Thus matters stood, while in town people still went on believing in a Belshazzar's feast—that is, in the committee buffet; they believed in it to the last hour. Even the young ladies dreamed of quantities of candies and preserves and other unheard-of things. Everyone knew that the collection realized was abundant, that the whole town would be storming the doors, that people were coming in from the country, and there were not enough tickets. It was also known that beyond the fixed price there had also been considerable donations: Varvara Petrovna, for example, had paid three hundred roubles for her ticket and provided all the flowers from her greenhouse to decorate the hall. The marshal's wife (a committee member) provided her house and the lighting; the club provided the music and servants, and released Prokhorych for the whole day. There were other donations, though not such big ones, so that there was even a thought of lowering the original ticket price from three roubles to two. The committee indeed feared at first that the young ladies would not come for three roubles, and suggested arranging family tickets somehow—namely, by asking each family to pay for just one young lady, while all other young ladies of the same name, even an edition of ten, would come free. But all fears proved groundless: on the contrary, it was precisely the young ladies who did come. Even the poorest officials brought their girls, and it was only too clear that if they had not had girls, it would never have occurred to them to subscribe. One most insignificant secretary brought all seven of his daughters, not to mention his wife, of course, and also his niece, and each of these persons held a three-rouble entrance ticket in her hand. One can imagine, however, what a revolution went on in town! Take merely the fact that the fête was divided into two parts, and thus for each lady two costumes were necessary—a morning gown for the reading, and a ball gown for the dancing. Many of the middle class, it turned out later, pawned everything for that day, even the family linen, even their sheets and almost their mattresses, to the local Jews, who, over the past two years, as if on purpose, had been settling in terrible quantities in our town, and keep coming more and more. Almost all the officials took an advance on their salaries, and some landowners sold much-needed cattle, and all this just so as to bring their young ladies looking like real marquises, and to be no worse than others. The magnificence of the costumes this time was, considering the place, unheard-of. Two weeks beforehand the town was already stuffed with family anecdotes, all of which were immediately carried to Yulia Mikhailovna's court by our witlings. Family caricatures were passed around. I myself saw several drawings of this sort in Yulia Mikhailovna's album. All this became only too well known there where the anecdotes originated; that, it seems to me, is why such hatred for Yulia Mikhailovna had built up lately in these families. Now they all curse and gnash their teeth when they recall it. But it was clear beforehand that if the committee should fail to please in some way, were the ball to go amiss somehow, there would be an unheard-of outburst of indignation. That is why everyone was secretly expecting a scandal; and if it was so expected, how then could it not take place? At noon precisely the orchestra struck up. Being one of the ushers, that is, one of the twelve "young men with a bow," I saw with my own eyes how this day of infamous memory began. It began with a boundless crush at the entrance. How did it happen that everything went amiss from the very first, beginning with the police? I do not blame the real public: fathers of families not only were not crowding each other or anyone else, even despite their rank, but, on the contrary, are said to have been abashed while still in the street at the sight, unusual for our town, of the shoving mob that was besieging the entrance and trying to force it, instead of simply going in. Meanwhile, carriages kept driving up and finally blocked the street. Now, as I write, I have solid grounds for affirming that some of the vilest scum of our town were simply brought in without tickets by Lyamshin and Liputin, and perhaps also by someone else who, like me, was one of the ushers. Anyway, even completely unknown persons appeared, who came from other districts and elsewhere. The moment these savages entered the hall, they would go at once to inquire, in the same words (as if they had been prompted), where the buffet was, and on learning that there was no buffet, would begin swearing without any politics and with a boldness hitherto unusual among us. True, some of them came drunk.
