“That is the second reason; but the first one which you find hard to tell me, I can tell you; it’s because your position in your family is terrible.”
“At the present time it is tolerable. Now no one torments me; they are waiting for me to decide and they leave me almost entirely alone.”
“But this may not last very long; they will begin to bring pressure upon you; what then?”
“Nothing. I have thought about it and made up my mind what to do; I shall not stay here any longer; I can be an actress. What an enviable life it is! Liberty! Liberty!”
“And applause.”
“Yes; that’s also pleasant, but the main thing is liberty; to do what I please; to live as I please, not asking anybody for anything, not be dependent on anybody; that’s the way I want to live!”
“That is true, that is good! Now I want to ask you something: I will find out how this can be done, to whom application must be made—shall I?”
“Thank you.” Viérotchka pressed his hand. “Do it very soon; I want to tear myself away as quick as I can from this miserable, intolerable, and degrading situation. I say, ‘I am calm, I can bear it,’ but is it so in reality? don’t I see what is done with my good name? don’t I know what all those who are here think of me? They say, ‘She’s a schemer, she’s cunning, she wants to be rich, she wants to get into fine society, to shine; she will keep her husband under the shoe, twist him around her little finger, deceive him.’ Don’t I know that they think this about me? I don’t want to live so, no indeed!” Suddenly she fell into deep thought, “Don’t laugh because I said, ‘I pity him—he loves me so.’ ”
“Does he love you? does he look at you the same way that I do or not? has he such a look?”
“Your eyes are frank, honest. No; your look does not offend me.”
“You see, Viéra Pavlovna, it is because—but no matter. Does he look so?”
Viérotchka blushed and made no reply.
“Then he does not love you. That is not love, Viéra Pavlovna.”
“But—” Viérotchka did not finish her sentence, but stopped.
“You were going to say, ‘What is it, then, if it is not love?’ Let that go; but you yourself say that is not love. Whom do you love best of all? I am not speaking of this kind of love—but of your relations, your friends.”
“It seems to me, no one in particular, none of them very much; but no, not long ago, I met a very peculiar woman. She spoke very badly to me, called herself very hard names; she forbade me to keep up my acquaintance with her; we met in a very extraordinary way; she said that if ever I found myself in such need that I was in danger of dying, then only I might come to her, but not otherwise; I loved her very much.”
“Would you want her to do anything for you that would be disagreeable or injurious for her?”
Viérotchka smiled. “But how could it be so?”
“But no; now imagine that you were very, very much in need of her help, and that she said to you, ‘If I do this for you, it would torment me,’ would you repeat your request, would you insist on it?”
“I would sooner die.”
“Now you just told me that you loved her. But this love is only feeling, not a passion. And what is love—passion! and how can you distinguish passion from simple feeling?—by its strength. Consequently, if when one is moved by simple feeling, which is weak, very weak compared to passion, love places you in such relations to a man that you say, ‘I would rather die than be the cause of torment to him.’ If a simple feeling speaks so, what will passion say which is a thousandfold stronger? It will say, ‘I will sooner die than—not ask, not demand—but even admit that any man should do anything for me except what is agreeable to himself; I would sooner die than admit the possibility of his doing anything for my sake under compulsion or at inconvenience to himself.’ Such a passion, speaking this way, is love. But passion that speaks otherwise is passion and not love. I am going home now; I have told you everything, Viéra Pavlovna.”
Viérotchka pressed his hand. “Au revoir,12 but why don’t you congratulate me? today is my birthday.”
Lopukhóf looked at her. “Maybe, maybe! if you have not made this mistake, then I am glad.”
V
“How soon this came, how unexpected,” thinks Viérotchka alone in her room at the close of the evening. “We spoke for the first time, and yet we became such good friends; half an hour before not to know each other, and in an hour’s time to become such good friends, how strange!”
No; it is not strange at all, Viérotchka. People like Lopukhóf have magical words, which attract to them every abused and persecuted creature. It is their “bride” that whispers such words into their ears. But here is something that is indeed strange, Viérotchka—but not for you and me—that you are so calm. Here people think that love is an exciting feeling, and you will fall asleep as gently as a child, and you will be neither frightened nor disturbed by dreams; you may dream of happy childish games, forfeits, tag, or maybe dances, also gay and unconcerned. It seems strange to some people, but you do not know that it is strange, and I know that it is not strange. Agitation in love does not point to love; agitation in it is something that should
