The old couple loved each other very much. Their love and their long life together formed an indissoluble bond between them. Yet even in their happiest times Nikolai Sergeich had always been rather uncommunicative, sometimes even harsh with his Anna Andreyevna, especially in company. There is in some refined and sensitive natures a kind of stubbornness, an unwillingness – born of discretion – to talk about or demonstrate their feelings even to those they love most, not only in public but in private too – particularly in private. Only rarely will there be an emotional outpouring, and the longer it has been repressed, the more unrestrained and impetuous it will eventually be. This was what Ikhmenev had always been like with his Anna Andreyevna, even going back to his younger days. His love and respect for her knew no bounds; although she was simply a good woman, capable of nothing more than reciprocating his love, he disapproved intensely when, in her simplicity, she all too readily bared her soul to him. But after Natasha’s departure, their relationship mellowed; they now realized to their chagrin that they had no one but each other left in the world. And though Nikolai Sergeich would every now and again be overcome with depression, neither of them could endure being away from the other, even if only for a couple of hours, without feelings of pain and sadness. As for Natasha, they had tacitly agreed not to talk about her as though she had never existed. Anna Andreyevna was afraid even to mention her in her husband’s presence, which was no easy matter for her. In her heart she had forgiven Natasha long ago. The two of us had somehow come to an understanding that every time I came round, I would bring her word of her beloved, unforgettable child.
Anna Andreyevna would become positively ill if there was no news for a long time, and whenever I brought her some, she would hang on my every word, question me with anxious curiosity, and unburden her heart when she heard my reports; one day when Natasha fell ill, she nearly died of fright and was almost ready to go and see the patient for herself. But that was an extreme case. At first she couldn’t bring herself, even in front of me, to express her desire to see her daughter, and at the end of our heart-to-heart conversations, after she had pumped me for every detail, she would invariably and somewhat disingenuously point out that, even though she was interested in her daughter’s future, Natasha had done a terrible wrong, for which she could never be forgiven. But all this was just pretence. There were occasions when Anna Andreyevna would become completely distraught, weep in my presence, call Natasha by the fondest of names, and complain bitterly of Nikolai Sergeich, and in his presence start dropping not-so-subtle subtle hints about people’s pride and cold-heartedness, the fact that we are unable to forgive offences against us and that God will not forgive the unforgiving; but in his presence she never went further than that. On such occasions Ikhmenev would immediately bristle and either lapse into sullen silence or, quite unexpectedly, and usually in an embarrassingly pointed manner, try to change the conversation or, if all else failed, simply go to his room, leaving the two of us on our own, thereby giving Anna Andreyevna an opportunity to vent her grief in tears and lamentations. He also always used to go to his room in this way whenever I came, even before I had finished saying hello, clearly to give me time to tell Anna Andreyevna the latest news about Natasha. That is exactly what he did on this occasion.
“I’m drenched,” he said to her as soon as he came in. “I think I’ll go to my room, but you stay here, Vanya. You should hear what happened to him at his lodgings. Why don’t you tell her all about it? I’ll be back shortly…”
With that he hurried off, trying even not to look at us, as though resenting the fact that, as always, it was he who had brought us together. On such occasions, especially after he eventually rejoined us, he would always be gruff and acrimonious, even intolerant, towards both Anna Andreyevna and me as though annoyed with himself for his softness and compliance.
“You see what he’s like,” Anna Andreyevna said, having lately abandoned all her reserve and stratagems with me. “He’s always like that with me, and he knows perfectly well we can see through all his guiles. Why all this pretence with me! As if I were a stranger to him! He’s the same with his daughter. Surely he could have forgiven her – perhaps he’d like to, God only knows. He cries in the night, I’ve heard him! But he will put a brave face on it. It’s that stubborn pride of his… My dear Ivan Petrovich, hurry up and tell me now where did he go today?”
“Nikolai Sergeich? I’ve no idea. I was going to ask you myself.”
“I was worried sick when he went out. He wasn’t at all well, you know, and to have gone out in that weather, at that ungodly hour too! Well, I thought to myself, it must be something particularly important, but what could have been more important than the business we all know about? I kept turning it over in my mind – but do you think I could screw up the courage to ask him? Even now I’m afraid to ask him about anything. My God, I nearly fainted when I thought of them both. What if he had gone to see her, I thought – perhaps he had decided to forgive her? He had already found out everything, you know, he knows every last detail about her. I’m convinced he knows, but I can’t think how. He was in such a state yesterday and today. But why don’t you say something! Tell me, my dear, what else happened there! I’ve been waiting for you to come, like an angel of God. I thought you’d never come. Well, is that evil man going to desert our Natasha?”
