Later, I remember, came another phase, when my impressions were quite strange and different from anything I had ever experienced before; I felt as if something had been resolved within me, and that the old sadness had left my heart and something new was taking its place – something over which I still knew not whether to grieve or rejoice. I felt like a person who is leaving for good a home and a hitherto peaceful and unruffled life, setting out on some long and unknown journey, who looks around for the last time, thoughtfully bidding farewell to the past, feeling sick at heart and full of misgivings about the harsh and hostile future that perhaps is waiting on the road.
Eventually I broke into convulsions of sobbing and relieved my heart with hysterical tears. I had to see someone, to hear someone, to hold someone tight. I could no longer remain by myself; I rushed to Alexandra Mikhailovna and spent the whole evening with her. We were alone. I asked her not to play the piano, and although she wanted me to I refused to sing. I could not concentrate on anything; everything seemed impossibly difficult. I believe we were both crying. I remember her becoming quite alarmed about me and trying to persuade me to calm myself and not be so distressed. She watched me in dismay, insisting that I was still not looking after myself properly. When at last I left her, I was worn out and preoccupied. I went to bed in a feverish state, verging on delirium.
Several days passed before I regained my self-possession and was able to consider my position more clearly. At this time Alexandra Mikhailovna and I were both living in complete solitude and Pyotr Alexandrovitch was not at home. He had gone to Moscow on business and was away for three weeks. Although this was not a long time, Alexandra Mikhailovna fell into a state of utter despondency. There were times when she was more composed, but she kept herself shut up in her room and found my presence irritating. Besides, I myself was seeking isolation. My mind was constantly turning, and I was under severe nervous strain. I was more or less in a daze and sometimes, for long hours, I would be fraught with harassing disconnected thoughts. Then I would imagine that someone was secretly mocking me; it was as though there was something inside me that confused and poisoned my mind. I could find no escape from the tormenting images that rose before me at every moment, giving me no peace. I envisaged long and hopeless suffering, martyrdom, sacrifice endured meekly, abjectly and fruitlessly. It seemed to me that the one for whom the sacrifice was made scorned and derided it. I saw a criminal pardoning the sins of the righteous, and my heart was torn. At the same time I longed to free myself of suspicion; I cursed and hated myself because all my convictions were more like presentiments, and because I could not justify my impressions to myself.
I went through all the phrases in my mind: those last, terrible cries of farewell. I pictured to myself that man who was BENEATH HER; I tried to fathom the agonizing significance of those words. I was deeply moved by the note of despair in the farewell: ‘I am absurd… ashamed for your choice…’ What did it mean? Who were they? Why were they grieving? What was tormenting them? What had they lost? Composing myself with an effort, I tensely reread the letter which was so full of despair, heartbroken though its meaning was still obscure and incomprehensible to me. But the letter fell from my hands and my heart was increasingly strained with emotion… All this had somehow to be resolved, but I could see no way out; I lived in dread!
I was virtually ill when the carriage rumbled into the courtyard one day, bringing Pyotr Alexandrovitch, who had returned from Moscow. Alexandra Mikhailovna flew to meet her husband with a cry of joy, but I stood rooted to the spot. I remember that I was surprised at my sudden emotion. I could not control myself and rushed to my room. I did not understand why I suddenly felt so alarmed, but it frightened me. A quarter of an hour later I was summoned and given a letter from Prince X. In the drawing-room I met a stranger whom Pyotr Alexandrovitch had brought from Moscow; from what I gathered he was to stay with us for some time. He was the agent of Prince X. and was here in Petersburg to take care of certain important family matters which had long been supervised by Pyotr Alexandrovitch. He handed me the letter from the Prince and told me that the young Princess had also wished to write, and had even assured him right up until the last moment that the letter would be ready, but in the end he had left empty-handed. She had begged him to tell me that there was absolutely no use in her writing, since it was impossible to express anything in a letter, that she had spoilt at least five sheets of notepaper before tearing them up, and that we would have to make friends all over again before we could write to each other. Afterwards she instructed him to assure me that we would meet again before long. In answer to my eager questions, the unknown gentleman said that an early meeting was quite certain, as the whole family would be visiting Petersburg before long. I was overwhelmed with joy at this news; I rushed to my room, locked myself in and dissolved into tears as I opened the Prince’s letter. In it he promised that I would soon see both him and Katya again and he congratulated me, with deep feeling, on my talent; finally he gave me his blessing and best wishes for the future, which he promised to provide for. I wept as I read this letter, but with those tears of joy was mixed such an insufferable sadness that I remember being alarmed at myself, for I did not know what was happening to me.
