XIX
Viéra Pavlovna’s Third Dream
And Viéra Pavlovna dreams a dream.
After tea, she had a talk with her mílenki, and went to her room to lie down—not to sleep; it was too early to sleep. Why, it was only half-past nine; no, she did not even undress; she only lay down to read. And here she is reading as she lies on her little bed; but the book falls away from her eyes, and Viéra begins to think: “What is the reason that lately I have been feeling lonesome occasionally; or not exactly lonesome, or does it merely seem so? No; it is not lonesome, but I only just happened to remember that I wanted to go to the opera this evening: but this Kirsánof, attentive fellow that he is, went too late to get tickets; he might have known that when Bosio is singing, it is impossible to get two-ruble tickets at eleven o’clock. Of course he cannot be blamed; he must have been working till five o’clock, surely till five o’clock, though he didn’t confess it; and yet he is to blame. No; after this, I’d better ask the mílenki to get tickets, and I guess I’d better go to the opera with my mílenki, too; mílenki would never be so stupid as to let me go without tickets, and he is always glad to go with me; my mílenki is such a sweet fellow! And on account of this Kirsánof, I have missed hearing Traviata. I would go every night to the opera, if there were opera, no matter how bad it might be, provided only Bosio sang the chief role; if I had such a voice as Bosio, it seems to me I would sing all day long. I wonder if I could get acquainted with her. How could I manage it? That artillerist is well acquainted with Tamberlík. Could it be done through him? No; it is impossible; what an absurd thought! What is the good of getting acquainted with Bosio? Would she sing for me? Of course she has to save her voice.
“And how did Bosio succeed in learning Russian? How purely she pronounces! But what absurd words! Where could she have found such wretched poetry? Yes; she must have studied out of the same grammar which I did; those verses were quoted in it to illustrate the use of quotation marks. How stupid it is to quote such verses in a grammar! though it would not be so bad if the poetry were better; but there is no need of thinking about the meaning of the verses; all one needs to do is to hear her sing:—
‘The hours of pleasure
Make the most of;
The years of youth
Give up to love.’
“What ridiculous poetry! wrong accent in the second line: make the most of! of, uv! But what a voice and what feeling she puts into her singing; and her voice is vastly sweeter than it used to be—incomparably better! It is wonderful! How could it improve so much? And here I was wondering how I could get acquainted with her, and she herself has come to call upon me. How did she find out that I wanted her to?”
“Yes; you came to call on me a long time ago,” says Bosio, and she speaks Russian.
“I called upon you, Bosio? How could I have called upon you when I was not acquainted with you? But I am very, very glad to see you.”
Viéra Pavlovna pushed aside her bed-curtain, so as to give Bosio her hand; but the cantatrice laughs, and it seems that it is not Bosio at all, but de Merrick in the role of the gypsy “Rigoletto”; only the gayety of the laughter is de Merrick’s, but the voice is still Bosio’s, and she runs away and hides herself behind the bed-curtain. How disagreeable, that this bed-curtain hides her—and before there was no bed-curtain at all: where did it come from?
“Do you know why I came to you?” And she laughs, as though she were de Merrick and at the same time Bosio.
“Who are you? You are not de Merrick, are you?”
“No.”
“Are you Bosio?”
The songstress laughs. “You learn rapidly; but now it will be necessary for us to attend to what brought me here. I want to read your diary with you.”
“I do not keep a diary; I never kept one.”
“Look here; what is that lying on this little table?”
Viéra Pavlovna looks; on the table near the bedstead is lying a copybook with the inscription, “V. L.’s Diary.” Where did this copybook come from? Viéra Pavlovna takes it, opens it; the book is written in her own hand—but when?
“Read the last page,” says Bosio.
Viéra Pavlovna reads: “Again I am often obliged to stay alone whole evenings. But that’s nothing; I am used to it.”
“Is that all?” asks Bosio.
“That’s all.”
“No; you did not read it all.”
“There is nothing more written there.”
“You cannot deceive me,” says the visitor. “What is this?”
From behind the bed-curtain comes forth a hand; what a handsome hand! No; this wonderful hand does not belong to Bosio, and how does this hand come out from the curtain without pushing it apart?
The hand of the new visitor touches the page; from under the hand appear new lines, which were not there before.
“Read,” says the visitor.
And Viéra Pavlovna’s heart begins to feel oppressed; she has never seen these lines before; she did not know that they were written, but her heart is oppressed. She does not wish to read the new lines. “Read,” repeats the visitor.
