Текст книги "Demons"
Автор книги: Федор Достоевский
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5: The Wise Serpent
I
Varvara Petrovna rang the bell and threw herself into an armchair by the window.
"Sit down here, my dear," she motioned Marya Timofeevna to a seat in the middle of the room, by the big round table. "Stepan Trofimovich, what is this? Here, here, look at this woman, what is this?"
"I... I..." Stepan Trofimovich began to stammer...
But the footman came.
"A cup of coffee, now, specially, and as quickly as possible! Don't unhitch the carriage."
"'Mais, chère et excellente amie, dans quelle inquiétude ..." [lxxii]Stepan Trofimovich exclaimed in a sinking voice.
"Ah! French! French! You can see right off it's high society!" Marya Timofeevna clapped her hands, preparing rapturously to listen to a conversation in French. Varvara Petrovna stared at her almost in fright.
We were all silent, awaiting some denouement. Shatov would not raise his head, and Stepan Trofimovich was in disarray, as if it were all his fault; sweat stood out on his temples. I looked at Liza (she was sitting in the corner, almost next to Shatov). Her eyes kept darting keenly from Varvara Petrovna to the lame woman and back; a smile twisted on her lips, but not a nice one. Varvara Petrovna saw this smile. And meanwhile Marya Timofeevna was completely enthralled: with delight and not the least embarrassment she was studying Varvara Petrovna's beautiful drawing room—the furniture, the carpets, the paintings on the walls, the old-style decorated ceiling, the big bronze crucifix in the corner, the porcelain lamp, the albums and knickknacks on the table.
"So you're here, too, Shatushka!" she suddenly exclaimed. "Imagine, I noticed you long ago, but I thought: It's not him! How could he have come here!"—and she laughed gaily.
"Do you know this woman?" Varvara Petrovna turned to him at once.
"I do, ma'am," Shatov mumbled, stirred on his chair, but remained sitting.
"And what do you know? Quickly, please!"
"But what..." he grinned an unnecessary smile and faltered... "You can see for yourself."
"What can I see? Go on, say something!"
"She lives in that house where I... with her brother ... an officer."
"Well?"
Shatov faltered again.
"There's no point talking..." he grunted, and resolutely fell silent. He even blushed at his own resoluteness.
"Of course, nothing more could be expected of you!" Varvara Petrovna cut him off indignantly. It was clear to her now that everyone knew something, and at the same time that everyone was afraid of something and was evading her questions, wishing to conceal something from her.
The footman entered and offered her the specially ordered cup of coffee on a small silver tray, but at once, on a sign from her, went over to Marya Timofeevna.
"You got very cold just now, my dear, drink it quickly to warm yourself."
"Merci," Marya Timofeevna took the cup, and suddenly burst out laughing at having said mercito a footman. But, meeting Varvara Petrovna's menacing gaze, she became timid and set the cup on the table.
"You're not angry, auntie?" she prattled, with some sort of frivolous playfulness.
"Wha-a-at?" Varvara Petrovna reared and sat straight up in her chair. "What sort of aunt am I to you? What are you suggesting?"
Marya Timofeevna, who had not expected such wrath, began trembling all over with convulsive little shivers, as if in a fit, and recoiled against the back of her chair.
"I ... I thought that's how it should be," she prattled, staring at Varvara Petrovna, "that's what Liza called you."
"Which Liza?"
"But, this young lady," Marya Timofeevna pointed her finger.
"So she's already Liza to you?"
"You yourself just called her that," Marya Timofeevna regained some courage. "And I saw a beauty just like her in a dream," she chuckled as though inadvertently.
Varvara Petrovna understood and calmed down somewhat; she even smiled slightly at Marya Timofeevna's last phrase. The latter, having caught this smile, rose from her chair and, limping, went timidly up to her.
"Take it, I forgot to give it back, don't be angry at my impoliteness," she suddenly took from her shoulders the black shawl Varvara Petrovna had put on her earlier.
"Put it back on at once, and keep it for good. Go and sit down, drink your coffee, and please do not be afraid of me, my dear, calm yourself. I'm beginning to understand you."
"Chère amie..." Stepan Trofimovich allowed himself again.
"Ah, Stepan Trofimovich, one loses all sense here even without you; you at least might spare us... Please ring that bell, there beside you, to the servingwomen's quarters."
There was a silence. Her eyes ran suspiciously and irritably over all our faces. Agasha, her favorite maid, came in.
"Bring me the checkered kerchief, the one I bought in Geneva. What is Darya Pavlovna doing?"
