XVIII
“Forgive me, Viéra Pavlovna,” said Lopukhóf, coming into her room. How gently he speaks, and his voice trembles; but at dinner he spoke loud, and he did not call her my dear, but Viéra Pavlovna. “Forgive me for having been impertinent. You know what I said: yes, a husband and wife cannot be separated. Then you are free.”
He took her hand and kissed it.
“My dearest, you saw that I wept when you came in; it was out of joy.”
Lopukhóf kissed her hand; many times he kissed her hand.
“Here, my dearest, you are freeing me from the cellar; how clever and kind you are. How did you happen to think about it?”
“It was when we first danced together, that I thought about it.”
“My dearest, I thought then that you were kind. You are giving me liberty, my dearest. Now I am ready to suffer, now I know that I am leaving the cellar; now it will not be so suffocating for me, now I know that I am already leaving it; but how shall I leave it, my dearest?”
“This is the way, Viérotchka. It is now the end of April. At the beginning of July my work at the medical school will be over. I must graduate, so that we can have the means to live, and then you shall leave your cellar. Endure it only three months, or even less; you shall get out. I shall have the position of surgeon. The salary is not over large; but no matter, I shall have some practice; as much as will be necessary, and we shall get along.”
“Akh! my dearest, we shall need but very little. But I do not want it to be so; I do not want to live at your expense. You see I am earning something now by giving lessons; but I shall lose them then, for mámenka will tell everybody that I am an abomination. But I shall find other pupils. I shall begin to live. Now isn’t that the right way? Don’t you see that I mustn’t live at your expense?”
“Who gave you that idea, my dearest friend, Viérotchka?”
“Akh! and now he is asking me who gave me that idea. Why, weren’t you yourself always saying this very thing? And in your books—fully half of them say so!”
“In the books? Did I say so? When was it, Viérotchka?”
“Akh! when was it indeed! and who told me that money lay at the root of all things? Who told me that, Dmitri Sergéitch?”
“Well, what of that?”
“And you think that I am such a foolish young girl that I cannot draw a conclusion from premises, to use the words of your books?”
“Well, what conclusions? My dearest friend, Viérotchka, you are talking God-knows-what nonsense.”
“Akh! smarty! he wants to be a despot; he wants me to become his slave! no indeed, this cannot be. Dmitri Sergéitch, do you understand?”
“Then you tell me, and I shall understand.”
“Money lies at the root of all things, you say, Dmitri Sergéitch; whoever has the money has the might and the right, say your books; consequently, so long as a woman lives at her husband’s expense, she will be dependent upon him; isn’t that so, Dmitri Sergéitch? You supposed that I did not understand it; that I was going to be your slave. No, Dmitri Sergéitch, I am not going to allow you to be a despot over me! You want to be a benevolent, kind despot, but I will not allow it; but I do not want it to be so, Dmitri Sergéitch! Now, my mílenki [darling], how else can we live? You will cut off people’s hands and legs, you will make them drink miserable mixtures, and I will give piano-lessons. And how else should we live?”
“That’s right, that’s right. Let everyone preserve his independence from everybody with all his might, no matter how he loves him, how he trusts him! Whether you will carry out what you propose or not, I do not know; but it makes very little difference: whoever makes up his mind to do a thing of this sort has already built his fort; he already feels that he can get along by himself; that he can refuse the help of others, if necessary, and this feeling is almost enough of itself. What queer people we are, Viérotchka! You say, ‘I do not want to live at your expense,’ and I am praising you for it! Who else says such things, Viérotchka?”
“No matter if we are queer, my mílenki; what do we care? We shall live according to our own style; it is better for us. How else should we live, mílenki?”
“Viéra Pavlovna, I have proposed to you my ideas about one side of our life; you have condescended to overthrow them altogether with your plan. You have called me a tyrant and a slaveholder; now be kind enough to think yourself how the other parts of our relations shall be arranged. I count it idle to give you the benefit of my thoughts, lest they should be destroyed by you in the same way. My friend, Viérotchka, tell me yourself how we ought to live; in all probability, there will be nothing left for me to say but this, ‘My dear [moya milia], how very wise your ideas are!’ ”
“What is that? Do you mean to give me a compliment? You want to be very polite; but I know too well how people flatter so as to reign under a mask of humility. I beg of you to speak more simply hereafter. My dear [milui moï], you are praising me to death. I am ashamed, my dear; don’t praise me, lest I become too proud.”
