She was declaring her love for him, but he felt as if he had been married to her for ten years already, and he wanted to have lunch. She hugged him around the neck, tickling his cheek with the silk of her dress; he carefully removed her arm, got up, and, without saying a word, went to the dacha. The girls came running to meet him.
‘‘How they’ve grown!’’ he thought. ‘‘And so many changes in these three years... But maybe I’m to live another thirteen or thirty years... The future still holds something for us! Time will tell.’’
He embraced Sasha and Lida, who hung on his neck, and said:
‘‘Grandpa sends his greetings... Uncle Fedya will die soon, Uncle Kostya has sent a letter from America and says hello to you. He’s bored with the exposition30 and will come back soon. And Uncle Alyosha’s hungry.’’
Then he sat on the terrace and watched his wife slowly walking down the alley towards the dacha. She was thinking about something, and on her face there was a sad, charming expression, and tears glistened in her eyes. She was no longer the slender, fragile, pale-faced girl she once had been, but a mature, beautiful, strong woman. And Laptev noticed the rapturous look with which Yartsev met her, how her new, beautiful expression was reflected in his face, also sad and admiring. It seemed as if he was seeing her for the first time in his life. And while they were having lunch on the terrace, Yartsev smiled somehow joyfully and bashfully, and kept looking at Yulia, at her beautiful neck. Laptev watched him involuntarily and thought that maybe he was to live another thirteen or thirty years...And what were they to live through in that time? What does the future hold for us?
And he thought:
‘‘Time will tell.’’
1895
MY LIFE
A Provincial’s Story
I
THE MANAGER SAID to me: ‘‘I keep you only out of respect for your esteemed father, otherwise I’d have sent you flying long ago.’’ I answered him: ‘‘You flatter me too much, Your Excellency, in supposing I can fly.’’ And then I heard him say: ‘‘Take the gentleman away, he’s bad for my nerves.’’
Two days later I was dismissed. And so, in all the time I’ve been considered an adult, to the great chagrin of my father, the town architect, I have changed jobs nine times. I worked in various departments, but all these nine jobs were as alike as drops of water; I had to sit, write, listen to stupid or rude remarks, and wait until they dismissed me.
My father, when I came to him, was sitting in a deep armchair with his eyes closed. His face, lean, dry, with a bluish tinge on the shaved areas (in looks he resembled an old Catholic organist), expressed humility and submissiveness. Without answering my greeting or opening his eyes, he said:
‘‘If my dear wife, your mother, were alive, your life would be a source of constant grief for her. I see divine providence in her premature death. I beg you, unfortunate boy,’’ he went on, opening his eyes, ‘‘instruct me: what am I to do with you?’’
Formerly, when I was younger, my relations and friends knew what to do with me: some advised me to become a volunteer soldier, others to work in a pharmacy, still others in a telegraph office; but now that I’ve turned twenty-five, and gray has even appeared at my temples, and I’ve already been a volunteer soldier and a pharmacist and a telegrapher, everything earthly seems exhausted for me, and people no longer advise me but only sigh or shake their heads.
‘‘What do you think of yourself ?’ my father went on. ‘‘At your age, young people already have a firm social position, but look at you: a proletarian, destitute, living on your father’s neck!’’
And, as usual, he began his talk about young men nowadays being lost, lost through unbelief, materialism, and superfluous self-confidence, and about how amateur performances ought to be forbidden because they distract young people from religion and their duties.
‘‘Tomorrow we’ll go together, and you’ll apologize to the manager and promise him to work conscientiously,’’ he concluded. ‘‘You shouldn’t remain without a social position even for a single day.’’
‘‘I beg you to hear me out,’’ I said sullenly, expecting nothing good from this conversation. ‘‘What you call a social position consists in the privilege of capital and education. Unwealthy and uneducated people earn their crust of bread by physical labor, and I see no reason why I should be an exception.’’
‘‘When you start talking about physical labor, it comes out stupid and banal,’’ my father said with irritation. ‘‘Understand, you dullard, understand, you brainless head, that besides crude physical strength, you also have the spirit of God, the holy fire, which distinguishes you in the highest degree from an ass or a reptile and brings you close to divinity! This fire has been obtained over thousands of years by the best people. Your great-grandfather Poloznev, a general, fought at Borodino,1 your grandfather was a poet, an orator, and a marshal of the nobility,2 your uncle is a pedagogue, and lastly, I, your father, am an architect! All the Poloznevs kept the sacred fire just so that you could put it out!’’
‘‘One must be fair,’’ I said. ‘‘Millions of people bear physical labor.’’
‘‘And let them bear it! They can’t do anything else! Anybody can take up physical labor, even an utter fool or a criminal, such labor is the distinctive quality of the slave and the barbarian, while fire falls to the lot of only a few!’’
To prolong this conversation was useless. My father adored himself, and for him, only what he said himself was convincing. Besides, I knew very well that the arrogance with which he referred to common labor had its basis not so much in considerations regarding the sacred fire as in the secret fear that I would become a worker and set the whole town talking about me; and the main thing was that all my peers had long since finished university and were on good paths, and the son of the manager of the State Bank office was already a collegiate assessor,3 while I, an only son, was nothing! To prolong the conversation was useless and unpleasant, but I went on sitting there and objecting weakly, hoping to be understood at last. For the whole question was simple and clear and only had to do with my means of obtaining a crust of bread, but he didn’t see the simplicity and talked to me in sweetly rounded phrases about Borodino, about the sacred fire, about my uncle, a forgotten poet who once wrote bad and false verses, and called me a brainless head and a dullard. And I wanted so much to be understood! Despite all, I love my father and sister, and since childhood the habit has been lodged in me of asking their opinion, lodged so firmly that it’s unlikely I’ll ever get rid of it; whether I’m right or wrong, I’m constantly afraid of upsetting them, afraid that my father’s skinny neck is turning red now with agitation and he may have a stroke.
‘‘To sit in a stuffy room,’’ I said, ‘‘to copy papers, to compete with a typewriter, for a man of my age is shameful and insulting. How can there be any talk about sacred fire here!’’
‘‘Still, it’s intellectual work,’’ said my father. ‘‘But enough, let’s break off this conversation, and in any case, I’m warning you: if you follow your despicable inclinations and don’t go back to work, then I and my daughter will deprive you of our love. I’ll deprive you of your inheritance—I swear by the true God!’’
With perfect sincerity, to show all the purity of the motives by which I wanted to be guided in my life, I said:
‘‘The question of inheritance seems unimportant to me. I renounce it all beforehand.’’
For some reason, quite unexpectedly for me, these words greatly offended my father. He turned all purple.
‘‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that, stupid boy!’’ he cried in a high, shrill voice. ‘‘Scoundrel!’’ And quickly and deftly, with an accustomed movement, he struck me on the cheek once and then again. ‘‘You begin to forget yourself!’