I immediately told Anna Andreyevna everything I knew. I was always perfectly frank with her. I informed her that Natasha and Alyosha really seemed to be heading for a break-up – that this time it was more serious than any of their previous disagreements; that Natasha had sent me a note the day before, begging me to come and see her at nine that evening, which was why I hadn’t been planning to see them at all that night; that it was Nikolai Sergeich who had asked me to come back with him. I was at pains to explain to her that the position was now absolutely critical; that Alyosha’s father, in the two weeks since his return from abroad, would brook no opposition, and had taken Alyosha firmly in hand; but most important of all that Alyosha himself seemed not only not indifferent to his fiancée but, rumour had it, even to be in love with her. I also added that Natasha’s note was, as far as one could tell, written in great agitation, and that it said everything would be decided that evening – but as to what, there was no indication; puzzlingly it was dated the day before, although my meeting with her was fixed for that evening, even down to the hour – nine o’clock. And so I would definitely have to go, and soon.
“Go along, my dear, of course, if you must,” Anna Andreyevna began to fuss. “He’ll join us in a moment, you’ll have a glass of tea before you go, won’t you?… Oh, where’s the samovar! Matryona! What have you done with the samovar, girl? She’ll be the death of me, that girl will!… Well, have your tea, think of a likely excuse, and off you go. And make sure you come back tomorrow nice and early and tell me all about it. Heavens above! I hope to goodness nothing else has gone wrong! As if things weren’t bad enough already! I’m sure Nikolai Sergeich has found out everything – my heart tells me he has. I get to know a lot through Matryona, and she gets it from Agasha – Agasha’s the goddaughter of Marya Vasilyevna, who lives at the Prince’s house – but you know all that yourself, don’t you? Wasn’t my Nikolai in a foul mood today! There I was minding my own business, and then all of a sudden he fairly flies at me, but a little later he seemed to be sorry and said we were short of money. As if he’d shout at me over money! In the afternoon, off he went for a nap. I peeped at him through a chink in the door, and there he was, bless him, on his knees in front of an icon, praying. When I saw that, my legs fairly gave way under me. He didn’t have his tea or his nap, just picked up his hat and walked out. Five o’clock it was when he left. I didn’t even dare ask where he was going – he’d have shouted at me. He’s taken to shouting a lot recently, mainly at Matryona, but I come in for it too. And every time he does, my legs go numb and my heart sinks. It’s all only words, I know, but it frightens me just the same. I prayed to God to make him see reason a whole hour after he left. Where’s that note of hers? Let me see it now!”
I showed it to her. I knew that Anna Andreyevna hoped against hope for one thing only, that Alyosha, whom sometimes she called an evil man, sometimes a silly heartless boy, would finally marry Natasha, and that his father, Prince Pyotr Alexandrovich, would not stand in the way. She even let slip as much to me, although on other occasions she expressed regret at what she had said and denied she had ever meant it. But she would never have dared to voice her hopes in Nikolai Sergeich’s presence – even though she knew he suspected her of entertaining them – because every so often he would in an indirect way rebuke her. I imagined that if he thought there was any likelihood of such a marriage, he’d have immediately cursed Natasha and torn her from his heart for ever.
We all thought so at the time. Ikhmenev looked forward to his daughter’s return with all his heart, but he expected her to come back alone and contrite, having cast out all memory of Alyosha from her heart. That was his sole condition for pardon, not articulated in so many words, but for all that plainly written on his face and not open to debate.
“He’s spineless, he’s a spineless brat, spineless and cruel, I always said so,” Anna Andreyevna began again. “They didn’t know how to bring him up either, and what a ne’er-do-well he’s turned out to be! And dear God, look what he rejects her for! What will become of her, the poor darling? I can’t imagine what it is he’s found in this new one!”
“I’ve heard, Anna Andreyevna,” I answered, “that this fiancée of his is a charming girl, and even Natalya Nikolayevna said as much – “
“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear!” Anna Andreyevna struck in. “‘Charming girl’ indeed! You scribblers are all the same, anything’s charming provided it’s in petticoats. If Natasha has a good word for the girl, that’s just her generous nature. She has no idea how to handle him and lets him get away with murder, and she’s the one that suffers. The number of times he’s been unfaithful to her! Stony-hearted monsters, all of them! Ivan Petrovich, I can’t tell you the torment I go through. Everyone is blinded by his pride. If only my Nikolai Sergeich could swallow his, there’d be nothing to stop him forgiving my angel and bringing her home. I’d fold her in my arms and feast my eyes on her! Has she got thinner?”
