Part 2, Chapter 6

About the Wet Snow

16 min

... Somewhere behind a screen a clock began wheezing, as though oppressed by something, as though someone were strangling it. After an unnaturally prolonged wheezing there followed a shrill, nasty, and as it were unexpectedly rapid, chime—as though someone were suddenly jumping forward. It struck two. I woke up, though I had indeed not been asleep but lying half-conscious.

... Somewhere behind a screen, a clock began wheezing, as if something were weighing on it, as if someone were strangling it. The wheezing went on for an unnaturally long time. Then came a shrill, nasty chime, unexpectedly rapid, as if someone were suddenly jumping forward. The clock struck two. I woke up, though I had not actually been asleep. I had been lying there half-conscious.

It was almost completely dark in the narrow, cramped, low-pitched room, cumbered up with an enormous wardrobe and piles of cardboard boxes and all sorts of frippery and litter. The candle end that had been burning on the table was going out and gave a faint flicker from time to time. In a few minutes there would be complete darkness.

The narrow, cramped room had a low ceiling and was almost completely dark. An enormous wardrobe, piles of cardboard boxes, and all sorts of trinkets and clutter filled the room. The candle stub on the table was going out, flickering faintly from time to time. In a few minutes, the room would be completely dark.

I was not long in coming to myself; everything came back to my mind at once, without an effort, as though it had been in ambush to pounce upon me again. And, indeed, even while I was unconscious a point seemed continually to remain in my memory unforgotten, and round it my dreams moved drearily. But strange to say, everything that had happened to me in that day seemed to me now, on waking, to be in the far, far away past, as though I had long, long ago lived all that down.

I soon came to my senses. Everything came back to me at once, without any effort, as if it had been lying in wait to pounce on me again. In fact, even while I was unconscious, one thing seemed to remain in my memory, never forgotten. My dreams moved drearily around it. But strangely, when I woke, everything that had happened to me that day seemed to belong to the distant, distant past. It was as if I had put it all behind me long, long ago.

My head was full of fumes. Something seemed to be hovering over me, rousing me, exciting me, and making me restless. Misery and spite seemed surging up in me again and seeking an outlet. Suddenly I saw beside me two wide open eyes scrutinising me curiously and persistently. The look in those eyes was coldly detached, sullen, as it were utterly remote; it weighed upon me.

My head was full of fumes. Something seemed to hover over me, stirring me up and making me restless. Misery and spite seemed to rise in me again, looking for a way out. Suddenly, I saw two wide-open eyes beside me, studying me with steady curiosity. Their gaze was cold and detached, sullen, as if utterly distant. It weighed on me.

A grim idea came into my brain and passed all over my body, as a horrible sensation, such as one feels when one goes into a damp and mouldy cellar. There was something unnatural in those two eyes, beginning to look at me only now. I recalled, too, that during those two hours I had not said a single word to this creature, and had, in fact, considered it utterly superfluous; in fact, the silence had for some reason gratified me. Now I suddenly realised vividly the hideous idea—revolting as a spider—of vice, which, without love, grossly and shamelessly begins with that in which true love finds its consummation. For a long time we gazed at each other like that, but she did not drop her eyes before mine and her expression did not change, so that at last I felt uncomfortable.

A grim thought entered my mind and spread through my body as a horrible feeling. It was like the feeling you get when you enter a damp, moldy cellar. There was something unnatural about those two eyes, which were only now beginning to look at me. I also remembered that I had not said a single word to this creature during those two hours. I had considered speaking utterly unnecessary. In fact, for some reason, the silence had pleased me. Now I suddenly saw the hideous idea of vice vividly, revolting as a spider. Without love, vice crudely and shamelessly begins with the act in which true love finds its fulfillment. We stared at each other like that for a long time. But she did not look away, and her expression did not change. At last, I felt uncomfortable.

“What is your name?” I asked abruptly, to put an end to it.

“Liza,” she answered almost in a whisper, but somehow far from graciously, and she turned her eyes away.

“Liza,” she answered almost in a whisper, but somehow not very politely. She looked away.

I was silent.

