Life in Petersburg and the Shorthand Affair

I have already mentioned that when our creditors learnt of our arrival from the papers, they just threw themselves on us. From their point of view they were right; for they had been waiting a long time and wanted to get their money. But what could we do, if we had no means of satisfying them at once?

My hope of obtaining the house which had been intended for me, and of selling it immediately in order to pay off our more pressing creditors, could not be realised at once; for my mother, on account of my brother’s marriage, still remained abroad. In November 1871 also my sister, Marie Gregorevna Svatkovsky, who managed my mother’s house, went away to Rome for the whole winter. She had promised, on her return in the spring, to hand over the houses, as well as all the accounts concerning it, to my mother, who intended to return to Russia in January 1872 We had thus willy-nilly to wait till the spring.

And in the spring a terrible calamity befell us all: my sister Marie fell ill with typhus in Rome and died there on May 1, 1872 After her death it transpired that Marie had transferred her power of attorney for the management of my mother’s houses to her husband; and the latter, in his turn, had transferred it to a person who was unworthy of the trust. In the course of three or four years this gentleman, having pocketed all the income derived from the houses, did not consider it necessary to pay the rates or the taxes. Thus large arrears were accumulated, and my mother’s houses were ordered to be sold by public auction.

To our great misfortune, we had no means to pay the arrears and thus to save the houses from the enforced sale. Yet we reckoned that the houses would fetch a good price, and that my mother would receive, after paying the debts on the houses, a considerable sum, part of which she would give me instead of the house intended for me. But something completely unexpected happened. The gentleman who managed the houses entered into fictitious agreements with persons he had suborned, to whom he alleged he had let the houses on lease, for the maximum period allowed by law, ten years, and had received the rent due for all that period.

This transaction transpired only at the auction; and it is obvious that no one was to be found who wanted to buy houses from which no income was to be derived for ten years. And then the scoundrel bought our houses for the amount of the arrears due to the Government and the comparatively small sum of debts resting on the property (about ten thousand roubles),—thus having managed to acquire for 12,000 roubles three houses and two large annexes, the value of which was not less than 40,000 roubles.

It turned out in the end that not a penny was left to my mother, myself, or my brother. Certainly, we could have taken proceedings; but in order to do this money was needed, and we had none. And besides, we had to deal with a clever swindler who managed to arrange things correctly from the legal point of view; so we should hardly have won the case. Besides, by taking legal action, we should have had to involve also my sister’s husband, and this would have ended in a quarrel, and we should have been deprived of the possibility of seeing my sister’s four orphan children, of whom we were very fond. Having weighed all the possibilities, we decided not to take proceedings, and to reconcile ourselves to the loss of the houses. But how hard it was for me to bear the blasting of this, the most solid of my hopes of improving our difficult situation! But the utter hopelessness of this affair only became clear to me finally a couple of years later; for at first I still cherished the hope of receiving a certain sum of money and thus paying our most urgent debts.

At first I allowed the creditors to carry on negotiations with Fiodor Mihailovich, who insisted on it. But the results of those negotiations were disappointing: the creditors were impudent to him, threatened to distrain on our household things and to put him in the debtors’ prison. After such negotiations Fiodor Mihailovich would be driven to despair, would pace his room for hours, would ruffle his hair on his forehead (his habitual gesture in great agitation), and repeat: ‘Well, what are we to do now?’ And the next day there would often follow a fit of epilepsy.

I was terribly sorry for Fiodor Mihailovich and, without telling him, I decided not to allow the creditors to see him, but to take all this annoying business on myself alone. The servant was ordered once and for all, when opening the door to a caller, to say ‘the master is asleep,’ or ‘the master is not at home, so will you please speak to the lady? She is always at home in the morning till 12’

What strange types used to come to me during those days! In most cases they were bill brokers who bought bills for a mere nothing and demanded payment in full, all sorts of civil servants’ widows, landladies of furnished rooms, retired officials, low-down solicitors. Certainly, they all threatened distraint and the debtors’ prison; but I had already learnt how to talk to them.

My chief argument was the same as I employed in dealing with Hinterlach:

‘I owe you nothing personally, the flat is in my name, and the furniture belongs to the furniture-dealer. Fiodor Mihailovich has nothing but his wearing apparel, which I suggest you should distrain on.’

