Julie had long been expecting a proposal from her melancholic admirer, and was fully prepared to accept it, but Boris held back, secretly put off by the girl herself, her desperate desire to get married, her affectation and a horrible feeling that he would be giving up any last chance of true love. His leave was nearly up. Every day God sent, and sometimes several days at a time, he spent at the Karagins’, and every single day Boris thought things over and decided that tomorrow was the day for him to propose. But when he was with Julie, watching her red face and chin, almost permanently powdered over, her watery eyes and that facial expression signalling instant readiness to switch from melancholy to artificial rapture inspired by conjugal bliss, Boris couldn’t bring himself to say the word, even though he had long imagined himself owning those big estates, and had spent their profits several times over. Julie could see Boris hesitating, and sometimes it actually occurred to her that she might not be exactly to his taste, but feminine vanity soon came to her rescue, reassuring her that love must have made him go all shy. Even so, her melancholy was rapidly turning into exasperation, and shortly before the end of Boris’s leave she thought of a positive plan of action. Just before Boris was due to go back who should appear in Moscow, and needless to say also in the Karagins’ drawing-room, but Anatole Kuragin, whereupon Julie suddenly cast aside all melancholy, came over all cheerful and made a great fuss of the newcomer.
‘Boris, my dear,’ said Anna Mikhaylovna, ‘I know from a reliable source that Prince Vasily has sent his son to Moscow to get him married to Julie. I have such a soft spot for Julie and this would make me very sorry. How do you feel about it, my dear?’
Boris was beside himself at the idea of being made a fool of, and having wasted a whole month of dogged melancholia on Julie, and seeing all the lovely money from those Penza estates which he had mentally assimilated and put to good use pass into somebody else’s hands, especially the hands of an idiot like Anatole. He drove straight round to the Karagins absolutely determined to propose. Julie welcomed him with a breezy cheerfulness, just happening to mention how much she had enjoyed yesterday evening’s ball, and she asked when he was leaving. Although Boris had come with every intention of declaring his love and therefore speaking tenderly, he launched forth irritably on the subject of feminine fickleness, observing how women could switch so easily from sadness to joy, and how their mood depended entirely on who happened to be running after them. Julie took offence at this, and said yes, it was perfectly true that a woman needed variety, and anyone would get bored if nothing ever changed.
‘In that case, my advice to you . . .’ But Boris, with a vitriolic word on the tip of his tongue, was suddenly struck by a galling thought – he might end up leaving Moscow without having achieved his goal, and after a great waste of effort, something he’d never experienced before. He cut himself short in mid-sentence, averted his eyes from her nasty look of exasperation and indecision, and said, ‘But listen, I didn’t come here to quarrel with you. Quite the opposite . . .’ He glanced at her, wondering whether or not to go on. Every last sign of annoyance had instantly vanished from her face, and her restless, imploring eyes were glued on him in avid anticipation.
‘I can always arrange not to see much of her,’ thought Boris. ‘In for a penny in for a pound!’ He blushed to the roots of his hair, gazed into her face and said, ‘You know how I feel about you!’ That was enough. Julie was beaming with triumph and self-congratulation, but she still made Boris go through everything that is normally said on these occasions – that he was in love with her and had never loved any woman like this. She knew that her Penza estates and her forests near Nizhny Novgorod gave her every right to demand this, and she got what she wanted.
The newly engaged couple, dispensing now with all references to trees that enfolded them with darkness and melancholy, were soon making plans for setting up a brilliant future residence in Petersburg, going the rounds as necessary and making arrangements for a magnificent wedding.
CHAPTER 6
