Anton
Chekhov's Three Years
I
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III IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
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X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
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XVI
XVII
XVI The doctor said that Fyodor's mind was affected. Laptev did not
know what to do in his father's house, while the dark warehouse
in which neither his father nor Fyodor ever appeared now seemed
to him like a sepulchre. When his wife told him that he
absolutely must go every day to the warehouse and also to his
father's, he either said nothing, or began talking irritably of
his childhood, saying that it was beyond his power to forgive
his father for his past, that the warehouse and the house in
Pyatnitsky Street were hateful to him, and so on.
One Sunday morning Yulia went herself to Pyatnitsky Street. She
found old Fyodor Stepanovitch in the same big drawing-room in
which the service had been held on her first arrival. Wearing
slippers, and without a cravat, he was sitting motionless in his
arm-chair, blinking with his sightless eyes.
"It's I -- your daughter-in-law," she said, going up to him.
"I've come to see how you are."
He began breathing heavily with excitement.
Touched by his affliction and his loneliness, she kissed his
hand; and he passed his hand over her face and head, and having
satisfied himself that it was she, made the sign of the cross
over her.
"Thank you, thank you," he said. "You know I've lost my eyes and
can see nothing. . . . I can dimly see the window and the fire,
but people and things I cannot see at all. Yes, I'm going blind,
and Fyodor has fallen ill, and without the master's eye things
are in a bad way now. If there is any irregularity there's no
one to look into it; and folks soon get spoiled. And why is it
Fyodor has fallen ill? Did he catch cold? Here I have never
ailed in my life and never taken medicine. I never saw anything
of doctors."
And, as he always did, the old man began boasting. Meanwhile the
servants hurriedly laid the table and brought in lunch and
bottles of wine.
Ten bottles were put on the table; one of them was in the shape
of the Eiffel Tower. There was a whole dish of hot pies smelling
of jam, rice, and fish.
"I beg my dear guest to have lunch," said the old man.
She took him by the arm, led him to the table, and poured him
out a glass of vodka.
"I will come to you again to-morrow," she said, "and I'll bring
your grandchildren, Sasha and Lida. They will be sorry for you,
and fondle you."
"There's no need. Don't bring them. They are illegitimate."
"Why are they illegitimate? Why, their father and mother were
married."
"Without my permission. I do not bless them, and I don't want to
know them. Let them be."
"You speak strangely, Fyodor Stepanovitch," said Yulia, with a
sigh.
"It is written in the Gospel: children must fear and honour
their parents."
"Nothing of the sort. The Gospel tells us that we must forgive
even our enemies."
"One can't forgive in our business. If you were to forgive every
one, you would come to ruin in three years."
"But to forgive, to say a kind, friendly word to any one, even a
sinner, is something far above business, far above wealth."
Yulia longed to soften the old man, to awaken a feeling of
compassion in him, to move him to repentance; but he only
listened condescendingly to all she said, as a grown-up person
listens to a child.
"Fyodor Stepanovitch," said Yulia resolutely, "you are an old
man, and God soon will call you to Himself. He won't ask you how
you managed your business, and whether you were successful in
it, but whether you were gracious to people; or whether you were
harsh to those who were weaker than you, such as your servants,
your clerks."
"I was always the benefactor of those that served me; they ought
to remember me in their prayers forever," said the old man, with
conviction, but touched by Yulia's tone of sincerity, and
anxious to give her pleasure, he said: "Very well; bring my
grandchildren to-morrow. I will tell them to buy me some little
presents for them."
The old man was slovenly in his dress, and there was cigar ash
on his breast and on his knees; apparently no one cleaned his
boots, or brushed his clothes. The rice in the pies was half
cooked, the tablecloth smelt of soap, the servants tramped
noisily about the room. And the old man and the whole house had
a neglected look, and Yulia, who felt this, was ashamed of
herself and of her husband.
"I will be sure to come and see you to-morrow," she said.
She walked through the rooms, and gave orders for the old man's
bedroom to be set to rights, and the lamp to be lighted under
the ikons in it. Fyodor, sitting in his own room, was looking at
an open book without reading it. Yulia talked to him and told
the servants to tidy his room, too; then she went downstairs to
the clerks. In the middle of the room where the clerks used to
dine, there was an unpainted wooden post to support the ceiling
and to prevent its coming down. The ceilings in the basement
were low, the walls covered with cheap paper, and there was a
smell of charcoal fumes and cooking. As it was a holiday, all
the clerks were at home, sitting on their bedsteads waiting for
dinner. When Yulia went in they jumped up, and answered her
questions timidly, looking up at her from under their brows like
convicts.
"Good heavens! What a horrid room you have!" she said, throwing
up her hands. "Aren't you crowded here?"
"Crowded, but not aggrieved," said Makeitchev. "We are greatly
indebted to you, and will offer up our prayers for you to our
Heavenly Father."
"The congruity of life with the conceit of the personality,"
said Potchatkin.
And noticing that Yulia did not understand Potchatkin,
Makeitchev hastened to explain:
"We are humble people and must live according to our position."
She inspected the boys' quarters, and then the kitchen, made
acquaintance with the housekeeper, and was thoroughly
dissatisfied.
When she got home she said to her husband:
"We ought to move into your father's house and settle there for
good as soon as possible. And you will go every day to the
warehouse."
Then they both sat side by side in the study without speaking.
His heart was heavy, and he did not want to move into Pyatnitsky
Street or to go into the warehouse; but he guessed what his wife
was thinking, and could not oppose her. He stroked her cheek and
said:
"I feel as though our life is already over, and that a grey
half-life is beginning for us. When I knew that my brother
Fyodor was hopelessly ill, I shed tears; we spent our childhood
and youth together, when I loved him with my whole soul. And now
this catastrophe has come, and it seems, too, as though, losing
him, I am finally cut away from my past. And when you said just
now that we must move into the house in Pyatnitsky Street, to
that prison, it began to seem to me that there was no future for
me either."
He got up and walked to the window.
"However that may be, one has to give up all thoughts of
happiness," he said, looking out into the street. "There is
none. I never have had any, and I suppose it doesn't exist at
all. I was happy once in my life, though, when I sat at night
under your parasol. Do you remember how you left your parasol at
Nina's?" he asked, turning to his wife. "I was in love with you
then, and I remember I spent all night sitting under your
parasol, and was perfectly blissful."
Near the book-case in the study stood a mahogany chest with
bronze fittings where Laptev kept various useless things,
including the parasol. He took it out and handed it to his wife.
"Here it is."
Yulia looked for a minute at the parasol, recognised it, and
smiled mournfully.
"I remember," she said. "When you proposed to me you held it in
your hand." And seeing that he was preparing to go out, she
said: "Please come back early if you can. I am dull without
you."
And then she went into her own room, and gazed for a long time
at the parasol.
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