On that occasion, as now, he had thought he was alone when he stopped before the mirror. And now, as before, I felt antagonism and unpleasantness when I found myself on my own with him. But when I heard this tune (a tune from him, of whom one would never have expected such a thing), I was so taken aback that I stood rooted to the spot. I was reminded of a similar moment in my childhood, and I cannot describe the bitter feeling which thumped in my heart. All my nerves began to quiver, and my unfortunate reaction to this tune was to break into peals of laughter, so that the poor man cried out, stepping back a couple of paces from the mirror and turning deadly pale. He looked at me as if he had been shamefully caught in the act, beside himself with alarm, astonishment and fury. But his expression had a disastrous effect on me, and I laughed uncontrollably and nervously into his face as I walked past him into Alexandra Mikhailovna’s room. I knew that he was standing behind the curtains, that he was perhaps hesitating over whether to come in or not, that he was paralysed with rage and cowardice and, in my nervous, defiant impatience, I wanted to see what he would do. I was quite sure that he would not come in, and I was right. It was half an hour before he entered. Alexandra Mikhailovna looked at me for a long time in the utmost perplexity, but her inquiries as to what was the matter with me were in vain. I could not tell her; I was gasping for breath. At last she realized that I was in hysterics and anxiously tended to me. When I had recovered I took her hands and began kissing them. Only then did I see what was happening, and only then did the thought occur to me that I should have been the death of her had it not been for that moment’s encounter with her husband. I looked at her as though she had risen from the dead.
Pyotr Alexandrovitch walked in. I gave him a furtive glance. His appearance gave the impression that nothing had happened between us; that is, he was as austere and gloomy as always. But, from his pale face and the faintly twitching corners of his mouth, I guessed that he could hardly conceal his agitation. He greeted Alexandra Mikhailovna coldly and sat down at his place without a word. His hand trembled as he took his cup of tea. I expected some outburst and was overcome by an incalculable terror. I would have liked to go, but I could not bring myself to leave Alexandra Mikhailovna, whose mood had also changed when she saw her husband. She too had a foreboding of trouble. What I was anticipating so fearfully happened at last.
In the middle of a deep silence I lifted my eyes and met Pyotr Alexandrovitch’s spectacles turned directly towards me. It was so unexpected that I started, almost cried out, and then lowered my eyes. Alexandra Mikhailovna noticed my agitation.
‘What’s the matter with you? Why are you blushing?’ resounded Pyotr Alexandrovitch’s harsh voice.
I said nothing; my heart was throbbing and I could not answer a word.
‘What’s she blushing at? Why’s she always blushing?’ he asked, addressing Alexandra Mikhailovna and pointing rudely at me.
I could hardly breathe for indignation. I cast a beseeching glance at Alexandra Mikhailovna. She understood me. Her pale cheeks flushed.
‘Annetta,’ she said to me in a firm voice, which I would never have expected from her, ‘go to your room. I’ll come to you in a minute, and we’ll spend the evening together –’
‘I asked you a question! Did you hear me or not?’ Pyotr Alexandrovitch interrupted, raising his voice still higher, and seeming not to hear what his wife had said. ‘Why do you blush when you meet me? Answer!’
‘Because you make her blush as you do me,’ said Alexandra Mikhailovna in an agitated, broken voice. I looked at her in amazement. The unexpected passion of her remark baffled me for a moment.
‘I make you blush, I?’ answered Pyotr Alexandrovitch, apparently in a fury. ‘You have blushed for me? Do you mean to tell me I can make you blush for me? It’s for me to blush, not for you, don’t you think?’
This phrase, uttered with such callous, caustic sarcasm, was so clear to me that I cried out in horror and rushed to Alexandra Mikhailovna. Surprise, pain, reproach and fear were all depicted on her face, which began to turn a deathly pale. Clasping my hands with a look of entreaty, I glanced at Pyotr Alexandrovitch. He seemed to realize that he had gone too far, but the fury that had driven those words out had not yet subsided. However, when he noticed my silent plea, he was confused. My gesture clearly betrayed that I knew what had hitherto been a secret between them, and that I fully understood the meaning of his words.
‘Annetta, go to your room,’ repeated Alexandra Mikhailovna in a quiet but firm voice, as she stood up. ‘I want to speak to Pyotr Alexandrovitch…’ She was calm on the surface, but that calm frightened me more than any agitation would have done. I stood quite still, behaving as if I had not heard what she said… I strained every nerve to read in her face what was going on in her heart at that moment. It seemed to me that she had understood neither my gesture nor my exclamation.
‘See what you have done, miss!’ said Pyotr Alexandrovitch, taking my hand and pointing to his wife.
My goodness! I have never seen such despair as I saw now on that stricken, deathly-looking face. I glanced back again as he led me out of the room. I took one last look at them. Alexandra Mikhailovna was standing with her elbows on the mantelpiece, holding her head tightly between both hands. Her whole attitude expressed unbearable torture. I seized Pyotr Alexandrovitch’s hand and squeezed it warmly.
‘For God’s sake, for God’s sake!’ I cried in a broken voice. ‘Spare her!’