Several days passed. In the room next to mine, which had previously been the office of Pyotr Alexandrovitch’s secretary, the newcomer now worked every morning and frequently through the evening up until midnight. Often this gentleman and Pyotr Alexandrovitch shut themselves in the latter’s study and worked together. One day Alexandra Mikhailovna told me to go into her husband’s study and ask him whether he would come and have tea with us. Finding no one in the study, and expecting Pyotr Alexandrovitch to come back shortly, I waited for him. His portrait was hanging on the wall. I remember that I shuddered as I looked at the portrait, and with an excitement I could not myself understand I began scrutinizing it intently. It was hung rather high, and as it was getting dark in the room I pushed a chair up and stood on it in order to see better. I wanted to find something which might provide the solution to my doubts. What struck me first of all was the eyes in the portrait. Immediately it occurred to me that I had never seen the eyes of this man before; he always kept them hidden behind spectacles.
Even in my childhood, from some strange, unaccountable prejudice, I had disliked the way he looked at people, but now that prejudice seemed to be justified. My imagination was roused. It suddenly seemed to me as though the eyes of the portrait were, in confusion, turning away from my searching, questioning gaze, that they were trying to avoid it, and that there was a duplicity in those eyes; it appeared that I had been right, and I cannot explain the secret joy that stirred in me at having guessed correctly. I uttered a faint cry and at that moment I heard a rustle behind me. I looked round and saw Pyotr Alexandrovitch standing before me, staring at me. I thought I saw him redden. I blushed and jumped down from the chair.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked in a stern voice. ‘Why are you here?’
I did not know what to answer. Recovering myself a little, I gave him Alexandra Mikhailovna’s message. I do not know what answer he gave and I do not remember how I escaped from the room, but when I reached Alexandra Mikhailovna I had complete forgotten the answer for which she was waiting. I said, at a guess, that he was coming.
‘But what’s the matter with you, Netochka?’ she asked. ‘You are so flushed. Look at yourself! What’s the matter with you?’
‘I don’t know… I was hurrying –’ I began to answer.
‘What did Pyotr Alexandrovitch say to you?’ she interrupted, troubled.
I did not answer. At that moment Pyotr Alexandrovitch’s footsteps were heard and I instantly walked out of the room. I waited for two hours in great anxiety. At last I was summoned to Alexandra Mikhailovna. I found her silent and preoccupied. As I went into the room she cast a rapid, searching glance at me and then at once lowered her eyes. She seemed disconcerted. I realized that she was in a bad mood; she spoke little, did not
look at me at all and, in reply to B.’s inquiries, said that she had a headache. Pyotr Alexandrovitch was more talkative than usual, but he spoke only to B.
Alexandra Mikhailovna walked absentmindedly over to the piano.
‘Sing something,’ said B., turning to me.
‘Yes, Annetta, sing your new aria,’ added Alexandra Mikhailovna, as if pleased by the suggestion. I glanced at her. She was looking at me in anxious expectation.
But I could not control myself. Instead of going to the piano and singing, I was overcome with uncertainty, and in my embarrassment I could not think of a way to excuse myself. In the end my annoyance got the upper hand, and I refused outright.
‘Why don’t you want to sing?’ said Alexandra Mikhailovna, throwing a lengthy, significant glance at me and a fleeting one at her husband.
Those two glances provoked me. I got up from the table in a state of complete confusion. No longer trying to conceal it, but shaking with a feeling of impatience and annoyance, I hotly repeated that I did not want to, I could not, that I was unwell. As I said this I looked them each in the eye. God knows how I longed at that moment to be in my own room and to hide myself from all of them.
