The Adolescent

Tatyana Pavlovna, having picked me up, put me in a cab, brought me to her place, immediately ordered the samovar, and washed me and scrubbed me in the kitchen herself. Also in the kitchen, she loudly told me that at half-past eleven Katerina Nikolaevna herself would come—as the two had already arranged earlier—in order to meet me. And this Marya also heard. After a few minutes she brought the samovar, but after another two minutes, when Tatyana Pavlovna suddenly summoned her, she did not respond. It turned out that she had gone somewhere. I ask the reader to note that very well; it was then, I suppose, about a quarter to ten. Though Tatyana Pavlovna was angry at her disappearing without asking, she merely thought she had gone to the shop, and at once forgot about it for a while. And we couldn’t be bothered with that; we talked nonstop, because we had things to discuss, so that I, for instance, paid almost no attention to Marya’s disappearance; I ask the reader to remember that as well.

Needless to say, I was as if in a daze; I was explaining my feelings, and above all—we were waiting for Katerina Nikolaevna, and the thought that in an hour I would finally meet with her, and at such a decisive moment of my life, made me tremble and quake. Finally, when I had drunk two cups, Tatyana Pavlovna suddenly got up, took a pair of scissors from the table, and said:

“Give me your pocket, we must take out the letter—we can’t cut it with her here!”

“Right!” I exclaimed, and unbuttoned my frock coat.

“What’s all this tangle here? Who did the sewing?”

“I did, I did, Tatyana Pavlovna.”

“That’s obvious. Well, here it is . . .”

The letter was taken out; it was the same old envelope, but with a blank piece of paper stuck into it.

“What’s this? . . .” Tatyana Pavlovna exclaimed, turning it over. “What’s got into you?”

But I stood there speechless, pale . . . and suddenly sank strengthlessly onto the chair; truly, I almost fainted away.

“What on earth is this?” Tatyana Pavlovna yelled. “Where is your note?”

“Lambert!” I jumped up suddenly, realizing and slapping myself on the forehead.

Hurrying and breathless, I explained everything to her—the night at Lambert’s, and our conspiracy at the time; however, I had already confessed this conspiracy to her the day before.

“They stole it! They stole it!” I cried, stamping the floor and seizing myself by the hair.

“Trouble!” Tatyana Pavlovna suddenly decided, grasping what it meant. “What time is it?”

It was about eleven.

“Eh, Marya’s not here! . . . Marya, Marya!”

“What is it, ma’am?” Marya suddenly responded from the kitchen.

“You’re here? So what are we to do now? I’ll fly to her . . . Ah, you dodderer, you dodderer!”

“And I’ll go to Lambert!” I yelled. “And I’ll strangle him, if need be!”

“Ma’am!” Marya suddenly squeaked from the kitchen. “There’s some woman here asking for you very much . . .”

But before she finished speaking, the “some woman” herself burst precipitously from the kitchen with cries and screams. It was Alphonsinka. I won’t describe the scene in full detail; the scene was a trick and a fake, but it should be noted that Alphonsinka played it splendidly. With tears of repentance and with violent gestures, she rattled out (in French, naturally) that she herself had cut out the letter then, that it was now with Lambert, and that Lambert, with “that brigand,” cet homme noir,¹¹⁶ wanted to lure madame la générale¹¹⁷ and shoot her, right now, in an hour . . . that she had learned it all from them and had suddenly become terribly frightened, because she saw they had a pistol, le pistolet, and had now rushed to us, so that we could go, save, prevent . . . Cet homme noir

. . .

In short, it was all extremely plausible; the very stupidity of some of Alphonsinka’s explanations even increased the plausibility.

“What homme noir?” cried Tatyana Pavlovna.

“ Tiens, j’ai oublié son nom . . . Un homme a freux . . . Tiens,Versilo f.”¹¹⁸

“Versilov! It can’t be!” I yelled.

“Oh, yes, it can!” shrieked Tatyana Pavlovna. “But speak, dearie, without jumping, without waving your arms. What is it they want? Talk sense, dearie. I refuse to believe they want to shoot her!”