The Complete Novels of Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Fyodor Dostoyevsky

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      In case of absolute need there was always the possibility of making him drunk, or rather of keeping him perpetually drunk. And then, come what might, Zina would be a princess! And if this marriage were fated to produce scandal among the prince’s relations and friends in St. Petersburg and Moscow, Maria Alexandrovna comforted herself with the reflection that marriages in high life nearly always were productive of scandal; and that such a result might fairly be looked upon as “good form,” and as peculiar to aristocratic circles.

      Besides, she felt sure that Zina need only show herself in society, with her mamma to support her, and every one of all those countesses and princes should very soon either acknowledge her of their own accord, or yield to the head-washing that Maria Alexandrovna felt herself so competent to give to any or all of them, individually or collectively.

      It was in consequence of these reflections that Maria Alexandrovna was now hastening with all speed towards her village, in order to bring back Afanassy Matveyevitch, whose presence she considered absolutely necessary at this crisis. It was desirable that her husband should appear and invite the prince down to the country: she relied upon the appearance of the father of the family, in dresscoat and white tie, hastening up to town on the first rumours of the prince’s arrival there, to produce a very favourable impression upon the old man’s self-respect: it would flatter him; and after such a courteous action, followed by a polite and warmly-couched invitation to the country, the prince would hardly refuse to go.

      At last the carriage stopped at the door of a long low wooden house, surrounded by old lime trees. This was the country house, Maria Alexandrovna’s village residence.

      Lights were burning inside.

      “Where’s my old fool?” cried Maria Alexandrovna bursting like a hurricane into the sitting-room.

      “Whats this towel lying here for? — Oh! — he’s been wiping his head, has he. What, the baths again! and tea — of course tea! — always tea! Well, what are you winking your eyes at me for, you old fool? — Here, why is his hair not cropped? Grisha, Grisha! — here; why didn’t you cut your master’s hair, as I told you?”

      Maria Alexandrovna, on entering the room, had intended to greet her husband more kindly than this; but seeing that he had just been to the baths and that he was drinking tea with great satisfaction, as usual, she could not restrain her irritable feelings.

      She felt the contrast between her own activity and intellectual energy, and the stolid indifference and sheep-like contentedness of her husband, and it went to her heart!

      Meanwhile the “old fool,” or to put it more politely, he who had been addressed by that title, sat at the tea-urn, and stared with open mouth, in abject alarm, opening and shutting his lips as he gazed at the wife of his bosom, who had almost petrified him by her sudden appearance.

      At the door stood the sleepy, fat Grisha, looking on at the scene, and blinking both eyes at periodical intervals.

      “I couldn’t cut his hair as you wished, because he wouldn’t let me!” he growled at last. “ ’You’d better let me do it!’ — I said, ‘or the mistress’ll be down one of these days, and then we shall both catch it!’ ”

      “No,” he says, “I want it like this now, and you shall cut it on Sunday. I like it long!”

      “What! — So you wish to curl it without my leave, do you! What an idea — as if you could wear curls with your sheep-face underneath! Good gracious, what a mess you’ve made of the place; and what’s the smell — what have you been doing, idiot, eh!” cried Maria Alexandrovna, waxing more and more angry, and turning furiously upon the wretched and perfectly innocent Afanassy!

      “Mam — mammy!” muttered the poor frightened master of the house, gazing with frightened eyes at the mistress, and blinking with all his might— “mammy!”

      “How many times have I dinned into your stupid head that I am not your ‘mammy.’ How can I be your mammy, you idiotic pigmy? How dare you call a noble lady by such a name; a lady whose proper place is in the highest circles, not beside an ass like yourself!”

      “Yes — yes, — but — but, you are my legal wife, you know, after all; — so I — it was husbandly affection you know — —” murmured poor Afanassy, raising both hands to his head as he spoke, to defend his hair from the tugs he evidently expected.

      “Oh, idiot that you are! did anyone ever hear such a ridiculous answer as that — legal wife, indeed! Who ever heard the expression ‘legal wife,’ in good society — nasty low expression! And how dare you remind me that I am your wife, when I use all my power and do all I possibly can at every moment to forget the fact, eh? What are you covering your head with your hands for? Look at his hair — now: wet, as wet as reeds! it will take three hours to dry that head! How on earth am I to take him like this? How can he show his face among respectable people? What am I to do?”

      And Maria Alexandrovna bit her finger-nails with rage as she walked furiously up and down the room.

      It was no very great matter, of course; and one that was easily set right; but Maria Alexandrovna required a vent for her feelings and felt the need of emptying out her accumulated wrath upon the head of the wretched Afanassy Matveyevitch; for tyranny is a habit recallable at need.

      Besides, everyone knows how great a contrast there is between the sweetness and refinement shown by many ladies of a certain class on the stage, as it were, of society life, and the revelations of character behind the scenes at home; and I was anxious to bring out this contrast for my reader’s benefit.

      Afanassy watched the movements of his terrible spouse in fear and trembling; perspiration formed upon his brow as he gazed.

      “Grisha!” she cried at last, “dress your master this instant! Dresscoat, black trousers, white waistcoat and tie, quick! Where’s his hairbrush — quick, quick!”

      “Mam — my! Why, I’ve just been to the bath. I shall catch cold if I go up to town just now!”

      “You won’t catch cold!”

      “But — mammy, my hair’s quite wet!”

      “We’ll dry it in a minute. Here, Grisha, take this brush and brush away till he’s dry, — harder — harder — much harder! There, that’s better!”

      Grisha worked like a man. For the greater convenience of his herculean task he seized his master’s shoulder with one hand as he rubbed violently with the other. Poor Afanassy grunted and groaned and almost wept.

      “Now, then, lift him up a bit. Where’s the pomatum? Bend your head, duffer! — bend lower, you abject dummy!” And Maria Alexandrovna herself undertook to pomade her husband’s hair, ploughing her hands through it without the slightest pity. Afanassy heartily wished that his shock growth had been cut. He winced, and groaned and moaned, but did not cry out under the painful operation.

      “You suck my life-blood out of me — bend lower, you idiot!” remarked the fond wife— “bend lower still, I tell you!”

      “How have I sucked your life blood?” asked the victim, bending his head as low as circumstances permitted.

      “Fool! — allegorically, of course — can’t you understand? Now, then, comb it yourself. Here, Grisha, dress him, quick!”

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