“She has, Anna Andreyevna.”
“My angel! Listen, Ivan Petrovich, I’m at my wits’ end! I’ve wept all night tonight and all day… but never mind that! I’ll tell you all about it later! The number of times I’ve tried to persuade him to forgive her – never to his face mind, always in a roundabout, crafty sort of way. But my heart sank every time… What if he got really angry, I thought, and cursed her for ever! To be honest, I’ve not heard any cursing from him so far… but I can’t help feeling he might. What would happen then? Father’s curse – God’s wrath. So every passing day I live in fear and trepidation. As for you, Ivan Petrovich, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You grew up in this house and were treated like one of the family, and all you can say is ‘charming girl’! You should have heard what Marya Vasilyevna had to say. (I must confess, I invited her for coffee once when my Nikolai Sergeich was away on business for the whole morning.) She told me the whole story. Alyosha’s father, the Prince, lives in sin with his Countess. They say she has been going on at him for some time now to marry her, but he’s always managed to talk himself out of it. But this Countess, even in her husband’s lifetime, had a reputation. No sooner had her husband, a wine dealer by trade, died than off she dashed abroad. She collected Italians, Frenchmen, barons, the lot. That’s where she picked up Prince Pyotr Alexandrovich Valkovsky too. Meanwhile her stepdaughter, her first husband’s, the wine dealer’s daughter, was growing up fast. The Countess had gone through her own money, by which time Katerina Fyodorovna had matured, and so had the two million which her father, the dealer, had invested for her. They say she’s worth three now. The Prince’s eyes immediately lit up – marry off Alyosha to her! (No flies on him! The opportunity was too good to miss!) And the Count, the high-and-mighty courtier, the Prince’s relative, you remember him, he’s also in favour of the plan – after all, three million isn’t to be sneezed at. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘why don’t you have a word with the Countess?’ – which the Prince duly did. The Countess was up in arms – kicked up a dreadful fuss. She’s totally shameless, they say, a real harpy! Lots of people here, never mind abroad, won’t receive her. ‘No,’ she says, ‘we two will get married, my Prince, but not Alyosha and my stepdaughter!’* It so happens that this young girl thinks the world of her stepmother, worships her and obeys her in everything. She’s as gentle as a lamb they say, with the heart of an angel! But the Prince, seeing through all this, says, ‘Don’t you worry, Countess. You’ve spent your pile and you’re hopelessly in debt. But let your stepdaughter marry Alyosha, they’re birds of a feather – one can’t say boo to a goose, the other’s a simple Simon. We’ll take them in hand and look after them – that way the money will be yours for the taking. As for marrying me,’ he says, ‘what for?’ Cunning devil! A regular Mason! Six months ago the Countess couldn’t decide what to do, but now the two of them have gone off to Warsaw and they’re supposed to have struck a deal there. So I’ve heard, anyway. Marya Vasilyevna told me the whole sordid story, every detail, and she herself heard it from someone you can trust. Now you see what’s involved, money, millions – never mind ‘charming girl’!”
Anna Andreyevna’s story gave me food for thought. It tallied perfectly with what I had recently heard from Alyosha. When he had spoken about all this, he boasted that he would never marry for money. But Katerina Fyodorovna had bowled him over and he had become infatuated with her. I also heard from Alyosha that his father was perhaps going to get married himself, though he denied the rumour so as not to annoy the Countess before time. I have already said that Alyosha loved his father very much, admired him, was proud of him, and believed in him as though he were an oracle.
“She’s hardly what you might call a Countess herself, that charmer of yours, you know,” Anna Andreyevna continued, still incensed at my having complimented the young prince’s future bride. “Natasha would have made a much better match for him. The girl’s just a trader’s daughter, whereas Natasha’s from an old noble line, a well-born young lady. Yesterday Nikolai Sergeich – I quite forgot to tell you – opened his box (the iron one, have you seen it?) and spent the whole evening sitting opposite me going through our family records. He was so engrossed! I was knitting a sock at the time, I didn’t dare look at him. So when he saw that I wasn’t going to say anything, he lost his temper, called me over and spent the rest of the evening explaining our family tree to me. It’s quite true that our lineage – that is, the Ikhmenevs’ – goes back to the days of Ivan the Terrible, and my branch of the family on the Shumilov side was already famous in the seventeenth century – we’ve documents to prove it, and it’s mentioned in Karamzin.* So there you are, my dear sir, it’s obvious we’re just as good as anybody else in this respect. When my Nikolai Sergeich started explaining it all to me, I began to see what was on his mind. He’s bitter that Natasha’s been slighted. It’s only money that has helped them get the better of us. Well, let that fiend – Pyotr Alexandrovich I mean – worry about money. Everybody knows him for what he is, a hard-hearted, grasping brute. They say he’s joined the Jesuits in Warsaw on the quiet. Is that true?”
