"He's not mad, but these people have short little thoughts," he mumbled listlessly and as if unwillingly. "Ces gens-là supposent la nature et la société humaine autre que Dieu ne les a faites et qu 'elles ne sont réellement.[lxiii] They are flirted with, but not at any rate by Stepan Verkhovensky. I saw them when I was in Petersburg, avec cette chère amie (oh, how I used to insult her then!), and I was frightened neither of their abuse—nor even of their praise. I will not be frightened now either, mais parlons d'autre chose[lxiv] ... I seem to have done some terrible things; imagine, I sent Darya Pavlovna a letter yesterday, and... how I curse myself for it!"
"What did you write about?"
"Oh, my friend, believe me, it was all done so nobly. I informed her that I had written to Nicolas five days before, also nobly."
"Now I understand!" I cried out hotly. "And what right did you have to put them together like that?"
"But, mon cher, don't crush me finally, don't yell at me; I am quite crushed as it is, like... like a cockroach, and, finally, I think it is all so noble. Suppose there had indeed been something there ... en Suisse ... or there was beginning to be. Oughtn't I to question their hearts first, so as... enfin, so as not to hinder their hearts or stand in their way like a post... solely out of nobility?"
"Oh, God, what a stupid thing to do!" burst from me involuntarily.
"Stupid, stupid!" he picked up, even greedily. "You've never said anything more intelligent, c'était bête, mais que faire, tout est dit.[lxv] I am getting married anyway, even if it's to 'someone else's sins,' and so what was the point of writing? Isn't that so?"
"You're at it again!"
"Oh, you won't frighten me with your shouting now, it's not the same Stepan Verkhovensky you see before you; that one is buried; enfin, tout est dit. And why are you shouting? Only because it's not you who is getting married, and it's not you who is going to wear a certain ornament on your head. You're cringing again? My poor friend, you don't know women; as for me, all I've ever done is study them. 'If you want to overcome the whole world, overcome yourself—the only thing that other romantic like yourself, Shatov, my spouse's dear brother, ever managed to say well. I gladly borrow the utterance from him. Well, now I, too, am prepared to overcome myself and am getting married, and yet what am I conquering in place of the whole world? Oh, my friend, marriage is the moral death of any proud soul, of any independence. Married life will corrupt me, will rob me of my energy, my courage in serving the cause; there will be children, perhaps not even mine, that is, certainly not mine—a wise man is not afraid to face the truth... Liputin suggested today that I save myself from Nicolas with barricades; he's stupid, Liputin. A woman will deceive the all-seeing eye itself. Le bon Dieu knew, of course, what he was letting himself in for when he created woman, but I'm sure she herself interfered with him and forced him to make her this way and... with these attributes; otherwise who would want to get himself into such troubles for nothing? Nastasya, I know, will probably be angry with me for freethinking, but... Enfin, tout est dit.”
He would not have been himself if he could have done without the cheap, quibbling freethinking that had flourished so much in his day, but at least he had comforted himself this time with his little quibble, though not for long.
"Oh, why couldn't there simply not be this day after tomorrow, this Sunday!" he suddenly exclaimed, now in utter despair. "Why couldn't just this one week be without a Sunday—si le miracle existe?[lxvi] What would it cost providence to cross out just this one Sunday from the calendar, just to prove its power to an atheist, et que tout soit dit![lxvii] Oh, how I loved her! Twenty years, all these twenty years, and she never, never understood me!"
"But who are you talking about? I also don't understand you!" I asked in surprise.
"Vingt ans! And she never once understood me—oh, this is cruel! Can she really think I'm getting married out of fear, out of need? Oh, shame! Auntie, auntie, it is for you that I... Oh, may she know, this auntie, that she is the only woman I have adored for these twenty years! She must know it, otherwise it will not be, otherwise they will have to drag me by force to this ce qu'on appelle le[lxviii] altar!"
It was the first time I had heard this confession, and so energetically expressed. I will not conceal that I had a terrible urge to laugh. I was wrong.
"Alone, he alone is left to me, my only hope!" he clasped his hands all at once, as if suddenly struck by a new thought. "Now only he alone, my poor boy, can save me, and—oh, why does he not come! Oh, my son, oh, my Petrusha... and though I am not worthy to be called a father, but a tiger rather, still. . . laissez-moi, mon ami,[lxix] I'll lie down for a while to collect my thoughts. I'm so tired, so tired, and I suppose it must be time for you to go to bed, voyez-vous,[lxx] it's twelve o'clock..."
4: The Lame Girl
I
Shatov proved not to be stubborn and, following my note, came at noontime to call on Lizaveta Nikolaevna. We entered at almost the same time; I, too, was paying my first call. All of them—that is, Liza, maman, and Mavriky Nikolaevich—were sitting in the big drawing room, arguing. Maman had requested that Liza play some waltz for her on the piano, and when she began the requested waltz, started insisting that it was the wrong one. Mavriky Nikolaevich, in his simplicity, interceded for Liza and insisted that it was the right one; the old woman got so angry that she burst into tears. She was ill, and even had difficulty walking. Her legs were swollen, and already for several days she had done nothing but wax capricious and find fault with others, despite the fact that she had always been slightly afraid of Liza. They were glad that we came. Liza blushed with pleasure and, after saying merci to me, for Shatov of course, went up to him, looking at him curiously.
Shatov stopped clumsily in the doorway. Having thanked him for coming, she led him over to maman.
"This is Mr. Shatov, of whom I spoke to you, and this is Mr. G——v, a great friend of mine and of Stepan Trofimovich's. Mavriky Nikolaevich also made his acquaintance yesterday."
"And which one is the professor?"
"There isn't any professor, maman."
"Yes, there is, you were saying yourself there would be a professor; it must be this one," she pointed squeamishly at Shatov.
"I never told you there would be a professor. Mr. G——v is in the civil service, and Mr. Shatov is a former student."
"Student, professor, anyway it's from the university. You just want to argue. And the Swiss one had a moustache and a little beard."
"It's Stepan Trofimovich's son that maman keeps calling a professor," Liza said, and she led Shatov to a sofa at the other end of the drawing room.