Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky (622 page)

What was most striking was that he said this without the slightest trace of affectation or whimsical caprice; he spoke quite simply, but that made it all the more terrible; and he seemed really frightened of something; I noticed suddenly that his hands were trembling a little.

“Andrey Petrovitch!” cried mother, clasping her hands.

“Let the ikon alone, let it alone, Andrey Petrovitch, let it alone, put it down!” cried Tatyana Pavlovna, jumping up.  “Undress sad go to bed.  Arkady, run for the doctor!”

“But . . . but what a fuss you’re making,” he said gently, scrutinising us all intently.  Then he suddenly put both elbows on the table and leaned his head in his hands.

“I’m scaring you, but I tell you what, my friends, try to comfort me a little, sit down again, and all be calm, if only for a minute!  Sonia, I did not come to talk of this at all; I came to tell you something, but it was quite different.  Good-bye, Sonia, I’m going off on my wanderings again, as I have left you several times before . . . but, no doubt, I shall come back to you again one day — in that sense you are inevitable.  To whom should I come back, when all is over?  Believe, Sonia, that I’ve come to you now as to an angel, and not as to an enemy; how could you be an enemy to me, how could you be an enemy!  Don’t imagine that I came to break this ikon, for do you know, Sonia, I am still longing to break it all the same. . . .”

When Tatyana Pavlovna had cried out “Let the ikon alone,” she had snatched it out of his hands and was holding it in hers.  Suddenly, at his last word, he jumped up impulsively, snatched the ikon in a flash from Tatyana’s hands, and with a ferocious swing smashed it with all his might against the corner of the tiled stove.  The ikon was broken into two pieces. . . .  He turned to us and his pale face suddenly flushed red, almost purple, and every feature in his face quivered and worked.

“Don’t take it for a symbol, Sonia; it’s not as Makar’s legacy I have broken it, but only to break something . . . and, anyway, I shall come back to you, my last angel!  You may take it as a symbol, though; of course it must have been so! . . .”

And with sudden haste he went out of the room, going again through the kitchen (where he had left his fur coat and cap).  I won’t attempt to describe what happened to mother: in mortal terror she stood clasping her hands above her, and she suddenly screamed after him:

“Andrey Petrovitch, come back, if only to say good-bye, dear!”

“He’ll come, Sofia, he’ll come!  Don’t worry yourself!” Tatyana shrieked, trembling all over in a terrible rage, a really brutal rage.  “Why, you heard he promised to come back himself!  Let him go and amuse himself for the last time, the fool.  He’s getting old — and who’ll nurse him when he’s bedridden except you, his old nurse?  Why, he tells you so himself, he’s not ashamed. . . .”

As for us, Liza was in a swoon; I would have run after him, but I rushed to mother.  I threw my arms round her and held her tight.  Lukerya ran in with a glass of water for Liza, but mother soon came to herself, she sank on the sofa, hid her face in her hands, and began crying.

“But . . . but you’d better run after him,” Tatyana Pavlovna shouted suddenly with all her might, as though she had suddenly waked up.  “Go along . . . go along . . . overtake him, don’t leave him for a minute, go along, go along!”  She pulled me forcibly away from mother.  “Oh, I shall run myself.”

“Arkasha, oh, run after him, make haste!” mother cried suddenly, too.

I ran off, full speed, through the kitchen and through the yard, but there was no sign of him anywhere.  In the distance I saw black shadows in the darkness; I ran after them and examined each passer- by carefully as I overtook them.  So I ran on to the cross-roads.

“People are not angry with the insane,” suddenly flashed through my mind, “but Tatyana was wild with rage at him, so he’s not mad at all. . . .”  Oh, it seemed to me all the time that it was symbolic, and that he was bent on putting an end to everything as he did to the ikon, and showing that to us, to mother, and all.  But that second self was unmistakably beside him, too; of that there could be no doubt. . . .

3

He was nowhere to be found, however, and I could not run to him.  It was difficult to believe that he would have simply gone home.  Suddenly an idea flashed upon me and I rushed off to Anna Andreyevna.

Anna Andreyevna had just returned, and I was shown up at once.  I went in, controlling myself as far as I could.  Without sitting down, I at once described to her the scene which had just taken place, that is the “second self.”  I shall never forget the greedy but pitilessly composed and self-complacent curiosity with which she listened, also standing, and I shall never forgive her for it.

