With that he jumped to his feet and brought his fist down on the table with such force that all the cups rattled.
“Nikolai Sergeich! Don’t you have any pity for Anna Andreyevna? Look what you’re doing to her,” I said, unable to control myself and looking at him with indignation. But that was just like a red rag to a bull.
“No, I don’t!” he yelled, shaking and going pale, “I don’t, because no one has any pity for me, either! I don’t because broken as I am, people are plotting against me in my own house in favour of that dissolute daughter of mine, who deserves to be cursed and punished without mercy!…
“Nikolai Sergeich, don’t curse her!… Do anything, anything you like, only don’t curse your own daughter!” Anna Andreyevna pleaded.
“I will!” Ikhmenev yelled louder than ever, “because, wronged and disgraced as I am, I’m expected to go to that confounded creature and ask her forgiveness! Yes, yes, that’s how it is! This is torture by tears, by sighs, by stupid hints, and I’m subjected to them day in day out in my own house! They want to wear me down… Look, take a look at this, Vanya,” he added – and hurriedly, with shaking hands, he produced some papers from his side pocket, “here are some extracts from the case! It now transpires that I’m a thief, that I’m a liar, that I fleeced my own benefactor!… I’ve been defamed and disgraced because of her! Here, here you are, look, take a look!…”
And with that he began to pull various papers out of the pocket of his frock coat and throw them down on the table one after the other, impatiently fumbling amongst them for the one he wanted to show me – but all for nothing, he couldn’t find it. In exasperation he jerked a whole handful of things out of his pocket – and suddenly something fell on the table with a distinct metallic clink… Anna Andreyevna let out a cry. It was the lost medallion.
I could scarcely believe my eyes. Blood rushed to the old man’s cheeks and he shuddered. Anna Andreyevna stood there transfixed, her hands clasped, looking at him imploringly. Her features were radiant with joyous expectation. Her husband’s red face, his embarrassment in front of us all… yes, she had been right, now she understood how her medallion had disappeared!
She realized that he had found it and, overjoyed and perhaps trembling with excitement, had jealously hidden it from prying eyes so that in the privacy of his room, overflowing with love, he could feast his eyes on the features of his beloved child; that perhaps he had been locking himself away, just as she herself had done, to commune with his precious Natasha, invent questions for her, answer them himself, and at night, in mortified anguish and with muffled sobs, fondle and kiss the cherished image, and instead of heaping curses on her, ask for forgiveness and bless the daughter whom he had banished from his sight and damned in front of everybody.
“My beloved, so you do still love her after all!” Anna Andreyevna exclaimed, shedding all restraint in front of her harsh husband, who only a minute ago had been on the point of cursing her Natasha.
But the moment he heard her voice, his eyes flashed in mad rage. He snatched the medallion, flung it to the floor with all his might and began to stamp on it savagely.
“For ever I curse you, for ever!” he shouted hoarsely, gasping for breath. “For ever and ever!”
“Oh God!” Anna Andreyevna cried. “To do this to her, to her! My poor Natasha! her sweet little face… trample it underfoot! Underfoot!… Tyrant! Unfeeling, heartless monster!”
Hearing his wife wailing, the demented old man stopped in panic. Suddenly he snatched up the medallion from the floor and began to rush out of the room, but after a couple of paces fell to his knees, dug his hands into the settee in front of him, and let his head droop helplessly.
He sobbed like a child, like a woman. Sobs convulsed his breast as though they would tear it apart. At a stroke the fearsome old man had become as helpless as a child. Now he was no longer capable of cursing; now he was no longer embarrassed in front of any of us, and in a convulsive access of affection and in full view of all of us repeatedly kissed the image that only a minute ago he had been trampling underfoot. It seemed that all his tenderness, all his love for his daughter, so long bottled up inside him, was now striving to break out with irresistible force and shatter his whole being.
“Forgive her, forgive her!” Anna Andreyevna kept imploring and sobbing as she leant over him, clasping her arms around him. “Take her back into her parental home, my beloved, and God Himself will reward you at the Last Judgement for your humility and compassion!…”
“No, no! Never, never!” he brought out in a hoarse, breathless voice. “Never! Never!”
