One moonlit night in May, while the nightingales sang, Father Ignatius’ wife entered his chamber. Her countenance expressed suffering. Approaching her husband, she touched his shoulder, and managed to say between her sobs:
"Father, let us go to Verochka."
Without turning his head, Father Ignatius glanced severely at his wife over the rims of his spectacles.
"That one toward the other be so pitiless!" she pronounced slowly, and her plump face was distorted with a grimace of pain and exasperation, as if in this manner she wished to express what stern people they were—her husband and daughter.
Father Ignatius smiled and arose. Closing his book, he removed his spectacles, placed them in the case and meditated. His long, black beard, inwoven with silver threads, lay dignified on his breast, and it slowly heaved at every deep breath.
"Well, let us go!" said he.
Vera’s chamber was in the attic, and the narrow, wooden stair bent and creaked under the heavy tread of Father Ignatius. Well he knew that nothing would come of their talk with Vera.
"Why do you come?" asked Vera, raising a bared arm to her eyes. The other arm lay on top of a white summer blanket hardly distinguishable from the fabric, so white, translucent and cold was its aspect.
"Verochka!" began her mother, but sobbing, she grew silent.
"Vera!" said her father, making an effort to soften his dry and hard voice. "Tell us what troubles you?"
Vera was silent.
"Vera, do not, we, your mother and I, deserve your confidence? Look at your aged mother, how much she suffers! And I. . . ." The dry voice trembled, truly something had broken in it.
Vera was silent. Father Ignatius cautiously stroked his beard, and continued:
"Against my wish you went to St. Petersburg—did I pronounce a curse upon you who disobeyed me? Or did I not give you money? Well, why then are you silent?"
Father Ignatius became silent, and an image arose before him of something huge, of granite, and terrible, full of invisible dangers and indifferent people. And there, alone and weak, was his Vera. An awful hatred against that terrible and mysterious city grew in the soul of Father Ignatius, and anger against his daughter who was obstinately silent.
"St. Petersburg has nothing to do with it," said Vera, morosely. "And nothing is the matter with me."
adapted from Silence by Leonid Andreyev
8
As a result of what happened in this passage, how will Father Ignatius most likely respond if his daughter asks to go to St. Petersburg again?
A.
He will only allow her to go a short while.
B.
He will give her more money for the trip.
C.
He will accompany her on the trip.
D.
He will forbid her from going there.