The possessed or, The devils
"If," she pronounced at last firmly, evidently addressing all present,
though she only looked at Dasha, "if Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch
did not appeal even to me but asked you to do this for him,
he must have had his reasons for doing so. I don't consider I have
any right to inquire into them, if they are kept secret from me. But the
very fact of your having taken part in the matter reassures me on that
score, be sure of that, Darya, in any case. But you see, my dear, you
may, through ignorance of the world, have quite innocently done
something imprudent; and you did so when you undertook to have dealings
with a low character. The rumours spread by this rascal show what a
mistake you made. But I will find out about him, and as it is my task to
protect you, I shall know how to defend you. But now all this must be
put a stop to."
"The best thing to do," said Marya Timofyevna, popping up from her
chair, "is to send him to the footmen's room when he comes. Let him
sit on the benches there and play cards with them while we sit here and
drink coffee. We might send him a cup of coffee too, but I have a great
contempt for him."
And she wagged her head expressively.
"We must put a stop to this," Varvara Petrovna repeated, listening
attentively to Marya Timofyevna. "Ring, Stepan Trofimovitch, I beg you."
Stepan Trofimovitch rang, and suddenly stepped forward, all excitement.
"If... if..." he faltered feverishly, flushing, breaking off and
stuttering, "if I too have heard the most revolting story, or rather
slander, it was with utter indignation..._enfin c'est un homme perdu, et
quelque chose comme un forçat evadé...._"
He broke down and could not go on. Varvara Petrovna, screwing up her
eyes, looked him up and down.
The ceremonious butler Alexey Yegorytch came in.
"The carriage," Varvara Petrovna ordered. "And you, Alexey Yegorytch,
get ready to escort Miss Lebyadkin home; she will give you the address
herself."
"Mr. Lebyadkin has been waiting for her for some time downstairs, and
has been begging me to announce him."
"That's impossible, Varvara Petrovna!" and Mavriky Nikolaevitch, who had
sat all the time in unbroken silence, suddenly came forward in alarm.
"If I may speak, he is not a man who can be admitted into society.
He... he... he's an impossible person, Varvara Petrovna!"
"Wait a moment," said Varvara Petrovna to Alexey Yegorytch, and he
disappeared at once.
_"C'est un homme malhonnête et je crois même que c'est un forçat evadé
ou quelque chose dans ce genre,"_ Stepan Trofimovitch muttered again, and
again he flushed red and broke off.
"Liza, it's time we were going," announced Praskovya Ivanovna
disdainfully, getting up from her seat. She seemed sorry that in her
alarm she had called herself a fool. While Darya Pavlovna was speaking,
she listened, pressing her lips superciliously. But what struck me most
was the expression of Lizaveta Nikolaevna from the moment Darya Pavlovna
had come in. There was a gleam of hatred and hardly disguised contempt
in her eyes.
"Wait one minute, Praskovya Ivanovna, I beg you." Varvara Petrovna
detained her, still with the same exaggerated composure. "Kindly sit
down. I intend to speak out, and your legs are bad. That's right, thank
you. I lost my temper just now and uttered some impatient words. Be so
good as to forgive me. I behaved foolishly and I'm the first to regret
it, because I like fairness in everything. Losing your temper too,
of course, you spoke of certain anonymous letters. Every anonymous
communication is deserving of contempt, just because it's not signed. If
you think differently I'm sorry for you. In any case, if I were in your
place, I would not pry into such dirty corners, I would not soil my
hands with it. But you have soiled yours. However, since you have
begun on the subject yourself, I must tell you that six days ago I too
received a clownish anonymous letter. In it some rascal informs me that
Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch has gone out of his mind, and that I have reason
to fear some lame woman, who 'is destined to play a great part in
my life.' I remember the expression. Reflecting and being aware that
Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch has very numerous enemies, I promptly sent for a
man living here, one of his secret enemies, and the most vindictive and
contemptible of them, and from my conversation with him I gathered what
was the despicable source of the anonymous letter. If you too, my poor
Praskovya Ivanovna, have been worried by similar letters on my account,
and as you say 'bombarded' with them, I am, of course, the first to
regret having been the innocent cause of it. That's all I wanted to tell
you by way of explanation. I'm very sorry to see that you are so
tired and so upset. Besides, I have quite made up my mind to see that
suspicious personage of whom Mavriky Nikolaevitch said just now, a
little inappropriately, that it was impossible to receive him. Liza in
particular need have nothing to do with it. Come to me, Liza, my dear,
let me kiss you again."
Liza crossed the room and stood in silence before Varvara Petrovna. The
latter kissed her, took her hands, and, holding her at arm's-length,
looked at her with feeling, then made the sign of the cross over her and
kissed her again.
"Well, good-bye, Liza" (there was almost the sound of tears in Varvara
Petrovna's voice), "believe that I shall never cease to love you
whatever fate has in store for you. God be with you. I have always
blessed His Holy Will...."
She would have added something more, but restrained herself and broke
off. Liza was walking back to her place, still in the same silence, as
it were plunged in thought, but she suddenly stopped before her mother.
"I am not going yet, mother. I'll stay a little longer at auntie's," she
brought out in a low voice, but there was a note of iron determination
in those quiet words.
