“I ... you know yourself, Pyotr Stepanovitch,” the captain muttered, but he could not go on and relapsed into silence. It must be observed that Pyotr Stepanovitch was sitting in an easy chair with one leg crossed over the other, while the captain stood before him in the most respectful attitude.
Lebyadkin's hesitation seemed to annoy Pyotr Stepanovitch; a spasm of anger distorted his face.
“Then you have a statement you want to make?” he said, looking subtly at the captain. “Kindly speak. We're waiting for you.”
“You know yourself Pyotr Stepanovitch, that I can't say anything.”
“No, I don't know it. It's the first time I've heard it. Why can't you speak?”
The captain was silent, with his eyes on the ground.
“Allow me to go, Pyotr Stepanovitch,” he brought out resolutely.
“No, not till you answer my question: is it
“It is true,” Lebyadkin brought out in a hollow voice, looking at his tormentor. Drops of perspiration stood out on his forehead.
“Is it
“It's all true.”
“Have you nothing to add or to observe? If you think that we've been unjust, say so; protest, state your grievance aloud.”
“No, I think nothing.”
“Did you threaten Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch lately?”
“It was ... it was more drink than anything, Pyotr Stepanovitch.” He suddenly raised his head. “If family honour and undeserved disgrace cry out among men then — then is a man to blame?” he roared suddenly, forgetting himself as before.
“Are you sober now, Mr. Lebyadkin?”
Pyotr Stepanovitch looked at him penetratingly.
“I am . . . sober.”
“What do you mean by family honour and undeserved disgrace?”
“I didn't mean anybody, anybody at all. I meant myself,” the captain said, collapsing again.
“You seem to be very much offended by what I've said about you and your conduct? You are very irritable, Mr. Lebyadkin. But let me tell you I've hardly begun yet what I've got to say about your conduct, in its real sense. I'll begin to discuss your conduct in its real sense. I shall begin, that may very well happen, but so far I've not begun, in a
Lebyadkin started and stared wildly at Pyotr Stepanovitch.
“Pyotr Stepanovitch, I am just beginning to wake up.”
“H'm! And it's I who have waked you up?”
“Yes, it's you who have waked me, Pyotr Stepanovitch; and I've been asleep for the last four years with a storm-cloud hanging over me. May I withdraw at last, Pyotr Stepanovitch?”
“Now you may, unless Varvara Petrovna thinks it necessary ...”
But the latter dismissed him with a wave of her hand.
The captain bowed, took two steps towards the door, stopped suddenly, laid his hand on his heart, tried to say something, did not say it, and was moving quickly away. But in the doorway he came face to face with Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch; the latter stood aside. The captain shrank into himself, as it were, before him, and stood as though frozen to the spot, his eyes fixed upon him like a rabbit before a boa-constrictor. After a little pause Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch waved him aside with a slight motion of his hand, and walked into the drawing-room.
VII
He was cheerful and serene. Perhaps something very pleasant had happened to him, of which we knew nothing as yet; but he seemed particularly contented.
“Do you forgive me, Nicolas?” Varvara Petrovna hastened to say, and got up suddenly to meet him.
But Nicolas positively laughed.
“Just as I thought,” he said, good-humouredly and jestingly. “I see you know all about it already. When I had gone from here I reflected in the carriage that I ought at least to have told you the story instead of going off like that. But when I remembered that Pyotr Stepanovitch was still here, I thought no more of it.”
As he spoke he took a cursory look round.
“Pyotr Stepanovitch told us an old Petersburg episode in the life of a queer fellow,” Varvara Petrovna rejoined enthusiastically —“ a mad and capricious fellow, though always lofty in his feelings, always chivalrous and noble. ...”
“Chivalrous? You don't mean to say it's come to that,” laughed Nicolas. “However, I'm very grateful to Pyotr Stepanovitch for being in such a hurry this time.” He exchanged a rapid glance with the latter. “You must know, maman, that Pyotr Stepanovitch is the universal peacemaker; that's his part in life, his weakness, his hobby, and I particularly recommend him to you from that point of view. I can guess what a yarn he's been spinning. He's a great hand at spinning them; he has a perfect record-office in his head. He's such a realist, you know, that he can't tell a lie, and prefers truthfulness to effect . . . except, of course, in special cases when effect is more important than truth.” (As he said this he was still looking about him.) “So, you see clearly, maman, that it's not for you to ask my forgiveness, and if there's any craziness about this affair it's my fault, and it proves that, when all's said and done, I really am mad. ... I must keep up my character here. . . .”
Then he tenderly embraced his mother.
“In any case the subject has been fully discussed and is done with,” he added, and there was a rather dry and resolute note in his voice. Varvara Petrovna understood that note, but her exaltation was not damped, quite the contrary.
“I didn't expect you for another month, Nicolas!”
“I will explain everything to you, maman, of course, but now ...”
And he went towards Praskovya Ivanovna.
But she scarcely turned her head towards him, though she had been completely overwhelmed by his first appearance. Now she had fresh anxieties to think of; at the moment the captain had stumbled upon Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch as he was going out, Liza had suddenly begun laughing — at first quietly and intermittently, but her laughter grew more and more violent, louder and more conspicuous. She flushed crimson, in striking contrast with her gloomy expression just before.
While Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch was .talking to Varvara Petrovna, she had twice beckoned to Mavriky Nikolaevitch as though she wanted to whisper something to him; but as soon as the young man bent down to her, she instantly burst into laughter; so that it seemed as though it was at poor Mavriky Nikolaevitch that she was laughing. She evidently tried to control herself, however, and put her handkerchief to her lips. Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch turned to greet her with a most innocent and open-hearted air.
“Please excuse me,” she responded, speaking quickly. “You . . . you've seen Mavriky Nikolaevitch of course. . . . My goodness, how inexcusably tall you are, Mavriky Nikolaevitch!”
And laughter again, Mavriky Nikolaevitch was tall, but by no means inexcusably so.
“Have . . . you been here long?” she muttered, restraining herself again, genuinely embarrassed though her eyes were shining.
“More than two hours,” answered Nicolas, looking at her intently. I may remark that he was exceptionally reserved and courteous, but that apart from his courtesy his expression was utterly indifferent, even listless.
“And where are you going to stay?”
“Here.”
Varvara Petrovna, too, was watching Liza, but she was suddenly struck by an idea.
“Where have you been all this time, Nicolas, more than two hours?” she said, going up to him. “The train comes in at ten o'clock.”
“I first took Pyotr Stepanovitch to Kirillov's. I came across Pyotr Stepanovitch at Matveyev (three stations away), and we travelled together.”
“I had been waiting at Matveyev since sunrise,” put in Pyotr Stepanovitch. “The last carriages of our train ran off the rails in the night, and we nearly had our legs broken.”
“Your legs broken!” cried Liza. “Maman, maman, you and I meant to go to Matveyev last week, we should have broken our legs too!”
