The possessed or, The devils
The hour of reckoning for Andrey Antonovitch followed at once. Alas! he
felt that from the first glance at his admirable wife. With an open air
and an enchanting smile she went quickly up to Stepan Trofimovitch, held
out her exquisitely gloved hand, and greeted him with a perfect shower
of flattering phrases--as though the only thing she cared about that
morning was to make haste to be charming to Stepan Trofimovitch because
at last she saw him in her house. There was not one hint of the search
that morning; it was as though she knew nothing of it. There was not one
word to her husband, not one glance in his direction--as though he
had not been in the room. What's more, she promptly confiscated Stepan
Trofimovitch and carried him off to the drawing-room--as though he had
had no interview with Lembke, or as though it was not worth prolonging
if he had. I repeat again, I think that in this, Yulia Mihailovna,
in spite of her aristocratic tone, made another great mistake. And
Karmazinov particularly did much to aggravate this. (He had taken part
in the expedition at Yulia Mihailovna's special request, and in that way
had, incidentally, paid his visit to Varvara Petrovna, and she was so
poor-spirited as to be perfectly delighted at it.) On seeing Stepan
Trofimovitch, he called out from the doorway (he came in behind the
rest) and pressed forward to embrace him, even interrupting Yulia
Mihailovna.
"What years, what ages! At last..._excellent ami._"
He made as though to kiss him, offering his cheek, of course, and Stepan
Trofimovitch was so fluttered that he could not avoid saluting it.
_"Cher,"_ he said to me that evening, recalling all the events of that
day, "I wondered at that moment which of us was the most contemptible:
he, embracing me only to humiliate me, or I, despising him and his face
and kissing it on the spot, though I might have turned away.... Foo!"
"Come, tell me about yourself, tell me everything," Karmazinov drawled
and lisped, as though it were possible for him on the spur of the moment
to give an account of twenty-five years of his life. But this foolish
trifling was the height of "chic."
"Remember that the last time we met was at the Granovsky dinner in
Moscow, and that twenty-four years have passed since then..." Stepan
Trofimovitch began very reasonably (and consequently not at all in the
same "chic" style).
_"Ce cher homme,"_ Karmazinov interrupted with shrill familiarity,
squeezing his shoulder with exaggerated friendliness. "Make haste and
take us to your room, Yulia Mihailovna; there he'll sit down and tell us
everything."
"And yet I was never at all intimate with that peevish old woman,"
Stepan Trofimovitch went on complaining to me that same evening, shaking
with anger; "we were almost boys, and I'd begun to detest him even
then... just as he had me, of course."
Yulia Mihailovna's drawing-room filled up quickly. Varvara Petrovna
was particularly excited, though she tried to appear indifferent, but
I caught her once or twice glancing with hatred at Karmazinov and with
wrath at Stepan Trofimovitch--the wrath of anticipation, the wrath of
jealousy and love: if Stepan Trofimovitch had blundered this time and
had let Karmazinov make him look small before every one, I believe she
would have leapt up and beaten him. I have forgotten to say that
Liza too was there, and I had never seen her more radiant, carelessly
light-hearted, and happy. Mavriky Nikolaevitch was there too, of course.
In the crowd of young ladies and rather vulgar young men who made up
Yulia Mihailovna's usual retinue, and among whom this vulgarity was
taken for sprightliness, and cheap cynicism for wit, I noticed two or
three new faces: a very obsequious Pole who was on a visit in the town;
a German doctor, a sturdy old fellow who kept loudly laughing with great
zest at his own wit; and lastly, a very young princeling from Petersburg
like an automaton figure, with the deportment of a state dignitary and
a fearfully high collar. But it was evident that Yulia Mihailovna had a
very high opinion of this visitor, and was even a little anxious of the
impression her salon was making on him.
_"Cher M. Karmazinov,"_ said Stepan Trofimovitch, sitting in a picturesque
pose on the sofa and suddenly beginning to lisp as daintily as
Karmazinov himself, "_cher M. Karmazinov,_ the life of a man of our time
and of certain convictions, even after an interval of twenty-five years,
is bound to seem monotonous..."
The German went off into a loud abrupt guffaw like a neigh, evidently
imagining that Stepan Trofimovitch had said something exceedingly funny.
The latter gazed at him with studied amazement but produced no effect
on him whatever. The prince, too, looked at the German, turning head,
collar and all, towards him and putting up his pince-nez, though without
the slightest curiosity.
"... Is bound to seem monotonous," Stepan Trofimovitch intentionally
repeated, drawling each word as deliberately and nonchalantly as
possible. "And so my life has been throughout this quarter of a century,
_et comme on trouve partout plus de moines que de raison,_ and as I am
entirely of this opinion, it has come to pass that throughout this
quarter of a century I..."
_"C'est charmant, les moines,"_ whispered Yulia Mihailovna, turning to
Varvara Petrovna, who was sitting beside her.
Varvara Petrovna responded with a look of pride. But Karmazinov could
not stomach the success of the French phrase, and quickly and shrilly
interrupted Stepan Trofimovitch.
"As for me, I am quite at rest on that score, and for the past seven
years I've been settled at Karlsruhe. And last year, when it was
proposed by the town council to lay down a new water-pipe, I felt in
my heart that this question of water-pipes in Karlsruhe was dearer and
closer to my heart than all the questions of my precious Fatherland...
in this period of so-called reform."
