Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  Three or four minutes passed by, while Velchaninoff heard the rapid interchange of whispers going on, and an occasional rather louder sound of Liza’s voice, apparently entreating her father to leave her alone — so Velchaninoff concluded.

  At last the two came out.

  “There you are — she’s dreadfully shy and proud,” said Pavel Pavlovitch; “just like her mother.”

  Liza entered the room without tears, but with eyes downcast, her father leading her by the hand. She was a tall, slight, and very pretty little girl. She raised her large blue eyes to the visitor’s face with curiosity; but only glanced surlily at him, and dropped them again. There was that in her expression that one always sees in children when they look on some new guest for the first time — retiring to a corner, and looking out at him thence seriously and mistrustingly; only that there was a something in her manner beyond the usual childish mistrust — so, at least thought Velchaninoff.

  Her father brought her straight up to the visitor.

  “There — this gentleman knew mother very well. He was our friend; you mustn’t be shy, — give him your hand!”

  The child bowed slightly, and timidly stretched out her hand.

  “Natalia Vasilievna never would teach her to curtsey; she liked her to bow, English fashion, and give her hand,” explained Pavel Pavlovitch, gazing intently at Velchaninoff.

  Velchaninoff knew perfectly well that the other was keenly examining him at this moment, but he made no attempt to conceal his agitation: he sat motionless on his chair and held the child’s hand in his, gazing into her face the while.

  But Liza was apparently much preoccupied, and did not take her eyes off her father’s face; she listened timidly to every word he said.

  Velchaninoff recognised her large blue eyes at once; but what specially struck him was the refined pallor of her face, and the colour of her hair; these traits were altogether too significant, in his eyes! Her features, on the other hand, and the set of her lips, reminded him keenly of Natalia Vasilievna. Meanwhile Pavel Pavlovitch was in the middle of some apparently most interesting tale — one of great sentiment seemingly, — but Velchaninoff did not hear a word of it until the last few words struck upon his ear:

  “... So that you can’t imagine what our joy was when Providence sent us this gift, Alexey Ivanovitch! She was everything to me, for I felt that if it should be the will of Heaven to deprive me of my other joy, I should still have Liza left to me; that’s what I felt, sir, I did indeed!”

  “And Natalia Vasilievna?” asked Velchaninoff.

  “Oh, Natalia Vasilievna—” began Pavel Pavlovitch, smiling with one side of his mouth; “she never used to like to say much — as you know yourself; but she told me on her deathbed — deathbed! you know, sir — to the very day of her death she used to get so angry and say that they were trying to cure her with a lot of nasty medicines when she had nothing the matter but a simple little feverish attack; and that when Koch arrived (you remember our old doctor Koch?) he would make her all right in a fortnight. Why, five hours before she died she was talking of fixing that day three weeks for a visit to her Aunt, Liza’s godmother, at her country place!” Velchaninoff here started from his seat, but still held the child’s hand. He could not help thinking that there was something reproachful in the girl’s persistent stare in her father’s face.

  “Is she ill?” he asked hurriedly, and his voice had a strange tone in it.

  “No! I don’t think so” said Pavel Pavlovitch; “but, you see our way of living here, and all that: she’s a strange child and very nervous, besides! After her mother’s death she was quite ill and hysterical for a fortnight. Just before you came in she was crying like anything; and do you know what about, sir? Do you hear me, Liza? — You listen! — Simply because I was going out, and wished to leave her behind, and because she said I didn’t love her so well as I used to in her mother’s time. That’s what she pitches into me for! Fancy a child like this getting hold of such an idea! — a child who ought to be playing at dolls, instead of developing ideas of that sort! The thing is, she has no one to play with here.”

  “Then — then — are you two quite alone here?”

  “Quite! a servant comes in once a day, that’s all!”

  “And when you go out, do you leave her quite alone?”

