“I don’t understand anything. So you, too, have decided not to receive me?”
“No, my friend, I said I’d keep out of it . . . That is, I gave my full consent. And you may be sure, my dear boy, that I love you very much. But Katerina Nikolaevna demanded it all very, very insistently . . . Ah, there!”
At that moment Katerina Nikolaevna suddenly appeared in the doorway. She was dressed to go out, and, as she used to do before, had come to kiss her father. Seeing me, she stopped, became embarrassed, turned quickly, and left.
“Voilà! ” cried the prince, struck and terribly alarmed.
“It’s a misunderstanding!” I cried. “It’s some sort of momentary . . . I . . . I’ll be right back, Prince!”
And I ran after Katerina Nikolaevna.
Everything that followed after that happened so quickly that I was not only unable to collect my thoughts, but couldn’t even prepare in the least how to behave. If I could have prepared myself, I would, of course, have behaved differently. But I was at a loss, like a little boy. I was rushing to her rooms, but a footman on the way told me that Katerina Nikolaevna had already gone out and was getting into the carriage. I rushed headlong to the front stairway. Katerina Nikolaevna was going down the stairs in her fur coat, and beside her, or, better to say, leading her, was a tall, trim officer in uniform, without a greatcoat, wearing a saber; a footman behind him was carrying his greatcoat. This was the baron, a colonel, about thirty-five, the foppish type of officer, lean, with a slightly too-elongated face, with a reddish moustache and even eyelashes. His face, though not at all handsome, had a sharp and defiant physiognomy. I’m describing him hastily, as I noticed him at that moment. I had never seen him before. I ran down the stairs after them, without hat or coat. Katerina Nikolaevna noticed me first and quickly whispered something to him. He made as if to turn his head, but nodded at once to the servant and the porter. The servant was stepping towards me just at the front door, but I moved him aside with my arm and jumped out after them onto the porch. Bjoring was helping Katerina Nikolaevna into the carriage.
“Katerina Nikolaevna! Katerina Nikolaevna!” I exclaimed senselessly (like a fool! Like a fool! Oh, I remember it all, I had no hat on!).
Bjoring again turned fiercely to the servant and loudly shouted something to him, one or two words, I didn’t make it out. I felt someone seize me by the elbow. At that moment the carriage started; I cried out again and rushed after the carriage. Katerina Nikolaevna, I saw this, peeked out the window of the carriage and seemed to be greatly troubled. But in my quick movement as I rushed, I suddenly gave Bjoring a strong shove, not thinking of it at all, and, it seems, stepped very painfully on his foot. He cried out slightly, gnashed his teeth, and with his strong hand seized me by the shoulder and spitefully shoved me away, so that I went flying two or three paces. At that moment they handed him his greatcoat, he threw it on, got into a sledge, and shouted menacingly once more, pointing me out to the lackeys and the porter. Here they seized me and held me back. One servant threw my coat over my shoulders, the other handed me my hat, and—I don’t remember what they said then; they were saying something, and I stood and listened to them without understanding anything. But suddenly I abandoned them and ran off.
III
SEEING NOTHING AND bumping into people as I ran, I finally reached Tatyana Pavlovna’s apartment, not even thinking of hiring a cab on the way. Bjoring had shoved me aside in her presence! Of course, I had stepped on his foot, and he had shoved me aside instinctively, like a man whose corn has been stepped on (and maybe I had indeed squashed his corn!). But she had seen it, and had seen the servants seize me, and it had all happened in front of her, in front of her! When I came running into Tatyana Pavlovna’s apartment, for the first minute I couldn’t say anything, and my lower jaw trembled as in a fever. And I was in a fever and, on top of that, I was weeping . . . Oh, I had been so insulted!
“Eh! What! Kicked out? Serves you right, serves you right!” said Tatyana Pavlovna. I lowered myself silently onto the sofa and looked at her.
“But what’s the matter with him?” she looked me over intently. “Here, drink this glass, drink some water, drink it! Speak, what other mischief have you been up to?”
I murmured that I had been thrown out, and Bjoring had pushed me in the street.
