Текст книги "The Eternal Husband and Other Stories"

Автор книги: Федор Достоевский

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

“I won’t go,” she said firmly and softly.

“There, you see, just like her mama!”

“I’m not like Mama, I’m not like Mama!” Liza cried, wringing her little hands in despair, and as if justifying herself before her father’s terrible reproach of being like her mama. “Papa, Papa, if you abandon me…”

She suddenly fell upon the frightened Velchaninov.

“If you take me, I’ll…”

But she had no time to say anything more; Pavel Pavlovich grabbed her by the arm, almost by the scruff of the neck, and now with unconcealed animosity dragged her to the little room. There again followed several minutes of whispering; stifled weeping could be heard. Velchaninov was about to go in himself, when Pavel Pavlovich came out to him and with a twisted smile announced that she would presently come out, sir. Velchaninov tried not to look at him and averted his eyes.

Marya Sysoevna also came, the same woman he had met earlier on entering the corridor, and started packing into Liza’s pretty little bag the linen she had brought for her.

“So, dearie, you’re going to take the girl?” she addressed Velchaninov. “You’ve got a family or something? It’ll be a good thing to do, dearie: she’s a quiet child, you’ll deliver her from this Sodom.” ⁵

“Now, now, Marya Sysoevna,” Pavel Pavlovich began to mutter.

“What, Marya Sysoevna! Everybody knows my name. And isn’t it a Sodom here? Is it fitting for a child who understands to look at such shame? They’ve brought a carriage for you, dearie—to Lesnoye, is it?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Well, good luck to you!”

Liza came out with a pale little face, her eyes downcast, and took her bag. Not one glance in Velchaninov’s direction; she restrained herself and did not rush, as earlier, to embrace her father, even when saying good-bye; evidently she did not even want to look at him. Her father decorously kissed her on the head and patted it; at that her lips twisted and her chin trembled, but even so she did not raise her eyes to her father. Pavel Pavlovich looked somewhat pale, and his hands trembled—this Velchaninov noticed clearly, though he tried as hard as he could not to look at him. He wanted one thing: to leave quickly. “And, anyway, what fault is it of mine?” he thought. “It had to be this way.” They went downstairs, there Marya Sysoevna kissed Liza, and only when she was already settled in the carriage did Liza raise her eyes to her father—and suddenly clasp her hands and cry out: another moment and she would have rushed to him from the carriage, but the horses had already started off.

VI

THE NEW FANTASY OF AN IDLE MAN

“You’re not feeling bad?” Velchaninov was frightened. “I’ll order them to stop, to fetch water…”

She looked up at him with a burning, reproachful glance. “Where are you taking me?” she said sharply and curtly.

“It’s a wonderful family, Liza. They’re now living in a wonderful country house; there are many children, they’ll love you there, they’re kind… Don’t be angry with me, Liza, I wish you well…”

He would have seemed strange at this moment to anyone who knew him, if they could have seen him.

“You’re so… you’re so… you’re so… ohh, how wicked you are!” Liza said, choking with stifled tears, her angry, beautiful eyes flashing at him.

“Liza, I…”

“You’re wicked, wicked, wicked, wicked!” She was wringing her hands. Velchaninov was completely at a loss.

“Liza, dear, if you knew what despair you drive me to!”

“Is it true that he’ll come tomorrow? Is it true?” she asked imperiously.

“It’s true, it’s true! I’ll bring him myself; I’ll get him and bring him.”

“He’ll deceive me,” Liza whispered, lowering her eyes.

“Doesn’t he love you, Liza?”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Has he hurt you? Has he?”

Liza looked at him darkly and was silent. She turned away from him again and sat stubbornly looking down. He started persuading her, spoke heatedly to her, was in a fever himself. Liza listened mistrustfully, hostilely, but she did listen. Her attention gladdened him extremely: he even began to explain to her what a drinking man was. He said that he himself loved her and would look after her father. Liza finally raised her eyes and gazed at him intently. He started telling her how he had once known her mama, and saw that she was getting caught up in his stories. Little by little she began gradually to answer his questions—but cautiously and monosyllabically, with stubbornness. She still did not give any reply to his main questions: she was stubbornly silent about everything concerning her former relations with her father. As he talked with her, Velchaninov took her little hand in his, as earlier, and would not let it go; she did not pull it away. The girl was not totally silent, however; she did let slip in her vague replies that she used to love her father more than her mama, because formerly her father had always loved her more, and her mama formerly had loved her less; but that when her mama was dying, she had kissed her a lot and wept, when everyone left the room and the two of them remained alone… and that she now loved her more than anyone, more than anyone, anyone in the world, and every night she loved her more than anyone. But the girl was indeed proud: catching herself letting it slip, she suddenly withdrew into herself again and fell silent; she even looked hatefully at Velchaninov for making her let it slip. Toward the end of their journey, her hysterical state had nearly passed, but she became terribly pensive and looked around like a little savage, sullenly, with a gloomy, predetermined stubbornness. As for the fact that she was now being taken into a strange home, where she had never been before, this seemed for the moment to embarrass her very little. She was tormented by something else, Velchaninov could see that; he guessed that she was ashamed of him, that she was precisely ashamed that her father had let her go with him so easily, as if he had thrown her away to him.

“She’s ill,” he thought, “maybe very; she’s been tormented… Oh, mean, drunken creature! I understand him now!” He kept urging the coachman on; he had hopes in the country house, the air, the garden, the children, the new, the unfamiliar to her life, and then, later… But of what would come afterward he no longer had any doubts; there were full, clear hopes. Only one thing he knew absolutely: that he had never before experienced what he experienced then, and that it would stay with him for the rest of his life! “Here is the goal, here is life!” he thought rapturously.

Many thoughts flashed in him now, but he did not dwell on them and stubbornly avoided details: without the details, everything was becoming clear, everything was inviolable. His main plan formed of itself: “We can influence the scoundrel with our combined forces,” he dreamed, “and he will leave Liza in Petersburg with the Pogoreltsevs, though at first only temporarily, for a certain period of time, and go away by himself; and Liza will be left for me; and that’s all, what more is there to it? And… and, of course, he wishes it himself; otherwise why would he torment her.” They finally arrived. The Pogoreltsevs’ country house was indeed a lovely little place; they were met first of all by a noisy band of children who poured onto the porch of the house. Velchaninov had not visited in far too long, and the children were wild with joy: he was loved. The older ones shouted to him at once, even before he got out of the carriage:

“And how’s your lawsuit, how’s your lawsuit?” This was picked up by the smallest ones, who laughed and squealed following the older ones. He was teased there about his lawsuit. But, seeing Liza, they at once surrounded her and began studying her with silent and intent childish curiosity. Klavdia Petrovna came out, and her husband after her. She and her husband also both started from the first word, and laughing, with a question about the lawsuit.

Klavdia Petrovna was a lady of about thirty-seven, a plump and still beautiful brunette, with a fresh and rosy face. Her husband was about fifty-five, an intelligent and clever man, but a kindly fellow before all. Their house was in the fullest sense “his own home” for Velchaninov, as he himself put it. But a special circumstance also lay hidden here: some twenty years ago this Klavdia Petrovna had almost married Velchaninov, then still almost a boy, still a student. This had been a first love, fervent, ridiculous, and beautiful. It ended, however, with her marrying Pogoreltsev. They met again five years later, and it all ended in serene and quiet friendship. There forever remained a certain warmth, a certain special light shining in this relationship. Here everything in Velchaninov’s memories was pure and irreproachable, and all the dearer to him in that it was perhaps so only here. In this family, he was simple, naive, kind, helped with the children, was never affected, admitted everything and confessed everything. More than once he had sworn to the Pogoreltsevs that he would live a little longer in the world and then move in with them completely and start living with them, never to part again. He thought of this intention to himself not at all as a joke.

He gave them quite a detailed account of all that was necessary about Liza; but his request alone, without any special accounts, would have been enough. Klavdia Petrovna kissed the “little orphan” and promised to do everything for her part. The children took Liza up and led her out to play in the garden. After half an hour of lively talk, Velchaninov got up and started saying good-bye. He was so impatient that they all could notice it. They were all surprised: he had not visited in three weeks and was now leaving after half an hour. He laughed and swore to come the next day. It was brought to his notice that he was much too excited; he suddenly took Klavdia Petrovna by the hands and, under the pretext of having forgotten something very important, led her to another room.

“Remember what I told you—you alone, what even your husband doesn’t know—about the T–year of mylife?”

“I remember only too well; you spoke of it often.”

“I wasn’t speaking, I was confessing, and to you alone, you alone! I never told you the woman’s last name; she’s Trusotsky, the wife of this Trusotsky. It’s she who died, and Liza, her daughter—is my daughter!”

“Is it certain? You’re not mistaken?” Klavdia Petrovna asked in some agitation.