“It’s a silly rumour,” I replied, though I was struck by its persistence. The fact that Nikolai Sergeich had been going through his family records was intriguing. He had never boasted of his lineage before.
“Stony-hearted monsters!” Anna Andreyevna continued. “So how is she, my dear, is she unhappy, does she cry a lot? Oh dear, it’s time you went to see her! Matryona, Matryona! I’ll kill that girl!… They’re not being cruel to her, are they? Do tell me, Vanya.”
What could I say to her? Anna Andreyevna burst into tears. I asked her if there was anything else troubling her that she wanted to tell me about.
“Oh dear, misfortunes never come singly – it seems my cup has not yet been drained! Do you remember, my dear, I used to have a little medallion set in a gold frame, a keepsake, with a portrait of my darling Natasha as a little girl. She’d have been about eight then, my angel. Nikolai Sergeich and I had it done by a travelling artist. See, my dear, you seem to have forgotten all about it! He was a good artist, and portrayed her as a cupid. She had such lovely fair hair then, all in ringlets. He painted her in a muslin shift, with her body showing through – she was so lovely, you couldn’t stop admiring her. I asked the artist to add on a pair of little wings, but he refused. Well then, my dear Vanya, after all the horrors we’d gone through, I took the medallion out of my jewellery box and wore it round my neck on a string next to my crucifix, but I was frightened that Nikolai Sergeich might see it. It was the time when he insisted that every last thing of hers had to be thrown out of the house or burnt, so that there’d be nothing left to remind us of her. But all I wanted was to have a look at her portrait every now and then. Many’s the time I’d cry my heart out looking at it – I always felt better for it afterwards – or else, when I was on my own, I’d smother it in kisses as though it was her very self I was kissing. I’d call her by all her pet names and bless her with the sign of the cross every night. I’d talk to her out loud when I was alone in my room, ask her a question and imagine she was answering me, and then ask her another question. Oh, my dear Vanya, I can hardly bring myself to tell you all this! I was so glad Nikolai Sergeich didn’t suspect anything about the medallion – but when I felt for it yesterday morning, it was gone. All that was left was the string it had hung by – it must have frayed through – but no medallion. I nearly died. I started looking for it. I looked and looked and looked, everywhere – it had vanished without trace! Where could it have got to? It must be somewhere amongst the bedclothes, I thought. I turned everything over – nothing! If it had fallen off somewhere, perhaps somebody had picked it up – but who could have, except him or Matryona! Well, you can rule out Matryona, she’s devoted to me heart and soul… (Matryona, how much longer are you going to be with that samovar?) Well, I thought, if he finds it, what shall I do? There I was, sitting comfortless, crying my heart out. As for Nikolai Sergeich, he was getting more and more affectionate with me, looking at me sadly, as though he knew what I was crying about, and felt sorry for me. And I couldn’t help wondering to myself, how could he possibly know? Could he have found the medallion and thrown it out of the window? I wouldn’t have put it past him, when he was in a temper. He’d thrown it out and now he was sorry he’d done it. I even went outside with Matryona and looked under the window – not a thing. It had vanished into thin air. I cried the whole night through. It was the first time I hadn’t made the sign of the cross over her for the night. Dear oh dear, this is a bad sign, a bad sign indeed, my Ivan Petrovich, it bodes no good. It’s two days now I haven’t been able to stop crying. I’ve been waiting for you to come, my dear, like an angel of God, hoping to unburden my soul…”
And the good lady began to cry bitterly.
“Oh yes, I nearly forgot to mention it!” she resumed suddenly, glad to have remembered. “Have you heard anything from him about an orphan girl?”
“I have, Anna Andreyevna. It seems that you’ve both made up your mind to take in a poor orphan girl and bring her up. Is that so?”
“Never in my life, it never even entered my mind! I don’t want any orphan girls! She’d only remind me of our bitter lot, our misfortune. I don’t want anyone except Natasha. I’ve had one daughter, and there’ll be no other. But my dear, where did he get this orphan-girl idea from? What do you think, Ivan Petrovich? Was it perhaps to comfort me, seeing me crying, or to blot out all memory of his own daughter and transfer his affections to another child? What did he say to you about me on the way here? How did he strike you? Gloomy? Angry? Sh! He’s coming! Later, my dear, you’ll tell me the rest later!… Don’t forget to look in tomorrow…”