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PAGE 21

An Unhappy Girl
by [?]

I was told afterwards that when the valet ran into the bedroom, at a violent ring of the bell, he found Ivan Matveitch not in the bed, but a few feet from it. And that he was sitting huddled up on the floor, and that twice over he repeated, ‘Well, granny, here’s a pretty holiday for you!’ And that these were his last words. But I cannot believe that. Was it likely he would speak Russian at such a moment, and such a homely old Russian saying too!

For a whole fortnight afterwards we were awaiting the arrival of the new master, Semyon Matveitch Koltovsky. He sent orders that nothing was to be touched, no one was to be discharged, till he had looked into everything in person. All the doors, all the furniture, drawers, tables–all were locked and sealed up. All the servants were downcast and apprehensive. I became suddenly one of the most important persons in the house, perhaps the most important. I had been spoken of as ‘the young lady’ before; but now this expression seemed to take a new significance, and was pronounced with a peculiar emphasis. It began to be whispered that ‘the old master had died suddenly, and hadn’t time to send for a priest, indeed and he hadn’t been at confession for many a long day; but still, a will doesn’t take long to make.’

Mr. Ratsch, too, thought well to change his mode of action. He did not affect good-nature and friendliness; he knew he would not impose upon me, but his face wore an expression of sulky resignation. ‘You see, I give in,’ he seemed to say. Every one showed me deference, and tried to please me… while I did not know what to do or how to behave, and could only marvel that people failed to perceive how they were hurting me. At last Semyon Matveitch arrived.

Semyon Matveitch was ten years younger than Ivan Matveitch, and his whole life had taken a completely different turn. He was a government official in Petersburg, filling an important position…. He had married and been left early a widower; he had one son. In face Semyon Matveitch was like his brother, only he was shorter and stouter, and had a round bald head, bright black eyes, like Ivan Matveitch’s, only more prominent, and full red lips. Unlike his brother, whom he spoke of even after his death as a French philosopher, and sometimes bluntly as a queer fish, Semyon Matveitch almost invariably talked Russian, loudly and fluently, and he was constantly laughing, completely closing his eyes as he did so and shaking all over in an unpleasant way, as though he were shaking with rage. He looked after things very sharply, went into everything himself, exacted the strictest account from every one. The very first day of his arrival he ordered a service with holy water, and sprinkled everything with water, all the rooms in the house, even the lofts and the cellars, in order, as he put it, ‘radically to expel the Voltairean and Jacobin spirit.’ In the first week several of Ivan Matveitch’s favourites were sent to the right-about, one was even banished to a settlement, corporal punishment was inflicted on others; the old valet–he was a Turk, knew French, and had been given to Ivan Matveitch by the late field-marshal Kamensky–received his freedom, indeed, but with it a command to be gone within twenty-four hours, ‘as an example to others.’ Semyon Matveitch turned out to be a harsh master; many probably regretted the late owner.

‘With the old master, Ivan Matveitch,’ a butler, decrepit with age, wailed in my presence, ‘our only trouble was to see that the linen put out was clean, and that the rooms smelt sweet, and that the servants’ voices weren’t heard in the passages–God forbid! For the rest, you might do as you pleased. The old master never hurt a fly in his life! Ah, it’s hard times now! It’s time to die!’