Demons, p.12
Demons, page 12
"Ma bonne amie! ..." he cried weakly in greeting.
"You're alone, I'm glad: I cannot bear your friends! It's always so smoky here! Lord, what air! You haven't finished your tea yet, and it's past eleven! Disorder is bliss to you. Messiness is a delight! What are these torn papers doing on the floor? Nastasya, Nastasya! What is your Nastasya up to? Open the windows, my dear, open the vents, the doors, everything should be wide open. And we will go to the drawing room; I've come to you on business. And sweep the floor, my dear, at least once in your life!"
"It does get messy, ma'am," Nastasya squeaked in an irritably plaintive little voice.
"Sweep up, then, sweep fifteen times a day! A wretched drawing room you've got" (when they had come to the drawing room). "Shut the door properly; she'll eavesdrop. You must change this wallpaper. Didn't I send you a paperhanger with samples? Why didn't you choose something? Sit down and listen. Sit down, finally, I beg you. Where are you going? Where are you going?"
"I... just a moment," Stepan Trofimovich cried from the other room, "here I am again!"
"Ah, you've changed your costume!" she looked him up and down mockingly. (He had put on his frock coat over the dressing jacket.) "That is certainly more fitting for... our conversation. Sit down, finally, I beg you."
She explained everything to him at once, abruptly and convincingly. Hinted at the eight thousand he so desperately needed. Spoke in detail of the dowry. Stepan Trofimovich sat wide-eyed and trembled. He heard everything, but could not understand it clearly. Wanted to speak, but his voice kept failing. He knew only that everything would be as she was saying, that to object or disagree would be a futile undertaking, and that he was irretrievably a married man.
"Mais, ma bonne amie, a third time, and at my age... and to such a child!" he said at last. "Mais c'est une enfant!”[xxv]
"A child who, thank God, is twenty years old! Please stop rolling your eyes, you're not on stage. You are very intelligent and learned, but you understand nothing of life, you need a nanny constantly looking after you. I will die, and what will become of you? And she will be a good nanny for you; she's a modest girl, firm, reasonable; besides, I will be here myself, I won't die right away. She's a homebody, an angel of meekness. This happy thought kept occurring to me still in Switzerland. Do you understand, since I myself am telling you she's an angel of meekness!" she suddenly cried out fiercely. "Your place is a mess, she'll make it clean, she'll put everything in order, it will be like a mirror... Ah, but do you still fancy I should bow and scrape before you with such a treasure, enumerating all the benefits, playing the matchmaker? No, you yourself should ... on your knees... Oh, empty, empty, pusillanimous man!"
"But ... I'm old!"
"So what if you're fifty-three! Fifty isn't the end, it's the middle of life. You're a handsome man, and you know it yourself. You also know how she respects you. If I were to die, what would become of her? But with you she will be at ease, and I will be at ease. You have distinction, a name, a loving heart; you receive a pension, which I regard as my duty. You may even save her, save her! In any case, you will do her an honor. You will shape her life, develop her heart, guide her thoughts. So many people perish nowadays because their thoughts are misguided! By then your work will be ready, and all at once you will remind the world of yourself."
"I was just..." he mumbled, flattered now by Varvara Petrovna's clever flattery, "I was just going to sit down and write my Stories from Spanish History ..."
"There, you see, everything is falling into place."
"But... her? Have you told her?"
"Don't worry about her, and there's no need for you to be curious. Of course, you must ask her yourself, beg her to do you the honor, understand? But don't worry, I will be here. Besides, you love her..."
Stepan Trofimovich became dizzy; the walls began spinning around. There was one dreadful idea here which he was unable to cope with.
"Excellente amie!" his voice suddenly trembled, "I ... I could never have imagined that you would decide to give me in marriage ... to some other... woman!"
"You're not a young maiden, Stepan Trofimovich; only young maidens are given in marriage, and you yourself are doing the marrying," Varvara Petrovna hissed venomously.
"Oui, j'ai pris un mot pour un autre. Mais... c'est égal, "[xxvi] he stared at her with a lost look.
"I see that c'est égal, " she said through her teeth, contemptuously. "Lord! he's fainted! Nastasya, Nastasya! Water!"
