XXIV
Slowly, unobservably, this discovery began to evolve itself in her mind. All the time there accumulated small, almost undistinguishable, impressions made by Kirsánof’s words and actions, to which no one else would have given any heed, which she herself scarcely noticed, for they were only supposed and suspected. Slowly this question, “Why did he avoid them almost three years?” began to interest her mind. Slowly the idea was confirmed that such a man could not have stayed away from any petty grounds of self-conceit, because he is absolutely free from it. And, moreover, not knowing why she thought of this, still more obscurely and slowly arose from the silent depths of her life into her consciousness, the question, “Why am I thinking about him? What is he to me?”
And here, one time after dinner, Viéra Pavlovna was sitting in her room, sewing and thinking, and she was thinking very calmly, and she was not thinking at all of him, but of something quite different, connected with her household, and about the shop and about her teaching, and gradually, gradually, her thoughts were drawn to the matter concerning which, without being conscious of it, her thoughts were more and more often drawn. There came up recollections, little questions began to present themselves; they multiplied, and here they are in thousands, finding place in her thoughts; and still they grow and grow, and they go to form one question, the form of which becomes clearer and clearer. “What has got into me? what am I thinking about? what am I feeling?” and Viéra Pavlovna’s fingers forget to sew, and the sewing slips from her drooping hands, and Viéra Pavlovna grew a shade paler, then she blushed; she grew still paler, then the fire touched her flushed cheeks. The next moment they were white as snow, and with wandering eyes she ran in to her husband, sat herself on his knees, tremblingly threw her arms around his neck, laid her head on his shoulder, so that it might support her head and hide her face, and with choking voice she said, “My dear, I love him,” and she began to weep.
“What of that, my dear? Why should you feel disturbed about it?”
“I do not want to offend you, my dear; I want to love you.”
“Try. Look here: if you can, it will be well. Be calm; give time a chance, and you will see what you can do, and what you cannot do. You are so dear to me; how, then, can you offend me?”
He smoothed her hair, kissed her head, pressed her hand. She could not for a long time cease her convulsive weeping; but gradually she became calm. But he who had for a long time expected such a confession, was therefore able to take it coolly. However, even yet she could not bear to look at his face.
“I do not want to see him; I shall tell him to cease coming to see us,” said Viéra Pavlovna.
“You must act, my love, in the way which you find will give you the greatest happiness. And when you have become calmer, we will talk the matter over; for you and I, no matter what may happen between us, will always be friends, won’t we? Give me your hand; press mine. You see how warmly you press it.”
Every one of these phrases were spoken at long intervals, and the intervals were filled by his smoothing her hair, fondling her, as a brother fondles a grieved sister.
“Do you remember, my dear, what you told me when we became engaged? ‘You are leading me into freedom.’ ”—Again silence and caresses. “Do you remember how you and I talked the first time about what it means to love a person? It means to feel gladness at whatever is good for that person, to feel pleasure in doing whatever may be to his advantage.”—Again silence and caresses—“Whatever is for your best good gives me joy also; but you must decide what is best for you. Why should you be grieved? If it brings you no misfortune, what misfortune can it bring me?”
In these laconic words, which were repeated a good many times, with the ordinary insignificant variations of repetition, passed considerable time, which was equally trying for Lopukhóf and Viéra Pavlovna. But while gradually getting calmer, Viéra Pavlovna began at last to breathe more freely. She embraced her husband tightly, and she kept repeating, “I want to love thee, my dear,45 thee alone; I want to love no one else besides thee.”
He did not tell her that this was beyond her power; it was necessary to let the time pass until her strength could be restored by calmness, giving her some sort of decision, no matter what. Lopukhóf succeeded in writing a note for Masha to give Kirsánof in case he should come: “Aleksandr, don’t come in just now, and don’t come for some time; there is no particular reason, and there will be no particular reason; it is only necessary for her to rest.”
“It is necessary for her to rest; there is no particular reason.” A strange juxtaposition of contraries! Kirsánof read over the note, and told Masha that he only came to get it, and that he had no time now to stop in; that he had another place to go to; that he would stop on his way back, after he had done the errand which the note demanded.
The evening passed peacefully according to all appearances. Half the time Viéra Pavlovna sat quietly by herself in her room, without letting her husband stay; the other half of the time he sat near her, trying to calm her with the same laconic words, and of course, not so much by his words as by his voice, which was steady and reassuring; of course not with God-knows-what happiness, and of course, also, not melancholy; except that there was an
