While this whole scene was taking place between Nikolai Vsevolodovich and Marya Timofeevna, everyone was hushed with amazement; one could have heard a fly buzz; but as soon as they walked out, everyone suddenly began talking.
VI
Or not talking so much as exclaiming. I have somewhat forgotten now the order in which it all happened, because there was a tumult. Stepan Trofimovich exclaimed something in French and clasped his hands, but Varvara Petrovna could not be bothered with him. Even Mavriky Nikolaevich muttered something abruptly and rapidly. But most excited of all was Pyotr Stepanovich; he was desperately convincing Varvara Petrovna of something, with big gestures, but for a long time I could not understand it. He addressed Praskovya Ivanovna and Lizaveta Nikolaevna as well; in the heat of the moment he even shouted something in passing to his father—in short, he whirled all around the room. Varvara Petrovna, all flushed, jumped up from her seat and cried to Praskovya Ivanovna: "Did you hear, did you hear what he just said to her?" But the latter could no longer even reply, and merely mumbled something, waving her hand. The poor woman had her own troubles: she kept turning her head towards Liza, looking at her in unaccountable fear, and no longer dared even to think of getting up and leaving before her daughter rose. Meanwhile, the captain certainly wanted to slip away, this I noticed. He had been in a great and unquestionable fright from the moment Nikolai Vsevolodovich appeared; but Pyotr Stepanovich seized him by the arm and did not let him leave.
"This is necessary, necessary," he spilled out his beads at Varvara Petrovna, still trying to convince her. He was standing in front of her, and she by then had already sat back down in the armchair and, I remember, listened to him greedily; he had succeeded in holding her attention.
"This is necessary. You can see for yourself, Varvara Petrovna, that there's a misunderstanding here, and much that looks odd, and yet the thing is clear as a candle and simple as a finger. I realize only too well that no one has authorized me to tell about it, and that I perhaps look ridiculous in inviting myself. But, first of all, Nikolai Vsevolodovich himself attaches no great importance to this thing, and, finally, there are still cases when it is difficult for a man to bring himself to explain things personally, and it must be undertaken by a third person, for whom it is easier to express certain delicate matters. Believe me, Varvara Petrovna, Nikolai Vsevolodovich is not in the least to blame for not giving your question a radical explanation at once, even though the matter is a trifling one; I've known of it since Petersburg. Besides, the whole anecdote only does honor to Nikolai Vsevolodovich, if it's necessary to use this vague word 'honor'..."
"You mean to say that you were a witness to some occurrence that gave rise to... this misunderstanding?" asked Varvara Petrovna.
"A witness and a participant," Pyotr Stepanovich hastened to confirm.
"If you give me your word that this will not offend Nikolai Vsevolodovich's delicacy in certain of his feelings towards me, from whom he does not conceal an-y-thing... and if you are so sure, besides, that it will even give him pleasure ..."
"Pleasure, most certainly; that's why I regard it as a particular pleasure for me. I'm convinced he would ask me himself."
It was rather strange, and outside the usual ways, this importunate desire on the part of this gentleman who had suddenly fallen from the sky to tell other people's anecdotes. But he caught Varvara Petrovna with his bait, having touched her sorest spot. I did not know the man's character fully then, and still less did I know his intentions.
"You may speak," Varvara Petrovna announced reservedly and cautiously, suffering somewhat from her indulgence.
