At the very moment when Nikolai Vsevolodovich entered, I noticed that Liza looked quickly and intently at him, and for a long time afterwards did not take her eyes off him—so long that in the end it aroused attention. I saw that Mavriky Nikolaevich bent over her from behind and, it seemed, wanted to whisper something to her, but evidently changed his intention and quickly straightened up, looking around at everyone like a guilty man. Nikolai Vsevolodovich, too, aroused curiosity: his face was paler than usual, and his gaze uncommonly distracted. After tossing his question at Stepan Trofimovich on entering, it was as if he forgot about him at once, and indeed, it seems to me, he even forgot to approach the hostess. He never once glanced at Liza—not because he did not want to, but, I maintain, because he did not notice her at all either. And suddenly, after some silence following Yulia Mikhailovna's invitation to open the last meeting without further delay—suddenly there came Liza's ringing, deliberately loud voice. She called to Nikolai Stavrogin.
"Nikolai Vsevolodovich, some captain who calls himself your relation, your wife's brother, a man by the name of Lebyadkin, keeps writing indecent letters to me, complaining in them about you, offering to reveal to me certain secrets concerning you. If he really is your relation, do forbid him to offend me and rid me of this unpleasantness."
A terrible challenge could be heard in these words, everyone understood that. The accusation was obvious, though perhaps unexpected even for her. She was like someone closing her eyes and throwing herself off a roof.
But Nikolai Stavrogin's answer was even more astounding.
First of all, it was strange enough that he was in no way surprised and listened to Liza with the most calm attention. His face reflected neither embarrassment nor wrath. Simply, firmly, even with an air of complete readiness, he answered the fatal question:
"Yes, I have the misfortune to be this man's relation. I am the husband of his sister, née Lebyadkin, soon now it will be for five years. Rest assured that I will convey your demands to him in the nearest future, and I will answer for his not troubling you anymore."
I will never forget the horror that was expressed on Varvara Petrovna's face. With an insane look she rose from her chair, holding her right hand up in front of her as if to defend herself. Nikolai Vsevolodovich looked at her, at Liza, at the spectators, and suddenly smiled with boundless haughtiness; unhurriedly, he walked out of the room. Everyone saw how Liza jumped up from the sofa as soon as Nikolai Vsevolodovich turned to leave and made an obvious move to run after him, but caught hold of herself and did not run but walked out quietly, also without saying a word to anyone or looking at anyone, accompanied, of course, by Mavriky Nikolaevich, who rushed after her...
Of the uproar and talk in town that evening I will not even make mention. Varvara Petrovna locked herself in her town house, and Nikolai Vsevolodovich, it was said, drove straight to Skvoreshniki without seeing his mother. Stepan Trofimovich sent me to "cette chère amie" in the evening to beg permission for him to come to her, but I was not received. He was terribly struck; he wept. "Such a marriage!
Such a marriage! Such horror in the family," he repeated all the time. However, he also kept recalling Karmazinov and abused him terribly. He was preparing energetically for the next day's reading and—the artistic nature!—preparing in front of the mirror, recalling all his witticisms and little puns over the course of his life, specially written down in a notebook, so as to introduce them into the next day's reading.
"My friend, this is for the sake of a great idea," he said to me, apparently justifying himself. "Cher ami, I have moved from my place of twenty-five years and suddenly set out—where, I do not know, but I have set out..."
Part Three
1: The Fête. First Part
I
The fête took place, all the perplexities of the previous "Shpigulin" day notwithstanding. I think that even if Lembke had died that same night, the fête would still have taken place in the morning—so much of some special significance did Yulia Mikhailovna connect with it. Alas, until the final moment she remained blind and did not understand the mood of society. No one towards the end believed that the great day would go by without some colossal adventure, without a "denouement," as some put it, rubbing their hands in anticipation. Many, it is true, tried to assume a most frowning and political look; but, generally speaking, the Russian man is boundlessly amused by any socially scandalous commotion. True, there was among us something rather more serious than the mere thirst for scandal; there was a general irritation, something unappeasably spiteful; it seemed everyone was terribly sick of everything. Some sort of general, muddled cynicism had come to reign, a forced, as if strained, cynicism. Only the ladies were not to be muddled, and that only on one point: their merciless hatred of Yulia Mikhailovna. In this all the ladies' tendencies converged. And she, poor woman, did not even suspect; until the final hour she remained convinced that she was "surrounded" and still the subject of "fanatical devotion."
I have already hinted at the fact that various trashy sorts of people had appeared among us. Always and everywhere, in a troubled time of hesitation or transition, various trashy sorts appear. I am not speaking of the so-called "vanguard," who always rush ahead of everyone else (their chief concern) and whose goal, though very often quite stupid, is still more or less definite. No, I am speaking only of scum. This scum, which exists in every society, rises to the surface in any transitional time, and not only has no goal, but has not even the inkling of an idea, and itself merely expresses anxiety and impatience with all its might. And yet this scum, without knowing it, almost always falls under the command of that small group of the "vanguard" which acts with a definite goal, and which directs all this rabble wherever it pleases, provided it does not consist of perfect idiots itself—which, incidentally, also happens. It is said among us now, when everything is already over, that Pyotr Stepanovich was controlled by the Internationale,[165] that Pyotr Stepanovich controlled Yulia Mikhailovna, and that she, at his command, directed all sorts of scum. Our most solid minds are now marveling at themselves: how could they suddenly have gone so amiss then? What our troubled time consisted of, and from what to what our transition was—I do not know, and no one, I think, knows—except perhaps certain visitors from outside. And yet the trashiest people suddenly gained predominance and began loudly criticizing all that's holy, whereas earlier they had not dared to open their mouths, and the foremost people, who until then had so happily kept the upper hand, suddenly began listening to them, and became silent themselves; and some even chuckled along in a most disgraceful way. Some sort of Lyamshins, Telyatnikovs, landowner Tentetnikovs, homegrown milksop Radishchevs,[166] little Jews with mournful but haughty smiles, jolly passing travelers, poets with a tendency from the capital, poets who in place of a tendency and talent had peasant coats and tarred boots, majors and colonels who laughed at the meaninglessness of their rank and were ready, for an extra rouble, to take off their swords at once and slink away to become railroad clerks; generals defecting to the lawyers; developed dealers, developing little merchants, countless seminarians, women who embodied in themselves the woman question—all this suddenly and fully gained the upper hand among us, and over whom? Over the club, over venerable dignitaries, over generals on wooden legs, over our most strict and inaccessible ladies' society. If even Varvara Petrovna, right up to the catastrophe with her boy, was all but running errands for all this scum, then some of our Minervas can be partially forgiven for their befuddlement at the time. Now everything is imputed, as I have already said, to the Internationale. The idea has grown so strong that even all the visiting outsiders have been informed along these lines. Just recently Councillor Kubrikov, sixty-two years old and with a Stanislav round his neck,[167]came without any summons and declared in a heartfelt voice that during the whole three months he had undoubtedly been under the influence of the Internationale. And when, with all due respect for his age and merits, he was asked to explain himself more satisfactorily, though unable to present any documents except that he "felt it with all his senses," he nevertheless stuck firmly to his declaration, so that he was not questioned further.