Chapter 13

I had never been in such a foolish position; it was too devilishly disgusting! But there was nothing to be done. I began walking up and down the room. 'What was the fat pig laughing at?' I wondered. Matrona Semyonovna came into the room with a stocking in her hands and sat down in the window. I began talking to her. Meanwhile tea was brought in. Varia came downstairs, pale and sorrowful. The retired lieutenant made jokes about Kolosov. 'I know,' said he, 'what sort of customer he is; you couldn't tempt him here with lollipops now, I expect!' Varia hurriedly got up and went away. Ivan Semyonitch looked after her and gave a sly whistle. I glanced at him in perplexity. 'Can it be,' I wondered, 'that he knows all about it?' And the lieutenant, as though divining my thoughts, nodded his head affirmatively. Directly after tea I got up and took leave. 'You, my good sir, we shall see again,' observed the lieutenant. I did not say a word in reply.... I began to feel simply frightened of the man.

On the steps a cold and trembling hand clutched at mine; I looked round: Varia. 'I must speak to you,' she whispered. 'Come to-morrow rather earlier, straight into the garden. After dinner papa is asleep; no one will interfere with us.' I pressed her hand without a word, and we parted.

Next day, at three o'clock in the afternoon, I was in Ivan Semyonitch's garden. In the morning I had not seen Kolosov, though he had come to see me. It was a grey autumn day, but soft and warm. Delicate yellow blades of grass nodded over the blanching turf; the nimble tomtits were hopping about the bare dark-brown twigs; some belated larks were hurriedly running about the paths; a hare was creeping cautiously about among the greens; a herd of cattle wandered lazily over the stubble. I found Varia in the garden under the apple-tree on the little garden-seat; she was wearing a dark dress, rather creased; her weary eyes, the dejected droop of her hair, seemed to express genuine suffering.

I sat down beside her. We were both silent. For a long while she kept twisting a twig in her hand; she bent her head, and uttered: 'Andrei Nikolaevitch....' I noticed at once, by the twitching of her lips, that she was getting ready to cry, and began consoling her, assuring her hotly of Andrei's devotion.... She heard me, nodded her head mournfully, articulated some indistinct words, and then was silent but did not cry. The first moments I had dreaded most of all had gone off fairly well. She began little by little to talk about Andrei. 'I know that he does not love me now,' she repeated: 'God be with him! I can't imagine how I am to live without him.... I don't sleep at nights, I keep weeping.... What am I to do! What am I to do! ...' Her eyes filled with tears. 'I thought him so kind ... and here ...' Varia wiped her eyes, cleared her throat, and sat up. 'It seems such a little while ago,' she went on: 'he was reading to me out of Pushkin, sitting with me on this bench....' Varia's naive communicativeness touched me. I listened in silence to her confessions; my soul was slowly filled with a bitter, torturing bliss; I could not take my eyes off that pale face, those long, wet eyelashes, and half-parted, rather parched lips.... And meanwhile I felt ... Would you care to hear a slight psychological analysis of my emotions at that moment? in the first place I was tortured by the thought that it was not I that was loved, not I that as making Varia suffer: secondly, I was delighted at her confidence; I knew she would be grateful to me for giving her an opportunity of expressing her sorrow: thirdly, I was inwardly vowing to myself to bring Kolosov and Varia together again, and was deriving consolation from the consciousness of my magnanimity ... in the fourth place, I hoped, by my self-sacrifice, to touch Varia's heart; and then ... You see I do not spare myself; no, thank God! it's high time!

But from the bell-tower of the monastery near it struck five o'clock; the evening was coming on rapidly. Varia got up hastily, thrust a little note into my hand, and went off towards the house. I overtook her, promised to bring Andrei to her, and stealthily, like a happy lover, crept out by the little gate into the field. On the note was written in an unsteady hand the words: To Andrei Nikolaevitch.

