The Adolescent

“No, she was afraid all along that she had the document—Anna, I mean—and I was, too. So we kept watch on her. The daughter didn’t want to shock the old man, but, true, the little German, Bjoring, was also sorry about the money.”

“And she can marry Bjoring after that?”

“What can you do with a foolish woman? As they say, once a fool, always a fool. You see, he’s going to give her some sort of calm. ‘I must marry somebody,’ she says, ‘so I suppose he’d be the most suitable one.’ We’ll see just how suitable it will be. She’ll slap her sides afterwards, but it will be too late.”

“Then why do you allow it? Don’t you love her; didn’t you tell her to her face that you’re in love with her?”

“And I am in love with her, I love her more than all of you taken together, but still she’s a senseless fool!”

“Then run and fetch her now, and we’ll resolve everything and take her in person to her father.”

“But it’s impossible, impossible, you little fool! That’s the point! Ah, what to do! Ah, I’m sick!” She rushed about again, though she did snatch up her shawl. “E-eh, if only you had come four hours earlier, it’s past seven now, and she went to dine with the Pelishchevs some time ago, and then to go with them to the opera.”

“Lord, can’t we run over to the opera . . . no, we can’t! What’s going to happpen to the old man? He may die during the night!”

“Listen, don’t go there, go to your mama, sleep there, and tomorrow early . . .”

“No, I won’t leave the old man for anything, whatever may come of it.”

“Don’t leave him; that’s good of you. And, you know . . . I’ll run to her place anyhow and leave her a note . . . you know, I’ll write it in our own words (she’ll understand!), that the document is here, and that tomorrow at exactly ten o’clock in the morning she must be at my place—on the dot! Don’t worry, she’ll come, she’ll listen to me—then we’ll settle everything at once. And you go there and fuss over the old man as much as you can, put him to bed, chances are he’ll survive till morning! Don’t frighten Anna either; I love her, too. You’re unfair to her, because you can’t understand these things: she’s offended, she’s been offended since childhood. Oh, you all pile up on me! And don’t forget, tell her from me that I’ve taken this matter up myself, with all my heart, and that she should be at peace, and there will be no damage to her pride . . . Over the past few days she and I have squabbled, quarreled—fallen out completely! Well, off you run . . . wait, show me the pocket again . . . is it true, is it true? Oh, is it true? Give me the letter for the night, what is it to you? Leave it, I won’t eat it. You may let it slip out of your hands during the night . . . do change your mind?”

“Not for anything!” I cried. “There, feel it, look, but I won’t leave it with you for anything.”

“I see there’s a piece of paper,” she felt it with her fingers. “E-eh, all right, go, and I may even swing by the theater for her, that was a good idea! But run, run!”

“Wait, Tatyana Pavlovna, how’s mama?”

“Alive.”

“And Andrei Petrovich?”

She waved her hand.

“He’ll come round!”

I ran off encouraged, reassured, though it hadn’t turned out the way I had reckoned. But, alas, fate had determined differently, and something else awaited me—truly, there is a fatum in the world!

II