"My goodness! What now?" wailed Praskovya Ivanovna, clasping her hands
helplessly. But Liza did not answer, and seemed indeed not to hear her;
she sat down in the same corner and fell to gazing into space again as
before.
There was a look of pride and triumph in Varvara Petrovna's face.
"Mavriky Nikolaevitch, I have a great favour to ask of you. Be so kind
as to go and take a look at that person downstairs, and if there is any
possibility of admitting him, bring him up here."
Mavriky Nikolaevitch bowed and went out. A moment later he brought in
Mr. Lebyadkin.
IV
I have said something of this gentleman's outward appearance. He was a
tall, curly-haired, thick-set fellow about forty with a purplish, rather
bloated and flabby face, with cheeks that quivered at every movement of
his head, with little bloodshot eyes that were sometimes rather crafty,
with moustaches and side-whiskers, and with an incipient double chin,
fleshy and rather unpleasant-looking. But what was most striking about
him was the fact that he appeared now wearing a dress-coat and clean
linen.
"There are people on whom clean linen is almost unseemly," as Liputin
had once said when Stepan Trofimovitch reproached him in jest for being
untidy. The captain had perfectly new black gloves too, of which he
held the right one in his hand, while the left, tightly stretched and
unbuttoned, covered part of the huge fleshy fist in which he held a
brand-new, glossy round hat, probably worn for the first time that day.
It appeared therefore that "the garb of love," of which he had shouted
to Shatov the day before, really did exist. All this, that is, the
dress-coat and clean linen, had been procured by Liputin's advice with
some mysterious object in view (as I found out later). There was no
doubt that his coming now (in a hired carriage) was at the instigation
and with the assistance of someone else; it would never have dawned on
him, nor could he by himself have succeeded in dressing, getting ready
and making up his mind in three-quarters of an hour, even if the scene
in the porch of the cathedral had reached his ears at once. He was not
drunk, but was in the dull, heavy, dazed condition of a man suddenly
awakened after many days of drinking. It seemed as though he would be
drunk again if one were to put one's hands on his shoulders and rock
him to and fro once or twice. He was hurrying into the drawing-room but
stumbled over a rug near the doorway. Marya Timofyevna was helpless with
laughter. He looked savagely at her and suddenly took a few rapid steps
towards Varvara Petrovna.
"I have come, madam..." he blared out like a trumpet-blast.
"Be so good, sir, as to take a seat there, on that chair," said Varvara
Petrovna, drawing herself up. "I shall hear you as well from there, and
it will be more convenient for me to look at you from here."
The captain stopped short, looking blankly before him. He turned,
however, and sat down on the seat indicated close to the door. An
extreme lack of self-confidence and at the same time insolence, and a
sort of incessant irritability, were apparent in the expression of his
face. He was horribly scared, that was evident, but his self-conceit
was wounded, and it might be surmised that his mortified vanity might on
occasion lead him to any effrontery, in spite of his cowardice. He was
evidently uneasy at every movement of his clumsy person. We all know
that when such gentlemen are brought by some marvellous chance into
society, they find their worst ordeal in their own hands, and the
impossibility of disposing them becomingly, of which they are conscious
at every moment. The captain sat rigid in his chair, with his hat and
gloves in his hands and his eyes fixed with a senseless stare on the
stern face of Varvara Petrovna. He would have liked, perhaps, to have
looked about more freely, but he could not bring himself to do so yet.
Marya Timofyevna, apparently thinking his appearance very funny, laughed
again, but he did not stir. Varvara Petrovna ruthlessly kept him in this
position for a long time, a whole minute, staring at him without mercy.
"In the first place allow me to learn your name from yourself," Varvara
Petrovna pronounced in measured and impressive tones.
"Captain Lebyadkin," thundered the captain. "I have come, madam..." He
made a movement again.
"Allow me!" Varvara Petrovna checked him again. "Is this unfortunate
person who interests me so much really your sister?"
"My sister, madam, who has escaped from control, for she is in a certain
condition...."
He suddenly faltered and turned crimson. "Don't misunderstand me,
madam," he said, terribly confused. "Her own brother's not going to
throw mud at her... in a certain condition doesn't mean in such a
condition... in the sense of an injured reputation... in the last
stage..." he suddenly broke off.
"Sir!" said Varvara Petrovna, raising her head.
"In this condition!" he concluded suddenly, tapping the middle of his
forehead with his finger.
A pause followed.
"And has she suffered in this way for long?" asked Varvara Petrovna,
with a slight drawl.
"Madam, I have come to thank you for the generosity you showed in the
porch, in a Russian, brotherly way."
"Brotherly?"
"I mean, not brotherly, but simply in the sense that I am my sister's
brother; and believe me, madam," he went on more hurriedly, turning
crimson again, "I am not so uneducated as I may appear at first sight in
your drawing-room. My sister and I are nothing, madam, compared with the
luxury we observe here. Having enemies who slander us, besides. But on
the question of reputation Lebyadkin is proud, madam... and... and ...
and I've come to repay with thanks.... Here is money, madam!"
At this point he pulled out a pocket-book, drew out of it a bundle of
notes, and began turning them over with trembling fingers in a perfect