Mr. Zlotnitsky came in, and his wife was instantly silent.
What had captivated me in Sophia was not her strength of will—no; but with all her dryness, her lack of vivacity and imagination, she had a special charm of her own, the charm of straightforwardness, genuine sincerity, and purity of heart. I respected her as much as I loved her…. It seemed to me that she too looked with friendly eyes on me; to have my illusions as to her feeling for me shattered, and her love for another man proved conclusively, was a blow to me.
The unlooked-for discovery I had made astonished me the more as Asanov was not often at the Zlotnitskys' house, much less so than I, and had shown no marked preference for Sonitchka. He was a handsome, dark fellow, with expressive but rather heavy features, with brilliant, prominent eyes, with a large white forehead, and full red lips under fine moustaches. He was very discreet, but severe in his behaviour, confident in his criticisms and utterances, and dignified in his silence. It was obvious that he thought a great deal of himself. Asanov rarely laughed, and then with closed teeth, and he never danced. He was rather loosely and clumsily built. He had at one time served in the —th regiment, and was spoken of as a capable officer.
'A strange thing!' I ruminated, lying on the sofa; 'how was it I noticed nothing?' … 'Be careful as before': those words in Sophia's letter suddenly recurred to my memory. 'Ah!' I thought: 'that's it! What a sly little hussy! And I thought her open and sincere…. Wait a bit, that's all; I'll let you know….'
But at this point, if I can trust my memory, I began weeping bitterly, and could not get to sleep all night.
* * * * *
Next day at two o'clock I set off to the Zlotnitskys'. The father was not at home, and his wife was not sitting in her usual place; after the pancake festival of the preceding day, she had a headache, and had gone to lie down in her bedroom. Varvara was standing with her shoulder against the window, looking into the street; Sophia was walking up and down the room with her arms folded across her bosom; Popka was shrieking.
'Ah! how do you do?' said Varvara lazily, directly I came into the room, and she added at once in an undertone, 'There goes a peasant with a tray on his head.' … (She had the habit of keeping up a running commentary on the passers-by to herself.)
'How do you do?' I responded; 'how do you do, Sophia Nikolaevna? Where is Tatiana Vassilievna?'
'She has gone to lie down,' answered Sophia, still pacing the room.
'We had pancakes,' observed Varvara, without turning round. 'Why didn't you come? … Where can that clerk be going?' 'Oh, I hadn't time.' ('Present arms!' the parrot screeched shrilly.) 'How Popka is shrieking to-day!'
'He always does shriek like that,' observed Sophia.
We were all silent for a time.
'He has gone in at the gate,' said Varvara, and she suddenly got up on the window-sill and opened the window.
'What are you about?' asked Sophia.
'There's a beggar,' responded Varvara. She bent down, picked up a five-copeck piece from the window; the remains of a fumigating pastille still stood in a grey heap of ashes on the copper coin, as she flung it into the street; then she slammed the window to and jumped heavily down to the floor….
'I had a very pleasant time yesterday,' I began, seating myself in an arm-chair. 'I dined with a friend of mine; Konstantin Alexandritch was there…. (I looked at Sophia; not an eyebrow quivered on her face.) 'And I must own,' I continued, 'we'd a good deal of wine; we emptied eight bottles between the four of us.'
'Really!' Sophia articulated serenely, and she shook her head.
'Yes,' I went on, slightly irritated at her composure: 'and do you know what, Sophia Nikolaevna, it's a true saying, it seems, that in wine is truth.'
'How so?'
'Konstantin Alexandritch made us laugh. Only fancy, he began all at once passing his hand over his forehead like this, and saying: "I'm a fine fellow! I've an uncle a celebrated man!"….'
'Ha, ha!' came Varvara's short, abrupt laugh.
….'Popka! Popka! Popka!' the parrot dinned back at her.
Sophia stood still in front of me, and looked me straight in the face.
'And you, what did you say?' she asked; 'don't you remember?'
I could not help blushing.
'I don't remember! I expect I was pretty absurd too. It certainly is dangerous to drink,' I added with significant emphasis; 'one begins chattering at once, and one's apt to say what no one ought to know. One's sure to be sorry for it afterwards, but then it's too late.'
'Why, did you let out some secret?' asked Sophia.
'I am not referring to myself.'
Sophia turned away, and began walking up and down the room again. I stared at her, raging inwardly. 'Upon my word,' I thought, 'she is a child, a baby, and how she has herself in hand! She's made of stone, simply. But wait a bit….'
'Sophia Nikolaevna …' I said aloud.
Sophia stopped.
'What is it?'
'Won't you play me something on the piano? By the way, I've something I want to say to you,' I added, dropping my voice.
Sophia, without saying a word, walked into the other room; I followed her. She came to a standstill at the piano.
'What am I to play you?' she inquired.
'What you like … one of Chopin's nocturnes.'
Sophia began the nocturne. She played rather badly, but with feeling. Her sister played nothing but polkas and waltzes, and even that very seldom. She would go sometimes with her indolent step to the piano, sit down, let her coat slip from her shoulders down to her elbows (I never saw her without a coat), begin playing a polka very loud, and without finishing it, begin another, then she would suddenly heave a sigh, get up, and go back again to the window. A queer creature was that Varvara!
I sat down near Sophia.
'Sophia Nikolaevna,' I began, watching her intently from one side. 'I ought to tell you a piece of news, news disagreeable to me.'
'News? what is it?'
'I'll tell you…. Up till now I have been mistaken in you, completely mistaken.'
'How was that?' she rejoined, going on playing, and keeping her eyes fixed on her fingers.
'I imagined you to be open; I imagined that you were incapable of hypocrisy, of hiding your feelings, deceiving….'
Sophia bent her face closer over the music.
'I don't understand you.'
'And what's more,' I went on; 'I could never have conceived that you, at your age, were already quite capable of acting a part in such masterly fashion.'
Sophia's hands faintly trembled above the keys. 'Why are you saying this?' she said, still not looking at me; 'I play a part?'
'Yes, you do.' (She smiled … I was seized with spiteful fury.) … 'You pretend to be indifferent to a man and … and you write letters to him,' I added in a whisper.
Sophia's cheeks grew white, but she did not turn to me: she played the nocturne through to the end, got up, and closed the piano.
'Where are you going?' I asked her in some perplexity. 'You have no answer to make me?'
'What answer can I make you? I don't know what you 're talking about…. And I am not good at pretending….'
She began putting by the music.
The blood rushed to my head. 'No; you know what I am talking about,' I said, and I too got up from my seat; 'or if you like, I will remind you directly of some of your expressions in one letter: "be as careful as before"….'