But it did not get as far as water. He revived. Varvara Petrovna took her umbrella.
"I see there's no point in talking to you now..."
"Oui, oui, je suis incapable, "[xxvii]
"But by tomorrow you will have rested and thought it over. Stay home, and if anything happens, let me know, even during the night. Don't write letters, I won't read them. Tomorrow at this time I will come myself, alone, for a final answer, and I hope it will be satisfactory. Try to see that no one is here, and that there's no mess, because just look at this! Nastasya, Nastasya!"
Of course, the next day he accepted; and he could not have done otherwise. There was one special circumstance here...
VIII
Stepan Trofimovich's estate, as we used to call it (about fifty souls by the old way of reckoning,[44] and adjoining Skvoreshniki), was not his at all, but had belonged to his first wife, and so now to their son, Pyotr Stepanovich Verkhovensky. Stepan Trofimovich was merely the trustee, and thus, once the nestling was fully fledged, acted through a formal warrant as manager of the estate. For the young man it was a profitable deal: he received up to a thousand roubles a year from his father as income from the estate, while under the new regulations it did not yield as much as five hundred (and perhaps even less). God knows how such arrangements were set up. However, the entire thousand was sent by Varvara Petrovna, and Stepan Trofimovich did not contribute a single rouble to it. On the contrary, he pocketed all the income from this bit of land, and, furthermore, ruined it altogether by leasing it to some dealer and, in secret from Varvara Petrovna, selling the timber that was its main valuable asset. He had been selling this timber piecemeal for a long time. Its total worth was about eight thousand at least, yet he got only five for it. But he sometimes lost too much at the club, and was afraid to ask Varvara Petrovna. She ground her teeth when she finally learned of it all. And now the boy suddenly notified him that he was coming himself to sell his property at all costs, and charged his father with promptly arranging for the sale. It was clear that Stepan Trofimovich, being a lofty and disinterested man, felt ashamed before ce cher enfant (whom he had last seen as a student in Petersburg all of nine years earlier). Originally, the entire estate might have been worth some thirteen or fourteen thousand, but now it was unlikely that anyone would give five for it. Stepan Trofimovich undoubtedly had every right, in terms of the formal warrant, to sell the timber, and taking into account the impossible annual income of a thousand roubles, which had been sent punctually for so many years, could make a good defense of himself in any final settlement. But Stepan Trofimovich was noble and had lofty aspirations. A remarkably beautiful thought flashed in his head: to lay out nobly on the table, when Petrusha came, the highest maximum of the price—that is, even fifteen thousand—without the slightest hint at the sums that had been sent previously, and then firmly, very firmly, with tears, to press ce cher fils[xxviii] to his heart, and so settle all accounts. He began remotely and cautiously unfolding this picture before Varvara Petrovna. He hinted that it would even add some special, noble tinge to their friendly connection ... to their "idea." It would show former fathers and former people generally in such a disinterested and magnanimous light, as compared with the new frivolous and social youth. He said many other things, but Varvara Petrovna kept silent. At last she dryly informed him that she would agree to buy their land and would pay the maximum price for it—that is, six or seven thousand (even four would have been enough). Of the remaining eight thousand that had flown away with the timber, she did not say a word.
That was a month before the matchmaking. Stepan Trofimovich was struck and began to ponder. Before then there could still have been a hope that the boy might perhaps not come at all—a hope, that is, judging from outside, in the opinion of some third person. Stepan Trofimovich, as a father, would have rejected indignantly the very notion of such a hope. In any case, up to then all sorts of strange rumors kept reaching us about Petrusha. At first, after finishing his studies at the university about six years before, he had hung about Petersburg with nothing to do. Suddenly there came news that he had taken part in the composing of some anonymous tract and was implicated in the case. Then he suddenly turned up abroad, in Switzerland, in Geneva—might have fled there for all we knew.
