Demons

2: Prince Harry - Matchmaking

I

There was one other person on earth to whom Varvara Petrovna was attached no less than to Stepan Trofimovich—her only son, Nikolai Vsevolodovich Stavrogin. It was for him that Stepan Trofimovich had been invited as a tutor. The boy was then about eight years old, and the frivolous General Stavrogin, his father, was at the time already living separately from his mama, so that the child grew up in her care alone. One must do Stepan Trofimovich justice: he knew how to win his pupil over. The whole secret lay in his being a child himself. I was not around then, and he was constantly in need of a true friend. He did not hesitate to make a friend of such a small being, once he had grown up a bit. It somehow came about naturally that there was not the least distance between them. More than once he awakened his tenor eleven-year-old friend at night only to pour out his injured feelings in tears before him, or to reveal some domestic secret to him, not noticing that this was altogether inadmissible. They used to throw themselves into each other's embrace and weep. The boy knew that his mother loved him very much, but he hardly had much love for her. She spoke little to him, rarely hindered him in anything, but he always somehow morbidly felt her eyes fixed upon him, watching him. However, in the whole business of education and moral development, his mother fully trusted Stepan Trofimovich. She still fully believed in him then. One may suppose that the pedagogue somewhat unsettled his pupil's nerves. When he was taken to the lycée in his sixteenth year, he was puny and pale, strangely quiet and pensive. (Later on he was distinguished by his extraordinary physical strength.) One may also suppose that when the friends wept, throwing themselves into their mutual embrace at night, it was not always over some little domestic anecdotes. Stepan Trofimovich managed to touch the deepest strings in his friend's heart and to call forth in him the first, still uncertain sensation of that age-old, sacred anguish which the chosen soul, having once tasted and known it, will never exchange for any cheap satisfaction. (There are lovers of this anguish who cherish it more than the most radical satisfaction, if that were even possible.) But in any event it was good that the youngling and the mentor, though none too soon, were parted in different directions.

For the first two years the young man came home from the lycée for vacations. While Varvara Petrovna and Stepan Trofimovich were in Petersburg, he was sometimes present at his mother's literary evenings, listening and observing. He spoke little, and was quiet and shy as before. He treated Stepan Trofimovich with the former tender attentiveness, but now somehow more reservedly: he obviously refrained from talking with him about lofty subjects or memories of the past. In accordance with his mama's wish, after completing his studies he entered military service and was soon enrolled in one of the most distinguished regiments of the Horse Guard. He did not come to show himself to his mama in his uniform and now rarely wrote from Petersburg. Varvara Petrovna sent him money without stint, in spite of the fact that the income from her estates fell so much after the reform that at first she did not get even half of her former income. However, through long economy she had saved up a certain not exactly small sum. She was very interested in her son's successes in Petersburg high society. The young officer, rich and with expectations, succeeded where she had not. He renewed acquaintances of which she could no longer even dream, and was received everywhere with great pleasure. But very soon rather strange rumors began to reach Varvara Petrovna: the young man, somehow madly and suddenly, started leading a wild life. Not that he gambled or drank too much; there was only talk of some savage unbridledness, of some people being run over by horses, of some beastly behavior towards a lady of good society with whom he had had a liaison and whom he afterwards publicly insulted. There was something even too frankly dirty about this affair. It was added, furthermore, that he was some sort of swashbuckler, that he picked on people and insulted them for the pleasure of it. Varvara Petrovna was worried and anguished. Stepan Trofimovich assured her that these were merely the first stormy impulses of an overabundant constitution, that the sea would grow calm, and that it all resembled Shakespeare's description of the youth of Prince Harry, carousing with Falstaff, Poins, and Mistress Quickly.^[38] This time Varvara Petrovna did not shout "Nonsense, nonsense!" as it had lately become her habit to shout quite often at Stepan Trofimovich, but, on the contrary, paid great heed to him, asked him to explain in more detail, herself took Shakespeare and read the immortal chronicle with extreme attention. But the chronicle did not calm her down, nor did she find all that much resemblance. She waited feverishly for answers to certain of her letters. The answers were not slow in coming; soon the fatal news was received that Prince Harry had almost simultaneously fought two duels, was entirely to blame for both of them, had killed one of his opponents on the spot and crippled the other, and as a consequence of such deeds had been brought to trial. The affair ended with his being broken to the ranks, stripped of his rights, and exiled to service in one of the infantry regiments, and even that only by special favor.

In the year 'sixty-three he somehow managed to distinguish himself; he was awarded a little cross, promoted to noncommissioned officer, and then, somehow quite soon, to officer. Throughout this time Varvara Petrovna had sent perhaps as many as a hundred letters to the capital with requests and pleas. She allowed herself to be somewhat humiliated in so extraordinary a case. After his promotion, the young man suddenly retired, once again did not come to Skvoreshniki, and stopped writing to his mother altogether. It was learned in some roundabout way that he was back in Petersburg, but was not seen at all in the former society; he seemed to have hidden somewhere. It was discovered that he was living in some strange company, had become associated with some castoffs of the Petersburg populace, with some down-at-the-heel officials, retired military men who nobly begged for alms, drunkards, that he visited their dirty families, spent days and nights in dark slums and God knows what corners, that he had gone to seed, gone ragged, and that he apparently liked it. He did not ask money of his mother; he had his little estate—a former village of General Stavrogin's, which did bring at least some income and which, according to rumors, he had rented out to a German from Saxony. At last his mother begged a visit out of him, and Prince Harry appeared in our town. It was then that I first had a close look at him, for before then I had never seen him.

He was a very handsome young man, about twenty-five years old, and I confess I found him striking. I expected to see some dirty ragamuffin, wasted away from depravity and stinking of vodka. On the contrary, this was the most elegant gentleman of any I had ever happened to meet, extremely well dressed, of a behavior such as is to be found only in a gentleman accustomed to the most refined decorum. I was not alone in my surprise: the whole town was surprised, having already been informed, of course, of the whole of Mr. Stavrogin's biography, and even in such detail that it was impossible to imagine where it could have come from, and, what is most surprising, half of which turned out to be true. All our ladies lost their minds over the new visitor. They were sharply divided into two parties—one party adored him, the other hated him to the point of blood vengeance; but both lost their minds. Some were especially fascinated by the possibility of some fatal mystery in his soul; others positively liked his being a killer. It also turned out that he was quite well educated, and even rather knowledgeable. Of course, it did not take much knowledge to surprise us; but he could reason about vital and rather interesting issues as well, and, what was most precious, with remarkable reasonableness. I will mention as an oddity that everyone here, almost from the very first day, found him to be an extremely reasonable man. He was not very talkative, was elegant without exquisiteness, surprisingly modest, and at the same time bold and confident like no one else among us. Our dandies looked at him with envy and were totally eclipsed in his presence. I was also struck by his face: his hair was somehow too black, his light eyes were somehow too calm and clear, his complexion was somehow too delicate and white, his color somehow too bright and clean, his teeth like pearls, his lips like coral—the very image of beauty, it would seem, and at the same time repulsive, as it were. People said his face resembled a mask; however, they said much else as well, about his great physical strength, among other things. He was almost a tall man. Varvara Petrovna looked at him with pride, but also with constant uneasiness. He spent about half a year with us—listless, quiet, rather morose; he appeared in society and observed all our provincial etiquette with unswerving attention. He was related to our governor through his father, and was received in his house as a close relative. But several months passed, and the beast suddenly showed its claws.

By the way, I will note parenthetically that dear, mild Ivan Osipovich, our former governor, had something of the woman about him, but was from a good and well-connected family—which explains how he could sit with us for so many years constantly brushing all business aside. With his openhandedness and hospitality he should have been a marshal of nobility of the good old days, and not a governor in such a worrisome time as ours. There was eternal talk in town that it was not he but Varvara Petrovna who ruled the province. It was caustically put, of course, but nonetheless decidedly a lie. And much wit was wasted among us on account of it. On the contrary, in recent years Varvara Petrovna had specifically and consciously withdrawn from any higher destiny, despite the extreme respect accorded her by the whole of society, and voluntarily confined herself within the strict limits she set for herself. Instead of a higher destiny, she suddenly turned to the management of her estate, and in two or three years brought its income up almost to the former level. Instead of the former poetic impulses (visits to Petersburg, plans for publishing a magazine, and so on), she started scrimping and saving. She even removed Stepan Trofimovich from herself, allowing him to rent an apartment in another house (which he himself, under various pretexts, had been pestering her to do for a long time). Stepan Trofimovich gradually began referring to her as a prosaic woman, or, even more jocularly, as his "prosaic friend." To be sure, he allowed himself such jokes not otherwise than in the most highly respectful form and after a long selection of the appropriate moment.

All of us who were close to them understood—and Stepan Trofimovich more sensitively than any of us—that her son appeared to her then as if in the guise of a new hope and even in the guise of some new dream. Her passion for her son dated from the time of his successes in Petersburg society, and had increased especially from the moment she received the news that he had been broken to the ranks. And yet she was obviously afraid of him and seemed like a slave before him. One could see that she was afraid of something indefinite, mysterious, which she herself would have been unable to explain, and oftentimes she studied Nicolas unobtrusively and attentively, pondering and puzzling over something... and then—the beast suddenly put out its claws.

