The Possessed | Page 8

or heard how .Varvara
Petrovna had disappeared. As she never once afterwards alluded to the
incident and everything went on as though nothing had happened, he
was all his life inclined to the idea that it was all an hallucination, a
symptom of illness, the more so as he was actually taken ill that very
night and was indisposed for a fortnight, which, by the way, cut short
the interviews in the arbour.
But in spite of his vague theory of hallucination he seemed every day,
all his life, to be expecting the continuation, and, so to say, the
denouement of this affair. He could not believe that that was the end of
it! And if so he must have looked strangely sometimes at his friend.
V

She had herself designed the costume for him which he wore for the
rest of his life. It was elegant and characteristic; a long black frock-coat,
buttoned almost to the top, but stylishly cut; a soft hat (in summer a
straw hat) with a wide brim, a white batiste cravat with a full bow and
hanging ends, a cane with a silver knob; his hair flowed on to his
shoulders. It was dark brown, and only lately had begun to get a little
grey. He was clean-shaven. He was said to have been very handsome in
his youth. And, to my mind, he was still an exceptionally impressive
figure even in old age. Besides, who can talk of old age at fifty-three?
From his special pose as a patriot, however, he did not try to appear
younger, but seemed rather '"to pride himself on the solidity of his age,
and, dressed as described, tall and thin with flowing hair, he looked
almost like a patriarch, or even more like the portrait of the poet
Kukolnik, engraved in the edition of his works published in 1830 or
thereabouts. This resemblance was especially striking when he sat in
the garden in summertime, on a seat under a bush of flowering lilac,
with both hands propped on his cane and an open book beside him,
musing poetically over the setting sun. In regard to books I may remark
that he came in later years rather to avoid reading. But that was only
quite towards the end. The papers and magazines ordered in great
profusion by Varvara Petrovna he was continually reading. He never
lost interest in the successes of Russian literature either, though he
always maintained a dignified attitude with regard to them. He was at
one time engrossed in the study of our home and foreign politics, but he
soon gave up the undertaking with a gesture of despair. It sometimes
happened that he would take De Tocqueville with him into the garden
while he had a Paul de Kock in his pocket. But these are trivial matters.
I must observe in parenthesis about the portrait of Kukolnik; the
engraving had first come into the hands of Varvara Petrovna when she
was a girl in a high-class boarding-school in Moscow. She fell in love
with the portrait at once, after the habit of all girls at school who fall in
love with anything they come across, as well as with their teachers,
especially the drawing and writing masters. What is interesting in this,
though, is not the characteristics of girls but the fact that even at fifty
Varvara Petrovna kept the engraving among her most intimate and
treasured possessions, so that perhaps it was only on this account that
she had designed for Stepan Trofimovitch a costume somewhat like the

poet's in the engraving. But that, of course, is a trifling matter too.
For the first years or, more accurately, for the first half of the time he
spent with Varvara Petrovna, Stepan Trofimovitch was still planning a
book and every day seriously prepared to write it. But during the later
period he must have forgotten even what he had done. More and more
frequently he used to say to us:
"I seem to be ready for work, my materials are collected, yet the work
doesn't get done! Nothing is done!"
And he would bow his head dejectedly. No doubt this was calculated to
increase his prestige in our eyes as a martyr to science, but. he himself
was longing for something else. "They have forgotten me! I'm no use to
anyone!" broke from him more than once. This intensified depression
took special hold of him towards the end of the fifties. Varvara
Petrovna realised at last that it was a serious matter. Besides, she could
not endure the idea that her friend was forgotten and useless. To
distract him and at the same time to renew his fame she carried him off
to Moscow, where she had fashionable acquaintances in the literary and
scientific world; but