  “Of course! What else am I to do? Yesterday I locked her in that room, and that’s what all the tears were about this morning. What could I do? the day before yesterday she went down into the yard all by herself, and a boy took a shot at her head with a stone! Not only that, but she must needs go and cling on to everybody she met, and ask where I had gone to! That’s not so very pleasant, you see! But I oughtn’t to complain when I say I am going out for an hour and then stay out till four in the morning, as I did last night! The landlady came and let her out: she had the door broken open! Nice for my feelings, eh! It’s all the result of the eclipse that came over my life; nothing but that, sir!”

  “Papa!” said the child, timidly and anxiously.

  “Now, then! none of that again! What did I tell you yesterday?”

  “I won’t; I won’t!” cried the child hurriedly, clasping her hands before her entreatingly.

  “Come! things can’t be allowed to go on in this way!” said Velchaninoff impatiently, and with authority. “In the first place, you are a man of property; how can you possibly live in a hole like this, and in such disorder?”

  “This place! Oh, but we shall probably have left this place within a week; and I’ve spent a lot of money here, as it is, though I may be ‘a man of property;’ and — —”

  “Very well, that’ll do,” interrupted Velchaninoff with growing impatience, “now, I’ll make you a proposition: you have just said that you intend to stay another week — perhaps two. I have a house here — or rather I know a family where I am as much at home as at my own fireside, and have been so for twenty years. The family I mean is the Pogoryeltseffs — Alexander Pavlovitch Pogoryeltseff is a state councillor (he may be of use to you in your business!) They are now living in the country — they have a beautiful country villa; Claudia Petrovna, the lady of the house, is like a sister — like a mother to me; they have eight children. Let me take Liza down to them without loss of time! they’ll receive her with joy, and they’ll treat her like their own little daughter — they will, indeed!”

  Velchaninoff was in a great hurry, and much excited, and he did not conceal his feelings.

  “I’m afraid it’s impossible!” said Pavel Pavlovitch with a grimace, looking straight into his visitor’s eyes, very cunningly, as it seemed to Velchaninoff.

  “Why! why, impossible?”

  “Oh, why! to let the child go — so suddenly, you know, of course with such a sincere well-wisher as yourself — it’s not that! — but a strange house — and such swells, too! — I don’t know whether they would receive her!”

  “But I tell you I’m like a son of the house!” cried Velchaninoff, almost angrily. “Claudia Petrovna will be delighted to take her, at one word from me! She’d receive her as though she were my own daughter. Deuce take it, sir, you know you are only humbugging me, — what’s the use of talking about it?”

  He stamped his foot.

  “No — no! I mean to say — don’t it look a little strange? Oughtn’t I to call once or twice first? — such a smart house as you say theirs is — don’t you see — —”

  “I tell you it’s the simplest house in the world; it isn’t ‘smart’ in the least bit,” cried Velchaninoff; “they have a lot of children: it will make another girl of her! — I’ll introduce you there myself, to-morrow, if you like. Of course you’ll have to go and thank them, and all that. You shall go down every day with me, if you please.”

  “Oh, but — —”

  “Nonsense! You know it’s nonsense! Now look here: you come to me this evening — I’ll put you up for the night — and we’ll start off early to-morrow and be down there by twelve.”

  “Benefactor!
— and I may spend the night at your house?” cried Pavel Pavlovitch, instantly consenting to the plan with the greatest cordiality,— “you are really too good! And where’s their country house?”

  “At the Liesnoy.”

  “But look here, how about her dress? Such a house, you know, — a father’s heart shrinks — —”

  “Nonsense! — she’s in mourning — what else could she wear but a black dress like this? it’s exactly the thing; you couldn’t imagine anything more so! — you might let her have some clean linen with her, and give her a cleaner neck-handkerchief.”

  “Directly, directly. We’ll get her linen together in a couple of minutes — it’s just home from the wash!”

  “Send for a carriage — can you? Tell them to let us have it at once, so as not to waste time.”

  But now an unexpected obstacle arose: Liza absolutely rejected the plan; she had listened to it with terror, and if Velchaninoff had, in his excited argument with Pavel Pavlovitch, had time to glance at the child’s face, he would have observed her expression of absolute despair at this moment.

  “I won’t go!” she said, quietly but firmly.

  “There — look at that! Just like her mamma!”

