Chương Chương 5 · My Neighbour Radilov

MY NEIGHBOUR RADILOV

For the autumn, woodcocks often take refuge in old gardens of

lime-trees. There are a good many such gardens among us, in the

province of Orel. Our forefathers, when they selected a place for

habitation, invariably marked out two acres of good ground for a

fruit-garden, with avenues of lime-trees. Within the last fifty, or

seventy years at most, these mansions--'noblemen's nests,' as they call

them--have gradually disappeared off the face of the earth; the houses

are falling to pieces, or have been sold for the building materials;

the stone outhouses have become piles of rubbish; the apple-trees are

dead and turned into firewood, the hedges and fences are pulled up.

Only the lime-trees grow in all their glory as before, and with

ploughed fields all round them, tell a tale to this light-hearted

generation of 'our fathers and brothers who have lived before us.'

A magnificent tree is such an old lime-tree.... Even the merciless axe

of the Russian peasant spares it. Its leaves are small, its powerful

limbs spread wide in all directions; there is perpetual shade under

them.

Once, as I was wandering about the fields after partridges with

Yermolaï, I saw some way off a deserted garden, and turned into it. I

had hardly crossed its borders when a snipe rose up out of a bush with

a clatter. I fired my gun, and at the same instant, a few paces from

me, I heard a shriek; the frightened face of a young girl peeped out

for a second from behind the trees, and instantly disappeared. Yermolaï

ran up to me: 'Why are you shooting here? there is a landowner living

here.'

Before I had time to answer him, before my dog had had time to bring

me, with dignified importance, the bird I had shot, swift footsteps

were heard, and a tall man with moustaches came out of the thicket and

stopped, with an air of displeasure, before me. I made my apologies as

best I could, gave him my name, and offered him the bird that had been

killed on his domains.

'Very well,' he said to me with a smile; 'I will take your game, but

only on one condition: that you will stay and dine with us.'

I must confess I was not greatly delighted at his proposition, but it

was impossible to refuse.

'I am a landowner here, and your neighbour, Radilov; perhaps you have

heard of me?' continued my new acquaintance; 'to-day is Sunday, and we

shall be sure to have a decent dinner, otherwise I would not have

invited you.'

I made such a reply as one does make in such circumstances, and turned

to follow him. A little path that had lately been cleared soon led us

out of the grove of lime-trees; we came into the kitchen-garden.

Between the old apple-trees and gooseberry bushes were rows of curly

whitish-green cabbages; the hop twined its tendrils round high poles;

there were thick ranks of brown twigs tangled over with dried peas;

large flat pumpkins seemed rolling on the ground; cucumbers showed

yellow under their dusty angular leaves; tall nettles were waving along

the hedge; in two or three places grew clumps of tartar honeysuckle,

elder, and wild rose--the remnants of former flower-beds. Near a small

fish-pond, full of reddish and slimy water, we saw the well, surrounded

by puddles. Ducks were busily splashing and waddling about these

puddles; a dog blinking and twitching in every limb was gnawing a bone

in the meadow, where a piebald cow was lazily chewing the grass, from

time to time flicking its tail over its lean back. The little path

turned to one side; from behind thick willows and birches we caught

sight of a little grey old house, with a boarded roof and a winding

flight of steps. Radilov stopped short.

'But,' he said, with a good-humoured and direct look in my face,' on

second thoughts ... perhaps you don't care to come and see me, after

all.... In that case--'

I did not allow him to finish, but assured him that, on the contrary,

it would be a great pleasure to me to dine with him.

'Well, you know best.'

We went into the house. A young man in a long coat of stout blue cloth

met us on the steps. Radilov at once told him to bring Yermolaï some

vodka; my huntsman made a respectful bow to the back of the munificent

host. From the hall, which was decorated with various parti-coloured

pictures and check curtains, we went into a small room--Radilov's

study. I took off my hunting accoutrements, and put my gun in a corner;

the young man in the long-skirted coat busily brushed me down.

'Well, now, let us go into the drawing-room.' said Radilov cordially.

'I will make you acquainted with my mother.'

I walked after him. In the drawing-room, in the sofa in the centre of

the room, was sitting an old lady of medium height, in a

cinnamon-coloured dress and a white cap, with a thinnish, kind old

face, and a timid, mournful expression.

'Here, mother, let me introduce to you our neighbour....'

The old lady got up and made me a bow, not letting go out of her

withered hands a fat worsted reticule that looked like a sack.

'Have you been long in our neighbourhood?' she asked, in a weak and

gentle voice, blinking her eyes.

'No, not long.'

'Do you intend to remain here long?'

'Till the winter, I think.'

The old lady said no more.

'And here,' interposed Radilov, indicating to me a tall and thin man,

whom I had not noticed on entering the drawing-room, 'is Fyodor

Miheitch. ... Come, Fedya, give the visitor a specimen of your art. Why

have you hidden yourself away in that corner?'