‘Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid,’ he said, looking at me strangely. ‘It’s nothing, it’s nerves. Go on, run along.’
In my room, I threw myself on the sofa and hid my face in my hands. For three whole hours I remained in that position, and I passed through perfect hell during those hours. At last I could bear it no longer and sent to inquire whether I could go to Alexandra Mikhailovna. Madame Léotard brought me the answer. Pyotr Alexandrovitch said that the attack had passed and there was nothing to be alarmed about, but that she needed peace and quiet. I did not go to bed until three in the morning, but walked up and down the room thinking. My position was more perplexing than ever, but I somehow felt calmer, perhaps because I felt that I was more to blame than anyone. I went to bed impatient for the following day.
But the next day, to my surprise and sorrow, I noticed an inexplicable coldness in Alexandra Mikhailovna. At first I fancied that it was painful to her pure and noble heart to be with me after the scene the day before with her husband, of which I had unfortunately been a witness. I knew that the childlike creature was capable of blushing and begging my forgiveness for that unfortunate episode, which she may have felt offended me, but I soon noticed a very different sort of anxiety and annoyance, which was expressed very awkwardly. At times she answered me in a cold, dry tone, while at other times there seemed to be some peculiar pointedness in what she said. Then she would become very tender with me, as if repenting the harshness which she could not feel in her heart, and there was a note of self-reproach in her affectionate and gentle words. At last I asked her directly what was the matter and whether she had anything to say to me. She was a little taken aback at my sudden question but, raising her large, clear eyes and looking at me with a sweet smile, she said: ‘It’s nothing, Netochka. But when you asked me so abruptly you confused me. That was only because you were so abrupt… I assure you. But listen… tell me the truth, my child: have you got anything on your mind which might have made you confused at suddenly being questioned in that way?’
‘No,’ I answered, looking into her clear eyes.
‘Well, that’s a good thing! You don’t know, my dear, how grateful I am to you for that good answer. Not that I could suspect you of anything bad – no, never. I could not forgive myself such a thought. But listen… I took you as a child, and now you are seventeen. You’ve seen for yourself that I’m ill, that I’m like a child that needs to be looked after. I cannot be a proper mother to you, although there’s more than enough love in my heart for it. If I am tormented with worry, as I am no
w, it is, of course, not your fault, but mine. Forgive me for the question and for having perhaps failed, in spite of myself, to keep all the promises I made to you and my father when I took you into my house. I’ve been very worried about it for some time.’
I kissed her and burst into tears.
‘Oh, thank you… thank you for everything,’ I said, bathing her hands with my tears. ‘Don’t talk to me in that way, don’t break my heart. You’ve been more than a mother to me. May God bless you and the Prince for all you have done for me, a poor abandoned child.’
‘Hush, Netochka, hush! Hug me instead: that’s right, hold me tight! Do you know, I believe – I don’t know why – that this is the last time you will embrace me.’
‘No, no,’ I said, sobbing like a child. ‘No, that cannot be. You’ll be happy… You have many days ahead of you, Believe me, we’ll be happy.’
‘Thank you, thank you for loving me so much. I have not many friends near to me now; they have all deserted me!’
‘Who has deserted you? Who?’
‘There used to be other people, Netochka, you don’t know. They have all left me. They have all faded away as if they were ghosts. And I have been waiting for them, waiting for them all my life. God be with them. Look, Netochka, you see it is late autumn, soon the snow will be here. With the first snow I shall die, but I do not regret it. Farewell.’
Her face was thin and pale; an ominous patch of red glowed on each cheek; her lips quivered and were parched with fever.
She went up to the piano and struck a few chords; a string snapped and with a clang died away in a long discordant note…
‘Do you hear, Netochka, do you hear?’ she said, pointing to the piano as if it had suddenly inspired her. ‘That string was strained to breaking-point, it could bear it no more and has perished. Do you hear how plaintively the sound dies away?’ She spoke with difficulty. Mute spiritual anguish was reflected in her face, and her eyes were filled with tears.
‘Come now, Netochka, enough of that, my dear. Fetch the children.’
I brought them in. She seemed to relax as she watched them. She sent them away an hour later.
‘You won’t forsake them when I die, will you, Netochka?’ she whispered, as though afraid someone might overhear us.
‘Stop, I can’t bear it!’ was all I could say in reply.
‘But I’m only joking,’ she said after a moment’s silence, and smiled. ‘You didn’t believe me, did you? Sometimes I talk utter nonsense. I’m like a child now, you must forgive me everything.’
Then she looked at me timidly, as if afraid of saying something. I waited.
‘Mind you don’t upset him,’ she said at last, lowering her eyes and flushing a little. I could hardly hear her, she spoke so softly.
‘Who?’ I asked in surprise.
‘My husband. You might perhaps tell him everything I said.’
‘What for?… What for?’ I said, more and more startled.
‘Well, perhaps you wouldn’t tell him, how can I say!’ she answered, trying to glance slyly at me – though the same simple-hearted smile was on her lips and the colour was flowing into her face. ‘Enough of that… I’m still joking, you know.’ My heart started aching even more.
