1
Varvara Petrovna rang the bell and flung herself into an armchair near the window.
‘Sit here, my dear,’ she said, motioning Marya Timofeevna to a seat in the middle of the room near a large round table. ‘Stepan Trofimovich, what do you make of her? Go on, have a look at this woman. What do you make of her?’
‘I… I…’ Stepan Trofimovich began mumbling…
But a footman appeared.
‘Bring me a cup of coffee at once, as soon as possible! Don’t unharness the carriage.’
‘Mais, chère et excellente amie, dans quelle inquiétude…’1 exclaimed Stepan Trofimovich in a faltering voice.
‘Oh! French, French! You can tell at once we’re in high society!’ Marya Timofeevna said, clapping her hands, rapturously, expecting to hear a conversation in French. Varvara Petrovna stared at her almost in terror.
We all remained silent, waiting to see what would happen. Shatov kept his eyes down, while Stepan Trofimovich looked very embarrassed, as if he were to blame for everything; his temples were bathed in perspiration. I glanced at Liza (she was sitting in the corner, close to Shatov). Her sharp eyes darted from Varvara Petrovna to the crippled woman and back again; her lips were twisted into an unpleasant grin. Varvara Petrovna noticed it. Meanwhile Marya Timofeevna was thoroughly diverted: with enjoyment and without the least trace of embarrassment she examined Varvara Petrovna’s splendid drawing-room—the furnishings, rugs, pictures on the walls, old-fashioned painted ceiling, large bronze crucifix hanging in the corner, porcelain lamp, albums, and knick-knacks on the table.
‘So, you’re here, too, Shatushka!’ she exclaimed suddenly. p. 169↵‘Just think, I noticed you some time ago, but I thought: no, it’s not you! How could you be here?’ she said and laughed gaily.
‘Do you know this woman?’ Varvara Petrovna asked, turning to him immediately.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Shatov muttered. He seemed about to move from his chair, but remained seated.
‘What do you know about her? Tell me, please, this instant!’
‘Well…’ he replied with an unnecessary smile, then hesitated. ‘You see for yourself.’
‘What do I see? Well, say something!’
‘She lives in the same house as I do… with her brother… an officer.’
‘Well?’
Shatov hesitated again.
‘It’s not worth talking about…’ he mumbled and lapsed into determined silence. He even turned red in his determination.
‘Of course, there’s nothing more to be got out of you!’ Varvara Petrovna said, cutting him short in indignation. Now it was clear to her that everyone knew something and was afraid, avoiding her questions, wanting to conceal something from her.
The footman entered carrying a small silver tray with the cup of coffee she’d specially ordered, but at once, on her signal he offered it to Marya Timofeevna.
‘My dear, you were very cold just now; drink it quickly and warm yourself up.’
‘Merci,’ Marya Timofeevna replied taking the cup, and suddenly burst out laughing because she had said ‘merci’ to a footman. But encountering Varvara Petrovna’s threatening glance she grew timid and put the cup on the table.
‘Auntie, you’re not angry, are you?’ she murmured with a kind of frivolous playfulness.
‘Wha-a-at?’ Varvara Petrovna said with a start, sitting straight up in her chair. ‘I’m no aunt of yours! What do you mean by that?’
Marya Timofeevna hadn’t expected her to be so angry; p. 170↵she began shaking all over with slight tremors, as if she were having a fit, and then fell back into her chair.
‘I… I thought that’s what I was supposed to call you,’ she babbled, staring at Varvara Petrovna. ‘That’s what Liza calls you.’
‘Which Liza is that?’
‘Why, this young lady,’ she said pointing her finger.
‘Since when has she become Liza to you?’
‘You called her that just now,’ Marya Timofeevna said, feeling a bit bolder. ‘Once I saw a beautiful girl like her in my dream,’ she added, laughing as it were unintentionally.
Varvara Petrovna thought for a moment and then calmed down; she even smiled ever so slightly at Marya Timofeevna’s last remark. Marya caught her smile, stood up from her chair, and limping, approached her timidly.
‘Here, take it; I forgot to give it back to you. Don’t be angry with me for my discourtesy,’ she said, suddenly removing from her shoulders the black shawl Varvara Petrovna had placed there earlier.
‘Put it on again this minute and keep it from now on. Go and sit down, drink your coffee, and please, don’t be afraid of me, my dear, calm down. I’m beginning to understand you.’
‘Chère amie…’ Stepan Trofimovich allowed himself to begin again.
‘Ah, Stepan Trofimovich, this is barely making sense without your help, so spare me… Please, ring the bell next to you for the maid.’
Silence ensued. Her eyes suspiciously and irritably surveyed all our faces. Agasha, her favourite maid, came in.
‘Bring me my checked kerchief, the one I bought in Geneva. What’s Darya Pavlovna doing?’
‘She’s not feeling well, ma’am.’
‘Go and ask her to come in here. Say I’d really like her to come, even if she isn’t feeling well.’
At this moment an unusual noise of footsteps and voices was again heard in the next room, just as before; suddenly a panting and ‘distraught’ Praskovya Ivanovna appeared at the door. Maurice Nikolaevich was supporting her by the arm.
p. 171↵‘Oh, good heavens, I could scarcely drag myself out here; Liza, are you mad, or what, the way you treat your mother?’ she shrieked, investing that shriek with all her pent-up irritation, as weak, irritable people tend to do.
‘My dear Varvara Petrovna, I’ve come to fetch my daughter!’
Varvara Petrovna glanced at her sullenly, and half rose to meet her; scarcely concealing her annoyance, she said:
‘Good day, Praskovya Ivanovna, pray sit down. I knew you’d come.’
2
There was nothing surprising for Praskovya Ivanovna in such a reception. Varvara Petrovna had always, from early childhood, treated her former schoolfriend despotically, and, under the guise of friendship, almost with contempt. But the present situation was exceptional. During the last few days relations between the two households had been strained to breaking point, as I mentioned briefly earlier. The reasons for this incipient rupture remained a mystery to Varvara Petrovna; consequently, they were all the more offensive to her. But the main thing was that Praskovya Ivanovna had succeeded in adopting an extraordinarily overbearing attitude toward Varvara Petrovna. The latter, of course, felt wounded; meanwhile, certain strange rumours had begun to reach her, also very irritating, particularly on account of their vagueness. Varvara Petrovna’s character was straight forward and proudly candid, inclined to attack head-on, if one may express it like that. Less than anything could she tolerate secret and mysterious allegations, and always preferred open warfare. Be that as it may, it was now five days since these two ladies had seen each other. Varvara Petrovna had paid the last call and had left that ‘Drozdova woman’s’ house feeling offended and confused. I can state with certainty that Praskovya Ivanovna came now in the naïve conviction that Varvara Petrovna had some reason to be afraid of her; this was obvious from the expression on her face. But it was also clear that Varvara Petrovna was possessed by a demon of the most arrogant pride whenever p. 172↵she had even the least suspicion that she was supposed to feel humiliated. Praskovya Ivanovna, like many weak personalities who have allowed themselves to be insulted for some time without protesting, showed unusual zest for launching an attack at the first favourable opportunity. True, she was unwell, but she’d become even more irritable as a result of her illness. Let me add that the presence of all these people gathered in the drawing-room would have done nothing whatsoever to inhibit these two childhood friends, if indeed some quarrel had erupted between them; we were looked upon as friends of the family, almost as subordinates. I realized this at the time not without anxiety. Stepan Trofimovich, who hadn’t sat down since Varvara Petrovna entered the room, lowered himself into a chair in exhaustion the moment he heard Praskovya Ivanovna’s shriek, and desperately tried to catch my eye. Shatov turned sharply in his chair and began to mutter to himself. I think he wanted to get up and leave. Liza stood up, but immediately sank down again, without paying the requisite attention to her mother’s scream, not because of her ‘obstinate character’, but because she was entirely preoccupied with another powerful impression. She was staring into space, almost absent-mindedly, and had even stopped taking any notice of Marya Timofeevna.
3
‘Oh, over here!’ Praskovya Ivanovna said, pointing to a chair near the table; with some assistance from Maurice Nikolaevich, she sank heavily into it. ‘I wouldn’t sit down in your house, my dear, if it weren’t for my legs!’ she added in a hysterical voice.
Varvara Petrovna raised her head slightly, and, with a pained expression, pressed the fingers of her right hand to her right temple, obviously feeling a sharp pain (tic douloureux).
‘What’s this all about, Praskovya Ivanovna? Why can’t you sit down in my house? I enjoyed your late husband’s sincere friendship all his life; you and I played with our dolls together when we were little girls in boarding school.’
p. 173↵Praskovya Ivanovna dismissed her with a wave of her hand.
‘I knew that was coming! You always start talking about school when you intend to reproach me. That’s your little trick. In my opinion, it’s only rhetoric. I can’t stand you and your boarding school.’
‘You seem to have come in a very nasty temper; how are your legs? Here now, have some coffee, please; drink it and don’t be so angry.’
‘My dear Varvara Petrovna, you’re treating me as if I were a little girl. I don’t want any coffee, so there!’
And she querulously waved away the servant bringing her a cup of coffee. (By the way, the others also declined coffee, except for Maurice Nikolaevich and myself. Stepan Trofimovich accepted a cup, but placed his on the table. Although Marya Timofeevna really wanted another cup and had even reached for it, she thought better of it and ceremoniously declined, obviously quite pleased with herself for doing so.)
Varvara Petrovna smiled wryly.
‘Do you know, Praskovya Ivanovna, my dear, you must have been imagining something when you came in here. All your life you’ve been imagining things. You became irritated because I mentioned school; hut don’t you remember when you arrived and assured the whole class that that hussar, Shablykin, proposed to you, and how Madame Lefebure proved you were lying? But you weren’t really lying; you’d simply imagined it all to amuse yourself. Well, tell me, what is it now? What are you imagining? What are you so upset about?’
‘Well, you fell in love with the priest at school, the one who taught us Scripture. There’s something for you, if you want to harbour such memories for so long! Ha, ha, ha!’
She burst out laughing spitefully and ended in a coughing fit.
‘A-ah, so you haven’t forgotten about that priest…’ Varvara Petrovna said, staring at her malevolently.
Her face turned green. Praskovya Ivanovna suddenly assumed a more dignified air.
p. 174↵‘Well, my dear, I’m really in no mood for laughter right now. Why have you dragged my daughter into your scandal in front of the whole town? That’s really why I came here!’
‘Into my scandal?’ Varvara Petrovna said, suddenly drawing herself up menacingly.
‘Mamma, I too would like you to be more moderate,’ Lizaveta Nikolaevna said suddenly.
‘What did you say?’ her mother replied, about to start screaming again; but suddenly subsided, catching sight of her daughter’s flashing eyes.
‘How can you talk about a scandal, mamma?’ cried Liza, flushing. ‘I came here myself with Yulia Mikhailovna’s permission to hear this poor woman’s story and to help her.’
‘ “This poor woman’s story!” ’ Praskovya Ivanovna drawled with malicious laughter. ‘Is it right for you to get mixed up in such “stories”? Oh no, my dear! We’ve had enough of your despotism!’ she said, turning furiously to Varvara Petrovna. ‘I don’t know whether it’s true or not, but they say you’ve got the whole town trained; it seems to me, however, that now your time has also come!’
Varvara Petrovna sat there taut as an arrow ready to fly from a bow. For ten seconds she stared sternly at Praskovya Ivanovna without stirring.
‘Well, Praskovya, you can thank God that everyone here is one of us,’ she said at last with sinister composure. ‘You’ve said more than you needed to.’