As regards the debtors’ prison, I assured them that Fiodor Mihailovich would readily go there, since there he would be able to work. But in that case they would receive nothing. If, however, they wanted to settle matters amicably, I promised to pay by instalments, at such and such a date, on such and such a month, so much money, and of this they might be assured. I gave my word for it, and now I could pay so much. The creditors, seeing the futility of their threats, would agree, and we would sign a separate agreement which gave me the certainty that so long as I kept my word, Fiodor Mihailovich’s peace would not be disturbed: he would not be called before the magistrates, threatened, talked impudently to, etc..

But how terribly difficult I found it to pay the promised sums at the appointed dates! What artifices I had to employ, to borrow money from relations, to pawn our things! We had to deny ourselves and our family primary necessities in order to be able to fulfil my obligations. Indeed, the money we received was never regular. It depended altogether on the success of the work, and with us, as the saying goes, it was ‘either plenty or nothing.’

We had to run into arrears for the flat, to take credit from the grocer’s shop, to pawn things, and when we happened to receive money (400 or 500 roubles at a time), usually on the day after the receipt of the money (Fiodor Mihailovich always gave all the money to me) there remained 25 or 30 roubles only. My rule was, on receipt of the money, to redeem the things from the pawnbrokers (I had pledged things to the amount of 400 roubles), firstly, so as not to pay interest, which was enormous then, sometimes 5 per cent per month; and, secondly, in order that the pawnbroker’s shop¹ should know that I was capable of redeeming my things and so should keep them safe. Besides this, I had a certain moral satisfaction in the knowledge that the things, of which I was so fond (all presents from Fiodor Mihailovich, my mother, and brother) were again in the house, if only for a short while.

The visits of the creditors, and my negotiations with them, at times did not pass unnoticed by my dear husband. He would ask me, who had called, and on what business, and seeing my reluctance to tell him, he would reproach me for my reserve, for my not being quite frank with him. His complaints on such occasions he also expressed in his letters. But how could I be perfectly frank with him in these material difficulties of mine! For the sake of his health and of his work, on which our whole existence depended, he needed peace: worries upset him terribly and provoked his epileptic fits, which prevented him from working.

Moreover, when he occasionally learnt what unpleasant things I had to suffer, Fiodor Mihailovich began to grieve over the fact that he had given me a life so full of cares and distress. And this again agitated and distressed him. And, with all my sincere desire to be frank with him—I had, after all, to conceal from him assiduously everything that might upset him, even at the risk of being reproached for my so-called reserve and lack of candour. How bitterly I felt those unjust reproaches! Yes, I had to endure a hard, a terribly hard life in the material sense during the twelve or thirteen years of our married life; for only in the year before Fiodor Mihailovich’s death were all our debts paid, and I was able to put by small sums for the rainy day.

I remember with great bitterness of heart how unceremoniously certain relations of Fiodor Mihailovich’s dragged money from our pocket for their own needs. However small our means, Fiodor Mihailovich did not consider it possible to refuse assistance to his brother Nicolay Mihailovich, or to his stepson Pavel Alexandrovich Isayev, and in urgent cases also to his other relations. Apart from a fixed monthly allowance (50 or 60 roubles), ‘brother Kolya’ received every time he paid us a visit five roubles; and what bitterness I felt when he, perhaps not without interested motives, increased his visits under various pretexts: to congratulate the children on their birthdays, to inquire after the health of every one of our family, and so on.

It was not miserliness that was responsible for this bitterness, but the painful consciousness that there were only twenty roubles in the house at the moment. Yet Fiodor Mihailovich would call me and say: ‘Anechka, give me five roubles for Kolya’; when on the following day there was a payment due to some one, and if I could keep the five roubles, I should not have to go again to the pawnbroker’s shop. But ‘brother Kolya’ was a pleasant and appealing person, and although at times I was angry with him for his repeated visits, I was always fond of him and valued his delicacy.

The man who particularly irritated me was Pavel Alexandrovich Isayev. He did not ask, he demanded, and was perfectly convinced that he had a right to demand. Every time Fiodor Mihailovich received a large sum of money he gave Isayev without fail a considerable amount for his family. But Isayev very often had extra needs, and on these occasions he went straight for relief to Fiodor Mihailovich, although he knew perfectly well how hard our life was. He would come, and this is roughly the conversation which would take place.

