But Nikolay Stavrogin's answer was even more astounding.
To begin with, it was strange that he was not in the least surprised and listened to Liza with unruffled attention.
There was no trace of either confusion or anger in his face.
Simply, firmly, even with an air of perfect readiness, he answered the fatal question:
"Yes, I have the misfortune to be connected with that man.
I have been the husband of his sister for nearly five years.
You may be sure I will give him your message as soon as possible, and I'll answer for it that he shan't annoy you again."
I shall never forget the horror that was reflected on the face of Varvara Petrovna.
With a distracted air she got up from her seat, lifting up her right hand as though to ward off a blow.
Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch looked at her, looked at Liza, at the spectators, and suddenly smiled with infinite disdain; he walked deliberately out of the room.
Every one saw how Liza leapt up from the sofa as soon as he turned to go and unmistakably made a movement to run after him. But she controlled herself and did not run after him; she went quietly out of the room without saying a word or even looking at anyone, accompanied, of course, by Mavriky Nikolaevitch, who rushed after her.
The uproar and the gossip that night in the town I will not attempt to describe.
Varvara Petrovna shut herself up in her town house and Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch, it was said, went straight to Skvoreshniki without seeing his mother.
Stepan Trofimovitch sent me that evening to cette chere amie to implore her to allow him to come to her, but she would not see me.
He was terribly overwhelmed; he shed tears.
"Such a marriage!
Such a marriage!
Such an awful thing in the family!" he kept repeating.
He remembered Karmazinov, however, and abused him terribly.
He set to work vigorously to prepare for the reading too and—the artistic temperament!—rehearsed before the looking-glass and went over all the jokes and witticisms uttered in the course of his life which he had written down in a separate notebook, to insert into his reading next day.
"My dear, I do this for the sake of a great idea," he said to me, obviously justifying himself.
"Cher ami, I have been stationary for twenty-five years and suddenly I've begun to move—whither, I know not—but I've begun to move...."
PART III
CHAPTER I. THE FETE—FIRST PART
The fete took place in spite of all the perplexities of the preceding "Shpigulin" day.
I believe that even if Lembke had died the previous night, the fete would still have taken place next morning—so peculiar was the significance Yulia Mihailovna attached to it.
Alas! up to the last moment she was blind and had no inkling of the state of public feeling.
No one believed at last that the festive day would pass without some tremendous scandal, some "catastrophe" as some people expressed it, rubbing their hands in anticipation.
Many people, it is true, tried to assume a frowning and diplomatic countenance; but, speaking generally, every Russian is inordinately delighted at any public scandal and disorder.
It is true that we did feel something much more serious than the mere craving for a scandal: there was a general feeling of irritation, a feeling of implacable resentment; every one seemed thoroughly disgusted with everything.
A kind of bewildered cynicism, a forced, as it were, strained cynicism was predominant in every one.
The only people who were free from bewilderment were the ladies, and they were clear on only one point: their remorseless detestation of Yulia Mihailovna.
Ladies of all shades of opinion were agreed in this.
And she, poor dear, had no suspicion; up to the last hour she was persuaded that she was "surrounded by followers," and that they were still "fanatically devoted to her."
I have already hinted that some low fellows of different sorts had made their appearance amongst us.
In turbulent times of upheaval or transition low characters always come to the front everywhere.
I am not speaking now of the so-called "advanced" people who are always in a hurry to be in advance of every one else (their absorbing anxiety) and who always have some more or less definite, though often very stupid, aim.
No, I am speaking only of the riff-raff.
In every period of transition this riff-raff, which exists in every society, rises to the surface, and is not only without any aim but has not even a symptom of an idea, and merely does its utmost to give expression to uneasiness and impatience.
Moreover, this riff-raff almost always falls unconsciously under the control of the little group of "advanced people" who do act with a definite aim, and this little group can direct all this rabble as it pleases, if only it does not itself consist of absolute idiots, which, however, is sometimes the case.
It is said among us now that it is all over, that Pyotr Stepanovitch was directed by the Internationale, and Yulia Mihailovna by Pyotr Stepanovitch, while she controlled, under his rule, a rabble of all sorts.
The more sober minds amongst us wonder at themselves now, and can't understand how they came to be so foolish at the time.
What constituted the turbulence of our time and what transition it was we were passing through I don't know, nor I think does anyone, unless it were some of those visitors of ours.
Yet the most worthless fellows suddenly gained predominant influence, began loudly criticising everything sacred, though till then they had not dared to open their mouths, while the leading people, who had till then so satisfactorily kept the upper hand, began listening to them and holding their peace, some even simpered approval in a most shameless way.
People like Lyamshin and Telyatnikov, like Gogol's Tentyotnikov, drivelling home-bred editions of Radishtchev, wretched little Jews with a mournful but haughty smile, guffawing foreigners, poets of advanced tendencies from the capital, poets who made up with peasant coats and tarred boots for the lack of tendencies or talents, majors and colonels who ridiculed the senselessness of the service, and who would have been ready for an extra rouble to unbuckle their swords, and take jobs as railway clerks; generals who had abandoned their duties to become lawyers; advanced mediators, advancing merchants, innumerable divinity students, women who were the embodiment of the woman question—all these suddenly gained complete sway among us and over whom?
Over the club, the venerable officials, over generals with wooden legs, over the very strict and inaccessible ladies of our local society.
Since even Varvara Petrovna was almost at the beck and call of this rabble, right up to the time of the catastrophe with her son, our other local Minervas may well be pardoned for their temporary aberration.
Now all this is attributed, as I have mentioned already, to the Internationale.
This idea has taken such root that it is given as the explanation to visitors from other parts.
Only lately councillor Kubrikov, a man of sixty-two, with the Stanislav Order on his breast, came forward uninvited and confessed in a voice full of feeling that he had beyond a shadow of doubt been for fully three months under the influence of the Internationale.