"What is it, my dear, have you decided to make me a laughingstock here?"
"God save us," Ippolit smiled crookedly, "but I'm struck most of all by your extreme eccentricity, Lizaveta Prokofyevna; I confess, I deliberately slipped that in about Lebedev, I knew how it would affect you, affect you alone, because the prince really will forgive him and probably already has . . . maybe has even already found an excuse in his mind—is it so, Prince, am I right?"
He was breathless, his strange excitement was growing with every word.
"Well? . . ." Lizaveta Prokofyevna said wrathfully, surprised at his tone. "Well?"
"About you I've already heard a lot, in that same vein . . . with great gladness . . . have learned to have the highest respect for you," Ippolit went on.
He was saying one thing, but as if he wanted to say something quite different with the same words. He spoke with a shade of mockery and at the same time was disproportionately agitated, looked around suspiciously, was evidently confused and at a loss for every word, all of which, together with his consumptive look and strange, glittering, and as if frenzied gaze, involuntarily continued to draw people's attention to him.
"I'd be quite surprised, however, not knowing society (I admit it), that you not only remained in the company of our people tonight, which is quite unsuitable for you, but that you also kept these . . . girls here to listen to a scandalous affair, though they've already read it all in novels. However, I may not know . . . because I get confused, but, in any case, who except you would have stayed ... at the request of a boy (yes, a boy, again I admit it) to spend an evening with him and take . . . part in everything and ... so as ... to be ashamed the next day ... (I agree, however, that I'm not putting it right), I praise all that highly and deeply respect it, though by the mere look of his excellency your husband one can see how unpleasant it all is for him . . . heh, hee!" he tittered, quite confused, and suddenly went into such a fit of coughing that for some two minutes he was unable to go on.
"He even choked!" Lizaveta Prokofyevna said coldly and sharply, studying him with stern curiosity. "Well, dear boy, enough of you. It's time to go!"
"And allow me, my dear sir, for my part, to point out to you," Ivan Fyodorovich, having lost all patience, suddenly said vexedly, "that my wife is here visiting Prince Lev Nikolaevich, our mutual friend and neighbor, and that in any case it is not for you, young man, to judge Lizaveta Prokofyevna's actions, nor to refer aloud and in my teeth to what is written on my face. No, sir. And if my wife stayed here," he went on, growing more and more vexed with every word, "it was sooner out of amazement, sir, and an understandable contemporary curiosity to see some strange young people. And I myself stayed, as I stop sometimes in the street when I see something that can be looked upon as ... as ... as .. ."
"As a rarity," prompted Evgeny Pavlovich.
"Excellent and right," rejoiced his excellency, who had become a bit muddled in his comparison, "precisely as a rarity. But in any case, for me what is most amazing and even chagrining, if it may be put that way grammatically, is that you, young man, were not even able to understand that Lizaveta Prokofyevna stayed with you now because you are ill—if you are indeed dying—out of compassion, so to speak, on account of your pathetic words, sir, and that no sort of mud can cling to her name, qualities, and importance . . . Lizaveta Prokofyevna!" the flushed general concluded, "if you want to go, let us take leave of our good prince . . ."
"Thank you for the lesson, General," Ippolit interrupted gravely and unexpectedly, looking at him pensively.
"Let's go, maman,how long must this continue!" Aglaya said impatiently and wrathfully, getting up from her chair.
"Two more minutes, my dear Ivan Fyodorovich, if you permit," Lizaveta Prokofyevna turned to her husband with dignity, "it seems to me that he's all feverish and simply raving; I'm convinced by his eyes; he cannot be left like this. Lev Nikolaevich! May he spend the night here, so that they won't have to drag him to Petersburg tonight? Cher prince,are you bored?" she suddenly turned to Prince Shch. for some reason. "Come here, Alexandra, your hair needs putting right, my dear."
She put right her hair, which did not need putting right, and kissed her; that was all she had called her for.
"I considered you capable of development . . ." Ippolit spoke again, coming out of his pensiveness. "Yes! this is what I wanted to say." He was glad, as if he had suddenly remembered: "Burdovsky here sincerely wants to protect his mother, isn't that so? And it turns out that he disgraces her. The prince here wants to help Burdovsky, offers him, with purity of heart, his tender friendship and his capital, and is maybe the only one among you all who does not feel loathing for him, and here they stand facing each other like real enemies . . . Ha, ha, ha! You all hate Burdovsky, because in your opinion his attitude towards his mother is not beautiful and graceful—right? right? right? And you're all terribly fond of the beauty and gracefulness of forms, you stand on that alone, isn't it so? (I've long suspected it was on that alone!) Well, know, then, that maybe not one of you has loved his mother as Burdovsky has! You, Prince, I know, sent money to Burdovsky's mother on the quiet, through Ganechka, and I'll bet—hee, hee, hee!" (he giggled hysterically), "I'll bet that Burdovsky himself will now accuse you of indelicacy of form and disrespect for his mother, by God, he will, ha, ha, ha!"
Here he again lost his breath and began to cough.
"Well, is that all? Is that all now, have you said it all? Well, go to bed now, you have a fever," Lizaveta Prokofyevna interrupted impatiently, not taking her worried eyes off him. "Ah, Lord! He's still talking!"
"It seems you're laughing? Why must you keep laughing at me? I've noticed that you keep laughing at me," he suddenly turned anxiously and irritably to Evgeny Pavlovich; the latter was indeed laughing.
"I merely want to ask you, Mr. . . . Ippolit . . . sorry, I've forgotten your last name."
"Mr. Terentyev," said the prince.
"Yes, Terentyev, thank you, Prince, it was mentioned earlier, but it slipped my mind ... I wanted to ask you, Mr. Terentyev, is it true what I've heard, that you are of the opinion that you need only talk to the people through the window for a quarter of an hour, and they will at once agree with you in everything and follow you at once?"
"I may very well have said it . . ." Ippolit replied, as if trying to recall something. "Certainly I said it!" he suddenly added, becoming animated again and looking firmly at Evgeny Pavlovich. "And what of it?"
"Precisely nothing; merely for my own information, to add it all up."
Evgeny Pavlovich fell silent, but Ippolit went on looking at him in impatient expectation.
"Well, are you finished, or what?" Lizaveta Prokofyevna turned to Evgeny Pavlovich. "Finish quickly, dear boy, it's time he went to bed. Or don't you know how?" (She was terribly vexed.)
"I wouldn't mind adding," Evgeny Pavlovich went on with a smile, "that everything I've heard from your comrades, Mr. Terentyev, and everything you've just explained, and with such unquestionable talent, boils down, in my opinion, to the theory of the triumph of rights, before all, and beyond all, and even to the exclusion of all else, and perhaps even before analyzing what makes up these rights. Perhaps I'm mistaken?"
"Of course you're mistaken, and I don't even understand you . . . go on."
There was also a murmur in the corner. Lebedev's nephew muttered something in a half-whisper.