He: ‘Well, how is papa? How is his health? I must see him, I am in urgent need of forty roubles.’ I: ‘Pavel Alexandrovich, you know we have not yet received money from Katkov; we have no money at all. To-day I had to pawn my brooch for twenty-five roubles.’ I show him the pawnbroker’s ticket. He: ‘Well, pawn something else.’ I: ‘But I have already pawned everything, and here are the proofs.’ He: ‘But I must have the money for this.’ I: ‘Buy it when we get the money.’ He: ‘I can’t postpone getting it.’ I: ‘But I have no money.’ He: ‘That is no business of mine—get it.’

And then I would begin persuading, coaxing Isayev to ask Fiodor Mihailovich not for 40 roubles, which I had not got, but for 15 roubles, so that I might be left with five in any case. Isayev after much coaxing would compromise, and consider that he was doing me a great favour by being satisfied with a smaller amount than he had originally asked for. Then my dear husband would call me to his study and say: ‘Please, Anechka, give me 15 roubles, Pasha asks me for it.’

And I would give the money with an unfriendly feeling, knowing that, if Isayev had not extorted this amount, we could have lived for three days in peace, and now I had to go again to-morrow to the pawnbroker and to pawn something else. All these are painful recollections, and I cannot forget how much distress that rude man caused me.

Perhaps it may be asked why I did not resolutely protest against his rudeness. But to make such a protest I should have had to quarrel with Isayev and his family; whereas I had taken a sincere liking to his wife and was sorry for her. Besides, I knew this trait in Fiodor Mihailovich’s character: his good, sympathetic attitude to all who were wronged. In case of a quarrel Isayev might have moved Fiodor Mihailovich to pity, and presented himself as unjustly treated by me. And Fiodor Mihailovich, just because he was good, would undoubtedly have believed him and considered him an unhappy man to be pitied and helped. I had had experience of this once already when on one occasion I had a quarrel with Isayev. The latter immediately complained of me to Fiodor Mihailovich, represented the whole thing in a distorted light and reminded Fiodor Mihailovich of the request which his, Isayev’s, mother had made to him ‘to love Pasha.’ It ended in this, that Fiodor Mihailovich asked me ‘not to wrong Pasha, since although he was light-minded, yet he was a pleasant man, and was very fond of us all.’ To safeguard Fiodor Mihailovich’s peace I preferred to suffer myself and to deny myself everything, provided peace was preserved in our family.

I go back to the winter of 1871-1872, the first winter after our return from abroad. I must say that, in spite of the worries caused us by our creditors, I remember that winter with real pleasure. The mere fact that we were again in our own country, amongst Russians and everything Russian, gave me unusual happiness. Fiodor Mihailovich, too, was satisfied with his return to Russia and with the possibility of meeting his friends again, and observing Russian life, with which he felt himself out of touch.

In addition to meeting again Apollon Nicolayevich Maikov, with whom he had been friends since their youth, and N. N. Strahov, his favourite companion,—Fiodor Mihailovich made the acquaintance,—through his visits to his relation M. I. Vladislavlev,—of many scholars, as for instance, V. V. Grigoriev. He also made the acquaintance of Prince V. P. Meschersky, of T. I. Filippov, and of the whole circle that used to meet at Meschersky’s dinners on Wednesdays. There, I believe, he also met, and later became friends with K. P. Pobiedonoszev, and this friendship continued right down to Fiodor’s death.

I remember that during that winter N. Y. Danilevsky also came to Petersburg. Fiodor Mihailovich who had known him in his young days as a Fourierist, and who greatly valued his book Russia and Europe, wished to renew the old friendship. Having met him at Strahov’s, Fiodor Mihailovich asked him to lunch at our house where many interesting and clever people assembled. The conversation went on till late in the evening.

