Fenitchka’s conscience scarcely reproached her; but she was tormented at times by the thought of the real cause of the quarrel; and Pavel Petrovitch too looked at her so strangely … that even when her back was turned, she felt his eyes upon her. She grew thinner from constant inward agitation, and, as is always the way, became still more charming.
One day—the incident took place in the morning—Pavel Petrovitch felt better and moved from his bed to the sofa, while Nikolai Petrovitch, having satisfied himself he was better, went off to the threshing-floor. Fenitchka brought him a cup of tea, and setting it down on a little table, was about to withdraw. Pavel Petrovitch detained her.
“Where are you going in such a hurry, Fedosya Nikolaevna?” he began; “are you busy?”
“… I have to pour out tea.”
“Dunyasha will do that without you; sit a little while with a poor invalid. By the way, I must have a little talk with you.”
Fenitchka sat down on the edge of an easy-chair, without speaking.
“Listen,” said Pavel Petrovitch, tugging at his moustaches; “I have long wanted to ask you something; you seem somehow afraid of me?”
“I?”
“Yes, you. You never look at me, as though your conscience were not at rest.”
Fenitchka crimsoned, but looked at Pavel Petrovitch. He impressed her as looking strange, and her heart began throbbing slowly.
“Is your conscience at rest?” he questioned her.
“Why should it not be at rest?” she faltered.
“Goodness knows why! Besides, whom can you have wronged? Me? That is not likely. Any other people in the house here? That, too, is something incredible. Can it be my brother? But you love him, don’t you?”
“I love him.”
“With your whole soul, with your whole heart?”
“I love Nikolai Petrovitch with my whole heart.”
“Truly? Look at me, Fenitchka.” (It was the first time he had called her that name.) “You know, it’s a great sin telling lies!”
“I am not telling lies, Pavel Petrovitch. Not love Nikolai Petrovitch—I shouldn’t care to live after that.”
“And will you never give him up for anyone?”
“For whom could I give him up?”
“For whom indeed! Well, how about that gentleman who has just gone away from here?”
Fenitchka got up. “My God, Pavel Petrovitch, what are you torturing me for? What have I done to you? How can such things be said?” …
“Fenitchka,” said Pavel Petrovitch, in a sorrowful voice, “you know I saw …”
“What did you see?”
“Well, there … in the arbour.”
Fenitchka crimsoned to her hair and to her ears. “How was I to blame for that?” she articulated with an effort.
Pavel Petrovitch raised himself up. “You were not to blame? No? Not at all?”
“I love Nikolai Petrovitch, and no one else in the world, and I shall always love him!” cried Fenitchka with sudden force, while her throat seemed fairly breaking with sobs. “As for what you saw, at the dreadful day of judgment I will say I’m not to blame, and wasn’t to blame for it, and I would rather die at once if people can suspect me of such a thing against my benefactor, Nikolai Petrovitch.”
But here her voice broke, and at the same time she felt that Pavel Petrovitch was snatching and pressing her hand. … She looked at him, and was fairly petrified. He had turned even paler than before; his eyes were shining, and what was most marvellous of all, one large solitary tear was rolling down his cheek.
“Fenitchka!” he was saying in a strange whisper; “love him, love my brother! Don’t give him up for anyone in the world; don’t listen to anyone else! Think what can be more terrible than to love and not be loved! Never leave my poor Nikolai!”
Fenitchka’s eyes were dry, and her terror had passed away, so great was her amazement. But what were her feelings when Pavel Petrovitch, Pavel Petrovitch himself, put her hand to his lips and seemed to pierce into it without kissing it, and only heaving convulsive sighs from time to time. …
“Goodness,” she thought, “isn’t it some attack coming on him?” …
At that instant his whole ruined life was stirred up within him.
The staircase creaked under rapidly approaching footsteps. … He pushed her away from him, and let his head drop back on the pillow. The door opened, and Nikolai Petrovitch entered, cheerful, fresh, and ruddy. Mitya, as fresh and ruddy as his father, in nothing but his little shirt, was frisking on his shoulder, catching the big buttons of his rough country coat with his little bare toes.
Fenitchka simply flung herself upon him, and clasping him and her son together in her arms, dropped her head on his shoulder. Nikolai Petrovitch was surprised; Fenitchka, the reserved and staid Fenitchka, had never given him a caress in the presence of a third person.
“What’s the matter?” he said, and, glancing at his brother, he gave her Mitya. “You don’t feel worse?” he inquired, going up to Pavel Petrovitch.
He buried his face in a cambric handkerchief. “No … not at all … on the contrary, I am much better.”
“You were in too great a hurry to move on to the sofa. Where are you going?” added Nikolai Petrovitch, turning round to Fenitchka; but she had already closed the door behind her. “I was bringing in my young hero to show you, he’s been crying for his uncle. Why has she carried him off? What’s wrong with you, though? Has anything passed between you, eh?”
“Brother!” said Pavel Petrovitch solemnly.
Nikolai Petrovitch started. He felt dismayed, he could not have said why himself.
“Brother,” repeated Pavel Petrovitch, “give me your word that you will carry out my one request.”
“What request? Tell me.”
“It is very important; the whole happiness of your life, to my idea, depends on it. I have been thinking a great deal all this time over what I want to say to you now. … Brother, do your duty, the duty of an honest and generous man; put an end to the scandal and bad example you are setting—you, the best of men!”
“What do you mean, Pavel?”
“Marry Fenitchka. … She loves you; she is the mother of
