“What jokes can there be here, Liubochka!
I’d be the lowest of men if I permitted myself such jokes.
I repeat, that to you I am more than a friend, brother, comrade.
And let’s not talk about it any more.
And that which happened to-day toward morning, that, you may be sure, won’t be repeated.
And I’ll rent a separate room for you this very day.”
Liubka sighed.
Not that she was offended by the chaste resolution of Lichonin, in which, to tell the truth, she believed but badly; but somehow her dark, narrow mind could not even theoretically picture any other attitude of a man toward a woman than the sensual.
Besides that, she experienced the ancient discontent of a preferred or rejected female; a feeling strongly intrenched in the house of Anna Markovna, in the form of boastful rivalry, but now dulled; yet still angry and sincere.
And for some reason she believed Lichonin but illy, unconsciously seizing much of the assumed, not altogether sincere, in his words.
Soloviev, now— although he did speak incomprehensively, like the rest of the majority of the students known to her, when they joked among themselves or with the young ladies in the general room (by themselves, in the room, all the men without an exception— all as one— said and did one and the same thing)— she would rather believe Soloviev, far more readily and willingly.
A certain simplicity shone in his merry, sparkling gray eyes, placed widely apart.
At the sparrows Lichonin was esteemed for his sedateness, kind disposition, and accuracy in money matters.
Because of that he was at once assigned a little private room— an honour of which but very few students could boast.
The gas burned all day in this room, because light penetrated only through the narrow bottom of a window, cut short by the ceiling. Only the boots, shoes, umbrellas and canes of the people walking by on the sidewalk could be seen through this window.
They had to let still another student, Simanovsky (whom they ran against near the coat room), join the party.
“What does he mean, by leading me around as though for a show?” thought Liubka: “it looks like he’s showing off before them.”
And, snatching a free moment, she whispered to Lichonin, who had bent over her:
“But why are there so many people, dearie?
For I’m so bashful.
I can’t hold my own in company.”
“That’s nothing, that’s nothing, my dear Liubochka,” Lichonin whispered rapidly, tarrying at the door of the cabinet. “That’s nothing, my sister; these are all fine people, good comrades.
They’ll help you, help us both.
Don’t mind their having fun at times and their silly lying.
But their hearts are of gold.”
“But it’s so very awkward for me; I’m ashamed.
All of them already know where you took me from.”
“Well, that’s nothing, that’s nothing!
Why, let ’em know!” warmly contradicted Lichonin. “Why be embarrassed with your past, why try to pass it by in silence?
In a year you’ll look bravely and directly in the eyes of every man and you’ll say: ’He who has never fallen, has never gotten up.’
Come on, come on, Liubochka!”
While the inelaborate appetizers were being served, and each one was ordering the meal, everybody, save Simanovsky, felt ill at ease and somehow constrained.
And Simanovsky himself was partly the reason for this; he was a clean-shaven man, with pince-nez and long hair, with head proudly thrown back and with a contemptuous expression on the tight lips, drooping at the corners.
He had no intimate, hearty friends among his comrades; but his opinions and judgments had a considerable authoritativeness among them.
It is doubtful whether any one of them could explain to himself whence this influence came; whether from his self-assured appearance, his ability to seize and express in general words the dismembered and indistinct things which are dimly sought and desired by the majority, or because he always saved his conclusions for the most appropriate moment.
Among any society there are many of this sort of people: some of them act upon their circle through sophistries; others through adamant, unalterable stead-fastness of convictions; a third group with a loud mouth; a fourth, through a malicious sneer; a fifth, simply by silence, which compels the supposition of profound thought behind it; a sixth, through a chattering, outward erudition; others still through a slashing sneer at everything that is said … many with the terrible Russian word YERUNDA:
“Fiddlesticks!”— “Fiddlesticks!” they say contemptuously in reply to the warm, sincere, probably truthful but clumsily put word.
“But why fiddlesticks?”
“Because it’s twaddle, nonsense,” answer they, shrugging their shoulders; and it is as though they did for a man by hitting him with a stone over the head.
There are many more sorts of such people, bearing the bell at the head of the meek, the shy, the nobly modest, and often even the big minds; and to their number did Simanovsky belong.
However, toward the middle of the dinner everybody’s tongue became loosened— except Liubka’s, who kept silent, answered “yes” and “no”, and left her food practically untouched.
Lichonin, Soloviev, and Nijeradze talked most of all.
The first, in a decisive and business-like manner, trying to hide under the solicitous words something real, inward, prickling and inconvenient.
Soloviev, with a puerile delight, with the most sweeping of gestures, hitting the table with his fist.
Nijeradze, with a slight doubtfulness and with unfinished phrases, as though he knew that which must be said, but concealed it.
The queer fate of the girl, however, had seemingly engrossed, interested them all; and each one, in expressing his opinion, for some reason inevitably turned to Simanovsky.
But he kept his counsel for the most part, and looked at each one from under the glasses of his pince-nez, raising his head high to do so.
“So, so, so,” he said at last, drumming with his fingers upon the table. “What Lichonin has done is splendid and brave.
And that the prince and Soloviev are going to meet him half-way is also very good.
I, for my part, am ready to co-operate with your beginnings with whatever lies in my power.