“Are you feeling faint?” asked Velchaninoff of his companion, frightened
out of his wits: “I’ll tell him to stop and get you some water, shall I?”
She looked at him angrily and reproachfully.
“Where are you taking me to?” she asked coldly and abruptly.
“To a very beautiful house, Liza. There are plenty of children,—they’ll
all love you there, they are so kind! Don’t be angry with me, Liza; I wish
you well, you know!”
In truth, Velchaninoff would have looked strange at this moment to any
acquaintance, if such had happened to see him!
“How—how—how—oh! _how_ wicked you are!” said Liza, fighting with
suppressed tears, and flashing her fine angry eyes at him.
“But Liza—I——”
“You are bad—bad—and wicked!” cried Liza. She wrung her hands.
Velchaninoff was beside himself.
“Oh, Liza, Liza! if only you knew what despair you are causing me!” he
said.
“Is it true that he is coming down to-morrow?” asked the child
haughtily—“is it true or not?”
“Quite true—I shall bring him down myself,—I shall take him and bring
him!”
“He will deceive you somehow!” cried the child, drooping her eyes.
“Doesn’t he love you, then, Liza?”
“No.”
“Has he ill-treated you,—has he?”
Liza looked gloomily at her questioner, and said nothing. She then turned
away from him and sat still and depressed.
Velchaninoff commenced to talk: he tried to win her,—he spoke
warmly—excitedly—feverishly.
Liza listened incredulously and with a hostile air,—but still she
listened. Her attention delighted him beyond measure;—he went so far as to
explain to her what it meant when a man took to drink. He said that he
loved her and would himself look after her father.
At last Liza raised her eyes and gazed fixedly at him.
Then Velchaninoff began to speak of her mother and of how well he had
known her; and he saw that his tales attracted her. Little by little she
began to reply to his questions, but very cautiously and in an obstinately
monosyllabic way.
She would answer nothing to his chief inquiries; as to her former
relations with her father, for instance, she maintained an obstinate
silence.
While speaking to her, Velchaninoff held the child’s hand in his own, as
before; and she did not try to take it away.
Liza said enough to make it apparent that she had loved her father more
than her mother at first, because that her father had loved the child
better than her mother did; but that when her mother had died and was
lying dead, Liza wept over her and kissed her, and ever since then she had
loved her mother more than all—all there was in the whole world—and that
every night she thought of her and loved her.
But Liza was very proud, and suddenly recollecting herself and finding
that she was saying a great deal more than she had meant to reveal, she
paused, and relapsed into obstinate silence once more, and gazed at
Velchaninoff with something like hatred in her eyes, considering that he
had beguiled her into the revelations just made.
By the end of the journey, however, her hysterical condition was nearly
over, but she was very silent and sat looking morosely about her,
obstinately silent and gloomy, like a little wild animal.
The fact that she was being taken to a strange house where she had never
been before did not seem so far to weigh upon her; Velchaninoff saw
clearly enough that other things distressed her, and principally that she
was ashamed—ashamed that her father should have let her go so
easily—thrown her away, as it were—into Velchaninoff’s arms.
“She’s ill,” thought the latter, “and perhaps very ill; she has been
bullied and ill-treated. Oh! that drunken, blackguardly wretch of a
fellow!” He hurried on the coachman. Velchaninoff trusted greatly to the
fresh air, to the garden, to the children, to the new life, now; as to the
future, he was in no sort of doubt at all, his hopes were clear and
defined. One thing he was quite sure of, and that was that he had never
before felt what now swelled within his soul, and that the sensation would
last for ever and ever.
“I have an object at last! this is Life!” he said to himself
enthusiastically.
Many thoughts welled into his brain just now, but he would have none of
them; he did not care to think of details at this moment, for without
details the future was all so clear and so beautiful, and so safe and
indestructible!
The basis of his plan was simple enough; it was simply this, in the
language of his own thoughts:
“I shall so work upon that drunken little blackguard that he will leave
Liza with the Pogoryeltseffs, and go away alone—at first, ‘for a time,’ of
course!—and so Liza shall remain behind for me! what more do I want? The
plan will suit him, too!—else why does he bully her like this?”
