Sonya's future made me anxious. Orlov was her father; in her birth certificate she was called Krasnovsky, and the only person who knew of her existence, and took interest in her—that is, I—was at death's door. I had to think about her seriously.
The day after I arrived in Petersburg I went to see Orlov. The door was opened to me by a stout3 old fellow with red whiskers and no moustache, who looked like a German. Polya, who was tidying the drawing-room, did not recognise me, but Orlov knew me at once.
"Ah, Mr. Revolutionist!" he said, looking at me with curiosity, and laughing. "What fate has brought you?"
He was not changed in the least: the same well-groomed, unpleasant face, the same irony4. And a new book was lying on the table just as of old, with an ivory paper-knife thrust in it. He had evidently been reading before I came in. He made me sit down, offered me a cigar, and with a delicacy5 only found in well-bred people, concealing6 the unpleasant feeling aroused by my face and my wasted figure, observed casually7 that I was not in the least changed, and that he would have known me anywhere in spite of my having grown a beard. We talked of the weather, of Paris. To dispose as quickly as possible of the oppressive, inevitable8 question, which weighed upon him and me, he asked:
"Zinaida Fyodorovna is dead?"
"Yes," I answered.
"In childbirth?"
"Yes, in childbirth. The doctor suspected another cause of death, but ... it is more comforting for you and for me to think that she died in childbirth."
He sighed decorously and was silent. The angel of silence passed over us, as they say.
"Yes. And here everything is as it used to be—no changes," he said briskly, seeing that I was looking about the room. "My father, as you know, has left the service and is living in retirement9; I am still in the same department. Do you remember Pekarsky? He is just the same as ever. Gruzin died of diphtheria a year ago.... Kukushkin is alive, and often speaks of you. By the way," said Orlov, dropping his eyes with an air of reserve, "when Kukushkin heard who you were, he began telling every one you had attacked him and tried to murder him ... and that he only just escaped with his life."
I did not speak.
"Old servants do not forget their masters.... It's very nice of you," said Orlov jocosely10. "Will you have some wine and some coffee, though? I will tell them to make some."
"No, thank you. I have come to see you about a very important matter, Georgy Ivanitch."
"I am not very fond of important matters, but I shall be glad to be of service to you. What do you want?"
"You see," I began, growing agitated11, "I have here with me Zinaida Fyodorovna's daughter.... Hitherto I have brought her up, but, as you see, before many days I shall be an empty sound. I should like to die with the thought that she is provided for."
Orlov coloured a little, frowned a little, and took a cursory12 and sullen13 glance at me. He was unpleasantly affected14, not so much by the "important matter" as by my words about death, about becoming an empty sound.
"Yes, it must be thought about," he said, screening his eyes as though from the sun. "Thank you. You say it's a girl?"
"Yes, a girl. A wonderful child!"
"Yes. Of course, it's not a lap-dog, but a human being. I understand we must consider it seriously. I am prepared to do my part, and am very grateful to you."
He got up, walked about, biting his nails, and stopped before a picture.
"We must think about it," he said in a hollow voice, standing15 with his back to me. "I shall go to Pekarsky's to-day and will ask him to go to Krasnovsky's. I don't think he will make much ado about consenting to take the child."
"But, excuse me, I don't see what Krasnovsky has got to do with it," I said, also getting up and walking to a picture at the other end of the room.
"But she bears his name, of course!" said Orlov.
"Yes, he may be legally obliged to accept the child—I don't know; but I came to you, Georgy Ivanitch, not to discuss the legal aspect."
"Yes, yes, you are right," he agreed briskly. "I believe I am talking nonsense. But don't excite yourself. We will decide the matter to our mutual16 satisfaction. If one thing won't do, we'll try another; and if that won't do, we'll try a third—one way or another this delicate question shall be settled. Pekarsky will arrange it all. Be so good as to leave me your address and I will let you know at once what we decide. Where are you living?"
