“If a woman, a girl, is embarrassed with prejudices,” said Beaumont (not committing any Americanisms or Anglicisms), “then a man—I speak of respectable men—is subject to great inconveniences on that account. Tell me, how can one marry a girl who has not been trained in the simple duties of life, who does not realize what relations may arise after she has accepted an offer? She may not be able to judge whether she will enjoy her life with the man who is to be her husband.”
“But, Mr. Beaumont, if her relations to this man are of a sincere character, such as they had been before he proposed to her, then I think that this would be some guarantee that they would be contented with each other.”
“Some guarantee, certainly; but it would be much surer if the trial were longer and more thorough. She cannot know in any way the character of the relation into which she is going to enter; and so marriage is for her a terrible risk. So much for her; and the honorable man who is to marry her has to run the same risk. He can generally judge whether he will be satisfied. He knows intimately women of various natures; he has made trial of what nature suits him the best. She has not that chance.”
“But she can observe the lives and characters of those in her own family and in the families of her friends; she can think a great deal.”
“All that is good, so far as it goes, but it is not sufficient. Nothing can take the place of a personal trial.”
“Would you have only widows get married?” asked Katerina Vasílyevna, laughing.
“You have expressed yourself quite to the point. Only widows; girls should be prohibited from marrying.”
“That is true,” said Katerina Vasílyevna, seriously.
Such talk as this seemed very wild to Pólozof at first, as he caught fragments of it. But gradually he got accustomed to the thought, and he said to himself, “Well, I myself am a man without prejudices. I started in business, and I, too, married a widow, a merchant’s widow.”
What he heard was only a little episode in their conversation, which was also devoted to other affairs; but on the following day this subject of their yesterday’s conversation was continued in this way:—
“You have told me the story of your love for Sólovtsof. But what was it? It was—”
“Let us sit down, if it is just the same to you; I am tired of walking.”
“Very well. It was a childish feeling, such as gives no guarantee. You remember it only as a subject to laugh over, or, rather, to feel gloomy about; for it certainly has its melancholy side. You were saved only by a strange and rare piece of good fortune, because your case fell into the hands of a man like Aleksandr.”
“Who?”
“Aleksandr Matvéitch Kirsánof,” he added, as though not to say merely his first name. “If it had not been for Kirsánof, you would have died, either by consumption or by that wretch. One can draw very sensible conclusions about the unhappy position that you held in society. You yourself have drawn such conclusions. All this is good enough, and it has only in the end made you a far more sensible and excellent girl; but it did not in the slightest degree give you any further experience for making up your mind what sort of a man would satisfy you as a husband.”
“Not a miserable but an honorable man; that is all that you can decide. So far so good; but would it be enough for any honorable woman to know that the character of the man that she had chosen for her husband was honorable, if she did not know him any more than that? It is necessary to have a more exact knowledge of a man’s character; that is, you must have a very different experience from what you have already had. We decided yesterday that according to your expression it is only widows who should be allowed to marry. But what sort of a widow are you?”
All this was said by Beaumont in a tone expressing dissatisfaction, and his last words were spoken actually in a grieved tone.
“That is true,” said Katerina Vasílyevna rather gloomily, “for all that, I could not be easily deceived.”
“And you could not if you tried, because it is impossible to affect experience if you have it not.”
“You are always speaking about the lack of ways that we girls have for making a satisfactory choice. As a general thing it is absolutely true; but there are exceptional cases when so much experience is not necessary for making a satisfactory choice. If a girl is not so very young, she may understand her own character very well. For instance, I know my character, and it is evident to me that it is not going to change. I am twenty-two years old. I know what is necessary for my happiness: to live quietly so as not to be stirred up, that is all.”
“That is true. That is evident.”
“And is it so very hard to see whether this man or that has the marks of character sufficient to satisfy this want? This can
