William Gerhardie - Futility

The old Prince was one of those quiet nonentities who enter unasked and leave unhindered almost any Russian home; and no one is likely to object to their coming because no one is likely to notice them. They have a face, a name, a manner so ordinary that you cannot remember them, ever. They are so colourless, so blank that they seem scarcely to exist at all. I think Goncharov speaks of them somewhere, but I would not be sure of it. “Kniaz” was like that. His name was some very ordinary name, and it even seemed odd that he should not have a more exclusive name for his title. But no one cared. No one, to be sure, knew what his name was. His imya otchestvo was Pàvel Pàvlovich, like the Baron’s, and so he was called by all but Fanny Ivanovna, who called him “Kniaz,” sarcastically — a Prince without a copeck to his title! I only remember that he was always very neatly dressed, shaved regularly and wore a very stiff and sharp collar which seemed to torture his dry and skinny neck.

“Kniaz has some shares,” she explained, “in a limited company, but they are worthless — always have been — and never paid any dividends. Never so long as anybody can remember.”

“Has he always lived on you, then?”

“He lived on his brother when he was alive. He had great expectations from his brother. But his brother died and left him more shares, quite a number of shares, in the same limited company. Whom the brother lived on when he was alive, Lord only knows!”

“Did they get their shares from their father?”

“Their uncle.”

“Did he get any dividends?”

“Nikolai says no. But he seems to have put all his money into them.”

“And now I suppose you invite Kniaz to come and live with you?” I asked.

“He comes of his own accord.”

“You don’t object to his coming?”

“No one would tell him even if they did. It’s not a Russian habit to object to any one who comes to your house. It isn’t much good objecting either. They’ll come anyhow. But never mind.”

“Extraordinary man,” said I. “What does he propose to do? Has he any plan?”

“He believes in the shares.”

“Have you ever tried to disillusion him?”

“I wouldn’t be so heartless,” said Fanny Ivanovna.

“And the girls?”

“For them money does not exist. They are sublimely indifferent to it.”

“And Nikolai Vasilievich?”

“Nikolai Vasilievich believes in the mines. Kniaz helps him to sustain that belief in return for Nikolai’s faith in the shares. The money Kniaz borrows from Nikolai Vasilievich he regards merely as an advance on his future dividends.”

“And does Nikolai Vasilievich regard it in that light?” I asked.

“He pretends he does. But he always says: ‘Never mind, if only the mines begin to pay all will be well, Pàvel Pvlovich.’ ”

“And the ‘family,’ Fanny Ivanovna,” I cried, “I mean his wife and her family, his fiancée and her family, you and your family, his sisters and cousins, Kniaz and the others and their families — do they believe in the mines?”

“More firmly than Nikolai. If, in fact, one fine day Nikolai turned a sceptic in matters mining, they would, I am sure, suspect him of shamming poverty to prevent them from getting their legitimate share.”

“Fanny Ivanovna,” I sighed, “good night.”

“I know it is amusing,” she said. “I wish it wasn’t real life, our life, my life. Then I would find it a trifle more amusing.”

I hailed a driver who slumbered in his sleigh on the corner of the Mohovaya and the Pantilemenskaya. As I drove home across the frozen river, on which the moon spread its yellow light, I thought of the Bursanovs’ muddled fife, and then Chekhov’s Three Sisters dawned upon my memory.

I understood now why Nikolai Vasilievich sympathized so heartily with the people in the play.

VII

THAT EVENING I REMEMBER AS AN EVER-deepening initiation into the very complicated affairs of the Bursanov family. It had been raining again, and the washed cobbles on either side of the street looked clean and shining as if newly polished. For once Nikolai Vasilievich was at home, but he had gone into his study, and, sitting at the piano, I could not help listening to what was said in the room.

“But Mama does want a divorce herself, Fanny Ivanovna,”—from Nina.

“She didn’t before,” said Fanny Ivanovna.

“She does now,” said Nina.

“I wonder why?”

“I don’t really think, Fanny Ivanovna, that you have any right to know that.”

“She can’t have a divorce, anyhow,” said Fanny Ivanovna. “And I have asked you to make that clear to her.”

“You see,” said the girl of fifteen, “Mama has her own point of view. She doesn’t look at things from your point of view. Why should she?”

“Why should she …” repeated Fanny Ivanovna. And there was a long pause.

“I’ve done what you asked me,” said her ambassador, shrugging her pretty shoulders.

I stopped playing.

Nikolai Vasilievich came back and we sat down to dinner, and amongst us appeared Vera. I was to understand her presence a little afterwards. The atmosphere was tense. No doubt they had all been discussing the family tangle. No doubt Nikolai Vasilievich and Fanny Ivanovna had been shouting and blackguarding each other as usual. But silence reigned for the moment. It was as if they had all been a little overstrained by this uncanny family burden. Then there was a ring at the bell.

It was merely the postman, and the maid brought in a letter for Fanny Ivanovna. So soon as she caught sight of the envelope she got flushed and wildly excited.

“It’s from Germany,” she cried, and something about her flush, about her manner, told us that the letter was a painful reminder of her painful circumstances, rather than a joy. She tore it open, and for some reason the room grew still: all seemed to watch her in perfect silence. And then she fluttered the letter and flushed again, and cried out to Nikolai Vasilievich in a voice of deep sorrow and reproach, as a tear welled up from her eye:

“Listen.… ‘Dear Fanny … and Nikolai!’ And Nikolai! And Nikolai! … Do you hear: And Nikolai! …”

‘Nikolai — i—i—’ echoed with pathetic insistence. It was a sound that rent the heart. Tears flushed her eyes, sobs choked her throat. And for the moment, at all events, they forgot her clumsy stupidities; they felt only how irreparably they had wronged her.

And then, like the announcement of the next act, there was another ring. We heard an unfamiliar voice inquire in the hall if Nikolai Vasilievich was at home. Then the visitor’s card was brought in by the maid.

“No!” said Nikolai Vasilievich, rising very emphatically. “I draw the line there.” And he walked away to his study.

Fanny Ivanovna, her tragedy forgotten in the excitement of the visit, snatched at the card.

“Eisenstein!” she exclaimed.

“Och!” cried the three sisters in disgust.

And then, uninvited, unannounced, Eisenstein walked into the dining-room.

He was a tall, flabby man, with prominently Jewish features, and probably good-looking as Jews of that type go.

“Nina,” he said, looking round. “I want to see Nina. I missed seeing her in Moscow.”

“Yes?” Nina said, “I am here.”

Fanny Ivanovna looked at Eisenstein with scrutiny. I think she could feel no real enmity to this man because he had, after all, run away with Nikolai Vasilievich’s wife — to all appearance a necessary preliminary to her own advent into his life. It was quite obvious that Eisenstein was not in the least seeking a tête-à-tête with Nina, but on the contrary, desired to exhibit his overflowing emotions to as large an audience as possible.