A VITAL QUESTION;
OR,
WHAT IS TO BE DONE?
By NIKOLAÏ G. TCHERNUISHEVSKY.
TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN
BY
NATHAN HASKELL DOLE and S. S. SKIDELSKY.
NEW YORK:
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.,
No. 13 Astor Place.
Copyright,
By Thomas Y. Crowell & Co.
1886.
Table of Contents
(not listed in book)
A VITAL QUESTION
I.
A FOOL.
On the morning of the 23d of July, 1856, the servants of one of the largest hotels of Petersburg, near the Moscow railroad station, were in perplexity, and even partly in fear. On the previous evening, about nine o'clock, a gentleman arrived with a valise, took a room, gave his passport to be registered, asked for tea and a small cutlet, gave orders that they should not disturb him during the evening, because he was tired and wanted to sleep, but that they should wake him without fail at eight o'clock in the morning, because he had important business. Then he locked the door; and, after rattling his knife and fork, and jingling the tea-things for a time, nothing more was heard of him. He was apparently asleep. Morning came; at eight o'clock a servant knocked at the stranger's door; the stranger did not answer. The servant knocked louder, very loud; still the stranger did not reply. Apparently he was very tired. The servant waited a quarter of an hour, again tried to arouse him, again was unsuccessful. He consulted with the other servants, with the butler.
"Can anything have happened to him?"
"We must break in the door."
"No, that won't do! If we break in the door, we must have a policeman."
It was decided to try once more, still louder; if it failed this time, to send for the police.
They made their last endeavor; they could not arouse him. They sent for the police, and now they are waiting to see what the result will be.
About ten o'clock a policeman came; he himself knocked at the door, ordered the servants to knock; result the same as before.
"There is nothing to be done; burst in the door, children."
They broke open the door. The room was empty.
"Look under the bed!"
But there was no one under the bed. The policeman went to the table; on the table lay a sheet of paper, and written in large letters were these words:—
"I shall go away at eleven o'clock this evening, and I shall not return. You will hear of me on the Liteinaïa bridge between two and three o'clock to-night. Let no one be suspected."
"Now I see, the matter is plain; nobody could make anything out of it," said the policeman.
"What do you mean, Ivan Afanasyévitch?" asked the butler.
"Give me some tea. I will tell you."
The policeman's narration long served as a subject for lively discussions and arguments in the hotel. The story was of this sort:—
At half-past three last night,—the night was cloudy, dark,—on the centre of the Liteinaïa bridge a fire flashed, and the report of a pistol was heard. The guards rushed to the spot, a few people quickly collected; not a person or a thing was to be seen where the pistol shot was fired. It was evidently not a murder, but a suicide. Volunteers wanted to dive; in a few moments boat-hooks were brought, a fishing-net was brought; they dived, they grappled, they dragged the river; they brought up about fifty large chips, but they could neither catch nor discover the body. Yes; and how could it be found? The night was dark. In those two hours the body was already far down towards the sea. Go, find it there. Therefore advanced thinkers arose, discrediting the former supposition:—
"May be there was no corpse whatsoever. May be some drunken man, or simply some mischievous fellow, played a joke, fired off a pistol, and ran; or perhaps the very fellow is standing here among the excited crowd, yes, and laughing at the trouble which he has made."
But the majority, as is usual when a case is argued reasonably, proved to be conservative, and defended the former supposition:—
"What kind of a joke is that? Of course he put a bullet into his brain, and that is the end of it!" The progressive party were outruled. But the victorious party, as usual, having won the victory, was itself immediately divided. "Let us suppose that he committed suicide. But what did he do it for?"
"He was drunk," was the opinion of some of the conservatives; "a ruined spendthrift," asserted others.
"Only a fool" (durak), said someone. And this expression, "Only a fool," was accepted by all, even by those who discredited the fact of a suicide. Indeed, whether it was a drunkard or a spendthrift committed suicide, or whether some mischievous fellow did not commit suicide at all, but simply played a trick; at all events, it was an absurd trick of a fool.
And this put an end to the matter that night on the bridge. In the morning, at the hotel of the Moscow railroad, it was decided that the fool did not play a joke, but committed suicide.
But there still remained, after all this story, an element in regard to which even the vanquished party were in agreement. It was this. If it was not a trick, but a case of suicide, nevertheless, it was a fool! This conclusion, so satisfactory to all parties, was particularly strong from the very fact that the conservatives were victorious; if he had only played a trick by firing his pistol on the bridge, it would have been really doubtful whether he were a fool or a mischievous fellow. But he shot himself on the bridge. Who shot himself on the bridge? How on the bridge? Why on the bridge? Ridiculous to do it on the bridge! and, therefore, he was doubtless a fool.
Again a doubt arose among some of them. He shot himself on the bridge, but people don't go to a bridge to shoot themselves; consequently, he did not commit suicide. Towards evening, however, the servants of the hotel were summoned to the station to identify a cap, pierced with a bullet hole, which had been taken out of the water; all recognized that it was the very same cap that the stranger had worn. Thus indubitably he must have shot himself, and the spirit of denial and progress was entirely defeated.
All were agreed that it was a fool (durak), and suddenly all began to chatter, "On the bridge, a clever dodge! It was done evidently so as to save suffering; for if the shot did not kill,—he reasoned wisely,—no matter how slight the wound was, he would jump into the water, and so drown before he knew what had happened. Yes, on the bridge! wisely done!"
At this stage it was utterly impossible to come to any decision; both a fool and wise!
II.
THE FIRST CONSEQUENCES OF THE FOOL'S DEED.
On that very same morning, about twelve o'clock, a young woman was sitting in one of the three rooms of a small datcha on the Kamennoï Ostrof (Stone Island); she was sewing, and singing in an undertone a little French song full of spirit and courage. "We are poor," said the song, "but we are working people; we have strong hands. We are obscure, but we are not dull, and we want light. Let us learn; knowledge will give us freedom. Let us be industrious; industry will give us wealth. This will go on; if we live, we shall see it.
Ça ira,
Qui vivra verra.
We are rough, but from our roughness 'tis only we ourselves who are the losers. We are full of prejudices, but we ourselves suffer from them; this we feel. Let us look for happiness, let us find humanity, we shall be good; this will go on; if we live, we shall see it.
"Industry without knowledge is fruitless; our own happiness is impossible without the happiness of others. As soon as we become enlightened we shall become rich; we shall he happy; we shall form one brotherhood and sisterhood; this will go on; if we live, we shall see it.
"Let us learn and be industrious; let us sing and love; we shall have a heaven on earth! Let us be happy while we live; this will go on; it will soon come to pass; we shall all see it.
Donc, vivons,
Ça bien vite ira,
Ça viendra,
Nous tons le verrons!"
Courageous, spirited, was the song, and its melody was joyous. There were two or three melancholy notes in it, but they were concealed by the generally light character of the motive; they vanished in the refrain, they vanished in the conclusion of the couplet,—at least they ought to have vanished and to have been concealed, and they would have vanished had the lady been in a different frame of mind; but now these few melancholy notes are made more prominent than the others. She almost trembles as she perceives it; she lowers her voice as she sings them, and tries to sing the joyful notes louder; but again her mind is drawn away from her song by her own thoughts, and then again the melancholy notes become prominent. Evidently the young woman does not like to give in to melancholy, and it is no less evident that the melancholy is loath to leave her, no matter how hard she tries to drive it away. But whether melancholy or joyful, whether or no it becomes joyful in the spirit of the song, the young woman sews very industriously. She is a good seamstress.
A young servant girl comes into the room.
"Do you see, Masha, how I am sewing? I have almost finished the cuffs which I am getting ready to wear at your wedding."
"Akh! there is much less work in them than in those which you made for me."
"That's of no matter! a bride ought to be dressed better than anybody else at her own wedding."
"And I have brought you a letter, Viéra Pavlovna."
Viéra Pavlovna's face expressed perplexity, as she began to break open the letter; the envelope bore the city post-mark.
"How is this? Isn't he in Moscow?" She hastily unfolded the letter and grew pale; her hand holding the letter fell to her side.
"No, it is not so; I have scarcely had a chance to read the letter; there is nothing in it at all."
And again she lifted her hand with the letter. All this took place in two seconds. But at the second reading her eyes looked long and immovably at the few lines of the letter, and the brightness of their expression grew dimmer and dimmer; the sheet fell from her nerveless hands to the work-table; she hid her face in her hands; she began to weep.
"What have I done? "What have I done?" And again sobs.
******
"Viérotchka [Little Viéra]! What is the matter with you? Are you so fond of weeping? How often does this happen? What is the matter with you?"—a young man came into the room with quick but gentle, careful steps.
"Read it; it is on the table." She was now no longer weeping, but was sitting motionless, scarcely breathing.
The young man took the letter. He also grew pale, and his hands trembled, and long he looked at the letter, short though it was, not more than a score of words all told:—
"I have disturbed your peace of mind. I leave these scenes. Don't grieve; I love you both so much that I am very happy at my decision. Proshchaïte" (Farewell).
The young man stood long, rubbing his forehead; then he began to twirl his mustache; then he looked at the sleeve of his coat; finally he collected his thoughts. He made a step forward towards the young woman, who was still sitting motionless, hardly breathing, as if in a lethargy. He took her hand.
"Viérotchka!"
But as his hand touched hers, she jumped up with a cry of terror, as though she had been roused by an electric shock, impetuously drew off from the young man, convulsively pushed him from her.
"Go away! Don't touch me! You are stained with blood! His blood is on you! I cannot bear to see you! I shall go away from you! I am going away! Leave me!" And she kept pushing, pushing the empty air, motioning him away, and suddenly she tottered, fell into the arm-chair, and covered her face with her hands.
"On me too is his blood! On me! Thou art not to blame! I alone! I alone! What have I done!" Her sobs choked her.
"Viérotchka," said he, gently and timidly, "my friend!"
She drew a painful sigh, and with a restrained and still trembling voice said, though it was hard to say:—
"My love, leave me alone for now. Come again in an hour. Then I shall be calm. Give me a drink of water, and go!"
He obeyed her silently. He went to his room, sat down at his writing-table, where he had been sitting so calm, so content, but a quarter of an hour before. He took his pen again. "At such moments one should have perfect control over himself. I have a will, and all will be well, will be well." And his pen, without his control, all the time went on writing some article or other. "Can it be borne? It is horrible! Happiness is over!"
"My love, I am ready. Let us talk," was heard from the adjoining room. The young woman's voice was low but firm.
"My love, we must part. I have decided. It is hard, but it would be still harder for us to see each other. I am his murderer. I killed him for thy sake!"
"Viérotchka! why art thou to blame?"
"Don't say a word, do not justify me, else I shall despise thee! I—I am to blame for all. Forgive me, my love, for coming to a decision which will be very hard for thee, and for me, my love, also! But I cannot do otherwise; thou thyself wilt shortly see that it was best to do so. This is unalterable, my friend! Only listen: I shall leave Petersburg; it will be easier at a distance from the places which would remind me of the past. I shall sell my things. On the money I get I shall be able to live some time. Where? In Tver, in Nizhni [Novgorod], I don't know; it is all the same. I shall try to give singing lessons. In all probability I shall find pupils, because I shall settle in some large city. If I don't find them, I shall go out as governess. I think that I shall not come to want; but if I should, I will let you know. At any rate, be sure to have some money ready for me. You know very well that I have a good many necessities, heavy expenses, stingy though I am; I cannot help it. Dost thou hear? I do not refuse thy help. Let this be a proof to thee that thou art still dear to me. And now let us part forever. Go back to town, right away, right away! It will be easier for me when I am alone. To-morrow I shall not be here; then come back. I shall leave for Moscow. There I will see, I will find out in which of the provincial cities I can easiest find singing pupils. I forbid you coming to the station to see me off. Proshchaï, my friend! Give me thy hand in token of farewell; I shall press it for the last time."
He wanted to kiss her; she stopped his motion.
"No, it must not be; it is impossible. This would be an insult to him. Give me thy hand. I press it, thou seest how warmly! But forgive me."
He did not let go her hand.
"That is enough! Go!" She withdrew her hand. He did not dare to resist. "Forgive me!" She looked at him so tenderly, and with firm steps she went to her room, and not once did she look at him as she went.
It was long before he could find his hat. Though half a dozen times he took it into his hand, he did not see that he had it. He was like a drunken man. At last he realized that what he was looking for was the hat in his hand. He went to the entry, put on his overcoat, and now he is near the gate. "Who is running after me? Surely Masha. Surely something bad has happened to her." He turned around. Viéra Pavlovna threw herself on his neck, embraced him, kissed him passionately.
"No, I could not endure it, my love! Farewell forever!"
She hurried back, threw herself on the bed, and let the tears flow which she had so long restrained.
III.
PREFACE.
"The motive of this story is love; the principal character is a woman. So far, so good, although the story itself may be poor enough," says my lady reader. "This is true," say I.
The man who reads is not limited to such weak conclusions. Apparently a man's thinking faculties are naturally stronger and better developed than a woman's. He says (very likely, however, woman also thinks the same thing, but does not deem it necessary to say it, and therefore I have no cause to argue with her), the man who reads says, "I know that the gentleman who fired the pistol did not commit suicide." I catch that word "know," and say, "You do not know it, because you have not yet been told, and all you know is that which is told you. You don't know anything. You do not even know that, by the way in which I began this story, I insulted, I humiliated you. You did not know that, did you? Well, then, let me tell you!"
Yes, the first pages of this story show that I have a very low opinion of the public. I have used the ordinary shrewdness of novelists: I began my story with effective scenes, clipt out from the middle or the end of it; I covered them with a fog. Thou, O public, art clever, very clever, and therefore thou hast neither discernment nor wit. Thou canst not depend upon thyself to tell by the first pages whether the story is worth reading through. Thy sense of smell is wretched; it needs aid, and there are two ways of giving aid,—either the name of the author or effectiveness of style. I am going to relate to thee my first story. Thou hast not acquired a critical faculty, so as to judge whether or no the author is endowed with an artistic talent (yet thou hast so many writers, to whom thou hast attributed an artistic talent!), but my name, has not yet attracted thee, and I am compelled to throw a hook to thee, baited with an attraction of effectiveness. Condemn me not for it. Thou thyself art to blame; thy simple-minded innocence compels me to lower myself to such trivial business. But now thou art caught in my hands, and I can prolong my story, according to my own judgment, without any tricks. Henceforth there shall be no mysteries; thou shalt always be able to look forward twenty pages at a time and see the result of every situation, and now, at the very beginning, I will tell thee the conclusion of my story: the thing will end joyfully, with wine-cups, with song; there will be no theatrical effects nor embellishments. The author does not like embellishments, gentle public, because he always thinks what a chaos there is in thy head; how many, many needless sufferings are caused, inflicted upon every man by the wild confusion of thy ideas. It is to me both pitiful and ridiculous to look at thee; thou art so helpless and so piqued at the superabundant amount of absurdities in thy head.
I am vext with thee because thou art so spiteful to people, and yet thou thyself art the people. Why art thou so spiteful to thyself? That is the reason that I am scolding thee. But thou art spiteful on account of thy mental helplessness; and therefore, while I am scolding thee, I am compelled to help thee. What shall be the first step toward helping thee? By touching upon the very thing that now thou art thinking about. "What sort of an author is this who speaks so impudently to me?" I will tell thee what kind of an author I am.
I do not possess the slightest sign of an artistic talent. My skill in using good language is small, but that is not of the least consequence. Read! my dear public; not without profit shalt thou read. Truth is a good thing; truth compensates for the faults of that author who serves her. And therefore I will tell thee, that if I had not warned thee, thou wouldst probably have the idea my story was written artistically, that the author possessed a great poetic talent. But I have warned thee that I have no talent, and thou shalt now know that all the good qualities of this story lie in its truthfulness.
In the first place, my kind public, as I am hitting thee under the ribs, I must speak out to the end; although thou art fond of guessing, thou hast no skill to unriddle what has been begun and now ended. When I say that I have not a sign of an artistic talent, and that my story has very little style, don't make up thy mind that I am very much worse than all thy novelists, whom thou callest great, and that my novel is worse than theirs. I do not say that. I say that my story has less style than the works of other people who are endowed with talent. But, as far as merit goes, thou canst boldly place my story in the same rank as the famous writings of thy favorite authors; thou wilt not be mistaken if thou place it still higher. There is more art in it than in theirs; thou mayest rest assured of it.
Thank me now; thou art obsequious to those who despise thee: bow also to me.
But there is in thee, O public, a certain class of people—and at the present time a considerable number—whom I esteem. To thee as a whole; to the majority I am impertinent, and it is only about the majority that I have been speaking. As regards those whom I have just mentioned I should have spoken humbly to them, even with some fear, but I had no need of making explanations to them. I prize their opinions, but I know beforehand that they are on my side. The good and the strong, the honest, the wise, ye have begun to arise among us; ye are not few in number, and ye are growing more and more. If ye were the public, I should not have to write any more; if ye did not exist, it would be impossible for me to write. But ye are not yet the public, but ye are a part of the public; therefore, I must and I can write.
PART FIRST.
THE LIFE OF VIÉRA PAVLOVNA IN HER PARENTS' FAMILY.
I.
Viéra Pavlovna's training was very ordinary. Her life, up to the time when she made the acquaintance of the medical student Lopukhóf, was rather remarkable, although it was not singular. But in her actions even then could be seen something singular.
Viéra Pavlovna grew up in a many-storied house on Gorokhovaïa Street, between Sadovïa Street and the Semyónovsky bridge. At the present day this house is marked with its appropriate number, but in 1852, when as yet the streets were not numbered, it bore the inscription, "The house of the Actual State Counsellor,[1] Iván Zakharuitch Storeshnikof."
Such was the inscription; but Ivan Zakharuitch Storeshnikof had died as long ago as 1837, and since that time the proprietor (khozyáïn) of the house was his son Mikhaïl Ivanovitch (thus said the documents); but the tenants knew that Mikhaïl Ivanovitch was merely the son of his father, and that the real proprietor was Anna Petrovna.
The house was at that time just as it is now, large, with two gates and four entrances on the streets, and with three yards (dvors) in the rear. At the principal entrance on the street, on the belétage, there were living in 1852, just the same as at the present time (1860), the khozyáïka and her son. Anna Petrovna is now, and she was then, a lady of distinction. Mikhaïl Ivanovitch is now an army officer of distinction, as he was then a distinguished and handsome officer.
I do not know who is now living on the fourth floor apartment, on the right hand, as you enter from one of the innumerable dirty back entrances of the first dvor; but in 1852 there were living there the manager of the house, Pavel Konstantinuitch Rozalsky, a hardy and representative man, his wife Marya Alekséyevna, a lean, strong, tall woman, with their daughter, a grown-up girl, the very same Viéra Pavlovna, and their little nine-year-old son Feódor.
Pavel Konstantinuitch, beside having the management of the house, held the office of assistant (stolonatchalnik) in a government department. His office gave him no salary, but at home he had a small income; any one else would have had much more, but Pavel Konstantinuitch, as he himself said, had a conscience. Consequently the khozyáïka of the house was very well satisfied with him, and during the fourteen years of his management he had accumulated a capital of about ten thousand rubles. Of this money only three thousand, and no more, came out of the khozyáïka's pocket; the balance was gained by being turned over and over, and not to the detriment of the khozyáïka. Pavel Konstantinuitch was in the habit of loaning money on pawn of personal property.
Marya Alekséyevna had also a little capital; about five thousand, as she told her kumashki (gossipy friends), but in reality she had more. The foundation of this capital had been laid about fifteen years before by the sale of a raccoon-skin shuba, a little dress, and some furniture which had been left Marya Alekséyevna by her brother, a tchinovnik. Having thus obtained about one hundred and fifty rubles, she also began to turn them over and over by loaning on personal security. She took greater risks than her husband did, and many times she got caught on the hooks. Some rogue borrowed five rubles from her on the security of a passport; the passport happened to be a stolen one, and it cost Marya Alekséyevna about fifteen rubles more to free herself from the entanglement. Another rascal pawned to her a gold watch for twenty rubles; the watch proved to have been taken from a murdered man, and Marya Alekséyevna was compelled to spend a good round sum to get out of this entanglement. But if she suffered losses which her husband by his careful scrutiny of securities avoided, still her capital grew with greater rapidity. Singular instances of her way of money-getting were detected. Once upon a time—Viéra Pavlovna was then small; if her daughter had been older, Marya Alekséyevna would not have done it, but at that time "why not do it? the child does not understand"; and indeed, Viérotchka by herself would not have understood it, but she did learn of it, thanks to the cook, who explained it to her with very great detail. Yes, and the cook would not have spoken of it, because the child ought not to have known about it; but it happened so that her soul was impatient after Marya Alekséyevna had given her one of her tremendous thrashings because she had taken a walk with her lover (by the way, Matrióna's eye was always black and blue,—not because of Marya Alekséyevna's fist, but her lover's,—and this had its good side, since a cook with discolored eyes does not get such high wages). But as I started to say, once upon a time, there came to Marya Alekséyevna a lady of her acquaintance whom she had not seen for a long time, well dressed, magnificent, handsome; she came and made quite a visit. She staid quietly for a week, but all the time a certain civilian came to see her, a handsome man, who gave Viérotchka candy, and presented her with beautiful dolls, and gave her also two little books. Both had pictures, but in one of the books were pretty little pictures,—animals and cities,—but the other little book Marya Alekséyevna took away from Viérotchka after the gentleman had left; so that she saw the pictures only once, and that was while he was there; he himself showed them to her. About a week this lady stayed with them, and everything was quiet in the house. Marya Alekséyevna all the week did not once go to the cupboard (where a decanter of vodka was standing), the key of which she always kept in her own possesion. She did not beat Matrióna, did not beat Viérotchka, and she did not scold as loud as usual; then one night Viérotchka was constantly disturbed by their guest's terrible shrieks, by the going and coming, and the uproar in the house. In the morning Marya Alekséyevna went to the cupboard and stood in front of it longer than usual, and kept saying, "Glory to God! all went well, glory to God!" She even called Matrióna to the cupboard, and said:—
"To your health, Matriónushka, you too worked hard!" But instead of doubling her fist as she used to do in old times, after visiting the cupboard, she kissed Viérotchka and took a nap. After this the house was quiet for about a week, and the guest did not shriek any more, but she never left the room until she went away altogether. Two days after she left, a civilian came, not the one who had been there before, but another civilian, who brought with him the police, and gave Marya Alekséyevna a round berating, but Marya Alekséyevna did not yield to him, but kept asseverating:—
"I know nothing whatsoever of your business. You can find out by the register who has been staying with me. Mrs. Savastyánova, the wife of a merchant of Pskof, and a friend of mine has been here, and that's all there is of it."
Finally, after using his whole battery of words, the civilian departed, and never appeared again. Viérotchka witnessed this when she was eight years old, and when she was nine years old, Matrióna explained to her what the occurrence really was. However, such an occurrence happened only once; there were various others, but nothing like this.
When Viérotchka was a little girl of ten years old, as she was going one day with her mother to the Tolkutchy (Pushing) Market, and was turning from Gorokhovaïa (Bean) Street to Sadovaïa (Garden) Street, she received an unexpected slap on the head, with the words: "What are you looking at the church for, you fool, without crossing yourself? What! don't you see that all good people make the sign of the cross?"
When Viérotchka was twelve years old she began to go to school, and a piano-teacher came to give her lessons, a German who was a drunkard, but was otherwise a very good man and an excellent musician. Owing to his habits his terms were very low.
When she was fourteen years old she used to sew for the whole family; the family, however, was not large.
When Viérotchka was going on to her sixteenth year, her mother began to scold her in this way: "Wash your face, 'tis like a gypsy's. You could not get it clean, if you tried; you're such a scarecrow. I'd like to know whose child you are, anyhow."
She was always ridiculed on account of the tawny complexion of her face, and she got accustomed to look upon herself as extremely ugly. Hitherto her mother had dressed her almost in rags, but now she began to give her fine clothes. And Viérotchka used to go to church in her fine clothes with her mother, and say to herself: "These fine clothes would suit somebody else; but no matter how I'm dressed, I'm always a gypsy, a scarecrow. I might as well be in calico as in silk, but it is good to be pretty. How I should like to be pretty!"
When Viérotchka had completed her sixteenth year she stopped taking piano lessons, and no longer went to school, but began to teach in the very same school: afterwards her mother got other teaching for her.
At the end of six months her mother ceased calling her gypsy and scarecrow, and dressed her even more elegantly than before, and Matrióna—this was the third Matrióna since the one whose eye had been black and blue, but she had oftentimes a scratched cheek, but not always—Matrióna told Viérotchka that her father's natchalnik was going to pay her his addresses, and that still another natchalnik of great importance, with an order around his neck, had the same intention. And in fact the little tchinovniks of the department gossipped among themselves that the natchalnik of Pavel Konstantinuitch's office was getting very affable to to the latter, and the office natchalnik began to confide to his cronies that he must have a beautiful wife even though she had no dowry, and he would add that Pavel Konstantinuitch was an excellent tchinovnik.
How this would have ended cannot be conjectured, but the natchalnik of the office deliberated a long time, and while he was taking his own time, another opportunity arose.
The khozyáïka's son came to the manager to say that his mátushka wanted Pavel Konstantinuitch to get specimens of wall-papers, because she was going to re-paper the rooms in which she was living. Hitherto all such orders had been given through the janitor. Certainly such a case as this could be comprehended even by people who were not as shrewd as Marya Alekséyevna and her husband. The landlady's son sat for more than half an hour and did them the honor of drinking tea with them. It was flower tea. Marya Alekséyevna on the very next day gave her daughter a necklace which had been taken as a pledge and had never been redeemed, and ordered for her daughter two new and very fine dresses; one of a material costing forty rubles, and the other fifty-two. With ruchings and ribbands, and everything in style, these two garments cost one hundred and seventy-four rubles, at least so Marya Alekséyevna said to her husband; but Viérotchka knew that the real cost was less than one hundred rubles, for the purchases were made in her presence, and for one hundred rubles two very fine dresses could be made. Viérotchka was delighted with the dresses, was delighted with the necklace, and was still more delighted because her mother at last consented to buy her shoes for her at Korolyef's, because the shoes that one gets at the "Pushing Market" are shapeless, while those sold by Korolyef fit the feet so beautifully.
The dresses were not bought in vain; the khozyáïka's son got into the habit of coming to the manager's rooms, and naturally used to talk with the daughter more than with the manager or the manager's wife, and naturally enough they gave him every opportunity. Nu! the mother gave her daughter plenty of advice which need not be repeated, as its tenor can be easily imagined.
One day after dinner the mother said: "Viérotchka, put on your dress, your best dress. I have got up a surprise for you: we are going to the opera. I have got tickets for the second tier, where all the generals' wives go. This is all for your sake, little goose, [dúrotchka]! This is the last money that I am going to waste on you. Your father has spent so much on you that it has gone to his stomach! How much did it cost to send you to school and to give you piano lessons? You don't appreciate it in the least, you ungrateful hussy; no, you haven't any soul in you, you unfeeling minx!" That was all that Marya Alekséyevna said. She no longer scolded her daughter, and that could scarcely be called a scolding. Marya Alekséyevna now only spoke to Viérotchka, and had never really scolded her or beaten her since the rumor about the office natchalnik had been spread abroad.
They went to the opera. After the first act the khozyáïka's son came into their box with two of his friends; one was a civilian, thin and rather elegant; the other was an army man, fat, and freer from affectation. They took seats and sat down, and they whispered among themselves for a time; the khozyáïka's son and the civilian said a good deal, the officer said less. Marya Alekséyevna tried to listen, and, though she distinguished almost every word, she understood very little, because they spoke in French. She caught some half a dozen words in their conversation,—belle, charmante, amour, bonheur. But what good was it to know so few words,—belle, charmante? Marya Alekséyevna knew long ago that her gypsy was belle and charmante. Amour—Marya Alekséyevna could see that he was over head and ears in love; and when there is amour, of course there must be bonheur. What good did these words do? The main question is, will he offer himself before long?
"Viérotchka, you ungrateful thing!" whispers Marya Alekséyevna to her daughter; "why do you turn your head away from them? Do you feel offended because they came in? They do you honor, you fool [dura]! What is the French for wedding? mariage, hey, Viérotchka? And what is bridegroom and bride? What is 'to get married'?"
Viérotchka told her.
"No, I did not hear any such words. Viéra, are you sure that you told me right? You be careful!"
"No, no! You will never hear any such words from them. Let us go home. I cannot remain here any longer."
"What's that you say, you nasty thing?" Marya Alekséyevna's eyes grew bloodshot.
"Let us go home. Do with me as you please afterwards, but I will not stay here. I will tell you why when we go. Mámenka,"—this word was said loud enough for all to hear—"I have a very bad headache. I cannot remain here. I beg of you!"
Viérotchka stood up.
The young men were confused.
"It will pass away, Viérotchka," said Marya Alekséyevna, sternly but decorously. "Just take a walk through the corridor with Mikhaïl Ivanuitch, and your headache will go off."
"No, it will not go off; I feel very bad; quick, mámenka!"
The gentlemen opened the door; each wanted to offer Viérotchka his arm, but the detestable young girl refused. They handed the ladies the cloaks; they escorted them down to the carriage. Marya Alekséyevna looked haughtily at the waiters. "Look you, serfs! what cavaliers these are; and this one here is going to be my son-in-law. I myself will have such serfs. And you put on airs, put on airs if you dare, you nasty thing, you! I will put them on for you!" But wait, wait; the son-in-law is saying something to her ugly but proud little girl, while he is putting her into the carriage. "Santé, that must mean health; savoir, that's 'I know'; visite, the same as in Russian; permettez, 'I beg your pardon.'"
Marya Alekséyevna's anger was not less diminished by these words, but she had to take them into consideration. The carriage drove away.
"What did he say to you when he put you in?"
"He said that he would call to-morrow morning to learn about my health."
"Ain't you lying? do you mean to-morrow?"
Viérotchka was silent.
"You are a lucky girl." Marya Alekséyevna could not resist pulling her daughter's hair, only once, and not violently.
"Nu! I will not lay my finger on you if you will only behave to-morrow. Sleep to-night, you fool! Don't you dare to weep! Look out, if I see to-morrow morning that you are pale, or that your eyes are red with crying. I have let things go so far; I shall not stand it any longer. I shall not take pity on your pretty little face. If you lose this chance, I will teach you how to act."
"I ceased to weep long, long ago; you know it."
"That is all right [to-to-zhe]; but try to be a little more sociable with him."
"Yes, I will speak with him to-morrow."
"That's all right [to-to]; it's time you came to your senses. Fear God, and have pity on your mother, you shameless thing!"
Ten minutes passed.
"Viérotchka, don't be angry with me. I scold you because I love you; I want to be good to you. You have no idea how dear children are to their mothers. I brought you forth with pain. Viérotchka, be grateful, be obedient; you yourself will see that it is for your own good. Behave as I tell you. To-morrow he will offer himself."
"Mámenka, you are mistaken. He has no thought of offering himself. Mámenka, if you had heard what they said!"
"I know. If they were not talking about a wedding, then it was about something else. Da! let 'em try it; they'll find they've got the wrong ones to deal with. We'll bend him into a ram's horn. I'll bring him into church in a bag; I'll drag him around the chancel by the whiskers, and he will be glad of it. Nu! but I have said enough. A young girl should not know about these things; it's the mother's business. But a young girl must be obedient; she don't know anything yet. Now will you speak with him as I tell you?"
"Yes, I will speak with him."
"And you, Pavel Konstantinuitch, what are you sitting up for like a stump! Tell her yourself that you, as her father, command her to obey her mother, and that her mother will certainly teach her no evil."
"Marya Alekséyevna, you are a clever woman, but this is rather a dangerous step; if you don't look out, you will carry things too far."
"Durak [fool]! that's nice kind of talk; and in Viérotchka's presence, too! I am sorry that I let you speak. The proverb tells the truth: 'Don't touch filth if you don't want to smell.' Perfect nonsense! Don't argue, but answer; must a daughter obey her mother or not?"
"Of course she must; what's the use of speaking, Marya Alekséyevna?"
"Nu! give her your orders then, since you are her father."
"Viérotchka, obey your mother in everything. Your mother is a clever woman, a woman of experience. She will tall you nothing bad. I command you as your father."
The carriage stopped at the gate.
"That's enough, mámenka. I told you that I would speak with him. I am very tired. I must rest."
"Go to bed; get some sleep. I shall not disturb you. You must be fresh for to-morrow. Sleep well."
In fact, all the time that they were climbing the stairs, Marya Alekséyevna held her peace; and it was a great effort for her; and what an effort it was for her to be pleasant when Viérotchka went directly to her room, saying that she did not care for tea! and what an effort it was for her to say in a pleasant voice, "Viérotchka, come to me." The daughter obeyed. "I want to give you my blessing before you go to sleep, Viérotchka. Bend your little head." The daughter bent her head. "May God bless you, Viérotchka, as I bless you." She repeated the blessing thrice, and gave her her hand to kiss.
"No, mámenka! I told you long ago, that I would not kiss your hand. And now let me go. I tell you the truth; I feel very bad."
Akh! how angry grew Marya Alekséyevna's eyes once again! But she controlled herself, and said gently, "Go on, go to bed."
It took Viérotchka a long time to undress, because she was lost in thought. First she took off her bracelet, and sat long with it in her hand; then she removed her ear-rings, and forgot herself again. At last she remembered that she was very tired. She could not even stand before the looking-glass, but threw herself into the chair in utter weariness. She sat there some time before it came over her that she must undress as quickly as possible; but she had hardly taken off her dress and laid down, before Marya Alekséyevna came into the room with a waiter, whereon stood her father's great cup and a pile of toasted bread.
"Take some, Viérotchka; here, take some, for health's sake! I myself have brought it to you. You see your mother looks out for you. I was sitting and thinking, 'How is it that Viérotchka went to bed without tea?' While I was drinking I was full of thought. And here I have brought it. Take it, my dear daughter [moya dotchka mílaïa]."
Her mother's voice sounded strange to Viérotchka; but in reality, it was soft and kind; it had never been so before. She looked at her mother with amazement. Marya Alekséyevna's cheeks were fiery red, and her eyes were unsteady.
"Take it. I'll sit down and look at you. When you have finished this cup, I will bring you another."
The tea, which was half-filled with delicious, thick cream, awakened Viérotchka's appetite. She lifted herself on her elbow, and began to drink.
"How delicious tea is when it is fresh and strong, and when it has lots of sugar and cream! Perfectly delicious! It is not like tea that has been drawn once, and is made with one little mean bit of sugar, and tastes like medicine. When I have money of my own, I shall always drink such tea as this is. Thank you, mámenka."
"Don't go to sleep yet; I will bring you another one." She came back with a second cup of the same excellent tea. "Drink it, and I will stay with you." She said nothing for a moment, and then suddenly she began to speak in a strange way, sometimes so fast that her words could not be understood, and the next minute drawling.
"Now, Viérotchka, you have thanked me. It's a long time since I have had any thanks from you. You think that I am cross. Yes, I am cross. But it is impossible not to be cross. But I am weak, Viérotchka! After three punches, of course I feel weak! And think how old I am. Da! and you have shaken my nerves, Viérotchka; you pained me greatly; and so I felt weak. And my life is a hard one, Viérotchka! I don't want you to live such a life. Be a rich woman! Think of the suffering that I have gone through, Viérotchka, a-a-a-and just think of it! You cannot remember how me and your father used to live before he was manager. Poor, a-a-a-and oh, how poor! and then I was honest, Viérotchka! Now I am not honest. No, I shall not take a sin on my soul, I will not tell you a lie, I will not say that I am honest now. But what's the use? That time is all past. Viérotchka, you are educated and I am not educated, but I know everything that is wrote in your books; there it is wrote that one ought not to treat anybody as I was treated. 'You,' they say, 'are dishonest.' Now here's your father, for example; he's your father, but he was not Nádinka's father. He's a poor soul, yet he dared then to pick my eyes to reproach me. Nu, then the ill temper got the best of me, and I say that, judged by your standard, I ain't a good woman; but then I be as I be. Nádinka was born. Nu, what of that? Supposing she was born? Who taught me to do such things? How did your father get his place? My sin was much less than his. And they took her away from me, and they put her into the Foundling House; and it was impossible to find out what became of her, and so I never saw her, and I don't know whether she is among the livin' or not. Faith, how could she be alive! Nu, at the present time I should not have cared so much, but then it wa'n't so easy, and my temper got the best of me. Nu, and so I became cross. And since then everything has gone all right. Who got the situation for your father, fool that he is? I got it for him. And who got him promoted to be a manager? I did; and so we began to live comfortably. And why? Because I lost my temper and my good name! This I know. It's written in your books, Viérotchka, that it's only the wicked and ill-tempered who get along in this world; and that is gospel truth, Viérotchka! Now your father has lots of money, Viérotchka; and it was through me that he got it. And I too have money, and probably more than he has,—all through my exertions. I shall have bread enough for my last years. And your father, fool that he is, has begun to respect me, and he has to toe the line. I scold him well. But before, he used to treat me mean. And why was it? I didn't deserve it then. It must have been because I wa'n't ill-tempered. And it's written in your books, Viérotchka, that such a life is bad, and don't you suppose I know it? Yes, and it is written in your books, too, that to live otherwise one must reform things; but accordin' to the present way of the world one can't live as the books say. But why don't they reform the world? Ekh! Viérotchka, you think that I don't know what kind of rules are in your books. I know; they are fine. But we sha'n't live to see 'em, you and me. Folks is too stupid; how can you make reforms with such folks? Let's live in the old way. You too had better live in the old way. What are the old rules? In your books it is written; the old rule bids you to rob and cheat. It is true, Viérotchka. Well, then, since there is no new order, live in the old way; steal and cheat. I give you my advice because I love you—khrrr."
Marya Alekséyevna was snoring! She was fast asleep.
II.
Marya Alekséyevna knew what was spoken at the theatre, but she did not yet know what followed that conversation.
At the very time that she was getting more and more angry with her daughter, and, in consequence of having put too much rum in her punch, was snoring in her daughter's room, Mikhaïl Ivanuitch Storeshnikof was taking supper in a certain fashionable restaurant with the other young gentlemen who had accompanied him to the box.
There was still a fourth person in the company,—a French girl who came with the officer. The supper was almost ended.
"Monsieur Storeshnik."
Storeshnikof felt greatly set up. The French girl addressed him for the third time during the supper.
"Monsieur Storeshnik! Allow me to address you so. It sounds better and is much easier to speak. I did not think that I was going to be the only lady in your company; I hoped to see Adèle here. That would have been charming, I see her so seldom."
"Adèle unfortunately has quarrelled with me."
The officer wanted to say something, but he did not speak.
"Don't believe him, Mademoiselle Julie," said the civilian. "He does not dare to tell you the truth; he thinks that you will not like it when you find out that he has given up a French girl for a Russian."
"I don't know why it was we came here," said the officer.
"Why, yes, Serge; it was because Jean asked us. And it has been very pleasant for me to get acquainted with Monsieur Storeshnikof. No, Monsieur Storeshnikof; fy, what bad taste you show! I should never have said anything if you had deserted Adèle for that Circassian beauty in whose box you were sitting; but to give up a French girl for a Russian! I imagine her: colorless eyes, colorless, thin hair, a vacant, colorless face. I beg pardon; not colorless, but as you call it, blood with cream [krof so slivkami], and by that you mean a dish which only your Esquimaux can take into their mouths.—Jean, let that sinner against grace have the ash-tray. Let him scatter ashes on his wicked head!"
"You have spoken so much nonsense, Julie, that it ought to be your head, not his, that should be sown with ashes," said the officer. "It happens that the very girl whom you called the Circassian was the Russian."
"You are making sport of me!"
"A genuine Russian," said the officer.
"Impossible!"
"You are quite wrong, my dear Julie, if you think that our nation has only one type of beauty, like your own. You have a great many blondes, but we, Julie, are a mixture of nations. We have the white-haired like the Finns—"
"Yes, yes, the Finns," said the French girl.
"And those with black hair, who are even darker than Italians; Tartars and Mongolians—"
"Yes, yes, Tartars and Mongolians; I know about them," said the French girl again.
"And all of them have given us a share of their blood. We have blondes, whom you may despise, but they are only a local type; a very common type, to be sure, but not predominating."
"That's strange. But she is lovely. Why doesn't she go on the stage? By the way, gentlemen, I only speak of what I have seen. There remains a very important question,—her foot. Your great poet Karasen, I have been told, said that in all Russia there could not be found five pair of small, straight little feet."
"Julie! it was not Karasen who said that, and you had better call him Karamzin. Karamzin was a historian, and he wasn't a Russian, but a Tartar. Now, here's a new proof of the variety of our types. It was Pushkin who spoke about the little feet. His poetry was very good in its day, but now it has lost a large part of its value. By the way, the Esquimaux live in America, and our savages who drink the blood of elans are called Samoyeds."
"Thank you, Serge. Karamzin, historian; Pushkin, I know; Esquimaux, in America; the Russians are Samoyeds; yes, Samoyeds. That is such a lovely word: Sa-mo-ye-dui! Now I shall remember it. Now, gentlemen, I shall ask Serge to tell me all this again when we are alone. It is a very profitable subject for conversation; besides, science is my hobby. I was born to be a Madame Staël, gentlemen. But this is an episode entirely out of the track. Let us return to the question,—her foot."
"If you will allow me to call upon you to-morrow, Mademoiselle Julie, I shall have the honor of bringing you her shoe."
"Bring it. I will try it on. That appeals to my curiosity."
Storeshnikof was enraptured. Why? Because he had got into Jean's wake, and Jean was in Serge's wake, and Julie—she was one of the most prominent of the French ladies among all the French ladies of Serge's society. It was an honor, a great honor."
"I don't care anything about her foot," said Jean; "but I as a practical man am interested in something beside her foot. I want to see if she has a pretty figure."
"Her figure is very pretty," said Storeshnikof, who was encouraged by the praise given his taste, and who thought at the same time that he could give Julie a compliment. He had not dared to do so before. "Her figure is charming, although to praise another woman's figure here is certainly blasphemy."
"Ha! ha! ha! this gentleman wants to make a compliment on my figure! I am neither a hypocrite nor a liar, Monsieur Storeshnik, and I don't praise myself, nor can I endure that others should flatter what is bad in me. Thank God, I have something for which I can honestly be praised. But my figure! ha! ha! ha! Jean, you can tell him whether my figure is worth praising. Jean, why don't you speak? Your hand, Monsieur Storeshnik." She seized his hand. "See here! Now you will know that I am not all that I seem! I have to wear a padded dress, just as I wear a petticoat, not because I like it. No, in my opinion it would be better without such hypocrisy, but because it is the fashion. But a woman who has lived as I have, and how have I lived Monsieur Storeshnik? I am a saint now compared to what I have been; such a woman cannot preserve her beauty!"
And suddenly she burst into tears,—"My beauty! My beauty! my lost innocence! Oh God, why was I born?"
"You lie, gentlemen!" she cried, jumping up and pounding with her fist on the table. "You are slanderers. You are low fellows. She is not his mistress. He is trying to buy her. I saw how she turned away from him; how she burned with indignation and with scorn. It was contemptible."
"Yes," said the civilian, lazily stretching himself, "you have boasted a little prematurely, Storeshnikof; you have not caught your fish yet, and yet you said that she was yours, and that you had broken with Adèle so as to deceive us the better. Yes, you gave us a very good description, but you described to us what you had not seen yet; however, it's no matter. A week sooner or later makes no difference. You must not be discouraged about drawing on your imagination for stories. You will get on even better than you thought. I have been there; you will be satisfied."
Storeshnikof was beside himself with anger. "No, Mademoiselle Julie, you are mistaken; I venture to assure you that you are mistaken in your conclusion; forgive me for daring to contradict you, but she is my mistress. That was an ordinary lover's quarrel because she was jealous; she saw that I was sitting in Mademoiselle Mathilde's box during the first act; that's all."
"That's a lie, my dear, that's a lie," said Jean, yawning.
"I don't tell lies! I don't tell lies!"
"Prove it. I am a positive man, and I don't believe anything without proofs."
"What proofs can I bring you?"
"Now here you are backing out, and you as good as confess that you lie. What proofs? As if it would be hard to show them. Now, then, here's for you: to-morrow we will meet here again at supper. Mademoiselle Julie will be good enough to bring her Serge; I shall bring my dear little Berthe; you bring her. If you bring her, I am the loser, the supper shall be at my expense. If you don't bring her, you shall be driven out from our circle in disgrace.—Jean, touch the bell." The servant appeared. "Simon, be good enough to get supper for six people to-morrow; one just like the one that I had when Berthe and I were married at your house—do you remember?—before Christmas, and have it in this very room!"
"How could I ever forget such a supper, Monsieur? It shall be done." The servant went out.
"You contemptible, miserable men! Two years I lived as a bad woman in a house with prostitutes and thieves, and never once did I meet three such low people as you are! Mon Dieu! what sort of people do I have to live with in society? Why must I suffer such disgrace, O God!" She fell on her knees: "O God, I am a feeble woman! I could bear hunger, but in Paris the winters were so cold. The cold was so bitter, and the temptations were so overpowering. I wanted to live; I wanted to love. O God, that was no sin! Why art thou punishing me so? Deliver me from this band. Lift me out of this mire. Give me strength to become even a bad woman again in Paris; I ask of Thee nothing else: I deserve nothing else. Only deliver me from these men, from these contemptible men!"
She jumped up, and ran to the officer: "Serge, are you too like the rest? No, you are better."
"Better?" repeated the officer, phlegmatically.
"Isn't this thing contemptible?"
"It is, Julie."
"And you don't protest? You allow it? You agree to it? You share in it?
"Sit on my knee, my dear Julie." He began to caress her, and she grew calmer. "How I love you at such moments! You are a glorious woman. Now, why don't you consent to go through the marriage ceremony with me? How many times have I asked you to? Give your consent."
"Marriage? the bridle? conventionality? Never! I have forbidden you to mention such absurdities. Don't get me angry. But Serge, dear Serge, forbid him; he is afraid of you. Save her!"
"Julie, be calmer. This is impossible. If not he, then somebody else; what difference does it make? Just look here. Jean is already thinking of getting her away from him, and there are thousands of such Jeans, as you know well. It is impossible to save the daughter when her mother is anxious to sell her. 'You can't knock down a wall with your forehead,' we Russians say. We are a clever people, Julie. You see how calmly I live, accepting this Russian principle of ours."
"Never! You are a slave! The French woman is free. The French woman struggles, may fall, but still she struggles. I will not allow this. Who is she? Where does she live? Do you know?"
"I know."
"Let us go to her. I am going to warn her."
"What! at one o'clock at night? No, let us go home.—Au revoir! Jean.—Au revoir! Storeshnikof.—Of course, you will not expect Julie and me at your supper, to-morrow. You see how excited she is. And I also, to tell you the truth, don't like this business at all. Of course, my opinion has nothing to do with you. Au revoir!"
"What a crazy Frenchwoman!" said the civilian, stretching himself and yawning, as the officer and Julia left. "A very piquante woman, but this is too much. It is very pleasant to see a nice little woman get warmed up; but I would not live with her four hours, let alone four years. Of course, Storeshnikof, our supper will not be destroyed by her caprice. I shall bring Paul and Mathilde in their place. And now it's time to go home. I have got to call on Berthe, and then I must go and see the little Lottchen, who is mighty pretty."
III.
"Nu, Viéra, all right! Your eyes show you haven't cried. Evidently you saw that your mother tells the truth. You always used to be an off horse." Viérotchka made an impatient gesture. "Nu! its all right; I shan't say anything more; don't get stirred up! And last night I fell asleep in your room; perhaps I talked too long. Last night I was not myself. Don't heed what I said when I was a little tipsy; do you hear? don't heed it!"
Viérotchka once more saw the ordinary Marya Alekséyevna. The evening before it seemed to her that underneath her animal outside she saw the features of a human being; but now she seemed to be a mere animal and nothing else. Viérotchka made an effort to overcome her repugnance, but she could not. Hitherto she had only despised her mother; yesterday evening it seemed to her that she was ceasing to despise her and beginning to feel only pity for her. But now again she felt the old repugnance, but there remained also the pity for her.
"Dress yourself, Viérotchka. He'll likely get here before long." She very carefully examined her daughter's wardrobe. "If you only behave yourself, I will make you a present of a pair of ear-rings with large emeralds; they are old fashioned, but if they are made over, they'll make a handsome little brooch. They were left in pawn for one hundred and fifty rubles, making with interest two hundred and fifty; but they are worth more than four hundred. Do you hear? I am going to give them to you."
Storeshnikof appeared. Last evening he was quite at a loss to know how to accomplish the task which he had undertaken; he walked from the restaurant to his house, thinking all the time. But when he reached home he was calm; he made up his mind as he walked, and now he was satisfied with himself.
He asked about Viéra Pavlovna's health.
"I am well."
He said that he was very glad, and the conversation turned on the necessity of making the most of health.
"Of course it is necessary, and according to Marya Alekséyevna's opinion, one ought to make the most of youth also." He perfectly agreed with that sentiment, and thought that it would be well to take advantage of the fine weather to enjoy a ride out of town: "It is a frosty day, and the road is elegant."
"With whom do you intend to go?"
"Only three of us,—you, Marya Alekséyevna, Viéra Pavlovna, and myself."
In this case Marya Alekséyevna is perfectly agreed; but now she is going to prepare some coffee and lunch, and Viérotchka will sing something.
"Viérotchka, will you sing something?" she adds in a tone that leaves no room for refusal.
"I will sing."
Viérotchka sat down at the piano, and sang a song called "Troïka" (The Three Span), for at this time Pushkin's poem was set to music. To Marya Alekséyevna listening at the door, this song was very good. The young girl was looking at the officer. "That little Viérka, if she only wants, can be pretty shrewd, the minx!"
Soon Viérotchka stopped. This was right; Marya Alekséyevna had advised her: "Sing a little while, and then begin to talk."
Now Viérotchka is speaking, but to Marya Alekséyevna's mortification she is speaking in French. "What a fool I was! I forgot to tell her to speak in Russian; but Viéra is speaking calmly; she is smiling. Nu! evidently everything is going well. Only what made him open his eyes so wide? But then, he is a fool [durak], a genuine fool, and all that he can do is to blink his eyes. But this is just the kind we want. Now she is giving him her hand; Viérka is smart; I praise her!"
"Monsieur Storeshnikof, I must speak seriously with you. Last night you took a box so that you might represent me to your friends as your mistress. I am not going to tell you that it was dishonorable; if you had been capable of comprehending it, you would not have done it. But I warn you, if you ever dare to speak to me in the theatre, or on the street, or anywhere else, I shall slap your face. My mother will torture me" (here Viérotchka smiled) "let come what may, it is all the same. This evening you receive a note from my mother to the effect that our sleighride is given up, because I am not well."
He stood up and blinked his eyes, just as Marya Alekséyevna had noticed.
"I speak to you as to a man who has not a spark of honor in him. But may be you are not absolutely ruined. If it is so, I beg of you, cease calling upon us! Then I will forgive your slander. If you consent, give me your hand."
She offered him her hand; he took it, hardly knowing what he was doing.
"I thank you. Now go. Say that you must hurry to get the horses ready for the drive."
Again he blinked his eyes. She turned to the notes and began to finish singing the "Troïka." It was a pity that there were no good judges of singing there; it was charming to hear her; indeed, it was rare that one heard so much expression put into music. Really, there was too much feeling; it was not artistic.
In a moment Marya Alekséyevna came in, and the cook followed her with a waiter containing coffee and lunch. Mikhaïl Ivanuitch, instead of taking the lunch, retreated to the door.
"Where are you going, Mikhaïl Ivanuitch?"
"I am in a hurry, Marya Alekséyevna, to give orders about the horses."
"Da! you have ample time, Mikaïl Ivanuitch." But Mikhaïl Ivanuitch was already behind the door.
Marya Alekséyevna dashed from the reception room into the parlor with uplifted fists. "What have you done, you confounded Viérka. Ha?" But the confounded Viérka was no longer in the parlor; her mother hastened after her to her room, but the door of Viérotchka's room was locked. The mother pressed with all the strength of her body to break open the door, but the door did not yield, and Viérka said: "If you try to break open the door, I shall open the window and call for help. I will not give myself into your hands alive."
Marya Alekséyevna's anger lasted long, but she did not break open the door; finally, she got tired of shouting. Then Viérotchka said: "Mámenka, hitherto I simply have not loved you; but since last night, I pity you; you have had much sorrow, and that has made you what you are. Hitherto I have not talked with you, but now I want to talk; but only when you have got over being angry. We will talk kindly, as we never have before."
Of course, Marya Alekséyevna did not take these words much to heart; but weary nerves demand rest, and Marya Alekséyevna began to reason whether it would not be better to compromise with her daughter before she, the miserable creature, gets entirely out of her hands. "Besides, without her, nothing can be done; we can't marry her to Mishka, the fool, unless she's here to marry him, can we? Besides, I don't know yet what she has told him; they squeezed each other's hands; what does that signify?"
And thus the weary Marya Alekséyevna was reasoning between ferocity and cunningness, when suddenly the bell rang. It was Julie and Serge.
IV.
"Serge, does her mother speak French?" were Julie's first words when she awoke.
"I don't know; so you have not put that idea out of your head yet?"
"No, I have not."
And after taking into consideration all that they had seen in the theatre, they decided that in all probability this young girl's mother did not speak French. So Julie took Serge along with her as interpreter. At all events, such was his fate, and he would have had to go even if Viérotchka's mother had been the Cardinal Mezzofanti;[2] and he did not complain of his fate, but went everywhere with Julie, as though he were maid of honor to some heroine! Julie got up late, but on the way she stopped at Wickman's, and then, though it was not on her way, she went to four other stores because she needed certain articles. It was in this way that Mikhaïl Ivanuitch had ample time to explain himself, Marya Alekséyevna had ample time to get enraged and to get calmed down, before Julie and Serge came from the Liteinaïa bridge to the Gorokhovaïa Street.
"But what excuse have we for coming here? Fy, what miserable stairs! I never saw such even in Paris!"
"It's all the same; make up an excuse. Her mother keeps a sort of a pawn shop. Take off your brooch! Hold on! here's a better one: she gives piano lessons. Let's say that you have a niece."
Matrióna for the first time in her life was ashamed of her smashed cheek-bone when she saw Serge's uniform, and especially Julie's magnificence; she had never before met face to face with a woman of such importance. Marya Alekséyevna was in such a state of wonder and indescribable surprise when Matrióna announced that Colonel N——— N——— with his spouse had done themselves the honor of calling! especially those words "with his spouse"!
The gossip that permeated into the circle where Marya Alekséyevna moved, affected exclusively the class of civilians, but the gossip about genuine aristocrats died away in the air before it reached half way down to Marya Alekséyevna; therefore she accepted in the full legal interpretation of the thought the words husband and wife, as Serge and Julie called each other, in accordance with the Parisian fashion. Marya Alekséyevna quickly composed herself and hastened down to meet them.
Serge said that he was very glad of the chance that he had had the evening before, etc., that his wife had a niece, etc., that his wife did not speak Russian, and therefore he was interpreter.
"Yes, I may be grateful to my Creator," said Marya Alekséyevna; "Viérotchka has a great talent for teaching the piano, and I should count it a great piece of luck if she were to visit such a house as yours. Only my little teacher is not very well just now."
Marya Alekséyevna spoke particularly loud, so that Viérotchka might hear and understand the approaching truce. She herself in her admiration, as it were, devoured her visitors with her eyes.
"I don't know whether she's got the strength to come out and give you a proof of her skill on the piano.—Viérotchka, my love, can you come out or not? Only some strangers—there won't be a scene—why won't you come out?"
Viérotchka opened the door, glanced at Serge, and turned crimson with shame and anger. Even unobservant eyes could not have failed to take notice of this, and Julie's eyes were sharper, if that were possible, than even Marya Alekséyevna's. The French woman began without beating around the bush:—
"My dear child, you are surprised and indignant to see a man in whose presence you were so much offended last night, and who probably himself gave you some reason for offence. My husband is thoughtless; but for all that, he is far better than the rest of the lazy young fellows. Please forgive him for my sake; I came to you with good intentions. The lessons for my niece was only a pretence; but it is necessary to keep it up for a while. Please play us something—something quite short; then you and I will go to your room, and we'll talk the matter over. Listen to me, my child."
Can this be the same Julie who is so well known among the aristocratic young bloods of Petersburg? Can this be the same Julie who plays such tricks as make even devil-may-care young fellows blush? No, it is a princess to whose ears a rough word never came!
Viérotchka sat down to show her skill on the piano. Julie stood behind her; Serge engaged himself in conversation with Marya Alekséyevna, with the view of finding out what the relationship was between her and Storeshnikof. In the course of a few minutes Julie stopped Viérotchka, put her arm around her waist, walked with her up and down the parlor, then went with her to her room. Serge explained that his wife was satisfied with Viérotchka's playing, but wanted to speak with her because it was necessary also to know the teacher's character, etc., and he continued to talk with Marya Alekséyevna about Storeshnikof. All this was excellent, but Marya Alekséyevna found reason for greater suspicion and vigilance.
"My dear child," said Julie, as she entered Viérotchka's room, "your mother is a very bad woman. But in order that I may know what to say to you, I beg of you to tell me how and why you went to the theatre last night. I know all about it already from my husband, but from your story I shall learn your character. Don't be afraid of me." And when she had heard Viérotchka's account, she continued:—
"Yes, one can speak plainly with you; you have character." And in very careful, delicate terms she told the story of the wager that had been made the evening before; whereupon Viérotchka told her about the invitation to go to ride.
"Now do you suppose he wanted to deceive your mother, or were they both in a conspiracy against you?"
Viérotchka began to aver with much warmth that her mother was not such a bad woman as to be in a conspiracy.
"It won't take me long to find out," said Julie. "You stay here; you are not needed there." Julie returned to the parlor.
"Serge, he has invited this woman and her daughter to take a ride this evening. Tell her about last night's supper."
"Your daughter is agreeable to my wife; now it is necessary to see about her terms; in all probability we shall not have any trouble on that score. But allow me to finish our talk about our mutual friend. You give him very high praise, but are you aware of the way that he talks about his relationship to your family? For example, do you know why he invited us last evening to your box?"
In Marya Alekséyevna's eyes there gleamed, instead of a look of anxious inquiry, the thought, "Then it is so!"
"I am not a gossip," she replied with dissatisfaction. "I myself do not carry tattle around, and I don't listen much to the tattle of others." This was said not without sarcasm, in spite of all her admiration of her visitor. "There are always a good many little things that young people talk about among themselves; there is no need of bothering with them."
"Very good; well then, do you call this also gossip?" He began to tell the story of the supper. Marya Alekséyevna did not let him finish; as soon as he said the first word about the wager, she leaped to her feet and cried out in wrath, entirely forgetting the importance of her guests:—
"Now what sort of tricks are these! Akh! the villain! Akh! the murderer! Now I see why he invited us to go a-driving! He wanted to get me out of the way so as to ruin a defenceless young girl! Akh! the beastly man!" and so she went on. Then she began to thank her guests for salvation of her life and her daughter's honor. "And so that was what you were driving at, bátiushka; I suspicioned it at the very first, that you did not come without some good reason; lessons is lessons, but I saw that you had some other game; but I did not think that was the reason; I thought that you had some other bride for him, that you wanted to take him away from us; I have been unjust to you, poor sinner that I am; be generous and forgive me! You have done me such a great favor that I shall never forget it as long as I live." And thus she went on pouring out curses, blessings, excuses, in a disorderly torrent.
Julie did not listen long to this endless speech, the meaning of which was plain to her from the tone of her voice, and from her gestures. While Marya Alekséyevna was speaking the very first words, the French woman got up and returned to Viérotchka's room.
"No, your mother was not his accomplice, and now she is very indignant with him. But I know such people as your mother very well. They can't long hold out in their dislike of people who have money. She will soon be on the lookout for a husband for you again, and what will be the end of it all, God knows. At all events, it will be very hard for you. At first she will leave you in peace; but I tell you it will not last long. What are you going to do now? Have you any relatives in Petersburg?"
"No."
"That is too bad. Have you a lover?"
Viérotchka did not know how to answer this; she only opened her eyes in wonder.
"Forgive me, forgive me; I might have known that, but so much the worse. Of course, then you have no one to protect you. What can be done? Now listen; I am not what I seemed to you at first. I am not his wife; we only live together. I am known in all Petersburg as a very bad woman, but I am an honest woman. To visit me would cost you your reputation; it is sufficiently risky for you that I have called at your rooms only once, and to call upon you a second time would be sure ruin. Meantime it is necessary for me to see you again, and probably more than once; that is, if you have any confidence in me. Yes? Then what time can I see you to-morrow?"
"About twelve o'clock," said Viérotchka. This was rather too early for Julie, but all right; she would give orders to be called at that time, and she would meet Viérotchka at the Gostinui Dvor,[3] opposite the Nevsky Prospckt. This place is not so much frequented as the others; it will be easier to find each other, and no one knows Julie there.
"Yes, and here is another lucky thought; give me a piece of paper; I'll write a note to that contemptible fellow, and so get him into my power." Julie wrote, "Monsieur Storeshnikof, you are now in all probability in great embarrassment; if you wish to get out of it, come to my house at seven o'clock. M. le Tellier."
"Now, good by."
Julie offered her hand, but Viérotchka threw herself on her neck, kissed her, wept, and kissed her again, and Julie was still less able to bear it; she shed tears still more abundantly than Viérotchka; the feeling that she was doing a noble deed gave her such happiness and pride that it was very touching; she went into ecstasies, she kept on speaking, always with tears and kisses, and finally she ended with an exclamation:—
"My friend! my dear child! may God spare you from knowing what I am feeling now, when, for the first time in many years, pure lips touch mine. Die, but don't give a kiss without love!"
V.
Storeshnikof's plan was not so murderous as Marya Alekséyevna supposed; she in her own style put it in a too brutal form, but the spirit of the thing she interpreted aright. Storeshnikof's idea was to bring the two ladies a little later in the evening to the restaurant where the supper was going to be; of course, they would be hungry and cold, and it would be necessary for them to get warm, and have a cup of tea. He would have a little opium put into Marya Alekséyevna's teacup or wineglass; Viérotchka would be frightened to see her mother lose consciousness; he would take Viérotchka into the room where the supper was going on, and then his bet would be won; what the final result would be, he would leave to chance. Maybe Viérotchka in her perplexity would not understand the matter, and would agree to remain in the strange company, but even if she remained but a little while, it would not make any difference; it would be excused because she had only just entered upon that adventurous course of life, and naturally felt a bit of awkwardness at first. Then afterwards he would buy Marya Alekséyevna off with a little money, after which he would have nothing more to do with her.
But now what was he to do? He cursed his boastfulness before his friends, his faint-heartedness when met by Viérotchka's unexpected and abrupt resistance; he wished that the earth would open and swallow him. Now what was he to do? While his mind was in such disorder and despair, a letter from Julie brought healing balm to his wound; a ray of hope shone into the impenetrable darkness; a solid road opened through the quagmire under the feet of the sinking man. "Oh! she can; she is the cleverest woman; she can bring anything about! She is the noblest of women!"
