The possessed or, The devils
of the way with an affected gesture of surprise, rubbing his shoulder
and pretending that he had been terribly bruised.
"Enough!" said Von Lembke to Stepan Trofimovitch, vigorously gripping
the hand of the dismayed gentleman and squeezing it with all his might
in both of his. "Enough! The filibusters of our day are unmasked. Not
another word. Measures have been taken...."
He spoke loudly enough to be heard by all the room, and concluded with
energy. The impression he produced was poignant. Everybody felt that
something was wrong. I saw Yulia Mihailovna turn pale. The effect was
heightened by a trivial accident. After announcing that measures had
been taken, Lembke turned sharply and walked quickly towards the door,
but he had hardly taken two steps when he stumbled over a rug, swerved
forward, and almost fell. For a moment he stood still, looked at the rug
at which he had stumbled, and, uttering aloud "Change it!" went out of
the room. Yulia Mihailovna ran after him. Her exit was followed by an
uproar, in which it was difficult to distinguish anything. Some said he
was "deranged," others that he was "liable to attacks"; others put their
fingers to their forehead; Lyamshin, in the corner, put his two fingers
above his forehead. People hinted at some domestic difficulties--in a
whisper, of course. No one took up his hat; all were waiting. I don't
know what Yulia Mihailovna managed to do, but five minutes later she
came back, doing her utmost to appear composed. She replied evasively
that Andrey Antonovitch was rather excited, but that it meant nothing,
that he had been like that from a child, that she knew "much better,"
and that the fête next day would certainly cheer him up. Then followed a
few flattering words to Stepan Trofimovitch simply from civility, and a
loud invitation to the members of the committee to open the meeting now,
at once. Only then, all who were not members of the committee prepared
to go home; but the painful incidents of this fatal day were not yet
over.
I noticed at the moment when Nikolay Stavrogin came in that Liza looked
quickly and intently at him and was for a long time unable to take her
eyes off him--so much so that at last it attracted attention. I saw
Mavriky Nikolaevitch bend over her from behind; he seemed to mean to
whisper something to her, but evidently changed his intention and drew
himself up quickly, looking round at every one with a guilty air. Nikolay
Vsyevolodovitch too excited curiosity; his face was paler than usual and
there was a strangely absent-minded look in his eyes. After flinging
his question at Stepan Trofimovitch he seemed to forget about him
altogether, and I really believe he even forgot to speak to his hostess.
He did not once look at Liza--not because he did not want to, but I am
certain because he did not notice her either. And suddenly, after the
brief silence that followed Yulia Mihailovna's invitation to open the
meeting without loss of time, Liza's musical voice, intentionally loud,
was heard. She called to Stavrogin.
"Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, a captain who calls himself a relation of
yours, the brother of your wife, and whose name is Lebyadkin, keeps
writing impertinent letters to me, complaining of you and offering to
tell me some secrets about you. If he really is a connection of yours,
please tell him not to annoy me, and save me from this unpleasantness."
There was a note of desperate challenge in these words--every one
realised it. The accusation was unmistakable, though perhaps it was a
surprise to herself. She was like a man who shuts his eyes and throws
himself from the roof.
But Nikolay Stavrogin's answer was even more astounding.
To begin with, it was strange that he was not in the least surprised and
listened to Liza with unruffled attention. There was no trace of either
confusion or anger in his face. Simply, firmly, even with an air of
perfect readiness, he answered the fatal question:
"Yes, I have the misfortune to be connected with that man. I have been
the husband of his sister for nearly five years. You may be sure I will
give him your message as soon as possible, and I'll answer for it that
he shan't annoy you again."
I shall never forget the horror that was reflected on the face of
Varvara Petrovna. With a distracted air she got up from her seat,
lifting up her right hand as though to ward off a blow. Nikolay
Vsyevolodovitch looked at her, looked at Liza, at the spectators, and
suddenly smiled with infinite disdain; he walked deliberately out of the
room. Every one saw how Liza leapt up from the sofa as soon as he
turned to go and unmistakably made a movement to run after him. But she
controlled herself and did not run after him; she went quietly out of
the room without saying a word or even looking at anyone, accompanied,
of course, by Mavriky Nikolaevitch, who rushed after her.
The uproar and the gossip that night in the town I will not attempt to
describe. Varvara Petrovna shut herself up in her town house and Nikolay
Vsyevolodovitch, it was said, went straight to Skvoreshniki without
seeing his mother. Stepan Trofimovitch sent me that evening to _cette
chère amie_ to implore her to allow him to come to her, but she would not
see me. He was terribly overwhelmed; he shed tears. "Such a marriage!
Such a marriage! Such an awful thing in the family!" he kept repeating.
He remembered Karmazinov, however, and abused him terribly. He set
to work vigorously to prepare for the reading too and--the artistic
temperament!--rehearsed before the looking-glass and went over all the
jokes and witticisms uttered in the course of his life which he had
written down in a separate notebook, to insert into his reading next
day.