  “I’m not like mamma, I’m not like mamma!” cried Liza, wringing her little hands in despair. “Oh, papa — papa!” she added, “if you desert me—” she suddenly threw herself upon the alarmed Velchaninoff— “If you take me away—” she cried— “I’ll — —”

  But Liza had no time to finish her sentence, for Pavel Pavlovitch suddenly seized her by the arm and collar and hustled her into the next room with unconcealed rage. For several minutes Velchaninoff listened to the whispering going on there, — whisperings and seemingly subdued crying on the part of Liza. He was about to follow the pair, when suddenly out came Pavel Pavlovitch, and stated — with a disagreeable grin — that Liza would come directly.

  Velchaninoff tried not to look at him and kept his eyes fixed on the other side of the room.

  The elderly woman whom Velchaninoff had met on the stairs also made her appearance, and packed Liza’s things into a neat little carpet bag.

  “Is it you that are going to take the little lady away, sir?” she asked; “if so, you are doing a good deed! She’s a nice quiet child, and you are saving her from goodness knows what, here!”

  “Oh! come — Maria Sisevna,” — began Pavel Pavlovitch.

  “Well? What? Isn’t it true! Arn’t you ashamed to let a girl of her intelligence see the things that you allow to go on here? The carriage has arrived for you, sir, — you ordered one for the Liesnoy, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, good luck to you!”

  Liza came out, looking very pale and with downcast eyes; she took her bag, but never glanced in Velchaninoff’s direction. She restrained herself and did not throw herself upon her father, as she had done before — not even to say good-bye. She evidently did not wish to look at him.

  Her father kissed her and patted her head in correct form; her lip curled during the operation, the chin trembled a little, but she did not raise her eyes to her father’s.

  Pavel Pavlovitch looked pale, and his hands shook; Velchaninoff saw that plainly enough, although he did his best not to see the man at all. He (Velchaninoff) had but one thought, and that was how to get away at once!

  Downstairs was old Maria Sisevna, waiting to say good-bye; and more kissing was done. Liza had just climbed into the carriage when suddenly she caught sight of her father’s face; she gave a loud cry and wrung her hands, — in another minute she would have been out of the carriage and away, but luckily the vehicle went on and she was too late!

  CHAPTER VI.

  “Are you feeling faint?” asked Velchaninoff of his companion, frightened out of his wits: “I’ll tell him to stop and get you some water, shall I?”

  She looked at him angrily and reproachfully.

  “Where are you taking me to?” she asked coldly and abruptly.

  “To a very beautiful house, Liza. There are plenty of children, — they’ll all love you there, they are so kind! Don’t be angry with me, Liza; I wish you well, you know!”

  In truth, Velchaninoff would have looked strange at this moment to any acquaintance, if such had happened to see him!

  “How — how — how — oh! how wicked you are!” said Liza, fighting with suppressed tears, and flashing her fine angry eyes at him.

  “But Liza — I — —”

  “You are bad — bad — and wicked!” cried Liza. She wrung her hands.

  Velchaninoff was beside himself.

  “Oh, Liza, Liza! if only you knew what despair you are causing me!” he said.

  “Is it true that he is coming down to-morrow?” asked the child haughtily— “is it true or not?”

  “Quite true — I shall bring him down myself, — I shall take him and bring him!”

  “He will deceive you somehow!” cried the child, drooping her eyes.

  “Doesn’t he love you, then, Liza?”

  “No.”

  “Has he ill-treated you, — has he?”

  Liza looked gloomily at her questioner, and said nothing. She then turned away from him and sat still and depressed.

  Velchaninoff commenced to talk: he tried to win her, — he spoke warmly — excitedly — feverishly.

  Liza listened incredulously and with a hostile air, — but still she listened. Her attention delighted him beyond measure; — he went so far as to explain to her what it meant when a man took to drink. He said that he loved her and would himself look after her father.

  At last Liza raised her eyes and gazed fixedly at him.

  Then Velchaninoff began to speak of her mother and of how well he had known her; and he saw that his tales attracted her. Little by little she began to reply to his questions, but very cautiously and in an obstinately monosyllabic way.

