“Yes, uncle, yes, that is all so; but, you see, she has refused me.”
“Refused you! Hm. ... Do you know, I had a sort of presentiment that she would refuse you,” he said, musing. “But no!” he cried. “I don’t believe it. It’s impossible. In that case, all our plans are upset! But you must have begun injudiciously somehow, even offended her perhaps. Perhaps you tried your hand at paying compliments. . . . Tell me how it was again, Sergey.”
I repeated the whole story in full detail again. When I came to Nastenka’s hoping by her departure to save my uncle from Tatvana Ivanovna, he gave a bitter smile.
“Save me!” he said. “Save me till to-morrow morning. . . .”
“But you don’t mean to say that you are going to marry Tatyana Ivanovna!” I cried in alarm.
“How else could I have paid for Nastasya’s not being sent away to-morrow? To-morrow I make the offer — the formal proposal.”
“And you have made up your mind to it, uncle?”
“What could I do, my boy, what could I do? It rends my heart, but I have made up my mind to it. The proposal will be to-morrow; they suggest that the wedding should be a quiet one, at home; it would certainly be better at home. You will perhaps be best man. I have already dropped a hint about you, so they won’t drive you away before then. There is no help for it, my boy. They say, ‘It’s a fortune for your children!’ Of course one would do anything for one’s children. One would turn head over heels, especially as really, perhaps, what they say is right. You know, I really ought to do something for my family. One can’t sit an idle drone for ever!”
“But, uncle, she is mad, you know!” I cried, forgetting myself, and there was a sickly pang at my heart.
“Oh, mad, is she now? She is not mad at all; it’s only, you know, that she has had trouble. . . . There is no help for it, my boy. Of course I should have been glad of one with sense. . . . Though, after all, some who have sense are no better! If only you knew what a kind-hearted creature she is, noble-hearted!”
“But, my God! he is resigning himself to the thought of it already,” I said in despair.
“And what else is there to do? You know they are doing their utmost for my benefit, and, indeed, I felt beforehand that sooner or later they would force me to marry, that there is no getting out of it. So better now than make more quarrelling about it. I am telling you everything quite openly, Seryozha. In a way I am actually glad. I have made up my mind, somehow. Why, I came here with my mind almost at ease. It seems, it’s my fate. And the great thing to make up for it wras that Nastenka would stay on. You know I agreed on that condition. And now she wants to run away of herself! But that shall not be!” my uncle cried, stamping. “Listen, Sergey,” he added with a determined air; “wait for me here, don’t go away. I will come back to you in an instant.”
“Where are you off to, uncle?”
“Perhaps I shall see her, Sergey; it will all be cleared up, believe me that it will all be cleared up, and . . . and . . . you shall marry her, I give you my word of honour!” . My uncle went quickly out of the room, and turned not towards the house, but into the garden. I watched him from the window.
CHAPTER XII
THE CATASTROPHE
I WAS left alone. My position was insufferable; I had been rejected, and my uncle meant to marry me almost by force. I was perplexed and lost in a tangle of ideas. Mizintchikov and his proposition was not absent from my mind for an instant. At all costs uncle must be saved! I even thought of going to look for Mizintchikov and telling him all about it. But where had my uncle gone, though? He had said himself that he was going to look for Nastenka, but had turned in the direction of the garden. The thought of secret meetings flashed through my mind, and a very unpleasant feeling clutched at my heart. I remembered what Mizintchikov had said of a secret liaison. After a moment’s thought I rejected my suspicions with indignation. My uncle was incapable of deceit: that was obvious. My uneasiness grew greater every moment. Unconsciously I went out on to the steps, and walked into the garden down the very avenue into which my uncle had disappeared. The moon was beginning to rise. I knew that garden through and through, and was not afraid of losing myself. As I drew near the old arbour which stood in solitude on the bank of the neglected scum-covered pond, I suddenly stood rooted to the spot; I heard voices in the arbour. I cannot describe the strange feeling of annoyance that took possession of me. I felt convinced that my uncle and Nastenka were there, and went on going nearer, appeasing my conscience by thinking that I was walking at the same pace as before and not trying to approach stealthily. Suddenly there was the distinct sound of a kiss, then stifled exclamations, and immediately afterwards a shrill feminine shriek. At that instant a woman in a white dress ran out of the arbour and flashed by me like a swallow. It even seemed to me that she hid her face in her hands that she might not be recognised: probably I had been noticed from the arbour. But what was my amazement when in the swain who emerged after the flying lady I recognised — Obnoskin, Obnoskin, who, according to Mizintchikov’s words, had gone away some hours before. Obnoskin on his side was greatly confused when he saw me; all his impudence vanished instantly.
“Excuse me, but ... I did not in the least expect to meet you,” he brought out, smiling and hesitating.
“Nor I you,” I answered ironically, “especially as I heard you had already gone away.”