“Where is he?  Perhaps you know?” I ended, insistently.  “Tatyana Pavlovna sent me to you yesterday. . . .”

“I sent for you, too, yesterday.  Yesterday he was at Tsarskoe Syelo; he came to see me, too.  And now” (she looked at her watch), “now it is seven o’clock. . . .  So he’s pretty sure to be at home.”

“I see that you know all about it — so tell me, tell me,” I cried.

“I know a good deal; but I don’t know everything.  Of course, there’s no reason to conceal it from you. . . .”  She scanned me with a strange glance, smiling and as though deliberating.  “Yesterday morning, in answer to her letter, he made Katerina Nikolaevna a formal offer of marriage.”

“That’s false,” I said, opening my eyes wide.

“The letter went through my hands; I took it to her myself, unopened.  This time he behaved ‘chivalrously’ and concealed nothing from me.”

“Anna Andreyevna, I can’t understand it!”

“Of course, it’s hard to understand it, but it’s like a gambler who stakes his last crown, while he has a loaded pistol ready in his pocket — that’s what his offer amounts to.  It’s ten to one she won’t accept his offer; but still he’s reckoning on that tenth chance, and I confess that’s very curious; I imagine, though, that it may be a case of frenzy, that ‘second self,’ as you said so well just now.”

“And you laugh?  And am I really to believe that the letter was given through you?  Why, you are the fiancée of her father?  Spare me, Anna Andreyevna!”

“He asked me to sacrifice my future to his happiness, though he didn’t really ask; it was all done rather silently.  I simply read it all in his eyes.  Oh, my goodness, what will he do next!  Why, he went to Königsberg to ask your mother’s leave to marry Katerina Nikolaevna’s step-daughter.  That’s very like his pitching on me for his go-between and confidante yesterday.”

She was rather pale.  But her calmness was only exaggerated sarcasm.  Oh, I forgave her much then, as I began to grasp the position.  For a minute I pondered; she waited in silence.

“Do you know,” I laughed suddenly, “you delivered the letter because there was not the slightest risk for you, because there’s no chance of a marriage, but what of him?  Of her, too?  Of course she will reject his offer and then . . . what may not happen then?  Where is he now, Anna Andreyevna?” I cried.  “Every minute is precious now, any minute there may be trouble!”

“He’s at home.  I have told you so.  In the letter to Katerina Nikolaevna, which I delivered, he asked her in ANY CASE to grant him an interview in his lodgings to-day at seven o’clock this evening.  She promised.”

“She’s going to his lodging?  How can that be?”

“Why not, the lodging is Darya Onisimovna’s; they might very well meet there as her guests. . . .”

“But she’s afraid of him. . . .  He may kill her.”

Anna Andreyevna only smiled.

“In spite of the terror which I detected in her myself, Katerina Nikolaevna has always from the first cherished a certain reverence and admiration for the nobility of Andrey Petrovitch’s principles and the loftiness of his mind.  She is trusting herself to him this once, so as to have done with him for ever.  In his letter he gave her the most solemn and chivalrous promise that she should have nothing to fear. . . .  In short, I don’t remember the words of the letter, but she trusted herself . . . so to speak, for the last time . . . and so to speak, responding with the same heroic feelings.  There may have been a sort of chivalrous rivalry on both sides.”

“But the second self, the second self!” I exclaimed; “besides, he’s out of his mind!”

“Yesterday, when she gave her promise to grant him an interview, Katerina Nikolaevna probably did not conceive of the possibility of that.”

I suddenly turned and was rushing out . . . to him, to them, of course!  But from the next room I ran back for a second.

“But, perhaps, that is just what would suit you, that he should kill her!” I cried, and ran out of the house.

I was shaking all over, as though in a fit, but I went into the lodging quietly, through the kitchen, and asked in a whisper to see Darya Onisimovna; she came out at once and fastened a gaze of intense curiosity upon me.

“His honour . . . he’s not at home.”

But in a rapid whisper I explained, bluntly and exactly, that I knew all about it from Anna Andreyevna, and that I had just come from her.

“Darya Onisimovna, where are they?”

“They are in the room where you sat the day before yesterday, at the table.”

“Darya Onisimovna, let me go in!”

“That’s impossible!”

“Not in there, but in the next room.  Darya Onisimovna, Anna Andreyevna wishes it, perhaps; if she didn’t wish it, she wouldn’t have told me herself.  They won’t hear me . . . she wishes it herself. . . .”

“And if she doesn’t wish it?” said Darya Onisimovna, her eyes still riveted upon me.

“Darya Onisimovna, I remember your Olya; let me in.”

Her lips and chin suddenly began to quiver.

“Dear friend . . . for Olya’s sake . . . for the sake of your feeling . . . don’t desert Anna Andreyevna.  My dear! you won’t desert her, will you?  You won’t desert her?”

“No, I won’t!”

“Give me your solemn promise, you won’t rush out upon them, and won’t call out if I hide you in there?”

“I swear on my honour, Darya Onisimovna.”

She took me by my coat, led me into a dark room — next to the one where they were sitting — guided me, almost noiselessly, over the soft carpet to the doorway, stationed me at the curtain that hung over it, and lifting the curtain a fraction of an inch showed me them both.

I remained; she went away.  Of course, I remained.  I knew that I was eavesdropping, spying on other people’s secrets, but I remained.  How could I help remaining with the thought of the ‘second self’ in my mind!  Why, he had smashed the ikon before my eyes!

4

They were sitting facing one another at the table at which we had yesterday drunk to his “resurrection.”  I got a good view of their faces.  She was wearing a simple black dress, and was as beautiful and apparently calm as always.  He was speaking; she was listening with intense and sympathetic attention.  Perhaps there was some trace of timidity in her, too.  He was terribly excited.  I had come in the middle of their conversation, and so for some time I could make nothing of it.  I remember she suddenly asked:

“And I was the cause?”

“No, I was the cause,” he answered; “and you were only innocently guilty.  You know that there are the innocently guilty.  Those are generally the most unpardonable crimes, and they almost always bring their punishment,” he added, laughing strangely.  “And I actually thought for a moment that I had forgotten you and could laugh at my stupid passion . . . but you know that.  What is he to me, though, that man you’re going to marry?  Yesterday I made you an offer, forgive me for it; it was absurd and yet I had no alternative but that. . . .  What could I have done but that absurd thing?  I don’t know. . . .”

As he said this, he laughed hopelessly, suddenly lifting his eyes to her; till then he had looked away as he talked.  If I had been in her place, I should have been frightened at that laugh, I felt that.  He suddenly got up from his chair.

“Tell me, how could you consent to come here?” he asked suddenly, as though remembering the real point.  “My invitation and my whole letter was absurd. . . .  Stay, I can quite imagine how it came to pass that you consented to come, but — why did you come? that’s the question.  Can you have come simply from fear?”

“I came to see you,” she said, looking at him with timid caution.  Both were silent for half a minute.  Versilov sank back in his chair, and in a voice soft but almost trembling and full of intense feeling began:

“It’s so terribly long since I’ve seen you, Katerina Nikolaevna, so long that I scarcely thought it possible I should ever be sitting beside you again as I now am, looking into your face and listening to your voice. . . .  For two years we’ve not seen each other, for two years we’ve not talked.  I never thought to speak to you again.  But so be it, what is past is past, and what is will vanish like smoke to-morrow — so be it!  I assent because there is no alternative again, but don’t let your coming be in vain,” he added suddenly, almost imploringly; “since you have shown me this charity and have come, don’t let it be in vain; answer me one question!”

“What question?”

“You know we shall never see each other again, and what is it to you?  Tell me the truth for once, and answer me one question which sensible people never ask.  Did you ever love me, or was I . . . mistaken?”

She flushed crimson.

“I did love you,” she brought out.

I expected she would say that.  Oh, always truthful, always sincere, always honest!

“And now?” he went on.

“I don’t love you now.”

“And you are laughing?”

“No, I laughed just now by accident, because I knew you would ask, ‘And now.’  And I smiled at that, because when one guesses right one always does smile. . . .”

It seemed quite strange to me; I had never seen her so much on her guard, almost timid, indeed, and embarrassed.

His eyes devoured her.

“I know that you don’t love me . . . and — you don’t love me at all?”

“Perhaps not at all.  I don’t love you,” she added firmly, without smiling or flushing.  “Yes, I did love you, but not for long.  I very soon got over it.”

“I know, I know, you saw that it was not what you wanted, but . . . what do you want?  Explain that once more. . . .”