As he spoke he looked cursorily around.
"Pyotr Stepanovich told us an old Petersburg story from the life of one whimsical fellow," Varvara Petrovna rapturously joined in, "one mad and capricious fellow, though always lofty in his feelings, always chivalrously noble..."
"Chivalrously? Can it have gone as far as that?" Nicolas laughed. "Anyhow, this time I'm very grateful to Pyotr Stepanovich for his hastiness" (here he exchanged a momentary glance with him). "Be it known to you, maman, that Pyotr Stepanovich is a universal peacemaker; that is his role, his disease, his hobbyhorse, and I especially recommend him to you on that point. I can guess what he dashed off for you here. He precisely dashes off when he talks; he's got an office in his head. Note that being a realist he cannot lie, and truth is dearer to him than success ... save, naturally, on those special occasions when success is dearer than truth." (He kept looking around as he was saying this.) "So you can clearly see, maman, that it is not you who should ask forgiveness of me, and if there is madness here anywhere, it is, of course, first of all on my part, and so, finally, I am crazy after all—just to keep up my local reputation..."
Here he embraced his mother tenderly.
"Anyhow, everything is said and done, and so we can finish with it," he added, and some dry, hard little note sounded in his voice. Varvara Petrovna understood this note; yet her exaltation would not leave her, even quite the contrary.
"I really didn't expect you before another month, Nicolas!"
"I will of course explain everything to you, maman, but now..."
And he went towards Praskovya Ivanovna.
But she barely turned her head to him, stunned though she had been by his first appearance half an hour earlier. Now, however, she had some new trouble: from the very moment the captain had gone out and run into Nikolai Vsevolodovich in the doorway, Liza had suddenly begun to laugh—at first softly, fitfully, but then her laughter increased more and more, becoming louder and more obvious. She was flushed. The contrast with her recent gloomy look was extreme. While Nikolai Vsevolodovich was speaking with Varvara Petrovna, she beckoned a couple of times to Mavriky Nikolaevich, as if wishing to whisper something to him; but as soon as he bent down to her, she would dissolve in laughter; one might have concluded that she was laughing precisely at poor Mavriky Nikolaevich. However, she made a visible effort to restrain herself, and put her handkerchief to her lips. Nikolai Vsevolodovich, with a most innocent and guileless air, addressed her in greeting.
"Excuse me, please," she answered in a patter, "you... you have seen Mavriky Nikolaevich, of course... My God, Mavriky Nikolaevich, how inadmissibly tall you are!"
And again laughter. Mavriky Nikolaevich was indeed tall, but not inadmissibly so.
"Did you... arrive long ago?" she murmured, again restraining herself, even embarrassed, but with flashing eyes.
"A little over two hours ago," Nicolas replied, studying her intently. I will observe that he was remarkably restrained and polite, but, politeness aside, he looked totally indifferent, even listless.
"And where will you be living?"
"Here."
Varvara Petrovna was also watching Liza, but a thought suddenly struck her.
"And where have you been all this time, Nicolas, for more than two hours?" she ventured. "The train comes at ten o'clock."
"I first took Pyotr Stepanovich to Kirillov. And Pyotr Stepanovich I met at Matveevo" (three stations away), "we came here in the same car."
"I'd been waiting at Matveevo since dawn," Pyotr Stepanovich picked up. "Our rear cars got derailed in the night; we almost broke our legs."
"Broke their legs!" Liza cried out. "Maman, maman, you and I were going to go to Matveevo last week, so we could have broken our legs, too!"
"Lord have mercy!" Praskovya Ivanovna crossed herself.
"Maman, maman, dear ma, don't be afraid if I really break both my legs; it's quite likely to happen to me, you yourself say I gallop around at breakneck speed every day. Mavriky Nikolaevich, will you lead me about when I'm lame?" she laughed aloud again. "If it happens, I won't have anyone else but you lead me about, you may safely count on that. Well, say I'll just break one leg... Well, be so kind, tell me you'll consider it a blessing."
"Where's the blessing in having one leg?" Mavriky Nikolaevich frowned gravely.
"But you will lead me about, you alone, I won't let anyone else!"
"You'll lead me about even then, Lizaveta Nikolaevna," Mavriky Nikolaevich murmured even more gravely.
"God, he wanted to make a pun!" Liza exclaimed, almost horrified. "Mavriky Nikolaevich, don't you ever dare to set out on that path! What a great egoist you are after that! No, I'm convinced, to your credit, that you're slandering yourself now; on the contrary, you'll be assuring me from morning till night that I've become even more interesting minus a leg! But one thing is irremediable—you are immensely tall, and I'll become so very tiny minus a leg, how will you be able to take my arm, what sort of couple will we make!"
And she laughed morbidly. Her hints and witticisms were flat, but she apparently no longer cared about quality.
"Hysterics!" Pyotr Stepanovich whispered to me. "A glass of water, quickly!"
He had guessed right; a minute later everyone was bustling about, water was brought. Liza embraced her maman, kissed her fervently, wept on her shoulder, and then, drawing back and peering into her face, at once began laughing loudly again. Finally, the maman also began to whimper. Varvara Petrovna hustled them off to her rooms, through the same door by which Darya Pavlovna had come out to us earlier. But they did not stay away long, about four minutes, no more...
I am now trying to recall every detail of these last moments of that memorable morning. I remember that when we were left alone, without the ladies (except for Darya Pavlovna, who did not move from her place), Nikolai Vsevolodovich went around and greeted each of us, except for Shatov, who continued to sit in his corner, bending towards the ground even more than before. Stepan Trofimovich had just begun talking about something extremely witty with Nikolai Vsevolodovich, but he hastily went towards Darya Pavlovna. On the way he was intercepted almost forcibly by Pyotr Stepanovich, who dragged him to the window and began whispering to him about something evidently very important, judging by the expression on his face and the gestures that accompanied the whisper. But Nikolai Vsevolodovich listened very languidly, even distractedly, with his official smile, even impatiently towards the end, and kept making as if to leave. He stepped away from the window precisely as our ladies came back; Varvara Petrovna sat Liza down in her former place, insisting that it was absolutely necessary to wait and rest for at least ten minutes, and that it was unlikely that fresh air would be good just then for her upset nerves. She really was being awfully attentive to Liza, and herself sat down beside her. The now free Pyotr Stepanovich sprang over to them at once and began a rapid, merry conversation. It was then that Nikolai Vsevolodovich finally went up to Darya Pavlovna with his unhurried gait; Dasha became all aflutter on her seat as he approached, and quickly jumped up in visible confusion, her whole face flushed red.
"I gather you are to be congratulated ... or not yet?" he said, with a sort of peculiar wrinkle on his face.
Dasha made some reply, but it was hard to hear.
"Forgive my indiscretion," he raised his voice, "but, you know, I was specially notified. Do you know that?"
"Yes, I know you were specially notified."
"Anyway, I hope I haven't interfered in anything with my congratulations," he laughed, "and if Stepan Trofimovich..."
"Congratulations for what, for what?" Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly sprang over. "What are you to be congratulated for, Darya Pavlovna? Bah! You mean for that? The blush on your face tells me I've guessed right. Indeed, what else can our beautiful and well-behaved young ladies be congratulated for, and what sort of congratulations makes them blush the most? Well, miss, accept mine as well, if I've guessed right, and pay what you owe me—remember, in Switzerland you bet me that you would never get married ... Ah, yes, about Switzerland— what's the matter with me? Imagine, that's half the reason I'm here, and I almost forgot: tell me," he turned quickly to Stepan Trofimovich, "when are you going to Switzerland?"