Demons

'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