The Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky: Novels, Short Stories and Autobiographical Writings. Федор Достоевский

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      CHAPTER VII

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       THE WAY SEEMED endless to me. At last we arrived and I went in to my old friends with a sinking at my heart. I did not know what my leave-taking would be like, but I knew that at all costs I must not leave their house without having won forgiveness and reconciliation.

      It was by now past three. My old friends were, as usual, sitting alone. Nikolay Sergeyitch was unnerved and ill, and lay pale and exhausted, half reclining in his comfortable easy-chair, with his head tied up in a kerchief. Anna Andreyevna was sitting beside him, from time to time moistening his forehead with vinegar, and continually peeping into his face with a questioning and commiserating expression, which seemed to worry and even annoy the old man. He was obstinately silent, and she dared not be the first to speak. Our sudden arrival surprised them both. Anna Andreyevna, for some reason, took fright at once on seeing me with Nellie, and for the first minute looked at us as though she suddenly felt guilty.

      “You see, I’ve brought you my Nellie,” I said, going in.

      She has made up her mind, and now she has come to you of her own accord. Receive her and love her….”

      The old man looked at me suspiciously, and from his eyes alone one could divine that he knew all, that is that Natasha was now alone, deserted, abandoned, and by now perhaps insulted. He was very anxious to learn the meaning of our arrival, and he looked inquiringly at both of us. Nellie was trembling, and tightly squeezing my hand in hers she kept her eyes on the ground and only from time to time stole frightened glances about her like a little wild creature in a snare. But Anna Andreyevna soon recovered herself and grasped the situation. She positively pounced on Nellie, kissed her, petted her, even cried over her, and tenderly made her sit beside her, keeping the child’s hand in hers. Nellie looked at her askance with curiosity and a sort of wonder. But after fondling Nellie and making her sit beside her, the old lady did not know what to do next and began looking at me with naive expectation. The old man frowned, almost suspecting why I had brought Nellie. Seeing that I was noticing his fretful expression and frowning brows, he put his hand to his head and said:

      “My head aches, Vanya.”

      All this time we sat without speaking. I was considering how to begin. It was twilight in the room, a black storm-cloud was coming over the sky, and there came again a rumble of thunder in the distance.

      “We’re getting thunder early this spring,” said the old man. But I remember in ‘37 there were thunderstorms even earlier.”

      Anna Andreyevna sighed.

      “Shall we have the samovar?” she asked timidly, but no one answered, and she turned to Nellie again.

      “What is your name, my darling?” she asked.

      Nellie uttered her name in a faint voice, and her head drooped lower than ever. The old man looked at her intently.

      “The same as Elena, isn’t it?” Anna Andreyevna went on with more animation.

      “Yes,” answered Nellie.

      And again a moment of silence followed.

      “Praskovya Andreyevna’s sister had a niece whose name was Elena; and she used to be called Nellie, too, I remember,” observed Nikolay Sergeyitch.

      “And have you no relations, my darling, neither father nor mother?” Anna Andreyevna asked again.

      “No,” Nellie jerked out in a timid whisper.

      “I’d heard so, I’d heard so. Is it long since your mother died?”

      “No, not long.”

      “Poor darling, poor little orphan,” Anna Andreyevna went on, looking at her compassionately.

      The old man was impatiently drumming on the table with his fingers.

      “Your mother was a foreigner, wasn’t she? You told me so, didn’t you, Ivan Petrovitch?” the old lady persisted timidly. Nellie stole a glance at me out of her black eyes, as though begging me to help her. She was breathing in hard, irregular gasps.

      “Her mother was the daughter of an Englishman and a Russian woman; so she was more a Russian, Anna Andreyevna. Nellie was born abroad.”

      “Why, did her mother go to live abroad when she was married?”

      Nellie suddenly flushed crimson. My old friend guessed at once, that she had blundered, and trembled under a wrathful glance from her husband. He looked at her severely and turned away to the window.

      “Her mother was deceived by a base, bad man,” he brought out suddenly, addressing Anna Andreyevna. “She left her father on his account, and gave her father’s money into her lover’s keeping; and he got it from her by a trick, took her abroad, robbed and deserted her. A good friend remained true to her and helped her up to the time of his death. And when he died she came, two years ago, back to Russia, to her father. Wasn’t that what you told us, Vanya?” he asked me abruptly.

      Nellie got up in great agitation, and tried to move towards the door.

      “Come here, Nellie,” said the old man, holding out his hand to her at last. “Sit here, sit beside me, here, sit down.”

      He bent down, kissed her and began softly stroking her head. Nellie was quivering all over, but she controlled herself. Anna Andreyevna with emotion and joyful hope saw how her Nikolay Sergeyitch was at last beginning to take to the orphan.

      “I know, Nellie, that a wicked man, a wicked, unprincipled man ruined your mother, but I know, too, that she loved and honoured her father,” the old man, still stroking Nellie’s head, brought out with some excitement, unable to resist throwing down this challenge to us.

      A faint flush suffused his pale cheeks, but he tried not to look at us.

      “Mother loved grandfather better than he loved her,” Nellie asserted timidly but firmly. She, too, tried to avoid looking at anyone.

      “How do you know?” the old man asked sharply, as impulsive as a child, СКАЧАТЬ