I
Viéra Pavlovna’s training was very ordinary. Her life, up to the time when she made the acquaintance of the medical student Lopukhóf, was rather remarkable, although it was not singular. But in her actions even then could be seen something singular.
Viéra Pavlovna grew up in a many-storied house on Gorokhovaïa Street, between Sadovïa Street and the Semyonovsky bridge. At the present day this house is marked with its appropriate number, but in 1852, when as yet the streets were not numbered, it bore the inscription, “The house of the Actual State Counsellor, Ivan Zakharuitch Storeshnikof.”
Such was the inscription; but Ivan Zakharuitch Storeshnikof had died as long ago as 1837, and since that time the proprietor (khozyáïn) of the house was his son Mikhaïl Ivanovitch (thus said the documents); but the tenants knew that Mikhaïl Ivanovitch was merely the son of his father, and that the real proprietor was Anna Petrovna.
The house was at that time just as it is now, large, with two gates and four entrances on the streets, and with three yards (dvors) in the rear. At the principal entrance on the street, on the belétage, there were living in 1852, just the same as at the present time (1860), the khozyáïka and her son. Anna Petrovna is now, and she was then, a lady of distinction. Mikhaïl Ivanovitch is now an army officer of distinction, as he was then a distinguished and handsome officer.
I do not know who is now living on the fourth floor apartment, on the right hand, as you enter from one of the innumerable dirty back entrances of the first dvor; but in 1852 there were living there the manager of the house, Pavel Konstantinuitch Rozalsky, a hardy and representative man, his wife Marya Alekséyevna, a lean, strong, tall woman, with their daughter, a grown-up girl, the very same Viéra Pavlovna, and their little nine-year-old son Feódor.
Pavel Konstantinuitch, beside having the management of the house, held the office of assistant (stolonatchalnik) in a government department. His office gave him no salary, but at home he had a small income; anyone else would have had much more, but Pavel Konstantinuitch, as he himself said, had a conscience. Consequently the khozyáïka of the house was very well satisfied with him, and during the fourteen years of his management he had accumulated a capital of about ten thousand rubles. Of this money only three thousand, and no more, came out of the khozyáïka’s pocket; the balance was gained by being turned over and over, and not to the detriment of the khozyáïka. Pavel Konstantinuitch was in the habit of loaning money on pawn of personal property.
Marya Alekséyevna had also a little capital; about five thousand, as she told her kumashki (gossipy friends), but in reality she had more. The foundation of this capital had been laid about fifteen years before by the sale of a raccoon-skin shuba, a little dress, and some furniture which had been left Marya Alekséyevna by her brother, a tchinovnik. Having thus obtained about one hundred and fifty rubles, she also began to turn them over and over by loaning on personal security. She took greater risks than her husband did, and many times she got caught on the hooks. Some rogue borrowed five rubles from her on the security of a passport; the passport happened to be a stolen one, and it cost Marya Alekséyevna about fifteen rubles more to free herself from the entanglement. Another rascal pawned to her a gold watch for twenty rubles; the watch proved to have been taken from a murdered man, and Marya Alekséyevna was compelled to spend a good round sum to get out of this entanglement. But if she suffered losses which her husband by his careful scrutiny of securities avoided, still her capital grew with greater rapidity. Singular instances of her way of money-getting were detected. Once upon a time—Viéra Pavlovna was then small; if her daughter had been older, Marya Alekséyevna would not have done it, but at that time “why not do it? the child does not understand”; and indeed, Viérotchka by herself would not have understood it, but she did learn of it, thanks to the cook, who explained it to her with very great detail. Yes, and the cook would not have spoken of it, because the child ought not to have known about it; but it happened so that her soul was impatient after Marya Alekséyevna had given her one of her tremendous thrashings because she had taken a walk with her lover (by the way, Matrióna’s eye was always black and blue—not because of Marya Alekséyevna’s fist, but her lover’s—and this had its good side, since a cook with discolored eyes does not get such high wages). But as I started to say, once upon a time, there came to Marya Alekséyevna a lady of her acquaintance whom she had not seen for a long time, well dressed, magnificent, handsome; she came and made quite a visit. She stayed quietly for a week, but all the time a certain civilian came to see her, a handsome man, who gave Viérotchka candy, and