The carriage arrived at last.
It was certainly a very beautiful place. They were met first of all by a
troop of noisy children, who overflowed on to the front-door steps.
Velchaninoff had not been down for some time, and the delight of the
little ones to see him was excessive—they were very fond of him.
The elder ones shouted, before he had left the carriage, by way of chaff:
“How’s the lawsuit getting on, eh?” and the smaller gang took up the joke,
and all clamoured the same question: it was a pet joke in this
establishment to chaff Velchaninoff about his lawsuit. But when Liza
climbed down the carriage steps, she was instantly surrounded and stared
at with true juvenile curiosity. Then Claudia Petrovna and her husband
came out, and both of them good-humouredly bantered Velchaninoff about his
lawsuit.
Claudia Petrovna was a lady of some thirty-seven summers, stout and
well-favoured, and with a sweet fresh-looking face. Her husband was a man
of fifty-five, a clever and long-headed man of the world, but above all, a
good and kind-hearted friend to anyone requiring kindness.
The Pogoryeltseffs’ house was in the full sense of the word a “home” to
Velchaninoff, as the latter had stated. There was rather more here,
however; for, twenty years since Claudia had very nearly married young
Velchaninoff almost a boy at that time, and a student at the university.
This had been his first experience of love—and very hot and fiery and
funny—and sweet it was! The end of it was, however, that Claudia married
Mr Pogoryeltseff. Five years later she and Velchaninoff had met again, and
a quiet candid friendship had sprung up between them. Since then there had
always been a warmth, a speciality about their friendship, a radiance
which overspread it and glorified their relations one to the other. There
was nothing here that Velchaninoff could remember with shame—all was pure
and sweet; and this was perhaps the reason why the friendship was
specially dear to Velchaninoff; he had not experienced many such platonic
intimacies.
In this house Velchaninoff was simple and happy, confessed his sins,
played with the children and lectured them, and never bothered his head
about outside matters; he had promised the Pogoryeltseffs that he would
live a few more years alone in the world, and then move over to their
household for good and all; and he looked forward to that good time coming
with all seriousness.
Velchaninoff now gave all the information about Liza which he thought fit,
though his simple request would have been amply sufficient here.
Claudia Petrovna kissed the little “orphan,” and promised to do all she
possibly could for her; and the children carried Liza off to play in the
garden. Half an hour passed in conversation, and then Velchaninoff rose to
depart: he was in such a hurry, that his friends could not help remarking
upon the fact. He had not been near them for three weeks, they said, and
now he only stayed half an hour! Velchaninoff laughed and promised to come
down to-morrow. Someone observed that Velchaninoff’s state of agitation
was remarkable, even for _him_! Whereupon the latter jumped up, seized
Claudia Petrovna’s hand, and, under pretence of having forgotten to tell
her something most important about Liza, he led her into another room.
“Do you remember,” he began, “what I told you, and only you,—even your
husband does not know of it—about my year of life down at T——?”
“Oh yes! only too well! You have often spoken of it.”
“No—I did not ‘speak about it,’ I _confessed_, and only to yourself; but I
never told you the lady’s name. It was Trusotsky, the wife of this
Trusotsky; it is she who has died, and this little Liza is her child—_my_
child!”
“Is this certain? Are you quite sure there is no mistake?” asked Claudia
Petrovna, with some agitation.
“Quite, quite certain!” said Velchaninoff enthusiastically. He then gave a
short, hasty, and excited narrative of all that had occurred. Claudia had
heard it all before, excepting the lady’s name.
The fact is, Velchaninoff had always been so afraid that one of his
friends might some fine day meet Madame Trusotsky at T——, and wonder how
in the world he could have loved such a woman as that, that he had never
revealed her name to a single soul; not even to Claudia Petrovna, his
great friend.
“And does the ‘father’ know nothing of it?” asked Claudia, having heard
the tale out.