II

Our prince suddenly, for no reason at all, committed two or three impossibly brazen acts upon various persons—that is, the main thing lay in their being so unheard-of, so utterly unlike anything else, so different from what is usually done, so paltry and adolescent, and devil knows why, with no pretext whatsoever. One of the most respectable senior members of our club, Pavel Pavlovich Gaganov, an elderly man and even a decorated one, had acquired the innocent habit of accompanying his every word with a passionately uttered: "No, sir, they won't lead me by the nose!" And so what. But one day in the club, when he uttered this aphorism at some heated moment to a small group of club guests gathered around him (none of them inconsequential), Nikolai Vsevolodovich, who was standing apart by himself and whom no one was addressing, suddenly came up to Pavel Pavlovich, seized his nose unexpectedly but firmly with two fingers, and managed to pull him two or three steps across the room. He could not have felt any anger towards Mr. Gaganov. One might think it was merely a childish prank, a most unpardonable one, of course; yet it was recounted later that at the very moment of the operation he was almost in a reverie, "just as if he had lost his mind"; but this was recalled and grasped long afterwards. At first, in the heat of the moment, everyone recalled only what happened next, by which time he certainly understood how things really were and not only did not become embarrassed but, on the contrary, smiled gaily and maliciously, "without the least repentance." There was a terrible uproar; he was surrounded. Nikolai Vsevolodovich kept turning and looking around, not answering anyone, gazing with curiosity at the exclaiming faces. At last he seemed suddenly to lapse into reverie again—so they said, at least—frowned, stepped firmly up to the insulted Pavel Pavlovich, and with obvious vexation muttered rapidly:

"Forgive me, of course ... I really don't know why I suddenly wanted... silly of me..."

The casualness of the apology amounted to a fresh insult. There was even more shouting. Nikolai Vsevolodovich shrugged and walked out.

All this was very silly, to say nothing of its ugliness—a calculated and deliberate ugliness, as it seemed at first sight, and therefore constituting a deliberate and in the highest degree impudent affront to our entire society. And that is how everyone understood it. First of all, Mr. Stavrogin was immediately and unanimously expelled from membership in the club; then it was decided on behalf of the whole club to appeal to the governor and ask him at once (without waiting for the affair to be taken formally to court) to restrain the pernicious ruffian, the big-city "swashbuckler, through the administrative power entrusted to him, and thereby protect the peace of all decent circles in our town from pernicious encroachments." It was added with malicious innocence that "some law may perhaps be found even for Mr. Stavrogin." This phrase was prepared for the governor precisely in order to sting him on account of Varvara Petrovna. They delighted in smearing it around. As if by design, the governor happened to be out of town then; he had gone somewhere nearby to baptize the baby of a certain interesting and recent widow who had been left in a certain condition by her husband; but it was known that he would soon return. Meanwhile they arranged a real ovation for the esteemed and offended Pavel Pavlovich: they embraced and kissed him; the whole town came to call on him. They even planned a subscription dinner in his honor, and abandoned the idea only at his urgent request—perhaps realizing finally that the man had after all been dragged by the nose, and therefore there was no reason to be quite so triumphant.

And yet how had it happened? How could it have happened? The remarkable thing was precisely that no one in the whole town ascribed this wild act to madness. Which meant that they were inclined to expect such acts from Nikolai Vsevolodovich even when sane. For my own part, to this day I do not know how to explain it, even despite the event that soon followed, which seemed to explain everything and, apparently, to pacify everyone. I will also add that, four years later, to my cautious question concerning this past event in the club, Nikolai Vsevolodovich responded, frowning: "Yes, I was not quite well then." But there is no point in rushing ahead.

I also found curious the explosion of general hatred with which everyone here fell upon the "ruffian and big-city swashbuckler." They insisted on seeing an insolent deliberateness and calculated intention to insult our whole society at once. In truth, the man pleased no one and, on the contrary, got everyone up in arms—but how, one wonders? Until the last occasion, he had not once quarreled with anyone, or insulted anyone, and was as courteous as a gentleman in a fashion plate, if the latter were able to speak. I suppose he was hated for his pride. Even our ladies, who had begun with adoration, now cried against him still more loudly than the men.

Varvara Petrovna was terribly struck. She confessed later to Stepan Trofimovich that she had long been foreseeing it all, during that entire half year, every day, and even precisely "of that very sort"—a remarkable confession on the part of one's own mother. "It's begun!" she thought with a shudder. The next morning after the fatal evening in the club, she set out cautiously but resolutely to have a talk with her son, and yet the poor woman was all atremble despite her resolution. She had not slept all night and had even gone early in the morning to confer with Stepan Trofimovich and wept while she was there, which had never happened to her in public before. She wished that Nicolas would at least say something to her, at least deign to talk with her. Nicolas, always so courteous and respectful with his mother, listened to her for some time, scowling but very serious; suddenly he got up without a word of response, kissed her hand, and walked out. And that same day, in the evening, as if by design, there came another scandal which, though a bit more mild and ordinary than the first, nevertheless, owing to the general mood, considerably increased the town outcry.

Namely, our friend Liputin turned up. He called on Nikolai Vsevolodovich immediately after his talk with his mama, and earnestly requested the honor of his presence that same evening at a party on the occasion of his wife's birthday. Varvara Petrovna had long looked with a shudder at the low orientation of Nikolai Vsevolodovich's acquaintances, but never dared to remark on it. He had already struck up several other acquaintances in this third-rate stratum of our society, and even lower—but such was his inclination. However, he had not yet visited Liputin's house, though he had met Liputin himself. He realized that Liputin was inviting him as a result of the scandal in the club the day before, that as a local liberal he was delighted by the scandal, sincerely thought it was the proper way to treat senior club members, and that it was all very good. Nikolai Vsevolodovich laughed and promised to come.

Many guests assembled; they were unsightly but rollicksome people. The vain and jealous Liputin invited guests only twice a year, but on those occasions he did not stint. The most honored guest, Stepan Trofimovich, did not come for reason of illness. Tea was served; there was an abundance of appetizers and vodka; cards were being played at three tables, and while waiting for supper the young people started dancing to the piano. Nikolai Vsevolodovich chose Madame Liputin—a very pretty little lady, who was terribly shy of him—took two turns with her, sat down beside her, made her talk, made her laugh. Finally, after remarking on how pretty she was when she laughed, he suddenly put his arm around her waist, in front of all the guests, and kissed her on the lips, three times in a row, to the full of his heart's content. The poor frightened woman fainted. Nikolai Vsevolodovich took his hat, went up to her husband, who stood dumbstruck amid the general commotion, looked at him, became confused himself, muttered hastily "Don't be angry," and walked out. Liputin ran after him to the front hall, helped him into his fur coat with his own hands, and, bowing, saw him down the stairs. And the very next day there came a rather amusing addition to this, comparatively speaking, essentially innocent story—an addition which thereafter even brought Liputin a sort of honor, which he was able to exploit to his full advantage.

Around ten o'clock in the morning, Liputin's servant Agafya, a bold, pert, and red-cheeked wench of about thirty, appeared at Mrs. Stavrogin's house, sent by him with a message for Nikolai Vsevolodovich, saying she absolutely had "to see the master himself, ma'am." He had a very bad headache, but he came out. Varvara Petrovna managed to be present when the message was delivered.

"Sergei Vasilyich" (that is, Liputin), Agafya rattled out pertly, "asked me first of all to bring you his greetings and inquire about your health, sir, how you slept yesterday, and how you feel now after yesterday, sir."

Nikolai Vsevolodovich grinned.

"Bring him my greetings and thanks, and tell your master from me, Agafya, that he is the most intelligent man in the whole town."

"And he told me to answer you on that," Agafya picked up even more pertly, "that he knows it even without you, and he wishes you the same, sir."

"Well, now! And how could he have found out what I was going to tell you?"

"I really don't know what way he found out, sir, but when I'd left and was already at the other end of the lane, I heard him running after me without his cap, sir. 'Agafyushka,' he said, 'if it perhappens he says to you: "Tell your master he's the smartest man in town," then be sure to say at once: "We know that ver-ry well ourselves, and the same to you, sir...”‘“

III

The talk with the governor also finally took place. Our dear, mild Ivan Osipovich had just returned and had just had time to hear the club's hot complaint. Without a doubt something had to be done, but he was perplexed. Our hospitable old man also seemed a bit afraid of his young relative. He decided, however, to persuade him to apologize to the club and to the offended man, but in satisfactory form, and if necessary even in writing, and then gently talk him into leaving us and going to Italy, say, for the interest of it, or generally somewhere abroad. In the reception room, where he came out this time to meet Nikolai Vsevolodovich (who on other occasions, as a relative, wandered freely all over the house), the well-bred Alyosha Telyatnikov, an official and also a familiar of the governor's house, was opening envelopes in the corner at a table; and in the next room, by the window nearest the door, a visitor had placed himself, a fat and healthy colonel, a friend and former colleague of Ivan Osipovich's, who was reading the Voice, paying no attention, of course, to what was going on in the reception room; he even sat with his back turned. Ivan Osipovich began in a roundabout way, almost in a whisper, but kept getting slightly confused. Nicolas had an ungracious look, not at all like a relative, was pale, sat staring at the floor, and listened with knitted brows, as if overcoming great pain.

