Alexandra Mikhailovna’s husband was constantly occupied with his business affairs and with official duties, and could seldom manage to find even a little free time; when he did, it was divided equally between his family and his social life. Important connections, which he could not ignore, necessitated his making frequent appearances in society. There were widespread rumours about his boundless ambition; but as he held an extremely prominent position and had the reputation of being a serious and businesslike man who seemed to find luck and success everywhere, public opinion was far from denying him its approval. On the contrary, people always showed a special liking for him, which they never extended to his wife. Alexandra Mikhailovna lived in complete isolation, but she seemed to be glad of it. Her gentle nature seemed to have been created for seclusion.
She was devoted to me with her whole heart, loving me as if I had been her own daughter, and – with my eyes still moist from parting with Katya, and with an aching heart – I threw myself eagerly into the maternal embrace of my benefactress. From that time, my warm love for her was never interrupted. She was a mother to me, and a friend and a sister; she replaced the whole world for me, and she fostered my youth. Moreover, I soon perceived intuitively that her lot was by no means as rosy as might have been imagined at first sight from her quiet and apparently calm life, from her air of freedom, from the placid, bright smile which so often shone on her face. As I grew up, every day I discovered new things about the life of my benefactress, things which my heart slowly and painfully surmised, and alongside this sorrowful recognition my devotion to her grew greater and greater.
She had a gentle, frail nature. To look at her clear, peaceful features, it would have been hard to imagine that any worries could trouble her noble being. It was unthinkable that she could dislike anyone; compassion was always uppermost in her heart, prevailing even over repulsion. Yet she had very few close friends, and lived in almost complete solitude… She was by nature passionate and impressionable; it was as if she were constantly guarding her heart, not allowing it to forget itself, not even in dreams. Sometimes, even in her brightest moments, I noticed tears in her eyes as though a sudden, painful memory of something which troubled her conscience had flared up in her soul; as if something was watching over her happiness and seeking to upset it. And it seemed as though the happier she was, the calmer and more tranquil her life, the closer she was to this depression, and the more likely was the appearance of sudden melancholy and the tears of a nervous collapse. I cannot recall a single undisturbed month during those eight years. Her husband appeared to be very fond of her; she worshipped him. But from the first it seemed as if there was something unspoken between them. There was some secret in their life; I always suspected this.
Alexandra Mikhailovna’s husband made a gloomy impression on me from the outset. This impression, formed in my childhood, was never forgotten. In appearance he was tall and slim, and seemed deliberately to conceal his gaze behind large green spectacles. He was cold and taciturn, with little to say, even in private conversation with his wife. He evidently found people very tiresome. He paid no attention to me whatsoever, and consequently, on the occasions when we all three met for tea in the drawing-room, I always felt ill at ease. As I glanced stealthily at Alexandra Mikhailovna, I would be distressed to see that she seemed to hesitate over every move she made. She would turn pale if she noticed her husband was being sterner or more depressed than usual; she would suddenly blush all over if she heard or suspected an edge in something he said. I sensed that she found it awkward to be with him, yet, to all appearances, she could not live without him for one minute. I was struck by her exceptional devotion to his every need, his every word and gesture; it was as if she wished from the depth of her heart to find a way of pleasing him and yet knew she had no hope of success. She seemed to beg his approval: the slightest smile on his face, the least word of tenderness, and she was happy, as if those were the exact moments of the beginning of a completely timorous, hopeless love. She tended to her husband’s needs as if he were gravely ill.
When he left her to go to his study, he would give her hand a disdainful squeeze, after which she would change completely. Her conversation would become more cheerful, and she would move more freely. Nevertheless, there was a certain awkwardness that always came over her after each encounter with her husband. She would start going over everything he had said, weighing each word. It was not unusual for her to turn to me and ask whether she had heard him correctly: was it this that Pyotr Alexandrovitch had meant? She seemed to be searching for another meaning in his words. It might take a full hour for her to regain her assurance, to persuade herself that he was pleased with her and that she had no cause for anxiety. Then she would again become affectionate, cheerful and happy: she would start laughing and kissing me, and might improvise on the piano for an hour or more. But, more often than not, her happiness was shortlived: she would suddenly start crying and, when I saw her troubled embarrassment and fright, would quickly assure me, in a whisper, as if she were afraid of being overheard, that her tears meant nothing, that she was quite happy, and that I need not worry about her. There were also times when in her husband’s absence, she suddenly became nervous, and would start inquiring after him. She would send someone to find out what he was doing, would start asking the maids why orders had been given to harness the horses, where he was intending to go. whether he was unwell, cheerful or melancholy, what he had said, and so on. She never dared initiate a conversation with him about his interests or business affairs. Whenever he offered her advice or asked her about anything, she listened timidly, as self-consciously as if she were his slave. She was absolutely delighted if he happened to praise anything of hers: a book, her sewing, anything at all. It seemed to make her feel proud and instantly happier. But she would be made truly ecstatic on those occasions (very rare) when he took it into his head to fondle one of their two small children. Her face would be transformed with joy, and sometimes she would show too much fondness to her husband. For instance, she might be bold enough to suggest, without encouragement from him, and with a certain degree of trepidation and in a faltering voice, that he might listen to a new piece of music that she had just received, or that he might give his opinion of a new book. She sometimes went as far as to ask him to read a page or two of something that had particularly impressed her that day. On occasion her husband magnanimously fulfilled these requests, smiling with condescension, as one smiles on a spoilt child, afraid of denying the satisfaction of some strange whim, for fear of crudely spoiling its naivety too soon. I do not know why, but I resisted that smile with my whole being; and I resented his supercilious condescension and the inequality between them. I kept quiet, restraining myself and observing them with my childlike curiosity and prematurely harsh criticism. At other times I noticed that she would seem startled, as if involuntarily recalling something painful, dreadful and inevitable. His condescending smile would disappear, and he would fix his gaze on his intimidated wife with a look so compassionate that it made me wince. I realize now that if that look had been directed at me I would have found it intolerable. At these moments, all the joy vanished from Alexandra Mikhailovna’s face, and the music recital or the reading would be interrupted. She would turn pale and, restraining herself, keep silent. There might follow an awkward, depressing moment; at times it seemed to go on for ever. It was always her husband who brought it to an end. He would rise from his chair, struggling to suppress his agitation and annoyance, then walk to and fro several times in sullen silence, press his wife by the hand, heave a deep sigh and, with obvious embarrassment, mutter a few abrupt words which might have indicated a wish to comfort her, and then leave the room. Alexandra Mikhailovna was either reduced to tears or fell into a terrible, prolonged melancholy. Frequently, when he took his leave of her in the evening, he blessed her, making the sign of the cross over her as if she were a child. She would receive the blessing with reverence and gratitude.
I cannot forget certain eveni
ngs in that house (two or three only in those eight years) when Alexandra Mikhailovna seemed suddenly transformed. Anger and indignation were reflected in her usually gentle face, replacing her invariable self-abasement and adoration of her husband. Sometimes the storm would be gathering for a whole hour; her husband would become more silent, austere and surly than usual. At last, the poor woman’s wounded heart would be able to bear it no more. In a voice breaking with emotion, she would begin talking, at first hesitantly, disconnectedly, with hints and bitter pauses; then, as if unable to endure her anguish, she would burst into tears and sobs, and there would follow an outburst of indignation, of reproaches, of complaints, of despair, as though she were having a nervous crisis. It was astonishing to see with what patience her husband would bear it, with what sympathy he would bend down to comfort her, kiss her hands, and even at last begin weeping with her; then she would seem to recollect herself, her conscience would apparently cry out and convict her. Her husband’s tears shattered her. She would wring her hands in despair and, with convulsive sobs, fall at his feet and beg the forgiveness that would be immediately granted her. But the agonies of her conscience, the tears and supplications for forgiveness would go on for a long time, and she would be still more nervous, still more timid in his presence, for whole months. I could understand nothing of these reproaches and upbraidings; I was sent out of the room on such occasions, always very awkwardly. But they could not keep their secret from me entirely. I watched, I noticed, I divined certain things, and from the beginning a vague suspicion arose in me that some mystery lay at the bottom of it all, that these sudden outbursts of an exasperated heart were not simply caused by nerves; that there was some reason for her husband always being sullen; that there was some reason for his double-edged compassion for his poor sick wife; that there was some reason for her everlasting timidity before him, and for this quiet, strange love which she dared not reveal to her husband. There must be some cause for her isolation, for her reclusive existence, and for those blushes and the sudden deathly pallor that appeared on her face when she was with her husband.