presented her with beautiful dolls, and gave her also two little books. Both had pictures, but in one of the books were pretty little pictures—animals and cities—but the other little book Marya Alekséyevna took away from Viérotchka after the gentleman had left; so that she saw the pictures only once, and that was while he was there; he himself showed them to her. About a week this lady stayed with them, and everything was quiet in the house. Marya Alekséyevna all the week did not once go to the cupboard (where a decanter of vodka was standing), the key of which she always kept in her own possesion. She did not beat Matrióna, did not beat Viérotchka, and she did not scold as loud as usual; then one night Viérotchka was constantly disturbed by their guest’s terrible shrieks, by the going and coming, and the uproar in the house. In the morning Marya Alekséyevna went to the cupboard and stood in front of it longer than usual, and kept saying, “Glory to God! all went well, glory to God!” She even called Matrióna to the cupboard, and said:—
“To your health, Matriónushka, you too worked hard!” But instead of doubling her fist as she used to do in old times, after visiting the cupboard, she kissed Viérotchka and took a nap. After this the house was quiet for about a week, and the guest did not shriek any more, but she never left the room until she went away altogether. Two days after she left, a civilian came, not the one who had been there before, but another civilian, who brought with him the police, and gave Marya Alekséyevna a round berating, but Marya Alekséyevna did not yield to him, but kept asseverating:—
“I know nothing whatsoever of your business. You can find out by the register who has been staying with me. Mrs. Savastyánova, the wife of a merchant of Pskof, and a friend of mine has been here, and that’s all there is of it.”
Finally, after using his whole battery of words, the civilian departed, and never appeared again. Viérotchka witnessed this when she was eight years old, and when she was nine years old, Matrióna explained to her what the occurrence really was. However, such an occurrence happened only once; there were various others, but nothing like this.
When Viérotchka was a little girl of ten years old, as she was going one day with her mother to the Tolkutchy (Pushing) Market, and was turning from Gorokhovaïa (Bean) Street to Sadovaïa (Garden) Street, she received an unexpected slap on the head, with the words: “What are you looking at the church for, you fool, without crossing yourself? What! don’t you see that all good people make the sign of the cross?”
When Viérotchka was twelve years old she began to go to school, and a piano-teacher came to give her lessons, a German who was a drunkard, but was otherwise a very good man and an excellent musician. Owing to his habits his terms were very low.
When she was fourteen years old she used to sew for the whole family; the family, however, was not large.
When Viérotchka was going on to her sixteenth year, her mother began to scold her in this way: “Wash your face, ’tis like a gypsy’s. You could not get it clean, if you tried; you’re such a scarecrow. I’d like to know whose child you are, anyhow.”
She was always ridiculed on account of the tawny complexion of her face, and she got accustomed to look upon herself as extremely ugly. Hitherto her mother had dressed her almost in rags, but now she began to give her fine clothes. And Viérotchka used to go to church in her fine clothes with her mother, and say to herself: “These fine clothes would suit somebody else; but no matter how I’m dressed, I’m always a gypsy, a scarecrow. I might as well be in calico as in silk, but it is good to be pretty. How I should like to be pretty!”
When Viérotchka had completed her sixteenth year she stopped taking piano lessons, and no longer went to school, but began to teach in the very same school: afterwards her mother got other teaching for her.
At the end of six months her mother ceased calling her gypsy and scarecrow, and dressed her even more elegantly than before, and Matrióna—this was the third Matrióna since the one whose eye had been black and blue, but she had oftentimes a scratched cheek, but not always—Matrióna told Viérotchka that her father’s natchalnik was going to pay her his addresses, and that still another natchalnik of great importance, with an order around his neck, had the same intention. And in fact the little tchinovniks of the department gossipped among themselves that the natchalnik of Pavel Konstantinuitch’s office was getting very affable to to the latter, and the office natchalnik began to confide to his cronies that he must have a beautiful wife even though she had no dowry, and he would add that Pavel Konstantinuitch was an excellent tchinovnik.
How this would have ended cannot be conjectured, but the natchalnik of the office deliberated a long time, and while he was taking his own time, another opportunity arose.
