The next day the gay, handsome, and brilliant Schonbock joined
Nekhludoff at his aunts' house, and quite won their hearts by his
refined and amiable manner, his high spirits, his generosity, and
his affection for Dmitri.
But though the old ladies admired his generosity it rather
perplexed them, for it seemed exaggerated. He gave a rouble to
some blind beggars who came to the gate, gave 15 roubles in tips
to the servants, and when Sophia Ivanovna's pet dog hurt his paw
and it bled, he tore his hemstitched cambric handkerchief into
strips (Sophia Ivanovna knew that such handkerchiefs cost at
least 15 roubles a dozen) and bandaged the dog's foot. The old
ladies had never met people of this kind, and did not know that
Schonbock owed 200,000 roubles which he was never going to pay,
and that therefore 25 roubles more or less did not matter a bit
to him. Schonbock stayed only one day, and he and Nekhludoff
both, left at night. They could not stay away from their regiment
any longer, for their leave was fully up.
At the stage which Nekhludoff's selfish mania had now reached he
could think of nothing but himself. He was wondering whether his
conduct, if found out, would be blamed much or at all, but he did
not consider what Katusha was now going through, and what was
going to happen to her.
He saw that Schonbock guessed his relations to her and this
flattered his vanity.
"Ah, I see how it is you have taken such a sudden fancy to your
aunts that you have been living nearly a week with them,"
Schonbock remarked when he had seen Katusha. "Well, I don't
wonder--should have done the same. She's charming." Nekhludoff
was also thinking that though it was a pity to go away before
having fully gratified the cravings of his love for her, yet the
absolute necessity of parting had its advantages because it put a
sudden stop to relations it would have been very difficult for
him to continue. Then he thought that he ought to give her some
money, not for her, not because she might need it, but because it
was the thing to do.
So he gave her what seemed to him a liberal amount, considering
his and her station. On the day of his departure, after dinner,
he went out and waited for her at the side entrance. She flushed
up when she saw him and wished to pass by, directing his
attention to the open door of the maids' room by a look, but he
stopped her.
"I have come to say good-bye," he said, crumbling in his hand an
envelope with a 100-rouble note inside. "There, I . . . "
She guessed what he meant, knit her brows, and shaking her head
pushed his hand away.
"Take it; oh, you must!" he stammered, and thrust the envelope
into the bib of her apron and ran back to his room, groaning and
frowning as if he had hurt himself. And for a long time he went
up and down writhing as in pain, and even stamping and groaning
aloud as he thought of this last scene. "But what else could I
have done? Is it not what happens to every one? And if every one
does the same . . . well I suppose it can't be helped." In this
way he tried to get peace of mind, but in vain. The recollection
of what had passed burned his conscience. In his soul--in the
very depths of his soul--he knew that he had acted in a base,
cruel, cowardly manner, and that the knowledge of this act of his
must prevent him, not only from finding fault with any one else,
but even from looking straight into other people's eyes; not to
mention the impossibility of considering himself a splendid,
noble, high-minded fellow, as he did and had to do to go on
living his life boldly and merrily. There was only one solution
of the problem--i.e., not to think about it. He succeeded in doing
so. The life he was now entering upon, the new surroundings, new
friends, the war, all helped him to forget. And the longer he
lived, the less he thought about it, until at last he forgot it
completely.