"You have a kind heart, Nicolas, and a noble one," the old man included among other things, "you are quite an educated man, you have moved in the highest circles, and here, too, your behavior up to now has been exemplary and you have set at ease the heart of your mother, who is dear to us all. . . And now everything has again taken on a coloring so mysterious and dangerous for everyone! I speak as a friend of your family, as an elderly man who is your relative and loves you sincerely, in whom you can take no offense... Tell me, what prompts you to such unbridled acts, so beyond all convention and measure? What might be the meaning of such escapades, as if in delirium?"

Nicolas listened with vexation and impatience. Suddenly something as if sly and mocking flashed in his eyes.

"Perhaps I'll tell you what prompts me," he said sullenly, and, looking around, he leaned towards Ivan Osipovich's ear. The well-bred Alyosha Telyatnikov withdrew another three steps towards the window, and the colonel coughed over the Voice. Poor Ivan Osipovich hastily and trustfully offered his ear; he was an extremely curious man. And here something utterly impossible occurred, which, on the other hand, was all too clear in one respect. The old man suddenly felt that, instead of whispering some interesting secret to him, Nicolas had suddenly caught the upper part of his ear in his teeth and clamped it quite firmly. He trembled and his breath failed.

"Is this a joke, Nicolas?" he moaned mechanically, in a voice not his own.

Alyosha and the colonel had no time to realize anything; besides, they could not see and thought all along that the two were whispering to each other; and yet the old man's desperate face worried them. They looked goggle-eyed at each other, not knowing whether to rush to his assistance, as agreed, or to wait longer. Nicolas noticed it, perhaps, and bit harder on the ear.

"Nicolas! Nicolas!" the victim moaned again, "so... you've had your joke, that's enough..."

Another moment and the poor man would, of course, have died of fright; but the monster had mercy on him and released his ear. This whole mortal terror lasted a full minute, and after it the old man had a sort of fit. But half an hour later Nicolas was arrested and taken for the time being to the guardhouse, where he was locked in a separate cell with a separate guard at the door. The decision was a harsh one, but our mild superior was so angry that he decided to take the responsibility upon himself even in the face of Varvara Petrovna. To the general amazement, this lady, who arrived at the governor's in haste and displeasure for an immediate explanation, was turned away at the porch; whereupon, without getting out of the carriage, she went back home, hardly able to believe it herself.

And finally everything was explained! At two o'clock in the morning, the arrested man, who until then had been surprisingly quiet and had even fallen asleep, suddenly raised a clamor, began beating violently on the door with his fists, with unnatural force tore the iron grating from the little window in the door, broke the glass, and cut his hands all over. When the officer of the guard came running with a detachment of men and the keys and ordered the cell to be opened so as to fall upon the raging man and bind him, it turned out that he was in an acute state of brain fever. He was brought home to his mama. At once everything was explained. All three of our doctors gave the opinion that the sick man could already have been in delirium three days earlier, still in possession of consciousness and cunning, but not of common sense and will—which, by the way, was confirmed by the facts. Thus it turned out that Liputin had been the first to guess right. Ivan Osipovich, a delicate and sensitive man, was extremely embarrassed; but, curiously, that meant that he, too, considered Nikolai Vsevolodovich capable of any crazy act while in his right mind. In the club they were also ashamed and puzzled at how they had failed to notice the elephant and had missed the only possible explanation of all these wonders. Skeptics turned up as well, of course, but they did not hold out for long.

Nicolas spent more than two months in bed. A famous doctor was invited from Moscow for consultation; the whole town came to call on Varvara Petrovna. Forgiveness was granted. Towards spring, when Nicolas had completely recovered and had assented without any objections to his mother's proposal that he go to Italy, she also persuaded him to pay farewell visits to everyone and, while doing so, to make apologies as far as possible and wherever necessary. Nicolas assented quite readily. It became known in the club that he had a most delicate talk with Pavel Pavlovich Gaganov in his own home, which left the man perfectly satisfied. Going around on his visits, Nicolas was very serious, even somewhat gloomy. Everyone received him, apparently, with complete sympathy, but everyone was also embarrassed for some reason and glad that he was going to Italy. Ivan Osipovich even shed a tear, but for some reason did not dare to embrace him even at this final parting. Indeed, some among us remained convinced that the scoundrel was simply laughing at us all, and that his illness was beside the point. He also stopped by at Liputin's.

"Tell me," he asked him, "how could you guess beforehand what I was going to say about your intelligence, and provide Agafya with an answer?"

"I'll tell you how," laughed Liputin. "It's because I also regard you as an intelligent man, and therefore could divine your answer beforehand."

"Still, it's a remarkable coincidence. Excuse me, however, but does it mean that you regarded me as an intelligent man and not a crazy one when you sent Agafya over?"

"As a most intelligent and reasonable man, and I only pretended to believe that you were not in your right mind ... And you immediately guessed my thoughts then and sent me a patent for my wit through Agafya."

"Well, there you're slightly mistaken. I really... wasn't well..." Nikolai Vsevolodovich muttered, frowning. "Bah!" he cried out, "do you really think I'm capable of throwing myself on people when I'm in my right mind? Why would I do that?"

Liputin cringed and was unable to answer. Nicolas became somewhat pale, or at least it seemed so to Liputin.

"In any case, you have a very amusing turn of mind," Nicolas continued, "and as for Agafya, I realize, of course, that you sent her to abuse me."

"Could I have challenged you to a duel, sir?"

"Ah, yes, right! I did hear something about your dislike of duels..."

"Why translate from the French!" Liputin cringed again.

"You adhere to native things?"

Liputin cringed even more.

"Hah, hah! What's this I see?" Nicolas cried out, suddenly noticing a volume of Considérant^[39] in a most conspicuous place on the table. "Do you mean you're a Fourierist? Good for you! But isn't this also a translation from the French?" he laughed, tapping the book with his finger.

"No, it's not a translation from the French!" Liputin jumped up, even with some sort of spite. "It's a translation from the universal human language, sir, and not just from the French! From the language of the universally human social republic and harmony, that's what, sir! Not just from the French! ..."

"Pah, the devil, but there is no such language!" Nicolas went on laughing.

Sometimes even a little thing strikes one's attention exceptionally and for a long time. Though the whole main story about Mr. Stavrogin still lies ahead, I will note here, as a curiosity, that of all his impressions during all the time he spent in our town, the sharpest stamp was left in his memory by the homely and almost mean little figure of the little provincial official, the jealous husband and crude family despot, the miser and moneylender, who locked up candle ends and the leftovers from dinner, and who was at the same time a fierce sectarian of God knows what future "social harmony," who reveled by night in ecstasies over fantastic pictures of the future phalanstery,^[40] in the coming realization of which, in Russia and in our province, he believed as firmly as in his own existence. And that in a place where he himself had set aside "a little house," where he had married a second time and picked up a bit of cash as a dowry, where perhaps for a hundred miles around there was not a single person, beginning with himself, who even outwardly resembled a future member of the "universally all-human social republic and harmony."

"God knows how these people get made!" Nicolas thought in bewilderment, occasionally recalling the unexpected Fourierist.

IV

Our prince traveled for more than three years, so that he was almost forgotten in town. But we knew through Stepan Trofimovich that he had been all over Europe, had even gone to Egypt and stopped off at Jerusalem; then he had stuck himself onto some scientific expedition to Iceland and actually visited Iceland. It was also reported that during one winter he attended lectures at some German university. He seldom wrote to his mother—once in six months or even less often; but Varvara Petrovna was not angry or offended. She accepted the once-established relationship with her son submissively and without a murmur; but, of course, every day of those three years she worried about her Nicolas, pined for him, and dreamed of him continually. She did not tell anyone about her dreams or complaints. Apparently she even withdrew somewhat from Stepan Trofimovich. She formed some plans within herself and, it seemed, became even stingier than before, and began saving even more and getting all the more angry over Stepan Trofimovich's losses at cards.

Finally, in April of this year, she received a letter from Paris, from Praskovya Ivanovna, General Drozdov's widow and her childhood friend. In the letter Praskovya Ivanovna—whom Varvara Petrovna had not seen or corresponded with for about eight years—informed her that Nikolai Vsevolodovich had become a familiar of her house and was friends with Liza (her only daughter), and intended to accompany them to Switzerland in the summer, to Vernex-Montreux, despite the fact that he was received like a son and was almost living in the family of Count K. (quite an influential person in Petersburg), who was now staying in Paris. It was a brief letter and its object was perfectly clear, though apart from the above-mentioned facts it contained no conclusions. Varvara Petrovna did not think long, made her mind up instantly, got ready, took her ward Dasha (Shatov's sister) with her, and in the middle of April went off to Paris and then to Switzerland. She returned alone in July, having left Dasha with the Drozdovs; the Drozdovs themselves, according to the news she brought, promised to come to us at the end of August.

