice hoarse from drink, inflamed eyes, and a perpetual smell of the stable about him. Lord, what he had told her! Anninka shivered at the very recollection and shut her eyes. Then she came to, sighed, and went into the ikon room. There were now only a few ikons in the image-case, only those which had unquestionably belonged to her mother. The rest of them, her grandmother's, Yudushka, as the legitimate heir, had removed to Golovliovo. The empty spaces where they had stood stared like the hollow eye-sockets in a deathshead. Nor were there any ikon lamps. Yudushka had taken all of them. Only one yellow bit of wax candle stood out, orphan-like, from a miniature tin candlestick that had been forgotten.

"His Excellency wanted to take the image case, too. He was trying to make sure if it really was a part of madam's dowry," reported Afimyushka.

"Well, he could have taken it. Tell me, Afimyushka, did grandma suffer much before she died?"

"No, not much, she was laid up for only a day or so. She just went out, of her own self. She wasn't really sick or anything. She didn't talk either, just mentioned you and your sister once or twice."

"So Porfiry Vladimirych carried off the ikons?"

"Yes, he did. He said they were his mother's personal property. He also took the coach and two cows. From the mistress's papers he gathered, I suppose, that they belonged to your grandmother, not to you. He also wanted to take away a horse, but Fedulych would not give it to him. 'It's our horse,' he said, 'an old-timer in Pogorelka.' So Porfiry Vladimirych left it here. He was afraid."

Anninka walked through the yard, peeped into the servants' quarters, the barn, and the cattle yard. In a swamp of manure stood about twenty lean cows and three horses. She ordered some bread to be brought, saying, "I'll pay for it," and gave every cow a piece of bread.

Then the cattle-house woman invited the young lady into the house. There was a jug of milk on the table, and in the corner near the oven, behind a low wainscot screening, a new-born calf was sheltered.

Anninka tasted some milk, ran to the little calf, kissed his snout, but quickly wiped her lips, saying the calf had a horrid snout, all slabbery. At the end, she produced three yellow bills from her pocketbook, distributed them to the old domestics, and prepared to go.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, while she made herself comfortable in the pony cart, of old Fedulych, who, as the _starosta,_ followed the young owner, with his hands crossed on his breast.

"Well, what can we do? We'll live," answered Fedulych simply.

Anninka became sad again for a moment. There seemed to be irony in Fedulych's words. She waited a while, sighed, and said:

"Well, good-by."

"We thought that you would come back and live with us," said Fedulych.

"No, what's the use? Anyway--you live on!"

Tears flowed from her eyes again and the others cried, too. It seemed peculiar to her; there was nothing to regret in leaving the place, nothing sentimental to remember it by, and yet she was crying. And those people, too. She had not said anything out of the ordinary to them--just the usual questions and answers--and yet their hearts were heavy, they were sorry to see her go. She was seated in the cart, wrapped up and well covered. Everybody heaved a sigh. "Good luck!" came running after her when the cart started. Passing the churchyard she stopped again and went to the grave alone without the ecclesiastics, following the path that had been cleared. It was quite dark, and lights began to appear in the houses of the church officials. She stood there with one hand holding on to the cross rising from the grave. She did not cry, but only swayed slightly, thinking of nothing in particular, unable to formulate any definite thought. But she was unhappy, in every way unhappy. Not because of grandmother, but on her own account. So she stood for a quarter of an hour, and suddenly before her eyes rose the image of Lubinka, who perhaps at that very moment was singing merrily in a rollicking company, somewhere in Kremenchug:

/$ "_Ah, ah, que j'aime, que j'aime! Que j'aime, les mili-mili-mili-taires!"_ $/

She almost broke down. She ran to her cart, seated herself, and ordered the coachman to drive to Golovliovo as fast as possible.