Perhaps we were both exaggerating. First of all, Pyotr Stepanovich became acquainted with the whole town almost instantly, in the first four days after his appearance. He appeared on Sunday, and already on Tuesday I met him in a carriage with Artemy Pavlovich Gaganov, a proud man, irritable and overbearing, despite all his worldly polish, and with whom, owing to his character, it was quite difficult to get along. Pyotr Stepanovich was also very well received at the governor's, so much so that he stepped at once into the position of an intimate or, so to speak, a much favored young man; he dined at Yulia Mikhailovna's almost daily. He had already made her acquaintance in Switzerland, but there was indeed something curious about his rapid success in His Excellency's house. After all, whether it was true or not, he was once reputed to have been a foreign revolutionary, to have participated in some foreign publications and conferences, "which can even be proved from the newspapers," as it was spitefully put in my presence by Alyosha Telyatnikov, now, alas, a retired petty official, but formerly also a much favored young man in the old governor's house. Still, the fact remained that the former revolutionary appeared in his beloved fatherland not only without any trouble, but almost with inducements; so perhaps there was nothing to it. Liputin once whispered to me that, according to rumors, Pyotr Stepanovich had supposedly made his repentance somewhere, and had received absolution, after disclosing a few other names, and had thus perhaps already managed to make good his guilt, also promising to be useful in future to the fatherland. I conveyed this venomous remark to Stepan Trofimovich, and he, though he was almost incapable of reflection, lapsed into deep thought. Later on it was disclosed that Pyotr Stepanovich had come to us with extremely respectable letters of recommendation, at least he had brought one to the governor's wife from an extremely important little old lady of Petersburg, whose husband was one of the most distinguished little old men of Petersburg. This little old lady, Yulia Mikhailovna's godmother, mentioned in her letter that Count K. also knew Pyotr Stepanovich quite well through Nikolai Vsevolodovich, had shown him favor, and found him "a worthy young man, in spite of his former errors." Yulia Mikhailovna valued exceedingly her scant and so difficultly maintained connections with the "high world," and was of course very glad of the important little old lady's letter; but there still remained something peculiar here, as it were. She even put her husband into almost familiar relations with Pyotr Stepanovich, which caused Mr. von Lembke to complain... but of that, too, later. I will observe, too, so as not to forget, that the great writer also treated Pyotr Stepanovich quite benignly and immediately invited him to visit. Such haste on the part of such a self-inflated man stung Stepan Trofimovich most painfully, but I explained it to myself otherwise: in courting a nihilist,^[77] Mr. Karmazinov most certainly had in mind his relations with the progressive young men of both capitals. The great writer trembled morbidly before the newest revolutionary young men, and, imagining in his ignorance of the matter that the keys to the Russian future were in their hands, sucked up to them humiliatingly, the more so since they paid no attention at all to him.

II

Pyotr Stepanovich also ran by a couple of times to see his father, but, to my misfortune, I was absent both times. He visited him for the first time on Wednesday, that is, only on the fourth day after that first meeting, and even then on business. Incidentally, the settling of accounts for the estate was concluded between them in some unseen and unheard way. Varvara Petrovna took it all upon herself and paid for everything, acquiring the little piece of land, to be sure, and Stepan Trofimovich was simply informed that it had all been concluded, and Varvara Petrovna's agent, her valet Alexei Yegorovich, presented him with something to sign, which he proceeded to perform silently and with extreme dignity. Speaking of dignity, I will observe that I hardly recognized our former old man in those days. He behaved as never before, became surprisingly taciturn, did not write even one letter to Varvara Petrovna from that Sunday on, which I would consider a miracle, and, above all, became calm. He had settled upon some final and extraordinary idea which enabled him to be calm, one could see that. He found this idea, sat and waited for something. At first, however, he was sick, especially on Monday—an attack of cholerine. He also could not do without news all that time; but whenever, leaving facts aside, I moved on to the essence of the matter and voiced some suggestions, he would at once begin waving his hands at me to stop. The two meetings with his boy still had a painful effect on him, though they did not sway him. On both days after these meetings he lay on the sofa, his head wrapped in a handkerchief moistened with vinegar; but he continued to remain calm in the lofty sense.

Occasionally, however, he did not wave his hands at me. Occasionally it also seemed to me that the mysterious resoluteness he had acquired was abandoning him, as it were, and that he had begun to struggle with some new, tempting flood of ideas. These were just moments, but I make note of them. I suspected that he wanted very much to come out of seclusion and declare himself, to put up a fight, to wage his last battle.

"Cher, I would crush them!" escaped him on Thursday evening, after the second meeting with Pyotr Stepanovich, as he lay stretched out on the sofa with his head wrapped in a towel.

Until that moment he had not spoken a word to me all day.

“‘Fils, fils chéri, ' and so on—I agree, all these phrases are nonsense, kitchen-maidish vocabulary, but let it be, I see it now myself. I did not give him food and drink, I sent him off from Berlin to ——-- province, a nursling, by mail, well, and so forth. I agree... 'You did not give me drink,' he says, 'and sent me off by mail, and here, on top of that, you've robbed me.' But, wretched man, I cry to him, my heart ached for you all my life, even if it was by mail! Il rit.^[lxxvi] But I agree, I agree... say it was by mail," he ended, as if in delirium.

"Passons, " he began again five minutes later. "I don't understand Turgenev. His Bazarov is some sort of false character, who doesn't exist at all; they were the first to reject him as having no resemblance to anything. This Bazarov is some vague mixture of Nozdryov and Byron,^[78]c'est le mot.^[lxxvii]Look at them attentively: they cavort and squeal with joy like puppies in the sun, they're happy, they're the victors! Forget Byron! ... And besides, how mundane! What kitchen-maidish, irritable vanity, what a trite little desire to faire du bruit autour de son nom,^[lxxviii] without noticing that son nom... Oh, caricature! For pity's sake, I cry to him, but do you really want to offer yourself to people, just as you are, in place of Christ?Il rit. Il rit beaucoup, il rit trop. His smile is somehow strange. His mother didn't have such a smile. Ilrit toujours."^[lxxix]

Again there was silence.

"They're cunning; they had it all set up on Sunday ..." he suddenly blurted out.

"Oh, no doubt," I cried, pricking up my ears, "it was all patched together, with the seams showing, and so badly acted."

"I don't mean that. You know, they left the seams showing on purpose, so that it would be noticed by... the right people. Do you understand?"