The Family Court
One day, the bailiff from a distant estate, Anton Vasiliev, having finished reporting to the mistress Arina Petrovna Golovlyova about his trip to Moscow to collect quit-rent from peasants living there by passport, and having already received her permission to go to the servants’ quarters, suddenly hesitated mysteriously, as if he had another matter to report, about which he was both deciding and not deciding to speak.
Arina Petrovna, who understood perfectly not only the slightest movements but also the secret thoughts of those close to her, immediately became uneasy.
“What else?” she asked, looking directly at the bailiff.
“Nothing, ma’am,” Anton Vasiliev tried to evade.
“Don’t lie! There’s more! I can see it in your eyes!”
Anton Vasiliev, however, did not dare to answer and continued to shift his weight from foot to foot.
“Tell me, what other matter do you have?” Arina Petrovna barked at him in a decisive voice. “Speak! Don’t wag your tail… you fickle bag!”
Arina Petrovna loved to give nicknames to the people who made up her administrative and household staff. She nicknamed Anton Vasiliev “fickle bag” not because he had ever actually been observed in betrayal, but because he was loose-tongued. The estate he managed centered around a significant trading village with many taverns. Anton Vasiliev enjoyed drinking tea in the tavern, boasting about his mistress’s omnipotence, and during this boasting, he would inadvertently let things slip. And since Arina Petrovna was constantly involved in various lawsuits, it often happened that the talkativeness of her trusted man exposed her mistress’s war stratagems before they could be put into action.
“There is, indeed…” Anton Vasiliev finally mumbled.
“What? What is it?” Arina Petrovna became agitated.
As a woman of authority, and moreover, strongly gifted with creativity, she instantly painted a picture of all possible contradictions and oppositions in her mind, and she so quickly assimilated this thought that she even turned pale and sprang from her armchair.
“Stepan Vladimorych sold the house in Moscow…” the bailiff reported, deliberately pausing.
“Well?”
“Sold, ma’am.”
“Why? How? Don’t equivocate! Tell me!”
“For debts… one must assume so! You know, they wouldn’t sell it for good reasons.”
“So, the police sold it? The court?”
“It seems so. They say the house went for eight thousand at auction.”
Arina Petrovna sank heavily into her armchair and stared out the window. For the first few moments, this news seemed to deprive her of consciousness. If she had been told that Stepan Vladimorych had killed someone, that the Golovlyov peasants had rebelled and refused to do corvée, or that serfdom had collapsed – even then she would not have been so utterly stunned. Her lips moved, her eyes stared into the distance, but saw nothing. She didn’t even notice that at that very moment, the girl Dunyashka had rushed past the window, covering something with her apron, and suddenly, seeing her mistress, spun around for a moment and quietly turned back (at another time, this act would have triggered a full investigation). Finally, however, she recovered and uttered:
“What a spectacle!”
After which, several more minutes of stormy silence followed.
“So you’re saying the police sold the house for eight thousand?” she re-asked.
“Precisely so.”
“That’s his parents’ blessing! Fine… scoundrel!”
Arina Petrovna felt that, given the news, she needed to make an immediate decision, but she couldn’t think of anything because her thoughts were tangled in completely opposite directions. On the one hand, she thought: “The police sold it! They didn’t sell it in an instant, did they! Surely there was an inventory, an appraisal, calls for bids? They sold it for eight thousand, whereas she, for that very house, two years ago, personally laid out twelve thousand, like a single kopeck! If only I had known, I could have acquired it myself for eight thousand at auction!” On the other hand, another thought came to mind: “The police sold it for eight thousand! That’s his parents’ blessing! Scoundrel! He squandered his parents’ blessing for eight thousand!”
“From whom did you hear this?” she finally asked, having definitively settled on the thought that the house was already sold and, consequently, the hope of acquiring it cheaply was lost to her forever.
“Ivan Mikhailov, the tavern keeper, told me.”
“And why didn’t he warn me in time?”
“He was cautious, it seems.”
“Cautious! I’ll show him ‘cautious’! Summon him from Moscow, and when he arrives – straight to the recruiting office and shave his forehead! ‘Cautious’!”
Although serfdom was on its way out, it still existed. Anton Vasiliev had often heard the most peculiar orders from his mistress, but her current decision was so unexpected that even he felt somewhat awkward. The nickname “fickle bag” involuntarily came to his mind. Ivan Mikhailov was a solid peasant, about whom it wouldn’t even occur to anyone that some misfortune could befall him. Moreover, he was his dear friend and kum – and suddenly, he was to be conscripted into the army, just because he, Anton Vasiliev, like a fickle bag, couldn’t keep his tongue in check!
“Forgive… Ivan Mikhailych!” he tried to intercede.