"It is surprising to me," Stepan Trofimovich, deeply embarrassed, preached to us then. "Petrusha c'est une si pauvre tête![xxix] He is kind, noble, very sensitive, and I was so glad then, in Petersburg, comparing him with modern young people, but c'est un pauvre sire tout de même[xxx]... And, you know, it all comes from that same half-bakedness, from sentimentality! They're fascinated not by realism, but by the sensitive, ideal aspect of socialism, its religious tinge, so to speak, its poetry ... to someone else's tune, of course. And yet me, what about me! I have so many enemies here, and even more there, it will all be put down to his father's influence... God! Petrusha—a moving force! What times we live in!"
Petrusha, by the way, very soon sent his exact address from Switzerland, so that his money could be sent as usual: therefore he was not entirely an émigré. And now, after spending about four years abroad, he suddenly reappeared in his fatherland and sent word of his imminent arrival: therefore he had not been accused of anything. Moreover, someone had supposedly even taken an interest in him and become his patron. He wrote now from the south of Russia, where he was on a private but important mission for someone and was making arrangements for something. This was all wonderful, but still, how get hold of the remaining seven or eight thousand to make up a decent maximum of the price for the estate? And what if there were an outcry, and instead of that majestic picture it should all wind up in court? Something told Stepan Trofimovich that the sensitive Petrusha would not relinquish his interests. "Why is it, as I've noticed," Stepan Trofimovich once whispered to me at the time, "why is it that all these desperate socialists and communists are at the same time such incredible misers, acquirers, property-lovers, so much so that the more socialist a man is, the further he goes, the more he loves property... why is it? Can that, too, come from sentimentality?" I do not know what truth there is in Stepan Trofimovich's observation; I only know that Petrusha had obtained some information about the sale of the timber and the rest of it, and that Stepan Trofimovich knew he had obtained this information. I also happened to read Petrusha's letters to his father; he wrote extremely rarely, once a year or even less often. But just recently he had sent two letters, almost one after the other, giving notice of his imminent arrival. All his letters were short, dry, consisting only of directives, and as the father and son, ever since Petersburg, had been addressing each other on familiar terms, according to the fashion, Petrusha's letters looked decidedly like those letters of instruction that old-time landowners used to send from the capital to the house-serfs appointed to manage their estates. And now suddenly the eight thousand that would resolve the situation came flying out of Varvara Petrovna's proposal, and with that she let him understand clearly that it could not come flying from anywhere else. Naturally, Stepan Trofimovich accepted.
As soon as she left he sent for me, and locked the door to everyone else for the whole day. Of course, he wept a little; he spoke much and well, got much and badly mixed up, accidentally made a pun and remained pleased with it; then came a slight cholerine—in short, everything took place in due order. After which he brought out a portrait of his little German wife, now twenty years deceased, and began calling to her plaintively: "Will you forgive me?" Generally, he was somehow befuddled. And we had a bit to drink in our grief. Soon, however, he fell fast asleep. Next morning he expertly knotted his tie, dressed with care, and went frequently to look at himself in the mirror. He sprayed perfume on his handkerchief—just a tiny bit, by the way— and then, as soon as he caught sight of Varvara Petrovna through the window, he quickly took another handkerchief and hid the perfumed one under the pillow.
"That's splendid!" Varvara Petrovna praised, after hearing his consent. "A noble determination, first of all, and, second, you've heeded the voice of reason, which you so rarely heed in your private affairs. However, there's no need to rush things," she added, examining the knot of his white tie, "say nothing for the time being, and I will say nothing. It will soon be your birthday; I will come to see you with her. Prepare an evening tea and, please, no wine or appetizers; however, I'll see to everything myself. Invite your friends—you and I will make the selection, however. You may have a talk with her the day before if need be; and during your evening we will not really make an announcement or some sort of betrothal, but simply hint or let it be known without any solemnity. And then in two weeks or so you'll be married, with as little noise as possible ... You both might even go away for a while, right after the ceremony, let's say to Moscow, for instance. Perhaps I'll go with you as well... And, above all, say nothing till then."
Stepan Trofimovich was surprised. He tried to murmur that it was impossible that way, that he must have a talk with the fiancée, but Varvara Petrovna fell upon him irritably:
"And what for? First, it's still possible that nothing will happen..."
"What? Nothing?" the fiancé muttered, now totally flabbergasted.
