"Wha-a-at?" I cried, stopping.
"So, just to punish you, I'm not going to say anything more! And you'd love to hear more, wouldn't you? Just this one thing: that that nitwit is no longer merely a captain, but a landowner of our province, and quite a significant one at that, because Nikolai Vsevolodovich sold him his entire estate, his former two hundred souls, the other day, and by God I'm not lying! I only just found it out, but from a most reliable source. So now go groping around for the rest yourself; I won't tell you anything more; good-bye, sir!"
X
Stepan Trofimovich was waiting for me with hysterical impatience. He had been back for an hour. He was as if drunk when I found him; at least for the first five minutes I thought he was drunk. Alas, his visit to the Drozdovs had knocked the last bit of sense out of him.
"Mon ami, I've quite lost the thread... Lise ... I love and respect the angel as before, exactly as before; but it seems they were both waiting for me only in order to find something out, that is, quite simply, to wheedle it out of me, and then—off you go, and God be with you... It's really so."
"Shame on you!" I cried out, unable to help myself.
"My friend, I am completely alone now. Enfin, il'est ridicule.[lv] Imagine that there, too, it's all crammed with mysteries. They simply fell on me with these noses and ears and other Petersburg mysteries. It was only here that the two of them found out about those local stories to do with Nicolas four years ago: 'You were here, you saw, is it true that he's mad?' And where this idea came from, I don't understand. Why is it that Praskovya must absolutely have Nicolas turn out to be mad? The woman wants it, she does! Ce Maurice, or what's his name, Mavriky Nikolaevich, brave homme tout de même,[lvi] but can it be for his benefit, after she herself was the first to write from Paris to cette pauvre amie... Enfin, this Praskovya, as cette chère amie calls her, is a type, she's Gogol's Korobochka,[54] Mrs. Littlebox, of immortal memory, only a wicked Littlebox, a provoking Littlebox, and in an infinitely enlarged form."
"That would make her a trunk! Enlarged, really?"
"Well, diminished then, it makes no difference, only don't interrupt me, because it all keeps whirling around. They had a final spat there, except for Lise; she still says 'auntie, auntie,' but Lise is sly, and there's something more to it. Mysteries. But she did quarrel with the old woman. Cette pauvre auntie, it's true, is despotic with everyone ... and there's also the governor's wife, and the disrespect of society, and the 'disrespect' of Karmazinov; and then suddenly this notion of craziness, ce Liputine, ce que je ne comprends pas,[lvii] and... and they say she put vinegar to her head, and then you and I come along with our complaints and letters ... Oh, how I've tormented her, and at such a time! Je suis un ingrat![lviii] Imagine, I come back and find a letter from her— read it, read it! Oh, how ignoble it was on my part."
He handed me the just-received letter from Varvara Petrovna. She seemed to have repented of her morning's "Stay home." It was a polite little letter, but nonetheless resolute and laconic. She invited Stepan Trofimovich to call on her the day after tomorrow, Sunday, at twelve o'clock sharp, and advised him to bring along some one of his friends (my name appeared in parentheses). She, for her part, promised to invite Shatov, as Darya Pavlovna's brother. "You can receive a final answer from her; will this suffice you? Is this the formality you've been striving for?"
"Note that irritated phrase at the end about formality. Poor, poor woman, the friend of my whole life! I confess, this sudden deciding of my fate crushed me, as it were ... I confess, I was still hoping, but now tout est dit, I know it's finished; c'est terrible.[lix] Oh, if only there were no Sunday at all, and everything could go on as before: you would visit me, and I would..."
"You're bewildered by all that nasty gossip of Liputin's today."
"My friend, you have just put your friendly finger on another sore spot. These friendly fingers are generally merciless, and sometimes muddled, pardon, but would you believe that I almost forgot about it all, I mean that nasty gossip—that is, I by no means forgot, but, in my foolishness, all the while I was at Lise's I tried to be happy and kept assuring myself that I was happy. But now... oh, now it's this woman—magnanimous, humane, patient with my mean shortcomings—that is, perhaps not quite patient, but what am I myself, with my bad, empty character! I am a whimsical child, with all the egoism of a child, but with none of the innocence. For twenty years she's been looking after me like a nurse, cette pauvre auntie, as Lise graciously calls her... And suddenly, after twenty years, the child decides to get married—get me married, get me married, in letter after letter—and she sits putting vinegar to her head and... and here I've done it, on Sunday I'll be a married man, no joking ... And why did I insist, why did I write letters? Ah, yes, I forgot: Lise idolizes Darya Pavlovna, at least she says she does. 'C'est un ange,'[lx] she says of her, 'only a rather secretive one.' They both advised it, even Praskovya... though Praskovya didn't advise it. Oh, how much venom is locked up in that Littlebox! And, as a matter of fact, Lise did not advise it either: 'What do you need to get married for; the pleasures of learning are enough for you.' Gales of laughter. I forgave her the laughter, because she herself is sick at heart. All the same, they said, it is impossible for you to be without a woman. Infirmity is coming upon you, and she will cover you, or whatever... Ma foi, all this time I've been sitting here with you, I, too, have been thinking to myself that providence was sending her in the decline of my stormy days and that she would cover me, or whatever ... enfin, would be useful around the house. My place is a mess, look, over there, everything's scattered about, I just ordered it to be tidied up, and there's a book lying on the floor. La pauvre amie has always been angry at the mess in my place... Oh, no longer will her voice be heard here! Vingt ans![lxi] And—and it seems they've got anonymous letters, imagine, Nicolas has supposedly sold his estate to Lebyadkin. C'est un monstre; et enfin,[lxii] who is this Lebyadkin? Lise listens, listens, ohh, how she listens! I forgave her the laughter, I saw the look on her face as she listened, and ce Maurice... I wouldn't want to be in his present role, brave homme tout de même, but somewhat shy; God help him though..."
He fell silent; he was tired and bewildered, and sat downcast, his tired eyes fixed on the floor. I took advantage of the pause to tell him about my visit to Filippov's house, expressing curtly and dryly my opinion that Lebyadkin's sister (whom I had not seen) might indeed have been some sort of victim of Nicolas's during the mysterious period of his life, as Liputin put it, and that it was quite possible that Lebyadkin was for some reason receiving money from Nicolas, but that was all. As for the gossip about Darya Pavlovna, it was all nonsense, it had all been stretched by the blackguard Liputin, or so at least Alexei Nilych, whom there was no reason to doubt, hotly insisted. Stepan Trofimovich listened to my assurances with a distracted look, as if it did not concern him. I also mentioned, incidentally, my conversation with Kirillov, and added that Kirillov was possibly mad.