The khozyáïka’s son came to the manager to say that his mátushka wanted Pavel Konstantinuitch to get specimens of wallpapers, because she was going to re-paper the rooms in which she was living. Hitherto all such orders had been given through the janitor. Certainly such a case as this could be comprehended even by people who were not as shrewd as Marya Alekséyevna and her husband. The landlady’s son sat for more than half an hour and did them the honor of drinking tea with them. It was flower tea. Marya Alekséyevna on the very next day gave her daughter a necklace which had been taken as a pledge and had never been redeemed, and ordered for her daughter two new and very fine dresses; one of a material costing forty rubles, and the other fifty-two. With ruchings and ribbons, and everything in style, these two garments cost one hundred and seventy-four rubles, at least so Marya Alekséyevna said to her husband; but Viérotchka knew that the real cost was less than one hundred rubles, for the purchases were made in her presence, and for one hundred rubles two very fine dresses could be made. Viérotchka was delighted with the dresses, was delighted with the necklace, and was still more delighted because her mother at last consented to buy her shoes for her at Korolyef’s, because the shoes that one gets at the “Pushing Market” are shapeless, while those sold by Korolyef fit the feet so beautifully.
The dresses were not bought in vain; the khozyáïka’s son got into the habit of coming to the manager’s rooms, and naturally used to talk with the daughter more than with the manager or the manager’s wife, and naturally enough they gave him every opportunity. Nu! the mother gave her daughter plenty of advice which need not be repeated, as its tenor can be easily imagined.
One day after dinner the mother said: “Viérotchka, put on your dress, your best dress. I have got up a surprise for you: we are going to the opera. I have got tickets for the second tier, where all the generals’ wives go. This is all for your sake, little goose, [dúrotchka]! This is the last money that I am going to waste on you. Your father has spent so much on you that it has gone to his stomach! How much did it cost to send you to school and to give you piano lessons? You don’t appreciate it in the least, you ungrateful hussy; no, you haven’t any soul in you, you unfeeling minx!” That was all that Marya Alekséyevna said. She no longer scolded her daughter, and that could scarcely be called a scolding. Marya Alekséyevna now only spoke to Viérotchka, and had never really scolded her or beaten her since the rumor about the office natchalnik had been spread abroad.
They went to the opera. After the first act the khozyáïka’s son came into their box with two of his friends; one was a civilian, thin and rather elegant; the other was an army man, fat, and freer from affectation. They took seats and sat down, and they whispered among themselves for a time; the khozyáïka’s son and the civilian said a good deal, the officer said less. Marya Alekséyevna tried to listen, and, though she distinguished almost every word, she understood very little, because they spoke in French. She caught some half a dozen words in their conversation—belle, charmante, amour, bonheur. But what good was it to know so few words—belle, charmante? Marya Alekséyevna knew long ago that her gypsy was belle and charmante. Amour—Marya Alekséyevna could see that he was over head and ears in love; and when there is amour, of course there must be bonheur. What good did these words do? The main question is, will he offer himself before long?
“Viérotchka, you ungrateful thing!” whispers Marya Alekséyevna to her daughter; “why do you turn your head away from them? Do you feel offended because they came in? They do you honor, you fool [dura]! What is the French for wedding? mariage, hey, Viérotchka? And what is bridegroom and bride? What is ‘to get married’?”
Viérotchka told her.
“No, I did not hear any such words. Viéra, are you sure that you told me right? You be careful!”
“No, no! You will never hear any such words from them. Let us go home. I cannot remain here any longer.”
“What’s that you say, you nasty thing?” Marya Alekséyevna’s eyes grew bloodshot.
“Let us go home. Do with me as you please afterwards, but I will not stay here. I will tell you why when we go. Mámenka,”—this word was said loud enough for all to hear—“I have a very bad headache. I cannot remain here. I beg of you!”
Viérotchka stood up.
The young men were confused.
“It will pass away, Viérotchka,” said Marya Alekséyevna, sternly but decorously. “Just take a walk through the corridor with Mikhaïl Ivanuitch, and your headache will go off.”
“No, it will not go off; I feel very bad; quick, mámenka!”
The gentlemen opened the door; each wanted to offer Viérotchka his arm, but the detestable young girl refused. They handed the ladies the cloaks; they escorted them down to the carriage. Marya Alekséyevna looked haughtily at the waiters. “Look you, serfs! what cavaliers these are; and this one here is going to be my son-in-law. I myself will have such serfs. And you put on airs, put on airs if you dare, you nasty thing, you! I will put them on for you!” But wait, wait; the son-in-law is saying something to her ugly but proud little girl, while he is putting her into the carriage. “Santé, that must mean health; savoir, that’s ‘I know’; visite, the same as in Russian; permettez, ‘I beg your pardon.’ ”
Marya Alekséyevna’s anger was not less diminished by these words, but she had to take them into consideration. The carriage drove away.