“N—no; he knows—you see, that’s just what is bothering me now. I haven’t
sifted the matter as yet,” resumed Velchaninoff hotly. “He must know—he
_does_ know. I remarked that fact both yesterday and to-day. But I wish to
discover _how much_ he knows. That’s why I am hurrying back now; he is
coming to-night. He knows all about Bagantoff; but how about myself? You
know how such wives can deceive their husbands! If an angel from Heaven
were to come down and convict a woman, her husband will still trust her,
and give the angel the lie.
“Oh! don’t nod your head at me, don’t judge me! I have long since judged
and convicted myself. You see, this morning I felt so sure that he knew
all, that I compromised myself before him. Fancy, I was really ashamed of
having been rude to him last night. He only called in to see me out of the
pure unconquerably malicious desire to show me that he knew all the
offence, and knew who was the offender! I behaved like a fool; I gave
myself into his hands too easily; I was too heated; he came at such a
feverish moment for me. I tell you, he has been bullying Liza, simply to
‘let off bile,’—you understand. He needs a safety-valve for his offended
feelings, and vents them upon _anyone_, even a little child!
“It is exasperation, and quite natural. We must treat him in a Christian
spirit, my friend; and do you know, I wish to change my way of treating
him, entirely; I wish to be particularly kind to him. That will be a good
action on my part, for I am to blame before him, I know I am; there’s no
disguising the fact! Besides, once at T——, it so happened that I required
four thousand roubles at a moment’s notice. Well, the fellow gave me the
money, without a receipt, at once, and with every manifestation of delight
to be able to serve me! And I took the money from his hands,—I did,
indeed! I took it as though he were a friend. Think of that!”
“Very well; only be careful!” said Claudia Petrovna. “You are so
enthusiastic that I am really alarmed for you! Of course Liza shall now be
no less than my own daughter to me; but there is so much to know and to
settle yet! Above all, be very careful and observant! You are not nearly
careful enough when you are happy! You are much too exalted an individual
to be cautious, when you are happy!” she added with a smile.
The whole family went out to see Velchaninoff off. The children brought
Liza along with them; they had been playing in the garden. They seemed to
look at her now with even more perplexity then at first! The girl became
dreadfully shy when Velchaninoff kissed her before all, and promised to
come down next day and bring her father with him. To the last moment she
did not say a single word, and never looked at him at all; but just before
he was about to start she seized his hand and drew him away to one side,
looking imploringly in his face: she evidently had something to say to
him. Velchaninoff immediately took her into an adjoining room.
“What is it, Liza?” he asked, kindly and encouragingly; but she drew him
farther away,—into the very farthest corner of the room, anxious to get
well out of sight and hearing of the rest.
“What is it, Liza? What is it?”
But she was still silent, and could not make up her mind to speak; she
stared with her motionless, large blue eyes, into his face, and in every
lineament of her little face was betrayed the wildest terror and anxiety.
“He’ll—hang himself!” she whispered at last, as though she were talking in
her sleep.
“Who will hang himself?” asked Velchaninoff, in alarm.
“He will—_he_! He tried to hang himself to a hook last night!” said the
child, panting with haste and excitement; “I saw it myself! To-day he
tried it again,—he wishes to hang himself; he told me so!—he told me so!
He wanted to, long ago; he has always wanted to do it! I saw it myself—in
the night!”
“Impossible!” muttered Velchaninoff, incredulously.
Liza suddenly threw herself into his arms, kissed his hands, and cried.
She could hardly breathe for sobbing; she was begging and imploring
Velchaninoff, but he could not understand what she was trying to say.
Velchaninoff never afterwards forgot the terrible look of this distressed
child; he thought of it waking and thought of it sleeping—how she had come
to him in her despair as to her last hope, and hysterically begged and
prayed him to help her! “And to think of her being so deeply attached to
him!” he reflected jealously, as he drove, impatient and feverish, towards
town. “She said herself that she loved her mother better;—perhaps she
hates him, and doesn’t love him at all! And what’s all that nonsense about
‘hanging himself!’ What did she mean by that? As if he would hang himself,
the fool! I must sift the matter—the whole matter. I must settle this
business once and for ever—and quickly!”