Fyodor Miheitch got up at once from his chair, fetched a wretched

little fiddle from the window, took the bow--not by the end, as is

usual, but by the middle--put the fiddle to his chest, shut his eyes,

and fell to dancing, singing a song, and scraping on the strings. He

looked about seventy; a thin nankin overcoat flapped pathetically about

his dry and bony limbs. He danced, at times skipping boldly, and then

dropping his little bald head with his scraggy neck stretched out as if

he were dying, stamping his feet on the ground, and sometimes bending

his knees with obvious difficulty. A voice cracked with age came from

his toothless mouth.

Radilov must have guessed from the expression of my face that Fedya's

'art' did not give me much pleasure.

'Very good, old man, that's enough,' he said. 'You can go and refresh

yourself.'

Fyodor Miheitch at once laid down the fiddle on the window-sill, bowed

first to me as the guest, then to the old lady, then to Radilov, and

went away.

'He too was a landowner,' my new friend continued, 'and a rich one too,

but he ruined himself--so he lives now with me.... But in his day he

was considered the most dashing fellow in the province; he eloped with

two married ladies; he used to keep singers, and sang himself, and

danced like a master.... But won't you take some vodka? dinner is just

ready.'

A young girl, the same that I had caught a glimpse of in the garden,

came into the room.

'And here is Olga!' observed Radilov, slightly turning his head; 'let

me present you.... Well, let us go into dinner.'

We went in and sat down to the table. While we were coming out of the

drawing-room and taking our seats, Fyodor Miheitch, whose eyes were

bright and his nose rather red after his 'refreshment,' sang 'Raise the

cry of Victory.' They laid a separate cover for him in a corner on a

little table without a table-napkin. The poor old man could not boast

of very nice habits, and so they always kept him at some distance from

society. He crossed himself, sighed, and began to eat like a shark. The

dinner was in reality not bad, and in honour of Sunday was accompanied,

of course, with shaking jelly and Spanish puffs of pastry. At the table

Radilov, who had served ten years in an infantry regiment and had been

in Turkey, fell to telling anecdotes; I listened to him with attention,

and secretly watched Olga. She was not very pretty; but the tranquil

and resolute expression of her face, her broad, white brow, her thick

hair, and especially her brown eyes--not large, but clear, sensible and

lively--would have made an impression on anyone in my place. She seemed

to be following every word Radilov uttered--not so much sympathy as

passionate attention was expressed on her face. Radilov in years might

have been her father; he called her by her Christian name, but I

guessed at once that she was not his daughter. In the course of

conversation he referred to his deceased wife--'her sister,' he added,

indicating Olga. She blushed quickly and dropped her eyes. Radilov

paused a moment and then changed the subject. The old lady did not

utter a word during the whole of dinner; she ate scarcely anything

herself, and did not press me to partake. Her features had an air of

timorous and hopeless expectation, that melancholy of old age which it

pierces one's heart to look upon. At the end of dinner Fyodor Miheitch

was beginning to 'celebrate' the hosts and guests, but Radilov looked

at me and asked him to be quiet; the old man passed his hand over his

lips, began to blink, bowed, and sat down again, but only on the very

edge of his chair. After dinner I returned with Radilov to his study.

In people who are constantly and intensely preoccupied with one idea,

or one emotion, there is something in common, a kind of external

resemblance in manner, however different may be their qualities, their

abilities, their position in society, and their education. The more I

watched Radilov, the more I felt that he belonged to the class of such

people. He talked of husbandry, of the crops, of the war, of the gossip

of the district and the approaching elections; he talked without

constraint, and even with interest; but suddenly he would sigh and drop

into a chair, and pass his hand over his face, like a man wearied out

by a tedious task. His whole nature--a good and warm-hearted one

too--seemed saturated through, steeped in some one feeling. I was

amazed by the fact that I could not discover in him either a passion

for eating, nor for wine, nor for sport, nor for Kursk nightingales,

nor for epileptic pigeons, nor for Russian literature, nor for

trotting-hacks, nor for Hungarian coats, nor for cards, nor billiards,

nor for dances, nor trips to the provincial town or the capital, nor

for paper-factories and beet-sugar refineries, nor for painted

pavilions, nor for tea, nor for trace-horses trained to hold their

heads askew, nor even for fat coachmen belted under their very

armpits--those magnificent coachmen whose eyes, for some mysterious

reason, seem rolling and starting out of their heads at every

movement.... 'What sort of landowner is this, then?' I thought. At the

same time he did not in the least pose as a gloomy man discontented

with his destiny; on the contrary, he seemed full of indiscrimating

good-will, cordial and even offensive readiness to become intimate with

every one he came across. In reality you felt at the same time that he

could not be friends, nor be really intimate with anyone, and that he

could not be so, not because in general he was independent of other

people, but because his whole being was for a time turned inwards upon

himself. Looking at Radilov, I could never imagine him happy either now

or at any time. He, too, was not handsome; but in his eyes, his smile,

his whole being, there was a something, mysterious and extremely

attractive--yes, mysterious is just what it was. So that you felt you

would like to know him better, to get to love him. Of course, at times

the landowner and the man of the steppes peeped out in him; but all the

same he was a capital fellow.

