Netochka Nezvanova (Penguin ed.) Read online

  I came to enjoy these solitary wanderings more and more. Besides, there was another reason for wishing to avoid the upstairs rooms. The Prince’s old aunt lived on the upper floor, hardly ever leaving it. This old lady left a sharp impression on my memory. She was unquestionably the most important person in the house. Everyone followed a ceremonious etiquette with her – even the Princess, so proud and self-assured, was obliged on two fixed days of the week to go upstairs and make a personal visit. She usually went in the morning, and a dry conversation would ensue, frequently interrupted by imperious silences as the old lady murmured prayers or counted her beads. The visit was over only when the aunt rose from her chair and kissed the Princess on the lips, thereby indicating that the interview was at an end. Formerly, the Princess had been required to visit her husband’s aunt every day, but of late, at the old lady’s wish, the severity of her rule had been relaxed and on the five remaining days the Princess was now obliged only to inquire about her health. In general the old lady lived almost like a hermit. She was unmarried and had retired to a convent when she was thirty-five, where she had spent seventeen years without taking the veil; then she had left the convent and moved to Moscow to live with her widowed sister, Countess L., whose health had been deteriorating for years. There she was reconciled with a second sister, the unmarried Princess X., with whom she had been on bad terms for more than twenty years. But the old ladies are said never to have passed a day without quarrelling; thousands of times they were on the point of parting, but could never do so because they realized that in the end they needed each other as a safeguard against boredom and the infirmities of old age. But in spite of their rather unattractive way of life and the ceremonial boredom that reigned in their Moscow tower chamber, the whole town saw it as a duty to continue visiting the three recluses. They were regarded as the custodians of all the sanctities and traditions of the aristocracy and as the living relics of the original nobility. Countess L. was a wonderful woman who left many pleasant memories behind. People made a point of visiting them first on arrival from Petersburg; once received in their house, they would be received anywhere. But the Countess died, and the sisters parted: the elder Princess remained in Moscow to inherit her share of the fortune of the Countess, who had died childless, while the younger sister, the recluse, settled with her nephew Prince X. in Petersburg. On the other hand, the Prince’s two children, Katya and Alexander, were left in Moscow to console and distract their grandmother in her loneliness. The Princess, their mother, who was passionately fond of children, dared not protest at being parted from them for the whole period of mourning. I have omitted to mention that the Prince’s entire household was still in mourning when I came to live there, although this soon came to an end.

  The old Princess always dressed in black, in gowns of plain woollen material, and she wore starched, pleated collars, which made her look as if she came from the poorhouse. She was never without her rosary, attended Mass formally, observed all the fasts, received visits from ecclesiastical dignitaries and pious persons, read holy books and, all in all, lived like a nun. The silence upstairs was awesome; it was impossible for a door to creak without the Princess, as sharp as a fifteen-year-old, sending instantly to find out the cause, though it might well have been no more than a squeak. Everyone spoke in a whisper and went about on tiptoe; the poor Frenchwoman, an old lady herself, was finally forced to give up her favourite footwear – high-heeled shoes. Heels were banished. A fortnight after my arrival, the old Princess sent to inquire who I was, what I was like, how I came to the house and so on. Her inquiries were swiftly and dutifully answered. Then a second messenger was sent to the Frenchwoman, asking why the Princess had not yet seen me. This instantly caused a commotion; they started combing my hair, washing my hands and my face (which were already very clean) and showing me how to enter, how to bow, how to look more cheerful and gracious, how to speak – in short, I was thoroughly pestered. Then a messenger was sent from our part of the house with the proposal that the great lady might like to see the little orphan. A reply came back in the negative, but a time was appointed for the following day, after Mass. I did not sleep all night, and was told afterwards that I was raving throughout the night about going to visit the old Princess and begging her forgiveness for something. Finally, the hour of my presentation arrived. As I entered the room I saw a withered little old lady sitting in an enormous armchair. She nodded to me and put on her spectacles in order to examine me more closely. I remember that she did not like me at all. She commented on my being almost a savage, ignorant of the proper way to curtsy or kiss a hand. Questions followed, but I was scarcely able to answer and, when she began talking about my father and mother, I burst into tears. The old lady was very displeased at my display of emotion; nevertheless she started to comfort me and advised me to put my trust in God. Then she asked me when I had last been to church and, realizing that I hardly understood the question, for my education had been sorely neglected, she was horrified. She sent for the younger Princess. In the ensuing discussion it was agreed that I should be taken to church the following Sunday. Until then, the Princess promised to pray for me, but she told them to take me away for, in her own words, I had made a very poor impression. There was nothing strange in that; it could hardly have been otherwise. It was evident that she did not like me at all, and the very same day she sent a message to say that I was too noisy and could be heard running about all over the house. As I had spent all day without moving, this was evidently the old lady’s fancy. Yet the same message arrived the next day. It happened that I had broken a cup just at that moment. The French governess and all the servants were in despair, and I was immediately sent to a remote room, to which they all followed me in a state of deep panic.

