The possessed or, The devils

The captain bowed, took two steps towards the door, stopped suddenly, laid his hand on his heart, tried to say something, did not say it, and was moving quickly away. But in the doorway he came face to face with Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch; the latter stood aside. The captain shrank into himself, as it were, before him, and stood as though frozen to the spot, his eyes fixed upon him like a rabbit before a boa-constrictor. After a little pause Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch waved him aside with a slight motion of his hand, and walked into the drawing-room. VII He was cheerful and serene. Perhaps something very pleasant had happened to him, of which we knew nothing as yet; but he seemed particularly contented. "Do you forgive me, Nicolas?" Varvara Petrovna hastened to say, and got up suddenly to meet him. But Nicolas positively laughed. "Just as I thought," he said, good-humouredly and jestingly. "I see you know all about it already. When I had gone from here I reflected in the carriage that I ought at least to have told you the story instead of going off like that. But when I remembered that Pyotr Stepanovitch was still here, I thought no more of it." As he spoke he took a cursory look round. "Pyotr Stepanovitch told us an old Petersburg episode in the life of a queer fellow," Varvara Petrovna rejoined enthusiastically--"a mad and capricious fellow, though always lofty in his feelings, always chivalrous and noble...." "Chivalrous? You don't mean to say it's come to that," laughed Nicolas. "However, I'm very grateful to Pyotr Stepanovitch for being in such a hurry this time." He exchanged a rapid glance with the latter. "You must know, maman, that Pyotr Stepanovitch is the universal peacemaker; that's his part in life, his weakness, his hobby, and I particularly recommend him to you from that point of view. I can guess what a yarn he's been spinning. He's a great hand at spinning them; he has a perfect record-office in his head. He's such a realist, you know, that he can't tell a lie, and prefers truthfulness to effect... except, of course, in special cases when effect is more important than truth." (As he said this he was still looking about him.) "So, you see clearly, maman, that it's not for you to ask my forgiveness, and if there's any craziness about this affair it's my fault, and it proves that, when all's said and done, I really am mad.... I must keep up my character here...." Then he tenderly embraced his mother. "In any case the subject has been fully discussed and is done with," he added, and there was a rather dry and resolute note in his voice. Varvara Petrovna understood that note, but her exaltation was not damped, quite the contrary. "I didn't expect you for another month, Nicolas!" "I will explain everything to you, maman, of course, but now..." And he went towards Praskovya Ivanovna. But she scarcely turned her head towards him, though she had been completely overwhelmed by his first appearance. Now she had fresh anxieties to think of; at the moment the captain had stumbled upon Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch as he was going out, Liza had suddenly begun laughing--at first quietly and intermittently, but her laughter grew more and more violent, louder and more conspicuous. She flushed crimson, in striking contrast with her gloomy expression just before. While Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch was talking to Varvara Petrovna, she had twice beckoned to Mavriky Nikolaevitch as though she wanted to whisper something to him; but as soon as the young man bent down to her, she instantly burst into laughter; so that it seemed as though it was at poor Mavriky Nikolaevitch that she was laughing. She evidently tried to control herself, however, and put her handkerchief to her lips. Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch turned to greet her with a most innocent and open-hearted air. "Please excuse me," she responded, speaking quickly. "You... you've seen Mavriky Nikolaevitch of course.... My goodness, how inexcusably tall you are, Mavriky Nikolaevitch!" And laughter again, Mavriky Nikolaevitch was tall, but by no means inexcusably so. "Have... you been here long?" she muttered, restraining herself again, genuinely embarrassed though her eyes were shining. "More than two hours," answered Nicolas, looking at her intently. I may remark that he was exceptionally reserved and courteous, but that apart from his courtesy his expression was utterly indifferent, even listless. "And where are you going to stay?" "Here." Varvara Petrovna, too, was watching Liza, but she was suddenly struck by an idea. "Where have you been all this time, Nicolas, more than two hours?" she said, going up to him. "The train comes in at ten o'clock." "I first took Pyotr Stepanovitch to Kirillov's. I came across Pyotr Stepanovitch at Matveyev (three stations away), and we travelled together." "I had been waiting at Matveyev since sunrise," put in Pyotr Stepanovitch. "The last carriages of our train ran off the rails in the night, and we nearly had our legs broken." "Your legs broken!" cried Liza. "Maman, maman, you and I meant to go to Matveyev last week, we should have broken our legs too!" "Heaven have mercy on us!" cried Praskovya Ivanovna, crossing herself. "Maman, maman, dear maman, you mustn't be frightened if I break both my legs. It may so easily happen to me; you say yourself that I ride so recklessly every day. Mavriky Nikolaevitch, will you go about with me when I'm lame?" She began giggling again. "If it does happen I won't let anyone take me about but you, you can reckon on that.... Well, suppose I break only one leg. Come, be polite, say you'll think it a pleasure." "A pleasure to be crippled?" said Mavriky Nikolaevitch, frowning gravely. "But then you'll lead me about, only you and no one else." "Even then it'll be you leading me about, Lizaveta Nikolaevna," murmured Mavriky Nikolaevitch, even more gravely. "Why, he's trying to make a joke!" cried Liza, almost in dismay. "Mavriky Nikolaevitch, don't you ever dare take to that! But what an egoist you are! I am certain that, to your credit, you're slandering yourself. It will be quite the contrary; from morning till night you'll assure me that I have become more charming for having lost my leg. There's one insurmountable difficulty--you're so fearfully tall, and when I've lost my leg I shall be so very tiny. How will you be able to take me on your arm; we shall look a strange couple!" And she laughed hysterically. Her jests and insinuations were feeble, but she was not capable of considering the effect she was producing. "Hysterics!" Pyotr Stepanovitch whispered to me. "A glass of water, make haste!" He was right. A minute later every one was fussing about, water was brought. Liza embraced her mother, kissed her warmly, wept on her shoulder, then drawing back and looking her in the face she fell to laughing again. The mother too began whimpering. Varvara Petrovna made haste to carry them both off to her own rooms, going out by the same door by which Darya Pavlovna had come to us. But they were not away long, not more than four minutes. I am trying to remember now every detail of these last moments of that memorable morning. I remember that when we were left without the ladies (except Darya Pavlovna, who had not moved from her seat), Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch made the round, greeting us all except Shatov, who still sat in his corner, his head more bowed than ever. Stepan Trofimovitch was beginning something very witty to Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, but the latter turned away hurriedly to Darya Pavlovna. But before he reached her, Pyotr Stepanovitch caught him and drew him away, almost violently, towards the window, where he whispered something quickly to him, apparently something very important to judge by the expression of his face and the gestures that accompanied the whisper. Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch listened inattentively and listlessly with his official smile, and at last even impatiently, and seemed all the time on the point of breaking away. He moved away from the window just as the ladies came back. Varvara Petrovna made Liza sit down in the same seat as before, declaring that she must wait and rest another ten minutes; and that the fresh air would perhaps be too much for her nerves at once. She was looking after Liza with great devotion, and sat down beside her. Pyotr Stepanovitch, now disengaged, skipped up to them at once, and broke into a rapid and lively flow of conversation. At that point Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch at last went up to Darya Pavlovna with his leisurely step. Dasha began stirring uneasily at his approach, and jumped up quickly in evident embarrassment, flushing all over her face. "I believe one may congratulate you... or is it too soon?" he brought out with a peculiar line in his face. Dasha made him some answer, but it was difficult to catch it. "Forgive my indiscretion," he added, raising his voice, "but you know I was expressly informed. Did you know about it?" "Yes, I know that you were expressly informed." "But I hope I have not done any harm by my congratulations," he laughed. "And if Stepan Trofimovitch..." "What, what's the congratulation about?" Pyotr Stepanovitch suddenly skipped up to them. "What are you being congratulated about, Darya Pavlovna? Bah! Surely that's not it? Your blush proves I've guessed right. And indeed, what else does one congratulate our charming and virtuous young ladies on? And what congratulations make them blush most readily? Well, accept mine too, then, if I've guessed right! And pay up. Do you remember when we were in Switzerland you bet you'd never be married.... Oh, yes, apropos of Switzerland--what am I thinking about? Only fancy, that's half what I came about, and I was almost forgetting it. Tell me," he turned quickly to Stepan Trofimovitch, "when are you going to Switzerland?" "I... to Switzerland?" Stepan Trofimovitch replied, wondering and confused. "What? Aren't you going? Why you're getting married, too, you wrote?" _"Pierre!"_ cried Stepan Trofimovitch. "Well, why Pierre?... You see, if that'll please you, I've flown here to announce that I'm not at all against it, since you were set on having my opinion as quickly as possible; and if, indeed," he pattered on, "you want to 'be saved,' as you wrote, beseeching my help in the same letter, I am at your service again. Is it true that he is going to be married, Varvara Petrovna?" He turned quickly to her. "I hope I'm not being indiscreet; he writes himself that the whole town knows it and every one's congratulating him, so that, to avoid it he only goes out at night. I've got his letters in my pocket. But would you believe it, Varvara Petrovna, I can't make head or tail of it? Just tell me one thing, Stepan Trofimovitch, are you to be congratulated or are you to be 'saved'? You wouldn't believe it; in one line he's despairing and in the next he's most joyful. To begin with he begs my forgiveness; well, of course, that's their way... though it must be said; fancy, the man's only seen me twice in his life and then by accident. And suddenly now, when he's going to be married for the third time, he imagines that this is a breach of some sort of parental duty to me, and entreats me a thousand miles away not to be angry and to allow him to. Please don't be hurt, Stepan Trofimovitch. It's characteristic of your generation, I take a broad view of it, and don't blame you. And let's admit it does you honour and all the rest. But the point is again that I don't see the point of it. There's something about some sort of 'sins in Switzerland.' 'I'm getting married,' he says, 'for my sins or on account of the 'sins' of another,' or whatever it is--'sins' anyway. 'The girl,' says he, 'is