"She does not feel very well, ma'am."
"Go and ask her to come here. Add that I want it very much, even if she isn't feeling well."
At that moment some unusual noise of footsteps and voices, similar to the previous one, was heard again from the adjacent rooms, and suddenly, breathless and "upset," Praskovya Ivanovna appeared on the threshold. Mavriky Nikolaevich was supporting her arm.
"Oh, dear me, I barely dragged myself here; Liza, you mad girl, what are you doing to your mother!" she shrieked, putting into this shriek, as is customary with all weak but very irritable people, all her pent-up irritation.
"Varvara Petrovna, dearest, I've come to fetch my daughter!"
Varvara Petrovna gave her a dark look, rose slightly to greet her, and, barely concealing her vexation, said:
"Good day, Praskovya Ivanovna, kindly sit down. I just knew you would come."
II
For Praskovya Ivanovna there could be nothing unexpected in such a reception. Ever since childhood, Varvara Petrovna had always treated her former boarding-school friend despotically and, under the guise of friendship, with all but contempt. In this case, however, the circumstances were also unusual. Over the last few days things had been tending towards a complete break between the two households, a fact I have already mentioned in passing. For Varvara Petrovna the reasons behind this incipient break remained mysterious and, consequently, were all the more offensive; but the main thing was that Praskovya Ivanovna had managed to assume a certain remarkably haughty position regarding her. Varvara Petrovna was wounded, of course, and meanwhile certain strange rumors began to reach her as well, which also annoyed her exceedingly, precisely by their vagueness. Varvara Petrovna was of a direct and proudly open character, a swooping character, if I may put it so. Least of all could she endure secret, lurking accusations; she always preferred open war. Anyhow, it was five days since the ladies had seen each other. The last visit had been paid by Varvara Petrovna, who had left "Drozdikha" offended and confounded. I can say without being mistaken that Praskovya Ivanovna walked in this time with the naïve conviction that Varvara Petrovna for some reason would quail before her; this could be seen even from the look on her face. But, apparently, the demon of the most arrogant pride took possession of Varvara Petrovna precisely when she had the slightest suspicion that she was for some reason considered humiliated. And Praskovya Ivanovna, like many weak people who allow themselves to be offended for a long time without protesting, was notable for being remarkably passionate in the attack the moment events turned in her favor. It is true that she was not well then, and illness always made her more irritable. I will add, finally, that the presence of the rest of us in the drawing room would not have hindered the two childhood friends if a quarrel had flared up between them; we were considered familiars and almost subordinates. I realized this just then, not without alarm. Stepan Trofimovich, who had not sat down since Varvara Petrovna's arrival, sank exhausted into his chair upon hearing Praskovya Ivanovna's shriek, and in despair began trying to catch my eye. Shatov turned sharply on his chair and even grunted something to himself. I think he wanted to get up and leave. Liza rose a little but sat down again at once, without even paying proper attention to her mother's shriek, not because of her "testy character," but because she was obviously all under the sway of some other powerful impression. Now she was looking off somewhere into the air, almost absentmindedly, and had even stopped paying her former attention to Marya Timofeevna.
III
"Oof, here!" Praskovya Ivanovna pointed to an armchair by the table and sank heavily into it with the help of Mavriky Nikolaevich. "I wouldn't sit down in your house, dearest, if it weren't for my legs!" she added in a strained voice.
Varvara Petrovna raised her head slightly, and with a pained look pressed the fingers of her right hand to her right temple, evidently feeling an acute pain there (a tic douloureux).
"Why so, Praskovya Ivanovna, why wouldn't you sit down in my house? I always enjoyed the genuine sympathy of your late husband, and as girls you and I played with dolls together in boarding school."
Praskovya Ivanovna waved her hands.
"I just knew it! You always start talking about boarding school when you're going to reproach me—that's your trick. In my view it's just fancy talk. I cannot abide this boarding school of yours."
"You seem to have come in particularly low spirits; how are your legs? Here, they're bringing you coffee; be my guest, drink it, and don't be angry."
"Dearest Varvara Petrovna, you treat me just as if I were a little girl. I don't want any coffee, so there!"
And she petulantly waved away the servant who was offering her coffee. (Incidentally, the others also declined coffee, with the exception of myself and Mavriky Nikolaevich. Stepan Trofimovich took a cup, but then set it on the table. Marya Timofeevna, though she very much wanted another cup, and had already reached for it, thought better of it and decorously declined, apparently pleased with herself for doing so.)