At ten minutes before seven he was standing before her door. "She is waiting for you, and gave orders to have you admitted."
How majestically she is sitting! how stern she looks! She scarcely bends her head in reply to his bow: "I am very glad to see you; take a seat."
Not a muscle moved in her face. "It will be a good scolding [lit. head-washing], I suppose; no matter, scold away, only save me."
"Monsieur Storeshnik," she began in a cold, slow way, "you know my opinion of the matter in regard to which we have come together now, and which, of course, I see no need of characterizing again. I have seen that young lady whom you were talking about last night; I have heard about your visit to them to-day; consequently, I know all about everything, and I am very glad, because it saves me from asking you any questions. Your position is perfectly clear, not only to you, but to me."
"Lord! I'd rather she would scold," thought the victim.
"It seems to me," she went on, "that you cannot get out of it without somebody's help, and that you cannot expect anybody to help you successfully but me. If you have anything to say in your defence, I will listen." "And so," after a pause, "you, as well as I, suppose that no one else is able to help you; just listen to what I am able and willing to do for you: if my supposititious help is going to be of any use to you, I will tell you the terms on which I agree to accomplish it."
And in the long, long style of an official explanation, she told him that she could send a letter to Jean in which she would say, "that, after last night's caprice, she had thought things over; that she wanted to take part in the supper, but that she was engaged for this evening, and therefore she asked Jean to persuade Storeshnikof to postpone the supper till some time that should be agreed upon with Jean." She read the letter over; the letter expressed a conviction that Storeshnikof would win the wager, and that it would be disagreeable to him to put off his triumph. "Would this letter be sufficient?" "Indeed, it would." "In such a case," continued Julie, in the very same style of official notes; she would send off the letter on two conditions: "You can accept them or not; if you accept them, I will send off the letter; if you refuse them, I shall burn the letter;" and all this was said in the everlasting manner that seemed to draw out the soul of the rescued man. At last came the conditions; there were two: "First, that you cease persecuting the young person of whom we were speaking; second, that you cease mentioning her name in your conversations."
"Is that all?" the rescued man wonders: "I thought she would ask, the deuce knows what, and I should have been willing to grant anything." He agrees, and his face shows a triumph at the easiness of her conditions; but Julie is not in the least softened, and she keeps on with her explanations. "The first is necessary for her sake; the second also for her sake, but still more for yours. I shall postpone the supper for a week, and then for another week; and then the thing will be forgotten: but you must understand that the others will forget about it only unless you do not any longer say a single word about the young Lady about whom, etc." And at the same time she keeps on explaining and assuring him that the letter will be received by Jean in ample time. "I have made inquiries, and he will dine with Berthe, etc.; he will call on you as soon as he has finished his cigar, etc." And this too was said as before; then she said, "And so the letter will be sent, and I am very glad; please read it over; I have no confidence in others, and I do not expect others to have confidence in me.—You have read it over: please seal it yourself. Here is an envelope; I will ring the bell.—Pauline, have the goodness to post this letter, etc. Pauline, I have not seen Monsieur Storeshnikof to-day; do you understand? he has not been here!"
This tormenting salvation lasted about an hour. Finally the letter was sent off, and the rescued man breathes more freely, but the perspiration runs down his face, and Julie continues:—
"In a quarter of an hour you must hurry home, so that Jean may find you there. But this quarter of an hour is still at your disposal, and I am going to avail myself of it to say a few words to you; you will follow or you will not follow the advice which they contain, but you will at least think it over seriously. I shall not say a word about the obligations that an honorable man feels towards a young girl whose good name he has compromised; I know too well our aristocratic young men to expect any advantage from going over this side of the question. But I find that if you should marry the young person about whom we have been speaking, it would be a good thing for you. As a straightforward woman, I shall lay down before you explicitly the foundations of my belief, though some of them may be ticklish in your ears; however, your least word will be sufficient for me to stop. You are a man of a weak character, and you run the risk of falling into the hands of some bad woman who will torment you and make you her mere plaything. But she is kind and noble, and therefore she would not treat you shabbily. To marry her, notwithstanding the lowness of her birth compared to yours, notwithstanding her poverty, would help you along in your career; she, when once introduced into the 'great world' with all the money that you have, with all her beauty, good sense, and strength of character, would occupy a brilliant place; the advantage of this can be understood by every husband. But aside from these advantages, which every other husband would receive from such a wife, you, through the peculiarities of your nature, more than any one else, need an assistant. I will speak still plainer: you need some one to lead you. Every word that I have spoken has been weighed; every word has been based on my observation of her. I do not ask you to believe me, but I recommend that you think over my advice. I doubt very much whether she would accept your offer; but if she should accept it, it would be a good thing for you. I shall not detain you any longer; now you must hurry home."
VI.
Marya Alekséyevna, of course, did not even complain of Viérotchka's refusal of the sleighride, after she found out that that Mishka-durak was not at all such a durak as she thought, and that he had almost got ahead of her. Viérotchka was left in peace, and on the next morning, without meeting with any hinderance, she started for the Gostinui Dvor.
"It is freezing here; I do not like cold weather," said Julie. "We must go somewhere else; but where? Wait. I'll be right back from this shop."
She bought a thick veil for Viérotchka. "Put it on; then you can go with me without any fear. But don't lift your veil until we are alone! Pauline is very modest, but I don't want that even she should see you. I am too careful of you, my child!"
In fact she herself wore her maid's cloak and bonnet and a thick veil. When Julie got warm, she listened to all the news that Viérotchka had to tell her; then she told her in turn about her interview with Storeshnikof.
"Now, my dear child, there is no doubt that he will make you an offer. These young men are always getting over ears in love when their flirting meets no response. Do you know, my dear child, that you have treated him quite like an experienced coquette. Coquetry—I am speaking about genuine coquetry, not about foolish, stupid imitations of it, for they are disgusting, like any other imitation of a good thing—coquetry, I say, means sense and tact in the way that a woman treats a man. Therefore absolutely innocent girls act without meaning it, exactly like experienced coquettes, if only they have sense and tact. Maybe my motives will partly influence him, but the main thing is your resistance. However, he will make you an offer, and I advise you to accept it."
"You who told me only yesterday that it was better to die than give a kiss without love?"
"My dear child, that was said in excitement: in moments of excitement it is true and good. But life is prose and calculation."
"No! never! never! He is contemptible! this is abominable! I shall not lower myself; let him devour me; I'd sooner jump out of the window—sooner go out and beg for bread—but to give my hand to a contemptible, low man—no! it is better to die!"
Julie began to explain the advantages: "You will get rid of your mother's persecutions; you stand in danger of being sold; he is not bad, but only a little off; a narrow man who is not bad is better than any other husband for a woman of strong character; you would be mistress of the house."
She depicted the position of actresses, dancers, who do not love their "husbands" but reign over them: "This is the freest situation in the world for a woman, except that situation of independence and power which society might grant to a legally married woman; that is, it might give her as much independence as an actress has towards the admirer of an actress."[4]
She spoke much; Viérotchka spoke much; they both got excited. Viérotchka finally became pathetic.
"You call me fanciful, you ask me what I want from life. I want neither to reign nor to be subjected; I do not want to deceive or to make pretence; I do not want to regard the opinions of others, to strive for what other people recommend to me, without I feel the need of it. I am not used to riches—for myself they are not necessary; why, then, should I seek them only because others think that they are pleasant for all people, and consequently must be pleasant for me? I have never gone into society, I have not known what it was to shine, and as yet I have no desire to do so; why, then, should I sacrifice anything for a brilliant situation, only because according to the ideas of others it is pleasant? For what I do not feel the slightest need of, I am not going to sacrifice, I do not say myself, but even my slightest caprice. I want to be independent and live in my own way; I am prepared for whatever is needful for myself; whatever is not needful I do not want. What will be necessary for me I do not know; you say, 'I am young and inexperienced, that I shall change as time goes on,'—well, so be it; when the time comes, I shall change; but now I do not want, do not want, do not want, anything that I do not want! 'But what do I want now?' you ask. Well, I am sure I do not know. Do I want to love a man? I do not know! It was only yesterday morning I did not know when I got up that I was going to want to love you; and several hours before I began to love you I did not know that I could love any one; and I did not know how I should feel when I felt love for you; and so now I do not know how I should feel to love a man; I only know that I do not want to be anybody's slave! I want to be free! I do not want to be under obligations to any one, so that any one should dare to say to me, 'You must do something for me.' I want to do only what I have it in my heart to do, and let others do the same; I do not want to ask anything of anybody; I do not want to curtail anybody's freedom; I want to be free myself!"
Julie listened and was lost in thought, and her face grew red; but then she could not help her face growing red when she sat near a fire. She leaped to her feet, and said in a broken voice:—
"Well, well, my child, I myself should have felt that way if I had not been ruined. But I am not corrupted by those deeds that are generally thought to ruin a woman; not by what happened to me in the past, what I endured and suffered; not because of those things was my body given over to insult; but because I was used to idleness, to luxury; because I am not strong enough to live by myself; because I need other people; because I try to please; therefore I am doing what I do not like to do, and this is wretchedness. Don't listen to what I said, my child; I have been trying to ruin you. This is torment; I cannot touch the pure without polluting it. Avoid me, my child; I am a bad woman; don't think about society! They are all bad there, worse than I am. Where idleness is, there is abomination; where grandeur is, there is abomination. Run, run!"[5]
VII.
Storeshnikof kept thinking more and more frequently, "Well, now, suppose I should take and marry her?" What happened to him was a very common thing, not only with people of weak character of his stamp, but also not seldom with people of more independent character. In the histories of the nations such cases as his fill the volumes of Hume and Gibbon, Ranke and Thierry; men crowd only to one side simply because they do not hear the words, "Now strive, brethren, to take the other side"; and if by chance they hear and turn to the other side of the circle, then they go to crowding just as bad on the other side. Storeshnikof had heard and seen that rich young men were in the habit of taking poor and pretty young girls as mistresses. Well, and so he tried to make Viérotchka his mistress. No other word had entered his head; he heard the other word, "You might marry her"; well, now he begins to think about the word "wife," just as before he thought about the word "mistress."
This is a universal characteristic, and Storeshnikof illustrates very clearly in his own case nine-tenths of the motives in the history of the human race. But historians and psychologists say that in every special fact the universal cause is "individualized," according to their expression, by local, temporary, national, and personal elements, although they—that is, these elements—are important; for example, all spoons, albeit they are spoons, yet whoever gobbles soup or shchi with the spoon in his hand must examine that special spoon. Therefore let us examine Storeshnikof!
The principal thing that Julie had said—as though she had been reading all the Russian novels that treat of such things—was this, Resistance strengthens desire.
The thought about Viérotchka took possession of Storeshnikof after the theatre with more power than ever before. After exhibiting to his friends the mistress of his fancy, it seemed to him that she was much more beautiful than he had imagined. Beauty, just like intellect or any other valuable thing, is treasured by the majority of people exactly according as it is reckoned by the general opinion. Everybody sees that a handsome face is handsome, but to what degree it is handsome, how can that be expressed unless its rank takes a diploma? Viérotchka, sitting in the gallery or in the back row of the theatre, would not have been noticed; but when she appeared in a box in the second tier, a good many opera-glasses were directed towards her; and how many encomiums of her beauty did not Storeshnikof hear, when, after seeing her to her carriage, he returned to the foyer. And Serge! Oh, what a refined taste he has! And Julie! Well, when such good fortune is hatched, there is no need of making a choice as to the way of possessing it.
His self-love was stirred at the same time as his passion. But it was touched also on the other side. "It is hardly likely that she will accept you." What! not accept him with such a uniform and such an estate? No, you are mistaken, Frenchwoman; she will take it; of course, she will, she will!
There was still another reason of the same stamp. Storeshnikof's mother, of course, would oppose his choice; his mother is a representative of the world, and Storeshnikof hitherto has stood in awe of his mother, and of course he has been burdened by his dependence on her. For people who have no strength of character it is very charming to think, "I am not afraid. I have a strong character."
Of course, there was also a desire to advance in his worldly career through his wife.
And to all this there was added the fact that Storeshnikof did not dare to show himself to Viérotchka in his former rôle, and meantime he could not resist looking at her.
In a word, Storeshnikof each day thought more seriously of getting married, and at the end of a week, when Marya Alekséyevna, after returning from a late service, was sitting down and thinking how she might catch him, he himself appeared, and made an offer of marriage. Viérotchka did not come out of her room, and so he could only speak with Marya Alekséyevna. Marya Alekséyevna of course said that she on her part looked upon it as a great honor, but as a loving mother, she must know her daughter's mind, and asks him to call for his answer on the next morning.
"Nu! she's a trump, my girl Viéra," said Marya Alekséyevna to her husband, surprised at such an abrupt turning of the case; "just see how she has got the young lad under her thumb. And I was thinking and thinking, and did not know how to put my wits to work; I was thinking how much bother it would cost me to catch him again; I was thinking how the whole affair was ruined, while she, my golubushka [my darling, literally, little pigeon], did not spoil it at all, but brought it round all right. She knew how it was necessary to act. Nu! she is cunning; it's no use talkin'."
"The Lord inspires infants with wisdom," said Pavel Konstantinuitch.
He seldom played any part in domestic life. But Marya Alekséyevna was a stern observer of the good old traditions, and on such a solemn occasion as the telling her daughter about the offer, she allowed her husband to take the rôle of honor, which by right belongs to the head and ruler of the family. Pavel Konstantinuitch and Marya Alekséyevna seated themselves on the sofa, as on the most solemn place, and sent Matrióna to ask the baruishna to come to them.
"Viéra,"—Pavel Konstantinuitch began,—"Mikhaïl Ivanuitch has done us the honor of asking your hand. We answered like loving parents that we would not compel you, but we said that on our side we were glad. You, as a good and dutiful daughter, such as you have always appeared to be, will depend on our experience, that we have not dared to ask God for such a husband for you. Do you agree, Viéra?"
"No," said Viérotchka.
"What is that you say, Viéra?" cried Pavel Konstantinuitch. The thing was so plain that even he could cry out, not asking his wife how to act.
"Have you lost your senses, you fool? Repeat that if you dare, you disobedient thing!" cried Marya Alekséyevna, doubling her fists against her daughter.
"Forgive me, mámenka," said Viéra, rising; "if you touch me, I will leave the house; if you lock me up, I will jump out of the window. I knew how you would take my refusal, and I have resolved how to act. Take a seat, and sit down, or I shall go."
Marya Alekséyevna sat down again. "What a piece of stupidity! that front door is not under lock and key; she would push away the bolt in a second; we could not ketch her. She would run away! she is crazy!"
"I shall not marry him! Without my consent, they can't marry me!"
"Viéra, you are losing your senses," said Marya Alekséyevna in a choking voice.
"How can that be? What answer can we give him to-morrow?" exclaimed her father.
"You are not to blame towards him, but I will not consent."
This scene lasted about two hours. Marya Alekséyevna was in a stew; twenty times she began to cry out, and clench her fists, but Viérotchka said: "Don't get up, or I shall leave!" They kept beating about the bush, but they could not do anything. It ended when Matrióna came in to ask whether she would put on the dinner. "The pirog [pie] was overdone."
"Think till evening, Viéra. Come to your senses, you fool!" said Marya Alekséyevna, and whispered something to Matrióna.
"Mámenka, you are going to do something to me! to take out the key from my bedroom, or something else. Don't you do it, or it will be worse!"
Marya Alekséyevna said to the cook, "No matter. What a beast she is! this Viérka! If it were not that he wanted her on account of her face, I would beat her till she bled! But now how can I touch her? She will disfigure herself, the confounded fool!"
They went in to dinner. They dined quietly. After dinner Viérotchka went to her room. Pavel Konstantinuitch lay down, as he usually did, to take a nap, but this time the nap was a failure. As soon as he closed his eyes, Matrióna came in and said that the khozyáïka's manservant was there; that the landlady asks Pavel Konstantinuitch to call upon her immediately. Matrióna was trembling like an aspen leaf. Why should she tremble?
VIII.
How could Matrióna help trembling when the whole trouble arose through her? As soon as she called Viérotchka to her pápenka and mámenka, she immediately ran off to tell the wife of the khozyáïka's cook how "your barin is courting our baruishna"; they called the youngest of the khozyáïka's chambermaids, and began to blame her for her unfriendliness in not having told them anything about it before. The youngest chambermaid could not understand what the secret was that they blamed her for not telling: she had never concealed anything. They told her when she said, "I have not concealed anything," that they were sorry for reproaching her for concealing anything. She ran off to tell the news to the oldest of the chambermaids; the oldest of the chambermaids said, "Of course, he has done this without his mother's knowledge, because I have not heard anything, and I must know everything that Anna Petrovna knows," and she went off to tell the whole story to the baruina; such was the mischief caused by Matrióna! "My confounded little tongue has made me a great deal of bother," she thought. "Marya Alekséyevna will find out who let the cat out of the bag." But it happened that Marya Alekséyevna forgot to ask who told of it.
Anna Petrovna could not say anything else but akh and okh: twice she fell in a swoon, even while she was alone with the senior chambermaid. Of course, she was greatly shocked, and she summoned her son. The son appeared.
"Michel, is it true what I have heard?" in a tone of indignant suffering.
"What have you heard, maman?"
"That you have offered yourself to this—to this—to this—to the daughter of our manager!"
"I have, maman."
"Without asking your mother's consent?"
"I intended to ask your consent after I had obtained hers."
"I presume that you were surer of her consent than of mine!"
"Maman, it is the fashion nowadays to get the girl's consent first, and to speak to relations afterwards."
"Is that your fashion? Maybe it is also your fashion for the sons of good families to marry God knows whom, and for the mothers to consent to it?"
"But, maman, she is not 'a God-knows-whom'; when you come to know her you will approve of my choice."
"'When I know her!' I shall never know her! 'I approve of your choice'! I forbid any thought of this choice! Do you hear? I forbid it!"
"Maman, this is not the fashion nowadays; I am not a little boy to be lead around by the hand by you. I know myself where I am going."
"Akh!" Anna Petrovna shut her eyes.
Mikhaïl Ivanuitch had to yield before Marya Alekséyevna, to Julie, to Viérotchka, because they were women of sense and strong character; but here, as far as sense was concerned, the battle was drawn, and if the mother was stronger by reason of her character, still the son felt solid ground under his feet; he had stood in awe of his mother hitherto through habit, but they both remembered very well that in reality the khozyáïka was not the khozyáïka, but only the mother of the khozyáïn; and again that the khozyáïka's son is in reality not the khozyáïka's son, but the khozyáïn. And therefore the khozyáïka hesitated to use the decided word "forbid"; she prolonged the conversation, hoping to defeat her son and get him tired out before a genuine battle was fought. But the son had gone to such lengths that it was impossible to withdraw, and he was compelled by the necessity of the case to fight it out.
"Maman, I assure you that a better daughter you could not have."
"You torment! your mother's murderer!"
"Maman, let us reason about it coolly. Sooner or later I shall have to get married, and a married man must have greater expenses than a bachelor. I could, of course, marry such a woman that all the income of the estate would have to be spent on my establishment. But she will be a dutiful daughter, and we could live with you just as I always have."
"Torment! my murderer! get out of my sight!"
"Maman, don't be angry; I am not in the least to blame!"
"Marry such a wench, and not to blame!"
"Now, maman, I am going to leave you. I do not want you to call her such names in my presence."
"My murderer!"
Anna Petrovna fell in a swoon, and Michel went off, satisfied with the courageous way in which he had carried out the first scene, which was the most important of all.
Seeing that her son was gone, Anna Petrovna recovered from her swoon. Her son has absolutely escaped from her power! In response to her "I forbid" he explains that the house is his! Anna Petrovna thought and thought; she poured out her grief before the senior chambermaid, who in these circumstances shared absolutely in the khozyáïka's feelings of contempt for the manager's daughter; she consulted with her and sent for the manager.
"Hitherto I have been very well satisfied with you, Pavel Konstantinuitch; but now these intrigues, in which possibly you have had no share, may compel me to quarrel with you."
"Your ladyship,[6] I am not to blame in the slightest degree, 'fore God!"
"I knew long ago that Michel was hanging around your daughter. I did not put a stop to it, because a young man cannot live without recreation. I am willing to make allowances for the mischief of young men, but I cannot endure that my family should be degraded. How did your daughter dare to think of entertaining such an ambition?"
"Your ladyship, she has not dared to entertain any such ambition. She is a modest girl; we have brought her up respectably."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Your ladyship, she would never dare to do anything against your will."
Anna Petrovna did not believe her ears. Can it be possible that this good news is true?
"You must be aware what my will is. I cannot consent to such an unnatural and, I may say, disreputable marriage."
"We are sensible of that, your ladyship, and Viérotchka feels it also. She said so; 'I do not dare to offend her ladyship,' were her very words."
"How could that be?"
"It happened, your ladyship, that Mikhaïl Ivanuitch named his intentions to my wife, and my wife told him that she could not give him an answer till to-morry mornin', and my wife and me intended, your ladyship, to call on you and tell you all about it, because, bein' as it was late, we did not dare to disturb your ladyship. And when Mikhaïl Ivanuitch went, we told Viérotchka, and she said, 'I perfectly agree with you, pápenka and mámenka, that it is not to be dreamed of.'"
"Is she such a sensible and honest girl?"
"Certainly, your ladyship, she is a virtuous girl."
"Well, I am very glad that we can remain friends with you. I will pay you for this. I am even now ready to pay you for this. On the front stairs, where the tailor lives, the apartment on the second floor is vacant, isn't it?"
"It will be vacant in three days, your ladyship."
"Take it for yourself. You may spend a hundred rubles to have it put in order, and I will add to your salary two hundred and forty rubles a year."
"Allow me to kiss your ladyship's little hand!"
"Very well, that will do.—Tatiana!" The senior chambermaid came in. "Find me my blue velvet cloak. I want to give this to your wife. It cost me one hundred and fifty rubles [really eighty-five!] I have only worn it twice [in reality, more than twenty times]. And this I give to your daughter." Anna Petrovna handed the manager a lady's small watch. "I paid three hundred rubles" (in reality one hundred and twenty) "for it. I can make presents, and I shall not forget you in the future either. I make allowances for the mischief of young men."
After dismissing the manager, Anna Petrovna again summoned Tatiana: "Ask Mikhaïl Ivanuitch to come to me—or, no, it's better, I will go him myself." She was afraid that her messenger would tell the news to her son's valet, and the valet would tell her son what news the manager brought, and the bouquet would vanish, and not make the impression on her son's nose as if it were fresh from the wine of her own words!
Mikhaïl Ivanuitch was lying down, and not without some satisfaction, was twisting his mustache: "Now, what has brought her here? I have no smelling-salts for fainting-fits!" he thought, getting up when his mother entered. But he saw in her face a scornful triumph.
She sat down; she said: "Sit down, Mikhaïl Ivanuitch, and we will have a talk." And she looked at him for a long time with a smile; at last she continued: "I am very well content, Mikhaïl Ivanuitch; guess why I am content."
"I do not know what to guess, maman; you are so strange—"
"You will see that there is nothing strange at all; think away, and perhaps you will guess!"
Again a long pause. He is lost in perplexity; she is enjoying her triumph.
"You cannot guess; I will tell you. It is very simple and natural; if you had a spark of noble feeling, you would have guessed it. Your mistress"—in the former talk Anna Petrovna had to tack ship, but now she had no reason to tack; the means of defeating her was taken away from her opponent—"Your mistress—don't you answer me back, Mikhaïl Ivanuitch—you yourself have boasted everywhere that she was your mistress,—this creature of low origin, of low training, of low behavior—even this contemptible creature—"
"Maman, I am not willing to hear such expressions about the girl who is to be my wife."
"I should not have used them, if I had thought that she was going to be your wife. And I began with the intention of explaining to you that this was not to be, and why it was not to be. Allow me to finish. Then you may freely reproach me for these expressions, which will then be out of place according to your idea; but now allow me to finish. I wish to say that your mistress, this nameless creature, untrained, mannerless, feelingless—even she puts you to shame, even she understands all the shamelessness of your intentions—"
"What? what is that? Speak, maman!"
"You yourself are hindering me. I was going to say that even she—do you hear?—even she!—could understand and appreciate my feelings; even she when she learned from her mother about your offer, sent her father to tell me, that she would not put herself in opposition to my will and would not degrade our family by her polluted name."
"Maman, you are deceiving me!"
"Fortunately for me and you, no! She says that—"
But Mikhaïl Ivanuitch was no longer in the room; he had already put on his army coat.
"Hold him, Piotr! hold him!" cried Anna Petrovna. Piotr opened wide his mouth at such an extraordinary command, but Mikhaïl Ivanuitch was already running down the front doorsteps.
IX.
"Nu! how was it?" asked Marya Alekséyevna, as her husband came back.
"Elegant, mátushka; she knew all about it, and she says, 'How did you dare?' and I says, 'We don't dare, your ladyship, and Viérotchka has already refused him.'"
"What? What? You said such nonsense as that, you ass?"[7]
"Marya Alekséyevna—"
"You ass! you villain! you have killed me! you have cut my throat! Take that!"—The husband received a slap. "And take that!" Another slap. "That's the way to teach you, durak!" She seized him by the hair and began to drag him about the room. The lesson continued for some time, for Storeshnikof, after his mother's long lecture and pauses, came running into the room, and found Marya Alekséyevna still in the full heat of instruction.
"You ass! you did not even fasten the door—and what a state strangers find us in! You ought to be ashamed to be such a hog [svinya]!" That was all that Marya Alekséyevna found to say.
"Where is Viéra Pavlovna? I must see Viéra Pavlovna! Immediately! Is it true that she refuses me?"
The circumstances were so embarrassing that Marya Alekséyevna could only motion with her hand. The very same thing happened to Napoleon after the Battle of Waterloo, when Marshal Grouchy proved to be stupid like Pavel Konstantinuitch, and La Fayette was bold like Viérotchka; Napoleon was fighting, fighting—doing, accomplishing all the miracles in his art—but it was without avail, and he could only motion with his hand, and say, "I give it all up; let every one do as he pleases, with himself and with me."
"Viéra Pavlovna, do you refuse my hand?"
"Judge for yourself; how can I not refuse it?"
"Viéra Pavlovna, I have cruelly offended you; I am to blame; I am worthy of being hung; but I cannot bear your refusal," etc., etc.
Viérotchka listened to him for several minutes; finally—it was time to put an end to it—this was hard:—
"No, Mikhaïl Ivanuitch, this is enough! Stop! I cannot consent."
"Well, if that must be so, I beg one favor; you feel just now too keenly how I offended you; don't give me your answer yet; allow me time to win your forgiveness! I seem to you low, vile; but look, maybe I shall grow to be better; I will use all my strength to become a better man; help me! Don't push me away now! Give me time! I will obey you in everything that you may ask; you shall see how humble I am; maybe you will see that there is some good in me; only give me time!"
"I am sorry for you," said Viérotchka; "I see the sincerity of your love." (Viérotchka, this is not love at all; it is only a mixture of different grades of depravity and meanness: love is something quite different; because a man finds it disagreeable to be refused by a women, that man is not necessarily in love with her; that is not love at all; but Viérotchka does not know this yet and she is touched.) "You want me not to give my answer yet—very good; but I warn you that the postponement will lead to nothing. I shall never give you any other answer than the one that you have just received."
"I shall deserve—I shall deserve another answer; you will be my salvation!" He grasped her hand and began to kiss it.
Marya Alekséyevna came into the room, and in the stress of her emotion was going to bless her dear children without further formality,—that is, without Pavel Konstantinuitch,—then to call him, and have them solemnly blessed. Storeshnikof demolished one-half of her joy by explaining to her that Viéra Pavlovna, although she had not as yet consented, did not absolutely refuse, but merely postponed the answer. This was bad; but still it was good compared to what she had expected.
Storeshnikof went home in triumph. Again the threat about the estate came upon the scene, and again Anna Petrovna fell in a swoon.
Marya Alekséyevna was absolutely at a loss to know what to think about Viérotchka. Her daughter spoke as though she were entirely opposed to her intentions. But the result proved that her daughter put an end to all the embarrassment, which had seemed too much for Marya Alekséyevna to manage. If one judged by the course of the affair, then it would look as though Viérotchka wanted the same thing that Marya Alekséyevna wanted; but, as an educated and wily creature, she elaborates her material in a different way. But, if this is so, why should she not say to Marya Alekséyevna, "Mátushka, I desire the same thing that you do; be at ease"? or else she must be so angry at her mother, that she wants to do the very same thing that they are both anxious to bring about, by herself, without her mother's co-operation. But her willingness to postpone the answer is perfectly comprehensible to Marya Alekséyevna. She wants to give her future husband a thoroughly good schooling, so that he should not dare to breathe without her, and so as to extort Anna Petrovna's submission. Apparently she is even more cunning than Marya Alekséyevna herself. Whenever Marya Alekséyevna thought about this, her thoughts brought her to this view. But her eyes and ears always testified against it. And meantime how to act if this view is false, if her daughter is not really going to marry Storeshnikof? She is such a wild creature that it is impossible to know how to tame her. But, in all probability, the good-for-nothing Viérka does not want to marry; such is doubtless the case. Marya Alekséyevna's common sense was really too strong to be deceived by her own wily reasoning about Viérotchka being a cunning intriguer. "But this vile young girl is managing everything in such a way that, when she does marry (and the deuce knows what she has in mind; maybe this very thing!), at all events, she will evidently be the complete mistress over her husband and his mother, and over the whole household; and so, what is left for her? Only to wait and see,—nothing else is possible! Just now Viérka does not want to do this; but she will make up her mind for the joke of the thing, and she will want it. Well, besides, we can use moral suasion. Only leave it to time! But now we must wait till that time shall come."
Marya Alekséyevna waited. But how charming to her was the thought, refuted by her common sense, that Viérka was bringing the affair to a marriage! Everything but Viérotchka's words and actions corroborated this thought. The future husband was a "silken one"; the future husband's mother struggled about three weeks, but her son defeated her by using his threat in regard to the estate, and she began to grow more reasonable. She expressed the desire to make Viérotchka's acquaintance. Viérotchka did not go to see her. At the first moment Marya Alekséyevna thought that if she were in Viérotchka's place she should have acted more wisely, that she should have gone; but on thinking the matter over, she came to the conclusion that not to go was the wiser course. Oh, what a cunning creature! And, in fact, in a couple of weeks Anna Petrovna herself called, under the pretext that she wanted to look at the arrangement of the new apartment. She was cool and caustically polite. Viérotchka, after listening to two or three of her biting remarks, went to her room. Before she left, it did not occur to Marya Alekséyevna that it was necessary to leave; she thought that it was necessary to answer biting remarks with biting remarks. But when Viérotchka left, Marya Alekséyevna quickly reasoned, "Yes, that was the best move of all; let her son pay her in her own coin,—that's the best way." At the end of two weeks Anna Petrovna called again, and gave no excuses for her call. She simply said that she came to make them a call, and she said nothing sarcastic in Viérotchka's presence.
Time passed on. The prospective husband made Viérotchka presents; they were made through Marya Alekséyevna, and of course remained in her possession, like Anna Petrovna's watch. However, not all of them remained with her; some of the cheapest of them she gave to Viérotchka, saying that they were things that had remained in pawn unredeemed. It was necessary for the prospective husband to see some of his gifts worn by the bride! He saw them and grew more confident that he should get Viérotchka's consent; otherwise, she would not have accepted his presents. But why does she put off her answer? He himself perceived—and Marya Alekséyevna told him—the reason. "She is waiting till Anna Petrovna gets entirely reconciled." And he, with redoubled energy, pulled on the line whereto his mother was hooked,—an occupation that gave him much satisfaction.
Thus Viérotchka was left in peace; they looked into her eyes. This canine deference was detestable to her; she tried to be with her mother as little as possible. Her mother ceased to have the courage to enter her room, and when Viérotchka was sitting there, and this was the larger part of the day, she was not disturbed. Mikhaïl Ivanuitch was occasionally allowed to enter her room. He was as obedient to her as a child. She told him to read; he read with great energy, as though to get ready for an examination. He derived very little instruction from his reading, but still he got some good from it. She tried to help him shine in conversation. Conversations came easier to him than books; and he made some progress, very slow, very trifling, but all the same he progressed. He began to treat his mother with more respect than before; began to prefer keeping her under the bridle than on the hook.
Thus passed three or four months. There was a reconciliation, there was peace; but every day a storm threatened, and Viérotchka's heart was dying within her at the horrible anticipation,—if not to-day, then to-morrow Mikhaïl Ivanuitch or Marya Alekséyevna would demand of her the answer. They will not wait a whole century.
If I were to want to make an effective collision, I should give to this situation a crackling conclusion; but such did not occur. If I wanted to allure by uncertainty, I should not say now that nothing of the kind happened; but I am writing without any subterfuges, and I therefore will anticipate and say there will be no crackling collision; the situation will be untied without storms, without thunder or lightning.
PART SECOND.
FIRST LOVE, AND LEGAL MARRIAGE.
I.
It is well known how situations like the above would end in former times: a fine young girl, belonging to a low family, an insignificant man who is to become her husband under compulsion, who is detestable to her, who when left to himself, being already a mean man, would constantly grow meaner, but joined to her, comes under her influence, and little by little begins to resemble a man, of no especial account, to be sure, not very good, but, on the other hand, not very bad. The girl at first declares that she will not marry him; but gradually getting accustomed to having him under her command, and being convinced that out of two such evils as such a husband and such a family as her own, the husband would be the less evil, makes her admirer happy. At first it is detestable to her when she finds that she can make her husband happy without loving him; but her husband is obedient,—"patience makes love,"—and she becomes an ordinary fine lady, that is, a women who, excellent naturally, gets reconciled to meanness, and living on the earth only vegetates (literally, obscures the heaven with smoke). Such used to be the way, in old times, with nice young girls, such used to be the way with nice young men, all of whom became excellent people, but lived on earth in such a way as to obscure the heaven. Such used to be the way in former times, because excellent people were very few; the harvest of them, apparently, was so small in old times that there was not one to a ten-acre lot,[1] and no one can live a century as a single man or a single woman without fading away! And thus they either used to fade away or reconcile themselves to meanness.
But nowadays it happens more and more frequently that things take a different turn: respectable people get acquainted with each other. Yes, and how can this help happening more and more often when the number of respectable people increases with every new year? And, in time, this will be a very ordinary occurrence, and, indeed, the time will come when nothing else will happen, because all people will be decent. Then it will be very good!
Good it was for Viérotchka also. Therefore, with her permission, I will relate to you the story of her life, since, so far as I know, she is one of the first women whose life was established in this good way. First occurrences have a historical interest. The first swallow is regarded with great interest by the natives of the North.
The occurrences by means of which Viérotchka's life began to improve were somewhat in this order: It was necessary to get Viérotchka's little brother ready for the gymnasium. Her father asked his colleagues if they knew of a cheap tutor. One of his colleagues recommended to him the medical student Lopukhóf.
Lopukhóf gave five or six lessons to his new pupil before he and Viérotchka met. He used to sit with Feódor in one room of the apartment, she in another, in her own room. It was getting time for the examinations at the medical school, and so he changed the lesson hours from morning till the evening, because in the morning he had to do his own studying, and when it came evening, he found the whole family at tea.
On the sofa were sitting his acquaintances,—the father, the mother of the pupil; behind the mother, on a chair, the pupil was sitting, and somewhat farther, a person whom he did not know, a tall, well-proportioned young girl, rather slender, with black hair,—"thick, handsome hair!"—with black eyes—"her eyes are handsome, yes, very handsome"—with the Southern type of face—"as though she were a Malo-Russian, or rather even a Caucasian type; that's nothing, a very handsome face, but somewhat reserved; but that's not Southern. Her health is good; there would not be as many of us doctors if people were like her. Yes, healthy red cheeks and a good broad chest, she'll never make the acquaintance of the stethoscope. When she enters society she will create a great effect. However, it does not interest me."
And she looked up at the tutor as he came in. The student was no longer young, a man of medium size or possibly taller than the average, with dark auburn hair, with regular and even handsome features, with a proud and courageous expression; "not bad-looking; he must be kind, but he's too solemn."
She did not add to her thoughts the epilogue, "it does not interest me," because it did not occur to her to ask herself whether she would be interested in him or not. Why should she be, when Feódor told her so much about him that she was weary of hearing? "He is kind, sister, but he is not sociable. And I told him, sister, that you were a beauty, and, sister, he said, 'What of that?' And I told him, sister, 'that everybody falls in love with pretty girls'; and he said, 'All stupid people fall in love'; and I said 'Don't you like them?' and he said, 'I have no time.' And, sister, I said to him, 'Don't you want to get acquainted with Viérotchka?' and he said, 'I have a good many acquaintances beside her.'"
All this Feódor rattled off immediately after the first lesson, and afterwards he kept saying much the same thing with various additions: "And I told him to-day, sister, that 'everybody looks at you whenever you go anywhere,' and, sister, he said, 'Well, that's good'; and I said to him, 'Don't you want to see her?' and he said, 'I shall have time enough to see her.'" And then again: "I told him, sister, 'what little hands you had,' and, sister, he said, 'You want to chatter; haven't you got anything better to chatter about?'"
And the tutor learned from Feódor everything that was worth knowing about his sister; he tried to stop Feódor's chattering about family affairs, but how can you stop a nine-year-old child from chattering to you about everything unless you threaten him? After he has said five words you succeed in stopping him, but then it is too late; because children begin without any preface, getting the very essence of the thing; and among all sorts of disclosures relating to his family affairs the tutor heard such disjointed sentences as these: "My sister is going to marry a rich man"; "and mámenka says that the bridegroom is a stupid"; "and how mámenka flatters him"; "and mámenka says, 'sister caught him cute'"; "and mámenka says, 'I am cute, but Viérotchka is cuter'"; "and mámenka says, 'we are going to fire the bridegroom's mother out of the house'"; and so forth.
Naturally, when the young people got such ideas of each other, they had no great desire to become acquainted. However, so far, we know only this much: that it was natural on Viérotchka's part; she had not reached that stage of development that she had any desire of "defeating savages," or of "taming such a bear"; nay, she was still far from it; she was glad that she was left in peace; she was like a crushed and tortured man, who has the good fortune to fall in such a way that the broken arm is undisturbed and the pain in the side is not felt, and who fears to move lest the pain in all his joints should return. Why should she care to form new acquaintances, and especially with young men?
Yes, such is Viérotchka. Nu! but he? He is like a savage, to judge him by Feódor's description, and his head is full of books and anatomical preparations, such as fill the soul of a medical student with the keenest delight and furnish him the richest pabulum. Or perhaps Feódor misrepresented him?
II.
No, Feódor did not misrepresent him; Lopukhóf was in fact a student whose head was full of books—what books we shall learn from Marya Alekséyevna's bibliographical investigations—and with anatomical preparations; for unless a man fills his head with anatomical preparations, he cannot become a professor, and that was Lopukhóf's ambition. But, as we see, if we depend upon Feódor's descriptions of Viérotchka made for Lopukhóf's benefit, Lopukhóf did not learn very accurately about her, and for the same reason we must correct Feódor's description of his teacher if we would know Lopukhóf better.
As regarded pecuniary matters Lopukhóf belonged to that very small minority of special medical students who are not supported by government, and yet who just escape starvation and freezing.[2] How and in what way the great majority of them live is known, of course, only to God, not to mortals. But our story does not intend to deal with people who are in need of victuals, and therefore it will devote only two or three words to the period in Lopukhóf's life when he suffered such hardships.
And it was not very long that he was in such a condition,—only three years, and even less. Before he entered the medical school he had plenty of food. His father, a meshchanín (commoner) of the town of Riazan, lived in the style of the meshchanín, comfortably; that is, his family had shchi (cabbage soup) and meat not on Sundays only, and even had tea every day. He was able to keep his son at the gymnasium after a fashion; but, after his son reached the age of fifteen, he made it easier for him by doing some teaching. The father's means were not sufficient for the support of his son in Petersburg; however, during the first two years Lopukhóf received from home the sum of thirty-five rubles a year, and he obtained almost as much more by copying papers as unattached clerk in one of the districts of the Vuiborgsky ward. It was only during this time that he was hard up; and that was his own fault. He was accepted as a governmental scholar, but he managed to quarrel with some one and was compelled to take to his own fodder. When he was in the third class, his affairs began to improve; the assistant district supervisor engaged him as a private tutor; then he found other pupils, and now for two years he has not been in need; for a year and more he has been living in one house, not in one, but in two different rooms; and that is proof that he is not poor. He has for a room-mate another student as lucky as himself. His name is Kirsánof. They are the closest friends. Both of them were used from early life to push their own way, without depending upon others, and in other respects there was a great resemblance between them; so that if one were to meet either of them separately, they would both seem like people of the same character; and when they were seen together, it was observable that though both of them were very reliable and honest people, Lopukhóf was rather more reserved, while his chum was more effusive. So far, we have seen only Lopukhóf; Kirsánof will appear later on. Apart from Kirsánof it may be remarked in regard to Lopukhóf exactly the same thing that we shall have to remark about Kirsánof. For instance, Lopukhóf was at the present time occupied more than with anything else with the question how to establish his life after his graduation, which would occur now in a few months, and the same is true of Kirsánof; and both hid the same plan for the future.
Lopukhóf knew for a certainty that he was going to be a surgeon in one of the army hospitals of Petersburg, and this is looked upon as a great piece of good fortune; and that he was going to get a professorship in the medical school. He had no desire to practise.
It is a very peculiar thing that during the past ten years there has appeared among some of the best of the medical students a resolution not to practise medicine after graduation, though that is the only way by which a medical man can gain a livelihood; at the first opportunity they give up medicine for some of its subsidiary sciences,—physiology, chemistry, or something of the sort. And every one of these young men knows that if they practised until they were thirty years old, they might gain a reputation; at thirty-five, a competency for life; and at forty-five, wealth.
But they argue in a different way: You see, don't you, that medicine is in such a state of infancy that one should not as yet try to cure, but to collect the materials; so that the doctors of the future may know how to cure. And here for the advantage of the well-beloved science—they are great hands to curse medicine; but, nevertheless, they are devoting all their energies for its advantage—they refuse riches, they refuse pleasure, for the sake of sitting in the hospitals, and they are making, don't you know, observations that are interesting to science: they cut up frogs; they dissect a hundred subjects every year; and at the first chance they establish chemical laboratories. With what severity they follow out this lofty resolution depends, of course, on the way in which their domestic life is established. If it is not necessary for those dependent upon them, they do not even begin to practise, and they are willing to live almost in poverty; but if their domestic circumstances compel them to do so, they practise, but only just so long as it is necessary to, for their family; that is, on a very limited scale, and they cure only those people who are really sick, and who can really be cured by the present pitiful state of the science; that is, the sick who bring them no advantage at all. To this class Lopukhóf and Kirsánof belonged. They expected to graduate this year, and they have announced that they will take, or, as they say at the medical school, "do," their examinations merely for the degree of M. D. They have both been hard at work on their medical theses, and they have made way with a huge quantity of frogs; both have adopted as a specialty the nervous system, and properly speaking they were working in co-operation; but for the formal dissertation the work was divided: one has gathered for his materials the facts that they both observed on one question, the other did the same thing for another.
However, it is now time to speak about Lopukhóf alone. There was a time when he drank too much; this happened when he was without tea, and sometimes even without boots. Such circumstances are extremely conducive to drinking, not only as regards willingness, but also possibility; to buy drink is cheaper than to buy food and clothes. But this habit of drinking arose from grief at intolerable poverty, and nothing more. Now, there was not to be found a man who led a sterner life, and not in regard to wine alone. In other days Lopukhóf had a good many love adventures: once, for example, it happened that he fell in love with a foreign ballet dancer. What was to be done? He thought the matter over, and went to call upon her.
"What do you want?"
"I was sent by Count So-and-so with a note." His student's uniform was easily mistaken by the servant to be that of a clerk or some officer's denshchik.
"Give me the note. Will you wait for an answer?"
"The count told me to wait." The servant returned in surprise.
"She bade me ask you in."
"Here he is! here he is! This is the man who shouts so loud for me that I can distinguish his voice from the green-room. How many times have you been carried off to the police station for such a demonstration in my honor?"
"Twice."
"That isn't much. Well, why are you here?"
"To see you!"
"Capital! What else?"
"I do not know. What would you like?"
"Well I know what I would like. I would like some breakfast. You see the things are on the table. Sit down with me." Another plate was placed on the table. She laughed at him; he laughed at himself. "He is young, not bad looking, not stupid, and besides it's a novelty. Why not have some fun out of him?" She fooled him about two weeks, and then she said, "Get thee hence."
"Well, that is just what I wanted to do, but I did not know how."
"Then we will part good friends?" They gave each other a parting kiss, and that was the end of it. But this was some time before, three years ago, and now it is two years since he has renounced all such follies.
Besides his comrades and two or three professors, who recognized in him a good worker in the cause of science, his only acquaintances were in the families where he gave lessons; but he did not know the families at all. He avoided familiarity as he would fire, and he held proudly aloof from all the members of these families, except the little boys and girls who were his pupils.
III.
And so Lopukhóf entered the room, saw the company sitting at the tea-table, and in their number was Viérotchka; nu! of course the company, including also Viérotchka, saw that the tutor entered the room. "Please take a seat," said Marya Alekséyevna.—Matrióna, bring another glass."
"If it is meant for me, then I thank you. I don't drink tea."
"Matrióna, no matter about the glass. (A well-bred young man!)—Why shouldn't you drink some? You ought to drink some!"
He looked at Marya Alekséyevna and at Viérotchka willingly, as it were; and maybe it was really willingly. Maybe he noticed that she slightly shrugged her shoulders. "And he must have seen that I blushed!"
"Thank you! I drink tea only at home."
"After all, he is not such a savage; he came in, and he bowed easily and gracefully." Such was the observation made at one end of the table.
"After all, if she is a trifle spoiled, then at least she blushes for her mother's meanness," was the observation at the other end of the table.
But Feódor soon finished his tea and went to take his lesson. The most important result of the evening was that Marya Alekséyevna formed a most favorable opinion of the tutor, because she saw that her sugarbowl would, in all probability, not suffer great loss by changing the hour of the lessons from morning to evening.
Two days later the teacher again found the family at table, and again he refused to take tea, and thus he absolutely calmed Marya Alekséyevna's fears. But this time he saw at the table a new face,—an officer, upon whom Marya Alekséyevna was assiduously fawning.
"Ah, the bridegroom!"
But the bridegroom, owing to the importance of his uniform and family, felt that it was incumbent upon him not simply to look at the tutor, but after looking at him, to measure him from head to foot with the impertinent steady stare which is adopted in fashionable society. But he had no sooner taken his measure than he began to feel that the tutor was likewise taking his measure, and, even worse, was looking straight into his eyes, and so keenly that instead of keeping up the stare the bridegroom said:—
"Your work must be hard, Monsieur Lopukhóf,—I mean your medical work."
"Yes, it is;" and he continues to look him straight in the eyes.
The bridegroom was conscious that he was fumbling with his left hand at the three upper buttons of his uniform, but he did not know the reason. Nu! when the awkwardness gets as far as the buttons, there is no other salvation than to make haste to drink his tea, and ask Marya Alekséyevna for some more.
"Your uniform, if I am not mistaken, belong to such and such a regiment?"
"Yes, I serve in that regiment," is Mikhaïl Ivanuitch's reply.
"Have you been long in the service?"
"Nine years."
"Did you begin in that regiment?"
"I did."
"Have you a company or not?"
"No, I have none as yet. (He cross-examines me as though I were a private!)"
"Do you expect to get one soon?"
"Not very soon."
"Hm!"
The tutor was satisfied, and ceased his examination, though he still looked straight into the imaginary private's eyes.
"And yet,—and yet," thinks Viérotchka; and what does she mean by "and yet"? Finally she makes up her mind what she means by "and yet." "And yet he conducts himself just as Serge did when he came with the kind Julie. How is he a savage? Why does he speak so strangely about girls? 'that pretty girls are loved only by stupid people?' And—and—" (why does she repeat "and"? At last she knows!) "and why didn't he want to know anything about me? why did he say that it was not interesting?"
"Viérotchka, will you play something on the piano for Mikhaïl Ivanuitch and I," said Marya Alekséyevna, when Viérotchka had set down her second cup.
"Certainly."
"And if you would sing something," adds Mikhaïl Ivanuitch, in a flattering tone.
"Certainly."
"This 'certainly' sounded as though she had said, 'I am ready to do anything to get rid of you,'" thinks the tutor. And now he had been sitting down with them fully five minutes; and though he had not been looking at her, yet he knows that she has not looked once at the bridegroom, except when she answered him just now. And even now she looks at him as though she were looking at her father and mother,—coolly, and without the least trace of affection. "There must be something quite different from what Feódor told me. However, more than anything else she must be in reality a proud, calculating girl, who wants to enter the upper ten in order to rule and shine. It is disagreeable to her that she cannot find a better bridegroom for that purpose. But, despising the bridegroom, she yet accepts his hand because there is no other hand to lead her where she wants to go. Well, after all, this is rather interesting."
"Feódor, hurry up and finish your tea," remarked the mother.
"Don't hurry him, Marya Alekséyevna; I want to listen, if Viéra Pavlovna will allow me."
Viérotchka picked up the first music that came to hand, without looking at what it was, opened it at haphazard, and began to play mechanically; no matter, only so as to get done with it the sooner. But the piece happened to be of a good order; it was from an excellent opera, and soon the girl's playing grew animated. After she was done she started to get up.
"But you promised to sing, Viéra Pavlovna; if I were there, I would ask you to sing something from Rigoletto." (This winter "La donna é mobile" was the fashionable aria.)
"If you like."
Viérotchka sang "La donna é mobile"; then she got up and went to her room.
"No, she is not a heartless, cold girl without any soul; this is interesting."
"Isn't that good?" asked Mikhaïl Ivanuitch, in a simple voice, without this time taking the tutor's measure. ("There is no need of being in strained relations with people who can examine privates. Why not speak without any pretentiousness so as not to get his ill will?")
"Yes, very good."
"Do you understand music?"
"Just a little."
"Are you a musician?"
"Somewhat."
Marya Alekséyevna overheard this talk, and a happy thought struck her.
"What do you play on, Dmitri Sergéitch?" she asked.
"The piano."
"May we ask you to give us a tune?"
"Very willingly."
He played a certain piece. He played passably—not badly at all.
After he had finished the lesson, Marya Alekséyevna came to him and said that they were going to have a little party the next evening; that it was her daughter's birthday, and asked him to come round.
Of course, there is always a dearth of young men, according to the style of all such parties; but no matter. He looked closer at the girl: with her or about her there is something interesting.
"I thank you heartily."
But the tutor was mistaken; Mary Alekséyevna had something more important in view than in finding a partner for her dancing girls.
Reader, you of course have anticipated that on this evening some explanation would take place; that Viérotchka and Lopukhóf will fall in love with each other?
Of course they will!
IV.
Marya Alekséyevna wanted to give a great party on Viérotchka's birthday, but Viérotchka begged to have no guests invited: the one wanted to show off the bridegroom; the other found such an exhibition distasteful. They compromised by having the smallest possible party, inviting only a few of their most intimate friends. They invited Pavel Konstantinuitch's colleagues,—those, of course, who had been longer in the service and were higher in position than himself,—two of Marya Alekséyevna's friends, three young girls who were more intimate with Viérotchka than any others.
As Lopukhóf looked over the assembling guests, he noticed that there was no lack of partners (kavalyer); every one of the young girls had a young man, either as candidate for bridegroom or bridegroom already. Therefore Lopukhóf was not invited in the capacity of a partner; why, then? As he thought the matter over he remembered that his playing on the piano preceded his invitation. Of course he was invited so as to save expense—to take the place of an accompanist (tapper). "All right," he thought. "Excuse me, Marya Alekséyevna," and he went to Pavel Konstantinuitch.
"How now, Pavel Konstantinuitch; it's time to have a game of cards. You see it's rather tiresome for us old people!"
"What do you want to play?"
"Anything."
Soon a party was made up, and Lopukhóf sat down to play. The medical school on Vuiborgskaïa Street is a classical establishment for card-playing. It is not a rare occurrence in some of the rooms—that is, in the governmental students' apartments—for a game of cards to be kept up for a day and a half without stopping. It must be admitted that the sums that change hands at the students' card-tables are much smaller than those at the English Club; but the standard of the gamester's art is much higher. Even Lopukhóf used to play a great deal in his day; that is, when he had no money.
"Mesdames, what shall we do? We must play by cutting in, that's a fact; but there'll be only seven of us left. Either a gentleman or a lady will be lacking for the quadrille."
The first rubber was drawing to an end, when one of the girls, the liveliest of all, came flying up to Lopukhóf:—
"Monsieur Lopukhóf, you must dance."
"On one condition," he said, rising and bowing.
"What?"
"That you give me the first quadrille."
"Akh! Bozhe moï! I am engaged for the first one! You are welcome to the next, though."
Lopukhóf again made a profound bow. Two of the gentlemen took their turn in cutting in. At the third quadrille Lopukhóf asked Viérotchka. The first she had danced with Mikhaïl Ivanuitch; the second he danced with the lively girl.
Lopukhóf had been watching Viérotchka, and was now absolutely convinced of the mistake in his former idea of her being a heartless girl, coolly marrying for money a man whom she despised. He saw before him an ordinary young girl, who dances and laughs with her whole soul. Yes, to Viérotchka's shame be it said that she was an ordinary girl who loved to dance. At first she set her face firmly against the party; but when the party was arranged—small, without any show, and consequently not a trial to her—even she, in a way that she would never have believed, forgot her melancholy. At her time of life one does not like to lie melancholy; but liveliness and gayety are so natural that the least chance of self-forgetfulness brings also, for a time, forgetfulness of sorrow. Lopukhóf was now inclined in her favor, but as yet there were a good many things not clear to him.
He was getting interested in Viérotchka's anomalous position.
"Monsieur Lopukhóf, I never expected to see you dancing," she began.
"Why not? Is it so hard to dance?"
"For most people certainly it is not; but for you, why—yes—of course it is."
"Why for me?"
"Because I know your secret—yours and Feódor's; you despise women!"
"Feódor did not in the least understand my secret. I don't despise women, but I avoid them; and do you know why? I have a bride,—a very jealous one,—who, in order to compel me to avoid them, told me their secret."
"You have a bride?"
"Yes!"
"How surprising! A student, and already engaged! Is she pretty? Are you in love with her?"
"Yes, she is a beauty, and I love her very dearly."
"Is she a brunetka or a blondinka?"
"I cannot tell you that; it is a secret!"
"Well, God be with her, if it is a secret! But what was the secret about women that she revealed to you that makes you avoid their society'?"
"She saw that I did not like to be in a melancholy state of mind, and she whispered in my ear such a secret about them, that I cannot see a woman without getting into a melancholy mood, and so I avoid women."
"You cannot see a woman without getting into a melancholy mood? At all events, you are a master in the art of making compliments."
"What else can I say? To pity is the same thing as being in a melancholy state of mind."
"Do we need pity so much as all that?"
"Yes; aren't you a woman? I have only to repeat to you your dearest wish, and you will agree with me. It is the universal desire of all women."
"Do tell me, tell me!"
"It is this: 'Akh! how I should like to be a man!' I never met a woman who did not secretly wish this with all her heart. And in the majority of cases, it is not necessary to search for it; it is expressed spontaneously without any need of drawing it out. If a woman has any trouble whatsoever, you will soon hear something like this: 'We are poor miserable creatures, we women!' or, 'Men are so different from women!' or even without any circumlocution, 'Akh! why was I not a man?'"
Viérotchka smiled. "True; every woman has said that."
"And now you see how women are to be pitied; for if their dearest wish were to be fulfilled, there would not be any women in the world!"
"Yes, it seems as if it were so," said Viérotchka.
"It is exactly the same way; if the eager desires of every poor man were fulfilled, there would not be a single poor man in the world. Don't you see how pitiable women are? They are just as much to be pitied as the poor are. Who likes to see poor people? Just the same way, it is painful for me to see women since I have learned their secret. And it was revealed to me by my jealous bride on the very day of our engagement. Till that time I was very fond of being in the society of women. After that, it was snatched away from me. My bride cured me."
"Your bride must be a kind and sensible young lady; yes, we women are pitiable creatures, we are poor," said Viérotchka; "but who is your bride? You speak so mysteriously!"
"That is one of my secrets which Feódor does not tell you. I entirely share the wish of the poor that there should not be any in existence, and some time this wish is going to be realized; sooner or later we shall be able to lay out our lives in such a way that there'll be no poor; but—"
"What, no more poor?" interrupted Viérotchka. "I myself have thought that the time might come when there would not be any more poverty; but how it would come about I could not tell; tell me how!"
"I myself cannot tell this; only my bride can tell. I am alone here. I can only say this much: that she is looking out for that, and she is very strong; she is stronger than any one else in the world. But let us not talk about her, but about women. I perfectly agree with the wish of the poor that there should not be any more poor, and my bride is going to bring this about. But I do not agree with the wish of women that there shouldn't be more women in the world, because this wish cannot be realized; and I never agree with what cannot be realized. But I have a different kind of a wish: I should like all women to get acquainted with my bride; she takes as much care of them as she does of everything else. If they would make friends with her, I should have no reason to pity them and their wish 'Akh, why wasn't I born a man!' would vanish; for if women get acquainted with her, then they would not be worse off than men are."
"Monsieur Lopukhóf! one more quadrille, without fail!"
"I shall be very much pleased." He pressed her hand as calmly and gravely as though he were an old friend, or she his comrade. "Which one?"
"The last one."
"Very well."
Marya Alekséyevna several times passed near them while they were dancing the quadrille.
What would Marya Alekséyevna have thought had she heard this conversation? We who have heard every word of it from beginning to end, all of us will say that such a conversation during a quadrille is very unnatural.
The last quadrille came.
"We spoke all the time about myself," said Lopukhóf; "and that is very bad manners on my part, to be speaking all the time about myself. Now I want to make up for my impoliteness by speaking about you, Viéra Pavlovna. Did you know that I had a far worse opinion of you than you did of me. And now—well, we'll speak about this afterwards. Now first of all, there is one question that I cannot answer; please answer it for me. Will your marriage take place soon?"
"Never!"
"I thought so, for the last three hours,—ever since I left the card-table to come in here. But why is he considered to be your bridegroom?"
"Why is he considered to be my bridegroom? why, indeed? There's one reason I cannot tell you; it is too hard for me: but there's another I can. I pity him; he loves me so! You will say, 'I must tell him frankly what I think about our marriage'; I did tell him, but he replied, 'Don't speak; it kills me; be silent.'"
"That is the second reason; but the first one which you find hard to tell me, I can tell you; it's because your position in your family is terrible."
"At the present time it is tolerable. Now no one torments me; they are waiting for me to decide and they leave me almost entirely alone."
"But this may not last very long; they will begin to bring pressure upon you; what then?"
"Nothing. I have thought about it and made up my mind what to do; I shall not stay here any longer; I can be an actress. What an enviable life it is! Liberty! Liberty!"
"And applause."
"Yes; that's also pleasant, but the main thing is liberty; to do what I please; to live as I please, not asking anybody for anything, not be dependent on anybody; that's the way I want to live!"
"That is true, that is good! Now I want to ask you something: I will find out how this can be done, to whom application must be made—shall I?"
"Thank you." Viérotchka pressed his hand. "Do it very soon; I want to tear myself away as quick as I can from this miserable, intolerable, and degrading situation. I say, 'I am calm, I can bear it,' but is it so in reality? don't I see what is done with my good name? don't I know what all those who are here think of me? They say, 'She's a schemer, she's cunning, she wants to be rich, she wants to get into fine society, to shine; she will keep her husband under the shoe, twist him around her little finger, deceive him.' Don't I know that they think this about me? I don't want to live so, no indeed!" Suddenly she fell into deep thought, "Don't laugh because I said, 'I pity him—he loves me so.'"
"Does he love you? does he look at you the same way that I do or not? has he such a look?"
"Your eyes are frank, honest. No; your look does not offend me."
"You see, Viéra Pavlovna, it is because—but no matter. Does he look so?"
Viérotchka blushed and made no reply.
"Then he does not love you. That is not love, Viéra Pavlovna."
"But—" Viérotchka did not finish her sentence, but stopped.
"You were going to say, 'What is it, then, if it is not love?' Let that go; but you yourself say that is not love. Whom do you love best of all? I am not speaking of this kind of love—but of your relations, your friends."
"It seems to me, no one in particular, none of them very much; but no, not long ago, I met a very peculiar woman. She spoke very badly to me, called herself very hard names; she forbade me to keep up my acquaintance with her; we met in a very extraordinary way; she said that if ever I found myself in such need that I was in danger of dying, then only I might come to her, but not otherwise; I loved her very much."
"Would you want her to do anything for you that would be disagreeable or injurious for her?"
Viérotchka smiled. "But how could it be so?"
"But no; now imagine that you were very, very much in need of her help, and that she said to you, 'If I do this for you, it would torment me,' would you repeat your request, would you insist on it?"
"I would sooner die."
"Now you just told me that you loved her. But this love is only feeling, not a passion. And what is love—passion! and how can you distinguish passion from simple feeling?—by its strength. Consequently, if when one is moved by simple feeling, which is weak, very weak compared to passion, love places you in such relations to a man that you say, 'I would rather die than be the cause of torment to him.' If a simple feeling speaks so, what will passion say which is a thousand-fold stronger? It will say, 'I will sooner die than—not ask, not demand—but even admit that any man should do anything for me except what is agreeable to himself; I would sooner die than admit the possibility of his doing anything for my sake under compulsion or at inconvenience to himself.' Such a passion, speaking this way, is love. But passion that speaks otherwise is passion and not love. I am going home now; I have told you everything, Viéra Pavlovna."
Viérotchka pressed his hand. "Au revoir,[3] but why don't you congratulate me? to-day is my birthday."
Lopukhóf looked at her. "Maybe, maybe! if you have not made this mistake, then I am glad."
V.
"How soon this came, how unexpected," thinks Viérotchka alone in her room at the close of the evening. "We spoke for the first time, and yet we became such good friends; half an hour before not to know each other, and in an hour's time to become such good friends, how strange!"
No; it is not strange at all, Viérotchka. People like Lopukhóf have magical words, which attract to them every abused and persecuted creature. It is their "bride" that whispers such words into their ears. But here is something that is indeed strange, Viérotchka,—but not for you and me,—that you are so calm. Here people think that love is an exciting feeling, and you will fall asleep as gently as a child, and you will be neither frightened nor disturbed by dreams; you may dream of happy childish games, forfeits, tag, or maybe dances, also gay and unconcerned. It seems strange to some people, but you do not know that it is strange, and I know that it is not strange. Agitation in love does not point to love; agitation in it is something that should not exist, for love in itself is joyous and unconcerned.