“Absolutely not, absolutely not!” Velchaninov uttered rapturously.

And, as briefly as possible, hurrying and terribly agitated, he told her—all. Klavdia Petrovna had known it all before, but she had not known the lady’s last name. Velchaninov had become so frightened each time at the mere thought that someone he knew might one day meet Mme. Trusotsky and think of himhaving loved this woman so much, that he had not dared up to then to reveal “that woman’s” name even to Klavdia Petrovna, his only friend.

“And the father knows nothing?” she asked, having heard the whole story.

“N-no, he does… That’s what torments me, that I haven’t made it all out yet!” Velchaninov went on heatedly. “He knows, he knows; I noticed it today and yesterday. But I have to find out how much of it he knows. That’s why I’m in a hurry now. He’ll come tonight. I’m perplexed, though, where he could have learned it—that is, learned everything. About Bagautov he knows everything, no question of it. But about me? You know how wives are able to reassure their husbands on such occasions! If an angel came down from heaven—the husband would believe not him, but her! Don’t shake your head, don’t condemn me, I condemn myself, and condemned myself for everything long, long ago!… You see, earlier, at his place, I was so sure he knew everything that I compromised myself before him. Believe me: I’m quite ashamed and pained that I met him so rudely yesterday. (I’ll tell you everything later in more detail!) He came to me yesterday out of an invincible, malicious desire to let me know that he knew his offense and that the offender was known to him! That’s the whole reason for this stupid appearance in a drunken state. But it’s so natural on his part! He precisely came to reproach me! Generally, I conducted things too hotly this morning and yesterday. Imprudently stupid! I gave myself away! Why did he accost me at such a troubled moment? I tell you, he even tormented Liza, tormented a child, and probably also in reproach, to vent his spite if only on a child! Yes, he’s spiteful—nonentity that he is, he’s spiteful, even very much so. It goes without saying that he’s nothing but a buffoon, though before, by God, he had the look of a decent man, as far as he could, but it’s so natural that he’s turned dissolute! Here, my friend, one must take a Christian view! And you know, my dear, my good one—I want to change completely toward him: I want to show him kindness. It will even be a ‘good deed’ on my part. Because, after all, I am guilty before him! Listen, you know, I’ll tell you another thing: once in T–I suddenly needed four thousand roubles, and he gave it to me in a second, without any receipt, sincerely glad that he was able to please me, and I did take it then, I took it from his own hands, took money from him, do you hear, took it as from afriend!”

“Only be more prudent,” Klavdia Petrovna observed worriedly to all this. “And how rapturous you are, really, I’m afraid for you! Of course, Liza’s now my daughter, too, but there’s so much here, so much that’s still unresolved! And above all, be more circumspect now; you absolutely must be circumspect when you’re in happiness or in such rapture; you’re too magnanimous when you’re in happiness,” she added with a smile.

Everyone came out to see Velchaninov off; the children brought Liza, with whom they had been playing in the garden. They looked at her now, it seemed, with still greater perplexity than before. Liza turned completely shy when Velchaninov, taking his leave, kissed her in front of everyone and warmly repeated his promise to come the next day with her father. She was silent and did not look at him till the last minute, but then she suddenly seized him by the sleeve and pulled him somewhere aside, looking at him with imploring eyes; she wanted to tell him something. He took her to another room at once.

“What is it, Liza?” he asked tenderly and encouragingly, but she, still looking around timorously, pulled him farther into the corner; she wanted to hide completely from everyone.

“What is it, Liza, what is it?”

She was silent and undecided; she looked fixedly into his eyes with her blue eyes, and all the features of her little face expressed nothing but mad fear.

“He’ll… hang himself!” she whispered as if in delirium.

“Who will hang himself ?” Velchaninov asked in fright.

“He will, he will! During the night he wanted to hang himself from a noose!” the girl said, hurrying and breathless. “I saw it myself! Last night he wanted to hang himself from a noose, he told me, he did! He wanted to before, too, he’s always wanted to… I saw it in the night…”

“It can’t be!” whispered Velchaninov in perplexity. She suddenly rushed to kiss his hands; she wept, barely catching her breath from sobbing, she begged and pleaded with him, but he could understand nothing of her hysterical prattle. And forever after there remained in his memory, there came to him awake and in his dreams, those tormented eyes of a tormented child, who looked at him in mad fear and with her last hope.

