"My dear, you know I'm always glad to have you, but what will your mother say?" Varvara Petrovna began imposingly, but suddenly became confused, seeing Liza's extraordinary agitation.
"Auntie, auntie, I must come with you now," Liza begged, kissing Varvara Petrovna.
"Mais qu'avez vous donc, Lise!"[lxxi] the governor's wife said with emphatic surprise.
"Ah, forgive me, my dear, chère cousine, I am going to my aunt's," Liza turned in midflight to her unpleasantly surprised chère cousine and kissed her twice.
"And tell maman to come at once to fetch me at auntie's; maman really, really wanted to come, she told me so today, I forgot to tell you," Liza kept on rattling, "it's not my fault, don't be angry, Julie... chère cousine... auntie, I'm ready!"
"If you don't take me with you, auntie, I'll run screaming after your carriage," she whispered, quickly and desperately, right into Varvara Petrovna's ear; luckily no one else heard it. Varvara Petrovna even started back a step and gave the mad girl a piercing look. This look decided everything: she resolved definitely to take Liza with her!
"We must put an end to this," escaped from her. "Very well, Liza, I shall take you with pleasure," she at once added loudly, "if Yulia Mikhailovna consents to let you go, of course," she turned directly to the governor's wife, with an open look and straightforward dignity.
"Oh, I certainly would not want to deprive her of that pleasure, the less so in that I myself..." Yulia Mikhailovna suddenly began prattling with surprising amiability, "I myself... well know what a fantastic, domineering little head we have on our pretty shoulders" (Yulia Mikhailovna smiled charmingly)...
"I thank you greatly," Varvara Petrovna thanked her, with a polite and imposing bow.
"And it is all the more pleasant," Yulia Mikhailovna went on with her prattling, now almost enraptured, even blushing all over with pleasant excitement, "that, besides the delight of visiting you, Liza has been carried away by such a beautiful, such a—I might say—lofty feeling ... compassion ..." (she glanced at the "unfortunate" woman) "and... right on the porch of the church..."
"Such a view does you honor," Varvara Petrovna approved magnificently. Yulia Mikhailovna impetuously offered her hand, and Varvara Petrovna with perfect readiness touched it with her fingers. The general impression was excellent, the faces of some of those present began to beam with pleasure, several sweet and fawning smiles appeared.
In short, it was suddenly revealed clearly to the whole town that it was not Yulia Mikhailovna who had scorned Varvara Petrovna all along and had not paid her a visit, but, on the contrary, it was Varvara Petrovna herself who had "kept Yulia Mikhailovna within bounds, when she would perhaps have run on foot to visit her, if only she had been sure that Varvara Petrovna would not chase her away." Varvara Petrovna's prestige rose in the extreme.
"Do get in, my dear," Varvara Petrovna motioned Mlle. Lebyadkin to the carriage that had driven up; the "unfortunate" woman ran joyfully to the door, where a footman caught her up.
"What! You're lame!" Varvara Petrovna cried out, as if totally frightened, and turned pale. (Everyone noticed it at the time but did not understand...)
The carriage drove off. Varvara Petrovna's house was quite near the cathedral. Liza told me later that Miss Lebyadkin laughed hysterically for all three minutes of the ride, while Varvara Petrovna sat "as if in some magnetic sleep"—Liza's own expression.
5: The Wise Serpent
I
Varvara Petrovna rang the bell and threw herself into an armchair by the window.
"Sit down here, my dear," she motioned Marya Timofeevna to a seat in the middle of the room, by the big round table. "Stepan Trofimovich, what is this? Here, here, look at this woman, what is this?"
"I... I..." Stepan Trofimovich began to stammer...
But the footman came.
"A cup of coffee, now, specially, and as quickly as possible! Don't unhitch the carriage."
"'Mais, chère et excellente amie, dans quelle inquiétude ... "[lxxii] Stepan Trofimovich exclaimed in a sinking voice.
"Ah! French! French! You can see right off it's high society!" Marya Timofeevna clapped her hands, preparing rapturously to listen to a conversation in French. Varvara Petrovna stared at her almost in fright.
We were all silent, awaiting some denouement. Shatov would not raise his head, and Stepan Trofimovich was in disarray, as if it were all his fault; sweat stood out on his temples. I looked at Liza (she was sitting in the corner, almost next to Shatov). Her eyes kept darting keenly from Varvara Petrovna to the lame woman and back; a smile twisted on her lips, but not a nice one. Varvara Petrovna saw this smile. And meanwhile Marya Timofeevna was completely enthralled: with delight and not the least embarrassment she was studying Varvara Petrovna's beautiful drawing room—the furniture, the carpets, the paintings on the walls, the old-style decorated ceiling, the big bronze crucifix in the corner, the porcelain lamp, the albums and knickknacks on the table.
"So you're here, too, Shatushka!" she suddenly exclaimed. "Imagine, I noticed you long ago, but I thought: It's not him! How could he have come here!"—and she laughed gaily.
"Do you know this woman?" Varvara Petrovna turned to him at once.
"I do, ma'am," Shatov mumbled, stirred on his chair, but remained sitting.
"And what do you know? Quickly, please!"
"But what..." he grinned an unnecessary smile and faltered... "You can see for yourself."
"What can I see? Go on, say something!"
"She lives in that house where I... with her brother ... an officer."
"Well?"
Shatov faltered again.
"There's no point talking..." he grunted, and resolutely fell silent. He even blushed at his own resoluteness.
"Of course, nothing more could be expected of you!" Varvara Petrovna cut him off indignantly. It was clear to her now that everyone knew something, and at the same time that everyone was afraid of something and was evading her questions, wishing to conceal something from her.
The footman entered and offered her the specially ordered cup of coffee on a small silver tray, but at once, on a sign from her, went over to Marya Timofeevna.
"You got very cold just now, my dear, drink it quickly to warm yourself."
"Merci, " Marya Timofeevna took the cup, and suddenly burst out laughing at having said merci to a footman. But, meeting Varvara Petrovna's menacing gaze, she became timid and set the cup on the table.
"You're not angry, auntie?" she prattled, with some sort of frivolous playfulness.
"Wha-a-at?" Varvara Petrovna reared and sat straight up in her chair. "What sort of aunt am I to you? What are you suggesting?"
Marya Timofeevna, who had not expected such wrath, began trembling all over with convulsive little shivers, as if in a fit, and recoiled against the back of her chair.
"I ... I thought that's how it should be," she prattled, staring at Varvara Petrovna, "that's what Liza called you."
"Which Liza?"
"But, this young lady," Marya Timofeevna pointed her finger.
"So she's already Liza to you?"
"You yourself just called her that," Marya Timofeevna regained some courage. "And I saw a beauty just like her in a dream," she chuckled as though inadvertently.
Varvara Petrovna understood and calmed down somewhat; she even smiled slightly at Marya Timofeevna's last phrase. The latter, having caught this smile, rose from her chair and, limping, went timidly up to her.
"Take it, I forgot to give it back, don't be angry at my impoliteness," she suddenly took from her shoulders the black shawl Varvara Petrovna had put on her earlier.