We were beginning to talk about the new marshal of the district, when

suddenly we heard Olga's voice at the door: 'Tea is ready.' We went

into the drawing-room. Fyodor Miheitch was sitting as before in his

corner between the little window and the door, his legs curled up under

him. Radilov's mother was knitting a stocking. From the opened windows

came a breath of autumn freshness and the scent of apples. Olga was

busy pouring out tea. I looked at her now with more attention than at

dinner. Like provincial girls as a rule, she spoke very little, but at

any rate I did not notice in her any of their anxiety to say something

fine, together with their painful consciousness of stupidity and

helplessness; she did not sigh as though from the burden of unutterable

emotions, nor cast up her eyes, nor smile vaguely and dreamily. Her

look expressed tranquil self-possession, like a man who is taking

breath after great happiness or great excitement. Her carriage and her

movements were resolute and free. I liked her very much.

I fell again into conversation with Radilov. I don't recollect what

brought us to the familiar observation that often the most

insignificant things produce more effect on people than the most

important.

'Yes,' Radilov agreed, 'I have experienced that in my own case. I, as

you know, have been married. It was not for long--three years; my wife

died in child-birth. I thought that I should not survive her; I was

fearfully miserable, broken down, but I could not weep--I wandered

about like one possessed. They decked her out, as they always do, and

laid her on a table--in this very room. The priest came, the deacons

came, began to sing, to pray, and to burn incense; I bowed to the

ground, and hardly shed a tear. My heart seemed turned to stone--and my

head too--I was heavy all over. So passed my first day. Would you

believe it? I even slept in the night. The next morning I went in to

look at my wife: it was summer-time, the sunshine fell upon her from

head to foot, and it was so bright. Suddenly I saw ...' (here Radilov

gave an involuntary shudder) 'what do you think? One of her eyes was

not quite shut, and on this eye a fly was moving.... I fell down in a

heap, and when I came to myself, I began to weep and weep ... I could

not stop myself....'

Radilov was silent. I looked at him, then at Olga.... I can never

forget the expression of her face. The old lady had laid the stocking

down on her knees, and taken a handkerchief out of her reticule; she

was stealthily wiping away her tears. Fyodor Miheitch suddenly got up,

seized his fiddle, and in a wild and hoarse voice began to sing a song.

He wanted doubtless to restore our spirits; but we all shuddered at his

first note, and Radilov asked him to be quiet.

'Still what is past, is past,' he continued; 'we cannot recall the

past, and in the end ... all is for the best in this world below, as I

think Voltaire said,' he added hurriedly.

'Yes,' I replied, 'of course. Besides, every trouble can be endured,

and there is no position so terrible that there is no escape from it.'

'Do you think so?' said Radilov. 'Well, perhaps you are right. I

recollect I lay once in the hospital in Turkey half dead; I had typhus

fever. Well, our quarters were nothing to boast of--of course, in time

of war--and we had to thank God for what we had! Suddenly they bring in

more sick--where are they to put them? The doctor goes here and

there--there is no room left. So he comes up to me and asks the

attendant, "Is he alive?" He answers, "He was alive this morning." The

doctor bends down, listens; I am breathing. The good man could not help

saying, "Well, what an absurd constitution; the man's dying; he's

certain to die, and he keeps hanging on, lingering, taking up space for

nothing, and keeping out others." Well, I thought to myself, "So you

are in a bad way, Mihal Mihalitch...." And, after all, I got well, and

am alive till now, as you may see for yourself. You are right, to be

sure.'

'In any case I am right,' I replied; 'even if you had died, you would

just the same have escaped from your horrible position.'

'Of course, of course,' he added, with a violent blow of his fist on

the table. 'One has only to come to a decision.... What is the use of

being in a horrible position?... What is the good of delaying,

lingering.'

Olga rose quickly and went out into the garden.

'Well, Fedya, a dance!' cried Radilov.

Fedya jumped up and walked about the room with that artificial and

peculiar motion which is affected by the man who plays the part of a

goat with a tame bear. He sang meanwhile, 'While at our Gates....'

The rattle of a racing droshky sounded in the drive, and in a few

minutes a tall, broad-shouldered and stoutly made man, the peasant

proprietor, Ovsyanikov, came into the room.

But Ovsyanikov is such a remarkable and original personage that, with

the reader's permission, we will put off speaking about him till the

next sketch. And now I will only add for myself that the next day I

started off hunting at earliest dawn with Yermolaï, and returned home

after the day's sport was over ... that a week later I went again to

Radilov's, but did not find him or Olga at home, and within a fortnight

I learned that he had suddenly disappeared, left his mother, and gone

away somewhere with his sister-in-law. The whole province was excited,

and talked about this event, and I only then completely understood the

expression of Olga's face while Radilov was telling us his story. It

was breathing, not with sympathetic suffering only: it was burning with

jealousy.

Before leaving the country I called on old Madame Radilov. I found her

in the drawing-room; she was playing cards with Fyodor Miheitch.

'Have you news of your son?' I asked her at last.

The old lady began to weep. I made no more inquiries about Radilov.