Knock, Knock, Knock and Other Stories

I have mentioned already that he was a poor hand at telling stories,

but it was not only his lack of skill in describing events that had

happened to him that impressed me that night; the very sound of his

voice, his glances, the movements which he made with his fingers and

his hands--everything about him, indeed, seemed unnatural,

unnecessary, false, in fact. I was very young and inexperienced in

those days and did not know that the habit of high-flown language and

falsity of intonation and manner may become so ingrained in a man that

he is incapable of shaking it off: it is a sort of curse. Later in

life I came across a lady who described to me the effect on her of her

son's death, of her 'boundless' grief, of her fears for her reason, in

such exaggerated language, with such theatrical gestures, such

melodramatic movements of her head and rolling of her eyes, that I

thought to myself, 'How false and affected that lady is! She did not

love her son at all!' And a week afterwards I heard that the poor

woman had really gone out of her mind. Since then I have become much

more careful in my judgments and have had far less confidence in my

own impressions.

X

The story which Tyeglev told me was, briefly, as follows. He had

living in Petersburg, besides his influential uncle, an aunt, not

influential but wealthy. As she had no children of her own she had

adopted a little girl, an orphan, of the working class, given her a

liberal education and treated her like a daughter. She was called

Masha. Tyeglev saw her almost every day. It ended in their falling in

love with one another and Masha's giving herself to him. This was

discovered. Tyeglev's aunt was fearfully incensed, she turned the

luckless girl out of her house in disgrace, and moved to Moscow where

she adopted a young lady of noble birth and made her her heiress. On

her return to her own relations, poor and drunken people, Masha's lot

was a bitter one. Tyeglev had promised to marry her and did not keep

his promise. At his last interview with her, he was forced to speak

out: she wanted to know the truth and wrung it out of him. 'Well,' she

said, 'if I am not to be your wife, I know what there is left for me

to do.' More than a fortnight had passed since that last interview.

'I never for a moment deceived myself as to the meaning of her last

words,' added Tyeglev. 'I am certain that she has put an end to her

life and ... and that it was her voice, that it was she

calling me ... to follow her there ... I recognised her

voice.... Well, there is but one end to it.'

'But why didn't you marry her, Ilya Stepanitch?' I asked. 'You ceased

to love her?'

'No; I still love her passionately.'

At this point I stared at Tyeglev. I remembered another friend of

mine, a very intelligent man, who had a very plain wife, neither

intelligent nor rich and was very unhappy in his marriage. When

someone in my presence asked him why he had married and suggested that

it was probably for love, he answered, 'Not for love at all. It simply

happened.' And in this case Tyeglev loved a girl passionately and did

not marry her. Was it for the same reason, then?

'Why don't you marry her, then?' I asked again.

Tyeglev's strange, drowsy eyes strayed over the table.

'There is ... no answering that ... in a few words,' he began,

hesitating. 'There were reasons.... And besides, she was ... a