XXX
“Well [nu!],” thinks the sapient reader, “now the main character is to be Rakhmétof; and he will put everybody into his belt, and Viéra Pavlovna will fall in love with him; and soon the same story will begin with Kirsánof as happened to Lopukhóf.”
There will be nothing of the sort, O sapient reader. Rakhmétof will spend the evening, will speak with Viéra Pavlovna. I shall not hide one word of their conversation from thee, and thou shalt quickly see, that if I did not want to share this conversation with thee, it might have been very easy for me to hide it from thee, and the current of my narration would not have been altered in the least if I had kept silent; and I tell thee in advance, that after Rakhmétof speaks with Viéra Pavlovna, he will leave the house, and then he will disappear forever from this narrative; and that he will be neither the main nor a subordinate, or any character whatsoever in my novel. Then why was he brought into the novel at all, and described so minutely? Just try, sapient reader, if thou canst guess why. But this will be told thee in the following pages, immediately after Rakhmétof’s conversation with Viéra Pavlovna. As soon as he disappears, I will tell thee at the end of the chapter. Now just try to guess what will be said there; it is not very hard to guess if thou hast the least conception of the artistic, of which thou art so fond of talking. But how canst thou? Nu! I will tell thee more than half of the answer. Rakhmétof was brought in so as to fulfil the principal, the most radical demand of what is artistic; exclusively to give satisfaction to it. Well, well! Guess now. Try to guess this very minute what is that demand. What was it needful to do for its satisfaction? and how was it satisfied by showing thee Rakhmétof’s figure, which has no influence or part in the current of this narrative? Well (nu-ko), guess! The lady reader and the simple reader, who do not talk about the artistic, they understand. But do try to guess, thou wiseling! For this reason plenty of time is given thee, and for this purpose a long and thick dash is placed between the lines. Dost thou see how much pains I take on thy account? Stop for a moment, and just think if thou canst not guess!
Mrs. Mertsálova came, shed a few tears, offered some consolation, and said it would give her pleasure to take charge of the sewing shop, but she did not know as she had the ability; and again she shed a few tears and offered some more consolation, while helping to look over the things. Rakhmétof, after asking the servant at the next neighbor’s to go to the bakery, put up the samovar, set it on the table, and they began to drink their tea. Rakhmétof sat for half an hour with the ladies, drank half a dozen glasses of tea, and, together with them, he emptied half of a huge pitcher of cream and ate a terrible quantity of baked things, besides two simple loaves of white bread, which served as the foundation for the rest.
“I have a right to take this delectation, because I sacrificed twelve hours.”
He took his enjoyment, listened as the ladies tormented themselves to death, three times expressed his opinion that it was “nonsense”; not the fact that the ladies were tormenting themselves to death, but suicide for any cause whatsoever, except too painful and incurable physical disease, or the presentiment of some painful and unavoidable death; for instance, being broken upon the wheel. He expressed this opinion in a few but strong words; according to his custom, he helped himself to a sixth glass of tea, poured the remainder of the cream into it, took what was left of the baked things—the ladies had already long ago finished with their tea—bowed, and went with these materials into the library again, to enjoy the finale of his material enjoyment, almost to make a sybarite of himself, to place himself on the sofa, on which everybody was free to take a nap, but which was for him something in the nature of genuine Capuan luxury.
“I have earned my right to this delectation, because I have sacrificed twelve or fourteen hours’ time.”
After he had finished his material enjoyment, he took up his intellectual feast again, the reading of the Commentary of the Apocalypse. At nine o’clock the police tchinovnik came to tell the suicide’s wife about the matter, which was now entirely cleared up. Rakhmétof told him that the widow knew all about it, and there was no need of her hearing anything more. The tchinovnik was very glad that he had escaped such a tormenting scene. Then Masha and Rachel put in appearance. They began to examine the things; Rachel found that everything, all told—except the good shuba, which she advised her not to sell, because in three months she would have to get a new one, and to this Viéra