Varvara Petrovna smiled wryly.
"You know, Praskovya Ivanovna, my friend, you must have imagined something again and come here with it. You've lived by imagination all your life. You just got angry about boarding school; but do you remember how you came once and convinced the whole class that the hussar Shablykin had proposed to you, and how Madame Lefebure immediately exposed you in your lie? And you weren't even lying, you simply imagined it all for your own amusement. Well, speak: what is it now? What else have you imagined, what else are you displeased with?"
"And you fell in love with the priest who taught us religion in boarding school—take that, since you still have such a good memory– ha, ha, ha!"
She burst into bilious laughter and coughing.
"Ahh, so you haven't forgotten about the priest..." Varvara Petrovna gave her a hateful look.
Her face turned green. Praskovya Ivanovna suddenly assumed a dignified air.
"I'm in no mood for laughing now, dearest; why have you mixed my daughter up in your scandal before the eyes of the whole town– that is what I've come for!"
"My scandal?" Varvara Petrovna suddenly drew herself up menacingly.
"And I beg you to be more moderate, maman," Lizaveta Nikolaevna suddenly said.
"What did you say?" the maman was ready to shriek again, but suddenly withered under her daughter's flashing eyes.
"How can you talk of scandal, maman?" Liza flared up. "I came myself, with Yulia Mikhailovna's permission, because I wanted to know this unfortunate woman's story, so as to be useful to her."
“‘This unfortunate woman's story'!" Praskovya Ivanovna drawled with a spiteful laugh. "Is it fitting for you to get mixed up in such 'stories'? Ah, dearest! We've had enough of your despotism!" she turned furiously to Varvara Petrovna. "They say, whether it's true or not, that you've got the whole town marching to your orders, but now it seems your time has come!"
Varvara Petrovna sat straight as an arrow about to fly from the bow. For some ten seconds she looked sternly and fixedly at Praskovya Ivanovna.
"Well, Praskovya, thank God we're among our own here," she spoke at last, with ominous calm, "you've said a great deal that wasn't necessary."
"And I, my dear, am not so afraid of the world's opinion as some are; it's you who, under the guise of pride, are trembling before the world's opinion. And if there are only our own people here, it's so much the better for you than if strangers heard it."
"Have you grown smarter this week, or what?"
"I haven't grown smarter this week, it must be that the truth came out this week."
"What truth came out this week? Listen, Praskovya Ivanovna, don't vex me, explain this very minute, I ask you honestly: what truth came out, what do you mean by that?"
"But here it is, the whole truth, sitting right here!" Praskovya Ivanovna suddenly pointed her finger at Marya Timofeevna, with that desperate resolution which no longer considers the consequences but seeks only to strike at once. Marya Timofeevna, who had been looking at her all the while with gay curiosity, laughed joyfully at the sight of the wrathful guest's finger directed at her, and gaily fidgeted in her chair.
"Lord Jesus Christ, have they all lost their minds, or what!" Varvara Petrovna exclaimed and, turning pale, threw herself against the back of her chair.
She grew so pale that it even caused a commotion. Stepan Trofimovich was the first to rush to her; I also approached; even Liza rose from her place, though she remained standing by her chair; but it was Praskovya Ivanovna herself who was most frightened: she gave a cry, raised herself as much as she could, and almost wailed in a tearful voice:
"Varvara Petrovna, dearest, forgive me my spiteful foolishness! But, at least give her some water, someone!"
"Don't blubber, Praskovya Ivanovna, I beg you, please, and do move back, gentlemen, be so kind, there's no need for water!" Varvara Petrovna pronounced firmly, though softly, with her pale lips.
"Dearest!" Praskovya Ivanovna went on, calming down a little, "Varvara Petrovna, my friend, perhaps I am guilty of imprudent words, but, really, I'm so vexed, by these nameless letters most of all, which some paltry people are bombarding me with; I don't know why they don't write to you, since it's you they're writing about, and I, dearest, have a daughter!"
Varvara Petrovna silently gazed at her with wide-open eyes and listened in astonishment. At that moment a side door in the corner opened inaudibly and Darya Pavlovna appeared. She stopped and looked around; she was struck by our commotion. She must not immediately have noticed Marya Timofeevna, of whom no one had warned her. Stepan Trofimovich caught sight of her first, made a quick movement, blushed, and for some reason loudly announced: "Darya Pavlovna!" so that all eyes immediately turned to her.
