They start; they go. They reached the Gostinui Dvor. They were going along the block that runs parallel with Sadovaïa Street; they are not far from the Nevsky corner, and here is Ruzanof’s shop.
“Mámenka, I have two words to tell you.”
“What is the matter with you, Viérotchka?”
“Goodbye, mámenka. I don’t know whether we shall meet again soon. If you don’t get angry, it’ll be tomorrow.”
“What is it, Viérotchka? I cannot understand it, somehow?”
“Goodbye, mámenka; I am going to my husband. Dmitri Sergéitch and I were married three days ago. Drive to Karavannaïa Street, Izvoshchik.”
“A quarter, lady.”
“All right; only be quick about it. He will call upon you this evening, mámenka; and don’t get angry with me, mámenka.”
These words hardly reached Marya Alekséyevna’s ears.
“Don’t drive to Karavannaïa Street; I only said so as to get away from that lady as quickly as I could. Go to the left27 down Nevsky. I must go much further than Karavannaïa Street, to the Vasilyevsky Island, the fifth block behind the Middle Prospekt. Drive fast; I will give you a good fee.”
“Akh! lady, you were pleased to fool me. You’ll have to give me half a ruble.”
“If you drive fast.”
XXI
The wedding had been managed in simple, and yet far from common fashion.
Two days after the conversation which resulted in their engagement, Viérotchka was delighted at her approaching freedom. On the third day the “cellar,” as she called it, seemed twice as intolerable as before; on the fourth day she wept, which was contrary to her liking, but she did not weep much; on the fifth day she wept more; on the sixth day she did not weep at all, but she could not sleep from sorrow.
Lopukhóf looked on, then he spoke the monologue beginning “Hm! hm!” He looked a second time and spoke the monologue “Hm! hm! da, hm!” At the first monologue he had a dim suggestion of an idea, but he was not sure what it was; at the second monologue he saw plainly in his mind what he imagined at the first. “It does not do to offer a person freedom and then leave him in prison.” After that he thought steadily for two hours—an hour and a half on his way from Semyonovsky bridge to Vuiborgsky, and half an hour on his sofa. The first quarter of an hour he thought without wrinkling his forehead; the remaining hour and three quarters he wrinkled his forehead; at the end of the two hours he struck his forehead, and using worse words than Gogol’s postmaster Telyatin (the calf), looked at his watch, and saying, “Ten o’clock, yes, there is time yet” left the room.
During the first quarter of an hour, when his brow was smooth, this was what he thought, “It’s all nonsense; why should I graduate? I shall not be ruined if I don’t get a diploma, and it is not necessary. By lessons and translations I shall not make less; I shall make even more than if I had become a doctor; bagatelles!”
Consequently there was no need of wrinkling his brow; to tell the truth, the task did not appear to be of a head-splitting nature, partly because that from the first lesson he had anticipated something in the nature of his present resolution. He now perceived this. And if anyone had reminded him of his arguments that began with the theme “sacrifice” and ended with the thought of fine dresses, one might have proved to him that something in the nature of these circumstances was anticipated from that very time, because otherwise there would be no sense in the words “to renounce my scientific career.” At that time it seemed to him that he was not going to renounce it, but instinct was already saying, “Renounce it; there will be no postponement!” And if anyone had proved to Lopukhóf, as to a practical thinker, that there was no ground then for his renunciation, he would have triumphed as a theoretical man, and would have said: “Now here is a new example for you of how egotism rules our thoughts (for I ought to have seen, but I did not see, for I was trying to look in another direction), and rules our actions; for why did I make the girl stay in her ‘cellar’ a week longer, when the matter ought to have been foreseen and provided for long ago?”
But he remembered nothing of that kind, and it did not occur to him because he had to wrinkle his forehead, and while wrinkling it to think for an hour and three-quarters on the question, “Who will marry us?” and there was only one answer all the time, “There is no one to marry us.” But suddenly in place of the answer, “No one to marry us,” the name of Mertsálof came into his head; then it was that he struck himself on the forehead and swore with good reason. “How is it possible that I did not think of Mertsálof at the very beginning?” And to a certain degree he was wrong in his wonder; he was not accustomed to think of Mertsálof as of a man who marries.
In the medical school there are a good many people of all kinds; there are among them some seminarists; these men have acquaintances in the theological seminary, and through them Lopukhóf had also made acquaintances there. One of the students whom he knew at the theological seminary—not an intimate, but a friend—had graduated a year ago and had become a priest, and was living in a certain building with endless corridors on the Vasilyevsky Island. To him Lopukhóf went, and as it was an extra occasion and a late hour, he took an izvoshchik.
Mertsálof was sitting alone in his room, and was reading
