A Double Life
Page 9
The obedient Nadezhda Ivanovna, fulfilling her almost daily duty, went out, and Dmitry Ivachinsky came in.
Madame Valitskaia extended her hand to him in a friendly manner.
“Natalia Afanasevna,” he said, “I have come to you with a most important request.”
“I’m ready to do everything possible,” she interrupted approvingly.
“It’s a question of my life’s happiness,” he continued. “I am speaking to you directly and without preparation: I love Cecily Alexandrovna. I fell in love with her long ago; I have been hiding it for more than a year. But I can hide it no longer.”
Dmitry was always carried away by his own words. One could say that he did not control them, but rather the opposite. From this fact, there sometimes resulted something resembling lies.
“I guessed your secret long ago,” Natalia Afanasevna answered in her kindly voice.
“I beg you,” he added, “help me to reach this happiness! Take it upon yourself to convey my request to Vera Vladimirovna. Try to win her over. Be my Providence.”
“Are you sure that Cecily loves you?” she asked.
“I have reason to presume so,” he answered with a smile that gave a measure of his mind.
“I thought so myself; but you see, Dmitry Andreevich, this whole business is very difficult. Let’s speak openly with one another. There’s an impediment here: Prince Victor….”
“Prince Victor!” Dmitry burst out with proud scorn, not having the strength to refrain from the pleasure of pronouncing this name in such a tone for the first time.
“Yes, Prince Victor, although I am completely convinced that he has never thought seriously about Cecily as a bride for himself….”
“He may have thought about her,” Dmitry interrupted again with an arrogant quip, “but she has certainly not thought about him.”
Madame Valitskaia assumed her well-known expression that might mean anything at all, and continued:
“Perhaps, but he flirts with her all the same, and her mother hopes that a wedding will follow from this. His huge fortune tempts her against her will. I, for my part, have never thought of seeking wealth in choosing a husband for Olga, but Vera Vladimirovna is of another mind on that score. I don’t know if I can be of use to you in this business.”
“Natalia Afanasevna! Have mercy! Don’t refuse me your aid. You alone can arrange it all. You are so close to Vera Vladimirovna. Convince her to agree to our happiness! This love is mutual. Cecily will be unhappy with another husband, as I will be with another wife. Vera Vladimirovna truly does not wish her daughter to be miserable, nor would you. Surely you’d be delighted to accept in a case like this if it were Olga Alexeevna?”
“Fool!” Natalia Afanasevna thought.
“I cannot judge others as I would myself,” she said sweetly, “and have no right to demand that they share my feelings and opinions. I have different conceptions of life’s happiness, and in such circumstances, I would naturally not hesitate for a moment if I were in Vera Vladimirovna’s place. But I am afraid that she is not like me in this respect. On the other hand, I sincerely wish you success. But in order to attain it, you must go about things extremely cautiously. You see, I am of course very friendly with Vera Vladimirovna, but I have almost no influence over her. In order to put forth your proposition to her, we have to find someone whose opinion might influence her, someone who might command her respect. Let me think … well, yes, who better? … Only, will she do it?”
“Who might that be?” Dmitry asked.
“None other than Princess Anna Sergeevna, Prince Victor’s mother. Her request will carry a good deal of weight, and success would almost be guaranteed. Only it will be difficult to persuade her; you do not know her very well.”
“But you know her very well, Natalia Afanasevna. Can’t you ask her?”
“Yes, perhaps she won’t say no to me. By the way, she loves to arrange weddings. Let us try! I want to justify fully your faith in me. Would you like me to take you to her right now so that I may try to persuade her?”
“Natalia Afanasevna, I’m unutterably grateful to you. How kind you are!”
“I’m always sincerely happy to do a service for my friends,” she said, “especially such an important service. It’s a question of your happiness; I will do my utmost.”
She rang; a manservant entered.
“My carriage in ten minutes,” ordered Natalia Afanasevna. “Wait for me here,” she continued, turning to Ivachinsky, “I’ll be ready in a minute.”
Indeed, she returned in a very short time, dressed and wearing a hat, and the carriage was brought so quickly that one might have guessed that it had been standing there, already harnessed. Madame Valitskaia and Dmitry got into it and set off to see Princess Anna Sergeevna.
On the way, Natalia Afanasevna, leaning back in the corner of the carriage, kept silent or responded absentmindedly to what Ivachinsky was saying. The idea on whose outcome she was already acting was still lying obscure and undeveloped within her. This had been a sudden insight, one of those strokes of genius that never deceive us, however unreal and strange they may appear: you believe in success, not yet seeing its possibility and not yet understanding its realization. Now she was thinking everything through, clarifying all the details, and preparing the whole scene in her head, and she understood more and more that the affair would run smoothly, that the unbelievable would happen, that chance would not alter it, that no circumstance, no grain of sand would hinder its success. This success was hanging by a thread and could be destroyed by a single word; but Madame Valitskaia had a presentiment that the thread would not break, that the word would not be spoken. This was the sixth sense of the intriguer, similar to the clairvoyance of the great.
