I walked out and had even gone down the stairs when a servant suddenly overtook me on the porch.
"My lady begs you very much to come back ..."
"The lady, or Lizaveta Nikolaevna?" "That's the one, sir."
I found Liza no longer in that big drawing room where we had been sitting, but in the adjoining reception room. The door to the drawing room, where Mavriky Nikolaevich now remained alone, was tightly shut.
Liza smiled at me, but she was pale. She stood in the middle of the room, obviously undecided, obviously struggling with herself; but all at once she took me by the hand and silently, quickly led me to the window.
"I want to see her at once," she whispered, turning to me her ardent, strong, impatient gaze, not allowing for a shadow of contradiction. "I must see her with my own eyes, and I ask your help."
She was in a complete frenzy and—in despair.
"Who is it you wish to see, Lizaveta Nikolaevna?" I asked in fright.
"This Lebyadkin woman, the lame one ... Is it true that she's lame?"
I was astounded.
"I've never seen her, but I've heard that she's lame, I heard it only yesterday," I murmured with hasty readiness and also in a whisper.
"I absolutely must see her. Could you arrange it for this same day?"
I felt terribly sorry for her.
"That is impossible, and, besides, I wouldn't have any idea how to do it," I began persuading her. "I'll go to Shatov..."
"If you don't arrange it by tomorrow, I shall go to her myself, alone, because Mavriky Nikolaevich has refused. I'm counting only on you, I have no one else; I spoke stupidly with Shatov... I'm sure you are a completely honest man and, perhaps, completely devoted to me, only do arrange it."
A passionate desire to help her in everything came over me.
"Here is what I'll do," I thought a bit, "I'll go myself and see her today for certain, for certain! I'll make it so that I see her, I give you my word of honor; only—allow me to confide in Shatov."
"Tell him that I have this wish and that I can wait no longer, but that I was not deceiving him just now. He left, perhaps, because he's a very honest man and did not like it that I seemed to be deceiving him. I wasn't deceiving him; I really want to publish and to start a press..."
"He is honest, honest," I confirmed with fervor.
"However, if it doesn't get arranged by tomorrow, then I will go myself, whatever may come of it, and even if everyone finds out."
"I cannot come to you before three o'clock tomorrow," I observed, recollecting myself somewhat.
"At three o'clock, then. I guessed right, then, at Stepan Trofimovich's yesterday, that you are somewhat devoted to me?" she smiled, pressing my hand in parting and hurrying to the abandoned Mavriky Nikolaevich.
I left, oppressed by my promise, and not understanding what had happened. I had seen a woman in real despair, who was not afraid to compromise herself by confiding in a man who was almost a stranger. Her feminine smile in a moment so difficult for her, and the hint that she had already noticed my feelings yesterday, simply stabbed my heart; yet I felt pity, pity—that was all! Her secrets suddenly became something sacred for me, and even if they had been revealed to me right then, I think I would have stopped my ears and refused to hear any more. I only had a foreboding of something... And yet I had absolutely no idea how I was going to arrange anything here. What's more, even then I still did not know precisely what had to be arranged: a meeting, but what sort of meeting? And how bring them together? All my hopes lay in Shatov, though I might have known beforehand that he would not help with anything. But I rushed to him anyway.
IV
Only in the evening, past seven, did I find him at home. To my surprise, he had visitors—Alexei Nilych, and another gentleman I was half acquainted with, a certain Shigalyov, the brother of Virginsky's wife.
This Shigalyov must already have spent about two months in our town; I do not know where he came from; the only thing I had heard about him was that he had published some article in a progressive Petersburg magazine. Virginsky introduced us by chance in the street. Never in my life have I seen a more grim, gloomy, glowering face on a man. He looked as if he were expecting the destruction of the world, and not just sometime, according to prophecies which might not be fulfilled, but quite definitely, round about morning, the day after tomorrow, at ten twenty-five sharp. Incidentally, we said almost nothing then, but only shook hands, looking like a pair of conspirators. I was struck most of all by the unnatural size of his ears—long, broad, and thick, sticking out somehow peculiarly. His movements were clumsy and slow. If Liputin ever did dream that a phalanstery might be realized in our province, this man was sure to know the day and hour when it would come about. He made a sinister impression on me; meeting him now at Shatov's, I was surprised, all the more so in that Shatov generally had no love of visitors.
Even from the stairs they could be heard talking very loudly, all three at once, and apparently arguing; but as soon as I appeared, they all fell silent. They had been arguing standing up, and now suddenly they all sat down, so that I, too, had to sit down. The stupid silence would not get broken for about three full minutes. Shigalyov, though he recognized me, pretended he did not know me—certainly not from hostility, but just so. Alexei Nilych and I bowed slightly to each other, but silently, and for some reason did not shake hands. Shigalyov finally began looking at me sternly and gloweringly, in the most naive conviction that I would suddenly get up and leave. Finally, Shatov rose from his chair, and everyone else suddenly jumped up. They walked out without saying good-bye; only Shigalyov, already in the doorway, said to Shatov, who was seeing them out:
"Remember, you're obliged to report."
"I spit on your reports, and the devil if I'm obliged to anybody." Shatov saw him out and fastened the door with a hook.
"Snipe!" he said, glancing at me and grinning somehow crookedly.
His face was angry, and I felt it strange that he had begun talking. Usually, whenever I had come to see him before (very rarely, by the way), he would sit glowering in the corner, responding angrily, and only after a long time would become quite animated and begin talking with pleasure. On the other hand, each time he said good-bye, he would unfailingly glower again and let you out as if he were getting rid of a personal enemy.
"I had tea yesterday with this Alexei Nilych," I remarked. "He seems to have gone crazy over atheism."
"Russian atheism has never gone further than a pun," Shatov growled, replacing the burnt-down candle with a new one.
"No, the man doesn't seem to be a punster to me; he seems unable to speak even plainly, to say nothing of punning."
"They're paper people; it all comes from lackeyishness of thinking,"[55] Shatov observed calmly, sitting down in the corner on a chair and placing both palms on his knees.
"And there's hatred there, too," he said, after a moment's silence. "They'd be the first to be terribly unhappy if Russia somehow suddenly got reconstructed, even if it was in their own way, and somehow suddenly became boundlessly rich and happy. They'd have no one to hate then, no one to spit on, nothing to jeer at! All that's there is an endless animal hatred of Russia that has eaten into their organism... And there are no tears invisible to the world under the visible laughter![56] Nothing more false has ever been said in Russia than this phrase about invisible tears!" he cried out, almost with fury.
"Well, God knows what it's all about!" I laughed.
"And you, you're a 'moderate liberal,’” Shatov also grinned. "You know," he suddenly picked up, "maybe that was just silly talk about 'lackeyishness of thinking'; you'll probably say to me at once: 'It's you who were born of a lackey, but I'm no lackey.’”