V
Storeshnikof’s plan was not so murderous as Marya Alekséyevna supposed; she in her own style put it in a too brutal form, but the spirit of the thing she interpreted aright. Storeshnikof’s idea was to bring the two ladies a little later in the evening to the restaurant where the supper was going to be; of course, they would be hungry and cold, and it would be necessary for them to get warm, and have a cup of tea. He would have a little opium put into Marya Alekséyevna’s teacup or wineglass; Viérotchka would be frightened to see her mother lose consciousness; he would take Viérotchka into the room where the supper was going on, and then his bet would be won; what the final result would be, he would leave to chance. Maybe Viérotchka in her perplexity would not understand the matter, and would agree to remain in the strange company, but even if she remained but a little while, it would not make any difference; it would be excused because she had only just entered upon that adventurous course of life, and naturally felt a bit of awkwardness at first. Then afterwards he would buy Marya Alekséyevna off with a little money, after which he would have nothing more to do with her.
But now what was he to do? He cursed his boastfulness before his friends, his faint-heartedness when met by Viérotchka’s unexpected and abrupt resistance; he wished that the earth would open and swallow him. Now what was he to do? While his mind was in such disorder and despair, a letter from Julie brought healing balm to his wound; a ray of hope shone into the impenetrable darkness; a solid road opened through the quagmire under the feet of the sinking man. “Oh! she can; she is the cleverest woman; she can bring anything about! She is the noblest of women!”
At ten minutes before seven he was standing before her door. “She is waiting for you, and gave orders to have you admitted.”
How majestically she is sitting! how stern she looks! She scarcely bends her head in reply to his bow: “I am very glad to see you; take a seat.”
Not a muscle moved in her face. “It will be a good scolding [literally, head-washing], I suppose; no matter, scold away, only save me.”
“Monsieur Storeshnik,” she began in a cold, slow way, “you know my opinion of the matter in regard to which we have come together now, and which, of course, I see no need of characterizing again. I have seen that young lady whom you were talking about last night; I have heard about your visit to them today; consequently, I know all about everything, and I am very glad, because it saves me from asking you any questions. Your position is perfectly clear, not only to you, but to me.”
“Lord! I’d rather she would scold,” thought the victim.
“It seems to me,” she went on, “that you cannot get out of it without somebody’s help, and that you cannot expect anybody to help you successfully but me. If you have anything to say in your defence, I will listen.” “And so,” after a pause, “you, as well as I, suppose that no one else is able to help you; just listen to what I am able and willing to do for you: if my supposititious help is going to be of any use to you, I will tell you the terms on which I agree to accomplish it.”
And in the long, long style of an official explanation, she told him that she could send a letter to Jean in which she would say, “that, after last night’s caprice, she had thought things over; that she wanted to take part in the supper, but that she was engaged for this evening, and therefore she asked Jean to persuade Storeshnikof to postpone the supper till some time that should be agreed upon with Jean.” She read the letter over; the letter expressed a conviction that Storeshnikof would win the wager, and that it would be disagreeable to him to put off his triumph. “Would this letter be sufficient?” “Indeed, it would.” “In such a case,” continued Julie, in the very same style of official notes; she would send off the letter on two conditions: “You can accept them or not; if you accept them, I will send off the letter; if you refuse them, I shall burn the letter;” and all this was said in the everlasting manner that seemed to draw out the soul of the rescued man. At last came the conditions; there were two: “First, that you cease persecuting the young person of whom we were speaking; second, that you cease mentioning her name in your conversations.”
“Is that all?” the rescued man wonders: “I thought she would ask, the deuce knows what, and I should have been willing to grant anything.” He agrees, and his face shows a triumph at the easiness of her conditions; but Julie is not in the least softened, and she keeps on with her explanations. “The first is necessary for her sake; the second also for her sake, but still more for yours. I shall postpone the supper for a week, and then for another week; and then the thing will be forgotten: but you must understand that the others will forget about it only unless you do not any longer say a single word about the young lady about whom, etc.” And at the same time she keeps on explaining and assuring him that the letter will be received by Jean in ample time. “I have made inquiries, and he will dine with Berthe, etc.; he will call on you as soon as he has finished his cigar, etc.” And this too was said as before; then she said, “And so the letter will be sent, and I am very glad; please read it over; I have no confidence in others, and I do not expect others to have confidence in me.—You have read it over: please seal it yourself. Here is an envelope; I will ring the bell.—Pauline, have the goodness to post this letter, etc. Pauline, I have not seen Monsieur Storeshnikof today; do you understand? he has not been here!”
This tormenting salvation lasted about an hour. Finally the letter was sent off, and the rescued man breathes more freely, but the perspiration runs down his face, and Julie continues:—
“In a quarter of an hour you must hurry home, so that Jean may find you there. But this quarter of an hour is still at your disposal, and I am going to avail myself of it to say a few words to you; you will follow or you will not follow the advice which they contain, but you will at least think it over seriously. I shall not say a word about the obligations that an honorable man feels towards a young girl whose good name he has compromised; I know too well our aristocratic young men to expect any advantage from going over this side of the question. But I find that if you should marry the young person about whom we have been speaking, it would be a good thing for you. As a straightforward woman, I shall lay down before you explicitly the foundations of my belief, though some of them may be ticklish in your ears; however, your least word will be sufficient for me to stop. You are a man of a weak character, and you run the risk of falling into the hands of some bad woman who will torment you and make you her mere plaything. But she is kind and noble, and therefore she would not treat you shabbily. To marry her, notwithstanding the lowness of her birth compared to yours, notwithstanding her poverty, would help you along in your career; she, when once introduced into the ‘great world’ with all the money that you have, with all her beauty, good sense, and strength of character, would occupy a brilliant place; the advantage of this can be understood by every husband. But aside from these advantages, which every other husband would receive from such a wife, you, through the peculiarities of your nature, more than anyone else, need an assistant. I will speak still plainer: you need someone to lead you. Every word that I have spoken has been weighed; every word has been based on my observation of her. I do not ask you to believe me, but I recommend that you think over my advice. I doubt very much whether she would accept your offer; but if she should accept it, it would be a good thing for you. I shall not detain you any longer; now you must hurry home.”