"Hm, yes, presumably."
"And after all that you still do not understand that he is not laughing at her like everyone else! Oh, people! You do not understand that he should protect her from her offenders, surround her with respect 'like a marquise' (this Kirillov must have a remarkably deep understanding of people, though he did not understand Nicolas!). If you like, it was precisely through this contrast that the trouble came; if the unfortunate woman had been in different circumstances, she might not have arrived at such a delirious dream. A woman, it takes a woman to understand this, Pyotr Stepanovich, and what a pity that you... that is, not that you are not a woman, but at least for this once, so as to understand!"
"You mean, in a sense, the worse the better—I understand, I understand, Varvara Petrovna. It's like with religion: the worse a man's life is, or the more downtrodden and poor a whole people is, the more stubbornly they dream of a reward in paradise, and if there are a hundred thousand priests fussing about at the same time, inflaming the dream and speculating on it, then ... I understand you, Varvara Petrovna, rest assured."
"I don't suppose that's quite so, but tell me, can it really be that in order to extinguish the dream in this unfortunate organism" (why Varvara Petrovna used the word "organism" here, I could not understand), "Nicolas, too, should have laughed at her and treated her as the other clerks did? Can it really be that you reject that lofty compassion, that noble tremor of the whole organism with which Nicolas suddenly so sternly answered Kirillov: 'I do not laugh at her.' A lofty, a holy answer!"
"Sublime," muttered Stepan Trofimovich.
"And, note, he is not at all as rich as you think; it is I who am rich, not he, and at that time he was taking almost nothing from me."
"I understand, I understand all that, Varvara Petrovna," Pyotr Stepanovich was now stirring somewhat impatiently.
"Oh, it is my character! I recognize myself in Nicolas! I recognize that youth, that possibility of stormy, awesome impulses... And, Pyotr Stepanovich, if one day you and I become close, which I for my part sincerely wish, all the more so in that I already owe you so much, perhaps then you will understand..."
"Oh, believe me, I wish it for my own part," Pyotr Stepanovich muttered abruptly.
"Then you will understand the impulse with which, in this blindness of nobility, one suddenly takes a man in all respects even unworthy of one, profoundly lacking in understanding of one, who is ready to torment one at the first opportunity, and, contrary to everything, makes such a man into some sort of ideal, one's dream, concentrates on him all one's hopes, worships him, loves him all one's life, absolutely without knowing why, perhaps precisely because he is unworthy of it... Oh, how I've suffered all my life, Pyotr Stepanovich!"
Stepan Trofimovich, with a pained look, tried to catch my eyes, but I dodged just in time.
". . . And even recently, recently—oh, how guilty I am before Nicolas! You would not believe how they torment me from all sides, all, all of them, enemies, paltry people, friends—friends perhaps more than enemies. When I received the first contemptible anonymous letter, Pyotr Stepanovich, you will not believe it but I did not have enough contempt, finally, to answer all this malice... Never, never will I forgive myself for my faintheartedness!"
"I've already heard something, generally, about anonymous letters here," Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly perked up, "and I'll find them for you, rest assured."
"But you cannot imagine what intrigues have begun here! They've even tormented our poor Praskovya Ivanovna—and why do that to her? I am perhaps all too guilty before you today, my dear Praskovya Ivanovna," she added, in a magnanimous impulse of tender feeling, but not without a certain triumphant irony.
"That'll do, dearest," the other lady muttered reluctantly, "and in my opinion all this should be brought to an end—too much talking..." and she again glanced timidly at Liza, but she was looking at Pyotr Stepanovich.
"And this poor, this unfortunate being, this insane woman who has lost everything and kept only her heart, I now intend to adopt,” Varvara Petrovna suddenly exclaimed. "This is a duty which I intend to fulfill sacredly. From this day on I shall take her under my protection!"
"And that will even be very good, madam, in a certain sense," Pyotr Stepanovich became thoroughly animated. "Excuse me, I didn't finish just now. Precisely to do with patronage. Can you imagine, when Nikolai Vsevolodovich left then (I'm starting precisely from where I left off, Varvara Petrovna), this gentleman, this same Mr. Lebyadkin, at once fancied he had the right to dispose of the pension that had been allotted to his sister, the whole of it; and so he did. I don't know exactly how it was all arranged by Nikolai Vsevolodovich, but a year later, from abroad now, having found out what was going on, he was forced to make different arrangements. Again, I don't know the details, he will tell you himself, all I know is that the interesting person was placed somewhere in a remote convent, quite comfortably, even, but under friendly supervision—you understand? And what do you think Mr. Lebyadkin decides to do? First, he makes every effort to find out where the quitrent item—that is, his dear sister—has been hidden from him, achieves his goal just recently, takes her from the convent, having presented some sort of rights over her, and brings her straight to this town. Here he doesn't feed her, he beats her, tyrannizes over her, and finally in some way obtains a significant sum from Nikolai Vsevolodovich, immediately starts drinking, and instead of gratitude ends with brazen defiance of Nikolai Vsevolodovich, senseless demands, threatening to go to court in case of the nonpayment of the pension directly into his hands. So he takes Nikolai Vsevolodovich's voluntary gift as his due—can you imagine that? Mr. Lebyadkin, is everythingI've said here just now true?"
The captain, who up to then had been standing silently and looking down, quickly stepped two steps forward and turned all purple.
"Pyotr Stepanovich, you have dealt harshly with me," he said abruptly.
"How and why is it harsh, sir? But, excuse me, we will talk about harshness and mildness later, and for now I only ask you to answer the first question: is everythingI said true, or not? If you find it is not true, you may make your declaration at once."
"I... you yourself know, Pyotr Stepanovich..." the captain muttered, stopped short, and fell silent. It should be noted that Pyotr Stepanovich was sitting in an armchair, his legs crossed, while the captain stood before him in a most reverent attitude.
Pyotr Stepanovich seemed to be very displeased with Mr. Lebyadkin's hesitations; his face twitched in a sort of malicious contortion.
"Perhaps you really do want to make some declaration?" he gave the captain a subtle glance. "Go right ahead, then, we're waiting."
"You yourself know, Pyotr Stepanovich, that I cannot declare anything."
"No, I do not know that; it's the first time I've even heard of it; why can you not declare anything?"
The captain was silent, staring at the ground.
"Allow me to leave, Pyotr Stepanovich," he said resolutely.
"Not before you give me some answer to my first question: is everythingI said true?"
"It's true, sir," Lebyadkin said dully, glancing up at his tormentor. Sweat even came to his temples.
"Everything?"
"Everything,sir."
"You can think of nothing to add, to observe? If you feel we are being unjust, declare as much; protest, declare your dissatisfaction aloud."
"No, I can think of nothing."
"Did you recently threaten Nikolai Vsevolodovich?"