‘Well, my dear, I’m not so afraid of public opinion as some people are; it’s you, in the guise of pride, who tremble before public opinion. As for everyone here being one of us, it’s you who should be pleased, since it would’ve been worse if any strangers had been here listening.’
‘Have you grown a little wiser this past week?’
‘No, I haven’t grown any wiser this past week, but obviously the truth has now come out.’
‘What truth? Listen, Praskovya Ivanovna, don’t annoy me any further. I insist you explain yourself this very minute: what truth has come out and what exactly do you mean?’
‘Why, here it is, the truth is sitting right here!’ Praskovya Ivanovna replied suddenly and motioned to Marya Timofeevnap. 175↵with that desperate determination that no longer worries about consequences, as long as it can land a solid blow. Marya Timofeevna, who’d been looking at her all along with cheerful curiosity, burst into joyous laughter at the sight of the visitor’s angry finger pointed at her; blithely she shifted her position in her chair.
‘Jesus Christ, Our Lord, have they all gone mad, or what?’ Varvara Petrovna cried, turning pale and sinking back into her armchair.
She became so pale there was even general consternation. Stepan Trofimovich was first to rush over to her. I went up to her as well. Even Liza stood up, although she remained near her chair. But it was Praskovya Ivanovna who was most frightened of all: she cried out, raised herself as far as she could, and wailed in a mournful voice:
‘Varvara Petrovna, my dear, forgive my wicked foolishness! Water, someone give her a drink of water!’
‘Don’t whimper, please, Praskovya Ivanovna, I beg you. And get away, gentlemen, do me a favour. I don’t need any water!’ Varvara Petrovna pronounced firmly, though not very loudly, through pale lips.
‘My dear!’ Praskovya Ivanovna continued, a little more composed. ‘Varvara Petrovna, my friend, although I may be wrong to have said more than I should have, I’m most upset by all these anonymous letters that horrible people have been bombarding me with. They really ought to be sending them to you, since it’s you they’re writing about, while I, my dear, have a daughter!’
Varvara Petrovna stared at her in silence with eyes wide-open, and listened in astonishment. At this moment a side door in the corner opened soundlessly and Darya Pavlovna appeared. She stopped and looked around; she was struck by our general consternation. She probably didn’t see Marya Timofeevna at first, since no one had warned her. Stepan Trofimovich, the first to notice her, made a quick movement, blushed, and then announced in a loud voice: ‘Darya Pavlovna!’ As a result all eyes turned to greet the new arrival.
‘Oh, so this is your Darya Pavlovna!’ cried Marya Timofeevna. ‘Well, Shatushka, your little sister doesn’t look at p. 176↵all like you! How can my brother refer to such a beauty as “that serf-girl Dashka”?’
Meanwhile Darya Pavlovna was approaching Varvara Petrovna; but, struck by Marya Timofeevna’s exclamation, she turned around quickly and stood in front of her chair, directing a long, penetrating glance at this ‘holy fool’.*
‘Sit down, Dasha,’ said Varvara Petrovna with chilling composure, ‘Nearer, that’s right. You can still see this woman sitting down. Do you know her?’
‘I’ve never seen her before,’ Dasha replied softly, and fell silent. Then she added, ‘She must be the sickly sister of that Mr Lebyadkin.’
‘And it’s the first time, my dear, I get to see you, although I’ve been wanting to meet you for a long time, because in your every gesture I can see your fine upbringing,’ Marya Timofeevna cried with enthusiasm. ‘As for what my lackey says about you, is it really possible that you, a nice, well-brought up girl, would take money from him? Because you’re so nice, nice, nice—that’s my very own opinion!’ she concluded ecstatically, waving her hand in front of her.
‘Do you understand anything?’ Varvara Petrovna asked with proud dignity.
‘I understand everything, ma’am…’
‘You’ve heard about the money?’
‘It must be the money which, according to Nikolai Vsevolodovich’s request in Switzerland, I was supposed to hand over to her brother, Mr Lebyadkin.’
Silence followed.
‘Nikolai Vsevolodovich asked you to hand it over?’
‘He very much wanted to send the money to Mr Lebyadkin, three hundred roubles in all. But since he didn’t know his address, and knew he’d be coming to our town, he asked me to hand it over if Mr Lebyadkin arrived.’
‘What money was… lost? What was that woman talking about just now?’
‘That I don’t know, ma’am; I also have heard Mr Lebyadkin’s been telling other people that I didn’t hand over all the money to him; but I don’t understand that. There were three hundred roubles and I handed over three hundred roubles.’
p. 177↵Darya Pavlovna had regained her composure almost completely. I should observe in general that it was difficult to astonish or confuse this young lady for very long—whatever she really felt. Now she gave all her answers without haste, replying at once to every question precisely, quietly, serenely, without a trace of her first, sudden agitation and without the least embarrassment, which might have indicated an awareness of some fault on her part. Varvara Petrovna kept her eyes fixed on her face all the while she spoke. Varvara Petrovna thought it over for a minute.
‘If,’ she said at last quite firmly, obviously addressing her audience, although she was looking only at Dasha, ‘if Nikolai Vsevolodovich turned to you with his request rather than to me, he undoubtedly had some special reason. I don’t consider I have any right to enquire into the matter, if it’s meant to be kept secret. But your participation in this affair is enough to put my mind completely at ease; I want you to know that above all, Darya. But don’t you see, my dear, that with all your ignorance of the world, you might have committed an indiscretion; you did so when you entered into dealings with a scoundrel. The rumours that rascal circulated confirm your error. But I’ll find out about him and, as your guardian, I’ll do what I can to defend you. But now we must put a stop to all this.’
‘The best thing would be, when he comes to see you,’ Marya Timofeevna broke in suddenly, leaning forward in her chair, ‘to send him to the servants’ quarters. Let him play cards with them sitting on a chest, while we sit here drinking coffee. I suppose we could send him in a cup of coffee, too, but I have nothing but contempt for him.’
She shook her head expressively.
‘We must put a stop to all this,’ Varvara Petrovna repeated, after listening attentively to Marya Timofeevna. ‘Stepan Trofimovich, can I ask you to ring the bell.’
Stepan Trofimovich rang the bell and suddenly stepped forward in great agitation.
‘If… if I…’ he muttered in a feverish state, turning red, breaking off, and stuttering, ‘If I too heard the most revolting story, or rather slander, then… it was in total p. 178↵indignation… enfin, c’est un homme perdu et quelque chose comme un forçat évadé…’1
He broke off and didn’t finish; Varvara Petrovna, screwing up her eyes, looked him over from head to foot. The respectful Aleksei Yegorovich came in.
‘My carriage,’ Varvara Petrovna ordered, ‘now, Aleksei Yegorovich, you get ready to take Miss Lebyadkina home; she’ll direct you.’
‘Mr Lebyadkin has been waiting downstairs for some time, ma’am; he’s asked me to announce him.’
‘That’s impossible, Varvara Petrovna,’ Maurice Nikolaevich spoke up suddenly in alarm; he’d been sitting there all the while in unbroken silence. ‘If you permit me, ma’am, he’s not the sort to be received in society. He… he… he’s an impossible person, Varvara Petrovna.’
‘Ask him to wait,’ said Varvara Petrovna, turning to Aleksei Yegorevich; he went out.
‘C’est un homme malhonnête et je crois même que c’est un forçat évadé ou quelque chose dans ce genre,’2 Stepan Trofimovich muttered once again, blushed again, and broke off again.
‘Liza, it’s time to go,’ Praskovya Ivanovna announced in some disgust and stood up. Now she seemed to regret having called herself a fool in her recent fright. While Darya Pavlovna was speaking, she listened with a supercilious grin on her face. But most of all I was struck by Lizaveta Nikolaevna’s demeanour since Darya Pavlovna had entered: her eyes gleamed with hatred and contempt, totally undisguised.
‘Wait a minute, Praskovya Ivanovna, I beg you,’ Varvara Petrovna said, stopping her with the same extraordinary serenity. ‘Do me a favour and sit down; I intend to say all that I have to say, and your legs cause you pain. That’s right, thank you. I lost my temper earlier and said some hasty things to you. Do me a favour and forgive me; I behaved foolishly and I’m the first to regret it, because I p. 179↵so value fairness in all things. Of course, you lost your temper, too, and mentioned those anonymous letters. Every anonymous communication deserves contempt precisely because it’s unsigned. If you’re of a different opinion, I don’t envy you. In any case, if I were in your place, I wouldn’t soil my hands in other people’s trash. But you’ve soiled yours. But since you started it, I’ll tell you that about six days ago I too received a ludicrous, anonymous letter. Some rascal wrote to assure me that Nikolai Vsevolodovich had lost his sanity and I should fear some lame woman, who “was going to play a decisive role in my life”. I remember that phrase. Realizing that Nikolai Vsevolodovich has a great many enemies, I immediately sent for a certain person living near here, one of his secret, most vindictive and contemptible enemies, and my conversation with that person told me in a flash what the letter’s despicable provenance was. If you, too, my poor Praskovya Ivanovna, have been troubled because of me by similar despicable letters, if you’re being “bombarded” with them as you say, then, of course, I’m the first to regret having served as the unwitting cause. That’s all I want to say by way of explanation. I’m sorry to see you so exhausted and upset now. Besides, I’ve made up my mind to “admit” this suspicious fellow now whom Maurice Nikolaevich just described as someone who couldn’t possibly be “received”. Liza, in particular, has no place here. Come here, Liza, my dear, and let me kiss you again.’
Liza crossed the room and stood silently in front of Varvara Petrovna. The latter kissed her, took her by the hand, held her at some distance, looked at her with considerable feeling, made the sign of the cross over her, and then kissed her again.
‘Well, goodbye, Liza’ (one could almost hear tears in Varvara Petrovna’s voice). ‘You should know that I’ll never stop loving you, whatever fate holds in store for you… God be with you. I’ve always accepted His holy will…’
She wanted to add something else, but restrained herself and fell silent. Liza started back to her place in the same silent way, as if lost in thought, but suddenly stopped in front of her mother.
p. 180↵‘Mamma, I’m not going home. I’ll stay here a while longer with Auntie,’ she said in a low voice, but in those soft words her iron will made itself heard.
‘My God, what’s this?’ Praskovya Ivanovna wailed, throwing up her hands helplessly. But Liza made no reply; it was as if she didn’t even hear her. She sat down in the corner as before and stared into space again.
A triumphant and proud look appeared on Varvara Petrovna’s face.
‘Maurice Nikolaevich, I have a very great favour to ask you. Be so kind as to go downstairs and take a look at that man, and, if there’s even the slightest possibility of “receiving” him, bring him up here.’
Maurice Nikolaevich bowed and left. In a minute he returned with Mr Lebyadkin.
4
I’ve already said something about this gentleman’s outward appearance: he was a tall, curly-haired, solid fellow, about forty years old, with a ruddy, somewhat bloated, flabby face; his cheeks quivered with every movement of his head; he had smallish, bloodshot, sometimes rather sly eyes, a moustache, sidewhiskers, and a prominent Adam’s apple of a rather unpleasant sort. But what was most striking about him was that he now appeared in a frock-coat, wearing clean linen. ‘There are people on whom even clean linen looks indecent,’ Liputin once said in reply to Stepan Trofimovich, who’d reproached him in jest for his slovenliness. The captain also had a pair of black gloves: he held the right one in his hand, the left, tightly stretched and still unbuttoned, covered only half his fleshy left hand, in which he held a brand new, shiny top hat, undoubtedly worn for the first time. It turned out, therefore, that the ‘frock-coat of love’ which he’d been crowing about to Shatov only yesterday really did exist. All this, that is, the frock-coat and linen, had been procured (I subsequently discovered) on Liputin’s advice, for some mysterious purpose. There was no doubt that his arrival now (in a hired carriage) was also at the instigation and with the assistance of a third party; p. 181↵it would never have occurred to him on his own, nor would he have managed to dress, get ready, and make his mind up in three-quarters of an hour, even assuming he’d heard about the scene on the cathedral porch right away. He wasn’t drunk, but was in that heavy, oppressed, hazy condition of a man who’s suddenly awakened after a long drinking-bout. He looked as though a couple of slaps on the back and, he’d be drunk again immediately.
