Текст книги "Demons"
Автор книги: Федор Достоевский
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II
Our prince suddenly, for no reason at all, committed two or three impossibly brazen acts upon various persons—that is, the main thing lay in their being so unheard-of, so utterly unlike anything else, so different from what is usually done, so paltry and adolescent, and devil knows why, with no pretext whatsoever. One of the most respectable senior members of our club, Pavel Pavlovich Gaganov, an elderly man and even a decorated one, had acquired the innocent habit of accompanying his every word with a passionately uttered: "No, sir, they won't lead me by the nose!" And so what. But one day in the club, when he uttered this aphorism at some heated moment to a small group of club guests gathered around him (none of them inconsequential), Nikolai Vsevolodovich, who was standing apart by himself and whom no one was addressing, suddenly came up to Pavel Pavlovich, seized his nose unexpectedly but firmly with two fingers, and managed to pull him two or three steps across the room. He could not have felt any anger towards Mr. Gaganov. One might think it was merely a childish prank, a most unpardonable one, of course; yet it was recounted later that at the very moment of the operation he was almost in a reverie, "just as if he had lost his mind"; but this was recalled and grasped long afterwards. At first, in the heat of the moment, everyone recalled only what happened next, by which time he certainly understood how things really were and not only did not become embarrassed but, on the contrary, smiled gaily and maliciously, "without the least repentance." There was a terrible uproar; he was surrounded. Nikolai Vsevolodovich kept turning and looking around, not answering anyone, gazing with curiosity at the exclaiming faces. At last he seemed suddenly to lapse into reverie again—so they said, at least—frowned, stepped firmly up to the insulted Pavel Pavlovich, and with obvious vexation muttered rapidly:
"Forgive me, of course ... I really don't know why I suddenly wanted... silly of me..."
The casualness of the apology amounted to a fresh insult. There was even more shouting. Nikolai Vsevolodovich shrugged and walked out.
All this was very silly, to say nothing of its ugliness—a calculated and deliberate ugliness, as it seemed at first sight, and therefore constituting a deliberate and in the highest degree impudent affront to our entire society. And that is how everyone understood it. First of all, Mr. Stavrogin was immediately and unanimously expelled from membership in the club; then it was decided on behalf of the whole club to appeal to the governor and ask him at once (without waiting for the affair to be taken formally to court) to restrain the pernicious ruffian, the big-city "swashbuckler, through the administrative power entrusted to him, and thereby protect the peace of all decent circles in our town from pernicious encroachments." It was added with malicious innocence that "some law may perhaps be found even for Mr. Stavrogin." This phrase was prepared for the governor precisely in order to sting him on account of Varvara Petrovna. They delighted in smearing it around. As if by design, the governor happened to be out of town then; he had gone somewhere nearby to baptize the baby of a certain interesting and recent widow who had been left in a certain condition by her husband; but it was known that he would soon return. Meanwhile they arranged a real ovation for the esteemed and offended Pavel Pavlovich: they embraced and kissed him; the whole town came to call on him. They even planned a subscription dinner in his honor, and abandoned the idea only at his urgent request—perhaps realizing finally that the man had after all been dragged by the nose, and therefore there was no reason to be quite so triumphant.
And yet how had it happened? How could it have happened? The remarkable thing was precisely that no one in the whole town ascribed this wild act to madness. Which meant that they were inclined to expect such acts from Nikolai Vsevolodovich even when sane. For my own part, to this day I do not know how to explain it, even despite the event that soon followed, which seemed to explain everything and, apparently, to pacify everyone. I will also add that, four years later, to my cautious question concerning this past event in the club, Nikolai Vsevolodovich responded, frowning: "Yes, I was not quite well then." But there is no point in rushing ahead.
I also found curious the explosion of general hatred with which everyone here fell upon the "ruffian and big-city swashbuckler." They insisted on seeing an insolent deliberateness and calculated intention to insult our whole society at once. In truth, the man pleased no one and, on the contrary, got everyone up in arms—but how, one wonders? Until the last occasion, he had not once quarreled with anyone, or insulted anyone, and was as courteous as a gentleman in a fashion plate, if the latter were able to speak. I suppose he was hated for his pride. Even our ladies, who had begun with adoration, now cried against him still more loudly than the men.
Varvara Petrovna was terribly struck. She confessed later to Stepan Trofimovich that she had long been foreseeing it all, during that entire half year, every day, and even precisely "of that very sort"—a remarkable confession on the part of one's own mother. "It's begun!" she thought with a shudder. The next morning after the fatal evening in the club, she set out cautiously but resolutely to have a talk with her son, and yet the poor woman was all atremble despite her resolution. She had not slept all night and had even gone early in the morning to confer with Stepan Trofimovich and wept while she was there, which had never happened to her in public before. She wished that Nicolas would at least say something to her, at least deign to talk with her. Nicolas, always so courteous and respectful with his mother, listened to her for some time, scowling but very serious; suddenly he got up without a word of response, kissed her hand, and walked out. And that same day, in the evening, as if by design, there came another scandal which, though a bit more mild and ordinary than the first, nevertheless, owing to the general mood, considerably increased the town outcry.
Namely, our friend Liputin turned up. He called on Nikolai Vsevolodovich immediately after his talk with his mama, and earnestly requested the honor of his presence that same evening at a party on the occasion of his wife's birthday. Varvara Petrovna had long looked with a shudder at the low orientation of Nikolai Vsevolodovich's acquaintances, but never dared to remark on it. He had already struck up several other acquaintances in this third-rate stratum of our society, and even lower—but such was his inclination. However, he had not yet visited Liputin's house, though he had met Liputin himself. He realized that Liputin was inviting him as a result of the scandal in the club the day before, that as a local liberal he was delighted by the scandal, sincerely thought it was the proper way to treat senior club members, and that it was all very good. Nikolai Vsevolodovich laughed and promised to come.
Many guests assembled; they were unsightly but rollicksome people. The vain and jealous Liputin invited guests only twice a year, but on those occasions he did not stint. The most honored guest, Stepan Trofimovich, did not come for reason of illness. Tea was served; there was an abundance of appetizers and vodka; cards were being played at three tables, and while waiting for supper the young people started dancing to the piano. Nikolai Vsevolodovich chose Madame Liputin—a very pretty little lady, who was terribly shy of him—took two turns with her, sat down beside her, made her talk, made her laugh. Finally, after remarking on how pretty she was when she laughed, he suddenly put his arm around her waist, in front of all the guests, and kissed her on the lips, three times in a row, to the full of his heart's content. The poor frightened woman fainted. Nikolai Vsevolodovich took his hat, went up to her husband, who stood dumbstruck amid the general commotion, looked at him, became confused himself, muttered hastily "Don't be angry," and walked out. Liputin ran after him to the front hall, helped him into his fur coat with his own hands, and, bowing, saw him down the stairs. And the very next day there came a rather amusing addition to this, comparatively speaking, essentially innocent story—an addition which thereafter even brought Liputin a sort of honor, which he was able to exploit to his full advantage.
Around ten o'clock in the morning, Liputin's servant Agafya, a bold, pert, and red-cheeked wench of about thirty, appeared at Mrs. Stavrogin's house, sent by him with a message for Nikolai Vsevolodovich, saying she absolutely had "to see the master himself, ma'am." He had a very bad headache, but he came out. Varvara Petrovna managed to be present when the message was delivered.
"Sergei Vasilyich" (that is, Liputin), Agafya rattled out pertly, "asked me first of all to bring you his greetings and inquire about your health, sir, how you slept yesterday, and how you feel now after yesterday, sir."
Nikolai Vsevolodovich grinned.
"Bring him my greetings and thanks, and tell your master from me, Agafya, that he is the most intelligent man in the whole town."
"And he told me to answer you on that," Agafya picked up even more pertly, "that he knows it even without you, and he wishes you the same, sir."
"Well, now! And how could he have found out what I was going to tell you?"
"I really don't know what way he found out, sir, but when I'd left and was already at the other end of the lane, I heard him running after me without his cap, sir. 'Agafyushka,' he said, 'if it perhappens he says to you: "Tell your master he's the smartest man in town," then be sure to say at once: "We know that ver-ry well ourselves, and the same to you, sir...”‘“
III
The talk with the governor also finally took place. Our dear, mild Ivan Osipovich had just returned and had just had time to hear the club's hot complaint. Without a doubt something had to be done, but he was perplexed. Our hospitable old man also seemed a bit afraid of his young relative. He decided, however, to persuade him to apologize to the club and to the offended man, but in satisfactory form, and if necessary even in writing, and then gently talk him into leaving us and going to Italy, say, for the interest of it, or generally somewhere abroad. In the reception room, where he came out this time to meet Nikolai Vsevolodovich (who on other occasions, as a relative, wandered freely all over the house), the well-bred Alyosha Telyatnikov, an official and also a familiar of the governor's house, was opening envelopes in the corner at a table; and in the next room, by the window nearest the door, a visitor had placed himself, a fat and healthy colonel, a friend and former colleague of Ivan Osipovich's, who was reading the Voice,paying no attention, of course, to what was going on in the reception room; he even sat with his back turned. Ivan Osipovich began in a roundabout way, almost in a whisper, but kept getting slightly confused. Nicolas had an ungracious look, not at all like a relative, was pale, sat staring at the floor, and listened with knitted brows, as if overcoming great pain.
"You have a kind heart, Nicolas, and a noble one," the old man included among other things, "you are quite an educated man, you have moved in the highest circles, and here, too, your behavior up to now has been exemplary and you have set at ease the heart of your mother, who is dear to us all. . . And now everything has again taken on a coloring so mysterious and dangerous for everyone! I speak as a friend of your family, as an elderly man who is your relative and loves you sincerely, in whom you can take no offense... Tell me, what prompts you to such unbridled acts, so beyond all convention and measure? What might be the meaning of such escapades, as if in delirium?"
Nicolas listened with vexation and impatience. Suddenly something as if sly and mocking flashed in his eyes.
"Perhaps I'll tell you what prompts me," he said sullenly, and, looking around, he leaned towards Ivan Osipovich's ear. The well-bred Alyosha Telyatnikov withdrew another three steps towards the window, and the colonel coughed over the Voice.Poor Ivan Osipovich hastily and trustfully offered his ear; he was an extremely curious man. And here something utterly impossible occurred, which, on the other hand, was all too clear in one respect. The old man suddenly felt that, instead of whispering some interesting secret to him, Nicolas had suddenly caught the upper part of his ear in his teeth and clamped it quite firmly. He trembled and his breath failed.
"Is this a joke, Nicolas?" he moaned mechanically, in a voice not his own.
Alyosha and the colonel had no time to realize anything; besides, they could not see and thought all along that the two were whispering to each other; and yet the old man's desperate face worried them. They looked goggle-eyed at each other, not knowing whether to rush to his assistance, as agreed, or to wait longer. Nicolas noticed it, perhaps, and bit harder on the ear.
"Nicolas! Nicolas!" the victim moaned again, "so... you've had your joke, that's enough..."
Another moment and the poor man would, of course, have died of fright; but the monster had mercy on him and released his ear. This whole mortal terror lasted a full minute, and after it the old man had a sort of fit. But half an hour later Nicolas was arrested and taken for the time being to the guardhouse, where he was locked in a separate cell with a separate guard at the door. The decision was a harsh one, but our mild superior was so angry that he decided to take the responsibility upon himself even in the face of Varvara Petrovna. To the general amazement, this lady, who arrived at the governor's in haste and displeasure for an immediate explanation, was turned away at the porch; whereupon, without getting out of the carriage, she went back home, hardly able to believe it herself.
And finally everything was explained! At two o'clock in the morning, the arrested man, who until then had been surprisingly quiet and had even fallen asleep, suddenly raised a clamor, began beating violently on the door with his fists, with unnatural force tore the iron grating from the little window in the door, broke the glass, and cut his hands all over. When the officer of the guard came running with a detachment of men and the keys and ordered the cell to be opened so as to fall upon the raging man and bind him, it turned out that he was in an acute state of brain fever. He was brought home to his mama. At once everything was explained. All three of our doctors gave the opinion that the sick man could already have been in delirium three days earlier, still in possession of consciousness and cunning, but not of common sense and will—which, by the way, was confirmed by the facts. Thus it turned out that Liputin had been the first to guess right. Ivan Osipovich, a delicate and sensitive man, was extremely embarrassed; but, curiously, that meant that he, too, considered Nikolai Vsevolodovich capable of any crazy act while in his right mind. In the club they were also ashamed and puzzled at how they had failed to notice the elephant and had missed the only possible explanation of all these wonders. Skeptics turned up as well, of course, but they did not hold out for long.
Nicolas spent more than two months in bed. A famous doctor was invited from Moscow for consultation; the whole town came to call on Varvara Petrovna. Forgiveness was granted. Towards spring, when Nicolas had completely recovered and had assented without any objections to his mother's proposal that he go to Italy, she also persuaded him to pay farewell visits to everyone and, while doing so, to make apologies as far as possible and wherever necessary. Nicolas assented quite readily. It became known in the club that he had a most delicate talk with Pavel Pavlovich Gaganov in his own home, which left the man perfectly satisfied. Going around on his visits, Nicolas was very serious, even somewhat gloomy. Everyone received him, apparently, with complete sympathy, but everyone was also embarrassed for some reason and glad that he was going to Italy. Ivan Osipovich even shed a tear, but for some reason did not dare to embrace him even at this final parting. Indeed, some among us remained convinced that the scoundrel was simply laughing at us all, and that his illness was beside the point. He also stopped by at Liputin's.
"Tell me," he asked him, "how could you guess beforehand what I was going to say about your intelligence, and provide Agafya with an answer?"
"I'll tell you how," laughed Liputin. "It's because I also regard you as an intelligent man, and therefore could divine your answer beforehand."
"Still, it's a remarkable coincidence. Excuse me, however, but does it mean that you regarded me as an intelligent man and not a crazy one when you sent Agafya over?"
"As a most intelligent and reasonable man, and I only pretended to believe that you were not in your right mind ... And you immediately guessed my thoughts then and sent me a patent for my wit through Agafya."
"Well, there you're slightly mistaken. I really... wasn't well..." Nikolai Vsevolodovich muttered, frowning. "Bah!" he cried out, "do you really think I'm capable of throwing myself on people when I'm in my right mind? Why would I do that?"
Liputin cringed and was unable to answer. Nicolas became somewhat pale, or at least it seemed so to Liputin.
"In any case, you have a very amusing turn of mind," Nicolas continued, "and as for Agafya, I realize, of course, that you sent her to abuse me."
"Could I have challenged you to a duel, sir?"
"Ah, yes, right! I did hear something about your dislike of duels..."
"Why translate from the French!" Liputin cringed again.
"You adhere to native things?"
Liputin cringed even more.
"Hah, hah! What's this I see?" Nicolas cried out, suddenly noticing a volume of Considérant [39]in a most conspicuous place on the table. "Do you mean you're a Fourierist? Good for you! But isn't this also a translation from the French?" he laughed, tapping the book with his finger.
"No, it's not a translation from the French!" Liputin jumped up, even with some sort of spite. "It's a translation from the universal human language, sir, and not just from the French! From the language of the universally human social republic and harmony, that's what, sir! Not just from the French! ..."
"Pah, the devil, but there is no such language!" Nicolas went on laughing.
Sometimes even a little thing strikes one's attention exceptionally and for a long time. Though the whole main story about Mr. Stavrogin still lies ahead, I will note here, as a curiosity, that of all his impressions during all the time he spent in our town, the sharpest stamp was left in his memory by the homely and almost mean little figure of the little provincial official, the jealous husband and crude family despot, the miser and moneylender, who locked up candle ends and the leftovers from dinner, and who was at the same time a fierce sectarian of God knows what future "social harmony," who reveled by night in ecstasies over fantastic pictures of the future phalanstery, [40]in the coming realization of which, in Russia and in our province, he believed as firmly as in his own existence. And that in a place where he himself had set aside "a little house," where he had married a second time and picked up a bit of cash as a dowry, where perhaps for a hundred miles around there was not a single person, beginning with himself, who even outwardly resembled a future member of the "universally all-human social republic and harmony."
"God knows how these people get made!" Nicolas thought in bewilderment, occasionally recalling the unexpected Fourierist.
IV
Our prince traveled for more than three years, so that he was almost forgotten in town. But we knew through Stepan Trofimovich that he had been all over Europe, had even gone to Egypt and stopped off at Jerusalem; then he had stuck himself onto some scientific expedition to Iceland and actually visited Iceland. It was also reported that during one winter he attended lectures at some German university. He seldom wrote to his mother—once in six months or even less often; but Varvara Petrovna was not angry or offended. She accepted the once-established relationship with her son submissively and without a murmur; but, of course, every day of those three years she worried about her Nicolas, pined for him, and dreamed of him continually. She did not tell anyone about her dreams or complaints. Apparently she even withdrew somewhat from Stepan Trofimovich. She formed some plans within herself and, it seemed, became even stingier than before, and began saving even more and getting all the more angry over Stepan Trofimovich's losses at cards.
Finally, in April of this year, she received a letter from Paris, from Praskovya Ivanovna, General Drozdov's widow and her childhood friend. In the letter Praskovya Ivanovna—whom Varvara Petrovna had not seen or corresponded with for about eight years—informed her that Nikolai Vsevolodovich had become a familiar of her house and was friends with Liza (her only daughter), and intended to accompany them to Switzerland in the summer, to Vernex-Montreux, despite the fact that he was received like a son and was almost living in the family of Count K. (quite an influential person in Petersburg), who was now staying in Paris. It was a brief letter and its object was perfectly clear, though apart from the above-mentioned facts it contained no conclusions. Varvara Petrovna did not think long, made her mind up instantly, got ready, took her ward Dasha (Shatov's sister) with her, and in the middle of April went off to Paris and then to Switzerland. She returned alone in July, having left Dasha with the Drozdovs; the Drozdovs themselves, according to the news she brought, promised to come to us at the end of August.
The Drozdovs were also landowners of our province, but the duties of General Ivan Ivanovich (a former friend of Varvara Petrovna's and a colleague of her husband's) constantly prevented them from ever visiting their magnificent estate. After the general's death, which occurred last year, the inconsolable Praskovya Ivanovna went abroad with her daughter, with the intention among other things of trying the grape cure, which she planned to undergo at Vernex-Montreux in the latter half of the summer. On her return to the fatherland she intended to settle in our province for good. She had a big house in town, which for many years had stood empty with its windows boarded up. They were rich people. Praskovya Ivanovna, Mrs. Tushin by her first marriage, was also, like her school friend Varvara Petrovna, the daughter of an old-time tax farmer and had also married with a very large dowry. The retired cavalry captain Tushin was himself a man of means and of some ability. At his death he bequeathed a goodly capital to his seven-year-old and only daughter Liza. Now that Lizaveta Nikolaevna was about twenty-two, her own money could safely be reckoned at no less then 200,000 roubles, to say nothing of the fortune that would come to her in time from her mother, who had no children from her second marriage. Varvara Petrovna was apparently quite pleased with her trip. In her opinion, she had managed to come to a satisfactory understanding with Praskovya Ivanovna, and immediately upon her arrival she told everything to Stepan Trofimovich; she was even quite expansive with him, something which had not happened to her in a long time.
"Hurrah!" Stepan Trofimovich cried and snapped his fingers.
He was perfectly delighted, the more so as he had spent the whole time of separation from his friend being extremely dejected. She had not even said a proper good-bye to him as she was leaving, and did not mention any of her plans to "that old woman," fearing, perhaps, that he might blurt something out. She was angry with him then for the loss of a considerable sum at cards, which had suddenly been discovered. But while still in Switzerland she had felt in her heart that her abandoned friend should be rewarded on her return, the more so as she had long been treating him severely. The abrupt and mysterious separation struck and tormented the timid heart of Stepan Trofimovich, and, as if by design, other perplexities also came along at the same time.
He suffered over a certain rather considerable and long-standing financial obligation, which could by no means be met without Varvara Petrovna's help. Moreover, in May of this year came the end of our kindly, mild Ivan Osipovich's term as governor; he was replaced, and not without some unpleasantness. Then, in Varvara Petrovna's absence, the entrance of our new superior, Andrei Antonovich von Lembke, also took place; with that there at once began to be a noticeable change in the attitude of almost all our provincial society towards Varvara Petrovna, and, consequently, towards Stepan Trofimovich as well. At least he had already managed to gather a few unpleasant though valuable observations and, it seems, had grown very timid on his own without Varvara Petrovna. He had an alarming suspicion that the new governor had already received reports on him as a dangerous man. He learned positively that some of our ladies intended to stop calling on Varvara Petrovna. It was said repeatedly of the future governor's wife (who was expected here only in the autumn) that though she was, one heard, a haughty woman, at least she was a real aristocrat, not like "our wretched Varvara Petrovna." Everyone knew from somewhere, certainly and with details, that the new governor's wife and Varvara Petrovna had already met once in society and had parted in enmity, so that the mere reminder of Mrs. von Lembke supposedly produced a morbid impression on Varvara Petrovna. Varvara Petrovna's bright and victorious look, the contemptuous indifference with which she heard about the opinions of our ladies and the agitation in society, resurrected the fallen spirits of timid Stepan Trofimovich and cheered him up at once. With a special joyfully fawning humor he began to elaborate upon the new governor's arrival.
"You undoubtedly know, excellente amie," he spoke, drawing the words out fashionably and coquettishly, "what is meant by a Russian administrator, generally speaking, and what is meant by a new Russian administrator—that is, newly baked, newly installed... Ces interminables mots russes! [ix] ...But it is unlikely that you can have learned in practice what administrative rapture means and what sort of thing it is!"
"Administrative rapture? I have no idea."
"That is... Vous savez, chez nous... En un mot, [x] set some utter nonentity to selling some paltry railroad tickets, and this nonentity will at once decide he has the right to look at you like Jupiter when you come to buy a ticket, pour vous montrer son pouvoir, [xi] 'Come,' he thinks, 'I'll show my power over you...' And it reaches the point of administrative rapture with them ... En un mot,I've just read that some beadle in one of our churches abroad– mais c'est très curieux [xii] —chased out, I mean literally chased out of the church, a wonderful English family, les dames charmantes,just before the start of the Lenten service– vous savez ces chants et le livre de Job [xiii] —on the sole pretext that 'it is not in order for foreigners to hang about in Russian churches and they should come at the proper time...' and he sent them all into a faint... This beadle was in a fit of administrative rapture et il a montré son pouvoir [xiv] . . ."
"Abbreviate if you can, Stepan Trofimovich."
"Mr. von Lembke is now touring the province. En un mot,this Andrei Antonovich, though he is a Russian German of Orthodox faith and even—I will grant him that—a remarkably handsome man, of the forty-year-old sort ..."
"Where did you get that he's a handsome man? He has sheep's eyes."
"In the highest degree. But, very well, I yield to the opinion of our ladies..."
"Let's move on, Stepan Trofimovich, I beg you! By the way, since when have you been wearing a red necktie?"
"I... only today..."
"And do you take your exercise? Do you go for a four-mile walk every day, as the doctor prescribed?"
"Not... not always."
"Just as I thought! I felt it even in Switzerland!" she cried irritably. "You are now going to walk not four but six miles a day! You've gone terribly to seed, terribly, ter-ri-bly! You're not just old, you're decrepit ... I was struck when I saw you today, in spite of your red necktie ... quelle idée rouge! [xv] Go on about von Lembke, if there really is anything to say, but let it end somewhere, I beg you, I'm tired."
"En un mot,I merely wanted to say that he is one of those administrators who start out at the age of forty, who vegetate in insignificance until they're forty and then suddenly make their way by means of an unexpectedly acquired wife or by some other no less desperate means... That he is away now... that is, I mean to say that he at once had it whispered in both ears that I am a corrupter of youth and a fomenter of provincial atheism... He began making inquiries at once."
"Can it be true?"
"I've even taken measures. When it was 're-por-ted' that you 'ruled the province,' vous savez, [xvi] he allowed himself to say that 'such things will not continue.’”
"Is that what he said?"
"That 'such things will not continue,' and avec cette morgue [xvii] ...His spouse, Yulia Mikhailovna, we shall behold here at the end of August, direct from Petersburg."
"From abroad. I met her there."
"Vraiment?" [xviii]
"In Paris and in Switzerland. She's related to the Drozdovs."
"Related? What a remarkable coincidence! They say she's ambitious and... supposedly has good connections?"
