"C'est charmant, les moines,"[cxli] Yulia Mikhailovna whispered, turning to Varvara Petrovna, who was sitting next to her.
Varvara Petrovna responded with a proud look. But Karmazinov could not bear the success of the French phrase, and quickly and shrilly interrupted Stepan Trofimovich.
"As for me, I am at ease in that regard, and it's seven years now that I've been sitting in Karlsruhe. And when the city council decided last year to install a new drainpipe, I felt in my heart that this Karlsruhian drainpipe question was dearer and fonder to me than all the questions of my dear fatherland ... during all the time of these so-called reforms here."
"I am forced to sympathize, though it is counter to my heart," Stepan Trofimovich sighed, inclining his head significantly.
Yulia Mikhailovna was triumphant: the conversation was acquiring both profundity and direction.
"You mean a sewer pipe?" the doctor inquired loudly.
"A drainpipe, doctor, a drainpipe, and I even helped them to draw up the plan."
The doctor gave a splitting guffaw. Many followed him, but this time in the doctor's face, who did not notice it and was terribly pleased that everyone was laughing.
"Allow me to disagree with you, Karmazinov," Yulia Mikhailovna hastened to put in. "Karlsruhe is one thing, but you love to be mystifying, and this time we shall not believe you. Who among Russians, among writers, has put forth so many of the most modern types, divined so many of the most modern questions, indicated precisely those modern points of which the type of the modern activist is composed? You, you alone, and no one else. Just try and convince us after that of your indifference to your motherland and your terrible interest in the Karlsruhian drainpipe! Ha, ha!"
"Yes, of course," Karmazinov lisped, "I did put forth in the type of Pogozhev all the flaws of the Slavophils, and in the type of Nikodimov all the flaws of the Westerners..."
"All, indeed," Lyamshin whispered softly.
"But I do it offhand, just to kill ineluctable time somehow and ... to satisfy all these ineluctable demands of my compatriots."
"It is probably known to you, Stepan Trofimovich," Yulia Mikhailovna went on rapturously, "that tomorrow we shall have the delight of hearing the charming lines... one of Semyon Yegorovich's very latest, most gracious artistic inspirations, it is entitled Merci. In this piece he announces that he will write no more, not for anything in the world, even if an angel from heaven, or, better to say, all of high society should beg him to alter his decision. In short, he lays down his pen for the rest of his life, and this graceful Merci is addressed to the public in gratitude for the constant rapture with which it has accompanied for so many years his constant service to honest Russian thought..."
Yulia Mikhailovna was at the height of bliss.
"Yes, it will be my farewell; I'll say my Merci and leave, and there ... in Karlsruhe ... I shall close my eyes," Karmazinov gradually started going to pieces.
Like many of our great writers (and we have very many great writers), he could not resist praise, and would begin to go soft at once, despite his wit. But I think this is pardonable. They say one of our Shakespeares blurted right out in private conversation that "for us great men it is impossible to do otherwise," etc., and, what's more, did not even notice it.
"There, in Karlsruhe, I shall close my eyes. For us great men, all that's left once our work is done is to hasten to close our eyes, without seeking a reward. I shall do the same."
"Give me the address, and I'll come to visit your grave in Karlsruhe," the German guffawed boundlessly.
"Nowadays they even send dead people by train," one of the insignificant young men said unexpectedly.
Lyamshin simply squealed with delight. Yulia Mikhailovna frowned. Nikolai Stavrogin entered.
"And I was told you'd been taken to the police station," he said loudly, addressing Stepan Trofimovich first of all.
"No, just my stationery, " Stepan Trofimovich punned.
"But I hope it will not have the slightest influence upon my request," Yulia Mikhailovna picked up again, "I hope that, notwithstanding this unfortunate annoyance, of which I still have no idea, you will not disappoint our best expectations and deprive us of the delight of hearing your reading at the literary matinée."
"I don't know, I... now..."
"Really, I'm so unfortunate, Varvara Petrovna... and imagine, precisely when I so desired to quickly make the personal acquaintance of one of the most remarkable and independent Russian minds, and now Stepan Trofimovich suddenly expresses his intention of withdrawing from us."
"Your compliment was spoken so loudly that I, of course, ought to turn a deaf ear to it," Stepan Trofimovich rapped out, "but I do not believe that my poor person was so necessary for your fête tomorrow. However, I..."
"No, you're going to spoil him!" Pyotr Stepanovich cried, running quickly into the room. "I've just taken him in hand, and suddenly, in one morning—a search, an arrest, a policeman grabs him by the scruff of the neck, and now the ladies are cooing over him in the burgomaster's salon! Every little bone in him is aching with delight now; he's never dreamed of such a gala performance. Wait and see how he starts denouncing the socialists now!"
"That cannot be, Pyotr Stepanovich. Socialism is too great an idea for Stepan Trofimovich not to be aware of it," Yulia Mikhailovna interceded energetically.
"The idea is great, but those who profess it are not always giants, et brisons-là, mon cher,”[cxlii] Stepan Trofimovich concluded, addressing his son and rising handsomely from his place.
But here a most unexpected circumstance occurred. Von Lembke had already been in the salon for some time, but had gone as if unnoticed by anyone, though everyone had seen him come in. Yulia Mikhailovna, still set on her former idea, continued to ignore him. He placed himself by the door and, with a stern look, gloomily listened to the conversation. On hearing the morning's events alluded to, he began looking around somehow uneasily, fixing his stare first on the prince, apparently struck by the thrust of his heavily starched collar; then he suddenly seemed to give a start, hearing the voice of Pyotr Stepanovich and seeing him run in, and, as soon as Stepan Trofimovich managed to utter his maxim about the socialists, he suddenly went up to him, knocking on the way into Lyamshin, who jumped aside at once with an exaggerated gesture of surprise, rubbing his shoulder and pretending he had been badly hurt.
"Enough!" said von Lembke, energetically grabbing the frightened Stepan Trofimovich's hand and squeezing it as hard as he could in his own. "Enough, the filibusters of our time are ascertained. Not a word more. Measures have been taken..."
He uttered it loudly, for the whole room to hear, concluding energetically. The impression produced was painful. Everyone sensed that something was not well. I saw Yulia Mikhailovna turn pale. The effect was crowned by a silly accident. After announcing that measures had been taken, Lembke turned around sharply and started quickly out of the room, but after two steps he tripped on the rug, lurched nose downwards, and nearly fell. He stopped for a moment, looked at the place where he had tripped, and, having said aloud, "Change it," walked out the door. Yulia Mikhailovna ran after him. Her exit was followed by an uproar in which it was difficult to make anything out. Some said he was "deranged," others that he was "susceptible." A third group pointed their fingers to their foreheads; Lyamshin, in the corner, put two fingers above his forehead. There were hints at some domestic events, all in a whisper, of course. None of them took their hats, but all were waiting. I do not know what Yulia Mikhailovna managed to do, but she came back in about five minutes trying as hard as she could to appear calm. She answered evasively that Andrei Antonovich was slightly agitated, but that it was nothing, that he had had it since childhood, that she knew "far better," and that tomorrow's fête would certainly cheer him up. There followed a few flattering words to Stepan Trofimovich, but solely for the sake of decency, and a loud invitation to the committee members to open the meeting right then, at once. Only now did those not participating in the committee start preparing to go home; but the painful adventures of that fatal day were not yet over...