Next day I set off early in the morning to Kolosov's. I'm bound to confess that, although I assured myself that my intentions were not only honourable, but positively brimful of great-hearted self-sacrifice, I was yet conscious of a certain awkwardness, even timidity. I arrived at Kolosov's. There was with him a fellow called Puzyritsin, a former student who had never taken his degree, one of those authors of sensational novels of the so-called 'Moscow' or 'grey' school. Puzyritsin was a very good-natured and shy person, and was always preparing to be an hussar, in spite of his thirty-three years. He belonged to that class of people who feel it absolutely necessary, once in the twenty-four hours, to utter a phrase after the pattern of, 'The beautiful always falls into decay in the flower of its splendour; such is the fate of the beautiful in the world,' in order to smoke his pipe with redoubled zest all the rest of the day in a circle of 'good comrades.' On this account he was called an idealist. Well, so Puzyritsin was sitting with Kolosov reading him some 'fragment.' I began to listen; it was all about a youth, who loves a maiden, kills her, and so on. At last Puzyritsin finished and retreated. His absurd production, solemnly bawling voice, his presence altogether, had put Kolosov into a mood of sarcastic irritability. I felt that I had come at an unlucky moment, but there was nothing to be done for it; without any kind of preface, I handed Andrei Varia's note.

Kolosov looked at me in perplexity, tore open the note, ran his eyes over it, said nothing, but smiled composedly. 'Oh, ho!' he said at last; 'so you've been at Ivan Semyonitch's?'

'Yes, I was there yesterday, alone,' I answered abruptly and resolutely.

'Ah!...' observed Kolosov ironically, and he lighted his pipe. 'Andrei,' I said to him, 'aren't you sorry for her?... If you had seen her tears...'

And I launched into an eloquent description of my visit of the previous day. I was genuinely moved. Kolosov did not speak, and smoked his pipe.

'You sat with her under the apple-tree in the garden,' he said at last. 'I remember in May I, too, used to sit with her on that seat.... The apple-tree was in blossom, the fresh white flowers fell upon us sometimes; I held both Varia's hands... we were happy then.... Now the apple-blossom is over, and the apples on the tree are sour.'

I flew into a passion of noble indignation, began reproaching Andrei for coldness, for cruelty, argued with him that he had no right to abandon a girl so suddenly, after awakening in her a multitude of new emotions; I begged him at least to go and say good-bye to Varia. Kolosov heard me to the end.

'Admitting,' he said to me, when, agitated and exhausted, I flung myself into an armchair, 'that you, as my friend, may be allowed to criticise me. But hear my defence, at least, though...'

Here he paused for a little while and smiled curiously. 'Varia's an excellent girl,' he went on, 'and has done me no wrong whatever.... On the contrary, I am greatly, very greatly indebted to her. I have left off going to see her for a very simple reason--I have left off caring for her....'

'But why? why?' I interrupted him.

'Goodness knows why. While I loved her, I was entirely hers; I never thought of the future, and everything, my whole life, I shared with her ... now this passion has died out in me.... Well, you would tell me to be a humbug, to play at being in love, wouldn't you? But what for? from pity for her? If she's a decent girl, she won't care for such charity herself, but if she is glad to be consoled by my ... my sympathy, well, she's not good for much!'

Kolosov's carelessly offhand expressions offended me, perhaps, the more because they were applied to the woman with whom I was secretly in love.... I fired up. 'Stop,' I said to him; 'stop! I know why you have given up going to see Varia.'

'Why?'

'Taniusha has forbidden you to.'

In uttering these words, I fancied I was dealing a most cutting blow at Andrei. Taniusha was a very 'easy-going' young lady, black-haired, dark, five-and-twenty, free in her manners, and devilishly clever, a Shtchitov in petticoats. Kolosov quarrelled with her and made it up again half a dozen times in a month. She was passionately fond of him, though sometimes, during their misunderstandings, she would vow and declare that she thirsted for his blood.... And Andrei, too, could not get on without her. Kolosov looked at me, and responded serenely, 'Perhaps so.'

'Not perhaps so,' I shouted, 'but certainly!'

Kolosov at last got sick of my reproaches.... He got up and put on his cap.

'Where are you going?'

'For a walk; you and Puzyritsin have given me a headache between you.'

'You are angry with me?'

'No,' he answered, smiling his sweet smile, and holding out his hand to me.

'Well, anyway, what do you wish me to tell Varia?'

'Eh?' ... He thought a little. 'She told you,' he said, 'that we had read Pushkin together.... Remind her of one line of Pushkin's.' 'What line? what line?' I asked impatiently. 'This one:

"What has been will not be again."'

With those words he went out of the room. I followed him; on the stairs he stopped.

'And is she very much upset?' he asked me, pulling his cap over his eyes.

'Very, very much!...'

'Poor thing! Console her, Nikolai; you love her, you know.'

'Yes, I have grown fond of her, certainly....'

'You love her,' repeated Kolosov, and he looked me straight in the face. I turned away without a word, and we separated.

On reaching home, I was in a perfect fever.

'I have done my duty,' I thought; 'I have overcome my own egoism; I have urged Andrei to go back to Varia!... Now I am in the right; he that will not when he may...!' At the same time Andrei's indifference wounded me. He had not been jealous of me, he told me to console her.... But is Varia such an ordinary girl, is she not even worthy of sympathy?... There are people who know how to appreciate what you despise, Andrei Nikolaitch!... But what's the good? She does not love me.... No, she does not love me now, while she has not quite lost hope of Kolosov's return.... But afterwards...who knows, my devotion will touch her. I will make no claims.... I will give myself up to her wholly, irrevocably.... Varia! is it possible you will not love me?...never!...never!...

Such were the speeches your humble servant was rehearsing in the city of Moscow, in the year 1833, in the house of his revered preceptor. I wept... I felt faint... The weather was horrible...a fine rain trickled down the window panes with a persistent, thin, little patter; damp, dark-grey storm-clouds hung stationary over the town. I dined hurriedly, made no response to the anxious inquiries of the kind German woman, who whimpered a little herself at the sight of my red, swollen eyes (Germans--as is well known--are always glad to weep). I behaved very ungraciously to my preceptor...and at once after dinner set off to Ivan Semyonitch... Bent double in a jolting droshky, I kept asking myself whether I should tell Varia all as it was, or go on deceiving her, and little by little turn her heart from Andrei... I reached Ivan Semyonitch's without knowing what to decide upon... I found all the family in the parlour. On seeing me, Varia turned fearfully white, but did not move from her place; Sidorenko began talking to me in a peculiarly jeering way. I responded as best I could, looking from time to time at Varia, and almost unconsciously giving a dejected and pensive expression to my features. The lieutenant started whist again. Varia sat near the window and did not stir. 'You're dull now, I suppose?' Ivan Semyonitch asked her twenty times over.

At last I succeeded in seizing a favourable opportunity.

'You are alone again,' Varia whispered to me.

'Yes,' I answered gloomily; 'and probably for long.'

She swiftly drew in her head.

'Did you give him my letter?' she asked in a voice hardly audible.

'Yes.'

'Well?'... she gasped for breath. I glanced at her.... There was a sudden flash of spiteful pleasure within me.

'He told me to tell you,' I pronounced deliberately, 'that "what has been will not be again...."'

Varia pressed her left hand to her heart, stretched her right hand out in front, staggered, and went quickly out of the room. I tried to overtake her.... Ivan Semyonitch stopped me. I stayed another two hours with him, but Varia did not appear. On the way back I felt ashamed ... ashamed before Varia, before Andrei, before myself; though they say it is better to cut off an injured limb at once than to keep the patient in prolonged suffering; but who gave me a right to deal such a merciless blow at the heart of a poor girl?... For a long while I could not sleep ... but I fell asleep at last. In general I must repeat that 'love' never once deprived me of sleep.