  I do not remember how the incident ended, but it was for this reason that I was glad to slip away downstairs, to be alone as I wandered through the spacious rooms, knowing that at least I was not disturbing anyone there.

  I remember sitting downstairs in the hallway one day, with my head bowed and my face buried in my hands, remaining like that for hours. I kept on thinking, but my immature mind could not resolve all my misery and grew increasingly forlorn and sorrowful. Suddenly a soft voice spoke over my head: ‘What’s the matter, my poor child?’

  I raised my head; it was the Prince. His face expressed deep sympathy and compassion. I gazed up at him with such a crushed, such an unhappy look that tears welled up in his deep blue eyes.

  ‘Poor little orphan!’ he said, patting me on the head.

  ‘No, no, not an orphan, no!’ I said, my moans breaking forth and everything inside me surging and churning around. I got up from my seat, clutched his hand, kissing it and drenching it with my tears, and repeated in an imploring tone: ‘No, no, not an orphan, no!’

  ‘My child! What’s wrong with you, my poor dear Netochka?’

  ‘Where’s my mother, where’s my mother?’ I cried, sobbing loudly, unable to hide my misery any longer, and I fell helplessly on my knees beside him. ‘Where’s my mother, my darling mother – where is she?’

  ‘Forgive me, my child!… Oh, poor little thing, I have reminded her… What have I done! Come, come along with me, Netochka, come along with me.’ He took me by the hand and led me swiftly away from the hallway. He was profoundly moved. At length we came to a room I had never seen before.

  It was the icon room. It was dusk, and the lamps shone brightly, their lights reflected on the golden rizas and precious stones of the icons. The faces of the saints looked out dimly from their glistening settings. Everything here was so different from any of the other rooms, so mysterious and gloomy, that I was impressed and awed, and my heart was filled with dread. The Prince quickly made me kneel down before the icon of Our Lady. He knelt down beside me…

  Pray, my child, pray. We shall both pray,’ he said in a soft, broken voice. But I could not pray; I was overwhelmed, even frightened. I recalled my father’s words that last night, beside my mother’s body, and I had a n
ervous fit. I lay ill in bed and in this, the second period of my illness, I almost died. This is how it all happened.

