It's not pretty company you keep," she snapped, taking in the remaining guests at a glance. "What a sweet girl, though!
Who is she?"
"That's Vera Lukyanovna, the daughter of this Lebedev."
"Ah! . . .
Very sweet.
I want to make her acquaintance."
But Lebedev, who had heard Lizaveta Prokofyevna's praises, was already dragging his daughter closer in order to introduce her.
"Orphans, orphans!" he dissolved, approaching. "And this baby in her arms is an orphan, her sister, my daughter Lyubov, born in most lawful wedlock of the newly departed Elena, my wife, who died six weeks ago in childbed, as it pleased the Lord . . . yes, sir ... in place of a mother, though she's only a sister and no more than a sister ... no more, no more . . ."
"And you, my dear, are no more than a fool, forgive me.
Well, enough, I suppose you realize that yourself," Lizaveta Prokofyevna suddenly snapped in extreme indignation.
"The veritable truth!" Lebedev bowed most respectfully and deeply.
"Listen, Mr. Lebedev, is it true what they say of you, that you interpret the Apocalypse?" asked Aglaya.
"The veritable truth . . . fifteen years now."
"I've heard of you.
They wrote about you in the newspapers, I believe?"
"No, that was about another interpreter, another one, ma'am, but that one died, and I remained instead of him," said Lebedev, beside himself with joy.
"Do me a favor, explain it to me one of these days, since we're neighbors.
I understand nothing in the Apocalypse."
"I can't help warning you, Aglaya Ivanovna, that it's all mere charlatanism on his part, believe me," General Ivolgin, who had been waiting as if on pins and needles and wished with all his might to somehow start a conversation, suddenly put in quickly. He sat down beside Aglaya Ivanovna. "Of course, dacha life has its rights," he went on, "and its pleasures, and the method of such an extraordinary used to carry you in my arms, Aglaya Ivanovna."intrus* for interpreting the Apocalypse is an undertaking like any other, and even a remarkably intelligent undertaking, but I ... It seems you are looking at me in astonishment?
General Ivolgin, I have the honor of introducing myself I "Delighted.
I know Varvara Ardalionovna and Nina Alexandrovna," Aglaya murmured, trying as hard as she could to keep from bursting out laughing.
Lizaveta Prokofyevna flared up.
Something that had long been accumulating in her soul suddenly demanded to be let out.
She could not stand General Ivolgin, with whom she had once been acquainted, but very long ago.
"You're lying, my dear, as usual, you never carried her in your arms," she snapped at him indignantly.
"You've forgotten, maman, he really did, in Tver," Aglaya suddenly confirmed.
"We lived in Tver then.
I was six years old, I remember.
He made me a bow and arrow, and taught me how to shoot, and I killed a pigeon.
Remember, you and I killed a pigeon together?"
"And he brought me a cardboard helmet and a wooden sword then, and I remember it!" Adelaida cried out.
"I remember it, too," Alexandra confirmed.
"You all quarreled then over the wounded pigeon and were made to stand in the corner; Adelaida stood like this in the helmet and with the sword."
The general, in announcing to Aglaya that he had carried her in his arms, had said it just so, only in order to start a conversation, and solely because he almost always started a conversation with young people in that way, if he found it necessary to make their acquaintance. But this time it so happened, as if by design, that he had told the truth and, as if by design, had forgotten that truth himself.
So that now, when Aglaya suddenly confirmed that the two of them had shot a pigeon together, his memory suddenly lit up, and he remembered it all himself, to the last detail, as an old person often remembers something from the distant past.
It is hard *Intruder, outsider, or impostor. to say what in this memory could have had such a strong effect on the poor and, as usual, slightly tipsy general; but he was suddenly extraordinarily moved.
"I remember, I remember it all!" he cried.
"I was a staff-captain then.
You were such a tiny, pretty little girl.
Nina Alexandrovna . . . Ganya ... I was received ... in your house.
Ivan Fyodorovich . . ."
"And see what you've come to now!" Mrs. Epanchin picked up.
"Which means that all the same you haven't drunk up your noble feelings, since it affects you so!
But you've worn out your wife.
Instead of looking after your children, you've been sitting in debtors' prison.
Leave us, my dear, go somewhere, stand in a corner behind a door and have a good cry, remembering your former innocence, and perhaps God will forgive you.
Go, go, I'm telling you seriously.
There's nothing better for mending your ways than recalling the past in repentance."
But there was no need to repeat that she was speaking seriously: the general, like all constantly tippling people, was very sentimental, and, like all tippling people who have sunk too low, he could not easily bear memories from the happy past.
He got up and humbly walked to the door, so that Lizaveta Prokofyevna felt sorry for him at once.