"How strange this is," thinks Viérotchka; "here I myself, again and again have thought and felt all that he said about the poor and about women and how one should love. Where could I have got my ideas, or was it in the books which I have read? No; there is nothing of the sort there. What I found in books was either doubts or reservations, and everything like this seemed extraordinary, incredible, like ideals that are good but are impossible to be realized; and all this seems to me so simple, simpler than anything else, a perfectly ordinary thing, it cannot help being, it must be so, surely, more surely than anything else. And I used to think that those were the best books. Now here is George Sand—such a good and noble woman!—and yet, she thinks that these ideas are only visionary. And our own writers—but no; our writers have nothing of the kind at all. Or take Dickens; he has something of the sort, but it seems as though he did not hope for it at all, as though he only wished that it might be, for he is kind-hearted, but he is sure that it cannot be. But how is it that they don't know that this cannot help being, that this state of things must actually come about, that it will be accomplished without fail, that no one will be poor or unfortunate? But don't they say this? No; they only feel pity, but they think that in reality things will remain as they are at present, possibly a trifle better, but not much. And these thoughts of mine—they don't express them; if they did, I should have known that kind and sensible people also think so. But here I have been imagining that it is only I who had such thoughts; it's because I am a dull young girl. How absurd to think that besides my stupid self no one has had such thoughts, that no one else expects this new order of things. But he says that his 'bride' explains to every one who loves her that all these things will come about as it seems to me they will, and she explains it to them so plainly that all of them have begun to strive to have it realized as soon as possible. What a sensible 'bride' he has! but who is she? I must find out, surely I shall find out! Yes; it will be a good thing when there shall be no more poor; people won't oppress each other then; all will be joyous, kind, and happy!"
And hereupon Viérotchka fell asleep, and slept soundly, and saw nothing in her dreams.
No, Viérotchka, it is not strange that you have thought over and taken all this to heart; you who are a simple-hearted young girl, and have not even heard the names of those men who have begun to teach this and prove that this must be so, that this must come about without fail, that this cannot help being; it is not strange that you have understood and taken to heart the thoughts which your books have failed to present plainly to you. Your books were written by men who were only beginning to learn these ideas when they were only ideas; these ideas seemed wonderful and fascinating and—nothing more. Now, Viérotchka, these ideas are plainly seen to be realizable; and other books are written by other people, who find that these ideas are excellent, that there is nothing wonderful in them; and, Viérotchka, these ideas are floating in the air like a perfume from the fields in flower-time; they penetrate everywhere; you have heard them even from your tipsy mother, who told you that it was necessary to live and why it was necessary to live by deceit and theft; she wanted to speak against your ideas, but she herself gave them greater development; you heard them from the cynical, ruined French girl, who drags her lover after her like a chambermaid, does whatever she pleases with him, yet as soon as she comes to her senses, she finds that she has no will of her own, that she must please, compel herself—though it is very hard for her—and yet, it would seem, would it not, that her life with the kind, refined, and complaisant Sergei is easy and pleasant? and yet she says: "Even for me, bad woman as I am, such relations are detestable." Nowadays it is not difficult to adopt such ideas as you have. But others do not take them to heart as you have. This is good, but there is nothing strange about it. Is there anything strange in the fact that you want to be free and happy? Now such a desire—God knows what a head-splitting discovery this is; God knows what a step forward it is towards heroism!
But here is something strange, Viérotchka, that there are some people who have no such desire, who have other desires, and it may probably seem strange to such people that on the first evening of your love, you fell asleep with such thoughts; that from the thought of yourself, of your sweetheart, of your love, you turned to the thoughts that all people must be happy, and that it is necessary to bring about its accomplishment as soon as possible. And do you not know that it is strange, and I do know that it is not strange, that it is both natural and human. "I feel joy and happiness; consequently, I want all people to feel joyful and happy." But humanely speaking, both thoughts are the same. You are a good girl; you are not a stupid girl; but excuse me if I do not find anything wonderful in you; maybe half the girls whom I have known and whom I know, and maybe more than half—I have not counted them; they are too many to count—are not worse than you, and some of them are even better. Excuse me.
It seems to Lopukhóf that you are a wonderful girl. So it is; but it is not wonderful that it seems to him so, because he has fallen in love with you! And there is nothing wonderful in the fact that he loves you; it is quite possible to love you; and if he loves you, then it must seem to him that you are wonderful.
VI.
During the time of the first quadrille Marya Alekséyevna was continually dogging her daughter and the tutor; but during the second quadrille she did not show herself near them, but was busy in her capacity as hostess in the preparation of the supper. After her preparations were made she asked for the tutor, but the tutor was gone.
Two days later the tutor came to give his lesson. The samovar (tea-urn) was placed on the table, and Matrióna came to call Feódor. While he was giving the boy his lesson, he was interrupted by Marya Alekséyevna entering the room. The tutor preferred to remain in his place, because it was not his custom to drink tea with them, and besides, he was going to look over Feódor's copy-book; but Marya Alekséyevna asked him to come in because she wanted to have a talk with him; so he went and sat down at the tea-table.
Marya Alekséyevna began to ask him about Feódor's capacity, about the best gymnasium for him, and whether it would not be better to place the boy in the gymnasium boarding-house. These questions were very natural, but were they not made too soon? During this conversation she so sincerely and politely begged the tutor to take tea with them, that Lopukhóf concluded to break his rule; he took the glass. Viérotchka did not make her appearance for some time. At last she came in; she and the tutor bowed to each other as though there were nothing between them, and Marya Alekséyevna continued to speak about Feódor; then abruptly she turned the conversation to the tutor himself. She asked him who he was, what he was, what relations he had, whether they were rich, how he lived, and how he intended to live. The tutor answered laconically and indefinitely, that he had relatives, that they lived in the provinces, that they were not very well-to-do, that he supported himself by giving lessons, that he intended to practise medicine in Petersburg; in a word, Marya Alekséyevna gained very little information from what he said. Determining to break through his reserve, Marya Alekséyevna went at the matter more directly.
"Now you say that you intend to practise medicine here, and, thank God, the city doctors are able to make a living! Have you thought yet of setting up a family?—I mean, have you found a girl yet?"
What does she mean? The tutor had almost forgotten about his ideal bride, and he had it on his lips to say, "I have no one in view as yet"; but he suddenly remembered. Akh! of course she overheard! It put him into a ridiculous dilemma. What a piece of work I made of it! Why did I make up such an allegory when it wasn't in the least necessary? Nu vot! go to! they say that it's dangerous to take part in a propaganda; now here, how my propaganda influenced Viéra Pavlovna, though her heart is pure and disposed to no ill. Nu! she must have overheard and understood; but what business is that of mine? "Yes, I have a girl in view!"
"Are you engaged to her yet?"
"I am."
"Are you formally engaged, or is it only a tacit understanding between you?"
"We are formally engaged."
Poor Marya Alekséyevna! She had caught the words, "my bride,"' "your bride," "I love her very much," "she is a beauty," and her solicitude lest the tutor were flirting with her daughter was allayed; and so during the second quadrille she was able entirely to put her mind on the care of preparing the supper. But she wanted to hear the details of this reassuring story more circumstantially and particularly. She kept on with her cross-examination. All people like such reassuring conversation; at all events it satisfies curiosity, and one likes to know everything. The tutor gave satisfactory answers, though, according to his wont, they were very brief.
"Is your bride pretty?"
"Uncommonly."
"Has she a dowry?"
"A very large one."
"How large?"
"Very large!"
"As much as a hundred thousand?"
"Much more than that."
"How much more?"
"There's no use telling that; it is large enough."
"In cash?"
"Some of it in money."
"Some of it in estates also?"
"Yes; there's landed property."
"Soon?"
"Soon."
"You mean you are going to be married soon?"
"Yes."
"That is right, Dmitri Sergéitch; get married before she comes into her property, and so get rid of the crowd of men that'll be after her money."
"Perfectly right."
"How it is that God sent you such good luck, while other men have no such luck at all?"
"It's so; but almost nobody knows that she is such an heiress."
"And you found out?"
"I did."
"How was it you did?"
"To tell the truth, I had long been on the lookout for such a chance, and at last I found it."
"And you haven't made any mistake?"
"Certainly not; I've seen the documents."
"Seen 'em yourself?"
"I, myself. That was the first step I took."
"Was that the way you set about it?"
"Of course; a man who is in his right mind does not take any risks without proofs."
"That's true, Dmitri Sergéitch; no one does. What good luck! It must have been in answer to your parents' prayers."
"It must be so."
Marya Alekséyevna had taken a fancy to the tutor from the time when she found that he did not drink up her tea. It was apparent from everything that he was at man of solid character, with a firm basis of sense; he had little to say,—so much the better, he was not empty-headed, and whatever he said was to the point,—especially in regard to money; but since the evening of the party, she saw that the tutor was a God-send, on account of his absolute disinclination to flirt with the girls in the families where he gave lessons. Such an absolute disinclination can rarely be found among young men. But now she was at the height of her satisfaction with him. "Indeed, what a splendid man he is! And he had never boasted that he was going to marry a rich bride; it was necessary to draw out every word with pincers! And what keen scent he had! Apparently, he must have made up his mind long ago that he would find a rich bride; and how he must have flattered her. Nu! this young man, I may say, knows how to manage his affairs. And he set to work by getting hold of the documents. How sensibly he talks about it! he says that no one in his right mind can do such things without documents. He's a young man of rare good sense."
Viérotchka could hardly restrain herself from smiling too frankly; but gradually it seemed to her—but how did it seem to her? No; it can't be so! Yes; it must be! he must be speaking, not to Marya Alekséyevna, though he answers her questions, but to her, Viérotchka; that he is making fun of Marya Alekséyevna; that the seriousness and the truth which underlies what he says is meant only for her, Viérotchka.
Whether it only seemed so to Viérotchka, or whether it was really so, who can say? He knew, and she afterwards found out. But for the rest of us, perhaps there is no need of knowing; for we want only facts. And the fact was that Viérotchka, as she listened to Lopukhóf, at first smiled, but afterwards became serious, and imagined that he was speaking, not with Marya Alekséyevna, but with her, not in jest, but in earnest; and Marya Alekséyevna, who had taken in solemn earnest all that Lopukhóf said from the beginning, turned to Viérotchka, and said:—
"Viérotchka, my dear, what's become of your thoughts?[4] You are acquainted now with Dmitri Sergéitch; you'd better ask him to play your accompaniment for you, and give us a song."
By this she meant to intimate: "We have great respect for you, Dmitri Sergéitch, and we want you to be a good friend in our family. And you, Viérotchka, don't be coy to Dmitri Sergéitch; I am going to tell Mikhaïl Ivanuitch that he's got a bride of his own, and Mikhaïl Ivanuitch will not be jealous of him."
This was what was meant to be understood by Viérotchka and Dmitri Sergéitch; he was now in Marya Alekséyevna's thoughts not the tutor but Dmitri Sergéitch. But for Marya Alekséyevna herself, these words had a third interpretation which was very natural and real: "We must flatter him a little; his acquaintance may be of some use to us by and by when he gets to be rich, the rascal." This was the general signification of Marya Alekséyevna's word for herself; but beside the general signification there was also a special thought: "When I have flattered him a little, I will tell him that we are poor people; that it is hard for me to pay him a silver ruble a lesson."
So many different meanings were in Marya Alekséyevna's words! Dmitri Sergéitch said that he would finish his lesson first, and then it would give him pleasure to play on the piano.
VII.
Marya Alekséyevna's words had many interpretations, and they were not less fecund in results. On the side of the special signification,—that is, as regarded the reduction in the price of the lessons,—Marya Alekséyevna attained greater success than she anticipated: when, after two more lessons, she insinuated that they were poor people, Dmitri Sergéitch at first stuck to his price,—stuck to it strenuously; for a long time he did not yield,—long insisted on his three paper rubles. (It must be remembered that at this time the three-ruble note was worth only seventy kopeks.) Marya Alekséyevna did not expect to beat down his price, but, contrary to all her expectations, succeeded in reducing the price to sixty kopeks a lesson. Apparently the special signification of her words—the hope of beating down the price—contradicted her high opinion of Dmitri Sergéitch (not of Lopukhóf, but of Dmitri Sergéitch) as of a man shrewd in money matters. "What would make a man, who is a keen financier, give in about money on account of our poverty?" And if Dmitri Sergéitch did yield, then, consequently, one would be disappointed in him, and find in him a short-sighted man, and therefore a man to be avoided. Of course she would judge that way in the case of a stranger; but human beings are so created that it is hard for them to judge of their own affairs according to the general rule. A man is extremely apt to make exceptions in his own favor.[5] What can be done with this peculiarity of the human heart? It is bad; it is injurious; but Marya Alekséyevna was unfortunately not exempted from this fault, which is the almost universal affliction of the penurious, of the sneaks, and of the wicked. There is salvation from it in only two extreme and opposite kinds of moral right. A man may reach such a lofty plane of transcendental rascality that he becomes the eighth wonder of the world for his virtuosity in crime, like Ali Pasha Yaninska, Djezzar Pasha of Syria, Mahomet Ali of Egypt, all of whom deceived the European diplomats (and Djezzar deceived Napoleon the Great) as though they were children. When rascality has enclosed a man around with such an absolutely impregnable armor, that it is absolutely impossible to reach any human weakness, ambition, love of honors, love of command, love of self, or anything else, he is safe; but such heroes of rascality are very rare; you can scarcely find them in the countries of Europe, where virtuosity in wickedness is destroyed by a good many weak points. Therefore, if they show you a wily fellow, and say, "This fellow cannot be deceived by any one," boldly put up ten rubles against one that you, although not so wily, will mislead this wily fellow, if you only make up you mind to do so; and still more boldly put up one hundred rubles against one that he himself is leading himself by the nose in some direction or other, because it is the most ordinary and characteristic feature in the wily to be led in some direction or other by the nose. How artful in all appearance were Louis Philippe and Metternich, and how nicely they led themselves by the nose out of Paris and Vienna, into golden and lovely places of bucolic calmness, and enjoyed the picture of "Makar driving his calves."[6]
And Napoleon the First! what a wily rascal he was; wilier than Louis Philippe and Metternich taken together, and yet they say that with all his wiliness he had a genial temper. And thus how masterly he led himself by the nose to Elba; nay, he even wanted to go further, and dragged himself by the nose to St. Helena! How unlikely it seemed at first,—almost impossible; but he succeeded at last in overthrowing all the obstacles in the way of reaching the island of St. Helena. Just read over the history of the campaign of 1815, and you will see with what energy and skill he dragged himself by the nose. Alas! and even Marya Alekséyevna was not exempted from this injurious tendency!
There are few people for whom the armor against temptation serves as an absolute protection from the deception of others. But on the other hand, there are a good many people for whom simple honesty of heart serves as a protection against such deception. According to the testimony of Vidocqs and Johnnie Cains, there is nothing harder than to deceive an honest, sincere man, if he has some common sense and knowledge of the world. Bright, honest men, who have their wits about them, are not liable to temptation individually. But they have in one respect a weakness that is injurious: when taken all together they are subject to deception. A rascal is not able to lead any one of them by the nose, but the noses of them taken collectively are always ready for use. But the rascals, whose noses individually are weak, cannot be led by the nose. In this consists the whole mystery of the history of the world.
But to branch off into the history of the world is not necessary. When you are writing a novel go ahead with your novel!
The first result of Marya Alekséyevna's words was the cheapening of the lessons. The second result was that by getting the tutor cheaper, that is, not the tutor, but Dmitri Sergéitch, Marya Alekséyevna was still more confirmed in her good opinion of him as a man of solidity. She even came to the conviction that conversation with him would be profitable for Viérotchka; his influence will dispose Viérotchka to marry Mikhaïl Ivanuitch. This conclusion was extremely brilliant, and Marya Alekséyevna would probably not have reached it by her own wit, but she met with such plain proof that she could not help noticing Dmitri Sergéitch's good influence over Viérotchka. How this was proved to her we shall soon see.
The third result of Marya Alekséyevna's words was that Viérotchka and Dmitri Sergéitch began under her encouragement and permission to spend considerable time together. After he had finished giving his lessons, towards eight o'clock, Lopukhóf used to stay for two or three hours longer at the Rozalskys. He played cards with the mother of the family and the bridegroom; he talked with them; he played on the piano, and Viérotchka would sing; or Viérotchka played, and he would listen. Sometimes he spoke with Viérotchka, and Marya Alekséyevna did not interfere, was not angry, although, of course, she did not leave them without her supervision.
Oh, of course, she did not leave them absolutely to themselves; because, although Dmitri Sergéitch was a very proper young man, still the proverb does not say in vain, "Don't hide things carelessly, and you won't lead a thief into sin." Dmitri Sergéitch is a thief, there is no doubt about it; but it is not said by way of blame, but on the contrary; otherwise, there wouldn't be any reason for respecting him and making him a friend of the family, would there? Is there any sense of making the acquaintance of fools? Of course it is well to make the acquaintance of fools sometimes—when you can take advantage of them. But Dmitri Sergéitch has nothing to his name as yet; it must be, therefore, that they are friendly with him only because of his good qualities; that is, for his sense, solidity, prudence, and skill in managing his own affairs. And if every one has—the deuce knows what—in his mind, then such a clever man must have more than others. Consequently we must look and look at Dmitri Sergéitch.
And Marya Alekséyevna studied him very industriously and energetically; but all her observations only corroborated her opinion of Dmitri Sergéitch's solidity and good character. For instance, how can one tell amorous intentions? By noticing the way in which a young man looks at a girl. Here Viérotchka is playing and Dmitri Sergéitch is standing and listening, and Marya Alekséyevna is watching the direction in which he turns his eyes. But sometimes he does not even look at Viérotchka; he looks anywhere else; or sometimes, when he is looking at her, he looks so innocently, so indifferently into her face, that it can quickly be seen that he is looking at her only out of politeness and is thinking of his bride's dowry. His eyes do not burn like Mikhaïl Ivanuitch's! Again, how can the existence of love be detected? By caressing words. But in this case no caressing words are heard, and they really speak very little together; he talks by preference with Marya Alekséyevna, or, here for instance, he began to bring Viérotchka books. Once Viérotchka went to see a friend, and Mikhaïl Ivanuitch was at the Rozalskys'. Marya Alekséyevna took the books that the tutor brought and handed them to Mikhaïl Ivanuitch.
"Just look here, Mikhaïl Ivanuitch. This French I almost understand by myself. This word gostinaïa [meaning drawing-room], of course, it must be a book about manners, ain't it? but the German one I don't understand."
"No, Marya Alekséyevna, that word is not gostinaïa, but destinée, fate."
"What kind of a fate? Is it a novel that's called so, or is it a sort of oracle or fortune book."
"We will quickly find out, Marya Alekséyevna, from the book itself."
Mikhaïl Ivanuitch turned several of the leaves.
"It seems to speak mostly about series and things; I guess it is a scientific book."
"About serious things? That is good!"
"No, series."
"What! series? Oh yes, banknotes. Then it's something about managing money!"
"Yes, that's it, Marya Alekséyevna."
"Nu! what's the German one?"
Mikhaïl Ivanuitch read slowly:—
"'Concerning Religion; works of Ludwig.' Oh, yes, Ludwig the Fourteenth, Marya Alekséyevna; this is the work of Louis XIV. He was a French king, Marya Alekséyevna, the father of the king in whose place Napoleon is reigning now."
"Then it must be a theological work?"
"Yes, I think so."
"That is good, Mikhaïl Ivanuitch; yes, indeed, I knew it! Dmitri Sergéitch is a reliable young man; still one must keep his eyes sharp on any young man."
"Of course he has no bad intentions in his mind, but, for all that, I am extremely grateful to you, Marya Alekséyevna, for keeping your eyes open."
"One's got to do so; I am on the watch, Mikhaïl Ivanuitch; it's a mother's duty to keep her daughter straight, and I pledge you my honor as far as Viérotchka is concerned. But there's one thing occurs to me, Mikhaïl Ivanuitch. "What belief did that French king hold?"
"Catholic, naturally!"
"Then, don't he try to convert folks into the papistry?"
"I don't think so, Marya Alekséyevna; if he had been a Catholic bishop, then, of course, he would have tried to make converts; but a king would not spend his time that way. As a wise ruler and politician he'd simply teach virtue."
"What else?"
Marya Alekséyevna could not help seeing that Mikhaïl Ivanuitch, with all his narrow mind, argued the case very skilfully; but for all that she cleared up the matter with perfect satisfaction. Two or three days later she suddenly said to Lopukhóf, while playing with him rather than with Mikhaïl Ivanuitch:—
"Tell me, Dmitri Sergéitch; I want to ask you something. The father of the last French king, the very man in whose shoes the present Napoleon is reigning, did he make folks git converted into the religion of the Pope?"
"No, he did not, Marya Alekséyevna."
"Is the Pope's religion good, Dmitri Sergéitch?"
"No, it is not, Marya Alekséyevna. I play seven of diamonds."
"I just asked out of curiosity, Dmitri Sergéitch, being as I'm an ignorant woman, and it is interesting to know. You are taking a good many tricks, Dmitri Sergéitch."
"It can't be helped, Marya Alekséyevna. We are taught at the medical school to play cards well. A doctor must know how to take tricks."
Lopukhóf is puzzled to this day to know why Marya Alekséyevna wanted to know whether Philippe Egalité ordered folks to be baptized in the religion of the Pope.
Well, how, after all this, could it be wondered at that Marya Alekséyevna stopped wearying herself by perpetual supervision? He keeps his eyes where they should be, his face has shown no amorous susceptibilities; he gives her theological books to read; that ought to be enough. But no, Marya Alekséyevna was not satisfied; but she even managed to put him to a test, as though she had studied the logic which I have learned by heart, and which says, "the observations of phenomena must be made by means of experiments, carried on in a skilful plan, if one would have the most thorough penetration into the secrets of such relations"; and she so managed to bring about this trial, as though she had read Sakson's grammar, which tells how Hamlet was tempted by Ophelia in the grove.
VIII.
THE TEMPTATION OF HAMLET.
One day at tea, Marya Alekséyevna said that she had a headache; after serving the tea, and locking up the sugarbowl she went away and retired. Viéra and Lopukhóf remained sitting in the tea-room, which adjoined the bed-room where Marya Alekséyevna had gone.
After a few minutes she sent a message by Feódor: "Tell your sister that their talk keeps me from going to sleep; let 'em go somewhere else so as not to bother me. Say it politely, so as not to offend Dmitri Sergéitch; you see what good care he takes of you." Feódor went and told what his mother wanted.
"Let us go to my room, Dmitri Sergéitch; it is away from mother's bed-room, and we shall not be disturbed."
Of course this was what Marya Alekséyevna expected. At the end of a quarter of an hour she crept in her stocking feet up to the door of Viérotchka's room. The door was ajar; between the door and the jamb was a splendid crack: Marya Alekséyevna applied her eyes to it and strained her ears.
This was the sight that she saw:—
In Viérotchka's rooms were two windows; between them stood a writing-table. Viérotchka was sitting near one window, knitting a woollen chest-protector for her father, religiously fulfilling Marya Alekséyevna's command. At the other window, at the other end of the table, Lopukhóf was sitting: he was leaning with one elbow on the table; he had a cigar in his hand; his other hand was thrust in his pocket; the distance between Viérotchka and him was not less than two arshíns (4.6 feet). Viérotchka was looking most of the time at her knitting; Lopukhóf was looking most of the time at his cigar. This was a gratifying state of things.
The conversation that she overheard was as follows:—
"Is it necessary to look at life in this way?" These were the first words that Marya Alekséyevna caught.
"Yes, Viéra Pavlovna, it is necessary."
"Then cold, practical people must tell the truth, when they say that men are governed only by selfish motives?"
"They tell the truth. What are called the higher feelings, ideal aspirations; all these in the general course of life are absolutely nothing in comparison with the inspiration felt by every one to do things for his own interest. At bottom, the impulse even for the others is caused by selfishness."
"Da! are you, for example, of the same sort?"
"What do you suppose, Viéra Pavlovna? Just listen and see what is the essential motive of all my life. The essence of my life, hitherto, has consisted in study and preparation to be a doctor. Excellent! Why did my father send me to school? He used constantly to repeat to me: 'Study, Mitya; when you have finished your course you will be a tchinovnik; you will be able to support me and your mother, and it will be good for you, too.' And that was the reason that I studied; without that motive, my father would never have let me study: you see my family was in need of a wage-winner. Da! and I myself, though I am fond of study, would not have spent time on it, would I, if I had not thought that the expenditure would have been paid back with interest? After I got through school, I urged my father to send me to the medical academy instead of making me a tchinovnik. How did that come about? Father and I saw that medical men live much better than civil tchinovniks and the heads of departments, and I could not get any higher rank than that. And that was why I got the means and went to the medical school; it stood for bread and butter. Without this in view I should not have gone to the medical school and should not have stayed in it."
"But you loved to study while you were at school, and have you not liked medical science?"
"Yes. It is an ornament, and it is also profitable; but success is generally won without this ornament, while without a motive, never! Love for science was only a result arising from a certain state of things; it was not its cause; the cause was just one thing,—self-interest" [vuigoda, profit].
"Let us suppose that you are right; yes, you are right! All actions that I can remember can be explained by self-interest. But this theory is cold!"
"Theory must by necessity be cold. The mind must judge of things coldly."
"But it is merciless."
"Yes, to fancies that are empty and injurious."
"But it is prosaic."
"Science does not care for a poetical form."
"And so this theory, which I cannot help admitting, brings people into a cold, merciless, and prosaic life?"
"No, Viéra Pavlovna; this theory is cold, but it teaches a man to bring out the warmth. A match is cold, the match-box on which you scratch the match is also cold; but there is fire in them which gets a man warm food, and warms him also. This theory is merciless; but if it is followed, people will not become the wretched objects of idle charity. The lancet must not bend; otherwise it will be necessary to pity the patient, who will suffer none the less because of your sympathy. This theory is prosaic, but it reveals true motives of life and poetry in the truth of life. Why is Shakspere the greatest poet? Because he is true to life, and has less illusion than other poets."
"So am I, also, going to be pitiless, Dmitri Sergéitch," said Viérotchka, smiling. "Don't be drawn away by the thought that you have in me an obstinate opponent of your self-interest theory, and that you have converted me to be a new disciple. I myself long ago felt the same thing, especially after I read your book and heard it from you. But I thought that these were my individual ideas, that clever and scientific men thought otherwise, and so I was in doubt. All that we used to read was written in a spirit of contrariety; it was full of adverse criticisms, of sarcastic attacks upon what we used to see in ourselves and others. Nature, life, reason, lead you one direction; books drag you the other: they say, 'This is mean, contemptible.' Do you know, I myself saw the absurdity of the arguments which I myself brought up!"
"Yes, so they were absurd, Viéra Pavlovna."
"Well then," said she, laughing, "we are making each other wonderful compliments. I say to you, 'You, Dmitri Sergéitch, please don't lift your nose so high.' You say to me, 'You are ridiculous with your doubts, Viéra Pavlovna.'"
"At any rate," said he, also laughing, "we have no selfish interest in making love to each other, and therefore, we don't make love."
"All right, Dmitri Sergéitch; people are egotistical, aren't they? You were speaking about yourself, and now I want to speak about myself."
"Of course, men must think about themselves most of all."
"Very good. Now let us see if you will put this into practice."
"Let us see."
"A rich man wants to marry me. I don't like him. Must I accept his offer?"
"Consider what is for your best advantage."
"My best advantage! You know that I am very poor. On one side is my dislike of the man; on the other, I should have the upper hand of him, an enviable position in society, money, a crowd of worshippers!"
"Weigh everything; choose what would be most advantageous."
"And if I choose the husband's wealth and the crowd of worshippers?"
"I shall say that you have chosen that which seemed more correspondent with your interests."
"And what ought to be said about myself?"
"If you have acted coolly, after mature deliberation, it will have to be said that you have done wisely, and probably you will not be sorry for it."
"But would my choice deserve condemnation?"
"People who talk all sorts of nonsense will speak about it as they please; but people who look upon life from a reasonable standpoint will say that you have done as you ought. If you have done so, it will show that such was your individuality, that you could not have acted otherwise, circumstances being as they are; they will say that you have acted under the necessity of things, that properly speaking you could not have had any other choice."
"And no condemnation whatever for my actions?"
"Who has the right to condemn the results of a fact when the fact itself is in existence? Your individuality in the given circumstances is a fact; your actions are the essential, unavoidable results of this fact, arising from the nature of things. You are not responsible for them, and to condemn them is absurd."
"Well, I see you stick to your theory. And so I shall not deserve your condemnation, if I accept the rich man's offer?"
"I should be a fool if I condemned it."
"And so your permission,—I might say, your approval—I might even say, your direct advice—is to do as I have said?"
"There is always one thing to advise,—'reason out what is for your best'; if you do that, you have my approval."
"Thank you. Now the personal case is decided. Let us return to the first, that is, the general question. We began by saying that a man acts from necessity; his actions are determined by the influences from which they take their rise, the stronger motives always predominating. Our arguments went thus: when an action has vital importance, the stimulus is called self-interest; its interaction in man is the calculation of self-interests, and therefore a man must always act in accordance with the motive of self-interest. Do I express the thread of the thought?"
"Perfectly."
"You see what a good pupil I am. Now this private question about the actions that have an important bearing upon life is settled. But in the general question there remain some difficulties yet. Your book says that a man acts from necessity; but there are cases when it seems that it depends upon my will to act in this way or in that. For instance, I am playing, and I turn the leaves of the music. I turn them sometimes with my left hand, sometimes with my right hand. Let us suppose that I have turned them now with the right hand; why could I not have done it with my left hand? Does it not depend upon my own will?"
"No, Viéra Pavlovna; when you are turning the leaves, not thinking which hand you use, you turn them with the hand that is most convenient; there is no will about it. If you think, 'Let me turn them with my right hand,' you then turn them under the influence of this thought; but this thought itself was not a matter of your will, but was engendered unavoidably by others."
At this word Marya Alekséyevna ceased to listen. "Nu! they are spending their time over science; that ain't in my line, it ain't necessary either. What a wise, intelligent, and I may say noble, young man he is! What reasonable advice he gives Viérotchka! And that shows that he is a learned man: now here I go and tells her the same things; she does not listen, she gets offended; I can't suit her because I don't know how to speak scientific enough. But here when he speaks scientific, she listens and sees that it is the truth, and she agrees with it. Da! it is said not in vain, 'knowledge is light; ignorance, darkness.' If I had been a well-educated woman, would it have been with me as it is now? I'd have got my husband into favor with the generals; I would have got a place for him in the department of supplies, or somewhere else just as good! Nu! of course I should have done the business myself with the contractors! the idea of his doing it—rubbish! I'd have built a much better house than this. I'd have bought more than a thousand souls [dushi, serfs]. But now I cannot. It is necessary to get a recommendation first in the society of generals; and how can I do that? I can't speak French, nor any other language of theirs. They'll say, 'She hain't got any manners; all she's good for is to make an uproar on the hay-market!' So I am no good! 'Ignorance is darkness.' Indeed 'knowledge is light; ignorance is darkness.'"
Now it was just this conversation that Marya Alekséyevna had overheard that brought her to the conviction that Dmitri Sergéitch's conversation was not only not dangerous for Viérotchka,—she had been inclined to think that before,—but was even likely to do her good, to lighten her own labors in overcoming Viérotchka's foolish, inexperienced, girlish, thoughts, and hasten the mystical benediction in the affair with Mikhaïl Ivanuitch.
IX.
The relations of Marya Alekséyevna to Lopukhóf resemble a farce; Marya Alekséyevna's character is exposed by them in a ridiculous way. Both these facts are quite against my will. If I had wanted to preserve a high standard of art, I should have concealed Marya Alekséyevna's relations to Lopukhóf, the description of which gives this part of my story the nature of a vaudeville. To hide them would have been easy. The essential element of the matter could have been expressed without them. Would it have been at all surprising if the tutor, even if he had not entered into this friendship with Marya Alekséyevna, had found occasion sometimes, though seldom, to say a few words with the daughter of a family where he is giving lessons? Does it take many words to engender love? There was no need of Marya Alekséyevna putting in a hand to help along this result which was brought about by the meeting of Viérotchka with Lopukhóf. But I am telling this story, not as it would be necessary if I wanted to win an artistic reputation, but simply in accordance with the facts. As a novelist, I am very sorry because I have written several pages which are on the low level of a vaudeville.
My design of relating the case as it was, and not as it would have been if I had followed my inclinations, also causes me another unpleasantness. I am very much dissatisfied because Marya Alekséyevna is represented in a ridiculous way with her conceptions of Lopukhóf's bride as he described her, with her fantastic guessing about the contents of the books which Lopukhóf gave Viérotchka, with her reasoning about Philippe Egalité trying to convert folks to the faith of the Pope, and her ideas of the works written by King Louis XIV. Every one is liable to error; mistakes may be stupid if a man judges of matters which are foreign to his experience; but it would be unjust to conclude from these stupid blunders made by Marya Alekséyevna that her disposition to Lopukhóf was founded entirely on these blunders; not at all, not for a moment would any fantastic ideas of a rich bride or the goodness of Philippe Egalité have obscured her common sense, if in Lopukhóf's actual words and actions had anything suspicious been noticeable. But in point of fact, he behaved himself in such a way that, according to Marya Alekséyevna's opinion, only a man after her own heart could behave himself; now here was a brave young man, who did not allow his eyes to gaze impudently at a very pretty young girl; he did not pay her ambiguous attentions, he was always willing to play cards with Marya Alekséyevna, he never said that he would rather sit with Viéra Pavlovna, he discussed matters in a spirit that seemed to Marya Alekséyevna in accordance with her own spirit; like her, he said that everything in the world is done for self-interest, that when a cheat cheats (plut plutŭyet), there is no need of getting excited and crying out about the principles of honesty which such a cheat is bound to observe, that a cheat is not a cheat without good reason, that he was made such by his environment, that not to be a cheat—leaving aside the impossibility of not being a cheat—would have been stupid, that is, simply foolish on his part. Yes, Marya Alekséyevna was right, when she found a resemblance between her and Lopukhóf.
I appreciate how deeply Lopukhóf is compromised in the eyes of the civilized public by the sympathy shown by Marya Alekséyevna in his way of thinking. But I do not want to flatter any one, and I don't conceal this circumstance, though it is so injurious to Lopukhóf's reputation, although I confessed that it was in my power to conceal Lopukhóf's relations with the Rozalsky family. I will say even more; I myself will even undertake to explain that he even actually deserved Marya Alekséyevna's good will.
In point of fact, it appears from the conversation between Lopukhóf and Viérotchka, that the style of his thinking would far more easily seem good to people of Mary Alekséyevna's stamp, than to eloquent partizans of various beautiful ideas. Lopukhóf saw things in exactly the same light as they appear to the great mass of the human race, with the exception of the partisans of beautiful ideas. If Marya Alekséyevna could repeat with satisfaction what she herself had heard of Lopukhóf's advice to Viérotchka in regard to Storeshnikof's offer, he likewise would take satisfaction in adding right to her drunken confession to Viérotchka. The resemblance between their conceptions was so striking, that enlightened and noble novelists, journalists, and other instructors of our public, would long ago have declared that people of Lopukhóf's stamp differ in no respect from people of Marya Alekséyevna's stamp. If such enlightened and noble writers so understand Lopukhóf's stamp, could we really condemn Marya Alekséyevna because she could find in Lopukhóf nothing but what our best writers, teachers, and philosophers find in people of his stamp?
Of course, if Marya Alekséyevna had known half of what these writers knew, she would have had sufficient mind to understand that Lopukhóf is bad company for her. But aside from the fact that she was an uneducated woman, she has still another excuse for mistake. Lopukhóf did not give her the full benefit of his ideas. He was a propagandist, but not such an one as the lovers of fine ideas who are always anxious to give Marya Alekséyevnas the benefit of the noble conceptions by which they themselves are enlightened. He had enough good sense not to try to straighten a fifty-year-old tree. They both accepted facts in the same way, and so discussed them. Like a man with a theoretical education, he could draw from facts such conclusions as were impossible to Marya Alekséyevna and her similars, who do not know anything beyond personal every-day cares and current aphorisms of popular wisdom,—proverbs, sayings, and the folklore which is old, archaic, and even stale. But they could never reach his conclusions. If, for instance, he had begun to explain what he meant by the word "self-interest," which he used when talking with Viérotchka, Marya Alekséyevna would have made a grimace, seeing that self-interest, as he understood it, was not the same as self-interest as she understood it; but Lopukhóf did not explain this to Marya Alekséyevna, and neither was there any explanation of it in his talk with Viérotchka, because Viérotchka knew the meaning of the word as she had seen it used in those books which started the conversation. Of course it is also true that while saying you are right to Marya Alekséyevna's drunken confession, Lopukhóf would have added to the word "right" (prava) these words: "According to your own confession, Marya Alekséyevna, the new order of things is much better than the old, and I have nothing against those who are trying to make the reform and get pleasure out of it; but as far as the stupidity of the people is concerned, which you regard as a hindrance against the new order, then of course I must agree with you; but you yourself will not deny, Marya Alekséyevna, that people soon get educated, and they see that it is to their advantage to do what before they could not see any need of doing; you will also agree that hitherto they have had no way of learning sense and reason; but give them this possibility, and why, of course they will take advantage of it."
But he never went as far as this in speaking with Marya Alekséyevna; and that, too, not from carefulness, though he was very careful, but simply from the very good reason of his common sense and politeness, which also prevented him from talking to her in Latin, and from tiring her ears with arguments about the latest advances in medicine, though such subjects were interesting to him. He possessed so much politeness and delicacy that he would not torment a person with declamations which are not understood by that person.
Now, while I say all this to justify Marya Alekséyevna's oversight in not finding out in time what sort of man Lopukhóf really was, I don't say it to justify Lopukhóf himself. To justify Lopukhóf would not be the right thing; and why it would not be the right thing you will see as you go on. Those who could not justify him, but yet from their sense of humanity would forgive, could not forgive him. For instance, they might allege for his excuse that he was a medical man, and was occupied with natural sciences, and that disposes to a materialistic view. But such an excuse is very poor. There are very many sciences that lead to such a view, aren't there?—mathematical, and historical, and political, and many others, of all sorts. But are all geometricians, astronomers, all historians, political economists, lawyers, journalists, and all other scientific people, materialists? Not by a long chalk! Consequently, Lopukhóf is not to be excused for his fault. Those who sympathize with him, but do not justify him, could also say for his excuse that he is not entirely lacking in praiseworthy characteristics; he made up his mind, conscientiously and resolutely, to renounce all material advantages and honors, so as to work for the benefit of others, finding that the pleasure to be derived from such work was most beneficial for him; he looked at a girl, who was so beautiful that he fell in love with her, with purer eyes than if she had been his sister. But in reply to this excuse for his materialism, it must be said that it is universally true that there is no man so depraved as not to show some signs of good, and that materialists, of whatever character, remain materialists still; and this itself proves decidedly that they are immoral and degraded people, who cannot be excused, because to excuse them would be to encourage materialism. And so, while not justifying Lopukhóf, it is also impossible to excuse him. And to justify him is also not the right thing; because the lovers of fine ideas and the defenders of higher aspirations, who have declared that materialists are low and immoral people, in these later days have so thoroughly recommended themselves in the matter of sense, and also in the matter of character, in the eyes of all respectable people, whether materialists or not, that to defend anybody from their censure has become a work of supererogation, and to pay heed to their words has become even unseemly.
X.
Of course, the main subject of the conversations between Lopukhóf and Viérotchka was not the question as to which fashion of ideas should be looked upon as the right one; but, as a rule, they spoke with each other very little, and their long talks, which rarely occurred, touched upon only outside matters, such as ways of thinking, and kindred topics. They knew that two very vigilant eyes were on them. And, consequently, in regard to the main thing that interested them, they exchanged very few words; and this was generally at the time when they were getting the music ready for playing or singing. And this main topic which occupied so small a place in their infrequent long talks, and even in their brief snatches of talk, occupied but a small place,—this subject was not their feeling towards each other,—not at all; they did not speak a word after the first indefinite words which were said at their first talk during the party; they had no time to speak about it. In the two or three minutes used for the exchange of thought, without the fear of being overheard, they had hardly time to speak about the other subject, which was more important to them than their own thoughts and feelings; and this was in regard to the ways and means by which Viérotchka could escape her terrible situation.
On the morning that followed his first conversation with her, Lopukhóf took pains to find out how it would be possible for her to become an actress. He knew that there were a good many risks and trials standing in the way of a girl going on the stage; but he thought that with a firm character she might succeed all straight. But it proved to be otherwise. When he came to give his lesson, two days later, he was compelled to say to Viérotchka, "I advise you to give up the thought of becoming an actress."
"Why?"
"Because it would be much better for you to accept Storeshnikof's offer."
This ended the talk, which was said while he and Viérotchka were getting the music—he about to play, and she to sing. Viérotchka hung her head, and several times lost the beat, although the piece was very familiar to her. When the piece was finished, they began to consult what they should sing next, and Viérotchka found a chance to say:—
"It seemed to me that that was the very best, and it's hard for me to hear that it is impossible. It will be harder to live, but still I shall find some way of living; I will go out as governess."
When he was there again two days later, she said:—
"I could not find any one through whom I could get the place of governess. Please keep your eyes open for me, Dmitri Sergéitch; there is no one but you."
"I am sorry I have so few acquaintances who might help in this way. All the families where I am giving or have given lessons are poor people, and their acquaintances are about the same; but I will do the best I can."
"My friend, I am wasting your time; but what else can I do?"
"Viéra Pavlovna, there is no need of speaking about my time, since I am your friend."
Viérotchka both smiled and blushed. She herself did not notice how instead of calling him Dmitri Sergéitch, she called him "my friend." Lopukhóf also smiled. "You did not mean to say it, Viéra Pavlovna; take it back if you are sorry that you gave it to me."
Viérotchka smiled, "It is too late," and she blushed, "and I am not sorry"; and she blushed still more.
"When need comes, you will see that I am a true friend." They pressed each other's hands.
You have here the two first conversations after that evening.
Two days later, there was in the "Police Gazette" an advertisement to this effect: "A girl of good family, speaking French and German, etc., desires a place as governess; inquiries can be made of the tchinovnik So-and-So at Kolonma, NN. street, NN. house."
Now Lopukhóf was obliged to spend a great deal of his time in attending to Viérotchka's affairs. Every morning he had to go for the most part on foot from Vuiborgsky ward to Kolomna to his friend whose address was given in the advertisement. It was a long walk; but he could not find any other friend who lived near the Vuiborgsky ward. It was necessary that the friend at whose home inquiries could be made should be subject to several conditions,—a respectable home, good family circumstances, a respectable appearance. A poor domicile might lead to the offer of unfavorable conditions as a governess; without respectability and apparently good family circumstances the girl's recommendation would not be looked upon favorably. And Lopukhóf could not place his own address in the advertisement: what would be thought of a girl who was cared for by no one besides a student? And so Lopukhóf had to take an unusual amount of exercise. After he had taken the addresses of those who came to inquire about the governess, he had to continue his walk still farther; the tchinovnik told the inquirers that he was a distant relative of the girl and acted only as agent, but that she had a nephew who would come the next day and give further particulars. The nephew instead of going in a carriage went on foot, looked at the people, and of course, as a general thing, was dissatisfied with the surroundings; in one family they put on too many airs; in another, the mother of the family was a good woman, but the father was a fool (durak); and the third, the opposite was true; and so on. In some it would be comfortable to live, but the conditions would be impossible for Viérotchka; either it was necessary to speak English, but English she does not speak, or they did not want a governess but a nurse; or the people were well enough in their way, but they were themselves poor, and there was no place in their apartment for a governess, where there were already two grown children, two little ones, a maid, and a nurse. But the advertisement continued to appear in the "Police Gazette," and likewise the governess-seekers and Lopukhóf did not lose hope.
In such a manner two weeks passed by. On the fifth day of his hunt, when Lopukhóf had returned from his walk and was lying down on his sofa, Kirsánof said:—
"Dmitri, you are getting to be a bad assistant in my work. You spend all your mornings out, and the larger part of your afternoons and evenings. You must have got a good many lessons to give, haven't you? Can you spare the time to give them just now? I want to give up those that I have; I have saved up forty rubles or so, and that will be enough till I graduate. And you have more than I have—at least a hundred, haven't you?"
"More; a hundred and fifty. I have no pupils, though; I have given them all up but one; I have something that I must attend to. If I accomplish it, you will not be sorry that I am behind you in the work."
"What is it?"
"You see the lesson which I have not given up is in a wretched family, but there is a nice girl there. She wants to be a governess, so as to leave the family, and so I am looking up a place for her."
"A nice girl?"
"Yes."
"Nu, this is good. Look out."
And so the conversation ended.
Ekh! Messrs. Kirsánof and Lopukhóf, you are learned men, but you cannot imagine in what respect this is peculiarly good. Let us grant that what you have been talking about is good. Kirsánof did not think of asking whether the girl were pretty, and Lopukhóf did not think to say that she was. Kirsánof did not think to say, "Yes, brother, you must have fallen in love that you are so energetic in looking out for this girl." Lopukhóf did not think of saying, "And I, brother, am very much interested in her"; or if he thought it, and did not care to say it, he certainly did not think to remark for the sake of turning aside suspicion, "Don't imagine, Aleksandr, that I am in love." Don't you see they both thought that when there was a chance to free a person from a bad situation, it made very little difference whether that person possessed a handsome face or not, even though the person were a young girl; but in such a case there could be no discussion of falling in love or not falling in love. They did not even think of thinking of it, and what is best of all, they did not notice that they were doing a noble action.
But, however, doesn't this prove to the sagacious class of readers (it proves to the majority of literary men, and this is composed of the most sagacious people), doesn't it prove, I say, that Kirsánof and Lopukhóf were cold and deprived of all æsthetic sense? This was not so very long ago a favorite expression among the æsthetic writers who had lofty ideals. "Æsthetic sense" may be even now fashionable; I don't know how it is; I have not seen it used for some time. Is it natural that young men, who possess a spark of taste, or a grain of heart, can fail to be interested in the face when speaking of a girl? Of course these people have no artistic feeling; that is, æsthetic sense: and according to the opinion of others, who have learned human nature in circles which are richer in æsthetic feelings than the company of our æsthetic literati, young men in such circumstances will invariably speak about young women from the plastic side. Gentlemen, it used to be so, but not now; it is now true in certain instances, but not with those young men who are alone regarded as the present generation. Gentlemen, this is a peculiar generation.
XI.
"Well, my dear, haven't you found any situation for me yet?"
"Not yet, Viéra Pavlovna, but don't despair; we shall find one. Every day I go to see two or three families. It is impossible that a respectable place will be not found at last where you can live."
"Akh! but if you only knew, my friend, how hard, how hard, it is for me to remain here. When there was no near possibility for me to escape from this degradation, from this misery, I kept myself by main force in a deathly apathy. But now, my friend, it is too suffocating in this foul, wretched atmosphere!"
"Patience, patience, Viéra Pavlovna. We shall find something." Here is an example of their talk for a week.
Tuesday.—"Patience, patience, Viéra Pavlovna, we shall find something."
"My friend, how much trouble this is causing you! What a waste of time! How can I repay you?"
"You will repay me, my dear, by not getting vexed." Lopukhóf said this, and became confused. Viérotchka looked at him. No, it was not that he did not finish his sentence; he did not intend to add to it, and he is waiting for her answer.
"What should I be vexed about? What have you done?" Lopukhóf became still more confused, and seemed to be grieved.
"What is the matter, my friend?"
"To think you did not notice it at all!" He spoke so sorrowfully, and then he laughed so gayly. "Akh, bozhe moï! how stupid I am, how stupid! Forgive me, my friend."
"Nu! what is the matter?"
"Nothing; you have already given me my reward."
"Akh! what do you mean? What a jester you are! Well, all right, you may call me so."
On Thursday came the "Trial of Hamlet," according to Sakson's Grammar. For several days after that, Marya Alekséyevna takes some little—though not much—rest from her inspection.
Saturday.—After tea, Marya Alekséyevna goes out to count over the clothes which the laundress had brought.
"My dear, I think the matter will be successful."
"Really? If that is so, Akh, bozhe moï! Akh, bozhe moï! arrano;e it as soon as possible! It seems to me that I shall die if this is to go on much longer. When will it be, and how?"
"It will be decided to-morrow. The hope is almost, almost certain."
"What is it? How is it?"
"Keep calm, my friend; you'll be noticed. Here you are almost dancing with joy. Marya Alekséyevna will be back after something if you don't look out."
"Well, you are a fine fellow! You came in so radiant that mámenka looked at you a long time."
"At any rate, I told her why I was happy; I saw that it was necessary to tell her, and so I said that I have found a splendid place."
"You horrid, horrid man! here you keep cautioning me, and you have not told me, as yet, a single thing. What is it? Do tell me at last!"
"This morning Kirsánof—you know, my dear, that my chum's name is Kirsánof—"
"I know, you horrid, horrid man, I know! Now, speak quick, without any more nonsense."
"You, yourself, are hindering me, my friend."
"Akh, bozhe moï! and all these digressions without ever once coming to the point. I don't know how I could punish you. I will get you down on your knees yet; it cannot be done here. I command you to get down on your knees in your room, as soon as you get home, and I want your Kirsánof to look on, and then send me a note, saying that you were down on your knees. Do you hear what I am going to do with you?"
"Very good; I will get down on my knees; and now I shall hold my peace. After I have undergone my punishment and am forgiven, I will speak."
"I forgive you; only speak, you horrid man!"
"Thank you; you grant forgiveness when you yourself are to blame. You, yourself, have made all the interruptions."
"Viéra Pavlovna, why do you call me so? I thought you were going to call me my friend?"
"Yes, I meant it as a reproach, my friend! I am a man easily offended, and very severe!"
"A reproach? How dare you make me reproaches? I do not want to hear you!'"
"You don't?"
"Certainly I don't. What is there for me to hear? You have told me everything already,—that the matter will be arranged, that it will be decided to-morrow; you see, my friend, you yourself don't know anything more to-day. What is there to hear? Good by, my dear (Dō svidánya, moï drūg)!"
"But listen to me, my friend; my friend, do listen!"
"I am not going to listen; I am going away." She came back. "Speak quick! I will not interrupt you. Akh, bozhe moï! if you only knew how happy you have made me! Give me your hand! See how warmly, warmly, I press it!"
"But why are your eyes full of tears?"
"I thank you, I thank you!"
"This morning Kirsánof gave me the address of a lady who made an appointment for me to call on her to-morrow. I am not personally acquainted with her, but I have heard much about her from a mutual friend who acted as go-between. I know her husband though; we have met at our friend's many times. Judging from all this, I am sure that one could get along well in her family; and when she gave her address to her friend, she said that she was certain that we should agree about terms. Consequently, the matter can be looked upon as almost absolutely settled."
"Akh! how good it will be! what joy!" murmured Viérotchka. "But I want to have it settled soon, as soon as possible! Will you come from her directly to us?"
"No, my dear; that would rouse suspicions. I never come here except during lesson hours. I'll do this way. I will send a letter to Marya Alekséyevna by mail, saying that I shall not be able to give the lesson on Tuesday, and shall have to postpone it till Wednesday. If the letter says Wednesday morning, you will understand that the matter is arranged; if it says Wednesday evening, you will know that it has fallen through. But it is almost certain to read in the morning. Marya Alekséyevna will tell it to Feódor, and to you and to Pavel Konstantinuitch."
"When will the letter get here?"
"In the evening."
"It's so long! No, I shall not have enough patience! And then what shall I learn from the letter? Only yes, and then I shall have to wait till Wednesday! It is torturing. If it is yes, I shall go and call on the lady as soon as I can. I shall want to know all about it. But how can it be managed? This is the way I'll do; I'll be waiting for you on the street when you leave that lady's."
"My friend, that would be still more risky than for me to call on you. No! it would be much better for me to call on you!"
"No! perhaps it would be impossible for us to have a word together. At any rate, mámenka might become suspicious. No! it would be better as I suggested first. I have such a thick veil that no one would recognize me through it."
"Well, I admit that your plan seems feasible. Let me think!"
"There's no time to think! Mámenka may be here any minute. Where does the lady live?"
"On Galernaïa Street, near the bridge."
"What time shall you call on her?"
"She appointed twelve o'clock."
"At twelve I shall be sitting on the Konno-Gvardeïsky Boulevard, on the last bench, and at the end nearest the bridge. I said that I would wear a thick veil; but here's a sign for you: I will carry a roll of music in my hand. If I am not there on time you will know that I am detained. But you sit down on that bench and wait. I may be late, but I shall be there without fail. How well I have planned it! How grateful I am to you! How happy I shall be! How is your bride, Dmitri Sergéitch? See, I call you Dmitri Sergéitch instead of my friend! How glad, how glad I am!"
Viérotchka ran to the piano, and began to play.
"My dear! What a degradation to art! How ruinous to your taste to give up operas for galops!"
"Certainly, certainly!"
In a few minutes Marya Alekséyevna returned. Dmitri Sergéitch played two-handed "preference" with her. At first he won; then he allowed her to win. He even lost thirty-five kopeks. This was the first time, and it filled her with victorious glory, and when he went away he left her greatly pleased; not so much on account of the money as on account of the victory. There are purely ideal pleasures even for hearts soiled with materialism, and this is proof positive, that a materialistic explanation of life is unsatisfactory.
XII.
VIÉROTCHKA'S FIRST DREAM.
And Viérotchka dreamed a dream.
She dreamed that she was locked up in a damp, gloomy cellar, and suddenly the door opened, and Viérotchka found herself in a field. She was running, frolicking, and she thinks: "How is it that I did not die in the cellar? It is because I had never seen the fields before! Had I seen them, I must have died in the cellar." And again she seemed to be running and frolicking. Then she dreamed that she was paralyzed, and she said to herself: "How is it that I have the paralysis? Old men, old women, have the paralysis, but young girls never have it!"
"Oh, yes, they do, very often," an unknown voice seemed to reply, "and very soon you will be well. Let me only touch your hand; you see you are well already; now get up!"
"Who was it that spoke? How relieved I am! All the pain has gone!"
And Viérotchka got up and began to walk, to run, and again she is in the field; again she is running and frolicking, and she thinks: "How could I have endured the paralysis? It was because I was born with paralysis and did not know how to walk and to run! Had I known, I could not have endured it."
And still she keeps on running and frolicking. And here comes a young girl across the field. How strange! her face and her gait, everything about her, keeps changing, changing constantly. Now she is English, French, now she is already German, Polish, and now she has become Russian, again English, again German, again Russian; and how is it that she has only the one face? An English girl does not look like a French girl, a German girl does not look like a Russian; but her face keeps changing, and yet it is the very same face. What a strange person! And the expression of her face is constantly changing: how gentle she is, how angry; now she is melancholy, now she is gay. She is always changing, and she is always kind; how is that? even when she is angry is she always kind? But only see what a beauty she is! no matter how her face changes, with every change she grows more and more beautiful. She approaches Viérotchka.
"Who are you?"
"He used to call me Viéra Pavlovna; but now he always calls me 'My dear [Moï drūg].'"
"Ah! so this is you! that Viérotchka who fell in love with me?"
"Yes; I love you very much; but who are you?"
"I am your bridegroom's bride!"
"What bridegroom?"
"I do not know. I do not know my own bridegrooms. They know me; but it is impossible for me to know them, I have so many! You must choose one of them as a bridegroom for yourself,—only from among them, from among my bridegrooms."
"I have already chosen."
"I do not need to know his name, and I do not know them. But only choose from among them, from my bridegrooms. I want my sisters and my bridegrooms to select from amongst each other. Have you been locked up in a cellar? Have you been paralyzed?"
"I have."
"Are you free now?"
"I am."
"It is I who set you free; it is I who cured you. Remember, that there are a good many not yet freed; many not yet cured. Free them; cure them; will you?"
"I will! But what is your name? I am so anxious to know!"
"I have many names; I have various names. According as it is necessary for any one to call me, an appropriate name I give! You may call me Philanthropy [literally, love for humanity]. This is my real name; not many call me so. But you must call me so."
And Viérotchka seems to be going about in the city; here is a cellar, in the cellar young girls are locked up. Viérotchka touches the lock, the lock is unfastened. "You are free!" Out they go! Here is a room, in the room young girls are lying stricken with paralysis. "Arise!" They get up, they go out, and here they all are in the field, running and frolicking. Akh! how gay! when there are many together, it is far more lively than to be in solitude! Akh! how gay!
XIII.
Lopukhóf during these last weeks has had no time to spend with his acquaintances of the medical school. Kirsánof, who has kept up his intercourse with them, has replied, when asked about Lopukhóf, that he has had among other things, some business to attend to; and one of their common friends, as we know, gave him the address of a lady, the lady to whose house Lopukhóf is now going.
"How excellently the matter will be arranged, if all turns out satisfactorily," thought Lopukhóf on his way to the lady's house. "In two years, or certainly in two years and a half, I shall get a professorship. Then we shall have something to live on. And meantime, she will be staying quietly at the B.s', provided only Mrs. B. prove to be the right sort of woman, and there can hardly be a doubt of that."
In fact, Lopukhóf found in Mrs. B. a clever, kind-hearted woman, without pretence, though from her husband's position, and from their wealth and connections, she had a right to put on great style. The conditions were favorable, the family circumstances very propitious for Viérotchka. Everything proved to be entirely satisfactory, just as Lopukhóf expected. Mrs. B. also found Lopukhóf's replies in regard to Viérotchka's character perfectly satisfactory. The affair was rapidly drawing near a settlement, and after they had talked half an hour, Mrs. B. said, "If your young aunt should consent to my terms, I will ask her to remove to my house, and the sooner, the better for me."
"She consents; she has authorized me to consent for her. But now that we have settled the matter, I must tell you what would have been wrong for me to tell you before: the young girl is no relation of mine. She is the daughter of a tchinovnik at whose house I give lessons. There is no one besides me to whom she can confide her troubles. But I am an absolute stranger to her."
"I knew it, Monsieur Lopukhóf. You yourself, Professor N." (naming the acquaintance through whom her address had been obtained), "and your chum, who spoke to him about this matter of yours, know each other to be so honorable that you can speak among yourselves about the friendship one of you has for a young girl, and not compromise the young girl in the eyes of the others. And Professor N., having the same good opinion of me, and knowing that I was looking for a governess, felt that he was in the right to tell me that the young girl was no relation of yours. Don't blame him for indiscretion; he knows me very well. I also am a person of honor, Monsieur Lopukhóf; and, believe me, I understand who is worthy of respect. I have as much faith in N. as I have in myself; and N. has as much faith in you as he has in himself. But N. did not know her name, and now it seems to me that I may ask it, seeing that we have settled the matter, and to-day or to-morrow she may come into our family."
"Her name is Viéra Pavlovna Rozalskaïa."
"Now there is another explanation that I owe you. It may seem strange to you that I, with all my care for my children, should decide to settle this matter with you without having seen the one who will come into such close relations to my children. But I know very well of what sort of people your circle consists. I know that if one of you takes such a friendly interest in a person, then this person must be a genuine godsend for a mother, who wishes her daughter to grow up into a truly good woman. Therefore, an examination seemed to me an entirely unnecessary piece of indelicacy. I am giving not you, but myself, a compliment!"
"I am very glad now for Mademoiselle Rozalskaïa; her domestic life has been so hard that she felt that she should be comfortable in any sort of a family. But I did not dream of finding such a really excellent career for her as opens for her in your home."
"Yes; N. told me that she leads a miserable life in her family."
"Very miserable."
Lopukhóf began to relate all that was necessary for Mrs. B. to know, so that in conversations with Viérotchka, she might avoid all references that would remind the young girl of her past life. Mrs. B. listened with interest; finally she pressed Lopukhóf's hand.
"No; that is enough, Monsieur Lopukhóf, or I shall get sentimental, and at my age—and I am almost forty—it would be ridiculous to show that even now I cannot listen with indifference to tales of family tyranny, from which I suffered myself when I was young."
"Allow me to tell you one thing more. It is not so important for you, and there is probably no need of my telling you this. Yet it is better to tell you. Just now, she is running away from a lover whom her mother is doing her best to make her marry."
Mrs. B. was lost in thought. Lopukhóf looked at her and also began to appear thoughtful:—
"If I am not mistaken, this circumstance does not seem to you as unimportant as it does to me!"
Mrs. B. seemed utterly absorbed in thought.
"Excuse me," he continued, seeing that her mind was entirely distracted. "Excuse me, but I see that this troubles you."
"Yes, it is a very serious matter, Monsieur Lopukhóf. To leave home against the will of her parents; that of course means to bring about a great quarrel. But that, as I told you, was of no consequence. If she were running away merely from their folly and cruelty, the matter could be arranged with them some way or other; if worst came to worst, we could give them some money, and they would be satisfied. That's nothing. But when such a mother forces a bridegroom on her daughter, it means that the bridegroom is rich, a very profitable investment."
"Of course," said Lopukhóf, in a perfectly melancholy tone of voice.
"Of course, Monsieur Lopukhóf, he's rich; and it is that which troubles me. In such a case the mother is not going to give in so easily. And do you know the law about parents? In matters of this kind they have full control. They will begin a lawsuit, and carry it out to the bitter end."
Lopukhóf arose.
"And so it remains for me only to ask you to forget all that I have told you."
"No, wait a moment. Allow me at least to justify myself somewhat before you. Bozhe moï! how mean I must seem in your eyes! That which ought to stir up every honorable person to sympathy and protection; that very thing keeps me back. Oh, what pitiable people we are!"
Indeed, it was sad to look at her. She was not putting it on. It was really painful to her. For a long time her words were disjointed, so confused had she become. Then her thoughts began to become logical, but, whether disjointed or logical, they meant nothing to Lopukhóf. Yes, even he was also confused. He was so occupied with the discovery that she had made for him that he could not heed her explanation in regard to the discovery. After he had given her sufficient time to speak out her mind, he said:—
"All that you have said in your own excuse is idle. I was obliged to remain so as not to seem discourteous, lest you should think that I blamed you or were angry. But I must confess that I did not listen to what you said. Oh, if I did not know that you were right! And how good it would be if you were not right! I would tell her that we could not agree about the terms, or that you did not satisfy me! and that would be the end of it; she and I could hope for some other way of escape. But now what can I tell her?"
Mrs. B. shed tears.
"What can I tell her?" repeated Lopukhóf, as he went down stairs. "What will become of her? What will become of her?" he asked himself as he came out from Galernaïa Street upon the Konno-Gvardeisky Boulevard.
Of course Mrs. B. was not right in that absolute sense of the word in which people are right who try to prove to little children that the moon is not to be seized with the hand. It was very possible, nay, even probable, that through her position in society, through her husband's quite important official connections, if she had seriously desired Viérotchka to live with her, Marya Alekséyevna would not have been able to tear Viérotchka from her hands, without causing serious trouble for herself and her husband, who would have to figure as the official defendants in the law-suit, and this she would have feared. But, nevertheless, Mrs. B. would have to take a good deal of trouble on her shoulders, and would possibly have some disagreeable interviews. It would be necessary in behalf of a stranger to incur obligations to people whose services it would be better to reserve for one's own affairs. Who is compelled, and what reasonable man would want, to act in a different way from Mrs. B.? We haven't the slightest right to blame her. Yes, Lopukhóf was not wrong when he despaired about Viérotchka's escape.
XIV.
Now Viérotchka has been sitting long, long, on the appointed bench, and how often did her heart beat quickly, quickly, when she saw an army cap coming around the corner. "Ah! there he is; my friend!" She jumped up, and ran to meet him.