  One morning a familiar name sounded in my ears. I heard S.’s name pronounced by one of the members of the household who was standing beside my bed. I shuddered; memories surged up and, overwhelmed by recollections, dreams and torments, I lay delirious for goodness knows how many hours, fretting. When I woke up late at night it was dark in the room, the candle had gone out and the maid who usually sat in my room was not there. Then I heard the sound of music in the distance. At times the sound died down entirely; then it grew louder, as if it was coming closer. I do not remember what feeling came over me, or what resolve suddenly arose in my sick brain, but I got out of bed. I do not know where I found the strength, but I dressed in mourning clothes and went groping around the room. There was no one in the next room, nor in the room beyond. At last I made my way into the corridor. The sounds were becoming more and more distinct. In the middle of the corridor was a staircase that I always used when going to the large rooms downstairs. The staircase was brightly illuminated, and people were walking about down below. I hid in a corner until it was possible to pass unnoticed to the second floor. The music was coming from the drawing-room, and I could hear a lot of noisy voices talking, It sounded as if thousands of people were assembled. One of the drawing-room doors, leading into the corridor, was draped with two curtains made of crimson velvet. I lifted one of them and stood between the two. My heart was beating so strongly I could hardly stand upright. However, a few minutes later, having mastered my agitation, I managed to draw back the edge of the second curtain… My goodness! That large gloomy room which I was so afraid of entering was now ablaze with thousands of candles. It was like a sea of light flooding upon me, and my eyes, accustomed to the darkness, were blinded by its brilliance. The perfumed air was blowing in my face like a warm wind. Millions of people were walking to and fro, and they all seemed to have happy, joyful faces. The women wore expensive, pretty dresses, and wherever I looked I saw eyes sparkling with pleasure. I stood there spellbound. It seemed as if I had seen all this somewhere before, in a dream… I was reminded of our attic room at dusk, the high window, the street far away below with the glittering lamp-posts, the windows of the house standing opposite with the red curtains, the carriages crowding round the front door, the stamping and snorting of high-spirited horses, the shouts, the noise, the shadows flitting across the windows and the faint, distant music… So here it was, here was that paradise! The thought flashed through my mind. This is where I had wanted to go with my poor father… It was not a dream after all!… Yes, I had seen it all before in my dreams, in my fancies! My imagination, inflamed by illness, caught fire, and I shed tears of ecstasy. I searched for my father. I was sure he was there, and my heart throbbed in anticipation… I could scarcely breathe… The music died down, there was a hum of voices, and then a murmur arose from all corners of the room. I gazed anxiously into the faces flashing past, trying to recognize someone. All at once there was an atmosphere of extraordinary excitement in the room. I caught sight of an old man, tall and lean, standing on a raised platform. His pale face smiled as he bent his crooked body, bowing in all directions; in his hands he was holding a violin. A profound silence followed, spreading across the room as if they were all holding their breath. All eyes were fixed expectantly on the old man. He raised his violin and touched the strings with his bow. The music began, and all at once I felt something stab my heart. With infinite yearning, my breath bated, I listened; a familiar sound came to my ears. I seemed to have heard these chords before; it was a kind of foreboding… a foreboding of something horrible and frightening was reflected in my heart. The music grew louder, swifter, the sound more vital. It was like a wail of despair, a lament, a prayer uttered in vain, echoing through the crowd and dying down in sorrow. An increasingly familiar voice was speaking inside me, but my heart refused to believe it. I clenched my teeth to hold back a groan of pain and grabbed hold of the curtain to prevent myself falling. Occasionally I closed my eyes, and then quickly opened them to peer eagerly at the crowd, imagining that it was a dream and that I would wake up at some terrible, already familiar moment; a dream of that last night, listening to the same music. Opening my eyes, I tried to reassure myself; I looked anxiously into the crowd… no – these were different people, different faces. It seemed as if they were all, like me, expecting something, and that we were all suffering together; that they too wanted to scream at the ghastly moans and wails that were tormenting their souls. But the wails and the moans flowed on, more anguished, more plaintive, more prolonged. Then the last, fearful, extended cry rang out, and my inside was wrenched apart… There was no longer any doubt: it was the same, the same cry; I recognized it, I had heard it before and, as on the other occasion, it pierced my heart.

  ‘Father, father,’ the thought went through my mind in a flash, ‘here he is, it’s him, he’s calling me. It’s his violin!’

