"And a savior, and a savior," the uhlan ardently insisted.
Velchaninov politely thanked her and replied that he was always ready, that he was a perfectly idle and unoccupied man, and that Olympiada Semyonovna's invitation was only too flattering for him. After which he at once began a merry little conversation, into which he successfully inserted two or three compliments. Lipochka blushed with pleasure and, as soon as Pavel Pavlovich returned, announced to him rapturously that Alexei Ivanovich had been so good as to accept her invitation to be their guest in the country for a whole month and promised to come in a week. Pavel Pavlovich gave a lost smile and said nothing. Olympiada Semyonovna shrugged at him and raised her eyes to heaven. Finally they parted: once more gratitude, again "guardian angel," again "Mitenka," and Pavel Pavlovich finally took his spouse and the uhlan to put them on the train. Velchaninov lit a cigar and began to stroll along the gallery in front of the station; he knew that Pavel Pavlovich would presently come running back again to talk with him before the bell rang. And so it happened. Pavel Pavlovich immediately appeared before him with an anxious question in his eyes and on his whole physiognomy. Velchaninov laughed: he took him "amicably" by the elbow and, drawing him to the nearest bench, sat down and sat him down beside him. He kept silent himself; he wanted Pavel Pavlovich to be the first to speak.
"So you're coming to visit us, sir?" the man babbled, approaching the matter with complete frankness.
"I just knew it! Hasn't changed a bit!" Velchaninov burst out laughing. "But could you really," he again slapped him on the shoulder, "could you really think seriously even for a moment that I would in fact come to visit, and for a whole month at that—ha, ha!"
Pavel Pavlovich became all aroused.
"So you—won't come, sir!" he cried out, not concealing his joy in the least.
"I won't, I won't!" Velchaninov laughed smugly. However, he himself did not understand why he found it so especially funny, but the further it went, the funnier it became to him.
"Can it be . . . can it really be as you say, sir?" And, having said that, Pavel Pavlovich even jumped up from his seat in trembling expectation.
"But I already said I won't come—what a queer fellow you are!"
"How then ... if so, sir, how shall I tell Olympiada Semyonovna, when you don't come in a week, after she's been waiting, sir?"
"That's a hard one! Tell her I broke a leg or something like that."
"She won't believe it, sir," Pavel Pavlovich drew out in a plaintive little voice.
"And you'll catch hell?" Velchaninov went on laughing. "But I notice, my poor friend, that you do tremble before your beautiful spouse—eh?"
Pavel Pavlovich tried to smile, but it did not come off. That Velchaninov had renounced his visit—that, of course, was good; but that he spoke familiarly about his wife—now, that was bad. Pavel Pavlovich cringed. Velchaninov noticed it. Meanwhile the second bell had already rung; from the faraway car came a piping little voice, anxiously summoning Pavel Pavlovich. He fidgeted on the spot, but did not run at the summons, apparently expecting something more from Velchaninov—of course, a further assurance that he would not visit them.
"What is your wife's former name?" Velchaninov said, as if not noticing Pavel Pavlovich's anxiety at all.
"I took her from our local vicar, sir," the man replied, glancing at the train in bewilderment and cocking an ear.
"Ah, I understand, for her beauty."
Pavel Pavlovich cringed again.
"And who is this Mitenka to you?"
"He's just so, sir; our distant relative—that is, mine, sir, my late cousin's son, Golubchikov, demoted for disorderly conduct, and now restored again; so we've equipped him . . . An unfortunate young man, sir ..."
"Well, well," thought Velchaninov, "everything's in order— the full setup!"
"Pavel Pavlovich!" again a distant summons was heard from the car, now with quite an irritated note in the voice.
"Pal Palych!" came another, hoarse voice.
Pavel Pavlovich again started figeting and fussing about, but Velchaninov seized him firmly by the elbow and stopped him.
"And do you want me to go right now and tell your wife how you wanted to put a knife in me—eh?"
"How can you, how can you, sir!" Pavel Pavlovich was terribly frightened, "God keep you from it, sir!"
"Pavel Pavlovich! Pavel Pavlovich!" the voices were heard again.
"Well, go, then!" Velchaninov released him at last, continuing to laugh good-naturedly.
"So you won't come, sir!" Pavel Pavlovich, all but in dis-pair, whispered a last time, and even clasped his hands before him, palms together, as in old times.
"No, I swear to you, I won't come! Run, or there'll be trouble!"
And he sweepingly offered him his hand—offered it and gave a start: Pavel Pavlovich did not take his hand, he even drew his own back.
The third bell rang.
In an instant something strange happened with the two men; they both as if transformed. Something wavered as it were and suddenly snapped in Velchaninov, who had been laughing so much only a moment before. He firmly and furiously seized Pavel Pavlovich by the shoulder.
"If I, if / offer you this hand here," he showed him the palm of his left hand, on which there clearly remained a big scar from the cut, "then you might well take it!" he whispered with trembling and paled lips.
Pavel Pavlovich also paled and his lips also trembled. Some sort of spasms suddenly passed over his face.
"And Liza, sir?" he murmured in a quick whisper—and suddenly his lips, cheeks, and chin quivered, and tears poured from his eyes. Velchaninov stood before him like a post.
"Pavel Pavlovich! Pavel Pavlovich!" screams came from the car, as if someone were being slaughtered there—and suddenly the whistle blew.
Pavel Pavlovich came to his senses, clasped his hands, and dashed off at top speed; the train had already started, but he somehow managed to hold on and climb into his car in flight. Velchaninov remained at the station and continued his journey only toward evening, having waited for the next train in the same direction. He did not go to the right, to his provincial lady acquaintance—he was much too out of sorts. And how sorry he was later!
Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Eternal Husband
(Series: # )
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