"Just so. I still have to see... However, everything will be as I've said, and don't worry, I'll prepare her myself. There's no need for you at all. Everything necessary will be said and done, and there's no need of you for that. Why? In what role? Do not come yourself and do not write letters. Not a breath, not a whisper, I beg you. I, too, will say nothing."
She was decidedly unwilling to explain herself and left visibly upset. It seemed she was struck by Stepan Trofimovich's excessive readiness. Alas, he decidedly did not understand his position, and the question had not yet presented itself to him from any other point of view. On the contrary, some new tone emerged, something triumphant and frivolous. He swaggered.
"I like that!" he exclaimed, standing before me and spreading his arms. "Did you hear? She wants to push me so far that I finally will stop wanting it. Because I, too, can lose my patience and... stop wanting it! 'Sit still, there's no need for you to go there'—but why, finally, must I get married? Just because of her ridiculous fantasy? But I am a serious man and may not want to submit to the idle fantasies of a whimsical woman! I have duties towards my son and... towards myself! I am making a sacrifice—does she understand that? Perhaps I agreed because I'm tired of life and it makes no difference to me. But she may provoke me, and then it will make a difference; I will get offended and refuse. Et enfin, le ridicule[xxxi]... What will they say at the club? What will... what will Liputin say? 'It's still possible that nothing will happen'—fancy that! But that's the limit! That's ... I don't know what! fe suis un forçat, un Badinguet, un[45][xxxii] man pushed to the wall! ..."
And at the same time a certain capricious smugness, something frivolously playful, peeped out through all these plaintive exclamations. In the evening we drank some more.
3: Someone Else's Sins
I
About a week went by, and the affair began to expand itself somewhat.
I will observe in passing that I endured much anguish during this unfortunate week, staying almost constantly at the side of my poor matchmade friend in the quality of his closest confidant. It was mainly shame that oppressed him, though during this week we did not see anyone and sat by ourselves all the time; but he was ashamed even before me, and to such an extent that the more he revealed to me, the more vexed he was with me for it. In his insecurity he suspected that everyone already knew everything, all over town, and was afraid to show himself not only at the club but in his own circle as well. Even for a stroll, to get the necessary exercise, he would go out only at full dusk, when it was already quite dark.
A week went by, and he still did not know whether he was engaged or not, and had no way of finding out for certain, however much he tried. He still had not seen the fiancée; did not even know if she was his fiancée; did not even know if there was anything serious in it all! Varvara Petrovna for some reason decidedly did not want to admit him to the house. She replied to one of his first letters (and he wrote her a great many) with a direct request that he spare her any relations with him for the time being, because she was busy, and as she herself had much of the greatest importance to tell him, she was deliberately waiting for a freer moment than the present, and would in time let him know herself when he could come to her. And she vowed to send his letters back unopened, because it was all "just sheer indulgence." I myself read this note; he showed it to me.
And yet all of it, all this rudeness and uncertainty, was nothing compared with his chief care. This care tormented him greatly, relentlessly; he kept losing weight over it, and his spirits declined. It was something he was ashamed of most of all, and which he by no means wished to speak about even with me; on the contrary, whenever the occasion arose, he lied and hedged before me like a little boy; and yet he himself would send for me every day, he was unable to be without me even for two hours, needing me like water or air.
Such behavior wounded my pride somewhat. Needless to say, I had long since guessed this chief secret for myself and seen through it all. According to my deepest conviction then, the revealing of this secret, this chief care of Stepan Trofimovich's, would not have added to his credit, and therefore, being still a young man, I was somewhat indignant at the coarseness of his feelings and the ugliness of some of his suspicions. In the heat of passion—and, I confess, finding it boring to be a confidant—I perhaps blamed him too much. In my cruelty, I tried to obtain a full confession from him, though, by the way, I did allow that to confess certain things might prove embarrassing. He, too, understood me thoroughly; that is, he clearly saw that I understood him thoroughly, and that I was even angry with him, and was himself angry with me for being angry with him and for understanding him thoroughly. Perhaps my irritation was petty and stupid; but shared isolation is sometimes extremely damaging to true friendship. From a certain angle he understood some aspects of his position correctly, and even defined it quite subtly in those points about which he did not find it necessary to be secretive.