“No. ... It was just ... I went a little on the way with my mother. But may I appeal to you as an absolutely honourable man?”
“What about?”
“There are cases — and you will agree yourself that it is so — when a truly honourable man is forced to appeal to the highest sense of honour of another truly honourable man. ... I hope you understand me. . . .”
“Do not hope, I understand absolutely nothing. ...”
“You saw the lady who was here with me in the arbour?”
“I saw her, but I did not recognise her.”
“Ah, you did not recognise her. . . . That lady I shall shortly call my wife.”
“I congratulate you. But in what way can I be of use to you?”
“Only in one way, by keeping it a dead secret that you have seen me with that lady.”
“Who can she be?” I wondered. “Surely not . . .”
“I really don’t know,” I answered Obnoskin. “I hope that you will excuse me for not being able to promise.”
“Yes, please, for God’s sake,” Obnoskin besought me. “Understand my position, it’s a secret. You may be betrothed too: then I . . .”
“Shi someone is coming!”
“Where?”
We did indeed catch a glimpse thirty paces away of the shadow of someone passing.
“It ... it must be Foma Fomitch!” Obnoskin whispered, trembling all over. “I know him from his walk. My God! And steps again from the other direction! Do you hear? . . . Good-bye! I thank you . . . and I entreat you . . .”
Obnoskin vanished. A minute later, as though he had sprung out of the earth, my uncle was before me.
“Is it you?” he greeted me. “It is all over, Seryozha, it is all over!”
I noticed, too, that he was trembling from head to foot.
“What is all over, uncle?”
“Come along!” he said, gasping for breath, and clutching my hand tightly he drew me alter him. He did not utter a word all the way to the lodge, nor did he let me speak. I was expecting something monstrous, and my expectations were almost realised.
When we went indoors he was overcome with giddiness, he was deathly pale. I promptly sprinkled him with water. “Something very awful must have happened,” I thought, “for a man like this to faint.”
“Uncle, what is the matter with you?” I asked him at last.
“All is over, Seryozha! Foma found me in the garden with Nastenka, at the very moment when I was kissing her.”
“Kissing her! In the garden!” I cried, looking at my uncle in amazement.
“In the garden, my boy. The Lord con
founded me I I went there to be sure of seeing her. I wanted to speak openly to her, to make her see reason — about you, I mean. And she had been waiting for me a whole hour, on the broken seat, beyond the pond. . . . She often goes there when she wants to speak to me.”
“Often, uncle?”
“Yes, often, my boy! Of late we have been meeting almost every night. Only they must have watched us — in fact, I know that they watched us and that it was Anna Nilovna’s doing. We gave it up for a time. The last four days we have not met; but to-day it was necessary again. You saw yourself how necessary it was; how else could I have said anything to her? I went in the hope of finding her, and she had been sitting there a whole hour, waiting for me: she, too, wanted to tell me something. ...”
“Good heavens, how incautious! Why, you knew that you were being watched!”
“But, you see, it was a critical matter, Seryozha; there was a great deal we had to discuss together. I don’t dare to look at her in the daytime. She looks in one corner and I look in another, as though she did not exist. But towards night we meet and have a talk. ...”
“Well, what happened, uncle?”
“Before I could utter a couple of words, you know, my heart began throbbing and the tears gushed from my eyes. I began trying to persuade her to marry you, and she answered me: ‘You certainly don’t love me — you must be blind.’ And all of a sudden she flings herself on my neck, throws her arms round me, and begins crying and sobbing! T love no one but you,’ she said, ‘and won’t marry anyone. I have loved you for ever so long, but I will never marry you. And to-morrow I am going away and going into a nunnery.’”
“My goodness! Did she really say that? Well, what then, uncle, what then?”
“I looked up and there was Foma facing us! And where had he sprung from? Could he have been sitting behind a bush, and waiting for some such lapse?”
“The scoundrel!”
“I was petrified, Nastenka ran away, while Foma Fomitch passed by without a word and held up his finger at me. Sergey, do you understand what a hubbub there will be to-morrow?”
“I should think I do!”
“Do you understand?” he cried in despair, leaping up from his seat. “Do you understand that they will try to ruin her, to disgrace her, to dishonour her; they are looking for a pretext to accuse her of something disgraceful, and now the pretext is found. You know they will say that she is carrying on an abominable intrigue with me! You know, the scoundrels made out that she had an intrigue with Vidoplyasov! It’s all Anna Nilovna’s tales. What will happen now? What will happen to-morrow? Will Foma really tell them?”
“He’ll certainly tell them, uncle.”
“If he does, if he really does tell ..,” he brought out, biting his lips and clenching his fists. “But no, I don’t believe it! He won’t tell, he will understand ... he is a man of the loftiest character! He will spare her. ...”
“Whether he spares her or whether he doesn’t,” I answered resolutely, “it is your duty in any case to make Nastasya Yevgrafovna an offer to-morrow.”
