"Liza, it's time to go," Praskovya Ivanovna announced squeamishly and rose from her seat. She seemed already to regret that, in her fright a little earlier, she had called herself a fool. While Darya Pavlovna was speaking, she had already begun listening with haughtily pursed lips. But I was struck most of all by the look of Lizaveta Nikolaevna from the moment Darya Pavlovna came in: hatred and contempt, much too unconcealed, flashed in her eyes.
"Hold off for a moment, Praskovya Ivanovna, I beg you," Varvara Petrovna stopped her with the same excessive calm. "Kindly sit down, I intend to speak everything out, and your legs hurt you. There, thank you. I lost my temper just now and said several impatient things to you. Kindly forgive me; it was foolish of me, and I'll be the first to repent, because I love justice in all things. Of course, you also lost your temper and mentioned some anonymous writer. Any anonymous calumny is deserving of contempt, if only because it is unsigned. If you think otherwise, I do not envy you. In any event, if I were in your place I would not drag such trash out of my pocket, I would not dirty myself. But you have dirtied yourself. However, since you started it, I will tell you that some six days ago I, too, received a letter, also anonymous and clownish. In it some scoundrel tries to persuade me that Nikolai Vsevolodovich has lost his mind and that I should beware of some lame woman who 'will play an extraordinary role in my fate'—I remember the expression. I thought it over and, knowing that Nikolai Vsevolodovich has an extraordinary number of enemies, I sent at once for one man here, a secret enemy of his and one of the most vengeful and contemptible of all, and my conversation with him at once convinced me of the contemptible source of the anonymous letter. If you, too, my poor Praskovya Ivanovna, have been bothered because of me with the same sort of contemptible letters, and have been 'bombarded,' as you put it, then, of course, I'll be the first to regret having been the innocent cause. That is all I wanted to tell you by way of explanation. I'm sorry to see that you are so tired and are now beside yourself. Furthermore, I am absolutely determined now to admit this suspicious man of whom Mavriky Nikolaevich said, in a not quite suitable phrase, that it was impossible to receive him. Liza, especially, has no reason to be here. Come, Liza, my friend, and let me kiss you once more."
Liza crossed the room and stopped silently in front of Varvara Petrovna. The latter kissed her, took her by the hands, moved her back a little, looked at her with feeling, then made a cross over her and kissed her again.
"So, good-bye, Liza" (tears almost sounded in Varvara Petrovna's voice), "believe that I shall never cease to love you, whatever your fate promises hereafter ... God be with you. I have always blessed his holy right hand..."
She was going to add something, but checked herself and fell silent. Liza started walking back to her place, still in the same silence and as if pondering, but suddenly stopped before her mother.
"I won't go yet, maman, I'll stay with auntie a while longer," she spoke in a soft voice, but in those soft words there sounded an iron resolution.
"Oh, my God, what is it!" Praskovya Ivanovna cried out, feebly clasping her hands. But Liza did not answer, and did not even seem to hear; she sat down in her former corner and again began looking somewhere into the air.
Something proud and triumphant shone in Varvara Petrovna's face.
"Mavriky Nikolaevich, I have an extraordinary request: kindly go and have a look at that man downstairs, and if it is at all possible to admit him, bring him here."
Mavriky Nikolaevich bowed and went out. A minute later he brought in Mr. Lebyadkin.
IV
I have spoken before about the appearance of this man: a tall, curly, thick-set fellow of about forty, with a purple, somewhat bloated and flabby face, with cheeks that shook at every movement of his head, with small, bloodshot, at times quite cunning eyes, with a moustache and side-whiskers, with a nascent, fleshy, rather unpleasant-looking Adam's apple. But the most striking thing about him was that he appeared now wearing a tailcoat and clean linen. "There are people for whom clean linen is even indecent, sir," as Liputin once objected when Stepan Trofimovich jestingly reproached him for being slovenly. The captain also had black gloves, of which the right one, not yet put on, was held in his hand, while the left one, tightly stretched and refusing to be buttoned, half covered the fleshy left paw in which he held a brand-new, shiny, and probably never-before-sported round hat. It followed, therefore, that yesterday's "tailcoat of love," of which he had shouted to Shatov, actually existed. All this—that is, the tailcoat and linen—had been prepared (as I learned later) on Liputin's advice, for some mysterious purposes. There was no doubt that his arrival now (in a hired carriage) must also have been at someone's instigation and with someone's help; on his own he would never have managed to figure it out, along with getting dressed, ready, and resolved in some three quarters of an hour, even supposing that the scene on the church porch had become known to him immediately. He was not drunk, but was in the heavy, leaden, foggy state of a man who suddenly wakes up after many days of drinking. It seemed you would only have to shake him a couple of times by the shoulder and he would immediately become drunk again.
He all but flew into the drawing room, but suddenly stumbled over the carpet in the doorway. Marya Timofeevna simply died laughing. He gave her a ferocious look and suddenly took several quick steps towards Varvara Petrovna.
"I have come, madam..." he boomed, as if through a trumpet.
"Be so kind, my dear sir," Varvara Petrovna drew herself up, "as to take a seat over there on that chair. I will hear you from there just as well, and from here I will see you better."
The captain stopped, staring dully before him, but turned even so and sat in his appointed place, just by the door. The expression of his physiognomy betrayed extreme insecurity and, at the same time, insolence and some ceaseless irritation. He was terribly scared, one could see that, but his vanity also suffered, and one could guess that out of irritated vanity, despite his fear, he might venture any sort of insolence if the occasion arose. He apparently feared for every movement of his clumsy body. For all such gentlemen, as is known, when by some odd chance they appear in society, the worst suffering comes from their own hands and the constant awareness of the impossibility of somehow decently disposing of them. The captain froze in his chair, his hat and gloves in his hands, not taking his senseless eyes from Varvara Petrovna's stern countenance. He might have liked to take a better look around, but he did not dare yet. Marya Timofeevna, probably again finding his figure terribly funny, burst into another gale of laughter, but he did not stir. Varvara Petrovna kept him in that position for a mercilessly long time, a whole minute, studying him pitilessly.
"First, allow me to learn your name from you yourself," she spoke evenly and expressively.
"Captain Lebyadkin," boomed the captain. "I have come, madam..." he stirred again.
"I beg your pardon!" Varvara Petrovna again stopped him. "This pitiful person, who has so much attracted my interest, is she indeed your sister?"
"My sister, madam, who has escaped from under supervision, for she's in a certain condition..."
He suddenly faltered and turned purple.
"Don't take it perversely, madam," he became terribly disconcerted, "a brother's not going to soil ... in a certain condition—that's not to say that sort of condition ... in the sense that would stain one's reputation ... at this late stage..."
He suddenly broke off.
"My dear sir!" Varvara Petrovna raised her head.
"This sort of condition!" he continued suddenly, tapping the middle of his forehead with his finger. Silence ensued.