Demons, p.21
Demons, page 21
I hasten to note here, as briefly as possible, that although Varvara Petrovna had in recent years become exceedingly economical, as they said, and even a bit stingy, still she could on occasion be unsparing of money for charity proper. She was a member of a charitable society in the capital. In a recent famine year she had sent five hundred roubles to Petersburg, to the main committee for the receipt of aid for the victims, and this was talked about in town. Finally, quite recently, before the appointment of the new governor, she had all but established a local ladies' committee to aid the poorest new mothers in our town and in the province. She was severely reproached among us for being ambitious; but the notorious impetuousness of Varvara Petrovna's character, together with her persistence, nearly triumphed over the obstacles; the society was almost set up, and the initial idea broadened more and more in the delighted mind of the foundress: she was already dreaming of establishing a similar committee in Moscow, of gradually expanding its activities through all the provinces. And then, with the sudden change of governors, everything came to a halt; and the new governor's wife, it was said, had already managed to utter in society a few pointed and, above all, apt and sensible objections regarding the supposed impracticability of the basic idea of such a committee, which—with embellishments, of course—had already been passed on to Varvara Petrovna. God alone knows what's hidden in men's hearts, but I suppose it was even with a certain pleasure that Varvara Petrovna now paused at the very gates of the cathedral, knowing that the governor's wife would pass by presently, and then everyone else, and "let her see for herself how it makes no difference to me what she thinks or what further witticisms she may produce concerning the vanity of my charitable works. Take that, all of you!"
"What is it, my dear, what do you ask?" Varvara Petrovna looked more attentively at the petitioner kneeling before her. The latter looked at her with terribly timid, abashed, but almost adoring eyes, and suddenly smiled with the same strange giggle.
"What is she? Who is she?" Varvara Petrovna glanced around at everyone there with a peremptory and inquisitive look. They were all silent.
"You are unfortunate? You are in need of assistance?"
"I need... I've come..." the "unfortunate" woman prattled, in a voice breaking with excitement. "I've come just to kiss your hand..." and she giggled again. With a most childlike look, as when children are being affectionate in order to beg for something, she reached out to seize Varvara Petrovna's hand, but suddenly, as though frightened, she jerked her hands back.
"You've come just for that?" Varvara Petrovna smiled a compassionate smile, but at once quickly took her mother-of-pearl purse from her pocket, took a ten-rouble bill from it, and gave it to the unknown woman. The latter took it. Varvara Petrovna was very interested, and apparently did not consider the unknown woman as some common petitioner.
"Ten roubles she gave her," someone said in the crowd.
"Your hand, please," prattled the "unfortunate" woman, firmly grasping with the fingers of her left hand the corner of the received ten-rouble bill, which was twirling in the wind. Varvara Petrovna frowned slightly for some reason, and with a serious, almost stern, look held out her hand; the woman kissed it adoringly. Her grateful eyes even shone with some sort of rapture. Just at that moment the governor's wife drew near, and the whole crowd of our ladies and senior dignitaries came pouring after her. The governor's wife had unwillingly to stop for a moment in the crush; many people stopped.
"You're shivering; are you cold?" Varvara Petrovna suddenly noticed, and throwing off her cloak, which was caught in midair by the footman, she took from her shoulders her black (far from inexpensive) shawl and with her own hands wrapped it around the bare neck of the still kneeling petitioner.
"But do get up, get up from your knees, I beg you!" The woman got up.
"Where do you live? Doesn't anyone at least know where she lives?" Varvara Petrovna again glanced around impatiently. But the former little crowd was no longer there; she saw familiar society faces gazing at the scene, some with stern surprise, others with sly curiosity and, at the same time, with an innocent desire for a bit of scandal, while still others even began to titter.
"Seems she's one of the Lebyadkins, ma'am," one good man finally stepped forward to answer Varvara Petrovna's question—our venerable and widely respected merchant Andreev, gray-bearded, bespectacled, in Russian dress, and with a round cylindrical hat which he was now holding in his hands. "She lives at Filippov's house, on Bogoyavlensky Street."
