Lebedev's dacha was no more than three hundred paces from the Epanchins'. Lizaveta Prokofyevna's first unpleasant impression at the prince's was to find him surrounded by a whole company of guests, not to mention that she decidedly hated two or three persons in that company; the second was her surprise at the sight of the completely healthy-looking, smartly dressed, and laughing young man coming to meet them, instead of a dying man on his deathbed, as she had expected to find him. She even stopped in
perplexity, to the extreme delight of Kolya, who, of course, could have explained perfectly well, before she set off from her dacha, that precisely no one was dying, nor was there any deathbed, but who had not done so, slyly anticipating Mrs. Epanchin's future comic wrath when, as he reckoned, she was bound to get angry at finding the prince, her sincere friend, in good health. Kolya was even so indelicate as to utter his surmise aloud, to definitively annoy Lizaveta Prokofyevna, whom he needled constantly and sometimes very maliciously, despite the friendship that bound them.
"Wait, my gentle sir, don't be in such a hurry, don't spoil your triumph!" Lizaveta Prokofyevna replied, settling into the armchair that the prince offered her.
Lebedev, Ptitsyn, and General Ivolgin rushed to offer chairs to the girls. The general offered Aglaya a chair. Lebedev also offered a chair to Prince Shch., even the curve of his back managing to show an extraordinary deference. Varya and the girls exchanged greetings, as usual, with rapture and whispering.
"It's true, Prince, that I thought to find you all but bedridden, so greatly did I exaggerate in my worry, and—I wouldn't lie for anything—I felt terribly vexed just now at your happy face, but, by God, it was only for a moment, till I had time to reflect. When I reflect, I always act and speak more intelligently; you do, too, I suppose. But to speak truly, I might be less glad of my own son's recovery, if I had one, than I am of yours; and if you don't believe me about that, the shame is yours, not mine. And this malicious brat allows himself even worse jokes with me. He seems to be your protégé; so I'm warning you that one fine day, believe me, I shall renounce the further satisfaction of enjoying the honor of his acquaintance."
"What fault is it of mine?" Kolya shouted. "However much I insisted that the prince was almost well now, you'd have refused to believe it, because it was far more interesting to imagine him on his deathbed."
"Will you be staying with us long?" Lizaveta Prokofyevna turned to the prince.
"The whole summer, and perhaps longer."
"And you're alone? Not married?"
"No, not married," the prince smiled at the naivety of the barb sent his way.
"You've no reason to smile; it does happen. I was referring to
the dacha. Why didn't you come to stay with us? We have a whole wing empty; however, as you wish. Do you rent it from him? This one?" she added in a half-whisper, nodding towards Lebedev. "Why is he grimacing all the time?"
Just then Vera came outside to the terrace, with the baby in her arms as usual. Lebedev, who had been cringing by the chairs, decidedly unable to figure out what to do with himself but terribly reluctant to leave, suddenly fell upon Vera, waved his arms at her to chase her from the terrace, and, forgetting himself, even stamped his feet at her.
"Is he crazy?" Mrs. Epanchin suddenly added.
"No, he ..."
"Drunk, maybe? It's not pretty company you keep," she snapped, taking in the remaining guests at a glance. "What a sweet girl, though! Who is she?"
"That's Vera Lukyanovna, the daughter of this Lebedev."
"Ah! . . . Very sweet. I want to make her acquaintance."
But Lebedev, who had heard Lizaveta Prokofyevna's praises, was already dragging his daughter closer in order to introduce her.
"Orphans, orphans!" he dissolved, approaching. "And this baby in her arms is an orphan, her sister, my daughter Lyubov, born in most lawful wedlock of the newly departed Elena, my wife, who died six weeks ago in childbed, as it pleased the Lord . . . yes, sir ... in place of a mother, though she's only a sister and no more than a sister ... no more, no more . . ."
"And you, my dear, are no more than a fool, forgive me. Well, enough, I suppose you realize that yourself," Lizaveta Prokofyevna suddenly snapped in extreme indignation.
"The veritable truth!" Lebedev bowed most respectfully and deeply.
"Listen, Mr. Lebedev, is it true what they say of you, that you interpret the Apocalypse?" asked Aglaya.
"The veritable truth . . . fifteen years now."
"I've heard of you. They wrote about you in the newspapers, I believe?"
"No, that was about another interpreter, another one, ma'am, but that one died, and I remained instead of him," said Lebedev, beside himself with joy.
"Do me a favor, explain it to me one of these days, since we're neighbors. I understand nothing in the Apocalypse."
"I can't help warning you, Aglaya Ivanovna, that it's all mere
charlatanism on his part, believe me," General Ivolgin, who had been waiting as if on pins and needles and wished with all his might to somehow start a conversation, suddenly put in quickly. He sat down beside Aglaya Ivanovna. "Of course, dacha life has its rights," he went on, "and its pleasures, and the method of such an extraordinary used to carry you in my arms, Aglaya Ivanovna." intrus*for interpreting the Apocalypse is an undertaking like any other, and even a remarkably intelligent undertaking, but I ... It seems you are looking at me in astonishment? General Ivolgin, I have the honor of introducing myself I
"Delighted. I know Varvara Ardalionovna and Nina Alexandrovna," Aglaya murmured, trying as hard as she could to keep from bursting out laughing.
Lizaveta Prokofyevna flared up. Something that had long been accumulating in her soul suddenly demanded to be let out. She could not stand General Ivolgin, with whom she had once been acquainted, but very long ago.
"You're lying, my dear, as usual, you never carried her in your arms," she snapped at him indignantly.
"You've forgotten, maman,he really did, in Tver," Aglaya suddenly confirmed. "We lived in Tver then. I was six years old, I remember. He made me a bow and arrow, and taught me how to shoot, and I killed a pigeon. Remember, you and I killed a pigeon together?"
"And he brought me a cardboard helmet and a wooden sword then, and I remember it!" Adelaida cried out.
"I remember it, too," Alexandra confirmed. "You all quarreled then over the wounded pigeon and were made to stand in the corner; Adelaida stood like this in the helmet and with the sword."
The general, in announcing to Aglaya that he had carried her in his arms, had said it just so,only in order to start a conversation, and solely because he almost always started a conversation with young people in that way, if he found it necessary to make their acquaintance. But this time it so happened, as if by design, that he had told the truth and, as if by design, had forgotten that truth himself. So that now, when Aglaya suddenly confirmed that the two of them had shot a pigeon together, his memory suddenly lit up, and he remembered it all himself, to the last detail, as an old person often remembers something from the distant past. It is hard
*Intruder, outsider, or impostor.
to say what in this memory could have had such a strong effect on the poor and, as usual, slightly tipsy general; but he was suddenly extraordinarily moved.
"I remember, I remember it all!" he cried. "I was a staff-captain then. You were such a tiny, pretty little girl. Nina Alexandrovna . . . Ganya ... I was received ... in your house. Ivan Fyodorovich . . ."