The possessed or, The devils
Stepan Trofimovitch's ring, which he had somewhat delayed answering. The
correct old servant was unusually excited.
"Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch has graciously arrived this moment and is
coming here," he pronounced, in reply to Varvara Petrovna's questioning
glance. I particularly remember her at that moment; at first she turned
pale, but suddenly her eyes flashed. She drew herself up in her chair
with an air of extraordinary determination. Every one was astounded
indeed. The utterly unexpected arrival of Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch,
who was not expected for another month, was not only strange from its
unexpectedness but from its fateful coincidence with the present moment.
Even the captain remained standing like a post in the middle of the room
with his mouth wide open, staring at the door with a fearfully stupid
expression.
And, behold, from the next room--a very large and long apartment--came
the sound of swiftly approaching footsteps, little, exceedingly rapid
steps; someone seemed to be running, and that someone suddenly flew
into the drawing-room, not Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, but a young man who
was a complete stranger to all.
V
I will permit myself to halt here to sketch in a few hurried strokes
this person who had so suddenly arrived on the scene.
He was a young man of twenty-seven or thereabouts, a little above the
medium height, with rather long, lank, flaxen hair, and with faintly
defined, irregular moustache and beard. He was dressed neatly, and in
the fashion, though not like a dandy. At the first glance he looked
round-shouldered and awkward, but yet he was not round-shouldered, and
his manner was easy. He seemed a queer fish, and yet later on we all
thought his manners good, and his conversation always to the point.
No one would have said that he was ugly, and yet no one would have liked
his face. His head was elongated at the back, and looked flattened at
the sides, so that his face seemed pointed, his forehead was high and
narrow, but his features were small; his eyes were keen, his nose was
small and sharp, his lips were long and thin. The expression of his face
suggested ill-health, but this was misleading. He had a wrinkle on each
cheek which gave him the look of a man who had just recovered from a
serious illness. Yet he was perfectly well and strong, and had never
been ill.
He walked and moved very hurriedly, yet never seemed in a hurry to
be off. It seemed as though nothing could disconcert him; in every
circumstance and in every sort of society he remained the same. He had a
great deal of conceit, but was utterly unaware of it himself.
He talked quickly, hurriedly, but at the same time with assurance, and
was never at a loss for a word. In spite of his hurried manner his ideas
were in perfect order, distinct and definite--and this was particularly
striking. His articulation was wonderfully clear. His words pattered out
like smooth, big grains, always well chosen, and at your service.
At first this attracted one, but afterwards it became repulsive, just
because of this over-distinct articulation, this string of ever-ready
words. One somehow began to imagine that he must have a tongue of
special shape, somehow exceptionally long and thin, extremely red with a
very sharp everlastingly active little tip.
Well, this was the young man who darted now into the drawing-room, and
really, I believe to this day, that he began to talk in the next room,
and came in speaking. He was standing before Varvara Petrovna in a
trice.
"... Only fancy, Varvara Petrovna," he pattered on, "I came in expecting
to find he'd been here for the last quarter of an hour; he arrived an
hour and a half ago; we met at Kirillov's: he set off half an hour ago
meaning to come straight here, and told me to come here too, a quarter
of an hour later...."
"But who? Who told you to come here?" Varvara Petrovna inquired.
"Why, Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch! Surely this isn't the first you've heard
of it! But his luggage must have been here a long while, anyway. How
is it you weren't told? Then I'm the first to bring the news. One might
send out to look for him; he's sure to be here himself directly
though. And I fancy, at the moment that just fits in with some of
his expectations, and is far as I can judge, at least, some of his
calculations."
At this point he turned his eyes about the room and fixed them with
special attention on the captain.
"Ach, Lizaveta Nikolaevna, how glad I am to meet you at the very first
step, delighted to shake hands with you." He flew up to Liza, who
was smiling gaily, to take her proffered hand, "and I observe that my
honoured friend Praskovya Ivanovna has not forgotten her 'professor,'
and actually isn't cross with him, as she always used to be in
Switzerland. But how are your legs, here, Praskovya Ivanovna, and were
the Swiss doctors right when at the consultation they prescribed your
native air? What? Fomentations? That ought to do good. But how sorry I
was, Varvara Petrovna" (he turned rapidly to her) "that I didn't arrive
in time to meet you abroad, and offer my respects to you in person; I
had so much to tell you too. I did send word to my old man here, but I
fancy that he did as he always does..."
"Petrusha!" cried Stepan Trofimovitch, instantly roused from his
stupefaction. He clasped his hands and flew to his son. "_Pierre, mon
enfant!_ Why, I didn't know you!" He pressed him in his arms and the
tears rolled down his cheeks.
"Come, be quiet, be quiet, no flourishes, that's enough, that's enough,
please," Petrusha muttered hurriedly, trying to extricate himself from
his embrace.
"I've always sinned against you, always!"
"Well, that's enough. We can talk of that later. I knew you'd carry on.