14
I arrived at natasha’s late in the evening, at ten. She was then living on the Fontanka, near Semyonovsky Bridge, on the third floor of a run-down rooming-house owned by a merchant named Kolotushkin. After leaving home she and Alyosha had at first lived on Liteyny Prospect on the second floor of a very fine apartment, fairly modest in size, but attractive and comfortable. However, the young prince’s funds were soon exhausted. He hadn’t become a music teacher, but had had to borrow money and soon run up what for him were huge debts. He spent his money on refurbishing the apartment and on presents for Natasha, who objected to his profligacy, scolded him and was sometimes even reduced to tears. Sensitive and emotionally perceptive, Alyosha would sometimes spend a whole week in delightful speculation as to what he might possibly buy her and how she would receive his present. He contrived to turn the whole exercise into a feast of self-indulgence as, bubbling over with enthusiasm, he shared his hopes and expectations with me, but would later be driven to despair by her tears and reprimands, so that as a result one could not help feeling sorry for him. Eventually the presents led to bitter exchanges and quarrels between them. In addition, Alyosha spent a lot of money behind Natasha’s back; he fell under the influence of his companions and was unfaithful to her, having a string of various demi-monde Josephines and Minnas to whom he would regularly go. And yet despite all, he was still very much in love with Natasha. His love was of an agonized kind; he would often turn up at my place gloomy and out of sorts, saying he wasn’t worth so much as a second glance from his Natasha, that he was crude and insensitive, incapable of appreciating her and unworthy of her love. To a certain extent he was right; the two were most unequally matched; he felt he was a child compared with her, which was how she always regarded him too. With tears in his eyes he would confess to me of consorting with some Josephine or other, whilst at the same time imploring me not to tell Natasha about it; and when after all such revelations, timid and trembling, he would go to Natasha with me (it always had to be with me as he insisted that he was too scared to face her on his own after his misconduct, and that only I could give him support), she would only have to take one look at him to see what was going on. She was very jealous by nature, and for the life of me I do not understand how she always forgave him his lapses. It usually happened like this. Alyosha and I would enter the apartment, he would speak to her meekly and gaze tenderly into her eyes. She’d realize immediately what he had been up to, but would never let on, never mention it first, never question him; on the contrary, she would immediately be doubly affectionate to him, altogether more tender and cheerful – and not out of guile or premeditated cunning on her part. No, this wonderful creature seemed to derive endless delight from forgiveness and toleration, as though in the very act of forgiving she experienced some peculiar and subtle kind of pleasure. At that time it was only a question of casual encounters. Finding her mild and forgiving, Alyosha would no longer be able to contain himself, and would immediately, quite unsolicited, confess to everything – to salve his conscience and to “wipe the slate clean”, as he put it. On being forgiven, he would go into ecstasies of delight, sometimes even weeping for joy and affection, and would hug and kiss her. He would cheer up and, with childish frankness, begin to recount his adventures with the current Josephine in great detail; he would banter, laugh, bless and praise Na
tasha to the skies, and the evening would end in happiness and merriment. When all his money ran out, he began to sell things. At Natasha’s instigation a small, cheap apartment was found on the Fontanka. They continued to dispose of their possessions. Natasha even sold her dresses and began to look for work; when Alyosha found out about this, his despair knew no bounds. He cursed himself, screamed that he hated himself, but all the while did nothing to remedy the situation. Eventually their last resources ran out, and their only remaining choice was work, however poorly paid.
At the outset, when they were still living together, Alyosha had had a serious quarrel with his father about this. The Prince’s plans at the time – to marry off his son to Katerina Fyodorovna Filimonova, the Countess’s stepdaughter – were still at an early stage, but he stuck to them tenaciously. He would take Alyosha to the bride intended for him, then, threatening and reasoning with him by turns, urge him to try and win her over. But it all came to nothing because of the Countess. Eventually even he began to turn a blind eye to his son’s relationship with Natasha, prepared to let time take its course and, knowing Alyosha’s frivolous and superficial character, hoping that his infatuation would soon pass. As to the possibility of Alyosha marrying Natasha, the Prince had until very recently almost stopped caring. The lovers themselves were happy to bide their time until a formal settlement had been reached with the Prince, and the whole situation had changed. Natasha, for her part, seemed reluctant to raise the subject. Alyosha had once inadvertently let slip to me that his father was in fact rather pleased with the way things were going – that he enjoyed seeing Ikhmenev’s discomfiture in all this. Outwardly, however, he continued to express his displeasure towards his son, reduced his meagre allowance still further (he had always been extremely tight-fisted with him), and even threatened to stop it altogether. But soon, in relentless pursuit of his betrothal plan, he left St Petersburg to join his Countess in Poland, where she had gone on business. True, Alyosha was still too young to get married, but the prospective bride was too wealthy for his father to allow the opportunity to slip through his fingers. At last the Prince got his way. Rumour reached us that finally the betrothal was to go ahead. At the time I’m referring to the Prince had just returned to St Petersburg. He greeted his son in a friendly manner, but the latter’s continued relationship with Natasha came as an unwelcome surprise to him. He began to hesitate, and his resolution wavered. He was strict and inflexible in his demand for a break-up, but he soon hit on a much better stratagem, and took Alyosha off to see the Countess. Her stepdaughter – still hardly more than a child – besides having the makings of a striking beauty, had a kind heart, an open, unblemished character, a cheerful, affectionate disposition, and was clever into the bargain. The Prince calculated that the novelty of being with Natasha over the past six months might already have worn off, and that he would now regard his bride-to-be with quite different eyes from six months before. He was right on one count… Alyosha really did become infatuated. I may add that the Prince had all of a sudden become very friendly towards his son (though he still refused to give him money). Alyosha felt that his father’s good-natured façade concealed a firm and unwavering determination, and he languished – not as much of course as he would have done if he hadn’t been seeing Katerina Fyodorovna every day. I knew that it was five days since he had last been to see Natasha. On my way to her from the Ikhmenevs, I had the uneasy feeling that I knew what it was she wanted to tell me. As I drew nearer the house, I saw a light in her window. There had been a regular agreement between us that she would put a candle there every time she had an urgent need to see me, so that if I happened to be passing by – which I did nearly every evening – I should be able to tell that she wanted to see me. Lately she had often placed a candle in her window…
15
I found natasha on her own. She was pacing slowly up and down the room, arms folded, deep in thought. The flame under the samovar, which had clearly been on the table some time now awaiting my arrival, was nearly extinguished. She smiled and held out her hand to me in silence. Her face had an unhealthy pallor. There was a look of suffering,
tenderness and patience in her smile. Her blue eyes appeared to be larger, her hair thicker – all as a result of losing weight after her illness.
