Fyodor Dostoyevsky: Complete Novels & Stories (Wisehouse Classics). Fyodor Dostoyevsky

all yours, my dear, I will give you everything, and Yegorushka will give you something too, but do not lay me living in my grave, beg him to bring back Foma Fomitch.”

      And the old woman would have gone on wailing and drivelling if Miss Perepelitsyn and all the lady companions had not, with shrieks and moans, rushed to lift her up, indignant that she should be on her knees before a hired governess. Nastenka was so frightened that she could hardly stand, while Miss Perepelitsyn positively shed tears of fury.

      “You will be the death of your mamma,” she screamed at my uncle. “You will be the death of her. And you, Nastasya Yevgrafovna, ought not to make dissension between mother and son; the Lord has forbidden it...”

      “Anna Nilovna, hold your tongue!” cried my uncle. “I have put up with enough!”

      “Yes, and I have had enough to put up with from you too. Why do you reproach me with my friendless position? It is easy to insult the friendless. I am not your slave yet. I am the daughter of a major myself. You won’t see me long in your house, this very day... I shall be gone....”

      But my uncle did not hear her; he went up to Nastenka and with reverence took her by the hand.

      “Nastasya Yevgrafovna! You have heard my offer?” he said, looking at her with anguish, almost with despair.

      “No, Yegor Ilyitch, no! We had better give it up,” said Nastenka, utterly dejected too. “It is all nonsense,” she said, pressing his hand and bursting into tears. “You only say this because of yesterday... but it cannot be. You see that yourself. We have made a mistake, Yegor Ilyitch... But I shall always think of you as my benefactor and... I shall pray for you always, always!...”

      At this point tears choked her. “My poor uncle had evidently foreseen this answer; he did not even think of protesting, of insisting. He listened, bending down to her, still holding her hand, crushed and speechless. There were tears in his eyes.

      “I told you yesterday,” Nastya went on, “that I could not be your wife. You see that I am not wanted here... and I foresaw all this long ago; your mamma will not give you her blessing... others too. Though you would not regret it afterwards, because you are the most generous of men, yet you would be made miserable through me... with your softheartedness....”

      “Just because of your soft-heartedness! Just because you are so so]t-hearted! That’s it, Nastenka, that’s it!” chimed in her old father, who was standing on the other side of her chair. “That’s just it, that’s just the right word.”

      “I don’t want to bring dissension into your house on my account,” Nastenka went on. “And don’t be uneasy about me, Yegor Ilyitch; no one will interfere with me, no one will insult me... I am going to my father’s... this very day... We had better say good-bye, Yegor Ilyitch....”

      And poor Nastenka dissolved into tears again.

      “Nastasya Yevgrafovna! Surely this is not your final answer!” said my uncle, looking at her in unutterable despair. “Say only one word and I will sacrifice everything for you!...”

      “It is final, it is final, Yegor Ilyitch...” Yezhevikin put in again, “and she has explained it all very well to you, as I must own I did not expect her to. You are a very soft-hearted man, Yegor Ilyitch, yes, very soft-hearted, and you have graciously done us a great honour! A great honour, a great honour!... But all the same we are not a match for you, Yegor Ilyitch. You ought to have a bride, Yegor Ilyitch, who would be wealthy and of high rank, and a great beauty and with a voice too, who would walk about your rooms all in diamonds and ostrich feathers... Then perhaps Foma Fomitch would make a little concession and give his blessing! And you will bring Foma Fomitch back! It was no use, no use your insulting him. It was from virtue, you know, from excess of fervour that he said too much, you know. You will say yourself that it was through his virtue—you will see! A most worthy man. And here he is getting wet through now. It would be better to fetch him back now... For you will have to fetch him back, you know...”

      “Fetch him back, fetch him back!” shrieked Madame la Générale. “What he says is right, my dear!...”

      “Yes,” Yezhevikin went on. “Here your illustrious parent has upset herself about nothing... Fetch him back! And Nastaya and I meanwhile will be on the march....”

      “Wait a minute, Yevgraf Larionitch!” cried my uncle, “I entreat you. There is one thing more must be said, Yevgraf, one thing only....”

      Saying this, he walked away, sat down in an arm-chair in the comer, bowed his head, and put his hands over his eyes as though he were thinking over something.

      At that moment a violent clap of thunder sounded almost directly over the house. The whole building shook. Madame la Générale gave a scream, Miss Perepelitsyn did the same, the lady companions, and with them Mr. Bahtcheyev, all stupefied with terror, crossed themselves.

      “Holy Saint, Elijah the prophet!” five or six voices murmured at once.

      The thunder was followed by such a downpour that it seemed as though the whole lake were suddenly being emptied upon Stepantchikovo.

      “And Foma Fomitch, what will become of him now out in the fields?” piped Miss Perepelitsyn.

      “Yegorushka, fetch him back!” Madame la Générale cried in a voice of despair, and she rushed to the door as though crazy. Her attendant ladies held her back; they surrounded her, comforted her, whimpered, squealed. It was a perfect Bedlam!

      “He went off with nothing over his coat. If he had only taken an overcoat with him!” Miss Perepelitsyn went on. “He did not take an umbrella either. He will be struck by lightning!...”

      “He will certainly be struck!” Bahtcheyev chimed in. “And he will be soaked with rain afterwards, too.”

      “You might hold you tongue!” I whispered to him.

      “Why, he is a man, I suppose, or isn’t he?” Bahtcheyev answered wrathfully. “He is not a dog. I bet you wouldn’t go out of doors yourself. Come, go and have a bath for your plaisir.”

      Foreseeing how it might end and dreading the possibility, I went up to my uncle, who sat as though chained to his chair.

      “Uncle,” I said, trending down to his ear, “surely you won’t consent to bring Foma Fomitch back? Do understand that that would be the height of unseemliness, at any rate as long as Nastasya Yevgrafovna is here.”

      “My dear,” answered my uncle, raising his head and looking at me resolutely,” I have been judging myself at this moment and I know what I ought to do. Don’t be uneasy, there shall be no offence to Nastenka, I will see to that....”

      He got up from his seat and went to his mother.

      “Mamma,” he said, “don’t worry yourself, I will bring Foma Fomitch back, I will overtake him; he cannot have gone far yet. But I swear he shall come back only on one condition, that here publicly in the presence of all who were witnesses of the insult he should acknowledge how wrong he has been, and solemnly beg the forgiveness of this noble young lady. I will secure that, I will make him do it! He shall not cross the threshold of this house without it! I swear, too, mamma, solemnly, that if he consents to this of his own free will, I shall be ready to fall at his feet, and will give him anything, anything I can, without injustice to my children. I myself will renounce everything from this very day. The star of my happiness has set. I shall leave Stepantchikovo. You must all live here calmly and happily. I am going back to my regiment, and in the turmoil of war, on the field of battle, I will end my despairing days... Enough! I am going!”

      At that moment the door opened, and Gavrila, soaked through and incredibly muddy, stood facing the agitated company.

      “What’s the matter? Where have you come from? Where is Foma?” cried my uncle, rushing up to Gavrila.

      Everyone followed him, and with eager curiosity crowded round the old man, from whom dirty water was literally trickling in streams. Shrieks, sighs, exclamations accompanied every word Gavrila