“Nelly’s just fallen asleep, poor girl!” she whispers hurriedly, “for goodness’s sake, don’t wake her up! It’s just unbelievable how weak the poppet is. We’re frightened for her. The doctor says she’ll be all right for the time being. Not that you can get much sense out of that doctor of yours! You should be ashamed of yourself, Ivan Petrovich! We were expecting you for lunch… it’s been two days since you were here last!…”
“But I told you at the time I wouldn’t be coming to see you for the next two days,” I whisper. “I had to finish some work…”
“But you promised to come for lunch today! Why didn’t you? Nelly got up from bed especially, my little angel, and we put her in the chair and wheeled her out to the table. ‘I want to wait for Vanya with the rest of you,’ she said, but our Vanya just doesn’t want to know. Look, it’ll be six o’clock soon! Where on earth have you been? Shame upon you, my dear sir! Have you any idea how much you upset her and what it took me to soothe her!… Thank goodness she’s fallen asleep. And on top of that there’s Nikolai Sergeich gone into the town (should be back for tea!) And here I am left to struggle all on my own… He’s been promised a post, Ivan Petrovich. But when I think that it’s in Perm, my heart sinks…”
“And where’s Natasha?”
“In the garden, my darling is in the garden! Go and see her… I’m worried about her too… Don’t know quite what to think… Oh, Ivan Petrovich, it’s all so very sad! She’s putting a brave face on it, but I don’t believe her… Do go and see her, Vanya, and then tell me just between ourselves what’s wrong with her… Do you hear?”
But I am no longer listening to Anna Andreyevna. I rush into the garden. This garden is adjacent to the house; it is about twenty-five paces in length and the same in width, and is a mass of greenery. It has three tall sprawling trees, a couple of young birches, some lilac, honeysuckle, some raspberry bushes in one corner, two strawberry beds and, running criss-cross the length and breadth of it, two narrow winding footpaths. Ikhmenev is delighted with the garden and assures us that there will soon be wild mushrooms in it. But the important thing is that Nelly has grown to like the garden and is often wheeled out in her chair onto one of the paths. Nelly is now the idol of the house. But here is Natasha; she is glad to see me and puts out her hand. How thin she is, how pale! She too has barely recovered from an illness.
“Have you finished it completely?” she asks me.
“Completely, completely! And I’m quite free the whole evening.”
“Thank Heavens! You must have rushed! Made lots of mistakes!”
“Couldn’t be helped! But, no matter. When I really get going, I get into such a nervous state I can think more clearly, my feelings are more acute and intense, and even the language just flows, so that under pressure the result turns out much better. It’s all right…”
“Oh, Vanya, Vanya!”
I cannot but notice that lately Natasha has become very protective of my literary success, of my fame. She reads over and over again everything I have published during the year, keeps asking me about my forthcoming plans, follows every critical review written about me, taking exception to some, and is desperately anxious that I should establish for myself a high literary reputation. She has a way of expressing herself so forcefully and insistently that her attitude takes me somewhat by surprise.
“You’ll burn yourself out, Vanya,” she says to me, “you’ll exhaust yourself and will have nothing to show for it. On top of it you’ll ruin your health too. Take S***, he writes one novel in two years, and N*** – only wrote one in ten.* But then everything they write is so polished, so well crafted! Not a single word out of place.”
“Yes, they’re well off and don’t have to meet deadlines. Whereas I’m just a workhorse! Look, this is all rubbish! Let’s leave it, Natasha. Now, have you had any news?”
“Lots. For a start, a letter from him.”
“Another one?”
“Yes.” And she handed me a letter from Alyosha. This was the third since they parted. He had written the first while still in Moscow and written it as though he were in a trance. He informed her that circumstances were such that there was no possibility of him returning from Moscow to St Petersburg as had been envisaged at the time of their parting. In the second, he hastened to announce that he would be returning any day now so as to get married to Natasha as soon as possible, that this had been settled and nothing could possibly stand in the way. And yet judging by the tone of the whole letter it was evident that he was in despair, that outside influences had gained total control over him and that he no longer had any faith in himself. He mentioned amongst other things that Katya was his Providence and that she alone comforted and supported him. I eagerly unfolded his latest, third letter.