He was about to rush into the drawing-room when he suddenly tripped over the rug in the doorway. Marya Timofeevna nearly died laughing. He cast a furious glance at her and suddenly took several hasty steps forward in the direction of Varvara Petrovna.
‘I’ve come, madam…’ he blared as if through a trumpet.
‘Be so good, my dear sir,’ Varvara Petrovna said, sitting up very straight, ‘as to take a seat over there, on that chair. I’ll still be able to hear you from there and can see you better from here.’
The captain stopped and stared blankly in front of him; then he turned and sat down on the chair next to the door just as directed. His expression revealed a dearth of self-confidence, but at the same time insolence and a sort of permanent irritability. He was terribly afraid, that was obvious. But he suffered, too, in his vanity, and one could surmise that irritated vanity might make him decide on occasion, in spite of his fear, to commit some insolent act. Apparently he feared every movement of his own clumsy body. It’s well known that the primary cause of suffering in all such gentlemen, when by some miraculous circumstance they appear in society, is none other than their own hands and the impossibility of finding a suitable place for them—something which they themselves are constantly aware of. The captain sat absolutely still on the chair, hat and gloves in hand, without lifting his stupid gaze from Varvara Petrovna’s stern face. He may have wanted to look around more carefully, but he hadn’t made up his mind to do so. Marya Timofeevna, no doubt finding the figure he cut terribly amusing yet again, burst out laughing, but he didn’t budge. Varvara Petrovna kept him in that position p. 182↵ruthlessly, for a long time, one entire minute, scrutinizing him mercilessly.
‘First of all, I’d like to hear your name from you yourself,’ she said in a measured and expressive tone of voice.
‘Captain Lebyadkin,’ the captain roared. ‘I’ve come here, ma’am…’ he said, twisting in his chair again.
‘Allow me!’ Varvara Petrovna said, stopping him once more. ‘Is this pitiful person who’s attracted my interest really your sister?’
‘She is, ma’am. She’s my sister and has escaped my control, and she’s in such a condition that…’
He suddenly faltered and turned crimson.
‘Don’t misunderstand me, ma’am,’ he said, becoming terribly confused. ‘Her own brother won’t soil… in such a condition—that is, not in such a condition… in the sense that it stained her reputation… lately…’
He broke off abruptly.
‘My dear sir!’ Varvara Petrovna said, raising her head.
‘I mean this sort of condition!’ he suddenly concluded, tapping the middle of his forehead with his finger. There followed a short pause.
‘Has she been suffering from it very long?’ drawled Varvara Petrovna.
‘Madam, I’ve come to thank you for the generosity you showed us on the church porch—to thank you in the Russian way, in brotherly fashion…’
‘In brotherly fashion?’
‘That is, not brotherly, but in the sense that I’m my sister’s brother, ma’am, and believe me, ma’am,’ he said faster, turning crimson once again, ‘I’m not so uneducated as might appear on first glance in your drawing-room. My sister and I are nothing at all, ma’am, compared to the splendour which we see here. Besides, there are those who slander me. But as for reputation, ma’am, Lebyadkin is proud, and… and… I’ve come to thank you… Here’s the money, ma’am!’
He took out his wallet, pulled out a pile of bills, and started counting them, his fingers trembling in a violent fit of impatience. It was obvious he wanted to explain something p. 183↵ as quickly as possible and counting bills made him look even more foolish; he lost his last ounce of self-control. The money refused to be counted, his fingers became tangled, and, to complete his embarrassment, one green three-rouble note slipped out of his wallet and zig-zagged down to the floor.
‘Twenty roubles, ma’am,’ he said, jumping up suddenly with a pile of bills in his hand, his face covered in perspiration; noticing the bill on the floor, he was about to bend over to pick it up, but then, for some reason embarrassed, dismissed it with a wave of his hand.
‘That’s for your servants, ma’am, for the footman who picks it up; let him remember the Lebyadkin girl!’
‘I can’t allow that,’ Varvara Petrovna said hastily, and in some apprehension.
‘In that case…’
He bent down, retrieved it, turned crimson, and suddenly went up to Varvara Petrovna and offered her the money he’d counted out.
‘What’s this?’ she asked, now genuinely alarmed and shrinking back in her chair. Maurice Nikolaevich, Stepan Trofimovich, and I all took a step forward.
‘Don’t be alarmed, no don’t; I’m not mad, I swear, I’m not mad!’ the captain assured everyone excitedly on all sides.
‘Yes, my dear sir, you certainly are mad.’
‘Madam, it’s not at all what you think! Of course, I’m an insignificant link… Oh, madam, your rooms are magnificent, unlike those of Marya the Unknown, my sister, née Lebyadkina, but whom we’ll call Marya the Unknown for a while, ma’am, but only for a while, for even God Himself won’t allow that for ever! Madam, you gave her ten roubles; she accepted them, but only because they were from you, ma’am! Listen, ma’am! This Marya the Unknown doesn’t take anything from anyone on earth, or else her grandfather, an officer killed in battle in the Caucasus before the eyes of Yermolov* himself, would turn in his grave; but from you, ma’am, she’d take it all from you. But she takes with one hand, ma’am, while with the other she offers you twenty roubles, in the form of a contribution to one of the charitable p. 184↵societies in the capital, of which, ma’am, you’re a member… since you yourself, ma’am, published an announcement in the Moscow News* that you were eager to receive contributions here in our town, and that anyone could sign the subscription list…’
The captain suddenly broke off; he was breathing heavily, as if he had performed some tremendous feat. Everything he said about the charitable society had probably been composed beforehand, perhaps under Liputin’s tutelage. He was perspiring even more profusely; drops of sweat literally trickled down his temples. Varvara Petrovna shot him a penetrating glance.
‘The subscription list’, she said sternly, ‘is always available downstairs with the porter; there you can sign and indicate the amount of your contribution, if you so desire. Therefore I ask you to put your money away now and not wave it about in the air. Good. I also ask you to return to your previous place. Good. I very much regret, my dear sir, that I erred with regard to your sister, and gave her charity assuming she was poor, when in fact she’s so rich. But there’s one thing I don’t understand: why can she accept alms from me alone, yet refuse them from anyone else? You so insisted on that point that I’d like a full explanation.’
‘Madam, that’s a secret I’ll take to the grave with me!’ the captain replied.
‘Why on earth?’ Varvara Petrovna asked, but now somehow not quite so firmly.
‘Madam, madam!…’
He lapsed into gloomy silence, looking down at the ground and placing his right hand over his heart. Varvara Petrovna waited, without taking her eyes off him.
‘Madam!’ he roared suddenly, ‘will you allow me to ask you one question, only one, but a frank one, direct, in the Russian style, from the heart?’
‘By all means.’
‘Have you suffered at all, ma’am, in your life?’
‘You mean, simply, that someone has made you, or is making you suffer?’
‘Madam, madam!’ he said, suddenly jumping up again, p. 185↵probably not even consciously. Beating his breast, he continued, ‘Here, in this heart, so much has been stored away, so very much that on Judgement Day God Himself will be astonished!’
‘Hmm, that’s putting it strongly.’
‘Madam, I may be speaking irascibly…’
‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll know when to stop you.’
‘May I ask you one further question, ma’am?’
‘You may ask one more.’
‘Can one die simply from nobility of soul?’
‘I don’t know; I’ve never asked myself that question.’
‘You don’t know! You’ve never asked yourself that question!’ he shouted with bombastic irony. ‘Well, if that’s so, then: “Be still, my despairing heart!” ’* And he beat his breast ferociously.
Once again he walked around the room. It’s characteristic of such people that they’re absolutely incapable of containing their desires; on the contrary, they have an irresistible impulse to exhibit them at once, in all their squalor, as soon as they’re conceived. Finding themselves in unfamiliar surroundings, such gentlemen usually begin timidly; but if you yield even a hairsbreadth, they’ll immediately rush to commit some impertinence. The captain was already quite agitated; he walked around, waved his arms, didn’t hear anyone’s questions, talked about himself very quickly, so quickly that his tongue sometimes got twisted, and, without finishing what he was saying, he’d gallop on to begin another sentence. True, he was probably not altogether sober. Liza-veta Nikolaevna was also sitting nearby, though he didn’t glance at her even once; her presence, however, seemed to excite him a great deal. But that’s merely a supposition. There must have been some reason why Varvara Petrovna, overcoming her disgust, had decided to hear such a man out. Praskovya Ivanovna simply shook from fear, in truth not fully understanding what was happening. Stepan Trofimovich trembled as well; but he, on the contrary, was inclined to understand things all too well. Maurice Nikolaevich stood looking like a man ready to defend anyone in need. Liza was very pale and stared steadily at the wild p. 186↵captain, her eyes wide open. Shatov stayed sitting where he was; but, what was strangest of all, Marya Timofeevna not only stopped laughing, but became terribly sad. She sat resting her right elbow on the table, following her brother’s declamation with a long, sad gaze. Only Darya Pavlovna seemed composed.
‘This is all nonsensical allegory,’ Varvara Petrovna said, getting angry at last. ‘You haven’t answered my question, “Why?” I’m waiting for an answer.’
‘Didn’t answer your question, “Why?” You’re waiting for an answer to “Why?” ’ repeated the captain, winking. ‘That little word “Why” has been scattered around the whole universe from the first day of Creation, ma’am. All nature cries out to its Creator every minute, “Why?”—and for the last seven thousand years there’s been no answer. Do you think Captain Lebyadkin alone can answer that question, ma’am? Is that really fair?’
‘That’s nonsense and not what I mean at all!’ Varvara Petrovna said, growing angry and losing her patience. ‘That’s allegory; besides, you are too grandiloquent, my dear sir, and I consider that to be impertinent.’
‘Madam,’ the captain replied without hearing her, ‘I might have wanted to be called Ernest, but was forced to bear the vulgar name Ignat. Why, do you suppose? I may have wanted to be called Prince de Montbart,* but I’m only called Lebyadkin, from lebyed, meaning a swan, why? I’m a poet, ma’am, a poet in my soul, and could receive a thousand roubles from a publisher, but I’m forced to live in a pigsty. Why? Why? Madam! In my opinion Russia’s nothing more than a freak of nature!’
‘You can’t say anything more definitive than that?’
‘I could recite the poem “Cockroach” for you, ma’am.’
‘Wha-a-at?’
‘Madam, I’m still not mad! I shall go mad, yes, but I’m not mad yet! Madam, one of my acquaintances—the no-o-oblest of men—wrote a Krylov fable entitled “The Cockroach”.* May I recite it for you?’
‘You want to recite a fable by Krylov?’
‘No, I don’t want to recite a fable by Krylov, but my own p. 187↵fable, my own composition! Believe me, ma’am, no offence, but I’m not so uneducated or depraved as not to realize that Russia possesses a great fable-writer in the person of Krylov, in whose honour the minister of education has just erected a monument* in the Summer Garden, where little children can play. Now then, ma’am, you ask “Why?” The answer is at the end of the fable, written in letters of fire.’