"My dear, I do this for the sake of a great idea," he said to me,
obviously justifying himself. "_Cher ami,_ I have been stationary for
twenty-five years and suddenly I've begun to move--whither, I know
not--but I've begun to move...."
PART III
CHAPTER I. THE FETE--FIRST PART
I
The fête took place in spite of all the perplexities of the preceding
"Shpigulin" day. I believe that even if Lembke had died the previous
night, the fête would still have taken place next morning--so peculiar
was the significance Yulia Mihailovna attached to it. Alas! up to the
last moment she was blind and had no inkling of the state of public
feeling. No one believed at last that the festive day would pass without
some tremendous scandal, some "catastrophe" as some people expressed it,
rubbing their hands in anticipation. Many people, it is true, tried to
assume a frowning and diplomatic countenance; but, speaking generally,
every Russian is inordinately delighted at any public scandal and
disorder. It is true that we did feel something much more serious
than the mere craving for a scandal: there was a general feeling
of irritation, a feeling of implacable resentment; every one seemed
thoroughly disgusted with everything. A kind of bewildered cynicism, a
forced, as it were, strained cynicism was predominant in every one. The
only people who were free from bewilderment were the ladies, and they
were clear on only one point: their remorseless detestation of Yulia
Mihailovna. Ladies of all shades of opinion were agreed in this. And
she, poor dear, had no suspicion; up to the last hour she was persuaded
that she was "surrounded by followers," and that they were still
"fanatically devoted to her."
I have already hinted that some low fellows of different sorts had
made their appearance amongst us. In turbulent times of upheaval or
transition low characters always come to the front everywhere. I am
not speaking now of the so-called "advanced" people who are always in a
hurry to be in advance of every one else (their absorbing anxiety) and
who always have some more or less definite, though often very stupid,
aim. No, I am speaking only of the riff-raff. In every period of
transition this riff-raff, which exists in every society, rises to the
surface, and is not only without any aim but has not even a symptom of
an idea, and merely does its utmost to give expression to uneasiness and
impatience. Moreover, this riff-raff almost always falls unconsciously
under the control of the little group of "advanced people" who do act
with a definite aim, and this little group can direct all this rabble
as it pleases, if only it does not itself consist of absolute idiots,
which, however, is sometimes the case. It is said among us now that it
is all over, that Pyotr Stepanovitch was directed by the _Internationale,_
and Yulia Mihailovna by Pyotr Stepanovitch, while she controlled, under
his rule, a rabble of all sorts. The more sober minds amongst us wonder
at themselves now, and can't understand how they came to be so foolish
at the time.
What constituted the turbulence of our time and what transition it was
we were passing through I don't know, nor I think does anyone, unless
it were some of those visitors of ours. Yet the most worthless fellows
suddenly gained predominant influence, began loudly criticising
everything sacred, though till then they had not dared to open their
mouths, while the leading people, who had till then so satisfactorily
kept the upper hand, began listening to them and holding their peace,
some even simpered approval in a most shameless way. People like
Lyamshin and Telyatnikov, like Gogol's Tentyotnikov, drivelling
home-bred editions of Radishtchev, wretched little Jews with a mournful
but haughty smile, guffawing foreigners, poets of advanced tendencies
from the capital, poets who made up with peasant coats and tarred boots
for the lack of tendencies or talents, majors and colonels who ridiculed
the senselessness of the service, and who would have been ready for an
extra rouble to unbuckle their swords, and take jobs as railway clerks;
generals who had abandoned their duties to become lawyers; advanced
mediators, advancing merchants, innumerable divinity students, women
who were the embodiment of the woman question--all these suddenly gained
complete sway among us and over whom? Over the club, the venerable
officials, over generals with wooden legs, over the very strict and
inaccessible ladies of our local society. Since even Varvara Petrovna
was almost at the beck and call of this rabble, right up to the time
of the catastrophe with her son, our other local Minervas may well be
pardoned for their temporary aberration. Now all this is attributed,
as I have mentioned already, to the _Internationale._ This idea has taken
such root that it is given as the explanation to visitors from other
parts. Only lately councillor Kubrikov, a man of sixty-two, with the
Stanislav Order on his breast, came forward uninvited and confessed in
a voice full of feeling that he had beyond a shadow of doubt been for
fully three months under the influence of the _Internationale._ When with
every deference for his years and services he was invited to be more
definite, he stuck firmly to his original statement, though he could
produce no evidence except that "he had felt it in all his feelings," so
that they cross-examined him no further.
I repeat again, there was still even among us a small group who held
themselves aloof from the beginning, and even locked themselves up. But
what lock can stand against a law of nature? Daughters will grow up even
in the most careful families, and it is essential for grown-up daughters
to dance.
And so all these people, too, ended by subscribing to the governesses'
fund.
The ball was assumed to be an entertainment so brilliant, so
unprecedented; marvels were told about it; there were rumours of princes
from a distance with lorgnettes; of ten stewards, all young dandies,
with rosettes on their left shoulder; of some Petersburg people who