“Well, that I never did expect,” cried Anna Andreyevna, flinging up her hands. “And you too, Vanya!
I didn’t expect it of you! ... Why, you’ve never known anything but kindness from us and now ...”
“Ha, ha, ha!
What else did you expect?
Why, what are we to live upon, consider that!
Our money spent, we’ve come to our last farthing.
Perhaps you’d like me to go to Prince Pyotr Alexandrovitch and beg his pardon, eh?”
Hearing the prince’s name, Anna Andreyevna trembled with alarm.
The teaspoon in her hand tinkled against the saucer.
“Yes, speaking seriously,” the old man went on, working himself up with malicious, obstinate pleasure, “what do you think, Vanya? Shouldn’t I really go to him?
Why go to Siberia?
I’d much better comb my hair, put on my best clothes, and brush myself tomorrow; Anna Andreyevna will get me a new shirtfront (one can’t go to see a person like that without!), buy me gloves, to be the correct thing; and then I’ll go to his excellency: ‘Your excellency, little father, benefactor!
Forgive me and have pity on me! Give me a crust of bread! I’ve a wife and little children! . . .‘Is that right, Anna Andreyevna?
Is that what you want?”
“My dear; I want nothing!
I spoke without thinking. Forgive me if I vexed you, only don’t shout,” she brought out, trembling more and more violently in her terror.
I am convinced that everything was topsyturvy and aching in his heart at that moment, as he looked at his poor wife’s tears and alarm. I am sure that he was suffering far more than she was, but he could not control himself.
So it is sometimes with the most goodnatured people of weak nerves, who in spite of their kindliness are carried away till they find enjoyment in their own grief and anger, and try to express themselves at any cost, even that of wounding some other innocent creature, always by preference the one nearest and dearest.
A woman sometimes has a craving to feel unhappy and aggrieved, though she has no misfortune or grievance.
There are many men like women in this respect, and men, indeed, by no means feeble, and who have very little that is feminine about them.
The old man had a compelling impulse to quarrel, though he was made miserable by it himself.
I remember that the thought dawned on me at the time: hadn’t he perhaps really before this gone out on some project such as Anna Andreyevna suspected?
What if God had softened his heart, and he had really been going to Natasha, and had changed his mind on the way, or something had gone wrong and made him give up his intentions, as was sure to happen; and so he had returned home angry and humiliated, ashamed of his recent feelings and wishes, looking out for someone on whom to vent his anger for his weakness, and pitching on the very ones whom he suspected of sharing the same feeling and wishes.
Perhaps when he wanted to forgive his daughter, he pictured the joy and rapture of his poor Anna Andreyevna, and when it came to nothing she was of course the first to suffer for it.
But her look of hopelessness, as she trembled with fear before him, touched him.
He seemed ashamed of his wrath, and for a minute controlled himself.
We were all silent. I was trying not to look at him.
But the good moment did not last long.
At all costs he must express himself by some outburst, or a curse if need be.
“You see, Vanya,” he said suddenly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to speak, but the time has come when I must speak out openly without evasion, as every straightforward man ought ... do you understand, Vanya?
I’m glad you have come, and so I want to say aloud in your presence so that others may hear that I am sick of all this nonsense, all these tears, and sighs, an misery.
What I have torn out of my heart, which bleeds and aches perhaps, will never be back in my heart again.
Yes!
I’ve said so and I’ll act on it.
I’m speaking of what happened six months ago – you understand, Vanya?
And I speak of this so openly, so directly, that you may make no mistake about my words,” he added, looking at me with blazing eyes and obviously avoiding his wife’s frightened glances.
“I repeat: this is nonsense; I won’t have it!...
It simply maddens me that everyone looks upon me as capable of having such a low, weak feeling, as though I were a fool, as though I were the most abject scoundrel ... they imagine I am going mad with grief... Nonsense!
I have castaway, I have forgotten my old feelings!
I have no memory of it! No! no! no! and no!...”
He jumped up from his chair, and struck the table so that the cups tinkled.
“Nicholay Sergeyitch!
Have you no feeling for Anna Andreyevna!
Look what you are doing to her!” I said, unable to restrain myself and looking at him almost with indignation.
But it was only pouring oil on the flames.
“No, I haven’t!” he shouted, trembling and turning white. “I haven’t, for no one feels for me!
For in my own house they’re all plotting against me in my dishonour and on the side of my depraved daughter, who deserves my curse, and an punishment! . . .”
“Nikolay Sergeyitch, don’t curse her! ... Anything you like only don’t curse our daughter!” screamed Anna Andreyevna.
“I will curse her!” shouted the old man, twice as loud as before; “because, insulted and dishonoured as I am, I am expected to go to the accursed girl and ask her forgiveness.
Yes, yes, that’s it!