B. was surprised; Alexandra Mikhailovna was visibly upset, and did not say a word. But Pyotr Alexandrovitch sprang from his chair and said that he had forgotten some work. He was evidently annoyed at having lost valuable time and hurried out of the room, saying that he might look in later, but in case he did not he shook hands with B. by way of goodbye.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked B. ‘You look really ill.’
‘Yes, I’m unwell, very unwell,’ I answered impatiently.
‘Indeed you are very pale, and just a short time ago you were so flushed,’ remarked Alexandra Mikhailovna abruptly.
‘Do stop!’ I said, going straight up to her and looking her in the face. The poor thing could not look me in the eyes – she dropped hers as if guilty, and a faint flush suffused her pale cheeks. I took her hand and kissed it. Alexandra Mikhailovna looked at me with a show of naïve joy.
‘Excuse me for being such a bad, ill-tempered child today,’ I said to her with sincerity, ‘but really I am ill. Let me go, and don’t be angry.’
‘We are all children,’ she said with a meek smile. ‘And indeed I’m a child too, and worse, much worse than you,’ she added in my ear. ‘Good night; get better. Only, for God’s sake, don’t be cross with me.’
‘Why should I?’ I asked, struck by this naïve confession.
‘Why should you?’ she echoed, terribly confused and even frightening herself. ‘Why? Well, you see what I’m like, Netochka. What did I say to you? Good night! You’re cleverer than I… and I’m worse than a child.’
‘Come, that’s enough,’ I answered, much moved, and not knowing what to say to her. I kissed her once more and went hurriedly out of the room.
I felt horribly troubled and sad. Besides this, I was angry with myself, feeling that I was too careless and did not know how to behave. I was mortified and at the point of tears. I went to bed in a state of deep depression. When I woke up in the morning my first thought was that the whole previous evening had been just a fantasy, an illusion which we had created for one another, exaggerating the importance of what we felt in our anxiety; all this was due to inexperience and to our habit of ignoring the outward aspect of things. I felt that the letter was to blame for it all, that it was upsetting me too much, and that my imagination was overwrought, and I resolved that in the future I had better not think about anything. Once I had settled all my troubles with such exceptional ease and convinced myself that I could carry out my resolve with equal ease, I felt calmer and set off for my singing lesson in quite a cheerful mood. The morning air completely cleared away my headache. I was very fond of morning walks to my lessons. It was so pleasant going through the town, which by nine o’clock was already full of life and busily starting its daily round. We usually passed through the liveliest and busiest streets. It pleased me that my artistic life was beginning in these surroundings. I enjoyed the contrast between the petty everyday life, the trivial but vital cares, and the art which awaited me two steps away from this life, on the third storey of a huge house crowded from top to bottom with inhabitants who, it seemed to me, had nothing whatsoever to do with art. These busy, frustrated-looking passers-by, among whom I went with my music book under my arm; old Natalya, who accompanied me and always, unconsciously, made me wonder what she was thinking about; my teacher – a queer fellow, half-Italian, half-French – who was at times genuinely enthusiastic but more often pedantic and mean; all this entertained me and made me laugh and wonder. Moreover, I loved music with passionate though diffident hope; I built castles in the air, pictured the most marvellous future and often, as I returned home, was quite transported by my own fantasies. In fact, for those hours, I was almost happy. I had one such moment that day, at ten o’clock when I was on my way home from my lesson. I had forgotten everything, and I remember that I was happily dreaming. But, all at once, as I was going upstairs, I started as though I had been scalded. Above me I heard the voice of Pyotr Alexandrovitch, who at that moment was coming downstairs. The unpleasant feeling that came over me was so intense, the recollection of the previous day’s incident filled me with so much displeasure; that I could not conceal my alarm. I made a slight bow to him, but my face probably gave me away at that moment, for he stopped short and faced me in surprise. Seeing his movements, I flushed crimson and hurried upstairs; he muttered something after me and went on his way. I was upset and wanted to cry, unable to understand what had happened. I was not myself all morning and did not know what action to take to make an end of it, to be rid of it all as quickly as possible. A thousand times I vowed to myself to be more sensible, and a thousand times I was overwhelmed with the fear of what I had to do. I felt that I hated Alexandra Mikhailovna’s husband and yet, at the same time, I was in despair over my own behaviour. The ceaseless agitation was making me ill, and I was losing control. I felt annoyed with everyone; sat in my room all morning and did not even go to see Alexandra Mikhailovna. She came to me. She almost cried out when she caught sight of me. I was so pale that I frightened myself when I looked in the mirror. Alexandra Mikhailovna spent a whole hour with me, tending to me as if I were a little child.
