Chapter II

Five years had passed since Arina Petrovna took up her abode at Pogorelka. Yudushka struck root in Golovliovo and would not budge. He became considerably older, faded and tarnished greatly, but was more of a knave, liar and babbler than ever, for now his "mother dear" was nearly always with him, and for the sake of dainties, she became a ready and indispensable listener to his empty talk.

One must not think of Yudushka as a hypocrite in the sense of Tartuffe, for instance, or some modern French bourgeois, mellifluous and fond of expatiating on "the foundations of society." No, he was a hypocrite of the purely Russian breed, simply a man devoid of moral standards and ignorant of any except the most elementary truths. His ignorance was profound. He was mendacious, had a passion for litigation and empty talk, and was afraid of the devil, too--all negative traits that are not the material for the making of a genuine hypocrite.

In France hypocrisy is a result of education; it constitutes, so to say, a part of "good manners," and always has a distinct political or social coloring. There are hypocrites of religion, hypocrites of "the foundations of society," of property, of family, of politics. And lately there have come up even hypocrites of "law and order." Though this sort of hypocrisy cannot be termed conviction, still it is a banner around which those people rally who find it profitable to play the hypocrite in that way and no other. They sham consciously, that is they know they are hypocrites, and they also know that others know. According to the notions of a French bourgeois, the universe is nothing but a large stage on which is played an endless drama with one hypocrite taking his cue from the other. Hypocrisy is an invitation to decency, decorum, outward elegance and politeness. And what is most important, hypocrisy is a restraint, not for those, of course, who play the hypocrite, hovering in the rarified atmosphere of the social heights, but for those who swarm at the bottom of the social caldron. Hypocrisy keeps society from the debauchery of passion and makes passion the privilege of a very limited minority. When licentiousness keeps within the limits of a small, well-organized corporation, it is not only harmless, but even supports and nourishes the traditions of elegance. The exquisite would perish if there were not a certain number of _cabinets particuliers,_ in which licentiousness is cultivated in the moments that are free from the worship of official hypocrisy. But licentiousness becomes really dangerous as soon as it is accessible to all and is combined with the general extension of the right to make demands and insist upon the legitimacy and naturalness of such demands. New social stratifications form, which endeavor to crowd out the old ones, or, at least, limit them considerably. The demand for _cabinets particuliers_ grows to such an extent that the question arises: Would it not be simpler in the future to get along without them? It is against these unwelcome questions and formulations of demands that the ruling classes of French society guard the systematic hypocrisy that begins by being an accident of manners and ends by becoming a compulsory law.

The modern French theatre is based on this reverence for hypocrisy. The first four acts of a popular French play are realistic, depicting the decay and disintegration of all standards of marital fidelity. But the fifth act always ends up with some sentimental ringing phrase eulogizing the sweet atmosphere of the fireside and the supreme triumph of virtue over vice. Which is the truth? Which is the sham? Both and neither. In the first four acts the audience sees itself mirrored in the realistic portrayal on the stage, but the fifth act is an equally faithful portrayal of the audience's conception of ideal virtue and pure matrimonial life. So, if French hypocrisy is a superstructure upon the body of public immorality, it is so completely a part of the entire fabric of morality that it keeps the edifice from toppling over.

We Russians have no system of social bringing up. We are not mustered or drilled to become champions of "social principles" or other principles, but simply left to grow wild, like nettles by the fence. That is why there are few hypocrites among us, but many liars, empty-headed bigots, and babblers. We have no need of playing the hypocrite for the sake of social principles, for we know of no such thing as social principles. We exist in perfect liberty, that is, we vegetate, lie, chatter quite naturally, without regard for principle. Whether we ought to rejoice over it or regret it, I cannot say. I think, though, that if hypocrisy breeds resentment and fear, useless lying causes boredom and repugnance. The best thing, therefore, is to ignore the question of the advantages of conscious over unconscious hypocrisy, and vice versa, and have nothing to do with either hypocrites or liars.

Yudushka was more of a chatterbox, liar and rascal than hypocrite. On shutting himself up on his country estate, he at once felt at perfect liberty. In no other environment could his propensities find so vast a field for operation. At Golovliovo he encountered neither direct resistance nor even indirect restraints that would make him think: "I should like to do something mean, but what will people say?" There was none to disturb him with disapproval, no one to intrude into his affairs. Consequently there was no reason for controlling himself. Extreme slovenliness became the dominating feature of his attitude toward himself. He had long had a craving for this perfect freedom from any moral restraint, and the fact that he had not gone to live in the country earlier was entirely due to his fear of idleness. Having spent over thirty years in the dull atmosphere of the bureaucratic department, he had acquired all the habits and appetites of an inveterate official, who does not allow a single moment of his life to pass without being busily engaged in doing nothing. But on studying the matter more closely, he came to the conclusion that the realm of busy idleness can easily be transposed to any sphere.

