“And I…” The dry voice trembled, truly something had broken in it. “And I… do you think I find it easy? As if I did not see that some sorrow is gnawing at you and what is it? And I, your father, do not know what it is. Is it right that it should be so?”
Vera was silent. Father Ignatius very cautiously stroked his beard, as if afraid that his fingers would enmesh themselves involuntarily in it, and continued:
“Against my wish you went to St. Petersburg did I pronounce a curse upon you, you who disobeyed me? Or did I not give you money? Or, youll say, I have not been kind? Well, why then are you silent? There, youve had your St. Petersburg!”
Father Ignatius became silent, and an image arose before him of something huge, of granite, and terrible, full of invisible dangers and strange and indifferent people. And there, alone and weak, was his Vera and there they had lost her. An awful hatred against that terrible and mysterious city grew in the soul of Father Ignatius, and an anger against his daughter who was silent, obstinately silent.
“St. Petersburg has nothing to do with it,” said Vera, morosely, and closed her eyes. “And nothing is the matter with me. Better go to bed. it is late.”
Little daughter
I “Verochka,” whimpered her mother. “Little daughter, do confess to me.”
“Akh, mamma!” impatiently Vera interrupted her.
Father Ignatius sat down on a chair and laughed.
“Well, then its nothing?” he inquired, ironically.
“Father,” sharply put in Vera, raising herself from the pillow, “you know that I love you and mother. Well, I do feel a little weary. But that will pass. Do go to sleep, and I also wish to sleep. And to-morrow, or some other time, well have a chat.”
Father Ignatius impetuously arose so that the chair hit the wall, and took his wifes hand.
“Let us go.”
“Verochka!”
“Let us go, I tell you!” shouted Father Ignatius. “If she has for-gotten God, shall we…”
Almost forcibly he had led Olga Stepanovna out of the room, and when they descended the stairs, his wife, decreasing her gait, said in a harsh whisper:
“It was you, priest, who have made her such. From you she learned her ways. And youll answer for it. Akh, unhappy creature that I am!”
And she wept, and, as her eyes filled with tears, her foot, missing a Step, would descend with a sudden, jolt, as if she were eager to fall into some existent abyss below.
Read More about Cavalleria Rusticana part 3
