“Turn one page back.”
“I went with mílenki for the first time since my marriage to see my parents. It was hard to see the life that oppressed and stifled me before my marriage. My mílenki! from what a horrible life he saved me! and that night I had a horrible dream, and my mámenka reproached me for being ungrateful; and she spoke the truth, but such fearful truth that I began to groan. Mílenki heard my groan and came into my room, and I was singing all the time (in my dream) because my loving ‘bride’ came and consoled me. The mílenki wanted to act as my dressing-maid! How ashamed I was! But he is such a modest man? He only kissed my shoulder!”
“Is that all that is written? You cannot deceive me! read!” And again from under the visitor’s hand appear the new words, and Viéra Pavlovna reads them against her will:—
“This seems to me rather insulting!”
“Turn several pages back.”
“Today I was waiting for my friend D. on the Boulevard, near the new bridge. There lives a lady, at whose house I expected to be a governess; but she was not willing to take me. I returned home with D. very despondent. I was thinking, in my room, before dinner, that it would be better to die than to live as I am living now; and suddenly, at dinner, D. says: ‘Viéra Pavlovna, let us drink to the health of my bride and your bridegroom.’ I could hardly refrain from tears, in the presence of all, from joy at such an unexpected salvation. After dinner, I talked a long time with D. about how we should live. How I love him! He is leading me out from the cellar!”
“Read it all.”
“There is nothing more to read.”
“Look!”
Again from under the visitor’s hand appear new lines.
“I do not want to read,” says Viéra Pavlovna, in fear. She has not yet distinguished what is written in those new lines, but already it is horrible to her.
“You cannot help reading, when I bid you to read. Read!”
Viéra Pavlovna reads:—
“Do I only love him because he led me out from the cellar—not himself, but my salvation from the cellar?”
“Just turn back once more, and read the very first page.”
“It is my birthday, today; today I spoke for the first time with D., and fell in love with him. I never before heard such noble and consoling words from anyone. How he sympathizes with everything that demands sympathy, wants to help everything that needs help! How sure he is that happiness is possible for all people, that it must be, and that anger and woe are not forever; that a new and bright life is rapidly approaching us! How joyfully my heart expanded when I heard these assurances from this learned and serious man, for they confirmed my own thoughts. How kind he was when he spoke about us poor women! Every woman would love such a man. How clever he is! how generous! how kind!”
“Good! Turn again to the last page.”
“But I have read that page!”
“No; that is not the last one yet. Turn one leaf more.”
“But there is nothing on this leaf!”
“Just read! Do you see how much is written on it?” And again from the touch of the visitor’s hand appear lines which were not there before. Viéra Pavlovna’s heart grows cold.
“I do not want to read! I cannot read!”
“I command you. You must!”
“I cannot! I will not!”
“Then I will read for you what is written. Just listen.—‘He is a noble man, a generous man; he is my saviour! But generosity gives rise to respect, confidence, and readiness to act in unanimity, friendship. A saviour is requited by gratefulness, by devotion; that is all. His nature maybe is quicker than mine. When the blood is boiling, his caresses burn into the heart. But there is another demand; a demand for quiet, calm caresses; a demand for sweet dreams in a tender sentiment. Does he know it? Do our natures agree? our demands? He is ready to die for my sake, and I for his; but is that enough? Does he live in his thoughts for me? Do I live in my thoughts for him? Do I love him with such a love as my soul craves? Before, I did not realize the demand for a quiet, tender feeling. No, my feeling for him is not—’ ”
“I do not want to listen any more!”
Viéra Pavlovna throws away the diary with indignation:—“You wretch! you abomination! I never asked you to come! Leave me!”
Her visitor is laughing, with a still, good-humored laugh.
“No, you don’t love him; these words were written with your own hand.”
“I curse you!”
Viéra Pavlovna wakes up with this exclamation, and quicker than she could make out that it was only a dream that she had seen, and that she had waked up, she starts to run.
“My dear, take me in your arms! protect me! I dreamed such a terrible dream!” She snuggled up to her husband. “My dear, caress me! be tender to me! protect me!”
“Viérotchka, what is the matter with thee?” The husband embraces her. “Thou art all of a tremble!” Her husband kisses her. “Thou hast tears on thy dear cheeks! There is a cold sweat on thy brow! Thou wert running barefooted over the cold floor, darling. I am kissing thy little feet to put some warmth into them.”
“Yes, fondle me! save me! I dreamed a horrible dream; I dreamed that I did not love thee.”
“My dearest, whom dost thou love, if not me? No; it is an idle, absurd dream.”
“Yes, I love thee! Only caress me, fondle me, kiss me! I love thee—I want to love thee!”
She embraces her husband passionately; she clings to him, and when he has pacified her with his caresses, quietly falls asleep, kissing
