Petersburg (5 page)

As a preliminary he began to question the old valet with a kind of unpleasant insistency:

‘Is Nikolai Apollonovich up?’

‘On no account: his honour is not up yet, sir.’

Apollon Apollonovich gave the bridge of his nose a rub of displeasure:

‘Er … tell me, then: when does Nikolai Apollonovich, tell me, so to speak …’

‘
Oh, his honour gets up rather latish, sir …’

‘What does that mean, rather latish?’

And at once, not waiting for an answer, stalked in to coffee, having glanced at the clock.

It was exactly half past nine.

At ten o’clock he, an old man, left for the Institution.
Nikolai Apollonovich, a young man, rose from his bed – two hours later.
Every morning the senator inquired about the hour of his awakening.
And every morning he frowned.

Nikolai Apollonovich was the senator’s son.

In a Word, He Was the Head of an Institution

Apollon Apollonovich Ableukhov was notable for acts of valour; more than one were the stars that had fallen on his gold-embroidered chest: the star of Stanislav and Anna, and even: even the White Eagle.

The sash he wore was the blue sash.
⁸

And recently from a small red lacquered box the beams of diamond insignia, or in other words, the decoration of the Order of Alexander Nevsky, had begun to shine on the abode of patriotic feelings.

What then was the social position of the person who had arisen here out of non-existence?

I think that the question is rather misplaced: Russia knew Ableukhov by the excellent expansiveness of the speeches he gave: these speeches did not explode, but flashing without thunder spurted a kind of poison on the opposing party, as a result of which the party’s proposal was rejected in the appropriate quarters.
⁹
When Ableukhov was established in a senior post the Ninth Department
¹⁰
became inactive.
With this department Apollon Apollonovich waged a constant battle both in documents and, where necessary, speeches, in support of the importation of American sheafing machines into Russia (the Ninth Department was against their importation).
The senator’s speeches flew around all the districts and provinces, some of which are not, in a spatial respect, the inferior of Germany.

Apollon Apollonovich was the head of an Institution: oh,
that
one … what is it called, again?

In a word, was the head of an Institution which is, of course, familiar to you.

If one were to compare the cachectic, utterly unprepossessing little figure of my respected man of state with the immeasurable vastness of the mechanisms he controlled, one might, perhaps, for a long time give oneself up to naïve astonishment; but after all, decidedly everyone was astonished at the explosion of intellectual energy shed by this cranium in defiance of all Russia, in defiance of the majority of departments, with the exception of one: but the head of that department
¹¹
had, for what would now soon be two years, fallen silent at the will of the Fates beneath a gravestone.

My senator
¹²
had just passed his sixty-eighth birthday; and his face, a pale one, recalled both a grey paperweight (in solemn moments) and a piece of papier mâché (in hours of leisure); the senator’s stony eyes, each surrounded by a black-green concavity, seemed in moments of tiredness both more blue and more enormous.

For our own part, let us also say: Apollon Apollonovich was not in the slightest agitated upon surveying his completely green ears, enlarged to massive dimensions, against the blood-red background of a burning Russia.
Thus had he recently been depicted: on the front page of a humorous little street journal,
¹³
one of those little Yid journals, the blood-red covers of which multiplied in those days with shocking speed on the prospects that seethed with humanity …

North-East

In the oak dining-room the wheezing of a clock was heard; bobbing and hissing, a small grey cuckoo was cuckooing; at the signal from the time-honoured cuckoo Apollon Apollonovich sat down in front of a porcelain cup and broke off warm crusts of white bread.
And over his coffee Apollon Apollonovich would remember his former years; and over his coffee – even, even – he would joke:

‘Who is more respected than anyone else, Semyonych?’

‘I suppose, Apollon Apollonovich, that a real privy councillor
¹⁴
is more respected than anyone else.’

Apollon Apollonovich smiled with his lips alone:

‘Well, you suppose wrongly: a chimney sweep is more respected than anyone else …’

The valet already knew the answer to the riddle: but of this, out of respect, he said – not a word.

‘But why,
barin
, may I be so bold as to ask, such honour to a chimney sweep?’

