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All these conscious thoughts came to him always inseparably from the vivid memory of the dead child, always close, and always striking his soul. He re-created for himself her pale little face, recalled its every expression; he remembered her in the coffin amid the flowers, and earlier, unconscious in fever, with open, fixed eyes. He remembered suddenly that, when she was already laid out on the table, he had noticed one of her fingers which, God knows why, had turned black during her illness; he had been so struck by it then, and had felt such pity for this poor little finger, that it had entered his mind right there and then, for the first time, to find Pavel Pavlovich at once and kill him—until that time he “had been as if insensible.” Was it insulted pride that had tormented this child’s little heart, or three months of suffering from a father who had suddenly exchanged love for hatred and insulted her with a shameful word, who had laughed at her fear, and had thrown her away, finally, to strangers? All this he pictured ceaselessly to himself, varying it in a thousand ways. “Do you know what Liza was for me?”—he suddenly recalled the drunken Trusotsky’s exclamation, and he felt that this exclamation had no longer been clowning, but the truth, and there had been love in it. “How, then, could this monster be so cruel to a child he loved so, and is it probable?” But he hastened to drop this question each time, as if waving it away; there was something terrible in this question, something unbearable for him and—unresolved.
One day, and almost not remembering how himself, he wandered into the cemetery where Liza was buried and found her little grave. He had not been to the cemetery once since the funeral; he kept imagining that it would be too painful and had not dared to go. But, strangely, when he bent down to her little grave and kissed it, he suddenly felt better. It was a clear evening, the sun was setting; round about, near the graves, lush green grass was growing; not far away amid the eglantines, a bee buzzed; the flowers and wreaths left on Liza’s little grave by the children and Klavdia Petrovna after the burial still lay there, half their leaves blown off. Even some sort of hope, for the first time in a long while, refreshed his heart. “What lightness!” he thought, feeling the silence of the cemetery and gazing at the clear, serene sky. A flood of some pure, untroubled faith in something filled his soul. “Liza has sent it to me, it’s she talking to me,” came the thought.
It was already getting quite dark as he went back home from the cemetery. Not too far from the cemetery gates, on the road, in a low wooden building, there was something like a chophouse or pub; through the open window clients could be seen sitting at tables. It suddenly seemed to him that one of them, placed just by the window, was—Pavel Pavlovich, and that he had also seen him and was peeking curiously at him through the window. He went on and soon heard someone coming after him; it was in fact Pavel Pavlovich ru
“Good evening,” he said.
“Good evening,” Velchaninov replied.
XI
PAVEL PAVLOVICH GETS MARRIED
Having replied with this “good evening,” he became surprised at himself. It seemed terribly strange to him that he should meet this man now with no anger at all, and that there was something quite different in his feelings for him at that moment and even a sort of urge for something new.
“Such a pleasant evening,” Pavel Pavlovich said, peeking into his eyes.
“You haven’t left yet?” Velchaninov said, as if he were not asking but merely pondering, and continued to walk.
“I had a slow time of it, but—I got the post, sir, with a promotion. I’ll be leaving for certain the day after tomorrow.”
“You got the post?” he did ask this time.
“And why not, sir?” Pavel Pavlovich’s face suddenly twisted.
“I said it just…” Velchaninov dodged and, frowning, looked at Pavel Pavlovich out of the corner of his eye. To his surprise, the clothing, the hat with crape, and the whole appearance of Mr. Trusotsky were incomparably more decent than two weeks before. “Why was he sitting in that pub?” he kept thinking.
“I was meaning to tell you, Alexei Ivanovich, about another joy of mine,” Pavel Pavlovich began again.
“Joy?”
“I’m getting married, sir.”
“What?”
“Joy follows grief, sir, it’s always so in life. Alexei Ivanovich, sir, I’d like very much… but—I don’t know, maybe you’re in a hurry now, because you look as if…”
“Yes, I’m in a hurry and… yes, I’m not well.”
He suddenly wanted terribly to get away; the readiness for some new feeling instantly vanished.
“And I would have liked, sir…”
Pavel Pavlovich did not finish saying what he would have liked; Velchaninov kept silent.
“Afterward, then, sir, if only we meet…”
“Yes, yes, afterward, afterward,” Velchaninov muttered rapidly, not looking at him or stopping. They were silent for another minute; Pavel Pavlovich went on walking beside him.
“In that case, good-bye, sir,” he spoke finally. “Good-bye. I wish you…”
Velchaninov returned home thoroughly upset again. The encounter with “this man” was too much for him. Going to bed, he thought again: “Why was he near the cemetery?”
The next morning he made up his mind; sympathy from anyone, even the Pogoreltsevs, was much too heavy for him now. But they were so worried about him that he absolutely had to go. He suddenly imagined that he would be very embarrassed for some reason on first meeting them. “To go or not to go?” he thought, hurrying to finish his breakfast, when suddenly, to his extreme amazement, Pavel Pavlovich walked in.
Despite yesterday’s encounter, Velchaninov could never have imagined that this man might someday call on him again, and he was so taken aback that he stared at him without knowing what to say. But Pavel Pavlovich took things in hand, greeted him, and sat down in the same chair he had sat in three weeks earlier during his last visit. Velchaninov suddenly remembered that visit especially vividly. Uneasily and with disgust, he looked at his visitor.
“Surprised, sir?” Pavel Pavlovich began, divining Velchaninov’s gaze.
Generally he seemed much more casual than the day before, and at the same time it could be seen that his timidity was greater. His external appearance was especially curious. Mr. Trusotsky was dressed not only decently but stylishly—in a light summer jacket, tight-fitting, light-colored trousers, a light-colored waistcoat; gloves, a gold lorgnette, which for some reason suddenly appeared, linen—all impeccable; he even smelled of perfume. There was in his whole figure something at once ridiculous and suggestive of some strange and unpleasant thought.
“Of course, Alexei Ivanovich,” he went on, cringing, “I surprised you by coming, sir, and—I can feel it, sir. But between people, so I think, sir, there always remains—and, in my opinion, must remain—something higher, don’t you think, sir? That is, higher with regard to all conventions and even the very unpleasantnesses that may come of it… don’t you think, sir?”
“Pavel Pavlovich, say it all quickly and without ceremony,” Velchaninov frowned.
“In two words, sir,” Pavel Pavlovich hurried, “I’m getting married and am presently going to my fiancée, right now. They’re also in the country, sir. I wished to be granted the profound honor, so as to dare acquaint you with this family, sir, and I’ve come with an exceptional request” (Pavel Pavlovich humbly bowed his head), “to ask you to accompany me, sir…”