‘Recite your fable.’
He began:
‘A cockroach once, of cockroach size, Cockroach born and bred, Fell right into a glass of flies— Flies who eat their dead!’
‘Good Lord, what’s this?’ Varvara Petrovna cried.
‘It’s that, in the summertime,’ the captain hastened to add, waving his arms wildly with the irritated impatience of an author whose reading has just been interrupted. ‘In the summertime flies enter a jar and eat the dead ones; any fool can understand that. Don’t interrupt me, please. You’ll see, you’ll see…’ (He kept waving his arms.)
‘The cockroach took up lots of space; The flies made quite a fuss: To Jupiter they cried, “This place Was hardly enough for us!" But while their prayer winged its way, Nikifor came along, Noble old chap, or so they say…’
‘I haven’t quite finished it yet; never mind, I’ll go on in my own words!’ the captain prattled. ‘Nikifor takes the jar and, in spite of all the shouting, dumps the whole mess, flies and cockroach, into a pigsty, which he should’ve done some time ago. But observe, ma’am, observe, the cockroach doesn’t complain! That’s the answer to your question “Why?” ’ he shouted triumphantly. ‘The cock-r-roach doesn’t complain! And as far as Nikifor is concerned, he represents nature,’ he added, speaking rapidly and walking around the room in a very self-satisfied manner.
Varvara Petrovna flew into a terrible temper.
p. 188↵‘Now allow me to enquire about that sum of money which was supposed to have been received from Nikolai Vsevolodovich, but was not turned over to you in full. Are you daring to accuse a certain member of my household?’
‘That’s slander!’ Lebyadkin roared, raising his right hand dramatically.
‘No, it isn’t slander.’
‘Madam, there are certain circumstances that compel one to suffer disgrace to one’s family, rather than proclaim the truth aloud. Lebyadkin won’t let the cat out of the bag, ma’am!’
He seemed dazed; he was in ecstasy. He was aware of his importance; he’d probably fantasized something like this. He wanted to insult someone, play a nasty trick, show his power.
‘Please ring the bell, Stepan Trofimovich,’ Varvara Petrovna asked.
‘Lebyadkin is cunning, ma’am!’ he said, winking at her with a nasty smile. ‘He’s cunning, but he has a weakness, his portal to passion! And that portal is the old, military hussars’ bottle, whose praises were sung by Denis Davydov.* Now, when he stands in this portal, ma’am, it sometimes happens that he’ll send a letter in verse, a most splendiferous letter, but one he’d like to have taken back afterwards with all the tears he’s shed in his life, for the sense of the beautiful is destroyed. But the bird has flown the coop, and you won’t catch him by the tail! Well, in this portal, ma’am, Lebyadkin might’ve said something about an honourable maiden, under the influence of noble indignation aroused by insults inflicted on his soul, such as those aimed by his detractors. But Lebyadkin is cunning, ma’am! And the sinister wolf sits over him in vain, constantly filling his glass and waiting for the end: Lebyadkin won’t let the cat out of the bag; every time at the bottom of the bottle, contrary to expectation, he’ll find only—Lebyadkin’s Cunning! But enough, enough! Madam, your splendid rooms could belong to the noblest of men, but the cockroach doesn’t complain! Observe, ma’am, and take note of it: he doesn’t complain. Recognize his great spirit!’
p. 189↵At this moment the bell rang downstairs in the porter’s room, and almost simultaneously Aleksei Yegorych appeared somewhat belatedly in answer to Stepan Trofimovich’s summons. The dignified old servant was in state of extreme agitation.
‘Nikolai Vsevolodovich has just arrived, ma’am, and is coming in right away,’ he said in answer to Varvara Petrovna’s enquiring glance.
I remember her particularly well at that moment: at first she blanched, but suddenly her eyes began to gleam. She straightened up in her chair and assumed a look of unusual determination. Everyone was stunned. The wholly unanticipated arrival of Nikolai Vsevolodovich, who was expected a full month later, was strange not only in its suddenness, but also by its fateful coincidence at that very moment. Even the captain stood still as a post in the middle of the drawing-room, his mouth open wide, staring at the door with a ridiculous expression on his face.
Then from the next room, a large, long hall, we heard the sound of quickly approaching footsteps, small steps, exceedingly rapid; someone was coming, apparently at a run, and suddenly flew into the drawing-room—but it wasn’t Nikolai Vsevolodovich at all; it was a young man totally unknown to everyone there.
5
I’ll permit myself to pause here and sketch this unexpected new arrival with a few hurried strokes.
He was a young man, twenty-seven or thereabouts, a little above average height, with rather long, thin fair hair, and a patchy, barely discernible moustache and beard. He was neatly, even fashionably dressed, but not foppishly so; at first glance he seemed somewhat round-shouldered and awkward, but, in fact, he wasn’t round-shouldered at all, and was actually rather relaxed. He appeared to be an eccentric, but later everyone found his manners perfectly acceptable, his conversation always to the point.
No one could say he was unattractive, yet no one liked his face. His head was elongated at the back, and seemed p. 190↵flattened at the sides, so his face appeared pointed. His forehead was high and narrow, but his features were small; his eyes were sharp, his nose small and pointed, his lips long and thin. His expression was almost that of a sick man, but this was only superficial. He had a deep wrinkle near each cheekbone which gave him the look of someone convalescing after a serious illness. However, he was in perfect health, quite strong, and had never been ill.
He walked and moved about very hurriedly, yet was in no particular rush to get anywhere. It seemed that nothing could embarrass him; he remained exactly the same regardless of circumstance and society. He possessed great self-assurance, but wasn’t in the least aware of it himself.
He spoke quickly, hastily, but at the same time with certainty, and was never at a loss for words. In spite of his hurried demeanour, his thoughts were orderly, distinct and definite—that was particularly striking. His articulation was wonderfully clear; words poured forth from him like large, smooth grains, always well-chosen and at your service. At first this was attractive, but later it became repulsive, precisely because of his excessively clear articulation, his stream of ever-ready words. One began to imagine that the tongue in his mouth had a special shape, unusually long and thin, very red, with an extremely pointed tip, flickering constantly and involuntarily.
Well, then, this young man now rushed into the drawing-room, and, to tell the truth, to this very day I believe he’d already begun talking in the next room, so that he was speaking as he entered. In a flash he was standing in front of Varvara Petrovna.
‘…Just imagine, Varvara Petrovna,’ he rattled on with a stream of words, ‘I came in thinking he’d have been here a quarter of an hour ago; he arrived an hour and a half ago; we met at Kirillov’s; he left half an hour ago to come right over here and told me to be here in a quarter of an hour…’
‘But who? Who told you to come here?’ Varvara Petrovna enquired.
‘Why, Nikolai Vsevolodovich, of course! Did you really not know about his arrival until this moment? But his p. 191↵baggage should’ve arrived here earlier; why didn’t they tell you? Well, let me be the first to bring you the news. Of course we could send someone to look for him, but he’ll probably be here soon, at the precise moment best suited to his intentions and, at least as far as I can judge, his calculations.’ Then he surveyed the room and his gaze rested on the captain with particular attention. ‘Ah, Lizaveta Nikolaevna, I’m delighted to meet you so soon; I’m very glad to shake your hand,’ he said, rushing quickly to grab the little hand offered by the gaily smiling Liza. ‘And, as far as I can tell, Praskovya Ivanovna hasn’t forgotten her “professor” and isn’t angry at him any more, as she was in Switzerland. How are your legs holding up, Praskovya Ivanovna? Were your Swiss doctors right when they recommended that you return to your native climate? What? Fomentations? That must be very beneficial. But how sorry I was, Varvara Petrovna’ (he turned back to her quickly), ‘that I didn’t manage to see you abroad and pay my respects in person; besides, I had so much to tell you… I sent word to my old man, but as usual, he probably…’
‘Petrusha!’ cried Stepan Trofimovich, snapping out of his stupor; he threw up his hands and rushed to his son. ‘Pierre, mon enfant, why, I didn’t even recognize you!’ he said hugging him, tears streaming down his cheeks.
‘Now, now, don’t carry on, no flourishes, enough, stop it, I beg you,’ Petrusha muttered hurriedly, trying to free himself from the embrace.
‘I’ve always wronged you, always!’
‘Come on now, that’s enough; we can talk about it later. I knew you’d carry on. Calm down a little, will you?’
‘But I haven’t seen you in ten whole years!’
‘All the more reason to avoid a fuss…’
‘Mon enfant!’
‘Come on, I know you love me, but take your hands off me. You’re embarrassing other people… Ah, here’s Nikolai Vsevolodovich! Now don’t carry on, I beg you!’
Nikolai Vsevolodovich was already in the room; he’d entered very quietly and for a moment stood in the doorway, casting a quiet look on the assembled company.
p. 192↵I was struck by his appearance at first glance, just as I had been four years earlier when I saw him for the first time. I hadn’t forgotten him in the least; but there are certain countenances that always, every time you see them, convey something new that you hadn’t noticed before, even though you’ve met them a hundred times in the past. To all appearances, he was exactly the same as he was four years ago: just as elegant and dignified. He entered in the same dignified manner; he even seemed almost as young. His faint smile was just as officially gracious and complacent, his look just as stern, pensive, almost absent-minded. In a word, it seemed we’d parted only yesterday. One thing struck me: previously he’d been considered quite handsome, even though his face ‘resembled a mask’, as a few sharp-tongued ladies in our society had put it. But now—now, I don’t know why, but from the very first glance he seemed to me to be decidedly, indisputably beautiful; his face could no longer be said to resemble a mask. Wasn’t it because he’d become a little paler than before, and, maybe, a bit thinner? Or perhaps it was some new idea gleaming in his eyes?
‘Nikolai Vsevolodovich!’ Varvara Petrovna exclaimed, sitting up straight, but not rising from her chair, and stopping him with an imperious gesture. ‘Stop a moment!’
In order to explain the terrible question that suddenly followed her gesture and exclamation—a possibility I’d never have imagined from Varvara Petrovna—I ask the reader to recall what her character was like throughout her life, as well as her extraordinary impulsiveness at critical moments. I also want you to realize that, in spite of her unusual strength, considerable common sense, and the practical, so to speak, business acumen she possessed, nevertheless, there were still moments in her life when she suddenly surrendered herself completely, and, if one may express it thus, totally without restraint. Finally, I ask you to bear in mind that the present moment could really be one of those when suddenly, the entire essence of one’s life is concentrated, brought into focus—the whole past, present, and perhaps even the future. I must also recall by the way the anonymous letter she’d received, which she mentioned earlier p. 193↵to Praskovya Ivanovna with such irritation, with nothing at all being said, I believe, about the content of the letter; perhaps it was the letter that contained the explanation for the terrible question she suddenly put to her son.
‘Nikolai Vsevolodovich,’ she repeated, emphasizing each word in a firm voice in which there sounded an ominous challenge, ‘I ask you to reply at once, without stirring one step: is it true that this unfortunate cripple—there she is, over there, look at her!—is it true that she is… your lawful wife?’
I remember that moment all too well; he didn’t bat an eyelid and stared straight at his mother; there wasn’t thfe slightest change in his expression. At last he smiled slowly, a kind of condescending smile, and, without saying a word, approached his mother quietly, took her hand, raised it respectfully to his lips and kissed it. So great was his customary and irresistible influence over his mother that even at such a moment she dared not withdraw her hand. She merely looked at him, her whole being transformed into a question, her entire countenance signalling that she couldn’t tolerate the uncertainty a moment longer.