In fact, scarcely settled at Golovliovo but he at once created a world of trifles in which to rummage without the slightest risk of them ever being exhausted. In the morning he would seat himself at his desk and attend to business matters. First he would carefully check the accounts of the housekeeper, the cattle-yard woman, and the steward. He had established a very complicated accounting system, both for money and inventory. Every kopek, every bit of produce, was entered in twenty books, and on checking up he would find the total either half a kopek behind, or a whole kopek ahead. Lastly he would take up his pen and write complaints to the justice of the peace and the judge of appeals. This took up all his time and had the appearance of assiduous hard work. Yudushka often complained that he had no time to do everything that had to be done, though he pored over the ledgers all day long and did not even stop to take off his dressing-gown. Heaps of well filed but unexamined reports were always lying about on his desk, and among them was the annual report of the cattle-house woman, Fekla, whose activity had long seemed suspicious, though he had had no time to check up her accounts.

All connections with the outside world were completely severed. He received no books, no newspapers, not even letters. One of his sons, Volodya, committed suicide. With the other, Petenka, he corresponded briefly and only on sending him a remittance. He was caught in an atmosphere thick with ignorance, superstition and industrious idleness, and felt no desire to rescue himself from it. Even the fact that Napoleon III. was no longer emperor came to him through the local chief of police a year after the emperor's death. On hearing of it he expressed no particular interest, but only crossed himself and murmured: "May he enter the Kingdom of Heaven," and then said aloud: "And how proud he was! My, my! This was no good, and that did not suit him. Kings went to do him homage, princes kept watch in his antechamber. So the Lord, you see, in one moment cast down all his proud dreams."

The truth of the matter was that for all his reckoning and checking up he was far from knowing what was going on on his own estate. In this respect he was a typical official. Imagine a chief clerk to whom his superior says: "My friend, it is necessary to my plans for me to know exactly how large a crop of potatoes Russia can produce annually. Will you kindly compute this for me?" You think a question like that would baffle the chief clerk? You think he would at least ponder over the methods to be employed in the execution of such a task? Not at all. All he would do is this. He would draw a map of Russia, rule it out into perfect squares, and find out how many acres each square represents. Then he would go to the greengrocer's, would find out the quantity of potatoes each acre requires for seed and what the average ratio is of yield to seed, and, finally, with the help of God and the four fundamental operations of arithmetic, he would arrive at the conclusion that Russia under favorable circumstances could yield so and so many potatoes and under unfavorable circumstances, so and so many. And his work would not only please the chief, but would also be placed in Volume CII of some "Proceedings."

Yudushka even chose a housekeeper who exactly fitted the environment he had created. The maiden Yevpraksia was the daughter of the sexton at the church of St. Nicholas-in-Drops. She was an all-round treasure. Not alert in thinking, not ingenious, not even handy, but diligent, submissive, in no sense exigent. When Yudushka "drew her nearer" to his person, her one request was to be permitted to take some cold cider without asking leave. Such disinterestedness touched even Yudushka. He immediately put at her disposal two tubs of pickled apples beside the cider, and freed her from accountability for any of these items. Her exterior had nothing attractive in it to a connoisseur, but she was quite satisfactory to a man who was not fastidious and knew what he wanted. She had a broad white face, a low forehead bordered with thin yellowish hair, large lack-lustre eyes, a perfectly straight nose, a flat mouth on which there played a mysterious elusive smile, such as one sees in the portraits painted by homebred artists. In short there was nothing remarkable about her, except, perhaps, her back between her shoulder-blades, which was so broad and powerful that even the most indifferent man felt like giving her a good, hearty slap there. She knew it, but did not mind it, so that when Yudushka for the first time patted the fat nape of her neck, she only twitched her shoulders.

Amidst these drab surroundings days wore on, one exactly like the other, without the slightest change, without the least hope of a brightening ray. The arrival of Arina Petrovna was the one thing that brought a bit of animation. At first, when Porfiry Vladimirych had seen his mother's carriage approaching he had frowned, but in time he grew accustomed to her visits and even got to like them. They catered to his loquacity, for even he found it impossible to chatter to himself when all alone. To babble about various records and reports with "mother dear" was very pleasant, and, once together, they talked from morning till night without having enough. They discussed everything--the harvests of long ago and of the present; the way the landed gentry had lived in "those days;" the salt that had been so strong in former years; and the gherkins that were not what they had been in days gone by.

These chats had the advantage of flowing on like water and being forgotten without effort, so that they could be renewed with interest _ad infinitum,_ and enjoyed each time as if just put into circulation. Yevpraksia was present at these talks. Arina Petrovna came to love her so well that she would not have her away for a moment. At times, when tired of talking, the three of them would sit down to play fool, and they would keep on playing till long after midnight. They tried to teach Yevpraksia how to play whist with the dummy, but she could not understand the game. On such evenings the enormous Golovliovo mansion became animated. Lights shone in all the windows, shadows appeared here and there, so that a chance passer-by might think Heaven knows what celebration was going on. Samovars, coffee pots, refreshments took their turn on the table, which was never empty. Arina Petrovna's heart brimmed over with joy and merriment and instead of remaining for one day, she would spend three or four days at Golovliovo. And on the way back to Pogorelka she would think up a pretext for returning as soon as possible to the temptations of the "good living" there.