III

Another year and a half passed by. Business obliged me to visit Moscow.

I took up my quarters in one of the good hotels there. One day, as I

was passing along the corridor, I glanced at the black-board with the

list of visitors staying in the hotel, and almost cried out aloud with

astonishment. Opposite the number 12 stood, distinctly written in

chalk, the name, Sophia Nikolaevna Asanova. Of late I had chanced to

hear a good deal that was bad about her husband. I had learned that he

was addicted to drink and to gambling, had ruined himself, and was

generally misconducting himself. His wife was spoken of with

respect.... In some excitement I went back to my room. The passion,

that had long long ago grown cold, began as it were to stir within my

heart, and it throbbed. I resolved to go and see Sophia Nikolaevna.

'Such a long time has passed since the day we parted,' I thought, 'she

has, most likely, forgotten everything there was between us in those

days.'

I sent Elisei, whom I had taken into my service after the death of

Pasinkov, with my visiting-card to her door, and told him to inquire

whether she was at home, and whether I might see her. Elisei quickly

came back and announced that Sophia Nikolaevna was at home and would

see me.

I went at once to Sophia Nikolaevna. When I went in, she was standing

in the middle of the room, taking leave of a tall stout gentleman.

'As you like,' he was saying in a rich, mellow voice; 'he is not a

harmless person, he's a useless person; and every useless person in a

well-ordered society is harmful, harmful, harmful!'

With those words the tall gentleman went out. Sophia Nikolaevna turned

to me.

'How long it is since we met!' she said. 'Sit down, please....'

We sat down. I looked at her.... To see again after long absence the

features of a face once dear, perhaps beloved, to recognise them, and

not recognise them, as though across the old, unforgotten countenance a

new one, like, but strange, were looking out at one; instantaneously,

almost unconsciously, to note the traces time has laid upon it;--all

this is rather melancholy. 'I too must have changed in the same way,'

each is inwardly thinking....

Sophia Nikolaevna did not, however, look much older; though, when I had

seen her last, she was sixteen, and that was nine years ago.

Her features had become still more correct and severe; as of old, they

expressed sincerity of feeling and firmness; but in place of her former

serenity, a sort of secret ache and anxiety could be discerned in them.

Her eyes had grown deeper and darker. She had begun to show a likeness

to her mother....

Sophia Nikolaevna was the first to begin the conversation.

'We are both changed,' she began. 'Where have you been all this time?'

'I've been a rolling stone,' I answered. 'And have you been living in

the country all the while?'

'For the most part I've been in the country. I'm only here now for a

little time.'

'How are your parents?'

'My mother is dead, but my father is still in Petersburg; my brother's

in the service; Varia lives with him.'

'And your husband?'

'My husband,' she said in a rather hurried voice--'he's just now in

South Russia for the horse fairs. He was always very fond of horses,

you know, and he has started stud stables ... and so, on that account

... he's buying horses now.'

At that instant there walked into the room a little girl of eight years

old, with her hair in a pigtail, with a very keen and lively little

face, and large dark grey eyes. On seeing me, she at once drew back her

little foot, dropped a hasty curtsey, and went up to Sophia Nikolaevna.

'This is my little daughter; let me introduce her to you,' said Sophia

Nikolaevna, putting one finger under the little girl's round chin; 'she

would not stop at home--she persuaded me to bring her with me.'

The little girl scanned me with her rapid glance and faintly dropped

her eyelids.

'She is a capital little person,' Sophia Nikolaevna went on: 'there's

nothing she's afraid of. And she's good at her lessons; I must say that

for her.'

'Comment se nomme monsieur?' the little girl asked in an undertone,

bending over to her mother.

Sophia Nikolaevna mentioned my name.

The little girl glanced at me again.

'What is your name?' I asked her.

'My name is Lidia,' answered the little girl, looking me boldly in the

face.

'I expect they spoil you,' I observed.

'Who spoil me?'

'Who? everyone, I expect; your parents to begin with.'

(The little girl looked, without a word, at her mother.) 'I can fancy

Konstantin Alexandritch,' I was going on ...

'Yes, yes,' Sophia Nikolaevna interposed, while her little daughter

kept her attentive eyes fastened upon her; 'my husband, of course--he

is very fond of children....'

A strange expression flitted across Lidia's clever little face. There

was a slight pout about her lips; she hung her head.