Maybe he would have regained his courage by the time he had reached the bench; but he was taken unawares, and his face was seen sooner than he anticipated, and so he was caught with a gloomy expression.
"Failure?"
"A failure, my friend."
"But it seemed to be so certain. How did it come to be a failure? "What was the reason, my dear?"
"Let us go home, my friend; I will go with you. We'll talk it over. I will tell you in a few words why it failed: but now let me think; I cannot collect my thoughts yet. We must think up some other plan. Let us not despair; we shall find something."
These last words gave him little hope, but not much.
"Tell me right away; I can't endure to wait. You say, 'Think up some other plan'; then it means that our former plans are impracticable. Can't I be a governess? How poor I am! how unhappy I am!"
"Why deceive you? 'Tis true, you cannot; I wanted to tell you so. But patience, my dear, patience! Be brave. Keep up good heart; whoever keeps up good heart succeeds!"
"Akh! my dear, I keep up good heart, but how hard it is!"
They walked for a few moments in silence. What is it? Why, yes, she is carrying something in her hand under her cloak!
"My dear, you are carrying something; here, let me take it."
"No, no, it's not necessary. It isn't heavy; it's nothing."
Again they go in silence. They go a long way.
"And to think I did not go to sleep till two o'clock out of joy, my friend; and when I went to sleep, what a dream I had! It seemed to me as though I were set free from a stifling cellar, as though I were paralyzed and then cured, and ran out into the field, and so many young girls ran out with me, who, like myself, were set free from stifling cellars, were cured of paralysis; and we were so happy, so happy to run about in the open field! The dream has not been realized; and I did so think that I should not have to go home again!"
"My dear, let me carry your bundle for you, since now I know what it is."
Again they walk in silence. Long they walk in perfect silence.
"My dear, you see as that lady and I tallied the matter over, we came to this conclusion: you cannot leave home without Marya Alekséyevna's consent. 'Tis impossible—no, no, take my arm; I am afraid you are ill!"
"No, it's nothing; only it's stifling under this veil." She drew back the veil. "Now it's all right; I feel better."
"How pale she is!—No, my dear, don't think about what I said. I did not express myself well. We'll arrange everything all right."
"How can we arrange things, my love? You say this only so as to console me. Nothing can be done!"
He has nothing to say. Again they walk in silence.
"How pale, how pale she is!—My dear, there is one way."
"What way, my pet [milui]?"
"I will tell you, my dear; but only when you get a little calmer. You will have to decide about it deliberately."
"Tell me now! I cannot get calm until I know."
"No! now you are too much excited, my dear. Now you could not decide an important question. In a little while. Soon! Here's the front door. Dō svedánya [good by], my dear. As soon as I see that you would give a deliberate answer, I'll tell you."
"When will that be?"
"Day after to-morrow, when I give the next lesson."
"Too long!"
"I will call on purpose to-morrow."
"No, sooner than that!"
"This evening."
"No, I will not let you go! Come in with me now. You say I am not calm; you say I cannot decide. Very well, take dinner with us; you will see that I shall be calm. After dinner mámenka takes a nap, and we can talk."
"But how can I come in? If we come in together, your mámenka's suspicions will be awakened again!"
"Suspicions! what do I care? No, my dear, and for this very reason it would be better for you to come in. We may have been seen, for I walked with my veil up."
"You are right."
XV.
Marya Alekséyevna was greatly surprised to see her daughter and Lopukhóf coming in together. She forthwith proceeded to subject them to the keenest inspection.
"I called to tell you, Marya Alekséyevna, that I have an engagement for day after to-morrow evening, and so I am going to give the lesson to-morrow instead. Permit me to sit down. I am very tired and unwell. I should like to rest."
"Why, what's the matter, Dmitri Sergéitch? Indeed, you look very bad!"
("Is it a love-scrape, or did they meet by chance? If it were a love affair, he'd have been gay. Or can they have fallen in love and quarrelled, because she would not give in to his wishes? Then, of course, he'd have been angry; only, if they'd quarrelled, he wouldn't have escorted her. And then, again, she went straight to her room, she didn't look at him, and there was no signs of a quarrel. No, evidently they must have met by chance. But the deuce knows 'em! Got to watch 'em with both eyes.")
"There is nothing special the matter with me, Marya Alekséyevna; but Viéra Pavlova looked rather pale, or at least I thought so."
"What? Viérotchka? She's often so."
"Well, maybe it only seemed so to me. I must confess that my head swims, it is so full of thoughts."
"Why, what's the matter, Dmitri Sergéitch? You ain't had a fallin' out with you sweetheart, have you?"
"No, Marya Alekséyevna; I am content with my sweetheart! It's her parents that I have to quarrel with."
"What do you mean, bátiushka? Dmitri Sergéitch, how is it possible to quarrel with her parents? I didn't think that of you, bátiushka!"
"It can't be helped, Marya Alekséyevna; it's such a family. They expect a man to do God knows what things beyond his power."
"That's a different thing, Dmitri Sergéitch. You can't satisfy everybody; you've got to set limits, that's a fact. If such is the case, that is, if the quarrel's about money, I can't blame you."
"Allow me to be rude, Marya Alekséyevna; I am so tired that I feel the need of rest in pleasant and estimable society, and such a society I find nowhere except in your house. Permit me to impose myself upon you for dinner to-day, and permit me to give some orders to your Matrióna. It seems to me that Denker's wine-cellar is not very far from here, and his wine is not a God-knows-what kind, but excellent."
Marya Alekséyevna's face, which at the first mention of dinner became black with rage, put off its decided expression when he spoke of Matrióna, and assumed a look of eagerness.
"We will see, golubtchik; will you contribute something towards the dinner? Denker—of course he must have something good."
But the golubtchik, not looking into her face at all, had already taken out his cigar-case, torn off a piece of paper from a letter that had seen long service in it, took out his pencil, and proceeded to write:—
"If I may ask you, Marya Alekséyevna, what kind of wine do you like to drink?"
"I, bátiushka Dmitri Sergéitch, must tell you the truth: I know very little about wines, because I scarcely ever drink; it ain't a woman's business."
"It can be easily seen from your face at a glance that you don't drink. However, be it so, Marya Alekséyevna; even young girls drink maraschino; will you permit me to order it?"
"What kind of wine is that Dmitri Sergéitch?"
"Simple; you might almost say it wasn't wine at all, but only syrup." He took out a "red note" (ten rubles). "There, I guess that'll do!" He ran over his order at a glance. "At all events, I'll make it five rubles more."
("Three weeks' income, a month's support! But it can't be done in any other way. It is necessary to give Marya Alekséyevna a good bribe.")
Marya Alekséyevna's eyes filled with moisture, and involuntarily the sweetest of smiles spread over her face.
"Have you a confectioner near at hand? I wonder if we could find a walnut pirog ready made. According to my taste that's the very best kind of pie, Marya Alekséyevna; but if we can't find any, we'll have to put up with the best we can get."
He went into the kitchen and sent Matrióna to make the purchases.
"Let's have a regular picnic to-day, Marya Alekséyevna. I want to drink away my quarrel with those parents. Why shouldn't we have a picnic, Marya Alekséyevna? I get along first rate with my sweetheart. Shan't we live well, shan't we live happily, Marya Alekséyevna?"
"Yes indeed, bátiushka Dmitri Sergéitch. That's the reason [to-to]; I see that you are so flush with your money, which I never expected of you because you are a man of solid understanding. Evidently you must have had a little advance from your bride's dowry, ain't that so?"
"No, Marya Alekséyevna; but as long as I have money in my pocket, we may as well picnic. What do you mean by the little advance on the dowry? You have to do business in a straightforward way else suspicions'll be aroused. Besides, it is not high-toned, Marya Alekséyevna."
"It ain't high-toned, Dmitri Sergéitch, that's a fact; it ain't high-toned. Accordin' to my idee, one must be high-toned in everything."
"You are right, Marya Alekséyevna."
The half or three-quarters of an hour remaining before dinner time passed in the most amiable conversation of this sort, touching on all sorts of noble sentiments. Dmitri Sergéitch, among other things, declared in a transport of confidence that his marriage would soon take place.
"And how is it about Viéra Pavlovna's marriage?"
Marya Alekséyevna is not able to answer because she is not bringing any pressure upon her daughter. Of course not, but in his opinion Viéra Pavlovna will soon make up her mind to marry; to be sure, she had not told him anything, but he had eyes of his own. "You and I, Marya Alekséyevna, are old sparrows, you know; and we can't be caught with chaff. Though my years aren't so very many, still I'm an old sparrow, a tough roll [kalatch]. Isn't that so, Marya Alekséyevna?"
"Yes, that's so, bátiushka, a tough roll, a tough roll!"
In a word, this pleasant, confidential conversation with Marya Alekséyevna had so enlivened Dmitri Sergéitch that he forgot all about his melancholy. He was livelier than Marya Alekséyevna had ever seen him before. ("What a cute rogue he is! a clever rascal [shelma]! He must have got out of his sweetheart [bride] more than one thousand; and prob'ly her folks found out how he was stuffin' his pockets, and when they went for him, I reckon he tol' 'em:—'No, bátiushka and matushka, I am ready as a son to respect you, but I haven't got any cash, for you.' What a cute rascal, to be sure! It's pleasant to talk with such a man, especially, when finding out that Matrióna has got back you make an excuse to go to your bed-room for a clean handkercher, and peek into the kitchen, and find that she's bought more than twelve rubles' worth of wine. We'll only use a third of it at dinner; and a pirog [pie] which must have cost a ruble and a half. Nu! as far as the pirog goes, you might say 'twas money thrown away. Yet I reckon some o' that'll be left over. It'll be a good thing to treat my cronies with instead of jam. Oh no, it's no loss; it's a gain.")
XVI.
But Viérotchka was sitting in her room.
"Did I do well to make him come in? Mámenka looked so sharply! And what an awkard position I have put him in! How can he stay to dinner? Bozhe moï! what will become of poor me?
"He says there's one way. No, my love, there's no way at all. Yes, there is one way, the window; when it becomes absolutely unendurable, I will throw myself out. How foolish I am! When it becomes unendurable! How is it now? And when you throw yourself out of the window, how quick, quick you fly, not as though you were falling, but as though you really had wings; that must be very delightful. Only—afterwards you strike against the sidewalk—akh! how terribly it must hurt! No, I don't believe you'd have time to feel it; but—only it must be very hard. But it would be over in a twinkling; and then before you struck—how soft the air is—like a feather cushion—it takes you up so gently, so tenderly. No, it must be good. Yes, but what then! Everybody would be gazing; one's skull broken, face torn, in blood, in mud. No, if clean sand could only be scattered over the spot; but down there the sand is all filthy. No, if it were white and clean, it would be good; one's face would not be torn; it would be clean, and not disgust people. And in Paris young girls stifle themselves with coal gas; that's a good idea, a very good idea: but it is not good to jump out of the window. The other's a good way, though. How loud they are talking out there! What are they talking about? No, I can't catch what they are saying. I would leave him a note explaining everything; this is what I told him the other day: 'This is my birthday.' How forward I was! How could I have been so? But then I was foolish, and didn't understand. Yes, how sensible the poor girls are in Paris! Well, can't I be just as sensible? How strange it will be! They'll come into the room; they won't see anything; only there'll be a smell of gas, a greenish tint to the air; they'll be frightened. 'What does this mean? Where is Viérotchka?' Mámenka will scold pápenka: 'What are you standing therefor? Open the window.' They open the window, and see me sitting at my bureau, my head resting on it, and my face in my hands. 'Viérotchka, are you suffocated?' I make no reply. 'Viérotchka, why don't you speak? Akh! she is suffocated!' They'll begin to scream, to weep. Akh! how strange it will be! for them to weep, and for mámenka to begin to tell how she loved me. Yes, but he will be grieved. Well, I'll leave him a note. Yes, I'll think about it, think about it, and do like the poor girls in Paris; if I make up my mind, I shall do it. I'm not afraid! And what is there to be afraid of? It must be so good! But I will wait till he has told me what the plan is that he proposes. But no, there can't be any; he only said so to console me. Why do people try to offer consolation? There's no sense in it at all. Can there be any consolation when there's no help? He is sensible, and yet he does just the same. What did he say so for? There's no sense in it. But what's he talking about? He seems to feel happy. How merry his voice sounds! Has he really thought of some plan? No, there can't be any way whatever. But if he had not thought of something, would he be so happy? What can he have thought of?"
XVII.
"Viérotchka, come to dinner!" shouted Marya Alekséyevna. In fact Pavel Konstantinuitch had returned; the pirog was all ready long ago; it was not the pirog from the confectioner's, but one that Matrióna had made out of the stuffed beef that they had the day before.
"Marya Alekséyevna, do you ever take a glass of vodka before dinner? It's very healthful, especially this kind, made out of bitter oranges; I tell you this as a medical man. Please try it; yes, yes, you must try it! without fail; I, as a doctor, prescribe it for you."
"S'pose I'll have to hearken a doctor; so I'll try half a glass of it."
"No, Marya Alekséyevna; half a glass won't do you any good."
"And how about yourself, Dmitri Sergéitch?"
"I'm growing old, Marya Alekséyevna; I've become steady. I swore off."
"Well, it does kinder warm one through."
"That's where the good comes in, Marya Alekséyevna; it gives you new warmth."
("How gay he is! Is there really something in prospect? And how on earth did he manage to become so friendly with her? And he does not even look at me. Akh! how shrewd he is!")
They sat down to table.
"Now, here we must drink a health to Pavel Konstantinuitch. Let us drink it with this. Ale—it's just the same thing as beer, not any stronger than beer. Try it, Marya Alekséyevna."
"If, as you say, it's beer, why, there's no reason not to drink beer."
("Gospodi (Heavens)! what a lot of bottles! Akh! how silly I am. That's the way she got to be so friendly!")
("What a cunning rascal he is! He himself don't drink. He only touches his ale with his lips! But what excellent ale! It tastes better nor kvas, and it's strong; its got a very good strength. When I get her married off to Mishka, I'll give up vodka and drink nothing but ale. Nu! this fellow'll never loose his head in drink! If he'd only give in to it, the villain! But then, it's for my advantage! I reckon if he wanted to drink tea, he'd drink enough!) You'd ought to drink some yourself, Dmitri Sergéitch."
"Eh! in my day we used to drink a good deal, Marya Alekséyevna. I drank enough to last a long time. When I had no luck, and no money, I used to get drunk; but now I have enough to do, and enough money, I don't need wine; I feel gay enough without it."
And so the entire dinner passed off. They bring on the confectioner's piroq.
"My dear Matrióna Stepanóvna, what goes well with this?"
"I'll bring it right in, Dmitri Sergéitch;" and Matrióna hurries back with a bottle of champagne.
"Viéra Pavlovna, you and I have not taken anything yet; now let us drink 'to the health of my bride and your bridegroom!'"
"What does he mean? Does he really mean that?" thinks Viérotchka.
"May God grant your bride and Viérotchka's bridegroom all happiness," says Marya Alekséyevna; "and to us old folks may He grant to see Viérotchka's wedding right soon!"
"Never you fear; you won't have long to wait, Marya Alekséyevna.—Isn't that so, Viéra Pavlovna? Da!"
"Does he really mean what he says?" thinks Viérotchka.
"Certainly [da]! Viéra Pavlovna; of course she means to marry him! Just say 'yes.'"
"Yes," says Viérotchka.
"That's right, Viéra Pavlovna; why should you keep your mámenka waiting and doubting? 'Yes,' and that settles it. And now we must drink another toast to Viéra Pavlovna's approaching wedding. Drink it, Viéra Pavlovna; don't be afraid! it will be all right. Let us clink glasses 'to your approaching nuptials!'"
They clink glasses.
"God grant it! God grant it! [daï Bog! daï Bog!] Thank you, Viérotchka; you make happy, Viérotchka, in my old age," says Marya Alekséyevna, wiping away her tears. The English ale and the maraschino had brought her into a sentimental state of mind.
"Daï Bog! daï Bog!" echoed Pavel Konstantinuitch.
"How pleased we are with you, Dmitri Sergéitch," says Marya Alekséyevna after dinner was over; "yes, indeed we are pleased. You have been our guest and yet you have treated us! Well, we can well say that you have given us a holiday's entertainment!" Her eyes had a far pleasanter expression than the impudent one that they generally wore.
Not everything results as cleverly as it is cleverly planned. Lopukhóf had not dared to hope for such a result when he bought the wine; he only intended to give Marya Alekséyevna a bribe, so that he might not lose her good will by having invited himself to stay to dinner. Would she have drunk so much before a stranger, even though they had common sympathies, unless she trusted him? But is there any one whom she would trust! And in fact she herself had not intended to yield so soon to the temptation. She meant to postpone her main share in the enjoyment of the good things till after tea. But every human being has his weakness; she could have withstood the vodka and other familiar drinks, but ale and other attractions of the sort led her astray through inexperience.
The dinner passed off in very formal and baronial style, and therefore Marya Alekséyevna ordered Matrióna to set on the samovar, as is customary after baronial dinners. But only she herself and Lopukhóf availed themselves of this luxury. Viérotchka declared that she didn't want any tea, and she went right to her room. Pavel Konstantinuitch, like an ignorant boor, went off to take his nap, as he always did after dinner. Dmitri Sergéitch drank deliberately, and when he had finished one cup, he asked for another. Here Marya Alekséyevna began to feel a bit queer; she excused herself by saying that she had not been well since early morning; the guest begged her not to stand on ceremony and she left him to himself. He drank a second cup and a third, and took a nap in his chair; must have dozed some time, "like our golden one [zoloto]," as Matrióna expressed; and the golden one was already snoring. It must have been her snoring that wakened Dmitri Sergéitch, after Matrióna went into the kitchen for good and all, taking with her the samovar and the cups.
XVIII.
"Forgive me, Viéra Pavlovna," said Lopukhóf, coming into her room. How gently he speaks, and his voice trembles; but at dinner he spoke loud, and he did not call her my dear, but Viéra Pavlovna. "Forgive me for having been impertinent. You know what I said: yes, a husband and wife cannot be separated. Then you are free."
He took her hand and kissed it.
"My dearest, you saw that I wept when you came in; it was out of joy."
Lopukhóf kissed her hand; many times he kissed her hand.
"Here, my dearest, you are freeing me from the cellar; how clever and kind you are. How did you happen to think about it?"
"It was when we first danced together, that I thought about it."
"My dearest, I thought then that you were kind. You are giving me liberty, my dearest. Now I am ready to suffer, now I know that I am leaving the cellar; now it will not be so suffocating for me, now I know that I am already leaving it; but how shall I leave it, my dearest?"
"This is the way, Viérotchka. It is now the end of April. At the beginning of July my work at the medical school will be over. I must graduate, so that we can have the means to live, and then you shall leave your cellar. Endure it only three months, or even less; you shall get out. I shall have the position of surgeon. The salary is not over large; but no matter, I shall have some practice; as much as will be necessary, and we shall get along."
"Akh! my dearest, we shall need but very little. But I do not want it to be so; I do not want to live at your expense. You see I am earning something now by giving lessons; but I shall lose them then, for mámenka will tell everybody that I am an abomination. But I shall find other pupils. I shall begin to live. Now isn't that the right way? Don't you see that I mustn't live at your expense?"
"Who gave you that idea, my dearest friend, Viérotchka?"
"Akh! and now he is asking me who gave me that idea. Why, weren't you yourself always saying this very thing? And in your books—fully half of them say so!"
"In the books? Did I say so? When was it, Viérotchka?"
"Akh! when was it indeed! and who told me that money lay at the root of all things? Who told me that, Dmitri Sergéitch?"
"Well, what of that?"
"And you think that I am such a foolish young girl that I cannot draw a conclusion from premises, to use the words of your books?"
"Well, what conclusions? My dearest friend, Viérotchka, you are talking God-knows-what nonsense."
"Akh! smarty! he wants to be a despot; he wants me to become his slave! no indeed, this cannot be. Dmitri Sergéitch, do you understand?"
"Then you tell me, and I shall understand."
"Money lies at the root of all things, you say, Dmitri Sergéitch; whoever has the money has the might and the right, say your books; consequently, so long as a woman lives at her husband's expense, she will be dependent upon him; isn't that so, Dmitri Sergéitch? You supposed that I did not understand it; that I was going to be your slave. No, Dmitri Sergéitch, I am not going to allow you to be a despot over me! You want to be a benevolent, kind despot, but I will not allow it; but I do not want it to be so, Dmitri Sergéitch! Now, my mílenki [darling], how else can we live? You will cut off people's hands and legs, you will make them drink miserable mixtures, and I will give piano-lessons. And how else should we live?"
"That's right, that's right. Let every one preserve his independence from everybody with all his might, no matter how he loves him, how he trusts him! Whether you will carry out what you propose or not, I do not know; but it makes very little difference: whoever makes up his mind to do a thing of this sort has already built his fort; he already feels that he can get along by himself; that he can refuse the help of others, if necessary, and this feeling is almost enough of itself. What queer people we are, Viérotchka! You say, 'I do not want to live at your expense,' and I am praising you for it! Who else says such things, Viérotchka?"
"No matter if we are queer, my mílenki; what do we care? We shall live according to our own style; it is better for us. How else should we live, mílenki?"
"Viéra Pavlovna, I have proposed to you my ideas about one side of our life; you have condescended to overthrow them altogether with your plan. You have called me a tyrant and a slave-holder; now be kind enough to think yourself how the other parts of our relations shall be arranged. I count it idle to give you the benefit of my thoughts, lest they should be destroyed by you in the same way. My friend, Viérotchka, tell me yourself how we ought to live; in all probability, there will be nothing left for me to say but this, 'My dear [móya milia], how very wise your ideas are!'"
"What is that? Do you mean to give me a compliment? You want to be very polite; but I know too well how people flatter so as to reign under a mask of humility. I beg of you to speak more simply hereafter. My dear [milui moï], you are praising me to death. I am ashamed, my dear; don't praise me, lest I become too proud."
"Very good, Viéra Pavlovna; I will begin to say rough things to you if you like that better. There is so little femininity in your nature, Viéra Pavlovna, that most likely you have nothing but men's thoughts."
"Akh! my dearest, what does that word 'femininity' mean? I understand that a woman speaks in a contralto voice,—a man, in a baritone; but what of that? Is it worth while to bother about our contralto voices? Is it worth while to ask us about such things? Why do people keep telling us that it is our duty to remain feminine? Isn't it a piece of nonsense, dear?"
"It is nonsense, Viérotchka, and a very great piece of triviality."
"So, then, my dear, I shall not bother myself about femininity; now listen, Dmitri Sergéitch, I am going to express in absolutely masculine fashion the way that I think we ought to live. We shall be friends; only I wish to be your principal friend. Akh! I have never told you how I dislike this dear Kirsánof of yours!"
"You must not, Viérotchka; he is a very fine man!"
"But I hate him! I shall forbid your seeing him!"
"That is a fine beginning! She is so afraid of my despotism that she wants to make a doll of her husband. And how can I help seeing him when we live together?"
"You are always sitting together like lovers!"
"Of course. At breakfast and at dinner. When one's hands are always occupied, it is hard to use them like lovers' hands."
"And you are always inseparable!"
"Most likely. He is in his room and I in mine; that means almost inseparable."
"And if that is so, why shouldn't you stop seeing him altogether?"
"Well [da], we are friends; sometimes we want to talk, and we talk, and so far we haven't been burdensome to each other."
"You are always sitting together, hugging and disputing. I hate him."
"What makes you think so, Viérotchka? We have never quarrelled. We live almost separately; we are friends, to be sure; but what of that?"
"Akh! my dearest, how I deceived you, how cleverly I deceived you. You did not want to tell me how we should live together, and yet you have told me everything! How I deceived you! Listen: this is the way we should live according to your idea. In the first place, we shall have two rooms, yours and mine, and then a third room where we shall drink tea, take dinner, receive guests who come to call on both of us! and not on you alone, and not on me alone. In the second place, I must not dare to enter your room lest I bother you. You see Kirsánof does not dare to interrupt you, and so you do not quarrel with him. And it will be the same with mine. That is the second. Now there is a third! Akh! my dearest, I forget to ask you about it. Does Kirsánof interfere with your affairs, or you with his? Have you a right to ask each other about anything?"
"Eh! now I see why you mention Kirsánof; I shall not tell you!"
"No! but I dislike him for all this; and you need not tell me, for it's not necessary. I myself know. You have no right to ask each other about anything. And so, in the third place, I shall have no right to ask you about anything, my dear. If it is necessary for you to tell me about any of your affairs, you will tell me yourself, and vice versa. Here are three rules. What more more is there?"
"Viérotchka, your second rule demands explanations. We shall see each other at tea or dinner in our neutral room. Now imagine such an occasion as this: We have drunk our tea in the morning, I am sitting in my room, and do not dare to show my nose in yours; consequently, I cannot see you till dinner time; isn't that so?"
"Of course."
"Excellent! An acquaintance of mine comes and says, that at two o'clock another acquintance will call on me, but it happens my business calls me away at one. May I ask you to tell that acquaintance who is coming at two the proper answer? may I ask you whether you intend to remain at home?"
"Of course you may. Whether I will undertake it is another question! If I refuse, you have no right to claim it of me; you have no right to even ask why I refuse. But to ask whether I will consent to do you that little service—you shall have that right."
"Excellent! But at breakfast I did not know that he was coming, and I shall not dare to enter your room; how then can I ask the question?"
"O bozhe! how simple he is! a little child! Just listen to him! How he misunderstands me! This is the way you must do, Dmitri Sergéitch. You shall enter the neutral room and say, 'Viéra Pavlovna!' I shall answer from my room, 'What do you want, Dmitri Sergéitch.' You will reply, 'I am going out. In my absence Mr. A. will call (of course you will give me your friend's name); I have some news to tell him; may I ask you, Viéra Pavlovna, to tell him that?' If I answer 'no' our conversation is at an end; but if I say 'yes' I shall come out into the neutral room, and you shall tell me what you want me to tell your friend. Now, my dear little child, you know, don't you, how it will be necessary to act?"
"Yes, my dear Viérotchka, jesting aside, it is much better to live in the way that you propose. Only, who in the world put such ideas into your head? I know them, and I remember where I have read of such things; but such books never come into your hands. In the books which I let you have there were no such ideas. Did you hear them? from whom? I was almost the first person whom you ever met from among respectable people."
"Akh! my dear, is it so very hard to think out such things? I have seen family life,—I am not speaking about my family; my family is so peculiar,—but I have friends, and I have been in their homes. Bozhe moï! what disagreeable scenes between husbands and wives; you cannot imagine them, my dear!"
"Nu! I have no trouble in imagining them, Viérotchka."
"Do you know how it seems to me, my dear? People ought not to live the way they do: always together, always together! They ought not to see each other except on business, or when they come together to rest or have a good time. I am always looking and thinking, why is everybody so polite to strangers? Why do all people try to appear better than they are in their own families? And in fact, before strangers they are better. Why is it? Why do they treat their own people worse than they do strangers, though they love them more? Do you know, my dear, that there is one favor that I want to ask of you,—to treat me as you have always treated me. This has not hindered you from loving me; after all, you and I have been nearer to each other than all the rest. How have you always acted towards me? Have you ever answered rudely? have you ever spoken unkindly? Never! People ask how it is possible to be rude to a woman or a girl who is a stranger; how is it possible to speak harshly to her? So far, so good, my dear; now I am your bride; I am going to be your wife, but you must always treat me as they say it is right to treat a stranger: this, my dear, seems to be better than all else for preserving harmony, for preserving love. So, my dear!"
"I don't know what to think of you, Viérotchka. This is not the first time that you have surprised me."
"My dear [mílenki moï], you want to flatter me to death. No, my friend, it is not as difficult to understand as it may seem to you. Such thoughts are not peculiar to me alone, my dear; they are held by a good many girls and young women, even such simpletons as I am. Only it is impossible for them to tell their bridegrooms or their husbands what they think; they know that if they did, it would be said that they were immoral. I fell in love with you, my dear, because you don't think so. Do you know when I began to love you? It was when we talked together the first time, my birthday; when you said that women were poor, and to be pitied: it was then that I fell in love with you."
"And when did I fall in love with you? That very same day? Do you suppose it was on that very same day when I told you that?"
"How strange you are, dearest [mílenki]! You said that I couldn't guess; but if I should guess, you would begin to praise me again."
"But try to guess for all that!"
"Well, of course it was when I asked whether it was not possible to arrange things so that all people could live comfortably."
"I must kiss your hand again in payment for that, Viérotchka."
"That'll do, my dear; I do not like the habit of kissing women's hands."
"Why not, Viérotchka?"
"Akh! my dear, you yourself know why. What is the good of asking me? Don't ask such questions, my mílenki!"
"Yes, my friend, that is true; one should not ask such questions: it is wrong. I'll ask you only when I do not really know what you mean; and you meant that nobody's hand should be kissed."
Viérotchka laughed heartily.
"Now I forgive you, because I have succeeded in laughing at you. You see, you wanted to examine me, and you yourself did not know the principal reason why it is not well. Nobody's hands should be kissed; that's true: but that was not what I was talking about; not the general rule, but only about the impropriety of a man kissing a woman's hand. This, my dear, ought to be very offensive to a woman; it shows that she is not looked upon as an equal. Women think that a man cannot lower self-respect before a woman; that she is already so much lower than he is, that no matter how much he lowers himself before her, still he does not come down to her level, but is far higher than she is. But you do not think this way, my dear; why, then should you kiss my hand. But listen to what I think, my mílenki, as though we had never been bridegroom and bride."
"Yes, that is true, Viérotchka; it looks very little like it. But what are we then?"
"God knows what we are, my mílenki; or rather it's this way: as though we had been married, long, long ago."
"That's so, my dear, it is true; we are old friends, nothing has changed."
"Only one thing has changed, my mílenki: that now I know that I am coming out from the cellar to enjoy freedom."
XIX.
Thus they talked,—rather a strange conversation for the first one after their engagement,—and they pressed each other's hands, and Lopukhóf went home by himself, and Viérotchka locked the door after him, because Matrióna remained sitting longer than usual in the dining-room, hoping that her "golden one" would snore for a long time to come; and, in fact, her golden one did snore for a long time to come.
When Lopukhóf reached home about seven o'clock he tried to apply himself to work, but he could not collect his thoughts. His mind was occupied not with his work, but he was constantly occupied with the same visions that came to him during the lone walk from the Semyonovsky bridge to the Vuiborgsky ward: naturally with visions of love. Certainly with such visions, but yet not entirely with love and not entirely with visions. The life of a man without means has its prosaic interests, and it was about them that Lopukhóf was also thinking: that is to be taken for granted. He is a materialist, and therefore he thinks only about his interests, and in point of fact, he was all the time thinking about his own interests. Instead of lofty, poetical, and plastic imaginations, such love imaginations as are proper for a coarse materialist occupied his time.
"A sacrifice—, it will be almost impossible to get this out of her head, and this is bad. When you think that you are specially indebted to a person, your relations to this person are apt to be somewhat strained, and she may find this out. Friends may explain to her what a career was before me; and even if friends do not explain this to her, she will find it out for herself. She will say, 'My dear, here you have given up for my sake the career which you anticipated.' Well, I don't mean money, for neither my friends nor she herself will think that I care about that. Well, it's a good thing that she will not say to herself, 'He remained for my sake in poverty when otherwise he might have been rich.' This she will not think; but she may learn that I longed for scientific fame, and that I might have won it. But she will find something to worry about: 'Akh! what a sacrifice he made for my sake!' And I never thought of making a sacrifice; I was never so foolish as to make sacrifices, and I hope I never shall be. I have done what was for my best good. I am not a man to offer sacrifices; and there are no such men in existence. It is a false term; a sacrifice is equivalent to such nonsense as 'top-boots with soft-boiled eggs!' One acts in the way that's most agreeable; now just go ahead and preach this. It is accepted in theory, but when the hard fact comes before a person, he is humiliated. 'You,' he says, 'are my benefactor,' and already the blade has shown itself. 'You,' he says, 'have rescued me from the cellar. How kind you are to me!' Why should I have bothered to set you free, if I myself had not liked to do it? Is it I who set you free, think you? Do you think that I should take all this trouble, unless it had afforded me myself some satisfaction? Maybe I have set myself free; of course. I have. I myself want to live, want to love; do you understand? I am doing everything for myself. Now, how can I manage so as not to arouse this pernicious feeling of gratefulness which would be so trying to her? Well, we'll manage it somehow. She is sensible, and will understand that it is a mere bagatelle. Of course, I did not intend to act this way; I intended to act otherwise. I thought that if she succeeded in leaving her family, we would postpone the thing about two years. In the meantime, I should have succeeded in getting a professorship; my finances would, by that time, have been satisfactory: but it has proved to be impossible. Well, what loss has it been to me? Did I have myself in view when it seemed to me that my money matters must be in order beforehand? What does a man need? A man does not need anything. If he has boots, if he is not out at elbows, if he has shchi [cabbage soup], if he has a warm room, what more does he want? And all this I have; consequently, what loss shall I have? But for a young and pretty woman that is not enough!
"She must have pleasures; she must succeed in society; and for this there will not be money enough. Of course she will not think that she is deprived of these things; she is a sensible, virtuous girl. She will say to herself: 'These things are trifles; it's all nonsense, and I despise them.' And she will despise them. But does it help when a person does not know what he is deprived of, or is even assured that he is not in need of anything. It is an illusion, a fancy. Nature is deadened by reason, circumstances, pride, and is silent, and does not speak aloud about itself to the understanding; and yet while it is silent, it works and undermines life. A young woman, especially a pretty young woman, must not live in that way; it is not agreeable to be dressed worse than others, and to be prevented from shining by being scrimped in means. I am sorry for you, my poor little girl; I thought that something better would be arranged for you. But what do I care? It is my gain. It is a question whether she would consent to marry me two years hence, and now she does."
"Dmitri, come and drink your tea!"
"I am coming."
Lopukhóf went into Kirsánof's room, and on the way he had time to think: "And how true it is that I am always on the first floor! I began with self and ended with self. And why did I begin by calling it a sacrifice? What nonsense! as though I gave up my scientific reputation! as though I gave up my professorship! Is it not all the same? I shall work in the same way; I shall get a professorship just the same, and likewise I shall serve the cause of medicine. It is pleasant to a man who is a theorist to observe how egotism plays with his ideas when he comes to put them into practice."
I intend to forewarn the reader about all things, and therefore I shall tell him not to suppose that this monologue spoken by Lopukhóf contains a mysterious hint on the part of the author as to some important motive in the further development of the relations between Lopukhóf and Viéra Pavlovna. Viéra Pavlovna's life will not be undermined by being deprived of the means of shining in society and of dressing expensively; and her relations to Lopukhóf will not be demoralized by a "pernicious feeling of gratefulness." I am not one of those artists in whose every word is hidden some kind of a spring. I am only relating what people have done and thought. If any kind of an action, conversation, monologue, is necessary for the characterizing of a person or a situation, I relate it, even though it may respond with no results in the further development of my story.
"Now, Aleksandr, you must not complain because I am behind you in our work. I shall be ahead of you."
"Why? Are you through with that young woman's affair?"
"I am."
"Is she going to be a governess at the B.s'?"
"No, she is not going to be a governess. It has been arranged otherwise. She will now be able for a while to live a tolerable life in her own family."
"Well, that's good. It is pretty tough to be a governess. And now, brother, I am done with the optic nerve and I am going to take up the next pair, and how far have you got along?"
"I shall have to finish the work at—." And here came a series of anatomical and physiological terms.
XX.
"It is now the twenty-eighth of April; he said that he should be through by the first of July. Let us say the tenth; but that is not the first. Well, we can take the tenth; or, so as to get nearer, I'll suppose it's the fifteenth. No, I'll take the tenth, after all. Now, how many days are left? To-day should not be counted; there are only five hours of it left. There are two days more in April; May, thirty-one, and two make thirty-three; June, thirty, and thirty-three makes sixty-three; in July ten days; altogether it makes seventy-three. Is that much? Only seventy-three days, and then—freedom! I shall get out of this cellar. Akh! how happy I am! My mílenki! I how cleverly he thought it all out! How happy I am!"
This was on Sunday evening. On Monday came a lesson given instead of Tuesday.
"My dear, my beloved![7] how glad I am to be with you, if only for a minute! Do you know how many days there are left for me to be in this cellar? When will you be done? Will you be done by the tenth of July?"
"Yes, Viérotchka."
"Then I shall have to sit in this cellar only seventy-two days and this evening. One day I have marked off already. See I have made a little calendar just as boarding-school girls and boys do, and I cross off the days. How delightful it is to cross them off!"
"My dear little Viérotchka, my dear![8] Indeed, you have not long to worry along here; two months and a half will quickly pass, and you will be free."
"Akh! how delightful it will be! Only just at present, my dearest,[9] don't always talk with me, and don't look at me; and we must not play on the piano every time you come, either. And I shall not come out of my room every time that you come here; no, I shall not have enough strength of mind for that. I shall come out always, if only for one minute; and I shall look at you so coldly; not fondly at all. And now I am going right away to my room. Good by, my dear.[10] When?"
"Thursday."
"Three days; how long! But then there will be only sixty-eight days left."
"Count less; about the seventh you will be able to get away from here."
"The seventh? Then it is now only sixty-eight days. How happy you have made me! Good by, my dear."
Thursday.—"My dearest,[9] there are only sixty-six days to stay here."
"Yes, Viérotchka; the time flies fast." "Fast? No, my dear. Akh! how long the days seem! Sometimes it seemed to me as though a whole month had dragged along while these three days were passing. Good by, my dearest,[11] we must not talk long; aren't we shrewd? yes? Good by. Akh! only sixty-six remain for me to sit in the cellar.—Hm! hm! it is not so noticeable, of course; when one is at work, time flies. And then I am not in a cellar. Hm! hm! da!"
Saturday.—"Akh! my dearest,[12] only sixty-four days are left. Akh! how gloomy it is here! These two days have seemed longer than those three days. Akh! how gloomy! How miserable it is here; if you only realized it, my dear.[13] Good by, my dear, my sweetheart,[14] till Tuesday; and these three days will seem longer than the last five. Good by, my dear.—Hm! hm! da! hm! her eyes look badly. She does not like to weep. This is not well. Hm! da!"
Tuesday.—"Akh! my dearest,[12] I gave up counting the days. They don't pass,—they don't pass at all."
"Viérotchka, my little friend, I have a favor to ask of you. We must have a nice little talk together. You are anxiously longing for freedom. Well, give yourself a little freedom; we must have a talk together."
"Yes, we must, moï mílenki, we must."
"Then I will ask you how this suits you. What time will it be most convenient for you to-morrow; it does not make the least difference what time, only tell me; be again on that bench of the Konno- Boulevard. Will you?"
"I will be there, moï mílenki, without fail. At eleven o'clock; is that right?"
"Very well; thank you, little friend."
"Good by, my dearest.[11] Akh! how glad I am that you have thought about it! How was it that I, myself, foolish little thing that I am, did not think about it? Good by. We will talk; at all events, I shall breathe the fresh air. Good by, mílenki. At eleven o'clock, without fail."
Friday.—"Viérotchka, where are you going?"
"I, mámenka?"
Viérotchka blushed.
"To the Nevsky Prospekt, mámenka."
"Then I am going with you, Viérotchka; I have an errand at the Gostinui Dvor. What did you put on such a dress as that for, Viérotchka, when you say you are going to the Nevsky. You ought to put on a better one when you are going to the Nevsky; folks'll see you."
"I like this dress. Just wait one second, mámenka; I want to get just one thing out of my room."
They start; they go. They reached the Gostinui Dvor. They were going along the block that runs parallel with Sadovaïa Street; they are not far from the Nevsky corner, and here is Ruzanof's shop.
"Mámenka, I have two words to tell you."
"What is the matter with you, Viérotchka?"
"Good by, mámenka. I don't know whether we shall meet again soon. If you don't get angry, it'll be to-morrow."
"What is it, Viérotchka? I cannot understand it, somehow?"
"Good by, mámenka; I am going to my husband. Dmitri Sergéitch and I were married three days ago. Drive to Karavannaïa Street, Izvoshchik."
"A quarter, lady."
"All right; only be quick about it. He will call upon you this evening, mámenka; and don't get angry with me, mámenka."
These words hardly reached Marya Alekséyevna's ears.
"Don't drive to Karavannaïa Street; I only said so as to get away from that lady as quickly as I could. Go to the left[15] down Nevsky. I must go much further than Karavannaïa Street, to the Vasilyevsky Island, the fifth block behind the Middle Prospekt. Drive fast; I will give you a good fee."
"Akh! lady, you were pleased to fool me. You'll have to give me half a ruble."
"If you drive fast."
XXI.
The wedding had been managed in simple, and yet far from common fashion.
Two days after the conversation which resulted in their engagement, Viérotchka was delighted at her approaching freedom. On the third day the "cellar," as she called it, seemed twice as intolerable as before; on the fourth day she wept, which was contrary to her liking, but she did not weep much; on the fifth day she wept more; on the sixth day she did not weep at all, but she could not sleep from sorrow.
Lopukhóf looked on, then he spoke the monologue beginning "Hm! hm!" He looked a second time and spoke the monologue "Hm! hm! da, hm!" At the first monologue he had a dim suggestion of an idea, but he was not sure what it was; at the second monologue he saw plainly in his mind what he imagined at the first. "It does not do to offer a person freedom and then leave him in prison." After that he thought steadily for two hours,—an hour and a half on his way from Semyonovsky bridge to Vuiborgsky, and half an hour on his sofa. The first quarter of an hour he thought without wrinkling his forehead; the remaining hour and three quarters he wrinkled his forehead; at the end of the two hours he struck his forehead, and using worse words than Gogol's postmaster Telyatin (the calf), looked at his watch, and saying, "Ten o'clock, yes, there is time yet" left the room.
During the first quarter of an hour, when his brow was smooth, this was what he thought, "It's all nonsense; why should I graduate? I shall not be ruined if I don't get a diploma, and it is not necessary. By lessons and translations I shall not make less; I shall make even more than if I had become a doctor; bagatelles!"
Consequently there was no need of wrinkling his brow; to tell the truth, the task did not appear to be of a head-splitting nature, partly because that from the first lesson he had anticipated something in the nature of his present resolution. He now perceived this. And if any one had reminded him of his arguments that began with the theme 'sacrifice' and ended with the thought of fine dresses, one might have proved to him that something in the nature of these circumstances was anticipated from that very time, because otherwise there would be no sense in the words "to renounce my scientific career." At that time it seemed to him that he was not going to renounce it, but instinct was already saying, "Renounce it; there will be no postponement!" And if any one had proved to Lopukhóf, as to a practical thinker, that there was no ground then for his renunciation, he would have triumphed as a theoretical man, and would have said: "Now here is a new example for you of how egotism rules our thoughts (for I ought to have seen, but I did not see, for I was trying to look in another direction), and rules our actions; for why did I make the girl stay in her 'cellar' a week longer, when the matter ought to have been foreseen and provided for long ago?"
But he remembered nothing of that kind, and it did not occur to him because he had to wrinkle his forehead, and while wrinkling it to think for an hour and three-quarters on the question, "Who will marry us?" and there was only one answer all the time, "There is no one to marry us." But suddenly in place of the answer, "No one to marry us," the name of Mertsálof came into his head; then it was that he struck himself on the forehead and swore with good reason. "How is it possible that I did not think of Mertsálof at the very beginning?" And to a certain degree he was wrong in his wonder; he was not accustomed to think of Mertsálof as of a man who marries.
In the medical school there are a good many people of all kinds; there are among them some seminarists; these men have acquaintances in the theological seminary, and through them Lopukhóf had also made acquaintances there. One of the students whom he knew at the theological seminary—not an intimate, but a friend—had graduated a year ago and had become a priest, and was living in a certain building with endless corridors on the Vasilyevsky Island. To him Lopukhóf went, and as it was an extra occasion and a late hour, he took an izvoshchik.
Mertsálof was sitting alone in his room, and was reading some new book—possibly by Louis XIV., or some one else of the same dynasty.
"Such and such is the state of things, Alekséi Petróvitch: I know that it is a very serious risk for you to undertake; it is right enough if we get reconciled with the parents, but suppose they begin a law-suit? There may be some trouble for you, and there probably will be; but—"
Lopukhóf could not find in his mind anything to attach to his "but," for how in the world can you persuade a man to put his neck for your sake into a noose?
Mertsálof was also in a quandary, and tried hard to find a "but" which would authorize him to run such a risk, and he had no better success in getting beyond the "but."
"How can we arrange this matter? I should certainly like to. What you are doing now, I did a year ago, and I gave up my liberty just as you are going to do! I have some scruples, but I must help you out of it. Yet when one has a wife, it is rather dangerous to go ahead without precaution."
"How are you? good evening, Alósha: all my people send their best regards to you. How are you, Lopukhóf; we haven't seen you for a long time. What is this that you are speaking here about a wife? Oh, yes, the wives are always to blame!"
This was said by a young married woman of about seventeen who had just come in from a visit to her parents; she was a pretty and lively blondinka.
Mertsálof told his wife about the state of things. The young woman's eyes flashed.
"Alósha, they will not eat you up!"
"There is a risk, Natasha!"
"A very large risk," said Lopukhóf in corroboration.
"Well, what can be done? you must run the risk, Alósha, I beg of you."
"If you will not blame me, Natasha, for not taking you into account in running into this danger, then that settles it. When do you want to got married, Dmitri Sergéitch?"
In point of fact all hindrances were set aside. On Monday morning Lopukhóf said to Kirsánof:—
"Do you know, Aleksandr, that I am going to make you a present of my half of our work. Take my papers and preparations; I give it all up; I am going to leave the medical school; this is my last request! I am going to be married!"
Lopukhóf told him the whole story in a few words.
"If you were stupid or I were stupid, I should tell you, Dmitri, that this is the way that insane men act. But now I shall not say any such thing. All the objections that I could raise you must have thought over more than I have done. And even if you have not thought them over, it does not make any difference. Whether you are acting foolishly or wisely I do not know, but at least I shall not attempt to act so foolishly as to dissuade you, when I know that your mind is made up. Can I be of any service or not?"
"I want to find an apartment somewhere in an inexpensive neighborhood—three rooms; and I must make application to get my medical school papers right away, to-morrow, if possible; so you will look us up a house."[16]
On Tuesday Lopukhóf got his papers, went to Mertsálof and said that the wedding would be on the next day. "At what time would be most convenient for you, Alekséi Petróvitch?"
It makes no difference to Alekséi Petróvitch, as he stays at home all day. "I think, though, that I shall have time to send Kirsánof to let you know."
On Wednesday, at eleven o'clock, Lopukhóf went to the boulevard, and after waiting for some time for Viérotchka began to get worried; but here she is, all out of breath.
"Viérotchka, my dear [drūg moï], has anything happened to you?"
"No, mílenki, nothing; I was late only because I overslept."
"That means—what time did you go to bed?"
"Mílenki, I didn't want to tell you; at seven o'clock, mílenki; but I was thinking all night long; no, it was earlier, it was six!"
"I want to ask you about something, my dear Viérotchka: we must get married soon, mustn't we? so that we may both be comfortable?"
"Yes, mílenki, we must; we must very soon!"
"Then in four days, in three—"
"Akh! if it could be so, mílenki; then you would be a smart boy!"
"In three days I will surely find a house; will buy everything for housekeeping, and then will it be possible for us to live in it together?"
"It will, my golubtchik, it certainly will!"
"But it will be necessary to get married first."
"Akh! I forgot, mílenki, that it was necessary to get married first!"
"Well, we can get married to-day; that was the very thing that I wanted to ask you about."
"Let us go right away and get married; and how have you managed everything? What a bright boy you are, mílenki!"
"I will tell you everything on our way; let us go!"
Here they are! they have passed through the long corridors into the church, they have found the sexton, they have sent for Mertsálof; Mertsálof lived in the house where the endless corridors were.
"Now, Viérotchka, I have to ask of you still another favor. You know that they make young couples kiss each other in church?"
"Yes, my mílenki; only how ridiculous it is!"
"Well, lest it should be too ridiculous then, let us kiss each other now."
"Very well, let us kiss each other; but could it not be done without it?"
"Yes, but it is impossible to get along without it in church; so let us prepare ourselves."
They kissed each other.
"Mílenki, it is well that we have had time to prepare ourselves; here comes the sexton; now it will not seem so ridiculous in church!"
But it was not the sexton who came—the sexton did not come till after the diakŏn; it was Kirsánof, who had been waiting for them at Mertsálof's.
"Viérotchka, this is Aleksandr Matvéitch Kirsánof, whom you do not like, and whom you have forbidden me to meet."
"Viéra Pavlovna, what is the reason that you want to separate our tender hearts?"
"For the very reason that they are tender," said Viérotchka, giving Kirsánof her hand and still smiling; then she fell into thought. "But shall I be able to love him as well as you do? You love him very dearly, don't you?"
"I? I love no one but myself, Viéra Pavlovna!"
"And you don't love him?"
"We have lived together, and we have never quarrelled; isn't that enough?"
"And hasn't he loved you either?"
"I never observed anything of the sort. However, let us ask him.—Have you ever loved me, Dmitri?"
"I never particularly despised you!"
"Well, if that is the case, Aleksandr Matvéitch, I shall not forbid your meeting, and I myself will love you!"
"Now that is much better, Viéra Pavlovna."
"And now, I, too, am ready," said Alekséi Petróvitch, coming in. "Let us go into the church." Alekséi Petróvitch was gay and full of jests; but when the ceremony began, his voice trembled, "Suppose it should result in a lawsuit? Natasha, you must go back to your father; your husband does not support you, and it is a wretched life to have a husband alive, and to live on your father's bread!" However, after several words, he again regained complete control of himself.
When the service was half over, Natalia Andréyevna, or Natasha, as Alekséi Petróvitch called his wife, invited the young people to come to her house after the ceremony; she had prepared a little breakfast. They came in, they laughed, they even danced two quadrilles with two couples: they also waltzed. Alekséi Petróvitch, who could not dance, played the violin for them; an hour and a half flew by quickly and unnoticed. It was a gay wedding.
"I think that they must be waiting dinner for me at home," said Viérotchka, "it is about time.—Now, my mílenki, I shall be able to live three or four days in my cellar without being melancholy, and possibly even more. Why should I worry now? There is nothing for me to fear now. No, don't go home with me; I am going all alone by myself, so as not to be seen by anybody."
"It's all right; they will not eat me up; don't worry, gentlemen," said Alekséi Petróvitch, as he escorted Lopukhóf and Kirsánof to the door, who had remained for a few minutes, so as to give Viérotchka a chance to get out of sight. "I am very glad now that Natasha encouraged me!"
On the following day, after a four days' hunt, a good house was found, at the farther end of the fifth block on the Vasilyevsky Island. Having all in all one hundred and sixty rubles in reserve, Lopukhóf concluded, with his friend, that it would be impossible for him and Viérotchka to think as yet of attempting to keep house, or to have their own furniture and dishes; and therefore they rented three rooms, together with furniture, dishes, and board, from an old man, who quietly spent his days, with a little stock of buttons, ribbons, pins, and other things, at the fence on the Middle Prospekt, between the first and second blocks; while his evenings were passed in quiet conversation with his old woman, who, for her part, spent her days in mending hundreds and thousands of old things of every sort, brought to her in bundles from the Pushing Market. The servants also belonged to the landlord; in other words, they were the landlord and landlady themselves.
All this cost them thirty rubles a month. At that period—ten years ago (1853)—the times were not so hard in Petersburg, judged by the Petersburg standard. With such an arrangement, their means would last for three or even four months. Ten rubles a month is enough for tea, isn't it? and in four months Lopukhóf hoped to find pupils, some kind of literary work, or even some kind of occupation in a mercantile office,—he did not care what. On the very day when the house was found (and, indeed, the house was a very good one; they looked out for that, and therefore they found what they wanted), Lopukhóf, while he was giving his lesson on Thursday, as usual, said to Viérotchka:—
"To-morrow you can come to me, my dear; here is the address. I shall not say anything more now, lest they may notice something."
"My mílenki, you have saved me!"
Now, how to leave the house. Shall they confess what they have done? Viérotchka thought seriously about doing so; but her mother might lay violent hands on her, and might even lock her up. Viérotchka concluded to leave a letter in her room. When Marya Alekséyevna heard that her daughter was going to the Nevsky Prospekt, and said that she was going too, Viérotchka went back to her room, and took the letter; it seemed to her that it was better, more honorable, if she herself told her mother to her face; for on the street her mother would not attempt to beat her, and it would only be necessary to stand at a distance from her while speaking, to take an izvoshchik as soon as possible, and then drive off before she had time to catch her by the sleeve.
In such a manner the effective scene came about at Ruzanof's store.
XXII.
But we have had only one-half of this scene.
For about a moment,—no, rather less,—Marya Alekséyevna, who had suspected nothing of the kind, stood thunder-struck, endeavoring to understand, and absolutely failing to understand, what her daughter had said, what it meant, and how it came about; but it was only for a moment, or even less. She came to herself with a start. She uttered some objurgation or other; but her daughter was already far down the Nevsky. Marya Alekséyevna dashed several steps in her direction. "Must take an izvoshchik." She turned to the sidewalk.
"Izvoshchik!"
"Where do you want to go, lady?" Where did she want to go? she heard her daughter say, "To Karavannaïa Street"; but her daughter turned to the left down the Nevsky. Where does she want to go?
"I want to overtake her yonder, that beast!"
"To ketch some one? Speak sense; where do you want to go? How can I go without any directions? And you hain't given me any idea."
Marya Alekséyevna entirely lost control of herself, and she began to berate the izvoshchik.
"You are drunk, baruina; that's all there is of it," said the izvoshchik, and left her. Marya Alekséyevna ran after him, still scolding, and she shouted at the other izvoshchiks, and she dashed in all directions for some time, and she gesticulated with her hands, and then she went back under the colonnade, and she kicked and she acted like a mad woman; and around her were gathered half a dozen rude fellows, who had been peddling various articles around the columns of the Gostinui Dvor. The fellows were laughing at her, and they exchanged among themselves words of more or less unfavorable character, and they praised her ironically, and they offered her their advice to be calm.
"Ay! da! baruina! how early you managed to get full! lively baruina!"
"Baruina! ah! baruina! buy half a dozen lemons of me; they are good to take when you're tipsy; I'll let thee have them cheap."
"Baruina! ah! baruina! don't listen to him; a lemon won't do you the least good; but go and take a nap."
"Baruina! ah! baruina! you're a good hand at scolding; let's get up a scolding match, and see who'll beat!"
Marya Alekséyevna, not knowing at all what she was about, boxed the ears of one of the nearest of her interlocutors,—a fellow of seventeen, who, not without grace, was stretching out his tongue at her; his hat flew off, and his hair was right at hand. Marya Alekséyevna got her fingers into it. This act roused the rest of her interlocutors into a state of indescribable enthusiasm.
"Ay! baruina! give it to him!" Others shouted:—
"Fyedka! give it back to her in small change!"
But the majority of the interlocutors were on Marya Alekséyevna's side.
"How can Fyedka stand up to her?"
"Give it to him, baruina! knock Fyedka down! He deserves it, the rascal."
A good many spectators had now collected besides the interlocutors, both izvoshchiks, and the clerks of the shops, and the passers-by. Marya Alekséyevna, as though coming to her senses, and with a final mechanical motion pushing away Fyedka's head, started across the street. The enthusiastic praises of her interlocutors accompanied her.
She saw that she was on the way home after she had passed the doors of the "School of Pages"; she took an izvoshchik and reached home in safety. Finding Feódor at the door, she gave him a beating; she rushed to the cupboard; she pounded Matrióna, who came out to see what made the noise; again she rushed to the cupboard; she dashed to Viérotchka's room, then she rushed back again to the cupboard; once more she dashed to Viérotchka's room, and remained there a long time; then she made a tour of all the rooms, scolding, but finding no one on whom to lay her hands. Feódor had run to the rear stairs; Matrióna, who was looking through the crack of Viérotchka's room, frightened out of her wits, ran back when she saw that Marya Alekséyevna was getting up. She lost her head, and could not find her way to the kitchen, but found herself instead under Marya Alekséyevna's bed, where she remained in safety until she was called out under a flag of truce.
Whether it was a long or short period that she was scolding and shouting as she walked through the empty rooms, Marya Alekséyevna could never tell; but it must have been long, because when Pavel Konstantinuitch came from his office, he also had a dose both materially and ideally from Marya Alekséyevna. But as everything must come to an end, Marya Alekséyevna cried out, "Matrióna, let us have dinner!" Matrióna saw that the storm was ended; she crept out from under the bed and got dinner.
At dinner Marya Alekséyevna did not scold at all, but she only growled without any intentions of attacking; but only for her own satisfaction; and afterwards she did not take a nap, but sat down alone and did not speak, but was growling. Then she stopped growling and became absolutely silent; finally she cried out:—
"Matrióna! wake the barin, and tell him to come to me!"
Matrióna, who, while expecting orders, did not dare to go into the dining-room or anywhere else, fulfilled the command. Pavel Konstantinuitch appeared.
"Go to the khozyáïka and tell her that our daughter has married that devil because you wished her to. Tell her, 'It was against my wife's will.' Tell her that you did so, so as to please her ladyship, because you saw that it was not her ladyship's wish. Tell her, 'My wife was alone to blame, and I only carried out your ladyship's will.' Tell her, 'I myself brought them together.' Do you understand or not?"
"I understand you, Marya Alekséyevna. You are very wise in your plan."
"Well then, go along with you! Even if she is eating her dinner, don't mind; call her right out! Bring her from the dinner-table! so long as she does not know the real truth."
The assurance of Pavel Konstantinuitch's words was so impressive that the khozyáïka would have believed him even if he had not possessed the gift of a persuasive tongue. But the impressiveness of this gift was so great that the khozyáïka would have forgiven Pavel Konstantinuitch, even if there had not been substantial proofs that he had constantly acted against his wife, and purposely brought Viérotchka and Lopukhóf together, in order to block the "ignoble marriage" of Mikhaïl Ivanuitch. But how did they get married? Pavel Konstantinuitch was not stingy in giving her a dowry. He had given Lopukhóf five thousand rubles in cash, and he had given the marriage and all its cost at his own expense. Through him the young people had exchanged little notes. They had met at the house of his colleague, the natchalnik Filantyef, "a married man, your ladyship. Although I am a man of little account, the maiden honor of my daughter, your ladyship, is dear to me. They met in my presence; and although we have not money enough to justify giving a boy of the age of ours a tutor, yet I hired one for an excuse, your ladyship," etc., etc. His wife's unreliability Pavel Konstantinuitch depicted in the darkest colors.
How then could she help being convinced and forgiving Pavel Konstantinuitch? And the main thing—what a great and unexpected piece of happiness! Joy softens the heart. The khozyáïka began her speech of forgiveness with a very long explanation of the thoughts and actions of Marya Alekséyevna, and at first asked Pavel Konstantinuitch to send his wife away; but he implored her, and she herself acknowledged, that it was rather for show than because she meant it. Finally it was decided that Pavel Konstantinuitch should retain his place as manager; that they should give up their rooms facing the street and take another suite in the back of the building, on condition that his wife should not dare to show her face in those places on the first dvor where the khozyáïka's eyes might fall; and that she should be obliged to go out of doors, when she went at all, by a staircase that lay far from the khozyáïka's windows. From the twenty rubles a month that had been added to his salary, fifteen rubles should be taken back and five rubles would be left to him for a compensation for the manager's energy in the khozyáïka's interests and towards the expenses of his daughter's wedding.
XXIII.
Marya Alekséyevna had a number of schemes in mind as to the way to act towards Lopukhóf when he should come in the evening. The most revengeful was to hide two dvorniks in the kitchen, who at a given signal should throw themselves on Lopukhóf, and beat him to death. The most pathetic was solemnly to pronounce with her own lips, aided by Pavel Konstantinuitch, a parental curse on their disobedient daughter and on him, their murderer, with an explanation that the curse was valid,—even the earth, as is well known, does not receive the dust of those who are cursed by their parents. But this belonged to the same category of imaginations as the khozyáïka had, in regard to separating Pavel Konstantinuitch from his wife; for such schemes, like any other poetry, have no practical application, properly speaking, except to relieve the heart, by furnishing a framework for endless thoughts in solitude, and for other explanations, when, by and by, she should come to speak about it; as, for example, he or she might have done this or that, and he or she intended to do so, but, owing to his or her kindness, he or she felt grieved to do so.
The plan of beating Lopukhóf and cursing her daughter were the ideal part of Marya Alekséyevna's thoughts and feelings. But the actual part of her mind and soul took a direction not so lofty, but more practical; and this difference is attributable to the inherent weakness of every human being. When Marya Alekséyevna came to her senses, at the gates of the "School of Pages," she comprehended that her daughter had really disappeared, was married, and had left her for good and all; and this fact came before her imagination in the form of the following mental exclamation, "She has robbed me!" And all the way home she kept exclaiming mentally, and sometimes even audibly, "She has robbed me!" And, therefore, while she was detained for several minutes by the process of communicating her grievance to Feódor and Matrióna, through human weakness,—every human being is carried away, by the expression of feeling, to such an extent that he often forgets, in the excitement of the spirit, the interests of the moment,—Marya Alekséyevna ran into Viérotchka's room, peeked into the drawers of her bureau, into her wardrobe; she cast a hasty glance over everything; no, apparently everything is untouched. And then she began to confirm this reassuring impression by a careful examination. The result was that really all her dresses and things remained there, with the exception of a pair of simple gold ear-rings, and an old white mousseline dress, and an old cloak, which Viérotchka wore when she went away. As regarded the practical direction in which Marya Alekséyevna's acts would take, she expected that Viérotchka would give Lopukhóf an inventory of her things, which he would ask for; and she firmly decided that she should give her nothing from among her possessions of gold and the like, that she would give her four of the simplest of her dresses, and some of the thinnest and oldest of her underwear. To give her nothing was impossible, since her noble generosity would not allow it; and Marya Alekséyevna had always been very strict in her observance of noble generosity.
Another question of actual life was her relation to the khozyáïka; we have already seen that Marya Alekséyevna successfully solved the answer to it.
Now, there is a third question, "What can be done with the hussy and the rascal?" that is, with her daughter and her unexpected son-in-law. Curse them? that is not hard: but it is useless, except as a dessert after something substantial. Only how is this substantial something possible? To lodge a complaint, to bring about a lawsuit, to have them arrested! At first, when her feelings were all stirred up. Marya Alekséyevna looked upon this solution of the question from an ideal standpoint, and ideally it seemed to her very delightful. But, in proportion as her blood grew calmer, after the weariness of the storm, the matter began to appear in a different light. Nobody knew better than Marya Alekséyevna that lawsuits are conducted through the agency of money, and money alone; and such cases as charmed her by their ideal beauty are conducted through the agency of large, very large, sums of money, and they are dragged out unendingly, and, after wasting a great deal of money, they often come to nothing in the end.
"What is to be done [tchto dyélat]?" At the final upshot it seemed that there were only two courses to take: to quarrel with Lopukhóf to her heart's content, and to retain Viérotchka's things when he demanded them, and, as a means of doing that, to threaten him with a lawsuit. But she certainly must quarrel to her full sweetness.
But she did not succeed in quarrelling. Lopukhóf came, and began by saying, "Viérotchka and I ask you, Marya Alekséyevna and Pavel Konstantinuitch, to forgive us for taking this step without your consent."
On hearing this, Marya Alekséyevna cried, "I shall curse her, the good-for-nothing!"
But, instead of saying the whole word "good-for-nothing," Marya Alekséyevna had only time to say "good-for-n—," because Lopukhóf interrupted her, in a loud voice: "I shall not listen to your abuse; I came to speak about business. You are angry, and you cannot speak calmly, and so I will talk only with Pavel Konstantinuitch; and, Marya Alekséyevna, you send Feódor and Matrióna to call us when you get calmed down."
While saying this, he started to lead Pavel Konstantinuitch from the parlor into his bed-room; and he spoke so loud that there was no chance of out-crying him, and therefore she was obliged to stop off short.
He took Pavel Konstantinuitch to the parlor door; here he stopped, turned around, and said: "And now, Marya Alekséyevna, I am going to talk with you; but only about business, and it must be calmly."
She was about to lift her voice a second time, but he interrupted her again, "Nu, if you can't speak calmly, then we shall leave you."
"Now, what makes you go out, you fool [durak]? "she shouted.
"Well, he is leading me out!"
"And if Pavel Konstantinuitch did not choose to speak calmly, then I would leave; it would not make any difference to me. But why should you, Pavel Konstantinuitch, allow yourself to be called such names? Marya Alekséyevna does not understand business; she really thinks that she can do anything that she pleases with us; but you are a tchinovnik, you are a man of experience; you of course understand propriety. You tell her that she cannot do anything with Viérotchka now, and still less with me."
"The rascal must know that nothing can be done to him," thought Marya Alekséyevna, and she said to Lopukhóf that, being her mother, she was excited at first, but now she could speak coolly.
Lopukhóf returned with Pavel Konstantinuitch; they sat down. Lopukhóf asked her to listen until he should finish what he had to say, and to postpone what she had to reply, and then he began to speak, lifting his voice powerfully whenever she attempted to interrupt him, and thus he finished his speech in safety. It was to this effect: that it was impossible to untie them, and therefore the case of Storeshnikof was beyond recall; "as you know yourself; consequently it will be idle for you to take the trouble. However, do as you please; If you have extra money, I even advise you to try it; and, then, again there is hardly any reason for being vexed, because Viérotchka never wanted to marry Storeshnikof; consequently, this case was always beyond realization, as you yourself have seen, Marya Alekséyevna; and young girls must certainly marry, and, as a general thing, they are lost to their parents. It would be necessary to give a dowry, and then a wedding itself would cost a good deal of money; but the main thing is the dowry; consequently, Marya Alekséyevna, you and your husband ought to be thankful to your daughter for marrying without causing you any expense." He spoke in this style, and he spoke with such detail that it took him a good half-hour.
When he finished, Marya Alekséyevna saw that there was no use in bulldozing such a rogue, and therefore she began to speak about her feelings: how she was particularly grieved that Viérotchka should have married without asking her parents' consent, because it was very painful for a mother's heart. Now, when a thing touches a mother's feelings and grievances, then, naturally, the conversation takes a turn, as though it were impossible not to speak about them: this, propriety demands. Now they have satisfied propriety,—they have spoken about this interesting fact. Marya Alekséyevna has said that, as a loving mother, she was grieved; Lopukhóf has said that she, as a loving mother, had no need of being grieved; and having fulfilled the measure of propriety, by a discourse of suitable length about feelings, they took up another point, also demanded by propriety, to wit: that she had always wished her daughter to be happy. This was said on one side; and on the other side the reply was made that this was a thing that could never be doubted. When the conversation had been prolonged to a suitable length on this point also, they began to take leave of each other, also with explanations of such a length, as is demanded by propriety among gentlefolk, and the result of it all proved that Lopukhóf, understanding the sorrow of a mother's heart, did not ask Marya Alekséyevna's consent for her daughter to come to see her, because, maybe it would be hard for a mother's heart; but when Marya Alekséyevna should have heard that Viérotchka was living happily, which, of course, was Marya Alekséyevna's sole desire, then her maternal heart would be entirely calmed; consequently, then she would be able to see her daughter without being grieved.
Thus they came to this wise conclusion, and separated peacefully.
"Well, he's a keen one,"[17] said Marya Alekséyevna to herself, as she escorted her son-in-law to the door.
That night she dreamed a dream of this nature: she was sitting at the window, and saw on the street an elegant carriage passing along the street, and the carriage stopped, and from the carriage stepped a handsomely dressed lady and a man, and they came into her room, and the lady said, "Look, mamasha, how well my husband dresses me!" and this lady was Viérotchka. And Marya Alekséyevna seemed to see that the stuff of which the dress was made was of the very best, and Viérotchka said: "The material alone cost five hundred silver rubles, and that is a trifle for us, mamasha; and I have a whole dozen of dresses like this! and this, mamasha, cost more,—here, look at my fingers!" Marya Alekséyevna looked at Viérotchka's fingers; and on her fingers were rings with large diamonds. "This ring, mamasha, is worth two thousand rubles; and this one here, mamasha, cost more,—four thousand rubles,—and look at my breast, mamasha! this brooch cost still more; it is worth ten thousand rubles!" And then the gentleman spoke,—and the gentleman was Dmitri Sergéitch: "All these are mere trifles for us, dear mámenka Marja Alekséyevna; but the thing of the most importance is here in my pocket. Look, dear mámenka, at my pocket-book! How fat it is! there are nothing but hundred-ruble notes in it, and I am going to make you a present, mamasha, of this pocket-book, because it is a trifle to us. But this other pocket-book is still fatter, dear mámenka; I do not give it to you, because it has no paper money, but only bonds and mercantile notes, and every bond and note is worth more than the whole pocket-book which I just gave you, dear mámenka Marya Alekséyevna."
"You have succeeded, dear son Dmitri Sergéitch, in making my daughter and all our family happy; but where in the world, my dear son, did you get so much wealth?" "I, dear mamasha, became a monopolist!"
And while she was awaking from her dream, Marya Alekséyevna thinks to herself, "Indeed, it would be a good thing if he became a monopolist!"
XXIV.
A WORD OF PRAISE FOR MARYA ALEKSÉYEVNA.
You have ceased to be a person of any importance in Viérotchka's life, Marya Alekséyevna, and now that we are going to part from you, the author of this narrative begs you not to complain, that you are dismissed from the stage with an epilogue which is somewhat unfavorable to you. Do not think that we will treat you without due respect. You were fooled, but that does not in the least lessen our respect for your good sense, Marya Alekséyevna; your mistake does not testify against you. You were thrown in contact with people such as had never before crossed your path, and therefore it was no crime that you were mistaken in them when you judged them by your former experience. All your former life brought you to the conclusion that people were divided into two classes,—fools and rascals: "Whoever is not a fool must be a rascal," you used to think; "and he who is not a rascal can only be a fool."
This view was very true, Marya Alekséyevna, until within a very short time, Marya Alekséyevna. You have met with people, Marya Alekséyevna, who spoke very glibly, and you saw that all these people, without a single exception, were either foxy, throwing dust in the eyes of others, or full-grown stupids, not knowing life and not having the wit to accommodate themselves to circumstances. And therefore, Marya Alekséyevna, you considered them as evincing stupidity and fair game for deceit, and you were right, Marya Alekséyevna. Your opinion of men was already entirely formed when you met the first woman who was neither stupid nor villanous; it was excusable that you got confused and did not know what to think of her or how to treat her. Your views of people were already entirely formed when you met the first noble-minded man, who was not a simple, pitiable child, who knew life as thoroughly as you did, whose judgments of it were not less correct than your own, who could transact business with no less skill than you; it was excusable that you were mistaken in him and looked upon him as a scoundrel like yourself. These mistakes, Marya Alekséyevna, do not lessen my regard for you as a clever and active woman. You brought your husband up from nothingness; you have gained for yourself a competency against your declining years,—these are good things, and they were hard for you to accomplish. Your method was bad, but your environment gave you no other method. Your methods belong to your environment, and not to you personally, and hence it is not to your dishonor, but it is a credit to your intellect and strength of character.
Are you satisfied, Marya Alekséyevna, with this acknowledgment of your good qualities? Of course you must be satisfied with this, because you never thought of claiming to be lovely or gentle. In a moment of involuntary frankness, you yourself confessed that you were a bad and dishonorable woman, and you did not look upon your wickedness and dishonesty as disgraceful to you, because you proved that your environment would not allow you to be otherwise. Consequently, you will not care, because in addition to the praise of your intellect and strength of character no praise has been bestowed upon you for your good qualities; you yourself don't claim to have them, and you do not look upon them as worth having, but rather you regard them as characteristic of stupidity. Consequently you will not ask further praise than what I have just given you. But I can say one thing more in your favor: of all the people whom I do not like, and with whom I do not like to have business, I would rather deal with you than all the rest. Of course you are unmerciful wherever it affects your advantage; but if you have no advantage in doing anybody harm, you will not do it out of stupid little spitefulness. You consider that it is not worth while to lose time, labor, and money without return. Of course you would have been glad to roast your daughter and her husband over a slow fire; but you were able to curb your revengeful inclination and to reason the matter over coolly, and you understood that you had no chance of success in roasting them, and this is a great thing, Marya Alekséyevna, to be able to recognize an impossibility! When you once recognized it you gave up your idea of beginning a lawsuit, since the lawsuit would not punish the people who stirred up your anger; you calculated that those little unpleasantnesses, which a lawsuit would cause them, would bring you yourself into more bother and expense, and therefore you did not begin the lawsuit. If it is impossible to conquer an enemy; if, in causing him a trifling loss you are causing yourself a greater, then you had better not begin the battle; you understood this, and you had the common sense and courage to yield to an impossibility, without unnecessarily causing harm to yourself or anybody else: this, too, was a great thing, Marya Alekséyevna. Yes, Marya Alekséyevna, one can get along with you; you do not indulge in wrath for the sake of wrath, to your own detriment: and this is a very rare and very important quality, Marya Alekséyevna. Millions of people are more injurious to themselves and others than you are, Marya Alekséyevna, even though they may not have that detestable side that you have. You are better than the majority of those who are simply bad, because you are not without reason and are not stupid. I should have been glad to sponge you off from the face of the earth, but I have a certain regard for you: you do harm in no way. Now you are spending your time in mean business because your environment is so constituted, but put you into other circumstances, and you would take delight in being harmless, in being even useful, because you do not want to do any harm without being paid for it, and it were profitable to you, you could do whatever you wanted; consequently, you would act honorably and nobly if it were advisable. You are capable of doing so, Marya Alekséyevna, and you are not to blame because this capability is latent; that instead of doing so, you are acting in a contrary way; but you possess it, and this cannot be said of all. Wretches are capable of doing anything. You are only a bad woman, but you are not hopelessly a wretched woman. You are higher than many, even if judged by the moral standard.
"Are you satisfied, Marya Alekséyevna?"
"What should I be satisfied for, bátiushka. My circumstances are bad, aren't they?"
"That is all right, Marya Alekséyevna!"
PART FOURTH.
SECOND MARRIAGE.
I.
Berlin, July 20, 1856.
Much Esteemed Lady, Viéra Pavlovna,—
My close relationship with the late Dmitri Sergéitch Lopukhóf gives me the hope that you will kindly include in the number of your acquaintances a person who is an absolute stranger to you, but who deeply respects you. At all events, I venture to think that you will not accuse me of imposing upon you. By entering into correspondence with you, I only fulfil the desire of the late Dmitri Sergéitch, and those tidings which I am going to impart about him you can look upon as absolutely true, because I shall speak of his thoughts in his own language as though he were speaking himself. And here are his words about a matter, the explanation of which is the aim of my letter.
"The thoughts which brought the conclusion so disturbing to the people nearest to me [I am quoting Dmitri Sergéitch's original words, as I said before] gradually grew in my mind, and my mind was changed several times before it received its ultimate development. The circumstance which caused these thoughts came under my observation in an entirely unexpected way, only at the moment when she [Dmitri Sergéitch means you] with fear told me about a dream which horrified her. The dream appeared to me very significant; and, as a man who was accustomed to look upon the state of her feelings from without, I understood at that very moment that an episode was beginning in her life which, within a longer or shorter time, would change our relations. But a man tries till the very last to preserve the situation to which he has become accustomed. In the depths of our nature lies a conservative element from which we yield only out of necessity. This, according to my opinion, contains the explanation of my first supposition. I wanted to think, and I succeeded in thinking, that this episode might pass away after some time, and then our former relations would be restored. She wanted to avoid the very episode, by kindling the warmest friendship. This deceived me, and for several days I did not think it impossible for her hope to be realized. Soon I became convinced, however, that to hope for this would be in vain. The reason for this lies in my own character.
"I do not intend to stain my character by saying this. This is my idea of it:—
"To a man who spends his life as he ought, his time is divided into three parts,—labor, enjoyment, and rest or recreation. Enjoyment needs rest as much as labor does. In labor and in enjoyment, the general nature of a man takes precedence over his other personal peculiarities; in work, we act under the predominating external stimulus of rational necessities; in enjoyment, under the predominating stimulus of other necessities also common to the whole human race. Rest or recreation is an element in which a person seeks restorement of strength after this stimulus which exhausts the reserves of life materials—an element which is brought into life by the person himself. Here a person wants to give himself up to his own peculiarities, to his own individual comfort. In labor, and in enjoyment, people are drawn to people by a general mighty power, which is more influential than their personal peculiarities, by the calculation of profit in labor; in enjoyment, by equal demands of the organism. Rest is different. This is not a thing that belongs to that general power which softens down personal peculiarities. Rest is more of a personal thing; here nature demands for itself more room; here a person becomes more individualized, and the character of a person shows itself from the kind of rest which appears more agreeable and more easy for him.
"In this regard people are divided into two categories. For those of the one, rest or recreation is more agreeable than the society of others. Everybody must have seclusion. For them it must be an exception; as a rule, life must be spent with others. This class is far more numerous than the other, which must have the contrary. While alone they feel much more comfortable than in the society of others. This difference is noticed by the common opinion, which is expressed by the words, 'a social man and a reserved man.' I belong to those who are not social; she to those who are social. That is the whole secret of our history. It is apparently clear that in this cause there is nothing reprehensible in either one of us; nor is the fact reprehensible that neither one of us had the strength to remove the cause. Against his own nature man is weak.
"It is very hard for any one to understand the nature of others. Every one measures the characters of everybody else by his own peculiarities. Whatever I do not want, according to my opinions, others will not want; so we are led to think by our individuality. Exceedingly noticeable signs are required to make me realize the contrary; and, on the other hand, whatever affords me comfort and ease I must think that others like. The naturalness of this arrangement of ideas is my excuse, in the fact that I recognized too late the difference between my nature and hers. The mistake was greatly aided by the fact that after we came to live together, she placed me too high. There was never any equality between us; but she showed me a great respect. My style of life seemed to her exemplary; she took for a universal human feature any peculiarity of mine, and for a time she was drawn away by it. There was another cause, a stronger one still.
"Among uncultured people the sanctity of the inner life is but very little respected. Every one of the family, particularly among the elders, will thrust his paw, without any ceremony, into the very depths of your soul. The trouble is not in the fact that your secrets are interfered with. Secrets of greater or less importance you are careful to hide or to watch; and then, not all have them. A great many have absolutely nothing to hide from nearest friends; but every one wants that, in his inner life, there should be a little corner where nobody has a right to enter, just as every one wants to have his own separate room for himself alone. Uncultured people regard neither of these things; if you have a separate room, everybody goes to it, not from a desire to act the spy or to impose upon you, but simply because there is no thought that this may disturb you. That may occur to them only in case there has been some disturbance between you, when you might have no desire to see them appearing before you quite unexpectedly. They do not understand that they may disturb you, even though you may be kindly inclined to them. The sanctity of the threshold over which no one has a right to step, without the permission of the person living on the other side, is recognized only in one room; that is the room belonging to the head of the family, because the head of the family can turn everybody out of his room who enters without asking permission. Into all the others, everybody who is older or contemporary with them enters without asking. The same which is true in regard to the room can be applied to your inner life. Into it everybody intrudes without any necessity, even without any thought, in search of any amusement, and, more often than not, simply to 'scratch his tongue on your soul.' A girl has two every-day dresses, one white and one pink. She puts on the pink one; and here comes a chance for some one to rub tongue over her soul. 'You put on the pink dress, Aniuta; what for?' Aniuta herself does not know why she put it on. It was necessary to put on some kind of a dress; and then, again, if she had put on the white one, it would have amounted to the same thing. So mámenka (or 'sister') says, 'But you would have done better to put on the white one.' But why it would be better, the one who gives the advice does not herself know; she simply rubs her tongue. 'You don't look very happy to-day, Aniuta; what's the matter?' Aniuta is neither happy nor unhappy; however, why shouldn't they ask after what they neither see nor don't see? 'I don't know; there's nothing the matter that I know of.' 'No? you seem to be rather unhappy.' Two minutes pass. 'Aniuta, you had better sit down at the piano and play us a tune'; there is no reason why. And so it goes the whole day. Your soul is like a street, on which everybody who sits at the window is looking, not for the sake of seeing anything in particular,—no, they even know that they will see nothing useful and nothing curious,—but simply because they have nothing else to do. But it's all the same; so, then, why not look? For a street, of course it makes no difference; but people have no pleasure at all from people walking over them.
"Naturally, this imposition, without any aim or idea whatever, must bring a reaction; and as soon as a person places himself in such a situation that he can have seclusion, he for some time finds pleasure in such seclusion, though by nature he may be inclined to sociability and not to seclusion.
"She, in this regard till she was married, was placed in a singularly hard position; they walked on her; they intruded into her very soul, not simply because they had nothing else to do, accidentally, occasionally, and only out of indelicacy, but systematically, without cessation, every minute, too coarsely, too impudently, they pushed their way in like savages, and with mean intentions, they forced themselves, not simply with unceremonious hands, but with very hard and very dirty hands, and therefore the reaction was very strong.
"Therefore my mistake should not be severely judged. Several months, and maybe a year, I was not mistaken; seclusion was really necessary and pleasant for her, and during this time I formed an opinion about her character; this strong, temporary demand of hers corresponded with my constant demand, and is it to be wondered at that I took a temporary phenomenon for a constant feature of her character? And everybody is so much tempted to judge of others by his own standard; the mistake was very great: I do not blame myself for it, but I want to put myself in the right light; that means, I feel that others will not be as indulgent to me as I am towards myself. To modify their condemnation, I must say a few words more about that side of my character, which is entirely strange to her, and to a good many other people, and, which without explanations, may not be rightly understood.
"My only idea of rest is seclusion. To be with others means to occupy my mind with something,—to work or to enjoy myself. I feel myself entirely at liberty only when I am alone by myself. How shall I name it? Why is it? With some it comes from reserve; with others from bashfulness; with still others from a melancholy and thoughtful disposition; and with a fourth class from a lack of sympathy with others; but it seems to me that there is nothing of the kind in me. I am frank and straightforward; I am always ready to be gay, and I am never melancholy. To observe people is pleasant for me, but this is connected in my mind with the idea of work or enjoyment, and that is something which demands rest after it; that is,—in my way of looking at it,—seclusion. So far as I can understand, it is a peculiar development in me, a drawing towards independence and freedom.
"And thus the strength of the reaction against her former, too troublesome situation in her family compelled her for a time to adopt a style of life which did not correspond to her constant disposition. Respect towards me kept alive in her this temporary disposition longer than it would have been by itself; but I long before had formed my opinion of her character; I took this temporary feature to be a constant one, and thus I was at ease, and that is the whole story. On my side, it was a mistake, but there was very little that was blameworthy in this mistake; on her part, there was absolutely nothing: but how much suffering did it not cause her! And what a catastrophe it brought upon me!
"After her fear, caused by the terrible dream, disclosed to me the state of her feelings, it was too late to correct my fault; but if I had, we had noticed it before; then, maybe, by constant efforts over ourselves, she and I might have succeeded in bringing our relations into a situation forever satisfactory for us both. Could we? I do not know, but I think that, even if we had succeeded, it would not have been particularly advantageous. Let us suppose that we had remodelled our characters sufficiently for our relations to each other to be free from all burdensomeness, but then the remodelling of characters is only good when it is directed against some bad side; but those sides which she and I would have had to remodel had nothing bad in them. Why should sociability be better or worse than a disposition to seclusion, or vice versa? But the remodelling of a character is, at all events, the forcing of it, the breaking of it; and in the breaking of a thing there is a great deal that is lost; in the forcing of a thing much energy is wasted. The result which she and I, maybe, only maybe, not surely, had reached was not worth the loss. We both would have partly spoiled our individuality, would both have destroyed the freshness of our lives. For what end? Only for the sake of preserving certain places in certain rooms. It would have been quite a different thing if we had had children; then it would have been necessary to think deeply as to the change in their fate if we separated. If the change would be for the worse, then the removal of the cause would have been worth the most desperate efforts, and the result would have been happiness; for we should have accomplished what was necessary for the preservation of the greatest happiness of those whom we loved, and such a result would have compensated for all our efforts; but, as it was, what rational end was to be gained?
"Therefore, as it happened, my mistake apparently led to something better; owing to it, both of us had less breaking of our natures to endure. It brought a great deal of worriment; but if it had not happened, surely there would have been a great deal more, and moreover, the result would have been far more unsatisfactory."
Such were Dmitri Sergéitch's words. From the energy with which he expressed himself so far, you can easily see that he, as he himself said, felt something embarrassing in it and unprofitable to himself. He straightway added:—
"I feel that I shall not be entirely justified in the opinion of those who review this matter without any sympathy for me; but I am sure of her sympathy. She will judge about me even more kindly than I myself, and I consider myself entirely in the right. Such is my opinion of the time until she had the dream."
And now I am going to tell you how he felt and what he intended to do after you had the dream which revealed to him the unsatisfactory nature of your relations.
"I said [these again are Dmitri Sergéitch's own words] that from the first words about her terrible dream, I understood the unavoidableness of some episode different from our former relations. I expected it would have a mighty power, for it was impossible otherwise, from the energy of her nature and by the former state of her dissatisfaction, which had already acquired great strength from a too prolonged restraint. Still, the expectation at first appeared in a form very easy and profitable for me. I reasoned thus: she will be drawn away for a time by a passionate love for somebody else; a year or two will pass and she will return to her old allegiance. I am a very decent man. Her chances of finding another man like me are rare (I speak about myself just exactly as I think; I have no hypocritical fashion of depreciating myself). A feeling of love satisfied will lose a portion of its force; she will see that though one part of her nature is less satisfied by living with me, yet in the general sum of existence life with me will be easier and freer than with any other, and everything will be restored to its former state. I, taught by experience, shall be more attentive to her. She will acquire new respect for me; she will be more warmly attached to me than before, and we shall live more happily than ever.
"But (and this thing, though the explanation of it is very embarrassing for me, must nevertheless be said), but how did the prospect of our relationship being renewed appear to me? Did it make me happy? Of course it did! But did it bring only happiness? No; it appeared to me as a burden, a pleasant burden, but still a burden. 'I love her very, very dearly, and I shall easily break myself in, so as better to attend to her; this will afford me pleasure, but still my life will be trying.' Thus it came over me, after I regained my calmness after the first impression; and I saw that I was not mistaken. She allowed me to experience this when she wanted me to act so as to preserve her love. A month in which I satisfied this desire of hers was the most burdensome month of my life. There was no pain in it—such a word would hardly apply to the idea; it would be absurd here, as far as positive sensations are concerned. I experienced nothing but pleasure while pleasing her, but it was tiresome to me. Here is where the mystery lies, that her attempt to retain her love for me remained a failure. I was tired while pleasing her.
"At first sight it may seem strange why I did not feel tired of giving up numberless evenings to the students, for whom, of course, I would not put myself out seriously, and why I felt such a degree of weariness when I gave up only a few evenings to a woman whom I loved more than myself; for whom I would be ready not only to die, but to endure every imaginable torture. This may seem strange, but only for one who cannot appreciate my motives in having intimate relations with the young men to whom I devoted so much time. In the first place, I had no personal relations with these young people. When I was sitting with them I did not feel that I was in the presence of people, but I saw only several abstract types who were only exchanging thoughts. My talk with them varied but little from my own contemplations when alone. Here only one part of my nature was occupied, and the very one which less than all others demanded rest,—thought. Everything else was sleeping; and besides, our talk had a practical, useful aim,—the aiding the development of intellectual life, nobility, and energy in my young friends. This was work; but it was such an easy work that it was good for the restoration of strength, expended by other kinds of labor; it did not weary, but refreshed, and yet it was labor. Therefore my own person had no demands for taking rest. There I expected to get benefit, but not peace; here I allowed all the other parts of my being to sleep, except thought. But my thought acted without any mixture of personal relations towards people with whom I was speaking; therefore I felt as much liberty as though I had been alone. These conversations, I may say, did not take me out of my seclusion. Here there was nothing analogous to those relations in which the whole man takes part.
"I know how embarrassing it is to use the word 'weariness,' but my conscience does not allow me to keep it back. Yes, with all my love to her, I felt a great deal easier after I became convinced that, between her and me, relations could not comfortably be arranged as they had been before. I gradually became convinced of this about the time that she began to notice that the fulfilling of this desire was going to be tiresome to me. Then the future appeared to me under a new form, which was more agreeable to me. After we saw that it would be impossible for us to remain in our former relations, I began to think how soon it would be possible—I must again use an embarrassing expression—to get rid of it—to free myself from a situation which had become burdensome to me. Here lies the secret of what must seem magnanimity to the man who might be willing to be blinded by acknowledgment of the outward appearances, or even to one who would be so shortsighted as not to see the whole depth of the motives. Yes, I simply wanted to get rid of an embarrassing situation. As I am not hypocritical enough to deny what is good in me, I shall also not deny that one of my motives was the desire for her good; but this was only a secondary motive, a very strong one, to be sure, yet it fell far behind the first, the main one, in strength; that is, the desire of getting free from weariness was the real prompter. Under its influence I began carefully to examine into her mode of life, and easily perceived that in the change of her feelings, which was the result of the change in her way of living, the main part was played by Aleksandr Matvéitch in his appearance and disappearance. This brought me to think about him: I understood the reasons of his strange behavior, to which before I had paid no attention, and after that my thoughts received a new form, which, as I have said already, was agreeable to me. After I saw that she had not only the desire for passionate love itself, although she was, as yet, unconscious of it herself; that this feeling was directed towards one who was absolutely worthy, and generally speaking, was absolutely able to fill my place; that this man also loved her passionately,—then I became extremely glad. It is true, however, that the first impression was very cruel; every important change carries with it some pain. I saw now that I could not, conscientiously speaking, look upon myself as a man necessary for her, and I had become accustomed to this, and to tell the truth, it had been pleasant to me. Consequently, the severance of this relation unavoidably had to have its painful side; but only for the first part of the time, and not for long, this feeling predominated over the other feelings, which were joyful in their nature. Now I was assured of her happiness, and calm in the contemplation of her fate: this was a source of great happiness. But it would be vain to think that this constituted the main source of pleasure; no, personal feeling was once more much more important. I saw that I became entirely free from compulsion. My words do not imply that the life of a bachelor would be easier or happier for me than family life; no, if man and wife are not compelled to any kind of restraint for the sake of pleasing each other; if they are content with each other without making effort; if they satisfy each other without thinking of the satisfaction, then, the closer the relations between them are, the freer and easier it is for both of them: but the relation between her and me was not of this kind; therefore to separate meant freedom for me.
"From this can be seen that I have acted for my own interests, after I decided not to interfere with her happiness. There was a lofty side to my action; but the motive power towards it was the inclination of my own nature to better myself alone. Therefore I had strength to act, and, I may say, I acted well. Not to drift this way and that, not to make unnecessary confusion and disturbance for others, not to be false to my duty,—this was easy, when the duty is the inclination of your own nature.
"I left for Riazan. After some time she called me back, saying that my presence would not interfere with her. But I saw that it would still interfere. So far as I can understand, there were two reasons for it. It was hard for her to see a man to whom she was exceedingly indebted, according to her idea. She was mistaken in this respect; she was not in the least indebted to me, because I acted much more for my own interests than hers. But it appeared to her different, and she felt a very deep gratefulness to me. This feeling was hard. There is a pleasant side to it; but it predominates only when the feeling is not too strong. When it is strong it is valid. The second cause—this, again, is a rather embarrassing thing to explain, but I must say what I think—I find the second cause in the fact that her relations to society were abnormal and unpleasant; it was hard for her to endure the fact that society would not acknowledge formally her right to occupy such a position. And so I saw that my existence near her would be trying for her. I shall not hide that, in this new discovery, there was a side that was incomparably harder for me to endure that all feeling which I had experienced in the former stages of the case. I had preserved towards her a very strong inclination. I wanted to remain a very close and intimate friend of hers; I hoped that this would be so. And after I saw that this could not be, I was greatly grieved; and here there was no compensation for this grief in personal calculations of any sort whatever. I may say that here my final decision was adopted exclusively, because of my attachment to her, only for the desire of making her better, exclusively from unselfish motives. Consequently, never before, even in our happiest time, did my relations toward her afford me such deep inward satisfaction as this decision. Here I acted under the action of what I frankly call nobility, or, to use a more suitable term, noble calculation,—a calculation in which the general law of humanity acts exclusively by itself, without borrowing support from individual peculiarities. And here I learned what a great pleasure it is to feel yourself acting like a noble man; that is, as every man ought to act, not Ivan or Peter, but every man, every one, without distinction of names. What a lofty delight it is to feel yourself simply a man—not Ivan, not Peter, but a man,—simply and purely a man! This feeling is too strong. Ordinary natures like mine cannot endure too often an elevation to the height of this feeling; but happy is the one who has had the chance to experience it.
"There is no need of explaining that side of my mode of action which would have been most unreasonable in transactions with other people, but which here is very obviously justified by the character of the person to whom I yield. At the time when I left for Riazan, there had not a word passed between her and Aleksandr Matvéitch; at the time which I made my final decision there had not a word passed between him and me, or between her and me, on this subject. But I knew him very well; I had no need of studying his thoughts for the sake of learning them."
I am giving you Dmitri Sergéitch's words, with liberal exactness, as I have already said.
I am an entire stranger to you; but the correspondence into which I enter with you, fulfilling the desire of the late Dmitri Sergéitch, bears such an intimate character that, in all probability, it will be interesting for you to learn who this strange correspondent is, who is so initiated into the inner life of the late Dmitri Sergéitch. I used to be a medical student, and I have nothing more to tell you about myself. During the last few years I have lived in Petersburg. Several days ago I decided to travel, and to create for myself a new career abroad. I left Petersburg on the second day after you learned about Dmitri Sergéitch's catastrophe. On a certain occasion I had no documents in my possession, and I had to take the papers belonging to a stranger, with which I was furnished by one of our common friends. He gave them to me on the condition that I should fulfil certain of his commissions on the way. If you happen to see Mr. Rakhmétof, be kind enough to tell him that all his commissions have been fulfilled as he desired. Now I suppose I shall have to set out on my travels through Germany, observing the customs. I have several hundred rubles, and I want to have a good time. When I shall get tired of idleness, I shall look out for something, no matter what. When? wherever chance may lead. I am as free as a bird, and I can be as unconcerned as a bird; such a situation delights me.
It is very probable that you may like to honor me with an answer, but I do not know where I shall be in a week from now: maybe in England, and maybe in Prague. I can go wherever fancy may lead me, and where it will lead me I know not; and therefore send your letters to the following address: Berlin, Friedrich Strasse 20, Agentur von H. Schmeidler. Your envelope should contain another envelope on which, in place of any address, you will write the cypher 12,345; that will show Schmeidler's agency that it should be forwarded to me.
Accept, honored lady, the assurance of deep respect from a man who is an entire stranger to you, who is endlessly devoted to you, and who signs himself,
A Former Medical Student.
Honored Sir, Aleksandr Matvéitch,—
According to the desire of the late Dmitri Sergéitch, I must send you the assurance that for him the best circumstance seemed the fact that he was compelled to leave his place to you. With those relations which brought about this change, relations which gradually formed, in the course of three years, from the time when you almost ceased coming to his house, and therefore were formed without your aid, exclusively from the lack of correspondence between the characters of the two people whom you afterwards tried in vain to reconcile; with such relations, the final scene which came was unavoidable. Evidently Dmitri Sergéitch could not feel right in blaming you; of course this explanation is unnecessary; however, merely for form's sake, he authorized me to make it. Thus it had to be either one way or the other: either you or he had to take the place which he could not fill, and which another could take only because Dmitri Sergéitch could not fill it; and the fact that you took this place, according to the opinion of the late Dmitri Sergéitch makes the best result that could be devised. I press your hand.
A Former Medical Student.
"Ah! I know."
What is that? A familiar voice. I turn around; there he is! He, himself, the sapient reader, who was not long ago banished in disgrace for not knowing A from B,[1] in regard to the artistic, but here he is again and again with his former shrewdness. Again he knows something!
"Ah! I know who wrote it—"
But I hastily seize the first thing that comes most convenient for my purpose. I seize a napkin, because after I copied the former student's letter, I sat down to breakfast, and so I seize the napkin, and stuff it in his mouth, "Well, keep what you know to yourself; why do you shout it all over town?"
II.
Petersburg, Aug. 25, 1856.
Dear Sir,—
You will understand what a degree of happiness your letter gave me. With all my soul I thank you for it. Your intimacy with the late Dmitri Sergéitch gives me the right to regard you as my friend. Allow me to use this appellation. In every word which you quoted can be seen Dmitri Sergéitch's character. He was constantly seeking for the most secret causes of his actions, and he took pleasure in ascribing them to his theory of egotism. By the way, this is the common custom of all our society. My Aleksandr is also fond of analyzing his motives in exactly the same spirit. If you had only heard how he explained his behavior towards me and Dmitri Sergéitch in the course of three years, you would learn, if his words were to be taken literally, that he did everything through egotistical calculation for his own pleasure. And I long ago learned this custom; it interests Aleksandr and me a trifle less than it interested Dmitri Sergéitch. We agree with him entirely; but he has a stronger drawing towards it. Yes, if one were to hear us, all three of us would be taken to be such egotists as the world has never seen. And maybe this is true; maybe there never were such egotists. What think you? Yes; it seems likely.
But besides this characteristic, common to us three, in Dmitri Sergéitch's words there is another, which belongs exclusively to his situation. Apparently the aim of his explanations was to give me peace. Not that his words lack sincerity,—no, he would never say what he does not think,—but he brings out too strongly only that element of the truth which can calm me. My friend, I am very grateful for it; but I, too, am an egoistka. I shall tell you that he vainly worried over my peace of mind. We justify ourselves much easier than we are justified by others; and I, to tell the truth, do not consider myself in any way blameworthy before him. I will say further, I do not even feel that I owe him any gratefulness. I prize his nobility, oh, how deeply! but I know that he was noble, not for my sake, but his own. For I, when I was not false to him, was not false, not for his sake, but for myself; not because falsity would be injurious to him, but to myself.
I said that I did not blame myself, just as he did. But, just as he did, I feel an inclination to justify myself. According to his words, which were very just, this means: I have a presentiment that others will not be as lenient as I am towards myself, in exempting me from the blame of certain parts of my behavior. I do not feel any desire whatsoever to justify myself for that part of the affair in which he justified himself; and, on the contrary, I want to justify myself for that part in which he had no need for giving justification. In all that happened until I had my dream there was nothing for which anybody will blame me, I am convinced. But afterwards, was not I the cause of the affair taking such a melodramatic course, and brought about such a terrible catastrophe? Ought I not to have looked much more rationally on that change of relations which was unavoidable, after my dream had for the first time revealed to me and Dmitri Sergéitch his situation and mine? The very evening of the day on which Dmitri Sergéitch committed suicide, I had a long talk with the formidable Rakhmétof—and what a kind, tender-hearted man he is! He told me God-knows-what horrible things about Dmitri Sergéitch. But if I repeated them in a friendly tone to Dmitri Sergéitch, instead of in the harsh, as it were, unfriendly, tone which Rakhmétof used,—well, they may be true. I suspect that Dmitri Sergéitch understood well what Rakhmétof was going to say to me, and that this formed a part of his calculation. Yes, at that time it was necessary for me to listen to it; it calmed me greatly; and whoever might have arranged for that talk, I acknowledge my gratitude for it to you, my friend. But even the formidable Rakhmétof had to acknowledge that, in the last part of the affair, Dmitri Sergéitch acted finely. Rakhmétof blamed him only for the first half, and for this he was justifying himself. I am going to justify myself, though nobody has told me that I was to blame for it. But for every one of us—I am speaking about you and our friends, about all our circle—there is a severer than even Rakhmétof, and this is our own conscience.
Yes, I comprehend, my friend, that it would have been far easier for all concerned if I had looked at the matter more simply, and had not given to it a too tragical importance. According to Dmitri Sergéitch's view, it should have been put this way more strongly; although there would have been no need of having recourse to a conclusion so theatrical and trying for all of us, yet he was led to it only by the superfluous vehemence of my anxiety. I understand how it must have seemed so to him, although he did not charge you to put that view of it before me. So much the more I appreciate his kind disposition towards me, that it was not diminished even though he held such an opinion. But just listen a moment, my friend. It is not entirely just; it is not by any means unjust; it was not from my fault; it was not from my superfluous anxiety that the absolute necessity came upon Dmitri Sergéitch of examining into what he himself frequently called a trying situation. True, if I had not attributed an excessive importance to the change in our relations, it might have been possible to escape the difficulty without the journey to Riazan; but he said that it was not trying for him, and so there would not have been still greater misfortunes arising from my exalted views. Only the necessity of making way with himself was trying for Dmitri Sergéitch. He explained the unavoidableness of this decision of his by two reasons: I was suffering from an excessive feeling of gratitude towards him; I was suffering because I could not enter into those relations with Aleksandr which are demanded by the conditions of society. In reality, I was not thoroughly at ease; I was oppressed by the situation, until he made way with himself; but he did not suspect the essential reason. The thought that his appearance oppressed me with an excessive burden of gratitude was not absolutely true. A person is very much inclined to seek for reasons which may lighten a trying situation, and at the time when Dmitri Sergéitch saw the necessity of making way with himself, this reason for it was no longer in existence. My gratitude to him had long before been modified to such a degree that it became a pleasant feeling; and only this reason was connected with my previous exalted view of the matter. The other reason which Dmitri Sergéitch adduced,—the desire to give to my relations with Aleksandr a character such as is recognized,—that reason had nothing to do with my view of the matter; it resulted from the ideas of society. I was powerless over it. But Dmitri Sergéitch was entirely mistaken in thinking that his presence would have been hard for me on account of that reason. No; it might have been arranged otherwise even without the necessity of his committing suicide, if it had been necessary and had been satisfactory to me. Our position had that rare peculiarity that all the three persons who were concerned in it were of equal strength. If Dmitri Sergéitch had felt that Aleksandr were his superior in intellect, culture, or character; if, while yielding his place to Aleksandr, he would through a superiority of mental strength; if his refusal had not been from good will, instead of the yielding of a stronger to a weaker,—then, of course, I should have had no cause to be burdened. Likewise, if I had been in intellect or character much stronger than Dmitri Sergéitch; if until my relations with Aleksandr had received their full development he had been what has been well characterized by a story over which you will remember we were at one time all greatly amused—the story of how two gentlemen met in the foyer of the opera, engaged in conversation with each other, took a fancy to each other, and wanted to get better acquainted. "I am Lieutenant So-and-so," says the one, introducing himself; "And I am the husband of Madame Tedesco," said the other, introducing himself. If Dmitri Sergéitch had been the husband of Madame Tedesco, then, of course, there would have been no necessity of his committing suicide. He would have been under such subjection and humiliation; and if he had been a noble man, he would see in the fact of his humiliation nothing offensive to himself, and all would be well. But Dmitri's relation towards me and Aleksandr was in no respect analogous. He was not a hair's breadth lower or weaker than either of us, and we knew it and he knew it. His concession was not the result of weakness. Oh, not at all. It was merely the result of his good will. Wasn't that so, my friend? You cannot deny it. Therefore, in what situation did I find myself placed! And this, my friend, contains the whole essence of the matter. I saw myself in a situation of dependence on his good will, and so my situation was trying to me, and therefore he saw himself compelled to the heroic decision of putting himself out of the way. Yes, my friend, the cause of my feeling, which compelled him to it, lay much deeper than his explanation given in your letter. The overwhelming weight of gratefulness was no longer in existence. To satisfy the claims of society would have been easy in the way that Dmitri Sergéitch suggested. Yes; the claims of society would never affect me living in my own little circle, which is entirely free from such claims; but I was still dependent upon Dmitri Sergéitch. My situation had as its foundation only his good will, and that was not self-existent, and that was the reason why it was hard for me. Now, judge you: could this cause be removed by this view of a change in our relations, or by the other. The importance lay not in my views of it, but in the fact that Dmitri Sergéitch was a man of independence, who acted according to his own will, though it was a good will. Yes, my friend, you know and you approve of my feeling. I do not want to be dependent upon the good will of any one, no matter who it may be, though it were a man most devoted to me, though I respected him, though I might trust him as I do myself, though I absolutely knew that he would always rejoice to do whatever I needed, that my happiness was as dear to him as to myself. Yes, my friend, I do not need your assurance; I know that you approve of it.
But after all, why all this talk, this self-analysis, which reveals the most hidden motives of feelings which could not be penetrated by any one? Yet, with me as with Dmitri Sergéitch, this self-confession is made for my own benefit, so that I might say, "I am not to blame here; the matter depended on something that was beyond my control." I make this remark because Dmitri Sergéitch was fond of such remarks. I want to praise myself before you, my friend.
But enough of this.[2] You felt so much sympathy for me that you did not grudge spending several hours' time in writing your long letter—and oh, how precious it was to me! I see from this letter how diplomatically I have learned to write—in a style like Dmitri Sergéitch's or yours; yes, from this, and only from this, I see how interesting it will be for you to know what happened to me after Dmitri Sergéitch took leave from me, on his way to Moscow, with the intention of returning and disappearing. After his return from Riazan he saw that I was disturbed. This disturbance was manifested only on his return. While he was staying in Riazan, I, to tell you the truth, did not think about him much; no, not as much as you might suppose, judging by what he saw after his return. But when he left for Moscow, I saw that he had something particular in view. It was noticeable that he wound up his business in Petersburg; it was evident that for a week he was waiting for their final issue in order to go, and then—how could it happen otherwise? During the last days I noticed the melancholy in his face—that face which was so clever at hiding mysteries; I anticipated that something decisive was in prospect, and when he took his place in the car, I felt so sad, so sad! On the next day I was melancholy; on the third day I got up still more oppressed, and suddenly Masha brought me a letter. What a tormenting moment it was, what a tormenting hour, what a tormenting day, you can imagine!
And so, my friend, now more than before, I know my attachment to Dmitri Sergéitch. I myself did not realize that it was so powerful. Yes, my friend, I now know its strength. You, too, know, because you must certainly know that on that very day I decided to give up Aleksandr. All day I felt that my life was ruined—poisoned forever. Can you imagine my childish exultation when I saw my kind friend's note, which entirely changed the current of my thoughts (you see how careful my expressions are; I want you to be satisfied with me, my friend). You know all this, because Rakhmétof went to escort me to the train. Dmitri Sergéitch and he were right in saying that it was necessary for me to leave Petersburg for the accomplishment of the effect, for the sake of which Dmitri Sergéitch did not scruple to leave me all day a prey to the most terrible tortures: how thankful I am to him for this unmercifulness! He and Rakhmétof were also right in advising Aleksandr not to come to me, nor to escort me. But I had no necessity of going to Moscow; it was only necessary for me to go as far as Moscow, so I stopped at Novgorod. A few days later Aleksandr came there, and brought the documents in regard to Dmitri Sergéitch's suicide. We were married a week after the suicide, and we lived a month on the railroad in Tchudof, so that Aleksandr might be enabled to go three or four times a week to the hospital. Yesterday we returned to Petersburg, and here is the reason that I have been so long answering your letter: it lay in Masha's drawer, and she had entirely forgotten about it. And you must have thought—God knows what—at not having received an answer during all this time.
I salute you, dear friend, yours,
Viéra Kirsánova.
I press your hand, my dear. But please don't write any compliments to me, else I shall pour out before you my whole soul, and a perfect flood of enconiums on your nobleness, which would be the worst thing imaginable, and do you know what I think? Does it not prove the presence of a pretty good amount of stupidity, both in you and in me, by writing each other only a few lines. It seems as though it proved that both of us felt ourselves embarrassed. However, on my part, it is excusable; but what excuse have you? But the next time we shall be able to argue freely, and I shall write you a heap of news.
Yours,
Aleksandr Kirsánof.
III.
These letters, absolutely sincere, were really somewhat warped, as Viéra Pavlovna herself noticed. Both correspondents of course were trying to diminish for each other the strength of the heavy shocks which they experienced. Oh, these people are shrewd! I have often heard from them—that is, from them and people of their stamp—such things as made me laugh in spite of their pathetical assurances that, such and such a thing was easy to endure. Of course I laughed when the assurances were made before me who was a stranger to them and talking with them in tête-à-tête. And when the very same thing was said to a man who had to listen to it, then I used to admit that such and such things were really trifles. An honorable man is a most amusing creature. I always used to laugh at all the honorable men with whom I was acquainted. A most amusing creature, even to the point of absurdity! Here, let us take these letters. I am partially used to tricks of this sort, even while entertaining friendship with such gentlemen and ladies. Well (nu), but what effect can they have on a man who is inexperienced and as yet unspoiled, as, for instance, the sapient reader?
The sapient reader already is clearing his mouth of the napkin, and, while shaking his head, says:—
"Immorality!"
"You are a fine fellow! You have hit it!" I reply in praise of him. "Well [nu], make me happy with another little word!"
"Yes, the author himself is an immoral man," declares the sapient reader. "Just see what things he approves of!"
"No, my precious,[3] you are mistaken. There are many things that I do not approve of here. Possibly I do not approve of any of it, if you desire to hear the truth. All this is too much idealized, too ecstatic! Life is much simpler."
"Then you must be still more immoral, must you not?" demands the sapient reader, opening wide eyes of astonishment at the incomprehensible degree of immorality to which humanity has fallen in my personage!
"Much more immoral," I say, uncertain whether the sapient reader will accept it as truth or will ridicule it.
This correspondence lasted for three or four months,—actively on the part of Kirsánof, but carelessly and briefly on the part of their correspondent. Afterwards he entirely ceased to answer their letters, and it could be seen by all that his sole idea was to impart to Viéra Pavlovna and her husband thoughts of Lopukhóf, which made up the long letter which he wrote first, and after fulfilling this obligation he considered the further correspondence unnecessary. After two or three of Kirsánof's letters remained unanswered, he understood it so and ceased to write.
IV.
Viéra Pavlovna is resting on her soft lounge, expecting her husband home to dinner from the hospital. To-day she has been busying herself very little in the kitchen over the sweet additions to dinner. She wanted to lie down even sooner, so as to rest, because she worked very hard this morning; and it had been so for a long time, and it will be so for a long time to come: she has had much to do in the mornings. Here she is trying to establish another union shop in another part of the town. Viéra Pavlovna Lopukhóva lived on the Vasilyevsky Island; Viéra Pavlovna Kirsánova lives on Syérgievskaïa Street, because her husband had to have an apartment near the Vinborgsky Side. Mrs. Mertsálova proved to be very capable in her management of the shop on the Vasilyevsky Island; and that was not to be wondered at, for she and the members of the union had been very good friends. After Viéra Pavlovna returned to Petersburg, she saw that, though she had to be at the shop, it was only for short visits; that if she continued to go there every day, it was simply because she was drawn there by her attachment, and that her friends liked to have her come. Perhaps for some time her calls did not prove to be useless, since Mertsálova at times found it necessary to consult with her. But it took so little time and becomes continually more and more rare, and soon Mertsálova will gain so much experience that she will cease to need Viéra Pavlovna. Yes, even the first time after her return to Petersburg that she was at the shop on the Vasilyevsky Island, she was more like a loving friend than an important factor. What had she to do? It is evident what. It was necessary for her to start another shop in the new neighborhood where she lived, at the other end of the city.
And so the new shop is established in one of the short streets which runs between Basséinaïa and Syérgievskaïa streets. There was much less bother with it than with the former. The five girls who formed the fundamental staff came over from the old shop, while new girls took their places. The balance of the force was selected from among the good acquaintances of those seamstresses who worked in the other shop, and that shows that everything was more than half prepared. The aim and order of the shop were well known to all the members of the union, and new girls entered the shop with the desire that the arrangement so slowly developed in the other shop should be immediately begun. Oh, yes, now the arrangement progresses tenfold quicker than before, and there is three times less worriment. But still there is a great deal of work, and Viéra Pavlovna is just as tired to-day as she was yesterday and the day before, as she was two months ago, only two months, though half a year has passed since her marriage. Well, it was necessary for her to enjoy a wedding festival, and she enjoyed it long, but afterwards she gave herself up to work.
Yes, she has been working hard to-day, and now she is resting, and she is thinking about many things, and, above all, about the present; it is full of all good! It is so full of life that she has scarcely time to have recollections. Recollections will come later, oh, much later; and not even in ten years, nor, perhaps, in a score of years, but later. Now it is not time for them, and it will not be for many years to come. But still she has a few even now; seldom, to be sure. Here, for example, she recollects something which seldom comes to her mind. Here is what she recollects:—
V.
"Mílenki, I am going with thee."
"But you have not your things ready."
"Mílenki mine, then I will go with you to-morrow, if you do not want to take me to-day."
"Think it over; consider it. Wait for my letter; it will reach you to-morrow."
Here she returns home. How did she feel when she went home with Masha? How did she feel and think all the long way from the Moscow railway station to the Middle Prospekt? She herself does not know, so shocked was she by the abrupt turn in the affair. Twenty-four hours have not passed—no, in two hours it will be a full day—since he found her letter in his room, and now he is already gone. How quick! how sudden! At two o'clock she had not anticipated anything of the sort. He waited until she, wearied by the excitement of the morning, could not longer resist the power of sleep, came in, said a few words, and in these few words there was an almost incomprehensible preface to what he meant; and in what brief words he said what he meant! He said: "I have not seen my old folks for a long time. I am going to see them, and they will be glad to have me come." That was all, and he left immediately; and she hastened after him, though, when he came in, he asked her to promise not to do it. She hastened after him; but where was he? "Masha, where is he? where is he?"
Masha, who was still putting away the things after the departure of the guests, says, "Dmitri Sergéitch has gone out. He said, after he came out from your room, 'I am going to take a walk.'" And she had to go to bed; and how could she go to sleep? But she did not know that this was going to take place on the very morning which was now beginning to dawn. He said that they would have abundant time to talk everything over. And she had barely time to open her eyes before it was time to go to the railway station. Yes, all this had flashed by her eyes, as though nothing of the sort had happened to her, as though some one had told her of something that happened to some one else. Only now, while returning home from the railway station, she came to herself, and began to think, "What is the matter with me, and what is going to happen to me?"
Yes, she is going to Riazan. She is going; it is impossible not to go. But this letter; what will be in that letter? No; why wait for the letter before deciding? She knows what it will contain: still she must postpone her decision till the letter comes. Why postpone it? She will go; yes, she will go! She thinks about it one hour; she thinks two; she thinks three, four hours. But Masha was getting hungry, and for the third time has summoned her to dinner; and this time she commands her, rather than summons her. Well, this is another recollection. "Poor Masha! how I compelled her to get hungry!"
"Why did you wait for me, Masha! Why did not you have your dinner long ago, without waiting for me?"
"How could I, Viéra Pavlovna?"
And she thinks again for one hour, two hours. "I am going; yes, I am going to-morrow. I shall only wait for the letter because he asked me to. But whatever may be written in it,—and I know what will be in it,—it does not make any difference what it says, I shall go."
On this she thinks an hour, two hours. Yes, she deliberates over it an hour; but does she deliberate over it two hours? No, though she thinks about it; but she thinks five little words more, "He does not wish it." And more and more she deliberates over these five little words. And here the sun is already setting; but she still thinks the same thoughts, and, above all, the five little words; and suddenly, just at the very instant that the indefatigable Masha was demanding that Viéra Pavlovna should come out to tea, at that very moment, out from those five little words arise six little words, "I do not wish it either." How well the indefatigable Masha acted in coming in! She drove away these six new little words. But even the beneficent Masha did not long succeed in driving away these six little words. At first they did not dare to appear by themselves; they sent in their place a refutation of themselves, "But I must go." And they sent them for the sake of returning themselves, under the cover of this refutation. At one instant appeared with them their carrier, "He does not wish it"; and at that very instant these five little words changed into the six little words, "I do not wish it either."
And she goes over these thoughts for half an hour; and in half an hour these five little words, the six little words, begin to work over, according to their own will, even the former words, the most important words of all. And from the three words, most important of all, "I shall go," grow four words, not the same as before, though they are the same, "But shall I go?" Thus it is that words grow, and transform themselves. But here comes Masha again. "I gave him a silver ruble, Viéra Pavlovna; here it is written, 'If he brings it at nine o'clock, give him a silver ruble; but if later, give him half a ruble.' The conductor brought it, Viéra Pavlovna. He came down on the evening train. He said, 'I did as I promised; to make it quicker, I took an izvoshchik.'"
The letter is from him! Yes, she knows what is in the letter; "Don't go." But still she means to go. She does not want to listen to this letter,-to him; she intends to go; she is going. No, there is something different in the letter; here is something to which it is impossible not to listen: "I am going to Riazan, but not directly to Riazan. I have a great deal to do for the factory on the way. Besides Moscow, where I shall have to stay a week, I shall have to stop at two towns this side of Moscow, and three on the other side before I reach Riazan. How long I shall stay at my various halting-points I cannot tell you, for the very reason, that among other things, I shall have to receive money from our mercantile correspondents, and you know, my dear friend"—yes; it was in the letter. "My dear friend was used several times in the letter that I might see that he felt towards me as before; that he had no ill towards me," thinks Viéra Pavlovna. "At that time I kissed those words my dear friend; yes, it was so: 'My dear friend, you know that, when it is necessary to receive money, you are often compelled to stay several days, when you intended to stay only a few hours; and so I really do not know when I shall be able to reach Riazan; by all probability, not very soon.'"
She remembers this letter almost word for word. What does it mean? Yes, he has entirely deprived her of the possibility of clinging to him, so as to preserve her relations to him. What is left for her to do? And her former words, "I must go to him," change into the words, "No, I must not see him," and this him, does not refer to the one of whom she was just thinking. These words change all her former words, and she thinks one hour; she thinks two, "I must not see him"; and how and when did they succeed in changing? but they have already changed into the words: "Shall I really ever want to see him again? No!" and when she falls asleep these words have changed into other words, "Shall I really ever see him?" and where is the answer? Where is he gone? And these again change, yes, they grew into the words, "Shall I never see him again?" And when she falls asleep at daybreak she falls asleep with these same words, "Shall I really never see him again?"
And when she wakes late in the morning already, instead of all other words, only five words are wrestling with two, "I shall not see him; I shall see him"[4]; and thus passes the whole morning. Everything is forgotten; everything is forgotten in this struggle, and the more powerful word no tries to conquer the little word yes; it tackles it; it clutches it. "I shall not see him"; and the little word glances aside and vanishes, glances aside and vanishes. "Yes, I shall see him." Everything is forgotten; everything is forgotten in the effort of the stronger word no to conquer the smaller one yes. Yes, and it does conquer, and it calls to its aid other little words, so that the former little word may have no refuge. "No, I shall not see him; no, I shall not see him!" Yes, now the stronger words hold firmly in their grasp the little word yes, which has no refuge from them; they press it between them: "No, I shall not see—no, I shall see him—no, I shall not see him!" But what is she doing now? Her bonnet was already on her head; instinctively she looked at the mirror to see if her hair is in order; yes, in the mirror she saw that her bonnet is on straight, and from these words, which have grown together so firmly, one remained, and to this a new one was added, "No return! no return!"
"Masha, don't expect me back to dinner! I shall not dine at home to-day."
"Aleksandr Matvéitch has not returned yet from the hospital," calmly replied Stepan; and how could he help speaking calmly with a phlegmatic lady? In her appearance there is nothing out of the ordinary; not very long ago she used to be here.
"I did not think he was; it's all right; I will wait; you need not tell him that I am here."
She unfolds some newspaper or other—yes, she can read; she sees that she can read; yes, as long as there is "no return"; as long as the decision is made, she feels herself quite calm. Of course she can read little; she scarcely read at all; she looked at the room; she began to put it in order, as though she were its khzoyáïka. Of course she did not arrange it much, scarcely at all: but how calm she feels, and she can read, and she can occupy herself with something. She noticed that the ashes had not been emptied from the ash-tray, and that the table-cloth needed adjustment, and that the chair was out of its place. She is sitting and thinking: "There is no return—no choice! A new life is beginning." She thinks an hour, two hours: "A new life is beginning. How surprised he will be! how happy he will be! A new life is beginning! how happy we are!"
A tinkling bell! she flushed a little, and smiled; steps—the door opens!
"Viéra Pavlovna!"
"My love [drūg moï], I could not live without thee. How long thou didst love me, and said not a word. How noble thou art! How noble he is, Sasha!"
"Tell me, Viérotchka, how it happened."
"I told him that I could not live without thee: on the very next evening he had already gone; I wanted to follow him; I talked all day yesterday about following him, but now thou seest that I have been here a long time."
"But how thin thou hast grown these past two weeks, Viérotchka! How pale thy hands are!"
He kisses her hands.
"Yes, my dear, this has been a hard struggle. Now I can appreciate how much you suffered, so as not to disturb my peace. How could you be so self-possessed as to hide it from me? How thou must have suffered!"
"No, Viérotchka; it was not an easy task."
He still kisses her hands, looking at them, and suddenly she burst into laughter.
"Akh! how inattentive I am to you. You are tired, Sasha; you must be hungry."
She frees herself from him, and runs away.
"Where are you going, Viérotchka?"
But she answers never a word, but goes to the kitchen, and hurriedly, gayly, says to Stepan: "Hurry up; let us have dinner for two! hurry up—where are the plates and things! Let me have them; I will set the table myself, and you bring the victuals. Aleksandr is so tired from his hospital that we must give him something to eat."
She comes back with the plates, and the knives, forks, and spoons rattle on the plates.
Stepan puts the soup on the table. At dinner she relates how it all happened. Stepan comes in with the last dish.
"Stepan, seems to me that we shall not leave you any dinner."
"Yes, Viéra Pavlovna; I shall have to buy something for myself in the little grocery store."
"That's all right, Stepan; henceforth you must know that you must prepare for two besides yourself."
And after she remembers all this, Viéra Pavlovna smiles and "now how prosaic our story is!"
Tea was not over when we heard a terrible ringing of the bell, and in came a couple of students, and in their excitement they did not even notice her.
"Aleksandr Matvéitch, there is an interesting subject," say they, all out of breath; "it was brought just now—a very rare complication; it's very interesting, Aleksandr Matvéitch, and immediate help is wanted. Every moment is precious; we even took an izvoshchik to come here."
"Make haste, my dear," she says; and here for the first time the students notice her. They bow to her, and at that very moment they hurry away their professor with them. His preparations did not take very long; he was still in his army coat, and she hurried him away. "Will you come right to me afterwards?" she asked, as she said good by.
"Yes."
Long she waits for him through the evening; here it is ten o'clock, and he hasn't come yet; now it is eleven; now there is no use waiting; still what can be the reason? She, of course, did not worry at all. Nothing could have happened to him; but it shows how long he was detained by the interesting subject, and is the poor interesting subject alive now, and does Sasha succeed in saving him? Yes, Sasha was detained very long. He came in the next morning at ten o'clock. He stayed till four at the hospital.
"It was a very hard and interesting case, Viérotchka."
"Did you save him?"
"Yes."
"How did you get up so early?"
"I didn't go to bed at all."
"You didn't go to bed? So as not to be late coming to see me? You didn't sleep all night? You impious fellow! Please go right home and sleep clear till dinner-time without fail; so that I shall find you sleeping when I come."
In two minutes he was already sent off.
Those were our two first interviews. But this second dinner goes with proper dignity. They tell each other their stories sensibly; they laugh, they think, and they pity each other. To each of them it seems that the other has suffered the more. In a week and a half a little datcha on the Kamennoï Ostrof is rented, and they move there.
VI.
Viéra Pavlovna does not very often recollect the past days of their present love. Yes, in the present there is so much life that there is little recollection; but whenever she recalls the past,—as sometimes, at first, of course, only sometimes, but afterwards more frequently,—at every recollection she feels a dissatisfaction, at first, weak and like a flash, indefinite. At whom? at what? and then it appears to her. At whom? She is dissatisfied with herself. For what? And now she sees from what part of her character arises her dissatisfaction. Yes; she is very proud. But is it only in her past that she is dissatisfied with herself? At first, yes; but then she begins to observe that the dissatisfaction with herself is connected with the present also. And what a strange peculiarity could be noticed in this feeling, after it became clear to her, as though she, Viéra Pavlovna Kirsánova, did not feel a personal dissatisfaction, but as though the dissatisfaction of thousands and millions were not reflected in her; and as though she were not dissatisfied with herself personally, but as though these thousands and millions were dissatisfied with her. But who are these thousands and millions? Why are they dissatisfied with themselves? If I had lived alone by myself as before, she thought to herself, that then, by all probability, this feeling would not have been made manifest so quickly to her. But now she is constantly with her husband. They both think together all the time, and the thought about him interferes with every other thought. This assisted greatly in the evolution of this feeling. He could not directly explain this puzzle to her; as long as this feeling was obscure in her own mind, it was still darker for him. For him it was hard to think how it is possible to feel dissatisfaction which should not interfere with your personal satisfaction, which does not in the least bear upon personality. This was strange to him, a hundred-fold darker than for her; but still it helped her a great deal that she was constantly thinking about her husband and constantly thinking with him. She began to notice that whenever this dissatisfaction came to her, it was always accompanied by comparisons. It consisted in the fact that she compares herself with her husband, and here flashed before her a real word expressing her thought, "a difference, an insulting difference." Now she understands.
VII.
"Sasha, how lovely this N. N. is (Viéra Pavlovna named the officer with whom she wanted to become acquainted with Tambulik and Bosio in her dream); he brought me a new poem, which is not soon going to be published," said Viéra Pavlovna at dinner. "Shall we set ourselves to reading it right after dinner? Yes? I have been waiting for you, and I am going to read it all with you, Sasha. And I have been longing to read it."
"What poem is it?"
"Now you shall hear. Let us see if he succeeded in this thing. N. N. says that he—I mean the author—is pretty well satisfied with it."
And so they settle themselves comfortably in her room, and she begins to read:—
"Oi! full, full the little basket is
With brocades and calicoes!
Sweetheart, pity! what a task it is
For the young lad as he goes!"[5]
"Now I see," said Kirsánof, after listening to a score or so of stanzas; "this is a new style with him; but it is evidently his. Nekrásof's?[6] Yes? I am very grateful to you for waiting for me."
"You ought to be," replied Viéra Pavlovna. Twice they read the little poem over, which, owing to their acquaintance with one of the author's acquaintances, came into their hands three years before it was published.
"Do you know what verses affected me the most?" asked Viéra Pavlovna, after she had read several times with her husband certain parts of the poem. "These verses are not from the main part of the poem, but oh! my thoughts are greatly drawn to them. When Katya was waiting for the return of her bridegroom, she was very melancholy:—
'Had I only time for worrying
I should die, thou heartless one!
Harvest time, and time is hurrying;
Scores of things must now be done!
'Though it often to the maiden comes
That she suffers and must sigh,
Still the hay-cart heavy laden comes,
Still the sickle burns the rye.
'She must thresh with all her might alas!—
Thresh the grain the morning through;
Spread the flax at gloomy night, alas!
On the meadows wet with dew.'[7]
These verses are not the principal ones in that episode: they are only a preface to the fact how this lovely Katya is dreaming about her life with Vanja; but my thoughts are greatly drawn to them."
"Yes, that is a perfect picture,—one of the very best in the poem. But they do not hold the best place in it, so they must have corresponded very closely to the thoughts which occupied you. What are these thoughts?"
"They are these, Sasha. You and I have often said that the organization of woman is almost higher than that of man, and that therefore woman may force man to take second rank in intellectual life, when the rough force which predominates at the present time shall pass. We both have come to this conclusion by observation of life; you meet more women in life than men who are intellectual by nature. So it seems to us both. You confirmed this by various facts drawn from anatomy and physiology."
"What offensive things you are speaking about man, and you say a great deal more than I do about it, Viérotchka. It is insulting to me! It is good that the time which you predict is very far off, else I should entirely change my opinion, so as not to go into the second rank. However, Viérotchka, this is only a probability; science has not collected enough data to settle this question positively."
"Of course, my dear. We said that until this time the facts of history point to a different conclusion, though it is very probable, as we observe private life and the arrangement of the organism, woman has until lately played such a trifling part in intellectual life, because the predominating force deprived her of the means of culture and the motives for reaching development. This explanation is sufficient. But here is another similar case. If woman is measured by her physical strength, her organism is much weaker; but her organism is stronger. Isn't that so?"
"This is much less dubious than the question as to the natural endowment of intellectual strength. Yes, a woman's organism offers a much stronger resistance to material forces of destruction,—climate, weather, and unhealthy food. Medicine and physiology have occupied themselves very little with the detailed investigation of this; but statistics have given an indisputable general answer that the average length of woman's life is more than man's. From this it can be seen that woman's organism is stronger."
"So much the more strikingly can it be seen that the style of woman's life is generally far less healthful than man's!"
"There is another important consideration by which the clearness of the result is made more manifest, and that is offered by physiology. Full maturity is reached rather sooner by woman than by man. Let us suppose that a woman's growth ends at twenty and a man's at twenty-five,—approximately in our climate and in our race. Let us suppose also, approximately, that the same proportion of women reach the age of seventy as of men who reach the age of sixty-five. If we consider the difference in the periods of growth, the preponderance of strength in woman's organism will appear much more strikingly even than statistics grant, which, do not take into consideration the difference in the periods of maturity. Seventy years means three and a half times twenty years. Sixty-five should be divided by twenty-five: how much will it be? Yes, it will go two and a half times, with a remainder—that is, two and three-fifths. Therefore a woman lives three and a half periods of her full development as easily as a man lives only two and a half periods of his. And by this proportion is measured the strength of her organism."
"Indeed, there is a greater difference than I had believed."
"Yes, but I mentioned this only for example; I took round numbers, and depended on my memory. However, the conclusion is exactly as I said. Statistics show that woman's organism is stronger. You got your conclusions only from the tables of life averages. But if the physiological facts are added to the statistical, the difference will be still greater."
"That is so, Sasha; just consider what I was thinking, and now it comes over me more strongly still. I was thinking, if a woman's organism resists more powerfully the destructive impressions of matter, then it is altogether likely that woman should have greater strength in bearing mental shocks. But in reality we see that she is different."
"Yes, this is likely. Of course, so far this is only a supposition; this has not been studied; no special facts have been gathered. But really, your conclusion results so closely from the fact which is already undisputed that it is hard to distrust it. The strength of the organism is too closely connected with the strength of the nerves. In all likelihood woman's nerves are more elastic, have a stronger structure; and if that is so, then they must more easily and firmly endure shocks and painful feelings. But in reality we see many examples of the contrary. A woman very often suffers torments over what a man bears easily. The analysis of the cause by which we see in real life such phenomena, contradicting what we ought to expect from the structure itself of her organism, has not yet been made with sufficient accuracy. But one of these causes is evident; it pervades all historical phenomena, and all the sides of our actual existence. This is a strength of prejudice, a bad habit, a false expectation, a false fear. If a man thinks, 'I can't,' then he really can't. It is constantly drummed into women's ears, 'You are weak,' and so they feel that they are weak, and they really become weak. We have seen examples where people, absolutely healthy, have drooped till they really died, from the one idea that they were bound to grow weak and die. But there are examples which affect whole masses, nations, humanity in general. One of the most remarkable of these is the history of war. In the Middle Ages, the infantry imagined that it could not stand against cavalry—and really it could not. Whole armies of infantry were driven about, like flocks of sheep, by a few hundred men on horseback. Till that time, when the continent first beheld the English infantry, consisting of proud, independent gentry, without fear, who were not accustomed to yield to any one without a fight, such an idea was not known. As soon as these people, who had no tradition that it was necessary to yield to cavalry, entered France, the cavalry, which even excelled them in numbers, was beaten by them at every engagement. You remember the remarkable victories gained by the small army of English infantry over the French cavalry at Cressy, at Poictiers, and at Agincourt. The very same history was repeated when the Swedish infantry took it into their heads that they had no reason to look upon themselves as weaker than the feudal cavalry. The Austrian, and afterwards the Burgundian, cavalry, superior in numbers, began to suffer defeats at every engagement; then all the other cavalry tried to battle with them, and all of them were defeated. Then all said, 'Yes, the infantry seems to be stronger than cavalry.' Of course it was stronger. But whole centuries have passed considering that the infantry was weak compared with cavalry, simply because they looked upon themselves as weak."
"Yes, Sasha, this is true. We are weak because we regard ourselves as weak; but it seems to me that there is still another cause. I want to speak about myself and you. Tell me, my dear, did I change much in those two weeks that you did not see me? You were too much worried then. It may have seemed to you more than it really was, or, in fact, the change was great. How does it seem to you now?"
"Yes, you really were very thin and pale then."
"Now, you see, my dear, I have learned that this is the very thing that touches my pride. You see, you love me very dearly. Why didn't the struggle show itself in you in such evident signs as it did in me? For nobody saw you become pale or thin in those months when you were separated from me. How did you bear it so easily?"
"This is why the verses interested you so much, where Katya overcomes her melancholy by work. You want to know whether I have experienced the truth of this remark, in regard to myself. Yes: it is absolutely true. I kept up the struggle easily, because I had no time to spend over it. Always, when I paid attention to it, I suffered keenly; but every-day necessities compelled me, for the large part of the time, to forget about it. I had to attend to my patients; to get ready for my lectures. At that time, not by my own will either, I freed myself from my thoughts. Those days when I had a good many leisure hours I felt that my strength was failing me. It seems to me that if I had remained a week a prey to my thoughts, I should have lost my mind."
"It is so, my dear; and I at last came to understand that in this lay the whole secret of the difference between me and you. You must have such activity that you can postpone it, that you cannot refuse it; then a person is incomparably firmer."
"But you had a great deal of activity then, and the same thing is true now."
"Akh, Sasha, are they things of such imperative importance? I devote myself to them as much as I please, and when I please. Whenever it seems good to me, I can devote less time to them, or put them off entirely. At a time when my mind is disturbed, it takes a special effort of the will, and only in that way can I compel myself to attend to them. There is no support in the necessity of them. For example, I busy myself with my household duties,[8] and I spend a great deal of time in them; but nine-tenths of this time I spend in this way only because I want to. With a good servant, shouldn't I spend just as much time, even though there was less necessity to work? And who feels the necessity of wasting double time for the sake of the slight improvement over what he, with a less expenditure of time which might be my own? The only necessity upon me is my own will. When the mind is at ease, you give yourself up to these things; but when your mind is disturbed, you neglect them, because you can manage without them. You are apt to give up the less important for more important things. As soon as your feelings get greatly stirred up, they drive away the thoughts about other things. I give lessons, which are things of somewhat more importance; I cannot give them up at the dictate of my will. But this is not the point. I give them closer attention at one time than at another; if during the lesson my mind wanders somewhat, the lesson may go only a little worse than before, because teaching is very easy, and does not absorb the mind. And, after all, do I really make my living by my lessons? does my position depend on them? do they afford me the principal means for living as I do? No; these means were afforded me by Dmitri's work, now by yours. Giving lessons flatters my feeling of independence; and really they are not unprofitable. Still, there is no vital necessity upon me for keeping them up. At that time I tried to drive away my tormenting thoughts by giving myself up to the shop more than usual; but again I did it more from the impulse of my will. You see, I understood that my presence at the shop was needed only for an hour or an hour and a half; that if I stayed there longer, I adopt an artificial occupation, that may be useful, but is not indispensable for the business. And then, again, this very thing, can it serve as a support for such ordinary mortals as we? Rakhmétof belongs to a different species. They take hold of common affairs in such a way that the necessity of it fills their existence; for them it even forms a substitute for personal existence. But for us, Sasha, this is unattainable. We are not eagles, like him; we can live only in our personal lives. Is the shop my personal life? This affair is not my affair, but others'. I occupy myself with it, not for my own sake, but for theirs. Let us admit that it is for my own satisfaction; but can those such as we—not eagles—bother themselves about others when they are themselves in trouble? Can they give themselves up to their convictions when they are tormented by their feelings? No; a personal interest, an unavoidable necessity on which your life depends, is required; a necessity which for my own self, for my style of life, my means of life, for my whole situation in life, for my entire fate, would be more powerful than all my drawings towards passion. Only such a stimulus can serve as a support in battle with passion; only such a thing cannot be conquered by passion, but by itself overwhelms passions; only such a thing gives strength and rest. I want such a stimulus."
"You are right, my dear, you are right," said Kirsánof, kissing his wife, whose eyes were flashing with enthusiasm. "You are right; and I never thought of it before, though it is so evident; I had not noticed it. Yes, Viérotchka, no one else can think for another. Whoever wants to enjoy life must think for himself, look out for himself; no one else is going to do it for him. But what necessity do you feel upon you now? Are you going to fall in love with some one else, Viérotchka?"
Viéra Pavlovna laughed heartily, and for some time neither of them could say a word from laughing.
"Yes, now we both can appreciate that," she said finally. "Now I can be perfectly sure, and so can you, that nothing of the sort can possibly happen. But seriously, do you know how it seems to me, my dear? If my love for Dmitri was not the love of a fully developed woman, neither did he love me in the sense of the word as we understand it. His feeling for me was a combination of a very warm attachment to me as a friend, with occasional outbursts of passion towards me as a woman. He felt a personal friendship for me, for me particularly; but these outbursts were only the attraction towards woman; they had no personal relation to me. No, that was not love. Was he much concerned with thoughts about me? No; they did not interest him. No, on his side, as well as on mine, there was no real love."
"You are unjust to him, Viérotchka."
"No, Sasha; this is so. In talk between you and me there is no use in flattering him. Both of us know how highly we prize him. We also know that, no matter how he protested that it was easy for him, in reality it was not easy. You may also declare that it was an easy matter to struggle with your passion. All this is well, and it is not put on; but such keen assurances must not be taken in the literal sense of the word."
VIII.
"Sasha, let us finish talking about what we left yesterday. It is necessary; for I have made up my mind to go with you: and you must know why," said Viéra Pavlovna, the next morning.
"With me? You are going with me?"
"Certainly. You asked me, Sasha, why I wanted to do something on which my life could depend, in real earnest, which I could hold as dear as you hold your profession; which would be just as imperative upon me, which would demand all my attention, just as yours does you! My dear, I must have such a thing, for I am proud. It has been a burden and a shame upon me for a long time, when I remembered that my struggle with my feeling reflected itself upon me so plainly, that it was so unendurable for me. You know that I do not mean the difficulty of it—for your struggle was just as hard for you; that depends on the strength of the feeling, and I must not be sorry now that it was very hard, for that would be equivalent to saying that I was sorry that the feeling was strong. No! but why didn't I have as firm a support against its strength as you had? I want to have such a support. But this only brought me to think; but the real necessity is, of course, at the present time; and it is this: I want to be your equal in all things; that is the main thing. I have found something. After we parted yesterday, I thought for a long time about it; I thought about it all yesterday morning, while you were away; and yesterday I wanted to consult you like a good fellow, but you disappointed my hope by your resistance. Now it is too late for your advice; I have already made up my mind. Yes, Sasha, you will have a great deal of trouble on account of me. My dear, how happy I shall be if I find I have the ability for it."
Yes; now Viéra Pavlovna has found a sphere of activity in which she could not have succeeded before. Her Aleksandr's hand was always in hers, and so it was easy for her to go ahead. Lopukhóf placed no restriction upon her, nor did she upon him; and that was all. No, of course there was more; far more. She was sure, always sure, that in whatever case necessity compelled her to take his hand, his hand and his life were at her service. And just as his life was always at her service, so he would not grudge stretching out his hand to help her; that is, in important circumstances; in critical moments his hand was as ready and as reliable as Kirsánof's, and he proved it very satisfactorily by his marriage, when he sacrificed for her sake, all his expectations for a scientific career, which at that time was so attractive to him; and he was not afraid even to run the risk of starvation. Yes; when there was an important matter, his hand was ready. But, as a general thing, his hand held aloof from her. Viéra Pavlovna was starting her sewing union; if his aid had been needed for anything, he would have given it ungrudgingly. But why was it that he did almost nothing at all? He did not interfere; he approved; he was glad, and that was all. She lived her life; he lived his. But now it is different. Kirsánof did not even wait to be asked to take part in anything that she was doing. He was as much interested as she was in all her every-day life, just as she was in his. It was quite a different relation from that with her first husband, and so she felt drawn to new activity, and therefore thoughts arose in her, and began to assume practical shape, which before were known to her only theoretically, and did not, in reality, touch her inner life; what it is impossible to do, you do not think of seriously.
Here follow the thoughts which now stirred in Viéra Pavlovna's mind, and served as motives to activity.
IX.
"Almost all the channels of civilized life are closed to us by law."[9] A good many are closed to us practically—almost all paths of public activity—even those which are not closed to us by legal hindrances. Out of all the spheres of life we are compelled to content ourselves with only one—the sphere of domestic life—to be members of a family; and that is all. Besides this, what occupations are open for us? Scarcely more than to become governesses; and besides, perhaps to give private lessons which men do not care to deprive us of. There is scarcely room enough for us in this narrow path; we interfere with each other, because too many of us crowd into it; it scarcely affords us any independence, because there are too many of us who offer our services; not one is needed, for the very reason that we are too many. Who has any regard for a governess? If you merely hint that you want a governess, they flock to you by the tens and hundreds, each trying to get the place away from the others.
"No; as long as women do not strive to branch out in different ways, women cannot expect to have any independence in life. Of course it is hard to break out a new path. But my position in this respect is very advantageous, and I should be ashamed if I did not avail myself of it. We are not ready for serious occupations. I do not know how far a leader may be needed to prepare for this change. But I know that to whatever degree I may need his help every day, he is here at my side. And this will be no burden to him; it will be as pleasant to him as to me.
"Custom has shut us out of these paths of independent activity which are not closed to us by law. But out of all these paths from which we are shut by custom, I can select the one that I want, if I can only make up my mind to meet the first resistance of custom. One of them is far more convenient to me than the others. My husband is a doctor. He devotes all his leisure time to me. With such a husband, it is an easy matter for me to try to be a doctor.
"It would be a very striking thing if there should spring up at last a class of women doctors. They would be very useful for all women. It is much easier for a woman to talk with a woman than with a man. How much suffering, death, and misfortune would be removed. I must try it."[10]
X.
Viéra Pavlovna finished her conversation with her husband by putting on her bonnet, and going with him to the hospital to put her nerves to the test, to find if she could bear the sight of blood, or be able to study anatomy. With Kirsánof's position in the hospital, of course there could be no obstacle to her experiment.
I, without the least sense of shame, have seriously compromised Viéra Pavlovna on the side of sentiment. For example, I have not concealed the fact that she dined every day, and for the most part with good appetite, and, moreover, twice a day drank tea. But I have reached such an occurrence that, in spite of all the shameless degradation of my conceptions, I am overtaken by fear; and I wonder, would it not be better to hide this thing? What will be thought of a woman who gave herself up to medicine? What coarse nerves she must have! What an unfeeling heart! She is not a woman, but a butcher. But, considering that I do not represent the characters of my story as ideals of perfection, I become calmer. Let folks judge as they please about the heartlessness of Viéra Pavlovna's nature. What business is it of mine? If she is coarse, let her be coarse.
And so I say in cold blood that she found a great difference between idle observation of things and active work in them for her own benefit and the benefit of others.
I remember that when I was a boy, twelve years old, I who had never seen fire was frightened by being wakened by the loud noise of a fire alarm. The whole sky became red and fiery; over all the city, which was a large provincial town, flew great burning cinders. Over all the city there was a great tumult, running to and fro, shrieks. I breathed as though I had been in a fever. Fortunately I succeeded in getting to the fire, availing myself of the chance that all the domestics were in a great state of excitement. The fire was along the shore; that is, simply the bank, because what kind of a shore could there be? The bank was filled with wood and with wooden posts. Such boys as I were taking hold and carrying off things from the burning houses. I joined them. What became of my fear? I worked very energetically till we were told, "That'll do; the danger is over"; and from that time I understood that if you have any fear of a great fire, you must run to it and work, and you will not fear at all.
Whoever works has no time to fear, or to feel disgust or squeamishness. And so Viéra Pavlovna gave herself up to medicine; and she was one of the first women whom I knew to enter this new field of activity. After this she really began to feel herself a different person. Her thought was, "In a few years I shall actually stand on my feet." This is a great thought. There can be no full happiness without full independence. Poor women, how few among you have this happiness!
XI.
And thus a year passes; and another year will pass, and still another since her marriage to Kirsánof; and thus all of Viéra Pavlovna's days will pass as they pass now, a year after the wedding, as they have passed since the wedding: and a good many years will pass; and they will all pass in this way unless something extraordinary happens. Who knows what the future will bring forth? But till the time that I am writing these lines nothing extraordinary has happened; and Viéra Pavlovna's days are passing just as they passed a year or two years after her marriage to Kersáuof.
After this terrible compromising circumstance that Viéra Pavlovna made up her mind to study medicine, and found herself capable of doing so, I can speak without fear of everything else; all that remains cannot injure her so much in the estimation of the public. And I must say that now, on Syergievskaïa Street as before on Vasilyevsky Island, Viéra Pavlovna's meals were constituted as follows: tea in the morning, dinner, and tea in the evening. Yes; she has preserved the unpoetical peculiarities of dining every day, and taking tea twice a day, and finds it agreeable; and, generally speaking, she preserves all her unpoetical and ungraceful and far from high-toned peculiarities.
And many other details remain in this new time of contentment just as they were in the former time of contentment; they kept the rule for the division of the rooms into neutral and private; the rule also remained in force that they should not enter each other's private rooms without permission; and another, that a question should not be repeated if the first time it was met by the words, "Do not ask me." It was agreed between them, that such an answer best allows no thinking about the question propounded, and that thus it is more speedily forgotten; this agreement was made because they were sure that if it deserved an answer, there would be need of repeating; everything would be explained without the need of asking, and what one keeps silent is surely nothing interesting. All this was left during this new peaceful time, as it used to be in the old peaceful time, only at this peaceful time everything has changed to a certain degree, or rather it has not changed, but yet it is not as it used to be in the former time; and their life is different.
For example, there is a strict distinction made between the neutral and the private rooms, but the permission for admittance into the private rooms has been decided for good and all once at a certain hour in the day. This was arranged because two out of three of their meals were taken each day in the private rooms. A custom has been made of drinking morning tea in her room, and evening tea in his room. The evening tea is conducted without any ceremony; the old servant, Stepan, brings into Aleksandr's room the samovar and the tea service, and that is all. But at morning tea they arrange it differently. Stepan puts the samovar and the tea service on the table in that neutral room, which is nearest Viéra Pavlovna's room, and tells Aleksandr Matvéitch that the samovar is ready; that is, he tells Aleksandr Matvéitch in his room. But supposing he does not find him? Then Stepan takes no trouble about finding him; they must know for themselves that it is tea-time. And, in accordance with this custom they made a rule, that in the morning Viéra Pavlovna expects her husband without asking permission.
After she wakes up she lies comfortably in her warm little bed; she is too lazy to rise. She thinks and she does not think, and she half dreams and she does not dream at all; to think means for her to plan something about the day or the days to come, something about the household,[11] about the shop, about her acquaintances, about her plans for spending the day; this, of course, is not dreaming; but besides all this, there are two other objects, and three years after their marriage still a third appears, which she holds in her arms; that is Mítya; the name Mítya is of course in honor of their friend Dmitri; but the two other objects—one was a sweet thought about her occupation, which is going to give her full independence of life, and the second thought is Sasha! This thought it is impossible to call a special thought, because it forms the basis of all that she thinks, because he takes part in all her life, and this thought which is not a special thought but a constant thought remains alone in her heart. Now you yourselves see that often the moments pass without Viéra Pavlovna having time to take a bath. (This was very conveniently arranged; it cost them a great deal of trouble; it was necessary to introduce a faucet into her room, with water from the kitchen boiler, and to take a great deal of wood for this luxury; but, however, they could afford it, and so they allowed it.) Yes, very often Viéra Pavlovna has time to take a bath and to lie down again comfortably until Sasha should come and take upon himself the duty of attending to the morning tea.
Yes, it could not be otherwise; Sasha is perfectly right when he declared that this must be arranged so because to drink morning tea, that is, tea mostly made of cream warmed with a very small dose of very strong tea, and to drink it in her bed, is wonderfully agreeable. Sasha goes for the tea service: yes, this happens oftener than his coming in directly with the tea service, and he makes himself busy, and she still takes her ease, and after she drinks the tea she still reclines, not in her little bed, but on her little sofa. She reclines till ten or eleven o'clock, till Sasha has to leave for the hospital or the clinic or to his medical lecture, and with his last cup Sasha takes a cigar, and either one of them reminds the other, "Now let us go to work"; or, "That's enough; now let us go to work." What work? Whatever happens—lessons or reviews, in Viéra Pavlovna's course of study. Sasha is her instructor in the study of medicine, but his aid is still more essential for the preparation of those subjects in the gymnasium course in which it was necessary for her to pass the examination, the study of which would be too tedious by herself; the most terrible thing of all was mathematics; yes, the Latin was if anything more tedious; but it can't be helped, she must endure the tediousness of it; not very long, however. In the examination which serves in place of the gymnasium certificate[12] there is very little required in the medical school; for instance, I cannot guarantee that Viéra Pavlovna will ever reach such a perfection in the Latin language as to translate two lines of Cornelius Nepos, but she is already able to explain such phrases as she finds in medical books, because this knowledge is indispensable, though it is not very deep. No—but we have said enough about this. I see already that I am irreconcilably compromising Viéra Pavlovna; probably, the sapi.
XII.
A DIGRESSION CONCERNING BLUE STOCKINGS.
"A blue stocking! an extreme case of blue stocking! I can't endure a blue stocking. A blue stocking is dull and tedious!" cries the sapient reader, losing his temper, and not without reason.
After all, what warm friends the sapient reader and I have become! He insulted me once; twice I took him by the throat and put him out, and yet we cannot help exchanging our inmost thoughts; it comes from a secret drawing of heart to heart. What can you do about it?
"O sapient reader!" I say to him, "you are right; the blue stocking is really dull and tedious, and it is beyond endurance to put up with him. You have fathomed it! But you have not guessed who the blue stocking is! Now you shall soon see as plain as in a mirror. The blue stocking, with an unreasonable affectation, talks with great self-satisfaction about literary and scientific matters of which he does not know beans, and speaks not because he is interested, but because he wants to show off wits (which nature never endowed him with), lofty aspirations (of which he has as much as the chair on which he is sitting), and education (of which he has as much as a parrot). Do you see whose rough physiognomy or chastened figure is in the mirror? 'Tis your own, my friend! Yes, no matter how long a beard you may grow, or how closely shaven you may be, still you are, undoubtedly, indisputably, the original blue stocking, and that was the reason I twice took you by the throat and put you out—simply for the reason that I cannot bear blue stockings, who among our brethren, the men, are ten times as numerous as among women.
"And those with a live purpose who occupy themselves with anything, no matter what, no matter how they may be dressed, whether they wear a woman's dress or a man's, these are simply people who attend to their own affairs, and that's all there is of it."
XIII.
The talk about Blue Stockings, so useful for the sapient reader, who was shown to be one, took me away from my description of Viéra Pavlovna's manner of spending her days. Now that when—when—whenever you please; from the time that she moved from Syergievskaïa Street till this moment. But however, what is the use of spinning out this description? To give a general idea, that change which began to take place in the way Viéra Pavlovna spent her evenings, after her renewal of Kirsánof's acquaintance while she still lived with Vasilyevsky Ostrof, is entirely developed now that the Kirsánofs, from the centre of a rather extensive number of young families, living just as harmoniously and happily as they themselves do, and agreeing with them also in their sentiments, and that music and singing, the opera and poetry, and all sorts of amusements and dances, fill all the free evenings of this circle of families; because every evening there is some gathering at one house or another, or some other arrangement for spending the evening for people of various tastes. As a general thing, at these gatherings, or whenever any other way of spending the time is devised, at least half the circle is present, and the Kirsánofs, as well as their friends, spend half their evenings in this social way. But there is no need of going into details here; it is understood, of course. But there is one thing about which, unfortunately, it is necessary to be very explicit for the sake of a very large number who would not otherwise understand. All of us, even if we have not ourselves experienced such a thing, but have only read about it, know how different for a boy or girl is an evening which is simply a party and an evening on which his dear or her dear comes to see her or him; between an opera which we merely see and an opera which we see sitting next him or her with whom we are in love. There is a very great difference. This is well known; but what is experienced by very few is that the charm which love gives to everything is not necessarily, as is common according to the present state of things, a transitory phenomenon in a person's life; that this bright light of life does not necessarily illumine alone the epoch of searching and attaining, or, let us name the epoch thus: the epoch of attention, of wooing. No, this epoch, according to the present state of things, is only the morning star, gentle, beautiful, but the harbinger of a day which has incomparably more light and warmth than its harbinger; a light and warmth, and particularly a warmth, which grow more and more even beyond the noon, and still keeps growing. It used to be different. After the loving pair were united, quickly the poetry of love vanished. Now, among those whom we call the people of the present, it is quite different. They, after being united by love, become brightened and warmed more and more by the poetry of it the longer they live together, until late evening, when the care of growing children may partially divert their thoughts from themselves. Then care is more sweet than personal enjoyment; it becomes more absorbing, but till that time it keeps on growing. What people used to know as honeymoons, the people of the present generation keep for long years.
Why is this so? This is a secret; I may tell you though. It is a grand secret; it is good to avail oneself of it, and it does not take great skill to do so. All that is required is a pure heart and an honest soul, and the present idea of the rights of a human being with regard to the freedom of the one with whom you live. That is all. There is no further secret about it. Look upon your wife as you looked upon your bride; know that she has the right to tell you any moment, "I am dissatisfied with you; leave me." Look upon her so, and nine years after your marriage she will inspire in you the same poetical feeling as she did when she was a bride—no, more poetical, more ideal, in the proper sense of the word. Acknowledge her liberty as openly and formally and without any circumlocutions, just as you acknowledge the freedom of your friends, to feel or not to feel friendship towards you, and then in ten years, in twenty years, after your wedding, you will be as much in love with her as when you were a bridegroom. So live husbands and wives of the new dispensation. It is much to be desired. And for that very reason, that they are honest towards each other, they love each other ten years after marriage more warmly and poetically than on the wedding-day, and just for the very reason that during these ten years neither he nor she gave each other a dissembling kiss or said one hypocritical word. "A lie has never passed his lips," was said about somebody in a certain book; "There is no hypocrisy in his heart" was said about somebody, maybe in the very same book. They read the book and think, "What a wonderful moral height is ascribed to him!" When they wrote the book they thought, "Here we are describing a man who will fill every one with surprise." They know not who wrote the book, do not realize who is going to read it; but the people of the new dispensation do not receive among the number of their acquaintances anybody who does not possess such a soul, and they have no lack of such a soul, and they have no lack of such acquaintance, and they look upon their acquaintances as nothing more than people of the new dispensation, good, but ordinary people.
One thing calls for pity: at the present time, to every one man of the new dispensation there are a dozen or more antediluvians. This, however, is natural. In an antediluvian world you expect an antediluvian population.
XIV.
"And so here we have been living together three years" (before, it used to be said a year, two years, and later it will be said four years, and so on), "and yet we are still like lovers, who see each other rarely and secretly. Where did people get the idea that love grows weak, when there is nothing to hinder people from belonging wholly to each other? These people did not know true love. They felt only an erotic selfishness, or an erotic fancy. Real love begins only when people begin to live together."
"Do you notice that in me?"
"I notice in you something that is much more interesting. In three years you will forget that you have studied medicine, and in three years you will forget to read, and from all your senses, which are needful for intellectual life, you will use only one,—that of sight; and sight, too, will forget to see anything else but me."
Such conversations do not last long, and are not frequent; but still, occasionally, they have such conversations.
"Yes, it grows stronger every year."
"In the nature of man does attachment grow weaker? does it fail to be developed by time? When does friendship become stronger and firmer? in a week, or a year, or twenty years after it began? It is only necessary that people should choose the right friends; that they should be suited to each other."
These conversations take place, but they are not frequent. They are brief, and not frequent. In fact, what reason have they to talk about this subject very often?
But this kind come oftener and last longer:—
"Sasha, how greatly your love supports me! Through it I am becoming independent; I am getting rid of all dependence upon anybody, even upon you. But what has my love brought to you?"
"For me? not less than for you! It is a constant, powerful, healthy stimulus of the nerves; it essentially develops the nervous system!" ("Coarse materialism!" declare the sapient reader and I together.) "And therefore the intellectual and moral strength grow in me from my love."
"Yes, Sasha, I hear from everybody—I myself am a bad witness in the case; my eyes are blinded—but everybody sees the same thing; your eyes are growing brighter, your views become clearer and keener."
"Viérotchka, why should I praise or not praise myself before you? We are one. But this must really be reflected in the eyes. My mind has become far stronger; when I make conclusions from observations, or a general examination of the facts, I finish now in an hour what used to take me several hours. And I can grasp with my mind many more facts than before, and the conclusions drawn from them are broader and fuller. Viérotchka, if I had the slightest germ of genius with this feeling, I should become a great genius. If I had been endowed by nature with the power of creating something new in science, with this feeling I should have the power of reorganizing science. But I was born merely to be a rough laborer, a swarthy little toiler, who works over little special questions. Such I was before I knew you; now you know I am different. More is expected of me; it is supposed that I am going to reorganize the most important branch of science, the whole teaching about the functions of the nervous system; and I feel that I am going to fulfil this expectation. At the age of twenty-four a man's views are wider and bolder and more original, than when he reaches the age of twenty-nine, and the same is true at the age of thirty and thirty-two, and so on; but then it was not true of me as it is now, and I feel that I am still progressing, while without you I should long ago have ceased to grow. Yes, and I did cease to grow the last two or three years before we began to live together. You brought back to me the freshness of my early youth, the power of going vastly further than where I should have stopped, if it had not been for you. And the energy of work, Viérotchka, does that signify little! An immense stimulus of strength is brought into labor when your whole life is so inclined. You know how the energy of intellectual labor is simulated by a glass of coffee; what they afford others for an hour after, which follows a reaction proportionate to these outward and transitory stimuli, this I find constantly; my nerves are constantly attuned to finer, more vital energies." ("Again coarse materialism!" we remark, etc.)
These conversations are more frequent and longer.
"He who has not experienced how love stimulates all the powers of a man knows not what real love is."
"Love consists in elevating others, and in being elevated."
"He who has no stimulus to activity without it finds such stimulus in love; and if a man has a stimulus, love gives him strength to use it to advantage."
"Only he loves who helps a lovely woman to rise to independence."
"Only he loves whose mind grows brighter and hands grow stronger from love."
And the following conversations are very frequent:—
"My dear, I am reading Boccaccio now" ("What immorality!" we remark with the sapient reader—"a woman reading Boccaccio; only he and I have a right to read it." But I, apart from him, also make this remark, "A woman will hear more veiled nastiness from the sapient reader in five minutes than she will find in all Boccaccio, and she will not hear from him a single fresh, bright, pure thought, while Boccaccio has hosts of them!"); "you are right, my dear; he has great talent. Some of his stories I think can be put in the same rank with the best of Shakespeare's dramas, from their depth and keenness of psychological analysis."
"But how do you like the comical stories, in which he is so unceremonious?"
"Some of them are amusing, but for the most part they are dull, like any other coarse farce."
"But that may be forgiven him, for he lived five hundred years before us; what seems to us too vile, too cheap, was not then considered out of the way."
"Just as all our habits and all our style will seem dirty to those who will live much less than five hundred years after us—but this is not interesting. I was speaking about those splendid stories of his in which he seriously pictures a passionate, lofty love. In those more than in others his talent lies; but this is what I wanted to say, Sasha: he draws very admirable and powerful pictures of love, but I should judge that he did not understand that tenderness of love which we see nowadays. Love was not felt at that time so keenly, though they say that was the period when love was most fully enjoyed. No, how could it be? They did not enjoy it half so deeply as we do. Their feelings were too superficial; their raptures were too feeble and too transitory."
"The strength of sensation is proportionate to the depth of the organism from which it takes its rise. If it is stirred exclusively by an outward object, by an outward motive, then it is transitory, and develops only one special side of its life. He who drinks only because he is given a glass understands only very little the taste of wine; it affords him very little pleasure. Enjoyment is vastly stronger when its root is in the imagination; but this is still very weak in comparison to when the root of the relations which are connected with the enjoyment finds its soil in the very depth of the moral life."
"I am very glad that I gave up before it was too late, that unprofitable way of living. It is true; it is important for the circulation of the blood not to be checked by any hindrances. But why after all should we care if the complexion of the skin does become more tender? It must be so. And how delighted we are at trifles! Trifles, but how you feel them in your feet! The stocking must be put on smooth, and should not be too light; the seam gets in the proper place, and the hurt vanishes.
"It does not pass so quick! I wore corsets only three years; I gave them up before we were married. But it is a fact they still confine the waist too much even without corsets. Isn't it likely that this deformity will also pass like the pain in the foot? It is likely: even now it is going out of fashion somewhat; it will pass. How glad I am! What a horrible cut of dresses. It is full time that the Russian women had better sense. The dress ought to be wide from the very shoulders, just as the Greeks used to be dressed! How the cut of our dresses ruins our figures! But this line is beginning to be normal in me, and how glad I am!"
"How lovely you are, Viérotchka!"
"How happy I am, Sasha!"
And sweet discourses.
Like rivers of bliss
Spreading and flowing;
His smile and his kiss![13]
XV.
VIÉRA PAVLOVNA'S FOURTH DREAM.
And Viéra Pavlovna dreams a dream as though:—
A voice familiar to her—oh, how familiar to her!—from afar, then nearer, nearer.
Wie herrlich leuchtet
Mir die Natur
Wie glänzet die Sonne
Wie lacht die Flur.
And Viéra Pavlovna sees that it is so, absolutely so. . . . The cornfield shines with golden hues. The meadow is decked with flowers; hundreds, thousands of blossoms are waving on the copse encircling the meadow, and the forest which rises behind the copse grows green, and whispers and gleams with flowers; fragrance is wafted from the cornfield, from the meadow, from the copse, from the flowers that fill the forest. Little birds are flying from twig to twig, and thousands of voices come forth from the branches with the fragrance; and beyond the cornfield, the meadow, the copse, the forest, are other cornfields shining in gold, other meadows decked with flowers, other copses thick with blossoms, stretching away to the distant mountains covered with forests, gleaming in the sun, and on their summits, here and there, bright, silvery, golden, purple, translucent clouds, changing and casting on the horizon their brilliant blue shadows; the sun mounts on high; it rejoices, and nature rejoices; it pours forth light and warmth, fragrance and song, love and tenderness, into the heart; a song of joy and tenderness poureth forth; of love and goodness from the heart: "Oh, earth! oh, sun! oh, happiness! oh, joy! oh, love! oh, love so golden-beautiful, like morning clouds on yonder heights!"
"O Erd'! O Sonne!
O Glück! O Lust!
O Lieb! O Liebe,
So golden Schön
Wie Morgenwolken
Auf jenen Höhn!"
"Now dost thou know me? Dost thou know that I am beautiful? But thou dost not know yet; none of you yet know me in all my beauty. Look at the past, the present, and the future! Listen and look:—
Wohl perlet in Glase der purpurne Wein
Wohl glänzen die Augen der Gäste."
At the foot of the mountain, at the edge of the forest, amid the blooming copse, surrounded by lofty trees, a palace is built.
"Let us go there."
They go, they fly.
A magnificent festival. The wine is foaming in the glasses; the eyes of the guests gleam bright. A noise and a whispering undertone, laughter, and a secret, silent pressing of hands, and now and then a stealthy, inaudible kiss.—"A song! a song! without song joy is not complete!" And the poet rises. His face and mind are lighted by inspiration; nature whispers to her secrets; history reveals her significance; and the life of thousands' of years passes by in his song like a series of pictures.
1.
The poet's words resound, and a picture appears.
The tents of nomads. Around the tents are grazing sheep, horses, camels. Afar lies the forest, olives, and fig-trees. Still further, further, at the edge of the horizon, towards the north-west, is a double chain of lofty mountains. The summits of the mountains are covered with snow; their slopes are covered with cedars. But the shepherds are straighter than the cedars; their wives are straighter than the palm-trees, and their days are free from care in this soft, idle existence. They have one concern,—love; all their lives pass, day by day, in caresses and songs of love.
"No," says the shining one; "this is not about me; I did not exist then. Yonder woman was a slave. Where there is no equality I am not found. That tsaritsa was Astarte. Lo, there she is!"
A beautiful woman. On her hands and feet are heavy golden bracelets; a heavy necklace of pearls and corals with golden links upon her neck. Her hair is moistened with myrrh. Her face betrays sensuality and servility. Her eyes are fall of voluptuousness and insipidity.
"Be obedient to thy lord; sweeten his idleness during the intervals of his forays; thou must love him because he bought thee; and if thou dost not love him, he will kill thee," says she to a woman who lies before her in the dust.
"Thou seest that it is not I," says the beauty.
2.
Again resound the inspired words of the poet. A new picture arises:—
A city. At the distance, towards the north and east, are the mountains; towards the east and south, and further to the west, the sea. A wonderful city. The houses there are small, mean in their outward show. But how many wonderful temples are there! especially on the hill, where the steps, with gates of wondrous grandeur, lead. The whole height is filled with temples and public edifices, any one of which alone would now be sufficient to increase the glory and fame of the finest of our capitals. Thousands of statues decorate these temples and the city everywhere,—statues, one of which alone would be sufficient to make the museum where it was placed the first museum of the world. And how beautiful the people are, as they come crowding into the squares, into the streets! Each of these young youths, each of these young girls, could serve as a model for a statue. Indeed, it is an active, lively, joyous people, a people whose life is bright and beautiful. These houses, which are not luxurious to look upon, what riches of beauty and lofty power of enjoyment they show within! With everything of furnishing or household ware one might fall in love. And all these people are so beautiful; they have such solid understanding of beauty; they live for love; they serve the beautiful. Here comes an exile back to the city whose power he destroyed; he returns to rule, and all know it. Why is not one hand raised against him? On the chariot with him goes a woman of marvellous beauty, even in a city of beautiful women, pointing him to the people, begging the people to accept him, assuring the people that she supports him. And bowing low before her beauty, the people entrust their fate to Peisistratos, their favorite. Here is a court; the judges are stern old men,—the people may be drawn away, but they yield not to impulses. The Areopagos is famous for its merciless severity, by its implacable honesty. Gods and goddesses came before it to ask decision in their cases. And here a woman must appear before them, whom all consider guilty of horrible crimes; she must die, the destroyer of Athens; each of the judges has already decided in his soul; Aspasia appears before them, she who is doomed, and they all kneel down before her on the earth, and they say, "Thou shalt not be judged. Thou art too beautiful. Isn't this the kingdom of beauty? isn't this the kingdom of love?"
"No," says the radiant one; "at that time I was not in existence. They bowed to a woman, but they did not consider her their equal. They subjected themselves to her only as to a source of enjoyment; human dignity they did not acknowledge in her. Where respect to a woman is not the same as to man, I am not to be found. That tsaritsa was called Aphrodite. Here she is."
That tsaritsa has no adornments whatsoever. She is so beautiful that her admirers did not wish her to wear any dress. Her wonderful lines must not be hidden from delighted eyes.
What does she say to a woman who is almost as beautiful as she is, who throws frankincense upon her altars?
"Be a source of enjoyment for mankind. He is thy master. Thou livest not for thyself, but for him."
And in her eyes there is only the tenderness of physical enjoyment. Her bearing is haughty; in her face there is pride, but pride only in its physical beauty. And to what a life a woman was doomed during her reign! Man locked his wife in the gynecium, so that no one but him, her master, might enjoy her beauty, which belonged to him alone. She had no liberty. There were other women who called themselves free, but they sold the enjoyment of their beauty, they sold their liberty. No, they had no liberty. This tsaritsa was half a slave. Where there is no liberty there is no happiness, there I am not found.
3.
Again resound the poet's words. A new picture appears:—
Before the castle, an arena. Around is an amphitheatre, with a shining host of spectators. On the arena are knights. Over the arena, on the balcony of the castle, sits a maiden. She has her scarf in her hands. Whosoever conquers shall get the scarf and the kiss of her hand. The knights fight to the death. Toggenburg is victorious. "Knight, I love thee like a sister. Ask no other sort of love. My heart does not beat faster when you come; it beats not faster when you depart. My fate is decided," says he, and departs for Palestine. And throughout all Christendom the glory of his doughty deeds is spread. But he cannot live without seeing the tsaritsa of his soul. He returns; he has not found forgetfulness in battles. "Do not rap at the door, O knight; she is now in the nunnery." He builds for himself a little hut, from the window of which, unseen by her, he can see her when she opens the window of her cell. And all his life is one longing for her to appear at the window, beautiful as the sun. He has no other life than to see the tsaritsa of his soul. There was no other life in life, for life was dead in him; and as life was ebbing away, he sat still at the window of his hut and thought one thought alone, "Shall I ever see her again?"
"Tbis is not all about me," says the radiant one. "He loved her as long as he did not touch her. If she had become his wife, she would have become his slave; she would have been obliged to tremble before him; he would have locked her up; he would have ceased to love her. He would have gone out hunting; he would have gone to the war; he would have caroused with his comrades; he would have seduced the daughters of his vassals; his wife would have been cast aside, locked up, despised. When once a man had enjoyed a woman, then he ceased to love her from that time forth. No, I was not there, then. That tsaritsa was called 'Chastity.' Here she is."
Modest, humble, tender, beautiful,—more beautiful than Astarte; more beautiful than Aphrodite herself, but melancholy, gloomy, sorrowful. Before her they bowed their knees; they bring her bouquets of roses. She says: "My soul is sad with deathly sorrow. A dagger is plunged into my heart. Be ye also sorrowful. Ye are unfortunate. The earth is a vale of sorrow."
"No, no! I was not in existence then," says the radiant one.
4.
"No, those tsaritsas did not resemble me. They are all still reigning, but the kingdoms are crumbling. With the birth of each of them the reign of her predecessor began to crumble. I was born only when the kingdom of the last began to crumble. And since I was born, their kingdom began to crumble more rapidly; and soon they will vanish entirely; the successor of each could not take the place left by the others, since the others still existed. I shall take the place of all of them; they shall vanish; I shall remain the mistress of the world. But they had to reign before me; without their reign, mine could not come.
"People used to be like beasts. They ceased to be like beasts when man began to value the beauty of woman. But woman's physical strength is less than man's; and man then was rude. Everything then was decided by strength. Man took unto himself that wife, whose beauty he began to value. She became his property, his chattel. That was Astarte's reign.
"When he became further developed, he began to value her beauty more than before, and he began to worship her beauty. But her conscience was not yet developed. He valued in her only beauty. She could get her ideas from him alone. He said he only was a man, while she was not. She saw in herself only a beautiful, beautiful object, belonging to him; she did not look upon her as belonging to humanity. That was the reign of Aphrodite.
"But here the consciousness that she, too, was a human being, began to awake in her. What grief must have seized her at the very faintest appearance of this thought, that she was an independent human being! For she was not recognized as such. A man did not want her in any other relation than that of slave. And she said, 'I do not want to be your friend on this condition.' Then his passion compelled him to implore her and to humiliate himself, and he forgot that he did not look upon her as a human being, and he loved her, the resistant, the unapproachable, the virtuous maiden. But as soon as she put trust in his prayers, as soon as he touched her,—woe to her! She was in his clutches; his hands were stronger than her hands, and he made her his slave, and despised her. Woe to her! This was the sorrowful reign of the virgin.
"But ages past: my sister—dost thou know her? The one that before I appeared, did her work for thee. She always existed, she was before all, she was in existence as soon as man came upon earth, and she always worked untiringly. Hard was her task, slow her success, but she worked, worked, and her success increased. Man became more rational, woman more and more firmly recognized her equality with man, and the time came when I was born.
"This was not long ago; Oh, far from long ago. Do you know who first recognized that I was born, and told it to others? It was Rousseau, in his 'Nouvelle Eloïse.' From it, from him, people for the first time heard of me.
"Since then my kingdom has been spreading. But I am not yet tsaritsa over many. But it spreads rapidly, and you can foresee the time when I shall reign over all the earth. Only then people will perfectly appreciate how beautiful I am. Now, those who acknowledge my power, are not yet able to obey my will. They are girt about by a throng opposed to all my will. The throng would tear them in pieces, would poison their lives, if they confessed and fulfilled my will. And I must have happiness; I desire that there should be no suffering, and I tell them, 'Don't do that which will bring torment upon you; fulfil my will only so far as it will not cause yourselves harm.'"
"But can I know thee perfectly?"
"Yes, thou canst. Thy position is very fortunate. Thou hast naught to fear. Thou canst do whatsoe'er thou pleasest; and if thou wishest to know all my will, from my will no harm will come to thee: thou must not desire, and thou wilt not desire, anything on account of which ignorant people may torment thee. Thou art now perfectly content with what thou hast. Thou dost not desire, and thou wilt not desire, anything or anybody else. I can declare myself to thee entirely."
"Reveal to me thy name; thou hast told me the names of the former tsaritsas, but thy own name thou hast never declared to me."
"Dost thou want me to tell thee my name? Look at me, hearken to me."
5.
"Look at me, hearken to me! Dost thou recognize my voice? Dost thou know my face? Hast thou ever seen my face?"
No; she had never seen her face, had ne'er seen it in her life. Yet how did it seem to her as though she had seen it? It is a year since she was speaking with him, since he looked upon her, kissed her, and now she sees her so often, this radiant beauty; and the radiant one does not hide from her, neither does she hide from him; she appears to her in all her radiant beauty.
"No, I have never seen thee; I have never seen thy face: thou didst appear to me; I saw thee; but thou wert girt with brightness. I could not see thee; I only saw that thou wert more beautiful than all. Thy voice, I hear it, but I hear only that thy voice is more beautiful than all."
"Look; for thy sake at this moment, I shall diminish the brightness of my aureole, and my voice shall sound for thee at this moment without the enchanting power which I always lend to it; for one moment I cease to be a tsaritsa. Hast thou seen? hast thou heard? hast thou learned? That will suffice; again am I tsaritsa, and tsaritsa I shall be for all time to come."
She was again girt about with the ineffable brightness of her halo, and again her voice is inexpressibly intoxicating. But for that moment when she ceased to be the tsaritsa, so as to declare herself unto thee, was it really so? Did Viéra Pavlovna really see this countenance? really hear this voice?
"Yes," says the tsarita, "thou hast wanted to know who I am; now thou knowest. Thou hast wanted to hear my name; I have no name different from the one to whom I appear; my name is her name. Thou hast seen who I am. No, there is nothing loftier than man; there is nothing loftier than woman. I am the one to whom I appear, who loves and is loved."
Yes, Viéra Pavlovna saw. It was herself; it was herself, but a goddess. The goddess' countenance is her own countenance, her living countenance, the features of which are so far from perfection; every day she sees more than one face more beautiful than hers. This was her own face, kindled with the brightness of love; more beautiful than all ideals left to us by sculptors of the ancient time, and by the great artists of the great age of art. Yes, it is she herself, but kindled by the brightness of life; it is she, more beautiful than whom are hundreds of faces in Petersburg, which is so poor in beauty. She is more beautiful than the Aphrodite of the Louvre, more beautiful than all the beauties of the past.
"Thou seest thyself in the mirror just as thou art without me. In me thou seest thyself just as the one who loves thee, sees thee. For his sake thou and I art one; for him there is no one more beautiful than thou; for him all ideals grow obscure in thy presence. Is it not so?"
"Yes! oh, yes!"
6
"Now, thou knowest who I am; know what I am. I have all the enjoyment of sense which Astarte had; she is the original mother[14] of all of the rest of us tsaritsas who succeeded her. I have the rapture at the sight of beauty no less than Aphrodite had; I have the reverence for purity which 'Chastity' possessed.
"But in me it is not as it was in them, but fuller, loftier, keener. The virtue possessed by 'Chastity' is combined in me with the quality which distinguished Astarte and that which distinguished Aphrodite. And while I combine in me these other powers, each of them becomes greater and better from the union. But more, far more power is given to each of these qualities by that new power which I have, and which none of the former tsaritsas had. This new power in me serves to distinguish me from them,—the equal rights of those who love, equality in the relations between them as men,—and from this new power it comes that there is far more beauty in me than in them.
"When a man recognizes the equal rights of a woman with himself, he ceases to regard her as his personal property. Then she loves him as he loves her, only because she wants to love; but if she does not want to love, he has no right over her, as she has none over him. Therefore in me is freedom.
"Aside from equal rights and freedom, all that in me, which was also possessed by the former tsaritsas, gets a new character, a loftier charm, a charm which had not been known until I appeared, and in comparison with which all else which was known till I came is nothing.
"Till I appeared, people had no idea of perfect enjoyment of freedom, because, without free inclinations on both sides, no one who loves can have a keen rapture. Till I appeared, people had no idea of the full enjoyment in the contemplation of beauty, because if beauty is revealed not by a free inclination, there can be no keen rapture in its contemplation. Without free inclination, both enjoyment and rapture are dull, in comparison with what they are in me. My chastity is purer than that 'Chastity' which spoke only of the purity of the body; I possess purity of heart. I am free, because there is no deceit in me, no hypocrisy. I shall say not a word which does not express what I feel; I shall give no kiss which is not from the heart. But all that which is new in me, which gives a loftier charm to all that was in the former tsaritsas, that in itself constitutes in me a charm which is loftier than all else. A master is embarrassed before his servant; a servant before his master. Only in the presence of his equals is a man entirely at his ease. With a lower nature one feels dull; only with an equal is there happiness. Therefore, till I appeared, man did not know full happiness or love. All that he felt before I came is not worthy of being called happiness; it was only a momentary excitement. And woman! how pitiful woman was before I appeared! She was then an abject, servile person. She was in fear; until I came, she knew too little what love is. Where there is fear there can be no love.
"Therefore, if you want to express in one word what I am, this word is "Equal Rights."[15] Without it enjoyment of the body, delight in beauty, are tedious, gloomy, wretched; without it there is no purity of heart; there is fallacious purity of body. From it, as from equality, originates my freedom, without which I were not.
"I have told all things to thee, and thou canst tell them to others, all things that I am now. But my kingdom now is small. I must guard those who are under my allegiance from the slander of those who do not know me; I cannot yet express all my will to all people, to all men. I shall express it to all, when my kingdom shall embrace all men, when all men shall be beautiful in body and pure in heart. Then I shall show them all my beauty. But thou! thy fate is specially fortunate. I shall not disturb thee, I shall not harm thee, by telling thee what I shall be when not a few, as now, but all, shall be worthy of recognizing me as their tsaritsa. To thee alone I shall tell the secrets of my fortune. Swear that thou will be silent, and listen."
7.[16]
******
8.
"Oh, my love! now I know all thy will. I know that it will come to pass, but how will it come to pass? How will people live then?
"I by myself cannot tell thee that. For this I must have the aid of my older sister, the one who appeared to thee long ago. She is my mistress and my servant. I can only be what she makes me; but she is working for me. Sister, come to my aid."
The sister of her sisters, the bride of her bridegrooms. "Good morning, sister," she says to the tsaritsa. "Thou, too, art here, sister?" she says to Viéra Pavlovna. "Thou wishest to see how men are going to live when this adopted tsaritsa of mine shall reign over all. Behold!"
An edifice; an enormous, enormous edifice, such as can be seen only in the largest capitals—or, no, at the present time there is none such in the world. It stands amid fields of grain, meadows, gardens, and groves. The fields of grain—this is our grain—they are not such as we have now, but rich, rich, abundant, abundant. Is it wheat? Who ever saw such heads? Who ever saw such grain? Only in forcing-houses is it possible to make such heads of wheat, such royal grain! The meadows are our meadows; but such flowers as these are now found only in flower-gardens. Orchards are full of lemon-trees, oranges, peaches, and apricots. How can they grow in the open air? O yes, there are columns around them; they are opened in summer; yes, these orangeries are opened for the summer. Groves; these are our groves—oak and linden, maple and elm; yes, just the same groves as now. Very great care is taken of them. There are sickly trees among them, but the groves are the same: they are the same trees as now. But this edifice! what is it? what style of architecture? There is nothing like it now; no, but there is one that points toward it,—the palace which stands on Sydenham Hill, built of cast-iron and glass—cast-iron and glass, and that is all. No, not all; that is only the integument of an edifice,—the outside walls. But inside of this palace is a real house, a tremendous house! This integument of cast-iron and glass only covers it as by a sheath; it forms around it wide galleries on all the floors. How simple is the architecture of the inward house! What narrow spaces between the windows! and the windows are huge and lofty, the whole height from floor to floor; its stone walls, like rows of pilasters, forming the frame for the windows which open out into the galleries. But what floors and ceilings these are! What are these doors and window-frames made of? What is it? Silver? Platinum? And the furniture is almost all of the same metal; wooden furniture is little more than a caprice here—only for the sake of variety. But what are all the rest of the furniture, the ceilings and floors, made of? "Try to move this chair," says the elder sister. "This metallic furniture is lighter than ours made of walnut. But what is this metal? Akh! I know now. Sasha showed me a little board like this; it was light, like glass; and now ear-rings and brooches are made out of it. Yes, Sasha said that sooner or later aluminum would take the place of wood, or maybe even of stone. But how rich everything is! Everywhere is aluminum and aluminum, and all the spaces between the windows are adorned by large mirrors. And what carpets on the floors! Here in this parlor half of the floor is bare, and so you can see that it is made of aluminum. Here you see that it is unpolished, lest it should be too slippery. Here children are playing, and together with them their elders; and here in this other hall the floor is also bare, for the dancers. And everywhere are tropical trees and flowers; the whole house is a large winter garden."
But who lives in this house which is more magnificent than palaces? "Here live many, very many. Come, we will see." They go to the balcony which corresponds with the upper floor of the gallery. How is it that Viéra Pavlovna did not notice it before? On these fields groups of people are scattered; men and women everywhere, young folks and old together; but the majority are young; a few old men, still less old women; there are more children than old men, but still few. More than half the children are indoors, attending to the housework. They do almost everything in the house; they like it very much. There are a few old women with them; but there are few old men and old women here, because here they grow old very late. "Here is a healthful and peaceful life; it preserves the freshness."
The groups which are working in the fields are almost all singing. What work are they doing? Akh, it is harvest-time. They are getting in the grain. How quick the work goes on! But how can it help going on quickly, and how can they help singing? Almost all the work is done by machines, which are reaping and binding the sheaves, and carrying them away. The men have scarcely more to do than look on, drive and manage the machines, and how well everything is arranged for themselves! It is a hot day, but they of course don't mind it. Over that part of the field where they are working is stretched a huge awning; as the work advances, this also moves. What a fine shadow they have manufactured! How can they help working quickly and gayly? How can they help singing? In such a way I too would become a harvest hand. And all songs, all songs,—unfamiliar ones, new ones; and here they have remembered ours also: I know it:—
"We shall live with thee like nobles;
All these people are our friends;
Whatsoe'er thy soul desireth,
We shall all attain our ends."[17]
But here the work is done, and all go to the edifice. "Let us again go into the hall; let us see how they will dine," says the elder sister. They enter the very largest of the mighty halls. Half of it is occupied with tables; the tables are already laid—how many of them there are! How many people are going to dine here! Yes, a thousand or more: not all are, for those who please dine privately." The old women, the old men, and the children who did not go out into the field got all this ready. "To cook the meals, to keep the house in order, to clean the rooms, this is very easy work for other hands," says the other sister. "Those who are not able to do anything else must do this."
What magnificent dishes! All of aluminum and glass. On the middle aisle are vases of flowers. The dishes are already on the table; the workingmen have come; all sit down at the table, both they and those who got ready the dinner. But who will be the waiters? "When? At dinner-time? Why? There are only five courses: those which must be kept hot are placed where they will not get cold. Do you see these recesses? These are pans filled with boiling water," says the elder sister. "You live comfortably, you like a good table; do you often have such a dinner as this?" "Several times a year. This is an every-day dinner with these people; whoever pleases has a better one, with whatever he may prefer. But then a different account is kept, and whoever does not ask for anything beyond what the rest have, no special account is kept, and all is arranged this way: all which the whole company can afford to enjoy is given without special accounts, but for every special thing or luxury a special account is kept."
"Are these really our people? Is this really our country? I heard their song; they speak Russian."
"Yes, you see not far from here is a river—it is the Oka; these people belong to us; for when I am with you I am a Russian!"
"Did you bring about all this?"
"All this was done for my sake, and I gave the inspiration for the accomplishment of it; I inspired the completion of it, but she, my older sister, is doing this. She is a worker, but I only enjoy the fruits of her work."
"And will all people live this way?"
"Yes," replied the elder sister. "For all an everlasting spring and summer, an everlasting joy! But we have shown you only the end of my half-day—the work and the beginning of their indoor life; now we see them in the evening, a little later."
9.
"The flowers have wilted, and the leaves begin to fall from the trees; the picture grows gloomy; it would be too melancholy to look upon; here it would be gloomy to live," says the elder sister. "I do not like it. The halls are deserted; there is no one in the fields," says the elder sister. "I have arranged this according to my sister, the tsaritsa's desire."
"Is the palace really deserted?"
"Yes, it is cold and damp here. Here, out of two thousand people, only ten or twenty of those originals for whom it seemed a pleasant variety to remain here for the present, in this solitude, in seclusion, to look at the northern autumn. After some time during the winter there will be constant change: small parties will come—lovers of winter sports—to spend several days here in winter fashion."
"But where are they now?"
"Everywhere that is warm and comfortable," says the elder sister. "In summer when there is much work here and it is pleasant, many different guests come here from the south; we were in the house when the whole company consisted of guests like you; but a good many houses are built for the guests in other places; and the guests belonging to different nations and the housekeepers live together, each one selecting the company which best pleases him. But while taking a good many guests in summer as helpers in the work, you, yourself, during seven or eight bad months of your year, leave for the south wherever you please. But you have in the south a special portion where the main portion of you live. That part is called New Russia."
"Is that Odessa and Kherson?"
"That is in your time; but behold where the New Russia is."
Mountains clad in gardens; amid the mountains narrow ravines, wide valleys. "These mountains used to be naked crags," says the elder sister. "Now they are covered with a thick layer of earth, and often amid the garden grow copses of lofty trees, beneath which, on the damp hollows, are plantations of coffee-trees; higher up, date-palms, fig-trees, vineyards mingled with plantations of sugarcane; in the fields grow wheat, but there is more of rice."
"What land is this?"
"Let us for a moment rise a little higher, and you shall see that it is boundless." Far to the northwest are wide rivers, which unite and flow towards those eastern and southern places from which Viéra Pavlovna is looking. Farther, in that same southeasterly direction, she sees long, wide bays; on the south the land stretches far away between these bays, and the long, narrow sea which forms its western boundary. Between the narrow bays and the sea, which opens out towards the west is a narrow isthmus. "But we are in the centre of the desert," says the astonished Viéra Pavlovna.
"Yes, the centre of what used to be a desert, but now, as you see, everything has been changed, all the space from the Green River on the northeast has been turned into a fertile land, just as it was in olden times; and again it has become that zone, extending to the north, which in olden times was said to 'overflow with milk and honey.'
"We are not very far, as you see, from the southern boundary of the cultivated land; the mountainous part of the peninsula remains, as yet, a sandy, fruitless steppe, such as, in your day, the whole peninsula used to be. Every year the people, you Russians, are pushing away the boundary of the desert to the south; others are working in other lands; all have sufficient room, and enough to do to live comfortably and abundantly; yes, from the great northeastern rivers. All the region towards the south, till you come to the great peninsula, is green, and full of flowers; over the whole region stand built grand palaces, as in the north, three versts apart, like numberless, great chessmen on a mighty chessboard. Let us descend to one of them," says the elder sister.
The same kind of grand crystal house, but its columns are white.
"They are made of aluminum," says the elder sister; "because it is hot here, and white becomes less heated in the sun; it is somewhat dearer than cast-iron, but it is better suited to the climate."
But besides, they have devised this plan: at a long distance, around the crystal palace, are placed rows of lofty, thin pillars, and upon them, high over the palace, over the whole dvor, and for half a verst around it is stretched a white awning.
"It is kept ever moistened with water." says the elder sister; "you see from every column a little fountain rises higher than the awning, and scatters its drops around, and therefore it is comfortable to live here for the varying temperature to suit themselves."
"But who likes heat and the bright southern sun?"
"You see at a distance there are tents and pavilions; every one can live as he pleases: I lead the world, and I work with no other end in view."
"So these cities remain for those who like cities?"
"Such people are few. There are less towns than before—almost only those which on the best harbors are needed as centres of communication, and the interchange of commodities with other centres of exchange. But these cities are larger and more beautiful than the former; people go there sometimes for recreation; the greater part of the inhabitants are all the time changing, and they remain there for work but a short time."
"But who wants to live there constantly?"
"They live just as you do in your Petersburgs, Parises, Londons. Whose affair is that? Who is to interfere? Let everybody live as he pleases; but the greatest majority, ninety-nine out of every hundred, live just as I and my sister have showed you, because it is more pleasant, and more profitable to them. But go into the palace; it is quite late; it is time to see them."
"But no, first I want to know how this happened."
"What?"
"That a fruitless desert became a most fruitful land, where almost all of us spend two-thirds of our year."
"How this happened? Is there anything miraculous in it? This happened not in the course of one year, not in ten; they have been bringing it about gradually. They brought clay from north-east, from the shores of the great river; from the north-west, from the shores of the great sea. They possess a great number of such powerful machines: the clay solidified the sand; they constructed canals; they arranged for irrigation; verdure made its appearance; the atmosphere became more moist; the work went forward step by step, for many versts, but sometimes only a verst a year, just as they are going towards the south; is there anything miraculous in this? They only became intelligent; they used for their own advancement a great many powers and expedients which had been expended before without utility or directly for their injury. It is not in vain that I am laboring and teaching. It was only hard for people to learn what was useful; they were in your time such savages, such ruffians, such barbarians, such idiots, but I kept on teaching them, teaching them; and as soon as they began to comprehend, then it was not hard to fulfil my teachings. I demand nothing difficult; you know it. You are doing some for my sake in my method, even now; is it difficult?"
"No."
"Of course not. Remember your shop, your sewing union. Did you have great means? Did you have more than others?"
"No; what means did we have?"
"And yet your seamstresses have tenfold more conveniences, twenty-fold more happiness in life, and they experience a hundred-fold less unpleasantness than others with such small means as you had. You yourself have proved that even in your time people can live very comfortably. It is only necessary to be reasonable, to make a good start, to know how to use your means to the best advantage."
"Yes, yes, I know it."
"Now go and see a little more carefully how these people are living some time after they began to understand what you understood long ago."
10.
They enter a house; again the same sort of enormous, magnificent parlors. A party is in progress, full of gayety and joy. It is three hours since sunset; it is the very tide of joy. How bright the parlor is lighted! With what? no candelabra are to be seen anywhere, nor gas-jets. Akh! it is from here—in the rotunda of the hall is a great pane through which the light falls; of course it must be such—just like sunlight, white, bright, and soft; this is the electric light.[18] There are a thousand people in the hall, but there is room enough for thrice as many. "And there are thrice as many when they have company," says the radiant one, "and sometimes even more."
"What is it? Is it not a ball? Is it a mere every-day gathering?"
"Certainly."
At the present day this would have been a court ball, so bright, so magnificent are the costumes of the women. Yes, it is other times, as you can see by the cut of the dresses. There are some ladies in the dress of our time; but it is evident that they wear them for variety's sake, as a joke; yes, they are masquerading, making sport of this kind of dress. Others wear most varied costumes of different eastern and southern cuts, but all of them are more graceful than ours. But the predominating costume seems like the one worn by the Grecian women during the artistic age of Athens, very easy and comfortable; and the men also wear wide and flowing garments without waists,—something like mantles or cloaks,—evidently their every-day house-dress. But how tasteful and beautiful this dress! How soft and exquisitely it outlines the form! how it adds to the grace of the motions! And what an orchestra! There are more than a hundred musicians, both men and women; but above all what a choir!
"No, in all Europe in your day there were not ten such voices as you find here by the hundred, and in every other house it is the same. But the style of life is very different from that of old; it is very healthy, and at the same time very elegant, and therefore the chest becomes broader and the voice better," says the radiant tsaritsa. But the people in the orchestra and in the choir are constantly changing; some leave, and others take their place. Some go to dance, and some from among the dancers release them.
This evening is an every-day, ordinary evening; they dance and enjoy themselves every evening in this way. But did I ever see such energetic joy? And how can their joy help having an energy unknown to ours? They work well in the morning. Whoever has not worked enough does not give his nervous system the zest, and so cannot feel the fulness of the enjoyment. And even now the happiness of the common people, if by chance they succeed in living happy, is more intense, keen, and fresh than ours; but the chances for our common people to be happy are very poor. But here the means of happiness are richer than for us; and the happiness of our common people is disturbed by the remembrance of the inconveniences and deprivations, misfortunes and sufferings in the past, and by the anticipation of similar things to come. Their happiness is a transitory forgetfulness of want and woe. But can want and woe be absolutely forgotten? Do not the sands of the desert spread? Do not the miasmas of the swamp bring contagion upon the small plan of the good land which may have good air between the desert and the swamp?
But here there are no remembrances, no dangers of want and woe; there are only remembrances of free labor with full satisfaction, of abundance, of good, and of enjoyment. Here the expectations of the time to come are the same. What a comparison! And again, the nerves only of our working people are strong, and therefore they are able to endure a great deal of enjoyment; but they are coarse, obtuse; but here the nerves are strong as those of our laborers, and developed, susceptible, just as with us. The preparation for enjoyment, a healthy, keen thirst for it, such as none of our day have, such as is given only by perfect and physical labor, are combined in people here with all the delicacy of sense such as we have. They have all our mental culture together with the physical development of our strong working people. It is comprehensible that their enjoyment, that their pleasure, that their passion, are more lively, keener, wider, and sweeter than with us. Happy people!
No; people now do not know what enjoyment means, because as yet there is no sort of life adapted to it, and there are no such people. Only such people can be fully happy and know all the glory of enjoyment. How they flourish in health and strength! how slender and graceful they are! how full of energy and expression are their features! All of them are joyous and beautiful men and women, living free lives of labor and enjoyment. Happy are they! happy are they!
With a joyous noise half of them meet together in the mighty hall—but where are the other half?
"Where are the others?" asks the radiant tsaritsa; "they are everywhere: some of them are in the theatre, some are actors, some are musicians, others are spectators, just as it may please them; some of them are scattered in the lecture-halls, museums, or in the libraries; some of them are in the alleys of the garden; some in their rooms, or are taking rest in seclusion, or are with their children; but more, more than all, and this is my secret. . . .
"This is my kingdom. Here everything is for me! Labor—the readiness for enjoyment of feelings and strength for me—enjoyment is the readiness for me and rest after me. Here I am the aim of life; here I am the whole of life."
11.
"In my sister, the tsaritsa, lies the loftiest enjoyment of life," says the oldest sister; "but you shall see that every happiness here is suited to every one's special faculty. All live here in the way that it is best for each to live; there is a full volition, a free volition for every one here.
"What you have been shown here will not soon reach its full development as you have just seen it. A good many generations will pass before your presentiment of it will be realized. No, not many generations: my work is now advancing rapidly, more rapidly with every year; but still you will never see the full sway of my sister, at least you have seen it; you know the future. It is bright, it is beautiful. Tell everybody. Here is what is to be! The future is bright and beautiful. Love it! seek to reach it! work for it! bring it nearer to men! transfer from it into the present whatever you may be able to transfer. Your life will be bright, beautiful, rich with happiness and enjoyment, in proportion as you are able to transfer into it the things of the future. Strive to reach it! work for it! bring it nearer to man. Transfer from it into the present all that you are able to transfer."[19]
XVI.
A year later the new union was in perfect running order. Both shops were closely connected; one shop would give the other orders when there was slack work and the other had time to fill them. A running account was kept between them. Their means proved sufficient to enable them to open a sale-shop on the Nevsky, when once they had knit the bonds between them closer still. The arrangement of this cost Viéra Pavlovna and Mertsálova a great deal of trouble. Although the two unions were friendly, although one often gave receptions to the other, although they often united for picnics out of town, still the idea of the union of accounts of two different shops was a new idea, of which it was necessary to give long and careful explanations. However, the benefit of having their own sale-shop on the Nevsky was evident, and in a few months of labor in joining the two accounts, Viéra Pavlovna succeeded in accomplishing it: on the Nevsky appeared a new sign. "Au Bon Travail: Magasin des Nouveautés." After this sale-shop was opened, the business began to increase more rapidly than before, and the profits were much larger. Mertsálova and Viéra Pavlovna already began to dream that in two years, instead of two shops, there would be four, five, and then soon ten and twenty.
Three months after the sale-shop was opened, one of Kirsánof's friends, or rather one of his acquaintances at the medical school, came to him, told him a great deal about his various medical experiences, and still more about his wonderfully successful cures, which were performed by laying across the chest and abdomen two small bags filled with crashed ice, each of which was wrapped up in four napkins; and, at the conclusion of all, he said that one of his acquaintances wanted to make Kirsánof's acquaintance.
Kirsánof granted his request; it was pleasant acquaintance; they talked about a good many subjects, among others about the shop. He explained that the shop was opened exclusively for mercantile purposes. They talked about the sign of the shop, whether it was a good thing to put upon the sign the word travail. Kirsánof said that travail meant work, and Au Bon Travail meant a shop that did good work. They discussed the question whether it would not be better to put a proper name on instead of such a device. Kirsánof said that his wife's Russian name would cause a mercantile failure. Finally he devised the following expedient: His wife's name was Viéra; in French Viéra means foi. If on the sign could be put the words A la Bonne Foi, instead of Au Bon Travail, would not that be sufficient? There would be nothing suspicious about "a shop of good faith," and the khozyáïka's name would still be on the sign. After arguing the matter over, they decided that it could be done. Kirsánof, with special eagerness, turned the conversation to questions like this, and he generally succeeded in obtaining his purpose. So that, when he returned home, he was very well content with himself.
But, at all events, Mertsálova and Viéra Pavlovna considerably clipped the wings of their imaginations, and they began to work hard to go ahead with their present enterprise.
Thus, after their superfluous enthusiasm about opening a good many shops had cooled down, the sewing union and the sale-shop still lived, not developing with too great rapidity, but rejoicing in the very fact of existence. Kirsánof's new acquaintance continued to afford him much pleasure. Thus passed two years or more, without any events of special importance.
XVII.
A LETTER FROM EKATERINA VASILYEVNA PÓLOZOVA.
St. Petersburg, Aug. 29, 1860.
My Dear Paulina,—
I have been so delighted with an absolute novelty which I have lately discovered, and to which I am now devoting all my energies, that I want to describe it to you. I am sure that you too will become interested in it. But the main thing is, you yourself may find it possible to undertake something of the same sort. It is so delightful, my dear.
The thing which I am going to describe to you is a sewing shop, or rather two shops, both arranged on one plan by a woman with whom I became acquainted only two weeks ago, and who is already a real friend. I am now helping her, on condition that she should help me by and by to arrange a similar shop. This Madame Viéra Pavlovna Kirsánova is still young, gay, kind, and—entirely to my taste; that is, she is more like you, Paulina, than your Katya, who is such a queer soul—is an open-hearted, lively lady. After I heard accidentally about her sewing shop, I was told only about one of them. I went directly to her without any introduction or subterfuges, and simply said that I had become interested in her shop. We were drawn to each other from the very first; all the more, because Kirsánof, her husband, I found the very same Doctor Kirsánof who, five years ago, did me, you remember, such magnificent service.
After we talked half an hour, and she saw that I really sympathized with such things, Viéra Pavlovna took me over her shop, the one in which she has an active part (the first one which she established was taken in charge by one of her acquaintances, a very nice young married lady), and I am going to tell you the impressions of my first visit. They were so new and striking, that I took them down at that time in my diary, though I had long before ceased to keep it, but which I have begun again for a special reason, which maybe I will tell you about at some other time. I am very, very glad that I put these impressions on paper, for by this time I should have forgotten a good many impressions which surprised me then; and to-day, only two weeks after, it seems to me the most ordinary thing in the world,—indeed, as though it could not be otherwise. But the more commonplace this thing becomes to me, the more I get attached to it, because it is a very good thing. And so, Paulina, I shall begin the quotation from my diary, adding such particulars as I have since learned.
A sewing shop—what do you think that I saw there? We stopped at the main entrance. Viéra Pavlovna led me up a very nice flight of stairs, such stairs as you often find decorated with Switzers. We went in on the third floor; Viéra Pavlovna rang the bell, and I found myself in a great parlor with a grand piano and handsome furniture—in a word, the parlor seemed like that of a private family spending for their living four or five thousand rubles a year. Is that the shop? Is this one of the rooms occupied by the seamstresses? "Yes. This is the reception room and parlor for evening gatherings; let us go to those rooms where the seamstresses live. They are now in the working rooms, and we shall disturb no one." Here is what I saw as I went from room to room, and Viéra Pavlovna explained to me.
The whole establishment of the shop is composed of three apartments, which open upon one landing and which was made into one apartment after the doors which led between them were taken away. These apartments used to be rented for seven hundred, five hundred and fifty, and four hundred and twenty-five rubles a year, a total of one thousand six hundred and seventy-five rubles. But when they were rented all together on a five years' lease, the landlord agreed to let them have it for twelve hundred and fifty. All in all, there are twenty-one rooms in the shop, two of which are very large, having four windows; one is the reception room, the other the dining-room; in two others, also large ones, the work is carried on. They use the rest for living-rooms. We went through six or seven rooms, in which the girls were living. (I am still referring to my first visit.) These rooms are nicely furnished in mahogany or walnut. Some of them have tall mirrors; in others there are very handsome pier glasses; a good many well-made chairs and sofas. The furniture in each room varies, nearly all of it at bargains for low prices. These rooms in which they live are like the apartments such as middle-class tchinovniks occupy, the families of old natcholniks of departments or young office natcholniks who are on the road to becoming natcholniks of departments. The larger rooms are occupied by three girls; in one, live as many as four, but in the other, only two.
We went into the working rooms, and the girls busy there seemed to be dressed like the daughters, sisters, or young wives of tchinovniks; some wore silk dresses of simple stuffs; some barège, some of muslin. The faces had that softness and freshness which are developed only by comfort. You can imagine how all this surprised me. We stayed quite a while in the working rooms, and I got acquainted here with some of the girls. Viéra Pavlovna told them why I called. The degree of their accomplishments was unequal. Some of them spoke with the language of cultured society, were acquainted with literature like our bariushnas, had a good idea of history and about foreign lands, and about all sorts of things which go to make up the ordinary run of ideas among the young ladies of our society. Two of them were really well read. Some of them who entered the shop recently were less developed, but still you could speak with each of them as with a girl of some culture. As a general thing the degree of development was proportionate to the time the girl had been in the shop.
Viéra Pavlovna attended to various things; occasionally she came back to me, and I talked with the girls, and thus we spent the time till dinner. Dinner every day is composed of three courses. On that day they had rice soup, boiled fish, and veal. After dinner, tea and coffee were brought on. The dinner was so good that I ate with real appetite, and I should consider it no deprivation if I had to eat such dinners always.
But you know that my father even now has a good cook. This was the general impression of my first visit. I was told and I knew that I was going to a shop occupied by sewing girls, that I should see sewing girls, that I should be shown the room of sewing girls, that I should eat dinner with sewing girls; instead of that I saw the apartments of people of moderate means, living together in one establishment; I saw girls of the middle class of tchinovniks, or of the low ranks of the nobility; I ate dinner, not a very grand one, to be sure, but satisfying to me—what about it? How is it possible?
After we got back to Viéra Pavlovna's house, she and her husband explained to me that there was nothing wonderful at all about it. By the way, Kirsánof wrote me as an example a little account of the experiment which has remained between the leaves of my diary. I am going to copy it for you; but first I want to say a few words more.
Instead of poverty, comfort; instead of filth, not only cleanliness, but even some luxury; instead of rudeness, is considerable culture. All this is the result of two causes. On the one hand, the number of the sewing girls is increasing; on the other, a great economy in expenditure.
You see why they get more income; they are working on their own account; they are their own mistresses; and therefore they receive that part which would be kept as profit by the head of the shop. But this is not all; while working for their own benefit and on their own account, they are much more careful in using what they are working upon, and of their time; the work is done more rapidly, and there are less expenses in it.
Naturally there is also a great deal of economy in regard to their living expenses. They buy all things in large quantities; they pay ready cash for everything, and so they get things cheaper than if they bought on credit and at retail. The things are carefully selected because they understand their business; and so everything is bought not only cheaper but also better than poor people generally have a chance to buy.
Besides this, many of their expenses are greatly diminished, or become entirely unnecessary. Think, for instance, to go every day two or three visits to the shop, how much wear and tear comes on the shoes and clothes! I shall give you one little example which can be applied in everything of this sort. Not to have an umbrella means to spoil a dress from the rain. Now listen to what Viéra Pavlovna told me. A simple linen umbrella costs, let us suppose, two rubles. There are twenty-five sewing girls who live in the shop. An umbrella for each would cost fifty rubles; and whoever had no umbrella would lose more than two rubles by the destruction of clothes. But they live together; no one of them leaves the house unless she pleases, and so it happens that in stormy weather only a few go out. So they found that five umbrellas were enough. These umbrellas are nice silk ones; they cost five rubles apiece. All the cost of umbrellas is twenty-five rubles, or a ruble apiece for each girl. You see that each one of them is using a good one instead of a bad one, and at the same time has only a half of the expense. And so it is with a good many trifles which amount to a good deal in the long run. Just as it is with their rent, so it is with the table. For instance, this dinner which I told you about cost five rubles and fifty kopeks, or five rubles and seventy-five kopeks, with bread, but without tea and coffee. At the table were thirty-seven people besides me and Viéra Pavlovna. Of course several children were included in that number. Five rubles and seventy-five kopeks for thirty-seven people makes less than sixteen kopeks[20] apiece, less than five rubles a month. And Viéra Pavlovna says that if a person dines by himself, he can have scarcely anything for this money except bread and such wretched stuff as you find at small stores. At a restaurant, a dinner like this, only not so nicely served, would cost forty kopeks, according to Viéra Pavlovna. For thirty kopeks it would be much worse. This difference can be appreciated; a restaurant keeper, while preparing a dinner for twenty people or less, must support himself on this money, must have a house, and have a servant. But here these extra expenses are entirely done away with, or are greatly diminished. The wages of two old women, who are relations of two of the sewing girls, and that is the whole expense of the kitchen stuff. Now you render the calculation which Kirsánof made for me by way of example, when I called upon them for the first time. After he wrote it, he said:—
"Of course I can't give exact figures, as it would be hard to get at them, because you know each mercantile enterprise, each selling shop, each sewing shop, has its own income and expense account, just as each family has its own degree of economy in incurring expenses with special proportions between their various expenditures. I am giving you the figures only by way of example; but to make the account more impressive, I shall make the figures less than the real profits of our concern, in comparison with the real expenses of almost every commercial enterprise and almost every poor family.
"The receipts of a commercial enterprise from the sale of goods," continued Kirsánof, "is divided into three main portions: one goes for the salary of the employees; the second for the other expenses of the concern, say the rent of the building, lights, materials for works; the third makes the khozyáïn's income. Let us suppose that the receipts are divided in this proportion: for the wages of the employees, half of the receipts; for the other expenses, one-fourth; the last quarter is profit. This means that if the employees receive one hundred rubles, then the other expenses rate fifty rubles; the khozyáïn has also fifty rubles. Now let us see what the employees receive according to our system." Kirsánof began to read his scale of figures:—
"Here we have already," continued Kirsánof, "brought it about that our working people receive one hundred and sixty-six rubles and sixty-seven kopeks, when, according to the other order of things, they would have only a hundred rubles. But they gain still more: working for their own benefit, they work more industriously, and therefore more successfully, quicker. Let us suppose that in an ordinary, uninspired work they would succeed in making five things—in our trade, five dresses; now they succeed in making six. This proportion is too small; but let us adopt it. Then, at a time when an ordinary enterprise is earning five rubles, ours earns six:—
"Therefore ours have larger profits than others," continued Kirsánof. "Now, as to the use of this profit. Having double as much means, we can use them to much better advantage. Here is a double profit, as you know. In the first place, from the fact that everything is bought wholesale, let us suppose that from this a third part is gained. Things which at retail and on credit would cost three rubles now cost two. In reality the profit is greater. Let us take, for example, the house: if these rooms were rented singly,[21] there would live in these seventeen rooms—each with its two windows, three and four persons—a total (say) of fifty-five; in two rooms with three windows, six persons each; and in the two with four windows, nine persons each. Twelve and eighteen make thirty, and fifty-five in the little rooms; thus the whole apartment would contain eighty-five people. Each of them would pay three and a half rubles a month, which makes forty-two rubles a year. And so these petty landlords, who make a business of renting out 'corners,' take for such an establishment forty-two multiplied by eighty-five,—3,570 rubles. Our members have this same establishment for 1,250 rubles, almost three times as cheap. So it is in a good many things, almost all, everything. Probably I should not reach the true proportion, if I estimated the saving at one-half; but I shall place it also at a third. And this is not all. With such a mode of life they are freed from the necessity of incurring many expenses, or, rather, they need many less things."
Viérotchka here offered, as an example, shoes and dresses. Let us suppose that from this the quantity of things bought is diminished by one-fourth; instead of four pairs of shoes, three are sufficient, or three dresses are worn as long as four used to be. This proportion is also too small; but see what results these proportions give:—
"Compare the life of a family spending 1,000 rubles a year with the life of a family spending 4,000 rubles a year. Isn't it true that you would find a great difference?" continued Kirsánof. "According to our system, there is just this proportion, if not even larger. With this system there are double receipts, and the profits are used to twice as great advantage. Is it surprising that you found the life of our sewing girls quite different from what seamstresses had according to the old system?"
Here is the marvel which I saw, my dear Paulina, and this is its simple explanation. I am so used to it now that it seems strange to me how it ever did seem strange to me that I did never expect to find such a state of things as I found. Write me, if ever you have the chance of devoting yourself to what I am getting ready to do; that is, the establishment of a sewing shop, or another shop on the same system.
It is so delightful, Paulina!
Yours, K. Pólozova.
P.S. I forgot entirely to speak about the other shop; but no matter; let it go till next time. Now I will only say that the older shop has branched out more, and therefore in all respects higher, than the one which I described to you. In the details of the arrangements there is a great difference between them, because everything is made to suit circumstances.
PART FIFTH.
NEW PEOPLE, AND THE FINALE.
I.
Miss Pólozova, in her letter to her friend, referred to her gratitude to Viéra Pavlovna's husband. To explain this it is necessary to explain what kind of a man her father was.
Pólozof was a retired cavalry captain, or second captain of horse,[1] who, while in service, according to the custom of the olden time, had squandered and gambled away quite a large patrimonial estate. But after he had squandered it all, he resigned, and settled down to the creation of a new fortune. Having gathered the last crumbs which were left, he found that he had ten thousand rubles in assignats. He went into the retail grain business; he began to undertake all sorts of small contracts; he made the most of every profitable enterprise which was within his means, and at the end of ten years he had a good property. With the reputation of being such a substantial and enterprising man, with his rank and famous name in his neighborhood, he was able to choose from among the merchants' daughters of the two districts where his business transactions were carried on; and he selected very discretely one with a dowry of half a million, all in assignats. He was then fifty years old, and this was twenty years before we see his daughter entering into friendly relations with Viéra Pavlovna. Adding such a pile to his former wealth, he extended his business on a wider scale, and ten years later he became a millionaire in silver rubles, as at this time silver began to replace paper. His wife died. As she was used to provincial life, she had kept him from moving to Petersburg. Now he moved to Petersburg, "pushed up the hill" more rapidly still, and in ten years was regarded as the possessor of three or four million rubles. Girls and widows, young and old, set their caps[2] at him; but he had no wish to marry the second time, partly because he preserved a genuine feeling for his wife's memory, and, moreover, because he did not want to give Kátja, whom he loved very warmly, a stepmother.
Pólozof pushed and pushed up the mountain; he would have had not three, not four millions, but ten, if he had given himself to monopolies; but he despised them, and he considered contracts and supplies the only honest business. His confreres in the millionocracy laughed at such a slight and delicate distinction, and they were not wrong; but he, though he was not in the right, kept repeating his pet phrase, "I am a commercial man, and I do not want to get rich by robbery." But a year or a year and a half before his daughter made Viéra Pavlovna's acquaintance there appeared too clear proof that there was very little difference between his trade and monopoly, as far as the facts of the matter were concerned, though there was a great difference according to his ideas. He undertook a great contract; whether it was linen, or provisions, or boot-leather, I am not sure; but as he had been becoming every year more stubborn and supercilious on account of his age and his constant success, and the increasing respect with which he was regarded, he quarrelled with an important personage, got rather angry, berated him, and the job proved to be a bad one. At the end of a week they bade him eat humble pie: he said, "I won't"; "You will collapse"; "All right, but I won't give in." In a month he was told the same thing; he made the same reply; and really, as far as eating humble pie was concerned, he ate no humble pie; but as far as collapsing went—he collapsed! His goods were rejected; moreover, whether there were actual faults, or whether it came from ill will, at all events, his three or four millions vanished. And Pólozof, at the age of seventy, found himself a beggar; that is, a beggar compared to what he had been; but still, without any comparison with what he had been, he lived well; he had some shares in a stearine factory, and without hanging down his nose, accepted the position of manager of this factory, at a good salary. Besides that, there remained, by some chance, a few tens of thousands of rubles. If such remnants of his fortune had been in his hands fifteen or ten years before, they would have been enough to help him push himself up a respectable mountain. But being over sixty, it was hard for him to push himself, and Pólozof argued that it was too late for him to try such a thing, and not within his strength. Now he thought only about arranging as quickly as possible the sale of the factory, the shares of which gave him scarcely any income, or any credit, and the affairs of which it was difficult to bring into a better order. He argued the case cleverly, and he succeeded in explaining to the other chief shareholders that a quick sale was the only way of saving the money buried in the shares. Another thing which occupied his mind was a suitable marriage for his daughter. But the main thing was to sell the factory, turn all the money into five per cent governmental bonds, which were at that time in vogue, and to live the remainder of his days peacefully, remembering his past grandeur, the loss of which he bore bravely, preserving all his gayety and firmness.
II.
The father loved his Kátya; he did not allow ultra-high-society's governesses to train the girl too severely. "That is nonsense," he used to say at all straightenings of the figure, straightening of the manners, and everything of this sort; and when Kátya was fifteen years old, he agreed with her that she could do without English and French governesses. Thus Kátja was entirely at her ease; she felt full freedom in the house. And freedom for her at that time was not to be disturbed in her reading and dreaming. She had few friends among girls, though two or three were very intimate; but suitors for her hand she had without number. She is Pólozof's only daughter; it's terrible to speak of: four millions!
But Kátya read and dreamed, and the suitors remained in despair. And Kátya reached the age of seventeen. Thus she read and dreamed, and did not fall in love; but she suddenly began to grow thin, and pale, and languid.
III.
Kirsánof did not care to practise, but he did not consider it right for him to refuse consultations. But at this time—it was a year after he became professor, and a year before he married Viéra Pavlovna—the Big Wigs of the Petersburg medical world began to invite him very often to consultations. There were two reasons for it. The first was that there happened to be in the courts a certain Claude Bernard who had lived in Paris. One of the Big Wigs, who went to Paris for some reason, scientific or other, saw with his own eyes Claude Bernard,—the real living Claude Bernard. He introduced himself with his rank, his name, his decorations, and his famous patient; and Claude Bernard, after listening to him for half an hour, said, "It was idle for you to come to Paris to learn the successes of medicine; you had no need of leaving Petersburg for that purpose." The Big Wig took this as an attestation of his own fame, and after he came back to Petersburg mentioned Claude Bernard's name no less than ten times in the course of twenty-four hours, adding to it no less than five times, "my learned friend" or "my famous comrade in science." How could he help calling Kirsánof to consultations after that? It was impossible not to! And the second reason was still more important: all the Big Wigs saw that Kirsánof was not trying to get away their practice. He not only did not take cases, but even when eagerly requested did not take them. It is known that many of the Big Wigs who practise have this custom: if death, according to the opinion of the Big Wig, is inevitably approaching the patient, and if, by unfortunate change, they cannot get rid of the patient by sending him to any mineral springs or to any place abroad, then it is necessary to place him in the hands of some other medical man; and in these circumstances the Big Wig is willing to offer money from his own pocket for his colleague to take the case. Kirsánof, in these cases where the Big Wig, with the intention of running away, asked him to take a patient, was rarely willing; he generally recommended such of his friends as were in active practice, and he took for himself only a few cases which were interesting from a scientific point of view. But how could they help inviting to their consultations this confrère who was recognized by Claude Bernard, and who did not take away their practice?
Pólozof the millionnaire had a doctor who was the very ace of trumps among the Big Wigs, and when Katerina Vasílyevna became dangerously ill, the consultations for a long time were held by the Big Wigs exclusively. Finally the case became so serious that the Big Wigs decided to invite Kirsánof; and really the task was very tough for the Big Wigs. The sick girl had no evident disease, but her strength was rapidly, failing. It is necessary to get at the root of the trouble. The attending doctor called it atrophia nervorum—innutrition of the nerves. Whether there is any such disease as that in the world I do not know; but if there is, then even I can understand that it must be incurable. But if, notwithstanding its incurableness, she still must be cured, then let Kirsánof do it, or some of his friends,—those impudent little boys!
And so a new consultation with Kirsánof was arranged. They examined the patient; they asked her questions. The patient answered readily, without excitement. But Kirsánof, after the first words, stopped questioning her and merely watched the Big Wigs making the investigation. And after they had exhausted their ingenuity and tormented the girl as much as propriety requires in such cases, they turned to Kirsánof, "What do you think, Aleksandr Matvéitch?"
He replied, "I have not sufficiently examined the patient. I shall stay here. This is an interesting case. If a new consultation should be needed, I shall tell Karl Feodorvitch." (That was the name of the attendant physician, who shone with glory because he was saved from his atrophia nervorum.)
After they left, Kirsánof sat down by the patient's bedside. The sick girl smiled satirically.
"I am sorry that we are not better acquainted," he began. "A doctor must win confidence, and maybe I shall succeed in winning yours. They do not understand your troubles here; some sagacity is needed. To sound your lungs, to give you medicines, is absolutely useless. Only one thing is necessary: to know your general condition, and to think with you whether it is possible to do anything. You will help me in regard to this?"
The sick girl said not a word.
"You do not want to talk with me?"
The sick girl said not a word.
"You probably even want me to leave. I ask of you only ten minutes. If in ten minutes you find, as you think now, that my presence is useless, I shall go. Don't you know well that you have no other disease than sorrow? Don't you know that if this state of mind lasts, it will be impossible in three weeks or a fortnight, or even sooner, to save you? and that maybe you will not live two weeks? As yet you are not in consumption at all, but it is very, very near, and at your age under such conditions it develops with unusual rapidity; it may end in a few days."
The sick girl said not a word.
"You do not reply. But you do not care at all. Therefore my words were not new to you. By the very fact of your silence you say 'yes.' Do you know what almost any other man would know in my place? He would go and speak with your bátiushka. Maybe my talk with him would save you; but if you do not want me to, I shall not do it. Why? I make it a rule, nothing should ever be done for a person against his will; liberty is above everything, even life. Therefore if you don't want me to know the cause of your very dangerous condition, I shall not know it. If you tell me that you want to die, I would only ask you to explain to me the causes of this wish. If they should appear to me groundless, I still have no right to interfere with you; if they appear to me reasonable, I am bound to help you, and I am ready. I am ready to give you poison. Under this condition I ask you to tell me the cause of your illness."
The sick girl said not a word.
"You do not want to answer me; I have no right to continue these questions. But may I ask you to allow me to tell you something about myself which may serve to increase the confidence between us. Yes? Thank you. Whatever the reason may be, you are suffering. I am too. I passionately love a woman who must never know that I love her. Do you pity me?"
The sick girl said not a word, but she smiled sorrowfully.
"You are silent, but still you could not hide that you noticed these words of mine more than those that I spoke before. That is sufficient of itself. I see that you and I have one cause of suffering. Do you want to die? I understand it very well. But to die of consumption is long, is hard; I am ready to help you to die, if I cannot help you to something better. I say that I am ready to give you poison—a delightful something that kills quick, without causing pain. Will you please let me know on this condition whether your position is so intolerable as it seems to you?"
"Won't you deceive me?" demanded the sick girl.
"Look me straight in the eye; you see that I will not deceive you."
The sick girl hesitated for some time. "No; I know you very little."
"Any one else in my place might have said that the feeling from which you are suffering is good. I shall not say so. Does your bátiushka know about it? I beg you to remember that I am not going to speak with him without your permission."
"He does not know."
"Does he love you?"
"Yes."
"What do you think that I am going to tell you now? You say that he loves you; I have heard that he was a stupid. What makes you think that it will be useless for you to reveal to him your feeling, that he will not consent? If the obstacle had lain simply in the poverty of the man whom you love, this would not have kept you from trying to persuade your father to give his consent; that is what I think about it. Therefore I must think that you entertain an exceedingly poor opinion of him; there could be no other reason for you to hide the matter from your father. Isn't it so?"
The sick girl said not a word.
"It is evident that I am not mistaken. What shall I think now? Your bátiushka is a man of experience in life, who knows human nature; you are inexperienced; if any person seems bad to him, and good to you, then according to all probabilities it is you who are mistaken, and not he. You see that I must think so? Do you want to know why I tell you such a disagreeable thing? I will tell you. You may get angry at my words, you may hate me because of them, but still you will say to yourself, 'He is saying what he thinks; he is not hypocritical, he does not want to deceive me.' You are gaining confidence in me. Isn't it true that I am speaking sincerely with you?"
The sick girl was hesitating whether to answer or not. "You are a strange man, doctor," she said, at last.
"No, not strange; but I am not like one who deceives. I have told you straightforwardly what I think. But this is only my supposition. Maybe I am mistaken. Let me know whether I am. Tell me the name of the man towards whom you feel this inclination. Then—but again, only with your permission—I will speak about him to your bátiushka."
"What will you tell him?"
"Does he know him intimately?"
"Yes."
"In that case, I shall tell him that he must consent to your marriage, but only on one condition, that the time of the wedding be appointed not immediately, but in two or three months, so that you may have time to think coolly, whether you may not be right."
"He will not consent."
"He will consent in all probability. But if not, I will help you, as I said."
Kirsánof spoke long in this style. Finally he succeeded in getting the sick girl to toll him the man's name, and to let him talk with her father. But to bring the old man to terms was a harder matter than to manage her. Pólozof was greatly surprised to hear that his daughter's strength had been failing on account of hopeless love; and still more surprised to hear the name of the man with whom she was in love, and he firmly declared: "Let her die sooner than marry him. Her death would be a lesser grief for both her and me." It was a very hard case, all the more because Kirsánof hearing Pólozof's reasons saw that the truth was really on the side of the old man, and not his daughter.
IV.
Bridegrooms had swarmed by the hundred around the heiress of the great fortune; but the society which flocked to Pólozof's dinners and suppers was a society of that excessively dubious type, of that excessively dubious refinement, which is generally found crowding the parlors of all such rich people as Pólozof, lifted above the more or less polite but still not fashionable circle in which they are born, without having any relationship or connection in the more or less genuinely polite society of the fashionable world. They become the benefactors of cunning adventurers and dandies who are absolutely indecent in their outward appearance, without speaking of their inward qualities. Therefore, Katerina Vasílyevna became interested when among the number of admirers came a genuine society man of absolutely good breeding; he behaved with so much more refinement; he spoke so much more sensibly and wittily than the others. Her father soon noticed that she was going to prefer him above the others; and, as an active, decided, substantial man, he immediately had a talk with his daughter:—
"My dear Katya—Sólovtsof, look out for him; he is a very bad man, a perfectly heartless man; you would be so unhappy with him, that I would rather see you dead than his wife. It would be easier for both me and you."
Katerina Vasílyevna loved her father; she was accustomed to respect his opinion; he never put restrictions upon her; she knew that he was speaking thus because he loved her; and above all, her character was inclined more to regard the wishes of those who loved her than of her caprices; she was one of those who liked to say to her friends, "I will do as you think best."
She answered her father: "I like Sólovtsof; but if you think it is better for me to keep at a distance from him, I shall do so."
Of course she would not have done so; and as her nature was opposed to falsehood, she would not have said so if she had loved him. Her attachment to Sólovtsof was as yet very weak. At that time it had hardly taken root; he was merely more interesting to her than others. She began to grow cool towards him; and maybe everything would have ended satisfactorily; but the father in his zeal put in too much salt; and, though in reality he did not put on much, yet it was enough to salt off the polite Sólovtsof. He saw that he must play the part of a victim, but how to find a pretext for becoming a victim. Pólozof somehow stepped on his toes; Sólovtsof, with a sense of self-respect and pain on his face, took leave of them, and ceased his calls. A week later, Katerina Vasílyevna received from him a passionate and exceedingly humble letter, to the effect that he never expected that his love would be returned, that for his happiness it would be sufficient for him to see her occasionally, even though he did not speak with her but only saw her; that he was willing to sacrifice even this happiness, and yet he would be happy or unhappy, and so on, without a single request or wish. He did not even ask for a reply. Such letters kept coming; and finally they had their effect.
But it took a long time before they had their effect. Katerina Vasílyevna, at first after Sólovtsof left, was neither melancholy nor sorrowfully inclined, and even before that she had been cool to him; and she accepted so calmly her father's advice to look out for him, that consequently when, after too months, she began to grow despondent, what could make her father think that Sólovtsof was at the bottom of it, when he had forgotten all about him?
"It seems to me you're under the weather, Kátya."
"No; it's nothing—nothing; it'll pass."
In a week or two the old man was already asking, "Are you ill, Kátya?"
"No, not at all."
Two weeks later the old man said, "You must see the doctor, Kátya."
Kátya begins to consult the doctor; and the old man is entirely at ease because the doctor finds no cause of alarm. "It is only a weakness, some exhaustion"; and he very sensibly ascribed it to weariness, arising from Katerina's style of life the past winter. Every night she had been up at parties till two or three, or even five o'clock, in the morning. "This exhaustion will pass." But it did not pass; it rather increased.
Why did not Katerina Vasílyevna tell her father? She was convinced that this would have been in vain. Her father had told her before very firmly, and he does not speak unmeaning words. He does not like to express opinions about people without being sure of what he says; and he will never consent to her marrying a man whom he considers to be bad.
And so Katerina Vasílyevna kept on dreaming and dreaming while reading Sólovtsof's humble and hopeless letters; and after half a year's such reading, she was within half a step of consumption. And not by a single word could her father perceive that her disease originated from a matter in which he was partly to blame; his daughter had been as tender towards him as before.
"Is there anything that isn't to your mind?"
"Nothing, papa."
And it is evident that there is nothing; she is only out of spirits, but this is from her weakness, from illness. And the doctor declares that it is the result of her illness. But what is the cause of the illness? As soon as the doctor regarded the illness as trifling, he contented himself with laying the blame on dances and corsets; but when he saw that it was getting dangerous, then appeared his "innutrition of the nerves,—atrophia nervorum."
V.
But if the practising Big Wigs agreed that Mademoiselle Pólozova's atrophia nervorum, which had been developed by a weakening mode of life, with the natural inclination towards dreaminess and melancholy, then not much was left for Kirsánof to study in the sick girl in order to see that her decline in strength originated from some mental causes. Before the consultation, the attending physician explained to him all the relations which she had had; family sorrows there were none; father and daughter are very dear to each other; at the same time the father does not know the reason of the illness, because the attending physician does not know it. But it is evident that the girl must have a strong character, if she has been able to conceal so long the illness itself, and has not given her father a single chance to conjecture the cause. A strong character was also evident by the quiet tone of her answers during the consultation. She shows no sign of irritability; she firmly endures her lot. Kirsánof saw that such a girl deserved attention. Can't something be done for her? Interference seemed to him essential; of course the thing will be revealed some time, but won't it be too late? Consumption is very near at hand, and then no care can help it. And so he wrestled with the patient for two hours; and he succeeded in conquering her suspicion; he learned the secret; and he obtained her permission to speak about it with her father.
The old man was startled when he heard from Kirsánof that the cause of his daughter's illness was love for Sólovtsof. How is this? Kátya accepted so coolly at that time his advice to beware of him; she remained so indifferent after he ceased to call upon them: how then is she dying of love for him? Yes, and is it even possible for people to die of love? Such exaltations could not appear likely to a person who was accustomed to lead an exclusively practical life, and to look upon everything with cool reason. Kirsánof had a tough subject in him; he kept repeating, "It's a child's fancy tormenting her, but soon forgotten." Kirsánof explained and explained; finally he told him plainly, "It is just because she is a child that she does not forget it, and is dying." Pólozof was persuaded and convinced, but instead of concession, he pounded the table with his fist, and said in a tone of concentrated decision, "If she is to die, let her die; it is better than for her to be unhappy: it would be easier for both her and me!" The very same words he had said to his daughter six months before. Katerina Vasílyevna was not mistaken in thinking that it was idle to talk with him.
"But what makes you so stubborn? I am perfectly convinced that he is a bad man; but is he really so bad that death is better than to live with him?"
"He is; he has no heart. She is delicate, gentle, but he is a beastly wretch!" And Pólozof went on to describe Sólovtsof, and in such a way that Kirsánof had nothing to say. And really how could he help agreeing with Pólozof?
Sólovtsof was the very same Jean who, at the time before Storeshnikof's courtship, ate supper with Serge and Julia after the opera. It is absolutely true that it is better for a respectable girl to die than to become the wife of such a man. He will pollute, he will chill, he will consume with his wretchedness a respectable woman; it is far better for her to die.
Kirsánof was lost in thought for some minutes. "No," he said at length. "Well, am I really carried away by your earnestness? This case is without danger just because he is so bad. She cannot help seeing it; only give her time to look at it calmly."
He began persistently to assure Pólozof what he had expressed to his daughter only as a suggestion, as possible—nay, even probable—that she would refuse this man whom she loved if he was really bad; and now he was absolutely sure of it, because the man she loved was very bad.
"I shall not tell you that marriage does not present such an importance if we look upon it coolly. If a woman is unhappy, then why should she not leave her husband? You consider this improper: your daughter has been brought up with the very same ideas; for you and her it seems really an irremediable loss, and before she would ever adopt new ideas, she would suffer with such a man till she died a death worse than consumption. But it is necessary to view the matter from another standpoint. Why should you not depend upon your daughter's reason? She is not a fool, is she? Always count on reason; only allow it to act freely, and it will never prove fallacious when any cause is right. You yourself are to blame for your daughter's attachment to him. Let him have free course, and he will bring your daughter round on your side, if the right is on your side. Passion blinds, especially if obstacles are put in the way of it; remove them, and your daughter will become reasonable. Give her liberty to love or not to love, and she will see whether this man is worthy of her love. Let him be her 'bridegroom,' and after some time she herself will dismiss him."
Such a way of looking upon things was entirely new to Pólozof. He answered sharply that he did not believe any such nonsense; that he knows life too well; that he has seen too many examples of foolish people, to depend upon their reason; and so much the more absurd was it to trust the reason of a seventeen-year-old girl. Kirsánof tried in vain to prove to him that follies were committed only on two occasions,—either under the momentary influence of excitement, or from restraint, in which case he is irritated by resistance. Such ideas seemed entirely ridiculous to Pólozof. "She has no sense; it would be foolish to trust such a child with this fate; sooner let her die." From such reasoning it was impossible to stir him.
It is a fact, that no matter how set may be the ideas of a man who is in the wrong, when a man who is better developed, who knows more, who understands things more wisely, works constantly with the purpose of removing his errors, the errors must give way. It is so; but how long does a logical battle with him last? Of course all the conversation here recorded will fail of its result, though so far its influence upon Pólozof is not appreciable yet. The old man is beginning to think over Kirsánof's words. This is unavoidable, and if such conversation should be kept up with him, he will come to himself. But he is proud of his experience; he looks upon himself as infallible; he is set and stubborn; it is possible to bring him to terms, without doubt, but it takes time, and all delay is dangerous. A long delay is surely fatal; and a long delay is inevitable when a methodical manner of conducting the logical battle with him is employed.
It was necessary to employ radical means. It is risky without doubt; but if it is employed, it is only a risk; without, it is sure death. And the risk in it is, in reality, not nearly so great as it may seem to a person who is less solid in his comprehension of the laws of life than this Kirsánof. The risk is not great at all, but it is serious. From the whole lottery only one ticket is a blank. And there is no probability of its being drawn—but supposing it were drawn? Whoever runs a risk must be ready not to wink if he draws the blank. Kirsánof saw the girl's calm, quiet firmness, and he was sure of her. But had he the right to subject her to the risk? Of course he had. Now, out of a hundred chances, there is only one that she will not lose her health in this case. More than half of them are that she will lose it rapidly. But here, out of a thousand chances, one would be against her. Let her risk the lottery, though it is apparently more terrible because it is more rapid, but in reality it is incomparably less dangerous.
"All right," said Kirsánof. "You do not want to cure her by those means which are in your power; I shall cure her with mine. To-morrow I shall have another consultation."
After he returned to the sick girl, he told her that her father was stubborn, more stubborn than he expected, and that it would be necessary to act towards him with severe measures.
"No; it is of no use," said the sick girl, despondently.
"Are you sure of it?"
"Yes."
"Are you ready to die?"
"Yes."
"Now supposing that I decide to subject you to the risk of death. I told you briefly, in order to gain your confidence, to show you that I am ready for everything that may be for your good; now I speak positively. Supposing that it be necessary to administer poison?"
"I have seen this long time that my death is inevitable; that I have only a few days longer to live."
"Supposing it were to-morrow morning?"
"So much the better." She spoke with perfect calmness.
"When there is only one salvation left, and that is your readiness to die, this support will almost always save you. If you say to any one, 'Give in, or I shall die,' you almost always gain what you wish. But you know that one should not play with such a lofty principle; and besides, it is impossible for you to lower your self-respect if they don't yield. And therefore it is necessary to die." He explained to her the plan, which was perfectly comprehensible from this conversation.
VI.
Of course in other cases of this sort Kirsánof would not have thought of running such a risk; it would be more simple to take the girl from home, and let her marry whomsoever she pleased. But here the affair was complicated by the girl's ideas, and the peculiarities of the man whom she loved. With her ideas of the inseparability of husband and wife, she would have clung to the wretched man even if she had found that to live with him was a torment. To unite them would be worse than to kill. Therefore there remained one choice, either to kill, or to give her the possibility of coming to reason.
On the next day the consultation was held, composed of some of the practitioners in the high world. There are five doctors, the most renowned; it is impossible not to have the best; how otherwise could they bend Pólozof? It was necessary that the sentence should be without appeal in his eyes. Kirsánof spoke; they listened with great condescension to what he said, and they all confirmed it with an air of great importance. It could not be otherwise, because, you remember, there is in existence a certain Claude Bernard, and he lives in Paris; and besides that, Kirsánof says such things which—but the plague take these boys! You can't understand them! Then how can you help agreeing with them?
Kirsánof said that he had examined the invalid very carefully, and he entirely agreed with Karl Feodorvitch that the illness is incurable, and the agony of this disease is torture; and, generally speaking, every additional hour that the sick girl shall live is an additional hour of suffering. Therefore he considers that it is the duty of the consulting physicians to decide according to the dictates of humanity to shorten the sick girl's sufferings by a dose of morphine, from which she would not awaken. The consulting physicians investigated the case, blinking their eyes under the hailstones of incomprehensible explanations on the part of Kirsánof; they came back from the sick girl's room to the one where they had been sitting; and they decided to shorten the sick girl's sufferings by a fatal dose of morphine.
After the decision was made, Kirsánof rang for the servant, and asked him to call Pólozof into the parlor, where the consultation was held. Pólozof came in. The most important of the sages, in appropriately gloomily solemn language and in a majestically funereal voice, announced the decision of the consulting physicians.
Pólozof started back as though struck on the forehead by a hammer. To be waiting for death, when death is at hand, but uncertain how soon it may come, or whether it may come at all, and to hear that in half an hour she will not be among the living, are two absolutely different things. Kirsánof looked at Pólozof with an intense gaze; he was absolutely sure of the effect, but still the thing was a strain on his nerves. Two minutes the old man stood silent, horror-stricken.
"No; it must not be! She is dying from my stubbornness. I am ready for anything. Can she get well?"
"Of course," said Kirsánof.
The famous practitioners would have been greatly stirred to wrath, if they had had time for it; that is, to exchange glances, and to see that "my colleagues also like me understand that I have been a doll in the hands of this young boy." But Kirsánof allowed them no time to turn their attention to the thought, "how others looked on me." Kirsánof told the servant to conduct the frightened Pólozof from the room; thanked them for their shrewdness, which they had displayed in fathoming his intentions, for their understanding that the cause of the illness was mental suffering; that it was necessary to frighten the stubborn old man, who would otherwise have lost his daughter. The famous practitioners went each his way, satisfied that his scientific knowledge and shrewdness was recognized by all the others.
But having given them this brief testimony of their skill, Kirsánof went to tell the sick girl that the plan had succeeded. At the first words she seized his hand, and he had hardly time to take it away from her before she would have kissed it. "But I shall not let your father come quite yet, to tell you the same thing," he said. "I shall first give him a lecture as to the way that he should behave himself towards you." He told her that he was going to give her father some good advice, and that he should not leave him until he had firmly implanted it.
Shocked by the result of the consultation, the old man became very pliable; and he regarded Kirsánof, not with the same eyes as the day before, but with such as Marya Alekséyevna looked upon Lopukhóf, after dreaming of Lopukhóf as a monopolist.
Yesterday a natural thought was always in Pólozof's mind, "I am older than you, and more experienced. Yes, there is no one in the world smarter than I am; and as for you, milk-sucker and bubby, so much the less reason have I to listen to you, since I, with my own reason, have made four millions" (although in reality they were only two, and not four). "You try to make two millions, and then talk." But now he thought, "What a bear he is! how he routed me! He knows how to break one in." And the more he spoke with Kirsánof, the more lively arose before him, in addition to the quality of "bear," another picture—an old and forgotten recollection of his life as a hussar: his riding-master,[3] Zakhártchenko, was sitting on his horse, "Gromoboï" (at that time Zhukóvsky's[4] ballads were fashionable among young ladies, and therefore to a certain extent among young cavaliers, both in the army and civil life), and "Gromoboï" was prancing under Zakhártchenko, only "Gromoboï's" lips were covered with blood. Pólozof was somewhat horrified, as he heard Kirsánof's answer to his first question.
"Would you really have given her a fatal dose?"
"Certainly I should," replied Kirsánof, with absolute sang-froid.
"What a murderer! He talks like a cook about a dead chicken! And you would have courage for it?"
"Of course I should. What a clout I should be if I hadn't!"
"You are a terrible man!" said Pólozof again.
"It shows that you have never seen any terrible men." said Kirsánof, with an indulgent smile, thinking to himself, "I should like to show you Rakhmétof."
"But how did you manage all those doctors?"
"As though it were hard to manage such men!" said Kirsánof, with a slight grimace.
Pólozof recollected Zakhártchenko, who said to the second-captain, Volutnof: "Did you bring me this lop-eared beast for me to ride on, your eminence? I am ashamed to mount him."
After settling all of Pólozof's endlessly repeated questions, Kirsánof began to suggest to him how he should comport himself.
"Remember that a person is able to reason only when he is entirely undisturbed; that he is not excited only when he is not stirred up; that he does not value his fancies except when they are taken from him, when he is allowed to find out for himself whether they are good or not. If Sólovtsof is as bad as you describe him,—and I fully believe it,—your daughter will see it herself. But only if you don't interfere; if you don't excite the thought in her mind that you are in any way intriguing against him, that you are trying to block them. One word on your part, one hostile word, will injure the case for two weeks; a few words may ruin it forever. You must keep yourself entirely apart."
This course of conduct was inculcated with words like these: "It isn't easy to compel you to do what you don't like, is it? and yet I have brought you to it. This shows that I understand how to take charge of a case. Then believe that whatever I say must be done. Whatever I say; you only take it second-hand."
With such people as Pólozof it was impossible at that time, otherwise than by force, and by stepping on his throat. Pólozof became more amenable to reason, and he promised to comport himself as he was told. But even after he became convinced that Kirsánof was saying the right thing, and that it was necessary to listen to him, Pólozof could not yet comprehend what kind of a man he was. He at one and the same time took both his side and his daughter's. He compels him to yield to his daughter, and he wants his daughter to change; how to reconcile this?
"Very simply. I want you not to hinder her return to reason, and that is all."
Pólozof wrote Sólovtsof a note, in which he asked him to come to see him about a very important matter. That same evening Sólovtsof came; he made the old man a gentle explanation, full of self-respect; he was acknowledged as "bridegroom," on condition that the wedding should be in three months
VII.
Kirsánof could not give up the case; it was necessary to help Katerina Vasílyevna emerge from her blindness, and it was still more necessary to manage her father, to keep him up to his promise of not interfering. But he made it inconvenient to call upon the Polovtsófs, during the first few days after the crisis. Katerina Vasílyevna was still feeling exalted; if he saw, as was to be infallibly expected, that the "bridegroom" was a scoundrel, then, even his silent dissatisfaction with the "bridegroom," and not alone his upright and downright opinion, would be prejudicial; would still further kindle her excitement. Kirsánof called there one morning, after a week and a half, so as not directly to seek a meeting with the "bridegroom," but to secure Katerina Vasílyevna's permission. Katerina Vasílyevna was already beginning to look better; she was as yet very thin and pale, but was entirely well, though the former famous practitioner still prescribed for her; for, when Kirsánof again put her in his hands, he said, "Ask his advice; now none of his medicines will do you any harm, even if you should take them."
Katerina Vasílyevna met Kirsánof enthusiastically, and looked at him with wondering eyes, when he told her what he had come for.
"You saved my life, and yet you want to ask my permission to call on us!"
"But my calling upon you, without your consent, while he is here, might seem to you as an attempt, on my part, to interfere in your relations, if I came. You know my rule: not to do anything against the will of a person for whose benefit I would like to work."
Kirsánof came on the second or third evening, and found the "bridegroom" to be exactly what Pólozof described him, and Pólozof himself, in a proper state of mind; the well-trained old man did not interfere. Kirsánof spent the evening, giving no sign of what he thought of the "bridegroom," and as he said good night to Katerina Vasílyevna, he did not hint at all how the bridegroom pleased him.
This was quite enough to wake her curiosity and doubt. On the next day she kept thinking: "Kirsánof did not say a word about him. If he had made a good impression on him, Kirsánof would have told me so. Is it possible that he didn't please him? What can there be that Kirsánof disliked in him?" When the "bridegroom" came in the evening, she scrutinized his behavior, she pondered over his words. She said to herself, "What is he doing this for," in order to convince herself that Kirsánof had no right or reason in finding any blemish in him. And she did convince herself; but the necessity of proving to yourself that there are no blemishes in the being you love leads to the quick discovery of such blemishes.
After a few days Kirsánof called again, and again he said not a word about his impression of the "bridegroom"; but this time she could not restrain herself, and at the end of the evening, she said:—
"Your opinion? Why are you so silent?"
"I am afraid that you won't enjoy hearing my opinion; I am afraid that you will think that I am partial."
"Don't you like him?"
Kirsánof did not reply.
"You don't like him, do you?"
"I did not say so."
"It is evident. Why don't you like him?"
"I am going to wait till it is also evident to you why I don't like him."
On the following evening Katerina Vasílyevna began to scrutinize Sólovtsof still more particularly. "Everything about him is lovely. Kirsánof is not fair; but why can't I see what there is in him that Kirsánof does not like?" She was vexed at her inability to observe. She asked herself, "Am I really so simple?" Her self-respect was aroused in her in a direction most dangerous for her bridegroom.
When Kirsánof came again a few days later, he perceived the possibility of acting more energetically. Till now he had avoided talk with Sólovtsof, in order to avoid stirring up Katerina Vasílyevna by a premature interference; now he joined the group surrounding her and Sólovtsof, and led the conversations to topics in which Sólovtsof's character would be shown forth as soon as he was drawn into the current. The conversation turned on riches, and it appeared to Katerina Vasílyevna that Sólovtsof was greatly interested in riches. The conversation turned upon "bridegrooms," and it seemed to her that Sólovtsof spoke rather slightingly about them. The conversation turned upon family life, and she tried in vain to banish from her mind the impression that possibly it might be cold and hard for a wife to live with such a husband.
A crisis occurred. Katerina Vasílyevna could not go to sleep for a long while; her face was bathed in tears from being vexed at herself for insulting Sólovtsof with such thoughts about him. "No, he is not a cold man; he does not despise women; he loves me and not my money." If these objections had been given as an answer to the words of somebody else, they would have firmly clung to her memory. But she objected to her own self, and it is impossible long to resist the truth which you yourself have discovered. It is your own; you cannot suspect any trickery. The next evening she examined Sólovtsof just as Kirsánof had done the evening before. She said to herself that she only wanted to be convinced that she insulted him without reason; but she herself felt that a distrust of him had sprung up in her. And again she could not sleep, but she was vexed at him. Why didn't he speak so as to allay her doubts instead of corroborating them? She was vexed at herself, but in her vexation clearly appeared the motive. "How could I be so blind!"
Naturally, in a day or two, she began to be exclusively absorbed by the fear arising from the thought, "I shall soon lose the possibility of correcting my mistake, if I have been mistaken in him."
When Kirsánof came the next time, he saw that he could speak with her.
"You asked my opinion about him," said he; "it is not so important as your own. What do you think of him?"
Now she had nothing to reply.
"I have no right to be inquisitive," said he; talked about something else, and soon left her to herself.
But in half an hour she herself came to him.
"Give me some counsel; you see my thoughts are disturbed."
"Why do you want the advice of a stranger when you yourself know what ought to be done when your thoughts are disturbed."
"Wait till they cease to be disturbed at all?"
"Do according to your best knowledge."
"I shall postpone the wedding."
"Why shouldn't you postpone it if it seems to you better?"
"But how will he take it?"
"When you see how he takes it, then you can decide what is best to be done."
"But it is hard for me to tell him."
"If that is the case, then let your bátiushka tell him."
"I don't want to get behind anybody's back; I shall tell him myself."
"If you feel strong enough to tell him yourself, then it would be much better."
Of course, with others, Viéra Pavlovna for example, it would not have done to drag out the affair so tediously; but every temperament has its own demands. If a hot-tempered man is irritated by slow methods, then a slow man is vexed by an abrupt measure.
Katerina Vasílyevna's success in dealing with her "bridegroom" exceeded Kirsánof's expectations. He thought that Sólovtsof would be able to guard his interests, that he would prolong the matter by humiliation and gentle entreaties. No, with all his tact, Sólovtsof could not control himself when he saw that great wealth was slipping out of his hands, and he himself let go of the slight chances which he still had. He poured out sharp reproaches on Pólozof, who he declared was intriguing against him, and he said to Katerina Vasílyevna that she gave her father too great power over her, that she was afraid of him, and was acting now at his command. But Pólozof did not know as yet about his daughter's decision to delay the wedding; the daughter constantly felt that he gave her perfect freedom. The reproaches heaped upon her father grieved her by their unfairness, and they insulted her because by them Sólovtsof expressed his views in regard to her as a being deprived of will and character.
"It seems to me that you take me to be a plaything in the hands of others."
"Yes," said he in his irritation.
"I was ready to die, not regarding my father's will, and you don't appreciate it. From this moment everything is ended between us," said she, and quickly left the room.
VIII.
After these occurrences, Katerina Vasílyevna was long melancholy; but her melancholy, though developed by this state of things, was not at all attributable to this special state of things. There are characters to whom a special fact in itself has very little interest, and serves only to engender general ideas which act upon them with much greater power. If such people possess remarkably strong minds, they become reformers nowadays just as in ancient times they became great philosophers. Kant, Fichte, Hegel, never worked out private questions; it was too tedious for them. This, of course, is true only of men; women, according to the prevailing idea, have very little understanding. Nature did not give it them, just as she did not give a clean face to blacksmiths, straight backs to tailors, a delicate sense of smell to shoemakers; all this is nature. It is for this reason that there are no women of great intellect. People of weak minds and with tendency of character become phlegmatic even to apathy. People of ordinary brains are inclined to melancholy, to a quiet life, and are generally imaginative. This does not signify that they are chimerical. In a good many cases the imagination is weak and they are very positive people. They simply love a quiet revery.
Katerina Vasílyevna had been in love with Jean Sólovtsof on account of his letters. She was dying with love founded only on her imagination. It may readily be seen that she was inclined to be very romantic, and frivolous life led by the trivial people who frequented Pólozof's house did not at all dispose her to an exalted idealism. This shows that this feature of her character arose from her own nature. She had long been burdened by the frivolity of that kind of life; she loved to read and dream. And now she was troubled not only by its frivolity, but by the wealth with which she was surrounded. It must not be thought that because she had this feeling, she had an extraordinary nature; it is common among all wealthy women of a humble and retiring character. In her it developed earlier than ordinary, simply because she had early received a powerful lesson.
"Whom shall I believe? What shall I believe?" she asked herself after the episode with Sólovtsof, and it seemed to her that nobody and nothing were worthy of her faith. Her father's riches attracted the envious, cunning, deceitful, from the whole city. She was surrounded by avaricious men, by liars, by flatterers; every word that was said to her was calculated with a view to her father's millions.
Her thoughts kept growing more serious. She began to get interested in the general questions arising from the wealth that troubled her so much, as well as in those arising from the poverty which troubled others. Her father gave her plenty of pin money, but like any other good woman she used it in helping the poor. But she read and thought and began to notice that such help as she could give did less good than she had reason to expect. She began to see that she was constantly deceived by feigned or knavish poverty; that people worthy of aid, able to make good use of such money, scarcely ever got any solid good from it; it lifts them temporarily out of their poverty, but in half a year or a year those people are in the same situation again. She began to think: "Why should money ruin people? Why does this importunate poverty never leave the poor? And why are there so many poor who are as unreasonable and bad as the rich?"
She was a person of imagination, but her imaginations were gentle, like her character, and there was just as little brilliancy about them as there was in herself. Her favorite author was George Sand, but she never imagined herself to be Lélia or Indiana or Cavalcanti or Consuélo; she more often imagined herself to be Jeannette or Geneviève. Geneviève was her favorite heroine. Here she is going through the field and is gathering flowers which will serve as models of her handiwork; here she meets Andrè—such quiet meetings! Here they discover that they love each other; such were her imaginations, and she knew that they were only imaginations. And she loved to dream how enviable was the lot of Miss Nightingale, that quiet, unostentatious little woman, of whom scarcely anything was known except that she was loved by all England. Was she young? Was she rich or poor? Was she happy or unhappy? About this nothing is said, about this nothing is thought; every one blesses the little woman, who was a ministering angel in the English hospitals of the Krimea and Skutari, and who at the end of the war, while returning to her native land with hundreds saved by her, still continued to take care of the sick. Such were the dreams whose fulfilment Katerina Vasílyevna would have liked to see. Her fancy did not carry her beyond the thoughts of Geneviève and Miss Nightingale. Can one say that she was fanciful? Can one call her imaginative?
Geneviève in a frivolous, contemptible society of fops and empty-headed dandies, Miss Nightingale in idle grandeur, would not they be lonesome? wouldn't they be melancholy? And therefore Katerina Vasílyevna was rather more glad than sorry when her father failed. She was sorry to see him who had been so strong growing prematurely old; she was sorry also that her ability to help others was curtailed. At first it was offensive to see the scorn of the crowd which had crawled and cringed before her and her father. But she was also glad that this mean, pitiable, wretched crowd had deserted them, had ceased to burden her life, to arouse her indignation by their falsehood and degradation; she felt so free now! Hopes of happiness arose in her heart. "Now if any one shows me any devotion, it will be for myself alone, and not for my father's millions."
IX.