“And can it be, can it be that she loves him so much?” he thought jealously and enviously, going back to town in feverish impatience. “She herself said today that she loved her mother more… maybe she hates him and doesn’t love him at all…

“And what is this: hang himself? What was she saying? A fool like him hang himself?… I must find out; I absolutely must find out! I must resolve everything as soon as possible—resolve it definitively!”

VII

HUSBAND AND LOVER KISS

He was in a terrible hurry to “find out.” “I was stunned earlier; I had no time earlier to reflect on it,” he thought, recalling his first encounter with Liza, “but now I must find out.” In order to find out the quicker, he gave orders in his impatience to drive straight to Trusotsky’s place, but changed his mind at once: “No, better if he comes to me himself, and meanwhile I’ll finish this damned business.”

He feverishly got down to business; but this time he felt he was very distracted and ought not to be occupying himself with business matters. At five o’clock, on his way to have dinner, suddenly, for the first time, a funny thought came to his head: what if in fact he was, perhaps, only hindering things by interfering in the lawsuit himself, bustling and hanging out in offices and trying to catch his lawyer, who had begun to hide from him. He laughed merrily at his own supposition. “And if this thought had come to my head yesterday, I’d have been terribly upset,” he added, still more merrily. Despite the merriment, he was growing ever more distracted and impatient; finally he fell to thinking; and though his uneasy mind kept clinging to many things, on the whole the result was not at all what he needed.

“I need him, this man!” he finally decided. “I’ve got to figure him out first and then decide. This is—a duel!”

Returning home at seven o’clock, he did not find Pavel Pavlovich there, which first caused him great surprise, then wrath, and then even despondency; finally, he began to be afraid. “God knows, God knows what it will end with!” he repeated, now pacing the room, now stretching out on the sofa, and constantly looking at his watch. Finally, at around nine o’clock, Pavel Pavlovich did appear. “If the man was being cunning, he couldn’t have wangled anything better than this—the way I’m upset right now,” he thought, suddenly completely cheered up and terribly merry.

To the pert and merry question: why had he taken so long in coming?—Pavel Pavlovich smiled crookedly, sat down casually, not like the day before, and somehow carelessly flung his hat with crape onto another chair. Velchaninov noticed the casualness at once and took it into consideration.

Calmly and without unnecessary words, without his former agitation, he told, as if making a report, how he had taken Liza, how nicely she had been received there, how good it was going to be for her, and little by little, as if completely forgetting Liza, imperceptibly came down to talking only about the Pogoreltsevs—that is, what nice people they were, how long he had known them, what a good and even influential man Pogoreltsev was, and the like. Pavel Pavlovich listened distractedly and from time to time glanced at the narrator, covertly, with a peevish and sly grin.

“What an ardent man you are,” he muttered with some especially nasty smile.

“You, however, are somehow wicked today,” Velchaninov observed vexedly.

“And why shouldn’t I be wicked, sir, like everybody else?” Pavel Pavlovich suddenly heaved himself up, as if pouncing from around a corner; even as if he had just been waiting to pounce.

“That’s entirely as you will,” Velchaninov grinned. “I thought something might have happened to you?”

“And so it did happen, sir!” the man exclaimed, as if boasting that it had happened.

“What is it?”

Pavel Pavlovich waited a little before answering:

“Well, you see, sir, it’s all our Stepan Mikhailovich at his whimsies… Bagautov, a most elegant Petersburg young man, of the highest society, sir.”

“He didn’t receive you again, or what?”

“No-no, this time I precisely was received, I was admitted for the first time, sir, and looked upon the countenance… only it was already a dead man’s!…”

“What-a-at! Bagautov died?” Velchaninov was terribly surprised, though it would seem there was nothing for him to be so surprised at.

“Himself, sir! An unfailing friend of six years! He died yesterday around noon, and I didn’t know! Maybe it was at the very moment when I came to inquire about his health. The funeral and burial are tomorrow, he’s already lying in his little coffin, sir. The coffin’s lined with damson velvet, trimmed with gold braid… he died of nervous fever, sir. I was admitted, admitted, I looked upon his countenance! I told them at the front door that I was considered a true friend, so I was admitted. What has he been pleased to do to me now, this true friend of six years—I ask you? Maybe I came to Petersburg just for his sake alone!”

“But why are you angry with him,” Velchaninov laughed, “he didn’t die on purpose!”

“But I’m saying it in pity; such a precious friend; this is what he meant to me, sir.”

And Pavel Pavlovich suddenly, quite unexpectedly, put two fingers like horns over his bald forehead and went off into a long and quiet titter. He spent a whole half minute sitting like that, with horns and tittering, looking into Velchaninov’s eyes as if reveling in his most sarcastic impudence. The latter was stupefied as if he were seeing some sort of ghost. But his stupefaction lasted no more than a tiny moment; a mocking smile, calm to the point of impudence, slowly came to his lips.

“And what might that signify?” he asked carelessly, drawing out his words.

“That signifies horns, sir,” Pavel Pavlovich snapped, finally taking his fingers from his forehead. “That is… your horns?”

“My very own splendid acquisition!” Pavel Pavlovich again made a terribly nasty grimace. They both fell silent.

“You’re a brave man, anyhow!” said Velchaninov.

“Because I showed you the horns? You know what, Alexei Ivanovich, you’d do better to treat me to something! I treated you in T–for a whole year, sir, every blessed day… Send for a little bottle, my throat’s dry.”

“With pleasure; you should have said so long ago. What’ll you have?”

“Why you? make it we—we’ll drink together, won’t we?” Pavel Pavlovich peered into his eyes defiantly and at the same time with some strange uneasiness.

“Champagne?”

“What else? It’s not vodka’s turn yet, sir…”

Velchaninov rose unhurriedly, rang for Mavra downstairs, and gave the order.

“For the joy of a happy reunion, sir, after nine years of separation,” Pavel Pavlovich tittered along needlessly and inappropriately. “Now you and you alone are left me as a true friend, sir! Stepan Mikhailovich Bagautov is no more! It’s as the poet said:

The great Patroclus is no more,

Vile Thersites is living still!” ⁶

And at the word “Thersites” he jabbed his finger at his own breast.

“You swine, why don’t you explain yourself quicker, I don’t like hints,” Velchaninov thought to himself. Anger seethed in him, for a long time he had barely contained himself.

“Tell me this,” he began vexedly, “if you accuse Stepan Mikhailovich so directly” (now he no longer called him simply Bagautov), “then it seems you should rejoice that your offender is dead; so why are you angry?”

“Why rejoice, sir? What’s there to rejoice at?”

“I’m judging by your feelings.”

“Heh, heh, you’re mistaken about my feelings on that account, sir, as in the wise man’s saying: ‘A dead enemy is good, but a live one is even better,’ hee, hee!”

“But you saw him alive every day for five years, I think, didn’t you have enough of looking?” Velchaninov observed spitefully and impudently.

“But did I… did I know it then, sir?” Pavel Pavlovich suddenly heaved himself up, again as if pouncing from around a corner, even as if with a certain glee at having finally been asked a long-awaited question. “What do you take me for, Alexei Ivanovich?”

And some completely new and unexpected look suddenly flashed in his eyes, which as if completely transformed his spiteful and until then only vilely grimacing face.

“So you really knew nothing!” Velchaninov, perplexed, said with the most sudden amazement.

“So you think I knew, sir? You think I knew! Oh, what a breed—our Jupiters! With you a man is the same as a dog, and you judge everyone by your own paltry nature! There’s for you, sir! Swallow that!” And he banged his fist on the table in rage, but at once got scared at his own banging and looked up timorously.

Velchaninov assumed a dignified air.

“Listen, Pavel Pavlovich, it decidedly makes no difference to me, you must agree, whether you knew or not. If you didn’t know, it does you honor in any case, though… anyhow, I don’t even understand why you’ve chosen me as your confidant…”

“I didn’t mean you… don’t be angry, I didn’t mean you…” Pavel Pavlovich muttered, dropping his eyes.

Mavra came in with the champagne.

“Here it is!” Pavel Pavlovich cried, obviously glad of a way out, “and the glasses, dearie, the glasses—wonderful! Nothing more is required of you, my sweet. Already opened? Honor and glory to you, dear creature! Well, off you go!”

And, cheered up again, he once more looked boldly at Velchaninov.

“And confess,” he suddenly tittered, “that you’re terribly curious about all this, sir, and it by no means ‘decidedly makes no difference,’ as you were pleased to declare, so that you’d even be upset if I got up and left this very moment, sir, without explaining anything.”

“Actually, I wouldn’t be.”

“Oh, you liar!” Pavel Pavlovich’s smile said.

“Well, sir, let’s begin!” and he poured wine in the glasses.

“Let’s drink a toast,” he pronounced, raising his glass, “to the health of our friend, the resting-in-peace Stepan Mikhailovich!”

