"I'll do as you please, Varvara Petrovna."
"So you consent! Wait, don't speak, there's no rush, I haven't finished: in my will I've left you fifteen thousand roubles. I will hand them over to you at once, after the wedding. You will give him eight thousand—that is, not him, but me. He has a debt of eight thousand; I will pay it, but he should know that the money is yours. Seven thousand will remain in your hands; by no means give him a single rouble, ever. Never pay his debts. Once you pay, you'll never see the end of it. Anyway, I'll always be here. The two of you will receive an annual allowance of twelve hundred roubles, fifteen hundred with extras, besides room and board, which I will also provide, just as I do for him now. Only you will have to hire your own servants. I will give you your annual money all at once, right into your own hands. But be kind: give something to him, too, occasionally; and allow his friends to visit once a week, but if they come more often, chase them out. But I will be here myself. And if I die, your pension will not stop until his death, do you hear, only until hisdeath, because it's his pension, not yours. And besides the seven thousand which you will have left intact, unless you're going to be stupid yourself, I will leave you another eight thousand in my will. And you will get nothing more from me; you should know that. Well, do you consent, eh? Will you finally say something?"
"I already did, Varvara Petrovna."
"Remember that it is entirely your will; as you wish, so it shall be."
"Only, forgive me, Varvara Petrovna, has Stepan Trofimovich said anything to you?"
"No, he has not said anything, he doesn't know yet, but... he'll start saying something now!"
She jumped up instantly and threw on her black shawl. Dasha again blushed a little and was following her with a questioning look. Varvara Petrovna suddenly turned to her with a face burning with wrath.
"You fool!" she fell upon her like a hawk, "you ungrateful fool! What's in your mind? Do you think I would compromise you in any way, even the slightest bit? Why, he himself will come crawling on his knees and begging, he must die from happiness—that is how it will be arranged! Don't you know that I would never allow you to be offended? Or do you think he'll take you for the eight thousand, and that I'm running now to sell you? Fool, fool, you're all ungrateful fools! Give me my umbrella!"
And she flew on foot over the wet brick walks and wooden planks to Stepan Trofimovich.
VII
It was true that she would not allow Darya to be offended; on the contrary, she considered that she was now acting as her benefactress. The most noble and blameless indignation flared up in her soul when, putting on her shawl, she caught the embarrassed and mistrustful glance of her ward fixed upon her. She had sincerely loved her from her very childhood. Praskovya Ivanovna had justly called Darya Pavlovna her favorite. Long ago Varvara Petrovna had decided once and for all that "Darya's character is not like her brother's" (that is, like the character of her brother Ivan Shatov), that she was quiet and meek, capable of great self-sacrifice, unusually devoted, remarkably modest, possessed of rare reasonableness and, above all, of gratitude. So far Dasha had apparently justified all her expectations. "There will be no mistakes in this life," Varvara Petrovna had said when the girl was just twelve years old, and as she had the quality of clinging stubbornly and passionately to any dream that captivated her, and to any new design, to any idea that seemed bright to her, she had decided at once to bring Dasha up like her own daughter. She at once set a sum of money aside for her and sent for a governess, Miss Criggs, who lived in her house until the ward was sixteen years old, but for some reason was suddenly dismissed. Teachers also came from the high school, among them a real Frenchman who taught Darya her French. He, too, was dismissed suddenly, as if thrown out. One poor lady who came to town, a widow of gentle birth, taught her to play the piano. But the chief pedagogue remained Stepan Trofimovich. In fact, he was the first to discover Dasha: he began teaching the quiet child before Varvara Petrovna had even thought about her. Again I repeat: it was remarkable how children took to him! Lizaveta Nikolaevna Tushin studied with him from the age of eight to eleven (of course, Stepan Trofimovich taught her without fee, and would not have taken one from the Drozdovs for anything). But he fell in love with the lovely child and told her some sort of poetic tales about the order of the world, the earth, the history of mankind. His lectures on primitive peoples and primitive man were more engaging than Arabian tales. Liza, who used to be thrilled by these stories, would imitate Stepan Trofimovich at home in a very funny way. He found out about it, and once caught her unawares. Embarrassed, Liza threw herself into his arms and burst out crying. So did Stepan Trofimovich, from rapture. But Liza soon left, and only Dasha remained. When teachers started coming to Dasha, Stepan Trofimovich abandoned his lessons with her and gradually ceased paying attention to her. It went on like that for a long time. Once, when she was already seventeen, he was suddenly struck by her comeliness. This happened at Varvara Petrovna's table. He got into conversation with the young woman, was very pleased with her responses, and in the end suggested that he give her a serious and extensive course in the history of Russian literature. Varvara Petrovna praised and thanked him for the wonderful idea, and Dasha was delighted. Stepan Trofimovich set about making special preparations for the lectures, and finally they began. He started with the ancient period; the first lecture proved fascinating; Varvara Petrovna was present. When Stepan Trofimovich finished and announced to his pupil, upon leaving, that next time he would begin analyzing The Song of Igor's Campaign, [43] Varvara Petrovna suddenly stood up and announced that there would be no more lectures. Stepan Trofimovich winced, but said nothing. Dasha blushed. However, that was the end of the enterprise. This happened exactly three years before Varvara Petrovna's present unexpected fantasy.
Poor Stepan Trofimovich was sitting alone and had no presentiment of anything. In sad pensiveness he had long been glancing out the window to see if some acquaintance was coming. But no one would come. It was drizzling outside; it was getting cold; the stove needed lighting; he sighed. Suddenly a dreadful apparition appeared before his eyes: Varvara Petrovna was coming to see him in such weather and at such an odd hour! And on foot! He was so struck that he forgot to change his costume and received her just as he was in his usual pink quilted dressing jacket.
"Ma bonne amie! ..." he cried weakly in greeting.
"You're alone, I'm glad: I cannot bear your friends! It's always so smoky here! Lord, what air! You haven't finished your tea yet, and it's past eleven! Disorder is bliss to you. Messiness is a delight! What are these torn papers doing on the floor? Nastasya, Nastasya! What is your Nastasya up to? Open the windows, my dear, open the vents, the doors, everything should be wide open. And we will go to the drawing room; I've come to you on business. And sweep the floor, my dear, at least once in your life!"
"It does get messy, ma'am," Nastasya squeaked in an irritably plaintive little voice.
"Sweep up, then, sweep fifteen times a day! A wretched drawing room you've got" (when they had come to the drawing room). "Shut the door properly; she'll eavesdrop. You must change this wallpaper. Didn't I send you a paperhanger with samples? Why didn't you choose something? Sit down and listen. Sit down, finally, I beg you. Where are you going? Where are you going?"
"I... just a moment," Stepan Trofimovich cried from the other room, "here I am again!"
"Ah, you've changed your costume!" she looked him up and down mockingly. (He had put on his frock coat over the dressing jacket.) "That is certainly more fitting for... our conversation. Sit down, finally, I beg you."