She lowered her flashing eyes somehow shyly as she finished telling me.
Poor little thing, she was keeping this student's letter as a treasure, and had run to fetch her only treasure, not wishing me to leave without knowing that she, too, was loved honestly and sincerely, that she, too, was spoken to respectfully. Most likely the letter was doomed simply to lie in a box without consequences. But what matter; I'm sure she would keep it all her life as a treasure, as her pride and justification, and now, at such a moment, she remembered the letter and brought it out to take naive pride before me, to restore herself in my eyes, so that I, too, should see, and I, too, should praise. I said nothing, pressed her hand, and walked out. I wanted so much to leave… I went the whole way on foot, in spite of the wet snow still falling in thick flakes. I was worn out, crushed, perplexed. But the truth was already shining through my perplexity. The nasty truth!
VIII
It took me a while, however, to consent to recognize this truth. Having awakened in the morning after several hours of deep, leaden sleep, and having come at once to a realization of the whole day yesterday, I was even amazed at my yesterday's sentimentality with Liza, at all of "yesterday's horrors and pities." "Now there's a real fit of womanish nerves, pah!" I decided. "And why on earth did I shove my address at her? What if she comes? However, why not, let her come; it's no matter…" But, obviously, that was not the main and most important thing now: I had to make haste and, whatever the cost, quickly save my reputation in the eyes of Zverkov and Simonov. That was the main thing. And I even quite forgot about Liza that morning, what with all the bustle.
First of all, I had immediately to return yesterday's debt to Simonov. I resolved on a desperate measure: borrowing a whole fifteen roubles from Anton Antonovich. As luck would have it, he was in the most wonderful spirits that day, and handed me the money at once, at my first request. I was so glad that, as I signed the receipt, with a sort of bravado, I casually told him that yesterday I had done "a bit of carousing with some friends at the Hotel de Paris; a farewell party for a schoolmate, even, one might say, a childhood friend - a big carouser, you know, a spoiled fellow - well, naturally, from a good family, a considerable fortune, a brilliant career, witty, charming, intrigues with all those ladies, you understand; we drank a 'half-dozen' too many, and…" And nothing to it; it was all spoken very lightly, easily, and smugly.
Having come home, I wrote at once to Simonov.
To this day I'm filled with admiration as I recall the truly gentlemanly, good-natured, frank tone of my letter. Adroitly, nobly, and, above all, with not a word too many - I blamed myself for everything. I excused myself, "if I may still be permitted to excuse myself," with being quite unaccustomed to wine, and thus becoming drunk at the first glass, which I (supposedly) drank before them, while waiting for them from five to six in the Hotel de Paris. I mainly begged pardon of Simonov; and I asked him to convey my explanations to all the others, especially Zverkov, whom, "I recall as in a dream," I seemed to have insulted. I added that I would have gone to them all myself, but I had a headache and, above all, was ashamed. I remained especially pleased with the "certain lightness," even all but casual (though perfectly decent), that suddenly reflected itself in my pen and at once gave them to understand, better than any possible reasons, that I looked upon "all that nastiness yesterday" quite independently; in no way, by no means, was I killed on the spot, as you good sirs probably think, but on the contrary I looked upon it as befits a calmly self-respecting gentleman. "The errors of youth are soon forgotten," as they say.
"And that certain marquisian playfulness, even?" I admired, rereading the note. "And all because I'm a developed and educated man! Others in my place wouldn't know how to extricate themselves, and here I've wriggled out of it and can go on carousing, and all because I'm 'an educated and developed man of our times.' Besides, maybe it really did all come from the wine yesterday. Hm… well, no, not from the wine. And I didn't drink any vodka between five and six, while I was waiting for them. I lied to Simonov; lied shamelessly; and even now I'm not ashamed…
"Ah, spit on it, however! I'm out of it, that's the main thing."
I put six roubles into the letter, sealed it, and prevailed upon
Apollon to take it to Simonov. On learning that there was money inside, Apollon became more respectful and agreed to go. Towards evening I went out for a stroll. My head was still aching and dizzy from yesterday. But the more evening advanced and the twilight thickened, the more my impressions and, after them, my thoughts as well, kept changing and tangling. Something within me, deep in my heart and conscience, would not die, refused to die, and betrayed itself in a burning anguish. I loitered about mainly on the most crowded business streets -Meshchanskaya, Sadovaya, around the Yusupov Garden. I had always liked especially to stroll along those streets at twilight, precisely when the crowd thickens with all sorts of passers-by, merchants, and tradesmen, their faces preoccupied to the point of anger, going home from their daily work. I precisely liked this twopenny bustle, this insolent prosiness. But now all this street jostling only irritated me the more. I simply could not get hold of myself, could not find the loose ends. Something in my soul was rising, rising, ceaselessly, painfully, and refused to be still. I returned home thoroughly upset. Like as if some crime lay on my soul.
I was constantly tormented by the thought that Liza would come. What I found strange was that, of all those memories from yesterday, the memory of her tormented me somehow specially, somehow quite separately. By evening I had already quite successfully forgotten all the rest, brushed it aside, and I was still perfectly pleased with my letter to Simonov. But with this I was somehow not so pleased. It was like as if I were tormented over Liza alone. "What if she comes?" I thought ceaselessly. "Well, no matter, let her come. Hm. The only bad thing is that she'll see, for example, how I live. Yesterday I showed myself to her as such a… hero… and now, hm! It's bad, however, that I've gone so much to seed. Sheer poverty in the apartment. And I dared go to dinner yesterday in such clothes! And this oilcloth sofa of mine, with the stuffing hanging out of it! And this dressing gown that doesn't even cover me! Such tatters… And she'll see all this; and she'll see Apollon. The brute is sure to insult her. He'll pick on her in order to be rude to me. And I, of course, as is my custom, will turn coward, start mincing before her, covering myself with the skirts of my dressing gown, start smiling, start lying. Ohh, vileness! And that's not even the chief vileness! There's something chiefer in it, viler, meaner! Yes, meaner! And again, again to put on that dishonorable, lying mask!…"
Having arrived at this thought, I simply flared up:
"Why dishonorable? What's dishonorable? I spoke sincerely yesterday. I remember there was also true feeling in me. I precisely wanted to evoke noble feelings in her… if she cried a bit, that's good, it'll have a good effect…"