  A groan broke from the crowd and a roar of applause shook the room. I could restrain myself no longer and, throwing back the curtains, I dashed into the room. ‘Papa, Papa, it’s you! Where are you?’ I cried, quite beside myself. I do not know how I reached the tall old man; they let me pass, standing aside to make way for me. I flung myself at him with an anguished shriek; I thought I was embracing my father… Suddenly I saw the long bony hands that had seized me, lifting me into the air. Black eyes were fixed on me, as if they wished to consume me with their fire. I looked at the old man. ‘No, this isn’t father, it’s his murderer,’ flashed through my mind. A sort of frenzy came over me, and it suddenly seemed that laughter was ringing out above me, reverberating through the room, in one concentrated roar. I lost consciousness.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  That was the second and the last period of my illness. When I opened my eyes again, I saw a child’s face bending over me; it was a girl of my own age, and my first gesture was to hold out my hand to her. From the moment I saw her, a feeling of happiness like a sweet premonition filled my soul. Try to imagine a face of idyllic charm and stunning, dazzling beauty; one of those before which you stop, transfixed in sweet confusion, trembling with delight; a face that makes you grateful for its existence, for allowing your eyes to fall upon it, for passing you by. It belonged to the Prince’s daughter, Katya, who had just returned from Moscow. She smiled at my gesture, and my frail nerves ached with a sweet ecstasy.

  The little Princess called to her father, who was standing near by, talking to the doctor.

  ‘Well, thank God, thank God,’ said the Prince, taking my hand, his face beaming with genuine pleasure. ‘I’m so glad, so glad,’ he continued with characteristic rapidity. ‘And this is my daughter, Katya. Now you will have a friend. Hurry and get well, Netochka. Naughty girl, what a fright she gave me!’

  My recovery followed very quickly. A few days later I was already up and about. Every morning Katya came to my bedside, always smiling, always with laughter on her lips. I awaited her visits with tremendous excitement; I longed to kiss her! But the naughty child never stayed longer than a few minutes, for she could not sit still. To be always on the move, running and skipping and making a commotion about the house, was an absolute necessity to her. The very first time I met her, she announced that she could not come more often because it was so dreadfully boring to sit with me, and that she only came because she felt so sorry for me that she could not help coming, and that she felt sure we would get on better once I was well again. And every morning her first words were: ‘Well, are you all right now?’

  But I was still pale and thin, and as the smile seemed to appear nervously on my doleful face, the little Princess would frown immediately, shaking her head and stamping her feet in annoyance.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you to get better? So? I suppose they don’t give you anything to eat?’

  ‘A little,’ I replied timidly, for I was already overawed by her.

  Above all I wanted her to like me, and was nervo
us about everything I said or did before her. I became more and more enraptured by her visits. While she was with me I could not take my eyes off her and, after she left, I would continue to gaze, spellbound, at the spot where she had been standing. I started to dream of her and, when I was awake, invented lengthy conversations with her in her absence: I would be her friend, playing all sorts of pranks with her and weeping with her when we were scolded. In short, I dreamt of her as if we were in love. I was desperately anxious to get well and put on weight, as she advised, just as quickly as possible.

  Sometimes, when Katya came running to me in the morning, calling out, ‘Aren’t you well yet? Still as thin as ever?, I would cower as if I were guilty of something. But it was incomprehensible to her that I could not make an overnight recovery, and she began getting distinctly cross about it.

  ‘Well, if you like, I’ll bring you some cake today,’ she said to me one day. ‘If you eat it, you’ll soon fatten up.’

  ‘Oh yes, do bring me some,’ I said, delighted at the prospect of seeing her again.

  When she came to inquire about my health, the little Princess usually sat down in a chair opposite me and right away began scrutinizing me with her black eyes. When she first made my acquaintance, she was constantly examining me from head to foot, with naïve astonishment. But conversation between us flagged; I was intimidated by Katya’s presence and by her abrupt turnabouts, although I longed to talk to her.