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.