“What weather! The snow ... it’s disgusting!” I said, almost to myself, putting my arm under my head despondently, and gazing at the ceiling.

“What weather! The snow ... it’s disgusting!” I said, almost to myself. I put my arm under my head and stared hopelessly at the ceiling.

She made no answer. This was horrible.

She didn't answer. This was horrible.

“Have you always lived in Petersburg?” I asked a minute later, almost angrily, turning my head slightly towards her.

“Have you always lived in Petersburg?” I asked a minute later, almost angrily, turning my head slightly toward her.

“No.”

“Where do you come from?”

“From Riga,” she answered reluctantly.

“From Riga,” she said reluctantly.

“Are you a German?”

“No, Russian.”

“Have you been here long?”

“Where?”

“In this house?”

“A fortnight.”

“Two weeks.”

She spoke more and more jerkily. The candle went out; I could no longer distinguish her face.

Her speech grew more and more halting. The candle went out. I could no longer see her face clearly.

“Have you a father and mother?”

“Do you have a father and mother?”

“Yes ... no ... I have.”

“Where are they?”

“There ... in Riga.”

“What are they?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Nothing? Why, what class are they?”

“Nothing? What class are they in?”

“Tradespeople.”

“Have you always lived with them?”

“Yes.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

“Why did you leave them?”

“Oh, for no reason.”

That answer meant “Let me alone; I feel sick, sad.”

That answer meant “Leave me alone. I feel sick and sad.”

We were silent.

God knows why I did not go away. I felt myself more and more sick and dreary. The images of the previous day began of themselves, apart from my will, flitting through my memory in confusion. I suddenly recalled something I had seen that morning when, full of anxious thoughts, I was hurrying to the office.

God knows why I didn’t leave. I felt sicker and more miserable by the minute. Images from the day before began flashing through my mind in confusion, without my willing them to. I suddenly remembered something I had seen that morning. I had been hurrying to the office, full of anxious thoughts.

“I saw them carrying a coffin out yesterday and they nearly dropped it,” I suddenly said aloud, not that I desired to open the conversation, but as it were by accident.

“I saw them carrying a coffin out yesterday, and they nearly dropped it,” I suddenly said aloud. I didn't mean to start a conversation. It was almost as if I'd said it by accident.

“A coffin?”

“Yes, in the Haymarket; they were bringing it up out of a cellar.”

“Yes, in the Haymarket. They were bringing it up from a cellar.”

“From a cellar?”

“Not from a cellar, but a basement. Oh, you know ... down below ... from a house of ill-fame. It was filthy all round ... Egg-shells, litter ... a stench. It was loathsome.”

“Not from a cellar, but a basement. Oh, you know ... down below ... from a brothel. It was filthy all around ... Eggshells, litter ... a stench. It was disgusting.”

Silence.

“A nasty day to be buried,” I began, simply to avoid being silent.

“A nasty day to be buried,” I said, just to break the silence.

“Nasty, in what way?”

“Nasty, how?”

“The snow, the wet.” (I yawned.)

“It makes no difference,” she said suddenly, after a brief silence.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said suddenly, after a short silence.

“No, it’s horrid.” (I yawned again). “The gravediggers must have sworn at getting drenched by the snow. And there must have been water in the grave.”

“No, it’s awful.” (I yawned again). “The gravediggers must have cursed as the snow soaked them. And there must have been water in the grave.”

“Why water in the grave?” she asked, with a sort of curiosity, but speaking even more harshly and abruptly than before.

“Why is there water in the grave?” she asked, sounding somewhat curious, but even harsher and more abrupt than before.

I suddenly began to feel provoked.

I suddenly started to feel irritated.

“Why, there must have been water at the bottom a foot deep. You can’t dig a dry grave in Volkovo Cemetery.”

“There must have been a foot of water at the bottom. You can’t dig a dry grave in Volkovo Cemetery.”

“Why?”

“Why? Why, the place is waterlogged. It’s a regular marsh. So they bury them in water. I’ve seen it myself ... many times.”

“Why? Because the ground is soaked. It’s practically a swamp. So they bury them in water. I’ve seen it myself ... many times.”