“Very good, Viéra Pavlovna; I will begin to say rough things to you if you like that better. There is so little femininity in your nature, Viéra Pavlovna, that most likely you have nothing but men’s thoughts.”
“Akh! my dearest, what does that word ‘femininity’ mean? I understand that a woman speaks in a contralto voice—a man, in a baritone; but what of that? Is it worth while to bother about our contralto voices? Is it worth while to ask us about such things? Why do people keep telling us that it is our duty to remain feminine? Isn’t it a piece of nonsense, dear?”
“It is nonsense, Viérotchka, and a very great piece of triviality.”
“So, then, my dear, I shall not bother myself about femininity; now listen, Dmitri Sergéitch, I am going to express in absolutely masculine fashion the way that I think we ought to live. We shall be friends; only I wish to be your principal friend. Akh! I have never told you how I dislike this dear Kirsánof of yours!”
“You must not, Viérotchka; he is a very fine man!”
“But I hate him! I shall forbid your seeing him!”
“That is a fine beginning! She is so afraid of my despotism that she wants to make a doll of her husband. And how can I help seeing him when we live together?”
“You are always sitting together like lovers!”
“Of course. At breakfast and at dinner. When one’s hands are always occupied, it is hard to use them like lovers’ hands.”
“And you are always inseparable!”
“Most likely. He is in his room and I in mine; that means almost inseparable.”
“And if that is so, why shouldn’t you stop seeing him altogether?”
“Well [da], we are friends; sometimes we want to talk, and we talk, and so far we haven’t been burdensome to each other.”
“You are always sitting together, hugging and disputing. I hate him.”
“What makes you think so, Viérotchka? We have never quarrelled. We live almost separately; we are friends, to be sure; but what of that?”
“Akh! my dearest, how I deceived you, how cleverly I deceived you. You did not want to tell me how we should live together, and yet you have told me everything! How I deceived you! Listen: this is the way we should live according to your idea. In the first place, we shall have two rooms, yours and mine, and then a third room where we shall drink tea, take dinner, receive guests who come to call on both of us! and not on you alone, and not on me alone. In the second place, I must not dare to enter your room lest I bother you. You see Kirsánof does not dare to interrupt you, and so you do not quarrel with him. And it will be the same with mine. That is the second. Now there is a third! Akh! my dearest, I forget to ask you about it. Does Kirsánof interfere with your affairs, or you with his? Have you a right to ask each other about anything?”
“Eh! now I see why you mention Kirsánof; I shall not tell you!”
“No! but I dislike him for all this; and you need not tell me, for it’s not necessary. I myself know. You have no right to ask each other about anything. And so, in the third place, I shall have no right to ask you about anything, my dear. If it is necessary for you to tell me about any of your affairs, you will tell me yourself, and vice versa. Here are three rules. What more more is there?”
“Viérotchka, your second rule demands explanations. We shall see each other at tea or dinner in our neutral room. Now imagine such an occasion as this: We have drunk our tea in the morning, I am sitting in my room, and do not dare to show my nose in yours; consequently, I cannot see you till dinner time; isn’t that so?”
“Of course.”
“Excellent! An acquaintance of mine comes and says, that at two o’clock another acquaintance will call on me, but it happens my business calls me away at one. May I ask you to tell that acquaintance who is coming at two the proper answer? may I ask you whether you intend to remain at home?”
“Of course you may. Whether I will undertake it is another question! If I refuse, you have no right to claim it of me; you have no right to even ask why I refuse. But to ask whether I will consent to do you that little service—you shall have that right.”
“Excellent! But at breakfast I did not know that he was coming, and I shall not dare to enter your room; how then can I ask the question?”
“O bozhe! how simple he is! a little child! Just listen to him! How he misunderstands me! This is the way you must do, Dmitri Sergéitch. You shall enter the neutral room and say, ‘Viéra Pavlovna!’ I shall answer from my room, ‘What do you want, Dmitri Sergéitch.’ You will reply, ‘I am going out. In my absence Mr. A. will call (of course you will give me your friend’s name); I have some news to tell him; may I ask you, Viéra Pavlovna, to tell him that?’ If I answer ‘no’ our conversation is at an end; but if I say ‘yes’ I shall come out into the neutral room, and you shall tell me what you want me to tell your friend. Now, my dear little child, you know, don’t you, how it will be necessary to act?”