But he remained silent. After kissing her hand, he cast another glance around the room and, as before, moved unhurriedly straight towards Marya Timofeevna. It’s very hard to describe expressions on people’s faces at certain moments. I recall, for example, that Marya Timofeevna, quite overcome with fear, rose to meet him and clasped her hands in front of her, as if imploring him; at the same time I can recall the ecstasy in her eyes, a mad ecstasy that almost distorted her features—such ecstasy as people find difficult to endure. Perhaps she experienced both those feelings: fear and ecstasy. But I recall moving towards her quickly (I was standing nearby), because she seemed about to faint.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Nikolai Vsevolodovich told her in an affectionate, melodious voice, his eyes ablaze with extraordinary tenderness. He stood in front of her in a most respectful stance; every gesture reflected his sincerest esteem. The poor girl, gasping for breath, murmured to him in an impulsive half-whisper:
p. 194↵‘May I… now… fall on my knees before you?’
‘No, of course not,’ he said, smiling at her so magnificently that she too suddenly grinned happily. Speaking to her very tenderly in the same melodious voice as if she were a child, he added gravely:
‘You must remember that you’re a young woman. Even though I’m your most devoted friend, I’m still a stranger, not your husband, nor your father, nor your fiancé. Give me your hand and let’s go; I’ll escort you to the carriage and, if you let me, I’ll take you all the way home.’
She listened to him and lowered her head as if pondering.
‘Let’s go,’ she said, sighing and giving him her arm.
Just then she had a minor accident. She must have turned carelessly and stepped down on her shorter, lame leg—in brief, she fell sideways on to the chair, and if it hadn’t been there, she’d have fallen to the floor. He caught hold of her at once and supported her, took her firmly by the arm and led her carefully and sympathetically to the door. She was obviously upset by her fall. She was embarrassed; she blushed and became terribly shy. Looking down at the floor in silence, limping painfully, she hobbled out after him, almost hanging on his arm. That was how they left. Liza, I saw, suddenly jumped up from her chair as they were leaving; her motionless gaze followed them to the door. Then she sat down again in silence; but a spasm flickered across her face, as if she’d touched something disgusting.
While all this was happening between Nikolai Vsevolodovich and Marya Timofeevna, everyone sat in stunned silence; you could have heard a pin drop. But as soon as they left, everyone suddenly began talking.
6
Actually, they said very little; it was mostly just exclamation. By now I’ve forgotten the order in which things happened because of all the confusion. Stepan Trofimovich declaimed in French and threw up his hands, but Varvara Petrovna wasn’t really interested in him. Even Maurice Nikolaevich started mumbling abruptly and rapidly. But Peter Stepanovich was the most excited of all; he was desperately trying p. 195↵to convince Varvara Petrovna of something with expansive gestures, but for a long time I failed to understand. He also turned to Praskovya Ivanovna and Lizaveta Nikolaevna; in his excitement he even shouted something in passing to his father—in a word, he was rushing all around the room. Varvara Petrovna, her face quite flushed, jumped up from her chair and shouted to Praskovya Ivanovna, ‘Did you hear, did you hear what he just said to her?’ But Praskovya was unable to reply; she merely muttered something, gesturing helplessly. The poor dear had her own problems: she kept turning her head to Liza, regarding her with inexplicable terror, but she no longer dared get up, or leave, or think, until her daughter did so. Meanwhile the captain undoubtedly wanted to slip away, as I observed. He’d been in a great panic from the moment Nikolai Vsevolodovich had come in; but Peter Stepanovich seized him by the arm and wouldn’t let go of him.
‘It’s essential, absolutely essential,’ he said, prattling on to Varvara Petrovna, still trying to convince her. He stood in front of her; she was sitting in the armchair again, and, as I recall, listening to him avidly. That was just what he wanted and he now commanded her full attention.
‘It’s essential. You can see for yourself, Varvara Petrovna, there’s some misunderstanding here. There’s much that seems strange, but it’s all as clear as daylight, as plain as the nose on your face. I realize all too well that I haven’t been authorized to talk about it and I must appear ridiculous intervening. But, in the first place, Nikolai Vsevolodovich himself doesn’t attach any significance to this matter, and, in the last place, there are some cases in which it’s difficult, for a person to provide an explanation for himself; it’s essential for a third person to assume that responsibility, one who finds it easier to discuss certain delicate points. Believe ; me, Varvara Petrovna, Nikolai Vsevolodovich is not in the least to be blamed for failing to answer the question you just put to him with a complete explanation, in spite of the fact that the matter is so trivial; I’ve known him since Petersburg. Besides, the whole story redounds to his honour, if it’s absolutely necessary to use so vague a term as “honour”…’
p. 196↵‘You mean that you witnessed some incident from which this… misunderstanding arose?’ Varvara Petrovna asked.
‘Witnessed it and participated in it,’ Peter Stepanovich affirmed hurriedly.
‘If you give me your word that this won’t offend Nikolai Vsevolodovich’s delicate feelings with regard to me, from whom he never conceals anything what-so-ever… and if you’re sure that in doing so you’ll even be affording him pleasure…’
‘Pleasure, absolutely; therefore it’ll also afford me particular pleasure to do it. I’m sure he’d ask me to do it himself.’
The insistent desire of this gentleman who had suddenly dropped from the sky to relate stories from other people’s lives was rather curious, even contrary to the ordinary conventions of behaviour. But he’d caught Varvara Petrovna on his hook, having touched her most vulnerable spot. I as yet didn’t fully understand this young man’s character, not to mention his intentions.
‘I’m listening,’ Varvara Petrovna announced in a restrained and cautious way, somewhat annoyed by her own condescension.
‘It’s not very long; in fact, if you like, it’s not really even a story,’ he prattled on. ‘But a writer with nothing better to do might cook up a novel from it. It’s a rather interesting little affair, Praskovya Ivanovna; I’m sure Lizaveta Nikolaevna will listen with interest, because it contains much that’s strange, if not actually fantastic. About five years ago, in Petersburg, Nikolai Vsevolodovich first encountered this gentleman—this very same Mr Lebyadkin who’s standing here now with his mouth gaping, and who looks as if he was just hoping to slip away. Excuse me, Varvara Petrovna. I advise you not to run off, Mr Retired Official in the former commissariat department (you see, I remember you very well). Both Nikolai Vsevolodovich and I are familiar with your local activities, about which, don’t you ever forget, you’ll soon have to give account. Excuse me once again, Varvara Petrovna. At the time Nikolai Vsevolodovich referred to this gentleman as his Falstaff; that must be some old burlesque character’ (he explained suddenly), ‘whom p. 197↵everyone mocks and who allows everyone to mock him, as long as they pay him for it. At the time Nikolai Vsevolodovich was leading a life in Petersburg of “mockery”, so to speak—I can’t use any other word to define it, because he’s not a man to give way to disillusionment, and he disdained to engage in any particular work at the time. I’m only talking about that one period, Varvara Petrovna. This Lebyadkin had a sister—the one who was just sitting here. The brother and sister didn’t possess their own “corner”; they lived wherever they could. He wandered around under the arches of the Shopping Arcade, always wearing his former uniform and stopping better-dressed passers-by; whatever he got, he spent on drink. His sister lived like a little bird of heaven. She helped people in their own “corners” and worked as a servant when needed. It was a scene reminiscent of Sodom;* I’ll pass over a description of life in those little “corners”—a life to which, in his eccentricity, Nikolai Vsevolodovich devoted himself at the time. I’m only talking about that one period, Varvara Petrovna; as regards his “eccentricity”, well, that’s his own expression. He doesn’t conceal much from me. Mademoiselle Lebyadkina, who at one time happened to be meeting Nikolai Vsevolodovich rather too frequently, was struck by his appearance. He appeared, so to speak, as a diamond against the filthy background of her life. I’m not very good at describing human emotions, and therefore will pass over them; but the good-for-nothing people who lived there began to make fun of her and she became depressed. Even before that they used to mock her, but she would never notice it. She wasn’t quite right in the head even back then, but that was nothing compared to what she is now. There’s reason to believe that in her childhood she was provided with some education, thanks to a wealthy lady who took an interest in her. Nikolai Vsevolodovich never paid her the least bit of attention and spent his time playing preference with petty clerks using a greasy old pack of cards for quarter-kopeck stakes. But once when they were taunting her, without asking why, he seized one of the clerks by the collar, and tossed him out of a second-storey window. There was no question of chivalrous indignation at her injured p. 198↵innocence; the whole affair took place amidst general laughter, with Nikolai Vsevolodovich laughing more than anyone. When it all turned out satisfactorily, everyone made up and they all drank some punch together. But the innocent aggrieved party never forgot it. Naturally, it ended with the complete loss of her remaining mental faculties. I repeat, I’m not very good at describing feelings, but in this case the main point was her illusion. Nikolai Vsevolodovich fed that illusion of hers, as if on purpose; instead of laughing at her, he suddenly began treating Mademoiselle Lebyadkina with unexpected esteem. Kirillov (an extraordinary eccentric, Varvara Petrovna, and an extremely rude man—perhaps you’ll get to meet him someday, since now he’s back here), well, this Kirillov, who usually remains silent all the time, suddenly got very irritated and, as I recall, told Nikolai Vsevolodovich that he was treating this woman as if she were a marquise, and would finish her off altogether. Let me add that Nikolai Vsevolodovich had some respect for Kirillov. What answer do you think he gave him? “Do you suppose, Mr Kirillov, that I’m laughing at her? Disabuse yourself of that notion; in fact, I respect her because she’s better than the rest of us.” He said it, you know, in a very serious tone of voice. In the meantime, during those two or three months, apart from “Hello” and “Goodbye”, he never really spoke to her. I was there, and well do I remember that it finally reached a point when she considered him her fiancé; he was unable to “elope” with her simply because he had so many enemies and family obstacles, or something of the sort. There was much laughter about it! It all ended when Nikolai Vsevolodovich had to leave; before his departure he made provision for her care, and, it seems, arranged to pay her a rather considerable annual allowance, at least three hundred roubles, if not more. In a word, let’s suppose all this was mere indulgence on his part, the fantasy of a prematurely exhausted man—or even, in the last analysis, as Kirillov used to say, the latest experiment of a jaded young man eager to know to what lengths he could drive a poor, mad cripple. “You,” he said, “deliberately chose the lowest creature, a cripple, mired in shame and covered with p. 199↵bruises—knowing, in addition, that this creature is dying of comical love for you—and suddenly set about hoodwinking her on purpose, just to see what will happen!” But how can a man be held responsible for the delusions of a mad woman with whom, mind you, he’s hardly exchanged two words the whole time! There are things, Varvara Petrovna, about which it’s not only impossible to speak sensibly, but not even sensible to begin speaking. Well, never mind, call it eccentricity—there’s nothing more to be said about it. Meanwhile, they’ve gone and made a whole incident out of it… I’m partly aware, Varvara Petrovna, of what’s been going on here.’
The speaker suddenly broke off and was about to turn to Lebyadkin, but Varvara Petrovna stopped him; she was in a state of extreme exaltation.
‘Have you finished?’ she asked.
‘Not yet. To complete my story, with your permission, I’d like to ask this gentleman a few more questions… You’ll see the point in a minute or two, Varvara Petrovna.’
‘Enough; later. Stop for a moment, I beg you. Oh, what a good thing I allowed you to speak!’