It was on two sheets, disjointed, disordered, scribbled in a hasty, illegible hand, covered with tear stains and ink blots. It opened with Alyosha renouncing Natasha and begging her to forget him. He endeavoured to prove that their union was unrealistic, that external unfavourable forces were stronger than anything, and that ultimately that was how things had to be – he and Natasha together would be unhappy, because they were unsuited to each other. But he was unable to sustain this line and, abandoning his arguments and proofs, launched immediately – without tearing up and discarding the first half of his letter – into self-recrimination, that he was a worthless creature, criminally guilty before Natasha and unable to stand up to his father, who was with him in the country. He wrote that he was unable to express his anguish, asserting incidentally that now he was quite sure of his ability to make Natasha happy, and quite unexpectedly went on to argue that they were in fact well suited. Having in desperation denounced himself for his faint-heartedness and rejecting angrily and vehemently his father’s arguments out of hand, he drew a picture of a blissful life together, to which they could look forward if they married, and finished by bidding her farewell for ever! The letter testified to his utter wretchedness; he was clearly beside himself when he wrote it. I was near to tears… Natasha handed me another letter, from Katya. It came in the same envelope as Alyosha’s, but was sealed separately. In a few brief lines Katya stated that Alyosha really was distressed, crying his heart out and close to despair, even physically unwell, but that she was with him and he would be happy. Incidentally, Katya begged Natasha not to think that Alyosha would get over things quickly or that his grief were not genuine. ‘He will never forget you,’ Katya assured her, ‘nor could he possibly, because such is his nature. He loves you desperately, will always love you, such that if he ever were to stop loving you, if he ever were to stop grieving at the thought of you, I myself would cease loving him at once…’”
I handed both letters back to Natasha; we exchanged glances and did not say a word. This was how it was with the first two letters also, and in truth we tended to avoid talking of the past as though by mutual agreement. I could see she suffered unbearably, but did not want to admit it even to me. After her return to the parental home she had spent three weeks in bed with fever and was just about recovering now. We did not even speak much about the forthcoming change which was soon to come, although she knew only too well that her father would get his appointment and we would soon have to part. In spite of this, she was so nice, so considerate towards me, so full of solicitude throughout, listened with such rapt, undivided attention to everything that, at her behest, I was obliged to recount about myself that at first I found it quite burdensome – it seemed to me she wanted to recompense me for the past. But this unease soon lifted. I realized she was motivated by something altogether different; she simply loved me, she loved me unconditionally, unable to survive without me or remain indifferent to anything that concerned me, and I am pretty sure that no sister ever bore a deeper love for her brother than Natasha bore for me. I knew full well that our forthcoming parting weighed upon her, that it made her suffer. She also knew that I too could not live without her, but neither of us spoke of this, ev
en though we talked at length about forthcoming events…
I asked about Nikolai Sergeich.
“He should be back soon, I think,” Natasha replied. “He promised to be in for tea.”
“Is he still trying for that position?”
“Yes. However, it’s pretty clear he’s going to get it now. Frankly, there was no need for him to have gone out today, I feel,” she added pensively, “tomorrow would have done.”
“So why did he then?”
“Because I got the letter… He’s so concerned for me,” she added after a pause, “that it depresses me, Vanya. I wouldn’t be surprised if he dreamt of nothing but me. I’m sure he never thinks of anything except how I am, what I do, what I think about. He reacts to every one of my disappointments. I can see only too well how awkwardly he sometimes tries to take a grip on himself and give the impression he isn’t sorry for me, pretending to be cheerful and trying to laugh and make us laugh. Mummy too is not herself on such occasions, and doesn’t believe in his laughter either, she just sighs… She’s so funny… Bless her!” she added with a laugh. “The moment I got the letter, he just had to go out to avoid looking me in the eyes… I love him more than can be imagined, more than anything in the world, Vanya,” she added, lowering her head and pressing my hand, “even more than you…”
We walked up and down the garden a couple of times before she again began to speak.
