XVI
Four months passed. The watching over Nástenka and then his recollections about her deceived Kirsánof; it seemed to him that now he was out of danger as far as Viéra Pavlovna were concerned; he did not avoid her when she came to see Nástenka and stopped to talk with him; and afterwards when she tried to console him. As long as he mourned for Nástenka, there was nothing in his feelings towards Viéra Pavlovna except a friendly feeling of gratefulness towards her.
But—the reader has already learned to know what I mean by but the same as he will always know beforehand what is going to follow the pages that he has already read—but, of course, Kirsánof’s feeling towards Nástenka had not been the same as Nástenka’s feelings towards him; he had long ceased to feel love for her; he only felt well disposed to her, as towards a woman whom he had loved long before. His former love towards her was only the thirst of a youth to love someone, no matter whom. Of course Nástenka was not his equal, because they were not equal in mental development. When he ceased to be a youth, he could only feel pity for Nástenka, and nothing more; possibly he could be tender to her, on account of old recollections and compassion, and that was all. His grief for her, in fact, was very soon appeased; but when his grief was a thing of the past, he imagined that he was still occupied with it; and after he saw that he did not really feel any grief, but only recollections of it, he saw himself in such relations with Viéra Pavlovna that he found that he was entrapped in a great misfortune.
Viéra Pavlovna tried to distract him, and he gave himself up to it, for he considered himself safe, or rather not realizing that he was falling in love with Viéra Pavlovna again, or realizing that, by giving himself up to her care, he was drifting towards misfortune. Well, and what happened now in two or three months, after Viéra Pavlovna began to console him for his grief for Nástenka? Nothing except the fact that he used to spend almost every evening at the Lopukhófs’, or escorted Viéra Pavlovna somewhere or other, frequently with her husband, but more often by himself. That was all that happened, but this was altogether too much, not only for him, but also for her.
How did Viéra Pavlovna spend her days now? Till evening it was just the same as before. Now, here it is six o’clock; at this time she usually goes alone to the shop, or she sits in her room, and works by herself. But now, if she has to be at the shop in the evening, Kirsánof was told about it the evening before, and he comes to escort her. On their walk to and from the shop—by the way, it was not a very long distance—they talk about various matters, generally about the union. Kirsánof himself is now the most active helper there. Once there she occupies herself in giving directions, and he too has a good deal to do; for thirty girls ask not a few questions and favors, which it is most convenient for him to fulfil, isn’t it? And during the intervals he sits and talks with the children; and here several of the young girls take part in this conversation about everything in the world—about the beauty of the Arabian stories, the Thousand and One Nights, a good many of which he had already told them, and about the white elephants which are so esteemed in India, just as in our country a good many love white cats; half the company think that this is not good taste—white elephants, cats, horses; for all these are albinos, a sickly species; you can see by their eyes that they do not enjoy such good health as the colored ones; but the other part of the company stand up for the white cats.
“And don’t you know anything more about the life of Mrs. Beecher Stowe, whose novel we have all known because you told us?” asked one of the growing girls. No; Kirsánof, just now, does not know it, but he will find out about it; it is very interesting to him, but now he can tell them something about Howard who was almost as great as Mrs. Beecher Stowe. Thus pass Kirsánof’s talks, or Kirsánof’s discussions with the little flock; one half of the flock, consisting of children, has been constantly the same, but the older half unceasingly changes. But now Viéra Pavlovna has finished her business, and she returns home with him to tea, and they all three sit for a long time after tea; now Viéra Pavlovna and her husband spend a much longer time together than when Kirsánof was not there. Almost every evening that they spend together, they have music for an hour or two: Dmitri Sergéitch plays, Viéra Pavlovna sings, Kirsánof sits and listens; sometimes Kirsánof plays, and Dmitri Sergéitch and his wife sing duets. But now it often happens that Viéra Pavlovna hurries from the shop, so as to have time to dress for the opera: now very often they go to the opera, sometimes all together, and sometimes Viéra Pavlovna and Kirsánof go by themselves; and besides, the Lopukhófs have company more often than before—before not counting the young folks; for what kind of guests are young folks? they are only like nephews—the Mertsálofs were almost their only visitors—now the Lopukhófs have made friends with two or three lovely families. The Mertsálofs and two other families made arrangements to have every week, in their own circle, little evening parties with dancing; there used to be six couples, and even eight couples, of dancers. Lopukhóf scarcely ever goes to the opera or to these parties without Kirsánof; but Kirsánof very often escorts Viéra Pavlovna to these entertainments. Lopukhóf says that he much prefers to stay at home in his everyday coat on his sofa. And therefore, only about half the evenings they spend together; but these evenings they are together with scarcely any interruptions; it is true, when the Lopukhófs have no company besides Kirsánof, the sofa often draws Lopukhóf from the parlor, where the grand piano stands; the piano has now been brought from Viéra Pavlovna’s room into the parlor; but this does not save Dmitri Sergéitch very much. In a quarter or a half hour, Kirsánof and Viéra Pavlovna give up the music, and sit by his sofa; however, Viéra Pavlovna does not sit long by the sofa; she quickly arranges herself comfortably on the sofa itself, but in such a way that there is plenty of room for her husband also; for the sofa is wide; that is, there is not any too much room, but she would throw her arm around her husband, and so it is comfortable for him to stay there.
And thus passed three months or more.
The idyl is no longer fashionable, and I myself do not like it at all; that is, personally I do not like it, just as I do not like sauntering, do not like asparagus—several things, aren’t there, that I am not fond of? but it is impossible for any one man to like all dishes and all ways of amusement. But I know that these things, which are not according to my personal taste, are very good things; that they are to the taste, or they would be to the taste of a vastly greater number of people than those who, like me, prefer chess-playing to sauntering, sauerkraut with hemp oil to asparagus. I even know that the tastes of the majority which does not share my enjoyment in chess-playing, would be glad not to share my taste for sauerkraut with hemp oil, are not worse than mine; and so I say: let there be in the world as many amusements as possible, or let them almost absolutely vanish from the world, but let sauerkraut with hemp oil remain, as an antiquarian rarity for a few such odd fellows as I.
And, likewise, I know that for the huge majority of people, who are not in the least worse than I am, happiness must have an idyllic character; and I exclaim: “Let the idyl begin to reign over all the other characters in life.” For a few originals who are not fond of it there will be other forms of happiness; but the majority must have the idyl. As to the fact that the idyl is not in fashion, and therefore people shun it, that is no objection at all; they shun it just as the fox in the fable shunned the grapes. It seems to them that the idyl is inaccessible, and therefore they lay down their dictum: “Let it not be in fashion.”
But it is pure absurdity that the idyl is inaccessible; it is not only a good thing for almost all people, but it is very feasible; there ought to be no hardship in arranging it, only it must not be for one person, or ten persons, but for all. Now the Italian opera is an impossible thing for five people; but for the whole city of Petersburg it is very possible, as all see and hear. And so, too, the Collected Writings of N. V. Gogol, Moscow, 1861, would be an impossible thing for ten people; but for the whole public it is very possible, and not expensive, as we all know. But as long as there is no opera for the whole city, it is possible for only a few very music-mad people to enjoy themselves at second-class concerts; and as long as the second volume of Dead Souls was not printed for the whole public, only a few of the most eager admirers of Gogol, not valuing the labor, prepared each for themselves manuscript copies. A manuscript is incomparably worse than a printed book; a second-class concert is very poor compared to an Italian opera; but both the one and the other are good in their way.