Part 5

The prince lived in this way on his estate at Pneestcheva for more than two years. Then the Tsar sent out his manifesto granting freedom to the serfs, and there commenced a time of alarm and disturbance among the landowners. Many of them were not at all pleased about it, and sat at home on their far-away estates and took to writing reports on the matter. Others, more avaricious and far-sighted, were on the watch with the freed peasants, trying to turn everything to their own advantage. And some were very much afraid of a rising of the peasants, and applied to the authorities for any kind of troops to defend their estates.

When the manifesto arrived, Prince Andrey called his peasants together and explained the matter to them in very simple words, without any insinuations. "You," he said, "are now free, as free as I am. And this is a good thing to have happened. But don't use your freedom to do wrong, because the authorities will always keep an eye on you. And, remember, that as I have helped you in the past I shall continue to do so. And take as much land as you can cultivate for your ransom."

Then he suddenly left the place and went off to Petersburg.

I think you know very well what happened at that time, gentlemen, both in Moscow and in Petersburg. The aristocracy turned up immediately, with piles of money, and went on the spree. The farmers and the holders of concessions and the bankers had amazed all Russia, but they were only as children or puppies in comparison with the landowners. It's terrible to think what took place. Many a time a man's whole fortune was thrown to the winds for one supper.

Prince Andrey fell into this very whirlpool, and began to whirl about. Added to that, he fell in again with his old regimental friends, and then he let himself go altogether. However, he didn't stay long in Petersburg, for he was quickly forced to leave the city against his will. It was all because of some horses.

V

He was having supper one evening with his officer friends in one of the most fashionable restaurants. They had had very much to drink, champagne above all. Suddenly the talk turned on horses--it's well known to be an eternal subject of conversation with officers--as to who owned the most spirited team in Petersburg. One Cossack--I don't remember his name, I only know that he was one of the reigning princes in the Caucasus--said that at that time the most spirited horses were a pair of black stallions belonging to ----, and he named a lady in an extremely high position.

"They are not horses," said he, "but wild things. It's only Ilya who can manage them, and they won't allow themselves to be out-distanced."

But Prince Andrey laughed at this.

"I'd pass them with my bays."

"No, you wouldn't," said the Cossack.

"Yes, I would."

"You wouldn't race them."

"Yes, I would."

"Well, in that case," said the Cossack, "we'll lay a wager about it at once."

And the wager was laid. It was agreed that if Prince Andrey were put to shame he should give the Cossack his pair of bay horses, and with them a sledge and a carriage with silver harness, and if the prince got in front of Ilya's team, then the Cossack would buy up all the tickets in the theatre for an opera when Madame Barba was to sing, so that they could walk about in the gallery and not allow anyone else in the theatre. At that time Madame Barba had captivated all the _beau-monde._

Very well, then. On the next day, when the prince woke up, he ordered the bay horses to be put into the carriage. The horses were not very much to look at, hairy country horses, but they were sufficiently fast goers; the most important thing about them was that they liked to get in front of other horses, and they were exceptionally long-winded.

As soon as his companions saw that the prince was really in earnest about the matter, they tried to dissuade him. "Give up this wager," urged they, "you can't escape getting into some trouble over it." But the prince would not listen, and ordered his coachman, Bartholomew, to be called.

The coachman, Bartholomew, was a gloomy and, so to speak, absent-minded man. God had endowed him with such extraordinary strength that he could even stop a troika when the horses were going at full gallop. The horses would fall back on their hind legs. He drank terribly, had no liking for conversation with anyone, and, though he adored the prince with all his soul, he was rude and supercilious towards him, so that he sometimes had to receive a flogging. The prince called Bartholomew to him and said: "Do you think, Bartholomew, you could race another pair of horses with our bays?"

"Which pair?" asked Bartholomew.

The prince told him which horses they were. Bartholomew scratched the back of his head.

"I know that pair," he said, "and I know Ilya, their driver, pretty well. He's a dangerous man. However, if your Excellency wishes it, we can race them. Only, if the bay horses are ruined, don't be angry."