I began to go pretty often to Ivan Semyonitch's. I used to see Kolosov as before, but neither he nor I ever referred to Varia. My relations with her were of a rather curious kind. She became attached to me with that sort of attachment which excludes every possibility of love. She could not help noticing my warm sympathy, and talked eagerly with me ... of what, do you suppose?... of Kolosov, nothing but Kolosov! The man had taken such possession of her that she did not, as it were, belong to herself. I tried in vain to arouse her pride ... she was either silent or, if she talked--chattered on about Kolosov. I did not even suspect in those days that sorrow of that kind--talkative sorrow--is in reality far more genuine than any silent suffering. I must own I passed many bitter moments at that time. I was conscious that I was not capable of filling Kolosov's place; I was conscious that Varia's past was so full, so rich ... and her present so poor.... I got to the point of an involuntary shudder at the words 'Do you remember' ... with which almost every sentence of hers began. She grew a little thinner during the first days of our acquaintance ... but afterwards got better again, and even grew cheerful; she might have been compared then with a wounded bird, not yet quite recovered. Meanwhile my position had become insupportable; the lowest passions gradually gained possession of my soul; it happened to me to slander Kolosov in Varia's presence. I resolved to cut short such unnatural relations. But how? Part from Varia--I could not.... Declare my love to her--I did not dare; I felt that I could not, as yet, hope for a return. Marry her.... This idea alarmed me; I was only eighteen; I felt a dread of putting all my future into bondage so early; I thought of my father, I could hear the jeering comments of Kolosov's comrades.... But they say every thought is like dough; you have only to knead it well--you can make anything you like of it. I began, for whole days together, to dream of marriage.... I imagined what gratitude would fill Varia's heart when I, the friend and confidant of Kolosov, should offer her my hand, knowing her to be hopelessly in love with another. Persons of experience, I remembered, had told me that marriage for love is a complete absurdity; I began to indulge my fancy; I pictured to myself our peaceful life together in some snug corner of South Russia; an mentally I traced the gradual transition in Varia's heart from gratitude to affection, from affection to love.... I vowed to myself at once to leave Moscow, the university, to forget everything and every one. I began to avoid meeting Kolosov.

At last, one bright winter day (Varia had been somehow peculiarly enchanting the previous evening), I dressed myself in my best, slowly and solemnly sallied out from my room, took a first-rate sledge, and drove down to Ivan Semyonitch's. Varia was sitting alone in the drawing-room reading Karamzin. On seeing me she softly laid the book down on her knees, and with agitated curiosity looked into my face; I had never been to see them in the morning before.... I sat down beside her; my heart beat painfully. 'What are you reading?' I asked her at last. 'Karamzin.' 'What, are you taking up Russian literature?...' She suddenly cut me short. 'Tell me, haven't you come from Andrei?' That name, that trembling, questioning voice, the half-joyful, half-timid expression of her face, all these unmistakable signs of persistent love, pierced to my heart like arrows. I resolved either to part from Varia, or to receive from her herself the right to chase the hated name of Andrei from her lips for ever. I do not remember what I said to her; at first I must have expressed myself in rather confused fashion, as for a long while she did not understand me; at last I could stand it no longer, and almost shouted, 'I love you, I want to marry you.' 'You love me?' said Varia in bewilderment. I fancied she meant to get up, to go away, to refuse me. 'For God's sake,' I whispered breathlessly, 'don't answer me, don't say yes or no; think it over; to-morrow I will come again for a final answer.... I have long loved you. I don't ask of you love, I want to be your champion, your friend; don't answer me now, don't answer.... Till to-morrow.' With these words I rushed out of the room. In the passage Ivan Semyonitch met me, and not only showed no surprise at my visit, but positively, with an agreeable smile, offered me an apple. Such unexpected amiability so struck me that I was simply dumb with amazement. 'Take the apple, it's a nice apple, really!' persisted Ivan Semyonitch. Mechanically I took the apple at last, and drove all the way home with it in my hand.

You may easily imagine how I passed all that day and the following morning. That night I slept rather badly. 'My God! my God!' I kept thinking; 'if she refuses me! ... I shall die.... I shall die....' I repeated wearily. 'Yes, she will certainly refuse me.... And why was I in such a hurry!'... Wishing to turn my thoughts, I began to write a letter to my father--a desperate, resolute letter. Speaking of myself, I used the expression 'your son.' Bobov came in to see me. I began weeping on his shoulder, which must have surprised poor Bobov not a little.... I afterwards learned that he had come to me to borrow money (his landlord had threatened to turn him out of the house); he had no choice but to hook it, as the students say....