But her concern and kindness made me more miserable. It was so painful to look at her that I finally asked her to leave me alone. She went away, greatly troubled about me. At last my misery found a vent in tears and hysteria. Towards evening I felt better…
Better, because I made up my mind to go to her. I decided to fall at her feet, to give her the letter she had lost, and to confess everything: all the agonies I had endured, all my doubts; to embrace her with the infinite love that glowed in my heart for her, my martyr; to tell her that I was her child, her friend, that my heart was open to her, that she must look into it and see the ardent, unshakeable feelings for her reflected there. My God! I felt as though I would be the last person to whom she could open her heart, but it seemed perhaps that would make salvation more certain and the effect of my words more powerful… Albeit vaguely and obscurely, I did understand her sufferings, and my heart seethed with indignation at the thought that she could possibly bow before me, before my judgement… Poor darling, my poor darling, as if you were a sinner! That is what I would say to her as I wept at her feet. My sense of justice was revolted; I was incensed. What I would have happened I do not know, but just as soon as I recovered myself, an unforeseen occurrence prevented my first move and saved us both from ruin. I was aghast. Would her tortured heart have risen to hope again? I would have killed her if I had told her.
This is what happened. I was on my way to her study and just two rooms away from it, when Pyotr Alexandrovitch came in by a side-door and, not noticing me, went on ahead of me. He, too, was going to see her. I stood stock-still; he was the last person I wanted to meet at such a moment. I wanted to turn back, but my curiosity rooted me to the spot.
He stood for a minute before the looking-glass, smoothed his hair, and, to my immense astonishment, I suddenly heard him humming some kind of tune. Instantly an obscure, distant memory belonging to my childhood rose in my mind. To clarify the strange sensation I felt at that moment, I shall describe the memory. It was of an incident that had made a profound impression upon me in the first year of my life in that house, although its significance was only now becoming clear, for only now, only at this moment, did I realize the origin of the inexplicable antipathy I felt for this man! I have already mentioned that, even in those days, I always felt ill at ease with him. I have already described the depressing effect on me of his frowning, nervous air, and the expression on his face, which was so frequently melancholy and despondent; I have already told how unhappy I was after the hours we spent together at Alexandra Mikhailovna’s tea-table and what terrible misery rent my heart on the two or three occasions when it was my misfortune to witness those gloomy, oppressive scenes. It happened that I had come upon him then just as I did now – in the same room, at the same time, when we were both on our way to see Alexandra Mikhailovna. I had been overwhelmed with purely childish shyness at meeting him alone and hid in a corner as if I had done something wrong, praying that he would not notice me. Then, just as now, he had stopped before the looking-glass, and I shuddered with a vague, unchildlike feeling. It seemed to me as if he were making up his face. Anyway, I had seen him smiling before he approached the looking-glass, then laughing. I had never seen him laugh, for (I remember it was this that struck me most of all) he never did so in the presence of Alexandra Mikhailovna. But as soon as he had looked in the glass his face had changed completely. The smile on his lips had disappeared as if at a word of command and had been replaced by a look of bitterness which appeared to spring from his heart spontaneously, involuntarily; a feeling which it had seemed beyond his power to disguise, in spite of tremendous effort, and which like a spasm of pain had distorted his mouth and creased his brow. His eyes had been deeply concealed behind his spectacles; in brief, he had seemed, at a given signal, to be changed into a different man. I remember that, as a little child, I had shuddered with the fear and dread of understanding what I had seen, and from then onwards an uneasy, disagreeable impression was locked in my heart for ever. After looking at himself for a minute in the glass he had lowered his head and hunched his shoulders, which was his normal posture when in the presence of his wife, and then he had tiptoed to her room. This was the memory that came back to me.
Netochka Nezvanova (Penguin ed.) Page 17