“Masloboyev called today and yesterday too,” she said.
“Yes, lately he’s been to see you a lot.”
“And do you know why he comes? Mummy trusts him like no one on earth. She’s under the impression he’s so very well up on everything (the law and all that), that he can fix anything you like. What would you say she’s got on her mind now? Deep down she just can’t get over the fact that I haven’t become a princess. The thought is killing her, and I think she has confided in Masloboyev. She’s too afraid to talk to Father about it, and thinks Masloboyev could help her somehow, perhaps by recourse to law. Masloboyev, it appears, hasn’t tried to put her off, and she keeps plying him with wine,” Natasha added with a smile.
“A bit of a rogue is our Masloboyev. And how do you know all this?”
“Mummy herself let the cat out of the bag… I put two and two together…”
“What about Nelly? How is she?” I asked.
“I’m surprised at you, Vanya – that’s the first time you’ve asked after her!” Natasha observed reproachfully.
Nelly was everyone’s darling. Natasha had grown to love her enormously, and Nelly surrendered herself to her with all her heart. Poor child! She never expected to find people who bore so much love for her, and I beheld with joy her embittered heart relenting and her soul opening up to us all. She responded with a sort of frantic ardour to the boundless love that now surrounded her in stark contrast to everything that had gone on before, which had engendered in her mistrust, animosity and stubbornness. To be sure, Nelly even now still clung to some of her old ways, deliberately and persistently suppressing the tears of reconciliation which were welling up in her before she finally gave in to us completely. First she grew to love Natasha with all her heart, then the old man. As for me, I became indispensable to her to such an extent that her illness would worsen whenever I stayed away for any length of time. The last occasion, when I was bidding goodbye for two days so as to catch up on some badly overdue work, I spent much time putting her mind at rest… in a roundabout way, of course. Nelly was still fighting shy of a too direct, too obvious display of her feelings…
She was a cause for common concern. Without a word being spoken, it had been decided that she would remain in Nikolai Sergeich’s house for good. In the meantime, however, the day of departure was drawing nearer, but her condition was getting worse and worse. She had been ill since the day when we came to see the old folks, the day of their reconciliation with Natasha. What am I saying? She had always been ill. Her illness had been getting steadily worse long before, but now her decline intensified at an alarming rate. I don’t know, and am unable to determine precisely, the nature of her illness. It is true her fits began to occur somewhat more frequently than previously, but the main feature was some kind of overall debility, total loss of strength, interminable feverishness and nervous tension, all of which had made her completely bedridden in the last few days. And strangely enough, the more her illness overcame her, the gentler, kinder, more open Nelly became towards us. Three days previously she caught my hand as I was passing her bed, and pulled me towards her. There was no one else in the room. Her face was burning (she had grown very thin) and her eyes were flashing. She drew herself towards me passionately, convulsively and, as I leant down to her, flung her thin, olive-skinned arms tightly round my neck and gave me a big kiss, after which she immediately demanded to see Natasha. I called her. Insisting that Natasha sit down next to her on the bed, Nelly looked at her…
“I want to look at you myself,” she said. “I dreamt about you last night and I’ll dream about you tonight too… I often dream about you… every night…”
It was evident she was overcome with emotion and wanted to speak, but she did not understand her own feelings and did not know how to express them…
She loved Nikolai Sergeich more than anyone else, apart from me. It must be said that he too loved her nearly as much as he did Natasha. He had the amazing knack of being able to cheer Nelly up and make her laugh. Every time he would come to see her, there would immediately be laughter and even pranks. The young patient would perk up like a little child, flirt with the old man, tease him, tell him her dreams, always with some embellishments, force him to recount his own too, and he would be so happy, so pleased as he regarded his “little daughter Nelly” that his delight in her would grow with every day.
“It’s God Himself who has sent her to us in recompense for our suffering,” he once said to me as he left Nelly’s bedside and, as was his wont, made the sign of the cross over her for the night.