Come, be a little more sober, please."
"But it's ten years since I've seen you."
"The less reason for demonstrations."
_"Mon enfant!..."_
"Come, I believe in your affection, I believe in it, take your arms
away. You see, you're disturbing other people.... Ah, here's Nikolay
Vsyevolodovitch; keep quiet, please."
Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch was already in the room; he came in very quietly
and stood still for an instant in the doorway, quietly scrutinising the
company.
I was struck by the first sight of him just as I had been four years
before, when I saw him for the first time. I had not forgotten him in
the least. But I think there are some countenances which always seem to
exhibit something new which one has not noticed before, every time
one meets them, though one may have seen them a hundred times already.
Apparently he was exactly the same as he had been four years before. He
was as elegant, as dignified, he moved with the same air of consequence
as before, indeed he looked almost as young. His faint smile had just
the same official graciousness and complacency. His eyes had the same
stern, thoughtful and, as it were, preoccupied look. In fact, it seemed
as though we had only parted the day before. But one thing struck me. In
old days, though he had been considered handsome, his face was "like a
mask," as some of our sharp-tongued ladies had expressed it. Now--now,
I don't know why he impressed me at once as absolutely, incontestably
beautiful, so that no one could have said that his face was like a mask.
Wasn't it perhaps that he was a little paler and seemed rather thinner
than before? Or was there, perhaps, the light of some new idea in his
eyes?
"Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch!" cried Varvara Petrovna, drawing herself up
but not rising from her chair. "Stop a minute!" She checked his advance
with a peremptory gesture.
But to explain the awful question which immediately followed that
gesture and exclamation--a question which I should have imagined to be
impossible even in Varvara Petrovna, I must ask the reader to remember
what that lady's temperament had always been, and the extraordinary
impulsiveness she showed at some critical moments. I beg him to consider
also, that in spite of the exceptional strength of her spirit and
the very considerable amount of common sense and practical, so to say
business, tact she possessed, there were moments in her life in which
she abandoned herself altogether, entirely and, if it's permissible
to say so, absolutely without restraint. I beg him to take into
consideration also that the present moment might really be for her one
of those in which all the essence of life, of all the past and all the
present, perhaps, too, all the future, is concentrated, as it were,
focused. I must briefly recall, too, the anonymous letter of which she
had spoken to Praskovya Ivanovna with so much irritation, though I think
she said nothing of the latter part of it. Yet it perhaps contained the
explanation of the possibility of the terrible question with which she
suddenly addressed her son.
"Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch," she repeated, rapping out her words in a
resolute voice in which there was a ring of menacing challenge, "I beg
you to tell me at once, without moving from that place; is it true that
this unhappy cripple--here she is, here, look at her--is it true that
she is... your lawful wife?"
I remember that moment only too well; he did not wink an eyelash but
looked intently at his mother. Not the faintest change in his face
followed. At last he smiled, a sort of indulgent smile, and without
answering a word went quietly up to his mother, took her hand, raised it
respectfully to his lips and kissed it. And so great was his invariable
and irresistible ascendancy over his mother that even now she could not
bring herself to pull away her hand. She only gazed at him, her whole
figure one concentrated question, seeming to betray that she could not
bear the suspense another moment.
But he was still silent. When he had kissed her hand, he scanned the
whole room once more, and moving, as before, without haste went towards
Marya Timofyevna. It is very difficult to describe people's countenances
at certain moments. I remember, for instance, that Marya Timofyevna,
breathless with fear, rose to her feet to meet him and clasped her hands
before her, as though beseeching him. And at the same time I remember
the frantic ecstasy which almost distorted her face--an ecstasy almost
too great for any human being to bear. Perhaps both were there, both the
terror and the ecstasy. But I remember moving quickly towards her (I was
standing not far off), for I fancied she was going to faint.
"You should not be here," Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch said to her in
a caressing and melodious voice; and there was the light of an
extraordinary tenderness in his eyes. He stood before her in the most
respectful attitude, and every gesture showed sincere respect for her.
The poor girl faltered impulsively in a half-whisper.
"But may I... kneel down... to you now?"
"No, you can't do that."
He smiled at her magnificently, so that she too laughed joyfully at
once. In the same melodious voice, coaxing her tenderly as though she
were a child, he went on gravely.
"Only think that you are a girl, and that though I'm your devoted friend
I'm an outsider, not your husband, nor your father, nor your betrothed.
Give me your arm and let us go; I will take you to the carriage, and if
you will let me I will see you all the way home."
She listened, and bent her head as though meditating.
"Let's go," she said with a sigh, giving him her hand.
But at that point a slight mischance befell her. She must have turned
carelessly, resting on her lame leg, which was shorter than the other.
She fell sideways into the chair, and if the chair had not been there
would have fallen on to the floor. He instantly seized and supported
her, and holding her arm firmly in his, led her carefully and
sympathetically to the door. She was evidently mortified at having