He raised his glass and drank.

“I won’t drink such a toast,” Velchaninov put his glass down.

“Why’s that? A nice little toast!”

“Listen here: when you came now, you weren’t drunk?”

“I’d had a little. What of it, sir?”

“Nothing special, but I had the impression that yesterday, and especially this morning, you sincerely regretted the late Natalia Vassilievna.”

“And who told you that I don’t sincerely regret her now as well?” Pavel Pavlovich again pounced, as if he had again been jerked by a spring.

“That’s not what I mean; but you must agree that you could be mistaken about Stepan Mikhailovich, and it’s a serious matter.”

Pavel Pavlovich smiled slyly and winked.

“And you’d like so much to find out how I myself found out about Stepan Mikhailovich!”

Velchaninov turned red:

“I repeat to you again that it makes no difference to me.” And in rage he thought, “Why don’t I throw him out right now, along with his bottle?” and turned redder still.

“Never mind, sir!” Pavel Pavlovich said, as if encouraging him, and poured himself another glass.

“I’ll explain to you presently how I found out ‘everything,’ sir, and thereby satisfy your fiery wishes… for you’re a fiery man, Alexei Ivanovich, a terribly fiery man, sir! heh, heh! only give me a little cigarette, because since the month of March I…”

“Here’s your cigarette.”

“I’ve become dissolute since the month of March, Alexei Ivanovich, and this is how it happened, sir, lend me your ear. Consumption, as you know yourself, my dearest friend,” he was getting more and more familiar, “is a curious disease, sir. Quite often a consumptive person dies almost without suspecting he might die the next day, sir. I tell you that just five hours before, Natalia Vassilievna was planning to go in two weeks to visit her aunt thirty miles away. Besides, you’re probably familiar with the habit, or, better to say, the trait common to many ladies, and perhaps gentlemen as well, sir, of preserving their old trash, such as love correspondence, sir. The surest thing would be the stove, right, sir? No, every scrap of paper is carefully preserved in their little boxes and hold-alls; it’s even numbered by years, by dates and categories. Whether it’s very comforting or something—I don’t know, sir; but it must be for the sake of pleasant memories. Since she was planning, five hours before the end, to go to her aunt’s for the celebration, Natalia Vassilievna naturally had no thought of death, even to the very last hour, sir, and kept waiting for Koch. And so it happened, sir, that Natalia Vassilievna died, and a little ebony box inlaid with mother-of-pearl and silver was left in her desk. Such a pretty little box, with a key, sir, an heirloom, handed down from her grandmother. Well, sir—it was in this box that everything was revealed—that is, everything, sir, without any exception, by days and years, over two whole decades. And since Stepan Mikhailovich had a decided inclination for literature, having once even sent a passionate story to a magazine, there turned out to be nearly a hundred numbers of his works in the little chest—true, it was for five years, sir. Some numbers were even marked in Natalia Vassilievna’s own hand. A pleasure for a husband, wouldn’t you think, sir?”

Velchaninov quickly reflected and remembered that he had never written even one letter, even one note, to Natalia Vassilievna. And though he had written two letters from Petersburg, they had been addressed to both spouses, as had been arranged. And to Natalia Vassilievna’s last letter, informing him of his dismissal, he had never replied.

After finishing his story, Pavel Pavlovich was silent for a whole minute, smiling importunately and expectantly.

“Why do you answer nothing to my little question, sir?” he spoke finally with obvious suffering.

“What little question?”

“About the pleasant feelings of a husband, sir, on opening the little chest.”

“Eh, what business is that of mine!” Velchaninov waved his hand biliously, got up, and started pacing the room.

“And I bet you’re now thinking: ‘What a swine you are, to have pointed to your own horns,’ heh, heh! A most squeamish man… you, sir!”

“I’m thinking nothing of the sort. On the contrary, you are much too annoyed by your offender’s death, and you’ve drunk a lot of wine besides. I see nothing extraordinary in any of it; I understand too well why you needed a live Bagautov, and I’m prepared to respect your vexation, but…”

“And what did I need Bagautov for, in your opinion,

sir?”

“That’s your business.”

“I’ll bet you had in mind a duel, sir?”

“Devil take it!” Velchaninov restrained himself less and less, “I thought that, like any decent man… in such cases—one doesn’t stoop to comical babble, to stupid clowning, to ridiculous complaints and vile hints, with which he besmirches himself still more, but acts clearly, directly, openly, like a decent man!”