The possessed or, The devils
Varvara Petrovna with her light-coloured eyes.
"Nothing on your soul, on your heart, or your conscience?"
"Nothing," Dasha repeated, quietly, but with a sort of sullen firmness.
"I knew there wasn't! Believe me, Darya, I shall never doubt you. Now
sit still and listen. In front of me, on that chair. I want to see the
whole of you. That's right. Listen, do you want to be married?"
Dasha responded with a long, inquiring, but not greatly astonished look.
"Stay, hold your tongue. In the first place there is a very great
difference in age, but of course you know better than anyone what
nonsense that is. You're a sensible girl, and there must be no mistakes
in your life. Besides, he's still a handsome man... In short, Stepan
Trofimovitch, for whom you have always had such a respect. Well?"
Dasha looked at her still more inquiringly, and this time not simply
with surprise; she blushed perceptibly.
"Stay, hold your tongue, don't be in a hurry! Though you will have money
under my will, yet when I die, what will become of you, even if you have
money? You'll be deceived and robbed of your money, you'll be lost in
fact. But married to him you're the wife of a distinguished man. Look at
him on the other hand. Though I've provided for him, if I die what will
become of him? But I could trust him to you. Stay, I've not finished.
He's frivolous, shilly-shally, cruel, egoistic, he has low habits. But
mind you think highly of him, in the first place because there are many
worse. I don't want to get you off my hands by marrying you to a rascal,
you don't imagine anything of that sort, do you? And, above all, because
I ask you, you'll think highly of him,"--
She broke off suddenly and irritably. "Do you hear? Why won't you say
something?"
Dasha still listened and did not speak.
"Stay, wait a little. He's an old woman, but you know, that's all the
better for you. Besides, he's a pathetic old woman. He doesn't deserve
to be loved by a woman at all, but he deserves to be loved for his
helplessness, and you must love him for his helplessness. You understand
me, don't you? Do you understand me?"
Dasha nodded her head affirmatively.
"I knew you would. I expected as much of you. He will love you because
he ought, he ought; he ought to adore you." Varvara Petrovna almost
shrieked with peculiar exasperation. "Besides, he will be in love with
you without any ought about it. I know him. And another thing, I shall
always be here. You may be sure I shall always be here. He will complain
of you, he'll begin to say things against you behind your back, he'll
whisper things against you to any stray person he meets, he'll be for
ever whining and whining; he'll write you letters from one room to
another, two a day, but he won't be able to get on without you all the
same, and that's the chief thing. Make him obey you. If you can't make
him you'll be a fool. He'll want to hang himself and threaten, to--don't
you believe it. It's nothing but nonsense. Don't believe it; but still
keep a sharp look-out, you never can tell, and one day he may hang
himself. It does happen with people like that. It's not through strength
of will but through weakness that people hang themselves, and so
never drive him to an extreme, that's the first rule in married life.
Remember, too, that he's a poet. Listen, Dasha, there's no greater
happiness than self-sacrifice. And besides, you'll be giving me great
satisfaction and that's the chief thing. Don't think I've been talking
nonsense. I understand what I'm saying. I'm an egoist, you be an egoist,
too. Of course I'm not forcing you. It's entirely for you to decide.
As you say, so it shall be. Well, what's the good of sitting like this.
Speak!"
"I don't mind, Varvara Petrovna, if I really must be married," said
Dasha firmly.
"Must? What are you hinting at?" Varvara Petrovna looked sternly and
intently at her.
Dasha was silent, picking at her embroidery canvas with her needle.
"Though you're a clever girl, you're talking nonsense; though it is true
that I have certainly set my heart on marrying you, yet it's not because
it's necessary, but simply because the idea has occurred to me, and only
to Stepan Trofimovitch. If it had not been for Stepan Trofimovitch, I
should not have thought of marrying you yet, though you are twenty....
Well?"
"I'll do as you wish, Varvara Petrovna."
"Then you consent! Stay, be quiet. Why are you in such a hurry? I
haven't finished. In my will I've left you fifteen thousand roubles.
I'll give you that at once, on your wedding-day. You will give eight
thousand of it to him; that is, not to him but to me. He has a debt of
eight thousand. I'll pay it, but he must know that it is done with your
money. You'll have seven thousand left in your hands. Never let him
touch a farthing of it. Don't pay his debts ever. If once you pay them,
you'll never be free of them. Besides, I shall always be here. You
shall have twelve hundred roubles a year from me, with extras, fifteen
hundred, besides board and lodging, which shall be at my expense, just
as he has it now. Only you must set up your own servants. Your yearly
allowance shall be paid to you all at once straight into your hands. But
be kind, and sometimes give him something, and let his friends come to
see him once a week, but if they come more often, turn them out. But
I shall be here, too. And if I die, your pension will go on till his
death, do you hear, till his death, for it's his pension, not yours.
And besides the seven thousand you'll have now, which you ought to keep
untouched if you're not foolish, I'll leave you another eight thousand
in my will. And you'll get nothing more than that from me, it's right
that you should know it. Come, you consent, eh? Will you say something
at last?"
"I have told you already, Varvara Petrovna."
"Remember that you're free to decide. As you like, so it shall be."
"Then, may I ask, Varvara Petrovna, has Stepan Trofimovitch said
anything yet?"
"No, he hasn't said anything, he doesn't know... but he will speak
directly."
She jumped up at once and threw on a black shawl. Dasha flushed a little
again, and watched her with questioning eyes. Varvara Petrovna turned
suddenly to her with a face flaming with anger.
"You're a fool!" She swooped down on her like a hawk. "An ungrateful
fool! What's in your mind? Can you imagine that I'd compromise you, in
any way, in the smallest degree. Why, he shall crawl on his knees to
ask you, he must be dying of happiness, that's how it shall be arranged.
Why, you know that I'd never let you suffer. Or do you suppose he'll
take you for the sake of that eight thousand, and that I'm hurrying off
to sell you? You're a fool, a fool! You're all ungrateful fools. Give me
my umbrella!"
And she flew off to walk by the wet brick pavements and the wooden
planks to Stepan Trofimovitch's.
VII
It was true that she would never have let Dasha suffer; on the contrary,
she considered now that she was acting as her benefactress. The most
generous and legitimate indignation was glowing in her soul, when, as
she put on her shawl, she caught fixed upon her the embarrassed and
mistrustful eyes of her protégée. She had genuinely loved the girl from
her childhood upwards. Praskovya Ivanovna had with justice called Darya
Pavlovna her favourite. Long ago Varvara Petrovna had made up her mind
once for all that "Darya's disposition was not like her brother's" (not,
that is, like Ivan Shatov's), that she was quiet and gentle, and capable
of great self-sacrifice; that she was distinguished by a power of
devotion, unusual modesty, rare reasonableness, and, above all, by
gratitude. Till that time Dasha had, to all appearances, completely
justified her expectations.
"In that life there will be no mistakes," said Varvara Petrovna when the
girl was only twelve years old, and as it was characteristic of her to
attach herself doggedly and passionately to any dream that fascinated
her, any new design, any idea that struck her as noble, she made up her
mind at once to educate Dasha as though she were her own daughter. She
at once set aside a sum of money for her, and sent for a governess, Miss
Criggs, who lived with them until the girl was sixteen, but she was
for some reason suddenly dismissed. Teachers came for her from the High
School, among them a real Frenchman, who taught Dasha French. He, too,
was suddenly dismissed, almost turned out of the house. A poor lady, a
widow of good family, taught her to play the piano. Yet her chief tutor
was Stepan Trofimovitch.
In reality he first discovered Dasha. He began teaching the quiet child
even before Varvara Petrovna had begun to think about her. I repeat
again, it was wonderful how children took to him. Lizaveta Nikolaevna
Tushin had been taught by him from the age of eight till eleven (Stepan
Trofimovitch took no fees, of course, for his lessons, and would not on
any account have taken payment from the Drozdovs). But he fell in love
with the charming child and used to tell her poems of a sort about the
creation of the world, about the earth, and the history of humanity.
His lectures about the primitive peoples and primitive man were more
interesting than the Arabian Nights. Liza, who was ecstatic over these
stories, used to mimic Stepan Trofimovitch very funnily at home. He
heard of this and once peeped in on her unawares. Liza, overcome
with confusion, flung herself into his arms and shed tears; Stepan
Trofimovitch wept too with delight. But Liza soon after went away, and
only Dasha was left. When Dasha began to have other teachers, Stepan
Trofimovitch gave up his lessons with her, and by degrees left off
noticing her. Things went on like this for a long time. Once when she
was seventeen he was struck by her prettiness. It happened at Varvara
Petrovna's table. He began to talk to the young girl, was much pleased
with her answers, and ended by offering to give her a serious and
comprehensive course of lessons on the history of Russian literature.
Varvara Petrovna approved, and thanked him for his excellent idea,
and Dasha was delighted. Stepan Trofimovitch proceeded to make special
preparations for the lectures, and at last they began. They began
with the most ancient period. The first lecture went off enchantingly.
Varvara Petrovna was present. When Stepan Trofimovitch had finished, and
as he was going informed his pupil that the next time he would deal with
"The Story of the Expedition of Igor," Varvara Petrovna suddenly got up
and announced that there would be no more lessons. Stepan Trofimovitch
winced, but said nothing, and Dasha flushed crimson. It put a stop to
the scheme, however. This had happened just three years before Varvara
Petrovna's unexpected fancy.
Poor Stepan Trofimovitch was sitting alone free from all misgivings.
Plunged in mournful reveries he had for some time been looking out of
the window to see whether any of his friends were coming. But nobody
would come. It was drizzling. It was turning cold, he would have to have
the stove heated. He sighed. Suddenly a terrible apparition flashed upon
his eyes:
Varvara Petrovna in such weather and at such an unexpected hour to see
him! And on foot! He was so astounded that he forgot to put on his
coat, and received her as he was, in his everlasting pink-wadded
dressing-jacket.
_"Ma bonne amie!"_ he cried faintly, to greet her. "You're alone; I'm
glad; I can't endure your friends. How you do smoke! Heavens, what an
atmosphere! You haven't finished your morning tea and it's nearly twelve
o'clock. It's your idea of bliss--disorder! You take pleasure in dirt.
What's that torn paper on the floor? Nastasya, Nastasya! What is
your Nastasya about? Open the window, the casement, the doors, fling