XXI
The wedding had been managed in simple, and yet far from common fashion.
Two days after the conversation which resulted in their engagement, Viérotchka was delighted at her approaching freedom. On the third day the “cellar,” as she called it, seemed twice as intolerable as before; on the fourth day she wept, which was contrary to her liking, but she did not weep much; on the fifth day she wept more; on the sixth day she did not weep at all, but she could not sleep from sorrow.
Lopukhóf looked on, then he spoke the monologue beginning “Hm! hm!” He looked a second time and spoke the monologue “Hm! hm! da, hm!” At the first monologue he had a dim suggestion of an idea, but he was not sure what it was; at the second monologue he saw plainly in his mind what he imagined at the first. “It does not do to offer a person freedom and then leave him in prison.” After that he thought steadily for two hours—an hour and a half on his way from Semyonovsky bridge to Vuiborgsky, and half an hour on his sofa. The first quarter of an hour he thought without wrinkling his forehead; the remaining hour and three quarters he wrinkled his forehead; at the end of the two hours he struck his forehead, and using worse words than Gogol’s postmaster Telyatin (the calf), looked at his watch, and saying, “Ten o’clock, yes, there is time yet” left the room.
During the first quarter of an hour, when his brow was smooth, this was what he thought, “It’s all nonsense; why should I graduate? I shall not be ruined if I don’t get a diploma, and it is not necessary. By lessons and translations I shall not make less; I shall make even more than if I had become a doctor; bagatelles!”
Consequently there was no need of wrinkling his brow; to tell the truth, the task did not appear to be of a head-splitting nature, partly because that from the first lesson he had anticipated something in the nature of his present resolution. He now perceived this. And if anyone had reminded him of his arguments that began with the theme “sacrifice” and ended with the thought of fine dresses, one might have proved to him that something in the nature of these circumstances was anticipated from that very time, because otherwise there would be no sense in the words “to renounce my scientific career.” At that time it seemed to him that he was not going to renounce it, but instinct was already saying, “Renounce it; there will be no postponement!” And if anyone had proved to Lopukhóf, as to a practical thinker, that there was no ground then for his renunciation, he would have triumphed as a theoretical man, and would have said: “Now here is a new example for you of how egotism rules our thoughts (for I ought to have seen, but I did not see, for I was trying to look in another direction), and rules our actions; for why did I make the girl stay in her ‘cellar’ a week longer, when the matter ought to have been foreseen and provided for long ago?”
But he remembered nothing of that kind, and it did not occur to him because he had to wrinkle his forehead, and while wrinkling it to think for an hour and three-quarters on the question, “Who will marry us?” and there was only one answer all the time, “There is no one to marry us.” But suddenly in place of the answer, “No one to marry us,” the name of Mertsálof came into his head; then it was that he struck himself on the forehead and swore with good reason. “How is it possible that I did not think of Mertsálof at the very beginning?” And to a certain degree he was wrong in his wonder; he was not accustomed to think of Mertsálof as of a man who marries.
In the medical school there are a good many people of all kinds; there are among them some seminarists; these men have acquaintances in the theological seminary, and through them Lopukhóf had also made acquaintances there. One of the students whom he knew at the theological seminary—not an intimate, but a friend—had graduated a year ago and had become a priest, and was living in a certain building with endless corridors on the Vasilyevsky Island. To him Lopukhóf went, and as it was an extra occasion and a late hour, he took an izvoshchik.
Mertsálof was sitting alone in his room, and was reading some new book—possibly by Louis XIV, or someone else of the same dynasty.
“Such and such is the state of things, Alekséi Petróvitch: I know that it is a very serious risk for you to undertake; it is right enough if we get reconciled with the parents, but suppose they begin a lawsuit? There may be some trouble for you, and there probably will be; but—”
Lopukhóf could not find in his mind anything to attach to his “but,” for how in the world can you persuade a man to put his neck for your sake into a noose?
Mertsálof was also in a quandary, and tried hard to find a “but” which would authorize him to run such a risk, and he had no better success in getting beyond the “but.”
“How can we arrange this matter? I should certainly like to. What you are doing now, I did a year ago, and I gave up my liberty just as you are going to do! I have some scruples, but I must help you out of it. Yet when one has a wife, it is rather dangerous to go ahead without precaution.”
