Liza assured me on her honor that he once uttered this literally. However, it’s impossible to judge like that here; one must know the circumstances under which it was uttered.
Liza gradually came to the conclusion that his attitude towards the prince was indulgent maybe only because everybody was the same to him and “differences did not exist,” and not at all out of sympathy for her. But in the end he began somehow visibly to lose his indifference, and his attitude towards the prince changed to one not only of condemnation, but also of scornful irony. This made Liza angry, but Vasin wouldn’t let up. Above all, he always expressed himself so softly, he even condemned without indignation, but simply made logical deductions about her hero’s total nonentity; but in this logic lay the irony. Finally he deduced for her almost directly all the “unreasonableness” of her love, all the stubborn forcedness of this love. “You erred in your feelings, and errors, once recognized, ought unfailingly to be corrected.”
This was just on that very day. Liza got up indignantly in order to leave, but what did this reasonable man do and how did he end? With a most noble air and even with feeling, he offered her his hand. Liza at once called him a fool to his face and left.
To suggest betraying an unfortunate man because this unfortunate man was “not worthy” of her and, above all, to suggest it to a woman who was pregnant by this unfortunate man—there’s the mind of these people! I call that being awfully theoretical and completely ignorant of life, which comes from a boundless self-love. And on top of all that, Liza discerned in the clearest way that he was even proud of his act, if only because, for example, he already knew about her pregnancy. With tears of indignation she hurried to the prince, and he—he even outdid Vasin: it would seem he might have been convinced after she told him that there was no point in being jealous now; but it was here that he went out of his mind. However, jealous people are all like that! He made an awful scene and insulted her so much that she decided to break all relations with him at once.
She came home, however, still keeping hold of herself, but she couldn’t help telling mama. Oh, that evening they became close again, absolutely as before: the ice was broken; they both naturally wept their fill, embracing each other as they used to do, and Liza apparently calmed down, though she was very gloomy. She sat that evening with Makar Ivanovich, not saying a word, but not leaving the room either. She listened very hard to what he was saying. Since the occasion with the little bench, she had become extremely and somehow timidly respectful towards him, though she still remained taciturn.
But this time, Makar Ivanovich somehow gave the conversation an unexpected and astonishing turn. I’ll note that in the morning Versilov and the doctor had spoken very frowningly of his health. I’ll also note that for several days preparations had been under way in our house for the celebration of mama’s birthday, which was to take place in five days, and we often spoke of it. Apropos of that day, Makar Ivanovich for some reason suddenly embarked on reminiscences and recalled mama’s childhood and the time when she still “couldn’t stand on her little legs.” “She never left my arms,” the old man recalled. “I used to teach her to walk, I’d put her in the corner three steps away and call her, and she comes swaying to me across the room, and she’s not afraid, she laughs, and when she reaches me, she throws her arms around my neck and embraces me. I also told you fairy tales, Sofya Andreevna; you were a great lover of fairy tales; for two hours you’d sit on my knee listening. They marveled in the cottage: ‘See how attached she is to Makar.’ Or else I’d take you to the forest, find a raspberry bush, sit you down there, and start cutting wooden whistles for you. We’d have a good walk, and I’d carry you back in my arms—the baby’s asleep. And once you got frightened by a wolf, ran to me all trembling, and there wasn’t any wolf.”
“That I remember,” said mama.
“Do you really?”
“I remember a lot. From as early as I can remember myself in life, ever since then I’ve seen your love and mercy over me,” she said in a heartfelt voice and suddenly blushed all over.
Makar Ivanovich paused briefly.
“Forgive me, little children, I’m going. Now the term of my life is upon me. In my old age I have found comfort from all sorrows. Thank you, my dears.”
“Come now, Makar Ivanovich, dear heart,” Versilov exclaimed, somewhat alarmed, “the doctor told me today that you were incomparably better . . .”
Mama was listening fearfully.
“Well, what does he know, your Alexander Semyonych?” Makar Ivanovich smiled. “He’s a dear man, but no more than that. Come, friends, do you think I’m afraid to die? Today, after my morning prayer, I had the feeling in my heart that I wouldn’t leave here anymore; it was told me. Well, and what of it, blessed be the name of the Lord; only I’d like to have a good look at you all again. The much-suffering Job, too, was comforted, looking at his new children, but that he forgot the former ones, and that he could have forgotten them—is impossible!15 Only over the years sorrow seems to mingle with joy and turn into a bright sighing. That’s how it is in the world: every soul is both tested and comforted. I’ve decided, little children, to tell you a word or two, not much,” he went on with a gentle, beautiful smile, which I will never forget, and suddenly turned to me: “You, my dear, be zealous for the holy Church, and if the time calls for it, also die for her; but wait, don’t be frightened, not now,” he smiled. “Now maybe you’re not thinking of it, but later maybe you will. Only there’s this as well: whatever good you intend to do, do it for God, and not for the sake of envy. Hold firmly to what you do, and don’t give up out of any sort of faintheartedness; and do it gradually, without rushing or throwing yourself about; well, that’s all you need, save maybe also getting used to praying every day and steadfastly. I say it just so, in case you remember it one day. I was going to say something to you, too, Andrei Petrovich, sir, but God will find your heart even without me. And it’s long ago now that you and I stopped talking of such things, ever since that arrow pierced my heart. And now, as I’m going, I’ll just remind you . . . of what you promised then . . .”
He almost whispered the last words, looking down.
“Makar Ivanovich!” Versilov said in embarrassment, and got up from his chair.
“Well, well, don’t be embarrassed, sir, I’m only reminding you . . . It’s I who am guiltiest of all before God in this matter; for, though you were my master, I still shouldn’t have condoned this weakness. So you, too, Sofya, don’t trouble your soul too much, for your whole sin is mine, and in you, as I think, there was hardly any understanding then, and perhaps in you also, sir, along with her,” he smiled, his lips trembling with some sort of pain, “and though I might have taught you then, my spouse, even with a rod, and so I should have, I pitied you as you fell down before me in tears and concealed nothing . . . and kissed my feet. I recall that, my beloved, not as a reproach to you, but only as a reminder to Andrei Petrovich . . . for you yourself, sir, remember your nobleman’s promise, and marriage covers everything . . . I’m saying it in front of the children, sir, my dear heart.”
He was extremely agitated, and looked at Versilov as if expecting words of confirmation from him. I repeat, all this was so unexpected that I sat motionless. Versilov was even no less agitated than he was: he silently went over to mama and embraced her tightly; then mama, also silently, went up to Makar Ivanovich and bowed down at his feet.
In short, the scene turned out to be stupendous; this time there was only our family in the room, not even Tatyana Pavlovna was there. Liza somehow straightened up in her place and listened silently; suddenly she rose
