Текст книги "Demons"

Автор книги: Федор Достоевский

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 56 страниц)

The narrator suddenly broke off and was turning to Lebyadkin, but Varvara Petrovna stopped him; she was in the greatest exaltation.

"Have you finished?" she asked.

"Not yet; for completeness, I would have to put some questions on certain matters to this gentleman, with your permission... You will see presently what it's about, Varvara Petrovna."

"Enough, later, stop for a moment, I beg you. Oh, how good it is that I allowed you to speak!"

"And observe, Varvara Petrovna," Pyotr Stepanovich roused himself, "how could Nikolai Vsevolodovich have explained all this to you himself just now, in answer to your question, which was perhaps much too categorical?"

"Oh, much too much!"

"And was I not right to say that in certain cases it is much easier for a third person to explain than for the interested person himself!"

"Yes, yes... But in one thing you are mistaken, and I regret to see that you continue to be mistaken."

"Really? What's that?"

"You see... And, incidentally, why don't you sit down, Pyotr Stepanovich?"

"Oh, if you like, and I am tired, thank you."

He at once pulled out a chair and turned it in such a way that he wound up between Varvara Petrovna on the one side and Praskovya Ivanovna at the table on the other, and facing Mr. Lebyadkin, whom he would not take his eyes off for a moment.

"You are mistaken in calling it 'whimsicality'..."

"Oh, if that's all..."

"No, no, no, wait," Varvara Petrovna stopped him, obviously preparing herself to speak much and ecstatically. As soon as he noticed it, Pyotr Stepanovich became all attention.

"No, this was something higher than whimsicality and, I assure you, even something holy! A man, proud and early insulted, who had arrived at that 'jeering' which you mentioned so aptly—in short, a Prince Harry, to use Stepan Trofimovich's magnificent comparison at the time, which would be perfectly correct if he did not resemble Hamlet even more, at least in my view."

"Et vous avez raison," ^[lxxv]Stepan Trofimovich echoed, weightily and with feeling.

"Thank you, Stepan Trofimovich, you I thank especially, and precisely for your constant faith in Nicolas, in the loftiness of his soul and calling. You even strengthened this faith in me when I was losing spirit..."

"Chère, chère..." Stepan Trofimovich was already making a step forward, but stopped, realizing that it would be dangerous to interrupt.

"And if Nicolas had always had at his side" (Varvara Petrovna was half singing now) "a gentle Horatio, great in his humility—another beautiful expression of yours, Stepan Trofimovich—he would perhaps have been saved long ago from the sad and 'sudden demon of irony' that has tormented him all his life. (The phrase about the demon of irony is again an astonishing expression of yours, Stepan Trofimovich.) But Nicolas never had a Horatio, or an Ophelia. He had only his mother, but what can a mother do alone and in such circumstances? You know, Pyotr Stepanovich, I can even understand, and quite well, how a being such as Nicolas could appear even in such dirty slums as those you were telling about. I can imagine so clearly now this 'jeering' life (your remarkably apt expression!), this insatiable thirst for contrast, this dark background of the picture, against which he appears like a diamond—again according to your comparison, Pyotr Stepanovich. And so he meets there a creature offended by everyone, a cripple, half crazy, and perhaps at the same time with the noblest feelings!"

"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?"

"That. . . that was drink more than anything, Pyotr Stepanovich!" (He suddenly raised his head.) "Pyotr Stepanovich! If family honor and the heart's undeserved disgrace cry out among men, then—can a man be to blame even then?" he bellowed suddenly, forgetting himself as before.

"And are you sober now, Mr. Lebyadkin?" Pyotr Stepanovich gave him a piercing look.

"I... am sober."

"What is the meaning of this family honor and the heart's undeserved disgrace?"

"It's about nobody, I didn't mean anybody. It's me myself..." the captain crumbled again.

"You seem to have been very offended by the way I spoke about you and your conduct? You are very irritable, Mr. Lebyadkin. Excuse me, but I haven't even begun to say anything about your conduct in its real aspect. I shall begin to talk about your conduct in its real aspect. I shall begin, that may very well be, but so far I haven't even begun in any realaspect."

Lebyadkin gave a start and stared wildly at Pyotr Stepanovich.

"Pyotr Stepanovich, I am only now beginning to awaken!"

"Hm. And it's I who have awakened you?"

"Yes, it's you who have awakened me, and I've been sleeping for four years under a dark cloud. May I finally withdraw, Pyotr Stepanovich?"

"Now you may, unless Varvara Petrovna finds it necessary..."

But she waved him on his way.

The captain bowed, walked two steps towards the door, suddenly stopped, put his hand to his heart, was about to say something, did not say it, and quickly rushed out. But in the doorway he ran right into Nikolai Vsevolodovich; the latter stood aside; the captain somehow shrank before him and simply froze on the spot, without tearing his eyes from him, like a rabbit in front of a snake. Nikolai Vsevolodovich, having paused briefly, brushed him aside with his arm and walked into the drawing room.

VII

He was cheerful and calm. Perhaps something very nice had just happened to him, as yet unknown to us; but he seemed to be even especially pleased with something.

"Will you forgive me, Nicolas?" Varvara Petrovna could not help herself and rose hastily to meet him.

But Nicolas positively burst out laughing.

"Just as I thought!" he exclaimed good-naturedly and jokingly. "I see you already know everything. And I, once I'd walked out of here, began thinking in the carriage: 'I ought at least to have told them the anecdote, it's not right to go off like this.' But then I remembered that you'd been left with Pyotr Stepanovich, and my care dropped away."

As he spoke he looked cursorily around.

"Pyotr Stepanovich told us an old Petersburg story from the life of one whimsical fellow," Varvara Petrovna rapturously joined in, "one mad and capricious fellow, though always lofty in his feelings, always chivalrously noble..."

"Chivalrously? Can it have gone as far as that?" Nicolas laughed. "Anyhow, this time I'm very grateful to Pyotr Stepanovich for his hastiness" (here he exchanged a momentary glance with him). "Be it known to you, maman, that Pyotr Stepanovich is a universal peacemaker; that is his role, his disease, his hobbyhorse, and I especially recommend him to you on that point. I can guess what he dashed off for you here. He precisely dashes off when he talks; he's got an office in his head. Note that being a realist he cannot lie, and truth is dearer to him than success ... save, naturally, on those special occasions when success is dearer than truth." (He kept looking around as he was saying this.) "So you can clearly see, maman, that it is not you who should ask forgiveness of me, and if there is madness here anywhere, it is, of course, first of all on my part, and so, finally, I am crazy after all—just to keep up my local reputation..."

Here he embraced his mother tenderly.

"Anyhow, everything is said and done, and so we can finish with it," he added, and some dry, hard little note sounded in his voice. Varvara Petrovna understood this note; yet her exaltation would not leave her, even quite the contrary.

"I really didn't expect you before another month, Nicolas!"

"I will of course explain everything to you, maman, but now..."

And he went towards Praskovya Ivanovna.

But she barely turned her head to him, stunned though she had been by his first appearance half an hour earlier. Now, however, she had some new trouble: from the very moment the captain had gone out and run into Nikolai Vsevolodovich in the doorway, Liza had suddenly begun to laugh—at first softly, fitfully, but then her laughter increased more and more, becoming louder and more obvious. She was flushed. The contrast with her recent gloomy look was extreme. While Nikolai Vsevolodovich was speaking with Varvara Petrovna, she beckoned a couple of times to Mavriky Nikolaevich, as if wishing to whisper something to him; but as soon as he bent down to her, she would dissolve in laughter; one might have concluded that she was laughing precisely at poor Mavriky Nikolaevich. However, she made a visible effort to restrain herself, and put her handkerchief to her lips. Nikolai Vsevolodovich, with a most innocent and guileless air, addressed her in greeting.

"Excuse me, please," she answered in a patter, "you... you have seen Mavriky Nikolaevich, of course... My God, Mavriky Nikolaevich, how inadmissibly tall you are!"

And again laughter. Mavriky Nikolaevich was indeed tall, but not inadmissibly so.

"Did you... arrive long ago?" she murmured, again restraining herself, even embarrassed, but with flashing eyes.

"A little over two hours ago," Nicolas replied, studying her intently. I will observe that he was remarkably restrained and polite, but, politeness aside, he looked totally indifferent, even listless.

"And where will you be living?"

"Here."

Varvara Petrovna was also watching Liza, but a thought suddenly struck her.

"And where have you been all this time, Nicolas, for more than two hours?" she ventured. "The train comes at ten o'clock."

"I first took Pyotr Stepanovich to Kirillov. And Pyotr Stepanovich I met at Matveevo" (three stations away), "we came here in the same car."

"I'd been waiting at Matveevo since dawn," Pyotr Stepanovich picked up. "Our rear cars got derailed in the night; we almost broke our legs."

"Broke their legs!" Liza cried out. "Maman, maman, you and I were going to go to Matveevo last week, so we could have broken our legs, too!"

"Lord have mercy!" Praskovya Ivanovna crossed herself.

"Maman, maman, dear ma, don't be afraid if I really break both my legs; it's quite likely to happen to me, you yourself say I gallop around at breakneck speed every day. Mavriky Nikolaevich, will you lead me about when I'm lame?" she laughed aloud again. "If it happens, I won't have anyone else but you lead me about, you may safely count on that. Well, say I'll just break one leg... Well, be so kind, tell me you'll consider it a blessing."

"Where's the blessing in having one leg?" Mavriky Nikolaevich frowned gravely.

"But you will lead me about, you alone, I won't let anyone else!"

"You'll lead me about even then, Lizaveta Nikolaevna," Mavriky Nikolaevich murmured even more gravely.

"God, he wanted to make a pun!" Liza exclaimed, almost horrified. "Mavriky Nikolaevich, don't you ever dare to set out on that path! What a great egoist you are after that! No, I'm convinced, to your credit, that you're slandering yourself now; on the contrary, you'll be assuring me from morning till night that I've become even more interesting minus a leg! But one thing is irremediable—you are immensely tall, and I'll become so very tiny minus a leg, how will you be able to take my arm, what sort of couple will we make!"

And she laughed morbidly. Her hints and witticisms were flat, but she apparently no longer cared about quality.

"Hysterics!" Pyotr Stepanovich whispered to me. "A glass of water, quickly!"

He had guessed right; a minute later everyone was bustling about, water was brought. Liza embraced her maman, kissed her fervently, wept on her shoulder, and then, drawing back and peering into her face, at once began laughing loudly again. Finally, the maman also began to whimper. Varvara Petrovna hustled them off to her rooms, through the same door by which Darya Pavlovna had come out to us earlier. But they did not stay away long, about four minutes, no more...

I am now trying to recall every detail of these last moments of that memorable morning. I remember that when we were left alone, without the ladies (except for Darya Pavlovna, who did not move from her place), Nikolai Vsevolodovich went around and greeted each of us, except for Shatov, who continued to sit in his corner, bending towards the ground even more than before. Stepan Trofimovich had just begun talking about something extremely witty with Nikolai Vsevolodovich, but he hastily went towards Darya Pavlovna. On the way he was intercepted almost forcibly by Pyotr Stepanovich, who dragged him to the window and began whispering to him about something evidently very important, judging by the expression on his face and the gestures that accompanied the whisper. But Nikolai Vsevolodovich listened very languidly, even distractedly, with his official smile, even impatiently towards the end, and kept making as if to leave. He stepped away from the window precisely as our ladies came back; Varvara Petrovna sat Liza down in her former place, insisting that it was absolutely necessary to wait and rest for at least ten minutes, and that it was unlikely that fresh air would be good just then for her upset nerves. She really was being awfully attentive to Liza, and herself sat down beside her. The now free Pyotr Stepanovich sprang over to them at once and began a rapid, merry conversation. It was then that Nikolai Vsevolodovich finally went up to Darya Pavlovna with his unhurried gait; Dasha became all aflutter on her seat as he approached, and quickly jumped up in visible confusion, her whole face flushed red.

"I gather you are to be congratulated ... or not yet?" he said, with a sort of peculiar wrinkle on his face.

Dasha made some reply, but it was hard to hear.

"Forgive my indiscretion," he raised his voice, "but, you know, I was specially notified. Do you know that?"

"Yes, I know you were specially notified."

"Anyway, I hope I haven't interfered in anything with my congratulations," he laughed, "and if Stepan Trofimovich..."

"Congratulations for what, for what?" Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly sprang over. "What are you to be congratulated for, Darya Pavlovna? Bah! You mean for that? The blush on your face tells me I've guessed right. Indeed, what else can our beautiful and well-behaved young ladies be congratulated for, and what sort of congratulations makes them blush the most? Well, miss, accept mine as well, if I've guessed right, and pay what you owe me—remember, in Switzerland you bet me that you would never get married ... Ah, yes, about Switzerland– what's the matter with me? Imagine, that's half the reason I'm here, and I almost forgot: tell me," he turned quickly to Stepan Trofimovich, "when are you going to Switzerland?"

"I... to Switzerland?" Stepan Trofimovich was surprised and embarrassed.

"What? You're not going? But aren't you also getting married ... as you wrote?"

"Pierre!" exclaimed Stepan Trofimovich.

"Pierre, nothing... You see, if it pleases you, I came flying here to announce to you that I am not at all against it, since you insisted on having my opinion, and as soon as possible; and if" (he went on spilling) "you need to be 'saved,' as you say and implore right there in the same letter, then again I'm at your service. Is it true that he's getting married, Varvara Petrovna?" he quickly turned to her. "I hope I'm not being indiscreet; he himself writes that the whole town knows and everyone's congratulating him, so that, to avoid it, he goes out only at night. The letter is in my pocket. But, would you believe, Varvara Petrovna, I understand nothing in it! Tell me just one thing, Stepan Trofimovich, are you to be congratulated or 'saved'? You won't believe me, but next to the happiest lines there are the most desperate ones. First of all, he asks my forgiveness; well, let's say that's just his way... Still, I can't help observing: imagine, the man has seen me twice in his life, and that by accident, and now suddenly, marrying for the third time, he imagines that in doing so he's violating some sort of parental duties towards me, and entreats me, from a thousand miles away, not to be angry and to grant him permission! Please don't go getting offended, Stepan Trofimovich, it's a feature of your time, I take a broad view and do not condemn, and let's say it does you honor, etc., etc., but again, the main thing is that I don't understand the main thing. There's something here about some 'sins in Switzerland.' I'm getting married, he says, on account of some sins, or because of someone else's sins, or however he puts it—'sins,' in short. 'The girl,' he says, 'is a pearl and a diamond,' well, and naturally 'he is unworthy'—that's his style; but because of some sins or circumstances, 'I am forced to go to the altar, and then to Switzerland,' and therefore 'drop everything and fly here to save me.' Can you understand anything after all that? However... however, I notice from the look on your faces" (he kept turning around, holding the letter in his hand, peering into their faces with an innocent smile) "that I seem to have committed a blunder, in my usual fashion... because of my foolish frankness, or hastiness, as Nikolai Vsevolodovich says. I thought we were among our own here—I mean, your own, Stepan Trofimovich, your own—but I, in fact, am a stranger, and I see ... I see that everyone knows something, and something that I precisely do not know."

He still kept looking around him.

"Did Stepan Trofimovich really write to you that he was marrying

'someone else's sins committed in Switzerland,' and that you should fly to 'save him,' in those very expressions?" Varvara Petrovna suddenly went up to him, all yellow, her face distorted, her lips quivering.

"I mean, you see, madam, if there's something here I didn't understand," Pyotr Stepanovich became as if frightened, and hurried on even more, "then of course it's his fault, since that's the way he writes. Here's the letter. You know, Varvara Petrovna, his letters are endless and ceaseless, and in the past two or three months it was simply one letter after another, and, I confess, towards the end I sometimes didn't finish them. Forgive me my foolish confession, Stepan Trofimovich, but do please admit that, though you addressed them to me, you were still writing more for posterity, so it's all the same to you... Now, now, don't be offended; after all, we're no strangers! But this letter, Varvara Petrovna, this letter I did read to the end. These 'sins'—these 'someone else's sins'—these are surely some little sins of our own, and most innocent ones I'll bet, yet because of them we've suddenly decided to start a terrible story, with a noble tinge—it's for the sake of this noble tinge that we started it. You see, something must have gone lame here in the accounting department—one must finally admit. We're very fond of a little game of cards, you know... but, anyway, this is unnecessary, quite unnecessary, excuse me, I babble too much, but, by God, Varvara Petrovna, he put a scare into me, and I really got myself half ready to 'save' him. After all, I'm ashamed myself. Am I holding a knife to his throat, or what? Am I some implacable creditor, or what? He writes something here about a dowry... And, anyway, Stepan Trofimovich, are you really getting married, for pity's sake? It would be just like us, we talk and talk, and it's all more for style... Ah, Varvara Petrovna, but I'm sure you perhaps disapprove of me now, and also precisely for my style ..."

"On the contrary, on the contrary, I see that you have lost patience, and you most certainly had reasons to," Varvara Petrovna picked up maliciously.

She had listened with malicious pleasure to the whole "truthful" torrent of words from Pyotr Stepanovich, who was obviously playing a role (I did not know then what it was, but it was obviously a role, played even much too crudely).

"On the contrary," she went on, "I am only too grateful to you for having spoken; without you I would never have found out. For the first time in twenty years I am opening my eyes. Nikolai Vsevolodovich, you just said that you, too, had been specially notified: did Stepan Trofimovich also write in the same manner to you?"

"I received from him a quite innocent and... and ... a very noble letter..."

"You're embarrassed, fishing for words—enough! Stepan Trofimovich, I expect a great favor from you," she suddenly turned to him, her eyes flashing, "please be so good as to leave us right now, and henceforth never step across the threshold of my house."

I must ask you to bear in mind her recent "exaltation," which still had not passed. True, Stepan Trofimovich really was to blame! But this is what amazed me at the time: that he stood up with remarkable dignity both under Petrusha's "exposures," not even trying to interrupt them, and under Varvara Petrovna's "curse." Where did he get so much spirit? One thing I discovered was that he had been undoubtedly and deeply insulted by his first meeting with Petrusha earlier, namely, by that embrace. This was a deep, realgrief, at least in his eyes, for his heart. He had yet another grief at that moment, namely, his own morbid awareness that he had acted basely; this he confessed to me later in all frankness. And a real,undoubted grief is sometimes capable of making a solid and steadfast man even out of a phenomenally light-minded one, if only for a short time; moreover, real and true grief has sometimes even made fools more intelligent, also only for a time, of course; grief has this property. And, if so, then what might transpire with a man like Stepan Trofimovich? A whole revolution—also, of course, only for a time.

He made a dignified bow to Varvara Petrovna without uttering a word (true, there was nothing else left for him to do). He was about to walk out altogether, just like that, but could not help himself and went over to Darya Pavlovna. She seemed to have anticipated it, because she began speaking at once, all in a fright, as if hastening to forestall him:

"Please, Stepan Trofimovich, for God's sake, don't say anything," she began, in an ardent patter, with a pained look on her face, and hurriedly giving him her hand. "Be assured that I respect you all the same... and value you all the same, and... you think well of me, too, Stepan Trofimovich, and I will appreciate it very, very much..."

Stepan Trofimovich gave her a low, low bow.

"As you will, Darya Pavlovna, you know that this whole matter is entirely at your will! It was and it is, both now and hereafter," Varvara Petrovna concluded weightily.