XX
“It is now the twenty-eighth of April; he said that he should be through by the first of July. Let us say the tenth; but that is not the first. Well, we can take the tenth; or, so as to get nearer, I’ll suppose it’s the fifteenth. No, I’ll take the tenth, after all. Now, how many days are left? Today should not be counted; there are only five hours of it left. There are two days more in April; May, thirty-one, and two make thirty-three; June, thirty, and thirty-three makes sixty-three; in July ten days; altogether it makes seventy-three. Is that much? Only seventy-three days, and then—freedom! I shall get out of this cellar. Akh! how happy I am! My mílenki! how cleverly he thought it all out! How happy I am!”
This was on Sunday evening. On Monday came a lesson given instead of Tuesday.
“My dear, my beloved! how glad I am to be with you, if only for a minute! Do you know how many days there are left for me to be in this cellar? When will you be done? Will you be done by the tenth of July?”
“Yes, Viérotchka.”
“Then I shall have to sit in this cellar only seventy-two days and this evening. One day I have marked off already. See I have made a little calendar just as boarding-school girls and boys do, and I cross off the days. How delightful it is to cross them off!”
“My dear little Viérotchka, my dear! Indeed, you have not long to worry along here; two months and a half will quickly pass, and you will be free.”
“Akh! how delightful it will be! Only just at present, my dearest, don’t always talk with me, and don’t look at me; and we must not play on the piano every time you come, either. And I shall not come out of my room every time that you come here; no, I shall not have enough strength of mind for that. I shall come out always, if only for one minute; and I shall look at you so coldly; not fondly at all. And now I am going right away to my room. Goodbye, my dear. When?”
“Thursday.”
“Three days; how long! But then there will be only sixty-eight days left.”
“Count less; about the seventh you will be able to get away from here.”
“The seventh? Then it is now only sixty-eight days. How happy you have made me! Goodbye, my dear.”
Thursday.—“My dearest, there are only sixty-six days to stay here.”
“Yes, Viérotchka; the time flies fast.”
“Fast? No, my dear. Akh! how long the days seem! Sometimes it seemed to me as though a whole month had dragged along while these three days were passing. Goodbye, my dearest, we must not talk long; aren’t we shrewd? yes? Goodbye. Akh! only sixty-six remain for me to sit in the cellar.—Hm! hm! it is not so noticeable, of course; when one is at work, time flies. And then I am not in a cellar. Hm! hm! da!”
Saturday.—“Akh! my dearest, only sixty-four days are left. Akh! how gloomy it is here! These two days have seemed longer than those three days. Akh! how gloomy! How miserable it is here; if you only realized it, my dear. Goodbye, my dear, my sweetheart, till Tuesday; and these three days will seem longer than the last five. Goodbye, my dear.—Hm! hm! da! hm! her eyes look badly. She does not like to weep. This is not well. Hm! da!”
Tuesday.—“Akh! my dearest, I gave up counting the days. They don’t pass—they don’t pass at all.”
“Viérotchka, my little friend, I have a favor to ask of you. We must have a nice little talk together. You are anxiously longing for freedom. Well, give yourself a little freedom; we must have a talk together.”
“Yes, we must, moï mílenki, we must.”
“Then I will ask you how this suits you. What time will it be most convenient for you tomorrow; it does not make the least difference what time, only tell me; be again on that bench of the Konno-Gvardéïsky Boulevard. Will you?”
“I will be there, moï mílenki, without fail. At eleven o’clock; is that right?”
“Very well; thank you, little friend.”
“Goodbye, my dearest. Akh! how glad I am that you have thought about it! How was it that I, myself, foolish little thing that I am, did not think about it? Goodbye. We will talk; at all events, I shall breathe the fresh air. Goodbye, mílenki. At eleven o’clock, without fail.”
Friday.—“Viérotchka, where are you going?”
“I, mámenka?”
Viérotchka blushed.
“To the Nevsky Prospekt, mámenka.”
“Then I am going with you, Viérotchka; I have an errand at the Gostinui Dvor. What did you put on such a dress as that for, Viérotchka, when you say you are going to the Nevsky. You ought to put on a better one when you are going to the Nevsky; folks’ll see you.”
“I like this dress. Just wait one second, mámenka; I want to get just one thing out of my room.”
They start; they go. They reached the Gostinui Dvor. They were going along the block that runs parallel with Sadovaïa Street; they are not far from the Nevsky corner, and here is Ruzanof’s shop.
“Mámenka, I have two words to tell you.”
“What is the matter with you, Viérotchka?”
“Goodbye, mámenka. I don’t know whether we shall meet again soon. If you don’t get angry, it’ll be tomorrow.”
“What is it, Viérotchka? I cannot understand it, somehow?”
“Goodbye, mámenka; I am going to my husband. Dmitri Sergéitch and I were married three days ago. Drive to Karavannaïa Street, Izvoshchik.”
“A quarter, lady.”
“All right; only be quick about it. He will call upon you this evening, mámenka; and don’t get angry with me, mámenka.”
These words hardly reached Marya Alekséyevna’s ears.
“Don’t drive to Karavannaïa Street; I only said so as to get away from that lady as quickly as I could. Go to the left down Nevsky. I must go much further than Karavannaïa Street, to the Vasilyevsky Island, the fifth block behind the Middle Prospekt. Drive fast; I will give you a good fee.”
“Akh! lady, you were pleased to fool me. You’ll have to give me half a ruble.”
“If you drive fast.”