Pólozof was anxious to arrange for the sale of the stearine factory of which he was part owner and had been the manager. After more than half a year of energetic effort, he found a purchaser. On the purchaser's visiting-cards was engraved the name Charles Beaumont, not pronounced Sharl Bomon, as the ignorant might suppose, but in the true English fashion, Beemont; and it was entirely natural that it was pronounced so, for the purchaser was the agent of the London house of Hodgson, Lotter and Company, for the purchase of tallow and stearine. The factory could not exist under the wretched financial and administrative conduct of its shareholders; but in the hands of a solid firm it would be sure to bring great profits. After spending on it five or six hundred thousand rubles, the firm could count on having one hundred thousand rubles of profits. The agent was a conscientious man; he looked over the factory with great care, and examined the books in detail before he advised the firm to buy the property. Then followed negotiations with the stockholders in regard to the selling of the factory. They were excessively long and according to the nature of Russian business transactions; even the patient Greeks who spent ten years in the siege of Troy would have found them tedious. And Pólozof all this time was with the agent, according to the old custom of being hospitable to people who are of use, and he invited him to dinner every day. The agent tried to get out of his way, and persistently refused to stay to dinner. But one day, after he had been having an unusually long session with the directors of the company and was tired and hungry, he consented to go to dinner with Pólozof, who lived in a flat in the factory.
X.
Charles Beaumont, like the average Charles, John, James, and William, did not care to indulge in intimacies or personal confidences; but on being asked, he related his story briefly, but very plainly. His family, he said, was from Canada; and in Canada almost half the population consisted of the descendants of French colonists; his family was one of these, and therefore his name was of French origin, and his face was more like a Frenchman's than an Englishman's or Yankee's. But, he continued, his grandfather emigrated from the vicinity of Quebec to New York; it often happened so. At the time of this emigration his father was a child. Afterwards, of course, he grew up and became a grown-up man; and at this time a certain rich man, with advanced ideas of agriculture, determined to establish on the southern shores of the Krimea instead of vineyards a cotton plantation; he commissioned some one to find him a manager in North America. James Beaumont was recommended to him—a Canadian by birth, a resident of New York, and a man who had all his life been as many versts from a cotton plantation as you or I, reader, who live at Petersburg or Kursk, have been from Mount Ararat. This is the usual experience of such progressionists. It is true that it was not the fault of the American manager's absolute ignorance of cotton plantations that his plan was ruined, because to plant cotton in the Krimea is as absurd as it would be to establish vineyards in Petersburg. And when this was found out, the American manager was discharged from the cotton plantation, and found a position as distiller in a factory in the government of Tambof. Here he lived all his life; here his son Charles was born, and soon after that he buried his wife. When he was about sixty-five years old, having accumulated a little money for his declining years, he determined to return to America, and he left. Charles was then twenty years old. When his father died, Charles made up his mind to come back to Russia, because, since he had been born and had lived twenty years in a village of the government of Tambof, he felt that he was a Russian. He had lived with his father in New York and had been a clerk in a merchant's office. When his father died, he went to the New York office of the London firm of Hodgson, Lotter and Company, because he knew that this house had business with Petersburg, and after he had succeeded in making himself useful, he expressed a desire to get a place in Russia, explaining that he knew Russia, it being his native land. To have such an agent in Russia was of course advantageous for the firm; he was transferred to the London office for a trial, and some six months before his dinner with Pólozof, he came to Petersburg as an agent for the firm for the purchase of stearine and tallow, with a salary of five hundred pounds. In perfect agreement with this tale, Beaumont, who was born and had lived in the government of Tambof till he was twenty years old, with only one American or Englishman in a circle of twenty or fifty or one hundred versts around, with his father, who had been all day long in the factory; in conformity with this tale, Charles Beaumont spoke Russian like a native Russian, and English fairly well, very well, but not distinctly, as is likely to be the case with a man who has lived in the land of the English tongue only a few years after reaching maturity.
XI.
Beaumont found himself at the dinner-table, sitting with only two others, the old man and a very genteel, but somewhat melancholy blondinka, his daughter.
"Did I ever think," said Pólozof at dinner, "that the shares in this factory would ever have such importance for me? It is hard for a man of my years to have such a shock come upon him, but it is good that Kátya cares so little that I have lost her fortune; for, even while I live, it is more her property than mine: her mother had property, and I had little. Of course I made every ruble grow into twenty; it shows that, on the other hand, it grew more from my labor than by inheritance; and how hard I worked! and how much one has to know!" The old man talked long in this self-flattering tone. "And everything was gained by my sweat and blood, but most of all by my brains," he said in conclusion, and he repeated what he said at first: that such a shock was very hard to bear, and that if Kátya too were worried by it, it seemed to him that he would lose his senses; but Kátya not only does not worry, but even consoles him.
Either according to the American custom of not seeing anything extraordinary in a rapid accumulation of wealth, or in a failure, or because it was his natural character, Beaumont had no desire either to be overpowered by the greatness of the mind that could make three or four millions, or to feel great concern for the failure which left sufficient means to allow the maintenance of a good cook; but nevertheless it was necessary to offer some consolation after this long speech, and therefore he said, "Yes, it is a great solace when a family faces its troubles courageously."
"Yes? you speak rather doubtfully, Karl Yakovlitch. You think that Kátya is melancholy on account of her lost riches? No, Karl Yakovlitch, no; you judge her unfairly; she and I have a different trouble; she and I have lost our confidence in men," said Pólozof in that half-jesting, half-serious tone in which old and experienced people speak of the good and inexperienced thoughts of their children.
Katerina Vasílyevna blushed; it was disagreeable to her that her father turned the conversation to her feelings: but besides her father's love there was another certain circumstance, for which her father was not to blame; if there is nothing to talk about, and there happens to be in the room a cat or a dog, the conversation will seize upon the animal; and if there is no cat or dog, then it goes to the children. The weather is the third and the extremity of resourcelessness.
"No, papa, it is hardly necessary to explain my melancholy by any motive so high; you know that I have a reserved nature, and I am lonesome."
"One need not be melancholy unless he pleases," said Beaumont; "but to be bored is in my opinion unpardonable. Loneliness is a fashion among our brethren, the English, but we Americans know nothing about it; we have no time to be melancholy. We have too much to do to allow of it, I think; I mean, it seems to me" (he corrected his Americanism) "that the Russian people ought to see themselves in the same situation: according to my way of looking at it, they too have too much to do; but, in reality, I see exactly the opposite in the Russians; they are very much disposed to reserve. Even the English cannot equal them in this respect. Englishmen are known all over Europe, including Russia, to be the most gloomy people in the world, but they are as much more sociable, lively, and gay than the Russians, as they themselves are behind the French in this respect, and your tourists tell you how reserved English society is. I don't understand where their eyes are when they look at themselves."
"And the Russians are right in being gloomy," said Katerina Vasílyevna; "what chance do they have for activity? They have nothing to do! They have to sit and fold their hands. Give me something to do, and the chances are that I shall not be melancholy."
"You want to find something to do? Oh, there ought not to be any obstacle to that; you see all around you such ignorance; excuse me for speaking so about your country, about your fatherland" (again he corrected his Anglicism); "but I was born here myself, and grew up here; I look upon it as my own, and therefore I don't stand upon ceremony; you see in it genuine Turkish ignorance, Chinese helplessness. 'I detest your fatherland because I love it as my own,' I will say, imitating your poet; but there are great opportunities."
"Yes, but what can a man, much less, what can a woman, do?"
"But you are doing something, Kátya," said Pólozof.—"I am going to expose her secret, Karl Yakovlitch. She teaches little girls because she hasn't anything else to do. Every day she has her pupils, and she is busy with them from ten o'clock till one, and sometimes even longer."
Beaumont looked up at Katerina Vasílyevna with respect. "This is our style in America; of course by America I mean only the Northern free States. The Southern States are worse than Mexico, almost as bad as Brazil." Beaumont was an ardent abolitionist. "This is in our style," he repeated; "and if this is so, why be lonesome?"
"Is this a serious undertaking, Mr. Beaumont? It seems to me merely a recreation; perhaps I may be mistaken; maybe you will call me a materialist."
"Do you expect such a reproach from a man belonging to a nation whose sole aim and thought, as every one asserts, is dollars?"
"Those are idle words, but I really fear to express my opinion; it may seem analogous to what the obskurants are agitating about the uselessness of education."
"Now I see,[5]" thought Beaumont; "has she really come to that? This is getting interesting.—I myself am an obskurant" said he; "I am in favor of the illiterate colored people against their civilized owners in the Southern States. Excuse me; I am drawn away by my American prejudices; but I am very curious to know your opinion."
"It is very prosaic, Mr. Beaumont, but life brought me to it. It seems to me that the thing that I am doing is too one-sided; and that side to which it is directed is not the most important side, if those who want to do good to the people want really to do the best for them; this is what I think: give men bread, and they themselves will get education. It is necessary to begin with bread; otherwise, we are simply wasting our time."
"Then why don't you begin where you ought to begin?" asked Beaumont, in a somewhat excited manner. "It is possible that I know instances at home in America," he added.
"I told you that I was alone, and what can I do? I don't know how to begin; and if I did know, what chance have I? A girl is tied in every way. I am not independent even in my own room. What can I do in my room? Lay a book down on the table, and teach children how to read. Where can I go alone by myself? Whom can I see alone? What action can I take by myself?"
"It seems to me that you represent me as a despot, Kátya," said her father. "I am not to blame in this case, and have not been since you taught me my lesson."
"Papa, I am still blushing for that; I was only a child then. No, papa, you are kind; you don't restrain me; it is society that restrains. Is it true, Mr. Beaumont, that a girl in America is freer in her actions?"
"Yes; we have that to be proud of. To be sure, we are far from being what we ought to be; but still, what a comparison between us and you Europeans! All that you have been told about the emancipation of women there, is true."
"Papa, let us go to America, as soon as Mr. Beaumont has bought your factory," said Katerina Vasílyevna, gayly. "There I should accomplish something. Akh! how happy I should be!"
"One can find something to do in Petersburg," said Beaumont.
"I should like to see it."
Beaumont hesitated two or three seconds. "Why did I come here?" he asked himself; "who would be better to find out for me?—Haven't you heard? An experiment has been tried of putting into practice the principles of political economy, which have recently been established; do you know them?"
"Yes, I have read about them. It must be very interesting and profitable; and I can take a part in them. Where can I find them?"
"It was established by a Mrs. Kirsánova."
"Who is she? Is her husband a doctor?"
"Do you know him? And didn't he tell you about this experiment?"
"I knew him long before he was married. I was very ill; he called on us several times, and saved me. Akh! what a fine man he is! Is she like him?"
But how could she get acquainted with Mrs. Kirsánova? Will Beaumont give Katerina Vasílyevna a letter to Mrs. Kirsánova? No; the Kirsánofs had never even heard his name, but no introduction is necessary. Mrs. Kirsánova will certainly be glad to meet such sympathy. Her address can easily be found where Kirsánof is employed.
XII.
It thus came about that Miss Pólozova became acquainted with Viéra Pavlovna. She went to see her the very next morning; and Beaumont was so much interested, that he came back in the evening to find out how Katerina Vasílyevna liked her new acquaintance and the new enterprise.
Katerina Vasílyevna was greatly inspired. Her melancholy had entirely disappeared; her dreaminess had given way to enthusiasm. She eagerly related to Beaumont—and she had already told her father, but once telling of it was not enough—what she had seen that morning, and there seemed to be no end to her story; yes, now her heart was full. She had found a lively enterprise. Beaumont listened to her attentively; but can one be satisfied with listening only? And she said, almost with vexation, "Mr. Beaumont, I am disappointed in you. Does it have so little effect on you, that it only interests you, and nothing more?"
"Katerina Vasílyevna, you forget that I have seen all this at home in America; some of the details may be interesting to me; but the enterprise itself is too familiar to me. Only the people who carry it on with such success are of interest to me, while to you the thing is a novelty. For instance, what can you tell me about Madame Kirsánova?"
"Akh! Bozhe moi! Of course I liked her very much indeed. She was so lovely in describing everything to me."
"You told me that before."
"What else do you want? What more can I tell you? What attention could I give to her when I had such a novel thing before my eyes?"
"That is so," said Beaumont; "I understand we entirely forget about persons when we are interested in things; however, can't you tell me something else about Madame Kirsánova?"
Katerina Vasílyevna tried to gather all her recollections about Viéra Pavlovna, but she could only bring back the first impression which Viéra Pavlovna made upon her; she gave a very lively picture of her personal appearance, her way of speaking, all, in fact, that the eye takes in when meeting a stranger for the first time; but further, there was absolutely nothing in her recollections of Viéra Pavlovna that was of special interest: it was her work-shop, work-shop, work-shop, and Viéra Pavlovna's explanations about the work-shop. She understood the explanations perfectly, but Viéra Pavlovna herself, from the time that followed their first meeting, made no impression upon her.
"And so this time I am disappointed in my expectations in learning about Madame Kirsánova; but I am not going to give you up; in a few days I shall ask you again about her."
"But why don't you yourself make her acquaintance, if she interests you so?"
"I should like to do so; maybe I will do so some time. But before, I must learn more about her."—Beaumont was silent for a moment.—"I was wondering whether to ask you or not; but it seems better to ask you, if you should happen to mention my name in your conversation with her, please don't tell her that I have made any inquiries about her, or that I want to make her acquaintance some time."
"That's very mysterious, Mr. Beaumont," said Katerina Vasílyevna in a serious tone. "You want to find out about them, and yet you yourself want to be concealed."
"Yes, Katerina Vasílyevna; how can I explain that to you? I am afraid to make their acquaintance."
"This is very strange, Mr. Beaumont."
"It is true. I will speak plainer; I am afraid that it would be disagreeable to her. They have never heard my name. But I might have had some intercourse with some of the people that are friends of theirs, or even with themselves; it is all the same. In a word, I must know first whether it would be agreeable to them to make my acquaintance."
"All this is strange, Mr. Beaumont."
"I am an honest man, Katerina Vasílyevna; let me assure you that I would never think of putting you into a false position; this is only the second time that I have ever seen you, but I have a great respect for you."
"I also see, Mr. Beaumont, that you are a man worthy of respect, but—"
"If you think that I am a man worthy of respect, you will allow me to call upon you, so that when you know me well enough, I can ask you again about the Kirsánofs. Or, rather, you will speak about them yourself when it will seem to you that you can fulfil my request which I shall make now, and which I shall not repeat. Do you agree?"
"All right, Mr. Beaumont," said Katerina Vasílyevna, slightly shrugging her shoulders. "But you must confess that—"
Again she did not want to finish her sentence.
"That my action seems rather suspicious? True; but I will wait till you get over your suspicions."
XIII.
Beaumont got into the way of making frequent calls at the Pólozofs'. "Why not?" thought the old man. "He is an excellent match. Of course in other days Kátya could have had a better husband. But even then she did not care for money or for flattery. And now nothing better could be desired."
Indeed, Beaumont was an excellent match. He said that he intended to live the rest of his life in Russia because he looked upon it as his native land. He was a man of character; he was thirty years old, a self-made man; and he had a good situation. If he had been a Russian, Pólozof would have liked him to belong to the nobility.[6] But as he was a foreigner, this was of no consequence, especially as he was of French origin, and, above all, an American citizen. Among the Americans, a man who may be to-day a journeyman shoemaker, or a plowman, to-morrow will be a general, and the next day president; and after that he may be a lawyer, or in a counting-house. It is a peculiar people altogether; they care only for a man's money or his brains. This is the right way of looking at it," continued Pólozof. "I myself am that kind of man. I entered mercantile life; I married a merchant's widow. The main thing is money, and brains, because without brains you can't get any money. And this man is on the road to it. He will buy the factory, will become manager; then the firm will take him as a partner. And their firms are not like ours. He too will roll in his millions."
It is very possible that Pólozof's imagination about his son-in-law becoming a millionaire in the commercial line will not be realized any more than Marya Alekséyevna's imaginations in regard to her chosen son-in-law becoming a great monopolist were realized. But for all that, Beaumont was an excellent match for Katerina Vasílyevna.
But, after all, was not Pólozof mistaken in thinking that Beaumont was going to be his son-in-law? If the old man had a shadow of a doubt about this, it vanished when Beaumont, in the course of a fortnight, said to him, that the purchase of the factory might be delayed for several days, the delay was unavoidable; even if Mr. Lotter were not coming, it would take at least a week to bring it to a conclusion, and Mr. Lotter would not be in Petersburg for a week. "Before I was personally acquainted with you," said Beaumont, "I wanted to finish the business myself. Now it would not look well, because we are so well acquainted. In order that there should be no misunderstanding by and by, I have written about it to the firm to this effect: that during the business transaction I have made the acquaintance of the manager whose whole property is invested in the factory, and I asked the firm to send some one to conclude the bargain in my place, and now, as you see, Mr. Lotter is coming."
Shrewd and clever! At the same time it shows plainly Beaumont's intention of marrying Kátya; a mere acquaintance would not be sufficient reason to take such a careful step.
XIV.
For the next two or three visits Beaumont was met very coolly by Katerina Vasílyevna. In truth, she began to feel a certain distrust in this person with whom her acquaintance was so slight, and who expressed a puzzling desire to learn about a family where he was not acquainted, and at the same time, according to his own words, he feared to become acquainted because he feared that his acquaintance might not be agreeable there. But although Katerina Vasílyevna met him suspiciously during these first calls, yet she was soon drawn into a lively conversation with him. In her former life, before she had ever known Kirsánof, she had never met such a man; he was so sympathetic in regard to all that interested her; he understood her so well, even among her dearest friends—by the way, there was only one who was a real friend, Paulina, who had long ago moved to Moscow, and there married a Muscovite manufacturer, and even with Paulina she could not speak with as much ease as with him.
And he, at first he came not so much on her account as for the purpose of learning through her about the Kirsánofs; but from the very beginning of their acquaintance, from the very moment when they spoke about melancholy and the means of curing it, it could be seen that he respected her, that he sympathized with her. At his second call he was still more attracted to her by her enthusiam at finding a new field of activity. Now, with every new meeting, his inclination to her was more and more evident to her. Very soon there arose between them most simple and friendly relations. At the end of a week Katerina Vasílyevna told him about the Kirsánofs; she was sure that this man could have no unworthy thoughts.
It is true that when she began to speak about the Kirsánofs, he stopped her: "Why so soon? You know me too slightly."
"No; sufficiently, Mr. Beaumont; I see that if you did not want to explain to me what seemed strange in your desire, you must have had good reason; and there are so many mysteries in this world."
And he replied, "You see that I have no longer that great impatience to know what I wanted to know about them."
XV.
Katerina Vasílyevna's enthusiasm continued without diminution, but changed into a constant, habitual mood, earnest, eager, and bright. And, as it seemed to her, this enthusiasm drew Beaumont closer to her. And he thought a great deal about her; this was sufficiently apparent. Having heard two or three times what she had to tell about the Kirsánofs, on the fourth time he said: "I now know everything that I wanted to know about them. Thank you."
"But what do you know? I only told you that they love each other, and are perfectly happy in their married life."
"More than that I did not care to know. However, all that I knew already."
The conversation turned on something else.
Of course Katerina Vasílyevna's first thought was when he asked about Mrs. Kirsánova, that he was in love with Viéra Pavlovna. But no; it was perfectly evident that such was not the case. So far as Katerina Vasílyevna was able to judge him now, she thought that Beaumont was not even able to fall in love. Truly, to love was in his power; that is true. But if he loves any one now, it is I," thought Katerina Vasílyevna.
XVI.
But the main thing was, did they love each other? Let us begin with her. There was one case when she showed some solicitude about Beaumont; but how did this case end? Quite otherwise from what might have been expected at the beginning. Beaumont got into the habit of calling at the Pólozofs' literally every day, sometimes making longer calls than at others, but every day just the same. And this caused Pólozof to think that he was going to offer himself to Katerina Vasílyevna; he had no other foundations for such a belief. But one evening it happened that Beaumont did not come. "You don't know what is the matter with him, do you, papa?"
"I have not heard; I guess there is nothing the matter. He probably did not have time."
A second evening passed, and still there was no Beaumont. On the following morning, Katerina Vasílyevna was evidently going somewhere. "Where are you going. Kátya?"
"Somewhere, papa, on my own business." She went to find about Beaumont. He was sitting in his wide-sleeved overcoat, and was reading; he lifted his eyes from the book when the door opened.
"Katerina Vasílyevna, is this you? I am very glad and very grateful to you," he said in the same tone as he would have addressed her father; possibly the tone was a little more cordial.
"What is the matter, Mr. Beaumont, that you have not been to see us for so long? You made me worry about you, and besides, you made me feel my lonesomeness."
"It was nothing particular, Katerina Vasílyevna; as you see, I am well. Won't you take some tea with me? You see I am just having mine."
"Of course I will; but why have you stayed away from us so long?"
"Piotr, bring a glass. You see I am well; a mere trifle; this is the reason: I was at the factory with Mr. Lotter, and while I was explaining something to him, I was rather careless; and putting my arm on a screw, it turned around and scratched my arm through the sleeve, and so I have not been able to put on my coat for the last three days."
"Let me see it; else I shall be worried lest it is not a scratch, but a serious wound."
"Yes, it must be a big one" (here Piotr comes in with a glass for Katerina Vasílyevna)—"when I make use of both my hands. However, I will show it to you." He rolled up his sleeve to the elbow. "Piotr, throw the ashes out of the tray, and give me my cigar-holder; it's on the library table. See, it is a mere trifle; nothing but an English plaster was necessary."
"Yes; but there is still some swelling, and it is inflamed."
"Yesterday there was considerably more, and by to-morrow there will be none at all."
Piotr, after cleaning out the ash-tray and bringing the cigar-holder, leaves the room.
"I did not want to appear before you as a wounded hero."
"Why didn't you write me, then?"
"Da! I thought that I should be able to put on my coat right away; that is, day before yesterday; and day before yesterday, I expected to put it on yesterday; and yesterday, to-day. I thought it was not worth while to worry you."
"Yes, and you have worried me all the more. It was not nice of you, Mr. Beaumont. And when shall you finish this business of yours?"
"Da! probably in a day or two; the delay is not our fault. Mr. Lotter and I are all ready, but it is the stockholders."
"And what have you been reading?"
"A new novel by Thackeray. How can a man write himself out so when he has such a talent! It is because his fund of ideas is getting low."
"I have read it; it is quite true." And she went on to speak of Thackeray's failing powers. Then they so spoke about half an hour on various other topics in the very same manner.
"Well, it is almost time for me to go to Viéra Pavlovna. When do you want to make her acquaintance? They are lovely people."
"I will try to arrange to do it soon; I will ask you to introduce me. I am very grateful to you for your visit. Is that your horse?"
"Yes, it is mine."
"That's the reason why your bátiushka never rides him. It is a very good horse."
"I think he is; I don't know much about them."
"It's a beautiful horse, sir; cost three hundred and fifty rubles," said the coachman.
"How old is he?"
"Six years, sir."
"Let us start, Zakhár; I am all ready. Good by, Mr. Beaumont; will you come to-day?"
"Hardly likely, no; to-morrow, sure."
XVII.
Does it ever happen that people do such things? Do young girls who are in love ever make such visits? Not to speak of the fact that no well-trained young lady would allow herself to do such a thing; but if she did, the conversation would be quite different. If the action performed by Katerina Vasílyevna was contrary to morality, then still more contrary to the generally accepted ideas as to the relations between men and young women, would be the character, so to speak, of this immoral action. Isn't it clear that Katerina Vasílyevna and Beaumont were not human beings, but fish? and if they were human beings, that they had the blood of fishes in their veins? The way that she usually behaved towards him in her own house, also absolutely corresponded with this theory.
"I am too tired to talk, Mr. Beaumont," she used to say when he stayed late. "You stay with papa, but I am going to bed"; and she used to leave him.
Sometimes he used to reply, "Stay quarter of an hour more, Katerina Vasílyevna."
"All right," she would say in such cases; but more often he replied, "Then good by,[7] Katerina Vasílyevna."
What kind of people are these, I should like to know; and I should like to know if they are not simply excellent people, whose meetings are disturbed by nobody, who are free to see each other when and as much as they please, whose marriage no one will hinder as soon as they make up their minds, and who, therefore, have no reason to be possessed of devils. But still I am vexed at their cool treatment of each other, and I am not as much ashamed for them as for myself. Is it really my fate as a novelist, to compromise in the eyes of all well-bred readers, all my heroes and heroines? Some of them eat and drink; others are not possessed of devils without cause; what uninteresting people!
XVIII.
Meantime, so far as the old man Pólozof could judge, the affair was coming to a marriage. When the probable bride and probable bridegroom were getting to be so intimate, it was evident that there would be a marriage. Has he not heard their talk? To be sure, his daughter and the probable bridegroom were not always under his eyes. More often than not they would sit by themselves or walk together by themselves; but this did not change in the least the tenor of their conversations. Even the shrewdest student of the human heart would have never suspected, had he heard them talk, that Beaumont would marry Katerina Vasílyevna. Not that they never spoke about their feelings. They spoke about them as they spoke about everything else in the world; but they said excessively little about them; and even this little counted as nothing from the tone in which they spoke. The tone was vexatious from its very calmness, and what they said would have seemed terribly absurd to any one in society. Now, for example, it happened that in about a week after the visit for which Beaumont was so grateful to Katerina Vasílyevna, and in about two months after their acquaintance had begun, the sale of the factory was accomplished. Mr. Lotter was intending to leave on the following day. (And he left; don't imagine that he is going to bring a catastrophe. He, as is common with business men in transacting commercial operations, told Beaumont that the firm would make him the manager of the factory, at the salary of a thousand pounds, as might have been expected, and nothing more. What need had he, as a business man, to interfere with Beaumont's love affairs?) The shareholders, including Pólozof, were to receive, on the following day (and they did receive all that they expected. Here, again, you must not expect a catastrophe; for the firm of Hodgson, Lotter and Company is a very reliable one) half in ready cash, and half in notes payable in three months. Pólozof, full of satisfaction at this turn of affairs, was sitting at his table in the reception-room, and was counting over the banknotes. He overheard in part the conversation that was going on between his daughter and Beaumont, as they passed through the reception-room. They were walking through the four rooms of the flat that faced on the street.
"If a woman, a girl, is embarrassed with prejudices," said Beaumont (not committing any Americanisms or Anglicisms), "then a man—I speak of respectable men—is subject to great inconveniences on that account. Tell me, how can one marry a girl who has not been trained in the simple duties of life, who does not realize what relations may arise after she has accepted an offer? She may not be able to judge whether she will enjoy her life with the man who is to be her husband."
"But, Mr. Beaumont, if her relations to this man are of a sincere character, such as they had been before he proposed to her, then I think that this would be some guarantee that they would be contented with each other."
"Some guarantee, certainly; but it would be much surer if the trial were longer and more thorough. She cannot know in any way the character of the relation into which she is going to enter; and so marriage is for her a terrible risk. So much for her; and the honorable man who is to marry her has to run the same risk. He can generally judge whether he will be satisfied. He knows intimately women of various natures; he has made trial of what nature suits him the best. She has not that chance."
"But she can observe the lives and characters of those in her own family and in the families of her friends; she can think a great deal."
"All that is good, so far as it goes, but it is not sufficient. Nothing can take the place of a personal trial."
"Would you have only widows get married?" asked Katerina Vasílyevna, laughing.
"You have expressed yourself quite to the point. Only widows; girls should be prohibited from marrying."
"That is true," said Katerina Vasílyevna, seriously.
Such talk as this seemed very wild to Pólozof at first, as he caught fragments of it. But gradually he got accustomed to the thought, and he said to himself, "Well, I myself am a man without prejudices. I started in business, and I, too, married a widow, a merchant's widow."
What he heard was only a little episode in their conversation, which was also devoted to other affairs; but on the following day this subject of their yesterday's conversation was continued in this way:—
"You have told me the story of your love for Sólovtsof. But what was it? It was—"
"Let us sit down, if it is just the same to you; I am tired of walking."
"Very well. It was a childish feeling, such as gives no guarantee. You remember it only as a subject to laugh over, or, rather, to feel gloomy about; for it certainly has its melancholy side. You were saved only by a strange and rare piece of good fortune, because your case fell into the hands of a man like Aleksandr."
"Who?"
"Aleksandr Matvéitch Kirsánof," he added, as though not to say merely his first name. "If it had not been for Kirsánof, you would have died, either by consumption or by that wretch. One can draw very sensible conclusions about the unhappy position that you held in society. You yourself have drawn such conclusions. All this is good enough, and it has only in the end made you a far more sensible and excellent girl; but it did not in the slightest degree give you any further experience for making up your mind what sort of a man would satisfy you as a husband."
"Not a miserable but an honorable man; that is all that you can decide. So far so good; but would it be enough for any honorable woman to know that the character of the man that she had chosen for her husband was honorable, if she did not know him any more than that? It is necessary to have a more exact knowledge of a man's character; that is, you must have a very different experience from what you have already had. We decided yesterday that according to your expression it is only widows who should be allowed to marry. But what sort of a widow are you?"
All this was said by Beaumont in a tone expressing dissatisfaction, and his last words were spoken actually in a grieved tone.
"That is true," said Katerina Vasílyevna rather gloomily, "for all that, I could not be easily deceived."
"And you could not if you tried, because it is impossible to affect experience if you have it not."
"You are always speaking about the lack of ways that we girls have for making a satisfactory choice. As a general thing it is absolutely true; but there are exceptional cases when so much experience is not necessary for making a satisfactory choice. If a girl is not so very young, she may understand her own character very well. For instance, I know my character, and it is evident to me that it is not going to change. I am twenty-two years old. I know what is necessary for my happiness: to live quietly so as not to be stirred up, that is all."
"That is true. That is evident."
"And is it so very hard to see whether this man or that has the marks of character sufficient to satisfy this want? This can be seen in a few conversations."
"That is true; but you said that this is an exceptional case. The general rule is different."
"Of course the rule is different. But, Mr. Beaumont, in the conditions of our lives, according to our understandings and habits, it is impossible to wish that a girl should have the knowledge of those every-day relations about which we were speaking, while without it, in most cases, a girl runs the risk of making an unsatisfactory choice. Her position is inextricable under present conditions. As things are now, let her enter into whatever relations she pleases; it will in no case give her experience: she might not get any advantage, and her dangers would be vastly multiplied. A girl can easily lower herself, can learn wickedness and deceit. She would be obliged to deceive her friends and society, to hide from their eyes, and from this there is an easy transition to falsehood, which is sure to ruin her character. It is even very possible that she may learn to look superficially upon life. And if this should not result, yet if she is going to be a good woman, then her heart may be broken. In the mean time, she will gain nothing in the experience of every day's life, because these relations which are so dangerous to her character or so tormenting to her heart are theatrical, idle, and out of the ordinary. You see that it is impossible to advise in the conditions of our life."
"Of course, Katerina Vasílyevna; but for that very reason our life is bad."
"Yes, indeed, we are agreed on that point."
"What does this mean? Leaving out the fact that the deuce knows what it means, what has it to do with their personal relations? The man says, 'I doubt whether you will make me a good wife'; and the girl replies, 'Just make me an offer and see!'
"What extraordinary impertinence! Or is it not so, perhaps? Maybe the man says: 'I have no need of questioning whether I am going to be happy with you; but be careful even though you choose me. You have chosen me, but I beg of you, think, think carefully. This is a very serious matter. Don't put your confidence even in me, who love you so dearly, without a serious and attentive making up of your mind.'
"And maybe the girl answers: 'My friend, I see that you think not about yourself, but about me. It is your truthfulness; we are to be pitied, we are deceived, we are lead blindfolded, so as to be more easily deceived. But don't fear on my account; you cannot deceive me. My happiness is sure. Just as you are tranquil on your part, so am I on mine.'"
"I wonder at one thing," continued Beaumont on the following day. Again they were walking through the rooms, and Pólozof was sitting in one of them. "I wonder at one thing—that there are any happy marriages under such conditions."
"You speak in a tone as though you were sorry that there were such things as happy marriages," replied Katerina Vasílyevna laughingly. She now, as may have been observed, laughs frequently in a tranquil and joyous way.
"And in fact they generally do inspire gloomy thoughts: if with such scanty means of judging the necessities and characters of men, girls very often succeed in making satisfactory choices, what a brightness and soundness of wit it shows that women possess! What a true, strong, vigilant mind nature has gifted them withal! And this mind remains without advantage for society, society dismisses it, oppresses it, chokes it, and the history of mankind would have advanced tenfold quicker if this intellect had not been dismissed, oppressed, and killed."
"You are the panegyrist of women, Mr. Beaumont! Is there no way of explaining it in a simpler way, by opportunity?"
"By opportunity? Explain it by opportunity if you want to; but when the opportunities are numerous, you know that besides chance which originates one part of them, there must be another cause originating the other part. It is impossible to suppose any other general cause, beyond my explanation—soundness of choice arising from the strength and vigilance of mind."
"You are quite like Mrs. Beecher Stowe, on the woman question, Mr. Beaumont. She proves that the negroes are the most talented of all the races, that they stand above the white race by their intellect."
"You are joking, but I am serious."
"It seems that you are provoked at me because I don't bow before a woman. But accept as my excuse at least the difficulty of getting on my knees before myself."
"Joke! but I am seriously provoked."
"But not at me, I hope? I am not in the least to blame for the fact that women and girls cannot accomplish what is necessary according to your opinion. However, if you want, I will tell you seriously what I think—only not on the woman question: I don't want to be a judge in my own case, but exclusively about you, Mr. Beaumont. You are a man of reserved nature, but you get excited when you speak on this subject. What should follow from this? The fact that you must have some personal interest in this question. Evidently you must have suffered from some mistake in the choice made by a girl who was, as you say, inexperienced."
"Maybe I, maybe somebody else who was nearer me. However, consider, Katerina Vasílyevna. I shall tell you when I hear your answer. I shall ask your answer in three days."
"To a question which has not been asked? Do I know you so little as to be compelled to think three days?" Katerina Vasílyevna stopped, put her arm around Beaumont's neck, drew his head towards her, and kissed his forehead.
According to all the examples of the past, and according to the demands of propriety itself, Beaumont would have to take her in his arms and kiss her lips; but he did no such thing, but only pressed her hand, which had dropped down from his head. "Yes, Katerina Vasílyevna, still think the matter over." And they began to walk again.
"But who told you, Charlie, that I have been thinking about it for more than three days?" she replied, not letting go his hand.
"Yes, of course, I saw it; but still I will tell you now,—I have a secret; let us go to that room, and sit down there, so that he can't hear."
The end of this began to take place when they passed the old man. The old man saw that they were walking hand in hand, which had never happened to them before, and he thought: "He has asked her hand, and she has promised. Good!"
"Tell me your secret, Charlie; papa will not hear from there."
"It seems absurd, Katerina Vasílyevna that I appear to be afraid of you; of course there is nothing to be afraid of. But you will understand why I caution you when I tell you that I have an example in mind. Of course you see that we shall be able to live together; but I pitied her. How much she suffered, and how long she was deprived of life which was necessary to her! It was pitiful; I saw with my own eyes. Where it was makes no difference—New York, Boston, Philadelphia—you know—it's no matter; but she was a very excellent woman, and she looked upon her husband as an excellent man. They were exceedingly attached to each other; yet, still she had to suffer a great deal. He was ready to give his life for the least increase of her happiness, but, for all that, she could not live happily with him. It was well that it ended as it did, but it was hard for her. You have not experienced any such thing, and so I shall not accept your answer."
"Could I hear this story from anybody?"
"Perhaps so."
"From the woman herself?"
"Perhaps so."
"And I have not given you any answer yet?"
"No."
"Do you know what it will be?"
"I do," said Beaumont, and then began an ordinary scene, proper between "bridegroom" and "bride," with kisses.
XIX.
On the next day at three o'clock Katerina Vasílyevna went to Viéra Pavlovna.
"I am to be married day after to-morrow, Viéra Pavlovna," she said as she entered; "and this evening I am going to bring my bridegroom to see you."
"Beaumont, of course, whom you have been crazy over this long time."
"I, crazy? When everything passed off so quietly and reasonably!"
"I thoroughly believe that you talked with him very quietly and sensibly; but with me, quite otherwise."
"Really, this is interesting! But here is something more interesting: he loves you very much—both of you; but you, Viéra Pavlovna, much more than Aleksandr Matvéitch."
"Is there anything interesting in that? If you have spoken to him about me with a thousandth part of the enthusiasm with which you have spoken about him to me then, of course—"
"Do you think that he knows you through me? Here's where the fun comes in, that he knows you personally, not through me, but far better than I do."
"That's news! How is that?
"How? I am going to tell you right away. The very first day that he came to Petersburg he was very anxious to see you, but it seemed to him that it would be better to postpone the acquaintance till he should come to you, not by himself, but with a 'bride' or a wife. It seemed to him that it would be pleasanter for you to see him with a wife than single. You see that our engagement came about through his desire to make your acquaintance."
"He marries you so as to get acquainted with me!"
"The idea! who says that he marries me for your sake? Oh, no! we get married, of course, not from love to you. But did we know of each other's existence until he came to Petersburg, and if he had not come, how should we have got acquainted? But he came to Petersburg for your sake! How absurd you are!"
"Does he speak Russian better than English?" asked Viéra Pavlovna, in excitement.
"He speaks Russian just as I do, and English just as I do."
"My dear Kátenka, how glad I am!" Viéra Pavlovna threw her arms around her guest.—"Sasha, come here! hurry, hurry!"
"What is it, Viérotchka? How d'ye do, Katerina Vas—"
He had no chance to speak her whole name before the young lady was kissing him.
"To-day is Easter, Sasha. Say to Kátenka, 'Indeed, he is risen.'"[8]
"But what is this all about?"
"Sit down, and she will tell you everything. And I myself have not heard all I want about it. That'll do; you have had enough kisses! and before me too! Now tell us, Kátenka!"
XX.
There was still more riotous conduct during the evening; but when order was restored, Beaumont, by the request of his new acquaintance, began to tell the story of his life after he came to the United States.
"As soon as I got there," said he, "I took pains to become naturalized. For that purpose, I had to make friends with some party. What do you suppose it was? Naturally, the Abolitionists. I wrote several articles for the Tribune about the influence of slavery upon the whole state of society in Russia. This, a new argument, was not a bad one, for the Abolitionists to use against slavery in the Southern States, and I became a citizen of Massachusetts. Soon after my arrival, I found a position in the office of one of the few large firms belonging to that party in New York." Further, he told them the same story which we already know. At least, this part of Beaumont's biography cannot be doubted.
XXI.
That very evening they made an agreement that the two families should look for apartments which should be adjoining. In the expectation of finding and arranging suitable apartments, the Beaumonts lived in the factory, where, according to the orders given by the firm, rooms for the manager were prepared. This temporary departure from the city might be regarded as akin to the beautiful English custom of a wedding journey, which is now common all over Europe.
When, in six weeks, two convenient adjoining flats were found, the Kirsánofs suited in the one, the Beaumonts in the other, the old Pólozof preferred to remain in his factory apartment, the rooms of which reminded him, though to a limited degree, of his former grandeur. It was also pleasant for him to stay there because he was popular within a distance of three or four versts around. There was no limit to the signs of respect offered him by his own clerks and those of the neighborhood, by the porters, and all the other suburban brethren of higher or lower dignity in this society which gathered around the factory, and there was no measure to the pleasure with which the patriarch accepted these signs of the general respect in which he was held as the most important person of the district. His son-in-law came to the factory every day; and almost every day his daughter came with her husband. In summer they moved down there entirely, and lived in the factory, which took the place of a datcha. The rest of the year, the old man, besides receiving his daughter and son-in-law, who still was known as the North American, often—every week, and oftener—had the pleasure of receiving guests, who came to spend an evening with Katerina Vasílyevna and her husband. Sometimes only the Kirsánofs and some young folks, sometimes the party was larger. The factory served the general purpose of frequent out-of-town picnics for the circle in which the Kirsánofs and Beaumonts lived. Pólozof was greatly delighted at such invasion of guests, and how could he help it? The part of host belonged to him, and it was not deprived of its patriarchal worshipfulness.
XXII.
The two families each lived according to the style that best pleased them. On ordinary days there was much noise in one apartment, much quiet in the other. They met like kinsfolks; some days they met as often as ten times, and each time for only a minute or two; sometimes for a whole day one of the apartments would be empty, and its inhabitants would be found in the other part. All this was according to circumstances. And when there were gatherings of guests, it was again as it happened; sometimes the doors between the apartments would be locked, because the doors which opened from the parlor of one apartment into the reception-room of the other were generally locked; but the doors between the rooms occupied by Viéra Pavlovna and Katerina Vasílyevna were constantly open. And so, sometimes the doors connecting the reception-rooms were locked; that was when the company was small. But if the party was large, these doors were opened, and the guests would not know whether they were at Viéra Pavlovna's or Katerina Vasílyevna's; and the khozyáïkas themselves could hardly distinguish. The young people, when they wanted to take a rest, generally found themselves in Katerina Vasílyevna's rooms; but when they did not come to rest, they would be with Viéra Pavlovna. But the young people could not be considered as guests, they are so intimate, and Viéra Pavlovna, without any ceremony, would drive them off to see Katerina Vasílyevna.
"I am tired of you boys! Go to Kátenka; she never gets tired of you. Why are you always quieter with her than with me? here I am older than she is."
"Don't you trouble yourself; we like her better than we do you."
"Kátenka, why do they like you better than they do me?"
"Because I scold them less than you do."
"Da! Katerina Vasílyevna treats us like men, and so we behave like men when we are with her."
Not bad was the effect of the game which was repeated very often last winter in the home circle, when the young folks and their intimate friends alone used to gather; the pianos from the two apartments were brought together; the young folks would cast lots, and divide into two choirs, making their benefactresses sit one at the one, the other at the other, grand piano, facing each other; each choir would stand near its prima donna, and at one and the same time they would sing: Viéra Pavlovna with her choir, "La Donna é Mobíle"; and Katerina Vasílyevna with her choir would sing "Long cast off by Thee"; or Viéra Pavlovna with her choir would sing Lizette's Song from Béranger; and Katerina Vasílyevna, "Eramushkás' Song." This winter something became popular: the former prima donnas, with the aid of all, adapted to their own liking "the discussion of two Grecian philosophers about the beautiful." It began this way: Katerina Vasílyevna would lift her eyes to heaven, and sighing languishingly, would say, "Divine Schiller, the rapture of my soul!" Viéra Pavlovna would answer with dignity. "But the prunella shoes from Koralof's shop are just beautiful!" and she would thrust out her foot. Whoever of the young folks laugh at such a discussion would be put into the corner; at the end of the discussion there would remain two or three people out of ten or twelve, who were not in the corner. But an immeasurable excitement would be aroused if they managed to inveigle Beaumont into this game, and get him into the corner.
What else? The sewing shops, continuing to agree, continued to exist. Now there are three of them. Katerina Vasílyevna has arranged hers long ago. Now she very often takes Viéra Pavlovna's place in the shop, and soon she will have to take her place entirely. This year—forgive her—she will pass her examinations as a doctor; and then she will have no time at all to occupy herself in the shop.
"It is a pity that there is no chance for these sewing unions to develop as they might have been developed," says Viéra Pavlovna sometimes. Katerina Vasílyevna does not answer a word, only her eyes flash with indignation.
"What a quick temper you have, Kátya. You are worse than I," says Viéra Pavlovna. "It is good that your father has something; it is very good."
"Yes, Viérotchka; it is good. I have less anxiety for my son." (You see, she has a son.)
"However, Kátya, I don't know what you make me think of. We will always live quietly and peacefully, won't we?"
Katerina Vasílyevna makes no reply.
"Yes, Kátya; say yes for my sake."
Katerina Vasílyevna laughs.
"It does not depend on my yes or no; and so for your satisfaction, I will say yes, we will always live peacefully."
And indeed they all live peacefully. They live harmoniously and cordially and quietly and happily and gayly and actively. But it does not follow from this that my story is at end. All four of them are as yet young, active; and if their lives are arranged harmoniously and cordially, beautifully and solidly, still it has not ceased to be interesting: far from it; and I have a good many things yet to tell about them; and I vouch for it that the continuation of my story about them will be much more interesting than what I have related till now.
XXIII.
They live gayly and cordially; they work and they rest; they enjoy life; and look forward to the future if not without thought, yet with a firm and substantial assurance that the further they go, the better it will be. Thus passed with them the time of the third year and last year; and thus the present year is passing, and the winter of the present year is almost passed; the snow has begun to melt, and Viéra Pavlovna inquired, "There will be one more frosty day yet, won't there, so that we can have another winter picnic?"
And nobody could answer her; but one day passes after another, growing warmer and warmer, and every day the probability of a winter picnic grew less. But lo! at last, when hope was lost, a snow-storm came such as we have in midwinter, without warmth, but with a fine gentle frost: the sky became bright. "It will be a splendid evening—picnic! the picnic,—hurry up; don't stop for the rest—a little one without formality."
Two sleighs dashed away that evening. One was filled with talk and jokes, but the other was really beyond control. As soon as they left town, they sang with all their voices, and this was what they sang:—
"From the gate the maiden went,
From the gate of maple bent,
Hurried from the new-made gate,
With its new-made checkered grate.
'Angry is my bátiushka.
Has no mercy on his daughter;
Will not let me wander late,
With the young lad gayly wait;
Yet I do not heed my sire,
But will sport to heart's content.'"[9]
The idea of singing such a song! Is that all? Some of the time they go slow and drop a quarter of a verst behind, and then suddenly they catch up with the others, and race; they dash by with shouts and screams of laughter, and after they have passed them, they fling snowballs at the gay but not riotous sleigh. The more decorous sleighful, after two or three such insults, determined to defend themselves. They let the riotous sleigh get ahead of them, they collected handfuls of new-fallen snow as secretly as possible, so that the riotous sleigh might not discover them. When the riotous sleigh slowed up again and fell behind, the decorous sleigh was creeping along stealthily, and gave no sign that they had procured weapons; and when the riotous sleigh bore down upon them again with shouts and shrieks, the decorous sleigh offered most unexpectedly a brave defence. But what does this mean? The riotous sleigh turns out to the right, even across gutters; they don't care for anything; they dash by a distance of a few rods.[10] "Yes, she must have suspected something; she has taken the reins herself; she is standing up and driving," says the decorous sleigh. "No, no, we'll catch up with them and pay them back." It is a desperate race. Will they overtake them or not? "We shall," says the decorous sleigh with enthusiasm. "No," it cries in despair; then, with new enthusiasm says, "Yes, we shall."
"They are gaining on us," says the riotous sleigh in despair. "They won't catch up with us," it says in enthusiasm. "Will they catch us or not?"
In the decorous sleigh were seated the Kirsánofs and Beaumonts; in the riotous sleigh were four young men and one lady, and it was she who was the ringleader in the riotous sleigh.
"Your health, mesdames and messieurs. We are very glad to see you again," she says from the platform of the factory stairs.—"Gentlemen, help the ladies out of the sleighs," she adds, addressing her companions.
Hurry up! hurry up into the parlors! The cold has reddened all their cheeks.
"How do you do, you dear old man?"[11]
"He isn't an old man at all, Katerina Vasílyevna. What made you tell me that he was old? He will be flirting with me next thing. Will you do it, you dear little old man?" asks the lady of the riotous sleigh.
"I will," says Pólozof, delighted because she gently caressed his gray whiskers.
"Children, will you let him flirt with me?"
"Of course we will," says one of the young men.
"No, no!" say the three others.
But why is the lady of the riotous sleigh dressed all in black? Is it mourning or caprice?
"O dear me, I am tired!" she said, throwing herself on the Turkish divan which occupied the whole length of the side of the parlor. "Children, more cushions! Not for me alone, but I think the other ladies are tired."
"Yes; you have tired us all out! "says Katerina Vasílyevna.
"The race with you over the rough road broke me all up!" says Viéra Pavlovna.
"It was a good thing that there was only one more visit to the factory," added Katerina Vasílyevna.
They both settled themselves on the divan among the cushions, in weariness.
"You weren't sharp enough! you can't have had much practice in racing. You ought to have stood up as I did; then the ups and downs amount to nothing."
"Even we are rather tired." says Beaumont to Kirsánof. They sat down by their wives. Kirsánof threw his arm around Viéra Pavlovna. Beaumont took Katerina Vasílyevna's hand. It was an idyllic picture. It is pleasant to see happy unions. But a shadow crossed the face of the lady in mourning for one moment, so that none except one of her young companions noticed it. He went to the window and began to study the arabesques made by the frost on the glass.
"Mesdames, your stories are very interesting, but I can't hear what you say; all I know is that they are very pathetic but that they end happily; I like that! But where is my dear little old man?"
"He is busy about the house; he is getting lunch ready; this always amuses him," said Katerina Vasílyevna.
"Well, in that case, God be with him! Tell me your story, please, but briefly; I like to be told things in few words."
"I shall relate very briefly." says Viéra Pavlovna; let me begin. When it is the others' turn, let them tell theirs. But I will tell you beforehand that there are secrets at the end of my story."
"Well, then we'll drive out these gentlemen. Or perhaps it would be better to drive them out now!"
"No; now they can listen."
Viéra Pavlovna began her story.
********
"Ha! ha! ha! This sweet Julie, I love her dearly!" and she throws herself down on her knees and she carries on and behaves herself terribly. She is lovely!"
********
Bravo, Viéra Pavlovna! "I am going to jump out of the window! Bravo, gentlemen!" The lady in mourning clapped her hands. At this command the young people applauded deafeningly, with shouts of "hurrah!" and "bravo!"
********
"What's got into you? What's got into you?" said Katerina Vasílyevna, in affright two or three minutes later.
"No, it's nothing much! it'll pass. Give me a glass of water! Don't bother yourself; Mosolof is bringing me some. Thank you, Mosolof!" She took the water brought her by her young companion who had been standing by the window. "Do you see how I have taught him? He knows everything beforehand. Now I feel all well again. Go ahead, please; I'm listening!"
"No, but I am tired," she said, five minutes later, calmly getting up from the divan. "I must have a nap for an hour or so. You see I am going without any ceremony. Come, Mosolof, let us find the dear little old man; he will give me a place."
"Excuse me, why shouldn't I do it?" asked Katerina Vasílyevna.
"Is it worth while to trouble you?"
"Are you going to give us up entirely?" asked one of the young men, taking a tragical pose. "If we had foreseen it, we should have brought daggers with us. But now we have nothing to stab ourselves with."
"When lunch is ready, we will take the forks for daggers!" shouted another, with the enthusiasm of unexpected salvation.
"Oh, no, I do not want the hope of our fatherland should be prematurely destroyed," said the lady in mourning, in the same excess of enthusiasm. "Be consoled, my children!—Mosolof, put the small cushion on the table."
Mosolof put the cushion on the table. The lady in mourning was standing by the table, in a graceful position, and slowly dropped her hand to the cushion.
The young folks kissed her hand.
Katerina Vasílyevna went to find a room for the weary guest.
"Poor girl!" said the three young men, who had been with her in the shop, with one accord, when she left the parlor.
"She is a brave woman!" said the three young men.
"I should say she was," said Mosolof, with a sense of satisfaction.
"Have you known her long?"
"Three years."
"Do you know her well?"
"Yes.—Don't be disturbed," he added, addressing those who were in the sleigh; "it's only because she is tired."
Viéra Pavlovna exchanged significant glances with her husband and Beaumont, and shook her head.
"It's absurd to say she is tired," said Kirsánof.
"I assure you she is tired, that's all. She will fall asleep, and it will all pass," repeated Mosolof, in a calm and indifferent tone."
In ten minutes Katerina Vasílyevna came back.
"How is she?" asked six voices. Mosolof did not ask.
"She went to bed and shut her eyes, and now she must be asleep."
"I told you so," said Mosolof; "it's a mere trifle."
"Still, I am sorry for her," said Katerina Vasílyevna. "We will watch her by turns: you and I, Viérotchka, and Charlie and Sasha."
"Don't let this interfere with our fun," said Mosolof. "We can dance, and shout, and sing; she sleeps very sound."
If she sleeps, if it is a mere trifle, then what does it mean? The disturbing impression caused for quarter of an hour, by the lady in mourning, vanished and was forgotten,—not absolutely, but almost. The party, even in her absence, little by little took the character of all the similar parties which had been held during the winter, and it became gay. Gay, but not without restraint. At least, the ladies half a dozen times exchanged looks of serious solemnity. Twice Viéra Pavlovna whispered stealthily, "Sasha, suppose something of this sort should happen to me?"
Kirsánof, the first time, could not find an answer. But the second time he succeeded. "No, Viéra, nothing of this sort could happen to you."
"Cannot? Are you sure?"
"Yes."
And Katerina Vasílyevna twice whispered to her husband stealthily, "Charlie, this could not happen to me, could it?"
The first time Beaumont only smiled, not gayly and not reassuringly; the second time he also succeeded in saying, "By all probability, it could not."
And these were only occasional echoes, and then only at first. But for the most part the evening was spent gayly; in half an hour it was quite gay. They talked, played, sang. "She is sound asleep," says Mosolof, and he takes the lead. And really, it was impossible to disturb her. The room where she was lying down was a long way from the parlor, separated by three rooms, a corridor, and a flight of stairs, and then another room. It was at the further side of the apartment.
And so the evening was a great success. The young folks, as usual, either joined the others, or were by themselves. Beaumont joined them a couple of times; a couple of times Viéra Pavlovna would draw him from them and their serious conversation.
They talked a great deal; but there was, after all, very little serious discussion.
All were sitting together.
"Well, what was the result? Was it good or bad?" asked one of the young men, who had taken the tragical attitude.
"She is rather worse than better," said Viéra Pavlovna.
"What do you mean, Viérotchka?" asked Katerina Vasílyevna.
"At all events, it is unavoidable in life," said Beaumont.
"It is an inevitable fate," said Kirsánof, in affirmation.
"It is an excellently bad thing; consequently, it is excellent," said the one who asked.
The other three young fellows nodded their heads, and said, "Bravo, Nikítin!"
The young folks were by themselves.
"I did not know him, Nikítin; but you knew him, didn't you? "asked Mosolof.
"I was a little boy then, but I saw him."
"But how does it seem to you now, as you look back? do they tell the truth? Would he accept her friendship?"
"No."
"And haven't you seen him since?"
"No. However, Beaumont was at that time in America."
"Really! Karl Yakovlich, come here just a moment. Did you meet in America that Russian of whom we are speaking?"
"No."
"It should be time for him to come back."
"Yes."
"What an idea came into my head," said Nikítin; "he would make a nice match for her."
"Gentlemen, some of you come and sing with me," said Viéra Pavlovna.—"So two of you want to come? So much the better!"
Mosolof and Nikítin stayed behind.
"I can show you an interesting thing, Nikítin," said Mosolof.—"What do you think—is she sleeping?"
"No."
"Only don't tell! You can tell her after you get better acquainted with her; but nobody else. She would not like it."
The windows of the apartment were low.
"This window, you see, is near the fire." Mosolof looked.
"That's it; do you see?"
The lady in mourning had moved her chair to the table, and was sitting down: with her left elbow she leaned on the table, the palm of her hand supported her drooping head, hiding her cheek and part of her hair. Her right hand was resting on the table, and her fingers were drumming mechanically, as though she were playing some tune. The lady's face had a fixed expression of melancholy, sorrowful but still more stern. Her eyebrows were lifting and drooping, lifting, drooping.
"Is it always so, Mosolof?"
"You see. However, let us come away, else we'll catch cold. It's already quarter-past ten."
"What a heartless fellow you are!" said Nikítin, looking keenly into his comrade's eyes as they passed by the lamp in the entry.
"You are getting sentimental, little brother. Is this your experience?"
Lunch was ready.
"What splendid vodka this is," said Nikítin; "how strong it is! It takes away your breath."
"Ekh! little winch! your eyes are already red," said Mosolof. All began to make fun of Nikítin in the same way.
"It's only because it choked me, but I can generally drink," said he, in justification. They began to look at their watches. "It's only eleven o'clock; we can count on half an hour more; we shall have time."
In half an hour Katerina Vasílyevna went to wake the lady in mourning. She was met by her on the threshold, stretching herself after her nap.
"Did you sleep well?"
"Splendidly."
"And how do you feel?"
"Magnificently. I told you it was a mere trifle; I got tired because I fooled too much. Now I shall be more staid."
But, no, she could succeed in being staid. In five minutes she was already charming Pólozof, and ordering round the young men, and was drumming out a march, or something of the sort, with the handles of two forks on the table. Then she was in a hurry to leave; but the others, who had got into a gale from her renewed riot, did not want to go.
"Are the horses ready?" she asked, getting up from the lunch table.
"Not yet. We have just sent to have them put in."
"You good-for-nothings! But if this is so, come, Viéra Pavlovna, sing us something; I have been told that you have a splendid voice."
Viéra Pavlovna sang.
"I shall often ask you to sing," said the lady in mourning.
"Now it's your turn! now it's your turn!" they all cried. But they had hardly time to urge her before she was seated at the piano.
"Well, all right, only I can't sing; but that makes no difference. I don't care for anything. Now, mesdames and messieurs, I am not going to sing for your sake, but for my children. Children, don't you laugh at your ma!" At the same time she struck the chords which lead to the accompaniment. "Children, don't you dare to laugh, for I shall sing with feeling." And, trying to bring out the notes as squeaky as possible, she sang:—
"Moans the dark blue—"
The young people roared with laughter at such an unexpected method, and the rest of the company also laughed. And the songstress herself could not refrain from joining; but, suppressing her merriment, she continued, twice as squeaky as before:—
"Moans the dark blue little pigeon,[12]
Moans all day and moans all night
For his sweetheart—"
But at this word her voice really trembled and choked. "It doesn't go, and it's just as well that it doesn't go. But if this doesn't go, something else will—something better? Listen, children, to your mother's advice: Don't fall in love, and know that you have no right to marry."
Then she sang in a strong, full contralto:—
"In our towns, a host of beauties are;
In each twilight eye there shines a star.
Happy fate regards them all sincerely,
But—
"This but is stupid, children, —
But the brave young fellow loves too dearly.
There's no sense in that,—its perfect nonsense,—but you, why,—
Do not wed her, gallant youth;
Hear my warning words.[13]
"Still more nonsense, children, and maybe this is also nonsense. You can fall in love, you can wed, but it must be only through choice, and without deceiving yourselves, children. I am going to sing to you how I married. It is an old romance, but I am also old. I am sitting on the balcony of our castle, Dalton, for I am Scotch; I am beautiful and pale. Further down is the forest and the river Bringal. To the balcony slowly, stealthily, comes my lover; he is poor, and I am rich; I am the daughter of a baron and a lord, but I love him dearly, and I am singing to him,—
How beauteous Bringal's rugged shore.
Its forests green and tall!
My love and I, we love it more—
Because I know he hides there in the daytime, and every day he changes his retreat, —
Than e'en my father's hall.
However, the father's hall is not so lovely in reality. And so I sing to him, 'I am going with thee.' What do you suppose he answers me?"
Woulds't thou be willing, maiden, tell,
To lose their rank and race?
Because I was high born.
But ere thou yieldest, weigh it well,
What fate thou hast to face!
"'Art thou a huntsman?' I ask. 'No.' 'A poacher?' 'You have almost guessed,' said he;
When we, the sons of night, have met,
—because you know that all of us, children, mesdames and and messieurs, are very wicked people,—
We take a solemn vow.
What once we were we must forget,
Forget what we are now.
"He sings, 'I guessed it long ago.' I say, 'Thou art a brigand.' Well, it is true; he is a brigand. Yes, he is a brigand. Well, gentlemen, he says, 'Don't you see I am a poor match for you?
O maiden, I was born for strife,
In forests dark I wend.'
"Absolutely true; dark forests; so he says, 'Don't go with me.'
How terrible will be my life!
Because in the dark forests are wild beasts.
How pitiful my end!
"That is not true, children; it will not be pitiful. But then, he and I have thought, and he has thought, and still I answer as before:—
How beauteous Bringal's rugged shore.
Its forests green and tall!
My love and I, we love it more
Than e'en my father's hail.
"In reality, it was so. Consequently, I must not be sorry. I was told what to expect. Thus you can marry and love, children, without deceit, and know how to make your choice.
The moon climbs the sky
Serenely and brightly.
The soldier lad knightly
To the battle must hie.
His gun is loaded all with care;
And to him says the maiden fair,
My dearest, with courage
Go forth e'en to die.[14]
"With such girls as that you can fall in love, and such you can marry."
("Forget what I told you, Sasha; listen to her," whispers Viéra Pavlovna, and presses her husband's hand, "Why didn't I tell thee this? now I shall tell thee," whispers Katerina Vasílyevna.)
"I allow you to love such, and I bless you, my children.
My dearest, with courage
Go forth e'en to die!
"I have had a perfectly lovely time with you; and where there is enjoyment, you must have something to drink.
Hey! my little ale-house maiden.
Pour me out the mead and wine!
"Mead is simply because you can't lose a word out of the song. Is there any champagne left? is there? Capital! open the bottle.
Hey! my little ale-house maiden.
Pour me out the mead and wine!
So that gay and joyous feelings
May fill full this heart of mine.
"Who is the 'ale-house maiden'? I am the 'ale-house maiden.'
Black as night the maiden's brows are,
Bright as steel her heel!"[15]
She jumped up, rubbed her forehead with her hand and pounded with her heels.
"I have found it out already! Mesdames and messieurs, and you dear little old man, and you, children, help yourselves; your little heads should be gay and happy."
"To the shinkárka's health! to the shinkárka's health!"
"Thank you; I drink to my health, and again she flew to the piano and sang:—
May sorrow vanish in dust!
And it will vanish.
And to our hearts reborn,
Come endless joy like morn!
And it will be so! This is sure.
Gloomy fear shall pass away
Like the shades when sun brings day;
Light and warmth and fragrance rare
Drive out darkness and despair.
Faint corruption's odor grows;
Strong the fragrance of the rose."
PART SIXTH.
CHANGE OF SCENES.
"Let us start," said the lady in mourning; but now she was no longer in mourning; a bright pink dress, a pink hat, a white mantilla, and a handsome bouquet. She was not alone, but with Mosolof. Mosolof and Nikítin were sitting on the front seat of the carriage; on the coachman's box was a third youth, and next the lady was a man of thirty years. How old was the lady? Was she only twenty, as she said, and not twenty-five? but this is a matter of conscience if she exaggerates.
"Yes, my dear, I have waited for this day more than two years. When I first got acquainted with him (she indicated Nikítin with her eyes), I only anticipated; but I cannot say that I expected it. It was only a hope; but soon came assurance."
"Excuse me, excuse me," says the reader, and not alone the sapient reader, but every reader, growing more and more astonished as he thinks it over. "For more than two years since she got acquainted with Nikítin!"
"Yes," I say.
"She got acquainted with Nikítin at the same time that she got acquainted with the Kirsánofs and Beaumonts on that sleighing picnic which took place at the end of this winter?"
"Absolutely true," I say.
"What does it all mean? Do you tell about things taking place in 1865?"
"Yes."
"Is it possible? have mercy!"
"Why is it impossible, when I know?"
"That is enough! Who will listen to you?"
"Doesn't it really please you?"
"Whom do you take me for? Of course it doesn't!"
"If you don't care to listen now, of course I must postpone the rest of my story till you are ready to listen; I hope it will be very soon."
April 4 (16), 1863.
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