We were silent again for about a minute.
'That it will,' I said.
He got up, paced the room in the greatest agitation, and, coming to the sofa again, strengthlessly collapsed on it.
On Friday morning, Pyotr Stepanovich went somewhere in the district and was gone until Monday. I learned of his departure from Liputin, and just then, somehow in conversation, found out from him that the Lebyadkins, brother and sister, were both somewhere across the river, in the potters' quarter. 'It was I who took them across,' Liputin added, and, dropping the Lebyadkin subject, suddenly declared to me that Lizaveta Nikolaevna was going to marry Mavriky Nikolaevich, and though it had not been announced yet, there had been an engagement and the matter was concluded. The next day I met Lizaveta Nikolaevna on horseback, accompanied by Mavriky Nikolaevich, venturing out for the first time after her illness. She flashed her eyes at me from afar, laughed, and gave me a very friendly nod. All this I conveyed to Stepan Trofimovich; he paid some attention only to the news about the Lebyadkins.
And now, having described our puzzled situation during those eight days, when we still did not know anything, I will set out to describe the subsequent events of my chronicle, this time knowingly, so to speak, as they have now been revealed and explained. I will begin precisely from the eighth day following that Sunday, that is, from Monday evening, because it was essentially from that evening that the 'new story' began.
III
It was seven o'clock in the evening, and Nikolai Vsevolodovich was sitting alone in his study—his favorite room from long past, lofty, spread with carpets, filled with somewhat heavy, old-fashioned furniture. He sat in the corner on the sofa, dressed as if to go out, but he did not seem to be going anywhere. On the table before him stood a lamp with a shade. The sides and corners of this big room remained in shadow. His look was pensive and concentrated, not altogether at ease; his face was tired and had grown somewhat thin. He was indeed suffering from a swollen cheek; but the rumor about the knocked-out tooth was exaggerated. The tooth had been loosened, but was now firm again; the lower lip had also been cut inside, but this, too, had healed. It had taken a whole week for the swelling to go down only because he did not want to receive the doctor and have him lance the abscess, but waited until it broke of itself. Not just the doctor, he would scarcely even admit his mother, and then only for a moment, once a day, and inevitably at dusk, when it was already dark but before the lights had been brought in. He did not receive Pyotr Stepanovich either, who nevertheless ran by two or three times a day, while he was still in town, to see Varvara Petrovna. And then at last, on Monday, having returned in the morning from his three-day absence, having run all over town, and having dined at Yulia Mikhailovna's, Pyotr Stepanovich came at last in the evening to Varvara Petrovna, who was awaiting him impatiently. The ban had been lifted, Nikolai Vsevolodovich was receiving. Varvara Petrovna herself led the guest to the door of the study; she had long wanted this meeting, and Pyotr Stepanovich gave her his word that he would run to her from Nicolas and recount it all. She timidly knocked for Nikolai Vsevolodovich and, getting no answer, ventured to open the door a couple of inches.
'Nicolas, may I bring Pyotr Stepanovich in?' she asked softly and restrainedly, trying to make Nikolai Vsevolodovich out behind the lamp.
'You may, you may, of course you may!' Pyotr Stepanovich himself cried loudly and gaily, opened the door with his own hand, and walked in.
Nikolai Vsevolodovich had not heard the knock on the door, he heard only his mother's timid question, but had no time to answer it. At that moment there lay before him a letter he had just read, over which he was pondering deeply. Hearing Pyotr Stepanovich's sudden cry, he started and quickly covered the letter with a paperweight that happened to be there, but not quite successfully: a corner of the letter and almost the entire envelope could be seen.
'I cried as loud as I could on purpose, to give you time to get ready,” Pyotr Stepanovich whispered hastily, with surprising naivety, running over to the desk and instantly fixing his eyes on the paperweight and the corner of the letter.
'And of course you had time to spy me hiding this just-received letter under the paperweight,' Nikolai Vsevolodovich said calmly, without stirring from his seat.
'A letter? For heaven's sake, what's your letter to me!' the guest exclaimed. 'But... the main thing,' he whispered again, turning towards the door, now closed, and nodding in that direction.
'She never eavesdrops,' Nikolai Vsevolodovich observed coolly.
'I mean, what if she did eavesdrop!' Pyotr Stepanovich picked up at once, raising his voice gaily and sitting down in an armchair. 'I've got nothing against it, I just ran by to have a private chat with you ... So I've got you at last! First of all, how is your health? I see, it's excellent, and perhaps you'll come tomorrow—eh?'
'Perhaps.'
'But, release them, finally, release me!' he was gesticulating frantically, with a jocular and agreeable air. 'If you knew the babble I've had to produce for them. But, then, you do know.' He laughed.
'I don't know everything. I've only heard from mother that you've been very much ... on the move.'
'I mean, it wasn't anything specific,' Pyotr Stepanovich suddenly heaved himself up, as if he were defending himself against some terrible attack, 'you know, I pulled out Shatov's wife, I mean rumors about your liaison in Paris, which, of course, explained Sunday's incident... you're not angry?'
'I'm sure you tried very hard.'
'Ah, just what I was afraid of. Incidentally, what does 'tried very hard' mean? It's a reproach. You put it straight, however; what I was most afraid of when I was coming here was that you wouldn't want to put it straight.'