"Very well," said the prince. "And now, how much vodka shall we pour down your throat?"

But Bartholomew wouldn't have any vodka.

"I can't manage the horses if I'm drunk," said he.

The prince got in the carriage, and they started. They took up their position at the end of the Nevsky Prospect, and waited. It was known beforehand that the important personage would drive out at midday. And so it happened. At twelve o'clock the pair of black horses were seen. Ilya was driving, and the lady was in the sledge.

The prince let them just get in front, and then he said to the coachman:

"Drive away!"

Bartholomew let the horses go. As soon as Ilya heard the tramping of the horses behind, he turned round; the lady looked round also. Ilya gave his horses the reins, and Bartholomew also whipped up his. But the owner of the blacks was a woman of an ardent and fearless temperament, and she had a passion for horses. She said to Ilya, "Don't dare to let that scoundrel pass us!"

What began to happen then I can't describe. Both the coachmen and the horses were as if mad; the snow rose up above them in clouds as they raced along. At first the blacks seemed to be gaining, but they couldn't last out for a long time, they got tired. The prince's horses went ahead. Near the railway station, Prince Andrey jumped out of his carriage, and the personage threatened him angrily with her finger.

Next day the governor of Petersburg--His Serene Highness Prince Suvorof--sent for the prince, and said to him:

"You must leave Petersburg at once, prince. If you're not punished and made an example of, it's only because the lady whom you treated in such a daring fashion yesterday has a great partiality for bold and desperate characters. And she knows also about your wager. But don't put your foot in Petersburg again, and thank the Lord that you've got off so cheaply."

But, gentlemen, I've been gossiping about Prince Andrey and I haven't yet touched on what I promised to tell you. However, I'm soon coming to the end of my story. And, though it has been in rather a disjointed fashion, I have described the personality of the prince as best I can.

VI

After his famous race the prince went off to Moscow, and there continued to behave as he had done in Petersburg, only on a larger scale. At one time the whole town talked of nothing but his caprices. And it was there that something happened to him which caused all the folks at Pneestcheva to mock. A woman came into his life.

But I must tell you what sort of a woman she was. A queen of women! There are none like her in these days. Of a most marvellous beauty.... She had formerly been an actress, then she had married a merchant millionaire, and when he died--she didn't want to marry anyone else--she said that she preferred to be free.

What specially attracted the prince to her was her carelessness. She didn't wish to know anyone, neither rich nor illustrious people, and she seemed to think nothing of her own great wealth. As soon as Prince Andrey saw her he fell in love with her. He was used to having women run after him, and so he had very little respect for them. But in this case the lady paid him no special attention at all. She was gay and affable, she accepted his bouquets and his presents, but directly he spoke of his feelings she laughed at him. The prince was stung by this treatment. He nearly went out of his mind.

Once the prince went with Marya Gavrilovna--that was the lady's name--to the _Yar,_ to hear some gipsy singers. The party numbered fifteen. At that time the prince was surrounded and fawned upon by a whole crowd of hangers-on--his Belonogof company, as he called them--his own name was Belonogof. They were all seated at a table drinking wine, and the gipsies were singing and dancing. Suddenly, Marya Gavrilovna wanted to smoke. She took a _packetoska_--the sort of twisted straw cigarette they used to smoke in those days--and looked round for a light. The prince noticed this, and in a moment he pulled out a bank-note for a thousand roubles, lighted it at a candle and handed it to her. Everybody in the company exclaimed; the gipsies even stopped singing, and their eyes gleamed with greed. And then someone at a neighbouring table said, not very loudly, but with sufficient distinctness, "Fool!"

The prince jumped up as if he had been shot. At the other table sat a small sickly-looking man, who looked straight at the prince in the calmest manner possible. The prince went over to him at once.

"How dare you call me a fool? Who are you?"

The little man regarded him very coolly.