That same winter Tretiakov asked Fiodor Mihailovich’s permission to have his portrait painted for the Tretiakov Gallery in Moscow. For this purpose the artist Perov arrived from Moscow. Fiodor Mihailovich was certainly flattered, the more so that Perov turned out to be an extremely nice and simple man. Before setting to work Perov visited us daily for a week, and found Fiodor Mihailovich in various moods. He talked to him, discussed matters with him, and was thus able to catch and to embody in the portrait Fiodor Mihailovich’s most characteristic expression, namely, the one Fiodor had when absorbed in his creative work. I may say that Perov managed to convey in the portrait Fiodor’s ‘moment of creation.’ That expression I noticed many times in Fiodor’s face when I happened to enter his study. I used to watch him ‘looking into himself,’ and to leave the room without saying a word. Afterwards I would learn that Fiodor was so absorbed in his thoughts that he had not noticed my entering the room, and did not believe I had been there. Perov was a clever man, and Fiodor loved talking to him. I also became friends with him and was always present at the sittings. That winter I did not go into society. I myself nursed my elder son Fedya, and I could not well leave him alone for long. In fact I was so busy with the children, with working for Fiodor and with the house, that that happy winter passed like a dream.

There came the spring of 1872, and with it a whole series of misfortunes, which left behind unforgettable consequences.

Fiodor Mihailovich’s fits of jealousy very much grieved and tormented me. The most exasperating thing was that his jealousy had no grounds whatsoever; yet its manifestations placed me at times in an absurd position. I shall describe one such case. I have already mentioned that I dreamt of earning money by my shorthand and thus of assisting the family. An occasion of using my knowledge unexpectedly presented itself. In 1872 a conference of farmers was to take place in the city of Novo-Alexandria or Lomzha, and a shorthand-writer was needed for the conference. I was informed of this by my brother, a former student of the Petrovsky Agricultural School, who continued to take an interest in farming. Since the choice of a shorthand-writer depended on Professor Shafranov, I wrote to him, with the permission of my husband. Fiodor Mihailovich always maintained that in looking after the children and the house and in assisting him in his work, I was doing quite enough for the family; but knowing my ardent desire to earn some money by other means he hesitated to oppose me, in the expectation (as he admitted to me later) that the post would already have been filled.

Professor Shafranov replied that he agreed to recommend me and communicated the terms. True, they were not very tempting, and the greater part of the money would have been spent on the journey and on my stay in Alexandria. But to me it was not so much the money that mattered as the start I had made in getting work. If I did this work successfully, I could, relying on Professor Shafranov’s recommendation, get more. Fiodor Mihailovich had no serious objections to the journey; for my mother had promised to come to live with us during my absence and to look after the children and the house. Fiodor Mihailovich himself had no work for me at that time; he was busy re-shaping the plan of his novel The Possessed. My intended journey obviously did not please him, and he tried to find various pretexts for my giving it up. How could I, a young woman, go by myself to a strange place, especially a Polish place? How would I live there, etc. etc.?

My brother, who used often to come to see me, suggested that in order to resolve his doubts, Fiodor and I should go to see him the following evening, and promised to invite a friend of his (whose name I do not remember now, but it ended with ‘kyants’ or ‘idse’¹), who had been several times in Alexandria and who was also going to the conference. We decided to do so.

Next day Fiodor Mihailovich and myself went off to see my brother; and Fiodor Mihailovich, who had not been troubled by his epileptic fits for a long time, was in an excellent mood. We were having a quiet talk when suddenly there rushed in, almost at a run, a young man of about twenty-three, tall, with curly hair, with unusually protruding eyes and red lips, the type that is everywhere recognised as ‘disgustingly handsome.’ Entering and seeing his ‘god’ he became so confused that he hardly bowed to Fiodor or to the hostess, but gave all his attention to me (evidently, an earthly creature like himself), seized my hand, kissed it, shook it vigorously several times, saying in his lisping voice, that he was extremely delighted that I was going to the conference and that he was eager to be of service to me. His exaltation struck me as comic, and I put it down to his shyness and confusion. But this was not Fiodor Mihailovich’s way of looking at it. Although he himself rarely kissed the hands of ladies and attached no significance to it at all, he was always displeased if some one applied this form of politeness to myself. And the young man’s attitude irritated him extremely.