“Are you able to understand anything yet, or not? Here, read and admire.” And taking a note from the table, she handed it to me and stood in front of me expectantly. I at once recognized Versilov’s hand, there were just a few lines: it was a note to Katerina Nikolaevna. I gave a start, and understanding immediately came back to me in full force. Here are the contents of this terrible, outrageous, preposterous, and villainous note, word for word:
Dear Madam, Katerina Nikolaevna,
However depraved you are, by your nature and by your art, still I always thought that you would restrain your passion and at least not make attempts on children. But even of that you were not ashamed. I inform you that the document known to you has certainly not been burned in a candle and was never with Kraft, so you will not gain anything here. And therefore do not corrupt the youth for nothing. Spare him, he is still under age, almost a boy, undeveloped mentally and physically, what use is he to you? I have sympathy for him, and therefore I have risked writing to you, though I have no hope of success. I have the honor of forewarning you that I am simultaneously sending a copy of this present to Baron Bjoring. A. Versilov.
I turned pale as I read, but then suddenly flushed, and my lips trembled with indignation.
“He means me! It’s about what I revealed to him two days ago!” I cried in fury.
“That’s just it—revealed!” Tatyana Pavlovna tore the note from my hands.
“But . . . that’s not, that’s not at all what I said! Oh, my God, what can she think of me now! But isn’t this mad? Yes, he’s mad . . . I saw him yesterday. When was the letter sent?”
“It was sent yesterday afternoon, it came in the evening, and today she gave it to me personally.”
“But I saw him yesterday myself. He’s mad! Versilov couldn’t have written like that, it was written by a madman! Who can write like that to a woman?”
“Such madmen write like that in a fury, when they go blind and deaf from jealousy and spite, and their blood turns to poisonous arsenic . . . But you still didn’t know about him, what kind he is! They’ll swat him for that now, there’ll be nothing left but a wet spot. He’s put himself under the axe! Better go to the Nikolaevsky railroad at night, lay his head on the rails, and get it lopped off, since he finds it so heavy to carry around! What drove you to tell him? What drove you to tease him? Did you want to boast?”
“But what hatred! What hatred!” I slapped myself on the head with my hand. “And what for, what for? Towards a woman! What has she done to him? What kind of relations did they have, that he can write such letters?”
“Ha-a-atred!” Tatyana Pavlovna imitated me with furious mockery.
The blood rose to my face again; it was as if I suddenly realized something quite new; I looked at her questioningly as hard as I could.
“Get out of here!” she shrieked, quickly turning away and waving her hand at me. “I’ve bothered enough with all of you! That will do now! You can all fall through the earth! . . . It’s only your mother I’m still sorry for . . .”
Naturally, I went running to Versilov. But such perfidy! Such perfidy!
IV
VERSILOV WAS NOT ALONE. I’ll explain beforehand: having sent such a letter to Katerina Nikolaevna the day before, and having actually (God only knows why) sent a copy of it to Baron Bjoring, he naturally had to expect that day, in the course of the day, certain “consequences” of his act, and therefore had taken measures of a sort. In the morning he had transferred mama and Liza (who, as I learned later, on coming back in the morning, had felt unwell and was lying in bed) upstairs to the “coffin,” and the rooms, especially our “drawing room,” had been thoroughly tidied up and cleaned. And indeed, at two o’clock in the afternoon, he had been visited by a certain Baron R., an army colonel, a gentleman of about forty, of German origin, tall, dry, with the look of a man of great physical strength, also with reddish hair like Bjoring, and slightly bald. He was one of those Barons R., of whom there are so many in the Russian army, all people of strong baronial arrogance, utterly without fortune, who live on their pay alone and are extremely soldierly and disciplinarian. I didn’t catch the beginning of their talk; they were both very animated, and how could they not be. Versilov was sitting on the sofa in front of the table, and the baron in an armchair to the side. Versilov was pale, but spoke with restraint and through his teeth, while the baron kept raising his voice and was obviously inclined to impulsive gestures, restrained himself with effort, but had a stern, haughty, and even scornful look, though not without a certain surprise. Seeing me, he frowned, but Versilov was almost glad of me: