"A company of us got together once, and we drank a bit, it's true, and suddenly somebody suggested that each of us, without leaving the table, tell something about himself, but something that he himself, in good conscience, considered the worst of all the bad things he'd done in the course of his whole life; and that it should be frank, above all, that it should be frank, no lying!"
"A strange notion!" said the general.
"Strange as could be, Your Excellency, but that's what was good about it."
"A ridiculous idea," said Totsky, "though understandable: a peculiar sort of boasting."
"Maybe that's just what they wanted, Afanasy Ivanovich."
"One is more likely to cry than laugh at such a petit jeu," the sprightly lady observed.
"An utterly impossible and absurd thing," echoed Ptitsyn.
"And was it a success?" asked Nastasya Filippovna.
"The fact is that it wasn't, it turned out badly, people actually told all sorts of things, many told the truth, and, imagine, many even enjoyed the telling, but then they all felt ashamed, they couldn't stand it!
On the whole, though, it was quite amusing—in its own way, that is."
"But that would be really nice!" observed Nastasya Filippovna, suddenly quite animated.
"Really, why don't we try it, gentlemen!
In fact, we're not very cheerful.
If each of us agreed to tell something . . . of that sort.. . naturally, if one agrees, because it's totally voluntary, eh?
Maybe we can stand it?
At least it's terribly original..."
"A brilliant idea!" Ferdyshchenko picked up.
"The ladies are excluded, however, the men will begin. We'll arrange it by drawing lots as we did then!
Absolutely, absolutely!
If anyone is very reluctant, he needn't tell anything, of course, but that would be particularly unfriendly!
Give us your lots here in the hat, gentlemen, the prince will do the drawing.
It's the simplest of tasks, to tell the worst thing you've done in your life—it's terribly easy, gentlemen!
You'll see!
If anyone happens to forget, I'll remind him!"
Nobody liked the idea.
Some frowned, others smiled slyly.
Some objected, but not very much—Ivan Fyodorovich, for example, who did not want to contradict Nastasya Filippovna and saw how carried away she was by this strange notion.
In her desires Nastasya Filippovna was always irrepressible and merciless, once she decided to voice them, capricious and even useless for her as those desires might be.
And now it was as if she was in hysterics, fussing about, laughing convulsively, fitfully, especially in response to the objections of the worried Totsky.
Her dark eyes flashed, two red spots appeared on her pale cheeks.
The sullen and squeamish tinge on some of her guests' physiognomies perhaps inflamed her mocking desire still more; perhaps she precisely liked the cynicism and cruelty of the idea.
Some were even certain that she had some special calculation here.
However, they began to agree: in any case it was curious, and for many of them very enticing.
Ferdyshchenko fussed about most of all.
"And if it's something that can't be told ... in front of ladies," the silent young man observed timidly.
"Then don't tell it. As if there weren't enough nasty deeds without that," Ferdyshchenko replied. "Ah, young man!"
"But I don't know which to consider the worst thing I've done," the sprightly lady contributed.
"The ladies are exempt from the obligation of telling anything," Ferdyshchenko repeated, "but that is merely an exemption. The personally inspired will be gratefully admitted.
The men, if they're very reluctant, are also exempt."
"How can it be proved here that I'm not lying?" asked Ganya. "And if I lie, the whole notion of the game is lost.
And who isn't going to lie?
Everybody's bound to start lying."
"But that's what's so enticing, to see how the person's going to lie.
As for you, Ganechka, you needn't be especially worried about lying, because everybody knows your nastiest deed without that.
Just think, ladies and gentlemen," Ferdyshchenko suddenly exclaimed in some sort of inspiration, "just think with what eyes we'll look at each other later, tomorrow, for instance, after our stories!"
"But is this possible?
Can this indeed be serious, Nastasya Filippovna?" Totsky asked with dignity.
"He who fears wolves should stay out of the forest!" Nastasya Filippovna observed with a little smile.
"But excuse me, Mr. Ferdyshchenko, is it possible to make a petit jeu out of this?" Totsky went on, growing more and more worried. "I assure you that such things never succeed—you said yourself that it failed once."
"What do you mean, failed! Why, last time I told how I stole three roubles, just up and told it!"