“Her name is Viéra Pavlovna Rozalskaïa.”
“Now there is another explanation that I owe you. It may seem strange to you that I, with all my care for my children, should decide to settle this matter with you without having seen the one who will come into such close relations to my children. But I know very well of what sort of people your circle consists. I know that if one of you takes such a friendly interest in a person, then this person must be a genuine godsend for a mother, who wishes her daughter to grow up into a truly good woman. Therefore, an examination seemed to me an entirely unnecessary piece of indelicacy. I am giving not you, but myself, a compliment!”
“I am very glad now for Mademoiselle Rozalskaïa; her domestic life has been so hard that she felt that she should be comfortable in any sort of a family. But I did not dream of finding such a really excellent career for her as opens for her in your home.”
“Yes; N. told me that she leads a miserable life in her family.”
“Very miserable.”
Lopukhóf began to relate all that was necessary for Mrs. B. to know, so that in conversations with Viérotchka, she might avoid all references that would remind the young girl of her past life. Mrs. B. listened with interest; finally she pressed Lopukhóf’s hand.
“No; that is enough, Monsieur Lopukhóf, or I shall get sentimental, and at my age—and I am almost forty—it would be ridiculous to show that even now I cannot listen with indifference to tales of family tyranny, from which I suffered myself when I was young.”
“Allow me to tell you one thing more. It is not so important for you, and there is probably no need of my telling you this. Yet it is better to tell you. Just now, she is running away from a lover whom her mother is doing her best to make her marry.”
Mrs. B. was lost in thought. Lopukhóf looked at her and also began to appear thoughtful:—
“If I am not mistaken, this circumstance does not seem to you as unimportant as it does to me!”
Mrs. B. seemed utterly absorbed in thought.
“Excuse me,” he continued, seeing that her mind was entirely distracted. “Excuse me, but I see that this troubles you.”
“Yes, it is a very serious matter, Monsieur Lopukhóf. To leave home against the will of her parents; that of course means to bring about a great quarrel. But that, as I told you, was of no consequence. If she were running away merely from their folly and cruelty, the matter could be arranged with them some way or other; if worst came to worst, we could give them some money, and they would be satisfied. That’s nothing. But when such a mother forces a bridegroom on her daughter, it means that the bridegroom is rich, a very profitable investment.”
“Of course,” said Lopukhóf, in a perfectly melancholy tone of voice.
“Of course, Monsieur Lopukhóf, he’s rich; and it is that which troubles me. In such a case the mother is not going to give in so easily. And do you know the law about parents? In matters of this kind they have full control. They will begin a lawsuit, and carry it out to the bitter end.”
Lopukhóf arose.
“And so it remains for me only to ask you to forget all that I have told you.”
“No, wait a moment. Allow me at least to justify myself somewhat before you. Bozhe moï! how mean I must seem in your eyes! That which ought to stir up every honorable person to sympathy and protection; that very thing keeps me back. Oh, what pitiable people we are!”
Indeed, it was sad to look at her. She was not putting it on. It was really painful to her. For a long time her words were disjointed, so confused had she become. Then her thoughts began to become logical, but, whether disjointed or logical, they meant nothing to Lopukhóf. Yes, even he was also confused. He was so occupied with the discovery that she had made for him that he could not heed her explanation in regard to the discovery. After he had given her sufficient time to speak out her mind, he said:—
“All that you have said in your own excuse is idle. I was obliged to remain so as not to seem discourteous, lest you should think that I blamed you or were angry. But I must confess that I did not listen to what you said. Oh, if I did not know that you were right! And how good it would be if you were not right! I would tell her that we could not agree about the terms, or that you did not satisfy me! and that would be the end of it; she and I could hope for some other way of escape. But now what can I tell her?”
Mrs. B. shed tears.
“What can I tell her?” repeated Lopukhóf, as he went downstairs. “What will become of her? What will become of her?” he asked himself as he came out from Galernaïa Street upon the Konno-Gvardéïsky Boulevard.
Of course Mrs. B. was not right in that absolute sense of the word in which people are right who try to prove to little children that the moon is not to be seized with the hand. It was very possible, nay, even probable, that through her position in society, through her husband’s quite