“Go… you enabler!” Arina Petrovna barked at him, but in such a voice that he didn’t even think of persisting in further defending Ivan Mikhailov.
But before continuing my narrative, I will ask the reader to become more closely acquainted with Arina Petrovna Golovlyova and her family situation.
Arina Petrovna is a woman of about sixty, but still vigorous and accustomed to living entirely as she pleases. She carries herself sternly; she unilaterally and unrestrainedly manages the extensive Golovlyov estate, lives secluded, calculatingly, almost sparingly, maintains no friendships with neighbors, is benevolent to local authorities, and demands such obedience from her children that with every action they ask themselves: what will mother say about this? In general, she has an independent, unyielding, and somewhat stubborn character, which, however, is significantly aided by the fact that in the entire Golovlyov family, there is no one from whom she could encounter opposition. Her husband is a frivolous and slightly drunken man (Arina Petrovna readily says of herself that she is “neither a widow nor a married woman”); her children partly serve in St. Petersburg, partly have taken after their father and, as “undesirables,” are not allowed to participate in any family affairs. Under these conditions, Arina Petrovna early on felt alone, so much so that, truthfully, she had even completely unlearned family life, although the word “family” never leaves her lips, and ostensibly, all her actions are exclusively guided by constant concerns for the arrangement of family matters.
The head of the family, Vladimir Mikhailych Golovlyov, had been known since his youth for his slovenly and mischievous character, and for Arina Petrovna, who had always been distinguished by her seriousness and practicality, he never presented anything appealing. He led an idle and lazy life, most often locking himself in his study, imitating the singing of starlings, roosters, and so on, and engaged in composing so-called “free verses.” In moments of frank outpouring, he boasted of being a friend of Barkov and that the latter had supposedly even blessed him on his deathbed. Arina Petrovna immediately disliked her husband’s poems, calling them filth and buffoonery, and since Vladimir Mikhailych had essentially married for the sole purpose of always having an audience for his poems at hand, it is understandable that disagreements were not long in coming. Gradually escalating and embittering, these disagreements ended, on the wife’s part, in complete and contemptuous indifference towards her jester-husband, and on the husband’s part, in sincere hatred for his wife — a hatred that, however, contained a significant measure of cowardice. The husband called his wife “witch” and “devil,” while the wife called her husband “windy mill” and “stringless balalaika.” In such a relationship, they lived together for over forty years, and it never occurred to either of them that such a life contained anything unnatural. With the passage of time, Vladimir Mikhailych’s mischief not only did not diminish but even acquired a more malicious character. Apart from his poetic exercises in the spirit of Barkov, he began to drink and eagerly ambushed maidservants in the corridor. At first, Arina Petrovna reacted to this new occupation of her husband with disgust and even agitation (in which, however, the habit of dominance played a greater role than direct jealousy), but then she waved her hand and only kept an eye on ensuring that the “pagan” girls did not bring the master Yerofeyich (a type of homemade liquor). From then on, having told herself once and for all that her husband was not her companion, she directed all her attention exclusively to one goal: expanding the Golovlyov estate, and indeed, during forty years of married life, she managed to tenfold her fortune. With astonishing patience and vigilance, she ambushed distant and nearby villages, secretly inquired about their owners’ relations with the guardianship council, and always appeared at auctions like a bolt from the blue. In the whirlwind of this fanatical pursuit of acquisition, Vladimir Mikhailych increasingly receded into the background and finally became completely feral. At the moment this story begins, he was already a decrepit old man who hardly left his bed, and if he occasionally left his bedroom, it was solely to stick his head through the half-open door of his wife’s room, shout “Devil!” and disappear again.
Arina Petrovna was only slightly happier with her children. She had too independent, so to speak, a solitary nature, to see anything in children other than an extra burden. She only breathed freely when she was alone with her accounts and household enterprises, when no one interfered with her business conversations with bailiffs, elders, housekeepers, etc. In her eyes, children were one of those fatalistic life circumstances against which she did not consider herself entitled to protest, but which nevertheless did not touch a single chord of her inner being, wholly devoted to the countless details of life management. There were four children: three sons and a daughter. She didn’t even like to talk about her eldest son and her daughter; she was more or less indifferent to her youngest son and only with the middle one, Porfisha, was it not so much that she loved him, but as if she feared him.
