“Well, Apollon Apollonovich, there were times when Anna Petrovna . . .”
But with the word “Anna Petrovna” the gray-haired valet stopped short.
***
“The gray coat, sir?”
“Yes . . .”
“And the gloves, sir?”
“Let me have the suede gloves. . . .”
“Kindly wait a moment, sir. Your Excellency, your gloves are in the chiffonier: Shelf B—northwest.”
Only once had Apollon Apollonovich taken note of the trivia of life: he had made an audit of the household inventory. The inventory was registered in proper order and a nomenclature for all the shelves, large and small, was established: there appeared shelves labelled with the Latin letters A, B, C. And the four corners of each shelf received the designation of the four corners of the earth.
Putting away his spectacles, Apollon Apollonovich would note in the register, in a fine, minute hand: spectacles, shelf B and NE, that is, northeast. As for the valet, he was given a copy of the register.
***
In the lacquered house the storms of life flowed noiselessly on; here, nonetheless, the storms of life did flow destructively on.
HARROWING, HARROW
A long-legged bronze rose up from the table. The lampshade did not glow in a delicately decorated violet-rose color (our age has lost the secret of this tint): the glass had darkened with time, and so had the delicate painting thereon.
From all sides golden pier glasses swallowed the drawing room in greenish mirror surfaces. They were crowned by the wings of cute little golden-cheeked cupids. A small mother-of-pearl table glittered.
Apollon Apollonovich flung open the door, resting his hand on the faceted, cut-glass knob. His step tapped along the gleaming panels of parquetry. From all sides leaped cabinets with porcelain baubles. They had brought these bibelots from Venice, he and Anna Petrovna, some thirty years earlier. The remembrance of the misty lagoon, the gondola, and an aria sobbing in the distance flashed inappropriately through the senator’s head.
He immediately shifted his eyes to the grand piano.
There, from the yellow lacquered lid, sparkled tiny leaves of bronze incrustation. And again (oh, tiresome memory!) Apollon Apollonovich recalled: a white Petersburg night;† in the windows the racing river; and the motionless moon; and the thunder of a Chopin roulade: the memory that Anna Petrovna now and then used to play Chopin (never Schumann). . . .
Tiny leaves of incrustation—mother-of-pearl and bronze—sparkled on the little boxes and on the little shelves that stood out from the walls. Apollon Apollonovich seated himself in an Empire armchair, where tiny garlands curled their way over the pale azure satin of the seat. And from a small Chinese tray his hand seized a packet of letters, still sealed. His bald head inclined over the envelopes.
And the envelopes were torn open one after the other: an ordinary one delivered by mail, with the stamp stuck on askew:
“I see, I see, fine . . .
“A petition . . .
“A petition, another petition. . . .”
In due time, later, sometime or other . . .
An envelope of heavy paper, and with a monogram, with a seal on the wax.
“Hmmm . . . Count W.† . . . What’s this?
“Hmmm. . . .”
Count W. was head of the Ninth Department.
Next, a tiny pale pink envelope. The senator’s hand trembled; he recognized this script. He scrutinized the Spanish stamp, but did not unseal the envelope.
“But wasn’t the money sent?
“The money will be sent!!!”
And Apollon Apollonovich, thinking it was a pencil, extracted an ivory nailbrush from his waistcoat and was preparing to make a notation with it. . . .
“?”
“The carriage is here, sir.”
Apollon Apollonovich raised his bald head and departed from the room.
***
Over the grand piano hung a reduced copy of David’s “Distribution des aigles par Napoléon Premier.”
The picture represented the imperious Emperor in laurel wreath and ermine-trimmed royal mantle.
Cold was the magnificence of the drawing room, because of the total absence of rugs. The parquetry gleamed. Had the sun illumined it for even an instant, one would have squinted involuntarily.
But having things cold was elevated into a principle by Senator Ableukhov.†
It left its imprint on the master of the house, on the statues, on the servants, even on the dark brindle bulldog, who made his residence somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen. In this house everyone felt ill at ease, deferring to the parquetry, pictures, and statues, smiling, ill at ease, and holding their tongues. Everyone bowed and scraped and wrung cold hands in an access of sterile obsequiousness.
With the departure of Anna Petrovna the drawing room grew still, the piano lid was lowered; no more the thunder of roulades.
***
When Apollon Apollonovich descended to the vestibule, his gray-haired valet, descending to the vestibule as well, kept glancing at the venerable ears, while gripping a snuffbox, the Minister’s gift.
Apollon Apollonovich stopped on the staircase.
Apollon Apollonovich searched for the right word:
“What has, well, you know who, been up to . . . been up to?”
“?”
“Nikolai Apollonovich.”
“He’s getting along just fine.”
“And what else?”
“It’s his pleasure to shut himself up in his room and read books.”
“And read books?”
“He walks around his rooms, sir.”
“Walks around? And? How so?”
“In a dressing gown, sir.”
“I see. Go on.”
“Yesterday he was waiting for . . .”
“Whom?”
“A costumer.”
“What do you mean, a costumer?”
“A costumer, sir.”
***
Apollon Apollonovich rubbed the bridge of his nose. His face lit up and suddenly became senile.
“Mmm. Did you ever have a harrowing experience?”†
“?”
“But you were brought up on a farm, weren’t you? So you must have had a harrow.”
“Yes, sir, my parents had one.”
“There, you see, and you didn’t even know.”
THE CARRIAGE FLEW INTO THE FOG
An icy drizzle sprayed streets and prospects, sidewalks and roofs.†
It sprayed pedestrians and rewarded them with the grippe.†