"Ce cher homme," Karmazinov interrupted shrilly and familiarly, squeezing his shoulder much too amiably with his hand, "but do take us quickly to your rooms, Yulia Mikhailovna, he'll sit down there and tell us everything."
"And yet I've never been on close terms with that irritable old woman," Stepan Trofimovich went on complaining the same evening, shaking with anger. "We were still almost boys, and even then I was beginning to hate him... and he me, of course..." [162]
Yulia Mikhailovna's salon filled up quickly. Varvara Petrovna was in an especially excited state, though she tried to appear indifferent; two or three times I caught her glancing hatefully at Karmazinov or wrathfully at Stepan Trofimovich—wrathful beforehand, wrathful out of jealousy, out of love: if Stepan Trofimovich were somehow to muff it this time and allow Karmazinov to cut him down in front of everyone, it seemed to me she would jump up at once and give him a thrashing. I forgot to mention that Liza was also there, and I had never seen her more joyful, carelessly gay, and happy. Of course, Mavriky Nikolaevich was there, too. Then, in the crowd of young ladies and half-licentious young men who constituted Yulia Mikhailovna's usual retinue, among whom this licentiousness was taken for gaiety and a pennyworth cynicism for intelligence, I noticed two or three new faces: some visiting and much mincing Pole; some German doctor, a hale old fellow who kept laughing loudly and with pleasure at his own witzes; [163]and, finally, some very young princeling from Petersburg, a mechanical figure, with the bearing of a statesman and a terribly long collar. But one could see that Yulia Mikhailovna greatly valued this visitor and was even anxious for her salon...
"Cher monsieur Karmazinoff,"Stepan Trofimovich began to speak, sitting himself down picturesquely on the sofa, and suddenly beginning to lisp no worse than Karmazinov, "cher monsieur Karmazinoff,the life of a man of our former time and of certain convictions, even over a span of twenty-five years, must appear monotonous ..."
The German burst into a loud and abrupt guffaw, like a whinny, apparently thinking that Stepan Trofimovich had said something terribly funny. The latter looked at him with affected amazement, which failed, however, to produce any effect. The prince also looked, turning with all his collar towards the German and aiming his pince-nez at him, though without the least curiosity.
". . . Must appear monotonous," Stepan Trofimovich deliberately repeated, drawing each word out as lengthily and unceremoniously as possible. "Such, too, has my life been for this whole quarter of a century, et comme on trouve partout plus de moines que de raison, [cxl]and since I fully agree with that, [164]the result is that for this whole quarter of a century I..."
"C'est charmant, les moines," [cxli]Yulia Mikhailovna whispered, turning to Varvara Petrovna, who was sitting next to her.
Varvara Petrovna responded with a proud look. But Karmazinov could not bear the success of the French phrase, and quickly and shrilly interrupted Stepan Trofimovich.
"As for me, I am at ease in that regard, and it's seven years now that I've been sitting in Karlsruhe. And when the city council decided last year to install a new drainpipe, I felt in my heart that this Karlsruhian drainpipe question was dearer and fonder to me than all the questions of my dear fatherland ... during all the time of these so-called reforms here."
"I am forced to sympathize, though it is counter to my heart," Stepan Trofimovich sighed, inclining his head significantly.
Yulia Mikhailovna was triumphant: the conversation was acquiring both profundity and direction.
"You mean a sewer pipe?" the doctor inquired loudly.
"A drainpipe, doctor, a drainpipe, and I even helped them to draw up the plan."
The doctor gave a splitting guffaw. Many followed him, but this time in the doctor's face, who did not notice it and was terribly pleased that everyone was laughing.
"Allow me to disagree with you, Karmazinov," Yulia Mikhailovna hastened to put in. "Karlsruhe is one thing, but you love to be mystifying, and this time we shall not believe you. Who among Russians, among writers, has put forth so many of the most modern types, divined so many of the most modern questions, indicated precisely those modern points of which the type of the modern activist is composed? You, you alone, and no one else. Just try and convince us after that of your indifference to your motherland and your terrible interest in the Karlsruhian drainpipe! Ha, ha!"
"Yes, of course," Karmazinov lisped, "I did put forth in the type of Pogozhev all the flaws of the Slavophils, and in the type of Nikodimov all the flaws of the Westerners..."
"All,indeed," Lyamshin whispered softly.
"But I do it offhand, just to kill ineluctable time somehow and ... to satisfy all these ineluctable demands of my compatriots."
"It is probably known to you, Stepan Trofimovich," Yulia Mikhailovna went on rapturously, "that tomorrow we shall have the delight of hearing the charming lines... one of Semyon Yegorovich's very latest, most gracious artistic inspirations, it is entitled Merci.In this piece he announces that he will write no more, not for anything in the world, even if an angel from heaven, or, better to say, all of high society should beg him to alter his decision. In short, he lays down his pen for the rest of his life, and this graceful Merciis addressed to the public in gratitude for the constant rapture with which it has accompanied for so many years his constant service to honest Russian thought..."
Yulia Mikhailovna was at the height of bliss.
"Yes, it will be my farewell; I'll say my Merciand leave, and there ... in Karlsruhe ... I shall close my eyes," Karmazinov gradually started going to pieces.
Like many of our great writers (and we have very many great writers), he could not resist praise, and would begin to go soft at once, despite his wit. But I think this is pardonable. They say one of our Shakespeares blurted right out in private conversation that "for us great menit is impossible to do otherwise," etc., and, what's more, did not even notice it.
"There, in Karlsruhe, I shall close my eyes. For us great men, all that's left once our work is done is to hasten to close our eyes, without seeking a reward. I shall do the same."
"Give me the address, and I'll come to visit your grave in Karlsruhe," the German guffawed boundlessly.
"Nowadays they even send dead people by train," one of the insignificant young men said unexpectedly.
Lyamshin simply squealed with delight. Yulia Mikhailovna frowned. Nikolai Stavrogin entered.
"And I was told you'd been taken to the police station," he said loudly, addressing Stepan Trofimovich first of all.
"No, just my stationery," Stepan Trofimovich punned.
"But I hope it will not have the slightest influence upon my request," Yulia Mikhailovna picked up again, "I hope that, notwithstanding this unfortunate annoyance, of which I still have no idea, you will not disappoint our best expectations and deprive us of the delight of hearing your reading at the literary matinée."
"I don't know, I... now..."
"Really, I'm so unfortunate, Varvara Petrovna... and imagine, precisely when I so desired to quickly make the personal acquaintance of one of the most remarkable and independent Russian minds, and now Stepan Trofimovich suddenly expresses his intention of withdrawing from us."
"Your compliment was spoken so loudly that I, of course, ought to turn a deaf ear to it," Stepan Trofimovich rapped out, "but I do not believe that my poor person was so necessary for your fête tomorrow. However, I..."