"Who is she?" Shatov, curious, suddenly went up to the door.
"But do you understand?"
"I will, just tell me who she is!"
"I dare to tell! I always dare to tell everything among the public! ..."
"Well, that's hardly true," Shatov taunted him and motioned for me to listen.
"I don't dare?"
"I say you don't."
"I don't dare?"
"Go on, speak, if you're not afraid of the master's rod... You're a coward, captain or no!"
"I... I... she... she's..." the captain babbled in a trembling, agitated voice.
"Well?" Shatov put his ear to the door.
There was silence for at least half a minute.
"Sco-o-oundrel!" finally came from beyond the door, and the captain quickly retreated down the stairs, puffing like a samovar and stumbling noisily on each step.
"No, he's cunning, he won't let it out even when he's drunk," Shatov stepped away from the door.
"But what is all this?" I asked.
Shatov waved his hand, opened the door, and again began to listen down the stairs; he listened for a long time, he even went quietly down a few steps. Finally he came back.
"I don't hear anything, there was no fight; he must have dropped off at once. It's time for you to go."
"Listen, Shatov, what am I to conclude from all that?"
"Eh, conclude whatever you like," he answered in a weary and disgusted voice, and sat down at his desk.
I left. An incredible idea was growing stronger and stronger in my imagination. In anguish I thought of the next day...
VII
That "next day"—that is, the same Sunday on which Stepan Trofimovich's fate was to be irrevocably decided—was one of the most portentous days in my chronicle. It was a day of the unexpected, a day of the unraveling of the old and the raveling up of the new, a day of sharp explanations and of a still greater muddle. In the morning, as the reader already knows, I was obliged to accompany my friend to Varvara Petrovna's, at her own stipulation, and by three in the afternoon I had to be at Lizaveta Nikolaevna's, in order to tell her— about what I did not know, and to assist her—in what I did not know. And yet it all resolved itself in a way no one could have imagined. In short, it was a day of surprisingly converging accidents.
It all began when Stepan Trofimovich and I, having come to Varvara Petrovna's at exactly twelve o'clock, as she herself had stipulated, did not find her at home; she had not yet returned from the Sunday liturgy. My poor friend was so disposed, or, better, so indisposed, that this circumstance instantly crushed him: almost powerlessly he lowered himself into an armchair in the drawing room. I offered him a glass of water; but, despite his paleness and even the trembling of his hands, he declined it with dignity. Incidentally, his outfit this time was distinguished by its remarkable elegance: a shirt almost fit for a ball, cambric, embroidered, a white tie, a new hat in his hand, fresh straw-colored gloves, and even just a touch of perfume. No sooner had we sat down than Shatov entered, shown in by the valet, also clearly on official invitation. Stepan Trofimovich rose slightly to offer him his hand, but Shatov, after looking at the two of us attentively, turned to the corner, sat down there, and did not even nod to us. Stepan Trofimovich again looked at me timorously.
We sat for a few more minutes in complete silence. Stepan Trofimovich suddenly began to whisper something to me very quickly, but I did not hear, and he himself was so agitated that he dropped it without finishing. The valet came in again to straighten something on the table—or, rather, to have a look at us. Shatov suddenly addressed him with a loud question:
"Alexei Yegorych, do you know whether Darya Pavlovna went with her?"
"Varvara Petrovna went to the cathedral alone, if you please, sir, and Darya Pavlovna stayed in her room upstairs, as she is feeling somewhat unwell," Alexei Yegorych reported didactically and decorously.
My poor friend again glanced at me furtively and anxiously, so that I finally began to turn away from him. Suddenly a carriage clattered up to the entrance, and a certain distant commotion in the house informed us that the hostess had come back. We all jumped up from our chairs—then another unexpected thing: the sound of many steps was heard, which meant that the hostess had not come back alone, and that was indeed somewhat strange, since she herself had stipulated this hour to us. Finally, there came the sound as of someone entering with a strange quickness, almost running, a way in which Varvara Petrovna could not have entered. And suddenly she all but flew into the room, breathless and extremely excited. Following a little behind her, and much more slowly, Lizaveta Nikolaevna came in, and arm in arm with Lizaveta Nikolaevna—Marya Timofeevna Lebyadkin! If I had seen it in a dream, even then I would not have believed it.
To explain this totally unexpected thing, it is necessary to go back an hour and tell in more detail than usual about the remarkable adventure that had befallen Varvara Petrovna in the cathedral.
First of all, nearly the whole town had gathered for the liturgy, meaning, that is, the upper stratum of our society. It was known that the governor's wife would be coming, for the first time since her arrival here. I will note that there were already rumors among us that she was a freethinker and of "the new principles." It was also known to all the ladies that she would be dressed magnificently and with remarkable elegance, and therefore our ladies' costumes this time were distinguished by their refinement and splendor. Varvara Petrovna alone was, as usual, modestly dressed all in black; she had dressed thus invariably over the last four years. Coming to the cathedral, she settled in her usual place, to the left, in the first row, and the liveried footman placed in front of her a velvet cushion for kneeling; in short, all was as usual. But it was also noticed that this time, all through the service, she prayed somehow extremely zealously; it was even affirmed later, when everything was recalled, that tears even brimmed her eyes. Finally the liturgy ended, and our priest, Father Pavel, came out to deliver a solemn sermon. In our town his sermons were loved and highly valued; he had even been urged to publish them, but he could not make up his mind. This time the sermon came out somehow especially long.
And so it was that, during the sermon, a certain lady drove up to the cathedral in a light, hired droshky of the old style, the kind on which a lady could only sit sideways, holding on to the driver's belt and swaying with the jolting of the carriage like a blade of grass in the wind. Such cabbies are still driving about in our town. Stopping at the corner of the cathedral—for there were many carriages and even mounted police standing by the gates—the lady jumped down from the droshky and handed the driver four silver kopecks.
"What, isn't that enough for you?" she cried out, seeing the face he made. "It's all I have," she added pitifully.
"Well, God be with you, I took you without bargaining," the cabbie waved his hand, looking at her as if thinking: "And it would be a sin to offend you." Then he stuffed his leather purse into his bosom, touched up his horse, and drove off, followed by the jeers of the nearby cabbies. Jeers and even surprise also accompanied the lady all the while she was making her way to the cathedral gates, amid the carriages and lackeydom awaiting their soon-to-emerge masters. And indeed there was something unusual and unexpected for everyone in such a person suddenly appearing out of nowhere, in the street, among people. She was sickly thin and limped a little, her face was painted with white makeup and rouge, her long neck was completely bared, with no kerchief or cloak, and she was wearing only a dark old dress, despite the cold, windy, though clear September day; her head was completely uncovered, her hair tied at the nape in a tiny knot, into the right side of which a single artificial rose was stuck, of the sort used to decorate Palm Sunday cherubs. I had noticed precisely such a Palm Sunday cherub with a wreath of paper roses in the corner under the icons the day before, when I was sitting at Marya Timofeevna's. To crown it all, the lady, though she walked with modestly lowered eyes, was at the same time smiling gaily and coyly. If she had lingered a bit longer, she might not have been allowed into the cathedral... But she managed to slip in and, entering the church, pushed her way inconspicuously to the front.