"I," said he, "am the artist Rozanof. And I called you a fool because, with that money you burnt just to show off, you might have paid for the support of four sick people in the hospital for a whole year."

Everybody sat and waited for what would happen. The unrestrained character of the prince was well known. Would he at once chastise the little man, or call him out to a duel, or simply order him to be whipped?

But, after a little silence, the prince suddenly turned to the artist with these unexpected words:

"You're quite right, Mr. Rozanof. I did indeed act as a fool before this crowd. But now if you don't at once give me your hand, and accept five thousand roubles for the Marinskaya Hospital, I shall be deeply offended."

And Rozanof answered: "I'll take the money, and I'll give you my hand with equal pleasure."

Then Marya Gavrilovna whispered to the prince, "Ask the artist to come and talk to us, and send away these friends of yours."

The prince turned politely to Rozanof and begged him to join them, and then he turned to the officers and said, "Be off with you!"

VII

From that time the prince and Rozanof were bound together in a close friendship. They couldn't spend a day without seeing one another. Either the artist came to visit the prince or Prince Andrey went to see the artist. Rozanof was living then in two rooms on the fourth floor of a house in Mestchanskaya Street--one he used as a studio, the other was his bedroom. The prince invited the artist to come and live with him, but Rozanof refused. "You are very dear to me," said he, "but in wealthy surroundings I might be idle and forget my art." So he wouldn't make any change.

They were interested in everything that concerned one another. Rozanof would begin to talk of painting, of various pictures, of the lives of great artists--and the prince would listen and not utter a word. Then afterwards he would tell about his adventures in wild countries, and the artist's eyes would glisten.

"Wait a little," he would say. "I think I shall soon paint a great picture. Then I shall have plenty of money, and we'll go abroad together."

"But why do you want money?" asked the prince. "If you like, we can go to-morrow. Everything I have I will share with you."

But the artist remained firm.

"No, wait a little," said he. "I'll paint the picture and then we can talk about it."

There was a real friendship between them. It was even marvellous--for Rozanof had such an influence over the prince that he restrained him from many of the impetuous and thoughtless actions to which, with his fiery temperament, he was specially prone.

VIII

The prince's love for Marya Gavrilovna did not become less, it even increased in fervency, but he had no success with the lady. He pressed his hands to his heart, and went down on his knees to her many times, but she had only one answer for him: "But what can I do if I don't love you?" "Well, don't love me," said the prince; "perhaps you will love me by and by, but I can't be happy without you." Then she would say, "I'm very sorry for you, but I can't help your unhappiness." "You love someone else, perhaps," said the prince. "Perhaps I love someone else," said she, and she laughed.

The prince grew very sad about it. He would lie at home on the sofa, gloomy and silent, turn his face to the wall, and even refuse to take any food. Everybody in the house went about on tip-toe.... One day Rozanof called when the prince was in this state, and he too looked out of sorts. He came into the prince's room, said "Good morning," and nothing more. They were both silent. At length the artist pulled himself together and said to the prince, "Listen, Andrey Lvovitch. I'm very sorry that with my friendly hand I have got to deal you a blow."

The prince, who was lying with his face to the wall, said, "Please come straight to the point without any introduction."

Then the artist explained what he meant.

"Marya Gavrilovna is going to live with me as my wife," said he.

"You're going out of your mind," said the prince.

"No," said the artist, "I'm not going out of my mind. I have loved Marya Gavrilovna for a long time, but I never dared tell her so. But to-day she said to me: 'Why do we hide things from one another? I've seen for a long time that you love me, and I also love you. I won't marry you, but we can live together....'"

The artist told the whole story, and the prince lay on the sofa neither moving nor saying a word. Rozanof sat there and looked at him, and presently he went quietly away.

IX

However, after a week, the prince overcame his feelings, though it cost him a good deal, for his hair had begun to turn grey. He went to Rozanof and said:

"I see love can't be forced, but I don't want to lose my only friend for the sake of a woman."