"It's a short matter; in fact, if you like, it's not even an anecdote," the beads began spilling out. "However, a novelist might cook up a novel from it in an idle moment. It's quite an interesting little matter, Praskovya Ivanovna, and I'm sure Lizaveta Nikolaevna will listen with curiosity, because there are many things here which, if not queer, are at least quaint. About five years ago, in Petersburg, Nikolai Vsevolodovich got to know this gentleman—this same Mr. Lebyadkin who is standing here with his mouth hanging open and, it seems, was just about to slip away. Forgive me, Varvara Petrovna. Incidentally, I'd advise you not to take to your heels, mister retired official of the former supply department (you see, I remember you perfectly). Both I and Nikolai Vsevolodovich are all too well informed of your local tricks, of which, don't forget, you will have to give an accounting. Once again I ask your forgiveness, Varvara Petrovna. Nikolai Vsevolodovich used to call this gentleman his Falstaff[71]—that must be some former character," he suddenly explained, "some burlesque everyone laughs at and who allows everyone to laugh at him, so long as they pay money. The life Nikolai Vsevolodovich then led in Petersburg was, so to speak, a jeering one—I cannot define it by any other word, because he was not a man to fall into disillusionment, and he scorned then to do anything serious. I'm talking only about that time, Varvara Petrovna. This Lebyadkin had a sister—the very one who was just sitting here. This nice brother and sister had no corner of their own, and wandered about staying with various people. He loitered under the arcades of the Gostiny Dvor,[72] unfailingly wearing his former uniform, and stopped the cleaner-looking passers-by, and whatever he collected he would spend on drink. His sister lived like the birds of the air. She helped out in those corners and served in exchange for necessities. It was a most terrible Sodom; I'll pass over the picture of this corner life—the life to which Nikolai Vsevolodovich then gave himself out of whimsicality.[73]This was only then, Varvara Petrovna; and as for 'whimsicality,' the expression is his. There is much that he does not conceal from me. Mademoiselle Lebyadkin, who at a certain period happened to run into Nikolai Vsevolodovich all too often, was struck by his appearance. He was, so to speak, a diamond set against the dirty background of her life.
I'm a poor describer of feelings, so I'll pass that over; but rotten little people immediately made fun of her, and she grew sad. They generally laughed at her there, but before she didn't notice it. She was already not right in the head then, but less so than now. There's reason to think that in childhood, through some benefactress, she almost received an education. Nikolai Vsevolodovich never paid the slightest attention to her, and rather spent his time playing old greasy cards, the game of preference for quarter-kopeck stakes, with some clerks. But once when she was being mistreated, he, without asking why, grabbed one clerk by the scruff of the neck and chucked him out the second-story window. There wasn't any chivalrous indignation in favor of offended innocence in it; the whole operation took place amid general laughter, and Nikolai Vsevolodovich himself laughed most of all; everything eventually came to a good end, they made peace and began drinking punch. But oppressed innocence herself did not forget it. Of course, it ended with the final shaking of her mental faculties. I repeat, I'm a poor describer of feelings, but the main thing here was the dream. And Nikolai Vsevolodovich, as if on purpose, aroused the dream even more; instead of just laughing at it, he suddenly began addressing Mademoiselle Lebyadkin with unexpected esteem. Kirillov, who was there (an exceedingly original man, Varvara Petrovna, and an exceedingly abrupt one; perhaps you'll meet him one day, he's here now), well, so this Kirillov, who ordinarily is always silent, but then suddenly got excited, observed to Nikolai Vsevolodovich, as I remember, that his treating this lady as a marquise was finally going to finish her off. I will add that Nikolai Vsevolodovich had a certain respect for this Kirillov. And how do you think he answered him? 'You assume, Mr. Kirillov, that I am laughing at her; let me assure you that I do indeed respect her, because she is better than any of us.' And, you know, he said it in such a serious tone. Though, in fact, during those two or three months he hadn't said a word to her except 'hello' and 'good-bye.' I, who was there, remember for a certainty that she finally reached the point of regarding him as something like her fiancé, who did not dare to 'abduct' her solely because he had many enemies and family obstacles, or something of the sort. There was much laughter over that! In the end, when Nikolai Vsevolodovich had to come here that time, as he was leaving he arranged for her keep, and it seems it was quite a substantial yearly pension, at least three hundred roubles, if not more. In short, let's say it was all self-indulgence, the fancy of a prematurely weary man—let it be, finally, as Kirillov was saying, a new étude by a jaded man, with the object of finding out what a mad cripple can be brought to. 'You chose on purpose,' he said, 'the very least of beings, a cripple covered in eternal shame and beatings—and knowing, besides, that this being is dying of her comical love for you—and you suddenly start to flummox her on purpose, solely to see what will come of it!' Why, finally, is a man so especially to blame for the fantasy of a mad woman to whom, notice, he had hardly spoken two sentences during that whole time! There are things, Varvara Petrovna, of which it is not only impossible to speak intelligently, but of which it is not intelligent even to begin speaking. Well, let it be whimsicality, finally—but that's all one can say; and yet quite a story has been made of it now ... I'm partly informed, Varvara Petrovna, of what is going on here."