"So, this is your Darya Pavlovna!" exclaimed Marya Timofeevna. "Why, Shatushka, your sister doesn't resemble you at all! How is it my man calls such loveliness the serf wench Dashka!"
Darya Pavlovna meanwhile had already gone up to Varvara Petrovna; but, struck by Marya Timofeevna's exclamation, she quickly turned around and remained thus in front of her chair, staring at the blessed fool with a long, riveted look.
"Sit down, Dasha," Varvara Petrovna said with horrifying calm, "Closer, like so; you can see the woman as well sitting down. Do you know her?"
"I've never seen her," Dasha replied softly and, after a pause, added at once: "She must be the ailing sister of one Mr. Lebyadkin."
"And I, my soul, am only now seeing you for the first time, though I've long wished curiously to make your acquaintance, for I can see good breeding in your every gesture," Marya Timofeevna cried enthusiastically. "And that lackey of mine goes around swearing, but can it be that you took his money, and you so well bred and so nice? For you are nice, nice, nice, it's I who tell you so!" she concluded rapturously, waving her hand in front of her.
"Do you understand any of that?" Varvara Petrovna asked with proud dignity.
"I understand all of it, ma'am..."
"Did you hear about the money?"
"It must be the money that I undertook, while I was in Switzerland, to bring to Mr. Lebyadkin, her brother, at the request of Nikolai Vsevolodovich."
Silence ensued.
"Did Nikolai Vsevolodovich himself ask you to bring it?"
"He wanted very much to send this money, just three hundred roubles, to Mr. Lebyadkin. And since he didn't know his address, but only knew that he would be coming to our town, he charged me to give it to Mr. Lebyadkin in case he should come."
"And what money is... missing? What was this woman saying just now?"
"That I really don't know, ma'am; it has also reached me that Mr. Lebyadkin is saying aloud of me that I supposedly did not give him all of it, but I don't understand these words. There were three hundred roubles, and I gave him three hundred roubles."
Darya Pavlovna was now almost completely calm. And I will note that generally it was difficult to astonish this girl or to perplex her for long with anything—whatever she might feel inside herself. She now gave all her answers unhurriedly, responding to each question promptly and with precision, quietly, evenly, with no trace of her first sudden agitation, and with no embarrassment such as might betray the awareness of any guilt in herself. Varvara Petrovna did not tear her eyes from her all the while she was speaking. For a moment, Varvara Petrovna pondered.
"If," she finally said firmly, and evidently for the spectators, though she looked only at Dasha, "if Nikolai Vsevolodovich did not turn even to me with this charge, but asked you, he of course had his own reasons for doing so. I do not think I have any right to be curious about it, if it has been kept secret from me. But the fact alone of your participation in this affair sets me completely at ease about it all, that you should know, Darya, first of all. But you see, my friend, even with a pure conscience you might commit some imprudence, not knowing the world; and this you did, by agreeing to have dealings with some scoundrel. The rumors this blackguard has spread confirm your error. But I shall make inquiries about him and, being your protectress, I shall know how to intercede for you. And now all this must be ended."
"Best of all, when he comes to you," Marya Timofeevna suddenly joined in, leaning forward in her armchair, "send him to the lackeys' room. Let him sit there and play his trumps with them on a bench, and we'll sit here and have coffee. A cup of coffee might be sent to him, too, but I deeply despise him."
And she shook her head emphatically.
"This must be ended," Varvara Petrovna repeated, having carefully heard out Marya Timofeevna. "Ring, please, Stepan Trofimovich."
Stepan Trofimovich rang, and then suddenly stepped forward, all excited.
"If... if I..." he babbled hotly, blushing, faltering, and stammering, "if I, too, have heard a most repulsive account, or, better to say, slander, then ... in perfect indignation... enfin, c 'est un homme perdu et quelque chose comme un forçat évadé..." [lxxiii]
He broke off and did not finish; Varvara Petrovna, narrowing her eyes, looked him up and down. The decorous Alexei Yegorovich came in.
"The carriage," Varvara Petrovna ordered, "and you, Alexei Yegorych, get ready to take Miss Lebyadkin home, wherever she tells you."
"Mr. Lebyadkin himself has been waiting downstairs for some time, ma'am, and wishes very much to be announced."
"That is impossible, Varvara Petrovna," Mavriky Nikolaevich, who had been imperturbably silent all the while, suddenly stepped forward in alarm. "If you will allow me, this is not the sort of man who can enter society, this... this... this is an impossible man, Varvara Petrovna."
"Hold off," Varvara Petrovna turned to Alexei Yegorych, and he disappeared.
" C'est un homme malhonnête et je crois même que c'est un forçat évadé ou quelque chose dans ce genre," [lxxiv]Stepan Trofimovich again muttered, again blushed, and again broke off.
"Liza, it's time to go," Praskovya Ivanovna announced squeamishly and rose from her seat. She seemed already to regret that, in her fright a little earlier, she had called herself a fool. While Darya Pavlovna was speaking, she had already begun listening with haughtily pursed lips. But I was struck most of all by the look of Lizaveta Nikolaevna from the moment Darya Pavlovna came in: hatred and contempt, much too unconcealed, flashed in her eyes.
"Hold off for a moment, Praskovya Ivanovna, I beg you," Varvara Petrovna stopped her with the same excessive calm. "Kindly sit down, I intend to speak everything out, and your legs hurt you. There, thank you. I lost my temper just now and said several impatient things to you. Kindly forgive me; it was foolish of me, and I'll be the first to repent, because I love justice in all things. Of course, you also lost your temper and mentioned some anonymous writer. Any anonymous calumny is deserving of contempt, if only because it is unsigned. If you think otherwise, I do not envy you. In any event, if I were in your place I would not drag such trash out of my pocket, I would not dirty myself. But you have dirtied yourself. However, since you started it, I will tell you that some six days ago I, too, received a letter, also anonymous and clownish. In it some scoundrel tries to persuade me that Nikolai Vsevolodovich has lost his mind and that I should beware of some lame woman who 'will play an extraordinary role in my fate'—I remember the expression. I thought it over and, knowing that Nikolai Vsevolodovich has an extraordinary number of enemies, I sent at once for one man here, a secret enemy of his and one of the most vengeful and contemptible of all, and my conversation with him at once convinced me of the contemptible source of the anonymous letter. If you, too, my poor Praskovya Ivanovna, have been bothered because of mewith the same sort of contemptible letters, and have been 'bombarded,' as you put it, then, of course, I'll be the first to regret having been the innocent cause. That is all I wanted to tell you by way of explanation. I'm sorry to see that you are so tired and are now beside yourself. Furthermore, I am absolutely determined now to admitthis suspicious man of whom Mavriky Nikolaevich said, in a not quite suitable phrase, that it was impossible to receivehim. Liza, especially, has no reason to be here. Come, Liza, my friend, and let me kiss you once more."
Liza crossed the room and stopped silently in front of Varvara Petrovna. The latter kissed her, took her by the hands, moved her back a little, looked at her with feeling, then made a cross over her and kissed her again.
"So, good-bye, Liza" (tears almost sounded in Varvara Petrovna's voice), "believe that I shall never cease to love you, whatever your fate promises hereafter ... God be with you. I have always blessed his holy right hand..."
She was going to add something, but checked herself and fell silent. Liza started walking back to her place, still in the same silence and as if pondering, but suddenly stopped before her mother.
"I won't go yet, maman, I'll stay with auntie a while longer," she spoke in a soft voice, but in those soft words there sounded an iron resolution.
"Oh, my God, what is it!" Praskovya Ivanovna cried out, feebly clasping her hands. But Liza did not answer, and did not even seem to hear; she sat down in her former corner and again began looking somewhere into the air.
Something proud and triumphant shone in Varvara Petrovna's face.
"Mavriky Nikolaevich, I have an extraordinary request: kindly go and have a look at that man downstairs, and if it is at all possible to admithim, bring him here."
Mavriky Nikolaevich bowed and went out. A minute later he brought in Mr. Lebyadkin.
IV
I have spoken before about the appearance of this man: a tall, curly, thick-set fellow of about forty, with a purple, somewhat bloated and flabby face, with cheeks that shook at every movement of his head, with small, bloodshot, at times quite cunning eyes, with a moustache and side-whiskers, with a nascent, fleshy, rather unpleasant-looking Adam's apple. But the most striking thing about him was that he appeared now wearing a tailcoat and clean linen. "There are people for whom clean linen is even indecent, sir," as Liputin once objected when Stepan Trofimovich jestingly reproached him for being slovenly. The captain also had black gloves, of which the right one, not yet put on, was held in his hand, while the left one, tightly stretched and refusing to be buttoned, half covered the fleshy left paw in which he held a brand-new, shiny, and probably never-before-sported round hat. It followed, therefore, that yesterday's "tailcoat of love," of which he had shouted to Shatov, actually existed. All this—that is, the tailcoat and linen—had been prepared (as I learned later) on Liputin's advice, for some mysterious purposes. There was no doubt that his arrival now (in a hired carriage) must also have been at someone's instigation and with someone's help; on his own he would never have managed to figure it out, along with getting dressed, ready, and resolved in some three quarters of an hour, even supposing that the scene on the church porch had become known to him immediately. He was not drunk, but was in the heavy, leaden, foggy state of a man who suddenly wakes up after many days of drinking. It seemed you would only have to shake him a couple of times by the shoulder and he would immediately become drunk again.
He all but flew into the drawing room, but suddenly stumbled over the carpet in the doorway. Marya Timofeevna simply died laughing. He gave her a ferocious look and suddenly took several quick steps towards Varvara Petrovna.
"I have come, madam..." he boomed, as if through a trumpet.
"Be so kind, my dear sir," Varvara Petrovna drew herself up, "as to take a seat over there on that chair. I will hear you from there just as well, and from here I will see you better."
The captain stopped, staring dully before him, but turned even so and sat in his appointed place, just by the door. The expression of his physiognomy betrayed extreme insecurity and, at the same time, insolence and some ceaseless irritation. He was terribly scared, one could see that, but his vanity also suffered, and one could guess that out of irritated vanity, despite his fear, he might venture any sort of insolence if the occasion arose. He apparently feared for every movement of his clumsy body. For all such gentlemen, as is known, when by some odd chance they appear in society, the worst suffering comes from their own hands and the constant awareness of the impossibility of somehow decently disposing of them. The captain froze in his chair, his hat and gloves in his hands, not taking his senseless eyes from Varvara Petrovna's stern countenance. He might have liked to take a better look around, but he did not dare yet. Marya Timofeevna, probably again finding his figure terribly funny, burst into another gale of laughter, but he did not stir. Varvara Petrovna kept him in that position for a mercilessly long time, a whole minute, studying him pitilessly.
"First, allow me to learn your name from you yourself," she spoke evenly and expressively.
"Captain Lebyadkin," boomed the captain. "I have come, madam..." he stirred again.
"I beg your pardon!" Varvara Petrovna again stopped him. "This pitiful person, who has so much attracted my interest, is she indeed your sister?"
"My sister, madam, who has escaped from under supervision, for she's in a certain condition..."
He suddenly faltered and turned purple.
"Don't take it perversely, madam," he became terribly disconcerted, "a brother's not going to soil ... in a certain condition—that's not to say that sort of condition ... in the sense that would stain one's reputation ... at this late stage..."
He suddenly broke off.
"My dear sir!" Varvara Petrovna raised her head.
"This sort of condition!" he continued suddenly, tapping the middle of his forehead with his finger. Silence ensued.
"And has she been suffering from it for a long time?" Varvara Petrovna drawled somewhat.
"Madam, I have come to thank you for the generosity you displayed on the church porch, as a Russian, as a brother..."
"As a brother?"
"I mean, not as a brother, but solely in the sense that I'm my sister's brother, madam, and believe me, madam," he went on pattering, turning purple again, "I'm not as uneducated as I may seem at first sight in your drawing room. My sister and I are nothing, madam, compared with the splendor we can observe here. Having our slanderers, besides. But as concerning his reputation, Lebyadkin is proud, madam, and... and... I've come to thank... Here is the money, madam!"
At this point he snatched the wallet from his pocket, tore a wad of bills from it, and began going through them with trembling fingers in a frenzied fit of impatience. One could see that he wanted to explain something as soon as possible, and needed very much to do so; but, probably feeling himself that this fumbling with the money made him look even more foolish, he lost the last of his self-possession; the money refused to be counted, his fingers got entangled, and, to crown the disgrace, one green bill [64]slipped out of the wallet and fluttered zigzag to the carpet.
"Twenty roubles, madam," he suddenly jumped up with the wad in his hand, his face sweaty from suffering; noticing the escaped bill on the floor, he bent down to pick it up, but for some reason felt ashamed and waved his hand.
"For your servants, madam, for the footman who picks it up—let him remember Miss Lebyadkin!"
"I cannot possibly allow that," Varvara Petrovna said hastily and with some fright.
"In that case..."
He bent down, picked it up, turned purple, and, suddenly approaching Varvara Petrovna, held the counted money out to her.
"What is this?" she finally became altogether frightened and even shrank back in her armchair. Mavriky Nikolaevich, myself, and Stepan Trofimovich all stepped forward.
