Ostapenko sat down at the table and buried his face in his hands.
“Where is Saggay Saggayitch?” asked Wilfred, thickly, feeling the need of an interpreter.
“Sergei Sergeievitch? Oi! where—where?” groaned Pavel in English.
This unexpected proof of linguistic sympathy encouraged Wilfred to begin to tell Ostapenko about his dream in detail. He never could quite believe that people really didn’t understand English. Incomprehension was a sort of coyness on their part, which brisk treatment might help them to overcome.
But Ostapenko only replied by groans; only when Varvara came in did the talk begin again, and then, of course, in no more intelligent language than that outlandish Russian. Shyeh-shyeh shyok-shyok wow-wow—as though by its pulsing it was measuring off the seconds of this endless night.
“Don’t Russians ever go to bed?” thought Wilfred. Clasping his aching head without disguise, he got up and stumbled over to the sofa. None of them cared that he had bound Asmodeus for their sake. By the way—why Asmodeus? He lay down on the sofa and was instantly drowned in profound dark sleep.
“You needn’t look at me like that, Varya,” said Pavel, raising his tired face. “It seems to me you have lost your senses. Here we have a charming and eligible young man—a kinsman of my own—whom our daughter has chosen willingly as her husband—”
“Pavlik—think.”
“Well, my dear, I’m not jumping to any conclusions. I’m only asking you not to be so sure that your daughter shared your own ignorance as to the actual significance of that paper she so eagerly signed. She has plenty of sense, and she must have realized that one doesn’t sign lawyers’ papers without committing oneself to something. She realized from the first, I think, that it made a married woman of her. She was probably waiting and wondering, in her room—a neglected bride—”
He paused to listen for that urgent, “Pavlik—think” again, but it did not come. Hearing no protest from his wife, he allowed his always self-sufficient mind to nurse the illusion that he had prevailed. Varya believed him—and why not? He had told her the truth. The paper was binding, the marriage sanctified by lawyers’ law, according to Western European custom if not Russian custom. He was not accustomed to imagining what lay behind other people’s silences, nor had he any ears to hear things that were not uttered. His roving telltale eyes, however, refused to look at his wife.
His voice began again with a challenging confident sound. “Tanya’s consent means the more because she is by no means easy to please. … Seven betrothals behind her, all broken by her own overfastidiousness and whims. Here we have the pair, obviously falling in love at first sight, like the story books. Here we have Sergei Sergeievitch only too willing to overlook the unfortunate chops and changes of the past (which we have not concealed from him), proposing for our daughter most ardently, and Tanya at once showing an equal eagerness to be his wife. Here we have, most fortunately, on the spot, an English-trained lawyer of a high degree of learning, kindly arranging for us a legal marriage paper such as is daily drawn up in London or Paris or New York or any other sophisticated city—a form of marriage which, in the absence of a Russian priest, is the best we can possibly hope for. How very very much more fortunate we are than those Russian families—we know many of them—who in these hard times, for lack of any religious marriage facilities and too ignorant to obtain legal help, have to dispense with any ceremony at all, however naturally moral, modest, and respectable they may be. We, on the other hand, have a paper, properly signed and in my safe keeping, and if things go wrong I now have a means of protecting my daughter—”
“I can’t hear their voices in the kitchen now,” said Varvara.
“Well then, we must suppose they’ve done all the talking they want—in the kitchen,” said Pavel with a blustering uneasiness. “But, Varya, listen—what other marriage ceremony can you hope for? What would satisfy you? True, in old Russia nothing short of a ceremony in church would have contented us (little as I, a modernist, believe in these superstitions). But we are not in Russia now. We are exiles. We must no longer feel provincial and Russian in our prejudices. We are citizens of the world now. What is good enough for sophisticated modern people in the great cities of Europe must be good enough for us. We must move with the times. There’s nothing else for it. Angels aren’t likely to come down and conduct an orthodox Russian marriage service for us. That paper, I assure you, satisfied me, a business man, as being comprehensive and legal. You can’t read English, but I can, and I read every word of it. In it Sergei Sergeievitch swears to be a faithful husband to our Tanya, to support her as long as they both live, to provide for her in case of his death, to take her to his home and treat her as what she is—his legal wife. What more can he do? He has signed the paper—you saw him do it. The lawyer had signed it already. I have signed it to show my approval and my willingness to do my part—give our girl the dowry that we always meant to give her, and pay for the valuable services of the lawyer. Tanya signed it with her eyes open. I feel perfectly satisfied about it.”
“Then why were you groaning just now as I came into the room?” asked Varvara.
“Why … well, I’m tired, of course, and overwrought. One has one’s feelings as a father, and one’s only child’s marriage night is an emotional experience for any parent. Even though I am perfectly satisfied that the children are man and wife, and that—Well, Varya, what’s the use of arguing? I gave in to you on every point you
