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<h2> CHAPTER XVI </h2> Not only Raisky, but Tatiana Markovna gave up her attitude of acquiescence, and secretly began to watch Vera narrowly. Tatiana Markovna became thoughtful, she even neglected the affairs of the house and farm, left the keys lying on the table, did not speak to Savili, kept no accounts, and did not drive out into the fields. She grew melancholy as she sought in vain how she might seek from Vera a frank avowal, or find means to avert misfortune. Vera in love, in an ecstasy! It seemed to her more than small-pox or measles, worse even than brain fever. And with whom was she in love? God grant that it were Ivan Ivanovich. If Vera were married to him, she herself would die in peace. But her feminine instinct told her that whatever deep affection the Forester cherished for Vera, it was reciprocated by nothing more than friendship. Who then was the man? Of the neighbouring landowners there was only Tushin whom she saw and knew anything of. The young men in the town, the officers and councillors, had long since given up any hope of being received into her favour. She looked keenly and suspiciously at Vera when she came to dinner or tea, and tried to follow her into the garden, but as soon as Vera was aware of her aunt’s presence she quickened her steps and vanished into the distance. “Spirited away like a ghost!” said Tatiana Markovna to Raisky. “I wanted to follow her, but where, with my old limbs? She flits like a bird into the woods, into the bushes, over the precipice.” Raisky went immediately into the park, where he met Yakob, and asked him if he had seen the young lady. “I saw Vera Vassilievna just now by the chapel.” “What was she doing there?” “Praying.” Raisky went to the chapel, wondering to himself how she had come to take refuge in prayer. On the left there lay in the meadow between the park and the road, a lonely, weather-beaten, half-ruined wooden chapel, adorned with a picture of the Christ, a Byzantine painting in a bronze frame. The ikon had grown dark with age, the paint had been cracked in many places, so that the Christ face was hardly recognisable, but the eyelids were still plainly discernible, and the eyes looked out dreamily on the worshippers; the folded hands were also preserved. Raisky advanced noiselessly over the grass. Vera was standing with her back to him, her face turned towards the ikon, unconscious of his approach. On the grass by the chapel lay her straw hat and sunshade. Her hands did not make the sign of the Cross, her lips uttered no prayers, her whole body appeared motionless, as if she hardly breathed; her whole being was at prayer. Involuntarily Raisky too held his breath. Is she begging for happiness, or is she confiding her sorrow to the Crucified? Suddenly she awoke from her prayer, turned and started when she caught sight of Raisky. “What are you doing here?” she said severely. “Yakob met me and said you were here; so I came. Grandmother....” “Since you mention Grandmother, I will point out that she has been watching me for some time. Do you know the reason?” she asked, looking straight into his eyes. “I think she always does.” “No, it was not her idea to watch me. Tell me without concealing anything, have you communicated to her your suppositions about love and a letter written on blue paper?” “I think not of the letter.” “Then of love. I must know what you said?” “We were speaking of you. Grandmother has her own questionings as to why you are so serious one moment and so gay the next. I said (it is a long time ago) that perhaps you were in love.” “And Grandmother?” “She was terrified.” “Why?” “Chiefly because of your evident excitement.” “Grandmother’s peace of mind is dear to me; dearer, perhaps, than you think.” “She told me herself that she believed in your boundless love for her.” “Thank God! I am grateful to you for repeating this to me. Go to Grandmother and destroy this curiosity of hers about my being in love, in ecstasy. It cannot be difficult for you, and you will fulfil my wishes if you love me.” “What would I not do to prove it to you. Later in the evening....” “No, this minute. When I come to dinner her eyes are to look on me as before, do you understand?” “Well, I will go!” promised Raisky, but did not stir. “Make haste!” “And you?” For answer she pointed in the direction of the house. “One word more,” she said, detaining him. “You must never, never talk about me to Grandmother, do you understand?” “Agreed, sister.” She motioned him to be gone, and when turning into an avenue he looked round for a moment, she had vanished. She had, as Grandmother said, disappeared like a ghost. A moment later there was the report of a gun from the precipice. Raisky wondered who was playing tricks there, and went towards the house. Vera appeared punctually at the midday meal. Keenly as he looked at her, Raisky could observe no change in her. Tatiana Markovna glanced at him once or twice in inquiry, but was visibly reassured when she saw no signs of anything unusual. Raisky had executed Vera’s commission, and had alleviated her acutest anxiety, but it was impossible to reassure her completely. Tatiana Markovna was saddened and wounded by the lack of confidence shown her by Vera, her niece, her daughter, her dearest child, entrusted to her care by her mother. Terror overcame her. She lay awake anxiously through the night, she questioned Marina, sent Marfinka to find out what Vera was doing, but without result. Suddenly there occurred to her what seemed to her a good plan; as she put it to Raisky, she would make use of allegory. She remembered that she possessed a moral tale which she had read and wept over in her own youth. Its theme was the disastrous consequences which followed on passion and disobedience to parents. A young man and a girl loved one another, and met against the will of their parents. She stood on the balcony beckoning and talking to him, and they wrote one another long epistles. Others intervened, the young girl lost her reputation, and the young man was sent to some vague place in America by his father. Like many others Tatiana Markovna pinned her faith to the printed word, especially when the reading was of an edifying character. So she took her talisman from the shelf, where it lay hidden under a pile of rubbish, and laid it on the table near her work basket. At dinner she declared to the two sisters her desire that they should read aloud to her on alternate evenings, especially in bad weather, since she could not read very much on account of her eyes. Generally speaking, she was not an enthusiastic reader, and only liked to listen when Tiet Nikonich read aloud to her on agricultural matters or hygiene, or about distressing occurrences of murder or arson. Vera said nothing, but Marfinka asked immediately whether the book had a happy ending. “What sort of book is it?” inquired Raisky, picking up the book and glancing at a page here and there. “What old rubbish have you discovered, Grandmother. I expect you read it when you were in love with Tiet Nikonich.” “Don’t be foolish, Boris Pavlovich. You are not asked to read.” Raisky took his departure, and the room was left to the reading party. Vera was unendurably bored, but she never refused assent to any definitely expressed wish of her aunt’s. At last, after three or four evenings, the point was reached where the lovers exchanged their vows. The tale was faultlessly moral and horribly dull. Vera hardly listened. At each word of love her aunt looked at her to see whether she was touched, whether she blushed or turned pale, but Vera merely yawned. On the last evening when only a few chapters were left, Raisky stayed in the room when the table was cleared and the reading began. Vikentev, too, was present. He could not sit quiet, but jumped up from time to time, ran to Marfinka, and begged to be allowed to take his share in the reading. When they gave him the book he inserted long tirades of his own in the novel, or read with a different voice suited to each character. He made the heroine lisp in a mournful whisper, the hero speak with his own natural voice, so that Marfinka blushed and looked angrily at him, and the stern father spoke with the voice of Niel Andreevich. At last Tatiana Markovna took the book from him with an intimation to him to behave reasonably, whereupon he continued his studies in character-mimicry for Marfinka’s benefit behind her back. When Marfinka betrayed him he was requested to go into the garden until supper time and the reading went on without him. The catastrophe of the tale approached at last, and when the last word was read and the book shut there was silence. “What stupid nonsense,” said Raisky at length, and Marfinka wiped away a tear. “What do you think, Veroshka?” asked Tatiana Markovna. Vera made no reply, but Marfinka decided it was a horrid book because the lovers had suffered so cruelly. “If they had followed the advice of their parents, things would not have come to such a pass. What do you think, Veroshka?” Vera got up to go, but on the threshold she stopped. “Grandmother,” she said, “why have you bothered me for a whole week with this stupid book?” And without waiting for an answer she glided away, but Tatiana Markovna called her back. “Why, Vera, I meant to give you pleasure.” “No, you wanted to punish me for something. In future I would rather be put for a week on bread and water,” and kneeling on the footstool at her aunt’s feet she added, “Good-night, Grandmother.” Tatiana Markovna stooped to kiss her and whispered. “I did not want to punish you, but to guard you against getting into trouble yourself.” “And if I do,” whispered Vera in reply, “will you have me put in a convent like Cunigunde?” “Do you think I am a monster like those bad parents? It’s wicked, Vera, to think such things of me.” “I know it would be wicked, Grandmother, and I don’t think any such thing. But why warn me with such a silly book?” “How should I warn you and guard you, my dear. Tell me and set my mind at rest.” “Make the sign of the Cross over me,” she said after a moment’s hesitation, and when her aunt had made the holy sign, Vera kissed her hand and left the room. “A wise book,” laughed Raisky. “Well, has the beautiful Cunigunde’s example done any good?” Tatiana Markovna was grieved and in no mood for joking, and sent for Pashutka to take the book to the servants’ room. “You have brought Vera up in the right way,” said Raisky. “Let Egorka and Marina read your allegory together, and the household will be impeccable.” <hr /> Vikentev called Marfinka into the garden, Raisky went to his room, and Tatiana Markovna sat for a long time on the divan, absorbed in thought. She had lost all interest in the book, was herself sickened by its pious tone, and was really ashamed of having had recourse to so gross a method. Marina, Yakob and Vassilissa came one after another to say that supper was ready, but Tatiana Markovna wanted none, Vera declined, and to Marina’s astonishment even Marfinka, who never went supperless to bed, was not hungry. Meanwhile Egorka had got wind of the universal loss of appetite. He helped himself to a considerable slice from the dish with his fingers to taste, as he told Yakob, whom he invited to share the feast. Yakob shook his head and crossed himself, but nevertheless did his share, so that when Marina came to clear the table the fish and the sweets were gone. The mistress’s preparations for rest were made, and quiet reigned in the house. Tatiana Markovna rose from the divan and looked at the ikon. She crossed herself, but she was too restless for prayer, and did not kneel down as usual. Instead she sat down on the bed and began to go over her passage of arms with Vera. How could she learn what lay on the girl’s heart. She remembered the proverb that wisdom comes with the morning, and lay down, but not that night to sleep, for there was a light tap on the door, and she heard Marfinka’s voice, “Open the door. Grandmother. It’s me.” “What’s the matter, my dear?” she said, as she opened the door. “Have you come to say good-night. God bless you! Where is Nikolai Andreevich?” But she was terrified when she saw Marfinka’s face. “Sit down in the armchair,” she said, but Marfinka clung to her. “Lie down, Grandmother, and I will sit on the bed beside you. I will tell you everything, but please put out the light.” Then Marfinka began to relate how she had gone with Vikentev into the park to hear the nightingales sing, how she had first objected because it was so dark. “Are you afraid?” Vikentev had asked. “Not with you,” and they had gone on hand in hand. “How dark it is! I won’t go any farther. Don’t take hold of my hand!” She went on involuntarily, although Vikentev had loosed her hand, her heart beating faster and faster. “I am afraid, I won’t go a step farther.” She drew closer to him all the same, terrified by the crackling of the twigs under her feet. “Here we will wait. Listen!” he whispered. The nightingale sang, and Marfinka felt herself enveloped in the warm breath of night. At intervals her hand sought Vikentev’s, but when he touched hers she drew it back. “How lovely, Marfa Vassilievna! What an enchanted night!” She nudged him not to disturb the song. “Marfa Vassilievna,” he whispered, “something so good, so wonderful is happening to me, something I have never felt before. It is as if everything in me was astir. At this moment,” he went on as she remained silent, “I should like to fling myself on horseback, and ride, ride, till I had no breathe left, or fling myself into the Volga and swim to the opposite bank. Do you feel anything like that?” “Let us go away from here. Grandmother will be angry.” “Just a minute more. How the nightingale does sing! What does he sing?” “I don’t know.” “Just what I should like to say to you, but don’t know how to say.” “How do you know what he sings? Can you speak nightingale language?” “He is singing of love, of my love for you,” and startled by his own words he drew her hand to his lips and covered it with kisses. She drew it back, and ran at full speed down the avenue towards the house; on the steps she waited a moment to take breath. “Not a step farther,” she cried breathlessly, clinging to the doorpost as he overtook her. “Go home.” “Listen, Marfa Vassilievna, my angel,” he cried, falling on his knees. “On my knees I swear....” “If you speak another word, I go straight to Grandmother.” He rose, and led her by force into the avenue. “What are you doing? I will call, I won’t listen to your nightingale.” “You won’t listen to it, but you will to me.” “Let me go. I will tell Grandmother everything.” “You must tell her to-night, Marfa Vassilievna. We have come too near to one another that if we were suddenly separated.... Should you like that, Marfa Vassilievna? If you like I will go away for good.” She wept and seized his hand in panic, when he drew back a step. “You love me, you love me,” he cried. “Does your mother know what you are saying to me?” “Not yet.” “Ought you to say it then? Is it honourable?” “I shall tell her to-morrow.” “What if she will not give her blessing?” “I won’t obey.” “But I will. I will take no step without your Mother’s and Grandmother’s consent,” she said, turning to go. “As far as I am concerned, I am sure of my Mother’s consent. I will hurry now to Kolchino, and my Mother will send you her consent to-morrow. Marfa Vassilievna, give me your hand.” “What will Grandmother say? If she does not forgive me I shall die of shame,” she said, and she hurried into the house. “Heavens, what will Grandmother say?” she wondered, shutting herself up in her room, and shaking with fever. How should she tell her grandmother, and should she tell Veroshka first. She decided in favour of her grandmother, and when the house was quiet slipped to her room like a mouse. The two talked low to one another for a long time. Tatiana Markovna made the sign of the cross over her darling many times, until she fell asleep on her shoulder. Then she carefully laid the girl’s head on the pillow, rose, and prayed with many tears. But more heartily than for Marfinka’s happiness she prayed for Vera, with her grey head bowed before the cross. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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