Stepan Trofimovitch sat trembling, opening his eyes wider and wider.
He heard it all, but he could not realise it clearly.
He tried to speak, but his voice kept breaking.
All he knew was that everything would be as she said, that to protest and refuse to agree would be useless, and that he was a married man irrevocably.
"Mais, ma bonne amie!...for the third time, and at my age...and to such a child." He brought out at last,
"Mais, c'est une enfant!"
"A child who is twenty years old, thank God.
Please don't roll your eyes, I entreat you, you're not on the stage.
You're very clever and learned, but you know nothing at all about life. You will always want a nurse to look after you.
I shall die, and what will become of you?
She will be a good nurse to you; she's a modest girl, strong-willed, reasonable; besides, I shall be here too, I shan't die directly.
She's fond of home, she's an angel of gentleness.
This happy thought came to me in Switzerland.
Do you understand if I tell you myself that she is an angel of gentleness!" she screamed with sudden fury.
"Your house is dirty, she will bring in order, cleanliness. Everything will shine like a mirror. Good gracious, do you expect me to go on my knees to you with such a treasure, to enumerate all the advantages, to court you!
Why, you ought to be on your knees.... Oh, you shallow, shallow, faint-hearted man!"
"But... I'm an old man!"
"What do your fifty-three years matter!
Fifty is the middle of life, not the end of it.
You are a handsome man and you know it yourself.
You know, too, what a respect she has for you.
If I die, what will become of her?
But married to you she'll be at peace, and I shall be at peace.
You have renown, a name, a loving heart. You receive a pension which I look upon as an obligation.
You will save her perhaps, you will save her!
In any case you will be doing her an honour.
You will form her for life, you will develop her heart, you will direct her ideas.
How many people come to grief nowadays because their ideas are wrongly directed.
By that time your book will be ready, and you will at once set people talking about you again."
"I am, in fact," he muttered, at once flattered by Varvara Petrovna's adroit insinuations. "I was just preparing to sit down to my
'Tales from Spanish History.'"
"Well, there you are. It's just come right."
"But... she?
Have you spoken to her?"
"Don't worry about her. And there's no need for you to be inquisitive.
Of course, you must ask her yourself, entreat her to do you the honour, you understand?
But don't be uneasy. I shall be here.
Besides, you love her."
Stepan Trofimovitch felt giddy. The walls were going round.
There was one terrible idea underlying this to which he could not reconcile himself.
"Excellente amie," his voice quivered suddenly. "I could never have conceived that you would make up your mind to give me in marriage to another... woman."
"You're not a girl, Stepan Trofimovitch. Only girls are given in marriage. You are taking a wife," Varvara Petrovna hissed malignantly.
"Oui, j'ai pris un mot pour un autre.
Mais c'est egal." He gazed at her with a hopeless air.
"I see that c'est egal," she muttered contemptuously through her teeth. "Good heavens! Why he's going to faint.
Nastasya, Nastasya, water!"
But water was not needed.
He came to himself.
Varvara Petrovna took up her umbrella.
"I see it's no use talking to you now...."