"But it was particularly sad for me to recall the look of deep amazement which I often caught fixed upon me, during the time we were together: in her eyes there was the fullest comprehension of her lot and of the future awaiting her, so that I too felt weighed down, by that look in them, though I must admit, in those days, I did not discuss things with her, and treated all this somewhat disdainfully. And, you know, she wasn't always such a timorous, shy creature as she is now; even now it happens that she will all at once grow gay, and look as pretty as a girl of twenty; and in those days in her youth she was very fond of chattering and laughing, only with people she was at home with, with girls and women belonging to the household; and how she started if I came on her unawares, if she were laughing, how she blushed, and how timorously she looked at me! Once, not long before I went abroad, almost on the eve of my breaking off all relations with her, in fact, I went into her room and found her alone, at a little table, without any work in her hands, but deep in thought, resting her elbow on the table. It had hardly ever happened to her before to sit without work. At that time I had quite given up showing her affection. I succeeded in stealing in very quietly, on tiptoe, and suddenly embracing and kissing her… . She leapt up—and I shall never forget the rapture, the bliss in her eyes, and suddenly it was succeeded by a swift rush of colour, and her eyes flashed. Do you know what I read in those flashing eyes? 'You are kissing me as a charity—that's what it is!' She began sobbing hysterically, making the excuse that I had startled her, but even at the time it made me think. And, in fact, all such reminiscences are very dreary things, dear boy. It's like those PAINFUL scenes which you sometimes find in the works of great artists, which one remembers ever afterwards with pain; for instance, Othello's last monologue in Shakespeare, Yevgeny, at the feet of Tatyana, or the meeting of the runaway convict with the little girl on the cold night at the well, in 'Les Miserables' of Victor Hugo; it stabs the heart once for all, and leaves a wound for ever. Oh, how eager I was for Sonia to come and how I longed to hold her in my arms! I dreamed with feverish impatience of a complete new programme of existence; I dreamed that gradually, by systematic efforts, I would break down that constant fear of me in her soul, would make her appreciate her own value, and all in which she was actually superior to me. Oh, I knew quite well, even then, that I always began to love your mother as soon as we were parted, and always grew cold to her at once as soon as we were together again; but that time, it was different, then it was different."
I was astonished: "And SHE?" the idea flashed across me.
"Well, and how did mother and you meet then?" I asked cautiously.
"Then? Oh, we didn't meet then at all. She only got as far as Königsberg, and stopped there, and I was on the Rhine. I didn't go to her, and I told her to stay there and wait. We only saw each other again long after, oh, long after, when I went to her to ask her to consent to my marriage… ."
2.
Now I'm coming to the core of it all, that is, as far as I was able to grasp it myself; for, indeed, his own account began to be somewhat disconnected. His talk became ten times as incoherent and rambling as soon as he reached this part of the story.
He met Katerina Nikolaevna suddenly, just when he was expecting mother, at the moment of most impatient expectation. They were all, at the time, on the Rhine, at some spa, all drinking the waters. Katerina Nikolaevna's husband was by then almost dying, he had, at any rate, been given up by the doctors. She made an impression on him at the first meeting, as it were cast a sort of spell upon him. It was a case of fate. It's remarkable that recalling it and writing it down now, I don't remember that he once used the word "love" in connection with her, or spoke of "being in love." The word "fate" I remember.
And, of course, it was fate. He did NOT CHOOSE it, "he did not want to love her." I don't know whether I can give a clear account of it, but his whole soul was in revolt at the fact that this could have happened to him. Everything in him that was free was annihilated by this meeting. And the man was fettered for life to a woman who had really nothing to do with him. He did not desire this slavery of passion. To state the fact plainly, Katerina Nikolaevna is a type rare amongst society women—a type perhaps unique in that circle. That is, she is an extremely good-natured and straightforward woman. I've heard, indeed I know for a fact that this was what made her irresistible in the fashionable world whenever she made her appearance in it. (She used at times to withdraw into complete seclusion.)
Versilov did not believe, of course, when he first met her, that she was like that; in fact, he believed she was the exact opposite, that she was a hypocrite and a Jesuit. At this point I will anticipate by quoting her own criticism of him: she declared that he could not help thinking what he did of her "because an idealist always runs his head against reality and is more inclined than other people to assume anything horrid."
I don't know if this is true of idealists in general, but it was entirely true of him, no doubt. I may perhaps add here my own judgment, which flashed across my mind while I was listening to him then: I thought that he loved mother, more so to say with the humane love one feels for all mankind, than with the simple love with which women are loved as a rule, and that as soon as he met a woman whom he began to love with that simple love, he at once turned against that love—most probably because the feeling was new to him. Perhaps, though, this idea is incorrect; I did not of course utter it to him. It would have been indelicate, and he really was in such a condition that it was almost necessary to spare him: he was agitated; at some points in his story he simply broke off, and was silent for some moments, walking about the room with a vindictive face.
She soon divined his secret. Oh, perhaps she flirted with him on purpose; even the most candid women are base in these cases, and it is their overwhelming instinct. It ended in a rupture full of rankling bitterness, and I believe he tried to kill her; he frightened her, and would have killed her, perhaps, "but it was all turned to hatred." Then there came a strange period: he was suddenly possessed by the strange idea of torturing himself by a discipline, "the same as that used by the monks. Gradually, by systematic practice, you overcome your will, beginning with the most absurd and trivial things, and end by conquering your will completely, and become free." He added that this practice of the monks is a serious thing; in the course of a thousand years it has been brought by them to a science. But what is most remarkable is that he gave himself up to this idea of discipline, not in order to get rid of the image of Katerina Nikolaevna, but in the full conviction that he had not only ceased to love her, but hated her. He so thoroughly believed in his hatred for her as to conceive the idea of loving and marrying her step-daughter, who had been seduced by Prince Sergay, to persuade himself absolutely of this new love, and to win the poor imbecile's heart completely, by his devotion making her perfectly happy. Why, instead of devoting himself to her, he did not think of mother, who was all this time waiting for him at Königsberg, remained for me inexplicable… . He quite forgot mother, indeed, and even neglected to send money for her maintenance, so that Tatyana Pavlovna had to come to her rescue; yet finally he did go to mother "to ask her permission" to marry the young lady, pleading that "such a bride was not a woman." Oh, perhaps all this is only a portrait of a theoretical man, as Katerina Nikolaevna said of him later. But why is it, though, that these theoretical people (if they really are theoretical people) are capable of such very real suffering, and end in such very real tragedy? On that evening, however, I looked at it differently, and I was disturbed by the thought:
"All your development, your whole soul, has been won by the suffering and the struggle of your whole life, while her perfection has cost her nothing. That's unjust… . Woman is revolting in that way." I said this without the least intention of flattering him, speaking with warmth and indignation.
"Perfection? Her perfection? But she has no sort of perfection!" he said suddenly, seeming almost surprised at my words. "She is the most ordinary woman, she is really a contemptible woma
n… . But she is bound to have every perfection!"
"Why is she bound to?"
"Because she has such power, she is bound to have every sort of perfection!" he cried vindictively.
"The saddest thing is that you are so harassed even now," I could not help blurting out suddenly.
"How harassed!" he repeated my words again, standing still before me as though in some perplexity. And suddenly a slow, gentle, dreamy smile lighted up his whole face, and he held up his finger as though considering. Then as though waking up, he took from the table an open letter, and flung it down in front of me.
"Read it! You must know everything … and why have you made me rake up all this bygone foolishness? … It has only roused up nasty and spiteful feelings in my heart… ."
I cannot describe my astonishment. The letter was from her to him, received by him that afternoon at five o'clock. I read it, almost shaking with emotion. It was not long, and was written so simply and straightforwardly, that as I read it I seemed to see her before me and hear her words. With the most simple truthfulness (and so almost touchingly) she confessed her terror, and then simply besought him to "leave her in peace." In conclusion, she told him that she definitely was to marry Büring. Till then she had never written a word to him.
And this is what I could make out of his explanation:
As soon as he had read the letter that day, he was aware of a new sensation: for the first time in those fatal two years he felt not the slightest hatred for her, or the slightest shock of emotion, such as had "driven him out of his mind" at a mere rumour of Büring. "On the contrary, I sent her my blessing, with perfect sincerity," he told me, with deep feeling. I heard these words with ecstasy. Then all the passion and agony that had possessed him had vanished all at once of itself, like a dream, like an obsession that had lasted two years. Hardly yet able to believe in himself he hastened to mother's and—arrived at the very moment when she was set free by the death of the old man who had bequeathed her to him. The coincidence of these two events had deeply stirred his soul. Not long afterwards he rushed to find me—and that immediate thought of me I shall never forget.
I shall never forget the end of that evening either. The whole man was suddenly transformed again. We did not separate till late at night. The effect that all he told me had upon me I will describe later, in its proper place, and will confine myself now to a few words, in conclusion, about him. Reflecting upon it now, I realize that what captivated me so much at the time was his humility, so to speak, with me, his frank sincerity with a boy like me! "It was infatuation, but my blessings on it!" he exclaimed. "But for that blind obsession I might perhaps have never discovered in my heart my sole queen, my suffering darling—your mother." These passionate words, wrung from him by over-mastering feeling, I note particularly, in view of what followed. But at the time he gained complete possession of my heart and conquered it.
I remember in the end we became very cheerful. He asked for some champagne, and we drank to mother, and to the "future." Oh, he was so full of life, and so eager to live! But we suddenly became extremely merry, not from the wine: we only drank two glasses. I don't know why, but in the end we laughed almost helplessly. We began talking of quite extraneous matters; he began telling me an anecdote and I told him one. And our laughter and our anecdotes, were by no means malicious or amusing, but we were merry. He was unwilling to let me go: "Stay, stay a little longer," he repeated, and I stayed. He even came out to see me home; it was an exquisite evening, with a slight frost. "Tell me, have you sent her an answer yet?" I asked, quite casually, as I pressed his hand for the last time at the cross road.
"No, not yet, but that's no matter. Come to-morrow, come early… . Oh, and another thing: drop Lambert altogether and tear up that 'document,' and make haste about it. Goodbye!"
Saying this he went away quickly; I remained standing still, and so much taken aback that I could not bring myself to call after him. The expression, the "document," startled me particularly: how could he have known of it, and that particular word too, if not from Lambert? I went home in great confusion. And how can it have happened, the question flashed upon me suddenly, that such an obsession for two years can have vanished like a dream, like a vapour, like a phantom.
Chapter 9
1.
At ten o'clock, just as I was getting ready to go out, to see him of course, Darya Onisimovna appeared. I asked her joyfully: "whether she came from him?" and heard with vexation that she did not come from him, but from Anna Andreyevna, and that she, Darya Onisimovna, "had left the lodging as soon as it was light."
"What lodging?"
"Why, the same where you were yesterday. You know, the lodging where you were yesterday, where the baby is; it is taken in my name now, and Tatyana Pavlovna pays the rent… ."
"Oh, well, that's nothing to me!" I interrupted with annoyance. "Is he at home, anyway? Shall I find him?"
And to my surprise I heard from her that he had gone out even before she had; so she had gone out as soon as it was light, and he had gone out even earlier.
"Then has he come back yet?"
"No, he's certainly not back yet, and perhaps he won't come back at all," she declared, turning upon me the same sharp and furtive eye, and keeping it fixed on me, as she had done on the occasion I have described, when she visited me as I lay ill in bed. What infuriated me most was that their mysteries and imbecilities should be forced on me again, and that these people could not get on without secrets and intrigues.
"Why do you say: 'he will certainly not come back'? What do you mean by that? He has gone to see mother, that's all!"
"I d—don't know."
"And what have you come for?"
She told me that she had just come from Anna Andreyevna, who had sent her for me, and urgently expected me at once, or else it would be "too late." These last enigmatic words finally exasperated me:
"Why too late? I don't want to come and I'm not coming! I won't let them take possession of me again! I don't care a damn for Lambert, you can tell her so, and if she sends Lambert to me, I'll kick him out, you can tell her so!"
Darya Onisimovna was awfully alarmed.
"Oh no," she said, taking a step towards me, clasping her hands as though she were beseeching me. "Don't be so hasty. There's something very important the matter, very important to yourself, to them, too, to Andrey Petrovitch, to your mamma, to every one… . Go and see Anna Andreyevna at once, she can't wait any longer … I assure you, on my honour … and afterwards you can make your decision."
I looked at her with surprise and repulsion.
"Nonsense, it will be nothing, I'm not coming!" I shouted obstinately and vindictively: "Now everything's different! Though how could you understand that? Good-bye, Darya Onisimovna, I won't go on purpose, I won't question you on purpose. You simply bother me. I don't want to know anything about your mysteries."
As she did not go away, however, but still stood waiting, I snatched up my fur coat and cap, and went out myself, leaving her in the middle of the room. There were no letters or papers in my room, and I never used to lock my door when I went out. But before I had reached the front door my landlord ran after me downstairs, without his hat, and not in full uniform.
"Arkady Makarovitch! Arkady Makarovitch!"
"What now?"
"Have you no instructions to leave?"
"No, nothing."
He looked at me with eyes like gimlets, in evident uneasiness:
"About your room, for instance?"
"What about my room? Why, I sent you the rent when it was due?"
"Oh no, sir, I was not thinking of the money," he said with a broad smile, his eyes still piercing into me like pins.
"Why, what on earth's the matter with you all?" I shouted at last, growing almost savage. "What do you want too?"
He waited for a few seconds longer, still seeming to expect something from me.
"Well, then, you will give instructions later … if you are not in the humour
now," he muttered, grinning more broadly than ever; "you go on and I'll see to it."
He ran back upstairs. Of course all this might well make one reflect. I purposely avoid omitting a single detail in all that petty tomfoolery, for every little detail helped to make up the final situation and had its place in it, a fact of which the reader will be convinced. But that they really did bother me was true. If I was upset and irritated, it was at hearing again in their words that tone of intrigue and mystery of which I was so sick, and which so brought back the past. But to continue.
It turned out that Versilov was not at home, and it appeared that he really had gone out as soon as it was light. "To mother's, of course": I stuck obstinately to my idea. I did not question the nurse, rather a stupid peasant woman, and there was no one else in the lodging. I ran to mother's and I must admit I was so anxious that I took a sledge half-way. HE HAD NOT BEEN AT MOTHER'S SINCE THE EVENING BEFORE. There was no one with mother except Tatyana Pavlovna and Liza. Liza began getting ready to go out as soon as I went in.
They were all sitting upstairs, in my "coffin." In the drawing room Makar Ivanovitch was laid out on the table, and an old man was reading the psalter over him in an even, monotonous voice. For the future I am not going to describe anything more that does not relate to the matter in hand. I will only say that the coffin, which they had already made, was standing in the middle of the room, and was not a plain one, though it was black; it was upholstered in velvet, and the pall was of an expensive sumptuousness that was not in keeping with the character of a monk, or with the convictions of the dead man; but such was the special desire of my mother and Tatyana Pavlovna, who arranged the matter together.
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