III
“Nu, Viéra, all right! Your eyes show you haven’t cried. Evidently you saw that your mother tells the truth. You always used to be an off horse.” Viérotchka made an impatient gesture. “Nu! its all right; I shan’t say anything more; don’t get stirred up! And last night I fell asleep in your room; perhaps I talked too long. Last night I was not myself. Don’t heed what I said when I was a little tipsy; do you hear? don’t heed it!”
Viérotchka once more saw the ordinary Marya Alekséyevna. The evening before it seemed to her that underneath her animal outside she saw the features of a human being; but now she seemed to be a mere animal and nothing else. Viérotchka made an effort to overcome her repugnance, but she could not. Hitherto she had only despised her mother; yesterday evening it seemed to her that she was ceasing to despise her and beginning to feel only pity for her. But now again she felt the old repugnance, but there remained also the pity for her.
“Dress yourself, Viérotchka. He’ll likely get here before long.” She very carefully examined her daughter’s wardrobe. “If you only behave yourself, I will make you a present of a pair of earrings with large emeralds; they are old fashioned, but if they are made over, they’ll make a handsome little brooch. They were left in pawn for one hundred and fifty rubles, making with interest two hundred and fifty; but they are worth more than four hundred. Do you hear? I am going to give them to you.”
Storeshnikof appeared. Last evening he was quite at a loss to know how to accomplish the task which he had undertaken; he walked from the restaurant to his house, thinking all the time. But when he reached home he was calm; he made up his mind as he walked, and now he was satisfied with himself.
He asked about Viéra Pavlovna’s health.
“I am well.”
He said that he was very glad, and the conversation turned on the necessity of making the most of health.
“Of course it is necessary, and according to Marya Alekséyevna’s opinion, one ought to make the most of youth also.” He perfectly agreed with that sentiment, and thought that it would be well to take advantage of the fine weather to enjoy a ride out of town: “It is a frosty day, and the road is elegant.”
“With whom do you intend to go?”
“Only three of us—you, Marya Alekséyevna, Viéra Pavlovna, and myself.”
In this case Marya Alekséyevna is perfectly agreed; but now she is going to prepare some coffee and lunch, and Viérotchka will sing something.
“Viérotchka, will you sing something?” she adds in a tone that leaves no room for refusal.
“I will sing.”
Viérotchka sat down at the piano, and sang a song called “Troïka” (The Three Span), for at this time Pushkin’s poem was set to music. To Marya Alekséyevna listening at the door, this song was very good. The young girl was looking at the officer. “That little Viérka, if she only wants, can be pretty shrewd, the minx!”
Soon Viérotchka stopped. This was right; Marya Alekséyevna had advised her: “Sing a little while, and then begin to talk.”
Now Viérotchka is speaking, but to Marya Alekséyevna’s mortification she is speaking in French. “What a fool I was! I forgot to tell her to speak in Russian; but Viéra is speaking calmly; she is smiling. Nu! evidently everything is going well. Only what made him open his eyes so wide? But then, he is a fool [durak], a genuine fool, and all that he can do is to blink his eyes. But this is just the kind we want. Now she is giving him her hand; Viérka is smart; I praise her!”
“Monsieur Storeshnikof, I must speak seriously with you. Last night you took a box so that you might represent me to your friends as your mistress. I am not going to tell you that it was dishonorable; if you had been capable of comprehending it, you would not have done it. But I warn you, if you ever dare to speak to me in the theatre, or on the street, or anywhere else, I shall slap your face. My mother will torture me” (here Viérotchka smiled) “let come what may, it is all the same. This evening you receive a note from my mother to the effect that our sleighride is given up, because I am not well.”
He stood up and blinked his eyes, just as Marya Alekséyevna had noticed.
“I speak to you as to a man who has not a spark of honor in him. But may be you are not absolutely ruined. If it is so, I beg of you, cease calling upon us! Then I will forgive your slander. If you consent, give me your hand.”
She offered him her hand; he took it, hardly knowing what he was doing.
“I thank you. Now go. Say that you must hurry to get the horses ready for the drive.”
Again he blinked his eyes. She turned to the notes and began to finish singing the “Troïka.” It was a pity that there were no good judges of singing there; it was charming to hear her; indeed, it was rare that one heard so much expression put into music. Really, there was too much feeling; it was not artistic.
In a moment Marya Alekséyevna came in, and the cook followed her with a waiter containing coffee and lunch. Mikhaïl Ivanuitch, instead of taking the lunch, retreated to the door.
“Where are you going, Mikhaïl Ivanuitch?”
“I am in a hurry, Marya Alekséyevna, to give orders about the horses.”
“Da! you have ample time, Mikaïl Ivanuitch.” But Mikhaïl Ivanuitch was already behind the door.
Marya Alekséyevna dashed from the reception room into the parlor with uplifted fists. “What have you done, you confounded Viérka. Ha?” But the confounded Viérka was no longer in the parlor; her mother hastened after her to her room, but the door of Viérotchka’s room was locked. The mother pressed with all the strength of her body to break open the door, but the door did not yield, and Viérka said: “If you try to break open the door, I shall open the window and call for help. I will not give myself into your hands alive.”
Marya Alekséyevna’s anger lasted long, but she did not break open the door; finally, she got tired of shouting. Then Viérotchka said: “Mámenka, hitherto I simply have not loved you; but since last night, I pity you; you have had much sorrow, and that has made you what you are. Hitherto I have not talked with you, but now I want to talk; but only when you have got over being angry. We will talk kindly, as we never have before.”
Of course, Marya Alekséyevna did not take these words much to heart; but weary nerves demand rest, and Marya Alekséyevna began to reason whether it would not be better to compromise with her daughter before she, the miserable creature, gets entirely out of her hands. “Besides, without her, nothing can be done; we can’t marry her to Mishka, the fool, unless she’s here to marry him, can we? Besides, I don’t know yet what she has told him; they squeezed each other’s hands; what does that signify?”
And thus the weary Marya Alekséyevna was reasoning between ferocity and cunningness, when suddenly the bell rang. It was Julie and Serge.