My uncle looked fixedly at me.
“Do you understand, uncle, that you have mined the girl’s reputation if this story gets about? Do you understand that you ought to prevent that calamity as quickly as possible; that you ought to look them all in the face boldly and proudly, ought to offer her your hand publicly, to spurn their arguments and pound Foma to a jelly if he hints a word against her?”
“My dear boy,” cried my uncle. “I thought of that as I came along here!”
“And did you make up your mind?”
“Yes, and finally! I had made up my mind before I began speaking to you.”
“Bravo, uncle!”
And I rushed to embrace him.
We talked for a long time. I put before him all the arguments, all the absolute necessity for marrying Nastenka, which, indeed, he understood far better than I did. But my eloquence was aroused. I was delighted on my uncle’s account. He was impelled by a sense of duty or he would never have taken a stand. He had the deepest reverence for duty, for obligation. But in spite of that I was quite unable to imagine how things would be settled. I knew and blindly believed that nothing would induce my uncle to fall short of what he had once recognised as his duty; but yet I could not believe that he would have the strength to stand out against his household. And so I did my utmost to incite him and urge him on, and set to work with all the fervour of youth.
“The more so,” I said, “as now everything is settled and your last doubts have vanished! What you did not expect, though in reality everyone else saw it, and everyone noticed it before you did, has happened; Nastasya Yevgrafovna loves you! Surely,” I cried, “you will not let that pure love be turned into shame and disgrace for her?”
“Never! But, my dear boy, can I really be going to be so happy?’ I cried my uncle, throwing himself on my neck. “And how is it she loves me, and what for? What for? It seems to me there is nothing in me likely to ... I am an old man compared to her; I certainly did not expect it! My angel, my angel! . . . Listen, Seryozha! you asked me this evening whether I were not in love with her: had you any idea?”
“All I saw, uncle, was that you love her as much as anyone can love: you love her and at the same time you don’t know it yourself. Upon my word! You invite me, you want to marry me to her solely in order that she may become your niece, and so you may have her always with you. ...”
“But you . . . you do forgive me, Sergey?”
“Oh, uncle. . . .”
And he embraced me again.
“Mind, uncle, they will all be against you: you must stand up for yourself and resist them, and no later than to-morrow!”
“Yes . . . yes, to-morrow ..,” he repeated somewhat pensively. “And you know we must attack the business with manliness, with true nobility of soul, with strength of will . . . Yes, with strength of will!”
“Don’t be frightened, uncle.”
“I am not frightened, Seryozha! There’s one thing I don’t know how to begin, how to proceed.”
“Don’t think about it, uncle. To-morrow will settle everything. Set your mind at rest for to-day. The more you think the worse it will be. And if Foma begins — kick him out of the house at once and pound him to a jelly.”
“And can’t we avoid kicking him out? What I have decided, my boy, is this. To-morrow I shall go to him early, at dawn, I shall tell him all about it, just as I have told you here. Surely he cannot but understand me, he is a high-minded man, the most high-minded of men. But I tell you what does worry me: what if mamma speaks to Tatyana Ivanovna to-day of the offer to be made to her to-morrow? That would be unlucky, wouldn’t it?”
“Don’t worry yourself about Tatyana Ivanovna, uncle.”
And I told him about the scene in the arbour with Obnoskin. My uncle was extremely surprised. I did not say a word about Mizintchikov.
“A fantastical person. A really fantastical person!” he cried. “Poor thing! They ingratiate themselves with her and try to take advantage of her simplicity. Was it really Obnoskin? But, you know, he has gone away. . . . Strange, awfully strange! I am astonished, Seryozha. . . . We must look into it to-morrow and take steps. . . . But are you perfectly certain that it was Tatyana Ivanovna?”
I answered that I had not seen her face, but for certain reasons I was positive that it was Tatyana Ivanovna.
“H’m. Wasn’t it a little intrigue with one of the servant girls and you fancied it was Tatyana Ivanovna? Wasn’t it Dasha, the gardener’s daughter? A sly hussy! She has been remarked upon, that’s why I say so. Anna Nilovna caught her! . . . But it wasn’t she, though! He said he meant to marry her. Strange, strange!”
At last we parted. I embraced my uncle and gave him my blessing.
“To-morrow, to-morrow,” he repeated, “it will all be settled; before you are up it will be settled. I shall go to Foma and take a chivalrous line, I will speak frankly as I would to my own brother, I will lay bare the inmost reces
ses of my heart. Good-bye, Seryozha. You go to bed, you are tired; but I am sure I shan’t shut my eyes all night.”
He went away. I went to bed at once, tired out and utterly exhausted. It had been a hard day. My nerves were overwrought, and before I fell really asleep I kept starting and waking up again. But strange as my impressions were on going off to sleep, the strangeness of them was as nothing beside the queerness of my awakening next morning.
Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky Page 86