‘Just note, Varvara Petrovna,’ Peter Stepanovich added hastily. ‘Could Nikolai Vsevolodovich possibly have explained all this to you in response to your question—which was, perhaps, a bit too categorical?’
‘Oh, yes, much too categorical!’
‘And wasn’t I right when I said that in certain cases a third party finds it easier to explain things, than one of the interested parties?’
‘Yes, yes… But you were mistaken about one thing, and I see you continue to be mistaken.’
‘Really? What about?’
‘You see… But, why don’t you sit down, Peter Stepanovich?’
‘Oh, just as you wish; I am feeling a bit tired, thank you.’
In a flash he pulled up an armchair and positioned it so that he was sitting between Varvara Petrovna on one side and Praskovya Ivanovna on the other, near the table facing Mr Lebyadkin, from whose face his eyes hadn’t shifted even for a moment.
p. 200↵‘You’re mistaken about what you call his “eccentricity”…’
‘Oh, if only that were all…’
‘No, no, no, wait a moment,’ Varvara Petrovna said, stopping him, obviously ready to go on at some length and with feeling. As soon as he realized this, Peter Stepanovich gave her his full attention.
‘No, this was something better than eccentricity, and, I can assure you, something holy! A proud man who suffered humiliation early in life, who reached the stage of “mockery”, which you so accurately describe—in short, Prince Harry, as Stepan Trofimovich so splendidly dubbed him at the time, which would be absolutely perfect, if he didn’t resemble Hamlet even more, at least in my opinion.’
‘Et vous avez raison,’1 Stepan Trofimovich declared impressively and with feeling.
‘Thank you, Stepan Trofimovich. I’m especially grateful to you for your unwavering faith in Nicolas, in the greatness of his soul and his calling. You even buttressed my own faith, whenever I started to lose heart.’
‘Chère, chère…’ Stepan Trofimovich said; he was about to step forward, but stopped, realizing it would be dangerous to interrupt.
‘And if anywhere near Nicolas’ (Varvara Petrovna was now virtually intoning) ‘there’d been a gentle Horatio, great in his humility—another splendid expression of yours, Stepan Trofimovich—perhaps he might have been saved from the gloomy and “unexpected demon of irony” that’s been tormenting him all his life. (That’s your wonderful phrase, too, Stepan Trofimovich, “demon of irony”.) But Nicolas had neither Horatio nor Ophelia. He only had his mother; but what can a mother do alone in such circumstances? You know, Peter Stepanovich, now it’s perfectly understandable how a person like Nicolas could turn up even in such filthy haunts as you describe. This “mockery” of life (your astonishingly appropriate expression!) is so clear to me now, that insatiable desire for contrast, that gloomy background against which he sparkles like a diamond, again your comparison, Peter Stepanovich. Then he encounters a creature p. 201↵whom everyone insults, a half-mad cripple, who, at the same time, possesses the noblest of feelings!’
‘Hmmm, yes, let’s suppose so.’
‘Then can’t you understand why he doesn’t laugh at her like everyone else? Oh, you people! Don’t you see how he’s defending her from attackers, lavishing respect upon her as a “marquise” (that Kirillov must have an unusually profound understanding of people, even though he doesn’t understand my Nicolas!). If you like, the trouble arose precisely from this contrast; if this unfortunate creature had been in a different setting, she might not have gone so far as to conceive so mad a delusion. A woman, only a woman can understand this, Peter Stepanovich, and what a pity you… I mean, it’s not a pity you’re not a woman, but at least on this one occasion, you’d understand so much better!’
‘That is, in the sense the worse things are, the better. I understand, Varvara Petrovna, I do. It’s a little like religion: the worse off a man is, the more downtrodden or impoverished an entire people is, the more stubbornly it dreams of reward in paradise. And if a hundred thousand priests are busy ministering as well, nurturing this dream and counting on it, then… I do understand, Varvara Petrovna, rest assured I do.’
‘That’s not exactly what I mean. But tell me, should Nicolas, in order to extinguish the illusion of this unfortunate organism’ (I couldn’t understand why Varvara Petrovna chose to use the word ‘organism’), ‘should he have laughed at her and treated her as all the other petty officials did? Do you really reject his great compassion, the noble tremor of his entire organism when he suddenly made Kirillov the stern reply: “I’m not laughing at her.” What a noble, sacred reply!’
‘Sublime,’ muttered Stepan Trofimovich.
‘Note, he’s not nearly as wealthy as you think. I’m the one who’s wealthy, not he; and at the time he was getting hardly anything from me at all.’
‘I understand, Varvara Petrovna, I understand all this,’ Peter Stepanovich said, now stirring in his chair with some impatience.
p. 202↵‘Oh, that’s my character! I recognize myself in Nicolas. I recognize youth, a propensity to formidable, tempestuous impulses… If you and I ever get to know each other better, Peter Stepanovich, and, for my part, I sincerely hope we do, especially since now I’m so obliged to you, perhaps you might come to understand…’
‘Oh, believe me, for my part I hope so too,’ Peter Stepanovich muttered curtly.
‘Then you’ll understand an impulse which, out of blind generosity, makes you respond to a person who’s unworthy of you in all respects, a person who has no understanding of you, who’s ready to torment you at every opportunity, and, in spite Qf everything, to turn that person all of a sudden into some sort of ideal, into an illusion, to invest all your hopes in him, to worship him, to love him your whole life without knowing why—perhaps precisely because he’s so unworthy… Oh, how I’ve suffered all my life, Peter Stepanovich!’
With a pained expression Stepan Trofimovich tried to catch my eye, but I managed to turn away just in time.
‘… And recently, very recently—oh, how I have wronged Nicolas!… You won’t believe how they’ve tormented me on all sides: enemies, petty individuals, and friends—friends, perhaps, even more than enemies. When I received that first despicable anonymous letter, Peter Stepanovich, you won’t believe it, but I actually hadn’t contempt enough left to reply to that wickedness… I’ll never, never forgive myself for that weakness!’
‘I’ve heard something about these local anonymous letters already,’ Peter Stepanovich said, suddenly growing more animated, ‘I’ll find out who wrote them, rest assured.’
‘You can’t imagine what sort of intrigues have been going on around here! Why, they’ve even been tormenting our poor Praskovya Ivanovna—now, why would they do a thing like that? I may have treated you rather badly today, my dear Praskovya Ivanovna,’ she added in a generous outburst of tenderness, not without a hint of triumphant irony.
‘Enough, my dear,’ Praskovya Ivanovna muttered reluctantly. ‘I think we should put an end to all this. Too much p. 203↵has been said already…’ and she looked timidly at Liza, who was watching Peter Stepanovich.
‘As for that poor, unfortunate creature, that insane young woman who’s lost everything, but kept only her heart—I now intend to adopt her myself,’ Varvara Petrovna suddenly exclaimed. ‘It’s a sacred duty I intend to fulfil. From this day on I shall take her under my protection.’
‘That’ll be a very good thing in a certain sense,’ Peter Stepanovich said, now thoroughly animated. ‘Excuse me, but I didn’t quite finish just now. It was protection I was talking about precisely. You can imagine that when Nikolai Vsevolodovich went away (I’m picking up where I left off, Varvara Petrovna), that gentleman, the same Mr Lebyadkin, decided immediately that he had a right to appropriate the entire allowance provided to his sister; and so he did. I don’t know many details about how Nikolai Vsevolodovich sorted it all out, but a year later when he was living abroad, he found out what had happened and was forced to make other arrangements. Once again I don’t know all the details; he’ll tell you himself. I know only that the interested party was placed in some remote convent, in extremely comfortable surroundings, but under friendly supervision—do you understand? What do you think Mr Lebyadkin decided to do then? First he makes every effort to discover where his source of income, that is, his sister, is being hidden; then, managing to do that only recently, he takes her away from the convent, asserting that he has a claim on her, and brings her back here. Now he doesn’t feed her; he beats her and bullies her. And, after somehow receiving a considerable sum of money from Nikolai Vsevolodovich, he takes to drinking at once; instead of showing his gratitude, he ends up by issuing an insolent challenge to Nikolai Vsevolodovich, making ridiculous demands, threatening that if he refuses to pay the allowance in advance, he’ll take him to court. Thus he mistakes Nikolai Vsevolodovich’s voluntary gift for a required payment—can you imagine that? Mr Lebyadkin, isn’t everything I’ve said here true?’
The captain, who’d been standing in silence staring at the floor up to now, took two quick steps forward and turned crimson.
p. 204↵‘Peter Stepanovich, you’ve treated me very cruelly,’ he said abruptly.
‘How, cruel? Why so? But we’ll talk about cruelty, or kindness, later. As for now, I ask you merely to reply to my first question: is everything I’ve said here true or not? If you think something is false, you can make your own statement right away.’
‘I… you yourself know, Peter Stepanovich…’ the captain muttered, but broke off and fell silent. It should be noted that Peter Stepanovich was sitting in an armchair with his legs crossed, while the captain stood in front of him in a highly deferential attitude.
Apparently Peter Stepanovich didn’t care for Mr Lebyadkin’s hesitation one bit; his face twitched with an angry spasm.
‘Don’t you want to say anything?’ he asked, glaring intently at the captain. ‘If you do, go right ahead. We’re waiting.’
‘You yourself know, Peter Stepanovich, that I can’t say anything.’
‘No, I don’t know that; it’s the first time I’ve heard that. Why can’t you say anything?’
The captain remained silent, lowering his eyes to the floor.
‘Let me go, Peter Stepanovich,’ he said firmly.
‘Not before you answer my question: is everything I’ve said here true?’
‘Yes, sir, it is,’ Lebyadkin said in a hollow voice, raising his eyes to his tormentor’s face. Perspiration stood out on his temples.
‘Is everything true?’
‘Everything, sir.’
‘Don’t you have anything to add or note? If you feel we’ve been unfair to you, say so; protest, declare your dissatisfaction aloud.’
‘No, I’ve nothing to say.’
‘Did you recently threaten Nikolai Vsevolodovich?’
‘That… that… that was due to drink, Peter Stepanovich.’ (He raised his head suddenly.) ‘Peter Stepanovich! If family p. 205↵honour and undeserved shame cry out among men, then, then—can a man be held to blame?’ he roared, suddenly forgetting himself as before.
‘Are you sober now, Mr Lebyadkin?’ asked Peter Stepanovich, casting him a penetrating glance.
‘Yes.’
‘What do you mean by family honour and undeserved shame?’
‘I didn’t mean anyone, anyone in particular. I was talking about myself…’ the captain said, collapsing once again.
‘You seem to have been offended by what I said about you and your behaviour. You’re very irritable, Mr Lebyadkin. But I haven’t got on to your behaviour in its real sense. I’m going to talk about your behaviour in its real sense. I’m going to, that may well happen, but I haven’t yet begun to talk about its real sense.’
Lebyadkin shuddered and stared wildly at Peter Stepanovich.
‘Peter Stepanovich, I’m only starting to wake up now!’
‘Hmmm. And is it I who’ve awakened you?’
‘Yes, it’s you, Peter Stepanovich; I’ve been asleep for four years with a cloud hanging over me. May I go now, Peter Stepanovich?’
‘You may, unless Varvara Petrovna would like to…’
But she motioned him away.
The captain bowed and took two steps towards the door; he suddenly stopped, placed his hand over his heart, was about to say something, but didn’t, and quickly left the room. But in the doorway he bumped into Nikolai Vsevolodovich who stepped aside; the captain shrank suddenly before him and froze on the spot, not taking his eyes off him, like a rabbit facing a boa constrictor. After a brief pause, Nikolai Vsevolodovich pushed him lightly aside and entered the drawing-room.
7
He was cheerful and calm. Perhaps something very pleasant had just occurred that we hadn’t yet heard about; but he did seem to be particularly pleased about something or other.
p. 206↵‘Do you forgive me, Nicolas?’ Varvara Petrovna asked, unable to restrain herself and rising to meet him.
But Nicolas just started laughing.
‘So that’s how it is!’ he cried in a good-natured and light-hearted way. ‘I see you know everything now. As I left here I thought in the carriage, “At least I should’ve told them the whole story, instead of just going off like that!” But then I remembered that Peter Stepanovich had been left behind, and I stopped worrying.’
As he said this he cast a quick glance around the room.
‘Peter Stepanovich told us an old Petersburg tale about the life of an eccentric,’ Varvara Petrovna put in enthusiastically, ‘about a certain crazy and capricious person, but one who was always lofty in his sentiments, noble and chivalrous…’
‘Chivalrous? Has it really gone that far?’ Nicolas replied with a laugh. ‘But I’m very grateful to Peter Stepanovich for his haste on this occasion’ (he exchanged a rapid glance with him). ‘You should know, maman, that Peter Stepanovich is a universal peacemaker; that’s his role, his disease, his hobby, and I particularly recommend him to you on this count. I can guess what sort of tale he composed for you here. Compose he does, when he tells a story; he keeps an entire record office in his head. Observe that as a realist he’s incapable of telling lies; truth is more important to him than the success of his tale… except, of course, for those particular circumstances when success is more important than truth.’ (As he said this he looked around at everyone.) ‘So, maman, you clearly see that you needn’t ask my forgiveness; if there’s something insane here, it’s most likely connected with me; and, when all is said and done, I’m the one who’s crazy—after all, I have to keep up my local reputation…’
He embraced his mother tenderly.
‘In any case, the tale’s been told, the matter’s finished, and there’s no need to discuss it further,’ he added in a dry, resolute tone of voice. Varvara Petrovna understood this tone, but her exaltation didn’t fade, quite the contrary, in fact.
p. 207↵‘I didn’t expect you for another month, Nicolas!’
‘Of course, I’ll explain it all to you later, maman, but as for now…’
He went up to Praskovya Ivanovna.
But she scarcely turned to look at him, in spite of having been so overwhelmed by his sudden appearance half an hour ago. Now she had other things to worry about: from the moment the captain had left, bumping into Nikolai Vsevolodovich in the doorway, Liza had suddenly begun laughing—at first quietly and intermittently, but then her laughter grew louder and more audible. Her face turned red. The contrast with her earlier air of gloom was extraordinary. While Nikolai Vsevolodovich was talking with Varvara Petrovna, she beckoned twice to Maurice Nikolaevich, as if wanting to whisper something to him. But as soon as he bent his head down, she immediately burst out laughing; one might have concluded that she was laughing at none other than poor Maurice Nikolaevich. However, she was evidently trying to regain control of herself, and put her handkerchief over her mouth. Nikolai Vsevolodovich turned to greet her with the most innocent and good-natured expression.
‘You must please excuse me,’ she said, speaking quickly. ‘You… you, of course you’ve met Maurice Nikolaevich before… Good Lord, you’re really inexcusably tall, Maurice Nikolaevich!’
And she laughed again. Maurice Nikolaevich was certainly tall, but by no means inexcusably so.
‘Have you… been here long?’ she mumbled, controlling herself once more and even becoming somewhat embarrassed, though her eyes were still flashing.
‘A little over two hours,’ Nicolas replied, staring at her intently. I must observe that he was unusually restrained and polite, but apart from that his expression was completely indifferent, even listless.
‘Where will you be living?’
‘Here.’
Varvara Petrovna was also watching Liza, but was suddenly struck by an idea.
p. 208↵‘Where have you been up to now, Nicolas, up to now, for the last two hours?’ she asked, going up to him. ‘The train arrives at ten o’clock.’
‘First I dropped Peter Stepanovich at Kirillov’s house. I met him at Matveevo’ (three stations away), ‘and from there we travelled in the same carriage.’
‘I’d been waiting in Matveevo since dawn,’ Peter Stepanovich confirmed. ‘The last few carriages of our train jumped the tracks during the night. I almost broke both my legs.’
‘Broke your legs!’ Liza cried. ‘Mamma, mamma, last week you and I were going to go to Matveevo. We would have broken our legs, too!’
‘Lord have mercy!’ said Praskovya Ivanovna, crossing herself.
‘Mamma, mamma, dear mamma, don’t worry, even if I do break both my legs; it might happen, as you yourself say, since I go riding every day at breakneck speed. Maurice Nikolaevich, will you lead me about if I’m lame?’ she asked, laughing again. ‘If it does happen, I won’t let anyone lead me except you; you can count on that. Well, let’s suppose I break only one leg… Come on, be polite, say you’ll consider it my good fortune.’
‘Good fortune with only one leg?’ Maurice Nikolaevich asked, frowning gravely.
‘On the other hand, you will lead me about, won’t you; only you, and no one else!’
‘Even in that case it’s you who’ll be leading me about, Lizaveta Nikolaevna,’ Maurice Nikolaevich said even more gravely.
‘My God, he tried to make a joke!’ Liza cried almost in horror. ‘Maurice Nikolaevich, don’t you dare do anything of the sort! What an awful egotist you are! I’m sure, to your own credit, you’re slandering yourself. On the contrary: from morning till night you’ll try to convince me that I’ve become more interesting without legs! There’s only one problem, though—you’re immeasurably tall, and without my legs I’ll be so very small. How will you offer me your arm? We won’t make a very good couple!’
She laughed frantically. Her witticisms and insinuations fell flat, but obviously she didn’t care at all.
p. 209↵‘Hysterics!’ Peter Stepanovich whispered to me. ‘Quick, a glass of water.’
He guessed right; a minute later everyone was fussing over her, and water brought. Liza kept embracing her mamma, kissing her passionately, and crying on her shoulder; then pulling back and looking her straight in the eye, she burst into laughter. Finally mamma began whimpering as well. Varvara Petrovna led them both away to her own room, out the same door through which Darya Pavlovna had come in earlier. But they stayed there only a little while, no more than a few minutes…
Now I’ll try to recall every detail of the last few moments of that memorable morning. I remember that when we were left alone, without the women (except for Darya Pavlovna who didn’t budge from her seat), Nikolai Vsevolodovich made his way around the room and greeted each and every one of us, except Shatov who was still sitting in the corner, and whose head hung even lower than before. Stepan Trofimovich began talking with Nikolai Vsevolodovich about something extremely clever, but Nikolai turned and went hurriedly up to Darya Pavlovna. On his way Peter Stepanovich grabbed him almost by force and led him over to the window, where he started whispering something to him quickly, obviously something very important, judging by the expression on his face and his accompanying gestures. For his part, Nikolai Vsevolodovich listened in a very lackadaisical and absent-minded way, with a formal smile, and, towards the end, even in some impatience; he kept trying to get away. He moved from the window just as the women were returning; Varvara Petrovna sat Liza down where she was before, insisting that they wait and rest another ten minutes, that the fresh air could scarcely do their frayed nerves any good just then. She was very concerned about Liza and sat down next to her. Peter Stepanovich, who was now free, promptly joined them and began a brisk and cheerful conversation. Then Nikolai Vsevolodovich finally went up to Darya Pavlovna in his unhurried way. Dasha trembled at his approach and jumped up quickly in obvious embarrassment; her face was very red.
p. 210↵‘It seems you’re to be congratulated… or not just yet?’ he said, with a peculiar expression on his face.
Dasha made some reply, but it was difficult to hear.
‘Forgive my indiscretion,’ he said, raising his voice, ‘but you do know I was expressly informed. Did you know that?’
‘Yes, I know you were expressly informed.’
‘I hope, however, that I’ve done no harm in congratulating you,’ he said with a laugh. ‘And if Stepan Trofimovich…
‘What for? Why are you congratulating her?’ Peter Stepanovich asked, suddenly jumping up. ‘Should I be congratulating you, Darya Pavlovna? Why, it’s not for that, is it? Your blush indicates I’ve guessed right. Indeed, why else does one congratulate a lovely and virtuous young lady? And what kind of congratulations make them blush most of all? Well, then, accept my congratulations, too, if I’ve guessed right, and pay up! Don’t you remember, we made a bet in Switzerland that you’d never get married… Oh, yes, speaking of Switzerland—what have I been thinking about? Can you imagine, it’s half the reason I came, and I almost forgot all about it. Tell me,’ he said turning quickly to Stepan Trofimovich, ‘have you ever been to Switzerland?’
‘Me? Switzerland?’ Stepan Trofimovich asked, surprised and confused.
‘Why? Aren’t you going? You’re getting married too, aren’t you? You wrote…’
‘Pierre!’ cried Stepan Trofimovich.
‘What do you mean, “Pierre”… Don’t you see, if it gives you pleasure, I’ve come here to say I have nothing against it, since you undoubtedly wanted my opinion as soon as possible; if,’ he rattled on, ‘you really need to be “saved” as you wrote and implored in that letter, well, then, I’m at your service. Is it true he’s getting married, Varvara Petrovna?’ he asked, turning quickly to her. ‘I hope I’m not indiscreet; he wrote that the whole town knows about it and is congratulating him, and that to avoid it he can only go out at night. I have his letter right here in my pocket. But would you believe, Varvara Petrovna, I can’t understand a thing in it! Tell me something, Stepan Trofimovich, am I to congratulate you or “save” you? You wouldn’t believe it, p. 211↵but he writes quite cheerfully, then suddenly he’s full of despair. First of all, he asks my forgiveness; well, I suppose, that’s just his way… But I have to say it: imagine, the man has seen me only twice in his life, and then accidentally, and now suddenly, about to embark on his third marriage, he thinks he’s violating some parental obligation to me. He implores me at a distance of a thousand miles not to be angry and to permit him to remarry! Don’t be offended, Stepan Trofimovich, it’s characteristic of your generation. I’m broad-minded and I don’t condemn you; let’s assume it even does you honour, etc., etc. But again, the point is I don’t really understand the point. There was something about “sins in Switzerland”. I’m getting married, he said, for those sins or because of another man’s sins, however he put it—In any case, because of “sins”. “The girl”, he said, “is a pearl and a diamond”, and, of course, “he’s unworthy”—his own words. But because of another man’s sins or some circumstances or other, “he’s obliged to lead her to the altar and then go to Switzerland”; therefore I should “abandon everything and come rushing to save” him. Do you understand anything in all this? But… but, I can see from your expressions’ (he turned around with the letter in his hands and looked them all straight in the eye with his ingenuous smile) ‘in my usual way, I seem to have made a blunder… in my stupid candour or, as Nikolai Vsevolodovich says, my haste. Why, I thought I was among friends here, meaning your friends, Stepan Trofimovich, your own friends, and that I was the outsider. Now I see… I see that everyone knows something about it, and that is just what I don’t know.’
He continued looking around the room.
‘So Stepan Trofimovich wrote that he was getting married for “another man’s sins committed in Switzerland” and you should come here “to save him”, in those very words?’ Varvara Petrovna asked, approaching him suddenly. Her face was bilious and distorted, her lips trembling.
‘Well, I mean, don’t you see, there may be something here I don’t understand,’ Peter Stepanovich replied, as if in alarm, and more hastily than ever. ‘It’s his fault, of course, p. 212↵for writing like that. Here’s the letter. You know, Varvara Petrovna, his letters are interminable and incessant. In the last two or three months, he’s sent letter after letter; I must confess, I don’t always read them through to the end. Forgive me, Stepan Trofimovich, for my stupid confession, but you’ll agree, won’t you, that while the letter was addressed to me, it was really written for posterity, so you won’t really mind… Come, come, don’t be offended; after all, you and I are still friends! But this letter, Varvara Petrovna, this letter I did read. These “sins”—“another man’s sins”—are probably some little sins of our own, and I bet they’re thoroughly innocent ones. But because of them we’ve suddenly decided to devise this terrible story with a noble theme—precisely on account of the noble theme. Why, don’t you see, there’s a weakness in our financial position—it’s finally necessary to confess. You know, we’re rather too fond of a game of cards… but that’s irrelevant, quite irrelevant. I’m sorry, I talk too much; so help me, Varvara Petrovna, he frightened me, and I really did come here partly to “save” him. Now, I feel ashamed myself. Am I holding a knife to his throat, or what? Am I some implacable creditor? He mentioned something about a dowry… But, do you mean to say you’re really going to get married, Stepan Trofimovich? That’s just like you—to talk and talk for the sake of your own voice… Oh, Varvara Petrovna, I’m sure you must be cross with me now for all this talk…’
‘On the contrary, on the contrary, I can see your patience is quite exhausted, and you have good reason for that, of course,’ Varvara Petrovna replied spitefully.
She’d been listening with malicious glee to Peter Stepanovich’s whole “candid outburst”; he was obviously playing a part (what part I still didn’t know, but it was obvious, even though played rather crudely).
‘On the contrary,’ she continued, ‘I’m very grateful to you for having spoken; I wouldn’t have known any of this but for you. For the first time in twenty years my eyes have been opened. Nikolai Vsevolodovich, just now you said you’d been expressly informed: was that Stepan Trofimovich writing to you in the same vein?’
p. 213↵‘I did receive a perfectly harmless and… and… very generous letter from him…’
‘You seem at a loss for words—enough! Stepan Trofimovich, I want you to do me a very great favour,’ she said suddenly, turning to him with eyes flashing. ‘Do me a favour: leave here at once and never set foot in my house again.’
I want you to recall her recent state of ‘exaltation’—which still hadn’t passed. True, Stepan Trofimovich was certainly at fault! But what really struck me most of all was that he withstood the accusations of his ‘Petrushka’ with utmost dignity, without trying to interrupt, as well as Varvara Petrovna’s ‘malediction’. Where did he find so much strength? I knew only one thing: he was unmistakably deeply wounded by his first meeting with Petrushka, particularly in view of all the embracing that had gone on. There was profound and genuine grief in his eyes and his heart anyway. He was conscious of another grief at the same time, namely, the poignant awareness of having acted despicably; he confided that to me later with total candour. And surely such unmistakable genuine grief, even in a phenomenally frivolous man, is capable of making him solid and resolute, if only for a very short time. What’s more, real, genuine grief can sometimes make even fools smarter, though, of course only for a little while; it’s characteristic of this kind of grief. If that’s true, what can happen to a man like Stepan Trofimovich? A complete transformation—though, of course, only for a short time.
He bowed to Varvara Petrovna with dignity and didn’t utter one word (it’s true there was nothing else he could do). That was the way he wanted to leave the house; but he couldn’t restrain himself and went up to Darya Pavlovna. Apparently she had a feeling he might do so because she began herself, all in a panic, to talk, as if trying to warn him:
‘Please, Stepan Trofimovich, for God’s sake, don’t say anything,’ she said rapidly and excitedly, with a pained expression on her face, hastily holding out her hand to him. ‘Rest assured I respect you as much as ever… and value you p. 214↵just as highly… only think well of me, Stepan Trofimovich, I’ll appreciate that very, very much…’
Stepan Trofimovich bowed very, very deeply to her.
‘Just as you wish, Darya Pavlovna. You know you can do just as you wish in this whole affair. So it was, so it is, and so it will be in the future,’ Varvara Petrovna concluded impressively.
‘Why, now I understand everything!’ Peter Stepanovich said, slapping himself on the forehead. ‘But… but what an awful position all this puts me in! Darya Pavlovna, please forgive me!… Now look what you’ve done to me,’ he said, turning to his father.
‘Pierre, you could speak to me in a different tone, don’t you think, my friend?’ Stepan Trofimovich said very quietly.
‘Don’t shout, please,’ said Pierre, waving his arms about. ‘Believe me, it’s all your sick, old nerves, and shouting doesn’t serve any purpose. You’d better tell me why you didn’t warn me, since you might have assumed I’d begin talking about it as soon as I came in.’
Stepan Trofimovich looked at him very intently:
‘Pierre, you know so much about what’s happening here. Can it really be you didn’t know and hadn’t heard a word about it?’
‘Wha-a-at? What people these are! It isn’t enough you’re such a big baby, you’re a spiteful baby as well! Varvara Petrovna, did you hear what he said?’
General commotion ensued; then suddenly an extraordinary event occurred that no one could have anticipated.
8
First of all I must mention that during the last two or three minutes Lizaveta Ivanovna had been in the grip of some new impulse; she was whispering rapidly to her mamma and to Maurice Nikolaevich, who was bending over her. She looked agitated, but determined at the same time. At last she got up from her seat, obviously in a hurry to leave and hurrying her mamma, whom Maurice Nikolaevich was helping out of her armchair. But evidently they were destined not to leave before witnessing the entire scene to the end.
p. 215↵Shatov, who’d been completely forgotten by everyone in his own corner (not far from Lizaveta Nikolaevna) and, apparently, not knowing himself why he was still sitting there, suddenly got up from his chair and headed across the room towards Nikolai Vsevolodovich with a measured but decisive step, looking him straight in the eye. Nikolai noticed his approach at some distance and smiled faintly; but as Shatov drew nearer, he stopped smiling.
When Shatov halted silently in front of him, without taking his eyes off his face, suddenly everyone noticed and stopped talking, Peter Stepanovich last of all; Liza and mamma paused in the middle of the room. About five seconds elapsed; the expression of insolent bewilderment on Nikolai Vsevolodovich’s face changed to anger; he knit his brows and all of a sudden…
All of a sudden Shatov swung a long, heavy arm and struck Stavrogin across the face with all his might. Nikolai Vsevolodovich staggered violently.
Shatov hit him in a peculiar way, not the way such slaps are usually given (if one can put it like that); in other words, not with the palm of his hand, but with his whole fist. His fist was large, heavy, bony, and covered with reddish hair and freckles. If the blow had landed on the nose, it would’ve been broken. But the blow fell on the cheek and struck the left corner of the lip and upper teeth; the blood began to flow at once.
I believe someone cried out immediately, perhaps it was Varvara Petrovna who screamed—I don’t recall, because after that the room fell silent again. Moreover, the entire scene lasted no more than about ten seconds.
Let me remind the reader once more that Nikolai Vsevolodovich belonged to that category of people who know no fear. In a duel he could face his opponent’s pistol with indifference, then shoot and kill with calm brutality. If someone struck him in the face, he wouldn’t challenge the person to a duel; rather, he’d kill the offender on the spot. He was precisely that type of man, and he’d kill in full consciousness, not in rage. It seems he never experienced those blinding outbursts of anger when it’s impossible to p. 216↵behave rationally. In the midst of a fit of rage that would sometimes overcome him, he could still maintain complete control of himself; therefore he understood that for committing murder except in a duel he’d certainly be sentenced to penal servitude. Nevertheless, he’d still have killed the offender without any hesitation.
I’ve been studying Nikolai Vsevolodovich for some time; and, given the special circumstances, as I write this now I know a great many facts about him. Perhaps I should compare him with other men of the past about whom our society has preserved certain legendary traditions. For example, it was said about the Decembrist L—n* that all his life he was searching for danger; he revelled in the sensation of it, and it became for him a physical necessity. In his youth he’d agree to fight duels for no reason at all; he went hunting bears in Siberia armed with only a knife; he loved to encounter escaped convicts in the forests of Siberia, who, I must observe in passing, are even more terrifying than bears. There’s no doubt these legendary men were capable of feeling fear, perhaps even to an extreme degree—or else they’d have been a great deal more serene, and wouldn’t have become so addicted to the sensation of danger. But what really fascinated them, of course, was overcoming their cowardice. The constant thrill of conquest and the awareness that no one could conquer them—that was what attracted them. Even before his exile L—n had struggled for some time with hunger and hard work as he earned his daily bread, merely because he didn’t want to submit to the unjust demands of his wealthy father. Therefore, he had a many-sided concept of struggle; not only in bear fights and duels did he know the worth of his steadfastness and strength of character.
Nevertheless, many years have passed since that time, and the nervous, tormented, and dualistic nature of men in the present age is incompatible with the urgent need for those pure and immediate sensations so sought after by more active and restless men in, the good old days. Nikolai Vsevolodovich might have looked down upon L—n, might even have called him a boastful coward, a crowing cock—true, p. 217↵he wouldn’t have said it aloud. Stavrogin would’ve shot his opponent in a duel, he’d have gone off on a bear hunt if necessary, and defended himself against a robber in the forest—just as fearlessly and successfully as L—n did, but without any sensation of enjoyment—merely out of unpleasant necessity—listlessly, languorously, even apathetically. As far as malice is concerned, some progress has been made compared to L—n, even compared to Lermontov.* There was more malice in Nikolai Vsevolodovich maybe than in both of them combined, but his malice was cold, calm, and, if I can put it this way, reasonable—consequently the most repellent and terrifying kind of malice imaginable. Let me repeat: at that time I considered him, and still do (now that it’s all over), precisely the sort of man who, if he received a slap across the face or some other insult, would kill his opponent immediately, at once, on the spot, without challenging him to a duel.
And yet, in the present instance, something altogether different and quite strange occurred.
As soon as he’d regained his balance after the blow had almost knocked him down in so humiliating a fashion and the horrible, as it were sodden thud of the fist striking his face had died away in the room, Stavrogin immediately seized Shatov by the shoulders with both hands; but at once, almost the very same instant, he withdrew his hands and folded them behind his back. He was silent, glaring at Shatov, his face as pale as his shirt. But the strange thing was that the fire in his eyes seemed to go out. Ten seconds later his eyes looked cold and—I do not tell a lie—even tranquil. Only he was terribly pale. Naturally, I don’t know what was going on inside the man; I saw only the exterior. I think that if the man existed who, shall we say, would grab a red-hot iron bar and squeeze it tight in his hand to test his fortitude, and then, in the course of ten seconds, could manage to conquer the unbearable pain, that man, it seems to me, would experience something similar to what Nikolai Vsevolodovich endured during those ten seconds.
Shatov was the first to drop his eyes, apparently compelled to do so. Then he turned around slowly and walked p. 218↵out of the room, but not at all in the way he’d entered earlier. He left quietly, in a particularly clumsy way, his shoulders hunched, his head hanging, as if he were debating something within himself. I think he was whispering. He walked to the door cautiously, without stumbling or knocking anything over; he opened the door a little and slipped out almost sideways. As he left, the tuft of hair sticking straight up on the back of his head was particularly noticeable.
Then, before all the screaming began, one terrible scream was heard. I saw Lizaveta Nikolaevna seize her mamma by the shoulder and Maurice Nikolaevich by the arm, and saw how she pulled them from behind two or three times, trying to make them leave the room; then all of a sudden she uttered a shriek and fell full length on the floor, unconscious. To this day I can still hear the sound of her head as it hit the carpet.