  She would answer nothing to his chief inquiries; as to her former relations with her father, for instance, she maintained an obstinate silence.

  While speaking to her, Velchaninoff held the child’s hand in his own, as before; and she did not try to take it away.

  Liza said enough to make it apparent that she had loved her father more than her mother at first, because that her father had loved the child better than her mother did; but that when her mother had died and was lying dead, Liza wept over her and kissed her, and ever since then she had loved her mother more than all — all there was in the whole world — and that every night she thought of her and loved her.

  But Liza was very proud, and suddenly recollecting herself and finding that she was saying a great deal more than she had meant to reveal, she paused, and relapsed into obstinate silence once more, and gazed at Velchaninoff with something like hatred in her eyes, considering that he had beguiled her into the revelations just made.

  By the end of the journey, however, her hysterical condition was nearly over, but she was very silent and sat looking morosely about her, obstinately silent and gloomy, like a little wild animal.

  The fact that she was being taken to a strange house where she had never been before did not seem so far to weigh upon her; Velchaninoff saw clearly enough that other things distressed her, and principally that she was ashamed — ashamed that her father should have let her go so easily — thrown her away, as it were — into Velchaninoff’s arms.

  “She’s ill,” thought the latter, “and perhaps very ill; she has been bullied and ill-treated. Oh! that drunken, blackguardly wretch of a fellow!” He hurried on the coachman. Velchaninoff trusted greatly to the fresh air, to the garden, to the children, to the new life, now; as to the future, he was in no sort of doubt at all, his hopes were clear and defined. One thing he was quite sure of, and that was that he had never before felt what now swelled within his soul, and that the sensation would last for ever and ever.

  “I have an object at last! this is Life!” he said to himself enthusiastically.

  Many thoughts welled into h
is brain just now, but he would have none of them; he did not care to think of details at this moment, for without details the future was all so clear and so beautiful, and so safe and indestructible!

  The basis of his plan was simple enough; it was simply this, in the language of his own thoughts:

  “I shall so work upon that drunken little blackguard that he will leave Liza with the Pogoryeltseffs, and go away alone — at first, ‘for a time,’ of course! — and so Liza shall remain behind for me! what more do I want? The plan will suit him, too! — else why does he bully her like this?”

  The carriage arrived at last.

  It was certainly a very beautiful place. They were met first of all by a troop of noisy children, who overflowed on to the front-door steps. Velchaninoff had not been down for some time, and the delight of the little ones to see him was excessive — they were very fond of him.

  The elder ones shouted, before he had left the carriage, by way of chaff:

  “How’s the lawsuit getting on, eh?” and the smaller gang took up the joke, and all clamoured the same question: it was a pet joke in this establishment to chaff Velchaninoff about his lawsuit. But when Liza climbed down the carriage steps, she was instantly surrounded and stared at with true juvenile curiosity. Then Claudia Petrovna and her husband came out, and both of them good-humouredly bantered Velchaninoff about his lawsuit.

  Claudia Petrovna was a lady of some thirty-seven summers, stout and well-favoured, and with a sweet fresh-looking face. Her husband was a man of fifty-five, a clever and long-headed man of the world, but above all, a good and kind-hearted friend to anyone requiring kindness.

  The Pogoryeltseffs’ house was in the full sense of the word a “home” to Velchaninoff, as the latter had stated. There was rather more here, however; for, twenty years since Claudia had very nearly married young Velchaninoff almost a boy at that time, and a student at the university.

  This had been his first experience of love — and very hot and fiery and funny — and sweet it was! The end of it was, however, that Claudia married Mr Pogoryeltseff. Five years later she and Velchaninoff had met again, and a quiet candid friendship had sprung up between them. Since then there had always been a warmth, a speciality about their friendship, a radiance which overspread it and glorified their relations one to the other. There was nothing here that Velchaninoff could remember with shame — all was pure and sweet; and this was perhaps the reason why the friendship was specially dear to Velchaninoff; he had not experienced many such platonic intimacies.