“What did he say to you when he put you in?”
“He said that he would call tomorrow morning to learn about my health.”
“Ain’t you lying? do you mean tomorrow?”
Viérotchka was silent.
“You are a lucky girl.” Marya Alekséyevna could not resist pulling her daughter’s hair, only once, and not violently.
“Nu! I will not lay my finger on you if you will only behave tomorrow. Sleep tonight, you fool! Don’t you dare to weep! Look out, if I see tomorrow morning that you are pale, or that your eyes are red with crying. I have let things go so far; I shall not stand it any longer. I shall not take pity on your pretty little face. If you lose this chance, I will teach you how to act.”
“I ceased to weep long, long ago; you know it.”
“That is all right [to-to-zhe]; but try to be a little more sociable with him.”
“Yes, I will speak with him tomorrow.”
“That’s all right [to-to]; it’s time you came to your senses. Fear God, and have pity on your mother, you shameless thing!”
Ten minutes passed.
“Viérotchka, don’t be angry with me. I scold you because I love you; I want to be good to you. You have no idea how dear children are to their mothers. I brought you forth with pain. Viérotchka, be grateful, be obedient; you yourself will see that it is for your own good. Behave as I tell you. Tomorrow he will offer himself.”
“Mámenka, you are mistaken. He has no thought of offering himself. Mámenka, if you had heard what they said!”
“I know. If they were not talking about a wedding, then it was about something else. Da! let ’em try it; they’ll find they’ve got the wrong ones to deal with. We’ll bend him into a ram’s horn. I’ll bring him into church in a bag; I’ll drag him around the chancel by the whiskers, and he will be glad of it. Nu! but I have said enough. A young girl should not know about these things; it’s the mother’s business. But a young girl must be obedient; she don’t know anything yet. Now will you speak with him as I tell you?”
“Yes, I will speak with him.”
“And you, Pavel Konstantinuitch, what are you sitting up for like a stump! Tell her yourself that you, as her father, command her to obey her mother, and that her mother will certainly teach her no evil.”
“Marya Alekséyevna, you are a clever woman, but this is rather a dangerous step; if you don’t look out, you will carry things too far.”
“Durak [fool]! that’s nice kind of talk; and in Viérotchka’s presence, too! I am sorry that I let you speak. The proverb tells the truth: ‘Don’t touch filth if you don’t want to smell.’ Perfect nonsense! Don’t argue, but answer; must a daughter obey her mother or not?”
“Of course she must; what’s the use of speaking, Marya Alekséyevna?”
“Nu! give her your orders then, since you are her father.”
“Viérotchka, obey your mother in everything. Your mother is a clever woman, a woman of experience. She will tell you nothing bad. I command you as your father.”
The carriage stopped at the gate.
“That’s enough, mámenka. I told you that I would speak with him. I am very tired. I must rest.”
“Go to bed; get some sleep. I shall not disturb you. You must be fresh for tomorrow. Sleep well.”
In fact, all the time that they were climbing the stairs, Marya Alekséyevna held her peace; and it was a great effort for her; and what an effort it was for her to be pleasant when Viérotchka went directly to her room, saying that she did not care for tea! and what an effort it was for her to say in a pleasant voice, “Viérotchka, come to me.” The daughter obeyed. “I want to give you my blessing before you go to sleep, Viérotchka. Bend your little head.” The daughter bent her head. “May God bless you, Viérotchka, as I bless you.” She repeated the blessing thrice, and gave her her hand to kiss.
“No, mámenka! I told you long ago, that I would not kiss your hand. And now let me go. I tell you the truth; I feel very bad.”
Akh! how angry grew Marya Alekséyevna’s eyes once again! But she controlled herself, and said gently, “Go on, go to bed.”
It took Viérotchka a long time to undress, because she was lost in thought. First she took off her bracelet, and sat long with it in her hand; then she removed her earrings, and forgot herself again. At last she remembered that she was very tired. She could not even stand before the looking-glass, but threw herself into the chair in utter weariness. She sat there some time before it came over her that she must undress as quickly as possible; but she had hardly taken off her dress and laid down, before Marya Alekséyevna came into the room with a waiter, whereon stood her father’s great cup and a pile of toasted bread.
