The Adolescent

“You know what,” I said, “you say you came mainly so that my mother would think we’ve made peace. Enough time has passed for her to think that; would you kindly leave me alone?”

He blushed slightly and got up from his place.

“My dear, you are extremely unceremonious with me. However, good-bye; love can’t be forced. I’ll allow myself only one question: do you really want to leave the prince?”

“Aha! I just knew you had special goals . . .”

“That is, you suspect I came to persuade you to stay with the prince, because I stand to profit from it myself. But, my friend, you don’t think I also invited you from Moscow with some sort of profit in mind, do you? Oh, how suspicious you are! On the contrary, I wished for your own good in everything. And even now, when my means have improved so much, I wish that, at least occasionally, you would allow your mother and me to help you.”

“I don’t like you, Versilov.”

“And it’s even ‘Versilov.’ By the way, I regret very much that I couldn’t pass this name on to you, for in fact my whole fault consists only in that, if it is a fault, isn’t that so? But, once again, I couldn’t marry a married woman, judge for yourself.”

“That’s probably why you wanted to marry an unmarried one?”

A slight spasm passed over his face.

“You mean Ems. Listen, Arkady, you allowed yourself that outburst downstairs, pointing the finger at me in front of your mother. Know, then, that precisely here you went widest of the mark. You know exactly nothing of the story of the late Lydia Akhmakov. Nor do you know how much your mother herself participated, yes, even though she wasn’t there with me; and if I ever saw a good woman, it was then, as I looked at your mother. But enough, this is all still a mystery, and you—you say who knows what and in somebody else’s voice.”

“The prince said precisely today that you were an amateur of unfledged girls.”

“The prince said that?”

“Yes. Listen, do you want me to tell you exactly why you came to me now? I’ve been sitting all this while asking myself what was the secret of this visit, and now, it seems, I’ve finally guessed it.”

He was already on his way out, but he stopped and turned his head to me in expectation.

“Earlier I let slip in passing that Touchard’s letter to Tatyana Pavlovna got in with Andronikov’s papers and wound up, after his death, with Marya Ivanovna in Moscow. I saw something suddenly twitch in your face, and only now did I guess why, when something just twitched in your face again in exactly the same way: it occurred to you then, downstairs, that if one of Andronikov’s letters had already wound up with Marya Ivanovna, why shouldn’t another do the same? And Andronikov might have left some highly important letters, eh? Isn’t that so?”

“And I came to you wanting to make you blab about something?”

“You know it yourself.”

He turned very pale.

“You didn’t figure that out on your own; there’s a woman’s influence here. And how much hatred there is in your words—in your coarse guess!”

“A woman’s? And I saw that woman just today! Maybe you want to have me stay with the prince precisely in order to spy on her?”

“Anyhow, I see you’ll go extremely far on your new road. Mightn’t this be ‘your idea’? Go on, my friend, you have unquestionable ability along the sleuthing line. Given talent, one must perfect it.”

He paused to catch his breath.

“Beware, Versilov, don’t make me your enemy!”

“My friend, in such cases no one speaks his last thoughts, but keeps them to himself. And now give me some light, I beg you. You may be my enemy, but not so much, probably, as to wish me to break my neck. Tiens, mon ami,²⁴ imagine,” he continued, going down, “all this month I’ve been taking you for a good soul. You want so much to live and thirst so much to live, that it seems if you were given three lives, it wouldn’t be enough for you; it’s written on your face. Well, and such men are most often good souls. And see how mistaken I’ve been!”

IV

I CAN’T EXPRESS how my heart was wrung when I was left alone: as if I had cut off a piece of my own living flesh! Why I had suddenly gotten so angry, and why I had offended him like that—so intensely and deliberately—I couldn’t tell now, of course, or then either. And how pale he had turned! And what, then? Maybe that paleness was an expression of the most sincere and pure feelings and the deepest grief, and not of anger and offense. It always seemed to me that there were moments when he loved me very much. Why, why should I not believe that now, the more so as so much has now been completely explained?