Every day when we all used to gather in the evening (Masloboyev came practically every night and the doctor too sometimes, attached as he had become with all his soul to the Ikhmenevs), Nelly was wheeled out in her chair to join us at the round table. The door to the balcony would be flung open. The green garden, bathed in the rays of the setting sun, was then in full view. The smell of fresh greenery and lilac in early bloom wafted in. Nelly would sit in her chair, observing us good-naturedly, listening to our conversation. Sometimes she’d perk up and begin to say something too, hesitantly… On such occasions we all listened to her with anxiety, because her reminiscences contained themes that ought not be touched upon. Natasha, the Ikhmenevs and I felt only too conscious of our guilt about the time that, trembling and exhausted as she was, we had obliged her to tell us her story that day. The doctor was particularly opposed to such reminiscences, and usually tried to change the subject. At times like that Nelly tried to pretend she was unaware of our concerns, and would break into laughter, joined in by the doctor or Nikolai Sergeich.
And still she got worse and worse. She became extraordinarily impressionable. Her heartbeat was irregular. The doctor even told me that she could die very soon.
I did not tell the Ikhmenevs this so as not to upset them. Nikolai Sergeich was perfectly convinced that she would get better by the time they were due to leave.
“Look, Father’s back,” Natasha said, hearing his voice. “Let’s go, Vanya.”
Nikolai Sergeich had hardly crossed the threshold when, as was his habit, he began to speak in a loud voice. Anna Andreyevna waved frantically at him. He immediately went quiet and, catching sight of Natasha and me, began to recount in a hurried whisper the result of his enquiries – the position that he had been seeking was securely his, and he was well pleased.
“We can go in a fortnight,” he said, rubbing his hands as he shot a concerned sidelong glance at Natasha. But she responded with a smile and embra
ced him, so that his misgivings were instantly dispelled.
“We’re going, we’re going, my dear ones, we’re going!” he went on, joyfully. “That just leaves you, Vanya. I must say I don’t look forward to saying goodbye to you…” (I will add that he never once invited me to go with them, something that, judging by his character, he would surely have done… under different circumstances – that is, if he hadn’t been aware of my love for Natasha.)
“Well, what’s to be done, my friends, what’s to be done! It hurts me, Vanya. But a change of scenery will do us all a power of good… Change of scenery – change of everything!” he added with another glance at his daughter.
He believed this and it made him happy.
“And what about Nelly?” Anna Andreyevna asked.
“Nelly? Well, ay… the poor darling is a little unwell, but no doubt she’ll recover by then. She’s feeling better now, wouldn’t you say, Vanya?” he said in alarm, and looked at me apprehensively as though it were up to me to put him out of his quandary.
“How has she been? How did she sleep? Is anything the matter? Is she awake now? Do you know what, Anna Andreyevna, why don’t we quickly take the table out on the terrace, fetch the samovar, everyone will gather together, we’ll all sit down, and Nelly will join us… Splendid! Perhaps she has woken up already? I’d better go and check. I’ll just have a look at her… I won’t wake her up, don’t worry!” he added, seeing that Anna Andreyevna was again raising a warning hand at him.
But Nelly was already awake. A quarter of an hour later we were all sitting as usual at the table enjoying the evening tea.
Nelly was wheeled out in her chair. The doctor arrived and so did Masloboyev. He brought Nelly a large bunch of lilac, but was preoccupied with something and appeared to be out of sorts.
Incidentally, Masloboyev had been coming nearly every day. I said already that he had become everyone’s firm favourite, especially Anna Andreyevna’s. However, no one ever mentioned a word about Alexandra Semyonovna; neither did Masloboyev. Having learnt from me that Alexandra Semyonovna had not yet succeeded in becoming his lawful spouse, Anna Andreyevna decided that she ought not to be mentioned or welcomed under her roof. This was adhered to, and the fact told a great deal about Anna Andreyevna herself. In fairness though, had she not had Natasha with her and, above all, had it not been for all that had happened, she may perhaps not have been so particular.
Humiliated and Insulted Page 43
