“All this is stupid, Liputin,” Mr. Kirillov observed at last, with a certain dignity. “If I by chance had said some things to you, and you caught them up again, as you like. But you have no right, for I never speak to anyone. I scorn to talk. . . . If one has a conviction then it's clear to me. . . . But you're doing foolishly. I don't argue about things when everything's settled. I can't bear arguing. I never want to argue . . . .”
“And perhaps you are very wise,” Stepan Trofimovitch could not resist saying.
“I apologise to you, but I am not angry with anyone here,” the visitor went on, speaking hotly and rapidly. '' I have seen few people for four years. For four years I have talked little and have tried to see no one, for my own objects which do not concern anyone else, for four years. Liputin found this out and is laughing. I understand and don't mind. I'm not ready to take offence, only annoyed at his liberty. And if I don't explain my ideas to you,” he concluded unexpectedly, scanning us all with resolute eyes, “it's not at all that I'm afraid of your giving information to the government; that's not so; please do not imagine nonsense of that sort.”
No one made any reply to these words. We only looked at each other. Even Liputin forgot to snigger.
“Gentlemen, I'm very sorry”— Stepan Trofimovitch got up resolutely from the sofa —“ but I feel ill and upset. Excuse me.”
“Ach, that's for us to go.” Mr. Kirillov started, snatching up his cap. “It's a good thing you told us. I'm so forgetful.”
He rose, and with a good-natured air went up to Stepan Trofimovitch, holding out his hand.
“I'm sorry you're not well, and I came,”
“I wish you every success among us,” answered Stepan Trofimovitch, shaking hands with him heartily and without haste. 'I understand that, if as you say you have lived so long abroad, cutting yourself off from people for objects of your own and forgetting Russia, you must inevitably look with wonder on us who are Russians to the backbone, and we must feel the same about you. Mais cela passera. I'm only puzzled at one thing: you want to build our bridge and at the same time you declare that you hold with the principle of universal destruction. They won't let you build our bridge.”
“What! What's that you said? Ach, I say!” Kirillov cried, much struck, and he suddenly broke into the most frank and good-humoured laughter. For a moment his face took a quite childlike expression, which I thought suited him particularly. Liputin rubbed his hand with delight at Stepan Trofimovitch's witty remark. I kept wondering to myself why Stepan Trofimovitch was so frightened of Liputin, and why he had cried out “I am lost” when he heard him coming. We were all standing in the doorway. It was the moment when hosts and guests hurriedly exchange the last and most cordial words, and then part to their mutual gratification.
“The reason he's so cross to-day,” Liputin dropped all at once, as it were casually, when he was just going out of the room, “is because he had a disturbance to-day with Captain Lebyadkin over his sister. Captain Lebyadkin thrashes that precious sister of his, the mad girl, every day with a whip, a real Cossack whip, every morning and evening. So Alexey Nilibch has positively taken the lodge so as not to be present. Well, good-bye.”
“A sister? An invalid? With a whip?” Stepan Trofimovitch cried out, as though he had suddenly been lashed with a whip himself. “What sister? What Lebyadkin?” All his former terror came back in an instant. “Lebyadkin! Oh, that's the retired captain; he used only to call himself a lieutenant before. . . . ”
“Oh, what is his rank to me? What sister? Good heavens! . . . You say Lebyadkin? But there used to be a Lebyadkin here . . . .”
“That's the very man. 'Our' Lebyadkin, at Virginsky's, you remember?”
“But he was caught with forged papers?”
“Well, now he's come back. He's been here almost three weeks and under the most peculiar circumstances.”
“Why, but he's a scoundrel?”
“As though no one could be a scoundrel among us,” Liputin grinned suddenly, his knavish little eyes seeming to peer into Stepan Trofimovitch's soul.
“Good heavens! I didn't mean that at all . . . though I quite agree with you about that, with you particularly. But what then, what then? What did you mean by that? You certainly meant something by that.”
“Why, it's all so trivial. . . . This captain to all appearances went away from us at that time; not because of the forged papers, but simply to look for his sister, who was in hiding from him somewhere, it seems; well, and now he's brought her and that's the whole story. Why do you seem frightened, Stepan Trofimovitch? I only tell this from his drunken chatter though, he doesn't speak of it himself when he's sober. He's an irritable man, and, so to speak, aesthetic in a military style; only he has bad taste. And this sister is lame as well as mad. She seems to have been seduced by some one, and Mr. Lebyadkin has, it seems, for many years received a yearly grant from the seducer by way of compensation for the wound to his honour, so it would seem at least from his chatter, though I believe it's only drunken talk. It's simply his brag. Besides, that sort of thing is done much cheaper. But that he has a sum of money is perfectly certain. Ten days ago he was walking barefoot, and now I've seen hundreds in his hands. His sister has fits of some sort every day, she shrieks and he 'keeps her in order' with the whip. You must inspire a woman with respect, he says. What I can't understand is how Shatov goes on living above him. Alexey Nilitch has only been three days with them. They were acquainted in Petersburg, and now he's taken the lodge to get away from the disturbance.”
“Is this all true?” said Stepan Trofimovitch, addressing the engineer.
“You do gossip a lot, Liputin,” the latter muttered wrathfully.
“Mysteries, secrets! Where have all these mysteries and secrets among us sprung from?” Stepan Trofimovitch could not refrain from exclaiming.
The engineer frowned, flushed red, shrugged his shoulders and went out of the room.
“Alexey Nilitch positively snatched the whip out of his hand, broke it and threw it out of the window, and they had a violent quarrel,” added Liputin.
“Why are you chattering, Liputin; it's stupid. What for?” Alexey Nilitch turned again instantly.
“Why be so modest and conceal the generous impulses of one's soul; that is, of your soul? I'm not speaking of my own.”
“How stupid it is . . . and quite unnecessary. Lebyadkin's stupid and quite worthless — and no use to the cause, and . . . utterly mischievous. Why do you keep babbling all sorts of things? I'm going.”
“Oh, what a pity!” cried Liputin with a candid smile, “or I'd have amused you with another little story, Stepan Trofimovitch. I came, indeed, on purpose to tell you, though I dare say you've heard it already. Well, till another time, Alexey Nilitch is in such a hurry. Good-bye for the present. The story concerns Varvara Petrovna. She amused me the day before yesterday; she sent for me on purpose. It's simply killing. Good-bye.”
But at this Stepan Trofimovitch absolutely would not let him go. He seized him by the shoulders, turned him sharply back into the room, and sat him down in a chair. Liputin was positively scared.
“Why, to be sure,” he began, looking warily at Stepan Trofimovitch from his chair, “she suddenly sent for me and asked me 'confidentially' my private opinion, whether Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch is mad or in his right mind. Isn't that astonishing?”
“You're out of your mind!” muttered Stepan Trofimovitch, and suddenly, as though he were beside himself: “Liputin, you know perfectly well that you only came here to tell me