The Possessed | Page 6

so
completely that at last he did not himself dare to allude to what had
happened the day before, and only glanced into her eyes at times. But
she never forgot anything, while he sometimes forgot too quickly, and
encouraged by her composure he would not infrequently, if friends

came in, laugh and make jokes over the champagne the very same day.
With what malignancy she must have looked at him at such moments,
while he noticed nothing! Perhaps in a week's time, a month's time, or
even six months later, chancing to recall some phrase in such a letter,
and then the whole letter with all its attendant circumstances, he would
suddenly grow hot with shame, and be so upset that he fell ill with one
of his attacks of "summer cholera." These attacks of a sort of "summer
cholera" were, in some cases, the regular consequence of his nervous
agitations and were an interesting peculiarity of his physical
constitution.
No doubt Varvara Petrovna did very often hate him. But there was one
thing he had not discerned up to the end: that was that he had become
for her a son, her creation, even, one may say, her invention; he had
become flesh of her flesh, and she kept and supported him not simply
from "envy of his talents." And how wounded she must have been by
such suppositions! An inexhaustible love for him lay concealed in her
heart in the midst of continual hatred, jealousy, and contempt. She
would not let a speck of dust fall upon him, coddled him up for
twenty-two years, would not have slept for nights together if there were
the faintest breath against his reputation as a poet, a learned man, and a
public character. She had invented him, and had been the first to
believe in her own invention. He was, after a fashion, her day-dream... .
But in return she exacted a great deal from him, sometimes even
slavishness. It was incredible how long she harboured resentment. I
have two anecdotes to tell about that.
IV
On one occasion, just at the time when the first rumours of the
emancipation of the serfs were in the air, when all Russia was exulting
and making ready for a complete regeneration, Varvara Petrovna was
visited by a baron from Petersburg, a man of the highest connections,
and very closely associated with the new reform. Varvara Petrovna
prized such visits highly, as her connections in higher circles had
grown weaker and weaker since the death of her husband, and had at
last ceased altogether. The baron spent an hour drinking tea with her.
There was no one else present but Stepan Trofimovitch, whom Varvara
Petrovna invited and exhibited. The baron had heard something about
him before or affected to have done so, but paid little attention to him

at tea. Stepan Trofimovitch of course was incapable of making a social
blunder, and his manners were most elegant. Though I believe he was
by no means of exalted origin, yet it happened that he had from earliest
childhood been brought up in a Moscow householdof high rank, and
consequently was well bred. He spoke French like a Parisian. Thus the
baron was to have seen from the first glance the sort of people with
whom Varvara Petrovna surrounded herself, even in provincial
seclusion. But things did not fall out like this. When the baron
positively asserted the absolute truth of the rumours of the great reform,
which were then only just beginning to be heard, Stepan Trofimovitch
could not contain himself, and suddenly shouted "Hurrah!" and even
made some gesticulation indicative of delight. His ejaculation was not
over-loud and quite polite, his delight was even perhaps premeditated,
and his gesture purposely studied before the looking-glass half an hour
before tea. But something must have been amiss with it, for the baron
permitted himself a faint smile, though he, at once, with extraordinary
courtesy, put in a phrase concerning the universal and befitting emotion
of all Russian hearts in view of the great event. Shortly afterwards he
took his leave and at parting did not forget to hold out two fingers to
Stepan Trofimovitch. On returning to the drawing-room Varvara
Petrovna was at first silent for two or three minutes, and seemed to be
looking for something on the table. Then she turned to Stepan
Trofimovitch, and with pale face and flashing eyes she hissed in a
whisper:
"I shall never forgive you for that!"
Next day she met her friend as though nothing had happened, she never
referred to the incident, but thirteen years afterwards, at a tragic
moment, she recalled it and reproached him with it, and she turned pale,
just as she had done thirteen years before. Only twice in the course of
her