They arrived, they were announced, they were received. The old princess was very busy with the inspection and selection of new material for dresses. But for Madame Valitskaia’s sake, she cut short her profound deliberations with the French mademoiselle who was spreading out enticing goods before her, and, sending her away, she ordered her to return with them that evening so that she could judge the effect of the materials by candlelight. Then she turned to greet Natalia Afanasevna.
“Princess!” the latter began. “Knowing how kind you are, I took the liberty of bringing you a young man to whose happiness you can contribute. I was convinced in advance that you would not refuse.”
“Delighted,” muttered the princess, not yet understanding and not recognizing Ivachinsky.
“Dmitry Andreevich Ivachinsky,” said Madame Valitskaia, introducing him. “You have met him socially.”
“Delighted,” the princess repeated haughtily.
“Permit me to go into your boudoir with you,” Natalia Afanasevna continued. “It will take no more than five minutes for me to explain the reason for our visit. I know that you are always glad of the opportunity to do a good deed. In the meantime, you wait here, Dmitry Andreevich.”
She went into her boudoir with the princess, who, to tell the truth, was not at all so predisposed to good deeds and favors as Madame Valitskaia had asserted. But it is very hard to contradict such assertions and convictions, and for the princess, it was even harder.
Princess Anna Sergeevna had somehow divined—God knows through what revelation—that in order to be a complete woman, one should add to wealth some other ingredient. Meanwhile, profoundly despising intellectual abilities and talents (which always seemed to her to be signs of something plebeian), having long since lost her former claim to eminence—beauty—and, what is more, understanding that at her age, it was no longer a great virtue to be virtuous, she had decided as old age approached to be kind. This came at an unbelievably great cost to her egotistical nature, but she persisted and had finally acquired the reputation of someone who was impossibly kind. Taking advantage of this, Madame Valitskaia found it very easy to convince her, although at first, the princess did not quite understand why she had to take such an interest in this Ivachinsky and go off and ma
ke a match for him. But Natalia Afanasevna was a past mistress in such cases: once she was alone with the princess, she explained the whole matter to her perfectly and made her understand.
“You see, Princess, these poor children love one another passionately, but Vera Vladimirovna is looking for a brilliant match for her daughter, and the young man is not wealthy.”
“Not everyone can be wealthy,” the princess very justly remarked.
“That is absolutely true! Nevertheless, Vera Vladimirovna does not wish Cecily to marry him. But she esteems and respects you so much that …”
The princess’s face was saying: I should certainly hope she respects me!
“Your opinion,” the advocate continued, “carries such weight that she is bound to agree if only you could undertake to talk to her about this matter. You understand that she would find it awkward to refuse you.”
“Of course,” the princess agreed.
“And so, you will ride over and sacrifice an hour in order to arrange the happiness of two hearts and save them from despair. I didn’t doubt for a minute your readiness to fulfill my request.”
“Very well,” the princess answered, “I might as well go immediately: one should not postpone a good deed.”
“I guessed right about you,” Natalia Afanasevna said. “But one more thing: you understand better than anyone how to make use of people’s weaknesses in such instances.” (Madame Valitskaia, saying this, was truly inimitable.) “You know how proud Vera Vladimirovna is of her maternal powers of perception, and she really does follow all the feelings and actions of her daughter uncommonly closely. She would be extremely offended if you were to speak to her of this mutual love as of an event unknown to her, and if you even considered it necessary to mention the young man’s name. Naturally, you will only hint to her about him so as not to insult the main core of her self-esteem. She will understand you as soon as you start speaking and will be very content to show you that she has understood and that nothing concerning Cecily can be hidden from her. What can you do? She is such a kind woman that one can forgive her this small bit of maternal vanity.”
“Naturally,” said the princess, “and I will try to spare her.”
“You are always so tactful,” Madame Valitskaia continued, “and know so well how to act with everyone! You know that in order to win over Vera Vladimirovna, one should not give her advice; she doesn’t like it.”
“I know,” answered the princess. “I will simply tell her that I have taken it upon myself to seek her consent.”
“Exactly,” said Natalia Afanasevna.
They came out together into the drawing room, where the impatient Dmitry was waiting. The princess accepted the eloquent outpourings of his gratitude and ordered her carriage.
“Don’t worry,” she repeated, seating herself in it, “I will arrange everything and will send you word.”
“I am sure, princess,” Natalia Afanasevna replied, “that you will act with extraordinary skill and will forget nothing that might lead to our goal. You have knowledge of the heart.”
With this, the princess set forth, already very satisfied with her own magnanimous selflessness, which had enticed her to ride out in such heat, across almost the whole park, for another’s benefit. And Natalia Afanasevna and Dmitry once more got into her carriage, and she could not help pronouncing somewhat inspiredly:
“Home!”
Vera Vladimirovna was ready to set forth on her usual visiting obligations when Princess Anna Sergeevna’s arrival was announced to her. This was an unusual event: The princess rarely went out in the morning, and, having spent the whole previous evening at Vera Vladimirovna’s, she surprised her very much by appearing again on the following day. Here was something to wonder about. Vera Vladimirovna hastened to meet her and invited her to sit down.
“I have not come to you today on a simple visit,” the princess began. “I have taken upon myself a rather delicate business: I have been entrusted with making a proposal to you….”