Rozanof put his arms about his friend and wept. And Marya Gavrilovna gave him her hand--she was there at the time--and said:

"I admire you very much, Andrey Lvovitch, and I also want to be your friend."

Then the prince was quite cheered up, and his face brightened. "Confess now," said he, "if Rozanof hadn't called me a fool that time in the Yar, you wouldn't have fallen in love with him?"

She only smiled.

"That's very probable," said she.

Then, in another week, something else happened. Prince Andrey came in one day, dull and absent-minded. He spoke of one thing and another, but always as if he had some persistent idea in the background. The artist, who knew his character, asked what was the matter.

"Oh, nothing," said the prince.

"Well, but all the same, what is it?"

"Oh, it's nothing, I tell you. The stupid bank in which my money is...."

"Well?"

"It's failed. And now I've nothing of all my property except what I have here with me."

"Oh, that's really nothing," said Rozanof, and he at once called Marya Gavrilovna, and they had the upper part of their house put in order so that the prince might come and live with them.

X

So the prince settled down to live with Rozanof. He used to lie on the sofa all day, read French novels and polish his nails. But he soon got tired of this, and one day he said to his friend:

"Do you know, I once learnt to paint!"

Rozanof was surprised. "No, did you?"

"Yes, I did. I can even show you some of my pictures."

Rozanof looked at them, and then he said:

"You have very good capabilities, but you have been taught in a stupid school."

The prince was delighted.

"Well," he asked, "if I began to study now, do you think I should ever paint anything good?"

"I think it's very probable indeed."

"Even if I've been an idler up till now?"

"Oh, that's nothing. You can overcome it by work."

"When my hair is grey?"

"That doesn't matter either. Other people have begun later than you. If you like, I'll give you lessons myself."

So they began to work together. Rozanof could only marvel at the great gift for painting which the prince displayed. And the prince was so taken up by his work that he never wanted to leave it, and had to be dragged away by force.

Five months passed. Then, one day, Rozanof came to the prince and said:

"Well, my colleague, you are ripening in your art, and you already understand what a drawing is and the school. Formerly you were a savage, but now you have developed a refined taste. Come with me and I will show you the picture I once gave you a hint about. Until now I've kept it a secret from everybody, but now I'll show you, and you can tell me your opinion of it."

He led the prince into his studio, placed him in a corner from whence he could get a good view, and drew a curtain which hung in front of the picture. It represented St. Barbara washing the sores on the feet of lepers.

The prince stood for a long time and looked at the picture, and his face became gloomy as if it had been darkened.

"Well, what do you think of it?" asked Rozanof.

"This----" answered the prince, with rancour, "that I shall never touch a paint-brush again."

XI

Rozanof's picture was the outcome of the highest inspiration and art. It showed St. Barbara kneeling before the lepers and bathing their terrible feet, her face radiant and joyful, and of an unearthly beauty. The lepers looked at her in prayerful ecstasy and inexpressible gratitude. The picture was a marvel. Rozanof had designed it for an exhibition, but the newspapers proclaimed its fame beforehand. The public flocked to the artist's studio. People came, looked at St. Barbara and the lepers, and stood there for an hour or more. And even those who knew nothing about art were moved to tears. An English-man, who was in Moscow at the time, a Mr. Bradley, offered fifteen thousand roubles for the picture as soon as he looked at it. Rozanof, however, would not agree to sell it.

But something strange was happening to the prince at that time. He went about with a sullen look, seemed to get thinner, and talked to no one. He took to drink. Rozanof tried to get him to talk, but he only got rude answers, and when the public had left the studio, the prince would seat himself before the easel and remain there for hours, immovable, gazing at the holy Barbara, gazing....

So it went on for more than a fortnight, and then something unexpected happened--to tell the truth, something dreadful.

Rozanof came home one day and asked if Prince Andrey were in. The servant said that the prince had gone out very early that morning, and had left a note.

The artist took the note and read it. And this was what was written. "Forgive my terrible action. I was mad, and in a moment I have repented of my deed. I am going away, never to return, because I haven't strength to kill myself." The note was signed with his name.

