I report his confused and incoherent speech word for word)—"that through its remarkable naivete of feeling, together with its equally remarkable gaiety, the poem might well be read, that is, not as something serious, but as something appropriate to the occasion, that is to the idea... especially as some lines... And I wanted to ask the kind permission of the audience."
"Read it!" boomed a voice at the back of the hall.
"Then I am to read it?"
"Read it, read it!" cried many voices.
"With the permission of the audience I will read it," Liputin minced again, still with the same sugary smile.
He still seemed to hesitate, and I even thought that he was rather excited.
These people are sometimes nervous in spite of their impudence.
A divinity student would have carried it through without winking, but Liputin did, after all, belong to the last generation.
"I must say, that is, I have the honour to say by way of preface, that it is not precisely an ode such as used to be written for fetes, but is rather, so to say, a jest, but full of undoubted feeling, together with playful humour, and, so to say, the most realistic truthfulness."
"Read it, read it!"
He unfolded the paper.
No one of course was in time to stop him.
Besides, he was wearing his steward's badge.
In a ringing voice he declaimed:
"To the local governesses of the Fatherland from the poet at the fete:
"Governesses all, good morrow,
Triumph on this festive day. Retrograde or vowed George-Sander— Never mind, just frisk away!"
"But that's Lebyadkin's!
Lebyadkin's!" cried several voices.
There was laughter and even applause, though not from very many.
"Teaching French to wet-nosed children, You are glad enough to think You can catch a worn-out sexton— Even he is worth a wink!"
"Hurrah! hurrah!"
"But in these great days of progress, Ladies, to your sorrow know, You can't even catch a sexton, If you have not got a 'dot'."
"To be sure, to be sure, that's realism. You can't hook a husband without a 'dot'!"
"But, henceforth, since through our feasting Capital has flowed from all, And we send you forth to conquest Dancing, dowried from this hall—
Retrograde or vowed George-Sander, Never mind, rejoice you may,
You're a governess with a dowry, Spit on all and frisk away!"
I must confess I could not believe my ears.
The insolence of it was so unmistakable that there was no possibility of excusing Liputin on the ground of stupidity.
Besides, Liputin was by no means stupid.
The intention was obvious, to me, anyway; they seemed in a hurry to create disorder.
Some lines in these idiotic verses, for instance the last, were such that no stupidity could have let them pass.
Liputin himself seemed to feel that he had undertaken too much; when he had achieved his exploit he was so overcome by his own impudence that he did not even leave the platform but remained standing, as though there were something more he wanted to say.
He had probably imagined that it would somehow produce a different effect; but even the group of ruffians who had applauded during the reading suddenly sank into silence, as though they, too, were overcome.
What was silliest of all, many of them took the whole episode seriously, that is, did not regard the verses as a lampoon but actually thought it realistic and true as regards the governesses—a poem with a tendency, in fact.
But the excessive freedom of the verses struck even them at last; as for the general public they were not only scandalised but obviously offended.
I am sure I am not mistaken as to the impression.
Yulia Mihailovna said afterwards that in another moment she would have fallen into a-swoon.
One of the most respectable old gentlemen helped his old wife on to her feet, and they walked out of the hall accompanied by the agitated glances of the audience.
Who knows, the example might have infected others if Karmazinov himself, wearing a dress-coat and a white tie and carrying a manuscript, in his hand, had not appeared on the platform at that moment.
Yulia Mihailovna turned an ecstatic gaze at him as on her deliverer.... But I was by that time behind the scenes. I was in quest of Liputin.
"You did that on purpose!" I said, seizing him indignantly by the arm.
"I assure you I never thought..." he began, cringing and lying at once, pretending to be unhappy. "The verses had only just been brought and I thought that as an amusing pleasantry...."
"You did not think anything of the sort.
You can't really think that stupid rubbish an amusing pleasantry?"
"Yes, I do."
"You are simply lying, and it wasn't brought to you just now.
You helped Lebyadkin to compose it yourself, yesterday very likely, to create a scandal.
The last verse must have been yours, the part about the sexton too.
Why did he come on in a dress-coat?