The reader will now understand that, though I had been partly forewarned, I really couldn’t have guessed that tomorrow or the day after I would find the old prince in my apartment and in such circumstances. Nor could I ever have imagined such boldness from Anna Andreevna! In words you can say and imply anything you like; but to decide, to begin, and in fact to carry through—no, that, I tell you, is character!
II
TO CONTINUE.
I woke up late the next morning, and had slept unusually soundly and without dreams, I recall that with surprise, so that on awakening, I again felt unusually cheerful morally, as if the whole previous day had never been. I decided not to stop at mama’s but to go directly to the cemetery church, with the intention of returning to mama’s apartment later, after the ceremony, and not leaving her side for the rest of the day. I was firmly convinced that in any case I would meet him today at mama’s, sooner or later, but without fail.
Neither Alphonsinka nor the landlord had been at home for a long time. I didn’t want to question the landlady about anything, and had generally resolved to stop all contacts with them and even to move out of the apartment as soon as possible; and therefore, the moment my coffee was brought, I latched the door again. But suddenly there was a knock at the door; to my surprise it turned out to be Trishatov.
I opened the door for him at once and very gladly asked him to come in, but he didn’t want to come in.
“I’ll only say a couple of words from the threshold . . . or, no, I’ll come in, because it seems one has to speak in whispers here; only I won’t sit down. You’re looking at my wretched coat: it’s because Lambert took my fur coat away.”
Indeed he was wearing a shabby old coat that was too long for him. He stood before me somehow gloomy and sad, his hands in his pockets, and without taking off his hat.
“I won’t sit down, I won’t sit down. Listen, Dolgoruky, I know nothing in detail, but I do know that Lambert is preparing some treachery against you, imminent and inevitable—and that is certain. So be careful. The pockmarked one let it slip to me—remember the pockmarked one? But he said nothing about what it has to do with, so I can’t say anything more. I only came to warn you. Good-bye.”
“But do sit down, dear Trishatov! Though I’m in a hurry, I’m so glad to see you . . .” I cried.
“I won’t sit, I won’t sit; but I’ll remember that you were glad to see me. Eh, Dolgoruky, why deceive people: consciously, of my own free will, I’ve agreed to do all sorts of nastiness, and such meanness that it’s shameful to speak of it here with you. We’re with the pockmarked one now . . . Good-bye. I’m not worthy of sitting with you.”
“Come now, Trishatov, dear . . .”
“No, you see, Dolgoruky, I’m a bold fellow in front of everybody, and I’ll start carousing now. Soon I’ll have a fur coat better than the old one made for me, and I’ll go around driving trotters. But I’ll know within myself that still I didn’t sit down here, because that’s how I’ve judged myself, because I’m low compared to you. I’ll still find it pleasant to remember it when I’m carousing dishonestly. Well, good-bye, good-bye; I won’t offer you my hand; even Alphonsinka doesn’t take my hand. And please don’t follow me, and don’t come to see me; we have a contract.”
The strange boy turned and left. I had no time then, but I resolved that I’d be sure to seek him out quickly, as soon as our affairs were settled.
I won’t describe the rest of that morning, though there’s much that might be recalled. Versilov wasn’t in church for the funeral, and, by the look of them, one might have concluded that he wasn’t expected in church even before the coffin was taken out. Mama prayed reverently and, apparently, was wholly given over to prayer. Only Tatyana Pavlovna and Liza stood by the coffin. But no, no, I won’t describe anything. After the burial, everyone came back and sat down at the table, and once again, by the look of them, I concluded that they didn’t expect him at the table either. When we got up from the table, I went over to mama, embraced her warmly, and wished her a happy birthday. After me, Liza did the same.
“Listen, brother,” Liza whispered on the sly, “they’re expecting him.”
“I guessed that, Liza, I can see it.”
“He’s sure to come.”
That means they have precise information, I thought, but I didn’t ask any questions. Though I’m not describing my feelings, this whole riddle, despite all my cheerfulness, again suddenly lay its weight like a stone on my heart. We all sat down in the drawing room at the round table, around mama. Oh, how I liked being with her then and looking at her! Mama suddenly asked me to read something from the Gospel. I read a chapter from Luke. She didn’t weep and wasn’t even very sad, but never had her face seemed so full of spiritual meaning. An idea shone in her quiet gaze, but I was simply unable to make out that she was anxiously expecting anything. The conversation never flagged. There were many reminiscences about the deceased; Tatyana Pavlovna told many stories about him that had been quite unknown to me before. And generally, if it were all written down, many curious things would be found. Even Tatyana Pavlovna seemed to have completely changed her usual look; she was very quiet, very tender, and, above all, also very calm, though she talked a lot to distract mama. But one detail I remember only too welclass="underline" mama was sitting on the sofa, and to the left of the sofa, on a special round table, as if prepared for something, lay an image—an old icon, with no casing, but just with crowns over the heads of the saints, of whom there were two. This icon had belonged to Makar Ivanovich—that I knew, and I also knew that the deceased had never parted with this icon and considered it miracle-working. Tatyana Pavlovna glanced at it several times.
“Listen, Sofya,” she said suddenly, changing the subject, “instead of the icon lying here, wouldn’t it be better to stand it on a table against the wall and light an icon lamp in front of it?”
“No, it’s better the way it is now,” said mama.
“You’re right. Otherwise it would seem too solemn . . .”
I understood nothing then, but the thing was that Makar Ivanovich had long ago bequeathed this icon, verbally, to Andrei Petrovich, and mama was now preparing to give it to him.
It was five o’clock in the afternoon; our conversation went on, and suddenly I noticed as if a slight tremor in mama’s face; she quickly straightened up and began listening, while Tatyana Pavlovna, who was speaking just then, went on with what she was saying, not noticing anything. I turned to the door at once and, a moment later, saw Andrei Petrovich in the doorway. He had come in not from the porch, but by the back stairs, through the kitchen and the corridor, and mama was the only one of us who had heard his footsteps. I will now describe the whole insane scene that followed, gesture by gesture, word by word. It was brief.
First of all, in his face, at least at first glance, I didn’t notice the slightest change. He was dressed as always, that is, almost foppishly. In his hand was a small but expensive bouquet of fresh flowers. He went over and gave it to mama with a smile; she looked at him with timorous perplexity, but then accepted the bouquet, and color suddenly enlivened her pale cheeks slightly, and joy flashed in her eyes.
“I just knew you’d take it that way, Sonya,” he said. As we had all risen when he came in, he went to the table, took Liza’s chair, which stood to mama’s left, and, not noticing that he was occupying someone else’s place, sat down on it. Thus he found himself directly in front of the little table on which the icon lay.
“Greetings to you all. Sonya, I wanted to bring you this bouquet today without fail, for your birthday, and therefore I didn’t appear at the funeral, so as not to come to the dead man with a bouquet; and you didn’t expect me at the funeral, I know. The old man surely won’t be angry over these flowers, because he himself bequeathed us joy, isn’t it so? I think he’s here in the room somewhere.”