An excellent miniature watercolor portrait of the twelve-year-old Liza had been sent to Stepan Trofimovich by the Drozdovs from Petersburg nine years before. Since then it had always hung on his wall.

"Was I really such a pretty child? Is that really my face?"

She got up and, holding the portrait in her hand, looked at herself in the mirror.

"Take it, quickly!" she exclaimed, giving the portrait back. "Don't hang it up now, later, I don't even want to look at it." She sat down on the sofa again. "One life passed, another began, then that passed and a third began, and there's still no end. All the ends are cut off as if with a pair of scissors. See what old things I'm saying, and yet so true!"

She grinned and looked at me; she had already glanced at me several times, but Stepan Trofimovich, in his excitement, even forgot that he had promised to introduce me.

"And why is my portrait hanging under those daggers? And why do you have so many daggers and swords?"

Indeed, he had hanging on the wall, I do not know why, two crossed yataghans and, above them, a real Circassian sabre. She looked at me so directly as she asked that I was just about to make some reply, but cut myself short. Stepan Trofimovich finally realized and introduced me.

"I know, I know," she said, "I'm very glad. Maman has also heard a lot about you. And let me also introduce you to Mavriky Nikola-evich, he is a wonderful man. I've already formed a funny idea of you: you're Stepan Trofimovich's confidant, aren't you?"

I blushed.

"Ah, forgive me, please, I used the completely wrong word—not funny at all, but just..." She blushed and became embarrassed. "However, why be ashamed of being a wonderful man? Well, it's time to go, Mavriky Nikolaevich! Stepan Trofimovich, in half an hour you must be at our place. God, how we're going to talk! Now I am your confidante, in everything, everything, understand?"

Stepan Trofimovich immediately became frightened.

"Oh, Mavriky Nikolaevich knows everything, don't be embarrassed because of him!"

"What does he know?"

"But can it be, really?" she cried out in amazement. "Hah, so it's true they're hiding it! I didn't want to believe it. They're hiding Dasha, too. Auntie wouldn't let me see Dasha just now, said she had a headache."

"But... but how did you find out?"

"Ah, my God, the same way everyone else did. What could be simpler!"

"But does everyone ... ?"

"Well, and what else? Mama, it's true, was the first to find out, through my old nurse Alyona Frolovna; your Nastasya came running to tell her. And you did tell Nastasya, didn't you? She says you told her yourself."

"I ... I once said..." Stepan Trofimovich stammered, blushing all over, "but... I only hinted ...; 'étais si nerveux et malade et puis. . . "^[lii]

She burst out laughing.

"And the confidant wasn't around, and Nastasya turned up—and that was it! And the woman's got herself a whole town full of busy-bodies. Well, good heavens, what difference does it make? Let them know, it's even better. Come for dinner as quickly as you can, we dine early... Oh, yes, I forgot," she sat down again, "listen, what is this Shatov?"

"Shatov? He is Darya Pavlovna's brother..."

"I know he's her brother, what's the matter with you, really!" she interrupted impatiently. "I want to know what he is, what sort of man?"

"C'est un pense-creux d'ici. C'est le meilleur et le plus irascible homme du monde..."^[liii]

"I've heard he's somehow odd. Anyway, that's not the point. I've heard he knows three languages, English, too, and can do literary work. If so, I have a lot of work for him; I need an assistant, and the sooner the better. Will he take work, or not? He was recommended to me..."

"Oh, most certainly, et vous fairez un bienfait ... "^[liv]

"It's not for the sake of a bienfait; I myself need assistance."

"I know Shatov quite well," I said, "and if you charge me with telling him, I'll go this minute."

"Tell him to come tomorrow morning at twelve o'clock. Wonderful! Thank you. Mavriky Nikolaevich, are you ready?"

They left. Of course, I ran at once to Shatov.

"Mon ami!" Stepan Trofimovich overtook me on the porch, "you must be here at ten or eleven o'clock, when I come back. Oh, I am guilty, all too guilty before you, and... before everyone, everyone."

VIII

I did not find Shatov at home; I ran by two hours later—again no one home. Finally, after seven o'clock, I went hoping either to find him or to leave a note; again I did not find him. His apartment was locked, and he lived alone without any servant. It occurred to me to try knocking downstairs at Captain Lebyadkin's, to ask about Shatov; it was locked there, too, and there was not a sound, not a glimmer, as if the place were empty. I passed Lebyadkin's door with curiosity, being under the influence of the stories I had just heard. Finally, I decided to come back early the next day. Indeed, I did not count very much on the note; Shatov might ignore it, he was so stubborn, so shy. Cursing my bad luck and already going out the gate, I suddenly ran into Mr. Kirillov; he was going into the house and recognized me first. Since he began questioning me himself, I told him all the essentials, and that I had a note.

"Let's go," he said, "I'll do everything."

I remembered that according to Liputin's words he had been occupying the wooden wing in back since morning. This wing, which was too spacious for him, he shared with some old deaf woman who also served him. The owner of the house lived in another, new house, on another street, where he ran a tavern, and this old woman, apparently his relative, stayed to look after the whole of the old house. The rooms in the wing were quite clean, but the wallpaper was dirty. In the room we entered, the furnishings were random, ill-sorted, utter rejects: two card tables, an alder-wood chest, a big plank table brought from some peasant cottage or kitchen, chairs and a sofa with lattice backs and hard leather cushions. In the corner there was an old icon in front of which the woman had lighted an oil lamp before we came, and on the walls there hung two big, dark oil portraits—one of the late emperor Nikolai Pavlovich, painted back in the twenties by the look of it; the other of some bishop.

Mr. Kirillov, having entered, lit a candle, and from his suitcase, which stood in the corner and was still unpacked, took an envelope, a piece of wax, and a crystal seal.

"Seal your note and address the envelope."

I tried to protest that there was no need for that, but he insisted. Having addressed the envelope, I took my cap.

"And I thought perhaps some tea," he said. "I bought tea. Want some?"

I did not refuse. The woman soon brought in the tea—that is, a great big kettle of hot water, a small teapot full of strongly brewed tea, two large, crudely painted stoneware cups, a kalatch,^[52] and a whole soup plate of crumbled loaf sugar.

"I like tea," he said, "at night; a lot: I walk and drink; till dawn. Tea at night is awkward abroad."

"You go to bed at dawn?"

"Always; a long time. I eat little; mainly tea. Liputin is cunning, but impatient."

I was surprised that he wanted to talk; I decided to make use of the moment.

"There were some unpleasant misunderstandings today," I observed.