Stepan Vladimorych, the eldest son, who is primarily discussed in this narrative, was known in the family as Stepka the Blockhead and Stepka the Mischievous. He very early on became one of the “undesirables” and from childhood played the role in the house of either a pariah or a jester. Unfortunately, he was a gifted fellow, too eagerly and quickly absorbing the impressions that his environment produced. From his father, he inherited inexhaustible mischief, from his mother, the ability to quickly guess people’s weaknesses. Thanks to the first quality, he soon became his father’s favorite, which further intensified his mother’s dislike for him. Often, during Arina Petrovna’s absences on household matters, the father and adolescent son would retire to the study, adorned with Barkov’s portrait, read poems of a free content, and gossip, with the “witch,” i.e., Arina Petrovna, being particularly targeted. But the “witch” seemed to instinctively guess their activities; she would silently approach the porch, tiptoe to the study door, and eavesdrop on the cheerful conversations. This was followed by an immediate and severe beating of Stepka the Blockhead. But Stepka did not calm down; he was impervious to both beatings and admonitions and half an hour later would start carousing again. He would cut Anytka the maid’s headscarf into pieces, or let flies into sleepy Vasyutka’s mouth, or sneak into the kitchen and steal a pie there (Arina Petrovna, for economy, kept the children half-starved), which, however, he would immediately share with his brothers.
“I ought to kill you!” Arina Petrovna would constantly tell him. “I’ll kill you — and I won’t be held accountable! And the tsar won’t punish me for it!”
Such constant debasement, meeting a soft, easily forgetful soil, did not pass in vain. It resulted not in bitterness or protest, but in forming a slavish character, prone to buffoonery, lacking a sense of measure and devoid of any foresight. Such personalities readily succumb to any influence and can become anything: drunkards, beggars, jesters, and even criminals.
At twenty, Stepan Golovlyov completed his course at one of the Moscow gymnasiums and entered the university. But his student life was bitter. Firstly, his mother gave him just enough money to keep from starving; secondly, he showed not the slightest inclination for work, and instead harbored a cursed talent, expressed primarily in his ability to mimic; thirdly, he constantly suffered from a need for company and could not remain alone with himself for a minute. Therefore, he settled into the easy role of a hanger-on and pique-assiette (A French term meaning a sponger or moocher, someone who always manages to get invited to meals without contributing) and, thanks to his pliability to any trick, soon became a favorite of wealthy students. But the wealthy, while admitting him into their circle, still understood that he was not their equal, that he was merely a jester, and it was in this very sense that his reputation was established. Once having settled on this ground, he naturally gravitated lower and lower, so that by the end of his 4th year, he had completely played himself out. Nevertheless, thanks to his ability to quickly grasp and remember what he heard, he passed his exams successfully and received a candidate’s degree.
When he appeared before his mother with his diploma, Arina Petrovna merely shrugged her shoulders and muttered: “I’m amazed!” Then, after keeping him in the village for about a month, she sent him to St. Petersburg, assigning him one hundred rubles in assignats per month for living expenses. His wanderings through departments and chanceries began. He had no patronage, and no desire to make his way through personal labor. The idle mind of the young man had become so unaccustomed to focusing that even bureaucratic tasks, like memoranda and extracts from files, proved too much for him. Golovlyov struggled in St. Petersburg for four years and finally had to admit to himself that the hope of ever rising above a chancery clerk did not exist for him. In response to his laments, Arina Petrovna wrote a stern letter, beginning with the words: “I was confident of this beforehand,” and ending with an order to appear in Moscow. There, in a council of trusted peasants, it was decided to appoint Stepka the Blockhead to the court of appeals, entrusting him to the supervision of a clerk who had long handled Golovlyov’s affairs. What Stepan Vladimorych did and how he conducted himself in the court of appeals is unknown, but after three years, he was no longer there. Then Arina Petrovna decided on an extreme measure: she “threw her son a piece,” which, however, at the same time was also supposed to represent “parental blessing.” This “piece” consisted of a house in Moscow, for which Arina Petrovna had paid twelve thousand rubles.
For the first time in his life, Stepan Golovlyov breathed freely. The house promised to yield a thousand silver rubles in income, and compared to his previous situation, this sum seemed to him like something akin to genuine prosperity. He eagerly kissed his mother’s hand (“Just so, mind you, blockhead! Don’t expect anything more!” Arina Petrovna remarked) and promised to justify the kindness shown to him. But, alas! He was so unaccustomed to handling money, so absurdly he understood the scale of real life, that the fabled annual thousand rubles did not last long at all. In about four or five years, he was completely ruined and was quite happy to enlist, as a substitute, in the militia that was being formed at the time. The militia, however, only reached Kharkov before peace was concluded, and Golovlyov returned to Moscow. His house had already been sold by then. He was in a militia uniform, rather worn, though, with his boots untucked, and a hundred rubles in his pocket. With this capital, he tried his hand at speculation, meaning he began to play cards, and soon lost everything. Then he started visiting his mother’s well-off peasants who lived in Moscow, managing their own households; he would dine at one’s house, beg for a quarter-pound of tobacco from another, or borrow small sums from yet another. But finally, the moment came when he, so to speak, found himself face to face with a blank wall. He was almost forty, and he was forced to admit that further wandering existence was beyond his strength. Only one path remained – to Golovlyovo.
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