‘In the presence of a real privy councillor, Semyonych, people stand aside …’

‘I suppose that is so, your excellency …’

‘A chimney sweep … Before him even a real privy councillor will stand aside, because: a chimney sweep makes people dirty.’

‘Precisely so, sir,’ the valet interjected deferentially …

‘Yes indeed: only there is a post that is even more respected …’

And at once added:

‘That of lavatory attendant …’

‘Pff!
…’

‘The chimney sweep himself will stand aside before him, and not only the real privy councillor …’

And – a mouthful of coffee.
But let us observe: Apollon Apollonovich was after all himself a real privy councillor.

‘Oh, Apollon Apollonovich, sir, there was another thing: Anna Petrovna was telling me …’

At the words ‘Anna Petrovna’, however, the grey-haired valet stopped short.

‘The grey coat, sir?’

‘Yes, the grey one …’

‘I suppose it will be the grey gloves, too, sir?’

‘No, I want suede gloves …’

‘Try to wait a moment, your excellency, sir: you see, we keep the gloves in the wardrobe: Shelf B – North-West.’

Apollon Apollonovich had entered into life’s trivia only once: one day he had made an inspection of his inventory; the inventory was registered in order and the nomenclature of all the shelves
established; the shelves were arranged by letters: A, B, C; while the four sides of the shelves assumed the designations of the four corners of the globe.

When he had put his spectacles away, Apollon Apollonovich would mark the register in fine, minute handwriting: spectacles, Shelf B, NE – North-East, in other words; while the valet received a copy of the register, and learned the directions of the appurtenances of the precious toilet by heart; at times during bouts of insomnia he would flawlessly scan these directions from memory.

In the lacquered house the storms of life passed noiselessly; but ruinously did the storms of life pass here none the less: not with events did they thunder; they did not shine purifyingly into hearts like arrows of lightning; but like a stream of poisonous fluids from a hoarse gullet did they rend the air: and some kind of cerebral games whirled in the consciousness of the inhabitants like dense vapours in hermetically sealed boilers.

The Baron, the Harrow

From the table rose a cold, long-legged bronze: the lampshade did not flash with a violet-pink tone, subtly painted: the secret of this paint had been lost by the nineteenth century; the glass had grown dark with time; the delicate pattern had also grown dark with time.

The golden pier-glasses in the window-piers devoured the drawing-room from all sides with the green surfaces of mirrors; and over there – a golden-cheeked little cupid crowned them with his little wing; and over there – a golden wreath’s laurels and roses were perforated by the heavy flames of torches.
Between the pier-glasses a small mother-of-pearl table gleamed from everywhere.

Apollon Apollonovich quickly threw open the door, leaning on the cut-crystal handle; his steps rang out over the radiant tiles of the parquetry; from all sides rushed heaps of porcelain trinkets; they had brought these trinkets from Venice, he and Anna Petrovna –
some thirty years ago.
Memories of a misty lagoon, a gondola and an aria sobbing in the distance flashed inopportunely through the senator’s head …

Instantly he transferred his eyes to the grand piano.

From the yellow lacquered lid the minute leaves of a bronze incrustation shone resplendently; and again (tiresome memory!) Apollon Apollonovich remembered: a white Petersburg night; in the windows a broad river flowed; and the moon was out; and a roulade of Chopin thundered: he remembered – Anna Petrovna had played Chopin (not Schumann) …

The minute leaves of the incrustation – of mother-of-pearl and bronze – shone resplendently on the boxes and shelves that came out of the walls.
Apollon Apollonovich settled down in an Empire-style armchair, on the pale azure satin seat of which garlands wound, and with his hand he reached for a bundle of letters from a small Chinese tray: his bald head inclined towards the envelopes.
As he waited for the lackey with his invariable ‘The horses are ready’ he absorbed himself here, before leaving for work, in the reading of his morning correspondence.

Thus did he act on this day, too.

And the small envelopes were torn open: envelope after envelope; an ordinary, postal one – the stamp affixed lopsidedly, the handwriting illegible.

‘Mm … Yes, sir, yes, sir, yes, sir: very well, sir …’

And the envelope was carefully put away.

