X
Of course, the main subject of the conversations between Lopukhóf and Viérotchka was not the question as to which fashion of ideas should be looked upon as the right one; but, as a rule, they spoke with each other very little, and their long talks, which rarely occurred, touched upon only outside matters, such as ways of thinking, and kindred topics. They knew that two very vigilant eyes were on them. And, consequently, in regard to the main thing that interested them, they exchanged very few words; and this was generally at the time when they were getting the music ready for playing or singing. And this main topic which occupied so small a place in their infrequent long talks, and even in their brief snatches of talk, occupied but a small place—this subject was not their feeling towards each other—not at all; they did not speak a word after the first indefinite words which were said at their first talk during the party; they had no time to speak about it. In the two or three minutes used for the exchange of thought, without the fear of being overheard, they had hardly time to speak about the other subject, which was more important to them than their own thoughts and feelings; and this was in regard to the ways and means by which Viérotchka could escape her terrible situation.
On the morning that followed his first conversation with her, Lopukhóf took pains to find out how it would be possible for her to become an actress. He knew that there were a good many risks and trials standing in the way of a girl going on the stage; but he thought that with a firm character she might succeed all straight. But it proved to be otherwise. When he came to give his lesson, two days later, he was compelled to say to Viérotchka, “I advise you to give up the thought of becoming an actress.”
“Why?”
“Because it would be much better for you to accept Storeshnikof’s offer.”
This ended the talk, which was said while he and Viérotchka were getting the music—he about to play, and she to sing. Viérotchka hung her head, and several times lost the beat, although the piece was very familiar to her. When the piece was finished, they began to consult what they should sing next, and Viérotchka found a chance to say:—
“It seemed to me that that was the very best, and it’s hard for me to hear that it is impossible. It will be harder to live, but still I shall find some way of living; I will go out as governess.”
When he was there again two days later, she said:—
“I could not find anyone through whom I could get the place of governess. Please keep your eyes open for me, Dmitri Sergéitch; there is no one but you.”
“I am sorry I have so few acquaintances who might help in this way. All the families where I am giving or have given lessons are poor people, and their acquaintances are about the same; but I will do the best I can.”
“My friend, I am wasting your time; but what else can I do?”
“Viéra Pavlovna, there is no need of speaking about my time, since I am your friend.”
Viérotchka both smiled and blushed. She herself did not notice how instead of calling him Dmitri Sergéitch, she called him “my friend.” Lopukhóf also smiled. “You did not mean to say it, Viéra Pavlovna; take it back if you are sorry that you gave it to me.”
Viérotchka smiled, “It is too late,” and she blushed, “and I am not sorry”; and she blushed still more.
“When need comes, you will see that I am a true friend.” They pressed each other’s hands.
You have here the two first conversations after that evening.
Two days later, there was in the Police Gazette an advertisement to this effect: “A girl of good family, speaking French and German, etc., desires a place as governess; inquiries can be made of the tchinovnik So-and-So at Kolomna, NN. street, NN. house.”
Now Lopukhóf was obliged to spend a great deal of his time in attending to Viérotchka’s affairs. Every morning he had to go for the most part on foot from Vuiborgsky ward to Kolomna to his friend whose address was given in the advertisement. It was a long walk; but he could not find any other friend who lived near the Vuiborgsky ward. It was necessary that the friend at whose home inquiries could be made should be subject to several conditions—a respectable home, good family circumstances, a respectable appearance. A poor domicile might lead to the offer of unfavorable conditions as a governess; without respectability and apparently good family circumstances the girl’s recommendation would not be looked upon favorably. And Lopukhóf could not place his own address in the advertisement: what would be thought of a girl who was cared for by no one besides a student? And so Lopukhóf had to take an unusual amount of exercise. After he had taken the addresses of those who came to inquire about the governess, he had to continue his walk still farther; the tchinovnik told the inquirers that he was a distant relative of the girl and acted only as agent, but that she had a nephew who would come the next day and give further particulars. The nephew instead of going in a carriage went on foot, looked at the people, and of course, as a general thing, was dissatisfied with the surroundings; in one family they put on too many airs; in another, the mother of the family was a good woman, but the father was a fool (durak); and the third, the opposite was true; and so on. In some it would be comfortable to live, but the conditions would be impossible for Viérotchka; either it was necessary to speak English, but English she does not speak, or they did not want a governess but a nurse; or the people were well enough in their way, but they were themselves poor, and there was no place in their apartment for a governess, where there were already two grown children, two little ones, a maid, and a nurse. But the advertisement continued to appear in the Police Gazette, and likewise the governess-seekers and Lopukhóf did not lose hope.
In such a manner two weeks passed by. On the fifth day of his hunt, when Lopukhóf had returned from his walk and was lying down on his sofa, Kirsánof said:—
“Dmitri, you are getting to be a bad assistant in my work. You spend all your mornings out, and the larger part of your afternoons and evenings. You must have got a good many lessons to give, haven’t you? Can you spare the time to give them just now? I want to give up those that I have; I have saved up forty rubles or so, and that will be enough till I graduate. And you have more than I have—at least a hundred, haven’t you?”
“More; a hundred and fifty. I have no pupils, though; I have given them all up but one; I have something that I must attend to. If I accomplish it, you will not be sorry that I am behind you in the work.”
“What is it?”
“You see the lesson which I have not given up is in a wretched family, but there is a nice girl there. She wants to be a governess, so as to leave the family, and so I am looking up a place for her.”
“A nice girl?”
“Yes.”
“Nu, this is good. Look out.”
And so the conversation ended.
Ekh! Messrs. Kirsánof and Lopukhóf, you are learned men, but you cannot imagine in what respect this is peculiarly good. Let us grant that what you have been talking about is good. Kirsánof did not think of asking whether the girl were pretty, and Lopukhóf did not think to say that she was. Kirsánof did not think to say, “Yes, brother, you must have fallen in love that you are so energetic in looking out for this girl.” Lopukhóf did not think of saying, “And I, brother, am very much interested in her”; or if he thought it, and did not care to say it, he certainly did not think to remark for the sake of turning aside suspicion, “Don’t imagine, Aleksandr, that I am in love.” Don’t you see they both thought that when there was a chance to free a person from a bad situation, it made very little difference whether that person possessed a handsome face or not, even though the person were a young girl; but in such a case there could be no discussion of falling in love or not falling in love. They did not even think of thinking of it, and what is best of all, they did not notice that they were doing a noble action.
But, however, doesn’t this prove to the sagacious class of readers (it proves to the majority of literary men, and this is composed of the most sagacious people), doesn’t it prove, I say, that Kirsánof and Lopukhóf were cold and deprived of all aesthetic sense? This was not so very long ago a favorite expression among the aesthetic writers who had lofty ideals. “Aesthetic sense” may be even now fashionable; I don’t know how it is; I have not seen it used for some time. Is it natural that young men, who possess a spark of taste, or a grain of heart, can fail to be interested in the face when speaking of a girl? Of course these people have no artistic feeling; that is, aesthetic sense: and according to the opinion of others, who have learned human nature in circles which are richer in aesthetic feelings than the company of our aesthetic literati, young men in such circumstances will invariably speak about young women from the plastic side. Gentlemen, it used to be so, but not now; it is now true in certain instances, but not with those young men who are alone regarded as the present generation. Gentlemen, this is a peculiar generation.