The Drozdovs were also landowners of our province, but the duties of General Ivan Ivanovich (a former friend of Varvara Petrovna's and a colleague of her husband's) constantly prevented them from ever visiting their magnificent estate. After the general's death, which occurred last year, the inconsolable Praskovya Ivanovna went abroad with her daughter, with the intention among other things of trying the grape cure, which she planned to undergo at Vernex-Montreux in the latter half of the summer. On her return to the fatherland she intended to settle in our province for good. She had a big house in town, which for many years had stood empty with its windows boarded up. They were rich people. Praskovya Ivanovna, Mrs. Tushin by her first marriage, was also, like her school friend Varvara Petrovna, the daughter of an old-time tax farmer and had also married with a very large dowry. The retired cavalry captain Tushin was himself a man of means and of some ability. At his death he bequeathed a goodly capital to his seven-year-old and only daughter Liza. Now that Lizaveta Nikolaevna was about twenty-two, her own money could safely be reckoned at no less then 200,000 roubles, to say nothing of the fortune that would come to her in time from her mother, who had no children from her second marriage. Varvara Petrovna was apparently quite pleased with her trip. In her opinion, she had managed to come to a satisfactory understanding with Praskovya Ivanovna, and immediately upon her arrival she told everything to Stepan Trofimovich; she was even quite expansive with him, something which had not happened to her in a long time.

"Hurrah!" Stepan Trofimovich cried and snapped his fingers.

He was perfectly delighted, the more so as he had spent the whole time of separation from his friend being extremely dejected. She had not even said a proper good-bye to him as she was leaving, and did not mention any of her plans to "that old woman," fearing, perhaps, that he might blurt something out. She was angry with him then for the loss of a considerable sum at cards, which had suddenly been discovered. But while still in Switzerland she had felt in her heart that her abandoned friend should be rewarded on her return, the more so as she had long been treating him severely. The abrupt and mysterious separation struck and tormented the timid heart of Stepan Trofimovich, and, as if by design, other perplexities also came along at the same time.

He suffered over a certain rather considerable and long-standing financial obligation, which could by no means be met without Varvara Petrovna's help. Moreover, in May of this year came the end of our kindly, mild Ivan Osipovich's term as governor; he was replaced, and not without some unpleasantness. Then, in Varvara Petrovna's absence, the entrance of our new superior, Andrei Antonovich von Lembke, also took place; with that there at once began to be a noticeable change in the attitude of almost all our provincial society towards Varvara Petrovna, and, consequently, towards Stepan Trofimovich as well. At least he had already managed to gather a few unpleasant though valuable observations and, it seems, had grown very timid on his own without Varvara Petrovna. He had an alarming suspicion that the new governor had already received reports on him as a dangerous man. He learned positively that some of our ladies intended to stop calling on Varvara Petrovna. It was said repeatedly of the future governor's wife (who was expected here only in the autumn) that though she was, one heard, a haughty woman, at least she was a real aristocrat, not like "our wretched Varvara Petrovna." Everyone knew from somewhere, certainly and with details, that the new governor's wife and Varvara Petrovna had already met once in society and had parted in enmity, so that the mere reminder of Mrs. von Lembke supposedly produced a morbid impression on Varvara Petrovna. Varvara Petrovna's bright and victorious look, the contemptuous indifference with which she heard about the opinions of our ladies and the agitation in society, resurrected the fallen spirits of timid Stepan Trofimovich and cheered him up at once. With a special joyfully fawning humor he began to elaborate upon the new governor's arrival.

"You undoubtedly know, excellente amie, " he spoke, drawing the words out fashionably and coquettishly, "what is meant by a Russian administrator, generally speaking, and what is meant by a new Russian administrator—that is, newly baked, newly installed... Ces interminables mots russes!^[ix]... But it is unlikely that you can have learned in practice what administrative rapture means and what sort of thing it is!"

"Administrative rapture? I have no idea."

"That is... Vous savez, chez nous... En un mot,^[x] set some utter nonentity to selling some paltry railroad tickets, and this nonentity will at once decide he has the right to look at you like Jupiter when you come to buy a ticket, pour vous montrer son pouvoir,^[xi] 'Come,' he thinks, 'I'll show my power over you...' And it reaches the point of administrative rapture with them ... En un mot, I've just read that some beadle in one of our churches abroad—mais c'est très curieux^[xii]—chased out, I mean literally chased out of the church, a wonderful English family, les dames charmantes, just before the start of the Lenten service—vous savez ces chants et le livre de Job^[xiii]—on the sole pretext that 'it is not in order for foreigners to hang about in Russian churches and they should come at the proper time...' and he sent them all into a faint... This beadle was in a fit of administrative rapture et il a montré son pouvoir^[xiv]. . ."

"Abbreviate if you can, Stepan Trofimovich."

"Mr. von Lembke is now touring the province. En un mot, this Andrei Antonovich, though he is a Russian German of Orthodox faith and even—I will grant him that—a remarkably handsome man, of the forty-year-old sort ..."

"Where did you get that he's a handsome man? He has sheep's eyes."

"In the highest degree. But, very well, I yield to the opinion of our ladies..."

"Let's move on, Stepan Trofimovich, I beg you! By the way, since when have you been wearing a red necktie?"

"I... only today..."

"And do you take your exercise? Do you go for a four-mile walk every day, as the doctor prescribed?"

"Not... not always."

"Just as I thought! I felt it even in Switzerland!" she cried irritably. "You are now going to walk not four but six miles a day! You've gone terribly to seed, terribly, ter-ri-bly! You're not just old, you're decrepit ... I was struck when I saw you today, in spite of your red necktie ... quelle idée rouge!^[xv] Go on about von Lembke, if there really is anything to say, but let it end somewhere, I beg you, I'm tired."

"En un mot, I merely wanted to say that he is one of those administrators who start out at the age of forty, who vegetate in insignificance until they're forty and then suddenly make their way by means of an unexpectedly acquired wife or by some other no less desperate means... That he is away now... that is, I mean to say that he at once had it whispered in both ears that I am a corrupter of youth and a fomenter of provincial atheism... He began making inquiries at once."

"Can it be true?"

"I've even taken measures. When it was 're-por-ted' that you 'ruled the province,' vous savez,^[xvi] he allowed himself to say that 'such things will not continue.’”

"Is that what he said?"

"That 'such things will not continue,' and avec cette morgue^[xvii] ... His spouse, Yulia Mikhailovna, we shall behold here at the end of August, direct from Petersburg."

"From abroad. I met her there."

"Vraiment?"^[xviii]

"In Paris and in Switzerland. She's related to the Drozdovs."

"Related? What a remarkable coincidence! They say she's ambitious and... supposedly has good connections?"

"Nonsense! Nothing to speak of! She sat a spinster without a kopeck until she was forty-five, then she went and married her von Lembke, and now, of course, her whole goal is to pull him up. A pair of intriguers."

"And they say she's two years older than he is."

"Five. Her mother wore out the train of her dress on my doorstep in Moscow; she used to get herself invited to my balls out of charity when Vsevolod Nikolaevich was alive. And the girl used to sit alone in the corner all evening with a turquoise fly on her forehead, no one would dance with her, so when it got to be past two I'd take pity on her and send her her first partner. She was already twenty-five then, and they still took her out in short skirts like a schoolgirl. It became indecent to invite them."

"That fly, I can just see it!"

"I tell you, I arrived and stumbled right onto an intrigue. You've just read Drozdov's letter—what could be clearer? And what did I find? That fool Drozdov herself—she's never been anything but a fool— suddenly looked at me as if she were asking why I had come. You can imagine how surprised I was! I looked and there was this finagling Lembke woman, and this cousin with her, old Drozdov's nephew—it was all clear! Of course, I undid it all at once, and Praskovya is on my side again; but the intrigue, the intrigue!"

"Which you overcame, however! Oh, you Bismarck!"^[41]

"Bismarck or not, I'm still able to see through falseness and stupidity when I meet them. Lembke is falseness, and Praskovya—stupidity. I've rarely met a more flaccid woman, and moreover her legs are swollen, and moreover she's kind. What could be stupider than someone who is stupid and kind?"

"The wicked kind, ma bonne amie, the wicked kind are even stupider," Stepan Trofimovich parried nobly.

"Perhaps you're right, but do you remember Liza?"

"Charmante enfant!"^[xix]

"And no longer an enfant now, but a woman, and a woman of character. Noble and passionate, and what I love in her is that she stands up to her gullible fool of a mother. The whole story took place because of that cousin."

"Hah, but in fact he's not related to Lizaveta Nikolaevna at all... Does he have intentions or something?"