But, since such scenes were very rare; since life was very monotonous, and I was really too close to her to observe her; since I was developing and growing very rapidly, and many new things were beginning to awaken inside me (albeit subconsciously), diverting me from such observations, I at last grew accustomed to the life, habits and people around me. I could not, of course, help wondering at times, as I looked at Anna Mikhailovna, but as yet my doubts had reached no conclusion. I loved her very much, respected her sadness and was afraid of troubling her vulnerable heart with my curiosity. She understood me and was often prepared to thank me for my devotion! Sometimes, noticing my concern, she would smile through her tears and laugh at her own tendency to cry; then she would suddenly begin telling me that she was very contented, very happy, that everyone was so kind to her, that everyone she had ever known had been fond of her, that she was very distressed that Pyotr Alexandrovitch was always so worried about her, and about her peace of mind, when really she was, on the contrary, so happy, so happy…
And then she would embrace me with such deep feeling, with so much love written on her face, that my heart, if I may say so, nearly bled with sympathy for her.
Her features have never faded from my memory. They were symmetrical, and their thinness and pallor only accentuated the austere charm of her beauty. Her thick black hair, combed smoothly down, framed her cheeks in sharp, severe outline, making a lovely contrast to her soft gaze. Her large, childishly clear blue eyes at times reflected so much simplicity and timidity that they seemed defenceless, as if fearful of every sensation, every outburst of emotion, every momentary joy and frequent quiet sorrow. Yet at certain happy, untroubled moments, there was much that was serene and bright as day, so much goodness and calm in the heart-piercing glance. Her eyes, blue as the heavens, radiated so much love and warmth, so much profound sympathy for all that was noble, for everything that asked for love and begged compassion, that one’s soul surrendered entirely to her; it seemed to be involuntarily drawn to her and to catch from her the same serenity, the same calm spirit and reconciliatory love. In the same way, one might look up at the blue sky and feel ready to spend whole hours in secret contemplation, bringing freedom and tranquillity to the soul, as if the lofty cupola of the heavens were reflected in the skies like a still sheet of water. When – and this often happened – exaltation sent the colour rushing to her cheeks and her bosom heaved with emotion, her eyes would flash like lightning, seeming to give off sparks, as if her whole soul, which had been chastely guarding the pure flame of beauty, was now illuminating her and passing into her eyes. At these moments she was like a being inspired. And in this sudden rush of inspiration, in this transition from a mood of shrinking gentleness to heightened spiritual exaltation, to pure stern enthusiasm, there flowed simultaneously so much that was childishly impulsive, so much childlike faith, that I believe an artist would have given half his life to portray one such moment of lofty ecstasy and put that inspired face on canvas.
