"Mavriky Nikolaevitch," cried Liza, addressing him suddenly. "That kneeling gentleman has gone away. You kneel down in his place."
Mavriky Nikolaevitch looked at her in amazement.
"I beg you to. You'll do me the greatest favour.
Listen, Mavriky Nikolaevitch," she went on, speaking in an emphatic, obstinate, excited, and rapid voice. "You must kneel down; I must see you kneel down.
If you won't, don't come near me.
I insist, I insist!"
I don't know what she meant by it; but she insisted upon it relentlessly, as though she were in a fit.
Mavriky Nikolaevitch, as we shall see later, set down these capricious impulses, which had been particularly frequent of late, to outbreaks of blind hatred for him, not due to spite, for, on the contrary, she esteemed him, loved him, and respected him, and he knew that himself—but from a peculiar unconscious hatred which at times she could not control.
In silence he gave his cup to an old woman standing behind him, opened the door of the partition, and, without being invited, stepped into Semyon Yakovlevitch's private apartment, and knelt down in the middle of the room in sight of all.
I imagine that he was deeply shocked in his candid and delicate heart by Liza's coarse and mocking freak before the whole company.
Perhaps he imagined that she would feel ashamed of herself, seeing his humiliation, on which she had so insisted.
Of course no one but he would have dreamt of bringing a woman to reason by so naive and risky a proceeding.
He remained kneeling with his imperturbable gravity—long, tall, awkward, and ridiculous.
But our party did not laugh. The unexpectedness of the action produced a painful shock.
Every one looked at Liza.
"Anoint, anoint!" muttered Semyon Yakovlevitch.
Liza suddenly turned white, cried out, and rushed through the partition.
Then a rapid and hysterical scene followed. She began pulling Mavriky Nikolaevitch up with all her might, tugging at his elbows with both hands.
"Get up! Get up!" she screamed, as though she were crazy. "Get up at once, at once.
How dare you?"
Mavriky Nikolaevitch got up from his knees.
She clutched his arms above the elbow and looked intently into his face.
There was terror in her expression.
"Milovzors! Milovzors!" Semyon Yakovlevitch repeated again.
She dragged Mavriky Nikolaevitch back to the other part of the room at last. There was some commotion in all our company.
The lady from our carriage, probably intending to relieve the situation, loudly and shrilly asked the saint for the third time, with an affected smile:
"Well, Semyon Yakovlevitch, won't you utter some saying for me?
I've been reckoning so much on you."
"Out with the——, out with the——," said Semyon Yakovlevitch, suddenly addressing her, with an extremely indecent word.
The words were uttered savagely, and with horrifying distinctness.
Our ladies shrieked, and rushed headlong away, while the gentlemen escorting them burst into Homeric laughter.
So ended our visit to Semyon Yakovlevitch.
At this point, however, there took place, I am told, an extremely enigmatic incident, and, I must own, it was chiefly on account of it that I have described this expedition so minutely.
I am told that when all flocked out, Liza, supported by Mavriky Nikolaevitch, was jostled against Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch in the crush in the doorway.
I must mention that since that Sunday morning when she fainted they had not approached each other, nor exchanged a word, though they had met more than once.
I saw them brought together in the doorway. I fancied they both stood still for an instant, and looked, as it were, strangely at one another, but I may not have seen rightly in the crowd.
It is asserted, on the contrary, and quite seriously, that Liza, glancing at Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, quickly raised her hand to the level of his face, and would certainly have struck him if he had not drawn back in time.
Perhaps she was displeased with the expression of his face, or the way he smiled, particularly just after such an episode with Mavriky Nikolaevitch.
I must admit I saw nothing myself, but all the others declared they had, though they certainly could not all have seen it in such a crush, though perhaps some may have.
But I did not believe it at the time.
I remember, however, that Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch was rather pale all the way home.
III
Almost at the same time, and certainly on the same day, the interview at last took place between Stepan Trofimovitch and Varvara Petrovna. She had long had this meeting in her mind, and had sent word about it to her former friend, but for some reason she had kept putting it off till then.
It took place at Skvoreshniki; Varvara Petrovna arrived at her country house all in a bustle; it had been definitely decided the evening before that the fete was to take place at the marshal's, but Varvara Petrovna's rapid brain at once grasped that no one could prevent her from afterwards giving her own special entertainment at Skvoreshniki, and again assembling the whole town.
Then every one could see for themselves whose house was best, and in which more taste was displayed in receiving guests and giving a ball.
Altogether she was hardly to be recognised.
She seemed completely transformed, and instead of the unapproachable "noble lady" (Stepan Trofimovitch's expression) seemed changed into the most commonplace, whimsical society woman.
But perhaps this may only have been on the surface.
When she reached the empty house she had gone through all the rooms, accompanied by her faithful old butler, Alexey Yegorytch, and by Fomushka, a man who had seen much of life and was a specialist in decoration.
They began to consult and deliberate: what furniture was to be brought from the town house, what things, what pictures, where they were to be put, how the conservatories and flowers could be put to the best use, where to put new curtains, where to have the refreshment rooms, whether one or two, and so on and so on.