"… Besides, I… how do you know, maybe I'm just as unfortunate as you are, and so I get into the muck on purpose, from misery. People do drink from grief: well, so I'm here - from grief. Now tell me, where's the good in it: here you and I… came together… tonight, and we didn't say a word to each other all the while, and only afterwards you started peering at me like a wild thing, and I at you. Is that any way to love? Is that any way for two human beings to come together? It's simply an outrage, that's what!"
"Yes!" she agreed, abruptly and hastily. I was even surprised by the hastiness of this "yes." So perhaps the same thought was wandering through her mind as she was peering at me just now? So she, too, is already capable of certain thoughts?… "Devil take it, that's curious, it's - akin" I reflected, almost rubbing my hands. "No, how can I fail to get the better of such a young soul?…"
It was the game that fascinated me most of all.
She turned her head closer to me and, it seemed to me in the darkness, propped it with her hand. Perhaps she was peering at me. How sorry I was that I couldn't make out her eyes. I heard her deep breathing.
"Why did you come here?" I began, now with a sense of power. I just…
"And how good it would be to be living in your father's house! Warm, free; your own nest."
"And what if it's worse than that?"
A thought flashed in me: "I must find the right tone; sentimentality may not get me far."
However, it merely flashed. I swear she really did interest me. Besides, I was somehow unnerved and susceptible. And knavery goes so easily with feeling.
"Who can say!" I hastened to reply. "All sorts of things happen. Now, I'm sure someone wronged you, and it's rather they who are guilty before you than you before them. I know nothing of your story, but a girl of your sort certainly wouldn't come here of her own liking…"
"What sort of girl am I?" she whispered, barely audibly; but I heard it.
"Devil take it," I thought, "I'm flattering her. This is vile. Or maybe it's good…" She was silent.
"You see, Liza - I'll speak about myself! If I'd had a family in my childhood, I wouldn't be the same as I am now. I often think about it. No matter how bad things are in a family, still it's your father and mother, not enemies, not strangers. At least once a year they'll show love for you. Still you know you belong there. I grew up without a family: that must be why I turned out this way… unfeeling."
I bided my time again.
"Maybe she just doesn't understand," I thought, "and anyway it's ridiculous - this moralizing."
"If I were a father and had a daughter, I think I'd love my daughter more than my sons, really," I began obliquely, as if talking about something else, to divert her. I confess I was blushing.
"Why is that?" she asked.
Ah, so she's listening!
"I just would; I don't know, Liza. You see: I knew a father who was a stern, severe man, but he was forever on his knees before his daughter, kept kissing her hands and feet, couldn't have enough of admiring her, really. She'd be dancing at a party, and he'd stand for five hours in the same spot, unable to take his eyes off her. He was mad about her; I can understand that. She'd get tired at night and go to sleep, and he would wake up and start kissing her and making the sign of the cross over her while she slept. He himself went around in a greasy jacket, was niggardly with everybody, but for her he'd have spent his last kopeck, he kept giving her rich presents, and what a joy it was for him if she liked the present. A father always loves his daughters more than a mother does. It's a delight for some girls to live at home! And I don't think I'd even give my daughter in marriage."
"Why not?" she said, with a slight chuckle.
"I'd be jealous, by God. How could she kiss another man? Or love a stranger more than her father? It's even painful to imagine it. Of course, that's all nonsense; of course, everyone will finally see reason. But I think, before giving her away, I'd wear myself out just with worry: I'd reject one suitor after another. But in the end I'd marry her to the one she herself loved. To a father, the man his daughter falls in love with herself always seems the worst. That's how it is. Much harm is done in families because of it."
"Some are glad to sell their daughter, and not give her away honorably," she suddenly said.
Ah! That's what it is!
"That happens, Liza, in those cursed families where there is neither God nor love," I picked up heatedly, "and where there is no love, there is no reason. Such families do exist, it's true, but I'm not talking about them. Evidently you saw no goodness in your family, since you talk that way. You're one of the truly unfortunate ones. Hm… It all comes mainly from poverty."
"And is it any better with the masters? Honest people have good lives even in poverty."
"Hm… yes. Perhaps. Then there's this, Liza: man only likes counting his grief, he doesn't count his happiness. But if he were to count properly, he'd see that there's enough of both lots for him. Well, and what if everything goes right in the family, God blesses it, your husband turns out to be a good man, who loves you, pampers you, never leaves your side! It's good in this family! Oftentimes even half mixed with grief it's still good; and where is there no grief? Perhaps, once you get married, you'll find out for yourself. But take just the beginning, after you've married someone you love: there's such happiness at times, so much happiness! I mean, day in and day out. In the beginning, even quarrels with a husband end well. Some women, the more they love, the more they pick quarrels with their husbands. It's true; I knew such a woman: 'You see,' she all but said, 'I love you very much, and torment you out of love, and you ought to feel it.' Do you know that one can deliberately torment a person out of love? Women, mainly. And she thinks to herself: 'But afterwards I'll love him so much for it, I'll caress him so, that it's no sin to torment him a bit now.' And at home everyone rejoices over you, and it's good, and cheery, and peaceful, and honest… Then, too, there's the jealous sort. He goes out somewhere - I knew one like this - she can't help herself, she jumps out at night and runs on the sly to see: is he there, is he in that house, is he with that woman? Now, that is bad. And she knows herself that it's bad, and her heart is sinking, and she blames herself, and yet she loves him; it's all from love. And how good to make peace after a quarrel, to own up to him, or to forgive! And how good, how good they both suddenly feel - as if they were meeting anew, getting married anew, beginning to love anew. And no one, no one ought to know what goes on between a husband and wife if they love each other. And whatever quarrel they may have - they shouldn't call even their mother to be their judge or hear them tell about each other. They are their own judges. Love - is God's mystery, and should be hidden from all other eyes, whatever happens. It's holier that way, and better. They respect each other more, and so much is founded on respect. And if there was love once, if they were married out of love, why should love pass? Can't it be sustained? It rarely happens that it can't be. Well, and if the husband proves to be a kind and honest man, how can love pass? The first married love will pass, true, but then an even better love will come. Then their souls will grow close; they'll decide all their doings together; they'll have no secrets from each other. And when children arrive, then all of it, even the hardest times, will look like happiness; one need only love and have courage. Now even work brings joy, now even if you must occasionally deny yourself bread for the children's sake, still there is joy. For they will love you for it later; so you're laying aside for yourself. The children are growing - you feel you're an example to them, a support for them; that even when you die, they'll bear your thoughts and feelings upon themselves as they received them from you, they'll take on your image and likeness. 16 So it is a great duty. How can a father and mother fail to grow closer? People say it's hard having children. Who says so? It's a heavenly happiness! Do you love little children, Liza? I love them terribly. You know - there's this rosy little boy sucking at your breast, now what husband's heart could turn against his wife, looking at her sitting with his child! The baby is rosy, plump, pampered, sprawling; his little hands and feet are pudgy; his nails are so clean and small, so small it's funny to see; his eyes seem to understand everything already. He's sucking and clutching at your breast with his little hand, playing. The father comes up - he'll tear himself away from the breast, bend back, look at his father, laughing - as if it really were God knows how funny - and then again, again start sucking. Or else he'll up and bite his mother's breast, if he's already cutting teeth, while giving her a sidelong look: 'See how I bit you!' Isn't this the whole of happiness, when they're all three together, husband, wife, and child? A lot can be forgiven for those moments. No, Liza, one must first learn how to live, and only then accuse others!"