The proposal Laptev had made so suddenly threw Yulia Sergeyevna
into despair.
She knew Laptev very little, had made his acquaintance by chance;
he was a rich man, a partner in the well-known Moscow firm of "Fyodor
Laptev and Sons"; always serious, apparently clever, and anxious
about his sister's illness. It had seemed to her that he took no
notice of her whatever, and she did not care about him in the least
--and then all of a sudden that declaration on the stairs, that
pitiful, ecstatic face. . . .
The offer had overwhelmed her by its suddenness and by the fact
that the word wife had been uttered, and by the necessity of rejecting
it. She could not remember what she had said to Laptev, but she
still felt traces of the sudden, unpleasant feeling with which she
had rejected him. He did not attract her; he looked like a shopman;
he was not interesting; she could not have answered him except with
a refusal, and yet she felt uncomfortable, as though she had done
wrong.
"My God! without waiting to get into the room, on the stairs," she
said to herself in despair, addressing the ikon which hung over her
pillow; "and no courting beforehand, but so strangely, so
oddly. . . ."
In her solitude her agitation grew more intense every hour, and it
was beyond her strength to master this oppressive feeling alone.
She needed some one to listen to her story and to tell her that she
had done right. But she had no one to talk to. She had lost her
mother long before; she thought her father a queer man, and could
not talk to him seriously. He worried her with his whims, his extreme
readiness to take offence, and his meaningless gestures; and as
soon as one began to talk to him, he promptly turned the conversation
on himself. And in her prayer she was not perfectly open, because
she did not know for certain what she ought to pray for.
The samovar was brought in. Yulia Sergeyevna, very pale and tired,
looking dejected, came into the dining-room to make tea--it was
one of her duties--and poured out a glass for her father. Sergey
Borisovitch, in his long coat that reached below his knees, with
his red face and unkempt hair, walked up and down the room with his
hands in his pockets, pacing, not from corner to corner, but backwards
and forwards at random, like a wild beast in its cage. He would
stand still by the table, sip his glass of tea with relish, and
pace about again, lost in thought.
"Laptev made me an offer to-day," said Yulia Sergeyevna, and she
flushed crimson.
The doctor looked at her and did not seem to understand.
"Laptev?" he queried. "Panaurov's brother-in-law?"
He was fond of his daughter; it was most likely that she would
sooner or later be married, and leave him, but he tried not to think
about that. He was afraid of being alone, and for some reason
fancied, that if he were left alone in that great house, he would
have an apoplectic stroke, but he did not like to speak of this
directly.
"Well, I'm delighted to hear it," he said, shrugging his shoulders.
"I congratulate you with all my heart. It offers you a splendid
opportunity for leaving me, to your great satisfaction. And I quite
understand your feelings. To live with an old father, an invalid,
half crazy, must be very irksome at your age. I quite understand
you. And the sooner I'm laid out and in the devil's clutches, the
better every one will be pleased. I congratulate you with all my
heart."
"I refused him."
The doctor felt relieved, but he was unable to stop himself and
went on:
"I wonder, I've long wondered, why I've not yet been put into a
madhouse--why I'm still wearing this coat instead of a strait-waistcoat?
I still have faith in justice, in goodness. I am a fool, an idealist,
and nowadays that's insanity, isn't it? And how do they repay me
for my honesty? They almost throw stones at me and ride rough-shod
over me. And even my nearest kith and kin do nothing but try to get
the better of me. It's high time the devil fetched an old fool like
me. . . ."
"There's no talking to you like a rational being!" said Yulia.
She got up from the table impulsively, and went to her room in great
wrath, remembering how often her father had been unjust to her. But
a little while afterwards she felt sorry for her father, too, and
when he was going to the club she went downstairs with him, and
shut the door after him. It was a rough and stormy night; the door
shook with the violence of the wind, and there were draughts in all
directions in the passage, so that the candle was almost blown out.
In her own domain upstairs Yulia Sergeyevna went the round of all
the rooms, making the sign of the cross over every door and window;
the wind howled, and it sounded as though some one were walking on
the roof. Never had it been so dreary, never had she felt so lonely.
She asked herself whether she had done right in rejecting a man,
simply because his appearance did not attract her. It was true he
was a man she did not love, and to marry him would mean renouncing
forever her dreams, her conceptions of happiness in married life,
but would she ever meet the man of whom she dreamed, and would he
love her? She was twenty-one already. There were no eligible young
men in the town. She pictured all the men she knew--government
clerks, schoolmasters, officers, and some of them were married
already, and their domestic life was conspicuous for its dreariness
and triviality; others were uninteresting, colourless, unintelligent,
immoral. Laptev was, anyway, a Moscow man, had taken his degree at
the university, spoke French. He lived in the capital, where there
were lots of clever, noble, remarkable people; where there was noise
and bustle, splendid theatres, musical evenings, first-rate
dressmakers, confectioners. . . . In the Bible it was written that
a wife must love her husband, and great importance was given to
love in novels, but wasn't there exaggeration in it? Was it out of
the question to enter upon married life without love? It was said,
of course, that love soon passed away, and that nothing was left
but habit, and that the object of married life was not to be found
in love, nor in happiness, but in duties, such as the bringing up
of one's children, the care of one's household, and so on. And
perhaps what was meant in the Bible was love for one's husband as
one's neighbour, respect for him, charity.
At night Yulia Sergeyevna read the evening prayers attentively,
then knelt down, and pressing her hands to her bosom, gazing at the
flame of the lamp before the ikon, said with feeling:
"Give me understanding, Holy Mother, our Defender! Give me
understanding, O Lord!"
She had in the course of her life come across elderly maiden ladies,
poor and of no consequence in the world, who bitterly repented and
openly confessed their regret that they had refused suitors in the
past. Would not the same thing happen to her? Had not she better
go into a convent or become a Sister of Mercy?
She undressed and got into bed, crossing herself and crossing the
air around her. Suddenly the bell rang sharply and plaintively in
the corridor.
"Oh, my God!" she said, feeling a nervous irritation all over her
at the sound. She lay still and kept thinking how poor this provincial
life was in events, monotonous and yet not peaceful. One was
constantly having to tremble, to feel apprehensive, angry or guilty,
and in the end one's nerves were so strained, that one was afraid
to peep out of the bedclothes.
A little while afterwards the bell rang just as sharply again. The
servant must have been asleep and had not heard. Yulia Sergeyevna
lighted a candle, and feeling vexed with the servant, began with a
shiver to dress, and when she went out into the corridor, the maid
was already closing the door downstairs.
"I thought it was the master, but it's some one from a patient,"
she said.
Yulia Sergeyevna went back to her room. She took a pack of cards
out of the chest of drawers, and decided that if after shuffling
the cards well and cutting, the bottom card turned out to be a red
one, it would mean _yes_--that is, she would accept Laptev's
offer; and that if it was a black, it would mean _no_. The card
turned out to be the ten of spades.
That relieved her mind--she fell asleep; but in the morning, she
was wavering again between _yes_ and _no_, and she was dwelling on
the thought that she could, if she chose, change her life. The
thought harassed her, she felt exhausted and unwell; but yet, soon
after eleven, she dressed and went to see Nina Fyodorovna. She
wanted to see Laptev: perhaps now he would seem more attractive to
her; perhaps she had been wrong about him hitherto. . . .
She found it hard to walk against the wind. She struggled along,
holding her hat on with both hands, and could see nothing for the
dust.