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X

The story which Tyeglev told me was, briefly, as follows. He had living in Petersburg, besides his influential uncle, an aunt, not influential but wealthy. As she had no children of her own she had adopted a little girl, an orphan, of the working class, given her a liberal education and treated her like a daughter. She was called Masha. Tyeglev saw her almost every day. It ended in their falling in love with one another and Masha’s giving herself to him. This was discovered. Tyeglev’s aunt was fearfully incensed, she turned the luckless girl out of her house in disgrace, and moved to Moscow where she adopted a young lady of noble birth and made her her heiress. On her return to her own relations, poor and drunken people, Masha’s lot was a bitter one. Tyeglev had promised to marry her and did not keep his promise. At his last interview with her, he was forced to speak out: she wanted to know the truth and wrung it out of him. “Well,” she said, “if I am not to be your wife, I know what there is left for me to do.” More than a fortnight had passed since that last interview.

“I never for a moment deceived myself as to the meaning of her last words,” added Tyeglev. “I am certain that she has put an end to her life and … and that it was her voice, that it was she calling me … to follow her there … I recognised her voice…. Well, there is but one end to it.”

“But why didn’t you marry her, Ilya Stepanitch?” I asked. “You ceased to love her?”

“No; I still love her passionately.”

At this point I stared at Tyeglev. I remembered another friend of mine, a very intelligent man, who had a very plain wife, neither intelligent nor rich and was very unhappy in his marriage. When someone in my presence asked him why he had married and suggested that it was probably for love, he answered, “Not for love at all. It simply happened.” And in this case Tyeglev loved a girl passionately and did not marry her. Was it for the same reason, then?

“Why don’t you marry her, then?” I asked again.

Tyeglev’s strange, drowsy eyes strayed over the table.

“There is … no answering that … in a few words,” he began, hesitating. “There were reasons…. And besides, she was … a working-class girl. And then there is my uncle…. I was obliged to consider him, too.”

“Your uncle?” I cried. “But what the devil do you want with your uncle whom you never see except at the New Year when you go to congratulate him? Are you reckoning on his money? But he has got a dozen children of his own!”

I spoke with heat…. Tyeglev winced and flushed … flushed unevenly, in patches.

“Don’t lecture me, if you please,” he said dully. “I don’t justify myself, however. I have ruined her life and now I must pay the penalty….”

His head sank and he was silent. I found nothing to say, either.

XI

So we sat for a quarter of an hour. He looked away–I looked at him–and I noticed that the hair stood up and curled above his forehead in a peculiar way, which, so I have heard from an army doctor who had had a great many wounded pass through his hands, is always a symptom of intense overheating of the brain…. The thought struck me again that fate really had laid a heavy hand on this man and that his comrades were right in seeing something “fatal” in him. And yet inwardly I blamed him. “A working-class girl!” I thought, “a fine sort of aristocrat you are yourself!”

“Perhaps you blame me, Ridel,” Tyeglev began suddenly, as though guessing what I was thinking. “I am very … unhappy myself. But what to do? What to do?”

He leaned his chin on his hand and began biting the broad flat nails of his short, red fingers, hard as iron.