Viéra Pavlovna reads: “No; it is tiresome for me to be alone. Once I did not feel the loneliness. Why is it tiresome for me now when it did not used to be?”
“Turn back a page,” says the visitor. Viéra Pavlovna turns a page:—
“The summer of this year!”
“Who writes diaries like that?” thinks Viéra Pavlovna; “it should have been written, ‘1885, June or July,’ and have the day of the month; but here it stands: ‘The summer of this year’; who keeps diaries in that way?”
“The summer of this year; we go picnicking in our usual way into the suburbs, to the islands, and this time mílenki goes along with us. How enjoyable it is to me!—Akh! so it is August, is it? What day of the month? the fifteenth; or, no, the twelfth? Yes, yes, it was about the fifteenth; it was after that excursion that my poor mílenki became sick,” thinks Viéra Pavlovna.
“Is that all?”
“That’s all.”
“No, you don’t read everything. What is this?” says the visitor, and again through the unparted bed-curtain comes the wonderful hand; and again it touches the pages, and again on the pages appear new words, and again Viéra Pavlovna reads against her will the new words, “Why doesn’t my mílenki come along with us oftener?”
“Turn one leaf more,” says the visitor.
“My mílenki has so much to do, and it is all for my sake; for my sake he is working, my mílenki;—and that is the answer,” thinks Viéra Pavlovna, happy at the thought.
“Turn one page more.”
“What honest, noble people these students are, and how they respect my mílenki. And I enjoy myself with them just as though they were brothers, and we have no ceremoniousness.”
“Is that all?”
“That is all!”
“No, read further.”
And again appears the hand and touches the page, and again come forth new lines, and again Viéra reads the new lines:—
“The sixteenth of August—that is on the second day after our visit to the island; no, it was exactly the fifteenth,” thinks Viéra Pavlovna: “all the time the mílenki spoke with that Rakhmétof, or as they called him out of jest, the rigorist, and his comrades, but he spent hardly quarter of an hour with me.—That is not true; he spent nearly half an hour with me,” thinks Viéra Pavlovna, “besides the time when we were sitting together in the boat.”
“The seventeenth of August; yesterday the students spent a whole evening with us.”—Yes, it was on the evening when the mílenki was taken sick—“Mílenki talked with them the whole evening long. Why did he spend so much time with them and so little with me? He is not working all the time; he himself says that he is not working all the time; that without rest it is impossible to work; that he takes a great deal of rest, that he thinks about nothing else except taking a rest; why does he think by himself and not with me?”
“Turn over one leaf more.”
“July of the present year and every month of the present year, and until mílenki became sick, then last year and before that too. Five days ago the students called on us, and yesterday too. I carried on with them, it was so gay. Tomorrow or day after tomorrow they will call again, and again it will be gay.”
“Is that all?”
“That is all!”
“No, read further.”
Again appears the hand, touches the page, and again from under the hand come new lines; and again against her will Viéra Pavlovna is reading them:—
“The beginning of the present year, especially at the end of spring. Yes, it used to be gay with these students, but that was all. But now I often think it was childish nonsense; such nonsense will amuse me for a long time yet. Probably even when I have come to be an old woman, when I myself will not be of the age for playing, I shall delight in the youthful games which will remind me of my childhood; for even now I look upon the students as younger brothers, but I should not like to become a Viérotchka always when I want to rest from serious thoughts and labors. I am now Viéra Pavlovna, and to enjoy one’s self like Viérotchka is only agreeable at times, but not always. Viéra Pavlovna sometimes wants such happiness that she might still remain Viéra Pavlovna; and this happiness comes only with one’s equals in life.”
“Turn back several pages more.”
“I have opened a sewing union, and went to Julie to ask for orders. Mílenki stopped at her rooms to get me. She kept us to breakfast and she ordered champagne, and she forced me to drink two glasses. We began to sing, run, shout, wrestle; how gay it was! Mílenki looked on and laughed.”
“Is that really all?” asks the visitor, and again appears the hand, and again from under the hand appear new words, and again Viéra Pavlovna reads against her will:—
“Mílenki only looked on and laughed. Why didn’t he join in with us? That would have made it still gayer. Was it that it was improper, or didn’t he care to take a part in our sport? No, it was not in the least improper, and he might have done it! But he has such a nature. He not only does not interfere; he also approves, but that is all.”
“Turn one page back.”
“I went with mílenki for the first time since my marriage to see my parents. It was hard to see the life that oppressed and stifled me before my marriage. My mílenki! from what a horrible life he saved me! and that night I had a horrible dream, and my mámenka reproached me for being ungrateful; and she spoke the truth, but such fearful truth that I began to groan. Mílenki heard my groan and came into my room, and I was singing all the time (in my dream) because my loving ‘bride’ came and consoled me. The mílenki wanted to act as my dressing-maid! How ashamed I was! But he is such a modest man? He only kissed my shoulder!”
“Is that all that is written? You cannot deceive me! read!” And again from under the visitor’s hand appear the new words, and Viéra Pavlovna reads them against her will:—
“This seems to me rather insulting!”
“Turn several pages back.”
“Today I was waiting for my friend D. on the Boulevard, near the new bridge. There lives a lady, at whose house I expected to be a governess; but she was not willing to take me. I returned home with D. very despondent. I was thinking, in my room, before dinner, that it would be better to die than to live as I am living now; and suddenly, at dinner, D. says: ‘Viéra Pavlovna, let us drink to the health of my bride and your bridegroom.’ I could hardly refrain from tears, in the presence of all, from joy at such an unexpected salvation. After dinner, I talked a long time with D. about how we should live. How I love him! He is leading me out from the cellar!”
“Read it all.”
“There is nothing more to read.”
“Look!”
Again from under the visitor’s hand appear new lines.
“I do not want to read,” says Viéra Pavlovna, in fear. She has not yet distinguished what is written in those new lines, but already it is horrible to her.
“You cannot help reading, when I bid you to read. Read!”
Viéra Pavlovna reads:—
“Do I only love him because he led me out from the cellar—not himself, but my salvation from the cellar?”
“Just turn back once more, and read the very first page.”
“It is my birthday, today; today I spoke for the first time with D., and fell in love with him. I never before heard such noble and consoling words from anyone. How he sympathizes with everything that demands sympathy, wants to help everything that needs help! How sure he is that happiness is possible for all people, that it must be, and that anger and woe are not forever; that a new and bright life is rapidly approaching us! How joyfully my heart expanded when I heard these assurances from this learned and serious man, for they confirmed my own thoughts. How kind he was when he spoke about us poor women! Every woman would love such a man. How clever he is! how generous! how kind!”
“Good! Turn again to the last page.”
“But I have read that page!”
“No; that is not the last one yet. Turn one leaf more.”
“But there is nothing on this leaf!”
“Just read! Do you see how much is written on it?” And again from the touch of the visitor’s hand appear lines which were not there before. Viéra Pavlovna’s heart grows cold.
“I do not want to read! I cannot read!”
“I command you. You must!”
“I cannot! I will not!”
“Then I will read for you what is written. Just listen.—‘He is a noble man, a generous man; he is my saviour! But generosity gives rise to respect, confidence, and readiness to act in unanimity, friendship. A saviour is requited by gratefulness, by devotion; that is all. His nature maybe is quicker than mine. When the blood is boiling, his caresses burn into the heart. But there is another demand; a demand for quiet, calm caresses; a demand for sweet dreams in a tender sentiment. Does he know it? Do our natures agree? our demands? He is ready to die for my sake, and I for his; but is that enough? Does he live in his thoughts for me? Do I live in my thoughts for him? Do I love him with such a love as my soul craves? Before, I did not realize the demand for a quiet, tender feeling. No, my feeling for him is not—’ ”
“I do not want to listen any more!”
Viéra Pavlovna throws away the diary with indignation:—“You wretch! you abomination! I never asked you to come! Leave me!”
Her visitor is laughing, with a still, good-humored laugh.
“No, you don’t love him; these words were written with your own hand.”
“I curse you!”
Viéra Pavlovna wakes up with this exclamation, and quicker than she could make out that it was only a dream that she had seen, and that she had waked up, she starts to run.
“My dear, take me in your arms! protect me! I dreamed such a terrible dream!” She snuggled up to her husband. “My dear, caress me! be tender to me! protect me!”
“Viérotchka, what is the matter with thee?” The husband embraces her. “Thou art all of a tremble!” Her husband kisses her. “Thou hast tears on thy dear cheeks! There is a cold sweat on thy brow! Thou wert running barefooted over the cold floor, darling. I am kissing thy little feet to put some warmth into them.”
“Yes, fondle me! save me! I dreamed a horrible dream; I dreamed that I did not love thee.”
“My dearest, whom dost thou love, if not me? No; it is an idle, absurd dream.”
“Yes, I love thee! Only caress me, fondle me, kiss me! I love thee—I want to love thee!”
She embraces her husband passionately; she clings to him, and when he has pacified her with his caresses, quietly falls asleep, kissing him.