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Uncle's Dream

<h1> CHAPTER XI.</h1> Mosgliakoff went out from Maria Alexandrovna's house to all appearances quite pacified. She had fired his ardour completely. His imagination was kindled. He did not go to his godfather's, for he felt the need of solitude. A terrific rush of heroic and romantic thoughts surged over him, and gave him no rest. He pictured to himself the solemn explanation he should have with Zina, then the generous throbs of his all-forgiving heart; his pallor and despair at the future ball in St. Petersburg; then Spain, the Guadalquiver, and love, and the old dying prince joining their hands with his last blessing. Then came thoughts of his beautiful wife, devoted to himself, and never ceasing to wonder at and admire her husband's heroism and exalted refinement of taste and conduct. Then, among other things, the attention which he should attract among the ladies of the highest circles, into which he would of course enter, thanks to his marriage with Zina—widow of the Prince K.: then the inevitable appointments, first as a vice-governor, with the delightful accompaniment of salary: in a word, all, all that Maria Alexandrovna's eloquence had pictured to his imagination, now marched in triumphant procession through his brain, soothing and attracting and flattering his self-love. And yet—(I really cannot explain this phenomenon, however!)—and yet, no sooner did the first flush of this delightful sunrise of future delights pass off and fade away, than the annoying thought struck him: this is all very well, but it is in the future: and now, to-day, I shall look a dreadful fool. As he reflected thus, he looked up and found that he had wandered a long way, to some of the dirty back slums of the town. A wet snow was falling; now and again he met another belated pedestrian like himself. The outer circumstances began to anger Mosgliakoff, which was a bad sign; for when things are going well with us we are always inclined to see everything in a rose-coloured light. Paul could not help remembering that up to now he had been in the habit of cutting a dash at Mordasoff. He had enjoyed being treated at all the houses he went to in the town, as Zina's accepted lover, and to be congratulated, as he often was, upon the honour of that distinction. He was proud of being her future husband; and here he was now with notice to quit. He would be laughed at. He couldn't tell everybody about the future scene in the ball-room at St. Petersburg, and the Guadalquiver, and all that! And then a thought came out into prominence, which had been uncomfortably fidgeting about in his brain for some time: “Was it all true? Would it really come about as Maria Alexandrovna had predicted?” Here it struck him that Maria Alexandrovna was an amazingly cunning woman; that, however worthy she might be of universal esteem, still she was a known scandal-monger, and lied from morning to night! that, again, she probably had some good reason for wishing him out of the place to-night. He next bethought him of Zina, and of her parting look at him, which was very far from being expressive of passionate love; he remembered also, that, less than an hour ago she had called him a fool. As he thought of the last fact Paul stopped in his tracks, as though shot; blushed, and almost cried for very shame! At this very moment he was unfortunate enough to lose his footing on the slippery pavement, and to go head-first into a snow-heap. As he stood shaking himself dry, a whole troop of dogs, which had long trotted barking at his heels, flew at him. One of them, a wretched little half-starved beast, went so far as to fix her teeth into his fur coat and hang therefrom. Swearing and striking out, Paul cleared his way out of the yelping pack at last, in a fury, and with rent clothes; and making his way as fast as he could to the corner of the street, discovered that he hadn't the slightest idea where he was. He walked up lanes, and down streets, and round corners, and lost himself more and more hopelessly; also his temper. “The devil take all these confounded exalted ideas!” he growled, half aloud; “and the archfiend take every one of you, you and your Guadalquivers and humbug!” Mosgliakoff was not in a pretty humour at this moment. At last, tired