Orlov wrote down my address, sighed, and said with a smile:
"Oh, Lord, what a job it is to be the father of a little daughter! But Pekarsky will arrange it all. He is a sensible man. Did you stay long in Paris?"
"Two months."
We were silent. Orlov was evidently afraid I should begin talking of the child again, and to turn my attention in another direction, said:
"You have probably forgotten your letter by now. But I have kept it. I understand your mood at the time, and, I must own, I respect that letter. 'Damnable cold blood,' 'Asiatic,' 'coarse laugh'—that was charming and characteristic," he went on with an ironical17 smile. "And the fundamental thought is perhaps near the truth, though one might dispute the question endlessly. That is," he hesitated, "not dispute the thought itself, but your attitude to the question—your temperament18, so to say. Yes, my life is abnormal, corrupted19, of no use to any one, and what prevents me from beginning a new life is cowardice—there you are quite right. But that you take it so much to heart, are troubled, and reduced to despair by it—that's irrational20; there you are quite wrong."
"A living man cannot help being troubled and reduced to despair when he sees that he himself is going to ruin and others are going to ruin round him."
"Who doubts it! I am not advocating indifference21; all I ask for is an objective attitude to life. The more objective, the less danger of falling into error. One must look into the root of things, and try to see in every phenomenon a cause of all the other causes. We have grown feeble, slack—degraded, in fact. Our generation is entirely composed of neurasthenics and whimperers; we do nothing but talk of fatigue22 and exhaustion23. But the fault is neither yours nor mine; we are of too little consequence to affect the destiny of a whole generation. We must suppose for that larger, more general causes with a solid raison d'être from the biological point of view. We are neurasthenics, flabby, renegades, but perhaps it's necessary and of service for generations that will come after us. Not one hair falls from the head without the will of the Heavenly Father—in other words, nothing happens by chance in Nature and in human environment. Everything has its cause and is inevitable. And if so, why should we worry and write despairing letters?"
"That's all very well," I said, thinking a little. "I believe it will be easier and clearer for the generations to come; our experience will be at their service. But one wants to live apart from future generations and not only for their sake. Life is only given us once, and one wants to live it boldly, with full consciousness and beauty. One wants to play a striking, independent, noble part; one wants to make history so that those generations may not have the right to say of each of us that we were nonentities24 or worse.... I believe what is going on about us is inevitable and not without a purpose, but what have I to do with that inevitability25? Why should my ego26 be lost?"
"Well, there's no help for it," sighed Orlov, getting up and, as it were, giving me to understand that our conversation was over.
I took my hat.
"We've only been sitting here half an hour, and how many questions we have settled, when you come to think of it!" said Orlov, seeing me into the hall. "So I will see to that matter.... I will see Pekarsky to-day.... Don't be uneasy."
He stood waiting while I put on my coat, and was obviously relieved at the feeling that I was going away.
"Georgy Ivanitch, give me back my letter," I said.
"Certainly."
He went to his study, and a minute later returned with the letter. I thanked him and went away.
The next day I got a letter from him. He congratulated me on the satisfactory settlement of the question. Pekarsky knew a lady, he wrote, who kept a school, something like a kindergarten, where she took quite little children. The lady could be entirely depended upon, but before concluding anything with her it would be as well to discuss the matter with Krasnovsky—it was a matter of form. He advised me to see Pekarsky at once and to take the birth certificate with me, if I had it. "Rest assured of the sincere respect and devotion of your humble27 servant...."
I read this letter, and Sonya sat on the table and gazed at me attentively28 without blinking, as though she knew her fate was being decided29.
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1
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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7
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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8
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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jocosely
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| adv.说玩笑地，诙谐地 | |
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11
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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cursory
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| adj.粗略的；草率的；匆促的 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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16
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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20
irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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24
nonentities
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| n.无足轻重的人( nonentity的名词复数 )；蝼蚁 | |
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25
inevitability
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| n.必然性 | |
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ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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29
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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