My brother, who noticed that Fiodor Mihailovich’s mood had changed (and his fluctuations from one mood into another were very rapid), hastened to start a business-like conversation about the conference; but the youth was still confused and replied neither to my brother’s questions nor to those of Fiodor Mihailovich, but addressed himself exclusively to me. To my question: Was it a difficult journey and would there be many changes of train before we reached Alexandria? the young man replied that I was not to worry, that he was willing to come with me there, and that if I liked, he would travel in the same car as myself. I certainly declined his offer, saying that I would manage it all myself. To Fiodor Mihailovich’s question whether there was a hotel there and would it be a suitable place for a young woman to stop at, the young man, still without venturing to look at his ‘god,’ and addressing me, exclaimed: ‘But if Anna Gregorevna wishes, I could stop at the same hotel with her;—although I meant to stay with a friend.’

‘Anya, do you hear, Anya? The young man agrees to stop at the same hotel with you. But this is ex-cel-lent!’ Fiodor Mihailovich cried out in his full voice, and struck the table with all the strength of his fist. The glass of tea that stood on the table went flying on the floor and was smashed to smithereens; the hostess rushed to support the lamp that shook from the blow, and Fiodor Mihailovich jumped up, rushed to the hall, threw his overcoat on and disappeared.

I rushed after him, crying: ‘Fedya, what’s the matter? Fedya, come here’; but there was not a trace of him. Instantly I went to put on my cloak, but it took some time, and when I came out of the gate I saw a man in the distance running in the opposite direction to our usual walk home. So I had to run; and as I had young legs, in five minutes I overtook Fiodor Mihailovich, who by that time was out of breath and could not run as quickly. I hailed him several times and asked him to stop; but he refused to hear me. At last I managed to overtake him; I ran in front of him, seized with both my hands the skirts of his overcoat that he had thrown over his shoulders, and exclaimed: ‘Fedya, you are going mad. Where are you running? This is not our way home. Wait, put your arms into the sleeves. You must not walk like that, you’ll catch a cold.’

My voice and agitated appearance had an effect on Fiodor Mihailovich; he stopped and put on the coat with my assistance; I buttoned it up, took his arm, and led him in the opposite direction. Fiodor Mihailovich, although he did all I told him, yet preserved a troubled expression. I lost my temper and said:

‘Well, you have been jealous, haven’t you? You think I managed to fall in love with “the wild Asiatic” in a couple of minutes, and he with me, and we were going to elope, were we not? Now you ought to be ashamed of yourself!’… And I began remonstrating with my poor husband, explaining how much he offended me by his jealousy. ‘Why, haven’t we been married for six years? Don’t you know how I love you and value our family happiness? And you are capable of being jealous of the first fellow I meet and of placing me in a ridiculous position, etc., etc.’

As my reproaches went on, Fiodor Mihailovich tried to apologise and to justify himself, and promised never to be jealous of me. But I took no notice of all this. In a word, I got from him all the amends that an ‘infuriated wife’ could get. But I could not be cross for long with my dear husband. Having got into a temper and said all sorts of absurdities, I cooled down quickly, and I felt terribly sorry for Fiodor Mihailovich, the more so that I knew that he could not restrain himself in a fit of jealousy. Seeing the change in my mood, he began laughing at himself, inquired how many things he had spoilt to-night at my brother’s, and whether he hadn’t incidentally given my rapturous admirer a hiding. It ended in our making peace on our way home, and as it was a wonderful evening we walked all the way. The incident did not pass without his buying Turkish Delight and smoked sturgeon.[^2] It was a long way, and with our calls at the shops, it took us an hour and a half.

On coming home, I found my brother there. Poor Ivan Gregorevich, seeing our flight, had imagined God knows what; he rushed off to us, and was astonished at finding neither myself nor Fiodor Mihailovich at home. Before our arrival he passed a whole hour in dark thoughts and presentiments; and how surprised he was when he saw us arrive home in the most amicable mood. We treated him to tea and sturgeon; and there was much laughter. To my question how he explained our strange flight to the young man, Ivan Gregorevich answered: ‘When he asked what was the matter, I said: “Damn you! Can’t you see it yourself?”’

The story ended happily; but I understood that I had to give up my journey. Certainly I could have persuaded Fiodor Mihailovich, and he would have let me go; but then he would have begun to get agitated, he would not have held out, but would have rushed after me to Alexandria. It would have resulted only in a scandal, and in the waste of money, of which we had so little.

Thus ended my attempt to earn a living by shorthand.