and horribly angry, after two hours of walking, he reached the door of Maria Alexandrovna's house. Observing a host of carriages standing outside, he paused to consider. “Surely she has not a party to-night!” he thought, “and if she has, why has she a party?” He inquired of the servants, and found out that Maria Alexandrovna had been out of town, and had fetched up Afanassy Matveyevitch, gorgeous in his dress-suit and white tie. He learned, further, that the prince was awake, but had not as yet made his appearance in the “salon.” On receiving this information, Paul Mosgliakoff said not a word, but quietly made his way upstairs to his uncle's room. He was in that frame of mind in which a man determines to commit some desperate act, out of revenge, aware at the time, and wide awake to the fact that he is about to do the deed, but forgetting entirely that he may very likely regret it all his life afterwards! Entering the prince's room, he found that worthy seated before the glass, with a perfectly bare head, but with whiskers and napoleon stuck on. His wig was in the hands of his old and grey valet, his favourite Ivan Pochomitch, and the latter was gravely and thoughtfully combing it out. As for the prince, he was indeed a pitiable object! He was not half awake yet, for one thing; he sat as though he were still dazed with sleep; he kept opening and shutting his mouth, and stared at Mosgliakoff as though he did not know him! “Well, how are you, uncle?” asked Mosgliakoff. “What, it's you, is it!” said the prince. “Ye—yes; I've been as—leep a little while! Oh, heavens!” he cried suddenly, with great animation, “why, I've got no wi—ig on!” “Oh, never mind that, uncle; I'll help you on with it, if you like!” “Dear me; now you've found out my se—ecret! I told him to shut the door. Now, my friend, you must give me your word in—stantly, that you'll never breathe a hint of this to anyone—I mean about my hair being ar—tificial!” “Oh, uncle! As if I could be guilty of such meanness?” cried Paul, who was anxious to please the prince, for reasons of his own. “Ye—yes, ye—yes. Well, as I see you are a good fe—ellow, I—I'll just as—tonish you a little: I'll tell you all my secrets! How do you like my mous—tache, my dear boy?” “Wonderful, uncle, wonderful! It astonishes me that you should have been able to keep it so long!” “Sp—are your wonder, my friend, it's ar—tificial!” “No!! That's difficult to believe! Well, and your whiskers, uncle! admit—you black them, now don't you?” “Black them? Not—only I don't black them, but they, too, are ar—tificial!” said the Prince, regarding Mosgliakoff with a look of triumph. “What! Artificial? No, no, uncle! I can't believe that! You're laughing at me!” “Parole d'honneur, mon ami!” cried the delighted old man; “and fancy, all—everybody is taken in by them just as you were! Even Stepanida Matveyevna cannot believe they are not real, sometimes, although she often sticks them on herself! But, I am sure, my dear friend, you will keep my se—cret. Give me your word!” “I do give you my word, uncle! But surely you do not suppose I would be so mean as to divulge it?” “Oh, my boy! I had such a fall to-day, without you. The coachman upset me out of the carriage again!” “How? When?” “Why, we were driving to the mo—nastery, when?——” “I know, uncle: that was early this morning!” “No, no! A couple of hours ago, not more! I was driving along with him, and he suddenly took and up—set me!” “Why, my dear uncle, you were asleep,” began Paul, in amazement! “Ye—yes, ye—yes. I did have a sleep; and then I drove away, at least I—at least I—dear me, how strange it all seems!” “I assure you, uncle, you have been dreaming! You saw all this in a dream! You have been sleeping quietly here since just after dinner!” “No!” And the prince reflected. “Ye—yes. Perhaps I did see it all in a dream! However, I can remember all I saw quite well. First, I saw a large bull with horns; and then I saw a pro—curor, and I think he had huge horns too. Then there was Napoleon Buonaparte. Did you ever hear, my boy, that people say I am so like Napoleon Buonaparte? But my profile is very like some old pope. What do you think about it, my bo—oy?” “I think you are much more like Napoleon Buonaparte, uncle!” “Why, ye—yes, of course—full face; so I am, my boy, so I am! I dreamt of him on his is—land, and do you know he was such a merry, talk—ative fellow, he quite am—used me!” “Who, uncle—Napoleon?” asked Mosgliakoff, looking thoughtfully at the old man. A strange idea was beginning to occupy his brain—an idea which he could not quite put into shape as yet. “Ye—yes, ye—yes, Nap—oleon. We talked about philosophical subjects. And do you know, my boy, I became quite sorry that the English had been so hard upon him. Of course, though, if one didn't chain him up, he would be flying at people's throats again! Still I'm sorry for him. Now I should have managed him quite differently. I should have put him on an uninhabited island.” “Why uninhabited, uncle?” asked Mosgliakoff, absently. “Well, well, an inhabited one, then; but the in—habitants must be good sort of people. And I should arrange all sorts of amusements for him, at the State's charge: theatres, balle's, and so on. And, of course, he should walk about, under proper su—pervision. Then he should have tarts (he liked tarts, you know), as many tarts as ever he pleased. I should treat him like a fa—ather; and he would end by being sorry for his sins, see if he wouldn't!” Mosgliakoff listened absently to all this senile gabble, and bit his nails with impatience. He was anxious to turn the conversation on to the subject of marriage. He did not know quite clearly why he wished to do so, but his heart was boiling over with anger. Suddenly the old man made an exclamation of surprise. “Why, my dear boy, I declare I've forgotten to tell you about it. Fancy, I made an offer of marriage to-day!” “An offer of marriage, uncle?” cried Paul, brightening up. “Why, ye—yes! an offer. Pachomief, are you going? All right! Away with you! Ye—yes, c'est une charmante personne. But I confess, I took the step rather rash—ly. I only begin to see that now. Dear me! dear, dear me!” “Excuse me, uncle; but when did you make this offer?” “Well, I admit I don't know exactly when I made it! Perhaps I dre—dreamed it; I don't know. Dear me, how very strange it all seems!” Mosgliakoff trembled with joy: his new idea blazed forth in full developed glory. “And whom did you propose to?” he asked impatiently. “The daughter of the house, my boy; that beau—tiful girl. I—I forget what they call her. Bu—but, my dear boy, you see I—I can't possibly marry. What am I to do?” “Oh! of course, you are done for if you marry, that's clear. But let me ask you one more question, uncle. Are you perfectly certain that you actually made her an offer of marriage?” “Ye—yes, I'm sure of it; I—I——.” “And what if you dreamed the whole thing, just as you did that you were upset out of the carriage a second time?” “Dear me! dear me! I—I really think I may have dreamed it; it's very awkward. I don't know how to show myself there, now. H—how could I find out, dear boy, for certain? Couldn't I get to know by some outside way whether I really did make her an offer of ma—arriage or not? Why, just you think of my dreadful po—sition!” “Do you know, uncle, I don't think we need trouble ourselves to find out at all.” “Why, wh—what then?” “I am convinced that you were dreaming.” “I—I think so myself, too, my dear fellow; es—pecially as I often have that sort of dream.” “You see, uncle, you had a drop of wine for lunch, and then another drop or two for dinner, don't you know; and so you may easily have——” “Ye—yes, quite so, quite so; it may easily have been that.” “Besides, my dear uncle, however excited you may have been, you would never have taken such a senseless step in your waking moments. So far as I know you, uncle, you are a man of the highest and most deliberate judgment, and I am positive that——” “Ye—yes, ye—yes.” “Why, only imagine—if your relations were to get to hear of such a thing. My goodness, uncle! they were cruel enough to you before. What do you suppose they would do now, eh?” “Goodness gracious!” cried the frightened old prince. “Good—ness gracious! Wh—why, what would they do, do you think?” “Do? Why, of course, they would all screech out that you had acted under the influence of insanity: in fact, that you were mad; that you had been swindled, and that you must be put under proper restraint. In fact, they'd pop you into some lunatic asylum.” Mosgliakoff was well aware of the best method of frightening the poor old man out of his wits. “Gracious heavens!” cried the latter, trembling like a leaflet with horror. “Gra—cious heavens! would they really do that?” “Undoubtedly; and, knowing this, uncle, think for yourself. Could you possibly have done such a thing with your eyes open? As if you don't understand what's good for you just as well as your neighbours. I solemnly affirm that you saw all this in a dream!” “Of course, of course; un—doubtedly in a dream, un—doubtedly so! What a clever fellow you are, my dear boy; you saw it at once. I am deeply grate—ful to you for putting me right. I was really quite under the im—pression I had actually done it.” “And how glad I am that I met you, uncle, before you went in there! Just fancy, what a mess you might have made of it! You might have gone in thinking you were engaged to the girl, and behaved in the capacity of accepted lover. Think how fearfully dangerous——.” “Ye—yes, of course; most dangerous!” “Why, remember, this girl is twenty-three years old. Nobody will marry her, and suddenly you, a rich and eminent man of rank and title, appear on the scene as her accepted swain. They would lay hold of the idea at once, and act up to it, and swear that you really were her future husband, and would marry you off, too. I daresay they would even count upon your speedy death, and make their calculations accordingly.” “No!” “Then again, uncle; a man of your dignity——” “Ye—yes, quite so, dig—nity!” “And wisdom,—and amiability——” “Quite so; wis—dom—wisdom!” “And then—a prince into the bargain! Good gracious, uncle, as if a man like yourself would make such a match as that, if you really did mean marrying! What would your relations say?” “Why, my dear boy, they'd simply ea—eat me up,—I—I know their cunning and malice of old! My dear fellow—you won't believe it—but I assure you I was afraid they were going to put me into a lun—atic asylum! a common ma—ad-house! Goodness me, think of that! Whatever should I have done with myself all day in a ma—ad-house?” “Of course, of course! Well, I won't leave your side, then, uncle, when you go downstairs. There are guests there too!” “Guests? dear me! I—I——” “Don't be afraid, uncle; I shall be by you!” “I—I'm so much obliged to you, my dear boy; you have simply sa—ved me, you have indeed! But, do you know what,—I think I'd better go away altogether!” “To-morrow, uncle! to-morrow morning at seven! and this evening you must be sure to say, in the presence of everybody, that you are starting away at seven next morning: you must say good-bye to-night!” “Un—doubtedly, undoubtedly—I shall go;—but what if they talk to me as though I were engaged to the young wo—oman?” “Don't you fear, uncle! I shall be there! And mind, whatever they say or hint to you, you must declare that you dreamed the whole thing—as indeed you did, of course?” “Ye—yes, quite so, un—doubtedly so! But, do you know my dear boy, it was a most be—witching dream, for all that! She is a wond—erfully lovely girl, my boy,—such a figure—bewitching—be—witching!” “Well, au revoir, uncle! I'm going down, now, and you——” “How! How! you are not going to leave me alone?” cried the old man, greatly alarmed. “No, no—oh no, uncle; but we must enter the room separately. First, I will go in, and then you come down; that will be better!” “Very well, very well. Besides, I just want to note down one little i—dea——” “Capital, uncle! jot it down, and then come at once; don't wait any longer; and to-morrow morning——” “And to-morrow morning away we go to the Her—mitage, straight to the Her—mitage! Charming—charm—ing! but, do you know, my boy,—she's a fas—cinating girl—she is indeed! be—witching! Such a bust! and, really, if I were to marry, I—I—really——” “No, no, uncle! Heaven forbid!” “Yes—yes—quite so—Heaven for—bid!—well, au revoir, my friend—I'll come directly; by the bye—I meant to ask you, have you read Kazanoff's Memoirs?” “Yes, uncle. Why?” “Yes, yes, quite so—I forget what I wanted to say——” “You'll remember afterwards, uncle! au revoir!” “Au revoir, my boy, au revoir—but, I say, it was a bewitching dream, a most be—witching dream!” </div> <hr class="page" /> <div class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 5.00em; margin-top: 5.00em"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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