‘Mm … A petition …’

‘A petition, and another petition …’

The envelopes were torn open carelessly; these were things to be dealt with in time, later: this way or that …

An envelope made of thick grey paper – sealed, with a monogram, no stamp and the seal done in sealing-wax.

‘Mm … Count Doublevé
¹⁵
… What’s this?
… He wants to see me at the Institution … A personal matter …’

‘Mm … Aha!
…’

Count Doublevé, the head of the Ninth Department, was the senator’s adversary and an enemy of separated farming.

Next … A pale pink, miniature envelope; the senator’s hand gave a start; he recognized this handwriting – the handwriting of
Anna Petrovna; he studied the Spanish stamp, but did not unseal the envelope:

‘Mm … money …’

‘But the money was sent, wasn’t it?’

‘The money will be sent!!
…’

‘Hm … I must make a note …’

Apollon Apollonovich, thinking he had got his pencil, pulled an ivory nailbrush from his waistcoat and was preparing to make a note to ‘Return to address of sender’, when …

‘?
…’

‘The horses are ready, sir …’

Apollon Apollonovich raised his bald head and walked out of the room.

On the walls hung pictures, suffused with an oily lustre; and with difficulty through the lustre one could see French women who looked like Greek women, in the narrow tunics of the Directoire of former times and with the tallest of coiffures.

Above the grand piano hung a small reproduction of David’s painting
Distribution des aigles par Napoléon Premier
.
The painting depicted the great Emperor wearing a wreath and an ermine purple mantle; the Emperor Napoleon was extending one hand to a plumed assembly of marshals; his other hand clutched a metal sceptre; on top of the sceptre sat a heavy eagle.

Cold was the magnificence of the drawing-room on account of the complete absence of rugs: the parquet tiles shone; if the sun illumined them for a moment, one’s eyes screwed up involuntarily.
Cold was the drawing-room’s hospitality.

But with Senator Ableukhov it had been exalted into a principle.

It impressed itself: in the master, in the statues, in the servants, even in the dark, tiger-striped bulldog that lived somewhere near the kitchen; in this house everyone became disconcerted, giving way to the parquetry, the paintings and the statues, smiling, being disconcerted and swallowing their words: obliging and bowing, and rushing to one another – on these noisy parquets; and wringing their cold fingers in an access of fruitless obsequiousness.

Since Anna Petrovna’s departure: the drawing-room had been
silent, the lid of the grand piano closed: the roulade had not thundered.

Yes – with regard to Anna Petrovna, or (to put it more simply) with regard to the letter from Spain: hardly had Apollon Apollonovich stalked past than two nimble lackeys quickly began to jabber.

‘He didn’t read the letter …’

‘Oh well: he will read it.’

‘Will he send it?’

‘ ’Course he will …’

‘Such a stone, the Lord forgive …’

‘I’ll say this to you, as well: you ought to observe the verbal niceties.’

When Apollon Apollonovich came down to the hallway, his grey-haired valet, who was also coming down to the hallway, looked at the respected ears, clutching a snuffbox in his hand – a gift from the minister.

Apollon Apollonovich stopped on the stairs and searched for a word.

‘Mm … Listen …’

‘Your excellency?’

Apollon Apollonovich looked for the right word.

‘How, as a matter of fact, – yes – is he getting on … getting on …’

‘?
…’

‘Nikolai Apollonovich.’

‘Passably, Apollon Apollonovich, his honour is well …’

‘And what else?’

‘It’s as before: his honour is pleased to shut himself up and read books.’

‘Books, too?’

‘Then his honour also paces about the rooms, sir …’

‘Paces about – yes, yes … And … And?
How?’

‘Paces about … In a dressing-gown, sir!’

‘Reading, pacing … I see … Go on.’

‘Yesterday his honour was waiting for a visit from someone …’

‘Waiting?
For whom?’

‘A costumier, sir …’

‘What costumier?’

‘A costumier, sir …’

‘Hm-hm … What was that for?’

‘I suppose that his honour is going to a ball …’

‘Aha – so: he’s going to a ball …’

Apollon Apollonovich gave the bridge of his nose a rub: his face lit up with a smile and became suddenly senile: