Nadezhda felt warmth, joy and self-pity in her breast, as if hcr mothcr actually had risen from thc. dead and stood bcfore her. She embraccd Mary Bityugov impctuously, burying hcr face in Mary's shoulder. Both wcpt, sitting on the sofa and sobbing for scvcral minutes —not looking at each other, bcrcft of spccch.
'My dcar child,' bcgan Mary. 'I'm going to tcll you somc homc truths without sparing you.'
'Yes, do, for God's sake do!'
'Trust me, dear. I'm the only one of the ladies here, you'll remembcr, who has askcd you to hcr home. I was tcrribly shockcd by you from your first day hcrc, but I hadn't the heart to look do\wn on you likc the others. I suffcred for dc.ar, kind Mr. Layevsky as for my own son. A young man in a strange country, inexpcrienced, wcak, without his mother—I cndured agonics. My husband was against the acquaintance, but I convinccd him, won him ovcr. So we bcgan to invitc Mr. Layevsky—and you too, of course, or clse he'd have been offendcd. I have a daughter and a son—. A child's tcnder nind, you know, its pure heart—"Whosoever shall offend onc of these littlc ones" and all that. I rcceived you—but trembled for my childrcn. Oh yes, you'll understand my fears whcn you're a mothcr yoursclf. Now, everyone was surprised at my recciving you—forgive mc—like a respectable woman. They hinted as much—and thcrc was gossip and conjecture, of course. In my innermost sclf I condc^ed you, but you were so wretched and pathetic, your behaviour was so monstrous, that my hcart bled for you.'
'But why?' asked Nadczhda Fyodorovn.a, trembling al! over. 'Why? What havc I done to anyone?'
'You committed a fearful sin. You broke thc vow made to your husband at the altar. You scduccd a fme young man who would perhaps have taken a lawful spouse from a good family in his own station, had hc nevcr met you, and would now be living a normal life. You have wrecked his youth. Now, don't say anything—don't speak, dear. I can't believe any man has ever been to blame for our sins, it's always the woman's fault. Men are so frivolous about family life, they live by their minds, not by the heart—they understand prccious little. But the woman understands everything. It all depends on hcr. Much has been given her, and much shall be asked of her. You know, dear, if the woman was sillier or weaker than the man in these matters, God would never have entrusted her with the upbringing of Iittle boys and girls. And then you trod the path of vice, dear, you lost all sense of shame. In your place any other woman would have hidden her face and stayed at home behind locked doors, never secn but in the Lord's temple—pale, in mourning dress, weeping. "Lord, this fallen angel hath returned to Thee," all would have cried, sincerely mortified. But you threw off all discretion, my sweet, you lived openly, outrageously—as if flaunting your sin. You frolicked and made meriy while I shuddered with horror as I watched, fearing lest thunder from heaven strike our house during one of your visits.
'Don't say anything, dear—please!' shouted Mary, seeing that Nadezhda was about to speak. 'Trust me, I won't deceive you, and I won't hide one single truth from your inner eyes. Now, listen, dear. God puts His mark on great sinners and you bear His mark. Remember what appalling clothes you've always worn!'
Nadezhda, who had always thought her clothes particu!arly good, stopped crying and looked at Mary Bityugov in amazement.
'Yes, appalling!' went on Mary Bityugov. 'Those grotesque, gaudy dresses—people canjudge your behaviour by them. Everyone sniggered when they saw you, and shrugged their shoulders—but I suffered agonies. Then forgive me, dear, but you're a bit careless in your personal habits. When we met in the bathing-house, you had me in quite a dither. Your top clothes aren't all that bad, but your petticoat and chemise—I can only blush, dear. Besides, no one ever tics Mr. Layevsky's tie properly, and look at the poor man's linen and boots—one can see he's not being looked after at home. Then you never give him enough to eat, darling. And if there's no one at home to see to the samovar and coffee, you know. one's bound to run through half onc's salary in thc Pavilion. And your house is frightful—ghastly! No one else in town has flies, but your place is crawling with them—the plates and saucers are all black. And just look at your window-sills and tables! The dust, the dead flies, the glasses! Why leave glasscs there? And you stillhaven't cleared the table, my sweet. As for your bedroom, one's ashamed to go in there, what with your underwear scattered all over the place, your various rubber things hanging on the walls, and an, er, utensil standing about—rea//y, my dear! The husband must know nothing and the wife must be as pure as a dear little angel in his sight. I wake up every morning at dawn and wash my face in cold water so that Nicodemus shan't see me looking sleepy.'
'These are all trivialities,' sobbed Nadezhda. 'If only I was happy— but I'm so wretched!'
'Yes, yes, you indeed are wretched,' sighed Mary Bityugov, hardly able to hold back her own tears. 'And great grief awaits you in the future—a loncly old age, illnesses, and then you must answer at the Day of Judgement. It's appalling, appalling. And now the very fates hold out a helping hand, you foolishly reject it. You must get married —and quickly!'
'Yes, yes, I should,' said Nadezhda. 'But it's out of the question.'
'Oh. Why?'
'It's impossible—ah, if you did but know!'
Nadezhda wanted to tell her about Kirilin, about meeting that good-looking young Achmianov by the harbour on the previous evening, about her mad, absurd idea of discharging her three-hundred- rouble debt, abo.ut how funny it had all seemed, and about how she had arrived home late at night feeling like one irretricvably ruined—a whore, in fact. She herself didn' t know how it had come about. Now she wanted to swcar to Mary Bityugov that she would pay thc debt without fail, but could not speak because she was sobbing so—and felt so ashamed.
Tll leave this place,' she said. 'Ivan can stay, but I'll go.'
'Go where?'
'To central Russia.'
'But what will you live on? You have no money, have you?'
'I'll do some translating, or—open a little library '
'Don't bc absurd, dear. You nced money to run a library. Ah well, I'll leave you now. Now, you calm down and think things over, then come and see me tomorrow in a bppy little mood. That will be perfectly sweet. Well, good-bye, cherub. Let me kiss you.'
Mary Bityugov kissed Nadezhda on the forche.id, made the sign of the cross over her, and quietly left. It was alrcady growing dark, and Olga had lit the kitchen lamp. Still crying, Nadczhda wcnt into the bedroom and by on the bcd. She was running a high fever. She undressed in a lying position, crumpling her dress down to her feet and curling_up under the blanket. She was thirsty, but there was no one to bring her a drink.
'I'll pay it back,' she told hcrself, imagining in her dclirious state that she was sitting beside some sick woman in whom she recognizcd herself. 'I'll pay. How silly to think that for money I would—. I'll leave here and send him the money from St. Petersburg. First one hundred, then another hundred, then another '
Layevsky came in later that night.
'First a hundred,' Nadczhda told him. 'Then another hundred '
'You should take quinine,' he said.
'Tomorrow's Wcdnesday,' he thought, 'and the boat will sail without me. That means I'm stuck here till Saturday.'
Nadezhda knelt up in bed.
'Did I say anything just now?' she asked, smiling and screwing up her eyes in the candle-light.
'No. We'll have to send for the doctor tomorrow morning. You go to sleep.'
He picked up a pillow and made for the door. Having taken the definite decision to depart and desert Nadezhda, he now fbund that she stirred his pity and remorse. He felt a certain compunction in her presence, as if she were a horse which was to be put do-wn because of sickness or old age. He stopped in the doorway and glanced back at her.
'I was annoyed at the picnic and spoke rudely to you. Forgive me, for God's sake.'