I remember that moment only too well; he did not even blink an eye, but looked intently at his mother; not the slightest change in his face ensued. At last he smiled slowly, a sort of condescending smile, and, without a word of reply, quietly went up to his mother, took her hand, brought it reverently to his lips, and kissed it. And so strong was his ever irresistible influence on his mother that even then she did not dare snatch her hand away. She simply stared at him, all question, and her whole look confessed that she could not endure the uncertainty a moment longer.
But he continued to be silent. Having kissed her hand, he glanced all around the room once again and, still as unhurriedly as before, went straight to Marya Timofeevna. It is very difficult to describe people's physiognomies at certain moments. It has remained in my memory, for example, that Marya Timofeevna, all numb with fear, rose to meet him and clasped her hands before her as if entreating him; and at the same time I also remember there was rapture in her eyes, a sort of insane rapture that almost distorted her features—a rapture hard for people to bear. Perhaps both were there, both fear and rapture; but I remember myself quickly moving closer (I was standing just next to her), for I fancied she was about to faint.
"You cannot be here," Nikolai Vsevolodovich spoke to her in a caressing, melodious voice, and an extraordinary tenderness shone in his eyes. He stood before her in a most reverent attitude, and his every movement expressed the most sincere respect. In an impetuous half-whisper the poor woman breathlessly murmured to him:
"And may I... kneel to you... now?"
"No, you certainly may not," he smiled magnificently at her, so that she, too, suddenly gave a joyful little smile. In the same melodious voice, and tenderly reasoning with her, as with a child, he added imposingly:
"Consider that you are a girl, and I, though your most faithful friend, am nevertheless a stranger to you, not a husband, not a father, not a fiancé. Now give me your hand and let us go; I will see you to the carriage and, if you permit, will take you to your house myself."
She listened and bent her head as if pondering.
"Let us go," she said, sighing, and gave him her hand.
But then a small mishap befell her. She must have turned somehow awkwardly and stepped on her bad, shorter leg—in a word, she fell full sideways on the armchair, and if it had not been for the armchair, she would have fallen to the floor. He instantly caught her up, supported her, holding her firmly under the arm, and led her carefully and sympathetically to the door. She was obviously distressed by her fall, became embarrassed, blushed, and was terribly ashamed. Silently looking down, limping badly, she hobbled after him, almost hanging on his arm. They walked out like that. Liza, I noticed, for some reason suddenly jumped up from her chair as they were walking out, and followed them with a fixed stare to the very door. Then she silently sat down again, but there was some convulsive movement in her face, as if she had touched some viper.
While this whole scene was taking place between Nikolai Vsevolodovich and Marya Timofeevna, everyone was hushed with amazement; one could have heard a fly buzz; but as soon as they walked out, everyone suddenly began talking.
VI
Or not talking so much as exclaiming. I have somewhat forgotten now the order in which it all happened, because there was a tumult. Stepan Trofimovich exclaimed something in French and clasped his hands, but Varvara Petrovna could not be bothered with him. Even Mavriky Nikolaevich muttered something abruptly and rapidly. But most excited of all was Pyotr Stepanovich; he was desperately convincing Varvara Petrovna of something, with big gestures, but for a long time I could not understand it. He addressed Praskovya Ivanovna and Lizaveta Nikolaevna as well; in the heat of the moment he even shouted something in passing to his father—in short, he whirled all around the room. Varvara Petrovna, all flushed, jumped up from her seat and cried to Praskovya Ivanovna: "Did you hear, did you hear what he just said to her?" But the latter could no longer even reply, and merely mumbled something, waving her hand. The poor woman had her own troubles: she kept turning her head towards Liza, looking at her in unaccountable fear, and no longer dared even to think of getting up and leaving before her daughter rose. Meanwhile, the captain certainly wanted to slip away, this I noticed. He had been in a great and unquestionable fright from the moment Nikolai Vsevolodovich appeared; but Pyotr Stepanovich seized him by the arm and did not let him leave.
"This is necessary, necessary," he spilled out his beads at Varvara Petrovna, still trying to convince her. He was standing in front of her, and she by then had already sat back down in the armchair and, I remember, listened to him greedily; he had succeeded in holding her attention.
"This is necessary. You can see for yourself, Varvara Petrovna, that there's a misunderstanding here, and much that looks odd, and yet the thing is clear as a candle and simple as a finger. I realize only too well that no one has authorized me to tell about it, and that I perhaps look ridiculous in inviting myself. But, first of all, Nikolai Vsevolodovich himself attaches no great importance to this thing, and, finally, there are still cases when it is difficult for a man to bring himself to explain things personally, and it must be undertaken by a third person, for whom it is easier to express certain delicate matters. Believe me, Varvara Petrovna, Nikolai Vsevolodovich is not in the least to blame for not giving your question a radical explanation at once, even though the matter is a trifling one; I've known of it since Petersburg. Besides, the whole anecdote only does honor to Nikolai Vsevolodovich, if it's necessary to use this vague word 'honor'..."
"You mean to say that you were a witness to some occurrence that gave rise to... this misunderstanding?" asked Varvara Petrovna.
"A witness and a participant," Pyotr Stepanovich hastened to confirm.
"If you give me your word that this will not offend Nikolai Vsevolodovich's delicacy in certain of his feelings towards me, from whom he does not conceal an-y-thing... and if you are so sure, besides, that it will even give him pleasure ..."
"Pleasure, most certainly; that's why I regard it as a particular pleasure for me. I'm convinced he would ask me himself."
It was rather strange, and outside the usual ways, this importunate desire on the part of this gentleman who had suddenly fallen from the sky to tell other people's anecdotes. But he caught Varvara Petrovna with his bait, having touched her sorest spot. I did not know the man's character fully then, and still less did I know his intentions.
"You may speak," Varvara Petrovna announced reservedly and cautiously, suffering somewhat from her indulgence.
"It's a short matter; in fact, if you like, it's not even an anecdote," the beads began spilling out. "However, a novelist might cook up a novel from it in an idle moment. It's quite an interesting little matter, Praskovya Ivanovna, and I'm sure Lizaveta Nikolaevna will listen with curiosity, because there are many things here which, if not queer, are at least quaint. About five years ago, in Petersburg, Nikolai Vsevolodovich got to know this gentleman—this same Mr. Lebyadkin who is standing here with his mouth hanging open and, it seems, was just about to slip away. Forgive me, Varvara Petrovna. Incidentally, I'd advise you not to take to your heels, mister retired official of the former supply department (you see, I remember you perfectly). Both I and Nikolai Vsevolodovich are all too well informed of your local tricks, of which, don't forget, you will have to give an accounting. Once again I ask your forgiveness, Varvara Petrovna. Nikolai Vsevolodovich used to call this gentleman his Falstaff [71]—that must be some former character," he suddenly explained, "some burlesque everyone laughs at and who allows everyone to laugh at him, so long as they pay money. The life Nikolai Vsevolodovich then led in Petersburg was, so to speak, a jeering one—I cannot define it by any other word, because he was not a man to fall into disillusionment, and he scorned then to do anything serious. I'm talking only about that time, Varvara Petrovna. This Lebyadkin had a sister—the very one who was just sitting here. This nice brother and sister had no corner of their own, and wandered about staying with various people. He loitered under the arcades of the Gostiny Dvor, [72]unfailingly wearing his former uniform, and stopped the cleaner-looking passers-by, and whatever he collected he would spend on drink. His sister lived like the birds of the air. She helped out in those corners and served in exchange for necessities. It was a most terrible Sodom; I'll pass over the picture of this corner life—the life to which Nikolai Vsevolodovich then gave himself out of whimsicality. [73] This was only then, Varvara Petrovna; and as for 'whimsicality,' the expression is his. There is much that he does not conceal from me. Mademoiselle Lebyadkin, who at a certain period happened to run into Nikolai Vsevolodovich all too often, was struck by his appearance. He was, so to speak, a diamond set against the dirty background of her life.