Some were struck, like savages, by the magnificence of the marshal's wife's reception hall, since they had never seen anything like it, and, on entering, would become hushed for a moment and gaze around openmouthed. This big White Hall, despite its already decrepit structure, was indeed magnificent: of huge dimensions, with windows on both sides, with a ceiling decorated in the old manner and trimmed with gold, with galleries, with mirrors between the windows, with red and white draperies, with marble statues (such as they were, still they were statues), with heavy old furniture of the Napoleonic era, gilt white and upholstered in red velvet. At the moment described here, a high platform rose up at the end of the hall for the writers who were to read, and the entire room was completely filled with chairs, like the parterre of a theater, with wide aisles for the public. But after the first moments of astonishment, the most senseless questions and declarations would begin. "Maybe we don't even want any reading... We paid money... The public has been brazenly deceived... We're the masters, not the Lembkas! ..." In a word, as though it were for just this that they had been let in. I recall particularly one confrontation in which yesterday's visiting princeling distinguished himself, the one who had been at Yulia Mikhailovna's the previous morning, in his standing collar, and looking like a wooden doll. He, too, at her relentless request, had agreed to pin a bow to his left shoulder and become our fellow usher. It turned out that this mute wax figure on springs knew, if not how to speak, then at least, after a fashion, how to act. When one pockmarked, colossal retired captain, supported by a whole crew of various scum crowding at his back, began to pester him about "where to get to the buffet"—he winked to a policeman. The directive was promptly fulfilled: in spite of his swearing, the drunken captain was dragged out of the hall. Meanwhile, the "real" public also began finally to appear and in three long lines threaded its way down the three aisles between the chairs. The disorderly element began to quiet down, but the public, even the "cleanest" part of it, had a displeased and amazed look; some of the ladies were quite simply frightened.
Finally all were seated; the music also died down. People began blowing their noses, looking around. They were altogether too solemnly expectant—which is always a bad sign in itself. But the "Lembkas" were still not there. Silks, velvets, diamonds shone and sparkled on all sides; fragrance permeated the air. The men were wearing all their decorations, and the old men were even wearing their uniforms. Finally, the marshal's wife also appeared, together with Liza. Never before had Liza been so dazzlingly lovely as that morning, or so magnificently attired. Her hair was done up in curls, her eyes flashed, a smile shone on her face. She produced a visible effect; she was looked over, whispered about. People said she was seeking Stavrogin with her eyes, but neither Stavrogin nor Varvara Petrovna was there. I did not then understand the expression of her face: why was there so much happiness, joy, energy, strength in this face? I kept recalling yesterday's event, and was nonplussed. The "Lembkas," however, were still not there. This was indeed a mistake. I learned afterwards that Yulia Mikhailovna had waited till the last minute for Pyotr Stepanovich, without whom she could not take a step lately, though she never admitted it to herself. I will note in parenthesis that at the last committee meeting, the previous day, Pyotr Stepanovich had refused the usher's bow, which had upset her very much, even to tears. To her surprise, and afterwards to her great embarrassment (which I announce beforehand), he disappeared for the whole morning and did not come to the literary reading at all, so that no one met him until that same evening. Finally, the public began to show obvious impatience. No one appeared on the platform, either. In the back rows people began clapping as in a theater. Old men and ladies were frowning: the "Lembkas" were obviously giving themselves too many airs. Even among the best part of the public an absurd whispering began, that perhaps the fête would indeed not take place, that perhaps Lembke himself was indeed quite unwell, and so on and so forth. But, thank God, the Lembkes finally appeared, he leading her by the arm—I confess, I myself was terribly worried about their appearance. But the fables thus were falling, and truth was claiming its own. The public seemed relieved. Lembke himself, apparently, was in perfect health, as I recall everyone else also concluded, for one can imagine how many eyes were turned on him. I will note as characteristic that generally very few people in our higher society supposed that Lembke was somehow not quite well; and his deeds were found perfectly normal, so much so that even the previous day's episode in the square was received