"Lebyadkin? Filippov's house? I've heard something... thank you, Nikon Semyonych, but who is this Lebyadkin?"
"They call him a captain—an imprudent man, I'd have to say. And this is his sister right enough. It seems she's escaped from under supervision," Nikon Semyonych said, lowering his voice and giving Varvara Petrovna a significant look.
"I understand; thank you, Nikon Semyonych. So, my dear, you are Miss Lebyadkin?"
"No, I'm not Miss Lebyadkin."
"Then perhaps your brother is Lebyadkin?"
"My brother is Lebyadkin."
"Here's what I'll do, I'll take you with me, my dear, and from my house you will be driven to your family; would you like to come with me?"
"Ah, yes, I would!" Miss Lebyadkin clapped her hands.
"Auntie, auntie! Take me with you, too!" cried the voice of Lizaveta Nikolaevna. I will note that Lizaveta Nikolaevna had come to the liturgy with the governor's wife, and that Praskovya Ivanovna, on doctor's orders, had meanwhile gone for a ride in the carriage, taking Mavriky Nikolaevich along for diversion. Liza suddenly abandoned the governor's wife and sprang over to Varvara Petrovna.
"My dear, you know I'm always glad to have you, but what will your mother say?" Varvara Petrovna began imposingly, but suddenly became confused, seeing Liza's extraordinary agitation.
"Auntie, auntie, I must come with you now," Liza begged, kissing Varvara Petrovna.
"Mais qu'avez vous donc, Lise!" [lxxi] the governor's wife said with emphatic surprise.
"Ah, forgive me, my dear, chère cousine, I am going to my aunt's," Liza turned in midflight to her unpleasantly surprised chère cousine and kissed her twice.
"And tell maman to come at once to fetch me at auntie's; maman really, really wanted to come, she told me so today, I forgot to tell you," Liza kept on rattling, "it's not my fault, don't be angry, Julie... chère cousine... auntie, I'm ready!"
"If you don't take me with you, auntie, I'll run screaming after your carriage," she whispered, quickly and desperately, right into Varvara Petrovna's ear; luckily no one else heard it. Varvara Petrovna even started back a step and gave the mad girl a piercing look. This look decided everything: she resolved definitely to take Liza with her!
"We must put an end to this," escaped from her. "Very well, Liza, I shall take you with pleasure," she at once added loudly, "if Yulia Mikhailovna consents to let you go, of course," she turned directly to the governor's wife, with an open look and straightforward dignity.
"Oh, I certainly would not want to deprive her of that pleasure, the less so in that I myself..." Yulia Mikhailovna suddenly began prattling with surprising amiability, "I myself... well know what a fantastic, domineering little head we have on our pretty shoulders" (Yulia Mikhailovna smiled charmingly)...
"I thank you greatly," Varvara Petrovna thanked her, with a polite and imposing bow.
"And it is all the more pleasant," Yulia Mikhailovna went on with her prattling, now almost enraptured, even blushing all over with pleasant excitement, "that, besides the delight of visiting you, Liza has been carried away by such a beautiful, such a—I might say—lofty feeling ... compassion ..." (she glanced at the "unfortunate" woman) "and... right on the porch of the church..."
"Such a view does you honor," Varvara Petrovna approved magnificently. Yulia Mikhailovna impetuously offered her hand, and Varvara Petrovna with perfect readiness touched it with her fingers. The general impression was excellent, the faces of some of those present began to beam with pleasure, several sweet and fawning smiles appeared.
In short, it was suddenly revealed clearly to the whole town that it was not Yulia Mikhailovna who had scorned Varvara Petrovna all along and had not paid her a visit, but, on the contrary, it was Varvara Petrovna herself who had "kept Yulia Mikhailovna within bounds, when she would perhaps have run on foot to visit her, if only she had been sure that Varvara Petrovna would not chase her away." Varvara Petrovna's prestige rose in the extreme.
"Do get in, my dear," Varvara Petrovna motioned Mlle. Lebyadkin to the carriage that had driven up; the "unfortunate" woman ran joyfully to the door, where a footman caught her up.