Then the artist understood it all. He rushed into his studio and found his divine work lying on the floor, torn to pieces, trampled upon, cut into shreds with a knife....

Then he began to weep, and said:

"I'm not sorry for the picture, but for him. Why couldn't he tell me what was in his mind? I would have sold the picture at once, or given it away to someone."

But nothing more was ever heard of Prince Andrey, and no one knew how he lived after his mad deed.

VI

HAMLET

I

"HAMLET" was being played.

All tickets had been sold out before the morning of the performance. The play was more than usually attractive to the public because the principal part was to be taken by the famous Kostromsky, who, ten years before, had begun his artistic career with a simple walking-on part in this very theatre, and since then had played in all parts of Russia, and gained a resounding fame such as no other actor visiting the provinces had ever obtained. It was true that, during the last year, people had gossiped about him, and there had even appeared in the Press certain vague and only half-believed rumours about him. It was said that continual drunkenness and debauch had unsettled and ruined Kostromsky's gigantic talent, that only by being "on tour" had he continued to enjoy the fruit of his past successes, that impresarios of the great metropolitan theatres had begun to show less of their former slavish eagerness to agree to his terms. Who knows, there may have been a certain amount of truth in these rumours? But the name of Kostromsky was still great enough to draw the public. For three days in succession, in spite of the increased prices of seats, there had been a long line of people waiting at the box office. Speculative buyers had resold tickets at three, four, and even five times their original value.

The first scene was omitted, and the stage was being prepared for the second. The footlights had not yet been turned up. The scenery of the queen's palace was hanging in strange, rough, variegated cardboard. The stage carpenters were hastily driving in the last nails.

The theatre had gradually filled with people. From behind the curtain could be heard a dull and monotonous murmur.

Kostromsky was seated in front of the mirror in his dressing-room. He had only just arrived, but was already dressed in the traditional costume of the Danish prince; black-cloth buckled shoes, short black velvet jacket with wide lace collar. The theatrical barber stood beside him in a servile attitude, holding a wig of long fair hair.

"He is fat and pants for breath," declaimed Kostromsky, rubbing some cold cream on his palm and beginning to smear his face with it.

The barber suddenly began to laugh.

"What's the matter with you, fool?" asked the actor, not taking his eyes from the mirror.

"Oh, I ... er ... nothing ... er...."

"Well, it's evident you're a fool. They say that I'm too fat and flabby. And Shakspeare himself said that Hamlet was fat and panted for breath. They're all good-for-nothings, these newspaper fellows. They just bark at the wind."

Having finished with the cold cream, Kostromsky put the flesh tints on to his face in the same manner, but looking more attentively into the mirror.

"Yes, make-up is a great thing; but all the same, my face is not what it used to be. Look at the bags under my eyes, and the deep folds round my mouth ... cheeks all puffed out ... nose lost its fine shape. Ah, well, we'll struggle on a bit longer.... Kean drank, Mochalof drank ... hang it all. Let them talk about Kostromsky and say that he's a bloated drunkard. Kostromsky will show them in a moment ... these youngsters ... these water-people ... he'll show them what real talent can do."

"You, Ethiop, have you ever seen me act?" he asked, turning suddenly on the barber.

The man trembled all over with pleasure.

"Mercy on us, Alexander Yevgrafitch.... Yes, I ... O Lord!... is it possible for me not to have seen the greatest, one may say, of Russian artists? Why, in Kazan I made a wig for you with my own hands."

"The devil may know you. I don't remember," said Kostromsky, continuing to make long and narrow lines of white down the length of his nose, "there are so many of you.... Pour out something to drink!"

The barber poured out half a tumblerful of vodka from the decanter on the marble dressing-table, and handed it to Kostromsky.

The actor drank it off, screwed up his face, and spat on the floor.

"You'd better have a little something to eat, Alexander Yevgrafitch," urged the barber persuasively. "If you take it neat ... it goes to your head...."