At last the great moment arrived. On going out of my room, I stood still in the doorway. 'With what feelings,' thought I, 'shall I cross this threshold again to-day?' ... My emotion at the sight of Ivan Semyonitch's little house was so great that I got down, picked up a handful of snow and pressed it to my face. 'Oh, heavens!' I thought, 'if I find Varia alone--I am lost!' My legs were giving way under me; I could hardly get to the steps. Things were as I had hoped. I found Varia in the parlour with Matrona Semyonovna. I made my bows awkwardly, and sat down by the old lady. Varia's face was rather paler than usual.... I fancied that she tried to avoid my eyes.... But what were my feelings when Matrona Semyonovna suddenly got up and went into the next room!... I began looking out of the window--I was trembling inwardly like an autumn leaf. Varia did not speak.... At last I mastered my timidity, went up to her, bent my head....

'What are you going to say to me?' I articulated in a breaking voice.

Varia turned away--the tears were glistening on her eyelashes.

'I see,' I went on, 'it's useless for me to hope.'...

Varia looked shyly round and gave me her hand without a word.

'Varia!' I cried involuntarily...and stopped, as though frightened at my own hopes.

'Speak to papa,' she articulated at last.

'You permit me to speak to Ivan Semyonitch?' ...

'Yes.'... I covered her hands with kisses.

'Don't, don't,' whispered Varia, and suddenly burst into tears.

I sat down beside her, talked soothingly to her, wiped away her tears.... Luckily, Ivan Semyonitch was not at home, and Matrona Semyonovna had gone up to her own little room. I made vows of love, of constancy to Varia.

...'Yes,' she said, suppressing her sobs and continually wiping her eyes; 'I know you are a good man, an honest man; you are not like Kolosov.'... 'That name again!' thought I. But with what delight I kissed those warm, damp little hands! with what subdued rapture I gazed into that sweet face!... I talked to her of the future, walked about the room, sat down on the floor at her feet, hid my eyes in my hands, and shuddered with happiness.... Ivan Semyonitch's heavy footsteps cut short our conversation. Varia hurriedly got up and went off to her own room--without, however, pressing my hand or glancing at me. Mr. Sidorenko was even more amiable than on the previous day: he laughed, rubbed his stomach, made jokes about Matrona Semyonovna, and so on. I was on the point of asking for his blessing there and then, but I thought better of it and deferred doing so till the next day. His ponderous jokes jarred upon me; besides I was exhausted.... I said good-bye to him and went away.

I am one of those persons who love brooding over their own sensations, though I cannot endure such persons myself. And so, after the first transport of heartfelt joy, I promptly began to give myself up to all sorts of reflections. When I had got half a mile from the house of the retired lieutenant, I flung my hat up in the air, in excessive delight, and shouted 'Hurrah!' But while I was being jolted through the long, crooked streets of Moscow, my thoughts gradually took another turn. All sorts of rather sordid doubts began to crowd upon my mind. I recalled my conversation with Ivan Semyonitch about marriage in general ... and unconsciously I murmured to myself, 'So he was putting it on, the old humbug!' It is true that I continually repeated, 'but then Varia is mine! mine!' ... Yet that 'but'--alas, that _but_!--and then, too, the words, 'Varia is mine!' aroused in me not a deep, overwhelming rapture, but a sort of paltry, egoistic triumph.... If Varia had refused me point-blank, I should have been burning with furious passion; but having received her consent, I was like a man who has just said to a guest, 'Make yourself at home,' and sees the guest actually beginning to settle into his room, as if he were at home. 'If she had loved Kolosov,' I thought, 'how was it she consented so soon? It's clear she's glad to marry any one.... Well, what of it? all the better for me.'... It was with such vague and curious feelings that I crossed the threshold of my room. Possibly, gentlemen, my story does not strike you as sounding true.

I don't know whether it sounds true or not, but I know that all I have told is the absolute and literal truth. However, I gave myself up all that day to a feverish gaiety, assured myself that I simply did not deserve such happiness; but next morning....