“How are you? good evening, Alósha: all my people send their best regards to you. How are you, Lopukhóf; we haven’t seen you for a long time. What is this that you are speaking here about a wife? Oh, yes, the wives are always to blame!”
This was said by a young married woman of about seventeen who had just come in from a visit to her parents; she was a pretty and lively blondinka.
Mertsálof told his wife about the state of things. The young woman’s eyes flashed.
“Alósha, they will not eat you up!”
“There is a risk, Natasha!”
“A very large risk,” said Lopukhóf in corroboration.
“Well, what can be done? you must run the risk, Alósha, I beg of you.”
“If you will not blame me, Natasha, for not taking you into account in running into this danger, then that settles it. When do you want to get married, Dmitri Sergéitch?”
In point of fact all hindrances were set aside. On Monday morning Lopukhóf said to Kirsánof:—
“Do you know, Aleksandr, that I am going to make you a present of my half of our work. Take my papers and preparations; I give it all up; I am going to leave the medical school; this is my last request! I am going to be married!”
Lopukhóf told him the whole story in a few words.
“If you were stupid or I were stupid, I should tell you, Dmitri, that this is the way that insane men act. But now I shall not say any such thing. All the objections that I could raise you must have thought over more than I have done. And even if you have not thought them over, it does not make any difference. Whether you are acting foolishly or wisely I do not know, but at least I shall not attempt to act so foolishly as to dissuade you, when I know that your mind is made up. Can I be of any service or not?”
“I want to find an apartment somewhere in an inexpensive neighborhood—three rooms; and I must make application to get my medical school papers right away, tomorrow, if possible; so you will look us up a house.”
On Tuesday Lopukhóf got his papers, went to Mertsálof and said that the wedding would be on the next day. “At what time would be most convenient for you, Alekséi Petróvitch?”
It makes no difference to Alekséi Petróvitch, as he stays at home all day. “I think, though, that I shall have time to send Kirsánof to let you know.”
On Wednesday, at eleven o’clock, Lopukhóf went to the boulevard, and after waiting for some time for Viérotchka began to get worried; but here she is, all out of breath.
“Viérotchka, my dear [drūg moï], has anything happened to you?”
“No, mílenki, nothing; I was late only because I overslept.”
“That means—what time did you go to bed?”
“Mílenki, I didn’t want to tell you; at seven o’clock, mílenki; but I was thinking all night long; no, it was earlier, it was six!”
“I want to ask you about something, my dear Viérotchka: we must get married soon, mustn’t we? so that we may both be comfortable?”
“Yes, mílenki, we must; we must very soon!”
“Then in four days, in three—”
“Akh! if it could be so, mílenki; then you would be a smart boy!”
“In three days I will surely find a house; will buy everything for housekeeping, and then will it be possible for us to live in it together?”
“It will, my golubtchik, it certainly will!”
“But it will be necessary to get married first.”
“Akh! I forgot, mílenki, that it was necessary to get married first!”
“Well, we can get married today; that was the very thing that I wanted to ask you about.”
“Let us go right away and get married; and how have you managed everything? What a bright boy you are, mílenki!”
“I will tell you everything on our way; let us go!”
Here they are! they have passed through the long corridors into the church, they have found the sexton, they have sent for Mertsálof; Mertsálof lived in the house where the endless corridors were.
“Now, Viérotchka, I have to ask of you still another favor. You know that they make young couples kiss each other in church?”
“Yes, my mílenki; only how ridiculous it is!”
“Well, lest it should be too ridiculous then, let us kiss each other now.”
“Very well, let us kiss each other; but could it not be done without it?”
“Yes, but it is impossible to get along without it in church; so let us prepare ourselves.”
They kissed each other.
“Mílenki, it is well that we have had time to prepare ourselves; here comes the sexton; now it will not seem so ridiculous in church!”
But it was not the sexton who came—the sexton did not come till after the diakŏn; it was Kirsánof, who had been waiting for them at Mertsálof’s.
“Viérotchka, this is Aleksandr Matvéitch Kirsánof, whom you do not like, and whom you have forbidden me to meet.”
“Viéra Pavlovna, what is the reason that you want to separate our tender hearts?”
“For the very reason that they are tender,” said Viérotchka, giving Kirsánof her hand and still smiling; then she fell into thought. “But shall I be able to love him as well as you do? You love him very dearly, don’t you?”
“I? I love no one but myself, Viéra Pavlovna!”
“And you don’t love him?”
“We have lived together, and we have never quarrelled; isn’t that enough?”
“And hasn’t he loved you either?”
“I never observed anything of the sort. However, let us ask him.—Have you ever loved me, Dmitri?”
“I never particularly despised you!”
“Well, if that is the case, Aleksandr Matvéitch, I shall not forbid your meeting, and I myself will love you!”
“Now that is much better, Viéra Pavlovna.”
“And now, I, too, am ready,” said Alekséi Petróvitch, coming in. “Let us go into the church.” Alekséi Petróvitch was gay and full of jests; but when the ceremony began, his voice trembled, “Suppose it should result in a lawsuit? Natasha, you must go back to your father; your husband does not support you, and it is a wretched life to have a husband alive, and to live on your father’s bread!” However, after several words, he again regained complete control of himself.
When the service was half over, Natalia Andréyevna, or Natasha, as Alekséi Petróvitch called his wife, invited the young people to come to her house after the ceremony; she had prepared a little breakfast. They came in, they laughed, they even danced two quadrilles with two couples: they also waltzed. Alekséi Petróvitch, who could not dance, played the violin for them; an hour and a half flew by quickly and unnoticed. It was a gay wedding.
“I think that they must be waiting dinner for me at home,” said Viérotchka, “it is about time.—Now, my mílenki, I shall be able to live three or four days in my cellar without being melancholy, and possibly even more. Why should I worry now? There is nothing for me to fear now. No, don’t go home with me; I am going all alone by myself, so as not to be seen by anybody.”
“It’s all right; they will not eat me up; don’t worry, gentlemen,” said Alekséi Petróvitch, as he escorted Lopukhóf and Kirsánof to the door, who had remained for a few minutes, so as to give Viérotchka a chance to get out of sight. “I am very glad now that Natasha encouraged me!”
On the following day, after a four days’ hunt, a good house was found, at the farther end of the fifth block on the Vasilyevsky Island. Having all in all one hundred and sixty rubles in reserve, Lopukhóf concluded, with his friend, that it would be impossible for him and Viérotchka to think as yet of attempting to keep house, or to have their own furniture and dishes; and therefore they rented three rooms, together with furniture, dishes, and board, from an old man, who quietly spent his days, with a little stock of buttons, ribbons, pins, and other things, at the fence on the Middle Prospekt, between the first and second blocks; while his evenings were passed in quiet conversation with his old woman, who, for her part, spent her days in mending hundreds and thousands of old things of every sort, brought to her in bundles from the Pushing Market. The servants also belonged to the landlord; in other words, they were the landlord and landlady themselves.
All this cost them thirty rubles a month. At that period—ten years ago (1853)—the times were not so hard in Petersburg, judged by the Petersburg standard. With such an arrangement, their means would last for three or even four months. Ten rubles a month is enough for tea, isn’t it? and in four months Lopukhóf hoped to find pupils, some kind of literary work, or even some kind of occupation in a mercantile office—he did not care what. On the very day when the house was found (and, indeed, the house was a very good one; they looked out for that, and therefore they found what they wanted), Lopukhóf, while he was giving his lesson on Thursday, as usual, said to Viérotchka:—
“Tomorrow you can come to me, my dear; here is the address. I shall not say anything more now, lest they may notice something.”
“My mílenki, you have saved me!”
Now, how to leave the house. Shall they confess what they have done? Viérotchka thought seriously about doing so; but her mother might lay violent hands on her, and might even lock her up. Viérotchka concluded to leave a letter in her room. When Marya Alekséyevna heard that her daughter was going to the Nevsky Prospekt, and said that she was going too, Viérotchka went back to her room, and took the letter; it seemed to her that it was better, more honorable, if she herself told her mother to her face; for on the street her mother would not attempt to beat her, and it would only be necessary to stand at a distance from her while speaking, to take an izvoshchik as soon as possible, and then drive off before she had time to catch her by the sleeve.
In such a manner the effective scene came about at Ruzanof’s store.