with approval. "Should've done it that way from the start,” the dignitaries said. "But no, they come as philanthropists and end up with the same thing, without noticing that it's necessary for philanthropy itself—so at least they reasoned in the club. They only blamed him for getting into a temper over it. "One has to keep cool, but after all the man is new at it," the connoisseurs said. With equal greediness all eyes turned to Yulia Mikhailovna as well. Of course, no one has the right to demand of me as a narrator too detailed an account of one point: here is mystery, here is woman; but one thing I do know: the previous evening she had gone into Andrei Antonovich's study and was with him till well past midnight. Andrei Antonovich was forgiven and consoled. The spouses agreed in all things, everything was forgotten, and when at the end of their talk von Lembke did go on his knees all the same, remembering with horror the main concluding episode of the previous night, the lovely little hand, and after it the lips, of his spouse blocked the fiery outpouring of penitent speeches of a man chivalrously delicate, yet weakened by tenderness. Everyone saw happiness on her face. She walked with a candid air and in a splendid dress. It seemed she was at the summit of her desires, the fête—the goal and crown of her politics—was realized. As they proceeded to their places just in front of the platform, both Lembkes were bowing and responding to others' bows. They were surrounded at once. The marshal's wife rose to meet them... But here a nasty misunderstanding occurred: the orchestra, out of the blue, burst into a flourish—not some sort of march, but simply a dinnertime flourish, as at table in our club, when they drink someone's health during an official banquet. I know now that this was owing to the good services of Lyamshin, in his capacity as usher, supposedly to honor the entrance of the "Lembkas." Of course, he could always make the excuse that he had done it out of stupidity or excessive zeal. . . Alas, I did not yet know that by then they were no longer worried about making excuses, and that that day was to put an end to everything. But the flourish was not the end of it: along with the vexatious bewilderment and smiling of the public, suddenly, from the end of the hall and from the gallery there came a hurrah, also as if in honor of the Lembkes. The voices were few, but I confess they lasted for some time. Yulia Mikhailovna turned red; her eyes flashed. Lembke had stopped by his place and, turning in the direction of those who were shouting, was grandly and sternly surveying the hall... He was quickly seated. I noticed with fear that same dangerous smile on his face with which he had stood yesterday morning in his wife's drawing room and looked at Stepan Trofimovich before going up to him. It seemed to me that now, too, there was some ominous expression on his face, and, worst of all, a slightly comical one, the expression of a being who is offering himself—oh, very well— as a sacrifice, only to play up to the higher aims of his wife... Yulia Mikhailovna hastily beckoned me to her and whispered that I should run to Karmazinov and beg him to begin. No sooner had I turned around than another abomination occurred, only much nastier than the first one. On the platform, on the empty platform, to which till that moment all eyes and all expectations had been turned, and where all that could be seen was a small table, a chair before it, and on the table a glass of water on a little silver tray—on this empty platform suddenly flashed the colossal figure of Captain Lebyadkin in a tailcoat and white tie. I was so struck that I did not believe my eyes. The captain, it seems, became abashed and halted at the rear of the platform. Suddenly, from amid the public, a shout was heard: "Lebyadkin! you?" The captain's stupid red mug (he was totally drunk) spread at this cry into a broad, dumb smile. He raised his hand, rubbed his forehead with it, shook his shaggy head, and, as if venturing all, stepped two steps forward and— suddenly snorted with laughter, not loud but long, happy, rippling, which sent his whole fleshy mass heaving and made his little eyes shrink. At the sight of this, nearly half the public laughed, twenty people applauded. The serious public gloomily exchanged glances; all this, however, lasted no more than half a minute. Suddenly Liputin with his usher's bow and two servants ran out on the platform; they carefully took the captain under both arms, while Liputin did a bit of whispering in his ear. The captain frowned, muttered "Ah, well, in that case," waved his hand, turned his enormous back to the public, and disappeared with his escort. But a moment later Liputin again jumped out on the platform. On his lips was the sweetest of his perennial smiles, which usually resembled vinegar and sugar, and in his hands was a sheet of writing paper. With small but rapid steps he came to the edge of the platform.