‘But you will love them when I’m dead, won’t you?’ she asked gravely, adding with a somewhat mysterious air, ‘You’ll love them as if they were your own, won’t you? Remember, I’ve always considered you as if you were my own and made no distinction between you and my children.’
‘Yes, yes,’ I answered, not knowing what I was saying and choking with tears and confusion.
Before I could withdraw it, I felt a burning kiss on my hand. I was left dumbfounded. What was the matter with her? What was she thinking? What had happened between them yesterday? These thoughts floated through my mind.
A minute later she began to complain that she was tired.
‘I’ve been ill for a long time, but I didn’t want to frighten you both,’ she said. ‘You both love me, don’t you?… Goodbye, Netochka. Leave me now, but be sure to come back in the evening. You will, won’t you?’ I promised to do so, but I was glad to get away. I could not bear any more.
‘Poor darling, poor darling! What kind of suspicions are you taking with you to the grave?’ I exclaimed to myself, sobbing. ‘What new trouble is poisoning and tormenting your heart, without your daring to talk about it? My God! This endless suffering, I understand it so well now! This life without a ray of hope… this timid love that asks for nothing! And even now, now, almost on her deathbed, with pain tearing her heart in two, she is afraid, like a criminal, of uttering the faintest murmur, the slightest complaint; as she imagines – invents – some new sorrow, she has already submitted to it, already resigned herself to it…’
Towards evening, in the twilight, I took advantage of the absence of Ovrov (the man who had come from Moscow) to go to the library and, unlocking a bookcase, I began rummaging through the books, looking for something light and frivolous to read aloud to Alexandra Mikhailovna. I wanted to distract her from her gloomy thoughts. For a long time I glanced absently through the books. It got darker, and my depression increased. Once again I found myself with that same book in my hands, open at the same page. Even now I could see the imprint of the letter which had never left my bosom since that day and which had disrupted my old existence. The secret in that letter had taken me into a world where there was so much that was cold, unknown, mysterious and hostile, even from a distance – and it was now closing in on me… What would happen to me, I wondered… the corner in which I felt so safe and secure would be empty! The pure, shining spirit that guarded my youth would leave me. What lay ahead? I remained lost in my thoughts of the past, now so dear to my heart, and at the same time I strove to see ahead into the vacuum which was threatening me… I remember the moment as if I were reliving it now; it cut so sharply into my memory.
I was holding the letter and the open book in my hands, and my face was wet with tears. All at once I started with fright; I heard the sound of a familiar voice. At the same time I felt the letter being snatched out of my hands. I shrieked and looked around: Pyotr Alexandrovitch stood before me. He seized me by the arm and held me firmly. With his right hand he raised the letter to the light and tried to decipher the first lines… I cried out, and would have faced death rather than give him the letter. From his triumphant smile I saw that he had succeeded in making out the content. I lost my head…
A moment later, in a move of desperation, I snatched the letter from his hand, hardly knowing what I was doing. Everything happened so quickly that I did not have time to realize how I got hold of it again, but, seeing that he was about to snatch it back from me, I thrust it into the bodice of my dress and stepped back three or four paces.
We looked at one another for a minute in silence. I was still trembling with fear. He was pale; his lips were blue and quivering with rage. At last he broke the silence.
‘Enough!’ he said in a voice weak with emotion. ‘You surely don’t want me to resort to force. Give me back the letter of your own accord.’
Only at this point did I stop to think, and I found myself outraged. I was filled with resentment, shame and indignation at his coarse brutality. Warm tears streamed down my burning cheeks. I trembled all over with excitement and for some time I was unable to utter a word.
‘Did you hear me?’ he said, advancing a couple of paces in my direction.
‘Leave me alone, leave me alone!’ I cried, moving away from him. ‘Your behaviour is contemptible and dishonourable. You’re forgetting yourself! Let me go!…’
‘What? What’s the meaning of this? How dare you talk to me like that… Give it to me, I’m ordering you!’ He took another step towards me but, glancing at me, saw such determination in my eyes that he hesitated.
‘Very well,’ he said drily, as though he had reached a decision but was hardly able to restrain himself. ‘That will come in due course, but first…’ He looked around. ‘Yo
u… Who let you into the library? How is it that this bookcase is open? Where did you get the key?’
‘I’m not going to answer you,’ I said. ‘I can’t talk to you. Let me go… Let me go!’ I stepped towards the door.
‘Oh, no,’ he said, holding me by the arm. ‘You’re not just going off like that.’
I tore my arm away from him without a word and again edged towards the door.
‘Very well, then. But I really can’t allow you to receive letters from your lovers in my house…’
I cried out frantically, and looked at him in horror…
‘And so –’
‘Stop!’ I cried. ‘How can you? How can you say that to me? My God! My God!…’
‘What? What? Are you going to threaten me too?’
I gazed at him, pale and overwhelmed with despair. The scene between us had reached a degree of cruelty that was beyond my comprehension. My eyes begged him not to prolong it. I was ready to forgive the outrage if only he would stop. He looked at me intently and faltered visibly.
‘Don’t push me to the limit,’ I whispered in horror.
Netochka Nezvanova (Penguin ed.) Page 18