"You see, he's a young officer, very taciturn, even modest. I wish always to be just. It seems to me that he's against the whole intrigue himself and doesn't want anything, and the only finagler was Lembke. He had great respect for Nicolas. You understand, it all depends on Liza, but I left her on excellent terms with Nicolas, and he himself promised me that he would certainly come to us in November. So Lembke alone is intriguing here, and Praskovya is simply a blind woman. She suddenly told me that my suspicions were all a fantasy, and I told her to her face that she was a fool. I'm ready to repeat it at the Last Judgment. And if it weren't for Nicolas, who asked me to let it be for a while, I would never have gone away without exposing that false woman. She paid court to Count K. through Nicolas, she tried to come between a mother and her son. But Liza is on our side, and I came to an understanding with Praskovya. You know she's related to Karmazinov."

"Who? Madame von Lembke?"

"Why, yes. Distantly."

"Karmazinov, the novelist?"

"The writer, yes—why are you surprised? Of course, he considers himself great. A puffed-up creature! She'll bring him with her, and now she's fussing over him there. She intends to introduce something here, some sort of literary gatherings. He'll come for a month, he wants to sell his last estate here. I very nearly met him in Switzerland, not that I really wanted to. However, I hope he will deign to recognize me. In the old days he used to write me letters, he used to visit our house. I wish you were better dressed, Stepan Trofimovich; you're getting more slovenly by the day ... Oh, how you torment me! What are you reading now?"

"I... I..."

"I understand. Friends, drinking parties, club and cards, as usual— and the reputation of an atheist. I don't like this reputation, Stepan Trofimovich. I'd rather you weren't called an atheist, especially now. I've never liked it, in fact, because it's all just empty talk. It must finally be said."

"Mais, ma chère ..."

"Listen, Stepan Trofimovich, compared with you I am, of course, an ignoramus in all matters of learning, but on the way here I was thinking a lot about you. I've arrived at a conviction."

"And what is it?"

"It is that you and I alone are not smarter than everyone else in the world, but that some people are smarter than we are."

"Witty and apt. Some are smarter, meaning some are more right than we are, and therefore we, too, can be mistaken, isn't that so? Mais, ma bonne amie, suppose I am mistaken, but do I not have my all-human, all-time, and supreme right of free conscience? Do I not have the right not to be a bigot and a fanatic if I choose? And for that I shall naturally be hated by various gentlemen till the end of time. Et puis, comme on trouve toujours plus de moines que de raison,^[xx] and since I am in perfect agreement with that..."

"What? What did you say?"

"I said: on trouve toujours plus de moines que de raison, and since I am in..."

"That can't be yours; you must have gotten it somewhere."

"Pascal said it."^[42]

"Just as I thought ... it wasn't you! Why don't you ever say anything like that, so brief and so apt, instead of dragging it all out so? It's much better than what you said earlier about administrative rapture ..."

"Ma foi, chère^[xxi] ... why? First, probably, because I'm not Pascal, after all, et puis... second, we Russians cannot say anything in our own language ... At least we haven't yet..."

"Hm. Perhaps that's not quite true. You ought at least to write down such words and remember them, you know, in the event of a conversation ... Ah, Stepan Trofimovich, on my way I thought of talking with you seriously, seriously!"

"Chère, chère amie!"

"Now that all these Lembkes, all these Karmazinovs... Oh, God, how you've gone to seed! Oh, how you torment me! ... I wished these people to feel respect for you, because they're not worth your finger, your little finger, and look how you carry yourself! What will they see? What am I going to show them? Instead of standing nobly as a witness, of continuing to be an example, you've surrounded yourself with some riffraff, you've acquired some impossible habits, you've grown decrepit, you cannot live without wine and cards, you read nothing but Paul de Kock, and you write nothing, while there they all write; you waste all your time on chatter. Is it possible, is it permissible to be friends with such riffraff as your inseparable Liputin?"

"But why my and why inseparable?" Stepan Trofimovich timidly protested.

"Where is he now?" Varvara Petrovna went on, sternly and sharply.

"He ... he has boundless respect for you, and has gone to S——k to collect his inheritance from his mother."

"Getting money seems to be the only thing he does. What about Shatov? Same as ever?"

"Irascible, mais bon.”

"I can't bear your Shatov; he's angry and thinks too much of himself!"

"How is Darya Pavlovna's health?"

"You mean Dasha? Why her all of a sudden?" Varvara Petrovna looked at him curiously. "She's well, I left her with the Drozdovs ... I heard something about your son in Switzerland, something bad, not good."

"Oh, c'est une histoire bien bête! Je vous attendais, ma bonne amie, pour vous raconter..."^[xxii]

"Enough, Stepan Trofimovich, let me rest; I'm exhausted. We'll have time to talk our fill, especially about bad things. You're beginning to splutter when you laugh—there's decrepitude for you! And how strangely you laugh now... God, you're so full of bad habits! Karmazinov will never come to call on you! And they're gleeful over everything here even without that... You've revealed yourself completely now. Well, enough, enough, I'm tired! You might finally spare a person!"

Stepan Trofimovich "spared a person," but he withdrew in perplexity.

V

Our friend had indeed acquired not a few bad habits, especially of late. He had visibly and rapidly gone to seed, and it was true that he had become slovenly. He drank more, grew more tearful and nervous; became overly sensitive to refinement. His face acquired a strange ability to change remarkably quickly, for instance, from the most solemn expression to the most ridiculous and even silly. He could not endure solitude and constantly longed for someone to entertain him at once. He had an absolute need for gossip, for some local anecdote, and it had to be new each day. If no one came for a long time, he wandered dejectedly about his rooms, went up to the windows, pensively chewed his lips, sighed deeply, and finally all but whimpered. He kept having presentiments of something, being afraid of something unexpected, inevitable; he became timorous; began paying great attention to his dreams.

He spent that whole day and evening in extreme dejection, sent for me, was very agitated, talked for a long time, narrated for a long time, but it was all quite incoherent. Varvara Petrovna had long known that he concealed nothing from me. It seemed to me, finally, that he was concerned about something particular, something that he perhaps could not imagine to himself. As a rule, when we were alone together and he began complaining to me, a little bottle was almost always brought out after a while, and things would become more heartening. This time there was no wine, and he obviously suppressed in himself the recurring desire to send for it.

"Why is she so angry all the time!" he complained every moment, like a child. "Tous les hommes de génie et de progrès en Russie étaient, sont et seront toujours des card players et des drunkards qui boivent en zapoï^[xxiii]... and I'm not such a card player and drunkard yet... She reproaches me, asks me why I don't write anything. Strange notion! ... And why am I lying down? You must stand 'as an example and a reproach,' she says. Mais, entre nous soit dit,^[xxiv] what else can a man destined to be a standing 'reproach' do but lie down—doesn't she see that?"

And finally the main, the particular anguish that was then tormenting him so persistently became clear to me. Many times that evening he went up to the mirror and stood before it for a long while. Finally, he turned from the mirror to me and said with some strange despair:

"Mon cher, je suis un man gone to seed!"

Yes, indeed, until then, until that very day, he had always remained certain of just one thing—namely, that despite all Varvara Petrovna's "new views" and "changes of ideas," he still had charms over her woman's heart, that is, not only as an exile or as a famous scholar, but also as a handsome man. For twenty years this flattering and comforting conviction had been rooted in him, and of all his convictions it was perhaps the hardest to part with. Did he anticipate that evening what a colossal ordeal was being prepared for him in the nearest future?

VI

I will now set out to describe the somewhat amusing incident with which my chronicle really begins.

At the very end of August the Drozdovs finally returned. Their appearance slightly preceded the arrival of their relative, our new governor's wife, long expected by the whole town, and generally made a remarkable impression on society. But I will speak of these curious events later; now I will confine myself to the fact that Praskovya Ivanovna brought Varvara Petrovna, who was expecting her so impatiently, a most worrisome riddle: Nicolas had parted with them in July and, meeting Count K. on the Rhine, had gone to Petersburg with him and his family. (N.B. All three of the count's daughters were of marriageable age.)

"I could get nothing from Lizaveta because of her pride and her testiness," Praskovya Ivanovna concluded, "but I saw with my own eyes that something had happened between her and Nikolai Vsevolodovich. I do not know the reasons, my dear Varvara Petrovna, but it seems you will have to ask your Darya Pavlovna what the reasons were. I think Liza was offended. I'm only too glad to bring you your favorite at last and hand her over to you: to get her off my back."

These venomous words were spoken with extraordinary vexation. It was obvious that the "flaccid woman" had prepared them in advance and had relished their effect beforehand. But Varvara Petrovna was not one to be taken aback by sentimental effects and riddles. She sternly demanded the most precise and satisfactory explanations. Praskovya Ivanovna lowered her tone at once and even ended by bursting into tears and launching into the most friendly effusions. Like Stepan Trofimovich, this irritable but sentimental lady was in constant need of true friendship, and her chief complaint against her daughter Lizaveta Nikolaevna was precisely that "her daughter was not her friend."

But of all her explanations and effusions the only certainty turned out to be that some sort of a falling-out had indeed taken place between Liza and Nicolas, but what sort of falling-out—of this Praskovya Ivanovna was apparently unable to form any definite idea. As for the accusations she had brought against Darya Pavlovna, in the end she not only renounced them altogether, but even asked especially that her previous words not be given any importance because she had spoken them "in irritation." In short, everything was left rather vague, even suspicious. According to her account, the falling-out arose because of Liza's "testy and derisive" character, and "the proud Nikolai Vsevolodovich, though very much in love, could not endure her derision and became derisive himself."

