A Lear of the Steppes, etc.. Turgenev Ivan Sergeevich

with a meek grimace; years of hunger were expressed in that reply.

      The carriages rattled up … and we separated. On the way home, no one hindered Souvenir’s chatter and silly tricks, as Kvitsinsky had announced that he was sick of all this ‘wholly superfluous’ unpleasantness, and had set off home before us on foot. In his place, Zhitkov took a seat in our coach. The retired major wore a most dissatisfied expression, and kept twitching his moustaches like a spider.

      ‘Well, your noble Excellency,’ lisped Souvenir, ‘is subordination exploded, eh? Wait a bit and see what will happen! They’ll give you the sack too. Ah, a poor bridegroom you are, a poor bridegroom, an unlucky bridegroom!’

      Souvenir was positively beside himself; while poor Zhitkov could do nothing but twitch his moustaches.

      When I got home I told my mother all I had seen. She heard me to the end, and shook her head several times. ‘It’s a bad business,’ was her comment. ‘I don’t like all these innovations!’

      XV

      Next day Martin Petrovitch came to dinner. My mother congratulated him on the successful conclusion of his project. ‘You are now a free man,’ she said, ‘and ought to feel more at ease.’

      ‘More at ease, to be sure, madam,’ answered Martin Petrovitch, by no means, however, showing in the expression of his face that he really was more at ease. ‘Now I can meditate upon my soul, and make ready for my last hour, as I ought.’

      ‘Well,’ queried my mother, ‘and do the shooting pains still tingle in your arms?’

      Harlov twice clenched and unclenched his left arm. ‘They do, madam; and I’ve something else to tell you. As I begin to drop asleep, some one cries in my head, “Take care!” “Take care!”’

      ‘That’s nerves,’ observed my mother, and she began speaking of the previous day, and referred to certain circumstances which had attended the completion of the deed of partition…

      ‘To be sure, to be sure,’ Harlov interrupted her, ‘there was something of the sort … of no consequence. Only there’s something I would tell you,’ he added, hesitating – ‘I was not disturbed yesterday by Souvenir’s silly words – even Mr. Attorney, though he’s no fool – even he did not trouble me; no, it was quite another person disturbed me – ’ Here Harlov faltered.

      ‘Who?’ asked my mother.

      Harlov fastened his eyes upon her: ‘Evlampia!’

      ‘Evlampia? Your daughter? How was that?’

      ‘Upon my word, madam, she was like a stone! nothing but a statue! Can it be she has no feeling? Her sister, Anna – well, she was all she should be. She’s a keen-witted creature! But Evlampia – why, I’d shown her – I must own – so much partiality! Can it be she’s no feeling for me! It’s clear I’m in a bad way; it’s clear I’ve a feeling that I’m not long for this world, since I make over everything to them; and yet she’s like a stone! she might at least utter a sound! Bows – yes, she bows, but there’s no thankfulness to be seen.’

      ‘There, give over,’ observed my mother, ‘we’ll marry her to Gavrila Fedulitch … she’ll soon get softer in his hands.’

      Martin Petrovitch once more looked from under his brows at my mother. ‘Well, there’s Gavrila Fedulitch, to be sure! You have confidence in him, then, madam?’

      ‘I’ve confidence in him.’

      ‘Very well; you should know best, to be sure. But Evlampia, let me tell you, is like me. The character is just the same. She has the wild Cossack blood, and her heart’s like a burning coal!’

      ‘Why, do you mean to tell me you’ve a heart like that, my dear sir?’

      Harlov made no answer. A brief silence followed.

      ‘What are you going to do, Martin Petrovitch,’ my mother began, ‘in what way do you mean to set about saving your soul now? Will you set off to Mitrophan or to Kiev, or may be you’ll go to the Optin desert, as it’s in the neighbourhood? There, they do say, there’s a holy monk appeared … Father Makary they call him, no one remembers any one like him! He sees right through all sins.’

      ‘If she really turns out an ungrateful daughter,’ Harlov enunciated in a husky voice, ‘then it would be better for me, I believe, to kill her with my own hands!’

      ‘What are you saying! Lord, have mercy on you!’ cried my mother. ‘Think what you’re saying! There, see, what a pretty pass it’s come to. You should have listened to me the other day when you came to consult me! Now, here, you’ll go tormenting yourself, instead of thinking of your soul! You’ll be tormenting yourself, and all to no purpose! Yes! Here you’re complaining now, and faint-hearted…’

      This reproach seemed to stab Harlov to the heart. All his old pride came back to him with a rush. He shook himself, and thrust out his chin. ‘I am not a man, madam, Natalia Nikolaevna, to complain or be faint-hearted,’ he began sullenly. ‘I simply wished to reveal my feelings to you as my benefactress and a person I respect. But the Lord God knows (here he raised his hand high above his head) that this globe of earth may crumble to pieces before I will go back from my word, or … (here he positively snorted) show a faint heart, or regret what I have done! I had good reasons, be sure! My daughters will never forget their duty, for ever and ever, amen!’

      My mother stopped her ears. ‘What’s this for, my good sir, like a trumpet-blast! If you really have such faith in your family, well, praise the Lord for it! You’ve quite put my brains in a whirl!’

      Martin Petrovitch begged pardon, sighed twice, and was silent. My mother once more referred to Kiev, the Optin desert, and Father Makary… Harlov assented, said that ‘he must … he must … he would have to … his soul …’ and that was all. He did not regain his cheerfulness before he went away. From time to time he clenched and unclenched his fist, looked at his open hand, said that what he feared above everything was dying without repentance, from a stroke, and that he had made a vow to himself not to get angry, as anger vitiated his blood and drove it to his head… Besides, he had now withdrawn from everything. What grounds could he have for getting angry? Let other people trouble themselves now and vitiate their blood!

      As he took leave of my mother he looked at her in a strange way, mournfully and questioningly … and suddenly, with a rapid movement, drew out of his pocket the volume of The Worker’s Leisure-Hour, and thrust it into my mother’s hand.

      ‘What’s that?’ she inquired.

      ‘Read … here,’ he said hurriedly, ‘where the corner’s turned down, about death. It seems to me, it’s terribly well said, but I can’t make it out at all. Can’t you explain it to me, my benefactress? I’ll come back again and you explain it me.’

      With these words Martin Petrovitch went away.

      ‘He’s in a bad way, he’s in a bad way,’ observed my mother, directly he had disappeared through the doorway, and she set to work upon the Leisure-Hour. On the page turned down by Harlov were the following words: