and his sister personally by Mr. Stavrogin, Nikolai Vsevolodovich, General Stavrogin's widow's boy, that he had come personally to rent it, and had been very insistent, because the owner did not want to let it and was intending to make the house a tavern, but Nikolai Vsevolodovich had spared no expense and handed him money for a year in advance.
'There's something behind this fire,' voices came from the crowd.
But the majority were silent. Their faces were gloomy, but I did not notice any great, obvious irritation. All around, however, stories went on about Nikolai Vsevolodovich, that the murdered woman was his wife, that yesterday, 'in a dishonest manner,' he had lured to himself a young lady from the foremost house in town, the daughter of General Drozdov's widow, that a complaint would be lodged against him in Petersburg, and that if his wife had been killed, it must have been so that he could marry the Drozdov girl. Skvoreshniki was no more than a mile and a half away, and I remember thinking: shouldn't I send word to them there? However, I did not notice anyone especially inciting the crowd, and I do not want to speak evil, though I did see flash by me two or three 'buffet' mugs, who turned up at the fire by morning and whom I recognized at once. I particularly remember one tall, lean fellow, a tradesman, haggard, curly-haired, as if smeared with soot—a locksmith, as I learned later. He was not drunk, but, in contrast to the gloomily standing crowd, seemed beside himself. He kept addressing the people, though I do not remember his words. Whatever was coherent was no longer than: 'What's this, brothers? Can it really be like this?'—all the while waving his arms.
3: A Finished Romance
I
From the big reception room at Skvoreshniki (the same one in which the last meeting between Varvara Petrovna and Stepan Trofimovich had taken place), the fire was in full view. At dawn, towards six o'clock, Liza was standing at the last window on the right, looking intently at the dying glow. She was alone in the room. The dress she was wearing was the festive one from the day before, in which she had appeared at the reading—light green, magnificent, all lace, but rumpled now, hastily and carelessly put on. Suddenly noticing that the front of the dress was not tightly fastened, she blushed, hastily put it right, snatched from the armchair a red shawl left there the day before when she came in, and threw it around her neck. Her fluffy hair fell in disorderly curls onto her right shoulder from under the shawl. Her face was tired, preoccupied, but her eyes were burning from under her frowning brows. She went up to the window again and leaned her hot forehead against the cold glass. The door opened and Nikolai Vsevolodovich came in.
'I've sent a messenger on horseback,' he said, 'in ten minutes we'll learn everything, but meanwhile the servants are saying that part of Zarechye has burned down, nearer the embankment, to the right from the bridge. It started burning before twelve; it's going out now.'
He did not go to the window, but stopped three steps behind her, yet she did not turn to him.
'By the calendar it ought to have been light an hour ago, and it's still like night,' she said with vexation.
'Every calendar doth lie,'[185] he remarked with an obliging grin, but, ashamed, hastened to add: 'It's boring to live by the calendar, Liza.'
And he fell silent finally, vexed at the new platitude he had uttered; Liza smiled crookedly.
'You're in such a sad mood that you can't even find words with me. But don't worry, you put it appropriately: I always live by the calendar, my every step is reckoned by the calendar. Are you surprised?'
She quickly turned away from the window and sat down in an armchair.
'You sit down, too, please. We won't be together long, and I want to say whatever I like... Why shouldn't you, too, say whatever you like?'
Nikolai Vsevolodovich sat down beside her and gently, almost timorously, took her hand.
'What does this language mean, Liza? Where does it come from so suddenly? What is the meaning of 'we won't be together long'? This is the second mysterious phrase since you woke up half an hour ago.'
'You've started counting my mysterious phrases?' she laughed. 'And do you remember how yesterday, as I came in, I introduced myself as a dead person? You found it necessary to forget that. To forget or not to notice.'
'I don't remember, Liza. Why a dead person? One must live...'
'And you stop short. You've quite lost your eloquence. I've lived my hour in the world, and enough. Do you remember Khristofor Ivanovich?'
'No, I don't,' he frowned.
'Khristofor Ivanovich, in Lausanne? You got terribly sick of him. He'd open the door and always say, 'I've just come for a minute,' and he'd sit for the whole day. I don't want to be like Khristofor Ivanovich and sit for the whole day.'
A pained impression came to his face.
'Liza, this broken language grieves me. This grimacing must cost you dearly. What is it for? Why?'
His eyes lit up.
'Liza,' he exclaimed, 'I swear I love you more now than yesterday when you came to me!'
'What a strange confession! Why this yesterday and today, these two measures?'
'You won't abandon me,' he went on, almost with despair, 'we'll leave together, this very day, right? Right?'
'Aie, don't squeeze my hand so painfully! Where are we going to go together this very day? To 'resurrect' somewhere again? No, enough trying... and it's too slow for me; and I'm not able; it's too high for me. If we're to go, it should be to Moscow, to pay calls there and receive people—that's my ideal, you know; even in Switzerland I didn't conceal from you how I am. Since it's not possible for us to go to Moscow and pay calls, because you're married, there's no point in talking about it.'
'Liza! What was it yesterday, then?'