"Shortly afterwards we made the acquaintance of a young man, the nephew of your 'professor,' I believe, and with the same last name..."

"His son, not his nephew," Varvara Petrovna corrected. Praskovya Ivanovna had never been able to remember Stepan Trofimovich's last name and always called him "professor."

"Well, his son, then, and so much the better; it's all the same to me. An ordinary young man, very lively and easygoing, but there's nothing to him. Well, here Liza herself behaved wrongly, she allowed the young man some closeness, intending to make Nikolai Vsevolodovich jealous. I don't condemn that too much: it's a girl's business, quite usual, even charming. Only instead of being jealous, Nikolai Vsevolodovich, on the contrary, became friendly with the young man himself, as if he didn't notice a thing, or as if it made no difference to him. Liza blew up at that. The young man soon left (he was in a great hurry to get somewhere), and Liza started picking on Nikolai Vsevolodovich at every opportunity. She noticed that he sometimes talked with Dasha and she began to get frantic, at which point, dearest, my life became impossible. The doctors forbade me to be irritated, and I was so sick from that much-vaunted lake of theirs, it gave me toothaches, and such rheumatism! They've even published somewhere that Lake Geneva causes toothaches, it has that property. And then Nikolai Vsevolodovich suddenly received a letter from the countess and left us at once, packed up in a day. They parted in a friendly way, and as she was seeing him off, Liza became very gay and carefree and laughed loudly all the time. Only it was all put on. He left, and she became very pensive, stopped mentioning him completely, and wouldn't let me. And I'd advise you, my dear Varvara Petrovna, not to bring up the subject with Liza, you will only make things worse. If you keep silent, she'll start talking with you first; then you'll learn more. I believe they'll get back together, if only Nikolai Vsevolodovich does not put off coming as he promised."

"I shall write to him at once. If that's how it was, it's just an empty falling-out; all nonsense! And I know Darya only too well. Nonsense!"

"About Dashenka I confess... my sin. They were just ordinary conversations, and aloud, too. But, dearest, it all upset me so at the time. And Liza herself became close to her again as affectionately as before, I saw it..."

That same day Varvara Petrovna wrote to Nicolas, begging him to come at least a month earlier than the time he had fixed. But for her there still remained something unclear and unknown in it. She spent the whole evening and the whole night thinking. Praskovya's opinion seemed too innocent and sentimental to her. "Praskovya has been too emotional all her life, ever since boarding school," she thought. "It's not like Nicolas to run away because of a girl's taunts. There's some other reason, if indeed there was a falling-out. That officer is here, however, they've brought him with them, and he's living in their house like a relative. And Praskovya confessed much too quickly about Darya; she must have left something out, something she didn't want to tell..."

By morning a project had ripened in Varvara Petrovna for putting an immediate end to at least one perplexity—a project remarkable for its unexpectedness. What was in her heart when she created it? It is difficult to say, and I will not undertake to explain beforehand all the contradictions that went into it. As a chronicler I limit myself simply to presenting events in an exact way, exactly as they occurred, and it is not my fault if they appear incredible. Nevertheless, I must testify once again that by morning she had no remaining suspicions about Dasha, and, in truth, there had been none to begin with—she was too sure of her. And she could not admit the idea that her Nicolas could take a fancy to her ... "Darya." In the morning, while Darya Pavlovna was pouring tea at the tea table, Varvara Petrovna studied her long and fixedly and, perhaps for the twentieth time since the day before, said confidently to herself:

"It's all nonsense!"

She only noticed that Dasha looked somehow tired and that she was even quieter than before, even more apathetic. After tea, following a custom established once and for all, they both sat down to needlework. Varvara Petrovna told her to make a full report of her impressions abroad, mainly of nature, the inhabitants, the towns, their art and industry—everything she had managed to notice. Not one question about the Drozdovs or her life with the Drozdovs. Dasha, who was sitting next to her at the worktable helping her with some embroidery, had already been talking for about half an hour in her even, monotonous, but somewhat weak voice.

"Darya," Varvara Petrovna suddenly interrupted her, "is there anything special you wish to tell me?"

"No, nothing," Darya thought for a moment and looked at Varvara Petrovna with her light eyes.

"Nothing on your soul, on your heart, on your conscience?"

"Nothing," Dasha repeated softly, but with a sort of sullen firmness.

"So I thought! Believe me, Darya, I shall never have doubts of you. Now sit and listen. Come and sit on this chair, facing me, I want to see all of you. So. Listen—do you want to be married?"

Dasha responded with a long, questioning, though not too surprised look.

"Wait, don't speak. First of all there is a difference in age, a very great difference; but you know better than anyone what nonsense that is. You're a reasonable girl, and there should be no mistakes in your life. He is still a handsome man, by the way ... In short, Stepan Trofimovich, whom you have always respected. Well?"

Dasha looked even more questioningly, and this time was not only surprised, but even blushed visibly.

"Wait, don't speak, don't be hasty! You have money left to you in my will, but if I should die, what will become of you even with money? They will deceive you and take your money—well, and that's the end of you. But with him you will be the wife of a noted man. Now look at it from the other side: if I were to die now—even if I provide for him—what will become of him? But on you I can truly rely. Wait, I haven't finished: he is light-minded, a maunderer, cruel, an egoist, with base habits, but you will appreciate him, first of all, because there are much worse. I'm not trying to get you off my hands by marrying you to some scoundrel, you're not thinking that! And above all because I ask it of you, that's why you will appreciate him," she broke off irritably all of a sudden. "Do you hear? Why are you staring?"

Dasha listened and kept silent.

"Wait, one more thing. He's an old granny—but so much the better for you. A pitiful old granny, by the way; it's not worthwhile a woman's loving him. But it is worthwhile loving him for his defenselessness, and you will love him for his defenselessness. Do you understand me? Do you?"

Dasha nodded affirmatively.

"I just knew you would, I expected nothing less of you. He will love you, because he must, he must; he must adore you!" Varvara Petrovna shrieked with some peculiar irritation. "And in any case he will fall in love with you even without any duty, I know him. Besides, I will be here myself. Don't worry, I will always be here. He will start complaining about you, he will begin to slander you, he will whisper about you with the first person he meets, he will whine, whine eternally; he will write letters to you from one room to another, two letters a day, but still he won't be able to live without you, and that is the main thing. Make him obey; if you can't, you're a fool. He will want to hang himself, he will threaten to—don't believe him; it's just nonsense! Don't believe him, but still keep your ears pricked up; who knows, maybe he will: it does happen with his kind; they hang themselves not out of strength but out of weakness; so you must never push it to the last limit—that is the first rule of married life. Remember also that he is a poet. Listen, Darya: there is no higher happiness than to sacrifice yourself. Besides, you will give me great pleasure, and that is the main thing. Don't think I'm just blathering out of foolishness; I understand what I'm saying. I am an egoist, and you be an egoist, too. I'm not forcing you; it's all your will; as you say, so it shall be. Well, why are you sitting there? Say something!"

"It makes no difference to me, Varvara Petrovna, if it's necessary for me to be married," Dasha said firmly.

"Necessary? What are you hinting at?" Varvara Petrovna looked sternly and fixedly at her.

Dasha was silent, poking the needle into her embroidery.

"Though you're an intelligent girl, that's just blather. Though it's true that I've firmly decided to get you married now, it's not from necessity, but only because the thought occurred to me, and only because it's Stepan Trofimovich. If it weren't for Stepan Trofimovich, I wouldn't have thought of getting you married now, though you're already twenty years old... Well?"

"I'll do as you please, Varvara Petrovna."

"So you consent! Wait, don't speak, there's no rush, I haven't finished: in my will I've left you fifteen thousand roubles. I will hand them over to you at once, after the wedding. You will give him eight thousand—that is, not him, but me. He has a debt of eight thousand; I will pay it, but he should know that the money is yours. Seven thousand will remain in your hands; by no means give him a single rouble, ever. Never pay his debts. Once you pay, you'll never see the end of it. Anyway, I'll always be here. The two of you will receive an annual allowance of twelve hundred roubles, fifteen hundred with extras, besides room and board, which I will also provide, just as I do for him now. Only you will have to hire your own servants. I will give you your annual money all at once, right into your own hands. But be kind: give something to him, too, occasionally; and allow his friends to visit once a week, but if they come more often, chase them out. But I will be here myself. And if I die, your pension will not stop until his death, do you hear, only until his death, because it's his pension, not yours. And besides the seven thousand which you will have left intact, unless you're going to be stupid yourself, I will leave you another eight thousand in my will. And you will get nothing more from me; you should know that. Well, do you consent, eh? Will you finally say something?"

"I already did, Varvara Petrovna."

"Remember that it is entirely your will; as you wish, so it shall be."

"Only, forgive me, Varvara Petrovna, has Stepan Trofimovich said anything to you?"

