you had time to leave him; he seriously considered it the most lofty and beautiful tone. In spite of his complete self-possession and perfect knowledge of good manners, he was said to be so vain, to the point of such hysterics, that he was simply unable to conceal his authorial petulance, even in those social circles where there was little interest in literature. And if someone chanced to confound him with their indifference, he would be morbidly offended and seek to revenge himself.
About a year before, I had read an article of his in a magazine, written with a terrible pretension to the most naive poetry and, at the same time, to psychology. He described the wreck of a steamer somewhere on the English coast, of which he himself had been a witness and had seen how the perishing were being saved and the drowned dragged out. The whole article, quite a long and verbose one, was written with the sole purpose of self-display. One could simply read it between the lines: 'Pay attention to me, look at how I was in those moments. What do you need the sea, the storm, the rocks, the splintered planks of the ship for? I've described it all well enough for you with my mighty pen. Why look at this drowned woman with her dead baby in her dead arms? Better look at me, at how I could not bear the sight and turned away. Here I am turning my back; here I am horrified and unable to look again; I've shut my eyes—interesting, is it not?' I told Stepan Trofimovich my opinion of Karmazinov's article, and he agreed with me.
When rumors began to spread recently that Karmazinov was coming, I, of course, wanted terribly to see him and, if possible, to make his acquaintance. I knew that I could do so through Stepan Trofimovich; they had been friends once upon a time. And now I suddenly met him at an intersection. I recognized him at once; he had already been pointed out to me three days earlier as he rode past in a carriage with the governor's wife.
He was quite a short, prim little old man, though no more than fifty-five, with a rather red-cheeked little face, with thick gray locks emerging from under his round cylindrical hat and curling behind his clean, pink little ears. His clean little face was not exactly handsome, with its thin, long, slyly compressed lips, its somewhat fleshy nose, and its sharp, intelligent little eyes. He was dressed somehow shabbily, with a sort of cloak thrown over his shoulders such as would have been worn at that season somewhere in Switzerland, say, or the north of Italy. But at least all the minor accessories of his costume—the little cuff links, collar, studs, the tortoiseshell lorgnette on its narrow black ribbon, the little signet ring—were most assuredly just as they are with people of irreproachably good tone. I am sure that in summer he certainly went around in bright prunella bootikins with mother-of-pearl buttons at the side. When we ran into each other, he had stopped for a moment at the street corner and was looking around with attention. Noticing that I was looking at him curiously, he asked me in a honeyed, though somewhat shrill, little voice:
'Would you be so good as to tell me the shortest way to Bykov Street?'
'Bykov Street? But it's here, right here,' I cried out in unusual excitement. 'Keep straight on this way, then second turn to the left.'
'I am much obliged to you.'
Cursed be that moment: I seemed to have grown timid and looked fawning! He instantly noticed everything, and, of course, understood everything at once—that is, understood that I already knew who he was, that I had read him and revered him since childhood, and that I had just grown timid and looked fawning. He smiled, nodded his head once more, and went straight on as I had directed him. I do not know why I turned to follow him; I do not know why I went running alongside him for about ten paces. He suddenly stopped again.
'And might you be able to tell me where the nearest cabstand is located?' he shouted to me again.
A nasty shout; a nasty voice!
'Cabstand? The nearest cabstand ... is by the cathedral, that's where they always stand'—and I almost turned and ran to fetch a cab. I suspect that that was precisely what he expected of me. Of course, I came to my senses at once and stopped, but he had made good note of my movement and went on watching me with the same nasty smile. What happened then I shall never forget.
He suddenly dropped a tiny satchel that he was holding in his left hand. It was not a satchel, by the way, but a sort of little box, or rather a sort of briefcase, or, better still, a little reticule such as ladies once used to carry, but I do not know what it was, I only know that it seems I rushed to pick it up.
I am perfectly convinced that I did not pick it up, but my initial movement was unquestionable; it was too late to conceal it, and I blushed like a fool. The cunning fellow at once derived all that could be derived from this circumstance.
'Don't trouble, I'll do it myself,' he said charmingly—that is, once he had fully noted that I was not going to pick up his reticule—picked it up as if forestalling me, nodded his head once more, and went on his way, having made a fool of me. It was the same as if I had picked it up myself. For about five minutes I considered myself disgraced utterly and forever; but coming up to Stepan Trofimovich's house, I suddenly burst out laughing. The encounter seemed so funny to me that I immediately decided to amuse Stepan Trofimovich by telling him about it and even acting out the whole scene.
III
But this time, to my surprise, I found him in an extreme change. True, he fell upon me with a sort of greediness as soon as I entered, and began listening to me, but with such a lost look that at first he appeared not to understand what I was saying. But as soon as I uttered the name of Karmazinov, he suddenly flew into a complete frenzy.
'Don't tell me, don't utter!' he exclaimed, all but in a rage. 'Here, here, look, read! read!'
He pulled open the drawer and threw onto the table three small scraps of paper, hastily written on in pencil, all of them from Varvara Petrovna. The first note was from two days ago, the second from yesterday, and the last had come today, just an hour earlier; they were all of the most vapid content, to do with Karmazinov, betraying Varvara Petrovna's vain and ambitious concern for fear that Karmazinov might forget to call on her. Here is the first one, from two days ago (there had probably also been one from three days ago, and perhaps one from four days ago):
If he finally honors you today, not a word about me, I beg you. Not the slightest hint. No mention, no reminder.
V.S.
And yesterday's:
If he finally decides to call on you this morning, I think the most noble thing would be not to receive him at all. That is my opinion, I don't know what yours is.
V.S.
And today's, the latest:
