Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky (599 page)

“Well, Christ be with you,” she said suddenly, standing up, beaming all over: “get well, I shall count on your doing so.  He is ill, very ill.  Life is in God’s hands. . . .  Ach, what have I said, oh that could not be! . . .”

She went away.  All her life, in fear and trembling and reverence, she had honoured her legal husband, the monk, Makar Ivanovitch, who with large-hearted generosity had forgiven her once and for ever.

CHAPTER II

1

I had not ‘forgotten’ Liza; mother was mistaken.  The keen-sighted mother saw that there was something like coolness between brother and sister, but it was rather jealousy than lack of love.  In view of what followed, I will explain in a couple of words.  Ever since Prince Sergay’s arrest, poor Liza had shown a sort of conceited pride, an unapproachable haughtiness, almost unendurable; but every one in the house knew the truth and understood how she was suffering, and if at first I scowled and was sulky at her manner with us, it was simply owing to my petty irritability, increased tenfold by illness — that is how I explain it now.  I had not ceased to love Liza; on the contrary, I loved her more than ever, only I did not want to be the first to make advances, though I understood that nothing would have induced her either to make the first advances.

As soon as all the facts came out about Prince Sergay, that is, immediately after his arrest, Liza made haste at once to take up an attitude to us, and to every one else, that would not admit of the possibility of sympathy or any sort of consolation and excuses for Prince Sergay.  On the contrary, she seemed continually priding herself on her luckless lover’s action as though it were the loftiest heroism, though she tried to avoid all discussion of the subject.  She seemed every moment to be telling us all (though I repeat that she did not utter a word), ‘None of you would do the same — you would not give yourself up at the dictates of honour and duty, none of you have such a pure and delicate conscience!  And as for his misdeeds, who has not evil actions upon his conscience?  Only every one conceals them, and this man preferred facing ruin to remaining ignoble in his own eyes.’  This seemed to be expressed by every gesture Liza made.  I don’t know, but I think in her place I should have behaved almost in the same way.  I don’t know either whether those were the thoughts in her heart, in fact I privately suspect that they were not.  With the other, clear part of her reason, she must have seen through the insignificance of her ‘hero,’ for who will not agree now that that unhappy man, noble- hearted in his own way as he was, was at the same time an absolutely insignificant person?  This very haughtiness and as it were antagonism towards us all, this constant suspiciousness that we were thinking differently of him, made one surmise that in the secret recesses of her heart a very different judgment of her unhappy friend had perhaps been formed.  But I hasten to add, however, that in my eyes she was at least half right; it was more pardonable for her than for any of us to hesitate in drawing the final conclusion.  I will admit with my whole heart that even now, when all is over, I don’t know at all how to judge the unhappy man who was such a problem to us all.

Home was beginning to be almost a little hell on account of her.  Liza whose love was so intense was bound to suffer terribly.  It was characteristic of her to prefer to suffer in silence.  Her character was like mine, proud and domineering, and I thought then, and I think now that it was that that made her love Prince Sergay, just because he had no will at all, and that from the first word, from the first hour, he was utterly in subjection to her.  This comes about of itself, in the heart, without any preliminary calculation; but such a love, the love of the strong woman for the weak man, is sometimes incomparably more intense and more agonizing than the love of equal characters, because the stronger unconsciously undertakes responsibility for the weaker.  That is what I think at any rate.

All the family from the first surrounded her with the tenderest care, especially mother; but Liza was not softened, she did not respond to sympathy, and seemed to repulse every sort of help.  At first she did talk to mother, but every day she became more reluctant to speak, more abrupt and even more harsh.  She asked Versilov’s advice at first, but soon afterwards she chose Vassin for her counsellor and helper, as I learned afterwards with surprise. . . .

She went to see Vassin every day; she went to the law courts, too, by Prince Sergay’s instructions; she went to the lawyers, to the crown prosecutor; she came in the end to being absent from home for whole days together.  Twice a day, of course, she visited Prince Sergay, who was in prison, in the division for noblemen, but these interviews, as I was fully convinced later, were very distressing to Liza.  Of course no third person can judge of the relations of two lovers.  But I know that Prince Sergay was always wounding her deeply, and by what do you suppose?  Strange to say, by his continual jealousy.  Of that, however, I will speak later; but I will add one thought on the subject: it would be hard to decide which of them tormented the other more.  Though with us she prided herself on her hero, Liza perhaps behaved quite differently alone with him; I suspect so indeed from various facts, of which, however, I will also speak later.

And so, as regards my feeling and my attitude towards Liza, any external change there was was only simulated, a jealous deception on both sides, but we had never loved each other more than at that time.  I must add, too, that though Liza showed surprise and interest when Makar Ivanovitch first arrived, she had since for some reason begun to treat him almost disdainfully, even contemptuously.  She seemed intentionally to take not the slightest notice of him.

Having inwardly vowed “to be silent,” as I explained in the previous chapter, I expected, of course theoretically, that is in my dreams, to keep my word.  Oh, with Versilov, for instance, I would have sooner begun talking of zoology or of the Roman Emperors, than of HER for example, or of that most important line in his letter to her, in which he informed her that ‘the document was not burnt but in existence’ — a line on which I began pondering to myself again as soon as I had begun to recover and come to my senses after my fever.  But alas! from the first steps towards practice, and almost before the first steps, I realized how difficult and impossible it was to stick to such resolutions: the day after my first acquaintance with Makar Ivanovitch, I was fearfully excited by an unexpected circumstance.

2

I was excited by an unexpected visit from Darya Onisimovna, the mother of the dead girl, Olya.  From my mother I had heard that she had come once or twice during my illness, and that she was very much concerned about my condition.  Whether “that good woman,” as my mother always called her when she spoke of her, had come entirely on my account, or whether she had come to visit my mother in accordance with an established custom, I did not ask.  Mother usually told me all the news of the household to entertain me when she came with my soup to feed me (before I could feed myself): I always tried to appear uninterested in these domestic details, and so I did not ask about Darya Onisimovna; in fact, I said nothing about her at all.

It was about eleven o’clock; I was just meaning to get out of bed and install myself in the armchair by the table, when she came in.  I purposely remained in bed.  Mother was very busy upstairs and did not come down, so that we were left alone.  She sat down on a chair by the wall facing me, smiled and said not a word.  I foresaw this pause, and her entrance altogether made an irritating impression on me.  Without even nodding to her, I looked her straight in the face, but she too looked straight at me.

“Are you dull in your flat now the prince has gone?” I asked, suddenly losing patience.

“No, I am not in that flat now.  Through Anna Andreyevna I am looking after his honour’s baby now.”

“Whose baby?”

“Andrey Petrovitch’s,” she brought out in a confidential whisper, glancing round towards the door.

“Why, but there’s Tatyana Pavlovna. . . .”

“Yes, Tatyana Pavlovna, and Anna Andreyevna, both of them, and Lizaveta Makarovna also, and your mamma . . . all of them.  They all take an interest; Tatyana Pavlovna and Anna Andreyevna are great friends now.”

A piece of news!  She grew much livelier as she talked.  I looked at her with hatred.

“You are much livelier than when you came to see me last.”

“Oh, yes.”

“I think, you’ve grown stouter?”

She looked strangely at me:

“I have grown very fond of her, very.”

“Fond of whom?”

“Why, Anna Andreyevna.  Very fond.  Such a noble young lady, and with such judgment. . . .”

“You don’t say so!  What about her, how are things now?”

“She is very quiet, very.”

“She was always quiet.”

“Always.”

“If you’ve come here with scandal,” I cried suddenly, unable to restrain myself, “let me tell you that I won’t have anything to do with it, I have decided to drop . . . everything, every one. . . .  I don’t care — I am going away! . . .”

I ceased suddenly, for I realized what I was doing.  I felt it degrading to explain my new projects to her.  She heard me without surprise and without emotion.  But again a pause followed, again she got up, went to the door and peeped into the next room.  Having assured herself that there was no one there, and we were alone, she returned with great composure and sat down in the same place as before.

“You did that prettily!” I laughed suddenly.

“You are keeping on your lodging at the clerk’s?” she asked suddenly, bending a little towards me, and dropping her voice as though this question were the chief object for which she had come.

“Lodging?  I don’t know.  Perhaps I shall give it up.  How do I know?”

“They are anxiously expecting you: the man’s very impatient to see you, and his wife too.  Andrey Petrovitch assured them you’d come back for certain.”

“But what is it to you?”

“Anna Andreyevna wanted to know, too; she was very glad to learn that you were staying.”

“How does she know so positively that I shall certainly stay on at that lodging?”

I wanted to add, “And what is it to her,” but I refrained from asking through pride.

“And M. Lambert said the same thing, too.”

“Wha-at?”

“M. Lambert, he declared most positively to Andrey Petrovitch that you would remain, and he assured Anna Andreyevna of it, too.”

I felt shaken all over.  What marvels!  Then Lambert already knew Versilov, Lambert had found his way to Versilov — Lambert and Anna Andreyevna — he had found his way to her too!  I felt overcome with fever, but I kept silent.  My soul was flooded with a terrible rush of pride, pride or I don’t know what.  But I suddenly said to myself at that moment, “If I ask for one word in explanation, I shall be involved in that world again, and I shall never have done with it.”  There was a glow of hate in my heart.  I resolutely made up my mind to be mute, and to lie without moving; she was silent too, for a full minute.

“What of Prince Nikolay Ivanovitch?” I asked suddenly, as though I had taken leave of my senses.  The fact is, I asked simply to change the subject, and again I chanced to ask the leading question; like a madman I plunged back again into that world from which I had just before, with such a shudder, resolved to flee.

“His honour is at Tsarskoe Syelo.  He is rather poorly; and as the hot days have begun in town, they all advised him to move to their house at Tsarskoe for the sake of the air.”

I made no answer.

“Madame and Anna Andreyevna visit him there twice a week, they go together.”

Anna Andreyevna and Madame (that is SHE) were friends then!  They go together!  I did not speak.

“They have become so friendly, and Anna Andreyevna speaks so highly of Katerina Nikolaevna. . . .”

I still remained silent.

“And Katerina Nikolaevna is in a whirl of society again; it’s one fête after another; she is making quite a stir; they say all the gentlemen at court are in love with her . . . and everything’s over with M. Büring, and there’s to be no wedding; so everybody declares . . . it’s been off ever since THEN.”

That is since Versilov’s letter.  I trembled all over, but I did not utter a word.

“Anna Andreyevna is so sorry about Prince Sergay, and Katerina Nikolaevna too, and they all say that he will be acquitted and that Stebelkov will be condemned. . . .”

I looked at her with hatred.  She got up and suddenly bent down to me.

“Anna Andreyevna particularly told me to find out how you are,” she said quite in a whisper; “and she particularly begged you to go and see her as soon as you begin to go out; good-bye.  Make haste and get well and I’ll tell her. . . .”

She went away.  I sat on the edge of the bed, a cold sweat came out on my forehead, but I did not feel terror: the incredible and grotesque news about Lambert and his machinations did not, for instance, fill me with horror in the least, as might have been expected from the dread, perhaps unaccountable, with which during my illness and the early days of my convalescence I recalled my meeting with him on that night.  On the contrary, in that first moment of confusion, as I sat on the bed after Darya Onisimovna had gone, my mind did not dwell on Lambert, but . . . more than all I thought about the news of HER, of her rupture with Büring, and of her success in society, of her fêtes, of her triumphs, of the “stir” she was making.  “She’s making quite a stir,” Darya Onisimovna’s phrase, was ringing in my ears.  And I suddenly felt that I had not the strength to struggle out of that whirlpool; I had known how to control myself, to hold my tongue and not to question Darya Onisimovna after her tales of marvels!  An overwhelming thirst for that life, for THEIR life, took possession of my whole spirit and . . . and another blissful thirst which I felt as a keen joy and an intense pain.  My thoughts were in a whirl; but I let them whirl. . . .  “Why be reasonable,” I felt.  “Even mother kept Lambert’s coming a secret,” I thought, in incoherent snatches.  “Versilov must have told her not to speak of it. . . .  I would rather die than ask Versilov about Lambert!”