'Tell me,' Sophia Nikolaevna added hurriedly; 'you are here on

business, I expect?'

'Yes, I am here on business.... And are you too?'

'Yes.... In my husband's absence, you understand, I'm obliged to look

after business matters.'

'Maman!' Lidia was beginning.

'Quoi, mon enfant?'

'Non--rien.... Je te dirai après.'

Sophia Nikolaevna smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

'Tell me, please,' Sophia Nikolaevna began again; 'do you remember, you

had a friend ... what was his name? he had such a good-natured face ...

he was always reading poetry; such an enthusiastic--'

'Not Pasinkov?'

'Yes, yes, Pasinkov ... where is he now?'

'He is dead.'

'Dead?' repeated Sophia Nikolaevna; 'what a pity!...'

'Have I seen him?' the little girl asked in a hurried whisper.

'No, Lidia, you've never seen him.--What a pity!' repeated Sophia

Nikolaevna.

'You regret him ...' I began; 'what if you had known him, as I knew

him?... But, why did you speak of him, may I ask?'

'Oh, I don't know....' (Sophia Nikolaevna dropped her eyes.) 'Lidia,'

she added; 'run away to your nurse.'

'You'll call me when I may come back?' asked the little girl.

'Yes.'

The little girl went away. Sophia Nikolaevna turned to me.

'Tell me, please, all you know about Pasinkov.' I began telling her his

story. I sketched in brief words the whole life of my friend; tried, as

far as I was able, to give an idea of his soul; described his last

meeting with me and his end.

'And a man like that,' I cried, as I finished my story--'has left us,

unnoticed, almost unappreciated! But that's no great loss. What is the

use of man's appreciation? What pains me, what wounds me, is that such

a man, with such a loving and devoted heart, is dead without having

once known the bliss of love returned, without having awakened interest

in one woman's heart worthy of him!... Such as I may well know nothing

of such happiness; we don't deserve it; but Pasinkov!... And yet

haven't I met thousands of men in my life, who could not compare with

him in any respect, who were loved? Must one believe that some faults

in a man--conceit, for instance, or frivolity--are essential to gain a

woman's devotion? Or does love fear perfection, the perfection possible

on earth, as something strange and terrible?'

Sophia Nikolaevna heard me to the end, without taking her stern,

searching eyes off me, without moving her lips; only her eyebrows

contracted from time to time.

'What makes you suppose,' she observed after a brief silence, 'that no

woman ever loved your friend?'

'Because I know it, know it for a fact.'

Sophia Nikolaevna seemed about to say something, but she stopped. She

seemed to be struggling with herself.

'You are mistaken,' she began at last; 'I know a woman who loved your

dead friend passionately; she loves him and remembers him to this day

... and the news of his death will be a fearful blow for her.'

'Who is this woman? may I know?'

'My sister, Varia.'

'Varvara Nikolaevna!' I cried in amazement.

'Yes.'

'What? Varvara Nikolaevna?' I repeated, 'that...'

'I will finish your sentence,' Sophia Nikolaevna took me up; 'that girl

you thought so cold, so listless and indifferent, loved your friend;

that is why she has never married and never will marry. Till this day

no one has known of this but me; Varia would die before she would

betray her secret. In our family we know how to suffer in silence.'

I looked long and intently at Sophia Nikolaevna, involuntarily

pondering on the bitter significance of her last words.

'You have surprised me,' I observed at last. 'But do you know, Sophia

Nikolaevna, if I were not afraid of recalling disagreeable memories, I

might surprise you too....'

'I don't understand you,' she rejoined slowly, and with some

embarrassment.

'You certainly don't understand me,' I said, hastily getting up; 'and

so allow me, instead of verbal explanation, to send you something ...'

'But what is it?' she inquired.

'Don't be alarmed, Sophia Nikolaevna, it's nothing to do with me.'

I bowed, and went back to my room, took out the little silken bag I had

taken off Pasinkov, and sent it to Sophia Nikolaevna with the following

note--

'This my friend wore always on his breast and died with it on him. In

it is the only note you ever wrote him, quite insignificant in its

contents; you can read it. He wore it because he loved you

passionately; he confessed it to me only the day before his death. Now,

when he is dead, why should you not know that his heart too was yours?'

Elisei returned quickly and brought me back the relic.

'Well?' I queried; 'didn't she send any message?'

'No.'