She stopped in order to take a pinch of snuff. Vera Vladimirovna shuddered inwardly as if from a galvanic shock. She dared not yet rejoice.
“The proposal concerns Cecily,” the princess continued slowly. “You no doubt understand who I am talking about.”
Vera Vladimirovna could not refrain from rejoicing.
“You probably noticed yesterday,” the princess added and took another pinch of snuff.
“Indeed,” Vera Vladimirovna said. “I did notice.”
How could she not acknowledge this? She had in fact so vigilantly followed every word and step of Prince Victor in the course of the previous evening.
“Yes,” the princess added, “I too saw something.” (This would have demonstrated improbable powers of sight, because the princess had spent nearly the whole evening at the card table, in a special room.) “Of course,” she continued, “you have already guessed about Cecily’s love as well!”
If this had come from anyone else, Vera Vladimirovna would have been extremely offended by even the supposition that Cecily secretly loved someone. But the mother of Prince Victor herself was saying this. It was impossible for Vera Vladimirovna to contradict her. And besides, it was no longer a question of taking offense.
“A loving mother always guesses all the movements of her daughter’s heart,” she exclaimed with feeling, barely hiding her triumphant bliss.
“I think,” said the princess, “that you have no objection.”
Had these words been chosen by Madame Valitskaia herself, they could not have corresponded more closely with her aims. One could only regret that the bold instigator of this scene did not witness it.
“I never wanted to hamper Cecily,” the tender mother answered. “She made her choice freely. Her upbringing was a guarantee to me that this choice would be approved by me.”
“I assumed so,” the princess said, “and I was convinced that you would not oppose this mutual love. And so, you agree?”
“Princess,” Vera Vladimirovna answered, yielding to a very real temptation to make use of this auspicious moment, which allowed her to become with impunity a woman magnanimous and stoical, “I did not have wealth in mind for Cecily. I only wanted her to find a husband with spiritual virtues and a warm heart, a noble man in the true sense of the word. My wishes have been fulfilled; God has heard my prayer!”
“And so,” the princess said, in conclusion, “I may go home with a satisfactory answer? You give your agreement?”
“I give it with sincere joy,” Vera Vladimirovna assured her. “I could not wish for a better husband for my daughter. I know that she will be happy.”
“Naturally,” said the princess, “you are absolutely right. Money does not buy happiness.”
“Could she want to deprive her son of his inheritance?” the frightened Vera Vladimirovna was thinking.
“Love conquers all,” continued the princess, having once again taken recourse to her gold snuffbox. “Your Cecily will joyfully sacrifice empty superfluity and a few trivial habits. You have been so skilled in developing her ability to reason; even a moderate lot will satisfy her.”
“What is this? What is this? …” the poor Vera Vladimirovna was thinking. “Lord, what does this mean? … Is she herself undertaking to remarry? The estate after all is hers alone….”
She glanced at the princess. It was difficult to make such a supposition.
“And so,” the princess said, getting up, “I will go home to reassure the young man, who impatiently awaits an answer. I am very happy for him. He pleaded so with me just now that I could not refuse undertaking to speak to you about his proposal, although at first this seemed to me not quite appropriate. Well, thank God! That’s the end of it. And he, poor man, feared a refusal. But I knew that you would agree. You are such a good mother. And he, it seems, is a very respectable man. He has good acquaintances. He can enter any profitable career, find patronage, and make his way in life. I will tell Victor to help him. Well, then, goodbye.”
But it was impossible to make inquiries about the name of the man to whom she had agreed to give her daughter.
Embarrassed, she looked for a possibility of salvation and didn’t find it; in her mind, all was confusion. Then it seemed that the means appeared to her for an instant, and she grasped at it with the eagerness of a dying person.
“Excuse me, princess,” she said. “Haven’t we been in too much of a hurry in this? I must have a serious talk with Cecily.”
“Her love is known to you,” the princess answered. “There is nothing to ask her.”
“Of course … but even so … this is such an important step that a young girl must think it over thoroughly; it’s so easy to make a mistake!”
“You were just saying that you could not wish for a better husband for Cecily.”
“Of course … I am convinced … still … allow me to ask her….”
The unhappy Vera Vladimirovna was becoming completely lost.
“If you please,” said the princess, “speak with her, although this seems to me completely unnecessary. She will surely be ready to marry the man she loves. Goodbye.”
Vera Vladimirovna was saved. She could settle accounts with Cecily; she could learn her secret, forbid her to think about this man of no means, annihilate this stupid love, and find some pretext, some excuse to refuse it. She was, of course, an exceedingly good mother, and she was always ready to fulfill the whims and desires of her daughter; but this was an altogether different matter—this was not a joke.
Swiftly grasping all this, somewhat reassured, she escorted the princess out.
Madame Valitskaia’s brilliant plan had not succeeded. She had lost the affair in spite of her firm faith in success. In order that this faith might not deceive her, it was now necessary for some completely extraneous, unforeseen circumstance to present itself.
The circumstance appeared.
It could not have been otherwise! Napoleon was not killed by an infernal machine because a woman took it into her head to wear a different shawl.1