"I can't help sympathising, though it goes against the grain," sighed
Stepan Trofimovitch, bowing his head significantly.
Yulia Mihailovna was triumphant: the conversation was becoming profound
and taking a political turn.
"A drain-pipe?" the doctor inquired in a loud voice.
"A water-pipe, doctor, a water-pipe, and I positively assisted them in
drawing up the plan."
The doctor went off into a deafening guffaw. Many people followed his
example, laughing in the face of the doctor, who remained unconscious of
it and was highly delighted that every one was laughing.
"You must allow me to differ from you, Karmazinov," Yulia Mihailovna
hastened to interpose. "Karlsruhe is all very well, but you are fond
of mystifying people, and this time we don't believe you. What Russian
writer has presented so many modern types, has brought forward so many
contemporary problems, has put his finger on the most vital modern
points which make up the type of the modern man of action? You, only
you, and no one else. It's no use your assuring us of your coldness
towards your own country and your ardent interest in the water-pipes of
Karlsruhe. Ha ha!"
"Yes, no doubt," lisped Karmazinov. "I have portrayed in the character
of Pogozhev all the failings of the Slavophils and in the character of
Nikodimov all the failings of the Westerners...."
"I say, hardly _all!_" Lyamshin whispered slyly.
"But I do this by the way, simply to while away the tedious hours and to
satisfy the persistent demands of my fellow-countrymen."
"You are probably aware, Stepan Trofimovitch," Yulia Mihailovna went on
enthusiastically, "that to-morrow we shall have the delight of hearing
the charming lines... one of the last of Semyon Yakovlevitch's exquisite
literary inspirations--it's called _Merci._ He announces in this piece
that he will write no more, that nothing in the world will induce him
to, if angels from Heaven or, what's more, all the best society were to
implore him to change his mind. In fact he is laying down the pen for
good, and this graceful _Merci_ is addressed to the public in grateful
acknowledgment of the constant enthusiasm with which it has for so many
years greeted his unswerving loyalty to true Russian thought."
Yulia Mihailovna was at the acme of bliss.
"Yes, I shall make my farewell; I shall say my _Merci_ and depart and
there... in Karlsruhe... I shall close my eyes." Karmazinov was gradually
becoming maudlin.
Like many of our great writers (and there are numbers of them amongst
us), he could not resist praise, and began to be limp at once, in spite
of his penetrating wit. But I consider this is pardonable. They say that
one of our Shakespeares positively blurted out in private conversation
that "we _great men_ can't do otherwise," and so on, and, what's more, was
unaware of it.
"There in Karlsruhe I shall close my eyes. When we have done our duty,
all that's left for us great men is to make haste to close our eyes
without seeking a reward. I shall do so too."
"Give me the address and I shall come to Karlsruhe to visit your tomb,"
said the German, laughing immoderately.
"They send corpses by rail nowadays," one of the less important young
men said unexpectedly.
Lyamshin positively shrieked with delight. Yulia Mihailovna frowned.
Nikolay Stavrogin walked in.
"Why, I was told that you were locked up?" he said aloud, addressing
Stepan Trofimovitch before every one else.
"No, it was a case of unlocking," jested Stepan Trofimovitch.
"But I hope that what's happened will have no influence on what I asked
you to do," Yulia Mihailovna put in again. "I trust that you will not
let this unfortunate annoyance, of which I had no idea, lead you to
disappoint our eager expectations and deprive us of the enjoyment of
hearing your reading at our literary matinée."
"I don't know, I... now..."
"Really, I am so unlucky, Varvara Petrovna... and only fancy, just when
I was so longing to make the personal acquaintance of one of the
most remarkable and independent intellects of Russia--and here Stepan
Trofimovitch suddenly talks of deserting us."
"Your compliment is uttered so audibly that I ought to pretend not to
hear it," Stepan Trofimovitch said neatly, "but I cannot believe that
my insignificant presence is so indispensable at your fête to-morrow.
However, I..."
"Why, you'll spoil him!" cried Pyotr Stepanovitch, bursting into the
room. "I've only just got him in hand--and in one morning he has been
searched, arrested, taken by the collar by a policeman, and here ladies
are cooing to him in the governor's drawing-room. Every bone in his body
is aching with rapture; in his wildest dreams he had never hoped for
such good fortune. Now he'll begin informing against the Socialists
after this!"
"Impossible, Pyotr Stepanovitch! Socialism is too grand an idea to
be unrecognised by Stepan Trofimovitch." Yulia Mihailovna took up the
gauntlet with energy.
"It's a great idea but its exponents are not always great men, _et
brisons-là, mon cher,_" Stepan Trofimovitch ended, addressing his son and
rising gracefully from his seat.
But at this point an utterly unexpected circumstance occurred. Von
Lembke had been in the room for some time but seemed unnoticed by
anyone, though every one had seen him come in. In accordance with her
former plan, Yulia Mihailovna went on ignoring him. He took up his
position near the door and with a stern face listened gloomily to the
conversation. Hearing an allusion to the events of the morning, he
began fidgeting uneasily, stared at the prince, obviously struck by his
stiffly starched, prominent collar; then suddenly he seemed to start on
hearing the voice of Pyotr Stepanovitch and seeing him burst in; and no
sooner had Stepan Trofimovitch uttered his phrase about Socialists than
Lembke went up to him, pushing against Lyamshin, who at once skipped out