(I had never seen it once, indeed I had never been in Volkovo, and had only heard stories of it.)

(I had never seen it. In fact, I had never been to Volkovo and had only heard stories about it.)

“Do you mean to say, you don’t mind how you die?”

“Are you saying you don’t care how you die?”

“But why should I die?” she answered, as though defending herself.

“But why should I die?” she asked, as if defending herself.

“Why, some day you will die, and you will die just the same as that dead woman. She was ... a girl like you. She died of consumption.”

“Someday you will die, just like that dead woman. She was ... a girl like you. She died of tuberculosis.”

“A wench would have died in hospital ...” (She knows all about it already: she said “wench,” not “girl.”)

“A wench would have died in the hospital ...” (She already knows all about it. She said “wench,” not “girl.”)

“She was in debt to her madam,” I retorted, more and more provoked by the discussion; “and went on earning money for her up to the end, though she was in consumption. Some sledge-drivers standing by were talking about her to some soldiers and telling them so. No doubt they knew her. They were laughing. They were going to meet in a pot-house to drink to her memory.”

“She owed money to her madam,” I replied, growing more irritated as we argued. “She kept earning money for her madam until the end, though she had tuberculosis. Some sleigh drivers standing nearby were telling some soldiers about her. No doubt they knew her. They were laughing. They planned to meet at a tavern to drink to her memory.”

A great deal of this was my invention. Silence followed, profound silence. She did not stir.

I had made up much of this. Silence followed, a deep silence. She did not move.

“And is it better to die in a hospital?”

“Isn’t it just the same? Besides, why should I die?” she added irritably.

“Isn’t it the same thing? Besides, why should I die?” she added irritably.

“If not now, a little later.”

“If not now, then a little later.”

“Why a little later?”

“Why, indeed? Now you are young, pretty, fresh, you fetch a high price. But after another year of this life you will be very different—you will go off.”

“Why, indeed? Right now, you’re young, pretty, and fresh. You can get a high price. But after another year of this life, you’ll be very different. Your looks will fade.”

“In a year?”

“Anyway, in a year you will be worth less,” I continued malignantly. “You will go from here to something lower, another house; a year later—to a third, lower and lower, and in seven years you will come to a basement in the Haymarket. That will be if you were lucky. But it would be much worse if you got some disease, consumption, say ... and caught a chill, or something or other. It’s not easy to get over an illness in your way of life. If you catch anything you may not get rid of it. And so you would die.”

“Anyway, in a year you’ll be worth less,” I continued spitefully. “You’ll leave this place for a worse house. A year later, you’ll move to a third, even worse one. You’ll sink lower and lower, and in seven years you’ll end up in a basement in the Haymarket. That’s if you’re lucky. But it would be much worse if you got a disease, tuberculosis, say ... and caught a chill or something. It’s not easy to recover from an illness with the life you lead. If you catch something, you may never get rid of it. And so you would die.”

“Oh, well, then I shall die,” she answered, quite vindictively, and she made a quick movement.

“Oh, well, then I’ll die,” she replied spitefully, making a quick movement.

“But one is sorry.”

“But you feel sorry.”

“Sorry for whom?”

“Who are you sorry for?”

“Sorry for life.” Silence.

“Have you been engaged to be married? Eh?”

“Have you been engaged? Huh?”

“What’s that to you?”

“Oh, I am not cross-examining you. It’s nothing to me. Why are you so cross? Of course you may have had your own troubles. What is it to me? It’s simply that I felt sorry.”

“Oh, I’m not interrogating you. It’s nothing to me. Why are you so angry? Of course, you may have had your own troubles. What does that matter to me? I just felt sorry.”

“Sorry for whom?”

“Sorry for who?”

“Sorry for you.”

“I feel sorry for you.”

“No need,” she whispered hardly audibly, and again made a faint movement.

“No need,” she whispered, barely audibly, and made another slight movement.

That incensed me at once. What! I was so gentle with her, and she....

That made me angry at once. What! I was so gentle with her, and she....

“Why, do you think that you are on the right path?”

“Why, do you think you’re on the right path?”

“I don’t think anything.”

“That’s what’s wrong, that you don’t think. Realise it while there is still time. There still is time. You are still young, good-looking; you might love, be married, be happy....”

“That’s what’s wrong. You don’t think. Realize it while there’s still time. There’s still time. You’re still young and good-looking. You could love, get married, and be happy....”

“Not all married women are happy,” she snapped out in the rude abrupt tone she had used at first.

“Not all married women are happy,” she snapped, using the same rude, abrupt tone she had used at first.

“Not all, of course, but anyway it is much better than the life here. Infinitely better. Besides, with love one can live even without happiness. Even in sorrow life is sweet; life is sweet, however one lives. But here what is there but ... foulness? Phew!”

“Not all, of course, but still, it’s much better than life here. Infinitely better. Besides, with love, you can live even without happiness. Even in sorrow, life is sweet. Life is sweet, no matter how you live. But what is there here except ... filth? Phew!”

I turned away with disgust; I was no longer reasoning coldly. I began to feel myself what I was saying and warmed to the subject. I was already longing to expound the cherished ideas I had brooded over in my corner. Something suddenly flared up in me. An object had appeared before me.

I turned away in disgust. I was no longer thinking calmly. I began to feel what I was saying and grew excited about it. I was already eager to explain the ideas I had cherished and brooded over in my corner. Something suddenly flared up inside me. An object had appeared before me.

“Never mind my being here, I am not an example for you. I am, perhaps, worse than you are. I was drunk when I came here, though,” I hastened, however, to say in self-defence. “Besides, a man is no example for a woman. It’s a different thing. I may degrade and defile myself, but I am not anyone’s slave. I come and go, and that’s an end of it. I shake it off, and I am a different man. But you are a slave from the start. Yes, a slave! You give up everything, your whole freedom. If you want to break your chains afterwards, you won’t be able to; you will be more and more fast in the snares. It is an accursed bondage. I know it. I won’t speak of anything else, maybe you won’t understand, but tell me: no doubt you are in debt to your madam? There, you see,” I added, though she made no answer, but only listened in silence, entirely absorbed, “that’s a bondage for you! You will never buy your freedom. They will see to that. It’s like selling your soul to the devil.... And besides ... perhaps, I too, am just as unlucky—how do you know—and wallow in the mud on purpose, out of misery? You know, men take to drink from grief; well, maybe I am here from grief. Come, tell me, what is there good here? Here you and I ... came together ... just now and did not say one word to one another all the time, and it was only afterwards you began staring at me like a wild creature, and I at you. Is that loving? Is that how one human being should meet another? It’s hideous, that’s what it is!”

“Never mind that I’m here. I’m not an example for you. I may be worse than you. But I was drunk when I came here,” I hurried to add in my own defense. “Besides, a man is no example for a woman. It’s different. I may degrade and defile myself, but I’m nobody’s slave. I come and go, and that’s the end of it. I shake it off and become a different man. But you’re a slave from the start. Yes, a slave! You give up everything, your whole freedom. If you want to break your chains later, you won’t be able to. You’ll only become more trapped. It’s a cursed bondage. I know it. “I won’t talk about anything else. Maybe you wouldn’t understand. But tell me, surely you owe money to your madam? There, you see,” I added, though she said nothing. She only listened in silence, completely absorbed. “That’s bondage for you! You’ll never buy your freedom. They’ll see to that. It’s like selling your soul to the devil.... And besides ... perhaps I’m just as unlucky. How do you know? Perhaps I wallow in the mud on purpose, out of misery. You know, men drink out of grief. Well, maybe I’m here out of grief. “Come on, tell me, what’s good about this place? Here you and I ... came together ... just now, and we didn’t say a word to each other the whole time. Only afterward did you start staring at me like a wild creature, and I stared at you. Is that love? Is that how one human being should meet another? It’s hideous, that’s what it is!”

“Yes!” she assented sharply and hurriedly.

“Yes!” she agreed sharply and quickly.

I was positively astounded by the promptitude of this “Yes.” So the same thought may have been straying through her mind when she was staring at me just before. So she, too, was capable of certain thoughts? “Damn it all, this was interesting, this was a point of likeness!” I thought, almost rubbing my hands. And indeed it’s easy to turn a young soul like that!

I was amazed at how quickly she said “Yes.” So the same thought may have been on her mind when she was staring at me just before. So she was capable of such thoughts too? “Damn it all, this was interesting. We had something in common!” I thought, almost rubbing my hands. And really, it’s easy to sway a young soul like that!

It was the exercise of my power that attracted me most.

What attracted me most was using my power.

She turned her head nearer to me, and it seemed to me in the darkness that she propped herself on her arm. Perhaps she was scrutinising me. How I regretted that I could not see her eyes. I heard her deep breathing.

She turned her head closer to me. In the darkness, I thought she was propping herself up on her arm. Perhaps she was studying me. How I wished I could see her eyes. I heard her breathing deeply.

“Why have you come here?” I asked her, with a note of authority already in my voice.

“Why have you come here?” I asked her, my voice already sounding authoritative.

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“But how nice it would be to be living in your father’s house! It’s warm and free; you have a home of your own.”

“But how nice it would be to live in your father’s house! It’s warm and free, and you have a home of your own.”

“But what if it’s worse than this?”

“I must take the right tone,” flashed through my mind. “I may not get far with sentimentality.” But it was only a momentary thought. I swear she really did interest me. Besides, I was exhausted and moody. And cunning so easily goes hand-in-hand with feeling.

“I need to strike the right tone,” I thought. “I may not get far by being sentimental.” But the thought passed quickly. I swear she really did interest me. Besides, I was exhausted and moody. And cunning can so easily go hand in hand with genuine feeling.

“Who denies it!” I hastened to answer. “Anything may happen. I am convinced that someone has wronged you, and that you are more sinned against than sinning. Of course, I know nothing of your story, but it’s not likely a girl like you has come here of her own inclination....”

“Who says otherwise!” I hurried to answer. “Anything can happen. I’m sure someone has wronged you, and that you’ve been treated worse than you’ve treated others. Of course, I know nothing about your story, but it’s unlikely a girl like you came here by choice....”

“A girl like me?” she whispered, hardly audibly; but I heard it.

“A girl like me?” she whispered, so softly she was hardly audible. But I heard her.

Damn it all, I was flattering her. That was horrid. But perhaps it was a good thing.... She was silent.

Damn it all, I was flattering her. That was awful. But perhaps it was a good thing.... She said nothing.

“See, Liza, I will tell you about myself. If I had had a home from childhood, I shouldn’t be what I am now. I often think that. However bad it may be at home, anyway they are your father and mother, and not enemies, strangers. Once a year at least, they’ll show their love of you. Anyway, you know you are at home. I grew up without a home; and perhaps that’s why I’ve turned so ... unfeeling.”

“Look, Liza, I’ll tell you about myself. If I’d had a home growing up, I wouldn’t be what I am now. I often think about that. However bad things are at home, your father and mother are still your parents, not enemies or strangers. At least once a year, they’ll show you they love you. At least you know you’re at home. I grew up without a home, and perhaps that’s why I’ve become so ... unfeeling.”

I waited again. “Perhaps she doesn’t understand,” I thought, “and, indeed, it is absurd—it’s moralising.”

I waited again. “Perhaps she doesn’t understand,” I thought. “And really, it’s absurd. I’m preaching at her.”

“If I were a father and had a daughter, I believe I should love my daughter more than my sons, really,” I began indirectly, as though talking of something else, to distract her attention. I must confess I blushed.

“If I were a father and had a daughter, I think I’d love her more than my sons, really,” I began indirectly, as if talking about something else to distract her. I have to admit, I blushed.

“Why so?” she asked.

“Why is that?” she asked.

Ah! so she was listening!

Ah! So she was listening!

“I don’t know, Liza. I knew a father who was a stern, austere man, but used to go down on his knees to his daughter, used to kiss her hands, her feet, he couldn’t make enough of her, really. When she danced at parties he used to stand for five hours at a stretch, gazing at her. He was mad over her: I understand that! She would fall asleep tired at night, and he would wake to kiss her in her sleep and make the sign of the cross over her. He would go about in a dirty old coat, he was stingy to everyone else, but would spend his last penny for her, giving her expensive presents, and it was his greatest delight when she was pleased with what he gave her. Fathers always love their daughters more than the mothers do. Some girls live happily at home! And I believe I should never let my daughters marry.”

“I don’t know, Liza. I knew a father who was stern and strict, but he used to kneel before his daughter and kiss her hands and feet. He really couldn’t show her enough affection. When she danced at parties, he would stand for five hours straight, watching her. He adored her. I understand that! She would fall asleep at night, exhausted, and he would wake up to kiss her in her sleep and make the sign of the cross over her. He wore a dirty old coat and was stingy with everyone else. But he would spend his last penny on her, buying her expensive gifts. Nothing delighted him more than seeing her pleased with a gift. Fathers always love their daughters more than mothers do. Some girls are happy living at home! And I believe I would never let my daughters marry.”

“What next?” she said, with a faint smile.

“What next?” she said with a faint smile.

“I should be jealous, I really should. To think that she should kiss anyone else! That she should love a stranger more than her father! It’s painful to imagine it. Of course, that’s all nonsense, of course every father would be reasonable at last. But I believe before I should let her marry, I should worry myself to death; I should find fault with all her suitors. But I should end by letting her marry whom she herself loved. The one whom the daughter loves always seems the worst to the father, you know. That is always so. So many family troubles come from that.”

“I’d be jealous, I really would. Just imagine her kissing someone else! Loving a stranger more than her father! It hurts to imagine it. Of course, that’s all nonsense. Every father would come to his senses in the end. But I think I’d worry myself to death before I let her marry. I’d find fault with all the men who wanted to marry her. But in the end, I’d let her marry the man she loved. You know, the man a daughter loves always seems the worst to her father. It’s always like that. So many family troubles come from that.”

“Some are glad to sell their daughters, rather than marrying them honourably.”

“Some are happy to sell their daughters rather than arrange honorable marriages for them.”

Ah, so that was it!

“Such a thing, Liza, happens in those accursed families in which there is neither love nor God,” I retorted warmly, “and where there is no love, there is no sense either. There are such families, it’s true, but I am not speaking of them. You must have seen wickedness in your own family, if you talk like that. Truly, you must have been unlucky. H’m! ... that sort of thing mostly comes about through poverty.”

“That kind of thing happens, Liza, in those cursed families where there is neither love nor God,” I replied passionately. “And where there is no love, there is no sense either. Such families do exist, but I’m not talking about them. If you talk like that, you must have seen cruelty in your own family. You really must have been unlucky. Hmm! ... That kind of thing mostly happens because of poverty.”

“And is it any better with the gentry? Even among the poor, honest people who live happily?”

“Is it any better among the upper class? Even among poor, honest people who live happily?”

“H’m ... yes. Perhaps. Another thing, Liza, man is fond of reckoning up his troubles, but does not count his joys. If he counted them up as he ought, he would see that every lot has enough happiness provided for it. And what if all goes well with the family, if the blessing of God is upon it, if the husband is a good one, loves you, cherishes you, never leaves you! There is happiness in such a family! Even sometimes there is happiness in the midst of sorrow; and indeed sorrow is everywhere. If you marry you will find out for yourself. But think of the first years of married life with one you love: what happiness, what happiness there sometimes is in it! And indeed it’s the ordinary thing. In those early days even quarrels with one’s husband end happily. Some women get up quarrels with their husbands just because they love them. Indeed, I knew a woman like that: she seemed to say that because she loved him, she would torment him and make him feel it. You know that you may torment a man on purpose through love. Women are particularly given to that, thinking to themselves ‘I will love him so, I will make so much of him afterwards, that it’s no sin to torment him a little now.’ And all in the house rejoice in the sight of you, and you are happy and gay and peaceful and honourable.... Then there are some women who are jealous. If he went off anywhere—I knew one such woman, she couldn’t restrain herself, but would jump up at night and run off on the sly to find out where he was, whether he was with some other woman. That’s a pity. And the woman knows herself it’s wrong, and her heart fails her and she suffers, but she loves—it’s all through love. And how sweet it is to make up after quarrels, to own herself in the wrong or to forgive him! And they both are so happy all at once—as though they had met anew, been married over again; as though their love had begun afresh. And no one, no one should know what passes between husband and wife if they love one another. And whatever quarrels there may be between them they ought not to call in their own mother to judge between them and tell tales of one another. They are their own judges. Love is a holy mystery and ought to be hidden from all other eyes, whatever happens. That makes it holier and better. They respect one another more, and much is built on respect. And if once there has been love, if they have been married for love, why should love pass away? Surely one can keep it! It is rare that one cannot keep it. And if the husband is kind and straightforward, why should not love last? The first phase of married love will pass, it is true, but then there will come a love that is better still. Then there will be the union of souls, they will have everything in common, there will be no secrets between them. And once they have children, the most difficult times will seem to them happy, so long as there is love and courage. Even toil will be a joy, you may deny yourself bread for your children and even that will be a joy, They will love you for it afterwards; so you are laying by for your future. As the children grow up you feel that you are an example, a support for them; that even after you die your children will always keep your thoughts and feelings, because they have received them from you, they will take on your semblance and likeness. So you see this is a great duty. How can it fail to draw the father and mother nearer? People say it’s a trial to have children. Who says that? It is heavenly happiness! Are you fond of little children, Liza? I am awfully fond of them. You know—a little rosy baby boy at your bosom, and what husband’s heart is not touched, seeing his wife nursing his child! A plump little rosy baby, sprawling and snuggling, chubby little hands and feet, clean tiny little nails, so tiny that it makes one laugh to look at them; eyes that look as if they understand everything. And while it sucks it clutches at your bosom with its little hand, plays. When its father comes up, the child tears itself away from the bosom, flings itself back, looks at its father, laughs, as though it were fearfully funny, and falls to sucking again. Or it will bite its mother’s breast when its little teeth are coming, while it looks sideways at her with its little eyes as though to say, ‘Look, I am biting!’ Is not all that happiness when they are the three together, husband, wife and child? One can forgive a great deal for the sake of such moments. Yes, Liza, one must first learn to live oneself before one blames others!”

“Hmm ... yes. Perhaps. There’s another thing, Liza. People like to count up their troubles, but they don’t count their joys. If they counted their joys as they should, they would see that every life has enough happiness in it. And what if all goes well with a family? What if God blesses it, and the husband is good, loves you, cherishes you, and never leaves you? There is happiness in a family like that! Sometimes there is even happiness in the middle of sorrow, and sorrow is everywhere. If you marry, you will find out for yourself. But think of the first years of marriage to someone you love. What happiness, what happiness there sometimes is in those years! And really, that’s the usual thing. In those early days, even quarrels with your husband end happily. Some women start quarrels with their husbands just because they love them. In fact, I knew a woman like that. She seemed to say that because she loved her husband, she would torment him and make him feel it. You know, you can torment a man on purpose out of love. Women are especially prone to this. They think, ‘I’ll love him so much and make such a fuss over him afterward that it’s no sin to torment him a little now.’ And everyone in the house is glad to see you, and you are happy and cheerful and peaceful and honorable.... “Then there are women who are jealous. I knew one who couldn’t control herself if her husband went out. She would jump up at night and sneak off to find out where he was and whether he was with another woman. That’s a pity. And the woman herself knows it’s wrong. Her heart sinks and she suffers, but she loves him. It’s all because of love. And how sweet it is to make up after a quarrel, to admit she was wrong or to forgive him! And suddenly they are both so happy. It’s as if they had just met, or married all over again, as if their love had begun anew. And no one, no one should know what happens between a husband and wife who love each other. Whatever quarrels they have, they shouldn’t ask even their own mothers to judge between them or tell tales about each other. They are their own judges. Love is a holy mystery and should be hidden from everyone else’s eyes, whatever happens. That makes love holier and better. They respect each other more, and much is built on respect. “And if there was love once, if they married for love, why should love fade? Surely they can keep it! It’s rare that they can’t. And if the husband is kind and honest, why shouldn’t love last? The first stage of married love will pass, it’s true, but then a still better love will come. Their souls will be united. They will share everything and have no secrets from each other. And once they have children, even the hardest times will seem happy, as long as there is love and courage. Even hard work will be a joy. You may go without bread for your children, and even that will be a joy. Your children will love you for it afterward, so you are saving for your future. As they grow up, you feel that you are an example and a support to them. Even after you die, your children will always carry your thoughts and feelings, because they received them from you. They will come to resemble you. So you see, this is a great duty. How could it fail to bring the father and mother closer? People say having children is a trial. Who says that? It’s heavenly happiness! “Do you like little children, Liza? I’m awfully fond of them. Imagine a little rosy baby boy at your breast. What husband’s heart would not be touched by seeing his wife nurse his child? A plump little rosy baby, stretching out and snuggling close, with chubby little hands and feet. His clean little nails are so tiny that looking at them makes you laugh. His eyes look as if they understand everything. And while he nurses, he clutches your breast with his little hand and plays. When his father comes near, the baby pulls away from the breast and throws himself back. He looks at his father and laughs, as if it were terribly funny, and starts nursing again. Or he bites his mother’s breast when his little teeth are coming in. He looks sideways at her with his little eyes, as if to say, ‘Look, I’m biting!’ Isn’t all that happiness, when the three of them are together, husband, wife, and child? You can forgive a great deal for the sake of moments like that. Yes, Liza, you must first learn to live yourself before you blame others!”

“It’s by pictures, pictures like that one must get at you,” I thought to myself, though I did speak with real feeling, and all at once I flushed crimson. “What if she were suddenly to burst out laughing, what should I do then?” That idea drove me to fury. Towards the end of my speech I really was excited, and now my vanity was somehow wounded. The silence continued. I almost nudged her.

“It’s through images, images like that one, that you have to reach her,” I thought to myself. Though I had spoken with real feeling, I suddenly turned bright red. “What if she suddenly burst out laughing? What would I do then?” The thought made me furious. By the end of my speech, I really was worked up, and now my pride was somehow hurt. The silence went on. I almost nudged her.

“Why are you—” she began and stopped. But I understood: there was a quiver of something different in her voice, not abrupt, harsh and unyielding as before, but something soft and shamefaced, so shamefaced that I suddenly felt ashamed and guilty.

“Why are you…” she began, then stopped. But I understood. I heard a different tremor in her voice. It was no longer abrupt, harsh and unyielding as before. It was soft and embarrassed, so embarrassed that I suddenly felt ashamed and guilty.

“What?” I asked, with tender curiosity.

“What?” I asked gently, curious.

“Why, you...”

“What?”

“Why, you ... speak somehow like a book,” she said, and again there was a note of irony in her voice.

“Why, you ... talk like a book somehow,” she said, with irony in her voice again.

That remark sent a pang to my heart. It was not what I was expecting.

That remark made my heart ache. It wasn't what I expected.

I did not understand that she was hiding her feelings under irony, that this is usually the last refuge of modest and chaste-souled people when the privacy of their soul is coarsely and intrusively invaded, and that their pride makes them refuse to surrender till the last moment and shrink from giving expression to their feelings before you. I ought to have guessed the truth from the timidity with which she had repeatedly approached her sarcasm, only bringing herself to utter it at last with an effort. But I did not guess, and an evil feeling took possession of me.

I did not understand that she was hiding her feelings behind irony. This is usually the last refuge of modest, pure-hearted people when someone crudely intrudes on their innermost feelings. Their pride makes them hold out until the last moment, reluctant to express their feelings to you. I should have guessed the truth from how hesitantly she had tried to be sarcastic. She had tried repeatedly, and in the end it took effort for her to say the words. But I did not guess, and an evil feeling came over me.

“Wait a bit!” I thought.

“Wait a minute!” I thought.