“Yes, my dear Viérotchka, jesting aside, it is much better to live in the way that you propose. Only, who in the world put such ideas into your head? I know them, and I remember where I have read of such things; but such books never come into your hands. In the books which I let you have there were no such ideas. Did you hear them? from whom? I was almost the first person whom you ever met from among respectable people.”
“Akh! my dear, is it so very hard to think out such things? I have seen family life—I am not speaking about my family; my family is so peculiar—but I have friends, and I have been in their homes. Bozhe moï! what disagreeable scenes between husbands and wives; you cannot imagine them, my dear!”
“Nu! I have no trouble in imagining them, Viérotchka.”
“Do you know how it seems to me, my dear? People ought not to live the way they do: always together, always together! They ought not to see each other except on business, or when they come together to rest or have a good time. I am always looking and thinking, why is everybody so polite to strangers? Why do all people try to appear better than they are in their own families? And in fact, before strangers they are better. Why is it? Why do they treat their own people worse than they do strangers, though they love them more? Do you know, my dear, that there is one favor that I want to ask of you—to treat me as you have always treated me. This has not hindered you from loving me; after all, you and I have been nearer to each other than all the rest. How have you always acted towards me? Have you ever answered rudely? have you ever spoken unkindly? Never! People ask how it is possible to be rude to a woman or a girl who is a stranger; how is it possible to speak harshly to her? So far, so good, my dear; now I am your bride; I am going to be your wife, but you must always treat me as they say it is right to treat a stranger: this, my dear, seems to be better than all else for preserving harmony, for preserving love. So, my dear!”
“I don’t know what to think of you, Viérotchka. This is not the first time that you have surprised me.”
“My dear [mílenki moï], you want to flatter me to death. No, my friend, it is not as difficult to understand as it may seem to you. Such thoughts are not peculiar to me alone, my dear; they are held by a good many girls and young women, even such simpletons as I am. Only it is impossible for them to tell their bridegrooms or their husbands what they think; they know that if they did, it would be said that they were immoral. I fell in love with you, my dear, because you don’t think so. Do you know when I began to love you? It was when we talked together the first time, my birthday; when you said that women were poor, and to be pitied: it was then that I fell in love with you.”
“And when did I fall in love with you? That very same day? Do you suppose it was on that very same day when I told you that?”
“How strange you are, dearest [mílenki]! You said that I couldn’t guess; but if I should guess, you would begin to praise me again.”
“But try to guess for all that!”
“Well, of course it was when I asked whether it was not possible to arrange things so that all people could live comfortably.”
“I must kiss your hand again in payment for that, Viérotchka.”
“That’ll do, my dear; I do not like the habit of kissing women’s hands.”
“Why not, Viérotchka?”
“Akh! my dear, you yourself know why. What is the good of asking me? Don’t ask such questions, my mílenki!”
“Yes, my friend, that is true; one should not ask such questions: it is wrong. I’ll ask you only when I do not really know what you mean; and you meant that nobody’s hand should be kissed.”
Viérotchka laughed heartily.
“Now I forgive you, because I have succeeded in laughing at you. You see, you wanted to examine me, and you yourself did not know the principal reason why it is not well. Nobody’s hands should be kissed; that’s true: but that was not what I was talking about; not the general rule, but only about the impropriety of a man kissing a woman’s hand. This, my dear, ought to be very offensive to a woman; it shows that she is not looked upon as an equal. Women think that a man cannot lower self-respect before a woman; that she is already so much lower than he is, that no matter how much he lowers himself before her, still he does not come down to her level, but is far higher than she is. But you do not think this way, my dear; why, then should you kiss my hand. But listen to what I think, my mílenki, as though we had never been bridegroom and bride.”
“Yes, that is true, Viérotchka; it looks very little like it. But what are we then?”
“God knows what we are, my mílenki; or rather it’s this way: as though we had been married, long, long ago.”
“That’s so, my dear, it is true; we are old friends, nothing has changed.”
“Only one thing has changed, my mílenki: that now I know that I am coming out from the cellar to enjoy freedom.”