"No, he has not said anything, he doesn't know yet, but... he'll start saying something now!"

She jumped up instantly and threw on her black shawl. Dasha again blushed a little and was following her with a questioning look. Varvara Petrovna suddenly turned to her with a face burning with wrath.

"You fool!" she fell upon her like a hawk, "you ungrateful fool! What's in your mind? Do you think I would compromise you in any way, even the slightest bit? Why, he himself will come crawling on his knees and begging, he must die from happiness—that is how it will be arranged! Don't you know that I would never allow you to be offended? Or do you think he'll take you for the eight thousand, and that I'm running now to sell you? Fool, fool, you're all ungrateful fools! Give me my umbrella!"

And she flew on foot over the wet brick walks and wooden planks to Stepan Trofimovich.

VII

It was true that she would not allow Darya to be offended; on the contrary, she considered that she was now acting as her benefactress. The most noble and blameless indignation flared up in her soul when, putting on her shawl, she caught the embarrassed and mistrustful glance of her ward fixed upon her. She had sincerely loved her from her very childhood. Praskovya Ivanovna had justly called Darya Pavlovna her favorite. Long ago Varvara Petrovna had decided once and for all that "Darya's character is not like her brother's" (that is, like the character of her brother Ivan Shatov), that she was quiet and meek, capable of great self-sacrifice, unusually devoted, remarkably modest, possessed of rare reasonableness and, above all, of gratitude. So far Dasha had apparently justified all her expectations. "There will be no mistakes in this life," Varvara Petrovna had said when the girl was just twelve years old, and as she had the quality of clinging stubbornly and passionately to any dream that captivated her, and to any new design, to any idea that seemed bright to her, she had decided at once to bring Dasha up like her own daughter. She at once set a sum of money aside for her and sent for a governess, Miss Criggs, who lived in her house until the ward was sixteen years old, but for some reason was suddenly dismissed. Teachers also came from the high school, among them a real Frenchman who taught Darya her French. He, too, was dismissed suddenly, as if thrown out. One poor lady who came to town, a widow of gentle birth, taught her to play the piano. But the chief pedagogue remained Stepan Trofimovich. In fact, he was the first to discover Dasha: he began teaching the quiet child before Varvara Petrovna had even thought about her. Again I repeat: it was remarkable how children took to him! Lizaveta Nikolaevna Tushin studied with him from the age of eight to eleven (of course, Stepan Trofimovich taught her without fee, and would not have taken one from the Drozdovs for anything). But he fell in love with the lovely child and told her some sort of poetic tales about the order of the world, the earth, the history of mankind. His lectures on primitive peoples and primitive man were more engaging than Arabian tales. Liza, who used to be thrilled by these stories, would imitate Stepan Trofimovich at home in a very funny way. He found out about it, and once caught her unawares. Embarrassed, Liza threw herself into his arms and burst out crying. So did Stepan Trofimovich, from rapture. But Liza soon left, and only Dasha remained. When teachers started coming to Dasha, Stepan Trofimovich abandoned his lessons with her and gradually ceased paying attention to her. It went on like that for a long time. Once, when she was already seventeen, he was suddenly struck by her comeliness. This happened at Varvara Petrovna's table. He got into conversation with the young woman, was very pleased with her responses, and in the end suggested that he give her a serious and extensive course in the history of Russian literature. Varvara Petrovna praised and thanked him for the wonderful idea, and Dasha was delighted. Stepan Trofimovich set about making special preparations for the lectures, and finally they began. He started with the ancient period; the first lecture proved fascinating; Varvara Petrovna was present. When Stepan Trofimovich finished and announced to his pupil, upon leaving, that next time he would begin analyzing The Song of Igor's Campaign,^[43]Varvara Petrovna suddenly stood up and announced that there would be no more lectures. Stepan Trofimovich winced, but said nothing. Dasha blushed. However, that was the end of the enterprise. This happened exactly three years before Varvara Petrovna's present unexpected fantasy.

Poor Stepan Trofimovich was sitting alone and had no presentiment of anything. In sad pensiveness he had long been glancing out the window to see if some acquaintance was coming. But no one would come. It was drizzling outside; it was getting cold; the stove needed lighting; he sighed. Suddenly a dreadful apparition appeared before his eyes: Varvara Petrovna was coming to see him in such weather and at such an odd hour! And on foot! He was so struck that he forgot to change his costume and received her just as he was in his usual pink quilted dressing jacket.

"Ma bonne amie! ..." he cried weakly in greeting.

"You're alone, I'm glad: I cannot bear your friends! It's always so smoky here! Lord, what air! You haven't finished your tea yet, and it's past eleven! Disorder is bliss to you. Messiness is a delight! What are these torn papers doing on the floor? Nastasya, Nastasya! What is your Nastasya up to? Open the windows, my dear, open the vents, the doors, everything should be wide open. And we will go to the drawing room; I've come to you on business. And sweep the floor, my dear, at least once in your life!"

"It does get messy, ma'am," Nastasya squeaked in an irritably plaintive little voice.

"Sweep up, then, sweep fifteen times a day! A wretched drawing room you've got" (when they had come to the drawing room). "Shut the door properly; she'll eavesdrop. You must change this wallpaper. Didn't I send you a paperhanger with samples? Why didn't you choose something? Sit down and listen. Sit down, finally, I beg you. Where are you going? Where are you going?"

"I... just a moment," Stepan Trofimovich cried from the other room, "here I am again!"

"Ah, you've changed your costume!" she looked him up and down mockingly. (He had put on his frock coat over the dressing jacket.) "That is certainly more fitting for... our conversation. Sit down, finally, I beg you."

She explained everything to him at once, abruptly and convincingly. Hinted at the eight thousand he so desperately needed. Spoke in detail of the dowry. Stepan Trofimovich sat wide-eyed and trembled. He heard everything, but could not understand it clearly. Wanted to speak, but his voice kept failing. He knew only that everything would be as she was saying, that to object or disagree would be a futile undertaking, and that he was irretrievably a married man.

"Mais, ma bonne amie, a third time, and at my age... and to such a child!" he said at last. "Mais c'est une enfant!”^[xxv]

"A child who, thank God, is twenty years old! Please stop rolling your eyes, you're not on stage. You are very intelligent and learned, but you understand nothing of life, you need a nanny constantly looking after you. I will die, and what will become of you? And she will be a good nanny for you; she's a modest girl, firm, reasonable; besides, I will be here myself, I won't die right away. She's a homebody, an angel of meekness. This happy thought kept occurring to me still in Switzerland. Do you understand, since I myself am telling you she's an angel of meekness!" she suddenly cried out fiercely. "Your place is a mess, she'll make it clean, she'll put everything in order, it will be like a mirror... Ah, but do you still fancy I should bow and scrape before you with such a treasure, enumerating all the benefits, playing the matchmaker? No, you yourself should ... on your knees... Oh, empty, empty, pusillanimous man!"

"But ... I'm old!"

"So what if you're fifty-three! Fifty isn't the end, it's the middle of life. You're a handsome man, and you know it yourself. You also know how she respects you. If I were to die, what would become of her? But with you she will be at ease, and I will be at ease. You have distinction, a name, a loving heart; you receive a pension, which I regard as my duty. You may even save her, save her! In any case, you will do her an honor. You will shape her life, develop her heart, guide her thoughts. So many people perish nowadays because their thoughts are misguided! By then your work will be ready, and all at once you will remind the world of yourself."

"I was just..." he mumbled, flattered now by Varvara Petrovna's clever flattery, "I was just going to sit down and write my Stories from Spanish History ..."

"There, you see, everything is falling into place."

"But... her? Have you told her?"

"Don't worry about her, and there's no need for you to be curious. Of course, you must ask her yourself, beg her to do you the honor, understand? But don't worry, I will be here. Besides, you love her..."

Stepan Trofimovich became dizzy; the walls began spinning around. There was one dreadful idea here which he was unable to cope with.

"Excellente amie!" his voice suddenly trembled, "I ... I could never have imagined that you would decide to give me in marriage ... to some other... woman!"

"You're not a young maiden, Stepan Trofimovich; only young maidens are given in marriage, and you yourself are doing the marrying," Varvara Petrovna hissed venomously.

"Oui, j'ai pris un mot pour un autre. Mais... c'est égal, "^[xxvi] he stared at her with a lost look.

"I see that c'est égal, " she said through her teeth, contemptuously. "Lord! he's fainted! Nastasya, Nastasya! Water!"

But it did not get as far as water. He revived. Varvara Petrovna took her umbrella.

"I see there's no point in talking to you now..."

"Oui, oui, je suis incapable, "^[xxvii]

"But by tomorrow you will have rested and thought it over. Stay home, and if anything happens, let me know, even during the night. Don't write letters, I won't read them. Tomorrow at this time I will come myself, alone, for a final answer, and I hope it will be satisfactory. Try to see that no one is here, and that there's no mess, because just look at this! Nastasya, Nastasya!"

Of course, the next day he accepted; and he could not have done otherwise. There was one special circumstance here...

VIII

Stepan Trofimovich's estate, as we used to call it (about fifty souls by the old way of reckoning,^[44] and adjoining Skvoreshniki), was not his at all, but had belonged to his first wife, and so now to their son, Pyotr Stepanovich Verkhovensky. Stepan Trofimovich was merely the trustee, and thus, once the nestling was fully fledged, acted through a formal warrant as manager of the estate. For the young man it was a profitable deal: he received up to a thousand roubles a year from his father as income from the estate, while under the new regulations it did not yield as much as five hundred (and perhaps even less). God knows how such arrangements were set up. However, the entire thousand was sent by Varvara Petrovna, and Stepan Trofimovich did not contribute a single rouble to it. On the contrary, he pocketed all the income from this bit of land, and, furthermore, ruined it altogether by leasing it to some dealer and, in secret from Varvara Petrovna, selling the timber that was its main valuable asset. He had been selling this timber piecemeal for a long time. Its total worth was about eight thousand at least, yet he got only five for it. But he sometimes lost too much at the club, and was afraid to ask Varvara Petrovna. She ground her teeth when she finally learned of it all. And now the boy suddenly notified him that he was coming himself to sell his property at all costs, and charged his father with promptly arranging for the sale. It was clear that Stepan Trofimovich, being a lofty and disinterested man, felt ashamed before ce cher enfant (whom he had last seen as a student in Petersburg all of nine years earlier). Originally, the entire estate might have been worth some thirteen or fourteen thousand, but now it was unlikely that anyone would give five for it. Stepan Trofimovich undoubtedly had every right, in terms of the formal warrant, to sell the timber, and taking into account the impossible annual income of a thousand roubles, which had been sent punctually for so many years, could make a good defense of himself in any final settlement. But Stepan Trofimovich was noble and had lofty aspirations. A remarkably beautiful thought flashed in his head: to lay out nobly on the table, when Petrusha came, the highest maximum of the price—that is, even fifteen thousand—without the slightest hint at the sums that had been sent previously, and then firmly, very firmly, with tears, to press ce cher fils^[xxviii] to his heart, and so settle all accounts. He began remotely and cautiously unfolding this picture before Varvara Petrovna. He hinted that it would even add some special, noble tinge to their friendly connection ... to their "idea." It would show former fathers and former people generally in such a disinterested and magnanimous light, as compared with the new frivolous and social youth. He said many other things, but Varvara Petrovna kept silent. At last she dryly informed him that she would agree to buy their land and would pay the maximum price for it—that is, six or seven thousand (even four would have been enough). Of the remaining eight thousand that had flown away with the timber, she did not say a word.

That was a month before the matchmaking. Stepan Trofimovich was struck and began to ponder. Before then there could still have been a hope that the boy might perhaps not come at all—a hope, that is, judging from outside, in the opinion of some third person. Stepan Trofimovich, as a father, would have rejected indignantly the very notion of such a hope. In any case, up to then all sorts of strange rumors kept reaching us about Petrusha. At first, after finishing his studies at the university about six years before, he had hung about Petersburg with nothing to do. Suddenly there came news that he had taken part in the composing of some anonymous tract and was implicated in the case. Then he suddenly turned up abroad, in Switzerland, in Geneva—might have fled there for all we knew.

"It is surprising to me," Stepan Trofimovich, deeply embarrassed, preached to us then. "Petrusha c'est une si pauvre tête!^[xxix] He is kind, noble, very sensitive, and I was so glad then, in Petersburg, comparing him with modern young people, but c'est un pauvre sire tout de même^[xxx]... And, you know, it all comes from that same half-bakedness, from sentimentality! They're fascinated not by realism, but by the sensitive, ideal aspect of socialism, its religious tinge, so to speak, its poetry ... to someone else's tune, of course. And yet me, what about me! I have so many enemies here, and even more there, it will all be put down to his father's influence... God! Petrusha—a moving force! What times we live in!"

Petrusha, by the way, very soon sent his exact address from Switzerland, so that his money could be sent as usual: therefore he was not entirely an émigré. And now, after spending about four years abroad, he suddenly reappeared in his fatherland and sent word of his imminent arrival: therefore he had not been accused of anything. Moreover, someone had supposedly even taken an interest in him and become his patron. He wrote now from the south of Russia, where he was on a private but important mission for someone and was making arrangements for something. This was all wonderful, but still, how get hold of the remaining seven or eight thousand to make up a decent maximum of the price for the estate? And what if there were an outcry, and instead of that majestic picture it should all wind up in court? Something told Stepan Trofimovich that the sensitive Petrusha would not relinquish his interests. "Why is it, as I've noticed," Stepan Trofimovich once whispered to me at the time, "why is it that all these desperate socialists and communists are at the same time such incredible misers, acquirers, property-lovers, so much so that the more socialist a man is, the further he goes, the more he loves property... why is it? Can that, too, come from sentimentality?" I do not know what truth there is in Stepan Trofimovich's observation; I only know that Petrusha had obtained some information about the sale of the timber and the rest of it, and that Stepan Trofimovich knew he had obtained this information. I also happened to read Petrusha's letters to his father; he wrote extremely rarely, once a year or even less often. But just recently he had sent two letters, almost one after the other, giving notice of his imminent arrival. All his letters were short, dry, consisting only of directives, and as the father and son, ever since Petersburg, had been addressing each other on familiar terms, according to the fashion, Petrusha's letters looked decidedly like those letters of instruction that old-time landowners used to send from the capital to the house-serfs appointed to manage their estates. And now suddenly the eight thousand that would resolve the situation came flying out of Varvara Petrovna's proposal, and with that she let him understand clearly that it could not come flying from anywhere else. Naturally, Stepan Trofimovich accepted.

As soon as she left he sent for me, and locked the door to everyone else for the whole day. Of course, he wept a little; he spoke much and well, got much and badly mixed up, accidentally made a pun and remained pleased with it; then came a slight cholerine—in short, everything took place in due order. After which he brought out a portrait of his little German wife, now twenty years deceased, and began calling to her plaintively: "Will you forgive me?" Generally, he was somehow befuddled. And we had a bit to drink in our grief. Soon, however, he fell fast asleep. Next morning he expertly knotted his tie, dressed with care, and went frequently to look at himself in the mirror. He sprayed perfume on his handkerchief—just a tiny bit, by the way— and then, as soon as he caught sight of Varvara Petrovna through the window, he quickly took another handkerchief and hid the perfumed one under the pillow.

"That's splendid!" Varvara Petrovna praised, after hearing his consent. "A noble determination, first of all, and, second, you've heeded the voice of reason, which you so rarely heed in your private affairs. However, there's no need to rush things," she added, examining the knot of his white tie, "say nothing for the time being, and I will say nothing. It will soon be your birthday; I will come to see you with her. Prepare an evening tea and, please, no wine or appetizers; however, I'll see to everything myself. Invite your friends—you and I will make the selection, however. You may have a talk with her the day before if need be; and during your evening we will not really make an announcement or some sort of betrothal, but simply hint or let it be known without any solemnity. And then in two weeks or so you'll be married, with as little noise as possible ... You both might even go away for a while, right after the ceremony, let's say to Moscow, for instance. Perhaps I'll go with you as well... And, above all, say nothing till then."

Stepan Trofimovich was surprised. He tried to murmur that it was impossible that way, that he must have a talk with the fiancée, but Varvara Petrovna fell upon him irritably:

"And what for? First, it's still possible that nothing will happen..."

"What? Nothing?" the fiancé muttered, now totally flabbergasted.

"Just so. I still have to see... However, everything will be as I've said, and don't worry, I'll prepare her myself. There's no need for you at all. Everything necessary will be said and done, and there's no need of you for that. Why? In what role? Do not come yourself and do not write letters. Not a breath, not a whisper, I beg you. I, too, will say nothing."

She was decidedly unwilling to explain herself and left visibly upset. It seemed she was struck by Stepan Trofimovich's excessive readiness. Alas, he decidedly did not understand his position, and the question had not yet presented itself to him from any other point of view. On the contrary, some new tone emerged, something triumphant and frivolous. He swaggered.

"I like that!" he exclaimed, standing before me and spreading his arms. "Did you hear? She wants to push me so far that I finally will stop wanting it. Because I, too, can lose my patience and... stop wanting it! 'Sit still, there's no need for you to go there'—but why, finally, must I get married? Just because of her ridiculous fantasy? But I am a serious man and may not want to submit to the idle fantasies of a whimsical woman! I have duties towards my son and... towards myself! I am making a sacrifice—does she understand that? Perhaps I agreed because I'm tired of life and it makes no difference to me. But she may provoke me, and then it will make a difference; I will get offended and refuse. Et enfin, le ridicule^[xxxi]... What will they say at the club? What will... what will Liputin say? 'It's still possible that nothing will happen'—fancy that! But that's the limit! That's ... I don't know what! fe suis un forçat, un Badinguet, un^[45][xxxii] man pushed to the wall! ..."

And at the same time a certain capricious smugness, something frivolously playful, peeped out through all these plaintive exclamations. In the evening we drank some more.