MICHAEL IVANOVICH awoke early next morning. He entered his brother’s
study, and handed him the cheque, filled in for a sum which he asked
him to pay in monthly instalments to his daughter. He inquired when the
express left for St. Petersburg. The train left at seven in the evening,
giving him time for an early dinner before leaving. He breakfasted with
his sister-in-law, who refrained from mentioning the subject which was
so painful to him, but only looked at him timidly; and after breakfast
he went out for his regular morning walk.
Alexandra Dmitrievna followed him into the hall.
“Go into the public gardens, Michael--it is very charming there, and
quite near to Everything,” said she, meeting his sombre looks with a
pathetic glance.
Michael Ivanovich followed her advice and went to the public gardens,
which were so near to Everything, and meditated with annoyance on the
stupidity, the obstinacy, and heartlessness of women.
“She is not in the very least sorry for me,” he thought of his
sister-in-law. “She cannot even understand my sorrow. And what of her?”
He was thinking of his daughter. “She knows what all this means to
me--the torture. What a blow in one’s old age! My days will be shortened
by it! But I’d rather have it over than endure this agony. And all
that ‘pour les beaux yeux d’un chenapan’--oh!” he moaned; and a wave of
hatred and fury arose in him as he thought of what would be said in the
town when every one knew. (And no doubt every one knew already.) Such a
feeling of rage possessed him that he would have liked to beat it into
her head, and make her understand what she had done. These women never
understand. “It is quite near Everything,” suddenly came to his mind,
and getting out his notebook, he found her address. Vera Ivanovna
Silvestrova, Kukonskaya Street, Abromov’s house. She was living under
this name. He left the gardens and called a cab.
“Whom do you wish to see, sir?” asked the midwife, Maria Ivanovna, when
he stepped on the narrow landing of the steep, stuffy staircase.
“Does Madame Silvestrova live here?”
“Vera Ivanovna? Yes; please come in. She has gone out; she’s gone to the
shop round the corner. But she’ll be back in a minute.”
Michael Ivanovich followed the stout figure of Maria Ivanovna into
a tiny parlour, and from the next room came the screams of a baby,
sounding cross and peevish, which filled him with disgust. They cut him
like a knife.
Maria Ivanovna apologised, and went into the room, and he could hear her
soothing the child. The child became quiet, and she returned.
“That is her baby; she’ll be back in a minute. You are a friend of hers,
I suppose?”
“Yes--a friend--but I think I had better come back later on,” said
Michael Ivanovich, preparing to go. It was too unbearable, this
preparation to meet her, and any explanation seemed impossible.
He had just turned to leave, when he heard quick, light steps on the
stairs, and he recognised Lisa’s voice.
“Maria Ivanovna--has he been crying while I’ve been gone--I was--”
Then she saw her father. The parcel she was carrying fell from her
hands.
“Father!” she cried, and stopped in the doorway, white and trembling.
He remained motionless, staring at her. She had grown so thin. Her eyes
were larger, her nose sharper, her hands worn and bony. He neither
knew what to do, nor what to say. He forgot all his grief about his
dishonour. He only felt sorrow, infinite sorrow for her; sorrow for her
thinness, and for her miserable rough clothing; and most of all, for her
pitiful face and imploring eyes.
“Father--forgive,” she said, moving towards him.
“Forgive--forgive me,” he murmured; and he began to sob like a child,
kissing her face and hands, and wetting them with his tears.
In his pity for her he understood himself. And when he saw himself as he
was, he realised how he had wronged her, how guilty he had been in his
pride, in his coldness, even in his anger towards her. He was glad that
it was he who was guilty, and that he had nothing to forgive, but that
he himself needed forgiveness. She took him to her tiny room, and told
him how she lived; but she did not show him the child, nor did she
mention the past, knowing how painful it would be to him.
He told her that she must live differently.
“Yes; if I could only live in the country,” said she.
“We will talk it over,” he said. Suddenly the child began to wail and
to scream. She opened her eyes very wide; and, not taking them from her
father’s face, remained hesitating and motionless.
“Well--I suppose you must feed him,” said Michael Ivanovich, and frowned
with the obvious effort.
She got up, and suddenly the wild idea seized her to show him whom she
loved so deeply the thing she now loved best of all in the world. But
first she looked at her father’s face. Would he be angry or not? His
face revealed no anger, only suffering.
“Yes, go, go,” said he; “God bless you. Yes. I’ll come again to-morrow,
and we will decide. Good-bye, my darling--good-bye.” Again he found it
hard to swallow the lump in his throat.
When Michael Ivanovich returned to his brother’s house, Alexandra
Dmitrievna immediately rushed to him.
“Well?”
“Well? Nothing.”
“Have you seen?” she asked, guessing from his expression that something
had happened.
“Yes,” he answered shortly, and began to cry. “I’m getting old and
stupid,” said he, mastering his emotion.
“No; you are growing wise--very wise.”