"What! You're lame!" Varvara Petrovna cried out, as if totally frightened, and turned pale. (Everyone noticed it at the time but did not understand...)
The carriage drove off. Varvara Petrovna's house was quite near the cathedral. Liza told me later that Miss Lebyadkin laughed hysterically for all three minutes of the ride, while Varvara Petrovna sat "as if in some magnetic sleep"—Liza's own expression.
5: The Wise Serpent
I
Varvara Petrovna rang the bell and threw herself into an armchair by the window.
"Sit down here, my dear," she motioned Marya Timofeevna to a seat in the middle of the room, by the big round table. "Stepan Trofimovich, what is this? Here, here, look at this woman, what is this?"
"I... I..." Stepan Trofimovich began to stammer...
But the footman came.
"A cup of coffee, now, specially, and as quickly as possible! Don't unhitch the carriage."
"'Mais, chère et excellente amie, dans quelle inquiétude ... "[lxxii] Stepan Trofimovich exclaimed in a sinking voice.
"Ah! French! French! You can see right off it's high society!" Marya Timofeevna clapped her hands, preparing rapturously to listen to a conversation in French. Varvara Petrovna stared at her almost in fright.
We were all silent, awaiting some denouement. Shatov would not raise his head, and Stepan Trofimovich was in disarray, as if it were all his fault; sweat stood out on his temples. I looked at Liza (she was sitting in the corner, almost next to Shatov). Her eyes kept darting keenly from Varvara Petrovna to the lame woman and back; a smile twisted on her lips, but not a nice one. Varvara Petrovna saw this smile. And meanwhile Marya Timofeevna was completely enthralled: with delight and not the least embarrassment she was studying Varvara Petrovna's beautiful drawing room—the furniture, the carpets, the paintings on the walls, the old-style decorated ceiling, the big bronze crucifix in the corner, the porcelain lamp, the albums and knickknacks on the table.
"So you're here, too, Shatushka!" she suddenly exclaimed. "Imagine, I noticed you long ago, but I thought: It's not him! How could he have come here!"—and she laughed gaily.
"Do you know this woman?" Varvara Petrovna turned to him at once.
"I do, ma'am," Shatov mumbled, stirred on his chair, but remained sitting.
"And what do you know? Quickly, please!"
"But what..." he grinned an unnecessary smile and faltered... "You can see for yourself."
"What can I see? Go on, say something!"
"She lives in that house where I... with her brother ... an officer."
"Well?"
Shatov faltered again.
"There's no point talking..." he grunted, and resolutely fell silent. He even blushed at his own resoluteness.
"Of course, nothing more could be expected of you!" Varvara Petrovna cut him off indignantly. It was clear to her now that everyone knew something, and at the same time that everyone was afraid of something and was evading her questions, wishing to conceal something from her.
The footman entered and offered her the specially ordered cup of coffee on a small silver tray, but at once, on a sign from her, went over to Marya Timofeevna.
"You got very cold just now, my dear, drink it quickly to warm yourself."
"Merci, " Marya Timofeevna took the cup, and suddenly burst out laughing at having said merci to a footman. But, meeting Varvara Petrovna's menacing gaze, she became timid and set the cup on the table.
"You're not angry, auntie?" she prattled, with some sort of frivolous playfulness.
"Wha-a-at?" Varvara Petrovna reared and sat straight up in her chair. "What sort of aunt am I to you? What are you suggesting?"
Marya Timofeevna, who had not expected such wrath, began trembling all over with convulsive little shivers, as if in a fit, and recoiled against the back of her chair.
"I ... I thought that's how it should be," she prattled, staring at Varvara Petrovna, "that's what Liza called you."
"Which Liza?"
"But, this young lady," Marya Timofeevna pointed her finger.
"So she's already Liza to you?"
"You yourself just called her that," Marya Timofeevna regained some courage. "And I saw a beauty just like her in a dream," she chuckled as though inadvertently.
