# A vital question; or, What is to be done?/Part First

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, 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 tell 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; 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, opposite the Nevsky Prospekt. 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."
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!"
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, 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?"
"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.
* ↑ Dyeistvitelnui Statskui Sovyetnik corresponds in the civil rank of the Tchin with that of general of the army.
* ↑ Mezzofanti (Giuseppe Gaspardo), chief keeper of the Vatican library, was said to have spoken over one hundred languages.
* ↑ The Gostinui Dvor is the name of a great collection of shops under one roof in Saint Petersburg.
* ↑ In Russia a married woman has absolutely no legal power; the husband has all the rights and privileges. Tchernuishevsky wants to develop the idea of allowing married women equal right with husbands.
* ↑ The Russian poet Nekrásof says in his poem, "Ubogaïa i Naryadnaïa" (The Poor Woman and the Luxurious), of just such a girl as Julie:— Sryet tiébya predaiot poraganyu I okhotno proshchaïet drugoe; Society condemns you to destruction, But the rest of the world willingly forgives.
* ↑ Váshe Prevoskhoditelstvo, literally, your eminence.
* ↑ Osel pronounced As-yól.