"I'm lost! Cher,” he suddenly sat down by me and gazed pitifully, so pitifully, into my eyes, "cher, it's not Siberia I'm afraid of, I swear to you, oh, je vous jure"[cxxix] (tears even came to his eyes), "I am afraid of something else..."
I could tell from his look alone that he wished finally to tell me something extraordinary, meaning something he had refrained from telling me so far.
"I am afraid of disgrace," he whispered mysteriously.
"What disgrace? But quite the contrary! Believe me, Stepan Trofimovich, it will all be explained this very day and will end in your favor..."
"You're so certain I'll be pardoned?"
"But what is this 'pardoned'! Such words! What is it you've done? I assure you you haven't done anything!"
"Qu 'en savez-vous;[cxxx] all my life has been... cher... They'll recall everything... and even if they find nothing, so much the worse," he suddenly added unexpectedly.
"How, so much the worse?"
"Worse."
"I don't understand."
"My friend, my friend, so, let it be Siberia, Arkhangelsk, stripping of rights—if I'm lost, I'm lost! But... I'm afraid of something else" (again a whisper, a frightened look, and mysteriousness).
"But of what, of what?"
"Flogging," he uttered, and gave me a helpless look.
"Who is going to flog you? Where? Why?" I cried out, afraid he was losing his mind.
"Where? Why, there... where it's done."
"And where is it done?"
"Eh, cher," he whispered almost into my ear, "the floor suddenly opens under you, and you're lowered in up to the middle... Everybody knows that."
"Fables!" I cried, once I understood. "Old fables! And can it be that you've believed them all along?" I burst out laughing.
"Fables! But they must have started somewhere, these fables; a flogged man doesn't talk. I've pictured it ten thousand times in my imagination!"
"But you, why you? If you haven't done anything?"
"So much the worse, they'll see I haven't done anything, and they'll flog me."
"And you're convinced you'll be taken to Petersburg for that?"
"My friend, I've already said I do not regret anything, ma carrière est finie. From that hour in Skvoreshniki when she said farewell to me, I've had no regret for my life... but the disgrace, the disgrace, que dira-t-elle,[cxxxi] if she finds out?"
He glanced at me despairingly, poor man, and blushed all over. I, too, looked down.
"She'll find out nothing, because nothing's going to happen to you. It's as if I were talking to you for the first time in my life, Stepan Trofimovich, you've surprised me so much this morning."
"But, my friend, this is not fear. Let them even pardon me, let them even bring me back here and do nothing—it's here that I am lost. Elle me soupçonnera toute sa vie[cxxxii] ... me, me, the poet, the thinker, the man she worshiped for twenty-two years!"
"It won't even occur to her."
"It will," he whispered with profound conviction. "She and I talked of it several times in Petersburg, during the Great Lent, before we left, when we were both afraid... Elle me soupçonnera toute sa vie ... and how undeceive her? It will come out as improbable. And who in this paltry town will believe it, c'est invraisemblable... et puis les femmes[cxxxiii] ... She'll be glad. She'll be very upset, very, genuinely, like a true friend, but secretly—she'll be glad... I'll have given her a weapon against me for my whole life. Oh, my life is lost! Twenty years of such complete happiness with her... and now!"
He covered his face with his hands.
"Stepan Trofimovich, why don't you let Varvara Petrovna know at once?" I suggested.
"God forbid!" he gave a start and jumped up from his place. "Not for anything, never, after what was said at our farewell in Skvoreshniki, never!"
His eyes began to flash.
We sat there, I think, for another hour or more, still waiting for something—anyway, that was the idea. He lay down again, even closed his eyes, and lay for about twenty minutes without saying a word, so that I even thought he was asleep or oblivious. Suddenly he rose up impetuously, tore the towel from his head, sprang from the sofa, dashed to the mirror, with trembling fingers tied his tie, and in a thundering voice summoned Nastasya, ordering her to bring him his coat, his new hat, and his stick.
"I can bear it no longer," he said, in a breaking voice, "I cannot, I cannot! ... I am going myself."
"Where?" I, too, jumped up.
"To Lembke. Cher, I must, I am obliged to. It is my duty. I am a citizen and a human being, not a chip of wood, I have rights, I want my rights... For twenty years I never demanded my rights, all my life I've criminally forgotten them... but now I will demand them. He must tell me everything, everything. He received a telegram. He dare not torment me, otherwise arrest me, arrest me, arrest me!"
He exclaimed this with some shrieking and stamping of feet.
"I approve," I said on purpose, as calmly as I could, though I was very afraid for him. "Indeed, it is better than to sit in such anguish; but I do not approve of your mood—just look at yourself and in what state you'll be going there. Il faut être digne et calme avec Lembke.[cxxxiv] You may really rush at someone and bite him."
"I am giving myself up. I am walking straight into the lion's maw ..."
"And I'm going with you."
"I expected nothing less of you, I accept your sacrifice, the sacrifice of a true friend, but as far as the house, only as far as the house: you must not, you have no right to compromise yourself further by associating with me. Oh, croyez-moi, je serai calme![cxxxv] I am aware of being at this moment à la hauteur de tout ce qu'il y a de plus sacrê[cxxxvi] . . ."
"I might even go into the house with you," I interrupted him. "Yesterday I was informed by their stupid committee, through Vysotsky, that they're counting on me and inviting me to this fête tomorrow as one of the ushers, or whatever they're called ... these six young men appointed to look after the trays, take care of the ladies, show the guests to their seats, and wear a bow of white and crimson ribbons on their left shoulder. I intended to refuse, but why don't I go into the house now on the pretext of talking with Yulia Mikhailovna herself... And that way you and I can go in together."
He listened, nodding, but it seems he understood nothing. We were standing on the threshold.
"Cher," he stretched out his arm towards the icon lamp in the corner, "cher, I have never believed in this, but ... so be it, so be it!" (He crossed himself.) "Allons!"
"Well, that's better," I thought, going out to the porch with him. "The fresh air on the way will help, we'll calm down a bit, come back home, and retire to bed..."
But I was reckoning without my host. Precisely on the way, an adventure occurred which gave Stepan Trofimovich an even greater shock and finally determined his course ... so that, I confess, I never expected as much pluck from our friend as he suddenly showed that morning. Poor friend, good friend!