XXIII
Marya Alekséyevna had a number of schemes in mind as to the way to act towards Lopukhóf when he should come in the evening. The most revengeful was to hide two dvorniks in the kitchen, who at a given signal should throw themselves on Lopukhóf, and beat him to death. The most pathetic was solemnly to pronounce with her own lips, aided by Pavel Konstantinuitch, a parental curse on their disobedient daughter and on him, their murderer, with an explanation that the curse was valid—even the earth, as is well known, does not receive the dust of those who are cursed by their parents. But this belonged to the same category of imaginations as the khozyáïka had, in regard to separating Pavel Konstantinuitch from his wife; for such schemes, like any other poetry, have no practical application, properly speaking, except to relieve the heart, by furnishing a framework for endless thoughts in solitude, and for other explanations, when, by and by, she should come to speak about it; as, for example, he or she might have done this or that, and he or she intended to do so, but, owing to his or her kindness, he or she felt grieved to do so.
The plan of beating Lopukhóf and cursing her daughter were the ideal part of Marya Alekséyevna’s thoughts and feelings. But the actual part of her mind and soul took a direction not so lofty, but more practical; and this difference is attributable to the inherent weakness of every human being. When Marya Alekséyevna came to her senses, at the gates of the “School of Pages,” she comprehended that her daughter had really disappeared, was married, and had left her for good and all; and this fact came before her imagination in the form of the following mental exclamation, “She has robbed me!” And all the way home she kept exclaiming mentally, and sometimes even audibly, “She has robbed me!” And, therefore, while she was detained for several minutes by the process of communicating her grievance to Feódor and Matrióna, through human weakness—every human being is carried away, by the expression of feeling, to such an extent that he often forgets, in the excitement of the spirit, the interests of the moment—Marya Alekséyevna ran into Viérotchka’s room, peeked into the drawers of her bureau, into her wardrobe; she cast a hasty glance over everything; no, apparently everything is untouched. And then she began to confirm this reassuring impression by a careful examination. The result was that really all her dresses and things remained there, with the exception of a pair of simple gold earrings, and an old white mousseline dress, and an old cloak, which Viérotchka wore when she went away. As regarded the practical direction in which Marya Alekséyevna’s acts would take, she expected that Viérotchka would give Lopukhóf an inventory of her things, which he would ask for; and she firmly decided that she should give her nothing from among her possessions of gold and the like, that she would give her four of the simplest of her dresses, and some of the thinnest and oldest of her underwear. To give her nothing was impossible, since her noble generosity would not allow it; and Marya Alekséyevna had always been very strict in her observance of noble generosity.
Another question of actual life was her relation to the khozyáïka; we have already seen that Marya Alekséyevna successfully solved the answer to it.
Now, there is a third question, “What can be done with the hussy and the rascal?” that is, with her daughter and her unexpected son-in-law. Curse them? that is not hard: but it is useless, except as a dessert after something substantial. Only how is this substantial something possible? To lodge a complaint, to bring about a lawsuit, to have them arrested! At first, when her feelings were all stirred up, Marya Alekséyevna looked upon this solution of the question from an ideal standpoint, and ideally it seemed to her very delightful. But, in proportion as her blood grew calmer, after the weariness of the storm, the matter began to appear in a different light. Nobody knew better than Marya Alekséyevna that lawsuits are conducted through the agency of money, and money alone; and such cases as charmed her by their ideal beauty are conducted through the agency of large, very large, sums of money, and they are dragged out unendingly, and, after wasting a great deal of money, they often come to nothing in the end.
“What is to be done [tchto dyélat]?” At the final upshot it seemed that there were only two courses to take: to quarrel with Lopukhóf to her heart’s content, and to retain Viérotchka’s things when he demanded them, and, as a means of doing that, to threaten him with a lawsuit. But she certainly must quarrel to her full sweetness.
But she did not succeed in quarrelling. Lopukhóf came, and began by saying, “Viérotchka and I ask you, Marya Alekséyevna and Pavel Konstantinuitch, to forgive us for taking this step without your consent.”
On hearing this, Marya Alekséyevna cried, “I shall curse her, the good-for-nothing!”
But, instead of saying the whole word “good-for-nothing,” Marya Alekséyevna had only time to say “good-for-n—,” because Lopukhóf interrupted her, in a loud voice: “I shall not listen to your abuse; I came to speak about business. You are angry, and you cannot speak calmly, and so I will talk only with Pavel Konstantinuitch; and, Marya Alekséyevna, you send Feódor and Matrióna to call us when you get calmed down.”
While saying this, he started to lead Pavel Konstantinuitch from the parlor into his bedroom; and he spoke so loud that there was no chance of out-crying him, and therefore she was obliged to stop off short.
He took Pavel Konstantinuitch to the parlor door; here he stopped, turned around, and said: “And now, Marya Alekséyevna, I am going to talk with you; but only about business, and it must be calmly.”
She was about to lift her voice a second time, but he interrupted her again, “Nu, if you can’t speak calmly, then we shall leave you.”
“Now, what makes you go out, you fool [durak]?” she shouted.
“Well, he is leading me out!”
“And if Pavel Konstantinuitch did not choose to speak calmly, then I would leave; it would not make any difference to me. But why should you, Pavel Konstantinuitch, allow yourself to be called such names? Marya Alekséyevna does not understand business; she really thinks that she can do anything that she pleases with us; but you are a tchinovnik, you are a man of experience; you of course understand propriety. You tell her that she cannot do anything with Viérotchka now, and still less with me.”
“The rascal must know that nothing can be done to him,” thought Marya Alekséyevna, and she said to Lopukhóf that, being her mother, she was excited at first, but now she could speak coolly.
Lopukhóf returned with Pavel Konstantinuitch; they sat down. Lopukhóf asked her to listen until he should finish what he had to say, and to postpone what she had to reply, and then he began to speak, lifting his voice powerfully whenever she attempted to interrupt him, and thus he finished his speech in safety. It was to this effect: that it was impossible to untie them, and therefore the case of Storeshnikof was beyond recall; “as you know yourself; consequently it will be idle for you to take the trouble. However, do as you please; if you have extra money, I even advise you to try it; and, then, again there is hardly any reason for being vexed, because Viérotchka never wanted to marry Storeshnikof; consequently, this case was always beyond realization, as you yourself have seen, Marya Alekséyevna; and young girls must certainly marry, and, as a general thing, they are lost to their parents. It would be necessary to give a dowry, and then a wedding itself would cost a good deal of money; but the main thing is the dowry; consequently, Marya Alekséyevna, you and your husband ought to be thankful to your daughter for marrying without causing you any expense.” He spoke in this style, and he spoke with such detail that it took him a good half-hour.
When he finished, Marya Alekséyevna saw that there was no use in bulldozing such a rogue, and therefore she began to speak about her feelings: how she was particularly grieved that Viérotchka should have married without asking her parents’ consent, because it was very painful for a mother’s heart. Now, when a thing touches a mother’s feelings and grievances, then, naturally, the conversation takes a turn, as though it were impossible not to speak about them: this, propriety demands. Now they have satisfied propriety—they have spoken about this interesting fact. Marya Alekséyevna has said that, as a loving mother, she was grieved; Lopukhóf has said that she, as a loving mother, had no need of being grieved; and having fulfilled the measure of propriety, by a discourse of suitable length about feelings, they took up another point, also demanded by propriety, to wit: that she had always wished her daughter to be happy. This was said on one side; and on the other side the reply was made that this was a thing that could never be doubted. When the conversation had been prolonged to a suitable length on this point also, they began to take leave of each other, also with explanations of such a length, as is demanded by propriety among gentlefolk, and the result of it all proved that Lopukhóf, understanding the sorrow of a mother’s heart, did not ask Marya Alekséyevna’s consent for her daughter to come to see her, because, maybe it would be hard for a mother’s heart; but when Marya Alekséyevna should have heard that Viérotchka was living happily, which, of course, was Marya Alekséyevna’s sole desire, then her maternal heart would be entirely calmed; consequently, then she would be able to see her daughter without being grieved.
Thus they came to this wise conclusion, and separated peacefully.
“Well, he’s a keen one,” said Marya Alekséyevna to herself, as she escorted her son-in-law to the door.
That night she dreamed a dream of this nature: she was sitting at the window, and saw on the street an elegant carriage passing along the street, and the carriage stopped, and from the carriage stepped a handsomely dressed lady and a man, and they came into her room, and the lady said, “Look, mamasha, how well my husband dresses me!” and this lady was Viérotchka. And Marya Alekséyevna seemed to see that the stuff of which the dress was made was of the very best, and Viérotchka said: “The material alone cost five hundred silver rubles, and that is a trifle for us, mamasha; and I have a whole dozen of dresses like this! and this, mamasha, cost more—here, look at my fingers!” Marya Alekséyevna looked at Viérotchka’s fingers; and on her fingers were rings with large diamonds. “This ring, mamasha, is worth two thousand rubles; and this one here, mamasha, cost more—four thousand rubles—and look at my breast, mamasha! this brooch cost still more; it is worth ten thousand rubles!” And then the gentleman spoke—and the gentleman was Dmitri Sergéitch: “All these are mere trifles for us, dear mámenka Marya Alekséyevna; but the thing of the most importance is here in my pocket. Look, dear mámenka, at my pocketbook! How fat it is! there are nothing but hundred-ruble notes in it, and I am going to make you a present, mamasha, of this pocketbook, because it is a trifle to us. But this other pocketbook is still fatter, dear mámenka; I do not give it to you, because it has no paper money, but only bonds and mercantile notes, and every bond and note is worth more than the whole pocketbook which I just gave you, dear mámenka Marya Alekséyevna.”
“You have succeeded, dear son Dmitri Sergéitch, in making my daughter and all our family happy; but where in the world, my dear son, did you get so much wealth?”
“I, dear mamasha, became a monopolist!”
And while she was awaking from her dream, Marya Alekséyevna thinks to herself, “Indeed, it would be a good thing if he became a monopolist!”