On the following day the brilliant and jovial Shenbok called at the
aunts for Nekhludoff, and completely charmed them with his elegance,
amiability, cheerfulness, liberality, and his love for Dmitri. Though
his liberality pleased the aunts, they were somewhat perplexed by the
excess to which he carried it. He gave a ruble to a blind beggar; the
servants received as tips fifteen rubles, and when Sophia Ivanovna's
lap-dog, Suzette, hurt her leg so that it bled, he volunteered to
bandage it, and without a moment's consideration tore his fine linen
handkerchief (Sophia Ivanovna knew that those handkerchiefs were worth
fifteen rubles a dozen) and made bandages of it for the dog. The aunts
had never seen such men, nor did they know that his debts ran up to
two hundred thousand rubles, which--he knew--would never be paid, and
that therefore twenty-five rubles more or less made no appreciable
difference in his accounts.
Shenbok remained but one day, and the following evening departed with
Nekhludoff. They could remain no longer, for the time for joining
their regiment had arrived.
On this last day spent at the aunts, when the events of the preceding
evening were fresh in his memory, two antagonistic feelings struggled
in Nekhludoff's soul; one was the burning, sensual recollection of
love, although it failed to fulfill its promises, and some
satisfaction of having gained his ends; the other, a consciousness of
having committed a wrong, and that that wrong must be righted--not for
her sake, but for his own sake.
In that condition of insane egotism Nekhludoff thought only of
himself--whether he would be condemned, and how far, if his act should
be discovered, but never gave a thought to the question, "How does she
feel about it, and what will become of her?"
He thought that Shenbok divined his relations to Katiousha, and his
ambition was flattered.
"That's why you so suddenly began to like your aunts," Shenbok said
to him when he saw Katiousha. "In your place I should stay here even
longer. She is charming!"
He also thought that while it was a pity to leave now, without
enjoying his love in its fullness, the necessity of going was
advantageous in that he was able to break the relations which it were
difficult to keep up. He further thought it was necessary to give her
money, not because she might need it, but because it was customary to
do so. So he gave as much money as he thought was proper, considering
their respective positions.
On the day of his departure, after dinner he waited in the passage
until she came by. She flushed as she saw him, and wished to pass on,
pointing with her eyes to the door of her room, but he detained her.
"I came to bid you farewell," he said, crumpling an envelope
containing a hundred ruble bill. "How is----"
She suspected it, frowned, shook her head and thrust aside his hand.
"Yes, take it," he murmured, thrusting the envelope in the bosom of
her waist, and, as if it had burned his fingers, he ran to his room.
For a long time he paced his room to and fro, frowning, and even
jumping, and moaning aloud as if from physical pain, as he thought of
the scene.
But what is to be done? It is always thus. Thus it was with Shenbok
and the governess whom he had told about; it was thus with Uncle
Gregory; with his father, when he lived in the country, and the
illegitimate son Miteuka, who is still living, was born to him. And if
everybody acts thus, consequently it ought to be so. Thus he was
consoling himself, but he could not be consoled. The recollection of
it stung his conscience.
In the depth of his soul he knew that his action was so base,
abominable and cruel that, with that action upon his conscience, not
only would he have no right to condemn others but he should not be
able to look others in the face, to say nothing of considering himself
the good, noble, magnanimous man he esteemed himself. And he had to
esteem himself as such in order to be able to continue to lead a
valiant and joyous life. And there was but one way of doing so, and
that was not to think of it. This he endeavored to do.
The life into which he had just entered--new scenes, comrades, and
active service--helped him on. The more he lived, the less he thought
of it, and in the end really forgot it entirely.
Only once, on his return from active service, when, in the hope of
seeing her, he paid a visit to his aunts, he was told that Katiousha,
soon after his departure, had left them; that she had given birth to a
child, and, as the aunts were informed, had gone to the bad. As he
heard it his heart was oppressed with grief. From the statement of the
time when she gave birth to the child it might be his, and it might
not be his. The aunts said that she was vicious and of a depraved
nature, just like her mother. And this opinion of the aunts pleased
him, because it exculpated him, as it were. At first he intended to
find her and the child, but as it pained him very much, and he was
ashamed to think of it, he did not make the necessary efforts, and
gradually ceased to think of his sin.
But now, this fortuitous meeting brought everything to his mind, and
compelled the acknowledgment of his heartlessness, cruelty and
baseness which made it possible for him to live undisturbed by the sin
which lay on his conscience. He was yet far from such acknowledgment,
and at this moment was only thinking how to avoid disclosure which
might be made by her, or her attorney, and thus disgrace him before
everybody.