From my earliest days in that house, I noticed that she was delighted to welcome me into her solitary existence. She had only one child at that time, and had been a mother for only twelve months. But I was just like a daughter to her, and she could not make any distinction between me and her own children. With what fervour she set about my education! She was in such a hurry in the beginning that Madame Léotard could not help smiling as she watched her. Indeed, we tried to do everything so precipitately that we could not understand each other. She started teaching me herself, but she tried to do too much at once, which resulted in ever more zeal, fervour and devoted patience on her part rather than in any real benefit to me. At first she was disappointed by her lack of success, but we laughed it off and started again from the beginning, although Alexandra Mikhailovna still, in spite of her initial failures, boldly declared herself opposed to Madame Leotard’s system. They argued cordially, but my new teacher was absolutely against any system, and insisted that we should find the correct method as we went along and that it was pointless to fill my head with dry information, for success depended on understanding my instincts and on the ability to arouse my goodwill – and she was right, for she had a complete victory. From the beginning, the usual pupil-teacher relationship vanished entirely. We studied like two friends, and sometimes it seemed as if I was teaching Alexandra Mikhailovna, without her noticing the crafty shift. And arguments often arose between us: I would become vehement in trying to prove my point, while Alexandra Mikhailovna would imperceptibly lead me the right way. But it would end in our reaching the truth we were pursuing, and then I would detect the stratagem and, thinking about all the effort she made for me, frequently sacrificing whole hours in this way for my benefit, I could only throw my arms around her neck and hug her.
She was astonished and moved by my sensitivity. She began showing interest in my past, wanting to hear of it from my own mouth, and every time I told her something she would grow more tender and serious with me – more serious because, through my unhappy childhood, I aroused in her both compassion and a feeling of something approaching respect. After my confessions, we usually fell into long conversations, during which she explained my past to me in such a way that I really seemed to live through it again, and I learnt a great deal that was new. Madame Léotard often thought such talk too serious and, seeing my involuntary tears, thought them quite unsuitable. I thought the very opposite, for after such ‘lessons’ I felt as lighthearted and happy as if there had been no misfortune in my life. Moreover, I was terribly grateful to Alexandra Mikhailovna for making me love her more and more every day. Madame Léotard had no idea of the way in which everything that had hitherto risen up in my soul, so inadvertently, like some premature storm, was now being smoothed out and brought into harmony. She had no idea that my childish heart had been torn to shreds, tortured with pain so cruelly unfair that it had cried out with anguish, without understanding the source
of these pangs…
The day began with our meeting in the baby’s nursery; we woke him, washed him, dressed him, fed him, played with him and taught him to talk. At length, we would leave the baby and sit down to study. We studied a great deal, but they were strange lessons. There was everything in them, but nothing precise. We read, exchanged ideas, put aside the book and turned to music, without noticing the hours flying by. In the evenings B., who was a friend of Alexandra Mikhailovna, would come and, together with Madame Léotard, join us in the most fervid, passionate conversations on art, life (which was known to our little circle only by hearsay), reality, ideals, the past, the future; we would sit up beyond midnight. I listened as hard as I could, shared the enthusiasm of the others, laughed and was moved. It was at this time that I learnt in detail all about my father and my early childhood. Meanwhile I was growing up: teachers were hired for me, from whom I would have learnt nothing were it not for Alexandra Mikhailovna. With my Geography teacher I would simply have gone blind as I searched for cities and rivers on the maps. With Alexandra Mikhailovna we set off on such voyages, visiting such countries, seeing so many marvellous sights and experiencing so many magical and fantastic hours! Our zeal was so strong that we ran out of books and had to find new ones. Before long, I could point out things to the Geography teacher myself – although, in fairness to him, he always maintained his superiority in respect of his precise knowledge of the latitude and longitude in which any given city lay, as well as the exact population in thousands, hundreds and tens. The History teacher was also paid a regular fee, but when he had left, Alexandra Mikhailovna and I studied History in our own way; we turned to books and were sometimes so absorbed in what we were doing that we read on deep into the night, or rather Alexandra Mikhailovna read on, for she also censored the material. I never felt so enthusiastic as after these readings. We were both excited, as if we ourselves were the heroes. Of course, we read more between the lines than was there, and besides, Alexandra Mikhailovna was so clever at describing things that it seemed as if all she read about had really happened to her. It may perhaps seem amusing that we became so excited and stayed up after midnight, I a mere child and she a stricken heart, burdened with the troubles of life! I knew that she found it restful to be beside me. I remember sometimes becoming exceptionally thoughtful as I gazed at her. Even before I had actually begun to live, I had fathomed a great deal about life.
Netochka Nezvanova (Penguin ed.) Page 14