Varvara Petrovna understood and calmed down somewhat; she even smiled slightly at Marya Timofeevna's last phrase. The latter, having caught this smile, rose from her chair and, limping, went timidly up to her.
"Take it, I forgot to give it back, don't be angry at my impoliteness," she suddenly took from her shoulders the black shawl Varvara Petrovna had put on her earlier.
"Put it back on at once, and keep it for good. Go and sit down, drink your coffee, and please do not be afraid of me, my dear, calm yourself. I'm beginning to understand you."
"Chère amie ..." Stepan Trofimovich allowed himself again.
"Ah, Stepan Trofimovich, one loses all sense here even without you; you at least might spare us... Please ring that bell, there beside you, to the servingwomen's quarters."
There was a silence. Her eyes ran suspiciously and irritably over all our faces. Agasha, her favorite maid, came in.
"Bring me the checkered kerchief, the one I bought in Geneva. What is Darya Pavlovna doing?"
"She does not feel very well, ma'am."
"Go and ask her to come here. Add that I want it very much, even if she isn't feeling well."
At that moment some unusual noise of footsteps and voices, similar to the previous one, was heard again from the adjacent rooms, and suddenly, breathless and "upset," Praskovya Ivanovna appeared on the threshold. Mavriky Nikolaevich was supporting her arm.
"Oh, dear me, I barely dragged myself here; Liza, you mad girl, what are you doing to your mother!" she shrieked, putting into this shriek, as is customary with all weak but very irritable people, all her pent-up irritation.
"Varvara Petrovna, dearest, I've come to fetch my daughter!"
Varvara Petrovna gave her a dark look, rose slightly to greet her, and, barely concealing her vexation, said:
"Good day, Praskovya Ivanovna, kindly sit down. I just knew you would come."
II
For Praskovya Ivanovna there could be nothing unexpected in such a reception. Ever since childhood, Varvara Petrovna had always treated her former boarding-school friend despotically and, under the guise of friendship, with all but contempt. In this case, however, the circumstances were also unusual. Over the last few days things had been tending towards a complete break between the two households, a fact I have already mentioned in passing. For Varvara Petrovna the reasons behind this incipient break remained mysterious and, consequently, were all the more offensive; but the main thing was that Praskovya Ivanovna had managed to assume a certain remarkably haughty position regarding her. Varvara Petrovna was wounded, of course, and meanwhile certain strange rumors began to reach her as well, which also annoyed her exceedingly, precisely by their vagueness. Varvara Petrovna was of a direct and proudly open character, a swooping character, if I may put it so. Least of all could she endure secret, lurking accusations; she always preferred open war. Anyhow, it was five days since the ladies had seen each other. The last visit had been paid by Varvara Petrovna, who had left "Drozdikha" offended and confounded. I can say without being mistaken that Praskovya Ivanovna walked in this time with the naïve conviction that Varvara Petrovna for some reason would quail before her; this could be seen even from the look on her face. But, apparently, the demon of the most arrogant pride took possession of Varvara Petrovna precisely when she had the slightest suspicion that she was for some reason considered humiliated. And Praskovya Ivanovna, like many weak people who allow themselves to be offended for a long time without protesting, was notable for being remarkably passionate in the attack the moment events turned in her favor. It is true that she was not well then, and illness always made her more irritable. I will add, finally, that the presence of the rest of us in the drawing room would not have hindered the two childhood friends if a quarrel had flared up between them; we were considered familiars and almost subordinates. I realized this just then, not without alarm. Stepan Trofimovich, who had not sat down since Varvara Petrovna's arrival, sank exhausted into his chair upon hearing Praskovya Ivanovna's shriek, and in despair began trying to catch my eye. Shatov turned sharply on his chair and even grunted something to himself. I think he wanted to get up and leave. Liza rose a little but sat down again at once, without even paying proper attention to her mother's shriek, not because of her "testy character," but because she was obviously all under the sway of some other powerful impression. Now she was looking off somewhere into the air, almost absentmindedly, and had even stopped paying her former attention to Marya Timofeevna.