“Take some, Viérotchka; here, take some, for health’s sake! I myself have brought it to you. You see your mother looks out for you. I was sitting and thinking, ‘How is it that Viérotchka went to bed without tea?’ While I was drinking I was full of thought. And here I have brought it. Take it, my dear daughter [moya dotchka mílaïa].”
Her mother’s voice sounded strange to Viérotchka; but in reality, it was soft and kind; it had never been so before. She looked at her mother with amazement. Marya Alekséyevna’s cheeks were fiery red, and her eyes were unsteady.
“Take it. I’ll sit down and look at you. When you have finished this cup, I will bring you another.”
The tea, which was half-filled with delicious, thick cream, awakened Viérotchka’s appetite. She lifted herself on her elbow, and began to drink.
“How delicious tea is when it is fresh and strong, and when it has lots of sugar and cream! Perfectly delicious! It is not like tea that has been drawn once, and is made with one little mean bit of sugar, and tastes like medicine. When I have money of my own, I shall always drink such tea as this is. Thank you, mámenka.”
“Don’t go to sleep yet; I will bring you another one.” She came back with a second cup of the same excellent tea. “Drink it, and I will stay with you.” She said nothing for a moment, and then suddenly she began to speak in a strange way, sometimes so fast that her words could not be understood, and the next minute drawling.
“Now, Viérotchka, you have thanked me. It’s a long time since I have had any thanks from you. You think that I am cross. Yes, I am cross. But it is impossible not to be cross. But I am weak, Viérotchka! After three punches, of course I feel weak! And think how old I am. Da! and you have shaken my nerves, Viérotchka; you pained me greatly; and so I felt weak. And my life is a hard one, Viérotchka! I don’t want you to live such a life. Be a rich woman! Think of the suffering that I have gone through, Viérotchka, a‑a‑a‑and just think of it! You cannot remember how me and your father used to live before he was manager. Poor, a‑a‑a‑and oh, how poor! and then I was honest, Viérotchka! Now I am not honest. No, I shall not take a sin on my soul, I will not tell you a lie, I will not say that I am honest now. But what’s the use? That time is all past. Viérotchka, you are educated and I am not educated, but I know everything that is wrote in your books; there it is wrote that one ought not to treat anybody as I was treated. ‘You,’ they say, ‘are dishonest.’ Now here’s your father, for example; he’s your father, but he was not Nádinka’s father. He’s a poor soul, yet he dared then to pick my eyes to reproach me. Nu, then the ill temper got the best of me, and I say that, judged by your standard, I ain’t a good woman; but then I be as I be. Nádinka was born. Nu, what of that? Supposing she was born? Who taught me to do such things? How did your father get his place? My sin was much less than his. And they took her away from me, and they put her into the Foundling House; and it was impossible to find out what became of her, and so I never saw her, and I don’t know whether she is among the livin’ or not. Faith, how could she be alive! Nu, at the present time I should not have cared so much, but then it wa’n’t so easy, and my temper got the best of me. Nu, and so I became cross. And since then everything has gone all right. Who got the situation for your father, fool that he is? I got it for him. And who got him promoted to be a manager? I did; and so we began to live comfortably. And why? Because I lost my temper and my good name! This I know. It’s written in your books, Viérotchka, that it’s only the wicked and ill-tempered who get along in this world; and that is gospel truth, Viérotchka! Now your father has lots of money, Viérotchka; and it was through me that he got it. And I too have money, and probably more than he has—all through my exertions. I shall have bread enough for my last years. And your father, fool that he is, has begun to respect me, and he has to toe the line. I scold him well. But before, he used to treat me mean. And why was it? I didn’t deserve it then. It must have been because I wa’n’t ill-tempered. And it’s written in your books, Viérotchka, that such a life is bad, and don’t you suppose I know it? Yes, and it is written in your books, too, that to live otherwise one must reform things; but accordin’ to the present way of the world one can’t live as the books say. But why don’t they reform the world? Ekh! Viérotchka, you think that I don’t know what kind of rules are in your books. I know; they are fine. But we shan’t live to see ’em, you and me. Folks is too stupid; how can you make reforms with such folks? Let’s live in the old way. You too had better live in the old way. What are the old rules? In your books it is written; the old rule bids you to rob and cheat. It is true, Viérotchka. Well, then, since there is no new order, live in the old way; steal and cheat. I give you my advice because I love you—khrrr.”
Marya Alekséyevna was snoring! She was fast asleep.