Vera still kept silence. Father Ignaty stroked his beard with special precaution, as though he feared that his fingers would involuntarily begin to tear it, and continued:
“Against my wishes you went to St. Petersburg—did I curse you for your disobedience? Or did I refuse you money? Or do you say I was not kind? Well, why don’t you speak? See, the good your St. Petersburg has done you!”
Father Ignaty ceased speaking, and there rose before his mind’s eye something big, granite-built, terrible, full of unknown dangers, and of strange callous people. And there alone and weak was his Vera, and there she had been ruined. An angry hatred of that terrible incomprehensible city arose in Father Ignaty’s soul, together with anger towards his daughter, who kept silent, so obstinately silent.
“St. Petersburg has nothing to do with it,” said Vera crossly, and closed her eyes. “But there is nothing the matter with me. You had better go to bed, it’s late.”
“Verochka!” groaned her mother. “My little daughter, confide in me!”
“Oh! mamma!” said Vera, impatiently interrupting her.
Father Ignaty sat down on a chair and began to laugh.
“Well then, nothing is the matter after all?” he asked ironically.
“Father,” said Vera, in a sharp voice, raising herself up on her bed, “you know that I love you and mamma. But—I do feel so dull. All this will pass away. Really, you had better go to bed. I want to sleep, too. To-morrow, or sometime, we will have a talk.”
Father Ignaty rose abruptly, so that his chair bumped against the wall, and took his wife’s arm.