Demons

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, real grief, 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.

'Bah, but now I, too, understand it all!' Pyotr Stepanovich slapped himself on the forehead. 'But... but in that case what position have I been put in? Darya Pavlovna, please forgive me! ... What have you done to me in that case, eh?' he turned to his father.

'Pierre, you might express yourself differently with me, is that not so, my friend?' Stepan Trofimovich said, even quite softly.

'Don't shout, please,' Pierre waved his hands, 'believe me, it's all your old, sick nerves, and it won't help anything if you shout. Better tell me, couldn't you have supposed I'd start speaking the moment I came in? How could you not warn me?'

Stepan Trofimovich gave him a searching look.

'Pierre, you know so much about what is going on here, how can it be that you really didn't know anything, that you hadn't heard anything?'

'Wha-a-at? Such people! So we're not only an old child, but a wicked child as well? Varvara Petrovna, did you hear what he said?'

A hubbub ensued; but suddenly an incident broke out which no one could have expected.

VIII

First of all I will mention that during the last two or three minutes some new emotion had taken possession of Lizaveta Nikolaevna; she was quickly whispering something to her maman and to Mavriky Nikolaevich, who was bending down to her. Her face was anxious, but at the same time had a look of determination. Finally, she rose from her seat, obviously hurrying to leave and hurrying her maman, whom Mavriky Nikolaevich began helping up from her chair. But clearly they were not fated to leave without seeing everything to the end.

Shatov, who had been completely forgotten by all in his corner (not far from Lizaveta Nikolaevna), and who