"I'm quite well and very glad to know you, I've heard a lot about you and have even spoken of you with Prince Shch.," replied Lev Nikolaevich, holding out his hand.
Mutual courtesies were exchanged, the two men shook hands and looked intently into each other's eyes.
An instant later the conversation became general.
The prince noticed (he now noticed everything quickly and greedily, perhaps even what was not there at all) that Evgeny Pavlovich's civilian dress produced a general and extraordinarily strong impression, so much so that all other impressions were forgotten for a time and wiped away.
One might have thought that this change of costume meant something particularly important.
Adelaida and Alexandra questioned Evgeny Pavlovich in perplexity.
Prince Shch., his relation, did so even with great uneasiness; the general spoke almost with agitation.
Aglaya alone curiously but quite calmly glanced at Evgeny Pavlovich for a moment, as if wishing merely to compare whether military or civilian dress was more becoming to him, but a moment later she turned away and no longer looked at him.
Lizaveta Prokofyevna also did not wish to ask anything, though she, too, was somewhat uneasy.
To the prince it seemed that Evgeny Pavlovich might not be in her good graces.
"Surprising! Amazing!" Ivan Fyodorovich kept saying in answer to all the questions.
"I refused to believe it when I met him today in Petersburg.
And why so suddenly, that's the puzzle.
He himself shouted first thing that there's no need to go breaking chairs."31
From the ensuing conversation it turned out that Evgeny Pavlovich had already announced his resignation a long time ago; but he had spoken so unseriously each time that it had been impossible to believe him.
Besides, he even spoke about serious things with such a jocular air that it was quite impossible to make him out, especially if he himself did not want to be made out.
"It's only a short-term resignation, for a few months, a year at the most," Radomsky laughed.
"But there's no need, at least insofar as I'm acquainted with your affairs," the general went on hotly.
"And what about visiting my estates?
You advised me to yourself; and besides, I want to go abroad . . ."
However, they soon changed the subject; but all the same, the much too peculiar and still-continuing uneasiness, in the observant prince's opinion, went beyond the limits, and there must have been something peculiar in it.
"So the 'poor knight' is on the scene again?" Evgeny Pavlovich asked, going up to Aglaya.
To the prince's amazement, she gave him a perplexed and questioning look, as if wishing to let him know that there could be no talk of the "poor knight" between them and that she did not even understand the question.
"But it's too late, it's too late to send to town for Pushkin now, too late!" Kolya argued with Lizaveta Prokofyevna, spending his last strength. "I've told you three thousand times, it's too late."
"Yes, actually, it's too late to send to town now," Evgeny Pavlovich turned up here as well, hastening away from Aglaya. "I think the shops are closed in Petersburg, it's past eight," he confirmed, taking out his watch.
"We've gone so long without thinking of it, we can wait till tomorrow," Adelaida put in.
"And it's also improper," Kolya added, "for high-society people to be too interested in literature.
Ask Evgeny Pavlovich.
Yellow charabancs with red wheels are much more proper."
"You're talking out of a book again, Kolya," observed Adelaida.
"But he never talks otherwise than out of books," Evgeny Pavlovich picked up. "He expresses himself with whole sentences from critical reviews.
I've long had the pleasure of knowing Nikolai Ardalionovich's conversation, but this time he's not talking out of a book.
Nikolai Ardalionovich is clearly hinting at my yellow charabanc with red wheels.
Only I've already traded it, you're too late."
The prince listened to what Radomsky was saying ... It seemed to him that he bore himself handsomely, modestly, cheerfully, and he especially liked the way he talked with such perfect equality and friendliness to Kolya, who kept provoking him.
"What's that?" Lizaveta Prokofyevna turned to Vera, Lebedev's daughter, who stood before her holding several books of a large format, beautifully bound and nearly new.
"Pushkin," said Vera.
"Our Pushkin.
Papa told me to offer it to you."
"How so?
How is it possible?" Lizaveta Prokofyevna was surprised.
"Not as a gift, not as a gift!
I wouldn't dare!" Lebedev popped out from behind his daughter's shoulder. "For what it cost, ma'am.
It's our family Pushkin, Annenkov's edition,32 which is even impossible to find now—for what it cost, ma'am.
I offer it to you with reverence, wishing to sell it and thereby satisfy the noble impatience of Your Excellency's most noble literary feelings."
"Ah, you're selling it, then I thank you.
No fear of you not getting your own back. Only please do stop clowning, my dear.
I've heard about you, they say you're very well read, we must have a talk some day; will you bring them home for me yourself?"
"With reverence and . . . deference!" Lebedev, extraordinarily pleased, went on clowning, snatching the books from his daughter.
"Well, just don't lose them on me, bring them without deference if you like, but only on one condition," she added, looking him over intently. "I'll let you come as far as the threshold, but I have no intention of receiving you today.