“I thought you’d never come,” she said, as she shook my hand. “I was about to send Mavra over to see if you were ill again.”
“No, I’m not. I was held up. I’ll tell you all about it in a minute. But what’s the matter, Natasha? What’s happened?”
“Nothing’s happened,” she replied, looking surprised. “Should something have happened?”
“But you wrote… you wrote yesterday that I should come. You even specified the time, and asked me not to be late or early. You had never done that before.”
“Ah, yes! I was expecting him to come yesterday.”
“Well, hasn’t he been yet?”
“No,” she said after a pause. “That’s why I thought, if he doesn’t come, I’ll have to talk it over with you.”
“Were you expecting him tonight then?”
“No, I wasn’t. Tonight he’s there.”
“So, Natasha, don’t you expect him at all then?”
“Of course I do,” she replied, looking at me with increased seriousness.
She clearly did not like the drift of my questions. We fell silent, and continued to walk up and down the room.
“I was looking forward to seeing you, Vanya,” she began again with a smile, “and guess what I was doing? Walking up and down reciting a poem. Do you remember – the harness bell, the winter road? “Behold, on the table the samovar stands…” we used to read it together:
The storm is spent, the road is bright,
As countless eyes gaze down from above in the night…
And then:
Then the singer sings a joyful song
To the ringing of the bell,
‘When, oh when will my beloved come
His head on my bosom to rest!
Where else such welcome he’ll find? For scarce
Will dawn’s rays the frost on the panes begin to tease,
The bubbling samovar to the table I’ll bring,
And the fire in the stove will merrily crackle,
Casting a glow on my bed and the colourèd screen…’
“Isn’t that beautiful! How moving those lines are, Vanya, what a vivid, fantastic picture they convey! Just the broad canvas with the pattern in bare outline only – embroider what you like on it. There are two worlds, the past and the present. The samovar, the bright curtain – how familiar it all is!… It could be any small family house in our provincial town. I can picture the house, the new timbers that haven’t yet been weather-boarded… And then the scene changes:
Still the ringing of the bell,
But the song’s no longer joyful now.
‘Where, oh where is my beloved gone?
And what if he did come
And lovingly embraced me?
Where now my bliss!
’Tis sparse, ’tis dark, ’tis dismal
And draughty in my room…
The solitary cherry tree outside
Through the frosted pane unseen,
For all I know, may long be dead.
Where now my bliss! The colours on the screen have faded.
Disconsolate I wander, to my folks I’ll ne’er return.
There’s no one more to chide me,
There’s no one more to love…
There’s no one more at home
Save my maid – a grumpy old soul…’*
“‘Disconsolate I wander’… this ‘disconsolate’ rings so true! ‘There’s no one to chide me’ – how much tenderness and feeling there, as well as painful memories – memories one has summoned up to brood over… My God, how beautiful it is! How true to life!”<
br />
She fell silent from a lump in her throat.
“Vanya, my dearest!” she said after a minute’s pause, and then fell silent again, as though she had forgotten what she was about to say or had spoken without thinking, moved by some sudden impulse.
In the meantime we kept walking up and down the room. A lamp was burning in front of the icon. Of late Natasha had become increasingly pious, but did not like people to remark upon it.
“Is there a feast day tomorrow?” I asked. “Your lamp’s lit.”
“No, there isn’t… well, Vanya, why don’t you sit down, you must be tired. Would you like some tea? I’m sure you haven’t had any yet.”
“Let’s sit down. I’ve had some.”
“Where have you come from now?”
“From their place.” That is how we always referred to her home.
“Their place? How did you manage to find the time? Did you just drop in? Did they ask you over?…”
She was showering me with questions. Her cheeks had gone even paler with anxiety. I told her in detail about my meeting with her father, my conversation with her mother, the incident with the medallion – I recounted everything in detail and with all the nuances. I concealed nothing from her. She listened avidly, hanging on my every word. Tears sparkled in her eyes. The incident with the medallion made a strong impression on her.
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